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LIB R A RY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
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 Received |V>AR29l892 ^ i8g . 
 
 ^ Accessions No. ^y-^J^ Shelf No. 
 
 68. ^ -30 
 
THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 •/ 
 
 ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D. 
 
 mit\) a 15iogi*apl)ical ^feetcb^ 
 
 N£IV AND COMPLETE EDITION. 
 
 V 
 
 ^^-^^ 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UHIVBRSIT7 
 
 OB" 
 
 ^fPO 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 AMERICAN UNITARIAN ASSOCIATION. 
 
 1890. 
 

 Copyright, 188S, 
 By The American Unitarian Association. 
 
 SInibn-gita ^resa: 
 John Wilson and SiyN, Cambridge. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Very early after the death of Dr. Dewey many requests came, 
 both from this country and from England, that the American Uni- 
 tarian Association should publish a dollar edition of his works, 
 uniform with a like edition of Dr. Channing's works. We ought 
 especially to mention an official letter received from the British 
 and Foreign Unitarian Association. It seemed desirable, both on 
 account of the great and permanent value and interest of the works 
 themselves, and also from the position and influence which Dr. 
 Dewey had acquired and maintained in our body during a long 
 and useful life, that these requests should be complied with. 
 
 The family of Dr. Dewey with great readiness granted permission 
 to prepare such an edition ; while by purchase the Association has 
 secured from the estate of the late James Miller the plates and what- 
 ev^er copyright he held. After much consideration, it was decided 
 to print his works just as they came from his hands, and in the order 
 of time in which they issued from the press. One change only 
 is to be noted ; namely, the omission of the prefaces which were 
 originally prefixed to the separate volumes. In all other respects, 
 this edition is a reproduction of the editions which the author super- 
 vised and corrected. 
 
 Miss Mary E. Dewey has kindly furnished a brief but compre- 
 hensive sketch of her father's life, which will be found at the begin- 
 ning of the volume. At the close will be found a full and carefully 
 prepared index. 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 It seems needless to add any word concerning the value of the 
 book. With the possible exception of Dr. Channing, no person 
 occupied a more prominent position in the early annals of American 
 Unitarianism than Dr. Dewey. As a preacher of practical truth 
 to tried and tempted men and women, he had an almost unique 
 power. His lectures on the Problem of Human Destiny, when de- 
 livered, awakened great and wide interest; and they will be found not 
 to have lost their pertinency and attractiveness to-day. That dis- 
 courses delivered before the present generation came on the stage, 
 should still be in steady demand, even in an expensive form, is 
 sufficient evidence of their worth and permanent fitness for human 
 need. Coming as they will now to the reader at a moderate cost, 
 we feel confident that they will command a wide circulation and an 
 earnest perusal. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D ix 
 
 DISCOURSES ON HUMAN NATURE, HUMAN LIFE, AND 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 [First Published in 1846.] 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 I. On Human Nature i 
 
 H. The Same Subject 9 
 
 HI. On the Wrong which Sin does to Human Nature 15 
 
 IV. On the Adaffation which Religion, to be True and Useful, 
 
 SHOULD have to Human Nature 22 
 
 V. The Appeal of Religion to Human Nature 28 
 
 VI. The Call of Humanity, and the Answer to it 35 
 
 VII. Human Nature considered as a Ground for Thanksgiving ... 47 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 VIII. The Moral Significance of Life 51 
 
 IX. That Everything in Life is Moral ■ 57 
 
 X. Life considered as an Argument for Faith and Virtue .... 64 
 
 XI. Life is what we make it 71 
 
 XII. On Inequality in the Lot of Life 78 
 
 XIII. On the Miseries of Life 84 
 
 XIV. On the School of Life 90 
 
 XV. On the Value of Life 97 
 
 XVI. Life's Consolation in View of Death 103 
 
 XVII. The Problem of Life, solved in the Life of Christ 109 
 
 XVIII. On Religion, as the Great Sentiment of Life 115 
 
 XIX. On the Religion of Life 122 
 
 XX. The Voices of the Dead 131 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 XXI. The Identity of Religion with Goodness, and with a Good 
 
 Life 138 
 
 XXII. The Same Subject 147 
 
 XXIIT. The Same Subject 157 
 
 XXIV. Spiritual Interests, Real and Supreme , 163 
 
vi . CONTENTS. 
 
 DISCOURSES ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION, AND ON 
 COMMERCE AND BUSINESS, WITH SOME OCCASIONAL 
 DISCOURSES. 
 
 [First Published in 1846.] 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 Pace 
 
 I. Spiritual Interests, Real and Supreme 172 ■ 
 
 II. On Religious Sensibility 177 
 
 III. The Same Subject 185 
 
 IV. The Law of Retribution . 191 
 
 V. The Same Subject 199 
 
 VI. Compassion for the Sinful, 208 
 
 VII. God's Love the Chief Restraint from Sin, and Resource in 
 
 Sorrow 214 
 
 VIII. The Difference between Sentiments and Principles 219 
 
 IX. The Crown of Virtue 227 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 X. On the Moral Law of Contracts 234 
 
 XI. On the Moral End of Business 251 
 
 XII. On the Uses of Labor, and the Passion for a Fortune .... 262 
 
 XIII. On the Moral Limits of Accumulation 272 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 XIV. Oration before the Society of Phi Beta Kappa, at Cambridge . 279 
 XV. The Arts of Industry, with their Moral and Intellectual In- 
 fluence UPON Society. An Address before the American Institute . 295 
 
 XVI. The Identity of all Art. A Lecture before the Apollo Association 
 
 of New York 307 
 
 XVII. The Moral Character of Government . . . . ■ 318 
 
 XVIII. The Slavery Question 326 
 
 XIX. Public Calamities 334 
 
 DISCOURSES AND REVIEWS UPON QUESTIONS IN CONTRO- 
 VERSIAL THEOLOGY AND PRACTICAL RELIGION. 
 
 [First Published in 1846.] 
 
 The Unitarian Belief 342 
 
 On the Nature of Religious Belief; with Inferences concerning Doubt, 
 
 Decision, Confidence, and the Trial of Faith 353 
 
 Cursory Observations on the Questions at Issue between Orthodox and 
 Liberal Christians. 
 
 I. On the Trinity 366 
 
 II. On the Atonement ^7^ 
 
 III. On tlie Five Points of Calvinism 381 
 
 IV. On Future Punishment 387 
 
 V. Conclusion. The Modes of Attack upon Liberal Christianity, the same 
 
 that were used against the doctrine of the Apostles and Reformers . . 393 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 The Analogy of Religion with other Subjects considered. Paj;,, 
 
 I. The Analogy of Religion 401 
 
 II. On Conversion 40b 
 
 III. On the Method of obtaining and exhibiting Religious and Virtuous Affec- 
 
 tions 415 
 
 IV. Causes of- Indifference and Aversion to Religion 421 
 
 On the Original Use of the Epistles of the New Testament compared 
 
 with their Use and Application at the Present Day 429 
 
 On Miracles 442 
 
 The Scriptures considered as the Record of a Revelation 4155 
 
 On the Nature and Extent of Inspiration 462 
 
 On Faith, and Justification by Faith 4j>i 
 
 That Errors in Theology have sprung from False Principles of Rea- 
 soning 4S8 
 
 On the Calvin istic Views of Moral Philosophy 501 
 
 LOWELL LECTURES. 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY; OR, THE END OF 
 PROVIDENCE IN THE WORLD AND MAN. 
 
 [First Published in 1S64.] 
 
 I. On the Character, Fitness, History, and Claims of the Inquiry 514 
 II. The Problem of Evil. The Case presented, the Theory offered, 
 
 and the bearing of it considered 526 
 
 III. The Material World as the Field of the Great Design: its 
 
 Adaptations to the End — Human Culture 541 
 
 IV. The Body and the Soul, or Man's Physical Constitution : the 
 
 Ministry of the Senses and Appetites 553 
 
 V. Of Man's Spiritual Constitution — Ministry of the Mental and 
 
 Moral Faculties ^6^ 
 
 VI. The Complex Nature of Man, Periods of Life, Society, Home, 
 
 Balance of the Physical and Mental Powers 575 
 
 VII. On the Special Influence upon Human Culture of the Disci- 
 pline OF Nature, of the Occupations of Life, and of the Art^ 
 of Expression ; or, the Mental and Moral Activity elicited 
 
 by Man's connection with Nature and Life 586 
 
 VIII. Against Despondency. — Helps- and Hindrances, or a Considera- 
 tion OF THE Moral Trials or Emergencies that attend the 
 
 WORKING out of OUR HuMAN PROBLEM 598 
 
 IX. Problems in Man's Individual Life: Physical Pain; Hereditary 
 
 Evil ; Death 609 
 
 X. Historic Problems: Polytheism, Despotism, War, Slavery, — the 
 Prevalence and Ministry of Error in the System of the 
 
 World 620 
 
 XI. Historic View of Humanity: Human Progress, — the Agencies 
 employed in it; the History of Thought, of Institutions, and 
 
 OF Actions or Events 632 
 
 XII. Historic View of Humanity: Human Progress, — the Steps of it 645 
 
viii CONTENTS, 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 SERMONS. 
 
 [First Published in 1S76.] 
 
 Page 
 
 I. On the Cultivation of the Religious Affections 658 
 
 II. Righteousness the Self-revealed and Central Law 665 
 
 III. On the Reasonableness and Greatness of Devotion 671 
 
 IV. The Alternative 678 
 
 V. Truth in all Religions 684 
 
 VI. The Symbol and the Reality 691 
 
 VII. The Love of God and of Man 698 
 
 VIII. On Truthfulness 703 
 
 IX. On Impatience .^ 710 
 
 X. On Self-Renunciation 716 
 
 XI. On Perfection 722 
 
 XII. Humanity, and the Gospel Demand upon it 728 
 
 XIII. Humanity compared with Human Distinctions 734 
 
 XIV. This Life the Prophecy of a Future 740 
 
 XV. Christ Intelligible and Imitable , 746 
 
 XVI. The Same Subject 753 
 
 XVII. The Old and the New 759 
 
 Basis and Superstructure 768 
 
 Theism and Atheism 779 
 
 On the Validity of our Knowledge of God 784 
 
SKETCH 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE OF REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D. 
 
 In offering a popular edition of the works of Dr. Dewey to the public, a 
 short sketch of his life may be interesting to the general reader. 
 
 Orville Dewey was born in 1 794, in Sheffield, in the southern part of Berk- 
 shire County, Massachusetts. His father was a farmer, and both his parents 
 were children of the first settlers of the place. It was, in his childhood, a 
 quiet, homely village of the primitive New England type, with one wide grassy 
 street, and scattered houses on either hand, with vegetable gardens beside 
 them, and lilags almost as tall as the houses shading the doors, and a rustic 
 wealth of roses and peonies and hollyhocks under the windows. Here he 
 passed his boyhood, the eldest of a family of seven, working on the farm in 
 summer and going to the district school in winter. He was naturally thought- 
 ful, and was encouraged in his love of reading by his father, a man of strong 
 though untrained mind, a lover of poetry and of eloquence. His mother's 
 simple, genuine piety was another powerful influence in the formation of his 
 character ; and to these may be added the strict Calvinism which was the only 
 form of religious life around him, and the interest taken in him by Paul Dewey, 
 an elder cousin of his father, a great mathematician, a keen thinker, and a 
 sceptic in regard to the prevailing theology. 
 
 His parents, not without effort and self-denial, sent him to Williams College, 
 Williamstown, Massachusetts, where he graduated in 1814, with the first honors 
 of his class, although suffering from weakness of the eyes, caused by reading 
 too soon after the measles. It was while at college that religious ideas, which 
 had always been interesting to him, but heretofore tinged with the deepest 
 gloom, became irradiated in his mind by the Divine Love and Goodness, till 
 they made his chief delight, and the desire arose in his heart to be a preacher, 
 and convey to other souls the comfort and joy which filled his own. But the 
 state of his eyes rendered study impossible, and for two years he tried school- 
 keeping in Sheffield, and business in New York, till the swelling desire for his 
 
X SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF REV. ORVILLE DEWEY. 
 
 chosen work determined him to try to prepare himself without eyes and to 
 preach without notes ; and, being still Calvinistic in doctrine, he went to Ando- 
 ver, and entered the Theological Seminary. There he spent upon Hebrew all 
 the time that he could read, and was helped in Greek by the brotherly kindness 
 of his room-mate ; and, to use his own words, " The being obliged to think for 
 myself upon the theological questions that daily came before the class, instead 
 of reading what others had said about them, seemed to me not without its 
 advantages." 
 
 Three years at Andover had two noteworthy results. His eyes were re- 
 stored, by a simple and judicious treatment with cold water, and his faith in 
 the dogmas of the popular theology was completely shaken. Leaving the 
 seminary in this unsettled state of mind, he preached for nearly a year in 
 behalf of the American Education Society, and then received a call to Glouces- 
 ter, Massachusetts. In answer to this, he frankly declared his position, and 
 the invitation was changed into one for a year, at the end of which time church 
 and minister might know their own minds clearly. The proposition was most 
 acceptable, giving him opportunity for patient and prayerful examination of his 
 difficulties. That year in Gloucester was the turning-point in his career. With 
 earnest wrestlings of spirit, with bitter struggles of separation, with solemn 
 devotion to the truth as he was able to perceive it, he won his way to convic- 
 tions, that never afterwards faltered, of the unity of God, the dignity of human 
 nature, and of thq, eternal progress of mankind towards virtue and happiness. 
 At the end of the year the young minister was an avowed Unitarian, and the 
 society was about equally divided in opinion. Meanwhile his remarkable 
 powers must have become known, for he was immediately asked to come to 
 Boston, and assist in Dr. Channing's pulpit ; and this he did for two years, 
 preaching on alternate Sundays when Dr. Channing was at home, and taking 
 the whole charge while he was in Europe. The intimate companionship into 
 which he was thus brought with that great and good man was one of the most 
 highly prized blessings of his life, and the friendship then formed was inter- 
 rupted only by the death of the elder. 
 
 In 1820, just before going to Gloucester, Mr. Dewey was married to Miss 
 Louisa Farnham, daughter of William Farnham, of Boston. In 1823 he 
 accepted a call to New Bedford, Massachusetts, and went with his family to 
 make his home in that beautiful Quaker town, among a people of uncommon 
 refinement and kindness, where he was happy, useful, and appreciated. But it 
 was then a lonely post, and he was a zealous worker. Few exchanges were 
 ])ossible, and two new sermons must be written for every Sunday, and he was 
 at the same time a constant contributor to the "Christian Examiner." Under 
 the unbroken strain the working power of his brain gave way, and after ten 
 years he was forced to take absolute rest. He went to Europe for a year, but 
 on his return attempted in vain to resume his work, and, resigning his parish, 
 withdrew to Sheffield, feeling as if, at forty, his active service was over. 
 
SKETCH 01<- THE LIFE OF REV. ORVH.LE DEWEY. XI 
 
 But the Second Unitarian Church in New York,* whose call he had akeady 
 refused while in New Bedford, now urged him anew to come to them, and 
 after a period of rest, and fortified with a stock of sermons ready prepared, he 
 consented, and in November, 1835, was installed as their pastor. With them 
 he remained for six years more of happy labor, during which he received the 
 degree of D. D. from Harvard College, and then again the physical organ of 
 thought gave way, and he was obliged to pause and rest it like a sprained limb. 
 This time he went to Europe with his family, and was gone two years. It 
 gave him great, but temporary, relief, and in 1848 he resigned his pulpit, and 
 retired again to his country home, where his mother still lived. 
 
 In a sermon preached at the fifty-fourth anniversary of the founding of the 
 Church of the Messiah, Dr. Bellows said: " Dr. Dewey's nature was character- 
 ized from eariy youth by a union of massive intellectual power with an almost 
 feminine sensibility ; a poetic imagination with a rare dramatic faculty of rep- 
 resentation. Diligent as a scholar, a careful thinker, accustomed to test his 
 own impressions by patient meditation, a reasoner of the most cautious kmd, 
 capable of holding doubtful conclusions, however inviting, in suspense, devout 
 and reverent by nature, he had every qualification for a great preacher m a 
 time when the old foundations were broken up and men's minds were demand- 
 ing guidance and support in the critical transition from the days of pure author- 
 ity to the days of personal conviction by rational evidence ; and no exaltation 
 that the Church of the Messiah will ever attain can in any probability equal 
 that which will always be given to it as the seat of Dr. Dewey's thirteen years' 
 ministry in the city of New York." 
 
 In his retirement he was asked to give a course of twelve lectures before the 
 Lowell Institute, and spent two or three years in preparing them, choosing for 
 his subject the design and end of Providence in this world. These lectures, 
 after being heard with great interest in Boston, were delivered in all the prin- 
 cipal cities of the country, and finally published with the tide, " Problem of 
 Human Destiny." 
 
 In 1858 he took temporary charge of the New South Society in Boston, wor- 
 shipping at Church Green, now swept away with many another old landmark. 
 In 1862 he returned to Sheffield, and there passed the rest of his life, watch- 
 ing with the deepest interest the world from which he was withdrawn, sending 
 out now and then words of warning or of encouragement from his retirement, 
 occupied with his little farm, widi books, and with meditation upon those lof- 
 tiest themes of human thought which had always made the joy and the business 
 of his mind. 
 
 For the last five years of his life he was an invalid ; not suff"ering much pain, 
 but growing more and more infirm, and losing the enjoyment of the senses and 
 bodily powers that had been so strong and keen. It seemed a kind and 
 
 » Called, since 1^539, the " Church of the Messiah." 
 
xii SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF REV. ORVILLE DEWEY. 
 
 gentle weaning from a world which had been so full of happiness to him, that, 
 when seventy, he said he should be willing to lead his life directly over again! 
 His mind was clear till within three days of his departure, and he frequently 
 expressed an earnest desire for death. This final and gracious gift came at 
 last, and he sunk quietly away, March 21, 1882, within one week of his eighty- 
 eighth birthday. 
 
 His wife, one son, and two daughters survive him. 
 
 June, 1883. 
 
DISCOURSES K.C 
 
 ON 
 
 HUMAN NATURE, HUMAN LIFE, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Psalm viii. 4,5: " What is man, that thou art 
 mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visit- 
 est him? For thou hast made him a little lower than 
 the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and 
 honor.'' 
 
 You will observe, my brethren, that 
 in these words two distinct and in a de- 
 gree opposite views are given of human 
 nature. It is represented on the one 
 hand as weal-: and low, and yet, on the 
 other, as lofty and strong. At one mo- 
 ment it presents itself to the inspired 
 writer as poor, humble, depressed, and 
 almost unworthy of the notice of its 
 Maker. But in the transition of a single 
 sentence we find him contemplating this 
 same being, man, as exalted, glorious, 
 and almost angelic. " When I consider 
 thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, 
 the moon and the stars, which thou hast 
 ordained," he says, " what is man that 
 thou art mindful of him ? " And yet, he 
 adds, " thou hast made him a little lower 
 than the angels, and hast crowned him 
 with glory and honor." 
 
 But do not these contrasted state- 
 ments make up, in fact, the only true 
 view of human nature ? Are they not 
 conformable to the universal sense of 
 mankind, and to the whole tenor and 
 spirit of our religion ? Whenever the 
 human character is portrayed in colors 
 
 altogether dark or altogether bright, 
 whenever the misanthrope pours out his 
 scorn upon the wickedness and baseness 
 of mankind, or the enthusiast lavishes 
 his admiration upon their virtues, do we 
 not always feel that there needs to be 
 some qualification ; that there is some- 
 thing to be said on the other side ? 
 
 Nay more ; do not all the varying rep- 
 resentations of human nature imply their 
 opposites .? Does not virtue itself imply 
 that sins and sinful passions are strug- 
 gled with and overcome ? And, on the 
 contrary, does not sin in its very nature 
 imply that there are high and sacred 
 powers, capacities, and affections, which 
 it violates .-' 
 
 In this view it appears to me that 
 all unqualified disparagement as well 
 as praise of human nature carries with 
 it its own refutation ; and it is to this 
 point that I wish to invite your par- 
 ticular attention in the following dis- 
 course. Admitting all that can be 
 asked on this subject by the strongest 
 assertors of human depravity; admit- 
 ting everything, certainly, that can be 
 stated as a matter of fact ; admitting 
 that men are as bad as they are said to 
 be, and substantially believing it too, I 
 shall argue that the conclusion to be 
 drawn is entirely the reverse of that 
 which usually is drawn. I shall ar- 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 gue that the most strenuous, the most 
 earnest and indignant objections against 
 human nature imply the strongest con- 
 cessions to its constitutional worth. I 
 say, then, and repeat, that objection here 
 carries with it its own refutation ; that 
 the objector concedes much, very much, 
 to human nature by the very terms with 
 which he inveighs against it. 
 
 It is not my sole purpose, however, 
 to present any abstract or polemic argu- 
 ment. Rather let me attempt to offer 
 some general and just views of human 
 nature ; and for this purpose, rather 
 than for the sake of controversy, let me 
 pass in brief review before you some of 
 the specific and disparaging opinions 
 that have prevailed in the world con- 
 cerning it ; those, for instance, of the 
 philosopher and the theologian. 
 
 In doing this, my purpose is to admit 
 that much of what they say is true ; but 
 to draw from it an inference quite dif- 
 ferent from theirs. I would admit, on 
 one hand, that there is much evil in the 
 human heart ; but at the same time I 
 would balance this view, and blend it 
 with others that claim to be brought into 
 the account. On the one hand, I would 
 admit the objection that there is much 
 and mournful evil in the world; but, on 
 the other, I would prevent it from press- 
 ing on the heart as a discouraging and 
 dead weight of reprobation and obloquy. 
 
 It may appear to you that the opin- 
 ions which I have selected for our pres- 
 ent consideration are, each of them, 
 brought into strange company ; and yet 
 they have an affinity which may not at 
 once be suspected. It is singular, in- 
 deed, that we find in the same ranks, and 
 waging the same war against all human 
 self-respect, the most opposite descrip- 
 tions of persons ; tlie most rehgious with 
 the most irreligious, the most credulous 
 with the most sceptical. If any man sup- 
 poses that it is his superior goodness or 
 purer faith which leads him to think so 
 badly of his fellow-men and of their 
 very nature, he needs to be reminded 
 that vicious and dissolute habits almost 
 invariably and unerringly lead to the 
 
 same result. The man who is taking 
 the downward way with almost every 
 step, you will find thinks worse of his 
 nature and his species, till he con- 
 cludes, if he can, that he was made 
 only for sensual indulgence, and that all 
 idea of a future, intellectual, and im- 
 mortal existence is a dream. And so if 
 any man thinks that it is owing to his 
 spirituality and heavenly-mindedness 
 that he pronounces the world so utterly 
 corrupt, a mere mass of selfishness and 
 deceit, he may be admonished that no- 
 body so thoroughly agrees with him as 
 the man of the world, the shrewd, over- 
 reaching, and knavish practiser on the 
 weakness or rlie wickedness of his fel- 
 lows. And in the same way the strict 
 and high-toned theologian, as he calls 
 himself, may unexpectedly find himself 
 in company with the sceptical and scorn- 
 ful philosopher. No men have ever 
 more bitterly decried and vilified human 
 nature than tlie infidel philosophers of 
 the last century. They contended that 
 man was too mean and contemptible a 
 creature to be the subject of such an 
 interposition as that recorded in the 
 Gospel. 
 
 I. But I am to take up in the first 
 place, and more in detail, the objection 
 of the sceptical philosopher. 
 
 The philosopher says that man is a 
 mean creature ; not so much a degraded 
 being, as he is originally a poor, in- 
 significant creature; an animal, some 
 grades above others, perhaps, but still 
 an animal ; for whom, to suppose the 
 provision of infinite mercy and of im- 
 mortality to be made, is absurd. 
 
 It is worth noticing, as we pass, and 
 I therefore remark, the striking connec- 
 tion which is almost always found be- 
 tween different parts of every man's 
 belief or scepticism. I never knew one 
 to think wrongly about God, but he very 
 soon began to think wrongly about man : 
 or else the reverse is the process, and 
 it is not material which. The things 
 always go together. He who conceives 
 of the Almighty as a severe, unjust, and 
 vindictive being, will regard man as a 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 slave, will make him the slave of super- 
 stition, will take a sort of superstitious 
 pleasure or merit in magnifying his 
 wickedness or unworthiness. And he 
 who thinks meanly of human nature, 
 will think coldly and distrustfully of the 
 Supreme Being, will think of him as 
 withdrawing himself to a sublime dis- 
 tance from such a nature. In other 
 words, he who does not take the Chris- 
 tian view, and has no apprehension of 
 the infinite love of God, will not believe 
 that he has made man with such noble 
 faculties, or for such noble ends, as we 
 assert. The discussion proposed is ob- 
 viouslv, even in this view, one of no 
 trifling importance. 
 
 Let us, then, proceed to the objection 
 of our philosopher. He says, I repeat, 
 that man is a mean creature, fit only for 
 the earth on which he is placed, fit for 
 no higher destination than to be buried 
 in its bosom, and there to find liis end. 
 The philosopher rejects what he calls 
 the theologian's dream about the fall. 
 He says that man needed no fall in 
 order to be a degraded creature ; that 
 he is, and was, always and originally, a 
 degraded creature ; a being, not fallen 
 from virtue, but incapable of virtue ; a 
 being, not corrupted from his innocence, 
 but one who never possessed innocence ; 
 a being never of heaven, but a being 
 only of earth and sense and appetite, 
 and never fit for anything better. 
 
 Now let us go at once to the main 
 point in argument, which is proposed to 
 be illustrated in this discourse. What 
 need, I ask, of speaking of human de- 
 basement in such indignant or sneering 
 tones, if it is the real and only nature of 
 man ? There is nothing to blame or 
 scorn in man, if he is naturally such a 
 poor and insignificant creature. If he 
 was made only for the senses and appe- 
 tites, what occasion, I pray, for any 
 wonder or abuse that he is sensual and 
 debased? Why waste invectives on 
 such a being? The truth is, that this 
 zealous depreciation of human nature 
 betrays a consciousness that it is not 
 so utterly worthless, after all. It is no 
 
 sufficient reply to say that this phi'o- 
 sophic scorn has been aroused by the 
 extravagance of human pretensions. 
 For if these pretensions were utterly 
 groundless, if the being who aspired to 
 virtue were fit only for sensation, or if 
 the being whose thoughts swelled to the 
 great hope of immortality were only ,i 
 higher species of the animal creation, 
 and must share its fate, — if this were 
 true, his pretensions could justly create 
 only a feeling of wonder or of sadness. 
 
 We might say much to rebut the 
 charge of the philosopher, so injurious 
 to the soul, so fatal to all just self-re- 
 spect, so fatal to all elevated virtue and 
 devotion. We might say that the most 
 ordinary tastes and the most trifling 
 pursuits of man carry, to the observant 
 eye, marks of the nobler mind. We 
 might say that vain trifling, and that 
 fleeting, dying pleasure, does not satisfy 
 the immortal want; and that toil does 
 not crush the soul, that the body cannot 
 weigh down the spirit to its own drudg- 
 ery. We might ask our proud reasoner, 
 moreover, whence the moral and meta- 
 physical philosopher obtains the facts 
 with which he speculates, and argues, 
 and builds up his admirable theory? 
 And our sceptic must answer that the 
 metaphysical and moral philosopher goes 
 to human nature ; that he goes to it in 
 its very attitudes of toil and its free act- 
 ings of passion, and thence takes his 
 materials and his form, and his living 
 charm of representation, which delight 
 the world. We might say still more. 
 We might say that all there is of vast- 
 ness and grandeur and beauty in the 
 world, lies in the conception of man ; 
 that the immensity of the universe, as 
 we term it, is but the reach of his imagi- 
 nation ; that immensity, in other words, 
 is but the image of his own idea ; that 
 there is no eternity to him, but that 
 which exists in his own unbounded 
 thought; that there is no God to man, 
 but what has been conceived of in his 
 own capacious and unmeasured under- 
 standing. 
 
 These things we might say; but I will 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 rather meet the objector on his own 
 ground, confident that 1 may triumph 
 even there. 1 take up the indignant 
 argument, then. 1 allow that there is 
 much weight and truth in it, though it 
 brings me to a different conclusion. I 
 feel that man is, in many respects and 
 in many situations, and, above all, com- 
 pared with what he should be, — that 
 man is a mean creature. I feel it, as 1 
 should if I saw some youth of splendid 
 talents and promise plunging in at the 
 door of vice and infamy. Yes, it is 
 meanness for a man, who stands in 
 the presence of his God and among the 
 sons of heaven, — it is meanness in him 
 to play the humble part of sycophant 
 before his fellows ; to fawn and flatter, 
 to make his very soul a slave, barely to 
 gain from that fellow-man his smile, his 
 nod, his hand ; his favor, his vote, his 
 patronage. It is meanness for a i?iait to 
 prevaricate and falsify, to sell his con- 
 science for advantage, to barter his soul 
 for gain, to give his noble brow to the 
 smiting blush of shame, or his cheek to 
 the deadly paleness of convicted dishon- 
 esty. Yes, it is a degradation unutter- 
 able, for a man to steep his soul in gross, 
 sensual, besotting indulgence ; to live 
 for this, and in this one, poor, low sen- 
 sation to shut up the mind with all its 
 boundless range ; to sink to a debase- 
 ment mere than beastly, below where 
 an animal can go. Yes, all this, and 
 much beside this, is meanness; but 
 why, now I ask, — why do we speak of 
 it thus, unless it is because we speak of 
 a being who might have put on such a 
 nobility of soul, and such a loftiness and 
 independence, and spiritual beauty and 
 glor}', as would fling rebuke upon all the 
 hosts of sin and temptation, and cast 
 dimness upon all tlie splendor of the 
 world ? 
 
 It may be proper under the head of 
 philosophical objections to take notice 
 of the celebrated maxim of Rochefou- 
 cauld ; since it is among the written, 
 and has as good a title as others to be 
 among the philosophic, objections. This 
 maxim is, that we take a sort of pleasure 
 
 in the disappointments and miseries of 
 others, and are pained at their good for- 
 tune and success. If this maxim were 
 intended to fix upon mankind the charge 
 of pure, absolute, disinterested malig- 
 nity, and if it could be sustained, it 
 would be fatal to my argument. If I 
 believed this, I should believe not only 
 in total, but in diabolical depravity. 
 And 1 am aware that the apologists for 
 human nature, receiving the maxim in 
 this light, have usually contented them- 
 selves with indignantly denying its truth. 
 I shall, however, for myself, take differ- 
 ent ground. I suppose, and I admit, 
 that the maxim is true to a certain ex- 
 tent. Yet I deny that the feelings on 
 which it is founded are malignant. 
 They may be selfish, they may be bad ; 
 but they are not malicious and diaboli- 
 cal. But let us explain. It should lie 
 premised that there is nothing wrong in 
 our desiring the goods and advantages 
 of life, provided the desire be kept within 
 proper bounds. Suppose, then, that you 
 are pursuing the same object with your 
 neighbor, a situation, an office, for in- 
 stance, and suppose that he succeeds. 
 His success, at the first disclosure of it 
 to you, will of course give you a degree 
 of pain; and for this reason : it immedi- 
 ately brings the sense of your own dis- 
 appointment. Now it is not wrong, 
 perhaps, that you do regret your own 
 failure ; it is probably unavoidable that 
 you should. You feel, perhaps, that you 
 need or deserve the appointment more 
 than your rival. You cannot help, there- 
 fore, on every account, regretting that he 
 has obtained it. It does not follow that 
 you wish him any less happy. You may 
 make the distinction in your own mind. 
 You may say—'' I ^m glad he is happy, 
 but I am sorry he has the place; I wish 
 he could be as happy in some other sit- 
 uation." Now all this, so far from be- 
 ing malignant, is scarcely selfish ; and 
 even when the feeling in a very bad 
 mind is altogether selfish, yet it is very 
 different from a malignant pain at an- 
 other's good fortune. But now let us 
 extend the case a little, from immediate 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 5 
 
 rivalsliip to that general competition of 
 interests which exists in society, — a 
 competition which the selfishness of 
 men makes to be far more than is nec- 
 essary, and conceive sto be far greater 
 than it is. There is an erroneous idea, 
 or imagination shall I call it, — and cer- 
 tainly it is one of the moral delusions of 
 the world, —that something gained by 
 another is something lost to one's self ; 
 and hence the feeling, before described, 
 may arise at almost any indifferent in- 
 stance of good fortune. But it always 
 rises in this proportion : it is stronger, 
 the nearer the case comes to direct com- 
 petition. You do not envy a rich man 
 in China, nor a great man in Tartary. 
 But if envy, as it has been sometimes 
 called, were pure malignity, a man 
 should be sorry that anybody is happy, 
 that anybody is fortunate or honored in 
 the world. But this is not true ; it does 
 not apply to human nature. If you ever 
 feel pain at the successes or acquisitions 
 of another, it is when they come into 
 comparison or contrast with your own 
 failures or deficiencies. You feel that 
 those successes or acquisitions might 
 have been your own ; you regret, and 
 perhaps rightly, that they are not ; and 
 then you insensibly slide into the very 
 wrong feehng of regret that they belong 
 to another. This is envy, and it is 
 sufficiently base ; but it is not purely 
 malicious, and it is, in fact, the perver- 
 sion of a feeling originally capable of 
 good and valuable uses. 
 
 But I must pursue the sceptical phi- 
 losopher a step farther, into actual life. 
 The term " philosopher " may seem to be 
 but ill applied here ; but we have prob- 
 ably all of us known or heard those 
 who, pretending to have a considerable 
 knowledge of the worlds if not much 
 other knowledge, take upon them, with 
 quite an air of philosophic superiority, 
 to pronounce human nature nothing but 
 a mass of selfishness ; and to say that 
 this mass, whenever it is refined, is only 
 refined into luxury and licentiousness, 
 duplicity and knavery. Some simple 
 souls they suppose there may be, in the 
 
 retired corners of the earth, that are 
 walking in the chains of mechanical 
 habit or superstitious piety, who have 
 not the knowledge to understand, nor 
 the courage to seek, what they want. 
 But the moment they do act freely, they 
 act, says our objector, upon the selfish 
 principle. And this he maintains is 
 the principle which, in fact, governs the 
 world. Nay more, he avers that it is 
 the only reasonable and sufficient prin- 
 ciple of action, and freely confesses 
 that it is his own. 
 
 Let me ask you here to keep distinctly 
 in view the ground which the objector 
 now assumes. There are talkers against 
 human virtue who never think, however, 
 of going to this length ; men, in fact, who 
 are a great deal better than their theory; 
 whose example, indeed, refutes their 
 theory. But there are worse objectors 
 and worse men, — vicious and corrupt 
 men; sensualists; sensualists in phi- 
 losophy and in practice alike, — who 
 would gladly believe all the rest of the 
 world as bad as themselves. And these 
 are objectors, I say, who, like the objec- 
 tions before stated, refute themselves. 
 
 For who is this small philosopher, 
 that smiles, either at the simplicity of all 
 honest men, or at the simplicity of all 
 honest defenders of them i He is, in 
 the first place, a man who stands up 
 before us and has the face to boast 
 that he is himself without principle. 
 No doubt he thinks other men as bad 
 as himself. A man necessarily, per- 
 haps, judges the actions of other men 
 by his own feelings. He has no other 
 interpreter. The honest man, there- 
 fore, will often presume honesty in 
 another ; and the generous man, gen- 
 erosity. And so the selfish man can see 
 nothins: around him but selfishness, 
 and the knave nothing but dishonesty ; 
 and he who never felt anything of a 
 generous and self-devoting piety, who 
 never bowed down in that holy and 
 blessed worship, can see in prayer noth- 
 ing but the offering of selfish fear, in 
 piety nothing but a shvish superstition. 
 In the next place, this sneerer at all 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 virtue and piety not only imagines 
 others to be as destitute of principle as 
 himself, but to some extent he makes 
 them such, or makes them seem such. 
 His eye of pride chills every goodly 
 thing it looks upon. Flis breath of scorn 
 blights every generous virtue where it 
 comes. His supple and crafty hand 
 puts all men upon their guard. They 
 become like himself, for the time ; they 
 become more crafty while they deal with 
 him. How shall any noble aspiration, 
 any high and pure thoughts, any benev- 
 olent purposes, any sacred and holy 
 communing, venture into the presence 
 of the proud and selfish scorner of all 
 goodness! It has been said, that the 
 letters your friends write to you will 
 show their opinion of your temper and 
 tastes. And so it is, to a certain extent, 
 with conversation. 
 
 But, in the third place, where, let us 
 ask, has this man studied human nature ^ 
 Lord Chesterfield observes — and the 
 observation is worthy of a man who 
 never seems to have looked beneath the 
 surface of anything — that the court 
 and the camp are the places in which a 
 knowledge of mankind is to be gained. 
 And we may remark that it is from two 
 fields not altogether dissimilar that our 
 sceptic about virtue always gains his 
 knowledge of mankind : I mean, from 
 fashion and business, the two most 
 artificial spheres of active life. Our 
 objector has witnessed heartless civili- 
 ties, and imagines that he is acquainted 
 with the deep fountains of human nature. 
 Or he has been out into the paths of 
 business, and seen men girt up for com- 
 petition, and acting in that artificial state 
 of things which trade produces ; and he 
 imagines that he has witnessed the free 
 and unsophisticated workings of the hu- 
 man heart ; he supposes that the laws 
 of trade are also the laws of human 
 affection. He thinks himself deeply 
 read in the book of the human heart, 
 that unfathomalile mystery, because he 
 is acquainted with notes and bonds, with 
 cards and compliments. 
 
 How completely, then, is this man 
 
 disqualified from judging of human na- 
 ture ! There is a power, which few- 
 possess, which none have attained in 
 perfection, — a power to unlock the re- 
 tired, the deeper and nobler sensibilities 
 of men's minds, to draw out the hoarded 
 and hidden virtues of the soul, to open 
 the fountains which custom and cere- 
 mony and reserve have sealed up; it is 
 a power, I repeat, which few possess, — 
 how evidently does our objector possess 
 it not, — and yet without some portion 
 of which, no man should think himself 
 qualified to study human nature. Men 
 know but little of each other, after all ; 
 but little know how many good and 
 tender affections are suppressed and 
 kept out of sight by diffidence, by deli- 
 cacy, by the fear of appearing awkward 
 or ostentatious, by habits of life, by 
 education, by sensitiveness, and even 
 by strong sensibility, that sometimes 
 puts on a hard and rough exterior for 
 its own check or protection. And the 
 power that penetrates all these barriers 
 must be an extraordinary one. There 
 must belong to it charity, and kindness, 
 and forbearance, and sagacity, and fidel- 
 ity to the trust which the opening heart 
 reposes in it. But how peculiarly, I 
 repeat, how totally -devoid of this power 
 of opening and unfolding the real char- 
 acter of his fellows, must be the scoffer 
 at human nature ! 
 
 I have said that this man gathers his 
 conclusions from the most formal and 
 artificial aspects of the world. He never 
 could have drawn them from the holy 
 retreats of domestic hfe, — to say noth- 
 ing of those deeper privacies of the 
 heart of which I have just been speak- 
 ing ; he never could have drawn his con- 
 clusions from those family scenes where 
 unnumbered, nameless, minute, and in- 
 describable sacrifices are daily made by 
 thousands and ten thousands all around 
 us; he never could have drawn them 
 from the self-devoting mother's cares, 
 or from the grateful return, the lovely 
 assiduity and tenderness, of filial affec- 
 tion ; he never could have derived his 
 contemptuous inference from the sick- 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 room, where friendship, in silent prayer, 
 watches and tends its charge. No : he 
 dare not go out from our dwelHngs, from 
 our temples, from our hospitals, — he 
 dare not tread upon the holy places of 
 the land, the high places where the de- 
 vout have prayed, and the brave have 
 died, and proclaim that patriotism is a 
 visionary sentiment, and jjiety a selfish 
 delusion, and charity a pretence, and 
 virtue a name ! 
 
 II. But it is time that we come now 
 to the objection of the theologian. And 
 1 go at once to the single and strong 
 point of his objection. The theologian 
 says that human nature is bad and cor- 
 rupt. Now, taking this language in the 
 practical and popular sense, I find no 
 difficulty in agreeing with the theolo- 
 gian. And, indeed, if he would confine 
 himself, — leaving vague and general 
 declamation and technical phraseology, 
 — if he would confine himself to facts, 
 if he would confine himself to a descrip- 
 tion of actual bad qualities and disposi- 
 tions in men, I think he could not well 
 go too far. Nay more, I am not certain 
 that any theologian's description, so far 
 as it is of this nature, has gone deep 
 enough into the frightful mass of human 
 depravity. For it requires an acute 
 perception, that is rarely possessed, and 
 a higher and holier conscience, perhaps, 
 than belongs to any, to discover and to 
 declare, hoiu bad and degraded and un- 
 worthy a being a bad 7naii is. I con- 
 fess that nothing would beget in me a 
 higher respect for a man than a real — 
 not a theological and factitious but a 
 real — and deep sense of human sinful- 
 ness and unworthiness ; of the grievous 
 wrong which man does to himself, to his 
 religion, and to his God, when he yields 
 to the evil and accursed inchnations 
 that find place in him. This moral in- 
 dignation is not half strong enough, even 
 in those who profess to talk the most 
 about human depravity. And the ob- 
 jection to them is, not that they feel too 
 much, or speak too strongly, about the ac- 
 tual wickedness, the actual and distinct 
 sins of the wicked ; but that they speak 
 
 too generally and vaguely of human 
 wickedness, that they speak with too lit- 
 tle discrimination to every man as if he 
 were a murderer or a monster, that they 
 speak in fine too argumentatively, and 
 too much, if I may say so, with a sort 
 of argumentative satisfaction, as if they 
 were glad that they could make this 
 point so strong. 
 
 I know, then, and admit, that men, and 
 all men more or less, are, alas ! sinful 
 and bad. I know tjiat the catalogue of 
 human transgressions is long and dark 
 and mournful. The words, pride and 
 envy and anger and selfishness and base 
 indulgence, are words of lamentation. 
 They are words that should make a man 
 weep when he pronounces them, and 
 most of all when he applies them to him- 
 self or to his fellow-men. 
 
 But what now is the inference from 
 all this? Is it that man is an utterly 
 debased, degraded, and contemptible 
 creature ; that there is nothing in him 
 to be revered or respected ; that the 
 human heart presents nothing to us but 
 a mark for cold and blighting reproach .'' 
 Without wishing to assert anything 
 paradoxical, it seems to me that the 
 very reverse is the inference. 
 
 I should reason thus upon this point. 
 I should say, it must be a noble creature 
 that can so offend. I should say, there 
 must be a contrast of light and shade, 
 to make the shade so deep. It is no 
 ordinary being, surely ; it is a being of 
 conscience, of moral powers and glori- 
 ous capacities, that calls from us such 
 intense reproach and indignation. We 
 never so arraign the animal creation. 
 The very power of sinning is a lofty and 
 awful power ! It is, in the language of 
 our holiest poet, " the excess of glory 
 obscured." Neither is it a power stand- 
 ing alone. It is not a solitary, unquali- 
 fied, diabolical power of evil ; a dark 
 and cold abstraction of wickedness. 
 No, it is clothed with other qualities. 
 No, it has dread attendants ; attendants, 
 I had almost said, that dignify even the 
 wrong. A waiting conscience, visitings 
 — oh ! visitings of better thoughts, 
 
8 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 calls of honor and self-respect, come to 
 the sinner; terrific admonition whisper- 
 ing in his secret ear, prophetic warning 
 pointing him to the dim and veiled shad- 
 ows of future retribution, and the all- 
 penetrating, all-surrounding idea of an 
 avenging God, are present with him : and 
 the right arm of the felon and the trans- 
 gressor is lifted up amidst lightnings of 
 conviction and thunderings of reproach. 
 I can tremble at such a being as this ; 
 I can pity him ; I can weep for him ; 
 but I cannot scorn him. 
 
 The very words of condemnation 
 which we apply to sin are words of 
 comparison. When we describe the 
 act of the transgressor as mean, for in- 
 stance, we recognize, I repeat, the nobil- 
 ity of his nature ; and when we say that 
 his oflFence is a degradation, we imply a 
 certain distinction. And so io do wrcmg 
 implies a noble power, the very power 
 which constitutes the glory of heaven, 
 the power to do right. And thus it is, 
 as I apprehend, that the inspired teach- 
 ers speak of the wickedness and unwor- 
 thiness of man. They seem to do it 
 under a sense of his better capacities 
 and higher distinction. They speak as 
 if he had wronged himself. And when 
 they use the words ruin and perdition, 
 they announce, in affecting terms, the 
 worth of that which is reprobate and 
 lost. Paul, when speaking of his trans- 
 gressions, says, — "not I, but the sin 
 that dwelleth in me." There was a bet- 
 ter nature in him that resisted evil, 
 though it did not always successfully 
 resist. And we read of the Prodigal 
 Son, — in terms which have always 
 seemed to me of the most affecting im- 
 port, — that when he came to the sense 
 of his duty, he " came — io himself. '''' 
 Yes, the sinner is beside himself ; and 
 there is no peace, no reconciliation of 
 his conduct to his nature, till he returns 
 from his evil ways. Shall we not say, 
 then, that his nature demands virtue 
 and rectitude to satisfy it ? 
 
 True it is, and I would not be one to 
 weaken or obscure the truth, that man 
 is sinful ; but he is not satisfied with 
 
 sinning. Not his conscience only, but 
 his wants, his natural affections, are not 
 satisfied. He pays deep penalties for 
 his transgressions. And these suffer- 
 ings proclaim a higher nature. The 
 pain, the disappointment, the dissatis- 
 faction, that wait on an evil course, 
 show that the human soul was not 
 made to be the instrument of sin, but 
 its lofty avenger. The desolated affec- 
 tions, the haggard countenance, the pal- 
 lid and sunken cheek, the sighings of 
 grief, proclaim that there are ruins, in- 
 deed, but they proclaim that something 
 noble has fallen into ruin, — proclaim it 
 by signs mournful, yet venerable, like 
 the desolations of an ancient temple, 
 like its broken walls and falling columns 
 and the hollow sounds of decay, that 
 sink down heavily among its deserted 
 recesses. 
 
 The sinner, I repeat it, is a sufferer. 
 He seeks happiness in low and unworthy 
 objects ; that is his sin : but he does 
 not find it there ; and that is his glory. 
 No, he does not find it there : he returns 
 disappointed and melancholy ; and there 
 is nothing on earth so eloquent as his 
 grief. Read it in the pages of a Byron 
 and a Burns. There is nothing in liter- 
 ature so touching as these lamenta- 
 tions of noble but erring natures, in the 
 vain quest of a happiness which the 
 world and the world's pleasure can never 
 give. The sinner is often dazzled by 
 earthly fortune and pomp, but it is in 
 the very midst of these things that he 
 sometimes most feels their emptiness ; 
 that his higher nature most feels that it 
 is solitary and unsatisfied. It is in the 
 giddy whirl of frivolous pursuits and 
 amusements that his soul oftentimes is 
 sick and weary with trifles and vanities : 
 that "he says of laughter, it is mad; 
 and of mirth, what doeth it?" 
 
 And yet it is not bare disappointment, 
 nor the mere destitution of happiness 
 caused by sin, — it is not these alone 
 that give testimony to a better nature. 
 There is a higher power that bears sway 
 in the human heart. It is remorse, 
 sacred, uncompromising remorse ; that 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 will hear of no selfish calculations of 
 pain and pleasure ; that demands to suf- 
 fer ; that, of all sacrifices on earth, save 
 those of benevolence, brings the only 
 willing victim. What lofty revenge 
 does the abused soul thus take for its 
 offences ; never, no, never, in all its an- 
 ger, punishing another, as in its justice, 
 it punishes itself ! 
 
 Such, then, are the attributes that 
 still dwell in the dark grandeur of the 
 soul ; the beams of original light, of 
 which amidst its thickest darkness it is 
 never shorn. That in which all the no- 
 bleness of earth resides should not be 
 condemned even, but with awe and trem- 
 bling. It is our treasure; and if this is 
 lost, all is lost. Let us take care, then, 
 that we be not unjust. Man is not an 
 angel ; but neitlier is he a demon, nor 
 a brute. The evil he does is not com- 
 mitted with brutish insensibility, nor 
 with diabolical satisfaction. And the 
 evil, too, is often disguised under forms 
 that do not, at once, permit him to see 
 its real character. His affections be- 
 come wrong by excess ; passions be- 
 wilder ; semblances delude ; interests 
 ensnare ; example corrupts. And yet 
 no tyrant over men's thoughts, no un- 
 worthy seeker of their adulation, no 
 pander for guilty pleasure, could ever 
 make the human heart what he would. 
 And in making it what he has, he has 
 often found that he had to work with 
 stubborn materials. No perseverance 
 of endeavor, nor devices of ingenuity, 
 nor depths of artifice, have ever equalled 
 those which are sometimes employed to 
 corrupt the heart from its youthful sim- 
 plicity and uprightness. 
 
 In endeavoring to state the views 
 which are to be entertained of human 
 nature, I have at present, and before I 
 reverse the picture, but one further ob- 
 servation to make. And that is on the 
 spirit and tone with which it is to be 
 viewed and spoken of. I have wished, 
 even in speaking of its faults, to awak- 
 en a feeling of reverence and regret for 
 it, such as would arise within us on 
 beholding a noble but mutilated statue. 
 
 or the work of some divine architect, in 
 ruins, or some majestic object in nature 
 which had been marred by the rending 
 of this world's elements and changes. 
 Above all other objects, surely, human 
 nature deserves to be regarded with 
 these sentiments. The ordinary tone 
 of conversation in allusion to this sub- 
 ject, the sneering remark on mankind, 
 as a set of poor and miserable crea- 
 tures, the cold and bitter severity, wheth- 
 er of philosophic scorn or theological 
 rancor, become no being; least of all, 
 him who has part in this common na- 
 ture. He, at least, should speak with 
 consideration and tenderness. And if 
 he must speak of faults and sins, he 
 would do well to imitate an apostle, 
 and to tell these things, even weeping. 
 His tone should be that of forbearance 
 and pity. His words should be record- 
 ed in a Book of Lamentations. " How is 
 the gold become dim," he might exclaim 
 in the words of an ancient lamenta- 
 tion, — " how is the gold become dim, 
 and the most fine gold changed ! The 
 precious sons of Zion, comparable to 
 fine gold, how are they esteemed but as 
 earthen vessels, the work of the hands 
 of the potter ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Psalm viii. 5: " For thou hast made him a little 
 lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with 
 glory and honor." 
 
 I HAVE endeavored, in my last dis- 
 course, to show that the very objections 
 which are usually brought against human 
 nature imply in the very fact, in the 
 very spirit and tone of them, the 
 strongest concessions to its worth. I 
 shall now proceed to the direct argu- 
 ment in its favor. It is the constitu- 
 tional worth of human nature that we 
 have thus far considered, rather than 
 its moral worth, or absolute virtue. 
 We have considered the indignant re- 
 proaches against its sin and debase- 
 
lO 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 ment, whether of the philosopher or the 
 theologian, as evidence of their own 
 conviction that it was made for some- 
 thing better. We have considered that 
 moral constitution of human nature by 
 which it was evidently made not to. be 
 the slave of sin, but its conqueror. 
 
 Let us now proceed to take some 
 account of its moral traits and acquisi- 
 tions. I say its moral traits and acqui- 
 sitions. For there are feelings of the 
 human mind which scarcely rise to the 
 character of acquisitions, which are in- 
 voluntary impulses ; and yet which pos- 
 sess a nature as truly moral, though not 
 in as high a degree, as any voluntary 
 acts of virtue. Such is the simple, nat- 
 ural love of excellence. It bears the 
 same relation to moral effort as spon- 
 taneous reason does to reflection or 
 logical effort ; and what is spontaneous, 
 in both cases, is the very foundation of 
 the acquisitions that follow. Thus the 
 involuntary perception of a few axioms 
 lies at the foundation of mathematical 
 science ; and so from certain spontane- 
 ous impressions of truth springs all 
 knowledge ; and in the same manner 
 our spontaneous moral impressions are 
 the germs of the highest moral efforts. 
 
 Of these spontaneous impressions I 
 ain to speak in the first place ; and then 
 to produce in favor of human nature 
 the testimony of its higher and more 
 confirmed virtues. 
 
 But I am not willing to enter upon 
 this theme without first offering a re- 
 mark or two, to prevent any misconcep- 
 tion of the purpose for which I again 
 bring forward this discussion. It is not 
 to bring to the altar at which I minister, 
 an oblation of flattery to my fellow-wor- 
 shippers. It is not to make any man 
 feel his moral dangers to be less, or to 
 make him easier in reference to that sol- 
 emn spiritual trust that is committed to 
 his nature, but the very contrary. It 
 is not to make him think less of his 
 faults, but more. It is not, in fine, to 
 build up any one theological dogma or 
 to beat down another. 
 
 My view of t!ie subject, if I miy state 
 
 it without presumption, is this : that 
 there is a treasure in human nature of 
 which most men are not conscious, and 
 with which none are yet fully acquaint- 
 ed ! If you had met in a retired part of 
 the country with some rustic youth who 
 bore in his character the indications of 
 a most sublime genius, and if you saw 
 that he was ignorant of it, and that those 
 around him were ignorant of it, you 
 would look upon him with extreme, with 
 enthusiastic interest, and you would be 
 anxious to bring him into the light, and 
 to rear him up to his proper sphere of 
 honor. This, may I be permitted to 
 say, illustrates the view which I take of 
 human nature. I believe that there is 
 something in every man's heart upon 
 which he ought to look as a found treas- 
 ure ; something upon which he ought 
 to look with awe and wonder; some- 
 thing which should make him tremble 
 when he thinks of sacrificing it to evil ; 
 something, also, to encourage and cheer 
 him in every endeavor after virtue and 
 purity. Far be it from me to say that 
 that something is confirmed goodness, 
 or is thfe degree of goodness which is 
 necessary to make him happy, here or 
 hereafter ; or that it is something to 
 rest upon, or to rely upon, in the antici- 
 pation of God's judgment. Still, I be- 
 lieve that he who says there is iiotJting 
 good in him, no foundation, no feeling of 
 goodness, says what is not true, what is 
 not just to himself, what is not just to 
 his Maker's beneficence. 
 
 I will refer now to those moral traits, 
 to those involuntary moral impressions, 
 of which I have already spoken. 
 
 Instances of this nature might un- 
 doubtedly be drawn from every depart- 
 ment of social life : from social kindness, 
 from friendship, from parental and filial 
 love, from the feelings of spontaneous 
 generosity, pity, and admiration, which 
 every day kindles into life and warmth 
 around us. But since these feelings 
 are often alleged to be of a doubtful 
 character, and are so, indeed, to a cer- 
 tain extent ; since they are often mixed 
 up with interested considerations which 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 II 
 
 lessen their weight in this argument, I 
 am about to appeal to cases which, 
 though they are not often brought into 
 the pulpit, will appear to you, I trust, to 
 be excused, if not justified, by the cir- 
 cumstance that they are altogether ap- 
 posite cases ; cases, that is to say, of 
 disinterested feeling. 
 
 The world is inundated in this age 
 with a perfect deluge of fictitious pro- 
 ductions. I look, indeed, upon the ex- 
 clusive reading of such works, in which 
 too many employ their leisure time, as 
 having a very bad and dangerous ten- 
 dency : but this is not to my purpose at 
 present. I only refer now to the well- 
 known extent and fascination of this 
 kind of reading, for the purpose of put- 
 ting a single question. I ask, What is 
 the moral character of these produc- 
 tions ? Not high enough, certainly ; 
 but then I ask, still more specifically, 
 whether the preference is given to vir- 
 tue or to vice in these books ; and to 
 which of them the feelings of the reader 
 generally lean ? Can there be one mo- 
 ment's doubt? Is not virtue usually 
 held up to admiration, and are not the 
 feelings universally enlisted in its fa- 
 vor ? Must not the character of the 
 leading personage in the story, to satisfy 
 the public taste, be good, and is not his 
 career pursued with intense interest to 
 the end? Now reverse the case. Sup- 
 pose his character to be bad. Suppose 
 him ungenerous, avaricious, sensual, de- 
 based. Would he then be admired ? 
 Would he then enlist the sympathies 
 even of the most frivolous reader ? It 
 is unnecessary to answer the question. 
 Here, then, is a right and virtuous feel- 
 ing at work in the world ; and it is a 
 perfectly disinterested feeling. Here, 
 1 say, is a right and virtuous feel- 
 ing beating through the whole heart of 
 society. Why should any one say it is 
 not a feeling ; that it is conscience ; 
 that it is mere approbation ! It ts a 
 feeling, if anything is. There is intense 
 interest, there are tears, to testify that 
 it is a feeling. 
 
 If, then, I put such a book into the 
 
 hands of any reader, and if he feels thus, 
 let him not tell me that there is nothing 
 good in him. There may not be good- 
 ness, fixed, habitual goodness in him ; 
 but there is something good, out of 
 which goodness may grow. 
 
 Of the same character are the most 
 favorite popular songs and ballads. 
 The chosen themes of these composi- 
 tions are patriotism, generosity, pity, 
 love. Now it is known that nothing 
 sinks more deeply into the heart of na- 
 tions ; and yet these are their themes. 
 Let me make the ballads of a people, 
 some one has said, and let who will, 
 make their laws ; and yet he must con- 
 struct them on these principles ; he 
 must compose them in praise of patriot- 
 ism, honor, fidelity, generous sympathy, 
 and pure love. I say pure love. Let 
 the passion be made a base one, let it 
 be capricious, mercenary, or sensual, 
 and it instantly loses the pubhc sympa- 
 thy : the song would be instantly hissed 
 from the stage of the vilest theatre that 
 ever was opened. No, it must be true- 
 hearted affection, holding its faith and 
 fealty bright and unsoiled amidst change 
 of fortunes, amidst poverty, and disaster, 
 and separation, and reproach. The 
 popular taste will hardly allow the affec- 
 tion to be as prudent as it ought to be. 
 And when I listen to one of these popu- 
 lar ballads or songs that tells, — it may 
 be not in the best taste, — but which 
 tells the thrilling tale of high, disinter- 
 ested, magnanimous fidelity to the sen- 
 timents of the heart; that tells of pure 
 and faithful affection, which no cold 
 looks can chill, which no storms of mis- 
 fortune can quench, which prefers sim- 
 ple merit to all worldly splendor, — when 
 I observe this, I sa}', I see a noble feel- 
 ing at work ; and that which many will 
 pronounce to be silly, through a certain 
 shamefacedness about their own sensi- 
 bility, I regard as respectable, and hon- 
 orable to human nature. 
 
 Now I say again, as I said before, 
 let these popular compositions set forth 
 the beauties of vice; let them celebrate 
 meaimess, parsimony, fraud, or coward- 
 
12 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 ice, and would they dwell, as they now 
 do, in the habitations, and in the hearts, 
 and upon the lips, of whole nations ? 
 What a disinterested testimony is this 
 to the charms of virtue ! What evidence 
 that men feel those charms, though they 
 may not be won by them to virtuous 
 lives ! The national songs of a people 
 do not embrace cold sentiments ; they 
 are not sung or heard with cold appro- 
 bation. They fire the breasts of mil- 
 lions. They draw tears from the eyes 
 of ten tliousand listening throngs that 
 are gathered in the homes of human 
 affection. 
 
 And the power of music, too, as a 
 separate thing, lies very much, as it 
 seems to me, in the sentiments and 
 affections it awakens. There is a pleas- 
 ure to the ear, doubtless ; but there is a 
 pleasure also to the heart, and this is 
 the greater pleasure. But what kind of 
 pleasure is it ? Does that melody which 
 addresses the universal mind appeal to 
 vile and base passions ? Is not the 
 state into which it naturally throws al- 
 most every mind favorable to gentle 
 and kind emotions, to lofty efforts and 
 heroic sacrifices ? But if the human 
 heart possessed no high nor holy feel- 
 ings, if it were entirely alien to them, 
 then the music which excites them 
 should excite them to voluptuousness, 
 cruelty, strife, fraud, avarice, and to all 
 the mean aims and indulgences of a 
 selfish disposition. 
 
 Let not these illustrations, — wliich 
 are adopted, to be sure, partly because 
 they are fitted to unfold a moral char- 
 acter where no credit has usually been 
 given for it, and because, too, they pre- 
 sent at once universal and disinterested 
 manifestations of human feeling, — let 
 not these illustrations, I say, be thought 
 to furnish an unsatisfactory inference, 
 because they are drawn from the lighter 
 actions of the human mind. The feel- 
 ing in all these cases is not superficial 
 nor feeble ; and the slighter the occa- 
 sion that awakens it, the stronger is our 
 argument. If the leisure and recrea- 
 tions of men yield such evidence of deep 
 
 moral feeling, what are they not capable 
 of, when armed with lofty purposes and 
 engaged in high duties.^ If the instru- 
 ment yields such noble strains, though 
 incoherent and intermitted, to the slight- 
 est touch, what might not be done, if 
 the hand of skill were laid upon it, to 
 bring out all its sublime harmonies ? 
 Oh that some powerful voice might 
 speak to this inward nature, — powerful 
 as the story of heroic deeds, moving as 
 the voice of song, arousing as the trum- 
 pet-call to honor and victory I My 
 friends, if we are among those who are 
 pursuing the sinful way, let us be as- 
 sured that we know not ourselves yet ; 
 we have not searched the depths of our 
 nature ; we have not communed with its 
 deepest wants ; we have not listened to 
 its strongest and highest affections ; if 
 we had done all this, we could not abuse 
 it as we do, nor could we neglect it as 
 we do. 
 
 But it is time to pass from these in- 
 stances of spontaneous and universal 
 feeling to those cases in which such 
 feeling, instead of being occasional and 
 evanescent, is formed into a prevailing 
 habit and a consistent and fixed char- 
 acter ; to pass from good affections, 
 transient, uncertain, and unworthily neg- 
 lected, to good men, who are perma- 
 nently such, and worthy to be called 
 such. Our argument from this source 
 is more confined, but it gains strength 
 by its compression within a narrower 
 compass. 
 
 I shall not be expected here to occupy 
 the time with asserting or proving that 
 there are good men in the world. It 
 will be more important to reply to a 
 single objection under this head, which 
 would be fatal if it were just, and to 
 point to some characteristics of human 
 virtue which prove its great and real 
 worth. Let me however for a moment 
 indulge myself in the simple assertion 
 of what every mind, not entirely misan- 
 thropic, must feel to be true. I say, 
 then, that there are good men in the 
 world ; there are good men everywhere. 
 There are men who are good for good- 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 13 
 
 ness' sake. In obscurity, in retirement, 
 beneath the shadow o£ ten thousand 
 dwell! n2;s, scarcely known to the world 
 and never asking to be known, there are 
 good men. In adversity, in poverty, 
 amidst temptations, amidst all the sever- 
 ity of earthly trials, there are good men, 
 whose lives shed brightness upon the 
 dark clouds that surround them. Be it 
 true, if we must admit the sad truth, 
 that many are wrong, and persist in 
 being wrong ; that many are false to 
 every holy trust, and faithless towards 
 every holy affection ; that many are 
 estranged from infinite goodness ; that 
 many are coldly selfish and meanly sen- 
 sual, — yes, cold and dead to everything 
 that is not wrapped up in their own little 
 earthly interest, or more darkly wrapped 
 up in the veil of fleshly appetites. Be 
 it so ; but 1 thank God, that is not all 
 that we are obliged to believe. No, 
 there are true hearts, amidst the throng 
 of the false and the faithless. There 
 are warm and generous hearts, which 
 the cold atmosphere of surrounding self- 
 ishness never chills ; and eyes, unused 
 to weep for personal sorrow, which 
 often overflow with sympathy for the 
 sorrows of others. Yes, there are good 
 men, and true men ; I thank them ; I 
 bless them for what they are : I thank 
 them for what they are to me. What 
 do I say — why do I utter my weak 
 benediction.'' God from on high doth 
 bless them, and he giveth his angels 
 charge to keep them ; and nowhere in 
 the holy Record are there words more 
 precious or strong than those in which 
 it is written that God loveth these right- 
 eous ones. Such men are there. Let 
 not their precious virtues be distrusted. 
 As surely and as evidently as some men 
 have obeyed the calls of ambition and 
 pleasure, so surely, and so evidently, 
 have other men obeyed tlie voice of 
 conscience, and " chosen rather to suf- 
 fer with the people of God than to en- 
 joy the pleasures of sin for a season." 
 Why, every meek man suffers in a con- 
 flict keener far than the contest for 
 honor and applause. And there are 
 
 such men, who amidst injury, and insult, 
 and misconstruction, and the pointed 
 finger, and the scornful lip of pride, 
 stand firm in their integrity and alle- 
 giance to a loftier principle, and still 
 their throbbing hearts in prayer, and 
 hush them to the gentle motions of kind- 
 ness and pity. Such witnesses there 
 are, even in this bad world ; signs that a 
 redeeming work is going forward amidst 
 its mournful derelictions ; proofs that 
 it is not a world forsaken of Heaven ; 
 pledges that it will not be forsaken ; 
 tokens that cheer and touch every good 
 and thoughtful mind, beyond all other 
 power of earth to penetrate and enkin- 
 dle it. 
 
 I believe that what I have now said 
 is a most legitimate argument for the 
 worth of human nature. As a matter 
 of fact, it will not be denied that such 
 beings as I have represented, there are. 
 And I now further maintain, and this 
 is the most material point in the argu- 
 ment, that such men — that good men, in 
 other words — are to be regarded as the 
 rightful and legitimate representatives 
 of human nature. Surely, not man's 
 vices but his virtues, not his failure but 
 his success, should teach us what to 
 think of his nature. Just as we should 
 look, for their real character, to the pro- 
 ductions nourished by a favorable soil 
 and climate, and not to the same plants 
 or trees as they stand withered and 
 stunted in a barren desert. 
 
 But here we are met with the objec- 
 tion before referred to. It is said that 
 man's virtues come from God, and his 
 sins only from his own nature. And 
 thus, — for this is the result of the ob- 
 jection, — from the estimate of what is 
 human, all human excellence is at once 
 cut off by this fine discrimination of 
 theological subtilty. Unreasonable as 
 this seems to me, if the objector will 
 forget his theology for one moment, I 
 will answer it. I say, then, that the 
 influence of the good spirit of God does 
 not destroy our natural powers, but 
 guides them into a right direction ; that 
 it does not create anything unnatural 
 
14 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 surely, nor supernatural in man, but 
 what is suitable to his nature ; that, in 
 fine, his virtues are as truly the volun- 
 tary putting forth of his native powers 
 as his vices are. Else would his virtues 
 have no worth. Human nature, in short, 
 is the noble stock on which these vir- 
 tues grow. With heaven's rain, and 
 sunshine, and genial influence, do you 
 say ? Be it so ; still they are no less 
 human, and show the stock from which 
 they spring. When you look over a 
 grain-field, and see some parts more 
 luxuriant than others, do you say that 
 they are of a different nature from the 
 rest ? And when you look abroad upon 
 the world, do you think it right to take 
 Tartars and Hottentots as specimens 
 of the race.'' And why then shall you 
 regard the worst of men, rather than the 
 best, as samples of human nature and 
 capability ? 
 
 The way, then, is open for us to claim 
 for human nature, however that nature 
 is breathed upon by heavenly influences, 
 all the excellent fruits that have sprung 
 from it. And they are not few ; they are 
 not small ; they are not contemptible. 
 They have cost too much, if there were 
 no other consideration to give them 
 value, — they have cost too much to be 
 thus estimated. 
 
 The true idea of human nature is not 
 that it passively and spontaneously pro- 
 duces its destined results ; but that, 
 placed in a fearful contest between good 
 and evil, it is capable of glorious exertions 
 and attainments. Human virtue is the 
 result of effort and patience in circum- 
 stances that most severely try it. Hu- 
 man excellence is much of it gained 
 at the expense of self-denial. All the 
 wisdom and worth in the world are a 
 struggle with ignorance and infirmity 
 and temptation ; often with sickness and 
 pain. There is not an admirable char- 
 acter presented before you, but it has 
 cost years and years of toil and watch- 
 ing and self-government to form it. You 
 see the victor, but you forget the battle. 
 And you forget it, for a reason that 
 exalts and ennobles the fortitude and 
 
 courage of the combatant. You forget 
 it because the conflict has been carried 
 on, all silently, in his own bosom. You 
 forget it, because no sound has gone 
 forth, and no wreath of fame has awaited 
 the conqueror. 
 
 And what has he gained ? — to refer 
 to but one more of the views that might 
 be urged, what has he gained ? I answer, 
 what is worth too much to be slightly 
 estimated. The catalogue of human 
 virtues is not brief nor dull. What 
 glowing words do we involuntarily put 
 into that record ! with what feelings do 
 we hallow it ! The charm of youthful 
 excellence, the strong integrity of man- 
 hood, the venerable piety of age ; unsul- 
 lied honor, unswerving truth ; fidelity, 
 magnanimity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom ; 
 ay, and the spirit of martyrdom in many 
 a form of virtue ; sacred friendship, with 
 its disinterested toil, ready to die for 
 those it loves ; noble patriotism, slain in 
 its high places, beautiful in death ; holy 
 philanthropy, that pours out its treasure 
 and its life ! dear and blessed virtues of 
 humanity ! (we are ready to exclaim) 
 what human heart does not cherish you ? 
 Bright cloud that hath passed on with 
 " the sacramental host of God's elect " 
 through ages, — how dark and deso- 
 late, but for you, would be this world's 
 history ! 
 
 My friends, I have spoken of the real- 
 ity and worth of virtue, and I have spok- 
 en of it as a part of human nature, not 
 surely to awaken a feeling of pride, but 
 to lead you and myself to an earnest 
 aspiration after that excellence which 
 embraces the chief welfare and glory of 
 our nature. A cold disdain of our spe- 
 cies, an indulgence of sarcasm, a feeling 
 that is always ready to distrust and dis- 
 parage every indication of virtuous prin- 
 ciple, or an utter despair of the moral 
 fortunes of our race, will not help the 
 purpose in view, but must have a power- 
 ful tendency to hinder its accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
 Unhappy is it that any are left, by 
 any possibility, to doubt the virtues of 
 their kind ! Let us do something to wipe 
 
THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 
 
 15 
 
 away from the history of human life that 
 fatal reproach. Let us make that best 
 of contributions to the stock of human 
 happiness, an example of goodness that 
 shall disarm such gloomy and chilling 
 scepticism and win men's hearts to 
 virtue. I have received many benefits 
 from my fellow-beings. But no gift, in 
 their power to bestow, can ever impart 
 such a pure and thrilling delight as one 
 bright action, one lovely virtue, one char- 
 acter that shines with all the enraptur- 
 ing beauty of goodness. 
 
 Who would not desire to confer such 
 benefits on the world as these ? Who 
 would not desire to leave such memorials 
 behind him ? Such memorials have been 
 left on earth. The virtues of the de- 
 parted, but forever dear, hallow and 
 bless many of our dwellings, and call 
 forth tears that lose half of their bitter- 
 ness in gratitude and admiration. Yes, 
 there are such legacies, and there are 
 those on earth who have inherited them. 
 Yes, there are men, poor men, whose 
 parents have left them a legacy in their 
 bare memory, that they would not ex- 
 change — no, they would not exchange 
 it for boundless wealth. Let it be our 
 care to bequeath to society and to the 
 world blessings like these. " The me- 
 morial of virtue," saith the wisdom of 
 Solomon, "is immortal. When it is 
 present, men take example from it ; and 
 when it is gone, they desire it ; it wear- 
 eth a crown, and triumpheth forever." 
 
 III. 
 
 ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES 
 TO HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Proverbs viii. 36 : " He that siiineth against me 
 wroiigeth his own soul." 
 
 This is represented as the language 
 of wisdom. The attribute of wisdom is 
 personified throughout the chapter, and 
 it closes its instructions with the decla- 
 ration of our text: " He that sinneth 
 against me wrongeth his own soul." 
 The theme, then, which in these words 
 
 is obviously presented for our medita- 
 tion, is the wrong which the sinner does 
 to himself, to his nature, to his own 
 soul. 
 
 He does a wrong, indeed, to others. 
 He does them, it may be, deep and 
 heinous injury. The moral offender in- 
 jures society, and injures it in the most 
 vital part. Sin is, to all the dearest in- 
 terests of society, a desolating power. 
 It spreads misery through the world. 
 It brings that misery into the daily lot 
 of millions. The violence of anger, the 
 exactions of selfishness, the corrodings 
 of envy, the coldness of distrust, the 
 contests of pride, the excesses of pas- 
 sion, the indulgences of sense, carry 
 desolation into the very bosom of domes- 
 tic life; and the crushed and bleeding 
 hearts of friends and kindred, or of a 
 larger circle of the suffering and op- 
 pressed, are everywhere witnesses at 
 once, and victims to the mournful pres- 
 ence of this great evil. 
 
 But all the injury, great and terrible 
 as it is, which the sinner does or can in- 
 flict upon others is not equal to the in- 
 jury that he inflicts upon himself. The 
 evil that he does, is, in almost all cases, 
 •the greater, the nearer it comes to him- 
 self ; greater to his friends than to soci- 
 ety at large; greater to his family than 
 to his friends; and so it is greater to 
 himself than it is to any other. Yes, it 
 is in his own nature, whose glorious 
 traits are dimmed and almost blotted 
 out, whose pleading remonstrances are 
 sternly disregarded, whose immortal 
 hopes are rudely stricken down, — it is in 
 his own nature that he does a work so 
 dark and mournful, and so fearful, that 
 he ought to shudder and weep to think 
 of it. ^ 
 
 Does any one say he is glad that it 
 is so : glad that it is himself he injures 
 most ? What a feeling, my brethren, 
 of disinterested justice is that ! How 
 truly may it be said that there is some- 
 thing good in bad men. Doubtless 
 there are those who in their remorse at 
 an evil deed would be glad if all the in- 
 jury and suffering could be their own. 
 
\6 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 I rejoice in that testimony. But does 
 that feeling make it any less true, — 
 does not that feeling make it more true, 
 that such a nature is wronged by base 
 and selfish passions ? Or, because it is 
 a man's self, because it is his own soul 
 that he has most injured, because he 
 has not only wronged others but ruined 
 himself, is his course any the less guilt}', 
 or unhappy, or unnatural .'' 
 
 I say unnatural; and this is a point 
 on which I wish to insist, in the consid- 
 eration of that wrong which the moral 
 offender does to himself. The sinner, 
 I say, is to be pronounced an unnatural 
 being. He has cast ofF the government 
 of those powers of his nature which, as 
 being the loftiest, have the best right to 
 reign over him, the government, that is 
 to say, of his intellectual and moral fac- 
 ulties, and has yielded himself to mean- 
 er appetites. Those meaner appetites, 
 though tliey belong to his nature, have 
 no right, and he knows they have no 
 right, to govern him. The rightful au- 
 thority, the lawful sovereignty, belongs, 
 and he knows that it belongs, not to 
 sense, but to conscience. To rebel 
 against this is to sin against nature. It 
 is to rebel against nature's order. It is< 
 to rebel against the government that 
 God has set up within him. It is to 
 obey, not venerable authorit}', but the 
 faction which his passions have made 
 Avithin him. 
 
 Thus violence and misrule are always 
 the part of transgression. Nay, every 
 sin, — I do not mean now the natural 
 and unavoidable imperfection of a weak 
 and ignorant being, — but every wilful 
 moral offence is a monstrous excess and 
 excrescence in the mind, a hideous de- 
 formity, a loathsome disease, a destruc- 
 tion, so far as it goes, of the purposes 
 for which our nature was made. As 
 well might you say of the diseased plant 
 or tree, whicli is wasting all its vigor 
 on the growth of one huge and unsightly 
 deformity, that it is in a natural condi- 
 tion. Grant that the natural powers of 
 the plant or tree are converted, or rath- 
 er perverted, to this misuse, and help 
 
 to produce this deformity ; yet the de- 
 formity is not natural. Grant that evil 
 is the possible, or supposable, or that it 
 is the actual, nay, and in this world the 
 common, result of moral freedom. But 
 it is evidently not the just and legiti- 
 mate result ; it is not the fair and natu- 
 ral result ; it violates all moral powers 
 and responsibilities. If the mechanism 
 of a vast manufactory were thrown into 
 sudden disorder, the power which pro- 
 pels it might, indeed, spread destruction 
 throughout the whole work ; but would 
 that be the natural course of things, the 
 result for which the fabric was made ? 
 So passion, not in its natural state, but 
 still natural passion in its unnatural 
 state of excess and fury, may spread 
 disorder and destruction through the 
 moral system ; but wreck and ruin are 
 not the proper order of any nature, 
 whether material or moral. 
 
 The idea against which I am now con- 
 tending, that evil is natural to us, and, 
 in fact, that nothing else is natural, — 
 this popular and prevailing idea is one, 
 it seems to me, so fearful and fatal in 
 its bearings, is one of such compre- 
 hensive and radical mischief, as to in- 
 fect the religious state of all mankind, 
 and to overshadow, almost with despair, 
 the moral prospects of the world. There 
 is no error, theological or moral, that 
 appears to me so destructive as this. 
 There is nothing that lies so near the 
 very basis of all moral reform and spir- 
 itual improvement as this. 
 
 If it were a matter of mere doctrine, 
 it would be of less consequence. But 
 it is a matter of habitual feeling, I fear, 
 and of deep-settled opinion. The world, 
 alas ! is not only in the sad and awful 
 condition of being filled with evil, and 
 filled with misery in consequence, but 
 of thinking that this is the natural order 
 of things. Sin is a thing of course ; it 
 is taken for granted that it must exist 
 very much in the way that it does, and 
 men are everywhere easy about it; they 
 are everywhere sinking into worldliness 
 and vice as if they were acting out the 
 principles of their moral constitution, 
 
THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 
 
 17 
 
 and almost as if they were fulfilling the 
 will of God. And thus it comes to 
 piss that that which should fill the 
 world with grief and astonishment and 
 horror beyond all things else most hor- 
 rible and lamentable is regarded with 
 perfect apathy as a thing natural and 
 necessary. Why, my bretliren, if but 
 tlie animal creation were found, on a 
 sudden, disobedient to the principles of 
 their nature; if they were ceasing to 
 regard the guiding instincts with which 
 they are endowed, and were rushing 
 into universal madness, the whole world 
 would stand aghast at the spectacle. 
 But multitudes in the rational creation 
 disobey a higher law and forsake a 
 more sacred guidance ; they degrade 
 themselves below the beasts, or make 
 themselves as entirely creatures of this 
 world ; they plunge into excess and 
 profligacy; they bow down divine and 
 immortal faculties to the basest uses ; 
 and there is no wonder, there is no hor- 
 ror, there is no consciousness of the 
 wrong done to themselves. They say, 
 '■ It is the natural course of things," as 
 if th^y had solved the whole problem of 
 moral evil. They say, "It is the way of 
 the world," almost as if they thought it 
 was the order of Providence. They say, 
 "It is what men are," almost as if they 
 thought it was what men were designed 
 to be. And thus ends their comment, 
 and with it all reasonable endeavor to 
 make themselves better and happier. 
 
 If this state of prevailing opinion be 
 as certainly erroneous as it is evidently 
 dangerous, it is of the last importance 
 that every resistance, however feeble, 
 should be offered to its fatal tendencies. 
 Let us therefore consider, a little more 
 in detail, the wrong which sin does to 
 human nature. I say, then, that it does 
 a wrong to every natural faculty and 
 power of the mind. 
 
 Sin does a wrong to reason. Tliere 
 are instances, and not a few, in which it 
 absolutely destroys reason. There are 
 other and more numerous cases in which 
 it employs that faculty, but employs it 
 in a toil most deerradins: to its nature. 
 
 There is reasoning, indeed, in the mind 
 of a miser ; the solemn arithmetic of 
 profit and loss. There is reasoning in tlie 
 schemes of unscrupulous ambition ; the 
 absorbing and agitating intrigue for office 
 or honor. There is reasoning upon 
 the modes of sensual pleasure ; and the 
 whole power of a very acute mind is 
 sometimes employed and absorbed in 
 plans and projects and imagination* of 
 evil indulgence. But what an unnatural 
 desecration is it for reason, sovereign, 
 majestic, all-comprehending reason, to 
 contract its boundless range to the 
 measure of what the hand can grasp ; to 
 be sunk so low as to idolize outward or 
 sensitive good ; to make its god, not in- 
 deed of wood or stone, but of a sense 
 or a nerve ! What a prostration of im- 
 mortal reason is it, to bend its whole 
 power to the poor and pitiful uses which 
 sinful indulgence demands of it ! 
 
 Sin is a kind of insanity. So far as it 
 goes, it makes man an irrational crea- 
 ture : it makes him a fool. The consum- 
 mation of evil is ever, and in every form, 
 the extreme of folly ; and it is that most 
 pitiable folly which is puffed up with 
 arrogance and self-sufficiency. Sin de- 
 grades, it impoverishes, it beggars the 
 soul ; and yet the soul in this very con- 
 dition blesses itself in its superior en- 
 dowments and happy fortune. Yes, 
 every sinner is a beggar as truly as the 
 most needy and desperate mendicant. 
 He begs for a precarious happiness ; he 
 begs it of his possessions or his coffers, 
 that cannot give it ; he begs it of every 
 passing trifle and pleasure ; he begs it of 
 things most empty and uncertain, — of 
 every vanity, of every shout of praise in 
 the vacant air ; of every wandering eye 
 he begs its homage : he wants these 
 things, he wants them for happiness ; he 
 wants them to satisfy the craving soul ; 
 and yet he imagines that he is very for- 
 tunate ; he accounts himself wise, or 
 great, or honorable, or rich, increased 
 in goods, and in need of nothing. The 
 infatuation of the inebriate man, who is 
 elated and gay just when he ought to 
 be most depressed and sad, we very well 
 
i8 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 understand. But it is just as true of 
 every man that is intoxicated by any of 
 liis senses or passions, by wealth, or 
 honor, or pleasure, that he is infatuated ; 
 that he has abjured reason. 
 
 What clearer dictate of reason is there 
 than to prefer the greater good to the 
 lesser good ? But every offender, every 
 sensualist, every avaricious man, sacri- 
 fices the greater good, the happiness of 
 virtue and piety, for the lesser good, 
 wiiich he finds in his senses or in the 
 perishing world. Nor is this the strong- 
 est view of the case. He sacrifices the 
 greater for the less without any neces- 
 sity for it. He might have both. He 
 gives up heaven for earth, when in the 
 best sense he might, I repeat, have 
 both. A pure mind can derive more en- 
 joyment from this world, and from the 
 senses, than an impure mind. This is 
 true even of the lowest senses. But 
 there are other senses besides these ; 
 and the pleasures of the epicure are far 
 from equalling even in intensity those 
 wliich piety draws from the glories of 
 vision and the melodies of sound, min- 
 isters as they are of thoughts and feel- 
 ings that swell far beyond the measure 
 of all worldly joy. 
 
 The love of happiness might properly 
 be treated as a separate part of our 
 nature, and I had intended, indeed, to 
 speak of it distinctly ; to speak of the 
 meagre and miserable provision which 
 unholy gratification makes for it ; and 
 yet more of the cruel wrong which is 
 done to this eager and craving love of 
 happiness. But as I have fallen on this 
 topic, and find the space that belongs to 
 me diminishing, I must content myself 
 with a single suggestion. 
 
 What bad man ever desired that his 
 child should be like himself? Vice is 
 said to wear an alluring aspect ; and 
 many a heedless youth, alas ! rushes into 
 its embraces for happiness ; but what 
 vicious man, what corrupt and dissolute 
 man, ever desired that his child should 
 walk in his steps? And what a testi- 
 mony is this, what a clear and disinter- 
 ested testimony, to the unhappiness of a 
 
 sinful course ! Yes, it is the bad man 
 that often feels an interest about the vir- 
 tue of others, beyond all, perhaps, that 
 good men feel, — feels an intensity, an 
 agony of desire for his children, tha': 
 they may be brought up virtuously ; that 
 they may never, never be such as he is ! 
 
 How truly, and with what striking 
 emphasis, did the venerable Cranmer 
 reply, wlien told that a certain man had 
 cheated him, " No, he has cheated him- 
 self." Every bad man, every dishonest 
 man, every corrupt man, cheats himself 
 of a good far dearer than any advan- 
 tage that he obtains over his neighbor. 
 Others he may injure, abuse, and delude ; 
 but another thing is true, though com- 
 monly forgotten, and that is, that he 
 deludes himself, abuses himself, injures 
 himself, more than he does all other men. 
 
 In the next place, sin does a wrong 
 to conscience. There is a conscience 
 in every man, which is as truly a part of 
 his nature as reason or memory. The 
 offender against this, therefore, violates 
 no unknown law nor impracticable rule. 
 From the very teaching of his nature 
 he knows what is right, and he knows 
 that he can do it ; and his very nature, 
 therefore, instead of furnishing him with 
 apologies for wilful wrong, holds him 
 inexcusable. Inexcusable, I am aware, 
 is a strong word ; and when I have 
 looked at mankind, and seen the ways 
 in which they are instructed, educated, 
 and influenced, I have been disposed to 
 feel as if there were palliations. But, 
 on the other hand, when I consider how 
 strong is the voice of nature in a man, 
 how sharp and piercing is the work of a 
 restraining and condemning conscience, 
 how loud and terrible is its remonstrance, 
 what a peculiar, what a Heaven-com- 
 missioned anguish it sometimes inflicts 
 upon the guilty man, I am compelled to 
 say, despite of all bad teaching and bad 
 influence, "This being is utterly inex- 
 cusable." For, I repeat it, there is a 
 conscience in men. I cannot admit that 
 human nature ever chooses evil as such. 
 It seeks for good, for gratification, in- 
 deed. But take the vilest man that lives ; 
 
THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 
 
 19 
 
 and if" it were so that he could obtain 
 the gratification he seeks, — be it prop- 
 erty or sensual pleasure, — that he could 
 obtain it honestly and innocently, he 
 would greatly prefer it on such terms. 
 This sliows that there is conscience in 
 him. But he ivill have the desired grati- 
 fication. And to obtain it he sets his 
 foot upon that conscience, and crushes it 
 down to dishonor and agony worse than 
 death. Ah ! my brethren, we who sit in 
 our closets talk about vice, and dishon- 
 esty, and bloody crime, and draw dark 
 pictures of them, — cold and lifeless, 
 though dark pictures. But we little know, 
 perhaps, of what we speak. The heart 
 all conscious and alive to the truth would 
 smile in bitterness and derision at the 
 feebleness of our description. And could 
 that heart speak; could "the bosom 
 black as death " send forth its voice of 
 living agony in our holy places, it would 
 rend the vaulted arches of every sanc- 
 tuary with the cry of a pierced, and 
 wounded, and wronged, and ruined 
 nature ! 
 
 Finally, sin does a wrong to the affec- 
 tions. How does it mar even that im- 
 age of the affections, that mysterious 
 shrine from which their revealings flash 
 forth, "the human face divine," bereav- 
 ing the world of more than half its 
 beauty ! Can you ever behold sullen- 
 ness clouding the clear, fair brow of 
 childhood, or the flushed cheek of anger, 
 or the averted and writhen features of 
 envy, or the dim and sunken eye and 
 haggard aspect of vice, or the red sig- 
 nals of bloated excess hung out on 
 every feature, proclaiming the fire that 
 is consuming within, — without feeling 
 that sin is the despoiler of all that the 
 affections make most hallowed and beau- 
 tiful ? 
 
 But these are only indications of the 
 wrong that is done and the ruin that is 
 wrouglit in the heart. Nature has made 
 our affections to be full of tenderness, 
 to be sensitive and alive to every touch, 
 to cling to their cherished objects with 
 a grasp from which nothing but cruel 
 violence can sever them. We hear 
 
 much, I know, of the coldness of the 
 world, but I cannot believe much that 
 I hear ; nor is it perhaps meant in any 
 sense that denies to man naturally the 
 most powerful affections, — affections 
 that demand the most gentle and consid- 
 erate treatment. Human love, — I am 
 ready to exclaim, — how strong is it ! 
 What yearnings are there of parental 
 fondness, of filial gratitude, of social 
 kindness, everywhere! What impatient 
 asking of ten thousand hearts for the 
 love of others ; not for their gold, not for 
 their praise, but for their love ! 
 
 But sin enters into this world of the 
 affections and spreads around the death- 
 like coldness of distrust ; the word of 
 anger falls like a blow upon the heart ; 
 or avarice hardens the heart against 
 every finer feeling; or the insane merri- 
 ment or the sullen stupor of the inebri- 
 ate man falls like a thunderbolt amidst 
 the circle of kindred and children. Oh ! 
 the hearts where sin is to do its work 
 should be harder than the nether mill- 
 stone ; yet it enters in among affections 
 all warm, all sensitive, all gushing forth 
 in tenderness; and, deaf to all their 
 pleadings, it does its work as if it were 
 some demon of wrath that knew no pity, 
 and heard no groans, and felt no relent- 
 ing. 
 
 But r must- not leave this subject to 
 be regarded as if it were only a matter 
 for abstract or curious speculation. It 
 goes beyond reasoning; it goes to the 
 conscience, and demands penitence and 
 humiliation. 
 
 For of what, in this view, is the sens- 
 ualist guilty ? He is guilty not merely 
 of indulging the appetites of his body, 
 but of sacrificing to that body a soul ! 
 — I speak literally, — of sacrificing to 
 that body a soul ; yes, of sacrificing all 
 the transcendent and boundless creation 
 of God in his nature to one single nerve 
 of his perishing frame. The brightest 
 emanation of God, a flame from the 
 everlasting altar, burns within him; and 
 he voluntarily spreads over it a fleshy 
 veil, a veil of appetites, a veil of thick 
 darkness ; and if from its awful folds 
 
20 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 one beam of the unholy and insufferable 
 light within breaks forth, he closes his 
 eyes, and quickly spreads another cov- 
 ering of wilful delusion over it, and ut- 
 terly refuses to see that light, though 
 it flashes upon him from the shrine of 
 the Divinity. There is, in-deed, a pecu- 
 liarity in the sensuality of a man distin- 
 guishing it from the sensual gratification 
 of which an animal is capable, and 
 which many men are exalted above the 
 brutes only to turn to the basest uses. 
 The sensual pleasures of a human being 
 derive a quality from the mind. They 
 are probably more intense through the 
 co-operating action of the mind. The 
 appetite of hunger or thirst, for instance, 
 is doubtless the same in both animal and 
 man, and its gratification the same in 
 kind; but the mind communicates to it 
 a greater intensity. To a certain extent 
 this is unquestionalily natural and law- 
 ful. But the mind, finding that it has 
 this power, and that by absorption in 
 sense, by gloating over its objects, it 
 can for a time add something to their 
 enjoyment, — the mind, I say, surrenders 
 itself to the base and ignoble ministry. 
 The angel in man does homage to the 
 brute in man. Reason toils for sense; 
 the imagination panders for appetite ; 
 and even the conscience, — that no fac- 
 ulty maybe left undebased, — the divine 
 conscience, strives to spread around the 
 loathsome forms of voluptuousness a 
 haze of moral beauty, calling intoxica- 
 tion, enthusiasm ; and revelling, good-fel- 
 lowship ; and dignifying every species of 
 indulgence with some name that is holy. 
 Of what, again, is the miser, and of 
 what is every inordinately covetous 
 man, guilty ? Conversant as he may be 
 with every species of trade and traffic, 
 there is one kind of barter coming yet 
 nearer to his interest, l>ut of which, per- 
 chance, he has never thought. Ke 
 barters virtue for gain ! That is the 
 stupendous moral traffic in which he 
 is engaged. The very attributes of the 
 mind are made a part of the stock in 
 the awful trade of avarice. And if its 
 account-book were to state truly the 
 
 whole of every transaction, it would 
 often stand thus : " Gained, my hun- 
 dreds or my thousands ; lost, the rec- 
 titude and peace of my conscience." 
 " Gained, a great bargain, driven hard ; 
 lost, in the same proportion, the gener- 
 osity and kindness of my affections." 
 " Credit" — and what strife is there for 
 that ultimate item, for that final record ! 
 
 — '* credit, by .an immense fortune ; " 
 but on the opposing page, the last page 
 of that moral as truly as mercantile ac- 
 count, I read those words, written not 
 in golden capitals, but in letters of fire, 
 
 — "a lost soul ! " 
 
 Oh, my brethren, it is a pitiable dese- 
 cration of such a nature as ours to give 
 it up to the world. Some baser thing 
 might have been given without regret ; 
 but to bow down reason and conscience, 
 to bind them to the clods of earth ; to 
 contract those faculties that spread 
 themselves out beyond the world, even 
 to infinity, — to contract them to worldly 
 trifles, it is pitiable : it is something to 
 mourn and to weep over. He who sits 
 down in a dungeon which another has 
 made, has not such cause to bewail 
 himself as he who sits down in the 
 dungeon which he has thus made for 
 himself. Poverty and destitution are 
 sad things ; but there is no such pov- 
 erty, there is no such destitution, as that 
 of a covetous and worldly heart. Pov- 
 erty is a sad thing, but there is no man 
 so poor as he who is poor in his affec- 
 tions and virtues. IVIany a house is 
 full, where the mind is unfurnished and 
 the heart is empty ; and no hovel of 
 mere penury ever ought to be so sad as 
 that house. Behold, it is left desolate ; 
 to the immortal it is left desolate as the 
 chambers of death. Death is there in- 
 deed, and it is the death of the soul. 
 
 But, not to dwell longer upon particu- 
 lar forms of evil, of what, let us ask, is 
 the vtan guilty ? IVho is it that is thus 
 guilty ? To say that he is noble in his 
 nature has been sometimes thought a 
 dangerous laxity of doctrine, a proud 
 assumption of merit, "a flattering unc- 
 tion " laid to the soul. But what kind 
 
THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 
 
 21 
 
 of flattery is it to say to a man, " You 
 were made but little lower than the 
 ani^els ; you might have been rising to 
 the state ot angels ; and you have made 
 
 — 7i//ialha.ve you made yourself ? What 
 you are/ a slave to the world; a slave 
 to sense ; a slave to masters baser than 
 nature made them, to vitiated sense, 
 and a corrupt and vain world ! " Alas ! 
 the irony implied in such flattery as this 
 is not needed to add poignancy to con- 
 viction. Boundless capacities shrunk 
 to worse than infantile imbecility! im- 
 mortal faculties made toilers for the van- 
 ities of a moment ! a glorious nature 
 sunk to a willing fellowship with evil ! 
 
 — it needs no exaggeration, but only 
 simple statement, to make this a sad and 
 afflicting case. Ill enough had it been 
 for us if we had been ///ac/i; a depraved 
 and degraded race. Well might *the 
 world even then have sat down in sack- 
 cloth and sorrow, though repentance 
 could properly have made no part of its 
 sorrow. But ill is it, indeed, if we have 
 made ourselves the sinful and unhappy 
 brings that we are ; if we have given 
 ourselves the wounds which have 
 brought languishment and debility and 
 distress upon us ! What keen regret 
 and remorse would any one of us feel, 
 if in a fit of passion he had destroyed 
 ills own right arm or had planted in it 
 a lingering wound! And yet this, and 
 this last especially, is what every of- 
 fender does to some faculty of his na- 
 ture. 
 
 But this is not all. Ill enough had it 
 been for us if we had wrought out evil 
 from nothing ; if from a nature negative 
 and indifferent to the result we had 
 brought forth the fruits of guilt and 
 misery. But if we have wronged, if we 
 have wrested from its true bias, a na- 
 ture made for heavenly ends ; if it was 
 all beautiful in God's design and in our 
 capacity, and we have made it all base, 
 so that human nature, alas ! is but the 
 byword of the satirist, and a mark for 
 the scorner ; if affections that might 
 have been sweet and pure almost as the 
 thoughts of angels have been soured 
 
 and embittered and turned to wrath, 
 even in the homes of human kindness ; 
 if the very senses have been brutalized 
 and degraded, and changed from min- 
 isters of pleasure to inflicters of pain ; 
 and yet more, if all the dread authority 
 of reason has been denied, and all the 
 sublime sanctity of conscience has been 
 set at naught in this downward course ; 
 and yet once more, if all these things, 
 not chimerical, not visionary, are actu- 
 ally witnessed, are matters of history, 
 in ten thousand dwellings around us ; 
 ah ! if they are actually existing, my 
 brethren, in you and in me ! — and 
 finally, if, uniting together, these causes 
 of depravation have spread a flood of 
 misery over the world, and there are 
 sorrows and sighings and tears in all the 
 habitations of men, all proceeding from 
 this one cause, — then, I say, shall peni- 
 tence be thought a strange and uncalled- 
 for emotion ? Shall it be thought strange 
 that the first great demand of the Gos- 
 pel should be for repentance .'' Shall it 
 be thought strange that a man should 
 sit down and weep bitterly for his sins ; 
 so strange that his acquaintances shall 
 ask, " What hath he done ? " or shall 
 conclude that he is going mad with fa- 
 naticism, or is on the point of losing his 
 reason ? No, truly ; the dread infatuation 
 is on the part of those who weep not! 
 It is the negligent world tliat is fa- 
 natical and frantic in the pursuit of un- 
 holy indulgences and unsatisfying pleas- 
 ures. It is such a world refusing to 
 weep over its sins and miseries, that 
 is fatally deranged. Repentance, my 
 brethren, shall it be thought a virtue dif- 
 ficult of exercise .'' What can the world 
 sorrow for, if not for the cause of all 
 sorrow 'i What is to awaken grief, if 
 not guilt and shame .-* Where shall the 
 human heart pour out its tears, if not on 
 those desolations which have been of its 
 own creating ? 
 
 How fitly is it written, and in lan- 
 guage none too strong, that " the sac- 
 rifices of God are a broken and contrite 
 heart"! And how encouragingly is it 
 written also, " A broken and contrite 
 
22 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 heart thou wilt not despise." "O Is- 
 rael," saith again the sacred Word, — 
 "O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself; 
 but in me is thine help found." 
 
 IV. 
 
 ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RE- 
 LIGION, TO BE TRUE AND USE- 
 FUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN 
 NATURE. 
 
 Isaiah xlii. 3 : "A bruised reed shall he not break, 
 and the smoking flax shall he not quench." 
 
 This was spoken by prophecy of our 
 Saviour, and is commonly considered 
 as one of the many passages which 
 either prefigure or describe the con 
 siderate and gracious adaptation of his 
 religion to the wants and weaknesses 
 of human nature. This adaptation of 
 Christianity to the wants of the mind 
 is, indeed, a topic that has been much 
 and very justly insisted on as an evi- 
 dence of its truth. 
 
 I wisli, however, in tiie present dis- 
 course to place this subject before you 
 in a light somewhat different, perhaps, 
 from that in which it has usually been 
 viewed. If Christianity is suited to the 
 wants of our nature, it is proper to con- 
 sider what our nature needs. I shall 
 therefore in the following discourse give 
 considerable prominence to this inquiry. 
 The wants of our nature are various. I 
 shall undertake to show in several re- 
 spects what a religion that is adapted to 
 these wants should be. In the same 
 connection I shall undertake to show 
 that Christianity is such a religion. 
 
 This course of inquiry, I believe, will 
 elicit some just views of religious truth, 
 and will enable us to judge whether our 
 own views of it are just. My object in 
 it is to present some temperate and com- 
 prehensive views of religion, which shall 
 be seen at once to meet the neccessities 
 of our nature and to accord with the 
 spirit of the Christian religion. 
 
 Nothmg, it would seem, could be more 
 
 obvious than that a religion for human 
 beings should be suited to human be- 
 ings ; not to angels nor to demons, not to 
 a fictitious order of creatures, not to the 
 inhabitants of some other world, but to 
 men, — to men of this world, of this state 
 and situation in which we are placed, of 
 this nature which is given us ; to men, 
 with all their passions and affections 
 warm and alive, and all their weaknesses 
 and wants and fears about them. And 
 yet, evident and reasonable as all this 
 is, nothing has been more common than 
 for religion to fail of this very adapta- 
 tion. Sometimes it has been made a 
 quality all softness, all mercy and gentle- 
 ness; something joyous and cheering, 
 light and easy, as if it were designed for 
 angels. At others it has been clothed 
 with features as dark and malignant as 
 if it belonged to fiends rather than to 
 men. In no remote period it has laid 
 penances on men ; as if their sinews and 
 nerves were like the mails of steel which 
 they wore in those days. While the 
 same religion, with strange inconsisten- 
 cy, lifted up the reins to their passions, 
 as if it had been the age of Stoicism 
 instead of being the age of Chivalry. 
 Alas! how little has there been in the 
 religions of past ages, how httle in the 
 prevalent forms even of the Christian 
 religion, to draw out, to expand and 
 brighten, the noble faculties of our na- 
 ture ! How many of the beautiful fruits 
 of human affection have withered away 
 under the cold and blighting touch of 
 a scholastic and stern theology ! How 
 many fountains of joy in the human 
 heart have been sealed and closed up 
 forever by the iron hand of a gloomy 
 superstition ! How many bright spirits, 
 how many comely and noble natures, 
 have been marred and crushed by the 
 artificial, the crude and rough dealing of 
 religious frenzy and fanaticism ! 
 
 It is suitable, then, it is expedient, to 
 consider the adaptation which religion, 
 to be true and useful, ought to have to 
 human nature. It may serve to correct 
 errors. It may serve to guide those who 
 are asking what ideas of religion they 
 
THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 
 
 23 
 
 are to entertain, what sentiments they are 
 to embrace, what conduct to pursue. 
 
 In entering upon this subject, let me 
 offer one leading observation, and after- 
 wards proceed to some particulars. 
 
 I. I say, then, in the tirst place, that 
 religion should be adapted to our -whole 
 nature. It should remember that we 
 have understandings ; and it should be 
 a rational religion. It should remember 
 that we have feelings ; and it should be 
 an earnest and fervent religion. It should 
 remember that our feelings revolt at vio- 
 lence and are all alive to tenderness ; 
 and it should be gentle, ready to entreat, 
 and full of mercy. It should remember, 
 too, that our feelings naturally lean to 
 self-indulgence, and it should be, in its 
 gentleness, strict and solemn. It should 
 in a due proportion address all our fac- 
 ulties. 
 
 Most of the erroneous forms of re- 
 ligious sentiment that prevail in the 
 Christian world have arisen from the 
 predominance that has been given to 
 some one part of our nature in the mat- 
 ters of spiritual concernment. Some 
 religions have been all speculation, all 
 doctrine, all theology ; and, as you might 
 expect, they have been cold, barren, and 
 dead. Others have been all feeling; 
 and have become visionary, wild, and 
 extravagant. Some have been all senti- 
 ment, and have wanted practical virtue. 
 Others have been all practice ; their ad- 
 vocates have been exclaiming, "Works, 
 works ! these are the evidence and test 
 of all goodness." And so, with certain 
 exceptions and qualifications, they are. 
 But this substantial character of religion, 
 this hold which it really has upon all 
 the active principles of our nature, has 
 been so much, so exclusively, contended 
 far, that religion has too often degen- 
 erated into a mere superficial, decent 
 morality- 
 Religion, then, let it be repeated, if 
 it be true and just, addresses our whole 
 nature. It addresses the active and 
 the contemplative in us ; reason and im- 
 agination; thought and feeling. It is 
 experience, but it is conduct too ; it is 
 
 high meditation, but then it is also 
 humble virtue. It is excitement, it is 
 earnestness ; but no less truly is it 
 calmness. Let me dwell upon this last 
 point a moment. It is not uncommon 
 to hear it said that excitement is a very 
 bad thing, and that true religion is calm. 
 And yet it would seem as if, by others, 
 repose was regarded as deadly to the 
 soul, and as if the only safety lay in a 
 tremendous agitation. Now what saiih 
 our nature, — for the being that is the 
 very subject of this varying discipline 
 may surely be allowed to speak, — what 
 saith our nature to these different advis- 
 ers ? It says, I think, that both are to 
 a certain extent wrong, and both to a 
 certain extent right. That is to say, 
 human nature requires, in their due pro- 
 portion, both excitement and tranquillity. 
 Our minds need a complex and blended 
 influence ; need to be at once aroused 
 and chastened, to be at the same time 
 quickened and subdued ; need to be 
 impelled, and )'et guided ; need to be 
 humbled, no doubt, and that deeply, but 
 not that only, as it seems to be com- 
 monly thought, — humbled, I say, and 
 yet supported ; need to be bowed down in 
 humility, and yet strengthened in trust ; 
 need to be nerved to endurance at one 
 time, and at another to be transported 
 with joy. Let religion, let the reason- 
 able and gracious doctrine of Jesus 
 Christ, come to us with these adapta- 
 tions ; generous to expand our affections, 
 strict to restrain. our passions, plastic 
 to mould our temper, strong, ay. strong 
 to control our will. Let religion he 
 thus welcomed to every true principle 
 and passion of our nature. Let it touch 
 all the springs of intellectual and of 
 moral life. Let it penetrate to every 
 hidden recess of the soul, and bring 
 forth all its powers, and enlighten, in- 
 spire, perfect them. 
 
 I hardly need say that the Christian 
 religion is thus adapted to our whole 
 nature. Its evidences address them- 
 selves to our sober judgment. Its pre- 
 cepts commend themselves to our con- 
 sciences. It imp.'irts light to our undtr- 
 
24 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 standings and fervor to our affections. 
 It speaks gently to our repentance, but 
 terribly to our disobedience. It really 
 does that for us which religion should 
 do. It does arouse and chasten, quick- 
 en and subdue, impel and guide, humble 
 and yet support ; it arms us with forti- 
 tude, and it transports us with joy. It 
 is profitable for the life that now is, and 
 for that which is to come. 
 
 II. But I must pass now to observe 
 that there are more particular adapta- 
 tions which religion should have, and 
 which the Gospel actually has, to the 
 condition of human nature, and to the 
 various degrees of its improvement. 
 
 One of the circumstances of our 
 moral condition is danger. Religion, 
 then, should be a guardian, and a vigi- 
 lant guardian ; and let us be assured 
 that the Gospel is such. Such emphati- 
 cally do we read. If we cannot bear a 
 religion that admonishes us, watches 
 over us, warns us, restrains us, let us be 
 assured that we cannot bear a religion 
 that will save us. Religion should be 
 the keeper of the soul; and without 
 such a keeper, in the slow and under- 
 mining process of temptation, or amidst 
 the sudden and strong assaults of pas- 
 sion, it will be overcome and lost. 
 
 Again, the human condition is one 
 of weakness. There are weak points, 
 where religion should be stationed to 
 support and strengthen us. Points, did 
 I say ? Are we not encompassed with 
 weakness ? Where, in the whole circle 
 o{ our spiritual interests and affections, 
 are we not exposed and vulnerable ? 
 Where have we not need to set up 
 the barriers of habit, and to build the 
 strongest defences with which resolu- 
 tions and vows and prayers can sur- 
 round us ? Where, and wherein, I ask 
 again, is any man safe ? What virtue 
 of any man is secure from frnilty? 
 What strong purpose of his is not liable 
 to failure? What affection of his heart 
 can say, " I have strength, I am estab- 
 lished, and nothing can move me" ? 
 How weak is man in trouble, in per- 
 plexity, in doubt ; how weak in afflic- 
 
 tion, or when sickness bows the spirit, 
 or when approaching death is unloosing 
 all the bands of his pride and self-reli- 
 ance ! And whose spirit does not some- 
 times faint under its intrinsic weakness, 
 under its native frailty, and the burden 
 and pressure of its necessities .? Re- 
 ligion, then, should bring supply, and 
 support, and strength to the soul ; and 
 the Gospel does bring supply, and sup- 
 port, and strength. And it thus meets a 
 universal want. Every mind wants the 
 stability which principle gives, wants 
 the comfort which piety gives ; wants 
 it continually, in all the varying experi- 
 ence of life. 
 
 I have said, also, that religion should 
 be adapted to the various degrees of 
 mental improvement, and, I may add, 
 to the diversities of temperament. Now 
 there are sluggish natures that need to 
 be aroused. All the machinery of spir- 
 itual terror can scarce be too much to 
 arouse some persons, though it may 
 indeed be very improper!}' applied. But, 
 on the contrary, there are minds so ex- 
 citable and sensitive that religion should 
 come to tJiem with all its sobering and 
 tranquillizing influence. In how many 
 cases do we witness this! How many 
 are there whose minds are chilled or 
 stupefied by denunciation ! How many 
 are repelled by severity, or crushed by 
 a weight of fear and anxiety ! How- 
 man}' such are there that need a help- 
 ing hand to be stretched out to them ; 
 that need to be raised, and soothed, and 
 comforted ; that need to be won with 
 gentleness and cheered with promises ! 
 The Gospel has terrors, indeed, but it 
 is not all terror ; and its most awful re-, 
 bukes soften into pity over the fearful. 
 the dejected, the anxious and humble. 
 
 But the most striking circumstance 
 in the adaptation of religion to the dif- 
 ferent degrees of mental improvement 
 is its character as supplying not merely 
 the general necessities but the con- 
 scious wants of the mind. There may 
 be some who have never been conscious 
 of these intrinsic wants, though they 
 spring from human nature and must be 
 
THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 
 
 sooner or later felt. To the very young, 
 or to the unreflecting, religion can be 
 scarcely anything more, perhaps, than 
 direction. It .says, " Do this, and do 
 that ; and refrain from this gratification, 
 and beware of that danger." It is 
 chiefly a set of rules and precepts to 
 them. Speak to them of religion as the 
 -.'rand resort of the mind, as that whigh 
 meets its inward necessities, supplies 
 its deei>felt wants, fills its capacious 
 desires, and they do not well understand 
 vou ; or they do not understand why 
 this view of the subject should be so 
 interesting to you. But another mind 
 shall be bound to the Gospel by noth- 
 ing so much as by its wants. It craves 
 something thus vast, glorious, infinite, 
 and eternal. It sought, sought long, 
 perhaps, and anxiously, for something 
 thus satisfying ; and it has found what 
 it long and painfully sought, in the 
 teachings of Jesus, in the love of God, 
 in that world of spiritual thoughts and 
 objects which the great Teacher has 
 opened, in that solemn and majestic 
 vision of immortality which he has 
 brought to light. To such a religion 
 the soul clings with a peace and satisfac- 
 tion never to be expressed, never to be 
 uttered. It says, "To whom shall I go 
 — to whom shall I go ? thou, O blessed 
 religion, minister and messenger from 
 heaven ! — thou hast the words of eter- 
 nal life, of eternal joy ! " The language 
 which proclaims the sufficiency of re- 
 ligion, which sets forth the attraction 
 and the greatness of it, as supplying the 
 great intellectual want, is no chimerical 
 language, it is not merely a familiar 
 language, but is intimate with the deep- 
 est and the dearest feelings of the 
 heart. 
 
 In descending to the more specific 
 applications of the principle of religion 
 to human nature, I must content myself 
 for the present with one further obser- 
 vation ; and that is, that it meets and 
 mingles with all the varieties of natural 
 temperament and disposition. 
 
 Religion should not propose to break 
 up all the diversities of individual char- 
 
 acter, and Christianity does not pro- 
 pose this. It did not propose this, even 
 when it first broke upon the world with 
 manifestation and miracle. It allowed 
 the rash and forward Peter, the timid 
 and doubting Thomas, the mild and 
 affectionate John, the resolute and; fer- 
 vent Paul, still to retain all their peculi- 
 arities of character. The way of becom- 
 ing religious, orjnterested in religion, 
 was not the same to all. There was 
 Cornelius, the Pagan, whose " alms and 
 prayers were accepted:" and there were 
 others who became Christians "with- 
 out so much as hearing that there was 
 any Holy Ghost." There were the 
 immediate disciples of our Lord, who, 
 through a course of gradual teaching, 
 came to apprehend his spiritual king- 
 dom ; and there was Paul, to whom this 
 knowledge came by miracle, and with a 
 light brighter than the sun. There was 
 the terrified jailer who fell down trem- 
 bling and said, " What must I do to be 
 saved?" and there was the cautious 
 and inquiring Nicodemus, who, as if he 
 had been reflecting on the matter, said, 
 " We know that thou art a teacher come 
 from God, for no man can do these mir- 
 acles that thou doest, except God be 
 with him." 
 
 Now it is painful to observe at this 
 day hojv little of this individuality there 
 is in the prevailing and popular expe- 
 rience of religion. A certain process 
 is pointed out, a certain result is de- 
 scribed ; particular views and feelings 
 are insisted on as the only right and 
 true state of mind ; and every man 
 strives to bring himself through the re- 
 quired process to the given result. It 
 is common, indeed, to observe that if 
 you read one account of a conversion, 
 one account of a religious excitement, 
 3'cm have all. I charge not this to any 
 particular set of opinions, though it may 
 be found to have been connected with 
 some creeds more than with others ; but 
 it results, too, from the very weakness of 
 human nature. One man leans on the 
 experience of another, and it contributes 
 to his satisfaction, of course, to have 
 
26 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 the same experience. How refreshing 
 is it, amidst this dull and artificial uni- 
 formity, to meet with a man whose re- 
 ligion is his own ; who has thought and 
 felt for himself; who has not propped 
 up his hopes on other men's opinions ; 
 who has been willing to commune with 
 the spirit of religion and of God, alone, 
 and who brings forth to you the fruits 
 of his experience, fresh and original, 
 and is not much concerned for your 
 judgment of them, provided they have 
 nourished and comforted Jiimself. I 
 would not desire that every man should 
 view all the matters of piety as I do ; 
 but would rather that every man should 
 bring the results of his own individual 
 conviction to aid the common cause of 
 right knowledge and judgment. 
 
 In the diversities of character and sit- 
 uation that exist, there will naturally 
 be diversities of religious experience. 
 Some, as I have said before, are consti- 
 tutionally lively, and others serious ; 
 some are ardent, and others moderate ; 
 some, also, are inclined to be social, and 
 others to be retired. Knowledge and 
 ignorance, too, and refinement and rude- 
 ness of character, are cases to be pro- 
 vided for. And a true and thorough 
 religion, — this is the special observa- 
 tion I wish to make on the diversities 
 of character, — a true and thorough re- 
 ligion, when it enters the mind, will 
 show itself by its naturally blending and 
 mingling with the mind as it is; it will 
 sit easily upon the character ; it will take 
 forms in accordance, not with the bad, 
 but with the constitutional tempers and 
 dispositions it finds in its subjects. 
 
 Nay, I will say yet further that re- 
 ligion ought not to repress the natural 
 buoyancy of our aflfections, the innocent 
 gayety of the heart. True religion was 
 not designed to do this. Undoubtedly 
 it will discriminate. It will check what 
 is extravagant in us, all tumultuous and 
 excessive joy about acquisitions of little 
 consequence, or of doubtful utility to 
 us ; it will correct what is deformed ; 
 it will uproot what is hurtful. But there 
 is a native buoyancy of the heart, the 
 
 meed of youth, or of health, which is a 
 sensation of our animal nature, a ten- 
 dency of our being. This, true religion 
 does not propose to withstand. It does 
 not war against our nature. As well 
 should the cultivator of a beautiful and 
 variegated garden cut up all the flowers 
 in it, or lay weights and encumbrances 
 on them, lest they should be too flour- 
 ishing and fair. Religion is designed 
 for the culture of our natural faculties, 
 not for their eradication ! 
 
 It would be easy now, did the time 
 permit, to illustrate the views which 
 have been presented, by a reference to 
 the teachings of our Saviour. He did 
 not address one passion or part of our 
 nature alone, or chiefly. There was no 
 one manner of address ; and we feel sure, 
 as we read, that there was no one tone. 
 He did not confine himself to any one 
 class of subjects. He was not always 
 speaking of death, nor of judgment, 
 nor of eternity, frequently and solemnly 
 as he spoke of them. He was not always 
 speaking of the state of the sinner, nor 
 of repentance and the new heart, though 
 on these subjects too he delivered his 
 solemn message. There was a varied 
 adaptation, in his discourses, to every 
 condition of mind, and every duty of 
 life, and every situation in which his 
 hearers were placed. Neither did the 
 preaching of our Saviour possess, ex- 
 clusively, any one moral complexion. 
 It was not terror only, nor promise only; 
 it was not exclusively severity nor gentle- 
 ness ; but it was each one of them in its 
 place, and all of them always subdued 
 to the tone of perfect sobriety. At one 
 time we hear him saying, with lofty self- 
 respect, " neither tell I you by what au- 
 thority I do these things : " at another, 
 with all the majesty of the Son of God, 
 we hear him, in reply to the fatal ques- 
 tion of the judgment hall, " Art thou the 
 Christ?" — we hear him say, "I am; 
 and hereafter ye shall see the Son of man 
 seated on the throne of power and com- 
 ing in the clouds of heaven." But it is 
 the same voice that says, "Come unto 
 me, all ye that labor and are heavy 
 
THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 
 
 27 
 
 laden, and I will give you rest ; take my 
 yoke, which is easy, and my burden, which 
 is lio-ht, and ye shall find rest to your 
 souls." At one time he speaks in the 
 language of terror, and says, " Fear not 
 them who after that they have killed the 
 body have no more that they can do ; 
 but fear Him who is able to cast both 
 soul and body into hell, yea, I say unto 
 you, fear him." But at another time 
 the awful admonisher breaks out into 
 the pathetic exclamation, '• O Jerusalem, 
 Jerusalem ! how often would I have 
 gathered your children, even as a hen 
 gathereth her brood under her wings, but 
 ye would not." 
 
 If I might be permitted now to add a 
 suggestion of an advisory nature, it 
 would be in the language of an apostle : 
 " Let your moderation be known to all 
 men." The true religion, the true ex- 
 cellence of character, requires that we 
 should hold all the principles and affec- 
 tions of our nature in a due subordina- 
 tion and proportion to each other ; that 
 we should subdue all the clamoring 
 voices of passion and desire, of fear and 
 hope, of joy and sorrow, to complete 
 harmony ; that we should regard and 
 cultivate our nature as a whole. Almost 
 all error is some truth carried to excess, 
 or diminished from its proper magnitude. 
 Almost all evil is some good or useful 
 principle suffered to be immoderate and 
 ungovernable, or suppressed and denied 
 its proper influence and action. Let, 
 then, moderation be a leading trait of our 
 virtue and piety. This is not dulness. 
 Nothing is farther from dulness. And 
 nothing, surely, is more beautifulin char- 
 acter, or more touching, than to see a 
 lively and intense sensibility controlled 
 by the judgment ; strong passions sub- 
 dued and softened by reflection : and, on 
 the otiier hand, to find a vigorous, clear, 
 and manly understanding quickened by 
 a genuine fervor and enthusiasm. Noth- 
 ing is more wise or more admirable in 
 action than to be resolute and yet calm, 
 earnest and yet self-possessed, decided 
 and yet modest ; to contend for truth 
 and right with meekness and charity ; 
 
 to go forward in a good cause without 
 pretension, to retire with dignity ; to give 
 without pride, and to withliold without 
 meanness; to rejoice with moderation, 
 and to suflfer with patience. And noth- 
 ing, I may add, was more remarkable 
 in the character of our Saviour than 
 this perfect sobriety, consistency, self- 
 control. 
 
 This, therefore, is the perfection of 
 character. This will always be found, 
 I believe, to be a late stage in the pro- 
 gress of religious worth from its first 
 beginnings. It is comparatively easy to 
 be one thing and that alone ; to be all 
 zeal or all reasoning ; all faith or all 
 action ; all rapture or all chilling and 
 captious fault-finding. Here novices be- 
 gin. Thus far they may easily go. Thus 
 far men may go whose character is the 
 result of temperament, and not of culture ; 
 of headlong propensity, and not of care- 
 ful and conscientious discipline. It is 
 easy for the bruised reed to be broken. 
 It is easy for the smoking flax to be 
 quenched It is easy to deal harshly 
 and rudely with the matters of religious 
 and virtuous experience : to make a hasty 
 effort, to have a paroxysm of emotion, 
 to give way to a feverish and transient 
 feeling, and then to smother and quench 
 all the rising purposes of a better life. 
 But true religion comes to us with a wiser 
 and more considerate adaptation, — to 
 sustain and strengthen the bruised reed 
 of human weakness; to fan the rising 
 flame of virtuous and holy purposes: it 
 comes to revive our failing courage, to 
 restrain our wayward passions. It will 
 not suffer us to go on with our fluctua- 
 tions and our fancies ; with our transient 
 excitements and momentary struggles. 
 It will exert a more abiding, a more ra- 
 tional influence. It will make us more 
 faithful and persevering. It will lay its 
 hand on the very energies of our nature, 
 and will take the lead and control, the 
 forming and perfecting, of them. May 
 we find its real and gracious power ! 
 May it lead us in the true, the brighten- 
 ing path of the just, till it brings us to 
 the perfect day ! 
 
28 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Oh, my brethren, we sin against our 
 own peace, v.e have no mercy upon our- 
 selves, when we neglect such a religion 
 as this. It is the only wisdom, the only 
 soundness, the only consistency and 
 harmony of character, the only peace and 
 blessedness of mind. We should not 
 have our distressing doubts and fears ; 
 we should not be so subject as we are to 
 the distracting influences of passion, or 
 of the world without us, if we had yielded 
 our hearts wholly to the spirit and re- 
 ligion of Jesus. It is a religion adapted 
 to us all. To every affection, to every 
 state of mind, troubled or joyous, to 
 every period of life, it would impart the 
 very influence that we need. How surely 
 would it guide our youth, and how would 
 it temper, and soften, and sanctify all 
 the fervors of youthful affection ! How 
 well would it support our age, making 
 it youthful again with the fervent hope of 
 immortality ! How would it lead us. too, 
 in all the paths of earthly care and busi- 
 ness and labor, turning the brief and 
 weary courses of worldly toil into the 
 ways that are everlasting! How faith- 
 fully and how calmly would it conduct 
 us to the everlasting abodes ! And how 
 well, in fine, does he, of whom it was 
 prophesied that he should not break the 
 bruised reed nor quench the smoking 
 flax, — how well does he meet that gra- 
 cious character, when he says ; — shall we 
 not listen to him? — "Come unto me, all 
 ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I 
 will give you rest ; take my yoke, whicli 
 is easy, and my burden, which is light ; 
 learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in 
 heart, and ye shall find rest unto your 
 souls." 
 
 THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO 
 HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Proverbs viii. 4 : " Unto you, O men, I call ; and 
 my voice is to the sons of men." 
 
 The appeal of religion to human na- 
 ture, the deep wisdom of its instruc- 
 tions to the liuman heart, the language 
 
 of power and of cheering with wliich 
 it is fitted to address the inmost soul of 
 man, is never to be understood, perhaps, 
 till our nature is exalted far beyond its 
 present measure. When the voice of 
 wisdom and purity shall find an inward 
 wisdom and purity to which it can 
 speak, it will be received with a wel- 
 come and gladness, with a joy beyond 
 all other joy, such as no tongue of elo- 
 quence has ever expressed, nor the 
 heart of worldly sensibility ever yet con- 
 ceived. It is therefore with tlie most 
 unfeigned diffidence, with the most 
 distinct consciousness that riiy present 
 labor must be incipient and imperfect, 
 that I enter upon this great theme, — 
 the appeal of religion to human nature. 
 
 What ought it to be ? What has it 
 been? These are the inquiries which 
 I shall pursue. Nor shall I attempt to 
 keep them altogether separate in the 
 discussion, since both the defects and 
 the duties of religious instruction may 
 often be best exhibited under the same 
 head of discourse. Neither shall I la- 
 bor to speak of religion under that 
 abstract and figurative character with 
 which wisdom is personified in the con- 
 text, t^ough that may be occasionally 
 convenient ; but whether it be the 
 language of individual reason or con- 
 science ; whether it be the voice of the 
 parent or of the preacher; whether it 
 be the language of forms or of institu- 
 tions, I would consider how religion has 
 appealed, and hovv it ought to have ap- 
 pealed, to human nature. 
 
 The topics of discourse under which 
 I shall pursue these inquiries are the 
 following: In wJtat c/iaracter should 
 religion address us ? To what in us 
 should it speak ? And /low should it 
 deliver its message ? That is to say, 
 the substance, the subject, and the spirit 
 of the appeal are the topics of our in- 
 quiry. I cannot, of course, pursue 
 these inquiries beyond the point to 
 which the immediate object of my dis- 
 course will carry them ; and I am will- 
 ing to designate that point at once by 
 saying that the questions are, whether 
 
THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 
 
 29 
 
 the character in which religion is to 
 appeal to us be moral or not ; whether 
 that in us to which it chiefly api)eals 
 should be the noblest or the basest part 
 of our nature; and, finally, whether the 
 manner and spirit of its appeal should 
 be tliat of confidence or distrust, of 
 friendship or hatred. 
 
 I. And with regard to thd first ques- 
 tion, the answer, of course, is, that the 
 character in which religion should ad- 
 dress us is purely moral. As a moral 
 principle, as a principle of rectitude, it 
 must speak to us. Institutions, rites, 
 commands, threatenings, promises, — all 
 forms of appeal must contain this es- 
 sence ; they must be moral ; they must 
 be holy. 
 
 It may be thought strange that I 
 should insist upon a point so obvious, 
 but let me crave your patience. What 
 is the most comprehensive form of mo- 
 rality, holiness, gratitude, religion ? It 
 is love ; it is goodness. The character 
 of the Supreme Perfection is set forth 
 in this one attribute: ''God is love." 
 This is the very glory of God. For 
 when an ancient servant desired to "see 
 his glory," the answer to the prayer was, 
 that "'he caused all his goodness to pass 
 before him." 
 
 The character, then, in which religion 
 should appeal to human nature is that 
 of simple and essential goodness. This, 
 the moral nature of man is made to 
 understand and to feel ; and nothing 
 else but this. This character, doubt- 
 less, has various expressions. Some- 
 times it takes the forms of command 
 and threatening; but still these must 
 speak in the name of goodness. If 
 command and threatening stand up to 
 speak for themselves, alone, — dissoci- 
 ated from that love which gives them all 
 their moral character. — tlien, I say, that 
 the moral nature of man cannot receive 
 their message. A brute can receive 
 that ; a dog or a horse can yield to mere 
 command or menace. But the moral 
 nature can yield to nothing which is not 
 moral ; and that which gives morality 
 to every precept and warning is the 
 
 goodness which is breathed into them. 
 Divest them of this, and they are not 
 even rehgious. Nor are those persons 
 religious who pay obedience to com- 
 mand as command, and without any 
 consideration of its moral nature, of the 
 intrinsic and essential sanction which 
 goodness bestows on the command. 
 
 The voice of religion, then, must be 
 as the voice of goodness. Conceive of 
 everything good and lovely, of every- 
 thing morally excellent and admirable, 
 of everything glorious and godlike ; and 
 when these speak to you, know that 
 religion speaks to you. Whether that 
 voice comes from the page of genius, or 
 from the record of heroic and heavenly 
 virtue, or from its living presence and 
 example, or from the bosom of silent 
 reverie, the innermost sanctuary of med- 
 itation, — whatever of the holy and beau- 
 tiful speaks to you, and through what 
 medium soever it comes, it is the voice 
 of religion. All excellence, in other 
 words, is religion. 
 
 But here we meet with what seems 
 to me — and so must I denominate it, 
 in justice to my own apprehensions — a 
 stupendous error ; an error, prevalent I 
 believe, and yet fatal, so far as it goes, 
 to all religious emotion. All excel- 
 lence, I said, is religion. But the great 
 error is, that in the popular apprehen- 
 sion these things are not identified. 
 In other words, religion and goodness 
 are not identified in the general mind ; 
 they are not held by most men to be the 
 same thing. This error, I sav, if it ex- 
 ists, is fatal to genuine religious emo- 
 tion ; because men cannot heartily love, 
 as a moral quality, anything which is 
 not, to them, goodness. Or, to state 
 this position as a simple truism, they 
 cannot love anything which is not, to 
 them, loveliness. 
 
 Now I am willing, nay, I earnestly 
 wish, that with regard to the real nature 
 of religion there should be the utmost 
 discrimination ; and I will soon speak to 
 that point. But I say for the pres- 
 ent, — I say, again, that religion is made, 
 intrinsically and altogether, a different 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 thing from what is commonly regarded 
 as loveliness of character, and therefore 
 that it speaks to men, speaks to human 
 nature, not as goodness but as some 
 other thing. 
 
 For proof of this, I ask you first to 
 look at that phraseology by which re- 
 ligion is commonly described, and to 
 compare it with the language by which 
 men express those lovely qualities that 
 they most admire. See, then, how they 
 express their admiration. You hear 
 them speak of one who is amiable, 
 lovely, fascinating ; of one who is hon- 
 orable, upright, generous. You hear 
 them speak of a good parent, of an affec- 
 tionate child, of a worthy citizen, of an 
 obliging neighbor, of a kind and faith- 
 ful friend, of a man whom they emphati- 
 cally call "a noble man;" and you ob- 
 serve a fervor of language and a glow 
 of pleasure while these things are said ; 
 a kindling animation in the tone and 
 the countenance which inspires you 
 with a kindred sympathy and delight. 
 But mark now in how different a lan- 
 guage and manner the qualities of 
 religion are described. The votary of 
 religion is said to be very "serious," 
 perhaps, but with a look and tone as if 
 a much worse thing were stated ; or you 
 hear it said of him that he is " a pious 
 man," or he is " a very experienced 
 person," or he is "a Christian, if ever 
 there was one ; " but it seems, even 
 when the religious themselves say all 
 this, as if it were an extorted and cold 
 homage ; as if religion were something 
 very proper indeed, very safe perhaps, 
 but not very agreeable certainly ; there 
 is no glow, there is no animation, and 
 there is generally no sympathy. 
 
 In further proof that religion is not 
 identified with the beautiful and admira- 
 ble in character, I might turn from the 
 language in common use, to actual ex- 
 perience. Is religion, I ask, — not the 
 religion of poetry, but that which exists 
 in the actual conceptions of men, the 
 religion of professors, the religion that 
 is commonly taught from our pulpits, — 
 is it usually regarded as the loveliest at- 
 
 tribute of the human character ? Wlien 
 your minds glow with the love of excel- 
 lence, when you weep over the examples 
 of goodness, is this excellence, is this 
 goodness which you admire, religion ? 
 Consult the books of fiction, open the 
 pages of history, resort to the stores of 
 cxir classical literature, and say if the 
 religious m'an of our times appears in 
 them at all ; or if, when he does appear 
 in them, it is he that chiefly draws your 
 affection ? Say, rather, if it is not some 
 personage, whether of a real or ficti- 
 tious tale, that is destitute of every dis- 
 tinctive quality of the popular religion, 
 who kindles your enthusiasm ? So true 
 is this, that many who have held the 
 prevailing ideas of religion have regard- 
 ed, and on their principles have justly 
 regarded, the hterature of taste and of 
 fiction as one of the most insidious 
 temptations that could befall them. No, 
 I repeat, the images of loveliness that 
 dwell in the general mind, whether of 
 writers or readers, have not been the 
 images of religion. And thus it has 
 happened that the men of taste, and of 
 a lively and ardent sensibility, have by 
 no means yielded their proportion of vo- 
 taries to religion. The dull, the gloomy, 
 the sick, the aged, have been religious ; 
 not — i. e. not to the same extent — the 
 young and the joyous in their first ad- 
 miration and their first love ; not the 
 intellectual and refined in the enthu- 
 siasm of their feelings and in the glory 
 of their imaginations. 
 
 But let me appeal once more to experi- 
 ence. I ask, then, do you love religion? 
 I ask you, I ask any one, who will 
 entertain the question, do you love re- 
 ligion ? Does the very word carry a 
 sound that is agreeable, delightful to 
 you ? Does it stand for sometiiing at- 
 tractive and lovely .^ Are the terms that 
 describe religion, — grace, holiness, re- 
 pentance, faith, godliness, — are they in- 
 vested with a charm to your heart, to 
 your imagination, to your whole mind ? 
 Now to this question I am sure that 
 many would answer freely and decidedly, 
 " No, religion is not a thing that we 
 
THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 
 
 31 
 
 love. We cannot say that we take tliat 
 sort of interest in it. We do not profess 
 to be religious, and — honestly — we do 
 not wish to be." What ! I might answer 
 in return, do you love nothing that is 
 good ? Is there nothing in character, 
 nothing in attribute, no abstract charm, 
 that vou love .'' " Far otherwise," would 
 be the reply. " There are many persons 
 that we love ; there are many characters 
 in histor}', in biography, in romance, 
 that are delightful to us, they are so 
 noble, so beautiful." 
 
 How different, then, — do we not see ? 
 — are the ideas of religion from the 
 images of loveliness that dwell in many 
 minds ! They are actually the same, in 
 principle. All excellence has the same 
 foundation. There are not, and cannot 
 be, two different and opposite kinds of 
 rectitude. The moral nature of man, 
 deranged though it be, is not deranged 
 so far as to admit this ; and yet how 
 evident is it that religion is not inden- 
 tified with the excellence that men love ! 
 
 But I hear it said, " The images of 
 loveliness which dwell in the general 
 mind are 7iot indeed the images of re- 
 ligion, and ought not to be ; for they 
 are false, and would utterly mislead us." 
 Grant, now, for the sake of argument, 
 that this were true, and whom would the 
 admission benefit ? What would follow 
 from the admission ? Why, this clearly : 
 that of being religious, no power or 
 possibility is within human reach. For 
 men must love that which seems to them 
 to be lovely. If that which seems to 
 tlietn to be lovely is not religion; if 
 religion is something else, and some- 
 thing alogether different, religion, it is 
 clear, they cannot love. That is to say, 
 on this hypothesis, they cannot be re- 
 ligious ; they cannot, by any possibility, 
 but that in which all things are possible 
 with God; they cannot by any possi- 
 bility that comes within the range of the 
 powers and affections that God has 
 given them. 
 
 But it is not true that men's prevailing 
 and constitutional perceptions of moral 
 beauty are false. It is not true, that is 
 
 to say, that their sense of right and 
 wrong is false ; that their conscience is 
 a treacherous and deceitful guide. It 
 is not true ; and yet, doubtless, there 
 is a discrimination to be made. Their 
 perceptions may be, and undoubtedly of- 
 ten are, low and inadequate, and marred 
 with error. And therefore when we use 
 the words, excellent, admirable, lovely, 
 there is danger that to many they will 
 not mean all that they ought to mean ; 
 that men's ideas of these qualities will 
 not be as deep and thorougii and strict 
 as they ought to be : while, if we con- 
 fine ourselves to such terms for religious 
 qualities as serious, holy, godly, the 
 danger is that they will be just as er- 
 roneous, besides being technical, barren, 
 and uninteresting. 
 
 There is a difficulty on this account 
 attending the language of the pulpit, 
 which every reflecting man, in the use 
 of it, must have felt. But the truth, 
 amidst all these discriminations, I hold' 
 to be this : that the universal and con- 
 stitutional perceptions of moral loveli- 
 ness which mankind entertain are radi- 
 cally just. And therefore the only right 
 doctrine and the only rational direction 
 to be addressed to men, on this sub- 
 ject, is to the following effect : " What- 
 ever your conscience dictates, whatever 
 your rnind clothes with moral beauty, 
 that, to you, is right; be that, to you, 
 religion. Nothing else can be, if you 
 think rationally ; and therefore let that 
 be to you the religion that you love ; 
 and let it be your endeavor, continually 
 to elevate and purify your conceptions 
 of all virtue and goodness." Nay. if I 
 knew a man whose ideas of excellence 
 were ever so low, I should still say to 
 him, " Revere those ideas ; they are all 
 that you can revere. The very appre- 
 hensions you entertain of the glory of 
 God cannot go beyond your ideas of 
 excellence. All that you can worship, 
 then, is the most perfect excellence you 
 can conceive of. Be that, therefore, the 
 object of your reverence. However low, 
 however imperfect it is. still be that to 
 you the image of the Divinity. On that 
 
12 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 scale of your actual ideas, however 
 humble, let your thoughts rise to higher 
 and higher perfection." 
 
 I say, however low. And grant now 
 that the moral conceptions of a man are 
 very low ; yet if they are the highest 
 he has, is there anything higher that he 
 can follow ? Will it be said there are 
 the Scriptures ? But the aid of the Scrip- 
 tures is already presupposed in the case. 
 They contribuie to form the very per- 
 ceptions in question. They are a light 
 to man only as they kindle a light with- 
 in him. They do not and they cannot 
 mean more to any man than he under- 
 stands, than he perceives them to mean. 
 His perceptions of their intent, then, he 
 must follow. He cannot follow the light 
 any farther than he sees it. 
 
 But it may be said that many of the 
 ignorant and debased see very little 
 light ; that their perceptions are very 
 low ; that they admire qualities and ac- 
 tions of a very questionable character. 
 What then ? You must- begin with 
 them where they are ! But let us not 
 grant too much of this. Go to the most 
 degraded being you know, and tell him 
 some story of noble disinterestedness 
 or touching charity ; tell him the story 
 of Howard, or Swartz, or Oberlin ; and 
 will he not approve, will he not admire ? 
 Then tell him, I say, — as the summing 
 up of this head of my discourse, — tell 
 him that this is religion. Tell him that 
 this is a faint shadow, to the infinite 
 brightness of divine love ; a feeble and 
 marred image, compared with the infi- 
 nite benignity and goodness of God ! 
 
 II. My next observation is, on the 
 principles to be addressed. And, on 
 this point, I say in general that religion 
 should appeal to the good in man against 
 the bad. That there is good in man — 
 not fixed goodness, but tliat there is 
 something good in man — is evident from 
 the fact that he has an idea of goodness. 
 For if the matter be strictly and philo- 
 sophically traced, it will be found that 
 the idea of goodness can spring from 
 nothing else but experience, but the in- 
 ward sense of it. 
 
 But not to dwell on this ; my principal 
 object under this head of discourse is 
 to maintain that religion should appeal 
 chiefiy, not to the lowest, but to the 
 highest of our moral sentiments. 
 
 There are sentiments in our nature 
 to which powerful appeal can be made, 
 and they are emphatically its high and 
 honorable sentiments. If you wished to 
 speak intones that should thrill through 
 the very heart of the world, you would 
 speak to these before all others. Almost 
 all the richest poetry, the most admi- 
 rable, the fine arts, the most popular 
 and powerful eloquence in the world, 
 have addressed these moral and gener- 
 ous sentiments of human nature. And 
 I have observed it as quite remarkable 
 indeed, because it is an exception to the 
 general language of the pulpit, that all 
 the most eloquent preachers have made 
 great use of these very sentiments ; they 
 have appealed to the sense of beauty, 
 to generosity and tenderness, to the 
 natural conscience, the natural sense of 
 right and wrong, of honor and shame. 
 
 To these, then, if you would move the 
 human heart, you would apply yourself. 
 You would appeal to the indignation at 
 wrong, at oppression, or treachery, or 
 meanness, or to the natural admiration 
 which men feel for virtuous and noble 
 deeds. If you would touch the most 
 tender feelings of the human heart, you 
 would still make your appeal to these 
 sentiments. You would represent inno- 
 cence borne down and crushed by the 
 arm of power ; you would describe pa- 
 triotism laboring and dying for its coun- 
 try ; or you would describe a parent's 
 love with all its cares and anxieties 
 and its self-sacrificing devotion ; or you 
 would portray filial affection, watching 
 over infirmity and relieving pain and 
 striving to pay back something of the 
 mighty" debt of filial gratitude. Look 
 abroad in the world, or look back upon 
 the history of ages past, and ask for 
 those on whom the enthusiasm and pride 
 and affection of men love to dwell. 
 Evoke from the shadows of the times 
 gone by, their majestic, their cherished 
 
THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 
 
 33 
 
 forms, around which the halo of ever- 
 lasting admiration dwells, and what are 
 they? Behold the names of the gener- 
 ous, the philanthropic, and the good ; 
 behold, the voice of martyred blood on 
 the altars of cruelty, or on the hills of 
 freedom forever rising from the earth, — 
 eternal testimonies to the right and no- 
 ble sentiments of mankind. 
 
 To these, then, religion ought to have 
 appealed. In these sentiments it ought 
 to have laid its foundation, and on these 
 it ought to have built up its power. 
 But has it done so ? Could it do so, 
 while it held human nature to be utterly 
 depraved ? 
 
 But there is a further question. Can 
 any religion, Christian or heathen, in 
 fact, entirely discard human nature ? 
 Certainly not. Must not every religion 
 that speaks to man speak to somctliing 
 human ? Undoubtedly it must. What, 
 then, is the end of all this zeal against 
 human nature ? Has it not been, I ask, 
 to address the worst parts of it ? There 
 has been no scruple about appealing to 
 fear and anxiety. But of the sentiments 
 of admiration, of the sense of beauty in 
 the human heart, of the deep love for 
 friends and kindred that lingers there, 
 religion has been afraid. Grant, indeed, 
 that these sentiments and affections 
 have been too low. It was the very 
 business of religion to elevate them. 
 But while it has failed to do this in the 
 degree it ought, how often has it spread 
 a rack of torture for our fear and solici- 
 tude ! How often has it been an engine 
 of superstition, an inflicter of penance, 
 a minister of despondency and gloom ; 
 an instrument effective, as if it were 
 framed on purpose, to keep down all 
 natural buoyancy, generosity, and liberal 
 aspiration ! How often has religion 
 frowned upon the nature that it came to 
 save ; and instead of winning its confi- 
 dence and love, has incurred its hatred 
 and scorn ; and instead of having drawn 
 it into the blessed path of peace and 
 trust, has driven it to indifference, infi- 
 delity, or desperation ! 
 
 And how lamentable is this ! Here 
 
 is a world of beings filled with enthu- 
 siasm, filled with a thousand warm and 
 kindling affections ; the breasts of mil- 
 lions are fired with admiration for gen- 
 erous and heroic virtues ; and when the 
 living representative of these virtues 
 appears among us — a Washington, or 
 some illustrious compeer in excellence — 
 crowded cities go forth to meet him, 
 and nations lift up the voice of grati- 
 tude. How remarkable in the human 
 character is this moral admiration ! 
 What quickening thoughts does it awak- 
 en in solitude ! What tears does it call 
 forth, when we think of the prisons, the 
 hospitals, the desolate dv/ellings, visited 
 and cheered by the humane and mer- 
 ciful ! With what ecstasy does it swell 
 the human breast when the vision of 
 the patriotic, the patiently suffering, the 
 magnanimous and the good, passes be- 
 fore us ! In all this the inferior race has 
 no share. They can fear ; but esteem, 
 veneration, the sense of moral loveli- 
 ness, they know not. These are the 
 prerogatives of man, the gifts of nature 
 to him, the gifts of God. But how little, 
 alas ! have they been called into the ser- 
 vice of his religion ! How little have 
 their energies been enlisted in that 
 which is the great concern of man ! 
 
 And all this is the more to be la- 
 mented because those who are most 
 susceptible of feeling and of enthusiasm 
 most need the power and support of 
 religion. The dull, the earthly, the chil- 
 dren of sense, the mere plodders in busi- 
 ness, the mere votaries of gain, may do, 
 or may think they can do, without it. 
 But how many beings are there, how 
 many spirits of a finer mould, and of a 
 loftier bearing, and of more intellectual 
 wants, who, when the novelty of life is 
 worn off, when the enthusiasm of youth 
 has been freely lavished, when changes 
 come on, when friends die, and there is 
 care and weariness and solitude to press 
 upon the heart, — how many are there, 
 then, that sigh bitterly after some better 
 thing, after something greater, and more 
 permanent, and more satisfying ! And 
 how do they need be told that religion 
 
34 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 is that better thing ; that it is not a 
 stranger to their wants and sorrows ; 
 that its voice is speaking and pleading 
 within them, in the cry of their lamen- 
 tation and in the felt burden of their 
 necessity'; that religion is the home of 
 their far-wandering desires ; the rest, 
 the heaven, of their long troubled affec- 
 tions ! How do they need to hear the 
 voice that says, " Unto you, O men, — 
 men of care, and fear, and importunate 
 desire, — do I call; and my voice is to 
 the sons of men, — to the children of 
 frailty, and trouble, and sorrow " ! 
 
 III. Let us now proceed to consider, 
 in the third place and finally, from the 
 relation between the power that speaks 
 and the principle addressed, in what 
 manner the one should appeal to the 
 other. 
 
 The relation, then, between them, I 
 say, is a relation of amity. But let me 
 explain. I do not say, of course, that 
 there is amity between right and wrong. 
 I do not say that there is amity between 
 pure goodness and what is evil in man. 
 But that which is wrong and evil in 
 man is the perversion of something that 
 is good and right. To that good and 
 right, I contend that religion should 
 speak. To that it must speak, for there 
 is nothing else to hear it. We do not 
 appeal to abstractions of evil in man, 
 because there are no such things in him ; 
 but we appeal to affections ; to affec- 
 tions in which there is a mixture of good 
 and evil. To the good, then, I say, we 
 must appeal, against the evil. And 
 every preacher of righteousness may 
 boldly and fearlessly approach the hu- 
 man heart, in the confidence that how- 
 ever it may defend itself against him 
 however high it may build its battle- 
 ments of habit and its towers of pride, 
 he has friends in the very citadel. 
 
 I say, then, that religion should ad- 
 dress the true moral nature of man as 
 its friend, and not as its enemy ; as its 
 lawful subject, and not as an alien or a 
 traitor ; and should address it, therefore, 
 with generous and hopeful confidence, 
 and not with cold and repulsive distrust. 
 
 What is it, in this nature, to which 
 religion speaks ? To reason, to con- 
 science, to the love of happiness, to the 
 sense of the infinite and the beautiful, to 
 aspirations after immortal good ; to nat- 
 ural sensibility also, to the love of kin- 
 dred and country and home. All these 
 are in this nature, and they are all fitted 
 to render obedience to religion. In this 
 obedience they are satisfied, and indeed 
 they can never be satisfied without it. 
 
 Admit, now, that these powers are 
 ever so sadly perverted and corrupted ; 
 still, no one maintains that they are 
 destroyed. Neither is their testimony 
 to what is right ever, in any case, utterly 
 silenced. Should they not, then, be ap- 
 pealed to in a tone of confidence ? Sup- 
 pose, for instance, to illustrate our obser- 
 vation, that simple reason were appealed 
 to on any subject not religious ; and 
 suppose, to make the case parallel, that 
 the reason of the man on that subject 
 were very much perverted, that he wa/ 
 very much prejudiced and misled. Yet 
 would not the argument be directed to 
 his reason, as a principle actually exist- 
 ing in him, and as a principle to be con- 
 fided in and to be recovered from its 
 error? Would not every tone of the 
 argument and of the expostulation show 
 confidence in the principle addressed ? 
 
 Oh, what power might religion have 
 had, if it had breathed this tone of con- 
 fidence; if it had gone down into the 
 deep and silent places of the heart as 
 the voice of friendship; if it had known 
 what precious treasures of love and hope 
 and joy are there, ready to be made 
 celestial by its touch ; if it had spoken 
 to man as the most affectionate parent 
 would speak to his most beloved though 
 sadly erring child ; if it had said in the 
 emphatic language of the text, " Unto 
 you, O men, I call, and my voice is to 
 the sons of men ; lo ! I have set my 
 love upon you ; upon you, men of the 
 strong and affectionate nature, of the 
 aspiring and heaven-needing soul ; not 
 upon inferior creatures, not upon the 
 beasts of the field, but upon you have 1 
 set my love ; give entrance to me, not 
 
THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 
 
 35 
 
 with fear and mistrust, but with good 
 hope and with gladness ; give entrance 
 to me, and I will make my abode with 
 you, and I will build up all that is within 
 you, in glory, and beauty, and ineffable 
 brightness." Alas! for our erring and 
 sinful but also misguided and ill-used 
 nature ; bad enough indeed we have 
 made it or suffered it to be made ; but 
 if a better lot had bef;\llen it; if kindlier 
 influences had breathed upo.i it ; if the 
 parent's and the preacher's voice, in- 
 spired with every tone of hallowed feel- 
 ing, had won it to piety ; if the train of 
 social life, with every attractive charm 
 of goodness, had led it in the conse- 
 crated way, we had ere this known, what 
 now, alas ! we so poorly know, — we had 
 known what it is to be children of God 
 and heirs of heaven. 
 
 My friends, let religion speak to us in 
 its own true character, with all its mighty 
 power and winning candor and tender- 
 ness. It is the principle of infinite wis- 
 dom that speaks. From that unknown 
 period before the world was created, — 
 so saith the holy record ; from the depth 
 of eternity, from the centre of infinity, 
 from the heart of the universe, from "the 
 bosom of God," — its voice has come 
 forth, and spoken to us, to us, men, in 
 our lowly habitations. What a ministra- 
 tion is it! It is the infinite communing 
 with the finite ; it is might communing 
 with frailty; it is mercy stretching out its 
 arms to the guilty; it is goodness taking 
 part with all that is good in us against 
 all that is evil. So full, so overflowing, 
 so all-pervading is it, that all things give 
 it utterance. It speaks to us in every- 
 t'.iing lowly and in everything lofty. It 
 s])eaks to us in every whispered accent 
 of human affection, and in every reve- 
 lation that is sounded out from the 
 spreading heavens. It speaks to us from 
 this lowly seat at which we bow down in 
 prayer ; from this humble shrine veiled 
 with the shadows of mortal infirmity; 
 and it speaks to us alike from those altar- 
 fires that blaze in the heights of the fir- 
 mament. It speaks where the seven 
 thunders utter their voices, and it sends 
 
 forth its voice — of pity more than hu- 
 man, of agony more than mortal — from 
 the silent summit of Calvary. 
 
 Can a principle so sublime and so be- 
 nignant as religion speak to us but for 
 our good ? Can infinity, can omnipo- 
 tence, can boundless love, speak to us 
 but in the sj^irit of infinite generosity, 
 and candor, and tenderness? No; it 
 may be the infirmity of man to use a 
 harsh tone and to heap upon us bitter 
 and cruel upbraidings, but so speaks 
 not religion. It says, — and I trace an 
 accent of tenderness and entreaty in 
 every word, — " Unto you, O men, I call ; 
 and my voice, — my voice is to the chil- 
 dren of men." 
 
 O man ! whosoever thou art, hear that 
 voice of wisdom. Hear it, thou sacred 
 conscience ! and give not way to evil ; 
 touch no bribe ; touch not dishonest 
 gain ; touch not the sparkling cup of 
 unlawful pleasure. Hear it, ye better 
 affections, dear and holy ! and turn not 
 your purity to pollution, and your sweet- 
 ness to bitterness, and your hope to 
 shame. Hear it, poor, wearied, bro- 
 ken, prostrate human nature ! and rise 
 to penitence, to sanctity, to glorj-, to 
 heaven. Rise now, lest soon it be for- 
 ever too late. Rise, at this entreaty of 
 wisdom, for wisdom can utter no more. 
 Rise, — .arise at this voice ; for the uni- 
 verse is exhausted of all its revelations, 
 — infinity, omnipotence, boundless love, 
 have lavished their uttermost resources 
 in this one provision, this one call, this 
 one Gospel, of mercy ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND 
 THE ANSWER TO IT. 
 
 Jon xxiii. 3,4,5: '' Oh th:it I knew where I misht 
 find him ; tliat I miglit come even to his seat ! I woi.ltl 
 order iny cause before him, and fill my mouth witli 
 arguments. I would know the words which he would 
 answer me, and understand what he would say to 
 me." 
 
 It is striking to observe how large a 
 part of the book of Job, and especially 
 of Job's own meditation, is occupied with 
 
36 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 a consideration of the nature and char- 
 acter of the Supreme Being. The sub- 
 ject-matter of the book is human calam- 
 ity. The point proposed for solution 
 is the interpretation of that calamity. 
 The immediate question — of very little 
 interest now, perhaps, but one of urgent 
 difficulty in a darker age — is, whether 
 calamity is retributive ; whether, in pro- 
 portion as a man is afflicted, he is to be 
 accounted a bad man. Job contends 
 against this principle, and the contro- 
 versy with his friends turns upon this 
 point. But, as I have ali"eady remarked, 
 it is striking to observe how often his 
 mind rises apparently quite above the 
 controversy to a sublime meditation on 
 God. As if feeling that, provided he 
 could fix his trust there, he should be 
 strong and triumphant, thither he con- 
 tinually resorts. With these loftier soar- 
 ings are mingled, it is true, passionate 
 complaint and sad despondency and bit- 
 ter reproaches against his friends, and 
 painful questionings about the whole or- 
 der of Providence. It is indeed a touch- 
 ing picture of a mind in distress, with 
 its sad fluctuations ; its words of grief 
 and haste bursting into the midst of its 
 words of prayer ; its soarings and sink- 
 ings ; its passionate and familiar adju- 
 rations of heaven and earth to help it ; 
 and with the world of dark and unde- 
 fined thoughts which roll through it like 
 waves of chaos ; in short, it is a jjicture 
 whose truth can be realized only by ex- 
 perience. 
 
 But I was about to observe that 
 this tendency of Job's mind in the 
 Supreme, though it may seem to carry 
 him, at times, up quite out of sight of 
 the question in hand, is really a natural 
 tendency, and that it naturally sprung 
 from the circumstances in which he 
 was placed. The human condition is, 
 throughout, allied to a divine power ; 
 and the strong feehng of what this con- 
 dition is always leads us to that Power. 
 The positive good and evil of this con- 
 dition, therefore, have especially this 
 tendency. This is implied in the proem 
 or preface of the book of Job, which 
 
 gives an account, after the dramatic man- 
 ner which characterizes the whole book, 
 of the circumstances that lead to Job's 
 trial. After a brief prefatory statement, 
 informing the reader who Job was, and 
 what were his possessions, the scene 
 is represented as opening in heaven. 
 Among the sons of God, Satan pre- 
 sents himself, the Accuser, the Adver- 
 sary. And when Job's virtue is the 
 theme of commendation, the Accuser 
 says, " Doth Job fear God for nouglit ? 
 A grand Emir of the East, cradled in 
 luxury, loaded with the benefits of 
 heaven, — doth he fear God for nought ? 
 Put forth thine hand now, and touch 
 all that he hath, and he will curse thee 
 to thy face ! " It is done ; and Job is 
 stripped of his possessions, servants, 
 children — all. And Job falls down 
 upon the ground and worships, and 
 says, " The Lord gave, the Lord hath 
 taken away ; blessed be the name of 
 the Lord." 
 
 But again the Accuser says : thou 
 hast not laid thy hand yet upon his 
 person. Come yet nearer ; " put forth 
 thine hand now, and touch his bone, 
 and his flesh, and he will curse thee to 
 thy face." Again it is done ; and Job is 
 smitten and overwhelmed with disease ; 
 and he sits down in ashes and scrapes 
 himself with a potsherd ; a pitiable and 
 loathsome object. The faith of his wife, 
 too, gives way, — of her who, above all, 
 should have supported him then, but 
 who, from the reverence and love which 
 she felt for her husband, is least able to 
 bear the sight of his misery. She cannot 
 bear it ; and, partaking of the prevalent 
 feelings of the age about outward pros- 
 perity as the very measure and test of 
 the Divine favor, she says, " Dost thou 
 still retain thine integrity .'' Curse God 
 and die ! " " Give up the strife ; you 
 have been a good man ; you have 
 helped and comforted many ; and now 
 you are reduced to this. Give up the 
 strife ; curse God and die ! " And Job 
 answered, " Thou speakest as one of 
 the foolish women speaketh ! " What 
 nature ! We seem to hear that fireside 
 
THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 
 
 37 
 
 conversation. What nature ! and what 
 cleHcacy, mingled with reproof ! " Thou 
 speakest not as my wife, but as one of 
 the fooHsh, prating women speaketh. 
 What ! shall we receive good at the 
 hand of the Lord, and shall we not 
 receive evil ? In all this did not Job 
 sin with his lips." 
 
 Then the three friends of Job came 
 to him ; and it is a beautiful trait of 
 delicacy for those ancient times, that 
 these friends, according to the represen- 
 tation, " sat down upon the ground with 
 him seven days and seven nights, and 
 spake not a word tmto hivi j for they 
 saw that his grief was great." When 
 we recollect that all over the East loud 
 wailings and lamentations were the usual 
 modes of testifying sympathy, we are 
 led to ask. whence came — whence, but 
 from inspiration ? — this finer conception, 
 befitting the utmost culture and deli- 
 cacy of later times .-' " Seven days and 
 seven nights they sat with him, and 
 none of them spake a word to him." 
 Of course, we are not to take this too 
 literally. According to the Hebrew 
 custom, they mourned with him seven 
 days : that is, they were in his house, 
 and they came, doubtless, and sat with 
 him from time to time ; but they entered 
 into no large discourse with him ; they 
 saw that it was not the time for many 
 words ; they mourned in silence. 
 
 This, I have said, is a beautiful con- 
 ception of what belongs to the most deli- 
 cate and touching sympathy. There 
 comes a time to speak, and so the 
 friends of Job judged, though their 
 speech proved less delicate and judi- 
 cious than their silence. There comes 
 a time to speak ; there are circumstan- 
 ces which may make it desirable ; there 
 are easy and unforced modes of address 
 which may make it grateful ; there are 
 cases where a thoughtful man may help 
 his neighbor with his wisdom, or an 
 affectionate man may comfort him with 
 sympatiiy; "A word fitly spoken," says 
 the sacred proverbialist, "is like apples 
 of gold in pictures of silver." 
 
 And yet, after all, it seems to me that 
 
 words can go but a little way into the 
 depths of afiliction. The thoughts that 
 struggle there in silence, that go out 
 into the silence of infinitude, into the 
 silence of eternity, have no emblems. 
 Thoughts enough, God knoweth, come 
 there, such as no tongue ever uttered. 
 And those thoughts do not so much 
 want human sympathy as they want 
 higher help. I deny not the sweetness 
 of that balm, but I say that something 
 higher is wanted. The sympathy of all 
 good friends, too, we know that we 
 have, without a word spoken. And 
 moreover the sympathy of all the world, 
 though grateful, would not lighten the 
 load one feather's weight. Something 
 else the mind wants, something to rest 
 upon. There is a loneliness in deep 
 sorrow, to which God only can draw 
 near. Its prayer is emphatically "the 
 prayer of a lonely heart." Alone, the 
 mind is wrestling with the great problem 
 of calainity ; and the solution it asks 
 from the infinite providence of Heaven. 
 Did I not rightly say, then, that calam- 
 ity directly leads us to God ; and that 
 tiie tendency, so apparent in the mind 
 of Job, to lift itself up to that exalted 
 theme of contemplation, was natural ? 
 And it is natural too that the one book 
 of afiliction given us in the holy record, 
 the one book wholly devoted to that 
 subject, is, throughout and almost en- 
 tirely, a meditation on God. 
 
 I wish to speak, in the present season 
 of meditation, of this tendency of the 
 mind, amidst the trials and distresses 
 of life, to things superior to itself, and 
 especially to the Supreme Being. It is 
 not affliction of which I am to speak, 
 but of that to which it leads. My theme 
 is the natural aspiration of humanity to 
 things above and beyond it, and the re- 
 vealings from above to that aspiration ; 
 it is, in other words, the call of human- 
 ity and the answer to it. " 1 would 
 order my cause before him," says Job, 
 " I would know the words he would an- 
 swer me." 
 
 There are many things in us of which 
 we are not distinctlv conscious ; and it 
 
38 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 is one ofifice of every great ministration 
 to human nature, whetlier its vehicle 
 be the pen, the pencil, or the tongue, to 
 waken that slumbering consciousness 
 into life. And so do I think that it is 
 one otlice of the pulpit. That inmost 
 consciousness, were it called forth from 
 the dim cells in the soul where it sleeps, 
 how instantly would it turn to a waking 
 and spiritual reality that life which is 
 now to many a state so dull and worldly, 
 so uninteresting and unprofitable ! 
 
 How it should be such to any seems 
 to me, I confess, a thing almost incon- 
 ceivable. It may be because my lite is, 
 as I may say, professionally a medita- 
 tion upon themes of the most spiritual 
 and quickening interest. Certainly I do 
 not lay any claim to superior purity for 
 seeming to myself to see things as they 
 are. But surely this life, instead of be- 
 ing anything negative or indifferent, in- 
 stead of being anything dull and trivial, 
 seems to me, I was ready to say, as if it 
 were bound up with mystery, and agony, 
 and rapture. Yes, rapture as well as 
 agony ; the rapture of love, of recipro- 
 cated affection, of hope, of joy, of prayer ; 
 and the agony of pain, of loss, of be- 
 reavement ; and over all their strug- 
 glings the dark cloud of mystery. If 
 any one is unconscious of the intensity 
 and awfulness of this life within him, 
 1 believe it is because he does not know 
 what he is all the while feeling. Health 
 and sickness, joy and sorrow, success 
 and disappointment, life and death, are 
 familiar words upon his lips, and he 
 does not know to what depths they point 
 within him. It is just as a man may 
 Hve unconscious that there is anything 
 unusual about him, in this age of un- 
 precedented excitement ; in this very 
 crisis of the world's story. 
 
 Indeed, a man seems never to know 
 what anything means till he has lost it; 
 and this, I suppose, is the reason why 
 losses, vanishings away of things, are 
 among the teachings of this world of 
 shadows. The substance indeed teach- 
 eth ; but the vacuity whence it has dis- 
 appeared, yet more. Many an organ, 
 
 many a nerve and fibre in our bodily 
 frame, performs its silent part for years, 
 and leaves us almost or quite uncon- 
 scious of its value. But let there be 
 the smallest injury, the slightest cut of a 
 knife, which touches that organ or sev- 
 ers the fibre, and then we find, though 
 it be the point of our finger, that we 
 want it continually ; then we discover 
 its value ; then we learn that the fine 
 and invisible nerves that spread them- 
 selves all over this wonderful frame are 
 a significant handwriting of divine wis- 
 dom. And thus it is with the universal 
 frame of things in life. One would think 
 that the blessings of this world were 
 sufficiently valued ; but, after all, the full 
 significancy of those words, property, 
 ease, health ; the wealth of meaning 
 that lies in the fond epithets, parent, 
 child, friend, we never know till they 
 are taken away ; till in place of the 
 bright, visible being comes the awful 
 and desolate shadow where nothing is ; ' 
 where we stretch out our hands in vain, 
 and strain our eyes upon dark and dis- 
 mal vacuity. Still, in that vacuity we 
 do not lose the object that we loved ; it 
 only becomes more real to us. Thus 
 do blessings not only brighten when 
 they depart, but are fixed in enduring 
 reality; and friendship itself receives its 
 everlasting seal beneath the cold im- 
 press of death. 
 
 I have said thus much for the sake of 
 illustration, of suggestion ; to show you 
 that the imprint of things may be upon 
 us which we scarcely know; to intimate 
 to you — what I believe — that a dim 
 consciousness of infinite mystery and 
 grandeur lies beneath all this common- 
 place of life; yes, and to arouse even 
 the most irreligious worldhness by the 
 awfulness and majesty that are around 
 it. As I have seen a rude peasant from 
 the Apennines failing asleep at the foot 
 of a pillar in one of the majestic Roman 
 churches ; doubtless the choral sym- 
 phonies 3'et fell soft upon his ear, and 
 the gilded arches were yet dimly seen 
 through the half slumbering eyehds; 
 so, I think, it is often with the repose 
 
THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 
 
 39 
 
 and the very stupor of worldliness. It 
 cannot quite lose the sense of where it 
 is, and of what is above and around it. 
 
 The scene of its actual engagements 
 may be small ; the paths of its steps 
 beaten and familiar ; tlie objects it han- 
 dles easily spanned, and quite worn out 
 with daily uses. So it may be, and 
 amidst such things, that we all live. 
 So we live our little life ; but heaven 
 is above us, and eternity is before us 
 and behind us, and suns and stars are 
 silent witnesses and watchers over us. 
 Not to speak fancifully of what is mat- 
 ter of fact, do you not always feel that 
 you are enfolded by infinity ? Infinite 
 powers, infinite spaces, do they not 
 lie all around you? Is not the dread 
 arch of mystery spread over you, and 
 no voice ever pierced it ? Is not eter- 
 nity enthroned amidst yonder starry 
 heights, and no utterance, no word, 
 ever came from those far-lying and silent 
 spaces ? Oh, it is strange, to think of 
 that awful majesty above, and then to 
 think of what is beneath it, — this little 
 struggle of life, this poor day's conflict, 
 this busy ant-hill of a city. Shut down 
 the dome of heaven close upon it ; let 
 it crush and confine every thought to 
 the present spot, to the present instant; 
 and such xvould a city be. But now, 
 how is it.'' Ascend the lonely watch- 
 tower of evening meditation, and look 
 f jrth and listen ; and lo ! the talk of the 
 streets, the sounds of music and revel- 
 ling, the stir and tread of a multitude, 
 go up into the silent and all-surrounding 
 infinitude! 
 
 But is it the audible sound only that 
 goeth up .^ (Jh, no; but amidst the 
 stir and noise of visible life, from the 
 inmost bosom of the visible man, there 
 goeth up a call, a cry, an asking, unut- 
 tered, unutterable, — an asking for reve- 
 lation, saying in almost speechless 
 agony: "Oh, break, dread arch of 
 mystery ; tell us, ye stars, that roll 
 above the waves of mortal trouble ; 
 speak, enthroned majesty of those aw- 
 ful heights ; bow down, you mysterious 
 and reserved heavens, and come ne.ir; 
 
 tell us what ye only know ; tell us of 
 the loved and lost ; tell us what we are, 
 and whither we are going ! '' 
 
 Is not man such an one .' Is he not 
 encompassed with a dome of incompre- 
 hensible wondtrs ? Is there not that 
 in him and about him which should fill 
 his life with majesty and sacredness ? 
 Is there not something of sublimity and 
 sanctity thus borne down from heaven 
 into the heart of every man ? Where 
 is the being so base and abandoned but 
 he hath some traits of that sacredness 
 left upon him ; something so much in 
 discordance perhaps with his general 
 repute that he hides it from all around 
 him ; some sanctuary in his soul where 
 no one may enter ; some sacred enclos- 
 ure, where the memory of a child is, 
 or the image of a venerated parent, or 
 the echo of some sweet word of kind- 
 ness that was once spoken to him, — an 
 echo that shall never die away 1 
 
 Would man awake to the higher and 
 better things that are in him, he would 
 no longer feel, I repeat, that life to him is 
 a negative, or superficial, or worldly ex- 
 istence. Evermore are his steps haunt- 
 ed with thoughts far beyond their own 
 range, which some have regarded as 
 the reminiscences of a pre-existent state. 
 As a man who passeth a season in the 
 sad and pleasant land of Italy feels a 
 majestic presence of sublime ages and 
 histories with him which he does not 
 always distinctly recognize, but which 
 lend an indescribable interest to every 
 field, and mountain, and mouldering 
 wall, and make life to be, all the while, 
 more than mere life, so it is with us 
 all in the beaten and worn track of this 
 worldly pilgrimage. There is more 
 here than tlie world we live in ; " it is 
 not all of life to live." An unseen and 
 infinite presence is here ; a sense of 
 something greater than we possess ; a 
 seeking, through all the void waste of 
 life, for a good beyond it; a crying out 
 of the heart for interpretation ; a mem- 
 ory of the dead, which touches, ever 
 and anon, some vibrating thread in this 
 great tissue of mystery. 
 
40 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 I cannot help thinking that we all 
 not only have better intimations, but 
 are capable of better things, than we 
 know ; that the pressure of some great 
 emergency would develop in us pow- 
 ers beyond the worldly bias of our 
 spirits ; and that so heaven dealeth 
 with us, from time to time, as to call 
 forth those better things. Perhaps there 
 is not a family so selfish in the world, 
 but that if one in it were doomed to die ; 
 if tyranny demanded a victim, it would 
 be utterly impossible for its members, 
 parents and children, to choose out that 
 victim ; but that all and each one would 
 say, " I will die, but I cannot choose." 
 Nay, in how many families, if that dire 
 extremity had come, would one and 
 anotlier step forth, freed from the vile 
 meshes of ordinary selfishness, and say, 
 like theRoman father and son, " Let the 
 blow fall on me ! " There are greater 
 and better things in us all than the 
 world takes account of, or than we take 
 note of, would we find them out. And 
 it is one part of our spiritual culture to 
 find these traits of greatness and power, 
 to revive these faded impressions of 
 generosity and goodness, — the almost 
 squandered bequests of God's love and 
 kindness to our souls, — and to yield our- 
 selves to their guidance and control. 
 
 I am sensible that my discoursing 
 now has been somewhat desultory and 
 vague. Perhaps, though I delight not 
 in such discoursing generally, it has 
 not been, in this instance, without a 
 purpose. For the consciousness which I 
 wish to address is doubtless itself some- 
 thing too shadowy and vague. But it 
 is real, though indistinct. An unsatis- 
 fied asking is forever in all human 
 hearts. We know that the material 
 crust of this earth does not limit our 
 thoughts ; that the commonplace of life 
 does not suffice us ; that there are things 
 in us which go far beyond the range of 
 our ordinary, earthly pursuits. Depraved 
 as we may be, these things are true. 
 They are indeed signs that we are fallen; 
 but they are signs too that all is not 
 lost. They are significant revelations, 
 
 and they are admonitions no less pow- 
 erful. 
 
 But now, when our minds go out be- 
 yond the range of their visible action, 
 what do they find ? We have spoken 
 of the great call of humanity ; what is 
 the answer .f* , 
 
 The first answer comes from the 
 mind itself. When we descend into the 
 depths of our own being, we find desires 
 which nothing less than the infinite can 
 satisfy, powers fitted for everlasting 
 expansion ; powers whose unfolding at 
 every step only awakens new and vaster 
 cravings ; and sorrows, which all the 
 accumulated wealth and pleasure of the 
 world can never, never soothe. If a 
 man's life consisted in that which he 
 possesseth, how intolerable would it be ! 
 To be confined to what we have and 
 what we are, is to be shut up in a dun- 
 geon, where we cannot breathe ! Is not 
 this whole nature, then, itself a stupen- 
 dous argument for something greater to 
 come? Is not this very consciousness, 
 deep in our souls, itself an answer ? 
 When you look at the embryo bird in 
 the shell, you know that it is made to 
 burst that little prison. You see feet 
 that are made to run, and wings to fly. 
 And as it pecks at the imprisoning shell, 
 you see in that very impulse the pro- 
 phetic certainty that it is to come forth 
 to light and air. And is the noblest be- 
 ing on earth alone to be forever impris- 
 oned, to perish in his prison ; forever 
 to feel himself imprisoned ; forever to 
 press against the barriers of his present 
 knowledge and existence, and never to 
 go forth ? Are mans embryo powers 
 alone, are his cravings and aspirations 
 after something higher, to be accounted 
 no revealings, no prophecies of a loftier 
 destiny ? 
 
 And again ; when we lift up our 
 thoughts to the vast infinitude, what do 
 we find? Order, holding its sublime 
 reign among the countless revolving 
 suns and .systems ; and light, fair and 
 beautiful, covering all as with a garment. 
 Look up to the height of heaven in some 
 bright and smiling summer's day ; be- 
 
THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 
 
 41 
 
 hold the ethereal softness, the meteor of 
 beauty that hangs over us ; and does 
 it not seem as if it were an enfolding 
 gentleness, a silent, hushed breathing 
 of unutterable love ? Was ever a moth- 
 er's eye, bent on her child, more sweet 
 and gentle ? Was ever a loving coun- 
 tenance more full of ineffable meaning? 
 "Oh, you sweet heavens ! " hath many 
 a poet said : and can he who made those 
 heavens, sublime and beautiful, wish us 
 any harm ? Were you made lord of 
 ^hose heavens, could you hurl down un- 
 recking sorrow and disaster upon the 
 poor tremblers beneath you ? God, who 
 hath breathed that pitying and generous 
 thought into your heart, will not belie it 
 in himself. My heart is to me a revela- 
 tion, and heaven is to me a revelation of 
 God's benignity. And when the voices 
 of human want and sorrow go upward, 
 — as one has touchingly said, " like in- 
 articulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb 
 creature, which in the ear of heaven are 
 prayers," — I can no more doubt that 
 they find gracious consideration and pity 
 above, than if a voice of unearthly ten- 
 derness breathed from the sky, saying, 
 " Poor frail beings ! borne on the bosom 
 of imperfection, and laid upon the lap 
 of sorrow, be patient and hopeful ; ye 
 are not neglected nor forgotten ; the 
 heaven above you holds itself in majes- 
 tic reserve, because ye cannot bear what 
 it has to tell you, — holds you in solemn 
 suspense, which death only may break ; 
 be faithful unto death ; be trustful for a 
 while ; and all your lofty asking shall 
 have answer, and all your patient sorrow 
 shall find issue, in everlasting peace." 
 
 But, once more, there is more than a 
 voice ; tliere is a revelation in nature, 
 and especially in the mission of Jesus 
 Christ, more touching than words. 
 
 I have said that there is no uttered 
 speech from all around us, and yet 
 have maintained that there is expression 
 as clear and emphatic as speech ; and 
 I now say it is much more expressive 
 than speech. Let me observe, here, that 
 we are liable to lay quite an undue stress 
 upon this mode of communication, upon 
 
 speech ; simply because speech is the 
 ordained and ordinary vehicle of con- 
 verse between man and man. If men 
 had communciated with one another by 
 pantomime ; if forms, and not utterances, 
 had been the grand instrument of im- 
 pression ; if human love had always 
 been expressed only by a brighter glow 
 of the countenance, and pity only by a 
 softer shadowing upon its beauty, then 
 had we better understood, perhaps, the 
 grand communication of nature. Then 
 had the bright sky in the daytime, and 
 the soft veil of evening, and all the shows 
 of things, around the whole dome of 
 heaven and amidst the splendor and 
 beauty of the world, — all these, I say, 
 in the majesty of silence, had been a 
 revelation, not only the clearest, but the 
 most impressive, that was possible. I 
 say in the majesty of silence. For, ac- 
 customed as we are to speech, how 
 much more powerful in some things is 
 silence ! How intolerable would it have 
 been, if every day when it came had 
 audibly said, " God is good ; " and every 
 evening, when it stole upon us, had said, 
 " God is good ; " and every cloud when 
 it rose, and every tree as it blossomed, 
 and every plant as it sprung from the 
 earth, had audibly said, " God is good " ! 
 No, the silence of nature is more impres- 
 sive, would we understand it, than any 
 speech could be ; it expresses what no 
 speech can utter. No bare word can 
 tell what that bright sky meaneth ; what 
 the wealth of nature meaneth ; what is 
 the heart's own deep assurance, that 
 God is good. 
 
 But yet more ; in the express revela- 
 tion that is given us, it is not the bare 
 word spoken, that is most powerful ; it 
 is the character of interposing mercy 
 that is spread all over the volume. It 
 is the miracle, — that causes nature to 
 break the secret of an all-controlling 
 power, in that awful pause and silence. 
 It is the loving and living excellence of 
 Jesus ; that miracle of his life, more 
 than all. The word is but an attestation 
 to something done. Had it been done 
 in silence, could all generations have 
 
42 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 seen Jesus living, Jesus suffering, and 
 heaven opened, it had been enough. 
 Words are but the testimony, that hath 
 gone forth to all generations and all 
 ages, of what hath been done. God is 
 ever doing for us what, — be it said 
 reverently, — what he cannot speak. As 
 a dear friend can look the love which 
 he cannot utter, so do I read the face 
 of nature ; so do I read the record of 
 God's interposing mercy. I feel myself 
 embraced with a kindness too tender 
 and strong for utterance. It cannot iell 
 me how dear to the Infinite Love my 
 welfare, my purity, is. Only by means 
 and ministrations, by blessings and 
 trials, by dealings and pressures of its 
 gracious hand upon me, can it make me 
 know. So do I read the volume of life 
 and nature, and so do I read the volume 
 of revelation. I see in Jesus living, in 
 Jesus suffering ; I see in the deep heart 
 of his pain and patience, and love and 
 pity, what no words can utter. I learn 
 this not from any excellency of speech, 
 but from the excellency of his living 
 and suffering. Even in the human 
 breast the deepest things are things 
 which it can never utter. So it was in 
 the heart of Jesus. So it is — I speak 
 it reverently — in the nature of God; 
 " For no ear hath ever heard the tilings 
 which God hath prepared for them that 
 love him. But God hath revealed them 
 to us by his spirit ; for the spirit, and 
 the spirit alone, searcheth all things, 
 yea, the deep things of God." 
 
 VII. 
 
 HUMAN NATURE CONSIDERED AS 
 A GROUND FOR TPIANKSGIV- 
 ING. 
 
 Psalm c. 3, 4: " Know ye that the Lord he is 
 God ; It is lie that hath made us, and not we our- 
 selves ; we are his people and the sheep of his pasture ; 
 enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his 
 courts with praise , be thankful unto him and bless 
 his name." 
 
 The theme of gratitude which is here 
 presented to us is our existence, our 
 
 nature. " It is He that hath viade us, 
 and not we ourselves : we are his people 
 and the sheep of his pasture." It is 
 not what we possess or enjoy, but what 
 we are ; or it is what we possess and 
 enjoy in relation to what we are, that I 
 would make the suljject of grateful com- 
 memoration in our present meditations. 
 
 In truth, every call to praise is but 
 an echo of this. For if it be duly con- 
 sidered, will it not be found that all 
 possible blessings —all that can be the 
 occasions of thanksgiving — must be 
 referred back, when we trace them, to 
 the blessing which is conferred upon us 
 in a nature capable of enjoying ihem ? 
 The bounty and the beauty of the world 
 were nothing, but for the seeing eye and 
 the sensitive frame ; the wisdom which 
 all things teach were nothing, but for 
 the perceiving mind ; the blessed rela- 
 tions of our social existence would be 
 all a barren waste, if we had not a heart 
 to feel them ; and all the tendencies and 
 conditions of our life and being, all our 
 labors and pleasures, all our joys and 
 sorrows, would be but one dark struggle 
 or darker despair, if we had not a moral 
 soul and will to bring good out of evil, 
 imperishable virtue out of perishable 
 circumstance, and immortal victory out 
 of the ever-pressing strife of human 
 existence. 
 
 Every blessing, then, hath the essen- 
 tial condition that makes it such, in my 
 very humanity. I am called upoii to be 
 thankful for food and raiment, for the 
 bounties and gratuities of nature, for 
 green fields and whitening harvests, for 
 peace and freedom and government, 
 and for those blessings that are beyond 
 and above all, — the immeasurable and 
 eternal blessings of religion. I am 
 called upon to be thankful for all these 
 things, and I am so. But still I must 
 say, and must so answer, that I cannot 
 be thankful for one of these blessings 
 without being first, and last, and through- & 
 out, thankful that I am a man. * 
 
 The advantage of being a man, there- 
 fore, is what I propose now to consider; 
 the blessing bestowed in our very hu- 
 
AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGU'ING. 
 
 43 
 
 manity, that indeed without which we 
 had not the power of gratitude. 
 
 I am thankful, then, that I am a man. 
 This is the central fact, around which 
 ail things range themselves in clusters 
 of blessings. 
 
 I am thankful that I am human. I 
 am thankful that I am not a clod, that 
 I am not a brute. Nay, nor do I ask 
 to be an angel. I am glad that I am 
 human. My very humanity, despite of 
 all tiiat is said against it. is a blessing 
 and a gladness to me. Although it may 
 sound strangely, — to the thoughtless 
 man on one account, and to the theolo- 
 gian on another, yet will I say that I 
 accept this humanity thankfully, — with 
 all its imperfections, with all its weak- 
 nesses, with all its exposures to error 
 and sin. None but a high moral nature 
 could be so exposed. Although I stand 
 amidst a multitude, where the infirmities 
 of this nature meet me on every side, in 
 many a shaded brow and pale cheek, 
 in many a countenance where grief and 
 gladness are strangely mingled, where 
 joy itself is touched with sadness ; yet 
 still I say, that with all the joy and sad- 
 ness of this nature included, interwoven, 
 and making up one momentous, myste- 
 rious and touching experience, I accept, 
 I embrace, 1 cherish it with gratitude : I 
 rejoice that it is mine. 
 
 I do not wish, I repeat, to be some- 
 tliing else. I do not wish that I were 
 an angel : and I do not wish that I were 
 like the inhabitant of some distant star. 
 I do not know what he is. But this 
 humanity that throbs in my bosom — I 
 know what this is ; it is near me, it is 
 dear unto me ; I rejoice that I am a 
 man. 
 
 And upon this I insist, and am going 
 to insist, because there is, I fear, a com- 
 monly prevailing disparagement of our 
 humanity, which leaves no proper, no 
 grateful sense of what it is. There is a 
 feeling in many minds, as if it were a 
 misery, a misfortune, almost a disgrace 
 to be a man. I am not speaking merely 
 of the theological disparagement, — the 
 dull fiction of Oriental philosophy and 
 
 of scholastic darkness, — though tliat, 
 doubtless, has helped to create the com- 
 mon impression that it is but a poor 
 advantage, but a doubtful good, to be a 
 man. 1 am not speaking alone of that 
 scorn and desecration, by theology, of 
 the very humanity which it ought to 
 have loved and helped. There are other 
 causes that have tended to the same 
 result : human pride, misanthropy, dis- 
 content, anger with our kind, anger with 
 our lot ; and the natural sense, too, of 
 human ills and errors. It is curious to 
 see how almost all our higher literature 
 betrays its trust to the very humanity 
 which it celebrates, — denies in general 
 what it teaches in detail, — heaps satire 
 and scorn upon mankind, and yet makes 
 vteft its heroes. It is wonderful to see 
 how not authors only, but men gener- 
 ally, can berate and vilify the very be- 
 ing that they are. Humanity — man — 
 these are not contrasted, but correlative 
 things ; you cannot eulogize the former 
 and desecrate the latter ; the former is 
 the ideal, the latter the real ; the one is 
 the picture, the other the original. What 
 man is, rnust furnish the elements from 
 which we draw out the idea of what man 
 should be ; what you think, what you 
 feel, is human, and that tells what hu- 
 manity should be. There is doubtless 
 a struggle between these conceptions 
 of the actual humanity and the ideal 
 humanity ; and for this very struggle, 
 too, I admire the human being. It 
 could not agitate inferior natures. That 
 man can separate the good from the evil, 
 and set it up as a model ; that he can 
 sigh over the evil, is a praise and a glory 
 to him. Ay, and that he can satirize, 
 scorn, and execrate the evil, and can do 
 it with such uncompromising heartiness 
 that he goes too far, seems to me not 
 a disreputable tendency of his nature. 
 There is something right, then, some- 
 thing respectable, in the leaning to 
 darker views. In this respect there is 
 something right in theolosry, in litera- 
 ture, and in common opinion. But for 
 the sake of justice and of gratitude, 
 for man's sake, and for God's sake, if I 
 
44 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 may reverently say so, let not all this go 
 too far ; let it not spread the shadow 
 over all, lest it hide from us both man 
 and God. I must therefore resist this 
 tendency : because it is wrong, and espe- 
 cially, at present, because it hinders a 
 just gratitude to the Almighty Creator 
 for the nature he has given us. 
 
 For this — what we are — is, I repeat, 
 the central truth around which all other 
 truths that appeal to gratitude do range 
 themselves : it is the sun in the system 
 of God's mercies, — their common bond 
 and enlightener. It will not do to set 
 up that antagonism, which is commonly 
 taught, between man and God ; to say 
 that God indeed is altogether good, but 
 that man is altogether bad ; that God 
 is glorious, but that man is altogether 
 mean ; that it is proper indeed to cele- 
 brate God's goodness and glory, but 
 that this is especially to be done by dis- 
 crediting all worth and value in man. 
 Who is it, after all, that celebrates the 
 goodness of God? It is no other than 
 man. The worshipper, the adorer, the 
 singer of praises in this world, is none 
 other than man. If his nature is all 
 contrast to the divine, what is the value 
 of his praise, of his judgment ? Nay, 
 how came the divine to be known ? 
 Man, I say, is the worshipper. And 
 what more is the angel, unless that he 
 is so in a higher measure, or with a 
 purer intent. There must then be a 
 beauty in human as well as in angelic 
 nature, or all the beauty of the creation 
 and of its Maker could avail nothing — 
 were nothing, to us. I know not what 
 eyes look out from yonder bright orbs 
 of heaven ; but I know that eye is not, 
 nor soul there, that can see anything 
 brighter, lovelier, more majestic, more 
 divine, than the glory of Him that made 
 us : that made the earth so fair, and the 
 heavens so beautiful and sublime. I 
 claim kindred with those dwellers on 
 high. I bow with them in adoration. 
 I join my voice to their lofty anthem. 
 Shall I think lightly of this glorious 
 affinity ? 
 
 No, I am thankful that I am a man. 
 
 Boldly do I say it : that I rejoice, that I 
 delight in my nature. I rejoice that 
 God has made me, and made me such 
 an one — a sensitive, social, religious 
 being — one of the seers, one of the wor- 
 shippers, one of the immortals. Mourn 
 I well may, that I have failed so lar, so 
 lamentably far, from what he has made 
 me for. But still I must be none the 
 less thankful for the wonderful signa- 
 tures that he has set upon my being. 
 
 Does any one critically ask why, with 
 such repetition, I insist upon this ? I 
 answer, because I would make, on this 
 point, a distinct and decided impression 
 of what I mean to say. 1 mean to 
 resist that ingratitude which holds it to 
 be a misfortune or a mischance to be a 
 man. I mean, if I can, to roll off that 
 burden of darkness and desolation with 
 which our hitmanily is thought to over- 
 shadow the world. It is the light in the 
 world, and not the darkness. It is the 
 eye that sees, and not the cloud that 
 obscures. Or if there be cloud and 
 dari<ness in it, as well as over it, in it 
 too, and in it alone on earth, is the power 
 of vision that can, and does, and will see 
 through all. If it be not, then, I repeat, 
 there is nothing in this world that can 
 see ; and all, without and within, is 
 darkness, — darkness as the shadow of 
 death, as the gloom of the grave. No, 
 it is a good thing to be a man, or else 
 there is no good in this world. Let no 
 one's heart sink within him, when that 
 name, dear and holy, — the name of 
 MAN, — is uttered. Let no one give 
 himself to dull, sighing, sorrowing, com- 
 plaining, disconsolate thoughts of his 
 humanity. It is a high and glorious gift. 
 
 I exist. What a blessing and a won- 
 der is that ! A few years ago, and I was 
 not; no spot in the fair universe held 
 jne. From dark and void nothingness 
 I am called to the glad precincts of be- 
 ing ; into the living and loving bosom of 
 nature ; into communion with the things 
 that are ; myself — chiefest blessing! — 
 myself among the things that are. And 
 do I ask to whom I owe this blessing.'' 
 Whence came I, do I ask 1 What one 
 
AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 
 
 45 
 
 among the mysterious powers of heaven 
 gave me this wonderful being ? Reason 
 answers, and Holy Writ answers, there 
 is but One who creates. And the 
 Psalmist teaches us, and says, " It is He 
 t'lat hath made us, and not we our- 
 selves." It is He, God, that hath called 
 me into being ; to stand beneath these 
 sliining heavens ; to look around upon 
 the loveliness of earth ; to breathe the 
 air of verdant fields, and see the light 
 of rising and setting suns ; to behold 
 the moulded beauty of sloping valleys 
 and swelling mountains, and the flash- 
 ing light of streams and ocean waves. 
 Everybody says that this is the darkest 
 world in the universe. Who knows it ? 
 Who knows that there is any one among 
 all the spheres of heaven more beau- 
 tiful than this ? The old Greek sages 
 thought not thus, who used the same 
 word, KOSMOS, for beauty and for the 
 world. Other kind of beauty there may 
 be, but who shall dare to say that any 
 creation has proceeded from God that is 
 not all beautiful ? I do not like that 
 phrase, " this dark world." Poetry may 
 use it, and in some relations and in some 
 moods there may be a propriety in its 
 use. But what I complain of is, that 
 the feeling has sunk down into the com- 
 mon heart ; the unadmiring, unholy, un- 
 thankful feeling, that this is a dark 
 world ; the darkest of all worlds. I 
 complain that the casual shade of poetry 
 has settled into a fixed, opaque incrus- 
 tation over tlie general mind ; that it is 
 common to feel as if this were a coarse, 
 imgenial, ungrateful, almost an ill-made 
 world; as if it were the rough-hewn 
 penitentiary of the creation, frowning 
 upon us from its granite walls and its 
 (lark and dingy arches. And therefore 
 1 say, who knows it ? Who knows that 
 there is anything in the far-lying fields 
 of heaven more beautiful, of more en- 
 trancing loveliness, than the world we 
 dwell in? I say, who knows it? But 
 I might say, rather, shame on the su- 
 perstitious weakness, the uncultivated 
 thought, the unkindled apathy, that finds 
 nothing here but a jjrison wall surround- 
 
 ing a convict's yard ! Shame on the eye 
 that cannot see, and on the heart that 
 cannot feel, the wonders and beauties of 
 this fair and lovely creation around us ! 
 No poetry, hath it ? Nay, nor no piety, 
 
 — none at least that is a fit offering to 
 the glorious Creator ! 
 
 And as man stands ainidst the fair 
 creation, with what a wonderful appa- 
 ratus is he provided for communication 
 with it; with a perception for every ele- 
 ment ; for the sweets of every bounty in 
 nature, for the fragrance of every field, 
 for the soft, embracing air, for the 
 sounds that come from every hill and 
 mountain and murmuring stream and 
 ocean wave, for the light that beams 
 from the far distant stars. We look 
 upon the lately invented electro-mag- 
 netic telegraph as a wonder ; and it is 
 so. But man's whole sensitive frame is 
 a more wonderful telegraph. He wakes 
 from sleep, and all nature around be- 
 comes a living presence ; life streams 
 in through every pore of the quick-feel- 
 ing vesture with which he is clothed. 
 He hstens ; and into the polished and 
 waxen chambers of the ear comes the 
 hum of cities, the bleating of flocks 
 upon the hills, the sound of the wood- 
 man's axe in the deep forest, — comes 
 the echoing of the wide welkin above 
 him, — comes, above all, the music of 
 human speech. He opens his eye, and 
 stars that rise upon the infinite seas of 
 space are telegraphed to his vision. 
 
 We are proverbially insensible to the 
 value of that which we have always pos- 
 sessed ; of which we cannot go back 
 in our conscious thought to the origin. 
 If seeing were an invention, how should 
 we admire it ! We admire the telescope, 
 
 — itself the product of a reasoning 
 power which God has given us, and 
 which will doubtless discover yet greater 
 things. 
 
 But suppose that the eye had at first 
 been formed to see only this world, and 
 all beyond had been a wall of darkness ; 
 and that then, at some given era, there 
 had been superadded to that organ the 
 telescopic power, and upon the human 
 
46 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 eye had burst the wonders of heaven : 
 how dark on the page of human history 
 would have lain the ages before ; and 
 how would that era be forever celebrat- 
 ed, almost as the beginning of human 
 existence ! And what is the telescope 
 compared with this ! — built at much ex- 
 pense ; a cumbrous weight to be carried 
 from place to place, and constructed 
 with elaborate mechanism to turn its 
 axis one way and another ; while in the 
 beggar's eye, as he lifts it to heaven, 
 and turns it unconsciously from point to 
 point, is an instrument which all the skill 
 of science, aided by the wealth of em- 
 pires, could never construct. 
 
 Say you not, then, even considering 
 man in this light, — only as endowed 
 with senses, — that it is good to be a 
 man ? And yet, considering him thus, 
 we have only placed him upon the stage 
 of his life's great action, and given him 
 the materials and the instruments with 
 which he is to work. 
 
 Standing on this theatre, he sees, he 
 hears, he observes, indeed ; and this is 
 wonderful. But how much more won- 
 derful is that transmutation by which 
 observation becomes knowledge ; sight, 
 perception ; and hearing, oracular wis- 
 dom! The w<?r/(/ stands in its majesty 
 and beauty ; but it is transformed into 
 another kind of majesty and beauty by 
 the labors of science and art. The re- 
 sult, — the actual state of human knowl- 
 edge, — it seems to me, is worthy of 
 more consideration than it always re- 
 ceives. I cannot think that an angel, 
 if he were to visit this world, would 
 look upon this structure of its laboring 
 wisdom witli disparaging scorn. The 
 world has done its work, — done some 
 work, surely. Behold the fabric of 
 science it has raised ; with its vast 
 and ranged collections of objects from 
 all nature, from fields and forests, from 
 mountains and mines, from woods and 
 waters ; with its curious and world-inter- 
 preting laboratories ; with its million-vol- 
 umed libraries, stored with the wisdom 
 of ages ; with its illumined chambers 
 of philosophy, and its dome, the grand 
 
 observatory of the skies, swelling up to 
 heaven; — and then see how man takes 
 from the majestic halls of science the 
 principles and results which he applies 
 to the advancement of his comfort, civ- 
 ilization, and welfare ; how he is making 
 nature every day more and more his 
 helper and his friend; how he takes the 
 swift lightning and makes it his tele- 
 graphic messenger; how he chains to 
 his fiery car on the land and on the sea 
 that elemental power which he had 
 known before only in the whirlwind and 
 the storm. Nay, look at that system of 
 practical wisdom which he has wrought 
 out from the daily experience of life, — 
 the system of common sense, — that 
 which instructs him in the knowledge 
 of men and the uses of things ; that ap- 
 titude and adjustment of his faculties 
 to every exigency ; that which, if a man 
 utterly lacks, he ceases to be a man, 
 and is pronounced a fool. Because it is 
 called common sense, it is considered 
 as something ordinary and indifferent. 
 We will never learn that the greatest 
 things are common ; the greatest gifts, 
 universal. Not the philosopher alone 
 is wise. Nay, every man is wiser as a 
 man than any man is merely as a learned 
 man. All the wisdom there is in books 
 is not equal to the wisdom that floats 
 in the common air about us ; the wis- 
 dom of life ; the wisdom from which 
 books draw all their life ; the wisdom 
 that is gained, not in the study nor the 
 cloister, but in the great school which 
 God has built, — the school of life. 
 Consider it, proud philosopher, or self- 
 complacent man of rank or of wealth ! 
 Suppose yourself deprived of that light 
 of common sense in which the multitude 
 walks : what, then, would your libraries, 
 or your palaces, or your thrones, avail 
 you ? Avail you ? They had not been. 
 They had not been written, nor built, 
 nor lifted up. And what would yo2{ be 
 without the common food of unv/ritten 
 reason ? A starveling, an idiot, a fool. 
 Yes, though you sat upon a throne, you 
 would be sent out, like Nebuchadnezzar, 
 to eat jjrass with the ox. 
 
AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 
 
 47 
 
 When I think of all that man, as an 
 intellectual being, has acquired and 
 achieved, it amazes me that anybody 
 can speak of this world as the abode of 
 a poor, toiling, drudging, ignorant, con- 
 temptible race. I would beat down every 
 aristocracy, whether of birth or learning 
 or wealth, that says this. I think the 
 world has done very well, — done much, 
 though not all that it might. I think 
 this a very respectable race — respec- 
 table? — why, a wonderful race. Do 
 not answer me, now, with a satirical 
 thought of the poor, dwarfed, ignorant 
 creatures that you sometimes see around 
 you. Do not cast their faults upon the 
 whole family. It is a serious matter that 
 we are considering. It is a serious thing 
 to defame and belie a whole world. It 
 is a thing you could not do at all, but 
 for the van;ueness of your contemplation. 
 Vou could not so discredit your fam- 
 ily, your family circle, your village, your 
 city, your country. Oh no ! this is too 
 near vou. Nay, and let another speak ill 
 of your city or your country, not to sa)^ 
 your family, and he will hear your indig- 
 nant defence. But when you speak of the 
 great world, you seem to think that its 
 shoulders are broad enough to bear any- 
 thing. It is as if you shot an arrow into 
 the great circumambient air ; it can 
 neither hit nor hurt anybody. Or it is 
 the world in past ages that you speak 
 of ; a dead world that cannot answer ; 
 it lies before you, quite a passive theme, 
 and you seem to think it a fine thing to 
 write cold history or scornful satire upon 
 it, as a wretched and worthless world. 
 I cannot agree with this unbrotherly 
 scorn, because the ivorld'x's, its object. 
 
 Nay, and there is one yet more seri- 
 ous aspect of this subject ; that in which 
 it presents a providence. It seems to 
 me a poor business for philosophv, first 
 to make the world as mean and base as 
 it can, and then to turn about and try to 
 explain why it was made at all ; how its 
 existence can be, in any way, reconciled 
 with the goodness of providence. A 
 hard problem it is, then, for the philoso- 
 pher ; too hard for him ; and he worries 
 
 himself with it in vain. It gives but 
 little satisfaction in the case to say tliat, 
 although men have been fools, they might 
 have been wiser if they would. The 
 truth is, they have been wiser than the 
 cynical philosopher admits. The case is 
 not so hard as he makes it. And he must 
 make it better, or he can never solve 
 his problem. None but a more consid- 
 erate and fraternal philosophy ever will 
 solve it. On the side of this fraternal 
 philosophy I take my place ; and in the 
 spirit of it I say again that, considering 
 myself as an intellectual being, and pre- 
 tending to be no wiser than the average 
 of men, J do not think it a misfortune 
 to be a man ; I am thankful that I am 
 a man. 
 
 And what think you, my friends, of 
 society, — that living mechanism of hu- 
 man relationships that spreads itself over 
 the world; that finer essence within it, 
 which as truly moves it as any power, 
 heavy or expansive, moves your sound- 
 ing manufactories or swift-flying cars ? 
 The man-machine hurries to and fro 
 upon the earth, moves this way and 
 that, stretches out its hands on every 
 side, to toil, to barter, to unnumbered 
 labors and enterprises ; and almost 
 ever the motive, that which moves it, is 
 something that takes hold of the com- 
 forts, affections, and hopes of social ex- 
 istence. It is true that the mechanism 
 often works with difficulty, drags heav- 
 ily, grates and screams with harsh col- 
 lision. And it is true that the essence 
 of finer motive, becoming intermixed 
 with baser, with coarser ingredients, of- 
 ten clogs, obstructs, jars, and deranges 
 the free and noble action of social life. 
 But surely he is not wise, and will not 
 be duly grateful, who turns the eye of 
 the cynic upon all this, and loses the 
 blessed sense of social good in its per- 
 versions. That I can be a frietid, that 
 I can have a friend, though it were but 
 one in the world, that fact, that blessed- 
 ness, I will set against all the sufferings 
 of my social nature. That there is such 
 a place on earth as a home ; that resort, 
 that sanctuarv of in-walled and shielded 
 
48 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 I 
 
 joy, I will set against all the surround- 
 ing desolations of life. That I can be 
 a true social man ; that I can speak my 
 true thought amidst all the janglings of 
 controversy and the warring of opinions ; 
 that fact iVom within outweighs all facts 
 from without. 
 
 The truth is, that in the visible aspect 
 and action of society, often repulsive 
 and annoying, we are apt to lose the 
 due sense of its invisible blessings. As 
 in the frame of nature it is not the coarse 
 and palpable, not soils and rains, not 
 even fields and flowers, that are so beau- 
 tiful, as the invisible spirit of wisdom 
 and beauty that pervades it ; so in the 
 iVame of society it is the invisible, and 
 therefore unobserved, that is most beau- 
 tiful. And yet in the visible, I have 
 often thought, there is more beauty than 
 is often acknowledged. The human 
 countenance, I am wont to think, is 
 more beautiful than it is usually con- 
 sidered. I speak not here of what is 
 commonly called beauty ; that which 
 arises from symmetry of feature and 
 delicacy of complexion. There is a beau- 
 ty in almost every countenance, — the 
 wonderful beauty and power of expres- 
 sion, — that far surpasses all that these 
 too much lauded charms can bestow 
 upon any. An artist once said to me, 
 when I spoke of the common faces he 
 had to paint : " No, there is a beauty in 
 the human countenance that I can never 
 paint; what I meet with every day in 
 the street, — the plainest that I meet, — 
 I can never paint its beauty." I felt at 
 once rebuked, and obliged, too, as one 
 that receives a wiser thought than his 
 own. Yes, it is true, and I see it every 
 day. There are expressions of ingenu- 
 ousness and modesty, of love and pity, 
 breaking out from the plainest and the 
 roughest features ; there are evanescent 
 shadings of thought and feeling flitting 
 over every countenance, that never were 
 transferred to the canvas. Worldly fash- 
 ion may set up its laws and its idols ; 
 but it were a m.ore wisely instructed eye 
 that should see loveliness everywhere. 
 
 Let not this be thought too trivial for 
 
 this place ; I speak of the outshining 
 of the secret soul through " the human 
 face divine." And, indeed, how much 
 is secret and unseen in the frame of so- 
 ciety! What an invisible law is that — 
 an invisible law of God it is — that reigns 
 over the relationship of sex ! The 
 delicacy of that relation is stronger than 
 any human government ; a graceful veil, 
 and yet a linked chain. It is like tlie 
 at once attractive and repelling electric 
 forces, which, unchained, would explode 
 with crash and ruin, and yet are ever 
 held fast by an invisible hand I Or will 
 you go down to the rougher paths of life ? 
 What nerves the arm of toil .^ If man 
 minded himself alone, he would fling 
 down the spade and the axe, and rush to 
 the wilderness, or roam through the world 
 as a wilderness ; and he would make 
 the world a desert. His home, which 
 he sees not, perhaps, but once or twice 
 in a day, — that home is the invisible 
 bond of the world. And what is it that 
 gives the loftiest character to business, 
 to trade and commerce .'' What but the 
 good, strong, and noble faith that men 
 put in one another ? Fraud there is, 
 but it is the exception, in the goings on 
 of business; honesty is the rule, and all 
 the frauds in the world cannot, cannot 
 tear the great bond of human confidence. 
 If they could, commerce would furl its 
 sail on all seas, and all the cities of the 
 world would crumble to ruins. There 
 stands a man on the other side of the 
 world, whom you never saw, whom you 
 never will see ; and yet that man's 
 bare character do you hold good for a 
 bond of thousands. And what is the 
 most striking feature of the political 
 state? Not governments, not constitu- 
 tions, not laws, not enactments, not 
 police, but the universal will of the 
 people to be governed by the common 
 weal. Take off" that restraint, and no 
 government on earth can stand for an 
 hour. 
 
 We have now considered our being 
 as sensitive, intellectual, and social, and 
 as furnishing, in each one of these char- 
 acters, signal occasions for gratitude to 
 
AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 
 
 49 
 
 fts Author. There is one higher char- 
 acter presenting still stronger claims, 
 and yet demanding still higher faith for 
 its recognition ; I mean, of course, the 
 moral, the spiritual, the divine nature 
 that man possesses. For here it is pre- 
 cisely—in this region where the moral 
 will puts forth its power — that it en- 
 counters such difficulty and is guilty of 
 such failure, that it seems, no doubt, at 
 times, as if the world were overshadowed 
 with sins and sorrows. 
 
 Of the actual attainments of this spir- 
 itual nature, it is true, we must entertain 
 but a moderate and humbling estimate. 
 And yet I must say that the nature has 
 done more and better than it always has 
 credit for. I must confess that I am led 
 at times to wonder, not that the world 
 is so bad as it is, but to wonder that it is 
 not worse. Human nature has been so 
 badly treated by those who should have 
 known it better, that its virtues some- 
 times more surprise me than its vices. 
 We hear indeed of horrible atrocities at 
 which society stands aghast ; but when 
 I think of the undisciplined strength of 
 passion, the untamed anger that boils in 
 the human breast, the unschooled pro- 
 pensities that rage in the human frame, 
 I wonder rather at the limits that are set 
 to their range. 
 
 " There's a Divinity that shapes our ends. 
 Rough hew them how we will." 
 
 How few men are as bad as they might 
 be, as bad as they are tempted to be ! 
 How many checks are there in the moral 
 system of our being and life ! How many 
 painful emotions beset the evil course ; 
 how many admonitory voices are there 
 of sin-inflicted suffering, disease, and 
 sorrow, that warn and almost compel 
 man to be wise ! That which divines 
 have called " restraining grace," — that 
 restraint indeed of the Great Will that 
 reigns over us, — what a marvellous fea- 
 ture is it in the moral economy ! 
 
 And that I can suffer when I sin, that 
 I can sorrow for the wrong that is in me, 
 that I can sigh and struggle to be free 
 from it,— I am glad of that. Were it not 
 for this moral nature, this conscience, 
 
 all were wrecked ; but it exists, it is 
 strong, it works mightily in the human 
 heart. I know not luho makes it suffer 
 and sorrow and struggle as it does, but 
 God. It seems to me that all institu- 
 tions, all preachings, all machinery of 
 human device, are weak compared with 
 this all-pervading power of God that 
 works within us. And indeed all other 
 means are nothing but as they take hold 
 of that power. 
 
 And if by that power I can and do 
 rise to virtue, if I gain the victory over 
 temptation, if I attain to a true and solid 
 peace, to an inward sufficiency, to the 
 supreme and absorbing love of goodness 
 and of God, then indeed are my feet set 
 upon a rock, and a new song is put into 
 my mouth ; and it is a song of thanks- 
 giving. Nothing on earth or in heaven 
 can ever be such a cause of thankful- 
 ness with me as this. 
 
 What an interest belongs to the very 
 strifes and trials that may lead to this ! 
 A man who makes a fortune on the 
 burning soil of India is thankful to that 
 country; with all its heat and dust and 
 languor and disease, he is thankful to 
 it. A man who stands here at home, 
 with energy and opportunity to repair 
 his broken fortunes, blesses that oppor- 
 tunity and that energy. So do we stand 
 in the field of the world. We may have 
 failed to a certain extent, or we may 
 have failed altogether, to secure the great 
 interest of life. But still the opportu- 
 nity for better efforts is given ; time is 
 lengthened out ; the day and the means 
 of grace are ours ; conscience is in our 
 hearts, and the Bible is in our hands, 
 and prayer may be on our lips ; all is 
 not lost ; the time past may be redeemed, 
 the erring steps retrieved ; our very 
 errors may teach us ; our sad experi- 
 ence may teach us, — blessed be its sad- 
 ness then! — and we may rise to sanc- 
 tity, to blessedness, and to heaven . And 
 if, I say again, we can and do thus 
 succeed ; if, from this often-deceiving 
 and ever-changing and fleeting world 
 we may draw and fix within us one 
 thing which is sure and steadfast and 
 
50 
 
 ON HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 immovable and always abounding, one 
 feeling that is assurance and sufficiency 
 and victory, a happiness in wisdom, in 
 love, and in God, which is, we know, in 
 its very nature everlasting, which, we 
 feel, will never desert us, will never let 
 us be unhappy, go where on earth, 
 go where in heaven, we will ; what a 
 prize, to bear away from a struggling 
 life and from the battling world, is 
 this ! Who does not say, " Thanks be 
 to God " ? And who that understands 
 the great, comforting, and redeeming 
 ministration of the Gospel to this end 
 does not say, " Thanks be to God 
 throutrh our Lord Jesus Christ " ? Yes, 
 my brethren, through Jesus Christ, 
 above all. We have not been left to 
 struggle alone. One has come to us, 
 bearing the image of God, bearing the 
 mission of God ; One, all compassion 
 and tenderness, all truth and loveliness, 
 has come to us and taught us, and helped 
 us, and prayed for us, and died for us : 
 and to him, under God, do we owe the 
 prize. And when it is gained and borne 
 away to heaven, then and there shall 
 we say, " Blessing and honor and glory 
 and power be unto Him that sitteth on 
 the throne, and to the Lamb forever and 
 ever! " 
 
 And, in fine, my friends, that we shall 
 bear aivay this prize from earth to heav- 
 en, — is that to be lamented ? Shall that 
 thought check and chill all our gladness 
 and thanksgiving ? 
 
 I rejoice that I am a man, — a sensitive, 
 intellectual, social, moral being: above 
 all, that I am a moral being. I rejoice 
 that I have a conscience, and a knowl- 
 edge of God. I rejoice that I am a 
 being subject to a great moral trial. I 
 lament that I have fallen, but all the 
 more am I thankful that I can rise. I 
 thank God that I can spiritually sorrow 
 and struggle, and spiritually carf gain 
 the victory. But now shall I surprise 
 you — shall I seem to say too much if 
 I say, I thank God that I am mortal ? I 
 thank God that he has put a limit to 
 this earthly probation. Not with griev- 
 ing, but with hope, do I recognize the 
 
 1 
 
 solemn truth that one day, — what day I 
 know not. and for that too am I thankful, 
 
 — that one day, appointed in God's wis- 
 dom, I shall die ! — yes, that I shall die! 
 
 — that I shall lay aside this body for 
 another form of being! I would not live 
 always. I would not always feel the 
 burdens and barriers with which mor- 
 tality has surrounded and overlaid me. 
 
 Some time or other I would part 
 hence ; some time or other I would 
 that my friends should part hence. Oli, 
 could we go in families! But that, too, 
 I see, would not be well. For then how 
 bound up in our families should we 
 be — how selfish and how reserved and 
 exclusive ! No, I take the great dispen- 
 sation as it is, and I am thankful lor 
 it. All its strong bonds, all its urgent 
 tasks, all its disciplinary trials — I ac- 
 cept all, and accept all with gratitude. 
 .Sweet, angel visits of peace are these 
 also ; thrilling pleasures in my sensitive 
 frame ; lofty towerings and triumphs of 
 intellect; blessed bonds and joys of so- 
 ciety ; the glorious vision of tlie infinite 
 perfection; I am thankful for them all. 
 I am thankful that every age of life has 
 its character, task, and hope ; that child- 
 hood comes forth upon the stream of life, 
 in its frail but fairy and gay vessel, with 
 its guardian angel by its side, the banks 
 covered with flowers, and the vermilion 
 tints of morning upon the hills ; that 
 youth stands amidst the bright landscape, 
 stretching its ej^e and its arm to the 
 cloud-castle of honor and hope ; that 
 manhood struggles amidst the descend- 
 ing storm, with resignation, with courage, 
 with an eye fixed on heaven, and that 
 although shapes of wrath and terror are 
 amidst the elements, the guardian angel 
 too is there, holding its bright station 
 in the clouds ; and that when age at last 
 comes, life's struggle over, life's voyage 
 completed, thatlightfromheaven streams 
 down upon the darkness and desolation 
 of earth, and the good angel is by its 
 side, and pointing upward says, " Thither 
 
 — thither shalt thou go" ! * 
 
 * The allusion here is to that admirable series of 
 paintings, by Mr. Cole, entitled " The Stream of Life. " 
 
THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 
 
 SI 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF 
 LIFE. 
 
 Job iv. 12-16 : " Now a thing was secretly brought 
 to me, and mine ear received a little thereof. In 
 thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep 
 sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me, and trem- 
 bling, which m.ide all my bones to shake. Then a 
 spirit passed before my face, and the hair of my flesh 
 stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern the 
 form thereof; an image was before mine eyes, there 
 was silence, and I heard a voice." 
 
 Human life, to many, is like the vis- 
 ion of Eliphaz. Dim and shadowy veils 
 hang round its awful revelations. Teach- 
 ings there are to man, in solemn and 
 silent hours, in thoughts from the vis- 
 ions of the night, in vague impressions 
 and unshaped reveries ; but on this very 
 account they fail to be interpreted and 
 understood. There is much teaching: 
 but there is also much unbelief. 
 
 There is a scepticism, indeed, about 
 the entire moral significance of life, 
 which I propose, in this discourse, to 
 examine. It is a scepticism, sometimes 
 taking thefcjrm of philosophy, sometimes 
 of misanthropy and scorn, and some- 
 times of heavy and hard-bound worldli- 
 ness, which denies that life has any lofty, 
 spiritual import; which resolves all into 
 a series of toils and trifles and vanities, 
 or of gross and palpable pursuits and 
 acquisitions. It is a scepticism, not 
 about creeds, not about Christianity ; it 
 lies farther back — lies far deeper ; it is 
 a scepticism about the very meaning and 
 intent of our whole existence. 
 
 This scepticism I propose to meet ; 
 and for this purpose I propose to see 
 what argument can be extracted out of 
 the very grounds on which it founds 
 itself. 
 
 The pertinency of my text to my pur- 
 pose, as I have already intimated, lies in 
 
 this ; there is much of deep import in 
 this life, like that which Eliphaz saw in 
 the visions of the night, — not clear, not 
 palpable, or at least not usually recog- 
 nized and made familiar : but it cometh, 
 as it were in the night, when deep sleep 
 falleth on men ; it cometh in the still 
 and solitary hours ; it cometh in the time 
 of meditation or of sorrow, or of some 
 awful and overshadowing crisis of life. 
 It is secretly brought to the soul, and 
 the ear receiveth a little thereof. It is 
 as a spirit that passeth before us, and 
 vanisheth into the night shadow; or it 
 standeth still, but we cannot discern the 
 form thereof ; there is an undefined im- 
 age of truth ; there is silence ; and at 
 length there is a voice. 
 
 It is of these unrecognized reve- 
 lations of our present being that I 
 would endeavor to give the interpre- 
 tation ; 1 would attempt to give them 
 a voice. 
 
 But let us spread out a little, in the 
 first place, the sceptic's argument. It 
 says : " \Vhat is there in human exist- 
 ence that accords with your lofty Chris- 
 tian theory ? You may talk about the 
 grandeur of a human life, the sublime 
 wants and aspirations of the human soul, 
 the solemn consciousness, amidst all 
 life's cares and toils, of an immortal des- 
 tiny ; it is all a beautiful dream ! Look 
 over the world's history, and say — what 
 intimations does it furnish of that majes- 
 tic design, the world's salvation ? Look 
 at any company of toiling and plodding 
 men in the country around you, and 
 what are they thinking of but acres and 
 crops of labor and the instruments of 
 labor ? Go into the noisy and crowded 
 manufactory, and what is there but 
 machinery — animate or inanimate; the 
 mind as truly girded and liarnessed to 
 the work as the furning-Iathe or the 
 
 / _ - - - \\ 
 
 \: - 
 
52 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 banded wheel ? Gaze upon the thronged 
 streets, or upon holiday crowds, mixing 
 the oaths of the profane with the draughts 
 of the intemperate, and where is the 
 spiritual soul that you talk of ? Or look 
 at human life in a large view of it, and 
 of what is it made up ? " Trouble and 
 weariness," — you see that it is the cyn- 
 ic's complaint, — "trouble and weari- 
 ness ; the disappointment of inexperience 
 or the dulness of familiarity ; the frivolity 
 of the gay or the unprofitable sadness of 
 melancholy ; the heavy ennui of the idle 
 or the plodding care of the busy ; the 
 suffering of disease or the wasted energy 
 of health ; frailty its lot, and its doom, 
 death ; a world of things wasted, worn 
 out, perishing in the use, tending to 
 nothing and accomplishing nothing ; so 
 complete the frivolity of life with many, 
 that they actually think more of the fine 
 apparel they shall wear than of the in- 
 ward spirit, which you say is to inherit 
 the immortal ages ! " 
 
 All this, alas ! is too true ; but it is not 
 true to the extent, nor in the exclusive 
 sense, alleged. That but few meditate 
 on their lot as they ought, is perfectly 
 true ; but there are impressions and 
 convictions that come into the mind 
 through other channels than those of 
 meditation. They come, perhaps, like 
 the shadowy vision of Eliphaz, in dark- 
 ness and silence, — vague, indistinct, 
 mysterious, awful ; or they come in the 
 form of certain but neglected and for- 
 gotten truths. And they come, too, from 
 those very scenes in which the eye of 
 the objector can see nothing but ma- 
 terial grossness or thoughtless levity. 
 This is what I shall especially attempt to 
 show. I shall not undertake, in this dis- 
 course, to go farther; but I believe that 
 I shall not perform a useless service to 
 the true faith of our being, if I may be 
 able, in some measure, to unveil and 
 bring to light those secret intimations 
 which are often smothered, indeed, but 
 which from time to time are flashing out 
 from the cloud of human cares and pur- 
 suits. 
 
 "Man," it is said, "is bound up in 
 
 materiaUsna, imprisoned by the senses, 
 limited to tlie gross and palpable ; far- 
 reaching thoughts, soaring aspirations, 
 are found in essays and speculations 
 about him rather than in his own expe- 
 rience ; they are in books, rather than 
 in brick-yards and ploughed fields and 
 tumultuous marts." 
 
 What stupendous revelations are 
 cloaked and almost hidden by familiar- 
 ity! This very category of scepticism, 
 what is it but the blind admission of the ) 
 sublimest truth ? A man is recognized i 
 as standing amidst this palpable cloud \ 
 of care and labor; enclosed, it is said, ' 
 shut up in sense and matter, but still a 
 tnan! A dungeon is this world, if you 
 please so to represent it; but in this 
 dungeon is a prisoner, moaning, sor- 
 rowing, sighing to be free. A wilder- 
 ness world, it is, in the thought of many ; 
 but one is struggling through this wilder- 
 ness, who imparts to it a loftier grandeur 
 than its own ; his articulate voice, his 
 breathed prayer, or his shout amidst the 
 dim solitudes — nay, the very sound of 
 his axe in the forest depths — is sub- 
 limer than all the solemn symphonies of 
 antumn winds sweeping through its ma- 
 jestic aisles. 
 
 Grant that matter and sense are man's 
 teachers ; and consider these teachings 
 in their very humblest form, in their very 
 lowestgrade, — what they \.^,c\\ perforce^ 
 and in spite of man's will. What are 
 they ? Materialism itself suggests to man 
 the thought of an immaterial principle. 
 The senses awaken within him the con- 
 sciousness of a soul. Of a soul, I say ; 
 and what is that ? Oh ! the very word 
 " soul " is itself soiled by a common use, 
 till we know not what it means. So 
 that this universal endowment of human- 
 ity, this dread endowment, by which infin- 
 ity, eternity, nay, and divinity, belong to 
 its innate and inmost conceptions, can 
 be at once admitted and almost over- 
 looked, in the account of human exist- 
 ence. 
 
 In man the humblest instruments re- 
 veal the loftiest energies. This is not; 
 enthusiasm, but philosophy. Modern; 
 
THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 
 
 53 
 
 pliilosophy has distinctly unfolded this 
 principle ; that all our mental concep- 
 tions suggest their opposites,— the finite, 
 the infinite; the seen, the unseen; time, 
 eternity ; creation, a God. The child 
 that has tried his eye upon surrounding 
 objects soon learns to send his thought 
 through the boundless air, and to em- 
 brace the idea of infinite space. The 
 being that is conscious of having lived 
 a certain time comes to entertain, as 
 correlative to that consciousness, the 
 conception of eternity. These are 
 among the fundamental facts of all hu- 
 man experience. Such, to a man in 
 distinction from an animal, is the in- 
 strumentality of his very senses. As 
 with a small telescope, a few feet in 
 length and breadth, man learns to sur- 
 vey heavens beyond heavens, almost 
 infinite, so with the aid of limited 
 senses and faculties does he rise to the 
 conception of what is beyond all visible 
 heavens, beyond all conceivable time, 
 beyond all imagined power, beauty, and 
 glory. Such is a hviman life Man 
 stands before us visibly confined within 
 the narrowest compass ; and yet from 
 this humble frame stream out on every 
 side the rays of thouglit, to infinity, to 
 eternity, to omnipotence, to boundless 
 grandeur and goodness. Let him who 
 will, account this existence to be noth- 
 ing but vanity and dust. I must be 
 allowed, on better grounds, to look upon 
 it as that in whose presence all the 
 visible majesty of worlds and suns and 
 systems sink to nothing. Systems and 
 suns and worlds are all comprehended 
 in a single thought of this being whom 
 we do not yet know. 
 
 But let us pass from these primary 
 convictions, which are suggested by 
 matter and sense, to those spheres of 
 human life where many can see nothing 
 but weary labor, or trifling pleasure, or 
 heavy ennui. 
 
 Labor, then — what is it, and what 
 doth it mean ? Its fervid brow, its 
 toiling hand, its weary step, — what do 
 they mean .'' It was in the power of 
 God to provide for us, as he h.as pro- 
 
 vided for the beasts of the field and 
 the fowls of heaven, so that human 
 hands should neither toil nor spin. He 
 who appointed the high hills as a refuge 
 for the wild goats, and the rocks for the 
 conies, might as easily have caused 
 marble cities and hamlets of enduring 
 granite to have been productions of na- 
 ture's grand masonry. In secret forges 
 and by eternal fires might every instru- 
 ment of convenience and elegance have 
 been fashioned : the winds might have 
 woven soft fabrics upon every tree, and 
 a table of abundance might have been 
 spread in every wilderness and by every 
 sea-shore. For the animal races it is 
 spread. Why is it not for man ? Why 
 is it especially ordained as the lot of 
 man, that in the sweat of his brow he 
 shall eat his bread .'' Be ye sure that it 
 hath a meaning. The curse, so much 
 dreaded in the primeval of innocence 
 and freedom of nature, falls not cause- 
 less on the earth. Labor is a more be- 
 neficent ministration than man's igno- 
 rance comprehends or his complainings 
 will admit. It is not mere blind drudg- 
 ery, even when its end is hidden from 
 him. It is all a training, it is all a dis- 
 cipline ; a development of energies, a 
 nurse of virtues, a school of improve- 
 ment. From the poor boy that gathers 
 a few sticks for his mother's hearth, to 
 the strong man who fells the forest oak, 
 every human toiler, with every weary 
 step and every urgent task, is obeying 
 a wisdom far above his own wisdom, 
 and is fulfilling a design far beyond his 
 own design, — his own supply and sup- 
 port, or another's wealth, luxury, or 
 splendor. 
 
 But now let us turn to an opposite 
 scene of life. I mean that of pleasure 
 and dissipation. Is this all mere fri- 
 volity, a scene that suggests no meaning 
 beyond its superficial aspects ? Nay, 
 my friends, what significance is there 
 in unsatisfying pleasure ? What a se- 
 rious thing is the reckless gayety of a 
 bad man ! What a picture, almost to 
 move our awe, does vice present to us ! 
 The desperate attempt to escipe from 
 
54 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 \ 
 
 the ennui of an unfurnished and unsat- 
 isfied mind ; the blind and headlong 
 impulse of the soul to quench its mad- 
 dening thirst for happiness in the burn- 
 ing draughts of pleasure ; the deep 
 consciousness which soon arises of guilt 
 and infamy ; the sad adieu to honor and 
 good fame ; the shedding of silent and 
 bitter tears ; the flush of the heart's 
 agony over the pale and haggard brow ; 
 the last determined and dread sacrifice 
 of the soul and of heaven to one de- 
 moniac passion, — what serious things 
 are these ! What signatures upon the 
 soul, to show its higher nature ! What 
 a fearful handwriting upon the walls 
 that surround the deeds of darkness, 
 duplicity, and sensual crime ! The holy 
 altar of religion hath no seriousness 
 about it, deeper, or, I had almost said, 
 more awful, than that which settles 
 down upon the gaming-table, or broods 
 oftentimes over the haunts of corrupt- 
 ing indulgence. At that altar, indeed, 
 is teaching; words, words are uttered 
 /lere; instruction, cold instruction, alas ! 
 it may be, is delivered in consecrated 
 walls ; but if the haunts' of evil could be 
 unveiled, if the covering could be taken 
 off from guilty hearts, if every sharp 
 pang and every lingering regret of the 
 vitiated mind could send forth its 
 moanings and sighs into the great hear- 
 ing of the world, the world would 
 stand aghast at that dread teaching. 
 
 But besides the weariness of toil and 
 the frivolity of pleasure, there is another 
 state of life that is thought to teach 
 nothing ; and that is ennui, — a state of 
 leisure attended with moody reveries. 
 The hurry of pursuit is over, for the 
 time ; the illusions of pleasure have 
 vanished ; and the man sits down in the 
 solitariness of meditation, and "weary, 
 flat, stale, and unprofitable appear to 
 him all the uses of this life." It seems 
 to him, as I once heard it touchingly 
 expressed even by a child, "as if every- 
 thing was nothing." This has been the 
 occasional mood of many lofty minds, 
 and has often been expressed in our 
 literature. Says one, — 
 
 " Life's little stage is a small eminence, 
 Inch high above the grave ; that home of man, 
 Where dwells the multitude ; we gaze around ; 
 We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and while 
 We sigh, we sink, and are what we deplored ; 
 Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot ! " 
 
 And our great dramatist says, — 
 
 "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day 
 To the last syllable of recorded time, 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 
 The way to dusty death 
 
 Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more •. it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 
 Signifying nothing. 
 
 But bound up with this poor, frailj 
 life is the mighty thought that spurnsj 
 the narrow span of all visible existence. 
 Out of this nothing springs a some-i 
 thing, — a significant intimation, a dread 
 revelation of the awful powers that lie 
 wrapped up in human existence. Noth- 
 ing more reveals the majestic import of 
 life than this ennui, this heart-sinking 
 sense of the vanity of all present acqui- 
 sitions and attainments. "Man's mis- 
 ery," it has been well said, "comes of 
 his greatness." The sphere of life ap- 
 pears small, the ordinary circle of its 
 avocations narrow and confined, the 
 common routine of its cares insipid and 
 unsatisfactory; why? Because he who 
 walks therein demands a boundless range 
 of objects. Why does the body seem 
 to imprison the soul ? Because tlie 
 soul asks for freedom ; because it looks 
 forth from the narrow and grated win- 
 dows of sense upon the wide and im- 
 measurable creation ; because it knows 
 that around and beyond it lie out- 
 stretched the infinite and the everlast- 
 ing paths. 
 
 I have now considered some of those 
 views of life which are brought forward 
 as objections against our Christian the- 
 ory of its greatness. My purpose in 
 this discourse is not to penetrate into 
 the wisdom of its deeper relations, but 
 to confine myself to its humblest as- 
 pects, and to things tliat are known and 
 acknowledged to be matters of fact. 
 
THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 
 
 55 
 
 With this view, I proceed to observe, 
 i in the last place, that everything in this 
 ! life bears traits that may well stir our 
 minds to admiration and wonder. 
 
 How mysterious is the connection of 
 mind with matter : of the act of my will 
 with the motion of my hand ; this won- 
 derful telegraphic communication be- 
 tween the brain and every part of the 
 body ! We talk of nerves ; but how 
 knoweth the nerve in my finger of the 
 will that moves it ? We talk of the will ; 
 but what is it, and how does its com- 
 manding act originate ? It is all mys- 
 tery. Within this folding veil of flesh, 
 within these dark channels, every in- 
 stant's action is a history of miracles. 
 Every famihar step is more than a story 
 in a land of enchantment. Were the 
 marble statue before us suddenly en- 
 dowed with that self-moving power, it 
 would not be intrinsically more won- 
 derful than is the action of every being 
 around us. 
 
 The human face is itself a wonder. 
 I do not mean in its beauty, nor in its 
 power of expression, but in its variety 
 and its individuality. What is the prob- 
 lem that is here solved ? Suppose it 
 were stated thus : given, a space nine 
 inches long and six inches broad; the 
 form essentially the same, the features 
 the same, the colors the same ; re- 
 quired, unnumbered hundreds of millions 
 of countenances so entirely different, 
 as, with some rare exceptions, to be 
 completely and easily distinguishable. 
 Would not the whole mechanical inge- 
 nuity of the world be tlirown into utter 
 despair of approaching any way towards 
 such a result ? And yet it is complete- 
 ly acheived in the liuman countenance. 
 Yes, the familiar faces that are around 
 us bear mysteries and marvels in every 
 look. 
 
 Again, the house thou dwellest in, 
 that familiar abode, what holds it to- 
 gether, and secures it on its firm foun- 
 dadon ? Joint to joint, beam to beam, 
 every post to its socket, is swathed and 
 fastened by the mighty bands that hold 
 ten thousand worlds in their orbits. 
 
 This is no phantasm of the imagina- 
 tion ; it is the philosophical fact. All 
 actual motion and all seeming rest are 
 determined by unnumbered, most nicely 
 balanced, and at the same time immeas- 
 urable influences and attractfons. Uni- 
 versal harmony springs from infinite 
 complication. And therefore every step 
 thou takest in thy dwelhng, — still I only 
 repeat what philosophers have proved, — 
 the momentum of every step, I say, con- 
 tributes its part to the order of the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 What, then, is a life, conscious of 
 these stupendous relations, and what 
 are its humblest dwellings ? If you 
 lived in a palace that covered a hundred 
 miles of territory, and if the stamping 
 of your foot could convey an order to 
 its farthest limits, you would feel that 
 that, indeed, was power and grandeur. 
 But you live in a system of things, you 
 dwell in a palace, whose dome is spread 
 out in the boundless skies ; whose lights 
 are hung in the wide arches of heaven ; 
 whose foundations are longer far than 
 the earth and broader far than the sea; 
 and you are connected by ties of 
 thought, and even of matter, with its 
 whole boundless extent. If your earth- 
 ly dwelling, your house of life, were 
 lifted up and borne visibly among the 
 stars, guarded with power and clothed 
 with light, you would feel that that 
 was a sublime fortune for any being to 
 enjoy. To ride in a royal chariot would 
 be a small thing compared with that. 
 But you are borne onward among the 
 celestial spheres ; rolling worlds are 
 around you ; bright, starry abodes fill 
 all the coasts and skies of heaven ; you 
 are borne and kept by powers, silent 
 and unperceived, indeed, but real and 
 boundless as the immeasurable uni- 
 verse. 
 
 The infinite, we allow, is mA'sterious ; 
 but not less so, in truth, is the finite 
 and the small. It is said that man 
 cannot comprehend infinity. It is true, 
 and yet it is falsely said in one respect. 
 The declaration that we cannot under- 
 stand infinity usually conveys the im- 
 
56 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 plication that we can comprehend that 
 which is the opposite of infinity ; that 
 is, the Uttle scene around us. But the 
 humblest object beneath our eye as 
 completely defies our scrutiny as the 
 economy of the most distant world. 
 Every spire of grass, of which the 
 scythe mows down millions in an hour, 
 holds within it secrets which no human 
 penetration ever fathomed. Examine it 
 with the microscope, and you shall find 
 a beautiful organization ; channels for 
 the vital juices to flow in ; some to 
 nourish the stalk ; others .to provide for 
 the flower and prepare the seed ; other 
 instruments still to secrete the nutri- 
 ment that flows up from the soil, and 
 to deposit and incorporate it with the 
 plant ; and, altogether, a mechanism 
 more curious than any, perhaps, ever 
 formed by the ingenuity of man. And 
 yet there are questions here which 
 the profoundest philosopher cannot an- 
 swer. What is the principle of life, 
 without which, though the whole organi- 
 zation remains, the plant dies ? And 
 what is that wonderful power of secre- 
 tion ? No man can tell. There are in- 
 scrutable mysteries, wrapped up in the 
 foldings of that humble spire of grass. 
 Sit down now, and take thy pen, and 
 spread out thine account, as some writ- 
 ers have done, of the insignificance of 
 human life. But wilt thou pause a little, 
 and tell me first how that pen was 
 formed wherewith thou art writing, 
 and that table whereon thy tablets are 
 laid ? Thou canst tell neither. Wilt 
 thou not pause then, when the very in- 
 struments thou art using should startle 
 thee into astonishment ? Lay thine hand 
 where thou wilt, and thou layest it on the 
 hiding bosom of mystery. Step where 
 thou wilt, and thou dost tread upon a 
 land of wonder. No fabled land of en- 
 chantment ever was filled with such 
 startling tokens. So fraught are all 
 things with this moral significance, 
 that nothing can refuse its behest. The 
 furrows of the field, the clods of the 
 valley, the dull beaten path, the insensi- 
 ble rock, are traced over and ^n every 
 
 direction with this handwriting, mor? 
 significant and sublime than all the 
 beetling ruins and all the buried cities 
 that past generations have left upon 
 the earth. It is the handwriting of the 
 Almighty ! 
 
 In fine, the history of the humblest 
 human life is a tale of marvels. There 
 is no dull or unmeaning thing in exist- 
 ence, did we but understand it ; there is 
 not one of our employments, no, nor one 
 of our states of mind, but is, could we 
 interpret it, as significant — not as in- 
 structive, but as significant — as Holy 
 Writ. Experience, sensation, feeling, 
 suffering, rejoicing ; what a world of 
 meaning and of wonder lies in the modes 
 and changes and strugglings and soar- 
 ings of the life in which these are bound 
 up ! If it were but new, if we had been 
 cast upon "this shore of being" without 
 those intervening steps of childhood that 
 have now made it familiar ground, how 
 had we been rapt in astonishment at 
 everything around, and everything with- 
 in us ! 
 
 I have endeavored in the present dis- 
 course — perhaps in vain — to touch this 
 sense of wonder: to arouse attention 
 to the starthng and awful intimations, 
 to the striking and monitory lessons and 
 warnings, of our present existence. And 
 if some of the topics and suggestions of 
 my discourse have been vague and shad- 
 owy, yet I am ready to say, better to be 
 startled by the shadows of truth, than 
 to sleep beneath its noontide ray ; bet- 
 ter to be aroused by the visions of a 
 dream, than to slumber on in profound 
 unconsciousness of all the signs and 
 wonders of our being. Oh ! that I could 
 tear off this dreadful commonplace of 
 life, and show you what it is. There 
 would be no want, then, of entertain- 
 ment or excitement ; no need of jour- 
 neys or shows or tales to interest us ; 
 the every-day world would be more than 
 theatres or spectacles ; and life, all-pierc- 
 ing, all-spiritual, would be more than 
 the most vivid dream of romance ; how 
 much more than the most eager pursuit 
 of pleasure or profit ! 
 
EVERYTHING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 
 
 57 
 
 My brethren, there is a vision like 
 that of Eliphaz, stealing upon us, if we 
 would mark it, througii tlie veils of every 
 evening's shadows, or coming in the 
 morning with the mysterious revival of 
 thought and consciousness ; there is a 
 message wliispering in the stirred leaves, 
 or starting beneath the clods of the field, 
 in the life that is everywhere bursting 
 from its bosom. Everything around us 
 images a spiritual life; all forms, modes, 
 processes, changes, though we discern 
 them not. Our great business with life 
 is so to read the book of its teaching ; 
 to find that life is not the doing of 
 drudgeries, but the hearing of oracles ! 
 The old mythology is but a leaf in that 
 book, for it peopled the world with spir- 
 itual natures. Many-leaved science still 
 spreads before us the same tale of won- 
 der. Spiritual meditation, interpreting 
 experience, and above all, the life of 
 Jesus, will lead us still farther into the 
 heart and soul and the innermost life 
 of all things. It is but a child's life, to 
 pause and rest upon outward things, 
 though we call them wealth and splen- 
 dor. It is to feed ourselves with husks, 
 instead of sustaining food. It is to 
 grasp the semblance, and to lose the 
 secret and soul of existence. It is as 
 if a pupil should gaze all day upon the 
 covers of his book, and open it not, and 
 learn nothing. It is indeed that awful 
 alternative which is put by Jesus him- 
 self; to gain the world — though it be 
 the whole world — and to lose our own 
 soul. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THAT EVERYTHING IN LIFE IS 
 MORAL. 
 
 Job vil. 17, 18 : "What is man, that thou shoiildst 
 magnify him, and set thine heart upon him ; and 
 that thou shouldst visit him every morning, and try 
 him every moment?" 
 
 That we are "tried every moment," 
 IS the clause of the text to which I 
 wish, in this discourse, to direct your 
 meditation. By which, in the sense of 
 
 the passage before us, is not meant that 
 we are continually afflicted, but that we 
 are constantly proved and put to the 
 test; that everything which befalls us, 
 in the course of life and of every day, 
 bears upon us, in the character of a 
 spiritual discipline, a trial of our temper 
 and disposition ; that everything devel- 
 ops in us feelings that are either right or 
 wrong. I have spoken in my last dis- 
 course of the moral significance of life. 
 I propose to speak in this of the possible 
 moral use and of the inevitable moral 
 effect of everything in life. My theme, 
 in short, is this ; that everything in life 
 is moral, or spiritual. 
 
 There is no conviction which is at 
 once more rare, and more needful for 
 our improvement, than this. If the lan- 
 guage of Job's discontent and despair in 
 the chapter from which our text is taken 
 is not familiar to many, yet to very many 
 life appears at least mechanical and dull. 
 It is not such in fact, but it appears such. 
 It appears to be mere labor, mere busi- 
 ness, mere activity. Or it is mere pain 
 or pleasure, mere gain or loss, mere suc- 
 cess or disappointment. These things, 
 if not mechanical, have at least, to many 
 minds, nothing spiritual in them. And 
 not a fev/ pass through the most impor- 
 tant transactions, through the most mo- 
 mentous eras of their lives, and never 
 think of them in their highest and most 
 interesting character. The pervading 
 morality, the grand spiritual import, of 
 this earthly scene, seldom strikes their 
 minds or touches their hearts. And if 
 they think of ever becoming religious, 
 they expect to be so only through retire- 
 ment from this scene, or, at least, through 
 teachings and influences and processes 
 far removed from the course of their 
 daily lives. 
 
 But now I say, in contradiction to 
 this, that everything in life is spiritual. 
 What is man, says Job, that thou visit- 
 est him every morning .'' This question 
 presents us, at the opening of every day, 
 with that view of life which I propose 
 to illustrate. Tliat conscious existence 
 which, in the morning, you recover from 
 
58 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 the embraces of sleep, — what a testi- 
 mony is it to the power and beneficence 
 otGod ! What a teacher is it of all de- 
 vout and reverent thoughts ! You laid 
 yourself down and slept. You lay, un- 
 conscious, helpless, dead to all the pur- 
 poses of life, and unable by any power 
 of your own ever to awake. From that 
 sleep, from that unconsciousness, from 
 that image of death, God has called you 
 to a new life ; he has restored to you the 
 gift of existence. And now what meets 
 you on this threshold of renewed life ? 
 Not bright sunbeams alone, but God's 
 mercies visit you in every beaming ray 
 and every beaming thought, and call for 
 gratitude ; and you can neither acknowl- 
 edge nor resist the call without a moral 
 result. That result may come upon you 
 sooner than you expect. If you rise 
 from your bed with a mind undevout, 
 ungrateful, self-indulgent, selfish, some- 
 thing in your very preparations for the 
 clay, something that may happen in a 
 matter slight as that of the toilet, may 
 disturb your serenity and cloud your day 
 at the beginning. You may have thought 
 that it was only the prajeroi tlie morning 
 that had any religion, anything spiritual 
 in it. But I say that there is not an article 
 in your wardrobe, there is not an instru- 
 ment of daily convenience to you, how- 
 ever minute or otherwise indifferent, but 
 it has a power so far moral that a little 
 disarray or disorder in it may produce 
 in you a temper of mind, ay, a moral 
 state, of the most serious character. 
 You may not be conscious of this ; that 
 is, you may not be distinctly sensible of 
 it, and yet it may be none the less true. 
 We are told that the earth, and every 
 substance around us, is full of the elec- 
 tric fluid ; but we do not constantly per- 
 ceive it. A little friction, however, de- 
 velops it, and it sends out a hasty spark. 
 And so in the moral world, — a slight 
 chafing, a single turn of some wheel in 
 the social machinery, and there comes, 
 like the electric spark, a flashing glance 
 of the eye, a hasty word, perhaps a mut- 
 tered oath, that sounds ominous and 
 awful as the tone of distant thunder ! 
 
 What is it that the little machinery of the 
 electrical operator develops ? It is the 
 same power that, gathering its tremen- 
 dous forces, rolls through the firmament 
 and rends the mountains in its might. 
 And just as true is it that the little round 
 of our daily cares and occupations, the 
 humble mechanism of daily life, bears 
 witness to that moral power which, only 
 extended, exalted, enthroned above, is 
 the dread and awful Majesty of the 
 heavens. 
 
 But let us return to our proposition. 
 Everything is moral, and therefore, as 
 we have said, great and majestic ; but 
 let us for a few moments confine our- 
 selves to the simple consideration that 
 everything in its bearings and influences 
 is moral. 
 
 All times and seasons are moral ; the 
 serene and bright morning, we have 
 said ; that wakening of all nature to life ; 
 that silence of the early dawn, as it were 
 the silence of expectation ; that fresh- 
 ening glow, that new inspiration of life, 
 as if it came from the breath of heaven ; 
 but the holy eventide also, its cooling- 
 breeze, its falling shade, its hushed and 
 sober hour ; the sultry noontide, too, 
 and the solemn midnight ; and spring- 
 time and chastening autumn ; and sum- 
 mer, that unbars our gates and carries us 
 forth amidst the ever-renewed wonders 
 of the world ; and winter, that gathers us 
 around the evening hearth, — all these, as 
 they pass, touch by turns the springs of 
 the spiritual life in us, and are conduct- 
 ing that life to good or evil. The very 
 passing of time, without any reference 
 now to its seasons, develops in us mucli 
 that is moral. For what is the passing ot 
 time, swifter or slower; what are its lin- 
 gering and its hasting, but indications, 
 but expressions often, of the state of 
 our own minds .'' It hastes often, because 
 we are wisely and well employed ; it lin- 
 gers, it hangs heavily upon us, because 
 our minds are unfurnished, unenlight- 
 ened, unoccupied with good thoughts,. 
 with the fruitful themes of virtue ; or 
 because we have lost almost all virtue 
 in unreasonable and outrageous impa- 
 
 
EVERYTHING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 
 
 59 
 
 tience. Yes, the idle watch-hand often 
 points to something within us; the very 
 dial-shadow falls upon the conscience ! 
 
 Tlie course of time on earth is marked 
 bv changes of heat and cold, storm and 
 sunshine : all this, too, is moral. The 
 weather, dull theme of comment as it 
 is often found, is to be regarded with 
 no indifference as a moral cause. For 
 does it not produce unreasonable anx- 
 ieties, or absolutely sinful complainings ? 
 Have none who hear me ever had reason 
 to be shocked to find themselves anory 
 with the elements ; vexed with chafing 
 heat, or piercing cold, or the buffeting 
 storm ; and ready, when encountering 
 nature's resistance, almost to return 
 bufTet for buffet.? 
 
 But let us turn from the course of in- 
 animate nature to matters in which our 
 own agency is more distinct and visible. 
 Go with me to any farm-house in the 
 land, and let us see what is passing there, 
 and what is the lofty and spiritual im- 
 port of its humble history. It is the 
 theatre of strenuous toils and besetting 
 cares. Within doors is work to be 
 done ; that work which is proverbially 
 " never done j " and without, the soil is 
 to be tilled, the weeds and brambles are 
 to be rooted up, fences are to builded — 
 of wood or stone — and to be kept in re- 
 pair: and all this is to be done with tools 
 and instruments that are not perfect, 
 but must be continually mended ; the 
 axe and the scythe grow dull with use ; 
 the plough and the harrow are some- 
 times broken ; the animals which man 
 brings in to assist his labors have no 
 instincts to make them do the very 
 thing he wishes ; they must be trained 
 to the yoke and the collar, with much 
 pains and some danger. 
 
 Now the evil in all this is not the 
 task that is to be performed, but the 
 grand mistake that is made about the 
 spiritual purpose and character of that 
 task. Most men look upon such a 
 state of life as mere labor, if not vexa- 
 tion ; and many regard it as a state of 
 inferiority and almost of degradation. 
 They ?mi!,t work, in order to obtain 
 
 sustenance, and that 's all they know 
 about this great dispensation of labor. 
 But why did not the Almighty cast 
 man's lot beneath the quiet shades and 
 amid embosoming groves and hills, with 
 no such task to perform ; with nothing 
 to do but to rise up and eat, and to lie 
 down and rest ? Why did he ordain 
 that work should be done in all the 
 dwellings of life, and upon every produc- 
 tive field, and in every busy city and on 
 every ocean wave ? Because — to go 
 back to the original reason — it pleased 
 God to give man a nature destined to 
 higher ends than indolent repose and 
 irresponsible indulgence. And because, 
 in the next place, for developing the en- 
 ergies of such a nature work was the 
 proper element. I am but repeating, 
 perhaps, what I have said before to you, 
 but I feel that in taking this position 
 I am standing upon one of the great 
 moral landmarks which ought to guide 
 the course of all mankind, but on which, 
 seen through a mist or not seen at all, 
 the moral fortunes of millions are fatally 
 wrecked. Could the toiling world but 
 see that the scene of their daily life is 
 all spiritual, that the very implements 
 of their toil, or the fabrics they weave, 
 or the merchandise they barter, were 
 al- designed for spiritual ends, v.hat 
 a sphere for the noblest improvement 
 might their daily lot then be ? What 
 a revolution might this single truth 
 produce in the condition and character 
 of the whole world ? But now, for a 
 man to gird himself for spiritual im- 
 provement, what is it ? Why, with 
 iBost men, it is to cast off the soiled 
 and dusty garments of toil, the slough 
 of mere worldly drudgery, as they are 
 called ; and to put on the Sunday suit 
 and go to church, or to sit down and 
 read a book. Good employments are 
 these, but one special design of them is, 
 to jarepare the mind for the action of 
 life. We are to hear and read, we aro 
 to meditate and pray, partly, at least, for 
 this end. — that we may act well. The 
 action of life is the great field for spirit- 
 ual improvement There is not one task 
 
6o 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 of industry or business, whether in field 
 or forest, on the wharf or the exchange, 
 but it has spiritual ends. There is not 
 one of the cares or crosses of our daily 
 labor, but it was especially ordained 
 to nurture in us patience, calmness, 
 gentleness, disinterestedness, magna- 
 nimity. Nor is there one tool or im- 
 plement of toil, but it is a part of the 
 great spiritual instrumentality. 
 
 Everything in life, then, I repeat, is 
 essentially spiritual. Every relation in 
 life is so. The relations of parent, 
 child, brother, sister, friend, associate, 
 husband, wife, are throughout every 
 living tie and thrilling nerve that binds 
 them together, jnoral. They cannot 
 subsist a day nor an hour without put- 
 ting the mind to a trial of its truth, 
 fidelity, forbearance, disinterestedness. 
 
 But let us take the case of the parent ; 
 of the young mother for instance. She 
 may have passed her youth in much 
 thoughtlessness ; in a round of fashion- 
 able engagements that have left her 
 little time to think, even when approach- 
 inof the most solemn relationships of 
 life ; and she may have become a wife 
 and mother before she has settled, or 
 even meditated, any reasonable plan or 
 principle of life and of duty. Now, I 
 am not about to say that the new charge 
 committed to her hands brings with it 
 many obvious duties and strong obliga- 
 tions ; but I desire you to observe how 
 what is moral in the case is thrust 
 upon her ; as if a hand were suddenly 
 stretched forth into her path, with 
 movement and gesture that bade her 
 pause and consider. For what is in 
 that path ? It is a being, though but a 
 little child, in whom is suddenly revealed 
 that awful attribute, the indomitable will. 
 That will, perhaps, utters itself in a 
 scream of passion ; it stamps upon the 
 ground in a fury of anger; it vents 
 itself in tears, or flashes in lightning 
 from the eye. Yes, the being that 
 a few days before was an unconscious 
 and helpless infant in her arms has all 
 at once put on the terrific attribute of 
 will ; and its astonished guardian stands 
 
 aghast, as if an uncaged lion had bro 
 ken upon her path. What, then, is in 
 that path.'' I answer, it is what noth- 
 ing but moral firmness can fairly meet, 
 and nothing but the gentleness and 
 patience of piety and j^rayer can ever 
 successfully and wisely manage, control, 
 and subdue ! And I say again, that if 
 moral action, if religious consideration, 
 was never before awakened, that very 
 epoch, that very hour, might reasonably 
 be the commencement with her of a 
 complete and spiritual regeneration ! 
 For nothing less than actual regeneration 
 from a thoughtless, self-indulgent life 
 ever did, or ever can, prepare any one 
 thoroughly and faithfully to discharge 
 the duties of a parent. 
 
 Again, everything in the condition of 
 life is moral; wealth, the means of lav- 
 ish expense, or the argument for avari- 
 cious hoarding ; poverty, the task-master 
 that exacts labor or inflicts self-denial ; 
 mediocrity of means, the necessity, the 
 vexatious necessity, as some will con- 
 sider it, of attending to the little items 
 of expense, or the mortifying inferiority 
 to others in the splendor of equipages 
 and establishments ; trade, the splendid 
 success, the fortunate speculation, the 
 disappointed hope, the satisfactory in- 
 dorsement, the dishonored note, the 
 sharp bargain, — all moral ; the profes- 
 sions and callings of life, some making 
 their incumbents unreasonably proud, 
 others making their equally useful agents 
 unreasonably humble. When we look 
 upon things in this light, how moral is 
 everything around us ! This great city 
 is one extended scene of moral action. 
 There is not a blow struck in it, but has 
 a purpose, and a purpose ultimately 
 good or bad, and therefore moral. There 
 is not an action performed but it has a 
 motive ; and motives are the very sphere 
 of morality. These equipages in our 
 streets, these houses and their furniture, 
 what symbols are they of what is moral, 
 and how are they, in a thousand ways, 
 ministering to right or wrong feeling ? 
 You may have thought that you were to 
 receive the teachings of morality and 
 
 
EVERYTHING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 
 
 6l 
 
 religion only by resorting to church ; 
 hut take your seat in your well-fur- 
 nished, perhaps splendid apartment, 
 and there is not an object around you 
 hut may minister to the good or bad 
 slate of your mind. It is a little empire 
 of which your mind is the creator. 
 From many a trade and occupation and 
 art in life you have gathered contribu- 
 tions to its comfort or splendor. The 
 forest, the field, the ore-bed, the ocean ; 
 all elements, fire, water, earth, air, have 
 yielded their supplies to form this dwell- 
 ing-place, this palace of your thoughts. 
 Furniture, whose materials came from 
 beyond the sea ; polished marl:)les, 
 wrought from the quarries of Italy ; 
 carpets from the looms of England ; the 
 luxurious couch, and the shaded even- 
 ing lamp ; of what are all these the sym- 
 bols ? What emotions do they awaken 
 in you ? Be they emotions of pride, or 
 be they emotions of gratitude ; be they 
 thoughts of self-indulgence only, or 
 thoughts, merciful thoughts, of the thou- 
 sands who are destitute of all the com- 
 forts of life, what a moral complexion 
 do they bear ? 
 
 Nay, and this spiritual dispensation of 
 life may press down upon a man in a 
 way he little thinks of. For how possi- 
 ble is it, that amidst boundless wealth, 
 in its most gorgeous mansion, and sur- 
 rounded by everything that can minister 
 to pleasure, a family may be more miser- 
 able than the poorest family in the land ! 
 — the children, spoiled by indulgence, 
 made vain and proud by their over-esti- 
 mated advantages, made peevish, impa- 
 tient, and. imbecile by perpetual depend- 
 ence on others, and not half so happy, 
 even, as thousands of children who are 
 lialf clad and unshod, and who never knew 
 what it was to give a command ; their 
 elders, injured or ruined in constitution 
 by luxuries, enfeebled and dulled in mind 
 by the hard tasks that are imposed on 
 the functions of the body and yet ab- 
 surdly puffed up with pride that they can 
 live splendidly and fare sumptuously 
 every day ; how possible is it, I repeat, 
 that coarse fare and a pallet of straw 
 
 may turn out to be better than the bed 
 of down, and the loaded table, and the 
 cellar of choice wines ! Ay, the loaded 
 table, what a long moral account, accu- 
 mulating day by day, through years, 
 may have been written upon that table ; 
 and payment, perchance, must be made 
 on the couch of agony ! 
 
 Again, society is, throughout, a moral 
 scene. I cannot enlarge upon this point 
 as it would be easy to do, but must 
 content myself with one or two obser- 
 vations. Conversation, for instance, 
 is full of inward trials and exigencies. 
 It is impossible that imperfect minds 
 should commune together without a con- 
 stant trial of their tempers and virtues. 
 Though of the most friendly and kindred 
 spirit, they will have different opinions 
 or varying moods ; one will be quicker 
 or slower of apprehension than the other 
 on some point; one will think the other 
 wrong, and the other will feel as if 
 it were unkindly or uncharitably con- 
 strued ; and there will be dispute, and 
 pertinacity, and implication, and retort, 
 and defence, and complaint; and well, 
 if there are not sarcasm and anger. 
 And well, if these harsh sounds do not 
 invade the sanctuary of home ! Well, if 
 they do not bring disturbance to the 
 social board, and discord amidst the 
 voices of music and sono^ ! 
 
 Is not everything, then, in social life, 
 moral, — really a matter of religion, a 
 trial of conscience? You enter your 
 dwelling. The first thing that you' see, 
 and it may be a very slight thing, may 
 call upon you for an act of self-command. 
 The thing may not be as it should be ; 
 but that is not the most material consid- 
 eration : that is not what most concerns 
 you. The material consideration is, 
 that your mind may be put out of its 
 proper place, that you may not be as 
 you should be. You go from your 
 door. The sight of the first man you 
 behold may call for a trial of all your 
 virtues. You enter into the throng of so- 
 ciety. Every turn of your eye may pre- 
 sent an occasion for the exercise of your 
 self-respect, your calmness, your mod- 
 
62 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 esty, your candor, your forgetfulness of 
 self, your love of others. You visit the 
 sick or necessitous. Every step may 
 be one of ostentation, or at least of self- 
 applause ; or it may be one of true gen- 
 erosity and goodness. You stand amidst 
 the throng of men ; and your position 
 has many relations ; you are higher or 
 lower than others, or you are "an equal 
 and a competitor ; and none of these 
 relation^ can be wisely sustained without 
 the aid of 'strong religious considera- 
 tions. Or your position is fixed and 
 unalterable. You are a parent ; and you 
 give a command or make a request. 
 A thoughtful observer will perceive the 
 very tone of it to be moral : and a friend 
 may know that it has cost twenty years 
 of self- discipline to form that gentle 
 tone ! Or you are a child ; and you 
 obey or disobey ; and let me tell you 
 that the act, nay, the very manner of 
 your act, is so vitally good or bad, that 
 it may send a thrill of gladness, or a 
 pang, sharp as a sword, to the heart of 
 your parent. Or you are a pupil ; and 
 can any actor look be indifferent, which 
 by its levity, or negligence, or ill-humor, 
 adds to the already trying task of those 
 who spend anxious days and nights 
 for you ? 
 
 But I must leave those specifications 
 which I find indeed cannot well be car- 
 ried into the requisite detail in the pul- 
 pit ; but I must leave them also for the 
 sake of presenting, in close, one or two 
 general reflections on the whole subject. 
 
 I observe, then, that the consideration 
 of everything in our life as moral, as 
 spiritual, would impart an unequalled in- 
 terest and dignity to life. 
 
 First, an unequalled interest. 
 
 It is often said tliat the poet or the 
 man of genius is alive to a world around 
 him, to aspects of nature and life, which 
 others do not perceive. This is not 
 strictly true; for when he describes his 
 impressions he finds a responsive feeling 
 in the breasts of his readers. The truth 
 is, and herein lies much of his power and 
 greatness, that he is vividly and distinctly 
 conscious of those things which other 
 
 men feel, indeed, but feel so vaguely 
 that they are scarcely aware, till told of 
 them. So it is in spiritual things. A 
 world of spiritual objects and influences 
 and relations lies around us all. We 
 all vaguely deem it to be so ; but what a 
 charmed life, how like to that of genius 
 or poetic inspiration, is his, who com- 
 munes with the spiritual scene around 
 him; who hears the voice of the spirit 
 in every sound; who sees its signs in 
 every passing form of things, and feels 
 its impulse, in all action, passion, being ! 
 
 " The kingdom of heaven," says our 
 Saviour, " is like a treasure hid in afield." 
 There is a treasure in the field of life 
 richer than all its visible wealth ; which 
 whoso finds, shall be happier than if 
 he had discovered a mine of gold. It is 
 related that the mine of Potosi was un- 
 veiled simply b}' tearing a bush from 
 the mountain side. Thus near to us lie 
 the mines of wisdom ; thus unsuspected 
 they lie all around us. "The word," 
 saith Moses, speaking of this very v/is- 
 dom,"is very nigh thee." There is a 
 secret in the simplest things, a wonder 
 in the plainest, a charm in the dullest. 
 The veil that hides all this requires but a 
 hand stretched out to draw it aside. 
 
 We are all naturally seekers of won- 
 ders ; we travel far to see sights, to look 
 upon the mountain height or the rush of 
 waters, to gaze upon galleries of art or 
 the majesty of old ruins ; and yet a great- 
 er than all these is here. The vvorld- 
 wonder is all around us ; the wondei 
 of setting suns and evening stars ; the 
 wonderof tlie magic spring-time, of tufted 
 bank and blossoming tree ; the wondei 
 of the Infinite Divinity, and of his 
 boundless revelation. As I stood yes- 
 terday and looked upon a tree, I observed 
 little jets, as of smoke, darting from one 
 and another of its bursting buds. Oh 
 that the secrets of nature might thus 
 burst forth before us ; that the secret 
 wisdom of the world might thus be re- 
 vealed to us ! Is there any splendor to 
 be found in distant travels, beyond that 
 which sets its morning throne in the 
 golden east; anv dome sublimer than 
 
EVERYTHING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 
 
 63 
 
 that of heaven ; any be-.uty fairer than 
 that of the verdant and blossoming earth ; 
 any place, though invested wilh all the 
 sanctities of old time, like that home 
 which is hushed and folded within the 
 embrace of the humblest wall and roof? 
 And yet all these, — this is the point at 
 which I aim, — all these are but the sym- 
 bols of things far greater and higher. 
 All this is but the spirit's clothing. In 
 this vesture of lime is wrapped the im- 
 mortal nature ; in this brave show of 
 circumstance and form stands revealed 
 the stupendous reality. Break forth, 
 earth-bound spirit ! and be that thou art, 
 a living soul \ communing with thyself, 
 communing with God ; and thou shalt 
 find thy vision, eternity ; thine abode, 
 infinity; thy home, in the bosoin of all- 
 embracing love ! 
 
 " So build we up the being that we are; 
 Thus depply drinking in the soul of things, 
 We shall be wise perforce. 
 
 Whate'er we see, 
 Whate'er we feel, by agency direct 
 Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse 
 Our faculties, shall Hx in calmer seats 
 Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
 Of love divine, our intellectual soul." 
 
 And thus, in the next place, shall we 
 find that all the real dignity and impor- 
 tance that belong to human life belong 
 to every human lite ; i. e. to life in every 
 condition. It is the right mind, the right 
 apprehension of things only, that is want- 
 ing, to make the peasant's cottage as 
 interesting, as intrinsically glorious, as 
 the prince's palace. I wish that this 
 view of life might be taken by us ; not 
 only because it is the right view, but 
 because it would tend effectually to pro- 
 mote human h;ippiness, and especially 
 contentment. Most men look upon their 
 employments and abodes as common- 
 place ;ind almost as mean. The familiar 
 objects around them appear to them 
 almost as vulgar- They feel as if there 
 could be no dignity nor charm in acting 
 and living as they are compelled to do. 
 The plastered wall and the plain deal 
 boards, the humble table spread with 
 eartiien or wooden dishes, — how poor 
 
 does it all seem to them ! Oh, could 
 they live in palaces of marble, clothed 
 with silken tapestries, and filled with 
 gorgeous furniture, and canopies of state 
 — it were something! But now, to the 
 spiritual vision, what is it all ? The 
 great problem of humanity is wrought 
 out in the humblest abodes ; no more 
 than this is done in the highest. A 
 human heart throbs beneath the beggar's 
 gabardine; it is no more than this that 
 stirs with its beating the prince's mantle. 
 What is it, I say, that makes life to be 
 life indeed, — makes all its grandeur and 
 power ? The beauty of love, the charm 
 of friendship, the sacredness of sorrow, 
 the heroism of patience, the soul-exalting 
 prayer, the noble self-sacrifice, — these 
 are the priceless treasures and glories of 
 humanity ; and are these things of con- 
 dition ? On the contary, are not all 
 places, all scenes, alike clothed with the 
 grandeur and charm of virtues like these ? 
 And compared with these, what are the 
 gildings, the gauds and shows of wealth 
 and splendor? Nay, coiripared with 
 every man's abode — his sky-dome and 
 earth-dwelling — what can any man's 
 abode be ? Thou livest in a world of 
 beauty and grandeur. Who liveth in a 
 fairer, a more magnificent world than 
 thou ? It is a dwelling which God hath 
 made for thee ; does that consideration 
 deprive it of all its goodliness? And 
 suppose thou wast rich, and wast sur- 
 rounded with all the gayety and grandeur 
 of wealth : how might they hide from 
 thee, alas ! all the spiritual meanings of 
 thy condition ! How might the stately 
 wall and the rich ceiling hide heaven 
 from thy sight ! Let thine eye be opened 
 to the vision of life ; and what state then, 
 what mere visible grandeur, can be com- 
 pared to thine? It is all but a child s 
 bawble, to the divine uses of things, the 
 glorious associations, the beatific visions 
 that are opened to thee ! God hath thus 
 "magnified," and to use the strong and 
 figurative language of our text, " set his 
 heart," upon the humblest fortunes of 
 humanity. 
 
 There are those who, with a kind of 
 
64 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 noble but mistaken aspiration, are ask- 
 ing for a life which shall in its form and 
 outward course be more spiritual and 
 divine than that which they are obliged 
 to live. They think that if they could 
 devote themselves entirely to what are 
 called labors of philanthropy, to visit- 
 ing the poor and sick, thai would be 
 well and worthy ; and so it would be. 
 They think that if it could be inscribed 
 on their tomb-stone that they had vis- 
 ited a million of couches of disease, and 
 carried balm and soothing to them, that 
 would be a glorious record ; and so it 
 would be. But let me tell you that 
 the million occasions will come, ay, and 
 in the ordinary paths of life, in your 
 homes and by your firesides, — wherein 
 you may act as nobly as if all your life 
 long you visited beds of sickness and 
 pain. Yes, I say, the million occasions 
 will come, varying every hour, in which 
 you may restrain your passions, subdue 
 your hearts to gentleness and patience, 
 resign your own interest for anoJier's 
 advantage, speak words of kindness and 
 wisdom, raise the fallen and cheer the 
 fainting and sick in spirit, and soften 
 and assuage the weariness and bitter- 
 ness of the mortal lot. These cannot 
 indeed be written on your tombs, for 
 they are not one series of specific ac- 
 tions, like those of what is technically 
 denominated philanthropy. But in 
 them, I say, you may discharge offices 
 not less gracious to others, nor less glo- 
 rious for yourselves, than the self-denials 
 of the far-famed sisters of charity, than 
 the labors of Howard or Oberlin, or 
 than the suflferings of the martyred host 
 of God's elect. They shall not be writ- 
 ten on your tombs ; but they are written 
 deep in the hearts of men, — of friends, 
 of children, of kindred all around you : 
 they are written in the book of the great 
 account ! 
 
 How divine a life would this be ! 
 For want of this spiritual insight, the 
 earth is desolate, and the heavens are 
 but a sparkling vault or celestial mech- 
 anism. Nothing but this spirit of God 
 in us can "create that new heavens 
 
 and new earth, wherein dwelleth righ| 
 eousness." For want of this, life 
 to many dull and barren, or trifling, 
 uninteresting, unsatisfactory, — without 
 sentiment, without poetry and philoso- 
 phy alike, without interpretation or 
 meaning or lofty motive. Whirled 
 about by incessant change, making an 
 oracle of circumstance and an end of 
 vanity, such persons know not wliy 
 they live. For want of this spiritual in- 
 sight, man degrades himself to the wor- 
 ship of condition, and loses the sense 
 of what he is. He passes by a grand 
 house, or a blazoned equipage, and bows 
 his whole lofty being before them, — for- 
 getting that he himself is greater than a 
 house, greater than an equipage, greater 
 than the world. Oh ! to think that this 
 walking majesty of earth should so forget 
 itself; that this spiritual power in man 
 should be frittered away, and dissipated 
 upon trifles and vanities , how lamenta- 
 ble is it ! There is no Gospel for such 
 a being ; for the Gospel lays its founda- 
 tions in the spiritual nature. There is 
 nothing for man but what lies in his 
 spirit, in spiritual insight, in spiritual 
 interpretation. Without this, not only 
 is heaven nothing, but the world is 
 nothing. The great Apostle has re- 
 solved it all in few words : " There is 
 no condemnation to them who are in 
 Christ Jesus, who walk not after the 
 flesh, but after the spirit ; but to all 
 others there is condemnation, — sorrow, 
 pain, vanity, death. For to be carnally 
 minded is death ; but to be spiritually 
 minded is Hfe and peace." 
 
 LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGU- 
 MENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 
 
 Matthew iv. 4: ' But he answered ard said, it 
 is written that man shall not live by bread alone, but 
 by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of 
 God." 
 
 The necessity to man of something 
 above all the resources of physical life 
 
ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 
 
 65 
 
 IS the subject to which, in this discourse, 
 I shall invite your attention. 
 
 In two previous discourses on human 
 life which I have addressed to you, I 
 have endeavored to show, in the first 
 place and in general, that this life pos- 
 sesses a deep moral significance, not- 
 withstanding all that is said of it, as a 
 series of toils, trifles, and vanities ; and 
 in the next place, and in pursuance of 
 the same thought, that everything in 
 life is positively moral; not merely that 
 it is morally significant, but that it has 
 a positive moral efficiency for good or 
 for evil. And now I say, in the third 
 place, that the argument for the moral 
 purpose is clenched by the necessity of 
 that purpose to the well-being of life 
 itself. " Man," says our Saviour, with 
 solemn authority, " shall not live by 
 bread alone, but " — by what ? how few 
 seem to believe in it ! — " by every 
 word that proceedeth out of the mouth 
 of God." 
 
 How few seem to believe in it ; how 
 few do believe this, in the highest 
 sense ; and yet how true is it ! Into how 
 large a part even of the most ordinary 
 life enters a certain kind and degree of 
 spirituality ! You cannot do business 
 without some faith in man ; that is, in 
 the spiritual part of man. You cannot 
 dig in the earth without a reliance on 
 the unseen result. You cannot step, or 
 think, or reason, without confiding in 
 the inward, the spiritual principles of 
 your nature. All the affections and 
 bonds, and hopes and interests of life, 
 centre in the spiritual. Break that cen- 
 tral bond, and you know that the world 
 would rush to chaos. 
 
 But something higher than this in- 
 direct recognition is demanded in our 
 argument. Let us proceed to take it up 
 in form. 
 
 There are two principles, then, in- 
 volved in the moral aim and embracing 
 its whole scope, whose necessity I pro- 
 pose now to consider. They are faith 
 and virtue ; the convictions, that is to 
 say, on which virtue reposes, and the 
 virtue itself. Something above a man's 
 
 physical life must there be to help it, — 
 something above it in its faith, some- 
 thing beyond it in its attainment. 
 
 In speaking of faith as necessary to 
 human life, I need not here undertake 
 to define its nature ! This will suffi- 
 ciently appear as we proceed. What I 
 wish to speak of is, in general, a faith 
 in religion, in (}od, in spiritual truth 
 and hopes. What 1 maintain, in gen- 
 eral, is the indispensableness to human 
 life of this religious faith. My present 
 purpose is to offer .some distinct and 
 independent considerations in support 
 of this faith ; and these considerations 
 I find based, imbedded, deep-founded, 
 in human life. To illustrate the general 
 character of tlie view which I wish to 
 present, let us make a comparison. Let 
 it be admitted, then, and believed, on 
 the one hand, that there is a God ; let 
 the teachings of Jesus also be received ; 
 that this God is. our father ; that he has 
 a paternal interest in our welfare and 
 improvement; that he has provided the 
 way and the means of our salvation 
 from sin and ruin ; that he hears our 
 prayers and will help our endeavors ; 
 that he has destined us, if faithful, to a 
 future and blessed and endless life ; and 
 then, how evident is it that upon this 
 system of faith we can live calmly, en- 
 dure patiently, labor resolutely, deny 
 ourselves cheerfully, hope steadfastly, 
 and "be conquerors," in the great strug- 
 gle of life, "yea, and more thah con- 
 querors, through Christ who has loved 
 us I " But take away any one of these 
 principles, and where are we ? Say 
 that there is no God, or that there is no 
 way opened for hope and prayer, and 
 pardon and triumph, or that there is no 
 heaven to come, no rest tor the weary, 
 no blessed land for the sojourner and 
 the pilgrim ; and where are we ? And 
 what are we ? What are we, indeed, 
 but the sport of chance, and the victims 
 of despair ? What are we but hapless 
 wanderers upon the face of the deso- 
 late and forsaken earth ; surrounded by 
 darkness, struggling with obstacles, dis- 
 tracted with doubts, misled by false 
 
66 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 lights ; not merely wanderers who have 
 lost their way, but wanderers, alas ! who 
 have no way, no prospect, no home ? 
 What are we but doomed, deserted voy- 
 agers upon the dark and stormy sea, 
 thrown amidst the baffling waves with- 
 out a compass, without a course, with 
 no blessed haven in the distance to 
 invite us to its welcome rest ? 
 
 What, now, is the conclusion from 
 this comparison ? It is, that religious 
 faith is indispensable to the attainment 
 of the great ends of life. But that 
 which is necessary to life must have 
 been designed to be a part of it. When 
 you study the structure of an animal, 
 when you examine its parts, you say, 
 " This was designed for food ; there 
 must be food for this being somewhere ; 
 neither growth nor life is possible with- 
 out it." And when you examine the 
 structure of a human mind and under- 
 stand its powers and wants, you say with 
 equal confidence, " This being was made 
 for faith ; there must be something, 
 somewhere, for him to believe in ; he 
 cannot healthfully grow, he cannot hap- 
 pily live, without it." 
 
 The argument which I now urge for 
 faith, let me distinctly say, is not that 
 which is suggested by worldly pru- 
 dence ; that religion is a good thing for 
 the state, useful to society, necessary 
 for the security of property, and there- 
 fore to be received and supported. The 
 concession that the great interests of 
 the world cannot be sustained without 
 religion, and therefore that religion is 
 necessary, is considered by many, I 
 fear, as yielding not to reasoning fairly, 
 but to policy. This was the view of 
 religion, doubtless, which pervaded the 
 ancient systems of polytheism. It was 
 a powerful state engine, a useful social 
 economy, and hence, with multitudes, it 
 was little more than a splendid ritual. 
 It was not a personal thing. It was not 
 received as true, but only as expedient. 
 Now that which I maintain is this : not 
 that religion is necessary, and therefore 
 respectable ; not that religion is neces- 
 sary, and therefore to be supported in 
 
 order that the people may be restrained 
 and managed, and held in check ; but 
 my argument is, that religion is neces- 
 sary, and therefore true. The indis- 
 pensableness of religion, I hold, is not 
 merely a reason for its being supported, 
 but a reason for its being believed in. 
 
 The point maintained, let me now 
 more distinctly observe, is this : that in. 
 every kind of existence, in every system 
 of things, there are certain primary ele-- 
 ments or powers which are essential to 
 its just order and true well-being; and 
 that, under a wise Providence, these 
 elements must be regarded as bearing 
 the stamp of divine appointment and 
 authority. Find that which is necessary 
 to any being or thing, and you find that 
 which was designed to be a part of that 
 being or thing. Find that which, in] 
 the long run, injures, hurts, or hinders. 
 Find that which is fatal to the growth,] 
 progress, or perfection of any being or 
 thing, and you find that which does not 
 properly belong to it. He who would 
 cultivate a tree, knows that a soil, and 
 a certain internal structure, are neces- 
 sary to that end. And if he should, 
 with that end in view, set himself to 
 deprive it of those essential elements 
 of growth, his act would be one of per- 
 fect fatuity. 
 
 Let us dwell upon this point, and the 
 illustration of it, a little longer. 
 
 In the human body, we say, food is 
 necessary. Stint it, and the body lan- 
 guishes ; cut off the supply, and it 
 ceases to exist. So, in the human 
 body, the circulation of the blood is 
 necessary. Interrupt it, and the body 
 is diseased; stop it, and the body dies. 
 How truly has our Saviour denominated 
 his doctrine the very food and life-blood 
 of the soul ! " Verily, verily, I say unto 
 you, except ye eat the flesh and drink 
 the blood of the Son of Man, ye have 
 no life in you ; whoso eateth my flesh 
 and drinketh my blood hath eternal 
 life;" meaning, according to a figura- 
 tive and well-known use of language 
 
 I at that time, his spirit and doctrine. 
 
 1 And how manifestly true is it ! Cut off" 
 
ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 
 
 ^7 
 
 from any soul all the principles that 
 Jesus taught, the faith in a God, in im- 
 mortality, in virtue, in essential recti- 
 tude, and how inevitably will it sink 
 into sin, misery, darkness, and ruin ! 
 Nay, cut off all sense of these truths, 
 and the man sinks at once to the grade 
 of the animal. 
 
 Again, in the system of the universe 
 there is one principle tliat is essential 
 to its order ; the principle of gravitation. 
 Sever this bond that holds all worlds 
 and systems together, and they would 
 instantly fly into wild and boundless 
 chaos. But society, in its great rela- 
 tions, is as much the creation of heaven 
 as the system of the universe. Sever, 
 then, all the moral bonds that hold it 
 together; cut off from it every convic- 
 tion of truth and integrity, of an author- 
 ity above it and of a conscience within 
 it, and society would immediately rush 
 to disorder, anarchy, and ruin. If, then, 
 to hold society together, and to bind it 
 in happy order, religion be as necessary 
 as gravitation is to hold together the 
 frame of nature, it follows that*religion 
 is as really a principle of things as 
 gravitation ; it is as certain and true. 
 
 Once more; animal life has its law, in- 
 stinct. And when we look at the races 
 of animals, and see how indispensable 
 this law is to their welfare ; when we see 
 that without this principle they would 
 inevitably fall into misery and destruc- 
 tion, we have no doubt that instinct is 
 a heaven-ordained law. Equally neces- 
 sary to vinn is some law. What is it? 
 He has appetities, propensities, passions, 
 like the animal ; but he has no instincts 
 to control them and keep them safe. 
 What law then must he have ? Will 
 it be said that prudence, the love of 
 himself, the love of happiness, is suffi- 
 cient to guide him ? That will depend 
 upon his idea of happiness. If it is 
 purely sensual, then he is left to the im- 
 pulses of sense ; and that too without 
 the guardianship of instinct, and with all 
 tlie additional peril, in which the infinite 
 cravings of his soul put him, and against 
 which, indeed, no barrier of instinct or 
 
 prudence could ever defend him. But 
 if his idea of happiness includes a spirit- 
 ual good, that implies a faith in the 
 spiritual ; and this is the very faith for 
 which I contend. And I contend, too, 
 that this faith, faith in moral principles, 
 faith in virtue and in God, is as neces- 
 sary for the guidance of a man as instinct 
 is for the guidance of an animal. This, 
 1 believe, will not be denied. I believe 
 that every man must be conscious that 
 to be given up to his sensual impulses, 
 witiiout any faith in virtue or in God, 
 would be as certain ruin to liim as it would 
 be to an animal to be sent into the world 
 without the control of instinct. And if 
 it be so, then has the one principle a 
 place as truly appointed, a mission as 
 truly authentic in God's providence, as 
 the other. 
 
 But further ; man and animal, too, 
 need more than safety. They need some 
 positive good, something that satisfies. 
 The animal has it in the pleasures of 
 sensation. But will these suffice for a 
 man } It would be an insult to any one, 
 feeling as a man, formally to answer 
 the question. But if higher pleasures 
 are demanded, these must be the pleas- 
 ures of the soul. And these pleasures 
 must depend on certain principles ; they 
 must recognize a soul ; that is, they must 
 recognize the properties and responsi- 
 bilities of a soul ; they must recognize 
 a conscience and the sense of an author- 
 ity above us ; and these are the princi- 
 ples of faith. 
 
 Moreover, the soul on earth is placed 
 in fearful straits of affliction and tempta- 
 tion. This, too, it would be but an in- 
 sult to human feeling formallv to prove. 
 And in this view, I maintain, and I 
 only maintain what every reflecting man 
 must feel to be true, that no tolerable 
 scheme of life, no tolerable scheme of a 
 rational, tried, suffering, and yet improv- 
 ing and happy existence, can be formed 
 which leaves out the religious principle, 
 the principle of faith. I do not ask you 
 to receive this as what is said in the pulpit, 
 or is wont to be laid down in religious 
 discourse ; but I desire you to see that 
 
68 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 it stands, and stands eternally, in the 
 very truth of things. A man cati- 
 not suffer and he patient ; he cannot 
 struggle and conquer ; he cannot im- 
 prove and be happy, without conscience, 
 without hope, without God in the world. 
 Necessity is laid upon us to embrace 
 tlie great truths of religion and to 
 live by them, to live happily ; and can 
 the language of this necessity be mis- 
 taken? Can it be, that while there is 
 one thing, above all others, necessary to 
 support, strengthen, guide, and comfort 
 us ; that one thing — upon which, more- 
 over, the hearts of the wise and good 
 have ever rested — shouldbe,of all things 
 in the world, the thing most false, treach- 
 erous, and delusive ? 
 
 It would be strange, indeed, if it were 
 so ; and strange would be the asser- 
 tion, even to the point of incredibility. 
 What ! — we should say — has every- 
 thing in the universe certain laws and 
 principles for its action, — the star in 
 its orbit, the animal in its activity, the 
 human body in its functions, — and has 
 the human soul nothing to guide it ? 
 Nay, man as a physical being has 
 strong and sure supports. Has he none 
 as a spiritual being .-' He knows how 
 to feed and nourish his body ; there are 
 laws for that. Must his soul die for 
 want of aliment, for want of guidance ? 
 For his physical action, too, he has laws 
 of art. The builder, the sower, the 
 toiler at the oar and the anvil, has cer- 
 tain principles to go by. Has the man 
 none at all ? Nay more, the wants of 
 animal sense are regarded. In every 
 hedge, and water-pool, and mountain 
 top there is supply. For the rational 
 soul is there no provision ? From the 
 lofty pine, rocked in the darkening 
 tempest, the cry of the young raven is 
 heard. And for the cry and the call of 
 all that want and sorrow and agony 
 that overshadow and rive the human 
 heart, is there no answer .'' 
 
 But I cannot argue the point any 
 farther ; and I need not ; it is too plain. 
 The total rejection of all moral and re- 
 ligious belief strikes out a principle from 
 
 human nature as essential to it as grav- 
 itation is to inanimate nature, as instinct 
 is to animal life, or as the circulation of 
 the blood to the human body. 
 
 It is on this principle that it is said, 
 " He that believeth not, shall be 
 damned." This is apt to be regarded as 
 a harsh declaration ; but the truth is, it 
 is only the assertion of a simple fact, 
 and of a fact which every thoughtful and 
 feeling mind knows to be true. The 
 Bible speaks, as we should speak to the 
 famished man, saying, " Eat — drink ; or 
 die ! " Its words, " death " and " dam- 
 nation," mean nothing else but that un- 
 avoidable misery whicli must spring from 
 boundless wants unsatisfied ; boundless 
 wants which nothing but boundless ob- 
 jects, the objects of faith, can satisfy. 
 
 I have now considered life as an ar- 
 gument, and an independent argument, 
 for faith. It would be easy to spread 
 this view of life over the whole ground 
 of that preliminary discussion which 
 introduces the evidences of Christianity ; 
 and to show that the presumption of 
 reason and experience, and the whole 
 weight of that presumption, instead of 
 being, as is commonly supposed, against 
 the believer, is, in fact, in his favor. 
 But the space which I designed to give 
 to this topic is already taken up by the 
 few hints which I have laid before you ; 
 and I must now pass to the other branch 
 of my discourse, and occupy the time 
 that remains to me with the considera- 
 tion of life as an argument for accom- 
 plishing its moral design ; in other 
 words, as a motive to virtue. This, too, 
 as well as the former, I propose to con- 
 sider as an independent topic. 
 
 Thus, then, I state it. Let what will 
 be true, or be false ; admit ever so little 
 into your creed, reject ever so much ; 
 nay, go to the uttermost limits of 
 scepticism ; deny revelation ; deny the 
 " elder Scripture " written in the heart ; 
 deny the very being of a God ! — what 
 then ? I will now express no horror 
 nor wonder, though I might do so; 1 
 will speak to you as a calm reasoner : 
 and I say, what then ? Why, here you 
 
ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 
 
 6q 
 
 are, a living being; there can be no 
 scepticism about that ; here you are, a 
 living being, alive to happiness, alive to 
 misery; here you are in vicissitude, in 
 uncertainty, in all the accidents of a 
 mingled lot, in conditions and relations 
 that touch all the secret springs of the 
 soul ; here you are, amidst a frail life, 
 and daily approaching to certain deatli ; 
 and if you say you have no concern nor 
 care for the end of all this, then have 
 you forfeited all claim to the attributes 
 of a reasonable nature, and are not to be 
 addressed as a reasonable creature. 
 
 But no one says this. No one refuses 
 to come within the range of those con- 
 siderations that bind him to fulfil his 
 destiny, to accomplish the legitimate 
 objects of his being, to be upright, vir- 
 tuous, and pure. No one rejects this 
 bond in theory, however he may resist 
 it in practice. 
 
 Let us see, then, how strong this bond 
 is. Let us look at life as a .'^ocial and 
 as an individual lot. 
 
 God has ordained that life shall be a 
 social condition. We are members of 
 a civil community. The life, the more 
 than life, of that community depends 
 upon its moral condition. Public spirit, 
 intelligence, uprightness, temperance, 
 kindness, domestic purity, will make it 
 a happy community. Prevailing selfish- 
 ness, dishonesty, intemperance, libertin- 
 ism, crime, will make it a miserable 
 community. Look then at this life 
 which a whole people is living. Look 
 at the heavings of its mighty heart, at 
 the throbbings of the universal pulse of 
 existence. Look at the stream of life, as 
 it flows, with ten thousand intermingled 
 branches and channels, through all the 
 homes of human love. Listen to that 
 sound as of many waters, that rapturous 
 jubilee, or that mournful sighing, that 
 comes up from the congregated dwell- 
 ings of a whole nation. 
 
 1 know that to many the Public is a 
 kind of vague abstraction ; and that 
 what is done against the Public, the 
 public interest, law, or virtue, presses 
 lightly on the conscience. Yet what is 
 
 this Public, but a vast expansion of indi- 
 vidual life? — an ocean of tears, an 
 atmosphere of sighs, or a surrounding 
 world of joy and gladness ? It suffers 
 with the suffering of millions. It re- 
 joices with the joy of millions. Who 
 then art thou, — private man or public 
 man, agent or contractor, senator or 
 magistrate, cabinet secretary or lofty 
 president, — who art thou that darest, 
 with indignity and wrong, to strike the 
 bosom of the public welfare ? Who art 
 thou, that with vices, like the daggers 
 of a parricide, darest to pierce that 
 mighty heart in which the ocean of 
 existence is flowing? 
 
 But have we, in this general view, 
 presented all that belongs to social life? 
 No ; there are other relations. You are 
 a parent or a child, a brother or a sister, 
 a husband, wife, friend, or associate. 
 What an unequalled interest lies in the 
 virtue of every one whom thou lovest ? 
 Ay, in his virtue, nowhere but in his 
 virtue, is garnered up the incomparable 
 treasure. Thy brother, thy husband, 
 thy friend ; what carest thou for, com- 
 pared with what thou carest for his 
 honor, his fidelity, his kindness ? Thy 
 parent ; how venerable is his rectitude ! 
 how sacred his reputation ! and what 
 blight is there, to thee, like his dishonor ! 
 Thy child — ay, thy child! — be thou 
 heathen or Christian, thou wouldst have 
 him do well : thou hast poured out all 
 the fulness of parental love in the one 
 desire tliat he may do well ; that he 
 may be worthy of thy cares and thy 
 freely bestowed gains ; that he may 
 walk in the way of honor and happiness. 
 And yet he cannot walk one step in 
 that way without virtue. Such, yes, 
 such is life in its relationships. A thou- 
 sand clasping ties embrace it ; each one 
 sensitive and thrilling to the touch ; each 
 one, like the strings of a delicate instru- 
 ment, capable of sweet melodies and 
 pleasures ; but each one, wounded, 
 lacerated, broken, by rudeness, by an- 
 ger, and by guilty indulgence. 
 
 But that life, my friends, whose 
 springs of j^owerful action are felt in 
 
^o 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 every department and relationship of 
 society, whose impulses are abroad 
 everywhere, like waves upon the bound- 
 less sea, — that life gathers up and 
 concentrates all its energies upon the 
 individual mind and heart. To that 
 individual experience, — to mine, to 
 yours, — I would last appeal. 
 
 The personal experience of life, I 
 say ; by what strange fatality is it that 
 it can escape the calls which religion 
 and virtue make upon upon it ? Oh, if 
 it were something else ; if it were some- 
 thing duller than it is ; if it could, by 
 any process, be made insensible to pain 
 and pleasure ; if the human heart were 
 but made a thing as hard as adamant, 
 then were tlie case a different one; 
 then might avarice, ambition, sensuality, 
 channel out their paths in it, and make 
 it their beaten way, and none might 
 wonder at it, or protest against it. If 
 we conld but be patient under the load 
 of a worldly life ; if we could, — Oh 
 Heaven ! how impossible ! — if we could 
 bear the burden, as beasts of burden 
 bear it, then as beasts might we bend 
 all our thoughts to the earth ; and no 
 call from the great heavens above us 
 might startle us from our plodding and 
 earthly course. 
 
 But to what a being, to what a nature, 
 am I permitted, in the name of truth 
 and religion, to speak ! If I might use 
 the freedom with which one would speak 
 to a son who was casting off all holy 
 bonds, I should say, " You are not a 
 stone ; you are not an earth-clod \ you 
 are not an insensible brute ; yet you 
 ought to be such, to refuse the call 
 of reason and conscience. Your body 
 should be incapable of pain and your 
 soul of remorse. But such you are not, 
 and cannot make yourself." When the 
 great dispensation of life presses down 
 upon you, my friend, how is it with you ? 
 You weep ; you suffer and sorrow. I 
 hold every human being to that. Think 
 what we will, speculate as wildly, doubt 
 as rashly, as we can ; yet here is a mat- 
 ter of fact. Cold, dead, earthly, or 
 philosophic as we may be, yet we are 
 
 beings that weep, that suffer and sor- 
 row. What! sorrow and agony, — can 
 they dwell in the same heart with world- 
 liness and irreligion, and desire no other 
 companionship .'' Tell me not of the 
 recklessness of melancholy and disap- 
 pointment, or the desperation of vice. 
 Say not, joufig man, that you care noth- 
 ing what befalls in this miserable and 
 worthless life. Recklessness, with its 
 scornful lip and its smothered anger, 
 desperation, with its knitted brow and 
 its glaring eye, I have seen it ; and 
 what is it? What is it, but agony, — 
 agony, which almost chokes the voice 
 that is all the while striving to tell us 
 how calm and indifferent it is ? 
 
 But let us look at the matter coolly, — 
 coolly, as if it were a matter of the most 
 deliberate calculation. You are a toiler 
 in the field of life. You would not 
 consent to labor for a week, nor for a 
 day ; no, and you will not lift one bur- 
 den from the earth without a recom- 
 pense. Are you willing to bear those 
 burdens of the heart, fear, anxiety, dis- 
 appointment, trouble, — compared with 
 which the severest toil is a pleasure and 
 a pastime, and all this without any object 
 or use ? You are a lover of pleasure. 
 And you would not voluntarily forego 
 an hour's pleasure without some object 
 to be gained by it, the preservation of 
 health, or the prospect of future com- 
 pensatory enjoyments. Are you willing, 
 then, to suffer, to be sick or afflicted, — 
 for so, from time to time, does the dis- 
 pensation of life press upon you, — are 
 you willing to have days and months 
 lost to comfort and joy, overshadowed 
 with calamity and grief, without any 
 advantage, any compensation .'' You are 
 a dealer in the merchandise of this 
 world. And you would not, without a 
 return, barter away the most trifling 
 article of that merchandise. Will you 
 thus barter away the dearest treasures 
 of your heart, the very sufferings of 
 your heart? Will you sell the very life- 
 blood from your failing frame and fading 
 cheek, will you sell tears of bitterness 
 and croans of anguish, for nothing ? 
 
LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 
 
 71 
 
 Can human nature, frail, feeling, sensi- 
 tive, sorrowinec liuman nature, afford to 
 suffer for nothing; ? 
 
 I have touched now upon the darker 
 coloring of human experience ; but 
 that experience, whether bright or dark, 
 is all vivid ; it is all, according to the 
 measure of every one's power, earnest 
 and affecting; it is all, in its indications, 
 solemn and sublime ; it is all moving 
 and monitory. In youth, in age, it is 
 so ; in mature vigor, in failing and de- 
 clining strength ; in health and in sick- 
 ness ; in joy and in sorrow ; in the 
 musings of solitude and amidst the 
 throng of men ; in privacy and amidst 
 the anxieties and intrigues of public 
 station ; in the bosom of domestic 
 quietude, and alike in the press and 
 shock of battle, — everywhere, human 
 life is a great and solemn dispensation. 
 Man, suffering, enjoying, loving, hating, 
 hoping, fearing ; now soaring to heaven, 
 and now sinking to the grave, — man is 
 ever the creature of a high and stupen- 
 dous destiny. In his bosom is wrapped 
 up a momentous, an all-comprehending 
 experience, whose unfolding is to be in 
 ages and worlds unknown. Around this 
 great action of existence the curtains of 
 time are drawn, but there are openings 
 through them to the visions of eternity. 
 God from on high looks down upon this 
 scene of human probation ; Jesus hath 
 interposed for it, with his teachings and 
 his blood; heaven above waits with ex- 
 pectation ; hell from beneath is moved 
 at the fearful crisis ; everything, every- 
 thing that exists around us, every move- 
 ment in nature, every counsel of provi- 
 dence, every interposition of heavenly 
 grace, centres upon one point, — upon 
 one point, — the fidelity oj man ! 
 
 Will he not be faithful .? Will he not 
 be thoughtful .? Will he not do the 
 work that is given him to do t To his 
 lot, — such a lot; to his wants, weigh- 
 ing upon him like mountains ; to his 
 sufferings, lacerating his bosom with 
 agony; to his joys, offering foretastes 
 of heaven ; to all this tried and teach- 
 ing life will he not be faithful t Will 
 
 not you ? Shall not I, my brother ? If 
 not, what remains — what can remain — 
 to be done for us? If we will not hear 
 these things, neither should we believe 
 though one rose from the dead. No ; 
 though the ghosts of the departed and 
 the remembered should come at mid- 
 night through the barred doors of our 
 dwellings ; though the sheeted de: d 
 should stalk through the very aisles of 
 our churches, they could not more 
 powerfully teach us than the dread re- 
 alities of life ; nay more, and those 
 memories of misspent years, too, those 
 ghosts of departed opportunities, that 
 point to our consciences and point to 
 eternity, saying, " Work while the day 
 lasts, for the night of death cometh 
 in which no man can work ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 
 
 Epistle of Paul to Titus, i. 15 : " Unto the 
 pure are all things pure." 
 
 And to expand the same sentiment a 
 little; all things bear to us a character 
 corresponding with the state of our own 
 minds. Life is what we make it; and 
 the world is what we make it. 
 
 I can conceive that to some who hear 
 me, this may appear to be a very singu- 
 lar, if not extravagant statement. You 
 look upon this life and upon this world, 
 and you derive from them, it maybe, a 
 very different impression. You see the 
 earth, perhaps, only as a collection of 
 blind, obdurate, inexorable elements and 
 powers. You look upon the mountains 
 that stand fast forever ; you look upon 
 the seas, that roll upon every shore their 
 ceaseless tides ; you walk through the 
 annual round of the seasons ; all things 
 seem to be fixed, summer and winter, 
 seed-time and harvest, growth and de- 
 cay ; and so they are. But does not 
 the mind, after all, spread its own hue 
 over all these scenes ? Does not the 
 cheerful man make a cheerful world 'i 
 Does not the sorrowinji man make a 
 
^2 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 gloomy world ? Does not every mind 
 make its own world ? Does it not, as 
 if indeed a portion of the Divinity were 
 imparted to it, — does it not almost create 
 the scene around it ? Its power, in fact, 
 scarcely falls short of the theory of those 
 philosophers who have supposed that 
 the world had no existence at all but in 
 our own minds. So again with regard 
 to human life ; it seems to many, prob- 
 ably, unconscious as they are of the 
 mental and moral powers which control 
 it, as if it were made up of fixed condi- 
 tions, and of immense and impassable 
 distinctions. But upon all conditions 
 presses down one impartial law. To all 
 situations, to all fortunes high or low, 
 the mind gives their cliaracter. They 
 are in effect, not what they are in them- 
 selves, but what they are to the feeling 
 of their possessors. The king upon his 
 throne and amidst his court may be a 
 mean, degraded, miserable man ; a slave 
 to ambition, to voluptuousness, to fear, 
 to every low passion. The peasant in 
 his cottage may be the real monarch ; 
 tlie moral master of his fate ; the free 
 and lofty being, more than a prince in 
 happiness, more than a king in honor. 
 And shall the mere names which these 
 men bear, blind us to the actual posi- 
 tions which they occupy amidst God's 
 creation ? No ; beneath the all-power- 
 ful law of the heart the master is often 
 a slave, and the slave — is master. 
 
 It has been maintained, I know, in 
 opposition to the view which we take of 
 life, that man is the creature of circum- 
 stances. But what is there in the cir- 
 cumstances of the slave to make him 
 free in spirit, or of the monarch to make 
 him timid and time-serving ? Tliis doc- 
 trine of fate — that man is but a bubble 
 upon the sea of his fortunes, that he is 
 borne a helpless and irresponsible being 
 upon the tide of events — is no new 
 doctrine, as some of its modern advo- 
 cates seem to suppose ; it has always 
 formed a leading part of the creed of 
 Atheism. But I ask if the reverse of 
 this doctrine is not obviously true ? Do 
 not different men brins: out of the same 
 
 circumstances totally different results] 
 Does not that very difiiculty, distress,^ 
 poverty, or misfortune, which breaks \ 
 down one man, build up another and 
 make him strong .'' It is the very attri- 
 bute, the glory, of a man ; it is the 
 very power and mastery of that will 
 which constitutes one of his chief dis- 
 tinctions from the brute, that he can 
 bend the circumstances of his condition 4 
 to the intellectual and moral purposes ■ 
 of his nature. 
 
 But it may be said that the mind 
 itself is the offspring of culture ; that is 
 to say, the creature of circumstances. 
 This is true, indeed, of early childhood. 
 But the moment that the faculty of 
 moral will is developed, a new element 
 is introduced, which changes the whole 
 complexion of the argument. Then a 
 new power is brought upon the scene, 
 and it is a ruling power. It is dele- 
 gated power from heaven. There never 
 was a being sunk so low but God has 
 thus given him the power to rise. God 
 commands him to rise, and therefore it 
 is certain that he can rise. Every man 
 has the power and every man should 
 use it, to make all situation, all trials 
 and temptations, conspire to the pro- 
 motion of his virtue and happiness. In 
 this, then, the only intelligible sense, 
 man, so far from being the creature of 
 circumstances, creates them, controls 
 them, makes them, that is to say, to be 
 all they are of evil or good to him as a 
 moral being. 
 
 Life, then, is what we make it, and 
 the world is what we make it. Even 
 our temporary moods of mind, and 
 much more our permanent character, 
 whether social or religious, may be ap- 
 pealed to in illustration of this truth. 
 
 I. Observe, in the first place, the ef- 
 fect of our most casunl moods of mind. 
 
 It is the same creation upon which 
 the eyes of the cheerful and the melan- 
 choly man are fixed ; yet how different 
 are the aspects which it bears to them ! 
 To the one it is all beauty and gladness ; 
 " the waves of ocean roll in light, and 
 the mountains are covered with day." 
 
LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 
 
 73 
 
 It seems to him as if life went forth 
 rejoicing upon every bright wave, and 
 every shining bough shaken in the 
 breeze. It seems as if there were more 
 than the eye seeth ; a presence, a pres- 
 ence of deep joy, among the hills and 
 the valleys, and upon the briglit waters. 
 But now the gloomy man, stricken and 
 sad at heart, stands idly or mournfully 
 gazing at the same scene, and what is 
 it .'' What is it to him ? The very light, 
 — "Bright effluence of bright essence 
 increate," — yet the very light seems to 
 him as a leaden pall thrown over the 
 face of nature All things wear to his 
 eye a dull, dim, and sickly aspect. The 
 great train of the seasons is passing be- 
 fore him, but he sighs and turns away, 
 as if it were the train of a funeral pro- 
 cession ; and he wonders within himself 
 at the poetic representations and sen- 
 timental rhapsodies that are lavished 
 upon a world so utterly miserable. 
 Here, then, are two different worlds in 
 which these two classes of beings live ; 
 and they are formed and made what 
 they are out of the very same scene, 
 only by different states of mind in the 
 ^eholders. The eye maketh that which 
 it looks upon. The ear maketh its own 
 melodies or discords. The world with- 
 out reflects the world within. 
 
 1 1. Again, this life, this world, is what 
 we mrike it by our social character ; by 
 our adaptation, or want of adaptation, to 
 its social conditions, relationships, and 
 pursuits. To the selfish, to the cold and 
 insensible, to the haughty and presum- 
 ing, to the proud, who demand more 
 than they are likely to receive, to the 
 jealous, who are always afraid they shall 
 not receive enough, to the unreasonably 
 sensitive about others' good ot ill opin- 
 ion, and, in fine, to the violators of 
 social laws of all sorts, the rude, the 
 violent, the dishonest, and the sensual, — 
 to all these the social condition, from 
 its very nature, will present annoyances, 
 disappointments, and pains, appropriate 
 to their several characters. Every dis- 
 position and behavior has a kind of mag- 
 netic attraction, by which it draws to 
 
 it its like. Selfishness will hardly be a 
 central point around which the benevo- 
 lent affections will revolve ; the cold- 
 hearted may expect to be treated with 
 coldness, and the proud with haughti- 
 ness ; the passionate with anger, and 
 the violent with rudeness ; and those 
 who forget the rights of others must 
 not be surprised if their own are forgot- 
 ten ; and those who forget their dignity, 
 who stoop to the lowest embraces of 
 sense, must not wonder if others are not 
 concerned to find their prostrate honor, 
 and to lift it up to the remembrance and 
 respect of the world. Thus, the bad 
 make the social world they live in. So, 
 also, do the good. To the gentle, how 
 many will be gentle ; to the kind, how 
 many will be kind ! How many does a 
 lovely example win to goodness ! How 
 many does meekness subdue to a like 
 temper, when they come into its pres- 
 ence ! How many does sanctity purify ! 
 How many does it command to put 
 away all earthly defilements, when they 
 step upon its holy ground ! Yes, a good 
 man, a really good man, will find that 
 there is goodness in the world ; and an 
 honest man will find that there is hon- 
 esty in the world ; a man of principle 
 will find principle, yes, a principle of 
 religious integrity, in the hearts of 
 others. I, know that this is sometimes 
 denied, and denied with much scorn and 
 self-complacency. But when a man 
 says that true religious virtue is all a 
 pretence, though the charge is put for- 
 ward in quite another guise, I confess 
 that I most of all suspect the heart of 
 the complainant. I suspect that it is 
 a heart, itself estranged from truth and 
 sanctity, that can find no truth nor sin- 
 cerity in all the religious virtue that is 
 around it. True, most true, most lament- 
 ably true it is ; nothing is so lamentably 
 true as that there is too little religious 
 fervor in the world ; but still there is a 
 feeling ; there is some religious sensi- 
 bility, the most precious deposit in the 
 heart of society ; there is some anxiety 
 on this great theme, holy and dear to 
 him whose mind is touched with that 
 
74 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 inexpressible emotion ; and he whose 
 mind is so touched, will as certainly find 
 those deep tokens of the soul's life, as 
 the kindling eye will find beauty amidst 
 the creation, or as the attuned ear will 
 find the sweet tone of music amidst the 
 discords of nature. Thus it is that the 
 mind discovers social virtue and de- 
 velops the social world around it. The 
 corrupt mind -elicits what is bad, and 
 the pure mind brings out what is good. 
 But the pure mind makes its own 
 social world in another sense. It not 
 only unfolds that world to itself, but all 
 its relations to society are sanctified ; 
 the otherwise rough contacts of life are 
 softened to it, and its way is graciously 
 made smooth and easy. The general 
 complaint is, that society is full of mis- 
 trust and embarrassment, of competi- 
 tions, and misunderstandings, and unkind 
 criticisms, and unworthy jealousies. But 
 let any one bear within him a humble 
 mind ; let him be too modest to make any 
 unreasonable demands upon others, too 
 mistrustful and tenderly solicitous about 
 the keeping of his own heart to be 
 severe or censorious ; let him simply be 
 a good man, full of true and pure love 
 to those around him, full of love to God, 
 full of holy indifference to earthly van- 
 ities, full of the heavenward thought 
 that soars far beyond them ; and what, 
 now, has this man to do with worldly 
 strifes and intrigues, with poor ques- 
 tions of precedence, and the small items 
 of unsettled disputes and unsatisfied 
 suspicions ? An excellent simplicity 
 that cannot understand them, a high 
 aim that cannot bend its eye upon them, 
 a generous feeling that cannot enter 
 into them, a goodness that melts all 
 difference into harmony, — this is the 
 wise man's protection and blessing. 
 
 III. I have spoken of the world of 
 nature, and of the world of society. 
 There is also a world of events, of 
 temptations and trials and blessings ; 
 and this, too, is what we make it. It is 
 what we make it by our religious char- 
 acter. 
 
 There are no blessings, — and it is a 
 
 stupendous truth that I utter, — then 
 are no blessings which the mind ma 
 not convert into the bitterest of evils 
 and there are no trials which it may noi 
 transform into the most noble and divine 
 of blessings. There are no temptations 
 from which the virtue they assail may 
 not gain strength, instead of falling a 
 sacrifice to them. I know that the vir- 
 tue often falls. I know that the temp- 
 tations have great power. But what is 
 their power ? It lies in the weakness 
 of our virtue. Their power lies not in 
 them, but in us, in the treason of our 
 own hearts. To the pure, all things are 
 pure. The proffer of dishonest gain, of 
 guilty pleasure, makes them more pure ; 
 raises their virtue to the height of tow- 
 ering indignation. The fair occasion, 
 the safe opportunity, the goodly chance 
 of victory with which sin approaches 
 the heart to ensnare and conquer it, all 
 are turned into defeat and disgrace for 
 the tempter, and into the triumph and 
 confirmation of virtue. But to the im- 
 pure, to the dishonest, false-hearted, ; 
 corrupt, and sensual, occasions come 
 every day, and in every scene, and 
 through every avenue of thought and 
 imagination. To the impure, occasions 
 come, did I say? rather do they make 
 occasions; or if opportunities come not, 
 evil thoughts comt; no hallowed shrine,, 
 no holy temple, no sphere of life, though; 
 consecrated to purity and innocence, 
 can keep them out. So speaketh the 
 sacred text, and in this very striking 
 language: "To the pure all things are 
 pure ; but to them that are defiled and 
 unbelieving, nothing is pure ; for even 
 their mind and conscience is defiled." 
 
 Thus might we pass in survey all the 
 circumstances of man's earthly 'con- 
 dition, and bring from every state and 
 pursuit of human life the same conclu- 
 sion. Upon the irreligious man the 
 material world has the effect to occupy 
 him and estrange him from God ; but to 
 the devout man, the same scene is a 
 constant ministration of high and holy 
 thoughts. Thus, also, the business of 
 this world, while it absorbs, corrupts 
 
LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 
 
 75 
 
 and degrades one mind, builds up an- 
 other in the most noble independence, 
 integrity, and generosity. So, too, pleas- 
 ure, which to some is a noxious poison, 
 is to others a healthful refreshment. 
 The scene is the same. The same event 
 liappeneth to all. Life is substantially 
 the same thing to all who partake of its 
 lot. Vet some rise to virtue and glory, 
 and others shrink from the same disci- 
 pline, from the same privileges, to shame 
 and perdition. 
 
 Life, then, I repeat, is what we make 
 it, and the world is what we make it. 
 Life, that is to say, takes its coloring 
 from our own minds ; the world, as the 
 scene of our welfare or woe, is, so to 
 speak, moulded in the bosom of human 
 experience. The archetypes, the ideal 
 forms of things without, — if not, as 
 some philosophers have said, in a meta- 
 physical sense, yet in a moral sense, 
 — they exist within us. The world is 
 the mirror of the soul. Life is the his- 
 tory, not of outward events, not of out- 
 ward events chiefly ; but life, human 
 life, is the history of a mind. To the 
 pure, all things are pure. To the joy- 
 ous, all things are joyous. To the 
 gloomy, all things are gloomy. To the- 
 good, all things are good. To the bad, 
 all things are bad. The world is noth- 
 ing but a mass of materials, subject to 
 a great moral experiment. The human 
 breast is the laboratory. We work up 
 those materials into what forms we 
 please. This illustration, too, if any 
 one should take me too literally, will 
 furnisli the proper qualification. The 
 materials, indeed, are not absolutelv 
 under our control. They obey the laws 
 of a higher power. Those laws, too, 
 are fixed laws. Yet the chemist in 
 his laboratory accomplishes all that 
 he rationally desires to accomplish. 
 The elements are enough under his 
 command to answer all his purposes. 
 Nay, if they did not furnish difificulties 
 and require experiments, his science 
 would not exist ; his knowledge would 
 be intuition. So with the moral experi- 
 menter. Ke has to overcome difficul- 
 
 ties, to solve questions ; still, within the 
 range of rational wishes, and in sub- 
 mission to the power of God, he can 
 work out what results he pleases ; and 
 if there were no difificulties, there would 
 be no virtue, no moral science of life. 
 
 I am sensible that I have dwelt at 
 considerable length upon the proofs of 
 my doctrine ; but I must beg your in- 
 dulgence to some farther consideration 
 of it, in application to two states of 
 mind : I mean to complaint and dis- 
 couragement. These states of mind 
 have, indeed, the same leaning, but still 
 they are very different. Complaint is 
 bold and open-mouthed, and speaks like 
 one injured and wronged. Discourage- 
 ment is timid and silent : it does not 
 consider whether it is wronged, but it 
 knows that it is depressed, and at times 
 almost crushed to the earth. There are 
 many minds to be found in one or other 
 of these conditions. Indeed, I think 
 that the largest amount of human suf- 
 fering may be found in the form either 
 of complaint or of discouragement ; and 
 if there be anything in the doctrine of 
 this discourse to disarm the one or to 
 relieve the other, it well deserves a place 
 in our meditations. 
 
 Our complaints of life mainly proceed 
 upon the ground that for our unhappi- 
 ness something is in fault besides our- 
 selves ; and 1 maintain that this ground 
 is not fairly taken. We complain of the 
 world ; we complain of our situation in 
 the world. 
 
 Let us look a moment at this last 
 point ; what is called a situation in the 
 world ? In the first place, it is com- 
 monly what we make it, in a literal 
 sense. We are high or low, rich or 
 poor, honored or disgraced, usually, just 
 in proportion as we have been indus- 
 trious or idle, studious or negligent, 
 virtuous or vicious. But in the next 
 place, suppose that, without any fault of 
 our own. our situation is a trying one. 
 Doubtless it is so, in many instances. 
 But then I say that the main point 
 affecting our happiness in this case is 
 not our situation, but the spirit with 
 
76 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 which we meet it. In the humblest 
 conditions are found happy men ; in the 
 highest, unhappy men. And so little 
 has mere condition to do with happi- 
 ness, that a just observation, I am 
 persuaded, will find about an equal pro- 
 Dortion of it among the poor and the 
 rich, the high and the low. "But my 
 relation to the persons or things around 
 me," one may say, " is peculiarly try- 
 ing; neither did I choose the relation; 
 I would gladly escape from it." Still, I 
 answer, a right spirit may bring from 
 this very relation the noblest virtue and 
 the noblest enjoyment. " Ah ! the right 
 spirit ! " — it may be said, — " to obtain 
 that is my greatest difficulty. Doubt- 
 less, if I had the spirit of an angel or of 
 an apostle, I might get along very well. 
 Then I should not be vexed, nor 
 angered, nor depressed. But the very 
 effort to gain that serene and patient 
 mind is painful, and often unsuccess- 
 ful." Yes, and the ill success is the 
 pain. It is not true that thorough, 
 faithful endeavor to improve is un- 
 happy ; that honest endeavor, I mean, 
 which is always successful. On the 
 contrary, it is, this side heaven, the high- 
 est happiness. The misery of the effort 
 is owing to its insufficiency. The mis 
 ery, then, is mainly our own fault. 
 
 On every account, therefore, I must 
 confess that I am disposed to entertain 
 a very ill opinion of misery. Whether 
 regarded as proceeding from a man's 
 condition or from his own mind, I can- 
 not think well of it. I cannot look upon 
 it with the favor which is accorded to it 
 by much modern poetry and sentiment. 
 These sentimental sighings over human 
 misfortune, which we hear, are fit only 
 for children, or at least for the mind's 
 childhood. You may say, if you will, 
 that the preacher's heart is hard when 
 he avers this, or that he knows not trial 
 or grief; but if you do, it will be because 
 you do not understand the preacher's 
 argument ; no, nor his mind neither. 
 What I say to you I say to myself; the 
 mind's misery is chiefly its own fault. 
 Sentimental sighings there may be in 
 
 early 3-outh, and in a youthful and 
 immature poetry ; but he who has come 
 to the manhood of reason and experi- 
 ence, should know, what is true, that the 
 mind's misery is chiefly its own fault ; 
 nay more, and is appointed, under the 
 good providence of God, as the punisher 
 and corrector of its fault. Trial is in- 
 deed a part of our lot ; but suffering is 
 not to be confounded with trial. Nay, 
 amidst the severest trials, the mind's 
 happiness may be the greatest that it 
 ever knew. It has been so, in a body 
 racked with pain ; nay, and in a body 
 consumed by the fire of the martyr's 
 sacrifice. I am willing, however, to 
 allow that some exceptions are to be 
 made ; as, for instance, in the first burst 
 of grief or in the pains of lingering 
 disease. The mind must have time for 
 reflection, and it must have strength left 
 to do its work. But its very work, its 
 very office of reflection, is to bring good 
 out of evil, happiness out of trial. And 
 when it is rigidly guided, this work it 
 will do ; to this result it will come. In 
 the long run, it will be happy, just in 
 proportion to its fidelity and wisdom. 
 Life will be what it makes life to be, and 
 the world will be what the mind makes it. 
 With artificial wants, with ill-regulated 
 desires, with selfish and sensitive feel- 
 ings of its own cherishing, the mind must 
 be miserable. And what, then, is its 
 misery ? Hath it not planted in its own 
 path the thorns that annoy it? And 
 doth not the hand that planted grasp 
 them ? Is not the very loudness of the 
 complaint but the louder confession on 
 the part of him who makes it .'' 
 
 The complaint nevertheless with some 
 is verv loud. " It is not 3. happy world," 
 a man says, " but a ve''y miserable world ; 
 those who consider themselves saints 
 may talk about a kind Providence ; he 
 cannot see much of it; those who have 
 all their wishes gratified may think it is 
 very well ; but he never had his wishes 
 gratified; and nobody cares whether he 
 is gratified or not ; everybody is proud 
 and selfish," he says; "if there is so 
 much goodness in the world, he wishes 
 
LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 
 
 77 
 
 he could see some of it. This beautiful 
 world ! as some people call it : for his 
 part he never saw anything beautiful in it ; 
 but he has seen troubles and vexations, 
 clouds and storms enough ; and he has 
 had long, tedious, weary days, and dark 
 and dull nights ; if he could sleep through 
 his whole life, and never want anything, 
 it would be a comfort." Mistaken man ! 
 doubly mistaken ; mistaken about the 
 world, mistaken in thyself ; the world 
 thou complainest of is not God's world, 
 but thy world ; it is not the world which 
 God made, but it is the world which thou 
 hast made for thyself. The fatal blight, 
 the dreary dulness, the scene so dis- 
 tasteful and dismal, is all in thyself. 
 The void, the blank, amidst the whole 
 rich and full universe, is in thy heart. 
 Fill thy heart with goodness, and thou 
 wilt find that the world is full of good. 
 Kindle a light within, and then the world 
 will shine brightly around thee. But 
 till then, though all the luminaries of 
 heaven shed down their entire and con- 
 centrated radiance upon this world, it 
 would be dark to thee. " The light that 
 should be in thee is darkness; and how 
 great is that darkness ! " 
 
 But I must turn, in close, to address 
 myself for a moment to a very different 
 state of mind, and that is discourage- 
 ment. Complaint is to be blamed ; but 
 there is a heavy and uncomplaining dis- 
 couragement pressing upon many minds, 
 which demands a kinder consideration. 
 They have tried and not succeeded ; 
 they have tried again, and failed — of the 
 ends, the objects, which they sought ; 
 and they say, at length, " We give over ; 
 we can never do anything in this world ; 
 ill fortune has taken the field against us, 
 and we will battle with it no longer." 
 Yet more to be pitied are those who have 
 never had even the courage to strive ; 
 who, from their very cradle, have felt 
 themselves depressed by untoward cir- 
 cumstances, by humble state or humble 
 talents. Oftentimes the mind in such 
 a case is, in culture and power, far be- 
 yond its own estimate ; but it has no 
 aptitude for worldly success ; it has no 
 
 power to cause itself to be appreciated 
 by others ; it has no charm of person 
 or speech ; it is neglected by society, 
 where almost every one is too much 
 occupied with his own advancement to 
 think of pining merit ; it is left to silent 
 and solitary hours of discouragement 
 and despondency. And in such hours 
 — perhaps there are some here present 
 who can bear me witness — the thoughts 
 that sink deeply into the heart, though 
 never, it may be, breathed in words, are 
 such as these : " J/y chance in this 
 world is a poor one ; I have neither 
 wealth, nor talents, nor family ; I have 
 nothing to. give me importance ; I have 
 no friends to help me forward, or to in- 
 troduce me favorably to the Avorld ; I 
 have no path open to me ; my success 
 is poor, even my expectation is poor. 
 Let the fortunate be thankful, but I am 
 not fortunate ; the great prizes are not 
 for me ; despond I needs must, for 
 hope I have none : I will sit down in 
 silence, and eat the bread of a neglected 
 lot ; I will weep ; but even that is use- 
 less ; away then, hope ! away tears I — 
 I will bear my heart calmly, though 
 sadly, in its way through a cold, un- 
 genial, unkind world." 
 
 And yet above this man is spread the 
 sublimity of heaven, around him the 
 beauty of earth ; to this man is unfolded 
 the vision of God; for this man Christ 
 hath died, and to him heaven is un- 
 veiled; before this man lies the page 
 of wisdom and inspiration ; and wisdom 
 and sanctity it is still given him to learn 
 and gain ; wisdom and sanctity, inward, 
 all-sufficing, and eternal. The universe 
 is full and rich for him. The heaven 
 of heavens invites him to its abode ! 
 
 Oh, the intolerable worldliness of the 
 world ! — the worldliness of fashion and 
 fashionable opinion ! the worldliness 
 of our eager throngs, and our gay 
 watering-places, and our crowded cities, 
 and our aspiring literature, and our busy 
 commerce .' Distinction ! to be raised 
 a little above the rest : to be talked of 
 and pointed at more than others ; this 
 hath blinded us to the infinite good 
 
7^ 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 that is offered to all men. And this dis- 
 tinction ; what is it, after all .'' Suppose 
 that you were the greatest of the great ; 
 one raised above kings ; one to whom 
 courts and powers and principalities 
 paid homage, and around whom admir- 
 ing crowds gathered at every step. I tell 
 you that I would rather have arrived at 
 one profound conclusion of the sage's 
 meditation in his dim study, than to win 
 that gaze of the multitude. I tell you 
 that I had rather gain the friendship 
 and love of one pure and lofty mind, 
 than to gain that empty applause of a 
 court or a kingdom. What, then, must 
 it be to gain the approval, the friend- 
 ship, the love of that ONE, infinitely 
 great — infinitely dear to the whole pure 
 and happy creation ? 
 
 Before these awful and sublime re- 
 alities of truth and sanctity, sink, all 
 worldly distinction and worldly imagi- 
 nations ! Discouragement and despon- 
 dency ! — for a creature to whom God 
 hath offered the loftiest opportunity and 
 hope in the universe.'* A humble, de- 
 pressed, unfortunate lot! — for him 
 before whom are spread the boundless 
 regions of truth, and wisdom, and joy 1 
 A poor chance ! — for him who may 
 gain heaven ? Ah ! sir, thy poverty, 
 thy misfortune, is all in thyself. In the 
 realm of God's beneficence is an infinite 
 fulness, and it all may be yours. Even 
 to the despised and persecuted Chris- 
 tians of old the Apostle said this ; and 
 it is still, and forever, true to all who 
 can receive it. " Therefore," says he, 
 in his lofty reasoning, "let no man glory 
 in men ; for all things are yours ; whether 
 the world, or life, or death, or things 
 present, or things to come ; all are 
 yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ 
 is God's ! " 
 
 XII. 
 
 ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT 
 OF LIFE. 
 
 PsAi.M cxlv. 9 : "Tlie Lord is good to all, and his 
 tender mercies are over all his works." 
 
 What I wish to suggest for your 
 consideration from these words, is not 
 
 the goodness of God only, but his good- 
 ness to all. I wish, in other words, to 
 examine the prevailing opinion, that 
 there is a great inequality in the distri- 
 bution of the blessings of life. In oppo- 
 sition to this opinion, 1 take up the words 
 of the text. 
 
 The Lord is good io all. It is not 
 said merely that his tender mercies are 
 over his works, but that they are over 
 all his works. His providence is not 
 only kind, but its kindness extends to 
 every human being. 
 
 There is no general view of life, per- 
 haps, with which the minds of men are 
 more strongly impressed than with the 
 apparent inequalities of the human lot. 
 It is probably the most prolific source of 
 all secret repining and open complaint. 
 Afifliction of a severe kind comes but 
 seldom ; but this inequality in the state 
 of life is permanent. It is perfectly 
 obvious, too. Every one can see the 
 difference between his situation in life, 
 his dwelling, his equipage, and the ob- 
 servance which is paid to him, and those 
 which belong to his more prosperous, 
 wealthy, or honored neighbor The dis- 
 tinctions of life, indeed, chiefly consist 
 of the glare of outward things, and 
 therefore more powerfully impress the 
 senses. 
 
 Now, if it can be made to appear that 
 there is, in fact, considerable deception 
 in these estimates ; that things are far 
 more impartially balanced in the system 
 of providence at large than is com- 
 monly imagined ; that inequality is not 
 the rule of its operations, but only the 
 exception to the rule ; it would serve 
 the important purpose of making us 
 more contented with our lot ; more 
 happy in the opportunities and means 
 of happiness that are given to us all ; 
 and more submissive and grateful, I 
 would hope, to that Being who has so 
 equally and so bountifully distributed 
 them. 
 
 To this subject, then, let me direct 
 your thoughts this morning. 
 
 I. And in the first place you see, at 
 once, an mstance and an illustration of 
 
INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 
 
 79 
 
 tliis impartiality of Divine Providence, 
 in the inequalities caused by nature; in 
 the allotments of climate, temperature, 
 soil, and scenery. 
 
 Tliere is no one of us, perhaps, whose 
 thoughts have not sometimes wandered 
 to fairer climes than our own, to lands 
 of richer productions and more luxuriant 
 beauty ; to those isles and shores of the 
 classic East, where all the glory of man 
 has faded, indeed, where all the monu- 
 ments of iiis power and art have fallen 
 to decay, but where nature lives forever, 
 and forever spreads its unfading charm ; 
 to the verdant and sunny vales of the 
 South, regions of eternal spring, where 
 the circling seasons, as they pass, let 
 fall no chill nor blight upon the fresh 
 and fragrant bosom of the earth. But 
 is there no counterpart to this scene .'' 
 Where does tiie volcano lift up its sub- 
 terraneous thunders, and pour forth its 
 flaming delUge .'' It is in these very 
 regions of eternal spring. It is on the 
 green and flowery mount, on the vine- 
 clad hills ; fast by the quiet fold of the 
 shepherd, and amidst the rejoicings of 
 the vintage. Whence comes the fear- 
 ful rumor of the earthquake, that has 
 whelmed a city in ruins .'' It comes 
 from the land of the diamond and the 
 cane ; from the hills of Ophir ; from 
 groves of the palm and the olive ; from 
 valleys loaded with fruits, and fanned 
 with aromatic gales ; where if nature is 
 more energetic to produce, she is also 
 more energetic to destroy. Where does 
 the dire pestilence walk in darkness, and 
 the fell destruction waste at noonday ? 
 Amidst groves of spices, and beneath 
 bowers of luxuriance ; and the beam 
 that ligiits its victims to their tomb is the 
 brightest beam of heaven, and the scenes 
 of which they take their last hasty leave 
 are the fairest that nature displays ; as 
 it life and death were intended to be 
 set in the most visible and vivid con- 
 trast. And where, but there also, is 
 that worse than plague and pestilence 
 and earthquake, that degradation of the 
 mind, that wide-spreading pestilence of 
 the soul, that -listless indolence, which 
 
 only arouses to deeds of passion ! Let 
 the millions of Southern Asia tell. Let 
 Turkey, so often drenched witii blood, 
 answer. Let the wandering Arab, let 
 the stupid Hottentot, let the slothful 
 and sensual inhabitants of the fair isles 
 of the Pacific, teach us. Who would 
 not rather struggle with fiercer elements, 
 than to sink an ignoble prey to the soft 
 languors of pleasure and the besotting 
 indulgences of passion .'' Who would 
 not far prefer our wintry storm and 
 '•the hoarse sighings of the east 
 wind," as it sweeps around us, if they 
 will brace the mind to nobler attain- 
 ments, and the heart to better duties .'' 
 
 There is one class of virtues that is 
 fostered by the rigors of our climate, 
 which deserves to be particularly no- 
 ticed. I mean the domestic virtues. 
 We are compelled, by the inclemency 
 of our seasons, not only to have some 
 permanent place of abode, but to re- 
 sort to it. In milder regions men live 
 abroad ; they are scarcely obliged to 
 have any domicile. We are compelled to 
 live at home ; and we attach a meaning 
 to the term, and we hallow it with feel- 
 ings that were unknown to the polished 
 Greek and the voluptuous Asiatic. It 
 is the angry and lowering sky of winter 
 that lights up the cheerful fire in our 
 dwellings, and draws around the friendly 
 circle, It is the cheerlessness of every- 
 thing abroad, that leads us to find or 
 make pleasures within ; to resort to 
 books and the interchange of thought ; 
 to multiply the sources of knowledge 
 and strengthen the ties of affection. It 
 is the frowning face of nature, like the 
 dark cloud of adversity, that lends at- 
 traction to all the sympathies and joys 
 of home. 
 
 II. But I come now in the second 
 place to consider the impartiality of 
 Divine Providence in the condition of 
 human life. Life, — to borrow a compar- 
 ison from the science of political econ- 
 omy, — life, like nature, is a system of 
 checks and balances. Every power of 
 conferring happiness is limited, or else 
 counteracted, by some other power either 
 
8o 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 of good or evil. There is no blessing 
 or benefit, but it has some drawback upon 
 it ; and there is no inconvenience nor 
 calamity, but it enjoys some compen- 
 sation. This resultsiroin the very nature 
 of things. You cannot enjoy things in- 
 compatible. You cannot at once enjoy, 
 for instance, the pleasures of the country 
 and the town. You cannot mingle the 
 quietude of obscurity with the emolu- 
 ments and honors of office. You cannot 
 have at the same time the benefits of 
 affliction and the joys of prosperity. If 
 you would reach the loftiest virtue, you 
 must sometimes endure sickness and 
 pain, and you must sometimes be bowed 
 down with sorrow. If you would have 
 perpetual ease and indulgence, you must 
 resign something of noble fortitude, holy 
 patience, and of the blessed triumphs 
 of faith. 
 
 The inequalites which appear in the 
 condition of human life relate chiefly to 
 the possessions, the employments, or the 
 distinctions of society. If we should 
 exatnine these, we should probably find 
 that they are of less importance to our 
 happiness than is commonly imagined. 
 Indeed, we know that they all depend 
 chiefly on the use that is made of them ; 
 and their use depends upon the mind. 
 Distinction and mediocrity, leisure and 
 toil, wealth and poverty, have no intrin- 
 sic power of happiness or misery in their 
 disposal. There is a principle ijuithin, 
 that is to render them good or evil. 
 
 But, not at present to insist on this ; 
 these circumstances of inequality, in 
 themselves, are less than they seem. It 
 is common, I know, to hear of the 
 prerogatives, the power, the indepen- 
 dence, of the higher classes of society. 
 But Divine Providence acknowledges no 
 such nobility ; no such exemption from 
 the wants of the human lot. It teaches 
 us very little about prerogative or inde- 
 pendence, however the pride of man may 
 flatter him. No tower of pride was ever 
 high enough to lift its possessor above 
 the trials and fears and frailties of human- 
 ity. No human hand ever built the wall, 
 nor ever shall, that will keep out aflflic- 
 
 tion, pain, and infirmity. Sickness, sor- 
 row, trouble, death, are all-levelling dis- 
 pensations. They know none high nor 
 low. The chief wants of life, too, the 
 great necessities of the human soul, give 
 exemption to none. They make all poor, 
 all weak. They put supplication in the 
 mouth of every human being, as truly as 
 in that of the meanest beggar. 
 
 Now consider society for one moment 
 in regard to its employments. And there 
 is not, perhaps, a greater infatuation in 
 the world, than for a man of active and 
 industrious habits to look with envy or 
 repining upon the ease and leisure of his 
 neighbor. Employment, activity, is one 
 of the fundamental laws of human happi- 
 ness. Ah ! the laborious indolence of 
 him who has nothing to do ; the prey- 
 ing weariness, the stagnant ennui, of him 
 who has nothing to obtain ; the heavy 
 hours which roll over him, like the 
 waters of a Lethean sea, that has not yet 
 quite drowned the senses in their oblivi- 
 ous stupor; the dull comfort of having 
 finished a day ; the dreariness in pros- 
 pect of another to come ; in one word, 
 the terrible visitation of an avenging 
 Providence to him that lives to himself! 
 
 But I need not dwell on a case so ob- 
 vious, and proceed, at once, to mention 
 the distinction of wealtli and poverty. 
 
 It must not be denied that poverty, 
 abject and desperate poverty, is a great 
 evil ; but this is not a common lot, and 
 it still more rarely occurs in this country, 
 without faults or vices, which should 
 forbid all complaint. Neither shall it 
 here be urged, on the other hand, that 
 riches are acquired with many labors 
 and kept with many cares and anxieties ; 
 for so also it may be said, and truly said, 
 has poverty its toils and anxieties. The 
 true answer to all difiiculties on this sub- 
 ject seems to be, that a " man's life con- 
 sisteth not in the abundance of things 
 which he possesseth." Tiie answer, in 
 short, may be reduced to a plain matter 
 of fact. There is about as much cheer- 
 fulness among the poor as among the 
 rich. And, I suspect, about as much 
 contentment too. For we might add 
 
INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 
 
 8i 
 
 that a man's life, if it consist at all in his 
 possessions, does not consist in what he 
 possesses, but in what he thinks himself 
 to possess. Wealth is a comparative 
 term. The desire of property grows, 
 and at the same time the estimate of 
 it lessens, with its accumulation. And 
 thus it may come to pass that he who 
 possesses tliousands may less feel him- 
 self to be rich, and to all substantial pur- 
 poses may actually be less rich, than 
 he who enjoys a sufficiency. 
 
 But, not to urge this point, we say 
 that a man's life does not consist in 
 these things. Happiness, enjoyment, 
 the buoyant spirits of life, the joys of 
 humanity, do not consist in them. They 
 do not depend on this distinction, of 
 being poor or rich. As it is with the 
 earth, that there are living springs within 
 it, which will burst forth somewhere, 
 and that they are often most clear and 
 healthful in the most sterile and rugged 
 spots, so it is with the human heart. 
 There are fountains of gladness in it : 
 and why should they not revive the 
 weary .'' Why should they not cool the 
 brow of labor, and the lips that are 
 parched with toil ? Why should they not 
 refresh the poor man .'' Nay, but they 
 do ; and they refresh him the more, be- 
 cause he is poor and weary. Man may 
 hew out to himself cisterns, and how 
 often are they broken cisterns, which are 
 scrupulously and proudly guarded from 
 his poorer fellow-man : but the great 
 fountains which God has opened are for 
 all. This and that man may endeavor 
 to appropriate them to himself; he may 
 guide them to liis reservoir; he may 
 cause them to gush forth in artificial 
 fountains and to fall in artificial showers 
 in his gardens ; but it is artificial still; 
 and one draught of the pure well-spring 
 of honest, homely happiness, is better 
 than them all ; and the shower which 
 h&aven sends, falls upon the rich and 
 the poor, upon the high and the low, 
 alike ; and with still more impartial favor 
 descends upon the good and the evil, 
 upon the just and the unjust. 
 
 III. This impartiality will be still 
 
 more manifest, if we reflect, in the third 
 place, that far the greatest and most 
 numerous of the divine favors are 
 granted to all, without any discrimina- 
 tion. 
 
 Look, in the first place, at the natural 
 gifts of Providence. The beauty of the 
 earth, the glories of the sky ; the vision 
 of the sun and the stars ; the beneficent 
 laws of universal being ; the frame of 
 society and of government ; protecting 
 justice and Almighty providence ; whose 
 are these ? What power of appropria- 
 tion can say of any one of these, " This 
 is mine and not another's " ? And 
 what one of these would you part with 
 for the wealth of the Indies, or all the 
 splendors of rank or office ? Again, 
 your eyesight, — that regal glance that 
 commands in one act the outspread 
 and all-surrounding beauty of the fair 
 universe, — would you exchange it for a 
 sceptre or a crown ? And the ear, — 
 that gathers unto its hidden chambers 
 all music and gladness, — would you 
 give it for a kingdom ? And that won- 
 derful gift, speech, — that breathes its 
 mysterious accents into the listening 
 soul of thy friend ; that sends forth its 
 viewless messages through the still air, 
 and imprints them at once upon the ears 
 of thousands, — would you barter that 
 gift for the renown of Plato or of Mil- 
 ton ? • 
 
 No, there are unappropriated blessings, 
 blessings which none can appropriate, 
 in every element of nature, in every 
 region of existence, in every inspiration 
 of lite, which are infinitely better than 
 all that can be hoarded in treasure or 
 borne on the breath of fame. All, of 
 which any human being can say, " It is 
 mine,'" is a toy, is a trifle, compared with 
 what God has provided for the great 
 family of his children ! Is he poor to 
 whom tlie great store-house of nature is 
 opened, or does he think himself poor 
 because it is God who has made him 
 rich ? Does he complain that he cannot 
 have a magnificent palace to dwell in, 
 who dwells in this splendid theatre of . 
 the universe ; that he cannot behold 
 
82 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 swelling domes and painted walls, who 
 beholds the " dread magnificence of 
 heaven," and the pictured earth and 
 sky ? Do you regret the want of attend- 
 ants, of a train of servants, to anticipate 
 every wish and bring every comfort at 
 your bidding ? Yet how small a thing 
 is it to be waited on, compared with the 
 privilege of bemg yourself active ; com- 
 pared with the vigor of health and the 
 free use of your limbs and senses ? Is 
 it a hardship that your table does not 
 groan with luxuries ? But how much 
 better than all luxury is simple appetite ! 
 The very circumstances which gain 
 for the distinctions of life such an undue 
 and delusive estimation are such as 
 ought to make us cautious about the 
 estimate we put upon them. They are 
 distinctions, and therefore likely to be 
 over-rated ; but is that a good and sound 
 reason why we should affix to them an 
 undue importance? Are the palaces of 
 kings to be regarded with more interest 
 than the humbler roofs that shelter mil- 
 lions of human beings ? What more is 
 the marriage of a queen, — to the indi- 
 vidual mind, — though surrounded with 
 the splendor and state of a kingdom ; 
 though accompanied witli shining troops 
 and announced by roaring cannon, — 
 what more is it than that marriage of 
 hearts that is every day consummated 
 beneath a thousand lowly roofs ? The 
 distinctions of life, too, are mostly facti- 
 tious ; the work of art, and man's device. 
 They are man's gifts, rather than God's 
 gifts ; and for that reason I would es- 
 teem them less. They are fluctuating, 
 also, and therefore attract notice, but on 
 that account, too, are less valuable. 
 They are palpable to the senses, attend- 
 ed with noise and show, and therefore 
 likely to be over-estimated. While those 
 vast benefits whicli all share and which 
 are always the same, which come in the 
 ordinary course of things, which do not 
 disturb the ordinary and even tenor of 
 life, pass by unheeded. The resounding 
 chariot, as it rolls on with princely state 
 and magnificence, is gazed upon with 
 admiration and perhaps with envy. But 
 
 morning comes forth in the east, and 
 from his glorious chariot-wheels scatters 
 light over the heavens and spreads life 
 and beauty through the world : morning 
 after morning comes, and noontide sets 
 its throne in the southern sky, and the 
 day finishes its splendid revolution in 
 heaven, without exciting, perhaps, a 
 comment or a reflection. The pageant 
 of fashion passes, and has the notice of 
 many an eye, perhaps, to which it is all 
 in vain that the seasons pass by in 
 their glory ; that nature arrays herself 
 in robes of light and beauty, and fills 
 the earth with her train. To want what 
 another possesses, to be outstripped in 
 the race of honor or gain, to lose some 
 of the nominal treasures of life, may be 
 enough, with some of us, to disturb and 
 irritate us altogether ; and such an one 
 shall think little of it that he has life 
 itself and that he enjoys it : it shall be 
 nothing to him that he has quiet sleep 
 in the night season, and that all the 
 bounties of the day are spread before 
 him ; that he has friends and domestic 
 joys, and the living fountain of cheerful 
 spirits and affectionate pleasures witliin 
 him. 
 
 Nor must we stop here in our esti- 
 mate. There is an infinite sum of bless- 
 ings which have not yet been included 
 in the account ; and these, like all the 
 richest gifts of heaven, are open and 
 free to all ; I mean the gifts, the vir- 
 tues, the blessings of religion. 
 
 It has already, indeed, sufficiently 
 appeared, not only that the inequalities 
 in the allotments of Providence are at- 
 tended with a system of compensations 
 and drawbacks which make them far 
 less than they seem ; and also on ac- 
 count of the vast blessings which are 
 diffused everywhere and dispensed to 
 ail, that inequality, instead of being the 
 rule of the Divine dealings, is only a 
 slight exception to them. But we come 
 now to a principle that absorbs all other 
 considerations ; virtue, the only intrin- 
 sic, infinite, everlasting good, is acces- 
 sible to all. If there were ever so strong 
 and apparently just charges of partiality 
 
 1 
 
INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 
 
 S3 
 
 a.o^ainst the Divine Providence, this prin- 
 ciple would be sufficient to vindicate it. 
 "O God!" exchiims the Persian poet 
 Sadi, '* have pity on the wicked ! for 
 thou hast done everything for the good, 
 in having made them good." 
 
 How false and eardily are our notions 
 of what is evil! How possible is it 
 that all advantages besides religion may 
 prove the greatest calamities ! How 
 possible is it that distinction, that suc- 
 cessful ambition, that popular applause, 
 may be the most injurious, the most 
 fatal evil that could befall us ! How 
 possible that wealth may be turned into 
 the very worst of curses, by the self- 
 indulgence, the dissipation, the vanity 
 or hardness of heart that it may pro- 
 duce ! And there is a judgment, too, 
 short of the judgment of heaven, that 
 pronounces it to be so ; the judgment 
 of every right and noble sentiment, of 
 all good sense, of all true friendship. 
 There is a friend, not a flatterer, who, 
 as he witnesses in some one this sad 
 dereliction, this poor exultation of van- 
 ity, this miserable bondage to flattery, 
 or this direful success of some dark 
 temptation, — who, as he witnesses this, 
 will say in his secret thoughts, with the 
 Persian sage, " O God ! have pity on 
 the wicked ; have pity on my friend ! 
 would that he were poor and unnoticed, 
 would that he were neglected or for- 
 saken, radier than thus ! " It is there- 
 fore a matter of doubt whether those 
 things which we crave as blessings 
 would really be such to us. And then, 
 as to the trials of life, their unequalled 
 benefits are a sufficient answer to every 
 objection that can be brought against 
 their unequal distribution. 
 
 We hear it said that there is much 
 evil in the world ; and this or that scene 
 of suffering is brought as an example of 
 the partial dealings of heaven ; and it 
 is felt, if it is not said, perhaps, that 
 " God's ways are unequal." But the 
 strongest objector on this ground, I 
 think, would yield, if he saw that the at- 
 tendant and fruit of all this suffering were 
 a fortitude, a cheerfulness, a heavenli- 
 
 ness, that shed brighter hues than those 
 of earth upon the dark scene of calamity 
 and sorrow. I have seen suffering, 
 sorrow, bereavement, all that is darkest 
 in human fortunes, clothed with a virtue 
 so bright and beautiful, that sympathy 
 was almost lost in the feeling of con- 
 gratulation and joy. I have heard more 
 than one sufferer say, " I am thankful ; 
 God is good to me ; " and when I heard 
 tliat, I said, "It is good to be afflicted." 
 There is, indeed, much evil in the world ; 
 but without it there would not be much 
 virtue. The poor, the sick, and the 
 afflicted could be relieved from their 
 trials at once, if it were best for them ; 
 but if they understood their own wel- 
 fare, they would not desire exemption 
 from their part in human trials. There 
 might be a world of ease and indulgence 
 and pleasure ; but " it is a world," to 
 use the language of another, " from 
 which, if the option were given, a noble 
 spirit would gladly hasten into that bet- 
 ter world of difficulty and virtue and 
 conscience, which is the scene of our 
 present existence." 
 
 In fine, religion is a blessing so tran- 
 scendent as to make it of little conse- 
 quence what else we have, or what else 
 we want. It is enough for us, it is 
 enough for us all ; for him who is poor, 
 for him who is neglected, for him who is 
 disappointed and sorrowful; it is enough 
 for him, though there were nothing else, 
 that he may be good and happy for- 
 ever. In comparison with this, to be 
 rich, to be prosperous, and merely that, 
 is the most trifling thing that can be 
 imagined. Is it not enough for us, my 
 brethren, that we may gain those pre- 
 cious treasures of the soul which the 
 world cannot give nor take away ; that 
 the joys and consolations and hopes of 
 the Spirit and Gospel of Christ may be 
 ours ? 'Has not he a sufficiency ; is not 
 his heart fnll ; is not his blessedness 
 complete, who can say, " Whom have I 
 in heaven but thee, and there is none 
 upon earth that I desire besides thee : 
 all things else may fail ; my heart may 
 loie its power, and my strength its firm- 
 
84 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 ness ; but thou art the strength of my 
 heart, and my portion forever." 
 
 The lesson, my friends, which these 
 reflections lay before us, is this : to 
 learn that we are all partakers of one 
 lot, children of one Father ; to learn in 
 whatsoever state we are, therewith to be 
 content, and therein to be grateful. If 
 you are ever tempted to discontent and 
 murmuring, ask yourself, ask the spirit 
 within you, formed for happiness, for 
 glory and virtue, of what you shall com- 
 plain. Ask the ten thousand mercies of 
 your lives, of what you shall complain : 
 or go and ask the bounties of nature ; 
 ask the sun that shines cheerfully upon 
 you ; ask the beneficent seasons as they 
 roll, of what you shall complain ; ask — 
 ask — of your Maker; but God forbid 
 that you or I should be guilty of the 
 heinous ingratitude ! No, my friends, 
 let us fix our thoughts rather upon the 
 full and overflowing beneficence of 
 heaven, upon the love of God. Let us 
 fix our affections upon it, and then we 
 shall /have a sufficiency ; then, though 
 somel may want and others may com- 
 plain ; though dissatisfaction may prey 
 upon the worldly, and envy may corrode 
 the hearts of the jealous and discon- 
 tented ; for us there shall be a suffi- 
 ciency indeed ; for us there shall be a 
 treasure which the world cannot give, 
 nor change, nor disturb; "an inherit- 
 ance incorruptible and undefiled, and 
 that fadeth not away." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 
 
 Romans viii- 20 : " For the creature [_that is man] 
 was made subject to vanity [tkai is to siiffering\^ not 
 willingly, but by reason of him {or at the will 0/ him] 
 who hath subjected the same in hope." 
 
 In considering the spiritual philoso- 
 phy of life, we cannot avoid the problem 
 of human misery. The reality presses 
 us on every side, and philosopliy de- 
 mands to sit in judgment on the fact. 
 
 I have often wondered that, with such 
 
 themes as are presented to the pulpit, 
 it could ever have been dull ; still more 
 that it should be proverbially dull. So 
 practical are these themes, so profound, 
 so intimate with all human experience, 
 that I cannot conceive what is to be 
 understood, save through utter perver- 
 sion, by a dull religion, a dull congre- 
 gation, or a dull pulpit. If there were 
 an invading army just landed upon our 
 shores ; if there were a conflagration or 
 a pestilence sweeping through our city, 
 and we were assembled here to consider 
 what was to be done ; in all seriousness 
 and most advisedly do I say that no 
 questions could be raised, on such an 
 occasion, more vital to our welfare, than 
 those which present themselves to us 
 here on every Sunday. Take off the 
 covering of outward form and demeanor 
 from the heart of society, and what do 
 we see .'' Is there not a struggle and 
 a war going on ; not upon our borders, 
 but in the midst of us, in our dwellings, 
 and in our very souls ; a war, not for 
 territory, nor for visible freedom, but 
 for happiness, for virtue, for inward 
 freedom ? Are not misery and vice, as 
 they were fire and pestilence, pressing, 
 urging, threatening to sweep through 
 this city every day ? Is not an interest 
 involved in every day's action, thought,, 
 purpose, feeling, that is dearer than mer- 
 chandise, pleasure, luxury, condition ; 
 dearer than life itself? 
 
 Does any one say that religion is some 
 abstract concern, some visionary matter, 
 fit only for weak enthusiasts or doting 
 fools, which has nothing to do with him 
 nor with his real welfare ; a thing indif- 
 ferent, gone and given over to indiffer- 
 ence, beyond all hope of recovery ; in 
 which he cannot, for his life, interest 
 himself ? Ay, proud philosopher ! or 
 vain worldling ! sayest thou that ? Is 
 misery something abstract, with which 
 thou canst not interest thyself.? Is sin 
 — that source of misery ; is the wrong 
 thought, the wrong deed, the deed; 
 folded, muffled in darkness, the thought 
 shut up in the secret breast, which 
 neither flashing eve nor flushed cheek 
 
THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 
 
 85 
 
 may tell, — is this, I say, something ab- 
 stract and indiflerent ? And is the holy 
 peace of conscience, the joy of virtue, 
 a thing for which a human being need 
 not, cannot care ? Nay, these are the 
 ^reat, invisible, eternal realities of our 
 life, of our very nature ! 
 
 I have said that suffering, as the most 
 stupendous fact in human experience, 
 IS the profoundest problem in our re- 
 ligious philosophy, presses us on every 
 side. I will not mock you with formal 
 proofs of its existence. And do not 
 ihink, either, that on this subject I will 
 50 into detail or description. One may 
 easily understand human experience, 
 nterpret the universal consciousness 
 ;oo well, to think that either needful or 
 ;olerable. I will not speak of sicknesses 
 )r disappointments or bereavements, 
 nany though they are. I will not speak 
 )f the minds, more in number than we 
 hink, that bear the one solitary, deep- 
 imbosomed grief : — 
 
 ' One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws, 
 In dark shade alike o'er their joys and their 
 
 woes. 
 To which life nothing brighter nor darker can 
 
 bring, 
 For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no 
 
 sting.-' 
 
 '. will not speak of the sighing that 
 ises up from all the world for a happi- 
 less unfound. But I point you to that 
 vhich is seldom expressed, to that 
 vhich lies deeper than all, that eternal 
 vant, which lies as a heavy residuum 
 X the bottom of the cup of life ; which, 
 -Ibeit unperceived amidst the flowings 
 .nd gushings of pleasure, yet when the 
 vaters are low ever disturbs that foun- 
 ain-head, that living cup of joy, with 
 mpatience, anxiety, and blind up-heav- 
 ng effort after something good. Yes, 
 he creature, the human being, is made 
 ubject to this. There is a wanting and 
 . wanting, and an ever wanting, of what 
 s never never on earth to be obtained ! 
 "or let us be just here. Religion itself 
 Ices not altogether assuage that feei- 
 ng ; " For even we ourselves," says the 
 ^.postle, "groan within ourselves." No; 
 
 religion itself does not suppress that 
 groan ; though it does show, and therein 
 is a most blessed visitation, that it can 
 satisfy that feeling as nothing else can, 
 and that it has in it the elements for 
 satisfying it fully and infinitely. 
 
 I dwell somewhat upon this point as 
 a matter of fact, my brethren, because 
 I conceive that it is one office of the 
 preacher, as it is of the poet and phi- 
 losopher, to unfold the human heart and 
 nature more fully to itself. Strange as 
 the opinion may be thought, I do not 
 believe that men generally know how 
 unhappy, at any rate how far from hap- 
 piness, they are. That stupendous fact, 
 the soul's misery, is covered up with 
 business, cares, pleasures, and vanities. 
 Were human life unveiled to its depths ; 
 were the soul, disrobed of all overlay- 
 ings and debarred from all opiates, to 
 come down, down to its own naked re- 
 sources, it seems to me, at times, that 
 religion would need no other argument. 
 With such apprehension at least as I 
 have of this subject, I feel obliged to 
 preach, as to some, and not a few, who 
 not having taken the religious view of 
 their existence, have come to look upon 
 life with a dull and saddened eye. I 
 believe there are not a few, — it may be 
 that they are of the more solitary in the 
 world, and who have not as many stir- 
 ring objects and prospects in life as 
 others, — who look upon the path that 
 stretches before them as cheerless, and 
 threatening to be more and more so as 
 it advances ; who say in their silent 
 thoughts, " I shall live, perhaps, too 
 long ! I shall live, perhaps, till I am 
 neglected, passed by, forgotten ! I shall 
 live, possibly, till I am a burden to others 
 and to myself! Oh, what may my state 
 be before I die ! " 
 
 Yes, "the creature was made subject 
 to misery;" and if you will find a 
 rational being, not under that law, you 
 must seek him without the bounds of 
 this world. 
 
 To this case, then, to this great prob- 
 lem involved in human existence, let us 
 give our thouirhts tliis evenin<r- 
 
86 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 And in the first place, I would say, 
 let not the vast amount of happiness in 
 this world be forgotten in the sense of 
 its miseries. 
 
 They who say that this is a miserable 
 world, or that this is a miserable life, 
 say not well. It is misanthropy, or a dis- 
 eased imagination only, that says this. 
 Life is liable to misery, but misery is 
 not its very being ; it is not a miserable 
 existence. Witness, — I know not what 
 things to say, or how many. The eye 
 is opened to a world of beauty, and to 
 a heaven, all sublimity and loveliness. 
 The ear heareth tones and voices that 
 touch the heart with joy, with rapture. 
 The great, wide atmosphere breathes 
 upon us, bathes us with softness and 
 fragrance. Then look deeper. How 
 many conditions are happy ! Childhood 
 is happy, and youth is prevailingly happy ; 
 and prosperity hath its joy, and wealth 
 its satisfaction ; and the warm blood 
 that flows in the ruddy cheek and sinewy 
 arm of honest poverty is a still better 
 gift. No song is so hearty and cheer- 
 ing, none that steals forth from the win- 
 dows of gay saloons, as the song of 
 honest labor among the hills and moun- 
 tains. Oh, to be a man, — with the 
 true energies and affections of a man ; 
 all men feel it to be good. To be a 
 healthful, strong, true-hearted, and lov- 
 ing man ; how much better is it than 
 to be the minion or master of any con- 
 dition, — lord, landgrave, king, or Cssar ! 
 How many affections, too, are happy ; 
 gratitude, generosity, pity, love, and the 
 consciousness of being beloved ! And 
 to bow the heart, in lowliness and ado- 
 ration, before the Infinite, all-blessing, 
 ever-blessed One ; to see in the all- 
 surrounding brightness and glory, not 
 beauty and majesty only, but the 
 all-Beautiful, all-Majestic, all-Conscious 
 ilf/V/^and Spirit of love, — this is to be 
 filled with more than created fulness ; 
 it is to be filled with all the fulness of 
 God! 
 
 A world where such things are, a 
 world, above all, where such a presence 
 is, seemeth to me a goodly world. I 
 
 look around upon it, I meditate upon it, 
 I feel its blessings and beatitudes ; and 
 I say, surely it is a world of plenteous- 
 ness and beauty and gladness, of loves 
 and friendships, of blessed homes and 
 holy altars, of sacred communions and 
 lofty aspirations and immortal pros- 
 pects; and I remember that He who 
 made it, looked upon it, and saw that 
 it was very good. And strange it seem- 
 eth, indeed, to our earlier contemplation 
 of it, that in such a world, and beneath 
 the bright skies, there should be the 
 dark stroke of calamity, — a serpent 
 winding through this Eden of our exist- 
 ence. 
 
 Fut it is here ; and now let us draw 
 nearer, and behold this wonder beneath 
 the heavens, — viiseiy ! 
 
 What is its nature ? What account 
 are we to take of it ? What are we to 
 think of it? On this point, I must pray 
 your attention to something of detail and 
 s[)eculation ; though I must be, neces- 
 sarily, brief. 
 
 What, then, is the nature of misery ? 
 Is it an evil principle, or a good prin- 
 ciple in the universe .'' Is it designed to 
 do us harm, or to do us good ? Doubt- 
 less the latter ; and this can be shown 
 without any very extended or laborious 
 argument. 
 
 Misery, then, evidently springs from 
 two causes : from the perfection of our 
 nature, and from the imperfection of our 
 treatment of it ; that is, from our igno- 
 rance, error, and sin. 
 
 I say that misery springs, first, from 
 the perfection or excellence of our 
 nature. Thus remorse, a pained con- 
 science, that greatest, and, though half- 
 benumbed, most wide-spread of all 
 misery, never would afflict us, had we 
 not a moral nature. Make us animals, 
 and we should feel nothing of this. So 
 of our intellectual nature ; let poor, low 
 instinct take its place, and we should 
 never suffer from ignorance, error, or 
 mistake. And our very bodies owe 
 many of their sufferings and diseases to 
 the delicacy of our nerves, fibres, and 
 senses. Gird a man with the mail of 
 
THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 
 
 87 
 
 leviathan, arm him with hoofs and 
 claws, and he would have but few hurts, 
 diseases, or pains. But now he is 
 clothed with these veils of living tis- 
 sues, with this vesture of sensitive feel- 
 ing spread all over his frame, that his 
 whole body may be an exquisite instru- 
 ment of communication with the whole 
 surrounding universe ; that earth, air, 
 sky, waters, all their visions, all their 
 melodies, may visit his soul through 
 every pore and every sense. In such a 
 frame, suffering evidently is the incident, 
 not the intent. And then, in fine, if you 
 ask whence comes this ever-craving de- 
 sire of more, more ; more happiness, 
 more good, more of everything that it 
 grasps ; what does this show primarily 
 but the extent of the grasp, the large- 
 ness of the capacity, the greatness of 
 the nature ? That universal sighing, 
 of which I have spoken, which is for- 
 ever saying, " Who will show me any 
 good ? " comes not from the dens and 
 keeps of animals, but from the dwellings 
 of thoughtful, meditative, and immortal 
 men. 
 
 But in the next place, I say that our 
 misery cometh from the imperfection 
 of our treatment of this elevated and 
 much-needing nature ; from our igno- 
 rance, error, and sin. We do not satisfy 
 this nature, and it suffers from vague, 
 ever-craving want. We cannot satisfy 
 it, perhaps ; which only the more shows 
 its greatness ; but we do not what we 
 can to satisfy it. We wound it too by 
 transgression, and it groans over the 
 abuse. We err, perhaps, from want of 
 reflection, and the consequences teach 
 us wisdom. i he ciiild that puts his 
 hand in the fire will not put it there 
 again. A cut finger is a brief lesson, a 
 short copy writ in blood, to teach dis- 
 cretion. The man is taught to transfer 
 that lesson to the whole scene of life. 
 All elements, all the laws of things 
 around us, minister to this end ; and 
 thus, through the paths of painful error 
 and mistake, it is the design of provi- 
 dence to lead us to truth and happiness. 
 
 Is, then, the principle of misery in 
 
 tJiis view an evil principle ? If erring 
 but taught us to err ; if mistakes con- 
 firmed us in imprudence ; if the pains 
 of imperfection only fastened its bonds 
 upon us, and the miseries of sin had a 
 natural tendency to make us its slaves, 
 then were all this suffering only evil. 
 But the evident truth on the contrary 
 is, that it all tends and is designed to 
 produce amendment, improvement. This 
 so clearly results from the principles 
 of reason, and is so uniformly sustained 
 by the testimony of Scripture, that I do 
 not think it necessary to quote from the 
 one, nor any farther to argue from the 
 other. 
 
 Misery, then, is a beneficent principle 
 in the universe. He who subjected the 
 creature to misery, subjected him in 
 hope. There is a brightness beyond 
 that dark cloud. It is not an inexplica- 
 ble, unutterable, implacable, dark doom, 
 this ministration of misery ; it is meant 
 for good. It is meant to be a ministra- 
 tion to virtue and to happiness. I say, 
 to virtue and happiness. These are the 
 specifications of what I mean, when I 
 say that suffering is a beneficent princi- 
 ple. It springs from the perfection or 
 excellence of our nature, and thus far, 
 certainly, all is well with our argument. 
 It springs from imperfection in our 
 treatrnent of it ; but it is designed to re- 
 move that imperfection ; and still there- 
 fore the path of our argument, though it 
 lead over desolations and ruins, is clear 
 and bright. But still further I say 
 that it is not an abstract argument ; a 
 mere fair theory having no foundation 
 in truth and fact. 
 
 I will reason from your own expe- 
 rience. The pained thought, the pain- 
 ful feeling in you ; tell me what it is, 
 and I will tell you how it is made to 
 work out good for you. Is it ennui, 
 satiety, want .'' All this urges and com- 
 pels you to seek for action, enlargement, 
 supply. Is it that most sad and painful 
 conviction, the conviction of deficiency 
 or of sin .'' This directly teaches you to 
 seek for virtue, improvement ; for par- 
 don, and the blessedness of pardon. 
 
88 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Is it the sorrow of unrequited affection, 
 or a sighing for friendship, in this cold 
 and selfish world too seldom found ? 
 This is an occasion for the loftiest gen- 
 erosity, magnanimity, and candor. Is 
 it sickness or bereavement, the body's 
 pain or the heart's desolation ? Forti- 
 tude, f;iith, patience, trust in heaven, 
 the hope of heaven ; these are so much 
 meant as the end, that, indeed, there 
 are no other resources for pain and 
 deprivation. 
 
 And these happy results, I say, have 
 not failed to be produced in the expe- 
 rience of multitudes. It is no vision- 
 ary dreaming of which I have spoken, 
 but a matter of fact. Even as Christ 
 was made perfect through sufferings, so 
 are his followers. How many have 
 said, in their thoughts, when at last the 
 true light has broken upon them, " Ah ! 
 it is no contradiction ; the dark path 
 tioes lead to light ; pain /s a means of 
 pleasure ; misery, of happiness ; peni- 
 tential grief, of virtue ; loss, deprivation, 
 sorrow, are the elements, or rather they 
 are the means, of all that is best in my 
 character ; it is fortunate for me that I 
 have suffered ; it is good for me that I 
 have been afflicted ; it is better, how far 
 better with me now, than if I had been 
 always and only happy." 
 
 Nay, and even from that comparison, 
 by which past suffering enhances all 
 present and coming enjoyment, I could 
 draw an argument almost sufficient for 
 its vindication in the great scheme of 
 providence. The pains of a sick and 
 dying child are often referred to as the 
 most mysterious tilings in providence ; 
 but that child, it should be remembered, 
 may be, and probably will be, happier 
 forever, for that dark cloud that brood- 
 ed over the cradle of its infancy. And 
 for myself I must say, that if I were now 
 standing on the verge of a tried life with 
 the prospects of everlasting happiness 
 before me, I should not regret that I had 
 been a sufferer ; I should count it all 
 joy, rather, and be sure that my eternal 
 joy would be dearer for it. 
 
 But this is not, it is true, the chief con- 
 
 sideration. Suffering is the discipline 
 of virtue, that which nourishes, invigo- 
 rates, perfects it. Suffering, I repeat, is 
 the discipline of virtue ; of that which 
 is infinitely better than happiness, and 
 yet which embraces all essential happi- 
 ness in it. Virtue is the prize of the 
 severely contested race, of the hard- 
 fought battle ; and it is worth all the 
 strifes and wounds of the conflict. 
 
 This is the view which we ought, I " 
 think, manfully and courageously to 
 take of our present condition. Partly 
 from our natural weakness, partly from 
 want of reflection, and partly from the 
 discouraging aspects which infidel phi- "I 
 losophy and ascetic superstition have 
 thrown over human life, we have ac- 
 quired a timidity, a pusillanimity, a 
 peevishness, a habit of complaining, 
 which enhances ail our sorrows. Dark 
 enough they are, without needing to be 
 darkened by gloomy theories. Enough 
 do we tremble under them, without re- 
 quiring the misgivings of cherished fear 
 and weakness. Philosophy, religion, 
 virtue, should speak to man, not in a 
 voice all pity, not in a voice all terror ; 
 but rather in that trumpet tone that 
 arouses and cheers the warrior to battle. 
 
 With a brave and strong heart should 
 man go forth to battle with calamity. 
 He shall not let it be his master, but 
 rather shall he master it ; yea, he shall be 
 as an artificer, who taketh in his hand 
 an instrument to work out some beau- 
 tiful work. When Sir Walter Raleigh 
 took in his hand the axe that was in a 
 few moments to deprive him of life, and 
 felt its keen edge, he said, smiling. " This 
 is a sharp medicine, but it will cure 
 all diseases." Indeed, the manner in 
 which the brave English noblemen and 
 clergy of the olden time went to death, 
 even when it was to appease the jealousy 
 or wrath of unjust monarchs, is illus- 
 trative of the spirit I would recommend. 
 Fortitude, manliness, cheerfulness, with 
 modesty and humility, dressed them, 
 even on the scaffold, in robes of eternal 
 honor. And surely he who takes an 
 instrument in his hand, which is not to 
 
THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 
 
 89 
 
 slay him, but with wliicli he may work 
 out the model and perfection of every 
 virtue in him, sliould take it witli reso- 
 lution and courage ; siiould say, " With 
 tliis sore pain or bitter sorrow is a good 
 and noble work for me to do, and well 
 and nobly will I strive to do it. I will 
 not blench, nor fly from what my Father 
 above has appointed me. I will not 
 drown my senses and faculties with 
 opiates to escape it. I will not forsake 
 the post of trial and peril." Do you 
 remember that noble boy who stood on 
 the burning deck at the battle of the 
 Nile .'' Many voices around said, " Come 
 down ! — come away ! " But the confid- 
 ing child said, " Father, shall I come .'' " 
 Alas! that Father's voice was hushed 
 in death ; and his child kept his post 
 till he sunk in the whelming flame. O 
 noble child ! thou teachest us firmly to 
 stand in our lot till the great word of 
 providence shall bid us fly or bid us 
 sink ! 
 
 But while I speak thus, think me not 
 insensible to the severity of man's suf- 
 ferings. I know what human nerves and 
 sinews and feelings are. When the 
 sharp sword enters the very bosom, the 
 iron enters the very soul, — I see what 
 must follow. I see the uplifted hands, 
 the writhen brow, the written agony in 
 the eye. But God's mercy, which "tem- 
 pers the blast to the shorn lamb," does 
 not suffer these to be the ordinary and 
 permanent forms of affliction. No, thou 
 sittest down in thy still chamber, and 
 sad memories come there ; or, it may be, 
 strange trials gather under thy brooding 
 thought. Thou art to die ; or thy friend 
 must die ; or, worse still, thy friend is 
 faithless ; or thou sayest that coming 
 life is dark and desolate. And now, as 
 thou sittest there, I will speak to thee ; 
 and I say — though sighs will burst from 
 thy almost broken heart, yet when they 
 come back in echoes from the silent 
 walls, let them teach thee. Let them 
 tell thee that God wills not thy destruc- 
 tion, thy suffering, for its own sake; 
 wills thee not, cannot will thee, any evil ; 
 how could that thoudit come from the 
 
 bosom of infinite love ! No, let thy sor- 
 rows tell thee that God wills thy repen- 
 tance, thy virtue, thy liappiness, thv 
 preparation for infinite happiness ! Let 
 that thought spread holy light through 
 thy darkened chamber. That which is 
 against thee is not as that which is for 
 thee. Calamity, a dark speck in thy sky, 
 seemeth to be against thee ; but God's 
 goodness, the all-embracing light and 
 power of the universe, forever lives, and 
 shines around thee and for thee. 
 
 '• Evil and good before him stand, 
 Their mission to perfoiTn." 
 
 The angel of gladness is there, but 
 the angel of affliction is there too ; and 
 both alike for good. May the angel of 
 gladness visit us as often as is good for 
 us ! — I pray for it. But that angel of 
 affliction ! what shall we say to it .-' Shall 
 we not say, " Come thou too, when our 
 Father willeth ; come thou, when need 
 is ; with saddened brow and pitying eye, 
 come ; and take us on thy wings, and 
 bear us up to hope, to happiness, to 
 heaven ; to that presence where is ful- 
 ness of joy, to that right hand where are 
 pleasures forevermore ! " 
 
 There is one further thought which 1 
 must not fail to submit to you on this 
 subject, before I leave it. The greatness 
 of our suflferings points to a correspon- 
 dent greatness in the end to be gained. 
 When I see what men are suflering 
 around me, I cannot help feehng that it 
 was meant, not only that they should be 
 far better than they are, but far better 
 than they often think of being. The 
 end must rise higher and brighter before 
 us, before we can look through this dark 
 cloud of human calamity. The struggle, 
 the wounds, the carnage and desolation 
 of a battle, would overwhelm me with 
 horror, if it were not fought for freedom, 
 for the fireside ; to protect infancy from 
 ruthless butchery, and the purity of our 
 homes from brutal wrong. So is the 
 battle of this life a bewildering maze of 
 misery and despair, till we see the high 
 prize that is set before it. You would 
 not send your son to travel through a 
 
gj 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 barren and desolate wilderness, or to 
 make a long and tedious voyage to an 
 unhealthy clime, but for seme great 
 object : say, to make a fortune thereby. 
 And, any way, it seems to your parental 
 affection a strange and almost cruel pro- 
 ceeding. Nor would the merciful Father 
 of life have sent his earthly children 
 to struggle through all the sorrows, the 
 pains and perils of this world, but to at- 
 tain to the grandeur of a moral fortune, 
 worth all the strife and endurance. No, 
 all this is not ordained in vain, nor in 
 reckless indifference to what we suffer ; 
 but for an end, for a high end, for an end 
 higher than we think for. Troubles, dis- 
 appointments, afflictions, sorrows, press 
 us on every side, that we may rise up- 
 ward, upward, ever upward. And, be- 
 lieve me, in thus rising upward you shall 
 find the very names that you give to 
 calamity gradually changing. Misery, 
 strictly speaking and in its full meaning, 
 does not belong to a good mind. Misery 
 shall pass into suffering, and suffering 
 into discipline, and discipline into virtue, 
 and virtue into heaven. So let it pass 
 with you. Bend now patiently and 
 meekly in that lowly " worship of sor- 
 row," till in God's time it become the 
 worship of joy, of proportionably higher 
 joy, in that world where there shall be 
 no more sorrow nor pain nor crying; 
 where all tears shall be wiped from your 
 eyes ; where beamings of heaven in your 
 countenance shall grow brighter by 
 comparison with all the darkness of 
 earth. 
 
 And remember, too, that your forerun- 
 ner into that blessed life passed through 
 this same worship of sorrow. A man 
 of sorrows was that Divine Master, and 
 acquainted with grief. This is the great 
 Sabbath of the year,* that commemo- 
 rates his triumph over sorrow and pain 
 and death And what were the instru- 
 ments, the means, the ministers of that 
 very victory, that last victory ? The 
 rage of men, and the fierceness of tor- 
 ture ; the arraignment before enemies — 
 mocking, smiting, scourging ; the thorny 
 * Easter Sunday. 
 
 crown, the bitter cross, the barred tomb ! 
 With these he fought, through these he 
 conquered, and from these he rose to 
 heaven. And, believe me, in something 
 rtiust every disciple be Hke the master. 
 Clothed in some vesture of pain, of sor- 
 row, or of affliction, must he fight the 
 great battle and win the great victory. 
 When I stand in the presence of that 
 high example, I cannot listen to poor, 
 unmanly, unchristian complainings. I 
 would not have its disciples account too 
 much of their griefs. Rather would I 
 say. Courage, ye that bear the great, 
 the sublime lot of sorrow ! It is not 
 forever that ye suffer. It is not for 
 naught that ye suffer. It is not without 
 end that ye suffer. God wills it. He 
 spared not his own Son from it. God 
 wills it. It is the ordinance of his wis- 
 dom for us. Nay, it is the ordinance of 
 Infinite love, to procure for us an infinite 
 glory and beatitude. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 Psalm Ixxi. 17 : " O God, thou hast taught me 
 from my youth." 
 
 Life is a school. This world is a 
 house of instruction. It is hot a prison' 
 nor a penitentiary, nor a palace of ease, 
 nor an amphitheatre for games and 
 spectacles ; it is a school. And this 
 view of life is the only one that goes to 
 the depths of the philosophy of life ; the 
 only one that answers the great question, 
 solves the great problem, of life. For 
 what is life given ? If for enjoyment 
 alone, if for suff'ering merely, it is a chaos 
 of contradictions. But if for moral and 
 spiritual learning, then everything is full 
 of significance, lull of wisdom. And 
 this view, too, is of the utmost practical 
 importance. It immediately presents to 
 us and presses upon us the question. 
 What are we learning ? And is not this, 
 truly, the great question ? When your 
 son comes home to you at the annual 
 vacation, it is the first question in your 
 thoughts concerning /amy and you ask 
 
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 91 
 
 liim, oryou ask for the certificates and 
 testimonials of his teachers, to give you 
 some evidence of his learning. At every 
 passing term in the great school of life, 
 also, this is the all-important question. 
 What has a man got, from the experi- 
 ence, discipline, opportunity, of any past 
 period ? Not, what has he gatliered to- 
 gether in the shape of any tangible good ; 
 [)ut what has he got, — in that other and 
 eternal treasure-house, his mind I Not, 
 what of outward accommodation the lit- 
 eral scholar has had, should we think it 
 much worth our while to inquire ; not 
 whether his text-books liad been in splen- 
 did bindings ; not whether his study-table 
 had been of rich cabinet-work, and his 
 chair softly cushioned; not whether the 
 school-house in which he had studied 
 were of majestic size, or adorned with 
 columns and porticos ; let him have 
 got a good education, and it would be 
 comparatively of little moment how or 
 where he got it. We should not ask 
 what honors he had obtained, but as 
 proofs of his progress. Let him have 
 graduated at the most illustrious univer- 
 sity, or have gained, through some mis- 
 take, its highest distinctions, and still 
 be -essentially deficient in mind or in 
 accomplishment, and that fatal defect 
 would sink into every parent's heart as 
 a heavy and unalleviated disappointment. 
 And are such questions and considera- 
 tions any less appropriate to the great 
 school of life, whose entire course is 
 an education for virtue, happiness, and 
 heaven ? " O God ! " exclaims the Psalm- 
 ist, " thou hast taught me from my 
 youth." 
 
 Life, I repeat, is a school. The pe- 
 riods of life are its terms; all human 
 conditions are but its forms ; all human 
 employments, its lessons. Families are 
 tlie primary departments of this moral 
 education; the various circles of society, 
 its advanced stages ; kingdoms are its 
 universities ; the world is but the mate- 
 rial structure, built for the administration 
 of its teachings ; and it is lifted up in the 
 lieavens and borne through its annual 
 circuits for no end but this. 
 
 Life, I say again, is a school : and all 
 its periods, infancy, youth, manhood, and 
 age, have their appropriate tasks in this 
 school. 
 
 With what an early care and wonder- 
 ful apparatus does Providence begin the 
 work of human education ! An infant 
 being is cast upon the lap of nature, not 
 to be supported or nourished only, but to 
 be instructed. The world is its school. 
 All elements around are its teachers. 
 Long ere it is placed on the first form be- 
 fore the human master, it has been at 
 school ; insomuch that a distinguished 
 statesman has said with equal truth and 
 originality, that he had probably obtained 
 more ideas by the age of five or six years 
 than he has acquired ever since. And 
 what a wonderful ministration is it ! 
 What mighty masters are there for the 
 training of infancy, in the powers of sur- 
 rounding nature ! With a finer influence 
 than any human dictation, they penetrate 
 the secret places of that embryo soul, 
 and bring it into life and light. From the 
 soft breathings of spring to the rough 
 blasts of winter, each one pours a bless- 
 ing upon its favorite child, expanding 
 its frame for action or fortifying it for 
 endurance. You seek for celebrated 
 schools and distinguished teachers for 
 your children ; and it is well. Or you 
 cannot afford to give them these advan- 
 tages, and you regret it. But consider 
 what you have. Talk we of far-sought 
 and expensive processes of education .'' 
 That infant eye hath its master in the 
 sun ; that infant ear is attuned by the 
 melodies and harmonies of the wide, 
 the boundless creation. The goings on 
 of the heavens and the earth are the 
 courses of childhood's lessons. The 
 showsthat are painted on the dome of the 
 sky and on the uplil'ted mountains and on 
 the spreading plains and seas are its 
 pictured diagrams. Immensity, infinity, 
 eternity, are its teachers. The great 
 universe is the shrine from which ora- 
 cles, oracles by day and by night, are 
 forever uttered. Well may it be said 
 that "of such," of beings so cared for, 
 " is the kin^ldom of heaven." Well and 
 
92 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 fitly is it written of him, who compre- 
 hended the wondrous birth of humanity 
 and the gracious and sublime providence 
 of heaven over it, that "he took little 
 children in his arms and blessed them." 
 
 So begins the education of man in the 
 school of life. It were easy, did the time 
 permit, to pursue it into its successive 
 stages ; into the period of youth, when the 
 senses, not yet vitiated, are to be refined 
 into grace and beauty, and the soul is 
 to be developed into reason and virtue ; 
 of manliood, when the strength of the 
 ripened passions is to be held under 
 the control of wisdom, and the matured 
 energies of the higher nature are to be 
 directed to the accomplishment of wor- 
 thy and noble ends; of age, which is 
 to finish with dignity the work begun 
 with ardor ; which is to learn patience 
 in weakness, to gather up the fruits of 
 experience into maxims of wisdom, to 
 cause virtuous activity to subside into 
 pious contemplation, and to gaze upon 
 the visions of heaven through the part- 
 ing veils of earth. 
 
 But in the next place, life presents 
 lessons in its various pursuits and con- 
 ditions, in its ordinances and events. 
 Riches and poverty, gayeties and sor- 
 rows, marriages and funerals, the ties of 
 life bound or broken, fit and fortunate, 
 or untoward and painful, are all lessons. 
 They are not only appointments, but 
 they are lessons. They are not things 
 which must be, but things which are 
 meant. Events are not blindly and care- 
 lessly flung together in a strange chance- 
 medley : providence is not schooling 
 one man, and another screening from 
 the fiery trial of its lessons ; it has no 
 rich favorites nor poor victims ; one 
 event happeneth to all ; one end, one 
 design, concerneth, urgeth all men. 
 
 Hast thou been prosperous } Thou 
 hast been at school ; that is all ; thou 
 hast been at school. Thou thoughtest, 
 perhaps, that it was a great thing, and 
 that thou wert some great one ; but thou 
 art only just a pupil. Thou thoughtest 
 that thou wast master and hadst nothing 
 to do but to direct and command ; but I 
 
 tell thee that there is a Master above 
 thee, the Master of life ; and that He 
 looks not at thy splendid state nor thy 
 many pretensions ; nor at the aids and 
 appliances of thy learning ; but simply 
 at thy learning. As an earthly teacher 
 puts the poor boy and the rich upon the 
 same form, and knows no difference be- 
 tween them but their progress ; so it is 
 with thee and thy poor neighbor. What, 
 then, hast thou learnt from thy pros- 
 perity ? This is the question that 1 am 
 asking, that all men are asking, when 
 any one has suddenly grown prosperous, 
 or has been a long time so. And I have 
 heard men say in a grave tone, " He 
 cannot bear it ! he has become passion- 
 ate, proud, self-sufficient, and disagree- 
 able." Ah ! fallen, disgraced man ! even 
 in the world's account. But what, I say 
 again, hast thou learnt from prosperity ? 
 Moderation, temperance, candor, mod- 
 esty, gratitude to God, generosity to 
 man ? Well done, good and faithful ! 
 thou hast honor with heaven and with 
 men. But what, again I say, hast thou 
 learnt from thy prosperity ? Selfish- 
 ness, self-indulgence, and sin ; to forget 
 or overlook thy less fortunate fellow ; 
 to forget thy God 1 Then wert thou an 
 unworthy and dishonored being, though 
 thou hadst been nursed in the bosom of 
 the proudest affluence, or hadst taken 
 thy degrees from the lineage of an hun- 
 dred noble descents ; yes, as truly dis- 
 honored, before the eye of heaven, 
 though dwelling in splendor and luxury, 
 as if thou wert lying, the victim of beg- 
 gary and vice, by the hedge or upon the 
 dung-hill. It is the scholar, not the 
 school, at which the most ordinary hu- 
 man equity looks ; and let us not think 
 that the equity of heaven will look be- 
 neath that lofty mark. 
 
 But art thou, to whom I speak, a poor 
 man ? Thou, too, art at school. Take 
 care that thou learn, rather than com- 
 plain. Keep thine integrity, thy can- 
 dor, and kindness of heart. Beware of 
 envy ; beware of bondage ; keep thy 
 self-respect. The body's toil is nothing. 
 Beware of the mind's drudgery and deg- 
 
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 93 
 
 nidation. I do not say be always poor. 
 Better thy condition if thou canst. But 
 be more an.xious to better tliy soul. Be 
 willing, while thou art poor, patiently to 
 learn the lessons of poverty, — fortitude, 
 cheerfulness, contentment, trust in God. 
 The tasks, I know, are hard ; depriva- 
 tion, toil, the care of children. Thou 
 must wake early : thy children, perhaps, 
 will wake thee ; thou canst not put them 
 away from thee to a distant nursery. 
 Fret not thyself because of this ; but 
 cheerfully address thyself to thy task ; 
 learn patience, calmness, self-command, 
 disinterestedness, love. With these the 
 humblest dwelling may be hallowed, and 
 so made dearer and nobler than the 
 proudest mansion of self-indulgent ease 
 and luxury. But, above all things, if 
 thou art poor, beware that thou lose 
 not thine independence. Cast not thy- 
 self, a creature poorer than poor, an in- 
 dolent, helpless, despised beggar, on 
 the kindness of others. Choose to have 
 God for thy master, rather than man. 
 Escape not from his school, either by 
 dishonesty or alms-taking, lest thou fall 
 into that state worse than disgrace, 
 where thou shalt have no respect for 
 thj'self. Thou mayest come out of that 
 school ; yet beware that thou come not 
 out as a truant, but as a noble scholar. 
 The world itself doth not ask of the 
 candidates for its honors whether they 
 studied in a palace or a cottage, but 
 what they have acquired and what they 
 are ; and heaven, let us again be as- 
 sured, will ask no inferior title to its 
 glories and rewards. 
 
 Again, the entire social condition of 
 humanity is a school. The ties of so- 
 ciety affectingly teach us to love one 
 another. A parent, a child, a husband 
 or wife or associate without love is 
 nothing but a cold marble image, or 
 rather a machine, an annoyance, a some- 
 thing in the way to vex and pain us. 
 The social relations not only teach love, 
 but demand it. Show me a society, 
 no matter how intelligent and accom- 
 plished and refined, but where love is 
 not ; where there is ambition, jeaious}', 
 
 and distrust, not simplicity, confidence, 
 and kindness, and you show me an un- 
 happy society. All will complain of it. 
 Its punctilious decorum, its polished 
 insincerity, its " threatening urbanity," 
 gives no satisfaction to any of its mem- 
 bers. What is the difficulty 1 What 
 does it want .'' I answer, it wants love : 
 and if it will not have tliat it must suf- 
 fer ; and it ought to suffer. 
 
 But the social state also powerfully 
 teaches modesty and meekness. All 
 cannot be great ; and nobody may rea- 
 sonably expect all the world to be en- 
 gaged with lauding his merits. All 
 cannot be great ; and we have happily 
 fallen upon times when none can be 
 distinguished as a few have been in the 
 days of semi-barbarous ignorance. All 
 cannot be great; for then nobody were. 
 The mighty mass of human claims 
 presses down all individual ambition. 
 Were it not so, it were not easy to see 
 where that ambition would stop. Well 
 that it be schooled to reason ; and so- 
 ciety, without knowing it, is an efficient 
 master for that end. Is any one vexed 
 and sore under neglect ? Does he walk 
 through the street unmarked, and say 
 that he deserves to be saluted oftener 
 and with more respect .'' Does the pang 
 of envy shoot through his heart when 
 notice is bestowed on others, whom he 
 thinks less worthy than he is ? Perhaps 
 society is unjust to him. What then .'' 
 What shall he do ? What can he do, but 
 learn humility and patience and quiet- 
 ness 1 Perhaps the lesson is roughly 
 and unkindly given. Then must so- 
 ciety, through its very imperfection, 
 teach us to be superior to its opinion ; 
 and our care must be, not to be cynical 
 and bitter, but gentle, candid, and affec- 
 tionate still. 
 
 Society is doubtless often right in its 
 neglect or its condemnation ; but cer- 
 tainly it is sometimes wrong. It seems 
 to be the lot, the chance, the fortune, 
 the accident of some, to be known, ad- 
 mired, and celebrated. Adulation and 
 praise are poured out at their feet while 
 they live, and upon their tomb when 
 
94 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 they die. But thousands of others, in- 
 trinsically just as interesting, with senti- 
 ments that mount as high on earth, and 
 will flourish as fair in heaven, live un- 
 praised and die unknown. Nay, and 
 the very delicacy of some minds for- 
 bids their being generally known and 
 appreciated. Tact, facility, readiness, 
 conversation, personal recommendations, 
 manners, and connections, help on some; 
 and all these may be wanting to minds 
 that have none the less worth and 
 beauty. Who, then, would garner up 
 his heart in the opinion of this world.'' 
 Yet neither let us hate it ; but let its 
 imperfection minister to our perfection. 
 
 There are also broken ties ; and some- 
 times the holiest ties wear themselves 
 out, like imperfect things, alas ! as they 
 are. What, theii, is to be learnt ? I 
 answer, a great lesson. What is to be 
 done .'' A great duty. To be just ; to 
 be true ; to cherish a divine candor ; to 
 make the best of that which seems not 
 well ; to pour not vinegar upon the gall- 
 ing chain, but the oil of gentleness and 
 forbearance. So shall many a wound 
 be healed ; and the hearts shall be knit 
 together in a better bond than that of 
 hasty impulse, — the bond of mutual im- 
 provement, strengthening mutual love. 
 
 But not to insist more at large upon 
 the disciplinary character of all the 
 conditions of life and society, let us con- 
 sider, for a moment farther, some of its 
 events and ordinances. 
 
 Amidst all the gayety and splendor of 
 life there is a dark spot ; over its bright- 
 est career there comes a sudden and 
 overshadowing cloud ; in the midst of 
 its loud and restless activity there is a 
 deep pause and an awful silence ; what 
 a lesson is death ! — death, that stops 
 the warm current and the vital breath, 
 and freezes mortal hearts in fear and 
 wonder ; death, that quells all human 
 power, and quenches all human pride ; 
 death, "the dread teacher," the awful 
 admonisher, that tells man of this life's 
 frailty, and of a judgment to come. 
 What a lesson is death ! Stern, cold, 
 inexorable, irresistible, — the collected 
 
 might of the world cannot stay it, nor 
 ward it off; the breath that is parting 
 from the lips of king, or beggar, the 
 breath that scarcely stirs the hushed 
 air, — that little breath, — the wealth of 
 empires cannot buy it, nor bring it back 
 for a moment. What a lesson is this 
 to proclaim our own frailty, and a power 
 beyond us ! It is a fearful lesson ; it 
 is never familiar. That which lays its 
 hands upon all, walks through the earth 
 as a dread mystery. Its mandate falls 
 upon the ear in as fearful accents now 
 as when it said to the first man, " Thou 
 shalt die ! dust thou art, and unto dust 
 shalt thou return." It. is a universal 
 lesson. It is read everywhere. Its mes- 
 sage comes every year, every day. The 
 years past are filled with its sad and 
 solemn mementos ; and could a prophet 
 now stand in the midst of us and an- 
 nounce the future, to more than one of 
 us would he say, " Set thy house in or- 
 der ; for this year thou shalt die." Yes, 
 death is a teacher. I have seen upon 
 the wall of our school-rooms the dia- 
 gram that sets forth some humble theo- 
 rem ; but what a handwriting is traced 
 by the finger of death upon the walls 
 of every human habitation ! And what 
 does it teach ? Duty ; to act our part 
 well ; to fulfil the work assigned us. 
 Other questions, questions of pride and 
 ambition and pleasure, may press them- 
 selves upon a man's life ; but when he 
 is dying, when he is dead, there is but 
 one question, — but one question: has 
 lie lived well ? I have seen an old man 
 upon his bier, and I said, "Hath he 
 clone the work of many years faithfully ? 
 hath he come to his end like a shock of 
 corn fully ripe ? Then all is well. There 
 is no evil in death, but what life makes." 
 I have seen one fall amidst life's cares, 
 manly or matronly, and when the end 
 came, not like a catastrophe, not as un- 
 looked for; when it came as that which 
 had been much thought upon and al- 
 ways prepared for ; when I saw the 
 head meekly bowed to the visitation, or 
 the eye raised in calm bright hope to 
 heaven, or when the confidence of long 
 
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 95 
 
 intimate friendship knows that it would 
 be raised there, tliough the kind veil of 
 delirium be spread over it, I said, " The 
 work is done, the victory is gained ; 
 thanks be to God, who giveth that vic- 
 tory through our Lord Jesus Christ." 
 I have seen an infant form sweetly re- 
 posing on its last couch, as if death had 
 lost all its terrors, and had become as 
 one of the clierubim of heaven ; and I 
 said, " Ah ! how many live so that they 
 will yet wish that they had died with 
 that innocent child ! " 
 
 Among our Christian ordinances, 
 brethren, there is one that celebrates 
 the victory over death ; and there is 
 one that is appropriate to the beginning 
 of life. They are both teachers. Bap- 
 tismal waters, the emblems of a purity 
 received from God and to be watched 
 over for God ; the consecration unto 
 obedience to the great truths of Chris- 
 tianity ; to the doctrine of the Father, 
 and the Son, and the Holy Ghost ; these 
 teach us, parents, of a charge to be 
 solemnly kept, of duties to be faithfully 
 rendered. The sacramental table; what 
 is it but an altar, set up amidst the realm 
 of death, to the hope of everlasting life ? 
 To keep us in mind of him who con- 
 quered death, and brought life and im- 
 mortality to light ; who gave his life a 
 ransom for many ; who became a curse 
 for us that we might be redeemed from 
 the curse of sin ; who died that we 
 might live forever; lo ! these symbols 
 that are set forth from time to time in 
 the house of God, in the school of 
 Christ ! Touching memorials of pain 
 and sorrow and patient endurance ! 
 Blessed omens, on God's altar, of peace, 
 and forgiveness, and glorious victory ! 
 
 Such, my friends, are some of the 
 lessons of the school of life. Indulge 
 me in one or two observations on the 
 general character of this school, and I 
 shall have completed my present design. 
 
 Life is a finely attempered, and, at the 
 same time, a very trying school. 
 
 It is finely attempered ; that is, it is 
 carefully adjusted, in all its arrangements 
 and tasks, to man's powers and passions. 
 
 There is no extravagance in its teach- 
 ings ; nothing is done for the sake of 
 present effect. It excites man, but it 
 does not excite him too much. Indeed. 
 so carefully adjusted are all things to 
 this raging love of excitement, so ad- 
 mirably fitted to hold this passion in 
 check, and to attemper all things to 
 what man can bear, that I cannot help 
 seeing in this feature of life, intrinsic 
 and wonderful evidence of a wise and 
 over-ruling Order. Men often complain 
 that life is dull, tame, and drudging. 
 But how unwisely were it arranged if it 
 were all one gala-day of enjoyment or 
 transport ! And when men make their 
 own schools of too much excitement, 
 their parties, controversies, associations, 
 and enterprises, how soon do the heavy 
 realities of life fasten upon the chariot- 
 wheels of success when they are ready 
 to take fire, and hold them back to a 
 moderated movement ! 
 
 Everything, I say, is tempered in the 
 system of things to which we belong. 
 The human passions, and the correspon- 
 dent powers of impression which man 
 possesses, are all kept within certain 
 limits. I think sometimes of angel 
 forms on earth ; of a gracefulness and 
 beauty more than mortal ; of a flash or a 
 glance of the eye in the eloquent man, 
 that should rend and inflame a thousand 
 hearts, as lightning does the gnarled oak ; 
 but do we not see that for the sensitive 
 frame of man enough excitement is al- 
 ready provided ; that the moderated tone 
 of things is all man's ear could bear ; 
 the softened and shaded hue, enough for 
 his eye ; the expressions of countenance 
 and gesture, such as they are, enough 
 for his heart ? Nay, how often is the ex- 
 citement of thought and feeling so great 
 that, but for the interruptions of humble 
 cares and trifles, — the interpositions of a 
 wise providence, — the mind and frame 
 would sink under them entirely ! It 
 would seem delightful, no doubt, in the 
 pilgrimage of life, to walk through un- 
 ending galleries of paintings and statues ; 
 but human life is not such ; it is a school. 
 
 It is a trying school. It is a school, 
 
96 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 very trying to faith, to endurance, and 
 to endeavor. There are mysteries in it. 
 As to the pupil in a human school there 
 are lessons of which he does not under- 
 stand the full intent and bearing, as he 
 is obliged to take some things on trust, 
 so it is in the great school of providence. 
 There are hard lessons to be got in this 
 school. As the pupil is often obliged to 
 bend all his faculties to the task before 
 him, and tears sometimes fall on the page 
 he is studying, so it is in the school of 
 God's providence ; there are hard les- 
 sons in it. 
 
 In short, the whole course of human 
 life is a conflict with difficulties ; and, if 
 rightly conducted, a progress in improve- 
 ment. In both these respects man liolds 
 a position peculiar, and distinct from that 
 of the animal races. They are not at 
 school. They never improve. With 
 them, too, all is facihty ; while with man, 
 comparatively, all is difficulty. Look at 
 the ant-hill, or the hive of bees. See 
 how the tenant of the one is provided 
 with feet so constructed that he can run 
 all over his house, outside and inside — 
 no heavy and toilsome steps required to 
 go upward or downward ; and how the 
 wings of the other enable him to fly 
 through the air, and achieve the journey 
 of days in an hour. Man's steps, com- 
 pared with these, are the steps of toil- 
 some endeavor. 
 
 Why is this so ? Why is man clothed 
 with this cumbrous mass of flesh ? Be- 
 cause it is a more perfect instrument for 
 the mind's culture, though that end is 
 not to be wrought out without difficulty. 
 Why are his steps slow and toilsome ? 
 Because they are the steps of improve- 
 ment. Why is he at school? That he 
 may learn. Why is the lesson hard ? 
 That he may rise high on the scale of 
 advancement. 
 
 Nor is it ever too late for him to learn. 
 This is a distinct consideration ; but let 
 me dwell a moment upon it in close. 
 Nor, I say, is it ever too late for man to 
 learn. If any man thinks that his time 
 has gone by, let me take leave to contra- 
 
 dict that dangerous assumption. Life 
 is a school ; the whole of life. There 
 never comes a time, even amidst the de- 
 cays of age, when it is fit to lay aside the 
 eagerness of acquisition or the cheer- 
 fulness of endeavor. I protest utterly 
 against the common idea of growing old. 
 I hold that it is an unchristian, a heathen 
 idea. It may befit those who expect 
 to lay down and end their being in the 
 grave, but not those who look upon the 
 grave as the birthplace of immortality. 
 I look for old age as, saving its infirmi- 
 ties, a cheerful and happy time. I thinl< 
 that the affections are often full as warm 
 then as they ever are. Well may the 
 affections of piety be so I They are ap- 
 proaching near to the rest that remain- 
 eth ; they almost grasp the prize that shall 
 crown them ; they are ready to say, with 
 aged Simeon, " Now let thy servant de- 
 part." The battle is almost fought ; the 
 victory is near at hand. " Why," — does 
 any one still ask, — " why does the battle 
 press hard to the very end .-* Why is it 
 ordained for man that he shall walk, all 
 through the course of life, in patience 
 and strife, and sometimes in darkness ? 
 Because from patience is to come perfec- 
 tion. Because from strife is to come 
 triumph. Because from the dark cloud 
 is to come the lightning flash that opens 
 the way to eternity ! 
 
 Christian I hast thou been faithful in 
 the school of life ? Art thou faithful 
 to all its lessons ? Or hast thou, negli- 
 gent man ! been placed in this great 
 school only to learn nothing, and hast 
 not cared whether thou didst learn or 
 not ? Have the years passed over thee 
 only to witness thy sloth and indiffer- 
 ence ? Hast thou been zealous to ac- 
 quire everything but virtue, but the 
 favor of thy God ? 
 
 But art thou 
 God help thee to 
 years to come, 
 thine encouragement, 
 " These things saith 
 
 faithful. Christian ? 
 be yet more so, in 
 And remember, for 
 what is written : 
 the first and the 
 last, who was dead and is alive ; I 
 know thy works and tribulation and 
 
THE VALUE OF LIFE. 
 
 97 
 
 poverty (but thou art rich) ; fear none 
 of those things which thou shalt suffer ; 
 be faithful unto death, and I will give 
 thee a crown of life." 
 
 XV. 
 
 ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 
 
 (PREACHED ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY.) 
 
 Job iii. 2, 3 : "And Job spake and said, Let the 
 day perish wherein I was born." 
 
 Thrre is a worldly habit of viewing 
 this life, and especially of depreciating 
 its value, against which, in this dis- 
 course, I wish to contend. It is the 
 view of life which many of the heathens 
 entertained, and which better became 
 them than those who hold the faith of 
 Christians. " When we reflect," says 
 one of the Grecian sages, "on the des- 
 tiny that awaits man on earth, we 
 ought to bedew his cradle with our 
 tears." Job's contempt of life, so ener- 
 getically expressed in the chapter from 
 which my text is taken, was of the same 
 character. We may observe, however, 
 that Job's contempt of life consisted 
 not with the views entertained by the 
 children of the ancient dispensation, and 
 was emphatically rebuked, in common 
 with all his impious complaints, in the 
 sequel of that affecting story. The birth 
 of a child among the Hebrews was hailed 
 with joy, and its birthday was made a 
 festival. 
 
 But there are times and seasons, 
 events and influences, in life, which 
 awaken, in many, sentiments similar to 
 those of Job, and which require to be 
 considered. 
 
 The sensibility of youth sometimes 
 takes this direction. It is true, indeed, 
 that to the youthful mind life for a 
 while is fdled with brightness and hope. 
 It is the promised season of activity and 
 enjoyment, of manly independence, of 
 successful business, or of glorious am- 
 bition ; the season of noble enterprises 
 and lofty attainments. There is a time 
 when the youthful fancy is kindling with 
 
 the anticipations of an ideal world ; 
 when it is thinking of friendship and 
 honor of another sort than those which 
 are commonly found in the world ; when 
 its promised mansion is the abode of per- 
 fect happiness, and its paths, as they 
 stretch into life, seem to it as the paths 
 that shine brighter and brighter for- 
 ever. 
 
 But over all these glowing expecta- 
 tions there usually comes, sooner or 
 later, a dark eclipse; and it is in the 
 first shock of disappointed hope, before 
 the season of youth is yet fully past, 
 that we are probably exposed to take 
 the most opposite and disconsolate 
 views of life. It is here that we find 
 real, in opposition to factitious, senti- 
 mentalism. Before this great shock to 
 early hope comes, the sentimental char- 
 acter is apt to be affectation, and after- 
 wards it is liable to be misanthropy. 
 But now it is a genuine and ingenuous 
 sorrow, at finding life so different from 
 what it expected. There is a painful 
 and unwelcome effort to give up many 
 cherished habits of thinking about it. 
 The mind encounters the chilling selfish- 
 ness of the world, and it feels the miser- 
 able insufficiency of the world to satisfy 
 its longings after happiness; and life 
 loses many of the bright hues that had 
 gilded its morning season. Indeed, 
 when w'e take into account the unwonted 
 and multiplied cares of this period, the 
 want of that familiarity and habit which 
 renders the ways and manners of life 
 easy, the difficulties and embarrassments 
 that beset the youthful adventurer, the 
 anxiety about establishing a character 
 and taking a place in the world, and 
 above all, perhaps, the want of self- 
 discipline, — when we take all this into 
 the account, to say nothing of the fresh- 
 ness of disappointment, we may well 
 doubt whether the period of entrance into 
 life is the happiest, though it is common- 
 ly looked upon as such. It is not, per- 
 haps, till men proceed farther in the way 
 that they are prepared either rightly tO' 
 estimate or fully to enjoy it. And it is 
 worthy of notice, in this connection, that 
 
98 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 those diseases which spring from mental 
 anxiety are accounted, by physicians, 
 to be the most prevalent between the 
 ages of twenty and forty. 
 
 Manhood arrives at a conclusion un- 
 favorable to life by a different process. 
 It is not the limited view occasioned by 
 disappointment, that brings it to think 
 poorly of life ; but it assumes to hold 
 the larger view taiven by experience and 
 reflection. It professes to have proved 
 this life, and found it little worth. It 
 has deliberately made up its mind that 
 life is far more miserable than happy. 
 Its employments, it finds, are tedious, 
 and its schemes are baffled. Its friend- 
 ships are broken, or its friends are dead. 
 Its pleasures pall and its honors fade. 
 Its paths are beaten and familiar and 
 dull. It has grasped the good of life ; 
 and everything grasped loses half of its 
 charm ; in the hand of possession every- 
 thing is shrivelled and shrunk to insig- 
 nificance. 
 
 Is this manhood, then, sad or senti- 
 mental .'' No ; farthest possible from it. 
 Sentiment, it holds to be ridiculous ; 
 sadness, absurd. It smiles, in reckless- 
 ness. It is merry, in despite. It sports 
 away a life, not worth a nobler thought, 
 or else it wears away a life, not worth a 
 nobler aim, than to get tolerably through 
 it. This is a worldly manhood ; and no 
 wonder that its estimate of the value of 
 existence is low and earthly. 
 
 Poetry has often ministered to a state 
 of mind, loftier indeed, but of alike com- 
 plexion. " Life," says the Grecian Pin- 
 dar, " is the dream of a shadow." 
 
 " What," says the melancholy Kirk 
 White, — 
 
 " What is this passing life ? 
 A peevish April day : 
 A little sun, a little rain. 
 And then night sweeps along the plain, 
 And all things fade away." 
 
 The melancholy of Byron is of a darker 
 complexion ; one might anticipate, in- 
 deed, that his misanthropy, as well as 
 gloom, would repel every reader ; and 
 yet a critic has observed that this is the 
 very quality which has caught and held 
 
 the ear of the sympathizing world. If 
 the world does sympathize with it, it is 
 tim.e that the Christian preacher should 
 raise his voice against it. One may justly 
 feel, indeed, for the sufferings as well as 
 perversions of that extraordinary mind ; 
 but its scepticism and scorn must not 
 be suffered to fling their shadows across 
 the world, without rebuke or remon- 
 strance. Its sufferings, indeed, are a 
 striking proof, which the Christian teach- 
 er might well adduce, of the tendencv of 
 earthly passion and unbelief to darken 
 all the way of human life. 
 
 The pulpit, also, I must allow, has 
 fallen under the charge of leaning to 
 the dark side of things. It may be said, 
 perhaps, that if its instructions are to 
 have any bias, it is expedient that it 
 should lean to the dark side. But error 
 or mistake is not to be vindicated by its 
 expediency, or its power to affect the 
 mind. And its expediency, in fact, if not 
 its power, in this case, is to be doubted. 
 Men of reflection and discernment are, 
 and ought to be, dissatisfied with dispro- 
 portionate and extravagant statements, 
 made with a view to support the claims 
 of an ascetic piety or a cynical morality. 
 And one mistake, the preacher may find, 
 is to the hearer an intrenchment strong 
 against a hundred of his arguments. 
 
 It is true, also, that religious men in 
 general have been accustomed to talk 
 gloomily of the present state. I do not 
 mean such religious men as the wise 
 and holy saints of old. Let the rejoicing 
 apostles, rejoicing in the midst of the 
 greatest calamities, let the mild cheer- 
 fulness of their Master, stand as monu- 
 ments against the perversions of later 
 times. It has strangely come to be 
 thought a mark of great piety towards 
 God to disparage, if not to despise, the 
 state which he has ordained for us ; and 
 the claims of this world have been ab- 
 surdly set up, not in comparison only, 
 but in competition, with the claims of 
 another ; as if both were not parts of 
 one system ; as if a man could not make 
 the best of this world and of another 
 at the same time ; as if we should learn 
 
THE VALUE OF LIFE. 
 
 99 
 
 to think better of other works and dis- 
 pensations of God by thinking meanly 
 of these. Jesus and his apostles did not 
 teach us to contemn our present con- 
 dition. They taught that every creature 
 and every appointment of God is good, 
 and to be received thankfully. They 
 did not look upon life as so much time 
 lost ; they did not regard its employ- 
 ments as trifles unworthy of immortal 
 beings ; they did not tell their followers 
 to fold their arms as if in disdain of 
 their state and species ; but it is evident 
 that they looked soberly and cheerfully 
 upon the world as the theatre of worthy 
 action, of exalted usefulness, and of 
 rational and innocent enjoyment. 
 
 But I am considering the disparaging 
 views of life ; and against these views, 
 whether sentimental, worldly, poetical, 
 or religious, I must contend. I firmly 
 maintain that, with all its evils, life is a 
 blessing. There is a presumptive argu- 
 ment for this, of the greatest strength. 
 To deny that life is a blessing is to 
 destroy the very basis of all religion, 
 natural and revealed ; and the argument 
 I am engaged upon, therefore, well de- 
 serves attention. For the very founda- 
 tion of all religion is laid in the belief 
 that God is good. But if life is an evil 
 and a curse, there can be no such belief 
 rationally entertained. The Scriptures 
 do not prove, nor pretend to prove, that 
 God is good. They assume that truth 
 as already certain. But what makes it 
 certain .'' Where does, or can, the proof 
 come from ? Obviously, from this world, 
 and from nowhere else. Nowhere else 
 can our knowledge extend, to gather 
 proof. Nay more, I say the proof must 
 come from this life, and from nothing 
 else. For it avails not, if life itself is 
 doomed to be unhappy, — it avails not 
 to the argument to say that this world 
 is fair and glorious. It avails not to say 
 that this outward frame of things, this 
 vast habitation of life, is beautiful. The 
 architecture of an infirmary may be beau- 
 tiful, and the towers of a prison may be 
 built on the grandest scale of architec- 
 tural magnificence ; but it would little 
 
 avail the victims of sickness or bond- 
 age. And so if this life is a doomed 
 life, doomed by its very conditions to 
 sufferings far greater than its pleasures ; 
 if it is a curse and not a blessing ; if 
 sighs and groans must rise from it more 
 frequent and loud than voices of joy 
 and gladness, it will avail but little that 
 heaven spreads its majestic dome over 
 our misery ; that the mountain walls, 
 which echo our griefs, are clothed with 
 grandeur and might ; or that the earth, 
 which bears the burden of our woes, 
 is paved with granite and marble, or 
 covered with verdure and beauty. 
 
 Let him, then, who says that this life 
 is not a blessing ; let him who levels 
 his satire at humanity and human ex- 
 istence as mean and contemptible ; let 
 him who, with the philosophic pride of a 
 Voltaire or a Gibbon, looks upon this 
 world as the habitation of a miserable 
 race, fit only for mockery and scorn, or 
 who, with the religious melancholy of 
 Thomas a Kempis or of Brainard, over- 
 shadows this world with the gloom of 
 his imagination, till it seems a dungeon 
 or a prison, which has no blessing to 
 offer but escape from it, — let all such 
 consider that they are extinguishing the 
 primal light of faith and hope and hap- 
 piness. If life is not a blessing, if the 
 world is not a goodly world, if residence 
 in it is rot a favored condition, then re- 
 ligion has lost its basis, truth its foun- 
 dation in the goodness of God ; then it 
 matters not what else is true or not true ; 
 speculation is vain and faith is vain ; 
 and all that pertains to man's highest 
 being is whelmed in the ruins of misan- 
 thropy, melancholy, and despair. 
 
 The argument in this view is well 
 deserving of attention. Considered as 
 a merely speculative point, it is, never- 
 theless, one on which everything hangs. 
 And this, indeed, is the consideration 
 which I have been stating ; that the 
 whole superstructure of religious truth 
 is based upon this foundation truth, — 
 that life is a blessing. 
 
 And that this is not a mere assump- 
 tion, I infer, in the next place, from ex- 
 
lOO 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 perience. And there are two points in 
 this experience to be noticed. First, 
 the love of life proves it is a blessing. 
 If it is not, why are men so attached 
 to it ? Will it be said that it is " the 
 dread of something after death," that 
 binds man to life ? But make the case 
 a fair one for the argument : say, for 
 instance, that the souls of men sleep, 
 after death, till the resurrection ; and 
 would not almost every man rather live 
 on, during tlie intermediate space, than 
 to sink to that temporary oblivion ? 
 
 But to refer, in the next place, to a 
 consideration still plainer and less em- 
 liarrassed ; why are we so attached to 
 our local situation in life, to our home, 
 to the spot that gave us birth, or to any 
 place, no matter how unsightly or bar- 
 ren, — though it were the rudest moun- 
 tain or rock, — on which the liistory of 
 years had been written ? Will it be 
 said that it is habit which endears our 
 residence ? But what kind of habit ? 
 A habit of being miserable ? The ques- 
 tion needs no reply. Will you refer me 
 to the pathetic story of the aged prisoner 
 of the Bastile, who, on being released 
 and coming forth into the world, desired 
 to return to his prison, and argue from 
 this that a man may learn to love even 
 the glooms of a dungeon, provided they 
 become habitual ? But why did that 
 aged prisoner desire to return ? It was 
 not because he loved the cold shadow 
 of his prison-walls ; but it was, as the 
 story informs us, because his friends 
 were gone from the earth ; it was be- 
 cause no living creature knew him, that 
 the world was darker to him than the 
 gloomy dungeons of the Bastile. It 
 shows how dear are the ties of kindred 
 and society. It shows how strong and 
 how sweet are those social affections, 
 which we never appreciate till we are 
 cut off from their joys ; which glide 
 from heart to heart, as the sunbeams 
 piss unobserved in the daylight of pros- 
 perity ; but if a ray of that social kind- 
 ness visits the prison of our sickness 
 and affliction, it comes to us like a beam 
 of heaven. And though we had worn 
 
 out a life in confinement, we go back 
 again to meet that beam of heaven, the 
 smile of society ; and if we do not find 
 it, we had rather return to the silent 
 walls that know us, than to dwell in a 
 world that knows us not. 
 
 " But, after all, and as a matter of fact, 
 how many miseries," it may be said, 
 " are bound up with this life, too deeply 
 interwoven with it, and too keenly felt, 
 to allow it to be called a favored and 
 happy life ! Besides evils of common 
 occurrence and account, besides sickness 
 and pain and poverty, besides disap- 
 pointment and bereavement and sorrow, 
 how many evils are there that are not 
 embraced in the common estimate ; evils 
 that are secret and silent, that dwell 
 deep in the recesses of life, that do not 
 come forth to draw the public gaze or 
 to awaken the public sympathy ? How 
 many are there who never tell their 
 grief; how many who spread a fair and 
 smiling exterior over an aching heart ! " 
 
 Alas ! it is but too easy to make out 
 a strong statement : and yet the very 
 strength of the statement, the strong 
 feeling, at least, with which it is made, 
 disproves the cynical argument. The 
 truth is, and it is obvious, that misery 
 makes a greater impression upon us 
 than happiness. Why? Because misery 
 is not the habit of our minds. It 
 is a strange and unwonted guest, and 
 we are more conscious of its presence. 
 Happiness, — not to speak now of any 
 very high quality or entirely satisfying 
 state of mind, but only of a general 
 easiness, cheerfulness, and comfort, — 
 happiness, I say, dwells with us, and 
 we forget it ; it does not excite us ; it 
 does not disturb the order and course 
 of our thoughts. All our impressions 
 about affliction, on the other hand, show 
 that it is more rare, and, at the same 
 time, more regarded. It creates a sen- 
 sation and stir in the world. When 
 death enters among us, it spreads a 
 groan through our dwellings ; it clothes 
 them with unwonted and sympatliizing 
 grief. Thus, afflictions are like epochs 
 in life. We remember them as we do 
 
THE VALUE OF LIFE. 
 
 lOI 
 
 the storm and earthquake, because they 
 are out of the common course of things. 
 They stand like disastrous events in a 
 table of chronology, recorded because 
 they are extraordinary, and with whole 
 periods of prosperity between. Thus 
 do we mark out and signalize the times 
 of calamity ; but how many happy days 
 pass, unnoted periods in the table of 
 life's chronology, unrecorded either in 
 tlie book of memory or in the scanty 
 annals of our thanksgiving ? How many 
 happy months are swept beneath the 
 silent wing of time, and leave no name 
 nor record in our hearts ! How little 
 are we able, much as we may be dis- 
 posed, to call up from the dim remem- 
 brances of the year that is just ended, 
 the peaceful moments, the easy sensa- 
 tions, the bright thouglits, the move- 
 ments of kind and blessed affections, in 
 which life has flowed on, bearing us 
 almost unconsciously upon its bosom, 
 because it has borne us calmly and 
 gently ! Sweet moments of quietness 
 and affection ! glad hours of joy and 
 hope ! days, ye many days begun and 
 ended in health and happiness ! times 
 and seasons of heaven's gracious be- 
 neficence I stand before us yet again in 
 the light of memory, and command us 
 to be thankful, and to prize as we ought 
 the gift of life. 
 
 But, my brethren, I must not content 
 myself with a b:ire defence of life as 
 against a sceptical or cynical spirit, or 
 as against the errors and mistakes of 
 religion. I must not content myself 
 with a view of the palpable and acknowl- 
 edged blessings of life. Life is more 
 than what is palpable, or often acknowl- 
 edged. I contend against the cynical 
 and the superstitious -disparagement of 
 life, not alone as wrong and as fatal 
 indeed to all religion; but I contend 
 against it as fatal to the highest im- 
 provement of life. I say that life is 
 not only good, but that it was made to 
 be glorious. Ay, and it has been glori- 
 ous in the experience of millions. The 
 glory of all Iniman virtue arrays it. The 
 glory of sanctity and beneficence and 
 
 heroism is upon it. The crown of a 
 thousand martyrdoms is upon its brow. 
 
 Through this visible and sometimes 
 darkened life it was intended that the 
 brightness of the soul should shine ; and 
 that it should shine through all its sur- 
 rounding cares and labors. The hum- 
 blest life which any one of us leads may 
 be what has been expressively denomi- 
 nated "the life of God in the soul." It 
 may hold a felt connection with its in- 
 finite source. It may derive an inex- 
 pressible sublimity from that connection. 
 Yes, my brethren, there may be some- 
 thing of God in our daily life ; something 
 of might in this frail inner man ; some- 
 thing of immortality in this momentary 
 and transient being. 
 
 This mind — I survey it with awe, 
 with wonder — encompassed with flesh, 
 fenced around with barriers of sense, 
 yet it breaks every bound, and stretches 
 away, on every side, into infinity. It is 
 not upon the line only of its eternal 
 duration, that it goes forth, ibrth from 
 this day of its new annual period, through 
 the periods of immortality ; but its 
 thoughts, like diverging rays, spread 
 themselves abroad and far, far into the 
 boundless, the immeasurable, the infi- 
 nite. And these diverging rays may be 
 like cords to lift up to heaven. What 
 a glorious thing, then, is this life ! To 
 knoW' its wonderful Author; to bring 
 down wisdom from the eternal stars ; to 
 bear upward its homage, its gratitude, 
 its love to the ruler of all worlds ; what 
 glory in the created universe is there, 
 surpassing this? "Thou crownest it," 
 says the Psalmist, — " thou crownest it 
 with glory and honor ; thou hast made it 
 a little lower than the angelic life." 
 
 Am I asked, then, what is life ? I say, 
 in answer, that it is good. God saw 
 and pronounced that it was good, when 
 he made it. Man feels that it is good 
 when he preserves it. It is good in 
 the unnumbered sources of happiness 
 around it. It is good in the ten thou- 
 sand buoyant and happy affections within 
 it. It is good in its connection with 
 infinite goodness, and in its hope of infi- 
 
lo: 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 nite glory beyond it. True, our life is 
 frail in its earthly state, and it has often 
 bowed down with earthly burdens ; but 
 still it endures and revives and flourishes ; 
 still it is redeemed from destruction, and 
 crowned with loving kindness and tender 
 mercy. Frail, too, and yet strong is it, 
 in its heavenly nature. The immortal 
 is clothed with mortality ; and the in- 
 corruptible with corruption. It is like 
 an instrument formed for heavenly mel- 
 ody; whose materials were taken, indeed, 
 from the mouldering and unsightly for- 
 est ; but lo ! the hand of the artificer 
 has been upon it ; it is curiously wrought; 
 it is fearfully and wonderfully made ; it 
 is fashioned for every tone of gladness 
 and triumph. It may be relaxed, but it 
 can be strung again. It may send forth 
 a mournful strain, but it is formed also 
 for the music of heavenly joy. Even its 
 sadness is " pleasing and mournful to 
 the soul." Even suffering is hallowed 
 and dear. Life has that value, that even 
 misery cannot destroy it. It neutralizes 
 grief, and makes it a source of deep and 
 sacred interest. Ah ! holy hours of suf- 
 fering and sorrow ; hours of communion 
 with the great and triumphant Sufferer ; 
 who that has passed through your silent 
 moments of prayer and resignation and 
 trust, would give you up for all the 
 brightness of prosperity ? 
 
 Am I still asked what is life? I answer, 
 that it is a great and sublime gift. Those 
 felicitations with which this renewed 
 season of it is welcomed, are but a fit 
 tribute to its value, and to the gladness 
 which belongs to it. " Happy," says the 
 general voice, — " happy New- Year! " to 
 all who live to see it. Life is felt to be 
 a great and gracious boon, by all who 
 enjoy its light ; and this is not too much 
 felt. It is the wonderful creation of 
 God ; and it cannot be too much ad- 
 mired. It is light sprung from void dark- 
 ness ; it is power waked from inertness 
 and impotence ; it is being created from 
 nothing ; well may the contrast enkindle 
 wonder and delight. It is a stream from 
 the infinite and overflowing goodness ; 
 and from its first gushing forth to its 
 
 mingling with the ocean of eternity, that 
 goodness attends it. Yes ; life, despite 
 of all that cynics or sentimentalists say, 
 is a great and glorious gift. There is 
 gladness in its infant voices. There is 
 joy in the buoyant step of its youth. 
 There is deep satisfaction in its strong 
 maturity. There is holy peace in its 
 quiet age. There is good for the good ; 
 there is virtue for the faithlul ; there is 
 victory for the valiant ; there is spirit- 
 uality for the spiritual ; and there is, 
 even in this humble life, an infinity for 
 the boundless in desire. There are 
 blessings upon its birth ; there is hope 
 in its death ; and there is — to con- 
 summate all — there is eternity in its 
 prospect. 
 
 As I have discoursed upon this theme 
 it is possible that some may have thought 
 that it has nothing to do with religion ; 
 that it is a subject merely for fine sen- 
 timents and for nothing more. Let me 
 tell such a thinker that this subject has 
 not only much to do with religion every 
 way, but that it furnishes, in fact, a test 
 of our religion. To the low-minded, 
 debased, and sensual this life must, 
 doubtless, be something very poor, in- 
 different, and commonplace ; it must be 
 a beaten path, a dull scene, shut in on 
 every side by the earthly, palpable, and 
 gross. But break down the barriers of 
 sense; open the windows of faith ; fling 
 wide the gates that darken the sensual 
 world, and let the light of heaven pour 
 in upon it ; and then what is this life ? 
 How changed is it ! how new ! a new 
 heavens, indeed, and a new earth. Yes, 
 this earth, which binds one man in chains, 
 is to the other the starting place, the 
 goal of immortality. This earth, which 
 buries one man in the rubbish of dull 
 cares and wearying vanities, is to the 
 other the lofty mount of meditation, 
 where heaven and infinity and eternity 
 are spread before him and around him. 
 Yes, my friend, the life thou leadest, the 
 life thou thinkest of, is the interpreter 
 of thine inward being. Such as lile is to 
 thee, such thou art. If it is low and 
 mean and base, if it is a mere money- 
 
LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS LN VIEW OF DEATH. 
 
 103 
 
 •getting or pleasure-seeking or honor- 
 craving life, so art thou. Be thou luf ty- 
 mindeil, pure, and holy ; and life shall 
 be to thee the beginning of heaven, the 
 threshold of immortality. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS IN VIEW 
 OF DEATH. 
 
 John xi. 25 : " Jesus said unto her, I am the res- 
 urrection and the life." 
 
 These words, my brethren, so stu- 
 pendous in their import, so majestic in 
 their tone, when and where were they 
 uttered .'' They were uttered in a world 
 of the dying ; in a world which is the 
 tomb of all past generations ; in a world 
 from whose dreary caverns, from whose 
 dark catacombs, and alike from whose 
 proud mausoleums and towering pyra- 
 mids, no word ever issued that spake of 
 anything but death. They were uttered 
 in an hour when bereavement, dimmed 
 with tears and fainting with sorrow, was 
 sighing for help more than human. 
 
 It was at Bethany. You remember 
 the affecting story of Mary, and Martha 
 her sister, and of Lazarus their brother. 
 So simply and truly is it told, that it 
 seems as if it were the relation of what 
 had taken place in any village around us. 
 " Now a certain man, named Lazarus, of 
 Bethany, was sick." How does such 
 an event, when it becomes sufficiently 
 marked with peril to attract attention, 
 spread anxiety and apprehension through 
 a whole neighborhood ! Life pauses, 
 and is suspended on the result. '" Laza- 
 rus was sick." What fears, watchings, 
 and agonies of solicitude hover around 
 the sick man's couch, none but the in- 
 mates of his dwelling can know. It was 
 in such an emergency that Mary and 
 Martha, fearful and troubled, sent a 
 message to their chief comforter and 
 friend, saying, " Behold, he whom thou 
 lovest is sick." Jesus, for reasons per- 
 haps beyond our knowledge, does not 
 immediately answer the call of distress. 
 
 He remains two days in the same place. 
 Then the dreaded event had taken 
 place ; all was over ; and he calmly says 
 to his disciples, " Our friend Lazarus 
 sleepeth." So does he contemplate 
 death, not as a dread catastrophe, but 
 as a quiet sleep ; a sacred repose, suc- 
 ceeding the weary and troubled day of 
 life. Beautifully says our great drama- 
 tist, — 
 
 "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 
 
 But so does it not appear to the be- 
 reaved and sorrowing sisters. They 
 are plunged into the deepest distress. 
 It is a time of mourning in that still and 
 desolate house at Bethany. The dead 
 is buried ; but grief lives, and the hours 
 pass in silent agony. The sympathiz- 
 ing neighbors from the village are still 
 there ; and many friends from Jerusa- 
 lem are with tiie afflicted sisters to com- 
 fort them concerning their brother. 
 
 At length the Master approaches. 
 Martha, ever more alert and attentive 
 to what is passing, first hearing of it, 
 goes forth to meet him. Soon, however, 
 she returns, and says to Mary, her sis- 
 ter, secretly, gives her a private intima- 
 tion — how much passes in the dumb 
 show, in whispers, where deep grief is ! 
 — she says, in a low tone, " The Master 
 is come, and calleth for thee. And as 
 soon as she heard that, she arose quick- 
 ly and came unto him." The language 
 of both when they met him is the same, 
 turns upon the same point : " Lord, if 
 thou hadst been here, our brother had 
 not died." What natural and living 
 truth is there in this simjjle trait of feel- 
 ing ! How natural is it for the bereaved 
 to think that if this or that had been 
 done ; if this or that physician had 
 been called ; if some other course had 
 been adopted, or some other plan or 
 clime had favored, the blow might have 
 been averted. The thoughts all shrink 
 from the awful certainty, revert to the 
 possibility of its having been avoided, 
 and catch at all possible suppositions to 
 find relief. But the awful certainty nev- 
 ertheless overwhelmed the mourning sis- 
 
I04 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 ters ; " the end had come ; their brother 
 was dead — was dead! no help now; 
 no change to come over that still sleep ;" 
 so mourned they ; and Jesus, behold- 
 ing their distress, groaned in spirit and 
 was troubled. "Jesus wept." He was 
 not one who, with cold philosophy or 
 misplaced rapture in his countenance, 
 looked on bereavement and agony — 
 looked on death. He was not one who 
 iorbade tears and sorrows. He was 
 not one who approached the grave wilh 
 an air of triumph, though he had gained 
 a victory over it ; but it is written that, 
 '' again groaning within himself, he came 
 to the grave." No, humanity shudders, 
 and trembles, and groans when it comes 
 there, and may not, by any true relig- 
 ion, be denied these testimonies to its 
 frailty. 
 
 But still there were words of soothing 
 and comfort uttered by our Saviour on 
 this occasion; and let us now turn to 
 them and consider tlieir import. " Mar- 
 tha said to Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst 
 been here, my brother had not died. 
 But I know tliat even now, whatsoever 
 thou wilt ask of God, God will give it 
 thee. Jesus saith unto her, thy brother 
 shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, 
 I know he shaH rise again in the resur- 
 recdon, at the last day." She had prob- 
 ably heard the doctrine of a future life 
 from himself; but alas ! that life seems 
 far off ; dim shadows spread themselves 
 over the everlasting fields ; they seem 
 unreal to a person of Martha's turn of 
 mind ; she wants her brother again as 
 he was but now by her side ; she enter- 
 tains some hope that Jesus will restore 
 him ; she says, '• Even now, I know that 
 wliatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God 
 will give it thee." Jesus does not reply 
 to this suggestion ; he does not tell her 
 whether her brother sliall immediately 
 come back to her, but utters himself 
 in a more general and a grander truth. 
 ' I am the resurrection and the life ; 
 he that believeth in me, though he were 
 dead, yet shall he live ; and whosoever 
 livetb and believeth in me shall never 
 die ; believest thou this ? " As if he 
 
 had said, be not too curious nor anxious 
 in your thoughts, but confide, Martha, 
 in me. You believe in a future resur- 
 rection, or renewal of life ; you hope 
 for the immediate resurrection of your 
 brother ; but be satisfied with this, " 1 
 am the Resurrection ; " all that resur- 
 rection, renewal of life, heavenly happi- 
 ness, means, is embodied, consummated, 
 fulfilled in me. Nay, it is not some fu- 
 ture return to being of which I speak ; 
 he that liveth, and believeth in me, shall 
 never die. Already he hath begun to 
 live immortally. Death is for the body ; 
 but for that soul, no death. Its aflfec- 
 tions are in their very nature immortal, 
 and have in them the very elements of 
 undecaying happiness. 
 
 Let us attend a moment to the two 
 parts of this instruction : what our Sav- 
 iour uttered as already the belief of 
 Martha ; and what he added in the em- 
 phatic declaration, '• I am the Resurrec- 
 tion and the Life." 
 
 "Thy brother shall live again " — thy 
 brother ! Not some undefined spirit- 
 uality, not some new and strange being, 
 shall go forth beyond the mortal bourn ; 
 but life — life, in its character, its affec- 
 tions, its spiritual identity, such as it is 
 here ; thy brother shall rise again." He- 
 is not lost to thee ; he shall not be so 
 spiritually changed as to be forever lost 
 to thee. On some other shore — as if 
 he had only gone to another hemisphere 
 instead of another world ; on some other 
 shore thou shalt find him again, — find 
 thy brother. Thus much must have 
 been taught, or there had been no per- 
 tinency, no comfort in the teaching. 
 To have only said that in the eternal 
 revolutions and metamorphoses of be- 
 ing, life, existence should in some sense 
 be continued, or tliat all souls should be 
 re-absorbed into the Parent Soul, would 
 have been nothing to this mourning sis- 
 ter. Without conscious identity, indeed, 
 without continued existence, a future 
 life has no intelligible meaning ; and 
 certainly without it there could be no 
 such thing as reward or retribution. 
 And since the social element is an essen- 
 
LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS IN VIEW OF DEATH. 
 
 105 
 
 tial part of our nature, that element must 
 be found in a nature which is the same : 
 and that being so, to suppose that friends 
 should meet and commune together 
 without recognition is as absurd as it 
 would be unsatisfactory. Most clearly 
 
 — to confine ourselves to the case before 
 us — such a promise of future existence, 
 that is, of a vague, indefinite, unremem- 
 bering e.\istence, would be no comfort 
 to sorrowing friendship. To individual 
 expectation it would be something, but 
 to bereaved affection, nothing. It is to 
 such sorrow, one of the bitterest in this 
 world — that of a sister left alone in the 
 world — that Jesus speaks, and he says, 
 " Thy brother shall live again." 
 
 " Thy brother shall live again." 
 What words are these to be uttered, 
 
 — amidst the wrecks of time, the me- 
 morials of buried nations, tlie earth- 
 mounds swelling far and wide above the 
 silent dust of all that has ever lived 
 and breathed in the visible creation ! 
 Whence comes such stupendous, such 
 amazing words as these ? From be- 
 yond the regions of all visible life they 
 come. From the dark earth beneath us 
 no voice issues ; from the shining walls 
 of heaven no angel forms beckon us. 
 Silence, dust, death, are here ; no more : 
 the earth entombs us, the heavens crush 
 us, till those words come to us, heaven- 
 sent, from the great realm of invisible 
 life. O blessed revelation ! Life there 
 is for us, somewhere ; I ask not where. 
 I can wait God's time for that. Blessed 
 fields there are somewhere in the great 
 embosoming universe of God, that 
 stretch onward and onward forever, and 
 the happy walk there. There shall we 
 find our lost ones, and be with them 
 evermore. " Father," said our Saviour 
 when he was about to depart, " I will 
 that they whom thou hast given me, 
 be with me where I am." Shall that 
 prayer be answered ? Then shall there 
 be a glorious fellowship of good men 
 with Jesus and with one another. Are 
 we not sometimes, w'len we think of 
 this, like Paul, "in a strait between 
 two," — between the claims of friendship 
 
 on earth and of friendship in heaven, — 
 and ready to say, " For us it is better to 
 depart and be with Christ"? Are we 
 not ready to say, as the disciples did 
 of Lazarus, when our beloved ones are 
 gone from us, '• Let us go and die with 
 them " ? 
 
 And then, in addition to this inexpres- 
 sible comfort«and hope, what is it that 
 our Saviour so emphatically says to 
 Martha ? "I ai?i the Resurrection and 
 the Life." Something /« addition, we 
 may well suppose it must be. And I 
 understand it to be this : He that be- 
 lieveth on me, that is, receiveth me, hath 
 the spirit, the spiritual life that is in me, 
 the same love of God, the same trust 
 in God, — is already living an immortal 
 life. He shall never die. That in him 
 which partakes of my inward life shall 
 never die. It is essentially immortal, 
 and immortally blessed ; and no dark 
 eclipse shall come over it, between death 
 and the resurrection, to bury it in the 
 gloom of utter unconsciousness, or to 
 cause it to wander like a shadow in the 
 dim realms of an intermediate state. I 
 inn the Resurrection. Thy brother, who 
 hath part in me, lives now as truly as 
 I live." As he says in another place, " I 
 am the bread of life ; he that eateth me, 
 even he shall live through me ; " so he 
 says, " I am the Resurrection and the 
 Life : and to him that is partner and 
 partaker with me, belongeth not death, 
 but only resurrection, continued life, life 
 everlasting." 
 
 Let us now proceed to consider one 
 or two further grounds for consolation 
 that are suggested by this teaching of 
 our Saviour. 
 
 That which he especially proposes to 
 his bereaved friends at Bethany is faith 
 in him. It was a faith in him as the 
 Saviour of the world, as one who was 
 commissioned to bring life and immortal- 
 ity clearly to light, as one who through 
 his own death and resurrection should 
 open the way to heaven. But we should 
 not do justice to this sentiment of faith, 
 if we did not regard it as something more 
 than any mere view of him as Saviour ; 
 
io6 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 if we did not regard it as the most inti- 
 mate participation of the spiritual life 
 that was in him. That participation em- 
 braces, doubtless, general purity of heart 
 and life, a humble resignation to God's 
 will, a thoughtful consideration of the 
 wise purposes and necessary uses of 
 affliction ; but especially it embraces, as 
 the sum and source of all, the love of 
 God. Faitli in Christ is nothing more 
 emphatically than it is the love of God, his 
 Father. Upon nothing does he more 
 earnestly insist, and upon this he espe- 
 cially insists as the pledge and the test of 
 fidelity to him. 
 
 To this, then, let me particularly direct 
 your attention as the most essential part 
 of that faith which is to comfort us. 
 
 It is the love of God only that can 
 produce a just sense of his love to us. 
 It is only a deep and true sense of his 
 love to us that can assuage the wounds 
 of our affliction. This results from the 
 very nature of things. It is not a tech- 
 nical dogma, but a living and practical 
 truth. It is not a truth merely for cer- 
 tain persons called Christians, who are 
 supposed to understand this language, 
 but it is a truth for all men. We suffer 
 under the government of God. It is his 
 will that has appointed to us change, 
 trial, bereavement, sorrow, death. The 
 dispensation, therefore, will be colored 
 to us throughout — it will be darkened 
 or brightened all over — by our views of 
 its great Ordainer. Ah ! it is a doubt 
 here J it is some distrust or difficulty, or 
 want of vital faith on this point, that 
 often adds the bitterest sting to human 
 affliction. When all is well with us, we 
 can say that God is good, and think 
 that we have some love to him ; but 
 when the blow of calamity or death falls 
 upon our dearest possessions, strikes 
 down innocent childhood, or lovely youth, 
 or the needed maturity of all human 
 virtue or source of all earthly help and 
 comfort, — strikes from our side that 
 which we could least of all spare; oh! 
 it seems to us a cruel, cruel blow ! — and 
 we say, perhaps, in our distracted 
 thoughts, " Is God good, to inflict it upon 
 
 us ? He could have saved, and he did 
 not ; he would not. Why would he not ? 
 Does he love us, and yet afflict us so? — 
 yet crush us, break us down, and blight 
 all our hopes ? Is this a loving dispen- 
 sation .'' " 
 
 My friends, there is but one remedy 
 for all this ; the love, the true, pure, child- 
 like love of God : such love and trust 
 as Jesus felt ; even as he, the smitten, 
 afflicted, cast down, betrayed, crucified, 
 who was urged, in the extremity of his 
 sorrow, to say, " Father, if it be possible, 
 remove this cup from me ; " yet immedi- 
 ately added, " Father, not my will, but 
 thine be done." This is our example. 
 This is our only salvation. Nothing but 
 this love of God can yield us comfort. 
 If there is no ground for this, then there is 
 no place for consolation in the universe. 
 There may be enduring, there may be 
 forgetting, but there can be no consola- 
 tion. If there is ground for this love and 
 trust, who in the day of trouble will not 
 pray God to breathe it into his broken 
 heart ? 
 
 I have said that doubt, distrust, want 
 of faith, is our difficulty. And yet, how 
 can we doubt? Wo^ can the Infinite 
 Being be anything but good ? What 
 motive, what reason, what possibility, 
 I had almost said, can there be to In- 
 finite power, Infinite sufficiency, to be 
 anything but good ? How can we, — ex- 
 cept it be in some momentary paroxysm 
 of grief, — how, I say, can we doubt ? 
 How doubt, beneath these shining heav- 
 ens ; amidst the riches, the plenitude, 
 the brightness and beauty, of the whole 
 creation; with capacities of thought, of 
 improvement, of happiness, in ourselves 
 that almost transcend expression ; nay, 
 and with sorrows, too, tliat proclaim 
 the loss of objects so inexpressibly dear? 
 Whence, but from love in God, could 
 have come a love in us so intense, so 
 transporting, so full of joy and blessed- 
 ness ; nay, and so full, too, of pain and 
 anguish ? No ! such a love in me as- 
 sures me that it had its origin in love. 
 Could the Being who made me intelligent 
 have been himself without intelligence? 
 
LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS IN VIEW OF DEATH. 
 
 107 
 
 Nor could the Being want love who has 
 made me so to love, so to sorrow for 
 what I love. By my very sorrows, 
 then, I know that God loves me ; I say 
 not whether with approbation, but with 
 an infinite kindness, an infinite pity. 
 What / need is but to feel it, to pray 
 for that feeling, to meditate upon all 
 that should bring that feeling into my 
 lieart ; to take refuge, amidst my sor- 
 rows, in the assurance that God loves 
 nie : that he does not willingly grieve 
 or afflict me ; that he chastens me for 
 my profiting ; that he could not show 
 .so much love for me by leaving me un- 
 chastened. untried, undisciplined. " We 
 iuive had fathers of our flesh who chas- 
 tened us,'' — put us to tasks, trials, griefs ; 
 "and we gave them reverence," — felt, 
 amidst all, that they were good. " Shall 
 we not much rather be in subjection 
 to the Father of our spirits and live?" 
 Great is the faith that must save us. 
 It is a faith in the Infinite, — a faith in 
 the Infinite love of God ! 
 
 From this faith arises another ground 
 of consolation. It is, not only that all 
 is well, but that in the great order of 
 things, tJiat which particularly concerns 
 lis — enters into our peculiar suffering — 
 is well. Our case, perhaps, is bereave- 
 ment, heavy and sorrowful bereavement. 
 Is it a messenger of wrath .'' Is any 
 one of its circumstances, of its peculi- 
 arities, — so poignant and piercing to 
 us, — an indication of divine anger ? 
 Awful thought ! Immitigable calamity, 
 if it were so ! But no ; it is appointed 
 in love. Can God do anything for 
 anger's sake ? To me it were not God, 
 of whom this could be said. Let it be 
 that a hadv!\-xx\ has died. Has God made 
 him die because he hated him ? I be- 
 lieve it not. If he has lost his being, I 
 believe that it is well that he has lost it. 
 If he has gone to retribution, I believe 
 it is well that he has gone to that retri- 
 bution ; that nothing could be better for 
 him, being what it is. If / were that 
 unhappy being, I would say, " Let me 
 be in the hands of the infinitely good 
 God, rather tlian anywhere else." But 
 
 if it is a good being that lias gone from 
 me, an innocent child, or one clothed 
 with every lovely virtue, one whom Jesus 
 loved as he loved the dear brother in 
 Bethany, to what joys unspeakable has 
 that being gone ! In the bosom of God, 
 in the bosom of infinite love, all with 
 him is well. Could that departed one 
 speak to us, that lovely and loving one, 
 invested with the radiance and sur- 
 rounded with the bliss of some heavenly 
 land, would not the language be, — • 
 " Mourn not for me, or mourn not as 
 having no hope. Dishonor not the 
 good and blessed One, my Father and 
 your Father, by any distrust or doubt. 
 Mourn for me, remember me, as I too 
 remember you, long for you ; but mourn 
 with humble patience and calm sustain- 
 ing faith." 
 
 How is it with us, my brethren, in 
 this world, and what, in contemplation 
 of death, would we say to those that 
 we shall leave behind us ? " Grieve 
 not for me," would not one say, — or, 
 " grieve not too much when I am gone. 
 I cannot bear that you should suffer 
 that awful agony, that desolating sor- 
 row, that is often seen in the house of 
 mourning. Remembered I would be ; 
 oh, let me have a memorial in some 
 living, affectionate hearts ! I would 
 never be forgotten ; I would never have 
 it felt that the tie with me is broken : 
 but let the memory of me be calm, 
 patient, sacred, gently sorrowing if need 
 be, but yet ever partaking of the bless- 
 edness of that love which death cannot 
 quench. Let not my name gather about 
 it an awfulness or a sacredness, such 
 that it may not be uttered in the places 
 where I have lived ; or if in the sanc- 
 tuary where it is kept there is a delicacy 
 that forbids the easy utterance of it, still 
 let it not be invested with gloom and 
 sadness. Think of me, when I am gone, 
 as one who thought much on death : 
 who had thoughts of it, more and 
 greater than he could, in the ordinary 
 goings on of life, find fit occasion to 
 utter. If you could wish that I had 
 said more to you on this and many other 
 
io8 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 themes, yet give the confidence that jou 
 must ask, for that secret world within 
 us all, that world of a thousand tender 
 thoughts and feelings for which lan- 
 guage has no expression. Think of me 
 as still possessing those thoughts and 
 feelings, as still the same to you, as one 
 that loves you still ; for death shall not 
 destroy in us that image of Christ, a 
 pure and holy love. If I retain my con- 
 sciousness, I must still think of you 
 with more than all the love I ever felt ; 
 it cannot be otherwise. And if I am 
 to sleep till tlie resurrection, though 
 my hope is far different : believing in 
 Jesus, my hope is that I am already of 
 the Resurrection ; yet, if it be so that 
 God has ordained that pause in my ex- 
 istence, it is surely for a wise purpose ; 
 it is doubtless best for me ; and to the 
 ever good and blessed will of God I 
 calmly and humbly submit myself : to 
 that ever-gracious will I pray you to be 
 patiently and cheerfully resigned. How 
 much better is it than your will or mine ! 
 What boundless good may we not ex- 
 pect from an Infinite Will, prompted by 
 an Infinite Love ! Lift up your lowly 
 thoughts to this : lift them up to the 
 heavenly regions, to the boundless uni- 
 verse, to the all-embracing eternity ; 
 and in these contemplations lose the 
 too keen sense of this breathing hour 
 of time, of this world of dust and shad- 
 ows, — and of brightness and beauty, 
 too ; for all is good ; all in earth and in 
 heaven, in time and eternity, is good." 
 
 Thus, I conceive, might a wise and 
 good man, about to depart from this 
 life, speak to those whom he was to 
 leave behind him. And thus might 
 those who have died in infant inno- 
 cence, thus might angel-children, speak 
 from some brighter sphere. And if it 
 were wisdom thus to speak, then let 
 that wisdom sink into our hearts, and 
 bring there its consolation. Perfect re- 
 lief from suffering it cannot bring; sor- 
 row we may, we must ; many and bitter 
 pains must we bear in this mortal lot ; 
 Jesus wept over such pains, and we may 
 weep over them ; but let us be wise ; let 
 
 us be trustful ; let the love of God fill 
 our hearts ; let the heavenly consolation 
 help us all that it can. It can help us 
 much. It is not mere breath of words 
 to say that God is good, that all is right, 
 all is well ; all that concerns us is tlie 
 care of Infinite Love. It is not a mere 
 religious commonplace, to say that sul - 
 mission, trust, love, can help us. Mori- 
 than eye ever saw or the ear ever hean-!, 
 or the worldly heart ever conceived, can 
 a deep, humble, childlike, loving pietv 
 bring help and comfort in the hours of 
 mortal sorrow and bitterness. Believest 
 thou this .f" This was our Saviour's 
 question to Martha in her distress. 
 " He that believetli on me, though he 
 were dead, yet shall he live. And he 
 that liveth, and believeth on me, shall 
 never die. Believest thou this ? " This 
 humble-believing, this heart-believing, 
 my friends, is what we need, — must 
 have, — must seek. The breathing of 
 the life of Jesus in us, the bright cloud 
 around us in which he walked, this can 
 comfort us beyond all that we know, 
 all that we imagine. May we find that 
 comfort ! Forlorn, forsaken ; or de- 
 prived, destitute ; or bereaved, broken- 
 hearted; whatever be our strait or 
 sorrow, may we find that comfort ! 
 
 My brethren, I have been communing 
 now with afiliction. It is a holy and 
 delicate ofiice ; and I have been afraid, 
 when speaking with all the earnestness 
 I felt, lest I should not speak with all 
 the delicacy I ought; lest I should only 
 add to grief by touching its wound. But 
 I felt that I was coming to meet sorrow ; 
 I know that I often come to meet it 
 here ; it has of late occupied much of 
 my mind ; and I could not refrain from 
 offering my humble aid for its relief. 
 
 I reflected, too, that 1 was coming this 
 morning to this sacred table,* this altar 
 reared for the comfort of all believing 
 souls : reared by dying hands to tlie 
 resurrection, to the hope of everlasting 
 life. It was the same night in which he 
 was betrayed : it was when he was about 
 to die, that Jesus set forth in the form 
 
 * Preached before \\\t Communion. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 
 
 109 
 
 of a feast this solemn and cheering me- 
 morial of himself, and uttered many 
 sootiiing and consoHng words to his dis- 
 ciples. He did not build a tomb by 
 which to be remembered ; but he ap- 
 pointed a feast of remembrance. He 
 did not tell his disciples to put on sack- 
 cloth ; but to clothe themselves with the 
 recollections of him, as with the robe 
 of immortality Death, indeed, was a 
 dread to him, and he shrunk from it. 
 It was a grief to his disciples ; and he 
 recognized it as such, and so dealt with 
 it. But he showed to them a trust in 
 God, a loving submission to the Father, 
 that could stay the soul. He spoke of 
 a victory over death. He assured them 
 that man's last enemy was conquered. 
 Here, then, amidst these memorials of 
 death, let us meditate upon the life ever- 
 lasting. Let us carry our thoughts to 
 that world where Christ is, and where 
 he prayed that all who love him might 
 be with him ; where, we believe, they 
 are with him. Let our faith rise so high 
 — God grant it ! — that we can say : 
 " O grave, where is thy victory ? O 
 death, where is thy sting ? Thanks be 
 to God who giveth us the victory 
 through Christ Jesus our Lord ! " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED IN 
 THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 
 
 John i. 4 : " In him was life, and the Hfe was the 
 light of men." 
 
 The words, "life and light," are con- 
 stantly used by the Apostle John, after 
 a manner long familiar in the Hebrew 
 writings, for spiritual happiness and 
 spiritual truth. The inmost and truest 
 life of man, the life of his life, is spir- 
 itual life — is, in others words, purity, 
 love, goodness ; and this inward purity, 
 love, goodness, is the very light of life ; 
 that which brightens, blesses, guides it. 
 
 I have little respect for the ingenuity 
 that is always striving to work out from 
 the simple language of Scripture fanciful 
 
 and far-fetched meanings ; but it would 
 seem, in the passage before us, as if 
 Jolin intended to state one of the deepest 
 truths in the very frame of our being ; 
 and that is, tJiat goodness is the foun- 
 tain of wisdotn. 
 
 Give me your patience a moment, and 
 I will attempt to explain this proposi- 
 tion. " In it was life ; " that is, in this 
 manifested and all-creating energy, this 
 outflowing of the power of God, was a 
 divine and infinite love and joy ; and 
 this life was the light of men. That is 
 to say — love first, then light. Light 
 does not create love ; but love creates 
 light. The good heart only can under- 
 stand the good teaching. The doctrine 
 of truth that guides a man comes from 
 the divinity of goodness that inspires 
 him. But, it will be said, does not a 
 man become holy, or good, in view 
 of truth 1 I answer, that he cannot 
 -jiew the truth, but through the medium 
 of love. It is the loving view only, that 
 is effective, that is any view at all. 
 I must desire you to observe that I am 
 speaking now of the primary convictions 
 of a man, and not of the secondary in- 
 fluences that operate upon him. Light 
 may strengtiien love ; a knowledge of 
 the works and ways of God may have 
 this effect, and it is properly presented 
 for this purpose. But light cannot 
 originate love. If love were not im- 
 planted in man's original and inmost 
 being; if there were not placed there 
 the moral or spiritual feeling, that loves 
 while it perceives goodness ; all the 
 speculative light in the universe would 
 leave man's nature still and forever cold 
 and dead as a stone. In short, loveli- 
 ness is a quality which nothing but love 
 can perceive. God cannot be known in 
 his highest, that is, in his spiritual and 
 holy nature, except by those who love 
 him. 
 
 Now, of this life and light, as we are 
 immediately afterwards taught, Jesus 
 Christ, not as a teacher merely, but as 
 a being, is to us the great and appoint- 
 ed source. And therefore when Thom- 
 as says, " How can we know the way of 
 
I 10 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 1 
 
 which thou speakest ? " Jesus answers, 
 " / a7n the way, and the truth, and the 
 life ; no man cometh to the Father but 
 by me." That is, no man can truly come 
 to God, but in that spirit of filial love 
 of which I am the example. 
 
 In our humanity there is a problem. 
 In Christ only it is perfectly solved. 
 The speculative solution of that problem 
 is philosophy. The practical solution is 
 a good life ; and the only perfect solution 
 is the life of Christ. '• In him was life, 
 and the life was the light of men." 
 
 In him, I say, was solved the problem 
 of life. What is that problem ? What are 
 the questions which it presents ? They 
 are these : Is there anything that can 
 be achieved in life, in which our nature 
 can find full satisfaction and sufficiency ? 
 And if there be any such thing, any such 
 end of life, then is there any adaptation 
 of things to that end ? Are there any 
 means or helps provided in life for its 
 attainment ? Now the end must be the 
 highest condition of our highest nature ; 
 and that end, we say, is virtue, sanctity, 
 blessedness. And the helps or means 
 are found in the whole discipline of life. 
 But the end was perfectly accomplished 
 in Christ, and it was accomplished 
 through the very means which are ap- 
 pointed to us. " He was tempted in all 
 points as we are, yet without sin ; " and 
 '■ he was made thus perfect through suf- 
 ferings." 
 
 Our Saviour evidently regarded him- 
 self as sustaining this relation to human 
 life : the enlightener of its darkness, the 
 interpreter of its mystery, the solver of 
 its problem. " I am the light of the 
 world," he says ; " he that followeth me 
 shall not walk in darkness, but shall 
 have the light of life." And again : '' I am 
 come a light into the world, that who- 
 soever beheveth on me, should not abide 
 in darkness." It was not for abstract 
 teaching to men that he came, but for 
 actual guidance in their daily abodes. 
 It was not to deliver doctrines alone, nor 
 to utter or echo back the intuitive con- 
 victions of our own minds, but to live a 
 life and to die a death; and so to live and 
 
 to die, as to cast light upon the dark 
 paths in which we walk. 
 
 I need not say that there is darkness, 
 in the paths of men ; that they stumble 
 at difficulties, are ensnared by tempta- 
 tions, are perplexed by doubts ; that 
 they are anxious and troubled and fear- 
 ful ; that pain and affliction and sorrow 
 often gather around the steps of their 
 earthly pilgrimage. All this is written 
 upon the very tablet of the human heart. 
 And I do not say that all this is to be 
 erased ; but only that it is to be seen 
 and read in a new light. I do not say 
 that ills and trials and sufferings are to 
 be removed from life ; but only that over 
 this scene of mortal trouble anew heaven 
 is to be spread ; and that the light of 
 that heaven is Christ, the sun of right- 
 eousness. 
 
 To human pride, this may be a hard 
 saying ; to human philosophy, learning, 
 and grandeur, it may be a hard saying ; 
 but still it is true, that the simple life of 
 Christ, studied, understood, and imitated, 
 would shed a brighter light than all 
 earthly wisdom can find, upon the dark 
 trials and mysteries of our lot. It is true 
 that whatever you most need or sigh 
 for, whatever you most want, to still the 
 troubles of your heart or compose the 
 agitations of your mind, the simple life 
 of Jesus can teach you. 
 
 To show this, I need only take the 
 most ordinary admissions from the lips 
 of any Christian, or, I may say, of almost 
 any unbeliever. 
 
 Suppose that the world were filled with 
 beings like Jesus. Would not all the 
 great ills of society be instantly relieved 1 
 Would you not immediately dismiss all 
 your anxieties concerning it, perfectly 
 sure that all was going on well .-* Would 
 not all coercion, infliction, injury, injus- 
 tice, and all the greatest suffering of life, 
 disappear at once ? If, at the stretching 
 out of some wonder-working wand, that 
 change could take place, would not the 
 change be greater far than if every 
 house, hovel, and prison on earth were 
 instantly turned into a palace of ease 
 and abundance and splendor ? Happy 
 
THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 
 
 I I I 
 
 then would be these " human years ; " 
 and the eternal ages would roll on in 
 brightness and beauty ! The " still, sad 
 music of humanity," that sounds through 
 the world, now in the swellings of grief, 
 and now in pensive melancholy, would 
 be exchanged for anthems, lifted up to 
 the nurch of time and bursting out from 
 the heart of the world ! 
 
 But let us make another supposition, 
 and bring it still nearer to ourselves. 
 Were any one of us a perfect imitator of 
 Christ, were any one of us clothed with 
 the divinity of his virtue and faith, do 
 you not perceive what the effect would 
 be ? Look around upon the circle of life's 
 ills and trials, and observe the effect. 
 Did sensual passions assail you ? How 
 weak would be their solicitation to the 
 divine beatitude of your own heart! You 
 would say, " I have meat to eat that ye 
 know not of." Did want tempt you to do 
 wrongly, or curiosity to do rashly ? You 
 would say to the one, " Man shall not 
 live by bread alone ; there is a higher 
 life which I must live ; " and to the other, 
 " Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy 
 God." Did ambition spread its king- 
 doms and thrones before you, and ask 
 you to swerve from your great alle- 
 giance ? Your reply would be ready : 
 " Get thee hence, Satan, for it is written, 
 thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and 
 him only shalt thou serve." Did the 
 storm of injury beat upon your head, or 
 its silent shaft pierce your heart.'' In 
 meekness you would bow that head, in 
 prayer that heart, saying, " Father, for- 
 give them, for they know not what they 
 do." What sorrow could reach you ; 
 what pain, what anguish, that would not 
 be soothed by a faith and a love like that 
 of Jesus ? And what blessing could liijht 
 on you, that would not be brightened by 
 a filial piety and gratitude like his ? The 
 world around you would be new, and the 
 heavens over you would be new ; for they 
 would be all, and all around their ample 
 range, and all through their glorious 
 splendors, the presence and the visita- 
 tion of a Father. And you yourself 
 would be a new creature ; and you would 
 
 enjoy a happiness new, and now scarcely 
 known on earth. 
 
 And 1 cannot help observing here that 
 if such be the spontaneous conviction 
 of every mind at all acquainted with 
 Christianity, what a powerful indepen- 
 dent argument there is for receiving 
 Christ as a guide and example ! It were 
 an anomaly, indeed, to the eye of reason, 
 to reject the solemn and self-claimed 
 mission of one whom it would be happi- 
 ness to follow, whom it would be perfec- 
 tion to imitate. Yet if the former, the 
 special mission were rejected ; if it were, 
 as it may be, by possibility, honestly re- 
 jected, what is a man to think of himself, 
 who passes by, and discards the latter, 
 the teaching of the life of Christ ? Let 
 it be the man Rousssau, or the man 
 Hume, or any man in these days, who 
 says that he believes nothing in churches 
 or miracles or mi:>sions trom heaven. 
 But he admits, as they did and as every 
 one must, that in Jesus Christ was the 
 most perfect unfolding of all divine 
 beauty and holiness that the world ever 
 saw. What, I say, is he to do with 
 this undeniable and undenied Gospel 
 of the life of Jesus 'i Blessed is he, if 
 he receives it ; that is unquestionable. 
 All who read of him, all the world, 
 admits that. But what shall we say if 
 he rejects it ? If any one could be 
 clothed with the eloquence of Cicero or 
 the wisdom of Socrates, and would not, 
 ail the world would pronounce him a 
 fool, would say that he had denied his 
 humanity. And surely if any one could 
 be invested with all the beauty and gran- 
 deur of the life of Jesus, and would not, 
 he must be stricken with utter moral 
 fatuity ; he must be accounted to have 
 denied his highest humanity. The in- 
 terpretation of his case is as plain as 
 words can make it; and it is this : " Light 
 has come into the world, and men have 
 loved darkness rather than light, because 
 their deeds are evil." 
 
 " In him was life." says our text, "and 
 the life was the light of men." 
 
 I have attempted to bring home the 
 conviction of this, simply by bringing 
 
1 12 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 before your minds the supposition that 
 the world, and we ourselves, were like 
 him. But as no conviction, I think, at 
 the present stage of our Christian pro- 
 gress is so important as this, let me at- 
 tempt to impress it by another course 
 of reflections. I say of our Christian 
 progress. We have cleared away many 
 obstacles, as we think, and have come 
 near to the simplicity of the Gospel. No 
 comphcated ecclesiastical organization 
 nor scholastic creed stands between us 
 and the solemn verities of Christianity. 
 I am not now pronouncing upon those 
 accumulations of human devices; but I 
 mean especially to say that no mystical 
 notions of their necessity or importance 
 mingle themselves with our ideas of ac- 
 ceptance. We have come to stand be- 
 fore the simple, naked shrine of the origi- 
 nal Gospel. We have come, through 
 many human teachings and human ad- 
 monitions, to Christ himself. But little 
 will it avail us to have come so far, if we 
 take not one step farther. Now, what I 
 think we need is, to enter more deeply 
 into the study and understanding of 
 what Christ was. 
 
 This, let us attempt. And I pray you 
 and myself, brethren, not to be content 
 with the little that can now be said ; but 
 let us carefully read the Gospels for 
 ourselves, and lay the law of the life of 
 Christ with rigorous precision to our 
 own lives, and see where they fail and 
 come short. It is true, indeed, and I 
 would urge nothing beyond the truth, 
 that the life of Jesus is not, in every re- 
 spect, an example for us. That is to 
 say, the manner of his life was, in some 
 respects, different from what ours can 
 or should be. He was a teacher ; and 
 the most of us are necessarily and law- 
 fully engaged in the business of life. 
 He was sent on a peculiar mission; and 
 none of us have such a mission. But 
 the spirit that was in him maybe in us. 
 To some of the traits of this spirit, as 
 the only sources of light and help to us, 
 let me now briefly direct your attention. 
 
 And first, consider his self-renuncia- 
 tion. How entire that self renunciation 
 
 was ; how completely his aims went be- 
 yond personal ease and selfi.sh gratifica 
 tion ; how all his thoughts and words and 
 actions were employed upon the work for 
 which he was sent into the world ; how 
 his whole life, as well as his death, was 
 an offering to that cause, I need not 
 tell you. Indeed, so entirely is this his 
 accredited character; so completely is 
 he set apart in our thoughts not only to 
 a peculiar office, but set apart too and 
 separated from all human interests and 
 affections, that we are liable to do his 
 character in this respect no proper jus- 
 tice. We isolate him, till he almost 
 ceases to be an example to us ; till he 
 almost ceases to be a virtuous being. 
 He stands alone in Judea ; and the words 
 — society, country, kindred, friendship, 
 home — seem to have, to him, only a 
 fictitious application. But these ties 
 bound him as they do others ; the gen- 
 tleness and tenderness of his nature 
 made him peculiarly susceptible to them ; 
 no more touching allusions to kindred 
 and country can be found in human 
 language than his ; as when he said, 
 " O Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! " in fore- 
 sight of her coming woes ; as when he 
 said on the cross, " Behold thy mother ! 
 behold thy son ! " Doubtless he desired 
 to be a benefactor to his country, an hon- 
 or to his family ; and when Peter, dep- 
 recating his dishonor and degradation, 
 said, " Be it far from thee, Lord ! this 
 shall not be unto thee," and he turned 
 and said unto Peter, "Get thee behind 
 me, Satan, thou savorest not the things 
 that be of God, but those that be of men," 
 it has been beautifully suggested that 
 the very energy of that repulse to his 
 enthusiastic and admiring disciple shows 
 perhaps that he felt that there was some- 
 thing in his mind that was leaning that 
 way : that the things of men were con- 
 tending with the things of God in him ; 
 that he too much dreaded the coming 
 humiliation and agony, to wish to have 
 that feeling fostered in his heart. 
 
 But he rejected all this ; he renounced 
 himself, renounced all the dear affections 
 and softer pleadings of his affectionate 
 
 
THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 
 
 113 
 
 nature, that he might be true to higher 
 interests than his own, or his country's, 
 or his kindred's. Now I say that the 
 same self-renunciation would relieve 
 us of more than half of the difficulties 
 and of the diseased and painful affections 
 of our lives. Simple obedience to rec- 
 titude, instead of self-interest, simple 
 self-culture, instead of ever cultivating 
 the good opinion of others ; how many 
 disturbing and irritating questions would 
 these single-hearted aims take away 
 from our bosom meditations ! Let us 
 not mistake the character of this self- 
 renunciation. We are required, not to 
 renounce the nobler and better affections 
 of our natures, not to renounce happi- 
 ness, not to renounce our just dues of 
 honor and love from men. It is remark- 
 able that our Saviour, amidst all his 
 meekness and all his sacrifices, always 
 claimed that he deserved well of men, 
 deserved to be honored and beloved. 
 It is not to vilify ourselves that is re- 
 quired of us ; not to renounce our self- 
 respect, the just and reasonable sense of 
 our merits and deserts ; not to renounce 
 our own righteousness, our own virtue, 
 if we have any; such falsehood towards 
 ourselves gains no countenance from the 
 example of Jesus; but it is to renounce 
 our sins, our passions, our self-flattering 
 delusions ; and it is to forego all out- 
 ward advantages which can be gained 
 only through a sacrifice of our inward 
 integrity, or through anxious and petty 
 contrivances and compliances. What 
 we have to do, is to choose and keep the 
 better part ; to secure that, and let the 
 worst take care of itself ; to keep a good 
 conscience, and let opinion come and 
 go as it will ; to keep high self-respect, 
 and to let low self-indulgence go ; to 
 keep'inward happiness, and let outward 
 advantages hold a surbordinate place. 
 Self-renunciation, in fine, is, not to re- 
 nounce ourselves in the highest charac- 
 ter ; not to renounce our moral selves, 
 ourselves as the creatures and children 
 of God; herein rather it is to cherish 
 ourselves to make the most of ourselves, 
 to hold ourselves inexpressibly dear. 
 
 What, then, is it precisely to renounce 
 ourselves ? It is to renounce our self- 
 ishness ; to have done with this eternal 
 self-considering wliich now disturbs and 
 vexes our lives ; to cease that ever ask- 
 ing, "And what shall we have?" — to 
 be content with the plentitude of God's 
 abounding mercies ; to feast upon that 
 infinite love, that is shed all around us 
 and within us, and so to be hippy. I 
 see many a person, in society, honored, 
 rich, beautiful, but wearing still an anx- 
 ious and disturbed countenance ; many 
 a one upon whom this simple principle, 
 this simple self-forgetting, would bring 
 a change in their appearance, demeanor, 
 and the whole manner of their living 
 and being; a change that would make 
 them tenlbld more beautiful, rich, and 
 honored. Yes, strange as it may seem 
 to them, what they want, is, to com- 
 mune deeply, in prayer and meditation, 
 with the spirit of Jesus, to be clothed, 
 not with outward adorning, but with 
 the simple self- forgetting, single-hearted 
 truth and beauty of his spirit. This is 
 the change, this is the conversion that 
 they want, to make them lovely and 
 happy beyond all the aspirations of their 
 ambition, and all their dreams of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Have you never observed how happy 
 is the mere visionary schemer, quite 
 absorbed in his plans, quite thoughtless 
 of everything else ? Have you never 
 remarked how easy and felicitous is the 
 manner in society, the eloquence in the 
 public assembi}'. the whole life's action, 
 of one who has forgotten himself ? For 
 this reason in part it is that the eager 
 pursuit of fortune is often happier than 
 the after enjoyment of it: for now the 
 man begins to look about for happiness, 
 and to ask for a respect and attention 
 which he seldom satisfactorily receives ; 
 and many such are found, to the wonder 
 and mortification of their families, look- 
 ing back from their splendid dwellings, 
 and often referring to the humble shop 
 in which they worked, and wishing in 
 their hearts that they were there again. 
 
 It is our inordinate self-seeking, self- 
 
114 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 considering, that is ever a stumbling- 
 block in our way. It is this which spreads 
 questions, snares, difficulties, around us. 
 It is this that darkens the very ways of 
 Providence to us, and makes the world a 
 less happy world to us than it might be. 
 There is one thought that could take us 
 out from all these difficulties ; but we 
 cannot think it. There is one clew from 
 the labyrinth ; there is one solution of 
 this struggling philosophy of life within 
 us ; it is found in that Gospel, that life of 
 Jesus, with which we have, alas ! but little 
 deep heart-acquaintance. Every one 
 must know that, if he could be elevated 
 to that self-forgetting simplicity and 
 disinterestedness, he would be relieved 
 from more than half of the inmost trials 
 of his bosom. What then can be done 
 for us but that we be directed, and that 
 too with a concern as solemn as our 
 deepest wisdom and welfare, to the Gos- 
 pel of Christ.'' " In him was life ; and 
 the life was the light of men." 
 
 In him was the life of perfect love. 
 This is the second all-enlightening, 
 all-healing principle that the Gospel of 
 Christ commends to us. It is indeed 
 the main and positive virtue, of which 
 self-renunciation is but the negative 
 side. 
 
 Again, I need not insist upon the pre- 
 eminence of this principle in the life of 
 our Saviour. But I must again remind 
 you that this principle is not to be looked 
 upon as some sublime abstraction, as 
 merely a love that drew him from the 
 bliss of heaven, to achieve some stu- 
 pendous and solitary work on earth. It 
 was a vital and heartfelt love to all 
 around him ; it was affection to his 
 kindred, tenderness to his friends, gen- 
 tleness and forbearance towards his dis- 
 ciples, pity to the suffering, forgiveness 
 to his enemies, prayer for his murderers ; 
 love flowing all round him as the gar- 
 ment of life, and investing pain and toil 
 and torture and death with a serene and 
 holy beauty. 
 
 It is not enough to renounce ourselves, 
 and there to stop. It is not enough to 
 wrap ourselves in our close garment of 
 
 reserve and pride, and to say, " The world 
 cares nothing for us, and we will care 
 nothing for the world : society does us no 
 justice, and we will withdraw from it our 
 thoughts, and see how patiently we can 
 live within the confines of ourown bosom, 
 or in quiet communion, through books, 
 with the mighty dead." No man ever 
 found peace or light in this way. The 
 misanthropic recluse is ever the most 
 miserable of men, whether he lives in 
 cave or castle. Every relation to man- 
 kind, of hate or scorn or neglect, is full 
 of vexation and torment. There is noth- 
 ing to do with men but to love them ; 
 to contemplate their virtues with ad- 
 miration, their faults with pity and 
 forbearance, and their injuries with for- 
 giveness. Task all the ingenuity of your 
 mind to devise some other thing, but you 
 never can find it. To all the haughti- 
 ness and wrath of men I say, — however 
 they may disdain the suggestion, — the 
 spirit of Jesus is the only help for you. 
 To hate your adversary will not help 
 you ; to kill him will not help you ; noth- 
 ing within the compass of the universe 
 can help you, but to love him. Oh, how 
 wonderfully is man shut up to wisdom — 
 barred, as I may say, and imprisoned 
 and shut up to wisdom ; and yet he will 
 not learn it ! 
 
 But let that love flow out upon all 
 around you, and what could harm you } 
 It would clothe you with an impenetrable, 
 heaven-tempered armor. Or suppose, 
 to do it justice, that it leaves you, all de- 
 fencelessness, as it did Jesus ; all vul- 
 nerableness, through delicacy, through 
 tenderness, through sympathy, through 
 pity ; suppose that you suffer, as all must 
 suffer ; suppose that you be wounded, as 
 gentleness only can be wounded ; yet 
 how would that love flow, with precious 
 healing, through every wound ! How 
 many difficulties, too, both within and 
 without a man, would it relieve ! How 
 many dull mitids would it rouse ; how 
 many depressed minds would it lift up ! 
 How many troubles, in society, would it 
 compose ; how many enmities would it 
 soften ; how many questions, answer ! 
 
RELIGION THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 
 
 US 
 
 How many a knot of mystery and mis- 
 understanding would be untied by ons 
 word spoken in simple and confiding 
 truth of heart ! How many a rough path 
 would be made smooth, and crooked 
 way be made straight! How manya soli- 
 tary place would be made glad, if love 
 were there ; and how many a dark dwell- 
 ing would be filled with light ! " In him 
 was life, and the life was the light of 
 men.'' 
 
 Once more : there was a sublime 
 spirituality in the mind of Jesus, wliich 
 must come into our life, to fill up the 
 measure of its light. It is not enough, 
 in my view, to yield ourselves to the 
 blessed bonds of love and self-renuncia- 
 tion in the immediate circles of our lives. 
 Our minds must go into the infinite and 
 immortal regions, to find sufficiency and 
 satisfaction for the present hour. There 
 must be a breadth of contemplation in 
 which tiiis world shrinks, I will not say to 
 a point, but to the narrow span that it is. 
 There must be aims, which reign over 
 the events of life, and make us feel that 
 we can resign all the advantages of life, 
 yea, and life itself; and yet be "con- 
 querors and more than conquerors 
 through him who has loved us." 
 
 There is many a crisis in life when we 
 need a faith like the martyr's to support 
 us. There are hours in life like martyr- 
 dom — as full of bitter anguish, as full of 
 utter earthly desolation ; in which more 
 than our sinews, in which we feel as if 
 our very heart-strings, were stretched 
 and lacerated on the rack of affliction ; 
 in which life itself loses its value, and we 
 ask to die ; in whose dread struggle and 
 agony life might drop from us, and not 
 be minded. Oh ! then must our cry, 
 like that of Jesus, go up to the pitving 
 heavens for help, and nothing but the 
 infinite and the immortal can help us. 
 Calculate, then, all the gains of earth, 
 and they are trash ; all its pleasures, and 
 they are vanity ; all its hopes, and they 
 are illusions ; and then, when the world 
 is sinking beneath us, must we seek the 
 everlasting arms to bear us up, to bear 
 us up to heaven. Thus was it with our 
 
 great Example, and so must it be with us. 
 "In him was life;" the life of self-re- 
 nunciation, the life of love, the life of 
 spiritual and all-conquering faith ; and 
 tiiat life is the light of men. Oh 
 blessed light ! come to our darkness ; 
 for our soul is dark, our way is dark, 
 for want of thee ; come to our darkness, 
 and turn it into day ; and let it shine 
 brighter and brighter, till it mingles 
 with the light of the all-perfect and 
 everlasting day ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ON RELIGION AS THE GREAT SEN- 
 TIMENT OF LIFE. 
 
 I Cor. XV. ig : " If in this life only we have hope, 
 we are of all men most miserable." 
 
 There is a nation in modern times, 
 of which it is constantly said that it has 
 no religion ; that in this life only has it 
 hope. One is continually assured, not 
 by foreigners alone, but in that very 
 country, — I need not say that I speak 
 of France, — that the people there have 
 no religion, that the religious sentiment 
 has become nearly extinct among them.* 
 
 Although there is, doubtless, some 
 exaggeration in the statement, as would 
 be very- natural in a case so very ex- 
 traordinary, and the rather as the repre- 
 sentation of it comes from a people who 
 are fond of appearing an extraordinary 
 and wonderful people, and of striking 
 the world with astonishment ; yet there 
 is still so much truth in tiie representa- 
 tion, and it is. a thing so unheard of 
 in the history of all nations, whether 
 Heathen, IMahometan, or Christian, that 
 one is naturally led to reflect upon the 
 problem whicli the case presents for our 
 consideration. Can a nation go on 
 without religion ? Can a people live 
 devoid of every religious hope, without 
 being of all people the most miserable ? 
 
 * Such is the language which I heard fourteen 
 years ago in France ; but I trust it is becoming every 
 day less applicable. 
 
ii6 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Can human nature bear such a state ? 
 This is the problem. 
 
 It is the more important to discuss 
 this problem, because the very spectacle 
 of such a nation has some tendency to 
 unhinge the faith of the world. The 
 thoughtless at least, the young perhaps, 
 who are generally supposed to feel less 
 than otliers the necessity of this great 
 principle, may be led to say with them- 
 selves, " Is not religion, after all, an 
 error, a delusion, a superstition, with 
 which mankind will yet be able to dis- 
 pense .'"' * A part of my reply to this 
 question I propose to draw especially 
 from the experience of the young. For 
 I think, indeed, that instead of this be- 
 ing an age when men, and the young es- 
 pecially, can afford to dispense with the 
 aid and guidance of religion, it is an age 
 which is witnessing an extraordinary de- 
 velopment of sensibility, and is urging 
 the need of piety beyond, perhaps be- 
 yond all former ages. The circumstan- 
 ces, as I conceive, which have led to 
 this development are the diffusion of 
 knowledge, and the new social relation- 
 ships introduced by free principles. But 
 my subject, at present, does not permit 
 me to enlarge upon these points. 
 
 Can the world, then, go on without 
 religion ? I will not inquire now wheth- 
 er human governments can go on. But 
 can the human heart go on without re- 
 ligion ? Can all its resistless energies, 
 its swelling passions, its overburdening 
 affections, be borne without piety .'' Can 
 it suffer changes, disappointments, be- 
 reavements, desolations ; ay, or can it 
 satisfactorily bear overwhelming joy, 
 without religion ? Can youth and man- 
 hood and age, can life and death, be 
 passed through, without the great prin- 
 ciple which reigns over all the periods 
 of life, which triumphs over death, and 
 is enthroned in the immortality of faith, 
 of virtue, of truth, and of God ? 
 
 I answer, with a confidence that the 
 lapse of a hundred nations into Atheism 
 could not shake, that it is not possible : 
 in the eye of reason and truth, that is to 
 
 * The very opinion of the French Auguste Comte. 
 
 say, it is not possible for the world, for 
 the human heart, for life, to go on with- 
 out religion. Religion, naturally, fairly, 
 rightly regarded, is the great sentiment 
 of life : and this is the point which I 
 shall now endeavor to illustrate. 
 
 What I mean by saying that religion 
 is the great sentiment of life, is this : 
 that all the great and leading states of 
 mind which this life originates or occa- 
 sions in every reflecting person demand 
 the sentiment of religion for their sup- 
 port and safety. Religion, I am aware, 
 is considered by many as soinething 
 standing by itself, and which a man may 
 take as the companion of his journey, 
 or not take, as he pleases ; and many 
 persons, I know, calmly, some, it is pos- 
 sible, contemptuously, leave it to stand 
 aside and by itself, as not worthy of 
 their invitation, or not worthy, at any 
 rate, of being earnestly sought by them. 
 But when they thus leave it, I undertake 
 to say that they do not understand the 
 great mental pilgrimage on which they 
 are going. If all the teachings of nature 
 were withdrawn, if Revelation were blot- 
 ted out, if events did not teach ; yet the 
 very experience of life, the natural de- 
 velopment of human feeling, the history 
 of every mind which, as a mind, has an}' 
 history, would urge it to embrace relig- 
 ion as an indispensable resort. There 
 is thus, therefore, not only a kind of 
 metaphysical necessity in the very na- 
 ture of the mind, and a moral call, in all 
 its situations, for religion ; but there is 
 wrapped up within the very germs of all 
 human experience, of all human feeling, 
 joyous or sorrowful ; there is, attending 
 the very development of all the natural 
 affections, a want, a need inexpressible, 
 bf the power of that divine principle. 
 
 Let us trace this want, this need, in 
 some of the different stages through 
 which the character usually passes. Let 
 us see whether this great necessity does 
 not press down upon every period of 
 life, and even upon its commencement ; 
 yes, whether upon the very heart of 
 youth there are not already deep records 
 of experience, that point it to this great 
 
RELIGION THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 
 
 117 
 
 reliance. I have in a former discourse 
 spoken of the disappointments of youth ; 
 I now speak of its wants and dangers. 
 
 In youth, then, — that is to say, some- 
 where between the period of childhood 
 and manhood, — there is commonly a 
 striking development of sensibility and 
 imagination. The passions then, if not 
 more powerful than at any other period, 
 are at any rate more vivid, because their 
 objects are new : and they are then most 
 uncontrollable, because neither reason 
 nor experience has attained to the ma- 
 turity necessary to moderate and restrain 
 them. The young have not lived long 
 enough to see how direful are the effects 
 of unbridled inclination, how baseless 
 are the fabrics of ambition, how liable 
 to disappointment are all the hopes of 
 this world. And therefore the sensi- 
 bility of youth is apt to possess a char- 
 acter of strong excitement and almost 
 of intoxication. I never look upon one 
 at such a period, whose quick and ardent 
 feelings mantle in the cheek at every 
 turn, and flash in the eye and thrill 
 through the veins, and falter in the 
 hurried speech in every conversation ; 
 yes, and have deeper tokens, in the 
 gathering paleness of the countenance, 
 in speechless silence, and the tightening 
 cords of almost suffocating emotion ; 
 I never look upon such an one, all fresh 
 and alive, and yet unused, to the might 
 and mystery of the power that is work- 
 ing within ; a being full of imagination, 
 too, living a life but half of realities, 
 and full half of airy dreams ; a being, 
 whom a thousand things, afterwards to 
 be regarded with a graver eye, now move 
 to laughter or to tears ; I never look 
 upon such an one — how is it possible 
 to do so? — without feeling that one 
 tiling is needful ; and that is, the serenity 
 of religion, the sobriety and steadiness 
 of deep-founded principle, the strong 
 and lofty aim of sacred virtue. 
 
 But the sensibility of youth is not 
 always joyous nor enthusiastic. Long 
 ere it loses its freshness or its fascina- 
 tion, it oftentimes meets with checks 
 and difficulties ; it has its early troubles 
 
 and sorrows. Some disappointment 
 in its unsuspecting friendsliips, some 
 school-day jealousy or affliction, some 
 jar upon the susceptible nerves or the 
 unruly passions, from the treatment of 
 kindred or friends or associates ; or, at 
 a later period, some galling chain of de- 
 pendence or poverty or painful restraint ; 
 or else, the no less painful sense of me- 
 diocrity, the feeling in the young heart 
 that the prizes of ambition are all out 
 of its reach, that praise and admiration 
 and love all fall to the lot of others; 
 some or other of these causes, I say, 
 brings a cold blight over the warm and 
 expanding affections of youth, and turns 
 the bright elysium of life, for a season, 
 into darkness and desolation. All this 
 is not to be described as if it were a 
 mere picture ; just enough, perhaps, but 
 to be considered no otherwise than as a 
 matter of youthful feeling, soon to pass 
 away and to leave no results. This state 
 of mind has results. And the most 
 common and dangerous is a fatal reck- 
 lessness. The undisciplined and too 
 often selfish heart says, " I do not care ; 
 I do not care what others say or think 
 of me ; I do not care how they treat me. 
 Those who are loved and praised and 
 fortunate are no better than I am ; the 
 world is unjust ; the world knows me 
 not ; and I care not if it never knows 
 me. I will wrap myself in my own gar- 
 ment ; let them call it the garment of 
 pride or reserve, it matters not ; I have 
 feelings, and my own breast shall be 
 their depository." Perhaps this reck- 
 lessness goes farther, and the misguided 
 youth says, " I will plunge into pleasure ; 
 I will find me companions, though they 
 be bad ones ; I will make my friends 
 care for me in one way, if they will not 
 in another ;" or he says, perhaps, " No- 
 body cares for me, and therefore it is 
 no matter what I do." 
 
 My young friends, have you ever 
 known any of these various trials of 
 youth ? And, if you have, do you think 
 that you can safely pass tiirough them 
 with no better guidance than your own 
 hasty and headstrong passions ? Oh ! 
 
ii8 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 believe it not. Passion is never a safe 
 impulse ; but passion soured, irritated, 
 and undisciplined, is least of all to be 
 trusted. If in this life only you have 
 hope, if no influence from afar take hold 
 of your minds, if no aims stretching out 
 to boundless and everlasting improve- 
 ment strengthen and sustain you, if no 
 holy conscience, no heavenly principle, 
 sets up its authority among your way- 
 ward impulses, you are, indeed, of all 
 beings most to be pitied. Unhappy for 
 you is all this ardor, this kindling fervor 
 of emotion, this throng of conflicting 
 passions, this bright or brooding imagi- 
 nation, giving a false coloring and magni- 
 tude to every object ; unhappy for you, 
 and all the more unhappy, if you do not 
 welcome the sure guidance, the strong 
 control of principle, of piety, of prayer. 
 
 But let us advance to another stage 
 of life and of feeling; to the maturity 
 of life. And I shall venture to say that 
 where the mind really unfolds with 
 growing years ; where it is not absorbed 
 in worldly gains or pleasures, so as to 
 be kept in a sort of perpetual child- 
 hood ; where there is real susceptibihty 
 and reflection, there is apt to steal over 
 us, without religion, a spirit of misan- 
 thropy and melancholy. I have often 
 observed it, and without any wonder ; 
 for it seems to me as if a thoughtful 
 and feehng mind, without any trust in 
 the great providence of God, without 
 any communion of prayer with a Father 
 in heaven, or any religious, any holy 
 sympathy with its earthly brethren, or 
 any cheering hope of their progress, 
 must become reserved, distrustful, mis- 
 anthropic, and often melancholy. 
 
 Youth, though often disappointed, is 
 yet always looking forward ; and it is 
 looking forward with indefinite and un- 
 checked anticipation. But in the pro- 
 gress of life there comes a time when 
 the mind looks backward as well as 
 forward ; when it learns to correct 
 the anticipations of the future by the 
 experience of the past. It has run 
 through the courses of acquisition, 
 pleasure, or ambition, and it knows what 
 
 I 
 
 they are, and what they are wo; 
 The attractions of hope have not, 
 deed, lost all their power, but they have 
 lost a part of their charm. 
 
 Perhaps even the disappointment of 
 youth, though it has more of passion 
 and grief in it, is not so bitter and sad 
 as that of maturer life, when it says, 
 " Well, and this is all. If I should add 
 millions to my store ; if I should reap 
 new honors, or gain new pleasures, it 
 will only be what I have experienced 
 before ; I know what it is ; I know it 
 all. There is no more in this life ; I 
 know it all." Ah ! how cold and cheer- 
 less is that period of human experience ; 
 how does the heart of a man die within 
 him, as he stands thus in the very midst 
 of his acquisitions ; how do his very 
 honors and attainments teach him to 
 mourn ; and to mourn without hope, if 
 there is no spiritual hope ! If the great 
 moral objects of this life, and the im- 
 mortal regions of another life, are not 
 spread before him, then is he most mis- 
 erable. Yes, I repeat, his very success, 
 his good fortune, brings him to this. 
 There are untoward circumstances, I 
 know ; there are afflictions that may 
 lead a man to religion ; but what I now 
 say is, that the natural progress of every 
 reflecting mind, however prosperous its 
 fortunes, that the inevitable develop- 
 ment of the growing experience of life, 
 unfolds, in the very structure of every 
 human soul, that great necessity, the 
 necessity of religion. 
 
 This world is dark, and must be dark, 
 without the light of religion ; even as 
 the material orb would be dark without 
 the light of Heaven to shine upon it. 
 As if 
 
 " The bright Sun were extinguished, and the 
 
 stars 
 Did wander darliling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless 
 
 air ; " 
 
 SO would the soul, conscious of its own 
 nature, be, without the light of God's 
 presence shining around it, without 
 those truths that beam like the eternal 
 
 i 
 
RELIGION THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 
 
 119 
 
 stars from the depths of heaven ; with- 
 out those inrtuences, invisible and far 
 off. like the powers of gravitation, to 
 hold it steadily in its orbit, and to carry 
 it onward with unerring guidance in its 
 bright career. And no philosopher, no 
 really intellectual being, ever broke from 
 the bonds of all religious faith, without 
 finding his course dreary, "blind and 
 blackening" in the spiritual firmament. 
 His soul becomes, in the expressive 
 language of Scripture, " like a wander- 
 ing star, or a cloud without water." No 
 mean argument is this, indeed, for the 
 great truths of religion. But whether 
 it is so or not, it is a fact. I know, in- 
 deed, that many persons possessed of 
 sense and talent in this world's affairs 
 do live without religion, and ordinarily 
 without any painful consciousness of 
 wanting it. But what do men of mere 
 sense and talent in this world's affairs 
 know of the insatiable and illimitable 
 desires of the mind ? What — what by 
 very definition, as the votaries of worldly 
 good, are they pursuing.-' Why, it is 
 some object about as far distant, in the 
 bounded horizon of their vision, as that 
 which the painted butterfly is pursuing: 
 some flower, some bright thing a little 
 before them ; bright honor, or dazzling 
 gold, or gilded pleasure. But let any 
 mind awake to its real and sublime 
 nature ; let it feel the expanding, the 
 indefinite reaching forth of those origi- 
 nal and boundless thoughts which God 
 has made it to feel ; let it sound those 
 depths, soar to those heights, compass 
 those illimitable heavens of thought, 
 through which it was made to range ; 
 and then let that mind tell me, if it can, 
 that it wants no religion; that it wants 
 no central principle of attraction, no 
 infinite object of adoration, and love, 
 and trust. Nay, if any mind, whatever 
 its pretensions, should tell me this, I 
 should not hesitate, in my own judg- 
 ment, to pronounce its acquisitions 
 shallow, or, at any rate, partial, or, at 
 the best, technical and scholastic. For 
 it is not true, my brethren, that intellec- 
 tual weakness most stands in need of 
 
 religion, or is most fitted to feel the 
 need of it ; but it is intellectual 
 strength. I hold no truth to be more 
 certain than this: that every mind, in 
 proportion to its real development and 
 expansion, is dark, is disproportioned 
 and unhappy, without religion. If in 
 this life alone it has hope, it is of all 
 minds, most miserable. 
 
 I have spoken of youth and manhood 
 as developing the need of religion. 
 Does age any less need it ? Wiiere 
 can that want exist if not in the aged 
 heart ? It is not alone that its pulses 
 are faint and low ; it is notalone that 
 so many of its once cherished objects 
 have departed from it ; it is not that 
 the limbs are feeble, the eye dim, and 
 the ear dull of hearing ; it is not that the 
 aged frame is bent towards that earth 
 into which it is soon to sink and find its 
 last rest ; but what is the position of an 
 old man ? Where does he stand ? One 
 life is passed through ; one season of 
 being is almost spent; youth has found, 
 long since, the goal of its career ; man- 
 hood, at length, is gone ; and he stands 
 — where, and upon what ? What is it 
 that spreads before him ? Is it a re- 
 gion of clouds and shadows ? Is all be- 
 fore him dread darkness and vacuity, 
 an eternal sleep, a boundless void ? 
 Thus would it be without religion, with- 
 out fajth. But how must he, who stands 
 upon that shore of all visible being, from 
 whence he can never turn back, — how 
 must he long for some sure word of 
 promise, for some voice that can tell 
 him of eternal life, of eternal youth : of 
 regions far away in the boundless uni- 
 verse of God, where he may wander on 
 and onward forever! Age, with faith. 
 is but the beginning of life, the _vouth of 
 immortality ; the times and seasons of 
 its being are yet before it ; its gathered 
 experience is !)ut an education to pre- 
 pare it for higher scenes and services ; 
 but age without faith is a wreck upon 
 the shore of life, a ruin upon the beet- 
 ling cliffs of time; tottering to its fall, 
 and about to be engulfed, and lost for- 
 ever ! 
 
120 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 1 have thus attempted to show that 
 religion is the great sentiment of each 
 period of life. Let me now extend the 
 same observation to those epochs in life 
 which are occasioned by changes in that 
 material creation which surrounds us. 
 
 There are sentiments appropriate to 
 the dying and to the reviving year. 
 What are they } How striking is the 
 answer which is given in ail literature 
 and poetry ! Men are able, no doubt, to 
 walk through the round of the seasons 
 without much reflection ; but the mo- 
 ment any sentiment is awakened, it is 
 the sentiment of religion ; it is a thought- 
 fulness about God's wisdom and benefi- 
 cence, about life and death and eternity. 
 Thus it is that every poet of the seasons, 
 every poet of nature, is devout ; devout 
 in his meditations when he writes, if not 
 devout in his habits always. 
 
 And what man, in thoughtful mood, 
 can walk forth in the still and quiet sea- 
 son of autumn, and tread upon the 
 seared grass that is almost painfully au- 
 dible to the serious emotions of his heart, 
 and listen to the fall of the leaf that 
 seems, idle as it is, as if it were the foot- 
 step of some predestined event, and hear 
 the far echo of the hills and the solemn 
 wind dirge of the dyingyear, and not med- 
 itate in that hour ; and not meditate u|)on 
 things above the world and above all 
 its grosser cares and interests ? " The 
 dead, the loved, the lost," will come to 
 him then; the world will sink like a 
 phantom-shadow ; and eternity will be a 
 presence ; and heaven, through the se- 
 rene depths of those opening skies, will 
 be to him a vision. 
 
 But again, a change cometh ! The 
 seals of winter are broken ; and lo ! the 
 green herb and the tender grass, and 
 bird and blossom come forth ; the clouds 
 dissolve into softness, and open the azure 
 depths beyond ; and man goeth forth 
 from imprisoning walls, and opens his 
 bosom to the warmth and the breeze, 
 and feels his frame expand with gladness 
 and exultation. Then what is he, if 
 from the kindling joy of his heart arises 
 no incense of gratitude .'' It is the hour 
 
 of nature's, and ought to be of man's, 
 thanksgiving. The very stones would 
 cry out ; the green fields and the re- 
 joicing hills would cry out against him, 
 if he were not grateful. The sentiment 
 of the spring-time is the sentiment of 
 religious gratitude ! 
 
 Let us look at other changes. There 
 is a sentiment of the morning. The 
 darkness is rolled away from the earth ; 
 the iron slumber of the world is broken ; 
 it is the daily resurrection-hour of re- 
 joicing millions. God hath said again, 
 " Let there be light ; " and over the 
 mountain-tops and over the waves of 
 ocean it comes, and streams in upon the 
 waking creation. Each morning that 
 signal-light, calling to action, is at thy 
 window ; duly it cometh, as with a mes- 
 sage, saying, "Awake, arise!" Thou 
 wakest ; from dreamy slumbers, from 
 helpless inactivity ; and what dost thou 
 find .'' Hast thou lost anything of thy- 
 self in that slumber of forgetfulness '? 
 Hath not all been kept for thee ? Hath 
 there not been a watch over thy sleep ? 
 Thou wakest; and each limb is filled 
 with life ; each sense holds its station in 
 thy wonderful frame ; each faculty, each 
 thought, is in its place; no dark insanity, 
 no dreary eclipse, hath spread itself over 
 thy soul. What shall the thoughts of 
 that hour be, but wondering and adoring 
 thoughts ? Well are a portion of our 
 prayers called matins. Morning pray- 
 ers — morning prayers; orisons in the 
 first light of day, from the bended soul, 
 if not from the bended knee ; were not 
 the morning desecrated and denied, if a 
 part and portion of it were not prayer ? 
 
 And there is a sentiment of the even- 
 tide ; when the sun slowly sinks from 
 our sight ; when the shadows steal over 
 the earth ; when the shining hosts of the 
 stars come forth ; when other worlds 
 and other regions of the universe are un- 
 veiled in the infinitude of heaven. Then 
 to meditate, how reasonable, I had al- 
 most said how inevitable, is it! How 
 meet were it then, that in every house 
 there should be a vesper hymn ! I have 
 read of such a scene in a village, in some 
 
 I 
 
RELIGION THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 
 
 121 
 
 country, — I think it was in Italy, — 
 where the traveller heard, as the day 
 went down, and amidst the gathering 
 shadows of the still evening, first from 
 one dwelling and then from another, the 
 voices of song — accompanied with sim- 
 ple instruments, flute and flageolet; it 
 was the vesper hymn. How beautiful 
 were it, in village or city, for dwelling 
 thus to call to dwelling, saying, " Great 
 and marvellous are thy works. Lord God 
 Almighty ; just and true are thy ways ! 
 God of the morning ! God of the even- 
 ing ! we praise thee : goodness and 
 mercy hast thou caused to follow us all 
 our days." 
 
 Thus have I attempted to show that 
 religion is the great sentiment of life. 
 It is our life. Our life is bound up with 
 it, and in it ; and without it, life would 
 be both miserable and ignoble. 
 
 I will only add, in fine, that religion 
 alone affords to us the hope of a future 
 life, and that without this our present 
 being is shorn of all its grandeur and 
 hope. 
 
 Whether we look at our own death or 
 at the death of others, this consideration, 
 this necessity of a faith that takes hold 
 of eternity, presses upon us. I know 
 very well what the common and worldly 
 consolation is. I know very well the 
 hackneved proverb, that "time is the 
 curer of grief ; " but I know very well, 
 too, that no time can suppress the sigh 
 that is given to the loved and lost. 
 Time, indeed, lightens the constant 
 pressure of grief rather than blunts its 
 edge ; and still more than either, per- 
 haps, does it smooth over the outward 
 aspect of that suffering: but often when 
 all is outwardly calm and even bright, 
 does the conscious heart say. " I hear 
 a voice you cannot hear ; I see a sign 
 you cannot see;" and it pays the sad 
 and dear tribute of bereaved love. No, 
 the memory of the beloved ones parts 
 not from us as its shadow passes from 
 our countenance. And who is there, 
 around whose path such memories 
 linger, that will not say, " I thank God, 
 
 through our Lord Jesus Christ ; " through 
 him who is the revealed " resurrection 
 and life ; " through him who said, " He 
 that liveth and believeth in me, shall 
 never die " ? For now, blessed be God, 
 we mourn not as those who have no 
 hope. But surely, dying creatures as 
 we are, and living in a dying world, if 
 in this life only we had hope, we should 
 of all beings be most miserable. 
 
 In fine, my view of life is such, that 
 if it were not for my faith and hope, I 
 should very little care what became of 
 it. Let it be longer or shorter, it would 
 but little matter, if all was to end when 
 life ended; if all my hopes and aspi- 
 rations and cherished joys were to be 
 buried with me forever in the tomb. 
 Oh, that life of insect cares and pur- 
 suits, and of insect brevity! the mind 
 that God has given me could only cast 
 a sad and despairing look upon it, and 
 then dismiss it as not worth a further 
 thought. But no such sad and shocking 
 incongruity is there, thanks be to God, 
 in the well-ordered course of our being. 
 The harmonies that are all around us, 
 in all animal, in all vegetable life, in 
 light and shade, in mountain and valley, 
 in ocean and stream, in the linked train 
 of the seasons, in the moving and dread 
 array of all the heavenly hosts of worlds ; 
 the harmonies of universal nature, but 
 above all, the teachings of the Gospel, 
 assure us that no such shocking incon- 
 gruity and disorder are bound up in the 
 frame of our nature. 
 
 No ; it is true ; that which we so much 
 need to support us is true ; God doth 
 look down upon our h7(7nble path wilh 
 (he eye of paternal nvisdoni atid love; 
 this universe is ftill of spiritual influ- 
 ences to help us in the great conflict of 
 life J there is a world beyond in which 
 we may assuredly trust. The heart, full 
 of weighty interests and cares, of swell- 
 ing hopes and aspirations, of thoughts 
 too big for utterance, is not given us 
 merely that we may bear it to the grave 
 and bury it there. From that sleeping 
 dust shall rise the free spirit to endless 
 
I 22 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 life. Thanks, — let us again say and for- 
 ever say, — thanks be to God, who giv- 
 eth us this victory of an assured hope 
 through our Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 XIX 
 
 ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 
 
 EcCLESiASTES iii. II : " He hath made everything 
 beautiful in its time." 
 
 In my last discourse oa human Life 
 I spoke of religion as the great, appro- 
 priate, and pervading sentiment of life. 
 TJic 7'eligion of life, by which I mean 
 a different thing : the religion, the sanc- 
 tity, the real, spiritual consecration nat- 
 urally and properly belonging to all the 
 appointed occupations, cultivated arts, 
 lawful amusements, and social bonds of 
 life, — this is the subject of my present 
 discourse. 
 
 By most religious systems this life, 
 the life, that is, which the world is lead- 
 ing, and has been leading through ages, 
 is laid under a dark and fearful ban. 
 '''■No religion^'' is the summary phrase 
 which is written upon almost its entire 
 history. Though it is held by these very 
 systems that the world was made for 
 religion, made, that is to say, for the 
 culture of religion in the hearts of its 
 inhabitants; yet it is contended that 
 this purpose has been almost entirely 
 frustrated. 
 
 First, the heathen nations, by tliis the- 
 ory, are cut off from all connection with 
 real religion. Next, upon the mass of 
 Christian nations, as being unregenerate 
 and utterly depraved, the same sentence 
 is passed. I am not disposed, on this 
 subject, to exact the full measure of in- 
 ference from any mere theory. Men's 
 actual views are often in advance of 
 their creeds. But is it not very evident, 
 as a third consideration, that the pre- 
 vailing views of the world's life very 
 well agree with the prevailing creeds ? 
 Is it not the common feeling that man- 
 kind in the mass, in the proportion of 
 thousands to one, have failed to attain 
 
 to anything of true leligion; to any, the 
 least of that which fulfils the real and 
 great design of the Creator? Is it not 
 commonly felt that the mass of men's 
 pursuits, of their occupations, of their 
 pleasures, is completely severed from 
 this great purpose .'' In labor, in mer- 
 chandise, in the practice of law and 
 of medicine, in literature, in sculpture, 
 painting, poetry, music, is it not the con- 
 stant doctrine or implication of the pul- 
 pit that there is no religion, no spiritual 
 virtue, nothing accordant with the Gos- 
 pel of Christ ? Men, amidst their pur- 
 suits, may attain to a divine life ; but are 
 not the pursuits themselves regarded as 
 having nothing, strictly speaking, to do 
 with such a life, as having in them no 
 elements of spiritual good, as having in 
 them no tendency to advance religion 
 and goodness in the world ? 
 
 This, certainly, upon the face of it, is 
 a very extraordinary assumption. The 
 pursuits in question are — some of them 
 necessary ; others useful ; and all nat- 
 ural ; that is to say, they are develop- 
 ments, and inevitable and predestined 
 developments, of the nature vvliich God 
 has given us. And yet it is maintained 
 and believed that they have no tendency 
 to promote his great design in making 
 the world ; that they have nothing in 
 them allied to his purpose ; that, at the 
 most, they are only compatible with it, 
 and that the actual office which they dis- 
 charge in the world is to lead men away 
 from it. The whole Heaven-ordained ac- 
 tivity, occupation, care, ingenuity of hu- 
 man life is at war with its great purpose. 
 And if any one would seek the welfare 
 of his soul, he is advised to leave all ; 
 the farmer, his plough ; the merchant, 
 his ships ; the lawyer, his briefs ; and the 
 painter his easel ; and to go to a revival- 
 meeting, or a confessional, or to retire 
 to his closet. I need not say that I am 
 not here objecting to meditation, to dis- 
 tinct, tiiOLightful, and solemn meditation, 
 as one of the means of piety and virtue; 
 but I do protest against this ban and ex- 
 clusion, which are thus virtually laid upon 
 the beneficent and religious instrumen- 
 
THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 
 
 123 
 
 talities of a wise and gracious Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 On the contrary, I maintain that every- 
 thing is beautiful in its time, in its place, 
 in its appointed office; that everything 
 which man is put to do, naturally helps 
 to work out his salvation ; in other 
 words, that if he obey the genuine prin- 
 ciples of his calling, he will be a good 
 man ; and that it is only through disobe- 
 dience to the Heaven-appointed tasks, 
 either by wandering into idle dissipation 
 or by violating their beneficent and lofty 
 spirit, that he becomes a bad man. 
 Yes, if man would yield himself to the 
 great training of Providence in the ap- 
 pointed action of life, we should not 
 need churches nor ordinances ; though 
 they might still be proper for the expres- 
 sion of religious homage and gratitude. 
 
 Let us then look at this action of life, 
 and attempt to see what is involved in 
 it, and whether it is all alien, as is com- 
 monly supposed, to the spirit of sacred 
 truth and virtue. 
 
 I. And the first sphere of visible ac- 
 tivity which presents itself is labor; the 
 business of life, as opposed to what is 
 commonly called study. I have before 
 spoken of the moral ministration of la- 
 bor ; but let us, in connection with this 
 subject, advert to it again. 
 
 My subject in this discourse is the 
 religion of life; and I now say that there 
 is a religion of toil. It is not all drudg- 
 ery, a mere stretching of the limbs and 
 straining of the sinews to tasks. It 
 has a meaning. It has an intent. A 
 living heart pours hfe-blood into the toil- 
 ing arm. Warm affections mingle with 
 weary tasks. 
 
 I say not how pure those affections are, 
 or how much of imperfection may mix 
 with them; but I say that they are of a 
 class, held by all men to be venerable and 
 dear; that they partake of a kind of 
 natural sanctity. They are, in other 
 words, the home affections. The labor 
 that spreads itself over tilled acres all 
 points, for its centre, to the country 
 farm-house. The labor that plies its 
 task in busy cities has the same central 
 
 point, and thither it brings daily supplies. 
 And when I see the weary hand bearing 
 that nightly offering; when I see the 
 toiling days-man carrying to his home 
 the means of support and comfort ; that 
 offering is sacred to my thought, as a 
 sacrifice at a golden shrine. Alas ! 
 many faults there are, amidst the toils of 
 life ; many hasty and harsh words are 
 spoken ; but why do those toils go on at 
 all ? Why are they not given up entirely, 
 weary and hard and exasperating as they 
 often are ? Because in that home is sick- 
 ness, or age, or protected though help- 
 ing woman, to be provided for. Because 
 that there is helpless infancy or gentle 
 childhood, that must not want. 
 
 Such are the labors of life ; and 
 though it is true that mere selfishness, 
 mere solitary need, would prompt to 
 irregular and occasional exertion, or 
 would push some ambitious persons, of 
 covetous desires, to continued and per- 
 severing effort, yet I am persuaded 
 that the selfish impulses would never 
 create that scene of labor which we be- 
 hold around us. 
 
 Let us next look at the studious pro- 
 fessions. 
 
 And I must confess that I have often 
 been struck with surprise that a physi- 
 cian could be an undevout man. His 
 study, the human frame, is the most 
 wonderful display of divine wisdom in 
 the world ; the most astonishing proof 
 of contrivance, of providence. Fearfully 
 and wonderfully is it made ; and if he 
 who contemplates it is not a reverent 
 and Heaven-adoring man, he is false to 
 the very study that he calls his own. 
 He reads a page, folded from the eyes 
 of most men, a page of wondrous hiero- 
 glyphics ; that handwriting of nerves 
 and sinews and arteries ; darkly he reads 
 it, with a feeling enforced upon him that 
 there is a wisdom above and beyond him ; 
 and if he is not a religiously inquiring 
 and humble man, it seems to me tiiat he 
 knows not what he reads. Then again 
 it is his office to visit scenes where he 
 is most especially taught the frailty of 
 life, the impotence of man, and the need 
 
124 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 of a divine helper ; where the strong man 
 is bowed down by an invisible blow to 
 debility, to delirium, to utter helpless- 
 ness ; where the dying stretch out their 
 hands to heaven for aid, and to immor- 
 tality for a reliance ; where affliction, 
 smitten to the dust and stript of all 
 earthly supports, plainly declares that 
 no sufficient resource is left for it but 
 Almighty Goodness. I do not say that 
 there is anything in the physician's call- 
 ing which necessarily makes him a re- 
 ligious and good man ; but 1 do say that 
 if he obeys the true spirit of his calling, 
 he must be led to the formation of such 
 a character as the inevitable result. 
 
 Turn next to the vocation of the 
 lawyer ; and what is it ? It is to con- 
 tribute hjs aid to the establishment and 
 vindication of justice in the world. But 
 what is justice ? It is rectitude, right- 
 eousness. It is the right between man 
 and man ; and as an absolute quality, 
 it is the high attribute of God. The 
 lawyer may fall below this aim and view 
 of his vocation ; but that is not the fault 
 of his vocation. His vocation is most 
 moral, most religious ; it connects him, 
 most emphatically, with God ; he is the 
 minister of Almighty justice. In the 
 strictest construction of things, the cler- 
 gyman is not more truly God's minister 
 than he is. I know that the prevaihng 
 view is a different one. I know that the 
 world looks upon this profession as 
 altogether irreligious, or altogether un- 
 religious, at the best. To say that the 
 lawyer, however legitimately employed, 
 is most religiously employed, sounds in 
 most ears like mockery, I suppose. 
 But let us look at his function, and let us 
 put it in the most doubtful light. Ke 
 goes up to the court of justice to plead 
 the cause of his client. All the day long 
 he is engaged with examining witnesses, 
 sifting evidence, and wrangling, if you 
 please, for points of evidence and con- 
 struction and law. He may commit 
 mistakes, no doubt. He may err in 
 temper or in judgment. But suppose 
 that his leading aim. his wish, is to ob- 
 tain justice. And it is a very supposable 
 
 thing, even though he be on the wrong 
 side. He goes into the case, and he 
 goes up to the court, not knowing what 
 the right is, what the evidence is. He 
 strenuously handles and sifts the evi- 
 dence, to help on towards the right 
 conclusion. Or if you say it is to help 
 his view of the case, still his function 
 ministers to the same thing. For the 
 conclusion is not committed to him ; it 
 lies with the judge and the jury ; his office 
 is ministerial ; and he is to put forward 
 every fair point on his side, as his op- 
 ponent will on the other side, because 
 these are the very means, nay, the in- 
 dispensable means, for coming to a 
 righteous decision. And I say that if 
 he does this fairly and honestly, with a 
 feeling of true self-respect, honor, and 
 conscience ; with a feeling that God's 
 justice reigns in that high tribunal ; then 
 he is acting a religious part ; he is lead- 
 ing, that day, a religious life. If right- 
 eousness, if justice, is any part of religion, 
 he is doing so. No matter whether dur- 
 ing all that day he has once appealed, 
 in form or in terms, to liis conscience 
 or not ; no matter whether he has once 
 spoken of religion and of God or not ; if 
 there has been the inward appeal, the 
 inward purpose, the conscious intent and 
 desire, that justice, sacred justice, should 
 triumph, he has that day led a good and 
 religious life : and certainly he has been 
 making a most essential contribution to 
 that religion of life and of society, the 
 cause of equity between man and man, 
 of truth and righteousness in the world. 
 There are certain other pursuits of an 
 intellectual character, which require to 
 be noticed in this connection ; those, I 
 mean, of literature and the arts. And 
 the question here, let it be borne in 
 mind, is not whether these pursuits are 
 always conducted upon the highest prin- 
 ciples ; but whether they are in their 
 proper nature, and in their justest and 
 highest character, religious and good ; 
 whether between these functions and 
 religion there is any natural affinity ; 
 whether or not in their legitimate ten- 
 dency they are helping to work out the 
 
THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 
 
 125 
 
 world's salvation from vice and sin and 
 spiritual misery. And certainly, to him 
 who is looking with any anxiety to the 
 great moral end of Providence, this is 
 a very serious question. For in these 
 forms of literature and art the highest 
 genius of the world is usually revealed. 
 The cost of time and money to which 
 they put the world is not a small con- 
 sideration. The labored works of art 
 and the means lavished to obtain them ; 
 the writing, printing, selling, and reading 
 of books. — all this presents one of the 
 grandest features of our modern civiliza- 
 tion. But the cost of mental labor is 
 more than this ; it is of the very life- 
 blood of the world. This great power 
 of cotnmnnication -with men is not only 
 working, and putting in requisition, 
 much of the labor and time of the world ; 
 but it is often working painfully, and 
 is wasting the noblest strength, in its 
 strenuous toils. In silent and solitary 
 places genius is often found consuming 
 away in the fires which it has kindled. 
 And now the quesdon is : On what altars 
 are these priceless offerings laid .-* 
 
 Let it be considered, then, in answer 
 to this question, how few statues, paint- 
 ings, or books have any bad design. 
 Point me to one in an hundred, to one 
 in a thousand or ten thousand, that rec- 
 ommends vice. What, then, do they in- 
 culcate ? Surely it is virtue, sanctity, 
 the grandeur of the spiritual part of 
 man. What do we see in these works ? 
 It is, in sculpture, the fearful beauty of 
 the god of Light, or the severe majesty 
 of the Hebrew lawgiver, or the solemn 
 dignity of the Christ. It is, in painting, 
 some form of moral loveliness, some 
 saint in the rapture of devotion, or a 
 Christian, constant, serene, forgiving, 
 victorious in the agonies of martyrdom. 
 It is, in writing, in fiction, in poetry, in 
 the drama, some actor or sufferer nobly 
 sustaining himself amidst temptations, 
 difficulties, conflicts, and sorrows, hold- 
 ing on his bright career through clouds 
 and storms to the goal of virtue and of 
 heaven ! Of course, I do not say that 
 there are no moral defects in these rep- 
 
 resentations ; but most certain it is, 
 nevertiieless, that the highest literature 
 and art of every age embody its highest 
 spiritual ideal of excellence. And even 
 when we descend from their higher 
 manifestations and find them simply 
 amusing, there is nothing in this that is 
 hostile to religion. Men must have rec- 
 reation ; and literature and art furnish 
 that which is most pure, innocent, and 
 refining. They are already drawing 
 away multitudes from coarser indul- 
 gences, and from places of low and vile 
 resort. And the theatre, were it purged 
 from certain offensive appendages, might 
 be one of tlie most admirable ministra- 
 tions conceivable, to the recreation and 
 entertainment of the people. Nay, a 
 great actor, as well as a great dramatist, 
 in the legitimate walk of his art, may be 
 a most effective and tremendous preach- 
 er of virtue to the people. 
 
 But, to go again to the main point ; 
 I must strenuously maintain that books, 
 to be of religious tendency, to be min- 
 isters to the general piety and virtue, 
 need not be books of sermons, nor 
 books of pious exercises, nor books of 
 prayers. These all have their great and 
 good office to discharge ; but whatever 
 inculcates pure sentiment, whatever 
 'touches the heart with the beauty of 
 virtue and the blessedness of piety, is 
 in accordance with religion ; and this is 
 the Gospel of literature and art. Yes, 
 and it is preached from many a wall, it 
 is preached from many a book, ay, from 
 many a poem and fiction and review 
 and newspaper ; and it would be a pain- 
 ful error, and a miserable narrowness, 
 not to recognize these wide-spread 
 agencies of Heaven's providing, not to 
 see and welcome these many-handed 
 coadjutors to the great and good cause. 
 Christianity has, in fact, poured a meas- 
 ure of its own spirit into these forms ; 
 and not to recognize it there is to deny 
 its own specific character and claim. 
 There are religious books, indeed, which 
 may be compared to the solid gold of 
 Christianity ; but many of its fairest 
 gems have their setting in literature and 
 
126 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 art ; and if it is a pitiable blindness not 
 to see its beautiful spirit even when it 
 is surrounded by ignorance and poverty, 
 what must it be not to recognize it when 
 it is set in the richest framework that 
 human genius, imagination, and art can 
 devise for it ? 
 
 There is one of the arts of expression 
 which I have not mentioned ; which 
 sometimes seems to me a finer breath- 
 ing-out of the soul than any other, and 
 which certainly breathes a more imme- 
 diate and inspiring tone into the heart 
 of the world than any other ; I mean 
 music. Eloquent writing is great ; elo- 
 quent speaking is greater ; but an im- 
 promptu burst of song, or strain of 
 music, like one of old Beethoven's 
 voluntaries, I am inclined to say, is 
 something greater. And now, when this 
 wonderful power spreads around its 
 spell almost like inspiration ; when, 
 celebrating heroism, magnanimity, pity, 
 or pure love,. it touches the heart with 
 rapture and fills the eye with tears ; is 
 it to be accounted among things profane 
 or irreligious .'' Must it be heard in 
 church, to be made a holy thing ? Must 
 the words of its soul-thrilling utterance 
 be the technical words of religion, grace, 
 godliness, righteousness, in order to 
 mean anything divine ? No, the voca- 
 tion of the really great singer, breathing 
 inspirations of truth and tenderness into 
 the mind, is as holy as the vocation of 
 the great preacher. In our dwellings, 
 and in concert-rooms, ay, and in opera- 
 houses, — so the theme be pure and 
 great, — there is preaching, as truly as 
 in church walls. 
 
 My brethren, give me your patience, 
 if I must suppose that what I am saying 
 needs it. Do but consider what the 
 great arts of mental and moral com- 
 munication express. Are they not often- 
 times the very same qualities that you 
 revere in religion ? Are goodness, pity, 
 magnanimous self-sacrifice, and heroic 
 virtue, less divine, because they are ex- 
 pressed in literature, in painting, or in 
 song ? And when you are moved to 
 admiration, to tears, at some great ex- 
 
 ample of heroism or self-sacrifice, — be 
 it by music or dramatic representation, 
 — and when the same thing moves you 
 in preaching, are you entirely to dis- 
 tinguish between the cases, and to say 
 that the one feeling is profane and the 
 other holy .'' 
 
 Observe that I do not ask you to re- 
 vere religion less, but to see and to wel- 
 come new, and perhaps before unthought- 
 of, instruments and agencies in the great 
 field. You fear, perhaps, that they are 
 not altogether pure. Then, I say, cut 
 off and cast away the bad part ; I plead 
 not for that ; but none the less accept 
 the good. Nay, and I might ask. Is re- 
 ligious teaching itself all pure, all right? 
 Indeed, I think that religion and relig- 
 ious teaching have been as much per- 
 verted and abused as labor, literature, 
 or art. 
 
 It is every way most injurious and un- 
 just to brand everything as irreligious 
 that is not specifically devoted to relig- 
 ion ; to den}', and as it were to forbid, to 
 work any good work, those who " follow 
 not after us." Our Saviour rebuked 
 his disciples in such a case ; saying, for- 
 bid them not; "he that is not against 
 me is for me." It is a bigotry totally un- - 
 worthy of the generous and glorious Gos- 
 pel, to hold in utter distrust and dese- 
 cration all the beneficent activities of 
 the world, all its kindly affections, all the 
 high purposes and sentiments that live 
 both in its physical and mental toils, be- 
 cause they do not come within the nar- 
 row pale of a technical religion ; because 
 they are not embraced in the mystic 
 secret of what is called religions experi- 
 ence. All men are experiencing more 
 or less what the Christian is experien- 
 cing. If his experience is higher and 
 more perfect, is that a reason why he 
 shall disdain and reject everything that 
 is like it in others ? As well might the 
 sage, the philosopher, repudiate and 
 scorn all the common sense and knowl- 
 edge of the world. If he does so, we 
 call him a bigoted and a scholastic phi- 
 losopher. And if the Christian does so, 
 we must call him a bigoted and mystic 
 
I'HE RELIGION OF LIFE, 
 
 127 
 
 Christian. And, let me add, that if he 
 were a generous and lofty-minded Chris- 
 tian, I cannot conceive what could be 
 more distressing and mournful to him, 
 than to hold all human existence, with 
 the exception of his little peculiarity, to 
 be a dark and desolate waste ; to see all 
 besides as a gloomy mass of ignorance, 
 error, sin, and sorrow. It is the reproduc- 
 tion, on Christian ground, of the old Jew- 
 ish exclusion and bigotry. 
 
 II. Let us now extend our view to 
 another department of human life, recrea- 
 tion : and let us see whether we cannot 
 embrace this within the great bond of 
 religion ; whether we cannot reclaim an- 
 other lost territory to the highest service 
 of man. 
 
 The isles of refreshment ; the gar- 
 dens and bowers of recreation ; the 
 play-grounds for sport ; somewhere 
 must they lie embosomed in this great 
 world of labor ; for man cannot always 
 toil. Place for mirth and gayety, and 
 wit and laughter, somewhere must it be 
 found ; for God hath made our nature to 
 develop these very things. Is not this 
 sufficient to vindicate the claim of recrea- 
 tion to be part of a good and religious 
 life? 
 
 But let us look at the matter in another 
 light. Suppose the world of men were 
 created, and created in full maturity, but 
 yesterday, and suppose it to be a world 
 of beiuiis, religio'js, devout, and devoutly 
 grateful and good. The first employ- 
 ment that engages it, as a matter of ne- 
 cessity and of evident appointment too, 
 is labor. But after some days or weeks 
 of toil it becomes acquainted with a 
 new fact. It finds that incessant toil is 
 imi:)racticable ; that it is breaking down 
 both mind and body ; in fact, that neither 
 body nor mind was made for it. In short, 
 the necessity of recreation becomes 
 manifest. What, then, under this view 
 of the case, would men do ? Social, 
 and socially inclined, especially in their 
 lighter engagements, would they not very 
 naturally say, " Let us devise games and 
 sports, let us have music and dancing ; 
 let us listen to amusing recitations or 
 
 dramatic stories of life's gayety or gran- 
 deur ; and let us obey these tendencies 
 and wants of our nature, in ever-kept, 
 grateful veneration and love of Him who 
 has made us"? And if all this were 
 followed out, in primeval innocence, with 
 a religious devoutness and gratitude, I 
 suppose that every objection to it would 
 be removed from the minds of the most 
 scrupulous. 
 
 The objection, then, lies against the 
 abuse of these things. But what is the 
 proper moral business of such an ob- 
 jection ? Is it to extirpate the things in 
 question? It cannot. Games, gayeties, 
 sports, spectacles, there will be, as long 
 as man have limbs or eyes or ears. It 
 is no factitious choice which the world 
 has made of its amusements. It chose 
 them because'it wanted them. The de- 
 velopment here is as natural as it is in 
 the arts. You might as well talk of ex- 
 tirpating music and painting, as of driv- 
 ing the common amusements out of the 
 world. Shall the religious objection, 
 then, since it cannot destroy, proceed to 
 vilify tiiese amusements ? What! vilify 
 an ordinance of nature, a necessity of 
 man, a thing that cannot be helped ! 
 Is this the wisdom of religion ; to de- 
 grade what it cannot destroy ; to make 
 of that which it cannot prevent, the 
 worst that can be made ; to" banish alike 
 from its protection and remedy that 
 which it cannot banish from the world? 
 There lies the garden of recreation, 
 close by the field of labor ! and they 
 cannot be severed ; and men must and 
 will pass from one to the other ; and is 
 it the office of religion to curse that gar- 
 den, to pronounce it unholy ground, and 
 so to give it up to utter levity or license ? 
 Nay, can anything be plainer than that 
 it is the business of religion to reform 
 the amusements of the day? Reform, I 
 believe, is the only measure that can be 
 taken with the tlieatre ; for that which 
 has its root in the natural tastes, customs, 
 and literature of all civilized ages is not 
 likely to be eradicated. But how is any- 
 thing to be reformed ? By invective, 
 by opprobrium, by heaping contempt 
 
128 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 upon it? By casting it out from the 
 pale of good influences, by withdrawing 
 good men from all contact with it, by 
 consigning it over to the irreligion, 
 frivolity, and self-indulgence of the 
 world ? Surely not. And therefore I 
 am anxious to show that recreation 
 must come within the plan of good life, 
 and hence to show that it is not to be 
 snatched as a forbidden pleasure ; not 
 to be distorted by the hand of reckless 
 license ; but to be welcomed, ay, and 
 consecrated, by calm, conscientious, ra- 
 tional enjoyment. 
 
 The objection I am considering is, 
 that the common and chosen recreations 
 of the world are abused. If they were 
 pure and innocent, it would have noth- 
 ing to say. But what is not abused ? 
 'Is not business, is not religion itself, 
 abused? Are they therefore to be de- 
 nounced and driven away from the sight 
 of man ? The objection, carried out, 
 would reduce the whole world to dead 
 silence and inaction. But this cannot 
 be tolerated. We must work ; and we 
 must do business ; and we must relax 
 into gayety and sportiveness when our 
 work is done. Improvements may be 
 introduced into each sphere of action, 
 and have been all along, tlirough ages ; 
 but the sphere must remain ; and it 
 must remain »essentially the same. You 
 can no more get men to amuse them- 
 selves in some entirely new manner, 
 than you can get them to do business, 
 or to draw deeds, or to labor upon the 
 arts, in some entirely new manner. I 
 tell the ascetic religionist that there will 
 be gayety and laughter; there will be 
 assemblies and music and dancing; ay, 
 and, as I think, cards and theatres, as 
 long as the world stands. Whether he 
 like it or not ; whether /like it or not ; 
 it cannot be helped. 
 
 Now there are abuses of these things. 
 What are we to say of the abuses ? 
 " Let them crush down and destroy the 
 things themselves," do v/e say? But 
 they cannot. Then let them be cut off. 
 There is really nothing else to be done. 
 Elevate, refine, purify the public amuse- 
 
 ments. Let religion recognize and re- 
 strain them. Let it not, as is too 
 common, drive them to license and ex- 
 travagance ; but let it throw around them 
 its gentle and holy bonds, to make them 
 pure, cheerful, healthful ; healthful to 
 the great ends of life. What a blessed 
 thing for the world were it, if its amuse- 
 ments could thus be rescued, redeemed, 
 and brought into the service of its virtue 
 and piety ! What a blessed thing for the 
 weary world, for the youthful world, for 
 the joyous world, if the steps of its recrea- 
 tion, trodden in cheerful innocence and 
 devout gratitude, could be ever leading 
 it to heaven ! 
 
 I have now considered two great de- 
 partments of life ; labor, physical and 
 mental, and recreation. My design has 
 been, to rescue them from the common 
 imputation of being necessarily or alto- 
 gether worldly or irreligious ; to resist 
 the prevailing notion, that all true relig- 
 ion, all true spiritual goodness, is gath- 
 ered up in certain and (so-called) sacred 
 professions, peculiarities, and places ; to 
 show that in allthe Fleaven-ordained pur- 
 suits and conditions of life there are 
 elements of good ; that the Spirit is 
 breathing its gracious influence through 
 the world ; that there is a religion of life, 
 unrecognized in our ordinary religious 
 -systems, but real and true, and either 
 worthy of our welcome and admiration, 
 or, when defective or wrong, worthy of 
 our endeavor to correct and improve it. 
 
 1 1 1. But, once more, there is a religion 
 of society. 
 
 This topic, let me observe, is essen- 
 tially distinct from those which I have 
 already discussed. It is true that our 
 labor and recreation are mostly social ; 
 but in the social bond there is some- 
 thing more than the business or the 
 amusement which takes advantage of it. 
 It has a holiness, a grandeur, a sweet- 
 ness of its own. The world, indeed, is 
 encircled by that bond. And what is it ? 
 In business, there is something more 
 than barter, exchange, price, payment ; 
 there is a sacred faith of man in man. 
 When you know one in whose integrity 
 
 A 
 
THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 
 
 129 
 
 vou repose perfect confidence ; when 
 you feel that he will not swerve from 
 conscience for any temptation ; that in- 
 tegrity, that conscience, is the image of 
 God to you ; and when you believe in it, 
 it is as generous and great an act as if 
 vou believe in the rectitude of heaven. 
 In gay assemblies for amusement again ; 
 not instruments of music, not rich ap- 
 parel, not sumptuous entertainments, 
 are the chief things ; but the gushing 
 and mingling affections of life. I know 
 what is said, and may be truly said, of 
 selfishness and pride and envy in these 
 scenes ; but I know, too, that good affec- 
 tions go up to these gathering places, 
 or they would be as desolate as the 
 spoil-clad caves and dens of thieves and 
 robbers. Look at two kind-hearted ac- 
 quaintances meeting in those places, or 
 meeting in the market or on the ex- 
 change ; and see the warm pressure of 
 the hand, the kindling of the eye, the 
 suffusiofi of the whole countenance with 
 heartfelt gladness; and tell me if there 
 is not a religion between those hearts ; 
 and true love and worshipping, in each 
 other, of the true and good. It is not 
 policy that spreads such a charm around 
 that meeting, but the halo of bright and 
 beautiful affection. It hangs, like the 
 soft enfolding sky, over all the world, 
 over all places where men meet, and toil 
 or walk together; not over lovers' bow- 
 ers and marriage altars alone, not over 
 the homes of purity and tenderness alone, 
 — yet these are in the world, — but 
 over all tilled fields, and busy work- 
 shops, and dusty highways, and paved 
 streets. There is not a trodden stone 
 upon these sidewalks, but it has been 
 an altar of such offerings of mutual kind- 
 ness. There is hot a wooden pillar nor 
 an iron railing, against which throbbing 
 hearts have not leaned. True, there are 
 other elements in the stream of life that 
 is flowing through these channels. But 
 will any one dare to deny that this ele- 
 ment is here and everywhere; honest, 
 heartfelt, disinterested, inexpressible af- 
 fection ? If he dare, let him do so, and 
 then confess that he is a brute or a fiend, 
 
 and not a man. But if this element is 
 here, is everywhere, what is it } 
 
 To answer this question, let us ask. 
 What is God.' And the Apostle an- 
 swers, '"God is love." And is not this 
 of which we have been speaking, love; 
 true, pure love.'' Deny it, and bear upon 
 your head the indignation of all man- 
 kind. But admit it, and what do you 
 admit .'' That God's love is poured into 
 human hearts. Yes, into imman hearts I 
 Oh! sad, sad- — frail, erring, broken, 
 are they often ; yet God's spirit is 
 breathing through them ; else were they 
 despoiled, desolate, crushed, beyond re- 
 covery, beyond hope. It is that same 
 spirit of love that enshrines the earth 
 and enrobes the heavens with beauty ; 
 and if there were not an eye of love to 
 see it, a heart of love to feel it, all na- 
 ture would be the desolate abode of 
 creatures as desolate. 
 
 I know full well, alas ! that there are 
 other things in life besides love. I 
 know that in city streets, not far re- 
 moved from us, are depths beneath 
 depths of sorrow and sin ; that in cellars 
 beneath cellars, and in stories above 
 stories, are crowded together poverty 
 and wretchedness and filth and vileness. 
 Oh ! desolate and dreary abodes ; where 
 through the long bright day only want 
 and toil and sorrow knock at all your 
 gates, only blows of passion and shrieks 
 of children, and cursings of drunken- 
 ness, and oaths of the profane, measure 
 out the heavy hours! — are there no 
 hearts to bleed for you .'' Are there no 
 energies of love to interpose for you ? 
 Shall the stream of glad and prosperous 
 life flow so near you, and ncuer come 
 to cleanse out your impurities and heal 
 your miseries ? Nay, in that stream of 
 glad and joj-ous life I know that there 
 are ingredients of evil ; the very ingredi- 
 ents, indeed, that prevent a consumma- 
 tion so blessed. I know that amidst gay 
 equipages selfishness is borne ; and tliat 
 amidst luxurious entertainments pride 
 is nursed and sensuality gorged ; and 
 that through fair and fair-seeming as- 
 semblies envy steals, and hatred and 
 
I30 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 revenge spread their wiles ; and that 
 many a bad passion casts its shade 
 over the brightest atmosphere of social 
 life. All this I know. I do not refuse 
 to see the evil that is in life. But tell 
 me not that all is evil. I still see God 
 in the world. I see good amidst the 
 evil. I see the hand of mercy often 
 guiding the chariot of wealth to the 
 abodes of poverty and sorrow. I see 
 truth and simplicity amidst many wiles 
 and sophistries. There is a habit of 
 berating fashionable life, which is often 
 founded more in ignorance than ill-will. 
 Those who know better, know that 
 there is good everywhere. I see good 
 hearts beneath gay robes ; ay, and be- 
 neath tattered robes, too. I see love 
 clasping the hand of love amidst all the 
 envyings and distortions of showy compe- 
 titions ; and I see fidelity, piety, sympa- 
 thy, holding the long night-watch by the 
 bedside of a suffering neighbor, amidst 
 all-surrounding poverty and misety. 
 God bless the kindly office, the pitying 
 thought, the loving heart, wherever it-tp' ! 
 — and it is everywhere ! ' . ' 
 
 Why, my brethren, do I insist upori 
 this ? Why do I endeavor to spread life 
 before you in a new light ; in a light not 
 recognized liy most of our religious sys- 
 tems ? I will endeavor, in few words, to 
 tell you. 
 
 I am made to be affected, in many re- 
 spects, by the consciousness of what is 
 passing around me, but especially in my 
 happiness and my improvement. I am 
 more than an inhabitant of the world ; I 
 am a sympathizing member of the great 
 human community. Its condition comes 
 as a blessing, or weighs as a burden, 
 upon my single thought. It is a discour- 
 agement or an excitement to all that is 
 good and happy within me. If I dwell in 
 this world as in a prison ; if the higher 
 faith, the religion of my being, compels 
 me to regard it in this light ; if all its 
 employments are prison employments, 
 mere penal tasks or drudgeries to keep its 
 tenants out of mischief; if all its ingen- 
 ious handicrafts are but prison arts and 
 contrivances to while away the time ; if 
 
 all its relations are prison relations, re- 
 lations of dislike or selfishness, or of 
 compact and cunning in evil ; — if the 
 world is such a place, it must be a 
 gloomy and unholy place, a dark abode, 
 a wilderness world : yes, though its walls 
 were built of massive gold and its dome 
 were spread with sapphire and studded 
 with diamond-stars, I must look upon it 
 with sadness ; I must look upon its 
 inhabitants with coldness, distrust, and 
 disdain. It is a picture which I have 
 drawn ; but it is mainly a picture of the 
 world as viewed by the prevailing religion 
 of our time. Nay more ; from this 
 prison it deems that thousands are daily 
 carried to execution — plunged into a 
 lake of fire — there to burn forever. 
 And if the belief of its votaries actually 
 came up to its creed, gayety and joyous- 
 ness in such a world would be more 
 misplaced and shocking a thousand 
 times than they would be in the gloom- 
 iest penitentiary that ever was builded. 
 Is this fair and bright world — is God's 
 world, such a place? If it is, I am sure 
 that it was not made for any rational 
 and reflective happiness ; but mountain 
 to mountain, and continent to continent, 
 and age to age, should echo nothing but 
 sighs and groans. 
 
 But if this world, instead of being a 
 prison, is a school; if all its appointed 
 tasks are teachings; if all its ordained 
 employments are fit means for improve- 
 ment, and all its proper amusements are 
 the good recreations of virtuous toil and 
 endeavor ; if, however perverse and sin- 
 ful men are, there is an element of good 
 in all their lawful pursuits, and a diviner 
 breathing in all their lawful affections ; 
 if the ground whereon they tread is holy 
 ground ; if there is a natural religion of 
 life, answering, with however many a 
 broken tone, to the religion of nature ; if 
 there is a beauty and glory of humanity, 
 answering, with however many a mingled 
 shade, to the loveliness of soft landscapes 
 and embosoming hills and the overhang- 
 ing glory of the deep blue heavens ; then 
 all is changed. And it is changed not 
 more for happiness than it is for virtue. 
 
THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 131 
 
 For then do men find that they may be 
 virtuous, improving, religious, in their 
 employments ; that this is precisely what 
 their employments were made for. 
 Then will they find that all their social 
 relations — friendship, love, family ties 
 — were made to be holy. Then will they 
 find that they may be religious, not by 
 a kind of protest and resistance against 
 their several vocations, but by conformity 
 to their true spirit ; that their vocations 
 do not exclude religion, but demand it for 
 their own perfection ; that they may be 
 religious laborers, whether in field or 
 factory; religious physicians and law- 
 yers ; religious sculptors, painters, and 
 musicians ; that they may be religious 
 in all the toils and amusements of liie ; 
 that their life may be a religion ; the broad 
 earth its altar ; its incense, the very 
 breath of life ; and its fires kindled, ever 
 kindled, by the brightness of heaven. 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Hebrews xi. 4: "And by it he being dead yet 
 speaketh." 
 
 This is a record of virtue that existed 
 six thousand years ago ; but which yet 
 liveth in its memory, and speaketh in 
 its example. " Abel," it is written, " of- 
 fered unto God a more excellent sacri- 
 fice than Cain, by which he obtained 
 witness that he was righteous, God tes- 
 tifying of his gifts ; and by it he being 
 dead yet speaketh." How enduring 
 is the memorial of goodness ! It is but 
 a sentence, which is read in a moment ; 
 it is but a leaf from the scroll of time ; 
 and yet it is borne on the breath of 
 ages ; it takes the attributes of univer- 
 sality and eternity ; it becomes a heri- 
 tage, from family to family, among all 
 the dwellings of the world. 
 
 Ijut it is not Abel alone, the accepted 
 worshipper and martyred brother, that 
 thus speaks to us. The world is filled 
 with the voices of the dead. They speak 
 not from the public records of the great 
 world only, but from the private history 
 
 of onr own experience. They speak 
 to us in a thousand remembrances, in a 
 thousand incidents, events, associations. 
 They speak to us, not only from their 
 silent graves, but from the throng of life. 
 Though they are invisible, yet life is 
 filled with their presence. They are 
 with us, by the silent fireside and in the 
 secluded chamber ; they are with us in 
 the paths of society and in the crowded 
 assemblies of men. They speak to us 
 from the lonely wayside, and they speak 
 to us from the venerable walls that eclio 
 to the steps of a multitude and to the 
 voice of prayer. Go where we will, 
 the dead are with us. We live, we con- 
 verse, with those who once lived and 
 conversed with us. Their well-remem- 
 bered tone mingles with the whispering 
 breezes, with the sound of the falling 
 leaf, with the jubilee shout of the spring- 
 time. The earth is filled with their 
 shadowy train. 
 
 But there are more substantial expres- 
 sions of the presence of the dead with 
 the living. The earth is filled with the 
 labors, the works, of the dead. Almost 
 all the literature in the world, the dis- 
 coveries of science, the glories of art, 
 the ever-enduring temples, the dwelling- 
 places of generations, the comforts and 
 improvements of life, the languages, the 
 maxims, the opinions of the living, the 
 very fr^^mework of society, the institu- 
 tions of nations, the fabrics of empire, — 
 all are the works of the dead : by these, 
 they who are dead yet speak. Life ; 
 busv, eager, craving, importunate, ab- 
 sorbing life ; yet what is its sphere com- 
 pared with the empire of death ! What, 
 in other words, is the sphere of visible, 
 compared with the vast empire of in- 
 visible, life ? A moment in time ; a 
 speck in immensity ; a shadow amidst 
 enduring and unchangeable realities ; a 
 breath of existence amidst the ages and 
 regions of undying life! They live — 
 they live indeed, whom we call dead. 
 They live in our thoughts ; they live in 
 our blessings ; they live in our life ; 
 "death hath no power over them." 
 
 Let us then meditate upon those, the 
 
132 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 mighty company o£ our departed brreth- 
 ren, who occupy such a space in the 
 universe of being. Let us meditate 
 upon their relation, their message, their 
 ministry, to us. Let us look upon our- 
 selves in this relation, and see what we 
 owe to the dead. Let us look upon the 
 earth, and see if death hath not left be- 
 hind its desolating career some softer 
 traces, some holier imprint, than of de- 
 struction. 
 
 L What memories, then, have the 
 dead left among us, to stimulate us to 
 virtue, to win us to goodness ? 
 
 The approach to death often prepares 
 the way for this impression. The effect 
 of a last sickness to develop and perfect 
 the virtues of our friends is often so 
 striking and beautiful as to seem more 
 than a compensation for all the suffer- 
 ings of disease. It is the practice of 
 the Catholic Church to bestow upon its 
 eminent saints a title to the perpetual 
 homage of the faithful in the act of can- 
 onization. But what is a formal decree, 
 compared with the effect of a last sick- 
 ness, to canonize the virtue that we love, 
 for eternal remembrance and admira- 
 tion ? How often does that touching 
 decay, that gradual unclotliing of the 
 mortal body, seem to be a putting on of 
 the garments of immortal beauty and 
 life ! That pale cheek, that placid brow, 
 that sweet serenity spread over the 
 whole countenance ; that spiritual, al- 
 most supernatural brightness of the 
 eye, as if light from another world al- 
 ready shone through it ; that noble and 
 touching disinterestedness of the parting 
 spirit, which utters no complaint, which 
 breathes no sigh, which speaks no word 
 of fear nor apprehension to wound its 
 friend, which is calm, and cheerful, and 
 natural, and self-sustained, amidst daily 
 declining strength and the sure approach 
 to dej^th ; and then, at length, when 
 concealment is no longer possible, that 
 last firm, triumphant, consoling dis- 
 course, and that last look of all mortal 
 tenderness and immortal trust ; what 
 hallowed memories are these to soothe, 
 to purify, to enrapture surviving love ! 
 
 Death, too, sets a seal upon the ex- 
 cellence that sickness unfolds and con- 
 secrates. There is no living virtue, 
 concerning which, such is our frailty, 
 we must not fear that it may fall ; or at 
 least that it may somewhat fail from its 
 steadfastness. It is a painful, it is a 
 just fear, in the bosoms of the best and 
 purest beings on earth, tl^at some dread- 
 ful lapse 7nay come over them, or over 
 those whom they hold in the highest 
 reverence. But death, fearful, mighty 
 as its power, is yet a power that is su!)- 
 ject to virtue. It gives victory to virtue. 
 It brings relief to the heart, from its 
 profoundest fear. It enables us to sa\ , 
 '■ Now all is safe I The battle is fought ; 
 the victory is won. The course is fin- 
 ished ; the race is run ; the faith is 
 kept : henceforth, it is no more doubt 
 nor danger, no more temptation nor 
 strife ; henceforth is the reward of the 
 just, the crown which the Lord, the 
 righteous Judge, will give ! " Yes, death, 
 dark power of earth though it seem, 
 does yet ensphere virtue, as it were, 
 in heaven. It sets it up on high, for 
 eternal admiration. It fixes its places 
 never more to be changed ; as a star to 
 shine onward, and onward, through the 
 depths of the everlasting ages ! 
 
 In life there are many things which 
 interfere with a just estimate of the vir- 
 tues of others. There are, in some 
 cases, jealousies and misconstructions, 
 and there are false appearances ; there 
 are veils upon the heart that hide its most 
 secret workings and its sweetest affec- 
 tions from us ; there are earthly clouds 
 that come between us and the excellence 
 that we love. So that it is not, perhaps, 
 till a friend is taken from us, that we 
 entirely feel his value and appreciate 
 his worth. The vision is loveliest at its 
 vanishing away ; and we perceive not, 
 perhaps, till we see the parting wing, 
 that an angel has been with us I 
 
 Yet if we are not, from any cause, or 
 in any degree, blind to the excellence we 
 possess, if we do feel all the value of the 
 treasure which our affections hold dear ; 
 yet, I say, how does that earthly excel- 
 
THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 • JJ 
 
 fence take not only a permanent but a 
 saintly character as it passes beyond 
 the bounds of mortal frailty and imperfec- 
 tion ! How does death enshrine it, for a 
 homage more reverential and holy than 
 is ever given to living worth ! So that 
 the virtues of the dead gain, perhaps, 
 in the power of sanctity what they lose 
 in the power of visible presence; and 
 thus, — it may not be too much to say, — 
 thus the virtues of the dead benefit us 
 sometimes as much as the examples of 
 living goodness. 
 
 How beautiful is the ministration by 
 which those who are dead thus speak 
 to us, thus help us, comfort us, guide, 
 gladden, bless us ! How grateful must 
 it be to their thoughts of us, to know 
 that we thus remember them ; that we 
 remember them, not with mere admira- 
 tion, but in a manner that ministers to all 
 our virtues ! What a glorious vision 
 of the future is it, to the good and pure 
 who are yet living on earth, that the vir- 
 tues which they are cherishing and man- 
 ifesting, the good character which they 
 are building up here, the charm of their 
 benevolence and piety, shall live, when 
 they have laid down the burden and toil 
 of life, shall be an inspiring breath to the 
 fainting hearts that are broken from them, 
 a wafted odor of sanctity to hundreds 
 and thousands that shall come after 
 them ! Is it not so ? Are there not 
 those, the simplest story, the frailest 
 record, of whose goodness is still and 
 ever doing good ? But, frail records, 
 we know full well, frail records they are 
 7wt. which are in our hearts. And can 
 we have known those, wliom it is a joy 
 as well as a sorrow to think of, and not 
 be better for it ? Are there those, once 
 our friends, now bright angels in some 
 blessed sphere ; and do we not some- 
 times say, " Perhaps that pure eye of 
 affection is on me now, and I will do 
 nothing to wound it " ? No, surely, it 
 cannot be that the dead will speak to us 
 in vain. Their memories are all around 
 us ; their footsteps are in our paths ; the 
 memorials of them meet our eye at every 
 turn ; their presence is in our dwellings : 
 
 their voices are in our ears ; they speak 
 to us, — in the sad reverie of contempla- 
 tion, in the shaip pang of feeling, in the 
 cold shadow of memory, in the bright 
 light of hope — and it cannot be that 
 they will speak in vain. 
 
 II. Nay, the very world we live in, is 
 it not consecrated to us by the memory 
 of the dead .'' Are not the very scenes of 
 life made more interesting to us by being 
 connected with thoughts that run back- 
 ward far beyond the range of present 
 life 'i This is another view, of the ad- 
 vantage and effect with which those who 
 are "dead yet speak to us." 
 
 If we were beings to whom present, im- 
 mediate, instant enjoyment were every- 
 thing ; if we were animals, in other 
 words, with all our thoughts prone to 
 the earth on which we tread, the case 
 would be different ; the conclusion would 
 be different. But we are beings of a 
 deeper nature, of wider relations, of 
 higher aspirations, of a loftier destiny. 
 And being such, I cannot hesitate to 
 say for myself that I would not have 
 everything which 1 behold on earth, tlie 
 work of the present, living generation. 
 The world would be, comparatively, an 
 ordinary, indifferent place, if it contained 
 nothing but the workmanship, the handi- 
 craft, the devices of living men. No, I 
 would see dwellings, which speak to me 
 of other things than earthly convenience 
 or fleeting pleasure ; which speak tome 
 the holy recollections of lives which were 
 passed in them, and have passed away 
 from them. I would see temples in 
 which successive generations of men 
 have prayed. I would see ruins, on 
 whose mighty walls is inscribed the 
 touching story of joy and sorrow, love, 
 heroism, patience, which lived there, 
 there breathed its first hope, its last sigh, 
 ages ago. I would behold scenes, which 
 offer more than fair landscape and living 
 stream to my eye ; which tell me of in- 
 spired genius, glorious fortitude, mar- 
 tyred faith, that studied there, suffered 
 there, died there. I would behold tlie 
 earth, in fine, when it is spread before 
 me, as more than soil and scenery, rich 
 
134 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 and fair though they be ; I would behold 
 the earth as written over with histories ; 
 as a sublime page on which are recorded 
 the lives of men and empires. 
 
 The world, even of nature, is not one 
 laughing, gay scene. It is not so in 
 fact ; it appears not so in the light of 
 our sober, solemn, Christian teachings. 
 The dark cloud sometimes overshadows 
 it ; the storm sweeps through its pleasant 
 valleys ; the thunder smites its everlast- 
 ing hills ; and the holy record hath said, 
 '' Thorns and thistles shall it bring forth 
 to thee." It has been said that all the 
 tones in nature are, to use the musical 
 phrase, on the minor key. That is to say, 
 they are plaintive tones. And although 
 the fact is probably somewhat exagger- 
 ated,when stated so strongly and unquali- 
 fiedly, yet to a certain extent it is true. 
 It is true that that tone always mingles 
 with the music of nature. In the winds 
 that stir the mountain pine, as well as 
 in the wailing storm ; in the soft-falling 
 shower, and in the rustling of the au- 
 tumn leaves ; in the roar of ocean, as it 
 breaks upon the lonely sea-beach ; in 
 the thundering cataract, that lifts up its 
 eternal anthem amidst the voices of 
 nature ; and so likewise in those in- 
 articulate interpretations of nature, the 
 bleating of flocks, the lowing of herds, 
 and even in the song of birds, there is 
 usually something plaintive ; something 
 that touches the sad and brooding spirit 
 of thought. And the contemplation of 
 nature in all its forms, as well of beauty 
 as of sublimity, is apt to be tinged with 
 melancholy. And all the higher mus- 
 ings, the nobler aspirations, of the mind 
 possess something of this character. I 
 doubt if there were ever a manifestation 
 of genius in the world that did not bear 
 something of this trait. 
 
 It can scarcely be the part of wisdom, 
 then, to refuse to sympathize with this 
 spirit of nature and humanity. And it 
 can be no argument against a contem- 
 plation of this world as having its abodes 
 sanctified by the memory of the de 
 parted, as having its brightness softly 
 veiled over by the shadow of death ; 
 
 it can be no argument against such con- 
 templation, that it is somewliat sober 
 and sad. I feel, then, that the dead have 
 conferred a blessing upon me, in helping 
 me to think of the world thus rightly ; in 
 thus giving a hue of sadness to the scenes 
 of this world, while at the same time they 
 have clothed it with every glorious and 
 powerful charm of association. This 
 mingled spirit of energy and humility, 
 of triumph and tenderness, of glorying 
 and sorrowing, is the very spirit of 
 Christianity. It was the spirit of Jesus, 
 the conqueror and the sufferer. Death 
 was before him ; and yet his thoughts 
 were of triumph. Victory was in his 
 view ; and yet, what a victory ! No 
 laurel crown was upon his head ; no 
 flush of pride was upon his brow; no ex- 
 ultation flashed from his eye ; for his 
 was a victory to be gained over death 
 and through death. No laurel crown sat 
 upon his head — but a crown of thorns ; 
 no flush of pride was on his brow — but 
 meekness was enthroned there ; no ex- 
 ultation flashed from his eye — but tears 
 flowed from it. "Jesus wept." 
 
 Come, then, to us, that spirit at once of 
 courage and meekness ; of fortitude and 
 gentleness ; of a life hopeful and happy, 
 but thoughtful of death ; of a world 
 bright and beautiful, but passing away ! 
 So let us live, and act, and think, and 
 feel ; and let us thank the good provi- 
 dence, the good ordination of heaven, 
 that has made the dead our teach- 
 ers. 
 
 III. But they teach us more. They 
 not only leave their own enshrined and 
 canonized virtues for us to love and imi- 
 tate, they not only gather about us the 
 glorious and touching associations of the 
 past, to hallow and dignify this world to 
 us, and to throw the soft veil of memory 
 over all its scenes ; but they open a 
 future world to our vision, and invite us 
 to its blessed abodes. 
 
 They open that world to us by giving, 
 in their own deaths, a strong proof of its 
 existence. 
 
 The future, indeed, to mere earthly 
 views, is often "a land of darkness as 
 
THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 135 
 
 darkness itself, and of the shadow of 
 death without any order, and where the 
 light is as darkness." Truly, death is 
 "without any order." There is in it 
 such a total disregard to circumstances, 
 as shows that it cannot be an ultimate 
 event. That must be connected with 
 something else, that cannot be final, 
 which, considered as final, puts all the 
 calculations of wisdom so utterly at 
 defiance. The tribes of animals, the 
 classes and species of the vegetable 
 creation, come to their perfection and 
 then die. But is there any such order 
 for human beings ? Do the generations 
 of mankind go down to the grave in 
 ranks and processions ? Are the human, 
 like the vegetable, races suffered to 
 stand till they have made provision for 
 their successors, before they depart } 
 No ; without order, without discrimina- 
 tion, without provision for the future or 
 remedy for the past, the children of men 
 depart. They die — the old, the young ; 
 the most useless, and those most needed ; 
 the worst and the best, alike die ; and 
 if there be no scenes beyond this life, if 
 there be no ciVcumstances nor allotments 
 to explain the mystery, then all around 
 us is, as it was to the doubting spirit of 
 Job, '"a land of darkness as darkness it- 
 self." The blow falls like the thunder- 
 bolt beneath the dark cloud ; but it has 
 not even the intention, the explanation, 
 that belongs to that dread minister. 
 The stroke of death must be more reck- 
 less than even the lightning's flash ; yes, 
 that solemn visitation that cometh with 
 so many dread signs, — the body's disso- 
 lution, the spirit's extremity, the wind- 
 ing up of the great scene of life, has not 
 even the meaning that belongs to the 
 blindest agents in nature, if there be no 
 reaction, no revelation hereafter ! Can 
 this be ? Doth God take care for things 
 animate and inanimate, and will he not 
 care for us .'' 
 
 Let us look at it for a moment. I 
 have seen one die — the delight of his 
 friends, the pride of his kindred, the 
 hope of his country : but he died! How 
 beautiful was that offering upon the altar 
 
 of death ! The fire of genius kindled in 
 his eye ; the generous affections of youth 
 mantled in his cheek; his foot was upon 
 the threshold of life; his studies, his 
 preparations for honored and useful life, 
 were completed ; his breast was filled 
 with a thousand glowing, and noble, and 
 never yet expressed aspirations : but 
 he died ! He died ; while another, of 
 a nature dull, coarse, and unrefined, 
 of habits low, base, and brutish, of a 
 promise that had nothing in it but 
 shame and misery, — such an one, I say, 
 was suffered to encumber the earth. 
 Could this be, if there were no other 
 sphere for the gifted, the aspiring, and 
 the approved, to act in ? Can we believe 
 that the energy just trained for action, 
 the embryo thought just bursting into 
 expression, the 4eep and earnest passion 
 of a noble nature just swelling into the 
 expansion of every beautiful virtue, 
 should never manifest its power, should 
 never speak, should never unfold itself .-' 
 Can we believe that all this should die ; 
 while meanness, corruption, sensuality, 
 and every deformed and dishonored 
 power, should live .'' No, ye goodly and 
 glorious ones! ye godlike in youthful 
 virtue! ye die not in vain : ye teach, ye 
 assure us, that ye are gone to some 
 world of nobler life and action. 
 
 I have seen one die; she was beautiful ; 
 and beautiful were the ministries of life 
 that were given her to fulfil. Angelic 
 loveliness enrobed her, and a grace as 
 it It were caught from heaven breathed 
 in every tone, hallowed every affection, 
 shone in everyaction — invested as a halo 
 her whole existence, and made it a light 
 and blessing, a charm and a vision of 
 gladness, to all around her: but she 
 died ! Friendship, and love, and pa- 
 rental fondness, and infant weakness 
 stretched out their hand to save her ; 
 but they could not save her : and she 
 died ! What ! did all that loveliness die ? 
 Is there no land of the blessed and the 
 lovely ones for such to live in ? Forbid 
 it, reason, religion ! — bereaved affection 
 and undying love ! forbid the thought I 
 It cannot be that such die in God's 
 
136 
 
 ON HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 counsel, who live even in frail human 
 memory forever ! 
 
 I have seen one die — in the maturity 
 of every power, in the earthly perfection 
 of every faculty; when many tempta- 
 tions had been overcome, and many hard 
 lessons had been learned ; when many 
 experiments had made virtue easy, and 
 had given a facility to action and a 
 success to endeavor ; when wisdom had 
 been learnt from many mistakes, and a 
 skill had been laboriously acquired in 
 the use of many powers ; and the being 
 I looked upon had just compassed that 
 most useful, most practical of all knowl- 
 edge, how to live, and to act well and 
 wisely : yet I have seen such an one die ! 
 Was all this treasure gained, only to be 
 lost? Were all these faculties trained, 
 only to be thrown into utter disuse ? 
 Was this instrument, the intelligent soul, 
 the noblest in the universe, was it so 
 laboriously fashioned, and by the most 
 varied and expensive apparatus, that on 
 the very moment of being finished it 
 should be cast away forever ? No, the 
 dead, as we call them, do not so die. 
 They carry our thoughts to another and 
 a nobler existence. They teach us, and 
 especially by all the strange and seem- 
 ingly untoward circumstances of their 
 departure from this life, that they, and 
 we, shall live forever. They open the 
 future world, then, to our faith. 
 
 They open it also, and in fine, to our 
 affections. No person of reflection and 
 piety can have lived long without begin- 
 ning to find, in regard to the earthly 
 objects which most interest him, his 
 friends, that the balance is gradually in- 
 cUning in favor of another world. How 
 many, after the middle period of life, 
 and especially in declining years, must 
 feel, if the experience of life has had 
 any just effect upon them, that the ob- 
 jects of their strongest attachment are 
 not here. One by one, the ties of earthly 
 affection are cut asunder ; one by one, 
 friends, companions, children, parents, 
 are taken from us ; for a time, perhaps, 
 we are "in a strait betwixt two," as 
 was the apostle, not deciding altogether 
 
 whether it is better to depart ; but shall 
 we not, at length, say with the disciples, 
 when some dearer friend is taken, " Let 
 us go and die with him " .'' 
 
 The dead have not ceased their com- 
 munication with us, though the visible 
 chain is broken. If they are still the same, 
 they must still think of us. As two 
 friends on earth may know that they 
 love each other, without any expression, 
 without even the sight of each other; as 
 they may know, though dwelling in dif- 
 ferent and distant countries, without any 
 visible chain of communication, that 
 their thoughts meet and mingle together, 
 so may it be with two friends of whom 
 the one is on earth and the otlier is in 
 heaven. Especially where there is such 
 an union of pure minds that it is scarcely 
 possible to conceive of separation, that 
 union seems to be a part of their very 
 being : we may beUeve that their friend- 
 ship, their mutual sympathy, is beyond 
 the power of the grave to break up. 
 " But ah ! " we say, " if there were only 
 some manifestations ; if there were only 
 a glimpse of that blessed land ; if there 
 were, indeed, some messenger bird, such 
 as is supposed in some countries to 
 come from the spirit land, how eagerly 
 should we question it ! " In the words 
 of the poet, we should say, — 
 
 " But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain, 
 
 Can those who have loved, forget ? 
 We call — but t/uy answer not again — 
 
 Do they love, do they love us yet? 
 We call them far, through the silent night. 
 
 And they speak not from cave nor hill ; 
 We know, we know, that their land is bright, 
 
 But say, do they love there still .'' " 
 
 The poetic doubt, we may answer 
 with plain reasoning and plainer Scrip- 
 ture. We may say, in the language of 
 reason, if they lr<>e there, they love there. 
 We may answer in the language of Jesus 
 Christ, " He that livelh, and believeth in 
 me, shall never die." And again: " Have 
 ye not read," saith our Saviour, "that 
 which was spoken unto you by God, 
 saying, I am the God of Abraham, and 
 the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? 
 God is not the God of the dead, but of 
 
 I 
 
THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 137 
 
 the living." Then it is true that they 
 live there ; and they yet speak to us. 
 From that bright sphere, from that calm 
 region, from the bowers of life immortal, 
 they speak to us. They say to us, " Sigh 
 not in despair over the broken and de- 
 feated e.xpectations of earth. Sorrow 
 not as those who have no hope. Bear 
 calmly and clieerfully thy lot. Brighten 
 the chain of love, of sympathy ; of com- 
 munion with all pure minds on earth 
 and in heaven. Think, oh, think of 
 the mighty and glorious company that 
 fill the immortal regions ! Light, life, 
 beauty, beatitude, are here. Come, 
 children of earth ! come to the bright 
 and blessed land ! " I see no lovely 
 features, revealing themselves through 
 the dim and shadowy veils of heaven. 
 I see no angel forms enrobed with the 
 bright clouds of eventide. But " I 
 hear a voice, saying. Write, blessed are 
 the dead who die in the Lord, for they 
 rest — for they rest from their labors, 
 and their works, works of piety and love 
 recorded in our hearts and kept in eter- 
 nal remembrance, — their works do follow 
 them." Our hearts, their workmansliip, 
 do follow them. We will go and die 
 with them. We will go and live with 
 them forever ! 
 
 Can I leave these meditations, my 
 brethren, without paying homage to that 
 rehgion which has brought life and im- 
 mortahty to liglit ; without calling to 
 mind that simple and touching acknowl- 
 edgment of the great apostle, " I thank 
 God through our Lord Jesus Christ"? 
 Ah ! how desolate must be the affections 
 of a people that spurn this truth and 
 trust ! I have wandered among the 
 tombs of such a people ; I have wan- 
 dered through that far-famed cemetery 
 that overlooks from its mournful brow 
 the gay and crowded metropolis of 
 France ; but among the many inscrip- 
 tions upon those tombs I read scarcely 
 one; I read, — to state so striking a 
 fact with numerical exactness, — I read 
 not more than four or five inscriptions 
 in the whole Pere la Chaise, which 
 made any consoling reference to a 
 
 future life. I read, on those cold mar- 
 ble tombs, the lamentations of bereave- 
 ment, in every affecting variety of 
 phrase. On the tomb of youth, it was 
 written that "its broken-hearted par- 
 ents, who spent their days in tears and 
 their nights in anguish, had laid down 
 here their treasure and their hope." 
 On the proud mausoleum where friend- 
 ship, companionship, love, had deposited 
 their holy relics, it was constantly writ- 
 ten, " Her husband inconsolable ; " '' His 
 disconsolate wife ; " "A brother, left 
 alone and unhappy," has raised this 
 monument ; but seldom, so seldom that 
 scarcely ever, did the mournful record 
 close with a word of hope ; scarcely at 
 all was it to be read amidst the marble 
 silence of that world of the dead, that 
 there is a life beyond ; and that surviv- 
 ing friends hope for a blessed meeting 
 again where death comes no more ! 
 
 Oh death ! dark hour to hopeless un- 
 belief ! hour to which, in that creed of 
 despair, no hour shall succeed! being's 
 last hour ! to whose appalling darkness 
 even the shadows of an avenging retri- 
 bution were brightness and relief ; 
 death ! what art thou to the Christian's 
 assurance ? Great hour of answer to 
 life's prayer ; great hour that shall 
 break asunder the bond of life's mystery ; 
 hour of release from life's burden ; hour 
 of reunion with the loved and lost ; what 
 mighty hopes hasten to their fulfilment 
 in thee I What longings, what aspira- 
 tions, — breathed in the still night be- 
 neath the silent stars ; what dread 
 emotions of curiosity ; what deep medi- 
 tations of joy ; what hallowed imaginings 
 of never experienced purity and bliss ; 
 what possibilities, shadowing forth un- 
 speakable realities to the soul, all verge 
 to their consummation in thee ! O 
 death ! the Christian's death ! what art 
 thou but the gate of life, the portal of 
 heaven, the threshold of eternity .'' 
 
 Thanks be to God ; let us say it, 
 Christians ! in the comforting words of 
 holy .Scripture : "thanks be to God, who 
 giveth us the victory through our Lord 
 Jesus Christ ! " What hope can be so 
 
 ^^^ 
 
1.^.8 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 precious as the hope in him ? What 
 emblems can speak to bereaved affec- 
 tion or to dying frailty like those em- 
 blems at once of suffering and triumph, 
 which proclaim a crucified and risen 
 Lord ; which proclaim that Jesus the 
 Forerunner has passed through death 
 to immortal life ? Well, that the great 
 truth should be signahzed and sealed 
 upon our heart by a holy rite ! Well, 
 
 that amidst mortal changes, and hasting 
 to the tomb, we should, from time to 
 time, set up an altar, and say, " By this 
 Heaven-ordained token do we know that 
 we shall live forever " ! God grant the 
 fulfilment of this great hope — what 
 matter all things beside? — God grant 
 the fulfilment of this great hope, through 
 Jesus Christ ! 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 XXL 
 
 ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION 
 WITH GOODNESS, AND WITH A 
 GOOD LIFE. 
 
 I John iv. 20 : " If a man say, I love God, and 
 hateth his brother, he is a liar ; for he that loveth 
 not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love 
 God whom he hath not seen?" 
 
 If there is any mission for the true 
 teacher to accomplish in this age, it is 
 to identify religion with goodness ; to 
 show that they are the same thing, 
 manifestations, that is to say, of the 
 same principle ; to show, in other words 
 and according to the Apostle, that no 
 man is to be accounted a lover of God, 
 who is not a lover of his brother. It 
 is, I say again, to identify religion with 
 morals, religion with virtue ; vvith jus- 
 tice, truth, integrity, honesty, generosity, 
 disinterestedness ; religion with the 
 highest beauty and loveliness of charac- 
 ter. This, I repeat, is the great mission 
 and message of the true teacher to-day. 
 What it may be some other day, what 
 transcendental thing may be waiting to 
 be taught, I do not know ; but this, I 
 conceive, is the practical business of re- 
 ligious instruction now. Let me not be 
 misunderstood, as if I were supposed to 
 say that this or any other mere doctrine 
 were the ultimate end of preaching. 
 That is, to make men holy. But how 
 shall any preaching avail to make men 
 
 holy, unless it do rightly and clearly 
 teach them what it is to be holy ? If 
 they mistake here, all "their labor to be 
 religious, all their hearing of the word. 
 Sabbath keeping, praying, and striving, 
 will be in vain. And therefore I hold 
 that to teach this, and especially to show 
 that religion is not something else than a 
 good heart, but is that very thing ; this, 
 I say, is the burden of the present time. 
 I use now an old prophetic phrase, 
 and I may remark here that every time 
 has its burden. In the times of the Old 
 Testament the burden of teaching was, 
 to assert the supremacy and spirituality 
 of God in opposition to Idolatry. In the 
 Christian time, it was to set forth that 
 universal and impartial, and that most 
 real and true love which God has for 
 his earthly creatures, in opposition to 
 Jewish peculiarity and Pagan indiffer- 
 ence and all human distrust ; a love 
 declared by one who came from the 
 bosom of the Father, sealed in his blood, 
 and thus bringing nigh to God a guilty, 
 estranged, and unbelieving world. The 
 burden of the Reformation time, was to 
 assert the freedom of religion ; to bring 
 it out from the bondage of human author- 
 ity into the sanctuary of private judgment 
 and sacred conscience. But now, relig- 
 ion having escaped from Pagan idolatry 
 and Jewish exclusion and papal bondage, 
 and survived many a controversy since, 
 has encountered a deeper question con- 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 139 
 
 cerning its own nature. What especially 
 is religion itself ? This, I say, is the great 
 question of the present day. It under- 
 lies all our controversies. It is that 
 which gives the main interest to every 
 controversy. For whetheF the contro- 
 versy be about forms or creeds, the vital 
 question is whether this or that ritual or 
 doctrine ministers essentially to true re- 
 ligion; so that if a man embraces some 
 other system, he is fatally deficient of 
 the vital means of salvation. And this 
 brings us to the question. What is true 
 religion itself ? 
 
 This question, as I have intimated, 
 presses mainly upon a single point, which 
 I will now state and argue as a contested 
 point ; namely, whether religion, in its es- 
 sence, consists in a principle of rectitude, 
 of goodness in a simple and true love of 
 the true and divine, or whether it consists 
 in something else ; or, in other words — 
 whether it consists in certain intelligible 
 affections, or in something to the mass of 
 men unknown and unintelligible. 
 
 This question craves some explana- 
 tion, both that you may understand what 
 it is, and may perceive tliat it is a ques- 
 tion ; and I must bespeak your patience. 
 
 In entering upon these points, let us 
 consider, in the first place, what is the 
 ground on which the general assertion 
 in our text proceeds. 
 
 There is, then, but one true principle 
 in the mind, and that is the love of 
 the true, the right, the holy. There is 
 but one character of the soul to which 
 God has given his approbation, and with 
 which he has connected the certainty of 
 happiness here and hereafter. There is 
 something in the soul wiiich is made 
 tlie condition of its salvation; and that 
 something is one thing, though it has 
 many forms. It is sometimes called 
 grace in the heart ; sometimes, holiness, 
 righteousness, conformity to the char- 
 acter of God ; but the term for it most 
 familiar in popular use is religion. The 
 constant question is, when a man's spir- 
 itual safety or well-being is the point for 
 consideration, when he is going to die, 
 and men would know whether he is to be 
 
 happy hereafter, has he got religion ? or, 
 has he been a religious man.'' I must 
 confess that I do not like this use of the 
 term. I am accustomed to consider re- 
 ligion as reverence ^nd love towards 
 God ; and to consider it, therefore, as only 
 one part of rectitude or excellence. But 
 you know that it commonly stands for 
 the whole of that character which God 
 requires of us. Now what I am saying 
 is, that diis character is, in principle, oue 
 (king. It is, being right ; and being 
 right is but one thing. It has many 
 forms, but only one essence. It may 
 be the love of God, and then it is piety. 
 It may be the love of men, and then it is 
 philanthropy. But the love of God, and 
 the love of man as bearing his image, 
 are in essence the same thing. Or, to 
 discriminate with regard to this second 
 table of the law : it may be a love of men's 
 happiness, and then it is the very image 
 of God's benevolence ; or it may be the 
 love of holiness in men, of their good- 
 ness, justice, truth, virtue, and then it is 
 a love of the same things that form, when 
 infinitely exalted, the character of God. 
 All these forms of excellence, if they 
 cannot be resolved into one principle, 
 are certainly parts of one great conscious- 
 ness, the consciousness of right ; they 
 at any rate have the strictest alliance ; 
 they are inseparably bound together as 
 of one' whole ; the very nature of true 
 excellence in one form is a pledge for 
 its existence in every other form. He 
 who has the right principle in him is a 
 lover of God, and a lover of good men, 
 and a lover of all goodness and purity, 
 and a laborer for the happiness of all 
 around him. The tree is one, though 
 the branches and the leaves and the blos- 
 soms be many and various ; all spring 
 from one vital germ; so that the Apos- 
 tle, in our text, will not allow it to be 
 said that a man is a lover of God, who 
 does not love his brethren of the human 
 family. 
 
 Now it may surprise you at first to 
 hear it asserted that this apparently 
 reasonable account of the matter does 
 not accord with the popular judgment. 
 
140 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION, 
 
 To this point of explanation, therefore, 
 I must invite your attention, lest I seem 
 to fight as one that beateth the air. 
 
 It is true, then, that it is admitted in 
 general that the Christian, the object 
 of God's favor here and hereafter, must 
 be a good man ; a just, honest, pure, 
 benevolent man. These admissions are 
 general and vague. We must penetrate 
 into this matter with some more dis- 
 criminating inquiry. What is it, spe- 
 cifically, that makes a man spiritually a 
 Christian, and entitles him to hope for 
 future happiness t The common answer 
 is, it is religion, it is piety, it is grace in 
 the heart, it is being converted, it is be- 
 ing in Christ, and being a new creature. 
 These phrases I might comment upon, 
 if I had time, and I might show that 
 they have a very true and just meaning. 
 But what is the meaning that they ac- 
 tually convey to most hearers ? What 
 is this inmost and saving principle of 
 religion, this grace or godliness, this 
 spirit of the regenerated man ? Is it not 
 something peculiar to the regenerate, — 
 not something more of goodness in them 
 than in other men, but something differ- 
 ent in them from goodness in others ? 
 Is it not something possessed by them 
 alone, unshared with the rest of the 
 world, unknown, completely unknown, 
 and in fact inconceivable to the great 
 body of mankind ? Are not the saints, 
 God's people as they are called, sup- 
 posed to have some secret of experience 
 wrapped up in them, with which the 
 stranger intermeddleth not ; of which 
 the world knoweth nothing ? I do not 
 wish to have this so understood if it is 
 not true. But if it is true, it is too seri- 
 ous a point to be tampered with or treated 
 with any fastidious delicacy. I say, then, 
 plainly and earnestly, is it not true ? If 
 you ask most men around you what 
 is that gracious state of the heart which 
 is produced by the act of regeneration, 
 will they not say that they do not know ? 
 And all that they can say about it, pro- 
 vided they have any serious thoughts, 
 will it not be this : that they hope they 
 shall know some time or other .'' But 
 
 they know what truth, kindness, honesty, 
 self-denial, disinterestedness, are. They 
 know, or suppose that they know, what 
 penitence, sorrow for doing wrong, is. 
 Gratitude to God, also, the love of God, 
 they deem, is no enigma to them. They 
 certainly have some idea of these qual- 
 ities. I do not say how much by ex- 
 perience they know of all these things - 
 but I say they have some idea of what 
 these things mean. If, then, they are 
 told, and if they believe, that all this 
 does not reach to the true idea of re- 
 ligion, it follows that religion must be, 
 in their account, some enigma or mys- 
 tery ; it is some inconceivable effect of 
 divine grace, or moving of gracious af- 
 fections in the heart ; it must be some- 
 thing different from all that men are 
 wont to call goodness, excellence, love- 
 liness. 
 
 But to make this still plainer, if need 
 be ; what, let it be asked, are most men 
 looking for and desiring, when they 
 seek religion 1 In a revival of religion, 
 as it is termed, what is the anxious man 
 seeking .'' Is it not something as com- 
 pletely strange and foreign to his ordi- 
 nary experience as would be the effect 
 of the myster)' called Animal Magnet- 
 ism ? A man is declining into the vale 
 of years, or he is lying upon the bed of 
 death, and he wants religion, wants that 
 something which will prepare him for a 
 happy hereafter. He has got beyond 
 the idea that the priest can save him, 
 or that extreme unction can save him, or 
 that any outward rite can save him. He 
 knows that it must be something in his 
 own soul. And now, what shall it be 1 
 What does he set himself to do, or to 
 seek? What is the point about which 
 his anxious desires are hovering ? " Oil ! 
 that that thing could be wrought in me, 
 on which all depends ! I know not what 
 it is ; but I want it ; I pray for it." And 
 this something that is to be clone in him 
 is something that can be done in a mo- 
 ment ! Can anything be plainer, then, 
 than this which I am saying ; that he is 
 not looking to the increase and strength- 
 ening and perfection of truth, kindness, 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 141 
 
 disinterestedness, humilit}-, gratitude to 
 God, to save him ; not for the increase 
 and strengthening of anything that is 
 already in him ; but for the lodgment in 
 him of something new that will save 
 him. He does not set himself, in seek- 
 ing religion, about the cultivation of 
 known affections, but about the attain- 
 ment of unknown affections. 
 
 Look again, for further proof, at the 
 language of the popular rtligion, whether 
 heard from the pulpit or coming from 
 the press. What is more common tnan 
 to hear morality decried, and the most 
 lovely virtue disparaged, in comparison 
 with something called grace in tiie heart .'' 
 Morality is allowed to be a very good 
 thing for this world, but no preparation 
 for the next; or it is insisted on as a 
 consequence of grace, but is considered 
 as no part of grace itself ; or if it is ad- 
 mitted that by an infusion of grace, mo- 
 rality may become a holy thing, still, by 
 this supposition, the grace maintains its 
 position as tlie distinct, peculiar, and 
 primal essence of virtue. Observe, that 
 I do not say that anybody preaches 
 .against kindness, honesty, and truth- 
 telling, absolutely. Nay, they are in- 
 sisted on. But in what character.'' Why, 
 as evidences of that other thing, called 
 religion or grace. They are not that 
 thing, nor any part of it ; but only evi- 
 dences of it. And observe, too, that if 
 it were only said that much that is called 
 morality and kindness is not real moral- 
 ity or kindness ; that the ordinary stand- 
 ard of virtue is too low and needs to be 
 raised ; to that discrimination I should 
 have nothing to object. But the point 
 maintained is, that nothing that is called 
 simple kindness or morality ever comes, 
 or ever can by any increase come, up to 
 the character of saving virtue. 
 
 There is one further and decisive con- 
 sideration which I am reluctant to men- 
 tion, but which I will suggest, because 
 it is, first of all, necessary that I should 
 clearly make out the case upon which 
 my discourse proceeds. The Church 
 has ever been accustomed to hold that 
 the virtues of heretics are nothing: worth. 
 
 Now suppose a case. Here is a body 
 of men called heretics ; ■ Protestants 
 they were once, — Church of England 
 men, Puritans, Presbyterians. No age 
 has wanted the instance. Here is a 
 body of men, I say, called heretics. To 
 all human \ iew they are as amiable, af- 
 fectionate, and true-hearted, as honest, 
 diligent, and temperate, as any other 
 people. They profess to reverence re- 
 ligion, too ; they build churches, meet 
 together for worship ; and their worship 
 seems as hearty and earnest as any 
 other. By any standard of judging, 
 save that of theology, they appear to be 
 as good and devout men as any other. 
 Now, what does the popular theology, 
 what does the pulpit, say of them t Why, 
 this, briefly and summarily, — that they 
 have no I'eligion. They may be very 
 good men, very amiable, kind, honest, 
 and true, and, after their manner, de- 
 vout; but they have no religion. Is not 
 the case clear ? Must not religion be a 
 secret in the bosom of these confident 
 judges .? They must know what it is ; 
 but others do not know and cannot find 
 out. We must sit down in silence and 
 despair, for we can know nothing about 
 it. Or if we say anything, there is noth- 
 ing for us but to say with Job, " No 
 doubt, ye are the men, and wisdom shall 
 die with you ! " But this, at least, is 
 clear: wiiatever this religion is, of which 
 they speak ; whether it consist in a cer- 
 tain belief, or in some secretly imparted 
 grace, it must be something different 
 from all that men generally understand 
 by goodness and devotion. 
 
 In short, the prevailing idea of re- 
 ligion is, unquestionably, that it is some 
 heavenly visitant to the soul ; some 
 divine guest that takes up its abode 
 there ; some essence or effluence, not 
 merely proceeding from God as its 
 cause, which it does, but partaking of 
 unknown attributes ; something that 
 comes into the soul from without, and 
 is sustained there by a foreign influence ; 
 something that is, at a certain time, cre- 
 ated in the heart, and is totally unlike 
 •anything that was there before ; some- 
 
142 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 1 
 
 thing that is ingrafted upon our nature, 
 and does not, in any sense, grow out of 
 it ; something, in fine, that is put into 
 us, and does not, in any sense, spring 
 out of us ; is not 07'igi}ially the result 
 of any culture or care of ours, is not 
 wrought out of any materials found in 
 us, not reducible to any ordinary laws 
 of cause and effect ; but is -the result of 
 a special and supernatural working of 
 divine power brought to bear upon us. 
 This doctrine, as I have latterly stated 
 it, is undoubtedly modified by some of 
 the new schools of theology that are 
 rising around us ; and this whole idea 
 of religion is, doubtless, rejected by 
 some orthodox persons, as it was com- 
 pletely rejected in the old English the- 
 ology of Paley and Bishop Butler ; but 
 it is nevertheless very generally taught 
 in this country, and it is the faith, or 
 rather the fear and trouble, of the multi- 
 tude. 
 
 Nor do I know of any recent modifi- 
 cation of the prevailing theology, that 
 materially affects the point now before 
 us. When I say that, according to that 
 theology, religion is not wrought out of 
 any materials found in us, it may be 
 thought that I do injustice to the views 
 of some of its adherents. They hold, 
 perhaps, that the necessary powers are 
 within us ; and simply maintain that 
 they have never been rightly exercised, 
 and that without a special impulse from 
 above, they never will be. On this sup- 
 position, the moral faculties of our na- 
 ture stand like machinery, waiting for 
 the stream of influence that is to move 
 them. In the unregenerate nature they 
 have never been moved, or have never 
 been rightly moved ; and they never will 
 be, by any power among them or inher- 
 ent in them. That motion, or that right 
 motion, when it comes, will be religion. 
 But on this supposition, is not religion 
 a thing still and equally unknown ? Can 
 the unregenerate man foresee, can he 
 conjecture, what that motion will be ? 
 Can anybody understand what it is, 
 saving and excepting the converted man 
 himself .'' 
 
 I suppose that this conclusion is in- 
 controvertible ; and I presume that al- 
 most every convert to the popular forms 
 of religion would be found to say : '' I 
 cannot tell you what it is that I have 
 got ; I cannot tell you what religion is ; 
 but I know by experience what it is ; 
 and that is enough for me." 
 
 This view of religion I propose to 
 make the subject of some free discussion. 
 It demands the most serious consider- 
 ation ; and I do not remember that it 
 has received at any hand the attention 
 that it deserves. 
 
 I shall first state the opposite, and, as 
 I conceive, the true view of religion, and 
 briefly show why it is true : and I shall 
 then proceed to consider more at large 
 the consequences that must result, and 
 do result, from the prevailing, and, as I 
 conceive, the false view. 
 
 And here let me distinctly observe, 
 that I am not about to consider these 
 consequences as matters foreign and 
 indifferent to ourselves. They belong 
 to us, indeed, as they concern the general 
 state of religion in the world. But they 
 concern us yet more nearly, as they enter 
 more or less into the state of our own 
 minds. No age can escape the influence 
 of the past. The moral history of the 
 world is a stream that is not to be cut 
 off at a single point. In us, doubtless, 
 are to be found the relics of all past 
 creeds, of all past errors. 
 
 But before I proceed to these conse- 
 quences, I am briefly to state and defend 
 what I conceive to be the true view of 
 religion as a principle in the mind. 
 
 For statement, then, I say, in the first 
 place, that all men know what God re- 
 quires of them, what affections, what vir- 
 tues, what graces, what emotions of 
 penitence and piety ; in the second place, 
 that all men have a capacity for these 
 affections and some exercise of them, 
 however slight and transient ; and in the 
 third place, that what God requires, 
 what constitutes the salvation of the soul, 
 is the culture, strengthening, enlarge- 
 ment, predominance, of these very affec- 
 tions ; that he who makes that conscience • 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 143 
 
 and rectitude and self-denial and peni- 
 tence and sacred love of God which he 
 already perceives and feels, or has felt 
 in himself, iiovvever imperfectly, — he 
 who makes tliese affections the fixed, 
 abiding, and victorious habits of his soul, 
 is accepted with God. and must be happy 
 in time and in eternity. 
 
 This is the statement; and for defence 
 of this view of religion I submit its own 
 reasonableness ; nay, and I contend for 
 its absolute certainty as a matter of 
 Scriptural interpretation. 
 
 First, its reasonableness. For if men, 
 if all men, do not know what religion is, 
 they do not know what is required of 
 them. To say that God demands that 
 to be done in us and by us of which we 
 have no conception, or no just concep- 
 tion, is to make a statement wliich carries 
 with it its own refutation. To make a 
 mystery of a comviaiidment, is a solecism 
 amounting to absolute self-contradiction. 
 Again, we could not know what are the 
 affections that are required of us, unless 
 it were by some experience of them. 
 It is philosophically impossible; it is, in 
 the nature of things, impossible that we 
 should. No words, no symbols, could 
 teach us what moral or spiritual emotion 
 is, unless we had in ourselves some 
 feeling of what it is, any more than 
 they could teach a blind man what it is 
 to see, or a deaf man what it is to hear. 
 Excellence, holiness, justice, disinter- 
 estedness, love, are words which never 
 could have any meaning to us, if the 
 originals, the germs of those qualities, 
 were not within us. Let any person ask 
 himself what he understands by love, 
 the love of man or of God, and how he 
 obtained the idea of that affection, and 
 he will find that he understands it, be- 
 cause he feels it, or has, some time or 
 other, felt it. Once more; I have said 
 that these feelings of benevolence and 
 piety, cultivated into the predominant 
 habit of the soul, are the very virtues 
 and graces that are required of us. And 
 is not this obviously true ? We all know 
 by something of experience what it is 
 to love these around us ; to wish them 
 
 well ; to be kindly affectioned and mer- 
 cifully disposed towards them. And we 
 all have had some transient emotions at 
 least of gratitude and love to the Infinite 
 Father. Now if all these affections were 
 to fill our hearts, and shine in our lives 
 always, what would this be, but that 
 character in which all true religion and 
 happiness are bound up? 
 
 Thus reasonable is the ground which 
 we are defending. But I have said 
 also that it is certain from the principles 
 that must govern us in the interpretation 
 of Scripture. The Bible addresses itself 
 to the world, and demands a certain char- 
 acter. In describing that character it 
 adopts terms in common use. It tells 
 us that we must be lovers of God and 
 lovers of men ; that we must be gentle, 
 forbearing, and forgiving ; true, pure, 
 and faithful. Now if it does not mean 
 by these words as to their radical sense 
 what we all mean by tliem ; if it uses 
 them in an altogetlier extraordinary 
 and unintelligible manner, then, in the 
 first place, it teaches nothing ; and next, 
 it leads us into fatal error. The conclu- 
 sion is inevitable. What the Bible pre- 
 supposes to be a riglit knowledge of re- 
 ligion is a right knowledg'e. 
 
 I am not denying that we are to grow 
 in this knowledge through experience ; 
 and that, from our want of this enlight- 
 ening experience, much is said to us 
 in the Scriptures of our own blindness : 
 much of the new light that will break in 
 upon us, with theyv/// experience of the 
 power of the Gospel. But to a world 
 totally blind, wrapped in total darkness, 
 and having no conception of what light 
 is, the Bible would not have spoken of 
 light. The word stands for an idea. 
 If the idea, and the just idea, did not 
 exist, the word would not be used. 
 
 There is, then, a light in the human 
 soul amidst all its darkness ; an inward 
 light ; a divine light, which, if it were in- 
 creased instead of being dimmed, would 
 shine brighter and brighter even to the 
 perfect day. Let any man have taken 
 the best feeling that ever was in him — • 
 some feeling, however transient, of kind- 
 
144 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 ness to his fellow, or some emotion of 
 reverence and gratitude to his Creator ; 
 let him liave taken that feeling and all 
 that class of feelings, and cultivated and 
 carried it up to an abiding habit of mind, 
 and he would have become a good and 
 pious man. This change, from tran- 
 sient to habitual emotions of goodness 
 and piety, is the very regeneration that is 
 required of us. The being, so changed, 
 would be "born again," would be "a 
 new creature ;" old things witli him would 
 have passed away, and all things would 
 have become new." 
 
 Now, according to the common doc- 
 trine, instead of this slow, thorough, in- 
 telligible, and practical change, we are 
 to look for a new and unknown element 
 to be introduced among our affections. 
 A man feels that he must become a 
 Christian, that he must obtain that 
 character on which all happiness, here 
 and hereafter, depends. And now what 
 does he do ? Finding in himself an 
 emotion of good-will, of affection for his 
 neighbor, does he fasten upon that, and 
 say. " This must I cherish and cultivate 
 into a genuine philanthropy and a dis- 
 interested love " ? Feeling the duty of 
 being honest, does he say, " This practi- 
 cal conscience must I erect into a law"? 
 Sensible, in some gracious hour, of the 
 goodness of God or the worth of a 
 Saviour, does he say, "Let me keep and 
 bear upon my heart the reverent and 
 sacred impression " ? No, all this the 
 popular theology repudiates, and repre- 
 sents as a going about to establish our 
 own righteousness. " No," it says, "you 
 must feel that you can do nothing your- 
 self; you must cast yourself, a helpless, 
 despairing sinner, upon the mercy of 
 God ; you must not look to the powers 
 of a totally depraved nature to help you 
 at all ; you must cast yourself wholly 
 upon Christ ; you must look to the re- 
 newing power of the Holy Ghost, and to 
 the creation in you of something totally 
 different from anything that is in you 
 now." 
 
 The question between these two views 
 of religion is certainly one of a very 
 
 serious character ; one on which mo- 
 mentous consequences depend. And it 
 is a question, too, which concerns not one 
 or another form of sectarian faith alone, 
 but the entire condition of Christianity 
 in the world. The idea of religion on 
 which I have dwelt so much in this dis- 
 course with a view to controvert it has 
 penetrated the whole mass of religious 
 opinion. No body of Christians has 
 entirely escaped it; not even our own; 
 though our characteristic position, as I 
 conceive, at the present moment, is one 
 of protest against it. I say at the present 
 moment. We have gone through with a 
 speculative controversy. It may be re- 
 newed, no doubt ; but there will be hard- 
 ly anything new to be said upon it. We 
 Iiave gone through, then, with the argu- 
 ment about the Trinity, the Atonement, 
 Election, and such speculative matters; 
 and we have come now to the greater 
 question, What is religion itself.'' And 
 what we say is, that religion is a prin- 
 ciple, deep-imbedded in the conscience 
 and consciousness of all mankind ; and 
 that from these germs of it, which are to 
 found be in human nature, it is to be 
 cultivated and carried up to perfection. 
 What is maintained on the contrary is, 
 that religion, the true and saving religion, 
 is a principle of which human nature is 
 completely ignorant ; that to make a man 
 a Christian, is to implant in him a princi- 
 ple, entirely new, and before unknown. 
 Whether it be called a principle, or a 
 new mode of spiritual action, for some 
 may prefer the latter description, it is 
 the same thing in this respect. The man 
 unregenerate, according to this teaching, 
 can no more tell what he is to feel when 
 made regenerate, than a man can antici- 
 pate what a shock of electricity will be, 
 or what will be the effect upon his sys- 
 tem of a new poison, or what would be 
 the experience of a sixth sense. 
 
 The establishment of this point is so 
 material in this whole discussion, that I 
 shall occupy the few moments that re- 
 main to me, with the attempt to relieve 
 the views I have offered, from all mis- 
 apprehension. 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION \VITII GOODNESS. 
 
 I45 
 
 Let it then be distinctly observed, in 
 the first place, that the question is not 
 at all about the nature or necessity or 
 de<4ree of divine influence. Not, what 
 power from above is e.xerted to produce 
 religion in the soul, but what the religion 
 is, however produced ; not what divine 
 aid is given to human endeavor, but 
 what is the nature and result of that en- 
 deavor ; not what grace from God, but 
 what grace in man, is ; this is the ques- 
 tion. Of course, we believe in general 
 that all true religion, in common with 
 everything else good, proceeds from 
 God. And for myself, I firmly believe 
 that it pleases the Almighty to give 
 special assistance to the humble and 
 prayerful efforts of his weak and tempt- 
 ed creatures ; and this, not only when 
 those efforts are resolutely commenced, 
 but in every successive step of the relig- 
 ious course ; not merely nor peculiarly 
 in the hour of conversion, but equally 
 in the whole process of the soul's sanc- 
 tification. I know of no Scripture war- 
 rant for supposing that this divine 
 influence is limited to any particular, 
 season, or is concentrated upon any 
 particular exigency of the soul's experi- 
 ence. 
 
 In the next place, I do not say that 
 the notion of religion as a mystery or an 
 enigma embraces or usurps the whole 
 of the popular idea of religion. When 
 I shall come to speak of the injurious 
 consequences of this idea, I shall main- 
 tain that an enigma cannot be the ob- 
 ject of any moral admiration, or love, or 
 culture, or sensibility ; and I may then 
 be asked if I mean to say that there is 
 no religious goodness or earnestness 
 among those who embrace this idea. 
 And to this, I answer beforehand and 
 decidedly, " No, I do not mean to say 
 this." If the idea were not modified 
 nor qualified in any way, if no other 
 ideas mixed themselves up with that of 
 a mystic religion, this would be the re- 
 sult. It is seldom that error practically 
 stands alone. Still it is proper to single 
 it out, and to consider it by itself. And 
 I do maintain, too, that this error pre- 
 
 lo 
 
 dominates sufficiently to exert the most 
 disastrous influence upon the religion 
 of the whole Christian world. ' 
 
 The whole of Christianity as it is 
 commonly received, is, in my view, 
 greatly perverted, corrupted, and enfee- 
 bled by this error. Christianity is not 
 regarded as a clearer and more impres- 
 sive exhibition of the long-established, 
 well-known, eternal laws of man's spir- 
 itual welfare, but as the bringing in of 
 an entirely new sclieme of salvation. 
 The common interpretation of it. instead 
 of recognizing the liberal Apostolic doc- 
 trine, that the " way of salvation is 
 known to all men, that those not having 
 the written law are a law to themselves, 
 and that in every nation he that worships 
 God and works righteousness " is ac- 
 cepted of him, holds in utter derogation 
 and sovereign scorn all heathen liglit 
 and virtue. The prevailing idea is, 
 that the Gospel is a certain device or 
 contrivance of divine wisdom, to save 
 men ; not helping them in the way 
 which they already perceive in their 
 own consciousness, but superseding all 
 such ways and laying them aside en- 
 tirely ; not opening and unfolding new 
 lights and encouragements to that 
 way by revelations of God's paternal 
 mercy and pledges of his forgiving 
 love, but revealing a way altogether 
 new. 
 
 Thus the Gospel itself is made a kind 
 of mystic secret. I cannot allow a few 
 of the more intelligent expounders of it 
 to reply, as if that were sufficient, that 
 they do not regard it in this light. I 
 ask them to consider what is \\\& general 
 impression conveyed by most preachers 
 of Christianity. They may be offended 
 when we say that vital religion is com- 
 monly represented as a mystery, an 
 enigma, to the mass of their hearers. 
 But let us not dispute about words. 
 They do represent it as something cre- 
 ated in their heart, which was not there 
 before ; of which no element was there 
 before ; of which no man's previous ex- 
 perience ever gives him any information, 
 any conception. If this is not a mys- 
 
146 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 tery to mankind, it would be difficult to 
 tell what there is that deserves the 
 name. Suppose the same thing to be 
 applied to men's general knowledge. 
 Men know many things ; but suppose 
 it were asserted that in all their know- 
 ing there is not one particle of true 
 knovA-ledge, and that only here and there 
 one, who has been specially and di- 
 vinely enlightened, possesses any such 
 knowledge. Would not such knowledge, 
 then, be a secret shared by a few, and 
 kept from the rest of the world ? 
 Would it not be a profound mystery 
 to the mass of mankind ? Yes ; and a 
 mystery all the darker for the seem- 
 ing light that surrounded it ! 
 
 How much is there that passes in the 
 bo3om of society, unquestioned and al- 
 most unknown! It is this which pre- 
 vents us from seeing the momentous 
 fact, and the character of the fact, which 
 I have now been attempting to strip 
 bare and to lay before you. It would 
 seem that we least know that which is 
 nearest to us, which is most familiar 
 and most certain, which is mixed up 
 most intimately with all present thought 
 and usage, and with the life that we 
 daily live. A thing must become his- 
 tory, it would seem, before we can fairly 
 read it. This is commonly allowed to be 
 true of political affairs ; but it is just as 
 true of all human experience. Thus, if 
 there had been a sect, among the old 
 philosophers, which pretended to hold 
 the exclusive possession of all science ; 
 if certain persons had stood up in the 
 ancient time, and said, " That which 
 other men call science is all an illusion ; 
 we alone truly know anything ; all other 
 men are but fools and idiots in this mat- 
 ter ; they suppose themselves to know, 
 but they know nothing ; they use words, 
 and make distinctions, and write books, 
 as if they knew, but they know nothing ; 
 they do not even know what knowing 
 is ;" such a pretension we should not 
 hesitate to characterize as a strange 
 mixture of mysticism and arrogance. 
 -But the same assumption in regard to 
 
 religion is now put forth among our- 
 selves ; it is announced every week from 
 the pulpit ; it is constantly written in 
 books ; it enters into every argument 
 about total depravity and regeneration 
 and divine grace ; and men seem to- 
 tally insensible to its enormity ; it is 
 regarded as a mark of peculiar wisdom 
 and sanctity ; the men who take this 
 ground are the accredited Christian 
 teachers of multitudes ; they speak as 
 if the secret of the matter were in them, 
 and as if they were perfectly entitled, 
 in virtue of a certain divine illumination 
 which they have received, to pronounce 
 all other religious claims to be ground- 
 less and false ; to say of all other men 
 but the body of the elect, " They think 
 they know what rehgion is ; they talk 
 about it ; they make disquisitions and 
 distinctions as if they knew, but they 
 know nothing about it ; they do not 
 even know what true religious knowing 
 is." And all the people say. Amen. 
 There is no rebuke ; there is no ques- 
 tioning ; the light of coming ages has 
 not yet shone upon this pretension ; and 
 the people say. It is all very right, very 
 true. 
 
 I pray you, in fine, not to regard what 
 I have now been saying as a sectarian 
 remonstrance. Nay, and if it were so, 
 it would not be likely to be half strong 
 enough. There is a heavy indifference 
 on this subject of rehgion that weighs 
 down remonstrance, and will not let it 
 rise as it ought. If certain shipmasters 
 or merchants should say that they only 
 understood navigation; if certain mech- 
 anicians or manufacturers should as- 
 sert that they only understood their art 
 or their business ; if certain lawyers or 
 physicians should lay exclusive claim 
 to the knowledge of law or medicine, — 
 there would be an outburst of indigna- 
 tion and scorn on every hand. " What 
 presumption ! what folly ! these people 
 are deranged !" would be the exclama- 
 tion. But men may make this claim in 
 religion ; a few persons comparatively in 
 Christendom may say, "We only have 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 147 
 
 reliiiion ; we alone truly know what 
 religion is ; " and the indifference of 
 society replies, " No matter ; let tliem 
 claim it ; let them have it ; " as if the 
 thing were not worth disputing about. 
 And if some one arouses himself to ex- 
 amine and to resist this claim, indiffer- 
 ence still says, '* Tliis is but a paltry, 
 sectarian dispute." 
 
 No, sirs, I answer, this is not a sec- 
 tarian dispute. It is not a sectarian 
 remonstrance that is demanded here ; 
 but the remonstrance of all human ex- 
 perience. Religion is the science of 
 man's intrinsic and immortal welfare 
 What is a true knowledge, what is a true 
 experience, here, is a question of nothing 
 less than infinite moment. All that a 
 man is to enjoy or suffer forever, de- 
 pends upon the right, practical solution 
 of this very question. Everywhere else, 
 in business, in science, in his profession, 
 may a man mistake with comparative 
 impunity. But if he mistakes here, if 
 he does not know, and know by ex- 
 perience, what it is to be good and pure, 
 what it is to love God and to be con- 
 formed to his image, he is, in spite of all 
 that men or angels can do for him, a 
 ruined creature. 
 
 Settle it then with yourselves, my 
 brethren, what true religion, true good- 
 ness, is. I will attempt, in some further 
 discourses, to lead you to the inferences 
 that follow from this discussion. But it 
 is so fruitful in obvious inferences, that 
 I am willing for the present to leave it 
 with you, for your reflections. But this 
 I say now. Settle it with yourselves 
 what true religion is. If it is a mystery, 
 then leave no means untried to become 
 acquainted with that mystery. If it is 
 but the cultivation, the increase, in you 
 of what you already know and feel to be 
 right, then address yourselves to that 
 work of self-culture, as men who know 
 that more than fortunes and honors 
 depend upon it ; who know that the 
 soul, that heaven, that eternity, depend 
 upon it. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION 
 WITH GOODNESS, AND WITH A 
 GOOD LIFE. 
 
 I John iv. 20 : "If a man say, I love God, and hateth 
 his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his 
 brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God 
 whom he hath not seen.''' 
 
 I HAVE presented, in my last dis- 
 course, two views of religion, or of the 
 supreme human excellence ; and I have 
 offered some brief, but, as I conceive, 
 decisive considerations to show which is 
 the right view. The one regards relig- 
 ion or the saving virtue, as a new creation 
 in the soul ; the other, as the culture of 
 what is already in the soul. The one 
 contemplates conversion as the intro- 
 duction of an entirely new element, or 
 of an entirely new mode of action, into 
 our nature ; the other, as a strengthening, 
 elevating, and confirming of the con- 
 science, the reverence, and the love that 
 are already a part of* our nature. A 
 simple comparison drawn from vegetable 
 nature will show the difference. Here 
 is a garden of plants. The rational 
 gardener looks upon them all as having 
 in them the elements of growth and per- 
 fection. His business is to cultivate 
 them. To make the comparison more 
 exact -^ he sees that these plants have 
 lost their proper beauty and shapeliness, 
 that they are distorted and dwarfed and 
 ciioked with weeds. But still the germs 
 of improvement are in them, and his 
 business is to cultivate them But now 
 what does the theological gardener say ? 
 " No, in not one of these plants is to be 
 found the germ of the right production. 
 To obtain this, it is necessary to graft 
 upon each one a new principle of 
 life." 
 
 Now I have said, that, upon the 
 theory in question, this new creation, 
 this new element, this graft upon the 
 stock of humanity, is, and must be to 
 the mass of mankind, a mystery, an 
 enigma, a profound secret. And is not 
 this obviously true ? Man, in a state of 
 
148 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 nature, it is constantly tau'^ht, lias not 
 one particle of the true saving excellence. 
 How, then, should he know what it is? 
 " Very true," says the popular theorist; 
 " I accept the conclusion ; is it not 
 written, the natural man receiveth not 
 the things of God, neither can he know 
 them, because they ai;e spiritually dis- 
 cerned?" That is to say, the popular 
 theorist understands by the natural man, 
 in this much quoted and much misunder- 
 stood passage, human nature. If he 
 construed it to mean, the sensual man, I 
 conceive that he would arrive at a just 
 exposition. But that is not the point in 
 question now. He does construe it to 
 mean human nature ; this is constantly 
 done. Human nature being nothing but 
 one mass of unmingled depravity, hav- 
 ing never had one right motion or one 
 right feeling, can, of course, have no 
 knowledge of any such motion or feel- 
 ing. 
 
 And to show that this is not a matter 
 of doctrine only, but of experience too, 
 let me spread before you a single sup- 
 position of what often, doubtless, takes 
 place in fact. A man of generally fair 
 and unexceptionable life is lying upon 
 his bed of death, and is visited and 
 questioned, with a view to his spiritual 
 condition. Suppose now he were to 
 say, " I have had for some time past, 
 though I never confessed it before, a 
 certain unusual, indescribable feeling in 
 my heart on the subject of religion. It 
 came upon me, for I remember it well, in 
 such a month of such a year; it was a 
 new feeling ; I had never felt anything 
 like it before. Ever since, I have had 
 a hope that I then experienced religion. 
 Not that I trust myself, or anything in 
 myself ; I cast all my burden upon 
 Christ ; nothing but Christ — nothing 
 but Christ, is the language upon my 
 lips with which 1 would part from this 
 world ; " and would not this declaration, 
 I ask, though conveying no tone intelli- 
 gible or definite idea to the most of those 
 around him, be held to be a very satis- 
 factory account of his preparation for 
 futurity ? But now suppose that he 
 
 should express himself in a different 
 manner, and should utter the thoughts 
 of his heart thus : " I know that I am 
 far from perfect, that I have, in many 
 things, been very unfaithful : I see much 
 to repent of, for which I hope and im- 
 plore God's forgiveness. But I do 
 trust, that for a number of years I have 
 been growing in goodness ; that I have 
 had a stronger and stronger control over 
 my passions. Alas! I remember sad 
 and mournful years, in which they had 
 dominion over me ; but I do trust that I 
 did at length gain the victory ; and that 
 latterly I have become, every year, more 
 and more pure, kind, gentle, patient, dis- 
 interested, spiritual, and devout. I feel 
 that God's presence, in which I am ever 
 happiest, has been more abidingly with 
 me ; and, in short, I hope that the foun- 
 dations of true happiness have been 
 laid deep in my soul ; and that through 
 God's mercy, of which I acknowledge 
 the most adorable manifestation and the 
 most blessed pledge in the Gospel, I 
 shall be happv forever." And now i ask 
 you, do you not think that tliis account, 
 with many persons, would have lost just 
 as much in satisfactoriness as it has 
 gained in clearness ? Would not some 
 of the wise, the guides in Israel, go 
 away, shaking their heads, and saying, 
 they feared it would never do ? " Too 
 much talk about his own virtues ! " they 
 would say; "too little about Christ!" 
 with an air itself mysterious in that 
 solemn reference. And doubtless if 
 this man had talked more mystically 
 about -Christ and grace and the Holy 
 Spirit, it would have been far more sat- 
 isfactory. And yet he has stated, and 
 clearly stated, the essential grounds of 
 all human welfare and hope. 
 
 How often in life, to take another in- 
 stance, does a highly moral and excellent 
 man say, " I hope I am not a bad man ; 
 I mean to do right ; I trust I am not 
 devoid of all kind and generous affec- 
 tions towards my fellow-men, or of all 
 grateful feelings towards my Maker; but 
 then I do not profess to have religion. 
 I do not pretend that I am a Christian 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 M9 
 
 in any degree." Let not my construction 
 of this case be mistaken. Doubtless in 
 many such persons there are great de- 
 fects ; nay, and defects proceeding partly 
 from the very error which I am com- 
 bating. For if I were to say to such 
 persons, " Yes, you have some good and 
 pious affections in you, which God ap- 
 proves, and your only business is, to 
 give the supremacy to these very affec- 
 tions which are already in you ; " I 
 should be thought to have lulled his con- 
 science, fostered his pride, and ruined 
 his soul. I should be regarded as a 
 worldly moralizer, a preacher of smooth 
 things, a follower of the long-doomed 
 heresy of Pelagius. " No," it would be 
 said, " there is no saving virtue in that 
 man ; there is nothing in him that can 
 be strengthened or refined or elevated 
 or confirmed into holiness ; there is no 
 spark to be fanned into a flame, no germ 
 to be reared into saving life and beauty; 
 all these things are to be flung aside to 
 make way for the reception of some- 
 thing altogether new ; as new as light 
 to the blind, or as life to the dead. That 
 something, when it comes, will be what 
 he never knew before, never felt before, 
 never bsfore truly saw or conceived of ; 
 and it is, undoubtedly, though that is an 
 unusual way of describing it, — it is, to 
 depraved human nature, a mystery." 
 
 Tins unquestionable assumption of 
 the popular religion I shall now proceed 
 freely to discuss in several points of 
 view ; in its bearing on the estimate and 
 treatment of religion, on its culture, and 
 on its essential vitality and power. 
 
 In the present discourse I shall con- 
 sider its bearing on the estimate and on 
 the treatment of religion. 
 
 First, the general estimate of the na- 
 ture, reasonableness, and beauty of re- 
 ligion ; what can it be, if religion is a 
 mystery, an enigma, a thing unknown ? 
 We may feel curiosity about a mystery ; 
 and I have seen more than one person 
 seeking religion from tliis impulse; be- 
 cause they would know what it can be. 
 This is uncommon, doubtless ; but taken 
 in any view, can men be in love with a 
 
 mystery ? Can they feel any moral ad- 
 miration for an enigma .-' Can their 
 affections be strongly drawn to what is 
 completely unknown ? Can they feel 
 even the rectitude of that of which they 
 have no appreciation, no idea ? Cer- 
 tainly not ; and in accordance with this 
 view is the old Calvinistic doctrine 
 concerning the means of grace, whicli 
 utterly denied the force of moral suasion, 
 and held that there is no natural ten- 
 dency in preaching to change the heart ; 
 that the connection between preaching 
 and regeneration was as purely arbitrary 
 as that between the voice of Ezekiel 
 over the valley of dry bones and their 
 resurrection to life. 
 
 But suppose this view of preaching 
 be modified, and that a man designs to 
 impress his hearers with the reasonable- 
 ness and beauty of religion, and so to 
 draw their hearts to it. What, let us ask 
 him, can you do, upon the principle that 
 religion is utterly foreign to human na- 
 ture, an absolute secret to humanity ? 
 You have denied and rejected the only 
 means of rational impression, — some 
 knowledge and experience in the hear- 
 ers of that about which you are speak- 
 ing to them. You have disannulled the 
 very laws and grounds of penitence ; 
 for how can men feel to blame for not 
 possessing the knowledge of a secret ? 
 In fine, you may be a magician to men 
 upon this principle ; but I do not per- 
 ceive how you can be a rational preacher. 
 You may say, " This, of which I speak 
 to you, is something wonderful ; try it ; 
 you have no idea what it will be to you ; 
 you will find — " you cannot say, you 
 see, — but, " you will find that it is some- 
 thing delightful and beautiful beyond all 
 things." And have we never witnessed 
 a preaching which seemed to work upon 
 the hearers, as it were, by a kind of art 
 magic : solemn and affecting tones, a 
 preternatural air, a talking as of some 
 secret in heaven ready to come right 
 down into the hearts of the hearers, if 
 they will : an awful expostulation with 
 them for their refusal : a mysterious in- 
 fluence drawn around the place ; dark 
 
150 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 depths oi woe here ; a bright haze of 
 splendor there ; heaven above, hell be- 
 neath ; and the sinner suspended be- 
 tween them by a parting cord ! And 
 how, oh! how, was he now to escape? 
 Mark the answer ; for if there ever was 
 a mystery, here is one. By some stu- 
 pendous change then and there to take 
 place ; not by rationally cultivating any 
 good affections ; not by solemnly re- 
 solving to do so ; not at all by that kind 
 of change ; but by a change instant, im- 
 mense, mysterious, incomprehensible ; 
 a change that would wrap up in that 
 moment the destinies of eternity, that 
 should gather up all the welfare or woe 
 of the infinite ages of being into the 
 mysterious bosom of that awful mo- 
 ment ! 
 
 Can such teaching as this go to the 
 silent depths of real and rational convic- 
 tion ? Did Jesus Christ teach in this 
 manner? Think how natural, how 
 moral, how simple, his teachings were. 
 Think how he taught men their duty in 
 every form which the instant occasion 
 suggested. Think of his deep sobriety, 
 of his solemn appeals to conscience 
 rather than to imagination, to what was 
 /// man rather than what was out of him ; 
 and then answer me. Did the great 
 Bible preachers teach so? Behold the 
 beauty of holiness, they say ; behold the 
 glory of the Lord ; "know and see that 
 it is an evil thing and bitter to depart " 
 from them. " Come, ye children, and 
 I will teach you the fear of the Lord. 
 What man is he that desireth life and 
 loveth many days that he may see good ? 
 Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips 
 from speaking guile. Depart from evil 
 and do good ; seek peace and pursue it. 
 The eyes of the Lord are upon such 
 righteous ones, and his ears are open 
 to their cry." All simple ; all intelligi- 
 ble ; all plain and level to the humblest 
 apprehension ; no talking of a mysteri- 
 ous secret here ; no mysterious talking 
 any way ! 
 
 It is very difficult to speak the exact 
 and undisputed truth upon any point, 
 amidst the endless shapings and shadow- 
 
 ings of language and opinion. I myself, 
 who protest against making a secret of 
 religion, may be found speaking of most 
 men as very ignorant of religion i of 
 the depths of the Gospel as yet to be 
 sounded by them ; of the preciousness of 
 the great resource as yet to be felt, yet 
 to be found out by them. But I am well 
 understood, by those who are accus- 
 tomed to hear me, not to mean anything 
 which is radically a secret of humanity, 
 but simply the increase and consumma- 
 tion in the soul of that which it already 
 knows and experiences. The change 
 from transient and unstable to habitual 
 and abiding emotion of goodness and 
 piety is the most immense, the most im- 
 portant, the most glorious on earth ; and 
 it is one, of which those who are igno- 
 rant of it cannot clearly foresee all the 
 blessed fruits. 
 
 Again, it is very difficult to describe 
 what is deemed a great error, without 
 seeming to do it harshly. I would gladly 
 avoid this imputation. God forbid that 
 I should speak lightly of the preach- 
 ing of good and earnest men. I must 
 speak plainly of it. I must remonstrate 
 against what I deem to be its errors. 
 But I do not forget that with all error 
 there is a mixture of truth. No doubt 
 there are, in all pulpits, many appeals, 
 however inconsistent with the prevailing 
 theology, to what men naturally know 
 and feel of the rectitude and beauty of 
 religion. But from this mass of teach- 
 ing I single out one element which, I 
 say, is not accordant with truth ; which, 
 I must say, is not only false, but fatal to 
 all just appreciation of religion. ■ 
 
 And does not the actual state of things I 
 show this to be the fact? With what 
 eyes are men, in fact, looking upon a 
 religion which holds itself to be a mystic 
 secret in the bosom of a few ? Do you 
 not know that the entire literature and 
 philosophy of the age are in a state of 
 revolt against it ? Our literature has its M 
 ideals of character, its images of virtue « 
 and worth ; it portrays the moral beauty 
 that it admires : but is there one trace of ^ 
 this mystic religion in its delineations ? fl 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 15' 
 
 Our philosop'.-.y, our moral philosopliy 
 especially, whose very business it is to 
 decide what is right, calmly treads this 
 religion under foot, does not consider its 
 claims at all. And the cultivators of lit- 
 erature, of science, and of art, witli a 
 multitude of thoughtful and intelligent 
 men besides them — is it not a well- 
 ascertained fact that they are remarka- 
 bly indifferent to this kind of religion ? 
 Here and there one has fallen in with it ; 
 luit the instance is rare. But if religion 
 were presented to them as a broad and 
 rational principle, we might expect the 
 reverse to be the fact. Thoughtful men, 
 cultivators of literature and art, arc the 
 very men whose minds are most con- 
 versant with images of moral beauty. 
 Show them that all true moral beauty 
 is a part of religion ; tell them that a 
 Christian in t!ie true sense is a man of 
 principle, of truth and integrity, of kind- 
 ness and modesty, of reverence and 
 devotion to the Supreme Glory; and 
 they must feel that all this is inter- 
 esting. But if religion is some myste- 
 rious property ingrafted into the soul, 
 differing altogether from all that men 
 are wont to call rectitude and beauty, 
 must not all intellect and taste, and all 
 moral enthusiasm, and all social generos- 
 ity and love, shrink from it.'' In truth, 
 I wonder that they are so patient as they 
 are; and nothing but indifference about 
 the whole matter can account for this 
 patience. When the preacher rises in 
 his pulpit and tells the congregation, 
 that, excepting that grace which is found 
 in a few, all their integrity and virtue, 
 all their social love and gentleness, all 
 their alms and prayers, have not in the 
 sight of God one particle of true goodness 
 or worth ; nothing, I say, but profound 
 apathy and unbelief can account for their 
 listening to the sermon with anv patience, 
 with an instant's toleration of the crush- 
 ing burden of that doctrine. Or sup- 
 pose this doctrine embodied into a char- 
 acter, and then how does it appear.? 
 Suppose one person in a family possess- 
 ing this mystic grace; in no other respect, 
 that anybody can see, better than the 
 
 rest ; no more amiable nor gentle nor 
 disinterested, no more just nor for- 
 bearing nor loving : and suppose this 
 person to take the position of being the 
 only one in that family that is approved 
 of God, to hold all the rest as reprobate 
 and doomed to destruction ; is it possi- 
 ble, I ask, to feel for that person, in that 
 character, any respect, or admiration, or 
 love ? Nay, I have known persons of the 
 greatest defects of character, and even 
 of gross vices, to take this ground of su- 
 periority, in virtue of a certain inward 
 grace which they conceive has been ap- 
 plied to them. And I say not this for 
 the sake of opprobrium ; but because 
 this ground is, in fact, a legitimate con- 
 sequence of the doctrine that saving 
 grace in the heart is an entirely distinct 
 and different tiling from what men ordi- 
 narily call virtue and goodness. 
 
 But further ; what is the state of feel- 
 ing towards religion among those who 
 accept this doctrine? In those strong- 
 holds of theology or of Church institu- 
 tion where this doctrine is intrenched, 
 where it is preserved as a treasure sacred 
 from all profane invasion, or held as a bul- 
 wark against what are called the inroads 
 of insidious error ; in these places, I say, 
 what is the feeling.? If religion is not 
 any known or felt sentiment or affection 
 of human nature to be cultivated, but is 
 a spell that comes upon the heart of one 
 and another, and nobody can tell how or 
 when it will come, I can conceive that 
 there may be much fear and anxiety 
 about it ; but how there should be much 
 true freedom or genuine and generous 
 love, I cannot conceive. I do not pro- 
 fess to have any very intimate acquaint- 
 ance with the m.ind of such a congrega- 
 tion ; but if religion does not press as 
 an incubus upon tlie minds of many 
 tliere ; if it is not a luigbear to the young, 
 and' a mystery to the thoughtful, and a 
 dull, dead weight upon the hearts of the 
 uninitiated ; if, in its votaries, it is not 
 ever swaying between the extremes of 
 death-like coldness and visionary rapn 
 ture ; if it is not a little pent-up hope 
 of salvation, ratlier than a generous and 
 
152 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 quickening principle of culture ; if the 
 fire in the secret shrine does not wither 
 the gentle and lofty virtues ; I must 
 confess that 1 understand nothing of the 
 tendencies of human nature. There 
 may be much religiousness in such a 
 state of things ; but much of this has 
 existed in many a state, Heathen, Ma- 
 hometan, Catholic, and Protestant too, 
 without much of true religion. I do not 
 say that the churches consist generally 
 of bad people; many influences unite to 
 form the character ; but 1 say that in so 
 far as any churches hold their religion 
 to be some special grace implanted in 
 them, and different from all that other 
 men feel of goodness and piety, so far 
 their assumption tends directly to make 
 them neglect the cultivation of all true 
 worth and nobleness of character. And 
 I am not shaken in this position by the 
 admission which I am willing to make, 
 that there are probably more good men, 
 in proportion, in the churches than otit 
 of them ; for profession itself, the eye 
 of the world upon them, and the use of 
 certain ordinances are powerful influ- 
 ences. They are powerful, and yet they 
 are not the loftiest influences. They 
 restrain more than they iinpel. And 
 the very morality of an exclusive religion 
 is apt to wear features hard, stern, un- 
 genial, and unlovely. 
 
 I have said, in the opening of my last 
 discourse, that the great mission of the 
 true teacher in this age is to establish 
 the identity of religion and goodness. 
 And the reason is, that by no other 
 means can religion be really esteemed 
 and loved. Feared it may be ; desired 
 it may be ; but by no other means, I 
 repeat, can it be truly and heartily es- 
 teemed and loved. 
 
 Now consider that religion stands be- 
 fore the world with precisely this claim, 
 the claim to be, above all other things, 
 reverenced and loved. Nay, it demands 
 this love on pain of perdition for failure. 
 Does the world respond to this claim ? 
 Does public sentiment anywhere yield to 
 it ? There (7r^ things that unite the moral 
 suffrages of mankind, — honesty, integ- 
 
 rity, disinterestedness, pity for the sor- 
 rowful, true love, true sanctity, self-sacri- 
 fice, martyrdom, and among them and 
 above them all, the character of Jesus 
 Christ. Among these, does Calvinistic 
 piety hold any place ? This is a fair and 
 unexceptionable question in the sense 
 in which I mean it. I am not speaking 
 at all of persons, I am speaking of an 
 idea. Is the Calvinistic idea of piety 
 among the beautiful and venerable ideals 
 and objects of the world's conscience, of 
 the world's moral feeling 1 Surely not. 
 But it will not do to say that this is be- 
 cause the world is so bad. For the char- 
 acter of our Saviour is among those ob- 
 jects ! Bad as the world is, yet all sects 
 and classes and communities, all Infidels 
 and Mahometans and Heathen, have 
 agreed, without one single solitary whis- 
 per of contradiction, that this character 
 is a perfect example of true, divine ex- 
 cellence ! Does the Calvinistic idea of 
 religion draw to it any such testimony ? 
 Then what clearer evidence can there be 
 that it is wrong? 
 
 And if it be wrong, if it is an error, 
 what terrible and awful mischiefs must 
 follow in its train ! Mankind required, 
 as the supreme duty, to love that which 
 all their natural sentiments oblige them 
 to dislike, and none of their natural pow- 
 ers, in fact, enable them to understand ! 
 What peril must there be of their salva- 
 tion in such a case 1 What a calamitous 
 state of things must it be for their high- 
 est hopes ! What confusion, what em- 
 broilment and distraction, to all their 
 moral convictions ! Nothing else can 
 account for that blind wandering of many 
 souls after the true good, which we see ; 
 for that wild fanaticism, wliich has taken 
 the place of sober and intelligent seek- 
 ing; for that distracted running up and 
 down of men who know not what they 
 are to get, nor how to get it, nor what, 
 in any way, to do; and yet more, for 
 that profound and dreadful apathy of 
 many, who have concluded that they can 
 do nothing, who have given up all 
 thoughts of life as the voyage of the soul, 
 and have resigned themselves to wait for 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 153 
 
 some chance wave of excitement to bear 
 them to the wishecl-for haven. 
 
 Believe me, my friends, this is no ab- 
 stract matter. It touches the vital ideas 
 of human welfare. It concerns what is 
 most practical, most momentous. In all 
 conoregations, in all townships and vil- 
 lages tiirough the land, an image is held 
 up of religion, an idea of what is the 
 supreme excellence. It is regarded with 
 doubt and fear and misgiving ; not with 
 love, or enthusiasm, or admiration. It 
 is not fair loveliness or beauty ; but a 
 dark enigma. It is not the supreme ex- 
 cellence, but the supreme necessity. It 
 is not intelligently sought, but blindly 
 wished for. Alas ! it is hard enough to 
 get men to pursue the true excellence 
 when they are plainly told what it is. 
 But here is a dread barrier on the very 
 threshold, and they cannot proceed a sin- 
 gle step. They can do nothing till they 
 are converted ; they know not what it is to 
 be converted ; and they wait for the initia- 
 tive to come from heaven ; not knowing, 
 alas ! that to be converted is, with heav- 
 en's help, to begin ; to take the first 
 determined step, and the second, and 
 thus to go onward ; to begin upon the 
 ground of what they actually know, and 
 thus to go on to perfection. Religion, 
 the beauty of the world ; that which 
 mingles as their pervading spirit with 
 the glory of the heavens and the loveli- 
 ness of nature ; that which breathes in 
 the affections of parents and children 
 and in all tlie good affections of society ; 
 that which ascends in humble penitence 
 and prayer to the throne of God, — this 
 is no mystic secret. It is to be good 
 and kind, penitent and pure, temperate 
 and self-denying, patient and prayerful ; 
 modest and generous and loving, as thou 
 knowest how to be ; loving, in reverent 
 thoughts of the good God, and in kind 
 thoughts of all his children. It is plain, 
 noi easy, not in 'that sense natural ; but 
 natural in its accordance with all the 
 loftiest sentiments of thy nature, easy 
 in this, that nothing ever sat with such 
 perfect peace and calm upon thy soul as 
 that will. It is so plain that he who runs 
 
 may read. It is the way in which fools 
 need not err. "For what doth the 
 Lord require of thee," saith the prophet, 
 indignant at the complaint of ignorance, 
 ''wiiat doth the Lord require of thee, but 
 to do justice, and to love mercy, and to 
 walk humbly with thy God ? " 
 
 Let me now proceed, in the next place, 
 from the estimate to the treatment of 
 religion. The topics, indeed, are closely 
 connected ; for the treatment of the sub- 
 ject will, of course, depend on the esti- 
 mate formed of its character and merits. 
 This consideration, it is evident, might 
 carry us through the whole subject ; but 
 I shall not, at present, touch upon the 
 ground of religious culture and religious 
 earnestness, which I have reserved for 
 separate discussion. In the remainder 
 of this discourse I shall confine myself 
 to the treatment of religion, as a matter 
 of investigation, and of institution, and 
 as a matter to be approached in prac- 
 tical seeking. The space that remains 
 to me will oblige me to do this very 
 briefly ; and indeed to touch upon one 
 or two topics under these several heads 
 is all that I shall attempt. 
 
 Under the head of investigation, the 
 subject of religious controversy presents 
 itself. 
 
 Every one must be aware that religious 
 controversy is distinguished by certain 
 remarkable traits from all other contro- 
 versy. There has generally been a 
 severity, a bigotry, an exclusion, and an 
 obstinacy in it, not found in any other 
 disputes. What has invested, with these 
 strange and unseemly attributes, a sub- 
 ject of such tender, sublime, and eternal 
 interest ? I conceive that it is this : the 
 idea that within the inmost bosom of 
 religion lies a secret, a something pecu- 
 liar, distinct from all other qualities in 
 the human character, and refusing to be 
 judged of as other things are judged of, 
 a secret wrapped about with the divine 
 favor, and revealed only to a ^&\s. There 
 is an unknown element in the case, and 
 it is difficult to obtain a solution. The 
 question is perplexed by it, as a question 
 in chemistry would be by the presence 
 
154 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 of some undetected substance. Or if 
 the element is known to some, it is held 
 to be unknown to others, and this as- 
 bumpiion lays the amplest ground for 
 bio-otry and exclusion. If I know what 
 religion is, and another man does not 
 know, I am perfectly entitled, if I think 
 proper, to reject his claim to it, to say 
 that some defect of faith, or of ritual, in 
 him forbids the possibihtyof his having 
 it. Nothing is easier than, on this basis, 
 to form an exclusive sect ; it is, in fact, 
 the legitimate, and the only legitimate, 
 basis of such a sect. I say the only 
 legitimate basis ; because, if everything 
 in this matter be fairly submitted to in- 
 quiry and decision, the vitality of religion 
 as well as its creed and ritual ; if all 
 men can, by care and study, know what 
 it is ; if all men must know what it is, 
 by the very law written on their hearts ; 
 then it is absurd for one party to lay 
 claim to the sole knowledge and posses- 
 sion of it. Wrap it up in secrecy, and 
 then, and then only, may you consist- 
 ently wrap it up in exclusion. 
 
 Only think of an exclusive party in 
 science or art. Think of such a sect 
 saying to all others, "We only have the 
 true love of science or art ; we only have 
 the true spirit of science or art ; " and 
 why would not their claim stand for a 
 moment? Because all other men of 
 learning and skill would say, " We are 
 as competent to judge of this matter as 
 you are. There is no secret in knowl- 
 edge. There is no exclusive key to 
 wisdom. There is no hidden way to 
 art. Prove that there is, and then it 
 may be that the mystery is in your pos- 
 session. But until you establish this 
 point, your claim is al3surd and insuffer- 
 able, and not worth examination." 
 
 Now the whole evil, as well as the 
 whole peculiarity, of religious contro- 
 versy lies in this spirit of exclusion, in 
 the assumption that opponents cannot 
 be good men. Otherwise, controversy 
 is a good thing. That is to say, honest 
 and friendly discussion is good. The 
 whole evil, I say, lies in the assumption 
 of an exclusive knowledge of religion. 
 
 Persecution proceeds upon no other 
 ground. Men have been imprisoned, 
 tortured, put to death, not merely be- 
 cause they erred, not simply because 
 they differed from their brethren, but 
 because that error, that difference, was 
 supposed to involve the very salvation 
 of the soul Men have been punished, 
 not as errorists simply, but as men irre- 
 ligious and bad, and as making others 
 so. I speak now of honest persecution. 
 Its object has been the salvation of 
 souls. Its doctrine has been : " Pain- 
 ful as torture is, it is better than per- 
 dition ; better fires on earth, than fires 
 in hell." But the persecuted brethren 
 say, '* We are not irreligious and bad 
 men. We wish the truest good to our- 
 selves and others ; and, though you 
 oppose us, as you must, you ought not 
 to hate, or torture, or vilify us •, we no 
 more deserve it than you do.'' And 
 what is the reply ? " You know nothing 
 about the matter. You suppose your- 
 selves to be good and true, and to have 
 favor with God and a good hope of 
 heaven ; but we know better ; we know 
 what true religion is, and we say that 
 you are totally devoid of it.' And this 
 judgment, I repeat, can fairly proceed 
 upon nothing but the notion that re- 
 ligion is a secret in the possession of 
 the persecutors. 
 
 Let it be otherwise, as surely it ought 
 to be, if anything ought ; let religion, 
 the great sentiment, the great interest 
 of humanity, be common ground, open 
 and common to all ; let men take their 
 stand upon it and say, as they say in 
 other differences of opinion, " We all 
 wish the same thing ; we would all be 
 happy, we would get to heaven ; what 
 else can we wish ? " and do you not see 
 how instantly religious disputes would 
 take on a new character; how gentle 
 and charitable and patient and tolerant 
 they would become ? But now, alas ! 
 the toleration of science, of art, nay, 
 and of politics, too, goes beyond the 
 toleration of religion ! Men do not say 
 to their literary or political opposers, 
 " Ye are haters of science or art ; ye 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 155 
 
 hate the common country ; " but in re- 
 ligion they say, " Ye are haters of God, 
 and of good men, and of all that is truly 
 good." Yes, the occasion for this tre- 
 mendous exclusion is found in religion ; 
 in that which was ordained to be the 
 bond of love, the bosom of confidence, 
 the garner of souls into heaven ; the 
 theme of all grandeur and of all tender- 
 ness ; the comforter of affliction, the 
 loving nurse of all human virtues, the 
 range ot infinity, the reach to eternity, 
 the example of the One meek and lowly ; 
 the authority, at once, and the pity of the 
 heavenly Father ! 
 
 The next subject for the application 
 of the point I am considering is relig- 
 ious institutions. Under this head, I 
 must content myself with briefly point- 
 ing out a single example. The example 
 is the ordinance of the Lord's Supper. 
 The question I have to ask is : Why do 
 so many sober, conscientious, and truly 
 religious persons refrain from a partici- 
 pation in this rite ? And the answer, 
 with many, is doubtless to be found in 
 tiie notion that religion involves some 
 secret, or the experience of some secret 
 grace, something different from moral 
 uprightness and religious gratitude, with 
 which they are not acquainted. I do not 
 say that this account embraces every 
 case of neglect, but I say that it em- 
 braces many. I will suppose a person, 
 conscious of a sincere intent, to be in 
 all things a true and good man, con- 
 scious, too, of religious affections, and 
 desirous of cultivating them ; one be- 
 lieving in Christ, believing that his life 
 and his death are the most powerful 
 Unown ministration to human sanctity 
 and blessedness ; one, also, truly dis- 
 posed to impress the spirit of Christ 
 upon his own heart, and persuaded that 
 the meditations of the Communion sea- 
 son would be a help and comfort to him ; 
 and why now, I ask, shall he not avail 
 himself of that appointed means ? He 
 is desirous of sacred culture. This is 
 a means, and he wishes to embrace it. 
 Why does he not ? I am sure that I 
 may answer for him, that he would do 
 
 so if he felt that he were qualified. But 
 this is the difficulty; he is afraid that 
 there is some qualification, unknown to 
 liiin ; and that he shall commit a sin of 
 rashness and presumption if he conies 
 to the sacred ordinance. 
 
 My friends, it is all a mistake. You 
 do know, in a greater or less measure, 
 what Christian virtue, what Christian 
 piety, is. You can know whether you 
 desire to cultivate this character. If 
 you do, that very desire is the qualifi- 
 cation. Means are for those who need 
 them, not for those who need tiiem not ; 
 for the imperfect, not for the perfect. 
 The felt need of means, the sincere 
 desire of means, is the qualification for 
 them. If, being believers in Christianity, 
 you also believe that our Communion 
 meditations would help you, you should 
 as much come to them as you come to 
 the prayers of the Sanctuary. And you 
 should as freely come. The Lord's 
 Supper is a service no more sJcred than 
 the service of prayer. Nothing can be 
 more solemn than solemn prayer. 
 
 There is one more suliject to be no- 
 ticed under this head of treatment of 
 religion, by far the most important of 
 all, and that is religious seeking ; the 
 seeking, in other words, to establish in 
 one's self that character on which God's 
 approbation and all true good, all true 
 happiness, depend, and will forever de- 
 pend. Momentous pursuit ! that for 
 which man was made, and life, with all its 
 ordinances, was given ; and the Gospel, 
 with all its means of grace and manifes- 
 tations of mercy, was published to the 
 world ; that in which every man should 
 be more vitally and practically interested 
 than in every other pursuit on earth. 
 Everything else may a man seek and 
 gain ; the whole world may he gain, and 
 after all lose this supreme interest. 
 And yet to how many, alas ! will this 
 very statement which I am making ap- 
 pear technical, dry, and uninteresting ! — 
 to how many more, irrelevant to them, 
 foreign to their concerns, appropriate to 
 other persons, but a matter witli which 
 they have nothing to do ! A kind of 
 
156 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 demure assent they may yield to the im- 
 portance of religion, but no vital faith ; 
 nothing of that which carries them with 
 such vigor and decision to the pursuit 
 of property, pleasure, and fame. 
 
 Now is there any difficulty in account- 
 ing for this deplorable condition of the 
 general mind ? Make religion a mystic 
 secret, divest it of every attractive and 
 holy charm, sever it from everything 
 that men already know and feel of good- 
 ness and love, tell them that they are 
 totally depraved, totally destitute, totally 
 ignorant, and they may " wonder and 
 perish;" but can they rationally seek 
 anything ? Men may be very depraved, 
 they may be extremely deficient of the 
 right affections, as they doubtless are ; 
 but if they saw the subject in the right 
 light they could not be indifferent. 
 There could not be this heavy and be- 
 numbing cloud of apathy, spreading 
 itself over the whole world. I have 
 seen the most vicious men intensely con- 
 scious, conscious with mingled anger 
 and despair, that the course of virtue is 
 the only happy course. And do you 
 preach to the most selfish and corrupt 
 of men, in this wise, saying, " Nothing 
 but purity, gentleness, love, disinterest- 
 edness, can make you happy, happy in 
 yourself, in your family, or in society ; 
 and nothing but the love of God can 
 make you happy amidst the strifes and 
 griefs of this life and the solemn ap- 
 proaches to death ; " and they know 
 that what you say is true ; they know 
 that you are dealing with realities ; and 
 they cannot be indifferent. They may 
 be angry; but anger is not indifference 
 But now, do you speak to them in a dif- 
 ferent tone and manner, and say, " You 
 must get religion ; y.ou must experience 
 the grace of God. in order to be happy," 
 and immediately their interest will sub- 
 side to that state of artificial acqui- 
 escence and real apathy, which now 
 characterizes the mass of our Christian 
 communities. 
 
 Nor is this, .save for its extent, the 
 most affecting view of the common mis- 
 take. There are real and anxious seek- 
 
 ers. And how are they seeking? I 
 have been pained to see such persons, 
 often intelligent persons, blindly grop- 
 ing about as for the profoundest secret. 
 They have no distinct idea of what it 
 is they want, what they are to obtain, 
 what they are to do. All that they seem 
 to know is, that it is something to be 
 wrought in their souls, and something 
 on which their salvation depends. They 
 go about from one meeting to another, 
 from one master in Israel, or from one 
 revival preacher, or from one experi- 
 enced person to another, and say, '• Tell 
 us what this thing is, that is to be done 
 in us ; how did yoii feel when you were 
 converted ? How was it ? How did the 
 power of divine grace come upon you 1 
 What was the change in that very mo • 
 menf when you passed from death f) 
 life ? " Well may the apostolic teach- 
 ing speak to such in this wise : " Say 
 not who shall go up into heaven, that is 
 to bring Christ down ; or who shall go 
 be30nd the sea to bring him near. For 
 the word is nigh thee, in thy mouth and 
 in thy heart, that thou shouldst do it." 
 In your own heart, in the simplest con- 
 victions of right and wrong, are the 
 teachings that you want. This, says 
 the apostle, ''is the word of salvation 
 which we preach ; that if thou wilt be- 
 lieve in thy heart, and confess with thy 
 tongue that Jesus is the Christ, thou 
 shalt be saved." That is, if thou wilt 
 have a loving faith in Jesus Christ as 
 thy Guide, Example, and Saviour, and 
 carry that faith into open action, and 
 endeavor to follow him, thou shalt be 
 saved. In one word, if thou wilt be 
 like Christ, if thou wilt imbibe his spirit 
 and imitate his excellence, thou shalt be 
 happy ; thou shalt be blessed ; blessed 
 and happy forever. But the spirit, the 
 loveliness, of Christ is no mystic secret. 
 It is known and read of all men. It 
 requires no mysterious initiation to in- 
 struct you in it. I do not object, of 
 course, to seeking for light, or to seek- 
 ing aid from men, from the wise and 
 experienced ; but I do object to your 
 seeking from them any initial or mys- 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 157 
 
 terious knowlefljjje of what religion is. 
 Let you stand, alone, upon a desolate 
 island, with the Gospel in your hands; 
 and then and there do thou read that 
 sacred page, and pray over it, and strive 
 patiently to bring your heart into ac- 
 cordance with it ; to bring what is al- 
 ready in you, your love and trust, up to 
 conformity with it ; and you are in the 
 way of salvation. 
 
 Oh ! sad and lamentable perversion ; 
 that the greatest good in the universe, 
 the very end of our being, the very point 
 of all sublime human attainment, the 
 very object for which rational and spirit- 
 ual faculties were given us, should be 
 a mystery ; that the very light by which 
 we must walk must be utter darkness, 
 and that all we can do is, to put out our 
 hand and grope about in that darkness ; 
 that the very salvation in which all the 
 welfare of our souls is bound up should 
 be a dark enigma, and that all we can 
 do is to hope that we shall some time or 
 other know what it is. No, says the 
 Apostle, " The word is nigh thee, in 
 thy mouth and in thy heart, that thou 
 shouldst do it; that is the- salvation 
 which we preach." 
 
 XXI IL 
 
 ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION 
 WITH GOODNESS, AND WITH A 
 GOOD LIFE. 
 
 I John iv. 20 : " If a man say, I love God, and 
 hateth his brother, he is a liar ; for he that lovedi not 
 Ills brother whom lie hath seen, how can he love God 
 whom he hath not seen ? " 
 
 From these words I propose to take 
 up again the subject of my last discourse. 
 I have shown that saving virtue, or 
 whatever it be that is to save men, is 
 commonly regarded, not as the increase 
 or strengthening of any principle that is 
 already in them, but as the implantation 
 in them of a principle entirely new and 
 before unknown. I have endeavored to 
 make this apparent by a statement in 
 
 several forms of the actual views that 
 prevail of religion and of obtaining relig- 
 ion. I have shown, that with regard to 
 religion, or grace in the heart, the com- 
 mon feeling undoubtedly is that it is a 
 mystery, a thing which the people do 
 not comprehend, and which they never 
 expect to comprehend but by the ex- 
 experience of regeneration. 
 
 I may now observe, in addition, that 
 all this clearly follows from the doctrine 
 of total depravity. This doctrine asserts 
 that in our natural humanity there is not 
 one particle of true religion or of saving 
 virtue. Of course, human nature knows 
 nothing about it. The only way in 
 which we can come at the knowledge of 
 moral qualities, is by feeling them in our- 
 selv^es. This is an unquestioned truth 
 in philosophy. If we have no feeling of 
 rectitude or of religion, we can have no 
 knowledge of it. It follows, therefore, 
 from the doctrine of universal and total 
 depravity, that to the mass of men, relig- 
 ion, as an inward principle, must be a 
 mystery, an enigma, a thing altogether 
 incomprehensible. 
 
 This position — held by many Chris- 
 tians, but rejected by not a few, and pre- 
 senting, in my opinion, the most momen- 
 tous point of controversy in the Christian 
 world — I have proposed to discuss with 
 a freedom and seriousness proportioned 
 to its immense importance. 
 
 With this view, I proposed to consider 
 its bearings on the estimate and treat- 
 ment of religion, the culture of religion, 
 and its essential vitality and power. 
 
 The first of these subjects I have 
 already examined, and I now proceed to 
 the second. 
 
 The next topic, then, of which I was 
 to speak, is religious culture, or what is 
 commonly called growth in grace. I 
 cannot dwell much upon this subject; 
 but I must not pass it by entirely. 
 
 A mystery, a mystic secret in the heart, 
 cannot be cultivated. A peculiar emo- 
 tion, unlike all well-known and clearly^ 
 defined emotions of goodness or vener- 
 ation, cannot be cultivated. It may be 
 revived from time to time ; it may be 
 
158 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 kept alive in the heart by certain pro- 
 cesses, and they are likely to be very me- 
 chanical processes; the heart, like an 
 electric jar, may ever and anon be charged 
 anew witli the secret power ; but to such 
 an idea of religion, cultivation is a word 
 that does, in no sense, properly apply. 
 To grow daily in kindness and gentle- 
 ness, to be more and more true, honest, 
 pure, and conscientious, to cultivate a 
 feeling of resignation to the Divine will 
 and a sense of the Divine presence ; all 
 this is intelligible. But in proportion as 
 the other idea of religion prevails, culture 
 is out of the question. And on this prin- 
 ciple, I am persuaded, you will find many 
 to say that the hour of theij" conversion, 
 the hour when they received that secret 
 and mysterious grace into their hearts, 
 was tlie brightest hour of their religious 
 experience. Look, then, at the religious 
 progress of such an one. I do not say 
 that all converts arc such ; but suppose 
 any one to be possessed with this idea of 
 religion as altogether an imparted grace ; 
 and how naturally will liis chief effort 
 be, to keep that grace alive within him ! 
 And where, then, is culture ? And what 
 will be his progress ? Will he be found 
 to have been growing more generous and 
 gentle, more candid and modest, more 
 disinterested and self-denying, more de- 
 voted to good works, and more filled 
 with the good spirit of God ? Will those 
 who know him best thus take knowledge 
 of him that he has been with Jesus, and 
 sav of hiin, " He was very irascible and 
 self-willed twenty years ago, but now he 
 is very gentle and patient ; he was very 
 selfish, but now he is very generous and 
 self-forgetting ; very close and penurious, 
 but now he is very liberal and charitable; 
 very restless and impatient, but now he 
 is calm, and seems to have a deep and 
 immovable foundation of happiness and 
 peace ; very proud and self-sufficient, but 
 now it seems as if God and Heaven were 
 in all his thoughts, and were all his sup- 
 port and resource "? I hope that this 
 change of character does take place in 
 some converts ; I would that it did in 
 many ; but Lmust say, that in so far as 
 
 a certain idea of conversion prevails, the 
 idea of a new and mysterious grace in- 
 fused into the soul, it is altogether unfa- 
 vorable to such a progress. 
 
 And yet so far has this idea infected 
 all the religion of our times, that Chris- 
 tianity seems nowhere to be that school 
 of vigorous improvement which it was 
 designed to be. Religion, if it is any- 
 thing befitting our nature, is the very 
 sphere of progress. All its means, or- 
 dinances, and institutions have this in 
 view as their very end. But surely it 
 is very obvious and very lamentable 
 to observe how much religious ob- 
 servance and effort there is, which goes 
 entirely to waste, which does not ad- 
 vance the character at all. Think of 
 our churches, our preaching, our Sab- 
 baths ; how little do they avail to make 
 us better ! How little do they seein 
 to be thought of as seasons, means, 
 schools of improvement ! Must we not 
 suspect that there is some error at the 
 bottom of all this ? And now suppose 
 that men have got the notion that that 
 something which is to prepare them for 
 heaven is something entirely different 
 from charity, honesty, disinterestedness, 
 truth, self-government, and the kindly 
 love of one another ; and would not this 
 be the very notion to work that fatal mis- 
 chief, the very notion to disarm con- 
 science and rational conversion of all 
 their power ? 
 
 You will recollect that, some time 
 since, a national ship belonging to the 
 Imaum of Muscat visited our shores. 
 Its officers, who I believe were intelli- 
 gent men, freely mingled with our citi- 
 zens, and saw something of society 
 among us. And what do you think was 
 their testimony concerning us ? On the 
 point now before us, it was tiiis : They 
 said that there is no religion among us. 
 And what now, you will ask, was their 
 own idea of religion ? I answer, it was 
 analogous to the very idea which I am 
 controverting in this discourse. Relig- 
 ion with them was not the general im- 
 provement of the character, — nothing 
 of the kind ; but a certain strictness, a 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 159 
 
 certain devoutness, a particular 7i/ay of 
 attending to religion. W hcrever these 
 persons were found, at whatever feast 
 or entertainment provided for them, 
 when the hour of prayer prescribed for 
 Mussulmans arrived, they courteously 
 desired leave to retire to some private 
 apartment, to engage in the prescribed 
 devotions. They found not these things 
 among us, and they said, " There is no 
 religion in America." But do you be- 
 lieve that tliese Arabian followers of the 
 Prophet were better men than the Chris- 
 tian people upon whom they passed 
 this judgment .-' No ; you say, with- 
 out denying their sincerity, that they 
 had wrapped up all religion in certain 
 peculiarities ; and you deny, and very 
 justly deny, that this view of religion is 
 either just or useful. You say, on the 
 contrary, that it is very dangerous ; that 
 it is unfriendly to the true improvement 
 of character; that, according to this way 
 of thinking, a man may be a very good 
 Mussulman and a very bad man. And 
 this is precisely what I say of that 
 idea of religion among ourselves which 
 wraps it up in peculiarity ; which finds 
 its essence in certain beliefs, or in cer- 
 tain experiences, that are quite severed 
 from general goodness and virtue. 
 And I say, too, that according to this 
 theory a man may be a very good 
 Christian^ and yet a very bad man ; 
 may consider himself pious, when he is 
 not even a humane man ; not generous, 
 nor just, nor candid, nor modest, nor for- 
 bearing, nor kind ; in short, that he may 
 be a man on whom falls that condem- 
 nation which the Apostle pronounces on 
 him who says, " I love God, and hateth 
 his brother.-' 
 
 But now it may be said that the 
 doctrine wiiich I iiave delivered is a 
 very dangerous doctrine. '* To tell a 
 man," it may be said, " that there is 
 some good in him on which he is to 
 build ; that religion consists essentially 
 in the culture of what is already within 
 him ; that there are natural emotions of 
 piety and goodness in him which he is 
 to cultivate into a habit and a character ; 
 
 will not all tiiis minister to self-compla- 
 cency, sloth, negli^ence, and procrasti- 
 nation ? Will not the man say, ' Well, I 
 have some good in me, and I only need 
 a little more, and I can attend to that 
 any time. 1 need not trouble myself ; 
 events perhaps will improve my charac- 
 ter ; and all will be well, without much 
 effort or concern on my part. And es- 
 pecially I need not go through this 
 dreadful paroxysm of a conversion ; I 
 have nothing to do but to improve.' " 
 
 I might answer, that it is no new 
 thing for a good and true doctrine to be 
 abused. I do not know but it is abused 
 by some among us. Indeed, I fear that 
 it is. Let me proceed at once, then, to 
 guard against this abuse ; and to show, 
 as I have promised, that the doctrine 
 which I advocate is one of essential 
 vitality and power in religion. 
 
 Let us illustrate this by one or two 
 comparisons. You wish to teach some 
 man a science. Would you think it 
 likely to awaken his zeal and earnest- 
 ness, to begin by telling him, not only 
 that he knows nothing about the science 
 in question, but that he has no natural 
 capacity for understanding it ; that he 
 has no elements in him of that knowl- 
 edge in which you wish to instruct him ; 
 but that he must first have some special 
 and supernatural initiation from heaven 
 into that knowledge, and then he may 
 advance ; that till this is done, nothing 
 is done, and that when this is done, all is 
 done ; al', that is to say, that is essen- 
 tial to his character as a man of science, 
 ail that is necessary to prepare him for a 
 successful examination? Would it fur- 
 ther your object to instruct him in this 
 way ? You wish to teach music to your 
 pupil. You wish to arouse him to at- 
 tend, and to labor for accomplishment. 
 Would it be well to tell him that he has 
 no musical ear, and that he can do noth- 
 ing till this is given him ? Y'ou desire 
 to train a youth to high physical accom- 
 plishment, to the exercises of the gym- 
 nasium or the riding school, to feats of 
 strength or agility ; a branch of educa- 
 tion that deserves more attention than 
 
i6o 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 it is receiving among us. Would you 
 avow to your pupil that there is one 
 preliminary step to be gained before 
 you could proceed at all ; that he had 
 no muscles, no aptitude ; and that, 
 until these are given him, he can do 
 nothing .-* Alas ! when I look at the 
 wonderful feats of some public perform- 
 ers, magicians, as they are called, and 
 as they seem to the people : and when 
 I know that all this is the result of care- 
 ful and patient training, I cannot help 
 saying, would Christians exercise them- 
 selves in this way, to what might they 
 not attain ! " And these do it," says 
 the Apostle, " for an earthly crown, but 
 ye labor for a heavenly." Alas ! I am 
 compelled to say again : every school 
 of learning seems to be more success- 
 ful than the Christian school I And 
 why? let me ask. Have not all other 
 schools their difficulties to surmount as 
 well as the Christian ? Why, then, is it 
 that this is so lame and inefficient, but 
 because there is some radical error at 
 the very foundation ? Let us see Chris- 
 tians laboring, ay, and denying them- 
 selves as men of science and art and 
 skill do, and should we not witness some 
 new result .'' 
 
 So I contend they would labor, or at 
 the least would be far more likely to 
 labor, if they were put in the right way 
 and were impressed with the right con- 
 victions. What is the way ? What are 
 the convictions ? What does our doc- 
 trine say to men ? What does it say to 
 thetn with regard to conversion, to prog- 
 ress, and to preparation for heaven ? 
 
 With regard to conversion it says, 
 " You must begin the work of self-cul- 
 ture ; resolutely and decidedly you 
 must enter upon the Christian path. 
 If that era of solemn determination has 
 never come to you, then it must come, 
 or you are a lost man. With a feeling 
 as solemn, as profound, as absorbing, 
 as ever possessed the heart of any con- 
 vert to mysterious grace, you must 
 begin. He may think that the saving 
 work is done upon him in an instant ; 
 \oii must not think so. That is all 
 
 an error proceeding from a false inter- 
 pretation of certain figurative language 
 of Scripture ; such as " new birth," 
 "new creation" — figurative phrases 
 which apply to the soul only so far as 
 the soul's nature will admit; and it does 
 not admit of an instant's experience 
 being the preparation for heaven. He 
 who has received this instantaneous 
 communication may think that in that 
 moment he has got a grace, a some- 
 tliing — a something like a password to 
 heaven; hut you, if you will have any 
 reason in your religion, must not think 
 so. If you think at all, you cannot 
 think so. If you imagine, you may im- 
 agine what you will. And, truly, it is 
 no moderate stretch of imagination that 
 is here supposed. For if an 'instant's 
 experience is enough to prepare the 
 soul for heaven, I must wonder why a 
 life was given for it. No, in one mo- 
 ment we can only begin. But that be- 
 ginning must nevertheless be made. 
 What is never begun, is never done. 
 On that great resolve rests the burden 
 of all human hope. On that great bond 
 is set the seal of eternity. If we have 
 never made that bond with our souls to 
 be true and pure; if w£ have never 
 taken up that resolve, I see not how we 
 can be Christians. If all our impulses 
 were good, we might yield ourselves up 
 to them. If there were no temptations, 
 we should need no purpose. If there 
 ■were a tide in the ocean of life that set 
 right towards the desired haven, we 
 might cast ourselves upon it, and let it 
 bear us at its will. But what would you 
 expect, if a ship were loosened from 
 the wharf, and without any course set, 
 or any purpose to make a voyage, it 
 were to take such fate as the winds and 
 waves might send it ? You know what 
 its fate would be ; to founder amidst the 
 seas or to be wrecked on the shore ; it 
 would reach no haven. And so upon 
 the great deep of life a moral voyage is 
 to be made ; amidst winds and waves of 
 passion, and through clouds and storms 
 of temptation and difficulty, the course 
 must be held ; and it will not be held. 
 
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 
 
 i6i 
 
 if it is not firmly set. Certainly, no 
 mm will make the voyage unless he is 
 determined to make it. How many 
 launch forth upon the ocean of life with- 
 out any such determination ; and their 
 ship is swayed this way and that way 
 by unseen currents, and is carried far 
 astray by smooth tides and softly breath- 
 ing winds ; but surely, unless a time 
 comes when the thoughtless mariner 
 arouses himself, and directs his course 
 and spreads his sails for the haven, he 
 will never reach it ! 
 
 I must lay this emphatic stress upon 
 beginning ; and I would that it might 
 be a point of personal inquiry. I will 
 use no intrusive liberty with your 
 thoughts ; but I would say, Have you 
 begun ? Have you resolved ? for there 
 is nothing on earth so much requiring 
 a resolve. Let not this matter, then, be 
 wrapped in mystery. In clear reality, 
 let it stand before us; in close contact, 
 let it come to us. There is something 
 wrong, of which the soul is conscious. 
 The resolve required is this ; to do it no 
 more. There is some secret indulgence, 
 some bosom sin. The resolve is, to 
 tear that sin from the bosom, though 
 it be dear as a right hand or a right 
 eye. Some duty, or course of duties, is 
 neglected ; the resolve is to set about 
 it, this day, this hour. In short, the 
 resolve is, a great, strong, substantial 
 purpose to do right in all things ; it is 
 to set up the standard of duty as that 
 beneath which we will walk all our life 
 through ; to give our hearts without any 
 reserve to God, to truth, and sanctity 
 and goodness. 
 
 This is what our doctrine says in re- 
 gard to conversion. And now what 
 does it say on the subject of progress ? 
 Does the message which it delivers 
 minister to sloth, negligence, or pro- 
 crastination ? What does it say? Your 
 life's work is growth in goodness and 
 piety. It is a daily work, or it is no 
 work at all. Every day you must ad- 
 vance. Practical religion is self-culture. 
 God has given you a natural piety, and 
 a natural benevolence, as he has given 
 
 you a natural reason. With one as with 
 the other, your business is culture. The 
 seed is in 3-ou, as the seed of the com- 
 ing harvest is in the. soil. Everything 
 depends on culture. Does it discourage 
 the industry of the husbandman to tell 
 him that the seed is provided, and 
 planted in the earth ; that there is a 
 germ that will grow if he will take care 
 of it ? Nay, that is the very reason 
 why he will work. Or does he refuse 
 to work, because it is necessary that 
 God's sun and air quicken the soil ? 
 And why any more that God's spirit 
 must shine and breathe upon his soul ? 
 
 In this rational and generous self-cul- 
 ture is the secret of spiritual strength. 
 There is nothing which most men so 
 much feel as the want of vitality and 
 earnestness in their religion. Their talk 
 about it is dull and mournful : their 
 prayers are cold and reluctant ; their 
 interest is languid, their Sabbaths and 
 their religious meetings in conference- 
 rooms and school-houses are heavy and 
 sluggish ! And why is all this .-* It is, 
 provided they are sincere, because their 
 views of religion are irrational, mystical, 
 essentially uninteresting; because the 
 thing in question is severed from the 
 living fountains of all true emotion. Let 
 me state it to you thus. You have a 
 friend, a dear and lovely friend ; and 
 towards' that being your affections are 
 not dull and sluggish. But why is that 
 friend dear and lovely ? Because gener- 
 ous and noble-hearted, kind and gentle, 
 full of disinterestedness and purity and 
 truth .'' Then I tell you that your friend- 
 ship is a part of religion. It is of the 
 same nature as religion. It is no otiier 
 than a portion of the beauty of the 
 Divinity that is shed forth in the heart 
 of your friend. Again, you have an en- 
 thusiasm for air that is morally sublime 
 and beautiful. The patriot that dies for 
 his country ; the martyr that calmly 
 goes to the stake, when one word, one 
 little word uttered, will give him life, 
 and fortune, and splendor, and he will 
 not speak that false word ; the patient 
 and heroic sufferer amidst pain and 
 
l62 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 calamity ; the great Sufferer when he 
 breathed the prayer, Father, forgive 
 them, — these win admiration, draw tears 
 from you, perhaps, as you think of them. 
 And again, I tell you that this is a part 
 of religion. Once more, you have an in- 
 terest in this matter. Surely you would 
 be happy. Uneasiness, destitution, self- 
 inflicted pain, are hard to bear. But 
 was ever a soul, full of the love of God, 
 full of kindness and gentleness, full of 
 serenity and trust, — was ever such a soul 
 essentially unhappy? How, then, can 
 fainting and famishing creatures gather 
 in converse around this fountain of all 
 healing and comfort, and not be thrilled 
 with inexpressible emotion ? Let me 
 suggest one more thought. There is 
 one great Being who is the first and 
 chiefest object of religion — God ! And 
 God is everywhere. Can there be in- 
 difference where it is felt that God is ? 
 And he is everywhere. In the crowded 
 meeting, in thy lonely and retired walk, 
 in the ever lovely, holy, and beautiful 
 nature that is spread around you, in the 
 silent and star-lit dome of heaven, and 
 beneath your humble roof, in all that 
 fills it with comfort and joy and hope, 
 ay, or touches it with disciplinary sor- 
 row, — in all God is: the nearest, the 
 holiest ; the greatest, the kindest of be- 
 ings ; and can indifference live in that 
 sublime and blessed presence ? 
 
 Now, what is religion .'' It is not 
 merely to feel all this at certain times 
 and seasons, but it is to make it the 
 reigning habit of our minds. To feel 
 it, is comparatively easy ; to form it into 
 the very structure of our souls, is quite 
 another thing. I cannot very well under- 
 stand how any man should want the 
 feeling ; but I can very well understand 
 how he should want the character. For 
 this it is precisely that is the greatest 
 and rarest of all human attainments. 
 This it is, to have Christ formed within 
 us, the hope of glory. Jesus, the blessed 
 Master, lived that perfect life. In him 
 'each good affection of the humanity had 
 its fulness, its permanence, its perfection. 
 How reverend, how holy, how dear, how 
 
 soul-entrancing, is that incarnate love- 
 liness ; God in him, God with us; the 
 brightness of the Father's glory and the 
 express image of his person ! Oh ! could 
 we be hke him ! all our ungoverned 
 agitations, all our vain longings, all our 
 distracting passions, all our needless 
 griefs and pains, would die away from us ; 
 and we should be freed from the heavy, 
 heavy burden of our sins ! I almost fear, 
 my friends, so to express myself, lest it 
 should be construed into the hackneyed 
 and whining lamentation of tlie pulpit, 
 and should win no respect, no sympathy, 
 with you. No, it is with a manly grief, 
 with an indignant sorrow, and shame, 
 that every one of us sliould lament that 
 he has not more unreservedly followed 
 the great and glorious Master ! 
 
 And let me add that this is no vision- 
 ary nor impracticable undertaking. It 
 is what we all can do, with God's help, 
 if we will. It is what is bound upon us 
 by the simplest perceptions of rectitude 
 in our own souls, bound upon us by the 
 very feelings of conscience and obliga- 
 tion which God has implanted within us. 
 
 Finally, it is what we must do if we 
 would attain to happiness here or here- 
 after. The hours are stealing on when 
 the veil of 'eternity shall part its awful 
 folds, and the great and dread hereafter 
 shall receive us. Solemn will be that 
 hour! Lightly do we hear of its daily 
 coming to one and another round us 
 now ; little do we think of what it was 
 to them ; but so will not be its coming, 
 — with lightness or with little thought, — 
 so will not be its coming to us. The 
 gathering and swelling thoughts of that 
 hour, no one can know but he who has 
 felt it drawing nigh. Earth recedes ; 
 and earth's ambition, gain, pleasure, van- 
 ity, shrink to nothing ; and one thought 
 spreads all around and fills the expand- 
 ing horizon of eternity, — am I ready? 
 Have I lived so, as to meet this hour ? 
 And believe me, in no court of human 
 theology must that question be an- 
 swered. No imaginary robe of another's 
 rigliteousness, — I speak not now of 
 God's mercy in Christ; that, we may 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 
 
 163 
 
 be sure, will be all that mercy consist- 
 ently can be; no mystic grace claiming 
 superiority to all deeds of mercy and 
 truth ; no narrow, technical hope of sal- 
 vation garnered up in the heart, will avail 
 qs there ; but the all-deciding question 
 will be — What were we ? and what have 
 we done ? What were we, in the whole 
 breadth and length of all our good or all 
 our bad affections ? That awful ques- 
 tion we must answer for ourselves. No 
 one shall be there to answer for us. No 
 answer shall be given in there but that 
 which comes from every day and hour 
 of our lives. For there is not a day nor 
 an hour of our lives but it contributes to 
 make us better or worse ; it has borne 
 the stamp of our culture or carelessness 
 of our fidelity or our neglect. And that 
 stamp, which our life's experience sets 
 upon our character, is, — I speak not 
 my own word, but God's word, — that 
 stamp is the very seal of retribution. 
 
 Does this seem, my friends, but a sad 
 and stern conclusion of the matter ; not 
 encouraging to our hopes, nor accord- 
 ant with the mercy of the Gospel .'' The 
 Gospel ? Is it a system of evasions 
 and subterfuges and palliatives, to ease 
 off the strict demand of holiness .-' No, 
 let theology boast of such devices, and 
 tell men that as they have sowed so shall 
 they not reap ; but believe me, the Gospel 
 is the last thing to break the everlasting 
 bond that connects happiness with good- 
 ness, with purity. And who would have 
 it otherwise ? Who would be happy, 
 but on condition of being good, and in 
 proportion as he is good ? What true 
 man asks, that over his corrupt and 
 guilty heart, while such, may be poured 
 a flood of perfect bliss ? Our nature 
 may be fallen and low ; but that flood 
 would sweep away the last vestige of all 
 its honor and worth. God never created 
 a thing so vile as that would be. No, 
 it is a noble being that he has given us, 
 though, alas I it be marred and degraded ; 
 and upon the eternal laws of that being 
 must we build up our welfare. It is a 
 glorious privilege so to do ; to do what 
 the noble Apostle spoke of as his own 
 
 law and hope, when he said, — and, be 
 assured, that must be our law and hope, 
 — "I have fought a good fight, I have 
 finished my course, I have kept the 
 faith ; henceforth there is laid up for me 
 a crown, which the Lord, the righteous 
 Judge, will give me in that day ; and not 
 to me only, but to all who love his ap- 
 pearing." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND 
 
 SUPREME. 
 
 John vi. 26, 27 : " Jesus answered them and said, 
 Verily, verily I say unto you, Ve seek me, not because 
 ye saw the miracles, but because ye did eat ot'the loaves 
 and were filled. Labor not for the meat whicli per- 
 isheth, but lor that meat which endureth unto eternal 
 life." 
 
 The contrast here set forth is be- 
 tween a worldly mind and a spiritual 
 mind : and so very marked and striking 
 it is, that the fact upon which it is based 
 may seem to be altogether extraordinary, 
 a solitary instance of Jewish stupidity, 
 and not applicable to any other people or 
 any after times. Our Saviour avers that 
 the multitude who followed him, on a 
 certain occasion, did so, not because they 
 saw those astonishing miracles that gave 
 witness to his spiritual mission, but sim- 
 ply because they did eat of the loaves, 
 and were filled. Yet, strange as it may 
 seein, the same great moral error, I 
 believe, still exists ; the same preference 
 of sensual to spiritual good, though the 
 specific exemplification of the principle 
 can no longer be exhibited among men. 
 But let us attend to our Saviour's exhor- 
 tation. " Labor not for the meat that 
 perisheth, but for that meat which endur- 
 eth unto eternal life." The word labor 
 refers to the business of life. It is as 
 if our Saviour had said. Work, toil, care, 
 provide, for the soul. And it is in this 
 sense of the word, as well as in the whole 
 tenor of the passage, that I find the 
 leading object of my present discourse: 
 which is to show that spiritual interests, 
 
164 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 the interests of the mind and heart, the 
 interests of reason and conscience, how- 
 ever neglected, however forgotten amidst 
 the pursuit of sensual and worldly ob- 
 jects, are nevertheless real and supreme ; 
 that they are not visionary because spirit- 
 ual ; but that they are most substantial 
 and weighty interests, and most truly 
 deserving of that earnest attention, that 
 laborious exertion, which is usually given 
 to worldly interests. 
 
 So does not the world regard them, 
 any more than did the Jews of old. It is 
 written that the "children of this world 
 are wiser in their generation" — i.e. 
 after their mannerwiser — "than the chil- 
 dren of light." But the children of this 
 world, not content with this concession, 
 are apt to think that they are every way 
 wiser. And the special ground of this 
 assumption, though they may not be 
 aware of it, is, I beheve, the notion 
 which they entertain that they are deal- 
 ing with real and substantial interests. 
 Religious men, they conceive, are occu- 
 pied with matters which are vague and 
 visionary, and which scarcely have any 
 real existence. A great property is 
 something fixed and tangible, sure and 
 substantial. But a certain view of relig- 
 ion, a certain state of mind, is a thing of 
 shadow, an abstraction vanishing into 
 nothing. The worldly-wise man admits 
 that it may be well enough for some 
 people ; at any rate, he will not quarrel 
 with it ; he does not think it worth his 
 troubling himself about it; his aim, his 
 plan, his course, is a different one, and — 
 the implication is — a wiser one. 
 
 Yes, tlie very wisdom implied in relig- 
 ion is frequently accounted to be wisdom 
 of but an humble order ; the wisdom 
 of dulness or of superstitious fancy or 
 fear ; or, at most, a very scholastic, 
 abstract, useless wisdom. And the very 
 homage which is usually paid to religion, 
 the hackneyed acknowledgment that it 
 is very well, very proper, a very good 
 thing; or the more solemn, if not more 
 dull confession of " the great importance 
 of religion ; " and more especially the 
 demure and mechanical manner in which 
 
 these things are said, proclaim, as 
 plainly as anything can, that it has not 
 yet become a living interest in the hearts 
 of men. It has never, in fact, taken its 
 proper place among human concerns. I 
 am afraid it must be said, that with most 
 men the epithet most naturally attaching 
 itself to religion, to religious services, 
 to prayers, to books of sermons, is the 
 epithet, dull. And it is well known, as 
 a fact very illustrative of this state of 
 mind, that for a long time parents in this 
 country were wont to single out and des- 
 tine for the ministry of religion the dull- 
 est of their sons. 
 
 I know of nothing more important, 
 therefore, than to show that religion 
 takes its place among objects that are of 
 actual concern to men, and to all men ; 
 that its interests are not only of the most 
 momentous, but of the most practical 
 character ; that the wisdom that winneth 
 souls, the religion that takes care for 
 them, is the most useful, the most rea- 
 sonable, of all wisdom and discipline. 
 It is of tlie care of the soul, then, that I 
 would speak ; of its wisdom, of its rea- 
 sonableness, of its actual interest to the 
 common sense and welfare of men. 
 
 The ministry of the Gospel is often 
 denominated the care of souls ; and I 
 consider this language, rightly explained, 
 as conveying a very comprehensive and 
 interesting description of the office. It 
 is the care of souls. This is its whole 
 design, and ought to be its whole direc- 
 tion, impulse, strength, and consolation. 
 And this, too, if it were justly felt, would 
 impart an interest, an expansion, a steady 
 energy, a constant growth, and a final 
 and full enlargement to the mind of the 
 Christian teacher, not surpassed, cer- 
 tainly, in any other profession or pursuit 
 in life. Whether the sacred office has 
 had this effect to as great an extent 
 as other professions, is, to the clergy 
 at least, a very serious question. I am 
 obliged to doubt whether it has. Cer- 
 tainly, to say that its spirit has been char- 
 acterized by as much natural warmth and > 
 hearty earnestness as that of other pur- 
 suit ; that its eloquence has been as free 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME 
 
 165 
 
 and powerful as that of the Senate and 
 the Bar ; that its literature has been as 
 rich as that of poetry or even of fic- 
 ion, — this is more than I dare aver. 
 
 But not to dwell on this question ; it 
 is to my present purpose to observe that 
 the very point from which this want of 
 a vivid perception of religious objects 
 has arisen, is the very point irom which 
 help must come. Men have not per- 
 ceived the interests of the mind and heart 
 to be the realities that they are. Here 
 is the evil ; and here we must find tlie 
 remedy. Let the moral states, experi- 
 ences, feelings of the soul become but 3.^ 
 interesting as the issue of a lawsuit, the 
 success of business, or the result of any 
 worldly enterprise, and there would be 
 no difficulty ; there would be no com- 
 plaint of dulness, either from our own 
 bosoms or from the lips of others. Strip 
 off from the inward soul those many folds 
 and coverings, — the forms and fashions 
 of life, the robes of ambition, the silken 
 garments of luxury, the fair array of 
 competence and comfort, and the fair 
 semblances of comfort and happiness, — 
 strip the mind naked and bare to the 
 view ; and unfold those workings within, 
 where feelings and principles make men 
 happy or miserable ; and we should no 
 more have such a thing as religious in- 
 difference in the world ! Sin there might 
 be, outbreaking passion, outrageous 
 vice, but apathy there could not be. It 
 would not require a sentiment of rec- 
 titude even ; it would hardly need that 
 a man should have any religion at all, to 
 feel an interest in things so vital to his 
 welfare. Why do men care as they do 
 for worldly things? Is it not because 
 they expect h-ippiness, or think to ward 
 off miser)^, with them ? Only let them be 
 convinced, then, that happiness and mis- 
 ery depend much more upon the prin- 
 ciples and affections of their own minds, 
 and would they not transfer the greater 
 portion of their interest to those prin- 
 ciples and affections } Would it not re- 
 sult from a kind of mental necessity, like 
 that which obliges the artisan to look to 
 the mainspring of his machinery ? Add, 
 
 then, to this distinct perception of the 
 real sources of happiness, an ardent be- 
 nevolence, an earnest desire for men's 
 welfare ; and from this union would 
 spring that spiritual zeal, that ardor in 
 the concerns of religion and benevolence, 
 of which so much is said, so little is felt ; 
 and of which the deficiency is so much 
 lamented. I am willing to make allow- 
 ance for constitutional differences of 
 temperament, and indeed for many dif- 
 ficulties ; but still I maintain that there 
 is enough in the power of religious truths 
 and affections to overcome all obstacles. 
 I do maintain, that if the objects of re- 
 ligion were perceived to be what they are, 
 and were felt as they ought to be, and 
 as every man is capable of feeling them, 
 we should no more have such things 
 among us as dull sermons, or dull books 
 of piety, or dull conferences on religion, 
 than dull conversations on the exchange, 
 or dull pleadings at the bar, or even than 
 dull communications of slander by the 
 fireside. 
 
 I have thus far been engaged with 
 stating the obvious utility and certain 
 efficacy of the right conviction on this 
 subject. But I have done it as prehmi- 
 nary to a closer argument for the right 
 conviction. Let us, then, enter more 
 fully upon consideration of the great 
 spiritual interest. Let us, my brethren, 
 enter somewhat at large into the con- 
 sideration of religion as an interest, 
 and of the place which it occupies among 
 human interests. Among the cares of 
 life, let us consider the care of the soul. 
 For it is certain that the interior, the 
 spiritual, being has as yet obtained no 
 just recognition in the maxims of this 
 world. 
 
 The mind, indeed, if we would but 
 understand it, is the great central power 
 in the movements of this world's affairs. 
 All the scenes of this life, from the 
 busiest to the most quiet, from the 
 gravest to the gayest, are the varied de- 
 velopments of that same mind. The 
 world is spread out as a theatre for one 
 great action, the action of a mind ; and 
 it is so to be regarded, whether as a 
 
1 66 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 sphere of trial or of suffering, of en- 
 joyment or of discipline, of private inter- 
 est or of public history. Life, with all 
 its cares and pursuits, with all its as- 
 pects of the superficial, the frivolous, 
 and the gross, is but the experience of 
 a mind. Life, I say, — dull, plodding, 
 weary life, as many call it, — is, after all, 
 a spiritual scene ; and this is the descrip- 
 tion of it that is of the deepest import 
 to us. 
 
 I know, and repeat, that the appear- 
 ances of things, to many at least, are 
 widely different from this representation. 
 I am not ignorant of the prevailing and 
 worldly views of this subject. There 
 are some, I know, who look upon this 
 life as a scene, not of spiritual inter- 
 ests, but of worldly pleasures. The grati- 
 fications, of sense, the opportunities of 
 indulgence, the array in which fashion 
 clothes its votaries, the splendor of en- 
 tertainments, the fascinations of amuse- 
 ment, absorb them ; or absorb, at least, 
 all the admiration they feel for the 
 scene of this life. Upon others, again, 
 I know that the cloud of affliction de- 
 scends ; and it seems to them to come 
 down visibly. Evil and trouble are to 
 them mainly things of condition and 
 circumstance. They are thinking chief- 
 ly of this thing as unfortunate, and of 
 that, as sad ; and they forget that intrin- 
 sic character of the mind which lends 
 the darkest hue, and which might give 
 an aspect of more than earthly bright- 
 ness, to all their sufferings. And then, 
 again, to the eyes of others toil presents 
 itself, with rigid sinews and strong arm, 
 indeed, but weary, too, — weary, worn 
 down with fatigue, and perhaps discon- 
 solate in spirit. And to its earthly 
 minded victims — for victims they are, 
 with that mind — it seems, I know, as 
 if this world were made but to work 
 in; and as if death, instead of being 
 the grand entrance to immortality, were 
 sufficiently commended to them as a rest 
 and a release. And last of all, gain, 
 the master pursuit of all, since it min- 
 isters to all other pursuits, urges its 
 objects upon our attention. There are 
 
 those, I know, to whom this world — 
 world of spiritual probation and immor- 
 tal hope as it is — is but one great 
 market-place ; a place for buying and 
 selling and getting profit; a place in 
 which to hoard treasures, to build 
 houses, to enjoy competence, or to 
 lavish wealth. 
 
 And these things, I know, are called 
 interests. The matters of religion are 
 instructions ; ay, and excellent instruc- 
 tions ; for men can garnish with epithets 
 of eulogium the objects on which they 
 are to bestow nothing but praise. And 
 such, alas ! are, too often, the matters 
 of religion ; they are excellent instruc- 
 tions, glorious doctrines, solemn ordi- 
 nances, important duties ; but to the 
 mass of mankind they are not yet in- 
 terests. That brief word, with no epi- 
 thet, with no pomp of language about 
 it, expresses more, far more, than most 
 men ever really attribute to religion 
 and the concerns of the soul. Nay, and 
 the interest that is felt in religion, — 
 I have spoken of dulness, — but the 
 interest that is felt in religion is often 
 of a very doubtful, superficial, unreal 
 character. Discourses upon religion 
 excite a kind of interest, and sometimes 
 it might seem as if that interest were 
 strong. And strong of its kind it may 
 be. But of what kind is it ? How 
 deep, how efficient, is it? How many 
 are there, that would forego the chance 
 of a good mercantile speculation for 
 the moral effect of the most admirable 
 sermon that ever was preached .'' Oh ! 
 no : then it is a different thing. Re- 
 ligion is a good thing, by the by ; it is 
 a pleasant thing for entertainment ; it is 
 a glorious thing to muse and meditate 
 upon ; but bring it into competition or 
 comparison with real interests, and then, 
 to many, it at once becomes something 
 subtile, spiritual, invisible, impercepti- 
 ble : it weighs notliing, it counts noth- 
 ing, it will sell for nothing, and in thou- 
 sands of scenes, in thousands of dwell- 
 ings in this world, it is held to be good 
 for nothing ! This statement, God 
 knoweth, is made with no liditness of 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 
 
 167 
 
 spirit, thouijh it liad almost carried me, 
 from the vividness of the contrast which 
 it presents, to h'ghtness of speech. How 
 sad and lamentable is it, that beings 
 whose soul is their chief distinction, 
 should imagine that the things which 
 most concern them are things of appear- 
 ance ! I said, the vividness of the con- 
 trast ; yet in truth it has been but half 
 exhibited. It seems like extravagance 
 to say it, but I fear it is sober truth, 
 that there are many whom the very 
 belief, the acknowledged record, of their 
 immortality has never interested half 
 so deeply as the frailest leaf on which a 
 bond or a note is written ; many whom 
 no words of the Gospel ever aroused, 
 and delighted, and kindled to such a 
 glow of pleasure, as a card of compli- 
 ment, or a sentence of human eulogium ! 
 Indeed, when we draw a line of division 
 between the worldly and spiritual, be- 
 tween the beings of the world and the 
 beings of the soul, between creatures of 
 the outside and creatures of the intel- 
 lect and of immortality, how few will 
 really be found among the elect, the cho- 
 sen and faithful ! And how many who 
 could scarcely suspect it, perhaps, would 
 be found on the side of the world, — • 
 would be found among those who in 
 their pursuits and judgments are more 
 affected by appearances than by reali- 
 ties ; who are more powerfully acted 
 upon by outward possessions than by in- 
 ward qualities ; who, even in their lofti- 
 est sentiments, their admiration of great 
 and good men, have their enthusiasm 
 full as much awakened by the estima- 
 tion in which those men are held, as by 
 their real merits. 
 
 And when we consider all this, when 
 we look upon the strife of human pas- 
 sions, too, the zeal, the eagerness, the 
 rivalship, the noise and bustle, with 
 which outward things are sought ; the 
 fear, the hope, the joy, the sorrow, the 
 discontent, the pride of this world, all, to 
 so great an extent, fastening themselves 
 upon what is visible and tangible ; it is 
 not strange that many should come al- 
 most insensibly to feel as if they dwelt in 
 
 a world of appearances, and as if noth- 
 ing were real and valuable but what is 
 seen and temporal. It is not altogether 
 strange that the senses have spread a 
 broad veil of delusion over the earth, and 
 that the concerns of every man's mind 
 and heart have been covered up and kept 
 out of sight by a mass of forms and fash- 
 ions, and of things called interests. 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding all these 
 aspects of tilings, I maintain, and I 
 will show, that the real and main inter- 
 est which concerns every man lies in the 
 state of his own mind ; that habits are 
 of far more consequence to him than 
 possessions and treasures ; that affec- 
 tions, simple and invisible things though 
 they be, are worth more to him than 
 rich dwellings, and broad lands, and cov- 
 eted honors. I maintain that no man is 
 so worldly, or covetous, or voluptuous — 
 that no man is so busy, or ambitious, or 
 frivolous, but this is true of him. Let 
 him be religious or not religious ; let 
 him be the merest slave of circum- 
 stances, the merest creature of vanity 
 and compliment that ever existed ; and 
 still it is true, and none the less true, 
 that his welfare lies within. There are 
 no scenes of engrossing business, tumul- 
 tuous pleasure, hollow-hearted fashion, 
 or utter folly, but the deepest principles 
 of religion are concerned with them. 
 Indeed, I look upon all these varied pur- 
 suits as the strugglings of the deeper 
 mind, as the varied developments of the 
 one great desire of happiness. And he 
 who forgets that deeper mind, and sees 
 nothing, and thinks of nothing, but the 
 visible scene, I hold to be as unwise as 
 the man who, entering upon the cliarge 
 of one of our manufactories, should gaze 
 upon the noisy and bustling apparatus 
 above, should occupy himself with its 
 varied movements, its swift and bright 
 machinery, and its beautiful fabrics, and 
 forget the mighty wheel, that moves all 
 from beneath. 
 
 But let us pursue the argument. The 
 mind, it will be recollected, is that which 
 is happy or unhappy, not goods and 
 fortunes ; not even the senses ; they are 
 
1 68 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 but the inlets of pleasure to the mind. 
 But this, as it is a mere truism, though 
 a decisive one in the case, is not the 
 proposition which I am to maintain. 
 Neither am I to argue, on the other 
 hand, that the mind is independent 
 of circumstances ; that its situation in 
 regard to wealth or poverty, distinc- 
 tion or neglect, society or solitude, is 
 a thing of no consequence. As well say 
 that its relation to health or sickness is 
 a thing of no consequence. But this I 
 say, and maintain, that what every man 
 has chiefly at stake lies in the mind; 
 that his excellence depends entirely upon 
 that ; that his happiness ordinarily de- 
 pends more upon the mind itself, upon its 
 own state and character, than upon any 
 outward condition ; that those evils with 
 which the human race is afflicted are 
 mainly evils of the mind; and that the 
 care of the soul, which religion enjoins, 
 is the grand and only remedy for human 
 wants and woes. 
 
 The considerations which bear upon 
 this estimate of the real and practical 
 welfare of men may be drawn from 
 every sphere of human life and action ; 
 from every contemplation of mankind, 
 whether in their condition relations or 
 attributes ; from society, from God's 
 providence, from human nature itself. 
 Let us, then, in the first place, consider 
 society, in several respects : in a general 
 view of the evils that disturb or afflict 
 it; in its intercourse; in its domestic 
 scenes ; in its religious institutions ; and 
 in its secular business and worldly con- 
 dition. These topics will occupy the 
 time that remains for our present medi- 
 tation. 
 
 It is the more desirable to give some 
 latitude to this part of our illustration, 
 because it is in social interests and com- 
 petitions especially, that men are apt 
 to be worldly; i. e., to be governed by 
 considerations extrinsic and foreign to 
 the soul. The social man, indeed, is 
 often worldly, while the same man in 
 retirement is, after his manner, devout. 
 
 What, then, are the evils in society 
 at large .'' I answer, they arq, mainly, 
 
 evils of the mind. Let us descend to 
 particulars. Some, for instance, are de- 
 pressed and irritated by neglect; and 
 others are elated and injured by flattery. 
 These are large classes of society around 
 us ; and the first, I think, by far the lar- 
 gest class. Both are unfortunate ; both 
 are wrong, probably ; and not only so, 
 but society is wrong for treating them in 
 these ways ; and the wrong, the evil, in 
 every instance, lies in the mind. Some 
 again want excitement, want an object ; 
 and duty and religion would fill their 
 hearts with constant peace, and with a 
 plenitude of happy thoughts. Others 
 want restraint, want the power to deny 
 themselves, and want to know that such 
 self-denial is blessed ; and true piety 
 would teach them this lofty knowledge ; 
 true piety would gently and strongly 
 control all their passions. In short, 
 ennui and excess, intemperance, slander, 
 variance, rivalship, pride, and envy, — 
 these are the miseries of society, and 
 they are all miseries that exist in the 
 mind. Where would our account end, if 
 we were to enumerate all the things that 
 awaken our fears, in the progress and 
 movements of the social world around us .'' 
 Good men differ, and reject each other's 
 light and countenance ; and bad men, 
 alas ! agree but too well ; wise men dis- 
 pute, and fools laugh ; the selfish grasp ; 
 the ambitious strive ; the sensual indulge 
 themselves; and it seerns, at times, as if 
 the world were going surely, if not swift- 
 ly, to destruction ! And why } Only, 
 and always, and everywhere, because the 
 mind is not right. Put holy truth in 
 every false heart, instil a sacred piety 
 into every worldly mind, and a blessed 
 virtue into every fountain of corrupt de- ^ 
 sires ; and the anxieties of philanthropy . 
 might be hushed ; and the tears of be- 
 nevolent prayer and faith might be dried 
 up ; and patriotism and piety might 
 gaze upon the scene and the prospect 
 with unmingled joy. Surely, then, the 
 great interests of society are emphati- 
 cally the interests of religion and virtue. 
 Gather any circle of society to its 
 evening assembly. And what is the 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 
 
 i6g 
 
 evil there ? He must think but httle, 
 who imagines there is none. I confess 
 that there are few scenes that more 
 strongly dispose me to reflection than 
 this. I see great and signal advantages, 
 fair and fascinating opportunities for 
 happiness. The ordinary, or rather the 
 ordinarily recognized, evils of life have 
 no place in the throng of social enter- 
 tainment. They are abroad, indeed, in 
 many a hovel and hospital, and by many 
 a wayside ; but from those brilliant and 
 gay apartments they are, for the time, 
 excluded. The gathering is, of youth 
 and lightness of heart and prosperous 
 fortune. The manly brow, flushed with 
 the beauty of its early day, the fair form 
 of outward loveliness, the refined under- 
 standing, the accomplished manner, the 
 glad parent's heart, and confiding filial 
 love, and music and feasting, are there ; 
 and yet beneath many a soft raiment 
 and many a silken fold I know that 
 hearts are beating which are full of dis- 
 quietude and pain. The selfishness of 
 parental anxiety, the desire of admira- 
 tion, the pride of success, the mortifica- 
 tion of failure, the vanity that is flattered, 
 the ill-concealed jealousy, the miserable 
 affectation, the distrustful embarrass- 
 ment, — that comprehensive difficulty 
 which proceeds to some extent, indeed, 
 from the fault of the individual, but 
 much more from the general fault of so- 
 ciety, — these are the evils from which 
 the gayest circles of the social world 
 need to be reformed ; and these, too, are 
 evils in the mind. They are evils which 
 nothing but religion and virtue can ever 
 correct. The remedy must be applied 
 where the disease is, and that is to the 
 soul. 
 
 But now follow society to its homes. 
 There is, indeed, and eminently, the 
 scene of our happiness or of our mis- 
 ery. And it is too plain to be insisted 
 on, that domestic happiness depends 
 ordinarily and chiefly upon domestic 
 honor and fidelity ; upon disinterested- 
 ness, generosity, kindness, forbearance ; 
 and the vices opposite to these are the 
 evils that imbitter the peace and joy of 
 
 domestic life. Men in general are suffi- 
 ciently sensible to this part of their wel- 
 fare. Thousands all around us are labor- 
 ing by day and meditating by night upon 
 the means of building up in comfort 
 and honor the families with whose 
 fortunes and fate their own is iden- 
 tified. Here, then, if anywhere — 
 here, in these homes of our affection, are 
 interests. And surely I speak not to 
 discourage a generous self-devotion to 
 them, or a reasonable care of their 
 worldly, condition. But I say that this 
 condition is not the main thing, though 
 it is commonly made so. I say that 
 there is something of more consequence 
 to the happiness of a family than the 
 apartments it occupies, or the furniture 
 that adorns them ; something of dearer 
 and more vital concernment than costly 
 equipage or vast estates or coveted hon- 
 ors. I say that if its members have 
 anything within them that is worthy 
 to be called a mind, their main interests 
 are their thoughts and their virtues. 
 Vague and shadowy things they may ap- 
 pear to some ; but let a man be ever so 
 worldly, and this is true ; and it is a 
 truth which he cannot help : and all the 
 struggle of family ambition, and all the 
 pride of its vaunted consequence and 
 cherished luxury, will only the more 
 demonstrate it to be true. 
 
 Choose, then, what scene of social 
 life you will, and it can be shown, be- 
 yond all reasonable doubt, that the main 
 concern, the great interest there, is the 
 state of the mind. 
 
 What is it that makes dull and weary 
 services at church, if, alas ! we must 
 admit that they .sometimes are so ? A 
 living piety in the congregation, a fer- 
 vent love of God, and truth, and good- 
 ness, would communicate life, I had 
 almost said, to the dullest service that 
 ever passed in the house of God : and, 
 if destitute of that piety, the preaching 
 of an angel would awaken in us only a 
 temporary enthusiasm. A right and 
 holy feeling would make the house of 
 God, the place for devout meditation, a 
 place more profoundly, more keenly, in- 
 
I/O' 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 teresting than the thronged mart, or the 
 canvassing hall, or the tribunal that is to 
 pass judgment on a portion of our prop- 
 erty. Do you say that the preacher is 
 sometimes dull, and that is all the diffi- 
 culty ? No, it is not all the difficulty ; 
 for the dullest haranguer that ever ad- 
 dressed an infuriated mob, when speak- 
 ing their sentiments, is received with 
 shouts of applause. Suppose that a 
 company were assembled to consider 
 and discuss some grand method to be 
 proposed for acquiring fortunes for them- 
 selves — some South-Sea scheme, or 
 project for acquiring the mines of Po- 
 tosi ; and suppose that some one should 
 rise to speak to that company, who could 
 not speak eloquently, nor in an interest- 
 ing manner : grant all that ; but suppose 
 this dull speaker could say something, 
 could state some fact or consideration, 
 to help on the great inquiry. Would the 
 company say that they could not hsten 
 to him ? Would the people say that 
 they would not come to hear him again ? 
 No, the speaker might be as awkward 
 and prosaic as he pleased ; he might be 
 some humble observer, some young en- 
 gineer ; but he would have attentive and 
 crowded auditories. A feeling in the 
 hearers would supply all other deficien- 
 cies. 
 
 Shall this be so in worldly affairs, and 
 shall there be nothing like it in religious 
 affairs ? Grant that the speaker on re- 
 ligion is not the most interesting ; grant 
 that he is dull ; grant that his emotions 
 are constitutionally less earnest than 
 yours are ; yet I say. What business have 
 you to come to church to be passive m 
 the service, to be acted on, and not your- 
 selves to act.^* And yet more, what war- 
 rant have you to let your affections to 
 your God depend on the infirmity of any 
 mortal being ? Is that awful presence 
 that filleth the sanctuary, though no 
 cloud of incense be there ; is the vital 
 and never-dying interest which you have 
 in your own mind ; is the wide scene of 
 living mercies that surrounds you, and 
 which you have come to meditate upon ; 
 is it all indifferent to you, because one 
 
 poor, erring mortal is cold and dead to 
 it? I do not ask you to say that he is 
 not dull, if he is dull ; I do not ask you 
 to say that he is interesting ; but I ask 
 you to be interested in spite of him. 
 His very dulness, if he is dull, ought 
 to move you. If you cannot weep with 
 him, you ought to weep for him. 
 
 Besides, the weakest or the dullest 
 man tells 3'ou truths of transcendent 
 glory and power. He tells you that 
 " God is love : " and how might that 
 truth, though he uttered not another 
 word, or none but dull words, — how 
 might that truth spread itself out into 
 the most glorious and blessed contem- 
 plations ! Indeed, the simple truths are, 
 after all, the great truths. Neither are 
 they always best understood. The very 
 readiness of assent is sometimes an ob- 
 stacle to the fulness of the impression. 
 Very simple matters, I am aware, are 
 those to which I am venturing to call 
 your attention in this hour of our so- 
 lemnities ; and yet do I believe that if 
 they were clearly perceived and felt 
 among men at large, they would begin, 
 from this moment, the regeneration of 
 the world ! 
 
 But pass now from the silent and holy 
 sanctuary to the bustling scene of this 
 world's business and pursuit. "Here," 
 the wordly man will say, " we have real- 
 ity. Here, indeed, are interests. Here 
 is something worth being concerned 
 about." And yet even here do the in- 
 terests of religion and virtue pursue him, 
 and press themselves upon his attention. 
 
 Look, for instance, at the condition of 
 life, the possession or the want, of those 
 blessings for which business is prose- 
 cuted. What is it that distresses the 
 poor man, and makes poverty, in the ordi- 
 nary condition of it, the burden that it is ? 
 It is not, in this country, — it is not, usu- 
 ally, hunger, nor cold, nor nakedness. It 
 is some artificial want, created by the 
 wrong state of society. It is something 
 nearer yet to us, and yet more unneces- 
 sary. It is mortification, discontent, 
 peevish complaining, or envy of a better 
 condition ; and all these are evils of the 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 
 
 171 
 
 mind. Again, what is it that troubles 
 the rich man, or the man who is success- 
 fully striving to be rich ? It is not pov- 
 erty, certainly, nor is it exactly posses- 
 sion. It is occasional disappointment, 
 It is continual anxiety, it is the extrava- 
 gant desire of property, or, worse than 
 all, the vicious abuse of it ; and all these 
 too are evils of the mind. 
 
 But let our worldly man, who will 
 see nothing but the outside of things, 
 who will value nothing but possessions, 
 take another view of his interest. What 
 is it that cheats, circumvents, over- 
 reaches him ? It is disiionesty. What 
 disturbs, vexes, angers him ? It is some 
 wrong from another, or something wrong 
 in himself. What steals his purse, or 
 robs his person ? It is not some unfor- 
 tunate mischance that has come across 
 his path. It is a being in whom noth- 
 ing worse resides than fraud and vio- 
 lence. What robs him of that which 
 is dearer than property, his fair name 
 among his fellows ? It is the poisonous 
 breath of foul and accursed slander. 
 And what is it, in fine, that threatens the 
 security, order, peace, and well-being of 
 society at large ; that threatens, if unre- 
 strained, to deprive our estates, our com- 
 forts, our domestic enjoyments, our per- 
 sonal respectability, and our whole social 
 condition, of more than half their value? 
 It is the spirit of injustice and wild mis- 
 rule in the human breast ; it is political 
 intrigue, or popular violence ; it is the 
 progress of corruption, intemperance, ' 
 
 lasciviousness, the progress of vice and 
 sin, in all their forms. I know that 
 these are very simple truths ; but if they 
 are very simple and very certain, how 
 is it that men are so worldly ? Put obli- 
 gation out of the question ; how is it 
 that they are not more sagacious and 
 wary with regard to their interests? 
 How is it that the means of religion and 
 virtue are so indifferent to many, in 
 comparison with the means of acquir- 
 ing property or office? How is it that 
 many unite and contribute so coldly and 
 reluctantly for the support of govern- 
 ment, learning, and Christian institutions, 
 who so eagerly combine for the prose- 
 cution of moneyed speculations, and of 
 party and worldly enterprises ? How is 
 it, I repeat ? Men desire happiness ; and 
 a very clear argument may be set forth 
 to show them where their happiness 
 lies. And yet here is presented to you 
 the broad fact — and with this fact I 
 will close the present meditation — that 
 while men's welfare depends mainly on 
 their own minds, they are actually and 
 almost universally seeking it in things 
 without them ; that among the objects 
 of actual desire and pursuit, affections 
 and virtues, in the world's esteem, bear 
 no comparison with possessions and 
 honors ; nay, that men are everywhere, 
 and every day, sacrificing, ay, sacrificing 
 affections and virtues, sacrificing the 
 dearest treasures of the soul, for what 
 they call goods, and pleasures, and dis- 
 tinctions. 
 
DISCOURSES 
 
 ON 
 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGION, 
 
 AND ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS; 
 
 WITH SOME OCCASIONAL DISCOURSES. 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND 
 SUPREME. 
 
 John vi. 27 : " Labor not for the meat that perish- 
 eth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting 
 life." 
 
 The interests of the mind and heart, 
 spiritual interests, in other words, — the 
 interests involved in religion, — are real 
 and supreme. Neglected, disregarded, 
 ridiculed, ruined, as they may be ; ruined 
 as they may be in mere folly, in mere 
 scorn, they are still real and supreme. 
 Notwithstanding all appearances, delu- 
 sions, fashions, and opinions to the 
 contrary, this is true, and will be true 
 forever. All essential interests centre 
 ultimately in the soul ; all that do not 
 centre there are circumstantial, transi- 
 tory, evanescent ; they belong to things 
 that perish. 
 
 This is what I have endeavored to 
 show in a previous discourse, and for 
 this purpose I have appealed, in the first 
 place, to Society. 
 
 My second appeal is to Providence ; 
 Society, indeed, is a part of the system 
 of Providence ; but let me invite you 
 to consider, under this head, that the in- 
 terest of the soul urged in the Gospel 
 
 is, in every respect, the great object of 
 Heaven's care and providence. 
 
 The world, which is appointed for our 
 temporary dwelling-place, was made for 
 this end. The wiiole creation around 
 us is to the soul a subject and a minis- 
 tering creation. Tiie mighty globe itself, 
 with all its glorious apparatus and furni- 
 ture, is but a theatre for the care of the 
 soul, the theatre of its redemption. This 
 vast universe is but a means. But look 
 at the earth alone. Wiiy was it made 
 such as it is ? Its fruitful soils, its rich 
 valleys, its mountain-tops, and its roll- 
 ing oceans ; its humbler scenes, clothed 
 with beauty and light, good even in the 
 sight of their Maker, fair — fair to mor- 
 tal eyes — why were they given ? They 
 were not given for mere sustenance and 
 supply ; for much less would have suf- 
 ficed for that end. They need not have 
 been so beautiful to have answered that 
 end. They could have spared their ver- 
 dure and flowers and fragrance, and still 
 have yielded sustenance. The groves 
 might never have waved in the breeze, 
 but have stood in the rigidity of an iron 
 forest ; the hills might not have been 
 moulded into forms of beauty, the 
 streams might not have sparkled in 
 their course, nor the ocean have re- 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 
 
 173 
 
 fleeted the blue depths of heaven, and 
 yet they might have furnished all need- 
 ful sustenance. No, they were not given 
 for this alone : but they were given to 
 nourish and kindle in the human soul 
 a glory and a beauty, of wrhich all out- 
 ward grandeur and loveliness are but 
 the image. They were given to show 
 forth the majesty and love of God, and 
 to form in man a resemblance to that 
 majesty and love. Think, then, of a 
 being in such a position and with such 
 a ministry, made to be the intelligent 
 companion of God's glorious works, the 
 interpreter of nature, the Lord of the 
 creation made to be the servant of God 
 alone. And yet this being, — oh, mis- 
 erable disappointment and failure! — 
 makes himself the slave of circum- 
 stances, the slave of outward goods and 
 advantages, the slave of everything that 
 he ought to command. 
 
 I know that he must toil and care 
 for these things. But wherefore ? Why 
 must he toil and care ? For a reason, I 
 answer, which still urges upon him the 
 very point we are considering. It had 
 been as easy for the Almighty to have 
 caused nature spontaneously to bring 
 forth all that man needs, to have built, 
 as a part of the frame of the earth, en- 
 during houses for us to dwell in, to have 
 filled them with all requisite comforts, 
 and to have relieved us, in short, from 
 the necessity of labor and business. 
 Why has he not done this ? Still, I an- 
 swer, for the same cause, with the same 
 moral design, as that with which the 
 world was made. Activity is designed 
 for mental improvement : industry for 
 moral discipline ; business for the culti- 
 vation of manly and high and noble vir- 
 tues. WHien, therefore, a man enters 
 into the active pursuits of life, though 
 he pleads the cares of business as an 
 excuse for his neglect, yet it is then es- 
 pecially, and that by the very teaching 
 of Providence, that he should be re- 
 minded of his spiritual welfare. He 
 could not, with safety to his moral being, 
 be turned full and free into the domain 
 of nature. He goes forth, therefore, 
 
 bearing burdens of care, and wearing 
 the shackles of necessity. The arm 
 that he stretches out to his toil wears a 
 chain ; for he must work. And on the 
 tablet where immortal thoughts are to 
 be written, he writes words of worldly 
 care and foresight ; for he must pro- 
 vide. And yet, how strange and passing 
 strange is it ! — the occupations and ob- 
 jects that were given for discipline, and 
 the trial of the spirit, and the training 
 of it to virtue, are made the ultimate 
 end and the chief good ; yes, these, which 
 were designed for humble means of good 
 to the soul, are made the engrossing 
 pursuits, the absorbing pleasures and 
 possessions, in which the soul itself is 
 forgotten and lost ! 
 
 Thus spiritual, in its design, is nature. 
 Thus spiritual, in its just aspects, is the 
 scene of life ; no dull scene when rightly 
 regarded ; no merely wearisome, uncom- 
 pensated toil, or perplexing business ; 
 but a ministration to purposes of infinite 
 greatness and sublimity. 
 
 We are speaking of human interests. 
 God also looks upon the interest of his 
 creatures. But he seeth not as man 
 seeth. . Man looketh on the outward 
 appearance, but God looketh on the 
 heart. He sees that all human interests 
 centre there. He sees there the gather- 
 ing, the embosoming, the garnering up, of 
 all that is precious to an immortal crea- 
 ture. Therefore it is that, as the strong- 
 est proof of his love to the world, he 
 gave his Son to live for our teaching 
 and guidance, and to die for our re- 
 demption from sin and death and hell. 
 Every bright example, every pure doc- 
 trine, every encouraging promise, every 
 bitter pang endured, points to the soul 
 for its great design and end. And let 
 me say, that if I have seemed to any 
 one to speak in language over refined 
 or spiritual, I can no otherwise under- 
 stand the teachings of the great Master. 
 His words would often be mystery and 
 extravagance to me, if I did not feel 
 that the soul is everything, and that the 
 world is nothing but what it is to the 
 soul. With this perception of the true 
 
174 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 value of things, I require no transcen- 
 dental piety, I require nothing but clear 
 seeing, to understand what he says when 
 he pronounces men to be deaf, and Wind, 
 and diseased, and dead in sins. For to 
 give up the joys of the soul for the joys 
 of sense ; to neglect the heart for the 
 outward condition ; to forego inward 
 good in the eagerness for visible good ; 
 to forget and to forsake God amidst his 
 very works and mercies, — this is, in- 
 deed, a mournful blindness, a sad dis- 
 order of the rational nature, and, when 
 the evil is consummated, it is a moral 
 death ! True, there may be no tears 
 for it, save in here and there one, who 
 retires from the crowd to think of the 
 strange delusion, and the grievous mis- 
 fortune, and the degrading unworthi- 
 ness. There are no tokens of public 
 mourning for the calamity of the soul. 
 Men weep when the body dies ; and 
 when it is borne to its last rest, they 
 follow it with sad and mournful pro- 
 cession. But for the dying soul there is 
 no open lamentation ; for the lost soul 
 there are no obsequies. And yet, when 
 the great account of life is made up, 
 though the words we now speak can but 
 approach to the truth, and may leave 
 but slight impression, the things we may 
 then remember, — life's misdirected toil, 
 the world's delusions, the thoughts un- 
 guarded, the conscience every day vio- 
 lated, the soul forever neglected, — 
 these, oh ! these will weigh upon the 
 spirit, like those mountains which men 
 are represented in prophetic vision as 
 vainly calling upon to cover them. 
 
 III. But I am now verging upon the 
 third and final argument which I pro- 
 posed to use for the care of our spiritual 
 interests, and that is to be found in their 
 value. 
 
 I have shown that society in all its 
 pursuits, objects, and scenes, urges this 
 care ; that nature, and providence, and 
 revelation minister to it ; and I now say, 
 that the soul is intrinsically and inde- 
 pendently worth this care. Put all con- 
 sequences to social man out of sight, if 
 it be possible ; draw a veil over all the 
 
 bright and glorious ministry of nature ; 
 let the teachings of Providence all be 
 silent ; let the Gospel be a fable ; and 
 still the mind of man has a value which 
 nothing else has ; it is worth a care 
 which nothing else is worth ; and to the 
 single, solitary individual, it ought to 
 possess an interest which nothing else 
 possesses. 
 
 Indeed, at every step by which we 
 advance in this subject, the contrast 
 between what is and what ought to be, 
 presses upon us. Men very well under- 
 stand the word value. They know very 
 well -what interests are. Offices, stocks, 
 monopolies, mercantile privileges, are 
 interests. Nay, and even the chances 
 of profit are interests so dear, that men 
 contend for them and about them, almost 
 as if they were striving for life. And 
 value, — how carefully and accurately 
 and distinctly is that quality stamped 
 upon every object in this world 1 Cur- 
 rency has value, and bonds have value, 
 and broad lands and freighted ships and 
 rich mines are all marked down in the 
 table of this strict account. Go to the 
 exchange, and you shall know what they 
 are worth ; and you shall know what 
 men will give for them. But the stored 
 treasures of the heart, the unfathomable 
 mines that are to be wrought in the 
 soul, the broad and boundless. realms of 
 thought, the freighted ocean of man's 
 affections and hopes, — ■ who will regard 
 them .'' Who will seek for them, as if 
 they were brighter than gold, dearer than 
 treasure ? 
 
 The mind, I repeat, — how little is it 
 known or considered ! That all which 
 man permanently is, the inward being, 
 the divine energy, the immortal thought, 
 the boundless capacity, the infinite as- 
 piration ; how few value this, this won- 
 derful mind, for what it is worth ! How 
 few see it, that brother mind, in others ; 
 see it, through the rags with which pov- 
 erty has clothed it, beneath the crush- 
 ing burdens of life, amidst the close 
 pressure of worldly troubles, wants, and 
 sorrows, and acknowledge and cheer it 
 in that humble lot, and feel that the no- 
 
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME. 
 
 175 
 
 bility of earth, that the commencing 
 glory of heaven, is there ! Nor is this 
 the worst, nor the strongest, view of the 
 case. Men do not feel the worth of 
 their own minds. They are very proud, 
 perhaps ; they are proud of their pos- 
 sessions ; they are proud of their mitids, 
 it may be, as distinguishing them ; but 
 the intrinsic, the inward, the infinite 
 luorth of their own minds they do not 
 perceive. How many a man is there 
 who would feel, if he were introduced 
 into some magnificent palace, and were 
 led through a succession of splendid 
 apartments, filled with rich and gorgeous 
 furniture, as if he, lofty, immortal being 
 as he is, were but an ordinary thing 
 amidst the tinselled show around him ; 
 or would feel as if he were a more or- 
 dinary being, for the perishing glare of 
 things amidst which he" walked ! How 
 many a man, who, as he passed along 
 the wayside, saw the chariot of wealth 
 rolling by him, would forget the intrin- 
 sic and eternal dignity of his own mind, 
 in a poor, degrading envy of that vain 
 pageant, — would feel himself to be an 
 humbler creature, because, not in mind, 
 but in mensuration, he was not quite so 
 high ! And so long as this is the case, 
 do you believe that men understand their 
 own minds, that they know what they 
 possess within them .'' How many, in 
 fact, feel as if that inward being, that 
 mind, were respectable, chiefly, because 
 their bodies lean on silken couches, and 
 are fed with costly luxuries ! How many 
 respect themselves, and look for respect 
 from others, in proportion as they grow 
 more rich and live more splendidly, not 
 more wisely, — and fare more sumptu- 
 ously every day ! Surely it is not strange 
 while all this is true, that men should be 
 more attracted by objects of sense and 
 appetite than by miracles of wisdom 
 and love. And it is not strange that the 
 spiritual riches which man is exhorted 
 to seek, are represented in Scripture as 
 "hid treasures;" for they are indeed 
 hidden in the depths of the soul, — hid- 
 den, covered up, with worldly gains and 
 pomps and vanities. It is not strangi 
 
 that the kingdom of heaven, that king- 
 dom which is within, is represented as a 
 treasure buried in a field : the flowers 
 bloom and the long grass waves there, 
 and men pass by and say it is beautiful ; 
 but this very beauty, this very luxuriance, 
 conceals the treasure. And so it is in 
 this life, that luxury and show, fashion 
 and outward beauty, worldly pursuits 
 and possessions, attract the eyes of 
 men, and they know not the treasure that 
 is hidden in every human soul. 
 
 Yes, the treasure ; and the treasure 
 that is in every soul. The difference 
 that exists among men is not so much 
 in their nature, not so much in their in- 
 trinsic power, as in the power of com- 
 munication. To some it is given to 
 unbosom and embody their thoughts ; 
 but all men, more or less, feel those* 
 thoughts. The very glory of genius, 
 the very rapture of piety, when rightly 
 revealed, are diffused and spread abroad 
 and shared among unnumbered minds. 
 When eloquence and poetry speak ; 
 when the glorious arts, statuary, and 
 pointing, and music; when patriotism, 
 charity, virtue, speak to us, with their 
 thrilling power, do not the hearts of 
 thousands glow with a kindred joy and 
 ecstasy .? Who 's here so humble, who 
 so poor in thought, or in affection, as 
 not to feel this ? Who 's here so low, 
 so degraded, I had almost said, as not 
 sometimes to be touched with the beauty 
 of goodness ? Who 's here with a heart 
 made of such base materials as not 
 sometimes to respond, through every 
 chord of it, to the call of honor, patriot- 
 ism, generosity, virtue ? What a glorious 
 capacity is this ! a power to commune 
 with God and angels ! a reflection of the 
 brightness of heaven, a mirror that col- 
 lects and concentrates within itself all 
 the moral splendors of the universe : a 
 light kindled from heaven, that is to 
 shine brighter and brighter forever ! For 
 what, then, my friends, shall we care as 
 we ought to care for this ? What can 
 man bear about with him ; what ofiice, 
 what array, what apparel, that shall be- 
 get such reverence as the soul he bears 
 
1/6 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 with him ? What circumstances of out- 
 ward splendor can lend such imposing 
 dignity to any being, as the throne of 
 inward light and power, where the spirit 
 reigns forever ? What work of man 
 shall be brought into comparison with 
 this work of God ? I will speak of it 
 in its simplest character. I say, a 
 thought, a bare thought : and yet, I say, 
 what is it ; and what is its power and 
 mystery ? Breathed from the inspiration 
 of the Almighty ; partaking of infinite 
 attributes ; comprehending, analyzing, 
 and with its own beauty clothing all 
 things ; and bringing all things and all 
 themes, earth, heaven, eternity, within 
 the possession of its momentary being ; 
 what is there that man can form, what 
 sceptre or throne, what structure of 
 ages, what empire of wide-spread do- 
 minion, that can compare with the 
 wonders and the grandeurs of a single 
 thought ? Of all things that are made, 
 it is that alone that comprehends the 
 Maker of all. That alone is the key 
 which unlocks all the treasures of the 
 universe. That alone is the power that 
 reigns over space, time, eternity. That, 
 under God, is the sovereign dispenser, 
 to man, of all the blessings and glories 
 that lie within the compass of possession 
 or within the range of possibility. Vir- 
 tue, piety, heaven, immortality, exist 
 not, and never will exist for us, but as 
 they exist, and will exist, in the per- 
 ception, feeling, thought — of the glori- 
 ous m.ind. 
 
 Indeed, it is the soul alone that gives 
 any value to the things of this world ; 
 and it is only by raising the soul to its 
 just elevation above all other things, 
 that we can look rightly upon the pur- 
 poses of this life. This, to my appre- 
 hension, is not only a most important, 
 but a most practical, view of the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 I have heard men say that they could 
 not look upon this life as a blessing. I 
 have heard it more than insinuated, I 
 have known it to be actually implied in 
 solemn prayers to God, that it is a hap- 
 
 piness to die in infancy. And nothing, 
 you are aware, is more common than 
 to hear it said that youth, unreflecting 
 youth, is the happy season of life ; and 
 when, by reason of sickness or the in- 
 firmities of age, men outlive their ac- 
 tivity and their sensitive happiness, 
 nothing is more common than to look 
 upon the continuance of life, in these 
 circumstances, as a misfortune. 
 
 Now I do not wonder at these views, 
 so long as men are as worldly as they 
 usually are. I wonder that they do not 
 prevail more. " Oh, patient and peace- 
 able men that ye are ! " I have been 
 ready to say to the mere men of this 
 world, — "peaceable men and patient! 
 what is it that bears you up ? What is 
 it but a blind and instinctive love of life 
 that can make you content to live ? " 
 But let the soul have its proper ascend- 
 ency in our judgments, and the burden 
 is reheved. Life is then the education 
 of the soul, the discipline of conscience, 
 virtue, piety. All things, then, are sub- 
 ordinate to this sublime purpose. Life 
 is then one scene of growing knowledge, 
 improvement, devotion, joy, and triumph. 
 In this view, and in this view only, it 
 is an unspeakable blessing ; and those 
 who have not yet taken this view, who 
 have not given the soul its just pre- 
 eminence, who have not yet become 
 spiritually minded, are not yet prepared 
 to hve. It is not enough to say, as is 
 commonly said, that they are not pre- 
 pared to die ; they are not prepared to 
 live. 
 
 I would not address this matter, my 
 friends, merely to your religious sensi- 
 bility ; I would address it to your com- 
 mon sense. It is a most serious and 
 practical matter. There are many things 
 in this world, as I have more than once 
 said, which are called interests. But he 
 who has not regarded his soul as he 
 ought, who has gained no deep sense of 
 things that are spiritual, has neglected 
 the main interest, the chief use, of this 
 life, the grand preparation for living 
 calmly, wisely, and happily. It is a 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 177 
 
 thousand times more serious for him 
 than if lie had been negligent about 
 property, about honor, or about worldly 
 connections and friendships. 
 
 With this reasonable subjection of the 
 body to the soul, with this supreme re- 
 gard to the soul as the guiding light of 
 life, every man would feel that this life 
 is a blessing ; and that the continuance 
 of it is a blessing. He would be thank- 
 ful for its continuance with a fervor 
 which no mere love of life could inspire; 
 for life to him, and every day of it, would 
 be a glorious progress in things infinitely 
 more precious than life. He would not 
 think the days of unreflecting youth the 
 happiest days. He would not think that 
 the continuance of his being upon earth, 
 even beyond active usefulness to others, 
 was a misfortune or a mystery. He 
 would not be saying, " Why is my life 
 lengthened out?" He would feel that 
 every new day of life spread before him 
 glorious opportunities to be improved, 
 glorious objects to be gained. He would 
 not sink down in miserable ennui or 
 despondency. He would not faint or 
 despair, or be overwhelmed with doubt, 
 amidst difficulties and afflictions. He 
 would feel that the course of his life, 
 even though it pass on through clouds 
 and storms, is glorious as the path of the 
 sun. 
 
 Thus have I endeavored to show that 
 the care of the soul is the most essential 
 of all human interests. Let no worldly 
 man think himself wise. He might be 
 a wise animal ; but he is not a wise 
 man. Nay, I cannot admit even that. 
 For, being what he is, — animal or man, 
 call him what you will, — it is as truly 
 essential that he should work out the 
 salvation of his soul, as it is that he 
 should work with his hands for his daily 
 bread. How reasonable, then, is our 
 Saviour's exhortation, when he says, 
 " Labor, therefore, not for the meat 
 which perisheth, but for that which en- 
 dureth unto everlasting life." 
 
 II. 
 
 ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY.* 
 
 EzEKiEL xxxvi. 26 : " And I will give you a heart 
 of tlesh." 
 
 The subject to which I wish to invite 
 your thoughts in this discourse is that 
 religious sensibility, that spiritual fervor, 
 in other words, that " heart of flesh," 
 which is spoken of in the text. 
 
 To a sincere and at the same time 
 rational cultivator of his religious affec- 
 tions, it seems, at first view, a thing 
 almost unaccountable, that Christians, 
 apparently serious and faithful, should 
 everywhere be found complaining of the 
 want of religious feeling ; that the grand, 
 universal, standing complaint of almost 
 the entire body of Christians should be 
 a complaint of dulness. To one who 
 has studied the principles of his own 
 nature, or observed its tendencies, — 
 who knows that, as visible beauty is 
 made to delight the eye, so moral beauty 
 is made to delight the mind, — it seems a 
 tremendous moral solecism, that all the 
 affections of this nature and mind should 
 become cold and dead the moment they 
 are directed to the Infinite Beauty and 
 Glory. It will not solve the problem to 
 say that human nature is depraved. If, 
 indeed, the depravity of men were such 
 that all enthusiasm for excellence had 
 died out in the world, the general reason 
 assigned might satisfy us. Rut what is 
 the fact ? What is the beauty of nature 
 but a beauty clothed with moral associa- 
 tions ? What is the highest beauty of 
 literature, poetry, fiction, and the fine 
 arts, but a moral beauty which genius 
 has bodied forth for the admiration of 
 the world ? And what are those quali- 
 ties of the human character which are 
 treasured up in the memory and heart 
 of nations, the objects of universal rev- 
 erence and exultation, the themes of 
 celebration, of eloquence, and of festal* 
 song, the enshrined idols of human admi- 
 
 * The substance of the two following discourses 
 was addressed to the graduating class in the Theolo- 
 gical Department of Harvard University, in 1S34. 
 This circumstance will account for the form that is 
 given to some of the topics and illustrations. 
 
178 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 ration and love ? Are they not patriot- 
 ism, heroism, philanthropy, disinterest- 
 edness, magnanimity, martyrdom ? 
 
 And yet the Being from whom all 
 earthly beauty and human excellence 
 are emanations, and of whom they are 
 faint resemblances, is the very Being 
 whom men tell us that they cannot 
 heartily and constantly love : and the 
 subject which is held most especially to 
 connect us with that Being is the very 
 subject in which men tell us they can- 
 not be heartily interested. No observ- 
 ing pastor of a religious congregation 
 who has been favored with the intimacy 
 of one mind awaking to this subject, can 
 fail to know that this is the grand com- 
 plaint. The difficulty about feeling is 
 the first great difficulty ; and it is one 
 which presses upon every after step of 
 the religious course. Few arrive at that 
 point where they can say with the apos- 
 tle, " I know in whom I have believed." 
 The common language and tone in 
 which even religious confidence is ex- 
 pressed, do not go beyond such distrust- 
 ful and desponding words as these : 
 " I hope that I love God ; I hope I 
 have an interest in religion ; " alas ! how 
 different from the manner in which 
 friendship, love, domestic affection, 
 breathe themselves into the ear and 
 thrill through the heart of the world ! 
 
 It seems especially strange that this 
 complaint of dulness should be heard in 
 places devoted to the acquisition of re- 
 ligious knowledge and the cultivation 
 of religious affection ; and yet it is, per- 
 haps, nowhere more common or em- 
 phatic. And it is confined to no one 
 species of religious seminaries ; it is con- 
 fined, I mean, to no one sect. I have 
 heard it in tones as emphatic from Cath- 
 'Olic and Calvinistic seminaries as from 
 any other. I have heard it as strongly 
 .expressed in other lands as in our own. 
 But is it not very extraordinary ? We 
 hear it not from the studios of artists. 
 We hear it not from the schools of law 
 and medicine. There is no complaint 
 of dulness, there is no want of enthu- 
 siasm, about their appropriate objects in 
 
 any of these. He whose mind is occu- 
 pied with the most abstruse questions 
 of science or of the law ; he who gazes 
 upon a painting or upon a statue ; ay, 
 and he who gazes upon a skeleton, does 
 not complain that he cannot be interested 
 in them. I have heard such an one say, 
 " Beautiful ! beautiful ! " in a case where 
 admiration seemed almost absurd, where 
 it provoked a smile from the observer. 
 And yet in schools, in schools of ardent 
 youth, where the subject of attention is 
 the supreme and infinite giory, — if we 
 may take confession for evidence, — all 
 is cold and dead. 
 
 But I must here, and before I go any 
 further, put forward one qualification. 
 I do not think that confession is to be 
 taken for evidence, altogether and with- 
 out any qualification. One reason, 
 doubtless, why Christians complain so 
 much of the want of feeling, is to be 
 found in the very sense which they en- 
 tertain of the infinite value and great- 
 ness of the objects of their faith. And 
 it is unquestionably true that there is 
 often a great deal of feeling in cases 
 where there are very sad lamentations 
 over the want of it. Lamentation cer- 
 tainly does not prove total insensibility. 
 
 Still, however, there is an acknowl- 
 edged deficiency ; not appertaining to 
 any one class or condition, but to the 
 entire body of Christians. And it is es- 
 pecially a deficiency of naticral, hearty, 
 genuine, deep sensibility. And, once 
 more, it is deficiency, sad, strange, and 
 inexcusable, on a subject more than all 
 others claiming our sensibility. And, 
 yet again, it is a deficiency which, when 
 existing on the part of the clergy, is 
 most deplorable in its consequences. It 
 is therefore everybody's interest, and 
 that for every reason, to consider what 
 are the causes and what are the remedies 
 of this peculiar, prevailing, religious in- 
 sensibility. 
 
 1 have some question, indeed, whether 
 this demand for sensibility — the popular 
 rage, that is to say, for feeling, feeling 
 alone — is not, in some views, mistaken, 
 excessive, and wrong. But let me admit. 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 179 
 
 for I cannot resist, the strength, the 
 supremacy, of the cLiim which reHgion 
 has on our whole heart. The tirst and 
 lawful demand of the mind awakened to 
 reliiiion, is to feel it. The last attain- 
 ment is to feel it deeply, rationally, con- 
 stantly. Of the awakened mind, the first 
 consciousness always is : " I do not feel ; 
 I never did feel this subject as I ought. 
 It claims to be felt. The solemn au- 
 thority and the unspeakable goodness of 
 God ; the great prospect of immortality ; 
 the strong bond of duty upon my nature ; 
 the infinite welfare of my soul, — these 
 are themes, if there be any such, upon 
 which I ought to feel." The mind, 
 thus aroused from worldly neglect to the 
 greatest of subjects, will feel its cold- 
 ness, its indifference, to be a dreadful 
 burden ; and it will sigh for deliverance : 
 and the preacher who has never such 
 a mind to deal with, may well doubt 
 whether he is preaching to any purpose. 
 And in all its after course it will hold 
 a fervent religious sensibility to be in- 
 dispensable to its peace. If its prayers 
 are formal and heartless, if its love 
 waxes cold, if its gratitude and humility 
 are destitute of warmth and tenderness, 
 it cannot be satisfied. 
 
 And it ought not to be satisfied. 
 This demand for feeling in religion, I 
 say, is right ; it is just ; and I am de- 
 sirous, in this disccurse, to meet it and 
 to deal with it as such. And yet I am 
 about to say, in the first place, that there 
 are mistakes about it, and that in these 
 mistakes are to be found some of the 
 causes of the prevailing religious insen- 
 sibility. 
 
 I. Is tliere not something wrong, 
 then, in the first place ; is there not 
 something prejudicial to the very end in 
 view, in this vehement demand of feel- 
 ing ? I have said that it is mainly right, 
 and that I intend so to regard it. But 
 may there not be some mistake in the 
 case ? May not the demand for feeling 
 sometimes be made to the prejudice of 
 feeling, and to the prejudice, also, of 
 real, practical virtue .'' I confess that 
 I have been led at times to suspect 
 
 that the craying of some for great re- 
 ligious feeling in the preacher, though 
 right in fact, yet was partly wrong in 
 their minds. A person conscious of 
 great religious deficiency, conscious of 
 weekly and daily aberrations from the 
 right rule and the religious walk, will 
 be glad, of course, to have his feelings 
 aroused on the Sabbath ; it gives him a 
 better opinion of himself; it puts him 
 on a better footing widi his conscience ; 
 it somehow brings up the moral ac- 
 count, and enables him to go on, as if 
 the state of his affp.irs were very well 
 and prosperous. This perhaps explains 
 the reason, if such indeed be the fact, 
 why in some cases a very pathetic and 
 fervent preacher seems to do less good 
 than a man of much inferior endow- 
 ments. In this latter case, the congre- 
 gation cannot depend upon the peri- 
 odical and passive excitement, and is 
 obliged to resort to something else, to 
 some religious activity of its own. 
 
 It appears to me also that the great 
 religious excitements of the day answer 
 the same purpose, however unintention- 
 ally, of keeping the people satisfied with 
 general coldness and negligence. 
 
 But I'was about to observe that this 
 urgent demand for feeling is probably 
 one of the causes of religious insensi- 
 bility. That is to say, the directness, 
 urgency,' and reiteration of the demand 
 are unfavorable to a compliance with it. 
 This importunity with regard to feeling 
 does not allow it to spring up in the nat- 
 ural way. If it were applied to feeling 
 on any other subject, to friendship, filial 
 attachment, or parental affection, how 
 certainly would it fail of success ! 
 Human feeling, in its genuine character, 
 can never be forced, urged, compelled, or 
 exhorted, into action. The pulpit, I be- 
 lieve, has occasion to take a lesson from 
 this principle of analogy. It is not the 
 way to make the people feel, to be con- 
 stantly telling them that they must feel, 
 to be complaining continually of their 
 coldness, to be threatening them perpet- 
 ually with heaven's judgments upon their 
 insensibility. And he who has used only 
 
I So 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 these methods of awakening emotion, 
 need not wonder that the people have 
 no feeling about religion. No, let the 
 preacher himself feel ; let him express 
 his feeling, not as if he had any design 
 upon the feelings of others, but as if he 
 could not help it ; let him do this, and 
 he will find hearts that sympathize with 
 him. The chill of death may have been 
 upon them, it may have been upon them 
 lor years ; the rock may never have been 
 smitten, the desert never cheered ; but 
 there is a holy unction, a holy unction of 
 feeling, which is irresistible. It is like 
 the rod of miracles in the hand of Mo- 
 ses ; the waters will flow at its touch, and 
 there will be life and luxuriance and 
 beauty where all was barrenness and des- 
 olation before. 
 
 I do not say that there will, of ne- 
 cessity, be actual regeneration in the 
 heart where this feeling is excited ; I 
 do not say that there will certainly be 
 fruit where all this verdure and beauty 
 are seen : for the importance of feeling 
 is often exaggerated to that degree that 
 it is made a substitute for practical 
 virtue. And thus the mistake we are 
 considering is made unfavorable to relig- 
 ious sensibility in another way. For, 
 although at first view it seems to favor 
 sensibility to make so much of it ; 
 although in fact it exaggerates its impor- 
 tance ; yet, as the nature of the exag- 
 geration is to make feeling all-sufficient 
 of itself, the effect, of course, is to draw 
 off attention from that basis of prin- 
 ciple and habit, which is essential to 
 the strength and permanency of feeling. 
 This is — so much to admire the beauty 
 and luxuriance of vegetation in one's field 
 as to forget and neglect the very soil from 
 which it springs. Of course the luxu- 
 riance and beauty will soon fade away. 
 And so the common religious sensibil- 
 ity is like the seed which was sown 
 upon stony places ; forthwith it springs 
 up, because it has no deepness of earth ; 
 and because it has no root, it withers 
 away. Or, it is like the torrent after a 
 shower. There has been a commotion 
 in the moral elements of society ; there 
 
 have been thunderings in heaven, and 
 an outpouring from the skies ; and fresh 
 streams are gushing forth and flow] no- 
 on every side ; and how many in their 
 agitation, their enthusiasm, and their 
 zeal, will mistake these noisy freshets 
 for the deep, pure, silent, ever-flowing 
 river of life ! 
 
 Nay, this vehement demand for feel- 
 ing tends to throw an interested and 
 mercenary character over it, which is 
 also extremely unfavorable to its culti- 
 vation. There is that trait of nobleness 
 still left in human nature, that it will 
 not barter its best affections for advan- 
 tage. He who is striving with all his 
 might to feel, only because feeling will 
 save him, is certain to fail. This is the 
 reason why none are ever found so 
 bitterly complaining of the want of feel- 
 ing, as men often are in the midst of a 
 great religious excitement. They see 
 the community around them aroused 
 to great emotion ; they are told that 
 this is the way to be saved ; the fear 
 of perdition presses upon them ; under 
 this selfish fear, they strive, they ago- 
 nize, they goad themselves, they would 
 give the world to feel ; and the result 
 is, that they cz-n feel nothing! Their 
 complaint is, and it is true, that their 
 heart is as cold as a stone. No ; men 
 must feel religion, if at all, because it 
 is right to feel it. The great subject of 
 religion must sink into their hearts ; in 
 retirement, in silence, without agitation, 
 without any thought of advantage. 
 They must feel, if at all, involuntarily ; 
 they must feel, as it were, because they 
 cannot help feeling. 
 
 This, too, is one of the reasons, as I 
 believe, why there is so little religious 
 sensibility in theological seminaries. 
 There is a perpetual demand for sen- 1 
 sibility ; society demands it ; religious ' 
 congregations demand it ; the student 
 is constantly reminded by his fellows, 
 by everybody, that he cannot succeed 
 without it, that his eloquence, his popu- 
 ularity, depends upon it; and every 
 such consideration tends directly to 
 chill his heart. He is ashamed to cul- 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 i8i 
 
 ■ tivate feeling under such influences. 
 , Let him, then, forget all this ; let him 
 forget that it is his interest, almost that 
 it is his duty, to feel ; let him sit down 
 in silence and meditation ; let him 
 spread the great themes of religion be- 
 fore him, and with deep attention, ay, 
 with the deep attention of prayer, let 
 him ponder them ; and he will find that 
 which he did not seek ; he will find 
 that feeling is the least thing, the easi- 
 est thing, the most inevitable thing, in 
 his e.xperience. 
 
 II. In tlie second place, there are mis- 
 takes, and tliey arise in part from the 
 one already stated, concerning the char- 
 acteristics and expressions of religious 
 sensibility ; and these mistakes, too, 
 like the former, are unfriendly to its cul- 
 tivation. 
 
 I shall not think it necessary to dwell 
 long upon this topic ; or, at least, not 
 upon its more obvious aspects. Every 
 one, unhappily, is but too familiar with 
 the extravagances, and the extrava- 
 gant manifestations, of religious feeling. 
 They are as public as they are common. 
 Their effect, in repelling and estranging 
 the feelings of multitudes from religion, 
 is no less clear. 
 
 In a celebrated volume of essays 
 published some years ago, you will re- 
 member one, " On the aversion of men 
 of taste to Evangelical religion." The 
 aversion is there taken for granted ; and, 
 indeed, it is sufficiently evident. Wheth- 
 er the taste be right, or the religion be 
 right, the fact of their contrariety is 
 indisputable. The whole body of our 
 classic English literature, that literature 
 with which the great mass of readers is 
 constantly communing and sympathiz- 
 ing, is stamped with nothing more clear- 
 ly than an aversion to what is called 
 Evangelical religion. The peculiarities 
 of its creed, of its feelings, of its expe- 
 riences, of its manners, of its tones of 
 speech, have all been alike offensive 
 to that taste which is inspired by the 
 mass of our best English reading. 
 
 But the effect, unhappily, does not stop 
 with repelling the mind from religion 
 
 in the Evangelical form. It repels the 
 mind from religion in every form. And 
 more especially it begets a great distrust 
 of all religious earnestness. Hence all 
 the solicitude there is, especially among 
 the cultivated classes, to have every- 
 thing sober, calm, rational, in religion. 
 Hence the alarm that is so easily taken 
 at every appearance of zeal and enthu- 
 siasm. It seems to be thought by many 
 that there can be no religious earnest- 
 ness, but what breaks out into extrava- 
 gance and fanaticism. If they had not 
 identified two things essentially different, 
 they would be no more afraid of enthu- 
 siasm in religion, than they are afraid of 
 enthusiasm in science, in literature, in 
 the arts. It would be, in their account, 
 a noble and beautiful thing. But now, 
 the very description of a person as "zeal- 
 ous <n his religion " carries with it a 
 kind of imputation upon his understand- 
 ing and liberality. Hence, in the train 
 of consequences, it comes to pass that 
 many are cold in religion. "For this 
 cause, many sleep." They apparently 
 think it better to sleep in security, than 
 to wake in distraction ; they prefer stu- 
 por to madness ; they had rather perish 
 in their senses, than in a fit of insanity ; 
 this, at least, is the light in which mat- 
 ters appear to them ; and how is it 
 strange, that, repelled by the ordinary 
 forms of religious emotion, and identify- 
 ing all religious feeling with these, they 
 should sink down into a cold, chilling, 
 cheerless insensibility? 
 
 But I must not leave it to be sup- 
 posed that men of taste and refinement 
 alone are exposed to this result. The 
 truth is, that the popular sensibility on 
 this subject has been itself deficient 
 in real strength and true fervor ; it has 
 been remarkable, thus far, for wanting 
 those qualities which were necessary 
 to give it depth and impressiveness in 
 its own sphere : and from no quarter 
 have there been more bitter complaints 
 of coldness than from the very sphere 
 of fanaticism. The observation may 
 seem to be a singular one, perhaps, and 
 the fact scarcely credible. But if you 
 
IS2 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 will take the pains to observe, I am 
 confident you will find it to be true, that 
 the wildest sects and the wildest excite- 
 ments are precisely those from which 
 there come from time to time the deep- 
 est confessions of coldness and stupidity. 
 Yes, in the bosom of fanaticism is har- 
 bored the deepest and most painful 
 doubt about the truth and reality of all 
 religion. And the reason is, that neither 
 there, nor in any of the modifications 
 of spiritual extravagance, has religion 
 been familiar enough to have become 
 an easy, natural, abiding guest ; nor 
 reflective enough to have settled down 
 into a principle and habit ; nor has it 
 long enough rested in the soul, amidst 
 quietness and silence, to have become 
 incorporated with its nature. 
 
 And thus it comes to pass that in 
 many, perhaps in most, minds, wliere 
 religion gains admission, it is felt to 
 be a strange, mysterious, extraordinary 
 thing. I think, indeed, that the religious 
 experience of the world, generally, has 
 not got beyond this point ; it is still an 
 extraordinary thing. And it is obvious 
 that this sense of its being extraordinary 
 will not be favorable to composure, 
 steadiness, and permanency of feeling, 
 but rather to excitement, wonder, delight, 
 and all those tumultuous emotions that 
 speedily pass away. 
 
 I am afraid, too, that this conscious- 
 ness of religious experience as being 
 something extraordinary has another 
 injurious and repulsive effect ; that is 
 to say, that it gives birth to that re- 
 ligious vanity, that spiritual pride, that 
 sense of personal importance, which is 
 so apt to spring up with religious zeal. 
 I know, indeed, that the Gospel de- 
 mands humility ; and I know that Chris- 
 tians have been much given to self- 
 disparagement ; but I know, too, that 
 no sooner does a man " obtain religion," 
 to use the common phrase, than his own 
 sense of the great and wonderful thing 
 which he conceives has happened to 
 him, and the attentions of those around 
 him, usually contribute to invest him 
 with a very disagreeable air of self- 
 
 importance. There is a strange delu- 
 sion, by which a man contrives to think 
 himself very humble, and to be very 
 proud, at the same time. He says that 
 he is the greatest of sinners, a most 
 wonderful instance of the triumph of di- 
 vine grace • and perhaps he is never so 
 proud as when he says it. His confes- 
 sion is made, with a saving clause ; 
 and the saving clause is very likely to be 
 more with hmi than the confession. He 
 is the greatest of sinners ; but then he 
 is rescued. He is a most extraordinary 
 instance of grace ; but then it follows, 
 certainly, that he is himself a very ex- 
 traordinary person. 
 
 Whether this be a just account of the 
 matter or not, it is certain that spiritual 
 vanity has been, thus far in the world, 
 one of the prevailing forms of religious 
 experience. And since this quality, I 
 mean vanity, whether religious or other- 
 wise, is always one the most offensive 
 and insufferable ; since it always brings 
 more unpopularity upon its possessor, I 
 had almost said, than all other bad qual- 
 ities put together, it is not strange that 
 it should have brought some discredit 
 upon religion, and especially upon relig- 
 ious zeal and earnestness. There are, 
 there nttist be, not a few, who will stand 
 aside and aloof, and say, " Let me have 
 no rehgion, rather than that : " and one 
 of the most important duties of religious 
 teaching is, to show them that they may 
 have religion without presumption, pride, 
 or ostentation ; nay, and that the relig- 
 ion which they hold in simplicity, mod- 
 esty, and singleness of heart, with no 
 thought of themselves, will be far more 
 deep, thorough, and fervent, as well as 
 far more graceful and beautiful. 
 
 There is one effect of tTiis sense of 
 religion as something very extraordinary, 
 vvfhich I must mention before leaving this 
 topic; and that is upon the manifesta- 
 tions of religious sensibility. The sense 
 of the extraordinary tends to give expan- 
 sion and exuberance to the expression 
 of religious feeling ; tends, if the phrase 
 will be understood, to too much manifes- 
 tation. Our sensibility always takes arms 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 183 
 
 ao'ainst an appearance of this sort. This 
 e.vplains the reason why some religious 
 conversation and some preaching, which 
 seems to be charged and overcharged 
 with rehgious fervor, which vents itself, 
 perhaps, in a passion of tears, which is 
 full of e.xclamations and entreaties, and 
 exhorts us to feel with every moving 
 interjection in the language, yet never 
 moves us at all. The precise reason is, 
 tliat the expression is overcharged. We 
 wonder at our insensibility, perhaps; we 
 think it is very wicked in us not to feel ; 
 but the fact is, we are, all this while, true 
 to nature. Possibly some might think, 
 though I will not suspect any one who 
 hears me of liolding the opinion, that tliis 
 apology ought not to be stated ; that self- 
 reproach is so rare a thing and so good a 
 thing, that men should be left to accuse 
 themselves as much as ever they will. 
 I confess that I can understand no such 
 reasoning as this. On the contrary, I 
 have regretted to hear the language of 
 self-reproach in such cases ; because I 
 do not think it just, and because I know 
 that every false self-accusation tends to 
 blunt the edge of the true self-accusation. 
 Doubtless men should always feel relig- 
 ion if they can ; but the question is now, 
 about being made to feel it by a par- 
 ticular manifestation. And I say, if the 
 manifestation be overcharged ; if it go 
 beyond the feeling rather than come 
 short of it ; if there be more expression, 
 vociferation, gesture, than genuine emo- 
 tion, it will inevital:)ly, with the discern- 
 ing, have an effect the very contrary of 
 what was intended. No; let one speak 
 to us by our fireside, or in the pulpit, 
 with an emotion which he is obliged to 
 restrain ; let it appear evident that he 
 lays a check upon his feelings ; let one 
 stand before us, I care not with what 
 varied expression ; with the cheek 
 flushed or blanched, with the tear sup- 
 pressed or flowing, with the voice soft 
 or loud, only so that the expression never 
 seem to outrun, to exceed, the feeling; 
 and he is almost as sure of our sympathy 
 as that we are human beings. 
 
 The observation I have made on this 
 
 point cannot be useless to any one, if it 
 teaches only this, that nothing forced or 
 factitious will answer any good purpose 
 in religion ; that if we would accomplish 
 anything for ourselves or others in this 
 great cause, we must enga<je in it with 
 our whole heart; that the sources of real 
 religious influence are none other than 
 the fountains of the heart, the fountains 
 of honest, earnest, irrepressible sensi- 
 bility. 
 
 III. I must now add, in the third 
 place, that tliere are mistakes, as in the 
 vehement demand for religious sensibil- 
 ity, and concerning its nature and expres- 
 sions, so also with regard to its Supreme 
 Object. 
 
 We must allow, indeed, that on this 
 point there are some intrinsic difficulties. 
 Tliere are difficulties attending the love 
 of an Infinite, Eternal, Invisible, Incom- 
 prehensible Being. Our love of him 
 must be divested of many of those sym- 
 pathies and supports which enkindle and 
 strengthen in us the love of one another. 
 We feel obliged to guard every word in 
 which we speak of him, and of our con- 
 nection with him. We must not say that 
 our communion with him is sympathy, 
 or that our love of him is attachment. 
 We may not with propriety say that he 
 is " dear " to us. Many, indeed, of those 
 phrases, many of those modes of expres- 
 sion, in which we testify the strength and 
 charm of our social affections, sink into 
 awe and are hushed to silence, before 
 that Infinite and Awful Being. So, at 
 least, does the subject of devotion ap- 
 pear to me ; and I must confess that the 
 familiarity of expression which is some- 
 times witnessed in prayer is extremely 
 irreverent and shocking. 
 
 But those difficulties which it is the 
 tendency of ignorance and fanaticism to 
 overlook, it is the tendency of imma- 
 ture reflection and philosophy to mag- 
 nify. Reflection has gone just so far 
 with some minds as to make it more 
 difficult for them, than it ought to be, 
 to approach their Maker. They regard 
 liis exaltation above them, as distance; 
 his greatness, as separation from them. 
 
1 84 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 They look upon the very phrases, " love 
 of God," " communion with God," as 
 phrases of daring import and doubtful 
 propriety. They shrink back from the 
 freedom of popular language, and 
 this, perhaps, they rightly do ; but they 
 retreat too far ; they retreat to the oppo- 
 site extreme of coldness and cold ab- 
 stractions. They are sometimes almost 
 afraid to address God as a Being ; they 
 worship some mighty abstraction ; they 
 are like those ancient philosophers who 
 worshipped the light ; they worship " an 
 unknown God." I do not know that 
 anything but the teachings of Jesus 
 could ever have cured this error, — the 
 error at once of ancient philosophy and 
 modern refinement. He " has brought 
 us nigh to God." He has taught us 
 that God is our Father. He has taught 
 us to worship him, with the profoundest 
 reverence indeed, but with boundless 
 confidence and love. He has taught us 
 that God does regard us; that he does 
 look down from the height of his infinite 
 heavens ; that he does look down upon 
 us, and upon our world, — not exclu- 
 sively, as some religionists would teach, 
 not as if there were no other world, 
 — but still that he does look down upon 
 its, and our world, with paternal interest 
 and kindness. 
 
 The mistake now stated is one which 
 lies at the very threshold of devotion. 
 But when we enter the temple of our 
 worship, how many errors are there, 
 that darken its light and disfigure its 
 beauty ! The veil of the Jewish pecu- 
 liarity is indeed rent in twain ; but the- 
 ology has lil'ted up other, and many, and 
 darkening veils, before " the holy of 
 holies." Our sins, too, have separated 
 between us and God, and our iniquities 
 have hidden his face from us. Un- 
 worthy, afraid, superstitious, erring, 
 grovelling in the dust, how can we love 
 God purely, freely, joyfully ? How, 
 even, can we see the perfection of God 
 as we ought ? 
 
 This, indeed, is the point upon which 
 all difficulty presses. A^ett do not SEE 
 the perfection of Cod. They do not 
 
 identify that perfection with all that is 
 glorious, beautiful, lovely, admirable, and 
 enrapturing in nature, in character, in life, 
 in existence. God's glory they conceive 
 to be something so different from all 
 other glory ; God's goodness, so differ- 
 ent from all other goodliness and beauty, 
 that they find no easy transition from 
 one to the other. They mistake, — and 
 perhaps this is the most fatal part of 
 the error, — they mistake the very de- 
 mand of God's goodness upon their 
 love. They conceive of it as if there were 
 something arbitrary and importunate 
 and selfish in the demand. Demand 
 itself repels them, because they do not 
 understand it. They think of the Su- 
 preme Being in this attitude somewhat 
 as they would of man, if he stood before 
 them, saying, " Love me ; give me your 
 heart ; upon pain of my displeasure, 
 and of long-enduring penal miseries for 
 your disobediejice." Divine goodness 
 thus regarded does not and cannot 
 steal into the heart as the excellence 
 of a human being does. And this, I 
 say, is a mistake. Divine goodness, 
 thus regarded, is mistaken, misappre- 
 hended altogether. There is not so 
 much that is personal in God"s claim for 
 our hearts as there is in man's claim. 
 It does not so much concern him, if I 
 may speak so, that we should love 
 him personally, as it concerns man 
 that we should love him personally. 
 He is not dependent on our love, as 
 man is dependent upon it. The com- 
 mand which he lays upon us to love him 
 is but a part of the command to love all 
 goodness. He equally commands us to 
 love one another. Nay, he has gracious- 
 ly represented the want of love to one 
 another as the evidence of want of love to 
 him. He has thus, in a sense, identified 
 these affections ; and thus taught us that 
 an affection for excellence, whether in 
 himself or in his creatures, is essen- 
 tially the affection that he demands. 
 The demand for our love, which the In- 
 finite Being addresses to us, is infinitely 
 generous. He requires us to love all 
 goodness, to love it alike in himself and in 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 185 
 
 others ; to love goodness for goodness' 
 sake ; to love it because it is just that 
 we should love it, because it is right, 
 because it is for our welfare, because, 
 in one word, it is all our excellence and 
 all our happiness. 
 
 I must not dwell longer upon these 
 mistakes ; but, in leaving this topic, let 
 me exhort every one to endeavor to 
 correct them. With many, this will re- 
 quire a frequent, an almost constant ef- 
 fort. The influence of early education 
 or of later error ; theology, superstition, 
 and sin have so overshadowed their 
 path, that they must not expect to see 
 the light without much faithful endeav- 
 or. Let them be entreated, by every- 
 thing most precious to them, to make it. 
 And thus let them make the endeavor. 
 Let the III see God in ei'erythiui^ that 
 they laivfitlly admire and lo7'e. If there 
 be any goodliness and loveliness in the 
 world ; if there be anything dear and de- 
 lightful in the excellence of good men ; if 
 heaven from its majestic heights, if earth 
 from its lowly beauty, sends one sweet 
 or one sublime thought into your mind ; 
 think that this is a manifestation of the 
 ever-beautiful, ever-blessed perfection of 
 God. Think, I say emphatically, and 
 let not your mind sleep, — think forever, 
 that the whole universe of glory and 
 beauty is one revelation of God. Think 
 thus, I say, — thus faithfully and per- 
 severingly ; and you will find that no 
 strength nor freedom of emotion in the 
 world is like the freedom and strength 
 of devotion ; that no joy, no rapture on 
 earth, is like the joy, the rapture of 
 piety ! 
 
 III. 
 
 ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 EzEKiEL xxxvi. 26: " And I will give you a heart 
 of flesh." 
 
 My object in the present discourse is 
 to offer some remarks upon the remedies 
 for the want of religious sensibility, or 
 
 upon the means and principles of its 
 culture. 
 
 And in entering upon this subject I 
 would observe that much is to be done 
 by a correction of those mistakes which 
 have been already mentioned. Let, then, 
 something, I would venture to say, of 
 this vehement demand for feeling be 
 abated. Let not the feeling of religion 
 be subjected to perpetual importunity, 
 any more than the feeling of friendship 
 or of family affection. Let not feeling be 
 made to occupy a place in religion that 
 does not belong to it, as if it were the 
 only thing and everything ; thus drawing 
 away attention from the principles that 
 are necessary to give it permanency, from 
 the soil that must nourish and the basis 
 that must support it. Let not religious 
 feeling be appealed to in a way to im- 
 pair its simplicity, disinterestedness, and 
 purity. 
 
 In the next place, let the common mis- 
 takes about the natbre and signs of re- 
 ligious sensibility be corrected. Let all 
 excess and extravagance be checked as 
 much as possible ; and especially let 
 those who would cultivate a fervent piety 
 make the necessary discriminations be- 
 tween religion and fanaticism. Let 
 them not conclude that abuses are the 
 only forms under which the religious 
 principle can appear; that, in order to be 
 zealous Christians, it is necessary to part 
 with their ifiodesty or their taste. In 
 fine, let religion become so familiar that 
 it shall cease to be, in their minds, or in 
 their thoughts of it, anything extraordi- 
 nary ; and then let its manifestations be, 
 like the expressions of all other high and 
 pure feeling, unforced, natural, manly, 
 strong, graceful, beautiful, and winning. 
 Thus let our light shine before men, not 
 as the glaring meteor, but as the common 
 light of day, attractive and cheering and 
 constant. 
 
 And, once more, let an honest and per- 
 severing endeavor be made, to correct 
 those mistakes that prevail about the 
 Supreme Object to which religious sen- 
 sibility is chiefly directed. Let not God 
 be resrarded as some unintellitrible ab- 
 
1 86 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 straction or inaccessible majesty. Let 
 the Cliristian teaching be welcomed, 
 which instructs us to believe and to feel 
 that He is our Father. Let an effort be 
 made by every mind to break through the 
 clouds of superstition and sin, and to 
 perceive what the divine perfection is. 
 Let not God's command that we should 
 love him be mistaken for anything more 
 arbitrary or importunate or personal 
 than is the claim of disinterested human 
 excellence to be loved. Let not the di- 
 vine demand for our love be so construed 
 as to chill or repel our Iqve. In fine, 
 let no thought be suffered to enter our 
 minds that shall detract from the infinite 
 generosity, the infinite dignity, the infi- 
 nite beauty, of the divine perfection. 
 How shall God be truly loved, if he is 
 not rightly known ? Let him be rightly 
 known, and love will as certainly follow 
 as it will follow the knowledge of any oth- 
 er, of any human or angelic excellence. 
 I do not say that it will certainly follow, 
 but as certainly. Nay, why, if we rightly 
 understood the subject, should it not be 
 easier to love God than to love man ? 
 For man is full of imperfection that of- 
 fends us, and with him too we are liable 
 to have questions and competitions. But 
 God is all-perfect ; and with him our 
 affections have reasonably nothing to do 
 — but to love him. 
 
 Let me now proceed to offer a few 
 suggestions more directly upbn the rem- 
 edy for religious insensibility. And 
 here let me say at once, that I have no 
 specific to offer in the shape of a rem- 
 edy ; no new and before unheard-of 
 method to propose. I have no set of 
 rules to lay down, a mere formal observ- 
 ance of which will certainly bring about 
 the desired result. Religious sensibility 
 is to be cultivated like all other sensi- 
 bility ; i. e. rationally. And since it is 
 impossible within my present limits to 
 discuss the subject in all its parts and 
 bearings, I shall confine myself to the 
 defence and application of the rational 
 method. And the rational method is 
 the method of attention, in the forms 
 of meditation, reading, hearing, prayer; 
 
 the method of association, which pays 
 regard to the indirect influences of 
 places, times, and moods of mind ; and, 
 finally, it is the method of consistency, 
 by which no feeling is expected to be 
 strong and satisfactory but as the result 
 of the whole character. 
 
 My remedy, then, for rehgious insen- 
 sibility, under the blessing of Heaven, — 
 it might sound strangely in the ears of 
 some, — but I boldly say, that my rem- 
 edy is reason. It is thought ; it is re- 
 flection ; it is attention; it is exercise 
 of reason in every legitimate way. The 
 true method, I say, is purely and strictly 
 rational. And I say, moreover, that it 
 is not that Christians have used their 
 reason so much, but so little, that they 
 have been so deficient in real feeling. 
 
 Reason and feeling, if they be not 
 the same thing in different degrees of 
 strength, are yet so intimately connect- 
 ed that no man may ever expect, on 
 any subject, to feel deeply and habitu- 
 ally, who does not feel rationally. The 
 slight sometimes thrown upon reason 
 in religion is an invasion of the first law 
 of the mind, the first law of heaven. 
 This law is "elder scripture," and no 
 more designed to be abrogated by the 
 written word, than the law of gravita- 
 tion is designed to be abrogated by the 
 written word. The word proceeds upon 
 the assumption that the intellect is to 
 be addressed ; it actually, and every- 
 where, addresses it. The whole theory 
 of human affections proceeds upon it. 
 The grandest theoretical mistake of all 
 in religion is that by which feeling is 
 separated from the intellect. 
 
 Nor am I at all sure, my brethren, 
 little liable as it may be thought we are 
 to make this mistake, that we have al- 
 together escaped it. When it is said, 
 as it sometimes is said, that certain 
 preaching is too intellectual for a plain 
 congregation, or too rational for an 
 humble congregation, I must think, 
 either that the meaning is false, or that 
 the terms are used in a false sense. 
 There never was too much intellect, 
 there never was too much reason, yet 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILl TV. 
 
 187 
 
 put into a sermon. There may have 
 been too little feeling ; but it does not 
 follow that there was too much reason. 
 There may have been too much barren 
 and useless speculation, but not too 
 much intellect. Some of the most prac- 
 tical and devotional books in the world 
 — such as Law's Serious Call, Baxter's 
 Saints' Rest, the Sermons of Butler and 
 Paley, and the works of Jonathan Ed- 
 wards — are specimens of the closest 
 reasoning. A genuine, just, and powerful 
 moral discourse has need to be one of 
 the keenest, closest, and most discrimi- 
 nating compositions in the world. Such 
 were the discourses of our Saviour. 
 Nothing could be farther from loose, 
 rambling, commonplace exhortations. 
 Nothing could be farther from that style 
 which says, " Oh ! my hearers, you 
 must be good ; you must be pious men ; 
 and you must feel on this great subject." 
 No, the hearers, by close, cogent, 
 home-put argument, were made to feel ; 
 and they said, " Never man spake like 
 this man." 
 
 I may be thought singular, but I verily 
 believe that in most moral discourses 
 at this day the grand defect is not so 
 much a defect of feeling, as it is a defect 
 of close and discriminating argument; 
 and that higher powers of argumentation 
 are precisely what are wanted, in such 
 sermons, to make them more weighty, 
 practical, and impressive. And it is not 
 the intellectual hearer, who can perhaps 
 supply the deficiency, that most needs 
 this ; but the plain hearer, who is mys- 
 tified, misled, and stupefied, by the want 
 of clear and piercing discrimination. I 
 have that respect for human nature in 
 its humblest forms, as to think that the 
 highest powers of man or angel would 
 not be thrown away upon it : and I can- 
 not believe that nothing but truisms and 
 commonplaces, vague generalities and 
 unstudied exhortations, are required in 
 teaching religion to such a nature. 
 
 It is required of a man, to be sure, ac- 
 cording to what he hath, and not accord- 
 ing to what he hath not. But if it be 
 thought that the utmost, and far more 
 
 than the utmost, measure of human tal- 
 ent may not be well employed in relig- 
 ious discussion, how, let me ask, is that 
 opinion to be defended against the charge 
 of doing dishonor to religion ? There 
 is no other interest which is not held to 
 be worthy of the profoundest discussion. 
 He who is to plead the cause of some 
 earthly right or property before the 
 judges of the land or its legislators, will, 
 by deep study, prepare himself to give 
 the most able and elaborate views of 
 the subject, be it of a title or a tariff, a 
 bond or a bank. It is a great occasion, 
 and must task all the powers of the mind 
 to do it justice. But "a little plain 
 sense," — is not this the thought of 
 some? — "a little plain sense, a little 
 commonplace thought, is good enough 
 for religion ! " 
 
 There are tasks for the religious teach- 
 er ; and, to name no other, that of disem- 
 barrassing religious experience from the 
 many mistakes in which it is involved, 
 is one that must carry the preacher far 
 enough beyond the range of common- 
 place truths, valuable as they may be, 
 and one that is very necessary to the 
 promotion of a just and healthful relig- 
 ious sensibility. And this only amounts 
 to saying that there are new things to 
 be said, new vie^vs to be given in relig- 
 ion ; that not plain and obvious things 
 only are to be said, but that there is to 
 be something to be told to many which 
 they did not think of before. And what 
 though the prea.cher fee/ his subject, and 
 the people be impressed ; yet, after all, 
 the impression, the feeling, may have 
 much in it that is wrong. The whole sul> 
 ject of religious sensibility, its sources 
 and the methods of its culture, may be 
 very ill understood ; and there is no little 
 evidence that it is ill understood, from the 
 fact that most religious feeling is so arti- 
 ficial, so mechanical, so periodical and 
 fluctuating and uncertain, instead of 
 being habitual and healthful and strong. 
 A man may feel very much, within a 
 very narrow compass of thought. Who 
 has not often observed it? But who 
 that has observed it would not think it 
 
i88 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 desirable to carry him beyond this Httle 
 mechanism by which he contrives from 
 time to time (if I may speal< so) to 
 grind out^ certain amount of feehng, — 
 to carry him beyond, I say, to those wide 
 and generous views of rehgion, to that 
 intelligent culture of his nature, from 
 which religious feeling will spring natu- 
 rally and freely, and flow abundantly, and 
 in a full and living stream ? There is 
 all the difference here, and only of infi- 
 nitely greater importance, that there is 
 between the slavish artisan, governed 
 by rules, and the intelligent machinist, 
 discovering principles, constantly in- 
 venting and improving, and ever going 
 on to perfection. 
 
 But it is time that I should proceed 
 from the defence to the more particu- 
 lar application of my proposition. The 
 proposition is, that feeling in religion, 
 to be deep and thorough, to be habitual, 
 to be relied on, to spring up with unva- 
 rying promptitude at every call of relig- 
 ion, must be rational, perfectly rational ; 
 rational in its nature, its methods of 
 culture, its ends. You ask how you 
 shall learn to feel on the subject of relig- 
 ion, — with spontaneous freedom, with 
 unaffected delight, and with true-hearted 
 earnestness ; how you shall learn to feel 
 in religion as you do in friendship, and 
 in the family relations ; and I answer, 
 rationally. And I say, moreover, tliat 
 provided a man really and honestly de- 
 sires and strives to feel, the reason why 
 he fails, is, that there is something irra- 
 tional in his views, irrational in his 
 seeking, irrational in the whole method 
 of his procedure. He has irrational 
 views of the nature of religious feeling. 
 He expects it to be some strange sensa- 
 tion, or something supernatural, or some 
 hallucination, or something, he knows 
 not what. Or he has wrong views of 
 God. He does not see the glory and 
 loveliness of his perfection. Or he has 
 wrong ideas of the methods of ol^taining 
 religious feeling. He is indolently wait- 
 ing for it, or irrationally expecting it to 
 come upon him in some indescribable 
 manner, or unreasonably looking for an 
 
 influence from above, which God has 
 never promised. For although he has 
 promised help, he has not proffered, in 
 that help, anything to be substituted for 
 our own efforts : and our efforts are to 
 be every way just as rational as if he 
 had promised nothing. Or, the seeker 
 of religion has irrational views of the 
 end. He does not distinctly see that 
 his perfection, his happiness, is the end. 
 If he did, he would be drawn on to seek 
 it with a more willing and hearty ear- 
 nestness. No, but he feels as if the 
 demand for his heart, in this matter, 
 were a mere arbitrary requisition, as if 
 it were the bare will of some superior 
 Being, without any reason for it. He 
 seeks religion, because he vaguely and 
 blindly apprehends that it is something, 
 — that is the prominent idea of thou- 
 sands, — something which he must have. 
 I say that the process of obtaining a 
 high and delightful religious sensibili- 
 ty, that sensibility which makes prayer 
 always fervent and meditation fruitful 
 and satisfying, must be rational, and 
 nothing but rational. And I do not say 
 this in any spirit of defiance towards 
 that prevaihng opinion which has fas- 
 tened on this word rational the idea 
 of coldness and indifference. I say it, 
 because in sober truth and earnestness 
 I know of no other way to feel the deep 
 sense of religion, but to feel it ration- 
 ally. It is out of my power — is it ivitJiin 
 any man's power ? — to conceive of any 
 other way to awaken emotion, but to fix 
 the mind on those objects that are to 
 awaken it. If I would feel the sentiment 
 of gratitude and love to my Creator, I 
 can conceive of no way of doing so, but 
 to think of his goodness, his perfection ; 
 to spread before my mind all tiie images 
 and evidences of his majesty, his per- 
 fection, his love. If I would feel the 
 charms of virtue, I must contemplate 
 her ; I must see " virtue in her shape, 
 how lovely ! " If I would love good men, 
 which is a part of religion, I must know 
 them, and mingle with them ; 1 must 
 talk with them, or read of them, and 
 spread the story of their generous and 
 
ON RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 189 
 
 blessed deeds before me. And thus 
 also, and for the same reason, if I would 
 love God, I must not only contemplate 
 him, as has been already said, but I 
 must be familiar with the contemplation 
 of his being and perfection. Earth 
 through all her fair and glorious scenes 
 must speak to me oi Him. The sacred 
 page, with all its gracious words of teach- 
 ing and promise, must speak to me of 
 Him. And I must listen with gladness, 
 with a sense of my high privilege, and 
 with joy must I commune with all the 
 teachings of God to me, as I would com- 
 mune with the words of a friend. This 
 is the rational process 
 
 But this, my friends, is not to say 
 that "we hope we shall some time or 
 other attain to the love of God," or 
 that "we desire it," or that "it is diffi- 
 cult," or that " we fear we never shall 
 reach it ; " it is not saying, and saying, 
 this or that, in a sort of ideal, or idle 
 speculation ; but it is doing something. 
 It is seeking to feel the power of re- 
 ligion, as we seek to feel the power of 
 other things, — of the arts, of philosophy, 
 of science, of astronomy, or of music ; 
 attentively, sedulously, with a careful use 
 of opportunities, with a heedful regard 
 to circumstances. The rational method, 
 then, is the method of attention. 
 
 But, in the next place, the rational 
 method is the method of association ; 
 or, in other words, it is a method which 
 regards that great law of the mind, the 
 law of association. It pays regard to 
 places and times and seasons, and moods 
 ofmind. It is partly an indirect method. 
 It is, to put ourselves in the way of ob- 
 taining a sense of religion. 
 
 The direct eflfort is to be valued for all 
 that it is worth. And its value, indeed, 
 is such that it is indispensable. Cer- 
 tainly, where the religious character is 
 to be formed, after our arrival at the 
 period of adult years, periodical and 
 private meditation and prayer seem to 
 be essential aids. There is much to 
 learn, and much to overcome, and there 
 should be definite seasons and direct 
 efforts, for these purposes. But it would 
 
 be irrational to make these seasons and 
 efforts the only means. If we should 
 attempt to form a friendship for a hu- 
 man being by such a series of fixed 
 and direct contemplations alone, it is 
 easy to see that they would be very 
 likely to be injurious, to create in our 
 minds a set of repulsive or irksome 
 associations with the human being in 
 question, however amiable and excellent 
 he might be. It would require the 
 effect of many indirect influences to 
 blend with these, and give them their 
 proper character. So in the cultiva- 
 tion of a devotional spirit, it is not safe 
 to trust to prayers and meditations alone. 
 Many wise and good men, in their writ- 
 ings, have recommended that the most 
 special heed be given to those visitations 
 of tender and solemn emotion, those 
 touches of holy sensibility, those breath- 
 ings of the Spirit of all grace, which 
 steal into the heart unsolicited, and offer 
 their heavenly aid unsought. Let not 
 him who would catch the sacred fervor 
 of piety venture to neglect these gra- 
 cious intimations. Let him not neglect 
 to put himself in the way of receiving 
 them. Let him not willingly invade the 
 holy Sabbath hours with business or 
 pleasure, or forsake the assemblies 
 where good men meditate and pray, or 
 resist the touching signs of nature's 
 beauty or decline, or turn away from the 
 admonition of loneliness and silence, 
 when tliey sink deep into the heart. Or, 
 if he does turn away, and avoid and 
 resist all this, let him not say that he 
 seeks or desires the good gift of the 
 grace of God, the gift of light and love 
 and holy joy. 
 
 Finally, the rational method is a 
 method of consistency. Religious feel- 
 ing, to be itself rational, and to be ration- 
 ally sought, must not be expected to 
 spring up as the result of anything else 
 tlian the whole character. You desire to 
 feel the power of religion. Do not ex- 
 pect, do not desire, to feel it, but as an 
 impression upon your whole mind and 
 heart, the general tone and tenor of all 
 your sentiments and affections, the con- 
 
I go 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 senting together of all your reflections 
 and actions and habits. If you feel it, 
 as some peculiar thing, something sin- 
 gular in you, and technical in your very 
 idea of it, as something apart from your 
 ordinary self ; if it is either a flame of 
 the imagination, or a warmth of the affec- 
 tions, or a splendor of sentiment, one of 
 them alone and not all of them together, 
 it will certainly lead you astray : it will 
 be but a wavering and treacherous light. 
 It may appear to you very bright. It 
 may lead you to think well of yourself; 
 far better than you ought to think. But 
 it will be only a glaring taper instead of 
 the true light of life. 
 
 An irrational fervor is often found to 
 stand in direct contrast to the rest of the 
 character ; to general ignorance, to want 
 of moral refinement and delicacy, and of 
 daily virtue. There is not only a zeal 
 without knowledge, but there is a zeal 
 which seems to thrive exactly in propor- 
 tion to the want of knowledge ; that bursts 
 out, from time to time, like a flame from 
 thick smoke, instead of shining with any 
 clear radiance, any steady light. But it 
 is the distinctive mark of rational feeling, 
 that it rises gradually, and steadily gains 
 strength, like the spreading of daylight 
 upon the wakening earth. Hence, it 
 rises slowly ; and no one should be dis- 
 couraged at small beginnings ; and no 
 one should expect or wish to rush into 
 the full flow of religious sensibility at 
 once. 
 
 I repeat it ; this sensibility, if rational, 
 must be felt as the spirit of the whole 
 character : and he would do well to tell 
 us nothing of his joys, of whom nothing 
 can be told concerning his virtues, his 
 self-denials, his general and growing im- 
 provement, the holy habits and heavenly 
 graces of his character and life. Dost 
 thou love good men and pity bad men ; 
 is thy heart touched with all that is gen- 
 erous and lovely around thee ; is thine 
 eye opened to all that is like God in his 
 creatures and works ? Then, and not 
 till then, am I prepared to hear of thy love 
 to God. Dost thou, indeed, love that 
 great and kind Being ? Dost thou, in- 
 
 deed, love that intrinsic, infinite, eternal, 
 inexpressible beauty and glory of the di- 
 vine perfection ? Then, truly, art thou 
 prepared rightly to love all who bear his 
 image, and to pity and pray for all who 
 bear it not ; then does thy social and re- 
 ligious sensibility flow on in one stream, 
 full and entire, steady and constant, a 
 living stream : a stream like that which 
 floweth fresh, full, perennial, eternal, at 
 the right hand of God ! 
 
 My brethren ! it is constant : so far at 
 least as anything human can bear that 
 character, it is constant. He who will 
 rationally cultivate the sense of religion, 
 both directly and indirectly, and as the 
 consent and tendency of all his habits, 
 may be just as certain of feeling it as he 
 is certain of loving his friend, his child, 
 his chief interest. It is one of the irra- 
 tional aspects of the common religious 
 sensibility, that its possessors have usu- 
 ally spoken of it as if it were totally un- 
 certain whether, on a given occasion, they 
 should feel it or not. They have gone 
 to church, they have gone to their private 
 devotions, with a feeling as if it were to 
 be decided, not by the habits of their 
 own minds, but by some doubtful inter- 
 position of divine grace, whether they 
 were to enjoy a sense of religion or not. 
 But, my friends, nothing can be more 
 certain to him who will rationally, heart- 
 ily, and patiently cultivate the religious 
 sensibilities of his soul, than that he shall, 
 on every suitable occasion, feel them. It 
 is to him no matter of distressing doubt 
 and uncertainty. He knows in whom he 
 has believed. He knows in what he has 
 confided. He knows, by sure experience, 
 that as certainly as the tliemes of relig- 
 ion pass before him, they will, physical 
 infirmity only excepted, arouse him to 
 the most intense and delightful exercise 
 of all his affections. He is sure, when 
 the fulness of the blessing of the Gospel 
 of Christ is presented before him, — he is,* 
 like Paul, sure that he shall enter into it. 
 Not that this is any boasting assurance 
 of the devoted Christian. God forbid ! 
 He knows his weakness. But he knows 
 that, by the very laws of the divine good- 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 191 
 
 ness and grace, if he will be faithful, no 
 o-ood thing shall be wanting to him. 
 
 Christian brethren ! we hear much, 
 in these days, about excitement. Why, 
 every prayer, — of a Christian at once 
 perfectly rational and perfectly devoted, 
 — every prayer is an excitement ; and 
 every religious service, every sermon, 
 is an excitement as great as he can well 
 bear; and every day's toil of virtue 
 and contemplation of piety is a great 
 and glorious excitement. Excitements ! 
 Is a man never to be moved by his relig- 
 ion but when some flood of emotion is 
 sweeping through society ; when agita- 
 tion and disorder and confusion are on 
 every side of him ? Is it only when the 
 tenor of quiet life, the pursuits of indus- 
 trv, the pleasures of relaxation, are all 
 broken up, that he is to feel the power 
 of religion ? I do not say that this is 
 anybody's theory ; but if this is the 
 fact that results from any form of relig- 
 ious teaching, then, I ask, for what end 
 was the whole tenor of life, for what end 
 were the pursuits of industry and the 
 pleasures of society, ordained ? For 
 what was the whole trial of life, so exqui- 
 sitely moral, so powerfully spiritual, — 
 for what was it appointed, if the seasons 
 for olitaining religious impressions are 
 so ordered by human interference that 
 they come only in idleness, disorder, 
 and a derangement of the whole system 
 of life? Excitements in religion! Are 
 tliey to be things occasional, and sepa- 
 rated by the distance of years ? Is a 
 man to be excited about religion only in 
 a certain month, or in the winter; and 
 when that month, or that winter is past, 
 yes, when all nature is bursting into life 
 and beauty, and songs of praise, is the 
 religious feeling of the people to be de- 
 clining into worse than wintry coldness 
 and death? Is this religion, — the re- 
 ligion whose path shineth brighter and 
 brighter to the perfect day ? 
 
 Let us have excitements in religion ; 
 but then let them be such as may be 
 daily renewed, as never need to die 
 away. Any excitement in society that 
 can bear this character I would heart- 
 
 ily go along with. The Christian relig- 
 ion. I am sure, was designed powerfully 
 to excite us ; nothing on earth so much ; 
 nothing in heaven more. It was de- 
 signed to arouse our whole nature, to 
 enrapture our whole affection, to kindle 
 in us a flame of devotion, to transport 
 us with the hope and foretaste of heav- 
 en. But its excitements, if they be like 
 those that appeared in the great Teacher, 
 are to be deep, sober, strong, and habit- 
 ual. Such excitements may God ever 
 grant us ; not periodical, l)ut perpetual ; 
 not transient, but enduring; not for 
 times and seasons only, but for life; 
 not for life only, but for eternity ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 TPIE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Galatians, vi. 7 : " Be not deceived; God is not 
 mocked : for whatsoever a man sovveth, that shall he 
 also reap." 
 
 I UNDERSTAND these words, my breth- 
 ren, as laving down in some respects 
 a stricter law of retribution than is yet 
 received, even by those who are consid- 
 ered as its strictest interpreters. There 
 is much dispute about this law at the 
 present day ; and there are many who 
 are jealous, and very properly jealous, 
 of every encroachment upon its salu- 
 tary principles. But even those who 
 profess to hold the strictest faith on 
 this subject, and who, in my judgment, 
 do hold a faith concerning what they 
 call the infinity of man's ill-desert that is 
 warranted neither by reason nor Scrip- 
 ture ; even they, nevertheless, do often 
 present views of conversion and of God's 
 mercy, and of the actual scene of retri- 
 bution, which in my apprehension de- 
 tract from the wholesome severity of 
 the rule by which we are to be judged. 
 Their views may be strong enough, too 
 strong ; and yet not strict enough, nor 
 impressive enouo;h. Tell a man that he 
 deserves to suffer infinitely, and I am 
 
192 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 not sure that it will by any means come 
 so near his conscience, as to tell him 
 that he deserves to endure some small 
 but specific evil. Tell him that he de- 
 serves an infinity of suffering, and he 
 may blindly assent to it ; it is a vast and 
 vague something that presses upon his 
 conscience, and has no edge nor point : 
 but put a svFord into the hand of con- 
 science, and how might this easy assent- 
 er to the justice of infinite torments 
 grow astonished and angry, if you were 
 to tell him that he deserved to suffer 
 but the amputation of a single finger ! 
 Or tell the sinner that he shall suffer for 
 his offences a thousand ages hence; and 
 though it may be true, and will be true, 
 if he goes on offending till that period, 
 yet it will not come home to his heart 
 with half so vivid an impression, or half 
 so effectual a restraint, as to make him 
 foresee the pain, the remorse and shame, 
 that he will suffer the very next hour. 
 Tell him, in fine, as it is common to do, 
 — tell him of retribution in the gross, and 
 however strong the language, he may 
 listen to it with apathy ; he often does 
 so ; but if you could show him what sin 
 is doing within him at every moment ; 
 how every successive offence lays on 
 another and another shade upon the 
 brightness of the soul ; how every trans- 
 gression, as if it held the very sword of 
 justice, is cutting off, one by one, the 
 fine and invisible fibres that bind the 
 soul to happiness ; then, by all the love 
 of happiness, such a man must be in- 
 terested and concerned for himself. Or 
 tell the bad man that he must be con- 
 verted, or he cannot be happy here- 
 after, and you declare to him an im- 
 pressive truth ; but how much would 
 it add to the impression, if, instead of 
 leaving him to suppose that bare con- 
 version, in the popular sense of that 
 term, — that the brief work of an hour, 
 would bring him to heaven, you should 
 say to him, " You shall be just as happy 
 liereafter as you are pure and upright, 
 and no more ; just as happy as your 
 character prepares you to be, and no 
 more ; your moral, like your mental 
 
 character, though it may take its date 
 or impulse from a certain moment, is 
 not formed in a moment ; your charac- 
 ter, that is to say, the habit of your 
 mind, is the result of many thoughts 
 and feelings and efforts ; and these are 
 bound together by many natural and 
 strong ties ; so that it is strictly true, 
 and this is the great law of retribution ; 
 that all coming experience is to be 
 affected by every present feeling; that 
 every future moment of being must an- 
 swer for every present moment ; that 
 one moment, sacrificed to sin or lost to 
 improvement, is forever sacrificed and 
 lost ; that one year's delay, or one hour's 
 wilful delay, to enter the right path, is to 
 put you back so far in the everlasting 
 pursuit of happiness ; and that every 
 sin, ay, every sin of a good man, is thus 
 to be answered for, though not accord- 
 ing to the full measure of its ill-desert, 
 yet according to a rule of unbending 
 rectitude and impartiality. This is un- 
 doubtedly the strict and solemn Law of 
 Retribution : but how much its strict- 
 ness has really entered, — I say not now 
 into our hearts and lives ; I will take up 
 that serious question in another sea- 
 son of meditation, — but how much the 
 strictness of the principle of retribution 
 has entered into our theories, our creeds, 
 our speculations, is a matter that de- 
 serves attention. 
 
 It is worthy of remark, indeed, that 
 there is 110 doctrine which is more uni- 
 versally received, and at the same time 
 more universally evaded, than this very 
 doctrine which we are considering. It 
 is universally received, because the very 
 condition of human existence involves 
 it, because it is a matter of experience ; 
 every after period of life being affected, 
 and known to be affected, by the conduct 
 of every earher period : manhood by 
 youth, and age by manhood ; profes- 
 sional success, by the preparation for it; 
 domestic happiness, by conjugal fidelity 
 and parental care. It is thus seen that life 
 is a tissue into which the thread of this 
 connection is everywhere interwoven. 
 It is thus seen that the law of retribu- 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 193 
 
 tion presses upon every man, whether 
 he thinks of it or not; that it pursues 
 him, through all the courses of iite, with 
 a step that never falters nor tires, and 
 with an eye that never sleeps nor slum- 
 bers. The doctrine of a future retribu- 
 tion has been universally received, too, 
 because it has been felt that in no other 
 way could the impartiality of God's 
 government be vindicated ; that if the 
 best and the worst men in the world, if 
 the ruthless oppressor and his innocent 
 victim, if the proud and boasting injurer 
 and the meek and patient sufferer, are to 
 go to the same reward, to the same appro- 
 bation of the good and just God ; there 
 is an end of all discrimination, of all 
 moral government, and of all light upon 
 the mysteries of providence. It has 
 been felt, moreover, that the character 
 of the soul carries with it, and in its 
 most intimate nature, the principles of 
 retribution, and that it must work out 
 weal or woe for its possessor. 
 
 But this doctrine, so universally re- 
 ceived, has been, I say, as universally 
 evaded. The classic mythologies of 
 paganism did, indeed, teach that there 
 were infernal regions ; but few were 
 doomed to them : and for those few, 
 who, failing of the rites of sepulture, or 
 of some other ceremonial qualification, 
 were liable to that doom, an escape was 
 provided by their wandering on the 
 banks of the Styx awhile, as prepara- 
 tory to their entering Elysium. So, too, 
 the creed of the Catholics, though it 
 spoke of hell, had also its purgatory to 
 soften the horrors of retribution. And 
 now there are, as I think, among the 
 body of Protestants, certain speculative, 
 or rather may I say mechanical, views 
 of the future state, and of the prepara- 
 tion for it, and of the principles of mercy 
 in its allotments, that tend to let down 
 the strictness of that law which forever 
 binds us to the retributive future. 
 
 Is it not a question, let me barely ask 
 in passing, whether this universal eva- 
 sion does not show that the universal 
 belief has been extravagant ; whether 
 men have not believed too much, to 
 
 believe it strictly and specifically to its 
 minutest point ? It certainly is a very 
 striking fact, that wliile the popular 
 creed teaches that almost the whole liv- 
 ing world is going down to everlasting 
 torments, the popular sympathy inter- 
 poses to save from thai doom almost 
 the whole dying world. 
 
 But, not to dwell on this observation, 
 I shall proceed now briefly to consider 
 some of those modern views which de- 
 tract from the strictne:^s of the law of 
 retribution. 
 
 And the first which I shall notice 
 is the view of the actual scene of retri- 
 bution as consisting of two conditions 
 entirely opposite and altogether differ- 
 ent. Mankind, according to this view, 
 are divided into two distinct classes ; 
 the one of which is to enjoy infinite 
 happiness, and the other to suffer infi- 
 nite misery. It is a far stronger case 
 than would be made by the supposition 
 that man's varied efforts to gain worldly 
 good were to be rewarded by assigning 
 to one portion of the race boundless 
 wealth, and to the other absolute pov- 
 erty ; for it is infinite happiness on the 
 one hand, and, not the bare destitution 
 of it, but infinite misery on the other. 
 
 Let me observe, before I proceed 
 farther to point out what I consider to 
 be the defect which attends this popular 
 view of retribution, that the view itself is 
 not warranted by Scripture. The Bible 
 teaches us that virtue will be rewarded 
 and sin punished; that the good shall 
 receive good, and the evil shall receive 
 evil ; and that is all that it teaches us. 
 It unfolds to us this simple and solemn 
 and purely spiritual issue, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 All else is figurative ; and so the most 
 learned interpreters have generally 
 agreed to consider it. It is obvious 
 that representations of what passes in 
 the future world, taken from the present 
 world, must be of this character. When 
 heaven is represented as a city, and hell 
 as a deep abyss, and Christ is described 
 as coming to judgment on a throne, 
 with the state and splendor of an Orien- 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 tal monarch, and separating — in form 
 and visibly separating — tlie righteous 
 from the wicked, we know that these rep- 
 resentations are figurative descriptions 
 of a single and simple fact ; and this fact 
 is, and this is the whole of tlie fact that 
 is taught us, that a distinction will be 
 made between good men and bad men : 
 and that they will be rewarded or pun- 
 ished hereafter according to the charac- 
 ter they have formed and sustained here. 
 
 It is to be remembered, too, in appeal- 
 ing to the Scriptures, that there are 
 other teachings in them than those 
 which are figurative, and teachings 
 which bind us tar more to the letter. 
 It is written, that whatsoever a man 
 soweth, that shall he also reap ; and 
 that God will render unto every man 
 according to his deeds ; i. e. according 
 to his character, as by deeds is doubtless 
 meant in this instance. 
 
 But now to return to the view already 
 stated, I maintain that the boundless 
 distinction wliich it makes in the state 
 of the future life is not rendering unto 
 men according to their deeds ; that is 
 to say, according to their character. 
 Because of this character there are 
 many diversities, and degrees, and 
 shades. Men differ in virtue precisely 
 as they differ in intelligence ; by just as 
 many and imperceptible degrees. As 
 many as are the diversities of moral 
 education in the world, as numerous as 
 are the shades of circumstance in life, 
 as various as are the degrees of moral 
 capacity and effort in various minds, so 
 must the results differ. If character 
 were formed by machinery, there might 
 be but two samples. But if it is formed 
 by voluntary ai^ency, the results must 
 be as diversified and complicated as the 
 operations of that agency. And the fact, 
 which every man's observation must 
 show him, undoubtedly is, that virtue 
 in men differs just as intelligence does ; 
 differs, I repeat, by just as many and 
 imperceptible degrees. But now sup- 
 pose that men were to be rewarded for 
 their intelligence hereafter. Would all 
 the immense variety of cases be met by 
 
 two totally different and opposite allot- 
 ments.? lake the scale of character, 
 and mark on it all the degrees of dif- 
 ference, and all the divisions of a degree. 
 Now what point on the scale will you 
 select, at which to make the infinite 
 difference of allotments ? Select it 
 where you will, and there wilb be the 
 thousandth part of a degree above, re- 
 Avarded with perfect happiness, and a 
 thousandth part of a degree below, 
 doomed to perfect misery. Would this 
 be right, with regard to the intelligence, 
 or virtue of men.'' 
 
 We are misled on this subject by that 
 loose and inaccurate division of man- 
 kind, which is common, into the two class- 
 es of " saints and sinners." We might 
 as well say that all men are either strong 
 or weak, wise or foolish, intellectual or 
 sensual. So they are, in a general 
 sense ; but not in a sense that excludes 
 all discrimination. And the language 
 of the Bible, when it speaks of the good 
 and bad, of the righteous and wicked, 
 is to be understood with the same rea- 
 sonable discrimination, with the same 
 reasonable qualification of its meaning, 
 as when it speaks of the rich and poor. 
 The truth is, the matter of fact is, that 
 from the highest point of virtue to the 
 lowest point of wickedness there are, I 
 repeat, innumerable steps ; and men 
 are standing upon all these steps ; they 
 are actually found in all these gradations 
 of character. 'Now to render to sucli 
 beings according to their character, is 
 not to appoint to them two totally dis- 
 tinct and opposite allotments, but just as 
 many allotments as there are shades of 
 moral difference between them. 
 
 But does not the Bible speak of two 
 distinct classes of men as amenable to 
 the judgment, and of but ivio ; and does 
 it not say of the one class, "These shall 
 go away into everlasting fire," and of the 
 otlier, "but the righteous into life eter- 
 nal"? Certainly it does. And so do we 
 constantly say that the good shall be 
 happy and the bad shall be miserable, in 
 the coming world. But do we, or does 
 the Bible, intend to speak without any 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 195 
 
 discrimination ? Especially, can the 
 omniscient scrutiny and the unerring 
 rule be supposed to overlook any, even 
 the slightest, dilTerences and the most 
 delicate shades of character? On the 
 contrary, we are told that '" one star di£- 
 fereth from another in glory ; " and we are 
 told that there is a " lowest hell : " and 
 we are led to admit that in the allotments 
 of retributive justice, the best among 
 bad men, and the worst amonggood men, 
 may come as near to each other in con- 
 dition as they come in character. 
 
 I am not saying, let it be observed, 
 that the difference, even in this case, is 
 unimportant; still less that is so in gen- 
 eral. Nay, and the difference between 
 the states of the very good man and of 
 the very bad man may indeed be as 
 great as any theory supposes ; it may be 
 mucli greater, in fact, than any man's im- 
 agination conceives ; but this is not the 
 only difference that is to be brought into 
 the final account ; for there are many in- 
 termediate ranks between the best and 
 the worst. I say that the difference of 
 allotment may, nay, and that it must, be 
 great. The truly good man, the devoted 
 Christian, shall doubtless experience a 
 happiness beyond his utmost expecta- 
 tion. The bad man, the self-indulgent, 
 the self-ruined man, will doubtless find 
 his doom severer than he had looked 
 for. I say not what it may be. But 
 this, at least, we may be sure of, that 
 the consequences both of good and bad 
 conduct will be more serious, will strike 
 deeper, than we are likely, amidst the 
 gross and dim perceptions of sense, to 
 comprehend. 
 
 But this is not the point which I am 
 at present arguing. It is not the extent 
 of the consequences, but it is the strict 
 and discriminating impartiality which 
 shall measure out those affecting re- 
 sults ; it is the strict law by which every 
 man shall reap the fruits of that which 
 he sows. And I say that the artificial, 
 imaginative, and, as I think, unauthor- 
 ized ideas which prevail witli regard to 
 a future life let down the strictness of 
 the law. 
 
 Let me now illustrate this by a single 
 supposition. Suppose that you were to 
 live in tJiis world one thousand or ten 
 thousand years ; and suppose, too, that 
 you felt that every present moment was 
 a probation for every future moment ; 
 and that in order to be happy you must 
 be pure ; that every fault, every wrong 
 habit of life or feeling, would tend and 
 would continue to make you unhapp}-, 
 till it was faithfully and effectually cor- 
 rected ; and corrected by yourself, not 
 by the hand of death, not by the exchange 
 of worlds. Suppose yourself to entertain 
 the conviction, that if you plunged into 
 self-indulgence and sin, diseases and 
 distempers and woes would accumulate 
 upon you — with no friendly interposi- 
 tion or rescue, no all-healing nostrum, 
 no medicine of sovereign and miraculous 
 efiicacy to save — that diseases, I say, 
 and distempers and woes would accu- 
 mulate upon you, in dark and darkening 
 forms, for a thousand years. Suppose 
 that every evil passion, anger or avarice 
 or envy or selfishness in any of its forms, 
 would, unless resisted and overcome, 
 make you more and more miserable, for 
 a thousand years. I say that such a 
 prospect, limited as it is in comparison, 
 would be more impressive and salutary, 
 a more powerful restraint upon sin, a 
 more powerful stimulus to improvement, 
 than the' prospect, as it is usually con- 
 templated, of the retributions of eternity ! 
 Are we then making all that we ought to 
 make, of the prospect of an eternal retri- 
 bution ? God's justice will be as strict 
 tliere as it is here. And although bod- 
 ily diseases may not accumulate upon 
 us there, }'et the diseases of the soul, if 
 we take not heed to them , will accumulate 
 upon us ; and he who has only one degree 
 of purity and ten degrees of sin in him 
 must not lay that flattering unction to his 
 soul, that death will '"wash out the long 
 arrears of guilt.'' I know that this is a doc- 
 trine of unbending strictness, a doctrine, 
 I had almost said, insufferably strict ; 
 but I believe that it is altogether true. 
 
 "But," some one may say, "if I am 
 converted ; if I have repented of my 
 
196 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 sins, and believed on the Lord Jesus 
 Clirist, then I have the assurance, 
 through God's mercy, of pardon and 
 heaven." 
 
 This statement embraces the other 
 doctrinal evasion of the law of retribution 
 which I propos;d to consider. And I 
 must venture to express the apprehen- 
 sion that, by those who answer thus to 
 the strict and unaccommodating demand 
 of inwrought purity, neither conversion, 
 nor repentance, nor the mercy of God, 
 are understood as they ought to be. 
 
 A man says, " I am not to be judged 
 by the law, but by the Gospel." But 
 when he says that, let me tell him, he 
 should take care to know what he says 
 and whereof he affirms. The difference 
 between the Law and the Gospel, I be- 
 lieve, is much misapprehended in tliis 
 respect. The Gospel is not a more 
 easy, not a more lax rule to walk by, 
 but only a more encouraging rule. The 
 Law demands rectitude, and declares 
 that the sinner deserves the miseries of 
 a future life ; and there it stops, and of 
 course it leaves the offender in despair. 
 The Gospel comes in, and it did come 
 in, with its teaching and prophetic sacri- 
 fices, even amidst the thunders of Sinai, 
 saying. If thou wilt repent and believe, 
 if thou wilt embrace the faith and spirit 
 of the all-humbling and all-redeeming re- 
 hgion, the way to happiness is still open. 
 But does the Gospel anything . more 
 than open the way .'' Does it make the 
 way more easy, more indulgent, less self- 
 denying 1 Does it say. You need not be 
 as good as the Law requires, and yet 
 you shall be none the less happy for 
 all that ? Does it say. You need not do 
 as well, and yet it shall be just as well 
 with you? "Is Christ the minister of 
 sin? God forbid ! " Nay, be it remem- 
 bered that the solemn declaration upon 
 which we are this day meditating — 
 " whatsoever a man soweth, that shall 
 he also reap " — is recorded not in the 
 law, but in the Gospel. 
 
 " But if I repent," it may be said, " am 
 I not forgiven entirely ? " If you repent 
 entirely, you are forgiven entirely ; and 
 
 not otherwise. What zV repentance ? It 
 is a change of mind. That, as every 
 scholar knows, is the precise meaning of 
 the original word in the Scriptures which 
 is translated repentance. It is a change 
 of mind. If, then, your repentance, your 
 change of mind, is entire, your forgive- 
 ness, your happiness, is complete ; but 
 on no other principle, and in no other pro- 
 portion. Sorrow is only one of the in- 
 dications of this repentance or change 
 of heart ; though it has unfortunately 
 usurped, in common use, the whole mean- 
 ing of the word. Sorrow is not the only 
 indication of repentance ; for joy as truly 
 springs from it. It is not therefore the 
 bare fact, that you are sorry, however sin- 
 cerely and disinterestedly sorry for your 
 offences, that will deliver you from all 
 the suffering which your sins and sinful 
 habits must occasion. You may be sorry, 
 for instance, and truly sorry, for your an- 
 ger ; yet if the passion breaks out again, 
 it must again give you pain ; and it must 
 forever give you pain, while it lives. 
 You may grieve for your vices. Does 
 that grief instantly stop the course of 
 penalty ? Will it instantly repair a shat- 
 tered constitution ? You may regret, in 
 declining life, a state of mind produced 
 by too much devotion to worldly gain, the 
 want of intellectual and moral resources 
 and habits. Will the dearth and the des- 
 olation depart from your mind when that 
 regret enters it ? Will even the tears of 
 repentance immediately cause freshness 
 and verdure to spring up in your path ? 
 
 " But," it may be said, once more, 
 " does not all depend on our being con- 
 verted, or being born again ? And is not 
 conversion, is not the new birth, the 
 event of a moment ? " 
 
 I answer, with all the certainty of con- 
 viction that I am capable of — no ; it is 
 not the event of a moment. That conver- 
 sion which fits a soul for heaven is tiot 
 the event of a moment. And, my breth- 
 ren, I would not answer thus in a case 
 where there is controversy, if I did not 
 think it a matter of the most serious im- 
 portance. Can anything be more fatal; 
 can any one of all loose doctrines be 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTIOiNT. 
 
 197 
 
 more loose, than to tell an offender who 
 is sjoing to the worst excesses in sin, that 
 he may escape all the evil results, all the 
 results of fifty, sixty, seventy years of 
 self-indulgence, by one instant's experi- 
 ence? Can any one of us believe, dare 
 we believe, that one moment's virtue can 
 prepare us for the happiness of eternity ? 
 Can we believe this, especially when we 
 are, oh every page of the Bible, com- 
 manded to watch, and pray, and strive, 
 and labor, and by patient continuance in 
 well-doing to see'< for glory, and honor, 
 and immortality ; and this, as the ex- 
 press condition of obtaining eternal life 
 or happiness ? 
 
 No, Christians ! subjects of the Chris- 
 tian law ! No conversion, no repentance, 
 no mercy of heaven, will save you from 
 the final operation of that sentence, or 
 should save you from its warning now ; 
 "Be not deceived," — as if there was 
 special danger of being deceived here, — 
 "be not deceived ; God is not mocked ; 
 for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall 
 he also reap : he that soweth to the flesh, 
 shall of his flesh reap corruption ; but 
 he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the 
 spirit reap life everlasting." 
 
 It is a high, and strict, I had almost 
 said, a terrible, discrimination. Yet let 
 us bring it home to our hearts, although 
 it be as a sword to cut off some cher- 
 ished sin. Oh ! this miserable and 
 slavish folly of inquiring whether we 
 have enough piety and virtue to save us ! 
 Do men ever talk thus about the acqui- 
 sition of riches or honors ? Do they 
 act as if all their solicitude was to ascer- 
 tain, and to stop at, the point that would 
 just save them from want, or secure 
 them from disgrace .'' " Enough virtue 
 to save you," do you say? The very 
 question shows that you have not 
 enough. It shows that your views of 
 salvation are yet technical and narrow, 
 if not selfish. It shows that all your 
 thoughts of retribution yet turn to solici- 
 tude and apprehension. 
 
 The law of retribution is the law of 
 God's goodness. It addresses not only 
 the fear of sin, but the love of improve- 
 
 ment. Its grand requisition is that of 
 progress. It urges us at every step 
 to press forward. And however many 
 steps we may have taken, it urges us 
 to take still another and another, by 
 the same pressing reason with which it 
 urged us to take the first step. 
 
 Yes, by the same pressing reason. 
 Let him who thinks himself a good man, 
 who thinks that he is converted and on 
 the right side and in the safe state, and 
 who, nevertheless, from this false rea- 
 soning and this presumptuous security 
 indulges in little sins, irritability, covet- 
 ousness, or worldly pride ; let him know 
 that his doom shall he hereafter, and is 
 now, a i/ud of hell, compared with the 
 blessedness in stor5 for loftier virtue and 
 holier piety ; and let him know, too, 
 that compared with that loftier stan- 
 dard he has almost as much reason tr 
 tremble for himself as the poor sinne 
 he looks down upon. For if woes are 
 denounced against the impenitent sin- 
 ner, so are woes denounced, in terms 
 scarcely less awful, against the secure 
 lukewarm negligent Christian. God is 
 no respecter of persor>s nor of profes- 
 sions. It is written that he will rende? 
 to every man according to his deeds. \\ 
 is written, too, that " whatsoever a man 
 soweth, that shall he also reap." 
 
 I repeat that language of fearful dis- 
 crimination, " whatsoever — a man sow- 
 eth, that, not something else — that^ 
 shall he also reapy That which you 
 are doing ; be it good or evil, be it 
 grave or gay ; that which you are doing 
 to-day and to-morrow, each thought, 
 each feeling, each action, each event ; 
 every passing hour, every breathing 
 moment, is contributing to form the 
 character by which you are to be judged. 
 Every particle of influence that goes 
 to form that aggregate, your character, 
 shall, in that future scrutiny, be sifted 
 out from the mass, and shall fall particle 
 by particle, with ages perhaps interven- 
 ing, — shall fall a distinct contribution 
 to the sum of your joys or your woes. 
 Thus every idle word, every idle hour, 
 shall give answer in the judgment. 
 
198 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 Think not, against the closeness and 
 severity of this inquisition, to put up 
 any barrier of theological speculation. 
 Conversion, repentance, pardon, — mean 
 they what they will, — mean nothing 
 that will save you from reaping, down 
 to the very root and ground of good 
 or evil, that which you have sowed. 
 Think not to wrap that future world in 
 any blackness of darkness, or any folding 
 flames ; as if, for the imagination to be 
 alarmed, were all you had to feel or fear. 
 Clearly, distinctly shall the voice of accu- 
 sation fall upon the guilty ear ; as when 
 upon earth, the man of crime comes 
 reluctantly forth from his hiding-place, 
 and stands at the bar of his country's 
 justice, and the voices of his associates 
 say, " Thou didst it ! " If there be any 
 unchangeable, any adamantine fate in 
 the universe, this is that fate ; that 
 the future shall forever bring forth the 
 fruits of the past. 
 
 Take care, then, what thou sowest, 
 as if thou wert taking care for eternity. 
 That sowing, of which the Scripture 
 speaketh, what is it ? Yesterday, per- 
 haps, some evil -temptation came upon 
 you ; the opportunity of unrighteous 
 gain, or of unhallowed indulgence, 
 either in the sphere of business or 
 of pleasure, of society or of solitude. 
 If you yielded to it, then and there 
 did you plant a seed of bitterness 
 and sorrow. To-morrow, it may be, 
 will threaten discovery ; and agitated, 
 alarmed, you will cover the sin, and 
 bury it deeper in falsehood and hypoc- 
 risy. In the hiding bosom, in the 
 fruitful soil of kindred vices, that sin 
 dies not, but thrives and grows ; and 
 other and still other germs of evil 
 gather around the accursed root, till 
 from that single seed of corruption 
 there springs up in the soul all that 
 is horrible in habitual lying, knavery, 
 or vice. Long before such a life comes 
 to its close, its poor victim may have 
 advanced within the very precincts of 
 hell. Yes, the hell of debt, of disease, 
 of ignominy, or of remorse, may gather 
 its shadows around the steps of the 
 
 transgressor even on earth ; and yet 
 these, — if holy Scripture be unerring, 
 and sure experience be prophetic, — 
 these are but the beginnings of sor- 
 rows. The evil deed may be done, alas ! 
 in a moment, in one fatal moment ; but 
 conscience never dies ; memory never 
 sleeps: guilt never can become inno- 
 cence ; and remorse can never, never 
 whisper peace. Pardon may come from 
 heaven ; but self-forgiveness, when will 
 it come.'' 
 
 Beware, then, thou who art tempted 
 to evil — and every being before me is 
 tempted to evil. — beware what thou lay- 
 est up for the future ; beware what thou 
 layest up in the archives of eternity. 
 Thou who wouldst wrong thy neighbor, 
 beware ! lest the thought of that injured 
 man, wounded and suffering from thine 
 injury, be a pang which long years may 
 not deprive of its bitterness. Thou who 
 wouldst break into the house of inno- 
 cence and rifle it of its treasure, be- 
 ware ! lest, when many years have 
 passed over thee, the moan of its dis- 
 tress may not have died away from 
 thine ear. Thou who wouldst build the 
 desolate throne of ambition in thy heart, 
 beware what thou art doing with all thy 
 devices, and circumventings, and selfish 
 schemings ! lest desolation and loneli- 
 ness be on thy path as it stretches into 
 the long futurity. Thou, in fine, who 
 art living a negligent and irreligious 
 life, beware ! beware how thou livest ; 
 for bound up with that life is the immu- 
 table principle of an endless retribution ; 
 bound up with that life are elements of 
 God's creating, which shall never spend 
 their force; which shall be unfolding 
 and unfolding with the ages of eternity. 
 Beware ! I say once more, and be not 
 deceived. Be not deceived ; God is not 
 mocked ; God, who has formed thy na- 
 ture thus to answer to the future, is not 
 mocked ; his law can never be abro- 
 gated ; his justice can never be eluded; 
 beware, then, be forewarned ; since for- 
 ever, and forever will it be true, that 
 whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he 
 also reap ! 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 199 
 
 V. 
 
 THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Galatians vi. 7 : " Be not deceived; God is not 
 mocked : for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall 
 he also reap." 
 
 The views which are usually pre- 
 sented of a future retribution are char- 
 acterized, as I have observed in my last 
 discourse, rather by strength than by 
 strictness of representation. The great 
 evil attending the common statements 
 of this doctrine, I shall now venture to 
 say, is not, that they are too alarming. 
 Men are not enough alarmed at the 
 dangers of a sinful course. No men 
 are ; no men, though they sit under the 
 most terrifying dispensation of preach- 
 ing that ever was devised. But the evil 
 is, that alarm is addressed too much to 
 the imagination, and too little to the rea- 
 son and conscience. Neither Whitfield, 
 nor Baxter, nor Edwards, — though the 
 horror produced by his celebrated ser- 
 mon "on the justice of God in the 
 damnation of sinners " is a matter of 
 tradition in New England, to this very 
 day, — yet no one of them ever preached 
 too much terror, though they may have 
 preached it too exclusively ; but the evil 
 was that they preached terror, I repeat, 
 too much to the imagination, and too 
 little to the reason and conscience. Of 
 mere fright, there may be too much ; 
 but of real, rational fear, there never 
 can be too much. Sin, vice, a corrupt 
 mind, a guilty life, and the woes natu- 
 rally flowing from these, never can be 
 too much dreaded. It is one thing, for 
 the preacher to deal in mathematical cal- 
 culations of infinite suffering, to dwell 
 upon the eternity of hell-torments, to 
 speak of literal fires, and of burning in 
 them forever ; and with these repre- 
 sentations, it is easy to scare the imagi- 
 nation, to awaken horror, and a horror 
 so great as to be at war with the clear, 
 calm, and faithful discriminations of con- 
 science. With such means, it is easy to 
 produce a great excitement in the mind. 
 But he who should, or who could^ unveil 
 the realities of a strict and spiritual ret- 
 
 ribution, show what every sinner loses, 
 show what every sinner must suffer, 
 in and through the very character he 
 forms, show, too, how bitterly every 
 good man must sorrow for every sin, 
 here or hereafter, show, in fine, what 
 sin is, and forever must be, to an im- 
 mortal nature, would make an impres- 
 sion more deep, and sober, and etfectual. 
 
 It is not my purpose at present to at- 
 tempt any detail of this nature, though 
 I shall be governed by the observations I 
 have made, in the views which I am 
 to present, and for which I venture to ask 
 a rational, and calm, and most serious 
 consideration. 
 
 This future is to answer for the pres- 
 ent. This is the great law of retribu- 
 tion. And so obviously necessary and 
 just is it ; so evidently does our char- 
 acter create our welfare or woe ; st>. 
 certainly must it give us pain or pleas- 
 ure, as long as it goes with us, whether 
 in this world or another world, that it 
 seems less requisite to support the doc- 
 trine by argument, than to save it from 
 evasions. 
 
 There are such evasions. No theol- 
 ogy has yet come up to the strict- 
 ness of this law. It is still more true, 
 that no practice has yet come up to it. 
 There are theoretical evasions ; and I 
 tKink they are to be found in the views 
 which are often presented of conver- 
 sion and repentance, and of God's 
 mercy and the actual scenes of retribu- 
 tion ; but there is one practical evasion, 
 one into which the whole world has fall- 
 en, and so dangerous, so momentous in 
 its danger, that it may well deserve, for 
 one season of meditation, I believe, to 
 engross our entire and undivided atten- 
 tion. 
 
 This grand evasion, this great and 
 fatal mistake, may be stated in general 
 terms to be, the substitiition of some- 
 thing as a preparation for future happi- 
 ness, in place of devoting the whole life 
 to it ; or to a course which is fitted to 
 procure it. This evasion takes the 
 particular form, perhaps, of an expecta- 
 tion that some sudden and extraordinary 
 
200 
 
 ON THE NATURP: OF RELIGION. 
 
 experience may, at a future time, accom- 
 plish what is necessary to prepare the 
 mind for happiness and heaven; or that 
 certain circumstances, such as sickness 
 and affliction, may, at some subsequent 
 period of life, force the growth of that 
 which is not cultivated now, and may 
 thus remedy the fearful and fatal neglect ; 
 or it is an expectation — and this is the 
 most prevalent form of the error — that 
 old age or death, when it comes, will have 
 power to penetrate the heart with emo- 
 tion, and subdue it to repentance, and 
 prepare it for heaven. The subject, 
 yet, it*must be feared to be the victim, 
 of this stupendous error is convinced 
 that, in order to be happy eventually, he 
 must become pure ; there is no princi- 
 ple of indulgence, there is no gospel of 
 mercy, that can absolve him from that 
 necessity ; he must become pure ; he 
 must be pious ; his nature must be 
 exalted and refined. It is his nature, 
 his mind, that is to be happy; and 
 he is convinced by experience that his 
 mind must be cultivated, purified, pre- 
 pared, for that end. But he is not doing 
 this work to-day, nor does he expect to 
 do it to-morrow; he is not doing it this 
 month, nor does he expect to do it next 
 month ; he is not doing it this year, nor 
 does he in particular expect to do it next 
 year ; and thus, month after month antl 
 year after year are passing, and one sea- 
 son of life after another is stealing away : 
 and the only hope is, that in some tre- 
 mendous exigency, or by some violent 
 paroxysm, when fear and remorse and 
 disease and death are darkly struggling 
 together, that may be done for which 
 the whole previous course of life has 
 not been found sufficient. 
 
 But is it true,- — for I am willing to 
 pause at this point, and deliberately to 
 consider the question, — is it true, can it 
 be true, some one may ask, that a mis- 
 take so gross, so irrational, so at war 
 with all that we know about character, 
 about its formation, and its necessary 
 results, — can it be true, that such a mis- 
 take about the whole vast concern of our 
 happiness is actually made by any of us ? 
 
 Can it be, you will say, that men, with 
 reason and experience and Scripture to 
 guide them ; can it be that men, in their 
 senses, are substituting in place of that 
 deliberate formation of their character 
 for happiness for which life is given, 
 some brief preparation for it at a future 
 period, and especially at the last period 
 of their lives.'' 
 
 I am persuaded that it is true, my 
 brethren, however strange ; and these 
 are the considerations that convince me 
 of it. 
 
 In the first place, there are multitudes 
 around us that hope and expect to be 
 happy hereafter, who are conscious that 
 they are not preparing for it ; who ac- 
 knowledge, at every successive stage of 
 life, that if they were instantly to die, 
 without any further opportunity to pre- 
 pare for it, there would be little or no 
 hope for them ; who feel that, if the very 
 character which they are now every day 
 forming were to go to the judgment, 
 their case would be desperate ; who hope, 
 therefore, most evidently, not to be 
 judged by the prevailing tenor of their 
 lives, but secretly expect to do some- 
 thing at last to retrieve the errors, the 
 follies and sins, which they are now 
 daily committing. 
 
 Again ; although it is a common im- 
 l^ression that hw\.fcw live in an habitual 
 preparation for heaven, the impression is 
 almost as common that but few actually 
 die unprepared. Of almost every indi- 
 vidual who leaves the world, something 
 is told which encourages the hopes of 
 survivors concerning him. I stand be- 
 fore you, my brethren, as a Christian 
 minister, and I solemnly declare that, 
 familiar as I have been with that sad and 
 mournful scene, the death of the wicked, 
 it has almost invariably left this strange 
 and delusive hope behind it. Indeed, 
 the extreme solicitude with which every 
 symptom of preparation is marked in 
 these circumstances, the trembling anx- 
 iety with which every word, every look, is 
 caught, but too plainly indicate the same 
 impression. What the amount of this 
 proof is, we will presently consider. It 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 201 
 
 is sufficient at this point of the inquiry 
 to state that it is collected and arranged 
 as carefully, and offered as confidently, 
 as if it were material ; that it encourages 
 those who repeat and those who hear it : 
 that the instance of death is very rare, in 
 which surviving friends do not tell you 
 that the}' trust and believe that all is well. 
 Even when a man has led an eminently 
 pious life, many are apt to feel as if the 
 proof of his piety was not consummated, 
 unless he had died a happy and trium- 
 phant death ; as though it were to be not 
 only desired, but demanded as a matter 
 of course, that in feebleness and distress 
 of body and mind, and the sinking of all 
 the faculties, the mintl should exhibit its 
 utmost energy ; as if, amidst the cold 
 damps of death, the expiring flame of sen- 
 sibility should rise the highest. It is to 
 be feared that good men, and with the 
 best intentions, no doubt, have yet given 
 great distress to many faithful Chris- 
 tians, and done great injury to others, by 
 countenancing this unreasonable notion. 
 The great question is, not how a good 
 man dies, but how he has lived. 
 
 The third and final reason which con- 
 vinces me of the prevalence of this mis- 
 take, which I am considering, is the 
 almost universal dread of sudden death. 
 It is not to be denied, indeed, that a 
 change so great as that of death, and 
 so mysterious too, is in itself, and nat- 
 urally, fitted to awaken a feeling of ap- 
 prehension. But I maintain that the 
 principal reason for this apprehension 
 is the fear of consequences, " the dread 
 of something after death;" and that 
 there is a vague hope in almost every 
 mind, that some preparation could be 
 made at the last, if only a little time 
 were granted for it. And indeed, if we 
 all entertained a settled conviction that 
 we are to reap as we have sowed ; that 
 we are to be miserable or happy in the 
 other world according to the character 
 we have formed in this ; that we are to 
 be judged by the life we live, and not 
 by the death we die; what would it im- 
 port to us, whether we fell suddenly in 
 the paths of life, or slowly declined from 
 
 them ; whether we sunk at once beneath 
 the stroke of an apoplexy, or more slow- 
 ly under the attack of a consumption ? 
 Something, it would import to us, no 
 doubt, as friends ; for we should wish to 
 give our dying counsels ; but as expec- 
 tants of retribution', what could the time 
 of a week or a month's last sickness 
 avail us ? I will answer : and I say, as 
 much, by the most favorable supposi- 
 tion, — as much as such a space of time 
 in any part of life could avail us ; and 
 no more. 
 
 Such, then, and so fearful, and proved 
 to be so fearful by the plainest indica- 
 tions, is the moral state of multitudes. 
 Life is given them for the cultivation of 
 a sacred virtue, of a lofty piety, of pure 
 and godlike affections, as the only way 
 to future improvement and happiness. 
 They are not devoting life to this end ; 
 they know they are not; they confess 
 they are not ; and their hope is — yes, 
 the hope on which they rest their whole 
 being is, that by some hasty eflfort or 
 paroxysm of emotion, in the feeble and 
 helpless time of sickness, or in the dark 
 day of death, they shall be able to re- 
 deem the lost hope of a negligent life. 
 If only a week or a month of health 
 were offered them to prepare ; if that 
 specific time, a week or a month, were 
 taken out from the midst of life, and 
 they were solemnly told that this must 
 be all the time they can have to prepare 
 for eternity, they would be in despair ; 
 and yet they hope to do this in a month 
 or a week of pain and languishment 
 and distracting agitation. It is as if the 
 husbandman should sport away the sum- 
 mer season, and then should think to re- 
 trieve his error by planting his fields in 
 the autumn. It is as if the student should 
 trifle away the season appointed for his 
 education, and then, when the time came 
 for entering upon his profession, should 
 think to make up for his deficiencies 
 by a few weeks of violent, hurried, and 
 irregular application. It shows, alas ! 
 that the world, with all its boasts of an 
 enlightened age, has not yet escaped the 
 fojly of those days of superstition, when 
 
202 
 
 ON THE NATURE DF RELIGION. 
 
 the eucharist was administered to dying 
 persons, and was forcibly administered, 
 if the patient had no longer sense to re- 
 ceive it ; or when men deferred their 
 baptism till death ; as if the future state 
 were to depend on these last ceremonies. 
 And as well depend' on ceremonies — 
 and more consistently could we do so 
 — as depend on any momentary prep- 
 aration for happiness. As well build a 
 church or a monastery to atone for our 
 sins, as to build that fabric of error in 
 our imagination. 
 
 It is not for us, I know, to limit the 
 Almighty ! It is not for us to say that 
 he cannot change the soul in the last mo- 
 ments of its stay on earth. But this we 
 may fearlessly say ; that he does it, if at 
 all, by a miraculous agency, of whose 
 working we can have no conception, and 
 of whose results, by the very supposition, 
 we can have no knowledge. 
 
 I desire, my brethren, to state this 
 point with all-sufificient caution. I not 
 only do not deny that God has power 
 to convert the soul in the last moments 
 of life, but I do not absolutely deny that 
 there maybe some such instances in the 
 passing away of every generation. I do 
 not know, and none of us can know, 
 whether such miracles are performed or 
 not. It is commonly thought that the 
 case recorded in Luke's Gospel, of the 
 thief on the cross, is an instance of this 
 nature. But I do not think it can be 
 pronounced to be such. We know not 
 how much time he may have had, to re- 
 pent and form a new character. He 
 says, "We indeed suffer justly;" but 
 the act for which he suffered may have 
 been a single act, in which he had fallen 
 from a generally good life. But admit 
 that such interpositions do take place ; 
 is it safe to rely upon them ? We do 
 not know that they do. We do not know 
 that in the passing away of all the gen- 
 erations of mankind there has been one 
 such instance. Is it safe to rely, in so 
 tremendous a case, upon what we do 
 not know, and upon what, after all, may 
 never be ? My object is to show that it 
 is not safe; and for this purpose I shall 
 
 reason upon the general principle. The 
 general principle is, that the future must 
 answer for the present ; the future of this 
 life for the present of this Hfe ; the next 
 month for this month ; the next year for 
 this year; and in the same way the next 
 life for this life. I say, then, that the 
 expectation of any hasty retrieving of a 
 bad month, of a bad year, of a bad Hfe, 
 is irrational, and unwarrantable, and 
 ought to be considered as desperate. 
 
 I. And for the purpose of showing 
 this, I observe, in the first place, that 
 the expectation of preparing for futurity 
 hastily, or by any other means than the 
 voluntary and deliberate formation of 
 right and virtuous* habits in the mind; 
 or that the expectation of preparing for 
 death when it comes, is opposed to the 
 professed import of that Sacred Volume 
 which gives law alike to our hopes and 
 our fears. 
 
 It is opposed to the obvious, and the 
 professed, and the leading character of 
 the Bible. What is that character ? 
 What is the Bible? It is a revelation 
 of laws, motives, directions, and excite- 
 ments, to religious virtue. But all of 
 these are useless, if this character is to be 
 formed by a miraculous energy, at a per- 
 ilous conjuncture, or in a last moment. 
 Motives must be contemplated, direc- 
 tions must be understood, excitements 
 must be felt, to be effectual ; and all this 
 must be done deliberately, must be 
 many times repeated, must be combined 
 with diligence and patience and faith, 
 and must be slowly, as everything is 
 slowly wrought into the character, in or- 
 der to be effectual. 
 
 But it may be said, " If the rule is so 
 strict, where is the mercy of the Gos- 
 pel ?" I answer, that its very mercy is 
 engaged to make us pure; that its mer- 
 cy would be no mercy, if it did not do 
 this : and that, of becoming pure and 
 good, there is but one way ; and that is 
 the way of voluntary effort; an effort to 
 be assisted by divine grace, indeed, but 
 none the less, on that account, an ef- 
 fort and an endeavor, a watching and 
 a striving, a conflict and a victory. I 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 203 
 
 answer again, that the mercy of the Gos- 
 pel is a moral and rational, a high and 
 glorious principle. It is not a principle 
 of laxity in morals. It is not a principle 
 of indulgence to the heart. It is a mor- 
 al principle, and not a wonder-working 
 macliinerv, by which a man is to be 
 lifted up and borne away from guilt to 
 purity, from earth to heaven, he knows 
 not how. It offers to fabricate no wings 
 for the immortal flight. It is a rational 
 principle ; and is not based upon the 
 subversion of all the laws of experience 
 and wisdom. The Gospel opens the 
 way to heaven, opens the way to poor, 
 sinful, ill-deserving creatures. Is not 
 that mercy enough? Shall the guilty 
 and lost spurn that, and demand more ? 
 It opens the way, I repeat ; but then, 
 it lays its instructions, commands, and 
 warnings, thickly upon that way. With 
 unnumbered directions to faith, and pa- 
 tience, and prayer, and toil, and self- 
 denial, it marks out every step of that 
 way. It tells us, again and again, that 
 such is the way of salvation, and no 
 other. In other words, it oflfers us hap- 
 piness, and prescribes the terms. And 
 those terms, if they were of a meaner 
 character, if they were low and lax, would 
 degrade even our nature, ahd we could 
 not respect them. It would, in fact, be 
 no mercy, to natures like ours, to treat 
 them in any other way. 
 
 In speaking of the scriptural repre- 
 sentations on this subject, the parable 
 of "the laborers in the vineyard " may 
 probably occur to you ; in which he 
 who came at the eleventh hour received 
 as much as he who had borne the heat 
 and burden of the day. I suppose the 
 parable has no relation whatever to this 
 subject. It cannot intend to teach that 
 he who is a Christian during his whole 
 life is no more an object of the divine 
 approbation, and is to be no more happy, 
 than he who is so for a very small part 
 of it. It evidently refers to the intro- 
 duction of the Christian dispensation ; 
 it relates to the Jews and Gentiles, as 
 nations : meaning that the Gentiles who 
 came later into covenant with God 
 
 would be as favorably received as the 
 Jews. 
 
 To interpret this parable as encour- 
 aging men to put off their preparation 
 for futurity till death, if there were no 
 other objection, would contradict, I re- 
 peat, all the scriptural information we 
 have on this subject. This would ap- 
 pear, if you should carry to the oracles 
 of divine truth any question whatever 
 about piety, or virtue, or the qualifica- 
 tion for heaven. What is piety itself.'' 
 A momentary exercise ; or a habit ? 
 Something thrown into the heart in a 
 mass ; or a state of the heart itself, 
 formed by long effort and care ? Does 
 the great qualification for heaven con- 
 sist in one, two, or ten good exercises ; 
 or in a good character ? And to what is 
 that judgment to relate, which will de- 
 cide our future condition ? " Who will 
 render," says the sacred record, " to 
 every man according to his deeds ! " 
 
 But still further to decide the ques- 
 tion, if it can be necessary, let it be 
 asked, what is that heaven of which we 
 hear and say so much ? What is heav- 
 en ? Are we still, like children, fancy- 
 ing that heaven is a beautiful city, into 
 which one needs only the powers of 
 locomotion to enter ? Do we not know 
 that heaven is in the mind ; in the great- 
 ness and purity and elevation of our 
 immortal nature ? If piety and virtue, 
 then, are a habit and state of mind 
 expressed and acted out in a life that 
 is holy ; if the judgment has relation to 
 this alone ; if heaven consist in this ; 
 what hope can there be in a brief and 
 slight preparation ? 
 
 II. No, my friends, the terms on 
 which we receive happiness, — and I 
 now appeal to reason in the second 
 place, — the terms on which we receive 
 true, moral, satisfying happiness, cannot 
 be easy. They are not ; experience 
 shows that they are not ; life shows 
 that they are not ; and eternity will but 
 develop the same strict law ; for it is 
 a part of our nature ; it is a part of 
 the nature and reason of things The 
 senses may yield us such pleasure as 
 
204 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 tliey can yield, without effort ; taste 
 may delight us, and imagination may 
 minister to us, in careless reverie; but 
 conscience does not offer to us its hap- 
 piness on such terms. I know not what 
 may be the law for other beings, in 
 some other sphere ; but I know that no 
 truly, morally happy being was ever 
 made here, but through much effort, 
 long culture, frequent self-denial, and 
 abiding faith, patience, and prayer. To 
 be truly happy — what is so difficult ? 
 What is so rare .'' And is heaven, think 
 you, the blessed consummation of all 
 that man can ask, to be obtained at less 
 expense than it will cost to gain one 
 pure, calm day upon earth ? For even 
 this comparatively trifling boon, one 
 blessed day, one day of religious joy, 
 one day of joy in meditation and prayer, 
 one day of happiness that is spiritual, 
 and not physical nor circumstantial, — 
 even this comparatively shght boon, I 
 say, cannot be gained without long prep- 
 aration of mind, and heart, and habit 
 There are multitudes around us and of 
 us, to whom, at this moment, one such 
 day's happiness is a thing just as impos- 
 sible, as it would be in that day to make 
 a world ! And shall they think to escape 
 this very law of happiness under which 
 they are actually Hving, and to fly away 
 to heaven on the wings of imagination ? 
 — to pass at once from unfaithfulness 
 to reward, from apathy to ecstasy, from 
 the neglect and dislike of prayer to the 
 blessed communion of heavenly wor- 
 ship, from this hour of being, absorbed 
 in sense and the world, to an eternity of 
 spiritual glory and triumph ? No ; be 
 assured that facts are here, as they are 
 everywhere, worth more than fancies — 
 be they those of dreaming visionaries 
 or ingenious theologians ; if you are not 
 now happy in penitence, and humility, 
 and prayer, and the love of God, you 
 are not in fact prepared to be happy in 
 them hereafter. No ; between the act- 
 ual state of mind prevailing in many, 
 and the bliss of heaven, " there is a 
 great gulf fixed," over which no wing 
 of mortal nor angel was ever spread. 
 
 No ; the law of essential, enduring, tri- 
 umphant happiness, is labor and long 
 preparation for it ; and it is a law which 
 will never, never — never be annulled ! 
 
 There is a law, too, concerning habits. 
 It is implied in the following language : 
 " Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or 
 the leopard his spots ? Then may those 
 who are accustomed to do evil, learn 
 to do well." Habit is no slight bond. 
 Slightly at first, and gently afterwards, 
 may it have drawn its silken cords 
 around us ; but not so are its bonds to 
 be cast from us ; nor can they, like a 
 green withe, be broken by one gigantic 
 effort. No, the bonds of habit are 
 chains and fetters, that must be worn 
 off. Through the long process of slow 
 and imperceptible degrees, they must 
 be severed with weariness, and galling 
 and bitter anguish. 
 
 " Can it be supposed," says an elo- 
 quent writer and preacher, " that, where 
 the vigor of life has been spent in the 
 establishment of vicious propensities ; 
 where all the vivacity of youth, and all 
 the soberness of manhood, and all the 
 wisdom of old age, have been given to 
 the service of sin ; where vice has been 
 growing with the growth, and strength- 
 ening with the strength ; where it has 
 spread out with the limbs of the strip- 
 ling, and become rigid with the fibres of 
 the aged, — can it, I say, be supposed 
 that the labors of such a life are to be 
 overthrown by one last exertion of the 
 mind, impaired with disease ; by the con- 
 vulsive exercise of an affrighted spirit ; 
 or by the inarticulate and feeble sounds 
 of an expiring breath ? " 
 
 Besides, the rule is as equitable as, 
 in the divine ordination of things, it is 
 necessary. The judgment which or- 
 dains that whatsoever a man soweth, 
 that shall he also reap, is a righteous 
 judgment. It is easy, no doubt, to re- 
 gret a bad life when it is just over. 
 When death comes, and the man must 
 leave his sinful indulgences and pleas- 
 ures ; or when he has no longer any 
 capacity for jenjoying them ; when sick- 
 ness has enfeebled the appetites, or age 
 
 I 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 205 
 
 L 
 
 has chilled the passions, then, indeed, is 
 it but a slight sacrifice, and a yet poorer 
 merit in him, to feel regret. But regret, 
 let it be considered, is not repentance ! 
 And while the former may be easy and 
 almost involuntary, the other, the re- 
 pentance, may be as hard as the ad- 
 verse tendencies of a whole life can 
 make it. Yes, the hardest of all things, 
 then, will be to repent. Yes, I repeat, 
 that which is relied upon to save a man, 
 after the best part of his life has been 
 lost, has become, by the very habits of 
 that life, almost a moral impossibility. 
 
 And the regret, the selfish regret, can 
 it be accepted .'' I ask not if it can be 
 accepted by our Maker; I doubt not his 
 infinite mercy; but can it be accepted 
 by our own nature ? Can our nature be 
 purified by it? Can the tears of that 
 dark hour of selfish sorrow, or the awful 
 insensibility which no tear comes to re- 
 lieve — can either of them purge away 
 from the bosom the stains of a life of 
 sin ? Let us never make the fearful ex- 
 periment ! Let us not go down to the last 
 tremendous scene of life, there, amidst 
 pain and distraction, with the work of 
 life to do ! Let us not have to acquire 
 peace from very terror, and hope from 
 very despair ; let us not, thus, trust our- 
 selves to a judgment, " that will render 
 unto us according to our deeds ; that 
 will render — mark the explanation — 
 to them, who by patient continuance in 
 well-doing, seek for glory, honor, and 
 immortality, eternal life ; but tribulation 
 and anguish to every soul that doeth 
 evil." 
 
 III. From these views of our subject, 
 drawn from Scripture and reason, let me, 
 in the third and last place, refer to a 
 no less decisive consideration, which is 
 independent of them ; a consideration 
 fully borne out by melancholy facts. It 
 is this : that every man will die very 
 much as he lives : I mean, that in his 
 character, his habits of feeling, he will. 
 There is not this wide difference be- 
 tween the living world and the dying 
 world, which is generally supposed. 
 Character, as I have contended, and as 
 
 we all see, indeed, is not formed in a mo- 
 ment ; it cannot upon any known law or 
 principle, — it cannot, but in contradic- 
 tion to every known law and principle, 
 be changed in a moment. Christiani.ty 
 has introduced no law in subversion of 
 the great laws of experience, and rational 
 motive, and moral action, or of its own 
 established principles. Its doctrine of 
 conversion is only misunderstood when 
 it is supposed to provide a briefer and 
 easier way of preparation for heaven 
 than watching and striving and persever- 
 ing in virtue, and patient continuance in 
 well-doing. I say, therefore, and repeat 
 the certain and solemn truth, that every 
 man will die the same, essentially the 
 same, that he has lived. 
 
 For the correctness of this conclusion, 
 I have soon to refer to a single, and, as 
 it seems to me, momentous fact. But in 
 the mean time let me remark that there is 
 one question here, which I view with a 
 kind of apprehension I scarcely know 
 how to express ; with almost a dread, for 
 once, to ask what the simple truth is. 
 
 My brethren, we are sometimes called 
 upon to pray for a change of heart, in 
 the sinful and neghgent man, as he is 
 drawing nigh, in horror and agony, his 
 last hour ! It is an awful situation even 
 to him who only ministers at that dying 
 bed. What shall he do? what can be 
 done.''^ — I have asked myself. Shall I 
 discourage prayer, even in the uttermost 
 extremity .'* Can I, when I hear from 
 those lips, that are soon to be sealed 
 in death, the pathethic entreaty, " Oh ! 
 pray ; " can I refuse to pray ? I do not ; 
 I cannot. Prayer is our duty ; events 
 are with God. But I must say, I will 
 say — I will tell the negligent man be- 
 forehand — what I fear. I fear, I do 
 fear, that such praying is nothing better 
 than the supplication of our terror and 
 despair"! I fear that it is altogether an 
 irrational and unauthorized praying ! I 
 fear that it is like praying that guilt, 
 and even a whole life of it, may feel no 
 enduring remorse ; that sin may not be 
 followed by sorrow ; that vice may leap 
 at once to the rewards of virtue ; that 
 
206 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 the sword which a man has plunged into 
 his bosom may not wound him, or that 
 the envenomed draught he has taken 
 may not poison ! I fear that it is as if 
 we should take our station on the banks 
 of the mighty river that is pouring its 
 accumulated waters into the ocean, and 
 pray that they may turn back to their 
 fountain-head ; or as if we should gaze 
 upon the descending sun in heaven, and 
 pray that he may stand still in his course ! 
 I tremble with a strange misgiving, as if 
 it were a praying not to God, but against 
 God! 
 
 For what is this prayer? It cannot 
 harm us to make the inquiry now, before 
 that crisis comes. What is this prayer ? 
 \\. is a prayer that the flow of moral 
 habits may turn back to its source ; that 
 the great course of moral causes and 
 effects may all be stopped ; that the 
 great laws of the moral universe may 
 all be suspended. It is praying against 
 many a solemn declaration of Holy Writ. 
 And will it — I ask — will the prayer be 
 heard "i Again, I tremble at that ques- 
 tion ; again, my misgivings come over 
 me ; I ask, but I know not what to an- 
 swer. I know, in fact — <I may conjec- 
 ture, and hope — but I know of no an- 
 swer to that awful question, unless it be 
 in this more awful language : " Be not 
 deceived," — it sounds like a warning in 
 my ear, — "be not deceived: God is not 
 mocked : " man's indulgence may flatter 
 him; plausible systems of his own devis- 
 ing may encourage him to venture his 
 soul upon an easier way of salvation ; 
 and weaker bands than those of almighty 
 justice might have been escaped, but^ 
 "God is not mocked; for whatsoever 
 a vnan soweth," — not what he wishes, 
 when the seeds of sin are implanted, and 
 have sprung up, have grown to maturity 
 -- I cannot read it so, — but " whatsoever 
 a man soweth, M«/ shall he also reap." 
 
 Tell me not the oft-repeated tale of a 
 death-bed repentance. I turn to it an 
 incredulous ear. What does it amount 
 to, even when it comes with the kindest 
 testimony of partial affection ? Alas ! it 
 is doubtful, even in its utmost latitude. 
 
 and in the moment when it claims our 
 utmost sympathy. For what is it.'' It 
 is, that the subject of this charitable 
 judgment was willing to die, when to 
 die was inevitable; that he sought tor 
 pardon, when he felt that he must be 
 pardoned or perish in his sins ; that he 
 prayed, but it was when Atheists have 
 prayed; that he hoped; ah, he hoped, 
 when it had become too terrible to ^i 
 despair! " 
 
 And now, what is the result ? What 
 is it, that tlie issue of all this fearful, I 
 cannot call it flattering, experience tells 
 us ? What is the fact, on which this 
 solemn conclusion, concerning the inefifi- 
 cacy of a death-bed repentance, rests ? In 
 many cases it is revealed only in another 
 world, and is beyond our scrutiny. But 
 when it is known, I beg it may be sol- 
 emnly considered what it is, and what 
 is its bearing on the hopes of a death- 
 bed repentance. The result is — and I 
 speak, let it be repeated, of a fact — the 
 result is almost without exception, in 
 cases where the subject of such experi- 
 ence recovers, that he returns to his old 
 habits of living, without any, or any but 
 a very slight and temporary change. In 
 many such instances, where the experi- 
 ence has been very bright and convin- 
 cing, the individual retains no recollec- 
 tion of anything he said, or was supposed 
 to have felt. It was all a delirium. The 
 moral state, as well as the mental state, 
 was all delirium. And there is too 
 much reason to fear that all such expe- 
 rience is a moral delirium, at best. I 
 would not willingly disturb, for one mo- 
 ment, the peace of a fond and anxious 
 friendship. I will not speak of the state 
 of those who are dead ; but I must 
 speak of the dangers of those who are 
 living. And surely, if there are any, 
 this side of the retributions of eternity, 
 who could most fearfully warn us not 
 to postpone religion to a dying hour, it 
 would be those who have hung wit'^ 
 anxious watchings around the last hours 
 of the disobedient and irreligious, and 
 have trembled, and prayed, and wept for 
 their welfare ! 
 
THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION. 
 
 207 
 
 My friends, I have only time to pre- 
 sent to you, and to myself, one practical 
 question : are we habitually ready to 
 dief The question, my brethren, is 
 not, whether we expect to be ready at 
 some future time. It is not whether we 
 mean to be ready. It is not whether 
 we are making the most solemn promises 
 to ourselves that we will, some time, 
 set about the preparation for that great 
 hour. But the question is, are we ready 
 for it now 1 Are we habitually ready ? 
 Are we convinced that we are to be 
 judged, not by some imaginary life 
 which we intend, and intend, and for- 
 ever intend to lead, and which we never 
 do lead, because we are always intend- 
 ing it; — are we convinced, I say, that 
 we are to ne judged not by that imagi- 
 nary life which we are forever intending 
 to lead, but by the life which we are 
 now actually living? Have we given up 
 the folly of expecting to do anything in 
 future which we will not do now ; of 
 expecting to do that in sickness which 
 we cannot do in health ; of expecting 
 to do that in death which we cannot do 
 in life ? Are we doing just as much to 
 prepare as if the judgment were to de- 
 pend on what we are doing ; for it is to 
 depend on what we are doing, and doing, 
 and doing, through the whole of life : as 
 much, I say, as if the judgment were to 
 depend on these hourly deeds which we 
 are now performing, on these momen- 
 tary feelings which we are now cherish- 
 ing ? If not, then there ought to be a 
 revolution in our lives — call it conver- 
 sion, regeneration, a change of heart, 
 I care not by what name — but I say 
 that there ought to be a revolution in 
 our lives, of such magnitude and 
 moment that the eternal judgment only 
 can declare it ! Are we, then, habitually 
 ready to die ? If not habitually, we never 
 are, for religion is a habit. If not habit- 
 ually ; if not, at least, habitually mak- 
 ing ourselves ready, there is reason to 
 fear that we never shall be ; for life — 
 do you not perceive? — is a tissue of 
 thoughts, purposes, and feelings, which 
 is growing stronger as it lengthens ; so 
 
 that the disinclination to prepare for 
 death is growing every moment, while 
 every moment the time for it lessens. 
 
 There is a vague notion, — for it is 
 the hope of all that death will not break 
 into the midst of life, — a vague notion, 
 with many, of retiring in advancing years 
 from the cares and business of life to 
 make this preparation, which involves 
 a great and hazardous mistake. They 
 seem to think that the heart will become 
 pure and spiritual and heavenly, as the 
 state of life becomes quiet and free 
 from the urgency of worldly cares. De- 
 lusive expectation ! as if all growth in 
 nature were not most vigorous amidst 
 calm and silence : as if, in like manner, 
 the rooted passions of the soul were 
 not likely to grow stronger and more 
 stubborn, amidst the silence and quie- 
 tude of declining years ! What is the 
 fact? Did you ever see selfishness, or 
 avarice, or a worldly mind, lose its 
 accustomed power in such circumstan- 
 ces? On the contrary, we know — who 
 has not witnessed sad and striking in- 
 stances of it ? — we know that nothing 
 is more common than for avarice and 
 worldliness to find strength in leisure and 
 freedom in retirement ; that they fix a 
 stronger grasp upon the decaying fac- 
 ulties, and fling their icy bonds over the 
 soul amidst the winter of age. As well 
 might the Ethiopian change his com- 
 plexion, by retiring from the scorching 
 sun to his shaded hut ; as soon might 
 the leopard lose his spots, barely by 
 plunging into the solitudes of the wilder- 
 ness, wlien the flood could not wash 
 them awa)'. The waters of death are 
 not waters of ablution, but rather do they 
 give the coloring and complexion to 
 our destiny. They are not a slow and 
 oblivious stream ; but rather a rushing 
 torrent that bears us away before we 
 are aware. Death comes suddenly to 
 all. It does break sooner or later into 
 the midst of life. It comes at a time 
 when we think not. It comes, not when 
 all our plans are ready for it ; not 
 with harbingers and prophecies and 
 preparations; not with a heart-thrilling 
 
20S 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 message, saying, " Set thy house in or- 
 der, for this year thou- shalt die ; " no voice 
 is in the infectious breath of the air 
 that brings contagion and death with it ; 
 no coming step startles us when disease 
 is approaching ; no summoning hand 
 knocks at the gate of hfe, when its last 
 dread foe is about to enter its dark and 
 guarded passages ; no monitory convic- 
 tion within says, "This month, this 
 week, I shall die ! " No, it comes at a 
 time when we think not ; it comes upon 
 an unprepared hour, unless our life be 
 preparation ; it finds us with all our 
 faults, with all our sins about us ; it 
 finds us that which life has made us, — 
 finds us such as the very action, habit, 
 and spirit of Hfe have made us; and bids 
 us die such as we lived ! 
 
 Who of you will meet his end when 
 he expects it ? Perhaps not one. Or 
 if you should, how solemn a message 
 would you address to the living ! Who 
 of us has, in our own apprehension, 
 been brought to such a crisis, but has 
 had thoughts, which no language can 
 utter, on this momentous concern ? We 
 felt that then was not the time to pre- 
 pare. "Oh! not now — not here!" is 
 the language of the dying man, as with 
 broken utterance and the failing and fal- 
 tering breath of life, he testifies his last 
 conviction, — " not now, not here, is the 
 place or the time to prepare for death ! " 
 And he feels, too, that all which the 
 world contains vanishes into nothing 
 compared with this preparation ! Are 
 we, then, prepared ? — not by a preter- 
 natural or extravagant state of feeling; 
 not by glooms, nor by raptures ; nor by 
 any assurance, nor by any horror of 
 mind ; but by the habitual and calm 
 discharge of our duty, by labors of kind- 
 ness, by the spirit of devotion? — by a 
 temper of mind kindred to that heaven 
 which we hope to enter ? Are we thus 
 ready, every day, every hour ? On the 
 exchange, in the office, in the study; 
 in the house and by the way; in the 
 work-shop and in the field ; are we 
 ever ready ? " Blessed are those ser- 
 vants, whom the Lord when he cometh 
 
 shall find watching; and if he shall 
 
 come in the second watch or in the 
 
 third watch and find them so, blessed 
 are those servants." 
 
 VI. 
 
 COMPASSION FOR THE SINFUL. 
 
 MARKiii. 5: "And when be had looked round about 
 him with anger, being grieved for the hardness of 
 their hearts, he said unto the man, Stretch forth thy 
 
 hand." 
 
 That part of this passage, only, which 
 relates to the moral temper of our 
 Saviour, is proposed for your present 
 meditations. It is, in other words, and 
 especially, the compassion of Jesus. 
 
 In reading the first clause of the 
 sentence — he " looked round about him 
 with anger " — I suppose that many may 
 have felt an emotion, a thrill, almost, 
 of pain and doubt; they have felt that 
 these words, by themselves, and in their 
 simple meaning, were in painful contrast 
 with all their ideas of our Saviour's 
 meekness and patience ; they have been 
 ready to doubt whether the words could 
 have been correctly translated. But 
 how entirely and delightfully is the 
 mind relieved by the words that follow — 
 "being grieved for the hardness of their 
 hearts ! " He was indignant as he looked 
 around him, and witnes.sed the bitter 
 enmity and the base hypocrisy of the 
 Jews ; but his indignation instantly soft- 
 ened into pity; he was grieved at the 
 hardness of their hearts. 
 
 This is one instance of that sublime 
 moral harmony, that union in which the 
 most opposite qualities met and mingled, 
 that so entirely singles out from all 
 other models the character of our heav- 
 enly Teacher and Master. We recog- 
 nize the same spirit with that which was 
 so pathetically manifested in his appeal 
 to Jerusalem. " O Jerusalem ! Jerusa- 
 lem ! - thou that killest the prophets 
 and stonest them that are sent to thee," 
 — here is the tone of indignation and 
 reproach ; but mark how instantly it is 
 
COMPASSION FOR THE SINFUL. 
 
 209 
 
 redeemed from the ordinary character of 
 those sentiments — " thou that killest 
 the propliets and stonest them that are 
 sent unto thee ; how often would I have 
 gathered thy children even as a hen 
 gathereth her brood under her wing, 
 but ye would not ! " 
 
 The spirit with which we should re- 
 gard the faults and sins of mankind is 
 nearly a neglected subject in morals ; 
 and it had been well for moral reformers 
 and preachers of righteousness if they 
 had more thoroughly considered it. It 
 is, moreover, a very practical subject to 
 all men. For we are constantly brought 
 into contact with the faults and trans- 
 gressions of mankind ; every day offers, 
 from this cause, some annoyance to our 
 feelings, or some injury to our interests ; 
 every newspaper that is taken in our 
 hand is burdened with the recital of 
 crimes — robberies, murders, piracies, 
 wars. Indeed, this constant experience 
 of injustice or exasperation in some or 
 other of their forms, and this extensive 
 observation of human wickedness, are 
 a part of our moral discipline ; and it 
 becomes us to consider how we should 
 meet it, and be made better by other 
 men's faults. It is, indeed, in its mild- 
 est form, a sad and grievous discipline, 
 from which no one should be willing 
 to come out unprotited. 
 
 There is another general observation 
 applicable to this subject. As we ad- 
 vance in our moral discriminations, we 
 shall always find that things before 
 indifferent become interesting ; and 
 things distant, it may be added, become 
 near. A war, for instance, breaks out 
 between distant nations. A man may 
 say — what is that to me ? What is the 
 case of the French and the Austrians, 
 of the Russians and the Poles, to me ? 
 I answer, it is much to you. For every 
 time you read an account of a battle ; 
 every time you read of the prowess of 
 armies, of blood and carnage, of blazing 
 battlements and groaning hospitals, you 
 have certain feelings ; and they are 
 marked with a strong moral complexion. 
 You are pleased or pained ; you exult 
 
 or you regret ; or you are indifferent ; 
 and to any refined moral sensibility 
 these states of mind will not be un- 
 important. Or, an extensive fraud in 
 some public institution, although it m:xy 
 not touch you in your interests, does 
 touch you in your feelings ; and there- 
 fore does concern, though not your 
 pecuniary, yet your moral welfare. And 
 while others think that they have noth- 
 ing to do but with words, nothing to do 
 but to talk, and speculate, and wonder, 
 and rail, a thoughtful man will feel 
 that he has much to do with his own 
 heart. Or, when the poor miserable 
 victim of vice, the shattered wreck of a 
 man, appears before the public eye, he 
 may be contemplated with laughter or 
 scorn; but from a man who breathes 
 the spirit of the Christian Master, that 
 spectacle will draw forth deeper senti-' 
 ments. It is the form of sacred human- 
 ity that is before him; it is an erring 
 fellow-being ; it is a desolate, forlorn, 
 forsaken soul; and the thoughts of good 
 men, that gather around that poor 
 wretch, will be far deeper than those of 
 indifference or scorn. And, in fine, all 
 human offences, — that whole sj^stem 
 of dishonesty, evasion, circumventing, 
 forbidden indulgence, and intriguing 
 ambition, in which men are struggling 
 together, will often be looked upon, by a 
 thoughtful observer, not merely as the 
 sphere of mean toils and strifes, but as 
 the solemn conflict of minds immortal 
 for ends vast and momentous as their 
 own being. Sad and unworthy strife 
 indeed ! and let it be viewed with indig- 
 nation ; but let that indignation, too, 
 melt into pity. 
 
 Such, indeed, is the spirit recommend- 
 ed in our text, a spirit of indignation at 
 human faults and follies, but a spirit, too, 
 which leans to pity: a feeling which, al- 
 though it begins often with indignation, 
 always, by the aids of reflection and 
 piety, ends in pity. 
 
 There is a portion of indignation in 
 the right temper. The right feeling is 
 not a good natured easiness at the trans- 
 gressions of men, nor a worldly indiflfer- 
 
 14 
 
2IO 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 ence, nor a falsely philosophic coldness, 
 that puts on an air of reasoning, and says, 
 '• It must be so," and " Men were made 
 so," and " This is what we must expect.'' 
 Neither is it a worldly laxity of con- 
 science, that accounts everything well 
 that passes under the seal of public 
 opinion. It is a decided and strong 
 moral feeling, that ought to be awakened 
 by human wickedness. It is indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 But, then, it is not a harsh and cruel 
 feeling. It is not peevishness nor irrita- 
 tion. It is not hasty nor angry reproach. 
 It is not a feehng that delights in denun- 
 ciation. No ; but the words of warning 
 fall, as they did from the lips of Jesus, 
 mingled with lamentation. Or, the words 
 of reproach are uttered as they were 
 by Paul, when he told the Philippians, 
 and told them even weepings that some 
 among them were enemies of the cross 
 of Christ. 
 
 There are other mistakes which we 
 are liable to commit, and other wrong 
 feelings which we are prone to cherish, 
 towards the erring and guilty. 
 
 Good men — shall I say it ? — are too 
 .proud of their goodness. Here are 
 you, a respectable individual in society. 
 Dishonor comes not near you. Your 
 countenance has weight and influence. 
 Your robe is unstained. The poison- 
 ous breath of calumny has never been 
 breathed upon your fair name. Ah ! 
 how easy is it to look down with scorn 
 upon the poor, degraded offender ; to 
 pass by him with a lofty step ; to draw 
 up the folds of your garment around 
 you, that it may not be soiled by his 
 touch ! Yet the great Master of virtue 
 did not so ; but he descended to familiar 
 intercourse with publicans and sinners. 
 
 There is a feeling, I say, not only of 
 scorn, but of triumph, often springing up 
 from the survey of other men's faults 
 Many seem to think themselves better, 
 for all the sins they can detect in others. 
 And when they are going over with the 
 catalogue of their neighbor's unhappy 
 derelictions of temper or conduct, there 
 is often, amidst much apparent concern, 
 
 a secret exultation, that poisons and jj 
 blasts all their pretensions to wisdom \ 
 and moderation, and their claims even i 
 to virtue itself. Nay, this feeling goes 
 so far that men take actual pleasure in 
 tiie sins of others. It is not the corrupt 
 man only ; it is not the seducer into the 
 path of evil only, that does this ; but it 
 is every man whose thoughts are often 
 employed in agreeable comparisons of 
 his virtues with the faults of his neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 The power over men's faults, which 
 is lost by a harsh or haughty treatment 
 of them, would of itself form a great 
 subject, and one that much needs to be 
 commended to all those who would exert 
 any moral influence over their fellow- 
 beings. The power of gentleness, the 
 subduing influence of pity, the might of 
 love, the control of mildness over pas- 
 sion, the commanding majesty of that 
 perfect character which mingles grave 
 displeasure with grief and pity for the 
 offender, — these things have been too 
 little seen in the world. I believe that 
 our pulpits, and our tribunals of justice, 
 and parental authority among us, must 
 put on a new aspect before they will 
 appear in all their dignity, their vener- 
 ableness, their power and beauty. We 
 scarcely know, as yet, what we might 
 do with men's passions and vices. They 
 are commonly reputed, and some of 
 them in particular, to be untamable, in- 
 corrigible, and fated to procure the ruin 
 of their victims ; and they are in part 
 made so by our wrong treatment of them. 
 The human heart cannot yield to such 
 an influence as we too often endeavor to 
 exert upon it. It was not made to bow 
 willingly to what is merely human ; at 
 least, not to what is injir?/! and wrong 
 in human nature. If it yields to us, it 
 must yield to what is divine in us. The 
 wickedness of my neighbor cannot sub- 
 mit to my wickedness ; his sensuality, 
 for instance, cannot submit to my anger 
 against his vices. My faults are not 
 the instruments that are to correct his 
 faults. And it is hence that impatient 
 reformers, and denouncing preachers, 
 
COMPASSION FOR THE SINFUL. 
 
 21 I 
 
 and hasty reprovers, and angry parents, 
 and irritable relatives, so often fail, in 
 their several departments, to reclaim the 
 erring. 
 
 I would, therefore, remind them that 
 they have a new lesson to learn from 
 the compassion of Jesus ; and that is, 
 while they permit in themselves the live- 
 liest sensibility to the sins of men, to 
 mingle with it the deepest commisera- 
 tion for them. 
 
 I. And tliey may learn this lesson, they 
 may find it enforced, rather, first, by con- 
 sidering what it is that their feelings 
 and thoughts are exercised about. 
 
 It is sin. It is combined guilt and 
 misery. It is the supreme evil. Whence 
 shall we gather comparisons to set it 
 forth ? Shall we name sickness ? Sick- 
 ness belongs to the body; the corrupti- 
 ble and perishable body. Pain ? — phys- 
 ical pain ? The body is its instrument 
 and end. Loss, disappointment? They 
 are worldly accidents. Dishonor? It 
 is, comparatively, a shade upon a name. 
 But a moral ofTence possesses all these 
 characters, and it attaches them all to 
 the soul. It is sickness, it is pain, it is 
 loss, it is dishonor, in the immortal part. 
 It is guilt ; and it is misery added to 
 guilt. It is calamity in itself: and it 
 brings upon itself in addition the calam- 
 ity of God's displeasure, and the abhor- 
 rence of all righteous beings, and the 
 soul's own abhorrence. If you have to 
 deal with this evil, deal faithfully, but 
 patiently and tenderly with it. This is 
 no matter for petty provocation, nor for 
 personal strife, nor for selfish irritation. 
 
 Speak kindly to your erring brother. 
 God pities him ; Christ has died for him ; 
 Providence waits for him ; the mercy 
 of heaven yearns towards him ; and the 
 spirits of heaven are ready to welcome 
 him back with joy. Let your voice be 
 in unison with all those powers that God 
 is using for his recovery. 
 
 Parent ! speak gently to your offend- 
 ing child. This trait of parental duty 
 should be deeply pondered. A tone of 
 grave rebuke should, indeed, be some- 
 times used : perhaps occasion may re- 
 
 quire tliat it should be often used ; but 
 the tone of peevish complaint and anger, 
 never. There is a different language ; 
 and how much more powerful ! '• Ah ! 
 my child ! " might one say, in the man- 
 ner, if not in language, " my child ! what 
 injury is all this doing you ! This pas- 
 sion, this violence, or this vice, what a 
 bitter cup is it preparing for you ! " This 
 language, this tone from the grave wis- 
 dom of a father, or the tender anxiety of 
 a mother, might have saved some whom 
 peevishness and provocation have driven 
 farther and deeper into the ways of trans- 
 gression. 
 
 But let us put the strongest case. 
 Your neighbor has done you grievous 
 wrong ; and he has the face to tell you 
 so, and to exult in his dishonesty. 
 What man is there whose countenance 
 would not be flushed with momentary- 
 indignation at being so confronted with 
 one that had injured him, and that glo- 
 ried in the injury? And let us concede 
 thus much to the weakness of nature, or 
 even to the first impulse of virtue. But 
 the next feeling should be unfeigned re- 
 gret and pity. Yes, the man who stands 
 before you, triumphing in a prosperous 
 fraud and palpable wrong, is the most 
 pitiable of human beings. He has done 
 himself a deeper, a far deeper, injury than 
 he has done to you. It is the inflicter 
 of wrong, not the sufferer, whom God 
 beholds with mingled displeasure and 
 compassion ; and his judgment should 
 be your law. Where amidst the bene- 
 dictions of the Holy Mount is there one 
 for this man? But upon the merciful, 
 the peacemakers, the persecuted, they 
 are poured out freely ; these are the sa- 
 cred names upon which the spirit and 
 blessing of Jesus descend. 
 
 II. In the next place, it may temper 
 the warmth of our indignation against 
 sin, and soften it into pity ; it may well 
 bring us, indeed, to imitate the compas- 
 sion of Jesus, for us to reflect that what 
 others are, and however bad, we, in 
 other circumstances, might have been as 
 they are. 
 
 We are all men of like passions, pro- 
 
212 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 pensities, exposures. There are ele- 
 ments in us all, which might have been 
 perverted, through the successive pro- 
 cesses of moral deterioration, to the worst 
 of crimes. The wretch whom the execra- 
 tion of the thronging crowd pursues to 
 the scaffold or the gibbet is not worse 
 than any one of the multitude might 
 have become in similar circumstances. 
 He is to be condemned, indeed ; but 
 how much he is to be pitied, let his burn- 
 ing passions, his consuming remorse, 
 his pallid cheek, his sinking head, the 
 mingled apathy and agony of his appre- 
 hensions, — let these tell. 
 
 I feel that I am speaking of a case 
 that is fully practical. There is a vin- 
 dictive feeling in society towards con- 
 victed and capital offenders, towards 
 those who are doomed to abide the 
 awful severity of the law, that does not 
 become the frail and the sinful. I do 
 not adopt the unqualified language, that 
 it is nothing but the grace of God that 
 saves us from being as bad as the worst 
 of criminals. But it is certain that we 
 owe much to the good providence of 
 God, ordaining for us a lot more favor- 
 able to virtue. It is certain that we 
 ail had that within us that might have 
 been pushed to the same excess. And 
 therefore a silent pity and sorrow for 
 the victim should mingle with our 
 detestation of the crime. 
 
 The very pirate, that dyes the ocean- 
 wave with the blood of his fellow- 
 beings ; that meets with his defenceless 
 victim in some lonely sea where no cry 
 for help can be heard, and plunges his 
 dagger to the heart which is pleading 
 for life, which is calling upon him by 
 all the names of kindred, of children and 
 home, to spare, — yes, the very pirate 
 is such a man as you or I might have 
 been. Orphanage in childhood ; an un- 
 friended youth ; an evil companion ; a 
 resort to sinful pleasure ; familiarity 
 with vice ; a scorned and blighted name ; 
 seared and crushed affections ; desper- 
 ate fortunes ; these are steps that might 
 have led any one among us to unfurl 
 upon the high seas the bloody flag of 
 
 universal defiance ; to have waged war 
 with our kind ; to have put on the terrific 
 attributes, to have done the dreadful 
 deeds, and to have died the awful 
 death, of the ocean robber. How many 
 affecting relationships of humanity plead 
 with us to pity him ! That head, that 
 is doomed to pay the price of blood, 
 once rested upon a mother's bosom. 
 The h_ind that did that accursed work, 
 and shall soon be stretched, cold and 
 nerveless, in the felon's grave, was 
 once taken and cherished by a father's 
 hand, and led in the ways of sportive 
 childhood and innocent pleasure. The 
 dreaded monster of crime has once 
 been the object of sisterly love and all 
 domestic endearment. Pity him then. 
 Pity his blighted hope and his crushed 
 heart. It is a wholesome sensibilty. 
 It is reasonable; it is meet for frail 
 and sinning creatures hke us to cher- 
 ish. It foregoes no moral discrimi- 
 nation. It feels the crime ; but feels it 
 as a weak, tempted, and rescued creature 
 should. It imitates the great Master; 
 and looks with indignation upon the 
 offender, and yet is grieved for him. 
 
 III. In the last place, I would set 
 forth the intrinsic worth and greatness 
 of this disposition as a reason for cher- 
 ishing it. This rank does the virtue of 
 compassion hold in the character of our 
 Saviour. 
 
 How superior is the man of forbear- 
 ance and gentleness to every other man, 
 in the collisions of society ! He is the 
 real conqueror : the conqueror of him- 
 self ; but that is not all ; he conquers 
 others. There is no dominion in the 
 social world like this. It is a dominion 
 which makes not slaves but freemen ; 
 which levies no tribute but of gratitude; 
 whose only monuments are those of 
 virtuous example. 
 
 No man may claim much merit merely 
 for being indigtiani at the faults and sins 
 of those around him. It is better than 
 indifference, better than no feeling; but 
 it is only the beginning and youth of 
 virtue. The youthful, untutored, un- 
 subdued mind is only angry with sin, 
 
COMPASSION FOR THE SINFUL. 
 
 213 
 
 and thinks it does well to be angry. 
 But when more reflection comes, and a 
 deeper consciousness of personal defi- 
 ciencies ; and a more entire subjection 
 to the meek and compassionate spirit 
 of Jesus Christ is wrought out in the 
 mind, a new character begins to develop 
 itself. Harsh words, borne upon the 
 breath of a hasty temper, do not ruffle 
 the soul as they once did. Reproof is 
 received with meekness and in silence. 
 The tongue is not ever ready, as if it 
 were an instrument made to ward off 
 reproach. The peace of the soul does 
 not stand in the opinion of others. 
 Faults are estimated with forbearance. 
 Mature and fi.xed virtue is too high and 
 strong to think of building itself up, 
 like a doubtful reputation, upon sur- 
 rounding deficiencies. Sins are more im- 
 mediately and habitually connected with 
 the sufferings they must occasion ; and 
 therefore they more surely awaken pity. 
 The man of advancing piety and virtue 
 is growing in the conviction, indeed, 
 that the only real, essential, immitigable 
 evil is sin. He mourns over it in him- 
 self ; he mourns over it in others. It 
 is the root of bitterness in the field of 
 life. It is the foe with which he is liold- 
 ing the long and often disheartening 
 conflict. It is the cloud upon the face 
 of nature. That cloud overspreads his 
 neighbor, with himself. And he pities, 
 from his inmost soul, all who walk be- 
 neath it. 
 
 Patience with the erring and offend- 
 ing is one of the loftiest of all the forms 
 of character. " Compassion for souls," 
 though the phrase is often used in a 
 cant and technical manner, ought to be 
 a great and ennobling sentiment. Com- 
 passion, indeed, for souls ; how should 
 it transcend all other compassion ! Look 
 over the world, and say, where are its 
 sufferings ? In the diseased body, in 
 the broken limb, in the wounded and 
 bruised organs of sense ? In the deso- 
 late dwelling of poverty ; in hunger and 
 cold and nakedness J* Yes, suflFering is 
 
 there ; and Providence has put a tongue 
 in every suffering member of the human 
 frame, to plead its cause. But enter 
 into the soul ; pass through these out- 
 works, and enter the very seat of power; 
 and what things are there ; uttering no 
 sound perhaps, breathing no complaint, 
 — but what things are there to move 
 compassion ? Wounded and bruised 
 aiTections, bliglited capacities, broken 
 and defeated hopes ; desolation, solitari- 
 ness, silence, sorrow, anguish ; and sin, 
 the cause and consummation of all the 
 deepest miseries of an afflicted life. 
 If the surgeon's knife should cut the 
 very heart, it would hardly inflict a 
 sharper pang than anger, envy, smiting 
 shame, and avenging remorse. Yet 
 happiness is near that heart ; happiness, 
 the breath of infinite goodness, the 
 blessed voice of mercy, is all around it ; 
 and it is all madly shunned. Eternal 
 happiness is offered to it, and it rejects 
 the offer. It goes on, and on, through life, 
 inwardly burdened, groaning in secret, 
 bleeding, weltering in its passions ; but 
 it will not seek the true relief. Its 
 wounds are without cause; its suffer- 
 ings without recompense ; its life with- 
 out true comfort ; and its end without 
 hope. Compassion, indeed, for souls ! 
 who may not justly feel it for others, and 
 for his own .'' 
 
 So Jesus looked upon the world — 
 save that lie had no compassion to feel 
 for himself ; and so fnuch the more 
 touciiing was his compassion for us. 
 From the sublime height of his own im- 
 maculate purity he looked down upon a 
 sinful and degraded and afflicted race. 
 " Weep not lor me," he said, " but 
 weep for yourselves and your children." 
 So Jesus looked upon the world, and 
 pitied it. He taught us, that we might 
 be wise ; he was poor, that we might 
 be rich ; he suffered, that we might be 
 happy ; he wept, that we might rejoice ; 
 he died — he died the accursed death 
 of the cross, that we might live — live 
 forever. 
 
214 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 VII. 
 
 GOD'S LOVE THE CHIEF RESTRAINT 
 FROM SIN, AND RESOURCE IN SOR- 
 ROW. 
 
 I John iv. i6 : " God is love." 
 
 It was a saying of Plato, that " the soul 
 is mere darkness till it is illuminated 
 with the knowledge of God." What 
 Plato said of the soul is true of every- 
 thing. Everything is dark till the light 
 of God's perfection shines upon it. 
 That '■ God is love," is the great cen- 
 tral truth that gives brightness to every 
 other truth. Not only the moral system, 
 but nature, and the science of nature, 
 would be dark without that truth. I am 
 persuaded it might be shown that it is 
 the great essential principle which lies 
 at the foundation of all interesting knowl- 
 edge. It may not be always distinctly 
 observed by the philosopher ; but how 
 could he proceed in those investigations 
 thai are leading him through all the laby- 
 rinths of nature, if it were not for the 
 conviction, secretly working within him, 
 that all is right, that all is well ? How 
 could he have the heart to pursue his 
 way, as he is penetrating into the mys- 
 teries, whether of rolling worlds or of 
 vegetating atoms, if he felt that the sys- 
 tem he was exploring is a system of bound- 
 less malevolence ? He would stand 
 aghast and powerless at that thought. 
 It would spread a shadow, darker than 
 universal eclipse, over the splendor of 
 heaven. It would endow every particle 
 of earth with a principle of malignity 
 too awful for the hardiest philosophic 
 scrutiny ! 
 
 The Scriptures assign the sam.e pre- 
 eminence to the doctrine of divine good- 
 ness which it holds in nature and phi- 
 losophy. It is never said, in Scripture, 
 that God is greatness, or power, or 
 knowledge ; but with a comprehensive 
 and affecting emphasis it is written that 
 God is Love ; not that he is lovely, not 
 that he is good, not that he is benevolent, 
 merely — that would be too abstract for 
 the great, vital, life-giving truth — but 
 
 it is written, I repeat, that God is 
 Love ! 
 
 And it is not of this truth as an ab- 
 stract truth, my friends, that I propose 
 now to speak. I wish to consider chiefly 
 its applications ; and especially its appli- 
 cations to two great conditions of human 
 life ; to the conditions of temptation and 
 sorrow. Affliction, we know, is some- 
 times addressed with worldly consola- 
 tions, and sin is of ten assailed with denun- 
 ciation and alarm ; yet for both ahke, and 
 for all that makes up the mingled conflict 
 and sorrow and hope of life, it seems to 
 me that a deep and affectionate trust in 
 the love of God is the only powerful, 
 sustaining, and controlling principle. 
 
 Let me say again, an affectionate 
 trust ; the faith, in other words, that 
 works by love. It is not a cold, sjiccu- 
 lative, theological faith, that can prepare 
 us to meet the discipline of life. It is 
 the confidence of love only that can carry 
 us through. Love only can understand 
 love. This only can enable us to say, 
 " We have known and believed the love 
 that God hath to us." We profess to 
 believe in God ; to believe in the divine 
 perfection. But I say, my brethren, that 
 we do not properly know what we believe 
 in, without love to it. Love only can 
 understand love. Love only can give to 
 faith in divine love its proper character; 
 and especially that character of assur- 
 ance and strength which will enable us 
 to meet, unshaken and unfaltering, the 
 temptations and trials of life. 
 
 The principle that is to meet exigen- 
 cies like these, that is to hold the long 
 conflict with sin and sorrow, that is to 
 sustain triumphantly the burden of this 
 mortal experience, must be intelligent, 
 active, penetrating, and powerful. For 
 the problem of this life, my brethren, is 
 not, readily nor easily to be solved. I 
 know that there is light upon it, wel- 
 come light. But it cannot be carried 
 into the mazes of human experience, it 
 cannot illuminate what is dark and clear 
 up what is difflcult,-without much reflec- 
 tion — and reflection upon what, if not 
 upon the character of the Ordainer of this i 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD TO US. 
 
 215 
 
 lot ? — without much reflection, I repeat, 
 and care every way to the direction and 
 ]X)sture of our own minds. It was not 
 intended that our faith should be a pas- 
 sive principle ; that all should be plain 
 and easy to it ; that moral light should 
 fall upon our path as clear, obvious, and 
 bright as sunshine. It pleases God to try 
 the reliance of his earthly children. He 
 would have tlieir trust in him to be a no- 
 bler act than mere vision could be. He 
 would have their faith grow and strength- 
 en by severe e.xercise. He would say to 
 them at last, not only " Well done, good! 
 — but, well donG., faithful / — enter ye 
 into the joys of your Lord: enter into 
 joys made dear by sorrow, made bright 
 by the darkness you have experienced, 
 made noble and glorious by the trying of 
 your faith whicii is more precious than 
 of gold." 
 
 I said that the problem of this life is 
 not readily nor easily to be solved. I 
 can conceive that tins may be an unmean- 
 ing declaration to those who have not 
 thought much of life, to those whose lot 
 has been easy, and whose minds have 
 partaken of the easiness of their lot. 
 But there are those, to whom the visita- 
 tion of life, to whom the visitation of 
 thought and feeling, has been a different 
 thing. I can believe that there are some 
 to whom I speak, whose minds have 
 been haunted from their very childhood 
 with that mournful and touching inquiry 
 which we used to read in our early les- 
 sons, " Child of mortality, whence comest 
 thou?" Man is, indeed, the child of a 
 frail, changing, mortal lot; and yet the 
 creature of an immortal hope. We are 
 ready to ask such a being, at whom we 
 must wonder, as it seems to me, whence 
 camest thou, and for what end? Didst 
 thou come, frail being 1 from the source 
 of strength and wisdom and goodness ? 
 Why, then, so feeble, so unwise, so 
 unworthy ? Why art thou here, and 
 such as thou art — so strong in grief, 
 and so weak in fortitude ! so boundless 
 in aspiration, so poor in possession ! 
 Why art thou here? — with this strange- 
 ly mingled being; so glad and so sor- 
 
 rowful ; so earthly and so heavenly ; so 
 in love with life, and so weary of it ; so 
 eagerly clinging to life, and yet borne 
 away by a sighing breath of the evening 
 air ! Whence, and wherefore, frail man ! 
 art thou such an one ? All else is well ; 
 but with ///tv all is not well. The world 
 is fair around thee ; the bright and 
 blessed sun shineth on thee ; the green 
 and flowery fields spread far, and cheer 
 thine eye, and invite thy footstep ; the 
 groves are full of melody ; ten thousand 
 happy creatures range freely through all 
 the paths of nature ; but ihou art not 
 satisfied as they are ; ihou art not hap- 
 py ; thou art not provided for as they 
 are : earth has no coverts for thy shel- 
 tering ; thou must toil, thou must build 
 Houses, and gather defences for thy 
 frailty ; and in the sweat of thy brow 
 must thou eat thy bread. And when all 
 is done, thou must die, and thou know- 
 est it. Death, strange visitant, is ever 
 approaching to meet thee ; death, dark 
 gate of mystery, is ever the termination 
 of thy path ! 
 
 But, my brethren, is this all ? To live, 
 to toil, to struggle, to suffer, to sorrow, 
 to die, — is this all? No, it is not all ; 
 but it is God's love, and the revelation 
 of God's love in the promise of immor- 
 tality only, that can assure us that there 
 is more. And so necessary do these 
 seem tome, to bear up tine thinking, feel- 
 ing, suffering, hoping, inquiring mind ; 
 so necessary is it that a voice of God 
 should speak to the creatures of this 
 earthly disci pHne ; necessary, as that 
 a parental voice should be ready and 
 near to hush the cry of infancy; that 
 instead of stumbling at marvels and mir- 
 acles, and interpositions and teachings, 
 I confess I have sometimes wondered 
 that there were not more of them. I 
 have wondered that the manifestations of 
 God did not oftener appear in the blaz- 
 ing bush and the cloud-capt mountam. 
 I have wondered that the curtain of mys- 
 tery, that hides the other world, were not 
 sometimes lifted up ; that the cherubim 
 of mercy and of hope were not some- 
 times throned on the clouds of the even- 
 
2l6 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 tide ; that the bright and silent stars 
 did not sometimes break the deep still- 
 ness that reigns among them, with the 
 scarcely fabled music of their spheres ; 
 that the rich flood of morning light, as 
 it bathes the earth in love, did not utter 
 voices from its throne of heavenly splen- 
 dor, to proclaim the goodness of God. 
 No, I wonder not at marvels and mir- 
 acles. That scene on the mount of 
 transfiguration — Moses and Ehas talk- 
 ing with our Saviour — seems to me, so 
 far from being strange and incredible, to 
 meet a want of the mind ; and I only won- 
 der, if I may venture to say so, that it is 
 not sometimes repeated. 
 
 Yet why should I say this ? The love 
 of God to us is sure ; and it is a sufficient 
 assurance. Trust in him is a sustaining 
 principle, and it is sufficient strength. 
 There z's another state of being for us — 
 perish all reason and all faith if it is not 
 so ! — there is another state of being for 
 us ; and though the eye hath not seen 
 it, and the ear hath caught no sound from 
 its wide realm, the great promise and 
 hope are sufficient. 
 
 I say, the love of God is sure. He 
 does love the moral beings whom he has 
 made in his image ; loves them, I doubt 
 not, in their fears and doubtings and 
 struggles and sorrows ; loves them, I be- 
 lieve, even in their sins, nay, and has 
 commended his love to them in this very 
 character — has commended his love to 
 them, in that while they were yet sinners, 
 Christ died for them. 
 
 Can you doubt whether man is the ob- 
 ject of God's love ? Look at the feeble 
 insect tribes sporting in the beams of 
 life, happy in their hour, perishing but 
 to give life to others. Is he not a kind 
 Being, who made even these? Is it not 
 the breath of love in which even they 
 live ? Look at the ranks and orders of 
 irrational creatures, that inhabit the 
 fields, the groves, the mountains, the liv- 
 ing streams of ocean. Look at the free 
 and fleet rangers of the forest. Go, thou, 
 and unfold the inward frame of such an 
 one ; trace every part of the wonderful 
 mechanism ; mark every sinew ; follow 
 
 the courses of its life-blood ; see every 
 skilful and exquisite adaptation for suste- 
 nance, for strength, for speed, for beauty. 
 Is not this the workmanship of good- 
 ness ? Could any but a kind and gra- 
 cious Being have done this ? " Ask, now, 
 of the beasts," says Job, "and they shall 
 teach thee ; and the fowls of the air, and 
 they shall tell thee ; or speak to the earth, 
 and it shall teach thee ; and the fishes of 
 the sea shall declare unto thee." 
 
 But turn, now, from all these, and look 
 — yes, look at one human heart. How 
 infinite the difference ! The human 
 heart — say what we will of it, let the 
 cynic or the sceptic say what he will — 
 but what a concentration of energies, 
 what a gathering up of solemn thoughts, 
 what a home of dear and gentle affec- 
 tions, what a deep fountain of tears and 
 sorrows, is there .' What strugglings 
 are pent up within its narrow enclosure ; 
 what awful powers sleep within its fold- 
 ing bosom ; what images of the grand, 
 the godlike, the indefinite, the eternal, 
 lie in its unfathomable depths ! Doth 
 not the Maker of that heart regard it 
 with kindness? Doth he not pity a be- 
 ing that can sorrow ? Doth he not love 
 a being whom he hath made capable of 
 love; of all its yearning, of all its ten- 
 derness ? Doth he not care for a being 
 whom he hath made capable of improv- 
 ing forever ? 
 
 Assuredly, if nature speaks truth, if 
 revelation utters wisdom, he does love 
 his rational offspring. How strong is 
 the language of that revelation ! " Can 
 a mother forget her child ? Yea, she 
 may forget, yet will not I forget thee." 
 
 Let this, then, be settled in every heart 
 as one of the great convictions of life ; 
 let it be taken to the soul as a part of 
 the armor of God to defend it against 
 this world's temptations and calamities. 
 We may not all, or we may not always, 
 feel the need of it ; but we do all need 
 it, and we need it always. Always, I say : 
 for we are always exposed to sin, and 
 we are always exposed to sorrow. Let 
 us look at these conditions of human life 
 for a few moments, to see how the appre- 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD TO US. 
 
 217 
 
 hension of God's love to us is fitted to 
 restrain us in the one case, and to com- 
 fort us in the other. 
 
 Nothing would be so effectual to re- 
 strain us from evil, if we felt it, as the 
 love of God to us ; nothing would be so 
 effectual to recall us from our wanderings. 
 It is a lofty conviction, of which I speak, 
 my brethren, and not the ordinary and 
 dull acknowledgment, the mere theo- 
 logical inference, that God is good. Let 
 any one feel that God is as truly good to 
 him, as truly loves him, is as really inter- 
 ested for his welfare, as his father, or 
 his most devoted friend : that even when 
 he is rebellious and disobedient, the 
 good and blessed God pjties him, and 
 pleads with him to return, pleads with 
 him even through the sufferings of Christ, 
 his Son ; let him feel that the kind and 
 gracious Creator has fashioned that 
 wonderful but abused mind within him, 
 called forth those sweet but neglected 
 affections, provided dear objects for them, 
 given him home, given him friends, show- 
 ered mercies upon him ; let him thus 
 feel how ungenerous and ungrateful is 
 the evil course ; and surely all this, if 
 anything can, will touch him with con- 
 viction and move him to repentance. 
 Let it be so that all other motives have 
 failed ; but who of us, if he rightly saw 
 it, could lift his hand against that which 
 is all love ? Who of us, if he felt that 
 love to him, and to all around him, — who 
 could be selfish, contemptuous, haughty, 
 or hard-hearted towards his brother ? 
 Who of us, if he saw all the gifts of fife 
 to be the sacred gifts of that love, could 
 abuse them to purposes of selfish ambi- 
 tion or vicious indulgence .-' — The spirit 
 of the sinner, the spirit of sin, I mean, 
 so far as it goes, is a reckless spirit. 
 The offender cares not, very much in 
 proportion as he feels that nobody cares 
 for him. He hardens himself against 
 everything the more, because he sup- 
 poses that everything is hardened against 
 •him. And when he goes to the worst 
 excesses in vice, the manifest scorn of 
 his fellow- creatures is the last influence 
 that steels his heart against every better 
 
 feeling. And yet, even then, there is 
 sometimes left one thought Jhat moves 
 him to tears. It is the thought of his 
 mother, dwelling alone, perhaps, in his 
 far distant and forsaken home ; it is 
 the thought of his mother, who sighs in 
 secret places for him ; who still mingles 
 his outcast name with every evening 
 prayer, saying, " Oh, restore my poor 
 child ! " But let him remember that 
 even if his mother should forget, God 
 does not forget him ; does not forsake 
 him ; does not withdraw all his mercies 
 from him. His friends may withdraw 
 themselves ; he may have no earthly 
 bosom to lean upon ! — but the elements 
 embosom him around ; the air breathes 
 upon him a breath of kindness ; the sun 
 shines beneficently upon him ; the page 
 of mercy is spread for him ; and it is 
 written over with invitations and prom- 
 ises : it says, in accents that might break 
 a heart of stone, " Turn, thou ! turn, 
 thou forsaken one ! for why wilt thou 
 die ? " 
 
 So effectual, my brethren, did we 
 rightly consider it, might be the love of 
 God to restrain us from evil and recall 
 us to virtue and piety. 
 
 Equally might it avail, and equally 
 indispensable is it, to comfort us in afflic- 
 tion. I have already spoken of the 
 afflicdons of life, and need not repeat 
 what I then said. Suffice it, that every 
 heart knows what it has to suffer, and to 
 struggle with. But one thing I am sure 
 of, tliat that heart can find no repose but 
 in a firm trust in the infinite love of God. 
 I speak now for a reasonable mind, for 
 one that is not willing to suffer blindly 
 as a brute suffers, for one that does not 
 find it enough to conclude that it must 
 suffer and cannot help it. I speak for 
 one whom sorrow has aroused to con- 
 sider the great questions, wherefore he 
 is made, and why he is made to suffer ; 
 and I am sure that such an one must 
 behold GOODNESS enthroned and reign- 
 ing over all the events of time and the 
 destinies of eternity, or. for his mind, 
 there is no friend nor helper in the uni- 
 verse. Ah ! there are questions, which 
 
2l8 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 nothing can answer, but God's love; 
 which netting can meet, but God's 
 promise ; which nothing can calm, but 
 a perfect trust in his goodness. Speak 
 to the void darkness of affliction, "the 
 first dark day of nothingness" after 
 trouble has come ; speak to life through 
 all its stages and fortunes, from often- 
 times suffering infancy to trembling age ; 
 speak to this crowded world of events, 
 accidents, and vicissitudes ; ay, or speak 
 thou to the inward world of the heart, 
 with all its strifes, its sinkings, its mis- 
 givings, its remembrances, its strange 
 visitings of long gone thoughts, 
 
 "Touching the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
 bound," 
 
 and none of these can answer us; we 
 call as vainly upon them as the priests of 
 Baal upon their god. There is shadow 
 and mystery upon all the creation till 
 we see God in it; there is trouble and 
 fear till we see God's love in it. 
 
 But give me that assurance, and 
 though there are many things which I 
 know not, many things which I can- 
 not explain nor understand, yet I can 
 consent not to know them. Enough, 
 enough to know that God is good, and 
 what he does is right. This known, 
 and the works of creation, the changes 
 of life, the destinies of eternity, are all 
 spread before us as the dispensations 
 and counsels of infinite love. This 
 known, and then we know that the love 
 of God is working to issues, like itself 
 beyond all thought and imagination, good 
 and glorious ; and that the only reason 
 why we understand it not, is that it is 
 too glorious for us to understand. This 
 known: and what then do we say ? God's 
 love taketh care for all, nothing is neg- 
 lected : God's love watcheth over all, 
 provideth for all, maketh wise adapta- 
 tions for all ; for age, for infancy, for 
 maturity, for childhood, in every scene 
 of this or another life ; for want, for 
 weakness, for joy, and for sorrow, and 
 even for sin ; so that even the wrath of 
 man shall praise the goodness of God. 
 All is good; all is well; all is right ; and 
 
 shall be forever. This, oh ! this is an 
 inheritance, and a refuge, and aiest for 
 the mind, from which the convulsions of 
 worlds cannot shake it. 
 
 In what an aspect does this convic- 
 tion present the scenes of eternity ? 
 We are placed here in a state of imper- 
 fection and trial, and much that seems 
 like mystery and mischance. But what 
 shall the future be, if the light of God's 
 goodness is to shine through its ages ? 
 I answer, it shall be all briglit disclosure, 
 full consummation, blessed recompense. 
 We shall doubtless see, what we can 
 now only believe. The cloud will be 
 lifted up, and will unveil — eternity ! 
 And what an eternity ! All brightness ; 
 all beatitude ; one unclouded vision ; 
 one immeasurable progress ! The gate 
 of mystery shall be past, and the 
 full light shall shine forever. Blessed 
 change ! That which caused us trial, 
 shall yield us triumph. That which was 
 the deeper darkness, shall be but the 
 brighter light. That which made the 
 heart ache, shall fill it with gladness. 
 Tears shall be wiped away, and beam- 
 ings of joy shall come in their place. 
 He who tried the soul that he loved, 
 shall more abundantly comfort the soul 
 that he approves. That God, who has 
 walked in the mysterious way, with 
 clouds and darkness around aliout him, 
 will then appear as the great Revealer : 
 and he will reveal what the eye hath 
 not seen, nor the ear heard, nor the 
 heart conceived. 
 
 Let me insist, in close, as I did in the 
 beginning, upon the necessity of this 
 affectionate trust in God. We cannot 
 live as reasonable beings upon any con- 
 viction less lofty, less divine, less heart- 
 felt than this. This is not a matter of 
 will ; it is a matter of necessity. Our 
 minds cannot have a full and, at the 
 same time, safe development ; reflection 
 and feeling cannot safely grow in us, un- 
 less they are guided, relieved, and sus- 
 tained by the contemplations of piety. . 
 The fresh and unworn sensibility of 
 youth may hold on for a while, and 
 may keep its fountain clear and bright ; 
 
SENTIMENTS AND PRINCIPLES. 
 
 219 
 
 but by and by changes will come on ; 
 affliction will lay its chastening hand 
 upon us ; disappointment will settle, 
 like a chilling damp, upon the spirits ,- 
 the mind will be discouraged, if there is 
 nothing but earthly hope to cheer it on; 
 the reasonings of misanthropy and the 
 misgivings of scepticism will steal into 
 it and blight its generous affections; 
 morbid sensitiveness will take the place 
 of healthful feeling ; all this will natu- 
 rally come on, with the growing expe- 
 rience of life, if the love of God be not 
 our support and safeguard. Every mind 
 may not be conscious of this tendency, 
 but every mind that thinks much and 
 feels deeply will be conscious of it, and 
 will feel it bitterly. Your body may 
 live on ; but your soul, in its full devel- 
 opment, in its deep wants, in its "strong 
 hour " of trial and of reflection, must 
 pine, and perish, and die, without this 
 holy trust. Let it not so perish. Crea- 
 ture of God's love ! believe in that 
 love which gave thee being. Believe in 
 that love which every moment redeems 
 thee from death, and offers to redeem 
 thee from the death eternal. Believe in 
 God's love, and be wise, be patient, be 
 comforted, be cheerful and happy — be 
 happy in time ; be happy in eternity ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SEN- 
 TIMENTS AND PRINCIPLES. 
 
 2 Samuel xii. 5,7 : " And David's anger was greatly 
 kindled against the man, and he said to Nathan, As 
 tlie Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing 
 slial! snrely die. And Nathan said to David, Thou art 
 the man ! " 
 
 The circumstances attending this 
 celebrated reproof require a brief no- 
 tice, in order to unfold the instruction 
 which it conveys to us. Tlie charm, I 
 may observe, of these old Bible stories 
 is, that tliey are always records of the 
 heart. Kings are but men, and palaces 
 but common dwellings, beneath that eye 
 that looks through all human disguises. 
 
 The robe of sanctity itself does not hide 
 the defects that lurk beneath it. Priest 
 or patriarch, seer or saint, though the 
 man be, yet the Bible will have us see 
 him as he is. 
 
 When we consider what David was in 
 station, and repute, and actual piety; 
 the King of Israel ; " the man after 
 God's own heart ; " the writer of holy 
 psalms which are sung in all Christian 
 nations to this day ; what is it, we are 
 ready to exclaim, that we read here ? 
 Why is it that this man stands as a 
 trembling culprit before the searching 
 eye of a prophet of his people ? Alas ! 
 David, at this period of his life, was a 
 fallen man. That which every good man 
 should fear, had overtaken him ; he had 
 fallen ! He had been guilty of deeds 
 contrary to all his better thoughts. He 
 had been guilty of crimes ; of crimes 
 which fell nothing short of actual mur- 
 der ; and murder committed with the 
 most hateful intent and the most horri- 
 ble deception. 
 
 For, observe what was done, in that 
 ancient Hebrew court and kingdom. 
 To possess the wife of Uriah, David 
 wishes to rid himself of her husband, 
 a devoted servant and a valiant warrior 
 in his armies. And what now, think 
 you, is the method he adopts to gain his 
 purpose ? He sends a letter by this same 
 faithful servant, as if he would do him 
 honor; he sends a letter by him to the 
 captain of the host ; and methinks the 
 cheek of the hardened and unscrupulous 
 Joab must have turned pale as he read 
 the words, " Set Uriah in the fore-front 
 of the hottest battle, and retire from him 
 that he may be smitten and die ! " The 
 cruel mandate is obeyed ; and the man 
 who for his sovereign had bared his 
 breast to the shock of battle where it 
 raged the fiercest, falls a victim, not to 
 the ordinary fate of war, but to the per- 
 fidy of the very master whom he served ! 
 The unhallowed design is accomplished ; 
 the object of guilty passion is obtained : 
 T)3.v\d possesses the wife of Uriah ! 
 
 But although conscience slept in the 
 bosom of the king, it was not to sleep 
 
220 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 there forever. Time passed on ; but 
 time that bears in its bosom the burden 
 of guilt is hke no other time; heavy, 
 dark, portentous. To the listening ear of 
 the conscience-stricken man something 
 seems to be coming, he knows not what, 
 some voice will break forth — he knows 
 not where. And a voice was soon to 
 fall on David's ear that should change 
 the whole complexion of his guilty deed. 
 For now in this awful crisis must not 
 the prophet of God be idle. There is a 
 stir in that world of conscience that sur- 
 rounds the guilty king, of which he thinks 
 not. Footsteps are heard approaching 
 the royal apartments ; steps heavy and 
 perhaps reluctant, but monitory and 
 determined as the steps of Judgment. 
 " And the Lord," says the sacred record, 
 "sent Nathan unto David." 
 
 Let us observe the manner of his 
 proceeding. For it would be difficult 
 to select a more beautiful example of 
 ingenuity and fidelity united, than ap- 
 peared in the address of the prophet 
 on this trying occasion. He begins 
 with a parable ; yet a parable drawn 
 with such masterly skill, that it has to 
 the king all the appearance of reality. 
 " There were two men in a city ; the 
 one rich, the other poor. The rich 
 man had exceeding many flocks and 
 herds ; but the poor man," says this 
 simple and beautiful parable, " had 
 nothing, save one little ewe lamb, which 
 he had bought and nourished up ; and 
 it grew up together with him and his 
 children ; it did eat of his own meat, 
 and drank of his own cup, and was 
 cherished in his bosom, and was unto 
 him as a daughter:" a familiar and 
 striking description of the affection 
 which a whole household often feels for 
 a cosset, or pet animal, that is brought 
 up at the farm-house door. " And there 
 came a traveller unto the rich man, and 
 he spared to take of his own flock and 
 of his own herd, but took the poor 
 man's lamb, and dressed it for the way- 
 faring man that was come unto him." 
 Imagine now the grief of this poor fam- 
 ily, as the cherished lamb is torn from 
 
 their little enclosure and slaughtered 
 before their eyes, and you have the 
 whole picture which the prophet drew. 
 It is a tale of humble, rural life indeed; 
 but the royal justice is awakened and 
 bursts out into strong indignation. " As 
 the Lord liveth," says David — it is the 
 form of a Jewish oath ; — as if lie had 
 said, " By the justice of the living God, 
 the man that hath done this thing shall 
 surely die." Oh ! then, with what eye 
 was it, think you, that tlie fearless 
 prophet looked into the very soul of his 
 poor blinded master and said, " Thou 
 art the man ! " I remember a picture 
 of this scene, drawn by a master's hand. 
 The prophet stands erect before the 
 throned monarch, with pointed finger 
 and an eye sad, but fixed and searcli- 
 ing; and the majesty of an earthly king- 
 dom cowers and shrinks away before 
 the majesty of virtue ! 
 
 We naturally ask how such a rebuke 
 could have been received: and we are 
 not only told that David said at the 
 time, " I have sinned against the Lord," 
 but we are referred also to that un- 
 equalled penitential psalm, the 51st, 
 which Jewish tradition has assigned to 
 this period of David's life. 
 
 But the observation to which I wish 
 now to draw your particular attention is 
 this : that the man who felt all this 
 indignation at a certain act of baseness 
 and injustice was the very man that did 
 it ; or, to speak more accurately, who 
 did the far worse act which was but 
 shadowed forth in the parable. David 
 abhorred a simple act of oppression. 
 Of what was he guilty .-" Of oppression, 
 treachery, adultery, murder, — all con- 
 summated in one single tissue of crimes. 
 His anger was greatly kindled against 
 a certain supposed offender ; he was 
 even religious in his abhorrence ; "As 
 the Lord liveth," is his declaration, 
 " the man that hath done this thing 
 shall surely die;" and yet — and yet, 
 David was the man who did it ! 
 
 This is the point, then, to which I 
 wish to bring your meditations ; the 
 difference, that is to say, between sen- 
 
SENTIMENTS AND PRINCITLES. 
 
 221 
 
 timents and principles. Let me attempt, 
 first to define, next to illustrate it ; and, 
 finally, to consider tlie decision to which 
 it nuist bring each mind with regard to 
 itself. 
 
 I. There are two kinds of religion in 
 the world ; and all other religious dif- 
 ferences are trifling compared with this. 
 There is a religion of imagination, and 
 there is a religion of reality. There is 
 an ideal and an actual religion ; a re- 
 ligion of the head, and a religion of 
 the heart. Or, to speak more exactly, 
 there is a religion which is occasionally 
 and transiently felt in the heart, but 
 which does not constitute the character 
 of a man : and there is a religion which 
 dwells there habitually, and is the pre- 
 dominating disposition and mind of the 
 man. This is the difference between 
 sentiments and principles. Sentiments 
 are temporary impressions of goodness 
 and virtue ; principles are abiding and 
 controlling impressions of goodness and 
 virtue. Sentiments are general and in- 
 voluntary ; they do not rise to the char- 
 acter of virtue ; a man can scarcely help 
 sometimes feeling them: they spring 
 from the act of God's creation like 
 bladed grass or opening flowers; and 
 this is one sense in which God works 
 within us, though I believe devoutly 
 that he puts forth interpositions also, 
 for our times and seasons of need. 
 Principles, on the other hand, are per- 
 sonal, intentional, particular : they are 
 brought home to the heart ; they are 
 acted out in the life ; they are our own 
 act; they are the very form of that act, 
 through which, God helping, we work 
 out our own salvation. We could do 
 nothing without the help of God ; but 
 that supposed, we have a work to do ; 
 and it is the very work of virtue, the 
 very work of our salvation. Now it is 
 precisely short of this point, I fear, that 
 most men stop. They have sentiments, 
 but not principles. This is, for us at 
 the present day, the very point of con- 
 version. To pass over from sentiments 
 to principles is the very process of con- 
 version. We are not utterly bad ; we 
 
 have some good feelings, some occa- 
 sional religious emotions ; but in the 
 eye of the Gospel, many of us fall short 
 utterly, fatally. And when I utter this 
 solemn word, fatally, I am not pro- 
 nouncing some mere arbitrary pulpit 
 decision ; I am declaring the very laws 
 of our nature. For without something 
 more than sentiments, without princi- 
 ples of goodness and piety, we are not 
 prepared to be happy here or hereafter. 
 Happiness lies deeper than sentiments. 
 In short, it is but the old story of human 
 deficiency : we approve the right, but 
 pursue the wrong. We may be bad 
 men, with all our transient good feel- 
 ings. When David said, "As the Lord 
 liveth, the man that hath done this thing 
 shall surely die ! " that was an honest 
 burst of indignation at wrong; and yet, 
 at this very moment, he was in the 
 commission of that very wrong; nay, 
 of a far worse than that. You see, 
 then, that although our discrimination 
 is drawn from the unusual sphere of a 
 monarch's life, it strikes far and wide 
 and deep ; it strikes, in fact, at the 
 great religious defect of the world I I 
 solemnly believe that no point could 
 be put forward for the consideration of, 
 a religious audience, more vital, more 
 momentous, than this. 
 
 II. Let us now endeavor to illustrate it. 
 
 The instance which is presented in the 
 life of David is not the only one to be 
 found, of a total contradiction between 
 a man's general sentiments and his par- 
 ticular conduct. We see the same thing 
 around us every day. Who abets injus- 
 tice, fraud, oppression, covetousness, re- 
 venge, envy, or slander ? Not one. But 
 are there no such things in the world .'' 
 Are there not many to be found who 
 are guilty of these things ? Ay, guilty of 
 these very things. And yet, I tliink, I 
 could speak a parable upon any one of 
 these vices ; I could set forth in a story 
 the wickedness of injustice, or the cru- 
 elty of oppression, or the baseness of 
 slander, or the miseries inflicted by unbri- 
 dled indulgence ; I could set before you 
 the injured and ruined victims of wrong ; 
 
222 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 I could make you hear the cry of their 
 distress ; yes, I could speak a parable at 
 which the anger of every hearer should 
 be greatly kindled ; and yet to how many 
 of these same hearers might I turn with 
 the home-put rebuke of the prophet, and, 
 even in the midst of his loudest excla- 
 mation, say to him, " Stop, good friend ! 
 hold back a little the edge of thy re- 
 proach ; spare thyself a litde ; thou art 
 the very man ! " " What, I ? " — might 
 be his exclamation. Yes, thou. Thou art 
 thyself in some relation unjust, or oppres- 
 sive, or envious, or indulgent to thyself, 
 or a careless talker of others. " There- 
 fore, thou art inexcusable, O man, who- 
 soever thou art that judgest," says St. 
 Paul ; "for wherein thou judgest another, 
 thou condemnest thyself: for thou that 
 judgest, doest the same things." 
 
 I believe, as we extend our observa- 
 tion of life, that we shall find it less and 
 less safe to rely upon men's general sen- 
 timents and general conversation. More 
 and more do we demand to know, not 
 what they say, but what they do. It is 
 amazing to see how some men can talk 
 of virtue and a virtuous parentage, whose 
 life denies both. I have been struck 
 sometimes with observing what a mar- 
 vellous facility some bad men have of 
 quoting Scripture. It seems to comfort 
 their evil consciences to use good words, 
 and to gloze over bad deeds with holy 
 texts, wrested to their purpose. Nay, 
 there are not wanting instances where 
 the more a man talks about the Bible 
 the less he feels it; the more he talks 
 about virtue, the less he has of it ; and 
 you may sometimes discover the very 
 point of his deficiency by the extraordi- 
 nary strength of his language about that 
 very thing. Out of the abundance of 
 the heart, it is true, the mouth speaketh ; 
 but it sometimes speaks the very con- 
 trary of what the man practises. When 
 you are talking in general about religion 
 and virtue, and find your neighbor ever 
 drawing the conversation to a certain 
 point, mark that point ; it may be that 
 he would make amends for some fault 
 there, or he would spread out some 
 
 flimsy veil of words, some subtle distinc- 
 tions to shield his faults ; or his guilty 
 consciousness draws him to it with a 
 kind of strange fascination. When you 
 find a person very suspicious of others 
 in some respects, look to it whether he 
 be not an offender there. So the moment 
 of a man's departure from his old faith 
 is often signalized by the most violent 
 struggles and the loudest protests against 
 heresy. And so a man may express the 
 strongest disgust at sin, at self-indul- 
 gence, at sensuality in all its forms : 
 nay, and in a sense he may feel such 
 disgust ; and yet in some points he may 
 be, — secretly if not openly, in a less 
 measure if not in a greater, in one form 
 if not in another, in imagination if not in 
 act, in food if not in drink, in opium if 
 not in alcohol, in indolence if not in pas- 
 sion, — he may be a vicious man and a 
 sensualist. 
 
 It is this contrariety which is often 
 witnessed between what is felt at church 
 and what is done abroad in the world. 
 Virtue and vice, in the ordinary sense of 
 those terms, must, in this place, be mere 
 matters of reflection and feeling. There 
 is no opportunity for the practice of 
 either. Men yield to the argument 
 here, with most undesirable facility and 
 readiness, because nothing is to follow. 
 Nay, it is very easy and very safe, while 
 at church, to feel upon these matters. 
 And a man shall to-day be rapt in ad- 
 miration of the noble and lovely virtues 
 of Christianity, and yet to-morrow shall 
 find him so different a man that he shall 
 scarce know himself. When the sun 
 shall rise again, that is to light him forth 
 to his earthly pursuits, when the atmos- 
 phere of worldly gains and competitions 
 grows warm about him, when the fervid 
 courses of unlawful pleasure again bring 
 on the fever of the passions, all his fine 
 emotions, alas ! about virtue, all his gen- 
 erous abhorrence of selfishness and sen- 
 sual crime, shall be as the morning cloud 
 that passeth away. That cloud may be 
 tinged with colors of gold. It may be 
 bright and beautiful, like the fine sen- 
 timents that we entertain about virtue. 
 
SENTIMENTS AND PRINCIPLES. 
 
 223 
 
 What do they avail, so long as they dwell 
 in the airy regions of the imagination ? 
 We walk not on the cloud, but in the rug- 
 ged path, where nothing but principles 
 can sustain and bear us onward. I do 
 not say that such emotions as I have de- 
 scribed are necessarily false or fictitious. 
 Nay, they may be quite sincere and real 
 for the time ; and this only increases the 
 danger. A man may be really interested 
 in religion in a certain way, while he is 
 seriously, fatally, deficient in virtue. I 
 have known, perhaps you all have known, 
 instances of this, which are enough to 
 overwhelm one with astonishment and 
 dismay. It is common to resolve such 
 cases into blank hypocrisy; but such, 
 I confess, is not always my solution. 
 Men have I known who have prayed most 
 fervently, and I could not doubt most 
 sincerely ; and yet who have constantly 
 been guilty of things, so bad and base, 
 or so ungenerous and unrighteous, that 
 robbery and murder, the crimes that fill 
 the dockets of your criminal courts, 
 could scarcely be more heinous ! What 
 an awful example of this is held up to us 
 in the passage of Scripture history from 
 which I am discoursing! That the writer 
 of the psalms, — the most perfect devo- 
 tional compositions, inspiration apart, 
 that the world ever saw ; compositions 
 which, considering the age in which they 
 appeared, prove their own inspiration, — 
 that the writer of the psalms could have 
 been the seducer of Bathsheba, and the 
 murderer of her husband, is a fact that 
 may well put every man upon his guard ! 
 And indeed such is the inconsistency, 
 and waywardness, and self-deception of 
 the human heart, that I am tempted to 
 think it is scarcely too much to say that 
 a man may be quite a good man, or what 
 the world calls quite a good sort of man 
 in general, and yet a very bad man in 
 particular ; a good sort of man at church, 
 and yet a bad man in the world ; or a 
 good sort of a man in public, and yet a 
 bad man in his family ; or a good sort of 
 man at home and on common days, but 
 a very bad man on holidays, or a very 
 bad man when he is on a journey, or a 
 
 very bad man when he goeth to a strange 
 city ! And in how low a measure, in how 
 doubtful a character, in what a dishon- 
 oring comparison, is he a good man, who 
 is bad just when occasion offers or op- 
 portunity permits ! He is not a good man 
 at all ! 
 
 At the risk of wearying you with mul- 
 tiplicity of illustration, I must invite your 
 attention to another contrast; for the 
 point is one of the most vital importance. 
 And that is the contrast, not between the 
 general feeling and the particular conduct, 
 but between the general and the partic- 
 ular feeling. For we must go further, 
 and say, that while a man's general feel- 
 ing about abstract rectitude may be very 
 correct, his particular feeling about the 
 specific qualities that constitute recti- 
 tude, or the specific actions that it re- 
 quires of him, may be decidedly wrong. 
 
 Have we never heard one say tiiat he 
 wished he were a Christian, that he de- 
 sired to be a good man .'' But, now do 
 you take some pertinent occasion to re- 
 mind him that goodness requires him 
 to resist a certain passion, to sacrifice a 
 certain indulgence, to control his appe- 
 tite at a feast, or to keep his temper in a 
 dispute : and then he will find that he 
 does not wish to be good. Thus it was 
 with the young man in the Gospel, who 
 came to our Saviour to be instructed. 
 So amiable and good did he appear, that 
 Jesus, when he looked upon him, loved 
 him. And yet, when he put that fair- 
 seeming youth to the test, he was found 
 utterly wanting. " Sell all that thou hast," 
 he said, " and give to the poor, and come, 
 follow me." When he heard that saying 
 he was very sorrowful, for he was very 
 rich. He could do many things : but he 
 could not do that. Jesus at a distance 
 seemed an attractive person, but he 
 found it different when he came to under- 
 stand him. Ah! how beautiful upon the 
 ffiountains are the feet of them that 
 " preach good tidings " ; they are glori- 
 ous forms as they stand on high, invest- 
 ed with the hues of distant scenery and 
 clothed with the radiance of heaven ; 
 but let them come down, the plain and 
 
224 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 humble preachers of a cross, of self- 
 renunciation, and then we find that they 
 wear a rough garb and a stern face, and 
 we like them not. No, we do not under- 
 stand our Gospel when we merely admire 
 it. Religion, a man says, is a good thing, 
 and the Gospel is glad tidings, and the 
 name of the Saviour is a gracious name, 
 and he wonders that anybody can say 
 that the human heart dislikes them ; but 
 let the Gospel say to him, as it said to 
 Herod, " Thou must not have this wo- 
 man ; or thou must not have this cup of 
 intoxication ; or thou must not have 
 this property which thou hast unjustly 
 got ; " and then he is ready to hate it for 
 its interference with his pursuits and 
 pleasures. Yes, the Gospel is then a 
 different thing ; no longer a speculative, 
 but an experimental thing ; no longer 
 a sentimental, but a practical thing ; no 
 longer a lovely and a lulling song, of one 
 that "hath a pleasant voice and can play 
 well upon an instrument," but a harsh 
 sound, and a word of rebuke, and a stone 
 of stumbling, and a rock of offence. 
 So was it predicted of our Saviour, our 
 embodied religion ; so did he foresee 
 that he would be regarded ; so was he 
 regarded ; and why ? Because, unlike 
 the celebrated teachers of antiquity, he 
 penetrated beyond the regions of vague 
 sentiment, — beyond the regions where 
 moralizers and philosophers had wo- 
 ven their fine theories and spread out 
 their beautiful maxims, — penetrated, I 
 say, to the depths of the heart, brought 
 out its hidden iniquities, arraigned the 
 cherished prejudices and darling passions 
 of the very age and country, and of the 
 very people amidst whom he livfed. 
 Therefore were they angry with him in 
 tlie sanctuary, were ready to stone him in 
 the street, hurried him to the brow of a 
 precipice to cast him down, and finally 
 bore him as a victim to the awful mount 
 of Calvary. Yes, Calvary bears eternal 
 witness to the sacrifice of one whom men 
 crucified, because, not content with de- 
 livering to them fine sentiments, he told 
 them the cutting, keen-piercing, anger- 
 provoking truth. 
 
 It is a tremendous thing to consider, 
 that out of the bosom of a world of fine 
 sentiments such passions can spring. 
 Had any one stood up in the synagogue 
 at Jerusalem, the Sunday before the 
 Crucifixion, and discoursed eloquently 
 on the beauties of virtue — of gentleness, 
 candor, and loving kindness — the peo- 
 ple would have heard him with pleasure ; 
 the preacher would have been admired. 
 On the Friday following, they hurried 
 the living representative of all these vir- 
 tues to death — to the ignominious death 
 of the cross ! 
 
 But the world is not essentially 
 changed. That Jewish province is not, 
 as we are wont to consider it, cut off 
 from the great world of humanity. The 
 same world now lives and breathes 
 around us; a world of fine sentiments 
 and foul practices, of good maxims and 
 bad deeds ; a world whose darker pas- 
 sions are not only restrained by custom 
 and ceremony, but, strange to say, veiled 
 over even from itself, by beautiful senti- 
 ments. I see this terrible solecism every- 
 where. I have seen it in Romish sen- 
 timentalism, covering infidelity and vice ; 
 in Protestant substitution, lauding spirit- 
 uality and faith, and neglecting homely 
 truth and candor and generosity ; in 
 ultra-liberal refinement, mounting to 
 heaven in its dreams and wallowing 
 amidst the mire of earth in its deeds. I 
 see it in literature. Bad men and wo- 
 men can write good books — i. e. books 
 in which virtue is praised Nay, so 
 excellent is public sentiment that they 
 dare not write any other. And suppose 
 a book of a different character to be 
 written. Suppose that a book were 
 written in praise of sin — i. e. in evident 
 and unblushing praise of it Wh)', the 
 worst man among us would abhor the 
 book — would throw it down in disgust. 
 Find a man that is dishonest, and show 
 him a book right heartily employed upon 
 teaching men how to deceive and de- 
 fraud, and he could not bear it. Find 
 a cruel man — one who is every day say- 
 ing and doing unkind, hard, and bitter 
 things — and show him this character 
 
SENTIMENTS AND PRINCIPLES. 
 
 225 
 
 spread out and eulogized in a hoolv, and 
 he could not suppress his indignation 
 at it; his feelings would break out into 
 speech ; he would say it was a monstrous 
 book. And yet some weak sufferer by 
 his side, whose gentle and tender spirit 
 was every day wounded by his violence 
 or his satire, might turn to him aston- 
 ished, and say, "It is thou! — it is 
 thou ! " Find the grossest sensualist, 
 and open to him a work like some of 
 the late French fictions, over whose 
 pages is drawn the slime of every sen- 
 sual vice, and drawn as if to paint and 
 illuminate the page ; and with an air of 
 horror he would exclaim that it was a 
 work of the most shameless profligacy 
 that ever was seen. And yet some 
 companion in evil might turn to him 
 and say : " Why, I am surprised at this ; 
 I thought you would like this book. 
 Why, thou art the very man ! " 
 
 Well, it is fortunate, no doubt, that 
 this sentiment lives; it is well that it is 
 not dead and cannot easily die. But let 
 us not mistake it for something better 
 than it is ; let us not be deceived by it ; 
 that is the only point about which I am 
 anxious. Let us see and settle it with 
 ourselves, that there may be a world of 
 religious sentiment, and yet a world 
 of little or no religion. The religious 
 state of many minds, we must believe, 
 alas ! is no better than this ; there is a 
 vague and general sentiment of religion 
 'n them, but no particular devotion, no 
 habitual piety. Religion plays about 
 their minds, like the brilliant but cold 
 lights that sometimes flash across the 
 northern sky. There are occasional 
 splendors of thought about the man, 
 md rich gleams of fancy, and transient 
 corruscations that kindle the whole 
 heaven of his imagination ; but no vital 
 warmth penetrates the heart ; all is 
 cold and sterile there as the regions of 
 the northern pole. He does nothing; 
 he gains no victories over himself ; he 
 makes no progress ; he is just where he 
 was years ago; there is nothing about 
 his cultivation of religion, determined 
 and resolute and regular, like his culti- 
 
 vation of anything else — his estate, his 
 profession, his knowledge. His relig- 
 ion, the grand interest of his being, he 
 leaves to take its chance in general and 
 inefficient sentiment. 
 
 III. The defect is fatal ; and it is this 
 that I would insist upon for a moment 
 in close : that no religion meets the Gos- 
 pel demand, or the demand of our own 
 nature for happiness, but that which 
 passes from sentiment into principle. 
 
 TJie notions of religion that are float- 
 ing loosely upon the mass of society 
 have indeed their uses. They bless 
 society as a mass. So excellent a thing 
 is religion that it can touch nothing 
 which it does not in some respect bene- 
 fit; that, even when it floats upon the 
 surface, it is like a holy oil that tames 
 down, to a certain extent, the waves of 
 passion that are sweHing beneath. But, 
 my brethren, when I look into those 
 deep waters beneath, when I look into 
 the awful depths of a human heart, I 
 see the need of a power that shall pene- 
 trate to the very abysses of that ocean 
 to which human nature may well be 
 compared. To send down light, tran- 
 quillity, purity, into those deeps of the 
 soul — no breeze upon the surface, nor 
 brightening smile upon the face of life, 
 can do that. That smile is lovely, that 
 breeze js refreshing; but deep, oh ! deep 
 down in the heart must stir the wrest- 
 ling energies, the profound movements, 
 that will sway it to virtue and happiness. 
 It is no vague sentimentalism that will 
 save a man, but it must be a work, and 
 a care, and a watching, and a striving, 
 that will save him. 
 
 Take the question for a moment out 
 of the province of religion. Does an ad- 
 miration for the fine arts make any one 
 an artist? Do just sentiments about 
 trade make any one a merchant? Do 
 general maxims about industry make 
 any one an industrious man ? 
 
 We do not understand the supreme, 
 the unutterable interest embraced in re- 
 ligion, when we think to give less to it 
 than our whole heart. We do not un- 
 derstand our nature, when we think to 
 
226 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 shuffle off its stupendous charge as most 
 men do. No interest on earth can so 
 ill brook our levity or negligence. What 
 is the matter with life but this ? Why 
 is it that so many, and so many who 
 consider themselves quite good Chris- 
 tians too, are living such a poor, lame, 
 halting life ; so ill-adjusted to the scene 
 around them, so unhappy amidst crav- 
 ing wants, and disturbing passions, and 
 pains of self-reproach, but because they 
 will not give their whole hearts to truth 
 and purity, to goodness and to God? 
 
 I think, too, that there must be spe- 
 cial meditations and special resolves in 
 this matter. I say not in what form : 
 but the things must be. We want re- 
 ligion, indeed, to flow through the whole 
 of life ; but it must have fountains and 
 supplies, or it cannot flow on : it must 
 have these, or it will be lost in the 
 sands of vague and barren abstraction. 
 In the vast and desolate wastes of Africa, 
 travellers tell us of certain spectral illu- 
 sion — the mirage of the desert — which 
 spreads before them beautiful visions 
 of fertility and verdure, that cheat the 
 eye and rob the heart. Such, alas I are 
 piety and goodness to many a moral 
 traveller. They are but visions ; ever 
 in the distance ; never approached, 
 never made realities. The fertility and 
 verdure of a fruitful and beautiful piety 
 are never seen in them ; and they never 
 reach the land of that better life which 
 they are forever going to lead. There, 
 before them, is the gushing fountain, 
 the cooling shade, the peaceful repose ; 
 but they never reach it. In the bar- 
 ren waste of an unfaithful life they 
 die, and never set foot on the promised 
 land ! 
 
 What a sad result, alas ! of so many 
 good sentiments, of so many good 
 thoughts, of so many enthusiastic 
 dreams of good, of so many solemn 
 protests against evil ! When Hazael 
 said, with indignant protestation, "But 
 what ! is thy servant a dog, that he 
 should do this thing ? " we read, and 
 it is one of those touching traits of 
 
 which the Bible is so full, that the man 
 of God looked upon him and wept. 
 And well might he weep. Well might 
 any man weep, if he will ever weep over 
 anything, at this sad contradiction in the 
 lives of many. What a mournful thing 
 it is, indeed, to contemplate — nothing 
 on earth so mournful : on the one hand, 
 sentiments noble, powers divine, a na- 
 ture formed for immortal glory, and 
 a preparation of means infinite as the 
 grace of heaven ; life given, and a 
 Saviour dying to redeem ! — and on the 
 other hand, utter failure of the end, life 
 spent in vain, the burial of the soul in 
 sense and worldliness ; existence, as 
 to all spiritual purposes, a blank ; the 
 grand opportunity a defeat ; the season 
 gone, the harvest past, the summer 
 ended, and the soul not saved ! 
 
 If we would not have it so, permit 
 me to make one suggestion in close. 
 And permit me, too, to make it a word 
 of exhortation. It is this. If any one 
 here has a good feeling, let him go and 
 do something; let him do some good 
 thing. If your minds are at any time 
 impressed with the contemplation of 
 any virtue — be it prayer or watchful- 
 ness, or disinterestedness, or brotherly 
 love, or the greatness and sanctity of a 
 holy life — see that you immediately set 
 about putting it in practice. Be sure 
 that the occasion will soon enough come, 
 if you will only watch for it. Thus 
 fix and embody vague sentiment in dis- 
 tinct action. Thus let every week's 
 practice carry out each Sunday's medi- 
 tation. The preaching of angels will 
 do you no good without this ! So only 
 can your Sabbaths help your week-days. 
 So only can you make any day safe. 
 You may say and think what you will, 
 to-day; your meditations, I had almost 
 said, may be lofty enough to be food for 
 angels ; your minds may be enraptured 
 with themes that are divine ; your hearts 
 may melt in the tenderness of their 
 religious emotions ; but if you carry no 
 holy thoughts with you into the scenes 
 of business and care and temptation, tc^' 
 
THE CROWN OF VIRTUE. 
 
 227 
 
 morrow you may fall ! — you may find 
 the precipice of ruin to be but one step 
 from tiie mount of meditation ! 
 
 That which our present meditation 
 demands of us, is the universal doing 
 of what we feel to be right. It is to 
 substitute doing, for our idle dreaming 
 of right. It is to break up this eternal 
 contradiction between our sentiments 
 and principles. It is upon this that 
 our Saviour ever laid the chief stress. 
 Doing, doing, is ever the burden of his 
 exhortation. " He that heareth my 
 sayings, and doeth them" — is his con- 
 stant language. As if he had known 
 that men would admire the beauty of 
 ' his character, and would be liable to 
 stop there, ever does he press them to 
 this point. 
 
 That which the present moment de- 
 mands of us is a solemn determination 
 so to do. Will you make it ? Pardon 
 this directness ; I would use no im- 
 proper freedom with you. I speak with 
 deep respect to the mind, to the great 
 nature that is capable of such a deter- 
 mination. Will you make it ? I would 
 press this question in no stern or re- 
 pulsive manner. It is the most glorious 
 determination that can be made on earth 
 or in heaven. IVi/l you make it 1 
 
 You will ; may I not say so ? You 
 will — you must. Good life, happy 
 death, joy of heaven, blessed eternity, 
 hangs upon the decision ! — yes, hangs, 
 it may be, upon the very decision that 
 you shall form this day! For it is only 
 going on and on in the same way, with- 
 out any such decision, that leads men 
 to perdition : that leads them to the 
 failure of all high and sacred piety and 
 virtue. Avoid it; I vncst press this 
 point upon your consideration : avoid 
 that way as you value your soul. In 
 the name of reason, in God's name, set 
 about the work of your salvation imme- 
 diately. " Whatsoever thy hand findeth 
 to do, do it quickly ; for there is no 
 work, nor device, nor knowledge, in the 
 grave whither thou goest." 
 
 IX. 
 THE CROWN OF VIRTUE. 
 
 Revelation ii. lo : " Be thou faithful unto death, 
 and I will give thee a crown of life." 
 
 The image which is here employed 
 to set forth the reward of Christian fidel- 
 ity, is a crown. Now a crown is tiie 
 symbol of the highest distinction. It is 
 tins circumstance that draws my atten- 
 tion in the passage of Scripture before 
 us. For it is the crown of virtue, its 
 unrivalled distinction, that I propose to 
 you, Christian brethren, as the subject 
 of this our present meditation. 
 
 And this idea of the grandeur of 
 Christian virtue, let me observe — lest 
 any one should think that it oflTends 
 against the humility of tlie Gospel — is 
 frequently introduced in the New Tes- 
 tament. Our Saviour says in his last 
 prayer, " Father, the hour is come ; glo- 
 rify thy son, that thy son also may 
 glorify thee." He desires to be vindi- 
 cated ; he desires to be honored ; and 
 this, that virtue, that Divinity, may be 
 honored. Our text speaks of a crown. 
 It is a familiar word in the Scriptures. 
 It is frequently used to set forth the 
 glory of virtue. We constantly hear of 
 "a crown of righteousness, a crown of 
 glory, an incorruptible crown." Often 
 and emphatically is the very lowliest 
 of the virtues, humility, represented as 
 exalting its possessor to the highest 
 honor. This feeling of the dignity of 
 goodness, of the grandeur of the Chris- 
 tian character, I may here observe, es- 
 pecially marks the writings of Paul. 
 Goodness is always, in his conception, 
 something magnificent, Godlike, glo- 
 rious. When he says. " Wliom he pre- 
 destinated, them he also called, and 
 whom he called, them he also justified," 
 he cannot stop, without adding, '• whom 
 he justified, them he also glorified. " 
 This idea of Christian virtue was pressed 
 out into bolder prominence in his mind, 
 perhaps, because he knew that the great 
 and wise of this world looked down 
 upon him with scorn. Paul, as a man 
 
228 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 of learning and genius, might justly 
 compare himself with the distinguished 
 men of his time ; and he was the more 
 likely to be moved by their judgment ; 
 and he knew that that judgment was 
 contemptuous. Therefore, glorying — 
 not submitting to the reproach — was a 
 very characteristic bias of his mind. " I 
 glory," he says, " in tribulation ; " I glory 
 in the evil name and hard fortune that 
 you despise. Paul was a true and mag- 
 nanimous devotee to the only true worth ; 
 and sanctity, in the dust, was more mag- 
 nificent, in his eyes, than the throne of 
 the world. He calls upon the Christians 
 to think humbly, indeed, but yet to think 
 loftily of themselves. He tells them 
 that they are " the temples of God, sons 
 of God, partakers of the Divine nature." 
 And when he is speaking of his own 
 noble strife after perfection, observe 
 how his thoughts ascend to the highest 
 climax. " I press forward," he says — it 
 is an onward and an upward course — 
 " I press forward towards the mark — 
 for the prize — of the high calling — of 
 God." 
 
 Such honor, then, my brethren, do 
 I challenge for the righteous course. I 
 speak of the crown of virtue. True, it 
 may overshadow a mortal brow, and men 
 may not see its glory. True, it may 
 overshadow a countenance pale and 
 wasted, or marred with disease ; it may 
 be, like the crown of thorns which Jesus 
 wore, stained with blood; but what 
 earthly diadem was ever invested with 
 such glory as that crown of thorns ? It 
 was once indeed the badge of ignominy, 
 the mark for scourging and spitting ; but 
 now, one of those thorns, — I make the 
 comparison reverently, — one of those 
 thorns, platted by the Roman soldiery 
 for the head of the glorious Sufferer and 
 Conqueror, would be dearer to us than 
 the brightest gem that ever shone on 
 the brow of earthly monarch ! 
 
 It is the CROWN of virtue then, my 
 jrethren, of which I will speak. And 
 iome need is there still in the world 
 to set forth its lofty distinction. Not 
 only is the good man's honor often dis- 
 
 esteemed, or less esteemed than it ought 
 to be, but there are various other feel- 
 ings in society, and especially strifes 
 for worldly preference and pre-eminence, 
 which commend this subject to our se- 
 rious consideration. Let us then first 
 enter for a moment into some of those 
 prevailing states of mind which make 
 this subject, the greatness of virtue, an 
 interesting and practical topic of reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 All men desire distinction. All men 
 feel the need of some ennobling object' 
 in life. These sentiments — the desire, 
 that is to say, of eminence, and the de^ 
 sire of a worthy object — are indeed dis- 
 tinct in their character ; but they often^ 
 combine to produce a feeling of discon- 
 tent with the ordinary lot of life. It may 
 be remarked, indeed, independently of 
 moral considerations, that those persons 
 are usually most happy and satisfied in 
 their pursuits who have the loftiest ends 
 in view. Thus I have observed that 
 artists, mechanicians, and inventors, all 
 those classes who are seeking to find 
 principles or to develop beauty in their 
 work, seem most to enjoy it. And just 
 in proportion as beau ideal enters into 
 any pursuit ; for example, just in pro- 
 portion as the farmer proposes, not mere 
 subsistence as his end, but the beautify- 
 ing of his estate, and the most scientific 
 culture of it, is he hkely to be happy 
 amidst his labors. This, it appears to 
 me, is one of the signal testimonies 
 which all human employments give to 
 the high demands of our nature. Ava- 
 rice is said to be a very absorbing pas- 
 sion ; but I do not think that the pursuit 
 of wealth as wealth ever gives such sat- 
 isfaction as it does to bring the hum- 
 blest, although a comparatively useless, 
 piece of machinery to pe?-fectioft. If 
 wealth, indeed, be sought for ends of 
 philanthropy, or for the relief of kindred, 
 or for the'payment of just debts, it has 
 a noble beau ideal, and a noble satisfac- 
 tion ; but exactly in proportion as the 
 aims of the seeker run down on the scale 
 of motive from the dearness of family 
 and of principle to the desire of display 
 
THE CROWN OF VIRTUE. 
 
 22Q 
 
 or of pleasure, does the pursuit become 
 an unsatisfying drudgery. 
 
 This is felt to be too much the char- 
 acter of most iiuman conditions and em- 
 ])loyments. There are doubtless many 
 individual e.xceptions ; but with the pur- 
 suits of multitudes there is connected a 
 painful conviction that they neither sup- 
 ply a sufficient object nor confer any 
 satisfactory honor. " I liv%," says one, 
 " I labor, I do business. What is it all 
 for.? What ultimate end am I to gain 
 by it ? I live ; I die ; the wave passes 
 over me ; and soon the world will not 
 know that such a being ever existed. 
 If I were an artist, and could paint the 
 canvas or chisel the marble or lift the 
 dome ; or could write books of poetic 
 inspiration, or of lofty morals and phi- 
 losophy ; or could establish a reputation 
 for ability or eloquence, by any of which 
 the world might know me, it would be 
 with me an object and an ambition." 
 
 Now to this state of mind it is, that 
 I come to propose a yet nobler aim. To 
 this man it is, that I come to speak of a 
 crown ; a crown of righteousness. For 
 I say that in true and right living, in 
 the imitation of Christ, in piety and 
 self-culture, every man may attain the 
 highest nobleness and grandeur known 
 on earth or in heaven ; that, in a higher 
 sense than he thinks of, he may be an 
 artist, and the greatest of artists — an 
 author, and the greatest of authors ; 
 that more than his speech, his life, may 
 be eloquent. I say that every man has 
 a work to do in himself, greater, sub- 
 limer, than any work of genius; and 
 that he works upon a nobler material 
 than wood and marble — upon his own 
 soul. I say to every man, thou shouldst 
 be a greater than, as mere artist or au- 
 thor, was Homer or Shakspeare, Phidias 
 or Raphael. 
 
 Let us see if this proposition is fairly 
 chargeable with extravagance. What is 
 it that the great author, or the great ar- 
 tist, does ? I answer that, in the high- 
 est effort of his power, he but portrays 
 what every man should be. That which 
 in him is but conception, in us must be 
 
 action. For what does he portray, and 
 what is his conception ? 1 answer again, 
 it is nothing but moral beauty; mag- 
 nanimity, or fortitude, or love, or for- 
 giveness ; the soul's greatness. If you 
 look at the great paintings, what do 
 they represent .'' The glory of the Christ, 
 the loveliness of the Madonna, the peni- 
 tence or love of some saint, the forti- 
 tude and forgiveness of the martyr, or 
 some historic scene in which a noble 
 action is celebrated. And what is all 
 this but a portraying of virtues, com- 
 mended to our admiration and imita- 
 tion.'' To catch that almost living por- 
 traiture of heroism and goodness, to 
 embosom it in our hearts, to embody it 
 in our lives, — this is the practical reali- 
 zation of those great ideals of art. 
 
 And so in all great writing; in the 
 highest poetry, in the highest tiction, in 
 the highest literature, the object of the 
 writer is to presfent his loftiest ideal 
 of all possible loveliness and grandeur. 
 He is engaged in the work of nobly con- 
 ceiving and describing what it is. But 
 for us is reserved the higher work, of 
 more nobly realizing it in our own char- 
 acter and life. And this, it is put with- 
 in our power, with God's help, to do. 
 The sphere of action may be different, 
 but the thing to be attained — purity, 
 sanctity, self-sacrifice, love — is essen- 
 tially the same in all. The magnanimity 
 of heroes, celebrated on the historic 
 or poetic page ; the constancy and faith 
 of the martyr, or the beauti fulness of 
 saintly love and pity, glowing on the 
 canvas; the delineations of truth and 
 right that breathe life from the lips of 
 the eloquent, are, in essence, only that 
 which every man may feel and practise 
 in the daily walks of life. If it is a 
 nobler thing to be a hero than it is to 
 describe one, to endure martyrdom than 
 to paint it, to do right than to plead for 
 it, then is the work of virtue nobler 
 than any work of genius. In this view 
 Sir Walter Scott's idea, had he applied 
 it to this point, is a just one ; that action 
 is greater than writing. A good man is 
 a nobler object of contemplation than a 
 
ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 great author. To be, is greater than to 
 describe. It has been said that "there 
 are but two things worth living for : to 
 do what is worthy of being written, or 
 to write what is worthy of being read." 
 It is true ; and I maintain that the 
 greater of these is the doing. 
 
 I desire no one to give too easy an 
 assent to this proposition. I seek rath- 
 er for that difficult assent which yields 
 to argument, which ripens into convic- 
 tion, and results in action. If what I 
 maintain is true, it is not an abstract 
 theorem nor an ingenious speculation. 
 It takes hold of the entire principle and 
 plan of a man's life. If it is true that 
 every man has to do the noblest thing 
 that any man can do or describe, what 
 an appeal is this to the courage, cheer- 
 fulness, energy, and dignity of human 
 existence ! Who, then, shall think his a 
 life doomed to mediocrity or meanness, 
 to vanity or toil, or' to any ends less 
 than heavenly and immortal ? Who shall 
 say, " The grand prizes of life are for 
 others; I, alas! can be nothing " ? But 
 is it not true ? I have referred for com- 
 parison to what are considered as the 
 noblest works of man ; works of genius ; 
 works which draw universal attention 
 and admiration; which fill the world with 
 their renown ; which give to successful 
 authors and artists such an enviable posi- 
 tion among men ; and I say that there is 
 something greater for every man to do 
 than this. For suppose, now, that you 
 were possessed of the loftiest power of 
 unfolding that sense of beauty which 
 dwells more or less in all minds ; suppose 
 that, in the high and solemn meditations 
 of genius, you had portrayed scenes and 
 cliaracters of such moral beauty and 
 sublimity that they fired the breasts 
 of millions, and drew tears of sympathy 
 from the eyes of nations ; and suppose, 
 too, that the lofty feeling of your own 
 heart furnished the living portraiture. 
 But, let me ask you, would it not be a 
 still nobler thing for you to go and do 
 that which you had described ; to be the 
 model that you drew ? And, believe 
 me — for this is a point on which I 
 
 must insist, again and again — believe 
 me, the loftiest action that ever was 
 described, is not more magnanimous 
 than that which we may find occasion 
 to do in the daily walks of hfe ; in 
 temptation, in distress, in bereavement, 
 and in the solemn approach to death. 
 In the great providence of God, in the 
 great ordinances of our being, there is 
 opened to ev%ry man a sphere for the 
 noblest action. Nay, and it is not in 
 extraordinary situations, where all eyes 
 are upon us, where all our energy is 
 aroused and all our vigilance is awake, 
 that the highest efforts of virtue are usu- 
 ally demanded of us ; but it is rather in 
 silence and seclusion, amidst our occu- 
 pations and our homes; in wearing sick- 
 ness that makes no complaint; in sorely 
 tried honesty that asks no praise ; in 
 simple disinterestedness wliich hides 
 the hand that resigns its advantage to 
 another. 
 
 I seek, my friends, to ennoble com- 
 mon life. I know that it has been al- 
 most exclusively the office of the moral 
 teachers of mankind to celebrate con- 
 spicuous virtue, — virtue in extraordinary 
 circumstances. Nay, even biography, 
 though professing to give us the true life 
 of a man, has mostly contented itself 
 with giving us the hfe of a hero, a states- 
 man, an author, or a philanthropist. 
 But there is still another work to be done ; 
 and that is to go down into the obscure 
 and as yet unsearched records of daily 
 conduct and feeling ; to portray not the 
 ordinary virtue of an extraordinary life, 
 but the more extraordinary virtue of or- 
 dinary life. Yes, my brethren ; what is 
 done and borne in the shades of privacy, 
 in the hard and beaten path of daily care 
 and toil, full often of uncelebrated sac- 
 rifices ; in the suffering, and sometimes 
 insulted suffering, that wears to the 
 world nothing but a cheerful brow ; in 
 the long strife of the spirit, carried on 
 against pain, and penury, and neglect, 
 carried on in the inmost depths of the 
 heart ; yes, I repeat, what is done and 
 borne, what is wrought and won here, 
 is a higher glory, and shall inherit a 
 
THE CROWN OF VIRTUE. 
 
 2^1 
 
 brighter crown. And I pray you to ob- 
 serve how emphatically this was the teach- 
 ing of our Saviour. " Ye know," he says 
 to his disciples, that "the princes of the 
 nations exercise dominion over them ; 
 but it shall not be so among you. But 
 whosoever will be great among you, let 
 him be your minister, and whosoever 
 will be cliief among you, let him be your 
 servant ; even as the Son of Man came, 
 not to be ministered unto, but to minis- 
 ter, and to give his life a ransom for 
 many." And again he said, "Whoso- 
 ever exalteth himself shall be humbled, 
 and he that humbleth himself shall be 
 exalted." Yes, humility, forgetfulness 
 of self, self-sacrifice, these were, in the 
 mind of Jesus, the true distinctions. 
 
 I am sensible, I repeat, that the world 
 has by no means yet arrived at this point 
 of view. There is as yet so little wis- 
 dom, so little spirituality, infused into 
 the mass of public sentiment, that a 
 thing to be admired must be conspic- 
 uous, must be surrounded with visible 
 splendor, or invested with the halo of 
 fame, must bear a title of honor or a 
 name of greatness. A man, to be hon- 
 ored, must be a great general or states- 
 man, a great author or artist. But I 
 anticipate that the time will come, when 
 it will be said to the greatest of these — 
 )'es, I repeat, when some one, pointing 
 to a good man, will say to a man great as 
 Shakspeare or Raphael, "You are but 
 a describer ; here is the doer ; you have 
 drawn or moulded a model of saintly 
 beauty and goodness ; here is the living 
 original. Be thyself that same, and thou 
 shalt be greater than thou now art. If 
 thou wilt not, then do I venerate him 
 more than I admire you. All the strug- 
 glings of genius in thee have never 
 equalled the strugglings of virtue in him. 
 He is one who realizes all the beautiful 
 conceptions of your art. If such as he 
 had not existed — if such as he had not 
 breathed out through form, and act, and 
 countenance, the beauty of goodness, 
 patience, and heroism, thine art had 
 never existed. Thou art but a copyist; 
 he is the origfinal." 
 
 Yes, my friends, it is true. Good- 
 ness is the great inspirer, refiner, glori- 
 fier of the world. Let that be gone from 
 the world, and the light of art, of litera- 
 ture, of history, is gone out entirely. 
 The treasures of the world are its vir- 
 tues — sanctity, self-sacrifice, patience, 
 constancy, heroism, martyrdom. It is 
 goodness only that we love — other 
 things we may admire, beauty, wit, for- 
 tune — but it is goodness only that we 
 love; and in the humblest shades of ob- 
 scurity we love it. It is this whose life 
 we cherish more tiian' our own life. It 
 is this whose lonely grave we bedew 
 with our tears, saying, " Let us go and 
 die with it." 
 
 I have thus attempted to assign to 
 simple virtue the place that belongs to 
 it. I call the quality of which I speak, 
 virtue. I can well imagine that it may 
 surprise, if not displease, some persons 
 that I use this word so frequently. I 
 suppose it sounds in their ears as if it 
 stood for a kind of heathenish excellence. 
 I mean by it, then, let me say, all that I 
 can mean by human excellence and sanc- 
 tity ; all that is meant by righteousness, 
 holiness, spirituality. And I use it more 
 frequently than I do some of these 
 words, because they seem to me to be 
 invested with false and blinding asso- 
 ciations. I fear that we do but half feel 
 the bond, when it is laid upon us by the 
 words, holiness, godliness, grace. I fear 
 that if I had spoken in this discourse of 
 the grandeur, the supreme distinction 
 of holiness or spiritunlify, though there 
 might have been an easier assent, the 
 truth would not have come home to us 
 — home to our dwellings and our every- 
 day lives. I may err on this point ; 
 but I certainlv do use this word, virtue, 
 from an anxietv to go down to the very 
 grounds of a spiritual and good life. It 
 seems to me peculiarly to appertain to 
 the matured excellence of a human be- 
 ing. Infants may have innocence, and 
 angels may have sanctity ; but when I 
 would describe the struggle of sacred 
 principle in a man, the most comprehen- 
 sive word, the word that reveals at once 
 
232 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 
 
 the character of the conflict, that bears 
 the marks at once of the strife and vic- 
 tory upon it, is virtue ; patient, coura- 
 geous, enduring, victorious virtue ! 
 
 But is all this which I have been say- 
 ing, true ? or ns it a mere fine theory ? 
 Can the routine and drudgery of life be 
 raised to heroism and grandeur? Is it 
 true tiiat common life opens a field for 
 the noblest action of virhich a man is ca- 
 pable ? Is it true that the artist's model, 
 the poet's dream, the philosopher's the- 
 ory, and, more than all, the high teach- 
 ing of the very Christ himself, may thus 
 be realized in the daily walks of men ? 
 This is the grand assumption on which 
 my discourse has proceeded ; and now 
 let me spend a few moments, in close, in 
 attempting to make this ground a little 
 more apparent, and thus to bring what 
 I have now been saying to a practical 
 issue. 
 
 And in one word, is not all this proved 
 to us Christians by the example of our 
 divine Master ? It is an example in the 
 sphere of common life — not on a throne 
 nor in a palace, but in humble abodes, 
 in daily intercourse. Now suppose that 
 the story of his life had been a mere 
 fiction, — that is to say, look upon it as 
 a mere literary production ; and would 
 you not say that it is the most beautiful 
 conception ever embodied in the records 
 of human speech ? that such a divine 
 ideal of life, such majesty, such loveli- 
 ness was never before portrayed on any 
 human page .'* But it is no fiction ; it is 
 reality. All the world has agreed that 
 the reality alone can account for the por- 
 traiture ; that the Apostles never could 
 have drawn such a life, if they had not 
 seen it. Now after this reality it is 
 our duty and aim as Christians to follow. 
 Was ever a higher aim than this pro- 
 posed to mortal aspiration and eiTort ? 
 
 But let us enter into this matter a 
 little in detail. Here opens to me a 
 volume ; and I can only touch upon two 
 or three passages in this grandeur of 
 the Christian life. 
 
 What is the bright word that is writ- 
 ten on this volume of life, from which 
 
 rays out on every side an ineffable 
 splendor.? Duty! Not mean, cowering, 
 slavish duty; but high, magnificent, 
 glorious duty. 
 
 Let an instance suffice instead of pre- 
 cepts. A few years ago died in Ports- 
 mouth (England) a poor man, a crip- 
 pled shoe-mender. A humble man of 
 a humble calling ; and yet around his 
 gate, when he died, is seen a collection 
 of weeping children. Why is this .-' A 
 few words will tell the story of a life un- 
 known to fame, but beautiful, glorious, 
 I had almost said, as the ministry of 
 angels. This man, — John Pounds was 
 his name, — of such humble and busy 
 toils, and of such infirmity that he 
 seemed destined to be a burden on 
 charity, saw around him in the streets, 
 poor, neglected children, growing up to 
 ignorance and vice ; such as you may 
 see, any day, around you. He had no 
 money to give tJiem ; he had no time to 
 give them ; he had no spacious dwell- 
 ing to receive them, even if he had 
 had time. What then did he do ? He 
 gathered them around his knees as he 
 sat and worked on his humble bench, 
 and there he instructed them. For forty 
 years, I think, he thus taught successive 
 companies of poor children, and raised 
 hundreds to virtuous, reputable, and 
 happy life. The tale sjaeaks for itself. 
 Is there no bright word written on the 
 pages of common life — ay, and of the 
 humblest life ? 
 
 Again, what is the dark word that is 
 written in this volume of life, spreading 
 a shadow over all its pages ? Tempta- 
 tion ! It is no strange lot. It is the lot 
 of common life. Every man is a tempted 
 man. Every day we meet those awful 
 hours in which the great controversy 
 between right and wrong is pleaded in 
 our bosoms. Then the senses' allure- 
 ment steals upon us ; then ambition, 
 or anger, or envy invades the peace of 
 our minds ; then the world's great show, 
 or " the world's dread laugh," demands 
 our homage or threatens our freedom. 
 Must we not fight every hour with these 
 besetting foes of the spirit? In the 
 
THE CROWN OF VIRTUE. 
 
 233 
 
 depths of the heart, in deepest silence 
 where praise comes not ; with sohiary 
 prayer and patience, must we not strive ? 
 And here in this post within, to Jje held 
 against all the world, believe me, deeds 
 are to be done and victories to be gained, 
 compared with which the prowess of 
 battles and the splendor of triumphs 
 fade away ! " Greater is he that rulcth 
 his spirit," says the sacred proverbialist, 
 "than he that taketli a city." 
 
 What is the power within, that holds 
 this sublime conflict? It is God's vice- 
 gerent in the soul, the sovereign and 
 majestic conscience. What on earth so 
 noble ! Lo ! a man — " faithful found 
 among the faithless ; " and to this man 
 the slightest whisper of his conscience 
 is more than the echoing fame of ages ; 
 the simple purpose of rectitude is more 
 than all the blandishments of beauty 
 and love ; and the single, self-poised 
 feeling of integrity in the heart is more 
 riches to him than the wealth of king- 
 doms. Ah ! what an elevation is that ! 
 when the secret, invisible feeling in 
 the heart, that says, " I will do right," 
 weighs more, and is worth more with 
 its possessor, than all the riches of the 
 world ; yes, when the whole accumu- 
 lated magnificence of the world could 
 not buy from him that simple feeling. 
 I have seen the homage of loyalty to 
 kings, the lowly and graceful prostra- 
 tion before the symbols of the majesty 
 of earth ; and I will confess that I 
 thought it beautiful ; the bare feeling of 
 reverence wins my sympathy ; but what 
 is it all, compared with the deep and 
 lowly homage of a man to the awful 
 sovereignty within him ! 
 
 And so the righteous man liveth ; 
 pure, calm, strong, inwardly moved, 
 and moved from within ; self-subsisting, 
 and dependent neither upon fashion, for- 
 tune, nor fame. Shall I say, it is the life 
 of a sage, of a philosopher ? It is more. 
 It is the life of Christ in the soul ; and it 
 is the study and imitation of Christ that 
 must lead us to it. 
 
 One more great hour there is, for the 
 Riind's trial ; the hour that cometh to 
 
 all ; the time to die ! Many a man has 
 fought battles, who had no arms for the 
 last conflict. Many a man has painted 
 pain and agony, who could not endure 
 them ; and has described in thriUing 
 terms and tones the terrors of the last 
 hour, whose spirit has sunk before those 
 terrors when they came. 
 
 We speak of martyrdoms, and they 
 are glorious. But there are long years 
 of sickness and pain now conducting 
 the steps of some we know to the grave, 
 in which is endured the suffering of a 
 hundred martyrdoms. But the briefer 
 hours of mortal disease, — what a specta- 
 cle do they present ! The mind weighed 
 down by infirmity, overshadowed by 
 surrounding gloom and upon the rack 
 of pain ; what a picture is it upon the 
 dark curtain of death ! I have seen 
 it ; in the silent and shaded chamber ; 
 amidst low and hushed voices, with ^obs 
 and tears around it ; or amidst the aw- 
 ful stillness of constrained affection — 
 no curtain fold disturbed, no sigh rising 
 upon the breathless air ; and I have seen 
 it, thus encompassed, shining as the 
 face of an angel ! Oh ! mortal languor 
 and paleness, it is true, were there ; 
 marked and marred was that face with 
 the hard buffetings of disease ; but it 
 was tranquil and resigned, and full of 
 immortal trust. The righteous men that 
 walked in the fiery furnace unhurt shone 
 not more gloriously than did that Chris- 
 tian soul in its parting hour. How full 
 of consideration was it, one while — 
 speaking not much of itself, because 
 others could not bear it ! — how full 
 of wisdom, at another time, uttering its 
 calm, natural, and rational meditations 
 on life, and death, and the world unseen ; 
 speaking, indeed, with all the wisdom of 
 Socrates ; and more — how much more 
 than all his trust. 
 
 My brethren, I have thus attempted 
 to speak to you of the greatness of vir- 
 tue. Does not the theme minister to 
 the humblest life among us a glorious 
 encouragement? What would we great- 
 er than what, in opportunity, God hath 
 given to us all ? What ? A brave 
 
234 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 apparel — a rich mansion — the circle 
 ot" a golden crown ! And for this is the 
 crown of nobleness and sanctity to be 
 accounted nothing? And shall we let 
 poor worldly discontent and base de- 
 spite eat into that heart where may be 
 fashioned divine and immortal faculties ? 
 Shall we let the humbleness of earthly 
 fortunes shade the brow which may be 
 radiant with the crown of virtue ? What 
 should we have thought of Raphael 
 painting the Transfiguration, if he could 
 have let the shadow of a Roman cloud 
 disturb his equanimity ? What should 
 we have thought of Milton writing the 
 Paradise Lost, if he could have let the 
 flashing tinsel of a passing courtier's 
 mantle make him envious ? 
 
 Ah ! we believe not — here is the 
 difficulty. We believe not in ourselves ; 
 we believe not in Christ ; we believe not 
 in God. Well may we pray the Lord 
 evermore to increase our faith. Come, 
 faith of Christ ! faith of the crucified and 
 the victorious ! faith of him who said to 
 the unjustly persecuted and suffering, 
 rejoice, and be exceeding glad ! — come, 
 and save us from our earth-born miser- 
 ies, our miseries born of pride and in- 
 gratitude and worldliness. 
 
 Couldst thou, my friend, but once 
 enter into thyself, and learn to be quiet, 
 to know thyself, to commune with God, 
 
 and to breathe the spirit of Jesus Christ- 
 couldst thou learn to find thy kingdom 
 thy riches, within, to explore and enjoy 
 the treasures of a spiritual and immortal 
 soul ; couldst thou learn all the dignity, 
 the calmness and blessedness, of that 
 ■inward life ; how nobly shouldst thou 
 then walk amidst the gauds and shows 
 of this world ! How shouldst thou walk, 
 indeed, upon the high places of the 
 world, and possess the earth, nature, 
 life, being, anew. Thou shouldst be 
 greater than the greatest of this world, 
 wiser than the wisest, and only less 
 blessed and glorious than the angels of 
 heaven ! 
 
 There is a crown of earthly royalty, 
 that demandeth homage. There is an- 
 other crown, too, which is of earth, but 
 which is yet more glorious — the crown 
 that genius wears — such as was once 
 placed on the brow of Petrarch, amidst 
 assembled multitudes, in the Eternal 
 City. But know, O man of righteous- 
 ness and fidelity and truth ! thou who 
 seekest a nobler prize — know that the 
 time shall come when, amidst assembled 
 worlds, a brighter crown shall be placed 
 on the brow of virtue. " Be thou faith- 
 ful unto death," saith the Judge of all 
 hearts, "and I will give thee a crown 
 of life." 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 X. 
 
 ON THE MORAL LAW OF CON- 
 TRACTS. 
 
 I Thessalonians iv. 6: "That no man go be- 
 yond and defraud his brother in any matter." 
 
 I PROPOSE to invite your attention in 
 a series of three or four Sabbath even- 
 ing discourses, to the moral laws of 
 trade, the moral end of business, and to 
 
 the moral principles which are to govern 
 the accumulation of property. The first 
 of these subjects is proposed for your 
 consideration this evening ; and it is 
 one, as I conceive, of the highest inter- 
 est and importance. 
 
 This country presents a spectacle of 
 active, absorbing, and prosperous busi- 
 ness, which strikes the eye of every 
 stranger as its leading characteristic. 
 We are said to be and we are a people, 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 235 
 
 beyond all others, devoted to business 
 and accumulation. This, though it is 
 often brought against us as a reproach, 
 is really an inevitable result of our po- 
 litical condition. I trust that it is but 
 the first development, and that many 
 better ones are to follow. It does, 
 however, spring from our institutions : 
 and I hold, moreover, that it is honor- 
 able to them. If half of us were slaves, 
 that half could have nothing to do with 
 traffic. If half of us were in the condi- 
 tion of the peasantry of Europe, the 
 business transactions of that half would 
 be restricted within a narrow sphere, 
 and would labor under a heavy pres- 
 sure. But where liberty is given to each 
 one to act freely for himself, and by all 
 lawful means to better his condition, 
 the consequence is inevitably what we 
 see : a universal and unprecedented 
 activity among all the classes of society, 
 in all the departments of human indus- 
 try. The moral principles, then, appli- 
 cable to the transaction of business 
 have strong claims upon our attention ; 
 and seem to me very proper subjects of 
 discussion in our pulpits. 
 
 There are moral questions, too, as we 
 very well know, which actually do inter- 
 est all reflecting and conscientious men 
 who are engaged in trade. They are 
 very frequently discussed in conversa- 
 tion ; and very different grounds are 
 taken by the disputants. Some say that 
 one principle is altogether right ; and 
 others, that another and totally different 
 one is the only right principle. In such 
 circumstances, it seems to me not only 
 proper, but requisite, for those whose 
 office it is to speak to men of their duties, 
 that they should take up the discussion 
 of these as they would of any other 
 moral questions. I am obliged to con- 
 fess that we are liable, scholastic and re- 
 tired men as we are, to give some ground 
 to men of business, for anticipating 
 that our reasonings and conclusions will 
 not be very practical or satisfactory. I 
 can only say, for myself, that I have, 
 for some time, given patient and careful 
 attention to the moral principles of trade ; 
 
 that I have often conversed with men 
 of business, that I might understand the 
 practical bearings and difficulties of the 
 subject ; that I have also read some of 
 the books in which the morality of con- 
 tracts is discussed ; and although a cler- 
 gyman, I shall venture, with some confi- 
 dence as well as modesty, to offer you my 
 thoughts on the points in question. I 
 say the points in question ; and I have 
 intimated that there are points in debate, 
 questions of conscience in business, 
 which are brought into the most serious 
 controversy. I have even known sen- 
 sible men, themselves engaged in trade, 
 to go to the length of asserting, not only 
 that the principles of trade are immoral 
 and unchristian, but that no man can ac- 
 quire a property in this commerce with- 
 out sacrificing a good conscience ; that 
 no prosperous merchant can be a good 
 Christian. I certainly think that such 
 casuists are wrong ; but whether or not 
 they are so, the principles which bring 
 them to a conclusion so extraordinary 
 evidently demand investigation. 
 
 In preparing to examine this opinion, 
 and indeed to discuss tlie whole subject, 
 it will not be improper to observe, in the 
 outset, that trade in some form is the 
 inevitable result of the human condition. 
 Better, it has been said, on the supposi- 
 tion already stated — better that com- 
 merce should perish than Christianity; 
 but let it be considered whether commerce 
 can perish. Nothing can be more evident 
 than that the earth was formed to be 
 the theatre of trade. Not only does the 
 ocean facihtate commerce, but the diver- 
 sity of soils, climes, and products re- 
 quires it. So long as one district of 
 country produces cotton, and another 
 corn ; so long as one man liv^ by an ore- 
 bed which produces iron, and another 
 on pasture-lands which grow wool, there 
 must be commerce. In addition to this, 
 let it be considered that all human indus- 
 try inevitably tends to what is called " the 
 division of labor." The savage who 
 roams through the wilderness may pos- 
 sibly, in the lowest state of barbarism, 
 procure with his own hand all that suffices 
 
236 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 for his miserable accommodation; the 
 coat of skins that clothes, the food that 
 sustains, and the hut that shelters him. 
 But the moment society departs from 
 that state, there necessarily arise the 
 different occupations of shepherd, agri- 
 culturist, mechanic, and manufacturer, 
 the products of whose industry are to be 
 exchanged ; and this exchange is trade. 
 If a single individual were to perform 
 all the operations necessary to produce a 
 piece of cloth, and yet more a garment of 
 that cloth, the process would be exceed- 
 ingly slow and expensive. Human intel- 
 ligence necessarily avails itself of the 
 facility, the dexterity, and the advantage 
 every way, which are to be obtained by 
 a division of labor. The very progress 
 of society is indicated by the gradual and 
 growing development of this tendency. 
 
 Besides, it has been justly observed 
 by a celebrated writer on this subject, 
 that " there is a certain propensity in 
 human nature to truck, barter, and ex- 
 change one thing for another. It is 
 common to all men, " he says, "and to 
 be found in no other race of animals, 
 which seem to know neither this nor 
 any other species of contracts. No- 
 body," he observes, " ever saw a dog 
 make a fair and deliberate exchange of 
 one bone for another, with another dog. 
 Nobody ever saw one animal by its 
 gestures and natural cries signify to 
 another, this is mine, that yours ; I am 
 willing to give this for that." * 
 
 Trade, then, being a part of the in- 
 evitable lot of cultivated humanity, the 
 question is not about abolishing, but 
 about the moral principles that are to 
 regulate it. 
 
 Let us first inquire how we are to 
 settle this question. What is the pro- 
 cess of mirid by which we are to ascer- 
 tain and estabhsh the moral laws of 
 trade .'' 
 
 Does the natural conscience declare 
 them ? Is there any instinctive prompt- 
 ing of conscience that can properly 
 decide each case as it arises in the 
 course of business ? Is there any voice 
 
 * Adam Smith. 
 
 within, that says clearly and with au- 
 thority, " Thou shalt do thus and so ? " 
 I think not. The cases are not many, 
 in any department of action, where 
 conscience thus reveals itself. But in 
 business they are peculiarly rare, be- 
 cause the questions there are unusually 
 complicated. You offer to sell to your 
 neighbor an article of merchandise. 
 You are entitled of course, i. e. in ordi- 
 nary circumstances, to some advance 
 upon what it cost you. But what that 
 is, depends on many circumstances. 
 Conscience will hardly mark down the 
 just price in your account-book. Con- 
 science, indeed, commands us to do 
 riglit ; but the question is, what is right ? 
 This is to be decided by views far more 
 various and comprehensive than tlie 
 simple sense of right and wrong. 
 
 The Scriptures, like 'conscience, are 
 a general directory. They do not lay 
 down any specific moral laws of trade 
 They command us to be upright an-' 
 honest ; but they leave us to consider 
 what particular actions are required by 
 those principles. They command us tc 
 do unto others as we would have ther-i 
 do to us ; but still this is not specific. 
 A man may unreasonably wish that 
 another should sell him a piece of 
 goods at half its value. Does it follow 
 that he himself ought to sell on those 
 terms .'' The truth is, that the golden 
 rule, like every other in Scripture, is a 
 general maxim. It simply requires us 
 to desire the welfare of others, as we 
 would have them desire ours. But the 
 specific actions answering to that rule, 
 it leaves us to determine by a wise 
 discretion. The dictates of that dis- 
 cretion, under the governance of the 
 moral law, are the principles that we 
 seek to discover. 
 
 Neither, on this subject, can I accept 
 without question the teachings of the 
 common law ; because, I find, that its 
 ablest expounders acknowledge that 
 its decisions are sometimes at variance 
 with strict moral principle. I do not 
 think it follows from this, that the gen- 
 eral principles of the common law are 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 237 
 
 wrong, or abet wrong. Nay, I con- 
 ceive that they may approach as near 
 to rectitude as is possible in the cir- 
 cumstances, and yet necessarily involve 
 some practical injustice in their oper- 
 ation. This results, in fact, from their 
 very utility, their very perfection, as a 
 body of laws. For it is requisite to 
 their utility, that they should be gen- 
 eral, that they should be derived from 
 precedents and formed into rules; else, 
 men will not know what to depend upon, 
 nor how to govern themselves ; and 
 there would neither be confidence, nor 
 order, nor society. But general rules 
 must sometimes bear hard upon indi- 
 viduals ; the very law which secures 
 justice in a thousand cases may, and 
 perhaps must, from the very nature of 
 human' affairs and relationships, do in- 
 justice in one. Indeed, the law of chan- 
 cery, or of equity, has been devised on 
 purpose to give relief. But even chan- 
 cery has its rules which sometimes press 
 injuriously upon individual interests ; 
 and no human laws can attain to a 
 perfect and unerring administration of 
 justice. For this perfect justice, how- 
 ever, we seek. We are asking what it 
 is to do no wrong to our fellow-man, 
 whether the law permits it or not. We 
 are asking how we shall stand acquitted, 
 not merely at the bar of our country, 
 but at the bar of conscience and of 
 God. 
 
 I must add, in fine, that questions 
 about right and wrong in the contracts 
 of trade are not to be decided by 
 any hasty impulses of feeling, or sug- 
 c:;estions of a generous temper. I have 
 often found men, in conversation on 
 this subject, appealing to their feelfngs; 
 but however much I have respected 
 those feelings, it has seemed to me 
 that they were not the proper tribunal. 
 Nay, they have often appeared to me 
 to mistake the point at issue. If a 
 merchant has a large store of provis- 
 ions in a time of scarcity, would it not 
 be a very noble and praiseworthy thing, 
 it is said, for him to dispose of his 
 stock without enhancing the price ? 
 
 But the proper question is not, what is 
 generous, but what is just. And be- 
 sides, he cannot be generous, or what 
 is the same thing in effect, he cannot 
 establish a generous principle in the dis- 
 tribution of his store. For if he sells 
 in large quantities, selling, that is, at a 
 low rate, it will avail nothing, because 
 the subordinate dealers will raise the 
 price. Or, if he undertakes to sell to 
 each family what it wants ; any one of 
 them may take the article to the next 
 warehouse, and dispose of it at the en- 
 hanced price. On the contrary, there are 
 circumstances, undoubtedly, in which a 
 man may take undue advantage of a mo- 
 nopoly ; but this will be a case for fu- 
 ture consideration. For the present, it 
 is sufficient to observe, what I think 
 must be obvious, that the great ques- 
 tions before us are to be decided, not 
 by any enactments of law, nor any im- 
 mediate dictate of conscience, or spe- 
 cific teaching of Scripture, or single im- 
 pulse of good feeling, but by broad and 
 large views ot the whole subject. Con- 
 science, and Scripture, and right feeling 
 are to govern us ; but it is only under 
 the guidance of sound reasoning. 
 
 Let me beg your indulgence to one 
 or two further preliminary observations. 
 The questions to be discussed are of 
 great importance, and scarcely of less 
 difficulty. It is hardly possible to over- 
 rate the importance of a high, and at 
 the same time just, tone of commercial 
 morality. I am addressing merchants, 
 and young men who are to be the fu- 
 ture merchants of this city and country. 
 I am addressino: them on the morality 
 of their daily lives, on tlie principles 
 that are to form their character for 
 time and eternity ; and while I task 
 myself to speak with the utmost care 
 and deliberation, I shall not be thought 
 unreasonable, I trust, if I invite the 
 patient attention of those who hear me 
 to share in the task. 
 
 There is, then, on this subject a dis- 
 tinction to be made between principles 
 and rules. Principles, the principles, 
 that is to say, of truth, justice, and 
 
2.^8 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 beneficence, are clear and immutable ; 
 the only difficulty is about the applica- 
 tion of them, i. e. about rules. Prin- 
 ciples, I say, are to be set apart, at 
 once and entirely, from all doubt and 
 uncertainty. They hold their place on 
 high, like unchanging lights in the 
 heavens. The only question is, how, 
 in obedience to their direction, we are 
 faithfully and surely to work our trav- 
 erse across the troubled ocean of busi- 
 ness. Here, I say, is all the difficulty. 
 Rules, I repeat, result from the applica- 
 tion of principles to human conduct, and 
 they must be affected by the circum- 
 stances to which they relate. Thus, it is 
 an immutable principle in morals, that 
 I should love my neighbor, my fellow- 
 being, and desire to promote his hap- 
 piness. This principle admits of no 
 qualification ; it can suffer no abate- 
 ment in any circumstances. But when 
 I come to consider what I shall do in 
 obedience to this principle ; what I shall 
 do for the poor, the sick, or the dis- 
 tressed ; by what acts I slTall show my 
 kindness to my neighbor, or my interest 
 in the welfare of the world ; when, in 
 other words, I come to consider the 
 rules of my conduct, I am obliged at 
 once to admit doubts and difficulties. 
 The abstract principle cannot be my 
 law, without any regard to circum- 
 stances, though some moral reformers 
 would make it such. I must go on the 
 right line of conduct, it is true, but 
 where that line shall lead me, is to be 
 determined by a fair consideration of 
 the cases that come before me. If it 
 is not, I shall contravene the very prin- 
 ciple on which I am acting. If, for 
 instance, I do nothing but give, give to 
 the poor, I shall be doing them an in- 
 jury, not a kindness. The great law of 
 benevolence, in fact, as truly requires 
 discretion as it enforces action. 
 
 This distinction fully applies to the 
 subject we are about to examine. Rec- 
 titude, justice, benevolence, truth-telling, 
 are immutable laws of trade, as they 
 are of all human conduct. There is no 
 certain extent to which they go ; they 
 
 apply without limit to every department 
 and every transaction in business ; they 
 are never to be contravened. But in 
 laying down practical rules for traffic, 
 we immediately meet with difficulties, 
 and are obliged to leave a great deal to 
 the honest judgment of the trader. He 
 must do right, indeed ; that is the great 
 law ; but what is right ? Let us now 
 more nearly approach this question, 
 having narrowed it down to a question 
 about rules, and more closely apply our- 
 selves to the difficulties involved in it. 
 
 And here, I must ask you to consider 
 as a further and final preliminary topic, 
 the language of the legal writers on this 
 subject. It is common with those 
 writers to make a distinction between 
 moral and legal justice ; or, in other 
 words, between the demands of con- 
 science and the decisions of their courts. 
 Conscience, for instance, demands that 
 a certain contract shall be annulled, 
 because there was some concealment or 
 deception ; but the courts will not annul 
 it, unless the injury be very great. In 
 short, it is a matter of degrees. Up 
 to a certain extent, the law will, in fact, 
 protect a man in doing what is wrong, 
 in doing that which violates his con- 
 science ; beyond a certain extent, it will 
 not protect him. This distinction is 
 founded on the policy of the law and 
 the policy of trade. "In law," says 
 Pothier, "a party will not be permitted 
 to complain of sHght offences, which he, 
 with whom a contract is made, has com- 
 mitted against good faith ; otherwise 
 there would be too many contracts to 
 be rescinded, which would open the 
 way for too much litigation, and would 
 derange commerce." * And again, " The 
 interests of commerce will not easily 
 permit parties to escape from bargains 
 which they have concluded : they must 
 lay the blame to their not having been 
 better informed concerning the defects 
 of the article sold." f And again he 
 
 * Traits des Obligations, Part. I. ch. i. Sec. i. 
 Art. 3- § 3- 
 
 1 Tiait^ du Contrat de vente, Part. II. ch. 2. 
 Art. 2. 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 239 
 
 says, "This rule is wisely established 
 for the security and freedom of com- 
 merce, which demand that no one should 
 easily be off from his bargains ; other- 
 wise men would not dare to make con- 
 tracts, for fear that he with whom they 
 had bargained should imagine that he 
 was injured, and upon that ground (of 
 mere imagination or pretence) should 
 commence an action." Hence, Pothier 
 says, that the wrong of which the courts 
 will take cognizance must be an enor- 
 mous wrong.* 
 
 Now there is, doubtless, a certain ex- 
 pediency here ; a certain policy of trade, 
 a certain policy of the law. It is expe- 
 dent that a fair field be opened in busi- 
 ness for ingenuity, sagacity, and atten- 
 tion ; and that ignorance, indolence, and 
 neglect should meet with loss. " The 
 common law," says Chancellor Kent, 
 "affords to every one reasonable pro- 
 tection against fraud in dealing; but it 
 does not go the romantic length of giving 
 indemnity against the consequences of 
 indolence and folly, or a careless indif- 
 ference to the ordinary and accessible 
 means of information." f 
 
 What is the nature, and what is the 
 amount, of this concession to expediency? 
 Let us carefully consider this question, 
 for much depends upon it. 
 
 Legal expediency, then, is not' to be 
 so construed as to warrant the supposi- 
 tion that it lends a sanction to what is 
 wrong. It may, from necessity, permit 
 or protect fraud, but does not abet it. 
 A man is not to consider himself an 
 honest man, simply because the law 
 gives him deliverance. For the law can- 
 not take cognizance of the secret inten- 
 tions, nor of slight deviations from truth. 
 If every man who says he has got a bad 
 bargain, and who thinks he has been 
 cheated, could be heard in court, our 
 tribunals would be overwhelmed with 
 business. No human tribunal can de- 
 scend to the minutiae of injustice. But 
 the law, I repeat, does not sanction 
 
 * Trait^ des Obligations, Part. I. ch. i. Sec. i. 
 Art. 3. §3. 
 t Commentaries. 
 
 what it does not undertake to prevent, 
 any more than tlie infinite providence 
 sanctions those abuses which arise from 
 its great law of freedom. 
 
 This 'being the nature of the conces- 
 sion to expediency, no principle being 
 compromised, we may say that the ex- 
 tent of the concession must be consid- 
 erable. It is certainly expedient that 
 every man be put upon his own discre- 
 tion, sagacity, and attention, for success. 
 In business, as in everything else, a 
 premium is set upon these qualities by 
 the hand of providence. It is expedient, 
 in other words, that every man should 
 take care of himself. Others are not 
 to step forward at every turn to rescue 
 him from the consequences of his indo- 
 lence or inattention. The seller is not 
 required to give his opinioti to the buyer. 
 If he knows of any defect in his mer- 
 chandise, not apparent to the buyer, he 
 is bound to state it : but he is not re- 
 quired to give his opinion. The buyer 
 has no business to ask it of him; he is 
 to form an opinion for himself. If he 
 is relieved from doing this, he will al- 
 ways remain in a sort of mercantile 
 childhood. 
 
 Nor do I know that there is anything 
 in Scripture, or in the laws of human 
 brotherhood, that forbids this honest, 
 not fraudulent, but honest, competition 
 between men's exertions, faculties, and 
 wits. We are, indeed, to do to others 
 as we would have them do to us ; but we 
 ought not to wish them to do anything 
 to us which is inconsistent with the gen- 
 eral welfare of the community, with the 
 lawful and necessarystimulants toaction. 
 We may have unreasonable desires : we 
 would, perhaps, that our rich neighbor 
 should present us with half of his for- 
 tune ; but unreasonable desires are not 
 the measure of our duties. Not what- 
 ever we wish, but what we lawfully wish 
 from others, should we do to them. And, 
 lawfully, we can no more wish that they 
 should give to our indolence and negli- 
 gence the benefit of their sagacity and 
 alertness in making a contract, than that 
 they would give to our poverty the half 
 
240 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 of that wealth which their superior in- 
 dustry or talent had earned for them. 
 Thus, too, when it is said that we ought 
 to treat all men as brethren ; it is true, 
 indeed, so far as that relation is expres- 
 sive of the general relationships of so- 
 ciety. But while there should be a 
 brotherly community of feeling, there 
 cannot be a brotherly identity of inter- 
 ests between the members of society ; 
 and, therefore, they are not bound to 
 deal with one another as if they belonged 
 to a community of Shakers, or of New 
 Harmony men. We are not to break 
 down the principle of individuality, of 
 individual interests, of individual aims ; 
 while at the same time we are to hold 
 it in subjection to the laws of sacred 
 honesty, and of a wise philanthropy. 
 
 Besides, it is not only expedient and 
 right, but it is inevitable, that individual 
 power and talent should come into play 
 in business. A man's sagacity, it is ob- 
 vious, he must use ; that is to say, his 
 mind he must use ; for he has nothing 
 else to go by. He may use it unjustly, to 
 the heinous injury of his weaker neigh- 
 bor ; but still he must use it. So also 
 with regard to the power acquired by a 
 large property, or by a monopoly, it is in- 
 evitable that it should be used. To some 
 extent, the possessor cannot help using 
 it. Wealth has credit ; and monopoly, 
 usually implying scarcity, carries an en- 
 hanced price with it, and such results 
 are unavoidable. Finally, superior ac- 
 tual knowledge may and must be used, 
 to some extent. In every department of 
 business superior knowledge is gained 
 by attention, and it may and must be 
 acted upon, albeit to the hurt or injury 
 of those who know less, or have devoted 
 less time and thought to the subject. A 
 man has made an improvement in some 
 machinery or manufacture, and he is en- 
 titled to some reward for the attention 
 he has given to it ; the government will 
 give him a patent. A man has been to 
 India or to South America, to acquaint 
 himself with a certain branch of busi- 
 ness ; and he comes home and acts upon 
 his knowledge, and he has a perfect right 
 
 to do so. He is not bound to commu- 
 nicate his knowledge to his brother 
 merchants who are engaged in the same 
 trade ; and perhaps his knowledge so 
 much depends upon actual observation 
 and experience, that he cannot communi- 
 cate it. In like manner, a trader may 
 obtain a superior knowledge of business, 
 and of the facts on which it depends, by 
 a close observation of things immedi- 
 ately around him, and he must act upon 
 it ; he cannot employ himself in going 
 about to see whether other men have 
 got the same enlarged views. Nor have 
 other men any right to complain of this. 
 The unskilful painter or sculptor, the 
 ignorant lawyer or physician, might as 
 well complain that their more distin- 
 guished brethren were injuring their 
 business, and taking all the prizes out 
 of their hands. 
 
 I have thus attempted to set forth the 
 claims of individual enterprise as having 
 a useful, a beneficent tendency. These 
 claims, I have all along implied, are sub- 
 ject to certain limitations. And these 
 limitations are set by the laws of honesty 
 and philanthropy. That is to say, a man 
 may pursue his own interest ; he may 
 use his endeavor, sagacity, ability ; but 
 in the first place, he shall not pursue 
 any traffic or make any contract to the 
 injury' of his neighbor; unless that in- 
 jury is one that inevitably results from a 
 general and good principle, — that is to 
 say, from the healthful action of busi- 
 ness ; and, in the next place, he shall 
 not pursue his own ends to the extent 
 of committing any fraud. 
 
 This last limitation is the one of the 
 most palpable importance, and demands 
 that we should distinctly mark it. What, 
 then, is a fraud in contracts ? In order 
 to answer the question, let us ask what 
 is a contract ? A contract is a mutual en- 
 gagement, to exchange certain goods for 
 other goods, or certain goods for money ; 
 and the essence of the engagement lies 
 in the supposed equivalency of the things 
 that are exchanged. This results from 
 the very nature of the case and of the 
 human mind. For it is not the part of a 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 241 
 
 rationnl being to give more for less. If 
 vou bargain away anything to your neigh- 
 bor, you of course seek from him what 
 to you is equivalent. But how are you 
 to judge of this equivalency ; of the 
 value, that is to say, of the article of- 
 fered to you ? There are two grounds 
 on which you may judge. You may 
 know the articles as well as the seller ; 
 you may know as much about it, every 
 way, as he does. This is ordinarily the 
 case between trader and trader. But 
 between the merchant and the rest of 
 the world this is usually not the case. 
 And here the ground on which you pro- 
 ceed is that of confidence in the good 
 faith of the seller. You could make up 
 no satisfactory opinion on the value of 
 the article offered to you, if you did not 
 believe that it is what it purports to be, 
 what it appears to be, what the price in- 
 dicates it to be. If, then, there is any 
 secret defect in the article not apparent 
 to you, or if there is any circumstance 
 unknown to you, materially affecting its 
 value, or if the price set upon it is any 
 other than the market price, there is 
 fraud. Wherever the contracting par- 
 ties stand in totally different relations to 
 the matter in hand, the one knowing 
 something, some secret, which the other 
 does not and cannot know, there'xs, fraud. 
 The contract is morally vitiated. The 
 obvious conditions of a contract are not 
 complied with. It is well known by one 
 of the parties that the grand condition, 
 that of equivalency, does not exist in 
 the case. 
 
 Let us now look back, for a moment, 
 upon the ground which we have passed 
 over in this preliminary discussion. I 
 have, in the first place, attempted to 
 show that no single suggestion or dictate 
 of conscience, or Scripture, or of gen- 
 erous feeling, or of the law, is sufficient 
 to solve the moral questions that arise 
 in trade. In the next place, I have said 
 that there is a distinction to be made 
 between principles and rules ; the prin- 
 ciples of moral conduct being clear and 
 certain ; the rules only, the specific ac- 
 tions under these principles, that is to 
 
 16 
 
 say, being liable to doubt. I thus wished 
 to set one department of this suliject 
 above all question. In the third place, 
 I applied myself to the consideration of 
 rules. And here I attempted to show 
 that while, on the one hand, it is ex- 
 pedient that ample scope be given to 
 human ingenuity, sagacitv, and alertness 
 in business, yet, on the other hand, 
 that they are never to transgress the 
 bounds of philanthropy, honesty, and 
 justice. 
 
 Let us now proceed to examine some 
 of the cases to wiiich these general rea- 
 sonings apply. 
 
 I. The first is the ordinary case of 
 buying and selling, i. e. under ordinary 
 circumstances. 
 
 And here, it is expedient and neces- 
 sary that men in their dealings with 
 one another should be put to the use 
 of their senses and faculties. There is 
 a discretion and there is a duty proper, 
 respectively, to the seller and to the 
 buyer. Each of them has his part to 
 act, his business to attend to, and nei- 
 ther of them is bound to assume the 
 duty of the other. In ordinary cases 
 there is no difficulty with this maxim, 
 no temptation to dishonesty, no possi- 
 bility of deception. 
 
 The article is open to inspection ; its 
 qualities are as obvious to the buyer as 
 to the seller. The buyer is supposed to 
 know his own business, his own occa- 
 sions ; the buyer is fairly supposed best 
 to know what the article is worth to 
 him, not the seller ; and it is for him 
 to decide whether he will purchase, and 
 what he will give. The seller cannot 
 be expected to enter into the circum- 
 stances of the buyer, and to ascertain 
 by inquiry what he intends to do with 
 the article he purchases ; whether he 
 can turn it to good account ; or whether 
 he could not buy more advantageously 
 somewhere else; all this belongs to the 
 province of the buyer : it is his business 
 to settle all these questions. And he is 
 not only best able to decide them, but 
 he is as competent to judge of the qual- 
 ity of the goods which are offered him 
 
242 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 as the seller, for they are alike open to 
 the inspection of both. 
 
 This free action, this competition, we 
 have already said, is to be restrained in 
 trade, as in everything else, by perfect 
 fairness and honesty. At that point in 
 our preliminary discussion, the theoreti- 
 cal question about the nature of a con- 
 tract presented itself; in our present 
 inquiry, the natural and practical ques- 
 tion is about price. What is the just 
 price of an article ? A man has some- 
 thing to sell ; he wishes to deal hon- 
 estly ; the question then is, what shall 
 he ask for it .'' If he can settle this ques- 
 tion, all is plain. How shall he settle it ? 
 What is it that determines a price to be 
 just .'' Evidently, not any abstract con- 
 sideration of value. There can be no 
 such thing as abstract value. The 
 worth of a thing depends on the want 
 of it. Originally, it is true, i. e. in the 
 first rude state of society, men, in ex- 
 changing the products of their labor, 
 would naturally estimate the value of 
 each article by the labor required to 
 produce it. But even this estimate, 
 though approaching nearest to it, would 
 not present us with an abstract and ab- 
 solute value ; and it would soon be dis- 
 turbed by circumstances, effectually and 
 beyond recovery. Labor would not be 
 an accurate measure of value, because 
 one man's labor, through its energy and 
 ingenuity, would be worth far more than 
 another man's. That primitive rule, too, 
 inaccurate as it is, would soon, I repeat, 
 be disturbed by circumstances. For 
 suppose that one man had manufactured 
 axes, and another shoes ; circumstances 
 would inevitably arise that would give 
 one or another of these articles a facti- 
 tious value. In the winter season, when 
 protection was needed for the person, 
 and in the summer, which was favorable 
 to the felling of timber, the value of 
 those articles must be constantly fluctu- 
 ating ; it would be factitious ; it could 
 not be determined by the amount of 
 labor. And as we depart farther from 
 those primitive exchanges, we find cir- 
 cumstances, numerous, complicated, and 
 
 very artificial, which affect value. The 
 wants, fancies, and fashions of society ; 
 the state of crops and markets, and of 
 trade all over the world ; the variations 
 of the seasons ; the success or failure 
 of fisheries ; improvements in machin- 
 ery ; discoveries in art ; and the regu- 
 lations of governments, — all these 
 things, and many more, conspire alter- 
 nately to fix and disturb, from day to 
 day, that ever fluctuating thing called 
 price. It is not any or^e man's judg- 
 ment or conscience that can ascertain 
 the value of anything, but millions of 
 individual judgments go to make up the 
 decision. It is in vain to say that such 
 and such things are worth little or noth- 
 ing ; that they are unnecessary or use- 
 less ; or that they confer no advantage 
 proportionate to their cost ; that is not 
 the question. What will they fetch ? is 
 the question. You may, in a fit of gener- 
 osity, or a scruple of conscience, sell 
 them for less ; but the moment they are 
 out of your hands they will rise to the 
 level of the market : you have lost the 
 difference, and gained nothing for your 
 generous principle. In fine, //le vahte of 
 a thing I's the market p7'ice of it. This 
 is the only intelligible idea of value, 
 and the only reasonable adjustment of 
 price. It is certainly most likely to be 
 reasonable ; for a multitude of judg- 
 ments have been employed upon it, and 
 have settled it. It is the legislative 
 voice of the whole world ; and it would 
 be as unjust and inexpedient, as it is im- 
 possible, to resist it. 
 
 The way of honesty, then, in the ordi- 
 nary course of traffic, seems to be very 
 clear. The terms on which we are to 
 buy and sell are established for us by a 
 very obvious rule. In a general view, 
 we may say that conscience has noth- 
 ing to do with afiixing a price. That is 
 determined by a thousand circumstances 
 and a million voices. The trader must 
 buy at the market price, and he must 
 sell accordingly. He does not deter- 
 mine the price, but the suffrage of a 
 whole city, or of twenty cities, deter-, 
 mines it. All that conscience has to, 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 243 
 
 I 
 
 do with price, therefore, is, not to go 
 beyond the usage of the market. And 
 for the rest the rule is, to make no false 
 representation, and to conceal no latent 
 defect. 
 
 In this view, the moral course in al- 
 most the entire business of trade seems 
 to be exceedingly plain ; and certainly 
 it is most grateful to reflect that it is so. 
 He that runs may read. No man needs 
 to carry with him, in regard to most of 
 the transactions of business, a disturbed 
 or a doubtful conscience. 
 
 But still cases will arise from a nicer 
 casuistry. The market price is indeed 
 the rule ; but there is monopoly that 
 makes a market price, and there is su- 
 perior information that takes undue ad- 
 vantage of it. These are the cases that 
 remain to be e.xamined. 
 
 II. The next case, then, to be con- 
 sidered in the morals of business, is 
 monopoly. This may arise in two ways : 
 intentionally, from combination on the 
 part of several traders, or a plan on the 
 part of one ; and unintentionally, where 
 it falls out in the natural and unforced 
 course of trade. It is from confound- 
 ing these two cases together, perhaps, 
 that a peculiar prejudice is felt in the 
 community against monopoly. That a 
 man should set himself by dexterous 
 management to get into his possession 
 all the corn in market, in order to ex- 
 tort an enormous price for it, is felt to 
 be oppressive and wrong. But there is 
 often a monopoly, to a greater or less 
 degree, resulting from simple scarcity ; 
 and in this case, that enhancement of 
 price which is so odious is perfectly 
 inevitable. Nay, it may be even bene- 
 ficial. For high prices lessen consump- 
 tion, and may prevent famine. But at 
 any rate, high prices in a time of scar- 
 city are inevitable. Even if all the corn 
 or all the coal were in the hands of one 
 man ; and he should sell the half of his 
 stock to the wholesale dealers at a mod- 
 erate rate, and hold the remainder at 
 the same rate to keep the price down, 
 still, I say, the moment the article left 
 his hands, the law of scarcity would 
 
 prevail, and raise the price. Monopoly, 
 therefore, compels, and of course justi- 
 fies, an enhanced price. The same prin- 
 ciple which applies to every other com- 
 modity applies to that commodity called 
 money. And it is only from the habit 
 of considering money not as a com- 
 modity, but as a possession of some 
 peculiar and magical value, that any 
 Ijrejudice can exist against what is 
 called usurious interest ; saving and ex- 
 cepting when that interest goes beyond 
 all bounds of reason and humanity. The 
 practice of usury has acquired a bad 
 name from former and still occasional 
 abuses of it. But the principle must 
 still be a just one, that money, in com- 
 mon with everything else, is worth what 
 it will fetch. 
 
 This, I know, is denied. It is denied, 
 especially, that money is, or is to be re- 
 garded, like other commodities in trade. 
 It is said that money is the creature of 
 government ; that the mint, when stamp- 
 ing it with the government impress, 
 stamps it with a peculiar character, and 
 separates it entirely from the general 
 condition of a commodity. It is said, 
 too, that Ihe common representative of 
 money, that the bank-note, that credit, in 
 other words, is exposed to such expan- 
 sion and contraction, and management 
 and conspiracy, that it is peculiarly lia- 
 ble to be used to the injury of the neces- 
 sitous and unwary. 
 
 Let us separate this consideration of 
 credit from our discussion for a moment, 
 and consider the question alone as it 
 affects the use of money in the form of 
 bullion. And I know of no better way 
 of considering questions of this sort, 
 than to resolve them into their simple 
 forms, by going back to the origin of 
 society, or by takinsr, for example, a 
 small and isolated community. At least. 
 we come to the theory of the questions 
 by this means, and can then consider 
 what modifications are required by more 
 artificial and complicated interests. 
 
 Suppose, then, a community of a hun- 
 dred families, cut off from the rest of 
 the world, engaged in the various call- 
 
-44 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 ings of life, accustomed to barter, but 
 not accustomed to the use of money. 
 Suppose, now, that a gold-mine were 
 discovered. The metal is found to be 
 very valuable for various purposes ; and, 
 like everything else, it takes its value 
 in the market ; an ounce of it is ex- 
 changed for so many bushels of corn or 
 yards of cloth. But the permanent and 
 universal value of this metal, and its be- 
 ing so portable and indestructible, would, 
 erelong, very naturally bring it into 
 use as a circulating medium ; the farmer 
 would know that if he sold corn for it, 
 he could buy cloth with it in another 
 part of the district, and would be glad 
 thus to be saved the trouble and expense 
 of transporting the produce of his farm 
 to the distant manufactory. In this ex- 
 change, the lumps of gold of course would 
 be weighed, and it would be natural to 
 stamp the weight upon each lump. But 
 another step would follow from all this. 
 As there would be the trouble of con- 
 stantly weighing this circulating medium, 
 and the danger of mistake and decep- 
 tion, the community would appoint a 
 committee, or depute its government, if 
 it had one, to do this very thing ; and 
 the metal would be cast into various 
 quantities, bearing distinct denomina- 
 tions, to answer more fully the purposes 
 of a convenient circulating medium. 
 Here, then, we have a mint, and here 
 we have money. Nobody will deny that 
 it was a commodity when each man dug 
 it from the earth, and exchanged it At 
 liis pleasure. But the action of the gov- 
 ernment confers no peculiar character 
 on it. The government simply weighs 
 the metal, and affixes, as it were, a label 
 to it, i. e. stamps it as coin, to tell what 
 it is worth. It does not create this 
 value, but simply indicates it. 
 
 I am sensible that many questions 
 may still be asked, but I have not space 
 here, if I had ability, to enter into them ; 
 and besides, if this is a just theory of 
 the value of the specie currency, it may 
 itself suggest the necessary answers. 
 But the great practical difficulties arise 
 from the use of a paper currency. If 
 
 the paper were strictly the representative 
 of gold and silver ; if the issue of bank- 
 notes did not exceed the specie actu- 
 ally in vault, and thus were used only 
 for convenience, the same principles 
 would apply as before. All other paper 
 does not represent money, but credit; 
 i. e., it represents the presumed ability 
 of a man to pay what he promises, 
 not his known and ascertained property. 
 And the question is, may credit be 
 bought and sold in the market like any 
 commodity .'' 
 
 Let us again attempt to simplify the 
 question. You want money, let us sup- 
 pose, and you go to a money-lender 
 and ask for it. He says, " I have not 
 the money, but I shall have it a month 
 hence, and I will give my note payable 
 at that time." This may answer the 
 purpose with your creditor, and the 
 question now is, what interest shall you 
 pay? Shall credit take its place in the 
 market like money, or like a commodity? 
 Shall we say that the government has no 
 business to interfere in this matter, with 
 its usury laws, obliging a man to sell 
 his paper for seven per cent ? Shall we 
 say that all this ought to be left to 
 regulate itself, and that every man shall 
 be left free to act according to his 
 pleasure ? 
 
 I certainly feel some hesitation, from 
 deference for the opinions of some able 
 men who are more studious in these 
 matters than I am, about answering this 
 question in the affirmative. There are 
 relations and bearings of that immense 
 and complicated subject, the monetary 
 system, which I may not understand; 
 and usury, perhaps, is connected with 
 that system in ways that are beyond 
 my comprehension. But looking at the 
 question now, in the light of simple 
 justice, separating all unlawful combina- 
 tion and conspiracy from the case, and 
 all deception and dishonesty, I cannot 
 see why a man has not a right to sell 
 his credit for what another is willing to 
 give for it. If a lawyer has so elevated 
 himself above his brethren that his opin- 
 ion is worth not twenty, but five hundred, 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 245 
 
 per cent more than theirs, he takes that 
 advance for his counsel. Why, then, 
 shall not a merchant, who by the same 
 laborious means has acquired a fortune 
 and a high commercial reputation, be 
 allowed a similar advantage ? 
 
 We say, why should he not dispose of 
 his credit, or, in other words, pledge his 
 propel ty, at such prices as it will natu- 
 rally bear ? But the truth is, that he can- 
 not prevent this result, let him do what he 
 will. He may sell his paper at one half 
 per cent a month, but the moment it is 
 out of his hands, it will rise to two or 
 three per cent, if that be its real value. 
 I say nothing now about obedience to 
 the usury laws ; I do not touch the 
 point of conscience in that respect; but 
 I believe that the laws themselves are 
 both impolitic and unjust ; unjust, be- 
 cause they conflict with the real value 
 of things ; and impolitic, because they 
 never were, and never can be, executed, 
 and, in fact, because they only increase 
 the rates of interest by increasing the 
 risk. 
 
 But is there, then, no limit, it may be 
 said, to the advantage which one man 
 may take of the necessities of another? 
 To ask this question in regard to the 
 lender of money, is but the same thing 
 as to ask it in regard to the man in 
 every other relationship of life. The 
 duties of humanity, of philanthropy, of 
 natural affection, can never be abrogated 
 by any circumstances, and the only 
 question is, what line of conduct in the 
 case before us is conformable to those 
 duties. That question cannot, I think, 
 be brought within the compass of any 
 assignable rules ; and must be left for 
 every man seriously to consider for 
 himself. He is put upon his conscience 
 in this respect, as he is in every other 
 case in life. 
 
 III. But the hardest case to deter- 
 mine, is that on which the question is 
 raised about the use of superior infor- 
 mation. And perhaps this question can- 
 not be better stated than in the celebrated 
 case put by Cicero.* A corn merchant 
 
 ♦ De Officiis, Lib. 3, Sec. 12 17. 
 
 of Alexandria, he says, arrived at Rhodes 
 in a time of great scarcity, with a cargo 
 of grain, and with knowledge that a 
 number of other vessels laden with corn 
 had already sailed from Alexandria for 
 Rhodes, and which he had passed on 
 tlie passage ; was he bound in con- 
 science to inform the buyers of that fact ? 
 Cicero decides that he was. Several 
 modern writers on law dissent from his 
 opinion ; as Grotius, Puftendorf, and 
 I'othier himself, though with very care- 
 ful qualifications.* 
 
 It appears to me that the answer to 
 Cicero's question must depend on the 
 views which are taken of a contract. If 
 a contract is a mere arbitrary conven- 
 tion, if business is a game, a mere con- 
 test of men's wits, if every man has a 
 right to make the best bargain he can, if 
 society really ha? power to ordain that 
 such shall be the laws of trade, then the 
 decision will be one way. But if a con- 
 tract implies in its very nature the obli- 
 gation of fair-dealing and truth-telling, 
 then the decision will be the other way. 
 The supposition is, that the Alexandrine 
 trader concealed a certain fact, for the 
 sake of asking a price which he knew 
 would not have been given, had that fact 
 been public. Now what is implied in 
 asking a price .'' What does a man say, 
 when he sets a certain price on his mer- 
 chandise ? Does he, or does he not, say 
 that the price he asks is, in his opinion, 
 the fair value of the article ? I think he 
 does. If you did not so understand him, 
 you would not trade with iiim. If you 
 observed a lurking sneer on his lip, such 
 as there must be in his heart, when he 
 knows that he is taking you in, you 
 would have nothing to do with him. 
 The very transaction, c?illed a contract, 
 imphes that degree of good faith. If 
 this be true, if it is universally under- 
 stood that he who asks a price professes 
 in that very act to ask a just and fair 
 price, and if, moreover, he has a letter 
 in his pocket assuring and satisfying 
 him that it is not the just price, then 
 he is guilty of falsehood. If the Alexan- 
 
 * Traite du Contrat de veiile, Part. II. cli. 2. Art. 3. 
 
246 
 
 O-N COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 drine trader had asked a price graduated 
 exactly by his opinion of the probability 
 that other vessels would soon arrive, and 
 of the amount of the supply they would 
 bring, his conduct would have been fair 
 and honest. But if he had concealed 
 facts within his knowledge, for the sake 
 of asking an enormous price, or any 
 price beyond what he knew to be the fair 
 value, he would be guilty of falsehood and 
 dishonesty. And the reason is, I repeat, 
 that the very basis of a contract is mu- 
 tual advantage ; that its very essence 
 lies in a supposed equivalency ; that he 
 who sets a price is understood to say as 
 much as this, " I think the article is worth 
 it." And if you allow a man to swerve 
 from this truth and good faith at all, 
 where will you stop ? Suppose that the 
 people of Rhodes had been suffering the 
 horrors of famine, and the Alexandrine 
 merchant had taken advantage of their 
 situation to exact from them all their 
 disposable property as the price of life, 
 and had borne off that mass of treasure, 
 all the while knowing that bountiful sup- 
 plies were at hand ; what should we have 
 said ? We should have said that his per- 
 fidy was equal to his cruelty ; that he 
 was both a pirate and a villain. But if 
 a man may be guilty of falsehood in one 
 degree, what principle is to prevent his 
 being guilty of it in another ? I know 
 what may be said on the other hand. 
 The master of the Alexandrine ship, it 
 may be said, had outstripped the others 
 by superior sailing ; and this superiority 
 in the management of his ship may have 
 been the fruit of a whole life of industry 
 and ingenuity. He had also been on the 
 alert, it may be supposed ; had watched 
 the course of the markets while others 
 slept, and had been ready with his supply 
 to meet the exigency which all others, 
 even the Rhodians themselves, had been 
 too dull to foresee. Is he not entitled 
 to some premium for all this ? Nay, but 
 for the prospect held out of such a re- 
 ward, the Rhodians might have starved. 
 And yet if he gives the information in 
 question, he loses the premium. No, 
 the merchants of Rhodes say, " We will 
 
 wait till to-morrow." But again ; to- 
 morrow comes ; the vessels arrive ; the 
 market is glutted ; and the Alexandrine 
 trader loses money on his voyage. Will 
 the merchants of Rhodes make it up to 
 him, on account of his generosity in giv- 
 ing them the information ? Not at all. 
 " We buy at the market price," they say ; 
 " we cannot afford any more ; if we give 
 more, we are losers ;" and thus tlie Alex- 
 andrine, by neglecting his own interests, 
 and taking care of other people, loses 
 not only his voyage, but his whole for- 
 tune perhaps, and becomes a bankrupt ; 
 and by becoming a bankrupt, he injures 
 those he is most bound to serve, his con- 
 fiding fri&nds and beggared family. All 
 this is a very good reason, to be sure, 
 why the Alexandrine trader should be 
 rewarded for his exertions ; but it is not 
 any good reason, nor ca>i there ever be 
 any good reason, why a man should tell 
 a falsehood ; why he should make a false 
 impression; why he should deceive his 
 neighbor. 
 
 On the whole, there are two impor- 
 tant distinctions to be made, which will 
 carry us, I think, as far as anything 
 can carry us, through the intricacies 
 and difficulties of this whole subject. 
 The one is, the difference between posi- 
 tive knowledge and mere opinion. The 
 other is, between the rights of parties 
 and the general moral policy of trade. 
 
 To take up the latter in the first place : 
 It is said, that if merchants or brokers 
 mutually agree to the utmost severity of 
 competition, if the iDiderstandiiig be- 
 tween tliem is tiiat they may take every 
 possible advantage of one another ; then, 
 as between i/ieniselves, there is nothing 
 unjust, nothing dishonest, in their act- 
 ing according to the compact. At the 
 broker's board, as at the gamester's 
 board, they may push this principle to 
 the ruin of one another, and nobody 
 has any right to complain. Not only 
 may they fully avail themselves of su- 
 perior power or knowledge in the ordi- 
 nary transaction of business, but they 
 may conspire together to contract with 
 their neighbor to deliver to them a cer- 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 247 
 
 tain amount of a certain kind of stock 
 a month Iience, and in the mean time 
 they may buy up all that stock, and 
 then, having the power in their hands, 
 they may use it to ruin him; and yet, 
 as between themselves, it is a fair busi- 
 ness transaction. They agreed to enter 
 into this kind of contest with one an- 
 other, and they have acted according to 
 their agreement. 
 
 All this is true ; and yet I maintain 
 that there is a general moral policy of 
 trade, so to speak, which should forbid 
 such proceedings. I maintain that they 
 have no moral right to make such a com- 
 pact. It is a compact to defraud. All 
 moral expediency is against it ; as much 
 against it as it is against gambling in 
 any form. It is gambling, and nothing 
 else. It must be injurious, if not fatal, 
 to all benevolence, — to all the purity 
 and generosity of the character. The 
 question really is, whether .the board of 
 trade should be brought down to the 
 level of the gaming-table. 
 
 But tills moral policy of trade, in 
 other words, this highest well-being of 
 society, in its business, does not forbid 
 the fair use and advantage of superior 
 sagacity, knowledge, attention, alertness 
 in business. The difficult question is, 
 what is that fair use ? and with refer- 
 ence to this I propose the other distinc- 
 tion ; the distinction, that is to say, 
 between knowledge and opinion. To 
 illustrate what I mean by an instance : 
 a man holds in his hand a lump of gold 
 which he has taken from his mine ; he, 
 however, sripposes it to be copper, Ijut 
 you know it to be gold ; if you buy it of 
 him as copper you are a swindler. But 
 now suppose the quality of the lump to be 
 doubtful — that the question about it is 
 an open question between you ; and sup- 
 pose that you have better grounds for 
 your opinion than he for his ; in this 
 case, I say, you may honestly buy of 
 him at his valuation. 
 
 This is the difference between knowl- 
 edge and opinion ; and although it is 
 not easy to draw the exact line between 
 them, yet I say that the leaning to the 
 
 exercise of opinion is the safe and right 
 tendency ; and that the leaning to the 
 use of absolute knowledge is unsafe, 
 and may go to the length of utter and 
 heinous wrong. Let us now say some- 
 thing, in fine, in defence of the one, 
 and in admonition with regard to the 
 other. 
 
 Do we tlien propose to reduce the 
 wise and the ignorant, the sagacious and 
 the stupid, the attentive and the negli- 
 gent, the acti\-e and the indolent, to the 
 same level .'' Must the intelligent and 
 the enterprising merchant raise up his 
 dull and careless neighbor to his own 
 point of view before we may deal with 
 him ? Certainly not. Let a wide field 
 be opened, only provided that the boun- 
 daries be truth and honesty. Let the 
 widest field for activity and freedom of 
 act'on be spread, which these boundaries 
 can enclose. 
 
 Indeed, a man must act in trade upon 
 some opinion. That opinion must be 
 founded on some knowledge. And that 
 knowledge he may properly seek. Nay, 
 and he may use it, to any extent, not 
 implying deception or dishonestv. Nor 
 are the cases frequent in which com- 
 mercial operations possess any such 
 definite or extraordinary character as 
 admits of deception. It does not often 
 happen that any great advantage is, 
 or can be, taken of complete and un- 
 suspecting ignorance. Men are wary. 
 They will not make questionable sales, 
 when a packet-ship from abroad is in 
 the offing. They are set to guard their 
 own interests, and they do guard them. 
 They must assume some responsibili- 
 ties in this way ; they must take some 
 risks. They are liable to err in opinion, 
 and they must take such chance as 
 human imperfection ordains for them. 
 Business, like every other scene of hu- 
 man life, is a theatre for imperfection, 
 for error, for effort, for opinion, and for 
 their results. I do not see how it can 
 possibly be otherwise, and therefore I 
 consider it as appointed to be so. Un- 
 due advantage may be taken of this state 
 of things by the selfish, grasping, and 
 
248 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 unconscientious ; right principles may 
 be wrested to the accomphshment of 
 wrong ends ; a system of commercial 
 morality may be good for the com- 
 munity, and yet may be abused by in- 
 dividuals : all this is true ; and yet the 
 doctrine which applies everywhere else 
 must apply here, that abuse fairly ar- 
 gues nothing against use. 
 
 Let us see how the case would stand 
 n it were otherwise ; let us see what 
 the assumption on the part of the trad- 
 ing community, that no man should ever 
 act in any way on superior information, 
 would amount to. *' VVe may sleep," 
 they would say ; " we need not take any 
 pains to inform ourselves of t!ie state of 
 the markets; we need not take a step 
 from our own door. If our neighbor 
 come to trade with us, he must first in- 
 form us of everything affecting the price 
 of our goods. He makes himself very 
 busy; and he shall have his labor for 
 his pains ; for the rule now is, that indo- 
 lence is to fare as well as activity, and 
 vigilance is to have no advantage over 
 supineness and sloth." Suppose, then, 
 that the vigilant and active man is up 
 betimes, and goes clown upon the wharf 
 or to the news-room, and becomes 
 apprised of facts that affect the price of 
 his goods ; he must not go about sell- 
 ing, till he has stepped into the shop 
 of his indolent neighbor, and perhaps 
 of half a dozen such, to inform i/zem 
 of the state of things ; for, although he 
 does not directly trade with them, yet, 
 by underselling or selling for more, in 
 consequence of superior information, he 
 injures them just as much as if he did : 
 i. e., he takes profits out of the hands 
 of the slothful, by acting on his superior 
 knowledge. But now enlarge the sphere 
 of the comparison. There is no real 
 difference in the principle between a 
 man's going down to the wharf, and his 
 going to Europe, for information. And 
 if, by superior activity, by building better 
 ships and better manning them, he is 
 accustomed to get earlier advices of the 
 state of foreign markets, I see not, but 
 as a general principle, a principle advan- 
 
 tageous to commerce, and encouragin<>- 
 to human industry and ingenuity, he 
 must be allowed to avail himself of those 
 advices. The law of general expediency 
 must be a law for the conscience. It is 
 expedient that industry and attention 
 should be rewarded, and that negligence 
 and sloth should suffer loss. 1 1 is expedi- 
 ent that there should be commerce or bar- 
 ter ; nay, it is inevitable. It is expedient, 
 therefore, that all that sagacity, power, 
 and information, which are the result of 
 superior talent, energy, and ingenuity, 
 should yield certain advantages to their 
 possessor. These advantages he may 
 push beyond the bounds of reason and 
 justice ; but we must not, on that ac- 
 count, be deterred from maintaining a 
 principle which is right ; a principle 
 which is expedient and necessary for 
 the whole community. 
 
 And is not the same principle, in fact, 
 adopted in every department of human 
 pursuit ? Two men engage in a certain 
 branch of manufactures. The one, by 
 his attention and ingenuity, makes dis- 
 coveries in his art, and thus gains advan- 
 tages over his indolent or dull neighbor. 
 Is he obliged to impart to him his supe- 
 rior information .'' Two young men in 
 the profession of the law are distin- 
 guished, the one for hard study, the other 
 for idleness. They are engaged in the 
 same cause ; and the one believes that 
 the other is making a false point in the 
 case. Is he obliged to go over to his 
 brother's ofifice, and explain to him his 
 error ; or is it not proper, rather, that 
 both himself and his client should suffer 
 for that error, when the cause comes to 
 be argued in open court ? 
 
 Tiius much witli regard to the exercise 
 of opinion; but absolute certainty is a 
 different thing. And in regard to abso- 
 lute certainty, how, I would ask, are we 
 to distinguish between knowledge in re- 
 gard to the real value of an article, from 
 knowledge in regard to the real quality 
 of an article ? If I sell merchandise in 
 which there is some secret defect, and 
 do not expose that defect, I am held to 
 be a dishonest man. But what matters 
 
THE MORAL LAW OF CONTRACTS. 
 
 249 
 
 It to my conscience, whether the secret 
 defect Hes in the article or in the price ? 
 It comes to the same thing with my fel- 
 low-dealer. If I were to sell moth-eateii 
 cloths at four dollars per yard more 
 than they were worth ^ the defect being 
 known to me and not to my neighbor — 
 all the world would pronounce me a 
 knave. But there is another sort of 
 moth, a secret in my own keeping, which 
 may have as effectually eaten out four 
 dollars from every yard of that cloth, as 
 if it had literally cut the thread of the 
 fabric. What difference now can it make 
 to my neighbor, whether advantage is 
 taken of his ignorance in one way or 
 another ; in regard to the quality, or the 
 price .'' The only material point is the 
 value, and that is equally affected in 
 either case. This is the only conclusion 
 to which I find myself able, on much re- 
 flection, to arrive. Knowledge of prices 
 is as material to the value of merchan- 
 dise as knowledge of its qualities. This 
 knowledge, therefore, as it appears to 
 me, should be common to all contracting 
 parties. I cannot think that a trader is 
 to be like a fisher, disguising his hook 
 with bait; or like a sleight-of-hand man, 
 cheating men out of their senses and 
 money with a face of gravity ; or like 
 an Indian, shooting from behind a bush, 
 himself in no danger. Trade, traffic, 
 contracts, bargains, — all these words 
 imply parity, equivalency, common risk, 
 mutual advantage. And he who can ar- 
 range a commercial operation by which 
 he is certain to realize great profits and 
 to inflict great losses, is a taker of mer- 
 chandise, but can hardly be said to be a 
 trader in it. 
 
 I am sensible that this is the nice and 
 difficult point in the whole discussion. 
 But I put it to the calm reflection and to 
 the consciences of my hearers, whether 
 they would not feel easier in their busi- 
 ness, if ail use of superior and certain 
 knowledge were entirely excluded from 
 it. Long as this use has obtained, and 
 warmly as it is sometimes defended, yet 
 I ask, if the moral sentiments of the 
 trading community itself would not be 
 
 relieved by giving it up.'' This, if it be 
 true, is certainly a weighty consideration. 
 I admit, indeed, as I have before done, 
 that no vague sentiment is to settle the 
 question. But when I find that there 
 is even in vague sentiment something 
 like a hook that holds the mind in sus- 
 pense, or will not let the mind be satis- 
 fied with departure from it, that circum- 
 stance deserves, I think, to arrest atten- 
 tion. I will frankly confess that my own 
 mind has been in this very situation. I 
 did not see, at one time, how the case of 
 general information and opinion whicli 
 it is lawful to use, could be separated 
 from the case of particular knowledge. 
 But I now entertain a different and a 
 more decided opinion. And the con- 
 sideration, with me, which has changed 
 uneasiness into doubt, and doubt into a 
 new, and as I think correct, judgment, 
 is that which I have last stated; it is 
 the consideration, that is to say, of the 
 very nature of a contract. A contract 
 does not imply equal powers, equal gen- 
 eral information, equal shrewdness in 
 the contracting parties ; but it does im- 
 ply, as it appears to me, equal actual 
 knowledge ; an equal participation, that 
 is to say, in whatever can claim the 
 character of certainty in the case. My 
 neighbor may think himself superior to 
 me in all other respects, and he may 
 tell me so, and yet I will trade with him ; 
 we still stand upon ground that I am 
 willing to consider equal. But let him 
 tell me that he knows something touch- 
 ing the manufacture, quality, condition, 
 or relations of the article, to be sold, 
 which I do not know, and which affects 
 the value of the article, and I stop upon 
 the threshold ; we cannot trafiic ; tliere 
 may be a game of hazard which he and I 
 consent to play ; but there is an end of 
 all trading. If this be true, then the 
 condition of a regular and lawful contract 
 is, that there be no secrets in it; no se- 
 crets either in the kind or quality of the 
 merchandise, or in the breast, or in the 
 pocket of the dealer. Let them all be 
 swept away ; let them be swept out, all 
 secrets from all hiding-places, from all 
 
2^0 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 coverts of subterfuge and chicanery ; 
 and this, at least, I am certain of, that 
 business would occasion fewer wounds 
 of conscience to all honorable and vir- 
 tuous communities. 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE FOREGOING DIS- 
 COURSE. 
 
 Some remarks upon the foregoing discourse, 
 which had reached the author's ear during the 
 weekly interval, before the delivery of the next dis- 
 course, led him, in entering upon it, to offer the 
 following observations. 
 
 It may be thought, that in my discourse of the 
 last Sunday evening I have leaned to a view of 
 the principles of trade which is too indulgent to 
 its questionable practices. I am most anxious to 
 guard against such an inference ; and yet I must 
 hesitate to yield exactly to the tone of objection 
 which may possibly be adopted by some of my 
 hearers. The pulpit is not to speak any peculiar 
 language on this subject because it is the pulpit. 
 The language of truth is what we seek ; the lan- 
 guage which would be true anywhere. Neither is 
 the pulpit to be looked upon as a post of duty 
 which is to serve only the purpose of assault, 
 whose business it is to assail any particular class 
 of persons, merchants or others ; nor is the church 
 a proper place for men to come to in order to en- 
 joy the gratification of seeing other men attacked. 
 Nor is it the only business of the moral teacher 
 to denounce the sins of a violated conscience ; 
 it is sometimes quite as important to defend weak 
 consciences. Nothing can be worse for a man 
 than to act upon a principle of which he doubts 
 the correctness. He is then doing wrong, even 
 when the thing he does may be right. His con- 
 science becomes weakened by wounds without 
 cause ; it is floating on a sea of doubt, and may 
 be borne far beyond the bounds of rectitude. It 
 is thus that there arises in a community a gen- 
 eral and pernicious habit of paltering with con- 
 science, of talking about certain principles as very 
 good in theory but as impracticable in fact, of 
 slurring over the Christian rule with innuendoes, 
 of commending it, indeed and in a sort ; but 
 how ? Why, of treacherously commending it, 
 with those ironical praises and ambiguous hints 
 and knowing glances of eye, which more effectually 
 than anything else, break down all principle. 
 
 On the contrary, let us come out fairly and es- 
 tablish the true doctrine, on independent ground, 
 with fair reasoning, without any bias against men 
 of business or for them, and then shall we stand 
 upon the stable basis of conscience and princi- 
 ple, and be able to define its boundaries. If it 
 be expedient and inevitable that men should, 
 in business as in everything else, act to a certain 
 extent upon their own superior sagacity, power, 
 
 and information, let us plainly say so ; and then 
 let us faithfully warn them against going too 
 far. Now, nobody doubts, I presume, that they 
 may go too far ; that the man of sagacity may 
 overreach an idiot ; that the monopolist and the 
 usurer may abuse his power ; and that he who 
 possesses superior information may dishonestly 
 and cruelly use it. And therefore it was less 
 necessary to insist upon these points than it was 
 to discuss the great question, and the only ques- 
 tion, viz., whether these advantages may be used 
 at all. If they may not be used at all, then all 
 commerce, in its actual and I think inevitable 
 procedures, is a system of knavery. If it is not a 
 system of knavery, then it is important to defend 
 it from that chai ge. And it is the more important, 
 because against merchants, from their acquiring 
 greater wealth probably, there are peculiar preju- 
 dices in the community. The manufacturer may 
 use his superior information, — his particular in- 
 vention ; that is, he may get a patent for it, i. e., a 
 monopoly, and every other profession may do sub- 
 stantially the same thing, and not a word is said 
 against it. But if the merchant docs this, he is 
 called into serious question. And, influenced by 
 this general distrust, he calls himself in question 
 too. But unfortunately for him, instead of think- 
 ing deeply upon the matter, and settling himself 
 upon some foundation of general principle, he is 
 liable to give himself up to the suggestions of 
 temporary expediency. He is not quite satisfied, 
 perhaps, with what he is doing, and yet he says 
 that he must do it, or he cannot get along ; a way 
 of reasoning that I hold to be most injurious to 
 his character. Let him then, I say, settle some 
 just principle, and conscientiously act upon it. 
 
 They are general principles, I must desire you 
 to observe, which I have attempted to establish. 
 The questions that arise upon the application of 
 these principles are, of course, numerous and com- 
 plicated. I could not enter into all of them. My 
 inexperience disqualified me. And besides, it was 
 impossible to meet the questions of every man's 
 mind. 
 
 I must add, in fine, that in defending the right 
 in trade, the impression upon the popular ear may 
 naturally enough have \>tzn that I have not suffi- 
 ciently considered the wrong. The wrong, let me 
 observe here, will properly come under our con- 
 sideration in another place. What I say now is, 
 that if the principles vvliich I have laid down have 
 seemed to any one to verge towards an undue 
 license, I must most earnestly protest against 
 this inference. That very license, I say, is the 
 point to which the principle shall not go. And 
 I say, more explicitly, that, although the vender 
 of any goods is not bound to assist the buyer 
 with his judgment, yet that he is bound to point 
 out any latent defect, and he is bound, by the 
 general trust reposed in him on that point, to 
 sell at the market price ; and again, that monop- 
 oly, whether of money or other commodities, 
 
THE MORAL END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 251 
 
 although it must inevitably raise the prices, 
 althou;;h it must be governed in all ordinary 
 cases by the market value, yet, when it can control 
 the market price, is bound to use its power with 
 moderation ; and finally, that he who acts upon 
 superior information, though he may lawfully do 
 >o, shall not press his advantage to the extent of 
 any fraudulent use, or to the infliction of any 
 -ross and undeserved injury ; that he shall not 
 press it further than is necessary reasonably to 
 reward vigilance and admonisli indolence ; that 
 he shall not press it further than the wholesome 
 action of trade, and the true welfare of the whole 
 community, requires. 
 
 XL 
 
 ON THE MOR.\L END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 Proverbs xx. 15 : " There is gold and a multitude 
 of rubies, but the lips of knowledge (:'. e. 0/ rectitude) 
 are a precious jewel." 
 
 My subject this evening is the moral 
 end of business. Let me first attempt 
 to define my meaning in the use of this 
 phrase : the moral end of business. 
 
 It is not the end for which property 
 should be sought. It is not the moral 
 purpose to be answered by the acqui- 
 sition, but by the process of acquisition. 
 And again, it is not the end of industry in 
 general, — that is a more comprehensive 
 subject, — but it is the end of business 
 in particular, of barter, of commerce. 
 '• The end of business ? " some one may 
 say ; " why, the end of business is to 
 obtain property; the end of the process 
 of acquisition is acquisition." If I ad- 
 dressed any person whose mind had not 
 gone behind that ready and obvious an- 
 swer to ultimate and deeper reasons, I 
 should venture to say that a revelation is 
 to be made to him, of a more e.xalted aim 
 in business, of a higher, and at the same 
 time more perilous, scene of action in 
 its pursuits, than he has yet imagined. 
 In other words, I hold that the ultimate 
 end of all business is a moral end. I 
 believe that business — I mean not 
 labor but barter, traffic — would never 
 have existed, if there had been no end 
 but sustenance. The animal races ob- 
 
 tain subsistence upon an easier and 
 simpler plan ; but for man there is a 
 higher end, and that is moral. 
 
 The broad grounds of this position I 
 find in the obvious designs of Providence, 
 and in the evident adaptation to this 
 moral end, of business itself. 
 
 There is, then, a design for which all 
 things were made and ordained, going 
 beyond the things tliemselves. To say 
 that things were made, or that the ar- 
 rangements and relations of things were 
 ordained, for their own sake, is a propo- 
 sition without meaning. The world, its 
 structure, productions, laws, and events, 
 have no good nor evil in them ; none, 
 but as they produce these results in 
 the experience of living creatures. The 
 end, then, of the inanimate creation is 
 the welfare of the living, and therefore, 
 especially, of the intelligent creation. 
 But the welfare of human beings Hes 
 essentially in their moral culture. All 
 is wrong everywhere, if all is not right 
 there. All of design that there is in 
 this lower creation presses upon that 
 point. The universe is a moral chaos 
 without that design, and it is a moral 
 desolation to every mind in which that 
 design is not accomplished. Life, then, 
 has an ultimate purpose. We are not 
 appointed to pass through this life, 
 barely that we may live. We are not 
 impelled, both by disposition and ne- 
 cessity, to buy and sell, barely that we 
 may do it ; nor to get gain, barely that 
 we may get it. There is an end in busi- 
 ness beyond supply. There is an object 
 in the acquisition of wealth beyond suc- 
 cess. There is a final cause of human 
 traffic: and that is virtue. 
 
 With this view of the moral end of 
 business, tails in the constant doctrine of 
 all elevated philosophy and true religion. 
 Life, say the expounders of every creed, 
 is a probation. The circumstances in 
 which we are placed ; the events, the 
 scenes, of our mortal lot; the bright 
 visions that cheer us, the dark clouds 
 that overshadow us, — all these are 
 not an idle show, nor do they exist 
 for themselves alone, nor because they 
 
252 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 must exist by the fiat of some blind 
 chance ; but they have a purpose ; and 
 that purpose is expressed in the word 
 probation. Now, if anything deserves 
 to be considered as a part of that proba- 
 tion, it is business. Life, say the wise, 
 is a school. In this school there are les- 
 sons : toil is a lesson ; trial is a lesson ; 
 and business, too, is a lesson. But the 
 end of a lesson is, that something be 
 learned. And the end of business is, that 
 truth, rectitude, virtue, be learned. This 
 is the ultimate design proposed by Heav- 
 en ; and it is a design which every wise 
 man engaged in that calHng will propose 
 to himself. It is no extravagance, there- 
 fore, but the simple assertion of a truth, 
 to say to a man so engaged, and to say 
 emphatically, " You have an end to gain 
 beyond success ; and that is the moral 
 rectitude of your own mind." 
 
 That business is so exquisitely 
 adapted to accomplish that purpose, is 
 another argument with me to prove 
 that such, in the intention of its Ordainer, 
 was its design. I can conceive that 
 things might have been ordered other- 
 wise ; that human beings might have 
 been formed for industry, and not for 
 traffic. I can conceive man and nature 
 to have been so constituted that each 
 individual should, by solitary labor, have 
 drawn from the earth his sustenance ; 
 and that a vesture softer, richer, and 
 more graceful than is ever wrought in 
 the looms of our manufactories might 
 have been woven upon his body by the 
 same invisible hands that have thus 
 clothed the beasts of the desert and the 
 birds of the air and the lilies of the field, 
 so that Solomon in all his glory was not 
 arrayed like one of them. Then might 
 mah have held only the sweet counsel 
 of society with his fellow, and never been 
 called to engage with him in the strife 
 of business. Then, too, would he have 
 been saved from all the dangers and 
 vices of human traffic. But then, too, 
 would the lofty virtues cultivated in this 
 sphere of life never have had an exist- 
 ence. For business, I repeat, is admi- 
 rably adapted to form such virtues. It 
 
 is apt, I know it is said, to corrupt 
 men; but the truth is, it corrupts only 
 those who are willing to be corrujjted. 
 An honest man, a man who sincerely 
 desires to attain to a lofty and unbend- 
 ing uprightness, could scarcely seek a 
 discipline more perfectly fitted to that 
 end than the discipline of trade. For 
 what is trade ? It is the constant adjust- 
 ment of the claims of different parties, 
 a man's self being one of the parties. 
 This competition of rights and interests 
 might not invade the solitary study, or 
 the separate tasks of the workshop, or 
 the labors of the silent field, once a 
 day; but it presses upon the merchant 
 and trader continually. Do you say 
 that it presses too hard ? Then. I reply, 
 must the sense of rectitude be made the 
 stronger to meet the trial. Every plea 
 of this nature is an argument for stren- 
 uous moral effort. Shall I be told that 
 the questions which often arise are 
 very perplexing ; that the case to be 
 decided comes, oftentimes, not under a 
 definite rule but under a general princi- 
 ple, whose very generality is perilous 
 to the conscience ? It is indeed. Here, 
 perhaps, lies the great peril of business; 
 in the generality of the rule. For con- 
 science does'not in most cases definitely 
 say, " Thou shalt do this thing, and thou 
 shalt do that." It says always, "Thou 
 shalt do right," but what that is, is not 
 always clear. And hence it is, that a 
 man may take care to offend against no 
 definite remonstrance of conscience, and 
 that he may be, in the common accepta- 
 tion, an honest man, and yet that he 
 may be a selfish, exacting, and oppres- 
 sive man : a man who can never recog- 
 nize the rights and interests of others ; 
 who can never see anything but on the 
 side that is favorable to himself; who 
 drowns the voice of his modest neigh- 
 bor with always and loudly saying, 
 "Oh ! this is right, and that can't be;" 
 a man, in fine, who, although he seldom, 
 perhaps never, offends against any as- 
 signable or definite precept of con- 
 science, has swerved altogether from all 
 uprightness and generosity. What, then, 
 
THE MORAL END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 253 
 
 is to be done ? A work, I answer, of 
 the most ennobling character. A man 
 must do more than to attain to punctil- 
 ious honesty in his actions ; he must 
 train his whole soul, his judgment, his 
 sentiments, his affections, to uprightness, 
 candor, and good will. 
 
 In fine, I look upon business as one 
 vast scene of moral action. "The thou- 
 smd wheels of commerce," with all their 
 swift and complicated revolutions, I re- 
 gird as an immense moral machinery. 
 Meanness and cunning may lurk amidst 
 it, but it was not designed for that deg- 
 radation. That must be a noble scene 
 of action where conscience is felt to be 
 a law. And it is felt to be the law of 
 business ; its very violations prove it 
 such. It is the enthroned sovereign of 
 the plan; disobedience, disloyalty, give 
 attestation to it. Nothing is too holy 
 to connect with it. There is a temple 
 in one of the cities of Europe, through 
 which is the very passage to the mar- 
 ket-place ; and those who pass there, 
 often rest their burdens, to turn aside 
 and kneel at the altar of prayer. So 
 were it meet that all men should enter 
 upon their daily business. The temple 
 of mammon should be the temple of 
 God. The gates of trade should be as 
 the entrance to the sanctuary of con- 
 science. There is an eye of witnessing 
 and searching scrutiny fixed upon every 
 one of its doings. The presence of 
 that all-seeing One, not confined, as 
 some imagine, to the silent church or the 
 solitary grove, — the presence of God, 
 I think it not too solemn to say, is in 
 every counting-room and warehouse of 
 yonder mart, and ought to make it holy 
 ground. 
 
 I have thus attempted to show that 
 business has an ultimate moral end ; 
 one going beyond the accumulation of 
 property. 
 
 This may also be shown to be true, 
 not only on the scale of our private 
 affairs, but on the great theatre of 
 history. Commerce has always been an 
 instrument, in the hands of Providence, 
 for accomplishing nobler ends than pro- 
 
 moting the wealth of nations. It has 
 been the grand civilizer of nations. It 
 has been the active principle in all 
 civilization. Or, to speak more accu- 
 rately, it has presented that condition 
 of things in which civilization has al- 
 ways rapidly advanced, and without 
 which it never has. The principles of 
 civilization, properly speaking, are the 
 principles of humanity ; the natural de- 
 sire of knowledge, liberty, and refine- 
 ment. But commerce seems to have 
 been the germ, the original spring, that 
 has put all other springs in action. 
 Liberty has always followed its steps ; 
 and with liberty, science and religion 
 have gradually advanced and improved, 
 and never without it. All those king- 
 doms of Central Asia, and of Europe 
 too, which commerce has never pene- 
 trated, have been and are, despotisms. 
 With its earliest birth on the Mediter- 
 ranean shore, freedom was born. Phoe- 
 nicia, the merchants of whose cities, 
 Tyre and Sidon, were accounted prin- 
 ces ; the Hebrew commonwealth, which 
 carried on a trade through those ports ; 
 the Grecian, Carthaginian, and Roman 
 States were not only the freest, but 
 they were the only free, states of antiq- 
 uity. In the Middle Ages, commerce 
 broke down in Europe the feudal sys- 
 tem, raising up, in the Hanse towns 
 throughout Germany, Sweden, and Nor- 
 way, a body of men who were able to 
 cope with barons and kings, and to 
 wrest from them their free charters and 
 rightful privileges. In England, its in- 
 fluence is proverbial ; the sheet-anchor, 
 it has long been considered, of her 
 unequalled prosperity and intelligence. 
 On our own happy shores it has a 
 still more unobstructed field, and is 
 destined, I trust, to spread over the 
 whole breadth of our interior domain, 
 wealth, cultivation, and refinement. 
 
 Its influences upon individual char- 
 acter are the only ones of which we 
 stand in any doubt, and these, it need 
 not be said, are of unequalled impor- 
 tance. The philanthropist, the Chris- 
 tian, the Christian preacher, are all 
 
254 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 bound to watch these influences with 
 the closest attention, and to do all in 
 their power to guard and elevate them. 
 To this work I am attempting to con- 
 tribute my humble part ; and I conceive 
 that I have now come to the grand 
 principle of safety and improvement, 
 viz., that trade is essentially a tnoral 
 business J that it has a moral end more 
 important than success ; that the attain- 
 ment of this end is better than the 
 acquisition of wealth, and that the fail- 
 ure of it is worse than any commercial 
 failure ; worse than bankruptcy, pov- 
 erty, ruin. 
 
 It is upon this point that I wish 
 especially to insist : but there are one 
 or two topics that may previously claim 
 some attention. 
 
 If, then, business is a moral dispen- 
 sation, and its highest end is moral, I 
 shall venture to call in question the 
 commonly supposed desirableness of es- 
 caping from it ; the idea which prevails 
 with so many of making a fortune in a 
 few years, and afterwards of retiring to 
 a state of leisure. If business really 
 is a scene of worthy employment and of 
 high moral action, I do not see why the 
 moderate pursuit of it should not be 
 laid down in the plan of entire active 
 life ; and why, upon this plan, a man 
 should not determine to give only so 
 much time each day to his avocations 
 as would be compatible with such a 
 plan ; only so much time, in other words, 
 as will be compatible with the daily 
 enjoyment of life, with reading, society, 
 domestic intercourse, and all the duties 
 of philanthropy and devotion. If the 
 merchant does not dislike or despise 
 his employment, — and it is when he 
 makes himself the mere slave of busi- 
 ness that he creates the greatest real 
 objections to it, — if, I say, he looks 
 upon his employment as lawful and 
 laudable, an appointment of God to ac- 
 complish good purposes in this world 
 and better for the next, why should he 
 not, like the physician, the lawyer, and 
 clergyman, like the husbandman and 
 artisan, continue in it through the pe- 
 
 riod of active life, and adjust his views, 
 expectations, and engagements to that 
 reasonable plan ? But now, instead of 
 this, what do we see around us ? Why, 
 men are engaging in business — here, 
 at home, in their own country, in the 
 bosom of their families and amidst their 
 friends — as if they were in a foreign 
 and infectious clime, and must be in 
 haste to make their fortunes, that they 
 may escape with their lives to some 
 place of safety, ease, and enjoyment ! 
 
 And now, what sort of preparation 
 for retirement is this life, absorbed in 
 business .'' It is precisely that sort of 
 preparation that unfits a man for retire- 
 ment. Nothing will work well or agree- 
 ably in experience, which has not some 
 foundation in previous habits and prac- 
 tice. But for all those things which are 
 to be a man's resources in retirement, 
 his previous life, perhaps, has given him 
 not a moment of time. He has really 
 no rural tastes ; for he has scarcely 
 seen the country for years, except on 
 hurried journeys of business ; the busy 
 wheels of commerce now, alas ! roll 
 through the year, and he is chained 
 to them every month. He has made 
 no acquaintance with the fine arts. He 
 has cultivated no habits of reading ; 
 and — what I hold to be just as fatal to 
 the happiness of any hfe, retired or ac- 
 tive — he has cultivated no habits of 
 devotion. Add to all this, that he is 
 thrown upon the dangerous state of 
 luxurious leisure — that prepared, en- 
 riched, productive hot-bed of prurient 
 imaginations and teeming passions — 
 without any guards against its moral 
 perils. And what is likely to be the 
 consequence ? He will become, perhaps, 
 an indolent and bloated sensualist, cum- 
 bering the beautiful grounds on which 
 he vegetates rather than lives ; or, from 
 the violent change of his habits, you 
 will soon hear, perhaps, that he is dead ; 
 or he may live on in weariness and 
 ennui, wishing in his heart that he 
 were back again, though it were to take 
 his place behind the counter of the 
 liumblest shop. 
 
THE MORAL END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 255 
 
 I do not pretend, of course, that I 
 am portraying the case of every man 
 who is proposing to retire from busi- 
 ness. There are those, doubtless, whose 
 views of retiring are reasonable and 
 praiseworthy ; wiio do not propose to 
 escape from all employment ; who are 
 living religiously and virtuously in the 
 midst of their business, and not un- 
 wisely intending to make up for the 
 deficiency of those qualities in retire- 
 ment; who wish to improve and beau- 
 tify some pleasant rural abode, and 
 thus, and in many other ways, to be 
 useful to the country around them. To 
 such a retirement I have nothing to ob- 
 ject : and I only venture to suggest, as 
 an obvious dictate of good sense, that 
 he who' proposes, some day, to retire 
 from business, should in the mean time 
 cultivate those qualities and habits 
 which will make him happy in retire- 
 ment. But this I also say, that I do 
 more than doubt whether any man who is 
 completely engrossed in business, from 
 morning till night, for twenty or thirty 
 years, can be prepared to enjoy or im- 
 prove a life of leisure. 
 
 Another topic, of which I wish to 
 speak, is the rage for speculation. I 
 wish to speak of it now in a particular 
 view ; as interfering, that is to say, with 
 the moral end of business. And here, 
 again, let me observe, that I can have 
 nothing to do with instances, with ex- 
 ceptions. I can only speak of the gen- 
 eral tendency of things. And it is not 
 against speculation simply, that I have 
 anything to allege. All business pos- 
 sesses more or less of this character. 
 Everything is bought on the expecta- 
 tion of selling it for more. But this 
 rage for speculation, this eagerness of 
 many for sudden and stupendous ac- 
 cumulation, this spirit of gambling in 
 trade, is a difTerent thing. It proceeds 
 on principles entirely different from the 
 maxims of a regular and pains-taking 
 business. It is not looking to diligence 
 and fidelity for a fair reward, but to 
 change and chance for a fortunate turn. 
 It is drawing away men's minds from 
 
 the healthful processes of sober indus- 
 try and attention to business, and lead- 
 ing them to wait in feverish excitement, 
 as at the wheel of a lottery. The proper 
 basis of success, vigilant care and labor, 
 is forsaken for a system of baseless 
 credit. Upon this system men proceed, 
 straining their means and stretching 
 their responsibilities, till in calm times 
 they can scarcely hold on upon their 
 position ; and when a sudden jar shakes 
 the commercial world, or a sudden blast 
 sweeps over it, many fall like untimely 
 fruit, from the towering tree of fancied 
 prosperity. Upon this system, many 
 imagine that they are doing well, when 
 they are not doing well. They rush into 
 expenses which they cannot afford, 
 upon the strength, not of their actual, 
 but of their imaginary or expected 
 means. Young men, who in former 
 days would have been advised to 
 walk awhile longer, and patiently to 
 tread the upward path, must buy horses 
 and vehicles for their accommodation ; 
 and, mounted upon the car of fancied 
 independence, they are hurried only to 
 swifter destruction. 
 
 This system of rash and adventurous 
 speculation overlooks all the moral uses 
 and ends of business. To do business 
 and get gain, honestly and conscien- 
 tiously, is a good thing. It is a useful 
 discipline of the character. I look upon 
 a man who has acquired wealth in a 
 laudable, conscientious, and generous 
 pursuit of business, not only with a 
 respect far beyond what I can feel for 
 his wealth, — for which, indeed, ab- 
 stractly, I can feel none at all, — but 
 with the distinct feeling that he has ac- 
 quired something far more valuable than 
 opulence. But for this discipline of the 
 character, for the reasonableness and 
 rectitude of mind which a regular busi- 
 ness intercourse may form, speculation 
 furnishes but a narrow field, if any at 
 all ; such speculation, I mean, as has 
 lately created a popular frenzy in this 
 country about the sudden acquisition of 
 property. The game which men were 
 playing was too rapid, and the stake too 
 
'56 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 large, to admit of the calm discrimina- 
 tions of conscience and the reasonable 
 contemplation of moral ends. Wealth 
 came to be looked upon as the only 
 end. And immediate wealth was the 
 agitating prize. Men could not wait 
 for the slow and disciplinary methods 
 by which Providence designed that they 
 should acquire it ; but they felt as if it 
 were the order of Providence that for- 
 tunes should fall direct from heaven 
 into their open hands. Rather should 
 we not say that multitudes did not look 
 to heaven at all, but to speculation itself, 
 instead, as if it were a god, or some 
 wonder-working magician at least, that 
 was suddenly to endow them with opu- 
 lence. Acquisition became the story 
 of an Arabian tale ; and men's minds 
 were filled with romantic schemes, and 
 visionary hopes, and vain longings, 
 rather than with sobriety, and candor, 
 and moderation, and gratitude, and trust 
 in Heaven. 
 
 This insane and insatiable passion 
 for accumulation, ever ready v^^hen cir- 
 cumstances favor to seize upon the 
 public mind, is that " love of money 
 which is the root of all evil, " that " cov- 
 etousness which is idolatry." It springs 
 from an undue and idolatrous estimate 
 of the value of property. Many are 
 feeling that nothing, — nothing will do 
 for them or for their children, but 
 wealth ; not a good character, not well- 
 trained and well-exerted faculties, not 
 virtue, not the hope of heaven ; nothing 
 but wealth. It is their god, and the 
 god of their families. Their sons are 
 growing up to the same worship of it, 
 and to an equally baneful reliance upon 
 it for the future ; they are rushing into 
 expenses which the divided property of 
 their father's house will not enable them 
 to sustain ; and they are preparing to be 
 in turn, and from necessity, slaves to the 
 same idol. How truly is it written, that 
 " they that wz'/I be rich, fall into tempta- 
 tion, and a snare, and into many foolish 
 and hurtful lusts, which drown men in 
 destruction and perdition " ! There is 
 no need that they should be rich ; but 
 
 they wz7/ be rich. All the noblest func- 
 tions of life may be discharged without 
 wealth, all its highest honors obtained, 
 all its purest pleasures enjoyed ; yet, I 
 repeat it, nothing, — nothing will do but 
 wealth. Disappoint a man of this, and 
 he mourns as if the highest end of life 
 were defeated. Strip him of this, and 
 this gone, all is gone. Strip him of this, 
 and I shall point to no unheard-of ex- 
 perience, when I say, he had rather die 
 than live ! 
 
 The grievous mistake, the mournful 
 evil, implied in this oversight of the 
 great spiritual end, which should be 
 sought in all earthly pursuits, is the sub- 
 ject to which I wished to draw your 
 attention in the last place. It is not 
 merely in the haste to be rich, accom- 
 panied with the intention to retire from 
 business to a state of luxurious and self- 
 indulgent leisure ; it is not merely in 
 the rage for speculation, that the evils of 
 overlooking the moral aim of business 
 are seen ; but they sink deep into the 
 heart, in the ordinary walks of regular 
 and daily occupation ; dethroning the 
 spiritual nature from its proper place, 
 vitiating the affections, and losing some 
 of the noblest opportunities for virtue, 
 that can be lost on earth. 
 
 The spiritual nature, I say, is de- 
 throned from its proper place by this 
 substitution of the immediate end, wealth, 
 for the ultimate end, virtue. Who is 
 this being, that labors for nothing but 
 property; with no thought beyond it; 
 with the feeling that nothing will do 
 without it ; with 'the feeling that there 
 are no ends in life that can satisfy him, 
 if that end is not gained .'' You will not 
 tell me that it is a being of my own 
 fancy. You have probably known such ; 
 perhaps some of you are such. I have 
 known men of this way of thinking ; 
 and men, too, of sense and of amiable 
 temper. Who, then, I ask again, is this 
 being ? He is an immortal being; and 
 his views ought to stretch themselves to 
 eternity, — ought to seek an ever-expand- 
 ing good. And this being, so immortal 
 in his nature, so infinite in faculties; to 
 
THE MORAL END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 ^57 
 
 what is he looking? To the sublime 
 mountain range, that spreads along the 
 horizon of this world ? To the glorious 
 host of glittering stars, the majestic train 
 of night, the infinite regions of heaven ? 
 Xo ; his is no upward gaze, no wide 
 \ ision of the world ; to a speck of 
 earthly dust he is looking. He might 
 lift his eye, a philosophic eye, to the 
 magnifience of the universe, for an 
 object ; and upon what is it fixed .'' 
 I'pon the mole-hill beneath his feet ! 
 That is his end. Everything is naught, 
 if that is gone. He is an immortal being, 
 I repeat ; he may be enrobed in that 
 vesture of light, of virtue, which never 
 shall decay ; and he is to live through 
 such ages, that the time shall come when 
 to his eye all the splendors of fortune, 
 of gilded palace and gorgeous equipage, 
 shall be no more than the spangle that 
 falls from a roj'al robe ; and yet, in that 
 glittering particle of earthly dust is his 
 soul absorbed and bound up. I am not 
 saying, now^ that he is willing to lose 
 his soul for that. This he may do. 
 But I only say now, that he sets his soul 
 upon that, and ("eels it to be an end so 
 dear, that the irretrievable loss of it, the 
 doom of poverty, is death to him ; nay, 
 to his sober and deliberate judgment 
 — for I have known such instances — is 
 worse than death itself ! And yet he 
 is an immortal being, I repeat : and he 
 is sent into this world on an errand. 
 What errand ? What is the great mis- 
 sion on which the Master of life hath 
 sent him here ? To get riches ? To 
 amass gold coins and bank-notes ? To 
 scrape together a little of the dust of 
 this earth, and then to lie down upon 
 it and embrace it, in the indolence of 
 enjoyment, or in the rapture of posses- 
 sion ? Is such worldliness possible ? 
 Worldliness ! Why, it is not worldli- 
 ness. That should be the quality of 
 being attached to a world ; to all that it 
 can give, and not to one thing only that 
 it can give ; to fame, to power, to moral 
 power, to influence, to the admiration 
 of the world. Worldliness, methinks, 
 should be something greater than men 
 
 make it, should stretch itself out to the 
 breadth of the great globe, and not 
 wind itself up like a worm in the web 
 of selfish possession. If I must be 
 worldly, let me have the worldliness of 
 Alexander, and not of Croesus. And 
 wealth, too; I had thought it was a 
 means, and not an end ; an instrument 
 which a noble human being handles, 
 and not a heap of shining dust in which 
 he buries himself; something that a 
 man could drop from his hand, and still 
 be a man, be all that he ever was, and 
 compass all the noble ends that pertain 
 to a human being. What if you be 
 poor? Are you not still a man —Oh, 
 heaven ! and mayest be a spirit, and 
 have a universe of spiritual possessions 
 for your treasure. What if you be poor ? 
 You may still walk through the world in 
 freedom and in joy. You may still tread 
 the glorious path of virtue. You may 
 still win the bright prize of immortality. 
 You may still achieve purposes on 
 earth that constitute all the glory of 
 earth ; and ends in heaven that consti- 
 tute all the glory of heaven! Nay, if 
 such must be the efiect of wealth, I 
 would say, let me be poor. I would 
 pray God that I might be poor ! Rather, 
 and more wisely, ought I, j^erhaps, to 
 say with Agur, " Give me neither poverty 
 nor riches ; lest I be full and deny thee, 
 and say. Who is the Lord ? or lest I be 
 poor, and steal, and take the name of 
 my God in vain." 
 
 The many corrupting and soul-destroy- 
 ing vices engendered in the mind by this 
 lamentable oversight of the spiritual aim 
 in business, deserves a separate and sol- 
 emn consideration. 
 
 I believe that you will not accuse me 
 of any disposition to press unreasonable 
 charges against men of business. I can- 
 not possibly let the pulpit throw burdens 
 of responsibility, or warnings of danger, 
 on this sphere of life, as if others were 
 not in their measure open to similar ad- 
 monitions. I come not here to make 
 war upon any particular class. I pray 
 you not to regard this pulpit as holding 
 any relation to you but that of a faithful 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 and Christian friend, or as having any 
 interest in the world connected with 
 business but your own true interest. 
 Above all things do I deprecate that 
 worldly and most pernicious haljit of 
 hearing and approving very good things 
 in the pulpit, and going away and calmly 
 doing very bad things in the world, as 
 if the two had no real connection, — 
 that habit of listening to the admonitions 
 and rebukes of the pulpit with a sort 
 of demure respect, or with significant 
 glances at your neighbors, and then of 
 going away, commending the doctrine 
 with your lips, to violate it in your lives ; 
 as if you said, " Well, the pulpit has act- 
 ed its part, and now we will go and act 
 ours." I act no part here. God forbid ! 
 I endeavor to be reasonable and just 
 in what I say here. I take no liberty to 
 be extravagant in this place because I 
 cannot be answered. I hold myself sol- 
 emnly bound to say nothing recklessly 
 and for effect. I occupy here no isolated 
 position. I am continually thinking 
 what my hearers will fairly have to say 
 on their part, and striving fairly to meet 
 it. I speak to you simply as one man 
 may speak to another, as soul may speak 
 to its brother soul ; and I solemnly and 
 affectionately say. what I would have you 
 say to me in a change of place, — I say 
 that the pursuits of business are perilous 
 to your virtue. 
 
 On this subject I cannot, indeed, 
 speak with the language of experience. 
 But I cannot forget that the voice of all 
 moral instruction, in all ages and in all 
 countries, is a voice of warning. I can- 
 not forget that the voice of Holy Scrip- 
 ture falls in solemn accents upon the 
 perils attending the pursuit of wealth. 
 How solemn, how strong, how pertinent, 
 those accents are, I may not know ; but 
 I must not, for that reason, withhold 
 them. " Woe unto you who are rich ! " 
 said the holy word, "for ye have re- 
 ceived your consolation. Woe unto you 
 that are full ! for ye shall hunger." Hun- 
 ger ? What hath wealth to do with hun- 
 ger? And yet there is a hunger. What 
 is it ? What can it be but the hunger- 
 
 ing of the soul ; and that is the point 
 which, in this discourse, I press upon 
 your attention. And again it says, " Your 
 riches are corrupted ; your gold and sil- 
 ver is cankered : " and is it not cankered 
 in the very hearts of those whom wealth 
 has made proud, vain, anxious, and jeal- 
 ous, or self-indulgent, sensual, diseased, 
 and miserable ? "And the rust of them," 
 so proceeds the holy text, "shall be a 
 witness against you, and shall eat your 
 flesh as it were fire." Ah ! the rust of 
 riches ! — not that portion of them which 
 is kept bright in good and holy uses — • 
 " and the consuming fire " of the passions 
 which wealth engenders! No rich man, 
 — I lay it down as an axiom of all expe- 
 rience, — no rich man is safe, who is not 
 a benevolent man. No rich man is safe, 
 but in the imitation of that benevolent 
 God, who is the possessor and dispenser 
 of all the riches of the universe. What 
 else mean the miseries of a selfishly 
 luxurious and fashionable life every- 
 where ? What mean the sighs that come 
 up from the purlieus, and couches, and 
 most secret haunts of all splendid and 
 self-indulgent opulence ? Do not tell 
 me that other men are sufferers too. 
 Say not that the poor, and destitute, and 
 forlorn are miserable also. Ah ! just 
 Heaven ! thou hast, in thy mysterious wis- 
 dom, appointed to them a lot hard, full 
 hard to bear. Poor houseless wretches ! 
 who " eat the bitter bread of penury, and 
 drink the baleful cup of misery;" the 
 winter's wind blows keenly through your 
 "looped and windowed raggedness ; " 
 your children wander about unshod, un- 
 clothed, and untended ; I wonder not 
 that ye sigh. But why should those 
 who are surrounded with everything 
 that heart can wish or imagination con- 
 ceive, the very crumbs that fall from 
 whose table of prosperity might feed hun- 
 dreds, — why should they sigh amidst 
 their profusion and splendor ? They 
 have broken the bond that should connect 
 power with usefulness, and opulence 
 with mercy. That is the reason. They 
 have taken up their treasures, and wan- 
 dered away into a forbidden world of 
 
THE MORAL END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 259 
 
 their own, far from the sympathies of 
 sutTering luimanity ; and the heavy night- 
 dews are descending upon their splendid 
 revels ; and the all-gladdening light of 
 heavenly beneficence is exchanged for 
 the sicklyglare of selfish enjoyment; and 
 happiness, the blessed angel that hovers 
 over generous deeds and heroic virtues, 
 has fled away from that world of false 
 gayety and fashionable exclusion. 
 
 I have, perhaps, wandered a moment 
 from the point before me, — «the peril of 
 business ; though as business is usually 
 aiming at wealth, I may be considered 
 rather as having only pressed that point 
 to some of its ultimate liearings. 
 
 But the peril of business specifically 
 considered ; and I ask if there is not 
 good ground for the admonitions, on this 
 point, of every moral and holy teacher of 
 every age ? What means, if there is not, 
 that eternal disingenuity of trade, that 
 is ever putting on fair appearances and 
 false pretences ; of " the buyer that says. 
 It is naught, it is naught, but when he 
 is gone his way, then boasteth ; " of the 
 seller, who is always exhibiting the best 
 samples, not fair but false samples, of 
 what he has to sell ; of the seller, I say, 
 who, to use the language of another, "if 
 he is tying up a bundle of quills, will 
 place several in the centre, of not half 
 the value of the rest, and thus sends 
 forth a hundred liars, with a fair outside, 
 to proclaim as many falsehoods to the 
 world ? " These practices, alas ! have 
 fallen into the regular course of the busi- 
 ness of many. All men expect them ; and 
 therefore you may say that nobody is 
 deceived. But deception is intended : 
 else why are these things done ? What 
 if nobody is deceived 1 The seller him- 
 self is corrupted. He may stand acquit- 
 ted of dishonesty in the moral code of 
 worldly traffic ; no man may charge him 
 with dishonesty ; and yet to himself he 
 is a dishonest man. Did I say that no- 
 body is deceived ? Nay, but somebody 
 is deceived. This man, the seller, is 
 grossly, wofully, deceived. He thinks to 
 make a little profit by his contrivances ; 
 and he is selling, by pennyworths, the 
 
 very integrity of his soul. Yes, the pet- 
 tiest shop where these things are done, 
 may lie to the spiritual vision a place of 
 more than tragic interest. It is the stage 
 on which the great action of life is per- 
 formed. There stands a man, who in the 
 sharp collisions of daily traffic might 
 have polished his mind to the bright and 
 beautiful image of truth, who might have 
 put on the noble brow of candor and 
 cherished the very soul of uprightness. 
 I have known such a man. I have looked 
 into his humble shop. I have seen the 
 mean and soiled articles with which he is 
 dealing. And yet the process of things 
 going on there was as beautiful as if it 
 had been done in heaven ! But now, 
 what is this man, the man who always 
 turns up to you the better side of every- 
 thing he sells, the man of unceasing con- 
 trivances and expedients, his life long, to 
 make things appear better than they are } 
 Be he the greatest merchant or the poor- 
 est huckster, he is a mean, a knavish, — 
 and, were I not awed by the thoughts 
 of his great and solemn nature, I should 
 say, — a contemptible creature ; whom 
 nobody that knows him can love, whom 
 nobody can trust, whom nobody can rev- 
 erence. Not one thing in the dusty re- 
 pository of things, great or small, which 
 he deals with, is so vile as he. What is 
 this things then, which is done, or may be 
 done, rn the house of traffic 1 I tell you, 
 though you may have thought not so of 
 it, — I tell you that there, even there, a 
 soul may be lost ; that that very structure, 
 built for the gain of earth, may be the 
 gate of hell ! Say not that this fearful 
 appellation should be applied to worse 
 places than that. A man may as cer- 
 tainly corrupt all the integrity and virtue 
 of his soul in a warehouse or a shop, as 
 in a gambling-house or house of darker 
 infamy. 
 
 False to himself, then, may a man be- 
 come, while he is walking through the 
 perilous courses of traffic ; false also 
 to his neighbor. I cannot dwell much 
 upon this topic ; but I will put one 
 question ; not for reproach, but for your 
 sober consideration. Must it not ren- 
 
26o 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 der a man extremely liable to be selfish, 
 that he is engaged in pursuits whose 
 immediate and palpable end is his own 
 interest ? I wish to draw your attention 
 to this peculiarity of trade. I do not 
 say that the motives which originally 
 induce a man to enter into the sphere of 
 life may not be as benevolent as those 
 of any other man ; but this is the point 
 which I wish to have considered ; that 
 while the learned professions have 
 knowledge for their immediate object, 
 and the artist and the artisan have the 
 perfection of their work as the thing 
 that directly engages their attention, the 
 merchant and trader have for their im- 
 mediate object, profit. Does not this 
 circumstance greatly expose a man to 
 be selfish ? Full well I know that many 
 are not so ; that many resist and over- 
 come this influence; but I think that it 
 is to be resisted. And a wise man, 
 who more deeply dreads the taint of 
 inward selfishness than of outward dis- 
 honor, will take care to set up counter 
 influences. And to this end he should 
 beware how he clenches his hand and 
 closes his heart against the calls of suf- 
 fering, the dictates of public spirit, and 
 the claims of beneficence. To listen to 
 them is. perhaps, his very salvation ! 
 
 But the vitiating process of business 
 may not stop with selfishness ; it is to 
 be contemplated in still another and 
 higher light. For how possible is it, 
 that a man while engaged in exchanging 
 and diffusing the bounties of heaven, 
 while all countries and climes are pour- 
 I'ng their blessings at his feet, while he 
 lawfully deals with not one instrument, 
 in mind or matter, but it was formed 
 and fitted to his use by a beneficent 
 hand, — how possible is it that he may 
 forget and forsake the Being who has 
 given him all things ! How possible is 
 it, that under the very accumulation of 
 his l:)lessings may be buried all his grati- 
 tude and piety ; that he may be too busy 
 to pray, too full to be thankful, too much 
 engrossed with the gifts to think of the 
 Giver ! The humblest giver expects 
 some thanks ; he would think it a lack 
 
 of ordinary human feeling in any one, 
 to snatch at his bounties, without cast- 
 ing a look on the bestower; he would 
 gaze in astonishment at such heedless 
 ingratitude and rapacity, and almost 
 doubt whether the creatures he helped 
 could 'be human. Are they any more 
 human, do they any more deserve the 
 name of men, when the object of such 
 perverse and senseless ingratitude is 
 the Infinite Benefactor .'' Would we 
 know what aspect it bears before his 
 eye ? Once, and more than once, hath 
 that Infinite Benefactor spoken. I lis- 
 ten, and tremble as I listen, to that 
 lofty adjuration with which the sub- 
 lime prophet hath set forth His contem- 
 plation of the ingratitude of his crea- 
 tures : " Hear, O heavens, and give ear, 
 O earth ! for the Lord hath spoken ; I 
 have nourished and brought up children, 
 and they have rebelled against me. The 
 ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his 
 master's crib ; but Israel doth not know ; 
 my people do not consider." Sad and 
 grievous error, even in the eye of rea- 
 son ! Great default even to nature's 
 religion ! But if thou art a Christian 
 man, what law shall acquit thee, if that 
 heavy charge lies at thy door ; at the 
 door of thy warehouse ; at tlie door of 
 thy dwelling ? Beware, lest thou for- 
 get God in his mercies ! the Giver in 
 his gifts ! lest the light be gone from 
 thy prosperity, and prayer from thy 
 heart, and the love of thy neighbor 
 from the labors of thy calling, and the 
 hope of heaven from the abundance of 
 thine earthly estate ! 
 
 But not with words of warning, ever 
 painful to use, and not always profitable, 
 would I now dismiss you from the house 
 of God. I would not close this discourse, 
 in which I may seem to have pressed 
 heavily on the evils to which business 
 exposes those who are engaged in it, 
 without holding up distinctly to view the 
 great moral aim on which it is my main 
 purpose to insist, and attempting to 
 show its excellence. 
 
 There is such a nobleness of charac- 
 ter in the right course, that it is to that 
 
THE MORAL END OF BUSINESS. 
 
 261 
 
 point I would last direct your attention. 
 The aspirings of youtli, the ambition of 
 manhood, could receive no loftier moral 
 direction than may be found in the 
 sphere of business. The school of 
 trade, with all its dangers, may be made 
 one of the noblest schools of virtue in 
 the world : and it is of some importance 
 to say it : because those who regard it 
 as a sphere only of selfish interests and 
 sordid calculations are certain to win 
 no lofty moral prizes in that school. 
 There can be nothing more fatal to 
 elevation of character in any sphere, 
 whether it be of business or society, than 
 to speak habitually of that sphere as 
 given over to low aims and pursuits. 
 If business is constantly spoken of as 
 contracting the mind and corrupting the 
 heart ; if the pursuit of property is uni- 
 versally satirized as selfish and grasping; 
 too many who engage in it will think of 
 nothing but of adopting the character 
 and the course so pointed out. Many 
 causes have contributed, without doubt, 
 to establish that disparaging estimate of 
 business ; the spirit of feudal aristocra- 
 cies, the pride of learning, the tone of lit- 
 erature, and the faults of business itself. 
 I say, therefore, that there is no being 
 in the world for whom I feel a higher 
 moral respect and admiration than for 
 the upright man of business ; no, not 
 for the philanthropist, the missionary, 
 or the martyr. I feel that I could more 
 easily be a martyr than a man of that 
 lofty moral uprightness. And let me 
 say yet more distinctly, that it is not for 
 the generous man that I feel this kind 
 of respect : that seems to me a lower 
 quality, a mere impulse, compared with 
 the lofty virtue I speak of. It is not 
 for the man who distributes extensive 
 charities, who bestows magnificent do- 
 nations. That may be all very well ; I 
 speak not to disparage it ; I wish there 
 were more of it ; and yet it may all con- 
 sist with a want of the true, lofty, un- 
 bending uprightness. That is not the 
 man, then, of whom I speak ; but it is 
 
 he who stands, amidst all the swaying 
 interests and perilous exigencies of 
 trade, firm, calm, disinterested, and up- 
 right. It is the man who can see an- 
 other man's interests just as clearly as 
 his own. It is the man whose mind, his 
 own advantage does not blind nor cloud 
 for an instant ; who could sit a judge, 
 upon a question between himself and 
 his neighbor, just as safely as the pur- 
 est magistrate upon the bench of justice. 
 Ah ! how much richer than ermine, how 
 far nobler than the train of magiste- 
 rial authorit)-, how more awful than the 
 guarded bench of majesty, is that simple, 
 magnanimous, and majestic truth ! Yes, 
 it is the man who is true ; true to him- 
 self, to his neighbor, and to his God; 
 true to the right, — true to his con- 
 science ; and who feels that the slight- 
 est suggestion of that conscience is more 
 to him than the chance of acquiring a 
 hundred estates. 
 
 Do I not speak to some such one now 1 
 Stands there not here some man of such 
 glorious virtue, of such fidelity to truth 
 and to God.'' Good friend ! I call upon 
 you to hold fast to that integrity, as the 
 dearest treasure of existence. Though 
 storms of commercial distress sweep over 
 you, and the wreck of all worldly hopes 
 threaten you, hold on to that as the plank 
 that shall bear your soul unhurt to its ha- 
 ven. Remember that which thy Savioui 
 hath spoken: "What shall it profit a 
 man, if he gain the whole world, and lose 
 his own soul?" Remember that there 
 is a worse bankruptcy than that which is 
 recorded in an earthly court ; the bank- 
 ruptcy that is recorded in heaven ; bank- 
 ruptcy in thy soul ; all poor, and broken 
 down, and desolate there: all shame and 
 sorrow and mourning, instead of that 
 glorious integrity, which should have 
 shone like an angel's presence in the 
 darkest prison that ever spread its 
 shadow over human calamity. Heaven 
 and earth may pass away, but the word 
 of Clirist, the word of thy truth, let it 
 pass from thee never ! 
 
262 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ON THE USES OF LABOR, AND THE 
 PASSION FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 2 Thessalonians iii. lo: " For even when we were 
 with you, this we commanded you, that if any man 
 would not work, neither should he eat." 
 
 I WISH to invite your attention this 
 evening to tlie uses of labor, and tlie 
 passion for a fortune. The topics, it is 
 obvious, are closely connected. The 
 latter, indeed, is my main subject ; but 
 as preliminary to it, I wish to set forth, 
 as I regard it, the great law of human 
 industry. It is worthy, I think, of being 
 considered, and religiously considered, 
 as the chief law of all human improve- 
 ment and happiness. And if there be any 
 attempt to escape from this law, or if there 
 be any tendency of the public mind, at 
 any time, to tlie same point, the eye of 
 the moral observer should be instantly 
 drawn to that point as one most vital to 
 the public welfare. That there has been 
 such a tendency of the public mind in this 
 country ; that it has been most signally 
 manifest within a few years past, and that 
 although it has found in cities the princi- 
 pa! field of its manifestation, it has spread 
 itself over the country too ; that multi- 
 tudes have become suddenly possessed 
 with a new idea, the idea of making a 
 fortune in a brief time, and then of retir- 
 ing to a state of ease and independence 
 — this is the main fact on which I shall 
 insist, and of which I shall endeavor to 
 point out the dangerous consequences. 
 
 But let me first call your attention to 
 the law which has thus, as I contend, 
 in spirit at least, been broken. What, 
 then, is the law .-' It is that industry, — 
 working either with the hand or with 
 the mind, — the application of the pow- 
 ers to some task, to the achievement of 
 some result, lies at the foundation of all 
 human improvement. 
 
 Every step of our progress from in- 
 fancy to manhood is proof of this. The 
 process of education, rightly considered, 
 is nothing else but wakening the powers 
 to activity. It is through their own 
 
 activity alone that they are cultivated. 
 It is not by the mere imposition of 
 tasks or requisition of lessons. The 
 very purpose of the tasks and lessons 
 is to awaken and direct that activity. 
 Knowledge itself cannot be gained, but 
 upon this condition, and, if it could be 
 gained, would be useless without it. 
 
 The state into which the human be- 
 ing is introduced, is, from the first step 
 of it to the last, designed to answer the 
 purpose of such an education. Nature's 
 education, in other words, answers in 
 this respect to the just idea of man's. 
 Each sense, in succession, is elicited 
 by surrounding objects and it is only 
 by repeated trials and efforts that it is 
 brought to perfection. In like manner 
 does the scene of life appeal to every 
 intellectual and every moral power. 
 Life is a severe discipline, and demands 
 every energy of human nature to meet 
 it. Nature is a rigorous taskmaster ; 
 and its language to the human race is, 
 " If a man will hot work, neither shall 
 he eat." We are not sent into the world 
 like animals, to crop the spontaneous 
 herbage of the field, and then to lie 
 down in indolent repose : but we are 
 sent to dig the soil and plough the sea ; 
 to do the business of cities and the work 
 of manufactories. The raw material only 
 is given us ; and by the processes of 
 cookery, and the fabrications of art, it 
 is to be wrought to our purpose. The 
 human frame itself is a most exquisite 
 piece of mechanism, and it is designed 
 in every part for work. The strength 
 of the arm, the dexterity of the hand, 
 and the delicacy of the finger, are all 
 fitted for the accomplishment of this 
 purpose. 
 
 All this is, evidently, not a matter of 
 chance, but the result of design. The 
 world is the great and appointed school 
 of industry. In an artificial state of 
 society, I know, mankind are divided 
 into the idle and laboring classes ; but 
 such, I maintain, was not the design of 
 Providence. On the contrary, it was 
 meant that all men, in one way or 
 another, should work. If any human 
 
THE PASSION FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 263 
 
 being could be completely released from 
 this law of Providence, if he should 
 never be obliged so much as to stretch 
 out his hand for anything, if everything 
 came to him at a bare wish, if there 
 were a slave appointed to minister to 
 every sense, and the powers of nature 
 were made, in like manner, to obey every 
 thought, he would be a mere mass of 
 inertness, uselessness, and misery. 
 
 Yes, such is man's task, and such is 
 the world- he is placed in. The world 
 of matter is shapeless and void to all 
 man's purposes, till he lays upon it the 
 creative hand of labor. And so also 
 is the world of mind. It is as true in 
 mind as it is in matter, that the materials 
 only are given us. Absolute truth ready 
 made, no more presents itself to us in 
 one department, than finished models 
 of mechanism ready made, do in the 
 other. Original principles there doubt- 
 less are in both ; but the result — phi- 
 losophy, that is to say, in the one case 
 is as far to seek as art and mechanism 
 are in the other. 
 
 Such, I repeat, is the world, and such 
 is man. The earth he stands upon 
 and the air he breathes are, so far as 
 his improvement is concerned, but ele- 
 ments to be wrought by him to certain 
 purposes. If he stood on earth pas- 
 sively and unconscious, imbibing the 
 dew and sap, and spreading his arms 
 to the light and air, he would be but a 
 tree. If he grew up capable neither of 
 purpose nor of improvement, with no 
 guidance but instinct, and no powers 
 but those of digestion and locomotion, 
 he would be but an animal. Kut he is 
 more than this ; he is a man ; he is 
 made to improve : he is made, therefore, 
 to think, to act, to work. Labor is his 
 great function, his peculiar distinction, 
 his privilege. Can he not think so? 
 Can he not see, that from being an 
 animal to eat and drink and sleep, 
 to become a worker ; to put forth the 
 hand of ingenuity, and to pour his own 
 thought into the moulds of nature, fash- 
 ioning them into forms of grace and 
 fabrics of convenience, and converting 
 
 them to purposes of improvement and 
 happiness, —can he not see, I repeat, 
 that this is the greatest possible step in 
 privilege ? Labor, I say, is man's great 
 function. Tlie earth and the atmos- 
 phere are his laboratory. With spade 
 and plough, with mining-shafts and 
 furnaces and forges, with fire and steam ; 
 amidst the noise and whirl of swift and 
 bright machinery, and abroad in the 
 silent fields, beneath the roofing sky, 
 man was made to be ever working, 
 ever experimenting. And while he, and 
 all his dwellings of care and toil, are 
 borne onward with the circling skies, 
 and the shows of heaven are around 
 him, and their infinite depths image 
 and invite his thought, still in all the 
 worlds of philosophy, in the universe of 
 intellect, man must be a worker. He 
 is nothing, he can be nothing, he can 
 achieve nothing, fulfil nothing, without 
 working. Not only can he gain no lofty 
 improvement without this ; but without 
 it he can gain no tolerable happiness. 
 So that he who gives himself up to 
 utter indolence, finds it too hard for 
 him ; and is obliged in self-defence, 
 unless he be an idiot, to do something. 
 The miserable victims of idleness and 
 ennui, driven at last from their chosen 
 resort, are compelled to work, to do 
 something ; yes, to employ their wretch- 
 ed and worthless lives in — '■^killing 
 ii7;!e." They must hunt down the hours 
 as their prey. Yes, time, that mere 
 abstraction, that sinks light as the air 
 upon the eyelids of the busy and the 
 weary, to the idle is an enemy, clothed 
 with gigantic armor ; and they must 
 kill it or themselves die. They cannot 
 Ih'e in mere idleness ; and all the dif- 
 ference between them and others is, 
 that they employ their activity to no 
 useful end. They find, indeed, that the 
 hardest work in the world is to do 
 nothing ! 
 
 This reference to the class of mere 
 idlers, as it is called, leads me to offer 
 one specification in laying down this law 
 concerning industry. Suppose a man, 
 then, to possess an immense, a bound- 
 
264 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 less fortune, and that he holds himself 
 discharged, in consequence, from all 
 the ordinary cares and labors of life. 
 Now, I maintain that in order to be 
 either an improving, worthy, or happy 
 man, he must do one of two things. He 
 must either devote himself to the accom- 
 plishment of some public objects, or he 
 must devote some hours of every day 
 to his own intellectual cultivation. In 
 any case, he must be, to a certain extent, 
 a laborious man. The thought of his 
 heart may be far different from this. 
 He may think it his special privilege, as 
 a man of fortune, to be exempt from all 
 care and effort. To lounge on soft 
 couches, to walk in pleasant gardens, to 
 ride out for exercise, and to come home 
 for feasting ; this may be his plan. But 
 it will never do. It never did yet answer 
 for any human being, and it never will. 
 God has made a law against it, which no 
 human power ever could annul, nor hu- 
 man ingenuity evade. That law is, that 
 upon labor, either of the body or of the 
 mind, all essential well-being shall de- 
 pend. And if this law be not complied 
 with, I verily believe that wealth is only 
 a curse, and luxury only a more slippery 
 road to destruction. The poor idler, I 
 verily believe, is safer than the rich idler : 
 and I doubt whether he is not hap- 
 pier. I doubt whether the most mis- 
 erable vagrancy, that sleeps in barns and 
 sheds, and feeds upon the fragments of 
 other men's tables, and leaves its tat- 
 tered garments upon every hedge, is so 
 miserable as surfeited opulence, sighing 
 ■ in palaces, sunk in the lethargy of indo- 
 lence, loaded with plethory, groaning 
 with weariness which no wholesome fa- 
 tigue ever comes to relieve. The vagrant 
 is at least obliged to walk from place 
 to place, and thus far has the advantage 
 over his fellow-idler who can ride. Yes, 
 he walks abroad in the fair morning ; 
 no soft couch detains him : he walks 
 abroad among the fresh fields, by the 
 sunny hedges, and along the silent lanes, 
 singing his idle song as he goes ; a crea- 
 ture poor and wretched enough, no 
 doubt ; but 1 am tempted to say, if I must 
 
 be idle, give me that lot, rather than to sit 
 in the cheerless shadow of palace roofs, 
 or to toss on downy beds of sluggish 
 stupor or racking pain. 
 
 I have thus endeavored to state one 
 of the cardinal and inflexible laws of all 
 human improvement and happiness. I 
 have already premised that my purpose 
 in doing so was to speak of the spirit 
 of gain, of the eagerness for fortune, as 
 characteristics of modern business which 
 tend to the dishonor and violation of the 
 law of labor. 
 
 In proceeding to do this, let me more 
 generally observe, in the first place, that 
 there has always been a public opinion 
 in the world derogatory to labor. The 
 necessity of exertion, though it is the 
 very law under which God has placed 
 mankind for their improvement and vir- 
 tue, has always been regarded as a kind 
 of degradation, has always been felt as a 
 kind of reproach. With the exception of 
 a few great geniuses, none so great as 
 those who do nothing. Freedom from 
 the necessity of exertion is looked upon 
 as a privileged condition ; it is encircled 
 with admiring eyes ; it absolutely gath- 
 ers dignity and honor about it. One 
 might think that a man would make 
 some apologies for it to the toiUng world. 
 Not at all ; he is proud of it. It is for the 
 busy man to make apologies. " He hopes 
 you will excuse him; he musi v/ork, or 
 he mtesf attend to his business." You 
 would think he was about to do some 
 mean action. You would think he was 
 about to do something of which he is 
 ashamed. And he ts ashamed of it. 
 
 The time has hardly gone by, when 
 even literary labor, labor of the mind, 
 the noblest of all labor, has suffered un- 
 der this disparaging estimate. Author- 
 ship has always been held to be the 
 proper subject for the patronage of wealth 
 and rank. Some of the most distin- 
 guished authors have lived in obscurity, 
 compared with the rich and fasliionable 
 around them, and have only forced their 
 way into posthumous celebrity. The re- 
 wards of intellectual toil have usually 
 been stinted to the provision of a bare, 
 
THE PASSION FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 265 
 
 humble subsistence. Not seldom has 
 the reward been scarcely a remove from 
 starvation. But when we descend to 
 manual labor, the comparison is still 
 more striking. The laboring classes, 
 operatives, as they are significantly called 
 in these days, are generally regarded but 
 as a useful machinery to produce and 
 manufacture comforts and luxuries for 
 those that can buy them. And the labor- 
 ing classes are so regarded, mainly, not 
 because they are less informed and cul- 
 tivated, though that may be true, but be- 
 cause they are the laboring classes. Let 
 any one of them be suddenly endowed 
 with a fortune, let him be made indepen- 
 dent of labor, and without any change of 
 character he immediately, in the general 
 estimation, takes his place among what 
 are called the upper classes. In those 
 countries where the favoritism extended 
 to the aristocracy has made many of its 
 members the vainest, most frivolous and 
 useless of beings, it must be apparent 
 that many persons among the business 
 classes are altogether their superiors in 
 mind, in refinement, in all the noblest 
 qualities ; and yet does the bare circum- 
 stance of pecuniary independence carry 
 it over everything. They walk abroad 
 in lordly pride, and the children of toil 
 on every side do homage to them. Let 
 such an one enter any one of the villages 
 of England or of this country ; let him 
 hve there, with nothing to do and doing 
 nothing, the year round ; and those who 
 labor in the field and the workshop will 
 look upon him, in bare virtue of his abil- 
 ity to be idle, as altogether their superior. 
 Yes, those who have wrought well in the 
 great school of providence, who have 
 toiled faithfully at their tasks and learned 
 them, will pay this mental deference to 
 the truant, to the idler, to him who learns 
 nothing and does nothing; ay, and be- 
 cause he does nothing. Nay, in that 
 holy church, whose ministryis the strong- 
 est bond to philanthropic exertion, the 
 clergy, the very ministry of him who 
 went about doinggood and had not where 
 to lay his head, sinks, in the estimation 
 of the whole world, to the lowest point of 
 
 depression, the moment it is called "a 
 working clergy." That very epithet, 
 working, seems, in spite of every coun- 
 teracting consideration, to be a stigma 
 upon everything to which it can be 
 applied . 
 
 But besides this general opinion, there 
 is a specific opinion, or way of thinking, 
 to which I have already referred, as op- 
 posed to our principle, and to which I 
 wish now to invite your more particular 
 attention. This opinion, or way of think- 
 ing, I must endeavor to describe with 
 some care, as it constitutes the basis of 
 fact from which the moral reflections 
 of the remainder of this discourse will 
 arise. 
 
 It will be admitted, then, in general, 
 I think, that modern business — mod- 
 ern, I mean, as compared with that 
 of a hundred or even fifty years ago — 
 has assumed a new character ; that it 
 has departed from the staidness, reg- 
 ularity, and moderation of former days. 
 The times when the business of the 
 father descended to the son, and was ex- 
 pected to pass down as an heir-loom in 
 the family ; when the risks were small 
 and the gains were moderate, or if ample, 
 still comparatively sure, seem to have 
 given way to the intense desire and the 
 hazardous pursuit, of immediate and im- 
 mense accumulation. It is not neces- 
 sary to the statement I am making, that 
 I should enter into the causes of this 
 change. They are, doubtless, to be 
 found in the unusual opportunities for 
 gain, in the extraordinary extension of 
 credits, and I think also in the rapid 
 expansion of the principle of liberty ; 
 that is to say, in the intellectual activity, 
 personal ambition, and unfettered enter- 
 prise, which that principle has introduced 
 into society. But whatever be the causes 
 of the change, it will not be denied, I 
 presume, that there has sprung up in 
 connection with it a new view of acqui- 
 sition ; or rather, to state more exactly 
 what I mean, that a view of acquisition, 
 which in former times was confined to 
 a few minds, has now taken possession 
 of almost the entire business community, 
 
z66 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 and constitutes, therefore, beyond all 
 former example, one of the great moral 
 features of the age. I cannot, perhaps, 
 briefly describe this view better than by 
 denominating it a passion for making a 
 foriune, and for making it speedily. I 
 do not, of course, mean to say that this 
 passion has not existed before. The 
 love of money has always been a desire 
 so strong, that it has needed for its re- 
 straint all the checks and admonitions 
 of reason and rehgion. There have 
 always been those who have set their 
 affections and expectations on a fortune 
 as something indispensable to their hap- 
 piness. There have also appeared, from 
 time to time, seasons of rash and raging 
 speculation, as in the case of the South 
 Sea and Mississippi stocks in England 
 and France ; disturbing, however, but 
 occasionally the regular progress of busi- 
 ness. But the case with us, now, is 
 different. We have, at length, become 
 conversant with times in which these 
 seasons of excess and hazard in business 
 are succeeding one another periodically, 
 and with but brief intervals. The pur- 
 suit of property, and that in no moderate 
 amount, has acquired at once an unpre- 
 cedented activity and universahty. The 
 views, with which multitudes now are 
 entering into business, are not of gain- 
 ing a subsistence — they disdain the 
 thought ; not barely of pursuing a proper 
 and useful calling — that is far beneath 
 their ambition ; but of acquiring a for- 
 tune, of acquiring ease and independence. 
 In accordance with this view is the com- 
 mon notion of retiring from business. 
 It is true that we do not see much of 
 this retiring, but we hear much about it. 
 The passion exists, though the course 
 of business is so rash as constantly to 
 disappoint, or so eager as finally to over- 
 come it. 
 
 In saying that a great change is pass- 
 ing over the business character of the 
 world, and that it is in some respects 
 dangerous, I do not intend to say that 
 it is altogether bad, or even that there 
 is necessarily more evil than good in it. 
 I hold it to be an advantage to the 
 
 world, that restrictions, like those of 
 the guilds of Germany and the borough 
 laws in England, are thrown off; and that 
 a greater number of competitors can 
 enter the lists, and run the race for the 
 comforts and luxuries of life. The 
 prizes, too, will be smaller as the com- 
 petitors are more numerous ; and that, 
 I hold, will be an advantage. I believe, 
 also, that the system of doing business 
 on credit, in a young and enterprising 
 countr}', is, within proper bounds, use- 
 ful ; and that our own owes a part of 
 its unexampled growth and prosperity 
 to this cause. I only say, what I think 
 all will admit, that from these causes 
 there are tendencies in the business of 
 the country which are dangerous. 
 
 But to return to my statement ; I 
 undertake to say, not only, in general, 
 that there are wrong practical tenden- 
 cies, but that there is a way of thinking 
 about business which is wrong. Your 
 practical advisers may tell you that 
 there has been over-trading, that this 
 is the great evil, and that it must be 
 avoided in future. I do not say, for I 
 do not know, whether this has been the 
 great evil or not ; but this I say, that it 
 probably will not be avoided in future, 
 if it has been the evil. And why not ? 
 Because there is an evil beneath the 
 evil alleged, and that is an excessive de- 
 sire for property, an eagerness for for- 
 tune. In otlier words, there is a wrong 
 way of thinking, which lies like a can- 
 ker at the root of all wholesome moder- 
 ation. The very idea that a property is 
 to be acquired in the course of ten or 
 twenty years, which shall suffice for the 
 rest of life ; that by some prosperous 
 traffic, or grand speculation, all the labor 
 of life is to be accomplished in a brief 
 portion of it ; that by dexterous manage- 
 ment a large part of the term of liumari 
 existence is to be exonerated from the 
 laws of industry and self-denial, — all 
 this way of thinking, I contend, is 
 founded in a mistake of the true nature 
 and design of business, and of the con- 
 ditions of human well-being. 
 
 I do not say, still to discriminate, that 
 
THE PASSION FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 267 
 
 it is wrong to desire wealth, and even, 
 with a favorable and safe opportunity, to 
 seek the rapid accumulation of it. A 
 man may have noble ends to accomplish 
 by such accumulation. He may design 
 to relieve his destitute friends or kindred. 
 He may desire to foster good institu- 
 tions and to help good objects. Or he 
 may wish to retire to some otiier sphere 
 of usefulness and exertion, which shall 
 be more congenial to his taste and affec- 
 tions. But it is a different feeling, it is 
 the desire of accumulation for the sake 
 of securing a life of ease and gratifi- 
 cation, for the sake of escaping from 
 exertion and self-denial ; this is the 
 wrong way of thinking which I would 
 point out, and which I maintain to be 
 common. I do not say that it is uni- 
 versal among the seekers of wealth. I 
 do not say that all who propose to re- 
 tire from business, propose to retire to 
 a life of complete indolence or indul- 
 gence ; but I say that many do ; and I 
 am inclined to say that all propose to 
 themselves an independence, and an 
 exemption from the necessity of exer- 
 tion, which are not likely to be good for 
 them ; and, moreover, that they wed 
 themselves to these ideas of indepen- 
 dence and exemption to a degree that is 
 altogether irrational, unchristian, and in- 
 consistent with the highest and noblest 
 views of life. That a man should de- 
 sire so to provide for himself as in case 
 of sickness or disability not to be a 
 burden upon his friends or the public, 
 or, in case of his death, that his family 
 should not be thus dependent, is most 
 reasonable, proper, and wise. But that 
 a man sliould wear out half of his life 
 in an almost slavish devotion to busi- 
 ness ; that he should neglect his health, 
 comfort, and mind, and waste his very 
 heart, with anxiety, and all to build a 
 castle of indolence in some fairy-land, 
 — this, I hold to be unwise and wrong. 
 I am saying nothing now of particular 
 emergencies into which a man may 
 rightly or wrongly have brought himself; 
 I speak only of the general principle. 
 And the principle, I say, in the first 
 
 place, is unwise, wrong, injurious, and 
 dangerous, with reference to business 
 itself. It is easy to see that the differ- 
 ent views of business, implied in the 
 foregoing remarks, will impart to the 
 whole process a different character. If 
 a man enters upon it as the occupation 
 of his life ; if he looks upon it as a use- 
 ful and honorable course ; if he is inter- 
 ested in its moral uses, and, what we 
 demand of every high-minded profes- 
 sion, if he thinks more of its uses than 
 of its fruits, more of a high and honor- 
 able character than of any amount of 
 gains ; and if, in fine, he is willing to 
 conform to that ordinance of Heaven 
 which has appointed industry, action, 
 effort, to be the spring of improvement, 
 then, of course, he will calmly and pa- 
 tiently address himself to his task, and 
 fulfil it with wisdom and moderation. 
 But if business is a mere expedient to 
 gain a fortune, a race run for a prize, a 
 game played for a great stake ; then it 
 as naturally follows that there will be 
 eagerness and absorption, hurry and 
 anxiety ; it will be a race for the swift, 
 and a game for the dexterous, and a 
 battle for the strong ; life will be turned 
 into a scene of hazard and strife, and 
 its fortunes will often hang upon the 
 cast of a die. 
 
 I must add that the danger of all this 
 is greatly increased by a circumstance 
 already alluded to; I mean the rapid 
 expansion of the principle of political 
 freedom. Perhaps the first natural de- 
 velopment of that principle was to be 
 looked for in the pursuit of property. 
 Property is the most obvious form of in- 
 dividual power, the most immediate and 
 palpable ministration to human ambi- 
 tion. It was natural, when the weights 
 and burdens of old restrictions were 
 taken off, that men should first rush into 
 the career of accumulation. I say restric- 
 tions ; but there have been restraints 
 upon the inind. which are, perhaps, yet 
 more worthy of notice. The mass of 
 mankind in former ages, have ever felt 
 that the high and splendid prizes of life 
 were not for them. They have consented 
 
268 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 to poverty, or to mediocrity at the ut- 
 most, as their inevitable lot. But a new 
 arena is now spread for them, and they 
 are looking to the high places of society 
 as within their reach. The impulse im- 
 parted to private ambition by this pos- 
 sibility has not, I think, been fully con- 
 sidered, and it cannot, perhaps, be fully 
 calculated. And it should also be 
 brought into the account that our im- 
 perfect civilization has not yet gone be- 
 yond the point of awarding a leading, 
 and perhaps paramount, consideration 
 in society to mere wealth. Conceive, 
 then, what must be the effect, upon a 
 man in humble and straitened circum- 
 stances, of the idea that it is possible 
 for him to rise to this distinction. The 
 thoughts of his youth, perhaps, have 
 been lowly and unaspiring; they have 
 belonged to that place which has been 
 assigned him in the old regi7ne of society. 
 But in the rapid progress of that equal- 
 izing system which is spreading itself 
 over the world, and amidst the unprece- 
 dented facilities of modern business, a 
 new idea is suddenly presented to him. 
 As he travels along the dusty road of 
 toil, visions of a palace — of splendor, 
 and equipage, and state, rise before him ; 
 his may be the most enviable and dis- 
 tinguished lot in the country ; he who 
 is now a slave of the counting-room or 
 counter, of the work-bench or the cart- 
 man's stand, may yet be one to whom 
 the highest in the land shall bow in 
 homage. Conceive, I say, the effect of 
 this new idea upon an individual and 
 upon a community. It must give an 
 unprecedented and dangerous impulse 
 to society. It must lead to extraordi- 
 nary efforts and measures for acquisi- 
 tion. It will have the most natural 
 effect upon the extension of traffic and 
 the employment of credit. It may be 
 expected that in such circumstances 
 men will borrow and bargain as they 
 have never done before ; that the lessons 
 of the old prudence will be laid aside ; 
 that the old plodding and pains-taking 
 course will not do for the excited and 
 stimulated spirit of such an age. 
 
 This eagerness for acquiring fortunes, 
 tends equally to defeat the ultimate, the 
 providential design of business. That 
 design, I have said, is to train men by 
 action, by labor and care, by the due 
 exertion of their faculties, to mental and 
 moral accomplishment. It is necessary 
 to this end, that business should be 
 conducted with regularity, patience, and 
 calmness ; that the mind should not be 
 diverted from a fair application of its 
 powers, by any exaggerated or fanciful es- 
 timate of the results. Especially if that 
 contemplation of results involves the idea 
 of escaping from all care and occupation, 
 must it constantly hinder the fulfilment 
 of the providential design. The very 
 spirit of business then^ is the spirit of 
 resistance to that design. But even if it 
 were not, yet it is evident that neither the 
 mental nor moral faculties of a human 
 being have any fair chance amidst agi- 
 tations and anxieties, amidst dazzling 
 hopes and disheartening fears. Cer- 
 tainly, it must be admitted that a time 
 of excessive absorption in business is 
 anything but a period of improvement. 
 How many in such seasons have sunk 
 in character and in all the aims of life, 
 have lost their habits of reading and 
 reflection, their habits of meditation 
 and prayer! 
 
 Business, in its ultimate, its provi- 
 dential design, is a school. Neglected, 
 forgotten, perhaps ridiculed, as this con- 
 sideration may be, it is the great and 
 solemn truth. Man is placed in this 
 school as a learner of lessons for eter- 
 nity. What he shall learn, not what he 
 shall get, is of chief, of eternal, import to 
 him. As to property, it is certain, to use 
 the language of an apostle, " that as we 
 brought nothing into this world, we can 
 carry nothing out of it." But there is 
 one thing which we shall carry out of it, 
 and that is, the character ^\i\c\\ we have 
 formed in the very pursuits by which 
 property has been acquired. 
 
 In the next place, this passion for 
 rapid accumulation, thus pusiied to ea- 
 gerness and vehemence, and liable to be 
 urged to rashness and recklessness, leads 
 
THE PASSION FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 269 
 
 to another evil, which to any rational 
 apprehension of things cannot be ac- 
 counted small ; and that is the evil of 
 sacrificing, in business, the end to the 
 means. 
 
 " Live while you live," is a maxim 
 which has a good sense as well as a 
 bad one. But the man who is sacrifi- 
 cing all the proper ends of life for some- 
 thing to be enjoyed twenty years hence, 
 can scarcely be said to live while he 
 lives. 'He is not living tiow in any 
 satisfactory way, he confesses ; he is 
 going to live by and by ; that is, when 
 and where he does not live, and never 
 may live ; nay, where, it is probable, 
 he never will live. For not one man in 
 thirty, of those who intend to retire from 
 business, ever does retire. And yet, 
 how many suffer this dream about retir- 
 ing to cheat them out of the substantial 
 ends of acquisition — comfort, improve- 
 ment, happiness — as they go on. 
 
 How, then, stands the account? In 
 seeking property, a man has certain ends 
 in view. Does he gain them ? The 
 lowest of them, comfort ; does he gain 
 •that ? No, he will tell you, he has little 
 enough of comfort. That is to come. 
 Having forsaken the path of regular 
 and moderate and sure acquisition in 
 which his fathers walked, he has plunged 
 into an ocean of credit, spread the sails 
 of adventurous speculation, is tossed 
 upon the giddy and uncertain waves of 
 a fluctuating currency, and liable, any 
 day, to be wrecked by the storms that 
 are sweeping over the world of business. 
 The means, the tneans, of ease, of 
 comfort, of luxury, he must have ; and 
 yet the things themselves, ease, comfort, 
 and the true enjoyment of luxury, are 
 the very things which he constantly fails 
 to reach. He is ever saying that he 
 m\x%\. get out of this turmoil of business, 
 and yet he never does get out of it. 
 The very eagerness of the pursuit not 
 only deprives him of all ease and com- 
 fort as he goes on, but it tends constant- 
 ly to push the whole system of business 
 to that excess which brings about 
 certain reaction and disappointment. 
 
 Were it not better for him to live while 
 he lives, to enjoy live as it passes? 
 Were it not better for him to live richer 
 and die poorer ? Were it not best of 
 all for him to banish from his mind 
 that erring dream of future indolence 
 and indulgence ; and to address him- 
 self to the business of life, as the school 
 of his earthly education ; to settle it 
 with himself now, that independence, if 
 he gains it, is ndt to give him exemption 
 from employment ; that in order to be a 
 happy man, he must always, with the 
 mind or with the body, or with both, 
 be a laborer ; and, in fine, that the rea- 
 sonable exertion of his powers, bodily 
 and mental, is not to be regarded as 
 mere drudgery, but as a good discipline, 
 a wise ordination, a training in this 
 primary school of our being for nobler 
 endeavors, and spheres of higher activity 
 hereafter? For never, surely, is activity 
 to cease ; and he who proposes to re- 
 sign half his life to indolent enjoyment, 
 can scarcely be preparing for the bound- 
 less range and the intenser life that is 
 to come. 
 
 But there are higher ends of acquisi- 
 tion than mere comfort. For I suppose 
 that few seekers of wealth can be found, 
 who do not propose mental culture, and 
 a beneficent use of property, as among 
 their objects. And with a fulfilment of 
 these purposes a moderate pursuit is 
 perfect compatible. But how is it when 
 that pursuit becomes an eager and ab- 
 sorbing strife for fortune ? What is the 
 language of fact and experience ? Amidst 
 such engrossing pursuits, is there any 
 time for reading ? Are any literary hab- 
 its, or any habits of mental culture, 
 formed ? I suppose these questions 
 carry with them their own answer. But 
 the over-busy man, though he is neglect- 
 ing his mind now. means to repair that 
 error by and by. Tliat is the greatest 
 mistake of all ! He will not find the hab- 
 its he wants, all prepared and ready for 
 him, like that pleasant mansion of repose 
 to which he is looking. He will find 
 habits there, indeed ; but they will be the 
 habits he has been cultivating for twenty 
 
2/0 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 years, not those he has been neglecting. 
 The truth he will then find to be, that he 
 does not love to read or study, that he 
 never did love it, and that he probably 
 never will love it. 
 
 I do not say that reading is the only 
 means of mental cultivation. Business 
 itself »M_y invigorate, enlarge, and elevate 
 the mind. But then it must be because 
 large views are taken of it ; because the 
 mind travels beyond the counter and the 
 desk, and studies the geography, politics, 
 and social tendencies of the world ; in- 
 vestigates the laws of trade, and the 
 philosophy of mechanism, and specu- 
 lates upon the morals and ends of all 
 business. Nay, and the trader and the 
 craftsman, if he would duly cultivate his 
 mind, must, like the lawyer, physician, 
 and clergyman, travel beyond the prov- 
 ince of his own profession, and bring the 
 contributions of every region of thought 
 to build himself up in the strength and 
 manhood of his intellectual nature. 
 
 And therefore, I say, with double force 
 of asseveration, that he who has pursued 
 business in such a way as to have neglect- 
 ed all just mental culture has sacrificed 
 the end to the means. He has gained 
 money, and lost knowledge ; he has 
 gained splendor, and lost accomplish- 
 ment ; gained tinsel, and lost gold ; 
 gained an estate, and lost an empire ; 
 gained the world, and lost his soul ! 
 
 And thus it is with all the ends of 
 accumulation. The beneficent use, the 
 moral elevation, which every high- 
 minded man will propose to himself, are 
 sacrificed in the eagerness of the pur- 
 suit. A man may give, and give liber- 
 ally ; but this may be a very different 
 thing from using property beneficently 
 and wisely. I confess, that on this ac- 
 count I look with exceeding distrust 
 upon all our city charities ; because men 
 have no time to look into the cases and 
 questions that are presented to them ; 
 because they give recklessly, without 
 system or concert. I believe that im- 
 mense streams of charity are annually 
 flowing around us which tend only to 
 deepen the channels of poverty and mis- 
 
 ery. He who gives money to save time, 
 cannot be acting wisely for others ; and 
 he who does good only by agents and> 
 almoners, cannot be acting wisely for 
 himself. And yet, this is the course to 
 which excessive devotion to gain must 
 lead. The man has no time to think for 
 himself ; and therefore custom must be 
 his law, or his clergyman, perhaps, is his 
 conscience. He is an excellent disciple 
 in the school of implicit submission. He 
 attends a sound divine ; he gives boun- 
 tifully to the missions or to the alms- 
 house ; he suffers himself to be assessed, 
 perhajDS, in the one-tenth of his income : 
 and there end, with him, all the use and 
 responsibilities of wealth. His mind is 
 engrossed with acquisition to that extent, 
 that he has no proper regard to the ends. 
 of acquisition. Nay more, he comes, 
 perhaps, to that pass in fatuity, that he 
 substitutes altogether the means for the 
 end, and embraces his possessions with 
 the insane grasp of the miser. 
 
 On the whole, and in fine, this pas- 
 sion for a fortune diverts man from his 
 true dignity, his true function ; which 
 lies in exertion, in labor. 
 
 I can conceive of reasons why I 
 might lawfully, and even earnestly, de- 
 sire a fortune. If I could fill some fair 
 palace, itself a work of art, with the pro- 
 ductions of lofty genius; if I could be 
 the friend and helper of humble worth ; 
 if I could mark it out, where failing 
 health or adverse fortune pressed it 
 hard, and soften or stay the bitter hours 
 that are hastening it to madness or to 
 the grave ; if I could stand between 
 the oppressor and his prey, and bid the 
 fetter and the dungeon give up its 
 victim ; if I could build up great insti- 
 tutions of learning and academies of 
 art ; if I could open fountains of knowl- 
 edge for the people, and conduct its 
 streams in the right channels ; if 1 
 could do better for the poor than to be- 
 stow alms upon them — even to think 
 of them, and devise plans for their ele- 
 vation in knowledge and virtue, instead 
 of forever opening the old reservoirs 
 and resources for their improvidence ; 
 
Tin: PASSION FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 271 
 
 if, in fine, wealth could be to me the 
 handmaid of exertion, facilitating effort 
 and giving success to endeavor, then 
 mii^ht I lawfully, and yet warily and 
 modestly, desire it. But if wealth is to 
 do nothing for me but to minister ease 
 and indulgence, and to place my chil- 
 dren in the same bad school, I fear- 
 lessly say, though it be in face of the 
 world's dread laugli, that I do not see 
 why I should desire it, and that I do 
 not desire it ! 
 
 Are my reasons asked for this strange 
 decision ? Another, in part, shall give 
 them for me. " Two men," says a 
 quaint writer, "two men I honor, and 
 no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman, 
 that with earth-made implement labo- 
 riously conquers the earth, and makes 
 her mans. Venerable to me is the 
 hard hand ; crooked, coarse ; wherein, 
 notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, 
 indefeasibly royal, as of the sceptre of 
 this planet. Venerable, too, is the rug- 
 ged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, 
 with its rude intelligence ; for it is the 
 face of a man, living man-like. Oh, but 
 the more venerable for thy rudeness, 
 and even because I must pity as well as 
 love thee ! Hardly-entreated brother ! 
 For us was thy back so bent, for us 
 were thy straight limbs and fingers so 
 deformed. Thou wert our conscript, 
 on whom the lot fell, and fighting our 
 battles, wert so marred. For in thee, 
 too, lay a God-created form, but it was 
 not to be unfolded ; encrusted must it 
 stand with the thick adhesions and 
 defacement of labor ; and thy body, 
 like thy soul, was not to know freedom. 
 Yet toil on, toil on ; thou art in thy duty, 
 be out of it who may ; thou toilest for the 
 altogetlier indispensable, for daily bread. 
 " A second man I honor, and still 
 more highly : him who is seen toilino^ 
 for the spiritually indispensable ; not 
 daily bread, but the bread of life. Is 
 not he, too, in his duty ; endeavoring to- 
 wards inward harmony ; revealing this, 
 by act or by word, througli all his out- 
 ward endeavors, be they high or low .-' 
 Highest of all. when his outward and his 
 inwar 1 endeavor are one ; when we can 
 
 name him artist ; not earthly craftsman 
 only, but inspired thinker, that with 
 heaven-made implement conquers heav- 
 en for us ! If the poor and iiumble toil 
 that we have food, must not the high 
 and glorious toil for him, in return, 
 that he have light and guidance, free- 
 dom, immortality? — these two, in all 
 their degrees, I honor; all else is chaff" 
 and dust, which let the wind blow 
 whither it listeth. 
 
 " Unspeakingly touching is it, how- 
 ever, when I find both dignities united ; 
 and he, that must toil outwardly for the 
 lowest of man's wants, is also toiling 
 inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in 
 this world know I nothing, than a peas- 
 ant saint, could such now, anywhere be 
 met with. Such a one will take thee 
 back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see 
 the splendor of heaven spring forth 
 from the humblest depths of earth, like 
 a light shining in great darkness.'* 
 
 And who, I ask, is that third man, 
 that challenges our respect ? Say, that 
 the world were made to be the couch of 
 his repose, and the heavens to curtain 
 it. Grant, that the revolving earth were 
 his rolling chariot, and all earth's mag- 
 nificence were the drapery that hung 
 around his gorgeous rest ; yet could 
 not that august voluptuary — let alone 
 the puny idler of our city streets — win 
 from a wise man one sentiment of re- 
 spect. What is there glorious in the 
 world, that is not the product of labor, 
 either of the body or of the mind? 
 What is history, but its record ? What 
 are the treasures of genius and art, but 
 its work ? What are cultivated fields, 
 but its toil ? The busy marts, the ris- 
 ing cities, the enriched empires of the 
 world ; what are they but the great trea- 
 sure-houses of labor ? The pyramids 
 of Egypt, the castles and towers and 
 temples of Europe, the buried cities 
 of Mexico ; what are they but tracks, 
 all round the world, of the mighty foot- 
 steps of labor? Antiquity had not 
 been without it. Without it, there were 
 no memory of the past ; without it, there 
 were no hope for the future. 
 
 * Thomas Carlyle. 
 
2/2 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 Let then labor, the world's great or- 
 dinance, take its proper place in the 
 world. Let idleness, too, have the meed 
 that it deserves. Honor, I say, be paid 
 wherever it is due. Honor, if you 
 please, to unchallenged indolence ; for 
 that which all the world admires, hath, 
 no doubt, some ground for it ; honor, 
 then, to undisturbed, unchallenged in- 
 dolence ; for it reposes on treasures that 
 labor some time gained and gathered. 
 It is the efBgy of a man, upon a splen- 
 did mausoleum ; somebody built that 
 mausoleum ; somebody put that dead 
 image there. Honor to him that does 
 nothing, and yet does not starve ; he 
 hath his significance still ; he is a stand- 
 ing proof that somebody has worked. 
 
 Nay, rather let us say, honor to the 
 worker ; to the toiler; to him who pro- 
 duces, and not alone consumes ; to him 
 who puts forth his hand to add to the 
 treasure-heap of human comforts, and 
 not alone to take away ! Honor to him 
 who goes forth amidst the struggling 
 elements to fight his battle, and shrinks 
 not, with cowardly effeminacy, behind 
 pillows of ease ! Honor to the strong 
 muscle and the manly nerve, and the 
 resolute and brave heart ! Honor to 
 the sweaty brow and the toiling brain ! 
 Honor to the great and beautiful offices 
 of humanity : to manhood's toil and 
 woman's task ; to parental industry, to 
 maternal watching and weariness ; to 
 teaching wisdom and patient learning ; 
 to the brow of care that presides over 
 the state, and to many-handed labor 
 that toils in the workshops and fields, 
 beneath its sacred and guardian sway ! 
 
 XIIL 
 
 ON THE MORAL LIMITS OF AC- 
 CUMULATION. 
 
 Proverbs xxx. 8,9:" Give me neither poverty nor 
 riches; lest I be full and deny thee and say, Who is 
 the Lord? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the 
 name of my God in vani." 
 
 In my last discourse, I considered 
 some of the evil consequences of the 
 passion for accumulation ; in the pres- 
 
 ent, I propose to point out some of the 
 moral limits to be set to that passion. 
 In other words, the limits to accumu- 
 lation, the wholesome restraints upon 
 the passion for it, which are prescribed 
 by feelings of general philanthropy and 
 justice, by the laws of morality, and by 
 a sober consideration of the natural 
 effects of wealth upon ourselves, our 
 children, and the world, — these are the 
 topics of our present meditation. 
 
 I cannot help feeling here the diffi- 
 culties under which the pulpit labors, 
 in the discussion of the points now be- 
 fore us Some, indeed, will think them 
 unsuitable to the pulpit, as not being 
 sufificiently religious. Others seem to 
 be disposed to limit the pulpit to the 
 utterance of general and unquestionable 
 truths. To these views I cannot assent. 
 The points which I am discussing are, 
 in the highest degree, moral ; they are 
 practically religious ; they belong to 
 the morality and religion of daily life. 
 And then again, as to what the preacher 
 shall say, I do not think that he is to be 
 confined to truisms, or to self-evident 
 truths, or to truths in which all shall 
 agree. We come here to deliberate on 
 great questions of morality and duty ; 
 to consider what is true, what is right. 
 In doing this, the preacher may bring 
 forward views in which some of his 
 hearers cannot agree with him ; how, 
 indeed, should it be otherwise ? But he 
 does not pretend to utter infallible sen- 
 tences. He may be wrong. But he is 
 none the less bound to utter what he 
 does believe, and thinks to be worthy of 
 attention. This office I attempt to dis- 
 charge among you. And I ask you not 
 to take ill, at my hands, that which you 
 would not so take if I uttered it by 
 your firesides. And if I am wrong on 
 some such occasion, perhaps you will 
 set me right. 
 
 Let me proceed, then, frankly to lay 
 before you some reflections that have 
 impressed my own mind, in regard to 
 the hmitations which good feeling, jus- 
 tice, and wisdom ought, perhaps, to set 
 to the pursuit of wealth. 
 
THE MORAL LIMITS OF ACCUMULATION. 
 
 273 
 
 I. In tlie first place, then, I doubt 
 whether tliis immense accumulation in a 
 few hands, wliile the rest of the world 
 is comparatively poor, does not imply an 
 unequal, an unfair, distribution of the re- 
 wards of industry. I may be wrong on 
 this point, and if I were considered as 
 speakins: with any authority from the 
 pulpit, I should not make the sugges- 
 tion. Yet speaking as I do, with no as- 
 sumption, but with the modesty of doubt, 
 I shall venture to submit this point to 
 your consideration. 
 
 It would seem to be an evident princi- 
 ple of humanity and justice, that property 
 and the means of comfort should bear 
 some proportion to men's industry. Now 
 we know that they do not. I am not de- 
 nying that, in general, the hard-working 
 man labors less with the mind ; and that 
 he is often kept poor, either by improv- 
 idence and wastefulness, or because he 
 has less energy and sagacity than others 
 bring into the business of life. I do not 
 advocate any absurd system of agrarian 
 levelling. I believe that wealth was de- 
 signed to accumulate in certain hands, 
 to a certain extent ; because I perceive 
 that this naturally results from the su- 
 perior talents and efforts of certain indi- 
 viduals. But I cannot help thinking 
 that the disproportion is greater than it 
 ought to be. 
 
 In order to bring this question home 
 to your apprehension, let me ask you to 
 suppose that some years ago any one of 
 you had come to this city with a beloved 
 brother to prepare for a life of business. 
 Let me suppose that you had been placed 
 with a merchant, and he with a cartman ; 
 lioth lawful, useful, necessary callings in 
 society ; somebody must discharge each 
 of these offices. Now you know that 
 the results would likely enough be, that 
 you would be rich, or at least possessed 
 of an easy property, and that he would 
 be poor ; or at any rate, that you would 
 have a fair chance of acquiring a fortune 
 from your industry, and that he would 
 have no such chance from his industry. 
 Now let me further suppose that you 
 did not treat him as some men treat their 
 
 poor relations, — passing them by and 
 striving to forget them, almost wishing 
 they did not exist ; but that you contin- 
 ued on terms of kind and intimate inter- 
 course with him ; that you constantly 
 interchanged visits with him, and could 
 cc^mpare the splendor of your dwelling 
 with the poverty of his. 1 ask you if 
 you would not feel, if you could help feel- 
 ing, that society had dealt unjustly with 
 you and with him in this matter ? But I 
 say that everj' man is your brother ; and 
 that what you would thus feel for your 
 brother, you are bound to feel for every 
 man ! 
 
 I know that it is said, in regard to ac- 
 cumulation in general, that capital has 
 its claims ; but I cannot help thinking 
 that they are overrated, in comparison 
 with the claims of human nerves and 
 sinews. Suppose that of a thousand men 
 engaged in a great manufacturing estab- 
 lishment, ten possess the capi tal and over- 
 see the establishment, and the nine hun- 
 dred and ninety do the work. Can it be 
 right that the ten should grow to im- 
 mense wealth, and that the nine hun- 
 dred and ninety should be forever poor? 
 I admit that something is to be allowed 
 for the risk taken by the capitalist. I 
 have heard it pleaded, indeed, that he is 
 extremely liable to fail, and often does 
 so ; while the poor. Heaven help them ! 
 never fail. But it seems to me that 
 this consideration is not quite fairly 
 pleaded. It is said that there is a risk. 
 But does not the capitahst, to a certain 
 extent, make the risk ? Is not his risk 
 often in proportion to the urgency with 
 which he pushes the business of accu- 
 mulation, and to that neglect and infidel- 
 ity of his agents and workmen which 
 must spring from their having so slight 
 a common interest with him in his un- 
 dertakings .'' The risks will be smaller 
 when the pursuit of property is more re- 
 strained and reasonable, and when the 
 rewards of industry are more equal and 
 just. But I hear it said again, that "the 
 poor are wasteful ; and that to increase 
 their wages is only to increase their 
 vices." Let me tell you that poverty is 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 the parent of improvidence and desper- 
 ation. Those who have been brought 
 up in that school may very probably, for 
 a while, abuse their increased means. 
 But in the long run it cannot be so. 
 Nay, by the very terms of your proposi- 
 tion, the abuse will cease with the des- 
 peration of poverty. Give the poor some 
 hope ; give them some means ; give them 
 something to lean upon ; give them some 
 interest in the order and welfare of so- 
 ciety ; and they will become less waste- 
 ful, less reckless and vicious. 
 
 Indeed, is it not obvious, can any one 
 with his eyes open deny, that the ex- 
 tremes of condition in the world, the 
 extremes of wealth and poverty, furnish 
 us with the extremes of vice and dissi- 
 pation ? And does not this fact settle 
 and prove, beyond all question, that it 
 is desirable that accumulation should 
 be restrained within some bounds, on the 
 one hand, and on the other, that indi- 
 gence should be lessened.? What is the 
 state of the operatives in the manufactur- 
 ing districts of England? Only worse 
 than that of the idlers in that kingdom, 
 who are living and rioting upon over- 
 grown fortunes. Let the conditions of 
 men approach the same inequality in this 
 or any other country, and we shall wit- 
 ness the same results. The tendency of 
 things among us, I rejoice to believe, is 
 not to that result ; but it is, no doubt, 
 the constant tendency of private ambi- 
 tion. 
 
 I am sensible, my friends, that I have 
 made a large demand on your candor, in 
 laying this question before you. It is 
 paying the highest compliment I could 
 pay to your fairness of mind. I only 
 ask that you will treat my argument with 
 equal generosity. 
 
 II. But I proceed to another point. 
 In order to the rapid accumulation of 
 property, in all ordinary cases, a great 
 expansion of credit is necessary. A 
 man cannot grow suddenly rich by the 
 labor of his hands, and he must there- 
 fore use the property or the promises of 
 others, in order to compass this end. 
 Now there is a question which I have 
 
 never seen stated in the books of mora 
 philosophy, which 1 have not heard dis- 
 cussed m the pulpit, and yet it is a point 
 which deserves a place in the code of 
 commercial morality ; and that is, how far 
 it is right for a man to use credit ; that 
 is, to extend his business beyond his 
 actual capital? I am sensible that it is 
 extremely difficult, if it is not indeed im- 
 possible, to lay down any exact rule on 
 this subject ; and yet it seems to me 
 none the less worthy of consideration. 
 Certainly, it must be admitted that 
 there is a point somewhere, beyond 
 which it is not prudent, and, therefore, 
 not right, to go. Certainly, it cannot 
 be right, as it appears to me, for a man 
 to use all the credit he can get. It 
 could not be right, for instance, that 
 upon a capital of ten thousand a man 
 should do a business of ten millions. No 
 man ought to trust his powers to such 
 an indefinable extent. No man's cred- 
 itors, were he to fail, could be satisfied 
 with his having accepted trusts from oth- 
 ers in the shape of credits, which com- 
 mon prudence shall pronounce to be 
 rash and hazardous. There is a common 
 prudence, if there is no exact rule about 
 this matter, and the borrower is most 
 especially bound to observe it ; and cer- 
 tainly every honest man, being a bor- 
 rower, would observe it, if he did but 
 sufficiently think of it. The want of 
 this thought is the very reason why I 
 bring forward the subject. 
 
 With regard to the rule, I have it as 
 the deliberate opinion of one of the 
 greatest bankers in Europe, that a man 
 should not extend his business to more 
 than three times his capital, and if it be 
 a large business, to not more than twice 
 his capital. I do not say that this is the 
 rule, though I have the greatest respect 
 for the judgment that laid it down. I do 
 not say that it is the rule, because I am 
 advised, on the other hand, by very com- 
 petent judges, that the rule must vary 
 exceedingly with the different kinds of 
 business which a man may pursue. 
 
 I do not undertake, then, to lay down 
 any particular rule, but I urge the claims 
 
THE MORAL LIMITS OF ACCUMULATION. 
 
 275 
 
 of general prudence. I wish to call at- 
 tention to this point. I am persuaded that 
 it is for want of reflection, and not from 
 want of principle, that many have adven- 
 tured out upon an ocean of credit, where 
 they have not only suffered shipwreck 
 themselves, but carried down many a 
 goodly vessel with them. The borrower, 
 I hold, is specially and solemnly bound 
 to be prudent. He is bound to be more 
 prudent in the use of other men's prop- 
 erty than of his own. A man should be 
 more cautious in taking credit than in 
 using capital. But I fear that the very 
 reverse of this is commonly the fact. I 
 fear that most men are more reckless 
 when they use the means which credit 
 gives them, than they would be in using 
 their own absolute and fixed property. 
 In small matters we know that immediate 
 payment is a check to expenditure. Why 
 is it, but for this, that every petty dealer 
 is anxious to open a credit with your 
 family? He knows that your expendi- 
 tures will be freer, your purchases larger, 
 and that a more considerable amount 
 will be made up at the end of the year^ 
 because you buy on credit. But to look 
 at the subject in a wider view ; I know 
 that some men do plunge more reck- 
 lessly into the great game of business, 
 because the game is played with credit ; 
 with counters, and not with coins. I 
 have heard it observed, and I confess 
 that it was with a coolness and noncha- 
 lance that amazed me, that a man ma}' as 
 well take a good strong hold of business 
 while he is about it, since he has nothing 
 to lose by it. The sentiment is mon- 
 strous. It ought to shake the very foun- 
 dations of every warehouse where it is 
 uttered. There ought to be a sacred 
 caution in the use of credit. And al- 
 though I cannot pretend to define the 
 precise law of its extension, yet this I 
 will say, that never till I see a man ad- 
 venturing his own property more freely 
 than he adventures that which he bor- 
 rows of his neighbor, can I think he is 
 right. Let this great and undeniably 
 just moral principle be established ; and 
 I am persuaded that we shall at once see 
 
 a wholesome restraint laid upon the use 
 of credit. 
 
 There is one further point to which I 
 wish to invite your attention ; and that 
 is the practice, in cases of bankruptcy, 
 of giving preference to certain creditors, 
 who have made loans on that condition. 
 Now I maintain that no man ought to 
 offer credit, and that no man ought to 
 accept it, on that condition. The prac- 
 tice is abolished in England ; and I 
 know that there it is regarded as bring- 
 ing a stain upon the commercial moral- 
 ity of this country. 
 
 I do not mean to charge with per- 
 sonal dereliction any person who has, 
 in time past, taken advantage of this 
 rule. It has been the rule of the coun- 
 try, and has passed unquestioned. And 
 so long as it has been the rule, and 
 money has been borrowed and lent on 
 that principle, and it was considered 
 right so to do, it was perhaps right, 
 as between man and man, that cases 
 of insolvency should be settled on that 
 principle. But as a theoretical principle 
 of general application, I hold that it is 
 utterly wrong. Our laws indeed dis- 
 allow it, and public opinion ought not, 
 for another hour, to sustain it. 
 
 The principle is dishonest. It is 
 treachery to the body of a man's credit- 
 ors. He appeared before them with 
 a certain amount of means ; and upon 
 the strength of those means they were 
 willing to give him credit. Those means 
 were the implied condition, the very 
 basis, of the loan ; without them they 
 would not have made it. They saw that 
 he had a large stock of goods ; that he 
 was doing a large business ; and they 
 thought there was no danger. They 
 depended, in fact, upon that visible 
 property in case of difficulties. But 
 difificulty arises, failure comes ; and 
 then they find that much or all of that 
 property is preoccupied, and wrested 
 from their hands, by certain confiden- 
 dential pledges. If they had known 
 this, they would have stood aloof; and 
 therefore I say that there is essential 
 deception in the case. 
 
2/6 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 Again, lending on such a principle 
 loses all its generosity, and borrowing 
 is liable to lose all the prudence and 
 virtue that properly belong to it. If a 
 man lends to his young friend or rela- 
 tive, on the sole strength of affection 
 and confidence towards him, it is a 
 transaction which bestows a grace upon 
 mercantile life. But if he lends as a 
 preference creditor, he takes no risk, 
 and shows no confidence. For he 
 knows that the borrower, upon the 
 strength of his loan, can easily get 
 property enough into his hands to 
 make hiut perfectly secure. And let 
 it be observed, that in proportion as 
 the acquisition of confidence is less 
 necessary ; in proportion, that is to 
 say, as virtue and ability are less neces- 
 sary to set up a man in business, are 
 they less likely to be cultivated : and so 
 far as this principle goes, therefore, it 
 tends to sap and undermine the whole 
 business character of a country. Nay, 
 it is easy to see, that under the cloak of 
 these confidential transactions, the en- 
 tire business between the borrower and 
 lender may be the grossest and most 
 iniquitous gambling. I do not say that 
 this is common. But I say that the 
 principle ought not to be tolerated, 
 which is capable of such abuses. 
 
 This principle, I think, moreover, is 
 the very keystone of the arch that sup- 
 ports many an overgrown fabric of 
 credit. And this observation has a two- 
 fold bearing. Much of the credit that 
 is obtained, could not exist without this 
 principle. That is one thing ; but, fur- 
 thermore, I hold that all the exertion 
 of credit which depends on this prin- 
 ciple oughi; not to exist at all. It ought 
 not, because the principle is dishonest 
 and treacherous. And it would not, be- 
 cause the first credit which often puts a 
 man in the possession of visible means 
 is not given on the strength of confi- 
 dence in him, but on the strength of the 
 secret pledge ; and then the after credits 
 are based on those visible means. Let 
 every man that borrows tell, as he ought 
 to do, the amount of his confidential 
 
 obligations, and many would find their 
 credit seriously curtailed. And to that 
 extent, most assured)}', it ought to be 
 curtailed. 
 
 I have thus spoken of the spirit of 
 gain as liable — not as always being, 
 but as liable — to be in conflict with the 
 great principles of social and commer- 
 cial justice. I might add, that the man- 
 ner in which the gains of business are 
 sometimes clung to, amidst the wreck 
 of fortunes, is a powerful and striking 
 illustration of the same moral danger. 
 He who regards no limits of justice in 
 acquiring property will break all bonds 
 of justice to keep it. 
 
 And here I must carefully and widely 
 distinguish. I give all honor to the 
 spirit which many among us have shown 
 in such circumstances ; to the manl\' 
 fortitude and disinterestedness of men, 
 who have comparatively cared nothing 
 for themselves, but who have been al- 
 most crushed to the earth by what they 
 have suffered for their friends ; to the 
 heroic cheerfulness and soothing ten- 
 derness of woman in such an hour, 
 ready to part with every luxury, and 
 holding the very pearl of her life in 
 the unsullied integrity of her husband. 
 I know full well that that lofty integrity 
 is the only rule ever thought of by many 
 in the painful adjustment of their broken 
 fortunes. And I know, and the public 
 knows, that if they retain a portion of 
 their splendor for a season, it is reluc- 
 tantly, and because it cannot, in the 
 present circumstances, be profitably dis- 
 posed of; and that they retain it in 
 strict trust for their creditors. But 
 there are bankrupts of a different char- 
 acter, as you well know. I do not 
 know that any such are in this pres- 
 ence ; but if there were a congregation 
 of such before me, I should speak no 
 otherwise than I shall now speak, I say 
 that there are men of a different char- 
 acter ; men who intend permanently to 
 keep back a part of the price they have 
 sworn to pay ; and I tell you, that God's 
 altar, at which I minister, shall hear no 
 word from me, concerning them, but a 
 
THE MORAL LIMITS OF ACCUMULATION. 
 
 277 
 
 word of denunciation. It is di.shonesty, 
 and it ought to be infamy. It is rob- 
 bery, though it Hve in splendor, and ride 
 in state, — robbery, I say, as truly as 
 if, instead of inhabiting a palace, it were 
 consigned to the dungeons of Sing 
 Sing. And take care, my brethren, as 
 ye shall stand at the judgment-bar of 
 conscience and of God, that ye fall not 
 at all beneath this temptation. The 
 times are times of sore and dreadful 
 peril to the virtue of the country. They 
 are times in which it is necessary, even 
 for honest men. to gird up the loins of 
 their minds, and to be sober and watch- 
 ful ; ay, watchful over themselves. Re- 
 member, all such, I adjure you, that the 
 dearest fortune you can carry into the 
 world will not compensate you for 
 the least iota of your integrity surren- 
 dered and given up. Oh! sweeter in 
 the lowliest dwelling to which you may 
 descend, shall be the thought that you 
 have kept your integrity immaculate, 
 than all the concentrated essence of 
 luxury to your taste, all its combined 
 softness to your couch, all its gathered 
 splendor to your state. Ay, prouder 
 shall you be in the humblest seat, than 
 if, with ill-kept gains, you sat upon the 
 throne of a kingdom. 
 
 III. I come now to consider, in the 
 last place, the limitations to be set to 
 the desire of wealth, by a sober con- 
 sideration of its too probable effects 
 upon ourselves, upon our children, and 
 upon the world at large. And here let 
 me ask two preliminary questions. 
 
 Can that be so necessary to human 
 well-being, as many consider wealth to 
 be, which necessarily falls to the lot but 
 of" a few } Can that be the very feast 
 and wine of life, when but a few thou- 
 sands of the human race are allowed 
 to partake of it ? If it were so, surely 
 God's providence were less kind and 
 liberal than we are bound to think it. 
 God has not made a world of rich men, 
 but rather a world of poor men ; or of 
 men, at least, who must toil for a sub- 
 sistence. That, then, must be the good 
 condition for man ; nay, the best condi- 
 
 tion ; and we see, indeed, that it is the 
 grand sphere of human improvement. 
 
 In the next place, can that be so im- 
 portant to human welfare, which, if it 
 were possessed by all, would i;e the 
 most fatal injury possible.'' And here 
 I must desire that every person, whose 
 pursuit of property this question may 
 affect, will extend his thoughts beyond 
 himself. He may say that it would be 
 a good thing \i he could acquire wealth ; 
 and perhaps it would. He may say that 
 he does not see that riches would do 
 hi/n any harm ; and perhaps tliey would 
 not. He may have views that ennoble 
 the pursuit of fortune. But the cjues- 
 tion is, would it be well and safe for 
 four fifths of the business community 
 around him to become opulent 1: He 
 must remember that liis neighbors have 
 sought as well as he, and in a propor- 
 tion, too, not far distant from what I 
 have stated. They have sought, and 
 had as good a right to succeed, as he 
 had. Would it be well that so general 
 an expectation of fortune should be 
 gratified ? Would it be well for society, 
 well for the world ? Only carry tlie sup- 
 position a little further ; only suppose 
 fhe whole world to acquire wealth ; 
 only suppose it were possible that the 
 present generation could lay up a com- 
 plete provision for the next, as some 
 men desire to do for their children ; and 
 you destroy the world at a single blow. 
 All industry would cease with the neces- 
 sity for It; all improvement would stop 
 with the demand for exertion ; the dissi- 
 pation of fortunes, whose mischiefs are 
 now countervailed by the healthful tone 
 of society, would then breed universal 
 disease, and break out into universal 
 license ; and the world would sink into 
 the grave of its own loathsome vices. 
 
 But let us look more closely, for a 
 moment, at the general effect of wealth 
 upon individuals and upon nations. 
 
 I am obliged, then, to regard with 
 considerable distrust the influence of 
 wealth upon individuals. I know that 
 it is a mere instrument, which may be 
 converted io good or to bad ends. I 
 
2/8 
 
 ON COMMERCE AND BUSINESS. 
 
 know that it is often used for good 
 ends. But I more than doubt whether 
 the chances lean that way. Indepen- 
 dence and luxury are not likely to be 
 good for any man. Leisure and luxury 
 are almost always bad for every man. 
 I know that there are noble exceptions. 
 But I have seett so much of the evil 
 effect of wealth upon the mind, — mak- 
 ing it proud, haughty, and impatient, 
 robbing it of its simplicity, modesty, 
 and humility, bereaving it of its large 
 and gentle and considerate humanity ; 
 and I have hea?d such testimonies, such 
 astonishing testimonies, to the same ef- 
 fect, from those whose professional 
 business it is to settle and adjust the 
 affairs of large estates, that I more and 
 more distrust its boasted advantages. I 
 deny the validity of that boast. In 
 truth, I am sick of the world's admira- 
 tion of wealth. Almost all the noblest 
 things that have been achieved in the 
 world, have been achieved by poor men : 
 poor scholars and professional men ; 
 poor artisans and artists ; poor philoso- 
 phers, and poets, and men of genius. 
 
 It does appear to me that there is 
 a certain staidness and sobriety, a cer- 
 tain moderation and restraint, a certain 
 pressure of circumstances, that is good 
 for man. His body was not made for 
 luxuries ; it sickens, sinks, and dies, 
 under them. His mind was not made 
 for indulgence ; it grows weak, effemi- 
 nate, and dwarfish, under that condition. 
 It is good for us to bear the yoke ; and 
 it is especially good to bear the yoke in 
 our youth. I am persuaded that many 
 children are injured by too much atten- 
 tion, too much care ; by too many ser- 
 vants at home, too many lessons at 
 school, too many indulgences in soci- 
 ety. They are not left sufficiently to 
 exert their own powers, to invent their 
 own amusements, to make their own 
 way. They are often inefficient and un- 
 happy, they lack ingenuity and energy, 
 because they are taken out of the school 
 of providence, and placed in one which 
 our own foolish fondness and pride 
 have built for them. Wealth, without 
 
 a law of entail to help it, has always 
 lacked the energy even to keep its own 
 treasures. They drop from its imbecile 
 hand. What an extraordinary revolu- 
 tion in domestic life is that which, in 
 this respect, is presented to us all over 
 the world ! A man, trained in the school 
 of industry and frugality, acquires a 
 large estate. His children, possibly, 
 keep it. But the third generation al- 
 most inevitably goes down the rolling 
 wheel of fortune, and ihei-e learns the 
 energy necessary to rise again. And 
 yet we are, almost all of us, anxious to 
 put our children, or to insure that our 
 grandchildren shall be put, on this road 
 to indulgence, luxury, vice, degradation, 
 and ruin ! 
 
 This excessive desire and admiration 
 for wealth is one of the worst traits in 
 our modern civilization. We are, if I 
 may say so, in an unfortunate dilemma 
 in this matter. Our political civilization 
 has opened the way for multitudes to 
 wealth, and created an insatiable desire 
 for it ; but our mental civilization has not 
 gone far enough to make a right use of 
 it. If wealth were employed in promot- 
 ing mental culture at home and works 
 of philanthropy abroad ; if it were mul- 
 tiplying studios of art, and building up 
 institutions of learning around us ; if it 
 were every way raising the intellectual 
 and moral character of the world, — there 
 could scarcely be too much of it But 
 if the utmost aim, effort, and ambition 
 of wealth be to procure rich furniture 
 and provide costly entertainments, I am 
 inclined to say that there could scarcely 
 be too little of it. " It employs the 
 poor," do I hear it said .^ Better tiiat 
 it were divided \i\\\\ the poor. Willing • 
 enough, am I that it should be in few 
 hands if they will use it nobly, — with 
 temperate self-restraint and wise philan- 
 thropy. But on no other condition will 
 I admit that it is a good, either for its 
 possessors or for anybody else. I do 
 not deny that it may lawfully be, to a 
 certain extent, the minister of elegan- 
 cies and luxuries, and the handmaid of 
 hospitality and physical enjoyment ; but 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 279 
 
 this I say, that just in such proportion 
 as its tendencies, divested of all higlier 
 aims and tastes, are running that way, 
 are they running to evil and to peril. 
 
 That peril, moreover, does not attach 
 to individuals and families alone ; but 
 it stands, a fearful beacon, in the experi- 
 ence of cities and empires. The lessons 
 of past times, on this subject, are em- 
 phatic and solemn. I undertake to say 
 that the history of wealth has always 
 been a history of corruption and down- 
 fall. The people never existed that 
 could stand the trial. 
 
 Boundless profusion — alas! for hu- 
 manity — is too little likely to spread for 
 any people the theatre of manly energy, 
 rigid self-denial, and lofty virtue. Where 
 is the bone and sinew and strength of a 
 country ? Where do you expect to find 
 its loftiest talents and virtues ? Where, 
 its martyrs to patriotism or religion.'' 
 Where are the men to meet the days 
 of peril and disaster .'' Do you look for 
 them among the children of ease and 
 indulgence and luxury ? 
 
 All history answers. In the great 
 march of the races of men over the 
 earth, we have always seen opulence 
 and luxury sinking before poverty and 
 toil and hardy nurture. It is the very 
 
 law that has presided over the great 
 processions of empire. Sidon and Tyre, 
 whose merchants possessed the wealth 
 of princes ; Babylon and Palmyra, the 
 seats of Asiatic luxury; Rome, laden 
 with the spoils of a world, overwhelmed 
 by her own vices more than by the hosts 
 of her enemies, — all these, and many 
 more, are examples of the destructive 
 tendencies of iminense and unnatural 
 accumulation. No lesson in history is 
 so clear, so impressive, as this. 
 
 I trust, indeed, that our modern, our 
 Christian, cities and kingdoms are to be 
 saved from such disastrous issues. I 
 trust that, by the appropriation of wealth 
 less to purposes of private gratification, 
 and more to purposes of Christian phi- 
 lanthropy and public .spirit, we are to be 
 saved. But this is the very point on 
 which I insist. Men must become more 
 generous and benevolent, not more self- 
 ish and effeminate, as they become 
 more rich, or the history of modern 
 wealth will follow in the sad train of all 
 past examples, and the story of Ameri- 
 can prosperity and of English opulence 
 will be told as a moral in empires be- 
 yond the Rocky Mountains, or in the 
 newly discovered continents of the Asi- 
 atic Seas. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 AN ORATION DELIVERED AT CAM- 
 BRIDGE, BEFORE THE SOCIETY 
 OF PHI BETA KAPPA, AUGUST, 
 1830. 
 
 Mr. President and Gentlemen: 
 
 This Society was formed for the pro- 
 motion, though chiefly by an indirect 
 influence, of a sound and healthful lit- 
 erature. And the use of this anniver- 
 sary festival — for I think it has a use, 
 beyond the pleasure that it brings with 
 it — is to strengthen the bonds of lit- 
 
 erary duty and friendship ; to rekindle 
 the fires which, separate and solitary, 
 are apt to die away ; to revive that zeal 
 for study, which is too liable to fail, or 
 to falter at least, in its struggle with 
 professional cares. From the midst of 
 those cares, from the labors of the pul- 
 pit, from the toils of the bar, from the 
 watchings of the stck-room, from the 
 weariness of the teacher's lorm, our 
 tribes have come up to pay the annual 
 offering, and keep the yearly jubilee. 
 
 What are the principles which, on 
 our return to those fields, will msure 
 
28o 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 us the most successful cultivation of 
 them? What is the true science, the 
 rationale, if I may say so, of thorough 
 improvement and refinement? What 
 are the true means of spreading at once 
 weahh and beauty over the paths of 
 literary labor ? 
 
 For the wide range of discussion 
 which this question opens to us, I shall 
 select two views, two principles of in- 
 tellectual culture (this is my general 
 subject)— the one practical, the other 
 theoretical ; both of which derive ur- 
 gent claims to attention, as I think, 
 from the character of the literature that 
 is prevalent at the present day, and 
 from the state of our little republic of 
 letters. My practical principle is, that 
 the loftiest attainments of the mind in 
 every sphere of its exertion are imme- 
 diately, — much as the original tendency 
 or temperament may vary, — are imme- 
 diately the fruit of nothing but the deep- 
 est study; that, for instance, the great 
 poet and the great artist, as well as the 
 profound metaphysician or astronomer, 
 is by nothing more distinguished than by 
 his thorough and patient application ; 
 that natural genius, as it is called, ap- 
 pears in nothingelse, and is nothing else, 
 but the power of application ; that there 
 is no great excellence without great la- 
 bor ; that the inspirations of the muse 
 are as truly studies, as the lucubrations 
 of philosophy. In other words, it is the 
 deepest soil that yields not only the rich- 
 est fruits, but the fairest flowers ; it is 
 the most solid body which is not only 
 the most useful, but which admits of the 
 highest polish and brilliancy ; it is the 
 strongest pinion which not only can carry 
 the greatest burden, but which soars to 
 the loftiest flight. 
 
 That the most intense study is neces- 
 sary to the loftiest attainments in every 
 department, whether of philosophy or 
 poetry, of science or imagination, of re- 
 ality or fiction, of judgment or taste, 
 would perhaps be best made to appear, 
 by showing the strict and close connec- 
 tion there is between them ; and that 
 there is such a connection, is indeed my 
 
 theoretical principle. To some sugges- 
 tions on these subjects, as all that the 
 present occasion permits, — to some 
 suggestions, I must say, rather than 
 discussions, let me now invite your 
 attention. 
 
 My position then, in theory, is, that 
 between these various qualities of mind 
 and departments of literature, of which 
 I have just spoken, there is no incon- 
 gruity, none of the commonly supposed 
 warfare, but perfect harmony. These ex- 
 tremes, as they are usually considered, 
 do actually meet and mingle in every 
 perfect mind and in every perfect litera- 
 ture. In fact, the most distinguishing 
 trait in all the greatest minds of the 
 world, the pre-eminent seal of genius 
 upon all its noblest works, has been this 
 union of opposite qualities : of sense and 
 sprightliness, of philosophy and fancy, 
 of acuteness and invention. 
 
 The maxim that " extremes meet,'' 
 has, indeed, been commonly received, 
 and too often exemplified in a very differ- 
 ent sense. The too constant imperfec- 
 tion of our own experiments in the science 
 of the mind has nearly overthrown what 
 in theory is the only perfect rule. It is 
 true that metaphysical speculation, for 
 instance, when it goes to what is called 
 an extreme, when it goes beyond fact, 
 beyond the range of simple induction, 
 runs into transcendental mysticism, 
 and is at war with plain good sense, and 
 tends to chill the fervor of fancy and 
 feehng. The hoary wisdom of learning, 
 too, sometimes verges very nearly upon 
 childish pedantry ; the extreme of acute- 
 ness sinks, in some instances, into a 
 trifling and petty accuracy about details ; 
 and extreme good sense — alas! it is 
 sometimes dull and unmeaning as non- 
 sense. And there is nothing, indeed, 
 that IS more sure to become vapid and 
 tedious, than the incessant even though 
 it be for a time the successful, endeavor 
 to be brilliant and sprightly ; as the 
 agreeable trifling of our foreign Month- 
 lies has, at some periods of their history, 
 strikingly demonstrated. Even Cer- 
 vantes is often, to my mind, but a sorry 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 281 
 
 jester, in the overstrained effort at per- 
 petual wit ; an effort, whose occasional 
 failure, indeed, argues no want of power, 
 since it is as impossible to succeed in 
 it, as it would be to make the lightning, 
 which falls in transient flashes from the 
 cloud, the permanent medium of vision. 
 
 But what follows from these instances 
 in the history of the human mind ? Does 
 it follow, that, compatible with the nature 
 of these qualities, there can be too much 
 of true wisdom, acuteness, sense, spright- 
 hness, or wit? Never. The truth is, 
 that these things become other things 
 when they go too far, — when, in the bad 
 sense, they go to extremes. The maxim, 
 in this sense, like all false paradoxes, 
 keeps its meaning only to the ear, and 
 breaks it to the judgment. 
 
 It may be said, indeed, with sufficient 
 accuracy, perhaps, for common parlance, 
 and when speaking of common men, 
 that such an one is a man of strong 
 sense, but has not a particle of imagina- 
 tion ; that another dwells in a world of 
 fiction and knows nothing of reality, is 
 a poet and knows nothing of human na- 
 ture ; and some harmless people may 
 harmlessly imagine that the grand mark 
 of intellectual distinction is maudlin sen- 
 timent and visionary nonsense; but in 
 the severe and high cultivation of the 
 mind it is necessary' to set up a different 
 principle. It is necessary to maintain 
 that, in their perfection, the noblest qual- 
 ities of the mind meet and modify each 
 other. They may go to their utmost ex- 
 tent, they may go to their extremes, yet 
 if they do meet, if they do control each 
 other, if they mingle in perfect harmony, 
 their union presents us, at once, with the 
 strongest and the most beautiful forms 
 of intellectual power. So that the se- 
 verest sense is not barely compatible 
 but consonant with the richest fancy ; 
 so that genuine logic is no enemy to gen- 
 uine poetry : so that perfect wisdom is 
 identical with perfect beauty. 
 
 For the correctness of the principle 
 which I maintain, I appeal now, for a 
 moment, to the philosophy of the mind. 
 The questions to be asked here are very 
 
 simple, but they are very decisive. What 
 is the mind ? Is it not one intelligence ? 
 And is it not the same intelligence, and 
 no other, that is employed in every intel- 
 lectual effort, and in every department 
 of literature? Is not that intelligence, I 
 still ask, whether it builds up a science 
 or an art, deals with theory or practice, 
 constructs a problem or a poem, one and 
 the same thing ? Is not the aliment by 
 which the mind is to grow, truth, — sim- 
 ple, single, harmonious, divinely accor- 
 dant truth ? And is not the right order 
 in which its faculties are to rise to their 
 highest excellence, that of perfect propor- 
 tion ? And must not all disproportion 
 among its powers indicate an imperfect 
 and crude development ? Furthermore, 
 is there any clashing among the natural 
 powers of the mind ? Is there to be 
 found, in fact, on an accurate analysis, 
 any of the commonly supposed incongru- 
 ity between reason and fancy, between 
 the judgment and the imagination ? -What 
 is reason? It is usually defined to be 
 the power of comparing our ideas, and 
 of discriminating their resemblances and 
 differences. What is the imagination ? 
 It is the power of calling up at will, and 
 assembling congruous ideas, so as to 
 form harmonious pictures. These pow- 
 ers, then, do not exist in a state of war, 
 but of perfect alHance with each other. 
 They Are mutually necessary to each 
 other's strength and perfection. Fancy 
 without judgment is extravagance and 
 folly. Judgment without fancy is unpro- 
 ductive drudgery. It may be correct as 
 far as it goes ; but without any of that 
 power called fancy, without any new or 
 extensive combinations of thought, with- 
 out any capability of stirring from the 
 field of observation immediately before 
 it, the judgment does not go far. In the 
 habit that still prevails of regarding the 
 mind as if it were divided into distinct 
 departments, thought and feeling are 
 constantly distinguished as if they were 
 opposite powers. But what is feeling ? 
 It is an emotion arising from the per- 
 ception of some object; arising, that 
 is, from, or rather with, some thought. 
 
;82 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 Feeling, then, so far from being opposed 
 to thinking, is oftentimes but a more 
 vivid and intense thinliing ; and Pythag- 
 oras, when he demonstrated the Forty- 
 seventh proposition, and offered his 
 hecatomb in thanksgiving for that dis- 
 covery, no doaht/eli as strongly as Ho- 
 mer, when he described the wrath of 
 Achilles, or the tears of Andromache. 
 Different minds possess indeed different 
 capacities, both of thought and feeling ; 
 but with this qualification, and speaking, 
 as I now do, not of animal sensations, 
 but of intellectual states of mind, I say 
 that the strong feeling is the strong 
 thought. 
 
 These views, simple as they may 
 seem, form the best argument, per- 
 haps, against the commonly supposed 
 incongruity of the different efforts and 
 productions of the mind, and therefore 
 I have been willing to bring tiiem for- 
 ward at the risk of wearying my audi- 
 ence with scholastic statements. The 
 actual results in literature seem to me 
 to correspond with these acknowledged 
 elements of our philosophy. Suppos- 
 ing a certain amount of talent, an 
 amount sufficient to stand in the trial 
 for literary distinction ; and then I say, 
 that the reason of failure is always to 
 be found in the want, either of the due 
 proportion, or of the due exertion, of 
 the faculties of the mind. The whole 
 history of literature bears me out in 
 this position. How many poems, for 
 instance, charged and overcharged with 
 imagination, have fallen into worse than 
 the hated and fatal mediocrity, for the 
 want of a sound judgment ! How many 
 treatises, on the contrary, laden and 
 weighed down with good sense, and 
 much learning too, have sunk to ob- 
 livion, because there was no kindling 
 warmth of imagination to buoy them 
 up and bear them on to after ages ! 
 And in the few works that have secured 
 the consenting homage of all countries 
 and of all times, what a singular union 
 has there been of the severest sense 
 with the most brilliant fancy ! The very 
 idea, that these are warring principles. 
 
 shows, that in general they have not 
 been well and rightly developed. No 
 doubt the imagination may be cultivated 
 and perhaps strengthened at the expense 
 of the judgment, but then it is not well 
 cultivated. And we see the judgment, in 
 certain instances, acquiring vigor at the 
 expense of the imagination. It is said 
 to be so, at times, in the pursuits of the 
 law and of the mathematics. But, then, 
 I shall venture to aver that, for the 
 whole man, the judgment is not well 
 cultivated. If such cultivation is a 
 sacrifice, on the part of the individual, 
 to the advancement of the particular 
 science he studies, that is the most that 
 can be said of it. But even then, it is 
 not a necessary sacrifice, as there are 
 many illustrious instances to show. 
 And so far from believing that any of 
 these principles are bestowed, as natu- 
 ral endowments to the exclusion of 
 pthers, I undertake to say, that . where- 
 ever there is a powerful imagination, 
 there, with proper culture, might be a 
 powerful judgment, and the contrary ; 
 and that wherever there is strong feel- 
 ing, there might be strong thinking. 
 There it z's, for the moment. The 
 strong feeling imphes a vivid percep- 
 tion of its object. And the perception 
 that is vivid for a moment may, by 
 sufficient care, become habitually keen, 
 discriminating, strong, and comprehen- 
 sive. In truth, it is not the fanatic, in 
 religion or in hterature, that feels the 
 most strongly. The true feeling, as 
 well as the true judgment, is deep, 
 calm, sustained, and thus powerful. 
 
 If all this is true, we are prepared to 
 judge what connection there is between 
 profound philosophy and poetry, be- 
 tween judgment and taste, between pro- 
 found thought and a fine imagination. 
 This connection, did the time permit, is 
 capable of other illustrations from the . 
 philosophy of the mind. For it might be 
 shown that those departments of liter- 
 ature which have now been named, are 
 not only co-ordinate and harmonious, 
 but that each imparts a distinct and sig- 
 nal power over the other. It might be 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 283 
 
 shown, and indeed it must be obvious, 
 that lie who understands the philosophy 
 of the mind is, for that reason, better 
 prepared to address the mind ; that 
 he who understands the philosophy of 
 poetry, of its subjects, of its machinery, 
 its figures, its appropriate thoughts and 
 feehngs, will possess advantages in that 
 knowledge ; that his taste, too, will be 
 1 etter, who has studied its principles ; 
 that his fiction will be better, who is 
 most familiar with reality. It is true, 
 tiiat a man without these aids may 
 blunder into the right path ; or he may 
 be carried into it by the strong impulse 
 of genius ; by a philosophy, in fact, 
 which he has not analyzed. For the 
 guidance here is not instinct : that is 
 heaven's guidance, and is always safe. 
 While the whole history of criticism 
 shows, that genius, even of the noblest 
 order, has always been committing the 
 most deplorable errors for the want of 
 knowledge. 
 
 If, Gentlemen, I am stating new doc- 
 trines, I may be permitted, at least to 
 desire that they be not misunderstood. 
 I do not deny, that in different indi- 
 viduals the various faculties of the mind 
 exist in great disproportion to each 
 other; that in some the imagination 
 is stronger than the judgment, and that 
 in others the reverse is manifest ; but 
 I do deny the necessity of any such dis- 
 proportion, and maintain that the great- 
 est failures of really lofty talent have 
 arisen from this very incongruity. I 
 do not deny that diiTerent writers, and 
 more especially in the present state of 
 intellectual cultivation, are particularly 
 qualified for different departments of 
 literary labor ; but I maintain that to 
 tile perfection of each of these depart- 
 ments all the faculties must harmoni- 
 ously contribute : that poetry as truly 
 requires judgment as imagination; and 
 that philosophy as truly requires imagi- 
 nation as judgment. 1 scarcely need 
 except, indeed, the mathematics ; pro- 
 duct of pure reason as it- is commonly 
 thought to be. It would have failed of 
 many of its interesting applications ; it 
 
 would have stopped short of its bound- 
 less range amidst the pathways of heav- 
 en, but for the prompting and guidance 
 of imagination. I say, therefore, that 
 for rearing up the intellectual man, for 
 raising the noblest forms of intellectual 
 production, every faculty of the soul 
 must do its part ; and not only so, but 
 that every power must labor ; that fancy 
 is a working faculty as truly as reason. 
 This, indeed, is the practical principle 
 which I have already stated, and which 
 I shall now undertake to defend. The 
 denial of it has commonly appeared in 
 the form which my language has just 
 implied ; in the exemption, that is to 
 say, of certain powers, such as fancy, 
 taste, genius, &c., from the necessity of 
 study. No popular error in literature, 
 I conceive, is deeper or more injurious 
 than this. To counteract this ; to show 
 the universal necessity of study, of a 
 thorough and patient application of 
 mind, in every department of litera- 
 ture ; to bring all the intellectual facul- 
 ties under the one grand condition of 
 improving by exercise, I have thought 
 it not irrelevant to insist, briefly as I 
 have, on the congruity which exists 
 among them all. Let me not, how- 
 ever, be understood to say, for I do not 
 and shall not say, that study, formal 
 study, can compensate for all defects 
 of original genius, or that there are no 
 differences of natural endowment, for 
 they certainly are great ; but this I 
 maintain, that, let the original power 
 be what it may, without strong and 
 fixed application, formal or informal, 
 seen or unseen, with books or without 
 them, that power can produce nothing 
 that will live, or is worthy to live. In- 
 deed, I might say, that without such 
 study there is neither fruit nor evidence 
 of high natural endowment. I will only 
 further premise, that in my remarks on 
 the value and importance of study I 
 shall solicit your indulgence to a pretty 
 free range of topics, and that I shall 
 occupy the passing hour, not so much 
 with an abstract discussion of the prin- 
 ciple I contend for, as with strictures on 
 
284 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 some of those circumstances of our in- 
 tellectual condition, and some of those 
 opinions in the literary world, which are 
 unfriendly to severe and thorough men- 
 tal culture and application. 
 
 From that fair proportion of the mind 
 of which I have spoken, from the severe 
 old models of united strength and grace, 
 and, more than all, from the study neces- 
 sary to the imitation of them, I appre- 
 hend, it is the tendency of much of our 
 modern literature, as well as of many 
 maxims among us, to depart. And the 
 peculiar situation of scholars in this coun- 
 try, or of those who should be scholars, 
 is lending its aid to the same result. I 
 venture to say, of those who should be 
 scholars ; for the truth is, that we are, 
 so many of us, men of business and 
 men of action rather than of study, and 
 there is as yet so little division of intel- 
 lectual labor among us, that superficial 
 acquisitions, and vague pursuits, and 
 negligent habits of mind, are our great- 
 est dangers. 
 
 But I must undertake more particu- 
 larly to point out some of the causes that 
 are leading to this result ; that are lead- 
 ing many, certainly, to a neglect of hard 
 study, and to a disproportioned and 
 defective culture of the mind. As one of 
 these causes, I was speaking of the gen- 
 eral tendencies of our modern literature. 
 
 It is often said that the present age 
 Is characterized by a strong thirst for 
 excitement. Is it a craving for excite- 
 ment, — or is it that somewhat less 
 respectable characteristic, a craving for 
 entertainment, that marks the age ? 
 There is no occasion, however, to set 
 them up as rival passions ; being, as 
 they doubtless are, but different degrees 
 of the same passion. They are not 
 stronger, probably, than they have al- 
 ways been, among nations of the Euro- 
 pean stock ; than they were amidst '• the 
 fierce democracy " of Greece, the stern 
 Roman delight in gladiatorial shows, or 
 amidst the chivalry of the Middle Ages. 
 But the observation, which is of impor- 
 tance, is this ; that while the world is 
 becoming more civilized, more intellec- 
 
 tual, and more addicted to peaceful pur- 
 suits, both of these passions, the thirst 
 for excitement and the thirst for enter- 
 tainment, are making demands upon lit- 
 erature, such as they have never made 
 at any former period. The spread of, 
 education is bringing forward a host of 
 readers ; the art of printing is provid- 
 ing them with books ; and the gradual 
 disuse of public sports and spectacles, 
 the decline of fetes and tournaments, 
 the departure from the public eye of the 
 "pomp and circumstance of glorious 
 war," are carrying home the want of 
 entertainment to millions of peaceful 
 firesides. 
 
 This state of things is creating a new 
 era in literature. Books, to an extent 
 before unprecedented, are becoming lux- 
 uries ; and these luxuries are having the 
 usual effect when substituted in the place 
 of substantial food ; they are making men 
 effeminate; they are making effeminate 
 scholars. It is true, that many of the 
 great productions of antiquity were de- 
 signed for the people ; but few of them 
 for their entertainment ; and none, that 
 I remember, for the idle or weary hours 
 of domestic relaxation. They were de- 
 signed for the people ; but still for the 
 assembled people, for the eager throng 
 of the forum, of the Centuries, of the 
 Olympic games, or of the theatre; and 
 the theatre too, it is to be remembered, 
 was a school of far severer morals and 
 more pointed satire, than our own. In 
 one form or another, the great public 
 was ever before the eyes of the ancient 
 popular writers. What they wrote for 
 the people at all, was designed for pop- 
 ular, not for private use. And, inspired 
 as their productions were by this stirring 
 sense of general interests, and by the 
 anticipated and immediate verdict, upon 
 their claims, of great assemblies, they 
 are of a character not to enervate, but 
 to arouse and strengthen the mind of the 
 reader. Literature, in modern times, is 
 domesticated. It is converted, indeed, 
 to a most important use ; but it is pass- 
 ing, too, by the ordinary process of refine- 
 i ment, from use to luxury. 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 285 
 
 r 
 
 Tlie immediate effects of that great 
 change, which the spread of education 
 and the development of new social wants 
 are creating, of that change which has 
 substituted a reading for a hearing pub- 
 lic, and the lounger at the fireside for 
 the agitated assembly, — the immediate 
 effects, I say, are sufficiently obvious. 
 The remote consequences may not be so 
 n'n'ious, but they are no less certain. 
 
 The first effect is to lower the style 
 of literary composition, and to render 
 the standard more vague and uncertain. 
 The style is to be read. It may, there- 
 fore, be negligent and irregular at less 
 hazard. The sentence that is not clear 
 on the first reading, may be read again ; 
 and if, as is not uncommon, it requires a 
 third reading, the author is not present 
 to receive the salutary tokens of the 
 displeasure or vexation he causes. The 
 standard, too, becomes vague from the 
 extension and variety of the audience to 
 be addressed. There is no one public^ 
 of grave Romans or acute Athenians, 
 where an author's rivals were ready to 
 note him, and the common people were 
 critics ; but his style takes its chance for 
 praise or censure among all the reading 
 families of an empire. Hence, if it is not, 
 in fact, more difficult to tell what good 
 English is, than to decide the same point 
 in the ancient languages, it is at any rate 
 more difficult to check the aberrations of 
 literary pretension and vanity. 
 
 The next effect of the change which 
 has taken place in the intellectual and 
 social condition of the world is the 
 prodigious multiplication of books of 
 entertainment for the people. We are 
 deluged with works of this class ; and 
 the passing tide bears us, every day, not 
 only new productions, but new forms of 
 literary production. It would be a very 
 serious task to master even the literature 
 of the Annuals. Meanwhile periodical 
 publications crowd upon us, keeping 
 pace with every division of time but 
 hours and minutes (for even the news- 
 papers grow learned), filling all the 
 spaces not occupied by larger trifles, and 
 
 (covering, with grievous and pertinacious 
 
 disorder and disarray, the tables that, 
 fifty years ago, were pressed only by 
 goodly quartos or reverend folios. Se- 
 riously, it is impossible to keep up with 
 the literature of the day, without losing 
 sight of things far more important. Pro- 
 fessional duties must be attended to ; 
 and these discharged, the contest lies, 
 with many, between sound learning and 
 trifling entertainment. 
 
 And here is found the worst effect of 
 all, of the state of modern literature ; 
 more remote, as I have said, but not less 
 certain. For it is not to be doubted 
 that many fail in that contest ; that many, 
 who might and should be sound scholars, 
 become mere men of taste, and of very 
 superficial taste, too, for the want of se- 
 vere study and of thorough and philo- 
 sophical habits of mind. If I do not 
 very much mistake the literary signs of 
 the times, this is not a matter of mere 
 groundless apprehension. It is not only 
 true that the mighty folios of former days 
 have gone out of fashion, but I venture 
 to think that books and essays of the 
 most moderate dimensions, that require 
 profound attention, stand less chance 
 in the competition with lighter works, 
 than they once did. 
 
 It shall be allowed that there have 
 been great temptations. The muse of 
 fiction, it is true, has laid aside some 
 of her enchantments and sorceries ; but 
 she has clothed herself in the sober liv- 
 ery of history, and no one fears her ; she 
 has clothed herself with immortal genius 
 and beauty, and no one can resist her. 
 She has become no less powerful, and 
 far more wise. It is this that has carried 
 the works of the mighty Magician, and 
 with them a multitude of humbler friends, 
 into universal society. For that master- 
 spirit has proved himself a magician in a 
 wider sense than that of having enchant- 
 ed his individual readers ; he has given 
 a bias to the whole reading of the age. 
 The novel-reading of former days was, 
 comparatively, a lady's luxury; it is now 
 the business of men ; it is one of the 
 great employments of society; it is in- 
 vading the department of the scholar's 
 
 L 
 
286 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 labors. The novel is no longer " a book 
 of the boudoir, " but it is a book of the 
 study. That long and lengthening series 
 of volumes in our libraries, marked Wa- 
 verley, though it may be high up in the 
 pile, threatens insecurity to the whole 
 fabric. 
 
 This influence of the literature of the 
 day to beguile us from deep study and 
 profound thought, is not left to operate 
 by itself, but we have sundry clever and 
 convenient maxims to help it on. The 
 prevailing ideas of originality of thought, 
 of imagination, of poetry, of eloquence, 
 of fine writing, and of study itself, lean, 
 as I think, to this injurious result. 
 
 I say, in the first place, of study it- 
 self, — of the very business of mental 
 culture. And speaking on this point and 
 going to the primary deficiency, I venture 
 to question whether the very ideas of 
 intellectual improvement, even among 
 thinking men, do not fall farther short of 
 the thoroughness and consistency of a real 
 system and science than any other ideas 
 that prevail among us. I put it to the 
 scholars who hear me, with all deference, 
 how far they have settled within thern- 
 selves the plan, so to speak, of what they 
 will be, or will attempt, — nay, whether, 
 in fact, the indistinct conceptions which 
 are commonly entertained are not as 
 wavering and fluctuating as they are ill 
 defined. The idea of a perfect man, upon 
 which Cicero so often and eloquently 
 discourses, under the name of the orator, 
 seems scarcely to have any place among 
 our modern speculations. He was to 
 be not a philosopher only, not a math- 
 ematician, nor a student of history, nor 
 an amateur in the arts, nor a poet, nor a 
 good man (yea, and a pious man), only; 
 but he was to be all of them in one; and 
 so trained in all his faculties, that when 
 he put forth their united effort, that ef- 
 fort should be expressed by nothing but 
 the Demosthenic word, action, — concen- 
 trated, intense, all-powerful action ! 
 
 It may be said that the extent of mod- 
 ern science, and the multiplicity of its 
 details, absolutely require a division 
 of intellectual labor, inconsistent with 
 
 Cicero's description of a perfect man. 
 I am not about to enter upon the discus- 
 sion of a topic so extensive. But this 
 at least may be said, that there are living 
 instances of all that extent and variety 
 of attainment which his description re- 
 quires; instances, too, in which all this, 
 instead of distracting or diverting the 
 mind, contributes in fact to its pre-emi- 
 nence in some one department , and this, 
 for all professional men at least, is the 
 true division of intellectual labor. 
 
 But, not to dwell upon this point, con- 
 cerning which perhaps it does not be- 
 come me to pronounce, it may be ques- 
 tioned whether the most thorough and 
 powerful principles are yet fairly and 
 prominently enough introduced into our 
 systems for improving the mind. I say 
 nothing of studying sixteen hours a day; 
 sixteen hours a day ! for fifty years, and 
 then finding a fresh and vigorous old 
 age: an achievement to be looked for 
 in the moon — or in Germany! I say 
 nothing of the vaunted practical spirit 
 of the age, whose wisdom seems to con- 
 sist in overlooking all necessary means, 
 all previous training, to spring to the 
 end. I say nothing of the imperfect 
 courses of education with which many 
 of our youth are obliged to be content, 
 or to which at least they are obliged to 
 confine themselves. But what are the 
 grand impulses and projects offered to 
 those who have the best opportunities? 
 We are laboring hard at the mind ; and 
 the main lever, — • I should not complain 
 if it were only an auxiliary power, — but 
 the main lever with which we are striving 
 to raise it up is ambition, and ambition, 
 too, for immediate display and distinc- 
 tion. This is the grand principle in 
 almost all our schools. We are working 
 with this convenient and ready but com- 
 paratively gross and clumsy instrument, 
 rather than inspiring the soul with those 
 principles and bringing forth from within 
 it that development by which it will rise, 
 irresistibly rise, of \tseli With the Greek 
 and Roman systems of moral teaching, 
 ambition was the only principle, perhaps, 
 that could be relied on. But wnh oui 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 287 
 
 systems, with the simple and subh'me 
 precepts of Christianity, with the solemn 
 revelation of a future life, that pours con- 
 tempt upon all human pride, the selfish 
 love of distinction, in all noble minds, is 
 deprived of more than half its vigor ; and 
 when the whole weight is leaned upon it, 
 it is found to be a reed, that is constantly 
 wavering and swaying beneath us. 
 
 Observe, also, how cautiously religion, 
 the strongest impulse in the human 
 soul, is excluded from the paths of our 
 literature; how little our literary men 
 have been taught to draw from that 
 deepest fountain of human nature ; how 
 little our scholars, those minds that 
 should bear the brightest impress of the 
 Divinity, — how little they have felt 
 themselves, as scholars, to have anything 
 to do with religion ! Observe how staid 
 and precise an air it has worn, when it 
 has entered one of our literary Reviews; 
 not Puritanism was ever more precise ; 
 it has been a scholastic dignitary, or a 
 fine gentleman, decent, decorous, super- 
 ficial, cold. Thus, too, has it passed 
 through almost the entire range of our 
 classic English literature. Even of Ad- 
 dison, Soame Jenyns has somewhere 
 said, with too much justice, that he 
 seemed to regard the Supreme Being 
 with an awe as vague and indefinite as 
 that with which a child gazes upon the 
 mighty elephant. Even our great mor- 
 alist, as it has been said, when Mr. Bos- 
 well urged upon him some of the deeper 
 and more anxious questionings of the 
 human heart on the subject of religion, 
 had nothing to say, but, " My dear sir, 
 keep your mind free from cant." We 
 may not say, perhaps, that our literature 
 is singularly irreligious ; but it certainly 
 is, taken as a body, singularly deficient 
 in the depth and power that belong to 
 that sentiment. 
 
 I cannot altogether join in a similar 
 charge, which is now somewhat famil- 
 iarly brought against our intellectual 
 philosophy. I should be glad, at least, 
 to understand Kant and Coleridge, 
 before I can agree to it. I should be 
 glad to understand that some of their 
 
 language has any meaning, or any that 
 answers to the mystical depths of their 
 phraseology. And, indeed, so much of 
 simple and of glorious truth do I find in 
 the transcendental school, that it would 
 be far easier to be reconciled to its 
 doctrines, than to the absurd language 
 in which their advocates have seen fit 
 to clothe them. 
 
 But, after all, what chance there is 
 for a thorough philosophy, in the ten- 
 dencies of our English literature at the 
 present day, is a doubtful point. The 
 good old times, when men sat down 
 amidst comparatively few books to think 
 for themselves, seem to be giving place 
 to days of multifarious and monstrous 
 reading. I look in vain in England for 
 patient thinkers like Bacon and Locke 
 and Tucker and Reid ; and I know not 
 precisely where we are to look, among 
 ourselves, for men like Edwards and 
 his school of metaphysical divines. 
 
 Indeed, in almost every department 
 there is too little of that patient and 
 thorough cultivation which measures 
 years in its plan, before it proposes to 
 come to its finished result. It is a 
 striking remark of D^g^rando, that 
 " the extraordinary most generally have 
 sacrificed some condition essential to 
 future progress." It is worth the con'^ 
 sideration of eminent men, how far 
 their distinction may be procured at 
 this sacrifice, or may be liable to bring 
 about this result in the progress of their 
 future being ; how far the cultivation 
 of some powers may have been carried 
 on, to the neglect of others, or of their 
 whole intellectu d and moral nature. J 
 Be this as it may, — and it is not neces- 
 sary, as I have undertaken to show, — it 
 is certain that in the youthful student a 
 diseased and superficial ambition, eager 
 for display, anxious to be known, pant- 
 ing for distinction rather than for excel- 
 lence, seeking for manifestation rather 
 than for development, urging itself, — ■ 
 not urged from within, — but urging 
 itself on, with a premature and feverish 
 excitement; that such an ambition. 1 
 say, is making fatal sacrifices of future 
 
288 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 merit, and .distinction also, to present 
 notoriety. It is painful to see the dis- 
 position of so large a portion of the 
 early and promising talent among us, 
 to rely upon its present attainments or 
 its hasty efforts, to rely upon the ready 
 coin which it bears about with it, rather 
 than patiently to cultivate the deep 
 mine within ; and were it not for the 
 salutary admonition afforded us, it would 
 be yet more painful to behold its brief, 
 spendthrift career and final poverty. 
 
 In short, the very first article, in a 
 sound literary creed, is but half believed 
 among us ; and this scepticism vitiates 
 all our faith. We believe in genius, 
 and eloquence, and poetry ; we believe 
 in glorious thoughts, and intellectual 
 inspirations, and visions of beauty; but 
 we do not believe in — Study ; and we 
 do but half believe in truth. " Truth ! ' 
 says the sceptic sage, " it is a very 
 dangerous thing." — " Truth ! " says the 
 small, practical philosopher, " what is 
 truth good for, if it will not give us 
 a warmer hearth, or a more plentiful 
 board ?" In short, utility, we are told, 
 is taking such a lead in the affairs of 
 mankind, that the world must grow 
 intellectually dull, tame, and spiritless ; 
 it is getting to be too cultivated for 
 poetry, too comfortable for eloquence, 
 too busy for literature, and too sharp- 
 sighted for faith. All its nobler pro- 
 ductions, it is said, must decline amidst 
 this grand modern improvement ; and 
 the world must henceforth be governed, 
 not by mind, but by machinery ; it is no 
 longer to seek for truth, — painful toil ! — 
 but for comfort. Whatever will pro- 
 mote this — sciences or arts, govern- 
 ments or manufactories, railways or 
 books, no matter what, that tends to this 
 result — is to engross the future atten- 
 tion of mankind. 
 
 " We run, alas ! after truth," said 
 Voltaire, long ago ; '■ ah ! believe me, 
 error has its value." That is the real 
 and infidel text, from which all this fine 
 doctrine is derived ; for the old French 
 philosophy was as infidel with regard 
 to what is human, as with regard to 
 
 what is divine. And even Mr. Burke 
 may be quoted for the observation, that 
 " the pleasures of the imagination are 
 much higher than any which' are derived 
 from a rectitude of the judgment," as if 
 the two qualities were inconsistent with 
 each other. And we have the prover- 
 bial authority of Dr. Johnson for the 
 declaration (I do not undertake to give 
 his words) that all eloquence is founded 
 on extravagance. And a lady, who has 
 risen to the dignity of being the author 
 of forty volumes, has, not long since, 
 told us, that, for her own sex at least, 
 intuition is better than reasoning. And 
 our poets have ever been singing of the 
 charm and rapture of youthful fancy ; 
 leaving it to be inferred that riper years 
 and sounder judgment must chill and 
 quench its fervors, instead of guiding 
 them upward to an increasing, steady, 
 noontide strength and splendor. And 
 our philosophers have decided that the 
 favored age of poetry is the youth of 
 the world ; as' if the poems of Homer 
 could have been the production of a rude 
 and undisciplined mind. 
 
 But let us collect some of these max- 
 ims, that have long, with undefined 
 shape and uncertain tendency, been 
 floating about in the world, and put 
 them in some form, and place them 
 directly before us. Let us examine 
 some of those qualities and efforts of 
 mind which are commonly thought to 
 be, less than any others, the fruit of 
 patient study. The instances, which 
 every one's reflection will at once pre- 
 sent us with, are such as poetry, elo- 
 quence, the walks of fiction, and espe- 
 cially such as originality of mind and 
 native genius. These forms and fea- 
 tures of literary talent I shall have 
 occasion to touch in but a single point ; 
 and although it were easy, no doubt, 
 to make each of them, even on this 
 point, the subject of extensive discus- 
 sion, it will not be necessary, perhaps, 
 to my argument ; it must, at any rate, 
 on this occasion be dispensed with. 
 
 What, then, is poetry ? The com- 
 mon answer would be, that it is some 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 289 
 
 peculiar gift, some intellectual effluence, 
 (iistinct, not merely in form, not merely 
 in rhythm, but essentially and in its very 
 nature distinct from all prose writings. 
 Its numl^ers are mystic numbers ; its 
 themes are far above us, and away from 
 us, in the clouds, or in the hues of the 
 distant landscape ; it is at war with tlie 
 realities of life, and it is especially 
 afraid of logic. It is using no extrav- 
 agant language, it is committing no 
 vulgar mistake, to say that poetry is 
 regarded as a kind of "peculiar trade 
 and mystery," nay, in a sense beyond 
 that of this technical language, as a real 
 and absolute mystery. In one of the 
 most distinguished journals of the day, 
 we find a writer complaining after this 
 sort : " Poetry," says he, '" the workings 
 of genius itself, which, in all times, and 
 with one or another meaning, has been 
 called inspiration, and held to be mys- 
 terious and inscrutable, is no longer 
 without its scientific exposition."* And 
 why, let us ask, why should it be with- 
 out its exposition? — ay, and if there 
 were any such thing as a science of criti- 
 cism among us ( for the truth is, there 
 is a great deal less of it than there was 
 in the days of Addison and Johnson), I 
 would say it is scientific exposition. 
 What is poetry ? What is this myste- 
 rious thing, but one form in which 
 human nature expresses itself? What 
 is it but embodying, what is it but 
 " showing up," in all its moods, from 
 the lowliest to the loftiest, the same 
 deep and impassioned, but universal 
 mind, which is alike and equally the 
 theme of philosophy ? What does poe- 
 try tell us, but that which was already 
 in our own hearts ? What are all its in- 
 termingled lights and shadows ; what 
 are its gorgeous clouds of imagery, 
 and the hues of its distant landscapes ; 
 what are its bright and blessed visions, 
 and its dark pictures, of sorrow and 
 passion, but the varied reflection of the 
 beautiful and holy, and yet overshad- 
 owed, and marred, and afflicted nature 
 within us ? And how then is poetry 
 
 * Edinburgh Review. 
 
 any more inscrutable than our own 
 hearts are inscrutable ? To whom or 
 to what, let us ask again, does poetry 
 address itself ? To what, in its heroic 
 ballads, in its epic song, in its humbler 
 verse, in its strains of love, or pity, or 
 indignation, — to what does it speak, 
 but to human nature, but to the com- 
 mon mind of all the world ? And its 
 noblest productions, its Iliads, its Ham- 
 lets and Lears, the whole world has 
 understood, — the rude and the refined, 
 the anchorite and the throng of men. 
 There is poetry in real life, and in the 
 humblest life. There is "unwritten poe- 
 try ; " there is poetry in prose ; there is 
 poetry in all living hearts. 
 
 Let him be the true poet who shall 
 find it, sympathize with it, and bring it 
 to light. He that does so must deeply 
 study human nature. He that does so 
 must, whether he knows it or not, be a 
 philosopher. Much there is, no doubt, 
 of technical language, much about quid- 
 dities and entities, that he may not 
 know. But he must know, and that by 
 deep study and observation, how feel- 
 ings and passions rise in the human 
 breast, what are those which coexist, 
 what repel each other, what naturally 
 spring one from another; he must know 
 what within is moved, and how it is 
 put in action by all this moving world 
 around us ; what chords are struck, not 
 only by the rough touches of fortune, 
 but what are swept by invisible influ- 
 ences ; he must know all the wants, and 
 sufferings, and joys of this inward be- 
 ing, what are its darkest struggles, i's 
 sublimest tendencies, its most soothing 
 hopes and most blessed affections ; 
 and all this is divine philosopliy. He 
 must wait almost in prayer at the oracle 
 within ; he must write the very language 
 of his own soul ; he must write no rash 
 response from the shrines of idolized 
 models ; but asking, questioning, listen- 
 ing to the voice within as he writes; 
 and then will the deepest philosophy 
 take the form of the noblest inspira- 
 tion. 
 
 And what more does the eloquent 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 man, let us ask again, — what more does 
 he, than express that which, in greater 
 or less power, is within us all ? He cre- 
 ates nothing. He is but an interpreter 
 of what God has created within us. He 
 only gives it language. In the old Puri- 
 tan phrase, as true in philosophy as in 
 religion, he is "but an instrument." 
 He but unlocks the sources of feeling, 
 and it flows of itself. And the key which 
 is to open for him a way to the hearts of 
 others is a profound study, a deep knowl- 
 edge, an exquisite sense of what is in 
 his own heart. 
 
 And what is fiction ? — for I find that 
 I must not dwell upon these instances, 
 — what is fiction, but assembhng in 
 various combinations the traits of real 
 life? Nor do all the efforts of imagina- 
 tion ever go beyond the simple reality. 
 Nor can all the tales of imaginary dis- 
 tress or joy ever equal what takes place 
 in the dwellings of human affection. 
 The tones of rapturous or agonized hu- 
 man sympathy, tenderness, love, pity, 
 the gentle voices of kindness that echo 
 from the familiar hearth-stone, the ac- 
 cents in which a mother speaks to her 
 sick and suflfering child, surpass all that 
 fancy can imagine or the stage exhibit. 
 And no fictitious heroism is more noble 
 than that which swells many a heart in 
 the secret and solitary strife of virtue. 
 And all the sentimental descriptions in 
 the world are but cold rhapsody, in com- 
 parison with what is actually witnessed 
 and felt in the daily communion of heart 
 with heart. 
 
 The argument which, in pursuance of 
 my design, I might draw from these 
 observations, is evident. By laying the 
 foundation of poetry, eloquence, and fic- 
 tion in human nature, I say that they 
 are brought within the range of the 
 strictest philosophy, and that they de- 
 mand the most thorough and philosophi- 
 cal study. 
 
 While I thus refer again to the argu- 
 ment I am pursuing, I will advert, in 
 passing, to the common objection. It 
 is said that study often has the effect to 
 chill the sensibility and enthusiasm neces- 
 
 sary to success in these lofty arts, or that 
 it leads to those fine discriminations of 
 thought, which take proportionably from 
 its strong and bold outline and coloring. 
 The answer is, that the study which 
 produces this effect is not of the right 
 kind ; that it is not healthful to the mind, 
 nor in the higliest degree thorough, sound, 
 and discriminating in itself; that it cer- 
 tainly is not properly adapted to its end ; 
 that, with reference to its end, it certain- 
 ly is not philosophical. No doubt there 
 are instances in which the poetic fire 
 is chilled by metaphysical abstraction. 
 There are those who have become less 
 eloquent writers for being more refined 
 thinkers, and others who have become 
 less eloquent speakers in the study to 
 improve. But in every such instance, I 
 contend that the study is not sound, and 
 wise, and well applied. I cannot admit 
 that the mystical and misty speculations 
 of Mr. Coleridge, with however much of 
 noble thought and deep penetration 
 they discover, are any exception to the 
 remark. I cannot admit that he is any the 
 better philosopher for being the worse, 
 if he z's the worse, poet. The essayist 
 Foster is a remarkable example of an elo- 
 quent writer sinking, as he has done in 
 his later productions, under the weight 
 of tedious and perplexed sentences, 
 from too much refinement of thought. 
 His brain has spun the matter of his late 
 discussion so thick and fine with qualifi- 
 cations, that his own manly sense is 
 scarcely able to break through them '; 
 and his reader is wearied with pursuing 
 out, first one line of qualification and 
 then another, tilliie loses the main thread 
 of the discourse.* But, then, I main- 
 tain that the same acuteness which led 
 him toperceive the innumerable discrim- 
 inations into which thought branches 
 out, should have led him in popular 
 discourse, to cut off those smaller limbs 
 which detract alike from the strength, 
 beauty, and distinctness of the picture. 
 What we have to require of such writers 
 is, not that they should think less, but 
 they should think more. We demanc' 
 
 * As in the Essays on Popular Ignorance. 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 291 
 
 an effort beyond tliat of philosophizing, 
 — the effort of communication ; an effort 
 which is declared by Dr. Brown to be 
 the very end of "a judicious logic." 
 And in order to the success of this effort, 
 we demand the study, tlie strong and 
 vivid perception, that emblazons its main 
 thought, on every page, with a bright- 
 ness that extinguishes every inferior 
 light. 
 
 The case of those writers, and it is 
 not rare, who, from the time of their 
 first successful production, fall ever 
 after into a lower and poorer style, 
 will not be thought to offer any objec- 
 tion. The deterioration arises precisely 
 from want of study, from self-confi- 
 dence and carelessness, from poverty of 
 thought in many cases, and in some, 
 from the vanity, in the writers, of sup- 
 posing that it was the charm of their 
 peculiarities, and not the claim of their 
 general merits, that had attracted the 
 public notice. 
 
 The same general remarks apply to 
 the labors for improvement of .the public 
 speaker. There is one common observa- 
 tion on this subject, however, which is 
 often made with great confidence, and 
 as a triumphant argument against study, 
 to which I shall not reply as an objec- 
 tion, because I entirely controvert its 
 truth. It is said that some of our most 
 eloquent speakers are native orators, 
 and have never studied their productions 
 at all, with reference to delivery. This 
 I'deny; for one of the most important 
 departments of rhetorical study is left 
 out of this statement. I mean what 
 rhetoricians call the " silent study " of 
 apiece, — in which the celebrated Sid- 
 dons is said so much to have exercised 
 herself, — and which, however uncon- 
 sciously, I am as certain that eloquent 
 speakers have used, as I am that the 
 painter has studied the picture on his 
 canvas. 
 
 But to refer to the common rlietorical 
 exercises ; I maintain that study fails 
 here, if at all, from the want of thorough- 
 ness, patience, or good sense, — fails, es- 
 pecially, because it is not study enough. 
 
 The orator is thinking too much of his 
 art, perhaps, is thinking of principles 
 and rules and criticisms, at the very 
 moment when he attempts to exchange 
 his art for action. But what is the in- 
 ference? Not that philosophy and prac- 
 tice prevent success ; not that they are 
 useless ; but that he does not know 
 how to use them ; that he'has not used 
 them enough. He is not familiar witii 
 them. He is encumbered by that whic'a 
 might aid him. He is intimidated, in 
 fact, by the armor which he has not 
 learned to wield. He is like the raw 
 recruit, who is all the while thinking 
 what terrible weapons he is using, and 
 what fearful passes he makes. We 
 would have the soldier, certainly, taught 
 the art of fence ; but if he were con- 
 stantly thinking of its rules and princi- 
 ples, if his head were filled with his 
 books and his practice, as he went into 
 the battle, he would of course fight tim- 
 idly and awkwardly ; his philosophy, so 
 to call it, — his superficial accomplish- 
 ment, that is to say, — would be a bad 
 thing for him. But then, again, the 
 inference would be, not that the art of 
 fence is a bad thing, but that he is badly 
 or imperfectly instructed in it. 
 
 There is a great deal of real study, 
 of real philosophy, in fact, without the 
 name, and without even the conscious- 
 ness of it. And I undertake to say, as 
 to mere style, that in the composition 
 of a single paragraph of a high order 
 and of any great beauty, though the 
 writer may be insensible of it, there is 
 as keen and careful a selection and 
 discrimination of thoughts, as exact a 
 proportion of one thing to another, as 
 decisive and determinate a rejection of 
 every thought that would interfere with 
 the whole effect, as there is judgment or 
 taste in the construction of a fine build- 
 ing or in the delineation of a splendid 
 picture. The process, the art, the writer, 
 may not be perceived, or even thought 
 of, by the reader. So neither, in the 
 full impression of architectural or pic- 
 torial beauty, do we think of the artist. 
 Yet, in either case, the judgment and 
 
292 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 the taste are there, and have labored 
 liard at their finished work. 
 
 And although the talent employed may 
 possess the almost mystic charm which is 
 usually expressed by the phrase, original 
 talent, yet it is only the more true that 
 it must labor for its distinction. What 
 is true originality of thought but that 
 thorough and"painful elaboration of ideas 
 wliich gives them the peculiar cast and 
 character of the mind they pass through ? 
 The original mind is but the crucible in 
 which old and well-known materials are 
 transmuted into new forms : and it is not 
 a flash or a gleam that gives the result, 
 but the trial of fire ! The Scripture dec- 
 laration applies here more truly than 
 anywhere else, since it applies to the 
 permanent intellectual nature of man, 
 that " there is nothing new under the 
 sun." Even the vaunted modern systems 
 of metaphysical philosophy, if we may 
 believe Professor Cousin, are but repro- 
 ductions of the old ; and the world, after 
 its long sleep in the niglit of tlie Middle 
 Ages, is but just coming up with Plato 
 and Aristotle. To make new and supe- 
 rior fabrics out of common materials, 
 must be a work of labor. Singularity, 
 eccentricity, may be the natural and 
 mushroom products of a shallow and 
 barren soil, but originality is a plant of 
 another and different growth. The man 
 who thinks for himself, who thinks dif- 
 ferently from other men, and pays their 
 opinions the respect to compare them 
 with his own, who strikes out new 
 paths of reflection and investigates them, 
 — the original thinker, in other words, 
 deserving the name, — must think deeply 
 and patiently. He is bound to do this, 
 beyond all men, and if he is faithful to 
 iiis own mind, he will do it. It may be 
 doubted, indeed, whether much that 
 passes for originality is not some novel 
 and really indefensible modification of 
 thought, which the author of it labors 
 hard and ingeniously to clothe in such 
 forms as not to shock the general judg- 
 ment. But even this, the lowest and 
 most doubtful form of original thought, 
 
 is anything, it is apparent, but the result 
 of hasty impulses and suggestions. 
 
 As the most illustrious example of true 
 originality, of the almost mysterious de- 
 velopment of great native powers, Shak- 
 speare is constantly quoted. He is called 
 the child of nature. His works pass 
 with us for a sort of inspiration. Our 
 ignorance of this wonderful being, of 
 wliom nearly all that can be said is in 
 the words of a critic, that " after having 
 written his thirty-eight plays, he went 
 carelessly down to the country, and lived 
 out his days, apparently unconscious of 
 having done anything at all extraordi- 
 nary," — this mystery, which shrouds the 
 circumstances of his life, helps to spread 
 over his immortal productions an air, not 
 of effort, but of enchantment. Into that 
 deep and silent world of thoughts and 
 passions, the mind of Shakspeare, well 
 shadowed forth by the outward silence 
 of history, few men have sent any search- 
 ing analysis; few can. There is enough, 
 indeed, of verbal annotation and small 
 criticism upon his works in his native 
 tongue. And German critics have writ- 
 ten of liim, in language of unbounded ad- 
 miration, often bordering on rhapsody, 
 and yet of much deeper sympathy with 
 him too; but the philosophy of Shak- 
 speare's genius is yet to be studied.* 
 Yet who can doubt that that world of his 
 secret thoughts was a w'orld of labor ? 
 Who can doubt that to him who lingered 
 in some humble employment about the 
 theatre, the great globe itself was a stage, 
 and that all men passed before him as 
 actors ; that he saw them, as they passed, 
 as none other had seen them ; saw, 
 tlirough every disguise, the mean man 
 and the mighty, the dark, the fierce, the 
 passionate, the meek, the lovely, the sor- 
 rowful, the rejoicing, — sympathized with 
 all, studied all, revolved in his own bosom 
 all human thouglit, feeling, passion, de- 
 sire, till they came forth the living beings 
 
 * It is scarcely necessary to except from this remark 
 the Lectures of A. W. Schlegel ; though of all the 
 writers on Shakspeare, he would be most justly des- 
 ignated, perhaps, as the man to execute this noble 
 task. 
 
PHI BETA KAPPA ORATION. 
 
 293 
 
 of his own mind, and destined to live in 
 the admiration and delight of men 
 forever. 
 
 As a further and final example of the 
 point I have labored to establish, let me 
 refer to that undefined and much mis- 
 apprehended quality, called genius. 
 
 ' The favorite idea of a genius among 
 us, is of one who never studies, or who 
 studies nobody can tell when, — at mid- 
 night, or at odd times and intervals, — 
 and now and then strikes out, at a 
 heat^ as the phrase is, some wonderful 
 production. This is a character that 
 has figured largely in the history of our 
 literature, in the person of our Fieldings, 
 our Savages, and our Steeles, — " loose 
 fellows about town," or loungers in the 
 country, who slept in ale-houses and 
 wrote in bar-rooms, who took up the pen 
 as a magician's wand to supply their 
 wants, and when the pressure of neces- 
 sity was relieved, resorted again to their 
 carousals. Your real genius is an idle, 
 irregular, vagabond sort of personage, 
 who muses in the fields or dreams by the 
 fireside; whose strong impulses — that 
 is the cant of it — must needs hurry him 
 into wild irregularities or foolish eccen- 
 tricity ; who abhors order, and can bear no 
 restraint, and eschews all labor : such an 
 one, for instance, as Newton, or Milton ! 
 What ! they must have been irregular, 
 else they were no geniuses. 
 
 "The young man," it is often said, 
 " has genius enough, if he would only 
 study." Now the truth is, as I shall 
 take the liberty to state it, that genius 
 will study, it is that in the mind which 
 does study ; that is the very nature of 
 it. I care not to say that it will always 
 use books. All study is not reading, 
 any more than all reading is study. By 
 study I mean — but let one of the noblest 
 geniuses and hardest students of any 
 age define it for me : " Studium," says 
 Cicero, " est animi assidua et vehemens 
 ad aliquam rem applicata magna cum 
 voluntate occupatio, ut philosophise, 
 poeticae, geometrias, literarum."* Such 
 study, such intense mental action, and 
 
 * De Inveiitione, Lib. I. c. 25. 
 
 nothing else, is genius. And so far as 
 there is any native predisposition about 
 this enviable character of mind, it is a 
 predisposition to that action. That is 
 the only test of the original bias ; and 
 he who does not come to that point, 
 though he may have shrewdness and 
 readiness and parts, never had a genius 
 No need to waste regrets upon him, as 
 that he never could be induced to give 
 his attention or study to anytliing ; he 
 never had that which he is supposed to 
 have lost. For attention it is, — though 
 other qualities belong to this transcen- 
 dent power, — attention it is, that is the 
 very soul of genius : not the fixed eye, 
 not the poring over a book, but the fixed 
 thought. It is, in fact, an action of 
 the mind which is steadily concentrated 
 upon one idea, or one series of ideas, 
 — which collects in one point the rays 
 of the soul till they search, penetrate, 
 and fire the whole train of its thoughts. J 
 And while the fire burns within, the 
 outward man may indeed be cold, in- 
 different, negligent, — absent in appear- 
 ance ; he may be an idler, or a wanderer, 
 apparently without aim or intent: but 
 still the fire burns within. And what 
 though " it bursts forth, "at length, as has 
 been said, " like volcanic fires, with spon- 
 taneous, original, native force .'"' It only 
 shows the intenser action of the elements 
 beneath. What though it breaks hke 
 lightning from the cloud .'' The electric 
 fire had been collecting in the firmament 
 through many a silent, calm, and clear 
 day. What though the might of genius 
 appears in one decisive blow, struck in 
 some moment of high debate, or at the 
 crisis of a nation's peril 1 That mighty 
 energy, though it may have heaved in 
 the breast of a Demosthenes, was once 
 a feeble infant's thought. A mother's 
 eye watched over its dawning. A fa- 
 ther's care guarded its early growth. It 
 soon trod with youthful step the halls 
 of learning, and found other fathers to 
 wake and to watch for it, — even as it 
 finds them here. It went on : but si- 
 lence was upon its path, and the deep 
 strugglings of the inward soul marked 
 
294 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 its progress, and the cherishing powers 
 of nature silently ministered to it. The 
 elements around breathed upon it and 
 "touched it to liner issues." The gold- 
 en ray of heaven fell upon it, and ri- 
 pened its expanding faculties. The slow 
 revolutions of years slowly added to its 
 collected treasures and energies ; till in 
 its hour of glory it stood forth embodied 
 in the form of living, commanding, irre- 
 sistible eloquence ! The world wonders 
 .at the manifestation, and says, " Strange, 
 strange that it should come thus un- 
 sought, unpremeditated, unprepared!" 
 But the truth is, there is no more a mira- 
 cle in it than there is in the towering of 
 the pre-eminent forest- tree, or in the flow- 
 ing of the mighty and irresistiWe river, 
 or in the wealth and the waving of the 
 boundless harvest. 
 
 Fathers and Guardians of our youth- 
 ful learning ! — behold it here — the 
 germ of all that glorious power, in the 
 strong, generous, and manly spirits of 
 the rising youth around you ; and say 
 if you would relinquish an office, so 
 honored, and so to be rewarded, for 
 the sceptre of any other dominion. 
 Youthful aspirants after intellectual 
 eminence ! — forget, forget, I entreat 
 you ; banish, banish forever, the weak 
 and senseless idea, that anything will 
 serve your purpose, but study ; intense, 
 unwearied, absorbing study ; " animi 
 assidua et vehemens occupaiio." 
 
 I recall one who more than thirty 
 years since trod these hallowed paths 
 of learning, whose life of literary en- 
 terprise and labor shows that he had 
 taken that word for his motto. The 
 leisure of his early manhood was de- 
 voted to works that have done honor 
 to our youthful literature, and his zeal 
 for letters found a place for similar 
 studies, even amidst the labors of a 
 responsible, and honorable, and well- 
 discharged commission abroad, from 
 the government of his country. I need 
 not say that I allude to the accom- 
 plished and lamented TuDOR. The 
 distinguished place which he held in 
 
 our republic of letters, as well as in 
 this association, would justly require 
 of us an apology, not for speaking of 
 him, but for being, on this occasion, 
 silent. As my acquaintance with his 
 character was not personal, I can speak . 
 only of those literary projects and pro- 
 ductions which certainly entitle him to 
 a respectful and grateful commemora- 
 tion among us. To die in a foreign 
 land, to die amidst strangers, to die on 
 the eve of a long-desired return to his 
 country, is mournful. But to have per- 
 formed honorable and honored services 
 for his country ; to have left the im- 
 press of his mind on its permanent 
 literature ; to have left memorials of 
 himself, too, in the still ripening fruits 
 of his intelligent enterprises ; to have 
 portrayed, with a discriminating hand, 
 "the living manners as they rise," and 
 well and worthily to have celebrated 
 the glorious dead, and at last himself 
 to have gone down to the grave amidst 
 the regrets of all who knew him, — these 
 are testimonials to literary usefulness 
 and honor, which any man among us 
 might covet, when his own labors also 
 shall come to their end. 
 
 How soon they may be brought to it, 
 and how suddenly, Divine Providence 
 has very lately given us a most affecting 
 and solemn intimation. I know that 
 the minds of many who hear me will 
 turn, without hesitation, and not witli- 
 out strong emotion, to our late dis- 
 tinguished, most honored, — and I 
 give the full force to that word, when 
 I add, — to our beloved Chief Justice ! * 
 Speaking as I do in the presence of 
 those who have been his associates 
 and companions through many favored 
 years, I feel that they will not ask of 
 one, who has not enjoyed that happi- 
 ness, to pronounce his eulogy. Nor 
 needs it to be spoken here; for his 
 praise is in all the borders of this Com- 
 monwealth, and it is permanently re- 
 corded on one of the iiighest pages in 
 the history of its jurisprudence. And 
 
 * Chief Justice Parker died on the 25th of Julyi 
 1S30. 
 
THE ARTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 295 
 
 yet there is one — apology, shall I call 
 it ? — for. the admiration and homage 
 of all who knew him. For of no man 
 could it be more properly said, that his 
 distinction, his honor, his worth, were 
 the property of us all ; for they shone 
 upon all ; they made friends of all ; they 
 cheered every one, whether hi;;h or low, 
 whether old or young, whom he took by 
 the hand with a simplicity and kindness 
 as honorable to him even as his emi- 
 nent talents and distinguished learning. 
 Noble and excellent man ! now, alas ! 
 added to the number of the lamented 
 and venerated ! be the path that thou 
 hast trod — the path of labor, of toil, of 
 study, of virtue, of piety, — be it our 
 own path to usefulness and honor ! 
 
 In the presence of such contempla- 
 tions, I need not be reminded that 
 further discussion would be improper. 
 Suffice the argument which is supported 
 by such e.xamples ; examples more pow- 
 erful than any words of mine to illus- 
 trate and enforce our duty as scholars. 
 Suffice the inducements, when every 
 year's assembling here, with sad com- 
 memoration of the departed, solemnly 
 teaches us that life is short, is short- 
 ening ; while the field of knowledge 
 spreads before us in bright and bound- 
 less prospect. "That which I know," 
 were the dying words of the illustrious 
 La Place, — " that which I know, is 
 limited; that which I do not know, is 
 infinite ! " 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE .A.RTS OF INDUSTRY; WITH 
 THEIR MORAL AND INTELLEC- 
 TUAL INFLUENCE UPON SOCI- 
 ETY.* 
 
 Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the In- 
 stitute : 
 
 We have come together, this evening, 
 to celebrate the great and noble arts of 
 
 An Address delivered before the members of the 
 American Institute, iu the City of New York, Octo- 
 ber, 1K37. 
 
 industry. I say, the great and noble 
 arts of industry. I cannot say, the 
 humble arts, in deference to popular 
 phraseology ; the splendid spectacle of 
 your Annual Fair would rebuke me if I 
 did so. I confess that it has given me 
 new ideas of what industry can do — of 
 what mind can do with matter. As 
 I have stood in your magnificent hall 
 of exhibition, visions of Oriental mag- 
 nificence — descriptions from the gor- 
 geous page of Milton — have been in my 
 thoughts. And yet, " the wealth of Or- 
 mus and of Ind," '"barbaric pearls and 
 gold," could offer nothing so gratifying 
 to the eye of patriotism, as that splen- 
 did assemblage of the products of me- 
 chanic art. To one who had not wit- 
 nessed that spectacle, this might seem 
 extravagant. But I am sure that I 
 should not do justice to the feelings of 
 those who have seen it, without speak- 
 ing of it as I do. And when we remem- 
 ber that it is but two centuries since 
 the rude savage wandered across this 
 wooded island, — all his weapons, tools 
 and instruments together, but a toma- 
 hawk, a scalping-knife, and a hunter's 
 bow, — we might imagine that the Gen- 
 ius of Civilization had stretched out its 
 wand, and conjured up this fairy scene, 
 to celebrate its triumph. 
 
 How characteristic is this spectacle, 
 gentlemen, of the times in which we 
 live ! In other days it would have 
 been the tournament, or the feasting- 
 hall, hung round with helmets and 
 swords, and the grim and shaggy 
 trophies of the chase. And, indeed, 
 if we had fixed our eye first upon 
 the upper end of that hall, we might 
 have imagined that we were witness- 
 ing only the same thing, in higher 
 perfection, — only more gorgeous ca- 
 parisons and trappings of the war- 
 horse, more polished weapons, and more 
 fata! instruments of death. But, as we 
 look around us, we see other tokens ; 
 the products of the peaceful loom and 
 planing-tool. carving and tapestry, works 
 of equal utility and beauty in iron, and 
 marble, and glass, and shining metals ; 
 
296 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 comforts for home, and conveniences 
 for travel ; and books, in bindings splen- 
 did enough to seduce the eye from those 
 attractive and ponderous ledgers, in 
 which there is to be so much more prof- 
 itable writing. We see, too, that the 
 busy and delicate hand of woman has 
 been there. Meanwhile, music, far 
 other than that of the war-song, flings 
 its notes over the gay scene, and all 
 around us breathes of peace and pros- 
 perity. It is a characteristic and strik- 
 ing exhibition of the arts that conduce 
 to human improvement ; and it is to 
 some reflections bearing upon this point, 
 that I wish, on the present occasion, to 
 invite the attention of this assembly. 
 
 The distinguished gentlemen who have 
 preceded me in the delivery of this 
 annual discourse, and whose eminence 
 has made the office as difficult as the 
 appointment of the American Institute 
 has made it honorable, have been very 
 naturally led, by their public stations 
 and duties, to consider the political 
 questions which are connected with the 
 arts of industry. Those questions are 
 doubtless important, and they have 
 probably been settled to your satisfac- 
 tion. I suppose no doubt is entertained 
 in this assembly, whether American 
 industry ought, in some degree, to be 
 protected. But whether American in- 
 dustry, or any other industry, is hon- 
 ored as it ought to be ; whether, in 
 fact, it is usually sensible of its own 
 dignity, and of its many and important 
 relations to the public welfare, may not 
 be so clear. This is the direction, 
 therefore, that I would give to your 
 thoughts on the present occasion ; and, 
 not to wander over too large a field, my 
 principal design will be to consider the 
 connection between the arts of indus- 
 try, and especially the mechanic arts, 
 and the ifitelleciual and moral improve- 
 ment of society. 
 
 This topic is very naturally presented 
 by the occasion that has bjrought us 
 together. For this annual Fair is not 
 held merely for the sake of a splendid 
 and idle display. It is so splendid. 
 
 indeed, that it appears to me worthy of 
 being made for its own sake. The de- 
 lighted and satisfied visitor can hardly 
 ask for any object beyond the pleasure 
 of seeing it. But this is not the only 
 object. Nor is its only end to gratify 
 private ambition, or to advance private 
 interests ; lawful and proper for them, 
 as it is, indeed, thus to present them- 
 selves to the pubhc attention. But the 
 occasion points to something beyond ; 
 it points directly to the ultimate and 
 great design of your association ; which 
 is, not only to benefit yourselves, but 
 to benefit your country ; not merely to 
 develop and foster the arts of fife, but 
 to develop, and foster, and exalt the life 
 of society, — that Hfe of society which 
 depends for its highest welfare upon an 
 intellectual and moral culture. 
 
 All improvement avails but little, that 
 does not result in this culture of the 
 mind and heart. All that is done in the 
 world, without this end, is but weary 
 toil without reward ; a splendid appa- 
 ratus, without result. Separated from 
 this, none but an idiot could enjoy the 
 spectacle. For to what purpose is it, 
 that all the comforts and elegancies of 
 life are spread around us ; to what pur- 
 pose is it, that the products of the 
 forest and the mine, and all the powers 
 of earth, air, fire, and water, are brought 
 into subservience to the human will ; to 
 what purpose is it, that the earth is 
 better tilled, and the ocean is more 
 successfully navigated, and more splen-' 
 did cities are rising all round its spread- 
 ing shores, if man, in the presence of 
 all ihis profusion and magnificence, is 
 only growing more ignorant, slavish, 
 effeminate, and corrupt ? Too rapid is 
 the march of improvement, too swift 
 are our travelling cars, though ambi- 
 tious of a greater speed, if they are 
 bearing us on to this. Too high already 
 is the structure of mechanic art, if, like 
 the lofty pyramid, it is only to over- 
 shadow a dwarfed and degraded people. 
 And sad and thankless were the task, 
 if all that the most accomplished indus- 
 try of human hands can do, is to build 
 
THE ARTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 297 
 
 but a more splendid couch for the pre- 
 mature disease, decay, and death of 
 society. 
 
 And such, in fact, you know is said, 
 by some, to be the inevitable tendency 
 of the arts of civilization. The inven- 
 tions and devices of art are sometimes 
 regarded as only disturbing the order of 
 society, in their progress ; and in their 
 consummation, as only precipitating it 
 to i. speedier downfall. Sentimental 
 sighings over barbarous ages (mis- 
 called golden ages), now past and gone, 
 and practical resistance to new inven- 
 tions in machinery, have alike given tes- 
 timony to this absurd way of thinking. 
 
 I can scarcely admit, indeed, that it 
 deserves a serious refutation ; and I do 
 not so much propose an argument in 
 favor of the mechanic arts, as an illus- 
 tration of their natural tendency and 
 immense power to improve society. 
 
 And the first and lowest illustration 
 of this nature is found in the influence 
 which the products of art exert through 
 that mental law called the law of asso- 
 ciation. 
 
 The things that are about us impart a 
 hue and shape to our minds. They are 
 our teachers, the models of our thought. 
 It is scarcely conceivable, that the minds 
 of men in general should have been 
 turned to admiration and touched to rap- 
 ture, if they had not been surrounded, 
 in the works of nature, with a world of 
 beauty. The fair and tranquil scene 
 around us steals insensibly into the heart, 
 and becomes within us an image and a 
 life. I know, indeed, that the mind im- 
 parts a character to the scene around it; 
 but it also receives. a character in turn. 
 And so powerful and so necessary is 
 this influence in the infancy of man and 
 of nations, that a world bereft of beauty, 
 fragrance, and music, and of all graceful 
 forms — all rude and shaggy as our 
 mountain-tops — must have been a world 
 of beings far worse than barbarians. 
 
 That which is true of the habitation 
 that God has builded for us, is true of 
 those which we build for ourselves. A 
 man who Uves like the Bedouin Arab 
 
 and the wild Tartar, in a barn, and among 
 the cattle that he tends or drives, is like- 
 ly to have as much of the brute as the 
 man in him. The first step of improve- 
 ment, for such a people, would be im- 
 provement in the arts of living. Nay, 
 filth and slovenliness almost inevitably 
 dwell in mud-walled and unfloored cot- 
 tages ; and it is scarcely too much to 
 sa)', that filth and slovenliness are en- 
 emies to good morals. "Cleanliness,"' 
 says John Wesley, " is next to godliness. " 
 We are all in some sense actors, and we 
 naturally suit our action to the scene in 
 which we move. We have often heard 
 that Diogenes lived in a tub ; but it has 
 not been as often considered, perhaps, 
 that his rude manners and speech were 
 such as befitted his residence ; that, if 
 we were to give an account of his pro- 
 verbial rudeness, we should say, not that 
 Diogenes made the tub, but that the tub 
 made Diogenes. 
 
 He. then, who is building commodious 
 dwellings, or filling them with splendid 
 furniture, is making no mean contribu- 
 tion to the grace and accomplishment of 
 human life. He is often creating a 
 school, in fact, for vulgar wealth, in which 
 it cannot resist improvements ; he is 
 often the master,' as he is the superior, 
 of the idle and flattered inheritor of for- 
 tune. And it may well be a grateful 
 consideration to him who is toiling at 
 his work-bench, that he is toiling for the 
 improvement of society. It is a noble 
 stimulus to the perfection of his work ; 
 to the production of more perfect con- 
 veniences, more graceful forms, more ex- 
 quisite instruments for the mind's culture. 
 He who designs and erects a noble struc- 
 ture, speaks to passing multitudes, who 
 seldom perhaps read a book, and helps 
 to refine and humanize the ages that 
 shall come after him. Even he who 
 makes a musical instrument, is laying 
 up, in those hidden chambers of melody, 
 the sweet influences that sliall amuse, 
 and soften, and refine many a domestic 
 circle through life. 
 
 The first point, then, which I present 
 to your consideration, is, that by the 
 
298 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 very law of mental association, we are 
 improved by the improvements tliat are 
 around us. It is true that every law may 
 be broken, and this is doubtless some- 
 times broken by the pride of display. 
 But still, when I look upon the most gor- 
 geous scene which the most vulgar pas- 
 sion for display has spread around it, it 
 is not without some complacency in the 
 thought, that that scene may help in turn 
 to elevate the mind of its possessor. He 
 who inhabits a palace may really be infe- 
 rior to him who built, or to him whoadorns 
 it ; but it would be strange if he should 
 not catch something from that school of 
 taste in which he is placed. Wealth is 
 indeed the friend of mechanic art: but 
 the favor is often well and fully returned ; 
 opulence is often as much indebted to 
 art, as art is to opulence. At any rate, 
 it is something that the sense of our own 
 dignity is affected by the objects that 
 surround us ; as well it may be by the 
 glorious mansion which the Infinite Arch- 
 itect has provided for us. When Nero 
 had caused to be built his magnificent 
 palace on the Palatine Hill, called his 
 •' golden house," which was of such ex- 
 tent that it had a single piazza of three 
 rows of columns, more than half a mile 
 long, — a single room -148 feet long and 
 98 broad; which covered acres enough 
 for a moderately sized farm, and was in 
 fact a little city by itself, of quadrangles, 
 towers, pillars, statues, baths, and foun- 
 tains ; he is reported by Suetonius to 
 have said that he had now a house fit 
 for a MAN to live in. There was some- 
 thing of nobility, if there was more of 
 pride, in that saying. And if he had 
 remembered, that while the man Nero 
 dwelt in the golden house, the men Sev- 
 erus and Celerus, who built it, ay, and 
 every hod-carrier, dwelt in that habita- 
 tion whose foundation is earth, whose 
 pillars the mountains, and whose dome 
 the spreading heavens, — yes, if he 
 had rightly remembered this, his pride 
 had been less, and his true nobihty 
 greater. 
 
 But the next observation I have to 
 offer, is on the effects of mechanic art 
 
 in promoting the comfort and relieving 
 the toils of mankind. 
 
 The advantage in this respect, I know, 
 has been held to be more than question- 
 able. The operatives who have been 
 from time to time flung out of employ- 
 ment by the successive inventions of me- 
 chanic art, have said that their toils 
 were indeed relieved to their injury, 
 and that their comforts were not in- 
 creased, but much lessened. And this 
 reasoning has not been confined to the 
 operatives. William Lea, the inventor 
 of the stocking-frame, made a pair of 
 stockings by the frame, we are told, in 
 the presence of King James the First ; 
 but his invention, thougli approved, was 
 discountenanced, upon the plea that it 
 would deprive the poor, 
 
 " The knitters in the sun 
 And the free maids that weave their thread with 
 bones," 
 
 of their subsistence. And after having 
 met with similar disappointments in 
 France, William Lea died in Paris of a 
 broken heart. The inventor of the first 
 cotton-spinning machine, in 1733, him- 
 self destroyed it, under the generous 
 apprehension that it might deprive the 
 poor of bread. And such, indeed, may 
 be the temporary effect' of improved ma- 
 chinery in certain instances ; but the 
 conclusion, as one of general and per- 
 manent application, is altogether a mis- 
 take. For it is found that with the 
 easier and cheaper production of any 
 article, a more general use obtains, a 
 quicker and wider demand is created, 
 and the field of labor, instead of being 
 straitened, is indefinitely extended. The 
 invention of Arkwright, labor-saving 
 as it is, has given employment to mill- 
 ions. We may always be sure that the 
 expanding desire, i. e. the market de- 
 mand of society, will keep in advance 
 of the supply. If it falls behind for a 
 moment in any case, it will soon come 
 up, and will always win the race. For 
 it is the race of mind with matter, the 
 contest of ever boundless desire with 
 ever boundless supply. The swiftest 
 car will flag in that contest. The driv- 
 
THE ARTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 299 
 
 ers of coaches are apt, at first, to look 
 with jealousy upon a railroad. But they 
 soon find that the stream of travel which 
 Hows upon it sends off branches for 
 them to occupy, greater than the original 
 stream. The Vetturini of Italy usually 
 travel at the tedious rate of about thirty 
 miles a day; and they demand the mo- 
 nopoly of public conveyances. When, 
 a few years ago, an attempt was made 
 to run an English coach from Florence 
 to Leghorn, the coachman and guard 
 were murdered on the way by a banditti, 
 composed probably of these fierce and 
 ignorant Vetturini. Had this improve- 
 ment been admitted, they would have 
 found, by this time, that their business 
 had increased fourfold. 
 
 But I have said enough on this point ; 
 and I return to the proposition that the 
 mechanic arts improve society by in- 
 creasing its comforts and lessening its 
 toils. 
 
 Comfort, to a certain extent, is un- 
 doubtedly favorable to social improve- 
 ment ; and toil, beyond a certain extent, 
 is as clearly unfavorable. I make this 
 statement in these guarded terms, be- 
 cause the comforts of civilized life may 
 be carried to a vicious and enervating 
 indulgence ; and because labor, when 
 not excessive, so far from being an evil, 
 is a blessing to the world. If a man 
 can make a machine to work for him, 
 it is not best indeed for him to stand 
 idle ; nor is he likely to stand idle. 
 He will probably turn his hand to some- 
 thing else. He will set himself to 
 relieve some want ; to remove some 
 annoyance ; to smooth some rough- 
 ness in his path., or to extract some 
 thorn of vexation ; and thus to make 
 his way easier and happier. A certain 
 state of ease and comfort is good for 
 our moral nature. Courage and frugal- 
 ity may be virtues of savage life, but 
 good-nature, gentleness, generosity, and 
 patience have but a poor chance amidst 
 its rough and desolate fortunes. It is 
 not good for a man to live like a bear 
 or an otter. It is scarce likely to im- 
 prove his temper, for him to wear hair- 
 
 cloth, or to freeze in winter, or to 
 breathe in his house the smoke that 
 ought to have gone up the chimney ; or 
 when he travels, to have his carriage 
 broken down on rough roads ; or when 
 he rests, to sleep, as the old chronicles 
 say was common in England three 
 centuries ago, " with a good round log 
 under his head for a bolster." * 
 
 Let us be permitted to dwell a mo- 
 ment on one or two of the points now 
 referred to ; for I suppose that details 
 are not improper on such an occasion 
 as this ; and that the suggestions even 
 of the unskilful, if they aim at improve- 
 ment in the arts of civilized life, will 
 meet with indulgence. We do not 
 sleep, it is true, with a good round log 
 for a pillow. Our pillows are as soft 
 as feathers and down can make them. 
 To them, I have nothing to object. 
 But our beds, I am tempted to sa}', are 
 either too soft or too hard. Neither 
 feathers nor hair is so good a material 
 for this purpose as wool. The French 
 bed, which usually consists of two thin 
 mattresses of wool, upon a foot deep 
 of hay or straw, is four times as cheap 
 as ours, and twice as comfortable. On 
 the subject of warming our houses, 
 also, permit me to say a word. It is 
 scarcely too much to aver, that one half 
 of the fuel burnt in this country is 
 literally thrown away ; the heat passing, 
 as it does, into the dead wall of 
 the chimney. The air-chamber, which 
 should take its place, is but little known 
 in the country, and is seldom used, I 
 believe, even in this city. Then, again, 
 with regard to tiie use of anthracite 
 coal, great difficulty is experienced from 
 the want of a little knowledge. Many 
 who have tried it complain of its effect 
 in drying the air, destroying furniture, 
 and even injuring health. They say, 
 that in mild and moist weather it burns 
 too freely, and in cold and dry weather 
 it goes out entirely; and that in the 
 warm days of the autumn and spring 
 they cannot regulate it at all. For this 
 last difliiculty, let me observe, in pass- 
 * HoUingshead. 
 
300 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 ing, there is a very simple remedy. A 
 bank of fine coal of proper thickness, 
 spread over a grate-full of already ignited 
 coarse coal, will make a fire that will burn 
 moderately forty-eight hours without 
 being touched. But the chief remedy 
 for all the inconveniences before men- 
 tioned, is the evaporation of water. 
 Within the mason-work of every grate 
 that is set for this kind of coal, and of 
 course entirely out of sight, and about 
 an inch, — you will pardon me for being 
 particular, for I have. made experiments, 
 — about an inch, a little less, from the 
 soapstone at the side of the grate, should 
 be set a copper-fastened or earthen 
 evaporator, with a pipe leading out to 
 the side of the breastwork of the chim- 
 ney. This vessel will evaporate about 
 two quarts of water in a day, which will 
 give a sufficiently humid and entirely 
 healthful atmosphere, and will cause 
 the coal to burn with undiminished 
 intensity the coldest and driest day in 
 winter. One word more, if you please, 
 in connection with fuel ; and that is, 
 upon smoky chimneys, — that plague 
 and vexation to almost half the houses 
 in the country. It is sufficiently extraor- 
 dinary that it should be so, when the 
 fact which I am about to slate is un- 
 questionable. And this fact is, that a 
 Franklin stove, set in the fireplace of 
 one of these smoky chimneys, is usually 
 found to correct the error committed in 
 their construction. And if this fact, 
 when it is considered, will not lead to 
 the true principle of chimney-building, 
 the artisan must be more stupid than 
 the brick and mortar that he v/orks in. 
 
 In making these suggestions, I have 
 scarcely strayed from the topic on 
 which I am engaged. For I can hardly 
 think that the /;//«<'/ is fairly dealt with, 
 ■ — I can hardly think that virtue, good- 
 nature, ay, that patience itself, has any 
 fair chance, when the body is dried like 
 a potsherd, or the eyes are bleared and 
 vexed with smoke, or rheumatisms, aches, 
 and pains, as bad as those of the cave 
 of Prospero, are ever comin^in, through 
 the half-open-door, upon an apartment, | 
 
 almost as much exposed to the searching 
 air without as the mountain itself. 
 
 But I have also spoken under this head 
 of the relief from toil, which is, and is 
 yet more to be, effected by the progress 
 of the mechanic arts. It may, however, 
 be recollected, and therefore objected 
 against this topic, that I have already 
 said that labor-saving machines have 
 ultimately had the effect, thus far, to in- 
 crease labor, or at least to employ a 
 greater number of hands. It is neces- 
 sary, then, to discriminate. What toil 
 is relieved 1 I answer, it is the hardest, 
 the most uninteresting toil, — the drudg- 
 ery of toil, that is relieved. To speak 
 more definitely, it is that part of labor 
 which is employed as power. The 
 wheel now is turned, and the saw is 
 pushed, and even the planing-tool is 
 propelled, by steam. The consequence 
 is, that labor is becoming more a busi- 
 ness of dexterity and less of strength; 
 and toil is constantly rising to tiie dig- 
 nity of an art. Man is learning that 
 there is power enough in nature ; and 
 that his high office is to acquire the 
 skill necessary to direct it. It is a fur- 
 ther advantage to the mind that the 
 power which man thus brings to aid 
 him is certain ; and he is no longer 
 obliged to wnitior the wind to blow, or 
 the stream to rise. He is not doomed, 
 I say, to ivaitiiig, — that most tedious 
 method of passing time, that utter loss 
 of time, that only utter loss of time ; for it 
 is the only condition in which a man can 
 neither do anything, nor think anything, 
 — that loss, in fact, of patience itself. 
 I have sometimes been tempted to wish 
 that there were some machinery, moral 
 or physical, that would bring men punc- 
 tually to committee meetings, to lectures, 
 ay, and to church itself. 
 
 But further; will not the time come 
 when the improvements in machinery 
 will yet more signally relieve mankind : 
 when not only their strength, but their 
 attention in a greater degree, may be 
 spared from the care of gaining a sub- 
 sistence ; when, in other words, they 
 
THE ARTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 301 
 
 will give less labor to mere manual 
 tasks, and have more time for reading 
 and thinking? Without some intelli- 
 gence, without some thought, labor is 
 an intolerable drudgery. Man was not 
 made to be a mere beast of burden. 
 The elements of toil are dark and heavy, 
 and forever they must be, till they are 
 mixed up with intellectual and moral 
 liglit. It is, in this view, that I look 
 with pity upon much of tiie toil that is 
 in the world. I do not pity, there is no 
 occasion to pity, the intelligent laborer ; 
 " the peasant saint, if such a one were 
 anywhere to be met with, now-a-days" 
 I can scarcely conceive of any position 
 more desirable than that of the man 
 who goes to his field or his workshop, 
 with a moderate task to discharge, and 
 a mind to think as well as a hand to 
 work ; who looks upon the elements he 
 deals with as the teachers of wisdom 
 and the ministers of piety ; who studies 
 and understands the philosophy of his 
 mechanism and manufacture, his soil 
 and flower-garden, and lives in his 
 family to teach it the like wisdom. La- 
 bor, alas ! too often wants such high 
 and cheering ministration, and such holy 
 ends. Its brow is too vacant and heavy. 
 I know that there are exceptions ; but 
 to my eye oftentimes its brow is too 
 heavy, its lips are too silent, its steps 
 too weary. In every dark mass of 
 worldly materials before it, there is some 
 truth, some principle ; but the eye of 
 labor too seldom kindles at that truth, 
 that principle. Man may not sink to- 
 wards tlie condition of the animal, and 
 find it well for him. Let him go to 
 what task, to what conflict he will, and 
 leave the immortal principles of his na- 
 ture behind him, and he will find himself 
 deprived, not only of his shield, but of 
 the very fire of courage. So it is on the 
 very steppes of Russia ; so it is even 
 in the valley of the Rhine, and on the 
 plains of Italy. To my eye, there is no 
 courage, no cheering, there, but faces 
 bowed down in sad and bitter earnest 
 to the daily task. May it be otherwise 
 with us ! May invention relieve labor, 
 
 and intellect be mixed with toil, till it 
 become that high dispensation which 
 God designed it to be, for the improve- 
 ment and blessing of the world ! 
 
 But I find myself entering upon a 
 topic which I intended to make a distinct 
 one. For the arts of industry not only 
 indirectly tend to improve society by 
 increasing its comforts and relieving its 
 toils, but tliey have a direct bearing 
 upon the same end. 
 
 For, in the first place, they elicit and 
 employ the mind of society. I have 
 already said, indeed, that it is most de- 
 sirable and needful that more thought, 
 more insight into principles, should be 
 mixed up with the employments of the 
 mass of the people. But still it is not to 
 be forgotten that labor, and especially 
 cultivated labor, does and must exercise 
 and task the intellect. It would be the 
 mistake only of the most arrant book- 
 worm, to suppose that the mind never 
 labors but over the written page or the 
 abstract proposition. The merchant, 
 the manufacturer, the mechanic, is of- 
 ten a harder thinker than the student. 
 The machinist and the engineer are em- 
 ployed in somfe of the finest schools of 
 intellect. Books, so far as they relate 
 to these several employments, are only 
 designed to make those engaged in them 
 more accomplished and intellectual la- 
 borers. There are tasks, indeed, rising 
 but little above the toils of the tread- 
 mill, for which no such consideration 
 can be pleaded ; and I cannot help 
 hoping, that some method will be found 
 to relieve the labors of the hod. That 
 which Herodotus tells us, of the work- 
 men who built the pyramids, is not 
 strange ; that they held the memory ofthe 
 royal projectors of those unsightly moun- 
 tains of stone and mortar, upon the bare 
 construction of one of which — not the 
 working in quarries, but upon the bare 
 construction of the largest of which, 
 100,000 men were employed for twenty 
 years, — that in Egypt, I say, they held 
 the memory of these mighty tyrants in 
 perpetual execration. 
 
 In the next place, industry is the great 
 
302 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 school of human virtue. It is not 
 enough to say, that this dispensation is 
 necessary to keep men out of evil and 
 mischief. It is not enough to say, that 
 the industrious are always the most 
 virtuous classes. But it is to be ob- 
 served that human industry is placed 
 in peculiar circumstances, especially 
 fitted and designed to elicit and try tiie 
 virtues of human beings. The animal, 
 following his instincts, finds a certain 
 facility in his path. Human industry, 
 on the contrary, is always a conflict with 
 difficulties. The animal organs are pre- 
 cisely fitted to their respective tasks, and 
 are already sufficient to all the pur- 
 poses of animal industry. But man 
 has to adjust his powers to an infinite 
 variety of exertions ; ten thousand deli- 
 cate manipulations and feats of dexter- 
 ity are required of him ; his eye is to 
 be trained to precision, and his mind to 
 taste ; new instruments, too, are con- 
 stantly to be invented to overcome the 
 difficulties in his way. This, then, is 
 the theatre of energy and patience ; yes, 
 and I add, of moral wisdom and self- 
 restraint. The animal may gorge him- 
 self, and can then lie down and sleep off 
 his surfeit ; and he takes no harm from 
 midnight dew, or the open and chill 
 canopy that is spread over him. But 
 man cannot endure such indulgence or 
 exposure. If he gives himself up to 
 sensual excess, his powers at once begin 
 to fail him. His eye loses its clearness, 
 his hand its dexerity, his finger its 
 nicety of touch, and he becomes a lame, 
 deficient, and dishonored workman. 
 
 Nor is this all. How many natural 
 ties are there between even the humblest 
 scene of labor and the noblest affections 
 of humanity ! In this view the employ- 
 ment of mere muscular strength is enno- 
 bled. There is a central point in every 
 man's life, around which all his toils and 
 cares revolve. It is tliat spot which is 
 consecrated by the names of wife, and 
 children, and home. A secret, an almost 
 imperceptible influence from that spot, 
 which is like no other upon earth, steals 
 into the breast of the virtuous laboring 
 
 man, and strengthens every weary step 
 of his toil. Every blow that is struck 
 in the workshop and the field, finds an 
 echo in that holy shrine of his affections. 
 If he who fights to protect his home 
 rises to the point of heroic virtue, no 
 less may he who labors, his life long, to 
 provide for that home. Peace be within 
 those domestic walls, and prosperity be- 
 neath those humble roofs ! But should 
 it ever be otherwise ; should the time 
 ever come when the invader's step ap- 
 proaches to tx)uch those sacred thresh- 
 olds, I see in the labors that are taken 
 for them that wounds will be taken for 
 them too ; I see in every honest work- 
 man around me a hero. 
 
 So material do I deem this point — the 
 true nobility of labor, I mean — that I 
 would dwell upon it a moment longer, 
 and in a larger view. Why, then, in the 
 great scale of things, is labor ordained 
 for us ? Easily, had it so pleased the 
 great Ordainer, might it have been dis- 
 pensed with. The world itself might 
 have been a mighty machinery for the 
 production of all that man wants. The 
 motion of the globe upon its axis might 
 have been the power to move that world 
 of machinery. Ten thousand wheels 
 within wheels might have been at work : 
 ten thousand processes, more curious 
 and complicated than man can devise, 
 might have been going forward without 
 man's aid ; houses might have risen like 
 an exhalation, 
 
 " With the sound 
 Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet. 
 Built like a temple ; " 
 
 gorgeous furniture might have been 
 placed in them, and soft couches and 
 luxurious banquets spread, by hands un- 
 seen ; and man, clothed with fabrics of 
 nature's weaving, richer than imperial 
 purple, might have been sent to disport 
 himself in these Elysian palaces. " Fair 
 scene ! " I imagine you are saying: "for- 
 tunate for us, had it been the scene or- 
 dained for human life ! " But where then, 
 tell me, had been human energy, perse- 
 verance, patience, virtue, heroism ? Cut 
 oflf with one blow from, the world ; and 
 
THE ARTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 303 
 
 mankind had sunk to a crowd, nay, far 
 beneath a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. 
 No, it had not been fortunate. Better 
 that the earth be given to man as a dark 
 mass whereon to labor. Better that rude 
 and unsightly materials be provided in 
 the ore-bed and the forest, for him to 
 fashion into splendor and beauty. Better, 
 I say, not because of that splendor and 
 beauty, but because the act creating 
 them is better than the things them- 
 selves ; because exertion is nobler than 
 enjoyment ; because the laborer is great- 
 er and more worthy of honor than the 
 idler. I call upon those whom I address, 
 to stand up for that nobility of labor. It 
 is Heaven's great ordinance for human 
 improvement. Let not that great or- 
 dinance be broken down. What do I 
 sav ? It Ts broken down; and it has 
 been broken down for ages. Let it then 
 be built up again ; here, if anywhere, on 
 these shores of a new world, of a new 
 civilization. But how, I may be asked, 
 is it broken down ? Do not men toil ? it 
 may be said. They do indeed toil, but 
 they too generally do it because they 
 must. Many submit to it as, m some 
 sort, a degrading necessity ; and they de- 
 sire nothing so much on earth as escape 
 from it They fulfil the great law of la- 
 bor in the letter, but. break it in spirit ; 
 fulfil it with the muscle, but break it with 
 the mind. To some field of labor, mental 
 or manual, every idler should hasten, as 
 a chosen and coveted theatre of improve- 
 ment. But so is he not impelled to do, 
 under the teachings of our imperfect 
 civilization. On the contrary, he sits 
 down, folds his hands, and blesses him- 
 self in his idleness. This way of think- 
 ing is the heritage of the absurd and 
 unjust feudal system, under which serfs 
 labored, and gentlemen spent their lives 
 in fighting and feasting. It is dme that 
 this opprobrium of toil were done away. 
 Ashamed to toil, art thou ? Ashamed of 
 thy dingy workshop and dusty labor- 
 field ; of thy hard hand, scarred with 
 service more honorable than that of 
 war : of thy soiled and weather-stained 
 
 garments, on which mother nature has 
 stamped, midst sun and rain, midst fire 
 and steam, her own heraldic honors t 
 Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and 
 envious of the flaunting robes of imbe- 
 cile idleness and vanity ? It is trea- 
 son to nature; it is impiety to Heaven ; 
 it is breaking Heaven's great ordinance. 
 Toil, I repeat — toil, either of the bram, 
 of the heart, or of the hand, is the only 
 true manhood, the only true nobility. 
 
 But I am not willing to leave this 
 subject, of which I have spoke* thus 
 generally, — tlie direct tendency, i. e. of 
 labor to improve society, — without some 
 brief suggestions of a more specific 
 bearing. 
 
 The effect of our political institutions 
 on society makes it necessary that we 
 should extend a special and fostering 
 care to our domestic industry ; to the 
 industry, I mean, of families, on their 
 own property. In many of the families, 
 especially of farmers, in the country, 
 there is a want of employment for the 
 female members of them ; and many a 
 man have I seen sinking beneath that 
 dearly cherished but unproductive por- 
 tion of his domestic charge. The state 
 and feeling of equality among our peo- 
 ple makes him unwilling to employ his 
 daughters, or to consent to their em- 
 ployment, in services out of his own 
 family. He should therefore find some- 
 thing for them to do within it. And on 
 this account, as well as for other rea- 
 sons, all manufactures capable of being 
 made purely domestic, as of woollen 
 cloths, stockings, &c., and especially 
 the culture of the mulberry and the 
 making of silk, are entitled to the 
 strongest commendation and patron- 
 age. No community, as a mass, can 
 thrive, which does not employ all its 
 members ; no body of families can 
 flourish, where one, two, or three per- 
 sons in each family are unproductive, — 
 a sufficient proof that God never made 
 the world for idleness. Thus, I think, 
 you will find that the grazing and dairy- 
 making townships in the country are 
 
304 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 the most prosperous ; and the grain- 
 growing townships, where women have 
 less employment, far less so. I do not 
 deny that there are other reasons for 
 this difference, but I think this is one. 
 And I have observed, too, that the peo- 
 ple from the hill-pastures are constantly 
 coming down and buying up the pleas- 
 ant-looking valleys that lie spread out 
 beneath them. You have seen, perhaps, 
 the experiment of putting colored par- 
 ticles into boiling water, to show how the 
 water ascends on the outside of the ves- 
 sel and descends in the centre, towards 
 the bottom. In some tracts of coun- 
 try, I have observed the hill and valley 
 process to be almost as regular as that. 
 Let me now advert to an entirely 
 different subject ; that is to say, the 
 supply of our cities with pure water. 
 The introduction of New River into 
 London gives every family in that vast 
 metropolis 200 gallons per day, for two- 
 pence. What a means of comfort and 
 cleanliness this must be, need not be 
 said. But this is not all. I have heard 
 scientific persons, medical men in Lon- 
 don, speaking of the almost unprece- 
 dented improvement of their city in 
 health, ascribe more of it to the intro- 
 duction of New River than to all other 
 causes put together. It is, in fact, a 
 rushing stream, bearing away all the 
 filth from the innumerable sewers con- 
 nected with it. It may be no better 
 than the suggestion of fancy and in- 
 experience, but I cannot help wishing 
 that the Croton River, when it is brought 
 here, may be made — after supplying the 
 citizens with water, and twenty gener- 
 ous fountains besides — to pass down 
 in a grand sewer under Broadway, and 
 by branches under the principal cross- 
 streets of the city to either river. Even 
 then we should not have done what 
 Rome did to supply herself with water, 
 and to build her Cloaca iJtaxima and 
 other drains. And as to the feasibility 
 of the project, a hint may be derived 
 from the fact that the stock in the 
 New River Company (London), which 
 
 originally cost one hundred pounds, is 
 now worth fifteen hundred. 
 
 One topic more under this head, and 
 I shall have approached the point of 
 relieving your patience : and that is, 
 the direct tendency of the arts to im- 
 prove society by increasing its inter- 
 course. 
 
 A journey, to an observing man, is as 
 the opening of a volume ; ay, and with 
 something better, too, than plates and 
 illustrations. He reads men and man- 
 ners, and events, and circumstances, 
 and improvements. His knowledge is 
 increased, his prejudices are abated, his 
 charities are kindled, his ties to his 
 countrymen and his kind are strength- 
 ened. In countries where there is little 
 travel, one is struck with the broad and 
 separating marks of provincialism at 
 every step. Men cultivate the earth 
 as their fathers did, build like their 
 fathers, live like their fathers, and die 
 like their fathers. The wheels of social 
 improvement stand still. One little cir- 
 cle, indeed, of social being, acts upon 
 those perpetual dwellers at home, who 
 sometimes live and die without ever 
 seeing a neighboring city ; but the 
 great engine of society, its mighty im- 
 pulse, they do not feel.' 
 
 Our steamboats and railroads are 
 tending constantly to make us a more 
 homogeneous, sympathizing, and hu- 
 mane people. A visit to one's distant 
 friends, everybody knows, is a very 
 pleasant thing ; but are its uses in the 
 great family of society often consid- 
 ered ? Intercourse, in such circum- 
 stances, is usually an interchange of 
 all the thoughts, views, and improve- 
 ments that prevail in different parts of 
 the country. " Their talk is of oxen," if 
 you please, or it is of soils and grains, 
 or it is of manufacture and trade, or it 
 is of books and philosophies ; but it is 
 all good — good for somebody at least 
 — good in the main for everybody. 
 Thus, our steamboats are like floating- 
 saloons, and our railroads like the air- 
 pipes of a mighty whispering-gallery ; 
 
THE ARTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 305 
 
 and men are conversing with one an- 
 other, and communicating and blend- 
 ing their daily thoughts, throughout the 
 whole length and breadth of the land. 
 These means of communication are 
 thus constantly interchanging, not only 
 different views, but the advantages of 
 different kinds of residence. They are 
 imparting rural tastes to the citizen, and 
 city polish to the countryman. I can- 
 not help thinking, that in time they will 
 produce a decided effect upon city resi- 
 dence ; relieving us, somewhat, of our 
 crowded and overgrown population ; 
 sending out many from these pent-up 
 abodes in town, to the green and pleas- 
 ant dwelling-places of the country. 
 
 The progress of communication dur- 
 ing the last twenty years leaves us al- 
 most nothing to wish, and yet entitles 
 us to expect everything. Many of you 
 remember what a passage up the Hud- 
 son was, twenty years ago. You re- 
 member the uncertain packet, lingering 
 for a wind at the wharf till patience was 
 almost exhausted ; and then, at length, 
 pursuing its zigzag course, now waver- 
 ing in the breeze, now halting in the 
 calm, like a crazy traveller, doubtful of 
 his way, or whether to proceed at all. 
 And now, when you set your foot on the 
 deck of one of our steamboats, you feel 
 as if the pawings of some reined courser 
 were beneath you, impatient to start 
 from the goal ; anon, it seems to you 
 as if the strength and stride of a giant 
 were bearing you onward ; till at length, 
 when the evening shadow falls, and 
 hides its rougher features from your 
 sight, you might imagine it the queenly 
 genius of the noble river, as it moves on 
 between the silent shores, and flings its 
 spangled robe upon the waters. 
 
 There is one further and final sug- 
 gestion, which, at the risk of its being 
 thought professional, I would not alto- 
 gether omit in this survey of the moral 
 tendencies of mechanic art. It leads 
 the mind to the infinite wisdom of 
 nature, to the infinite wisdom of its 
 Author. 
 
 The materials, for instance, on which 
 art is to work, — how wonderfully are 
 they adapted to one another, and to the 
 natural powers of the workman ! The 
 steel is adapted to the wood it cuts ; 
 the water to the wheel it moves and to 
 the ship it bears ; the plough to the 
 soil it turns. Weight is adjusted to 
 power. If the hammer weighed a hun- 
 dred pounds, vainly would the hind 
 strive to wield it. If the earth were 
 covered with a forest of iron, man would 
 labor in vain to cut it down and build 
 it into houses. 
 
 If an intelligent manufacturer or 
 mechanic would carefully note down in 
 a book all the instances of adaptation 
 that presented themselves to his atten- 
 tion, he would in time have a large 
 volume : and it would be a volume of 
 philosophy ; a volume of indisputable 
 facts in defence of a Providence. I 
 could not help remarking lately, when 
 I saw a furnace upon the stream of the 
 valley, and the cartman bringing down 
 ore from the mountains, how inconven- 
 ient it would have been if this order of 
 nature had been reversed ; if the ore- 
 bed had been in the valley, and the 
 stream had been so constituted as to 
 rise, and to make its channel upon the 
 tops of the ridges. Nay, more ; treas- 
 ures are slowly prepared and carefully 
 laid up in the great store-houses of 
 nature, against the time when man shall 
 want them. When the wood is cut off 
 from the plains and the hills, and fuel 
 begins to fail, and man looks about 
 him with alarm at the prospect, lo ! l:ie- 
 neath his feet are found, in mines of 
 bitumen and mountains of anthracite, 
 the long hidden treasures of Providence 
 — the treasure-houses of that care and 
 kindness which at every new step of 
 human improvement, instead of appear- 
 ing to be superseded, seem doubly en- 
 titled to the name of Pro^ndence. 
 
 Nature, too, is itself a world of mech- 
 anism ; and it invites mechanic art at 
 every step to admire that intelligent, 
 and, it I may say so, that congenial 
 
3o6 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 wisdom which is displayed in it. The 
 human body is a structure of art, fear- 
 iully and wonderfully made. The hu- 
 man arm and hand is a tool, an in- 
 strument ; and what an instrument ! — 
 composed of twenty or thirty solid, 
 separate parts, besides the cartilages, 
 ligaments, and nerves, that give it its 
 wonderful security, strength, and tact. 
 What indefeasible cunning lies in that 
 right hand ; nay, what latent cunning, — 
 every new year of mechanic discovery 
 developing it more and more, — what 
 latent cunning sleeps in the sinews and 
 nerves of that folded palm! And then 
 that curious rotary motion of the fore- 
 arm ; what efforts of mechanic art have 
 there been to imitate that skill of the 
 great Maker of our frame ! And again, 
 the human head — that dome of the 
 house of hfe — is built upon the most 
 perfect principles of that kind of struc- 
 ture ; with its thicker bones in the base 
 of the skull, like the solid masonry of 
 a Roman arch ; with its interior and 
 supporting ridges of bone, hke the fly- 
 ing buttresses of a Gothic cathedral. 
 The dome of St. Sophia, in Constanti- 
 nople, built in the time of the Emperor 
 Justinian, fell three times during its 
 •erection ; the dome of the Cathedral of 
 Florence stood unfinished one hundred 
 and twenty years, for the want of an 
 architect ; and yet it has been justly 
 said, that every man employed about 
 them had the model in his own head. 
 
 All nature is not only, I repeat, a world 
 of mechanism, but it is the work of infi- 
 nite art; and the artisan, the toiler, is 
 but a student, an apprentice in that school. 
 And when he has done all, what can he 
 do to equal the skill of the great original 
 he copies ; to equal the wisdom of Him 
 who has "stretched out the heavens like 
 a curtain, who laid the beams of his cham- 
 bers on the waters ! " What engines 
 can he form like those which raise up 
 through the dark labyrinths of the moun- 
 tains the streams that gush forth in 
 fountains from their summits ? What 
 pillars and what architecture can he lift 
 
 up on high, like the mighty forest trunks, 
 and their architrave and frieze of glori- 
 ous foliage? What dyes can he invent 
 like those which spread their ever-chang- 
 ing and many-colored robes over the 
 earth ? What pictures can he cause to 
 glow, like those which are painted on the 
 dome of heaven ? 
 
 It is the glory of art that it penetrates, 
 and develops the wonders and bounties 
 of nature. It draws their richness from 
 the valleys, and their secret stores from 
 the mountains. It leads forth every 
 year fairer flocks and herds upon the 
 hills ; it yokes the ox to the plough, and 
 trains the fiery steed to its car. Il plants 
 the unsightly germ, and rears it into vege- 
 table beauty ; it takes the dull ore and 
 transfuses it into splendor, or gives it 
 the edge of the tool or the lancet; it 
 gathers the filaments which nature has 
 curiously made, and weaves them into 
 soft and compact fabrics. It sends out 
 its ships to discover unknown seas and 
 shores ; or it plunges into its workshops 
 at home, to detect tiie secret that is 
 locked up in mineral, or is flowing in 
 liquid matter. It scans the spheres and 
 systems of heaven with its far sight ; or 
 turns with microscopic eye, and finds in 
 the drops that sparkle in the sun other 
 worlds crowded with life. Yet more ; 
 mechanic art is the handmaid of society. 
 It has made man its special favorite. It 
 clothes him with fine linen and soft rai- 
 ment. It builds him houses, it kindles 
 the cheerful fire, it lights the evening 
 lamp, it spreads before him the manifold 
 pages of wisdom : it delights his eye 
 with gracefulness, it charms his ear with 
 music ; it multiplies the facihties of com- 
 munication and the ties of brotherhood; 
 it is the softener of all domestic chari- 
 ties, it is the bond of nations. 
 
 Gentlemen of the American Institute! 
 you need no commendation of mine ; 
 your works speak for you ; and I have 
 only to wish that they may advance in 
 improvement and extend in utility ; an 
 honor to yourselves, and a blessing to 
 our common country ! 
 
THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART. 
 
 307 
 
 XVI. 
 THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART* 
 Gentlemen of the Apollo Association : 
 
 The ground on which I shall place 
 myself, in addressing to you a few ob- 
 servations this evening, is the identity of 
 all art ; identity in object, in the princi- 
 ples of criticism and culture, and in the 
 reasons for promoting it. This is at once 
 my subject and my apology ; my apol- 
 ogy, I mean, for this seeming departure 
 from my own walk.' Your invitation, in- 
 deed, will acquit me of presumption with 
 you ; but this is the apology which I have 
 offered to myself. For I do not feel 
 that I am departing from my own walk, 
 so far as I may at first seem to do. Let- 
 ters and the arts of design belong to 
 the same great school. I consider my- 
 self as an artist, however humble, as 
 much as anyone who has placed a paint- 
 ing on your walls. I regard the prin- 
 ciples of all intellectual production as 
 being essentially the same. 
 
 It is a common idea that painting, as 
 an art, and pictures, as objects of criti- 
 cism, stand entirely by themselves ; 
 that they do not come within the range 
 of men's ordinary judgment and feel- 
 ings ; that common men have no busi- 
 ness to say anytliing about them. Of 
 an oration they think they can judge, 
 but not of a painting ; of a book, but 
 not of a picture ; of a fine landscape, 
 but not of its representation on the 
 canvas. But as I do not admit the pro- 
 priety of this distinction, I do not feel 
 the need of any pretension or pride of 
 connoisseurship, to warrant me in offer- 
 ing some thoughts to you on the pres- 
 ent occasion ; introductory as they 
 appropriately are for me with my limited 
 knowledge, and as I doubt not they will 
 be to deeper views by others on the 
 whole subject of art. 
 
 Let us then consider the identity of 
 all art. If I am not mistaken, the topic 
 will yield some reflections not inappro- 
 
 * An Introductory Lecture before the Apollo As- 
 sociation in New York, in 1840. This Institution 
 has bince taken the title of the American Art-Union. 
 
 priate to the purposes of this meeting, 
 and to the design of this course of 
 Lectures. 
 
 I say the identity of all art ; but I 
 might say the identity of ail action. As 
 the universe is the expression of a Mind ; 
 as everything in heaven and on earth 
 is significant of something beyond itself : 
 as every movement has a meaning, — 
 not a rolling world nor a falling leaf 
 excepted, — and the whole creation tinis 
 bodies forth an idea ; so, within the 
 limited range of man's action, all is ex- 
 pression. There is notliing of final 
 import in the whole world of man's in- 
 dustry or agency but this, — but e.xpres- 
 sion ; and he who has not seen this, has 
 seen nothing. He has neither the art- 
 ist's nor the poet's, nor the Christian's 
 eye. He who sees nothing around him 
 but a hard, dull, intractable, lifeless 
 world, nothing but machinery, brick 
 and mortar, iiewn stone and woodwork, 
 — that man understands nothing, can 
 interpret nothing, can describe, can paint 
 nothing. He cannot paint still-life, 
 without this insight. Without this, he 
 will be but a sort of Chinese painter. 
 Tlie very flowers and birds which the 
 Chinese paint so beautifully, look like 
 wax-work ; and the portraits which they 
 copy seem but for some coloring, to 
 be pictures of the dead. But the mere 
 wooden bowl or axe-helve that a true 
 artist paints has life in it. The one 
 looks as if it had been washed a thou- 
 sand times, and the other as if it had 
 felled a thousand trees. 
 
 There is, I repeat, this identity in ev- 
 erything that man has wrought, — that it 
 bears the .stamp of his mind. Whether 
 it be a plough or a picture, a statue of 
 Canova or a log-hut beyond the moun- 
 tains, an airy strain of music or a 
 massive pile of architecture, a cotton 
 manufactory or a gallery of art, — all is 
 expression. The living thought of man 
 not only wrestles in the heaving crowd, 
 but it stands revealed in the stately wall ; 
 it looks out through the windows of 
 every house-front ; it breathes from the 
 rifted arches of every mouldering ruin ; 
 
3o8 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 it sighs through the green leaves and the 
 tall grass where bloody battle has been 
 done ; it comes down as a presence upon 
 every great field of momentous history 
 like Italy, and weighs and presses upon 
 the heart more than as if a living multi- 
 tude were there. The face of the culti- 
 vated and trodden world bears the impress 
 of human thought as its grand expres- 
 sion. The tissues of human hearts have 
 woven all round this mighty globe — over 
 mountain and over valley, over empire 
 and throne, and bare cottage and barren 
 sand — a robe of life. 
 
 Now it is the peculiar province of the 
 fine arts to unfold this life. All human 
 action exhibits it; but art proposes this 
 exhibition as its very purpose and end. 
 And in this definition of art are embraced 
 not only architecture, sculpture, paint- 
 ing, and music, but also oratory, and 
 writing, whether of prose or poetry. 
 
 Let me be permitted, in passing, to 
 claim this place for prose writing. It is 
 as truly an art as poetry. I question, in 
 fact, whether it is not a higher art. Poe- 
 try, indeed, is more artificial, but I doubt 
 whether it is the higher art. It is said 
 to be the elder-born, — born of ruder 
 ages ; and I can well believe it. That 
 is to say, I can believe that less mental 
 culture is required to put words in that 
 shape than in the shape of perfect prose ; 
 just as in the body, less culture would 
 be required to walk easily in trammels 
 than to walk gracefully without. If He- 
 siod and Homer had written in prose, I 
 doubt whether it would have been as 
 good prose as their poetry was. And, 
 to take a modern instance, I think no 
 lioetry of Mr. Southey shows so much 
 real art as his Espriella's Letters. It 
 is sometimes said to a prose writer of 
 genius, " Why do you not write poetry ? I 
 am certain it is in you." I am not sure — 
 the poets and critics must pardon my ex- 
 travagance — I am not sure but he might 
 answer, "Because I am doing a better 
 thing." "Yes, but it is so much ad- 
 mired. If the thoughts you have ex- 
 pressed had been in poetry they would 
 have given you a reputation." " True, 
 
 but this does not prove that poetry is 
 the higher art. Whatever is unusual, is 
 most likely to be admired. As speech 
 is the endowment of all, few are likely 
 to understand what an exquisite instru- 
 ment it is, and what exquisite art is im- 
 plied in its perfection. A military man, 
 with epaulettes and gay costume, march- 
 ing, with measured tread, at the head of 
 his troojDs, will draw more eyes than he 
 who walks gracefully along the street ; 
 and yet the military man perhaps would 
 never reach that grc-^ceful carriage. If 
 he be an accomplished man, he will, in- 
 deed; and so the best poets are among 
 the best writers of prose ; as, for instance, 
 Milton and Wordsworth, and our own 
 Bryant and Dana. This fact, I think, 
 is in my favor; especially when taken in 
 connection with another, viz., that when 
 you descend from the highest walk of 
 the art of writing, you will find more in 
 proportion of unexceptionable and har- 
 monious poetry, than you will of good 
 sound prose. In other words, more 
 men of ordinary talent, proportionably, 
 write good poetry than good prose. You 
 will observe that I am not speaking at 
 all of the essence of thought; that may 
 exist alike in both. And that I suppose 
 is what is mostly meant by those critics 
 who wrap up all the world's genius in 
 poetry. But I am speaking strictly of 
 xh&form of writing. And what I assert 
 at the least is, that prose-writing is as 
 high a form of art as rhyme or rhythm. 
 The latter is more admired, I repeat, 
 because it is unusual ; because it is a 
 wonder ; because it is more out of the 
 common reach. But this no more proves 
 that it is a higher art, than the same 
 feeling would prove that court etiquette 
 is a higher thing than true gentlemanly 
 tact and good-breeding in a private draw- 
 ing-room. 'Verse,' says Mr. Bulwer, — 
 I beg you will bear with this digression 
 a moment longer, — 'verse cannot con- 
 tain the refining, subtile thoughts which 
 a great prose writer embodies : the rhyme 
 eternally cripples it ; it properly deals 
 with the common problems of liuman 
 1 nature, which are now hackneyed ; and 
 
THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART. 
 
 309 
 
 not with the nice and philosophizing cor- 
 ollaries which may be drawn from them. 
 Though it would seem at first a paradox, 
 commonplace is the element of poetry 
 rather than of prose. And sensible of 
 this, even Schiller wrote the deepest of 
 his tragedies, Fiesco, in prose.'" The 
 wonder is, that anybody could have writ- 
 ten a great tragedy in anything else. The 
 formality of rhythm is not natural to it ; 
 it stands in accordance only with the 
 buskins, the stage, the lights, the scene- 
 shifting, — in short, with the artificial 
 character of the whole thing. What 
 would be thought, if a man should write 
 a speech or a sermon in blank verse 7 
 Or, to take a stronger instance : what 
 would be thought if a man, in a great 
 rage in the street, or a man in deep grief 
 by the fireside, should pour out his grief 
 or anger in blank verse ? Or suppose 
 a man were to make love in blank verse. 
 In all these cases, I think the verse 
 would be very blank indeed, and the 
 faces of the persons addressed yet more 
 so. But to tragedy especially belong 
 these bursts of feeling, — of rage, grief, 
 terror, pity, love. And therefore we 
 should be apt to say that tragedy — the 
 language of passion — should be the 
 simplest and most natural tbrm of human 
 speech. If any man has got a trag- 
 edy i?i him — though he be not a verse- 
 maker — I wish he would try it.* 
 
 If I must ask you to pardon this di- 
 gression. Gentlemen, I hope you will 
 admit that it is not altogether inap- 
 propriate to my subject, or to the pres- 
 ent occasion. I bring a new claimant, 
 asking for a place in the goodly brother- 
 hood of the arts. And far be it from 
 me, in doing this, to depreciate true 
 poetry. Whatever well embodies the 
 loftiest forms of thought is well and 
 worthy. But the poets have so long 
 been considered as enjoying a kind of 
 monopoly in the art of writing; they 
 
 * Doubtless certain passages — declamations, de- 
 scriptions, speeches — might be best given in blank 
 verse ; but whether this is, in general, the natural 
 and appropriate form of dramatic writing, is the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 are so constantly spoken of by their 
 critics as holding in their charmed vase 
 all the finer essence of genius, that they 
 can well afford to bear some question 
 of this pre-eminent claim. 
 
 But to return to my general theme ; 
 what I was about to assert is the iden- 
 tity which exists, as I conceive, among 
 all the fine arts. 
 
 In the first place, the object of them 
 all is the same ; to exhibit some thought, 
 some passion, or to set forth simply the 
 truth of things, to make a just represen- 
 tation of a thing as it is. Whether the 
 ideal or the matter-of-fact Le the thing 
 in hand, all the arts — architecture, 
 sculpture, painting, music, writing, ora- 
 tory — propose to do the same thing. 
 Portrait painting is only telling — better, 
 indeed, than words can — but still it is 
 only telling how a man looks. Land- 
 scape painting answers to descriptive 
 writing. Historical painting but em- 
 bodies what history has recorded. And 
 fancy pieces are but as the poet's or 
 essayist's pictures. Tiiey are olten 
 taken directly from the poet's or the 
 essayist's page. And that is the best 
 painting, we are accustomed to say, 
 "which tells its own story." 
 
 In the next place, the means used in 
 the various arts, though dissimilar, are 
 subject to the same laws. The pro- 
 cedure of thought in all is essentially 
 the same. When a man makes an his- 
 torical picture, he chooses a subject, he 
 lays out a plan, he divides it into heads, 
 he determines what parts he will bring 
 out into prominence and what he will 
 sink into shade, and he keeps in mind, 
 in finishing every part, the general effect 
 he intends to produce. Precisely so is 
 it with every well-devised, well-executed, 
 artist-like speecli, oration, discourse, or 
 essay. When I look upon a painter, 
 as he proceeds with his work. I am 
 constantly reminded of the art of writ- 
 ing. When I see him lay out his plan, 
 I think of the plan of a discourse. 
 When I see him blot a certain part, to 
 work it out again, I think of the sape 
 verte stylum. When 1 see him put his 
 
3IO 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 finger upon a certain point of coloring, 
 to soften it, I am reminded of tlie ex- 
 change of a stronger epitliet for a milder 
 one : for all must have a keeping, a har- 
 mony ; if a thing is said too strongly 
 in one place, it will not agree with an- 
 other thing said in another place. The 
 painter's lights and shades, too, remind 
 me of the lights and shades of a dis- 
 course. And if he seeks after too much 
 light, strives to make all striking and 
 glaring, I call to mind more than one 
 novice that I have known who did the 
 same thing in his discourse, — wanted 
 to make every paragraph brilliant, every 
 point prominent, and so made nothing 
 prominent, had no effective brilliancy 
 anywhere. 
 
 II. If there be this identity in all art, 
 then it follows that the principles of 
 culture and the principles of criticism 
 in all are essentially the same ; and I 
 submit to you, as the second point in 
 this discourse, whether it be not so. 
 
 Let us look, first, at the principles of 
 criticism, and let us resume for this 
 purpose the comparison of a picture 
 with a discourse or essay. We demand 
 of each that it shall say something, that 
 it shall say it distinctly, and say it effec- 
 tively ; distinctly that we may under- 
 stand it, and effectively that we may 
 feel it. In order to meet these con- 
 ditions there must be a reigning idea in 
 a painting, and there must be sharpness 
 of outline combined with softness of 
 coloring. The first being given (i. e., 
 the reigning idea), the trial point with 
 a painter, if one of the unlearned may 
 speak, is to combine the two last (i. e., 
 tlie distinctness with the softness). In 
 Murillo's paintings, and in some of All- 
 ston's, there is a softness amounting to 
 haziness. There is a want of distinct 
 .outline. In Michael Angelo's parccs, 
 the fates, we have sharpness of outline 
 even to harshness and severity, though 
 perhaps his style in this respect may well 
 suit the subject. It does not, however, 
 as I must think, in his painting of the 
 Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel. 
 In the pictures of Leonardo da Vinci, 
 
 Raphael, Guido, and Domenichino, we 
 have the true combination, — the clear- 
 est outline with the softest coloring. 
 
 Again ; it is a principle of criticism 
 in letters, that a writing shall not pass 
 beyond the modesty of nature into ex- 
 travagance, nor fall short of the life of 
 nature into dulness : and this, I pre- 
 sume, is just as true of painting. The 
 Venetian School is an example of the 
 former, — the extravagance ; the school 
 of the Caracci of the latter, — the want 
 of vigor and spirit. In Vandyke's por- 
 traits, too, it seems to me that there is 
 always a certain extravagance, not of 
 coloring, but of expression ; while in 
 Holbein's there is, as far as I have seen 
 them, a want of vividness. 
 
 True criticism, especially if it pro- 
 ceed upon the broad views which I 
 now advocate, will indeed always be 
 liberal. It will not think to bring every- 
 thing to the same standard. There are 
 subjects which are dream-like ; where 
 the features should look as through a 
 veil of mist. Such are some of All- 
 ston's ; though I confess that for a gene- 
 ral style I no more like haze in a pic- 
 ture than haze in a speech. It may be an 
 obtuseness inme, buti must acknowl- 
 edge that whether I read, or hear, or 
 see, I have a great desire to know some- 
 thing. I do not like to be left in the 
 dark as to what an author or a painter 
 means. I have thought that it was his 
 very business to tell me, that that was 
 the very thing he professed to do; and 
 if I am to be left in the shadows of 
 imagination, I had rather they sliould be 
 my own, than his. There is but too 
 much of this style in our modern phi- 
 losophy, poetry, and fine writing, as we 
 call it ; and I will not deny that I have 
 intended to apply the same observation 
 to the style of Allston. Mr. Allston 
 is truly a poet and a man of genius; 
 but I cannot fall in with that national 
 spirit of self-praise, which maintains that 
 he has already taken his place by the 
 side of Guido and Raphael and Leon- 
 ardo da Vinci. To see that proved, 
 I must wait, — I will say it though I 
 
THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART. 
 
 311 
 
 die for it, — I must wait for the Bel- 
 shazzar.* 
 
 True criticism, I have said, is liberal. 
 It will distinguish among the different 
 works of the same hand. Allston's 
 Jeremiah is not hazy, and the Baruch 
 in that piece is admirable, — soft and 
 distinct too. So Rubens often paints 
 — as I think it has been said, at least 
 I have often thought it — in a "raw- 
 head and bloody-bones " style. But 
 when I came to see the Crucifixion of 
 St. Peter in the church of Cologne, 
 and especially the Twelve Apostles in 
 the Rospigliosi Palace at Rome, I per- 
 ceived that his genius was capable of 
 almost any style, of the utmost deli- 
 cacy, finish, and beauty. 
 
 But it is time, after all this boldness, 
 that I should say a word in defence of 
 this liberty of criticism. And my de- 
 fence lies in the principle I am con- 
 tending for, that the great laws of all 
 criticism on art are essentially the same. 
 Any one of you that is a painter will 
 not hesitate to give your judgment on 
 books. Why shall I not give my judg- 
 ment on pictures ? I contend that the 
 art of writing is as profound and as 
 dititicult to be criticised as the art of 
 painting ; nay, and I think more so. 
 Painting more directly appeals to the 
 eye, — to the general observing eye, — 
 to the general and natural sense of pro- 
 priety and beauty. Writing is a more 
 recondite art ; more out of reach of the 
 common "judgment. Good writing is 
 really, though men may not know it, a ■ 
 greater mystery than good painting. 
 Do I say, then, that no culture, no 
 taste, no habit of observation is neces- 
 sary to judge of painting .? Far enough 
 from it. I assert the right to judge, 
 subject precisely to these limitations. 
 But the same limitations apply equally 
 to writing. I may be wrong in my 
 judgment of one or the other. I may 
 be quite wrong in the opinions I have 
 
 * I have waited, and am convinced that the finished 
 parts of this great work have more of the stamp of 
 the great masters upon them than anything else that 
 Allston has produced. 
 
 ventured to offer concerning painters 
 and paintings. But I hope I have vin- 
 dicated the common right to judge, and 
 that I shall not be charged with a want 
 of modesty in having ventured, certainly 
 with diffidence, to use it. 
 
 Let me add one further observation 
 upon criticism and the arts. I have said 
 that true criticism is liberal ; and the ob- 
 servation I have to make is, that in all the 
 fine arts great injustice is generally done 
 to all but the first-rate excellence. In 
 literature and in painting a few names 
 bear away the pahn of merit. They 
 fill the magazines, the newspapers, the 
 mouths of the people. There is no just 
 discrimination of the many artists and 
 writers who are approaching more or 
 less nearly, and some of them very 
 nearly, to the same excellence. This is 
 extremely discouraging as well as unjust 
 to modest and patient labor. It does not 
 ask to be first, if itis not first ; but it does 
 and does rightfully ask to be appreciated. 
 And the wrong done is an argument, as 
 far as it goes, for what you are doing, gen- 
 tlemen ; for spreading a truer and more 
 discriminating taste among the people. 
 For this it is precisely that is wanted 
 to correct the superficial and wholesale 
 judgments of the public. Listen to the 
 conversation of cultivated men, and you 
 will find that they go down from great 
 works that rise a little above the rest, — 
 from the great and ever-quoted names, 
 andfindathousand beauties in the regions 
 that lie beneath. Or place a company of 
 artists or of real connoisseurs in this gal- 
 lery, and you will find that they are not 
 altogether occupied with two or three 
 pieces, but that they note a thing — a part 
 of a picture, for instance — beautifully 
 done here ; or a hand or an eye exquisitely 
 painted there ; and they do justice to all. 
 Just as a hasty traveller, who has spent 
 two or three weeks in Switzerland, comes 
 home, talking of nothing but Mt. Blanc 
 and Jungfrau, while one who has spent 
 a season in travelling over it will talk 
 of a hundred pinnacles and of many a 
 lovely nook and glassy lake spread all 
 over that land of beauty ; a land of which 
 
312 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 a friend of mine, once travelling with me 
 there, said, as we stood gazing upon its 
 wonders, " Oh ! it is a glorious picture, set 
 in the frame of the world." But the 
 public, in the great field of literature 
 and art, is like the hasty traveller. It 
 does no justice to minor beauties and 
 humbler merits. For in this respect 
 a gallery of pictures — and I think Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds has made the same re- 
 mark in his lectures — is like a library. 
 There is many a book in which there 
 is an admirable chapter, though it be 
 not admirable as a whole ; and there is 
 many a book of great merit which stands 
 untouched upon the shelf, gathering the 
 dust of years upon it, because Shak- 
 speare, or Bacon, or Milton is near it. 
 You may say that the world cannot read 
 or study everything, and that it is best 
 it should read the best authors, — study 
 the best artists. I wish it really and 
 thoroughly did either ; for then would 
 it be more liberal and more discerning 
 towards all merit. For now it talks the 
 more about great names, the less it 
 knows about them; and thus upholds a 
 law of distinction, — a dynasty in the 
 world of mind, which, at least in my 
 opinion, does cruel injustice to hundreds 
 of meritorious authors and artists. This 
 error, as I think it, ought to be corrected, 
 and I believe it will be. I perceive al- 
 ready that this injustice is beginning to 
 give way before a more diffusive and 
 generous culture. The series of bio- 
 graphical portraits lately appearing in 
 the English reviews, and the devotion 
 of one entire publication — the Retro- 
 spective Review — to the recovery of 
 buried treasures, is some proof of this. 
 So too it is felt, that in the moral world, 
 a certain notable philanthropy is not to 
 carry off" all the honors of goodness. 
 And it will yet come to be seen that all 
 the world's treasures of goodness, beauty, 
 enthusiasm, genius, greatness, through 
 ages, are not concentrated in a hundred 
 wonderful individuals. Ay, and the hun- 
 dred too will be more fully, more truly 
 appreciated then. The vulgar stare at dis- 
 
 tinction will give place to a finer discern- 
 ment of all talent and merit. 
 
 Let us now proceed from the princi- 
 ples of criticism to the principles of cul- 
 ture. What I assert is, that the jorinci- 
 ples of culture in all arts are essentially 
 the same ; and those upon which I shall 
 briefly insist are, good sense, moral feel- 
 ing, and the general cultivation of the 
 whole man. 
 
 First, good sense. In statue, picture, 
 poem, essay, or oration, this must be a 
 pervading characteristic. Art is never 
 to spread its wings beyond this strict 
 boundary. The moment that the poet 
 or painter, the orator or sculptor, thinks 
 that good sense is a mean quality, and 
 to be disregarded, he is virtually ruined. 
 In all the greatest works of the human 
 hand, in the poems of Homer, in the 
 orations of Demosthenes, in the Grecian 
 sculpture, and in the best paintings of the 
 Italian school, is ever found the clear 
 impress of this quality. If it is not the 
 very stuff with which genius works, yet 
 it is the very stamp upon the true coin. 
 Many a forgotten poet had as much 
 imagination as the highest, but he had 
 not good sense. Cowley's conceits were 
 as quaint, and curious, and brilliant as 
 Shakspeare's ; but nobody reads Cowley, 
 the poet, though his prose is admirable. 
 The extravagant and fantastic Harvey 
 had as much fancy as Jeremy Taylor, but 
 he had not the good sense which is ne- 
 cessary to chasten, control, and guide it. 
 
 I shall be asked, perhaps, what is good 
 .sense .'' I do not know that I can better 
 tell than every one already knows. But 
 it excludes everything that is unnatural, 
 unreasonable, extravagant, improbable, 
 unlike truth and life, unlike the genuine 
 attitudes and expressions of real, sincere, 
 human passion. Perhaps the most dis- 
 tinctive mark of it is, that the reader, the 
 seer, must feel that he might have acted, 
 looked, in the circumstances supposed, 
 just as the picture, the essay before him 
 represents. If not, then the matter be- 
 fore him wants good sense. To him^ at 
 least, it wants good sense. And if I be 
 
THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART. 
 
 313 
 
 asked, again, who is to be the judge of 
 this quality? I answer, the common 
 and universal mind of the world. Let any 
 woman, who looks at the Judith and Hol- 
 ofernes of Christopher AUori, ask her- 
 self whetiier she or any other woman 
 could look as the Judith is painted, in the 
 circumstances, — a woman who has just 
 cut off the head of the sleeping satrap, 
 and brings it in clutched by the hair 
 and dripping with blood, and yet looks 
 as calm and unconcerned as if she car- 
 ried a milk-pail. Or, to make a more 
 daring observation, look at the Madonna 
 della Seggiola of Raphael. It is the 
 mother of the long-expected Messiah. 
 So much was this honor desired, that 
 marriage among the Hebrews was held 
 in special favor, and celibacy was a pe- 
 culiar disgrace on this very account. 
 And now the desire that swelled in the 
 bosom of ages is accomplished in the 
 breast of this humble female, hailed with 
 angelic congratulations, favored and 
 blessed among women. What a rapt ex- 
 pression of gratitude will there be in her 
 countenance ! What depth of thought 
 in her eye! What visions will seem to 
 float before her of wonders and glories to 
 be unveiled in the future. Can it be, 
 then — I ask with modesty — but can it 
 be that the Madonna is fitly represented 
 as the bcmi ideal oimtxe physical beauty, 
 — as a beautiful woman, seated of a sum- 
 mer's afternoon in a luxurious bower ? 
 " Beautiful exceedingly," it is ; but the 
 question is, is it the kind of beauty that 
 is touched with the expression that be- 
 longs to the occasion .'' Or, for another 
 example, — look at xAllston's Jeremiah. 
 It is a prophet in the moment of inspira- 
 tion, communing with God, — receiving 
 a message from the Infinite One ; and 
 yet, but for the upward cast of the eye, 
 it appears to me more as a warrior than 
 as a prophet. I suppose it is i\\t furor 
 diviitus that is intended to be repre- 
 sented ; but I cannot admit that that/«- 
 ror should so entirely partake of physi- 
 cal and earthly qualities. I will not ask 
 you to pardon the adventurousness of 
 these criticisms. I am not pretending to 
 
 judge of minor points in the artist's skill, 
 but of the great and leading expression ; 
 and of this, I hold I am as much entitled 
 to have an opinion as I am of the lead- 
 ing impression of a poem or a discourse. 
 I may be quite wrong in the opinion I 
 have ventured to express concerning 
 these pictures ; but nevertheless a man 
 is but a man, and I know no idols, no di- 
 vine models among men ; I cannot yield 
 to the common inference that because a 
 man is a great man, therefore everything 
 which he does is great. And I will 
 only' ask you to suppose that in a poem 
 or tale, the Judith, the Madonna, or the 
 Jeremiah were represented, — the lead- 
 ing expression of their character, office 
 or situation givenj as it is in those pic- 
 tures, and then say whether it satisfies 
 you. 
 
 The second principle of culture which 
 I have mentioned is moral feeling. 
 Without this, without glowing concep- 
 tions, and a real love of moral beauty, 
 there can be no successful culture. 
 What Cicero said of the orator is equal- 
 ly true of the painter : he must be a 
 good man. A bad man, a man essen- 
 tially bad, devoid of all moral and spirit- 
 ual emotion, cannot be a good artist. 
 And for this plain reason : that tiie 
 highest traits in everything he has to 
 paint are moral. It is so even in nature ; 
 it is emphatically so in the human coun- 
 tenance. Suppose the artist attempts 
 to paint the countenance of the martyr, 
 of him who in the last dread hour, 
 amidst the blows and taunts of hardened 
 and malignant executioners, is giving up 
 his soul to his Maker. How is the ar- 
 tist to do this, if he have no conception of 
 the feeling of the martyr, no experience 
 in himself of faith or prayer, or forgive- 
 ness ? How otherwise is he to portray 
 that most touching vision of all mortal 
 loveliness and immortal triumph united ; 
 that resplendent divinity and softened 
 humanity which blend in the dying 
 martyr's countenance ; that strength, for- 
 titude, might, as of an angel to endure; 
 that meekness as of a child to submit ; 
 that pity as it were of a seraph clothed 
 
314 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 with all mortal sensibility ; that forgive- 
 ness that speaks through every trem- 
 bling feature, " Lay not this sin to their 
 charge ; " that trust in God of the lifted 
 eye and the parted lips, — that trust 
 swallowing up, embosoming the poor 
 suffering nature, — beaming through 
 the last departing shadows of mortal 
 struggle and infirmity, buoying up the 
 sinking spirit, and bearing it away, 
 disburdened of every earthly weight 
 and pain and sorrow, to the bosom 
 of God ! — how, I say, is a man to do 
 this, unless he has it in him to feel that 
 he too could be a martyr to truth and 
 duty ? 
 
 Hence it is that an age more skeptioal 
 than believing, more inquisitive than con- 
 fiding, is not likely to be an age of any 
 great achievements in art. This, more 
 than anything else perhaps, explains the 
 present decline in the world, of poetry 
 and painting. 1 can conceive of no 
 worse omens for literature and art than 
 that their cultivators should be found 
 separating themselves from the great 
 bonds of religious feeling and observ- 
 ance, — should be found bending over 
 their desks or their easels on Sunday, 
 rather than at church — should be found 
 putting off one form of religion, and not 
 putting on another. Nothing perhaps 
 so well accounts for that extraordinary 
 outburst of Italian poetry and painting 
 between the thirteenth and fifteenth 
 centuries as the prevalence then of a 
 religious spirit. Dante, Petrarch and 
 Tasso, Michael Angelo, Leonardo da 
 Vinci and Raphael, were filled with re- 
 ligious devoutness, such as it was. 
 Christianity had then a season to sink 
 undisturbed and unquestioned into the 
 hearts of men. The dark ages of struggle 
 had passed by ; and the doubting age 
 had not come. Will not the same thing 
 be found true of every literature, — Gre- 
 cian, Roman, or English, — that it has 
 filled just such intervals ; after the moral 
 elements ofsociety have settled into quiet 
 faith, and before they have been clouded 
 by the exhalations of prosperity or 
 choked by the steains of luxury, — an 
 
 interval between the rugged mountain 
 and the low rich valley ; in other 
 words, that the brightest constellations 
 of genius have shone forth after the 
 storm, and before the earth-born mists 
 and damps had risen to obscure them ? 
 I know that these comparisons may 
 point to other than moral influences ; but 
 believing that moral influences are the 
 most potent of all, and not only behev- 
 ing, but knowing, seeuii^, that every 
 great age of literature and art has been 
 informed, penetrated, quickened, kindled 
 all over, with moral fervor, I am per- 
 suaded that the comparisons 1 have made 
 point especially to these. Inward, con- 
 fiding, believing, spiritual energy is the 
 soul of art and literature ; it is the in- 
 tellectual might of the world. 
 
 One further principle of culture I pro- 
 posed to consider, and that is the culti- 
 vation of the whole man. Every work 
 of art is the work of the whole man, 
 and therefore will bear the stamp of his 
 general improvement. If it were a work 
 of the mere fingers, then extraordinary 
 execution without a soul might make a 
 great musician, or exquisite finish with- 
 out a just plan and design might make 
 a great painter. But it does not. If 
 the fingers only work, without the head 
 and the heart, the result may be pretty, 
 finical, wonderful in its way ; but it will 
 not be a soul-moving work of art. 
 How much of our music bears this char- 
 acter, — mere digital dexterity, mere trill- 
 ing and quavering of the voice ! HoW' 
 rarely is a young lady told that, when 
 she seats herself at the piano-forte or 
 harp, she should do so with the same 
 view as a man rises up to make a 
 speech, — to say something, and so to 
 say it that others shall understand and 
 feel it ! This is true, too, of instrumental 
 music : it is nothing if it does not ex- 
 press a sentiment ; and the mere instru- 
 ment, in the hands of a great performer, 
 seems to have more soul in it than the 
 entire man or woman who is a mere 
 execution-machine. If this high and 
 spiritual view of music were taken, the 
 time now so wearily devoted to it by 
 
THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART. 
 
 315 
 
 many would not be felt to be lost upon 
 the acquisition of a mere fashionable 
 accomplishment ; but it would be con- 
 secrated to the culture of the highest 
 nature. For what would it then be, if 
 the music were well selected, but a con- 
 slant endeavor to conceive,- to feel, to 
 lie imbued with, the purest and noblest 
 sentiments .'' It is said that the songs 
 are almost all silly love-songs, filled with 
 sickly sentiment. I must take leave to 
 object to this as a general detinition 
 even of love-songs. Many of them ex- 
 press the noblest sentiments. I will 
 take the first that I lay my hand on : — 
 
 " And ye shall walk in silk attire, 
 
 And siller have to spare, 
 Gin ye '11 consent to be his bride. 
 
 Nor think on Donald mair. 
 
 Oh ! who would buy a silken gown, 
 
 With a poor broken heart ; 
 And what to me 's a siller crown, 
 
 If from my love I part ? 
 
 I would na walk in silk attire. 
 
 Nor braid wi' gems my hair, 
 Gin he whose faith is pledged wi' mine 
 Were wrangedand grieving sair." 
 
 That, I aver, is no sickly sentiment ; 
 and well were it, if it sunk more deeply 
 into the heart of every luxurious and 
 worldly age. Save us, above all, from 
 making woman mercenary, — from mak- 
 ing the love of woman mercenary ! It 
 is like taking the richest diamond, and 
 grinding it down to macadamize the 
 streets, that the chariots of luxury may 
 roll more smoothly over thenr ! 
 
 But to draw the general topic on 
 which I am descanting more directly to 
 the present occasion : the arts of design 
 can never flourish without a wide and 
 generous culture of the whole man. 
 When in my early youth I studied Cicero 
 de Oratore, I thought I was to put my- 
 self under the teaching of a mere rheto- 
 rician ; that he would tell me how to 
 stretch out my hand, and how to tone 
 my voice, and things of that sort. 
 But I soon found that the noble old 
 Roman was demanding that the orator 
 should learn everything, — know every- 
 
 thing, — be everything ; that, according 
 to his idea, the whole rounded circuit of 
 human perfection came within the ora- 
 tor's walk. Now, I think that this 
 equally applies to the artist ; and in- 
 deed in the greatest artists this idea has 
 been realized. To advert for a moment 
 to their positive acquisitions : Michael 
 Angelo was a great architect, sculptor, 
 and poet, as well as painter. Raphael 
 was studious in history, versed in art 
 of poetry, and so distinguished for his 
 knowledge of architecture that he gave 
 designs for many palaces in Rome, and 
 through Italy, and was intrusted for a 
 while with carrying on the building of St. 
 Peter's. Leonardo da Vinci was one of 
 the inost accomplished men of his time; 
 conversant not only with all the fine arts, 
 but with science, literature, the arts of 
 mechanism, and with all manly exercises. 
 But positive acquisitions alone do not 
 satisfy our idea of the fully cultivated 
 and accomplished man. They may still 
 leave the man quite angular, ill-shapen, 
 defective. As all the accomplishments 
 which can be heaped upon a young 
 woman, all the finishings of the schools, 
 all the languages, and all the rules got 
 by heart, may still leave her far from 
 being a graceful and agreeable person, 
 so all the mere learning in the world 
 may fail to make a graceful and accom- 
 plished artist. The true culture, which 
 means something very different from 
 mere acquisition, is the culture of the 
 heart, of the affections, of the imagina- 
 tion, of the taste, of beau ideal in every- 
 tliing. As in the human body it takes a 
 hundred organs, sinews, nerves, to make 
 one graceful step, gesture, attitude; so 
 in the mind it requires the combination 
 of many qualities to reach the grace of 
 art. There is a certain fine, almost 
 indescribable, perception of the true, the 
 fit, natural, well-proportioned and har- 
 monious, that can come from nothing 
 but general culture. Taste in art is 
 like good-breeding in manners: it can- 
 not be learned from rules, nor diagrams, 
 nor scliools any way ; but it is the 
 breathing out of the inward life. What 
 
3i6 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 but this is it that spreads over some 
 landscape-paintings such an air of truth 
 and reality, nay, and of sentiment too, 
 as if they were touched all over with a 
 feeling, — warm without being garish, 
 and quiet without being cold ? Nothing 
 but a loving communion with nature 
 can produce such i^aintings ; and that 
 communion can never be enjoyed but 
 by a pure, gentle, and loving spirit. 
 Claude Lorraine's pictures tell you at 
 once that they were breathed upon by 
 an inward life. What is it, again, that 
 produces such different results in that 
 favorite subject with painters, — The 
 Descent from the Cross? In some paint- 
 ings of that scene, all is literal, cold, 
 and desolate ; death weighs upon the 
 picture, and weighs upon your heart. 
 But others, as that of Guerin in the 
 Baltimore cathedral, are so composed, 
 so colored, so filled with triumphant 
 expression, that you feel, as you gaze, 
 that " death is swallowed up of victory." 
 What can account for this difference but 
 the different feeling of the artists ? In 
 the one, death has conquered ; in the 
 other, it is swallowed up in the glory 
 that is to come. And I will venture, 
 indeed, to express the behef, that the 
 highest art will never produce a result 
 that is entirely disgusting or revolting. 
 In a well-proportioned, well-balanced 
 mind, this is never the view of anything ; 
 but over all, on the contrary, it spreads 
 the relief of its own beautiful nature. 
 Even in viewing the group of the Lao- 
 coon, — scene of horror as it is, — the 
 mind is filled with a strange and thrilling 
 pleasure. And never in nature nor in 
 man is there anything so dark and dis- 
 tressful but there is something to relieve 
 it. But that something will not be per- 
 ceived unless it is by a mind that is 
 large and comprehensive, — schooled in 
 religion, schooled in philosophy and 
 faith, and touched with the beautiful- 
 ness of a nature divine and hopeful and 
 triumphant. 
 
 III. Let me detain you, gentlemen, 
 a few moments longer, with one or two 
 remarks, appropriate I think not merely 
 
 to this occasion, but the particular 
 object of your Association. And let 
 me add, that these remarks will still 
 fall in with the general tenor of this 
 lecture. 
 
 For, if I have rightly set forth the 
 essential identity of all the fine arts, it 
 will follow that the arts of design 
 demand to be fostered for as good 
 reason as literature, poetry, or music. 
 They have their place in the same great 
 work of cultivating the public mind, 
 refining its taste, elevating its moral 
 feeling, and promoting its highest hap- 
 piness. Painting is the poetry of visi- 
 ble form, color, and expression. The 
 graver can set forth a high moral lesson 
 as well as the pen ; I need only point 
 you for proof to the wonderful creations 
 of Retsch. That leering Devil in the 
 " Game of Life : " that poor youth, so 
 beautiful, so anxious, so sad, so irreso- 
 lute, so fated, — ah ! many a youth 
 might have sat for that picture ; and 
 many a wily and treacherous demon has 
 been near, and played the game, and 
 won it ! 
 
 This Association, too, is formed to 
 foster native art. 1 hope you do not 
 say patronize it ; for I must confess that 
 / do not like to be patronized, and I do 
 not believe that anybody else does. 
 But the design is to benefit ourselves, 
 by spreading among us the works of our 
 own artists. Well do they deserve it ; 
 and I hope the time will come wlien our 
 church walls will be opened to them. 
 So well do they deserve it that I will 
 not dishonor them by comparing their 
 claims with those of the refuse stuff that 
 comes over in shiploads from Europe ; 
 though there be, as we are told in the 
 advertisements, real original Raphaels, 
 Titians, Guidos, and Salvator Rosas, in 
 every one of these wonderful collections. 
 
 But grant, it may be said, that painting 
 should be fostered as well as literature, 
 as well as poetry and song, — why not let 
 it take its chance with the rest? Why 
 form an association to further its objects.' 
 This objection overlooks one material 
 difference. The book, when it is written, 
 
THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART. 
 
 317 
 
 is printed. That work of art is multi- 
 plied into thousands of copies, which 
 easily come within the reach of all who 
 choose to read. It is not so with the 
 painting. It is too expensive for the 
 most of us to buy. What tlien so proper 
 as a joint-stock company like this, to 
 trade for pictures, something better than 
 furs from the Northwest coast, or pearls 
 from Ceylon : a lottery, the only good one 
 that I ever heard of, where for five dol- 
 lars one may draw a prize worth five hun- 
 dred, — worth far more in the pleasure it 
 will give. Five hundred are often spent 
 for a dinner, a supper, an entertainment, 
 whose pleasure passes and perishes in a 
 night ; while a picture may, in a far 
 higher way, please us, and our children 
 after us, hundreds of years. Nor in any 
 other way can pictures be distributed 
 among the mass of the people. But for 
 this they must be locked up from the 
 public in the dwellings of the opulent. 
 A similar institution in Edinburgh is 
 spreading fine paintings all over Scot- 
 land. One such painting in a country 
 village is a blessing to all its inhabitants. 
 It is more a curiosity there: it is more 
 looked at and studied. A few such teach- 
 ers in a village would spread an influence 
 all around them. They would speak 
 from the silent walls to passing genera- 
 tions. It may be thouglit extravagant to 
 say it; but I certainly sliould look for a 
 higher taste and refinement in such a 
 place. 
 
 And of what especially would paint- 
 ings be teachers ? I answer, of what in 
 this country we most especially need. 
 They would be teachers of the beau ideal^ 
 the beautiful, the sublime. This is the 
 special province of the arts of design. 
 Although they labor under some diflficul- 
 ties and defects compared with writing, 
 yet they certainly can portray a beauty, 
 a sublimity, which the pen cannot ; or, at 
 any rate, they appeal more directly, and 
 by means more appropriate, to the sense 
 of beauty and grandeur. Now, this ap- 
 peal, I repeat, is precisely what our coun- 
 try wants, both as a new and as a republi- . 
 can country. In the one character, it has 
 
 no time-honored structures, no old ruins, 
 and fewer venerable associations, to ad- 
 dress the eye and the heart ; in the 
 other, it has parted with many titles to 
 respect and reverence, be they right or 
 wrong, — monarchy, a court, a nobility. 
 By all means are enthusiasm and vener- 
 ation to be cultivated here. We want 
 them to meet the all-surrounding, every- 
 wiiere-penetrating tendencies to the prac- 
 tical and the palpable, which, like our 
 railroads, are binding the country in 
 chains of iron ; we want such aid to 
 lighten the painstaking of gain, and to 
 assuage the anxieties of ambition. 
 
 I do not set myself against the practi- 
 cal spirit of the country, nor its gainful 
 industry; it is all very well in its place ; 
 I only say that it needs to be modified 
 by the infusion of other principles, and 
 that it is by such united influences only 
 that we can expect to lay the foundation 
 and build the superstructure of a deep 
 and solid, a fair and beautiful, national 
 character. Let religion, let preaching, 
 let literature, come with its help to this 
 work ; and let art, too, come, with its 
 wonder-working and wonder-inspiring 
 hand. Let the sense of beauty be en- 
 shrined in the heart of the people. I 
 would rather that one silent, calm pic- 
 ture of martyr-like heroism, or of saintly 
 beauty, sunk into the public heart here, 
 than to know of some great and agitating 
 speculation which had put a million of 
 gold into the public coflfer. 
 
 The artist has in this country, — which 
 so much needs him, — I believe, a glo- 
 rious field. He has not princes, indeed, 
 for his patrons ; but he has a public 
 of educated, intelligent, and increasing 
 millions. Let him not distrust it ; let 
 him not be wanting, and I promise him, 
 that we will not be wanting. The hu- 
 man heart is forever the same ; the same 
 now that it was in the days of Vinci 
 and Raphael. Let him not think that 
 it is turned to stone. Or, if he thinks 
 so, let him try it once ; let him strike 
 it with the rod of genius, and if it is 
 not dead, — and it is not dead, — the 
 waters will flow, and they will fertilize 
 
MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 and beautify the land in which he lives 
 and in which he shall die ; die, and yet 
 die not : for no noble deed shall be 
 planted in the quickened and springing 
 life of this youthful country, but green 
 bays and bright flowers shall rise from 
 it, and flourish around it, in perpetual 
 and everlastine memorial. 
 
 XVIL 
 
 ON THE MORAL CHARACTER 
 OF GOVERNMENT. 
 
 Romans xiii. 4 : " For it is the minister of God to 
 thee for good." 
 
 This is said of poHtical Government. 
 And I wish to invite your meditations 
 this evening, my brethren, to the moral 
 character of this great function of Gov- 
 ernment. I have long thought that this 
 subject demands the attention of the 
 pulpit, and especially of the American 
 pulpit. 
 
 Of the pulpit, I say, in the first place, 
 and of the pulpit everywhere ; for what 
 is the office of the preacher, if it is not 
 to speak of everything that touches the 
 national conscience, tlie national moral- 
 ity ; to speak, among other things, of 
 that regard to the commonweal which 
 should come as the sanctity and bond 
 of religion to a people ? I do not ad- 
 vocate a partisan pulpit. 1 think that 
 the line should be distinctly drawn 
 between party questions and the gen- 
 eral moral questions ; and that with 
 the former the pulpit has nothing to 
 do. The preacher, indeed, has a right 
 to his opinion upon these questions, 
 and he has a right to express it in 
 proper places and at proper times. But 
 the season of public worship is not the 
 time, and the pulpit is not the place ; 
 for this plain reason, that all poHtical 
 parties meet here on ground that is 
 understood to be common, and all have 
 built up the pulpit for their common 
 edification, and not as a post for attack 
 upon any ; and I must think that he 
 
 very ill understands his place who em- 
 ploys it to drive away eithe;- portion 
 of his hearers, indignant and angry, 
 from the sanctuary. But with regard 
 to the moral function of Government, 
 with regard to its fidelity to the people 
 and its duty to God, the case is diflfer- 
 ent. And if rehgious instruction, — so 
 to define the province of the pulpit. — 
 if religion, in other words, has anything 
 to do with right and wrong, the case is 
 plain. For what power in the world can 
 do right or can do wrong upon a scale 
 so vast and stupendous as the Govern- 
 ment r Wiiere is there such an accu- 
 mulation of moral actions and respon- 
 sibilities as in the Government .'' What 
 hand upon earth so holds in its grasp the 
 weal or woe of millions living and of mill- 
 ions unborn as the Government .'' 
 
 And to consider ail this, I say, in the 
 next place, is especially the duty of the 
 American pulpit. Because the whole 
 people here to whom the pulpit speaks, 
 acts, morally or immorally, through the 
 Government. I do not loosely say that 
 the people is the Government, or that 
 " the people 7/iakes the Government."' 
 We are born under a certain political 
 Constitution. We are born members of 
 a State ; that was not for us to choose 
 or to make ; and we are bound to be 
 in subjection to the powers that be, I 
 conceive, by considerations far superior 
 to our mere will. Our form of Govern- 
 ment is a fabric of power framed by 
 the wisdom, and cemented in the blood, 
 of our fathers ; it spreads its protecting 
 shadow over millions of people ; and 
 unless some flagrant cause is shown for 
 its subversion, unless some "right of 
 revolution " can be made out, obedience 
 to it, I hold to be a religious duty, — a 
 duty to the God of nations, to the Gov- 
 ernor of the world. But this state of 
 things being establislied, we have yet 
 something to do with it. To the admin- 
 istration of this power, we, the people, 
 the whole people, do directly contrib- 
 ute : to the right or wrong, then, which 
 the Government does, to the good or 
 the evil which it brings upon us and will 
 
THE MORAL CHARACTER OF G0VERNM1?NT. 
 
 319 
 
 bring upon our posterit}', we contrib- 
 ute. We hold this great trust, and 
 must discharge it. The burden is upon 
 us, and we cannot escape it. We do 
 and must put forth this tremendous 
 power. Rightly or wrongly, faithfully 
 or unfaithfully, carelessly or solemnly, 
 we do this thing. And it is the bound- 
 en duty of the pulpit to bring down 
 this awful responsibility upon the con- 
 science of the whole people. 1 cannot 
 sufficiently express my amazement or 
 my regret that the pulpit should have 
 been so long, so completely, so almost 
 universally, wanting to this duty. 
 
 The subject of political morality is 
 not only one which it belongs to us, 
 but one which it deeply behoves us, 
 to consider ; and to consider, I am 
 afraid we must say, with some anxiety. 
 The question about the national moral- 
 ity, in every branch of it, is one, in 
 every view, of profound concern. An 
 immense interest for ourselves, an im- 
 mense interest for the world, is em- 
 barked upon the experiment we are 
 making at self-government. But self- 
 government ? The very word directs 
 us to morality, to moral restraint, to 
 conscience as the basis without which 
 everything must sink to ruins. We 
 may point to what material results in 
 this country we will, to what rising 
 cities, to what increasing commerce, to 
 what improving and extending manu- 
 factures, and vast tillage and stupen- 
 dous growth of the national wealth ; 
 but, if we are declining in morals ; if 
 we are becoming less virtuous and re- 
 ligious people ; if corruption is silently 
 stealing into the midst of our prosperity, 
 — we know that a canker is at the root, 
 which must erelong bring down all our 
 flourishing honors to the dust. Nay, 
 our very flourishing, could it continue 
 without moral culture, were but a misery 
 and a shame. Nations must be nurse- 
 ries of 7nen ; national growth must pro- 
 duce noble men, and ever nobler men, 
 or the grand purpose of national exist- 
 ence is frustrated. Now, I do not look 
 with discouragement upon our people 
 
 in this view. I see evils and dangers ; 
 but I do not see a general tendency 
 downward. A deep sense of these 
 evils and dangers, a habit common to 
 all ages of disparaging the present in 
 comparison with the past, and a certain 
 zeal in some for rapid and sweeping re- 
 forms, are uniting with foreign criticism 
 and censure to decry this country ; but 
 I cannot agree with the one or the other. 
 I stand up firmly for my country, be- 
 cause 1 can do it conscientiously. I 
 have personally compared it with other 
 countries, and 1 am satisfied that in 
 general virtue it is, to say the least, 
 inferior to none. I sincerel}' believe, 
 too, that the moral sentiment of this 
 country is improving. It is manifest 
 that several prominent vices — intem- 
 perance, gaming, profaneness — are not 
 gainingground but are decreasing among 
 us, and have been for a number of years. 
 We must not look, in this matter, at cer- 
 tain masses of foreign pauper popula- 
 tion in our cities, nor in general at the 
 cities alone, but at the whole country. 
 And yet, after all, I must say, there is 
 a doubt, and more than a doubt, in my 
 mind, on one point ; and that is about 
 our political morality. Not, however, 
 that I believe even on this point the 
 body of the people to be less pure. 
 Certainly their party animosities are not 
 so bitter as they were twenty and thirty 
 years ago : they do not divide families 
 and neighborhoods as they did then. 
 And this is some advance in reflection, 
 in liberality, in good temper, — some ele- 
 vation of the public mind. It is into 
 the action of the Government, I con- 
 ceive, that corruption has entered. And 
 it has entered in no doubtful or equivo- 
 cal form. Tliis is the terrible principle 
 that has come to be recognized in the 
 results of every election : that the suc- 
 cessful party is to take all the offices; 
 that " to the victors " — thus grossly to 
 state, by a common phrase, the most 
 corrupting, the most fatal, the most de- 
 testable principle that ever entered into 
 politics — that ''to the victors belong 
 the spoils ! '' Spoils ! The high func- 
 
320 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 tion of public duty ; the solemn respon- 
 sibility of administering the Law ; the 
 sacred investiture with the powers and 
 attributes of sovereignty, — consecrated 
 by pledges to men, and oaths to Heaven, 
 — these are denominated " spoils " ! 
 To whom belongs the "bad eminence" 
 of introducing this principle is not ma- 
 terial ; for it seems to have become the 
 practice of the Government. But stand- 
 ing as I do in the pulpit, in what ought 
 to be one of the moral heights of the 
 world, I cannot do otherwise than pro- 
 claim the hatefulness and turpitude and 
 terrible effects of the principle. It 
 strikes at the moral independence of 
 the people. It turns our elections into 
 mere scrambles for office. Our repre- 
 sentative system, so far as this principle 
 acts, ceases to be the representation 
 either of minds, or even of material in- 
 terests ; personal ambition, personal 
 needs, desperate fortunes, only are rep- 
 resented. It mingles in the necessary 
 and otherwise wholesome division of 
 parties the basest elements of interest. 
 It creates an obligation, a bondage, to 
 party support and to party dictation un- 
 known before. " I have labored in the 
 election ; I have the reward ; it is a 
 bargain ; and I am bound hand and 
 foot," — this is the appropriate language 
 of the principle. It tends to make the 
 whole political action of the country 
 " mesmeric," as I lately heard it char- 
 acterized by a distinguished statesman ; 
 for it divests individual minds of their 
 proper, personal freedom, and subjects 
 them to the mesmerizer, — the caucus, 
 the party. He might have added, that 
 the caucus is the galvanic battery, and 
 nominations are the wires that convey 
 the influence, which is to strike the suc- 
 cessful candidates with palsy, or to ani- 
 mate them to an irresponsible, galvanic 
 action. I would speak with no inde- 
 corum of men in office. I know that 
 this tendency may be controlled by in- 
 dividual honor and virtue, and is so ; 
 but I say that this is the tendency. 
 
 I repeat, that I would use no indeco- 
 rum, no improper lightness of speech, 
 
 with regard to men in office ; for this, 1 
 conceive, is one of the immoral, the 
 demoralizing and desecrating, liberties 
 of our Republican politics. Under mo- 
 narchical systems the people are accus- 
 tomed to look up with respect, with loyal 
 reverence, to the Government. The sen- 
 timent may have gone too far; but it is 
 a right sentiment, when rightly directed. 
 And the just ground for it is not taken 
 away by our Republican forms. On the 
 contrary, no Government can be so much 
 entitled to respectful treatment as that 
 which has been raised up by free, popu- 
 lar suffrage. To browbeat, to smite 
 upon the face, the image of power which 
 they have erected, is suicidal madness. 
 This plainly is the true theory ; and woe 
 be to the people who find the fair theory 
 overthrown by fact ; who believe that 
 no affection, no consideration, no rever- 
 ence is due to the power that rules among 
 them ! Even then I would treat public 
 office, and those who hold it, with a cer- 
 tain respect. 
 
 This levity, in fact, helps not a little 
 to blind the national conscience to the 
 moral character of the great function of 
 Government. Its proper moral agency 
 few men fairly recognize ; and therefore 
 the control of a just moral criticism is 
 seldom applied to it. It is a sort of 
 blind force, or a conjurer's wand, or an 
 impersonal function, or a curiously de- 
 vised or recklessly working mechanism ; 
 and the actors in it are scarcely regarded 
 as men. It is some prinitim mobile in 
 the terrestrial system ; and as certain 
 visionary thinkers have imagined the 
 heavenly bodies to be moved by super- 
 nal agency, angelic or demoniac, so it is 
 that many seem to think of the earthly 
 system. They scarcely recognize a hu- 
 man intervention in it; the proper agen- 
 cy of human minds and hearts and con- 
 sciences. It is far of6 from them, far 
 above them ; and they see at work demi- 
 gods or demons ; and would be surprised, 
 if they came nearer, to see, instead, a com- 
 pany of toiling, hard-working, often per- 
 plexed, troubled, and anxious men. And 
 in so far as the real human agency is 
 
THE MORAL CHARACTER OF GOVERNMENT. 
 
 321 
 
 seen, yet party spirit distorts the vision 
 and the object. Flattery raises the fa- 
 vorite administration above the level of 
 moral discrimination ; reviling sinks the 
 detested administration below it. Talk 
 of conscience in the Coiiernmeni ; say 
 that a reverence for God ought to pre- 
 side over the Cabinet and the Congress ; 
 demand that the administration shall feel 
 and act as a Christian administration, — 
 men smile at the very idea of it. They 
 have ceased to demand any such thing. 
 Government, in fact, has ceased in their 
 view to be a moral organism. What a 
 tremendous default of the just and right 
 view ! What a terrible omen for the 
 future ! 
 
 Under all these influences, it is not 
 strange that political morality should go 
 down ; that it should sink below all other 
 morality in the country. It is separated 
 from all other morality. The morals of 
 politics, like the morals of war, are cut 
 off from the great code of right and 
 wrong. Political honor is severed from 
 private worth. Honor, reputation, char- 
 acter, are taken into partisan keeping. 
 The party favorite, perhaps, is a bad 
 man. Well, many men, many presses, 
 say so. WMiat of that .^ It is the talk 
 of the hostile party ; nothing else can be 
 expected of it ; it does really vilify good 
 men. Meanwhile his own friends praise 
 him, and that is enough. They gather 
 around him and shield hiin, — as they do 
 no other man, no clergyman, lawyer, or 
 merchant, — shield him, if possible, from 
 his own reproach. And this separation 
 of the morals of party from general mo- 
 rality leads even good men to do that 
 in politics which they would do in no 
 other relation. It is a state of social 
 war, and the ordinary maxims of recti- 
 tude do not apply to it. Fraud must be 
 circumvented by cunning. The political 
 point must be gained at whatever strain 
 upon the moral point. Not only "the 
 country right or wrong," but " the party 
 right or wrong," — this is the law. The 
 latter, in fact, is ordinarily what the for- 
 mer means. For no great country can 
 be honored by successful injustice ; the 
 
 21 
 
 country wrong is a country dishonored. 
 But the party is such a thing that it may 
 in its own view, often gain honor simj^ly 
 by winning ; since, as things are ordi- 
 narily construed, its whole aim, end. life, 
 and very being is success. Into such a 
 system bribery, corruption, selfishness, 
 easily enter to build up the Government ; 
 and that which should stand as the great 
 and majestic image of Right, before the 
 people, becomes too often, instead, like 
 one of those idols of savage worship which 
 is honored and caressed, indeed, if it is 
 favorable, but, if not, is beaten with in- 
 sane fury, and trampled into dishonor 
 and ignominy. 
 
 I tremble when I use such language as 
 this. I hasten to say tiiat this is no just 
 idea of a Government. If I could strip 
 off this distorting mask from the great 
 image of power; if I could show that 
 Government is a moral being ; if I could 
 make it appear, that, whether acting 
 rightly or wrongly, it is an intensely 
 moral function, — I should feel that I 
 had not spoken in vain. 
 
 What, then, is the Government .'' 
 What ought it to think of its function, 
 and of the place it holds in human 
 affairs } What does it do ? 
 
 In answering these questions let me 
 plainly detach myself from that great 
 bond and chain of conventional usage 
 which is forever binding us down to 
 base acquiescence in existing evils, and 
 which prevents us from seeing the nobler 
 and better way. I dismiss fromrny mind, 
 then, all respects of custom, all sugges- 
 tions of low and temporary expediency, 
 all pleadings of party interest ; and I 
 ask what, in the light of reason and con- 
 science, — what as before the just God 
 and before all wise men, — is a Govern- 
 ment, and what should it be? Say, if 
 you please, that I am visionary ; say 
 that it is idle to lift up any high ideal of 
 this dread attribute of sovereignty, — I 
 do not think it is idle ; but at any rate 
 let me pursue out my own thought, and 
 it shall be for those who hear me to 
 say whether it engages their assent. 
 Government, then, is a trust. Let 
 
322 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 me endeavor to accumulate upon that 
 word its whole meaning. Government is 
 a trust. Whether by hereditary descent 
 as from God, — for I leave out of the 
 question the case of the military usurper, 
 
 — whether by election as from the people, 
 
 — Government is a trust. It is this es- 
 pecially, emphatically, supremely; above 
 all things else that it is, it is this. All its 
 public domain and property, its finances, 
 its army and navy, its legislative, judicial, 
 and executive functions, all its power 
 in every form, is a trust, and nothing but 
 a trust. No man can say, " it is a prop- 
 erty, it is a prerogative oi mine, derived 
 from nature or from my own will to gov- 
 ern millions of people." Whether he 
 be king or president, whether it be Con- 
 gress or Parliament, it is the consent 
 of the people that places them in their 
 seats and holds them there. 
 
 Nor is it any less a trust because it 
 springs from the very nature and neces- 
 sity of things, — springs. I may say, from 
 the will of God. When God ordained 
 that a country, or tract of country, 
 should be occupied by a multitude of 
 people, he as certainly ordained, as a 
 thing necessary to its safety and well- 
 being, tliat the regulation and care of its 
 interests should be committed to a few. 
 That is to say. Government of some 
 kind is as much an ordinance as nation- 
 ality. For all the people of a country 
 cannot come together to make laws, ar- 
 range public measures, and confer with 
 foreign nations ; and they must, there- 
 fore, have a head. All the people of a 
 district cannot exercise such public func- 
 tions ; they must, therefore, choose a 
 representative. The head, the repre- 
 sentative, has committed to him the gen- 
 eral interest simply in trust. 
 
 But what is a trust ? What does it 
 imply ? What does it mean ? What is 
 the essence of it.-" In its very essence 
 ■it is moral. It implies a duty ; it appeals 
 ■to a conscience ; it must answer to a 
 •God above ! It is holden of God and 
 man for the public weal. If a trust- 
 company is responsible for the faithful 
 discharge of its duties, so is a trust- 
 
 Government responsible. It is a trustee, 
 as much as if the taking and accounting 
 for money were its sole office. And for 
 what is it a trustee ? For the welfare 
 of millions; for all that which touches, 
 in its action, their joys or their sorrows, 
 their business or pleasure, their wealth 
 or poverty, their weal or woe. What 
 private interest or party dictation can 
 break this bond of duty to the whole 
 people ? Though a party succeed in 
 seating itself in the place of power, yet 
 from that moment it should cease to be 
 a party, and should act for the whole 
 nation. The representative system rec- 
 ognizes parties, indeed ; but it does not 
 recognize a party Government. No sane 
 people, in its political compact, ever 
 meant that such a monstrous thing 
 should exist. If any measure presents 
 itself of which the acting Government 
 is obliged to say, "This would help 
 the party that placed us in power, but 
 would be bad for the country," it is 
 bound by its position, as intrusted with 
 the common welfare, to reject that meas- 
 ure. If this is not the actnai political 
 morality, it is nevertheless the //'t/^ po- 
 litical morality. 
 
 But a trust, a moral trust, I still say, 
 what is it ? And I answer more em- 
 phatically, it is a bond upon the con- 
 science. It is a bond to fidelity stronger 
 than any other. I may not do what I 
 will with my own unrestrained by con- 
 science ; but surely, and doubly true is 
 it, that I may not do what I will with 
 another's. T may refuse to take such 
 trust ; but if I accept, I must discharge 
 it. From the moment I take it, I am 
 bound to those from whom I receive it, 
 and I am bound to Heaven. The Gov- 
 ernment of a nation, the greatest trustee- 
 ship in the world, is bound by solem- 
 nities of office and of oath to the God of 
 nations. And he who, invested with 
 such a function, has not arrived at this 
 view of it, has yet to learn what are 
 the first principles of the doctrine of 
 Government. 
 
 My brethren, this is not a small mat- 
 ter, nor a matter improper for our con- 
 
THE MORAL CHARACTER OF GOVERNMENT. 
 
 Z^l 
 
 sideration in the house of God, nor a 
 matter impertinent to us. We elect 
 men to oftice. W'e influence them by 
 our very idea of what they should be. 
 A high ideal must always go before 
 high action. Every man and woman 
 may thus make a lofty contribution to 
 lofty ends. Let me create in this whole 
 people a high and sacred sentiment and 
 sense of what a Government ought to 
 be, and I will lift up a power which no 
 Government can resist. The world, I 
 trust, is beginning to look into this mat- 
 ter as it never did before. And it is high 
 time ; for it has precious interests at 
 stake, and the duty has been too long 
 neglected. This idea of Government, 
 which history itself has too much coun- 
 tenanced, — that it is a high game of 
 ambition to be played out for the pleas- 
 ure or interest of a few, — that its seat 
 is a lofty stage for men to play such 
 tricks upon before high heaven as make 
 the angels weep, and men beneath to 
 groan in bitterness and sorrow, — and 
 that this is all that can be expected of a 
 Government, — could there be anything 
 more monstrous to the eye of truth and 
 reason, more offensive to Heaven, more 
 demoralizing to the world than this ? De- 
 moralizing, I say; for the highest visible 
 power in the world, like a lofty tower, 
 is seen and marked of all men, and is 
 surrounded with splendor. And an evil 
 example from that height will fall with 
 tenfold crushing weight upon the people. 
 In sovereignty there is a kindof sanc- 
 titude ; there is a divinity that doth hedge 
 about even a bad king; and when the 
 throne of power, or the highest seat of 
 magistracy, is regarded but as a place 
 for the intrigues of ambition or interest, 
 it is a desecration such as if the pulpit 
 were turned into a huckster's booth, or 
 the sacred ermine of justice were dragged 
 in the mire like a beggar's rags. 
 
 No, my brethren, we must not be 
 silent. We must take up this matter. 
 We must think of it. We have all an 
 interest in holding up high the idea of 
 Government, in demanding of it fidelity 
 to its trust, in demanding of it justice ; 
 
 and should I not say, the nobleness, the 
 grandest embodiment of justice. It is 
 not a mere mercantile justice that is 
 high enougli for a state. It is not to be 
 just as a trader, who will not repudiate 
 his debts if he can pay them ; though 
 this is a kind of justice that is to be 
 urged, and, thank God, /las been suc- 
 cessfully urged, upon more than one of 
 our own States ; but the sovereignty of 
 a great people should be noble, magna- 
 nimous, beneficent ; it should be tem- 
 perate, dispassionate, grave ; it should 
 be too great for resentment, too high for 
 selfishness, too majestic to do wrong ; 
 it should respect the rights and inter- 
 ests, not of its own subjects only, but 
 also of other nations, and especially of 
 weaker nations. A single man may 
 find it hard to be just to rivals and 
 enemies; but the collective power of a 
 great people should not find it hard. 
 It should take the noble part among the 
 nations. The petty passions of men 
 have no place in it. The brow of maj- 
 esty should be calm ; and its hands 
 should be stretched out to the widest 
 comprehension of the great interests of 
 humanity. And as the migiity heart 
 of the system, it should beat to the 
 noblest emotions that the collective jus- 
 tice, honor, and conscience of humanity, 
 and all mankind, can pour into it. 
 
 But all this which I have been saying 
 is enforced by another and, if possible, 
 still stronger reason. For what does a 
 Government do? Is it to the people a 
 negative and indifferent function 1 Is 
 it a piece of mechanism away up in 
 the sky, with which people have nothing 
 to do but to gaze at it ? No ; it is not. 
 It is here ; it is among us. It is a 
 power that is felt in our daily life. It 
 gives us business, it gives us bread, 
 or withholds them ; it is a mechanism 
 that touches the fortunes of every family, 
 of every individual. Every turn of 
 every wheel in it is as a wheel of the 
 rack inflicting pain, or as the revolving 
 orbs of heaven shedding light and 
 blessing upon the world. 
 
 What is a tariff ? If a hand were 
 
324 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 every day put forth to take sometl-.ing 
 from the granary and the cellar, from 
 tlie kneading-trough and the daily board, 
 that would be what a tariff is. Even 
 with the most careful and gradual ad- 
 justment, it affects the comfort of ten 
 thousands of families. With violent 
 changes, it builds up or plucks down, it 
 settles or scatters, unnumbered house- 
 holds. It is justice or injustice, to the 
 capitalist and the laborer, to the buyer 
 and seller, to the producer and con- 
 sumer. It is justice or injustice to 
 everybody. 
 
 What is legislation ? What is a stat- 
 ute but the very law under which the 
 whole people must walk ? The law 
 professes to enact that which is just 
 and right, and to punish that which is 
 unjust and wrong. It professes to be 
 the definite exposition of that rectitude 
 which the law of God demands. The 
 statute-book is the very Bible of civil 
 life, and in many respects of moral life. 
 The Government stands before us, and 
 says, " Thou shalt do thus and thus ; or 
 if thou wilt not, thou shalt be visited 
 with pains and penalties." Is obedi- 
 ence to it an indifterent thing .'' 
 
 But the Government does more. It 
 makes treaties. And all who sail upon 
 the sea or walk upon the land, are 
 bound by those conventions. Yet more : 
 it makes peace or war. Are these 
 things indifferent ? Are they morally 
 indifferent? I know not what on earth 
 is more awful than is sometimes the 
 incipient step that leads to a long and 
 bloody war. The Government gives 
 a direction ; it is, as it were, but to 
 lift a finger and point ; it is but three 
 lines perhaps, written in a moment, 
 by a mortal hand, — and what follows ? 
 Oh ! who can sum up the horrors and 
 woes that are accumulated in a single 
 war! Let. us not cover them over with 
 blinding military phrases. War comes 
 with its bloody hand into our very 
 dwellings. It takes from thousands 
 and ten thousands of homes those who 
 were abiding there in peace and comfort, 
 around whom were thrown the tender 
 
 ties of family and kindred. It carries 
 them away to die of exposure and fever, 
 untended. in infectious climes, or to 
 stand up in the fierce fight, — to be 
 hacked and mangled and torn in pieces ; 
 to sink on the gory field from which 
 they shall rise no more, or to be borne 
 away, writhing with agony, to noisome 
 and infectious hospitals. Nor is this 
 all. The groans of the battle-field are 
 echoed in sighs of bereavement from 
 thousands of desolated hearths. Or if 
 the soldier returns, perhaps he brings 
 worse sorrow to his home by the infec- 
 tion, which he has caught, of camp 
 vices. The country is demoralized. 
 The whole national mind perhaps is 
 brought down from the noble inter- 
 change of kind offices with another 
 people, to wrath and revenge, and base 
 pride, and the habit of measuring brute 
 strength with brute strength, — for that 
 is mainly what a battle is. The lan- 
 guage of the victorious country is, " We 
 have beat them ; we have whipped 
 them," — the very language of a bully. 
 The wasted treasure, as well as wasted 
 morals, is not indifferent. Enough is 
 often expended in a war to build ten 
 thousand churches, hospitals, universi- 
 ties, or to construct railroads across a 
 continent, or to dry up the tears of a 
 nation's sorrow, like Ireland's. If this 
 treasure were only sunk in the sea, it 
 were a great calamity ; but it is ex- 
 pended in cutting into the veins and 
 arteries of human life, till they deluge 
 the earth with a sea of blood. 
 
 And all this, I repeat, is done by 
 Governments ; by the pointed finger of 
 that awful power ; by three lines written 
 witii its hand. Should not all those 
 who take such a tremendous responsi- 
 bility, and all those who vote supplies, 
 fall upon their knees before God and 
 ask for light and guidance ? Should 
 not the conscience of the whole people, 
 and the cries of suffering humanity, and 
 the tears of widows and orphans, rise 
 up and call upon all rulers, and legisla- 
 tors to cast away all passion and pride, 
 and to address themselves to the most 
 
THE MORAL CHARACTER OF GOVERNMENT. 
 
 3^5 
 
 solemn and religious thought of their 
 duties and responsibilities ? May not a 
 suffering and sorrowing world point them 
 to the great audit, — the answer to God ? 
 And ought not this dread ministry of 
 Government to stand before us in a new 
 and more solemn light ? Ought it not 
 to weigh upon the heart with tiie Imrden 
 of an empire's welfare, and bow down the 
 head with awe before the God of nations? 
 When the death of Louis XV. was an- 
 nounced in the Court of France, the 
 young dauphin and his wife, Louis XV L 
 and Marie Antoinette, amidst all-sur- 
 rounding agitation, and while congratu- 
 lations were ready to be poured out 
 upon them, burst into tears, fell upon 
 their knees and exclaimed, " O God, 
 aid us, protect us ; we reign too soon ! " 
 Fit investiture with the awfulness of 
 sovereignty ! Fit modesty ! Yes, they 
 reigned too soon. The awful days that 
 came, and to which they were unequal, 
 their own mournful end, proclaimed that 
 they reigned too soon. Why shall men 
 grasp after power ? Why, as in pure 
 and pristine ages, shall they not shrink 
 from it with awe, or enter upon it with 
 modesty and prayer ? It is, I fear, be- 
 cause sanctity has gone out from power, 
 and it is regarded as a mere worldly 
 instrument for worldly ends. It is, I 
 fear, because it has lost its moral ven- 
 erableness. I dread lest it be found true 
 that the people have taken it in hand 
 only to handle it too familiarly, too 
 rudely ; only to divest its lofty seats of 
 their sacredness, and its solemn halls 
 of debate of their dignity. If it be so or 
 if there be any tendency of this kind 
 amidst the freedom and the swaying to 
 and fro of public opinion, then must all 
 the conscience that is left in the world 
 come to the rescue; then must the pul- 
 pit come to the rescue ; and well may 
 the priests, the ministers of the Lord, 
 weep between the porch and the altar, 
 and say, " Spare thy people, O Lord, 
 and give not thine heritage to reproach." 
 We have swept away the throne and the 
 sceptre and the crown : those prescrip- 
 
 tive tiJes to the homage of mankind are 
 gone from among us. Then must we 
 set up the throne of justice here, and. 
 the sceptre of our power must be right' 
 eousness, and tlie crown of our Republi- 
 can majesty must be the lowly fear of 
 God! 
 
 It is a stupendous, it is an awful, 
 movement in human affairs, — this ten- 
 dency of the age to popular forms of 
 government. This tide in the affairs of 
 men, — it is evident that the civilized 
 world is embarked upon it ; and it is roll- 
 ing on to the dark and unknown future. 
 What is to be the end of these things we 
 know not ; though for myself I am one 
 of those who hope well of the result. 
 But one thing is certain. As surely as 
 there is a just God who governs the 
 world, as surely as all history gives true 
 augury, so sure it is that injustice and 
 corruption shall not, shall never thrive 
 in human affairs. If popular govern- 
 ments cannot be made pure ; if the ma- 
 jestic dominion of the people that is now 
 rising in the world, is only to spread it- 
 self over disorder and licentiousness like 
 that before the flood, then shall another 
 flood come, and with other tokens ; 
 then shall the great deep of society be 
 broken up, and the windows of heaven's 
 displeasure shall be opened ; and a base 
 and irreverent and corrupt world shall 
 be swept away, to prepare for some new 
 creation. 
 
 My brethren, bear with me one mo- 
 ment longer. We must think of these 
 things ! The whole people must think 
 of them ! We, the people, contribute 
 to make the Government what it is. 
 We are not the Government ; we do not 
 wield that power : but we give it its 
 moral character ; we impart to it its 
 wisdom or folly, its violence or modera- 
 tion, its spirit of justice and patriotism, 
 or o\ injustice and party animosity. We 
 elect the men who shall administer the 
 Government ; and the spirit m which 
 we choose them is the spirit in which 
 they will govern. And I do earnetly 
 say, again and again, we must think, we 
 
326 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 the people must think, of all this. We 
 must reform our careless ways of think- 
 ing on this subject. We must take up 
 a new idea of the solemn- and majestic 
 function of Government. We must take 
 up a new idea of our duties. Grave and 
 thoughtful must be the steps that lead us 
 to the ballot. We must remember that 
 we are putting forth a hand there that 
 is to touch the weal or woe of millions 
 of people, and of the future generations. 
 If we choose for office bad men, be their 
 politics what they may ; if we choose 
 reckless, headstrong, violent, unprin- 
 cipled men ; if we choose for a nation's 
 guidance men whom we would not trust 
 with our private affairs, — men to hold 
 the reins of the supreme rule whom we 
 would not trust to hold the strings of 
 our private purse, — what can we expect 
 but the displeasure of the just God, 
 and the reproach of all just men 1 Who 
 shall care for our fate, if we thus sport 
 with it ? Who will pity us in the day 
 of our calamity ? Nobody. We shall 
 be the world's wonder and the world's 
 scorn for our folly and guilt. 
 
 No, PEOPLE of America ! the burden 
 is upon you. The burden of the future 
 is upon you. If you fail, heaven and 
 earth will make inquisition for your 
 negligence and recklessness, — for never 
 was people so favored. Favored and 
 fortunate thus far ; but if ever the dark 
 days shall come, — which Keaven for- 
 bid ! — if ever disunion and anarchy shall 
 overspread this land ; if ever its fair 
 borders shall "shine o'er with civil 
 swords," and be covered with blood 
 and carnage, — then shall its desolated 
 dwellings make inquisition of you, of 
 your pulpits, of your people. Then 
 will God demand of you, and say, " Ah, 
 sinful nation ! a seed of evil-doers ! 
 children that are corrupters ! ye have 
 forsaken the Lord, ye have provoked the 
 Holy One to anger ; your country is des- 
 olate ; your cities are burned with fire ; 
 your land, strangers devour it in your 
 presence ; and it is desolate as over- 
 thrown by strangers ! " 
 
 XVIIL 
 THE SLAVERY QUESTION. 
 
 Hebrews xiii. 3 :" Remember them that are in 
 bonds." 
 
 I PROPOSE to offer some remarks, 
 this evening, on the Slavery question. 
 It is a question of humanity, and by 
 that claim they that are in bonds are 
 always to be remembered It is one of 
 the great moral questions of the day, 
 and proper at all times to be discussed. 
 But I think it must have been pressed 
 upon our attention in an especial man- 
 ner during the past winter, by the de- 
 bates upon it that have agitated the 
 National Legislature. It has really been, 
 next to the Mexican War, the great 
 question of the session, and, in point 
 of actual interest, greater than that. 
 It is a matter of great moral interest 
 to us, and to every one of us ; because 
 we have, or shall have, duties to dis- 
 charge in regard to it of the highest 
 possible moment. 
 
 For it has become apparent, I think, 
 that the whole North will take a stand 
 in regard to the extension of slavery, 
 that must give to the question a new 
 and very solemn importance. The sla- 
 very question is fast becoming the great 
 trial question in this country ; the ques- 
 tion on which its politics, its peace, 
 perhaps its union, depends. For myself, 
 I cannot look without apprehension to 
 the discussion and the legislative action 
 to which I see that this question is to 
 be subjected. I cannot altogether sym- 
 pathize with the tone of nonchalance 
 with which some of our Northern and 
 Western men say to the South, "You 
 cannot, and you dare not, break off 
 from us." When I have listened to 
 the men of the South on this subject ; 
 when I have heard them on the floor 
 of Congress pledge conscience, honor, 
 and life to withstand the evidently and 
 equally fixed purpose of the North, I 
 have seen passion indeed, but it seemed 
 to me a passion of the deepest sin- 
 cerity and determination. It is said, 
 
THE SLAVERY QUESTION. 
 
 327 
 
 I know, that interest, palpable and 
 pressing interest, must keep us together. 
 I answer that the bonds of interest 
 have been a thousand times broken 
 by the force of passion ; that it is in- 
 temperate passion which we have to fear; 
 and that there seems to be enough of 
 this in the case to awaken the serious 
 concern of all thoughtful men. I would 
 do no injustice to the men of the South. 
 It is not passion alone, I know, that 
 animates them ; but it is apparently 
 t.ie deepest sense of wrong meditated 
 against them, as they conceive, in the 
 fixed determination of the North to 
 forbid all further extension of their 
 system. 
 
 During the last winter I have en- 
 tered a little within the borders of the 
 slave-system ; I have conversed with 
 some of the ablest and wisest men of 
 the South on the subject ; and I have 
 come to entertain the conviction, that 
 we of the North ought to know them 
 and their system better than we do, to 
 render full justice to either. When Mr. 
 Quinet, the celebrated Parisian profes- 
 sor, proposed to write a book on Ultra- 
 Montanism, — i. e. the highest Roman 
 Catholic pretensions, — he determined, 
 as he tells us, though living in a Cath- 
 olic country, to go to Spain, where that 
 system exists in its fullest vigor, and 
 to study it there. And so do I conceive 
 that he who would write upon the slave- 
 system should go to the very field on 
 which its character is fully displayed. 
 He cannot know either the good or tlie 
 evil of it, — either the qualified good or 
 the positive evil, — without seeing it. 
 I do not say that it is necessary to take 
 a journey to South Carolina or Louisi- 
 ana to decide that slavery is abstractly 
 wrong, — that it was wrong originally 
 to bring men into that condition. Few 
 question this, whether at the North or 
 South. But to determine what can be 
 done, what ought to be done, what is 
 best to be done, — this requires a care- 
 ful eye-witnessing study of the system, 
 in its actual condition and complicated 
 relations. The Southern men complain 
 
 that we of the North are dealing with 
 abstractions ; that we do not understand 
 the case ; that we are mistaking names 
 for things, and pictures of the imagina- 
 tion for realities I admit that some- 
 thing of this is likel}' enough to be true. 
 I have long since come to be convinced 
 that we thoroughly know nothing but 
 what we experience and see. I admit 
 the force of all this ; but I might re- 
 mind our brethren of the South that it 
 has a double application. For, I must 
 say, neither do they seem to understand 
 lis. They seem to think it is all pas- 
 sion and fanaticism with us at the 
 North. I have thought it very remark- 
 able that they do not appear to know, , 
 to recognize, the moral difficulties which 
 we have with the subject ; the diffi- 
 culties not of fanatics, not of men who 
 are bestirring themselves in this matter 
 because they can't keep still about any- 
 thing ; but of sober and thoughtful men, 
 who sit apart and meditate the question 
 by themselves. For what other, I ask, 
 than a moral interest can we have in 
 the question ? We have no immediate 
 concern with it. What is it, in the 
 name of reason ? what can it be, but a 
 feeling for the right and for humanity 
 that is leading the whole North, and the 
 whole world, in fact, to take the attitude 
 which it is assuming on this subject ? 
 
 It is true, then, that neither party is 
 likely very well to understand the other ; 
 and in the little that I have now to say 
 upon the subject, I will speak with all 
 the care and candor of which I am 
 capable. I will first state the case as I 
 have received it from the lips of South- 
 ern men ; and, next, I will offer what 
 seems to me proper to be said by way 
 of reply. In setting forth their plea, 
 it shall be they who speak. It shall be 
 their fairest, most honorable, and con- 
 scientious plea. I know that base in- 
 terest has its voice there. But there 
 are thoughtful and Christian men in the 
 Southern States, and many such ; and, 
 although I think they are mistaken, I 
 am willing, fairly and calmly, to hear 
 what they say. 
 
328 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 Thus, then, they argue : " We do 
 not defend the original taking of these 
 people from Africa. The horrors of the 
 slave-trade we give up to universal exe- 
 cration. The sin does not lie at our 
 ^oor. But here these people are among 
 us. We found them here when we 
 came into life. We were born into the 
 possession and care of them. What is 
 our duty to them ? — We are wiUing," 
 say the Christian and conscientious men 
 among our brethren there, " to take the 
 highest sense of duty for our guidance. 
 What ought we to do ? We are willing 
 to listen to calm reasoning upon this 
 point. We ask for light. We would 
 not offend against God, nor against the 
 Christian law. What ought we to do ? 
 What does justice demand .-' If any- 
 thing can be pointed out in our relation 
 to these people or our treatment of 
 them that is intrinsically wrong, we 
 will not defend it. Wrongs will be com- 
 viitted in all human relations. Are 
 there no parents among yourselves who 
 are harsh and cruel to their children ? 
 Do you not sometimes hear, as you pass 
 by a dwelling, the cries of a child that is 
 cruelly whipped ? The same thing may 
 be witnessed as you pass by our plan- 
 tations, though we deny that it is co?n- 
 mon. But we do not defend it. You 
 ought not to speak of exceptions, spring- 
 ing from human infirmity and passion, 
 but of the essential relation. And we 
 say in the very outset that you mistake 
 the relation. You call it cruel bondage. 
 We say it is a relation of dependence, 
 of subjection, necessary in the circum- 
 stances to the good of both parties. 
 You say it is the buying and selling of 
 men ; the bartering of immortal souls; 
 the bidding off at auction, and under the 
 hammer, of that which is a spark of the 
 Divinity, the image of God. But we 
 say, that there is in this language much 
 that is figurative. Thoughts, affections, 
 the immortal spark, cannot be bought 
 nor sold. We buy the services of these 
 men for life. That is all we can buy,— 
 the use of bone and sinew. Do you 
 not buy the same when you hire a man 
 
 for a year or a month .'* It is true there 
 is a difference. The party with us does 
 not consent. He does not sell his ser- 
 vices. His will is bowed down to our 
 will. It is true, too, that we buy the 
 service of these men and of their cJiil- 
 dren. And there is compulsion in the 
 case. Abstractl}', it seems a hard meas- 
 ure ; inconsistent with the natural rigiits 
 of a man. We admit it. It is a trying 
 view of the case, we admit. Humane 
 men among us do not sell their slaves, 
 if they can help it. It is an evil inci- 
 dent to the system ; we grant it is an 
 evil ; it is an unwelcome and painful re- 
 sort. Sell my slaves ! " I have heard 
 a Southern man exclaim : " I should 
 almost as soon think of selling my 
 children." 
 
 " Still, however, in any view, here is 
 compulsion; and now we say," — thus 
 proceeds the argument, — " this com- 
 pulsion is necessary, necessary for the 
 welfare of both parties. It is not only 
 true that our fields, in many quarters, 
 cannot be cultivated by any labor but 
 that of the African man, that no other 
 constitutions can bear it ; but is it not 
 equally true that it is best for the Afri- 
 can man that he should labor.'' Is not 
 industry better for /um than idleness } 
 Yet it is perfectly certain that he will 
 not labor but under compulsion. We 
 do not say — but under the whip. That 
 is seldom used ; it is seldom necessary. 
 But we say that he must feel himself 
 laid under necessity to work, or he will 
 not work." 
 
 Give your patience to this plea, my 
 brethren : it is meet that we should 
 hear what our Southern people say. 
 
 " We say " — is their language — 
 " that the African man is naturally 
 indolent, reckless, without foresight, 
 incorrigibly disposed to idling and 
 amusement; unconscious of those stim- 
 ul:\nts of ambition and care for the 
 future that animite the white race. If 
 left free to follow his bent, he will not 
 work. He is not fit, in this respect, 
 to take care of himself. We say that 
 the condition, for ages, of the Africans 
 
THE SLAVERY QUESTION. 
 
 329 
 
 at liome, proves it ; that the experi- 
 ment in Haiti proves it ; and we be- 
 Heve that the same thing is beginning 
 to appear among the emancipated slaves 
 in the West Indies. These people want 
 masters, guides, protectors, providers. 
 They need them as much as little chil- 
 dren need them. If they were left to 
 themselves, to act their pleasure, our 
 whole Southern country would be over- 
 spread with idleness, disorder, vice, and 
 ruin. It would be absolutely unin- 
 habitable. 
 
 " Then, as to the results of the re- 
 lation, we say they are happy, — happier 
 for them than for us. Of the affection 
 subsisting between us and them you 
 seem to have no idea whatever. You 
 seem to suppose that all is severity on 
 one side and suffering on the other. It 
 is a total mistake. We are attached 
 to our people, and they are attached to 
 us. We take care of them in sickness. 
 We care for their children, and the 
 aged and helpless of their females. 
 Provided with food and clothing, and 
 feeling no anxiety for the future, they 
 enjoy life ; their spirits are elastic and 
 free ; the song and the dance are more 
 frequent with them than with any other 
 people ; they are happier and better off 
 than multitudes of the laborers of Eng- 
 land or the peasants of France. 
 
 "In short," say they, whose plea I 
 am setting forth, •' we hold that this is a 
 good relation : the best, at any rate, that 
 the case admits. We hold," say sotne 
 among them, " that it is especially good 
 and desirable in a Republic, where uni- 
 versal competition is elsewhere breeding 
 universal discontent, vexation, and pain ; 
 that it is a relation between races essen- 
 tially distinct, and of which the 6ne is 
 essentially inferior, and will be so for- 
 ever ; and therefore we look upon the 
 relation as one that ought to be perma- 
 nent ; that is destined, if undisturbed by 
 fanatical interference, to last as long as 
 the country lasts." 
 
 Now, in reply, it seems to me, — I may 
 be thought to use strong language, — but 
 it does seem to me that, in all this, one 
 
 element is left out of the account that is 
 enough to split this argument into a thou- 
 sand helpless fragments ; and that is the 
 great clement of luunan nature. I can- 
 not help looking upon those who make 
 these pleas as I should upon children 
 unconsciously playing with toys "tilled 
 with gunpowder, which is certain yet 
 to explode, and to spread havoc and 
 destruction all around. 
 
 Are these people men .? That is the 
 question. If they are /nen, it will nut 
 do to make them instruments for mere 
 convenience, — for the mere tillage of the 
 soil. If they are t/ie/t, it is not enough 
 to say that they have a sort of animal 
 freedom from care, and joyance of spirits. 
 If they are f/ien, they are to be cultivated ; 
 their faculties are to be regarded as pre- 
 cious ; they are to be improved. But all 
 this would be fatal to the argument ; fa- 
 tal to their happiness in bondage ; fatal 
 to the security of their masters. It is 
 felt, I believe, universally at the South, 
 that it will not do to educate them be- 
 yond a certain, and that a very low, 
 point ; that it will not do to give them 
 refinement, elevation of soul, generous 
 and high impulses. They smile, I sup- 
 pose, at the very idea of it. Refined, 
 elevated, high-minded slaves/ It is a 
 solecism, a contradiction in terms. But, 
 I ask, is this ground to be tolerated ? 
 Suppose that a child — any child — were 
 put into my care; there he is on the 
 ground before me, engaged in happy and 
 merry sports ! I know that he is capa- 
 ble of growing up towards my own intel- 
 lectual stature. Well, I sustain him; I 
 keep him ; I care for his wants ; I tend 
 him in sickness ; I am attached to hiin, 
 suppose, and he to me : but for certain 
 purposes connected with my convenience 
 and safety I deprive him of the means 
 of intellectual development ; I make laws 
 for all my household, forbidding them 
 to educate him ; and he comes up into 
 life an ignorant, brutish, half-idiotic, 
 overgrown abortion of a man ! Would 
 not all the world cry out against me as 
 a monster.'' And grant that the African 
 man of the present generation cannot 
 
MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 be raised to our stature ; yet if in tlie 
 course of ages he may be, and if it is our 
 policy systematically to arrest or to re- 
 tard his growth, does the case materially 
 differ from what I have supposed ? And, 
 I repeat, is it a thing to be tolerated ? 
 Why; if I could raise trees in my grove, 
 or flowers in my garden, or cattle in my 
 pasture, ten times fairer and better than 
 I have, I should be thought to have for- 
 feited all claims to good taste and good 
 husbandly, if I would not do it. But a 
 man! a being capable of indefinite ex- 
 pansion and immortal progress ! is he to 
 want the benefit of an equal considera- 
 tion, — ay, and a far higher ? The tree, 
 the flower, the ox, or the horse, feels no 
 claim. But an intelligent creature, a fel- 
 low-being, a brother-man : dare we keep 
 him ignorant, dwarfed, degraded for our 
 convenience "i But once more : if he is 
 a man, then he is not only improvable 
 and ought to be improved, but he itnll 
 improve, in spite of all that we can do. 
 The African man has improved in this 
 country, under all his disadvantages. 
 And he is to improve yet more and yet 
 faster. Light is breaking in upon him ; 
 sympathy is visiting him, from far and 
 near, from this country and from the 
 whole civiHzed world beyond the sea. 
 And he knows it. He has heard of Ab- 
 olition people ! And I do not know but 
 ultra- Abolitionism, amidst all its violence 
 and rancor, and all the evil it has done 
 in other ways, has done good in this, — 
 that it has lifted up a glaring standard, 
 a flaming banner, before the eyes of the 
 slave. And I plainly say, I am glad he 
 knows that there are men in the world 
 who wish and pray for his elevation to 
 the rights and dignities of manhood. I 
 say this in no unkindness to our breth- 
 ren of the South. Nor yet do I ask them 
 to pardon me. I can ask pardon of no- 
 body for espousing the cause of human- 
 ity, instead of that which would dwarf it 
 and keep it down. Pardon us rather, 
 thou poor, crushed and suffering human 
 nature, wherever thou art, that we feel 
 for thee so little ! But we do, neverthe- 
 less, feel for it, and must express that 
 
 feeling. Wherever power and right 
 come into conflict, our part is already 
 chosen. Has that golden sentence of old 
 to which once a Roman theatre rose up 
 to do honor, — "I am a man, and noth- 
 ing belonging to man is foreign to me, " — 
 has it, in these modern days, lost all its 
 beauty and grandeur ? God forbid ! 
 
 But if this feeling is rising in the 
 world, and not dying out ; if it is to pene- 
 trate into the mind and mass of slaver}', 
 with its influence, — can any one doubt 
 what the effect will be ? The slave- 
 iitan will improve. He will become 
 more and more conscious that he is a 
 man ; and that as a man he has rights 
 which God and nature accord to him. 
 And how is all this to consist with the 
 plan of perpetual bondage "i with the 
 plan of indefinite and permanent exten- 
 sion .? If the African man be indeed a 
 man, it never can succeed. No : you 
 cannot hold down the tremendous ele- 
 ment which you propose to chain and 
 bind forever. Though the powers and 
 pledges of an empire were engaged to 
 make all fast and sure ; though this 
 broad land, stretching from sea to sea, 
 were the bond, and the Alleghanies and 
 the Rocky Mountains .were the seals 
 upon the bond, to hold all fast, — there is 
 an expansive force in human nature, 
 that to be free, will rend a continent in 
 pieces, and shake the mountains in its 
 might. Freedom is one of the elemen- 
 tal forces of the moral universe. It is 
 the undying aspiration which no mortal 
 power can keep down. 
 
 All this, I say, follows, if the African 
 is a man. But now I hear it said in 
 reply, " He is not a man in the sense 
 which you suppose." It is maintained 
 that ' he is inferior ; of an inferior race ; 
 and one destined forever to remain so." 
 Wliat is meant, I pray, by this constant- 
 ly reiterated charge of inferiority ? If 
 only that he is uncivilized, uncultivated, 
 undevelojjed, that is all very intelligible 
 and very true. If it be only alleged that 
 there are some peculiar marks of mental 
 deficiency upon this people ; that the 
 higher faculties in them seem to be sin- 
 
THE SLAVERY QUESTION. 
 
 331 
 
 giilarly, almost strangely slow to come 
 fortli under any circumstances ; that 
 philosophy, poetry, habits of mental 
 abstraction have appeared but rarely 
 among them, and in but a low degree, — 
 all this may be admitted. Their chance 
 certainly has been poor enough. Yet 
 that not one Zeno or Epictetus should 
 have arisen among them, nor anything 
 like it, is doubtless something strange. 
 But surely it is not meant to be denied 
 that their faculties are human faculties. 
 That is to say, reason and imagination 
 and affection ^and conscience in them 
 are essentially the same as in us. Now, 
 what is the nature and tendency of these 
 faculties ? If there is any one thing 
 about them which I know, — of which 
 I am perfectly sure, — it is this, that 
 their nature is to improve, to expand, to 
 grow larger and larger forever. These 
 intellectual and moral powers are not like 
 the instincts of animals, destined to come 
 to a certain point, and there to find an im- 
 passable barrier. Does not the stoutest 
 asserter of their inferiority, the strongest 
 advocate of their perpetual depression 
 on earth, believe that they are to rise to 
 heaven, and there to expand in immor- 
 tal vigor '^ Why else does he preach 
 Christianity to them ? Is it all a farce ? 
 Surely not. But if this very soul is to 
 rise to heaven ; nay, if the loftiest, the 
 Christian, means of development are 
 applied to it, — does any one believe it 
 is the will of God that through ages the 
 clog and the weight and the chain should 
 rest upon it here ? It is absurd. Those 
 who believe in the doomed and perpet- 
 ual degradation of the African should 
 build for him no churches. Churches 
 are not guard-houses to keep people in 
 check, but schools of education. The 
 ministers of God are not jailers, but 
 teachers. And if teaching does not 
 mean improvement, if Christian teach- 
 ing does not mean indefinite expansion, 
 it means nothing. No, this nature, like 
 all human nature, is destined to grow on 
 earth. The world exists but for this. 
 The ages are the courses of human im- 
 provement. They are lengthened out 
 
 but to lead the tribes of men farther 
 and farther, higher and higher, on the 
 scale of progress. And this African 
 nature, if it is not an exception, if it is 
 not to stand as a strange and terril^le 
 solecism amidst the rational works of 
 God, is to grow. And if it is to grow 
 it is with equal certainty destined sooner 
 or later to burst the chains of servi- 
 tude. 
 
 I have thus attempted, though very 
 briefly, to set forth the plea for slavery, 
 and the answer to it : that is, the moral 
 answer, for I confine myself to that, that 
 the North and the South should under- 
 stand one another on this subject ; that 
 we should end our recriminations ; that 
 we should cease to accuse one another of 
 fanaticism and bad passion and of mutual 
 hatred, which the best men among us 
 do not feel ; that we should really come 
 to understand the ground which honest 
 and conscientious men are taking on 
 eitlier side : this seems to me of such 
 importance that I can see no other 
 chance of any but a fearful and fatal solu- 
 tion of this terrible question. Mutual 
 recrimination will not settle it : calm rea- 
 son, candor, mutual respect and broth- 
 erly kindness, must come into this con- 
 troversy, or it bodes a woful issue. 
 
 At this moment the Northern States 
 of this Union are taking a decided stand 
 against the further extension of the slave 
 system. We say that we cannot consent 
 to spread the shield of our general Gov- 
 ernment over any new slave-territory. 
 The Texas annexation sticks in our 
 throats, and we can swallow no more. 
 This obstinate determination is very 
 provoking to the people of the South. 
 They say. it is an enormous injustice to 
 them to forbid the carrying of the slave- 
 system into California. We say, in 
 reply, then let California alone ; we do 
 not want it : but if you will have it ; if 
 you will raise the question, — then in con- 
 science we can make but one decision. 
 We cannot, as morally honest men, true 
 to our convictions, sanction the spread 
 of this system. We cannot consent to 
 legalize it anew. Our fathers compro- 
 
332 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 mised with yours to let it stand within a 
 certain domain. We will not violate 
 that compromise. We will hold to the 
 very letter of it; but surely not one 
 letter of it looked to the indefinite and 
 perpetual extension of slavery over new 
 domains. We cannot agree to that. 
 It may be right for you with your views ; 
 but for us with our views it cannot be 
 right. If you alone could do this, it 
 would be morally nothing to us>. But if 
 you ask us to be parties with you in this 
 transaction, if our hands must be put to 
 the bond, then we must draw back. We 
 would speak in no lottier manner to you 
 than the occasion demands. We be- 
 seech you rather as brethren fairly to 
 consider our scruple. It is not chiefly 
 political ; it is not economical ; it is 
 moral, and thus insurmountable. Sup- 
 pose that South Carolina should legalize 
 polygamy or abolish marriage. We could 
 not help it, that I see. Suppose that 
 the whole South should do this ; or that 
 it had originally come into the Union on 
 compromise, without any law of marriage. 
 Well, we are bound by the compromise, 
 let it be supposed. But are we bound by 
 it to unite with our neighbors in extend- 
 ing their system 1 Can we agree to join 
 them in conquering or buying new terri- 
 tories on- which the system of pol3gamy 
 or of no marriage should be established ; 
 established by our laws, supported by 
 our arms, and sanctioned by our coun- 
 tenance ? But in the view of the people 
 of the North, I suppose that slavery is, 
 in principle, a clearer moral wrong than 
 polygamy or no marriage would be. 
 What then I would seriously ask the 
 people of the South, are we to do with 
 these convictions ? Would they have us 
 tread them underfoot 1 It is as if they 
 asked us to falsify our conscience or our 
 word. We cannot do it. TVi? people can 
 be so false to itself. A Government may 
 belie the sentiment of the people ; but 
 no people can be so false to itself. 
 
 In fine, if I could speak to the people 
 of the South, I would say to them : I 
 have faithfully endeavored to under- 
 stand your view of this great question ; 
 
 for thirty years I have availed myself of 
 all proper opportunities for conversing 
 with those of you with whom I have 
 been acquainted ; I have listened to 
 them wiih all possible consideration, 
 and may 1 say, candor .? and I entertain 
 now none of that rancor against you for 
 which you are accustomed to look at 
 the North. I have no doubt that the 
 body of you sincerely believe that, for 
 the present, and indeed for the future, 
 while the African man continues to be 
 what he is now, the relation of servitude 
 is the best both for you and him. You 
 believe, whether rigiitly or wrongly, that 
 he is better off and is happier as he is, 
 than he would be if he were immedi- 
 ately set free. You profess kindness 
 for him. You say, that among you 
 cruelty to him is held in the worst re- 
 pute. You say that the condition of 
 things among you generally is not that 
 of grinding tyranny on the one hand 
 and of reluctant and weeping submission 
 on the other. You say that the African 
 is a weak and childish being, unfit to 
 take care of himself, and that you must 
 hold him, and ought to hold him, in 
 your care and keeping. 
 
 Then I say, in the first place, for 
 Heaven's sake and for humanity's sake, 
 treat him as a child. Pity his degrada- 
 tion ; that noble sentiment can do you 
 no harm. Raise him from his degrada- 
 tion as you would any poor and ignorant 
 creature ; do not, that is to say, crush 
 and keep him down, or neglect him and 
 leave him prostrate, because he is a 
 slave. How can any one live, how can 
 he pass his whole life, in the presence 
 of one or two hundred beings, capable of 
 the noblest elevation, capable at least 
 of something far better than they ever 
 reach, and yet leave them in perpetual 
 ignorance, and almost brutish stupidity .'' 
 If the very dog at our feet could be 
 raised to the bliss of humanity, what 
 noble mind would not be filled with 
 enthusiasm to achieve it? Is it said, 
 that would not be safe ? then, I reply, 
 tliere must be sovietliing wrong in the 
 relation. It cannot possibly be right so 
 
THE SLAVERY QUESTION. 
 
 333 
 
 to hold down and bind to the earth the 
 faculties of an immortal creature ! * 
 
 In the next place, 1 would earnestly 
 ask those who sustain this relation, if 
 they have well and duly considered 
 what a tremendous element they hold 
 in their charge. The awfuiness of this 
 human nature ! — the whole world has 
 yet to wake up to it. But is there not a 
 sentiment of contempt towards the slave 
 man that fearfully overlooks what he is. 
 Amidst all the professions of kindness 
 and protection towards him I think I 
 see that in a very marked degree. The 
 great human claim which we assert for 
 him is met with a smile of incredulity 
 and indifference, if not of contempt. 
 
 This, it seems to me, is the dividing 
 point in the whole controversy. In the 
 Southern mind, as far as I have stud- 
 ied it, there appears to be no proper rec- 
 ognition of the common humanity in 
 the African man. That the slave man 
 is a man, with a man's feelings, with a 
 man's rights, with a man's capabilities, 
 — this is precisely what is not felt. I 
 would solicit the attention of my South- 
 ern brethren to this point. It seems to 
 me that the long habit of using these 
 beings as mere cattle, and disposing of 
 them as mere chattels, has worn off 
 from them, in the eyes of their masters, 
 the venerable and solemn impress of 
 humanity itself. I once put the ques- 
 tion in conversation : " Suppose that 
 this were a race of apes or ourang-ou- 
 tangs which you held in bondage, but 
 that you believed, according to some 
 modern theories, that they were capable 
 
 * It was about twenty years ago, that an aged gen- 
 tleman was living in the city of London, in wealth 
 and luxury derived from the produce of his estates in 
 the Island of Barbadoes. Some facts came to his 
 knowledge that led him to suspect that his slaves 
 were cruelly treated. At the age of eighty he left 
 his luxurious home, and crossed the ocean, to examine 
 for himself. He dwelt among his people for ten years. 
 He took a fatherly care of them ; he improved their 
 condition and character ; he prepared them for free- 
 dom, and dying at the age of ninety, he left them with 
 a copyhold of his estates. Well might the" Edin- 
 burgh Review " say, " We take sliame to ourselves that 
 while we have been occupied with the deeds of kings 
 and conquerors, we have never heard till now the name 
 of Joshua Steele." 
 
 of being cultivated up to humanity, 
 would you not feel a greater moral inter- 
 est in sucli a race than you now do in 
 the slave-race ? Would you not be in- 
 spired with the most enthusiastic desire 
 to bring about such a consummation "? 
 And is it not some strange habit of 
 mind that prevents an equal interest 
 about the improvements of human be- 
 ings ? 
 
 The comparison may be repelled ; but 
 is not the allegation mainly true? Is 
 the human claiin of this unhappy race 
 felt .'' They say, at the South, that we 
 do not understand the case, — how in- 
 ferior these people are ; we reply, " Do 
 you understand the case .'' how human 
 they are. You say that you feel kindly 
 towards them. So you do towards your 
 dog or your horse. Is that enough .' 
 Does that satisfy the sacred relation of 
 man with man ? /r, we repeat the aw- 
 * fulness of the human claim regarded? 
 And will the God who has made man in 
 his own image permit that sacred claim 
 to be so disregarded ? 
 
 Far be it from me to invoke his dis- 
 pleasure ; but I say, in the third place, 
 that there is peril in that dread element 
 which we have taken into our charge. 
 The times of ignorance God winked at ; 
 but these later Christian ages cannot 
 pass over a race oppressed, dwarfed, 
 kept down, and chained to the earth, 
 without making terrible inquisition for 
 it. Heaven demands, " Where is thy 
 brother?" and earth echoes, "Where 
 is he ? " It is in vain to resist that uni- 
 versal sentiment that is rising all over 
 the world in behalf of this oppressed 
 race. That universal sentiment will 
 educate the slave ; and it will educate 
 him to wrath and resistance, if we do 
 not educate him to intelligence, love 
 and freedom. 
 
 If I were to propose a plan to meet 
 the duties and perils of this tremendous 
 emergency that presses upon us, I would 
 engage the whole power of this nation, 
 the willing co-operation of the North 
 and the South, if it were possible, to 
 prepare this people for freedom ; and 
 
334 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 then I would give them a country be- 
 yond the mountains, — say the Cahfor- 
 nias, — where they might be a nation by 
 themselves. Ah ! if the millions upon 
 millions spent upon a Mexican war 
 could be devoted to this purpose, — if 
 all the energies of this country could 
 be employed for such an end, — what a 
 noble spectacle were it for all the world 
 to behold, of help and redemption to an 
 enslaved people ! — what a purifying and 
 ennobling ministration for ourselves ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 PUBLIC CALAMITIES* 
 
 Psalm cxix. 75 : "I know, O Lord, that thy judg- 
 ments are right, and that thou in faithfulness hast 
 afflicted me." 
 
 An event has occurred in our waters,, 
 within the last week, that has so occu- 
 pied my mind that I could not well have 
 prepared to speak to you this morning 
 on any other subject. I feel, too, that 
 I shall probably best consult the state 
 oi your minds, by making it the subject 
 of your reflections ; in a place, too, where 
 such reflections most naturally come for 
 guidance and relief, — the house of God. 
 The house of God also mourns with many 
 private dwellings of the land ; the groan 
 that arises by their desolate hearths is 
 echoed from the altar. The Church of 
 God mourns the loss of one of its holi- 
 est, dearest, and most devoted servants. 
 Dr. FoUen — alas ! that I must say it, 
 and dismiss all further hope — is among 
 the victims of that dreadful catastrophe. 
 That name whose utterance now fills us 
 with grief — I know not how it was — 
 strangely almost it seemed, stranger as 
 he was — had mingled itself with the 
 /lome sympathies of many hearts, and 
 of many of the best minds among us. 
 Yet why should I say that I know not 
 how it was, — when the beauty and purity 
 of his life, the unfeigned sincerity and 
 
 * A Discourse delivered on the occasion of the loss 
 of the steamer " Lexington " in Long Island Sound, 
 Jan. 13, 1840. 
 
 affectionateness of his disposition, the 
 enlarged and liberal views of his mind, 
 and his martyr-like devotion to truth 
 and duty, had naturally made him a 
 home in that love which knows no 
 boundaries of country or clime.? God 
 pity that nearer home where that name 
 is no longer the familiar utterance and 
 bond of affection, where it is only a 
 broken echo, from a living grave ! God 
 knows that our sympathy and prayers 
 have hovered over it in agony ; to 
 bring, if it were possible to bring, relief 
 and comfort. 
 
 But I must not dwell upon this ; it is 
 too painful. Many other names, dear 
 in their circles o home and friendship, 
 are placed, in God's dread providence, 
 upon this mournful record. The groan 
 that rises from this catastrophe will 
 spread itself over the world, — to kin- 
 dred in England and Germany, and to 
 friends in France and Italy. I have 
 spoken of the only one I knew in that 
 fated company, and of him you will feel 
 that it was proper that I should speak; 
 though this is not the time to speak 
 calmly and at length of the eminent 
 traits of his ever to be valued and 
 venerated character. 
 
 I could have wished; indeed, that I 
 might have been excused from speaking 
 of this event at all. I feel that it does 
 itself utter a stronger language than 
 any I can use ; that your own impres- 
 sions are likely to be too vivid to need 
 any excitement from public discourse; 
 and that the event of itself, perhaps, 
 teacheth more wisdom than any I shall 
 take occasion to teach from it. Be- 
 sides, it seems to me as if it were a 
 kind of sacrilege toward such an awful 
 calamity to take possession of it at 
 once, ere the immediate horror is well 
 over, as a ground even for spiritual im- 
 provement. But my original reflection 
 recurs to me : that this event does oc- 
 cupy the public mind to that degree 
 that it can scarcely be excluded even 
 from the sanctuary ; and, therefore, I 
 have thought it best to let it be the 
 theme of our meditation, even though I 
 
PUBLIC CALAMITIES. 
 
 '> -^ r 
 
 Jo5 
 
 should only express thoughts wliich are 
 better conceived in your own minds. 
 
 Perhaps I may, without impropriety, 
 enlarge the ground of this meditation. 
 This event is but the consummation of 
 a series of calamities which has made 
 the present winter the most disastrous, 
 perhaps, that we have ever known. 
 Never, within my memory, certainly, 
 have so many lives been lost by ship- 
 wreck on our coast. In our cities, too, 
 the pressure of commercial difficulties, 
 the frequent instances of infidelity to 
 mercantile and pubhc trusts, the torch 
 of the incendiary, lighting flames by day 
 and by night, throughout the whole line 
 of our seaboard, have united to spread 
 distress and distrust far and wide in the 
 pubhc mind. We are apt to feel as if 
 never men fell upon such evil times as 
 we have fallen upon. We are tempted 
 to ask, Where is the good Providence ^ 
 where is the security of life, and of its 
 possessions ? and, taking political consid- 
 erations into view, where is the security 
 of nations? 
 
 In this season of public calamity, 
 when " men's hearts are failing them j 
 for fear," I deem it the duty of the | 
 pulpit to offer what it can, of guidance, 
 comfort, and admonition. This in my 
 place I shall humbly attempt. 
 
 I. In the first place, let us not be 
 driven by these calamities from the con- 
 viction that God reigns. I am not 
 about to oflFer any argument to prove 
 this truth. If there be a God, we may 
 say, indeed, that it is an obvious infer- 
 ence that he must reign. If there be a 
 God, he made all things ; he made this 
 world ; he made all its elements and 
 established all its laws ; and this implies 
 his dominion over it. But not to argue 
 for this truth, I say that calamity is the 
 * last thing that should be permitted to 
 drive us from it. For in calamity, it is 
 especially that we cannot do without it. 
 The fact being so, is, indeed, no weak 
 argument for the truth. If man is so 
 made that to consider himself the victim 
 of chance is to be whelmed in utter and 
 hopeless misery ; if the atmosphere of 
 
 chance is one in which his mind cannot 
 live, — then, as true as there is a God 
 who made him, is there a providence 
 for him to rely on. And the fact in his 
 mind is so. He has no resource but 
 trust in God. Suppose that demons 
 had wrought that awful catastrophe in 
 yonder waters,^ had maliciously plunged 
 helpless men and women into the cold 
 waves to die ; or suppose that human 
 error, uncontrolled and uncared for, had 
 involved us in the calamities on land 
 which we are enduring, what could men 
 do but gnash their teeth in unavailing 
 rage and despair ? 
 
 But no : there is a Providence over 
 all things. There is wisdom in events, 
 though we cannot fathom it. Divine 
 Goodness does not forsake the scene of 
 uttermost calamity. I doubt not there 
 were hearts there, where our thoughts 
 are now most turned, which felt that it 
 was so, — felt that God was near them 
 in that scene of awful confusion, — hearts 
 that in their religious calmness and con- 
 fidence would rebuke our despondency 
 and murmuring. We are apt to do in- 
 justice to the feelings ot good men in 
 such circumstances. Our imagination 
 overspreads all with the apparent dis- 
 order. But I doubt not there were 
 Christian hearts in that dread hour when 
 death became inevitable that said, "It 
 is come ! — it is come ! — Father, thy 
 will be done! Father, receive us ! " And 
 in that feeling there was a divine seren- 
 ity, and the uplifted eye of triumphant 
 faith that looked beyond the surround- 
 ing darkness and struggle to the calm 
 heaven, — to the presence of God above. 
 
 "Why," do you say, "did not Al- 
 mighty Goodness interpose for them. 
 Had it been best, truly best in the whole 
 view of things, can we doubt that it 
 would have interposed ? Then it was 
 not best. Then all was well, though in 
 some order of things which we cannot 
 scan. But j'ou say, perhaps, " This 
 was not the work of Providence, but 
 the fruit of error." Let us consider it. 
 Error is every year exacting of the 
 human race thousands of lives. Error, 
 
53^ 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 perhaps, has exacted these. But error 
 is not a wild and ungoverned power 
 that has broken into the domain of Pro- 
 vidence. It is a part of our nature, a 
 part of our discipline, a part of our prog- 
 ress and improvement. We are not 
 made perfect. We are not trained to 
 exactitude in our medical systems, in 
 our mechanic inventions, in our influ- 
 ence upon one another, in our processes, 
 mental or moral, in anything that apper- 
 tains to us. We take our part with 
 weakness and imperfection; we struggle 
 with them; we are their victims. Of 
 almost every human being that dies, we 
 may say that he would have lived longer 
 had he been wiser, or had others been 
 wiser. The agonies that surround every 
 death-bed might make the same com- 
 plaint that rises over the most awful 
 catastrophe brought about by human 
 imperfection. So is our lot bound up 
 with others, and bound up with infirmity 
 and error. If the soul perished in this 
 alliance, there were no comfort; but the 
 soul it is that is trained up by it to vir- 
 tue, to fortitude, to sanctity, to heaven ! 
 When we look at the martyrs soul, 
 and see how by persecution, by sorrow, 
 and by the last dire extremity, it is borne 
 up to the noblest heroism and triumph ; 
 how by the flame which consumes the 
 body the soul is borne to heaven ! there 
 is something in this contemplation which 
 supports us. And yet the martyr is sac- 
 rificed to the most enormous error of 
 which the world can be guilty. But he 
 dies,wesay,for aprinciple ; hediesforhu- 
 man progress. But so does every man who 
 falls a victim to human imperfection — 
 mechan,ical, medical, or political — die for 
 human progress. Thousands of lives are 
 annually sacrificed on the altar of human 
 improvement, — a fact which shows that 
 life itself in this world is not an end 
 but a means. The Providence that is car- 
 rying every thing forward, as it marches 
 in the greatness of its might, crushes 
 millions with its step, mows down gen- 
 erations with the scythe of war, dashes 
 in pieces the time-founded structures 
 and empires of the world, and sweeps 
 
 all earthly weal and woe from its awful 
 path. 
 
 The dispensation, indeed, is awful ; 
 butit is so in part, let me further observe, 
 because we look at it too much as a gen- 
 eral picture. It is, after all, but the 
 picture of individual life, — of your life 
 and mine. It is, more or less, the lot of 
 us all ; and it is not hurled upon us as 
 a mountain to crush us, but it flows in 
 separate sands througii the glass of time 
 to measure out to us the hours of disci- 
 pline, the hours of improvement. I must 
 repeat it, that every thing is individ- 
 ualized in human experience. It is this 
 in part which enables us to look, with a 
 feeling that supports us, at the sufferings 
 of the martyr. He stands alone. He is 
 a single object of contemplation. We 
 can see the workings of his mind ; they 
 are not whelmed in a mass of horrors. 
 We do not feel as if a hundred deaths 
 were involved and concentrated in his 
 death. But this is what we are apt to 
 feel when we contemplate an event 
 which has involved a hundred lives. 
 And yet this generalizing does not pre- 
 sent to us the true view. Every man in 
 such a scene dies for himself alone, as 
 truly as have the hundreds, in diff'erent 
 parts of the world, who have gone hence 
 while I have now been speaking to you. 
 Every man, it may be emphatically said, 
 is alone when he comes to die. He is 
 alone with his thoughts, with his prayers, 
 with his affections to those dearest to 
 him : he is alone with his God. Some 
 time he must die ; and his time is then ; 
 and to him it is his time, and not anoth- 
 er's. If he had escaped that danger, he 
 might have died the next month from the 
 ignorance of his physician, or he might 
 have fallen the solitary victim of some 
 violent death. Hundreds die thus every 
 year, and they are no more truly alone 
 than he who perishes with a thousand. 
 And this annual aggregate of ills, save 
 to the imagination, is as truly solemn 
 as any life-destroying catastrophe. Both 
 present the same case under the reign 
 of Providence. 
 
 Did I at present address any one of 
 
PUBLIC CALAMITIES. 
 
 337 
 
 those to whom this affliction has come 
 near, I would pray them to consider this : 
 to see that their case is not to be taken 
 from beneath the general law of Provi- 
 dence. It is only as if their friend liad 
 died singly by an accident, or had fallen 
 dead in the street struck with apoplexy 
 or paralysis — or. may I not say ? as if 
 he had died in his bed ; for how often is 
 the privilege and comfort of ministering 
 love purchased by the agonies of the 
 sufferer ! I know that it is common to 
 deprecate sudden death, — to pray against 
 it ; but for myself I cannot join in that 
 prayer. To me it appears that it would 
 be a privilege — life's work done, the 
 hour come — to drop suddenly from the 
 course ; no agonized partings, — as full of 
 agon)', perhaps, as to feel that the tie is 
 broken. Nay. how often does the sur- 
 vivor say, when the long and bitter 
 struggle is ended, " Thank God it is 
 over! " I do not wonder at that desire 
 of the celebrated James Otis, so signally 
 fulfilled, "that he might die by light- 
 ning." I have stood on the very threshold 
 where the bolt, from the black retiring 
 storm, descended upon him ; and I con- 
 fess, it seemed to me as I stood there 
 and thought of it, that that lightning- flash 
 was not the bolt of wrath, but the bright 
 angel of release. The lingering pains 
 that are usually appointed to man as the 
 termination of his life, I believe are less 
 for his own sake than for what he may 
 do for the good of others ; it is his 
 trial hour, their hour of improvement. 
 But for the sanie reason, death is occa- 
 sionally sudden, and seems disastrous. 
 That very character of disaster arouses 
 men's minds, and puts them upon devis- 
 ing guards and defences against danger. 
 This very event, the most dreadful that 
 ever brought horror and heartache into 
 our bosoms, maybe commissioned event- 
 ually to save more lives than are lost by 
 it. Let me not seem, in saying all this, to 
 be a cold philosopher : God is my wit- 
 ness how far I am from it. I know that 
 in many a family this event is the sudden 
 and awful wrenching of a thousand quiv- 
 ering ties twined all in one. But agon- 
 
 ized sympathy seeks some relief. And 
 I can find none but in the great provi- 
 dence of God, — but in seeing that this 
 event is not a chance blow, a random 
 accident, set apart from its beneficent 
 dominion. I know no other comfort for 
 the mourner; and, hard as it may be for 
 him to turn there, — hard as it may be to 
 turn away from seeing tliis event as a 
 frightful catastrophe, and to look at it 
 as a sacred and solemn dispensation ot 
 Heaven, — this I would pray each one to 
 do, — to lean upon the bosom of the all- 
 wise Providence, — and to say, even as 
 the Great Sufferer said in the dread hour, 
 when all earthly evils and sorrows were 
 leagued against him, ■•' Father ! thy will 
 be done ! " 
 
 Shall this event shake our faith in 
 that Providence 1 The principle that 
 would allow it to do so would drive all 
 faith in Providence from the world. 
 Can we give up that faith ? It is our 
 only refuge from the overwhelming ills 
 of life. We must cling to it. Suffering, 
 struggling, bereaved, broken-hearted, we 
 must cling to it, for it is our only refuge. 
 And for my own part, as clearly do I 
 see it, and as truly do I believe 
 in that wise Providence reigning over 
 life, as I see and believe that I 
 live at all. And could one of those 
 who have passed, through that dread 
 dispensation which we deplore, to a 
 better life, speak to us. I doubt not he 
 would say to his agonized friends : 
 " Be comforted, — as far as mortal trial 
 can be comforted. Ail is well. I see 
 that in which you strugfjle to believe. 
 For me it was better to depart : for you 
 it is sorrow; but that sorrow shall be 
 yet turned info joy. Tlie l^reath of a 
 momentary life passed away, and we 
 shall meet again. I have died for the 
 world's improvement, — for your virtue ; 
 and beneath the great and loving Prov- 
 idence of God I see that all is well. 
 Oh ! then be comforted ! The serene 
 heaven which spreads over you is but 
 an image of the all-enfolding love of 
 God, in which we shall yet rejoice for- 
 
35^ 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 But 3'ou say, " It is such a sad thing ; 
 it is such a horrible thing ! " and I feel 
 what you say. " That they should have 
 gone forth, so thoughtless of what that 
 very day was to bring forth ! " is your re- 
 flection, — "gone from the social board, 
 — perhaps from the table of feasting, — 
 gone with a smile, perhaps, siying, 
 " such a day I shall return," — or gone 
 after a long voyage at sea, feeling as if 
 they were already at home ! and then 
 that, four or five hours after they set foot 
 on that deck, they should have been 
 dead ! That it should all have been 
 so sudden, — in a moment, — one mo- 
 ment sitting and conversing with a 
 friend, and the next moment meeting 
 death face to face ; and, above all, to 
 think, if we must think, that a little 
 calmness, a little deliberation, might 
 have saved them ; that such valuable, 
 such precious lives should have been 
 sacrificed, if there were any possibility 
 of their being saved, — is it not dread- 
 ful ? " I know it, I feel all this ; 
 but still I cannot rest here. I must 
 reflect upon it. I must meet the darkest 
 mystery in Providence, — the problem 
 of human error I must see that error 
 is inevitable, and that it is one of the 
 elements of human improvement. If 
 Providence interposed to save us from 
 the results of every mistake, the human 
 race would be held in perpetual child- 
 hood. In the way of life, the foot slips, 
 and plunges us into distress, into ca- 
 lamity, into the jaws of untimely death. 
 Was the foot to blame .'' or its construc- 
 tion ? Its very power to move, its very 
 flexibility, the very formation that fitted 
 it for its purpose, made it liable to 
 slip. Mis-steps are its teachers ; pain 
 is its teacher. And thus all evils are 
 the mind's teachers. Death, which 
 cannot on earth benefit the individual 
 subject, is yet the world's teacher. 
 Untimely death teaches it prudence, 
 and all death teaches it virtue. This is 
 the great doctrine of a Providence; 
 and all experience, the world's experi- 
 ence vindicates it. 
 
 This great doctrine, my friends, must 
 
 be our repose. But I offer it to your 
 contemplation not merely as such, — 
 not merely as necessary to be believed 
 in, — not merely as urged upon your 
 piety, but as commended to your reflec- 
 tion. I pray you to see that it is true ; 
 to see that all things — great or small, 
 common or strange — the most indiffer- 
 ent and the most awful alike — come 
 under the same great, wise, and benevo- 
 lent order of things. Let us submit to 
 God's wisdom. Let the hand that is 
 involuntarily stretched out to snatch 
 our friend from peril, — let that hand, 
 when it is too late, be lifted up to 
 heaven, with the prayer, " Thy will be 
 done ! " And may every one who is 
 stricken and smitten to the dust by this 
 heavy visitation find strength and sup- 
 port in that humble trust ! 
 
 II. I have dwelt longer than I in- 
 tended upon this consideration of the 
 Divine Providence. I have been led 
 on almost without regard to any order 
 of thought, — which I find it, indeed, 
 difficult to preserve amid the agitations 
 of a time like this. Let me now lead 
 you to a different point of view, from 
 which we may take a wider survey of 
 the general calamities that press upon 
 us ; for I would willingly take refuge, 
 for a few moments, even in the con- 
 templation of \\ idespread evils, from 
 the immediate disaster that fills us with 
 distress and horror. 
 
 1 have said that the present is alto- 
 gether a season of unprecedented calarri- 
 ity. But I must pray you not to yield 
 to a view of these evils wliich shall 
 overrate their magnitude or overlook 
 their uses. We have lived so long in 
 this country in a state of peace and 
 plenty, that we have almost forgotten 
 through what sorrows and conflicts the 
 human race has passed to reach its pres- 
 ent condition. We have been raised to 
 a high level, like some of those which 
 are found upon the mountains of this 
 new world, till we have lost sight of the 
 great plain of the world where the 
 fortunes of men are wrought out with 
 bitter toil and sorrow, where their 
 
PUBLIC CALAMITIES. 
 
 339 
 
 .•ivers have run blood, and their fields 
 have been fattened with slaughter. The 
 exiles who flock to us, from many a 
 country and clime, might well be tempted 
 to say, " The ways of Providence are 
 not equaL" They have come from 
 lands where liberty has been crushed 
 down in the blood of their children, or 
 where the dungeon has been exchanged 
 only for exile; where famine has stalked 
 tlirough the dwellings of thousands, 
 and the faces of men have grown pale, 
 and their limbs have tottered beneath 
 the awful scourge. Within the period 
 of our existence as a nation, what wars 
 have desolated the fields of Europe ; 
 what bloody battles have been the 
 epochs of her history ; what groaning 
 hospitals have tracked the step of her 
 armies ; what shrieks of widowhood 
 and orphanage have risen upon the air, 
 laden with the accumulation of her ca- 
 lamities ! Compared with this, let us 
 not forget that our condition, with all 
 its trials, is one of high prosperity. I 
 would not speak lightly of these trials. 
 I know that they are great. I know 
 that they eat deeply into the heart of 
 domestic happiness ; that there is more 
 suffering among us, and that, not alone 
 in the hovels of indigence, than most 
 men are aware of. But one week of 
 famine in the land, one wide sweep of 
 the wings of pestilence over us, one 
 cannonade from a single ship in yonder 
 harbor, pouring its storm of hail-shot 
 and fire upon the city, would make us 
 feel, that to step from that into the 
 midst of all our present trials were a 
 blessed exchange. 
 
 I say that our condition has been, 
 and is, comparatively a favored one. 
 But I cannot yield to the common 
 readiness and easiness of inference by 
 which this sense of our happy fortunes 
 is made to extend to our national char- 
 acter. We are in our condition, I be- 
 lieve, the most favored people on earth — 
 i. e. as a people — as a mass ; but I 
 am far from saying that we are the wis- 
 est and most virtuous people in the 
 world. We have heard but too much of 
 
 this boasting. We have talked about 
 the slaves of despotism till we have 
 apparently forgotten that there may be 
 a worse bondage, — to private ambition, 
 to wearing anxiety, to envy and self-will. 
 And therefore that distrust which has 
 entered in among us, — distrust about 
 the securities of property, — distrust 
 about the tendencies of the national 
 character, — though it be one of the most 
 painful trials of the time, is not, I think, 
 without its uses. It may do us good. It 
 may impart a sobriety to our thoughts of 
 the public welfare. It may turn our 
 thoughts from our private interests to 
 the commonweal, — a direction of mind 
 greatly needed among us. It may put 
 a salutary fear in the place of our rash 
 confidence. It may put us upon think- 
 ing more deeply upon those deepest 
 foundations of our welfare, — virtue, 
 simplicity, soberness of mind, and a rev- 
 erent and humble piety. 
 
 No blessings are to be kept, and 
 least of all those that are enjoyed in 
 the midst of freedom and abundance, 
 but by a jealous fear and vigilance. 
 Was not this truth in a measure forgot- 
 ten in our prosperity ? Did it not seem 
 as if life, in this New World, was to 
 take on quite a new character ? For 
 myself, I confess that I was deceived 
 by the aspect of things around me. 
 When I had looked upon the humble 
 tr.iders, and the hard and unrequited 
 toilers of the Old World, and then saw 
 many of the same classes here rising 
 rapidly to wealth and splendor, I felt as 
 if a new age had come, as if a new 
 world here were indeed opening its 
 portals to crowding and happier gener- 
 ations. And I hope now that it is not 
 altogether untrue. But I confess that 
 I have been brought to soberer thoughts 
 of our condition, and of the very condi- 
 tion of humanity. I see that life is not 
 to be, to any people — that it must not 
 be — a dispensation of ease and indepen- 
 dence. I see a sublimer law revealed 
 than that of prosperity, — the law of 
 wisdom ; a higher end proposed by 
 the Providence of heaven than success, 
 
340 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND OCCASIONAL. 
 
 — even virtue. I see that the old, the 
 eternal, the Christian law still presses 
 upon us : that through much tribulation 
 we must enter the kingdom of heaven ; 
 that we must learn and not forget that 
 we are pilgrims and strangers on earth, 
 having here no continuing city nor 
 abiding place. 
 
 Public calamities, then, amidst all 
 their severity, are yet teachers of wis- 
 dom. I speak not of individual instan- 
 ces. I say not, it is best that those 
 calamities should have fallen here or 
 there. I am not obliged to say that it 
 is best that they should have fallen any- 
 where. But since they have come, they 
 may be turned to some wise account. 
 He who can " cause the wrath of man 
 to praise him " can cause even these 
 things to praise him, in our growing 
 wisdom. May he cause us to praise 
 him, and be thankful. You speak, my 
 friend, of the disasters that have be- 
 fallen you. You did 7iot set your foot 
 on that fated deck ! Who of you now 
 would not have given millions, if you had 
 them, rather than have been there ? How 
 many survivors would give all that is 
 left them, if they could buy back that 
 irrevocable step. You did not take it. 
 You were not there. Your husband, 
 your brother, was not there. He might 
 have been. Some of you thought of it 
 
 — intended it, and were saved from it 
 as by a miracle. Life is still yours ; 
 the warm fireside, the happy home, is 
 still yours. What then can you feel, 
 amidst your blessings — what can you 
 be, but thankful ? No murmurer, me- 
 thinks, is here to day. But if there be, 
 I say to him, — Yoti did not set your foot 
 on that fated deck / And as your shud- 
 dering thought draws back from that 
 fearful idea, let it retreat forever into 
 the sanctuary of thanksgiving. 
 
 III. Again, my brethren, am I brought 
 back to this mournful theme. Let me 
 say a word or two more to you, and 
 I shall have discharged the sad duty 
 •which I thought it called for at my 
 hands. 
 
 Life is dear, and it is justly of great 
 
 account with us ; but can it be of 
 that supreme account which we make 
 it .'' When we see it the sport of every 
 event, of every inadvertence ; when we 
 see it extinguished by a mote in the 
 air, or a ray of the sun ; when we see 
 that it depends upon a step more or 
 less ; when multitudes sink to an un- 
 timely death ; when the life of a whole 
 breathing generation is swept away 
 before us like a cloud from the earth, — 
 can such a life be the thing on which 
 it was intended that man should set his 
 whole heart ? Can it be anything in 
 the divine economy but a means to 
 something beyond ? The animal dies 
 for the advantage of a superior being ; 
 or for his own advantage, by the decay 
 that has ended the enjoyment of his 
 life, or by the violence from his kind 
 that saves him from that decay, neglect- 
 ed, untended. Does man die for noth- 
 ing, — neither for his own, nor for others' 
 advantage ? But if he does die for 
 some ulterior purpose, then his life is 
 instrumental; and whether he continues 
 for a term longer or shorter is not the 
 ultimate, the main thing. We say this 
 of animal life ; is it not just as true of 
 human life ? But the ulterior end for 
 man, — what and where can it be, but 
 in a future life ? Yet if man's essential 
 life be thus continuous, can it be so ma- 
 terial as we make it when the life of 
 this form changes ? Is it not like pass- 
 ing from infancy to youth, or from 
 youth to manhood "i Is it not being 
 unclothed of one form to be clothed 
 upon with another ? The form changes ; 
 the being lives. 
 
 " What shadows we are, and what 
 shadows we pursue," I feel, as in imag- 
 ination I stand and behold, beneath the 
 veil of night, a hundred fellow-beings 
 perish before my eyes and pass away 
 like a dream. I cannot help saying, 
 when I see so many valued lives cast 
 away like an evening vapor upon the 
 waters, — how little can it matter, after 
 all, i-n the great account, when we die ; 
 this year or next year ; to-day or to- 
 morrow ! I cannot help saying, as I 
 
PUBLIC CALAMITIES. 
 
 341 
 
 look around me, " My companions, my 
 friejids, are but shadows ; we all are 
 but shadows ; like shadows we alight 
 upon the shore of time, and the breath 
 of that shore will soon sweep us away 
 into the habitations of eternity." Truly 
 is it written, " Thou carriest them away 
 as with% flood ; they are as a sleep." 
 
 One word more I must say, lest I 
 fail to interpret the most solemn lan- 
 guage of this solemn event; and that 
 is upon the duty of being ever prepared 
 for death. There are characteristics of 
 that event which show that this is no 
 mere matter of professional admonition, 
 proper for the preacher to insist upon, 
 but for no one to take home as a living 
 admonition to his own heart. The 
 event took place near us, — on the great 
 highway of our constant travel, — and 
 in a mode of conveyance to which we 
 are continually resorting. And the 
 
 frenzy that seizes men's minds at such 
 a moment must show the most thought- 
 less and irreligious among us that, 
 whatever we may think now of being 
 prepared for death, we shall feel no 
 indifference when the hour comes. We 
 know that the same fate may, in any 
 month, overtake us; and we see as in 
 a glass what we shall then feel. 
 
 Pardon me, my friends, but I cannot 
 pursue the theme. I cannot utter com- 
 monplace warnings in the presence of 
 that awful Admonisher. Alas ! that all 
 that I can do is to speak, — when others 
 have died I Alas ! that I can only medi- 
 tate here, — when the hearts of many 
 are rent with agony ! Oh ! poor and 
 unavailing it seems, only to take part, 
 in weak sympathy, with their bitter sor- 
 row. But human help cannot avail, and 
 we can only say, in our impotence and 
 grief, may God comfort them ! 
 
DISCOURSES AND REVIEWS 
 
 UPON 
 
 QUESTIONS IN CONTROVERSIAL THEOLOGY 
 
 AND 
 
 PRACTICAL RELIGION. 
 
 THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 I SHALL undertake to state in this 
 article what I understand to be the pre- 
 vaihng belief of Unitarian Christians. 
 Our position as a religious body seems 
 still to require statements of this na- 
 ture. It is a position, that is to say, 
 entirely misunderstood. Misconstruc- 
 tions once in vogue, seem to have a 
 strange power of perpetuating them- 
 selves ; or, at any rate, they are helped 
 on by powers that seem to us very 
 strange. In the face of a thousand de- 
 nials, and in spite of the self-contra- 
 dicting absurdity of the charge, it is 
 still said, and, by multitudes, seems to 
 be thought, that our creed consists of 
 negations ; that we beheve in almost 
 nothing. It seems to be received as 
 if it were a matter of common consent 
 that we do not hold to the doctrines of 
 the Bible, and that we scarcely pretend 
 to hold to the Bible itself. It is ap- 
 parently supposed by many that we 
 stand upon peculiar ground in this re- 
 spect ; that we hold some strange posi- 
 tion in the Christian world, different 
 from all other Christian denominations. 
 
 We must, therefore, if our patience 
 fail not, explain ourselves again and 
 again. We must, again and again, 
 implore others to make distinctions very 
 
 obvious indeed, but which they are 
 strangely slow to see ; to distinguish, 
 that is to say, or at least to remember 
 that we distinguish, between the Bible 
 and fallible interpretations, between 
 Scripture doctrines and the explana- 
 tion of those doctrines. The former 
 we receive ; the latter only do we reject. 
 Our position in the Christian world 
 is not a singular one. We profess to 
 stand upon the same ground as all other 
 Christians, — the Bible. Our position, 
 considered as dissent ; our position, as 
 assailed on all sides, — is by no means 
 a novel one. The Protestants were and 
 are charged by the Romish Church with 
 rejecting Christianity. Every sect in 
 succession that has broken off from the 
 body of Christians — the Lutherans and 
 English Episcopalians first, then the 
 Scotch Presbyterians, then the Bap- 
 tists, the Methodists, the Quakers, the 
 Puritans, the Independents of every 
 name — has been obliged to reply to 
 the same charge of holding no valid nor 
 authorized belief. And what has been 
 the answer of them all .? It has been 
 the answer of Paul before Felix : that 
 they did believe; that they "believed 
 all things that are written " in the holy 
 volume. 
 
THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 343 
 
 This same defence, namely, Paul's 
 defence to the Jews, Luther's and Wick- 
 liff's to the Romish Church ; the de- 
 fence of Knox, of Robinson, of P'ox, of 
 Wesley, and Whittield, and of our own 
 Mayhew and Mathers to the English 
 Church, — this same defence it has fallen 
 to our lot to plead as Unitarian Chris- 
 tians. We bear a new name ; but we 
 take an old stand, — a stand old as 
 Christianity. We bear a new name, 
 but we make an old defence ; we think 
 as every other class of Christians have 
 thought, that we approach the nearest 
 to the old primitive Christianity. We 
 bear a hard name, the name of heretics ; 
 but it is the very name which Episco- 
 palians, Presbyterians, Arminians, Cal- 
 vinists, have once borne ; which all 
 Protestant Orthodoxy has once borne ; 
 which Paul himself bore, when he 
 said, "After the way which they call 
 heresy, so worship I the God of my 
 fathers." We bear a new name ; and 
 a new name draws suspicion upon it, 
 as every Christian sect has had occasion 
 full well to know ; and we think, there- 
 fore, that our position and our plea de- 
 mand some consideration and sympathy 
 from the body of Christians. We think 
 that they ought to listen to us, when we 
 make the plea, once their own, that we 
 believe, according to our honest under- 
 standing of their claim upon our faith, 
 all things that are written in the Holy 
 Scriptures. 
 
 There is one circumstance which 
 makes the statement of this defence 
 peculiarly pertinent and proper for us ; 
 and that is, the delicacy which has been 
 felt by our writers and preachers about 
 the use of terms. When we found, for 
 instance, that the phrase, " Father, Son, 
 and Holy Ghost," and that the words, 
 atonement, regeneration, election, with 
 some others, were appropriated by the 
 popular creeds, and stood in prevailing 
 usage, for orthodox doctrines, we hesi- 
 tated about the free use of them. It 
 was not because we hesitated about the 
 meaning which Scripture gave to them, 
 but about the meaning: whicli common 
 
 usage had fixed upon them. We be- 
 lieved in the things tliemselves ; we 
 believed in the words as they stood in 
 the Bible, but . not as they stood in 
 other books. But finding that, when- 
 ever we used these terms, we were 
 charged, as even our great Master him- 
 self was, with " deceiving the people," 
 and not anxious to dispute about words, 
 we gave up the familiar use of a portion 
 of the Scriptural phraseology. Whether 
 we ought, in justice to ourselves, so to 
 have done, is not now the question. 
 We did so ; and the consequence has 
 been, that the body of the people, not 
 often hearing from our pulpits the con- 
 tested words and phrases ; not often 
 hearing the words, p7'opitialioti, sacri- 
 fice, the natural man, tJie new birth, 
 and the Spirit of God, — hold themselves 
 doubly warranted in ciiarging us with a 
 defection from the faith of Scripture. 
 It is this state of things which makes 
 it especially pertinent and proper for 
 us, as we have said, distinctly to de- 
 clare not only our belief in the Scrip- 
 tures generally, but our belief in what 
 the Scriptures teach on the points in 
 controversy ; our belief, we repeat, in 
 what the Scriptures mean by the phrase, 
 " Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," and 
 by the words, atonement, conversion, 
 election, and others that stand for dis- 
 puted doctrines. 
 
 To some statements of this nature, 
 then, we now invite attention ; only 
 premising further, that it is no part of 
 our purpose, within the brief limits of 
 this exposition, to set forth anything 
 of that abundant argument for our 
 views of Christianity which so power- 
 fully convinces us that they are true. 
 Our object at present is limited to 
 statement and explanation. We would 
 present the Unitarian creed according 
 to our own understanding of it. 
 
 With this object in view, we say, in 
 general, that we believe in the Scrip- 
 tures. 
 
 On a point which is so plain, and 
 ought to be so well understood as this, 
 it is unnecessary to dwell, unless it be 
 
344 
 
 THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 for the purpose of discrimination. If 
 any one thinks it necessary to a recep- 
 tion of the Bible as a revelation from 
 God, that the inspired, penmen should 
 have written by immediate dictation; 
 if he thinks that the writers were mere 
 amanuenses, and that word after word 
 was put down by instant suggestion 
 from above ; that the very style is 
 divine and not human ; that the style, 
 we say, and the matters of style, the 
 figures, the metaphors, the illustrations, 
 came from the Divine mind, and not 
 from human minds, — we say, at once and 
 plainly, that we do not regard the Scrip- 
 tures as setting forth any claims to such 
 supernatural perfection or accuracy of 
 style. It is not a kind of distinction 
 that would add anything to the author- 
 ity, much less to the dignity, of a com- 
 munication from Heaven. Nay, it would 
 detract from its power, to deprive it, by 
 any hypothesis, of those touches of na- 
 ture, of that natural pathos, simplicity, 
 and imagination, and of that solemn 
 grandeur of thought, disregarding style, 
 of which the Bible is full. Enough is 
 it for us that the matter is divine, the 
 doctrines true, the history authentic, 
 the miracles real, the promises glori- 
 ous, the threatenings fearful ; enough, 
 that all is gloriously and fearfully true, 
 — true to the Divine will, true to human 
 nature, true to its wants, anxieties, 
 sorrows, sins, and solemn destinies ; 
 enough, that the seal of a divine and 
 miraculous communication is set upon 
 that Holy Book. 
 
 So we receive it. So we believe in it. 
 And there is many a record on those 
 inspired pages which he who believes 
 therein would not exchange ; no, he 
 would not exchange it, a simple sentence 
 though it be, for the wealth of worlds. 
 
 That God Almighty, the Infinite 
 Creator and Father, hath spoken to the 
 world ; that He who speaks, indeed, in 
 all the voices of nature and life, but 
 speaks there generally and leaves all to 
 inference ; that he hath spoken to man 
 distinctly, and as it were individually, 
 — spoken with a voice of interpretation 
 
 for life's mysteries, and of guidance 
 amidst its errors, and of comfort for its 
 sorrows, and of pardon for its sins, 
 and of hope, undying hope beyond 
 the grave ; this is a fact, compared 
 with which all other facts are not 
 worth believing in ; this is an event so 
 interesting, so transcendent, transport- 
 ing, sublime, as to leave to all other 
 events the character only of things or- 
 dinary and indifferent. 
 
 But let us pass from the general truth 
 of this record to some of its particular 
 doctrines. Our attention here will be 
 confined to the New Testament. 
 
 I. And we say, in the first place, that 
 we believe "in the Father, and in the 
 Son, and in the Holy Ghost." This 
 was the simple primitive creed of the 
 Christians ; and it were well if men 
 had been content to receive it in its 
 simplicity. As a creed, it was di- 
 rected to be introduced into the form 
 of baptism. The rite of baptism was 
 appropriated to the profession of Chris- 
 tianity. The converts were to be bap- 
 tized into the acknowledgment of the 
 Christian religion ; baptized into the 
 name, that is, into the acknowledgment, 
 of the Father, and of the Son, and of 
 the Holy Ghost. 
 
 This creed consist of three parts. It 
 contains no proof, nor hint, of the doc- 
 trine of a Trinity. We might as well 
 say that any other three points of be- 
 lief are one point The creed consists 
 of three parts ; and these parts embrace 
 the grand peculiarities of the Christian 
 religion ; and it is for this reason, as we 
 conceive, and for no other, that they are 
 introduced into the primitive form of a 
 profession of Christianity. 
 
 The first tenet is, that God is a pater- 
 nal Being; that he has an interest in 
 his creatures, such as is expressed in 
 the title Father ; an interest unknown 
 to all the systems of Paganism, untaught 
 in all the theories of philosophy ; an in- 
 terest not only in the glorious beings of 
 other spheres, the sons of light, the 
 dwellers in heavenly worlds, but in us, 
 poor, ignorant, and unworthy as we are ; 
 
THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 345 
 
 that he has pity for the erring, pardon 
 for the guihy, love for the pure, kind- 
 ness for the humble, and promises of im- 
 mortal and blessed life for those who 
 trust and obey him. God, yes, the God 
 of boundless worlds and infinite systems, 
 is our Father. How many in Christian 
 lands have not yet learned this first 
 truth of the Christian faith ! 
 
 The second article in the Christian's 
 creed is, that Jesus Christ is the Son 
 of God, "the brightness of his glory, 
 and the express image of his person ; " 
 not God himself, but his image, his 
 brightest manifestation ; the teacher of 
 his truth, the messenger of his will; the 
 mediator between God and men; the 
 sacrifice for sin, and the Saviour from it ; 
 the conqueror of death, the forerunner 
 into eternity, where he evermore liveth 
 to make intercession for us. We are 
 not about to argue ; but we cannot help 
 remarking, as we pass, how obvious it 
 is, that in none of these offices can 
 Jesus be regarded as God. If he t's 
 God in his nature, yet as Mediator be- 
 tween God and man, we say he cannot 
 be regarded as God. 
 
 The third object of our belief, intro- 
 duced into the primitive creed, is the 
 Holy Ghost; -in other words, that power 
 of God, that divine influence, by which 
 Christianity was established through mi- 
 raculous aids, and by which its spirit is 
 still shed abroad in the hearts of men. 
 This tenet, as we understand it, requires 
 our belief in miracles, and in gracious in- 
 terpositions of God, for the support and 
 triumph of Christian faith and virtue. 
 
 Let us add, that these three, with the. 
 addition of the doctrine of a future life, 
 are the grand points of faith which are 
 set forth in the earliest uninspired creed 
 on record, commonly called " The 
 Apostles' creed" Its language is, " I 
 believe in God the Father Almighty ; 
 and in Jesus Christ, his only-begotten 
 Son, our Lord ; who was born of the 
 Holy Ghost and Virgin Mary; and was 
 crucified under Pontius Pilate, and was 
 buried; and, the third day, rose again 
 from the dead, ascended into heaven, sit- 
 
 teth on the right hand of the Father ; 
 whence he shall come to judge tlie quick 
 and the dead ; and in the Holy Ghost ; the 
 Holy Church ; the remission of sins ; and 
 the resurrection of the flesh." Not a word 
 is here of " co-equal Son," as in the Ni- 
 cene Creed ; not a word of " Trinity," as 
 in the Athanasian. Things approach 
 nearer, it should seem, to the simplicity 
 of the gospel, as they approach nearer 
 to its date. To that simplicity of faith, 
 then, we hold fast. On that primitive 
 and beautiful record of doctrine we put 
 our hand and place our reliance. We 
 believe "in the Father, and in the Son, 
 and in the Holy Ghost." May the 
 Father Almighty have mercy upon us ! 
 May the Son of God redeem us from 
 guilt, from misery, and from hell ! May 
 the Holy Ghost sanctify and save us! 
 
 From this general creed, let us now 
 proceed to particular doctrines. 
 
 II. We believe in the atonement. 
 That is to say, we believe in what that 
 word and similar words mean in the 
 New Testament. We take not the re- 
 sponsibility of supporting the popular 
 interpretations. They are various, and 
 are constantly varying, and are without 
 authority, as much as they are without 
 uniformity and consistency. What the 
 divine record says, we beheve according 
 to the best understanding we can form 
 of its import. We believe that Jesus 
 Christ " died for our sins ; " that he '• died, 
 the just for the unjust ;" that "he gave 
 his hfe a ransom for many;" that "he 
 is the Lamb of God that taketh away 
 the sins of the world ; " that " we have 
 redemption through his blood;" that 
 we " have access to God, and enter 
 into the holiest [that is, the nearest com- 
 munion with God] by the blood of Jesus." 
 We have no objection to the phrase 
 " atoning blood," though it is not Scrip- 
 tural, provided it is taken in a sense , 
 which the Scripture authorizes. 
 
 But what now is the meaning of all 
 this phraseology, and of much more 
 that is like it ? Certainly it is that there 
 is some connection between tiie suffer- 
 ings of Christ and our forgiveness, our re- 
 
346 
 
 THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 demption from sin and misery. This we 
 all believe. But what is this connection .'' 
 Here is all the difficulty; here is all the 
 difference of opinion. We all believe, 
 all Christians beheve, that the death of 
 Christ is a means of our salvation. But 
 how is it a means ? Was it, some one 
 will say, perhaps, as if he were putting 
 us to the test; was it an atonement, a 
 sacrifice, a propitiation ? We answer, 
 that it was an atonement, a sacrifice, a 
 propitiation. But now the question is, 
 what is an atonement, a sacrifice, a propi- 
 tiation ? And this is the difficult question ; 
 a question to the propersolution of which 
 much thought, much cautious discrimi- 
 nation, much criticism, much knowledge, 
 and especially of the ancient Hebrew 
 sacrifices, is necessary. Can we not 
 "receive the atonement," without this 
 knowledge, this criticism, this deep phi- 
 losophy ? What then is to become of 
 the mass of mankind, of the body of 
 Christians ? Can we not savingly " re- 
 ceive the atonement " unless we adopt 
 some particular explanation, some pe- 
 culiar creed, concerning it ? Who will 
 dare to answer this question in the neg- 
 ative, when he knows that the Christian 
 world, the Orthodox Christian world, is 
 filled with differences of opinion con- 
 cerning it .'' The Presbyterian Church 
 of America is, at this moment, rent 
 asunder on this question. Christians 
 are, everywhere, divided on the ques- 
 tions, whether the redemption is partic- 
 ular or general ; whether the sufferings 
 of Christ were a literal endurance of the 
 punishment due to sin, or only a moral 
 equivalent ; and whether this equiva- 
 lency, supposing this to be the true ex- 
 planation, consists in the endurance of 
 God's displeasure against sin, or only 
 in a simple manifestation of it. 
 
 The atonement is one thing ; the gra- 
 cious interposition of Christ in our be- 
 half; the doing of all that was necessary 
 to be done, to provide the means and 
 the way for our salvation, — this is one 
 thing ; in this we all believe. The phi- 
 losophy, the theory, the theology of the 
 atonement, is another thing. About this 
 
 Orthodox Christians are differing with 
 one another about as much as they are 
 differing from us. Nay more, they are 
 saying as hard things of one another as 
 they ever said of us. Is it not time to 
 learn wisdom ? Is there not good rea- 
 son for taking the ground we do ; the 
 ground, that is to say, of general belief 
 and trust, without insisting upon partic- 
 ular and peculiar explanations ? 
 
 We believe in Christ ; and well were 
 it if we all believed in him too fervently 
 and tenderly to be engaged much in theo. 
 logical disputes and denunciations. We 
 believe in Christ. We pray to God 
 through him. We ask God to bless us 
 for his sake ; for we feel that Christ 
 makes intercession, and has obtained the 
 privilege to be heard, through his own 
 meritorious sufferings. Christ's sacri- 
 fice is the grandest, the most powerful 
 means of salvation. It was a transcen- 
 dent and most affecting example of meek- 
 ness, patience and forgiveness of inju- 
 ries. It was a most striking exhibition 
 of God's gracious interest and concern 
 for us, of his view of the evil and curse of 
 sin, and of his compassion for the guilty, 
 and of his readiness to forgive the 
 penitent. It was an atonement ; that is 
 to say, a means of reconciliation, — rec- 
 onciliation not of God to us, but of us 
 to God. The blood of that sacrifice was 
 atoning blood ; that is, it was blood on 
 which whoever looks rightly, is touched 
 with gratitude and humility and sorrow 
 for liis sins, and thus is reconciled to God 
 by the death of his Son. 
 
 Now it is possible that we do not 
 understand and receive all that is meant 
 by the Scriptures on this subject. We 
 admit it, as what imperfection ought al- 
 ways to admit ; but we admit it, too, for 
 the sake of saying, that, so long as we 
 receive all that we can understand from 
 the language in question ; so long as we 
 receive and believe every word that is 
 written, — no man has a right to say to 
 us, without qualification, " You do not 
 believe in the atonement. " He may say, 
 "You do not believe in the atonement, 
 according to my explanation," or accord- 
 
THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 347 
 
 ing to Calvin's explanation ; but he has 
 no right to say, without qualification, 
 "You do not believe in the doctrine, you 
 do not believe in the propitiation, in the 
 reconciliation, in the sacrifice of Jesus ;" 
 no more right than we have to address 
 the same language to him.* 
 
 We believe, then, in the atonement. 
 We believe in other views of this great 
 subject than those wliich are expressed 
 by the word atciiciiic7it. But this word 
 spreads before our minds a truth of in- 
 expressible interest. The reconciliation 
 by Jesus Clirist, his interposition to 
 bring us nigh to God, is to us his grand- 
 est office. To our minds there is no 
 sentence of the holy volume more in- 
 
 * In an Introductory Essay to Butler's An- 
 alogy, published by a leading defender of what 
 is called the New Divinity in the Presbyterian 
 Church, the author says, " We maintain that the 
 System of Unitarians, which denies all such sub- 
 stitution," — meaning the removal of calamities 
 from us, in ordinary life, by the interposition and 
 suffering of another, — "is a violation of all the 
 modes in which God has yet dispensed his bless- 
 ings to man." We may just observe in passing, 
 that the respectable author would not say, on reflec- 
 tion, "of a// the modes ;" for many of the most 
 momentous blessings are dispensed to us through 
 our own agency. But this is what he would say, 
 tliat the Unitarian belief, with regard to the atone- 
 ment, violates, as he conceives, one great principle 
 of the Divine beneficinca. And that is the princi- 
 ple, that blessings are often conferred on us, in 
 the course of providence, through the instrumen- ■ 
 tality of others, — of parents, friends, fellow-be- 
 ings, &c. " It is by years of patient toil in others," 
 says Mr. Barnes, in his Essay, " that we possess 
 the elements of science, the principles of morals, 
 the endowments of religion." " Over a helpless 
 babe, ushered into the world, naked, feeble, 
 speechless, there impend hunger, cold, sickness, 
 sudden death, — a mother's watchfulness averts 
 these evils. Over a nation impend revolutions, 
 sword, famine, and the pestilence. The blood of 
 the patriot averts these, and the nation smiles 
 in peace." It is true that the author does " not 
 affirm that this is all that is meant by an atone- 
 ment, " and herein we entirely agree with him. But 
 he certainly is mistaken wlien he says, that Unita- 
 rians deny all such substitution. We deny the Cal- 
 vinistic explanation of atonement or substitution. 
 We might reject the author's hypothesis, too, if 
 we knew what it was. But does it follow, that 
 we deny all substitution ? On the contrary, we 
 especially hold to such substitution. 
 
 If all reputed belief in the atonement is to de- 
 
 teresting, more weighty, more precious, 
 than that passage in the sublime Epistle 
 to the Ephesians, '• Ye were strangers 
 from the covenants of promise, having 
 no hope, and without God in the world : 
 but now in Christ Jesus, ye, who some- 
 time were far off, are brouglit nigh by 
 the blood of Christ. " It is tliis which 
 the world needed ; it is this which 
 every mind now needs, beyond all 
 things, — to be brought nigh to God. By 
 error, by superstition and sin, by slav- 
 ish fears and guilty passions and wicked 
 ways, we were separated from him. By 
 a gracious mission from the Father, b}' 
 simple and clear instructions, by en- 
 couraging representations of God's pa- 
 
 pend on receiving one particular explanation of 
 it, where is this to end? The party in the Pres- 
 byterian Church which strictly adheres to their 
 standards, that is, to the genuine old Calvinistic 
 theology, charges Mr. Barnes and his friends, and 
 the body of New England divines, with holding 
 " another gospel." These again charge Dr. Tay- 
 lor and the New Haven School with holding "an- 
 other gospel." Meanwhile, each of these bodies 
 very stoutly defends its position, insists upon its 
 adherence to Christianity, and protests against the 
 sentence of excision. Has either of these parties 
 obtained a monopoly in protestation and profes- 
 sion t Are liberality and candor to stop with each 
 party just where its convenience may dictate ? 
 Have they needed charity so much that they have 
 used it all up ? Is the last chance of a candid and 
 kind construction gone by ? and is nobody ever 
 to be permitted any more to say, " We believe in 
 the gospel, though not according to your expla- 
 nation .'' ' ' 
 
 There are, perhaps, no more accredited defend- 
 ers of the popular doctrine of the atonement than 
 Andrew Fuller and Bishop Magee. Fuller, as 
 quoted by Evans in his "Sketch," says, " If we 
 say, a way was opened by the death of Christ for 
 the free and consistent exercise of mercy in all the 
 methods which sovereign wisdom saw fit to adopt, 
 perhaps we shall include every material idea which 
 the Scriptures give us of that important event." 
 — Evaits, p. 1 20, 14th edition. 
 
 To the question, "In what way can the death 
 of Christ be conceived to operate to the remission 
 of sins ? " Magee says, " The answer of the Chris- 
 tian is, I know not, nor does it concern me to 
 know, !7i u>hat manner the sacrifice of Christ is 
 connected with the forgiveness of sins ; it is enough 
 that this is declared by God to be the medium 
 through which my salvation is effected." — Ata- 
 gee on the Atonement, p. 29, American edition. 
 
 With these declarations we entirely agree. 
 
348 
 
 THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 ternal love and pity, by winning examples 
 of the transcendent beauty of goodness, 
 and, most of all, by that grand consum- 
 mation, DEATH, E)y that exhibition of 
 the curse of sin in which Jesus was 
 made a curse for it, by that compassion 
 of the Holy One which flowed forth in 
 every bleeding wounJ, by that .voice 
 forever sounding through the world, 
 " Father ! Father ! forgive them," 
 Jesus lias brought us nigh to God. Can 
 it be thought enthusiasm to say, that 
 there is no blessing, either in possession 
 or in the range of possibility, to be 
 compared with this ? Does not reason 
 itself declare that all the harmonies of 
 moral existence are broken, if the great 
 central, all-attracting Power, be not ac- 
 knowledged and felt ? Without God — to 
 every mind that has awaked to the con- 
 sciousness of its nature — without God 
 life is miserable ; the world is dark ; the 
 universe is disrobed of its splendors ; 
 the intellectual tie to nature is broken ; 
 the charm of existence is dissolved ; the 
 great hope of being is lost ; and the 
 mind itself, like a star struck from its 
 sphere, wanders through the infinite 
 region of its conceptions, without attrac- 
 tion, tendency, destin)-, or end. " With- 
 out God in the world ! " what a compre- 
 hensive and desolating sentence of ex- 
 clusion is written in those few words ! 
 "Without God in the world! " It is to 
 be without the presence of the Creator 
 amidst his works, of the Father amidst his 
 family, of the Being who has spread glad- 
 ness and beauty all around us. It is to 
 be without spiritual light, without any 
 sure guidance or strong reliance, without 
 any adequate object for our ever expand- 
 ing love, without any sufficient consoler 
 for our deepest sorrows, without any 
 protector when the world joins against 
 us, without any refuge when persecution 
 pursues to death, without any all-con- 
 trolling principle, without the chief sanc- 
 tion of duty, without the great bond of 
 existence. Oh ! dark and fearful in 
 spirit must we be, poor tremblers upon 
 a bleak and desolate creation, deserted, 
 despairing, miserable must we be, if 
 
 the Power that controls the universe is 
 not our friend, if God be nothing to us 
 but a mighty and dread abstraction to 
 which we never come near ; if God be 
 not " our God, and our exceeding great 
 reward forever ! " This is the fearful 
 doom that is reserved in the gospel of 
 Christ. . This the fearful condition from 
 which it was his great design to deHver 
 us. For this end it was that he died, 
 that he might bring us nigh to God. 
 The blood of martyrdom is precious ; 
 but this was the blood of a holier sacri- 
 fice, — of innocence pleading for guilt, "of 
 alamb without spotand without blemish, 
 slain from the foundation of the world." 
 
 But we must pass to other topics, and 
 the space that remains will oblige us to 
 give them severally much less expansion 
 in this briefstatement. 
 
 III. In the third place, then, we say, 
 that we believe in human depravity ; 
 and a very serious and saddening belief 
 it is, too, that we hold on this point. We 
 believe in the very great depravity of 
 mankind, in the exceeding depravation 
 of human nature. We believe that " the 
 heart is deceitful above all things, and 
 desperately wicked." We believe all 
 that is meant when it is said of the 
 world in the time of Noah, that " all the 
 imaginations of men, and all the thoughts 
 of their hearts, were evil, and only evil 
 continually." We believe all that Paul 
 meant when he said, speaking of the 
 general character of the heathen world 
 in his time, " There is none that is 
 righteous, no, not one ; there is none 
 that understandeth, there is none that 
 seeketh after God ; they have all gone 
 out of the way, there is none that doeth 
 good, or is a doer of good, no, not one ; 
 with their tongues they use deceit, and 
 the poison of asps is under their lips; 
 whose mouth is full of cursing and bitter- 
 ness ; and the way of peace have they 
 not known, and there is no fear of God 
 before their eyes." We believe that 
 this was not intended to be taken with- 
 out qualifications ; for Paul, as we shall 
 soon have occasion to observe, made 
 qualifications. It was true in the gen- 
 
THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 349 
 
 eral. But it is not the ancient heathen 
 world alone that we regard as filled 
 with evil : we believe that the world 
 now, taken in the mass, is a very, a ywj 
 bad world ; that the sinfulness of the 
 world is dreadful and horrible to con- 
 sider ; that the nations ought to be 
 covered with sackcloth and mourning 
 for it ; that they are filled with misery by 
 it. Why, can any man look abroad upon 
 the countless miseries inflicted bv selfish- 
 ness, dishonesty, slander, strife, war; 
 upon the boundless woes of intemper- 
 ance, libertinism, gambling, crime, — can 
 any man look upon all this, with the 
 thousand minor diversities and shadings 
 of guilt and guilty sorrow, and feel that 
 he could write any less dreadful sentence 
 against the world than Paul has written ? 
 Not believe in human depravity; great 
 general, dreadful depravity ! Why, a 
 man must be a fool, nay, a stock or a 
 stone, not to believe in it! He has no 
 eyes, he has no senses, he has no per- 
 ceptions, if he refuses to believe in it ! 
 
 But let the reader of this exposition 
 take with him these qualifications ; for 
 although it is popular, strangely popu- 
 lar, to speak extravagantly of human 
 wickedness, we shall not endeavor to 
 gain any man's good opinion by that 
 means. 
 
 First, it is not the depravity of na- 
 ture in which we believe. Human na- 
 ture, nature as it exists in the bosom of 
 an infant, is nothing else but capabil- 
 ity ; capability of good as well as evil, 
 though more likely from its exposures 
 to be evil than good. It is not the de- 
 pravity, then, but the depravation of 
 nature, in which we believe. 
 
 Secondly, it is not in the unlimited 
 application of Paul's language that we 
 believe. When he said, " No, not one," 
 he did not mean to say, without qualifi- 
 cation, that there was not one good man 
 in the world. He believed that there 
 were good men. He did not mean to 
 s^y, that there was not one good man 
 in the heathen world ; for he speaks in 
 another place of those who, " not hav- 
 ing the law, were a law to themselves, 
 
 and by nature did those things which 
 are written in the law." Paul meant, 
 doubtless, to say, that the world is a 
 very bad world, and in this we believe. 
 
 Neither, thirdly, do we believe in 
 what is technically called " total de- 
 pravity," that is to say, a total and 
 absolute destitution of everything right, 
 even in bad men. No such critical ac- 
 curacy do we believe that the Apostle 
 ever affected, or ever thought of affect- 
 ing. A very bad child may sometimes 
 love his parents, and be melted into 
 great tenderness towards them ; and so 
 a mind estranged from God may some- 
 times tenderly feel his goodness. 
 
 Finally, we would not portray human 
 wickedness without the deepest con- 
 sideration and pity for it. Alas ! how 
 badly is man educated, how sadly is he 
 deluded, how ignorant is he of himself, 
 how little does he perceive the great 
 love of God to him, which, if he were 
 rightly taught to see it, might melt him 
 into tenderness and penitence. Let us 
 have some patience with human na- 
 ture till it is less cruelly abused. Let us 
 pity the sad and dark struggle that is 
 passing in many hearts, between good 
 and evil ; and, though evil so often 
 gains the ascendancy, still let us pity, 
 while we blame it ; and while we speak 
 to it in the solemn language of repro- 
 bation and warning, let us " tell these 
 things," as Paul did, " even weeping." 
 
 IV. From this depraved condition, 
 we believe, in the fourth place, that 
 men are to be recovered, by a pro- 
 cess which is termed, in the Scrip- 
 tures, regeneration. We believe in 
 regeneration, or the new birth. Th^t 
 is to say, we believe, not in all the 
 ideas which men have annexed to those 
 words, but in what we understand the 
 sacred writers to mean by them. We 
 believe that, "except a man be born 
 again, he cannot see the 'kingdom of 
 God ; " that " he must be new created 
 in Christ Jesus ; " that " old things must 
 pass away, and all things become new " 
 We certainly think that these phrases 
 applied with peculiar force to the con- 
 
ISO 
 
 THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 dition of people who were not only to 
 be converted from their sins, but from 
 the very forms of religion in which they 
 had been brought up ; and we know 
 indeed that the phrase " new birth " 
 did, according to the usage of language 
 in those days, apply especially to the 
 bare fact of proselytism. But we be- 
 lieve that men are still to be converted 
 from their sins, and that this is a change 
 of the most urgent necessity and of the 
 most unspeakable importance. 
 
 The application of this doctrine, too, 
 is nearly universal. Some, like Samuel 
 of old, may have grown up to piety from 
 their earliest childhood, and it may be 
 hoped that the number of such, through 
 the means of more faithful education, 
 is increasing. But we confess that we 
 understand nothing of that romantic 
 dream of the innocence of childhood. 
 There are few children who do not need 
 to be " converted ; " from selfishness to 
 disinterestedness, from the sullenness or 
 violence of crossed passions to meek- 
 ness and submission, from the dislike 
 to the love of piety and pious exercises ; 
 from the habits of a sensual to the ef- 
 forts of a rationnl and spiritual nature. 
 Childhood is, indeed, often pure, com- 
 pared with what commonly follows, but 
 still it needs a change. And that which 
 does commonly follow is a character 
 which needs to be essentially changed 
 in order to prepare the soul for happi- 
 ness in heaven. 
 
 Now there is usually a time in the 
 hfe of every devoted Christian when 
 this change commences. We say not, 
 a moment ; for it is impossible so to date 
 moral experiences. But there is a time 
 when the work is resolutely begun. Be- 
 gun, we say ; for it cannot in any brief 
 space be completed. How soon it may 
 be so far completed as to entitle its 
 subject to hope for future happiness, 
 it is neither easy nor material to say. 
 But to aver that it may be done in a 
 moment is a doctrine of which it is 
 difficult to say whether it is, in our 
 view, more unscriptural, extravagant, or 
 dangerous. 
 
 With such qualifications and guards, 
 authorized by tlie laws of sound criti- 
 cism, we believe in regeneration ; and 
 we beHeve that the spirit of God is 
 offered to aid, in this great work, the 
 weakness of human endeavor. 
 
 V. We believe, too, in the fifth place, 
 in the doctrine of election. This is to 
 say, again, we believe in what the Scrip- 
 tures, as we understand them, mean by 
 that word. 
 
 The time has been, when, not the in- 
 trinsic importance of this doctrine, but 
 the stress laid upon it, would have re- 
 quired that we should give it consider- 
 able space in this summary view. Our 
 good old Arminian fathers fought with 
 it for many a weary day. It was the 
 great stumbling-block in the way of 
 the last generation. And, during our 
 time, it has been held, firmly and by 
 many hands, in its place, as one of the 
 essential foundations of faith. But, 
 within a few years past, it has come to 
 be almost entirely overlooked ; many 
 preachers have almost ceased to direct 
 attention to it ; and many hearers are 
 left to wonder what has become of it, 
 and why it ever occupied a situation 
 so conspicuous. Would that the his- 
 tory of it might be a lesson ! 
 
 The truth is, that the doctrine of 
 election is a matter either of scholas- 
 tic subtilty or of presumptuous curi- 
 osity, with which, as we apprehend, we 
 have but a very little to do. Secret 
 things belong to God. We believe in 
 what the Bible teaches of God's infinite 
 and eternal foreknowledge. We believe 
 that, of all the events and actions which 
 take place in the universe of worlds, 
 and the eternal succession of ages, there 
 is not one, not the minutest, which God 
 did not forever foresee, with all the 
 distinctness of immediate vision. It is 
 a sublime truth. But it is a truth, which 
 the moment we undertake to analyze 
 and apply, we are confounded in igno- 
 rance, and lost in wonder. We believe, 
 but we would take care that we do not 
 presumptuously believe. We believe in 
 election, not in selection. We believe 
 
THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 351 
 
 in foreknowledge, not in fate. We be- 
 lieve in the boundless wisdom of God, 
 but not less in the weakness of our own 
 comprehension. We believe that his 
 thoughts are not as our thoughts, and 
 that his ways are not as our ways, and 
 his counsels are not as our counsels, 
 and his decrees are not as our decrees. 
 For as the heavens are high above the 
 earth, so is he above the reach of our 
 frail and finite understanding. 
 
 VI. In the sixth place, we believe in 
 a future state of rewards and punish- 
 ments. We believe that sin must ever 
 produce misery, and that holiness must 
 ever produce happiness. We believe 
 that there is good for the good, and evil 
 for the evil ; and that these are to be 
 dispensed exactly in proportion to the 
 degree in which the good or evil quali- 
 ties prevail. 
 
 The language of Scripture, and all 
 the language of Scripture, on this solemn 
 subject, we have no hesitation aliout 
 using, in the sense in which it was 
 originally meant to be understood. But 
 there has been that attempt to give def- 
 initeness to the indefinite language of 
 the Bible on this subject, to measure the 
 precise extent of those words which 
 spread the vastness of the unknown 
 futurity before us ; and with this sys- 
 tem of artificial criticism, the popular 
 ignorance of Oriental figures and met- 
 aphors has so combined to fix a specific 
 meaning on the phraseology in question, 
 that it is difficult to use it without con- 
 stant explanation. " Life everlasting," 
 and " everlasting fire," the mansions 
 of rest, and the worm that never dieth, 
 are phrases fraught with a just and rea- 
 sonable, but, at the same time, vast and 
 indefinite import. They are too ob- 
 viously figurative to permit us to found 
 definite and literal statements upon 
 them. And it is especially true of 
 those figures and phrases that are used 
 to describe future misery, that there is 
 not one which is not also used in the 
 Bible to describe things earthly, limited, 
 and temporary. 
 
 So confident in their opinions are 
 
 men made by education and the current 
 belief, that they can scarcely think it 
 possible that the words of Scripture 
 should have any other meaning than 
 that which they assign to them. And 
 they are ready, and actually feel as if 
 they had a right, to ask those who differ 
 from them to give up the Bible alto- 
 gether. Nay, they go so far sometimes 
 as to aver, in the honesty and blindness 
 of their prejudices, that their opponents 
 have given up the Bible, and have gi\ien 
 up all thoughts of trying the questions 
 at issue by that standard. We have an 
 equal right certainly to return the exhor- 
 tation and to retort the charge. At any 
 rate, we can accept neither. We be- 
 lieve in the Scriptures as heartily as 
 any others, and, as we think, more 
 justly. We believe in all that they 
 teach on this subject, and in all they 
 teach on any subject. 
 
 We believe, then, in a heaven and a 
 hell. We believe that there is more to 
 be feared hereafter than any man ever 
 feared, and more to be hoped than any 
 man ever hoped. We believe that 
 heaven is more glorious, and that hell 
 is more dreadful, than any man ever 
 conceived. We believe that the con- 
 sequences both in this world and an- 
 other, that the consequences to every 
 man, of any evil habits he forms, 
 whether of feeling or action, run far 
 beyond Iiis most fearful anticipations. 
 Are mankind yet so gross in their con- 
 ceptions that outward images convey 
 the most transporting ideas they have 
 of happiness, and the most tremendous 
 ideas they have of misery ? Is a celes- 
 tial city all that they understand by 
 heaven ? Let them know that there is 
 a heaven of the mind, a heaven of tried 
 and confirmed virtue, a heaven of holy 
 contemplation, so rapturous, that all 
 ideas of place are transcended, are 
 almost forgotten in its ecstasy. Is a 
 world of elemental fires and bodily 
 torments all that they understand by 
 hell ? Let them consider, that a hell of 
 the mind, the hell of an inwardly gnaw- 
 ing and burning conscience, the hell of 
 
352 
 
 THE UNITARIAN BELIEF. 
 
 remorse and mental agony, may be 
 more horrible than fire and brimstone, 
 and the blackness of darkness forever ! 
 Yes, the crushing mountains, the fold- 
 ing darkness, the consuming fire, might 
 be welcomed, if they could bury, or 
 hide, or sear the guilty and agonized 
 passions, which, while they live, must 
 forever and forever burn, and blacken, 
 and blast the soul ; which, while they 
 live, must forever and forever crush it 
 do«vn to untold and unutterable misery. 
 
 VII. Once more, and finally: we 
 believe in the supreme and all-absorb- 
 ing importance of religion. 
 
 There is nothing more astonishing to 
 us than the freedom of language which 
 we sometimes hear used on this sub- 
 ject ; the bold and confident tone with 
 which it is said that there is no religion 
 among us, nothing but flimsy and fine 
 sentiment, passing under the name of 
 religion. We are ready to ask, What is 
 religion in the hearts of men, what are 
 its sources and fountains, when they 
 can so easily deny it to the hearts of 
 others ? We are inclined to use no 
 severity of retort, on this affecting 
 theme ; else the observation of life 
 might furnish us with some trying ques- 
 tions for the uncharitable to consider. 
 But we will only express the simple as- 
 tonishment we feel at such treatment. 
 We will only say again, and say it more 
 in wonder than in anger, What must 
 religion be in others, what can be its 
 kindness, and tenderness, and peace, 
 and preciousness, when they are so 
 ready to rise up from its blessed affec- 
 tions to the denial of its existence in 
 the hearts of their brethren ? 
 
 We repeat, then, that we believe in 
 the supreme and all-absorbing impor- 
 tance of religion. " What shall it profit 
 a man if he gain the whole world, and 
 lose his own soul ? " is to us the most 
 undeniable of all arguments ; " What 
 shall I do to be saved '? " the most rea- 
 sonable and momentous of all questions ; 
 " God be merciful to me, a sinner ! " the 
 most affecting of all prayers. The soul's 
 concern is the great concern. The 
 
 interests of experimental, vital, practi- 
 cal religion, are the great interests of 
 our being. No language can be too 
 strong, no language can be strong 
 enough, to give them due expression. 
 No anxiety is too deep, no care too 
 heedful, no effort too earnest, no prayer 
 too importunate, to be bestowed upon 
 this almost infinite concern of the soul's 
 purification, piety, virtue, and welfare. 
 No labor of life should be undertaken, 
 no journey pursued, no business trans- 
 acted, no pleasure enjoyed, no activity 
 employed, no rest indulged in, without 
 ultimate reference to that great end of 
 our being. Without it, life has no suffi- 
 cient object, and death has no hope, 
 and eternity no promise. 
 
 What more shall we say ? Look at 
 it ; look at this inward being, and say, 
 what is it ? Formed by the Almighty 
 hand, and therefore formed for some 
 purpose; built up in its proportions, 
 fashioned in every part, by infinite skill ; 
 an emanation, breathed from the spirit 
 of God ; say, what is it."* Its nature, its 
 necessity, its design, its destiny ; what 
 is it? So formed it is, so builded, so 
 fashioned, so exactly balanced, and so 
 exquisitely touched in every part, that 
 sin introduced into it is the direst 
 misery ; that every unholy thought falls 
 upon it as a drop of poison ; that every 
 guilty desire, breathing upon any deli- 
 cate part or fibre of the soul, is the 
 plague spot of evil, the blight of 
 death. Made, then, is it for virtue, not 
 for sin ; oh ! not for sin, for that is 
 death ; but made for virtue, for purity, 
 as its end, its rest, its bliss ; made thus 
 by God Almighty. 
 
 Thou canst not alter it. Go and bid 
 the mountain walls sink down to the level 
 of the valleys ; go and stand upon the 
 seashore and turn back its swelling 
 waves ; or stretch forth thy hand, and 
 hold the stars in their courses ; but not 
 more vain shall be thy power to change 
 them than it is to change one of the 
 laws of thy nature. Then thou f/tust be 
 virtuous. As true it is as if the whole 
 universe spoke in one voice, thou must 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 353 
 
 be virtuons. If thou art a sinner, thou 
 "must be born again." If thou art 
 tempted, thou must resist. If thou hast 
 guilty passions, thou must deny them. 
 If thou art a bad man, thou must be a 
 good man. 
 
 There is the law. It is notour law; it 
 is not our voice that speaks. It is the 
 law of God Almighty ; it is the voice of 
 God that speaks ; speaks through every 
 nerve and fibre, through every power 
 and element of that moral constitution 
 which he has given. It is the voice, 
 not of an arbitrary will, nor of some 
 stern and impracticable law, that is now I 
 
 abrogated. " For \\\t grace of God, that 
 hatli appeared to all men, teaches, that, 
 denying all ungodliness and every 
 worldly lust, they must live soberly, and 
 righteously, and godly in this present evil 
 world." So let us live ; and then tliis 
 life, with all its momentous scenes, its 
 moving experiences, and its precious in- 
 terests, shall be but the beginning of the 
 wonders and glories and joys of oure.xist- 
 ence. So let us live, and let us think 
 this, that to live thus, is the great, urgent, 
 instant, unutterable, all-absorbing con- 
 cern of our life and of our being. 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF; 
 
 WITH INFERENCES CONCERNING DOUBT, DECISION, CONFIDENCE 
 AND THE TRIAL OF FAITH. 
 
 I. 
 
 I CoR. xiii. 12 : " Now I know in part." 
 
 It is of some importance, I think it 
 is of no little importance, that we should 
 entertain just ideas of the nature of re- 
 ligious belief. To this subject therefore, 
 and especially with a view to consider 
 some difficulties and to meet some prac- 
 tical questions, I wish, at present, to in- 
 vite your attention. 
 
 In the first place, then, it may be 
 observed in general, that religious belief 
 is essentially of the same nature as 
 moral belief. Inform they differ; but 
 in substance they are the same. The 
 commondistinction between Religion and 
 Morals, as totally different things, is as 
 erroneous in principle as it is injurious in 
 its effects. Both have their root in the 
 same great original sense of rectitude, 
 which God has impressed on our nature, 
 and without which we should not be 
 men. By religion we mean our duty 
 to God ; and by morals, our duty to 
 men : and both are bound upon us by 
 the same essential reason, — that they are 
 
 right. Or they are, respectively, the 
 love of God, and the love of men ; and 
 both, in their highest character, are a 
 love of the same goodness. Piety and 
 philanthropy are essentially of the 
 same nature. The Bible appeals to 
 both alike, and it does not sever, but it 
 binds them together ; summing up all 
 its commandments in these two: " Thou 
 shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
 heart, and thy neighbor as thyself; " 
 and saying emphatically, "He that loveth 
 not his brother whom he hath seen, how 
 can he love God whom he hath not 
 seen ? " 
 
 Further: as the original grounds of 
 conviction, so the steps by which we 
 arrive at our conclusions in both of these 
 spheres of duty, are essentially the same. 
 The steps are steps of reasoning. The 
 Bible teaches morals and religion alike, 
 and teaches them in the same way ; and 
 we arrive at its meaning in both by the 
 same means ; viz., by that process of 
 reasoning called criticism. There is 
 not one kind of criticism to be applied 
 to those texts which teach the love of 
 
 23 
 
354 
 
 TFIE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 God, and another to those which teach 
 the love of man ; there is the same pro- 
 cess of reasoning in both cases. And 
 so in Natural Theology, and Moral Phi- 
 losophy, alike, we begin with certain 
 original truths in the mind, and proceed 
 to deduce certain duties ; and in both 
 cases, the process of reasoning is, in 
 kind, the same. 
 
 But now the material question, and 
 that to which I have been endeavoring 
 to bring you, is this ; What kind of rea- 
 soning is it ? And the answer is plain ; 
 It is that kind of reasoning which is usu- 
 ally called moral reasoning. It is com- 
 monly defined, simply by being distin- 
 guished from mathematical reasoning. 
 That is to say, it is not like a mathemat- 
 ical deduction, — infallible; it is not at- 
 tended with a feeling of certainty, but 
 only of belief. 
 
 But still we must distinguish ; for it 
 is important to observe that the differ- 
 ence of which we speak relates only to 
 deductions ; not at all io principles. The 
 original principles of religion and morals 
 are certain. They are as certain as any 
 other principles ; as certain as the prin- 
 ciples on which mathematical science is 
 founded. They are not matters of be- 
 lief at all, but matters of absolute knowl- 
 edge. Though not in religious belief, 
 accurately speaking, yet in religion, 
 there are absolute certainties. I am as 
 sure that I have a conscience and a re- 
 ligious nature ; I am as sure, again, that 
 benevolence and other moral qualities 
 are right; and I am as sure that my na- 
 ture is constituted to approve and love 
 them, wherever they appear, in man or 
 in God, — as I am of my own existence 
 and identity, or as I am that my nature 
 is constituted to assent to the truth of 
 any mathematical axioms. It is important 
 to say this, because the distinction 
 commonly made between mathematical 
 and moral reasonings may be carelessly 
 extended so as to cover more ground 
 than belongs to it. For the basis of the 
 mathematics is not more certain and 
 irrefragable than the basis of morals. 
 
 But the moment we take one step 
 
 from that basis, from those first princi- 
 ples, and enter upon deductions, it is 
 agreed by all reasoners that a marked 
 and essential diflFerence obtains. In 
 the mathematics, every step of the de- 
 duction is as certain as the principle 
 from which it started. In moral rea- 
 sonings, it is not so. The ideas in- 
 volved in these reasonings are not so 
 definite, the terms not so clear, and the 
 result is, by no means, so unerring. 
 The steps of moral deduction, of philo- 
 logical criticism, are not steps of dem- 
 onstration. But these are the steps 
 that lead to religious belief, that con- 
 duct to a creed. A creed is not a 
 certainty, but a belief. Put any cer- 
 tainty into a creed, and the absurdity 
 would at once be felt. No one could 
 gravely stand up and say, " I believe in 
 my own existence ; I believe in my 
 identity ; I believe that I ought to 
 be a good man." These are matters 
 of certainty ; but the propositions of 
 a creed are matters of logical in- 
 ference. The seal upon it is not 
 absolute consciousness, but religious 
 conviction. The scale on which that 
 conviction is marked is the scale of 
 probability. I use this term, probabil- 
 ity, I ought to say, in the technical 
 sense which moral reasoners assign to 
 it, which is stronger and more definite 
 than the popular sense. I use it as 
 simply opposed to certainty. On the 
 scale of probability, or of moral reason- 
 ing, in other words, belief often rises, 
 no doubt, almost to certainty. But it 
 never, strictly speaking, arrives at that 
 point. It is never absolute certainty ; 
 it is never perfect knowledge. For 
 "we know in part," says the Apostle. 
 
 From these views, I am not aware 
 that any intelligent moral or religious 
 reasoners dissent. The distinction is 
 familiar in all the standard writers, and 
 may be considered as the settled judg- 
 ment of all who are competent to form 
 an opinion on the subject. Moral evi- 
 dence is not demonstration. Belief is 
 not knowledge. Believing a thing to 
 be true is not knowing it to be true. 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 355 
 
 Not to dwell longer, then, upon a 
 point so plain, and so universally con- 
 ceded, my further purpose is to offer 
 some remarks upon this admitted nature 
 of religious belief. 
 
 I. My first remirk is, if the view 
 presented be just, that it is common to 
 assign,in some respects, a veryinjurious 
 and unwarrantable importance to doubts. 
 
 Doubts enter into the very processes 
 by which we arrive at belief. Nay, 
 they enter into the very nature of belief 
 itself. They constitute a pirt of it, Ijy 
 very definition. Beheving is doubting, 
 to a certain extent. Believing and 
 doubting are correlative terms. They 
 are co-essential elements. " We know' 
 in part." That is to say, our knowledge 
 is imperfect. But imperfect knowledge 
 implies uncertainty. And uncertainty 
 is doubt. 
 
 But the prevalent feeling and policy 
 of the Christian world has been to beat 
 down and destroy doubts. It has given 
 them no quarter. It has allowed them 
 no place in the theory of its creeds, 
 though those creeds have begun with 
 the phrase " I believe ; " not " I know," 
 but " I believe." And tliis tendency of 
 the public opinion and practice of the 
 churches has had the effect - I wish it 
 may be considered — to give not only an 
 unwarrantable, but a most injurious, im- 
 portance to doubts. Its effect has been, 
 not only to rend the bosom of the 
 cliurch, to cast out many honest and 
 virtuous men from it, to make a new 
 sect for every new doubt, but, I fear, to 
 make many, who might have been pre- 
 served from that result, infidels. Doubt, 
 I say, has derived a factitious impor- 
 tance from this universal persecution. 
 That portion of evidence which leads a 
 man to doubt has been held by him to 
 deserve more attention than that which 
 leads him to believe. One fraction of 
 doubt has weighed with him more than 
 nine parts of evidence in favor of 
 Christianity ; and he lias become an un- 
 believer, we may say, against his own 
 convictions. It is an independent and 
 honest mind, too, — which makes the 
 
 case a more unfortunate one, — that is 
 especially liable to be carried away by 
 this fallacy. Sucii an one, afraid cf 
 everything implicit and traditional in 
 faith, says, " I have a doubt ; I must 
 be fair and impartial ; I must be true to 
 my convictions ; I must assent to nothing 
 from fear or favor ; I have a doubt,'''' this 
 man says, '' and how can I say I believe, 
 so long as I doubt ? " But why, let me 
 ask in turn, should he pay this sort of 
 homage to a mere negative conviction .'' 
 What is there in a doubt, — that is to say, 
 what is there in a reason agai/ist that 
 is to be treated with so much more con- 
 sideration tlian in a xtasonfor ? Why 
 should not this man say, though he may 
 noi feel that the argument is perfectly sat- 
 isfactory, though he mayhe troubled with 
 doubts, — why should he not say, " I have 
 twice as much evidence for the Bible and 
 a future life as I have against them, and 
 how can I doubt so long as I have that 
 evidence?" I am sure this conclu- 
 sion would be twice as rational as the 
 other ; and I am certain that the spirit 
 of this conclusion would have saved many 
 from unbelief. But we do not ask so 
 much as we have asked, in form, and 
 by way of rejoinder. We do not ask, 
 we have no right, as advocates or apol- 
 ogists for Christianity, to ask the man 
 who hesitates, to say that he has no 
 doubts ; but we do ask, and have in 
 reason a right to ask, that he should 
 yield his mind, not to any assumed 
 power or importance of doubt, but to the 
 preponderance of evidence. 
 
 Beside the doubt about Christianity, 
 there is another which may be considered 
 as a part of it, but which, I think de- 
 mands a distinct notice ; and that is the 
 doubt about a future life. Thisisadoubt 
 which is much more frequently felt than 
 expressed. You will always observe, 
 when it is expressed, that it is done with 
 great reluctance and caution, — with a 
 feeling almost as if a crime were con- 
 fessed ; and with a feeling, too, as if the 
 matter of the confession were quite as 
 peculiar to the individual confessing as 
 it is painful to him. 
 
3S6 
 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 Now the difficulty here arises from our 
 not sufficiently considering the nature of 
 moral evidence, the nature of religious 
 Ijclief. It would relieve us, to be at once 
 more frank and rational, instead of wrap- 
 ping up the matter like a dark secret in 
 the cloud of our speculative misappre- 
 hensions. The truth is, that in doubt 
 on this point, there is nothing very 
 strange. It belongs to more minds than 
 you may imagine. It must belong, 
 more or less, to all minds. It enters 
 into the very nature of our belief in a 
 future state. For that behef is not cer- 
 tainty. The point in question, is not 
 the subject of intuition. No man ever 
 saw the world of departed spirits. All 
 the views and convictions that any man 
 has or can have about it fall short of 
 actual knowledge. We believe, indeed, 
 in the divine mission of Christ. We 
 believe, too, in the mercy of God, and 
 should entertain some hope of a future 
 life even on the general ground of Natu- 
 ral Theology. We see not, moreover, 
 how the scene of this life can be cleared 
 up, how the great plan of things can be 
 made consistent or tolerable, without a 
 future scene. And on all these accounts 
 we have a strong faith in futurity. But 
 to say that this faith has passed beyond 
 every shadow of doubt is to say more 
 than is true, more than can be reason- 
 ably demanded of faith. 
 
 Now this shadow, sometimes pass- 
 ing over the mind, — why should it chill, 
 or darken, or distress any one, as if 
 it were something portentous, or, in fact 
 anything extraordinary ? Certainty, 
 it is true, would be grateful. Uncer- 
 t linty is painful ; though it is also, I 
 tliink, and will yet attempt to show, use- 
 ful. It is painful, however, I confess, in 
 proportion as it is great. But this is what 
 I say : it is not at all surprising. It is 
 a part of our dispensation. Some clouds 
 are between us and those ever bright 
 regions in whose existence we fully 
 believe. So God has willed it to be. 
 We see through a glass darkly. We 
 walk by faith, and not by sight. We 
 long for a sight of those regions of 
 
 existence in which we are to live ; but 
 it has not pleased God to give us that 
 vision. 
 
 And the point that I would urge is, 
 that we should not give any undue im- 
 portance to this lack of vision, or of 
 certainty. We should do most unwisely 
 and unnecessarily to magnify the im- 
 portance of this doubt, by considering 
 it as anything peculiar or awful or 
 criminal. It is painful, indeed, but not 
 wonderful. It is painful ; but the pain, 
 like all the pains of our moral imperfec- 
 tion, is an element of improvement ; 
 and it is to be removed by reflection, 
 by prayer, by self-purification. To the 
 *mind rightly thinking and feeling, the 
 evidence of immortality is growing con- 
 tinually stronger and stronger. Already 
 with some it touches upon the borders 
 of certainty. So may it do with every 
 one who hears me. And the direction 
 to be given for every one's guidance is, 
 not to stumble at doubt, but to press on 
 to certainty. And I hold and firmly 
 believe that an assurance, all but vision, 
 is just as certainly at the end of the pro- 
 cess, with every right mind, as complete 
 demonstration is at the end of every 
 true theorem in science. 
 
 This undue importance attached to 
 doubts becomes a still more serious 
 matter when it affects, not only a man's 
 opinions, but his practice. Do not 
 many neglect to lead a strictly virtuous 
 and religious life on this plea of uncer- 
 tainty about the result? Is it not, at 
 least, the plea which the heart secretly 
 offers to justify its indolence or indiffer- 
 ence ? A man says with himself, " I do 
 not know wliat is the right way, there 
 are so many disputes about it ; " and 
 he thinks that an apology for his neglect 
 of the whole subject. Or he says, per- 
 haps, " I do not k?iow that the Bible is 
 true ; I do not know that there is any 
 future life, or that there is any retribu- 
 tion hereafter. If I did know it, I 
 should act upon my knowledge ; but 
 the fact is, there is no certainty abput 
 these matters, and therefore I shall give 
 myself no trouble about them." Now, 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 357 
 
 to justify this conclusion, he should be 
 able to say, '• I know that tlie Bible is not 
 true, and that there is no future life, and 
 no retribution hereafter." If he^'^z^/^/say 
 this, then his premises would be as 
 broad as his conclusion. But to say, " I 
 do not know," and therefore to do noth- 
 ing, is as if a man should say, " I do not 
 know that I shall have a crop, and there- 
 fore I will sow no seed ; " or, " I do not 
 know that I shall gain property, and 
 therefore I will do no business ; " or, " I 
 do not know that I shall obtain happi- 
 ness, and therefore I will not seek it." 
 The truth is, that, in the affairs of this 
 life, men act upon the strongest evi- 
 dence, upon the strongest probabil- 
 ity ; it is a part of the very wisdom 
 of their condition that they should so 
 act ; and so they ought to act, so it is 
 wise that they should be left to act, in 
 the affairs of religion. If any one re- 
 fuses to act upon such a ground, he 
 refuses the discipline of his own nature, 
 and of God's providence; and neither 
 his own nature nor tiie providence of 
 heaven will hold him guiltless. 
 
 II. Nay more, as a religious being, 
 he must act upon some ground, and he 
 .ought to choose the most reasonable 
 ground ; and this is the substance of 
 the second remark I have to offer on 
 the nature of religious belief. 
 
 It is not often enough considered, 
 perhaps, that every man, every thinking 
 man at least, must have some theory, 
 must choose between opposing argu- 
 ments ; must come to some conclusion, 
 which he is to take and defend, with all 
 its difficulties. He who doubts is apt 
 to regard himself as occupying vantage- 
 ground in religious discussion ; as occu- 
 pying a position above the believer, and 
 entitled to look down upon him without 
 sympathy, and even with scorn ; as if 
 he, the infidel, stood aloof from the 
 difficulties that press upon questions 
 of this nature. But this is an entire 
 mistake. He too, the infidel, is in the 
 battle, and there is no discharge in 
 that war. I have said that believing 
 is doubting to a certain extent. I now 
 
 say that doubting is believing to a 
 certain extent. The doubter holds a 
 theory. That extreme of doubt de- 
 nominated Pyrrhonism is still a theory. 
 It is believing something; and some- 
 thing very prodigious, too ; even that 
 nothing is to be believed ! Doubtino-, 
 I say, is believing to a certain extent. 
 A man may say he is certain of nothing. 
 But he is certain, I suppose, of his un- 
 certainty ; certain that he is a doubter; 
 certain then that he is a thinker ; certain 
 that he is a conscious being. But still 
 he may say, willing to doubt all he can, 
 that with regard to the objects of his 
 consciousness, he can have no certainty. 
 He is conscious of the difference be- 
 tween truth and error, right and wrong ; 
 but he is not certain, he says, that these 
 perceptions of his agree with the abso- 
 lute, the real truth of things. Is this 
 doubt reasonable, or possible ? A man 
 has a perception of existence. What 
 existence 1 His own. He knows that 
 lie exists. A man has a perception of 
 rectitude. What rectitude .? Why, of a 
 rectitude within hint, just as certainly 
 existing as he exists. There is a feel- 
 ing in him : he approves it. That is 
 final. He cannot go behind this con- 
 sciousness into a region of doubt, any 
 more than he can go behind the con- 
 sciousness of his existence. Like a 
 fiash of lightning, like the voice of thun- 
 der, is this revelation of conscience from 
 the thickest cloud of his doubts ; it is as 
 clear and strong and irresistible. 
 
 But suppose that we have brought 
 the doubter thus far to the recognition 
 of the great primitive facts of philosophy 
 and religion ; yet when we come to the 
 deductions from these facts, to a system 
 of faith, we have admitted that there is 
 some uncertainty. How shall our rea- 
 soner proceed here ? Shall he say that 
 because there is uncertainty, he will 
 believe nothing ? That would be re- 
 fusing to do the only thing, and the very 
 thing, which the circumstances require 
 of him, — even to choose between oppos- 
 ing arguments. It would be as if the 
 mariner should say, " The waters are 
 
o:) 
 
 8 
 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 unstable beneath me ; they sway me 
 this way and that way ; and I will lay 
 no course across the deep." No, the 
 only question is, What is it best to do ? 
 What is the wisest course to take ? 
 What is it most reasonable to believe 
 in .'' The moral inquirer is on the 
 ocean ; and to give himself up to doubt, 
 indifference, and inaction is to perish 
 there. And the question is between 
 remaining in this state and adopting 
 some religious faith for guidance and 
 support. 
 
 Now it appears to me that the cold- 
 est and feeblest statement of the argu- 
 ment /or religious faith, gathers strength 
 and warmth, from being placed in this 
 point of light. For thus would a man 
 reason on this ground : " To doubt 
 everytliing, to doubt all the primitive 
 facts of my moral consciousness, I have 
 admitted, is self-contradicting absurdity. 
 But to reject all religious systems flow- 
 ing from them, because they are not 
 equally certain, is as false in philosophy 
 as to reject the original facts. Some- 
 thing, I 7Jtust believe; something better 
 or something worse. Some conclusions 
 flow out of the principles, and I cannot 
 help it. To reject all conclusion is 
 irrational and impossible folly. Nay 
 more, I am bound to accept those con- 
 clusions that favor the improvement of 
 my nature. That I am made to improve 
 is as certain as that I am made to be. 
 Now to reject all religions faith is ruin 
 to my spiritual nature. To deny, for 
 instance, the doctrine of immortality, 
 comes to the same thing ; my soul dies 
 now, if it is not to live forever. To 
 reject Christianity is to reject what is 
 obviously the most powerful means 
 of improvement in the world. At any 
 rate, if there be no truth at all in re- 
 ligion, if its grandest principles are 
 falsehoods, and its grandest revelations 
 are dreams, — then the very spring 
 of improvement in me is broken, and 
 my situation involves this astounding 
 absurdity : that I am made to improve, 
 to be happy in nothing else, and yet 
 that this is the very thing for which no 
 
 provision is made ; that an appetite is 
 given me which craves divine and im- 
 mortal good ; that on its being supplied 
 depends the essential life of my mind and 
 heart, — and yet, that beneath the heav- 
 ens there is no food for it ; no, nor 
 above the heavens ; that the only pro- 
 vision made for it is poison and death ! " 
 
 Can this be? — as it must be if the 
 sceptic's theory be true. Can it be 
 that a light is on my path, which leads 
 me to the loftiest and most blessed vir- 
 tue and happiness, — such is the light 
 of religion, — and yet that it sprung 
 from the dark suggestions cf fraud and 
 imposture .'' Can it be that God- has 
 formed our minds to feel the most inex- 
 pressible longings after a life beyond 
 the barriers of time ; and yet that he 
 has left our hearts to break with the 
 dreadful conviction that the blessed 
 land is not for us } Is this the obvious 
 reasonableness of the sceptic's choice .'' 
 Is this the charm of doubt that is to 
 outweigh the whole mass of evidence .'' 
 Why such useless and cruel contradic- 
 tions and incongruities as enter into 
 the unbeliever's plan ? Why are we 
 sent to wander through this world, in 
 sorrow and despair, as we must do, if 
 there is no guiding light and no inviting 
 prospect ? 
 
 It would be easy, if there were space 
 in this discussion, to present in many 
 lights the glaring contradictions to 
 which scepticism must lead, and which 
 surely are_ harder to receive than any 
 tolerably rational system of faith. Sup- 
 pose that such system were not free 
 from serious difficulties. I think it is ; 
 but suppose that it were not. Yet if 
 the weight of evidence be in its favor ; 
 and if we must embrace some system, 
 and that of faith clears up more difficul- 
 ties than the opposite system, — is it not 
 most reasonable that our minds should 
 settle down into a calm and confiding 
 belief .-" Let every man, with these 
 views, make his election. Let him 
 choose — for these are the questions 
 — whether he will take, for his por- 
 tion, light or darkness, cheerfulness or 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 359 
 
 sadness, hope or despair, the warmth 
 of confiding piety or the cold and cheer- 
 less atmosphere of distrust, the spirit 
 of sacred improvement or the spirit of 
 worldly negligence and apathy. I do 
 not wish, in making tliis contrast, to 
 speak with any harshness of scepticism. 
 I state it as it appears to myself, and as 
 it would appear, let me embrace which- 
 ever theory I might. Faith is light, and 
 cheerfulness, and hope, and devotion, 
 and improvement. And doubt, on 
 essential points, is in its very nature 
 d:irkness, and sadness, and despondency, 
 and distrust, and spiritual death. 
 
 For which, think you, — for I cannot 
 help pressing the alternative a moment 
 longer, — for which was our nature 
 made .-* To be lifted up and strength- 
 ened, to be bright and happy, or to be 
 cast down and crusiied ; to be the victim 
 of doubt ; to be plunged into the dun- 
 geon of despair? Suppose a man should 
 literally shut himself up in a dungeon, 
 should sit down in darkness, and sur- 
 round himself with none but dismal 
 objects, should resign his powers to in- 
 action, and give up all the glorious 
 prospects and enjoyments of the wide 
 and boundless universe ; and then should 
 say, that this was the portion designed 
 for him by the Author of nature. What 
 should we say to him ? We should say, 
 and surely we should take strong ground, 
 " Your Maker has given you limbs and 
 senses ; he has given you active powers, 
 and capacities for improvement, and he 
 designed that you should use them ; he 
 made you not to dwell in a prison, not 
 to dwell in dungeon glooms, but he made 
 you for light, and action, and freedom, 
 and improvement, and happiness. Your 
 senses, your very faculties, both of body 
 and mind, will perish and die in this 
 situation ; go forth, then, into the open 
 and fair domain of nature and life." And 
 this we may say, with equal force, to him 
 who is pausing on the threshold of the 
 dreary prison-house of scepticism. God 
 made us not to know, not to know every- 
 thing, for then must he have made us 
 equal to himself ; but to believe, to con- 
 
 fide, to trust. And he who refuses to 
 receive what is reasonable, because it is 
 not certain, refuses obedience to that 
 very law under which he is created and 
 must live. 
 
 II. 
 
 I Cor. xiii. 12 : " Now I know in part." 
 
 From these words, I resume the sub- 
 ject of my morning discourse. The 
 subject was the nature of religious be- 
 lief, though it was my leading object to 
 present some inferences from the admit- 
 ted principles of this kind of belief. With 
 regard to the nature of faith, however, I 
 stated what is admitted on all hands, that 
 it is not certainty ; that believing is not 
 knowing ; that this kind of conviction is 
 entirely to be distinguished from intui- 
 tion and from the results of scientific 
 demonstration. But in this account of 
 faith I said that its original principles 
 are not to be confounded. They are 
 certain. They are not matters of faith, 
 but of knowledge. I do not believe that 
 I exist; I know it. I do not believe in 
 the difference between right and wrong ; 
 I knoiv it. I do not believe that benev- 
 olence or the promotion of others' hap- 
 piness is right ; I know it. In all these 
 cases I assert a self-evident proposition ; 
 a truism, in fact. I am but saying, in 
 effect, that right is right, and wrong is 
 wrong. But the moment I depart from 
 these primary moral distinctions and first 
 truths of religion, and take one step of 
 deduction, that is a step of faith. Abso- 
 lute certainty then forsakes me, and I 
 stand upon the ground of faith. My de- 
 ductions then are not mathematical, but 
 moral; tiiey are not certain, but they 
 take their place on the scale of logical 
 probability. That is to say, they are ac- 
 companied with something more or less 
 of doubt ; and religious doubting, there- 
 fore, ought not to be made the monster 
 that it has been in the Christian world. 
 It is giving an unwarrantable importance 
 to doubt, thus to treat it. And this was 
 the matter of my first inference. My 
 
36o 
 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 next observation was, that every think- 
 ing man must have a system, and is 
 bound to adopt that which is most rea- 
 sonable ; that the sceptic has a system 
 as truly as the believer : and that in the 
 balance of probabilities, the sceptic has 
 adopted a system, which not only has its 
 difficulties, like every other, but which 
 has this special and insuperable diffi- 
 culty, that it is fatal to the clearest 
 principles and dearest hopes of human 
 improvement. 
 
 III. In connection with what I have 
 said about the nature of faith, let me now 
 observe, in the third place, that those 
 who profess to know that they are right-, 
 who profess this not only in regard to 
 the great points of conscience and of 
 consciousness, but also in regard to the 
 peculiarities of their creed, have as little 
 to support them, in a just view of the 
 subject, as those who give an undue im- 
 portance to their doubts ; or as those 
 who choose a system of doubt (by defini- 
 tion, the weaker system) in preference to 
 a system of faith. 
 
 I have heard men say, when comparing 
 themselves with their religious oppo- 
 nents, and I have remarked that it was 
 said with great self-complacency : " The 
 difference between us and others is, that 
 they think, indeed, that they are right, 
 but we know that we are right. They 
 are confident that they hold the truth, 
 but we are certain that we hold the 
 truth." Now, for any men to say this 
 is so very little to the credit of their dis- 
 crimination, that it cannot be tmich to 
 the credit of their correctness. It shows 
 that, so far from being entitled to presume 
 that they have the right faith, that they 
 do not know what any faith is ; that they 
 do not know what faith is in the most 
 generic sense ; that they do not under- 
 stand the definition of the term. Faith 
 is not knowledge. Believing that we 
 are right is not, in any tolerable use of 
 the English language, knowing that we 
 are right. For what a man seeth, why 
 doth he yet hope for? What he know- 
 eth, why doth he speak of as a matter of 
 faith ? Demonstration is one thing ; a 
 
 creed is another, and an entirely differ- 
 ent thing. It is so by definition. 
 
 1 do not object to a firm persuasion in 
 any mind, that it is right, provided the 
 point be one on which it is competent to 
 decide. I do not object, 7iow, to the use 
 of the phrase — as a phrase of great em- 
 phasis and energy — "I know, or I feel, 
 or I am sure, " that a certain doctrine is 
 true. But when any persons profess to 
 use this expression of confidence liter- 
 ally and accurately ; when they hold this 
 their assurance as a specific and tri- 
 umphant distinction ; when they claim to 
 be superior to others on such ground, 
 and would attempt to overawe and abash 
 modest and thoughtful men by such ar- 
 rogant and irrational pretensions to infal- 
 libility, — I think it a proper occasion for 
 applying the language of the apostolic 
 rebuke, and telling them that they 
 "know not what they say, nor whereof 
 they affirm." They quite mistake the 
 subject and subject-matter of which they 
 are speaking ; and I have only to remind 
 them that it is believing that they were 
 talking about, not knowing. 
 
 The principle must be a very poor one, 
 too, that works so poorly in practice ; 
 that destroys itself, indeed, the moment 
 it is brought to its application. If differ- 
 ent classes of Christians will say, mod- 
 estly, and no matter how solemnly, that 
 they believe that they are right ; and yet 
 will concede so much to human frailty as 
 to admit, that they may be wrong in some 
 measure, — then their respective claims 
 do not destroy each other entirely, nor 
 destroy the common faith. But if every 
 class will have it that it knows itself to 
 be right, and knows everything differing 
 from it to be wrong, — what a picture 
 of presumptuous, distracted, and self- 
 destroying churches is presented to us ! 
 Here is the Calvinist that knows he is 
 right ; and the Arminian knows he is 
 right ; and the Universalist knows he is 
 right ; and the Swedenborgian has his 
 full measure of the same comfortable 
 knowledge ; and the Presbyterian and 
 Episcopalian, and the Methodist and 
 Baptist, are each and all possessed of 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 361 
 
 the same undoubting assurance. Are all 
 right, then, in the points in which they 
 differ? No: that is impossible. To what, 
 then, does this vaunted distinction of 
 knowing amount ? To noticing at all. 
 That cannot be a distinction which ap- 
 pertains to all classes, to individuals, 
 that is to sa}', of all classes. To what, 
 then, does the knowing itself amount ? 
 I answer, once more, to nothing at all. 
 For it is clear that all this knowing can- 
 not be knowledge. It may be confidence, 
 and presumption, and positive assertion, 
 but it is not knowledge. 
 
 But a man may say, " It is a matter of 
 experience, and therefore I know it." 
 What, let me ask, is a matter of experi- 
 ence .' Not that any theological system 
 is true, not that any doctrine is revealed, 
 not that any one mode of church order is 
 divinely ordained. These are matters of 
 inference, not of experience. " Nay, but 
 my meaning," says the confident votary, 
 "is, that my faith or my mode of wor- 
 ship has had such an effect upon me ; 
 it has so delightfully wrought itself into 
 my experience, that I am sure it must be 
 the true doctrine, the true way. Heaven 
 has thus sealed it to me in absolute cer- 
 tainty." If only one class could say this, 
 it might amount to something like pre- 
 sumptive proof. But the truth is, that 
 every form of faith and discipline can 
 present just such instances. It is par- 
 ticularly true, that recent conversion to a 
 religious system is apt to produce this 
 kind of vivid experience. There is not 
 a faith in Christendom, Catholic or Prot- 
 estant, strict or liberal, but has converts 
 ready to proclaim its efficiency. The 
 argument proves too much, legitimately 
 to prove anything. 
 
 This arrogance, too, is as unseemly 
 as it is baseless. If the subject did 
 not forbid it, yet the sense of imperfec- 
 tion ought to restrain a frail, fallible, 
 erring human bein^^from such presump- 
 tion; presumption, too, which is com- 
 monly strong in proportion as the 
 doctrine is dark and doubtful, and the 
 mind is readier to decide than to examine. 
 Such indeed was not the spirit of New- 
 
 ton, " child-like sage." Such was not the 
 spirit of Socrates, who, against the all- 
 knowing sophists of his day, was accus- 
 tomed to say that he professed to know 
 nothing; that he was only a seeker after 
 knowledge. Such, in fine, has never 
 been the spirit of deep study and patient 
 thought. But assurance rises up to 
 speak, where modesty is silent ; and a 
 rash judgment to pronounce, where 
 patient inquiry hesitates; and ignorance 
 to say " 1 know," where real knowl- 
 edge can only say, " I believe." 
 
 Such was not the spirit of the author 
 of the " Saints' Rest," nor of the good 
 old English time. " I am not so fool- 
 ish," says Baxter, " as to pretend my 
 certainty to be greater than it is, merely 
 because it is a disiionor to be less certain. 
 My certainty that I am a man is before 
 my certainty that there is a God. My 
 certainty that there is God is before 
 my certainty that he requireth love and 
 holiness of his creatures. My certainty 
 of this is greater than my certainty of 
 the life of rewards and punishments 
 hereafter. My certainty of that is great- 
 er than my certainty of the endless 
 duration of it, and the immortality of 
 individual souls. My certainty of the 
 Deity is greater than my certainty of 
 the Christian faith. My certainty of the 
 Christian faith, in its essentials, is great- 
 er than my certainty of the perfection 
 and infallibility of the Holy Scriptures. 
 And my certainty of that is greater than 
 my certainty of many particular texts, 
 and so of the truth of many particular 
 doctrines, and of the canonicalness of 
 some certain books." 
 
 Let me add a word of caution, however, 
 if it can be necessary, in closing this 
 part of my discourse. Because I main- 
 tain that absolute certainty does not 
 properly attach to matters of faith, let 
 it not by any means be regarded as a 
 fair inference, that the great points of 
 our Christian faith are to be held as if 
 they were doubtful matters. A believer 
 is, by definition, one whom belief, and 
 not doubt, characterizes. And the Chris- 
 tian belief, I hold to be founded on such 
 
362 
 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 evidence as to be put "beyond all rea- 
 sonable doubt." This phrase," beyond 
 reasonable doubt," is held in the law to 
 describe the nearest approach to certain- 
 ty that is compatible with the nature of 
 moral evidence ; to describe such a de- 
 gree of confidence as lays a just founda- 
 tion for decision and action. Such I 
 hold to be the nature and strength of 
 the Christian faith. 
 
 I have thus attempted to show that un- 
 certainty or doubt, greater or less in 
 degree, is a part of our dispensation, im- 
 plied in that declaration of the Apostle, 
 that we know only in part ; that it is im- 
 phed in the very nature of moral evidence ; 
 implied in faith ; and therefore that it is 
 not to be regarded as monstrous, nor to 
 be magnified into undue impt)rtance, nor 
 to be made a reason for rejecting the sys- 
 tem of faith ; unless, in the second place, 
 it can lay claim to a strength and consist- 
 ency, and an escape from difficulties, 
 which will give it manifest superiority 
 over the system of faiih, — a superiority 
 which, on great points, is denied to it by 
 its utter insufficiency to improve, exalt, 
 strengthen, and bless human nature ; and, 
 finally, I have insisted, that, on the other 
 hand, no rational system of faith, when 
 it goes beyond the principles of absolute 
 conscience and consciousness, can pre- 
 tend to be freed from doubt, can pretend 
 to absolute certainty ; and hence, that 
 the confident assurance of the fanatic is, 
 in this matter as much out of place as 
 the overweening self-complacency of 
 the sceptic. 
 
 IV. But after all, this, to some, may 
 be a very unsatisfactory view of the 
 subject. They may even think it inju- 
 rious and unsafe. I must not leave the 
 subject, therefore, without attempting, 
 in the last place, to show the utility of 
 that moral system and mental discipline, 
 under which, as I contend, we are 
 placed. That we are placed under it, 
 is, indeed, in my view, a sufficient 
 answer to all objections. But it may 
 still be asked, why is it so ? Why is 
 there one shadow or shade left on our 
 path ? Why, instead of shining brighter 
 
 and brighter, can it not be, from the 
 beginning, one track of brightness ? 
 Why are we not made just as sure of 
 every moral truth, that is interesting 
 and important to us, as we are that we 
 behold the light of the sun ? Why, in 
 fine, is not moral evidence, like mathe- 
 matical demonstration, put beyond every 
 possibility of doubt .'' 
 
 It might, indeed, be answered, that 
 the very nature of the subjects, and of 
 the mind, makes the difference. And 
 I believe that this is true. At any rate, 
 it is inconceivable to us that moral 
 deductions should, by any possibility, 
 have been made as definite and certain 
 as those of the most exact science. But 
 I am not obliged to rest the answer on 
 this apparent necessity of the case 
 alone ; and I proceed to offer, in further 
 defence of that moral constitution of 
 things under -which our minds are 
 trained up, the consideration of utility. 
 
 I say, then, that it is a useful system, 
 a good system, the best system by us 
 conceivable. If I am asked why we 
 have not vision, instead of promise, to 
 guide us ; why we have not assurance 
 instead of trust ; wliy not knowledge, 
 instead of faith, — I answer, because it 
 is not expedient for us'. Probably we 
 could not bear vision, or it would be too 
 much for our contentment or our atten- 
 tion to the objects around us ; but I do 
 not rest on a probability : I appeal to 
 what is certain also; and that is, that 
 assurance and knowledge would lessen 
 the trial of virtue and of the intellect, 
 and therefore would hinder their im- 
 provement. 
 
 To give an illustration of my mean- 
 ing, and especially to show why it may 
 not be expedient that we should have an 
 actual vision of a future life ; it is not 
 best that children, for instance, should 
 be introduced to an actual knowledge or 
 experience of the circumstances, allure- 
 ments, or interests of maturer life. 
 That view of the future might too much 
 dazzle or engross them, might distract 
 them from the proper business of their 
 education, and might, in many ways 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 363 
 
 bring a trial upon tlieir young spirits 
 beyond their power to bear. Therefore, 
 they look through a veil upon the full 
 strength of human passions and inter- 
 ests. Human love and hate, and hope 
 and fear, human ambition and covetous- 
 ness, and splendor and beauty, they 
 "see through a glass darkly." Just as 
 little might we be able, in this childhood 
 of our being, to have the realities of a 
 future scene laid open to us. 
 
 Again, for an illustration of the gen- 
 eral advantages of inquiry instead of 
 certainty : if a man were to travel around 
 the globe, it might be far more agree- 
 able and easy for him to have a broad 
 and beaten pathway, to have marked 
 and regular stages, to be borne onward 
 in a chariot under an experienced and 
 safe conduct, and to have deputations 
 from the nations he passed through to 
 wait upon him, and to inform him ex- 
 actly of everything he wished to know. 
 But would such a grand progress be as 
 favorable to his character, to his mental 
 cultivation or moral discipline, to his 
 enterprise and good sense and hardihood 
 and energy, as it would be to thread out 
 his way for himself; to overcome ob- 
 stacles and extricate himself from diffi- 
 culties ; to take, in other words, the 
 general chart of his travels, and to gain 
 an acquaintance with men and things, 
 by inquiry and observation, and reason- 
 ing and experience } Such is the course 
 ordained for the moral traveller in pass- 
 ing through this world. And certainly 
 it is better for him ; better that he 
 should draw conclusions, though he 
 make mistakes ; better that he should 
 reason upon probabilities, though he 
 sometimes err ; better that he should 
 gain wisdom from experience, though 
 the way be rough and sometimes over- 
 shadowed with uncertainty, — than that 
 he should always move on upon the level 
 and easy and sure path of knowledge. 
 
 Apply the same question to the ordi- 
 nary course of life. A youth might al- 
 ways have a tutor or a mentor to direct 
 him. And then he would alwavs be in 
 the condition of one who knew what to 
 
 do, of one who had no doubt. Yes, and 
 he would always be a child. Can any 
 one doubt that it would be more con- 
 ducive to his improvement, to his cour- 
 age and resolution, to his wisdom and 
 wortli, that he should be obliged to rea- 
 son, to employ his powers, to be tried 
 with conflicting views of subjects, to 
 find out his own way, to grow wise 
 by his own experience, and to have 
 light break in upon his path as he 
 needs it, or as he seeks it ? But such 
 is the actual course of life ; and similar 
 to this is the course which the mind 
 must take in the religious life. 
 
 Nor is this all. It appears to me 
 that there is one further, more specific, 
 and more important use of the trials of 
 faith ; and that is, that they urge us to 
 the most strenuous self-purification and 
 fervent piety. I believe that it is an ex- 
 press law of religious progress that the 
 advancement and strength of our faith, 
 other things being equal, are always in 
 proportion to the fervor and purity of 
 our religious affections. This law re- 
 sults from the very nature of the sub- 
 jects to which it relates. Our faith in 
 Christianity, for instance, and in a fut- 
 ure life, is not a deduction of abstract 
 reasoning, irrespective of ourselves and 
 of the character of God, nor of the na- 
 ture of the communication as compared 
 with them. Belief is grounded, in part, 
 on certain views of our nature and 
 wants, and on certain views of the 
 character of God. Now, none but a 
 pure and spiritual mind can estimate 
 the transcendent worth of its own na- 
 ture, or can so love God as to enter- 
 tain a just view of his love to us. and 
 to hope all that the filial mind will hope 
 from him. Self- purification, therefore, 
 is an essential part of the progress to 
 light and certaintv- 
 
 In .this progress not a few have ar- 
 rived to the very confines of the land of 
 vision. Their faith has become scarce- 
 ly less than assurance. Invisible things 
 have not only become the great realities, 
 as they are to all men of true faith ; but 
 they have become, as it were, almost 
 
3^4 
 
 THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 visible ; there is a presence of God, felt 
 and almost seen, in all nature and life ; 
 there is in the heart an assurance, a 
 feeling, of heaven and immortality. So 
 it is oftentimes with the good man in 
 the approach to death : the veil of flesh 
 is almost rent from him ; the shadows 
 of mortal imperfection are disappearing ; 
 the threshold of heaven is gained ; and 
 beamings from the ever-bright regions 
 fill his soul with their blessed light. 
 Then it is that it is hard to return to 
 life; to pass again beneath the shadow ; 
 to feel the cold, dull realities of life 
 effacing the impressions of heavenly 
 beauty and glory. This is sometimes 
 looked upon, I know, as a kind of hal- 
 lucination,- a visionary rapture; and so 
 it sometimes may be ; but the truth is, 
 that in the purified mind it is the result 
 of principles in accordance with the 
 strictest reason. The explanation is, 
 that such a mind is prepared to receive 
 the full and entire impression of the ob- 
 jects of faith ; the light of heaven is in- 
 deed around that mind, because it is as 
 an image pure and polished and bright 
 to refiect the light of heaven. 
 
 True faith is, indeed, a great and sub- 
 hme quality. It is greater, I am per- 
 suaded, than it is commonly accounted 
 to be, much as it is exalted and lauded 
 in rehgious discourses It is some- 
 times lauded, indeed, at the expense of 
 reason. It is often so represented as 
 if its sublimity consisted in its being 
 a mystical quality, in its superiority to 
 works, to the labors of duty, to the ex- 
 ercise of the quiet and humble virtues. 
 To the hearer of such representations 
 it often seems as if this glory and charm 
 of faith lay in a sort of visionary peace 
 of mind, obtained without any reference 
 to the culture of the mind or of the 
 heart. But no : the very reverse of 
 this is the truth. Faith is a great and 
 sublime quality, because it is founded 
 in eternal reason ; because it is a patient 
 and faithful inquirer, and not a hasty 
 and self-confident rejecter, nor an idol- 
 izer of its own fanciful and visionary 
 suggestions of doubt. It is great, too, 
 
 because it is moral : because, as an 
 Apostle declares, it works by love, and 
 purifies the heart ; because it is an ele- 
 vation of the soul towards the purity 
 and glory of the only and independently 
 great and glorious Being. It is great, 
 moreover, and in fine, because it is a 
 principle of perpetual advancement. It 
 does not write down its creed as if it 
 could never go beyond that ; as if that 
 were its standard and its limit ; as if 
 that were the sum and the perfection of 
 all that it could ever receive. No : it is 
 a sublime principle because it takes hold 
 of the sublimity of everlasting progress. 
 When it reaches a brighter sphere ; 
 when it no longer knows in part, but 
 knows as it is known ; when its contem- 
 plation has become actual vision, and its 
 deductions have risen to assume the cer- 
 tainty and take the place of first prin- 
 ciples, — then will it, on the basis of these 
 first principles, proceed to still farther 
 deductions. Still and ever will the fields 
 of inquiry lie before it ; far and forever 
 before it. Onward and onward will 
 they spread, benearh other heavens, 
 to other horizons ; bright regions, lead- 
 ing to yet brighter regions ; boundless 
 worlds for thought to traverse, beyond 
 the track of solar day ; where — where 
 shall its limit be ? What eye can pur- 
 sue its flight through the infinitude of 
 ages ! 
 
 Christian ! wouldst thou make that 
 boundless, that glorious career thine 
 own ? Then be faithful to the light 
 that now shines around thee. Sink 
 not to rest or slumber beneath the 
 passing shadows of doubt. To sink, 
 to sleep is not thy destination, but to 
 •wake, to rise. Rise, then, to the glori- 
 ous pursuit of truth ; connect with it 
 the work of self-purification ; open thy 
 mind to heavenly hope ; aspire to the 
 life everlasting ! Count it not a strange 
 thing that thou hast difficulties and 
 doubts. Well has it been said, that he 
 who never doubted never believed. 
 Shrink not and be not afraid when 
 that cloud passeth over thee. Through 
 the cloud still press onward. Only be 
 
THE NATURE OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 365 
 
 assured of this, and with this assurance 
 be of courage : God made thee to be- 
 lieve. Without faith, the ends of thy 
 being cannot be accomplished, and 
 therefore it is certain that he made 
 thee to believe. In perfect confidence, 
 then, say this with thyself : " I am sure 
 that I shall believe ; all that is necessary 
 for me, I shall believe ; in the faithful 
 and humble use of my faculties, I am 
 assured that I shall come to this result. 
 I fear not doubt ; I fear not darkness ; 
 doubt is the way to faith, and darkness 
 is the way to light." Come, holy light ! 
 come, blessed faith ! and cheer every 
 humble seeker with joy unspeakable and 
 full of glory ! 
 
 And it will come to every true and 
 trusting heart. Why do I say this? 
 Because, J still repeat, I know that God 
 made our nature for faith, and virtue, and 
 improvement. Why should it be diffi- 
 cult to see this ? And are not scepti- 
 cism and sin and the process of moral 
 deterioration, are they not misery and 
 darkness and destruction to our nature ? 
 Look at the young tree of the forest. 
 Are you not sure that God made it to 
 grow ? And can you doubt that he made 
 your moral nature to grow and flourish .'' 
 But how does he make that tree to grow ? 
 By pouring perpetual sunshine upon it ? 
 No : he sends the storm and the tempest 
 upon it ; the overshadowing cloud lowers 
 upon its waving top; and its branches 
 wrestle with the rude elements. So it 
 is with human faith. Amidst storm and 
 calm, amidst cloud and sunshine alike, 
 it rises and rises, stronger and stronger; 
 till it is transplanted at length to the fair 
 clime of heaven, there to grow and blos- 
 som, amidst everlasting light, in everlast- 
 ing beauty. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 I liave met in Professor Stuart's Miscellanies, 
 just published (see Appendix, pp. 205-206) with 
 the following; (to me) very surprising comment, 
 not only upon the language of the foregoing arti- 
 cle, but upon the motives of the writer : surprising, 
 
 because I as little suspected in my relations with 
 my former instructor in Biblical studies ais in my 
 own conscious integrity any ground for such 
 causeless wrong. In a notice of Mrs. Dana's ad- 
 mirable Letters, Professor Stuart says; — 
 
 "On p. 71 she has a long extract from Dr. 
 Dewey, of New York, in which he asserts that 
 the Unitarians believe in the Father, Son, and 
 Holy Ghost ; in the atonement as a sacrifice, a 
 propitiation ; in human dejaravity, in regeneration, 
 in the doctrme of election, and in a future state of 
 rewards and punishments. On the part of such 
 a man as Dr. Dewey, I can call this nothing but 
 gross deception. He knows well, although this 
 lady-champion does not, that there is not a single 
 one of these doctrines, according to the usual sense 
 attached to them by all theologians of any name, 
 which Unitai-ians admit, and which indeed they do 
 not violently oppose. The artifice of Dr. Dewey 
 consists in employing an entirely new set of defini- 
 tions." And then, after speaking of the well- 
 known and acknowledged difference between the 
 Calvinistic and Unitarian construction of these 
 doctrines, he adds, ' ' The worst of the case is, that 
 he ( Dr. D.) knows this to be so ; and yet he holds 
 out these lures before the public. . . . It is an un- 
 worthy, a degrading artifice to practise thus upon 
 the credulity or ignorance of his uninstructed 
 hearers or readers. It merits (what it will be cer- 
 tain sooner or later to receive) the scorn of every 
 upright and honest man.'' 
 
 To this language, which I do not wish to char- 
 acterize, the article may be quietly left to reply 
 for itself. Throughout, as the reader must see, 
 a discrimination is studiously made between the 
 Orthodox and the Liberal construction of the terms 
 in question. So fai" from my professing to hold 
 them in the Calvinistic and Trinitarian sense, 
 that is precisely what is denied. There is no- 
 where any bald statement of a creed, as Professor 
 Stuart lays it down for me : there is no such sen- 
 tence as he professes to quote ; but the subjects 
 mentioned, are taken up in succession ; and at 
 every step the qualification is distinctly made, that 
 we receive what the words, as we understand them, 
 mean in the Scriptures, and not what they mean 
 in the popular creeds. In the very outset, the 
 reader will perceive, if he will turn to the para- 
 graph on pp. 5-6, that I argue for the propriety of 
 our using some of these terms more freely than 
 we do, though in a sense different from the Ortho- 
 dox use, because they are .Scripture terms. Indeed, 
 if they had been used without any express qualifi- 
 cation, if they had been recited as a bare creed, 
 does not the very position of the writer as a Uni- 
 tarian obviously qualify them ; and would not 
 any man, on a moment's reflection, say, " Of course 
 he uses them in a sense of his own " ? And does 
 Professor Stuart really suppose that we are anx- 
 ious to be thought or called Trinitarians and Cat- 
 vinists ? The case speaks for itself. The allega- 
 
65 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 tion is absurd. It is scarcely possible for me 
 seriously to consider it. 1 can hardly persuade 
 myself that Professor Stuart himself believes what 
 his language implies. And most sincerely do 1 wish, 
 from the respect which 1 have always felt and ex- 
 pressed for him, that the charge might bear no 
 more serious aspect any way than it does toward 
 myself. 
 
 The only pertinent, not to say decent, charge 
 would be, not that of disingenuousness, — inten- 
 tional, mean, base, contemptible disingenuousness, 
 — but of im propriety, in the use of the terms 
 with which I have set forth " the Unitarian Be- 
 lief.'' If this were the allegation, I should then ask. 
 Does Professor Stuart mean to say that only he 
 and those who think with him have a right to de- 
 fine their faith in Scripture language ? This would 
 be a new kmd of claim. This would be an exclu- 
 sion that would drive us beyond the pale of Eng- 
 lish speech. I had thought that speech and Bible 
 speech were common property. He might as 
 well say, " These persons profess to believe in 
 God and Christ, in religion and holiness, and they 
 are guilty of gross deception.'' What language, 
 
 I pray, are we to use, be'ieving as we do ? We 
 do believe in the Father and the Son and the Holy 
 Ghost. This is the great, primitive, Christian 
 creed. As such it is introduced in the proselyte's 
 ordinance of baptism. In baptism we continually 
 use it. Must we not be allowed to say that we be- 
 lieve in what those words mean 1 We do believe 
 in the Atonement, the Sacrifice, the Propitiation, 
 as we understand the New Testament to teach 
 them ; and in the same sense, we balieve in hu- 
 man depravity, regeneration, election, and a future 
 state of rewards and punishments. And can we 
 not say that we believe in them, without incurring 
 the charges of "gross deception," of " artifice," 
 and of a conduct which " merits the scorn of all 
 upright and honest minds ".'' 
 
 These theological commonplaces — these po- 
 lemic accusations — alas ! one is tempted to ex- 
 claim, in what school of morality is it that they 
 yet find a home.' In what atmosphere of religious 
 sentiment is it that is breathed the fierce and fiery 
 breath of such terrible accusations 1 If it were 
 Christian, one could hardly wonder at the Infidel- 
 ity that should seek a better school. 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 ON THE QUESTIONS AT ISSUE BETWEEN ORTHODOX AND 
 LIBERAL CHRISTIANS.* 
 
 I. 
 
 ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 What is the doctrine of the Trinity ? 
 It is, that the Almighty Father is God ; 
 that Jesus, whom he sent into the world, 
 is God ; and that the Holy Spirit, rep- 
 resented also as a separate agent, is 
 God ; and yet that these three, " equal 
 in power and glory," are but one God. 
 This is what the advocate of the Trinity 
 says. But now let me ask him to con- 
 sider what it is that he thinks ; not 
 what are the words he uses, but what 
 
 * I mean no offence by this designation of the 
 parties. If the words Orthodox and Liberal be 
 taken in a literal sense, then, of course, 1 claim to 
 be orthodox, and I do not deny that others are liberal. 
 But I take the terms as they are used in common 
 parlance; and I prefix them to this series of articles, 
 because no other cover the whole ground of the dis- 
 cussion. In any view, if others assume the title of 
 Orthodox, I think they cannot charge us with pre- 
 sumption if we adopt the title of Liberal. 
 
 are his actual conceptions. If he con- 
 ceives of only one God, one Infinite 
 Mind ; and then if all that he means 
 by the Trinity is that the Saviour and 
 the Holy Spirit partook, in some sense, 
 of the nature of God, — this is nothing 
 materially different from what we all 
 believe. If he means that the Father, 
 Son, and Spirit are only representations 
 of the same God, acting in three char- 
 acters, then he is not a Trinitarian, but 
 a Sabellian. But if he goes farther, and 
 attempts to grasp the real doctrine of 
 the Trinity ; if he attempts to conceive 
 of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit 
 as possessing each a distinct existence, 
 consciousness, and volition, as holding 
 counsel and covenant with each other, 
 — then, though he may call these Three 
 one, though he may repeat it to himself 
 all the day long, that they are but one ; 
 yet does he actually conceive of them 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 367 
 
 as three agents, three beings, three 
 Gods ? The human mind, I aver, is so 
 constituted, that it cannot conceive of 
 three agents sustaining to each other 
 the relations asserted by the doctrine of 
 the Trinity without conceiving of them 
 as three Gods. 
 
 Let the reader keep his mind free 
 from all confusion on this point arising 
 from Christ's incarnation, or adoption 
 of human nature. Before that event 
 the distinction is held by Trinitarians to 
 be just as marked as it is now. Then 
 it was that the Father covenanted with 
 the Son. Then it was that the Son 
 offered to assume human nature, and 
 not the Father. Then it was that the 
 Father promised to the Son that he 
 should "see the travail of his soul and 
 be satisfied." Then it was that the 
 Father sent the Son into the world. Is 
 it possible for any human mind to con- 
 template these relations without con- 
 ceiving of those between whom they 
 existed as two distinct, self-conscious 
 beings ? I aver that it is not. The 
 Father, by supposition, must have 
 known that he was not the Son. The 
 Son must have known that he was not 
 the Father. Two who speak to one 
 another, who confer together ; the one 
 of whom commissions, the other is com- 
 missioned ; the one'of whom sends the 
 other into the world, — these two are, 
 to every human mind so contemplating 
 them, and are in spite- of itseU, two 
 beings. If not, then there is nothing 
 in the universe answering to the idea of 
 two beings. We all partake of a common 
 humanity ; and it might just as well be 
 maintained that all tnen are one being 
 as that the three in the Trinity are one 
 being. 
 
 In simple truth, I do not see why 
 any reader on tliis subject need go far- 
 ther tlian this. Till something credible 
 is offered to be proved, till something 
 better than absolute self-contradiction 
 is proposed as a matter of belief, who 
 is bound to attend to the argument ? 
 
 I mean no discourtesy nor injustice 
 to the Trinitarian, unless argument shall 
 
 be thought such. I know that he sup- 
 poses himself to hold a theory which 
 escapes from the charge of self-contra- 
 diction. But so long as he says that 
 the Father sent the Son, and that these 
 two are one and the same being, I 
 believe that he does not and cannot 
 escape from it. I know that he pro- 
 fesses to believe in one God; and in 
 truth, in all his practical and devotional 
 thoughts, — whenever he prays to the 
 Father through the Son, — he is, and 
 his mind compels him to be, virtually 
 a Unitarian. And this doubtless is, and 
 always has been, the state of the general 
 mind. Practical Unitarianism has al- 
 ways been the general faith of Christen- 
 dom. Even when, as in the Roman 
 Church, and. sometimes in the Protes- 
 tant, men have prayed to Jesus Christ, 
 it would be found, if their thoughts 
 could be confessed, that they have for- 
 gotten the Father for the time ; and 
 their error has not consisted in Trithe- 
 ism, but in clothing the being called 
 Jesus with the attributes of sole Di- 
 vinity. Still, tliough erring, they have 
 been practical Unitarians. But scho- 
 lastic men have always been weaving 
 theories at variance with the popular 
 and effective belief. Half of the history 
 of philosophy might be written in illus- 
 tration of this single point. Such a 
 theory, I conceive, is the Trinity. It 
 has existed in studies, in creeds, in 
 theses, in words ; but not in the actual 
 conceptions of men, not in their heartfelt 
 belief. From the days when Tertullian 
 complained in the second century that 
 the common people would not receive 
 this doctrine, and down through all the 
 ages of seeming assent, and to this very 
 day, I believe that it has ever been the 
 same dead letter. And when Christi- 
 anity has fairly thrown off this incum- 
 brance, as I believe it will, I have no 
 doubt that many will say, what not a 
 few are saying now, " We never did 
 believe in the Trinity ; we always felt 
 that the Son was inferior to the Father 
 who sent him." 
 
 But how then, I may be asked, does 
 
 /v'.^jr.-j-j^ 
 
368 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 it come to pass, that this doctrine is 
 honestly and earnestly maintained by a 
 great many able and learned men, to be 
 accordant with the teachings of Scrip- 
 ture ? Because, I answer, that, on a 
 certain theory of interpretation, there is 
 a great deal of proof for it from Scrip- 
 ture ; while upon another and true 
 principle, 1 firmly believe that there is 
 none at all. 
 
 Let me invite the reader's attention, 
 for a few moments, to the consideration 
 of this point, — the trice principle of in- 
 terpretation. My own conviction is, that 
 it settles the whole question ; but, at 
 any rate, I cannot, in this cursory view 
 which I am taking, go over the ground 
 of the whole argument ; and therefore I 
 shall confine myself to the most material 
 point at issue. 
 
 We must all have seen by this time — 
 indeed, I think the whole Christian 
 world must have perceived — how im- 
 possible it is to settle any question from 
 the Scriptures by bare textual discus- 
 sion. Texts may be arrayed against 
 texts, and have been for ages, and 
 might be, from any mass of writings 
 like the Scriptures ; they might be, and 
 have been, thus arrayed by the parties 
 to every religious controversy, with very 
 little tendency to produce conviction, so 
 long as the true principle of their inter- 
 pretation was disregarded. So long 
 as texts are considered by themselves 
 alone, considered as independent pas- 
 sages, uncontrolled by any such princi- 
 ple, one text is as good as another ; and 
 thus Christian sects have presented the 
 strange anomaly — the wonder of ob- 
 servers, the scorn of infidels — of being 
 directly at issue on the clearest points of 
 Christian doctrine, all armed with proof 
 passages, all equally confident,and all with 
 equal assurance condemning each other. 
 
 What is to account for this phenom- 
 enon ? There are other causes, indeed ; 
 but I am persuaded that the main cause 
 lies in the peculiarity of treatment to 
 which the Scriptures have been subjected. 
 There is doubtless a superstructure of 
 passion, prejudice, pride, and worldly 
 
 interest; but resting ostensibly, as it 
 does, on the Scriptures, there must be 
 some error touching the very interpreta- 
 tion of them. 
 
 Let me now more distinctly state what 
 are the two principles or theories of 
 interpretation by which it is proposed 
 to explain the language of Scripture on 
 this subject. For the Trinitarian has 
 his theory, his humanly devised theory, 
 and his reasoning, and what he con- 
 siders his rational principle of exposi- 
 tion, as much as the Unitarian. The dif- 
 ference is not, though it is often 
 alleged, that the Unitarian relies more 
 upon reasoning, independent of Scrip- 
 ture ; but, as I conceive, that he relies 
 upon a more rational, a more natural, 
 and a really sounder, principle of inter- 
 pretation. The Trinitarian says, " Here 
 are two classes of passages, — those 
 which describe an inferior, and those 
 which describe a superior nature. We 
 receive both classes without admitting 
 any qualification, or limitation of sense in 
 either. One class of texts ascribes human 
 qualities to Jesus, therefore he is man ; 
 another ascribes divine works and offices, 
 therefore he is God ; and we dare not 
 explain them into what we might imagine 
 to be a consistency with each other, as 
 we should any other history, concerning 
 any other person. We receive the con- 
 trasted portions of this history just as they 
 stand: holding it to be not our business 
 to explain, but only to believe." 
 
 By this theory, undoubtedly, the Trin- 
 ity can be proved. By this theory a 
 double nature in Christ can be proved. 
 And by this theory, do I seriously aver 
 that Transubstantiation, Anthropomor- 
 phism, and irreconcilable contradictions 
 in the Divine nature can be proved. 
 Transubstantiation, the doctrine that 
 the sacramental bread and wine are the 
 real body and blood of Christ ; for while, 
 in one class of passages, these elements 
 are called bread and wine, in another, 
 doth notour Saviour say, "This is my 
 body,— this is my blood ".^ Anthropomor- 
 phism ; for while we are taught that God 
 is a spirit, is he not said to have hands, 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINnV. 
 
 369 
 
 eyes, to walk on the earth, &c. ? Irre- 
 concilable contradictions in his nature ; 
 for while we are taught that God is 
 unchangeable, is he not represented as 
 repenting that he had made man ; re- 
 penting that he had made Saul king ? 
 Upon what principle is it that such mon- 
 strous conclusions are avoided ? Upon a 
 principle, I answer, that is latal to the 
 Trinitarian theory of interpretation. It 
 is the principle that words are not to be 
 taken by themselves in the Bible ; that 
 limitations and qualifications in their 
 meaning must be admitted, in order to 
 make any sense ; that the Scriptures 
 are, in this respect, to be interpreted 
 like other books ; that when human lan- 
 guage is adopted as the instrument of a 
 divine communication, it may fairly be 
 presumed that it is subject to the laws of 
 that instrument ; and that no other prin- 
 ciple of criticism can save the Bible, or 
 any other book, from the imputation of 
 utter absurdity and folly. 
 
 This I understand to be the Unitarian 
 theory of interpretation. The reader 
 will perceive at once that just this differ- 
 ence of theory will bring out precisely 
 the difference of results that character- 
 ize these two classes of believers. Which, 
 then, is the true theory ? 
 
 It seems to me that the case speaks 
 for itself ; that all common-sense, all 
 usage, all criticism, all tolerable com- 
 mentary on the Bible, sutificiently declares 
 which is the right principle. 
 
 But let us appeal to undeniable author- 
 ity, — that of the sacred teachers them- 
 selves ; that of the Bible interpreting 
 itself. 
 
 For the application of our principle of 
 interpretation to the very subject before 
 us, we have the authority of Jesus Christ 
 himself ; and the application is as clear 
 and decisive, as the appeal, with every 
 Christian, must be final and ultimate. 
 1 allude to that most e.\traordinary pas- 
 sage, in John x. 30-36, — most extraor- 
 dinary I mean in reference to this con- 
 troversy ; and I propose to make it the 
 subject of considerable comment and 
 argument. 
 
 What is the question in the passage 
 here referred to ? I answer, the very ques- 
 tion which is now virtually before us : 
 Did Jesus claim to be God .^ What was 
 the language of our Saviour? " God is 
 my Father : I and my Father are one." 
 What was the accusation of the Jews ? 
 •' Thou biasphemest, and, being a man, 
 makest thyself God," — the very allega- 
 tion on which Trinitarianism is founded. 
 It was once a cavil: it is now a creed. 
 And now I ask, in the name of reason 
 and truth and Scripture, liow does our 
 Saviour treat it? His answer, be it re- 
 membered, in the first place, is a solemn 
 and absolute dental of the allegation 
 that he had made himself God ! '-Jesus 
 answered them. Is it not written in your 
 law, I said ye are gods ? If he called 
 them gods to whom the word of God 
 came, and the Scripture cannot be 
 broken, say ye of him whom the Father 
 hath sanctified and sent into the world, 
 Thou biasphemest, because I said, I am 
 the Son of God ? " Our Saviour had 
 used strong language concerning hi mself . 
 He had said, "As the Father knoweth 
 me, even so know I the Father ; " refer- 
 ring, however, as I suppose, not to the 
 extent, but the certainty of the knowl- 
 edge. He had said, " I and my Father 
 are one. Then the Jews took up stones 
 to cast at him;" they accused him of 
 blasphemy ; they said, " Thou makest 
 thyself God." Jesus denies that ihe lan- 
 guage he had used warrants the infer- 
 ence they drew from it. This is the 
 second point. He denies their inference. 
 He clearly implies, moreover, that 
 stronger language still would not war- 
 rant the inference. He tells the cavil- 
 ling Jews, that even those " to whom the 
 word of God came" had been 'called 
 gods." And then, so far from declar- 
 ing himself to be God, he speaks of him- 
 self as one whom God " had sanctified 
 and sent into the world ; " and as, on 
 that account, entitled to speak of himself 
 in exalted terms. 
 
 And yet, how astonishing is it, we may 
 observe, by the by, that this very lan- 
 guage, " I and my Father are one," 
 
 24 
 
3/' 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 concerning which, and much stronger 
 language too, he had declared its insuffi- 
 ciency to prove him God ; this very lan- 
 guage, I say, and other similar phraseol- 
 ogy, is constantly quoted to prove the 
 supreme deity of the Son of God ! Words, 
 once caught up by gainsayers, and by 
 them wrested into a charge against our 
 Saviour, of assuming Divinity, and de- 
 nied by him to be any legitimate proof 
 of such an allegation, now help to sup- 
 port the faith of multitudes in this very 
 allegation, as a portion, and a most es- 
 sential portion, of the Christian doctrine ! 
 
 I say that our Saviour appeals to a 
 principle of interpretation. Those, in 
 ancient times, " to whom the word of 
 God came," were men, ordinary men ; 
 and when they were called gods, this 
 language was limited in its force by 
 their known character. No one could 
 think of taking this language for what 
 it meant, by itself considered, and with- 
 out any qualification. But our Saviour 
 was an extraordinary personage, and he 
 argues that words of much loftier im- 
 port might be applied to him without 
 furnishing any warrant for the inference 
 that he was God ; and he absolutely 
 contradicts the inference. 
 
 Let us now apply in another way 
 the reasoning with which our Saviour 
 confounded the Jews. 
 
 I suppose it will be admitted that the 
 words, " I and my Father are one," do 
 not prove our Saviour to be God, since 
 he himself expressly disallows the in- 
 ference. Now, is there any language 
 in the Bible concerning Christ that is 
 stronger than this ? Is there any of 
 all the proof-texts that is stronger .'' I 
 confess that I know of none. This is 
 the very language of the popular creed ; 
 not that the Father and the Son are 
 two Gods, but that they are one. And 
 so exactly does it express the Orthodox 
 belief that, Jiotwithsfanding our Sav- 
 iour's disclamation, it is constantly used 
 to convey the idea that he was God. 
 His disclamation, however, settles the 
 matter entirely. And I suppose that 
 an intelligent reasoner on the Trinita- 
 
 rian side, would say: "It is true the 
 words here used do not prove Jesus to 
 be God. Still, however, he may be 
 God. He was reasoning with the Jews 
 on a particular charge. The charge was 
 that he had, by the langtiage he used, 
 made himself God. He simply denies 
 that this particular language warrants 
 their inference." Is not this, however, 
 at the least, a very extraordinary suppo- 
 sition ? It makes our Saviour say with 
 himself. " True, I am God, and being 
 so I have used language very naturally 
 expressive of that fact. However, I 
 can reason it away with these people 
 on the ground of their own Scriptures, 
 and I will do so. I am God, indeed ; 
 but I will deny this inference of the 
 Jews, though it amounts to the exact 
 truth. I will deny it, thougii I thereby 
 mislead them altogether and infinitely 
 as to my true character." This, I say, 
 would be our Saviour's reasoning with 
 himself on the Trinitarian hypothesis. 
 But the truth is, this supposition, im- 
 proper and incredible as it is, will not 
 save the doctrine. Because this lan- 
 guage, which our Saviour declares in- 
 sufficient to prove him God, is, in fact, 
 as strong as any language that the ad- 
 vocates of that doctrine adduce. If this 
 language does not fairly prove him to 
 be God, then no language in the Bible 
 does. 
 
 Let us suppose, to put this in another 
 form, that the New Testament in all its 
 doctrinal parts ; that is to say, that the 
 Epistles had been written and all had 
 been completed before our Saviour's 
 death ; and that our Trinitarians could 
 have said to him, after the manner of 
 the Jews, " Thy disciples, whom thou 
 hast commissioned to declare the truth, 
 make thee to be God." I conceive that 
 Jesus might have given the same answer 
 as he did to his Jewish accusers. He 
 would say, "No : in all writings it is 
 common to speak of men according to 
 their distinction ; nor is there any need, 
 on the principles of ordinary interpre- 
 tation and sense, of guarding and re- 
 straining the natural language of admi- 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 371 
 
 ration and love. Tlie ancient Jews 
 were called gods, because the word of 
 God came to them. And I, on account 
 of inv Messiahship, may properly be 
 spoken of, and spoken of in that char- 
 acter^ much more strongly." 
 
 But, to bind the argument more close- 
 ly, and to render it, as I think, incon- 
 trovertible, let me add, that the matter 
 which I now state is not a matter of sup- 
 position, but of fact. Jesus is spoken of, 
 and that frequently, in his simple charac- 
 ter of Messiah ; tliat is to say, as infe- 
 rior, as confessedly inferior, as an official 
 person he is spoken of as strongly as 
 he is anywhere. Observe the following 
 language : " For by him were all tilings 
 created that are in heaven and eartli, vis- 
 ible and invisible, whether they be thrones 
 or dominions, or principalities or powers, 
 all things were created by him and for 
 him, and he is before all things, and by 
 him all things consist." There is no 
 stronger language than this. And yet, 
 for all this, Jesus is represented as de- 
 pendent on the good pleasure of God. 
 ''For — for it pleased the Father that in 
 him should all fulness dwell." I suppose 
 this to be that moral creation, that cre- 
 ating anew of many souls, which Jesus 
 by his doctrine has effected, together 
 with that influence upon the visible king- 
 doms of the world which his doctrine 
 has unquestionably produced. Again : 
 we read of Jesus Christ as being '• far 
 above principality and power, and might 
 and dominion, and every name that is 
 named, not only in this world, but in that 
 which is to come ;" and again, I say, 
 there is no stronger language than this. 
 But it is expressly said, tiiat God " set 
 him above all principality," &c. How 
 directly are we led back from these pas- 
 sages to our Saviour's principle of inter- 
 pretation ! And as if there should be no 
 doul)t about the subordinate and tempo- 
 rary character of this distinction, high 
 as it was, we are expressly told, that 
 " when the end shall come ;" when, ac- 
 cording to the Trinitarian hypothesis, 
 we expect to see Jesus ascend to his pri- 
 meval dignity as God; when "all things 
 
 shall be subdued unto him," — lo! "then 
 shall he be subject unto him that put 
 all things under him, that God may be 
 all in all." And as if to warrant the very 
 principle of interpretation on wiiich 1 
 am insisting, as if to show that nothing 
 that is said of the glory of our Saviour 
 is to be taken in derogation from the su- 
 premacy of God, it is said in this very 
 connection, "But when it is said, ail 
 things are put under him, it is manifest 
 tiiat He is excepted who did put all things 
 under him." As if it were said, — nay it 
 is said, — that nothinjr written concerning: 
 the greatness of Jesus is to bring into 
 question the unrivalled supremacy of 
 God. 
 
 And let me add, that this provides us 
 with an answer to the only objection that 
 stands in our way. It may be said, that 
 there are still passages whose force is 
 not controlled by any express qualifica- 
 tion. I answer that it is nevertheless 
 fairly controlled by the general sense of 
 the book. The certain truth that there 
 is but one God ; the constant ascription 
 of that supremacy to the Father, the con- 
 stant declaration, that Jesus owed every- 
 thing to God, justly limits the sense of 
 those passages which ascribe to the Sav- 
 iour a lofty distinction. This is accord- 
 ing to the usage of all writings. Suppose 
 that when the biographer had said of 
 Bonaparte, that " his footstep shook the 
 Continent, " or of Mr. Pitt, that he 
 " struck a blow in Europe that resounded 
 through the world," or the poet, of Mil- 
 ton, — 
 
 " He passed the flaming bounds of space and time : 
 The living throne, the sapphire blaze ; " 
 
 suppose, I say, that he immediately add- 
 ed, and in every such instance added, 
 that he did not mean to be taken literal- 
 ly, — that he did not mean that tiie per- 
 sonage in question was a demigod, — 
 could anything be more unnatural and 
 unnecessary ? Were any writings ever 
 composed upon this plan ? 
 
 What, then, is the conclusion at which 
 we arrive ? The very olijection which 
 we are considering, in fact, gives up the 
 whole argument. For it is admitted by 
 
372 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRINITY. 
 
 this objection, that if the qualification 
 had been constantly introduced; that is 
 to say, if every time that any lofty dis- 
 tinction had been ascribed to Jesus, it 
 had been expressly said that '' God gave 
 him this," that "God had set him there," 
 — it is admitted, I say, that by this con- 
 stantly repeated qualification the whole 
 Trinitarian argument would have been 
 completely overthrown. Is it possible, 
 then, for the Trinitarian expositor, inter- 
 preting the Bible on the same principle 
 that he does other books, to maintain 
 his argument ? If he does maintain it, 
 I fearlessly assert that he gives up the 
 principle. The moment he feels the 
 Trinitarian ground strong beneath hirn, 
 that moment he abjures the principle in 
 his exposition; that moment he begins 
 to say, " It is profane to interpret the 
 Scriptures as we do other books, the 
 Scripture biography as we do other 
 biographies." 
 
 The fact is, and I must assert it, that 
 the Trinitarian, with all his assumptions 
 of exclusive reverence for the Bible, does 
 not adhere to the Bible as his opponent 
 does. If he would vindicate his claim, 
 I should be glad to see a little more re- 
 gard for Scripture usage in his doxolo- 
 gies and ascriptions. From all pulpits, 
 at the close of almost every prayer, may 
 be heard, on any Sunday, fonmilas of 
 expression like these, nowhere to be 
 found in the Bible : "And to the Feather, 
 the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be all hon- 
 or and glory :" " To the holy and ever- 
 blessed Trinity, one God, the Father, 
 Son, and Holy Ghost, be equal and un- 
 divided honors and praises." 
 
 And yet those who pass upon us such 
 unscriptural theories, as we think them, 
 and are constantly swaying the public 
 mind by using such confessedly unscrip- 
 tural language, are, at the same time, 
 perpetually charging us with rejecting 
 the Bible and relying on our presump- 
 tuous reasonings, and with leaning, and 
 more than leaning, to infidelity. 
 
 I repeat, in close, that the question 
 between us is a question of interpreta- 
 tion. It is a question of " What saith 
 
 the Scripture ? " It amounts to nothing, 
 in view of this question, to tell me that 
 for many centuries the church has, in the 
 body of it, believed this or that doctrine. 
 The church, by the confession of us all, 
 has believed many errors, for many cen- 
 turies. It is worse yet, contemptuously 
 or haughtily to say, that it is unlikely 
 any great or new truth in religion is now 
 to be found out. Such a principle would 
 stop the progress of the age. Such a 
 principle would have crushed the Ref- 
 ormation. Neither is our doctrine new, 
 nor is it unhonored, so far as human tes- 
 timony can confer honor. It was the 
 doctrine, as we firmly believe, of the 
 primitive church. It has been held by 
 many good men ever since. And when 
 you come upon English ground, — when 
 you retrace the bright lineage of our 
 English worthies, to whom do all eyes 
 turn as the brightest in that line ? Whose 
 names have become household words in 
 all the dwellings of a reading and intel- 
 ligent community ? I answer, the names 
 of Newton, and Locke, and Milton. And 
 yet Newton, who not only read the stars : 
 and Locke, who not only penetrated with 
 patient study the secrets of the mind ; 
 and Milton, who not only soared into the 
 heaven of poetry, and '"passed the sap- 
 phire blaze, and saw the livmg throne,'' — 
 all of whom read their Bibles too, and 
 wrote largely upon the Scriptures, — all 
 these, after laborious investigation, con- 
 curred in rejecting the doctrine of the 
 Trinity. What these men believed is 
 not to be accounted of mushroom growth. 
 They were men not of parts and genius 
 only, but men of solid and transcendent 
 acquisitions and ever-during fame. I 
 would not name them in the spirit of 
 vain and foolish boasti ng. But I do say, — 
 and I would urge this consideration par- 
 ticularly, — I do say, that the extraordi- 
 nary circumstance, that these three men 
 have been as distinguished for their 
 study of the Bible as they have been 
 otherwise distinguished among the great 
 and learned men of England, should lead 
 every man to pause before he rejects 
 a doctrine which they believed. Much 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 Z7l 
 
 more does it become men of inferior 
 parts and little learning to abstain from 
 pouring out contempt and anathemas 
 upon a doctrine which Newton and 
 Locke and Milton believed. 
 
 It is to little purpose, indeed, to lift 
 up warnings and denunciations, and to 
 awaken prejudice and hostility against 
 the great doctrine on which Unitarian- 
 ism is built, — the simple Unity of God ; 
 and the entire inferiority, yet glorious 
 distinction, of Jesus, as his Son and 
 IMessenger. This doctrine professes to 
 stand securely on the foundation of 
 Scripture. Argument, therefore, not 
 passion, must supply the only effectual 
 weapons against it. If this doctrine be 
 wrong, may God speedily show it ! If 
 it be right, he will defend the right. 
 Concerning all improper opposition, we 
 might say to its opponents, in the words 
 of Gamaliel, " Let it alone : for if this 
 counsel or this work be of men, it will 
 come to nought ; but if it be of God, 
 ye cannol overthrow it : lest haply ye be 
 found even to fieht against God." 
 
 II. 
 
 ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 1 Cor. ii. 2 : " For I determined not to know any- 
 thing among you, save Jesus Christ and him cruci- 
 fied." 
 
 The pre-eminence thus assigned to 
 one subject of Christian teaching, the 
 sufferings of Jesus, must command for 
 it our serious attention. It is true that 
 Paul did not mean to say that he would 
 not speak of anything but the passion 
 of Christ ; for he did speak of many 
 other things. But it is quite clear that 
 he did give to this subject, in the Chris- 
 tian system, an importance pre-eminent ; 
 predominating over all others. 
 
 Why did he so ? Why is the death 
 of Jesus the highest subject in Chris- 
 tianity ? Why is the cross the chief- 
 est emblem of Christianity ? Why has 
 something like Paul's determination 
 always been realized in the Christian 
 
 church, — to know nothing else ? Why 
 has it been celebrated as nothing else 
 has been celebrated ? Why has a holy 
 rite been especially ordained to show 
 forth the death of Christ through all 
 time ? The brief answer to these ques- 
 tions is, that the substance, the subject- 
 matter of Christianity, is the character 
 of Christ as the Saviour of men ; and 
 that the grandest revelation of his char- 
 acter and purpose was made on the 
 cross. Of this revelation I am now to 
 speak. 
 
 In entering upon this subject I feel 
 one serious difficulty. It has taken such 
 hold of the superstition of mankind that 
 it is difficult to present it in its true, 
 simple, natural, and affecting aspects. 
 For this reason, I shall not attempt to 
 engage your minds in the ordinary 
 course of a doctrinal discussion. I 
 cannot discuss this solemn theme in a 
 merely metaphysical manner. I cannot 
 contemplate a death, and least of all the 
 death of the Saviour, only as a doctrine. 
 It is to me, I must confess, altogether 
 another kind of influence. It is to me, 
 if it is anything, power and grandeur ; it 
 is something that rivets my eye and 
 heart ; it is a theme of admiration and 
 spiritual sympathy ; it leads me to medi- 
 tation, not to metaphysics ; it is as a 
 majestic example, a moving testimony, 
 a dread sacrifice, that I niust contem- 
 plate it. I see in it a death-blow to sin. 
 I hear the pleading of the crucified One 
 for truth and salvation, beneath the 
 darkened heavens and amidst the shud- 
 dering earth ! 
 
 I mean to say, that all this is spiritual 
 and practical. It amazes me that this 
 great event, which is filling all lands and 
 all ages, should be resolved altogether, 
 — all gathered and stamped into a for- 
 mula of faith. It is every way astonish- 
 ing to me that such a speculative use 
 should have been made of it ; that suf- 
 fering should have been seized upon 
 as a subject for metaphysical analysis ; 
 that the agony of the Son of God should 
 have been wrested into a thesis for the 
 theologian ; that a death should have 
 
74 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 been made a dogma ; that blood should 
 have been taken to write a creed ; that 
 Calvary should have been made the 
 arena of controversy. That the cross, 
 whereon Jesus, with holy candor and 
 meekness, prayed for his enemies, say- 
 ing, " Father, forgive them, for they 
 know not what they do ; " that tlie cross 
 should have been made a rack of moral 
 torture for his friends, whereon, in all 
 the valleys and upon all the hills of 
 Christendom they have been crucified by 
 unkindness and exclusion, — is there 
 another such contradiction, is there 
 another such phenomenon to be found 
 in all the strange history of the world ? 
 There have been martyrdoms recorded 
 in the world's great story ; but when 
 before were martyrdoms wrought into 
 sharp and reproachful metaphysics ? 
 There have been fields drenched with 
 righteous blood ; there have been lowly 
 and lonely valleys, like those of Pied- 
 mont and Switzerland, where the sighs 
 and groans of the crushed and bleeding 
 have risen and echoed among the dark 
 crags that surrounded them ; but who 
 ever thought of building up these dread 
 testimonies of human suffering and for- 
 titude into systems of doctrinal specu- 
 lation ? 
 
 Let me not be misunderstood. In 
 the train of the world's history, as I 
 follow it, I meet at length with a being 
 marked and singled out from all others. 
 1 read in the Gospel the wonderful ac- 
 count of the most wonderful personage 
 that ever appeared on earth. Nothing 
 in the great procession of ages ever 
 bore any comparison with the majestic 
 story that now engages my attention. I 
 draw near and listen to this being, and 
 he speaks as never man spake. By 
 some strange power, which I never so 
 felt before, he seems as no other master 
 ever did to speak to me. I follow him as 
 the course of his life leads me on. I be- 
 come deeply interested, more than as for 
 a friend, in everything he says and does 
 and suffers. I feel the natural amaze- 
 ment at the resistance and hatred he 
 meets with. I feel a rising glow in my 
 
 cheek at the indignities that are heaped 
 upon him. I say with myself, " Surely 
 God will interpose for him ! " I hear him 
 speak obscurely of a death by violence ; 
 but, like the disciples, I cannot receive 
 it. I look, rather, that some horses 
 and chariots of fire shall come and 
 bear him up to heaven. But the scene 
 darkens around .him ; more and more 
 frequently fall from his lips the sad 
 monitions of coming sorrow ; he pre- 
 pares a feast of friendship with his dis- 
 ciples, but he tells them that it is the last ;' 
 he retires thence to the shades of Geth- 
 semane ; and lo ! through those silent 
 shades comes the armed band ; he is 
 taken with wicked hands ; he is borne 
 to the Judgment Hall ; he is invested 
 with a bloody crown of tiiorns, and 
 made to bear his cross amidst a jeering 
 and insulting multitude ; he is stretched 
 upon that accursed tree ; he expires in 
 agony. Oh ! where are now the hopes 
 that he would do some great thing for 
 the world ! He seemed as one who 
 would save the world, and lo ! he is 
 crucified and slain ! He seemed to hold 
 in his bosom the great regenerative 
 principle ; he knew what was in man, 
 and what man wanted ; he appeared as 
 the hope of the world ; and where 
 now is that hope ? Buried, entombed, 
 quenched in the dark and silent sepul- 
 chre. All is over ; all, to my worldly 
 view, is ended. I wander away from 
 the scene in hopeless despair. I fall 
 in company as the narrative leads me 
 on, with two of the scattered disciples 
 going to Emmaus. And as we talk of 
 these things, one joins us in our walk, 
 and asks us what are these sad com- 
 munings of ours. And we say, " Art 
 thou only a stranger in Jerusalem, 
 and hast not known the things which 
 are come to pass there in these days .-" 
 And he says, What things ? And we 
 answer, Concerning Jesus of Nazareth. 
 Then expounds he to us the Scriptures ; 
 and says, Ought not Christ to have suf- 
 fered these things and to enter into his 
 glory? " In fine, he reveals himself unto 
 us, and then vanishes away. And ue 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 375 
 
 say, "Did not our hearts burn within us 
 while he talked with us l)y the way, and 
 while he opened to us the Scriptures ? " 
 
 In short, it is at this point that a new 
 view enters my mind of the sufferings of 
 Jesus. The worldly views all pass 
 away ; the worldly views of death and 
 defeat, of ignominy and ruin ; and I see 
 that through death it was that Jesus 
 conquered. I see that his dying, even 
 more than his living, is a ministration of 
 power, and light, and salvation to the 
 world. I see that that ignominy is 
 glory; that those wounds are fountains 
 of healing ; that the cross, hitherto 
 branded as the accursed tree, fit only 
 for the execution of the vilest culprits, 
 has become the emblem of everlasting 
 honor. 
 
 Now, therefore, the death of Jesus 
 becomes to me the one great revelation. 
 I determine to know nothing else, 
 nothing in comparison with it; nothing 
 is of equal interest. All the glory of 
 Christ's example, all the graciousness 
 of his purposes, shines most brightly 
 on the cross. It is the consummation 
 of all, the finishing of all. The epitaph 
 of Jesus is the epitome of Christianity. 
 The death of Jesus is the life of the 
 world. 
 
 In saying this, I wish to utter no 
 theological dogma, which shall be re- 
 spectfully received as a mere dogma. I 
 simply express what is, upon my own 
 mind, the natural impression. I stand 
 by the cross of Jesus ; for no interven- 
 ing ages can weaken the power of that 
 manifestation ; and what is its language 
 to me ? 1 will suppose myself to stand 
 alone by that cross ; I will suppose 
 that I have never iieard of any theologi- 
 cal systems ; I stand in the simplicity 
 of the elder time, before any systems 
 were invented. And what now is the 
 first feeling that enters my mind as I 
 gaze upon that Sufferer ? 
 
 I. I think I shall state the natural 
 impression, taking into account all that 
 I have known of Jesus, when I say that 
 the first feeling is, that I am a sinner. 
 It is ever the tendency of human guilt, 
 
 on witnessing any great catastrophe, to 
 exclaim, " 1 am a sinner." But this is 
 not a catastrophe witiiout an explana- 
 tion. Let us see if my feeling is not 
 right. I have heard all that Jesus has 
 said of the supreme evil that sin is. I 
 have seen how that one conviction 
 rested upon his mind, and breathed out 
 in all his teachings, that nothing besides 
 is comparatively an evil. I have seen 
 that it was on this very account that he 
 came on a mission of pity from the 
 Father of mercies. I have heard all 
 that he has said ; my heart has been 
 probed by his words, and I involuntarily 
 exclaim, as I see him suspended on the 
 cross, " Ah ! sinful being that I am, 
 that such an one should suffer for me. 
 It is I that deserved to suffer ; but 
 God hath made him the propitiation for 
 my sins. Could nothing else set forth 
 before me the curse of sin ? Could no 
 other hand bear the burden of my 
 redemption ? Truly, I have sinned 
 against the gracious Father of my exist- 
 ence ; I always knew it ; I always felt 
 that I had ; but how is it shown to me 
 now, when the love and pity of the infi- 
 nite Father appears in this, that he 
 spared not his own Son, but gave him 
 to die for me ! Oh ! sore and bitter to 
 abide are pains and wounds ; cherished 
 in heaven are the sufferings of martyred 
 innocence ! how then does every pain 
 of Jesus awaken the pain of conscious 
 guilt in my mind ! how does every 
 wound reveal a deeper wound in my 
 soul ! I will repent me now, if I never 
 would before. I will resist, I can resist 
 no longer. I will be crucified to sin, 
 and sin shall be crucified to me. I will 
 bathe the cross of Jesus with the tears of 
 penitence. God, who hast interposed 
 for me, help me to die daily unto sin, 
 and to live unto righteousness ! " 
 
 It is in this connection, if anywhere, 
 that we must give a few moments' 
 attention to the doctrinal explanation of 
 the atonement. I have indeed remon- 
 strated against the speculative use of 
 this subject ; but the state of the public 
 mind makes it necessary, perhaps, that 
 
376 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 something should be said of the theory 
 of the atonement. 
 
 I understand this, then, to be the 
 state of the question : Two leading 
 views of the sacrifice of Christ divide 
 the Christian world. The one regards 
 it as an expedient ; the other as a man- 
 ifestation. According to the first view, 
 the sacrifice of Christ is usually repre- 
 sented either as the suffering of a pen- 
 alty, or as the payment of a debt, or as 
 the satisfaction of a law. It is some- 
 thins: that either turns God's favor 
 towards us, or makes it proper for him 
 to show favor. It is some new element, 
 or some new expedient, introduced 
 into the Divine government, without 
 which it is impossible to obtain forgive- 
 ness. This, I understand to be, in 
 general and in substance, the Calvinis- 
 tic view. The other view regards the 
 suffering of Christ as simply a mani- 
 festation. It is not a purchase, or pro- 
 curement, but a manifestation of God's 
 love, and pity, and willingness to forgive. 
 It is not the enfranchisement, from 
 some legal bond, of God's mercy ; but 
 the expression, the outflowing of that 
 mercy which was forever free. It was 
 a satisfaction not to the heart of reluc- 
 tant justice, but of abounding grace. 
 The divine displeasure against sin, in- 
 deed, was manifested ; for how costly 
 was the sacrifice for its removal ! but 
 not a displeasure that must burn against 
 the sinner till some expedient was found 
 to avert it. 
 
 Now tiie view of manifestation is tlie 
 one which we adopt ; and certainly 
 many of the more modern Orthodox 
 explanations come to the same thing. 
 They still proceed, it is true, upon the 
 presumption that this inanifestation was 
 intrinsically necessary ; that sin could 
 not have been forgiven without it ; that 
 the authority of God's law could not 
 have been otherwise upholden. I cer- 
 tainly cannot take this view of the sub- 
 ject. I cannot undertake to say what 
 it was possible or proper for the Al- 
 mighty to do. I can only wonder at the 
 presumption of those who do profess 
 
 thus to penetrate into the fathomless 
 counsels of the Infinite Government. 
 I read in the Gospel, it is true, of a 
 necessity for the sufferings of Christ; 
 but I understand it to be founded in 
 prophecy which must be fulfilled ; 
 founded in the moral purposes of his 
 mission ; founded in the wisdom of 
 God. I read, that God is the justifier 
 of him that believeth in Jesus, of him 
 that is penitent and regenerate ; that is, 
 God treats him as if he were just ; in 
 other words, shows favor to him ; be- 
 stows pardon and mercy upon him. 
 And of this mercy Jesus, the sufferer, is 
 the great and all-subduing manifestation. 
 
 I cannot here go into the details of 
 Interpretation. It is perplexed by rea- 
 sonings of the Apostles about the rela- 
 tions of Jews and Gentiles, by analogies 
 to the Jewish sacrifices, by the language 
 and speculations of an ancient time ; 
 by difiiculties, in short, that require 
 much study and learning for their clear- 
 ing up, and demand no solution at the 
 hand of plain and unlearned persons, 
 who are simply seeking for their salva- 
 tion. This profound criticism, in short, 
 is a subject for a volume, rather than 
 for a sermon. 
 
 But I will present to you, in accord- 
 ance with a frequent practice of theo- 
 logians, a single illustration, which, if 
 you will carry into the New Testament, 
 you will see, I believe, that it explains 
 most of the language you will find 
 there. 
 
 Suppose, then, that a father, in a dis- 
 tant part of the country, had a family 
 of sons, all dear to him. Suppose that 
 all of them, save one, who remained at 
 home with him, had wandered away into 
 the world to seek their fortunes, and 
 that in the prosecution of that design, 
 they had come to one of our cities. 
 Suppose that, in process of time, they 
 yield to the temptations that surround 
 them, and become dissolute and aban- 
 doned, and are sunk into utter misery ; 
 first one, and then another, till all are 
 fallen. From time to time, dark and 
 vajrue rumors had gone back to their 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 Z77 
 
 country-home that all was not well ; 
 and their parent had been anxious and 
 troubled. He thought of it in sleepless 
 nights; but what could he do? He 
 desired one and another of his neighbors, 
 going down to the great city, to see his 
 sons, and tell him of their estate. On 
 their return they speak to him in those 
 reserved and doubtful terms that sear 
 a parent's heart : one messenger after 
 another speaks in "this manner, till at 
 length evasion is no longer possible, 
 and the father learns the dreadful truth, 
 that his sons are sunk into the depths 
 of vice, debasement, and wretchedness. 
 Then, at last, he says to his only re- 
 maining and beloved son, " Go, and 
 save thy brethren." Let me observe to 
 you here, that nothing is more common 
 in the books of Divinity than compari- 
 sons of this nature ; and that it is not, 
 of course, designed to imply anything in 
 such comparisons of the relative rank of 
 the parties. The father says, " Go and 
 save thy brethren." Moved by com- 
 passion, that son comes to the great 
 city. He seeks his unhappy brethren 
 in their miserable haunts ; he labors for 
 their recovery. Ere long a fearful pes- 
 tilence spreads itself in the city. Shall 
 the heroic brother desist from his task ? 
 No, he labors on ; night and day he la- 
 bors ; till in the noisome abodes of vice, 
 poverty, and misery, he takes the infec- 
 tious disease, and dies. He dies for 
 the salvation of his brethren. 
 
 Now what is the language of this sac- 
 rifice on the part of the father, what is 
 it on the part of the son, and what ^s it 
 to tho.se unhappy objects of this inter- 
 position ? 
 
 On the part of the father, it was 
 unspeakable compassion. It was also, 
 constructively, an expression of his dis- 
 pleasure against vice,— of the sense he 
 entertained of the evil into which his sons 
 had fallen. On the part of the son, it 
 was a like conviction and compassion, 
 and a willingness to die for the recovery 
 of his brethren. What would it be to 
 those guilty brethren ? Wiiat would it be 
 especially, if by dying for them he recov- 
 
 ered them to virtue, restored them to their 
 father's arms and to a happy life .? "Ah ! 
 our brother ! " they would say : " he died 
 for us ; he died that we might live. His 
 blood has cleansed us from sin. Bj' his 
 stripes, by his groans, by his pains, we 
 are healed. Dearly beloved brother ! we 
 will live in memory of thy virtues, and 
 in honor of thy noble sacrifice." Nor, 
 my friends, is there one word of reliance 
 or gratitude in the New Testament ap- 
 plied to the sacrifice of Jesus, which per- 
 sons thus circumstanced, and with a 
 Jewish education, would not apply to 
 just such an interposition as we have 
 supposed. If, then, we have put a case 
 which meets and satisfies all the Scrip- 
 tural language to be explained, have we 
 not put a case that embraces the essential 
 features of the great atonement .'' 
 
 II. I have now spoken of the relation 
 of the cross of Christ to our sins and to 
 the pardon of sin. But we should by 
 no means have exhausted its efficacj-, we 
 should by no means have shown all the 
 reasons of its pre-eminence in the Chris- 
 tian dispensation, if we were to stop here. 
 Not less practical, not less momentous, is 
 its relation to our deliverance from sin. 
 That, indeed, is its ultimate end, and 
 pardon is to be obtained only on that con- 
 dition. This idea, indeed, has been 
 essentially involved in what we have al- 
 ready said ; but it requires j'et further 
 to be unfolded. 
 
 The death of Jesus is the greatest min- 
 istration ever known on earth to human 
 virtue. It was intended not to be a relief 
 to the conscience, but an incentive, a 
 goad to the negligent conscience. 
 
 It was not meant, because Christ has 
 died, that men should roll the burden of 
 their sin on him, and be at ease ; but 
 that, more than ever, they should strug- 
 gle with it themselves. It was designed 
 that the cross should lay a stronger bond 
 upon the conscience even than the law. 
 When I look upon the cross I cannot 
 indulge, my brethren, in sentimental or 
 theologic strains of rapture over reliefs 
 and escapes ; over the broken bonds 
 of legal obligation ; over a salvation 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT, 
 
 wrought out for me, and not in me ; 
 over a purchased and claimed pardon ; 
 as if now all were easy, as if a commu- 
 tation were made with justice, — the debt 
 paid, the debtor free ; and there were 
 nothing to do but to rejoice and triumph. 
 No : I should feel it to be base and 
 ungenerous in me thus to contemplate 
 sufferings and agonies endured for my 
 salvation. The cross is a most majes- 
 tic and touching revelation of solemn 
 and bounden duty. It makes the bond 
 stronger, not weaker. It reveals a harder, 
 not an easier, way to be saved. That is 
 to say, it sets up a stricter, not a looser, 
 law for the conscience. Every particle 
 of evil in the heart is now a more la- 
 mentable and gloomy burden than it 
 ever was before. The cross sets a darker 
 stamp upon the malignity of sin than the 
 table of the commandments ; and it de- 
 mands of us, in accents louder than 
 Sinai's thunder, sympathetic agonies to 
 .be freed from sin. 
 
 The cross, I repeat, is the grand min- 
 istration to human virtue. It is a lan- 
 guage to all lonely and neglected, or 
 slighted and persecuted, virtue. Often do 
 we stand in situations where that cross 
 is our dearest example and friend. It is, 
 perhaps, beneath the humble roof, where 
 the great world passes us by, and neither 
 sees nor knows us ; where no one bla- 
 zons our patience, our humility, cheerful- 
 ness, and disinterestedness, to the multi- 
 tude that is ever dazzled with outward 
 splendor., There must we learn of him 
 who for us was a neglected wanderer, and 
 had not even where to lay his head. 
 There must we learn of him who was 
 meek and lowly in heart, and find rest 
 unto our souls. There must we learn 
 of liim who bowed that meek and lowly 
 liead upon the cross ; dishonored before 
 a passing multitude, honored before all 
 ages. Or we stand, perhaps, beneath the 
 perilous eye of observation, of an obser- 
 vation not friendly, but hostile and scorn- 
 ful. We stand up for our integrity -. we 
 stand for some despised and persecuted 
 principle in religion or morals or science. 
 And it is hard to bear opprobrium and 
 
 injury for this, hard for the noblest testi- 
 mony of our conscience to bear the worst 
 infliction of human displeasure. The 
 dissenting physician, the dissenting phi- 
 lanthropist, the dissenting Christian, 
 knows full well how hard it is. And there, 
 keeping there our firm stand, must we 
 look upon that cross, whereon hung one 
 who was despised and rejected of men, 
 — the scorned of earth, the favored and 
 beloved of heaven. That stand for con- 
 science, kept firmly, humbly, meekly, we 
 must learn, is not mean and low ; it is the 
 very grandeur of life ; it is the magnifi- 
 cence of tlie world. It is a world of mis- 
 construction, of injury, of persecution ; 
 that cross is lifted up to stay our faint- 
 ing courage, to fix our wavering fidel- 
 ity, to inspire us with meekness, pa- 
 tience, forgiveness of enemies, and 
 trust in God. 
 
 Again, the cross is a language to all 
 tempted and struggling virtue. Jesus' 
 was tempted in all points as we are, yet 
 without sin. Thou too art tempted. In 
 high estate as well as in low, thou art 
 tempted. Nay, and the misery and 
 peril of the case is, that all estates are 
 becoming low with thee ; all is sinking 
 around thee, when temptation presses 
 thee sore. When thou art tempted to 
 swerve from the integrity of thy spirit 
 or of thy life, and the perilous hour 
 draws near, and thou reasonest with 
 thyself, thou art in a kind of despair. 
 Thou sayest that friends desert thee, 
 and the world looks coldly on thee ; or 
 thou sayest that thy passions are strong, 
 and thy soul is sad, and thy state is un- 
 happy, and it is no matter what befalls. 
 Then it is that to thy tempted and dis- 
 couraged virtue Jesus speaks, and says, 
 " Deny the evil tliouglit, and take up 
 thy cross and follow me. Behold my 
 agony, behold my desertion, behold the 
 drops of bloody sweat. I shrink in the 
 frailty of nature, as thou dost, from 
 the cup of bitterness ; 1 pray that it 
 may pass from me ; but I do not refuse 
 it. There is worse to fear than pain, — 
 o^uilt ; failure in the great trial ; the 
 prostration of all thy nobleness before 
 
CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 379 
 
 the base appliance of a moment's grati- 
 fication ; ay, the pain of all thy after life 
 for an hour's pleasure. Learn of me, 
 that virtue does not always repose on 
 a bed of roses. Oh I no: sharp pangs, 
 sharp nails, piercing thorns, are for 
 me ; wonder not thou, then, at the fiery 
 trial in thy soul : my sufTerings emblem 
 thine, so let my triumph ; all can be 
 endured for victory, holy victory, immor- 
 tal victory." 
 
 Once more : the cross appeals to all 
 heroic and lofty virtue. Let me say 
 heroic ; though that word is scarcely 
 yet found in the Christian's vocabulary. 
 But in the Christian's life there is to be 
 a heroism. He is to feel as one who 
 has undertaken a lofty enterprise. He 
 has entered upon a sublime work. It is 
 his being's task and trial and triumph. 
 We think too poorly of what a Christian 
 life is. We hold it to be too common- 
 place. There is nothing heroic or lofty, 
 as to the principle, in all history, in all 
 the majestic fortunes of humanity, but is 
 to come into the silent strife of every 
 Christian's spirit. 
 
 Now to this, the example of the cru- 
 cified Saviour, is an emphatic appeal. 
 The cross is commonly represented as 
 humbling to the human heart; it is so 
 to the worldly pride of the human heart : 
 but it is also to that heart, an animat- 
 ing, soul-thrilling, ennobling call. It 
 speaks to all that is sacred, disinterested, 
 self-sacrificing in humanity. I fear that 
 we regard Christ's sacrifice for us so 
 technically that we rob it of its vital im- 
 port, it was a painful sacrifice for us, 
 as truly as if our brother had died for 
 us; it was a bitter and bloody propitia- 
 tion to bring back offending man to his 
 God ; it was a groan for human guilt 
 and misery that rent the earth ; it was a 
 death endured for us, that we might live, 
 and live forever. I speak not one word 
 of this technically ; I speak vital truth. 
 Even if Jesus had died as any other 
 martyr dies ; if he had thought of noth- 
 ing but his own fidelity, had thought of 
 nothing but bearing witness to the truth, 
 — still the call would, f)}/ inference, have 
 
 come to us. But it is not left to infer- 
 ence. Jesus was commissioned to bear 
 this very relation to the world. He knew 
 that, if he were lifted up, he should draw 
 all men to him. And liow draw all men 
 to him ? Plainly, in sympathy, in imi- 
 tation, in love. He desig-ned to speak 
 to all ages, to touch all the high and sol- 
 emn aspirations of unnumbered millions 
 of souls ; to win the world to the noble 
 spirit of self-sacrifice, — to disinterest- 
 edness and fortitude and patience ; to 
 meekness and candor and gentleness, 
 and forgiveness of injuries. This is the 
 heroism of Christianity. In these vir- 
 tues centres all true glory. This did 
 Jesus mean to illustrate. His purpose 
 was to turn off the eyes of men from the 
 power, pride, ambition, and splendor of 
 the world, to the true grandeur, dignity, 
 and all-sufficing good of love, meekness, 
 and disinterestedness. And how surely 
 have his purposes and predictions been 
 accomplished ! A renovating power has 
 gone forth from him upon the face of the 
 whole civilized world, and is fast spread- 
 ing itself to the ends of tlie earth. And 
 one emphatic proof of this is, that the 
 cross, before the stigma of the vilest 
 crimes, has become the emblem of all 
 spiritual greatness. 
 
 At the risk of wearying your patience, 
 my brethren, let me invite you to a brief 
 consideration of one other relation of the 
 cross of Christ : I mean its relation to 
 human happiness. It shall be a closing 
 and a brief one. 
 
 Jesus was a sufferer ; and yet so filled 
 was his mind with serenity and joy that 
 the single instance in which we read that 
 he wept, seems to open to us a new light 
 upon his cliaracter. Jesus was a pa- 
 tient, cheerful, triumphant sufferer. The 
 interest which in this light his charac- 
 ter possesses for the wliole human race 
 has never, it appears to me, been suffi- 
 ciently illustrated. 
 
 We are all sufferers. At one time or 
 another, in one way or another, we all 
 meet this fate of humanity. So true is 
 this, and so well do we know it to be true, 
 that it would be only too painful to open 
 
38o 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ATONEMENT. 
 
 the wide volume of proofs which life is 
 continually furnishing It is really nec- 
 essary to lay restraint upon our thoughts 
 when speaking of the pains and afflic- 
 tions of life. I know it is often said 
 that the pulpit is not sufficiently excit- 
 ing. But how easy were it to make it 
 more so ! A thoughtful man will often 
 feel, that, instead of cautiously and con- 
 siderately touching the human heart, he 
 might go into that heart, with swords and 
 knives, to cut, to wound, and almost to 
 slay it, if such were his pleasure. What 
 if he were to describe suffering infancy, 
 or a sick and dying child, or the agony 
 of parental sorrow, or manhood in its 
 strength, or matronage in its beauty, bro- 
 ken down under some infliction, touch- 
 ing the mind or the body, to more than 
 infant weakness ; who could bear it ? 
 Yes : it is the lot of humanity to suffer. 
 No condition, no guarded palace, no 
 golden shield, can keep out the shafts 
 of calamity. And especially it is the lot 
 of intellectual life to suffer. As man be- 
 comes properly man, as his mind grap- 
 ples with its ordained probation, the 
 dispensation naturally presses harder 
 upon him. The face of careless child- 
 hood may be arrayed with perpetual 
 smiles ; but behold how the brow of 
 manhood, and the matronly brow, grows 
 serious and thoughtful, as years steal 
 on ; how the cheek grows pale, and what 
 a meaning is set in the depths of many 
 an eye around you ; all proclaiming his- 
 tories, long histories, of care and anx- 
 iety, and disappointment and affliction ! 
 
 Now into this overshadowed world 
 One has come to commune with suffer- 
 ing ; to soothe, to relieve, to conquer it : 
 himselfa sufferer,himself acquainted with 
 grief, himself the conqueror of pain ; 
 himself made perfect through sufferings ; 
 and teaching us to gain like virtue and 
 victory.. For in all this I see him ever 
 calm, patient, cheerful, triumphant. 
 
 And what a touching aspect does all 
 this strong and calm endurance lend to 
 his afflictions ! For he was afflicted, 
 and his soul was sometimes " sorrowful, 
 even unto death." When I read that 
 
 at the grave of Lazarus " Jesus wept ; " 
 when I hear him say, in the garden of 
 Gethsemane, "Father, if it be possible, 
 remove this cup from me ; " when from 
 the cross arose that piercing cry, '■ My 
 God, my God, why hast thou forsaken 
 me ? " I know that he suffered. 1 know 
 that loneliness and desertion and dark- 
 ness were upon his path ; I feel that 
 sorrow and fear sometimes touched, 
 with a passing shade, that seraphic coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 But oh ! how divinely does he rise 
 above all ! What a peculiarity was there 
 in the character of this wonderful Being ; 
 the rejected, the scorned, the scourged, 
 the crucified : and yet no being was ever 
 so considerate towards the faults of his 
 friends as he was towards the hostility 
 of his very enemies ; no being was ever 
 so kindly and compassionate in spirit; 
 so habitually even and cheerful in tem- 
 per ; so generous and gracious in man- 
 ner. I cannot express the sense 1 have 
 of his equanimity, of his gentleness, of 
 the untouched beauty and sweetness of 
 his philanthropy, of the unapproached 
 greatness of his magnanimity and forti- 
 tude. He locked through this life with 
 a spiritual eye, and saw the wise and 
 beneficent effect of suffering. He looked 
 up witii confiding faith to a Father in 
 heaven ; he looked through the long 
 and blessed ages beyond this life; and 
 earth, with all its scenes and sorrows, 
 shrunk to a point amidst the all-surround- 
 ing infinity of truth and goodness and 
 heaven. 
 
 Thus, my brethren, has he ta^ight us 
 how to suffer. He has resolved that 
 dark problem of life : how that suffering, 
 in the long account, may be better than 
 ease ; and poverty, better than riches ; 
 and desertion, better than patronage ; and 
 mortification, better than applause ; and 
 disappointment, better than success ; 
 and martyrdom, better than all honors 
 of a sinful life : and how, therefore, that 
 suffering is to be met with a brave and 
 manly heart, with a sustaining faith, 
 with a cheerful courage ; counting it all 
 joy, and making it all triumph. 
 
ON THE FIVE POINTS OF CALVINISM. 
 
 381 
 
 Thus have I attempted, and I feel 
 that I ought not to detain you longer, — 
 I have attempted, however imperfectly, 
 to untold the intent for which Jesus suf- 
 fered; to unfold the import and teach- 
 ing of the cross of Christ to human 
 guilt, to human virtue, and to human 
 happiness. May you know more of the 
 truth as it is in Jesus than words can 
 utter or worldly heart conceive ! And 
 may the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ 
 be with you always ! Amen. 
 
 in. 
 
 ON THE FIVE POINTS OF 
 
 CALVINISM. 
 
 The celebrated 7f7'^^^/«/i' of Calvin- 
 ism are the following: total depravity, 
 election, particular redemption, irresist- 
 ible grace, and the final perseverance 
 of saints. It has been justly observed 
 that " the two first only are fundamental 
 doctrines ; the three last, necessary con- 
 sequences." The consequences, how- 
 ever, are none the less liable to their 
 separate and particular objections. But 
 as I propose to confine myself to ques- 
 tions at issue between Orthodox and 
 Liberal Christians, I shall not think it 
 necessary to offer anything more than a 
 passing remark or two on the doctrines 
 of particular redemption and the saints' 
 perseverance. 
 
 Particular redemption, or the limita- 
 tion of the atonement, both in its de- 
 sign and efficacy, to the electa is a 
 doctrine which has long since been 
 discarded by the Congregationalists of 
 this country. Indeed, these churches are 
 about as improperly called C^/ww/j'/zV as 
 they are, in common parlance among the 
 mass of our people, denominated Pres- 
 l)yterian. It is worth while to remark, 
 though it be only for the sake of cor- 
 recting a verbal inaccuracy, that there 
 are not above a dozen or twenty Presby- 
 terian churches in all New England ; 
 the word Presbyterian properly stand- 
 ing for a form of church government, 
 
 j not for a faith. And it is more impor- 
 tant to observe, for the sake of correct- 
 ing an error in the minds of the people, 
 that there is probably, in strictness of 
 speech, not one Calvinistic Church in 
 the ancient dominion of the Puritans. 
 Every one of the five points has been 
 essentially modified, has been changed 
 from what it originally was. 
 
 But to return : the doctrine of par- 
 ticular redemption deserves to be no- 
 ticed, as an instance of that attempt 
 at jnathenintical precision, which, as I 
 think, is a distinguishing trait of Calvin- 
 ism, and which has done so much harm 
 to the theological speculations of this 
 country. I shall have occasion to re- 
 fer to this kind of reasoning again. In 
 the instance before us it appears in the 
 following statement : Sinners, it was 
 said, had incurred a debt to divine jus- 
 tice ; they owed a certain amount of 
 suffering. Jesus Christ undertook, in 
 behalf of the elect, to pay this debt. 
 Now, if he had suffered more, paid 
 more than was necessary to satisfy this 
 particular demand, there would have 
 been a waste of suffering, a waste of 
 this transferable merit. But there,w«.y 
 no such waste; the suffering exactly 
 met the demand ; and therefore the re- 
 demption \M-^% particular ; it was limited 
 to the elect ; no others could be saved, 
 without a7iother atonement. This was 
 once theological reasoning ! And to dis- 
 pute it was held to be intolerable pre- 
 sumption. Such presumption severed, 
 for a time, the New England churches 
 from their southern brethren. Such a 
 dispute, with one or two others like it, 
 has rended the Presbyterian Church 
 asunder. 
 
 Let us now say a word on the doc- 
 trine of the saints'' perscveratice. If you 
 separate from this the idea of an irresist- 
 ible grace, impelling, and, as it were, com- 
 pelling Christians to persevere in piety 
 and virtue, there is little, perhaps, to ob- 
 ject to it. It is so separated in the 
 present Orthodox belief, and therefore 
 it is scarcely a question in controversy. 
 We all believe that a man who has 
 
;82 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 become once thoroughly and heartily 
 interested in the true gospel, doctrine, 
 character, and glory of Jesus Christ, is 
 7'e7'y likely to persevere and grow in 
 that interest. I confess that my own 
 conviction on this point is very strong, 
 and scarcely falls short of any language 
 in which the doctrine of perseverance is 
 declared. I can hardly conceive how a 
 man who has once fully opened his eyes 
 upon that " Light " should ever be will- 
 ing to close them. And I believe, that 
 in proportion as the gospel is under- 
 stood and felt, felt in all its deep foun- 
 tains of peace and consolation, under- 
 stood in all its revelations and unfoldings 
 of purity and moral beauty, — that, in pro- 
 portion to this, the instances of ''falling 
 away," whether into infidelity or world- 
 liness, will be more and more rare. I 
 am aware, however, and think it ought 
 to be said, that the common statements 
 of the doctrine of perseverance are dan- 
 gerous to the unreflecting and to the 
 speculative. The truth is, that we ought 
 to have nothing to do with perseverance 
 as a doctrine, and everything with it as 
 a fact. Good men shall persevere ; good 
 Christians, above all, shall persevere ; 
 but let them remember that they can do 
 so only by constant watchfulness, en- 
 deavor, self-denial, prayer, fidelity. 
 
 I shall now take up the more impor- 
 tant subjects named at the head of this 
 article. 
 
 The first is total depravity, including, 
 of course, the position that this deprav- 
 ity is native. 
 
 I shall say nothing, in the few brief 
 hints I have now to offer, of the practi- 
 cal views, which we all ought deeply to 
 consider, of the actual depravity of 
 man. I am concerned at present, then, 
 only with the speculative and abstract 
 doctrine of native, total depravity. And 
 I am anxious, in the first place, to state 
 it in such a manner as shall be unex- 
 ceptionable to its most scrupulous ad- 
 vocate. It is not, then, according to 
 modern explanations, that man is unable 
 to be good, or that he is as bad as he 
 can be ; or that his natural appetites, 
 
 sympathies, and instincts are originally 
 bad. I have known the distinction to 
 be put in this way : that man is totally 
 depraved, in the theological sense of 
 those words, but not in the common 
 and classical sense of them, as they 
 are used in our English literature, and 
 in ordinary conversation, — a very good 
 distinction, but a very bad precedent 
 and principle for all fair reasoning. 
 For if men are allowed to apply to 
 common words this secret, technical, 
 theological meaning, their speculations 
 can neither be understood nor met, 
 nor subjected to the laws of common- 
 sense. It is not safe in moral reason- 
 ings to admit two kinds of depravity, 
 or two kinds of goodness. Men will 
 be too ready to find out that it is easier 
 to be good, according to one theory of 
 goodness than according to another. 
 And it has too often come to pass that 
 regenerated and sanctified — the theo- 
 logical words — have not meant pure, 
 humble, amiable, and virtuous. And so, 
 on the other hand, a man may much 
 more easily and calmly admit that he is 
 depraved, in the theological than in the 
 common sense. And in making this 
 distinction he deprives -himself of one 
 of the most powerful means of convic- 
 tion. There is a great deal of truth in 
 that theory of moral sentiments, though 
 it does not go to the bottom of the sub- 
 ject, which maintains that a man learns 
 to condemn and reproach himself //^r^w^^/i 
 synipatJiy with that feeling of others 
 wiiich condemns and reproaches him. 
 But of this, by his peculiar and secret 
 idea of depravity, the reasoner in ques- 
 tion deprives himself. And hence it is 
 that such a man can talk loudly and ex- 
 travagantly of his own depravity. It is 
 because he does not use that word in 
 the ordinary sense, nor feel the reproach 
 that attaches to it. It is hence that 
 congregations can calmly and indiffer- 
 ently listen to those charges of utter 
 depravity, which, if received in their 
 comnjon acceptation, would set them on 
 fire with resentment. 
 
 But the distinction does not much 
 
ON THE FIVE TOINTS OF CALVINISM. 
 
 383 
 
 tend, after all, to help the matter as a 
 doctrine, though it does tend so nearly 
 to neutralize it as a conviction ; be- 
 cause it is still contended that the tlieo- 
 logical sense is the true sense. When 
 the advocate of this doctrine says that 
 men are utterly depraved, he means 
 that they are so, in tlie only true, in the 
 highest, sense of those words. And 
 when he says that this depravity is na- 
 tive, he means to fix the charge, not 
 indeed upon the whole nature of man, 
 not upon his original appetites and sym- 
 pathies, but upon his highest, his moral 
 nature. Ke means to say that his moral 
 nature — and nothing else, strictly speak- 
 ing, cafi be sinful or holy — that his 
 moral nature produces nothing but sin ; 
 that all which can sin in man does sin, 
 and does nothing but sin, so long as it 
 follows that tendency which comes from 
 his nature. He means to say that sin 
 is as truly and certainly the fruit of his 
 moral nature as thought is the fruit of 
 his mental nature. And it makes no 
 difference to say that he sins freely, for 
 it is just as true that he thinks freely. 
 In fact, he is not free to cease from doing 
 either. In this view, indeed, depravity 
 comes nothing short of an absolute in- 
 ability to be holy. For if the moral 
 constitution of man is such as natu- 
 rally to produce nothing but sin, I see 
 not how he can any more help sinning 
 than he can help thinking. I do not 
 forget that it is said that man has the 
 moral power to be holy ; for I am glad 
 to admit any modification in the state- 
 ment of the doctrine. But, in fact, what 
 does it atnount to ? What is a moral 
 power to be good, but a disposition to 
 be so .^ And if no such disposition is 
 allowed to belong to human nature, I 
 see not in what intelligible sense any 
 power can belong to it * 
 
 * I believe that this is still the prevailing view of 
 human depravity; but I should not omit, perhaps, 
 to notice that, since these essays were written, an- 
 other modification of the doctrine has been proposed. 
 It is, that sin is not the necessary result of man's 
 moral constitution, but the invariable result of his 
 moral condition. There is little to choose In either 
 ca^e, sin, aud Sn only, is inevitably bound up with 
 human existence. 
 
 I will not pursue this definition of 
 human depravity farther into those met- 
 aphysical distinctions and subtilties to 
 which it would lead. But I would now 
 ask the reader, as a matter of arguinent, 
 whether he can believe that the simple 
 and practical teachers of our religion 
 ever thought of settling any of these 
 nice and abstruse questions .'' For it is 
 not enough for Orthodox believers on 
 this point, that we admit the Scripture 
 writers to have represented human de- 
 pravity as exceedingly great and lamen- 
 table, — that they undoubtedly did ; but 
 the Orthodox interpreter insists that 
 they meant to represent it, with meta- 
 physical exactness, as native and total. 
 He insists that they mQz.nt Just so miich. 
 That they meant a great deal, I re- 
 peat, is unquestionable ; that they used 
 phraseology of a strong and unlimited 
 character is admitted ; but to draw 
 from writings so marked with solemn 
 earnestness and feeling certain precise 
 and metaphysical truths, to extract 
 dogmas from the bold and heartburning 
 denunciations of prophets, to lay hold 
 of weapons of controversy in the sor- 
 rowful and indignant reproaches of 
 those who wept over human wickedness, 
 — seems to me preposterous. Surely, 
 if any one of us were speaking of some 
 very iniquitous practice, of some abomi- 
 nable traffic, or of some city or country 
 whose wickedness cried to heaven, — we 
 should speak strongly, we should ex- 
 haust our language of its strongest epi- 
 thets ; it would be perfectly natural to 
 do so : but, as surely, the last thing we 
 should think of would be that of laying 
 down a doctrine ; the last thing we 
 should think of would be that of philos- 
 ophizing, and propounding theoretic 
 dogmas upon the nature of the soul ! 
 And, to make the case parallel, I may 
 add. that we should by no means think 
 of charging every or any individual, in 
 such a country or city or company, 
 with total and native depravity. I 
 know there will be some to say, but 
 they will not be the really intelligent 
 and thinking, that our language and 
 
384 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 Scriplure language are different things. 
 Let them be different in as many re- 
 spects as any one pleases ; but they 
 must not be different in this. All 
 language is be interpr-eted by the same 
 general principles. He who does not 
 admit this has not taken the first step 
 in true theology, and is not to be dis- 
 puted with on this ground ; but must 
 be carried back to consider " what be 
 the first principles " applicable to such 
 inquiries. 
 
 As a matter of argument, out of the 
 Scriptures, I will ask but one further 
 question, and tlien leave the subject. I 
 ask the Calvinist to say from what 
 source he originally derived his ideas of 
 moral qualities; whence he obtained 
 his conceptiotis of goodness, holiness, 
 &c. I am certain that neither he nor 
 any man has obtained these conceptions 
 of moral qualities from anything but the 
 experience of them. A man could no 
 more conceive of goodness without 
 having felt it at some moment, and to 
 some extent, than he could conceive of 
 sweetness without tasting it. No de- 
 scription, no reasoning, no comparison, 
 could inform him either of the one or 
 the other. A man does not approve of 
 what is right by any reasoning, — wheth- 
 er upon utility, or the fitness of things, or 
 upon anything else; but by simple con- 
 sciousness. This is the doctrine of 
 our most approved moral philosophers. 
 But consciousness of what ? Of the 
 qualities approved, plainly. A man 
 must have a right affection before he 
 can approve it, before he can know any- 
 thing about it. Does not this settle the 
 question ? A totally and natively de- 
 praved being could have no idea of 
 rectitude, or holiness, and, by conse- 
 quence, no idea of the moral character of 
 God. And it has, therefore, been rightly 
 argued, by some who have held the 
 doctrine we are discussing, that men 
 naturally have no such ideas. But I 
 will not suppose that this is a position 
 to be contended against ; since it would 
 follow that men are commanded, on 
 peril and pain of all future woes, to 
 
 love a holiness and a moral perfection 
 of God which they are not merely 
 unable to love, but of which, accord- 
 ing to the supposition, they have no 
 conception! 
 
 The two remaining points to be con- 
 sidered are election and irresistible grace, 
 or the divine influence on the mind. I 
 take these together, because I have one 
 principle of Scriptural interpretation to 
 advance which is applicable to them 
 both. And as I do not remember to 
 have seen it brought forward in discus- 
 sions of this nature, and as it seems 
 to me an unquestionably just princi- 
 ple, I shall take up some space to 
 explain it. 
 
 It must be admitted that very strong 
 and pointed language is used in the 
 New Testament concerning election, 
 and God's spirit or influence in the 
 human heart. And I think it is appar- 
 ent that the Arminian opposers of these 
 doctrines have betrayed a conscious- 
 ness that they had considerable diffi- 
 culties to contend with. They have 
 seemed to be aware that the language 
 of Scripture — which their Calvinistic 
 adversaries quote — is strong, and they 
 have shown some disposition to lessen 
 its force, or to turn it into vague and 
 general apphcations. Now, for my own 
 part, I find no difficulty in admitting the 
 whole force and personal bearing of 
 these representations, though I cannot 
 receive them in the form which Cal- 
 vinism has given them. And I make 
 this exception, too, not because I am 
 opposed to the strength and directness 
 of the Calvinistic belief, but because 
 I am opposed in this, as in other re- 
 spects, to the metaphysical and moral 
 principles of the .system. In short, I 
 believe in personal election, and the in- 
 fluence of the Almighty Spirit on the 
 mind ; and this, or what amounts to 
 this, I suspect all Christians believe. 
 For, an "election of communities," as 
 some interpret it, is still an election 
 of the individuals that compose them. 
 And an "election to privileges," as 
 others prefer to consider it,#is still mak- 
 
ON THE FIVE POINTS OF CALVINISM. 
 
 385 
 
 ing a distinction, and a distinction on 
 vvhicli salvation depends. If it be said 
 that an " election to privileges " savefe 
 the doctrine of human freedom ; so, I 
 answer, must any election save the doc- 
 trine of human freedom, but that of the 
 fatalist. And the same may be said of 
 divine influence. 
 
 Let us, then, go to the proposed prin- 
 ciple of interpretation, which, I confess, 
 relieves my own mind, and I hope it 
 may other minds. 
 
 I say. then, that the apostles wrote 
 for their subject. It is a well-estab- 
 lished principle among the learned, 
 though too little applied, that the apos- 
 tles wrote for their age ; with particular 
 reference, that is, to the circumstances 
 of their own times. I now maintain, in 
 addition to this, that they wrote for their 
 subject. Their subject, their exclusive 
 subject, was religion ; and the principles 
 of the divine government, which they 
 apply to this subject, may be equally ap- 
 plicable to everything else. Their not 
 saying \\\'A.\. these principles have such 
 an application does not prove that they 
 have not ; because they wrote for their 
 subject, and it was not their business to 
 say so. In other words, God's govern- 
 ment is infinite ; and they speak but of 
 one department of it. His foreknowl- 
 edge and his influence are unbounded ; 
 they speak of this foreknowledge and 
 influence, but in one single respect. 
 But instead of limiting the application 
 of their principles to this one depart- 
 ment and this one respect, the inference 
 would rather be, that they are to be ex- 
 tended to everything. And, in fact, this 
 extension of the principle with regard 
 to election — in one instance, and I be- 
 lieve only one — is hinted at, where the 
 Apostle says that Christians are "pre- 
 destinated according to the purpose of 
 him who worketh all things after the 
 counsel of his own will." If this be 
 true, then eiierything is a matter of 
 divine counsel ; everything is disposed 
 of by election. And men are as much 
 elected to be philosophers, merchants, 
 or inhabitants of this country or that 
 
 country, as they arc elected to be Chris- 
 tians. If this is election, I believe 
 there will be found no difficulty in it, — 
 save what exists in that inscrutableness 
 of the subject which must forbid our 
 expecting ever to fathom it. 
 
 It will be apparent from this view 
 in what I differ from Calvinists. They 
 make that foreknowledge and purpose 
 of God which relate to the religious 
 characters of men a peculiarity in the 
 divine government. Connecting the 
 doctrine of election, as they do, with 
 tliat of special grace, they leave an im- 
 pression unfavorable to human exertion 
 and to the divine impartiality. But I 
 maintain — without denying the general 
 difficulties of the subject — that the 
 religious part of the character is no 
 more the result of the divine prescience 
 and purpose than any otiier part ; and 
 we have no more reason to perplex our- 
 selves with this department of tlie divine 
 government than with any other. 
 
 Our principle admits of a fuller illus- 
 tration on the subject of di-vine influ- 
 ence. I say that the apostles wrote for 
 their subject, and wrote so exclusively 
 for it that no inference is to be raised 
 from their silence against applying their 
 principles to other subjects. And I 
 will present an illustration of this argu- 
 ment to which no one who respects 
 the authority of Scripture can object. 
 Look, then, at the inspired writers of 
 old. Writing as they did under a long- 
 established form and dispensation cf 
 religion, they took a freer and wider 
 range of subjects. And thus they ex- 
 tended the doctrine of divine influence 
 to evetything. They applied it much 
 more Irequently to outward things than 
 to the mind ; and much more frequently 
 to the common business of life than to 
 religion. Nay, they asserted the neces- 
 sity of this influence in the common 
 affairs of life, as strongly as the New- 
 Testament writers do in the spiritual 
 concerns of religion. They as much 
 and as strongly asserted that men could 
 not succeed in business, or in study, in 
 agriculture, in the mechanic arts, or in 
 
 25 
 
386 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 seeking after kno^vledg^, without God's 
 aid and influence, as our Christian 
 teachers assert that men cannot grow 
 in grace and piety without that aid and 
 influence. But now observe how differ- 
 ent was the situation of the New Testa- 
 ment writers. They had no leisure, if 
 I may speak so, to turn aside to the 
 common affairs of life. They were 
 obliged to put forth every energy for 
 the propagation and defence of a new 
 faith. They had no time, for instance, 
 to prepare general and abstract pieces 
 of devotion, as many of the Psalms are; 
 or books of maxims and apothegms, like 
 the Proverbs ; or highly wrought moral 
 dialogues, like the Book of Job. They 
 had no time to descant on matters of 
 speculative morality, the prudence of 
 life, and the diversified ways of Provi- 
 dence. Religion — religion, as a matter 
 of evidence and experience — was the 
 great, engrossing theme. And hence 
 they have spoken of that divine influ- 
 ence and superintendence, which really 
 extend to all things, — they have spoken 
 of them, I say, especially and chiefly 
 in relation to religion. But it would 
 be as unjustifiable and unsafe, from this 
 circumstance, to limit the doctrine of 
 divine influence to religious matters, 
 as it would be, from consulting the an- 
 cient records, to limit it to outward 
 nature and the common affairs of life. 
 The only safe rule, whether in reason- 
 ing or for devotion, is to extend it to all 
 things. 
 
 In all this, I am aware that I am as- 
 serting nothing that is new. I am only 
 attempting to free the subject from those 
 difficulties that have arisen from, the pe- 
 culiarity of the New Testament commu- 
 nications. I repeat it, that, in the prin- 
 ciples, there is nothing new or peculiar. 
 All good Christians have believed, and 
 must believe, that the wise counsel and 
 holy providence of God extend to every- 
 thing. We must all believe, in some 
 sense, in eleciioti and divine influence. 
 The principal difficulty and danger to 
 most minds, I suspect, have arisen from 
 their attaching too much peculiarity to 
 
 the counsel and influence of the Almighty 
 in the matters of religion. They have 
 said, " If I am elected, I shall certainly 
 be saved ; and if I am not, it is in vain 
 for me to try. And if God's Spirit works 
 within me the work of faith, I have noth- 
 ing to do myself." Now, let them 
 extend their views of this subject ; and 
 they will be safe, and ought to be satis- 
 fied. But, at any rate, they will be safe. 
 They will be effectually guarded from 
 the abuse of these doctrines. For as no 
 one will expect to be a physician, or a 
 philosopher, without study, because he 
 hopes or imagines that he is foreor- 
 dained, or will be supernaturally assisted, 
 to gain eminence in these professions; 
 so neither will any similar hope of being 
 a Christian, and being saved, lessen the 
 exertions that are suitable to that end. 
 With these views of the doctrines in 
 question, conimon sense may be trusted 
 to guard them from perversion. 
 
 I said that the danger was of attaching 
 too much peculiarity to that counsel and 
 influence of God which are connected 
 with our salvation. Nevertheless, j-<7w^- 
 thing of this nature, I apprehend, is to be 
 ascribed to them. I distrust single views 
 of subjects. It arises, I believe, from the 
 imperfection and weakness of our minds, 
 that our whole mental vision is apt to 
 be engrossed with seeing a truth in one 
 point of light. Separate views must be 
 combined to form a just and well-pro- 
 portioned faith. This, above all things, 
 is liable to be forgotten amidst the bi- 
 ases of controversy. We may take the 
 larger view of the subjects before us, and 
 yet we may admit that God does espe- 
 cially interpose in behalf of religious 
 beings, weak and tempted as we are. 
 And we may admit that it has especially 
 pleased him, that it is a counsel most 
 agreeable to his nature, to bring good 
 out of evil, to bring good men out of this 
 world of temptations. I believe both 
 It does not perplex nor disturb me, but it 
 calms and it comforts me, to believe that 
 the good and merciful Spirit of God is 
 all around me, and can interpose for me 
 and assist me in my times of trouble 
 
ON FUTURE PUNISHMENT. 
 
 387 
 
 and temptation and peril. And it does 
 not pain me, but it imparts satisfaction to 
 my mind to believe, that the counsel, 
 which has designed the highest good to 
 its obedient offspring is an eternal 
 counsel ! 
 
 If now, on the whole, it be said that 
 these views, which have been offered, 
 lessen the importance or the reality of 
 God's counsel and providence, we main- 
 tain, on the contrary, that they assert 
 i.hem in the highest degree ; that they 
 carry them into all things, and thus di- 
 rectly lead to devotion ; that they serve, 
 therefore, the grandest purpose of relig- 
 ious instruction, by bringing God, in his 
 power and his mercy, near to us ; by 
 impressing a sense of our dependence 
 on him, and our unspeakable obligations 
 to him, at every moment and every step, 
 for every attainment and blessing of life. 
 This is the religious frame of spirit that 
 we most need to gain : to feel that God 
 is near to us, that he upholds and blesses 
 us ; that he is near to us always ; that 
 all things are filled with his presence ; 
 that the universe around us is not so 
 much a standing monument as a living 
 expression of his goodness ; that all 
 which we enjoy is not so much benevo- 
 lence sending down its gifts from afar 
 to us, as it is the energy of his love work- 
 ing within us. 
 
 This, then, is the practical result of 
 our reflections: that God is all in all; 
 that His ever-living mercy and His 
 ever-working power pervade all things ; 
 that they are in all height and in all 
 depth, in what is vast and what is 
 minute, in the floating atom and tlie 
 rolling world, in the fall of a sparrow 
 to the ground and in the great system 
 of the universe, in the insect's life and 
 in the soaring spirit of the archangel. 
 
 It is in Him that each of us lives and 
 moves and has his being. If we have 
 gained any blessings of life, and if we 
 iiave made any acquisition of knowledge, 
 it is from Him. And especially, if we 
 have made any attainments in piety; 
 if we are learning the great lesson of 
 life, and that which prepares us for 
 
 another and a better ; if we are learning 
 to be devout and pure in heart, to be 
 affectionate and forbearing and patient 
 and penitent and forgiving; if tlie dew 
 of a heavenly influence is descending 
 upon us, and the fruits of virtue and 
 goodness are springing up within us ; 
 if tlie universe is ministering to our de- 
 votion; if religion, witli every kind and 
 gracious power, has visited us, and has 
 become our friend and guide and com- 
 forter, — the employment and happiness 
 and end of our being : Oh ! this is an 
 emanation from the Divinity, a beam of 
 heaven's own light, an expression of 
 God's mercy, that demands our highest 
 and tenderest gratitude. Thus, if we 
 would come to the great practical result 
 of all religious truth, let us be con- 
 vinced, and feel, that ''God is all in all." 
 Of Him, and through Him, and to 
 Him, are all things; and to Him, — to 
 Him who made us, and blesses us, and 
 guides us to heaven, — to Him be glory 
 for ever and ever. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ON FUTURE PUNISHMENT. 
 
 I HAVE hesitated about introducing 
 this subject in the present course of ob- 
 servations, because there is no question 
 upon it that does, accurately speaking, 
 divide Orthodox and Liberal Christians. 
 The great question about the duration 
 of future punishment has been brought 
 very little into debate between the par- 
 ties, and it has no particular connection 
 with any of the speculative questions 
 that are in debate. If Universalism — 
 considered as a denial of all future pun- 
 ishment — has more afifinity with any 
 one theological system than another, it 
 undoubtedly is Calvinism ; and it is a 
 well-known fact, that it originally sprung 
 from Calvinism, and existed in the clos- 
 est connection with it. 
 
 Still, however, since it is latterly urged, 
 by tiie Orthodox, that there is a great 
 difference between them and their oppo- 
 
388 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 nents on this subject, and since, as I 
 apprehend, a ditieience does exist in 
 their general views and speculations, 
 and one that deserves to be discussed, 
 I have thought proper to bring it into 
 the course of my remarks. 
 
 As the subject has been very little 
 discussed among us, I shall treat it, 
 not so much in the form of controversy 
 as with that calm and dispassionate 
 disquisition which more properly be- 
 longs to a theme so solemn and weighty. 
 
 1. The retribution of guilt is serious 
 in the contemplation, and must be se- 
 vere in the endurance. The penal suf- 
 fering of a gtiilty mind, wherever and 
 whenever it cotnes, must be great. This, 
 to me, is the first and clearest of all 
 truths with regard to the punishment 
 of sin. Even experience teaches us 
 this; and Scripture, with many words 
 of awful warning, confirms the darkest 
 admonitions of experience. If sin is 
 not repented of in this life, then its 
 punishment must take place in a future 
 world. 
 
 Of the miseries of that future state, I 
 do not need the idea of a direct inflic- 
 tion from God to give me a fearful im- 
 pression. Of all the unveiled horrors 
 of that world, nothing seems so terrific* 
 as the self-inflicted torture of a guilty 
 conscience. It will be enough to fill 
 the measure of his woe, that the sinner 
 shall be left to himself; that he shall be 
 left to the natural consequences of his 
 wickedness. In the universe, there are 
 no agents to work out the misery of the 
 soul like its own fell passions ; not the 
 fire, the darkness, the flood, or the tem- 
 pest. Nothing within the range of our 
 conceptions can equal the dread silence 
 of conscience, the calm desperation of 
 remorse, the corroding of ungratified 
 desire, the gnawing worm of envy, the 
 bitter cup of disappointment, the blight- 
 ing curse of hatred. These, pushed to 
 their extremity, may be enough to de- 
 stroy the soul ; as lesser sufferings, in 
 this world, are sometimes found to de- 
 stroy the reason. 
 
 But whatever that future calamity will 
 
 be, I believe it is the highest idea we 
 can form of it to suppose that it is of 
 the sinner's own procuring; that the 
 burden of his transgressions will fall 
 upon him, by its own weight, — not be 
 hurled upon him as a thunderbolt from 
 heaven. If we should suppose a wicked 
 man to live always on earth, and to pro- 
 ceed in his career of iniquit}', adding 
 sin to sin, arming conscience with new 
 terrors, gathering and enhancing all hor- 
 rible diseases and distempers, and in- 
 creasing and accumulating the load of 
 infamy and woe, — this might give us 
 some faint idea of the extent to which 
 sin may go in another world. 
 
 This, then, is not a subject to be treat- 
 ed lightly, nor with any heat or passion ; 
 but should be taken home to the most 
 solemn contemplation and deep solici- 
 tude of every accountable being. 
 
 II My second remark is, that the 
 Scriptural representations of future pun- 
 ishment are not literal nor definite. 
 
 That they are not literal is manifest 
 from the consideration, that they are 
 totally inconsistent if taken literally. If 
 there is a lake of fire, there cannot be 
 a gnawing worm. If it is blackness of 
 darkness, it cannot be a flaming del- 
 uge of fire If it is death and destruc- 
 tion, literally, it cannot be sensible pain. 
 If it is the loss of the soul, it cannot be 
 the suffering of the soul. And yet all 
 these representations are used to de- 
 scribe the future misery. It is plain, 
 therefore, that all cannot be literally 
 true. To suppose them literal, indeed, 
 would be to make t!ie future world 
 like the present; for they are all 
 drawn from present objects. Neither 
 are these representations definite. It is 
 not a definite idea, but " a certain fear- 
 ful looking-for of judgment," that is 
 given to us, in the present state. We 
 know nothing about the particular place, 
 or the particular circumstances, of a 
 future punishment. If these things 
 are not literally described, it follows, 
 indeed, that they are not definitely. For 
 the moment these descriptions cease to 
 be literal, they cease to furnish ideas of 
 
ON FUTURE PUNISHMENT. 
 
 389 
 
 anything that is tangible, of anything 
 that can belong to place or circum- 
 stance, of anything that has dimen- 
 sions, shape, or elements. That is to 
 say, they are figurative. They serve 
 but to throw a deeper shadow over the 
 dark abyss ; and leave us, not to pry 
 into it with curiosity, but to tremble with 
 fear. Indeed, the very circumstance, 
 that \.\\t future ivoe is unknown, is, in 
 itself, a most awful and appalling circum- 
 stance. It may be that the revelation 
 of it comes to us in general and ambig- 
 uous terms for this very purpose. 
 There is really something more alarming 
 in a certain fearful looking-for of judg- 
 ment than in the definite knowledge of it. 
 Neither, as I believe, are those terms 
 which describe the duration of future 
 misery definite. Indeed, why sliould 
 they be more definite than those which 
 relate to place or circumstance.'' In 
 passages where all else is figurative, 
 and that in so very high a degree, why 
 may it not be suspected that what re- 
 lates to the time may be figurative ? 
 This suspicion, drawn from the connect- 
 ed phraseology, may derive additional 
 strength from the subject about which 
 the language in question is employed. 
 It is the future, the indefinite, the un- 
 known state. Whatever stretches into 
 the vast futurity is to us eternal. We 
 can grasp no thought of everlasting, 
 but that it is indefinite. You may bring 
 this argument home to your own feel- 
 ings, if you suppose that you had been 
 called to describe some future and 
 awful calamity, which was vast, indefi- 
 nite, unknown, terrible ; if you consider 
 whether you would not, with these views, 
 h;ive adopted phraseology as strong, as 
 unhmiled, as you find in the Scriptures 
 on this subject. If, then, our idea of 
 future punishment extends so far as to 
 provide for the full strength of the lan- 
 guage used ; if our theory provide for 
 the terms to be explained by it, — is it 
 not sufficient ? does it not fjo far enough .' 
 To these" considerations, relating to 
 the language and the principles of in- 
 terpretation that ought to be applied to 
 
 it, let it be observed, in addition, that 
 tlie Oriental style was habitually and 
 very highly metaphorical, and is to be 
 explained by the impression it would 
 naturally make on those wlio were ac- 
 customed to it; and that even among 
 us, with our cooler imaginations, the 
 terms in question, such as '• forever," &c. 
 are used figuratively, are applied to 
 limited periods, and this on the most 
 common occasions and subjects. To 
 take one instance for all, as being the 
 strongest of all : there is no higher or 
 more unqualified description of the en- 
 durance 'of future misery than that 
 which says, " Their worm dieth not, and 
 the fire is not quenched." Now, it has 
 been very plausibly argued thus : that 
 "if ever the time comes when their 
 worm shall die, if ever there shall 
 be a quenching of the fire at all, then 
 it is not true that their worm dieth 
 not, and the fire is not quenched."* 
 And the argument might be as conclu- 
 sive as it is plausible, were it not for 
 a single passage in the Old Testament, 
 which applies the same language to a 
 punishment confessedly temporary. It 
 is the closing passage of Isaiah : '■ And 
 they shall go forth,'' — that is from Jeru- 
 salem, and probably to the Valley of 
 Jehoshaphat, where, it is well known, 
 that carcasses were thrown, and an al- 
 most perpetual fire kept to consume 
 them, — " And they shall go forth, and 
 shall look upon the carcasses of the men 
 who have trangressed against me ; for 
 their worm shall not die, neither shall 
 their fire be quenched, and they shall 
 be an abhorring to all flesh." 
 
 I shall only remark further, upon tlie 
 Scripture representations, that there is 
 an ambiguity, a generality, a vastness, a 
 terror about them, that seems fitted to 
 check our confident reasonings. It is 
 enouq;h for us to fear. To speculate 
 much seems not our wisdom. Yet if 
 we will speculate : if we can dispute on 
 such a subject ; if we can wrangle about 
 texts and interpretations, and claim the 
 full amount and force of every passage 
 
 * Jonathan Edwards. 
 
390 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 and statement, it may be well for us to 
 be reminded that we shall only confound 
 ourselves, in our haste, and destroy the 
 positions we take, in our eagerness to 
 defend them. For if any one shall insist 
 on the full force of those declarations 
 that denovmce everlasting misery, his 
 adversary may as fairly take his stand on 
 the opposite texts, which declare that God 
 will have all jnen to be saved; that Jesus 
 came to destroy death ; that death is 
 swallowed up of life. Or if any one shall 
 confine himself to the words eternal, un- 
 quenchable, &c., and will allow them no 
 modification, I see not how he can fairly 
 deny to his adversary the equal right of 
 adhering to the representations of death, 
 destruction, loss of the soul, or, in other 
 words, of annihilation, which are applied 
 to the same subject. Nay, the latter will 
 seem to have the advantage in the argu- 
 ment ; for annihilation \s 2in ei'erlasti/ig 
 calamity. But not to dwell on this : the 
 ambiguity mentioned furnishes an an- 
 swer to an important objection to our 
 views. It is said, if future misery is not 
 literally eternal, what reason is there to 
 think that future happiness is so ? for 
 the same terms are brought to describe 
 both. I answer that neither of them 
 depend on general terms ; tliat we are to 
 look for our belief on all these subjects 
 to the scope and tenor of the sacred writ- 
 ings ; and that, in particular, the prom- 
 ises of future happiness are all consist- 
 ent, and leave no obscurity nor doubt. 
 It is life, peace, rest ; knowledge, per- 
 fection ; glorv, blessedness. But the 
 threatenings of future evil are ambiguous, 
 dark, obscure, and, if taken literally, in- 
 consistent. It is life, and death ; being 
 tormented, and being destroyed. It 
 leaves therefore a vague but fearful im- 
 pression. And such, it seems to me, 
 were the Scriptures intended to leave, — 
 the impression of some vast and tremen- 
 dous calamity, without precisely inform- 
 ing us what it is. 
 
 I cannot close this topic without offer- 
 ing one or two observations, independent 
 of the Scripture arguments, which seem 
 to me of great weight. 
 
 There is one tremendous bearing of the 
 doctrine of literally eternal punishment, 
 the bare statement of which seems to me 
 almost enough to decide the question. 
 Take the instance of a child, one who has 
 just begun to be a moral agent ; let the 
 age be what it may ; we need not now 
 decide : suppose that it has just come to 
 the capacity of being sinful or holy ; that 
 it has possessed this capacity one hour 
 or one day ; that during this brief pe- 
 riod it has been selfish, passionate, un- 
 holy, — a case not uncommon, I fear; 
 that in short it has possessed, during 
 this brief jDeriod of its probation, a char- 
 acter which the gospel does not approve, 
 which it condemns, which it threatens, — 
 and can you believe that this child, in 
 ignorance, in imbecility, in temptations ; 
 with passions unconsciously nurtured 
 in the sleep of infancy, which are now 
 breaking forth ; with scarcely any force 
 of reason to restrain them ; with but a 
 slight knowledge of God, with not a 
 thought of futurity, — that this child, the 
 creature of weakness and ignorance, 
 is actually, and in one single day, setting 
 the seal to a misery that is eternal, and 
 eternally increasing ; to a misery which 
 must therefore, in the -event, infinitely 
 surpass all that the world, in all the pe- 
 riods of its duration, has suffered or will 
 suffer ? Yet this is the doctrine ; this is 
 one essential form of the doctrine of lit- 
 erally eternal punishment ; and if you 
 cannot believe this, as I am persuaded, 
 if you feel the case, you cannot, you 
 cannot believe the doctrine at all, in any 
 form. 
 
 There is another observation which 
 seems to me equally conclusive. The 
 doctrine, as it appears to me, destroys 
 the natural proofs of the goodness of 
 God. Let it be observed that every 
 question about this subject may be re- 
 solved into this : Is human life a bless- 
 ing? If not, to what purpose is all that 
 can be said about the order, beauty, 
 richness, and kindly adaptations of this 
 earthly system ? What is it to me that 
 the heavens are glorious to behold, that 
 the earth is fair to look upon ; what to 
 
ON FUTURE PUNISHMENT. 
 
 391 
 
 me that I dwell in a splendid mansion, 
 if on the whole I have more reason to be 
 sorrowful than to be happy ; if I have 
 more to fear than to hope ; if life is more 
 to be lamented than desired ; if it is a 
 subject more of regret than gratitude ? 
 Is human life, then, a blessing? To 
 deny it is impiety. To deny it is to take 
 away all grounds of religious trust and 
 devotion, all grounds of believing in the 
 Sacred Scriptures and in Jesus. For 
 if God is not good, we can have no con- 
 fidence in his rectitude or veracity. If 
 God is not good, we cannot know but 
 he may deceive us, with even miraculous 
 proofs of falsehood. Our life, then, is 
 a blessing ; that is, it is a thing to be 
 desired. Now the question is, whether, 
 — when it is so difficult to form the char- 
 acter which is required for future hap- 
 piness, when it is so possible to fail, 
 when the unerring Scriptures are so full 
 of awful warnings, — whether any rational 
 being would desire existence on the ter- 
 rible condition that, if he did once fail, 
 he would fail forever ; that if he did fail 
 in this short life, he must sink to a help- 
 less, remediless, everlasting woe. The 
 word " eternity " passes easily from our 
 lips ; but consider what it imports, con- 
 sider it deeply, and then say, who would 
 think it a favor to take so tremendous a 
 risk ? Could any one of us have been 
 brought into being, for one moment, in the 
 maturity of his faculties, to decide on 
 such a proposal, to decide whether he 
 should take such a hazard, surely he 
 would make the refusal, with a strength 
 of emotion, with a horror of feeling, that 
 would be enou::jh to destroy as it passed 
 over him. "No ! no 1 " he would exclaim ; 
 " save me from that trial ; let me be the 
 nothing that I was ; there at least is 
 safety ; save me from the paths of life, 
 that conduct such multitudes — and why 
 not me ? — down to everlasting and ever- 
 living death ! " Now, let us ask, can it 
 be that the all-powerful and infinitely be- 
 nevolent God has brought beings into 
 existence in circumstances that deserve 
 to be thus regarded ; that he has given 
 them life so fated, so perilous, that — 
 
 if they could comprehend it, if it were 
 not for their ignorance, they would abhor 
 the gift as an infinite curse ? 
 
 There are various degrees and shades 
 of religious belief, and much that is 
 called such is so low upon the scale as 
 scarcely to differ from downright scepti- 
 cism. And I have often been ready to 
 ask, when I have surveyed the aspects 
 of life around me, whether men do really 
 believe, on this subject, what is written 
 in theircreed. There are those, I know, 
 who have found a great difference be- 
 tween asserting and believing in this 
 case ; who, when they came to be im-* 
 pressed with this doctrine, felt as if all 
 the cheerfulness of life was the most 
 horrible insensibility ; and as if all the 
 light that was around them, the light 
 that rested on the fair scenes of nature, 
 was turned into darkness and gloom ; 
 felt as if all that is bright and gladden- 
 ing, in the general aspects of society and 
 of the world, was the most treacherous 
 and terrible illusion ! And is it not so, 
 if the popular doctrine be true ? I see a 
 busy, toiling, and oftentimes joyous, mul- 
 titude thronging the villages and cities 
 of the world; hundreds of millions of 
 human beings, to whom happiness is 
 more than life, and misery more than 
 death. I see childhood, lovely childhood, 
 with its opening moral faculties, in ten 
 thousand bosoms, throbbing with new 
 and glad existence. I see the whole 
 world dwelling in an ignorance, or a 
 moral unconsciousness, almost like that 
 of childhood ; and are they, all around 
 me, every hour by hundreds and by 
 thousands, dropping into a region of 
 woes and agonies and groans never to 
 be relieved or terminated? Gracious 
 heaven ! if one tenth part of the human 
 race were the next year to die amidst the 
 horrors of famine, that evil, light as it is 
 in the comparison, would cover the earth 
 with a universal mourning ! 
 
 How evident is it, then, that men have 
 nothing approaching to a belief of what 
 the popular creed avers on this awful 
 subject. I do not bring this as an argu- 
 ment against the doctrine it lays down. 
 
392 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 But I do maintain that men should 
 believe what they say, before they con- 
 demn those who cannot say so much ; 
 that they should feel the trial of faith, 
 before they decide on the propriety of a 
 doubt. 
 
 I may be told that what I have been 
 saying is not Scripture, but reasoning. 
 I know it is reasoning. I have already 
 shown, as I think, that the Scriptures 
 do not warrant the doctrine that is com- 
 monly deduced from them ; and, to my 
 mind, the reasoning I have used strongly 
 enforces the rejection of it. 
 
 III. But I hasten to my final remark: 
 which is, that the Scriptures reveal our 
 future danger, whatever it be, for the 
 purpose of alarming us ; and therefore, 
 that to speculate on this subject, in or- 
 der to lessen our fear of sinning, involves 
 the greatest hazard and impiety. There 
 is a high moral use, and it is the only use, 
 for which tiie awful revelation of "the 
 powers of the world to come " was in- 
 tended, and most evidently and eminently 
 fitted ; and that is to awaken fear. What- 
 ever else the language in question means, 
 it means this. About other topics relat- 
 ing to it, there may be questions ; about 
 this, none at all. And after all that has 
 been said, I shall not hesitate to add, 
 that we are in no danger of really believ- 
 ing too much, or fearing too much. And 
 this is my answer, if any should object 
 to the moral tendency of the views that 
 have been oflfered : I maintain that a man 
 should fear all that he can, and I actu- 
 ally hold a belief, that affords the fullest 
 scope for such a feeling. It is not of so 
 much consequence that any one should 
 use fearful words on this subject, and 
 even violently contend for them, as that 
 he should himself fear and tremble. 
 
 And I repeat, that there is reason. 
 For if we adopt any opinion, short of 
 the most blank and bald Universalism, 
 it cannot fail to be serious. Will you 
 embrace the idea of a literal destruction ? 
 Imagine, then, if possible, what it is to 
 be no more forever ! Look down into 
 the abyss of dark and dismal annihila- 
 tion. Think with yourself, what it 
 
 would be, if all which you call yourself, 
 your mind, your life, your cherished 
 being, were to fall into the jaws of ever- 
 lasting death ! There is something 
 dreadful beyond utterance in the thought 
 of annihilation : to go away from the 
 abodes of life, to quit our hold of life 
 and being itself ; to be nothing — noth- 
 ing, forever ! while the glad universe 
 should go onward in its brightness and 
 its glory, and myriads of beings should 
 live and be happy ; and all their dwellings 
 and all their worlds should be overspread 
 with life and beauty and joy ! Imagine 
 it if you can. Think that the hour of 
 last farewell to all this had come ; think 
 of the last moment, of the last act, of 
 the last thought, — and that thought 
 annihilation ! Oh ! it would be enough 
 to start with its energy your whole be- 
 ing into a new life ; methinks you would 
 spring with agony from the verge of 
 the horrible abyss, and cry for life, for 
 existence, — though it were woe and 
 torment. Shall we then prefer the 
 hope of long and remedial suffering ? 
 Then carry forward your thoughts to 
 that dark world, where there shall be 
 " no more sacrifice for sin," no more 
 Saviour to call and win us, no more 
 mild and gentle methods of restoration : 
 where sin must be purged from us. if 
 at all, "so as by fire." Carry forward 
 your thoughts to that dark struggle 
 with the powers of retribution, where 
 every malignant and hateful passion 
 will wage the fearful war against the 
 soul ; where habit, too, will have bound 
 and shackled the soul with its everlast- 
 ing chains of darkness ; and its com- 
 panions, fiends like itself, shall only 
 urge it on to sin. When will the strug- 
 gle cease ? If sin cannot be resisted 
 now, in this world of means and mo- 
 tives and mercies, how shall it be re- 
 sisted then? When or how shall the 
 miserable soul retrieve its steps ? 
 From what depth of eternity shall it 
 trace back its way of ages ? God only 
 knows. To us it is not given. But 
 we know that the retribution of a sinful 
 soul is what we ought above all things 
 
MODES OF ATTACK UPON LIBERAL CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 393 
 
 to fear. For thus are we instructed : 
 " Fear not them that, after they have 
 killed the body, have no more that tliey 
 can do; but fear him who is able to de- 
 stroy both soul and body in hell ; yea, I 
 say unto you, fear him." We know not 
 what it is ; but we know that such 
 terms and phrases as we read, — " the 
 wrath to come ; the worm that dieth not ; 
 the fire that is not quenched : the 
 blackness of darkness ; the fiery indig- 
 nation," — that these words not only 
 import what is fearful, but were in- 
 tended to inspire a salutary dread. We 
 know not what it is ; but we have heard 
 of one who lifted up his eyes, being in 
 torment, and saw the regions of the 
 blessed afar off, and cried and said, 
 '•' Father Abraham, have mercy on me ! 
 for I am tormented in this flame." We 
 know not what it is ; but we know that 
 the finger of inspiration has pointed 
 awfully to that world of calamity. We 
 know that inspired prophets and apos- 
 tles, when the interposing veil has been, 
 for a moment, drawn before them, have 
 shuddered with horror at the spectacle. 
 We know that the Almighty himself 
 has gathered and accumulated all the 
 images of earthly distress and ruin, not 
 to show us what it is, but to warn us of 
 what it may be ; that he has spread 
 over this world the deep shadows of 
 his displeasure, leaving nothing to be 
 seen, and everything to be dreaded ! 
 And thus has he taught us, what I would 
 lay down as the moral of these observa- 
 tions, and of all my reflections on this 
 subject, that it is not our wisdom to 
 speculate, but to fear ! 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 THE MODES OF ATTACK UPON LIBERAL 
 CHRISTIANITY THE SAME THAT WERE 
 USED AGAINST THE DOCTRINE OF THE 
 APOSTLES AND REFORMERS. 
 
 In being assailed as it is, Liberal 
 Christianity meets but with the fate 
 
 that naturally attends, and actually has 
 attended, all improvement. Whether 
 our theology be a real progress of truth 
 or not, this general statement will not 
 be questioned. Every great advance- 
 ment in science, in the arts, in politics, 
 has had to encounter this hostility. No 
 cause has been, or is, more bitterly op- 
 posed than the cause of political liberty. 
 So it has been with religion. Chris- 
 tianity had to struggle long with the 
 hostility of the world. Its doctrines 
 were opposed and its friends reproached. 
 And when it declined from its purity ; 
 when it was corrupted through its popu- 
 larity, through its prevalence, through 
 its very orthodoxy, I may say ; when a 
 revival of its true doctrines was needed. 
 — the men who stood forward in that 
 work, the Refonners, found that inno- 
 vation was still an offence, that dissent 
 was heresy, that truth was accounted no 
 better than ruinous and fatal error. 
 
 I say these things, in the general 
 and at the outset, not to prove — nor 
 would I anywhere pretend to prove 
 by such an argument — that our the- 
 ology is right, but to show that op- 
 position to it is no evidence of its 
 being wrong ; to show that a doctrine 
 may be, like primitive Christianity, 
 "everywhere spoken against," and yet 
 be a true doctrine. For there are many 
 who feel, from the bare circumstance 
 that a system is so much reproached, 
 as if it must be wrong or questionable ; 
 and there are many more who suffer 
 their opinions to float on the current of 
 popular displeasure, without inquiring 
 at all into their justice or validity. Let 
 such remember that no new truths ever 
 did, nor till men are much changed ever 
 can, enter into the world without this 
 odium and hostility; and let them not 
 account that whicli may be the very seal 
 of truth to be the brand of error. 
 
 I will now proceed to notice some of 
 the particular modes of attack to which 
 Liberal Christianity is subject, to meet 
 these assaults and objections, and to 
 show that, in being subjected to these as- 
 saults, it suffers no new or singular fate. 
 
394 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 I. In the first place, then, it is com- 
 mon to charge upon new opinions all 
 the accidents attending their progress ; 
 to blend with their main cause all the 
 circumstances that happen to be con- 
 nected with it. This is perhaps not 
 unnatural, though it be unjust. Men 
 hear that a new system is introduced, 
 that a new sect is rising. They know 
 nothing thoroughly about it; but they 
 are inquiring what it is. In this state 
 of mind they meet, not with a Unita- 
 rian book, but more likely with a pas- 
 sage from a book, taken from its con- 
 nection, — culled out, it is probable, on 
 purpose to make a bad impression ; and 
 forthwith this passage is made to stand 
 for the system. Whenever Unitarian- 
 ism is mentioned, the obnoxious para- 
 graph rises to mind, and settles all 
 questions about it at once. Or, per- 
 haps, some act of behavior of some indi- 
 vidual in this new class of religionists is 
 mentioned ; and this is henceforth con- 
 sidered and quoted as a just representa- 
 tion, not only of the whole body, but of 
 their principles also. Thus an impedi- 
 ment in Paul's speech was made an 
 objection to Christianity, — an objection 
 which he thought it necessary gravely 
 to debate with the church in Corinth. 
 
 I have introduced this sort of objec- 
 tion first, not only because it arises 
 naturally out of a man's first acquaint- 
 ance with Unitarianism, but because 
 it gives me an opportunity to say, be- 
 fore I proceed any further, hoiv much 
 of what passes under this name it is 
 necessary, as I conceive, to defend. 
 I say, then, it is not necessary to defend 
 everything that passes under this name, 
 everything that every or any Unitarian 
 has written or said or done. So ob- 
 vious a disclamation might seem to be 
 scarcely needful ; but it will not seem so 
 to any who have observed the manner 
 in which things of this sort are charged 
 upon us. What is it to me that such 
 and such persons have said or written 
 this or that thing? What is it to the 
 main cause of truth, which we profess 
 to support, or to the great questions at 
 
 issue? In the circumstances of the 
 Unitarian body, in the novelty to a cer- 
 tain extent of their opinions, in the vio- 
 lent opposition they meet with, I see 
 exposures to many faults ; to excesses 
 and extravagances, to mistakes and 
 errors. I could strike off half of the 
 opinions and suggestions that have 
 sprung up from this progress of in- 
 quiry, and still retain a body of unspeak- 
 ably precious truth. There are several 
 things, and some things of considerable 
 practical moment, which I seriously 
 doubt whether we, as a denomination, 
 have yet come to view rightly. The 
 violence of opposition has, undoubtedly, 
 in some respects, carried us to an 
 extreme in some points of opinion 
 and practice. And certainly I find 
 things in our writings which, in my 
 judgment, are indefensible. What less 
 can be said, if we retain any indepen- 
 dence, or sobriety, or discrimination 
 about us? What less can be said of 
 any faUible body of men, — of any body, 
 comprising, as all denominations do, all 
 sorts of men, all sorts of writers and 
 thinkers ? If they are not inspired, they 
 must be sometimes wrong. 
 
 Nay, to bring this, nearer home, it 
 were folly for any one of us to contend 
 that everything //^ has said or written is 
 right, or even that it is done with a right 
 spirit. Here is a conflict of opinions, 
 the eagerness of dispute, the perverting 
 influence of controversy. Here is an 
 eiTervescence of the general mind. The 
 moral elements of the world are shaken 
 together, if not more violently, yet more 
 intimately perliaps, than they ever were 
 before. If any man can, with a severe 
 calmness and a solemn scrutiny, sit 
 down and meditate upon those things 
 which agitate so many minds; if he can 
 separate the true from the false, and say 
 a few things, out of many, that are ex- 
 actly right, and a few things more that 
 are helping on to a right issue, — it is, 
 perhaps, all that he ought to expect. 
 How much dross there may be in the 
 pure gold of the best minds, " He that 
 sitteth as a Refiner " only can know. 
 
MODES OF ATTACK UPON LIBERAL CHRLSTIANITY. 
 
 395 
 
 This, I confess, is my view of our 
 controversies, and of all human contro- 
 versies. I have no respect in this 
 matter for authorities, for infallible sen- 
 tences, or for the reverence and weight 
 that are given to sentences, because they 
 are uttered by some leader in the church, 
 or because they are written in a book. 
 I have no respect for the spirit of quo- 
 tation, that, having brought forward a 
 grave proposition from some synod, or 
 council, or book, or body of divinity, 
 holds that to be enough. All men err ; 
 all synods, and councils, and consisto- 
 ries, and books, and bodies of divinity ; 
 which is only saying that they all do 
 that in the aggregate and in form which 
 they do individually and necessarily. 
 And if this be true, if these views be 
 just, how unreasonable is it to catch 
 up sentences here and there, from any 
 class of writings, and erect them into 
 serious and comprehensive charges ! 
 
 The real and proper question is about 
 principles. Let these be shown to be 
 wrong, and the denomination that abides 
 by them must fall. On this, the only 
 tenable ground for any reasonable man, 
 I take my stand. I have no doubt that 
 our leading principles are true ; and it 
 would not, in the slightest degree, dis- 
 turb this faith, if there could be shown 
 me ten volumes of indefensible extracts 
 from our writings. Whether half a vol- 
 ume of such, out of the hundred that 
 have been written, can be produced, I 
 leave not to the candor of our oppo- 
 nents to decide, but to their ingenuity 
 to make out, if they are able. The con- 
 stant repetition of three or four stale 
 extracts, garbled from the writings of 
 Priestley and Belsham, would seem to 
 show that the stock of invidious quota- 
 tions is very small. In fact, I do con- 
 sider Unitarians, in comparison with 
 any other religious body, as having 
 written with great general propriety, 
 soberness, and wisdom. But if they have 
 not. or if any one thinks they have not, 
 it will very little affect the general truth 
 of their principles. 
 
 And how ill, let me ask, could any 
 
 other body of Christians bear this sort 
 of scrutiny ? How easy would it be to 
 select from Orthodox writings, and even 
 from those of great general reputation, 
 a mass of extracts that would make the 
 whole world cry out ; one part with hor- 
 ror at their enormity, and anotiier with 
 indignation at their being presented for 
 the purpose of showing what orthodoxy 
 is ! It would be unjust, I confess. It 
 would disturb no independent believer 
 in that system, and as little ought such 
 things to disturb us. 
 
 I have now noticed the first feeling 
 of objection which naturally arises 
 against a new system ; that which pro- 
 ceeds from confounding the main cause 
 with the circumstances that attend it. 
 
 II. But another objection, and that 
 perhaps which is first put in form, is 
 against the alleged newness of the sys- 
 tem. It is said that this religion is a 
 new thing; that it is a departure from 
 the faith of ages ; that it unsettles the 
 most established notions of things, and 
 breaks in upon the order and peace of 
 the churches. I state this objection 
 strongly for the sake of our opponents, 
 and indeed much more strongly than it 
 deserves to be. For Unitarianism pro- 
 fesses, so far from being a new thing, to 
 be the old, pure, primitive Christianity. 
 It does not profess, even in comparison 
 with orthodoxy, to be essentially a new 
 thing, but only so in certain speculative 
 doctrines ; and still less is it the friend 
 or promoter of disorder and disunion. 
 Nevertheless, it is, to a certain extent, a 
 new thing, and it occasions, through the 
 objections made to it, much disturb- 
 ance. 
 
 And can these, I ask. be valid or 
 weighty objections in the mouths of 
 Christians and Protestants? Christian- 
 ity was once a new thing. The Athenian 
 philosophers said to Paul, no doubt with 
 as much contempt as any modern ques- 
 tioner could feel, "We would know 
 what this new doctrine, whereof thou 
 speakest, is." And others said, " These 
 men that have turned the world upside 
 down have come hither also." Yes, 
 
396 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 troublesome, "pestilent fellows," "mov- 
 ers of sedition," devisers of mischief, 
 and "doers of evil," were the first prop- 
 agators of Christianity accounted, and 
 were not ashamed thus to suffer in imi- 
 tation of their slandered Master. And 
 the Reformers of Christianity in the 
 sixteenth century trod in the same 
 steps, and in like manner had their 
 " names cast out as evil." And espe- 
 cially was it objected to them, that they 
 departed from the faith of ages, and 
 invaded the repose of time-hallowed 
 doctrines and institutions. And in the 
 strong confidence, ay, the strong argu- 
 ment of the majority, the same things 
 were said about the truth as are now 
 said ; the same cry of "the church is in 
 danger " was raised ; the same anathe- 
 mas were pronounced against dangerous 
 heresies and the denying of the faith. 
 The whole scene was acted over, that is 
 now witnessed, of an exclusive and 
 hostile orthodoxy, on the one hand, and 
 a firm and unyielding dissent on the 
 other ; only that orthodoxy could then 
 command the inquisition and the rack, 
 and now it only sets its tribunal on the 
 reputation of men, and subjects the mind 
 to trials, that in some instances scarcely 
 fall short of the tortures of the rack. 
 This has always been the fate of innova- 
 tion, and. perhaps, it always must be. 
 And to those who, for conscience' sake, 
 draw upon themselves this hostility to 
 whatever is new, I would say: think it 
 not strange concerning this fiery trial, 
 as though any strange thing happened 
 to you. It is the same that has hap- 
 pened to the reformers of faith, to the 
 witnesses for truth, in all ages. Be not 
 astoni.shed or disheartened at this. Only 
 bear it patiently. No assault, no detrac- 
 tion, can injure you, if you bear them 
 with the spirit of Christ. Rather will 
 they benefit you unspeakably and for- 
 ever, benefit you in awakening that love, 
 and meekness, and humility, the trying 
 of which is more precious than that of 
 gold which perisheth. " If ye be re- 
 proached for the name of Christ," — if 
 ye be reproached for laboring to rescue 
 
 his name and his reh'gion from mistake 
 and injury, — "happy are ye; for the 
 spirit of glory and of God resteth on 
 you ! " 
 
 III. Another method of attack upon 
 Liberal Christianity is to awaken senti- 
 ments of pity and horror against it. I 
 am not about to deny that this is very 
 honestly done; but I do say that it is 
 an unworthy mode of assault ; that it 
 appeals not to the judgment, but to the 
 passions, and that it is very apt to be 
 the strongest in the weakest hands. To 
 put on a solemn countenance, to speak 
 in sepulchral tones of awe and lamenta- 
 tion, to warn men against this doctrine, 
 is easy. But, alas for the weakness of 
 men ! if it is an instrument easily wielded, 
 it is also an instrument of terrible power 
 with the superstitious, the timid and un- 
 reflecting. A considerate man, a man 
 who respects the minds and consciences 
 of those he has to deal with, will be 
 cautious how he takes hold of such a 
 weapon as this, — a weapon which pre- 
 vails chiefly with human weakness, which 
 strikes the very part of our nature that 
 most needs to be supported, which 
 wounds only the infirm, and overwhelms 
 only the prostrate. Fori need not say, 
 that it is precisely with minds in this 
 situation that tones of pity and horror 
 have the greatest influence. A man of 
 independent thought and vigorous under- 
 standing, who could better afford to bear 
 this sort of influence, is the very person 
 who will not yield to it. He will say 
 indignantly, "That is nothing to the pur- 
 pose. That does not satisfy me. I did 
 not ask you to warn me, but to enlighten 
 me. I did not ask you to weep, but to 
 reason. No doubt you feel as you say, 
 and very sincerely feel thus ; it is not 
 your sincerity that I question, but your 
 argument. You degrade my understand- 
 ing when you attempt to work upon it 
 in this manner. I was made to think. 
 The Lord of conscience has given me 
 liberty to inquire, and I will not be sub- 
 ject to any other influence. God has 
 called me to liberty, and man shall not 
 lay me under bondage." 
 
MODES OF ATTACK UPON LIBERAL CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 397 
 
 Nor is this all. Pity and horror 
 prove nothing, indeed; but it is more- 
 over a matter of history that truth has 
 always made its progress amidst the 
 pity and horror of men. Yes, it has 
 come thus ; amidst sighings and doubt- 
 ings, and shakings of the head, and 
 warnings of danger, and forebodings of 
 evil. Yes, it has held its way through 
 tokens like these ; with dark counte- 
 nances about it, and loud denunciations, 
 and woful anathemas. It has stood up 
 and spoken in the person of its great 
 Teacher ; and men have " gnashed their 
 teeth and rent their garments " at its 
 voice. It has gone forth into the 
 world with its devoted Apostles, and 
 been accounted " the offscouring of 
 all things." It has " prophesied in 
 sackcloth "' with its faithful witnesses, 
 and borne the cross of ignominy and 
 reproach. The angry Sanhedrim, the 
 bloody Inquisition, the dungeon, the 
 rack, the martyr's stake, have testified 
 to the abhorrence of tnen against the 
 truth ! 
 
 I do not say that the truth I hold is 
 worthy of this glorious fellowship. But 
 I say that its being joined in any meas- 
 ure to this fellowship does not prove it 
 false. And if it be true, as I solemnly 
 believe it is, then let not its advocates 
 claim entire exemption from the trials 
 of their elder brethren. It will go on, 
 and men will speak evil of it, and they 
 will struggle against it, and they will 
 lament and weep ; but it will be as 
 if they lifted up their voice to withstand 
 the rolling seasons, or struggled against 
 the chariot wheels of the morning, or 
 poured out vain tears upon the mighty 
 stream that is to bear all before it. I 
 say this more in sorrow, I hope, than in 
 scorn. I am sorry for those who can- 
 not see this matter as I think they 
 ought to see it. I am sorry for the un- 
 happiness, for the honest grief which a 
 misplaced pity and an uncharitable zeal, 
 and a spirit of reproach and condemna- 
 tion, give them. But their grief, save 
 for its own sake, moves me not at all. 
 I consider it as a penance for their mis- 
 
 taken hostility to truth, rather than a 
 fair admonition of error. I believe, and 
 can believe no less, that this unhappi- 
 ness is simply the fruit of error. Un- 
 charitableness must be unhappy ; anger 
 must be painful ; exclusion, and anathe- 
 matizing, and dooming sincere brethren 
 to perdition, must be works of bitterness 
 and grief. I wonder not that a man 
 should weep while he is doing them ; 
 my only wonder is that he can ever do 
 them and not weep ! 
 
 IV. But I shall now proceed to con- 
 sider one or two objections of a graver 
 character. It is said that the religion 
 which Unitarianism teaches does not 
 meet the wants of human nature ; that 
 it does not satisfy the mind; that it 
 fails as a support and comfort to the 
 soul. I recur again to the observation, 
 that it is perfectly natural that this ob- 
 jection should be brought against new 
 views of religion ; simply because they 
 are new, and whether they are true or 
 not ; and therefore that no strange 
 thing happens to them when tliey are 
 thus regarded. If you take away some 
 j parts of a religion on which men have 
 relied, you take away some part of their 
 reliance ; and they cannot feel for a 
 time as if anything else would be such 
 a support and satisfaction to them. 
 This will be especially true if you intro- 
 duce simpler and more rational ideas 
 of religion. The Jew could say to the 
 Christian, " How many feasts and holy- 
 days, and sabbaths, and new moons, 
 and rites, and ordinances, on wliich my 
 soul relied, have you removed from 
 me ! " The Catholic could say of 
 the Protestant, '• Where, alas ! are the 
 masses, and the confessionals, and the 
 comfortable absolutions, and the inter- 
 cessions of saints, for him f'' And 
 things of the same import concerning 
 the more doctrinal aspects of religion 
 may the Calvinist say to the Unitarian. 
 But the Christian and the Protestant 
 could reply to their respective oppo- 
 nents, "We have a reliance as sure and 
 satisfactory as yours ; and more sound 
 and spiritual, as we judge." And so 
 
398 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 may the Unitarian say to the Calvin- 
 ist. 
 
 But let us go into the real merits of 
 the case. What is a foundation and a 
 support in religion, and whence does 
 true comfort arise ? Our Saviour speaks 
 of a foundation when he says, " He that 
 heareth my words and doeth them, I 
 will liken to a wise man," whose " house 
 fell not, because it was foitiided on a 
 rock." Surely, Unitarians do not re- 
 ject this foundation. " But our own 
 endeavors and virtues are not sufficient 
 of themselves." Certainly not; and 
 Unitarians may rely as unfeignedly as 
 their brethren on the mercy of God, 
 and they sincerely profess to do so. 
 This satisfies them. To say that it 
 does not satisfy the demands of a differ- 
 ent theology is only saying that the 
 speculations of the two classes differ. 
 '•But," it may be contended, "it does 
 not satisfy the wants of human natiii-e.'''' 
 This is a matter of which every one 
 must judge from the feelings of his own 
 mind. As the Unitarian experiences 
 human nature, he would say that the 
 simple promise of God's mercy and aid 
 to his humble endeavors does give all 
 needful satisfaction. A certain theory 
 of the divine government may not be 
 satisfied ; the superstitious wants of hu- 
 man nature may not be satisfied; but 
 the Unitarian believes that its real 
 wants are. 
 
 But I go farther; though I would say 
 what I am about to say with all reason- 
 able and fair qualifications. I feel 
 obliged to use increasing caution in 
 all general representations. There are 
 men too intelligent and good in every 
 class of Christians to be very much 
 affected by a formal creed. Neverthe- 
 less, I have not a doubt that there are 
 many to whom the popular religion 
 furnishes grounds of support and satis- 
 faction which are not right and rational 
 grounds. The regular plan and process 
 of religious experience, the defined steps 
 and dates ; an exact time and moment 
 of conversion, and the certainty of sal- 
 vation after that ; the efficacy of the act 
 
 of faith, distinguished as it often is from 
 the general efficacy of a holy life ; "the 
 view of Christ " and of the atonement 
 as relieving the sinner from his burden ; 
 " the rolling off of tlie burden of sin," 
 as it is often called ; the notions of a 
 foundation, and a hope, and a joy, dis- 
 connected as tliey are from the result of 
 long-tried virtue and piety ; tlie idea of 
 the Holy Spirit as alone doing the 
 " effectual work " of salvation in man, 
 doing it by a special interposition after 
 all the sinner's efforts are over, and he 
 is brought to despair of himself; these 
 views, as I believe, furnish a falla- 
 cious support and comfort and relief 
 to many. I wotild lay a weight upon 
 man's responsibility, which is, no 
 doubt, disagreeable to him. I would 
 tell a sinful man that anxiety is more 
 becoming to him than confidence and 
 repose. He is indeed to confide and 
 repose in the mercy of God and the in- 
 terposition of Christ ; but these no more 
 avail him than to tell him that there is 
 wealth in store for his industry. So far 
 as his own part is concerned, it is indus- 
 try, it is working, continual working, 
 daily accumulation, that is to make him 
 rich towards God. I would tell him 
 that believing is virtually the same as 
 doing ; and that it is this doing, this 
 constant doing, and this alone, that can 
 roll away the burden of sin. In short, 
 I would say that for a sinful man to 
 attain to the favor of God and to heaven, 
 is the same as for an intemperate man 
 to attain to sobriety and virtue ; that it 
 is what he must do, every day and hour, 
 day by day and hour by hour, striving, 
 watching, guarding, praying, keeping 
 himself under perpetual restraint, till he 
 is redeemed from his iniquity. In other 
 words, I would strive to represent this 
 matter rationally; and would say that 
 the sinner is to become a holy man, 
 just as the ignorant is to become a 
 learned man, by little and little, by con- 
 stant accumulations, by gaining one 
 truth to-day and another to morrow, by 
 perpetual progress. 
 
 Now, I do not deny that these things, 
 
MODES OF ATTACK UPON LIBERAL CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 399 
 
 in the general, are tauglit by Calvinists ; 
 but then I maintain that they are com- 
 monly taught in such a way, that they 
 are so mixed up with certain doctrines, 
 as that their pressure upon the soul is 
 relieved : so that a man does not feel 
 that he is to become a Christian just as 
 he is to become a rich man, or a skilful 
 or a wise man. He does not feel this 
 pressure of necessity upon him every 
 iiiornin<i, and lie down with this anxiety 
 every night, as the seeker of learning or 
 wealth does. Alas ! few feel this as 
 they ought to feel it ! But this is what 
 we should strive to make men feel. And 
 we ought to sweep away all doctrines 
 that stand in the way of this. We should 
 allow of no peace ; we should hear of no 
 summary method, no parcelling out of 
 the matters of religious experience, that 
 will make it a different thing from the 
 daily, pliin, practical, unwearied doing 
 of everything a man ought to do. No 
 believing of creeds, no paying of contri- 
 butions, no regular and stated prayers, 
 no oft-repeated confessions, proper as 
 these are in their place ; no atonement, 
 nor election, nor special grace, nor per- 
 severance, true as they are when truly 
 explained, should save a man from the 
 pressure of this instant necessity. 
 
 I conceive that the reason why Cal- 
 vinism offers more support to many 
 minds is, that it is a more artificial sys- 
 tem, and approaches less nearly to the 
 simple truth. It is too much a religion 
 of seasons and times, of fixtures and 
 props, ot reliefs and substitutions, of 
 comforts and confidences. And I am 
 persuaded that the Roman Catholic re- 
 ligion would much better answer the pur- 
 pose of supporting and satisfying minds, 
 in the state now supposed. There have 
 been, not long since, some distinguished 
 converts in Germany to the Catholic 
 faith. I could easily conceive of one of 
 them as saying: " Here at last I find rest ; 
 I find certainty and refuge in the infalli- 
 bility and absolution of the Holy Churcli. 
 This, too, is the accumulated support 
 of ages, built on the virtues and suffer- 
 ings of fathers and confessors and mar- 
 
 tyrs. How, also, am I affected with the 
 real presence of the body of Christ in 
 the sacrament, with the guardianship of 
 saints, and the interceding tenderness 
 of the Holy IVIother ! I never was so 
 impressed with any religion as this. I 
 never found such joy and peace in any. 
 This is the religion for a sinner ! This 
 is what my depraved and burdened na- 
 ture wanted ! '' 
 
 " Yes," replies the sound Protestant ; 
 "but it would not move inc^ nor support 
 nor comfort me. The impressiveness ot 
 a religion does not depend, altogether, 
 upon its truth or falsehood, but very 
 much on the state of the mind that re- 
 ceives it." And this is what we answer 
 to the Calvinist. We say that Calvinism 
 would make no kindly nor renewing im- 
 pression on us. And as to comfort and 
 support, it seems to us, in some of its 
 features, the most cheerless and deso- 
 late of all systems. 
 
 V. But I must hasten to the last ob- 
 jection that I intended to notice. It is 
 said that there is a fatal coldness in the 
 Unitarian system, that there is no ex- 
 citement in it, no reality, no seriousness, 
 no strictness; that it is fitted to gratify 
 the proud, the philosophic, the worldly, 
 and the vicious. 
 
 I must again remind the reader, in the 
 first place, that this is just what new 
 views of religion may expect, and what 
 they have always in fact encountered. 
 It is no strange thing that strangers to 
 the practical sense of our principles 
 should not confess their power. All this 
 cry was raised against the Reformation, 
 as loudly as it is raised against us. 
 
 Nay, it may be admitted, in the second 
 place, without any prejudice to the cause 
 I maintain, that new views in religion 
 will be most likely to attract the atten- 
 tion of those who are least prejudiced 
 in favor of the old ; that is to say, of the 
 less religious ; and of persons, too, who 
 have been less religious, in many in- 
 stances, for the very reason, that they 
 could not bear the errors of the popular 
 faith. Nay, more : it may be admitted 
 that new views of religion, however true, 
 
400 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 will probably do injury to some. There 
 are some most extraordinary confessions 
 to this effect from the lips of the Re- 
 formers. New views are liable to unset- 
 tle the minds that hastily receive them ; 
 and some that are averse to all religion 
 and to all self-denial may vaguely hope 
 that another doctrine would be more 
 indulgent to their vices. Yes, and they 
 may make' it so ; for what good thing 
 has not been abused ? This great sub- 
 ject, in fact, has been so treated and 
 taught, that in religion, most of all, men 
 are apt to show themselves superficial 
 and weak creatures. And it is not strange 
 that those who have dwelt long in dark- 
 ness should be dazzled and bewildered 
 and led astray by the light, or that lib- 
 erty should be a dangerous thing to the 
 enslaved. What if Christianity had been 
 judged by the state of the Corinthian 
 church ? 
 
 And yet Christianity came as a reli- 
 gion of power and strictness, and so I 
 maintain that it still is found to be in 
 the form in which we hold it. If others 
 who are experimentally ignorant of it 
 may testify against it, we who have felt 
 what it is maybe excused if we testify 
 in its favor. And I know that I speak 
 the language of hundreds and thousands, 
 when I say that religion to us is the one 
 theme of interest, — of unspeakable, un- 
 dying interest. We would not exchange 
 the sense we have of it for thrones and 
 kingdoms. To take it away would be 
 to take from us our chief light, blessing, 
 and hope. We have felt the power of 
 the world to come ; and no language 
 can tell what that power is, can tell the 
 value of an immortal hope and prospect. 
 We have heard the great and good 
 teacher, and we feel that " never man 
 spake like this man " By him, we trust 
 that we have been brought nigh to God ; 
 and this nearness consummates the infi- 
 nite good which we embrace in our reli- 
 gion. On all this I might dwell long and 
 abundantly ; but I will not trust myself to 
 say what I feel that I might say for many, 
 lest I be accused of "the foolishness 
 of boasting." And if even for what 1 
 
 do say 1 ant so accused, I must adopt 
 the Apostle's justification, and say, I 
 have been "compelled." For how can 
 men, who feel that religion is the great 
 resort of the mind, and the living inter- 
 est, and the animating hope, consent to 
 the charge, that all on this subject is 
 cold and cheerless as death among them ! 
 We should be ungrateful for the first of 
 blessings, if we could be silent. We 
 have communed with religion in sorrow, 
 and it has comforted us ; in joy, and it 
 has blessed us ; in difficulty and trouble, 
 and it has guided and calmed us ; in 
 temptations, and it has strengthened us ; 
 in conscious guilt and error, and this 
 religion has encouraged and comforted 
 and forgiven us ; and we must testify 
 our sense to its value. It is here that 
 we have treasured up the joy and hope 
 of our being; it is here that we have 
 poured out the fulness of our hearts ; 
 and if this is to be cold and dead, we 
 ask, in the name of sense and truth, what 
 is it to feel ? If this is philosophy, God 
 give us more of this philosophy. Yes, 
 it is philosophy, divine and heaven-de- 
 scended; it is truth immortal; it is reli- 
 gion, which, if it can be carried on within 
 us, will, we are persuaded, through God's 
 mercy, lead us to heaven. 
 
 I have now completed the views which, 
 in conclusion, I intended to give to some 
 ot the popular objections to Unitarian 
 Christianity. Let me warn every man, 
 in close, to beware of taking any light 
 and trifling views of the religion on which 
 he founds his hope. If any views that 
 ever enter our minds tend to slacken the 
 obligations of virtue, or to let down the 
 claims of piety, let us discard those views 
 at once and forever. Let us take a vi- 
 per to our bosom sooner than lay a flat- 
 tering unction to the soul that will make 
 it easier in sin. Sin is the sting of death, 
 and it will kill and destroy all that is 
 dear and precious to an immortal crea- 
 ture. Religion only is life and peace ; 
 and it is also zeal, and fervor, and joy, 
 and hope, and watchfulness, and strict- 
 ness, and self-denial, and patience unto 
 the end. 
 
THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION WITH OTHER SUBJECTS. 401 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION WITH OTHER 
 SUBJECTS CONSIDERED. 
 
 I Cor. X. 15 : "I speak as to wise men : judge ye 
 what I say." 
 
 It was an observation of an eminent 
 expounder of the science of jurispru- 
 dence,* that " the reason of the law 
 is the life of the law ; for though a 
 man," says he, " can tell the law, yet if 
 he know not the reason thereof, he shall 
 soon forget his superficial knowledge. 
 But when he findeth the right reason of 
 the law, and so bringeth it to his nat- 
 ural reason that he comprehendeth it as 
 his own, this will not only serv^e him for 
 the understanding of that particular case, 
 but of many others." 
 
 This comprehensive reason is as 
 necessary in religion as in the law ; 
 which, rightly considered, indeed, is 
 but a part of the science of religion or 
 rectitude. The great danger to the mind, 
 indeed, in pursuing every science, is 
 that of being narrow and technical, and 
 so of losing truth while it is gaining 
 knowledge. For truth is universal ; it 
 is the conclusion derived from those 
 facts the possession of which we call 
 knowledge. Truth, I say, is universal ; 
 and religious truth possesses this char- 
 acter as much as any other. What is 
 true in religion is true in everything else 
 to which such truth is capable of being 
 applied; true in the law, true in moral 
 philosophy, true in the prudence of life, 
 true in all human action. 
 
 From this position results the use of an 
 instrument for religious investigation, to 
 which I wish to invite your attention. 
 The instrument I refer to is comparison. 
 1 invite you to compare religion with 
 other things, to which it is analogous. 
 Fairly to put this instrument into your 
 hands, to give some examples of its use 
 and application, will require a course of 
 
 * Lord Littleton. 
 
 three or four lectures, which I shall give 
 on Sunday evenings. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that there is 
 anything new in this mode of investi- 
 gation. On the contrary, it is so famil- 
 iar that it enters more or less into 
 almost every religious discourse. It is 
 justified by the practice of all sorts of 
 religious and moral teachers. It is 
 the only instrument used in that great 
 work of Bishop Butler entitled his 
 Analogy. All I wish to do is, for a 
 little time, to fix attention upon it. 
 
 It is not pretended that this instru- 
 ment is infallible. The degree of proof 
 to be gathered from any comparison 
 depends on the closeness of the analogy. 
 To this point, the closeness of the an- 
 alogy, the main point in this kind of in- 
 quiry, I shall give the most discriminat- 
 ing attention that I am capable of, and 
 shall wish my hearers constantly to 
 judge, as wise men, what I say. The 
 instrument, I confess, is liable to abuse. 
 To give an instance of this : I have 
 heard preachers liken the case of the 
 unconverted sinner to that of a man in 
 a burning house, or in a pestilence, or in 
 peril of shipwreck ; and they have advo- 
 cated and defended the utmost extrava- 
 gance of spiritual fear and effort, on 
 the ground that the sinner is in still 
 greater danger. Here is comparison, 
 indeed, but no analogy. There is no 
 analogy, that is to say, in the precise 
 point on which the argument depends. 
 There is analogy, indeed, in the danger, 
 but not in the nature of the danger. In 
 a burning house, or in a shipwreck, the 
 peril is instant ; all that can be done 
 for escape must be done in an hour or 
 a moment; and men are justified in act- 
 ing almost like distracted men at such a 
 moment. But spiritual danger is of a 
 different character : it is not all accumu- 
 lated upon a given instant ; it is not one 
 
 36 
 
402 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION 
 
 stupendous crisis in a man's life, but it 
 spreads itself over his whole being. It 
 is not, like the whelming wave, or the 
 already scorching fire, to bring fright 
 and agony into the mind ; on the con- 
 trary, the special characteristics of spirit- 
 ual fear should be reflection, calmness, 
 and intense thoughtfulness. That is to 
 say, it is to be tlie action of the spirit- 
 ual, and not of the animal, nature. You 
 perceive, therefore, that the instrument 
 I am about to recommend to you is to 
 be used with great caution, with a wise 
 discretion. In the use of it I shall con- 
 stantly hold myself amenable to that 
 judgment of good sense to which the 
 apostle himself, in my text, appealed. 
 Bishop Butler, in the great work before 
 alluded to, limited the uses of analogy 
 entirely to the purpose of defence. He 
 maintained and showed that certain facts 
 in nature and in life were analogous to 
 certain doctrines in the Bible ; and his 
 argument was, not that the existence of 
 the facts proved the truth of the doc- 
 trines, but simply that they took away 
 all fair and philosophical objection from 
 those doctrines. Thus, if the conse- 
 quences of a single sin often follow a 
 man through life, if this is actually a part 
 of God's administration of the affairs of 
 this world, then there is no objection to 
 that doctrine of our Scriptures which 
 ■declares that the consequences of a life 
 of sin shall follow the offender into an- 
 other state. With Bishop Butler's views 
 of what the doctrines of revelation are, 
 I have nothing here to do. I have only 
 to say, that I am willing to be governed 
 by a similar caution. I wish to present 
 to you certain rational views of religion, 
 as they appear to me, and these mainly 
 of practical religion ; and against the 
 common allegations of insufficiency, 
 shallowness, or untruth, in these views, 
 I wish to appeal to what men allow to 
 be sound and satisfactory and thorough 
 in other departments of human action 
 and feeling. 
 
 There is, however, one objection to 
 this method of inquiry itself which I 
 must consider before I enter upon it. It 
 
 is said that religion is God's work in the 
 soul, — a peculiar, if not a supernatural 
 work; and hence it is inferred that re- 
 ligion is not to be judged of on princi- 
 ples common to it with other subjects 
 and qualities. I answer that the conclu- 
 sion does not follow from the premises. 
 I might deny the premises, perhaps, in 
 the sense in which they are put ; but 
 for the purposes of the proposed inquiry 
 I need not deny them. I may allow that 
 religion is the special work of God in 
 the soul, which it is in a certain sense, 
 and yet I may fairly maintain that it is 
 to be judged of like other principles in 
 the soul. For all Christians of a sound 
 and reasonable mind are now accus- 
 tomed to admit that God's work in the 
 soul does not violate the laws of the 
 soul ; that the influence of the Infinite 
 Spirit, whatever it be, is perfectly com- 
 patible with the moral constitution of 
 the being influenced. But how is man 
 influenced in other things ? The an- 
 swer is, by considerations, by reasons 
 and motives, by fears and hopes. So 
 is he influenced in religion. All moral 
 influence, whether derived from Scrip- 
 ture, from preaching, from reflection, or 
 from conscience, is one great and per- 
 fectly rational appeal to man's moral 
 nature; and the result is to be judged 
 of accordingly. What religion is true ; 
 and what is true in the views presented 
 of the received religion ; what are proper 
 and just exhibitions of it : what are the 
 due and right means and methods of 
 cultivating it ; and what are its claims 
 upon us, — all these matters are to be 
 considered as we consider other obli- 
 gations, truths, developments of char- 
 acter, and methods of improvement. It 
 is no argument for unreasonableness, 
 for impropriety of conduct or manners, 
 for extravagance, fanaticism, or folly, 
 that the subject is religion, or that re- 
 ligion is the work of God in the soul. 
 This, on the contrary, is the strongest 
 of reasons for insisting that religion 
 should be perfectly and profoundly 
 sober, rational, and wise. That which 
 comes from the fountain of reason, and 
 
WITH OTHER SUBJECTS. 
 
 403 
 
 as its gift to a rational nature, will not, 
 we may be sure, contradict the laws of 
 that reason and that nature. 
 
 This is a point to be insisted on, and 
 the proposed discussion may have spe- 
 cial advantages in (his view. Indeed, I 
 know of no other way in which the worst 
 practical errors are to be removed from 
 the church, but by the application of the 
 test in question ; by carrying religion en- 
 tirely out from the walls of conventicles, 
 and the pale of technical theology, and 
 from all the narrow maxims of peculiar 
 religious coteries and sects, into the 
 broad field of common-sense and sound 
 judgment. The advocates, whether of a 
 speculative system or of a practical econ- 
 omy in religion, can never tell how :t 
 looks, till they see it in this open light, 
 and in its relation to the whole surround 
 ing world of objects. Kept witliin a 
 certain circle and never looking beyond 
 it, and holding that things may be true 
 in that circle which are true nowhere 
 else, men may reason in that circle, and 
 reason strongly, and reason forever, and 
 never advance one step towards broad, 
 generous, universal truth. Thus it has 
 always been that mistake, fanaticism, 
 practical error in religious matters, have 
 rested their claims on tlie peculiar, un- 
 usual supernatural character of the sub- 
 ject. Religious extravagance of every 
 sort has always had its stronghold 
 within barriers that have shut out the 
 common judgment and sense of the 
 world. Nay, I may add, since I have 
 spoken of comparing religion with other 
 qualities of the mind, that there are many 
 by whom it is yet to be learned that re- 
 ligion is a quality of the mind. They are 
 apt to consider it as a gift and an influ- 
 ence, rather than as a quality, principle, 
 and part of the soul. They consider it 
 as something superinduced, bestowed 
 upon human nature, rather than as the 
 great and just result of that nature. 
 They do not feel as if it were something 
 dear to that nature ; something not 
 forced upon its reluctant acceptance, 
 not sustained in its rebellious bosom, 
 Iput cherished within it, craved by it. 
 
 welcome and precious lo all its strong- 
 est affections and noblest faculties. So 
 the vtany, I say, are not accustomed to 
 regard it. They do not see it as the 
 great development of the soul : but they 
 see it as a communication. And seeing 
 it as a communication, — as coming, in 
 some supernatural manner, from God, 
 — they are apt to set it apart from other 
 qualities and pursuits. They do not deal 
 freely with it. If they do not feel as if 
 .\\. were something above reason, they at 
 least feel as if it were something with 
 which reason may not strongly and fear- 
 lessly grapple ; as if it were too ethereal 
 an essence for the plain dealing of com- 
 mon-sense. To this plain dealing, how- 
 ever, it must be brought. To this we 
 are justified in bringing it, by the clearest 
 principles of all rational theology ; for 
 all such theology admits that God does 
 no violence to the laws of human nature 
 when he works within it both to will and 
 to do according to his good pleasure. 
 And I say and repeat that to this test 
 of sober and judicious comparison re- 
 ligion must come, if it is ever to be dis- 
 abused of the errors that have burdened 
 and enslaved it. How otherwise could 
 you proceed, if you had to deal, for in- 
 stance, with the absurdities of Hindoo 
 superstition ? You might try to approach 
 it in other ways ; as, for instance, with 
 solemn tones and solemn asseverations ; 
 but you would find, at length, that you 
 could do nothing else with it but to 
 bring it into comparison with other prin- 
 ciples and manifestations of human na- 
 ture and human life. You would say, 
 " This penance of yours, this hanging 
 yourself from a tree in a burning sun to 
 die, is absurd, useless, uncalled for by 
 the Deity. Who ever thought of seek- 
 ing happiness or securing tlie friendship 
 of any other being in this wav ? " And 
 if he were to answer that religion is un- 
 like every other principle in its exactions, 
 and that God is not to be pleased as 
 other beings are, you would undertake 
 to show him that the principle of good- 
 ness is everywhere the same ; that God, 
 whose nature is goodness, cannot be 
 
404 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION 
 
 pleased with pain for its own sake; that 
 he desires no sacrifice which can effect 
 no good end. That is to say, you would 
 endeavor to reason with the superstitious 
 devotee, upon general principles, — upon 
 principles applicable alike to religion 
 and to every other analogous subject. 
 
 This is what I shall now attempt to do 
 with religion, by proceeding to some 
 particular instances. The instances, 
 which I shall take up in the remainder 
 of this discourse, belong to the depart- 
 ment of first principles ; and in them I 
 shall chiefly address the religious sceptic. 
 
 I. In the first place, let us look at the 
 very elements of religion. By some it 
 is denied that there are any such ele- 
 ments. They say that religion is alto- 
 gether 'a matter of institution and ap- 
 pointment. They say that it has been 
 imposed upon mankind by priests and 
 by governments ; and but for these ex- 
 ternal influences, they say that there 
 never would have been such a thing as 
 rehgion in the world. Let us look at 
 these assumptions in the light of a com- 
 prehensive philosophy. 
 
 Now, it is to be observed that the basis 
 of every other science and subject in the 
 world is laid in certain indisputable first 
 principles. In other words, there are 
 certain undeniable facts, either in nature 
 or in the mind, on which, as a founda- 
 tion, every system of truth is built up. 
 Thus in the natural sciences, in min- 
 eralogy, in chemistry, and botany, and 
 astronomy, there are certain facts in na- 
 ture which are received as the basis. 
 These facts are generalized into laws, 
 and these laws are formed into systems. 
 Newton saw the apple fall, and from this 
 fact he proceeded till he had estabhshed 
 the laws of planetary motion, and the 
 sublime system of the universe. So in 
 the abstract science of geometry, certain 
 unquestionable truths or axioms are laid 
 down ; and so in the science of the mind, 
 certain irresistible emotions and acts of 
 the mind are taken, as the ground of 
 each of these departments of philosophy. 
 Even the department of taste has its un- 
 deniable first truths. Now, the science or 
 
 subject of religion has, in the same way, 
 its indisputable first truths. In the mind 
 there are certain religious facts as clearly 
 manifested as any metaphysical facts, or 
 any emotions of taste. But how do we 
 come to the knowledge of these latter 
 classes of facts ? I answer, by expe- 
 rience, and by nothing else. And how 
 do we come to the knowledge of the re- 
 ligious facts in the mind ? I answer, by 
 tlie same means, and no other. 
 
 What, then, is the conclusion ? Why, 
 that religion has a foundation in our 
 nature as truly as mental philosophy. 
 A man may deny this ; he may resort 
 to his presumptuous assertions and say 
 that religion is nothing but an imposi- 
 tion, a dogma, and a fancy. But he 
 might just as well assert that reason is 
 nothing but an imposition, and a dogma, 
 and a fancy. He may point to the di- 
 versities of religion and tell us that 
 everything is denied by one party or 
 another, and thence infer that nothing 
 can be true. But he might as well draw 
 the same inference from the diversified 
 forms in which the principle of reason 
 has presented itself, — whether in the 
 absurd conduct of hfe or in the strange 
 history of opinions. 
 
 What then, I repeat, .is the conclu- 
 sion ? It is this : religion is true. I do 
 not say that every religion is true ; but 
 I say that religion in general is a true 
 principle of human nature. I say that 
 there is a real science of religion, a 
 deep-founded and unquestionable phi- 
 losophy of religion, as truly as there is 
 any other science or philosophy in the 
 world. If experience is the test of truth, 
 religion is true. If universality is the 
 test of truth, religion is true. There > 
 never was a nation nor tribe found on 
 earth in which the feelings of conscience 
 and of adoration were not found ; and 
 he who is ever, at any momemt, shaken 
 in his primary religious convictions by 
 the bold assaults of scepticism, may 
 justly rally, and fairly and fearlessly say 
 to his assailant, if anything in the world 
 is true, religion is true. 
 
 II. So, then, do we lay the foundations 
 
WITH OTHER SUBJECTS. 
 
 405 
 
 of the religious principle ; and now let 
 us proceed to consider, in the light pro- 
 posed, the evidences of that religion 
 which we receive as bearing the special 
 sanction of Heaven. And the observa- 
 tion to be made is, that the evidences of 
 Christianity are to be weighed as other 
 evidences are weighed. And they are, 
 in fact, just such proofs as may be ren- 
 dered familiar to us by what passes in 
 every court of justice. In the first place, 
 there are the Christian witnesses ; and 
 such witnesses, indeed, as were never 
 produced in any other cause ; men not 
 only of unimpeachable character, of 
 great and acknowledged virtue, but who 
 have given in their writings the most 
 extraordinary example of the absence 
 of all enthusiasm that the world can 
 show; men, I say, and such men, who 
 spent laborious and painful lives and 
 suffered bloody deaths in attestation, 
 not of some fancy or imagination in 
 their own minds, not of their belief that 
 they were inspired merely, but in at- 
 testation of certain manifest and miracu- 
 lous facts. And then in the comparison 
 of their testimonies we have the strong- 
 est corroboration of their honesty and 
 truth. On the one hand there are a 
 few slight discrepancies between them, 
 just sufficient to show that there could 
 have been no collusion ; and on the 
 other hand numerous and evidently un- 
 designed coincidences, both with them- 
 selves and with contemporary profane 
 writers, which put the strongest stamp 
 of verisimilitude upon their narrations. 
 And then, again, the moral character of 
 these productions is such as to set their 
 authors above all suspicion of disinge- 
 nuity ; such as to show that dishonest 
 and bad men could not have given birth 
 to them ; and such, in fact, as to consti- 
 tute a strong independent argument for 
 their divine origin. But I confine my- 
 self now to this one branch of the evi- 
 dence, — the testimony; and I say that 
 if such a weight of testimony were pro- 
 duced in a court of justice, all the 
 records of judicial proceedings could 
 show nothing stronger or more satisfac- 
 
 tory. I say that men are every day 
 deciding and acting upon a tithe of the 
 evidence that is offered to support the 
 Christian religion. What if there is 
 not anything amounting to the force of 
 mathematical demonstration ? The case 
 does not admit it ; and in the ordinary 
 affairs of life men do not demand it. 
 Why shall they not in religion, as in 
 other things, act upon the evidence they 
 have ? Suppose that it is less clear to 
 some than to others. Suppose that it 
 amounts with them only to a strong 
 probability. Suppose that they have 
 doubts. Do doubts paralyze them in 
 other cases ? Does not a man make 
 all sorts of sacrifices, become an exile, 
 tread dangerous coasts, breathe tainted 
 climes, for a distant and uncertain for- 
 tune ? But has anybody /^/<^him that the 
 weaUh he seeks waits for him ? Has 
 any miracle been wrought before his 
 eyes ? Has God assured him, beyond 
 any doubt, of the fruition of his hopes ? 
 Yet he ventures much, ventures all, for 
 the chance of worldly fortune : can he 
 venture nothing for the hope of heaven ? 
 Let him walk in the way of the Christian 
 precepts. That cannot harm him, wheth- 
 er there be a future life or not. Let his 
 conduct follow the weight of evidence. 
 No reasonable being can gainsay or 
 condemn him for being governed by the 
 strongest probability. This is the only 
 safe or wise course. " Let him do the 
 will of God, and he shall know of the 
 doctrine whether it be from God." If 
 he will not do this, if he is averse to the 
 strictness of Christian virtue, he has 
 cause enough to suspect the source of 
 his scepticism. Nay, more ; we have 
 a right, in accordance with what is fairly 
 claimed on other sul)jects, to demand of 
 him who would investigate the Christian 
 evidences a religious spirit and a virtu- 
 ous temper. He who should undertake 
 to pronounce upon a great work of gen- 
 ius, a poem, or a painting, without any 
 cultivation or congeniality of taste, would 
 be looked upon as an unqualified and 
 presumptuous judge. By the same rule, 
 he who would fairlv e.xamine the evi- 
 
4o6 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION 
 
 dences of a pure system of religion 
 must, in reason, be a good and devout 
 man ; else his investigation is notiiing 
 worth. Have infidels often considered 
 this ? Have they generally approached 
 the Christian evidences in this spirit ? 
 
 But let us take some notice, in the 
 third place, and finally, of the Christian 
 records. I say, then, that our Christian 
 books are to be regarded in some impor- 
 tant respects as other books are. Men, 
 for instance, are not to take up the Bible 
 and read it as if they expected it to do 
 them good or give them light in any 
 unusual or unknown way. They are 
 not to expect any illumination in perus- 
 ing the Scriptures other than that of 
 reason and piety. Some other may be 
 given in extraordinary cases, but they 
 are not to require miracles. They are 
 not to expect to understand this book 
 because it is the Bible, in any other way, 
 or upon any other principles of inter- 
 pretation, than they would use to gather 
 the meaning of any ancient book. And 
 as many portions of the Bible — the 
 speculative and controversial parts par- 
 ticularly — are clothed in the polemic 
 phraseology of an ancient age, and have 
 taken their hue and form from ancient 
 disputes, states of mind, customs of so- 
 ciety, &c. ; as all this is true of some 
 portions of Scripture, the unlearned 
 reader cannot, without more informa- 
 tion than most persons possess, reason- 
 ably expect to understand those parts at 
 all. Suppose that a plain reader, totally 
 unacquainted with the systems of Plato 
 or Aristotle, or with the Manichean 
 philosophy, should, in perusing an an- 
 cient book, meet with a passage crowded 
 with the terms and modes of thought 
 borrowed from either of these systems. 
 Can you doubt that with the aid of any 
 common-sense he would at once say, 
 " I do not understand this " 1 Would 
 he not justly conclude that he must read 
 other books, and make himself more ac- 
 quainted with the speculations of that 
 ancient period, before he could under- 
 stand the passage which had fallen under 
 his notice 1 
 
 So he would judge of ancient profane 
 writings, and so he ought to judge of 
 ancient sacred writings. The wisdom 
 that speaks in the two cases is different; 
 but the method of interpreting that wis- 
 dom is the same in both. But so most 
 Christian readers do not judge. They 
 read the Bible as if it were a modern 
 book. Or they feel as if it would dis- 
 honor the Bible to suppose that any 
 part of it were necessarily obscure or 
 unintelligible to the unlearned reader. 
 They look upon the Scriptures as a di- 
 rect revelation, or as the immediate and 
 express word of God himself, rather 
 than as a series of messages declaring, 
 after the manner of the times, the will 
 of God. And, entertaining the former 
 of these impressions, they rightly argue 
 that a book, purporting to be a revela- 
 tion to mankind, unless all men can 
 readily understand it, is no revelation. 
 But there can be no doubt, I presume, 
 that this impression is a mistaken one. 
 The sacred writers were commissioned 
 to declare certain truths ; and they were 
 left to declare them after their own 
 manner, and the manner of the age ; 
 and it is no more easy to understand 
 the Bible, than it is to -understand ajiy 
 ancient book. This co7iclusion must be 
 admitted, whatever may be thought of 
 the reasoning. Explain the doctrine 
 of inspiration as we may, it is an un- 
 questionable truth, and every enlight- 
 ened student of the Bible must know it, 
 that there are considerable portions of 
 it, which cannot be understood without 
 much study, and without, to say the 
 least, some learning, which the body of 
 the people do not possess. Every sen- 
 sible man who has really studied his 
 Bible, must know that this is the case 
 with considerable portions of the Proph- 
 esies and Epistles. The people at large 
 are reading these continually, and think 
 to derive benefit from them, and do, no 
 doubt, affix to them some vague mean- 
 ing ; but they do not and cannot under- 
 stand them. They comprehend what is 
 practical for the most part, and all that 
 ' is essential ; but much of what is spec- 
 
WITH OTHER SUBJECTS. 
 
 407 
 
 ulative and controversial, I repeat it, 
 with their present knowledge, they do 
 not and cannot understand. 
 
 This may be a hard saying to many ; 
 but I believe it ought not, being un- 
 questionably true, to be withhoklen. It 
 may be an unpopular doctrine, but that 
 circumstance, I hope, does not prove it 
 unimportant. There certainly is a mis- 
 take on this subject ; and the greatness 
 of the error is but the greater reason for 
 correcting it. Besides, the error is far 
 from being harmless. This constant 
 reading of what is not well compre- 
 hended ; this attempt to grasp ideas 
 which are perpetually escaping through 
 ancient and unintelligible modes of 
 thought and phraseology ; this formal 
 and forced perusal of obscure chapters 
 with a sort of demure reverence, tends 
 to throw dulness, doubt, and obscurity 
 over all our conceptions of religion. 
 The Bible, too, instead of being a bond 
 of common faith and fellowship to 
 Christians, is made an armory for po- 
 lemics. And there are some controver- 
 sies among the body of Christians 
 which can never be intelligently and 
 properly settled till they qualify them- 
 selves in a better manner to understand 
 the Scriptures. And yet multitudes of 
 men and women are confidently decid- 
 ing controversies on the most difficult 
 questions of philology and interpreta- 
 tion, who never read — not Hebrew nor 
 Greek — but who never read a book on 
 criticism, who never read a book on 
 ancient customs, who never read a book 
 on the circumstances of the primitive 
 age, on the difficulties and disputes 
 prevailing, on the Jewish prejudices or 
 the Gentile systems of philosophy ; and 
 if I were asked what I would give for 
 the critical judgment of these men and 
 women, I answer not/iiii<r — jiotking at 
 all. I derogate nothing from their gen- 
 eral intelligence. And their judgment 
 may be good, even on the point in ques- 
 tion, as far as their common sense will 
 carry them ; and upon the general strain 
 of the Scriptures they may judge well, 
 and may come, on the whole^ to a right 
 
 conclusion. But upon deep questions 
 of criticism they ought not to pretend 
 to judge. I give that credit to the 
 modesty of many among us, as to pre- 
 sume that they do not undertake to 
 decide upon matters of this sort ; and 
 to those who have not this modesty, it 
 may be fairly recommended as the first 
 step of a good and sound judgment. 
 
 I would particularly guard what I 
 have said on this subject from injurious 
 misapprehensions. I certainly do not 
 discourage the reading of the Scrip- 
 tures. I only urge the needful prepa- 
 ration for it in regard to those parts 
 which are hard to be understood. I do 
 not say that unlearned Christians can- 
 not understand their religion; for their 
 religion, in substance, is contained in 
 passages that are level to the humblest 
 apprehension. I do not disparage the 
 Bible. Its value consists in the body 
 of its undisputed truths and revelations. 
 Besides, be the case as it may, it can 
 be no disparagement of the sacred 
 volume to state what it is. And that 
 it does require study and learning to 
 understand portions of it ; what do all 
 the labors of learned men, what do in- 
 numerable volumes of commentaries, 
 and whole libraries of sacred criticism 
 show, if they do not show this 1 Why 
 all these studies, let us ask, if unlearned 
 men can understand the difficult and 
 doubtful passages of their Bibles ? 
 
 The truth is, in my judgment, that 
 the body of mankind never ought to 
 have been disturbed with those theoloo-- 
 ical disquisitions which involve or re- 
 quire a deep knowledge of criticism, 
 any more than they are with the subtil- 
 ties of the law, or with the abstruse 
 speculations of philosophy, the disputes 
 of anatomists, metaphysicians, and men 
 of science. General readers, not to say 
 those who read not at all, are just as 
 unable to understand one as the other. 
 There are questions in religion, un- 
 doubtedly, which are proper for the gen- 
 eral mass of readers. And there are 
 points, doubtless, connected with every 
 question, which are suitable for popular 
 
4o8 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 discussion. There must be discussion ; 
 and since men cannot agree, there must 
 be dispute. Let there be controversy, 
 then ; and let it range from the highest 
 to the lowest subjects. All I would 
 contend for is, that those controversies 
 which are addressed to the body of the 
 people, be such as the people are pre- 
 pared to understand; and that more 
 curious questions be confined in relig- 
 ion, as in other things, to the learned. 
 This reasonable discrimination would 
 have cut off many disputes which, 
 among the mass of the people, are per- 
 fectly useless, and might have saved us 
 from some of our unhappy dissensions. 
 
 In fine, and to sum up my observa- 
 tions, let Religion — I do not say now 
 as a matter of experience and practice 
 — but let Religion, in its words, its sub- 
 jects, and its controversies, be treated 
 as other things are ; as the Law, Medi- 
 cine, or any of the sciences. Let what 
 is practical, what is easily understood, 
 what the simple and sound judgment of 
 a man can compass, be commended in 
 religion as in science, to all who can 
 and will read it. Let what is abstruse, 
 what is hard to be understood, what 
 belongs to the department of profound 
 criticism, be left for those who have 
 opportunity, time, and learning for it. 
 Let others read their writings as much 
 as they please ; but let them not judge 
 till they read ; let not their confidence 
 outrun their knowledge. I think this 
 is safe advice. I cannot conceive of 
 any possible harm it can do. I believe 
 it would do much good. I believe that 
 it would tend to the promotion of a 
 practical and affectionate piety among 
 us ; and I think, moreover, that it 
 would do this special good : it would 
 lead men to rest their religious hopes 
 and fears, not on matters of doubtful 
 disputation, but on those essential, 
 moral, plain, practical grounds, which 
 are the great foundations of piety and 
 virtue. 
 
 I have now presented in a single light, 
 the light of analogy, the first princi- 
 ples of religion, and the evidences and 
 
 records of that particular dispensation 
 of religion which, as Christians, we have 
 embraced. In my next lecture I shall 
 proceed to examine, in the same way, 
 what is usually considered as the begin- 
 ning of religion, or rather of religious 
 character, in the human mind ; in other 
 words, the doctrine of conversion. 
 
 IL 
 
 ON CONVERSION. 
 
 John iii 3 : " Except a man be born again, he can- 
 not see the kingdom of God." 
 
 It will help us to understand the sub- 
 ject of Conversion, and will prepare us 
 to pursue the analogy proposed in this 
 series of discourses, to take a brief his- 
 torical view of that language by which, 
 among theologians, the doctrine has 
 been most commonly expressed : I 
 mean that language which is founded 
 on the figure of a new birth. Three 
 views are to be taken of it : first, of its 
 signification among the Jews ; secondly, 
 of its use among the early Christian 
 teachers ; and thirdly, of its application 
 to modern Christian communities. And 
 corresponding to this distinction, there 
 are three kinds of conversion to be con- 
 sidered : the Jewish, the ancient Chris- 
 tian conversion, and that which is to be 
 urged among men already Christian in 
 their education and general belief. 
 
 Let me observe, in passing, that the 
 phrases, "born again," "new creation," 
 &c., are not the only expressions in the 
 New Testament which are applied to the 
 same subject : for men were required to 
 be changed, to be turned from the er- 
 ror of their ways, — were said to have 
 passed from darkness to light, from the 
 power of sin and Satan to the service of 
 God and the wisdom of the just. In 
 short, a very great variety of language 
 was used to describe the process of be- 
 coming a good man and a follower of 
 Christ. 
 
 But the figurative expressions just re- 
 ferred to have been most constantly 
 
CONVERSION. 
 
 409 
 
 used, in modern times, to express that 
 change which is meant by conversion. 
 The reason for this, I suppose, is ob- 
 vious. There has been a striking and 
 manifest disposition, ever since the 
 primitive simpHcity departed from re- 
 ligion, to regard and treat it as a mys- 
 tery ; and therefore the most obscure 
 and mysterious expressions have, in 
 preference, been adopted to set it forth. 
 The figure in question, I shall soon have 
 occasion to observe, is less adapted to 
 set forth the spiritual nature of religion 
 than almost any of the representations 
 that are current in the New Testament. 
 
 On every account, therefore, it is de- 
 sirable that tliis language should be 
 explained, and that the explanation 
 should be fixed in our minds, even 
 though it should require some repetition 
 to do it. 
 
 What, then, is the meaning of the 
 phrase, " being born again" ? 
 
 I. When our Saviour said to the in- 
 quiring Nicodemus, " Except a man be 
 born again," we may well suppose that 
 he did not use language either new or 
 unintelligible to him. Nor would it com- 
 port with a proper view of our Saviour's 
 character to suppose that he used the 
 language of mystery. Nicodemus, in- 
 deed, affected to think it mysterious, 
 saying, " How can a man be born when 
 he is old ? " It was not, however, be- 
 cause he did not understand, but because 
 he did understand it. For the language 
 in question was familiar at that day ; it 
 was in the mouth of every Jew, much 
 more in that of a master in Israel. We 
 learn from the Jewish writers of that 
 day that the phrase "born again" was 
 at that time, and had been all along, 
 applied to proselytes from paganism. 
 A convert, or a proselyte to the Jewish re- 
 ligion, was currently denominated "one 
 born again," a '-new-born child," "a 
 new creature." This language they 
 adopted, doubtless, to express what 
 they considered to be the greatness of 
 the distinction and favor implied in 
 being a Jew. It was nothing less than 
 a "new creation." In the apparent 
 
 misapprehension of Nicodemus, there- 
 fore, 1 see nothing but the astonish- 
 ment natural to a Jew on being told 
 that he, favored of God, as he had 
 thought himself; that he, one of the cho- 
 sen people, must himself pass through 
 another conversion, another proselyt- 
 ism, in order to see the kingdom of 
 God. 
 
 But to revert to the phrases which 
 conveyed to Nicodemus this unwelcome 
 truth ; I say that they referred originally 
 to proselytism to the Jewish religion. 
 This was the known signification of 
 these phrases at the time. There can 
 be no dispute or question on this point. 
 Something like this use of these phrases 
 was common among other nations at 
 that period, as among the Romans the 
 change from slavery to citizenship was 
 denominated "a new creation." It ap- 
 pears, then, as I have already observed, 
 that this expression is not the best 
 adapted to set forth the spiritual nature 
 of religion, since it was originally used 
 to describe a visible fact, an outward 
 chancre. 
 
 II. But let us proceed from the Jew- 
 ish use of this language to the adoption 
 of it among the first teachers of Chris- 
 tianity. It was natural that the Christian 
 teachers, in calling men from an old to 
 a new dispensation, from the profession 
 of an old to the reception of a new re- 
 ligion, should take up those expressions 
 which before had been applied to an 
 event precisely similar. There was a 
 visible change of religion required both 
 of Jews and Pagans, the adoption of a 
 new faith and worship. It was an event 
 publicly declared and solemnized by the 
 rite of baptism. 
 
 Far be from me to say that the gospel 
 required nothing but an outward pro- 
 fession and proselytism. This was too 
 true of Judaism, though without doubt 
 there were devout individuals among the 
 Jews who had more spiritual views. But 
 it was too true of that nation of for- 
 malists, that they desired little more 
 than to make proselytes to their rites 
 and ceremonies. And on this account 
 
4IO 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 our Saviour upbraids them in that severe 
 declaration, " Ye compass sea and land 
 to make one proselyte, and when he is 
 made, ye make him twofold more a 
 child of hell than yourselves ; " ye pros- 
 elyte him to your own proud, Pharisai- 
 cal, and conceited system of cabalistic 
 notions and dead formalities. But sure- 
 ly if there ever were upon earth teachers 
 who most strenuously insisted upon a 
 spiritual renovation, they were Jesus and 
 his apostles. Still, however, we are not 
 to forget that their language in refer- 
 ence to the change required implied 
 an outward proselytism, as well as a 
 spiritual renovation ; implied the recep- 
 tion of a new religion, considered as a 
 matter of speculation, faith and visible 
 worship, as well as the adoption of in- 
 ward feelings, accordant with the spirit 
 and precepts of this religion. Both of 
 these things they must have demanded 
 by their very situation, as teachers of 
 Christianity. 
 
 III. The way is now prepared to con- 
 sider what meaning the language of our 
 text is to have, when applied to mem- 
 bers of Christian communities in mod- 
 ern times. And the discrimination to 
 be made here is perfectly evident. One 
 part of the meaning, anciently attached 
 to this language, fails entirely : the other 
 stands in the nature of things, and must 
 stand forever. What fails is what re- 
 lates to the outward change. There 
 can be no proselytism to a new faith 
 among us ; no conversion to a new wor- 
 ship ; no adoption of a new system, nor 
 adherence to a new sect. All the con- 
 version, therefore, that can now take 
 place is of a purely moral or spiritual 
 nature. It is a change of heart, a 
 change of character, of feelings, of hab- 
 its. Where the character, the feelings, 
 and habits are wrong, and in such pro- 
 portion as they are wrong, this change 
 is to be urged as the very condition of 
 salvation, of happiness, of enjoying peace 
 of conscience, God's forgiveness, and 
 the reasonable hope of heaven. " Ex- 
 cept a man be born again, he cannot 
 see the kingdom of God." 
 
 The subject, in this view of it, would 
 seem to be exceedingly plain. Conver- 
 sion is no mysterious doctrine. It is 
 no peculiar injunction or precept of the 
 Christian religion. It is the injunction 
 and precept of every religion. The bad 
 man must become a good man ; the sin- 
 ful must repent ; the vicious must re- 
 form ; the selfish, the passionate and 
 sensual must be pure and gentle and* 
 benevolent; or they cannot be happy 
 here or hereafter. This, I say, is no 
 mysterious doctrine. It is what every 
 man's conscience preaches to him. 
 Strange would it be, if, in a religion 
 so simple and reasonable as ours, that 
 on which everything in our moral 
 welfare hangs should be a mystery ; 
 strange, if a stumbling-block should be 
 placed at the very entrance to the way 
 of religion. 
 
 But simple, obvious, and unquestion- 
 able as these views of conversion are, 
 there is no little difficulty in obtain- 
 ing for them a general assent, or in 
 causing them to be fully carried out in 
 the minds of those who embrace them. 
 The true and natural view of the sub- 
 ject is confounded with the ancient 
 features of it. We are thinking of 
 something like a proselytism, of a 
 time and an epoch, and a great experi- 
 ence, and a sudden change. We have, 
 perhaps, been taught all this from our 
 youth up. We have heard about ob- 
 taining religion, as if it were something 
 else than obtaining inward habits of de- 
 votion and self-government, and disin- 
 terestedness and forbearance and all 
 goodness, which it takes a life fully to 
 acquire and confirm. We have heard 
 about obtaining religion, or obtaining a 
 change, or obtaining a hope, as if it 
 were the work of a month, or a day, or a 
 moment. It demands years, or a life, 
 to obtain a great property, or to obtain 
 learning, or to build up a distinguished 
 reputation ; while the far greater work 
 of gaining a holy mind, a pure and good 
 heart, you would suppose, from what 
 you often hear, could be accomplished 
 in a single week or hour. 
 
CONVERSION. 
 
 411 
 
 I do not forget that religion has its 
 beginning ; and if the language in com- 
 mon use was, that at such a time a man 
 began to be religious instead of having 
 become so, I siiould have no objection 
 to it. I do not deny that there are 
 epochs in religious experience, times of 
 deeper reflection, of more solemn im- 
 pression and more earnest prayer ; times 
 of arousing to the moral faculties, of 
 awakening to the conscience, of concern 
 and solicitude about the interests of the 
 soul ; and I would to God these times 
 were more frequent in the experience of 
 us all ! It was in conformity with this 
 view that Whitfield said that " he 
 wished he could be converted a thou- 
 sand times every day." I do not deny, 
 then, that there are epochs in religious 
 feeling. On the contrary, I believe that 
 the whole progress of every mind and 
 of every life may, to a considerable ex- 
 tent of its history, be dated from cer- 
 tain epochs. A man will find it to have 
 been so in his mind and in his studies. 
 Certain impressions have been made 
 upon him at certain periods, in conse- 
 quence of which he has taken up some 
 new study, or pursued the old with 
 greater zeal ; certain impressions which 
 have given a bias and character to his 
 whole mind. And those who are pur- 
 suing more visible acquisitions than 
 those of the mind, may have found it 
 so with them. At some certain period 
 they began this work ; and at other 
 periods they have been stimulated to 
 new diligence ; they have resolved to 
 use greater economy, industry, and 
 method. There is a beginning, then, 
 and there are epochs in every pursuit ; 
 but who ever thought of confounding, 
 as men do in religion, the beginning 
 with tlie end, the epoch with t!ie pro- 
 gress, the starting place with the goal 
 of attainment.? Who ever thought of 
 calling the first enthusiasm of the youth- 
 ful student, leaniifig ; or the first crude 
 essays of the young artist, skill ? 
 
 Does it seem to any one that I do in- 
 justice to the popular impressions about 
 religion ? Am I reminded that, although 
 
 men do say that they get religion at a" 
 certain time, yet that they are taught, 
 also, that they must grow in this, that 
 they have acquired only the first ele- 
 ments, and must go on to perfection? 
 Still I say, that the language is wrong : 
 the language which implies that he wiio 
 has acquired the first elements of such 
 a thing has acquired the thing itself, is 
 wrong. But, I say more. I say it is a 
 language that leads to wrong. A man 
 who uses it will be apt to think he has 
 obtained more than he really has ob- 
 tained. He will be apt to think more 
 highly of himself than he ought to 
 think. His language implies too much, 
 and of course it is liable to pufT him up 
 with pride ; to make him think well of 
 himself, and speak slightly of others, 
 rather than to awaken in him a proper 
 and true humility ; and to inspire a rash 
 confidence and a visionary joy, rather 
 than a just sobriety and a reasonable 
 self-distrust. And I say still farther, 
 and repeat, that there are false impres- 
 sions about religion itself derived from 
 these notions of conversion. Religion 
 is not felt to be that result of patient 
 endeavor which it is. It is made a 
 thing too easy of acquisition. He who 
 in one week, in one day, in one hour, 
 nay, in one moment, can pass through 
 a change that insures heaven to him, 
 has reduced the mighty work to a light 
 task indeed. He may boast over those 
 who are taking the way of patient and 
 pains-taking endeavor ; he may charge 
 them with the guilt of insisting much 
 on a good moral life ; but certainly he 
 should not boast of his own way as the 
 most thorough and laborious. 
 
 But I must dwell a little more partic- 
 ularly, in regard to conversion, on that 
 comparison which I proposed to make 
 between religion and other acquisitions 
 of the mind. And the special point to 
 be considered, the only one, indeed, about 
 which there is any difference of opinion, 
 is the alleged suddenness of conversion. 
 I have already said that this is a feature 
 of the change in question, which is bor- 
 rowed from the ancient conversion, and 
 
412 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 borrowed, too, from the outward and vis- 
 ible part of it. I now say that it cannot 
 appertain to what is inward and spiritual. 
 No change of the inward mind and char- 
 acter can be sudden. The very laws of 
 the mind forbid it. 
 
 But I must not fail to show you that 
 the comparison I am about to make is 
 founded on the strictest analogy. It will 
 be said, I know, that the change we are 
 speaking of is unlike any other, and 
 therefore that the ordinary processes of 
 the mind furnish no analogy for it. But 
 in what is it unlike .'' It is a change ; a 
 change of heart ; a change in the affec- 
 tions, dispositions, habits "bf the soul. 
 Moreover, it is a change effected in view 
 of motives. A man becomes a good man, 
 not blindly, not irrationally, but for cer- 
 tain reasons. He feels that the evil 
 course is dangerous, and therefore he 
 resolves to turn from it. He believes 
 that there is happiness in religion, and 
 therefore he seeks it. More than all, he 
 feels that he ought to be a good man, 
 and therefore he strives to be so. But 
 still it may be said, there is a difference ; 
 and that the difference consists in this : 
 that conversion is wrought in the soul by 
 the special act of God ; that the work is 
 supernatural ; that the change is a mir- 
 acle. Grant that it be so. Suppose it 
 to be true, perhaps it is true, that the 
 secret reluctance of the mind to resist 
 its wrong tendencies, and to restrain its 
 evil passions, is such that a special act 
 of God is always exerted to put it in the 
 right way. But will God, who made 
 the soul, who formed every part of its 
 curious and wonderful mechanism, de- 
 range the operations of that soul in or- 
 der to save it ? Let any one say, if he 
 pleases, that it is a dead soul, a mech- 
 anism without any motion, and that 
 nothing but a special impulse from its 
 Former can ever set it in motion. But 
 when it does move, will it not move in 
 obedience to the laws of its nature ? 
 This, be it observed, is all that we say, 
 to make out the assumed analogy. Let 
 the cause of its operations be what it 
 will, we say that the laws of its opera- 
 
 tions will be always the same ; in other 
 words, that the religious action of the 
 soul takes place after the same manner, 
 follows the same processes, as all other 
 action of the soul. This, certainly, is 
 the testimony of all experience. No one 
 finds himself becoming religious under 
 any other influence than that of motives 
 of some sort. No man finds it an easier 
 or speedier work to become a Christian, 
 than to pass from ignorance to learning, 
 from indolence of mind to activity, from 
 low to lofty tastes, or from any one 
 state of mind to any other. Our con- 
 clusion, then, is based on facts ; it is 
 therefore the dictate of philosophy ; and 
 it certainly is, so far as I know, the doc- 
 trine of all rational theology. 
 
 The processes of religious experience, 
 therefore, are to be judged of like the 
 processes of all other experience. Sup- 
 pose, then, that you knew a man who 
 was indolent in spirit and infirm of pur- 
 pose ; and that you had sought and 
 found the means, at some favoring mo- 
 ment, to arouse him from his lethargy, 
 and to put him in the path of action. 
 Would you say that in the hour of his 
 first impression, of his first resolution, 
 he had become a man of energy and firm- 
 ness ? Nay, how long would it probably 
 be before he could be justly said to bear 
 that character ? Or suppose that you 
 knew a parent who neglected the care of 
 his children, and that, inviting him some 
 day to your apartment, you had, by many 
 reasonings, so impressed his mind with 
 the dangers of this course of neglect, 
 that he had resolved to amend ; and sup- 
 pose that by the aid of many such im- 
 pressions and resolutions, he should, at 
 length, become a good parent. Would 
 you say that you had sent him from your 
 house that day a good parent? If you 
 did so, I am sure that your sober neigh- 
 bors would hold your language to be 
 very strange, and would not a little sus- 
 pect you of being no better than a cred- 
 ulous enthusiast. Or suppose, once 
 more, that, having a friend who was de- 
 void of all taste, you should suddenly 
 open a gallery of pictures and statues to 
 
CONVERSION. 
 
 413 
 
 him, and thus rouse the dormant faculty. 
 Would you say, on the strength of that 
 first impulse to improvement, he had 
 become a man of taste ? Why, then, 
 shall it be said, that a bad man, in bare 
 virtue of one single hour of religious im- 
 pressions, has become a good man ? 
 Religious affections have no growth 
 peculiar to themselves, no other growth 
 than all other affections. 
 
 The phrase most frequently used to 
 describe the suddenness of conversion 
 \^ \.\\2iio{ obtaiiiiiig religion. It is said 
 that at a certain time, a man has " ob- 
 tained religion." Now I am persuaded 
 that if we should separate religion into 
 its parts, or view it under its practical 
 aspects, no such phrase could be found 
 at any given moment to apply to it. 
 What would be thought of it, if it were 
 said that at any one moment, a man had 
 obtained devotion, or a gentle disposi- 
 tion ! Let a man undertake the contest 
 with his anger ; and how long will it 
 take to subdue that passion to gentleness 
 and meekness ? How long will it be 
 before he will stand calm and unmoved 
 when the word of insult breaks upon 
 his ear, or the storm of provocation 
 beats upon his head ? Or let him en- 
 deavor to acquire a habit of devotion ; 
 and how many times will he have oc- 
 casion bitterly to lament that his thoughts 
 of God are so few and cold ; that he is 
 so slow of heart to commune with the 
 all-pervading presence that fills heaven 
 and earth ! Perhaps years will pass on, 
 and he will feel that he is yet but begin- 
 ning to learn this great wisdom, and to 
 partake of this unspeakable joy. Or, to 
 take a word still more practical , what 
 would you think of a man who should 
 say that, at a certain time, he had ob- 
 tained virtue ? " What idea," you would 
 exclaim, "has this man of virtue? Some 
 strange and visionary idea, surely," you 
 would say, " something different from 
 the notion which all other men have of 
 virtue." I cannot help thinking that this 
 instance detects and lays open the whole 
 peculiarity of the common impression 
 about a religious conversion. Virtue 
 
 implies a habit of feeling and a course 
 of life. It is the complexion of a man's 
 whole character, and not one particular 
 and constrained posture of the feelings. 
 Virtue is not a thing that walks the 
 stage for an hour with a crowd around 
 it; it walks in the quiet and often lonely 
 paths of real life. Virtue, in short, 
 is a rational, habitual, long-continued 
 course of feelings and actions. And 
 just as much is religion all this. Re- 
 ligion is just as rational, habitual, abid- 
 ing. What do I say ? Religion and 
 virtue are the same thing in principle. 
 Religion involves virtue as a part of it- 
 self. And in that part of it which relates 
 to God, it is still just as rational, surel}-, 
 and habitual and permanent in the mind, 
 as in that part of it which relates to man. 
 That is to say, piety is just as much so 
 as virtue. And it is therefore as great 
 and strange a mistake for a man to say 
 that he obtained religion at a certain 
 time, as it would be to say that at a cer- 
 tain time he obtained virtue. Neither 
 of them can be obtained so suddenly. 
 
 To sum up' what I have said ; con- 
 version originally meant two things, an 
 outward proselytism and an inward 
 change. It was the former of these 
 only that was, or could be, sudden and 
 instantaneous. An idolater came into 
 the Christian assembly and professed 
 his faith in the true God, and in Jesus 
 as his messenger. This, of course, was 
 done at a particular time. But this 
 meaning of the term has no application 
 to Christian communities at the present 
 day. Or there was a certain time when 
 the Pagan or the Jew became convinced 
 of the truth of the Christian religion, 
 and therefore embraced it as his own. 
 And hence it was that faith, rather than 
 love, became the grand representative 
 and denomination of Christian piety. 
 This faith, like every result in mere 
 reasoning, might have its birth and 
 its complete existence on a given and 
 assignable day, when some miracle was 
 performed before its eyes, or some ex- 
 traordinary evidence was presented. 
 But these ideas evidently cannot apply 
 
414 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 to nations brought up in the forms and 
 faith of Christianity. 
 
 Anciently, then, conversion was sud- 
 den. It was so from the very neces- 
 sity of the case. But from the same 
 necessity of the case it cannot be so 
 now. That which was sudden in con- 
 version, the change of ceremonies, of 
 faith, of worship, of religion as a sys- 
 tem, fails in its ai^plication to us ; while 
 that which remains, the spiritual renova- 
 tion of the heart, is the very reverse of 
 sudden ; it is the slowest of all pro- 
 cesses. 
 
 The notice of one or two objections 
 that may be made to the views now 
 stated, will, I think, clear up all further 
 difficulties with the subject ; and with 
 this I shall conclude my discourse. 
 
 In the first place, if the bad man, 
 when he resolves and begitis to be a 
 good man, is not a good man and a 
 Christian, it may be asked, what is he .-* 
 and what is to become of him, if he 
 dies in this neutral state .'' That is to 
 say, if as a bad man he is not to be con- 
 demned to misery, nor as^ a good man 
 to be raised to happiness, what is the 
 disposition to be made of his future 
 state ? 
 
 To the first question, what is he ? 
 I answer, that he is just a man who re- 
 solves and begins to be good, and that 
 is all that he is. And to the second ques- 
 tion, I reply, that he shall be disposed 
 of, not according to our technical dis- 
 tinctions, but according to the exact 
 measure of the good or evil that is in 
 him. Let us bring these questions to 
 the test of common sense. If an igno- 
 rant man, who resolves and begins to 
 learn, is not a learned man, what is he, 
 and what will be his fate ? If a pas- 
 sionate man, resolving and beginning to 
 be meek, is not a meek man, what is he, 
 and what is to become of him, in the 
 great and just retribution of character ? 
 Do not these questions present and 
 solve all the difficulties involved in the 
 objection ? They are difficulties that 
 belong to a system of theology which 
 regards all mankind as either totally evil 
 
 and unregenerate, or essentially regen- 
 erate and good ; a system wliich appears 
 to me as much at war with common 
 sense and common experience, as would 
 be that system of practical philosophy 
 which should account all men to Le 
 either poor or rich, either weak or 
 strong, either miserable or happy, and 
 admit of no transition state from one to 
 the other. 
 
 In the next place, it may possibly be 
 objected that the views which I have 
 advanced of a change of heart as slow 
 and gradual, are lax and dangeroiJs. 
 Men, it may be said, upon this ground 
 will reason thus : " Since religion is the 
 work of life, we need not concern our- 
 selves. The days and years of life are 
 before us, and we can attend to religion 
 by and by." But because religion is 
 the work of a whole life, is that a reason 
 for wasting a fair portion of the precious 
 and precarious season ? Because relig- 
 ion is the work of every instant, is that 
 a reason for letting many of them pass 
 unimproved.'' Because the work of re- 
 ligion cannot be done at once, because 
 it requires the long progress of days 
 and years, because life is all too short 
 for it, is that a reason for never begin- 
 ning 1 Because, in fine, the promise of 
 heaven depends upon a character which 
 it takes a long time to form, is that hold- 
 ing out a lure to ease and negligence ? 
 I know of no doctrine more alarming to 
 the negligent than this : that tlie Chris- 
 tian virtue, on which the hope of heaven 
 depends, must be the work not of a 
 moment, but, at the least, of a consid- 
 erable period of time. 
 
 Furthermore, that which is never 
 commenced can never be done. That 
 which is never begun can never be ac- 
 complished. Be it urged upon every 
 one, then, that he should begin. Be it 
 urged, with the most solemn admonition-, 
 upon the negligent and delaying. I care 
 not with how much zeal and earnestness 
 he enters upon the work, if he will but 
 remember that in any given week or 
 month he can only begin. I speak not 
 against a sober and awakened solici- 
 
RELIGIOUS AFFECTIONS. 
 
 415 
 
 tude, against the most solemn convic- 
 tions, against the most anxious fears, 
 the most serious resolutions, the most 
 earnest and unwearied prayers. Vt is a 
 work of infinite moment that we have 
 to do. It is an infinite welfare that is 
 at stake. It is as true now as it ever 
 was, that " except a man be born again " 
 — born from a sensual to a spiritual 
 life, born from moral indolence and 
 sloth to sacred effort and watchfulness 
 and faith, born from a worldly to a 
 heavenly hope — he cannot see the 
 kingdom of God. No matter what 
 we call it ; conversion, regeneration, or 
 amendment; it is the great thing. It 
 is the burden of all religious instruction. 
 Let no one be so absurd or so child- 
 ish as to say that conversion is not 
 preached among us because tlie words 
 ''regeneration," "new creation," "born 
 again," are not continually upon our 
 lips. We use these words sparingly, 
 because they are constantly misappre- 
 hended. But the thing ; the turning 
 from sin to holiness, the forsaking of 
 all evil ways by repentance, the neces- 
 sity of being pure in order to being 
 happy here and hereafter ; what else is 
 our preaching and your faith .'* What 
 but this is the object of every religious 
 institution and precept and doctrine? 
 What but this is every dictate of con- 
 science and every command of God and 
 every admonition of providence .'' For 
 what but this did Jesus die, and for 
 what else is the spirit of God given ? 
 What but this, in fine, is the interest of 
 life and the hope of eternity ? 
 
 My friends, if I can understand any 
 distinctions, the difference between the 
 prevailing ideas of conversion, and those 
 which I now preach to you is, that the 
 latter are out of all comparison the most 
 solemn, awakening, and alarming. If 
 the work of preparing for heaven could 
 be done in a moment, then might it be 
 done at any moment, at the last mo- 
 ment ; and the most negligent might 
 always hope. I cannot conceive of anv 
 doctrine more gratifying and quieting to 
 negligence or vice than this. If in can- 
 
 dor we were not obliged to think other- 
 wise, it would seem as if it had been 
 invented on purpose to relieve the fears 
 of a guilty, procrastinating conscience. 
 But our doctrine, on the contrary, 
 preaches nothing but alarm to a self- 
 indulgent and sinful life. It warns tiie 
 bad man that the time may come wlien, 
 though he may most earnestly desire to 
 prepare for heaven, it will be all too late. 
 It tells him that no work of a moment 
 can save him. As we tell the student 
 preparing for a strict examination, that 
 he must study long before he can be 
 ready, that no momentary struggle or 
 agony will do it ; so we tell him who 
 proposes to be examined as a disciple 
 of Christ, a pupil of Christianity, that 
 the preparation must be the work of 
 years, the work of life. My friends, 
 I beg of you to ponder this comparison. 
 It presents to you the naked truth. He 
 who would rationally hope for heaven, 
 must found that hope not on the work 
 of moments, but on the work of years ; 
 not on any suddenly acquired frame of 
 mind, but on its enduring habit ; not on 
 a momentary good resolution, but on its 
 abiding result ; not on the beginning of 
 his faith, but on its end, its completion, 
 its perfection. 
 
 III. 
 
 ON THE METHODS OF OBTAINING 
 AND EXHIBITING RELIGIOUS 
 AND VIRTUOUS AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Luke xxii. 32 : "And when thou art converted, 
 strengthen thy brethren." 
 
 I AM to discourse this evening on 
 the methods of obtaining and of exhib- 
 iting religious and virtuous affections. 
 In selecting the text, I do not mean to 
 say that it covers the whole ground of 
 this twofold subject ; but I have chosen 
 it, partly because I wish to connect the 
 first topic before us directly with my 
 last discourse, and because the second 
 topic, the methods of exhibiting religion. 
 is distinctly presented, though not fully 
 
4i6 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 embraced by the injunction, " Strengthen 
 thy brethren." 
 
 Let us now proceed to these topics ; 
 how we are to become religious ; and 
 how we are to show that we are so. 
 On each of these questions, it is true, 
 that a volume might be written ; and 
 you will easily infer that I should not 
 have brought them into the same dis- 
 course, if I had any other object than 
 to survey them in a single point of view. 
 That point, you are apprised, is the 
 analogy of religion to other subjects, or 
 to other states of mind. 
 
 To the question then, how we are to 
 obtain religious and virtuous affections 
 and habits, the answer is, just as we 
 obtain any affections and habits which 
 require attention and effort in order to 
 their acquisition. They ought to be 
 cultivated in childhood, just as the love 
 of nature, or the habit of study, or any 
 other proper affection or state of mind 
 is cultivated. But if they are not ; if, as 
 is too often the case, a man grows up an 
 irreligious or vicious man, then the first 
 step towards a change of heart is serious 
 reflection, and the next step is vigorous 
 effort. The man must meditate, and 
 pray, and watch, and strive. There is 
 no other way to become good and pious, 
 than this. There is no easier way. 
 
 And this is the point at which I wished 
 to connect the topic under consideration 
 with my last discourse. For it is not 
 only true that the demand for long-con- 
 tinued effort, for a series of patient en- 
 deavors, as the passport to heaven, is 
 more strict than the demand for a mo- 
 mentary change ; but the practical re- 
 sults of the difference are likely to have 
 the most direct and serious bearing on 
 the question before us. The question 
 is, how is a man to become religious 
 and good ? To this question, there are 
 two answers. One is, that a man is to 
 become religious and good by passing 
 through a sudden change ; a change 
 which, if not miraculous, has no prece- 
 dent nor parallel in all other human ex- 
 perience. The other answer is, that a 
 man is to become religious and good, 
 
 just as he is to become wise in learning, 
 or skilful in art, so far as the mode is 
 concerned ; that is, by the regular and 
 faithful application of his powers to 
 that end, by the repetition of humble 
 endeavors, by the slow and patient form- 
 ing of habits, by little acquisitions made 
 day after day, by continual watchfulness 
 and effort, and the seeking of heavenly 
 aid. In the former case, the thing that 
 a man looks for is a sudden and ex- 
 traordinary change in his affections, 
 wrought out by a special influence from 
 above. And although much is to be 
 done afterwards ; yet, till this is done, 
 nothing is done. Much is to be done 
 afterwards, it is true, as a matter of duty, 
 but nothing more is necessary to make 
 out the title to heaven. There is to be 
 a progressive sanctification as a conse- 
 quence of the change ; but salvation de- 
 pends on the change itself. Everything 
 turns upon this mysterious point of 
 conversion. 
 
 Now, can I be mistaken in thinking 
 that such a reference to this point must 
 tend to derange the whole system of 
 rational motives .-' Must it not take off 
 the pressure and urgency of the natu- 
 ral inducements to act ?. Suppose, to re- 
 sume the comparison which I made in 
 the close of my last discourse, that a 
 man has before him a certain study to 
 which he ought to attend. He is, per- 
 haps, to be examined upon it a year 
 hence, and on this examination is to de- 
 pend his introduction into professional 
 life. And, to make the parallel complete, 
 suppose that he is averse to study. He 
 is indolent. He puts off the matter to- 
 day, and to-morrow ; one, two, or three 
 weeks pass, and he has done nothing. 
 But all the while the conviction is press- 
 ing harder and harder upon him, that 
 this will never do ; that he must begin ; 
 and at length he does begin, and proceed 
 and persevere ; nay, he comes to like 
 his task ; he enjoys his industry more 
 than ever he enjoyed his indolence ; he 
 finishes the work, and gains an honor- 
 able place in a learned profession. Now 
 this man was placed under the natural 
 
RELIGIOUS AFFECTIONS. 
 
 4'7 
 
 and healthful influence of motives ; and 
 it is under such influences, I contend, 
 and through such processes, that a man 
 is to become a Christian. But suppose 
 that this man, the candidate for literary 
 honors, had been looking for some sud- 
 den and extraordinary change in his 
 mind, which was to take place, when or 
 how he could not tell : it might be in 
 the first month, or in the second, or even 
 in the eleventh month of his probation ; 
 a change, too, without which notiiing 
 could avail him, and with which all was 
 safe. Does not every one see that the 
 pressure of ordinary motives is nearly 
 taken off ? Does not every one see 
 that a man so circumstanced is very 
 likely to go on without ever applying 
 himself thoroughly and resolutely to 
 the work in hand ? 
 
 And what else, I am tempted to ask, 
 is to account for the apathy and neglect 
 of multitudes towards the greatest of all 
 concerns? Do not tell me, my brethren, 
 that you have escaped this error, because 
 you have embraced more rational ideas 
 of conversion. It is an error, I fear, 
 which has infected the religion of the 
 whole world. Almost all men are ex- 
 pecting to become religious and devout 
 in some extraordinary way; in a way 
 for which the ordinary changes of char- 
 acter furnish no analogy. This is the 
 fatal barrier of error that surrounds the 
 world, and defends it from the pressure 
 of ordinary motives. Evils and tempta- 
 tions enough, I know there are, within 
 that barrier ; but if there be anything 
 without it, if there be anything in the 
 shape of opinion more fatal than every- 
 thing else to religious attainment, it 
 must be that which interfere? with the 
 felt necessity of immediate, urgent, prac- 
 tical, persevering endeavor! The doc- 
 trine of sudden conversion, I conceive, 
 is precisely such an opinion. Let such 
 a doctrine be applied to any other sub- 
 ject than religion, to the attainment of 
 any mental habit, of learning or of art, 
 and I am sure that it would be seen to 
 have this fatal influence. And I fear 
 that it has not only paralyzed religious I 
 
 27 
 
 exertion, but that it has the effect to 
 deter many from all approach to religion; 
 that to many this extraordinary conver- 
 sion is a mystery and a wonder and a 
 fear. I apprehend that by many it is 
 regarded as a crisis, a paroxysm, a fear- 
 ful initiation into the secrets of religion; 
 and that, in consequence, religion itself 
 is regarded by multitudes as the mys- 
 teries were in ancient times ; that is to 
 say, as a matter of which they know 
 nothing, and can know nothing, till they 
 have passed the gate of initiation; till 
 they have learnt the meaning of this 
 solemn password, conversion. Hence 
 it is that vital religion is looked upon 
 by the mass of the community as a mat- 
 ter with which they have nothing to do ; 
 they give it up to the Church, to con- 
 verts, to the initiated ; and that, which 
 should press down upon the whole world, 
 like the boundless atmosphere, the re- 
 ligion of the sky, the religion of the uni- 
 verse, the religion of universal trutli and 
 all-embracing welfare, has become a 
 flaming sword upon the gates of para- 
 dise ! 
 
 I proceed now to the exhibition or 
 manifestation of religion. And the rule 
 here is that a man should manifest his 
 religious affections no otherwise than 
 as he manifests any serious, joyful, and 
 earnest affections he may possess. This, 
 I have no doubt, will appear to be the 
 most interesting and effective as well as 
 the most proper display of them. 
 
 Exhibition, manifestation, display on 
 such a subject, are words, I confess, 
 which are not agreeable to me; and on 
 this point I .shall soon speak. That is 
 seldom the most powerful exhibition of 
 character which a man makes on set 
 purpose. And therefore I should say. 
 even if it were contended that religion 
 is a peculiar cause committed to the 
 good man, which he is bound to advo- 
 cate and advance in the world by pe- 
 culiar exertions, still that he will not 
 ordinarily so well succeed by direct 
 attempt as by an indirect influence. 
 
 But let us take up, for a few moments, 
 the general subject. We are speaking 
 
4i8 
 
 THE AXALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 of religious manifestation : and I say 
 that a man's religion is to assume no 
 peculiar appearances because it is re- 
 ligion. I do not say no appearances 
 appropriate to itself. All traits and 
 forms of character have, to a certain 
 extent, their appropriate disclosures. 
 So far, religion may have them ; but, in 
 consistency with good sense, no farther. 
 Qur Lord said to Peter, '-When thou 
 art converted, strengthen thy brethren." 
 A good man should strengthen his 
 brethren; but in order to do this to the 
 best purpose he is to strengthen his 
 brethren in religion no otherwise than 
 he would strengthen his brethren in 
 patriotism, in learning, or in any other 
 cause. That is to say, he is to be gov- 
 erned by the general and just principles 
 of mutual influence. He is to give his 
 countenance, his sympathy, his counsel, 
 on proper occasions ; but he is not to 
 go about exhorting at all corners, as- 
 suming an air of superiority, speaking 
 in oracular and sepulcliral tones; if he 
 does so he will be liable to be considered 
 intrusive, impertinent, and disagreeable. 
 1 would speak with a sacred caution on 
 this point. I would quench no holy 
 fire. Our fault is too hable to be re- 
 serve. And well can I conceive that 
 there may be times when a man may 
 fitly and solemnly say, " Stand fast, my 
 brother, keep thine integrity;" or emer- 
 gencies of social temptation, when the 
 zealous Christian may say, " Let us 
 strengthen each other's hands and en- 
 courage each other's hearts in the holy 
 cause of duty." The same thing may 
 be done in every other cause, whether 
 of justice or humanity. All that I con- 
 tend for is, that the same good sense, 
 the same courtesy, the same liberality, 
 shall govern a man in one case as in 
 the other. 
 
 Undoul:)tedly a religious and good 
 man will appear on many occasions 
 diflferently from another man, and differ- 
 ently in proportion as he is religious 
 and good. But he will not appear so 
 lalways, nor in things indifferent. There 
 may be nothing to distinguish him in 
 
 his gait, liis countenance or demeanor. 
 Still there will be occasions when his 
 character will come out ; many occasions. 
 His actions, his course of life, his senti- 
 ments, on a great many occasions, will 
 show his character. And these senti- 
 ments he will express in conversation, 
 so that his conversation will be thus far 
 different. But still the disclosures of 
 his character will all be natural. He 
 will show you that he is interested in 
 religion, just as he shows you that he 
 is interested about everything else, by 
 natural expressions of countenance and 
 tones of voice, by natural topics of con- 
 versation and habits of conduct. In 
 short, there will be an appropriate ex- 
 hibition of religious character, but noth- 
 ing singular or strange. 
 
 Now, for multitudes of persons this 
 will not do ; it is not enough. They 
 want something peculiar. There are 
 many, indeed, who are not satisfied, un- 
 less there is something peculiar in the 
 looks and manners of a mail to mark 
 him out as religious. Who does not 
 know how constantly a clergyman has 
 been, and still is, to a great extent, 
 known everywhere by these marks } 
 And what is more common than for the 
 new convert to put on a countenance 
 and deportment which causes all his 
 acquaintance to say, " How strangely 
 he appears ! " And many, I repeat, 
 would have it so. They would have a 
 man not only belong to the kingdom of 
 Christ, but carry also some peculiar 
 marks and badges of it. They would 
 have him wear his religion as a military 
 costume, that they may know, as they 
 say. under what colors he fights. But 
 let us reixiember that many a coward 
 has worn a coat of mail, and many a 
 brave man has felt that he did not need 
 one. And many a bad man, I would 
 rather say many a misguided man, has 
 put on a solemn countenance and carried 
 a stiff and formal gait, and got all the 
 vocabulary of cant by heart ; and many 
 a good man has felt that he could do 
 without these trappings of a mistaken 
 and erring piety. Nor let it be forgot- 
 
RELIGIOUS AFFECTIONS. 
 
 419 
 
 ten that just in proportion as this pecu- 
 liaritv of religious manifestation prevails, 
 hypocrisy prevails. It is easier to put 
 on a costume than it is to adopt a real 
 character. Religion, for its own defence 
 against pretenders as well as for its use- 
 fulness in the world, should demand 
 sobriety, simplicity, naturalness, and 
 truth of behavior, from all its votaries. 
 
 I do not mean, in saying this, to con- 
 found sanctimony with hypocrisy, or 
 bad taste with bad morals. The same 
 distinctions apply to tbis as to every 
 other subject. A man of real learning 
 may be a pedant. A man of real skill 
 may lack the simplicity which is its 
 highest ornament. A really able states- 
 man may practise some finesse. A 
 trulv wise man may put on an air of 
 unnecessary gravity, or be something 
 too much a man of forms. But we all 
 agree that these are faults. We always 
 desire that all unnecessary peculiarities 
 should be laid aside : that no man 
 should obtrude upon others his gifts 
 or qualifications : that he should leave 
 them to speak when they are called for. 
 In other words, we demand good breed- 
 ing in every other case; and I say em- 
 phatically that good breeding is equilly 
 to be demanded in religion. No man is 
 the worse Christian for being a well- 
 bred man ; nor is he, for that reason, 
 the less decided Christian. 
 
 Next to the general manners as modes 
 of exhibiting religion, a more specific 
 point to be considered is religious con- 
 versation. A man usually talks, it is 
 said, about that which is nearest his 
 heart ; and a religious man, therefore, 
 will talk about religion. Every observ- 
 ing person, we may notice in passing, 
 must be aware that there are many ex- 
 ceptions to this remark ; that there are 
 not a few individuals in the circle of his 
 acquaintance who are not. by any means, 
 communicative on the subjects that most 
 deeply interest them. But there is a 
 still more important distinction in re- 
 gard to the subject-matter itself. 
 
 It is this. A man may talk relig- 
 iously, and yet not talk about religion, 
 
 as an abstract subject. A good and 
 devout man will show that he is such 
 by his conversation ; but not neces- 
 sarily by his conversing upon the ab- 
 stract subjects of devotion and good- 
 ness. He will show it by the spirit 
 of his conversation, by the cast and 
 tone of his sentiments, on a great man\- 
 subjects. You will see, as he talks 
 about men and things, about lite and 
 its objects, its cares, disappointments, 
 afflictions, and blessings, about its end 
 and its future prospects, — you will see 
 that his mind is right, that his affec- 
 tions are pure, that his aspirations are 
 spiritual. You will see this, not by 
 any particular phraseology he uses, not 
 because he has set himself to talk in 
 anv particular manner, not because he 
 intended you should see it: but simply 
 because conversation is ordinarily and 
 naturally an expression and index of 
 the character. I am not denying that 
 a good man may talk about religion as 
 an abstract subject, or about religious 
 experience as the express subject. All 
 may do this at times ; some from the 
 habit of their minds may do it often. 
 But what I say is, that this, with most 
 men. is not necessarily nor naturally the 
 way of showing an interest in religion. 
 
 And to prove this, we need only ask 
 how men express, by conversation, their 
 interest in other suDJects ; how they 
 exhibit other parts of their character 
 through this medium, — this breathing 
 out of the soul in words. A man talks 
 affectionately or feelingly; you see that 
 this is the tone of his mind ; you say 
 that he is a person of great sensibility : 
 but does he talk about affection or feel- 
 ing or sensibilitv in the abstract.' A 
 man talks intelligently : but does he 
 talk about intelligence? Or is it neces- 
 sary that he should discourse a great 
 deal about good sense, or be perpetually 
 saying what a fine thing knowledge is, 
 in order to convince you that he is an 
 intelligent man ? Here is a circle of 
 persons, distinguished for the strength 
 of their family and friendly attachments. 
 All their actions and words shov/ that 
 
420 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 kindness and harmony dwell among 
 them. But now, what would you think 
 if they should often sit down and talk 
 in set terms about the beauty of friend- 
 ship or the charms of domestic love ? 
 So strange and unnatural would it be, 
 that you would be incHned to suspect 
 their sincerity. You might, indeed, fairly 
 infer one of two things : either that love 
 and friendship with them were matters 
 of mere and cold sentiment, or that 
 these persons had utterly mistaken the 
 natural and proper method of exhibiting 
 their affections. 
 
 But there is another kind of religious 
 conversation, which, beyond all others, 
 is thought to furnish the clearest evi- 
 dence of a man's piety; and that is, his 
 conversing much with thoughtless or 
 unregenerate persons, with a view to 
 jnaking them religious. Now, here we 
 are to keep in view the same distinction 
 that is applied to rehgion in general. 
 A religious man may well desire to make 
 others religious by his conversation. He 
 may, on proper occasions, converse with 
 them for this very end. But to do this, 
 he need not talk about religion in the 
 abstract, nor expressly about the relig- 
 ious good of the persons he converses 
 with. There may, indeed, betimes and 
 relations in which this personal appeal 
 should be made ; but it should not be 
 done as a matter of course and of set form. 
 A man may impress his acquaintances 
 in this way, I know. He may make 
 them feel strangely and uncomfortably. 
 He may create in them a sort of preter- 
 natural feeling. He may awaken, ter- 
 rify, distress them. He may, then, by 
 such means, make an impression upon 
 them ; but it will not be a good impres- 
 sion. It is planting in the mind the 
 seeds of superstition, which a whole 
 life, often, is not sufficient to eradicate. 
 It is through this process that religion 
 is, with so many persons, a strange, un- 
 congenial, terrifying, distressful, gloomy 
 thing, to their dying day. Why is it not 
 apparent to every one that this method 
 of proceeding is unnatural, unwise, inex- 
 pedient? It is not with religion that 
 
 men are impressed in this case, so much 
 as with the manner in which it is pre- 
 sented, with its aspects and adjuncts. 
 And there is reason to fear that with 
 many religion itself becomes a thing of 
 aspects and circumstances, rather than 
 of the spirit; that it becomes, in its pos- 
 sessor, a pecuharity rather than a char- 
 acter ; a posture, and often a distorted 
 posture, of mind and feeling, rather than 
 the mind and feeling itself. Men are 
 not acc2istomed to talk about abstract 
 subjects, nor about the soul as an ab- 
 stract subject. And if you approach 
 them awkwardly, as you must do in 
 such a case, and put such questions as 
 "whether they have obtained religion," 
 or " what is the state of their souls," 
 they will hardly know what to do with 
 such treatment ; they will not know how 
 to commune with you. They may, in- 
 deed, if they have a great respect for 
 you, sit down and listen to the awful 
 communication, and be impressed and 
 overcome by it. But is this the way to 
 exert a favorable and useful influence 
 upon them ? Do but consider if this is 
 the way in which men are favorably and 
 usefully impressed on other subjects. 
 A man has a quarrel with his neighbor. 
 You wish to dispose him to peace and 
 reconciliation. Do you begin with ask- 
 ing him what is the state of his soul? 
 Do you ask him whether he has ob- 
 tained peace ? Do you begin to talk 
 with him about the abstract doctrines of 
 peace and forgiveness ? Let a sensible 
 man be seen communing with his neigh- 
 bor in a case like this, and he will be 
 found to adopt a far more easy, unem- 
 barrassed, and natural mode of commu- 
 nication. And in any case, whether you 
 propose to enlighten the ignorant, to 
 quicken the indolent, or to restrain the 
 passionate, every one must know that a 
 course would be pursued very different 
 from that which is usually resorted to 
 for recommending religion. 
 
 I have now spoken of the general 
 manners, and of conversation in par- 
 ticular, as modes of exhibiting religion. 
 
 But on the general subject of exhibit- 
 
CAUSES OF INDIFFERENCE AND AVERSION. 
 
 421 
 
 ing religion., I have one observation to 
 offer in close. I have spoken in this 
 discourse of exhibiting or manifesting 
 religion, because I could find no other 
 brief and comprehensive phrase which 
 would convey the idea ; but I am afraid 
 that these phrases themselves are liable 
 to carry with them an erroneous idea. 
 If a man of high intelligence or culti- 
 vated taste should think much of ex- 
 hibiting his intelligence or taste, we 
 should say that he is not very wisely 
 employed. He might, indeed, very prop- 
 erly think of it, if he had fallen into any 
 great faults on this point. But, after all, 
 exhibition is not the thing. And the 
 observation, therefore, which I have to 
 make, is this : that the more a man 
 thinks of cultivating religion, and the 
 less he thinks of exhibiting it, the more 
 happy will he be in himself, and the 
 more useful to others. That which is 
 within us, it has been said, " will out." 
 Let a man possess the spirit of religion, 
 and it will probablvi in some way or 
 other, manifest itself. He need not be 
 anxious on that point. On the contrary, 
 there are no persons who are more dis- 
 agreeable ; there are scarcely any who 
 do a greater disservice to the cause of 
 virtue, than pattern men and women. 
 Hence it is that you often hear it said, 
 " We cannot endure perfect people." 
 The assumption, the consciousness of 
 virtue, is the most fatal blight upon all 
 its charms. Good examples are good 
 things ; but their goodness is gone the 
 moment they are adopted for their own 
 sake. A noble action performed for 
 example's sake is a contradiction in 
 terms. Let it be performed in total 
 unconsciousness of anything but the 
 action itself, and then, and then only, is 
 it clothed with power and beauty. 
 
 I do not mean to dissuade any good 
 man from acting and speaking for the re- 
 ligious enlightenment and edification of 
 others ; I advocate it ; but that is effort, 
 not exhibition. Yet even then I would 
 say, let no man's religious action or 
 speech go beyond the impulses of his 
 heart. Let no man be more religious 
 
 in his conversation than he is in his 
 character. The worst speculative evils 
 in the popular mind about religion, 1 
 fear, are the mingled sense of its un- 
 reality on the one hand, and of its 
 burdensomeness on the other, which 
 spring from the artificial treatment it 
 has received from its professed votaries. 
 Away with set phrases, and common- 
 places, and monotones, and drawlings, 
 and all solemn dulness ; and let us have 
 truth, simplicity, and power ! The heart 
 of the world will answer to that call, 
 even as the forests answer and bend to 
 the free winds of heaven ; while amidst 
 the fogs and vapors that rise from stag- 
 nant waters it stands motionless, chilled, 
 and desolate. 
 
 IV. 
 
 CAUSES OF INDIFFERENCE AND 
 AVERSION TO RELIGION. 
 
 Luke xvi. 8 : " For the children of this world are 
 in their generation wiser than the children of light." 
 
 I AM to speak in this discourse of the 
 causes of indifference and aversion to 
 religion ; and my special purpose in the 
 analogy which I am following out in 
 these discussions, is to inquire whether 
 the same causes would not make men 
 indifferent or averse to any other sub- 
 ject, however naturally agreeable or 
 interesting to them. Let philosophy, 
 or friendship, or native sensibility ; let 
 study, or business, or pleasure even, be 
 inculcated and treated as religion has 
 been, and would not men be averse to 
 them ? 
 
 It is possible that I have a hearer 
 who will think that he solves the prob- 
 lem by saying that men's aversion to 
 religion is owing to the wickedness of 
 their hearts. That would be to solve a 
 problem with a truism. The aversion 
 to religion is wickedness of heart. I 
 am sensible, and it will be more appar- 
 ent as we proceed, that this is to be said 
 with important qualifications. But still 
 
422 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 it is true that this state of mind is 
 wrong. And the question is, why does 
 this wrong state of mind exist ? In 
 other words, whence is this aversion to 
 rehgion ? It may be said with more 
 pertinence, I allow, that the cause is to 
 be found in the depravity of human na- 
 ture. Tliis is, indeed, assigning a cause. 
 And it is, moreover, bringing the sub- 
 ject to a point on which I wish to fix 
 your attention. For so far from ad- 
 mitting this to be true, I think it will 
 be easy to show that men may be made, 
 and are made, indifferent or averse to 
 worldly objects, to objects allowed to be 
 congenial to their nature, by the same 
 causes which make them indifferent or 
 averse to heavenly objects, the objects 
 of faith and duty. 
 
 I. The first cause which I shall men- 
 tion is neglect. There are many sci- 
 ences and arts and accomplishments 
 which are most interesting, and naturally 
 most interesting, to those who cultivate 
 them, but entirely indifferent to those who 
 neglect them. We see this every day. 
 We find different men in the opposite 
 poles of enthusiasm and apathy on cer- 
 tain subjects ; and the reason is, that 
 some have been familiar with them, and 
 others have been completely estranged 
 from them. The most interesting and 
 fascinating reading has no attraction for 
 those who have passed the most of their 
 lives without ever taking up a book. It 
 is, in short, a well-known law of our 
 minds that attention is necessary to give 
 vividness and interest to objects of hu- 
 man thought. 
 
 The first cause of indifference to re- 
 ligion, then, is neglect. It may be said 
 that all are taught ; that the subject is 
 constantly urged upon their attention 
 from the pulpit. But the example and 
 daily conversation of their parents and 
 friends, who have showed no interest in 
 religion, have been more powerful far 
 than the words of the preacher. The 
 real and effective influences of their 
 education have all tended to neglect. 
 The actual course of their conduct has 
 come to the same thing. They have 
 
 never attended to religion, either as the 
 merchant attends to business, or as the 
 farmer attends to soils, or the mechan- 
 ician to his art, or, to come nearer to 
 the point, as the student attends to phi- 
 losophy, or as the virtuoso to matters of 
 taste, or even as the sketching traveller 
 attends to scenery, or as the man of 
 pleasure to amusement; or, in fine, as 
 any man attends to anything in which 
 he would be interested. It is not in 
 this way, at all, that they have thought 
 of being religious, but in some more 
 summary, in some extraordinary way : 
 and multitudes who would think it pre- 
 posterous to expect to be interested in 
 a literature or language of which they 
 have never read anything, have never in 
 their lives attentively read one book 
 about religion, not even the Bible. 
 
 I am quite sensible, while I make 
 these comparisons, that there is a gen- 
 eral attention to religion more important 
 than any specific study of it : an atten- 
 tion, that is to say, to the monitions of 
 conscience, to experience, to the intima- 
 tions of a providence all around us, to 
 the great example of Christ that ever 
 shines as a light before us. But it is 
 this very attention, as well as the speci- 
 fic study, in which men have been defi- 
 cient. And then, as to the specific study, 
 I say, it is to be advocated on grounds 
 similar to those which recommend it in 
 every other case. A man may be re- 
 ligious without reading books, I know. 
 So may he be an agriculturist or mech- 
 anician without reading books. But the 
 point to be stated, for him who reads at 
 all, is that he will read on the subject on 
 which he wishes to be informed and in- 
 terested ; and so we may say that he 
 who studies at all, will study on the sub- 
 ject that is nearest his heart ; and that 
 he who adopts forms and usages in any 
 case, will avail himself of forms and 
 usages in this. So that he into whose 
 life no specific religious action enters, 
 gives no evidence of general attention. 
 
 Still, then, I repeat, there must be at- 
 tention, both general and particular. 
 No man can reasonably expect to be 
 
CAUSES OF INDIFFERENCE AND AVERSION. 
 
 423 
 
 religious without it. It is not enough 
 passively to be borne on with the wave of 
 worldly fashion, now setting towards the 
 church, and now towards the exchange, 
 and now towards the theatre. It is not 
 enough to be as religious as chance and 
 time and tide will make us. There must 
 be a distinct, direct religious action, a 
 hand stretched out, an eye looking be- 
 yond, a heart breathing its sighs and 
 secret prayers for some better thing. 
 But with multitudes this distinct action 
 of the soul has never been put forth. 
 And it is no more surprising that they 
 are not Christians, than it is that they 
 are not astronomers or artists. 
 
 II. The next cause of indiflference and 
 aversion to religion is to be found in the 
 character with which some of its most 
 attractive virtues are commonly invested. 
 Let us consider a few of these, and com- 
 pare them with other affections and sen- 
 timents. 
 
 One of the Christian virtues, much 
 insisted on, is love of the brethren. The 
 analogous sentiment is friendship. Now 
 I ask, would friendship be the attractive 
 quality that it is, if it were inculcated 
 and represented in the same way as love 
 of the brethren? If friendship were 
 constantly insisted on as a test of char- 
 acter, as the trying point on which all 
 future hopes rest ; if a man were con- 
 stantly asked whether he loves his friends 
 in the same way in which he is asked 
 whether he loves the brethren, and thus 
 were made to tremble when that ques- 
 tion is asked ; if, then, the affection of 
 friendship were required to be exercised 
 with so little reference to all the natural 
 charms and winning graces of charac- 
 ter; if, again, friendship must find its 
 objects within a sphere so limited, among 
 men of a particular sect, or among church- 
 members only, or among speculative be- 
 lievers of a certain cast ; and if, more- 
 over, friendship were to express itself 
 by such methods as brotherly love usually 
 does, by set and precise manners, by 
 peculiar actions, by talking of its elect 
 and chosen ones, as Christians have been 
 wont to talk of each other, — if, I say, all 
 
 this belonged to friendship, do you think 
 it would wear to men's eyes the charm 
 and fiiscination that it now does .'' Would 
 they rush to its arms ; would they seek 
 it, and sigh for it, as they now do '^. No ; 
 friendship itself would lose its grace and 
 beauty, if it were set forth as the love 
 of the brethrea usually is. No wonder 
 that men are averse to such an affection. 
 But would they have been equally averse 
 to it, if it had been represented as but 
 a holier friendship ; the friendship of 
 good men, which it is, and which is all 
 that it is 1 
 
 Again ; hope is a Christian virtue. It 
 is also natural affection; and as a nat-. 
 ural affection, it attracts every human 
 heart. It "springs eternal " and irre- 
 sistible in every human breast. Its eye 
 kindles, and its countenance glows, as 
 it gazes upon the bright future. But 
 would it be this involuntary and welcome 
 affection, if it bore the character that 
 evangelical hope has assumed, in the ex- 
 perience of modern Christians ? I say 
 of modern Christians; for the ancient 
 hope was a different thing. It was the 
 hope of those " who sat in the region 
 and shadow of death," that they should 
 live hereafter : it was a hope full of im- 
 mortality; full of the subhmity and joy 
 of that great expectation. But now, what 
 is the modern feeling that bears this 
 name, and how does it express itself? 
 It says with anxiety, and often with a 
 mournful sigh, " I hope that I am a 
 Christian ; I hope that I am pardoned ; 
 I hope that I shall go to heaven." 
 Would any human hope be attractive, if 
 this were its character? Is it strange 
 that men do not desire to entertain a 
 hope that is so expressed ? 
 
 Once more ; faith holds a prominent 
 place among the Christian virtues. In 
 its natural form, it is one of the most 
 grateful of all affections. Confidence ; 
 confidence in our friend ; what earthly 
 repose is equal to this ? The faith of a 
 child in its parent ; how simple, natural, 
 irresistible ! And how perfectly intelli- 
 gible is all this ! But now do you throw 
 one shade of mystery over this affection ; 
 
424 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 require it to assent to abtruse and un- 
 intelligible doctrines ; require of it a 
 metaphysical accuracy ; demand it, not 
 as the natural, but as some technical or 
 mystical condition of parental favor; re- 
 solve all this into some peculiar and ill- 
 understood connection with the laws of 
 the divine government ; <ind the friend, 
 the child, would shrink from it; he would 
 forego the natural affections of his heart, 
 if they must be bound up with things so 
 repulsive and chilling to all its confiding 
 and joyous sensibilities. 
 
 I may observe here, that these three 
 virtues, brotherly love, hope, and faith, 
 , derive from the circumstances of the 
 early age a prominence and a peculiarity 
 which ought since to have passed away. 
 When the Christians were a compara- 
 tively small and persecuted band, and 
 had a great cause committed to their 
 fidelity, it was natural and proper that 
 the tie between them should be peculiar. 
 Hence their letters to one another were 
 constantly filled with such expressions 
 as, "Salute the brethren," "Greet the 
 brethren." Those brethren were perhaps 
 one hundred or five hundred persons in 
 a city ; known and marked adherents of 
 the new faith ; who met together in dark 
 retreats, in old ruins, in caves or cata- 
 combs. But all this has passed away. 
 And now it would be absurd for a man, 
 however affectionately and religiously 
 disposed, in writing letters to any town 
 or city, to send salutations and greetings 
 to all the good people in those places. 
 Christians now stand in the general re- 
 lation to one another of good men; not 
 of fellow-sufferers, not of fellow-cham- 
 pions of a persecuted cause. It is pre- 
 cisely the difference between compatri- 
 ots fighting for their liberty, and fellow- 
 citizens quietly enjoying it. 
 
 In like mnnner. Christian faith, when 
 it was necessarily the first step in re- 
 ligion, when it came to fill the void of 
 scepticism, and Christian hope, when 
 it sprung from the dark cloud of despair, 
 both derived from the circumstances a 
 singular character and a signal impor- 
 tance. And the circumstances justified 
 
 a peculiar manner of speaking about 
 them. Hope was indeed a glorious 
 badge of distinction in a world without 
 hope : and faith was, indeed, a pledge 
 for the highest virtue, when it might 
 cost its possessor his life. But 7ww to 
 speak of faith and hope with a certain 
 mysterious sense of their importance, is 
 to present tKem in a false garb ; it is to 
 clothe, with an ancient and strange cos- 
 tume, things that ought to be familiar ; 
 and it is therefore to cut them off from 
 our natural sympathy and attachment. 
 
 III. The third cause of indifference 
 and aversion to religion, and the last 
 which I shall mention, but on which I 
 shall dwell at greater length than I have 
 upon the former, is to be found in the 
 mode of its inculcation. 
 
 To show that men may be made averse 
 to objects naturally and confessedly 
 interesting to them by an unfortunate 
 teaching, and to point out the manner of 
 that teaching, I shall draw two illustra- 
 tions from the pursuit of knowledge. 
 
 It will not be denied, that for knowl- 
 edge in general the human mind has a 
 natural aptitude and desire. But do the 
 children, in the most of our schools, love 
 the knowledge that is inculcated there ? 
 Have they associated agreeable ideas 
 with their class-books and school-rooms, 
 and with the time they pass in them ? 
 What is the occasion of this insufferable 
 tediousness that so many of them expe- 
 rience in the pursuits of elementary 
 learning ? How is it that they so often 
 find the form, on which they sit, an 
 almost literal rack of torture ; and the 
 hours of confinement lengthening out 
 like the hours of bondage ? Do we talk 
 of men's aversion to religion? Why, 
 here is aversion to knowledge, as strong 
 and obstinate as that of hardened vice 
 itself to religion. What causes it? Not 
 that nature, which was as truly made to 
 love knowledge, as appetite to love food ; 
 but circumstances have disappointed the 
 natural want, till it is perverted and stu- 
 pefied, so that it scarcely appears to 
 belong to the nature of the human being. 
 Again ; the science of astronomy is 
 
CAUSES OF INDIFFERENCE AND AVERSION. 
 
 425 
 
 held, by all who understand it, to be a 
 most interesting, an almost enchanting 
 science. No one can doubt that, if prop- 
 erly introduced to the mind, it would 
 prove extremely attractive and delight- 
 ful. Nor let it be said, to destroy the 
 parallel which I am exhibiting, that 
 knowledge has no natural obstacles in 
 the mind to contend with, while religion 
 has many. Religion tinds obstructions, 
 indeed, in human nature; but so also has 
 knowledge to contend with the love of 
 ease, with sloth, with physical dulness, 
 with pleasure and worldly vanity. 
 
 Now suppose that the teacher of as- 
 tronomy comes forward to instruct his 
 pupil, and that he at once adopts a very 
 unusual, very formal and repulsive man- 
 ner ; that he tells him with reiterated 
 assurance that he must learn this science, 
 and yet fails to show any very percep- 
 tible connection it has with his interest, 
 his dignity or happiness. Suppose, fur- 
 ther, that the teacher informs his pupil 
 that he has the strongest natural aversion 
 to the,science in question ; that this aver- 
 sion is so strong as to amount to an ac- 
 tual inability to comprehend it ; that it 
 is absolutely certain that he never will 
 learn it of himself; that his only chance 
 of success lies in the interposition of 
 divine power ; that all his exertions to 
 learn give him no claim to understand 
 what he is inquiring after ; that if he 
 succeeds, it will be no merit of bis, and 
 that if he fails he will be utterly ruined, 
 and forever miserable, and will richly 
 deserve to be so. Suppose, I say, all 
 these influences to attach themselves to 
 one of the most beautiful sciences ever 
 commended to the human mind ; sup- 
 pose all the strange instructions, the 
 fearful agitations, the tremendous excite- 
 ments of hope and fear, the unnatural 
 postures of mind, the violence to reason, 
 the mocking of effort, the mysteries of 
 faith and the extravagances of conduct, 
 that must arise from so extraordinary an 
 intellectual condition of things; and do 
 you believe that any object or pursuit 
 would be likely to be loved in such cir- 
 cumstances ? Would you say, in such a 
 
 case, that the science in question had 
 any fair chance or trial .'' 
 
 But let us now come to the direct 
 teaching of religion itself. What are the 
 causes that prevent its grateful and 
 hearty acceptance ? What are the causes, 
 I mean, which exist in the teaching it- 
 self; for I am not, at present, concerned 
 with those which exist in the perverse- 
 ness of the human will. To this ques- 
 tion, I shall answer, that the teaching is 
 apt to be too formal, too direct, and too 
 abstract. 
 
 First, it is apt to be too formal. The 
 parent, the teacher, the friend, does not 
 neglect the subject, perhaps, nor does he 
 misconceive it ; his views are rational 
 and just; he sees what religion is, and 
 would teach it; but how does he teach 
 it ? Himself perhaps possessing but 
 little of holy familiarity with its objects, 
 he speaks to his child or his pupil, with 
 a constrained manner, speaks as if he 
 were set to do it, and as if it were a task. 
 He feels the duty of imbuing with re- 
 ligious sentiment the mind that is com- 
 mitted to him ; but the gentle and holy 
 voice is not in his own heart, and, with- 
 out intending it, he adopts an artificial 
 tone. He speaks on this subject as he 
 speaks on no other. His words want 
 all the winning grace and charm of nat- 
 ural sensibility. In short, he is a for- 
 malist in religion, and a formalist in 
 teaching it. Formal as all other kinds 
 of education have been, none has been 
 so dreadfully smitten with this taint as 
 catechising, and the inculcation of Bible 
 lessons, and the teaching of prayers, and 
 talking of God. 
 
 Now, everything unnatural in manner 
 is repulsive to us. It is scarce speaking 
 too strongly, to say that we hate it. We 
 fly from it when we are children ; we re- 
 volt from it when we are men. There 
 is nothing in social manners that is more 
 intolerable than affectation. But espe- 
 cially, I think, is it the instinct of chil- 
 dren to shrink from everything formal in 
 manner. Their minds put forth every 
 power of resistance to it, as their limbs 
 would resist the compression of some 
 
426 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 torturing instrument. Miglit religion 
 but have come forth from all its artificial 
 pecuHarities and forms of singularity 
 and fetters of restraint ; might it have 
 talked with us as other things talk with 
 us ; might it only have won us, as kind- 
 ness, friendship, love win us ; how dif- 
 erent would now have been the state of 
 religious sentiment and affection, in the 
 hearts of thousands around us ! 
 
 I am speaking of direct influences ; 
 and I now add, that they may be too di- 
 rect for the best impression. Perhaps, 
 indeed, it is one of the inevitable errors 
 of the formalist to make them so. He 
 who is not heartily and wholly inter- 
 ested in religion will be very apt to 
 make the inculcation of it a set business ; 
 and then it certainly will be too direct. 
 It will take the form of direct command, 
 and say, " You must do this or that ; 
 you must love God;" rather than ex- 
 press itself in easy and unrestrained and 
 unpremeditated conversation. I am in- 
 clined, indeed, to say that, in general, 
 the strongest feelings choose indirect 
 modes of manifestation. I remember 
 once to have heard of a prayer on a very 
 affecting occasion, and where the speaker 
 was most of all interested, in which it 
 was said that every word bore reference 
 to the occasion, and yet tlie occasion 
 was never once directly alluded to. I 
 confess that that appeared to me as the 
 very highest description that could be 
 given, of delicate and strong sensibility. 
 It is not necessary to be direct in order 
 to be impressive ; the very contrary is 
 more apt to be true. And he who can 
 think of no way to impress religion, but 
 broad, open-mouthed, and urgent exhor- 
 tation or entreaty, understands neither 
 religion nor human nature. 
 
 The common fault of parents cer- 
 tainly is to do too little ; but there are 
 ways in which they may do too much. 
 It has been justly said that nothing 
 can be worse than to be always point- 
 ing out the moral of a story to chil- 
 dren They do it for themselves : and 
 for another to do it for them after they 
 have done it, is often felt by them to 
 
 be degrading and irritating. I think 
 that some of the worst children and 
 young people that I have ever known 
 are those into whose ears moralities 
 and fine sentiments have been forever 
 dinned with wearisome repetition and 
 minuteness. This accounts for the false 
 maxim which you sometimes hear, that 
 the best parents often have the worst 
 children. Such parents, I know, are 
 often what are called very good peo- 
 ple, very exemplary persons; extremely 
 anxious they are said to be for the 
 improvement of their children. And 
 so they are in a sense ; and yet 1 have 
 been sometimes tempted to say that 
 heartless, formal, wearisome domestic 
 lectures on religion and virtue do more 
 hurt than any peop'e in the world. 
 The worst and most abandoned of men 
 make vice odious; they make virtue so. 
 And the feelings of the children, bad 
 and insensible as they are apt to be- 
 come, do really evince, though unhap- 
 pily, the dignity of human nature; they 
 show that virtue was not designed to 
 be poured into the ear in dinning pre- 
 cepts or dull complaints, but to be the 
 offspring of an inward energy, self- 
 wrought, self-chosen, -^influenced, in- 
 deed, by arguments from without, but 
 drawing its own inference, bringing out, 
 from communion with itself and with 
 the spirit of God, its own free and glo- 
 rious result. 
 
 I shall not be thought, certainly, in 
 these remarks, to oppose the religious 
 education of children. I am speaking 
 of the form of teaching, and not of the 
 fact. The only question is about the 
 best mode ; and into this, I maintain, 
 that less of direct inculcation and more 
 of indirect influence should enter than 
 is common. Nay, I maintain that the 
 stern and solemn enforcement of les- 
 sons and readings has eflfectually alien- 
 ated many from religion. It was the 
 manner, I repeat, rather than the act. 
 The Bible may certainly be taught, and 
 catechisms may be taught, in the form 
 of direct lessons ; they may be suc- 
 cessfully taught, if the manner be easy 
 
CAUSES OF INDIFFERENCE AND AVERSION. 
 
 427 
 
 and kindly; and I think that Sunday 
 schools, where a large company of chil- 
 dren are brought together, and the free 
 and joyous spirit of childhood pervades 
 the place, are likely to give freedom 
 and ease to the manner of teaching. 
 Religious teaching is thus becoming 
 like common-school teaching, and on 
 this account is doubtless exposed to 
 some dangers; but it is likely to have 
 the advantage of throwing off the usual 
 manner of direct, peculiar, superstitious 
 appeal to the heart, singling out its 
 object, and fixing upon it the eye of 
 authority and warning. So important 
 and critical is this point of inanner, that 
 a visible and painful anxiety to have a 
 child excel in anything, even in virtue, 
 does not appear to me to be wise ; to 
 urge even this by constant hints and 
 exhortations, and especially with an air 
 of dissatisfaction and complaint, is not 
 expedient. The human affections are 
 not to be won in this way. They are 
 not so won to other objects ; why should 
 we expect them by such means to be 
 attracted to religion ? 
 
 Finally, as we teach religion too for- 
 mally, and often too directly, so do I 
 think that we teach it too abstractly. 
 There is one particular affection on 
 which I shall bring this observation to 
 bear, and that is the love we should 
 cherish towards our Creator. To this 
 sentiment I allow that there are some 
 natural obstacles. They are found in 
 the invisibility and infinity of the divine 
 nature. These obstacles, I think, how- 
 ever, are exaggerated; and they are by 
 no means so great as those which are 
 created by our own mistakes. 
 
 When children are acquiring their 
 first ideas of God and of their duty to 
 iiim, I apprehend that many things are 
 taught and told them, which, although 
 true and right in themselves, are incul- 
 cated too abstractly, — that is, too little 
 with reference to the minds that are to 
 receive them. The parent teaches his 
 child, as the first thing, perhaps, that 
 God sees him continually, in the dark- 
 ness and in the light ; and the thought 
 of that awful eye fixed upon him dis- 
 
 tresses and frightens him. Or the child 
 is taught, with too little explanation, 
 that God is displeased, is angry with 
 him, when he does wrong ; and how 
 little does he understand the consid- 
 erate and compassionate displeasure of 
 his Creator! Or he is taught to pray, 
 and obliged to go through with that 
 formal action without its being made a 
 sufficiently sincere, grateful, and real 
 homage. And he is especially taught 
 all this on Sunday. Sunday, he is told, 
 is the Lord's day ; and it is made to 
 him, perhaps, the most disagreeable 
 day in the week. Alas ! how far does 
 the experience of those tedious hours 
 penetrate into his life, and into the 
 whole religious complexion of liis be- 
 ing ! How often is that hurtful influ- 
 ence reasoned away, and how often does 
 it come back again, and disturb, per- 
 haps, the most rational Christian, even 
 on his dying bed ! 
 
 The first idea, it should be remem- 
 bered, which a child can gain at all of 
 moral qualities is from the experience 
 of his own heart. That is the un- 
 doubted and now conceded philosoph- 
 ical truth. There, then, should begin 
 the child's idea of God. From the love 
 within him he should be taught that 
 God loves all beings ; and so, from the 
 moral approbation or displeasure he 
 feels in himself, he should be taught 
 how God approves the good and con- 
 demns the bad. Next, his parent should 
 be to him the image of God ; and from 
 his love of that parent, and from all 
 that parent has done for him, he should 
 be led to consider how easy, and how 
 reasonable it is, that he should love 
 God. God should be made a present 
 being to him, near and kind, and not 
 the image of a being, a monarch, or a 
 master, seated on a throne, in the far 
 distant heavens. 
 
 The common method of teaching, I 
 fear, instead of this, is extremely arti- 
 ficial, technical, and constrained, and 
 very little adapted to make any clear 
 or agreeable impression ; and I am per- 
 suaded that the same method adopted 
 in regard to an earthly parent would 
 
428 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION. 
 
 powerfully tend to repress the filial sen- 
 timent towards him. 
 
 Let me dwell upon the comparison a 
 moment, and with a view to illustrate the 
 three faults of inculcation on which I 
 have now been insisting. In order to 
 make the cases, as far as may be, par- 
 allel, we must suppose the parent to be 
 absent from his child, absent, let it be 
 imagined, in a foreign country, and his 
 child has never seen him. And now 
 my supposition proceeds. 
 
 The child is told of his parent. But 
 how told ? I will suppose it to be with 
 a manner always strange and con- 
 strained, with a countenance mysterious 
 and forbidding, with a tone unusual 
 and awful. Instead of being taught to 
 lisp amidst his innocent prattlings the 
 name of father^ to speak of that name 
 as if there were a charm about it, to 
 associate with the idea of that father 
 all brightness, benignity, and love ; in- 
 stead of all this ease, simplicity, and 
 tenderness, he is called away from his 
 sports and pleasures, is made to stand 
 erect and attentive, and then he is told 
 of this father. He is told, indeed, that 
 his father is good and loves him ; but 
 the words fall lightly on his ear ; they 
 make little or no impression on his 
 mind; while the manner, the counte-^ 
 nance, the tone, sink into his heart, and 
 tell him far more effectually, that there 
 is something strange and stern about 
 this father, and that he cannot love 
 such a being. Yet this is the very 
 thing on which the main stress is laid. 
 He is told that he must love his parent. 
 He is constantly urged and commanded 
 to love him. He is warned continually 
 that his father will be very much dis- 
 pleased if he does not love him. He is 
 admonished that all the good things he 
 enjoys were sent to him by his father, 
 and he is exhorted to be grateful. 
 Besides, he is shown a book, a fearful 
 book of laws, which this parent has writ- 
 ten for him to obey. And, to complete 
 this system of influences, he has it con- 
 tinually held up before him that ere 
 long his father will send for him, and if 
 he should find a defect of duty, grati- 
 
 tude, and love, he will cast him into a 
 dismal prison, where he will be doomed 
 to pass his whole remaining life m mis- 
 ery and despair ! 
 
 I need not point out the moral of this 
 comparison. Alas ! how many extra- 
 neous causes have there been to sever 
 the heart from its great native trust ; 
 the trust in an Infinite Parent! I say 
 not this to reproach any man, or any 
 body of men. In this matter, I fear 
 that we have all gone out of the way. 
 I lament the defects of every kind of 
 religious educatipn and influence with 
 which I am acquainted, and am per- 
 suaded that they have done much to 
 spread around us the prevaiHng indif- 
 ference and aversion to the most vital 
 and vast of all concerns. I do not re- 
 proach my religious brethren, then, who, 
 with myself, I ought to believe, have 
 meant well and erred in honesty, and 
 whose attention I would invite, as I 
 have given my own, to a serious consid- 
 eration of this subject. 
 
 But I cannot leave the subject with- 
 out addressing one emphatic remon- 
 strance to those with whom religion is a 
 matter of indifference or dislike. I en- 
 treat such to distrust the influences 
 under which they have come to that 
 result. I am sure that I have said 
 enough to show them that any subject 
 would have failed to interest them under 
 the same influences ; the influences of 
 neglect, of misconception, and of mis- 
 taken treatment. It is not the bright 
 and glorious truth of heaven that is in 
 fault. It is not your own nature that is 
 in fault. It is not the beneficence of God 
 that has been wanting to you. But 
 human error has been flowing in all the 
 streams of life around you ; and an err- 
 ing heart within has too easily suffered 
 petrifaction and death to steal into all 
 its recesses. Oh ! let a new life be 
 breathed there ; and you shall find that 
 religion is no form, no irksome re- 
 straint, no dull compliance with duty 
 merely, but spirit, but freedom, but life 
 indeed ; hfe to your heart ; the begm- 
 ning of a higher life, of the life ever- 
 lasting ! 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 429 
 
 ON THE ORIGINAL USE OF THE EPISTLES 
 OF THE NEW TESTAMENT, 
 
 COMPARED WITH THEIR USE AND APPLICATION AT THE PRESENT DAY. 
 
 I Cor. ix. 22 : " To the weak became I as weak, 
 that I might gain the weak ; I am made all things to 
 all men, that I might by all means save some." 
 
 That is to say, Paul adapted his 
 religious instructions to the men whom 
 he addressed, to their particular char- 
 acter, circumstances, difficulties, trials, 
 and speculations. " Unto the Jews," he 
 says, " I became as a Jew, that I might 
 gain the Jews ; to them that are under 
 the law, as under the law, that I might 
 gain them that are under the law ; to 
 them that are without law, as without 
 law, that I might gain them that are 
 without law." From this statement 
 we derive the following principle of in- 
 terpretation, viz., that Paul, and it may 
 be added that all the sacred writers, 
 did not deliver their instructions in an 
 abstract and general form adapted alike 
 and equally to all times, but that they 
 had a local and special reference to the 
 times in which they wrote. It was in 
 conformity with this principle that the 
 Apostle said to the Athenians, " The 
 times of this ignorance God winked at, 
 but now commandeth all men every- 
 where to repent;" and to the Corin- 
 thians he gave advice adapted to a 
 particular occasion, saying, " I suppose 
 that this is good for the present dis- 
 tress,"' — that is, the instruction which 
 I give yoii is suited to the present 
 exigency. 
 
 As I propose to apply this principle 
 of interpretation to some subjects in the 
 Epistles of the New Testament, I wish 
 to place it distinctly before you, and in 
 the outset, to guard it from misappre- 
 hension. It may at once be asked, if 
 the Scriptures were not written for all 
 men. Let us then explain, and it will be 
 
 seen I think, that the Bible could not, to 
 any valuable purpose, have been written 
 for all men, if it had not been written 
 for some men in particular. 
 
 The Scriptures not -only bear marks 
 of belonging to the periods and persons 
 that produced them, but they bear marks 
 of perpetual adaptation to the state, the 
 opinions, the prejudices, in one word, to 
 tlie moral wants of the men to whom they 
 were immediately addressed. When 
 God commissioned prophets and apostles 
 to be the instructors of the world, he did 
 not bereave them at once of their reason, 
 their common sense, their observation. 
 He rather taught them more clearly to 
 perceive, and more keenly to feel, the 
 situation, the difficulties, the fears and 
 hopes, the sorrows, the dangers of those 
 to whom they directed their message. 
 He filled their hearts with peculiar solici- 
 tude and sympathy for the very persons 
 to whom they were sent. How, then, 
 could they fail to address themselves to 
 the particular state and case of these 
 persons ? Indeed, all true feeling, all 
 tender sympathy, all fervent religion, 
 is from its very nature specific and 
 circumstantial. It does not waste it- 
 self in barren generalities. It has some 
 specific objects, over which it meditates 
 and is anxious ; over which it ponders 
 and hopes and prays. 
 
 There is a very striking character of 
 this kind in our Scriptures, and one 
 that distinguishes them, as far as I 
 have observed, from all other systems of 
 philosophy and religion. The instruc- 
 tions of the Bible are local, circum- 
 stantial, specific. We have not in them 
 a few cold and general precepts, some 
 wise sayings, some sententious para- 
 graphs, some mottoes of moral specula- 
 
430 
 
 USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 tion. We hear not in them the staid 
 and haughty philosopher who can 
 scarcely condescend to lay down the 
 law to his ignorant fellow-mortals. We 
 hear not the grave impostor, who would 
 make up for his heartlessness and 
 hypocrisy by an air of wisdom and pre- 
 tension. The Christian teachers did 
 not pause in stately halls or retired 
 groves to deliver their messages, but 
 they went down into the crowd of men, 
 into the places of domestic abode ; they 
 penetrated into the recesses of human 
 feeling ; they communed with human 
 fraility and human sorrow and joy ; they 
 had something for every mind. They 
 entered into the circumstances of men, 
 into their daily wants and trials. It 
 is this that has communicated such a 
 spirit and charm to their writings. They 
 would never have found the deep springs 
 of human thought and emotion (let the 
 truism be pardoned) if they had not 
 searched for them where they actually 
 were. And they could not have searched 
 for them, but by removing the rubbish 
 of svstems and speculations, of errors 
 and prejudices, which was thrown over 
 them : that is to say, but by applying 
 themselves to the circumstances and 
 feelings of the time. 
 
 What we say is, that the inspired 
 teachers wrote for men ; for men of the 
 very period and nation, of the very cus- 
 toms and character, in the midst of 
 which they lived. They wrote for all 
 men, indeed : but they could not, I re- 
 peat, have done this, if they had not 
 written for some men in particular. And 
 to understand their writings, we must 
 consider that they took their form and 
 coloring from the state of things which 
 required them. 
 
 We must add that all this is espe- 
 cially applicable to the Epistles of the 
 New Testament. These, indeed, were 
 particularly called forth by the exigen- 
 cies, the difficulties, the trials, of the 
 primitive churches. Indeed, if men 
 had received the simple doctrine of 
 Jesus without objection or difficulty, if 
 no contentions and controversies had 
 
 sprung up, if no mistakes nor offences 
 had arisen, these Epistles would never 
 have been written. Some instructions 
 the Apostles might have given, and 
 given in the epistolary form, but their 
 epistles would not have borne the same 
 controversial aspect, and there would 
 not have arisen from them in subse- 
 quent ages the same disputes about 
 conversion and election, the atonement 
 and the Trinity. There would not, in 
 short, have been the same difficulties 
 in the interpretation of these Epistles. 
 They took their form from circum- 
 stances; and with these circumstances 
 we have, and can have, but a partial 
 acquaintance. But that they did im- 
 part an influence, — that the Epistles 
 were written for the age, — there can be 
 no doubt. You see the marks of adapta- 
 tion in every sentence. There are many 
 things in them that apply exclusively 
 to the early Christians, that can apply 
 to no others. Such, for instance, are 
 the answers to questions, the solution 
 of difficulties, the settlement of disputes, 
 which have long since passed away. 
 Such, too, is what relates to the use 
 of prophetical and miraculous powers, 
 to meats offered to idols, &c. These 
 things do not now concern us, because 
 we have no miraculous powers, and 
 there are no idols to solicit our offer- 
 ings. Will any man say there is an 
 idol in our hearts 1 Now, this is the 
 very sort of liberty with the Scriptures 
 to which I feel compelled to object, — 
 this spiritualizing, this work of fanciful 
 analogies, this attempt to make the 
 Bible mean- all that it can mean, under 
 the notion of doing honor to it. It is 
 both unjustifiable and injurious. The 
 Bible addresses us as reasonable men; 
 let us read it as reasonable men. 
 
 I should not have dwelt so long on 
 the very obvious principle that has now 
 been discussed, were it not a principle 
 that is scarcely yet admitted into the 
 prevailing theological speculations of 
 our times, and a principle, too, whose 
 importance is quite equal to the neg- 
 lect into which it has fallen. 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 431 
 
 Indeed, it cannot fail to iiave been 
 observed that the habit of applying the 
 language of the Epistles, without any 
 qualification, to the subjects of Chris- 
 tian experience and of Christian specu- 
 lation in later times, has been one of 
 the most fruitful sources of error in 
 every form ; that it has, above all other 
 means, fostered the confidence of secta- 
 rians ; that it has gratified the pride of 
 the weak, and the fancy of the extrav- 
 agant ; and that, by this means, bold 
 and ignorant men especially, the un- 
 learned and unstable, have wrested the 
 Scriptures to their injury. Such men 
 have always been found turning away 
 from the simple instructions of Jesus 
 to the high mysteries of Paul ; and the 
 former have often passed for little bet- 
 ter than flat morality, while the latter, 
 circumstantial, local, involved in the 
 shadows of an ancient age, and even 
 then '• difficult, and hard to be under- 
 stood," have been exclusively studied 
 as containing the high system of doc- 
 trine and essence of all spiritual re- 
 ligion. 
 
 There is, indeed, — what must have 
 struck every attentive mind, — a very 
 remarkable difference between the in- 
 structions of our Saviour and his Apos- 
 tles ; but it was a difference chiefly 
 owing to circumstances. It was a dif- 
 ference not in the substance, but in 
 the form, in the topics of religious in- 
 struction. Our Saviour's teaching w.is 
 evidently more simple, and more en- 
 tirely practical. It dealt more in easy 
 and intelligible expositions and illus- 
 trations of truth and duty, of piety and 
 acceptance with God. Our Saviour was 
 announcing a system which had not 
 }-et encountered objection. It could 
 not meet with objection till it was an- 
 nounced. But the Apostles had to con- 
 tend with a world of objectors of every 
 description. Hence their instructions 
 became more speculative, more compli- 
 cated, more intermixed with the insti- 
 tutions and ideas and prejudices of the 
 age ; and in just that proportion they 
 became more argumentative and ob- 
 
 scure. I say that the Epistles contain 
 nothing in the substance of religious 
 instruction that is new. But whetiier 
 they do or not, — whether the novel as- 
 pect which they bear is in any measure 
 given by new information, — it is very 
 certain that much of it is the coloring 
 of circumstances. And it is from a neg- 
 lect to consider these circumstances, it 
 is from neglect to observe the local ap- 
 plication of these ancient writings, that 
 such a strange and mischievous use has 
 been made of them ; that bad and erro- 
 neous notions of religion still prevail 
 among many ; and that with all a veil 
 of obscurity still remains in the reading 
 of them. 
 
 But there is a danger on the other 
 hand. There is danger of forgetting in 
 the local application of these writings 
 that they have any other ; of supposing 
 that they had not only a special but an 
 exclusive reference to ancient times; 
 and danger, therefore, of suffering them 
 to fall into neglect, and of leaving out 
 of sight that practical import which 
 belongs to all periods. In opposition to 
 this impression that the Epistles had an 
 exclusive reference to their own age, 
 it is sufficient to observe that it is in- 
 compatible, in the first place, with the 
 very nature of moral writings, and in 
 the second place, with the prophetic 
 views of the Apostles, who evidently 
 considered themselves as dispensing 
 truths which would be interesting to 
 all times. 
 
 It becomes very important, therefore, 
 to consider what in the Epistles was 
 peculiar to the times in which they 
 were written, and what belongs to us ; 
 that we may be guarded from obscure 
 and erroneous views of them on the 
 one hand, and from a negligent and in- 
 diiTerent regard to them on the other. 
 Some attempt is therefore proposed to 
 make this distinction between the special 
 and general application of certain terms 
 and subjects in the Epistles; to point 
 out the peculiar propriety and particular 
 use of them, as adapted to the circum- 
 stances of the early Christians, and to 
 
432 
 
 USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 show what is left in them for our in- 
 struction and comfort in these later 
 times. 
 
 I. The first subject which I shall 
 mention, is the institution of the Lord's 
 Supper. Nothing can be more simple, 
 cheerful, and inviting than this institu- 
 tion was as it originally came from the 
 hands of its Founder ; as it was first 
 celebrated, with easy though serious 
 conversation, and in the common man- 
 ner of a Jewish supper, by our Lord 
 and his Disciples. 
 
 Now there is a passage on this sub- 
 ject in an Epistle to the Corinthians, 
 containing a strain of tremendous de- 
 nunciation which has spread terror 
 through every succeeding age of the 
 church. Many sincere and serious 
 persons even at this day tremble and 
 hesitate, and actually refuse to obey a 
 plain command of the Scriptures, lest 
 they should incur the weight of that 
 fearful curse, and should " eat and drink 
 damnation to themselves." It has actu- 
 ally been supposed by multitudes that 
 they were liable to set the Seal to their 
 everlasting perdition by a serious and 
 conscientious endeavor to obey the com- 
 mand of God. What deplorable views 
 of God these imaginations must have 
 nurtured, and how much they must have 
 interfered with the comfort and improve- 
 ment of Christians, need not be said. 
 It is more to our purpose to remark 
 that the difficulty has arisen entirely 
 from neglecting to consider the circum- 
 stances. It is true, indeed, that there 
 has been a great misunderstanding of 
 the terms of this denunciation ; but 
 there has been a still greater inatten- 
 tion to the particular and local appli- 
 cation of it. It was aimed against a 
 riotous, licentious, and profane use of 
 the Lord's Supper, in which the Corin- 
 thians had been guilty of excess and 
 even of intemperance. It belongs, 
 therefore, to the Corinthian church, 
 and to no other, until, indeed, another 
 shall be found which is guilty of the 
 same sacrilege. 
 
 Still there is something in this pas- 
 
 sage for our instruction and admonition. 
 We learn from it, in opposition to what 
 has been commonly supposed, that there 
 is no mysterious and fatal curse await- 
 ing the abuse of this ordinance in par- 
 ticular ; for Paul does not treat the 
 Corinthians as persons who had sealed 
 their own destruction ; he does not 
 even so much as cut them off from the 
 communion of the churches, but still 
 calls them Brethren, sanctified in Christ 
 Jesus, and called to be saints, and af- 
 fectionately exhorts them to reform this 
 evil practice. We are admonished, on 
 the other hand, that this feast is not to 
 be regarded as common, but as sacred ; 
 that the ordinance is solemn, and is to 
 be approached with reverence ; and that 
 to violate this, as to violate any ordi- 
 nance of divine worship, involves hei- 
 nous guilt. At the same time, I think, 
 we may gather from this passage that 
 the ordinance of the Supper was not 
 looked upon in early times with that 
 peculiar awe and dread which prevails 
 in many minds at this day ; for it is in- 
 credible that with these views the Cor- 
 inthians, bad as they were, could ever 
 have fallen into such gross indecorum. 
 
 II. The next subject which I shall 
 notice, though very slightly, and chiefly 
 for the sake of illustration, is that of 
 intermarriages between Christians and 
 unbelievers. Such connections, as you 
 know, were prohibited. Now it only 
 needs to be considered who tliese unr 
 believers were, to convince us that such 
 prohibition was extremely reasonable 
 for that time, and also quite peculiar to 
 it. An unbeliever was a Pagan ; one of 
 a different and hostile religion; a con- 
 nection with whom was likely to prove 
 extremely inconvenient, if not hazard- 
 ous. Hence the Apostle says, " Be ye 
 not unequally yoked with unbelievers." 
 It would be about as absurd to apply 
 this prohibition literally to our circum- 
 stances as the prohibition under which 
 the ancient Jews were laid, forbidding 
 them to intermarry with the Canaanites. 
 There are no unbelievers among us in 
 the particular sense in which the Apos- 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 433 
 
 tie used this term. We are far from 
 saying that there is no difference be- 
 tween the good and the bad ; or that 
 connections between such are inexpe- 
 dient. But to hold the Apostolic pro- 
 hibition to apply strictly to our times ; 
 and then to assume the prerogative to 
 decide infallibly who is a Christian ; and 
 to make this abstract inquiry a previous 
 question in the matter; to undertake 
 this is incompatible, to say the least, 
 with our knowledge and our circum- 
 stances. And yet this is maintained to 
 be right and necessary by great num- 
 bers of Christians of the present age. 
 There may be, indeed, a moral maxim 
 gathered from the Apostle's instruction 
 on this subject, which is indeed the 
 maxim of common-sense, with regard 
 to the importance of a similarity of 
 habits, tastes, &c. And in this limited 
 application, it may be asked, " What 
 fellowship hath righteousness with un- 
 righteousness ? and what communion 
 hath light with darkness ? " 
 
 These two instances may serve to 
 illustrate our general principle. And 
 we pass from them to subjects of Chris- 
 tian doctrine and experience. 
 
 III. I proceed therefore to remark 
 thirdly, that the \.erms, faith and justifi- 
 cation had a propriety and a use which 
 has passed away with the age in which 
 they were first adopted. I take these 
 terms together because they are inti- 
 mately connected. Men were perpetu- 
 ally said to be justified by faith, and this 
 was much insisted on. Before this we 
 hear of justification by humility, as in 
 the case of the publican whose prayer 
 is recorded; of forgiveness which is the 
 same as justification, through the means 
 of forgiving others; of acceptance with 
 God through the means of piety as the 
 condition on our part ; but the moment 
 we pass into the Epistles we find that 
 all this comes by faith. Now, the truth 
 is, that the condition is really not varied. 
 It is essentially the same in both cases. 
 It is that piety or goodness, without 
 which it is impossible to possess, or if 
 possessed, to enjoy the divine favor and 
 
 approbation. And this condition is con- 
 stantly represented in tiie Epistles to 
 be faith ; for these reasons — because a 
 new religion was proposed, wh(^e first 
 demand would of course be for faith 
 in it ; and because such faith, when 
 embraced and avowed in that age of 
 prejudice and persecution, was an un- 
 questionable proof of sincere and pious 
 conviction, and hence naturally came to 
 pass for piety itself. 
 
 Much, too, is said of justification 
 through the free grace of God, because 
 the Apostles had to encounter the pride 
 of philosophers and the self-sufficiency 
 of formalists in religion ; because they 
 found everywhere prevailing the notion 
 that rites and sacrifices were entitled to 
 procure the favor of God. Justification, 
 therefore, not by sacrifices or by works 
 as properly meritorious, but by grace, 
 by the mercy of God ; and justification 
 not by ceremonial observances, but by a 
 living faith and obedience; these were 
 views of religious truth that needed to 
 be particularly urged. 
 
 Now it is rather awkward, or at least 
 it is unfortunate, that these terms should 
 occupy the same place in our theology 
 and moral instruction as they did in 
 those of the apostles ; because the par- 
 ticular occasion and propriety of them 
 have passed away. We are a nation of 
 believers ; I do not say of true Chris- 
 tians, but of believers in the popular 
 sense of that term. There can be no 
 such propriety in urging faith upon us, 
 as upon an assembly of Pagans, and it 
 cannot be urged at all without many 
 explanations; and, after all, being liable 
 to be misunderstood. What needs to 
 be pressed upon us now as a prominent 
 point is a different form of piety. It is 
 not so much faith as obedience. And 
 as to gratuitous justification, as to free 
 grace, the danger seems now to be, not 
 of trusting to the mercy of God too little, 
 but too much ; and of making not too 
 much of our own works ; but of making 
 far too little. 
 
 The attempt to apply the apostolic 
 views of faith and justification in all 
 
434 
 
 USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 their extent and frequency to our ex- 
 perience has been unfortunate also, 
 because it has led to unnatural, mystical 
 ideas o^ religion, and among other ideas 
 it has led men to conjure up the prepos- 
 terous notion that the great obstacle to 
 salvation in the human heart is not its 
 bad passions, but some strange unwill- 
 ingness to be saved by the mercy of 
 God; and that faith, being so exclusive 
 and all-important, had some mysterious 
 power of appropriating and securing the 
 favor of God to itself. Indeed, faith 
 has been often thought to be nothing 
 else but a willingness to be saved. 
 
 On the other hand, it is never to be 
 forgotten that we are saved by grace ; 
 and if there is yet among us any linger- 
 ing thouglit of deserving heaven by our 
 good deeds, we need to be reminded of 
 the earnestness with which the apostles 
 taught that we are saved by grace ; by 
 the free grace, the benignity, the forgiv- 
 ing compassion of our Maker. And if 
 any of us are thinking that our claim to 
 the divine favor, though not perfect, is 
 yet quite promising; that we have done 
 so little evil and have led a life so moral 
 and unimpeachable that it would be un- 
 just in God to punish us for our sin, we 
 may rest assured that we know little of 
 ourselves and less still of that humility, 
 contrition, and deep sense of unworthi- 
 ness that belong to the real Christian. 
 
 IV. The remarks which have been 
 made might be applied to several topics 
 in the Epistles, but we are limited for 
 the present to one further: I mean the 
 subject of religlojis experie7ice. Relig- 
 ious experience in the early age was 
 itself strongly colored by circumstances, 
 and the description of it still more. 
 
 It is to be considered, in the first place, 
 that the circumstances of that age gave 
 to religion a character of powerful ex- 
 citement. We are to remember that it 
 was the age of miracles, of signs and 
 wonders; that it was the era of a new 
 and wonderful revelation; that it was 
 the epoch of a new religious dominion; 
 and that men's minds were strongly 
 • excited by what was novel, marvellous, 
 
 and prospective around them. We are 
 to remember that the new religion 
 aroused them from a guilty and degraded 
 idolatry and naturally filled them with 
 amazement and alarm. 
 
 Again, it is to be considered that the 
 circumstances of that age made religion, 
 if I may speak so, a more notable thing; 
 a thing more easily marked by dates, 
 more easily referred to a certain period 
 of time. Conversion in that day con- 
 sisted of two parts. It was a turning 
 from Paganism to Christianity, and it 
 was a turning from sin to holiness. 
 Conversion, therefore, was both an event 
 and an experience ; not an experience 
 only as it now is, but an event ; a thing 
 that could be dated from a certain day 
 and hour. We are to remember, then, 
 that conversion was not a change of 
 affections only, but of the whole religion ; 
 a change of rites, of customs, of the 
 whole course of life ; that it was a change 
 of hopes too; that it introduced men 
 into a new world, a world of new and 
 bright and astonishing revelations ; that 
 for this reason a new phraseology be- 
 came applicable to them, not to their 
 character entirely but in part to their 
 circumstances ; that they became at 
 once, externally rather than internally, 
 new creatures ; that old things passed 
 away and all things became new ; that 
 they were brought out of darkness into 
 marvellous light. We see in all this, 
 I say, the coloring of circumstances. 
 These men were not at once made per- 
 fect and fit for heaven, as the language 
 would seem to represent, for they were 
 urged to make their calling and election 
 sure. The language describes an inward 
 change, indeed ; but it also describes a 
 ceremonial change If the change had 
 been altogether- spiritual, we doubtless 
 should have had a simpler and more 
 accurate phraseology on the subj-^*. 
 We know indeed that an instantaneous 
 and total change of all the habits, 
 thoughts, feelings, and purposes of the 
 soul is incompatible with the nature of 
 the mind and with all proper moral in- 
 fluence upon it. 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 435 
 
 It can require but a little reflection to 
 convince you of all this. You must have 
 observed, also, what injury the literal 
 application of this language to religious 
 experience in later days has produced, by 
 awakening noisy excitement and abun- 
 dant joys and rash confidence, and, on 
 the whole, an artificial and extravagant 
 experience, at a moment when simplicity 
 and modesty and anxiety and watchful- 
 ness were of all things the most suitable 
 and desirable. And you must have re- 
 flected how much better and fitter it 
 would have been, in that moment of 
 imaginary or real conversion, for the 
 subject of it, instead of coming forth to 
 the multitude to tell what the Lord had 
 done for his soul, to have gone away 
 to his retired closet to pray, and to 
 carry on the secret struggle of the re- 
 ligious life in his own bosom ; how 
 much better for him who thinks him- 
 self to have been a Christian but for one 
 hour or for one day, in that day, in that 
 hour, to be silent, thoughtful, diffident, 
 anxious ! 
 
 But there is danger, and great danger, 
 on the other hand. Perceiving that the 
 apostolic language had a special appli- 
 cation to former times, we may imagine 
 that it has little or no relation to us. 
 The coloring of circumstance, which is 
 spread over their phraseology, may hide 
 from us its deep and serious meaning. 
 We may imagine that the doctrine of 
 conversion is but an antiquated notion 
 with which we have little or no concern. 
 We may look upon it as the costume of 
 religious experience in an ancient age, 
 which is now quite laid aside. Yet how 
 strange would it be to suppose a cos- 
 tume which clothed nothing, or a body 
 of phraseology, if I may speak so, with- 
 out a living spirit ! And how low must 
 be our conceptions of Jesus and his 
 apostles, of the most spiritual teachers 
 the world ever saw, if we imagine their 
 ultimate object to have been to bring 
 about a formal change of religion, a 
 mere change of rites and names ! — 
 Their doctrine — may it never he forgot- 
 ten ! — pointed chiefly to the heart ; and 
 
 we all have a concern with it more 
 weighty and solemn than any circum- 
 stances can impose. If, my friends, if 
 we are Christians only in name, li we 
 hope for heaven only because we were 
 born in a Christian land, we still need a 
 conversion. If we are worldly ; if we 
 are covetous or sensual ; if we are 
 guided by inclination rather than by 
 duty, we need a conversion, not less 
 than that which the Pagan experienced 
 If we are unkind, severe, censorious or 
 injurious, in the relations or the inter- 
 course of life ; if we are unfaithful par- 
 ents or undutiful children ; if we are 
 severe masters or faithless servants; if 
 we are treacherous friends or bad neigh- 
 bors or bitter competitors, we need a con- 
 version ; we need a change greater tlian 
 merely from Paganism to Christianity. 
 If, in fine, we have never yet formed the 
 resolute and serious purpose of leading 
 a religious life ; if we do not love the 
 duties of piety ; if we have not yet 
 learnt the fear of God nor cherished the 
 spirit of prayer, we need a conversion. 
 We need to be anxious ; we need to 
 fear. We need to strive to enter in at 
 the strait gate. 
 
 Religion is as full of absorbing inter- 
 est now as it ever was. And if we ever 
 enter this way of life, though our access 
 to it will hardly be joyful and triumphant 
 if we are wise, yet there will be — let 
 us not take the part of the cold-hearted 
 scoffer! — there will be joys, abundant 
 joys, in its progress ; and there will be 
 triumph, glorious triumph, in its close. 
 But first, there will be, as of old, many 
 an anxious struggle, many a serious 
 meditation, many an earnest prayer : 
 there will be, tliere must be, watchings 
 and fears, there must be striving and 
 hope ; and then will come the triumph. 
 Yes, Christian ! there will be triumph, 
 glorious triumph, when you can say, 
 with the fervent apostle. " I have fought 
 a good fight, I have finished my course, 
 I have kept the faith; henceforth there 
 is laid up for me a crown of righteous- 
 ness, which the Lord, the righteous 
 judge, will give me at that day." 
 
436 
 
 USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 II. 
 
 I Cor. ix. 22 : " To the weak became I as weak, 
 that I might gain the weak , I am made all things to 
 all men, that I might by ail means save some. ' 
 
 The use which has been made of this 
 passage will be recollected. It mani- 
 festly supports the principle that Paul's 
 instructions were modified by the cir- 
 cumstances in which they were given. 
 We are therefore led to conclude that 
 there was something in the manner and 
 form of the apostolic instructions pecu- 
 liar to the early age ; while at the same 
 time there is a spirit in them that be- 
 longs to all ages. 
 
 V. We have attempted in some par- 
 ticulars to make this distinction between 
 the local and the general application of 
 them, and proceed directly to notice, as 
 a fifth instance of this distinction, the 
 manner in ivhich our Saviour is spoken 
 of'wi. the New Testament. Now there 
 are two circumstances which affected 
 this manner. 
 
 The first, indeed, was not entirely 
 peculiar to that age, but it deserves to 
 be mentioned as stamping a peculiarity 
 upon the language of the apostles con- 
 cerning Jesus Christ. It was common 
 to call a system in religion or philosophy 
 familiarly by the name of its founder ; 
 so that the naine of the founder became 
 a kind of appellative for the system. 
 Thus Plato was the familiar name for 
 the doctrine or philosophy of Plato. 
 Thus Christians were said to be •in 
 Christ, to be baptized into him, to put 
 on the Lord Jesus Christ; these phrases 
 meaning of course the principles and 
 doctrines of his religion. Now this was 
 the custom of the age, the style of writ- 
 ing and speaking ; it was form ; it was 
 phraseology ; and we are perfectly at 
 liberty to lay it aside when it is no 
 longer consonant with our general hab- 
 its of speaking , and when we look less 
 with admiration upon Jesus Christ as 
 the founder of a new system than with 
 veneration as the Saviour of men. And 
 yet this sort of phraseology is with some 
 the test of evangelical preaching; and 
 
 though you speak never so clearly and 
 fervently of the great principles of 
 Christianity, it will be said — and per- 
 haps contemptuously said — " that there 
 is nothing of Christ in it." 
 
 But there is another circumstance to 
 be mentioned. !t is this : that the Apos- 
 tles spoke of Jesus as eye-witnesses ; 
 as those who had seen him in his teach- 
 ings, in his sufferings ; who had been 
 with him and lived with him ; and who 
 would naturally speak of him with the 
 warmth of a personal interest and friend- 
 ship. These remarks apply to Paul 
 also, for there was doubtless a mutual 
 sympathy, among the early disciples, in 
 these feelings; there was a spirit of the 
 age. Perhaps it is in imitation of this, 
 without the same circumstances to jus- 
 tify it, that there is sometimes witnessed 
 an irreverent and almost shocking famil- 
 iarity with the name of Jesus ; and a 
 neglect to consider the circumstances, 
 together with doctrinal errors, has led 
 others, perhaps, to speak of Jesus Christ 
 with an affection, trust, and delight far 
 beyond what they ever ascribe to God 
 the Father. So that a writer justly re- 
 marks that a discourse on the Goodness 
 of God shall pass for something very 
 flat, cold, and commonplace ; while a 
 discourse on the compassion of Christ 
 to sinners shall be looked upon as con- 
 taining tiie very marrow and essence of 
 the gospel. 
 
 There certainly have been in the 
 world, and are, very singular and super- 
 stitious feelings concerning Jesus Christ ; 
 there is a peculiarity in men's regard 
 towards him, of which I do not remem- 
 ber to have seen any explanation at- 
 tempted. Nothing has been so sacred 
 in religion as the name of Christ ; noth- 
 ing deemed so awful as to profane it, — 
 not even to profane the name of God 
 himself. Nothing has so tasked and 
 awed and overwhelmed the minds of 
 men as inquiries into his nature and 
 offices. Of the dread attributes of God, 
 of the momentous concerns of human 
 duty, they could freely reason and spec- 
 ulate. Concerning these subjects it has 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 437 
 
 not been thought rash to inquire. Nay, 
 it has been judged lawful and wise not 
 only to examine our early impressions, 
 but to modify, to change, to improve 
 them. Indeed, everything else in re- 
 ligion is open to our scrutiny. But the 
 moment any one undertakes to scruti- 
 nize the character and offices (jf our 
 Saviour, he is assailed with voices of 
 warning. If he dares to doubt, he is 
 given up for lost. It would seem as if 
 there was some peculiar and supersti- 
 tious fear of doing wrong or offence 
 to Christ, — a scrupulous care on this 
 point, a punctiliousness of devotion to 
 him, such as the idolater pays to the 
 deity he most fears or to the symbol 
 he most reverences. Or, on the other 
 hand, the same general state of mind 
 takes the form of a fond and sentimen- 
 tal attachment, expressed by the most 
 odious and offensive freedoms of speech. 
 And many really imagine that while with 
 a kind of sympathetic fervor they are 
 embracing the being of their impassioned 
 imagination, and are calling him "dear 
 Saviour," and "precious Christ," and 
 "lovely Jesus," they are entering into 
 the very heart and life of religion. 
 
 Without undertaking fully to account 
 for this extravagant state of mind, which 
 would lead us too far from our object, 
 we may remark, in passing, that it has 
 probably in part grown out of a mistaken 
 and improper attempt to adopt entirely 
 the language and feeling of the early 
 disciples. The imitation has indeed, as 
 usual, gone far beyond the original. For 
 never did the apostles inculcate any such 
 superstitious emotion of fear, or give 
 license to any such sickening fondness 
 of language concerning Christ, as has 
 been witnessed in latter days. 
 
 Far different from this, far more 
 rational, far more reverential, far more 
 profound and earnest too, is the grati- 
 tude and admiration which we are bound 
 to entertain for the greatest moral Bene- 
 factor of men. The ages that have 
 intervened between us and his actual 
 residence on earth have only accumu- 
 lated evidences and illustrations of the 
 
 value and grandeur of his work. Be it 
 so that his teaching, his dcctrine, Iiis 
 system of religion, is often figuratively 
 called by his name; yet it is none the 
 less true that he is a real person. And 
 however much cause his immediate dis- 
 ciples had to revere and love him, we 
 have none the less. And although our 
 attachment to him must be less personal 
 than theirs, although it must partake 
 less of the character of an intimate 
 friendship ; yet it may be, if possible, 
 even more reverential, more intellectual, 
 more expanded. I know not what en- 
 thusiasm for excellence is ; I know not 
 what veneration for goodness and grati- 
 tude for kindness are, if these sentiments 
 do not peculiarly belong to the Author 
 and Finisher of our blessed faith. Let 
 me hear no more of admiration, of love 
 and joy, if he who has taught me peace 
 of mind and true wisdom, who has 
 brouglit me nigh to God and opened 
 for me the path to immortality, if lie 
 shall not be admired and loved, and 
 hailed with raptures of joy. This is no 
 fanatical or superstitious emotion, but 
 it is the natural, the true and sober hom- 
 age of human feeling to transcendent 
 worth and loveliness of character, and 
 to unspeakable goodness, — goodness 
 not common and earthly, but spiritual, 
 disinterested, divine, witnessed by toils 
 and sufferings, and sealed in death. 
 
 What though the time of our Saviour's 
 visible manifestation has passed away; 
 what though the footsteps of the Bene- 
 factor and the Sufferer no longer tread 
 the earth, and his voice no longer speaks 
 to the weary and heavy-laden ; what 
 though the tears of Gethsemane no 
 longer call for mortal sympathies, and 
 the dark scene of Calvary has passed 
 away from the awful mount, and all the 
 wonderful memorial of what he was, is 
 no longer told by living and admiring 
 witnesses ; yet all this was but the prep- 
 aration for his reign, but the passage 
 to his throne, in the lasting admiration 
 and affection of men. If it is mucli to 
 us that he once lived among men, is it 
 not more that he now liveth at the ri<rht 
 
438 
 
 USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 hand of God ? If it interests us to go 
 back to the scene of his teaching and 
 suffering, and his dying hour, does it not 
 still more interest us that we may here- 
 after behold the same teacher, the same 
 sufferer, — him who was dead and is 
 alive again, and liveth forevermore ? 
 Do we not feel that in the coming world 
 we have a forerunner, and that we are 
 going to the dwelling-place of a friend, 
 to mansions that he hath gone to pre- 
 pare for us ? Is there anything extrav- 
 agant or enthusiastic in the expectation 
 that we shall know him whom we call 
 our Saviour in some new manner and 
 degree ; that we shall learn more and 
 more of the loveliness of his character, 
 and shall hold with him a sacred com- 
 munion, a sublime friendship, forever? 
 I think not, — if the probabilities which 
 reason offers, if the revelations which 
 the Scriptures unfold, may be listened 
 to. In all this I persuade myself that I 
 entertain no superstitious ideas of our 
 Saviour. I regard him as I would re- 
 gard any other benefactor, — only that 
 he is the most exalted of all. For all 
 the blessings of this life are to me incon- 
 siderable compared with what he has 
 taught in his doctrine, with what he has 
 procured by his death, and consummated 
 in his rising from the tomb. 
 
 VI. I shall now introduce, as a sixth 
 and final topic of illustration, the man- 
 ner in which the relation of Cliristiaiis 
 to one another, and to the world, is 
 spoken of. 
 
 And, in the first place, the relation of 
 Christians to one another. The ancient 
 fellowship of Christians was something 
 considerably different from what the 
 present institutions and modes of society 
 permit. They were a persecuted and 
 proscribed class of men. Almost the 
 whole world was united against them. 
 Danger and death waited for them every- 
 where. These circumstances produced 
 a pecuHar union and familiarity among 
 them. Their exposure was common, 
 and they were endeared to one another : 
 it was imminent, and they forgot in a 
 measure the ordinary distinctions of 
 
 social life. It was no time to stand upon 
 etiquette and form. The weakest mem- 
 ber of their society rose into importance, 
 when he might preserve the life of the 
 most powerful, or be called en to give 
 up his own life for the common cause. 
 Hence the apostles exhort them, with 
 pecu^ar emphasis, to mutual confidence, 
 intercourse, counsel, and aid, and even to 
 mutual advice and exhortation. 
 
 It does not follow that it is now expe- 
 dient to break down all the barriers of 
 distinction in society. It does not fol- 
 low that it is now the duty of all Chris- 
 tians to mingle together in the intimate 
 intercourse of life. The proper o}-der 
 of life, the different modes of living, 
 different tastes and habits, different 
 degrees of knowledge and refinement, 
 forbid it. 
 
 Let Christians learn to love one an- 
 other : this is all that they can now do ; 
 and this is enough. Let those who come 
 to the same sanctuary, who worship at 
 the same altar, feel that respect and kind- 
 ness for each other which their common 
 relation and common approach to the 
 same God should insjDire. We wish, 
 indeed, that more of the spirit of the 
 ancient fellowship was among us ; that 
 there was more tenderness for each oth- 
 er's faults, more zeal and solicitude for 
 each other's spiritual iinprovement and 
 comfort, more mutual intercession at 
 the common throne of grace. It is lam- 
 entable, indeed, that the outward forms 
 of society so much divide us, while the 
 inward spirit so little unites us. We 
 need to be often reminded that the ex- 
 ternal distinctions of life are vain and 
 perishing, and that another order of 
 greatness and honor will obtain in the 
 world to which we are going, let us 
 oftener carry ourselves forward beyond 
 this state of imperfect allotments, let us 
 pass beyond these bounds of our earthly 
 vision, and remember that he whom we 
 scarcely know or notice here, may be 
 greater and more beloved than we in 
 that more exalted state, may be the 
 greatest in the kingdom of God. Let 
 us then free our minds from those low 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 439 
 
 and worldly ways of thinking which too 
 much prevail, concerning poverty and 
 toil and the humble lot. It may be the 
 best and the safest of all conditions. It 
 may be only the greater trial, for the 
 greater reward. It maybe, as we often 
 see it in this life, the retirement and ob- 
 scurity that is to open to the most splen- 
 did distinction and glory; a temporary 
 darkness that is to give place to the 
 brightest day. 
 
 Again ; it is to be remarked, that the 
 description of tiiose who were called 
 from the world into the Christian church 
 is not in all respects applicable to the 
 present time. We are told that "Not 
 many noble, not many mighty, not many 
 wise, were called," but that the poor of 
 this world were made rich in faith, and 
 the ignorant were made wise unto salva- 
 tion. If you look at the state of things 
 in that day, you will see a special reason 
 for all this. The profession of Chris- 
 tianity was disgraceful. To take the 
 name of Christian was to take the name 
 of infamy. The chief Apostle tells us 
 that he and his companions were ac- 
 counted the offscouring of the world. 
 Now the persons who would be most 
 susceptible of the fear of disgrace were 
 the great, the noble ; men who were in 
 high and conspicuous stations, who had 
 a character at stake, and who lived in a 
 state of society, too, where honor was 
 even more regarded than it is now. Not 
 so the poor, the ignorant, the unknown, 
 who were already degraded and tram- 
 pled on by their superiors, and who had 
 no honor to lose. 
 
 Besides, those who bore rule often 
 considered themselves as pledged by 
 their office to persecute Christianity. 
 They regarded it as the rival of their 
 religion and the enemy of their power. 
 How, then, could many such be expected 
 to embrace it ! 
 
 And with regard to the wise of that 
 day, let it be considered what sort of 
 wise persons they were : wise in sophis- 
 try, wise in the subtleties of Grecian 
 speculation and the jargon of the Orien- 
 tal philosophy, wise in their own conceit, 
 
 and looking down with ineffable contempt 
 on the vulgar. Would these men con- 
 descend to be taught by a few fishermen 
 from Galilee ? Would they hear of a 
 teacher from the despised land of Judea? 
 
 But things are now changed. The 
 inteUigent among us are not like the 
 sages of those days. Learning is more 
 allied to common-sense, and has taken 
 the garb of modesty. The powerful and 
 great among us have not the same rea. 
 sons for rejecting Christianity. The 
 profession of it is respectable. It is the 
 religion of the land. And we can point 
 to many great and mighty and wise who 
 profess and adorn it. And, on the whole, 
 in a general and fair estimate, there is 
 probably more virtue, more regard to the 
 Christian religion, among the higher 
 than among the lower classes of our com- 
 munities. 
 
 It is altogether unwarrantable, there- 
 fore, to apply the ancient comparison to 
 the present state of things. Yet there 
 are not wanting examples of such a com- 
 parison. If, for instance, one form of 
 Christianity attracts the more intelligent, 
 opulent, and respectable classes of socie- 
 ty ; if there is a progress, an improve- 
 ment in the views of religion, which gen- 
 erally, we do not say universally, draws 
 the respect and attention of more im- 
 proved minds, and if the opposer of these 
 views is annoyed by the reflection and 
 mortified by the comparison ; " Ah ! my 
 brethren," he says, " ye know how it is 
 written, that not many wise, not many 
 mighty, not many noble are called ; but 
 the foolish things and the weak things 
 and the base things, and things that are 
 despised, hath God chosen." Now I 
 shall seriously and boldly say that he 
 oug/ii to know better than to make such 
 an application of Scripture. By this 
 rule of judging, he might level and de- 
 grade all that is dignified and respect- 
 able in society ! 
 
 The higher and the more prosperous 
 classes of the community, undoubtedly, 
 have their dangers and faults. These 
 we shall be led to notice, however, under 
 the remaining topic of this general head; 
 
440 
 
 USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 viz. the relation of the Christian church 
 to the world. 
 
 Here, too, it may be easily shown, I 
 think, that the language of the Epistles 
 needs to be qualified in its application 
 to us ; the language, I say, which de- 
 scribes the relation of the Christian 
 church to the world. It was said of 
 Christians, that they had not the spirit 
 of the world, but the spirit which is of 
 God ; and they were commanded not to 
 be conformed to the world. They were 
 directed to come out from the surround- 
 ing world, and to be separate, and not 
 to touch the unclean thing. Now this 
 language is understood by many as lit- 
 erally applicable to our present circum- 
 stances, though our circumstances are 
 immensely different from those of the 
 early Christians. And it may well be 
 feared, that the habitof applying the apos- 
 tolic representations of the Heathen 
 world to the world around us, and of 
 making the same distinction between the 
 church and the world that then existed, 
 has awakened in some Christians an 
 unamiable pride and vanity, has helped 
 to give them a stiffness and repulsive- 
 ness of manners towards others, and 
 has made them less friendly, kind, and 
 social in their intercourse with men, 
 generally, than they otherwise would 
 have been. He who takes up the notion 
 that all around him, excepting the few 
 who belong to the church, are at heart 
 enemies to him on account of his relig- 
 ion, and deserve the characteristics and 
 the appellations that the apostles an- 
 ciently gave to the Pagan world, and 
 that to himself also belong, on account 
 of his moral superiority, all distinctive 
 titles of dignity and excellence, which 
 were applied in part to the circumstances 
 of the early Christians, — he who holds 
 these views, I say, cannot fail to have 
 his amiableness and modesty affected by 
 them. He may think that all men are 
 his enemies, and he may treat them as if 
 they were so ; and when they testify, as 
 they well may, their displeasure or their 
 ridicule at his forbidding and sanctimo- 
 nious deportment, he may think himself 
 
 persecuted for righteousness' sake, but 
 he is greatly mistaken ! 
 
 The truth is, there is no such distinc- 
 tion between the church and the world 
 as there was in the early age. There is 
 no such distinction of character as the 
 language in question describes : and it 
 never was designed solely to describe a 
 distinction of character, but in part a dif- 
 ference of circumstances, a difference of 
 religion, of privileges, of knowledge, of 
 moral advantages. Recollect that the 
 worst churches, that the Corinthian 
 church, amidst all its shameful disputes, 
 its more shameful vices, and its awful 
 profanation of the Lord's Supper, still 
 enjoyed all these high and distinctive 
 titles of superiority ; and you must con- 
 clude that these distinctions were in part 
 ascribed to their outward state. Recol- 
 lect that the Jews, in the worst periods 
 of their history, were still " a chosen 
 people, a holy nation," and you will have 
 an exemplification of the same thing. 
 
 The world in the times of the apostles 
 was a Pagan world, and was emphati- 
 cally hostile to the Christian church. 
 The two were widely and visibly distin- 
 guished. It is true, indeed, that there is, 
 and ever was, a wide distinction between 
 good and bad men. And it will be ad- 
 mitted by us all, I presume, that there 
 is at this day more of a serious purpose 
 and endeavor to lead a pious life, more 
 reading and studying of the Scriptures, 
 more prayer and persevering virtue, 
 within the church than without it. And 
 much were it to be wished that it were, 
 indeed, more distinguished from the 
 spirit of the world than any language 
 can describe. But as the case really 
 and unfortunately is, to draw a line of 
 distinction, and to say that on the one 
 side is all the goodness and piety in the 
 world, and on the otiier none at all ; this 
 is more than modesty would claim oh 
 one part, and more than justice ought to 
 admit on the other. And yet all the out- 
 cry there is about confounding the church 
 and the world is supported by the no- 
 tion of such a distinction ; is supported 
 by the particular and local and circum- 
 
USE OF THE EPISTLES. 
 
 441 
 
 stantial representations that belonged to 
 the apostolic age. 
 
 But still we must contend that there 
 is a world to be feared ; or, to speak more 
 accurately, there is a spirit of the world 
 which is to be feared ; and the more 
 so, just in proportion as it is less sus- 
 pected. We are not required to with- 
 draw from the general intercourse of 
 society, as the early Christians were ; 
 we have to do what is far harder ; to 
 live in the world, and yet to withstand 
 the spirit of the world. When the 
 Christian band was small and perse- 
 cuted, and hemmed in by a surrounding 
 and hostile community, it was not so 
 difficult to preserve its unity and good- 
 fellowship and consistency of character. 
 Then there was a visible and formal 
 separation. On one side there was 
 open hostility ; on the other, unqualified 
 jealousy and dread. 
 
 Now what we have to fear in the 
 world is no longer visible. It is a foe 
 in ambush. It is the spirit of the world. 
 It is an influence, secret, subtle, insinu- 
 ating, which leads us captive before we 
 are aware, and which leads us, not to 
 martyrdom, but to compliance. Alas ! 
 (we had almost said) it does not bear 
 our souls on the mounting flame to 
 heaven, but it chains and fastens them 
 down to the earth. There is such a 
 spirit, though we may see it not, that is 
 more to be dreaded than the arm of per- 
 secution. There is a spirit of business, 
 absorbing, eager, over-reaching ; ungen- 
 erous and hard in its dealings, keen and 
 bitter in its competitions, low and earthly 
 in its purposes : there is a spirit of fash- 
 ion, vain, trifling, thoughtless, fond of 
 display, dissipating the mind, wasting 
 the time, and giving its chief stimulus 
 and its main direction to the life ; there 
 is a spirit of ambition, selfish, mercenary, 
 restless, circumventing, living but in the 
 opinion of others, envious of otliers' good 
 fortune, or miserably vain of its own 
 success ; there is a spirit, in the world 
 of business, in the world of amusement, 
 in the world of ambition, which is to be 
 dreaded. Even in our best employ- 
 
 ments there is something to fear. There 
 is a spirit of reading merely for gratifica- 
 tion; or of writing, for credit ; of going 
 to church for entertainment ; of praying 
 with formality ; and of preaching, — shall 
 I say it? — of preaching with selfish aims, 
 which is to be dreaded, and in the latter 
 case to be abhorred. Ah ! my friends, it 
 is a dangerous world that we live in. 
 The best, the wisest, the purest, have 
 found it to be so. To fall into the wide- 
 sweeping current of its influence, and to 
 be borne along with it, may be easy, 
 may be pleasant, but // is noi safe. 
 There is, if I may specify once more, 
 there is a spirit, which is of the world, 
 a spirit whose low habits belong to this 
 world rather than to any expectation of 
 a better, whose fears and hopes and anx- 
 ieties are all limited to these earthly 
 scenes, which is grasping for an earthly 
 treasure and forgets the heavenly ; 
 there is a mind, that is fascinated and 
 engrossed^by things seen and temporal, 
 and indifferent to things unseen and 
 eternal ; there is a prevailing forgetful- 
 ness of God, there is an insensibility 
 to the worth of the soul, to its necessi- 
 ties and dangers, to the need of prayer 
 and effort to guard it in temptations and 
 to guide it in its solemn probation for 
 the future ; in one word, there is a per- 
 vading spirit of religious indifference, 
 which is to be dreaded. 
 
 In the external habits and actions of 
 life, as has been already said, we can- 
 not be greatly distinguished ; but there 
 is a harder distinction to attain ; it is in 
 the internal habits of the mind. In this 
 respect it is that we are still com- 
 manded to come out and be separate. 
 In this respect it is not safe for us to 
 live as the world lives. Nor is it safe 
 for us to live carelessly in the world. 
 Not only is the moral atmosphere 
 around us infected, but we breathe it, 
 we live in it, and it presses us on every 
 side. In these circumstances, every 
 solemn admonition of the Scripture, re- 
 lating to the world, may, in the spirit of 
 it, be properly applied to us at this day. 
 In these circumstances, we need, as men 
 
44- 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 ever have needed and ever will need, a 
 faith that overcomes the world. 
 
 On the whole, let us remember, that 
 although the circumstances of the early 
 revelation have passed away, the relig- 
 ion itself has, if I may speak so, an 
 everlasting freshness and novelty. 
 There was something in the instructions 
 of the apostles that was appropriate to 
 their age ; but all ^hat is essential and 
 spiritual remains for us. There is a 
 broad basis of moral truth ; there is an 
 everlasting foundation, on which the men 
 of all ages may stand. Though the 
 form of its superstructure shows the 
 architecture of the age, though some of 
 its former appendages, on which Chris- 
 tians gazed with admiration, have fallen 
 off, though the burnished dome no longer 
 kindles in the first splendors of the 
 morning, yet the mighty temple of its 
 worship is still open for us to enter, and 
 to offer the lowly homage of our de- 
 votion. 
 
 In fine, though the form and the cos- 
 tume and the aspects of circumstance 
 have fallen off, with the signs and won- 
 ders of the early age, religion is but 
 
 presented to us in a more sublime and 
 .spiritual character. And our progress 
 in this religion will be marked by a 
 closer adherence and a more exclusive 
 regard to the spirit and essence of it, 
 and a less concern about particular 
 modes of phraseology and the particular 
 forms of its exhibition. We shall pass 
 through the intervening veils, which dif- 
 ferent dispensations and different ages, 
 which systematic speculations and sec- 
 tarian prejudices, have thrown around it, 
 and shall approach the great reality. 
 We shall pass through the rent veil of 
 the temple, and enter " the holy of 
 holies." We shall thus make our prog- 
 ress in knowledge and devotion a suit- 
 able preparation for a state of being 
 more spiritual and sublime ; where in- 
 firmity shall no longer need forms to 
 support it, nor inquiry guards to 
 preserve it ; where tiiflterent systems 
 and dispensations shall no more mis- 
 lead, nor prejudice, nor divide us ; but 
 there shall be one eternal conviction, 
 that of the truth ; and one eternal dis- 
 pensation, the dispensation of the 
 spirit. 
 
 ON MIRACLES, 
 
 PRELIMINARY TO THE ARGUMENT FOR A REVELATION I 
 Being the Dudleian Lecture delivered before Harvard University, May, 1S36. 
 
 Mark iv. 40, 41 : " And he said unto them, Why 
 are ye so fearful? How is it that ye have no faith? 
 And they feared exceedingly, and said one to another, 
 What manner of man is this, that even the wind and 
 the sea obey him ?" 
 
 The power of Jesus on the occasion 
 here referred to was undoubtedly mi- 
 raculous. Without dwelling on the cir- 
 cumstances, which are familiar to you, I 
 wish to call your attention to two points 
 in the narrative as fairly presenting the 
 subject of my present discourse. One is 
 the natural astonishment of the disciples, 
 amounting almost to a reluctance to be- 
 lieve what their eyes beheld. " What 
 
 manner of man is this, that even the 
 wind and the sea obey him?' The 
 other point to which I wish to draw 
 your attention is the language of re- 
 buke with which our Saviour addresses 
 this feehng of increduhty. " How is it 
 tiiat ye have no faith?" And I may 
 add that he frequently reproaches iri 
 similar terms the want of faith in his 
 miraculous powers. 
 
 Now it is this presumption against 
 miracles, in other words, it is the pre- 
 liininary ground of the argument for 
 Christianity, that I propose in this dis- 
 
THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 443 
 
 course to examine. And of such im- 
 portance do I hold this preliminary view 
 of the subject, that I think it will make 
 all the difference with many minds be- 
 tween believing in Christianity and not 
 believing. That is to say, the evidences 
 of revelation are strong enough to pro- 
 duce belief, if it were not for this pre- 
 sumption against them. Let there be 
 no prejudice against miracles ; let it 
 appear, in any man's account, perfectly 
 reasonable and philosophical to admit 
 them ; let him regard it as extremely 
 probable that the Supreme Being would 
 interpose for our spiritual relief; and 
 then I say, that he must feel the evi- 
 dence actually oflfered to be ample and 
 overwhelming. It is not from the weak- 
 ness of the proof, but from the strength 
 of the presumption against it, that it 
 fails of producing conviction. 
 
 That there is this presumption against 
 miracles, I hardly need say. It appears 
 in many forms. There has always been 
 a prejudice of this nature lurking in 
 the bosom of science. The doctrine of 
 philosophical necessity seems to me to 
 proceed from the same source, though I 
 am aware that its advocates do not deny 
 the Christian attestation to those facts 
 which we denominate miraculous. The 
 modern system of German Rationalism 
 is a standing and recorded proof of 
 the same presumption against miracles. 
 Nay, with some writers this presump- 
 tion has amounted to an assertion of 
 the essential incredibility of such facts.* 
 
 * The essential incredibility of miracles, the im- 
 possibility, indeed, of such occurrences, has lately 
 been argued by an English writer, the author of 
 " Essays on the Pursuit of Truth," in the Third 
 Essay. It is the old argument of Mr. Hume ; but it 
 is presented with great clearness, in a manner at once 
 very calm and imposing, and without any of those 
 terms that would indicate its purpose, or any consider- 
 ation of tlie answers that have been and may be given 
 to it. 
 
 The course of the author's argument is as follows : 
 In the first place, he maintains that all reasoning, be- 
 lief, and knowledge depend on the uniformity of causa- 
 tion ; in other words, upon the regular succession of 
 antecedents and consequents. That most of them 
 do, is doubtless true. We could not anticipate the 
 future nor interpret the past, but upon the supposi- 
 tion that the same principles have been and will be 
 ill operation that are now. But whether there is no 
 
 And where it falls short of this, it is 
 still a secret reluctance to receive them. 
 And I think this reluctance has some 
 
 other basis or source of belief, is the question. Most 
 philosophers have persuaded themselves that the 
 vi'orld had a beginning, an event which quite breaks 
 in upon their order of sequences. 
 
 In ihe next place, the author maintains that our be- 
 lief ill the uniformity of causation is instinctive, origi- 
 nal, ultimate, and irresistible in the mind. That a 
 general sense of preference of order is so, I believe ; 
 and that experience working upon this, or without it, 
 must create a very strong conviction of the regularity 
 of nature, is obvious; but whether anything more 
 than this is true, I must doubt. 
 
 But I am willing to give the argument the benefit, 
 on both points, of any doubts that do not involve a 
 begging of the question, and come at once to the con- 
 clusion. The question, then, of miracles is brought 
 to the point of conflicting testimonies. Nature, on 
 the one hand, testifies, it is said, to undeviating regu- 
 larity. Change, then, is impossible. Man's testi- 
 mony, too, IS valuable, and has its regularity as truly 
 as nature ; but it is more liable to be mistaken, or we 
 are more liable to mistake its marks, and therefore 
 it can never counterbalance the testimony of nature. 
 Therefore a miracle is impossible, and the belief in 
 it absurd. 
 
 This argument proves too much. For suppose now 
 that I acquiesce in the conclusion, and quietly take my 
 seat in this pinfold of philosophy, what does this 
 argument suppose me to say? Or what does the 
 sceptic say who strives to lift his head high enough 
 (but cannot) above the machinery of causes, to de- 
 clare their laws, and processes, and bounds? 
 
 In the first place, he says that God Almighty either 
 cannot change the course of things, though he should 
 please to do it, or else he wiU 7iot please to do it. 
 For the reader will observe that such a change is pro- 
 nounced, without qualification, impossible ! To know 
 so much of the Omniscient purpose, — to know so 
 little of the Omnipotent power, — presents a solecism 
 in whicli it is difficult to tell whether the ignorance or 
 the presumption is the most extraordinary. 
 
 In the second place, this argument would prove 
 that the world and the universe are eternal. They 
 could never have begun, they can never cease to ex- 
 ist ; for either fact would be a deviation from the uni- 
 formity of causation. In the one case there would be 
 a consequent without any regular antecedent. In 
 the other, an antecedent without any regular conse- 
 quent. Nay, since the author holds that there is the 
 same unchangeable order of sequences in the intel- 
 lectual as in the phvsical world, the race of men can 
 have, in this theory, neither beginning nor end. In 
 short, this assumption seems to me to be compatible 
 with nothing but Atheism. If there be no Power 
 superior to nature, none that can interfere with its 
 processes, then perhaps it is fair to infer that its pro- 
 cesses must go on unchanged and unchangeable. But 
 if there is a God, the possibility of change is equal to 
 his fioiver ; it is unbounded and unquestionable. 
 
 In the third place, the argument proves too much, 
 because it goes beyond all reasonable and known 
 bounds of scepticism. The author who says to his 
 fellow-men, "You cannot justlv believe in a miracle ; 
 the thing is impossible, and faith is impossible," tran- 
 scends the bounds of all human experience, if not of 
 
444 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 unusual development among many re- 
 flecting persons in this country at the 
 present moment. It is seen in the dispo- 
 sition of many to turn from the miracles 
 to what they call the internal evidence. 
 It is not uncommon in society to hear 
 the miracles spoken of slightly. There 
 is in every age a fashion of thinking ; 
 and the fashion of thinking at the pres- 
 ent day, I conceive, is growing more 
 and more adverse to these primitive, 
 peculiar, and hitherto received evi- 
 dences of revelation. It seems to be 
 thought by some that the day has gone 
 by for talking about miracles ; that they 
 answered a purpose, indeed, in the prim- 
 itive age, but have no longer any use. 
 Not a few are saying, " Our feelings 
 convince us that Christianity is true ; 
 the book convinces us that it is true; 
 and we want no other evidence." It 
 was in this feeling, obviously, that Cole- 
 ridge exclaimed, " Evidences of Chris- 
 tianity ! I am weary of the word. Make 
 a man feel the want of it ; rouse him, 
 if you can, to the self-knowledge of his 
 need of it ; and you may safely trust 
 it to its own evidence." * 
 
 That this way of thinking is unphilo- 
 sophical, that it does not properly per- 
 ceive the very ground on which it pro- 
 fesses to stand, that the reluctance to 
 receive miracles, though natural and 
 reasonable to a certain extent, is un- 
 phiiosophical when it amounts to a 
 strong prejudice or presumption against 
 them ; nay, more, that, on a whole view 
 
 all human patience. Because almost all men who 
 have ever lived haTe believed in miracles. And is 
 not the very question before us, in fact, a question 
 about experience ? Could all men have believed in 
 ■ miracles, if, as our author contends, an or'ginal and 
 fundamental law of the mind forbade their believina; in 
 them? Is it not as unphilosophic.il as it is intoler- 
 able, to say that all mankind have been found believ- 
 ing in a thing which is plainly impossible? What is 
 meant by its being impossible? That God cannot 
 perform it? I will not impute to any one the inten- 
 tional blasphemy of such an averment. Is it meant, 
 then, that it is impossible that we should believe it? 
 But we do believe it. We can believe it. All men 
 do and can ; all but the few, the very few, who agree 
 with our author. Is there any remaining idea, then, 
 that can be attached to the word impossible ? I know 
 of none. 
 
 * Aids to Reflection, p. 245, Amer. ed. 
 
 of the case, the presumption ought in 
 fact to be the other way, is what I shall 
 now attempt to show. 
 
 But as this way of thinking arises in 
 part, I believe, from a misconception 
 of the place which miracles properly 
 hold in the CJiristian system, let me 
 employ a word or two of explanation 
 on this point. A man says that he can- 
 not regard miracles as the great things 
 in Christianity, since he assigns that 
 place to its doctrines and precepts and 
 spirit. Neither do we ask him to re- 
 gard miracles as the great things. It 
 has been well said of the miracles that 
 "they are like the massive subterranean 
 arches and columns of a huge building. 
 It is not on their account that we prize 
 the building, but the building for its 
 own sake. We do not think of the 
 foundation, nor care about it, other than 
 to know that it has one. We dwell 
 above, in the upper and fairer halls. 
 The crowds go in and out, and rejoice 
 in their coinforts and splendors, with- 
 out ever casting a thought on that upon 
 which the whole so peacefully and se- 
 curely reposes. Such are the miracles 
 to the gospel. They support the edifice, 
 and upon a divine foundation. They 
 show us, that if the superstructure is 
 fair and beautiful to dwell in, and if its 
 towers and endless flights of steps ap- 
 pear to reach even up to heaven, it is 
 all just what it seems to be, for it rests 
 upon the broad foundation of the Rock 
 of Ages." * 
 
 This observation will apply, perhaps, 
 to the case of those who say that they 
 do not feel the miracles to be necessary 
 to their faith in Christianity. When 
 they say this, they must mean by faith, 
 that moral apprehension of the spirit 
 and power of Christianity, that sense of 
 the spiritual relief and comfort that it 
 brings, which does not, it is true, de- 
 pend on miracles ; in other words, that 
 view of the superstructure which does 
 not, it is true, immediately depend on 
 any view of a foundation. But this view 
 presupposes a speculative or traditional 
 
 * Rev. William Ware. 
 
THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 445 
 
 belief in the Christian religion ; or, if it 
 does not, then it is just Hi<e a faith in 
 any other good writings, — that is, sim- 
 ply a belief that they are good and wise, 
 and therefore true ; and, if true, accord- 
 ant with the will of God. In this sense, 
 we have faith in all the dictates of rea- 
 son. But Christianity we receive as a 
 special revelation, an authoritative rec- 
 ord of God's will ; and in this character 
 it must have some attestation beyond 
 its general consonance with our rational 
 or moral nature ; else every demonstra- 
 tion in the mathematics and every un- 
 disputed principle in moral philosophy 
 would be a revelation. That attesta- 
 tion, I say, is miracle. 
 
 The state of opinion on this subject 
 makes it necessary, perhaps, before 
 proceeding further, that I should define 
 the word miracle. All Christians of 
 whom I know anything, in this coun- 
 try, hold to miracles in some sense. 
 I wish distinctly to say this, because, 
 if the sense which I affix to this word, 
 as the only one satisfactory to myself, 
 is not received by others, I would by 
 no means leave it to be inferred that 
 there is any professed difference of 
 opinion between us as to the miracu- 
 lous origin of Christianity. There is 
 only a friendly question between us 
 about the meaning which ought to be 
 assigned to this word. 
 
 What, then, is a miracle? I answer, 
 It is an interruption or ceasing of the 
 regular and established succession of 
 events, taking place in connection with 
 the mission of a person professing to 
 be sent from God, and designed to give 
 that proof of his mission ; I say, an 
 interruption or ceasing of the regular 
 and established succession of events, 
 and that for a specific purpose. A 
 miracle is a fact, like to which nothing 
 ever has occurred, or ever will occur, 
 but for the same purpose. I lay stress 
 upon its being a simple fact. In re- 
 gard to the succession of events, I say 
 nothing of causation or necessity, of 
 which we know nothing. I do not con- 
 ceive that one event compels another, 
 
 as the cogs of one wheel push on 
 another wheel. I take the bare facts. 
 Since the world began, it was not known 
 that a blind man received sight at a 
 word, or that a man with a broken limb, 
 or that a dead body already in the first 
 stages of putrefaction, instantly and at 
 a word recovered vigor and activity. 
 Such events, we say, on certain occa- 
 sions, and for certain purposes, without 
 precedent, without parallel, have taken 
 place. They are the miracles. 
 
 Now the question is, What is the fair 
 and philosophical description of these 
 events } On this point there is a strong 
 reluctance in many minds to admit that 
 there was anything in these cases out 
 of the course of nature or contrary to 
 it, — any interruption of the order of 
 nature, or suspension of its processes, 
 or departure from its regularity. They 
 say that there may have been causes in 
 nature or in the mind, which, though 
 unknown to us, are sufficient to account 
 for the results in question. I object 
 to the word "causes," as implying an 
 efficient power in one event to produce 
 another, of which we know nothing ; 
 and therefore I consider the word " in- 
 terposition," though proper enough to 
 be used in popular discourse, to be, 
 strictly speaking, unphilosophical, since 
 it implies that one event has an in- 
 herent power to produce another, and 
 conveys the impression of a hand thrust 
 in to stay the event that would other- 
 wise take place. This may be true, but 
 we do not know it. We come, then, to 
 the bare facts ; and if we deal with 
 facts alone, I see not how it can be 
 denied that a miracle is something out 
 of the course of nature and contrary to 
 it, — an interruption of its order, a sus- 
 pension of its processes. On this point, 
 a distinction is sometimes made between 
 a real interruption and an apparent in- 
 terruption ; and it is contended that the 
 interruption is only apparent. But in 
 speaking of facts, submitted to the ob- 
 servation of our senses, it appears to 
 me that we must conceive of real and 
 apparent as the same thing. That is 
 
446 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 to say, if such a fact or such an event 
 as one of the Christian miracles never 
 appeared before, and never shall ap- 
 pear again but at the intervention of 
 some divinely commissioned agent, then 
 it is a real departure from the order of 
 nature, — that is, from the universally 
 received and known order of events, 
 vi^hich is all that we know of the order 
 of nature. In other words, the whole 
 thing is a peculiarity, — a special con- 
 junction of events for a particular pur- 
 pose ; and, for myself, I certainly feel 
 none of this strong repugnance to the 
 idea of an interrupted succession of 
 events. I have no respect for the me- 
 chanical order of nature, that makes me 
 feel as if it could not be changed. I do 
 not see that the moral purpose of that 
 order is at all impaired by occasional de- 
 partures from it. Surely, the Almighty 
 Will is not bound in the chains of fate 
 or of nature, or by the powers of na- 
 ture. I am unable to see why the In- 
 finite Parent may not change the course 
 of his providence for the benefit of his 
 children, as well as a human parent may 
 change the course of his administration 
 for a similar purpose. Not, indeed, that 
 it would be an unforeseen expedient 
 with the Omniscient Ruler ; but I can- 
 not see that its being foreseen alters at 
 all the state of the facts. 
 
 But now let us grant, for the sake 
 of the argument, that the miracles are, 
 as the modern interpreter proposes to 
 consider them, only seeming miracles ; 
 only apparent, not real interruptions of 
 the 'order of nature. Would they then 
 be valid evidence of revelation ? When 
 Jesus says, " Peace, be still," the wind 
 and waves sink to an instant calm. It 
 was wonderful, it appeared miraculous; 
 but it was miraculous, say some, only 
 to the ignorance or misapprehension of 
 the observers. There was a sudden 
 lulling of the winds and waves, which to 
 the disciples seemed miraculous. Or, 
 there were causes in the bosom of those 
 turbulent elements, however hidden 
 from us, which produced that sudden 
 calm ; and such occurrences may yet 
 
 come to be as well known, if not as famil- 
 iar, as any of the phenomena of nature. 
 But then, I ask, would there be any 
 evidence of a special divine commission ? 
 To illustrate the case, let us make a sup- 
 position ; or let us take a piece of real 
 history. Soon after the arrival of Co- 
 lumbus on the shore of the New World, 
 there was an eclipse of the sun. The 
 rude inhabitants had never, perhaps, re- 
 marked such an event before. Colum- 
 bus, for a certain purpose, informs 
 them that the sun will be darkened, and 
 he predicts the precise day, and hour, 
 and moment, when it will happen. 
 The people hold their minds in sus- 
 pense till the hour arrives, and then, 
 witnessing the result, they come to the 
 conclusion that Columbus was a super- 
 natural being, and they reverence him 
 as such. It was to them a miracle. 
 But, in after times, suppose that this 
 people or their descendants should 
 study astronomy. What t/ien would be 
 their conclusion ? Would they not say, 
 " We were deceived '' .'' And what other 
 than this could be the conclusion, if it 
 should at length be discovered that the 
 miracles of Jesus belonged to the natu- 
 ral, though at that time unknown, order 
 of events ? 
 
 But let us see now if miracles, in the 
 sense which I contend for, do not inevi- 
 tably belong to the Christian system. Is 
 it possible that those who originally wit- 
 nessed them could have received them 
 in any other light ? " We never saw it 
 on this wise ; since the world began 
 such things were never seen," is their 
 language. If all this belonged to the 
 order of nature, must they not have 
 been grossly deceived ; and deceived, 
 too, with the knowledge, if not inten- 
 tion, of the first teachers of Chris- 
 tianity.'' 
 
 But further ; is there any one branch 
 of the Christian evidences that does not 
 involve miracles of the character con- 
 tended for ? Does not the argument 
 from prophecy, and does not the argu- 
 ment from the early spread of Chris- 
 tianity, clearly proceed on this ground ? 
 
THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 447 
 
 In the one case, more than the natural 
 prescience of any human mind is sup- 
 posed ; in the other, more than any 
 known powers of persuasion. Nay, do 
 not the very attempts to explain away 
 miracles still leave unexplained mira- 
 cles, unexplained departures from the 
 order of nature ? It is said, for in- 
 stance, in regard to the cases of the 
 sicl< healed, and the dead raised to life, 
 that we cannot aver that the powers of 
 nature were suspended or modified, 
 because we are not acquainted with all 
 the powers of nature ; because there 
 may have been a secret power in the 
 sick or the dead body suddenly to 
 restore it to health or life. But, grant- 
 ing this, still the knowledge of the 
 exact time when that event was to hap- 
 pen must have been miraculous. Let 
 us take, for example, the miracle re- 
 corded in our text. Our Saviour arose 
 and rebuked the wind and the sea, and 
 there was a great calm. Will it be pre- 
 tended, by any honest believer in Chris- 
 tianity, that Jesus acted upon a very 
 sagacious judgment with regard to the 
 signs of the weather? Surely not. The 
 only tolerable supposition of him who 
 receives Christianity, but rejects the 
 miracles, is that there were powers in 
 nature, though beyond human penetra- 
 tion, which produced that sudden calm. 
 But then, it is necessary, I repeat, to 
 suppose a miraculous knowledge in him 
 who discerned either that power-or the 
 moment of its operation. Or, if any 
 one should say that there are powers 
 in the 7>iind with which we are unac- 
 quainted, and if he should maintain a 
 natural, moral connection between the 
 mind of him who spake and that sink- 
 ing of the winds and waves, then, I 
 should say — granting an action so en- 
 tirely gratuitous and so utterly incon- 
 ceivable — that such instances occurring 
 once, and never afterwards, were them- 
 selves miracles. If that were not a 
 miraculous effect of mind on matter, we 
 ought to see sometliing of it still. 
 
 Miracle, then, holds its place in every 
 honest explanation of the external evi- 
 
 dences of Christianity ; and I think the 
 same is true of the internal evidence. 
 
 With regard to this branch of the ar- 
 gument, various and vague impressions 
 are prevailing which seem to me to 
 possess no weight whatever, as furnish- 
 ing substantive proof. They may be 
 useful preliminaries or auxiliaries to 
 conviction, but they are not its foun- 
 dations. Such are the ideas that are 
 entertained of the moral charm and 
 beauty of the Scriptures, or of their 
 adaptation to human wants; not to 
 mention those enthusiasts who profess 
 to have a secret and intuitive perception 
 of the divinity of those writings. But, 
 granting the singular moral beauty and 
 charm of the Scriptures, I see not how 
 it constitutes proof. Suppose that a 
 person had never heard of a revelation, 
 and, seeking light and rest for his mind, 
 were to take up some of the writings of 
 F^nelon. Would he not feel the same 
 kind of impression .'' Would he not be 
 charmed with their beauty, and their 
 adaptation to his necessities, and say, 
 " That is just what I wanted ; this must 
 be the truth of God." And would he 
 not very justly say this } What, then, 
 would be the distinction between the 
 writings of Fenelon and the records of 
 inspiration ? There is a difference be- 
 tween truth and revealed truth. A thing 
 may be true, whether it is revealed or 
 not ; nay, it must be true independently 
 of that consideration. But, is it re- 
 vealed to be true ? is the question ; 
 and that question is overlooked in this 
 view of the internal evidences. So in 
 the writings of the " divine Plato " the 
 reader will be amazed and charmed 
 with the elevation, the exquisite moral 
 discrimination and beauty of some of 
 his thoughts ; but will this prove that 
 they are inspired ? Indeed, it must be 
 confessed, I think, that there is not one 
 moral precept of the New Testament, 
 but it may be found in the old heathen 
 philosophers. 
 
 The only valid internal evidence which 
 the New Testament contains of being a 
 revelation, is found in the proposition 
 
448 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 that these writings possess altogether a 
 character for which nothing but special 
 divine illumination can account. If 
 some rustic youth should come to you 
 with Newton's Principia in his hand 
 and satisfy you that he was its author, 
 the fact would not be more astonishing 
 than it is that the fishermen of Galilee 
 should have produced such a book as 
 the New Testament. The character of 
 Jesus is itself a moral miracle. This is 
 evidence : and it will be more and more 
 convincing, as we more and more clearly 
 understand the nature of moral phe- 
 nomena, the power of moral prejudice, 
 and the difficulty of moral progress. 
 
 Still, then, I find miracle in every 
 species of satisfactory and substantive 
 proof. And now I would ask, if there 
 is any conceivable and sufficient evi- 
 dence of revelation, but miracles ? 
 Suppose a man to stand before you and 
 to say, " I am the bearer of a special 
 communication from God." What 
 would you, what must you, ask of 
 him, as the credentials of his mission ? 
 His air might be noble, his doctrine 
 excellent, his speech divine. His com- 
 munication might thrill you with awe 
 or with rapture. Would that satisfy 
 you ? If you were an enthusiast, it 
 might ; but if you were a philosopher, 
 I am sure it would not. He might tell 
 you things which above all things you 
 wished to know. He might tell you, as 
 Swedenborg has professed to do, of the 
 very state of the blest who have depart- 
 ed from you, and of your own future 
 state, how you were to live in that un- 
 known world ; and you might wish to 
 beheve it. What could make you be- 
 lieve it .' I can conceive of but one 
 thing, — a miracle. If he came from 
 an earthly monarch, you would demand 
 his credentials ; the signet ring, or the 
 sign-manual. The chosen seal of the 
 Almighty Monarch is miracle ! 
 
 But I hear it said, " Could you re- 
 ceive a communication as from heaven 
 if it were evidently of bad tendency .'' 
 And if not, then is not the excellence of 
 the communication a part of the evi- 
 
 dence ? " I answer, No ; it is only 
 something presupposed in a case ; not 
 the proof that makes out the case. If 
 a man undertakes to prove anything to 
 me, he must undertake to prove some- 
 thing that is credible. I cannot listen 
 to him but upon that condition. It 
 would be incredible, — a case not to 
 be supposed nor argued upon, — that 
 the Almighty had sent to me a communi- 
 cation of evil tendency. I demand this 
 condition, then, that the message be 
 good ; but the condition is not the proof. 
 That a thing is credible is necessary to 
 its being credited ; but the credibility 
 of a thing is net to be confounded with 
 the belief of it. The former is one of 
 the postulates ; the latter is the con- 
 clusion. They are completely distinct. 
 Thus the lawyer, who argues in behalf 
 of his client to a jury, must make a case 
 that is credible ; but the credibility is 
 no part of the argument. And the 
 juror who should say, •' I was convinced 
 by the internal likelihood of the case, 
 and not by the witnesses nor by the 
 arguments," would be thought a very 
 bad reasoner, however well-disposed a 
 man. 
 
 I have dwelt longer on this point than 
 I wished ; but it seemed to me impor- 
 tant to show, if it be true, that Chris- 
 tianity is really founded on miracles, and 
 that all attempts to escape from them in 
 the matter of revelation are vain, and 
 are especially proved to be vain by the 
 very efforts to explain them away, to 
 which their rejecters are driven. 
 
 But now let us examine, in as few 
 words as may suffice, that presumption 
 against miracles from which these efforts 
 have apparently risen, and see whether 
 the presumption ought not in fact to be 
 the other way. 
 
 And, first of all, I must beseech the 
 inquirer to approach this subject in the 
 purest spirit of philosophy. It is the 
 constant suggestion of unbelief, that to 
 support the argument for a revelation, 
 prejudice is necessary. Now I say that 
 is precisely the aid that we do not want. 
 Nay, more, I say that prejudice is the 
 
THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 449 
 
 very obstacle, and the main obstacle, to 
 true faith. I ask the sceptic to lay aside 
 his prejudices. I ask him to be a phi- 
 losopher, and yet more distinctively I 
 say, a philosopher of the inductive 
 school. Let him reason upon facts. 
 Let him take nothing for granted. Let 
 him assert nothing which he does not 
 know; and deny nothing which, for all 
 that he knows, may be true. 
 
 Now let us see how much is cut off 
 from the ground of this inquiry by these 
 discriminations. You are not to deny 
 the possibility of miracles. Evidently, 
 he who made and who controls all things 
 can modify and change them if it be his 
 pleasure. The act of creation is but the 
 grandest of miracles * 
 
 Again, you are not to say, or suppose, 
 that there is any difficulty in the perform- 
 ance of miracles, or that it requires any 
 extraordinary or any new exertion of di- 
 vine power to produce the changes in 
 question. You do not know but that 
 every event in the universe springs from 
 an immediate exertion of divine power, 
 and, therefore, that one result is as natu- 
 rally and easily produced as another. In 
 other words, you are not at liberty, in the 
 spirit of true philosophy, to regard nature 
 
 * " The aci of creation is but the grandest of mira- 
 cles." This idea occurs in some of the French writers. 
 I have met with it, I thinlt,, in Necker's "Morale 
 Religieuse," and in the French preachers. But it 
 seems to be used by them rather as a figure of speech 
 than otherwi^ I do not introduce it as such. I 
 hold it to be a philosophical truth. The act of the 
 creation is the producing of new forms of being, out 
 of the usual course of production. It is an event 
 without any antecedent in the processes of nature. It 
 is "'a deviation from the uniformity of causation." 
 And that is the definition of a miracle. That it is the 
 commouejnent of a series of events does not affect 
 this conclu.sion. The point of departure from the 
 ordinary modes of production is none the less devia- 
 tion, none the less miracle, for the regularity that 
 follows. If the earth were suddenly arrested in its 
 course, and made to take a retrograde movement 
 through its orbit, for thousands of years, the point of 
 change would be miracle, and none the less miracle 
 for the regularity that followed. And surely it would 
 be no less a miracle, if a world were suddenly created ; 
 if solid matter instantly, at a word, filled the void 
 space, and were launched forth upon its mighty career. 
 All the difference in the cases, with reference to the 
 point in hand, is made by an unphilosophical idea of 
 causes *. as if there were a tendency in antecedents to 
 produce their consequents, a pushing on of one event 
 by another, of which we know nothing. And yet 
 
 as a piece of mechanism, — as a clock, for 
 instance, wliich is wound up and has a nat- 
 ural or necessary tendency to run down. 
 And you are not to say, that the need of 
 a miracle to answer the purposes of the 
 Author of nature implies some imperfec- 
 tion in the machinery of nature. The 
 idea of machinery is a pure assumption. 
 Des Cartes might as well have argued 
 from those vortices, or whirlpools of 
 ether, by which he supposed the lieavenly 
 bodies were moved, as we may argue 
 from the notion of any other mechanism. 
 Once more ; all ideas of miraculous in- 
 terference, as if it were derogatory to 
 the Infinite Being, all presumptions on 
 this point, drawn from the infinity of the 
 universe, and the comparative insignifi- 
 cance of the earth and of man, are to be 
 laid out of the question as entirely un- 
 philosophical. 
 
 With these reasonable disclamations, 
 then, we come to the simple and un- 
 prejudiced experience of facts. We see 
 an order in nature not mechanical, not 
 necessary, but appointed. Can that 
 order be changed ? Doubtless it can. 
 To assert the impossibility of change is 
 to go far beyond our province. The 
 power that ordained the succession of 
 
 even then we might say, that there were causes in that 
 void space to keep it void, and that those causes were 
 arrested by the creative act which filled that space 
 with matter. 
 
 When life is communicated to a dead body, what is 
 that but the creation of life? Suppose that a human 
 being were instantly created before our eyes, in full 
 size and strength, would not that be Just as great a 
 deviation from the usual and natural course of produc- 
 tion, as it is to raise a dead body to life ! 
 
 I have supposed, in another part of the discourse, a 
 world to be created in our sight. But to present 
 a more palpable case, and one directly beneath our 
 eyes, suppose that, as we were looking upon a barren 
 and blasted heath, it were suddenly covered with a 
 crop of grain ripe for the harvest. That would be 
 creation, and that would be a miracle. And if we and 
 many more saw that miracle, and knew moreover that 
 it was wrought in attestation of a divine commission : 
 nay, more, if we harvested the grain, and ground and 
 ate it, it would not only be philosophical to believe, 
 but impossible to doubt. Thus, if I may speak so, did 
 the Christian witnesses handle the evidence of the 
 miracles they record. 
 
 But I am not now to pursue this argument beyond 
 the point which Is immediately before me, to wit, the 
 credibility of miracles And for this credibility, on 
 the strictest grounds of philosophy, I say that the 
 fact of creation is a sufficient warrant. 
 
 29 
 
450 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 events can modify them. Has the order 
 of nature been in any instance inter- 
 rupted? That is the great question. I 
 am not now to discuss it. I have only 
 to ask if that question may not be fairly 
 entertained; if it is not open to argu- 
 ment ; if witnesses may not be called to 
 testify ; and if we are not bound to listen 
 to them without setting up any bar of 
 presumption against their testimony. 
 Certainly, if there is no intrinsic and 
 ascertained impossibility in the events 
 alleged to have taken place, we are 
 bound to listen. 
 
 But in what spirit shall we listen ? 
 With an extreme and almost insur- 
 mountable prejudice against miracles ? 
 This is the assumption of unbelief. 
 And on what is this assumption found- 
 ed .' "On experience," is the answer. 
 And what now is this boasted experi- 
 ence ? Is human experience the meas- 
 ure of divine power ? Can a limited 
 experience set bounds to possibility ? 
 What is this life's experience but a 
 childhood amidst the ages of eternity.'' 
 Suppose that we were hereafter to be 
 placed, for the correction of some men- 
 tal errors, in a scene of being where all 
 should be miracle, all change; where 
 everything should reveal the immediate 
 action of the Almighty Power. Where 
 would be experience then? Or, to illus- 
 trate the same point, let us revert to the 
 truly philosophical, the primitive expe- 
 rience. Suppose that the first man had 
 been created before the heavens were 
 spread forth, or the earth hung in the 
 empty space, and that he had beheld 
 those awful effects of Omnipotence. 
 Would he, at the close of the first day 
 of his existence, find it difficult to be- 
 lieve in miracles ? Why, then, should 
 the experience of forty years, amidst 
 regular successions of events, make him 
 forget that miracles might again be a 
 part of the course of nature ? The ex- 
 perience that makes a man feel as if 
 there could be no more miracles, seems 
 to me narrow, and, if I may say so, pro- 
 vincial •, hke that which makes an igno- 
 rant and home-bred, rustic feel as if 
 
 everything in the great world must be 
 just like what he had seen in his father's 
 house, and fills him with astonishment, 
 amounting to incredulity, at everything 
 new and extraordinary. 
 
 What is the spirit of a real and stu- 
 dious philosophy in cases which, so far 
 as the facts are considered, are precisely 
 analogous to miracles ? An extraordi- 
 nary, unheard-of, and before-unknown 
 fact is presented in nature. Water, for in- 
 stance, is produced by the intense com- 
 bustion of two invisible gases. There 
 are many men in the world who would 
 say, on the first proposition of such a 
 marvel, that they would not believe it. 
 But does the philosopher say so ? Or 
 does he wait, before he will believe, till 
 he can resolve that fact into some order 
 of nature ? By no means. The fact 
 has been submitted to the test of ex- 
 periment, and he is satisfied. And he 
 believes it, let me add, not because it 
 belongs to any order of things, but be- 
 cause it has been proved by satisfactory 
 experiments. The King of Siam would 
 not believe that the liquid and flowing 
 water could become a solid body under 
 his feet. He took the very ground of 
 the sceptic about miracles. He had 
 never seen water frozen ; nobody in his 
 country had ever seen it ; and he would 
 not believe it. Was that the ground 
 of philosophy, or of prejudice ? A man 
 says that he cannot and wiIl*ot believe 
 in miracles. And yet every object in 
 the universe around him had its origin 
 in a miracle. And suppose that it were 
 given us again to witness such displays 
 of power. Suppose that another sun 
 were created and placed in the heavens 
 before our very eyes. Should we not 
 believe the fact till we perceived that it 
 was produced by some pre-existing, 
 world-making machinery of causes ? 
 And yet I verily believe that that won- 
 derful creation would not be more ex- 
 traordinary than to the discriminating 
 moral eye is that great Light which 
 burst upon the darkness of the world 
 eighteen centuries ago. 
 
 If, then, the strong and almost insu- 
 
THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 451 
 
 perable presumption against the doc- 
 trine of miracles, which many feel, is 
 not justified by a strict philosophy, let 
 i>s now proceed a step farther. 
 
 I am willing to concede something to 
 this presumption ; I wish to give it all 
 the weight that it deserves ; but 1 do not 
 conceive that it possesses the broadest 
 characters of philosophy. It appears 
 to me instinctive rather than rational, 
 hasty rather than deliberate, and nar- 
 row rather than comprehensive. And 
 I believe that the rational, deliberate, 
 and comprehensive view of things is 
 more than sufficient fairly to rebut the 
 narrow, the hasty, and the instinctive 
 view. 
 
 It is said that nature and experience 
 are against miracles. That a part of 
 nature and experience is so, I admit; 
 but I desire special attention to the re- 
 mark that it is only a part. That the 
 whole is so, I deny. Nay, I would in- 
 vite your still more particular attention 
 to the observation, that the parts of na- 
 ture and experience which are against 
 miracles are the lowest and humblest. 
 It is the mechanical order of nature 
 which is opposed to miracles, and not 
 its grand, comprehensive meaning and 
 principle. And it is a less cultivated 
 experience which, feeling less the need 
 of those truths that revelation discloses, 
 is less disposed to admit of such a reve- 
 lation, than the mind in its highest 
 development. 
 
 Let us, then, go into the broad field 
 of nature and experience, into that very 
 field where scepticism has found its 
 stronghold, and see what it teaches us. 
 
 The particular course of things in 
 nature is order ; the great principle is 
 beneficence; the adaptation of all things 
 to the happiness of sensitive beings, — 
 the supply of all wants, the relief of all 
 sufferings. Nay, order itself has its 
 chief value in its uses ; it is designed 
 for the improvement of rational beings ; 
 and it has been well argued, on a for- 
 mer occasion in this place, that, "if the 
 great purposes of the universe can best 
 be accomplished by departing from its 
 
 established laws, those laws will un- 
 doubtedly be suspended, and, though 
 broken in the letter, they will be ob- 
 served in the spirit ; " and hence that 
 "miracles, instead of warring against 
 nature, would concur with it."* 
 
 But let us cast a glance, first, not at 
 human experience, but at the condition 
 of irrational natures. The most striking 
 feature in that condition is the adapta- 
 tion of means to beneficent ends — of 
 supplies to wants, of reliefs to unavoid- 
 able sufferings. Among all the tribes 
 of animate life, there is not a creature 
 so small but contains within it a world 
 of wonders : and wonders not of skill 
 only, but of beneficence. The anatomy 
 of a fly, the instinct of a spider, the econ- 
 omy of a hive of bees, the structure of 
 an ant-hill, are each of them subjects 
 which fill many ample pages in the books 
 of philosophy, and fill them construc- 
 tively with this one theme, — the good- 
 ness of the Creator, his gracious regard 
 to the humblest thing that lives. If you 
 rise higher in the scale of the creation, 
 you find everywhere, multiplying and 
 crowding upon you, the proofs of un- 
 speakable goodness. In heaven, on 
 earth, and abroad upon all the pathless 
 seas, are innumerable creatures, pos- 
 sessing frames filled with the most ex- 
 quisite adaptations of part to part, guided 
 by kindly instincts, supplied with boun- 
 tiful provisions, arrayed as Solomon in 
 all his glory was not arrayed, and pro- 
 vided with habitations more perfect for 
 the purposes than palaces of cedar or 
 marble. 
 
 To illustrate the argument which I 
 design to draw from this appeal to na- 
 ture, let me make a supposition entirely 
 at variance with the facts to which we 
 have now adverted. Suppose, then, that 
 you had found any one tribe of the ani- 
 mal creation unprovided for. Suppose 
 that it had no appropriate food, or that 
 it had no instinct to guide it to that food ; 
 that it knew not where to seek its sus- 
 tenance, whether in the water, or the 
 air, or the earth. If we had seen any 
 
 * Channing's Dudleian Lecture. 
 
452 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 species of beings in this situation ; if, 
 for example, every summer should bring 
 into existence a certain kind of bird for 
 which there was no suitable provision 
 or no guiding instinct; if we should see 
 them flying about us, as if uncertain, 
 destitute, and suffering, with wild 
 screams testifying their anxiety and dis- 
 tress, apparently ignorant whether the 
 night or the day -was appointed for 
 them, now rising in the air, now plung- 
 ing into the water, and then madly dash- 
 ing against the earth : if, I say, we had 
 thus seen them holding a precarious and 
 painful existence for a few weeks, and 
 then miserably perishing, we should 
 feel as if such a phenomenon was most 
 extraordinary and astonishing; at war 
 with the whole system of nature, and 
 with all the proofs of divine benevolence. 
 We do unhesitatingly pronounce the 
 facts embraced in such a supposition 
 impossible. If we were to study nature 
 forever, we should never expect to meet 
 with anything like this. 
 
 Now I apply this to the case of human 
 nature. And I desire you to suspend 
 your judgment of the comparison for one 
 moment, till I can fully lay it before you. 
 Consider, in the first place, the dignity 
 of the being, to illustrate whose condi- 
 tion this comparison is brought. Con- 
 sider all the diiTerence between animal 
 sense and a being so "infinite in facul- 
 ties" as man. Suppose, in the next 
 place, that this being, according to an 
 unquestionable law of his nature, should 
 improve his faculties to the highest de- 
 gree conceivable, without the knowledge 
 of a future life. And finally, suppose 
 him, with all the craving wants, the soar- 
 ing aspirations, and the exquisite, varied, 
 and multiplied sorrows of refined thought 
 and feeling, to stand upon the earth, as 
 it rolled in silence through the mighty 
 void of heaven, — with death all around 
 him, and without one voice from beyond 
 the realms of visible life to assure him 
 that he should live hereafter, —and then 
 say, whether this would not be a con- 
 dition more mournful, more disastrous, 
 more at war with the order of divine 
 
 beneficence, than any catastrophe that 
 ever could befall animal natures. 
 
 If any one distrusts this comparison, 
 I must beg leave to doubt whether he 
 fairly comprehends it. The truth is, 
 that all the world has held to revelations 
 in one form or another. By communi- 
 cations direct or traditional, by the voice 
 of augurs or of prophets, by open mir- 
 acle or inward light, all mankind have 
 deemed themselves to have special 
 guidance from above. 
 
 It is an important inference from this 
 fact that no one can very well estimate 
 the case of supposed utter destitution; 
 and, therefore, that it is extremely diffi- 
 cult for any individual to feel the whole 
 and legitimate force of this argument. 
 Every man has been trained up from 
 childhood by a system of communica- 
 tions ; and now, upon the very strength 
 of these communications, or of the con- 
 victions they have inevitably inspired, 
 he deems himself able to stand without 
 them. But difficult as the task is made 
 by the unfair position of the objector, I 
 shall offer two or three observations, in 
 close, tending to show the need, and 
 therefore the likelihood, instead of the 
 often alleged improbability, of an ex- 
 traordinary revelation. 
 
 Leaving other communications out of 
 the account, then, we, as Christians, say 
 that about eighteen centuries ago. at a 
 period at once of unprecedented intel- 
 lectual development and equally prevail- 
 ing scepticism, there appeared an ex- 
 traordinary teacher from heaven. I am 
 not now to offer any of the arguments 
 for his divine mission, that seem to me 
 so abundant and overwhelming ; but I 
 think I am fully entitled by the circum- 
 stances to say that there ought to be no 
 presumption against it. For it is un- 
 deniable that, amidst all the lights of 
 Grecian and Roman civilization, the 
 most important truths — the unity and 
 paternity of God and the immortality 
 of man — were obscured ; and it is but 
 a reasonable inference that without a 
 revelation they would have been over- 
 shadowed with doubt till now. And 
 
THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 453 
 
 even the belief that prevailed in the 
 minds of a few philosophers seems to 
 me singularly to have wanted vitality. 
 There is more reasoning than conviction 
 apparent in their discourses, and cer- 
 tainly their faith had but little influence 
 on their lives. Cicero, we know, and 
 others, amidst all their hopes, had strong 
 doubts. And I maintain, not only from 
 these examples but from the experience 
 of every powerful mind since, that no 
 reasonings can relieve that great ques- 
 tion from painful, from distressing un- 
 certainty. 
 
 My argument, then, is from human 
 experience, and from cultivated human 
 experience. It is easy to see that a 
 rude age might less need the relief 
 which a revelation on this point would 
 give ; and for this reason, as I hold, to 
 rude ages it was not given. My argu- 
 ment, then, is from cultivated human 
 experience. And this is the form into 
 which it resolves itself. God is the 
 author of life, and the former of the 
 mind. It is fair to presume that he 
 who has provided for the wants of the 
 humblest animal life would not doom 
 the noblest creature he has made on 
 earth to overwhelming despondency and 
 misery. Now I say that without a 
 revelation this result is inevitable. I 
 maintain that no scheme of a virtuous, 
 improving, and happy life can be made 
 out, which leaves the doctrines of God's 
 paternal and forgiving mercy, and of 
 human immortality, in great and serious 
 doubt. 
 
 My friends, I bring home the case to 
 myself and to you. I know what it is 
 to doubt, and I say that no man should 
 judge of the effect of that doubt till he 
 knows by experience what it is ; till, 
 crushed by its weight, he has laid him- 
 self down to his nightly rest, too miser- 
 able and desperate to care whether he 
 ever raised his head from that pillow of 
 repose and oblivion ; till every morning 
 has waked him to sadness and despon- 
 dency darker than the gloomiest night 
 that ever clouded the path of earthly 
 sorrow. It is not calamity, it is not 
 worldly disappointment, it is not afiiic- 
 
 tion, it is not grief, that I speak of; nor 
 is it any of these that gives the greatest 
 intensity to this doubt; it is a develop- 
 ment of our own nature ; it is the soul's 
 own struggling with the mighty powers 
 with which it is made to grapple ; it is 
 the longed-for and almost felt immortal- 
 ity, struck from our eager grasp, the 
 light gone out, the heaven of our hope 
 all overshadowed and dark. Yes, it is 
 the consciousness of infinite desires and 
 capacities, all blighted and broken down; 
 it is the aspiring which suns and stars 
 cannot bound, all shrunk and buried in 
 a coffin and a grave ! In short, it is the 
 proper and legitimate state of a mind 
 following the premises of the case to 
 their just result ; and not that worldly 
 condition of the mind, which is no more 
 fit to judge of this subject than child- 
 hood is to judge of the interests of an 
 empire. And now I say, Is it hard to 
 believe that God would interpose for 
 humanity so circumstanced? Is it in- 
 credible that he should send a voice into 
 that deep and dark struggle for spiritual 
 life and hope ? 
 
 I appeal to yoii, my brethren. I ap- 
 peal to the youth who are before me. 
 It is thought that this age is witnessing 
 an unusual development of infidel prin- 
 ciples. One whole nation, indeed, has 
 fallen a victim to them. And what is 
 new and striking, it is said, has a kind 
 of fascination for youth. But I hold 
 that this is an age, too, which is witness- 
 ing an extraordinary development of 
 sensibility in the young. This arises 
 from an earlier, I had almost said a 
 premature, education ; from an exciting 
 literature ; and from the character of 
 enterprise and expectation which now 
 invests all the interests and prospects 
 of society. But I ask, Is this an age 
 when you can safely break the great 
 bond of faith and hope.' If yours were 
 a dull and sluggish youth, or a youth 
 amidst rude and barbarous times, it 
 might not yield me the argument which 
 I now seek. But I know that in this 
 age, ay, and in this assembly, there is 
 many a youthful heart, whose daily ex- 
 perience is the strongest possible proof 
 
454 
 
 THE ARGUMENT FROM MIRACLES. 
 
 of the need, and therefore of the likeli- 
 hood, of a divinely sanctioned religion. 
 Ay, I know, and many a sorrowing 
 parent in this land knows, that the 
 period of youth cannot be safely passed 
 without it. Those thronging passions, 
 those swaying sympathies of social life, 
 the deeper musings of solitary hours, 
 the imaginations, the affections, the 
 thoughts, unuttered and unutterable, 
 all the sweeping currents that bear the 
 youthful heart it scarcely knows whither, 
 — all show that it cannot be thrown, 
 without infinite peril, to drift upon a sea 
 of doubt. 
 
 Humanity, in fine, and especially in 
 its growing cultivation, is too hard a lot, 
 it appears to me, if God has not opened 
 for it the fountains of revelation. With- 
 out that great disclosure from above, 
 humar) nature stands, in my contempla- 
 tion of it, as an anomaly amidst the 
 whole creation. The noblest existence 
 on earth is not provided with a resource 
 even so poor as instinct. On the heart 
 that is made to bear the weight of in- 
 finite interests, sinks the crushing bur- 
 den of doubt and despondency, of fear 
 and sorrow, of pain and death, without 
 resource, or rehef, or comfort, or hope. 
 The cry of the young ravens, the buzzing 
 of insect life in every hedge, is heard ; 
 but the call that comes up from the 
 deep and dark conflict of the over- 
 shadowed soul dies upon the vacant air, 
 and there is no ear to hear nor eye to 
 pity. Oh ! were it so, what could sus- 
 tain the human heart, sinking under 
 the burden of its noblest aspirations ? 
 " The still, sad music of humanity," 
 sounding on through all time, would 
 lose every soothing tone, and would be- 
 come a wail, in which the heart of the 
 world would die I 
 
 And why must any man think that 
 the world is left to that darkness and 
 misery ? Because he cannot believe 
 that a communication has been made 
 from heaven in the only conceivable 
 way in which it can be made and proved, 
 by miracles. Fori affirm that, if that 
 great preliminary difficulty were over, 
 all difficulties would vanish before the 
 
 stupendous proofs of a revelation. He 
 that thinks, then, that the world is left to 
 nature's darkness ; thinks thus, I repeat, 
 because he cannot believe in miracles ; 
 because he cannot admit that the order 
 of nature, which is itself not an end, 
 but a means to an end, may be inter- 
 tupted for the greatest of all ends ; be- 
 cause he will not admit that the Infinite 
 Power is superior to the laws itself has 
 made ; because he will not allow, in his 
 philosophy, that liberty to the Infinite 
 Parent, in changing and adapting his 
 provisions to the wants of his children, 
 that he allows to every earthly parent. 
 Is this the childlike and trustful, the 
 deep-searching and discerning, the ex- 
 pansive and unprejudiced spirit of true 
 philosophy, oris it the shallowand scepti- 
 cal spirit of bondage to the mere outward 
 forms and processes of things, regard- 
 less' of their higher meanings and ends? 
 Here for the present I leave the sub- 
 ject. I have not undertaken in this 
 discourse to prove the truth of Chris- 
 tianity ; but, if I have succeeded in re- 
 moving the great obstacle, in opening 
 the door to the argument, the conclu- 
 sion, I think, will easily follow. I have 
 not undertaken to prove that there have 
 been miracles ; but I do hold myself 
 entitled to say, as the close and infer- 
 ence of this discourse, that I should 
 wonder if there had not been miracles. 
 The philosophical presumption is for, 
 rather than against them. Nature is 
 for, more than it is against them ; its 
 mechanical order only being against 
 them, while its whole spirit is in their 
 favor. Man's necessity, God's mercy, 
 is for them ; and against them is — 
 what ? 'What is against all legitimate 
 wisdom and conviction ? Why, only a 
 doubt, — which is mostly vague and ir- 
 responsible, — which, because it is a 
 doubt, holds itself scarcely bound to 
 give a reason ; and which, though it is a 
 doubt, sits immovable, as it it held the 
 very seat of knowledge and throne of 
 reason. To allow it to sit there undis- 
 turbed, is to yield more deference to a 
 shadow than to the very substance of 
 reason and truth. 
 
THE SCRIPTURES AS THE RECORD OF A REVELATION. 455 
 
 THE SCRIPTURES CONSIDERED AS THE 
 RECORD OF A REVELATION. 
 
 It has become very important, as it 
 seems to us, that the advocates of a 
 divine revelation should carefully and 
 accurately define the ground which they 
 undertake to defend. In logical order, 
 this task is preliminary to the defence 
 itself. Our position is to be taken be- 
 fore it is to be maintained. What is it 
 to believe in a revelation .'' Or, in other 
 words, what is the question between the 
 believer and the unbeliever ? This we 
 shall undertake to define, in the first 
 place, and then shall offer some general 
 remarks on belief and unbelief. 
 
 There are two methods by which 
 mankind may arrive at the knowledge 
 of truth. The one is by observation, by 
 reflection, by reasoning, by the natural 
 exercise of the human faculties. The 
 other is by a supernatural communica- 
 tion from Heaven ; and this different 
 from, and superior to, reasoning, obser- 
 vation, intuition, impulse, and every 
 known operation of the human mind. 
 Now we contend that it is in a commu- 
 nication of this nature that our Scriptures 
 originated. 
 
 But let us consider more particularly 
 the vehicle of this communication, — the 
 Scriptures. It is on this point that 
 believers differ somewhat among them- 
 selves. And it is from rash positions 
 on this subject, or from marking too 
 negligently and too broadly the lines of 
 defence, that the advocates of a revelation 
 expose themselves to the strongest at- 
 tacks of infidelity. The Scriptures, then, 
 it might seem needless to say. are not the 
 actual communication made to the minds 
 that were inspired from Above ; but 
 they are a " declaration of those things 
 which were most surely believed among 
 them." * They are not the actual word 
 
 * Luke i. I. 
 
 of God, but they are a " record of tJie 
 word of God." * They are of the nature 
 of a testimony. " We speak that we do 
 know, and testify that we have seen."t 
 This distinction, obvious as it may seem, 
 is not without its importance ; and it 
 unhappily derives some consequence 
 from the earnestness with which it is 
 opposed. To say so simple a thing as 
 that the Bible is not the original, the 
 very revelation made to the prophets and 
 apostles, but the record of that revela- 
 tion, is an excess of temerity thought to 
 be worthy of the most heinous charges. 
 
 But the distinction is intrinsically 
 important. It is important to make the 
 discrimination, and to say that the com- 
 munication of light and truth was one 
 thing, and the record of that commu- 
 nication another. The communication 
 was divine ; the record was human. 
 It was, strictly speaking and every way, 
 a human act. The manner, the style, 
 the phraseology, the choice of words, the 
 order of thought, the selection of figures, 
 comparisons, arguments, to enforce the 
 communication, was altogether a human 
 work. It was as purely human, as pecu- 
 liarly individual, in the case of every wit- 
 ness, as his accent, altitude, or gesture, 
 when delivering his message. And, in- 
 deed, we might as well demand that 
 Paul's gesture or intonation on Mars 
 Hill should be faultless, as to demand that 
 the style of his letter to the Galatians 
 should be faultless ; for, in truth, the 
 action and the accent were as truly a 
 part of the communication as the words 
 employed to set it forth. We are about 
 to argue for this general position, and in 
 doing so we shall more clearly define 
 and guard it ; but we wished to state it 
 with some precision in the outset. If 
 
 ♦ Rev. i. 2. 
 
 t John iii. ii. 
 
456 
 
 THE SCRIPTURES CONSIDERED AS 
 
 there ever were productions which 
 showed the fire and fervent workings of 
 human thought and feehng, they are 
 our Scriptures. We know not how it 
 is possible for any one candidly to read 
 or thoroughly to study them, without 
 coming to this conclusion. And we say, 
 therefore, that the question between the 
 believer and the unbeliever is, not 
 whether the words of this communica- 
 tion are grammatically the best words, 
 not whether the illustrations are rhe- 
 torically the best illustrations, not wheth- 
 er the arguments are logically the best 
 arguments ; but the question is, whether 
 there is any communication at all. Let 
 any man admit this, let him admit it 
 in any shape, and though there may be 
 difficulties and disputes, we shall find 
 no difficulty in settling, beyond all dis- 
 pute, some truths from the Scriptures ; 
 and truths, too, of dearer concern to 
 us than all the visible interests of this 
 world. 
 
 But is this view of the Bible a right 
 and safe one ? To this question let us 
 now proceed. 
 
 I. Let us, as the first step, proceed to 
 inquire of the Scriptures themselves. We 
 say, then, that what has now been stated 
 is the natural, and, we might say, the 
 unavoidable impression which a reader 
 would take from a perusal of the Scrip- 
 tures. The vehicle of revelation is 
 language. The things we have to deal 
 with are words. They are not divine 
 symbols of thought ; they are not pure 
 essences of ideas ; they are words. 
 The vehicle, we say, is language. We 
 shall soon undertake to show that lan- 
 guage is, from its very nature, an imper- 
 fect instrument of communication. But, 
 for the present, we only say that the 
 language of revelation is the natural lan- 
 guage of the period to which and of the 
 men to whom we refer it The idioms 
 of speech, the peculiarities of style, the 
 connections and dependences of thought 
 and reasoning, the bursts of feeling, all 
 seem to us as natural in the Bible as 
 they are in any other book. We see 
 ideas, indeed, that we ascribe to inspira- 
 
 tion ; but we see no evidence, we can 
 discern no appearance, of any supernat- 
 ural influence exerted upon the style^ 
 either to make it perfect or to prevent it 
 from being imperfect. Let us compare 
 the Scriptures with other writings. If 
 we open almost any book, especially any 
 book written in a fervent and popular 
 style, we can perceive, on an accurate 
 analysis, that some things were hastily 
 written, some things negligently, some 
 things not in the exact logical order of 
 thought ; that some things are beautiful 
 in style and others coarse and inelegant; 
 that some things are clear and others ob- 
 scure, or "hard to be understood." And 
 do we not find all these things in the Scrip- 
 tures ? What is a sound and rational 
 criticism, but a discernment of just such 
 things as these ? What is peculiarity 
 of style but something proceeding from 
 the particular mind of the writer ; but 
 something, therefore, partaking not of 
 divine ideas, but of human conceptions ? 
 And who has more of this peculiarity of 
 style than John or Paul ? And now 
 suppose that Paul had written a letter 
 to any one of his friends on religion, 
 and had written not in his apostolical 
 character ; that he had said, as he some- 
 times did say, this is "not from the 
 Lord " ? Can any rational man doubt 
 whether that letter would have exhibited 
 the same style as his recorded epistles ? 
 If such, then, be the natural impres- 
 sion arising from the perusal of the Scrip- 
 tures, we are so to receive them, unless 
 they themselves direct us otherwise. Do 
 they direct us otherwise ? Do they any- 
 where tell us that the manner of writing, 
 the style, the words, came from immedi- 
 ate divine suggestion, or were subject to 
 miraculous superintendence ? To us it 
 is clear that the passages usually ad- 
 duced in support of these views of in- 
 spiration fall entirely short of the posi- 
 tions they are brought to establish. 
 "All Scripture is given by inspiration 
 of God ; " and " holy men spake as they 
 were moved by the Holy Ghost;" these 
 are the passages. Now the question is, 
 •whether these declarations refer to the 
 
THE RECORD OF A REVELATION. 
 
 457 
 
 matter of revelation or to the style : to 
 the substance of the communication or 
 to the form ; to the thing testitied, 
 given, spoken, or to the manner of 
 speaking, imparting, testifying. We say, 
 to the matter, the substance, the thing 
 testified. Others insist that reference 
 is had to the style, the form, the man- 
 ner also. There is nothing in the words 
 to decide between us, and we must have 
 resort, therefore, to general considera- 
 tions. We must go to the general as- 
 pect and obvious character of the sacred 
 writings. And on this subject we have 
 a statement to make which is worthy of 
 special observation. So strong is the 
 aspect of 7iaturabiess upon the whole 
 face of the Scriptures, so marked are 
 the peculiarities of individual thought, 
 manner, and style, that many of the most 
 learned and profound Orthodox scholars 
 have given up the doctrine of immedi- 
 ate suggestion, and retain only that of a 
 general superintendence. But we surely 
 may remind them that the Scriptures 
 themselves furnish as little warrant for 
 the doctrine of superintendence as for 
 that of suggestion. If the passages be- 
 fore quoted prove anything with regard 
 to style, they prove immediate sugges- 
 tion. If they prove nothing on this 
 point, then the Bible does not any- 
 where ; for they are the strongest in 
 the Bible. 
 
 The doctrine of superintendence, un- 
 doubtedly, comes not from the Scrip- 
 tures, but from what is thought to be 
 the exigency of the case. It is intro- 
 duced to save the sacred writings from 
 the charge of possible error ; a charge 
 which we shall by and by undertake to 
 show, does noj:, in an3'thing material, 
 attach to them, on what we think to be a 
 more rational and unencumbered theory. 
 We see no need of supposing the apos- 
 tles, for instance, to have spoken and 
 written under any other influence than 
 that of truth and goodness — truth super- 
 naturally communicated to them, but not 
 by them supernaturally taught. The 
 teaching, in short, is full of nature and 
 truth. And we should, with as much rea- 
 
 son, demand that Paul's speech should 
 have been freed from that impediment 
 or infirmity, which made some among the 
 Corinthians declare it to be '' contemp- 
 tible,' as that his style should be freed 
 from those obscurities, those imperfec- 
 tions, in other words, which made Peter 
 say that it is "hard to be understood-" 
 And we might as well say that when 
 his accent or gesture was liable to be 
 wrong, there was a divine superintend- 
 ence or interference to put it right, as 
 to say this with regard to his written 
 expressions, his figures and illustrations, 
 his style and mode of communication. 
 
 II. That there was no supernatural 
 perfection, or accuracy, or infallibility, 
 in the Scriptural style or mode of com- 
 munication, we think any one may be 
 convinced by considering, in the next 
 place, the very nature of language. 
 
 Human language is essentially and 
 unavoidably an imperfect mode of com- 
 munication. It is sufficiently correct ; 
 but the idea of absolute perfection or 
 infallibility, if it were rightly and rigidly 
 considered, does not and cannot belong 
 to it. We are not merely saying, now, 
 that the style of our Christian teachers 
 is" not perfect, according to the laws of 
 rhetoric; that it is not perfect Greek. 
 That is admitted on all hands. But 
 we say that it is not perfect, because it 
 cannot be perfect as an instrument of 
 thought. Perfection and imperfection 
 in this matter are words of compari- 
 son. Absolutely, they do not apply to 
 language. Excellence — or, if any one 
 pleases to call it so, perfection in style 
 — is something relative. It is relative, 
 for instance, to the age and country in 
 which it is delivered. What is perfect 
 for one people and period is not per- 
 fect for another. It would happen, then, 
 that even if the sacred style had pos- 
 sessed some unintelligible perfection 
 for its own age, it would have lost it 
 for the next and for every succeeding 
 age. Is it not felt by every judicious 
 commentator that the ancient phraseol- 
 ogy in which the Scriptures are clothed 
 throws great difficulties in the way of 
 
458 
 
 THE SCRIPTURES CONSIDERED AS 
 
 understanding them ? Are not these 
 difficulties such that the mass of man- 
 kind cannot, of themselves, understand 
 certain passages, and must receive the 
 explanation of them on trust ? To what 
 purpose is it, then, to argue for the in- 
 fallibihty of the sacred style ? Lan- 
 guage is also relative to the mind, the 
 mind absolutely considered. A perfect 
 or infallible language must be that which 
 conveys perfect or infallible thoughts to 
 the mind. But now when we talk about 
 perfect or infallible thoughts, are we not 
 very much beyond our depth ? Can any 
 instrument convey to us thoughts which 
 are perfect, which are capable of being 
 no more clear or true, which are never 
 to be changed in the slightest degree, 
 in all the coming and brightening dis- 
 pensations of our being ? To us it seems 
 as if there were great presumption in 
 the prevailing language about truth and 
 error, — as if any sect or any set of men 
 called Christians, or called by any other 
 name, as if any human being, held the 
 absolute, the abstractly pure and un- 
 changeable truth ! — as if any creed or 
 language or human thought could es- 
 cape every taint of error ! as if it could 
 put off all limitation, obscurity, pecu- 
 liarity, and everything that marks it -as 
 belonging to a finite and frail nature ! 
 " To err is human." It is a part of our 
 dispensation to find our way to truth 
 through error. The perfect is wrought 
 out from the imperfect. We see this in 
 children ; and in this respect we are all 
 but children. 
 
 The thought came pure from the All- 
 f-evealing Mind ; but when it entered 
 the mind of a prophet or apostle it be- 
 came a human conception. It could be 
 nothing else, unless that mind, by be- 
 ing inspired, became superhuman. The 
 inspired truth became the subject of 
 human perception, feeling, and imagina- 
 tion ; and when it was communicated 
 to the world, it was clothed with human 
 language, and that perception, feeling, 
 imagination, lent its aid to this com- 
 munication as truly as to any writings 
 that ever were penned. It is this, next 
 
 to the authority of the Scriptures, it is 
 this naturalness, simplicity, pathos, and 
 earnestness of manner, that give them 
 such life and power. 
 
 The case, then, stands thus : It has 
 pleased God to adopt human language 
 as the instrument of his communications 
 to men, — an instrument sufficiently cor- 
 rect, though not absolutely perfect. We 
 might as reasonably demand that the 
 men should be faultless, as that the style 
 should be faultless. Neither were so. 
 And as the faults and mistakes of the 
 men do not invalidate the sufficiency of 
 their main testimony, still less would 
 any faults or inaccuracies of their style, 
 figures, illustrations, or arguments, if 
 proved to exist, set aside the great, in- 
 teresting, and, among Christians, the un- 
 questioned matters of revelation which 
 they have laid before us. 
 
 III. A word, now, in the third place, 
 on the unavoidable or actual conces- 
 sions upon this subject, among all intel- 
 ligent and sober Christians. Let us 
 see if they do not lead us to the same 
 result. It must be admitted that the 
 inspired penmen usually wrote in con- 
 formity with the philosophy of their 
 respective ages, — in conformity, there- 
 fore, with some portions of natural and 
 metaphysical philosophy that are false. 
 The common remark on this subject is, 
 that they did not profess to give instruc- 
 tions on astronomy, demonology, or 
 metaphysics, but on religion. In briefly 
 passing this point, we should like to 
 ask those who so zealously insist that 
 the phrase, "All Scripture is given by 
 inspiration of God," refers to every 
 word, or to every idea in the Bible; 
 what they are to do wjth the Mosaic 
 theory of the solar system and of the 
 starry heavens ? But to proceed with 
 the concessions to which we have re- 
 ferred. It cannot be denied that there 
 are some slight discrepancies in the 
 evangelical narratives. And, indeed, 
 the common and the very just answer 
 to this allegation in our books of evi- 
 dences is, that these differences, so 
 far from weakening the testimony, 
 
THE RECORD OF A REVELATION. 
 
 459 
 
 strengthen it, by showing that there 
 was no collusion among the witnesses. 
 Once more ; it is common now to admit 
 that the Bible is to be interpreted as 
 other books are. But we do not see 
 how it is possible to enter thoroughly 
 into the spirit of this rule, unless the 
 composition oi\.\\& Bible is looked upon 
 as a human work, — a work produced 
 by the natural operation of human 
 thought and feeling. If there was 
 frequent and supernatural interference 
 with the writer's natural mode of ex- 
 pressing himself, such a fact, it seems 
 to us, would seriously disturb the appli- 
 cation of the rule laid down, and would, 
 in fact, warrant many of those supersti- 
 tious and irrational views of the Scrip- 
 tures, which are fatal to just criticism 
 and sound scholarship. 
 
 If, then, it be admitted that there are 
 among our sacred books mistakes in 
 philosophy, and discrepancies, however 
 slight, in statements of facts, and if the 
 Bible is subject to the ordinary rules 
 of criticism on language, the inference 
 seems unavoidable, that these writings, 
 so far as their composition is concerned, 
 are to be regarded as possessing a prop- 
 erly and purely human character. 
 
 IV. But we come now to the great 
 difiSculty and objection. It is said that 
 if these views are correct, the Bible is a 
 fallible book, and unworthy of reliance. 
 We maintain, therefore, in the fourth 
 place, that the infallibility which many 
 Christians contend for, and upon the 
 defence of which unbelievers are willing 
 enouiili to put them, is, in our appre- 
 hension, unnecessary to the validity and 
 sufficiency of the communication. 
 
 What is a revelation 1 It is simply 
 the communication of certain truths to 
 mankind ; truths, indeed, which they 
 could not otherwise have fully under- 
 stood or satisfactorily determined ; but 
 truths, nevertheless, as easy to be com- 
 municated as any other. Why, then, is 
 there any more need of supernatural 
 assistance in this case than in any 
 other.' We are constantly speaking 
 to one another without any fear of 
 
 being misunderstood. We are constant- 
 ly reading books without any of this dis- 
 trust ; and books, too, written by men 
 in every sense faUible, which the Scrip- 
 ture writers, in regard to the revelation 
 made to them, are not. Nay, we are 
 reading books of abstruse philosophy, 
 in the full confidence that we under- 
 stand the general doctrines laid down. 
 But the matters of revelation are not 
 abstruse. They are designed to be 
 understood by the mass of mankind. 
 They are designed, like the light, to 
 shine upon man's daily path. What if 
 a man should say he cannot trust the 
 light of the sun, and will not walk by it, 
 because it comes through so earthly 
 and fallible a medium as the atmos- 
 phere ? The air, certainly, is an imper- 
 fect medium of light. There are motes 
 and mists and clouds in it. Yet we 
 have not the least doubt that we see 
 the sun, and the path that we walk in, 
 and the objects around us. It does not 
 destroy the nature of light that it comes 
 to us through the dense and variable 
 atmosphere ; and it does not destroy 
 the nature of truth that it comes to us 
 through the medium of human lan- 
 guage. 
 
 But let us descend to particulars. 
 What particular truth, then, that either 
 does belong to revelation, or has been 
 conceived to belong to it, requires an 
 infallible style, or a supernatural influ- 
 ence, for its communication ? Not the 
 Messiahship of Jesus, and his hving, 
 teaching, suffering, and dying to save 
 us from sin and misery; not the assur- 
 ance of God's paternal love and mercy 
 and care for us ; not the simple but 
 solemn and most glorious doctrine of a 
 future life ; not precept, not promise, 
 not warning, nor encouragement, nor 
 offered grace and aid. But suppose it 
 be contended that more belongs to the 
 revelation — " fixed fate, free will, fore- 
 knowledge absolute." Suppose it be 
 conceded that the matter of any or 
 every creed that Christians have made 
 belongs to it. Yet their makers, we 
 presume, will not maintain that any 
 
460 
 
 THE SCRIPTURES CONSIDERED AS 
 
 inspiration or supernatural guidance is 
 necessary to set forth tiiese matters. 
 They surely cannot feel any particular 
 distrust about the powers of language. 
 They who have made creeds on purpose 
 to remedy the imperfections, or clear up 
 the obscurities, or settle the uncertain- 
 ties of the Scriptural communication, 
 they surely are not the persons we have 
 to contend with in this argument. 
 
 " But ah ! " it is said, " this sort of 
 reasoning leads to infidelity." " Saves 
 us from infidelity," the objector might 
 more truly say. This, at least, is the 
 purpose of our reasonings ; and we 
 believe it is their tendency. Unbeliev- 
 ers have derived more plausible and 
 just objections from the prevailing theo- 
 logical assumptions with regard to our 
 sacred books, than from any other 
 quarter. The attacks which are usually 
 made upon the philosophy of Mos^s, 
 the imprecations of David, the differ- 
 ences among the apostles, the obscuri- 
 ties of Paul, and upon instances of 
 puerility, coarseness, and indelicacy in 
 style, or inappositeness in illustration, 
 are all of this nature. If it were con- 
 sidered that the successive communica- 
 tions which God has made to the world 
 have borne upon them the signs and 
 marks of their successive ages ; if it 
 were considered that the light, in its 
 visitations to the earth, has struggled 
 through the medium of human imper- 
 fection, through mists of prejudice, and 
 clouds, — often, indeed, gorgeous clouds 
 of imagination, — many difficulties and 
 objections of this sort would be re- 
 moved 
 
 " But how shall we know what is true 
 and what is false ; what belonged to the 
 age, and what to the light ? " This diffi- 
 culty is more specious than real. When 
 applied in detail to the Scriptures, it 
 will be found to amount to very little. 
 There can be no doubt, for instance, 
 about matters of morality and duty. 
 Indeed, it has often been admitted by 
 our Christian apologists, that a revela- 
 tion was not so much needed to tell us 
 what is right, as to give sanctions for it. 
 
 Then, again, with regard to these sanc- 
 tions, with regard to the future good 
 and evil, we believe no one has ever pre- 
 tended to deny them, or ever will, on the 
 ground that the sacred writers may have 
 been mistaken. Very few, indeed, do 
 deny them. The great body of Univer- 
 salists, as we are informed, now believe 
 in a future retribution. And so, as to 
 all the absolute doctrines of Scripture, 
 there is no dispute about tlie authority on 
 which they rest. The only question is, 
 whether some of the illustrations are judi- 
 cious, belonging as they do to the school 
 of Jewish allegory ; and whether one or 
 two of the arguments of Paul are logi- 
 cal. But this question, surely, does not 
 touch matters that fairly belong to the 
 very different department of immediate 
 inspiration. " Whoever appeals to rea- 
 son," it has been very justly said, 
 " waives, quoad hoc, his claim to inspira- 
 tion." When an inspired teacher says 
 to us, "This doctrine is true," that is 
 one thing ; we receive the declaration 
 on his simple authority. But when he 
 says, " I can prove this to you by a 
 series of arguments," that is another 
 thing. When he says, "This is true, 
 because'''' — the utterance of that word 
 arouses our reason. It is not implicit 
 faith that is then demanded, but an 
 attentive consideration of the force of 
 arguments. The thing argued demands 
 faith ; but the argument, from its very 
 nature, appeals to reason ; and it is the 
 very office of reason to judge whether 
 the argument is sound and sufficient. 
 And so when a sacred writer says, 
 '•This doctrine is true, and it is /ike 
 such a thing, or it may be so illus- 
 trated," he appeals to our judgment and 
 taste, and we may, without in the least 
 questioning the thing asserted, inquire 
 into the fitness, force, and elegance of 
 the illustration, allegory, or figure, by 
 which it is set forth. 
 
 V. If, now, any one shall say that this 
 amounts to a rejection of Christianity ; 
 if for any purpose, fair or unfair, if with 
 any intention, honest or dishonest, he 
 shall take it upon him to say, that in 
 
THE RECORD OF A REVELATION. 
 
 461 
 
 'advocating these views of inspiration we 
 are no better than infidels in disguise, 
 we cannot descend from the ground we 
 occupy, we should not think it decent, 
 with the known professions which we 
 make, to dispute the point with him. 
 But we would remind him that many of 
 the britjiitest lights and noblest defend- 
 ers of our religion fully maintain the 
 ground we have taken, to be Christian 
 ground. Erasmus says : " It is not neces- 
 sary that we should refer everything in 
 the apostolic writings immediately to 
 supernatural aid. Christ suffered his 
 disciples to err, even after the Holy 
 Ghost was sent down, but not to the 
 endangering of the Faith." Grotius 
 says, "It was not necessary that the 
 matters narrated should be dictated by 
 the Holy Spirit ; it was enough that 
 the writer had a good memory." " It 
 is possible," says the learned Michaelis, 
 " to doubt and even to deny the inspira- 
 tion of the New Testament, [he means 
 inspiration not only of words, but of 
 ideas, which we do not deny,] and yet 
 to be fully persuaded of the truth of the 
 Christian religion." Because, he ar- 
 gues, the facts being true, the testimony 
 being one of ordinary validity, the re- 
 ligion must be true. On this observa- 
 tion of Michaelis, Bishop Marsh says, 
 " Here our author makes a distinction 
 which is at present very generally re- 
 ceived between the divine origin of the 
 Christian doctrine, and the divine origin 
 of the writings in which that doctrine is 
 recorded.'' " The wisdom contained in 
 the Epistles of Paul," says Dr. Powell, 
 late Master of St. John's College, Gam- 
 bridge, " was given him from Above, and 
 very probably the style and composition 
 were his own." Dr. Paley makes the 
 same distinction. " In reading the apos- 
 tolic writings,'' he observes, " we distin- 
 guish between their doctrines and their 
 arguments. Their doctrines came to 
 them by revelation, properly so called ; 
 yet in propounding these doctrines, they 
 were wont to illustrate, support, and en- 
 force them by such analogies, arguments, 
 and considerations as their own thoughts 
 
 suggested." To the same purpose 
 Bishop Burnet. " When," says he, " di- 
 vine writers argue upon any point, we 
 are always bound to believe the conclu- 
 sions that their reasonings end in, as 
 parts of divine revelation ; but we are 
 not bound to be able to make out, or 
 even to assent to, all the premises made 
 use of by them in their whole extent, 
 unless it appear plainly that they affirm 
 the premises as expressly as they dc 
 the conclusions proved by them." 
 
 We have thus endeavored to free tht 
 Scriptures from the burden of support- 
 ing a character, to which, as we believe, 
 they nowhere lay any claim ; the char- 
 acter, that is, of being, in every minute 
 particular, perfect and infallible com- 
 positions. The question, we now re- 
 peat, the momentous, the most interest- 
 ing ciuestion between the believer and 
 the unbeliever, is, whether God has made 
 special and supernatural communica- 
 tions of his wisdom and will to man, 
 and whether the Bible contains those 
 communications? To us it appears of 
 great consequence, that the controversy 
 should be disembarrassed from all ex- 
 traneous difficulties, and should be re- 
 duced to this simple point. We repeat 
 it, therefore, that when prophet or apos- 
 tle presents himself to us as a messen- 
 ger from God, we receive him in the 
 simple and actual character which has 
 been marked out in this discussion. 
 We consider him as saying: " I bear to 
 you a message from God to which I de- 
 mand reverent heed ; I give you, from 
 divine inspiration, assurance of certain 
 solemn and momentous truths ; but I 
 do not say that every word and phrase 
 I use, every simile and allegory and con- 
 sideration by which I endeavor to ex- 
 plain or enforce my message, is divine, 
 any more than that my countenance, 
 speech, and action are divine. The dis- 
 tinction is easy, and you ought not to 
 misapprehend it. I speak to you from 
 God ; but still I am a man. I speak 
 after the manner of men ; and for the 
 peculiarities of my own manner, mind, 
 country, and age, I do not presume to 
 
462 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 make the Universal and Eternal Wis- 
 dom answerable." It is as when an 
 earthly government sends its ambassa- 
 dor to a revolted province- The per- 
 son invested with such a character has 
 a twofold office to discharge. He has 
 to lay down propositions, to make of- 
 fers of forgiveness and reconciliation. 
 These are from the government. He 
 has to explain and urge these proposi- 
 tions and ofifers by such language, illus- 
 trations, and arguments as the exigency 
 requires. These are from himself. "It 
 is thus," might the ambassador of God 
 say, — " it is thus that I address the chil- 
 dren of men. My message is divine : 
 my manner of dehvering it is human." 
 
 And albeit it were a man that spoke 
 thus to us, and however it might be that 
 he spoke after the manner of men, yet 
 if he could say with a voice of authority 
 and assurance, " God is love ; like as a 
 father pitieth his children, so God pities 
 you ; he watches over you with a kind 
 care ; he offers you forgiveness and re- 
 demption from sin ; he opens to you 
 the path of immortal life ; " if he could 
 say these things, it would be a message 
 which no words could adequately ex- 
 press. We should not say, as the an- 
 cient sceptics did of Paul, " His bodily 
 presence is weak, and his speech con- 
 temptible," although he should offend 
 
 our taste, or our prejudices, in every 
 phrase or figure by which he communi- 
 cated the glorious truth. We should 
 rather, with the Galatians, " receive 
 him as an angel of God," and would 
 kiss the hem of his garment, though 
 the storms of every sea, and the dust 
 and stripes of every city, had rent and 
 soiled it. There is nothing on earth, 
 of privilege, distinction, or blessing, to 
 compare with this simple faith. How 
 many a stricken and sorrowing mind 
 has been supported and soothed by that 
 holy reliance ! How many a bleeding 
 heart has stanched its wounds in that 
 healing fountain ! How many a spirit, 
 wearied with the vanities, or worn down 
 with the cares of this world, has sought 
 that blessed refuge ! Nor is it trouble, 
 or sorrow, or sickness, or bereavement 
 only that has resorted here, and could 
 go nowhere else ; but the boundless, 
 the ever-craving soul that sighs for an 
 immortal life and an infinite good, how 
 often has it exclaimed, " To whom shall 
 I go } Thou hast the words of ever- 
 lasting life " ! To tell us that all which 
 we believe is nothing because it does 
 not come up to the demands of some 
 technical creed, or for any other reason, 
 seems to us an absurdity and madness 
 of assertion, at which, instead of in- 
 veighing, we can'only wonder. 
 
 ON THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION.* 
 
 The Professor of Theology in the An- 
 dover Seminary will excuse us, we trust, 
 if we postpone his claims, for a while, 
 to the less agreeable task of dealing with 
 adversaries who are assailing us with 
 weapons far different from those which 
 he uses. With* this remark to guard 
 against even a momentary misapprehen- 
 sion, we shall take up the matter of our 
 thoughts ab origine. 
 
 * Review of " Lecture on the Inspiration of the 
 Scriptures. By Leonard Woods, D.D., Abbot Pro- 
 fessor of Christian Theology in the Theological Sem- 
 inary, Andover." 
 
 Qne of the evils of controversy is, 
 that men are driven by it into extremes 
 of opinion. The sound and sober con- 
 clusions at which they arrive in calmer 
 times are made to give way to extrava- 
 gant positions, injurious to the minds of 
 those who hold them, injurious to the 
 cause of Christianity, and favorable only 
 to the attacks of its enemies. Inquiry 
 is pursued under many undue biases, in- 
 deed, but especially under the bias of a 
 wish to put opponents and adversaries 
 in the wrong. New tests, not only of 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 463 
 
 practical religion, but of Christianity it- 
 self, are set up, in order to exclude un- 
 welcome opinions from the ground of 
 our common faith, and the maintenance 
 of such opinions from the credit of cher- 
 ishing its virtues. 
 
 It is of some importance, at such times, 
 to look to the foundation of our faith, 
 and to call to mind its most judicious and 
 able defenders, to point to the old and 
 firm landmarks and standards, in order 
 to show that these periodical freshets of 
 theological zeal, which bear away " the 
 wood and the hay and the stubble," are 
 not powerful enough to remove those 
 landmarks and standards, — to show 
 that they will spend their force and pass 
 away, and leave all that is weighty and 
 strong in our religion, just where it was 
 before. We say it is of some impor- 
 tance. It is not of such importance as 
 if we were defending the very ground 
 of our faith and hope. It is only point- 
 ing with our finger, and showing where 
 tlie foundations are. He who feels his 
 house to be strong and firm, cannot be 
 disturbed if his neighbor, with misplaced 
 zeal or benevolence, should tell him that 
 it is all decaying and sinking beneath 
 him. He may listen to him with an in- 
 credulous smile, and may good-naturedly 
 go around with him from pillar to pillar, 
 and show him that what he apprehends 
 to be fatal defect, is the mere rubbish 
 that surrounds them. 
 
 It might awaken a stronger feeling, 
 if that neighbor should evidently take 
 pleasure in the alleged unsoundness, if 
 he should exult in the downfall he pre- 
 dicted, and if he should pertinaciously 
 insist upon the point, manifestly with the 
 design to injure the property in the great 
 market of public opinion. But still the 
 feeling would be a calm one, and would 
 be only strengthened into a firmer and 
 more fearless confidence. He would 
 perhaps put his hand upon the founda- 
 tion or upon the pillar, and shake it, 
 with the most careless exertion of his 
 strength, that he might show it to be 
 safe. 
 
 It is for all these reasons that we shall 
 
 task ourselves for a few moments to 
 examine the totally unauthorized and 
 groundless character of the charge now 
 pressed against us, of being, notwith- 
 standing our Christian profession, our- 
 selves Infidels. But for the same reasons 
 we cannot anticipate that we shall awaken 
 in ourselves much zeal on the subject. 
 We cannot, as we have said on a former 
 occasion, fairly descend into the arena 
 of argument ; we cannot seriously put 
 ourselves in contest at this point of re- 
 cent attack ; for, with our professions, it 
 would seem to us a moral indecorum so 
 to do. We must take our stand aloof 
 from this, and simply point out to our 
 prying opponents, whether friendly or 
 unfriendly, their mistake. 
 
 We lay our hands strongly, then, upon 
 the foundation, — the Bible. We say 
 THERE is a comtnunicatioit from Heaven. 
 There is light supernaturally communi- 
 cated, and attested, to those Heaven- 
 commissioned prophets and apostles, who 
 in their turn have simply, naturally, each 
 after the manner of his own age, his own 
 style, his own peculiar haljits of thought 
 and feeling, imparted it to us. There 
 are truths recorded, beyond the human 
 reach of the men who delivered them, 
 and they are truths dearer to us than life. 
 
 Right or wrong in our conviction, this 
 is what we believe. We are not reason- 
 ing now with infidels ; if we were, we 
 should undertake to show that we are 
 right. But we are expostulating, we can- 
 not reason, with those who den}' us the 
 credit of the faith we profess ; and we 
 say to them, again, right or wrong, this 
 is what we believe. Our opponents 
 must pardon us, if we seem to them to 
 speak loftily in a case like this. We 
 put it to them, whether they could do 
 less in similar circumstances. If the 
 Catholics, or if we ourselves, were seri- 
 ously and perseveringly to lay the charge 
 against them, of bein;; infidels in dis' 
 guise, we ask them if they could consent 
 gravely to argue upon it 1 We put the 
 case to their own feelings, and we say 
 to them, as they would say to us or to 
 others, in a change of circumstances; 
 
464 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 " With all our solemn professions before 
 them, with all our preaching and our 
 prayers in the name of Christ, with all 
 our labors to illustrate the Holy Scrip- 
 tures, with all our publications, our books, 
 our commentaries, with all these things 
 before them, we say that the charge they 
 bring is not decent; and in common de- 
 cency, we cannot descend to argue the 
 point with them." 
 
 The only decent allegation which they 
 could bring, is, that our views tend to 
 produce infidelity. On this point we 
 should be at issue with them, and should 
 be willing to reason. We are at issue with 
 them, indeed ; for we say that their own 
 views much more tend to produce infi- 
 delity. Nay, we seriously believe that 
 it is our system, with thinking minds, 
 that will prove to be the only sufficient 
 defence and barrier against utter unbe- 
 lief; and this is one great reason why 
 we are anxious for its prevalence. We 
 are perfectly willing to admit, at the same 
 time, that no speculative views are, with 
 all persons and in all circumstances, an 
 effectual preservative. We admit that 
 some Unitarians in foreign countries 
 have become infidels. But do not our 
 opponents know that many Calvin- 
 ists, many Orthodox persons, not in 
 other countries alone, but in this also, 
 have become infidels ; and that multi- 
 tudes of Catholics abroad, believers in 
 the Trinity and the atonement and many 
 kindred points of doctrine, have fallen 
 into utter disbelief of the Christian reve- 
 lation ? Doubtless there is a medium 
 somewhere, which is perfect truth and 
 secure faith; and we believe — without 
 arrogance we hope, since it is a matter 
 of simple sincerity and consistency so to 
 believe— that we are nearest to that 
 medium. 
 
 It seems to us not a little extraordi- 
 nary, and it illustrates indeed the obser- 
 vation with which we commenced these 
 remarks, that while our Orthodox breth- 
 ren are charging us with these disguised 
 and subtle errors, they do so completely 
 wrap themselves up, as to all the diffi- 
 cult points of this controversy concerning 
 
 inspiration, in general implications with 
 regard to their own faith in the Scrip- 
 tures, and that they push those implica- 
 tions to an extent so utterly indefensible, 
 so utterly unauthorized, at any rate, by 
 many of the highest standards of their 
 own churches. And we must add that 
 it seems to us a fact still more irrecon- 
 cilable with candor and good faith, that 
 while, with a view to show what our 
 faith, or, as they will have it, what our 
 unbelief is, — while, we say, for this pro- 
 fessed purpose, they take brief sentences 
 and disjointed members of sentences 
 here and there from our writings, they 
 altogether suppress the strong and full 
 declarations we make of our belief in a 
 supernatural communication t© the in- 
 spired teachers of our religion ; that 
 they never tell their readers or hearers 
 that we " earnestly contend for this faith " 
 against unbelievers, and profess to find 
 in it the highest joy and hope of our 
 being. This, we must remind them, is 
 an utter violation of all the received cour- 
 tesies of religious controversy. For a 
 reasoner to charge upon opponencs his 
 inferences as their faith, has long been 
 branded as one of the most inadmissible 
 practices in controversy. But pertina- 
 ciously to do this, in the face of the most 
 deliberate protestations to the contrary, 
 and without noticing such protestations, 
 and this, too, before communities that 
 either have not the means, or will not 
 use them, of learning the truth, is a con- 
 duct for which we would gladly see any 
 tolerable apology. -For if he who " robs 
 us of our good name " does an inex- 
 cusable action, what shall we say of him 
 who, without affording us any remedy, 
 robs us of the name we most honor and 
 value ? We will not say what ; we re- 
 gret the necessity of saying thus much. 
 
 But we would invite those from whose 
 lips the charge of infidelity so easily falls, 
 to forsake the convenient covert of gen- 
 eral implication, and to tell us, in good 
 truth, what they themselves believe on 
 some of the matters of accusation that 
 seem to them so weighty. 
 
 In laboring to fix upon us the charge 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 465 
 
 of infidelity, they quote from us, as proof, 
 the statement that " the inspired pen- 
 men wrote in conformity with the phi- 
 losophy of their respecti ve ages, — in con- 
 formity, therefore, with some portions 
 of- natural and metaphysical philosophy 
 that are false." We ask if they tliem- 
 selves believe any otherwise .'' Do they 
 believe that the sacred writers foresaw 
 the discoveries of modern science '^ If 
 they had this foresight, these matters 
 would not have been left for discovery. 
 
 Again, we have said, " It cannot be 
 denied that there are some slight dis- 
 crepancies in the evangelical narratives ; " 
 and this, too, has been quoted as evi- 
 dence of our unbelief. But can it be 
 denied ? Does any intelligent student 
 of the Scriptures, — do our accusers, 
 deny it ? We confess that we are sur- 
 prised to read a citation like this, because 
 we consider it as a conceded point, in 
 some of our best and best-authorized 
 books of evidences, that there are such 
 discrepancies, and because it is argued 
 by our Christian apologists, as it was by 
 ourselves, that these discrepancies give 
 additional credit to the evangelical wit- 
 nesses, by showing that there could have 
 been '• no collusion among them." 
 
 One further extract. We remarked 
 that " unbelievers have derived more 
 plausible and just objections from the 
 prevailing theological assumptions with 
 regard to our sacred books, than from 
 any other quarter ; " and then went on 
 to say, that " the attacks which are 
 usually made upon the philosophy of 
 Moses, the imprecations of David, the 
 differences among the apostles, the ob- 
 scurities of Paul, and upon instances of 
 puerility, coarseness, and indelicacy in 
 style, and inappositeness in illustration, 
 are all of this nature." These expres- 
 sions, again, are quoted as confirmation 
 strong of our infidelity. On each of 
 these points we should like to put those 
 who arraign us to the question, and to 
 see where t/iey stand. Do they believe 
 in the philosophy of Moses } Do they 
 reject the Copernican system in astron- 
 omy, and maintain with Moses, who 
 
 wrote in conformity with Jewish as- 
 tronomy, that the heavens are a solid 
 concave, in which the sun, planets, and 
 stars, like splendid balls of light, perform 
 a daily revolution around the earth ? 
 The answer of the rational defender of a 
 revelation to the infidel objection arising 
 from this quarter is easy. He says that 
 Moses was not commissioned to teach 
 philosophy, but religion. But of this 
 answer our opponents deprive them- 
 selves, since to question the philosophy 
 of Moses is with them a sign of in- 
 fidelity. 
 
 Next, "the imprecations of David," — 
 do they undertake to defend them } 
 Speaking of his enemy, David uses 
 the following tremendous supplications: 
 " Set thou a wicked man over him, and 
 let Satan stand at his right hand. When 
 he shall be judged, let him be con- 
 demned, and let his prayer become sin. 
 Let his days be few, and let another 
 take his ofifice. Let his children be 
 fatherless, and his wife a widow. Let 
 his children be continually vagabonds, 
 and beg. Let the extortioner also catch 
 all that he hath, and let the strangers 
 spoil his labor. Let there be none to 
 extend mercy unto him ; neither let 
 there be any to favor his fatherless 
 children. Let his posterity be cut off, 
 and in the generation following let their 
 name be cut off. Let the iniquity of 
 his fathers be remembered with the 
 Lord, and let not the sin of his mother 
 be blotted out." It is impossible not to 
 say with Le Clerc, these are the words 
 of a man "fuUof excessive choler, and 
 an extreme desire to be revenged. And 
 yet," says he, " some famous divines 
 have put in the title to this Psalm, that 
 David, as a type of Jesus Christ, being 
 driven on by a singular zeal, prays that 
 vengeance may be executed on his ene- 
 mies ! But where," he says, '-do they 
 find that Jesus Christ does curse his 
 enemies at that rate ?" Another caption 
 reads that " David, complaining of his 
 slanderous enemies, under the person of 
 Judas, devoteth them." But the truth 
 is, all these explanations are perfectly 
 
466 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 gratuitous. They are worse than gratui- 
 tous ; they sanction a wrong principle. 
 Can it be right to curse any being, and 
 so to curse him, — to curse not only him 
 but his father, his mother, his children, 
 and his whole posterity, for his sin? In- 
 deed, there is no defence to be made of 
 this passage. This coiild not have pro- 
 ceeded from the good and merciful spirit 
 of God. It was the imperfection of 
 David, thus to feel. It was the imper- 
 fection of a rude and barbarous age. It 
 belonged to a period of early and erring 
 piety to use such a prayer. And it does 
 not disannul the evidence furnished by 
 other portions of his writings, that the 
 Psalmist derived an inspiration from 
 heaven. Those lofty conceptions of the 
 spirituality and glory of God, and those 
 sacred and transcendent affections which 
 he entertained, considering the period in 
 which he wrote, seem to us, in their in- 
 trinsic character, to warrant the claim to 
 more than human teaching. The book 
 of Psalms, as a whole, appears to us, the 
 more we study it and the age in which 
 it was composed, to bear marks of an 
 elevation and purity that are supernat- 
 ural. There is nothing more wonderful 
 to us in its character, than that in an 
 age when the universal reliance was on 
 things material, when all the ideas of 
 what is good and happy, with the world 
 at large, stopped at this point, — that the 
 mind of David should have found its 
 rest, its portion, its all-sufficiency, as it 
 did, in God ; that he should, in this 
 noblest respect, have gone so far beyond 
 the prevailing piety of every subsequent 
 age. But we must not dwell upon this 
 subject. Our reverence for the Psalmist 
 is great ; but we cannot be blind to the 
 imperfection of such a passage as that" 
 which we have cited. When the im- 
 precations of David are next alluded 
 to, we hope there will be some attempt 
 at an explanation of them into accord- 
 ance with the received ideas of inspira- 
 tion, or an honest confession of the 
 hopelessness of the task. 
 
 We insist upon these instances more 
 than we should do with any reference 
 
 that is personal to ourselves or others. 
 They present difficulties, in truth, to the 
 advocates of literal and plenary inspira- 
 tion which we could wish them fairly to 
 meet. 
 
 Our reference to " the differences 
 among the apostles," it is said, is an- 
 other argument to prove that we are 
 infidels. But do they, we ask again, 
 deny that there wei'c differences and 
 disputes among the apostles, — differ- 
 ences and disputes in regard to their 
 apostolic conduct and work ? Did not 
 Paul upbraid Peter at Antioch for " not 
 walking uprightly according to the truth 
 of the Gospel," — for making, in fact, a 
 false impression in his apostolic char- 
 acter? Did he not "withstand him to 
 the face, because he was to be blamed " ? 
 Did not Paul and Barnabas dispute at 
 the same place, and was not " the con- 
 tention so sharp that they departed asun- 
 der one from the other " ? 
 
 Then, as to " the obscurities of Paul." 
 On what age of Biblical criticism have 
 we fallen, when it is denied, even by im- 
 plication, that there are obscurities in 
 Paul, — "things hard to be understood"? 
 On what age of common-sense, when 
 the mention of these .obscurities is set 
 down as confirmatory evidence to sus- 
 tain the charge of infidelity ? And, 
 further, if the style he has adopted is 
 obscure and hard to be understood, is 
 that style, as mere style, to be com- 
 mended as anything more than a human 
 composition ? Are the words that com- 
 pose it either "grammatically or rhe- 
 torically the best words " ? Still further 
 as to the Scriptural style, — the allega- 
 tion that there are instances of puerility, 
 coarseness, and indelicacy has been re- 
 ferred to as bearing a sceptical aspect. 
 But has any man ever read the Old 
 Testament without finding such in- 
 stances ? To us, they have no more 
 weight, and they furnish no more diffi- 
 culty, as affecting the question of a 
 divine communication, than the cos- 
 tume of that ancient age. We should 
 as soon think of requiring good breed- 
 ing or politeness in the writers. Such 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 467 
 
 phraseology belongs to the period, and 
 its absence would take away one mark 
 of truth from the record. But what the 
 advocates of a literal and suggesting 
 inspiration are to do with such in- 
 stances, it passes our comprehension 
 to devise. ' We beseech them to con- 
 sider those instances, — it would be im- 
 proper to quote them, we dare not refer 
 to the text, — and to tell us whether 
 they are ready to pledge the sense and 
 delicacy of Christian men for the pro- 
 priety of such passages in sacred books 
 or any other books. We warn them, if 
 they do confound the claims of revela- 
 tion with the defence of such passages, 
 if they dare to present themselves be- 
 fore the searching and free spirit of this 
 age with such a defence, that they will 
 have something to do with infidelity be- 
 sides conjuring up a phantom of it in 
 the faith of their fellow-Christians. 
 
 Lastly, " inappositeness in illustra- 
 tion." We would ask any man learned 
 in the Scriptures whether he does not 
 believe that the New Testament ex- 
 hibits frequent instances of Jewish alle- 
 gorizing ; and whether these instances 
 do not conform to the principles of that 
 mode of illustration ; and whether he 
 accounts those principles to have been 
 very strict, or exact, or logical ? We 
 will refer our hasty accusers to some 
 of their own authorities. Dr. Woods 
 says, " It is no objection to the in- 
 spiration of the Scriptures, that they 
 exhibit all the varieties in the mode 
 of writing that are common in other 
 works." Other works, we suppose he 
 means, of the same period ; and indeed 
 he instances under this observation the 
 "allegory." Were the allegories of Jew- 
 ish " works " always exactly apposite ? 
 He maintains, we know, that there is a 
 relevance ; but does this amount to an 
 exact appositeness ? Bishop Atterbury 
 says, "The language of the East" — 
 and he applies this observation to the 
 Scriptures — "speaks of nothing sim- 
 ply, but in the boldest and most lofty 
 figures and in the longest and most 
 s/rained ailegories." Dr. Powell, Mas- 
 
 ter of St. John's College, Cambridge, 
 says, in speaking of the writings of 
 Paul, " Lastly, he abounds with broken 
 sentences, bold figures, and hard, ya?-- 
 fetched metapliors." * 
 
 We introduce two or three criticisms 
 of Dr. Jahn on some of the prophets, 
 which we presume no one will call in 
 question. Of Ezekiel, Dr. Jahn says, 
 '• His tropes and images do not always 
 exactly correspond with nature ; " of 
 Zechariah, " Many novel and elegant 
 tropes and allegories occur, but they 
 are not always quite in character with 
 the nature of the things from which 
 they are drawn."! Can any critic main- 
 tain that there is in the Scriptures an in- 
 variable "appositeness of illustration " ? 
 If there is, then the language is not, 
 as Dr. Woods admits it is, "completely 
 human," but perfectly divine. 
 
 But all this proves, say our reviewers, 
 that, " in regard to some portions of the 
 Bible, Unitarians no more believe the 
 ideas inspired than they do the words." 
 Once more, we ask, do they believe in 
 the inspiration of every idea that is con- 
 tained in the Bible ? That is the im- 
 plication conveyed by their words ; but 
 do they believe it ? Do they believe 
 that the Psalmist was inspired to say, 
 " O daughter of Babylon, thou art to be 
 destroyed. Happy shall he be that 
 rewardeth thee as thou hast served 
 us. Happy shall he be that taketh and 
 dasheth thy little ones against the 
 stones." Or when Solomon says, " Be 
 not thou one of them that strike hands, 
 or of them that are sureties for debts," 
 do they believe that this injunction was 
 inspired ? Or when Paul uses this 
 opprobrious language to the officer that 
 struck him, " God shall smite thee, thou 
 whited wall ! " do they account this to 
 be the fruit of inspiration ? " Where," 
 says Jerome, speaking of this angry 
 retort, — " where is that patience of our 
 Saviour, who, as a lamb led to the slaugh- 
 ter, opened not his mouth, but answered 
 mildly to him that struck him, " If I 
 
 * Dr. Powell's Sermon on Inspiration. 
 
 + Jahn's Introduction to the Old Testament. 
 
468 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 have spoken ill convince me of the ill ; 
 but if well, why do you strike me ? " 
 
 Let us take an instance of a different 
 character. Paul says to Timothy, 
 " Demas hath forsaken me, having 
 loved this present world, and is departed 
 unto Thessalonica, Crescens to Galatia, 
 Titus unto Dalmatia. Only Luke is 
 with me. And Tycliicus have I sent to 
 Ephesus. The cloak that I left at Troas 
 with Carpus, when thou comest, bring, 
 and the books, especially the parch- 
 ments." Now can any sensible man 
 believe that these ideas were inspired ? 
 We presume not. Well, can any man 
 believe — for this is the only tolerable 
 supposition for our opponents — that 
 Paul was specially directed to say these 
 things to Timothy ? They may believe 
 so, but to us it seems a most unnecessary 
 exaction upon our faith. We can be- 
 lieve that they were specially directed 
 to state many things, which were derived 
 not from divine suggestion, but from 
 memory ; to state many things that 
 were important as matters of fact and 
 testimony ; and that in this, the only 
 possible sense, such things were in- 
 spired. But to suppose that Paul was 
 divinely prompted to request that his 
 cloak and books might be brought from 
 Troas, and especially the parchments, 
 looks to us more like an attempt to cast 
 contempt on the doctrine of inspiration 
 than seriously to defend it. We have 
 opened at this moment on a passage of 
 Dr. Woods's Lectures, where he com- 
 ments on this text. He says to the ob- 
 jector, " I would ask him what reason 
 he has to think that the direction was 
 unimportant either to the comfort and 
 usefulness of Paul, or to the interests of 
 the churches." To the interests of the 
 churches, we suppose he means, inas- 
 much as it promoted Paul's comfort ; 
 and we answer, no reason. But is it 
 to be thought that every request or di- 
 rection of Paul's that concerned his own 
 comfort, and, through that, his useful- 
 ness, was a matter of inspiration ? We 
 might as well say that when he 
 asked for food at the daily board he 
 
 was inspired, as when he asked for 
 clothing on the approach of winter ; for 
 the promise of divine guidance extend- 
 ed, it will not be denied, to what the 
 apostles spoke, as much as to what 
 they wrote. But to presume that this 
 guidance was given in the minutest 
 affairs of every-day convenience and 
 prudence, is not only an extension 
 of the promise wholly unwarranted by 
 the terms of it, as we think, but it is a 
 stretch of inference which shows that 
 the common theory of inspiration presses 
 hard. 
 
 For ourselves, we feel no such press- 
 ure. Our minds are so much at ease in 
 this argument, that we are ready to throw 
 the little ball we have just been winding 
 up to our' neighbors for their further 
 amusement. We cannot help referring 
 those — we mean not the author we have 
 just quoted — but those who are so fond 
 •of running out parallels between Uni- 
 tarians and Infidels, who have lately 
 studied so hard upon " Bolingbroke, 
 Hobbes, Tindal, Morgan, Dodwell, and 
 Gibbon," — referring them, we say, for 
 it must cost a good deal of labor to hunt 
 up so many references on both sides, to 
 the new instances we have just given 
 them, to be added to their useful cata- 
 logue. We warrant that Bolingbroke, 
 Hobbes, Tindal, Morgan, Dodwell, or 
 Gibbon, or, perhaps, Paine, have quoted 
 the same passages in objecting to Chris- 
 tianity, that we have quoted in objecting 
 to the Orthodox views of inspiration. 
 What a notable argument is it, and what 
 notable minds must it be expected to 
 operate upon! Unitarians believe some 
 things that Infidels believe, and use 
 some of the same methods of reasoning; 
 therefore Unitarians are Infidels ! But 
 let us try a different application of this 
 favorite argument and see how it will 
 stand. Orthodox persons believe in a 
 Providence; so do many Infidels, there- 
 fore the Orthodox are Infidels. The 
 Trinitarians have departed from the 
 simple unity of God, and conceive of 
 three distinct principles, each of which 
 is God ; so did Plato ; therefore Trin- 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 469 
 
 itarians are Platonists ; they have for- 
 saken Christianity, and — shocking to 
 relate .' — have gone back to Heathenism. 
 Calvinists decry human nature; so did 
 the French philosophers; therefore Cal- 
 vinists are Infidel philosophers. They 
 are Necessitarians, too ; so were some 
 of the ancient philosophers ; and there- 
 fore their system is a strange mixture 
 of ancient and modern scepticism. The 
 parallel might proceed and thus it would 
 be. " Nay, but we make distinctions," 
 these several sects would say. We can- 
 not help it ; we do not see them ; these 
 meshes of sophistry are all broken and 
 crushed before the step of this '• mighty 
 and grinding dispensation" under which 
 we are fighting the battle for truth. 
 '• Well, but we profess to be Christians." 
 Ay, profess ; no doubt you profess. 
 That furthers your purposes for a while; 
 you are "' Infidels in disguise ; " you are 
 on the way to a disclosure, and "the 
 sooner you come out " the better. 
 " Ah," our opponents will say, with a 
 serious face after all, "but can you shut 
 your eyes to the great historical fact 
 that some of the German theologians, a 
 few years ago, speculated on some points 
 as you do, and that they have now 
 become Infidels?" The Catholic shall 
 answer for us. " Can you, Calvinistic 
 Protestants, shut your eyes to the great 
 historical fact that but fifty years ago 
 the German theologians speculated in 
 all respects as you do, unless that they 
 speculated less freely, and that now 
 some of them are Infidels, and many of 
 them Unitarians, and that almost all 
 deny the Scriptural obligation of the 
 Sabbath, the eternity of future punisii- 
 ments, and hold the Old Testament to 
 be of authority inferior to that of the 
 New?* This is what we told Luther 
 and his coadjutors long ago, — told them 
 
 * We wish, indeed, that those whose imaginations 
 are so possessed with the resemblance which we bear 
 to the Liberal party in Germany; who have rung 
 all the changes of argument, warning, and sarcasm, 
 upon it, till we should think it could scarcely yield 
 another note,— we wish that they would look at the 
 state of the Orthodox party in that country. How 
 easy would it be for us, if we were disposed to prac- 
 tise this lately perfected art of seizing occasions, to 
 
 SO at the time. We told them that they 
 were plunging themselves, or tlieir suc- 
 cessors, at any rate, into infidelity. Nay, 
 Holy Church deems but little better of 
 you now than that you are Infidels ! It 
 holds you outcasts from faith and hope ; 
 and it ill becomes you to protest against 
 this exclusion so long as you are deal- 
 ing out the whole measure of its sever- 
 ity against those who differ from you." 
 We commend the argument of the Cath- 
 olic to those whom it may concern, and 
 return to our discussion ; only saying, 
 as we pass, that the Catholic doctors 
 have more ground than they think for 
 to support the sopiiism by which they 
 claim Protestant Christians as belong- 
 ing to the one infallible and undivided 
 church. Protestant Christians do in- 
 deed exhibit too many proofs of belong- 
 ing to it ; and this we say, not in the 
 spirit of sarcasm, but of sober and sad 
 reflection. 
 
 It is time to ask — since the term is 
 so vaguely used and for such purposes 
 ■ — ^ What is Infidelity ? Let the modern 
 Orthodox luminaries of Germany, Storr 
 and Flatt, answer for us ; for they an- 
 swer wisely and with discrimination. 
 " The question," say they, " is not, Shall 
 we believe the doctrines of Jesus under 
 the same conditions that we believe 
 the declarations of any other teacher, 
 namely, provided our reason discovers 
 them to be true ? but the question is. 
 Shall we believe the instructions of 
 Jesus under circumstances in which we 
 would not believe any other teacher 
 who was not under the special influence 
 of God ? It is useless to speak of a 
 revelafioii, if we attribute to Jesus no 
 other inspiration than that which the 
 Naturalist will attrii)Ute to him, and 
 which may just as well be attributed to 
 the Koran, and to every other pretended 
 
 wage this petty war of comparisons and illusions and 
 insinuations; to address ourselves, not to the reflec- 
 tions, but to the imagination of the people; how easy 
 to retort and to spread a vague horror against half of 
 the Orthodox clergy of New England! Rut do we 
 live at a period when there is no discrimination? Is 
 the learning of Germany, with its hasty, though 
 monstrous growth, to deter all the world from in- 
 quiry ? 
 
470 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 revelation ; nay, to all teachers of relig- 
 ion ; that is, if we receive only those 
 doctrines whose truth is manifest to the 
 eye of reason, and call them divine only 
 because all truth is derived from God, 
 the author of our reason."* It is in 
 this vague sense that some Infidels 
 have called the Scriptures divine ; that 
 Bolingbroke has denominated them 
 " the word of God," and that Rousseau 
 has seemed to acknowledge so much, 
 in those eloquent testimonies of his, to 
 the beauty of the Scriptures and of our 
 Saviour's character, which put the cold- 
 ness of many Christian teachers to 
 shame. But now let the question be 
 fairly stated: Does, or did, any Infidel 
 ever admit the divine, supernatural, 
 miraculous origin of that system of 
 interpositions and instructions that is 
 recorded in the Bible ? And was any- 
 thing ever heard of, in all the annals 
 of theological extravagance, more mon- 
 strous, than to charge men, who devoutly 
 and gratefully profess to receive the 
 Bible in this supernatural character, 
 with being Infidels? 
 
 Let not our brethren in the Christian 
 faith be shaken from their steadfastness 
 by this senseless cry, or the vague hor- 
 ror which it is designed to spread abroad 
 among the people. Let them examine 
 the glorious temple of their faith, too 
 clear in their perceptions, too strong in 
 their admiration, to be disturbed by the 
 slight appendages which the tastes and 
 styles of different ages have gathered 
 around it. Let them study the sublime 
 and precious record of heaven-inspired 
 truth, with a freedom, with a faith, with 
 a feeling, that standeth not in the letter, 
 but in the spirit. 
 
 We cannot think it a hard case to 
 be classed, in our faith on this subject, 
 with such men as Grotius and Eras- 
 mus, with Paley and Burnet; and we 
 are really curious to know — we wish 
 that our accusers would tell us — what 
 they are to do with such men. Eras- 
 mus and Grotius, Burnet and Paley, 
 
 • Bibl. Theol. § i6, II. 3. 
 
 Infidels ! It is indeed a discovery in 
 the Christian world. 
 
 We shall now take up a few moments 
 in making some further references of 
 this nature ; for it is time, as we have 
 already said, to refer to some of the 
 most able defenders of our faith, and 
 to inquire whether their names, too, are 
 to fall under this newly devised oppro- 
 brium. 
 
 St. Jerome says, " The Prophet Amos 
 was skilled in knowledge, not in lan- 
 guage : " and then, in a comment on the 
 third chapter, he adds, "We told you 
 that he uses the terms of his own pro- 
 fession, and, because a shepherd knows 
 nothing more terrible than a lion, he 
 compares the anger of God to lions." 
 Did not Jerome, then, regard the lan- 
 guage as " purely human " ? Did he 
 regard it as " rhetorically the best lan- 
 guage " .'' 
 
 The learned Le Clerc, whose writings 
 occupy a distinguished place in all our 
 theological hbraries, says, with a lati- 
 tude of expression, indeed, beyond what 
 we should use, "Thus, then, according 
 to my hypothesis, the authority of the 
 Scripture continues in full force ; for 
 you see I maintain that we are obliged 
 to believe the substance of the history 
 of the New Testament, and generally 
 all the doctrines of Jesus Christ, all 
 that was inspired to the apostles, and 
 also whatsoever they have said of them- 
 selves, so far as it is conformable to 
 our Saviour's doctrine and to right rea- 
 son. It is plain that nothing further is 
 necessarily to be believed in order to 
 salvation ; and it seems also evident to 
 me that those new opinions brought 
 into the Christian religion since the 
 death of the apostles, which I have 
 here refuted, being altogether imaginary 
 and ungrounded, instead of bringing any 
 advantage to the Christian religion, are 
 really very prejudicial to it. An in- 
 spiration is attributed to the apostles 
 to which they never pretended, and 
 whereof there is not the least mark left 
 in their writings. Hereupon it hap- 
 pens that very many persons who have 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 471 
 
 strength enough of understanding to 
 deny assent to a thing for which there 
 is no good proof brought, — though 
 preached with never so much gravity, — 
 it happens. I say, that these persons 
 reject all tlie Christian religion, because 
 they do not distinguish true Christian- 
 ity from those dreams of fanciful di- 
 vines."* 
 
 For the opinion that we are to look 
 to the substance of the Scriptures, and 
 not to the letter, — not to every exact 
 mode of phraseology, — let us see what 
 countenance we have from Dr. Light- 
 foot, by universal consent allowed to be 
 one of the most learned and eminent 
 men in the English Church. After say- 
 ing that the evangelists and apostles 
 used the Greek versions of the Old 
 Testament in their quotations from it, 
 he speaks of that version in the follow- 
 ing terms : "I question not but the in- 
 terpreters (the LXX.), whoever they 
 were, engaged themselves in this under- 
 taking (the translation of the Old Testa- 
 ment) with something of a partial mind, 
 and, as they made no great conscience 
 of imposing on the Gentiles, so they 
 made it their religion to favor their own 
 side ; and, according to this ill temper- 
 ament and disposition of mind, so did 
 they manage their version, either add- 
 ing or curtailing at pleasure, blindly, 
 lazily, and audaciously enough, — some- 
 times giving a very foreign sense, some- 
 times a contrary, oftentimes none, — and 
 this frequently to patronize tlieir own 
 traditions, or to avoid some offence they 
 think might be in the original, or for 
 the credit and safety of their own na- 
 tion, — the tokens of all which it would 
 not be difficult to instance in very great 
 numbers, would I apply myself to it."f 
 Now, admitting all or anything of this 
 to be true, is it possible to suppose that 
 the apostles held the authority of the 
 Scriptures, as is now done, to depend 
 on their verbal accuracy ? There is 
 reason, indeed, with Le Clerc, to denom- 
 inate these views of inspiration " new 
 
 * Essay on Inspiration, 
 t Vol. II. p. 401. 
 
 opinions brought into the church since 
 the death of the apostles." 
 
 But our present business is with au- 
 thorities. Bishop Atterbury, in his ser- 
 mon on 2 Peter iii. 16, writes thus : 
 " For consider we with ourselves what 
 manner of men the apostles were in 
 tiieir birth and education, what country 
 they lived in, what language they wrote 
 in, and we shall find it rather wonder- 
 ful that there are so few, than that there 
 are so many, things that we are at a 
 loss to understand,- They were men 
 (all except Paul) meanly born and bred, 
 and uninstructed utterly in the arts of 
 speaking and writing. All the language 
 they were masters of was purely what 
 was necessary to express themselves 
 upon the common affairs of life and in 
 matters of intercourse with men of their 
 own rank and profession. When they 
 came, therefore, to talk of the great 
 doctrines of the cross, to preach up the 
 astonishing truths of the Gospel, they 
 brought, to be sure, their old idiotisms 
 [idioms] and plainness of speech along 
 with them. And is it strange, then, that 
 the deep things of God should not al- 
 ways be expressed by them in words of 
 the greatest propriety and clearness ? " 
 
 Bishop Chandler says, speaking of 
 Paul's reasonings on certain points, 
 " In all this he saith no more than that 
 the subject of his mystical reasons, as 
 they relate to Christ, was taught them 
 by the Spirit ; the doctrines were di- 
 vine ; yet the means and topics from 
 whence they were sometimes urged and 
 confirmed were hufnan." 
 
 The following observations from 
 Locke's E=say on the Understanding 
 of St. Paul's Epistles we presume no 
 judicious critic will gainsay ; and we 
 see not how the inference is to be re- 
 jected, that the manner and style were 
 altogether his own, and purely human, 
 and plainly imperfect. 
 
 " To these causes of obscurity, com- 
 mon to St. Paul with most of the other 
 penmen of the several books of the 
 New Testament, we may add those 
 that are peculiarly his, and owing to 
 
472 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 his style and temper. He was, as it is vis- 
 ible, a man of quick thought, warm tem- 
 per, mighty well versed in the writings 
 of the Old Testament, and full of the 
 doctrine of the New. All this put to- 
 gether suggested matter to him in abun- 
 dance on those subjects that came in 
 his way; so that one may consider him 
 when he was writing as beset with a 
 crowd of thoughts all striving for utter- 
 ance. In this posture of mind it was 
 almost impossible for him to keep that 
 slow -pace, and observe minutely that 
 order and method of ranging all that he 
 said, from which results an easy and 
 obvious perspicuity. To this plenty and 
 vehemence of his may be imputed many 
 of those large parentheses which a care- 
 ful reader may observe in his Epistles. 
 Upon this account, also, it is that he 
 often breaks off in the middle of an 
 argument, to let in some new thought 
 suggested by his own words ; which 
 having pursued and explained as far as 
 conduced to his present purpose, he 
 reassumes again the thread of his dis- 
 course, and goes on with it, without 
 taking any notice that he returns again 
 to what he had been before saying ; 
 though sometimes it be so far off that it 
 may well have slipped out of his mind, 
 and requires a very attentive reader to 
 observe, and so bring the disjointed 
 members together as to make up the 
 connection, and see how the scattered 
 parts of the discourse hang together in 
 a coherent, well-agreeing sense, that 
 makes it all of a piece." 
 
 We should not proceed with these 
 quotations merely for our own defence ; 
 liut we think they deserve attention on 
 their own account, upon a subject so 
 little understood, and so likely to at- 
 tract further notice, as the character in 
 which the Scriptures are to be received 
 as containing a revelation from God. We 
 shall therefore make one or two extracts 
 from Bishop Burnet and Dr. Paley, in 
 addition to those given in a former 
 article. 
 
 In his Exposition of the Thirty-nine 
 Articles, Bishop Burnet thus writes : 
 
 " And thus far I have laid down such a 
 scheme concerning inspiration and in- 
 spired writings as will afford, to such as 
 apprehend it aright, a solution to most 
 of these difficulties with which we are 
 urged on the account of some passages 
 in the sacred writings. The laying down 
 a scheme that asserts an immediate in- 
 spiration which goes to the style and to 
 every tittle, and that denies any error to 
 have crept into any of the copies, as it 
 seems on the one hand to raise the hon- 
 or of the Scriptures very highly, so it 
 lies open, on the other hand, to great 
 difficulties, which seem insuperable in 
 that hypothesis ; whereas a middle way, 
 as it settles the divine inspiration of 
 these writings, and their being contin- 
 ued down genuine and unvitiated to us, 
 as to all that, for which we can only 
 suppose that inspiration was given ; so 
 it helps us more easily out of all diffi- 
 culties, by yielding that which serves to 
 answer them, without weakening the 
 authority of the whole." * 
 
 We give an extract from Dr. Paley' s 
 chapter on Erroneous Opinions imputed 
 to the Apostles, referring our readers, 
 who would learn his views in detail, to 
 the whole chapter. "We do not usually 
 question the credit of a writer by reason 
 of any opinion he may have delivered 
 upon subjects unconnected with his 
 evidence ; and even upon subjects con- 
 nected with his account, or mixed with 
 it in the same discourse or writing, we 
 naturally separate facts from opinions, 
 testimony from observation, narrative 
 from argument. 
 
 " To apply this equitable consideration 
 to the Christian records, much contro- 
 versy and much objection has been 
 raised concerning the quotations of the 
 Old Testament found in the New ; some 
 of which quotations, it is said, are ap- 
 plied in a sense, and to events, appar- 
 ently different from that which they 
 bear, and from those to which they 
 belong, in the original. It is probable 
 to my apprehension, that many of those 
 quotations were intended by the writers 
 
 * P. 88, 2d fol. edition, 1700. 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 473 
 
 of the New Testament as nothing more 
 than accommodatiotis. Such accommo- 
 dations of passages from old authors are 
 common with writers of all countries ; 
 but in none, perhaps, were more to be 
 expected than in the writings of the 
 Jews, whose literature was almost en- 
 tirely confined to their Scriptures." 
 " Those prophecies which are alleged 
 with more solemnity, and which are ac- 
 companied with a precise declaration 
 that they originally respected the event 
 then related, are, I think, truly alleged. 
 But were it otherwise, is the judgment 
 of the writers of the New Testament, in 
 interpreting passages of the Old, or 
 sometimes perhaps in receiving estab- 
 lished interpretations, so connected ei- 
 ther with their veracity, or with their 
 means of information concerning what 
 was passing in their own times, as that 
 a critical mistake, even were it more 
 clearly made out, should overthrow their 
 historical credit ? Does it diminish it? 
 Has it anything to do with it ? " * 
 
 It is well known that the doctrine of 
 inspiration has been exceedingly modi- 
 fied by the progress of biblical criticism 
 within the last half-century. To this 
 purpose we quote Jahn, in reference to 
 the prevailing state of opinion in Ger- 
 many. " Most of the Protestants formed 
 a very strict idea of inspiration, and de- 
 fended it as late as the middle of the 
 eighteenth century. But after the pub- 
 lication of the learned work of Toellner 
 on inspiration, in 1772, and of Semler's 
 examination of the Canon, 1771-73, many 
 undertook to investigate the doctrine of 
 inspiration, and gradually relaxed in their 
 views of it, until at last they entirely 
 banished the doctrine, so that at present 
 but few admit it."f 
 
 It would not be difficult to prove that 
 there has been a similar, though not an 
 equal, nor equally extended, progress of 
 opinion in England. We have in a for- 
 mer article referred to Dr. Powell and 
 Bishop Marsh. 
 
 Dr. Durell, Principal of Hertford Col- 
 
 * Evidences, Part iii. chap. ii. 
 
 t Introduction to the Old Testament, § 23. 
 
 I lege, Oxford, and Prebendary of Canter- 
 bury, said long ago, in speaking of the 
 imprecations sometimes occurring in 
 the Psalms, " How far it may be prop- 
 er to continue the reading of these 
 Psalms in the daily service of our church, 
 I leave to the consideration of the legis- 
 lature to determine. A Christian of 
 erudition may consider these impreca- 
 tions only as the natural sentiments of 
 Jews, which the benign religion he pro- 
 fesses abhors and condemns. But what 
 are the illiterate to do, who know not 
 whence to draw the line between the 
 Law and the Gospel ? They hear both 
 read, one after the other, and, I fear, 
 think them both of equal obligation, and 
 even take shelter under Scripture to clov- 
 er their curses. Though I am conscious 
 I here tread on slippery ground, I will 
 take leave to hint that, notwithstanding 
 the high antiquity that sanctifies, as it 
 were, this practice, it would, in the opin- 
 ion of a 7iutnber of wise and good 7nen, 
 be more for the credit of the Christian 
 church to omit a few of those Psalms, 
 and substitute some parts of the Gospel 
 in their stead." 
 
 Speaking of Paul's manner of writing 
 in his Epistles, Bishop Marsh says : " The 
 erudition there displayed is the erudi- 
 tion of a learned Jew. The argumenta- 
 tion there displayed is the argumenta- 
 tion of a Jewish convert to Christianity, 
 confuting his brethren on their own 
 ground." 
 
 Still more strongly. Dr. Maltby, late 
 preacher at Lincoln's Inn, in his Ser- 
 mons • ' Whatsoever doctrines con- 
 nected with revelation are clearly dis- 
 coverable in the writings of St. Paul, we 
 receive with reverence and faith, as the 
 will of God. But let us beware how we 
 misunderstand the meaning of a writer, 
 whose meaning from so many causes 
 may be misunderstood. Let us discrim- 
 inate when he is addressing his adversa- 
 ries as a logician, and when he unequiv- 
 ocally expresses his own personal con- 
 viction." * 
 
 The Quarterly Review, which has 
 
 * Maltby's Sermons, Vol. I. p. 311. 
 
474 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 been considered as representing the sen- 
 timents of the English Church, in an 
 article on Professor Buckland's Reli- 
 qtiicE Diliiviance, uses the following lan- 
 guage. Addressing the friends of relig- 
 ion, it says ; " We would call to their 
 recollection, also, the opinions formerly 
 maintained as to the plenary and even 
 literal inspiration of Scripture ; the clam- 
 or raised against the first collections 
 of various readings, in the copies of the 
 New Testament, and still later against 
 those of the Old. 
 
 "Well indeed is it for us that the 
 cause of revelation does not depend on 
 questions such as these ; for it is remark- 
 able that in every instance the controver- 
 sy Uas ended in the gradual surrender of 
 those very points which were at one 
 time represented as involving the vital 
 interests of religion." * 
 
 But we have wearied ourselves, and 
 our readers, we fear, with quotations. 
 And truly what need of authorities ? Let 
 us quote Paul himself. So personal, so 
 private many times, so peculiar always, 
 so mixing up his natural feelings and 
 interests with the ministration of the 
 Gospel, that one of the charms of his 
 writings is the charm of his own noble 
 generosity and artlessness, — how is it 
 possible to think of him, in many of these 
 passages, but as giving utterance to feel- 
 ings entirely natural, in words and ar- 
 guments purely human ? Let us quote 
 Paul, we say ; and we may take a pas- 
 sage almost at random, and leave it to 
 the judgment of our readers. " Am I 
 not an apostle ? Am I not free ? have 
 I not seen Jesus Christ our Lord ? are 
 ye not my work in the Lord.? If I be 
 not an apostle unto others, yet doubtless 
 I am to you : for the seal of mine apos- 
 tleship are ye in the Lord. Mine answer 
 to them that do examine me is this : 
 Have we not power to eat and to drink ? 
 Have we not power to lead about a sis- 
 ter, a wife, as well as other apostles, and 
 as the brethren of the Lord, and Cephas ? 
 Or I only and Barnabas, have we not 
 power to forbear working 1 Who goeth 
 * Quarterly Review, No. LXVII. p. 142. 
 
 a warfare any time at his own charges .^ 
 who planteth a vineyard, and eateth not 
 of the fruit thereof ? or who feedeth a 
 flock, and eateth not of the milk of the 
 flock?"* 
 
 We shall now leave the charge of infi- 
 delity, and shall enter upon a brief con- 
 sideration of the Lectures which we have 
 placed at the head of this article. We 
 feel, in doing so, that we are breathing 
 a new atmosphere, that we are passing 
 from storm to sunshine, from a cloudy 
 region to clearer light; and truly if we 
 are to fall in any contest, we had rather 
 be stricken down by the sunbeam than 
 by a driving mist. We see in these 
 Lectures the same fine and cautious dis- 
 crimination for which we have long con- 
 sidered Dr. Woods as distinguished, and 
 which, we believe, would render him 
 eminent in any church ; and though he 
 has not cleared up our difficulties, though 
 he has not, indeed, grappled with the 
 difficulties that most press upon our own 
 minds, yet, if we are wrong, we certainly 
 •should be more likely to be reclaimed 
 by his discriminating arguments than 
 by violent anathemas and wholesale de- 
 nunciations. When will Christian con- 
 troversialists approach but so distantly 
 to the kindliness of our common faith 
 as to recognize the claims of common 
 humanity, and to pay any tolerable re- 
 spect to the sincerity and worth of their 
 opponents '^. 
 
 We understand Dr. Woods. We 
 know that he is no temporizer. We hear 
 him speak of dangers. Perhaps we ad- 
 mit that there are dangers ; perhaps we 
 feel it ; perhaps we pray for light and 
 safety, and fear lest we should stretch 
 out a rash hand to the ark of God to save 
 it from the hands of the Philistines. All 
 this may be ; for when or where was the 
 speculative or moral path of any human 
 being free from dangers 't 
 
 Dr. Woods commences with " re- 
 marks ' on the proper mode of reason- 
 ing, and on the nature and source of 
 the evidence by which divine inspira- 
 tion is to be proved." In the course of 
 
 * I Cor. ix. 1-7. 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 475 
 
 these remarks he introduces with appro- 
 bation a passage from Dr. Knapp, which, 
 as containing some important discrimi- 
 nations, we will quote. "These two 
 positions, the contents of the sacred 
 books, or the doctrines taught in them, 
 are of di^'ine origin; and the books 
 themselves are giveti by inspiration of 
 God, are not tlie same, but need to be 
 carefully distinguished. It does not fol- 
 low from the arguments which prove 
 the doctrines of the Scriptures to be 
 divine, that the books themselves were 
 written under a divine impulse. A re- 
 vealed truth may be taught in any book ; 
 but it does not follow that the book 
 itself is divine. We might be convinced 
 of the truth and divinity of the Chris- 
 tian religion, from the mere genuineness 
 of the books of the New Testament and 
 the credibility of their authors. The 
 divinity of the Christian religion can 
 therefore be conceived independently of 
 the .inspiration of the Bible. This dis- 
 tinction was made as early as the time 
 of Melancthon." 
 
 On this passage we have two remarks 
 to offer. In the first place, according 
 to the obvious distinction here adopted 
 by Dr. Woods, we could take refuge 
 within the pahe of Christianity, even 
 though we believed much less than we 
 do. In the second place, believing as 
 we do, we have no difficulty in admitting 
 the doctrine of inspiration in the gen- 
 eral terms here laid down. 
 
 We do, indeed, differ from the author 
 of the Lectures when he goes into detail. 
 We believe that the truths of our re- 
 ligion were inspired, and that the teach- 
 ers of our religion were divinely directed 
 and assisted to communicate them ; but 
 we cannot see that such an inspiration 
 is, or need be, a pledge for the perfect 
 accuracy or correctness of every word 
 they wrote, or of every illustration or 
 argument by which they enforced their 
 message. 
 
 But this brings "us to the question ; 
 and on this question Dr. Woods lays 
 down the following and only safe rule, 
 and, as we may venture hereafter to 
 
 remind him, the only rule. " The single 
 argument," he says, '' on which I pro- 
 pose to rest the doctrine of inspiration, 
 is the testimony of the sacred -writers 
 themselves.'''' 
 
 With this rule before him, and after 
 clearing the way to his main subject by 
 several qualifications, to which we shall 
 soon have occasion to refer. Dr. Woods 
 adduces arguments for the inspiration, 
 first of the Old, and then of the New Tes- 
 tament. And we confess that, if we did 
 not read the illustrations of his argu- 
 ments, or if we were not aware before- 
 hand that our views differed from his, — 
 that if we took his arguments just as 
 they stand in their simple statement, we 
 should never suspect that they were de- 
 signed to establish a position different 
 from that in which we ourselves stand. 
 
 The first argument, of course, for the 
 inspiration of the Old Testament is from 
 the passages, " For the prophecy came 
 not in old times by the will of man, but 
 lioly men spake as they were moved by 
 the Holy Ghost," * and " All Scripture 
 is given by inspiration of God." f Now, 
 not to insist upon learned or minute 
 criticisms on these passages, from which 
 we certainly think we should derive 
 some advantages in the argument, let 
 them be taken for all that they can rea- 
 sonably be supposed to mean, or that, 
 without straining them, they can mean 
 at all. " Prophecy " and " all Scrip- 
 ture " refer to the Old Testament as a 
 whole, as a collection of writings ; and 
 those writings had a divine and super- 
 natural origin. They had a higher ori- 
 gin than the will of man. They form a 
 body of divine communications ; they 
 are the authorized records of a divine 
 religion. Such a commentary surely 
 satisfies the obvious meaning of these 
 passages. But can it be inferred that 
 Peter and Paul, when they use this lan- 
 guage, intend to claim every sentence 
 and phrase as of divine inspiration ? 
 These passages are precisely like those 
 general declarations which we constantly 
 make about the general character of 
 
 * 2 Peter i. 21. t 2 Tim. iii. 16. 
 
476 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 books, when we have no intention to em- 
 brace every minute particular. We give 
 a meaning to those texts, then, a very 
 natural and a most important meaning, 
 without involving ourselves in what 
 seems to us the mextricable difficulties 
 of defending every word in the Old 
 Testament. Storr and Flatt say, in 
 commenting on the passage in Timothy, 
 " It is certain, from the declarations of 
 the apostle Paul, that those books are in 
 such a sense inspired and given by God 
 that they are to be regarded as of divine 
 authority ; and for this reason they are 
 entitled to credence. And this is the 
 precise idea of divine inspiration which, 
 in the days of Timothy, was instilled 
 into the minds of all the Jews from 
 their earliest infancy " What Josephus 
 says of the Jewish faith in their Scrip- 
 tures, we are perfectly ready to assent 
 to ; that they "esteem these books to 
 contain divine doctrines ; " and he says 
 nothing stronger in the whole passage,* 
 to which the German theologians, just 
 quoted, refer. But even if it were ad- 
 mitted that the texts in question mean 
 all that they can mean, — that the words 
 "prophecy " and "all Scripture " mean 
 every truth, every idea, contained in the 
 Old Testament, still it would not follow 
 that those " holy men " were indebted 
 for their style, or for any direction of 
 their style, to inspiration. 
 
 Dr. Woods's " next argument to prove 
 the inspiration of the Old Testament 
 Scriptures is, that Christ and his apos- 
 tles treat them as possessing an author- 
 ity entirely different from that of any 
 other writings." To this we give en- 
 tire assent ; and we yield to the infer- 
 ence so far as we think it can fairly go. 
 But that it goes to the sanctioning of 
 every word or idea in those Scriptures, 
 we cannot see reason to admit. With- 
 out attributing to them any such per- 
 fection, they possess to our minds just 
 such an authority ; that is to say, an 
 " authority entirely different from that of 
 any other writings." and this must to us, 
 of course, be a decisive consideration. 
 
 * Against Apaion, Bk. I. 8. 
 
 The arguments which Dr. Woods 
 uses to prove the inspiration of the 
 New Testament are the following. 
 First, " that Christ, who had all power 
 in heaven and earth, commissioned his 
 apostles to act in his stead as teachers 
 of the Christian religion, and confirmed 
 their authority by miracles ; " secondly, 
 that " Christ expressly promised to give 
 his apostles the Holy Spirit to assist 
 them in their work ; " and thirdly, " that 
 there are many passages in the New 
 Testament to show that the writers con- 
 sidered themselves to be under the in- 
 fallible guidance of the Spirit, and their 
 instructions to be clothed with divine 
 authority." 
 
 Now, we wish not to seem perverse 
 or paradoxical to any one, certainly not 
 to an author whose reasoning powers we 
 greatly respect ; but it appears to us 
 that we can admit all these propositions, 
 and we have no doubt, indeed, of their 
 truth, without coming to the conclusion 
 to wliich Dr. Woods would guide us. 
 We believe that Jesus authorized the 
 apostles to teach his religion, that he 
 promised them special aid, and that 
 tiiey considered themselves as teaching 
 the great truths of his religion under a 
 guidance which, with reference to those 
 truths, was infallible ; that they con- 
 sidered their instructions as clothed 
 with divine authority ; and yet, to the 
 accomplishment of all this, to the bare 
 making of the covununication, we can- 
 not perceive it to be necessary that 
 there should have been any constant 
 and miraculous interference with the 
 natural operations of their own minds, 
 — any supernatural guardianship over 
 their reasonings about the truths they 
 were to deliver, or over their illustrations 
 of it, over their comparisons, figures, or 
 their phrases. 
 
 He who maintains that inspiration 
 does extend to these things should 
 bring express proof; should bring "the 
 testimony of the w*riters themselves." 
 Now here it is, to our minds, that the 
 argument of Dr. Woods is essentially 
 deficient. It is a negative argument; 
 
THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 477 
 
 and a negative argument, certainly, 
 against the strongest positive presurtip- 
 tion. The sacred writers say that they 
 were directed to make the communica- 
 tion, that they were commissioned to 
 preach the gospel ; but here their testi- 
 mony ends. They do not say that they 
 were, or would be, directed minutely in 
 every phrase, figure, and illustration, 
 how to preach it. On the contrary, 
 they preach in a manner, to all appear- 
 ance, perfectly natural to them. They 
 preach as occasions arise, and their 
 writings are mostly called forth by exi- 
 gencies of trial and danger in the state 
 of the churches. And, therefore, the 
 presumption is against the extension of 
 inspiration contended for. 
 
 We are aware, indeed, that Dr. 
 Woods insists that "as the writers of 
 Scripture nowhere Hmit the divine in- 
 fluence which they enjoyed, to the 
 thoughts or conceptions of their own 
 minds," so neither should we. But can 
 this canon of interpretation be sup- 
 ported? God's interposition in aid of 
 human virtue is tau«ht without any 
 express limit. Is there, therefore, no 
 limit ? Does this interposition extend 
 to the immediate and miraculous control 
 or guidance of all holy affections ? So 
 men are said to be inspired to teach the 
 truth. But can it be fairly argued from 
 thence, that the inspiring influence ex- 
 tends, beyond the truths revealed, to 
 the words of the communication } Be- 
 sides, if there were ;/<? limit, then there 
 must have been an instant suggestion 
 or prompting of every word, and the 
 sacred writer must have been the mere 
 amanuensis or secretary, so to speak, 
 of the inspiring influence. Does Dr. 
 Woods believe this? We presume not; 
 since he allows that the inspired writers 
 "use their own style," and only main- 
 tains that they are "under such direc- 
 tion" as "certainly to be secured 
 against all mistakes." 
 
 The truth is, undeniably, that the act 
 of composition — the act of selecting 
 words in a sentence — is as necessarily 
 free, as much the writer's own act, as 
 
 the act of choosing right from wrong. 
 The very business of writing or speak- 
 ing, therefore, implies all the limitation 
 we contend for. A man may write, 
 indeed, from verbal memory, or from 
 an express dictation of words, and this 
 is a different case ; and we deny not 
 that a portion of the Scriptures fall 
 under this condition. Some of the 
 prophecies, that is, some sentences, 
 may have been written from express 
 dictation. A portion of the discourses 
 of our Saviour were undoubtedly writ- 
 ten from an exact remembrance of the 
 words. And yet it is easy to see that 
 this recollection often extends only to 
 the sense. The words vary ; and it is a 
 remark to which we invite particular 
 attention, that they vary according to 
 the style of each particular writer. 
 John is repetitious ; and the discourses 
 of Jesus under his report, though every- 
 where showing the same great and un- 
 equalled Master, take something of the 
 form of his peculiar style. The intro- 
 ductory phrase, " Verily I say unto 
 you," has the adverb repeated in John, 
 — "Verily, verily, I say unto you." 
 The repetition never occurs in the 
 other evangelists ; in John, it is con- 
 stant and habitual And in short, if 
 any one would understand how strong 
 is the aspect of naturalness in all their 
 writings, and of peculiarity in each in- 
 dividual writer, we would ask him to 
 read the writings themselves, — not to 
 reason about what must be, or ought 
 to be, but to read the writings them- 
 selves. He would rise from this perusal 
 with an argument stronger than we can 
 express^ against the doctrine of verbal 
 inspiration, or of special guidance in 
 regard to the style of writing and modes 
 of illustration. 
 
 To us it is singular that Dr. Woods 
 admits the whole force of this presump- 
 tion, and yet denies the inference. In 
 truth, we know not what he might not 
 admit, and yet, with the mode of rea- 
 soning he adopts, maintain his theory. 
 He might admit that the Bible is full 
 of the evidences of human imperfection, 
 
478 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 that it is full of mistakes in style, in 
 figures, in illustration, and yet maintain 
 — to use his cautious phraseology — 
 that the Bible is "just what God saw- 
 to be suited to the ends of revelation." 
 Why, the conclusion is one which we 
 have no difficulty of admitting on our 
 own principles. It was best that the 
 communication should be left to be 
 made just as it was made. 
 
 But let us see what Dr. Woods does 
 admit; and we must confess, too, our 
 honest surprise at the main and leading 
 answer which he makes to his own con- 
 cessions. He admits, what it has been 
 thought so great an offence in us to 
 assert, that " the language is completely 
 human." He admits that " in writing 
 the Scriptures, the sacred penmen evi- 
 dently made use of their own facul- 
 ties ; " that " the language employed by 
 the inspired writers exhibits no marks 
 of a divine interference, but is perfectly 
 conformed to the genius and taste of 
 the writers," and that '-even the same 
 doctrine is taught, and the same event 
 described, in a different manner by 
 different writers." And his constant 
 answer is — Very well; why not.-' — 
 Why should not the writers compose, 
 each one in his own style and manner ? 
 Why should they not, indeed, we say ; 
 but is this the proper answer to the 
 objection .'' The objection is, that the 
 style is natural, and therefore is not 
 supernatural. The answer, admitting 
 as it does the first quality, should show 
 how the style can possess the other ; 
 or, in other words, how the same style 
 could have been formed under influ- 
 ences at the same time natural and 
 supernatural. 
 
 Dr. Woods does indeed say, " Is it 
 not evident that God may exercise a 
 perfect superintendency over inspired 
 writers as to the language they shall 
 use, and yet that each one of them shall 
 write in his own style, and in all respects 
 according to his own taste.''" That is 
 to say, is it not evident that the thoughts 
 may be perfectly free, and yet in their 
 freedom be perfectly controlled by an 
 
 influence extraneous and foreign to 
 them.'' To which we must answer: 
 No, certainly, it is not eiiident, even if it 
 can be true. If it is evident, we wish 
 that the Divinity Proffessor had shown 
 it. We wish that he had taken us into 
 that mysterious region, and disclosed 
 to us the human mind acting freely 
 under a control so absolute as to secure 
 the perfect accuracy of its operations ! 
 No man better than Dr. Woods knows 
 the way to this region, if there is any, 
 or better knows there is no way. 
 
 Will he, then, approach it by analo- 
 gies .'' Every analogy, we think, is fatal 
 to his position. We quote a sentence 
 from him, which he introduces in this 
 connection, and which, we think, is sin- 
 gularly unfortunate for his argument. 
 "The great variety," he says, "existing 
 among men as to their rational talents 
 and their peculiar manner of thinking 
 and writing, may, in this way, be turned 
 to account in the work of revelation, as 
 well as in the concerns of common life." 
 But have men any infallible direction in 
 the common concerns of life ? Or in the 
 spiritual concerns of the soul, have they 
 any ? And yet in both, divine aid is 
 promised to the faithful, and promised 
 without any limit. Till, therefore, some 
 stronger proof is brought than the gen- 
 eral promise of aid and guidance in 
 teaching revealed truths, we cannot ad- 
 mit, against all the evidence that appears 
 on the face of the record, that this guid- 
 ance extended to the very form and 
 phraseology of the communication. The 
 nature of the action itself furnishes a 
 limit. 
 
 "But," it will be said, "this infallible 
 guidance in the mode of teaching is ne- 
 cessary to insure to us a sutificient and 
 satisfactory communication." This, we 
 cannot doubt, as we have said in a for- 
 mer article, is the great difficulty. " Give 
 us a perfect book," we believe would be 
 the language of our opponents, " and we 
 care not how it was made." But is it 
 right to make any a priori demand of 
 this sort ? We should rather say, " Give 
 us a glorious and unquestionable com- 
 
THE NyVTURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 479 
 
 munication, and we are not solicitous 
 as to the manner of it." We do say, 
 " Give us such a communication as it 
 has pleased God to make, and we are 
 satisfied." We would place ourselves 
 reverentl}' before the shrine, not to call 
 in question its form, or the materials of 
 which it is composed, but to listen to 
 the voice that proceeds from it. We 
 would listen to the oracle, not to criticise 
 the tone in which it speaks, but to 
 gather the import of what it utters. Let 
 us drink of the " waters of life," and we 
 complain not if they are brought to us 
 in "earthen vessels." 
 
 But let us hear the objection. Upon 
 the supposition that, " as far as language 
 is concerned, the writers were left en- 
 tirely to their own judgment and fidelity," 
 Dr. Woods says, " Here, we might say, 
 Paul was unfortunate in the choice of 
 words ; and here his language does not 
 express the ideas he must have intended 
 to convey. Here the style of John was 
 inadvertent ; and here it was faulty ; and 
 here it would have been more agreeable to 
 the nature of the subject, and would have 
 more accurately expressed the truth, had 
 it been altered thus." But how seldom 
 should we find occasion to say this ! 
 How seldom do we find occasion ! If 
 a communication made by human hands 
 must needs be so precarious and uncer- 
 tain, why does not this scepticism appear 
 in our commentaries and our controver- 
 sies ? Why does it not extend to all 
 other books ? Why are we not in con- 
 stant and grievous uncertainty about 
 the meaning of our familiar authors, 
 because they have not had the aid of 
 inspiration to form or modify their 
 style ? 
 
 Why also do we not find it difficult to 
 distinguish between the point which 
 they labor to prove, and tlie illustrations 
 and arguments which they bring to bear 
 upon it ? Let any one look into the 
 writings of Paul or John, and satisfy 
 himself, as we think he easily may, that 
 there is no difficulty whatever in sepa- 
 rating what he teaches on his apostolic 
 authority, and what he puts forth in the 
 
 shape of argument addressed to the 
 reason of his readers. 
 
 The truth is, after all, we are inclined 
 to believe that the different views taken 
 of this point arise from the different 
 views that are entertained of the sul> 
 stance of the communication. If we 
 believed that the New Testament con- 
 tained a fine, extended, philosophical, or 
 metaphysical theory, we might be anx- 
 ious for the infallibility of every phrase 
 and word. But even then our anxiety 
 would be hypercritical. The works of 
 Aristotle and Kant need no such pledge 
 in order to satisfy the student that he 
 understands their principles. How much 
 less is this pledge necessary to satisfy 
 us as to a few great facts, doctrines, and 
 principles, — all practical, all so plain 
 that he " who runs may read," all de- 
 signed for the comprehension of the poor, 
 the ignorant, and unlearned! And how 
 is it possible for our opponents, on their 
 principles, to rely as they do on unin- 
 spired translations of the sacred text ? 
 How can they send out imperfect trans- 
 lations and detached books of this vol- 
 ume, as they do, to the heathen .? Nay, 
 if the infallibility of every sentence and 
 word is so essential to the validity of 
 the communication, all men must be 
 learned, before they can be put in a 
 proper condition to receive it. Neither 
 would this help them ; for the learned 
 differ as much as others. Infallible sen- 
 tences avail nothing without infallible 
 interpreters ; and these we cannot have. 
 And while the learned thus differ, as 
 they always have and always will, what 
 reliance can there be for the body of 
 Christians, but on the substance of the 
 communication ; what reliance, in fact, 
 that is satisfactory, but upon those views 
 of inspiration which we maintain ? 
 
 On this subject of the sacred style, we 
 must beg our readers to have patience 
 with us a moment longer. We have 
 said, in a former article, tliat human lan- 
 guage is, from its nature, essentially 
 fallible ; and it does appear to us, that 
 if this point were fully considered, it 
 would settle the whole question about 
 
480 
 
 THE NATURE AND EXTENT OF INSPIRATION. 
 
 infallibility in the words of this commu- 
 nication. All human language, when 
 referring to what is intellectual, to what 
 is spiritual, is but an approximation to 
 the truth. Words are conventional 
 signs of thought. They are not pictures, 
 and if they were, they could be pictures 
 only of external objects. They are sym- 
 bols, and they bear no relation to our 
 intellectual conceptions, but what they 
 bear by common agreement. Now this 
 point we press. Was this agreement 
 ever, in any age or country, perfect and 
 invariable ? Were there ever two per- 
 sons, to whom words expressive of 
 spiritual qualities, to whom the same 
 words, though purporting the same 
 things in substance, did not bear differ- 
 ent degrees and shades of meaning ? 
 How, then, can the idea of absolute in- 
 fallibility be attached to such an instru- 
 ment of communication ? 
 
 Suppose, for example, that a revelation 
 were now made to us in the English 
 language. It is perfectly evident, on 
 the one hand, that so far as the matters 
 of that revelation were simple and prac- 
 tical, it would convey to us all substan- 
 tially the same general ideas. Such our 
 Scriptures do convey to all who read 
 them, even though they come through 
 the medium of a translation ; for it is to 
 be kept in mind that we have only a 
 human translation, and all this question 
 about verbal inspiration neither avails 
 nor concerns anybody but the learned, — 
 a fact of itself sufficient to show that the 
 validity and authority of a revelation de- 
 signed for all nations cannot depend on 
 verbal inspiration. But to return ; we 
 say, on the one hand, that from an in- 
 spired communication in our own lan- 
 guage all would receive the same general 
 ideas. The substance of the communi- 
 cation, if it were an intelligible one, 
 could not escape them, on a diligent 
 reading : and this would be sufficient for 
 their moral instruction and improvement. 
 But on the other hand, it is equally evi- 
 dent that the moment they went into the 
 minutiae of meaning, the moment, espe- 
 cially, that they went into matters of 
 
 speculation, there would be shades of 
 difference in their conceptions. For 
 what would they have to do in this more 
 particular, definite investigation ? They 
 would have to become critics. They 
 must resort to their dictionaries. And 
 what would they find there ? Some words 
 with ten, some twenty, some forty mean- 
 ings. What principle could they pos- 
 sibly adopt, that would lead them to an 
 unerring and uniform selection? What 
 principle would enable them to determine 
 the precise shade of thought which one 
 word receives from its connection with 
 another .'' There is none ; there never 
 has been any to the most honest and 
 faithful interpreters who read the Scrip- 
 tures in their original languages ; and all 
 this solicitude about the perfect verbal 
 accuracy, the verbal authority of the 
 Bible, in our apprehension, is as useless 
 as it is unphilosophical. 
 
 Let no one say, " The question is not 
 about words." Indeed it is about words. 
 It is about the vehicle of communication, 
 about style, about the manner of writ- 
 ing. The mode of communication is 
 the point in debate ; and this includes 
 phraseology, figures, metaphors, illustra- 
 tions, allegories, arguments. The ques- 
 tion is, " Did the inspired teachers take 
 the body of divine truth communicated 
 to them, and then faithfully, indeed, but 
 naturally, humanly, in the free and un- 
 forced exercise of their own faculties, 
 deliver that sacred truth, or were they 
 so controlled, or constrained, or super- 
 naturally guarded, in this work, that 
 every sentence they delivered is intrin- 
 sically, philosophically, divinely accu- 
 rate and infallible ? 
 
 And it is a most important question. 
 To us, at least, with our views, it is one 
 of inexpressible interest. For it is with 
 such an interest that we cherish our be- 
 lief in the Scriptures as containing a 
 divine revelation. It is with the deep- 
 est solicitude, therefore, that we have 
 long pondered this question. The con- 
 viction has been forced on our minds 
 that we could not, in any fairness or 
 impartiality, ascribe to the Scriptures 
 
ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 481 
 
 that kind of verbal, illustrative, or logi- 
 cal perfection which by many is claimed 
 for tliem ; and we have felt unspeakable 
 relief in the conclusion that it is not 
 .at all necessary to their character as 
 authorized records of a communication 
 from Heaven. If others entertain a dif- 
 erent opinion, we complain not, — nay, 
 we rejoice for them in this, that they 
 stand '• upon the foundation," though 
 fencing themselves around with barriers 
 that seem to us to be needless. And 
 we hope that they will not be very much 
 displeased that ive, too, feel the " rock 
 of our salvation " to be strong and se- 
 cure beneath us. 
 
 There may be sceptics cold or con- 
 temptuous enough to look with indiffer- 
 ence or with scorn upon this transcen- 
 dent, this all-inspiring interest which we 
 feel in the spiritual objects and hopes 
 and destinies of our existence. They 
 may think "this intellectual being" too 
 poor a thing to be the subject of such 
 wide contemplation, and of such intense 
 and overpowering concern. Yet, what 
 avails the feeble hand that would re- 
 press and bind down the very laws of 
 our nature ? Still the thought, the feel- 
 ing, the desire, invincible and immortal, 
 springs within us, and craves its proper, 
 satisfying, soul-sufficing good. No cre- 
 
 ated might on earth is like the energy 
 of that inward and undying want ; no 
 earthly blessing is like that which sup- 
 plies it ; and no sigh of human despon- 
 dency could be so mournful as that with 
 which we should sink from the holy 
 light that cheers us. We stand amidst 
 erring creatures, ourselves clothed with 
 imperfection and conscious of sin. and 
 the vision of perfect truth and perfect 
 beauty and saving goodness in the per- 
 son of Jesus is "a light come into the 
 world " that would otherwise be dark to 
 us. We stand amidst shadows and mys- 
 teries, amidst trials and sufferings ; and 
 the revelation of a gracious and pitying 
 Father in heaven is strength, assur- 
 ance, consolation, which nothing else 
 can give. We stand upon "this shore 
 of time," — the beloved, the cherished, 
 the hallowed in our sorrows, hav*e gone 
 from us ; and the Gospel that bringeth 
 immortality to light, that places them in 
 immortal regions and invites us thither, 
 is a message sufficient to bear us in 
 rapture through the very shadows of 
 death. Tell us that " God hath spo- 
 ken " all this to us, and we cannot 
 question the manner, we cannot be 
 solicitous about the words ; we can 
 only "rejoice with joy unspeakable and 
 full of glory." 
 
 ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 Mark xvi. 16 : " He that believeth and is bap- 
 tized, shall be saved : but he that believeth not, shall 
 be condemned." 
 
 I HAVE translated the last word in 
 the text "condemned," in conformity 
 with the best English versions and all 
 the foreign ones, and with the undoubted 
 sense of the original ; but the change 
 does not materially alter the meaning of 
 the passage. I think it best to relieve 
 the text from a word which, from its as- 
 sociation with the language of the pro- 
 fane, shocks us ; but still this passage 
 
 teaches us undoubtedly that with faith 
 are connected God's favor and our safe- 
 ty and happiness ; and with unbelief, 
 condemnation, rejection of heaven, and 
 the soul's perdition. What now is to 
 be understood by this faith and this un- 
 belief.? And what is meant when it is 
 said that the one justifies and the other 
 condemns us .-* 
 
 I have no doubt that many persons 
 have been surprised at the importance 
 given to these acts or states of mind 
 in the New Testament. And certainly 
 
 31 
 
482 
 
 ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 it can be accounted for only on one 
 supposition ; and that is, that behef 
 and unbelief in Scripture use embrace 
 in their meaning essential right and 
 wrong, virtue and vice, religion and 
 irreligion. The surprise felt at their 
 prominence as the very grounds of sal- 
 vation and perdition must have aris- 
 en from the idea that they are mere 
 intellectual or involuntary or mystical 
 states of mind. But this is not true. 
 The Scriptures do not mean by them 
 any mystery nor any mere mental as- 
 sent and dissent. They involve moral 
 qualities. True faith is a believing with 
 the heart, a principle that works by 
 love. Faith is a feeling. It is a vital 
 sense of things divine. It is a state of 
 the heart in accordance with the thing 
 believed. In fact, love is the very root 
 of it, as it is of every virtue. Faith is 
 but the form which the principle of love 
 takes. And unbelief is the reverse of 
 all this. It is haired; it is hatred of 
 truth and holiness. " Because I tell 
 you the /r;////," says our Saviour, " ye 
 believe me not." " Therefore they could 
 not believe," it is said again. Why ? 
 Because, among other reasons, " their 
 hearts were hardened." 
 
 But it is really unnecessary to go 
 into a detailed examination of texts on 
 this point, because there is one general 
 argument that establishes it beyond all 
 contradiction. The Bible everywhere 
 demands repentance, sanctification, in- 
 ward purity, as the means of favor with 
 God, and true happiness. The Bible is 
 a book of conditions throughout ; and it 
 amazes us to hear it said and preached, 
 that salvation is without conditions ; the 
 mere gift of God's mercy, without the 
 doing of anything on our part. But 
 the condition of conditions is a right 
 heart. Does faith mean some other 
 thing ? Then the demand of it contra- 
 dicts everything else in the Bible. It 
 cannot be. 
 
 But if the thing required be essential, 
 inward, spiritual virtue, why is it called 
 faith ? If love be the radical principle 
 required, why is not love the thing 
 
 specified ? Why is it not written, " He 
 that loveth, shall be saved, and he that 
 loveth not, shall be rejected " .'' 
 
 I answer, that virtually it is written — 
 actually often, virtually always. But it 
 is doubtless true that the prominent 
 for7n given to saving virtue in the New 
 Testament is faith. In the New Testa- 
 ment, I say ; for it is not so in the Old. 
 There we hear much of being upright, 
 beneficent, meek, humble, devout, as 
 conditions of acceptance with Heaven. 
 But the New Testament puts all this 
 most frequently in the form of faith. 
 Why ? I repeat, and I answer : 
 
 First, because now a new dispensation 
 was ushered into the world, and a new 
 Teacher presented his claims ; and the 
 natural inquiry was, do you believe ? 
 The very form of the act of reception 
 was belief. 
 
 Secondly, belief, and belief avowed 
 by baptism in that age of persecution, 
 was the most unequivocal evidence of 
 virtue, of piety, of inward and heartfelt 
 devotion to the religion. 
 
 Thirdly, the Gospel was a more spirit- 
 ual dispensation than that which pre- 
 ceded it ; it insisted more upon an un- 
 seen and future life ; -and the appropriate 
 act of the soul by which that future was 
 laid hold of and made real, was faith. 
 The thing could not be a matter of 
 knowledge, but only of faith. 
 
 These reasons are so obvious, that I 
 need not dwell upon them. They ac- 
 count, I say, for Christians' being de- 
 scribed as men of faith. What radi- 
 cally distinguished them was their 
 following of Christ, their likeness to 
 Christ ; hniwh'Sit x\:i.i\ir<\\\Y denominated 
 them, in an age of denial, scepticism, 
 and persecution, was the reception of 
 the new religion, the adherence to it ; 
 "these," men would say, "are the be- 
 lievers in this new doctrine." 
 
 4. But there is another and more co- 
 gent reason, growing out of the time, 
 which gave to faith its prominence. It 
 was an a^e of reliance on ceremonial 
 observances. Alike among the Pagans 
 and the Jews, the great body of religious 
 
ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 4S. 
 
 devotees trusted to an exact ritual fidel- 
 ity, for acceptance with God. The sac- 
 rifices duly offered, tiie times and the 
 seasons all duly observed, and every 
 rite fulfilled, the votary thought him- 
 self entitled to acceptance with Heaven. 
 Against all such shallow and superficial 
 claims, therefore, which might leave the 
 heart completely unregenerate and un- 
 holy, — against all such Pharisaical and 
 proud pretensions, the apostles declared, 
 with great emphasis and reiteration, that 
 the means of acceptance with God was 
 spiritual and not formal, and especially 
 was a penitent and humble reliance on 
 God's mercy through Jesus Christ ; 
 upon his mercy, i. e., as set forth in the 
 teachings and sealed in the blood of 
 Christ. It was, I say, the demand of 
 an inward and spiritual virtue in opposi- 
 tion to an outward and useless formality. 
 Justification by faith, therefore, i. e., 
 the being treated as if just, or, in otiier 
 words, the being pardoned and re- 
 ceived to heaven through faith, was the 
 great doctrine of Paul when contending 
 against a world of Pagan and Jewish 
 formalists. " Knowing," he says, " that 
 a man is not justified by the works of 
 the law, i. e., of the ceremonial law, but 
 by the faith of Jesus Christ, even we 
 have believed in Jesus Christ, that we 
 might be justified by the faith of Christ, 
 and not by the works of the law ; 
 for by the works of the law shall no 
 flesh be justified." This passage is 
 in the Epistle to the Galatians. If you 
 would obtain satisfaction on this point, 
 I would request you to read at your 
 leisure the whole Epistle. You will 
 see, I think, that the Apostle is pleading 
 the argument of faith against the Jew's 
 reliance upon his ritual. The ar^ument 
 arose upon the conduct of Peter ; upon 
 his timid adherence to Jewish rites. 
 Paul pursues this point ; he keeps him- 
 selfto it in the main, I am certain : and I 
 think, entirely. The question is contin- 
 ually about circumcision and the bond- 
 age to " the weak and beggarly elements 
 of the world." "Ye observe days and 
 months," he says, "and times and 
 
 years. I am afraid of you, lest I have 
 bestowed labor on you in vain." It is 
 true that he often speaks generally of 
 the law, and it may be said that he 
 means the whole law of Moses, both 
 moral and ceremonial. I have no ob- 
 jection to this view, except that it makes 
 the Apostle's reasoning less pertinent 
 and cogent. 
 
 5. I have no objection to it, because 
 faith is undoubtedly set forth, in the last 
 place, as opposed to a sense of merit 
 founded on a keeping of the moral law. 
 This is the great subject of the first 
 eight chapters of the Epistle to the Ro- 
 mans. It is the method of justification, 
 or of acceptance with God. And this, 
 the Apostle declares, is a matter not of 
 merit, but of mercy. He draws a dark 
 picture of the wickedness of the whole 
 world, both Jewish and Gentile, in all 
 ages, and comes to this conclusion : 
 " Therefore by the deeds of the law 
 there shall no flesh be justified." 
 " Therefore we conclude," he says again, 
 " that a man is justified by faith without 
 the deeds of the law." Man cannot 
 stand before God, demanding heaven 
 for his keeping of the moral law; but 
 he must stand there asking heaven as 
 tlie gift of God's mercy through Jesus 
 Christ. His only hope and comfort 
 must come through believing in that 
 mercy. Faith is not opposed to purity 
 of heart at all ; it is purity of heart ; it 
 springs from a right mind; it works by 
 love ; but it is opposed to a proud claim 
 of God's favor and of heaven, set up on 
 the ground of complete obedience. 
 
 The last two reasons, I may observe, 
 were those which gave to tlie doctrine of 
 justification by faith its significance and 
 prominence at the time of the Reforma- 
 tion. The Papal Church had fallen into 
 a perilous reliance upon rites, penances, 
 and personal merits. Luther felt, with 
 bitter pain, that these could not insure 
 to him the favor of Heaven;* and he 
 was led to cast himself simply upon the 
 
 * Nor was this the feehng of Luther aloTie; but it 
 prevailed to a considerable extent in the Catholic 
 Church. See Ranke's History of the Popes, Book II. 
 
484 
 
 ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 mercy of God in Christ. Here he found 
 relief; and justification by faith, there- 
 fore, became his great doctrine. But, 
 educated amidst mysteries and miracles, 
 he was led to conceive that this faith 
 had some mysterious power of appro- 
 priating the merits of Christ ; and, urged 
 on by the enthusiasm of this new dis- 
 covery, and the eagerness of dispute, he 
 pushed his idea of faith to the point of 
 derogating from good works ; an error 
 which has not yet spent itself. 
 
 An error, I say; for faith embraces in 
 itself the very essence of all good works, 
 all good affections. Faith is not some 
 mysterious and technical condition of 
 salvation. It is simply a Christian 
 grace. It is essentially a right heart. 
 It is the old, the everlasting, the univer- 
 sal condition of happiness and of God's 
 favor here and hereafter, — a right heart. 
 And this is prevailingly represented in 
 the New Testament as putting itself 
 forth in the act, the form of faith ; first, 
 I repeat, because a new dispensation 
 now appeared, and the reception of it of 
 course was faith; secondly, because this 
 religion was persecuted, and the most 
 decisive test of love to it was faith 
 avowed, — avowed, i. e., in baptism, for 
 that was the specific proselyte's ordi- 
 nance; thirdly, because this religion un- 
 folded a future life, and the appropriate 
 act for receiving that doctrine was faith; 
 fourthly, because the world was full of 
 misguided devotees, relying on forms 
 and rites, and the antagonist principle 
 was faith, a reliance on God's mercy; 
 fifthly, because the proud assumption of 
 a goodness sufficient to claim heaven of 
 right, is ever to be resisted ; and that 
 which stands in contradiction to it, is 
 faith ; a penitent seeking for pardon an'd 
 a reliance on that infinite compassion 
 of which Christ is the great revelation 
 and pledge, the minister and the mercy- 
 seat, the priest and the altar. 
 
 The essence, then, and the efficacy of 
 faith, lie in the goodness, the love, which 
 is in it. This, I know, is denied. There 
 is nothing which Calvin and his school 
 more vehemently repudiate than the 
 
 idea that there is any worth or worthi- 
 ness in faith, affording a reason for its 
 being accepted of God, as the condition 
 of his favor. It is maintained, on the 
 contrary, that faith is a mere arbitrary 
 condition. But what right has any one 
 to say this ? Where, in the Scriptures, 
 is it said that faith, as a passport to 
 heaven, is regarded without any refer- 
 ence to the virtue that is in it? No- 
 where. Where, then, is it implied } 
 Here is the point, I conceive, at which 
 mistake has arisen. It is thought to be 
 implied in those passages which oppose 
 faith to works. The mistake has arisen 
 from failing to observe that it is the 
 claimed merit in those works which is 
 opposed, and not the real virtue. " Do 
 we then make void the law through 
 faith ?" says Paul. "God forbid. Yea, 
 we establish the law." "The righteous- 
 ness of the law is fulfilled in us, who 
 walk not after the flesh, but after the 
 spirit." 
 
 Justification by faith, then, is no un- 
 reasonable doctrine nor confounding 
 mystery. It may be all made very plain 
 by a simple comparison. You have 
 given certain commands to your child, 
 let us suppose, and you have promised 
 certain rewards to obedience. The child 
 has disobeyed. How, then, can he ob- 
 tain the forfeited rewards ? Evidently, 
 if at all, it must be through your free 
 grace, and not through his merit. But 
 what condition will you naturally and 
 necessarily appoint for his recovery of 
 the lost blessings ? He must repent, you 
 will say ; he must penitently believe in, 
 i. e., receive, the offered mercy. With- 
 out his believing in this mercy, and thus 
 rejecting all just right to it, it is morally 
 impossible that he should receive it. 
 
 Let us now add another consider- 
 ation, to make the comparison com- 
 plete. The child, let us suppose, is 
 obstinate, and refuses to repent and 
 believe. At this juncture one of his 
 brothers interposes, and attempts the 
 work of his recovery. With many la- 
 bors and sacrifices, which wear upon 
 his health, .and at length bring him to 
 
ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 485 
 
 the grave, he pleads and strives with 
 the guilty one to return ; or while en- 
 gaged in the work he innocently comes 
 into collision with the laws of the coun- 
 try, and he dies a sacrifice for his broth- 
 er. With all this, let us suppose that 
 the heart of the erring child is touched. 
 He repents. With faith in the offered 
 mercy, he comes and humbly asks that 
 it may be bestowed upon him. What 
 uow is the character of this faith .^ It 
 has taken, you perceive, a new ele- 
 ment. It is faith in his brother's sacri- 
 fice. It is faith in his father's mercy, 
 through that martyred brother. And 
 this faith, it is evident, proceeds out of 
 a changed heart. It is the very form 
 which, in the circumstances, a changed 
 heart naturally takes. 
 
 This, I believe, is the simple ground 
 of that which is often construed in so 
 strange a manner, — Gospel acceptance. 
 The representation of it by Christ and 
 his apostles, we should consider, grew 
 out of circumstances and states of mind 
 existing at that time. Thus, when our 
 Saviour appeared, he came as Messiah. 
 Would the Jews receive him as such ? 
 This was the great question to them. 
 This was the special burden of the 
 time, that was pressed upon the Jew- 
 ish conscience. Therefore, our Saviour 
 says, " This is the work of God, that 
 ye believe on him whom he hath sent." 
 That is, reverence for God, the love of 
 God, would certainly manifest itself in 
 this way. Thus, again, Paul had to con- 
 tend with self-justifying votaries, who 
 claimed heaven on the ground of their 
 ceremonies or merits. He takes them 
 on their favorite ground, — justification. 
 He takes up their very word. He shows 
 tiiem that they cannot be justified in the 
 way they propose; and, still using their 
 word, though in strictness it cannot be 
 applied to any human creature, he tells 
 them that the only justification possi- 
 ble is of another kind, — a gratuitous 
 one, being treated as if just, — and this 
 through faith in God's mercy. The 
 word, I say, as a representation of 
 acceptance with God, is extremely fig- 
 
 urative. Justification for us sinners ! 
 Justification before God ! The word 
 almost shocks us. Literally it can have 
 no application to us whatever. Only fio-. 
 uratively, and indeed as a violent figure, 
 can it be tolerated for a moment ; and 
 the Apostle never would have adopted 
 such a word if circumstances had not 
 pressed it upon him. But this figure 
 adopted, Paul is naturally led to sur- 
 round it with many fiourative illustra- 
 tions drawn from the relations of debtor 
 and creditor, principal and surety, slave 
 and freeman ; and upon these figures 
 has been built up a vast system of the- 
 ology, of which — constructed no doubt 
 vi'ith honest intent — ^I do not wish to 
 say anything more harsh than that it 
 seems to me an unsightly encumbrance 
 upon the fair foundations of Christian- 
 ity. The simple truth at the bottom of 
 all is this : the good man, continuing 
 such, is happy and blessed, and shall 
 be forever, — not as a matter of merit, 
 but through the mercy of God revealed 
 in Jesus Christ ; the bad man, while 
 such, is miserable and ruined, and that 
 without remedy. 
 
 I have thus attempted to make it 
 appear that faith, being but the Chris- 
 tian form of essential goodness, is the 
 reasonable condition of happiness and 
 God's favor, and that the want of faith 
 reasonably draws upon it the forfeiture 
 of all this. Let me now occupy the 
 remainder of this discourse with some 
 distinct illustration of the natural place 
 which faith holds in the system of re- 
 ligious efforts and influences, for I con- 
 ceive that there is a significance in the 
 Scripture demand for faith beyond what 
 is ordinarily seen, — not only a perti- 
 nence in the word, in the form, but a 
 significance in the thing. 
 
 Let me explain this view before I 
 proceed to make it the ground of some 
 more practical consideration. Of all 
 true excellence, then, love is the root, 
 the primal form, the comprehensive 
 character. God is love, not faith. Faith 
 is an attribute of imperfect natures. 
 But now, in such natures wiiat place 
 
486 
 
 ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 does faith hold ? I answer, that of the 
 most immediate motive power. I can- 
 not act as an intellectual and moral 
 being without faith, — i. e., without con- 
 viction. I cannot obey God unless I 
 believe in him. I cannot follow Christ 
 unless I believe in him. I cannot yield 
 to the influence of any truth unless I 
 believe in it. I cannot care for the soul, 
 my own or another's, unless I believe 
 in the soul. I cannot resist tempta- 
 tion unless I believe in virtue and 
 purity. I cannot live in hope of im- 
 mortality unless I believe in a future 
 life. The immediate motive power, 
 then, is faith. 
 
 Faith, if I may say so, stands be- 
 tween love and works. To draw a 
 comparison from the mill that grinds 
 corn : love is the stream, faith is the 
 water-wheel, good works are the prod- 
 uct. Thus faith works by love, and 
 purifies the soul, — purifies the life. 
 And the result is certain ; it is involved 
 in the principle that produces it. Thus 
 when St. Paul says that men are saved 
 by faith, and St. James that they are 
 saved by works, both mean the same 
 thing ; the one speaks of the necessary 
 impulse, the other of the inevitable act 
 that follows. 
 
 From all this, then, it appears that 
 the immediate, manifest, practical ob- 
 stacle to our salvation appears in the 
 form of unbelief. Let us consider for 
 a few moments in this serious light this 
 great evil of unbelief. 
 
 The divine goodness has provided a 
 vast array of means for our recovery 
 from sin and growth in virtue and piety. 
 Why are they attended with so little ef- 
 fect? What is it that thwarts Heaven's 
 great design ? It is unbelief. 
 
 Let us enter into this matter a little. 
 Religion is not a subject that we pass 
 by altogether. We suffer it to speak 
 to us. We assemble ourselves to listen. 
 It is a solemn occasion. If it is a light 
 or formal thing to any one here, I must 
 tell him that it is not so to me. This 
 weekly assembling together is to me a 
 momentous fact in life. Relijrion, in- 
 
 vested with the grandeur of heaven, 
 speaks to us, — and how .'' As a reason- 
 able claim, as a sovereign authority, as 
 a momentous interest, as an all-sufficing 
 good. The preacher discourses upon 
 all these things. He speaks of the 
 blessedness and glory of a sacred vir- 
 tue. He holds up a grand and sublime 
 spirituality, a divine inward sufficiency, 
 as reigning over all other distinctions, 
 all other advantages, all other joys. He 
 teaches every man that he may walk in 
 the divinest purity and gladness, and in 
 the noblest independence, not only of 
 other men, but of his own base pas- 
 sions. He shows him that the walk of 
 daily life, strewed with virtues, may be 
 brighter than the starry pathways of 
 heaven. Oh, what a blessed thing were 
 it, if, when the hearer leaves the thresh- 
 old of the church, he should enter upon 
 that glorious course! Why does he not? 
 This stupendous truth of the Gospel 
 message, — great enough to revolution- 
 ize the world, to renovate society, to 
 regenerate the heart, to fill the man 
 with the very light and joy of heaven, 
 — why does it avail him so little ? Be- 
 cause verily he does not believe it ! — 
 because he has no inward sense of 
 things divine and immortal, that makes 
 it all a reality. An evil heart of un- 
 belief it is, that spreads mist and dark- 
 ness, doubt and indifference, over the 
 whole glorious theme. 
 
 But again, what is to penetrate, and 
 scatter this cloud of unbelief ? It is at- 
 tention ; fixed, piercing thought and de- 
 voted meditation. This, by the law of our 
 nature, and by every law of the Gospel, 
 is the grand means of impression. Why 
 does not every man give this attention ? 
 Why does not every man say, " I will 
 think and read ; I will consider ; I will 
 pray ; I will earnestly seek the great 
 blessing of the beatitudes"? Again, I 
 say, because he does not believe in the 
 thing thus urged upon his attention. 
 Ah ! no ; men do not believe in being 
 good. We hear much of the great and 
 distant things they do not believe in. 
 They do not believe in heaven, nor hell, 
 
ON FAITH, AND JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH. 
 
 487 
 
 nor eternity. I would that they believed 
 in bcini^ good ! 
 
 There is a worldly nonchalance about 
 this matter of religion, most painful, 
 most discouraging to witness. In this 
 deepest concern of their nature men 
 suffer themselves to be governed by 
 every sort of worldly policy ; by the 
 wishes of friends, by the fashions of 
 society, by the vainest and idlest con- 
 siderations. Religion! — what in the 
 world is so cast aside among the things 
 of convenience and favor and fashion 
 and utter folly ? Yes, religion is, as it 
 were, foolishness to multitudes. They 
 do not feel its serious import. They do 
 not believe in it. Business they be- 
 lieve in. Pleasure they believe in. 
 Houses and lands, luxuries and honors, 
 they believe in. On these points they 
 are decided enough. Present a chance 
 for acquisition of property, and though 
 it be necessary to take a distant jour- 
 ney, or to spend all day and all night 
 at the warehouse, or to peril health, 
 yet — let family and children and so- 
 ciety and the world say what they will 
 — yet they will do it; they must do it. 
 They take a firm stand and a decided 
 step. It is a serious interest, and they 
 must attend to it. But religion ! — why 
 it is somebody s notion / That is their 
 account of it. Religion ! — it seems as 
 if the very substance of the thing dis- 
 solved away into nothing ; as if the let- 
 ters that compose the word lost their 
 coherence, and sunk away like fading 
 points of liglit in a thickening mist. 
 How can men be fixed and resolute 
 about a thing seen in that way ? They 
 cannot. And so a man says, with an 
 air of oracular wisdom, " It is no small 
 thing to take a decided stand in the 
 matter ! " or, " It is no small thing to 
 take a decided stand in an unpopular 
 cause or communion ! " Q heaven ! 
 why does he not feel that conscience is 
 no small thing ; that his spiritual im- 
 provement is no small thing, but is the 
 infinite thing? Because he does not be- 
 lieve in that conscience ; he does not 
 
 feel in himself how priceless that spirit- 
 ual improvement is. 
 
 And thus again the reason why he 
 does not put forth that deepest act of 
 all, — the solemn and determined effort 
 to be good and pure, — why he does not 
 work out his own salvation ; the reason, 
 I say, is, that in this depth of the heart 
 where all human power lies, there are 
 no living springs of faith. All is cold 
 and barren there. That which should 
 be the deepest soil from which fair and 
 heavenly graces spring, is a dead lump 
 of obstinate unbelief and indifference. 
 The spirit of God never breathes upon 
 that sterile spot. It is closed and barred 
 up against the sacred influence by pride 
 and vanity, by cares and pleasures, 
 by ambition and gain. And the worldly 
 man chooses it should be so. There is 
 no faith in him to make him think that 
 tliere is anything better. And so every- 
 thing that might help him is resisted; 
 the pleading of truth, the demand for 
 attention, the call to effort. 
 
 If now it be asked, in fine, what good 
 end is to be served by saying and show- 
 ing all this ? I answer, first, that it vin- 
 dicates the Gospel demand for faith as 
 pertinent and reasonable. This is al- 
 ready sufficiently apparent. But I an- 
 swer, further, that it shows the defect, 
 the fault, to be in us, and not in the 
 motives which religion itself proposes. 
 There is power enough in religion to 
 save us, — God ever helping it, — if 
 we would let it work within us. It is 
 sufficient to make us happy and blessed 
 if we would give it a trial. No man 
 ever truly gave it a trial and denied its 
 power. Yes, it is all true — that which 
 we profess to believe, and do not believe. 
 It is as true as if the whole horizon 
 around us and the whole heaven above 
 us were filled with shapes, with pictures 
 of the solemn and glorious verities of 
 our faith. It is as true that sin in 
 the heart will eat and canker, poison 
 and destroy, as if a man could lay his 
 finger upon the very spot where this 
 awful work is eoins: on. It is as true 
 
488 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 that the good deed is a glorious and 
 blessed thing, as if, when it is done, a 
 halo of heavenly light should instantly 
 surround it. It is as true that peni- 
 tence, purity, humiUty, goodness, self- 
 sacrifice in the heart, is the divinest joy 
 and glory, as if all the treasures and 
 splendors of the universe drew near and 
 gathered around, to pay it homage. The 
 faith of the heart is a stronger assur- 
 ance than all the visions of the out- 
 
 ward sense. When fortune smiles 
 around me, I may think that I am happy ; 
 when sanctity and love breathe within 
 me, I know it. And therefore it is cer- 
 tain and it is evident that he who be- 
 lieveth shall be saved, shall be blessed 
 in God and in the love of God ; and 
 that he who believeth not, must fail of 
 the infinite blessing, the only blessing, 
 the blessing of the beatitudes ! 
 
 THAT ERRORS IN THEOLOGY HAVE SPRUNG FROM 
 FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 I Timothy vi. 20, 21: "O Timothy, keep that 
 which is committed to thy trust, avoiding profane and 
 vain babblings, and oppositions of science, falsely so 
 called;" (i.e., vain disputes about words, and scho- 
 lastic subtilties ;) " which some professing, have erred 
 concerning the faith." 
 
 That errors in theology have sprung 
 from false principles of reasoning, is the 
 hint in the text, from which I shall 
 draw the subject of my present dis- 
 course. It is a large theme ; it will 
 lead me to consider some important 
 departments of theology ; and I must 
 bespeak your patience. 
 
 If I were called upon to say on what 
 subject the greatest errors had prevailed 
 among mankind, I should answer, un- 
 doubtedly on that of religion. In this 
 I suppose all thinking men are agreed. 
 Paganism, for example, has embodied 
 more enormous errors than ever were 
 found in philosophy. To place the 
 earth, for instance, at' the centre of the 
 solar system is a small mistake com- 
 pared with the setting up a hideous idol 
 to represent the living God, or with sac- 
 rificing human victims to that idol. No 
 delusions so mournful have ever over- 
 spread the world as those on demonol- 
 ogy and witchcraft, the Inquisition, the 
 purchased absolution of sins, and the 
 unchallenged supremacy of the spiritual 
 power. 
 
 If, again, I were called upon to say 
 from what subject error would most 
 
 slowly disappear, I should still answer, 
 from that of religion ; and for this sim- 
 ple and sufficient reason, that on no 
 subject have men's minds so little free- 
 dom. Emancipation from error is al- 
 ways achieved by free and courageous 
 inquiry ; but the arm that is stretched 
 out into the spiritual realm is paralyzed 
 by fear. To tell men that they dare 
 not think freely on religion, would pro- 
 voke, it is very likely, a hasty denial. 
 But the very conditions of all past relig- 
 ious investigation involve this inevitable 
 consequence. Can men think freely, 
 under peril of eternal perdition for err- 
 ing in their thought? Can they freely 
 examine the claims of a revered church, 
 or the tenets of an exclusive orthodoxy, 
 which says, " Every step of departure 
 from me is a step out of the only pale 
 of safety " ? It is clearly impossible. 
 And therefore it is not to be thought 
 surprising if the religion of the world 
 has been and is involved in deeper 
 error than any other subject of its 
 thought. There have been dark ages 
 in science, but there have been darker 
 ages in religion. From science the dark- 
 ness has passed away. Has it passed 
 away from rehgion ? 
 
 This leads me to another observation. 
 While there has been a grand reform in 
 science, a revision of the theories of the 
 dark ages, there has been no similar 
 
FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 489 
 
 reform, on a great scale, in religion. 
 Lord Bacon led the reform in science ; 
 but there has been no Lord Bacon in 
 religion. Luther was not a reformer of 
 that cast. No deep and philosophical 
 inquiry, but onl\' an earnest and eflfec- 
 tual protest against religious domina- 
 tion, was his mission. Some freedom 
 for religion he gained ; some partial 
 change in doctrine he effected ; but 
 there was no free and thorough investi- 
 gation of the nature of religion in his 
 time. A political, not a doctrinal refor- 
 mation was the great change which he 
 accomplished. 
 
 I say there has been no Lord Bacon 
 in religion, no novum orgmiutn reli- 
 gionis. And this I say without any 
 prejudice to the eminent persons who, 
 within the last three centuries, have at- 
 tempted to reform the religion of their 
 age. It is easy to see that even with 
 equal merit they could not have equal 
 success. If a new discovery be made in 
 chemistry or astronomy, all the world is 
 comparatively ready to receive it. But 
 let a new proposition be brought for- 
 ward in religion, and not only is it less 
 susceptible, from its very nature, of 
 demonstration, but a host of prejudices 
 and fears is arrayed against it. Sci- 
 ence, it is true, has sometimes met 
 with a hard fate in the world ; but re- 
 ligion has never met with any other. 
 One Galileo has been imprisoned, but 
 ten thousands of heretics have been cast 
 into dungeons, there to waste away the 
 slow, forgotten years ; unless, as has 
 been common, the malice of their perse- 
 cutors demanded the infliction and the 
 sight of sharper agonies. Little chance 
 was there for free thought to advance 
 under such auspices ; and little has it 
 advanced, even till now. 
 
 In fact, has the true method of inquiry 
 ever yet been fairly introduced into 
 the prevalent theology of Christendom ? 
 Rejecting all presumptuous and precon- 
 ceived theories, Lord Bacon proposed to 
 enter the field of nature, and to ask 
 what are the facts, and then upon this 
 basis to build up the true theory. But 
 
 in theology, a totally opposite method, 
 i. e., the old scholastic method, has been 
 pursued. Theories have taken pre- 
 cedence of facts, not facts of theories. 
 What are our modern creeds but the- 
 ories ? What are the Thirty-nine Arti- 
 cles, and the Westminster Catechism, 
 and the Augsburg Confession, but the- 
 ories of religion ? I do not deny that 
 theories have their place in philosophy, 
 and might have in religion ; i. e., as mere 
 hypotheses to explain the facts. Only 
 as mere suppositions are they philo- 
 sophically safe. But what are they in 
 religion ? Minatory creeds, catechisms 
 for children. I pray you to conceive of 
 it. Theories in philosophy have been 
 held to be perilous enough, — bars to 
 progress ; but on what other subject be- 
 sides theology were theories ever taught 
 to children 1 Nay, more, not only do 
 modern creeds and catechisms thus 
 forestall our decisions, but the Bible it- 
 self is placed in a position which is hos- 
 tile to the true, philosophical, inductive 
 method of inquiry. The Bible is re- 
 garded not merely as throwing the light 
 of teaching and interpretation upon the 
 paths of our religious inquiries, but as 
 the only source of light ; not merely 
 as illustrating the facts of religious ex- 
 perience, but as furnishing all the facts; 
 not merely as a guide in the field of in- 
 vestigation, but as the field too. The 
 theologian sits down to the reading of 
 the Scriptures, disdaining, repudiating, 
 abhorring, all philosophical explanation 
 from without. His aim, he says, is a 
 single one. He boasts that he takes the 
 sentences of holy writ just as they are ; 
 that he explains each sentence by itself, 
 not even admitting any " analogy of 
 faith " to guide him ; that one text for a 
 doctrine is as good as a thousand ; and, 
 in fine, that his nature, his reason, his 
 conscience, are to bow down and to 
 be as nothing, in the presence of this 
 record. This is the very chivalry of 
 theology ; to make of the man, the in- 
 quirer, nothing, and of the matter to 
 be inquired into, everything. 
 
 But let us consider more particularly, 
 
490 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 for a moment, what is the true method 
 of inquiry. It is to study facts in re- 
 ligion as we study facts in nature ; and 
 upon them to build up our system of 
 doctrine. It is to hold theory in strict 
 subjection to facts. Theory, hyj^othe- 
 sis, has its place in philosophy, — but 
 what place ? That, I repeat, of mere 
 supposition, liable always to be modi- 
 fied by the facts. It is natural for us to 
 seek explanation ; i. e., to frame a gen- 
 eral scheme or plan of thought or belief, 
 under which the known facts may ar- 
 range themselves, and by which they 
 may be accounted for. Thus there have 
 been theories in geology ; one, for in- 
 stance, which explained the structure 
 and condition of the earth by the action 
 of fire ; another, by the action of water. 
 But what rational geologist ever rea- 
 soned as if his theory were to goveru 
 the facts ? So in the study generally, 
 whether of nature or of the mind. What 
 true philosopher makes it his business 
 to bend the facts to his theory, or, when 
 some new and hostile fact is presented, 
 permits himself to say, '■'■That is opposed 
 to one of my five points, or of my thirty- 
 nine articles, and therefore it cannot be; 
 nay, the assertion of it shall be punished 
 as heresy"? Or, when some irrecon- 
 cilable contradiction of ideas is charged 
 upon his theory, what philosopher is 
 permitted to say, " Ah ! that is a mys- 
 tery ; and it is only your proud reason 
 that resists, which God will confound!" 
 But is the true method one thing in 
 philosophy and another in religion ? 
 That is the grand, fatal, false, unphilo- 
 sophical presumption on which most 
 religious argument has proceeded ; that 
 the ordinary, philosophical method of 
 reasoning may not be applied to religion. 
 And the whole weight of church power 
 for ages has been brought to crush 
 down facts beneath tlieories, and simple 
 inquiry beneath authoritative creeds. 
 And every martyr's stake, and fire, and 
 blood, have been witnesses to that stu- 
 pendous perversion. For this is no 
 matter of mere speculation. Religious 
 freedom, freedom to think on religion, — 
 
 this highest blessing on earth, — has 
 paid the dearest price. Nothing on 
 earth has cost such pain. It has brought 
 not peace, but a sword. Its baptism 
 has been, not in joy, but in agony. Its 
 keen and 23iercing eye has looked out 
 into the v/orld, has looked out to eter- 
 nity, beneath bloody brows, and from 
 eyelids seared with fire. " I have ex- 
 periences," says tlie confessor, " convic- 
 tions, facts, texts, that do not agree with 
 your theory, your creed." ' Go," has 
 been the answer, " go and tell us if you 
 can see them through the living flame ! 
 Or, go and brood over them in the 
 loneliness of universal desertion and 
 obloquy ! " 
 
 But where now, let us ask again, are 
 the religious facts to be found and stud- 
 ied ? I answer, in human nature, und 
 in the Bible ; not in one alone, but in 
 both. Nay, more ; the relation between 
 these two sources of knowledge is such 
 that human nature and experience must 
 interpret the book. "The Bible, the 
 Bible," — be it our religion ; but the 
 Bible as against theories, creeds, tra- 
 ditions, all coercive, combined power; 
 not as against individual human expe- 
 rience, not as distinct -from that experi- 
 ence. 
 
 Consider, whether to make it so be 
 not fatal alike to every claim, whether 
 of Scripture or reason. The Bible is 
 predicated upon human experience, is 
 based upon it, addresses that experience, 
 adopts its very language, uses words 
 which could have no meaning at all, un- 
 less their interpretation were found in 
 the human heart. The Bible, we say, 
 is a revelation concerning God's nature 
 and man's duty. But it could be no 
 revelation at all to a race which had no 
 ideas of that nature and that duly. 
 When it said to man, "Be pure, humble, 
 upright, good," it went upon the pre- 
 sumption that he had already some sense 
 and experience of these qualities ; else it 
 had been as words to the deaf. Its in- 
 tent was to elevate this experience, not 
 to supersede it. To set it aside, to fling 
 it out of the account, were suicidal, fatal 
 
FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 491 
 
 to the end, subversive of all just prin- 
 ciples of reasoning. 
 
 Suppose that a revelation were given 
 concerning nature without us. To inter- 
 pret the revelation, should we not be 
 obliged to consult nature, and to give it 
 a fair hearing? Should we say, " It is 
 a coarse, material clod, and before the 
 divine light of revelation it is as noth- 
 ing; not worth listening to"? And if 
 the facts of nature seemed to conflict 
 with the words of the Book, should we 
 not say, " The discrepancy must be re- 
 moved, by some new understanding of 
 the facts, or better interpretation of the 
 words " ? And if the facts, after all in- 
 quiry, stood open, unquestionable, irre- 
 fragable, against our interpretation, 
 should we not feel that the interpretation 
 must inevitably give way? 
 
 And so with regard to the Bible and 
 the facts of human nature ; is it to nul- 
 lify those facts ? Was it intended to 
 foreclose and seal up all other sources 
 of spiritual knowledge? Is the Bible to 
 stand by itself, apart and alone ; and are 
 its declarations to be interpreted without 
 any aid of human experience ? If so, I 
 pray to be told what interpreting means. 
 I interpret what I do not know, by what 
 I do know. I interpret the book with- 
 out me, by the reason, conscience, ex- 
 perience, within me. It is not possible 
 for me to do otherwise. Is it said that 
 divine aid is to be sought, to assist our 
 reason and conscience ? It is true. But 
 what is meant by aiding any faculty? 
 To supersede, discard, deny it, — is that 
 aiding it ? 
 
 No, the Bible is to throw light on 
 human nature, not to blot it out or to 
 treat it as if it were a blot or a blank, or 
 a mass of darkness. It is to elicit those 
 truths that lie deep in humanity, and not 
 to cast it aside as having no truth in it. 
 It is kindly and generously to cultivate 
 the soul, and not to crush it down to ig- 
 nominy and despair. Nay, more, if there 
 is, or seems to be, any certain fact in hu- 
 man nature, the interpreter is to pause 
 upon that fact, and to take care how he 
 explains anything against it. If it be a 
 
 fact, established and sure, nothing in the 
 record of truth can be against it. The 
 theologian, for a while, stood against 
 the facts of science, the science of astron- 
 omy, the true theory of the solar system ; 
 but he found, at length, that rolling of 
 worlds would not obey the laws of crit- 
 cism, and criticism was obliged to 
 yield. And so against the fact of moral 
 freedom in man, he has held dogmas and 
 theories, but he will find that those dog- 
 mas and theories must give way. And 
 thus, also, if there be anything in his 
 constructions of the Trinity, tlijs atone- 
 ment, or of human depravity, which di- 
 rectly conflict v/ith unquestionable facts 
 in the mind, he may be sure that those 
 constructions must share the same fate. 
 
 Let us now proceed to carry these 
 principles into a brief survey of certain 
 questions in Theology. 
 
 The first question to which I shall 
 invite your attention is that which has 
 been so long agitated concerning the 
 nature of God ; the question, that is to 
 sa}', whether God exists in Trinity or 
 in Unity ; or whether Trinity and Unity, 
 as held in Theology, are compatible with 
 each other. 
 
 To proceed inductively with this in- 
 quiry, to proceed on the ground of knowl- 
 edge and not of presumption, we should 
 ask for the revelation of God, first, in 
 our own minds; secondly, in nature; 
 and, thirdly, in Scripture. Now from 
 each of these we gain the conviction that 
 God is one. And when we say he is 
 one, we mean that he is one self-con- 
 scious Agent, one and the self-same Cre- 
 ator, Sustainer. and Benefactor, the living 
 and the only living and true God. We 
 mean this, or we mean nothing that is 
 intelligible in the case. There are dif- 
 ferent kinds of Unity. There is a unity 
 of plan, of powers, of principles. That 
 is one thing. But when we speak of 
 unity in a being, we mean that he is self- 
 conscious ; conscious that he is himself 
 and no other. The being that can say, 
 " I," cannot turn to another and say 
 "you," and yet mean himself. Now it 
 is in this sense, if we ascribe person- 
 
492 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 ality to God, that we must say he is 
 one. 
 
 But may not this unity admit of some 
 kind of modification ? May we not con- 
 ceive of God as one in one sense, and 
 three in another? Certainly we may; 
 and not only as three, but as more than 
 three. As many attributes, as many 
 modes of action as he has, may he be 
 in this sense more than one. But can 
 we conceive him to be one and three in 
 such a sense as to lay a foundation for the 
 application of the personal pronouns, I, 
 thou, he : so that one portion of his be- 
 ing can say to another portion of his 
 being, " I send you," or, " I commission 
 you to send forth him " .'' This I am 
 obliged by the very principles of my 
 mind, of my nature, to deny. It is in- 
 conceivable and incredible, because it 
 involves an inevitable contradiction of 
 ideas. It is not something which we re- 
 fuse to believe because it is mysterious, 
 but which we cannot believe because it 
 is impossible. There is no possible con- 
 ception of an intelligent and conscious 
 being, which will permit him to commis- 
 sion or to send himself, to do that which 
 he himself does not do. You see that 
 the very language in which such a prop- 
 osition is announced, creates an inex- 
 tricable confusion and contradiction of 
 thought. 
 
 But observe, now, that this is the 
 Trinity that is taught to us and urged 
 upon our faith. The question is not 
 whether God may exist in some triuned 
 form, — a question abstractly of no inter- 
 est to us ; but whether he exists in that 
 relation of Father, Son, and Spirit, which 
 is recognized in the prevailing creeds. 
 These three, according to those creeds, 
 devised a scheme of redemption in heav- 
 en. They assumed different offices, 
 acted different parts in its accomplish- 
 ment. The Father sent the Son on this 
 mission. The Holy Spirit followed to 
 make it effectual. Here are represented 
 three beings. Suppose it were said that 
 they held " sweet and ineffable society 
 together." This was said in a former 
 age : it was the theme of many pious 
 
 raptures. The idea is now discarded, 
 because it is found to be at variance with 
 the Unity. But the scruple, it appears 
 to me, is unnecessary. Three persons, 
 of whom one can send another, and the 
 third can go forth to accomplish their 
 design, are as truly three beings, as if 
 they had friendship and held converse 
 with each other- 
 It pains my reverence for things sa- 
 cred, to speak with this freedom of the 
 nature of the Infinite Being. But I am 
 driven into it by the exigencies of this 
 argument. And I must be permitted 
 also to say that I do not feel myself to 
 be speaking so much of the divine nature, 
 as of the conceptions which men enter- 
 tain of it. And I must press you to con- 
 sider that these are the prevailing con- 
 ceptions of the Trinity. It will not do 
 for any one to shrink back or to with- 
 draw this subject into the shadows of 
 obscurity and mysticism, and to say, " I 
 do not profess to understand it ; doubt- 
 less it is a mystery ; all that I know is, 
 that so I am taught, and so I believe." 
 Nay, I reply, but you do profess to under- 
 stand it to this extent ; that you have 
 distinct conceptions of the three distinct 
 persons ; and so distfnct are these per- 
 sons of the Trinity in your idea of them, 
 that no power of human reason or imagi- 
 nation can make them one being. 
 
 Nor with the Bible in your hands can 
 you blend this distinctness into confu- 
 sion. The Son sent into the world by 
 the Father ; the Son united to human- 
 ity, and tiius constituting a peculiar per- 
 son, God-man, and in this character 
 laboring and suffering to work out our 
 salvation, — the Son, I say, offering a 
 sacrifice on earth to the Father in heav- 
 en, is a distinct actor, a distinct being 
 to your thought, nor can you conceive 
 of him otherwise. And this conception, 
 I say, which you cannot help, is fatal to 
 the Unity. 
 
 Let the believer in the Trinity bear 
 with me, for I mean him no disrespect. 
 He will say that he does believe both in 
 the Trinity and Unity. Let us in this 
 matter look beneath words for one 
 
FALSE TRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 493 
 
 moment. When he thinks at one time 
 of the Father as God, and at another of 
 the Son as God, and at another of the 
 Holy Spirit as God, he is not neces- 
 sarily a Trinitarian; At no one of these 
 times, probably, does he think of more 
 than one of these persons as God. 
 So the Swedenborgian worships Jesus 
 Christ as God, and as the only God ; 
 and he is a Unitarian. Again, when he 
 conceives of the one only, self-conscious, 
 Infinite Being, as manifesting himself 
 now in the Father, now in the Son, and 
 now in the Holy Ghost, he is not a 
 Trinitarian, but a Sabellian. And when 
 he says in his prayer, " O holy, ador- 
 able, and ever-blessed Trinity," still is 
 he not worshipping a name, rither than 
 what the Trinity means in theology ? 
 Could he pray in this manner ? " O 
 Father, Christ, and Holy Ghost, I im- 
 plore each of you to help me ; I pray 
 Thee, Christ, to intercede for me ; Thee, 
 Father, to pardon me ; and Thee, Holy 
 Ghost, to apply the benefits of redemp- 
 tion to my soul. I beseech you to com- 
 bine your respective counsels and to 
 employ your respective interpositions 
 for my relief." This would be a prayer 
 in accordance with dogmatic Trinita- 
 rianism ; but I believe that such a prayer 
 has seldom or never been offered in the 
 world. 
 
 The dogma of the Trinity, I say, de- 
 stroys every kind of unity that can be 
 conceived of in an intelligent being. 
 And if it does, I maintain that it must 
 be given up. We cannot believe in an 
 essential contradiction. Here stands a 
 fact in the mind, which, like a fact in 
 nature, like the order of the solar sys- 
 tem, is not to be set aside by any inter- 
 pretation. That three self-conscious 
 persons are one and the same self-con- 
 scious Being, we cannot believe. Once 
 it was held that absurdity is no bar to 
 faith; nay, "the greater the absurdity 
 the greater the faith : " this was the 
 hardness of the old Theology. But 
 pliilosophy has been slowly wresting 
 from theology the admission that absurd- 
 ity is essentially incredible. 
 
 An attempt, indeed, has been made to 
 show that we can believe in such a con- 
 tradiction, by alleging that there are 
 similar contradictions in science. But 
 the instances cited, as might be antici- 
 pated, fall under the head of mysteries, 
 not absurdities. There are paradoxes ; 
 i. e., there are ideas, there are pure 
 mathematical calculations, which, when 
 applied to matter, involve us in inex- 
 tricable confusion of thought : but it is 
 a new thing to say that there are "irre- 
 concilable contradictions " in science. 
 The strongest instance of the sort is 
 taken from the infinite divisibility of 
 matter. A world and a grain of sand 
 are infinitely divisible ; i. e., they can 
 be divided into an infinite number of 
 parts. But infinites are equal. There- 
 fore the world and the grain are of equal 
 size. Nay, why stop here .'' There- 
 fore both the world and the grain of 
 sand are infinite ; for that which con- 
 sists of an infinite number of parts 
 must be infinitely large. Infinites I in- 
 finites ! Is the obscurity which rests 
 upon that which has no limits, to blind 
 us to a plain and palpable contradiction, 
 presented to us by human minds, with- 
 in the confines of a human creed ? * 
 
 Presented to us, I say, by human 
 minds ; for I deny that any such doc- 
 trine is presented to us by the divine 
 Mind. In other words, we deny, with 
 the utmost strength of conviction, that 
 the doctrine of the Trinity is taught 
 in the Scriptures. 
 
 With regard to the argument from the 
 Scriptures, it will not be expected, in a 
 discourse of this nature, that I should 
 enter upon it. I will only make two 
 brief observations in consonance with 
 the views upon which I am insisting. 
 
 When we take up the New Testa- 
 ment, we immediately begin to read of 
 Jesus. He is the great subject of the 
 book. He is a child ; he is a youth ; 
 
 * It is as if, because matter is infinitely divisible, we 
 were required to believe that a world and a grain of 
 sand are of equal size ; or, to state the parallel more 
 exactly, — since there can be but <7«^ infinite, — that 
 both the world and the grain of sand are one and the 
 same identical substance. 
 
494 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 he grows up to maturity ; he teaches 
 the people ; he is the most devout and 
 pure of all that ever dwelt on earth ; he 
 lives ; he dies ; he ascends to heaven, — 
 "to his Father and our Father, to his 
 God and our God." Now, had not 
 the early Platonizing fathers introduced 
 among the subtilties of their philosophy 
 the doctrine of the Trinity ; had we, in 
 these more enlightened times, never 
 heard of the Trinity ; had we been left 
 simply to take the impression of the 
 New Testament just as it is, — I suppose 
 nothing could have equalled the amaze- 
 ment with which we should have heard 
 it asserted that this Jesus was God ; 
 the very God who sent him into the 
 world ; the Creator of the very earth 
 on which he walked, of the very men 
 who put him to death ! 
 
 My second observation I wish to pref- 
 ace with a single remark. It is this : 
 we are to arrive at the meaning of the 
 evangelists and apostles through their 
 language, just as we are to come at 
 the meaning of any other writers through 
 their language. Inspiration did not 
 change the natural style of those men, 
 for each one has his own. This, among 
 the learned, is now generally admitted. 
 My observation, then, is to the follow- 
 ing effect : that is to say, / will take the 
 biography of any great jnan that has 
 lived, and I will draw from it the saine 
 kind of evidence for his divinity as 
 that on which the Trinita?'ian relies in 
 proof of the Deity offesiis. " He shall 
 be supreme and alone in the love and 
 confidence " of the people, is a language 
 applied to a statesman of our own. Had 
 these identical words been found in the 
 New Testament, applied to Christ, how 
 certainly would they have been quoted 
 in support of his divine claims! "Su- 
 preme and alone in men's love and con- 
 fidence " ? That is the very description 
 of what is due to God. Again, in a no- 
 tice of the celebrated Mr. Pitt, occurs 
 the following language : "The penetra- 
 tion of his mind was sagacious, was 
 infinite. His history is the historv of 
 civilized nations, as his counsels influ- 
 
 enced and directed every movement in 
 every corner of the habitable globe." 
 A penetration that was infinite ; an in- 
 fluence that ruled the habitable w^orld ! 
 Do the proof texts of the Trinitarian 
 argument contain stronger phraseology 
 than this ? And what does all this 
 prove ? Why, that the Trinitarian con- 
 structions are forbidden by all just criti- 
 cism. And I do surely and solemnly 
 aver — indeed, the case is too plain to 
 admit of any doubt — that he who re- 
 jects this conclusion, does so because he 
 holds that the Bible is not to be inter- 
 preted as other books are. 
 
 I cannot refrain from one further ob- 
 servation upon the Scriptures, to show 
 that this rule of interpretation, and the 
 conclusion, too, are strictly and expressly 
 sustained by a rule of Bible criticism 
 upon the Bible itself. Recollect that 
 the Trinitarian hypothesis sets forth 
 that the Messiahship of Jesus was a 
 laying aside of his Godlike dignity, and 
 that, on this account, he is represented 
 as inferior. We should expect, then, 
 that when he had accomplished this 
 work he would reassume his supreme 
 grandeur. Listen, then, to the following 
 language ; enough, one would think, to 
 settle the whole question : " Then Com- 
 eth the end, when he shall have delivered 
 up the kingdom to God. even the Father. 
 For he must reign till he hath put all 
 enemies under his feet. But when he 
 saith all things are put under him, it is 
 manifest that he is excepted which did 
 put all things under him." Is it not 
 amazing that the doctrine of Christ's 
 Deity should be maintained against this 
 divine canon of criticism .'' As if it were 
 said, "Of course, no one will imagine 
 that any lofty ascriptions of power and 
 glory to Christ are to bring into ques- 
 tion the undisputed supremacy over 
 him, of God himself. It is manifest that 
 He is forever to be excepted from all 
 such inferences." But hear the Apostle's 
 conclusion, and then judge what is to be 
 thought of this hypothesis of Christ's 
 temporary and apparent inferiority and 
 real equality. "And when all things 
 
FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 495 
 
 shall be subdued unto him, then shall 
 the Son also himself be subject unto 
 him that put all things under him ; that 
 God may be all in all." 
 
 But I must hasten to leave tliis part 
 of mv subject. So powertul, so over- 
 whelming has appeared to me the argu- 
 ment against the Trinity, that for years 
 I confess I have been looking for its 
 effect upon the churches of England 
 and America. I have sometimes invol- 
 untarily said, " Is it possible that what 
 appears so clear to me, so unanswerable, 
 can go for nothing with the minds of 
 others 1 What are the men of England 
 and America thinking, — not the clergy 
 alone, but the reading men, the scholars, 
 the statesmen, the educated men, — what 
 are they thinking about this matter.'' Or 
 do. they not think of it at all ? Does 
 a great question which Newton, and 
 Locke, and Milton, and Priestley, and 
 Price decided against them, seem to be 
 unworthy of their attention ?" 
 
 With this inquiry in my mind, I have 
 looked with no little interest upon a 
 modification of the Trinitarian hypoth- 
 esis, which three distinguished scholars, 
 in three different countries, Germany, 
 Great Britain, and America, have pre- 
 sented to the public attention.* The 
 English theologian speaks of God, in 
 Sabellian phrase, as "revealed in three 
 characters, as standing in three relations 
 to us,"t or, in other words, he maintains 
 that the one God has so put his name 
 and displayed his energy in the Father, 
 Son, and Spirit, that each of them may 
 be lawfully, and is actually required to 
 be, worshipped J His language is very 
 cautious ; but, as far as I can ascertain its 
 meaning, it would seem tliat he does not 
 lielieve in an Eternal Son or Eternal 
 Spirit, but only that when Jesus Christ 
 appeared, and the Divine Spirit was 
 poured out upon the hearts of men, there 
 was such a demonstration of God's 
 power in them, that they may be law- 
 
 • Schleiermacher, Archbishop VVhately, and Pro- 
 fessor Stuart. 
 
 t See Sermon on God's Abode with his People. 
 X See Sermon on the name Emmanuel. 
 
 fully worshipped. The German theo- 
 logian, though reputed Orthodox, adopts 
 the theory of Sabellius. But he denies 
 that the common view of Sabellianism 
 is correct. This is his exposition of it, 
 — difficult, however, to distinguish, in 
 any material respect, from the common 
 view, — '-that the Trinity exists as such, 
 only in relation to the various methods 
 and spheres of action belonging to the 
 Godhead." In governing the world in 
 all its various operations on finite beings, 
 the Godhead is Father. As redeeming, 
 by special operations in the person of 
 Christ, and through him, it is Son. As 
 sanctifying, and in all its operations on 
 the community of believers, and as a 
 Unity in the same, the Godhead is 
 Spirit."* The distinction, he holds, is 
 modal, not essential; is not eternal, but 
 began in time. The American Professor 
 is not satisfied with this exposition. f 
 He holds that "distinctions are co-eter- 
 nal in the Godhead." But he utterly 
 rejects the idea that "there are three 
 separate consciousnesses, wills," in the 
 persons of the Trinity. He admits that 
 this would be Tritheism. He is offend- 
 ed with those who say that there was 
 society, counsel, or consultation among 
 the persons of the Trinity. Yet what 
 more this is, — what more distinct con- 
 sciousness it implies, than to say that 
 the Father setit the Son into the world, 
 it is difficult to perceive. 
 
 But the question is. Is it possible to 
 receive what is said of the Father and 
 the Son in the New Testament without 
 conceiving of them as possessing sepa- 
 rate consciousness and will .? I affirm, 
 without any shadow of doubt, that it is 
 not possible. The Professor says that 
 the language is to be received with quali- 
 fication, and he compares it to that in 
 which it is said that God walks upon 
 the earth; that he ascends and descends. 
 Are the cases parallel ? In the one, we 
 
 * Schleiermacher's tract on Sabellius, translated by 
 Professor Stuart, in the iSth and 19th Nos. of the 
 Biblical Repository and Quarterly Observer. 
 
 t See Professor Stuart's " Remarks" on Dr Schlei- 
 ermacher's Tract, in the Biblical Repository and 
 Quarterly Observer, No. 19. 
 
496 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 easily and naturally understand the rep- 
 resentation to be figurative. Is the 
 other of the same nature ? Is it figura- 
 tive language ? And may we suppose 
 that the reality is as different from the 
 figure, as omnipresence is different from 
 ascending and descending ? Then we 
 may all believe in the Trinity ! Then 
 the Trinity vanishes away into nothing, 
 into a mere figure of speech. When we 
 read, I still insist, that God the Father 
 sent his Son into the world, that the 
 Son lived on earth, that he prayed to 
 God the Father, that he ascribed all 
 his power and wisdom to God, — in short, 
 that he always spoke of God, his Father, 
 as a being distinct from himself, is it 
 possible, I repeat, to conceive of him 
 as himself that very God and Father ? 
 And I reaffirm that it is not possible. 
 
 The history of opinions shows that 
 it is not possible. The early fathers of 
 the Church either did not hold to the 
 equality of "the persons, and were Arians 
 or quasi Arians, or they did hold to 
 the equality, and were Tritheists. The 
 modern creeds partake much of the 
 Tritheistic character. This, the Pro- 
 fessor mainly admits. This, Schleier- 
 macher feels. Hence their efforts to 
 relieve the subject from the errors of 
 ages. Hence this new teaching to the 
 churches. But can it be that a cardinal, 
 essential, saving doctrine of Christianity 
 has been left to be cleared up by dialec- 
 tic skill, at the end of eighteen centuries 
 of the Christian history ? What is to 
 become of the mass of men, what has 
 become of them, if this dialectic skill is 
 necessary for the true understanding of 
 the true doctrine ? 
 
 Our own position on this subject, we 
 may add, i e., our position as reformers, 
 is very different. We are endeavoring, 
 it is true, to present a safe and sound 
 doctrine. But we do not say that any 
 view of Trinity or Unity, any view of 
 the metaphysical nature of God, is 
 necessary to salvation. At the same 
 time we certainly think that it is better 
 to see things clearly than to see them 
 through a mist. And especially when 
 
 we find that the doctrine of the Trinity 
 is represented as essential to salvation, 
 we see, then, that it so takes hold of 
 human superstition and fear, that it so 
 enlists human intolerance, and does 
 such wrong and mischief in every way, 
 as to call at our hands for the most 
 earnest resistance.* 
 
 The further leading topics in theology 
 may be embraced under the two follow- 
 ing heads : human nature and its re- 
 demption. I can do but little more, in 
 the space that remains to me, than to 
 point out the true course of inquiry, in 
 opposition to mere hypothesis. 
 
 Our catechisms taught us that human 
 nature is totally depraved. Here was 
 hypothesis working upon its most deli- 
 cate and susceptible material, the mind 
 of childhood. If we would pursue the 
 true method of inquiry, we must forget 
 all this, and take up the subject anew. 
 
 Here is a theory. It says that there 
 is no goodness in human nature. Sup- 
 pose a theory to assert that there is 
 no faculty of reason in human nature. 
 Should we not appeal to fact, to experi- 
 ence ? The theory says that the moral 
 quality of human nature is one of un- 
 mixed evil. Indeed, it asserts a fact, 
 and a universal and unqualified fact. 
 In man naturally, in the mass of men 
 unconverted, there is nothing truly 
 good. An animal amiableness there 
 may be, but there is nothing accordant 
 with the sacred and Heaven-approving 
 law of right. 
 
 But this right — now to take up the 
 argument — this right, I say ; how did 
 we ever come to know that there was 
 any such thing at all ? " Our conscience 
 taught us," it will be said. But con- 
 science pronounces upon something. 
 Upon what does it pronounce ? It rec- 
 
 * The importance attributed to this doctrine strik- 
 ingly appears in what Professor Stuart says of Schlei- 
 ermacher's view of it. After giving an afifecting 
 account of his death, he adds: "Can it be that a man 
 who lived thus, and died thus, was not a Christian ? 
 I feel constrained to say that I mourn his loss to the 
 world, as an efficient and powerful writer; but I can- 
 not mourn as one without hope for him 1 " What 
 would Professor Stuart think if he could anticipate 
 such a sentence as this written concerning himself? 
 
FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 497 
 
 ognizes certain facts ; that is to say, 
 certain emotions, experiences. But 
 what facts, what experiences ? Expe- 
 riences of right and wrong ; of right 
 as well as wrong. In short, universal con- 
 science, sitting in judgment on the uni- 
 versal experience, pronounces a part of 
 it to be right and a part of it to be wrong. 
 We feci that there are right, good, 
 blessed things in our common humanity. 
 All our conduct, confidence, love towards 
 one another, shows it. Flashings of 
 indignation towards cruelty and oppres- 
 sion, tears of joy over holy human pity 
 and relief, show it. All human litera- 
 ture, philosophy, law, government, pro- 
 claim the same conviction. The entire 
 mass of human sentiment and institu- 
 tion stands as one emphatic contradic- 
 tion to the dogma of total depravity. 
 
 But it is said that this human judg- 
 ment cannot be relied on, that it is false. 
 Then everything is false. Then the 
 very power on which we rely for ascer- 
 taining the truth is false. Then, too, 
 the Bible is false. For the Bible puts 
 itself upon the verdict of the universal 
 conscience. That conscience declares 
 it to be right. But if the judgment is 
 worthless, that claim of the book falls. 
 If the eye of the soul sees nothing truly, 
 if the light in us be darkness, how great 
 is that darkness I 
 
 But does not the book itself, contra- 
 dicting the universal conscience, teach 
 the doctrine in question ? It cannot, I 
 think we may say. It would take a sui- 
 cidal part if it did. It would destroy 
 its own foundations. It does not. It 
 simply speaks as we all speak, who feel 
 that the world is full of evil. Here and 
 there a strong expression, — of a wound- 
 ed conscience saying, '• I was shapen 
 in iniquity. " — of outraged holiness 
 amidst a wicked people, saying, " They 
 have all gone out of the way ; there is 
 none that doeth good, no, not one," — 
 this is the whole evidence. One text 
 may stand against it all, recognizint" 
 conscience as a law, and some obedience 
 to that law, as things actually existing 
 in the most degraded portions of man- 
 
 kind. " For when the Gentiles," says 
 Paul, " who have not the law, do by 
 nature the things contained in the law, 
 these, having not the law, are a law unto 
 themselves ; which show the work of 
 the law written in their hearts, their 
 conscience also bearing witness, and 
 their thoughts meanwhile accusing or 
 else excusing one another." 
 
 Finally, Redemption from sin, — let 
 us consider it. It is a comprehensive 
 work : its theatre, the world; its sphere, 
 human life ; its security, God's will 
 and purpose ; its agents, God's power 
 and Spirit; its process, the soul's con- 
 version and sanctification ; and its spe- 
 cial means, Christ's life and sacrifice. 
 In all these we devoutly believe ; and 
 we are only anxious that nothing here 
 be construed unwisely or unreasonably ; 
 that nothing be inculcated concerning 
 the soul's conversion, at variance with 
 the soul's nature ; nothing concerning 
 God's purpose, hostile to human free- 
 dom ; nothingconcerning the atonement, 
 derogatory to the divine wisdom and 
 goodness. It is in vain to say that reason 
 and philosophy have nothing to do with 
 these matters. They have something, 
 they have much to do with them ; they 
 are at the very bottom of that progress 
 which Orthodox theology in various 
 quarters is now making. There is in- 
 deed much opposition still to the great 
 inductive study of facts and principles : 
 but the ©Imposition is giving way, and 
 it will continue to yield to the advances 
 of a rational and pure Christianity. 
 
 It is not till now, let me remark, when 
 we touch the subject of Redemption, 
 that we have reached the ground of what 
 is practical in religion. The questions 
 which we have thus far considered are 
 speculative, though the latter, it is true, 
 has important moral bearings. But we 
 come now to the questions that touch 
 the essential human welfare : what has 
 been done for it, and what is to be 
 done .'' What has God done, and what 
 is man to do .'' 
 
 Let us attempt here, again, to draw 
 the dividing line between fact and 
 
 32 
 
498 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 hypothesis. What is fact ? A world 
 is made ; man is placed upon it ; he 
 has a moral nature, a nature, i. e., liable 
 to err, and actually and deeply erring, 
 but capable of recovery and improve- 
 ment ; life is filled with ministrations 
 to virtue, and with restraints upon evil ; 
 and with our belief, certain Christian 
 facts are to be reckoned in the account ; 
 to wit, that to the natural means of virtue 
 and redemption, certain special means 
 are added, the teaching, the example, 
 the miracles, and the sufferings of 
 Christ ; and, moreover, we believe that 
 a divine influence is imparted to help 
 human endeavor. That endeavor, at 
 the same time, is to be put forth ; it is 
 demanded by reason and Scripture ; it 
 is implied in this demand that man has 
 some power to work out his welfare ; 
 and it is a matter of fact that he has 
 such a power. 
 
 Now to explain the facts of the human 
 condition and redemption, a certain hy- 
 pothesis is introduced. And let it be 
 repeated, that the introduction of an 
 hypothesis is not to be condemned, pro- 
 vided it be well considered that it is a 
 mere supposition. If it is reasonable, 
 if it appears best to explain the facts, 
 if it does not contradict any of the facts, 
 it may be properly entertained as a sup- 
 position; it may justly stand till some 
 better explanation is offered. But what 
 is the hypothesis on which the prevail- 
 ing theology is founded ? It is more i 
 than hypothesis, to be sure, with its | 
 supporters. It is unquestioned assump- ! 
 tion : it is an impregnable, fixed creed ; ! 
 and therein I hold that it is unphilo- I 
 sophical. But it is really nothing else ; 
 but hypothesis ; it is not certainty, but I 
 supposition ; it cannot justly claim to 
 exclude all other suppositions; and now 
 what is it .'' 
 
 It is that man w^s created in a state 
 of absolute innocence ; that he fell from 
 that estate; that by his fall he involved 
 his whole race in sin and misery; that 
 he stood trial for all his posterity, and 
 that by his failure all men were consti- 
 tuted sinners ; that they have lost the 
 
 power of recovery, all voluntary, moral 
 power to be good and pure; that the 
 earth also is cursed in consequence of 
 Adam's fall ; that its elements, its prod- 
 ucts, its climate perhaps, at any rate its 
 goodliness and beauty, are changed ; 
 that the glory has passed away ; in 
 short, that nature without and nature 
 within us are wrenched from their origi- 
 nal, constitutional order, and are not 
 what God originally meant or made 
 them to be. The world now rolls round 
 the sun, a blasted, ruined, dark sphere, 
 unlike any other sphere in its condition ; 
 it has lost its place in the sisterhood of 
 happy worlds ; and could any creature's 
 eye from above look down upon the train 
 of heavenly orbs, he would see this to 
 be marked, marred, and desolate ; no 
 smiling orb, no embosoming beauty and 
 goodliness, but scathed and blackened 
 by the scourge and frown of infinite dis- 
 pleasure. For this accursed globe, in 
 this awful emergency, the hypothesis 
 proceeds to state, that a grand expedient 
 was found, a great plan of redemption 
 was devised. It was devised in heaven. 
 Earth could never have found it out. 
 Nor angel nor archangel could ever have 
 seen or imagined it.- There was coun- 
 sel taken in heaven for the salvation of 
 the world, for the recovery of man. I 
 know of no good reason, I repeat, why 
 this word, counsel, should be objected 
 to ; there were thoughts, designs, pur 
 poses, to that end. God, the Father, 
 determined to send God, the Son, into 
 the world. In due time he came ; the 
 Sent, and not the Sender, came into the 
 world ; he lived among men for thirty 
 years and more ; and at length, he who 
 was very God and very man died upon 
 the cross. By thus doing, thus suffer- 
 ing, he removed an otherwise insupera- 
 ble obstacle to the bestowment of divine 
 mercy upon sinful men, and opened the 
 way for their return to the merciful 
 favor of God and the eternal bliss of 
 heaven. 
 
 What an hypothesis ! With no irrev- 
 erence, but in solemn sincerity, I de- 
 clare that I have felt, while unfolding it, 
 
FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 499 
 
 as if I were involved in the shadows of 
 some old, terrific Hindu or Druid my- 
 thology. And I firmly believe, that if 
 this hypothesis had been this day spread 
 before any audience in Christendom for 
 the first time, if they had never heard 
 of it before, they would have felt it as I 
 do. I can hardly doubt that they would 
 have risen upon their feet and cried out, 
 in amazement, if not indignation, at a 
 theory so awful and incredible. 
 
 But let us patiently consider it. I 
 maintain, then, that it is not necessary 
 to explain the facts ; that it contradicts 
 the facts ; that it is pure assumption 
 without any known facts to rest upon ; 
 and that it is essentially self-contradic- 
 tory and altogether incredible. 
 
 Its self-contradictory character in one 
 point I have already insisted upon, and 
 need not repeat what I then said. It 
 presents, in its theory of tiie divine Per- 
 sons who took their distinct and re- 
 spective parts in the work of man's 
 redemption, ideas irreconcilably at vari- 
 ance with the Divine Unity. It presents 
 further contradictions, — an Almighty 
 will thwarted; an infinite counsel meet- 
 ing with apparently unforeseen diffi- 
 culties, and obliged to resort to new 
 and extraordinary expedients. Man was 
 made pure, and he fell. How, I might 
 ask, could purity sin .'' It is held to be 
 morally impossible, impossible without 
 divine intervention, for total depravity 
 to put lorth one right aflfection. How, 
 then, could perfect purity sin ? Did 
 God interfere to make it sin ? But to 
 proceed with the supposition. If man, 
 instead of being made capable alike of 
 good and evil, was made constitutionally 
 sinless, what could have been the end 
 but to keep him so t But the fall de- 
 feated that end. Then, again, the con- 
 stitution of the material world was origi- 
 nally established for a pure race ; it was 
 changed to meet the condition of a guilty 
 race. If it had been foreseen that the 
 very first man would sin, and drag down 
 all liis offspring with him, why was the 
 world made for innocence to dwell in ? 
 It would be as if in pleasant grounds a 
 
 fair garden had been made for an animal 
 supposed to be harmless, and then, the 
 animal proving to be a tiger, it had been 
 necessary to raze the grounds, to tear up 
 the shrubs and the flowers, and to turn 
 the garden into a prison and a lair. 
 
 Again : I say that the theory is pure 
 assumption, without any known facts to 
 rely upon. That the constitution of 
 nature was changed, that the physical 
 nature of man, his natural appetites and 
 passions, were changed, is what we do 
 not know, and is, in fact, a thing in- 
 credible. That the moral nature of 
 man, imperfect by the very Hmitation of 
 his powers, ignorant before experience, 
 placed here apparently to learn by ex- 
 perience, liable to err by every known 
 and conceivable element of his consti- 
 tution, — that this nature at its origin was 
 in a state of angelic purity, and then 
 fell at once into utter depravity, is what 
 we do not know, and is, in truth, a thing 
 unintelligible. Does any one really sup- 
 pose, can he really believe, that the 
 world, when man was created and placed 
 upon it, was essentially otherwise than 
 it is now ; that it was not moulded 
 of hills and valleys, and covered with 
 herbs and flowers, and visited by heat 
 and cold, storm and sunshine ; or that 
 man was not clothed with flesh and flesh- 
 ly appetites ; or that his soul was not 
 at the beginning weak, inexperienced, 
 and liable to err } But it may be said 
 that there is another class of facts to 
 be considered, — the declarations of the 
 Bible. We receive those declarations. 
 What are they .? That man fell ; that 
 the earth was cursed in consequence ; 
 and that through sin misery has come 
 into the world. Can these declarations 
 be stretched out to cover the stupendous 
 hypothesis which has been stated ? I 
 hold that there is another hypothesis 
 that meets and satisfies them. Suppose 
 that man's first estate was one of com- 
 parative simplicity and purity, and this 
 the more likely because he must have 
 been created in an adult state ; sup- 
 pose that after a time he fell into gross 
 wickedness and disorder ; suppose that 
 
500 
 
 ERRORS IN THEOLOGY, FROM 
 
 industry and culture declined, and the 
 earih shot up briers and thorns where 
 it before gave herbs and fruits ; and 
 suppose, in fine, that sin, thus coming 
 into the world, was a curse to the earth 
 and a fountain of misery through all its 
 ages ; and does not this hypothesis an- 
 swer to all the declarations of the Bible ? 
 To my mind it does so in the most sat- 
 isfactory manner. 
 
 I may add that the hypothesis which 
 we are considering is peculiarly the 
 theologian's hypothesis. It is not, and 
 never has been, the theory of philoso- 
 phy. In all the general works that 
 have been written on man and the con- 
 stitution of man, on the philosophy of 
 history and of the human condition, on 
 the philosophy of mind and morals, it 
 has always been maintained that man 
 and life, the world and the human con- 
 stitution and condition, are sucli as God 
 wisely made and intended them to be, 
 for the general progress and improve- 
 ment of the human race. In this 
 respect, the prevailing theology stands 
 directly confronted and at open war 
 with philosophy. And hence it is that 
 philosophy has been, to so considerable 
 an extent, infidel, conceiving, as it 
 naturally has done, that the prevailing 
 theology was the true Bible philosophy. 
 Hence a remarkable French writer* 
 has lately gone to the insane length of 
 maintaining that the true philosophical 
 tendency of thought is to the utter sub- 
 version of all religion, and in fact to 
 absolute, blank, desolating atheism. Is 
 it not time to consider where the theo- 
 logical hypothesis is leading? 
 
 But to proceed : I maintain, in the 
 third place, that that hypothesis contra- 
 dicts the facts which it proposes to 
 explain. It contradicts the fact of 
 natural goodness in man, and it con- 
 tradicts the fact of moral freedom. 
 These denials, we may observe, are 
 closely bound together, and mutually 
 dependent on each other. If man is 
 totally depraved, he can have no free- 
 dom to be good. If he has no freedom 
 
 * Auguste Comte. 
 
 to be good, he is indeed totally and 
 hopelessly depraved. 
 
 The leading tendency, if not object, 
 of the celebrated work of Jonathan Ed- 
 wards on the Will, is to prove that 
 man, in his natural state, has no power, 
 no liberty to be good. Now, on the 
 ground that man is totally depraved, his 
 position is impregnable; his argument 
 is triumphant. And the reason is this : 
 goodness, strictly speaking, is not an 
 object of will. It is not within tlie 
 province of the will. I can no more 
 will virtue to be lovely to me ; that is, 
 I can no more will to love it, than I can 
 will honey to be sweet, or sweetness to 
 be agreeable to my taste, and to love it. 
 If there is not a love of virtue, as of 
 sweetness, in the very constitution of 
 my nature, I have no power to love it. 
 What, then, is the province of the will ? 
 It is distinctly this : to direct certain 
 actions of my body, and the attention 
 of my mind. The latter Js the only 
 point for consideration here ; for we 
 are not speaking of tlie visible action of 
 virtue, which is only the image of in- 
 ward virtue. What, then, can I do to 
 awaken in myself good and virtuous 
 emotion, to awaken' love ? I cannot 
 will them into existence any more than 
 I can will the love of music or of nature 
 into existence. But this I can do; this 
 is within the province of the will. I 
 can %vill and give attention to them. 
 I can think of the objects that should 
 awaken good emotions. I can meditate 
 and pray. Thus, if I have some natu- 
 ral good emotions, and the ability to 
 cultivate them, I have the power to be 
 good, and no otherwise. I have both. 
 
 But this the hypothesis denies. It 
 denies that we have naturally any riglit 
 feelings. And it ought, in consequence, 
 to deny, and it does usually deny, that 
 we have any power whatever to bring 
 them into existence. And in so doing, 
 I say, it contradicts the foundation facts 
 of our nature ; facts on which all relig- 
 ion and morahty repose ; facts without 
 which the Bible is an enigma, and with- 
 out which I humbly and reverently say, 
 
FALSE PRINCIPLES OF REASONING. 
 
 501 
 
 that, to my apprehension, the govern- 
 ment of heaven would be the most awful 
 and terrific injustice. For the hypothe- 
 sis involves to my mind, this further, 
 astounding, paralyzing contradiction ; 
 that we are commanded, on pain of 
 hell, on pain of God's displeasure, on 
 pain of unending guilt and misery, to do 
 that which we have no power to do ; 
 to feel that which we have no power 
 to feel ; to achieve that which we have 
 no power to achieve. 
 
 Nor, in fine, is this hypothesis neces- 
 sary to explain the facts of our nature and 
 condition. It is imagined that the fact 
 of sin implies some tremendous catas- 
 trophe like the fall ; that the origin of 
 evil is embosomed, a dark secret, in 
 some cloud of mystery or wrath ; that 
 the miseries of the world prove it to 
 have been wrenched away from the fair 
 universe of God. But the assumption, 
 I conceive, is altogether gratuitous and 
 uncalled for. It is in the very nature 
 of a moral and imperfect being to err ; 
 not to sin wilfully, malignantly, that is 
 not necessary, but to err through igno- 
 rance and impulse, to fall into excess 
 or defect, and so to fall into sin. And 
 it is in the power of such a being to 
 sin intentionally. Man has done both. 
 And misery has followed as the conse- 
 quence, at once, and corrective of his 
 errors. Where, now, is the mystery or 
 difficulty ? Where is the need of any 
 extraordinary hypothesis, implying the 
 subversion or change of the original 
 plan, or the devising of expedients to 
 meet an unnatural or unforeseen crisis ? 
 I will venture to say, in dissent from 
 the common opinion, and at the risk of 
 being thought not to understand the 
 difficulties of the case, that " the origin 
 of evil " presents no dark or mysterious 
 problem. To my mind it is clear and 
 of easy solution. That is to say, it is 
 clear as to the principle, though there 
 are difficulties as to tlie details. And 
 the solution, as I have already implied, 
 is this : An imperfect, free, moral na- 
 ture is, in its essential constitution — 
 is, by definition, peccable •, it is liable to 
 
 err, and its erring is nothing strange 
 nor mysterious. The notion of un- 
 tempted innocence for such a being 
 is, 1 hold, a dream of Theology. His 
 very improvement, his very progress, 
 ever implies previous erring. And that 
 from his erring, misery should come, — 
 this is equally intelligible. Now the 
 extent to which these evils go, not the 
 origin of them, — this is doubtless a 
 problem that I cannot solve. There 
 are shadows upon the world that we 
 cannot penetrate ; masses of sin and 
 misery that overwhelm us with wonder 
 and awe; but the world-problem itself 
 is not involved in those shadows. The 
 principle of the case is clear, and needs 
 not the theological hypothesis to relieve 
 it from difficulty ; not to say that the 
 relief was stranger and harder to receive 
 than the difficulty. 
 
 The Redemption of man, then, as I 
 understand it, proceeds on this ground 
 and in this wise. Man is placed upon 
 the earth with a nature moral, improv- 
 able, immortal ; capable of good, exposed 
 to evil ; in temptation and suffering, in 
 need and peril ; and all this mingled 
 too with joy and hope. His being is a 
 good gift, his life is a good opportu- 
 nity. It is the highest git't and glory 
 in the universe, to be capable of virtue, 
 of purity, of the blessed love and like- 
 ness of God. A field for such attain- 
 ment is spread here upon earth ; a 
 school is opened, filled with incessant, 
 instant, sublime instructions. But the 
 school is not for the idle. The field is 
 not the field of the sluggard. Through 
 toil and struggle, through disaster and 
 sorrow, with blessed affections too, and 
 hopes and foretastes of heaven, man 
 must rise. 
 
 Now the doctrine of Redemption, of 
 which this is the basis, — the doctrine of 
 Redemption is, that God, our Maker, 
 hath had compassion upon us and hath 
 interposed for our welfare ; that he, the 
 Infinite One, whose presence is in every 
 world and with every creature, hath 
 manifested that presence in miracles, 
 and in mercies ; in miracles divine, in 
 
502 
 
 THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 mercies unspeakable. What creed can 
 be more to me than this, — that God 
 pities me; that God careth for me; and 
 that to me, a wanderer from his presence . 
 and love, he hath sent forth his Son, "to 
 bring me nigh to him •' .'' Nigh to Him ! 
 shelter, protection, peace, joy, blessed- 
 ness ; all, and more than all that words 
 can utter, is summed up in this. The 
 bright realm of heaven that overwhelmed 
 me with its awful majesty, melts and 
 dissolves in dews of mercy upon my 
 thirsting and fainting nature. 
 
 Redemption, — this is the grandeur of 
 the world. All the majesty of earthly 
 empires sinks to nothing before this 
 kingdom of God, this reign of heaven 
 upon earth ! Oh ! to what noble end 
 serve all our cares and labors and stud- 
 ies, but to build up this kingdom ; to 
 build it up in our hearts and homes ; to 
 build it up in the city and the wilder- 
 ness ; to build it up in all lands, and 
 among all nations ? To what other end 
 were appointed all our bitter sorrows ? 
 What means all the wearying and wear- 
 ing conflict of human affairs and inter- 
 ests ; with sickness, and pain, and grief, 
 and death, to teach us, what means it 
 but this, — that out of the infinite strife 
 
 and eternal vicissitude should rise im- 
 mortal virtue and purity? 
 
 To see redeemed men walking upon 
 earth, the chains fallen, the step free, 
 the brow lifted to heaven ; to see re- 
 deemed men changed into the image of 
 God, touched by his spirit, won by the 
 loveliness of Christ, won to love and 
 patience and self-sacrifice, — this is a 
 vision compared with which all other 
 visions fade away. 
 
 It is coming ! it shall come ! It hath 
 been, and shall be yet more. Yes ; the 
 world shall yet more bear the impress 
 of this glorious work ! " An highway 
 shall there be upon it, and a way ; and 
 it shall be called a way of holiness; the 
 unclean shall not pass over it ; but it 
 shall be for those ; the wayfaring men, 
 though fools, shall not err therein. No 
 lion shall be there, nor any ravenous 
 beast shall go up thereon ; it shall not 
 be found there ; but the redeemed shall 
 walk there. And the ransomed of the 
 Lord shall return and come to Zion, with 
 songs and everlasting joy upon their 
 heads ; they shall obtain joy and glad- 
 ness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee 
 away." 
 
 ON THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 This is the very book which we have 
 long wished to see. For we have long 
 been convinced that there is a question 
 connected with the Calvinistic contro- 
 versy, more important than all others, 
 going beyond all others, and that is 
 nothing less than a question about the 
 essential principles and grounds of right 
 and wrong. What is rectitude, and 
 how are we to arrive at the knowledge 
 of it ? These are the questions which 
 Dr. Wardlaw has undertaken to discuss 
 
 * Review of "Christian Ethics, or Moral Philoso- 
 phy on the Principle of Divine Revelation. By Ralph 
 Wardlaw, D. D. With an Introductory Essay, by 
 Leonard Woods, D. D." 
 
 in the work before us. And what now, 
 do our readers suppose, is the legitimate 
 theory of Calvinism on the subject of 
 morals ? Why, truly, that human nature, 
 which has always been supposed to be 
 both the subject of moral philosopiiy 
 and its investigator, is neither one nor 
 the other; that it neither furnishes tiie 
 facts on which a just theory of morals 
 can be built up, nor contains the power 
 that is able to discriminate among any 
 facts, so as to arrive at a safe conclu- 
 sion. Human nature is totally depraved, 
 therefore it furnishes no data for a moral 
 theory. Its very conscience is pervert- 
 ed ; the very labors of conscience in its 
 
THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 503 
 
 own appropriate sphere, that of moral 
 philosophy, have resulted in error ; and 
 in such serious, wide-spread, universal 
 error, that it cannot be trusted as a 
 principle to decide between right and 
 wrong. " It is preposterous," says Dr. 
 Wardlaw, ''to commit the decision of 
 an inquir)- respecting the true principles 
 of moral rectitude, to a creature subject 
 to all the blinding and perverting influ- 
 ences of moral pravity." 
 
 Such is, substantially, Dr. VVardlaw's 
 theory, though his adherence to it is not 
 quite so unflinching as we had expected 
 to find it. He admits that there is some 
 dim light of conscience left in human 
 nature. But that light is put out by a 
 single consideration, to which we beg 
 our readers to attend with us for one 
 moment. The Calvinistic doctrine, be 
 it remembered, is, that mankind are to- 
 tally depraved ; that human nature, in 
 its ordinary state and in the mass of 
 mankind, is not a mixture of good and 
 evil, but that it is unmixed evil ; that 
 there is )iothi?ii^ truly good in it. Now 
 it is notorious that men in all ages and 
 among all nations have been accustomed 
 to make what they have called moral 
 discrimmations ; to pronounce some 
 things bad, and other things good, in 
 the character of their fellow-beings. But 
 this judgment, according to the Calvin- 
 istic theory, has been a total mistake. 
 Conscience has been as much depraved 
 as any other part of human nature. It 
 has been worse than an unsafe or de- 
 fective guide ; it has been the grand 
 arch-deceiver of the world, leading man- 
 kind in all ages to suppose there was 
 good where there really was no good 
 whatsoever. 
 
 It will be perceived that we use the 
 word conscience here for the faculty of 
 moral discrimination in general, though 
 that word is usually restricted in its 
 application, so as to designate only the 
 judgments we pronounce upon ourselves. 
 The power, however, which morally dis- 
 criminates good from evil, must.be es- 
 sentially the same, whether it is applied 
 to ourselves or others. But now, we 
 
 repeat, according to the Calvinistic the- 
 ory, this moral discrimination is utterly 
 at fault ; it is entitled to no confidence 
 whatever. Its judgment about right 
 and wrong is a mere pretence, a mere 
 farce. Its very use of terms, its very 
 nomenclature, has been a succession 
 of blunders from the creation of tlie 
 world to this day. There is really no 
 such thing as right and wrong among 
 the t/iass of mankind. All is wrong, 
 and nothing but wrong. The moral, the 
 religious, complexion of human nature is 
 nothing but black ; and the eye that 
 has fancied it saw white spots and va- 
 rious intermingled hues has been totally 
 deceived. And after ten thousands and 
 millions of such mistakes, that eye, the 
 moral eye in man, is not to be trusted 
 at all. 
 
 Now moral philosophy, in utter dis- 
 regard of these remonstrances of Cal- 
 vinism, has built up its theories on the 
 basis of human nature. It has taken, 
 analyzed, and classified the facts of hu- 
 man nature, — that is to say, human 
 feelings, passions, desires ; it has pro- 
 nounced some things in human nature 
 to be right ; it has held itself competent 
 to decide which are right and which are 
 wrong, and thus to establish principles 
 of duty to show that some things ought 
 to be done, and others avoided. But 
 here Calvinism and moral philosophy 
 are at issue; and it is the object of the 
 first part of Dr. Wardlaw's work to 
 plead the cause of Calvinism against 
 all the systems of moral philosophy in 
 the world. He passes them in review, — 
 the systems of Aristotle, of Zeno, and 
 of Epicurus, and the modern ones of 
 Cudworth, Adam Smith, Dr. Hutclie- 
 son, Dr. Brown, Hume, and Bishop 
 Butler ; and, because they have not 
 recognized the Calvinistic view of hu- 
 man depravity, he pronounces them 
 essentially defective and wrong. 
 
 It is not our intention to follow Dr. 
 Wardlaw through the several parts of 
 his work. We are at too great a dis- 
 tance from him to make it a question 
 of much interest here, whether or not 
 
504 
 
 THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 he has done himself credit as a philos- 
 opher or as a reasoner. Our chief busi- 
 ness is with the main question, Whether 
 the doctrine of total depravity is to over- 
 throw all our moral theories, and to un- 
 settle the very grounds of moral truth. 
 But we cannot help observing that Dr. 
 Wardlaw seems to us to have been 
 neither steady to his main point, nor 
 just to the systems he attacks, nor very 
 discriminating with regard to those 
 claims of the Bible which he under- 
 takes to set up. If human nature be 
 totally depraved, then indeed the moral 
 theories are all wrong, totally wrong. 
 This main point and the main infer- 
 ence the writer should have steadfastly 
 adhered to, or, as it seems to us, he 
 should not have written this book, — 
 that is to say, he should not have writ- 
 ten a book of such violent and wholesale 
 attacks upon all former moral writers ; 
 because the moment he quits the posi- 
 tions above stated, he steps upon the 
 very ground which these writers them- 
 selves occupy. In consistency, there 
 should be none of these qualifying 
 phrases, "in a measure," "to a certain 
 degree," so freely scattered up and down 
 in this book, none of these loopholes of 
 escape from the theory, none of these 
 old Calvinistic practices of asserting 
 much in the body of the discourse and 
 denying it in the "improvement;" since 
 these qualifications, or any qualifica- 
 tions, instantly carry the Calvinistic phi- 
 losopher upon the very ground which he 
 opposes and contemns. For all moral 
 philosophers have admitted that there 
 is much wrong and evil in human na- 
 ture, and much liability to error in the 
 human conscience ; else why should 
 they labor to set up a true and right 
 standard ? And herein it is that we 
 think Dr. Wardlaw has not been just 
 to them. He treats them as if he sup- 
 posed they had taken the whole of 
 human nature in its present condition 
 as their standard, — than which noth- 
 ing can be more untrue. As an illus- 
 tration of his meaning, he supposes a 
 chemist to take and analyze a portion 
 
 of polluted Thames water, and to pre- 
 sent us the result as an account of the 
 pure element. But see how unfair this 
 is, and how fatal, too, to the Doctor's 
 theory. The polluted stream, of course, 
 is human nature. But does the moral 
 chemist present the whole of his analy- 
 sis as an account of moral purity ? 
 Does he incorporate all the vileness of 
 the human affections into his theory of 
 moral rectitude ? Nothing can be far- 
 ther from the trutii. But, moreover, 
 cannot the chemist find pure water in 
 the most tainted stream .? When he 
 has analyzed a portion taken from the 
 " sluggish river " into its component 
 parts, can he not present to us pure 
 water, and tell us what it is .-^ This is 
 what the moral examiner has done. 
 With regard to the use of the Scrip- 
 tures in the formation of a just moral 
 philosophy, nothing would delight us 
 more than to see them fairly and under- 
 standingly applied to that purpose. That 
 they have been too much neglected by 
 philosophers is certain ; that they will 
 contribute more than they have done to 
 the establishment of more and more cor- 
 rect moral theories we have no doubt, 
 and we are glad to have the public at- 
 tention directed to this point ; but to 
 assert that the Scriptures are the source 
 of our original moral conceptions, or of 
 all our moral conceptions, is attempting 
 to do them honor, as we hope to show, 
 not only in defiance of reason, but in 
 disregard of their own implied and ob- 
 vious character. 
 
 After all, we cannot help asking, What 
 truth, what one truth, has Dr, Wardlaw 
 added to the theory of morals ? What 
 one discovery has he made in this new 
 field of inquiry ? Not one. The world 
 has heard of no new discovery. This 
 single fact shows how baseless are the 
 assumptions and how groundless are 
 the sweeping complaints against moral 
 philosophy with which this book sets 
 out. 
 
 But let us proceed to some consider- 
 ation of the Calvinistic theory of moral 
 philosophy, or, more exactly perhaps, 
 
THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 505 
 
 the Calvinistic rejection of all former 
 theories. 
 
 And, in the first place, let us consider 
 a little more fully the ground which Cal- 
 vinism occupies. Its position with re- 
 gard to moral philosophy Dr. Wardlaw 
 has stated, h. is not, however, with 
 philosophy alone that Calvinism is at 
 war, but with all literature, with all the 
 histories in the world, with almost all 
 the memoirs that ever were written, and 
 not less with the common sense, com- 
 mon conversation, and common con- 
 duct of all mankind ; for what is the 
 tenor of all the literature, the poetry, 
 the fiction, the history, the biography, 
 in the world ? What are the written, 
 the recorded thoughts of mankind, as 
 they bear upon the point before us ? 
 What z's all this, that is portrayed by the 
 hands of unregenerate men, and that 
 draws its delineations from the charac- 
 ters of unregenerate men .'' Look into 
 these works, and you find them filled 
 with moral pictures, — pictures of good 
 and evil ; here, indignation at vice flashes 
 across the page of genius ; there, the 
 pencil, dipped in the dyes of heaven, por- 
 trays the glowing form of moral beauty 
 and commends it to the admiration of 
 the world. Here, 
 
 " the historic muse. 
 Proud of her treasure, marches down with it 
 To latest time ; " 
 
 and there, satire throws its withering 
 glance upon fraud and meanness. Here, 
 the orator thunders out his anathema 
 against the tyrant and oppressor ; and 
 there, friendship raises its monument to 
 departed goodness, pours out its tears 
 in eulogy and song, and bequeaths un- 
 equalled virtue to undying remembrance. 
 "Such beneficence," is its language, 
 " such beneficence, such excellence, such 
 loveliness, — when shall we look upon 
 their like again ? " Well, it is all a mis- 
 take 1 — concerning the mass of mankind, 
 it is all a mistake ! There is no ground 
 in human nature for these moral discrim- 
 inations. All is wrong, all is evil ; and 
 what is called good is only the sem- 
 blance of good. So ends the Calvinist's 
 
 catechism. The same is true of the 
 conversation and conduct of men. Their 
 conduct, much of it, expresses confidence 
 and love to one another. The manners 
 of life all over the world, with however 
 much of coldness and distrust, are never- 
 theless moulded by these sentiments of 
 the heart ; the approving smile, the glow- 
 ing countenance, the outstretched hand, 
 the fond embrace, are testifying all over 
 the world that there are qualities to be 
 admired, that there are virtues to be 
 loved. Conversation, too, is continually 
 bearing witness to the same convictions. 
 Men are everywhere speaking of one 
 and another whom they know, as good, 
 as excellent, as acting worthily and 
 nobly. They are addressing to one 
 another, in a thousand indirect forms of 
 language, the same fervent and kind 
 sentiments. Conversation, language, is 
 everywhere spreading, in the breath of 
 speech, its invisible network, and weav- 
 ing the ties of affection that hold society 
 together. And the very foundation of 
 all this is confidence in human worth. 
 But again we say, that Calvinism holds 
 all this to be an entire mistake. And 
 there is nothing on earth that is allowed 
 to stand against this blighting judgment. 
 You are surrounded, perhaps, with chil- 
 dren. Their early affections, like their 
 bright faces, are putting on a thousand 
 quick and fluctuating and beautiful ex- 
 pressions. You are charmed and won 
 by their infantile simplicity and exquisite 
 tenderness. Their very voices seem to 
 be softened and attuned by the gentle- 
 ness of their hearts. " Beautiful ones 
 of earth ! " you are ready to exclaim, 
 '• almost meet for heaven ! " And the 
 Saviour's voice answers back, " Of such 
 is the kingdom of heaven ! " It is all a 
 mistake ! says the system we are con- 
 sidering. In these children there is 
 nothing really good ; in the sight of the 
 unerring Judge of right and wrong, 710th- 
 ing good ! Your imagination may please 
 itself with fancying that these are little 
 cherubs ; but the truth is — pardon the 
 phrase for the sake of the truth — the 
 truth is, that they are only little devils 
 
5o6 
 
 THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 in the guise of cherubs ! Because if 
 there were one particle of real holiness 
 in these beings, if the only unerring eye 
 saw anything really good in them, then 
 they would be something better than 
 totally depraved ; they would be Chris- 
 tians, says this system, — so say not we, 
 — they would be Christians, and in the 
 way to heaven ; but there is not in them 
 one particle of real excellence ! 
 
 But we must stop here, one moment, 
 to consider and to answer for the thou- 
 sandth time, we suppose, the only ob- 
 jection that is ever offered to this con- 
 clusion. "Not one particle of holiness," 
 the defender of this system may say, 
 " but still there is much that is amiable 
 and excellent in human nature ; and 
 much that is so pleasing that it almost 
 persuades us to call it real virtue." If 
 we were dealing with a professed meta- 
 physician or moral philosopher, we con- 
 fess that we should hardly know how to 
 suppress our indignation at such trifling 
 with words as appears in this objection. 
 What is it that is in controversy here ? 
 It is moral excellence. The question is 
 about moral excellence, and about noth- 
 ing else. It is not about what may chance 
 to be pleasing and agreeable to a totally 
 depraved nature, but about what is really 
 good, — good according to the only un- 
 erring standard. But what is the high- 
 est and most unerring standard ? It is 
 the judgment of God. Is there any- 
 thing morally good in human nature, ac- 
 cording to that standard ? The Calvin- 
 ist's answer is. Nothing. Here end all 
 questions, then. To say that there is 
 something pleasing in human nature, as 
 there is in animals, the horse and the 
 dog, is nothing to the purpose. To say 
 that there are semblances of goodness in 
 men, is worse than saying nothing to the 
 purpose. It is gravely putting forward 
 an argument wliich can answer no end 
 but that of self-deception. And, if we 
 are so deceived, we ought to reform our 
 language ; we ought not to say that 
 these semblances are excellent and lovely; 
 we ought to suspect and dread and dis- 
 like them more than open vices ; for 
 
 they are more dangerous ; they beguile 
 us of all moral discrimination ; they cor- 
 rupt the fountain of truth in us. And, 
 indeed, there are semblances of good 
 which are to be thus regarded ; but the 
 evasion we are considering, instead of 
 exposing, helps to shield* them. If the 
 Calvinist only maintained that the mass 
 of mankind is not prevailingly, habitually 
 good, there would be no controversy. If 
 he only said that mankind are sadly de- 
 praved, that the highest principle of 
 virtue, the fixed love of God, is wanting 
 in multitudes, we should have no dispute 
 with him. But he says that there is noth- 
 ing good ; not any, the least thing that is 
 pure and holy ; nothing, that by any ad- 
 dition or increase, can become holiness ; 
 not one solitary, momentary breathing 
 of real virtue ever to be found in human 
 nature. Now, for Calvinists to admit 
 that there is nevertheless something 
 pleasing, grateful, charming in human 
 nature is all mockery. It is nothing 
 to the purpose. We might as well be 
 told that the human y^rw is sometimes 
 beautiful, the countenance lovely, the 
 movement graceful. It is nothing to the 
 purpose. The question now is, not a 
 question of taste, but of theology. It is 
 a question about the object, not of the 
 imagination, but of the conscience, the 
 moral nature. Wiien men admire, praise, 
 love the virtues of others, they suppose 
 they admire, praise, love what is really, 
 morally excellent. Do they so ? ■ Cal- 
 vinism avers that they do not. If it ad- 
 mitted that there was anything morally 
 pure and good in what men love, that 
 there was in human nature the least pos- 
 sible degree of what is pleasing to God 
 and conformable to his law, the very 
 basis of Calvinism would be taken away, 
 and all its superstructure would fall to 
 the ground. But it denies this, and 
 therefore, we repeat, it stands confronted 
 with the judgment of the whole world. 
 
 We return to this point, for we wish 
 that this position of the system may be 
 understood; we think it will be found to 
 yield us some inference. 
 
 This, then, is the position of the sys- 
 
THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL THILOSOPHY. 
 
 507 
 
 tern and of its defenders. A few per- 
 sons, a few individuals in a community, 
 a few thousands in the world, declare 
 that all the rest are totally depraved, that 
 there is no foundation in their nature for 
 a system of moral philosophy ; no truth 
 in the moral part of their literature; 
 nothing but error in their conversation, 
 so far as it touches the moral qualities 
 of those around them. All the rest of 
 the world denies it ; not in form, per- 
 haps, but in fact denies it. That is to 
 say, they speak about virtue, right, good- 
 ness, as realities, and not fictions and 
 delusions. They say habitually, and 
 they say it not of a few elected persons, 
 but of many beside them, " Such men 
 are good men, such actions are right, 
 such qualities are excellent and lovely." 
 " No," say the few, " these things are 
 not good, nor right, nor excellent." And 
 when they say this, they oppose the 
 judgment of the whole human race ! Ask 
 any man whether he does not love a 
 kind action or a merciful deed ; whether 
 his feelings do not sometimes kindle at 
 the thought of a generous benefactor, of 
 an excellent parent, of a good and worthy 
 man ; and he will, with all his heart, 
 answer that they do. He would think 
 himself a brute and a monster, if they 
 did not. In fact, the language, the lit- 
 erature, — we repeat, — the poetry, the 
 history of all the world, is full of tes- 
 timonies to the beauty of goodness. 
 '' Nevertheless," say the few, " there is 
 no real love of goodness in the world ; 
 none but in the hearts of the regenerate. 
 With the e.xception of what is good in 
 them, there is no real goodness in the 
 world. What men call goodness, is not 
 goodness ; and if it were, they would not 
 love, but hate it. God, the infinitely 
 good and kind Being, they perfectly 
 hate." And when the few say this, we 
 repeat, they set themselves against the 
 judgment of the whole world ! 
 
 It is not strange, then, that Calvinism 
 should find it difiicult to sustain itself 
 in the public mind. It is not strange 
 that its tenets, according to the expe- 
 rience and confession of all its advo- 
 
 cates, should show a tendency, the mo- 
 ment they are let alone and left to 
 themselves, to sink down out of the 
 public mind, and to be lost in the mass 
 of opinions, so actively conflicting with 
 them. This tendency is well under- 
 stood and universally acknowledged. 
 There never was a city, nor village, nor 
 hamlet in the world, where this system 
 has been preached, that it did not sooner 
 or later array against itself an intelli- 
 gent opposition. And there never was 
 a congregation on earth, where this sys- 
 tem has once been preached, and has, 
 at length, ceased to be urged, so that 
 men's minds were left to take the natu- 
 ral course of human opinion, that they 
 did not give up, one after another, every 
 point of it. 
 
 Nor, in taking the popular side in 
 this controversy, do we wish to say any- 
 thing to catch the popular ear, or to 
 flatter the popular passions and preju- 
 dices. We admit, we more than admit, 
 we insist, that there is much, very much, 
 that is wrong in the world ; mot-e that is 
 wrong than right, more that is evil than 
 good. We are sensible that there is 
 much that is wrong in the history and 
 current literature and moral philosophy 
 of the world. They do not conform 
 sufficiently to the spirit of that better 
 Teacher, to whom it is our privilege 
 and happiness to listen. We are quite 
 aware that there is much in the prevail- 
 ing moral sentiments of mankind that 
 needs to be reformed. We need not 
 to be told that there are error and evil 
 and blindness in the minds of all human 
 beings. We can go far with the ^al- 
 vinists in delineations of this nature. 
 But there is a point at which we must 
 stop. We cannot admit that there is 
 nothing good in human nature, no first 
 principle to be built upon, no spark to 
 be kindled ; no foundation for moral 
 philosophy, no foundation for moral 
 hope. 
 
 But the point where definition and 
 acquiescence stop would properly be 
 the beginning of argument. And we 
 must beg our readers to (jive us a little 
 
5o8 
 
 THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 attention, if not to argument at length, 
 to a statement of what we conceive the 
 argument on this subject would be. 
 What, then, is rectitude, holiness, or 
 virtue? (the name of the quality is im- 
 material) — what is its origin ? — what 
 makes it to be to us the quality that 
 it is ? 
 
 This, as we have already intimated, is 
 the material question. For it is only by 
 setting up a peculiar definition of religion 
 or rectitude, and then maintaining that 
 this peculiar quality is the product of a 
 special divine influence, that they are 
 able to deny the possession of every, 
 the least degree of rectitude to the rest 
 of mankind. From the same source, 
 too, springs all exclusion, alienation, 
 division. 
 
 What, then, is moral rectitude ? We 
 suppose that if we were to write down 
 for answer the words, — "justice, love, 
 pity, disinterestedness, holiness, piety, 
 virtue," — the justness of the reply 
 would be indisputable. But what do 
 these words mean ? The answer is, 
 that the universal human conscience 
 must interpret their meaning. The 
 idea of rectitude cannot be defined but 
 by using these or the like words. That 
 is to say, strictly speaking, it cannot be 
 defined at all. Reference must be made 
 simply to the human heart. And if it 
 be asked again, vi\\?Lt gives birth to this 
 idea of rectitude or holiness, the answer 
 must be, it is the constitution of our 
 nature; it is God. This, in substance, 
 is the whole amount of all that we know 
 about rectitude ; of all that anybody 
 knoftvs about it; and it proves beyond 
 all doubt that the Calvinistic assump- 
 tion is forbidden by the universal con- 
 science and conviction. 
 
 To illustrate this, suppose a class of 
 theorists were to arise, and to call in 
 question all the received ideas of phi- 
 losophy, science, and taste. Suppose 
 they should say, " f^^have another idea 
 of truth, of nature, of beauty ; we re- 
 pudiate and reject not only all your 
 theorie.s, but all your fundamental ideas 
 on these subjects." What would be 
 
 the answer.'' "You cannot;" all men 
 would say — " you cannot, unless you 
 maintain that the universal human rea- 
 son is irrational, and that all received 
 truth is falsehood. You cannot, unless 
 you claim an illumination from Heaven 
 in matters of philosophy, science, and 
 taste, that distinguishes you from all 
 other men. And if you do, we know 
 of no clearer definition of fanaticism 
 than your opinion presents." 
 
 In fact, if any one will tell us why 
 certain melodies, colors, and forms, or 
 why certain axioms and " first truths " 
 are agreeable to us, we will tell him 
 why certain moral qualities are so. The 
 only answer is, that our nature is consti- 
 tuted to find them so. // /.$• so; and 
 tliat is all we know, — all we can say 
 about it. Philosophy has been always 
 asking for this why j but it is in vain. 
 We once thought ourselves that we had 
 pushed definition to its ultimate point, 
 and come to the truth in its last analysis, 
 by saying that the primary idea of recti- 
 tude is love, benevolence, the desire of 
 pro7noting happiness ; but we see that 
 even this fails. Thztswe had construed 
 the declaration that '' God is love ; " and 
 we had said, — this embraces all ; this 
 sounds the depths of all rectitude. But 
 suppose that God were a being who had 
 created a universe of mere animal, of 
 mere insect happiness ; and would this 
 satisfy our idea of his perfection ? No ; 
 this would be mere sympathy with 
 mere happiness ; and the noblest idea 
 would be left out. That is the moral 
 idea, the idea of rectitude ; and for 
 the understanding of this we can ap- 
 peal to no definition, to no reasoning, 
 but only to the constitution of our na- 
 ture. 
 
 It is in this attempt at definition that 
 all the moral theories have failed ; and 
 yet it is well worth observing how the}) 
 have all involved this idea, though 
 they have been seeking something else. 
 Let us look at them a moment in this 
 view. 
 
 One preliminary observation will be 
 found of special importance here. It 
 
THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 509 
 
 may have been observed by the reader 
 tliat we have been careful to speak of 
 nothing but the feeling, the sentiment 
 of rectitude, as it exists in the mind. 
 Now the observation is, that in this in- 
 quiry it is the feehng or perception alone 
 with which we have anything to do ; 
 that we have nothing to do with the ex- 
 ternal action. The outward action is 
 nothing but the sign of the inward per- 
 ception. It is, we repeat, with the per- 
 ception only that we have anything to 
 do, when inquiring after the real ori- 
 gin and essential nature of virtue. If 
 this distinction had been sufificiently 
 considered, it would have cut off, as 
 we think, many a wearisome and 
 wordy disquisition upon the grounds 
 of morality. 
 
 But to the definitions and grounds of 
 morality. Aristotle's definition, that 
 virtue is the mean bctweeti extremes, 
 can scarcely be considered as rising to 
 the dignity of a theory. It was a just 
 ma.xim certainly, and implied, we may 
 add, that the elementary principles of 
 rectitude lay in the human heart, though 
 they were liable continually to fall into 
 one or the other of the extremes of apa- 
 thy and passion, of inaction or violence. 
 Zeno's rule of living according to nature, 
 that is, the nature of the soul, implied, of 
 course, that there is a principle or per- 
 ception of rectitude in the soul, which is 
 the teacher of virtue. The doctrine of 
 Epicurus, that happiness is the end of 
 our being, and that all virtue lies in the 
 p7irs7iit of happiness, was connected by 
 this philosopher with the admission that, 
 in order to obtain this happiness, one 
 must live virtuously ; an admission that 
 at once introduces a new element into 
 his theory, an element fatal to his theory 
 as a theory, but the very element we con- 
 tend for, — that is to say, an independent 
 perception of virtue. The fitness of 
 things, of Cudworth, Clarke, and Price, 
 taught that "the right and wrong of 
 actions are to be regarded as ranking 
 amongst necessary or first truths, which 
 are discerned by the mind independently 
 of all reasoning and evidence." The 
 
 speculations of those acute theologians, 
 which threw a world of learned dust and 
 scholastic mist over this first truth, still 
 laid this truth in the heart of their sys- 
 tem ; namely, that right and wrong are 
 things self-evident, necessary, and im- 
 mutable as the axioms of the mathemat- 
 ics. The celebrated " theory of moral 
 sentiments," by Adam Smith, the theory 
 of moral sympathies, that is to say, in- 
 volved the same original and indepen- 
 dent principle. '' I do wrong. I con- 
 sider others as looking upon that wrong 
 action and condemning it. I sympathize 
 with their disapprobation ; and thus I 
 condemn myself. I do right ; and through 
 a similar process I learn to approve my- 
 self. It is sympathy," says the theory, 
 in both cases. But why do we feel so 
 differently in the different cases .-' Why 
 does the right excite one kind of emo- 
 tion, and the wrong another ? Why did 
 they, in the bosoms of the first men 
 that experienced these emotions ? The 
 theory does not tell us. And the only 
 answer is, that it is the constitution of 
 our nature that makes the difference. 
 In the same manner do we think that 
 there is involved in the Utilitarian theory 
 a secret reason and ground of morals, 
 which the Utilitarian himself does not 
 recognize. Why is an action right? 
 Because it tends to promote the general 
 happiness. But why is it right to pro- 
 mote the general happiness? Is it be- 
 cause happiness is a good? Yes, it is a 
 good ; but if bare tendency to promote 
 this good is the only thing to be con- 
 sidered, then a shower of rain must be 
 a very virtuous thing. " No," it will be 
 replied, "a being only can be virtuous. 
 There must be an intent to do good; a 
 7noral intent, — -not an intellectual con- 
 triving of the matter only ; a love, — and 
 not a love of happiness merely, our own, 
 for instance, but a love of others' happi- 
 ness." Here then, we think, is a secret 
 truth embraced, but not recognized, in 
 the Utilitarian's category. A world of 
 beings may easily be conceived of, pro- 
 moting each other's happiness in the 
 highest degree, and yet having no such 
 
510 
 
 THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 moral intent, not virtuous. The world 
 of animals is such a world.* 
 
 If we have succeeded in establishing 
 the position that the ideas of moral 
 excellence are constitutional and belong 
 essentially to human nature, we are pre- 
 pared to advance another step in our 
 survey of the ethics of Calvinism. For 
 we maintain that the idea of rectitude 
 implies, in however small a degree, the 
 feeling of rectitude. The Calvinist, 
 indeed, admits that there is a con- 
 science in all men, and we maintain 
 that this admission is inconsistent with 
 the alleged universal and total depravity 
 of men. We expect that, in answer 
 to this, it will be said at once, that 
 although all men have a conscience and 
 approve of what is good, that is a very 
 different thing from loving it. 
 
 Undoubtedly it is a very different 
 thing from loving it habitually, or with 
 predominant affection. But the ques- 
 tion is, whether the approbation of 
 goodness does not imply the previous 
 existence, not of a habit, but of a feel- 
 
 * We are not sure that the theory o{ iitility is yet 
 set forth and defended in a manner that is very satis- 
 factory to its most intelligent defenders. We have 
 supposed that the theory, as laid down in the booksj 
 contented itself with saying that an action is right be- 
 cause it tends to promote happiness, and there left the 
 subject, without going back to the ulterior and ulti- 
 mate ground of rectitude in the case. There it seems 
 to us to be left by Paley and Uentham. They do not 
 seem to have considered the question, why t\\e. feeling 
 of benevolence is right. If, however, the Utilitarian 
 should say that he assumes the feeling to be right, 
 and only differs from us in analyzing and resolving all 
 virtue into that feeling, we should have no quarrel with 
 the principle of his philosophy, though we should 
 doubt about his conclusion. Whether all rectitude 
 can be analyzed into benevolence, we doubt. But if 
 the Utilitarian says that a benevolent feeling is right 
 because it tends to promote happiness, if he says that 
 happiness is so excellent a thing that it confers upon 
 its promoter, virtue, all the charm which invests it, 
 we must dissent altogether. Benevolence makes me 
 happy, make? others happy. Is that the reason why it 
 is beautiful ? It would be, to sell virtue in the market- 
 place ! Happiness is an excellent thing. But it is 
 not half so excellent a thing as virtue. Yet this theo- 
 ry would make happiness the nobler thing, since it is 
 offered as the very ground and reason why the virtue 
 that promotes it is excellent. We can admire the 
 merciful man, when he is merciful to his beast, when 
 he takes care only for the happiness of animals; but 
 can animal happiness confer upon the quality of mercy 
 all its beauty and worth ? 
 
 ing of goodness. You behold a man 
 doing a good action. Now, it is not 
 the bare outward action that you ad- 
 mire, the stretching out of the hand, 
 and that hand filled with gold, but it 
 is the generous feehng, the feeling of 
 kindness or pity in the heart of the 
 giver. And how could you know any- 
 thing of this feeling in his heart, unless 
 you had experienced something of it 
 in your own heart ? We do not see 
 how otherwise you could know it. The 
 feeling is not visible. You do not with 
 your bodily eyes see it. But you know 
 that it is in your neighbor's heart, when 
 he is sincerely doing a kind action ; and 
 you know it from sympathy ; you know 
 it because you feel with him, or have, 
 at some former time, felt as he does. 
 In short, you know nothing, and caTi 
 know nothing, about any mental quali- 
 ties and exercises, but by experience of 
 them. And as you know what memory 
 is only by remembering, or what reason 
 is only by reasoning, so do you know 
 what a virtuous or holy exercise in the 
 mind is only by feeling it. 
 
 Conscience is not only a judgment, 
 but it is a feeling. It is the same soul 
 acting, with greater or less energy, upon 
 moral objects. The difference between 
 conscience (as that word is commonly 
 used) and moral feeling is a difference, 
 not in kind, but in degree. It may be 
 a cold approbation ; it may be a warm 
 emotion ; but still it is the same thing. 
 We perceive the difference between 
 right and wrong. We feel the difference 
 between right and wrong. Here is the 
 same thing. We feel this more or less 
 strongly. Here is all the difference. 
 When we witness a simple act of jus- 
 tice, as the paying of a debt, we simply 
 approve it. When we witness an act 
 of great, generous, and even self-deny- 
 ing benevolence, we warmly approve it. 
 In both cases, it is, in its nature, the 
 same action of the soul, put forth with 
 greater or less energy. 
 
 But, it may be said, are not con- 
 science and feeling often directly op- 
 posed to each other ? May not the 
 
THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL rHILOSOPHY. 
 
 511 
 
 conscience be riglit when the feeling is 
 wrong? Is not this especially the case 
 in envy ? A man approves, it will be 
 said, the excellence that he hates ; his 
 conscience perceives a virtue to which 
 his heart is opposed. Undoubtedly the 
 feeling of conscience may be overborne 
 by other feelings ; but this does not 
 prove it to be any the less a feeling, 
 and, so far as it goes, a right feeling. 
 There is no difficulty here. It is just 
 as filial affection may be overborne by 
 the love of worldly pleasure or evil 
 company. All we say in this case is, 
 that the filial affection is the weaker 
 feeling. And if this feeling should 
 strengthen and gain the predominance, 
 we should not say that it was changed 
 in its nature, but only that it was in- 
 creased in power. And so the weak 
 conscience, when it becomes a strong 
 principle, when it becomes the habitual 
 love of God and good beings, is yet 
 the same conscience increased in vigor. 
 It has passed through a change, not of 
 nature, but of degree. It is the same 
 single, solemn homage of human nature 
 to what is right and good. 
 
 And let me add that the perception 
 of moral rectitude needs to be some- 
 thing thus simple, clear, and unques- 
 tionable. It must not be dependent on 
 any abstruse reasoning. It must not 
 depend on this or that man's peculiar 
 theory. It must not require that men 
 should ascend into heaven, or go be- 
 yond the sea to find it out. It must 
 not leave any one cause to inquire 
 anxiously " wherewith he shall come 
 before the Lord." It is too essential 
 a matter, it is too vital an interest, 
 to be the subject of any reasonable 
 doubt as to what it is. It must be hke 
 the light of the sun, shed clearly and 
 brightly upon every human eye. That 
 which is food to the soul must be cer- 
 tain to the taste. That which is life 
 to the soul must be manifest to sim- 
 ple consciousness. That in which all 
 safety, all good, all happiness, essentially 
 consists, must be self-evident, indispu- 
 table, universal truth ; truth without a 
 
 shadow, without a question, without the 
 possibility of a mistake. 
 
 We should be glad if we had space 
 now to consider the bearing of this 
 discussion upon several subjects : upon 
 the identity of true morality and true 
 religion ; upon the way of becoming 
 good and religious, or what it is to 
 become so ; upon the unreasonableness 
 of intolerance ; and upon the light in 
 which the guidance of Scripture is to 
 be regarded. But we must hope that 
 the application to these topics of what 
 we have been saj'ing is sufficiently 
 obvious ; and we will close our objec- 
 tions to Calvinism by asking one ques- 
 tion. What sort of practical ethics 
 would follow from this system ? What 
 sort of position, theoretically speaking, 
 would its votary occupy in life, in soci- 
 ety, in the world .^ 
 
 Himself pure, whila the multitude 
 around him is totally depraved ; himself 
 growing better, while they are daily 
 growing worse ; himself elected, sancti- 
 fied, redeemed, while, for them, no 
 electing mercy, no sanctifying spirit, 
 no redeeming blood, has yet interposed 
 to bring them into the fold of safety ; 
 himself hoping for heaven, while they, 
 dying such as they live, are certainly 
 doomed to hell, nay, are every year and 
 day sinking by thousands from the fair 
 and smiling abodes of life into ever- 
 lasting burnings, — what manner of man 
 ought he to be .-* We do not ask what 
 ideas of God must result from this view 
 of the mass of mankind as a body of 
 unreclaimed and almost irreclaimable 
 convicts, from this view of the earth as 
 a vast penitentiary ; but we ask, what 
 sort of person should he be, who dwells 
 in such a penitentiary ? 
 
 Certainly he should be filled with in- 
 expressible sadness. He may rejoice in 
 his own escape, but for the thousands 
 and millions who never have escaped, 
 and who never shall escape, he ought 
 to feel a sadness amounting to gloom 
 and horror. If he lived in a city of a 
 million of inhabitants, and knew that 
 they were all in one season to be swept 
 
 /rjr^y>''ci^ THR 
 
 ^^ 
 
512 
 
 THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 away by a pestilence, — that all were to 
 die excepting a remnant of a few hun- 
 dreds with himself, — could he, con- 
 templating only that death and temporal 
 desolation, could he walk cheerfully in 
 the streets of that city? But what is 
 this to that doom beneath which mil- 
 lions of the human race are every year 
 sinking to woes and agonies untold, un- 
 utterable, and never to end ? Can joy 
 be any part of a system like this ? Can 
 a man ever smile who has taken this 
 contemplation of things to his heart ? 
 Can he see any real sign of cheerful- 
 ness in the heavens or the earth ? Can 
 the song of the neighboring groves, can 
 the shouts of laughter from yonder play- 
 ground, or tlie swelling of gay and glad 
 music upon the breeze, be anything but 
 the most bitter mockery ? What are 
 all these, to the mass of mankind, but 
 the prelude to groans, and lamentations, 
 and wailings of sorrow? The very arts, 
 under such a system, should lose all 
 their forms of winning beauty and im- 
 posing grandeur, all their buoyancy and 
 brightness ; and sculpture should only 
 present us groups, like the Laocoon, 
 writhing in the agony of fear; and paint- 
 ing should only draw pictures dark and 
 portentous, like that of the Deluge ; and 
 poetry should only pour out, in sadder 
 numbers than the celebrated " Night 
 Thoughts," its tears and lamentations 
 over the mournful fate of human kind. 
 Under the dread shadow of this sys- 
 tem, then, what can remain to its con- 
 sistent votary ? What can be his ties 
 to society at large ? Can he have friend- 
 ship ? Can he wish for intercourse with 
 unregenerate men, bad men, utterly bad 
 men ? Why should he ? What is there 
 in them to love ? If he must be con- 
 nected with them by business or kin- 
 dred, yet what are these circumstances 
 compared with the great features of 
 moral relationship ? And the moral re- 
 lationship on the part of the regenerate 
 can be nothing but that of superiority 
 and pity and prayer, — not that of friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Can human nature, can human life, 
 
 can human society, bear such a system 
 as this ? Burdened in spirit, saddened 
 with many afflictions, struggling with 
 many difficulties, scarcely sustaining it- 
 self with all the aids of the most cheer- 
 ing faith, how must the human heart 
 sink under this universal cloud of dark- 
 ness, horror, and despair ! How could 
 any liberal acquisitions, any graceful 
 accomplishments, any joyous virtues or 
 generous confidences, spring up under 
 such an appalling, all-absorbing dis- 
 pensation of threatening, wrath, and 
 woe ? It has been said, we know, with 
 an air of much self-complacency, that 
 our anti-Calvinistic system — that Uni- 
 tarianism, in other words — is essen- 
 tially a shallow, superficial system even 
 for the intellect ; tliat it is a system 
 altogether unfavorable to a generous 
 and thorough improvement ; that genius 
 encompassed by that system walks in 
 fettei's. But what, we should like to 
 ask, has Calvinism done, that its de- 
 fenders should be entitled to adopt this 
 tone of contempt for its adversaries ? 
 We ask not what Cahn7iisis have done ; 
 for, allowing individuals among them all 
 deserved credit for genius and accom- 
 plishments, it is very remarkable that 
 in the exertion of their powers in the 
 chosen departments of genius they have 
 proved traitors to their system ! That 
 is to say, the tone of religious thought 
 and sentiment introduced into such 
 works has never been that of Calvin- 
 ism. We ask, then, What has Calvin- 
 ism done ? What literature has ever 
 breathed its spirit, or ever will ? What 
 poem has it written, but Mr. Pollok's 
 "Course of Time"? what philosophy, 
 but Dr. Wardlaw's ? Into what medi- 
 tations of genius or reveries of imagina- 
 tion, but those of John Bunyan, has it 
 ever breathed its soul ? 
 
 We say not this reproachfully, but in 
 self-defence. But we do say, that a sys- 
 tem which has never appeared in any- 
 recognized delineations of the true and 
 beautiful; which never comes into that 
 department even with those who pro- 
 fess to hold it in theory ; which dwells 
 
THE CALVINISTIC VIEWS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 513 
 
 not with men in their happy hours, by 
 their firesides, and among their chil- 
 dren ; which wears no form of beauty 
 that ever art or imagination devised, 
 but hangs, rather, as a dark and anti- 
 quated hatchment on the wall, the em- 
 blem of life passed away ; and we do 
 say, too, that a system whose frowning 
 features the world cannot and will not 
 endure ; whose theoretical inhumanity 
 and inhospitality few of its advocates 
 can ever learn; whose tenets are not, as 
 all tenets should be, better, but worse, 
 a thousand times worse, than the men 
 who embrace them ; whose principles 
 falsify all history and all experience, 
 and throw dishonor upon all earthly hero- 
 ism and magnanimity : whose teachings 
 warrant no hopes, comfort no afflic- 
 tions, • soothe no sorrows, but of an 
 elected few ; and whose dread messages 
 ought to make the sympathies of those 
 few to be tortures and agonies to them, 
 while they bind in chains the rest of 
 mankind, and hold them reserved for 
 blackness and darkness forever, — we 
 do say that such a system cannot be 
 true ! It may be a sort of theory to be 
 speculated about, to be coldly believed 
 in, but it is not truth, that can be taken 
 home to the heart. " Coldly believed 
 
 in," did we say ? No ; so believed, it 
 is not believed in at all. It is not be- 
 lieved, unless it is believed in horror 
 and anguish ; unless it sends its votary 
 to his nightly pillow in tears, and wakes 
 him every morning to sorrow, and car- 
 ries him through every day burdened 
 as with a world's calamity, and hurries 
 him, worn out with apprehension and 
 pity, to a premature grave ! He who 
 should grow sleek and fat, and look 
 fair and bright, in a prison, from which 
 his companions were taken one by one, 
 day by day, to the scaffold and the gib- 
 bet, could make a far, far better plea 
 for himself than a good man living and 
 thriving in this dungeon-world and be- 
 lieving that thousands and thousands of 
 his fellow-prisoners are dropping daily 
 into everlasting burnings. Once more, 
 then, we say that this system cannot be 
 proved to be true till nature and life 
 and consciousness are all proved to be 
 false ; till the ties of affection are proved 
 to be all snares, and its sympathies all 
 sorrows ; till the tenor of life is proved 
 to be a tissue of lies, and the benefi- 
 cence of nature all mockery, and the 
 dictates of humanity all dreams and 
 delusions ! 
 
 33 
 
LOWELL LECTURES. 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE END OF PROVIDENCE IN THE WORLD AND MAN. 
 
 LECTURE L 
 
 ON THE CHARACTER, FITNESS, HISTORY, AND CLAIMS OF 
 THE INQUIRY. 
 
 Have we any right to ask, — is it 
 natural and fit that a human being 
 should ask, — such questions as these: 
 " Why do I exist ? Why am I here ? 
 Why am I such as I am ? Why was 
 the world made and arranged as it is ? 
 This dread mystery of nature and life, — 
 what does it mean ? " 
 
 If it is proper to ask such questions, 
 then is there such a subject for legiti- 
 mate discussion as the problem of hu- 
 man destiny. This is the subject on 
 which I am to enter this evening, with a 
 view to some preliminary statement of 
 its character, of the propriety of dis- 
 cussing it, of its history as a subject of 
 thought, and of the natural interest that 
 belongs to it. 
 
 Let me say a word or two of the title 
 by which I have announced it ; both for 
 the vindication of the title and the ex- 
 planation of my purpose. 
 
 My theme, then, is not natural the- 
 ology, nor, indeed, any other theology ; 
 it lies in the more general domain of 
 philosophy. Theology, as a science, is 
 the study of the Supreme Nature ; and 
 
 natural theology is the study of it in 
 what exists, in distinction from what is 
 supernaturally revealed. The results 
 of this theology I take for granted. I 
 believe in God, in -his perfection and 
 providence. But having found the Di- 
 vinity, I seek to find the humanity, in 
 nature and life, — to find, that is, its 
 place, its function, its vocation, its des- 
 tiny. That is to say, having found the 
 divine nature, I seek to understand its 
 intent and end in human nature ; and 
 by consequence in the material creation 
 as ministering to it. After the problem 
 of the Divinity, comes by natural and 
 logical sequence the problem of hu- 
 manity; in fact, it has followed in his- 
 torical development. The Divinity was 
 the question of the old Oriental sys- 
 tems ; the humanity has been that upon 
 which the Hebrew and Christian have 
 fixed attention. 
 
 Again, the title "philosophy of his- 
 tory " would not suit my purpose ; be- 
 cause history deals with nations, and 
 my subject embraces not only national, 
 but social, domestic, and individual life. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 SI5 
 
 1 miglu call it "the problem of exist- 
 ence ; " but that would seem to indicate 
 a more speculative theme ; as, for in- 
 stance, hoiv things came into existence, 
 or under what -view existence is to be 
 conceived of ; and besides, though it is 
 the problem of all earthly existence that 
 is in my mind, yet it centres in humanity; 
 and therefore 1 say, the problem of hu- 
 vian destiny. 
 
 If I should say that "the problem of 
 eziil in the world'''' is my theme, I should 
 come nearer to the matter in hand ; but 
 then I should only point to the cause 
 naturally and immediately prompting in- 
 quiry, not to the whole compass of it, 
 nor to its ultimate aim. The aim is to 
 learn what this scene of human affairs 
 meaneth ; the compass of the inquiry is 
 the whole mingled good and evil of the 
 human lot ; and the existence of evil, 
 obviously, is only a part of the theme. 
 But doubtless it is evil especially that 
 raises the question, that drives us upon 
 it. If all were bright and happy in this 
 world, if the steps of men and genera- 
 tions were ever onward and upward, 
 were free and buoyant, then there would 
 be no problem to try, but only contem- 
 plation to delight us. The great wis- 
 dom that reigns over the world would 
 indeed, tlien, as it must forever, invite 
 Dur thoughts, but there would be no 
 difficulty, no darkness, no doubt, con- 
 :erning the human condition. If man 
 bad been perfectly happy and pure, he 
 would never have questioned his lot, 
 nor struggled for the solution of its 
 mysteries. But how is it now? The 
 steps of humanity have been slow and 
 lieavy, and apparently backward at 
 limes ; stumbling and weariness and 
 sorrow have been in the path ; dark 
 ;louds have hung over the way of gener- 
 Jtions, and men and nations have strug- 
 gled with one another in the darkness ; 
 ind the experience of every thoughtful 
 numan being has pressed home upon 
 !iim the question. What means tliis 
 :roubled scene of things ? In other 
 ivords, what is the reigning and ulti- 
 mate aim that lies behind it? 
 
 What, then, is the reigning and ulti- 
 mate aim that lies behind ? This is our 
 question. Is there any presumption in 
 seeking to know wliat it is ? Observe, 
 that it does not answer our question to 
 say that infinite love is the principle 
 from which all things have sprung. 
 What does that love aim to accomplish ? 
 I say, again, may we not humbly ask ? 
 There is a sort of mock modesty, mixed 
 with philosophic pride, in comparing 
 man, seeking to comprehend the moral 
 system of the world, to a fly upon a great 
 wheel, seeking to know why it revolves, 
 and for what end. The profession of 
 ignorance may be prouder than the pro- 
 fession of knowledge. It is evident, I 
 think, that Socrates himself felt more 
 pride than humility in professing to 
 know nothing. For my part, I do not 
 claim to be one of the philosophers, and 
 am so unpretending as to profess that I 
 do know something about our nature 
 and condition, and what they mean. It 
 would be strange, 1 think, if to the grand- 
 est and most importunate questioning 
 of intelligent natures there were no an- 
 swer. In the humblest manufactory, a 
 man could not live his day's life, but in 
 misery and distraction, if he did not 
 know what was going on there. And 
 can he live this life, of vaster breadth and 
 wider relations,— this life, that '-is sound- 
 ing on its dim and perilous way " through 
 the years of time, and consent to know 
 nothing of the sublime processes that 
 are going on here, — nothing of that 
 great plan, that binding unity amidst 
 boundless diversity, whicli alone makes 
 of the universe an intelligent order and 
 a goodly system ? 
 
 My belief is, that this great and irre- 
 sistible impulse of our nature to inquire 
 into these things is not given to be 
 balked by Heaven, nor scorned by man. 
 My belief is, that this high questioning 
 does admit of some answer. The cele- 
 brated statesman and Oriental scholar, 
 William Humboldt, has said, "The 
 world-history is not witliout an intelligible 
 world-government." .^nd this declara- 
 tion is placed as a motto at the head of a 
 
5i6 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 philosophy of history, commonly thought 
 to be sufficiently sceptical; I mean the 
 German Hegel s. And sceptical enough 
 it is. But while Hegel recognizes only 
 an impersonal Reason as ruling in the 
 world, nothing is more remarkable in his 
 work than to see how he traces every- 
 where in the history of the world the 
 thread of a design and a destiny, as dis- 
 tinct and determinate as if it were 
 everywhere drawn and held fast by a 
 jDersonal Will, — a hint, by the bye, of 
 what is often confirmed by the study of 
 philosophy, — that seeming atheism in 
 the contemplation of the world is often 
 obliged to deny itself and to acknowl- 
 edge a providence. 
 
 Our problem, then, is the world-prob- 
 lem ; in short, it really /s the problem 
 of human destiny. I confess that I still 
 feel some objection to this description of 
 my theme; it is a more sounding title 
 than I like. Not, however, that it is pre- 
 sumptuous; because presumption, surely, 
 must be out of the question here j mod- 
 esty, I think, is to be taken for granted 
 on such a subject ; the very greatness 
 of the problem, the vastness of the 
 treasure-house to which we resort, is an 
 argument, nay and a kind of warrant, 
 at once for earnestness and humility. 
 Everybody may go to the mines of Cali- 
 fornia for gold, because they are so vast 
 and exhaustless ; and yet, for the same 
 reason, nobody expects to get more 
 than a small share of it. And so in the 
 field of our inquiry, — if one may pick up 
 a few of the golden sands on this shore 
 of boundless and mysterious wealth, it 
 is well ; and well may it engage his at- 
 tention. 
 
 I have adopted the title, problei7t of 
 htwtan destiny, then, for the simple rea- 
 son that it better expresses and sets 
 forth, than any other which has occurred 
 to me, the object I have in view. A prob- 
 lem is something proposed, laid down, 
 — thrown out, as we familiarly say, — 
 for examination. The Greek root from 
 which it comes, tt/jo/SiIXAco, from /3 lAXco, to 
 throw, suggests, in fact, the very figure. 
 A problem is a ball thrown out, to be 
 
 unwound, unravelled. And the subject 
 which is presented in this kind of inves- 
 tigation is the strangely mingled web of 
 human destiny. It is, indeed, if I may 
 say so, this ball of earth, around which 
 ages have wound their many-colored 
 tissiies, tissues of savage and civilized 
 life, of political institutions and social 
 usages, of literature and art, of law. 
 science, and religion ; tissues woven 
 out of human hearts, and steeped in all 
 the bright and all the sombre dyes of 
 human experience ; tissues which have 
 clothed the earth, bare and naked at 
 first, with countless memories, traditions, 
 histories, associations, sentiments, affec- 
 tions, — which have, in fact, given the 
 term world a hziman sense, which have 
 made it mean a very different thing from 
 the bare word earth; tissues, in fine, 
 broken and torn by outbreak, revolution, 
 war, violence, or bound and knotted fast 
 by despotism, caste, serfdom, slavery, 
 and intermingled and intertwisted in a 
 thousand ways ; and yet in which there 
 is not one thread, laid by the Divine 
 hand, that has not, as I believe, been 
 drawing on to a sublime destiny. 
 
 To a sublime destiny, I say; and what 
 is that ? And where is it to be looked 
 for ? Is it in the original nuclejis of the 
 world, the mere material ball of earth ? 
 Is it in the sea, with its waves, or in the 
 land, with its harvests, — the dust be- 
 neath our feet ? Is it in the ever-return- 
 ing circuits of the seasons ? Can you 
 take any product of nature — flower or 
 diamond, Andes or India — and say, 
 " To form this, and such as this, was the 
 end of all things " ? No ; instantly, in- 
 tuitively, we say, no ; where there is a 
 destiny, there must be an experience, 
 a consciousness of it ; in our humanity 
 only is the problem of this worlds ex- 
 istence solved; in our humanity alone is 
 there end or explanation ; tnan is the 
 world, and the world is man. • 
 
 But let us look into this matter a little 
 more closely, with a view to state more 
 fully what is proposed as the subject of 
 these lectures, and more fully to legiti- 
 mate this kind cf inquiry. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 517 
 
 You will remember, many of you, the 
 openiriii- observation of Dr. Paley in his 
 Natural Theology, in which he supposes 
 a man, in crossing a heath, to tind a watch. 
 He argues that the finder, on e.\-amining 
 the mechanism, and discovering the pur- 
 pose which it was designed to answer, 
 would say, "Somebody made it." He 
 applies this reasoning to the world, which 
 c.xiiibits more design by far than a 
 watch ; and argues from effect to Cause, 
 from design to a Designer, from the in- 
 telligence displayed in the universe to 
 an intelligent Creator. And it seems to 
 me that the argument would have been 
 stronger if it had not taken the form of 
 argument at all ; state»ient here is argu- 
 ment ; because design not xn&x&Xy proves, 
 but implies a designer, just as action 
 implies an actor, or a thing's being made 
 implies a maker. You cannot say, '' Here 
 is a design," without including in your 
 thought, " Here is a designer," any more 
 than you can conceive of speech without 
 a speaker. The world, the universe, is 
 the utterance, the word, the expression 
 of a mind. 
 
 There has manifested itself of late, in 
 some quarters, a disposition to discredit 
 this argument from design. In Ger- 
 many has been revived the old theory of 
 Plotinus and lamblicus, — for it is far old- 
 er than Berkeley, — that the world does 
 not exist at all but in our thought. Our 
 inborn ideas, says Fichte, projected into 
 space, are the universe. The world is 
 but an idea ; the world-creator is the 
 mind. But this, if it were true, would 
 only bring the argument from design otit 
 of nature into Juimanity, — into this more 
 astonishing realm of creative thought. 
 Did this wonderful mind, — world-cre- 
 ating, as they say it is, —did this mind 
 then create itself? Others have said, 
 that the creation, not being infinite, can- 
 not prove an infinite Creator. But if the 
 Creator of this world or of the solar sys- 
 tem were imagined to be a finite and 
 dependent creature, who, then, created 
 him ? The steps of this preposterous 
 scepticism alike lead us back to an infi- 
 nite and independent Cnuse. 
 
 This is not the place for any elaborate 
 discussion of the question, how it is that 
 we come to be possessed with this great 
 conviction of the existence of a God ; 
 whether by arguments drawn from with- 
 in, or from without us ; or whether by 
 no argument, — the conviction being 
 the impress upon our very nature of the 
 great hand that formed it. I will only 
 say that if any instructed man can look 
 upon himself or upon tiie universe 
 around him ; if he can ascend and dwell 
 in thought amidst the countless millions 
 of stars, or if he can take into his scope 
 but the breadth of a summer's day, from 
 the time when it touches the eastern 
 hills with fire, to its soft and fading 
 close, all its loveliness, its wealth and 
 wonder of beauty, its domain crowded 
 with thousand-fold life, — life clothing 
 the mountain side, springing in the 
 valley, singing and making melody 
 through all the round of earth, and air, 
 and waters ; or if he can take any little 
 plot of ground by his side, and study all 
 its vegetable growth and insect life, and 
 all that it drinks in from fostering nature 
 around, all that it borrows from the 
 ocean deep, and from the pavilion of the 
 sun, to deck its flowery margin ; if, in a 
 word, any instructed man can read the 
 iiandwriting that is written all over the 
 great tablet of the universe, and not feel 
 that it expresses a Mind, an Intelli- 
 gence, a Wisdom, a love unbounded and 
 unspeakable, he it is not to whom I 
 speak : and well may I judge that there 
 is no such man here nor anywhere. 
 Why, if one found inscribed upon some 
 Rosetta stone, or upon the ribbed rocks 
 of a desert mountain, but five such sen- 
 tences as I am now uttering, he would 
 say, without any doubt, " Some intelli- 
 gent being has done this ; some 7nind 
 placed these words thus, one after 
 another." And does the infinite volume 
 of the universe give less assurance of a 
 devising Intelligence .'' Good heaven ! 
 I am tempted to say, what sort of stupid 
 mystification is it, that leads any man to 
 deny that such a universe as this ex- 
 presses a Mind and a Purpose ? 
 
5i8 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINV". 
 
 But there being manifest design in 
 the universe, and therefore a designing 
 Mind, the question arises, What is this 
 design? In other words, what is the 
 end proposed in the creation ? What 
 may we believe that the infinite Creator 
 intended to accompUsh by the creation 
 of this world, and of the beings and 
 things upon it ? And this question 
 arises naturally and irresistibly ; we can- 
 not help asking it. Thus, — to adopt 
 the manner of Dr. Paley in the passage 
 just referred to, — if I were to bring 
 here and place before you a lump of 
 clay or a piece of marble, no inquiry 
 might arise in your minds concerning it, 
 unless it were the general question, why 
 I had brought it here. But if I should 
 bring and place before you an exquisite 
 and beautiful piece of mechanism, that 
 kind of vague question would not suf- 
 fice, but you would especially and im- 
 mediately ask, concerning this mechan- 
 ism, what is it for ? Is it to plane wood, 
 or to print books, or to generate light 
 and heat? What is it made for ? And 
 when this question was answered, you 
 would as irresistibly ask, how does it 
 accoinplish its purpose ? If it were a 
 very complex instrument, you would 
 have many questions to ask : as how 
 this wheel or that lever, this pulley or 
 that weight, helps on the general design. 
 
 Now, the frame of the world, the 
 frame of our body, the frame of the soul, 
 in other words, the whole system of na- 
 ture and life and moral agency, is such 
 a mechanism. 
 
 I do not suppose it is necessary to 
 say anything to prove this point. The 
 phrases in constant use — system of 
 nature, system of the world, order of the 
 universe, plan of the creation — recog- 
 nize the doctrine and allow us to take 
 it for granted. Every step in science 
 opens a deeper insight into the won- 
 derful and beautiful order of nature ; the 
 scientific explorer sees in the world a 
 vast manufactory, filled with instruments 
 and agencies, far more complicated and 
 exquisite than the wheels and levers, 
 the bands and pulleys, that weave the 
 
 most splendid fabrics of human art. 
 But every man who sees how this vast 
 vegetable growth that covers the earth 
 ministers to innumerable living crea- 
 tures, including the human race, sees a 
 sublime order in nature. The earth, 
 he cannot but see, is a bountiful table, 
 spread and evermore replenished, by 
 day and by night, for countless tribes 
 of creatures. They come and go ; they 
 sleep and wake, without care ; " they 
 toil not, neither do they spin ; they sow 
 not, neither do they reap, nor gather 
 into barns ; " unbounded millions of 
 creatures, with incessant wants, and no 
 intelligence in themselves to supply 
 those wants ; but what then ? There 
 is an intelligence \ki2X provides for them. 
 There is a bounty that feeds them. 
 Each one finds his place and his posi- 
 tion in the boundless feast. Each one 
 has a set of organs, an apparatus, to 
 assimilate the food to his nature and 
 convert it to his growth : a mouth to 
 break it up, to grind it like a mill ; the 
 stomach to digest, i. e., to amalgamate 
 it with elements of animal life, and other 
 organs to modify the supply, — to dis- 
 solve and refine it, to bolt it, as it were 
 and cast away the chaff, while the pure 
 nourishment is conveyed by ducts and 
 channels innumerable to every part 
 of the system. Whoever knows tiiis, 
 knows that there is order in nature. It 
 is true that we are less sensible of it, 
 because we grow up amidst it ; and 
 many of its processes, too, are out of 
 sight. I suppose, if there were machines 
 in nature to make bones and build skel- 
 etons, and then, if there were other 
 machines, — gins to spin the hollow 
 arteries and veins, and looms to weave 
 the muscular fibre and the corded nerves, 
 and foundries to mould the beating 
 heart and tlie breathing lungs,^ and 
 other contrivances still for putting all 
 the parts together, for setting up the 
 frame and laying in the engines and 
 the pipes, and putting on the integu- 
 ments, and finishing off the man, like 
 a statue, — I suppose, I say, that many 
 would be more impressed by all this 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 519 
 
 visible mechanism. But it would be all 
 coarse and clumsy compared with that 
 which now exists, and would be far less 
 indicative of an order and plan in the 
 world. 
 
 But now, when we say there is order, 
 there is a plan in the world, what pre- 
 cisely do we mean by that ? We mean 
 precisely that there is an arrangement 
 of parts with a view to an end. An end, 
 and means to an end, — these are the 
 two component elements of what we 
 mean by intelligent order. I say intel- 
 ligent order. A child or an idiot may 
 place a hundred sticks parallel to each 
 other, and this would be a sort of order. 
 But in theorderof nature we see the parts, 
 the means, i. e., conspiring to an end. 
 
 The end and the means, then, — these 
 are the points which we are brought to 
 inquire into ; these are the proper sub- 
 jects of all high philosophy of our hu- 
 manity, of history, and of the world, as 
 the sphere of their development. 
 
 Our present inquiry is for the end. 
 Let us look into this order of nature, 
 then, and see if it does not, by very 
 plain indications, lead us to a result, — 
 to a conclusion, that is to say, on the 
 point which we have before us. We 
 see subordinate aims in nature ; let us 
 see if they do not conduct us to an ulti- 
 mate aim. 
 
 Herder commences his celebrated 
 work on the "Philosophy of Humanity" 
 by considering tlie world which we in- 
 habit, in its primitive nature and rela- 
 tions. He devotes several chapters to 
 such propositions as these : that the 
 earth is one of the heavenly bodies ; 
 that it is a planet ; that it passed through 
 many revolutions before it came to its 
 present form and condition ; that it turns 
 on its axis ; that it is enveloped with an 
 atmosphere, &c. He then proceeds to 
 consider the geographical relations of 
 the earth, and especially of its plains 
 and mountain ranges, to human develop- 
 ment. Other writers have followed in 
 the same track. It would seem that 
 philosophy, like Antaeus, must touch 
 the earth, to be strong:. 
 
 I do not think it necessary, with my 
 present view, to go back so far, or to 
 take so wide a compass ; something of 
 this I reserve for future consideration, 
 especially the geographical relation. 
 P'or the present, I wish to direct your 
 attention to the simple point of organic 
 growth in the world, and see to what it 
 will lead us. You must allow me to do 
 this in as few words as possible. 
 
 The basis of all is the soil. If the 
 earth were a ball of solid iron or granite, 
 there would be no soil and no growth. 
 It is formed of other materials, of otlier 
 materials, i. e., combined with these : 
 and this, plainly, for an end : to produce 
 trees, groves, the cedar of Lebanon, the 
 hyssop that springeth by the wall, the 
 herb yielding seed, the waving harvest, 
 — the whole vegetable growth of the 
 world, a harvest for innumerable crea- 
 tures. And this is the purpose answered 
 by the soil. There is much to be said, 
 and which we shall find occasion to say, 
 of this basis and beginning of all growth 
 and life on earth, this vast bed of raw 
 material for all the varied fabric and 
 workmanship of nature. 
 
 But look now a moment at this work- 
 manship. Inlaid in every vegetable 
 structure, air-cells and sap-vessels, to 
 nourish its growth, and to produce fibre, 
 flower, and seed ; varied forms of struc- 
 ture, — the wheat straw hollow, because 
 for a given amount of material that form 
 is strongest ; the tree not hollow, be- 
 cause then it could not be used for tim- 
 ber, nor be as valuable for fuel ; the 
 fruit-bearing shrubs, like the blackberry, 
 commonly provided with prickles, to 
 defend them, or with small tough leaves, 
 like the huckleberry, which do not invite 
 the browsing herd; the esculent shrubs, 
 herbs, and grasses, not so armed, be- 
 cause that would be fatal to the end ; 
 the orchard, the garden, the meadow, 
 the pasture, the shady grove, — what is 
 all this but a ministration of food and 
 refreshment and beauty to the whole 
 animal and human creation ? 
 
 Observe, next, the animal creation. 
 I do not say that it was made solely for 
 
520 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 man. It existed before man. It has an 
 end proper to itself : a certain amount 
 of enjoyment which, though lower, is 
 more unalloyed than that of the human 
 race. 
 
 Still, we see that it is mainly subser- 
 vient to man. It furnishes him with 
 food and raiment ; it relieves his labor 
 and ministers to his pleasure. Some 
 animals were evidently designed to be 
 domesticated by man and to do him 
 kindly and patient service, — the horse, 
 the ox, the camel, the dog. But of what 
 use to him, it may be said, are the lion 
 and tiger ? I answer, of none, perhaps ; 
 but they are, at least, subject and subor- 
 dinate to him in this sense, that where 
 man comes, they disappear. They oc- 
 cupy, by the bounty of the Creator, a 
 space which man does not want ; a space 
 which, perhaps, as in the instance of the 
 deserts of Africa, he never will want; 
 but whenever he does need the domain 
 of these creatures, wild, untamable, and 
 useless to him, their claim yields to his. 
 They are made to live for him or to 
 perish for him, as he has occasion. 
 
 To man, then, we come at last in the 
 ascending scale, and there is nothing 
 higher ; of this earthly creation, that is 
 to say, he is the head. But in man, again, 
 we see a double nature, — a material 
 frame, and something that is not ma- 
 terial. To the material frame the lower 
 creation directly ministers as cause. 
 The vegetable and animal creation, that 
 is to say, suppHes to it food, without 
 which it could not grow nor live. But 
 is the body the end, the crowning glory 
 of the world ? Evidently it is not. Evi- 
 dently it ministers to the soul. Its 
 senses, appetites, and passions are all 
 engaged in this ministry. To show this 
 fully will require indeed some larger 
 discourse. At present I am indicating 
 only the steps of the ascent. But look 
 a moment at the five senses in this view. 
 Suppose a body in its general frame like 
 that which we now possess, but without 
 the senses, and the soul imprisoned in 
 that body. What, then, do we see ? 
 What is done for it ? Why, it is let out 
 
 — if I may say so — through touch, 
 taste, smell, sigiit, hearing. For what 
 end ? Plainly for its dehght, its culture, 
 its growing knowledge. The senses are 
 the specific organs of the soul. Their 
 office is finer than that of the stomach, 
 the liver, the lungs. These are but la- 
 borers in the comparison. The senses 
 are artists. And as their office is finer, 
 it is they that must have repose and 
 relief. It is they only that sleep. The 
 stomach, the lungs, the heart, do not 
 sleep; they labor on., without pause or 
 rest. These are servants. They keep 
 the house of life in order and repair, 
 that the inhabitant within may have 
 leisure and freedom to do his own 
 proper work, — to think, to meditate, to 
 gaze upon the glories of the creation : 
 to build up systems of science, phi- 
 losophy, and art; to build up himself in 
 that culture which is the end of all. 
 
 Nor does it conflict with this conclu- 
 sion to say, that at every step correla- 
 tive ends are accomplished for their 
 own sake. Nature is filled with lavish 
 beauty and enjoyment, but still it 
 points to an end. The stream over- 
 flows on every hand, but still there is 
 a stream. Thus, in human life, I see a 
 thousand gratuitous enjoyments ; but 
 I see, too, a higher and sublimer pur- 
 pose. Thus the human body is a 
 machine for work ; but it is also a 
 shrine for indwelling wisdom and de- 
 votion. 
 
 The Greek word for man, avdpoiTros, 
 is composed of two words {ava dopew), 
 which signify to look iipward. Man 
 is made to look upward. The ultimate 
 end of all things on earth is to form a 
 being, filled with all nobleness and 
 beauty, filled with virtue, wisdom, piety. 
 The world-system is a pyramid of which 
 humanity is the top. The broad earth, 
 the vast substructure of soil, is the 
 base. On it repose the layers and 
 rounds, many and beautiful, of the vege- 
 table creation. Next rise the orders 
 of animal life. Above all, humanity, 
 with its various component parts, — 
 some lower, some higher, — the diges- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 521 
 
 tive or building apparatus and tlie 
 sentient organs ; perception, memory, 
 imagination, that gather and mould the 
 stores of cognate facts ; judgment that 
 compares them, and the consequent 
 grasp of general truth ; and, above all, 
 and ministered to by all, the spiritual- 
 ized soul, tiie divine reason, — that 
 united intelligence and love which gath- 
 ers strength from all that is below, to 
 rise to all that is above; which com- 
 munes with heaven, with eternity, with 
 God! 
 
 In this comparison, let it be observed 
 that I describe the system of the world 
 as it actually exists ; as a system 
 of relations, dependencies, connections, 
 running through the whole. If it were 
 otherwise ; if the vegetable kingdom 
 stood completely distinct from the ani- 
 mal, and the animal from the human, 
 then we might say that each one was 
 made for ends proper, peculiar, limited 
 to itself. But when we trace, through- 
 out the system of the world, a connec- 
 tion and dependency as manifest as in 
 any human machinery, as in that, for in- 
 stance, by which wool is carded for the 
 spmdle, and spun for the loom, and 
 woven for the fuller and dyer, to make 
 cloth, — we see in both alike an ultimate 
 end. In the world-system, man is the 
 end ; and the highest in man is the ulti- 
 mate end ; that is, his virtue, his sanc- 
 tity, his likeness to God. 
 
 Let me offer an observation, in pass- 
 ing, upon the comparison which I have 
 just used. There are some things in 
 that process of making cloth which, 
 taken by themselves, not seen in their 
 relations, seem very little to contribute 
 to the desired result. They seem, in 
 fact, to hinder and thwart the end. 
 The material that is to be woven into a 
 firm texture is, in the process of fabri- 
 cation, rudely dealt with, — pulled, and 
 strained, and torn in pieces. A pure 
 and shining fabric is to be made, fit for 
 the array of princes ; but soil and dam- 
 age and discoloration are a part of the 
 process. So may the shining robes of 
 virtue be fashioned. So may human 
 
 affections be torn and riven. So may 
 there be, in human life, many a hard 
 struggle and strain, in order to come to 
 the end. 
 
 Conceive now, on the whole, and yet 
 more distinctly, of the highest thing in 
 our humanity, — what it is. It is not 
 comfort, nor ease, nor pleasure ; it is 
 not birth, nor station, nor magnificent 
 fortunes ; it is not nobility, nor king- 
 ship, nor imperial sway. It is some- 
 thing more noble itt the j/iind; more 
 kingly, more imperial, than all this. 
 Conceive of a human being ; what he is, 
 and how it is with him, when he chal- 
 lenges your purest admiration ; when 
 unbidden tears start from your eyes as 
 you think of him ; when you, with all 
 mankind, unite to consecrate and can- 
 onize his worth. Is earthly splendor or 
 fortune, or is mere earthly happiness, 
 any part of his claim? So far from 
 that, it is when he stands alone, in the 
 majesty of self-subsistent virtue ; it is 
 when he suffers for principle, and sinks 
 and goes down with the last plank that 
 honor has left him ; it is when he wears 
 himself out in unshared labors of phi- 
 lanthropy ; it is when he dies for his 
 country or for mankind, — ay, rent and 
 torn in pieces on the rack and the scaf- 
 fold ; it is then that he is noblest in 
 your eyes. This highest in man, all 
 that is highest and holiest, I believe, is 
 the end of Providence ; and it is my aim 
 in these lectures to show how it is that 
 Providence is ever promoting this end. 
 
 I have thus explained my design, and 
 endeavored to justify it, — to legitimate 
 this kind of inquiry. 
 
 I cannot doubt that this is a subject 
 of immense interest to all reflecting per- 
 sons. The history of thought itself on 
 this subject would be one of immense 
 interest. In the early ages of the 
 world, indeed, there may have been but 
 little thought about it; as we see there 
 is but little now, in the earlier stages of 
 our own life. And yet I cannot help 
 believing, that in the mysterious depths 
 of our humanity this inquiry has al- 
 ways been dimly shadowed forth, even 
 
522 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 amidst barbarian ignorance ; that the 
 man who turned from the glare of day 
 to his shaded Scythian tent or Bactrian 
 hut, smitten down by the bitter strife 
 of passion or sorrow, sometimes said 
 with himself, " Wherefore is all this ? 
 Why am I made thus, and to what 
 end?" But doubtless this inquiry has 
 slowly developed itself with the progress 
 of the world; and the history of it 
 would be found to mark the steps of 
 all human progress. It arose dimly in 
 the old Hindoo, Chinese, and Persian 
 systems of religion and philosophy. It 
 struck far deeper roots into the Hebrew 
 spiritualism. It occupied the thoughts 
 of the Grecian and Roman sages. It 
 has revealed itself in modern times in 
 the more distinct forms of a philosophy 
 of history and a philosophy of human- 
 ity. It has swelled and deepened its 
 channel through all the fields of human 
 thought ; history, philosophy, science, 
 literature, are all more and more occu- 
 pied with the question, what do all 
 things mean? No question, I believe, 
 has sunk so deeply into the cultivated 
 mind of the modern world. And when, 
 some twenty or thirty years ago, the 
 Rev. and Earl of Bridgewater left a 
 bequest of ^8,000 as a prize for the best 
 work on this subject, I believe it was 
 widely felt that the sum was worthily 
 bestowed, and that this specific direc- 
 tion of it had touched the very theme 
 of the age. It has been well said, I 
 think, by one of the eloquent philoso- 
 phers of France, Jouffroi, that this point 
 of destiny, this object and end of being, 
 is the very point about which all true 
 poetry, philosophy, and religion have re- 
 volved, — poetry, with its lofty sadness, 
 with its visions and dreams of moral 
 beauty, with its longings for better 
 times on earth and blessed regions in 
 heaven ; philosophy, with its profound 
 and painful inquiries after the all-em- 
 bracing, all-harmonizing result of human 
 weal and woe ; and religion, as it stands 
 on the heights of the world and speaks 
 with authority from God and faith in 
 eternitv. 
 
 It may be said, what need we more, 
 since we haiie such a revelation ? I 
 answer, our having a Bible does not 
 preclude us from preaching about it; 
 our having a faith does not forbid our 
 inquiring into it, and seeking for its 
 confirmation ; our receiving the facts of 
 a revelation rather iitcliites us to study 
 the philosophy of those facts. I may 
 believe, as I do believe, that all the 
 conditions of this life are designed and 
 arranged to advance in us the highest 
 culture; but how they fulfil their mis- 
 sion is a wide question, and into this 
 question I propose thoughtfully and 
 reverently to enter. 
 
 But let us go back a moment to the 
 history of this great inquiry. 
 
 All the religions in the world have 
 recognized this grand problem of hu- 
 man destiny. They have contemplated 
 man as having a destiny beyond the 
 little round of his daily pursuits ; be- 
 yond earthly weal and woe ; beyond 
 the sphere of this world's kingdoms and 
 empires. They have lifted up the dark 
 curtain of time, on which the shows and 
 glories, the battles and disasters, of 
 this world are pictured, and pointed the 
 busy actors to a solemn audit beyond. 
 Everlasting repose, Elysian fields, or fair 
 hunting-grounds have awaited them ; or 
 Tartarus, Tophet, Gehenna, and black- 
 ness of darkness. 
 
 The old Egyptian Sacerdotalism had 
 an institution connected with the burial 
 of the dead which brought out this fact 
 of a spiritual destination for men into 
 visible and impressive significance. The 
 disposal of the body with the Egyptians, 
 let it be remembered, was closely con- 
 nected with the final state of the soul. 
 They embalmed the body in the belief 
 that the soul would return to it, after 
 a wandering or metempsychosis of three 
 thousand years. The institution to which 
 I refer was this : On the banks of the 
 lake Acherusia sat a tribunal of forty- 
 two judges, to examine into the life of 
 all who were brought for burial in the 
 great cemetery on the other side. In 
 this examination no regard was to be 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 523 
 
 paid to the rank or riches of the de- 
 ceased, but only to liis character, to his 
 virtues or vices. If the result was fa- 
 vorable, his remains were conveyed in 
 a boat to the E/isont, or place of rest ; 
 if otherwise, they were cast into a deep 
 trench, called Tartar, — place of lamen- 
 tations. Transferred to the Greek my- 
 thology, we find all tiiis in Charon, his 
 ferry-boat, Tartarus, and the Elysian 
 fields. 
 
 In the religious system of the Per- 
 sians, among whom Hegel traces a de- 
 velopment entitling them in his opinion 
 to be called the earliest historical peo- 
 ple, — in the Zendavesta of Zoroaster, 
 that is to say, we find the mind of the 
 autlior and the age laboring with the 
 problem of evil, and striving to meet it. 
 Evil is in the world ; how came it here ? 
 From the All-good nothing but good 
 could come ; whence came the evil ? 
 Two principles, teaches the Zendavesta, 
 reign over the world : Ormuzd, Light ; 
 and Ahriman, Darkness. From the 
 accursed Ahriman comes all evil ; not 
 ph3-sical evil alone, as "^winter and ver- 
 min," but " reprehensible doubt, and 
 magic, and the false worship of Peris, 
 and that which poisons men's hearts." 
 Ormuzd, however, is the more powerful 
 principle ; and '• in twelve thousand years 
 shall gain the victory." * 
 
 In the Hebrew Religion we find deep- 
 er traces of this great inquiry. The 
 book of Ecclesiastes is a remarkable ac- 
 count of the questionings and strug- 
 glings of the mind upon this point. 
 Throughout the largest portion of the 
 work, the wise man of Israel appears as 
 a sceptic and a satirist ; he sees no high 
 end for man ; he sees no fitness in the 
 conditions of life to promote such an 
 end ; wealth and poverty, honor and 
 shame, nay, science and ignorance, wis- 
 dom and folly, seem alike purposeless 
 and useless. "Vanity of vanities, all is 
 vanity," is the burden of the teachins:; 
 and man is commended to eating and 
 drinking, and enjoying himself as he 
 
 ' Zendavesta, quoted by Heeren, Appendix I., in 
 the 2d vol. on Asiatic Nations. 
 
 may ; seemingly after a very reckless 
 fashion. Then again the high and 
 righteous aim is set before him, and 
 God's favor and help are promised to 
 him as his security and strength. So 
 that to explain the book, the learned 
 Eichhorn was led to adopt the theory 
 that it is a dialogue, in which the sceptic 
 and the believer are brought forward by 
 the writer to express their conflicting 
 views ; though there certainly are no 
 marks of dialogue in the work, and it 
 seems unnecessary to suppose in the 
 case anything more than the strugglings 
 of a single mind after some clew to this 
 maze of human passions and pursuits. 
 Every man's thought is a dialogue. 
 
 In our Christian writings there is one 
 book, Paul's Epistle to the Romans, 
 which distinctly brings forward the same 
 question. First, the great and universal 
 fact of human imperfection, of human 
 misery, is laid down ; next, the mission 
 of Christ to a weak and wandering and 
 sin -burdened race. These subjects, 
 with some digressions, occupy the first 
 six chapters. In the next chapter Paul 
 enters more particularly into the distress 
 of the case, describes the struggle with 
 sin and sorrow, and ends with the ex- 
 clamation, " Oh, wretched man that I 
 am ! who shall deliver me ? " In the 
 ninth chapter he speaks in encouraging 
 and even exulting terms of a triumph. 
 Man, it is true, "is subject to vanit}-," 
 i. e., to dissatisfaction, weariness, and 
 pain ; not willingly, — life's burdens he 
 would fain escape, — but at the will of 
 Him who hath subjected the same in 
 hope. That is, for a good end the Su- 
 preme Will hath placed him here ; the 
 case is hopeful ; the destiny is noble, 
 though fraught with elements of trial, 
 strife, and sorrow. T/iroug/i strife and 
 sorrow the victory is to be gained. Man 
 is "saved by hope." His state is one, 
 not of attainment, but of expectation, 
 of progress. The great futurity forever 
 draws him on. He does not see all that 
 he seeks for. He struggles on through 
 imperfection, uncertainty, darkness, er- 
 ror. Only by these, only by a battle, 
 
524 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 does he gain the victory. This is the 
 theory of his condition. 
 
 The thread of our inquiry, which runs 
 tlirough the whole course of philoso- 
 phy, I have not time now to trace. 
 Plato took it up again and again, and 
 Aristotle ; and after them, Zeno, and 
 Epicurus, and even Pyrrho, the doubter, 
 
 — each after his own fashion. The new 
 Platonic school in the third century 
 seems to me to have framed its the- 
 ories with distinct if not ultimate refer- 
 ence to this question. Plotinus, lam- 
 blicus, and Proclus cast scorn upon the 
 present life and all its objects ; and, as 
 the true end for man, strove to live 
 above it, in a certain divine contempla- 
 tion and ecstasy. In the early part of 
 the eighteenth century John Baptiste 
 Vico of Naples, in his " Nuova Scienza," 
 first expounded as a new science the 
 philosophy of history. Herder, Fichte, 
 and Hegel, in Germany, have labored in 
 the same field. In France, Auguste 
 Comte, in his great work, entitled " Phi- 
 losophie Positive," has undertaken the 
 herculean task of an appreciation of the 
 whole course and progress of human 
 thought and history. 
 
 Mr. Buckle's Introductory Volumes 
 on " The History of CiviHzation in Eng- 
 land " have been added to the works I 
 have mentioned, — in some respects the 
 most remarkable of them all. Failing 
 on the moral side, denying freedom to 
 the mind, and of course denying all 
 proper moral influence in human affairs, 
 it is at the same time such an account 
 of the intellectual, scientific, political, 
 and material causes of human develop- 
 ment and progress, that I know of noth- 
 ing comparable to it in the treatment 
 of that branch of the subject. It is 
 more strange that Mr. Buckle should 
 have ignored the moral element, — it is 
 positively a phenomenon in literature, 
 
 — because his own mind was full of the 
 very force that he denied ; hardly any- 
 where is to be found a keener indig- 
 nation at wrong, or a more eloquent 
 espousal of human rights or urging of 
 human duties. In America, we have — 
 
 still more recently — one most credit- 
 able contribution to the same general 
 subject, in Dr. Draper's work on the 
 Intellectual Development in Europe ; in 
 which the author seeks to show, though 
 the point is sometimes almost lost sight 
 of in the admirable and splendid array 
 of facts, that this development is never 
 uncertain or fortuitous in the causes or 
 processes that lead to it, but always 
 strictly dependent on law. 
 
 This brief allusion to the history of 
 our theme shows that it has been en- 
 compassed with doubt and difficulty. 
 There are two hues in our great drama- 
 tist that express the feeling of the scep- 
 tic and the scorner with almost terrific 
 point and energy. Life, he says, — 
 
 " Life is a tale, 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing." 
 
 There is a sound of the wayward and 
 mad world sometimes in our ears, that 
 seems to answer to that description. 
 There are spectacles of failure, defeat, 
 moral disaster, and miserable degrada- 
 tion, that sorely try the better faith. 
 Alas ! we say, perhaps, is there any end 
 for man, — for man. the' victim of absurd 
 institutions, the sport of untoward cir- 
 cumstances, the burden-bearer, the slave; 
 for man, bafiled, thwarted, worn down 
 with tasks, beguiled by illusions, wan- 
 dering after phantoms, — is there any 
 end for man ? Was he made for any- 
 thing high, great, ultimate ? Is there a 
 power above that guides him, and that 
 has appointed such an end for him, and 
 the means to that end? Is there any 
 contemplation of our sin-stricken hu- 
 manity, in which all that composes its 
 mysterious frame and fortunes can find 
 a mission and a destiny ? Life is a be- 
 wildering scene ; is there any clew to it ? 
 It is a changeful and often tragic drama; 
 is there any tendency, any plan, any 
 plot in it ? It is a tale of strange things ; 
 has it any moral ? 
 
 This is no idle or curious question. 
 It is vital, and it is imperative. It is 
 not given to us to choose whether we 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 525 
 
 shall be, and shall be such as we are. 
 Suppose a man is angry with his lot — 
 an^TV with the world and with himself, 
 with his nature, his freedom, his re- 
 morse, his life-long struggle, and says 
 lie does not care, and will not yield. 
 What then 't Down upon him, and upon 
 his very frame and fate, sink the silent 
 and everlasting laws : and there is no 
 escape. Still the question of destiny 
 presses upon him, and there is no dis- 
 charge from the great bond of his nature 
 and condition. 
 
 It is experience that is involved in 
 this question. It is the life-experiment 
 of every human being. The issue of 
 the experiment is not merely future and 
 everlasting, but now, day by day, it 
 comes out, — out from every event, exi- 
 gency, situation, pursuit, engagement, — 
 the absolute, distilled essence of good 
 or ill for us. Can it come to good? 
 Was it meant for that ? 
 
 It is a wide-reaching experiment; it 
 embraces everything ; can it all come 
 to good ? 
 
 " The whips and scorns of time, 
 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's con- 
 tumely. 
 The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes," — 
 
 is it all to be reckoned in the good 
 account ? 
 
 It is a diversified experiment ; it 
 seems often strange, confused, and pur- 
 poseless ; there are doubtless high traits 
 in it, but it seems often poor, paltry, and 
 low. What conflicting elements mingle 
 in it ! — melancholy and gladness, laugh- 
 ter and tears, solemn intent and way- 
 ward levity ! Can any lines be descried, 
 stretching through this field, apparently 
 of wide waste and disorder, and point- 
 ing to a happy issue ? In all its diversi- 
 fied states, — of youth, of manhood, and 
 of old age, of sex, parentage, childhood, 
 home, neighborhood, community, — is it 
 good ? 
 
 It is an experiment of depth and re- 
 alitv, — enousjh, far enough, from beins: 
 indifferent to any who knows it. Stern, 
 
 inexorable, overwhelming at times, is 
 the lot of our being, take it as we will. 
 Beneath the smooth surface of life, 
 under the mask of pride or politeness, 
 how many a fierce battle is fought or 
 bitter sorrow endured ! What raging 
 passion, dark intrigue, brooding discon- 
 tent, despite, shame, sorrow ! Like the 
 black cloud beneath a smiling sky, like 
 the lightning in that cloud, so often- 
 times is the heart of man. Oh, could 
 we say that " with like beneficent effect " 
 sorrow gathers and broods, and passion 
 darts its fires ! 
 
 Could I but see that life is a school, 
 — all of it, altogether, and always; that 
 all the homes of hfe are full of divine 
 instruction ; full, not of petty details 
 alone, but of sublime instrumentalities; 
 that eating and drinking and waking, 
 and sleeping, are not accidents, but or- 
 dinances ; that labor and weariness, and 
 the tending of infancy, and the sports 
 of childhood, and the voice of singing, 
 and the making merry, and the feeling 
 sad and low and heavy-hearted, are all 
 ministrations to an end, and are actually 
 doing something to bring it about, — 
 that would be an optimism, which would 
 clear up to me the troubled brow of life, 
 would renovate the face of the world. 
 
 But I must not pursue this subject 
 any further at present. In my next 
 lecture I must consider the dread prob- 
 lem of evil ; whence it sprang, or in 
 what light it is to be regarded : for this 
 lies at the foundation of my whole 
 theory of life. 
 
 One word more let me say in close : 
 The advocate before a jury, or the 
 speaker in a deliberative assembly, has 
 one great and singular advantage, in 
 that he addresses those who, in com- 
 mon with himself, have something to 
 do, — who must share.his labor, to come 
 to a decision. Most other assemblies 
 are full of passive hearers, content if 
 they are entertained. Indeed, in our 
 popular lyceums, and in our popular lit- 
 erature, too. entertainment is the thing 
 so especially, if not exclusively, de- 
 manded, that the speaker, the writer, is 
 
526 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 led to select the most salient points, 
 and often to pass over topics and de- 
 tails less attractive, but of the utmost 
 importance to his subject. Now I do 
 not want such passive hearers, and I 
 cannot pursue any such holiday course. 
 I must descend to humble, pains-taking 
 details when the subject requires it. In- 
 deed, Gentlemen and Ladies, I am afraid 
 I must weary you sometimes for your 
 profit. In short, if you will permit me 
 to say so, I desire to establish between 
 you and me for the time the friendly 
 compact of persons giving their minds 
 to a common task, — together seeking 
 to understand a vast and momentous 
 subject on which the stability, peace, 
 
 and happiness of all thinking minds do 
 much depend. 
 
 I am not sorry that the place and 
 occasion require me to make this a 
 popular theme. 1 am to speak, not for 
 philosophers, but for the people. I 
 wish to meet the questions which arise 
 in all minds that have awaked to any 
 degree of reflection upon their nature 
 and being, and upon the collective be- 
 ing of their race. I have hoped that I 
 should escape the charge of presump- 
 tion by tlie humbleness of my attempt, — 
 the attempt, that is to say, to popularize 
 a theme which has hitherto been the 
 domain of scholars. 
 
 LECTURE II. 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF EVIL. THE CASE PRESENTED, THE THEORY 
 OFFERED, AND THE BEARING OF IT CONSIDERED. 
 
 I FOREWARN you that this is the 
 longest, and perhaps the least enter- 
 taining, lecture that I have to deliver 
 to you. I have to grapple with a hard 
 problem, and I ask your close and care- 
 ful attention. We shall go on more 
 easily when we get through with this. 
 
 I am to consider in this lecture the 
 problem of evil in the world. In doing 
 this, I shall first state the case ; next 
 propound the theory which I have to 
 offer ; and, thirdly, consider the bear- 
 ing of this theory upon our future in- 
 quiries, or the principles by which, un- 
 der this theory, we must abide. 
 
 First, I am to state the case ; what 
 the problem is ; what is the degree, ex- 
 tent, and pressure of evil. 
 
 It is often said that this life is a 
 mystery, that this world is a mystery; 
 and I confess that I am so sensible 
 of a feeling of this kind, that I am so 
 haunted with it, and, as it seems to 
 me sometimes, so strangely and inex- 
 plicably haunted with it through all my 
 
 life, and especially through all my hours 
 of more abstract meditation and solilo- 
 quy, that I am often tempted to ques 
 tion myself on this point, and to say, 
 " Well, what is so mysterious ? what is 
 it? Something certainly there is that 
 is not mysterious ; much there is that 
 is intelligible." And it is pertinent and 
 important to the investigation before us, 
 that we should draw the line of distinct- 
 tion here, though it be a very simple 
 thing to do so, and should say plainly, 
 the line is clearly between what can 
 be known and what cannot be known. 
 There is a veil which we cannot pene- 
 trate, but all things do not lie in its 
 shadow. Something we can know, — 
 much, I believe. In short, mystery has 
 its place, but manifestation also has its 
 place in all things. 
 
 I feel the mystery, I am overshad- 
 owed by it. But there is light upon the 
 edges of the great shadow, and there 
 are openings of light into it ; these I 
 may humbly explore. I feel the mys- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 527 
 
 terv. Infinitude, eternity, the immeas- 
 urable plan ; life, being, and the Be- 
 ing of all being — God; depth beyond 
 depth is here, unfathomable, unsearch- 
 able. Nay, the common scene around 
 us, doubtless, and our own life in it, are 
 full of mysteries ; only our familiarity 
 cheats us out of the natural wonder. 
 If on some bright summer's day you 
 had found yourself standing here in the 
 street or in the field, amidst all this 
 moving throng of men and things, — if 
 you had found yourself standing here, 
 without one precedent step, with no 
 memory of the past, your eye, your ear, 
 your sense and soul, suddenly opened 
 to all the sights and sounds of the living 
 universe, — sun and sky overhead, and 
 waving trees around, and "men as trees 
 walking," — you would have asked, with 
 uncontrollable astonishment, what is all 
 this ? and whence and what am I that 
 behold it .-" But it is no less a real won- 
 der for being familiar; and there are 
 moments, in dreams of the mind, when 
 we lose our intense self-consciousness, 
 and almost our personality, in which all 
 this appears the wonder and mystery 
 that it is. 
 
 But when we wake from this be- 
 mazing wonder into knowledge and in- 
 quiry, when we begin to understand 
 what our life is, and to study the life 
 of the world, then the mystery becomes 
 profound difficulty and seeming contra- 
 diction ; our very knowledge confounds 
 us ; for we know that we suffer, — that 
 the world suffers. That needs not to 
 be insisted on ; we know it too well. 
 And we know that God is good. In- 
 stinctively we say, the Author of this 
 fair universe and of tliis human nature 
 must be good ; to Him the happiness 
 of his creatures must be desirable, nay, 
 infinitely precious. Why, even our hu- 
 man paternity feels unspeakable long- 
 in2;s for the good and happy life of its 
 offspring ; this same world is filled with 
 such yearning, ay, and sacrifice, even 
 unto death ; and yet — I say it with 
 reverential awe, and I say it too with 
 perfect trust — here is Almighty Power, 
 
 here is Infinite Love, and the world is 
 its creation and care ; and yet, jn spite 
 of faith and humility, we cannot but ex- 
 claim, what a world is it! 
 
 Very dark it is ; but not all dark, — 
 let us make up our account of it care- 
 fully, — not all darkness, not all misery, 
 not all evil ; not, in the aggregate and 
 mass of its experience, a hateful and 
 miserable world ; but nevertheless such 
 an amount of evil, both physical and 
 moral, as bewilders all calculation ; such 
 an amount of hardship, disaster, sick- 
 ness, sorrow, injustice, bloodshed, bru- 
 tality, and bitter sufferance, as must fill 
 every tlioughtful beholder with minified 
 horror and indignation. And yet, I 
 repeat, this is a part of the domain 
 of Infinite Benevolence; and I humbly 
 venture to think that I can understand 
 in some degree the problem of its sins 
 and sorrows. But it is an awful prob- 
 lem. From the beginning, says the 
 great Expositor of Christianity to the 
 nations, " this creation groaneth and 
 travaileth in pain until now." For sixty 
 centuries, says another, the human race 
 has been travelling on in quest of re- 
 pose, and has not found it. And his- 
 tory tells the same sad tale Whole 
 races of men, like the Tartars and Afri- 
 cans, wandering in darkness and bar- 
 barism ; whole empires torn and rent 
 in pieces, or dying out by slow decay ; 
 whole armies mown down on ten thou- 
 sand bloody fields ; cities sacked, towns 
 and towers whelmed in ruin ; thousands 
 and tens of thousands of human beings 
 sighing away their lives in prisons and 
 dungeons which no sunlight nor blessed 
 breath of heaven's air ever visits ; the 
 foot of man set upon the neck of his 
 brother to crush him down to agony 
 and despair, — such things, oh ! and 
 many such things, of more indescribable 
 horror, have had their place in the his- 
 tory of the world. As it was before man 
 dwelt on the earth, it passed through 
 ages of material convulsions, through 
 the thunder of earthquakes, through the 
 smoke and fire of volcanoes; so in its 
 moral history there have been volcanoes 
 
528 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 and earthquakes, thunders of war, and 
 fires of human wrath, and the smoke and 
 smouldering of wide-spread and mourn- 
 ful desolations. 
 
 And yet, if we would make out a fair 
 statement of the case, which we are now 
 attempting, in the first place we must 
 not forget that there is something besides 
 evil in the world. We must not pass 
 by the observation, however familiar, 
 that history, as it has been usually writ- 
 ten, is Hkely very much to mislead us. 
 It deals with what is palpable and pub- 
 lic, and not with what is private and un- 
 seen ; with the tragedy, and not with 
 the comedy of life ; with the camp and 
 court, rather than with households and 
 homes. Suppose the history of Europe 
 in Napoleon Bonaparte's time to be read 
 twenty centuries hence ; and that, of all 
 the literature that might illustrate its 
 social character, only a few fragments 
 should remain, — that almost the only 
 record left were one of murderous wars 
 and of court intrigues and vices. Why, 
 the men of that distant day would doubt- 
 less look back upon the French Revolu- 
 tion and the years succeeding as a bar- 
 barous and bloody time ; and they might 
 say of Europe then, with as much em- 
 phasis as we do of the world at large, — 
 what traces are there upon it but of war 
 and havoc and misery? They would 
 see over all the horizon but the one black 
 cloud. The millions of happy homes 
 beneath it ; the cultivated fields which 
 spread far and wide on each side of the 
 track of armies, — ay, fields which fed 
 those armies, and all Europe beside ; 
 the quiet abodes that were scattered over 
 hundreds of valleys and mountains, and 
 the virtues and charities that flourished 
 in them, — these, the observers, looking 
 through the glass of history, would not 
 see. 
 
 And it is worthy of special notice that 
 the farther we are removed from the 
 field of observation, the more are we ex- 
 posed to mistake the facts. Thus the 
 terms Arab, Egyptian, Assyrian, and 
 Hindoo carry to most minds nothing 
 but ideas of barbarism. We think of 
 
 the multitudes of Asia in past times as 
 but more intelligent hordes of animals. 
 Our useful arts and profound sciences 
 not known to them, we conclude that they 
 have known nothing. Their customs, 
 costumes, ways of life, mode of being, 
 so different from ours, we hardly bring 
 them within the range of our common 
 humanity. But if there is any clear 
 proof of intellectual culture and refine- 
 ment, it is in the language of a people. 
 And by this rule of judging there must 
 have been, and we know that there liave 
 been, periods of Asiatic culture exhibit- 
 ing a very high order of attainments- 
 The Sanscrit, the old Hindoo language, 
 with its fifty letters, is, in its alphabet, 
 the most perfect language in the world; 
 and it has an extant literature of which 
 only ignorance can profess to think light- 
 ly.* The old Persian and Arabic are 
 not uncultivated tongues ; they have 
 many affinities with our English and with 
 German speech ; so much so, that Leib- 
 nitz said that a German could under- 
 stand, at sight, whole Persian verses. 
 Nay, and we know that those languages 
 have bodied forth, in philosophy and in 
 fiction, some of the finest conceptions of 
 human thought. We know that the re- 
 gal halls of Arabia and Persia have not 
 shone with barbaric splendor only, but 
 have listened to some of the loftiest 
 and sweetest strains of poetry. I can 
 hardly instance anything in our literature 
 more admirable than the prayer pf the 
 Persian poet, Sadi, " O God, have mercy 
 upon the wicked; for thou hast done 
 everything for the good in having made 
 them good ! " And I know not that a scene 
 of greater moral beauty can be produced 
 from all our works of imagination than 
 that of an Arabian romance in which the 
 monarch calls to his presence the youth- 
 ful poet, and placing him in the midst of 
 his court, points him to all the luxuries 
 
 * Dr. Draper, in his admirable book on the Intel- 
 lectual Development of Europe, says that the works 
 of Gotama, the great expounder of Buddhism, consist 
 of 800 large volumes. I cannot help thinking they 
 must be very small in the amount of matter contained 
 in each ; but even then the fact is remarkable enough. 
 (See Dr. Draper, p. 53.) 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 529 
 
 and splendors which he had brought to 
 decorate iiis royal halls, and, in the pride 
 of his heart, bids him describe the scene ; 
 when the poet, severe in youtiiful virtue 
 and full of the inspiration of genius, 
 bursts forth into admiration of the sur- 
 rounding magnificence, and at the con- 
 clusion says, ■' Long live the king under 
 the shadow of his mighty palaces ! — but 
 let him remember that all this lustre shall 
 grow dim and fade away ; and the eyes 
 that see it shall grow dim, and darkness 
 shall settle upon them ; and these lofty 
 palaces shall sink to the dust, and their 
 mighty lord shall sink to the dust also ;" 
 then, when trembling courtiers interfered 
 and fawning sycophants grew bold in 
 their displeasure, we read that the king 
 bowed down, humble and in tears at the 
 rebuke, and loaded the noble reprover 
 with his approbation and his gifts. We 
 have inherited a good measure of the 
 Jewish contempt for heathens ; but it 
 maybe doubted whether there are many 
 Christian courts that would ever wit- 
 ness such a scene, or many Christian 
 monarchs that would have shown such 
 nobleness. 
 
 There is one further observation, of 
 an entirely different character, to be made 
 in this statement of the problem of evil 
 in the world. It is this : that broad and 
 vast and immense as that problem may 
 appear, it is, after all, in actual expe- 
 rience, purely individual. Millions of 
 beings lived in India, millions in China. 
 In "Assyria, in Egypt, in Greece, in the 
 Roman Empire, in the wliole world, mil- 
 lions upon millions untold have lived ; 
 but the question really does not turn 
 upon some vast calculation of weal and 
 woe, but upon the part which each indi- 
 vidual man has had in them. We gen- 
 eralize this boundless mass of human ex- 
 istence, and are apt to regard it as if one 
 being had experienced it all. But the 
 truth is, nobody has experienced more 
 of it than you or I have, or might have, 
 experienced. With regard to all the 
 intrinsic difficulties of the case, it is as 
 if but one life had been lived in the 
 world : and since no man has lived an- 
 
 other's life, or any life but his own, there 
 ]ias been, to actual individual conscious- 
 ness, bid one life, of thirty, seventy, or 
 a hundred years, lived on earth. The 
 problem really comes within that com- 
 pass. In the questions which humanity 
 asks concerning a providence, each one 
 of the unnumbered millions of the hu- 
 man race stands apart and alone ; as 
 much so, as if they were separated from 
 each other by an interval of a million 
 years. It is enough for every being, in 
 every world, satisfactorily to settle the 
 questions that arise concerning his ex- 
 istence for himself ; he has no occasion 
 to go farther; perhaps he has no busi- 
 ness to go farther; but certainly he has 
 no occasion to go farther, unless he finds 
 beings, the conditions and allotments of 
 whose existence are different from his. 
 If he does not find a differing lot, then, 
 I say, settling the question for himself 
 does settle it for all. If I can solve the 
 problem of existence for myself, I have 
 solved it for everybody ; I have solved 
 it for the human race.. In other words, 
 if I can see it to be right that one be- 
 ing should be created so, I can see it 
 to be right that unnumbered millions 
 should be. 
 
 Let us, then, analyze this vast aggre- 
 gate of human existence into its separate 
 and individual consciousness, if we would 
 understand it, or the questions that arise 
 from it, — into that form, in fact, in which 
 only it can be said to exist. Humanity, 
 mankind, but as an abstraction, does not 
 exist ; 7nan only lives. From the vast 
 mass of what we call misery, mischance, 
 and failure, let us single out this man. 
 Did the man who lived in India, in Tar- 
 tary, ages ago, — did the man who walked 
 in the train of an Assyrian court, or was 
 marshalled in the hosts of Rome, or 
 travelled down through the Middle Ages, 
 — did he enjoy and value his life ? Were 
 there pleasures and satisfactions amidst 
 his strugglings and sorrows? And amidst 
 his strugglings and sorrows was any 
 valuable experience developed ? Did he 
 learn anything worth learning ? And 
 does the man who stands in this modern 
 
 34 
 
530 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 world, — do you and I, find anything 
 in our life that makes us prize it ; any- 
 thing that makes us feel that we had in- 
 finitely rather have it than have it not ? 
 Doubtless we do, and other men do ; all 
 men do. I am satisfied that there is an 
 almost universal overrating of the miser- 
 ies of hfe as compared with its blessings ; 
 and that not one in a million of those 
 whom we lament over as if their life was 
 a misfortune, would thank us for our 
 sympathy, or accept the conclusion that 
 they had better not have existed at all. 
 
 II. And now^such being the case oi 
 the world's life, we come to inquire, in 
 the next place, upon what theory this 
 state of things is to be accounted for. In 
 this system of the world, there is suffer- 
 ing and sin ; there is suffering and sin 
 in the individual heart. How, under the 
 sway of a good and wise providence, are 
 these things to be understood .'' How 
 could these things be ? In other words, 
 we meet here wiih the long-vexed prob- 
 lem of " the origin of evil." Let me say 
 here, that I do not hke the phrase "ori- 
 gin of evil." Not whence is evil, nor 
 how it came into the world, is my ques- 
 tion ; but the fact that evil exists, and 
 what view is to be taken of it. 
 
 With regard to this problem, I know 
 it is often said that no theory ever 
 offered, and none that ever can be of- 
 fered, does or will throw any satisfactory 
 light upon it ; and that those only who 
 do not understand the problem will im- 
 agine that it can be relieved, in any de- 
 gree, from its insurmountable difficulties. 
 It may be that this is my own case ; at 
 any rate, I must risk the imputation, for 
 I conceive that this problem does ;/<?/ 
 defy all human efforts for relief or ex- 
 planation. I do not believe that a point 
 so essential to any reasonable compre- 
 hension of the lot of our life is left to be 
 a dark and terrible enigma. It would 
 be strange, indeed, if the one thing that 
 crushes me to the earth, evt/, should be 
 as unintelligible as if it were the blindest 
 mischance ; if the only word I can utter, 
 when writhing with pain, or weighed 
 down by afiliction, is mystery; if the 
 
 one great question which my nature 
 asks, — "why is evil, erring, grief, sin, 
 permitted in the world?" — is to strike 
 me dumb as an idiot. It is vain to think 
 of keeping the human mind away from 
 it. It will ask the question. It has 
 been asking from the beginning. 
 
 I do not submit, then, to this lofty 
 caveat against inquiry. I am satisfied 
 that to this ever-pressing question about 
 the reason why evil exists, there is an 
 answer as to the principle j and that all 
 the difficulty Hes in details, — i. e., in the 
 application of the principle. And this 
 is the distinction which I should take in 
 regard to an observation of Bayle, quoted 
 with approbation by Leibnitz.* " Those 
 who pretend," says Bayle, " that the con- 
 duct of God in regard to sin, and the con- 
 sequences of sin, has nothing in it for 
 which they cannot render a reason, de- 
 liver themselves up to the mercy of their 
 adversary." I grant that this is true, or 
 may be true, with regard to details, but 
 not with regard to the principle. I do not 
 pretend that there is nothiiigm the events 
 of human life and history for which I can- 
 not render a reason. In the application 
 of the principle there may be difficulty, 
 though not a difficulty that has any ten- 
 dency to disturb it. Leibnitz himself says 
 the same thing in reference to his own the 
 ory. His theory — if that can be called a 
 theory which is nothing but an assertion 
 — is this : that in the best possible sys- 
 tem of things evil was an inevitable part ; 
 and when explanation is demanded by 
 his antagonist, he says, '• Mr. Bayle de- 
 mands a little too much ; he would have 
 us show how evil is bound up with the 
 best possible plan of the creation, — 
 which would be a perfect explanation of 
 the phenomenon ; but we do not under- 
 take to give it, nor are we obliged to do 
 so ; it would be impossible in the pres- 
 ent state ; it is enough that it may be 
 true, it may be inevitable" — (though, 
 strangely to me, while hovering about 
 this point throughout almost the entire 
 Thfiodicee, he never once says wherein 
 this inevitableness consists), — "it may 
 * Thdodicde, p. 55, edition of M. A. Jacques. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 be." he says, " that certain particular 
 evils are bound up with what is best in 
 creneral. This," he says, " is sufficient 
 for an answer to objections, but not for 
 a comprehension of tlie thing."* 
 
 But such difficulty, I repeat, about 
 the application of principles is common 
 to all subjects ; it attaches no peculiar 
 mystery to the problem of evil. I may 
 also say. that to go into this application, 
 — to go into details, is the very business 
 of these lectures : we shall have perpet- 
 ually to answer questions ; our present 
 concern is with the thecny, — with the 
 principle upon which those questions 
 are to be answered. 
 
 While I am upon this point, — -the 
 difference, that is to say, between the 
 principle and the details, — let me make 
 another distinction. It is often said 
 that nothing but a future life can clear 
 up the mysteries of the present. That 
 is true with regard to details. Why 
 some particular series of calamities is 
 permitted, why a paralyzing disease 
 presses upon the whole of this life, per- 
 haps nothing but a future life can tell. 
 But the principle lying at the basis of 
 the problem, I think we shall see, stands 
 clear and manifest, here and now. 
 
 Or, to state the same thing in a more 
 general way : here is a world and a 
 world system ; here is man placed in it, 
 with a particular constitution, mental 
 and bodily; here is a story of human 
 fortunes, running back into darkness 
 and obscurity ; a story full, doubtless, 
 of strange things, to our human view, — 
 full, certainly, of complications hard to 
 unravel, — full of strugglings and sor- 
 rows. Now, why this particular kind 
 of world and system and race should 
 have been chosen to occupy this particu- 
 lar space and time in the boundless 
 domain of being ; why our nature should 
 be so weak, or why so strong, why so 
 high or so low ; or why such and so 
 great evils should attend our human de- 
 velopment, rather than others, — mani- 
 festly it is altogether beyond us to say. 
 I must pray you to attend to the 
 
 • Th^odicse, p. 158. 
 
 distinction I am making, for I would 
 not be thought guilty of the presump- 
 tion and folly of saying that I can answer 
 such questions. If this is what is meant 
 by mystery in the creation, I admit it all, 
 and a great deal more. And if any one 
 should say, on some hearsay report of 
 the lecturer's design this evening, •' Oh ! 
 he proposed to solve the mystery of the 
 world, and the mystery of all the evil in 
 the world ! " I answer that I propose no 
 such thing ! To Pope's line, 
 
 " All partial evil, universal good,'' 
 Voltaire mockingly and bitterly says, 
 '' A singular notion of universal good, — 
 composed of the stone, of the gout, of 
 all crimes, of all suffisrings, of death and 
 daiTination." * To any such one-sided 
 or passionate reasonings about evil, I 
 am not concerned at present to reply. 
 Be it a mystery — something beyond 
 our reach to comprehend — why this 
 particular form of the creation is cho- 
 sen, and therefore why these special 
 "ills that flesh is heir to " are put into 
 the system, still, there is a principle 
 lying at the bottom of all, and account- 
 ing for much, which is not mysterious, 
 and which I may, without presumption, 
 I think, offer for your consideration. 
 Let us, then, proceed to state those in- 
 evitable laws of all being — of all being 
 but God himself — which lead us irre- 
 sistibly to that principle. 
 
 First, the system in which evil ex- 
 ists is a creation. It is not something 
 self-existent, but something made, ar- 
 ranged, set in order by a power above. 
 
 Secondly, to a created system limita- 
 tion necessarily attaches. It could not 
 be infinite in magnitude nor in any 
 other attribute. Created power cannot 
 be omnipotent ; created intelligence can- 
 not be omniscient. Every created in- 
 telligence, every created moral nature, 
 must have a beginning; and the law of 
 its action is, and for aught that we can 
 see must be, development, growth, pro- 
 gress. At any rate, limitation belongs 
 of necessity to the whole system; to 
 men and things alike. 
 
 * La Ralson par Alphabet; article Tout est bien. 
 
532 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 Thirdly, limitation implies imperfec- 
 tion. Human knowledge is of necessity 
 imperfect ; the human will and con- 
 science are of necessity imperfect ; the 
 material elements, too, air, earth, water, 
 are necessarily imperfect. That is to 
 say, they can have no absolute and 
 infinite perfection, Uke the being of 
 God. In other words, their perfection, 
 such as it is, must be relative ; i. e., 
 they answer the best purpose that they 
 can, with reference to some end. Thus 
 the air is the best element for the lungs 
 to breathe ; the lungs the best organ 
 for imparting purity and vitality to the 
 blood ; the system of circulations the 
 best for the growth of the body ; 
 the body the best organization for the 
 soul; the powers of the soul the best 
 for high culture and happiness : but 
 there is no absolute best in them, no 
 absolute perfection ; there cannot be. 
 Throughout, and at every step, there is 
 imperfection, liability to hurts, liability 
 to go wrong. Thus, again, every organ, 
 every element, is best for its specific 
 purpose, but not for every other pur- 
 pose. Nay, more ; that which fits it 
 for one thing 7/;;fits it for another. 
 The whole human frame is good, is per- 
 fect for its purpose. For its purpose, 
 it is required to be composed of deli- 
 cate organs, and to be covered with a 
 sensitive envelopment. It is perfect 
 for its purpose; but it is not so good 
 for fight, it is not clad in mail, it is 
 not bullet-proof. 
 
 The question is, how comes evil to be 
 in the world ? Or, in other words, why 
 was it not excluded from the system ? 
 Certainly it is not desirable for its own 
 sake; infinitely otherwise; we feel it 
 to be infinitely otherwise. How often 
 does the vision rise before our minds, 
 of a world without pain and without 
 sin, without one sorrov/ or wrong in all 
 its blessed dwellings; and we say, with 
 a tone, perhaps, of something like com- 
 plaint as well as heavy sighing, why 
 could not this world have been such ? 
 Why, then, was it not such a world ? 
 And the answer that I give is, that it 
 
 was in the nature of things impossible 
 This is my principle, — that it was, in 
 the nature of things, and by the inevi- 
 table conditions of the problem, impos- 
 sible to exclude evil. 
 
 Before I attempt to show how and why 
 it was impossible, let me provide, by a 
 remark or two, against any preconcep- 
 tions that may arise in your minds with 
 regard to my design. I do not intend 
 then, in the first place, to take up any 
 questions in theology. According to 
 the statutes of the Lowell Institute, and 
 equally in accordance with my own 
 views of propriety in such a course of 
 lectures, I am required to avoid all po- 
 lemic discussion. And indeed I do not 
 see but the question which I raise in 
 this lecture presses equally upon every 
 theology. For if any one traces all the 
 evil in the world to the sin of Adam, 
 then the question would be, why was 
 not Adam prevented from sinning ? 
 And my answer is, that he could not, — 
 being a free moral and imperfect crea- 
 ture, — that he could not be prevented. 
 If this is true, it must be a great relief 
 to see it ; for it must seem strange that 
 he was not kept pure, if that was pos- 
 sible. It appears to me that we are 
 bound to think that he and his posterity 
 would have been kept in perfect inno- 
 cence and bliss, if, in the nature of 
 things, it had been possible. 
 
 Let me further say that the position 
 which I take — viz., that evil could 
 not be prevented — implies no lim- 
 itation of the Divine power or good- 
 ness. This idea of power, I conceive, 
 is to be put out of the case altogether. 
 Yet it has very closely adhered both 
 to ancient and modern reasonings upon 
 evil. Lactantius, in his treatise on 
 "The Wrath of God" (sec. 13), intro- 
 duces the Epicureans as reasoning 
 thus : " Either God wills to remove 
 evil, and cannot ; or he can, and 
 will not; or he cannot, and will not; 
 or he can, and will. If he wills, and 
 cannot, that is weakness. If he can. 
 and will not, that is malignity. If he 
 1 will not. and cannot, that is a de'ect 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 533 
 
 both of power and goodness. But if he 
 can and will, then why is evil?" Or, 
 to take a modern instance of the same 
 kind of reasoning : in Samuel Rogers's 
 '•Table Talk," Mr. Rogers is quoted as 
 saying, " The three acutest men with 
 whom I was ever acquainted, James 
 Mackintosh, Malthus, and Bobus Smith, 
 were all agreed that the attributes of 
 the Deity must be in some way limited, 
 else there would be no sin and misery." 
 And Leibnitz quotes Bayle to the same 
 effect in his preface to the Thdodic^e. 
 Mr. Rogers and his friends thought, as 
 I know from more private sources, that, 
 as the limitation could not be of wisdom 
 or goodness, it must be of power, i. e., 
 of power to make the world otherwise. 
 Now I must venture to say that all this 
 language, whether of Lactantius, or of 
 Mr. Bayle, or of Mr. Rogers and his 
 friends, very much surprises me. For 
 the truth is, that power has nothing to 
 do with the case. There are such 
 things as inherent, intrinsic natural 
 impossibilities. It is impossible, for 
 instance, that matter should exist with- 
 out occupying space ; and it is not so 
 proper to say that God cannot make it 
 so, as that the thing cannot be. It is 
 said, I know, that God ca7inot make two 
 mountains without a valley, i. e., a de- 
 pression of land, between them ; but 
 that I take to be only the strongest 
 popular expression of the utter impossi- 
 bility of the thing. The idea of power, 
 strictly speaking, or of more power or 
 less, has no relevancy to the case. If 
 I take two balls and lay them before me, 
 and then add two more, the sum cannot 
 be five balls ; and as to power more or 
 less to do that, why infinite power can 
 no more make them five, than an infant's 
 power. Again, the sum of the angles 
 of every triangle is equal to two right 
 angles, — no more and no less, — and it 
 cannot be otherwise. And you might 
 as well ask me why God could not make 
 a triangle to include four or six right 
 angles, as ask why he could not make 
 an imperfect moral and free nature with- 
 out any liability to error or mistake. 
 
 If this were what the ancients meant 
 by fate, they had meant rightly. But 
 it is not to be represented as a pow- 
 er above God. For it is only saying 
 that irreconcilable contradictions cannot 
 meet in the same nature. It is only 
 saying that a thing cannot be one thing, 
 and a totally different thing from what 
 it is, at the same time. 
 
 If now I have sufficiently guarded my 
 proposition from mistake, let us proceed 
 to examine it. The problem of evil, the 
 question why is it ? — this is the subject 
 before us. 
 
 Evil is of two kinds, — natural and 
 moral. With regard to the latter, I 
 think the case is very clear. But let 
 us inquire for a moment concerning the 
 former, — i. e., natural or physical evil. 
 
 The great and comprehensive form of 
 natural evil \s paitt ; and by pain I mean 
 now, of course, physical suffering, or 
 the suffering that springs from a bodily 
 organization. The question is, could 
 such an organization be made, and made 
 to answer its purposes to voluntary 
 agents, without that liability? Or, rath- 
 er, here are two questions. Coujd it be 
 made at all ? That is one question. 
 Was it possible to make an organ capa- 
 ble of pleasure, without its being liable 
 to pain when hurt, broken, or torn in 
 pieces ? Look, for instance, at that sen- 
 sitive vesture with which the human 
 body is clothed, — the skin ; or at the 
 corresponding membrane that lines the 
 interior cavities of the structure, — 
 the mucous membrane. With soft and 
 gentle touches applied to the body, with 
 warm and balmy airs breathing upon it. 
 or sweet odors inhaled, or healthful food 
 received, this sensitive vesture, within 
 and without, thrills with pleasure. Could 
 it be — was it in the nature of things 
 possible — that cold could freeze it, or 
 the knife cut it, or baleful poison could 
 enter in, or starving and death, without 
 giving pain ? Could the sense of touch, 
 alive to all impressions, find every im- 
 pression equally agreeable? In fact, 
 would not such a perpetual monotony of 
 impression have been itself disagree- 
 
534 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 able? But could any sensitive integu- 
 ment be made to which it should be 
 indifferent whether water bathed or fire 
 burned it ? Pleasure and pain seeju to 
 us necessarily correlative, necessarily 
 bound together in any organ that is ca- 
 pable of either. 
 
 I may doubt, then, whether it was 
 possible, in the nature of things, to ex- 
 clude pain from the human or from any 
 sensitive organization. But it is yet 
 clearer, in the next place, that pain is 
 necessary to the purposes which this 
 organization was designed to answer. I 
 suppose that it is universally conceded 
 that there are such purposes ; that the 
 body was made for the mind, made to 
 train, to educate the mind. But suppose 
 it were made only for itself. Even 
 then, even for the body's preservation, 
 pain is as necessary as pleasure. The 
 mind's prudence needs the salutary ad- 
 monition of pain. "The burnt child 
 dreads the fire." But not the fire alone ; 
 every element around us would prove 
 fatal to the ignorance, inexperience, and 
 impetuosity of childhood, if pain did not 
 teach it prudence. The body itself would 
 perish in a thousand ways if caution and 
 wisdom were not learned from suffering. 
 Then, again, — looking to higher pur- 
 poses, — 'what is it, as the primary im- 
 pulse, that stirs the world to activity, to 
 industry.'' What is it that prevents it 
 from sinking into perpetual languor and 
 sleep ? It is the pain of hunger. Or 
 why does man build his rude hut, or 
 fashion his clothing of skins, but to pro- 
 tect himself against the pain which the 
 elements would inflict ? Or if we say 
 that sloth itself is irksome and painful, 
 still it comes to the same thing. " Un- 
 easiness," of some kind, as Mr. Locke 
 teaches, " is the universal motive to 
 action." But suppose, on the other 
 hand, that there was no pain. Suppose 
 that all sensation were pleasurable. 
 How certainly would the human race 
 sink into the fathomless gulf of sensual- 
 ism ? If excess never brought satiety 
 nor suffering with it, how certain must 
 it be that it would never stop ; and that 
 
 the whole man, the whole nature, the 
 whole world, would sink into utter moral 
 perdition ! Man, we say, is to be trained ; 
 his higher nature is to be developed and 
 cultivated. To this end the senses min- 
 ister. To effect it they have pleasures 
 to offer. But they must have other 
 means than pleasure at their disposal, or 
 they could never fulfil their office. 
 
 Either in the nature of things, then, 
 or in the purposes of things, or in both, 
 we say that physical evil, as far as we 
 can see, was inevitable. 
 
 But let us now look at what is more 
 material to the problem we are consid- 
 ering, — at moral evil. 
 
 Was it possible to frame a nature, mor- 
 al, finite, and free, and to exclude from 
 it all liability to error, to sin ? I answer 
 that, by the very terms of the statement, 
 it was just as impossible as to make two 
 mountains without a valley ; or to make 
 the angles of a triangle to be equal to 
 three or four right angles. The very 
 statement of the case excludes the pos- 
 sibility. 
 
 Let us look at the case. Here is a 
 being created with certain moral facul- 
 ties. He is capable of loving the right. 
 He is capal)le of loving the wrong. He 
 is also perfectly free to do the one or 
 the other at his pleasure. If he pleases 
 to do wrong, nothing can prevent him ; 
 that leaves him free. He is imperfect, 
 moreover, and is liable, from defect of 
 knowledge, to go astray. He is en- 
 dowed, too, with the love of happiness : 
 he must be so ; the very capability of 
 happiness implies a love of it; and in 
 his ignorance he is liable to suppose 
 that the evil way will make him happi- 
 est ; that the indulgence of his appetites 
 and passions, for instance, will yield him 
 a fuller satisfaction than the culture of 
 his higher nature. Aberration and fail- 
 ure, alas ! are, more or less, the story 
 of every human life. Aberration and 
 failure, too, are grievous sins : for this 
 being had power — had freedom, that is 
 to say — to choose the better part. The 
 fact is so ; but the question i=, was it 
 possible to place him beyond the reach 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 535 
 
 of this peril? If it were, then we are 
 to find the origin of evil in the arbitrary 
 and mysterious will of Heaven. But 
 was it possible ? Was it possible to 
 make this beiny; impeccable, incapable 
 of evil, independent of temptation ? 
 
 What is the only conceivable condi- 
 tion on which such a result can be se- 
 cured ? That man's will be bound, 
 constrained, compelled to the right 
 course. But then he is not free. Take 
 away that perilous element, freedom, 
 and then he may be safe ; but theti he is 
 no longer a moral being. So long as he 
 is imperfect and free, he must be liable 
 to choose wrong. He need not, indeed, 
 in a palpable case, choose wrong. He 
 need not be guilty of positive malig- 
 nity, of intentional sin, — and the dis- 
 tinction is important, — but he must be 
 exposed to sins of inadvertence, exposed 
 to slide into evil unawares. Nay, and 
 in a palpable case he must be free to go 
 wrong if he pleases ; else he is not a 
 moral being. 
 
 But what, then, is evil, in man, under 
 this theory ? it may be asked ; and I 
 ought to pause here a moment to an- 
 swer. Is evil a mere mistake, a mere 
 confusion as to what is right, of a mind 
 dazzled by worldly fascinations or cloud- 
 ed by sense and appetite ? Far from it. 
 There is indeed mistake about it, con- 
 fusion of mind, blinding temptation. 
 Still, when a man is drawn to evil, he 
 commonly knows it to be evil. Why, 
 but for this, is there any struggle in his 
 mind about it ? How is it, but for this 
 knowing better, that the descent to gross 
 vice, to falsehood, to dishonesty, is often 
 achieved through strife, misgiving, and 
 agony at every step ? Nay, and it must 
 not only be that he knows better, but 
 that he can do better ; else he could not 
 blame himself. What, in fact, is the 
 case presented to the tempted and fall- 
 ing? There, on the one hand, is some 
 advantage — pleasure, lucre, distinction, 
 happiness, the mind calls it. Here, 
 on the other hand, is purity, rectitude, 
 virtue. Between these lies the ques- 
 tion. Here is the crisis, the most tre- 
 
 mendous that can be, in the nature of 
 things. What does the man do ? What 
 does he choose ? There is no compul- 
 sion. There is no compulsion to evil, and 
 there is no compulsion to good. Power 
 Almighty, that reaches to the infinite 
 height above and to the infinite deep 
 below, and sways the boundless spheres 
 around, touches not that solemn pre- 
 rogative of choice. What does the man 
 do? He chooses the wrong! What is 
 the definition of that act ? A violated 
 conscience ! It is the most awful fact 
 in the history of humanity, — a violated 
 conscience ! It is the breaking of the 
 highest law in the universe, and of that 
 which the offender feels and knows to 
 be the highest, — the manifested law 
 of the infinite Rectitude. The conse- 
 quences, indeed, are fearful ; the most 
 dreadful miseries in the world are the 
 results of wrong-doing ; but they stand 
 in just and lawful accordance with the 
 deed, not in any disproportion. 
 
 But suppose the man to choose right: 
 let us consider that, a moment ; for it 
 will confirm our view, I think, of the 
 essential attributes of a free nature. 
 What is virtue, goodness, holiness? 
 It is often spoken of as if it could be 
 created in the heart or could be put 
 into it, by an independent power. But 
 can it be so ? Virtue, love, is the volun- 
 tary act of the soul. It is, by definition, 
 incapable of creation. It cannot be put 
 into the heart. It is the heart's own 
 voluntary putting forth. All that we 
 can conceive of as possible to be cre- 
 ated is the capacity to love. The act 
 of loving is the sole act of the being 
 created. It is as much so as hatred 
 is his own act Both are alike free, 
 voluntary, unforced, or they are not 
 moral. 
 
 Whether we consider, therefore, the 
 essential nature of good or of evil in the 
 mind, we are brought to the conclusion, 
 that the exposure to evil is one of the 
 inevitable conditions of the problem in- 
 volved in a moral, finite, and free nature. 
 I have before expressed my surprise 
 that Leibnitz, in his great work on tiie- 
 
536 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 ology, the Theodic^e, which is chiefly 
 occupied with this very subject, no- 
 where distinctly points to the nature 
 and ground of this inevitableness of 
 evil. He does, however, ^wr^ quote with 
 qualified approbation the following sen- 
 tence from Mr. Jacquelot. "Suppose," 
 says Jacquelot, "that God could not 
 prevent the bad use of free will without 
 annihilating it ; it will be agreed that 
 His wisdom and His glory having deter- 
 mined Him to make creatures free, the 
 same powerful reason must preponder- 
 ate over the unhappy consequences that 
 would spring from this liberty." * This 
 I regard as pointing to the true theory 
 of the origin of evil. Only by being an- 
 nihilated could free will be secured from 
 this liability to aberration and evil. 
 
 But I must now, to bring tliis theory 
 fully before you, carry it a step farther; 
 and I mean, farther back, to the origin 
 of the human experiment. Every man 
 begins his experiment in infancy. The 
 race began in infancy. Every genera- 
 tion must begin so. Could it begin 
 anywhere else ? The point is material ; 
 for it is easy to see that if it were other- 
 wise, if the man or the race could begin 
 where their predecessor leaves off ; if 
 each generation had taken up all the 
 wisdom of the past generation, and 
 borne it onward ; if the child had as- 
 sumed all the virtues of his parent, and 
 had proceeded on that vantage-ground, 
 then the burden of human sin and mis- 
 ery would have been relieved to an in- 
 calculable extent. Again I ask, was that, 
 in the nature of things, possible.'' Was 
 it possible to put those results of past 
 experience into any newly created 
 heart? Was it not inevitable that every 
 newly created race, every newly created 
 soul, should begin in infancy, and work 
 its own way up to virtue and happiness ': 
 Such, we see, is the fact ; but was any 
 other thing possible ? For myself, I do 
 not see that any other thing was pos- 
 sible. 
 
 For experience, like virtue, by defi- 
 nition, ccmnot be created. Wisdom, by 
 
 * TWodic^e, p. i66. 
 
 definition, cannot be created. It is what 
 the moral being works out for himself. 
 It is not God's act, but man's act. It 
 implies choice, effort, resistance ; and 
 these are the works and acts of the hu- 
 man being. This being is created, not 
 with certain virtues, but with certain 
 faculties. Even if the body were brought 
 into existence full-formed and in its 
 adult state, as we may suppose the body 
 of the first human being was, still there 
 must be a time when this being puts 
 forth his first act, and there must be an 
 after time, when he puts forth the second 
 and the third act. Can the first act 
 have all the precision, certainty, and 
 strength of the second, the third, the 
 hundredth ? If not, then here is learning, 
 here is progress. But present learning 
 implies past ignorance ; progress to-day, 
 defect yesterday. In ignorance, then, in 
 weakness, by experimenting, the human 
 being, the human race, must advance 
 and grow and gain strength. In the 
 nature of things it cannot be otherwise. 
 
 Still, and after all, I do not doubt the 
 question will be asked, was there no 
 alternative .'' Pressed by the hard strife 
 of the problem, one may strangely say : 
 " Well, but was freedom itself any neces- 
 sary part of a moral and good nature ? 
 Could not God have made a being pure 
 and good without freedom? Or, having 
 given him freedom, could he not have 
 held it back from all aberration ? " But 
 do you not see that these suppositions 
 violate the very conditions of the prob- 
 lem of moral agency? — that they are 
 neither tenable nor indeed conceivable? 
 Nay, if the highest and noblest kind of 
 existence, i. e., a moral existence, could 
 have been jnade and kept pure and 
 happy, it is inconceivable that it should 
 not have been. 
 
 The truth is, as I conceive, that the 
 failure of this entire argument, if it fails 
 with you, arises from my fault in stating 
 it, or from yours in not adhering to the 
 premises. Let us change the terms of 
 the question, — let us put this, which is 
 regarded as such a confounding and 
 insoluble problem, into another shape, 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 537 
 
 and ask why igtiorance is permitted in 
 the creation. You find the most ter- 
 rible and overwhelming calamities and 
 miseries springing from ignorance ; 
 from ignorance of the laws of health — 
 of ventilation, food, drink, medicine; 
 from ignorance of the laws of material 
 nature and of human nature. Indeed, 
 almost all the evils in the world may be 
 referred to this one source. And now 
 you ask — quite confident that nobody 
 can answer — disdainfully and solemnly 
 shaking the head at any attempt to an- 
 swer — struck blind by a perspicacity 
 which sees that there is nothing to be 
 seen — you ask, " What is the origin of 
 ignorance ? " What is the origin of 
 ignorance "^ Why, it could not be helped. 
 That is the origin of ignorance. It 
 could not be helped. Do you wonder 
 that man is not omniscient ? Is that a 
 confounding and insoluble problem to 
 you ? Why not go on, and wonder that 
 man is not almighty, all-wise, and infi- 
 nitely happy ? 
 
 But now, I repeat, if any one goes 
 into detail, and says, " Why this ? 
 Why that ? Why such a race as the 
 human .'' Why the Chinese or Africans ? 
 Why such degraded forms of being.'' 
 Why creatures maimed and crippled by 
 hereditary taint ? " — I may well answer 
 that we do not know ; that it is quite 
 beyond us to know, in particular, why 
 these special forms and conditions of 
 being exist. Of the degree of imperfec- 
 tion, best for this world or for that 
 world, it is, of course, quite beyond us 
 to form any judgment. But surely it is 
 something for us to consider, and some- 
 thing profoundly entering into the prob- 
 lem of our existence, that it was in the 
 very nature of things impossible to re- 
 move from the system of a moral crea- 
 tion all evil, all ignorance, all error, all 
 suffering.* 
 
 * As I am anxious to relieve this conclusion from 
 all unnecessary objection, I will add that it is not alto- 
 gether heterodox. Since I first delivered this course of 
 lectures, I have read Archbishop King's work " On 
 tlie Origin of Evil," translated and commented upon 
 by Edmund Law, Bishop of Carlisle, — some weight of 
 testimony certainly, from, the Church of England, — 
 
 Let me now detain you a few mo- 
 ments longer, while I attempt to carry 
 this argument, necessarily abstract thus 
 far, into some of its practical bearings 
 upon life, and upon the state of mind, 
 in our reasonings, which, as a matter 
 of inference, it requires of us. 
 
 I say, then, in the first place — let it 
 be fixed in our minds that the system 
 of the moral world is a system of 
 spontaneous development. It could 
 not be other than spontaneous in con- 
 sistency with its own nature. The 
 agent is free. He must do, within the 
 range of his permitted activity, what he 
 will. You ask why things could not 
 have been ordered or controlled so as 
 to bring out a happier result ; why such 
 monsters in human shape as Tiberius 
 and Cjesar Borgia, or the petty tyrant 
 in his own family or village, should not 
 have been hindered from their excesses 
 or their cruelties ? The answer is, they 
 could not, unless by being deprived of 
 their natural freedom. If they had 
 been animals, they might have been 
 guarded and governed by instinct. But 
 they were allowed to be worse, by as 
 much as their range was larger ; and 
 that range could not be contracted 
 without giving up the essential, the 
 moral, character of the system. To 
 all such hypothetical questions the 
 answer is, — given a nature moral and 
 free, given a world for its sphere, and 
 the consequences must follow. Let the 
 inquirer seize this idea of spontaneous 
 development and hold it fast. Inter- 
 positions, in certain circumstances and 
 
 in which substantially the same view is taken. Sub- 
 stantially, but I may say, not precisely. The course 
 of the Archbishop's argument is mainly this : Take 
 away anything that you call an evil, and I will show 
 you that a greater evil would come in its place. But 
 the ground taken in this lecture is that it was in the 
 nature of things impossible to exclude it; that it is an 
 essential contradiction in ideas to put imperfection, 
 choice, virtue, on one side, and immunity from all 
 evil, error, suflferincr, on the other. There was a book 
 published in Hartford, Conn., some years since, es- 
 pousing, I think, mainly the same solution of our 
 problem, and I was pleased to see a notice of it in 
 the " New Englander," in which this solution was 
 commended as worthy at least of serious considera- 
 tion. 
 
538 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 for certain purposes, we may and do be- 
 lieve in ; but they are exceptions from 
 the system, not the rule. As if, when 
 the Creator had made the world and 
 placed man upon it, He had then left, 
 and, if, I may say so, neglected it and 
 cast it off, to run its own free course, — 
 such is the general aspect and light in 
 which we are to study its history. If 
 in this study we meet, as we shall meet, 
 with abundant evidence that this world 
 is not cast off, that it is controlled and 
 guided while it is left free, it. will be our 
 own wisdom and great happiness to see 
 that. If we meet with the fact of Di- 
 vine interposition, as we believe that 
 we do, we shall receive it with most 
 reverent joy and thanksgiving. But 
 still we must clearly distinguish this 
 from the general course of events. We 
 must distinctly see that we are mainly to 
 study, not a supernatural, but a natural 
 development; and moreover, not an 
 animal nor angelic, but a human devel- 
 opment. We must firmly say, — what 
 man pleases to be, that he must be ; 
 what human reason, conscience, affec- 
 tion will, that they must do ; and what 
 human ignorance, barbarism, passion 
 will, that they must do. It could not 
 be helped, unless by unmaking this 
 nature, deranging this plan, destroying 
 this system of the world. 
 
 In the next place, that man's growth 
 and action be free and rational, the 
 system of treatment under which he 
 lives must be one of general laws, and 
 not of sudden and violent expedients ; 
 a system of gentleness and patience, of 
 moral influence, and much of it indirect 
 influence. Our human short-sighted- 
 ness and passion are ready often to 
 call down sudden and signal vengeance 
 upon the evil-doer. " Is there not 
 some chosen curse," we say, " some 
 hidden thunder, to blast the wretch who 
 violates all laws, human and divine ? " 
 But suppose it were so. Suppose that 
 the eternal retribution that dwells em- 
 bosomed in the air around us were to 
 burst forth in thunder upon every atro- 
 cious crime. Suppose that the Infinite 
 
 Intelligence were ever devising new pen- 
 alties for guilty deeds. Or suppose 
 that, by a general law, the lying lips 
 were always smitten with an instant 
 blow, or that there were a whip wielded 
 by an invisible hand for every villain 
 in the world. It might be no more than 
 justice ; and you might say that the 
 world would then be strictly governed. 
 Yes, but the government would then be 
 a police, and not a providence. Human 
 nature would break down under such 
 a system of treatment. Men would be 
 like slaves under the lash ; and their 
 virtue, mere terror and cowardice. 
 Therefore men are left slowly to learn 
 the evil of their ways, and human 
 wickedness is suffered to run far, 
 that the experience of evil may be 
 corrective, and contrition for it gener- 
 ous and sincere, and repentance deep 
 and thorough. 
 
 Yet it is not to be overlooked, in the 
 third place, that the system of this moral 
 creation is one of restraint and correc- 
 tion. There is restraint here. There 
 are limits to man's power and will 
 and wickedness. He cannot over- 
 leap the barriers of the world ; he 
 cannot jump off from the globe which 
 he inhabits. It rolls through -the in- 
 finite void, a separate sphere and school ; 
 and the pupil cannot escape from it, 
 but by an act, rarely committed, and 
 almost always to be referred to insanity. 
 Material nature around us, too, and so 
 far as it enters into and forms a part 
 of our own compound being, is full of 
 restraint and retribution. Heat and 
 cold, and storm and night, and sleep 
 and hunger, and disease' and pain, hold 
 their place amidst all the strugglings of 
 our will ; and no man may deny or dis- 
 regard their power. 
 
 There is a solemn control within us. 
 also. I feel that there is an awful 
 Providence over my mind. Amidst the 
 thousand questionings of my spirit and 
 the ten thousand moral emergencies 
 of my experience, conscience rises up 
 before me, ay, and against me, if I do 
 wrong, like a lifted finger. There is 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 539 
 
 sometliing within me which is above my 
 will, and despite my will it proclaims a 
 law. He who made our nature free, 
 made it not free from that glorious, 
 that tremendous bond. All written law, 
 every covenant, promise, and oath in 
 the world, — all rest upon that inner 
 bond. To obey that law within, is 
 honor, peace, and fulness of joy. To 
 disobey, is misery and ruin. Amidst 
 all that is called ruin in the world, there 
 is nothing like the ruin of guilt ; and 
 of all the miseries in the world, there 
 is nothing like the agony of remorse. 
 And though the sharpness of that agony 
 be escaped through the dulness of con- 
 science, though the solemn reality be 
 veiled over by the haze of prosperity, 
 yet I do not believe that any human 
 being ever solved the problem of evil 
 in himself, the problem of sensuality or 
 avarice or malignant passion, without 
 finding and feeling, ay, settling it in his 
 deepest heart, that it was an unhappy 
 course. Here, then, are restraint and 
 retribution. 
 
 Such, in fine, and as a matter of 
 incontrovertible fact, is the system of 
 the world : material, and as such, a 
 sphere of education ; moral, and there- 
 fore free, — and therefore liable in its 
 very nature to aberration and evil, to 
 sin and suffering : a system by its very 
 nature, and inevitably, one of sponta- 
 neous development, a system neces- 
 sarily, for its purposes, one of general 
 laws ; and clearly, by the intervention 
 of a Power above humanity, a system of 
 stupendous moral restraints. 
 
 Such, as I read it, is the problem of 
 human life and history ; and such, in 
 the most general form, is its solution. 
 We utter that phrase — human life and 
 history — in a breath ; but what infini- 
 tude of meaning is in it ! What ages 
 of tremendous experience does it de- 
 scribe ! It is not a mere cold theme 
 for philosophic disquisition ; it is life, 
 yours and mine, the world's life, — in- 
 tense, unutterable, steeped in joys and sor- 
 rows unutterable, — wide as the spread 
 of nations, comprehending the experience 
 
 of unnumbered millions of creatures, 
 swelling with the burden of long ages 
 of existence. A solemn story, of things 
 not one of which can be indifferent to 
 him who is a man ! History and biog- 
 raphy have written it, and yet they 
 have not written a millionth part of it; 
 fiction has illustrated it, and yet it is 
 stranger than fiction ; poetry has em- 
 balmed it in holy inspiration and sym- 
 pathy, and yet the unwritten poetry is 
 a thousand-fold more than the written. 
 Ay, everywhere has life — the now dead 
 and vanished lite of ages — been such. 
 In crowded empires and among the scat- 
 tered isles ; in gay and gorgeous cities, 
 and in solitary and lowly huts ; in the 
 fisherman's bark upon the Northern seas, 
 and the shepherd's Arabian tent, and 
 the hunter's Alpine path ; by the hearth 
 and the fireside, or in wandering and 
 weariness ; in the dark and dreary cas- 
 tles of the old Northmen, or upon the sun- 
 ny slopes of Italy, of Persia, and of India, 
 everywhere life, this same life, has had 
 its lot, — amidst wailings of grief and 
 melodies of joyous hearts, amidst the 
 desolations of war and famine and 
 pestilence, and the green abodes of 
 peace and plenty : age with its heavy 
 sigh, and infancy with its prattlings, 
 have had part in this human lot; the 
 joys and sorrows of parents and chil- 
 dren, the secret, never- uttered ruminat- 
 ing upon the mortal lot and immortal 
 hereafter, of the private heart ; passion 
 and strife, and glory and shame ; cour- 
 age and aspiration, and defeat and de- 
 spair, — all that is life, and all that 
 death is, — all bound up in this tremen- 
 dous bond of human existence ! 
 
 Comparatively, nothing in the world 
 is worth studying but that. God's wis- 
 dom in the stupendous problem of hu- 
 man existence, let me understand that, 
 or let me understand what I can of it. 
 All other sciences do in fact converge 
 to that, — the illustration of God's wis- 
 dom in the world. Ail arts — sculpture, 
 painting, poetry, music, history, and 
 every form of literature — are studies 
 and illustrations of the great humanity. 
 
540 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 But the philosophy of it all, — that do I 
 seek above all things. 
 
 I believe that all is well. I believe 
 that all is the best possible. Under- 
 stand me, however. I hold to optimism 
 in this sense ; not that man's work is 
 the best possible, but that God's work 
 is the best possible, — is the utmost that 
 it was possible for Divine power and 
 wisdom to do for man. " What could I 
 have done for my vineyard, that I have 
 not done for it.-" " saith the Lord. It is 
 an essential part of the theory which I 
 adopt, and one which I especially desire 
 to illustrate, that the free will of man, 
 while perfectly free, is yet surrounded 
 by wise instructions and powerful re- 
 straints ; that the world of nature and 
 of humanity are full of them. I do not 
 believe that the good Being would have 
 created a moral system which in its free- 
 dom was certain to run down to utter 
 destruction and misery. I believe He 
 saw that it could, with his care and aid, 
 travel upward, higher and higher through 
 ages. But I do not believe that it was 
 possible, in the nature of things, to ex- 
 clude pain and weariness, or stumbHng 
 and wandering from the path that shall 
 conduct it to the heights, to the ever- 
 rising heights of virtue and happi- 
 ness. 
 
 But in this theory — to say one word 
 more — there is no place for moral 
 apathy. No man may fold his arms, 
 and say, "Things must be so ; and in 
 erring, I yield but to nature." There 
 is no fate in this world like the fate that 
 a man makes for himself. That is fate 
 indeed, — the inevitable necessity that 
 every man must freely work out his own 
 weal or woe. If there be any practical 
 value in this discussion, it is in having 
 drawn your attention distinctly to this 
 inevitable necessity, as the fact on 
 which hinges the whole moral philoso- 
 phy of human life and history. It is 
 a fact, unalterable, fixed as adamant. 
 Whether we build upon that rock or 
 break upon that rock, one thing is cer- 
 tain, — it cannot be removed. But we 
 may build upon it : and therefore to 
 
 point it out, and, amidst the wayes, the 
 strifes and perils of human existence, to 
 lift it up clearly to view, is to send out a 
 challenge to all the spiritual heroism in 
 the world, ay, and an alarm-call to all 
 the sluggard indolence in the world, 
 and to summon every man that lives to do 
 all that he can for himself, and to do all 
 that he can for others. To arm the soul 
 to look that dread fact of inalienable 
 moral responsibihty fairly in the face, 
 and to arouse the soul to discharge it- 
 self of" that stupendous trust with hu- 
 mility and resolution, — these are the 
 highest ends of all right study and of 
 all true wisdom. 
 
 I say in fine, and I say plainly, that 
 for sickly complainers, for poor voluptu- 
 aries, for weak worldlings, for ignoble 
 creatures that had rather be innocent 
 sheep and be happy, than wrestling an- 
 gel-natures, taking blows and wounds in 
 the lists of virtue, — 1 have no doctrine 
 to deliver. I say deliberately and firmly, 
 that I had rather have commenced my 
 existence as I have, than in some im- 
 aginary elysium of negative, stationary, 
 choiceless, unprogressive innocence and 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Give me freedom, give me knowledge, 
 give me breadth of experience ; I would 
 have it all. No memory is so hallowed, 
 no memory is so dear, as that of temp- 
 tation nobly withstood, or of suffering 
 nobly endured. What is it that we 
 gather and garner up from the solemn 
 story of the world, like its struggles, 
 its sorrows, its martyrdoms ? Come to 
 the great battle, thou wrestling, glorious, 
 marred nature ! strong nature ! weak 
 nature ! — come to the great battle, and 
 in this mortal strife strike for immortal 
 victory! The highest Son of God — 
 the best beloved of Heaven that ever 
 stood upon earth — was " made perfect 
 through sufferings." And sweeter shall 
 be the cup of immortal joy, for that it 
 once was dashed with bitter drops of 
 pain and sorrow ; and brighter shall roll 
 the everlasting ages, for the dark shad- 
 ows that clouded this birthtime of our 
 being. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 541 
 
 LECTURE III. 
 
 THE MATERIAL WORLD AS THE FIELD OF THE GREAT DESIGN 
 ITS ADAPTATIONS TO THE END HUMAN CULTURE. 
 
 I HAVE attempted to set forth in 
 my first lecture tlie apparent design 
 proposed in the creation of the world, 
 
 — human culture; and in my second, 
 the ground principles involved in that 
 design, — involved, that is to say, in 
 those material and moral agencies that 
 belong to the present constitution of 
 things. A scene there must be, a 
 place, a sphere for human activity; a 
 free will in man to act his pleasure ; 
 and from such a condition and nature I 
 have contended tliat it was impossible, 
 
 — as far as we can conceive, — that it 
 was shown by the very terms of the 
 statement to be impossible to exclude 
 all evil. This principle I believe to be 
 incontrovertible. There are difficulties 
 about its application ; there are difficul- 
 ties about the details, and to these it is 
 my special business in these lectures to 
 address myself ; but there is no diffi- 
 culty about the principle. 
 
 I shall now proceed, and especially 
 in the present lecture, to consider this 
 material world as the sphere of human 
 activity and culture. 
 
 The Rev. Thomas Burnet, — an Eng- 
 lish divine of the 17th century, — in a 
 book of his called " The Sacred Theory 
 of the Earth," imagines the world origi- 
 nally to have been literally a perfect 
 sphere. " In this smooth earth," he 
 says, " were the first scenes of the 
 world and the first generations of man- 
 kind ; it had the beauty of 3'outh and 
 blooming nature, fresh and fruitful, and 
 not a wrinkle, scar, or fracture in all its 
 body ; " — (and what do you think he 
 means by " no wrinkle nor scar"?) — 
 why, "no rocks nor mountains," he 
 says, " no hollow caves nor gaping chan- 
 nels, but even and uniform all over. 
 
 And the smoothness of the earth made 
 the heavens so too ; the air was calm 
 and serene ; none of tliose tumultuary 
 motions and conflicts of vapors, which 
 the mountains and the winds cause in 
 ours ; it was suited to a golden age, and 
 to the first innocency of nature." * 
 
 It is strange that, even to this eccen- 
 tric writer, such a world should have 
 seemed a desirable place, or even habit- 
 able. But suppose the reverse of this ; 
 suppose the earth to have been ridged 
 all over with lofty mountains, without 
 intervening plain, ocean, or river, and it 
 is still more obvious that it would have 
 been completely uninhabitable ; at least 
 by any such race as now occupies it. 
 
 In a happy medium between the in- 
 accessible mountain and the unbroken 
 plain lies the lap of earth to receive and 
 nourish the children of men. They grow 
 and multiply in the fruitful valleys ; they 
 nestle under the covert and shadow of 
 mountain ranges, which send down re- 
 freshing breezes upon them ; they line 
 the river-banks and the shores of the sea 
 with their villages and cities, and launch 
 forth from them their ships for distant 
 voyages. And in the most obvious view, 
 this arrangement is necessary to human 
 growth, intercourse, and culture ; and 
 not only so, but to human subsistence. 
 Without level grounds there could not 
 be productive agriculture ; without moun- 
 tains there could not be gushing springs 
 nor flowing streams ; without oceans and 
 the immense evaporation from their sur- 
 face there could not be cloud nor rain ; 
 and without refreshing rains and irri- 
 gating rivers there could be no vegetable 
 growth, and man and beast alike must 
 perish from the face of the earth. 
 
 * p. 76, London ed., iSi6. 
 
542 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 But this adjustment of the earth to 
 human subsistence, comfort, and culture ; 
 let us consider it more nearly. 
 
 The earth is a globe ; and so small 
 is the deviation from a perfect sphere 
 caused by the highest mountains, that 
 the Davalagiri in Asia, 28,000 feet high, 
 stands above the level only as the twelfth 
 of an inch would on an artificial globe of 
 ten feet in diameter.* It does not belong 
 to us to decide, scarcely to inquire, wheth- 
 er some other form for the world would 
 have answered the purpose. It is evident 
 that a square or any irregular figure, or 
 simply a vast and level extension, would 
 have been unfavorable to its revolutions 
 on its axis or its free movement in 
 space. All the other heavenly bodies 
 are spherical ; this is the form chosen 
 by the Infinite Builder and Maker. The 
 earth, then, is a globe ; and it follows 
 that some portions of it must be less fa- 
 vorably situated for human comfort and 
 culture than others. If it be asked why 
 this inequality, this inconvenience, this 
 evil, is permitted ; why the burning zone 
 is assigned to some for residence, and 
 the cold Arctic regions to others ; the 
 answer is, that in the system of things 
 this was inevitable. Here, in fact, and 
 especially in the northern cold, is the 
 problem of evil again, — the problem of 
 evil for the Greenlander ; and he can 
 rationally solve it in no other way. But 
 suppose that some other form /lad heen 
 chosen, by which these particular incon- 
 veniences would have been avoided ; 
 and while we are indulging our imagina- 
 tion, let us somewhat extend the field ; 
 let us conceive of certain other arrange- 
 ments that might have been made for 
 human comfort. Suppose, for instance, 
 that the earth had been covered over, 
 at convenient distances, with houses, 
 built as a part of the world, of ever-dur- 
 ing stone and rock ; and that near these 
 dwellings had grown trees, for shade and 
 for fruit, and that around them had 
 spread fields and farms. And suppose, 
 too, that roads, ay, and railroads, of na- 
 ture's workmanship, had run all over the 
 
 • Guyot's Comparative Physical Geography, p. 34. 
 
 earth, just where they were needed ; or 
 that in the ocean there had been vast 
 currents running opposite ways ; one 
 from America to Europe, to bear our 
 ships, and another from Europe to 
 America, to bring them back : suppose 
 all this. Should we h'/cc this stereotyped 
 order? Should we not wish to alter 
 the houses, the grounds, the groves, the 
 roads, to suit our taste or convenience ? 
 I scarcely ever knew a man to buy a 
 house but he must needs alter it, to make 
 it suit him. But the same houses, the 
 same estates, the satne arrangements, 
 for all generations, rude and civilized — 
 it would be intolerable. It would be a 
 solid barrier against all improvement. 
 No ; better that the world, rough, wild, 
 shaggy, be given to man as it is, to mould 
 it as he will. And I do not doubt he 
 will yet mould it into such a garden of 
 plenty, such an abode of beauty and 
 happiness, as we cannot now conceive 
 of ; far better than that exact plan, that 
 world for drones, which some might 
 prefer. No ; man is better cared for, by 
 not being cared for too much. The world 
 is given to him, as the raw material, 
 to work upon. That fact is the basis of 
 his whole earthly culture. 
 
 But passing by this general form and 
 structure of the earth, I wish to show 
 how things are adjusted and adapted to 
 human subsistence, development, and 
 improvement ; and that far more admi- 
 rably and exquisitely than they would 
 be by any such arrangement of houses, 
 farms, roads, or ocean currents as I 
 have just supposed. For this purpose, 
 I shall consider, first, some of the gen- 
 eral arrangements of nature ; secondly, 
 some of the specific adaptations of the 
 world to man, and of man to the world; 
 and thirdly, certain ministrations of na- 
 ture to still higher ends in the sphere of 
 human culture. 
 
 Under the first head, I must mention 
 certain arrangements, — not, indeed, to 
 convey any new knowledge to many of 
 you ; but I must remind you of them ; 
 they belong to the survey we are taking 
 of the world as a place of human abode. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 543 
 
 and their very familiarity may lead us to 
 overlook their importance. 
 
 The world is constructed to be the 
 abode of human life, and to nurture the 
 means and provisions of that life. For 
 this purpose it must be supplied with 
 food and drink ; and it must be heated, 
 ventilated, and refreshed with moisture. 
 
 The way in which these ends are ac- 
 complished is marked with such design, 
 such adjustment, restraint, and modifi- 
 cation of nature's forces, — nay, such 
 actual departure from nature's ordinary 
 methods, when it is necessary that it is 
 worthy of most reverent heed and con- 
 sideration. It shows not only that there 
 was care for a general material order, 
 but care for 7nan. 
 
 I. Thus, with regard to temperature, 
 the earth might hive been so hot or so 
 cold that man could not have dwelt upon 
 it. It is held in a medium between those 
 extremes. But ages — ages of unknown 
 length — were required to bring it to this 
 condition. Whatever theory be adopted, 
 whether the nebular hypothesis or any 
 other, it is commonly held among geol- 
 ogists that the earth was gradually cool 
 ing through unknown and indefinite peri- 
 ods of time, and that it is still, at the 
 centre, a molten and fiery mass. And 
 now, if the heat at the centre were far 
 greater than it is, it might make a hot-bed 
 of the whole earth : it might produce 
 enormous growths, like those of the pre- 
 Adamite earth ; when the fern and the 
 brake grew eighty feet high, — fit, indeed, 
 to make coal-beds (which they a'/^/make), 
 but not fit for human sustenance. If the 
 central heat were greater still, it would 
 destroy all vegetation. But if, on the 
 contrary, there were no heat in the world 
 itself, if it were a mass penetrated 
 throughout with icy coldness, it may be 
 that no heat from the sun falling upon 
 its frozen bosom could make it a fruit- 
 ful, or desirable, or habitable abode for 
 man. 
 
 But further, the regions of the equa- 
 tor, over which the sun passes and upon 
 which lie pours down his direct rays, 
 are liable to be too hot ; and the regions 
 
 of the pole, upon which his rays fall 
 slant and oblique, too cold. This, I 
 have said, in the nature of things, was 
 unavoidable. But what is there to mod- 
 ify and temper these extremes ? On the 
 line of the equator the earth bulges out, 
 so that its diameter from east to west is 
 twenty-six miles greater than from north 
 to south. Now it is found, from boring 
 into the earth, and from examining the 
 temperature of mines at different depths, 
 that the heat increases, on descending, 
 at the rate of aijout one degree for fifty 
 feet; that is ic s*y, that any swell on the 
 earth, or any mountain mass, would be 
 — the internal heat alone considered — 
 one degree colder for every fifty feet of 
 height, twenty degrees for every thou- 
 sand feet. Doubtless other things are 
 to be considered, and especially the 
 warmth of the sun and air around the 
 mountiin sides ; and we do not know 
 the conditions of this central heat. Of 
 course the calculation cannot be applied 
 with any exactness ; but taking into ac- 
 count simply the swell Of the earth around 
 the equator, inasmuch as the surface 
 at the equator is about thirteen miles 
 farther from the centre of the internal 
 heat than the surface at the poles, it 
 seems not unreasonable to infer that the 
 warmth from this source is less within 
 the tropics. That is to say, if there were 
 no external source of heat, no sun shin- 
 ing directly upon it, the now burning 
 zone would be the coldest part of the 
 earth. 
 
 But above this swelling up of the earth 
 in the equatorial regions rise again the 
 highest mountains in the world. From 
 these heights the land regularly declines 
 all the way to the pole ; each mountain 
 range lower as you proceed, each plateau 
 lower, from the lofty table-land of Thibet 
 in Asia, 14,000 feet above the level of 
 the ocean, to the steppes of Tartary, and 
 the great plains of Siberia in the ex- 
 treme North ; or, to take it in the New 
 World, from Chimborazo, 21,000 feet 
 high, to the table-land of Mexico, 7.500 
 feet high, and the plateau of Inner Cali- 
 fornia, 6,000, and so onward to the plains 
 
544 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY, 
 
 of Oregon and Hudson's Bay. The 
 equatorial mountains rise to the height 
 of from twenty to nearly thirty thousand 
 feet. 
 
 On ascending these mountains, at an 
 elevation of about fifteen thousand feet 
 from the base, we reach the point of per- 
 petual congelation. Above this rise the 
 snowy heights — stupendous ice-houses 
 to cool the regions below, — reservoirs of 
 water, too, to refresh them ; and with- 
 out which neither plant nor animal nor 
 man could have lived there.* Now if a 
 contrary disposition had been made ; if 
 low and level valleys had prevailed near 
 the equator, and the highest mountains 
 had risen within the Arctic circle, it is evi- 
 dent that both would have been uoin- 
 habitable. 
 
 I^et us now turn from the land to the 
 water. Nearly three fourths of the 
 earth's surface is covered with water. 
 The Pacific Ocean alone, it is computed, 
 occupies more space than all the dry 
 land. It may seem a strange dispro- 
 portion of waste and apjjarently useless 
 water to fruitful soil. But let us con- 
 sider it. This soil can yield nothing 
 without a certain amount of moisture. 
 A certain amount, — neither more nor 
 less ; too much would saturate and de- 
 bilitate the vegetation, too little would 
 dry it up. Now the sea is the source of 
 moisture, the nurse of rains. Evapora- 
 tion Hfts up the watery particles into the 
 air, whence they are borne upon the 
 land, to fall in showers, to distil in dew, 
 to bathe the mountain heights whence 
 they gush forth in springs, gather into 
 streams, and form and feed the mighty 
 rivers ; and for all these purposes the 
 supply is, in the general, just what is 
 wanted, neither too much nor too little. 
 But this evaporation from the sea, what 
 does it give us ? Pure water ; 3.xi extract 
 from the mass, as e.xactly separated as 
 if it were distilled in an alembic. Sup- 
 pose that the saline particles were lifted 
 into the air, to fall in rain and flow in 
 the rivers ; that it rained brine, and that 
 
 * I am indebted for these estimates to Guyot's Lec- 
 
 brackish and bitter waters flowed in all 
 our streams and fountains ! What an 
 element, indeed, what a blessing, is pure 
 water ! — the most exquisite refreshment 
 of thirst, the only cleanser of impurity 
 for the human skin and for all that per- 
 tains to human use, the only healthful 
 solvent of vegetable food for the daily 
 meal. And suppose that the pure 
 springs or the medicinal waters were 
 turned into bursting fountains of cham- 
 pagne wine ; it would seem as if nature, 
 in her secret caverns, had plotted for our 
 destruction ! And I confess that I am 
 struck, not only with the blessing and 
 beauty, but with the mystery of this ele- 
 ment. We know nothing of the hidden 
 connection between its particles, by 
 which it is a flowing liquid instead of 
 a mere conglomeration of atoms. If it 
 were poured into our cup and bowl as 
 disintegrated, albeit golden, s:;nds, we 
 could neither drink it nor wash in it. 
 More wonderful than any enchanted 
 cup is that which we daily put to our 
 lips ; choicer than all the cosmetics of 
 Arabia is that morning ablution ; and 
 well miglit it be, every morning, as an 
 outpoured oblation of pure thanksgiving. 
 And wiien it falls in refreshing rain, — 
 in the fine rain upon the mown grass, — 
 who can help sometimes thinking what 
 it would have been if it had come down 
 in sheets of water ; how it would have 
 deluged and crushed the tender herb 
 beneath ! 
 
 But why is the sea salt ? or what 
 purpose is served by its saltness ? Pro- 
 fessor Maury, of the Washington Obser- 
 vatory, has given to this question an an- 
 swer of singular interest. He has shown 
 that the whole oceanic circulation de- 
 pends mainly upon this quality of salt- 
 ness. And upon this circulation depends 
 again the tempering of all climates, both 
 hot and cold. For if the ocean stood 
 still, then increasing masses of ice in the 
 north, and increasing heat at the equator, 
 would make both zones uninhabitable. 
 Of this oceanic circulation, the Gulf 
 Stream is an example ; but there are 
 other currents no less remarkable. The 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 545 
 
 Arctic voyagers, wintering in Davis's 
 Straits and Wellington Channel, found 
 themselves drifted southward by a sur- 
 face current, — in one instance, a thou- 
 sand miles in nine months, — while, at 
 the same time, icebergs, sunk deep in 
 the water, and taking the effect of an 
 undercurrent, were borne the very opjDo- 
 site way, — borne northward, through 
 crashing fields of ice, at the rate, in one 
 instance, of four knots an hour. 
 
 But how is this effect produced ? The 
 immense equatorial evaporation — i.e., 
 the taking up of immense quantities of 
 water — lowers the sea-level. A surface 
 current from the north flows down to 
 supply the deficiency. This indeed 
 would take place if the sea were fresh. 
 But in saltwater, as the evaporation does 
 not take up the salt, it leaves the sur- 
 face water salter, i. e., heavier. Con- 
 sequently it sinks ; and thus, by its 
 momentum, it prepares in the depths 
 of the equatorial seas an undercurrent, 
 which flows northward. In an ocean of 
 fresh water, this result would be super- 
 ficial and partial. 
 
 But let us look at other ministries of 
 the ocean. 
 
 At first sight it would seem as if this 
 ocean barrier would separate nations, — 
 shut them up in solitariness and isola- 
 tion. But what is made of this seeming 
 obstacle ? Why, in fact, nothing is made 
 a medium of intercourse between distant 
 nations like the ocean ; and intercourse 
 is the grand educator, civilizer. If Eu- 
 rope had been separated from us by 
 3,000 miles of land, we might hardly 
 have reached her yet ; or rather she 
 might have hardly reached us — hardly 
 have discovered this quarter of the 
 world. Or if some wandering tribes had 
 found their way over the intervening dis- 
 tance, there would nevertheless have 
 been little or no intercourse. The vast 
 plains of Asia were traversed only by 
 here and there a trader or caravan, or 
 else by invading armies. Invasion per- 
 haps was better for the world's culture 
 than sterile seclusion, — than the sitting 
 apart and alone, each people and nation 
 
 alone, amidst hereditary and unbroken 
 ideas and customs. But now the com- 
 merce of the seas is peacefully doing 
 that which war did of old. It is bring- 
 ing all nations acquainted with one an- 
 other, interfusing their spirit and life- 
 blood, binding them together, and making 
 brethren of hostile races ; and, at the 
 same time, opening the common fund of 
 earth's bounties and blessings to every 
 clime and country. The dread barrier 
 of the sea lias melted away into a liquid 
 plain, best fitted to buoy up and bear on 
 our vessels ; better for intercourse than 
 if it were spanned with bridges, or 
 crossed in every direction by causeways 
 of stone or railroads of ever-during iron. 
 AncJ if there be a few persons — and I 
 confess myself to be one of them — who 
 would prefer the causeways and the rail- 
 roads, — prefer any conceivable locomo- 
 tion to a sea voyage, — yet nature's plan is 
 not to gratify the few, but to benefit the 
 many. And I cannot help thinking that 
 art will yet find means to reheve this 
 horrible misery, this sickness of the sea. 
 It was indeed a dread barrier to 
 those who first saw it ; but what was 
 its effect .'' It tempted their courage 
 and enterprise ; it called out their en- 
 ergy, hardihood, and skill, and has thus 
 contributed, along with intercourse and 
 commerce, to make them the most pros- 
 perous and civilized people in the world. 
 Witness the Egyptians, the Phoenicians, 
 the Greeks, the Romans, and the mod- 
 ern European and American communi- 
 ties. Everywhere the highest civiliza- 
 tions have found their home upon the 
 shores of the sea and upon the riv- 
 ers that flowed down into it. The ship 
 is the most significant emblem in the 
 scutcheon of freedom, polity, and prog- 
 ress. One has termed it "that swan 
 of the sea ; " but it is like anything but 
 a swan, to the unpractised beholder. I 
 remember the first time that I saw a 
 ship part from the shore, — the solid 
 shore as one well feels it to be at 
 such a moment. All was solid, firm, 
 calm, quiet, here ; but there, all was 
 alive, and seemed rushing upon some 
 
 35 
 
546 
 
 THE PROBLEiM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 unknown fate ; the roaring of the wind 
 in the cordage, the swelling of the sails 
 to the breeze, the straining of every 
 yard and mast, and, as it seemed to me, 
 of every mighty rib in the almost living 
 mass, inspired me with a sort of terror. 
 But the strong hearts that swayed it 
 felt no terror ; every motion was easy 
 to them, every rope in the complicated 
 network that bound it was familiar, and 
 under their charge it swept over the 
 deep as free and fearless as if it were 
 some huge sea-bird seeking its own 
 natural element. 
 
 But before leaving this element, water, 
 1 must advert to another and still more 
 remarkable arrangement. I have ven- 
 tured to say that nature, when it is neces- 
 sary, departs apparently from her own 
 laws. Thus it is laid down as a law in 
 physics that "heat expands all bodies," 
 and so makes them lighter. Conversely, 
 cold contracts all bodies, and makes 
 them heavier. This is the law. Sup- 
 pose, now, that the philosopher had 
 never seen ice, or had never before 
 thought of this remarkable fact that 
 cold, freezing water into ice, does not 
 contract, but expands it, and thus makes 
 it lighter than water. It certainly would 
 seem to him like something miracu- 
 lous. But how would his astonishment 
 increase when he saw the end to be ac- 
 complished by this deviation from law ! 
 Ice now floats upon the surface, and 
 protects from freezing the water be- 
 neath. But suppose that every drop 
 of water frozen became like lead, and 
 sank to bottom : then would our lakes, 
 and probably our rivers, too, become 
 every winter solid masses of ice, which 
 no spring gales nor summer suns could 
 thaw, so as to make the earth habit- 
 able. " It struck me with awe when I 
 first knew this," said one who men- 
 tioned this fact to me : * " nature vio- 
 lating one of her own laws for human 
 benefit ! " 
 
 But to return : I have spoken of evap- 
 oration from the sea. But evaporation 
 would be useless if its burden were not 
 
 * Daniel Webster 
 
 borne from the sea to the land. How 
 is it borne ? If there were vast cur- 
 tain-like fans hung over the deep, and 
 worked by soine stupendous machinery 
 above, to waft the ocean vapors to the 
 shore, we should say. There is a pro- 
 vision ! But equally a provision, though 
 noiseless and unseen, is the power that 
 sets in motion the boundless waves of 
 air ; that is heat. Heated air rises, and 
 the colder air flows in to supply its 
 place. Hence, as you know, the reg- 
 ular sea-breezes upon all islands and 
 coasts. Hence the less regular alter- 
 nations and changes of the wind daily, 
 varied also by the intervention of trees, 
 groves, hills, and mountains. But the 
 same provision has a wider sweep in 
 the monsoons, and especially in the 
 trade-winds. The heated air upon and 
 near the equator, constantly rising, cre- 
 ates a constant tendency in the lower 
 strata of the atmosphere to that quar- 
 ter ; the motion of the earth on its axis 
 gives it a turn to the west, like the 
 water on a grindstone. On the ocean 
 it has an unimpe'ded course, and is 
 there a regular or trade wind. When 
 it has spent its force in that direction it 
 turns back, from reaction, — from ac- 
 cumulation, perhaps we might say, — 
 toward the north and east, thus giving 
 us prevailing west winds ; and thus it 
 spreads its breezes, laden with refresh- 
 ment, over all the continents. Thus, by 
 intermingled land and water, heat and 
 cold, the earth is fanned with healthful 
 airs ; the extremes of every climate are 
 tempered ; the torrid zone parts with its 
 heat to the north ; the polar cold sweeps 
 across continents and seas, to cool the 
 burnino- line ; and not one of those 
 " sightless couriers of the air " goes 
 without commission. 
 
 Kepler, the German astronomer, be- 
 lieved that the earth' was a huge ani- 
 mal, that breathes in winds and tides, 
 and bellows and belches out its fury in 
 volcanoes, and shakes the world with 
 throes which are earthquakes. I once 
 knew a man who held the same opin- 
 ion ; and as he took me over his planta- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 547 
 
 tion, it was curious, and, if sometimes 
 liidicrous, not altogether uninteresting, 
 to see how he talked and felt about it. 
 " There it wanted to be scratched," 
 where the plough was needed ; and 
 "there it needed a plaster," where the 
 spot was barren. It seemed a harm- 
 less thought, and better so to animalize 
 nature than to drive all life out of it. 
 I had rather believe with Kepler or 
 with Berkeley, than to see the world 
 as a stolid substance, — the petrified 
 or fossil remains of an extinct energy. 
 Everywhere, seen or unseen, is action, 
 movement, life, — free, flowing, endless. 
 There are rivers in the ocean, like the 
 Gulf Stream, — ay, thousands of feet 
 deep, — that flow from continent to con- 
 tinent, bearing warmth in their bosom, 
 and tempering the climates of whole 
 countries. The earth, too, is bursting 
 with vegetable life through all its pores; 
 the flowing sap, the breathing leaves, 
 the waving grass, all speak of life. 
 Light, heat, electric fires, play over its 
 surface ; the air vibrates to perpetual 
 sounds ; the sea rolls with unceasing 
 tides ; the forest trees are filled with 
 music ; in summer and autumn days, 
 it seems as if the hillsides and the 
 thickets and the thick grass panted 
 with singing, chirping, joyous, melo- 
 dious life. The hum that comes up 
 from all the earth is a living voice from 
 its bosom. The summer breeze that 
 falls in frolic gusts and eddies upon the 
 thicket and the shrubbery and the tall 
 grass makes them leap and dance and 
 sway as to moods of laughter, like chil- 
 dren turned out to play. The serene 
 heaven that bends over us — meteor of 
 beauty as it is — is not more beauteous, 
 nor more filled with a celestial pres- 
 ence, than the fair world that lies be- 
 neath. Matter ? It is time to give up 
 the old Manichaean ideas ; even science 
 demands it, as well as religion. It is 
 not obstruction, but manifestation of the 
 Divinity ; it is not the cast-off exuvice 
 of a dead and departed power, but the 
 fle.xihle and ever-flowing garment of the 
 Infinite Life. 
 
 II. We have surveyed now, in their 
 most general form, the great and palpa- 
 ble elements that go to make habit- 
 able and comfortable and agreeable this 
 earthly home for man, — land, water, 
 and air. There is another view which 
 I wisli to present to you, and that is, 
 not only of the general, but of the spe- 
 cific adjustment of things to human use, 
 and of man himself to the sphere in 
 which he lives. 
 
 It does not seem to me irreverent to 
 look upon the Divine Power, which is 
 working in all things around us, as 
 working with infinite skill, — as adjust- 
 ing things with wonderlul adaptation to 
 their purposes. I have said before that 
 there are natural impossibilities ; as, for 
 instance, a thing cannot be heavy and 
 light, or opaque and transparent, at the 
 same time ; as a thing's being best fitted 
 for a general and permanent end may 
 preclude its being equally fitted for a 
 limited and tempor'ary emergency. But 
 while tiiat is not achieved' which is 
 not possible in the nature of things, 
 the study of nature will delight us by 
 showing that all which is possible is 
 acJiieved J that all the good is accom- 
 plished that is possible, all the evil 
 avoided that is possible. 
 
 Thus, to take the physical adapta- 
 tion of the human being himself to the 
 scene : when a man falls into the water, 
 we might for the moinent wish he were 
 light as cork, that he might n^ drown; 
 his drowning is an evil, concerning 
 which one may ask, why is it .'' or, why 
 is it not avoided .'' And then again, if 
 he were pushing against a beam that 
 threatened to fall upon his child, one 
 might wish for the moment that he were 
 as heavy and solid as a rock. He is 
 neither so heavy nor so light ; in short, 
 his weight is adjusted to more general 
 purposes, to more permanent situations, 
 to the entire sphere he moves in, and to 
 the strength of the sinews which are 
 to move the weight. Now this weight, 
 you know, must depend on the size 
 and density of the world in which he 
 is placed, i. e., upon the attraction of 
 
548 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 gravitation. In the sun, it would be 
 twenty-eight times as great as it is 
 here ; in Jupiter, two and a half times ; 
 in Mercury, only half as great ; in the 
 moon, only one sixth. With the heavier 
 weight he could have done nothing ; he 
 could have neither worked nor walked. 
 With the hghter he would have lost the 
 force, the momentum, necessary to his 
 daily taskwork, to his useful activity 
 in every way. His weight, in short, 
 is exactly adjusted to his sphere and 
 strength. 
 
 Look again at the natural substances 
 and products which he is cultivating or 
 using in agriculture, in the mechanic 
 arts in every form. If garden vines, in- 
 stead of running on the ground, had 
 risen up into the air, they could not 
 have sustained the melon and cucumber. 
 If wheat, on the contrar}^, had lain upon 
 the ground, it would have lacked the sun 
 and air to ripen the grain. The tree — 
 the forest tree, that is — is to answer 
 a. different purpose ; and what is that ? 
 To furnish timber for building. In its 
 forest state the growth is thick ; and 
 the consequence is, that the lower 
 branches die and fall off, and a long 
 trunk is provided, which answers the 
 purpose If it had grown sparsely, it 
 would have been, as we see it in the 
 open field, unfit to be hewn into beams 
 or to be sawed into boards. And so if 
 it had been much heavier or lighter, 
 harder o^softer, tougher or more brittle, 
 than it is, it would have less well an- 
 swered its purpose. 
 
 And what could we have done at all 
 with it, if some metal had not been pro- 
 vided which could be sharpened into the 
 axe, the saw, and planing tool. Iron — 
 from which steel is made, and which is 
 the only metal, I believe, capable of a 
 similar hardening — is the most useful 
 metallic substance in the world. I look 
 upon its internal structure as one of the 
 most wonderful proofs of design and 
 skill. No other metal could supply its 
 place : not gold nor silver, because they 
 are too ductile and flexible ; nor copper, 
 because it is too brittle. Iron is mallea- 
 
 ble, and it can be melted, so that it can 
 be moulded and beaten into all possible 
 shapes ; but its peculiarity, that which 
 gives it its special value, is a certain 
 toughness, a certain power of resist- 
 ance, a texture making it fit for cutting, 
 which is laid in its internal structure. 
 We know nothing of that mysterious 
 interior constitution; but we see the 
 result, — that without which civilization 
 would have been greatly impeded, if not 
 forever held back even from its present 
 degree of advancement. 
 
 And, accordingly, iron is more abun- 
 .dant in the world than any other metal, 
 or all others put together. Gold is com- 
 paratively rare, and <lepends upon this 
 consideration, as well as its freedom 
 from liability to rust and tarnish, for 
 its extraordinary value. Both fit it for 
 that most important agency of being a 
 circulating medium, or a current rep- 
 resentative of all sorts of value. Nor 
 is it likely that the mines of Califor- 
 nia and Australia will yield much more 
 than a needful supply for the growing 
 wants of commerce and civilization. 
 This is not the first time that the world 
 has been dazzled with visions of bound- 
 less accumulation.. The mines of Mexico 
 and Peru awakened very much the same 
 feeling in the sixteenth century. And 
 among the Phoenicians of old, as Heeren 
 tells us,* there was a very similar ex- 
 citement about the mines in Spain. 
 The ships of Tarshish, mentioned in 
 Scripture, were Phoenician vessels sail- 
 ing out of Tartessus (Tarshish), in 
 Spain ; and it was said in that time 
 that not only were the ships laden with 
 gold, but that their anchors were made 
 of gold. We might pass now, in this 
 brief survey, from the mineral to the 
 animal kingdom. That certain quadru- 
 peds, birds, and fishes were destined 
 to be food for man, is a point not ques- 
 tioned, I believe, in any sound physiol- 
 ogy. I confess for myself to a feeling of 
 dislike to this system of destruction. I 
 do not like to hunt or fish for the same 
 reason; but I beheve that the feeling 
 
 * Works, vol. i. pp. 328, 329 
 
 I 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 549 
 
 is more scrupulous than wise. It is no 
 greater hardship for animals to die by 
 the hand of man than by the claw or 
 fang of their fellows, — not so great ; 
 and sudden destruction is better than to 
 die, untended, of lingering decay. In- 
 deed, if they died of disease or decay, 
 the very carrion of their remains would 
 fill the world witli pestilence. Nor is 
 the amount of animal happiness les- 
 sened ; immediate transformation into 
 new life takes place, and the world is 
 always as full of animal life as it can 
 bear. 
 
 But there is another use of the animal 
 kingdom to man which indicates a no 
 less striking adaptation. Certain ani- 
 mals were evidently made to be domes- 
 ticated, — to be the companions and 
 helpers of man. For this there is a 
 fitness in their nature, structure, size, 
 strength, habitudes, and very instincts. 
 Not the lion, the tiger, the hippopota- 
 mus, and the hyena are so fitted, but 
 the horse, the ox, the cow, the camel, 
 the ass, and the faithful dog. And it 
 has been well observed that the want of 
 most of these animals among our own 
 aboriginal races was of itself enough to 
 prevent any great advance in civilization. 
 
 Nor are the wild tribes of creatures 
 useless to man. They make the scene 
 of the world gay and beautiful. They 
 make nature vocal ; they supply man with 
 food ; they clothe him witii furs ; they 
 preserve the world from putrefaction 
 and pestilence. Offensive smells would 
 make our summer walks hateful but for 
 them. The hyena, the vulture, the very 
 worm is a scavenger. The cleanliness 
 of the animal and insect tribes them- 
 selves is most worthy of notice. The 
 feathers of birds, the hair of quadru- 
 peds, the sharded wings of insects, take 
 no soil. The most delicately kept child 
 is not neater than the bug in the dung- 
 hill. And thus, by structure, by instincts, 
 by the pursuit of food, life is caused to 
 spring from decay and corruption ; and 
 the liouse of nature is kept clean and 
 pure, without service or drudgery or 
 toil. 
 
 III. But I must leave these details in 
 order to find space for two or three ob- 
 servations on the general and yet urgent 
 adaptation of material nature, not merely 
 to human support and comfort, but to 
 the higher spiritual culture. We shall 
 not e.xhaust the theme here ; for we 
 cannot consider the human constitution, 
 as we propose to do in a future lecture, 
 without referring to the circumstances 
 in which it is placed, to the outward 
 agencies by which it is developed. But 
 there are two or three views of na- 
 ture's influence which press themselves 
 upon our attention now, because they 
 help to complete the general survey of 
 it as a material organization. For it is 
 not enough to say that nature has pro- 
 vided a home for man through the com- 
 bined agencies of the earth and ocean 
 and atmosphere, or that she has adjust- 
 ed the objects of the vegetable, mineral, 
 and animal creation to his use ; for she 
 has still more distinct and significant 
 appeals to his intelligence and moral 
 culture. 
 
 There are certain arrangements in na- 
 ture, then, which are evidently fitted to 
 answer a double purpose to man, — a 
 lower and a higher ; to give sustenance 
 and pleasure and practical direction, and 
 at the same time to impart higher knowl- 
 edge and guidance. The arrangements 
 I shall instance are the fertility, the 
 order, and the beauty of nature. 
 
 In the first place, with regard to the 
 fertility of the soil, the primary object is 
 manifest. But has it never occurred to 
 any one who cultivates the soil to ask 
 why it was not made twice or ten times 
 as fertile as it is now ; or why, when 
 exhausted by a crop, it could not have 
 been entirely, as it is in part, restored 
 and replenished by the air? By these 
 means labor would have been relieved 
 to an immense extent. We are apt, un- 
 thinkingly, to take the existing system 
 as if it could not have been otherwise. 
 But a slight change in fertility — i. e., a 
 soil twice as fertile, or a human organiza- 
 tion demanding only half as much food, 
 — would have relieved many a heavy 
 
5SO 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 burden. Ay, there is a hard strain 
 upon human energy. It is the straining 
 of the very sinews to the task. Nay, all 
 work is hard, because field-work is hard. 
 For if this had been relieved, human en- 
 ergies might easily have achieved the 
 rest, — the building, the manufacturing, 
 the artisan's work in every kind. 
 
 Look, then, at this fact of moderated 
 fertility, and see what it means. 
 
 I say moderated i^x\\X\X.y ; for it might 
 as easily have been less as more. You 
 sometimes, as you travel, pass through 
 a district or by a farm, of which you 
 rather disdainfully say, "■ It must be a 
 hard scramble for life here ; you would 
 not try it, for your part." But suppose 
 the whole world had been as barren 
 and intractable, or worse. What then ? 
 Why, then had we been a race of miser- 
 able drudges. Then, too, had there been 
 no place for society ; no place for the 
 cultivation of the sciences and elegant 
 arts ; no seventh day of perfect rest, no 
 altar nor priesthood ; but all the refine- 
 ments of life, all its mental culture, its 
 graceful arts, its religious ordinances, 
 and all the splendor of its cities, palaces, 
 and temples would have been buried 
 under the crushing oppression of cheer- 
 less toil. You, my friends, would not 
 have been here, listening to a lecture 
 upon this subject or any other subject ; 
 but you would all have been abroad 
 upon the sterile earth, cutting away the 
 intractable forest, levelling the rugged 
 hills, digging, delving, drudging for a 
 bare subsistence. 
 
 But turn now to the more attractive 
 side of the picture, and suppose a soil 
 so prolific that the labor of an hour 
 would suffice for the wants of a week ; 
 and what then would follow ? Why, 
 then would man have turned to idle va- 
 grancy, or sunk into voluptuous sloth ; 
 and the moral fortunes of the world 
 would have been as certainly wrecked 
 and ruined by indulgence as, on the 
 former supposition, they would have 
 been by hardship. 
 
 But this leads me to notice a still 
 more exact and careful adjustment of 
 
 the law. The zones of the earth are as 
 much marked by difference of strength 
 and of wants in the inhabitants, as by 
 difference of heat in the climate. The 
 men of the torrid zone have not 
 the physical vigor of the Northmen. 
 The labor, therefore, that is light and 
 easy in the North, to the more delicate 
 frame and languid temperament of the 
 inhabitants of the torrid zone would be 
 an overwhelming task, crushing both 
 to body and mind. Accordingly their 
 wants are fewer. They require less 
 food, less clothing, less fuel, less expen- 
 sive buildings. In the northern regions, 
 where man is more vigorous, more pro- 
 tection is needed, and stronger diet, — 
 more of animal food. The Hindoo's 
 dish of rice would not suffice for the 
 hunter and miner on the steppes of 
 Siberia. To the Esquimaux and Green- 
 landers, a bountiful dish of whale oil 
 is said to be a delicacy. The Northern 
 voyagers. Parry and Franklin, found 
 that their crews were obliged to live 
 almost entirely on animal food ; they 
 lost vigor and cheerfulness without it, 
 — a fact worthy of some account with 
 our extreme dietetic systems. 
 
 And then observe, in fine, by what 
 means, by what agents, this general 
 adjustment of fertility is effected ; — 
 the air, the wind, the rain, the moulder- 
 ing forest leaves and disintegrated par- 
 ticles from the surface of mountain 
 rocks, the fire in the woods, the volcano 
 in the abyss. Wild elements, unde- 
 fined instruments, seemingly they are, 
 and yet they all conspire to produce a 
 certain degree of fertility. Any consid- 
 erable swaying either way, and that 
 balance would have been disturbed in 
 which the moral destinies of the world 
 are weighed. Truly, " the winds are 
 His angels, and the flaming fires His 
 ministers." Truly, " He weigheth the 
 mountains in scales, and the hills in a 
 balance." 
 
 Again, in the order of nature we see 
 a double purpose, — the one referring 
 to practical convenience, to the guid- 
 ance of daily action and industry ; the 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 551 
 
 other to the cultivation of the mind, 
 lying, indeed, at the foundation of all 
 science. Without the first we could 
 do nothing ; without the last we could 
 learn nothing. 
 
 The first purpose is answered by 
 many obvious arrangements. If the 
 sun did not daily rise and set ; if day 
 and night did not duly succeed each 
 other; if the year did not bring about 
 its circuit, and the seasons did not 
 revolve in fixed cycles; if summer and 
 winter, seedtime and harvest, did not 
 know their place ; if all the elements 
 did not obey certain laws ; if the fire 
 did not burn, nor water fall, nor food 
 nourish, nor the seed produce the plant, 
 nor the plant yield seed, with invariable 
 sequence, we could do nothing upon 
 any regular plan ; the whole action and 
 industry of life would be brought to 
 a stand. Throw all this into confu- 
 sion, and man would stand aghast, and 
 would soon sink and perish, the victim 
 of that boundless disorder. He cannot 
 take a step but by lines which nature 
 has drawn all around him for his guid- 
 ance. 
 
 But now let it be observed that the 
 order of nature is not limited to the 
 purpose of furnishing this palpable guid- 
 ance. Because the order of nature 
 embraces a thousand things which the 
 common eye cannot see, with which 
 common prudence has nothing to do. 
 The law, for instance, of definite pro- 
 portions in chemistry, — that is, that 
 so many parts of hydrogen mix with 
 so many parts of oxygen to form water, 
 and so in all the chemical compounds, 
 and that they will mix in no other than 
 certain definite proportions, — this has 
 nothing to do with the common uses of 
 water or iron, of lead or tin, in their 
 common forms. So the laws of crystal- 
 lization in minerals, by which gold takes 
 one form and quartz another ; the won- 
 derful system of genera and species in 
 plants and animals, the resemblances 
 and differences so marked ; and the geo- 
 metric laws that reign over the heavenly 
 bodies, — these have no palpable, prac- 
 
 tical uses. Then again, to go into the 
 animal creation, — though the horse, 
 the ass, and the ox had not stood 
 before us as distinct species ; though 
 their forms and qualities had been 
 blended and mixed in such utter con- 
 fusion tiiat it had been impossible 
 to classify them, still they could 
 have drawn loads and borne burdens. 
 Whereto then serves this order in na- 
 ture, which partitions it out into realms 
 and ranks ; which penetrates the most 
 secret cells of animal or vegetable lile 
 or mineral structure, and stretches its 
 sceptre over the boundless spheres of 
 heaven, and binds the universe in sub- 
 lime harmony ? The answer is, — to 
 teach man. I need not deny that it was 
 chosen for its own sake : but I say it has 
 this further advantage and purpose, — 
 to teach man. Only through this order 
 is science made possible. If it were 
 not for this order, and the scientific 
 classification founded upon it, the hu- 
 man mind would sink helpless amidst 
 boundless diversity and detail. Only 
 through this classification is any avail- 
 able language possible. The words ani- 
 mal, mineral, vegetable, beast, bird, 
 fish, stand now for distinct classes of 
 objects, bound together by definite affin- 
 ities. Break that bond ; make every 
 object to differ essentially from every 
 other ; and then every object, to be 
 pointed out, must have a different 
 name ; and the human mind would sink 
 as helpless beneath the burden of words 
 as beneath the burden of thoughts. 
 There are objects enough on your farm 
 or in your warehouse to occupy a Hfe 
 in learning to designate them ; the cata- 
 logue of your farm or warehouse would 
 be as large as a dictionary ; and every 
 other would require the same ; and the 
 metes and bounds of knowledge would 
 be as narrow as the metes and bounds 
 of your estate. A^ow nature spreads 
 itself before us as a volume, with its 
 books, and chapters, and sections ; but 
 let its order be broken up, and it would 
 be as a volume in which the words were 
 printed hap-hazard, without connection 
 
552 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 or consequence, without statement or 
 conclusion ; and we should learn com- 
 paratively nothing. 
 
 This is that sublime order, so attrac- 
 tive and beautiful that philosophers, 
 both ancient and modern, have endeav- 
 ored to resolve it into some one primor- 
 dial principle, — Pythagoras and Plato in- 
 to number or form ; the Germans, Schell- 
 ing and Hegel, into some subjective, 
 metaphysic law. Augusta Comte im- 
 agined at least that it may be reduced 
 to some principle in nature like gravi- 
 tation. Some such all-comprehending 
 unity is the dream of many minds still. 
 But fanciful or wise as the search may 
 be, certain it is that, without this sub- 
 lime order, the universe would not be a 
 temple of knowledge and worship, but 
 a Babel of utter confusion and frustra- 
 tion to all study and inquiry. 
 
 Finally, beauty in nature has a double 
 function, though somewhat less distinctly 
 marked. 
 
 The colors, green and blue, and the 
 neutral tints, scarcely less common, are 
 naturally agreeable to the eye ; and if 
 red and yellow were the pervading hues, 
 the organ of sight would be dazzled and 
 blinded by them. Then again variety, 
 both in color and form, is naturally 
 grateful; and if all the objects in nature 
 were of one shape and of one hue, no 
 prison could be so dreadful. To our 
 constitution, therefore, nature's garni- 
 ture is almost as necessary as her sub- 
 stantial supplies of food. 
 
 But the beauty of her works ministers 
 to purposes far beyond convenience, far 
 beyond utility. It is connected with 
 higher laws in us ; it touches a finer 
 sense than of good, than of advantage. 
 Beauty, to all who truly know it, is a 
 thing divine. Its treasures are poured 
 with lavish abundance through the 
 world, its banners are spread upon the 
 boundless air and sky, to entrance 
 the eye and soul with visions of more 
 than earthly loveliness. 
 
 The whole influence of nature's beauty, 
 and of all that is akin to its beauty, — 
 how manifestly is it divine ! It holds 
 
 no compact with anything base or low. 
 Man may mar and desecrate its fairest 
 scenes ; but he can never say to the 
 majesty or loveliness of nature, " Thou 
 hast tempted me ! " Wicked and hateful 
 passions may break out, — jarring upon 
 her sublime symphonies, disturbing her 
 holy quiet; but tiature has no part with 
 them. Did ever the grandeur of the 
 midnight heaven, or the thunder in 
 the sky, or the answering thunder of the 
 ocean beach, make any man proud .'' 
 Did the murmurings of the everlasting 
 sea, or the solemn dirge of the winter's 
 wind, or the voice of birds in spring, or 
 the flashing light of summer streams, or 
 the mountain's awful brow, or the vales 
 
 "Stretching in pensive quietness between," — 
 
 did ever these make any man rude or 
 ungentle ? Did ever the fulness and 
 loveliness of the creation, weighing 
 upon the human sense and soul almost 
 with an oppression of joy, make any 
 man selfish and grasping? No; the 
 true lovers of nature are never ignoble 
 nor mean. She would unnerve the op- 
 pressor's hand, or melt the miser's ice, 
 or cool the voluptuary's fever, this hour, 
 if he would open his heart to her trans- 
 forming companionship. 
 
 Nor are the treasures of her beauty 
 yet half explored. A finer culture of 
 the senses and soul will unfold new 
 wonders. " What powers," says Her- 
 der, "are there in each one of our senses, 
 which only necessity, sickness, accident, 
 or the failure of the other senses, brings 
 to light ! The blind man's acuteness of 
 hearing and touch seems at times almost 
 miraculous. May it not be a hint of 
 what is possible to all the senses, — of 
 powers yet undeveloped in us ? Bishop 
 Berkeley observes," he continues, "that 
 light is the language of God, of which 
 the most perfect of our senses can yet 
 spell but a few elements " * Looking at 
 (hat grand kaleidoscope made on the 
 back of the pianoforte, and which doubt- 
 less many of you have seen, I was led 
 to think of these undeveloped powers 
 
 * The Philosophy of Humanity. 
 
 J 
 
 i 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 3 J 
 
 of sense, and what visions of supernal 
 o-lory may yet be opened to the eye. 
 What unfolding wonders s/ia// yet burst 
 upon us ; what pictures shall be un- 
 rolled to the vision of purer natures ; 
 what seals shall be taken from the great 
 deeps of beauty, it may not be for us 
 to know in this world. Our sense is 
 dim. our power feeble; the present rev- 
 elation, I suppose, is all that we can 
 bear. But the time may come when 
 there shall visit us melodies such as 
 were never drank in by the ravished ear, 
 sights such as never entranced mortal 
 eye ; when perpetual raptures may be 
 felt without exhaustion ; when lofty 
 states of mind, such as noble genius 
 and heroism inspire, may become the 
 habit of the soul, and ecstasy may crowd 
 on ecstasy forever. 
 
 Full of moral influence, full of proph- 
 ecy, full of religion, is the true sense 
 of beauty. When I sit down in a sum- 
 mer's day, with the shade of trees 
 around me, and the wind rustling in 
 their leaves ; when I look upon a fair 
 landscape, — upon meadows and streams 
 stealing away through and behind the 
 clustering groves ; when the sun goes 
 
 down behind the dark mountains or 
 beyond the glorious sea, and fills and 
 flushes the deeps of the western sky 
 with purple and gold; when, through 
 the gates of parting day, other worlds, 
 other heavens, come to view, — spheres 
 so distant that it takes the light thou- 
 sands of years to reach us : then only 
 one word is great enough to embrace 
 all the wonder — God ! Beautifully says 
 a great poet, and no less justly : — 
 
 " He looked — 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth, 
 ■And ocean's liciuid mass, beneath him lay. 
 In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were 
 
 touched, 
 And in their silent faces did he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 Nor any voice of joy : his spirit drank 
 The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and form 
 All melted into him; they swallowed up 
 His animal being ; in them did he live. 
 And by them did he live; they were his life. 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought vvas not : in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still communion, that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
 That made him." 
 
 LECTURE IV. 
 
 THE BODY AND THE SOUL, OR MAN's PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION 
 THE MINISTRY OF THE SENSES AND APPETITES. 
 
 The body and the soul — the relation 
 of the body to the soul — the ministry 
 of the body to the soul — this is the 
 subject of tlie lecture before us : and I 
 say at once that it is my wish and pur- 
 pose to vindicate man's physical organ- 
 ization from the charge that it is naturally 
 low and debasing, or was ever meant to 
 be so ; that it is my wish and purpose, 
 in approaching this heaven-built sanc- 
 tuary of the soul, to offer, not scorn and 
 desecration, but reverence and worship. 
 
 There are two kinds of houses that a 
 
 man lives in. There is the house that 
 the carpenter built. And there is ^/u's 
 house, that God hath built for the spirit's 
 dwelling. The former is built for an 
 end ; for the use, for the accommoda- 
 tion, and, justly considered, for the moral 
 cultivation of its inhabitant. Can we 
 suppose less of the latter ? The body 
 is an organic structure, with a thousand- 
 fold more contrivance in it than a house, 
 or a whole city of houses. But organi- 
 zation is a means to an end. Now this 
 relation is what I understand by the 
 
554 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 term philosophy : and I might have said, 
 that my lecture this evening is on the 
 philosophy of the human organization, 
 .■senses, and appetites. 
 
 Let me pause upon this point a mo- 
 ment ; for I must try to keep distinctly 
 before your minds the object of these 
 lectures, and to make it constantly ap- 
 pear how legitimate, practical, and im- 
 portant that object is ; nay, of what 
 interest it is to all thoughtful persons. 
 
 Organization, I say, is a means to an 
 end ; and the perception of this relation 
 is philosophy. The philosophy of a 
 thing is the knowledge of the end to ' 
 be answered by that thing, and of the 
 means embraced in it to accompHsh 
 that end. 
 
 1 confess that I am somewhat tired of 
 hearing this word, /////<?i-<7//y. It was 
 formerly a mystery ; then, afterward, it 
 was a terror to religion and faith ; and 
 now, perhaps, it has become a weari- 
 ness. We have philosophies of every- 
 thing. Nevertheless, this constant repe- 
 tition of the word, this fixed direction of 
 thouglit, I hold to be a very remarkable 
 sign, ay, and a very good sign of the 
 time. 
 
 That which is indicated by it is im- 
 measurably the highest kind of knowl- 
 edge. Observe that the two elements 
 must go together. The knowledge of 
 the means by itself, or of the end by 
 itself, is not philosophy, but a very in- 
 ferior thing. Thus, for example, a man 
 may understand the end or use of a ma- 
 chine, engine, or implement, without un- 
 derstanding the organization or adjust- 
 ment of its parts ; and then he is not a 
 philosopher, but a mere handicraftsman. 
 Or he may consider the parts alone ; he 
 may pore over the details of an instru- 
 ment, the mere isolated facts, — and so 
 of the great system of nature and life, 
 — and go no further, think nothing of 
 an ultimate aim, nothing of order, plan, 
 or purpose ; and then he is not a phi- 
 losopher, but a mere matter-of-fact man. 
 He who comprehends both the means 
 and the end — sees the parts with their 
 relations, and the result — is in that 
 
 regard a philosopher. He may never 
 have thought of caUing himself such ; he 
 is perhaps a humble laborer in the field 
 of life ; but he is, in relation to one thing, 
 and may be to many more, a philosopher. 
 Suppose, to illustrate slill further the 
 superiority of this kind of knowledge, 
 that a small section from the great field 
 of nature were offered for inspection, 
 and that it were a quarry of granite. 
 The examiner enters it, and ascertains 
 what may be called \\-\^ facts presented ; 
 that is to say, he discovers and distin- 
 guishes the tiiree elements, — quartz, 
 feldspar, and mica. But if he knows 
 nothing further, if all his knowledge 
 and thought are shut up in the heart of 
 this quarry, of what interest can it be to 
 him ? He might as well know anything 
 else, or know nothing. But now sup- 
 pose that he goes out into the world of 
 adaptations and uses ; that he sees the 
 bedded rock as a material for building ; 
 and further, that he marks upon its up- 
 per surface how its particles are crum- 
 bling away into a soil ; and then traces 
 that soil through vegetable, through 
 animal, through human life, to all the 
 majestic purposes for which man and 
 nature are made ; what then does he 
 say ? " Philosophy ! " — might he not 
 exclaim, — " well art thou called divine ; 
 for thou dost unbar the gates of wis- 
 dom, and pour light and beauty through 
 the world." 
 
 So regarded, the action of life would 
 become thought, and its experience, 
 wisdom. Some tendency of this kind, 
 I believe, is to be observed at this day. 
 The world is entering upon that state of 
 early manhood whose natural impulse it 
 is to ask the reasons of things ; and 1 
 cannot but think that this word, phi- 
 losophy, so often repeated, so often 
 printed, heading and lettering so many 
 books, is like a blazoned banner, going 
 before and leading on a nobler progress 
 than the world has yet seen. 
 
 To proceed now with the subject of 
 this lecture: I have already explained 
 to you that my theme is not Natural 
 Theology, not a discussion or illustra- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 555 
 
 tion of the Divine Perfections as mani- 
 fested in nature and life. We do, 
 indeed, teach all this indirectly ; it is 
 the grandest interest of this subject, as 
 it is of every subject of high philoso- 
 pliy; but our specific object is to show 
 how things in nature and life, and so 
 in the human organization, senses, and 
 appetites, are framed to answer a cer- 
 tain purpose, — to minister to the high- 
 est of all purposes, the culture of the 
 human soul. 
 
 Now the human frame has much in 
 common with the animal organism. All 
 this, though it abundantly manifests me 
 wisdom and goodness of the Creator, 
 and would demand attention in a system 
 of Natural Theology, I shall leave out 
 of the account, save and in so far as it 
 serves especially to elicit and train the 
 human faculties. With the benefit of 
 this exception, we may fairly say that 
 the eye and the ear, though common to 
 man and animal, have for man a pecul- 
 iar, that is to say, a mental and moral 
 instrumentality. In considering the min- 
 istry of the body to the soul, I shall 
 keep in mind this distinction between 
 the liuman and animal organization, be- 
 cause it touches the very point in hand. 
 The animal organism ministers to in- 
 stinct merely ; the human, to intellect 
 and moral culture. Take, for instance, 
 the sense of touch, which animals pos- 
 sess, indeed, but in a degree so inferior 
 that, comparatively, they may be said 
 not to possess it at all. If, instead of 
 this sensitive vesture of feeling, man 
 had been clothed with hide and hair 
 and hoof, the human soul had been im- 
 prisoned in obstruction and stupor. It 
 is the mother's caress that first wakes 
 the infant soul to life. The fond em- 
 i)race is the earliest nurture of affection 
 and seal of friendship. In all the ani- 
 mal world there is no kiss. The grasp 
 of the hand — all over the world the 
 sign of comity and kindness — is a sig- 
 nificant token of the human destiny; it 
 is the sign-manual upon the great char- 
 ter of human brotherliood. Shaking 
 hands, — it may be a very wearisome 
 
 thing to a popular favorite in a Ion'-- 
 summer's day, it may seem to many a 
 very unmeaning ceremony, but it links 
 and binds the race in the bonds of 
 moral fraternity. But the whole frame, 
 too, is thus sensitive. The air that falls 
 upon it in softer than veils of down 
 breathes exquisite pleasure through 
 every pore. The sense of touch, the 
 eldest-born and earliest teacher of all 
 the rest, imparts in fact a character to 
 all the other senses, and to the whole 
 nature ; so that I am tempted to say 
 that the delicacy or torpor of this or- 
 ganization is, for auy child, one of the 
 clearest prognostics of his future de- 
 velopment ; and I doubt whether a man, 
 who can let a fly walk all over his face 
 without knowing it, though deep powers 
 and passions may dwell within, is ever 
 a man of fine, quick, and sympathetic 
 sensibility. 
 
 Next, the faculty of speech is pecul- 
 iar to man. This is given for ex- 
 pression ; but mark that it is given 
 for the expression and culture of higher 
 things than are found in animal natures. 
 Much may be revealed, it is true, in 
 dumb show, in pantomime, or by in- 
 articulate cries ; and animals do this : 
 and man's most ordinary wants could 
 be so expressed ; and those who main- 
 tain that speech was an immediate, 
 divine gift to man from his Creator, 
 because it was an immediate necessity, 
 seem to me to overlook this fact, be- 
 sides that a miracle is not to be sup- 
 posed where a miracle is unnecessary ; 
 and I have known two children playing 
 by themselves for a single summer to 
 form a language of their own. Neither 
 dumb show, however, nor childish prat- 
 tle suffices for the higher wants of hu- 
 manity. For the finer discriminations 
 of thought and feeling, for the opening 
 and culture of the human understand- 
 ing, cultivated speech is necessary ; and 
 such, we cannot doubt, is its special 
 office. 
 
 I cannot altogether pass over the won- 
 der of this thing in our humanity, though 
 I must not dwell upon it. Language, 
 
556 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 the breath of all human thought, the 
 living tissue of all human communica- 
 tion, the telegraphic line that stretches 
 through thousands of years, the texture 
 into which are woven the character and 
 history of nations and ages, all other 
 devices, all other arts, sink in compari- 
 son with this grand instrument, at once 
 of Divine intelligence and human in- 
 genuity, — the common speech of men. 
 To describe the organs of speech, their 
 structure, relations, and action ; and 
 then the corresponding organ that re- 
 ceives it, the ear ; and then the medium 
 of speech, the subtile and elastic air, 
 would require ample treatises. And yet 
 the act of an instant calls all these 
 agencies into play. A man utters a 
 word, but one word ; and a volume 
 could not describe all that has been 
 concentrated in that utterance. Nor 
 to one ear alone does the utterance 
 pass, but to many. A man utters a 
 word ; and instantly it breaks, as it 
 were, into a thousand particles, which 
 pass like sunbeams through the air, and 
 in one moment of time print an intel- 
 ligible thought upon the minds of thou- 
 sands. And the might of speech, the 
 power given to a word, the living 
 strength that girds a man when his 
 whole nature speaks out, — there is no 
 force in the world that is felt like that. 
 Justly, therefore, is the power of God 
 represented by a word. " By the word 
 of the Lord were the heavens made, 
 and ah the host of them by the breath 
 of His mouth." 
 
 There is another peculiarity in man, 
 of a totally opposite, and yet perhaps of 
 a no less significant character ; and that 
 is laughter. Some men question much 
 about recreation ; whether they will have 
 it or have it not ; whether they will ad- 
 mit it into their plan. But Heaven has 
 sentit into their plan ; and they must have 
 it, whether they will or not. Nay, they 
 laugh about nothing, too which makes 
 it yet more significant in this view. But 
 laughter has a still further and higher 
 significance. It is the expression of the 
 mind's freest enjoyment. It is like the 
 
 clapping of hands in an assembly, — the 
 riotous outbreak in us of pleasure, de- 
 light, sympathy. It is healthful, too, I 
 might say, by the bye. It helps more 
 to digest a dinner than old wine or any- 
 thing else fancied to help it. But its 
 highest office is in the delicacy of appre- 
 hension which it indicates. There are 
 twenty kinds of laughter, with as many 
 meanings. Laughter is the relish of wit, 
 the mockery of folly, the utterance of 
 joy, the murmur of approbation, the 
 shout of welcome. It expresses what 
 words cannot. It is the flower that 
 bursts from the hard, logical stem of talk. 
 Sad were the life in which there was no 
 laughter ; sad and bad, I should fear. 
 Men do not laugh when they are medi- 
 tating wicked deeds ; the guilty face is 
 serious enough, — stern or livid with its 
 seriousness. Sad were the life to which 
 nothing ludicrous ever presented itself ; 
 it were scarcely human. In fact, laugh- 
 ter is perhaps the most distinctive visible 
 mark of our humanity. If an anomalous 
 or masked being were presented before 
 us, concerning which we doubted wheth- 
 er it was a man, — that which would most 
 immediately decide the point in his 
 favor would be a burst of laughter. 
 There are sighs and screams, and there 
 is singing in the animal world, but not 
 laughter. 
 
 There are other peculiarities in the 
 human organization to be noticed. 
 
 One is the countenance. • You can 
 conceive, though perhaps with difficulty, 
 that on striking an ox or a dog with a 
 cruel blow, the animal might turn around 
 upon you, with a distinctly human ex- 
 pression of indignation or reproach, as 
 much as to say, " I have my thoughts, 
 and this is cruel." If no other feature 
 could express that, the eye might. It 
 does not ; that power is r\oi given to the 
 animal face : if it were, it would be such 
 a metamorphosis as would fill us with 
 terror, and would penetrate with horror 
 every reckless or savage abuser of the 
 uncomplaining dumb creatures that God 
 has given for his service. But man is 
 made to stand erect, and the crowning 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 557 
 
 glory of Iiis person is a countenance 
 every lineament of which is clothed with 
 moral expression. The lowering brow 
 of defiance, the cheek blanched with in- 
 ch 2;nation, the eye challenging truth, or 
 killing with accusation, or veiled and 
 shaded with softening pity, the winning 
 sweetness of smiles, the whole manifold 
 mirror of radiant goodness and honor, — 
 all is moral ministration. And indeed, 
 speaking of smiles, I think I never saw 
 a smile that was not beautiful. Hardly 
 less remarkable, perhaps, is the circum- 
 stance of every man's face being his own, 
 clearly distinguishable from all others. 
 We see the inconvenience, and some- 
 times fatal inconvenience, of not being 
 able to distinguish one man from "an- 
 other in the very few and rare cases of 
 remarkable resemblance. If this were 
 common, it would hardly be too much 
 to say that the intercourse, the business, 
 the very civilization of the world must 
 stop. Not to know certainly whom we 
 talked with, whom we traded with, who 
 had told us or promised us this or that, 
 whom we had married or who our chil- 
 dren were, — the world would be thrown 
 into utter confusion, and all good re- 
 lations would become impossible. To 
 prevent this, there is achieved in the 
 human countenance what seems to me 
 scarcely short of a miracle. Here it is, 
 — a little patch of white ground, nine 
 inches long and six wide, with the parts 
 the same, the configuration the same, and 
 the hues generally the same ; and yet, if 
 all the hundreds of millions of the human 
 race were brought together, every man 
 could pick out from them all his friend, 
 with a certainty equal to that of his own 
 identity. 
 
 Finally, the human hand is to be men- 
 tioned. It serves, indeed, one of the 
 purposes of the animal claw or forefoot, 
 i.e., to obtain food. Taking into ac- 
 count the forearm, the arm, and shoulder, 
 it is worthy of note that a similar for- 
 mation prevails throughout the entire an- 
 imal economy, as if nothing more perfect 
 could be devised. That is to say, there 
 are the scapulae or shoulder blades, the 
 
 j clavicles or collar-bones to keep them 
 I from pressing upon the chest, the arm, 
 the forearm, and the hand, claw, or hoof, 
 as the case may be. The same general 
 construction is found in the fins of the 
 fish, the wings of the bird, and the fore- 
 leg of the quadruped. But in man, this 
 organ, I do not say, comes to its per- 
 fection, — for all is perfection, evecy ani- 
 mal has that which is best for itself, — 
 but this organ comes in man to an- 
 swer purposes peculiar to himself ; and 
 most of these are mental and moral. 
 " The indefeasible cunning " that lies in 
 the right hand has more to do than to 
 procure food. For instance, it has to 
 fashion clothing, without which there 
 could not be comfort in all climates, nor 
 civilization in any. No animal could 
 cut cloth, or sew it, or thread the needle. 
 Then, again, all the practical arts depend 
 upon the hand, — building, the use of 
 tools, all skill in making fabrics, which 
 is called /najmia-Cixarmg. Then, all the 
 fine arts require the hand, — painting, 
 sculpture, music. Then, once more, all 
 writing is handwriting. All human com- 
 munication, beyond that which is oral, 
 all literature, all books, all works of 
 genius, all the grandest agencies in the 
 world, depend upon the hand. Yes, in 
 the human hand lies the whole moral 
 fortune, the whole civilization, the whole 
 progress of humanity. The right arm 
 is a lever that moves the world. 
 
 I have thus spoken of certain parts 
 of the human organism as superior to 
 the animal, and as evidently intended to 
 answer a higher purpose, — touch, speech, 
 laughter, the human face and hand. Let 
 us now consider, in the next place, the 
 general ministry of the senses, appetites, 
 and passions. 
 
 Some of you, I have no doubt, will feel, 
 when you hear these words, appetites 
 and passions, as if I named things that 
 are not friends, but enemies, to human 
 culture. You have associated with them 
 perha])s only ideas of temptation. But 
 in the good order of Providence, I am 
 persuaded it will always be found that 
 temptation and ministration go together, 
 
558 
 
 THE PROBLExM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 and that ministration is the end, and 
 temptation only the incident. Temp- 
 tation is but another word for strong 
 attraction to a thing ; that attraction is 
 necessary, and was never meant to be 
 injurious, but useful. I do not say, there- 
 fore, with some, that powerful passions 
 and appetites were placed in man on 
 purpose to try his virtue, but that they 
 were placed there for other ends ; that 
 they are, in fact, a necessary part of the 
 human economy ; and that the trial is 
 purely incidental, and in fact unavoid- 
 able. Just as fire was not meant to burn 
 the house, nor, as the main intent, to 
 make the keepers vigilant, but simply to 
 warm it, though it could not warm with- 
 out being liable to burn it. 
 
 I shall solicit attention particularly to 
 this part of the human economy, to these 
 fires of appetite and passion in the house 
 of life, because here arises the only 
 moral question about our sensitive con- 
 stitution ; and I am persuaded the ques- 
 tion can be met. But I ask the inquirer 
 to see, in general, what his simple senses 
 teach him. I ask him to consider his 
 own physical frame, fearfully and won- 
 derfully made, as the very shrine of wise 
 and good teaching, and to listen to the 
 oracle that comes from within. Ay, to. 
 the oracle ; but remember, it is when 
 nature's flame burns upon the altar, and 
 not the strange fire of idolatrous passion. 
 I appeal to nature against sensualism, 
 and am willing to risk the cause of vir- 
 tue on that issue. I will show you — I 
 think, at least, I can show, that simple, 
 natural appetite it is not, that leads to 
 vicious and ruinous excess, but some- 
 thing else. I concede the liberty in our 
 physical constitution — provided it be 
 truly understood — to follow nature. 
 
 " Fatal concession ! " 1 hear it said. 
 " Fatal concession ! " exclaim both an- 
 cient philosophy and modern religion. 
 "What can the body teach, but evil, 
 error, excess, vice ? " 
 
 Let us see. You find yourself pos- 
 sessed with a nature other than your 
 spiritual nature ; different from it, in- 
 ferior to it ; and you hastily conclude 
 
 that because its qualities are lower, its 
 uses must be lower, and its tendencies 
 all downward. You say, or think, per- 
 haps, that if your being were a purely 
 spiritual essence, you would be free 
 from all swayings to evil. But how 
 do you know that ? Nay, keener than 
 the temptations of sense itself are the 
 spiritual passions, — ambition, envy, re- 
 venge, and malignant hate. You im- 
 agine that if your present frame were 
 exchanged for some ethereal body, you 
 would have passed out of the sphere of 
 evil and peril. That, again, you do not 
 know. Come, then, to the simple fact, 
 and let it stand unprejudiced by any 
 theory or any fancy or any comparison. 
 God has given to us, in the present 
 stage of our being, this body, this 
 wonderful frame. Sinews and ligaments 
 bind it together, such as no human skill 
 could ever have devised. Telegraphic 
 nerves run all over and through this 
 microcosm, this little world, and bear 
 mysterious messages, vital as thought 
 and swift as sunbeams. Now I say 
 that these are all moral bonds, good 
 ministries, channels meant to inform 
 and replenish the soul, and not to clog 
 or corrupt it. 
 
 1 hardly need say this, in the first 
 place, of the five distinct senses, — touch, 
 taste, smell, sight, hearing. They are 
 the mind's instruments to communicate 
 with the outward world ; instruments 
 so varied as to convey every kind of 
 information ; servants that need not 
 to be sent to and fro on errands, but 
 that statid as perpeiital ministrants, — 
 before the gates of morning, and amidst 
 the melody of groves, and by the bow- 
 ers of fragrance, and at the feast of 
 nature, and wherever the pressure of 
 breathing life and beauty comes to ask 
 admission to the soul. The body is a 
 grand harmonicon, a panharmonicon, 
 strung with chords for all the music of 
 nature. Serving all needful purposes 
 also, — to walk, to run, to move from 
 place to place ; to work, to achieve 
 more than all animal organisms together 
 can do; it is, at the same time, an 
 
 I 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 559 
 
 organon scicntiarum, an organ of all 
 knowledge. It is more than a walk- 
 ing library, it is a walking perception — 
 of things that no library can teach ; it 
 is a walking vision — of things that no 
 language can describe : like the wheels 
 that appeared to the rapt Ezekiel, full 
 of eyes within and without. 
 
 All this, then, it will not be denied, 
 is good and useful ministration to the 
 mind. One might as well inveigh 
 against a telescope or an ear-trumpet, 
 as against the eye or ear. 
 
 But now to this system belong certain 
 distinct susceptibilities, which are not 
 classed under the head of senses ; these 
 are called appetites. Such, for instance, 
 is hunger : or, in other words, the gen- 
 eral relish for food and drink, which, 
 when denied for a certain time, becomes 
 hunger or thirst. I have before alluded 
 to the uses of this particular appetite, 
 but I wish to say a word further and 
 more distinctly of it in this connection. 
 
 You can easily conceive that a being 
 might have been made without this 
 appetite, — made to move, to act, to 
 live, but not to eat. Or you can con- 
 ceive that he might have had the relish 
 for agreeable food and drink, without 
 the intolerable pain he feels when they 
 are long denied. Why, then, this pain ? 
 I look upon it as a distinct provision, 
 designedly, and, if I may say so, gratui- 
 tously put into the system, to arouse 
 man from indolence, to arouse him to 
 activity. I look upon it just as if na- 
 ture had provided a whip ; just as if 
 there were an organ attached to the 
 human body as the arm is, and fashioned 
 like a scourge, and, when the man is 
 sinking to ruinous indolence, lifting it- 
 self up and striking him with a blow, 
 to stir him to action. It is a sting, and 
 answers that purpose. And, moreover, 
 it is a stimulus exactly adjusted to the 
 strength of the agent, and also to the 
 means of gratification. If hunger re- 
 turned every hour, instead of two or 
 three times a day, human sinews could 
 not bear it, nor provide for it, nor the 
 world-supply of food suffice it. 
 
 And is it a point too low for phi- 
 losophy to observe, furthermore, that 
 hunger, with the peculiar needs of that 
 appetite in man, promotes social inter- 
 course ? I say, with the peculiar needs 
 of that appetite in man : for his food 
 must be cooked. He cannot pursue his 
 prey or pull up his root, like the wild 
 animal, and eat it on the spot, alone. 
 He must bring it hoine, he must have 
 arrangements for cookery ; and the con- 
 venience of this process makes it almost 
 necessary that families should assemble 
 at certain times of the day and eat to- 
 gether. I am persuaded that we little 
 suspect the immense social and civil- 
 izing effect of these daily gatherings 
 around the social board. 
 
 Bift admitting that the appetites have 
 their uses, — which is the first position 
 I take, — it is said, nevertheless, that 
 they have bad tendencies, — tendencies 
 to excess, to vice, to ruin. On this 
 point there is, in the second place, a 
 most important distinction to be made, 
 and that is, between appetite in its sim- 
 ple, natural state, and appetite in its 
 artificial and unnatural state, — a state 
 brought on by voluntary habit and cor- 
 rupting imagination and mental desti- 
 tution ; for which man's will is respon- 
 sible, and not his constitution. Look, 
 then, at simple, unsophisticated, un- 
 perverted appetite. Is the draught of 
 intemperance, or the surfeit of glut- 
 tony, naturally agreeable ? Far other- 
 wise. Moreover, ail those stimulant 
 and narcotic substances and those rich 
 condiments, of which excess makes its 
 principal use, are naturally distasteful 
 and disgusting in the highest degree. 
 I do not say that even they were cre- 
 ated in vain, or must necessarily be 
 injurious, for everything is good in its 
 place and degree, — even poison is so; 
 but I say that there is no natural de- 
 mand for these strong stiinulants. On 
 the contrary, fever in the veins, poison 
 in the blood, sickness, nausea, are re- 
 monstrances of simple appetite, remon- 
 strances of nature against them ; and 
 show me what diseased and vicious pas- 
 
560 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 sion you will, and I will show you that 
 it is the mind's guilt, and not the body's 
 defect ; that it is not the passion let 
 alone, still less duly controlled by the 
 higher nature. It is not nature, but 
 bad example or companionship, that 
 leads to evil. It is imagination that 
 nurses passion into criminal desire. 
 There is a natural modesty which unhal- 
 lowed license always has to overcome. 
 Let no man lay that flattering unction 
 to his soul that God has made him to 
 love evil, — made vice and baseness to 
 be naturally agreeable to him, — lor it 
 is not true ! 
 
 But these appetites, besides their 
 general uses, and besides their natural 
 innocence, seem to me, in the third 
 place, to bear a specific relation tb the 
 mind. They are urgent teachers. 
 
 They teach, first, moderation. They 
 teach the necessity of self-restraint, of 
 self-denial. I have no doubt that a 
 being not clothed with flesh, a pure 
 spiritual essence, would feel the neces- 
 sity of self-restraint ; but if any physi- 
 cal organization belonging to an intel- 
 lectual nature could be made to enforce 
 this law, it appears to me it would be 
 that of our human senses and appetites, 
 because it is manifest that their un- 
 restrained indulgence works the direst 
 ruin to the whole nature. What ! does 
 this our sensitive frame teach lessons 
 of evil, lessons of vice? God and na- 
 ture forbid ! Open, patent, everlasting 
 fact teaches the very contrary. The 
 woes of intemperance, gluttony, licen- 
 tiousness, excess, are the very horrors 
 and calamities of the world in every 
 age. They are so horrible that we dare 
 not describe them. Here, then, is " elder 
 Scripture writ by God's own hand," 
 written before ever voice was heard on 
 Sinai or by the shores of Galilee, writ- 
 ten all over the human frame, and within 
 every folded leaf of that wonderful sys- 
 tem. Yes, upon the ghastly form it is 
 written, and upon the burning cheek, 
 and deep in the branching arteries, and 
 along the secret and invisible nerves is 
 it written ; and sometimes you may read 
 
 the writing by the literal alcoholic fires 
 kindled in the veins, which with visible 
 flame burn up the man, and sometimes 
 by such haggard lines of deformity as 
 nothing but the worst license of vice 
 ever drew upon the human frame. I 
 once saw in Paris a collection of wax 
 figures taken from life, and designed to 
 present such an illustration. 1 do not 
 wish to speak of it, nor of the vice 
 illustrated, nor of the nightmare horror 
 felt by the beholder for hours after it 
 is seen ; but it seemed to me that no 
 preaching on earth was ever like that 
 silent gallery. 
 
 You must have patience with me, my 
 friends, for I must overthrow entirely, 
 and utterly demolish, this plea of the 
 senses for vice. My argument for the 
 ministry of the senses and appetites 
 cannot stand at all unless I do that. 
 The truth is, the senses, fittest for vir- 
 tue, happiest in innocence, are only 
 capable of vice, — that is all ; but no 
 conceivable organization could be sur- 
 rounded with more tremendous remon- 
 strances against evil. So the mind is 
 capable of evil, and- so is the mind, too, 
 guarded ; and it might as well be said 
 that the mind seduces to ill as that the 
 body does, — nay, I think better, — with 
 far more reason. But because sensual 
 aberration is more apparent, and the 
 effects are more visible, therefore the 
 world, with little insight as yet into the 
 truth of things, has agreed tu charge 
 this fact of temptation especially upon 
 the body. It would be coming nearer 
 to the truth to say that the mind is the 
 real culprit. 
 
 What are the comparatively poor, 
 puny, and innocent senses, but ser- 
 vants of the mind, compelled to do 
 its bidding ? I know it is a doctrine 
 of old time that the body does all tlie 
 mischief; that the body is the enemy 
 of the mind, a clog, an encumbrance, 
 a corrupter. The pliilosopher Plotinus 
 affected to have forgotten his birthplace 
 and parentage, because, says Porphyry. 
 *' he was ashamed that his soul was in 
 a body." He imagined that the mind 
 
 1 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 56r 
 
 had good cause to complain of the 
 body ; but I believe it would not be 
 difficult, and scarcely fanciful, to set 
 forth a counter plea. " I have wan- 
 dered," might the substance of the 
 body say to the mind, — "I have wan- 
 dered tiirough all the regions of exist- 
 ence, and never was abused till I came 
 in contact with you. I have made a 
 part of animal natures, that were in- 
 nocent ; I have lived in the beautiful 
 forms of vegetable life ; I have flowed 
 in the streams and sported in the air, 
 all purity and freshness and freedom; 
 and never, till I was subjected to your 
 influence, was I breathed upon by any 
 bad spirit ; never till then was I tainted 
 by the diseases of vice, or made a loath- 
 some mass of sin-wrought corruption ; 
 never till then was my nature perverted 
 from its uses and made the instrument 
 of evil." 
 
 But to speak most seriously : what a 
 wonderful moral structure is our physi- 
 cal frame ! If a command to be pure 
 were written, imprinted in visible let- 
 ters, upon every limb and muscle, it 
 could not be a clearer mandate, and 
 by no means so powerful. It was said 
 to the mad and rebellious Saul, " It 
 is hard for thee to kick against the 
 thorns." Such a message comes in- 
 deed from no open vision, but from his 
 inmost frame, to every raging volup- 
 tuary. Thorns and tortures does it 
 shoot out against him from every part. 
 If, every time he indulged in any ex- 
 cess, he were covered with nettles and 
 stings, the intimation would not be a 
 whit more monitory than it is now. 
 
 How different is it with the animal ! 
 You may feed him to repletion, you 
 may fatten him into a monster, and 
 there is no disease, no suffering ; there 
 is only enjoyment ; and so far as he is 
 destined for food, he is the more fitted 
 for his purpose. But if you do this to 
 man, disease and pain enter in at every 
 pore. 
 
 The ancient philosophers, in their 
 theories, desecrated matter ; the mod- 
 erns, and especially the sensual school 
 
 36 
 
 in France, have deified it. They boldly 
 proclaimed, — I speak of the French in- 
 fidel philosophers of the latter part of 
 the eighteenth century, — they boldly 
 proclaimed matter to be the true divin- 
 ity, the human frame its altar, and the 
 appetites its priesthood. Selfishness 
 with them was the only motive, sensa- 
 tion the only good, and life a bowing 
 down in worship to the appropriate 
 divinity. But whoever tries that the- 
 ory will find that matter is indeed a 
 god too powerful for him ; the fleshly 
 altar will be burned up and destroyed 
 by the strange fire that is laid upon it ; 
 and the priests, the appetites, will per- 
 ish in that profane ministration. 
 
 The Government builds prisons for 
 culprits, and protects the honest house. 
 All men pronounce that to be a moral 
 administration. But what if, when 
 wrong was perpetrated in the honest 
 house, and it had become the habitation 
 of the base and vile, it should, by 
 some wonder-working intervention of 
 the Government, grow dark and deso- 
 late, and should gradually turn into a 
 prison, — the windows narrowing year 
 by year, and grated bars growing over 
 them ; the rooms, the ceilings, slowly 
 darkening; the aspects of cheerful and 
 comfortable abode gradually disappear- 
 ing, and gloom and filth coming instead, 
 and silence, broken only by the sobs 
 and moans of prisoners, or the sadder 
 sound of cursing and revelling ? Such — 
 mark it well! — becomes the body, the 
 more immediate house of life, to every 
 abandoned transgressor ! Not alone 
 the mount that burned with fire ut- 
 ters the commandment of God ; not 
 alone the tabernacle of Moses, covered 
 with cloud and shaken with thunder ; but 
 this cloud-tabernacle of life which God 
 has erected for the spirit's dwelling, and 
 the electric nerves that dart sensation 
 like lightning through it, — all its won- 
 ders, all its mysteries, all its veiled 
 secrets, all its familiar recesses, are full 
 of urgent and momentous teaching. 
 
 But there is something further to 
 be observed concerning this teaching; 
 
562 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 there is one respect in which it is yet 
 more urgent. For it demands not only 
 moderation and self-denial, but activity : 
 it forbids not only excess, but indolence. 
 It demands of those who do not la- 
 bor, daily, out-of-door exercise, — not a 
 lounge in a carriage only, but a walk, 
 or some bracing exercise in the open 
 air, — demands that, or says, '• Pay for 
 your neglect" Some inuring, some 
 h irdness, — hardship, if they please to 
 call it, — nature exacts even of the 
 gentlest of its children. The world 
 was not built to be a hot-house, but a 
 gymnasium rather. Voluptuous repose, 
 luxurious protection, enervating food 
 and modes of life, are not the good con- 
 dition, not the permitted resort, for our 
 physical nature. Half of the physician's 
 task, with many, is to fight offthe effects 
 of such abuses. The laws of the hu- 
 man constitution are moral laws ; they 
 address, the conscience, the moral na- 
 ture ; they exact penalties for neglect. 
 And doubtless the penalties are severe. 
 That is not nature's fault, but nature's 
 excellence. Doubtless the penalties 
 are severe. 1 am persuaded, indeed, 
 that if they could be enumerated ; if all 
 the languid and heavy pulses could be 
 numbered ; if all the miseries of ner- 
 vous and diseased sensation could be 
 defined ; if all that could be described 
 which surrounds us with wasted forms, 
 or sequesters them in silent chambers, 
 an aggregate of ills could be found 
 which would match the statistics of 
 pauperism or of intemperance itself. I 
 believe there is less suffering among 
 the idler and more luxurious classes, 
 from violent disorders, than from those 
 chronic and nervous ailments, which do 
 not always inflict acute pain, which 
 do not alarm us for the patient, — well 
 if they did ! — but which enfeeble the 
 energies, destroy the elasticity of the 
 frame, undermine the very constitution 
 of the body ; which depress the spirits, 
 too, wear out the patience, sour the 
 temper, cloud the vision of nature, dis- 
 robe society of its beauty and despoil 
 it of its gladness, and send their victim 
 
 to the grave at last, from a life which 
 has been one long sigh. And all might 
 have been prevented by one brisk daily- 
 walk in the open air. 
 
 This subject — and 1 mean now this 
 whole subject of the right training 
 and care of the body — is. one, I con- 
 ceive, of unappreciated importance. 
 Our physical nature is more than the 
 theatre, more than the stage ; it is the 
 very costume, the very drapery in which 
 the mind acts its part ; and if it hangs 
 loosely or awkwardly upon the actor, if it 
 weighs him down as a burden, or entan- 
 gles his step at every turn, the action, 
 the great action of hTe must be lame 
 and deficient. What that burden, that 
 entanglement is now, and what is the 
 genuine vigor and health of a man ; 
 what is the true, spiritual ministry of 
 the body to the soul, I am persuaded, 
 we do not yet know. 
 
 I confess that I sometimes think that 
 this subject — what old Lewis Cornaro 
 denominated in his book " the advan- 
 tage, — not the duty only, — but the 
 advantage of a temperate life" — is 
 one that goes behind all the preaching. 
 The physical system, though not the 
 temple, is the very scaffolding without 
 which the temple cannot be built. We 
 call from the pulpit for lofty resolution, 
 cheering courage, spiritual aspiration, 
 divine serenity. Alas ! how shall a 
 body clogged with excess, or searched 
 through every pore with nervous debil- 
 ity, — how shall a body, at once irritable, 
 pained, and paralyzed, yield these vir- 
 tues in their full strength and perfec- 
 tion ? We ask that the soul be guarded, 
 nurtured, trained to vigor and beauty, 
 in its mortal tenement ; that the flame 
 in that shrine, the body, be kept bright 
 and steady. Alas ! the shrine is shat- 
 tered ; and rains and windflaws beat in 
 at every rent ; and all that the guardian 
 — conscience — can do, oftentimes, is 
 to hold up a temporary screen, first on 
 one side and then on another ; and 
 often the flickering light of virtue goes 
 out, and all in that shrine is dark and 
 cold and solitary ; it has become a tomb ! 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUM'AN DESTINY. 
 
 563 
 
 I am endeavoring, in this part of my 
 lecture, to defend man's physical con- 
 stitution in general from the charge that 
 it naturally develops evil, vice, intem- 
 perance, excess every way. I betore 
 showed that the specific organs and 
 attributes of the physical structure — 
 the sense of touch, speech, laughter, 
 the human face and hand — are fine 
 ministries to the intellectual nature. I 
 came then to what is tliought the more 
 questionable tendency of the senses and 
 appetites ; and I have shown, first, that 
 they are useful, — as hunger, for in- 
 stance, impelhng to industry ; secondly, 
 that they are naturally innocent, i. e., 
 that they do not like, but naturally 
 dislike, excess ; and thirdly, that they 
 powerfully teacli and enforce wholesome 
 moderation and healthful activity. 
 
 I deny, therefore, that the bodily 
 constitution naturally ministers to evil, 
 to vice. A similar organization shows 
 no such tendency in anininls. It is the 
 mind, then, that is in fault. But now I 
 wish further to show, before I leave the 
 subject, that vicious excess is a com- 
 plete inversion of the natural relations 
 of the mind and body ; that instead of 
 being according to nature, it turns 
 everything upside down in our nature. 
 
 Certainly, in the natural order of our 
 powers, the mind was made to be mas- 
 ter; the body was made to be servant. 
 Naturally the body does not say to the 
 mind, "Go hither and thither; do this 
 and that;'' but the mind says this to 
 the body. The mind, too, has bound- 
 less wants that range through earth 
 and heaven, through infinitude, through 
 eternity ; and it must have boundless 
 resources. Can it find them in the 
 body? — in that for which "two paces 
 of the vilest earth " will soon be " room 
 enough." Our physical frame is only 
 tlie medium ; as it were, an apparatus 
 of tubes, reflectors, yColian harpstrings, 
 to convey the mysterious life and beauty 
 of the universe to the soul. So far as 
 it loses this ministerial character, and 
 becomes in itself an e?id on which the 
 mind fastens, on whose enjoyments 
 
 the mind gloats, all is wrong, and is 
 fast running to mischief, misery, and 
 ruin. 
 
 For suppose this dreadful inversion 
 to be effected ; suppose that the all- 
 grasping mind resorts to the body alone 
 lor satisfaction, — forsakes the wide 
 ranges of knowledge, of science, of 
 religious contemplation, tlie realm cf 
 earth and stars, and resorts to the body 
 alone, and has, alas ! for it, no other 
 resource. What will the mind do Ihen ? 
 It will, — I had almost said, it must, — 
 with its boundless craving, push every 
 appetite to excess. It must levy unlaw- 
 ful contributions upon the whole physi- 
 cal nature. It must distrain every 
 physical power to the utmost. Ah ! it 
 has so small a space from which to 
 draw its supplies, its pleasures, its 
 joys. It must exact of every sense, 
 not what it may innocently and easily 
 give, but all that it cangwo.. What ere- 
 long will be the result of this devotion 
 to the body and to bodily pleasures ? 
 Tliere comes a fearful revolution in the 
 man .' The sensual passions obtain 
 unlawful ascendency, — become mas- 
 ters, — become tyrants ; and no tyranny 
 in the world was ever so horrible. None 
 had ever such agents as those nerves 
 and senses, — seductive senses call you 
 them? — say rather those ministers of 
 retribution, those mutes in the awful 
 court of nature, that stand ready, silent 
 and remorseless, to do their work. The 
 soul which has used, abused, and dese- 
 crated the sensitive powers, now finds 
 in them its keepers. Imprisoned, 
 chained down, famishing in its own 
 abode, it knocks at the door of every 
 sense ; no longer, alas ! for pleasure, 
 but for relief. It sends out its impa- 
 tient thoughts, those quick and eager 
 messengers, in every direction for sup- 
 ply. It makes a pander of the imagi- 
 nation, a purveyor for indiscriminate 
 sensuality of the ingenious fancv. a prey 
 of its very affections ; for it will sacri- 
 fice everything to be satisfied. 
 
 Could it succeed, — could it, like the 
 martyr, win the victory through these 
 
564 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 fiery agonies, — but no ; God in our 
 nature forbids. Sin never wins. Ruin 
 fails upon soul and body together. For 
 now, at length, the worn-out and abused 
 senses begin to give way: they can no 
 longer do the work that is exacted of 
 them. The eye grows dim ; the touch 
 is palsied; the limbs tremble; the pil- 
 lars of that once fair dwelling are shat- 
 tered, and shaken to their foundation ; 
 the whole head is sick, and the whole 
 heart faint ; the elements without be- 
 come enemies to that poor, sick frame ; 
 the fires of passion are burning within ; 
 and the mind, like the lord of a belea- 
 guered castle, sinks amidst the ruins of 
 its mortal tenement, in silent and sullen 
 despair, or with muttered oaths and 
 curses and blasphemies. 
 
 Oh, let the mind but have had its own 
 great satisfactions, its higli thoughts and 
 blessed affections, and then it could say 
 to these poor proffers of sense, " 1 want 
 you not ; 1 am happy already ; I want 
 you not ; I want no tumult nor revel ; 1 
 want no cup of excess ; 1 want no secret 
 nor stolen indulgence ; and as for pleas- 
 ure, I would as soon sell my body to 
 the fire for pleasure, as 1 would sell my 
 soul \.o you iox pleasure.'''' 
 
 Such is the true and natural relation 
 of the mind and body; such is the law 
 of their common culture. Under this 
 law the body would be fashioned into a 
 palace of delights hardly yet dreamed 
 of. We want a higher ideal of what the 
 body was made and meant to be to 
 the soul. Sensualism has taught to 
 the world its terrible lessons. Is not a 
 higher aesthetic law coming, to teach in 
 a better manner ? Sensualism is but the 
 lowest and poorest form of sensitive en- 
 joyment. One said to me many years 
 ago, " I have been obliged, from delicacy 
 of health, to abstain from the grosser 
 pleasures of sense ; neither feast nor 
 wine have been for me : perhaps I have 
 learned the more to enjoy the beauty 
 of nature, — the pleasures of vision and 
 
 the melodies of sound." The distinction 
 here taken, shows that the very senses 
 might teach us better than they do. For 
 I say, was that witness a loser or a 
 gainer ? Vision and melody ; shall gross- 
 er touch and taste carry off the palm 
 from thein ? Vision, that makes me pos- 
 sessor of the earth and stars ! — the eye, 
 in whose mysterious depths is pictured 
 the beauty of the whole creation ! — and 
 what comprehensive wonders in that 
 bright orb of vision ! Think of grosser 
 touch and taste ; and think, for one mo- 
 ment, what sight and hearing are. It is 
 proved by experiments that, naturally, 
 and by mere visual impression, the eye 
 sees all things as equidistant and near 
 — close to us — a pictured wall. By 
 comparisons of apparent size and hue, 
 we have learned to refer all objects to 
 their real distance. Sky and clouds, 
 mountain-sides and peaks and rocks, 
 river, plain, and grove, every tree and 
 swell of ground, — all are fixed in their 
 place in an instant of time. Hundreds 
 of comparisons, hundreds of acts of 
 mind, are flung into that regal glance of 
 the eye ! But more than the telescopic 
 eye is the telegraphic ear. More, to my 
 thought, lies in the hidden chambers of 
 viewless sound ; in that more spiritual 
 organ, which indeed expresses nothing, 
 but receives the largest and finest im- 
 port of things without ; in that myste- 
 rious, echoing gallery, through which 
 pass the instructive, majestic, and win- 
 ning tones of human speech ; through 
 which floats the glorious tide of song, to 
 fill the soul with light and melody. In- 
 struments of godlike skill, types and teach- 
 ers of things divine, harbingers of greater 
 revelations to come, are these. Not for 
 temptation, not for debasement, was this 
 wondrous frame built up, let ancient phi- 
 losophers or modern voluptuaries say 
 what they will; but to be a vehicle of 
 all nobleness, a seer of all beauty, a 
 shrine of worship, a temple of the all- 
 pervading and indwelling Life 
 
 I 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 565 
 
 LECTURE V. 
 
 OF MAN'S SPIRITUAL CONSTITUTION MINISTRY OF THE MENTAL 
 
 AND MORAL FACULTIES. 
 
 From the statement of the problem of 
 human destiny, to the ground principles 
 of it as laid in the finite and free nature of 
 man ; from the general structure of the 
 material world as the place of human 
 abode and culture, to man's physical 
 organization, and the ministry of his 
 senses and appetites, — this has been the 
 order of discourse in our previous lec- 
 tures. Let us now proceed to the mind 
 itself ; to that presiding power which 
 dwells within the bodily organization, 
 and yet is as distinct from it in its na- 
 ture and essence as if it were ensphered 
 in heavenly splendor : to that life within, 
 that cannot be wanting to the purpose 
 which all life around it subserves. 
 
 On any theory of human nature, this 
 field of inquiry is fairly open to us. For 
 though the theory about the soul be this, 
 — that it is by nature spiritually dead, 
 and can wake to life only by a regener- 
 ating power ; though the soul were re- 
 garded as a dry and dead mechanism, 
 helpless and incapable of moving itself, 
 yet when the stream of influence is 
 poured upon it, that stream it will not 
 be denied, finds and sets in motion a 
 machinery fitted to answer high pur- 
 poses. It is into this grand mechanism 
 that we are now to look. 
 
 In its nature, I say, it stands com- 
 pletely apart from the physical mechan- 
 ism. Thought, feeling, conscience, is 
 one thin^: ; bone, sinew, brain, is another 
 thing. Because they are intimately as- 
 sociated, because thought, feeling, con- 
 science, operate through bone, sinew, and 
 brain, therefore to say, as the material- 
 ist does, that they are of the same nature, 
 is as if he should say, that because light, 
 to be perceived, passes through the eye, 
 
 therefore light and the eye are of the 
 same nature; or because life dwells in 
 the plant, therefore the material structure 
 of the plant is the same thing as the 
 mysterious life that animates it. Or if 
 he says that thought is the result of a 
 bodily organization, he says that which 
 can be no matter of perception or knowl- 
 edge to him, — which is nothing, in fact, 
 but the merest imagination. He may 
 imagine, if he pleases, and he might as 
 well, that thought is an exhalation from 
 the earth, that it comes up through the 
 soles of the feet, that it passes, like raw 
 material, through the mechanism of the 
 human system, till it issues from the 
 brain the finished product. To all such 
 dreaming, we may say, — if mind is not 
 one thing, and matter is not another 
 thing ; if mechanic organization is not 
 one thing, and the conscious and living 
 will is not another ; if these substances 
 or modes of being do not, in fact, lie at 
 the opposite poles of thought ; then 
 there is no such thing as difference in the 
 universe. 
 
 And let me say also that the mind, 
 the inner being, is not, as an object of 
 thought, enveloped in that peculiar ob- 
 scurity commonly ascribed to it. Meta- 
 physics may be abstruse, and far away 
 from the ordinary paths of thought, but 
 the mind is not. It is imagined to he 
 far more mysterious and inaccessible 
 than matter. But, strictly speaking, in 
 the nature of things the very contrary 
 is the truth. Things without me are 
 matters of observation ; things within, of 
 conscio-usness. The things within are 
 nearer and more certain to me. I know 
 myself as I know nothing else. I know 
 mv thought better than I know anv 
 
566 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 object without me. When I compare 
 thought with thought, and draw a con- 
 clusion, that process is far more intel- 
 ligible to me than when I put heat to 
 fuel and produce combustion. The out- 
 ward world is phenomenal and shadowy 
 compared with the inward. Some phi- 
 losophers have doubted whether it exists 
 at all ; but none have doubted their own 
 existence. I can easily believe that if 
 we could get back to our original ex- 
 perience we should find that, at first, the 
 bodily organs themselves seemed as 
 external and foreign to us as the ma- 
 terial world, — the foot no more a part 
 of ourself than the ground it trod upon ; 
 but no such mistake could be made 
 with regard to our thought, our feeling, 
 our consciousness : that is ourself. 
 
 Into this innermost home of our hu- 
 manity, then, let us enter, and see what 
 is created there to minister to the great 
 end of our being. 
 
 In the mind, then, considered as dis- 
 tinct from bodily sensation, there are 
 three great faculties, or classes of fac- 
 ulties. 
 
 First, there are the intellectual powers. 
 And what is their ministry? Plainly, to 
 discover truth. This is the one object, 
 the destined result, of their entire action. 
 There is the intuition of truth which 
 embraces mathematical axioms and the 
 original moral conceptions ; which em- 
 braces ideas of truth as superior to error, 
 of right as higher than wrong, of cause 
 and effect, of time and space, both finite 
 and infinite ; ideas native to the mind, 
 created, embedded in it ; ideas which 
 are the foundation of all reasoning. 
 Then there is perception of facts around 
 us, and consciousness of facts within 
 us ; and judgment, which compares 
 these facts and draws conclusions ; and 
 imagination, which ranges through the 
 creation, and gathers new and anal- 
 ogous facts and principles ; and memory, 
 the storehouse of knowledge — without 
 which there could be no comparison, 
 no process of thought. All these facul- 
 ties obviously have one design, the dis- 
 covery of truth. 
 
 Secondly, there are the esthetic fac- 
 ulties, whose office is the perception 
 of beauty. Certain forms, proportions, 
 colors, and sounds are naturally agree- 
 able to us ; others are disagreeable. I 
 am not aiming at any full or detailed 
 analysis of the mind. I only wish, in 
 the general, to direct your attention to 
 its cardinal principles. And certainly 
 there is such a part of our mental con- 
 stitution as I now indicate, which has 
 no direct regard either to truth or right, 
 though it is in many ways connected 
 with both. There is nothing strictly 
 intellectual or moral in the agreeable- 
 ness of certain forms and colors, in the 
 sense of proportion and harmony and 
 melody. These belong to the aesthetic 
 part of our nature. 
 
 Thirdly, there is the moral faculty, — 
 that is, conscience, — and its nature and 
 office cannot be mistaken. What it is, 
 there can be no doubt; though the ques- 
 tions, how it arises in the mind, and how 
 it acts, have admitted of various expla- 
 nations. They are very familiar, — those 
 of Hartley, Adam Smith, Paley, and of 
 the later and better philosophers, Ger- 
 man, French, and English, who hold that 
 conscience is a distinct and original 
 faculty. But it is unnecessary to con- 
 sider them in detail, because they all 
 admit that there is such a thing as con- 
 science ; that it is a discrimination of 
 the right from the wrong ; that it is an 
 approval of the right and a condemna- 
 tion of the wrong. Neither does a mis- 
 guided conscience, of which the world 
 has seen enough, and of which flippant 
 sceptics have made so much, any more 
 prove that there is no such thing as 
 conscience, than a misguided reason 
 proves that there is no such thing as 
 reason. Beneath the rubbish of ail 
 human errors lies the indestructible 
 basis. Nay, more; within, wrapped up 
 within every moral mistake that ever 
 was committed, lies the nticletis convic- 
 tion that soinething is right. Conscience, 
 however imperfect, unenlightened, err- 
 ing, has ever held that there was some- 
 thing right in the very wrong which it 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 567 
 
 sanctioned. It lias sanctioned cruelty, 
 oppression, war. Why? Because it 
 believed them to be rioht. The very 
 persecutor, like Paul, thought he was 
 doing God %GX\\ct. That inborn element 
 was never worked out of the moral judg- 
 ments of men. That great and solemn 
 word, right, was never erased from the 
 tablet of humanity, howsoever worn and 
 defaced, and never will be. 
 
 Let us now consider how this spiritual 
 constitution of our humanity, intellec- 
 tual, zesthetic, and moral, conduces to 
 the end for which we say that it was 
 made ; how, indeed, it is a kingdom built 
 up within us, with laws and ordinances 
 and powers all conspiring to that end. 
 In doing this, we must take care to dis- 
 tinguish, in human nature, the perma- 
 nent from the casual, the necessary from 
 the contingent, the fundamental from 
 the superincumbent, God's work in the 
 mind from man's overlaying. In works 
 of human art, if the critic or student 
 should neglect to make this distinction, 
 if he should confound fragments and 
 defacements and ruins with the original 
 structure and design of statue or temple, 
 he would stumble at the first step. And 
 the original, the Divine work in the soiil, 
 is to be distinguished from all that mars 
 it, or there will be no proper ground for 
 any study of it. Ground there is, how- 
 ever; and this consideration of the mat- 
 ter — the distinction, that is, which I 
 here make — is most pertinent and prac- 
 tical to the present state of men's minds. 
 For the aberrations of our humanity, 
 by many, are mistaken for its laws and 
 principles. Because men have fallen 
 into deep and sad erring, they seem to 
 suppose that nothing better than erring 
 is to be expected of them. Depravity 
 as a doctrine is made an apology for 
 depravity as a life. And man, '• made 
 but a little lower than the angels," made 
 for angelic aspiration, suffers himself,to 
 be low and vile almost without shame, 
 certainly without any keen and convert- 
 ing self-reproach. 
 
 The error is as old as the most ancient 
 philosophy, and as new as almost the 
 
 latest. The Persian sages, the Greek 
 philosophers, Plato himself, the Gnostics 
 generally, and even some of the Christian 
 fathers, held that the world and its in- 
 habitants were so ill made that they 
 would not ascribe the work to the Su- 
 preme God, but charged it upon some 
 inferior being, — Demiurge or Satan. 
 Even the learned Cudworth, so late as 
 two centuries ago, maintained, and his 
 opinion is countenanced by the acute 
 and liberal-minded Le Cierc, that all 
 things here below are arranged and or- 
 dered by a certain power, which he calls 
 "Plastic Nature," a power, he says, 
 "incorporeal, but low and imperfect." 
 
 Assuredly we have learned better 
 things than these, and can vindicate a 
 better philosophy. Humanity ill made ? 
 Indeed, the best argument for that theo- 
 ry would be the blindness that could see 
 no better. Ill made ? It is made, first 
 of all, to recognize the sovereignty of 
 truth. Errors and deviations and con- 
 troversies there have been, and enough 
 of them, in the world : but the one chal- 
 lenge of all dispute, from the first hour 
 that ever a man debated anything with 
 his neighbor, has been this : " I have 
 the truth, and you have it not." All in- 
 tellectual erring, at least in the regions 
 of abstract inquiry, has been involun- 
 tary, and has evermore been a seeking 
 tor the truth. If it had yY7?^«</ nothing, 
 then, indeed, would a case be made out 
 against us of stupendous abortion. But 
 what do the words, science, philosophy, 
 literature, art, poetry, common -sense 
 mean, if the search has been in vain ? 
 And if there stood upon the earth, now 
 and here before us, one who had discoT- 
 ered a\\ the truths, the secret and mys- 
 terious truths of nature and life and 
 humanity, that being would draw from 
 the whole world a homage such as was 
 never paid at the throne of monarch or 
 pontiff. So is man made ; so to bow 
 down before the truth, before the simple, 
 naked, invisible truth, as he bows be- 
 fore no outward shrine. The eternal 
 reason speaks in him, and its word is 
 an oracle. Above all earthly power and 
 
568 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY, 
 
 grandeur sits sage wisdom. The mon- 
 archs of the world are such as Plato, 
 Homer, Milton, Shakspeare. 
 
 Homage to such is natural. Truth 
 leads not downward, but upward. There 
 is something ennobling in the bare pur- 
 suit of it, in the most abstract forms. 
 One cannot listen to a clear and lofty 
 discoursing without feeling his very 
 frame to expand with swelling thoughts. 
 There are books, and even those of the 
 abstrusest philosophy, like Dugald Stew- 
 art's, which I cannot hear read without 
 feeling as if I wanted to rise up and 
 stride through the room, and were a 
 head taller. I am reminded, in this 
 connection, of the beautiful eulogium 
 which Sir James Mackintosh passes on 
 Dugald Stewart. " How many," he says, 
 "are still alive, in different countries, 
 and in every rank to which education 
 reaches, who, if they accurately exam- 
 ined their own minds and lives, would 
 not ascribe much of whatever goodness 
 and happiness they possess to the early 
 impressions of his gentle and persuasive 
 eloquence ! " * 
 
 Turn now to the department of sci- 
 ence. It does not fall within my pres- 
 ent design to speak at length of its 
 vastness, — of the grand fabric of scien- 
 tific knowledge which man has built up 
 in the world ; to show how he has 
 stretched the compass of his investiga- 
 tion from the earth to the skies ; how 
 he has analyzed every known substance, 
 and studied the laws of invisible agen- 
 cies, and penetrated into the beds and 
 layers of the old creation and deciphered 
 its history ; how he has descried millions 
 of living creatures sporting in a globule 
 of water, and then risen to follow the 
 millioned globes of heaven in their 
 courses ; how he has traced out aston- 
 ishing analogies of structure between 
 the flower of the field and the systeni 
 of heavenly spheres, — between the 
 arrangement and development of the 
 solar system and the branchings of our 
 forest trees, — showing them all to be 
 
 * View of the Proeress of Ethical Philosophy in 
 the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, p. 213. 
 
 of one type, one order, one creative 
 idea. But whither can all this stu- 
 pendous knowledge lead, but to God ? 
 Where can man bow down his awe- 
 struck reason, but before the throne of 
 the invisible Might? Science is the 
 natural ally and minister of religion. 
 And this, notwithstanding the assump- 
 tions of some philosophers, whom not 
 science, but irreverence, has made Athe- 
 ists, has now come to be regarded as 
 the established truth. 
 
 " Still," I hear it said, "the mass of 
 mankind is buried in ignorance." It is 
 curious to observe how constantly we 
 use the word ignorance, as if there were 
 no knowledge but that of books and 
 theories. The active classes, I think, 
 have some right to complain of this 
 book-learned assumption. What are 
 we to say of that vast accumulation of 
 knowledge called common -sense, the 
 light of daily hfe, the light of guidance 
 that shines upon all the paths of human 
 pursuit ? All the philosophy in the 
 world could not supply the place of 
 that ; all the philosophy in the world, in 
 utility, is perhaps inferior to it. It has 
 been reserved for some of the French 
 philosophers — Jouffroy and others — to 
 raise this truth to its proper place. M. 
 Jouffroy has raised it, perhaps, some- 
 thing above its place ; for this is his 
 view of the matter : " Seeing and observ- 
 ing,^'' he says, "are different things. 
 Seeing is universal ; observing is the 
 philosopher's province. Observing is 
 the seizing and examining of particular 
 aspects of things ; and although keener 
 than the common and general seeing, 
 and having its own immense impor- 
 tance, it is apt to be narrow and one- 
 sided Hence the varying and conflicting 
 systems of philosophy. But seeing is 
 broader, though less clear ; sight is the 
 mirror that holds all things. The com- 
 mpn man sees all things, in nature and 
 humanity, as truly, as the philosopher; 
 and having no bias, no theory to sup- 
 port, is likely to see them more justly, 
 though far less deeply." Common-sense 
 therefore corrects the aberrations of phi- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 569 
 
 losophy. Thus he says, "The history 
 of philosophy presents a singular spec- 
 tacle ; a certain number of problems are 
 reproduced at every epoch ; each of these 
 problems suggests a certain number 
 of solutions, always the same : philoso- 
 phers are divided; discussion is set on 
 foot ; every opinion is attacked and de- 
 fended with equal appearance of truth. 
 Humanity listens in silence, adopts the 
 opinion of neither, but preserves its 
 own, which is what is called common- 
 sense." * 
 
 But it is more especially to my purpose 
 to say that common-sense has come to 
 distinctly moral conclusions. These are 
 embodied in a mass of maxims, prov- 
 erbs, apothegms, the hived-up wisdom 
 of all ages, which, if I had space to re- 
 peat them, you would see to possess 
 only less truth and authority than Holy 
 Writ itself. Such are the maxims that 
 " honesty is the best policy ; all is not 
 gold that glitters ; handsome is, that 
 "handsome does ; time and tide wait for 
 no man ; forewarned, forearmed ; right 
 wrongs no man ; every door may be 
 shut but death's door ; man's extremity 
 is God's opportunity ; man proposes, 
 God disposes ; no cross, no crown ; 
 better the child weep than the father," 
 and a multitude of others. Common- 
 sense, though leaning much to prudence 
 and worldly wisdom, is nevertheless a 
 moral censor, and sometimes a profound 
 teacher of the highest things. It is 
 always the corrective of fanaticism, the 
 satirist of folly, the condemner of vice, 
 the reprover of injustice, the patron of 
 truth, integrity, and well-doing. 
 
 In the next place, the aesthetic part 
 of our nature, the sense of beauty and 
 melody, though not in philosophical 
 strictness of speech either intellectual 
 or moral, is most immediately associated 
 with our noblest faculties, and ministers 
 to their growth and perfection. 
 
 I have before spoken of the beauty of 
 nature, and of the power of music. 1 
 have spoken of the eye and ear. Let us 
 
 * See the Essay translated in Ripley's Specimens, 
 vol. i. 
 
 now penetrate beyond them, — beyond 
 the sphere of sights and sounds, beyond 
 those organs of seeing and hearing, to 
 the sense, the feeling, of beauty and 
 melody in our esthetic and spiritualized 
 nature. The animal has eye and ear, 
 and outward world, but, properly speak- 
 ing, no feeling of beauty or of music. 
 Who ever saw one gazing upon a land- ■ 
 scape, or upon the silver orb of night, 
 unless it were to " bay the moon " ? 
 Who ever saw one testify delight in 
 music, save as it was associated witii 
 his master's presence, or with his going 
 forth to hunt or to fight ? These higher 
 things are reserved for higher natures. 
 
 Again, this sense of beauty is innate, 
 as much so as reason or conscience. 
 Outward sights and sounds do but wake 
 it up, do but nurture and cultivate the 
 inward power, do but answer to it. A 
 fair landscape does not create the sense 
 of beauty. That already existed within, 
 made ready by the hand of its Creator 
 to receive the outward impression. The 
 soul detnands beauty and harmony, just 
 as it demands truth and right, to satisfy 
 it. It can no more admire deformity 
 and discord than it can admire false- 
 hood and injustice. It is not education 
 that creates these finsr instincts. If a 
 human being were brought up amidst 
 ugly forms and jarring dissonances, the 
 moment that lovely sights and sweet 
 melodies broke upon his eye and ear 
 he would turn to them delighted. 
 
 Nay, more, this inner sense is never 
 satisfied. All that fills the eye and ear 
 does but awaken the desire of things 
 more beautiful, of sounds more melo- 
 dious. The realm of cultivated taste 
 and imagination is forever widening, and 
 forever leading the soul onward and 
 upward. 
 
 I say distinctly, upward; from things 
 seen to things unseen ; from things 
 earthly to things heavenly. It is pos- 
 sible, indeed, but it is 7ioi natural, to he- 
 hold all the glory and goodliness of the 
 creation without being led to the Infinite 
 Glory. It is not natural. It is as if 
 one should look upon a lovely counte- 
 
570 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 nance, and never think of the loveliness 
 which it enshrines. 
 
 No, the grandeur and loveliness of 
 nature, — sunsets and stars, and the al- 
 most literally uplifting deeps of the blue 
 sky, as we gaze upon them ; and earth, 
 with its beauty, soft, wild, entrancing, 
 with its glorious verdure, its autumn 
 • splendor, its sprinkled wilderness of 
 charming hues and forms ; and ocean, 
 bathing its summer shores, and bearing 
 like many-colored gems upon its bosom 
 the green and flowery islands, — these 
 things are not only beautiful, but they 
 are images and revelations of a glory 
 and a goodliness unseen and ineffable. 
 They steep the soul in reveries and 
 dreams of enchantment, unearthly and 
 immortal. How has the radiant vision 
 kindled the poet's eye and lighted the 
 torch of genius, and come down as fire 
 from heaven upon the altars of piety in 
 all ages ! A bed or a bouquet of flow- 
 ers, — who can read anything upon their 
 soft and shining petals and delicate hues, 
 but sweetness, purity, and goodness ; 
 and how many silent thanksgivings from 
 those who bend over them have as- 
 cended to Heaven on the breath of 
 their fragrant incense ! And music — 
 what chord in all its wondrous harmo- 
 nies ever touched any evil passion ? I 
 have heard of voluptuous music ; but 
 I never heard it, and cannot conceive of 
 it. Words may be voluptuous, or wrath- 
 ful, or revengeful ; but not melodies. 
 Hot-beds of musical culture there may 
 be that corrupt the heart; but it is not 
 music that does it. I should as soon 
 think of a sunbeam's soiling the atmos- 
 phere it passes through. No, there is 
 no possible concord of sweet sounds, 
 there is no combination of tones within 
 the range of harmony, but it weaves 
 garments of light and purity for the 
 soul. All melody naturally bears the 
 thoughts into realms of holy imagining, 
 sentiment, and worship. I would culti- 
 vate music in a family with the same 
 intent as I would build an altar. Away 
 with the unworthy notion of it as a 
 mere fashionable accomplishment! It 
 
 is a high ministration. And the highest 
 musical culture, so far from being time 
 and means thrown away, is really as a 
 priesthood in the household. 
 
 In the third place to be considered, 
 with reference to our argument, is the 
 moral part of our nature, — conscience. 
 And there are three elements in con- 
 science to which I wish to draw your 
 attention ; its directive, its authoritative, 
 and its executive power. 
 
 We are saying in this lecture that the 
 whole interior constitution of man was 
 made to guide him to truth, to virtue, to 
 the supreme good and Goodness. The 
 most powerful aid to this end is, doubt- 
 less, the conscience. 
 
 It is directive. Do you say that you 
 know men with very queer consciences, 
 and that nations and ages differ about 
 what is right, and so infer that there is 
 no direction ? A moment's reflection 
 must convince you that these differ- 
 ences do not touch the principle of con- 
 science, but only the applications of the 
 principle. To plead these differences 
 in denial of the principle would be as 
 if one said that because there are errors 
 there is no such thing as truth ; because 
 there is a great deal of darkness, there 
 is no such thing as light ; or because 
 there are variations of the needle, there 
 are no magnetic poles. Nay, but how 
 knew you of variations, if there were 
 no direction ? How knew you of dark- 
 ness, if there be no light .'' And what 
 is error, but distorted truth .'' And 
 so the very aberrations of conscience 
 prove that there is a conscience. 
 
 Nay, but it is directive. It approves 
 of justice, truth, integrity, — gratitude, 
 generosity, disinterestedness, — gentle- 
 ness, pity, kindliness. It says, " This 
 is the way ; " nobody can doubt it. And 
 now suppose that across the field of life 
 there fell from heaven, before every 
 man's eye, a bright track of light, such 
 as you have seen the moon cast athwart 
 the troubled waters ; or suppose that on 
 your hand were a compass and a needle, 
 pointing ever to the right way ; what 
 guidance, you would say, is here ! 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 571 
 
 But more than sunbeam or needle 
 points the way. An awful sceptre is 
 stretched over us. Conscience is more 
 than guidance ; it is authority. When 
 a man says, "I ought" — may I beg 
 of you to pause a moment upon that ex- 
 pression, and to consider what it means ? 
 When a man says, •' I ought," he has 
 an indescribable sense of allegiatice - 
 \o somethi?!^. He knows not what — 
 it may be ; no visible power commands 
 him : he does not think what it is ; but 
 that word '■'■ otight," binds him — to an 
 unseen Lawgiver. I know, gentlemen, 
 that the lecture-room is not the place 
 for preaching or for rhetoric ; but I do 
 feel that here is a fact of awful signifi- 
 cance— too little considered. This silent 
 reign of fight in our humanity, — this 
 magnet in the soul, ever drawn, by an 
 invisible influence, to the right, — what 
 is it? What does it mean? What 
 does it proclaim ? I answer — there 
 must be a God! — for God only could 
 have impressed that mysterious law 
 upon our humanity. Ah ! poor, human 
 trembler beneath that awful mandate ! 
 — great witness, shall I not rather say, 
 to that sublime authority? — does he 
 think to escape from it ? Go to the 
 deepest and darkest cavern of the earth ; 
 go where thou art alone and no eye sees 
 thee, — where no power of the Church 
 shall coerce, no enactment of law bind, 
 no hand of government compel, — where 
 there shall be nothing save thine un- 
 utterable consciousness with thee ; but 
 when thou sayest, "I ought" — altar 
 and throne sink to the dust; they are 
 but symbols of that eternal authority 
 that speaks within you, — an authority 
 that binds altar and throne and empire 
 and the world together. 
 
 Does any man think to evade it ? 
 Nay, by Heaven and the eternal law ! 
 that siiall he not. Conscience is execu- 
 tive too. No infirm aid does it ofiFer to 
 the right; no inefficient hindrance to 
 the wrong. It announces no idle requi- 
 sition. It has rewards for the good, 
 sweet as the most precious happiness; 
 and penalties for the bad, dire as the 
 
 most dreadful misery. No human gov- 
 ernment was ever so urgent and impera- 
 tive as this power of conscience. It 
 goes down to the depths of the heart ; 
 it touches the secretest nerve ; it pene- 
 trates where no human tribunal can go. 
 The human law may be evaded ; but let 
 a man carry down into his heart the 
 thought that he has done wrong ; and 
 that thought is misery, — is misery 
 amidst all the blandishments of pleas- 
 ure and the splendors of fortune. And 
 let a man bear, in a bosom lacerated 
 with every wound, the blessed conscious- 
 ness that he has done right, — has done 
 right, — and no floods of disaster nor 
 fires of martyrdom can deprive him of 
 the sweetness of that conviction. 
 
 No man, I repeat, shall evade this 
 law. Retribution is more than a doc- 
 trine, it is a fact. No violation of con- 
 science is so hidden or so slight, but it 
 pays the penalty. There is one great 
 error on this subject, old as the world, 
 and new as the delusion of to-day, but 
 it is an error still, — and that is, that 
 concealment is escape, that punishment 
 comes only with disclosure or catas- 
 trophe. But suppose the concealment 
 to be effected, — the theft, the fraud, the 
 lie, the bad, base deed to escape detec- 
 tion, — does the j/zati escape ? The f;ian ! 
 Why, he knows it. If all the world 
 knew it, and he knew it not, then, in a 
 sense, might he be said to escape ; he 
 would escape from his own reproach. 
 But even then he would not escape the 
 worst, — the very and essential curse of 
 evil in himself, " Maxima peccati poena 
 Q.s,\. peccasse,^'' says Seneca; "the great- 
 est penalty of sin, is to have sinned ! " 
 Are men punished only by and by, or 
 when they grow old ? Nay, says Plu- 
 tarch, " they are not punished when they 
 grow old, but they are grown old in 
 punishments. Can we say," he con- 
 tinues, " that a man is not punished 
 when he is in prison, or hath his fetters 
 upon him, till his execution comes ? 
 We may as well say that a fish, which 
 hath swallowed the hook, is not taken 
 because it is not fried or cut in pieces ! 
 
572 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 So it is with every wicked man ; he 
 hath swallowed the hook when he com- 
 mitted the evil action."* Lysimachus, 
 Alexander's general, is said to have 
 given away a kingdom to the Getse for a 
 draught to quench his extreme thirst : 
 when he had taken his draught, he ex- 
 claimed, " What a wretch was I, to lose 
 a kingdom for so short a pleasure ! " 
 This may be fable ; but how many a 
 man, to quench the thirst of some rag- 
 ing passion, gives away the kingdom of 
 all inward tranquillity and fortune ! It 
 has been well said that our English salu- 
 tation — " How are you ?" — touches 
 the heart of all welfare. Ay, how are 
 you ? — that is the question. 
 
 Again, the taint that is in a man, how- 
 ever concealed and however slight, is 
 breathed out into the very air around 
 him, steals through the very pores of his 
 hfe, infects his conversation. His fam- 
 ily, his children, society around him, 
 those dearest to him, all suffer for it. 
 If it be selfishness, avarice, vanity, 
 though he himself be but half conscious 
 of it, it lowers the whole tone of his char- 
 acter, conversation, and infiuence. If it 
 be an act of gross fraud or vice, he can- 
 not heartily speak at all for the right, for 
 virtue, for what is noblest in the world. 
 What a retribution is that ! — to be dumb 
 where good men talk — to flee from the 
 converse of virtue ! Concealment only 
 increases tlie evil. If it were known, 
 the whole power of society might be 
 united to crush and stamp it out of ex- 
 istence ; but now, like a poison or a gan- 
 grene, it spreads its secret blight through 
 all the relations of family, friendship, 
 and society. All this, too, reacts upon 
 the offender in many ways. And in pal- 
 pable cases it is often a saving reaction. 
 How many have forborne the inebriating 
 cup, lest it should ruin their children ! 
 And if the parent forbears not, and they 
 are ruined, what can inflict a deeper 
 pang? And if he is brutalized to that 
 extent that he cares not, that, I repeat, 
 is the deepest retribution of all. 
 
 The adjustment of this law of retribu- 
 
 * Origines .Sacrx, B. III. c. iii. p. ii6. 
 
 tion to our humanity, the mingled sever- 
 ity, forbearance, and discrimination with 
 which it is exercised, are worthy of fur- 
 ther attention. 
 
 It makes, for instance, a significant 
 distinction between palpable vice and 
 that more indefinite erring, of which the 
 world is full. Palpable vice brings a 
 swifter judgment, because it is a more 
 manifest wrong. I do not deny that 
 some forbearance is shown even here. 
 Providence waits a little with the youth- 
 ful voluptuary, that he may see the evil 
 and reform. It does not take many ex- 
 periments with vice, however, — with the 
 inebriating cup, for instance, — to show 
 him the evil ; and it very soon appears 
 that nothing will do but blasting disease 
 and smiting shame. But with ordinary 
 and decent selfishness, with the world's 
 covetousness, pride, and vanity, the case 
 is different ; it takes more time to solve 
 the problem, and more is given. But 
 by and by, with every thoughtful man, 
 the problem is solved, — solved, if not 
 sooner, amidst the shadows of declin- 
 ing years. Then life begins to spread 
 itself around the selfish man, cold and 
 barren and cheerless ; over one green 
 spot and another the waste stretches ; 
 there are none truly to love him, who 
 never truly loved anybody but himself ; 
 there are none to care for him, unless it 
 be with a care purchased, or paid to the 
 sense of duty ; the man may be rich, but 
 wealth does not make him happy ; feast- 
 ing, wine, faring sumptuously every day, 
 do not make him happy ; splendor, 
 equipage, a crowd of attendants, do not 
 make him happy; and the poor, starved 
 nature within, which the wealth and gar- 
 niture of a thousand worlds could not 
 suffice, sighs for some better thing. 
 
 Or turn to a different scene ; where 
 evil goes to that extent that it seems to 
 be only misery and exasperation ; where, 
 amidst want and woe, amidst oaths and 
 blows, life goes on like a wild and wrath- 
 ful battle with calamity. If there is any- 
 thing that fills me with horror and de- 
 spair beyond all things else, it is some 
 vile and abandoned city quarter, where 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 57: 
 
 wild uproar and mad revellings go on 
 amidst filth and raggedness and wretch- 
 edness unspeakable ; with fiery draughts 
 poured out at all corners ; with pale and 
 haggard brows leaning against the posts 
 and gates of the streets ; and in the 
 chambers, horrible diseases, untended, 
 slirieking in agony. Is this Stygian 
 pool, this midnight of the world, this 
 blackness of darkness, — is it Hell ? No, 
 misery is merciful, even here ; nature is 
 not devilish ; sighings and tears mingle 
 witli these horrors, —'ay, and prayers for 
 deliverance ; and it may be God will 
 hear; and man may help. Poor, for- 
 saken wretches! — outcasts from the 
 world — exiles from the light of many 
 homes — could they see that God hath 
 stricken them in mercy, that a paternal 
 Providence knocks at all their gates — 
 could human entreaties mingle with their 
 mad blasphemi'es — they might return 
 and find a Father in heaven — though 
 there be none below — perhaps they 
 have killed him! — none on earth to 
 receive them. 
 
 Sad and heart-sinking spectacle! — 
 but is there no counterpart to that pic- 
 ture ? Can retribution find its way only 
 through broken gateways and " looped 
 and windowed raggedness " ? Nay, 
 through castle walls and plating gold, as 
 well. On pillows of down and beneath 
 planks of cedar there are agonies as bit- 
 ter as those which men are wont to pity 
 so deeply. Vice desolates all where it 
 comes, — makes the full house empty, and 
 the great house mean. There is a cer- 
 tain destitution in evil, even when there 
 is no remorse. As cold is but the ab- 
 sence of heat, so a vice, like avarice, may 
 be but the absence of virtue ; but it 
 is very cold and death-like. And even 
 where, in other forms, it kindles a fire 
 in the veins, it leaves the heart cold and 
 dead. To the soul, it is all poor and 
 paltry. Search the records of its most 
 prosperous career, and there is nothing 
 but dust and desolation in the path. 
 Thus the gayest and the most fortunate 
 in the evil way have always become the 
 greatest complainers. The poor man's 
 
 complaints and scorns and rages against 
 the world are nothing to those of the 
 broken and worn-out man of pleasure. 
 So it has been with them all, from the 
 Imperial Tiberius to the Aspasia of mod- 
 ern French gayety, Ninon de I'Enclos, 
 who said, that if she could have foreseen 
 what her life was to be, she would rather 
 have died upon the threshold, than to 
 have lived that gay and guilty life. 
 
 Or turn to the Emperor Tiberius. 
 What bad man could be happy, if he 
 could not .-* He had an empire, when 
 that empire was the world, to use for his 
 ambition — to farm for his pleasures. 
 But what was his life ? Read a letter 
 of his to the Roman Senate. " What I 
 shall write to you, conscript fathers," he 
 says, "or what I shall not write, or why 
 I shall write at all, — may the gods 
 plague me, more than I daily feel that 
 they are doing, if I can tell ! " " Than 
 I daily feel that they are doing." This 
 spreads the confession over a portion of 
 his life. It was a miserable life; and 
 every bad man's life is a miserable one. 
 
 Such, then, as it presents itself to 
 me, is the picture of our inward nature. 
 Its original faculties are all instruments 
 constructed, pointed, sharpened for the 
 work of aiding virtue and resisting vice. 
 And thus, in fine, do I state the case, 
 and in the form of a comparison. If 
 you were to examine a machinery which 
 you knew was designed to produce a 
 certain result ; if you saw, in the first 
 place, a general preparation and ten- 
 dency of all its parts to that end ; if you 
 saw, in the next place, certain sharp in- 
 struments exactly formed and fashioned 
 to cut and shape out the very thing to 
 be made, your mind would rest with sat- 
 isfaction upon it as a well-adjusted piece 
 of work. But what would be your aston- 
 ishment, if, when you saw things going 
 wrong in that mechanism, you observed 
 a secret spring suddenly lift itself up, to 
 resist and correct the wrong tendency. 
 Such admiration and wonder, I believe, 
 justly belong to the constitution of our 
 humanity. 
 
 But now, on the whole, it may be 
 
574 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 asked, "What has this humanity done ? 
 You say it was made for culture. 
 Where is it ? You say it was made 
 to produce certain results. Where ate 
 those results t Bring your theory to 
 the test of facts. This fine nature, in- 
 tellectual, ^Esthetic, moral, — what has 
 it done ? Culture, do you say, is the 
 end of Providence ! Is it not produc- 
 tion rather.'' Multiplication of the spe- 
 cies seems to be the end, with little 
 care for its development and growth. 
 Transplantation to another clime may 
 be the ultimate object, — and would 
 seem to be, — so thick and stunted is 
 the growth of men here." 
 
 There is one singular and emphatic 
 refutation of all such reasoning, in the 
 fact that the children of a single pair 
 are not fifty, but commonly five or six. 
 This fact shows that care is to be taken 
 of them ; that culture is the object, and 
 not mere multiplication. 
 
 But let us look at this objection, for 
 a few moments, in two views. 
 
 In the first place, with regard to the 
 mass of men, the least cultivated, — 
 Hindoos, Hottentots, what you will, — 
 1 say that the objection overlooks the 
 actual amount and value of their culti- 
 vation. If all human beings died in 
 the earliest infancy, the objection might 
 seem to be valid; but even then I should 
 doubt it. We know not what valuable 
 impressions even infancy may, in a sin- 
 gle year, acquire ; but follow this be- 
 ing through twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy 
 years, and how much has he learned, — 
 ay, without school or institute, without 
 book or Bible, — on the Ganges or the 
 Niger ! He has looked upon nature, 
 seen and classified thousands of ob- 
 jects, and understood the uses of many. 
 He has learned to labor, to provide for 
 a family, and by skill in tillage, or hunt- 
 ing, or the care of flocks, he has be- 
 come lord of the surrounding scene. 
 He has learned to distinguish between 
 right and wrong ; and though he has 
 abused, he has cultivated, the moral 
 sense. And within his range have come 
 still higher things. Tradition has poured 
 
 into his ears its mystic lore. He has 
 lifted his eyes to the heavens, and his 
 thoughts above the heavens to the Infi- 
 nite Being. Is this passage from blank 
 infancy to the crowded page of human 
 experience, — from the conception of 
 nothing to the conception of Infinitude, 
 
 — is this, I say, no progress, no cul- 
 ture ? Measure these few mortal years, 
 and mark the steps passed over ; tlien 
 measure the years of eternity ; and 
 whither shall they not bear a being who 
 has begun thus ? ' 
 
 But, in the next place, I say it is un- 
 fair to the argument to take the lowest 
 examples of human culture. If there 
 were a hundred similar machines sub- 
 mitted to your examination, and one of 
 them in its working far surpassed all 
 the rest, — the rest halting or breaking 
 down through the bungling of artisans, 
 
 — you would take that 07te as the proper 
 illustration of the design and wisdom of 
 the original inventor. Not the ignorant, 
 the low and base, then, but the sages, 
 philanthropists, heroes, the noblest men 
 in the world, — these proclaim the end 
 for which human nature was made, and 
 for which its original powers are fitted. 
 
 I will not dwell upon this human 
 nobleness ; I have not space left, nor 
 power to do it justice ; but I will for 
 myself simply profess what I think of 
 it, let the cynic, or the satirist, or the 
 desponding sceptic or complainer, say 
 what he will. I look around upon the 
 universe, and I see many briglit points, 
 
 — a dome of brightness above, and 
 stars that are set in the brow of night, 
 and mountain tops that kindle their 
 altar fires with the beams of morning. 
 But in all this universe there is nothing, 
 save the majesty of God most High, that 
 draws forth my reverence, my enthusi- 
 asm, my delight, like a noble and good 
 man. Of all things known to me, this 
 is the brightest spot. There may be 
 angels, there may be seraphim, — super- 
 nal natures above the reach of my sym- 
 pathy. I know them not ; I never saw 
 such an one ; I never saw book of his 
 writing, nor action of his performing, 
 
 i 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 575 
 
 nor life that he Hved, nor deatli that he 
 died ; but I have seen mett, through 
 struggle and weariness, and pain and 
 death, soaring to knowledge, to virtue, 
 to heaven, — through lonely studies, 
 through the trampled fires of passion, 
 through mortal infirmity, through baits 
 and snares of evil thick strewn upon 
 
 all their path and trodden under foot, 
 mounting to the heights of the world. 
 They are seated on the thrones of the 
 world, compared with which the Cassars 
 held the dominion of a day. They are 
 indeed "the representative men" of (he 
 earth, — the representative men of our 
 humanity. 
 
 LECTURE VI. 
 
 THE COMPLEX NATURE OF MAN, PERIODS OF LIFE, SOCIETY, HOME, 
 BALANCE OF THE PHYSICAL AND MENTAL POWERS. 
 
 I HAVE spoken in my last two lec- 
 tures of the physical and spiritual con- 
 stitution of man. There is a union of 
 both, a complex nature of man, which 
 requires to be considered with refer- 
 ence to its end. 
 
 Under this head are to be mentioned, 
 in the first place, the different periods 
 of life. These steps of life all have 
 their place, and give their aid in the 
 process of human development. The 
 physical adaptation in these periods of 
 life images and helps a moral adapta- 
 tion. Look at the supple and flexible 
 limbs of a child, at the strengthening 
 bone of manhood, and at the relaxing 
 fibre of age. How necessary are these ! 
 — the one to the safe training of life, 
 the next to its stable vigor, and the last 
 to that loosening of the hold upon life's 
 labors and cares which is necessary 
 to the quietude, the meditativeness, the 
 ripened wisdom, that befit the closing 
 period of our earthly existence. This 
 remark is familiar in physiology, but it 
 is equally applicable to the moral econ- 
 omy of the human constitution. 
 
 Childhood is the world's great ex- 
 perimenter. It is the season, not of 
 the deepest, but of the most rapid 
 learning. It wants, therefore, a pecul- 
 iar susceptibility to feel, a freedom to 
 choose, and a flexibility to change. It 
 must try this and try that, and not fix 
 
 too strong a grasp upon anything. It 
 must be full of hope and buoyancy and 
 facility. Lay the weight of prejudice, 
 or custom, or matured vice, upon child- 
 hood, and it would be crushed entirely. 
 We are alarmed when we see in a child 
 a disposition to prevaricate ; but we 
 should be shocked beyond measure if 
 that practice were clothing itself with 
 the strength of fixed habit. We are 
 vexed when we see a boy taking on airs 
 of superiority to his mates on account of 
 the homage paid to his parent's wealth 
 or fame ; but, thank Heaven ! the great 
 enslaving law of opinion yet bears lightly 
 on his ignorance and innocence. But 
 what should we think if we saw the 
 full-grown vices of sensuality or worldly 
 ambition developing themselves in the 
 body or mind of a child ? We .«hould 
 give him up in despair. 
 
 You will be more sensible of this guar- 
 dianship thrown around the earliest 
 period of life, if you observe the barrier 
 that separates childhood from manhood. 
 In youth, and in its passage to maturity, 
 there is a very singular crisis ; the form, 
 the face, the voice, the temperament, the 
 sentiments, the passions, pass through 
 a remarkable change. The previous 
 time of life seems to have been a dispen- 
 sation by itself ; marked by a certain in- 
 difference, by a certain mingled levity 
 and apathy with regard to the wider in- 
 
576 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 terests of life. The child has a safe- 
 guard in his profound ignorance of much 
 that is around him. He lives in the 
 midst of the world; but a friendly veil 
 is thrown around him, that tempers its 
 bright and deceitful glare. He lives in 
 an enclosure protected from temptations 
 that would be as wild beasts to his gen- 
 tle innocence. His ambition does not 
 wander beyond the school and the play- 
 ground. The impulses of sense and 
 passion yet slumber in his bosom. His 
 loves are school-day friendships and 
 family regards. His life is comparative 
 joyance and repose. But now at length 
 the time comes when the great veil that 
 hides the world begins to rise ; when 
 the first battle with the stronger powers 
 that sleep in the human breast is to be 
 tought ; and the previously secure and 
 calm house of life becomes, as it were, 
 a forge, an arsenal, a citadel. There are 
 flashings out of new and unwonted fires; 
 there is solemn and even sad brooding 
 over the enterprises and destinies of ex- 
 istence ; there are trumpet calls in the 
 courtyard of the guarded house ; there 
 is the disturbance and disorder, the dust 
 and confusion, the thronging thoughts 
 and energies, that betoken the entrance 
 upon a new and momentous scene. 
 Forces like these would have split and 
 shattered in pieces the frail and dehcate 
 tenement of childhood ; but now, to vir- 
 tuous resolution and youth's first strug- 
 gling prayer to Heaven, strength is 
 given to meet them. 
 
 The next stage is manhood. Now 
 something is to be decided on, and some- 
 thing is to be done. Before, there was 
 activity ; now, there is to be work. There 
 is to be plan, pursuit, profession, — some 
 end to be chosen ; and there is to be a 
 concentration of energies to gain it. The 
 field is wider. Before, the word was, — 
 " Learn these lessons and continue to 
 learn them, and you shall be at the 
 head." Now, many things are to be 
 learned and many things done, to get to 
 the head, or to get along at all. The 
 head is, not a certificate, a diploma, a 
 valedictory oration, but the leading-staff 
 
 of empire, of authorship, of art, of busi- 
 ness, of social or professional distinction. 
 The world is full of varied interests, full 
 of exigencies, full of competitors. The 
 business of life is complicated, urgent, 
 exhausting. Think of a child, a boy of 
 fifteen, charged with all this care, this 
 responsibility. It would confound and 
 crush his faculties. Especially would it 
 crush down all joyance and free growth. 
 But al) this, to right-hearted manhood, 
 is a noble culture. Manhood has pow- 
 ers for the task. It has strength of 
 muscle to work, strength of mind to act, 
 strength of heart to endure. And the 
 innocence of childhood is well exchanged 
 for manhood's strength, for its courage, 
 its manliness, its high integrity ; for that 
 grand equipoise of the faculties in which 
 it holds itself erect and firm, and stands 
 before the world with foot and hand, and 
 heart and mind, ready for its work ; ready 
 to do business, to cope with difficulties, 
 to subdue obstacles, to speak and act in 
 the affairs of men and nations. 
 
 But the toil and strife at length are 
 over ; the bustle and turmoil of life have 
 passed away ; age lays its chastening 
 hand upon the vigorous frame and the 
 fevered passions ; sager and more sacred 
 thoughts take possession of the mind ; 
 the race is run, the battle is fought, the 
 world is changed ; and when that winter 
 day of life is come, and the blossoms of 
 hope and the fruits of ripened friendship 
 are all scattered in the dust, the man says, 
 " Let me depart, it is good for me to die." 
 
 And age, too, like every other period 
 of life, is not without its own special fit- 
 ness and personal vocation. How else, 
 — says the poet, — 
 
 " How else coiildst thou retire apart. 
 With the hoarded memories of thy heart, 
 And gather all, to the very least. 
 Of the fragments of life's earlier feast — 
 Let fall, through eagerness to find 
 The coming dainties yet behind ? 
 How ponder on the entire past, 
 Laid together thus at last; 
 When the twilight helps to fuse 
 The first fresh, with the faded hues ; 
 And the outline of the whole 
 Grandly frtnts, for once, thy soul." 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY, 
 
 577 
 
 And now I say, that all this is natu- 
 rally a proa^ress in virtue. In one respect 
 the visible is not an emblem of the spirit- 
 ual life. Age. that declines in vigor, 
 naturally grows in virtue. Its affections. 
 I think, are usually as vigorous as those 
 of youth ; its wisdom is, of course, far 
 "■reater. I do not forget that it is, in 
 some respects, peculiarly tried. It is 
 hard to give up some things to which it 
 has been accustomed, — tiie activity, the 
 control of affairs, the indulgence perhaps 
 of appetite. This last point I have 
 sometimes seen to be one of especial 
 difticulty. These, however, are but flaws 
 upon the deep and quiet stream. 
 
 Still, age is naturally the maturity of 
 virtue, of piety, of all that is noblest 
 in the mind. Not till approaching the 
 grand climacteric, perhaps, does the char- 
 acter usually arrive at its highest per- 
 fection. Great intellectual power, no 
 doubt, is attained earlier ; the culminat- 
 ing point of talent, authorship, states- 
 manship, military skill, is reached sooner; 
 but not till a later day does humanity, 
 even when thus distinguished, arrive at 
 its highest wisdom, self-control, and 
 sanctity; not till then, perhaps, are the 
 great problems of the inmost life solved, 
 the conflicting tendencies of the nature 
 brought into harmony, and the utmost 
 aims of human existence achieved. To 
 me the grandest form of humanity is the 
 aged form. I had almost said, the most 
 attractive beauty, taking into account 
 the manners, bearing, and expressions 
 of countenance. Youth, I know, carries 
 off the palm, with most persons, — the 
 fair complexion, the glossy hair, the 
 smooth brow and painted cheek. It is 
 a sort of barbaric taste, I am tempted 
 to say; but it is so prevalent, that I am 
 quite sure a good-natured indulgence 
 will be extended to an opposite opinion, 
 it has so very little chance of prevailing. 
 " Ay," — it will be said, — " criticise, as 
 much as you please, the claims of youth 
 to all beauty and outward charms ; they 
 can bear it." But, in truth, the form 
 that stands erect after the storms of 
 seventy or eighty years have beaf upon 
 
 it ; the face that bears on it the marks 
 of all human triumph, of the last triumph 
 that over itself ; the calm dignity and 
 gentle courtesy and forbearance, in 
 man or woman, that come from long 
 reflection and patient culture ; the holy 
 serenity and assured trust, caught from 
 the heaven that is near, and shining 
 through the parting shadows of life, — 
 why, nature, I say, is not false to her- 
 self ; there is the nobleness of humanity, 
 and there are some of its noblest ex- 
 pressions. That aged form — how often, 
 in fact, does it draw a thoughtful man, 
 in a gay company, from the charms of 
 youth, and all the importunity of their 
 attractions, to the side of its venerable- 
 ness, wisdom, and beauty ! The con- 
 trary tendency in this country or any 
 other country, the tendency in society to 
 separate the aged and the young, is one 
 that is to be looked upon with the great- 
 est reprehension. This pushing forward 
 of the young to take all the places in 
 society, to be the whole of society, ought 
 to be repressed by their elders with 
 dignity and authority. Depend upon it, 
 that all such breaking away from the 
 great bonds of nature, from the vener- 
 able sanctities of lite, is essentially de- 
 grading even to the taste of a people; 
 and you may be sure that it is a vulgar 
 tendency of society that leads the young 
 to wish, in their chosen happy hours, 
 to separate themselves from their aged 
 friends. I am not wandering from my 
 proper theme. The point which I have 
 ventured thus plainly to touch, concerns 
 not only good manners, but good culture. 
 It was meant, I believe, that youth and 
 age should exert upon each other a mu- 
 tual influence ; that the aged should not 
 want the cheering presence and attention 
 of the young, nor the young, the wise 
 and tranquillizing influence of the aged; 
 that aged life should not lack entertain- 
 ment, just when perhaps most needing 
 it, and that young life should not rush 
 into it, without the restraints of filial 
 tenderness and respect. 
 
 Montaigne says, quoting, perhaps un- 
 consciously, almost the very words of 
 
 37 
 
578 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 Cicero, " I had rather be old not so 
 long, than to be old before the time." 
 But we, in this country, think ourselves 
 old before we are so, and actually grow 
 old before we need. Society forces it 
 upon us. "I have done with the 
 world," says one; " I am getting to be 
 an old man." And so he sits in his 
 solitary room, perhaps, afraid that he 
 shall be a burden upon the young com- 
 pany in an adjoining apartment. And 
 suppose he is an old man, — and not 
 fifty, which is old for our pushing soci- 
 ety, — suppose he is indeed an old man, 
 does it follow that he has done with the 
 world ? Nay, if wisdom and experience 
 and perfected character mean anything, 
 he has now to exert a finer, nobler, and 
 more beautiful influence upon the world 
 than ever. 
 
 From the progress of life let us now 
 turn to the general structure of societ}', 
 as another sphere in which the double 
 nature of man plays its part. 
 
 The world, it is said, is a corruptor. 
 Nature has wholesome influences, but 
 the world none. A comparatively safe 
 abode man has, amidst the hills and 
 waters and the free air ; but the mo- 
 ment he comes into the presence of 
 moral natures all is peril and evil. 
 Hence convents, hermitages, the an- 
 chorite's cell. Hence the non-inter- 
 course with what is called worldly so- 
 ciety and its worldly ways, enjoined by 
 many churches upon their members. 
 
 But can that be altogether so? A 
 sacred watch indeed for all young 
 minds, nay, for all minds, over the 
 influence that others exert upon them, 
 — this is well. But can it be that so- 
 ciety, the bosom of universal nurture, 
 bears upon it nothing but peril, but 
 pollution .? Can it be that the human 
 generations are brought forward in suc- 
 cession, only to be trained by selfishness, 
 treachery, injustice, pride, and sensu- 
 ality ? Is this the school of humanity ? 
 No, no ; we do not and cannot think 
 so. Let us see what we do think, and 
 ought to think. 
 
 Society, then, like man, is liable to 
 
 err ; so and no otherwise. Society is 
 but collective humanity, the aggregate 
 of individual character ; and whatever 
 there is in the physical and moral con- 
 stitution of man, to urge him to the 
 right and to restrain him from the wrong, 
 must be found in that same world which 
 we dread and condemn. Found there ; 
 but mark one difference, — found some- 
 times in greater, in collective strength. 
 For, after all, the world sometimes is 
 even a stronger reprover than the indi- 
 vidual conscience ; and a man is all the 
 more in danger for being alone, — for 
 not feeling the pressure of social opin- 
 ion. Some dark iniquity is perpetrated 
 in secret, and the light within fails to 
 shine upon it and show what it is ; and 
 its hideousness is not seen till it is 
 revealed, — till it is rejlected in the 
 mirror of all-surrounding conscience. 
 But let us look at the great social min- 
 istry, and see whether it is for good or 
 for evil ; for there are serious questions 
 about it. Selfish interests, inequalities, 
 competitions, solidarity, and the general 
 social influence, — these are the points 
 to be studied. 
 
 We say the world is selfish. Let it 
 be ever so true, — I shall soon have 
 occasion to qualify the admission, — but 
 let it be ever so true ; yet can you pass 
 over the remarkable fact that the very 
 selfishness of society is engaged on the 
 side of honesty, self-restraint, visible 
 virtue.'' Individual ^tl^^thntss, vna.y 7iot 
 be ; it may choose to steal, defraud, 
 indulge itself in evil ways, in any way, 
 it cares not what, nor how much to the 
 hurt of others ; but the common selfish- 
 ness resists all that. What does every 
 man want of his fellow in conversation 
 or in business ; what is it the interest 
 of all to demand, but truth, honesty, 
 honor, virtue ? A man may not choose 
 to practise them himself, but he wants 
 them to be practised toward him. Mark 
 it well, then ; in all ages, among all na- 
 tions, amidst all other fluctuations and 
 convulsions of opinion, stand fraud, in- 
 temperance, licentiousness, branded and 
 blackened with universal opprobrium. 
 
THE PROLLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 579 
 
 Selfish interest, mere selfish interest, 
 writes on the table of the world the 
 laws of virtue. Why ? Because God 
 has ordained them to be the laws of 
 t!ie common welfare. There they stand ! 
 Tliere they stand, deep and high. The 
 mountains on their everlasting bases 
 stand not so firm as these foundation 
 laws of right, in the common, the great 
 Humanity. 
 
 But, it may be said, selfishness, 
 though it protects the right, is a bad 
 thing still. Yes, it is a bad thing ; but 
 is all selfish that we call so .'' Let us 
 not mistake here. Let us not cliampion 
 general virtue, to the hurt of our own, 
 
 — like a man crying "Famine!'' and 
 starving to death to prove it. My pur- 
 suing my own interest, cultivating my 
 own farm, conducting my own business, 
 is not selfishness. I may till my field, 
 and be heartily and none the less glad 
 that my neighbor's is yielding him a 
 good crop ; and that surely is not self- 
 ishness. I must attend to my own 
 affairs; I have no business to meddle 
 with his. This may be called the iso- 
 lated principle, or the selfish principle, 
 or by whatever hard names men please ; 
 but busybodies in other men's affairs, 
 
 — men that were often going to their 
 neighbor's fence, and raying how glad 
 they felt at his prosperity, and offering 
 excellent advice perchance, would be 
 very troublesome people, at any rate. 
 There is doubtless enough selfishness 
 in the world, and it is odious enough ; 
 the basely ambitious, the miserly, the 
 inebriate, and the debauched live in the 
 world ; but there is a great deal of gen- 
 erosity in it also ; there is a great deal 
 of sympathy and feeling for one an- 
 otlier; and the common indignation 
 that darkens the very air in horror 
 around vice and crime has a far deeper 
 source than selfish and politic resist- 
 ance to a common foe. 
 
 Let us pass to another point. One 
 of tlie most annoying forms of selfish- 
 ness is competition for the goods or 
 honors of the world. This, it may be 
 said, is not simply a pursuing of one's 
 
 own interest, but an infringement upon 
 others' interests, or a wish at least to 
 surpass them, — .to get what they are 
 seeking. 
 
 Now I am not obliged to defend any- 
 thing beyond the degree in which it 
 actually exists ; and I am not obliged 
 to defend anything which Providence 
 has not appointed ; and, finally, I am 
 not obliged to defend anything which, 
 from the very nature of the case, could 
 not be prevented. I say, then, in the 
 first place, that in the general industry 
 of life there is little or no actual com- 
 petition. The bounties of nature are 
 not so stinted that I must starve, or my 
 neighbor. There is enough for us aU. 
 And men generally culdvate land, build 
 houses, make ploughs and scythes, with 
 little thought that their neighbor's suc- 
 cessfully doing the same things is any 
 disadvantage to them. Competition is 
 usually seen in trade, in the profes- 
 sions ; and then only or chiefly in the 
 crowded centres of society. But I say, 
 in the next place, that there is very 
 commonly committed an egregious 
 blunder here, for which Providence is 
 not responsible. And that is the blun- 
 der of supposing that there is a compe- 
 tition of interests to the extent commonly 
 imagined ; that anotlier's success is pro- 
 portionably an injury to us. Individual 
 success adds to the general wealth and 
 prosperity ; it builds houses, emplovs 
 laborers, rears ships, makes beautiful 
 gardens and grounds, and is a com- 
 mon benefit. Successful manufacture 
 increases demand. The fame of a law- 
 yer, physician, or clergyman adds to 
 the dignity and honor of his profession. 
 But suppose, in the tliird place, that we 
 do unavoidably come to the sharp edge 
 of competition ; two of us want, and 
 cannot help wanting, the same thing, — 
 the same office, honor, emolument. 
 Then, I say, as one of the inevitable 
 trials of virtue, must we meet it. Then 
 must that sharp edge carve out a noble- 
 ness for us above all that the ordi- 
 nary contacts of life can do. In no 
 relation, perhaps, can men be so noble 
 
58o 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTIN'Y. 
 
 to each other as in that of rivals ; and 
 though prejudice, jealousy, and envy 
 too often make the contest odious and 
 the men odious, yet candor, kindhness, 
 and generosity might, and sometimes 
 do, clothe them with brighter honors 
 than any they seek for. 
 
 The third feature in the social condi- 
 tion, presenting difficulty to most men's 
 thougiits, is inequality of lot. There 
 is nothing, perhaps, about which so 
 many minds are sore and vexed, as this. 
 Reformers have considered much how 
 they could remove it. Radicals have de- 
 manded tliat it be swept away entirely. 
 " That all men are born equal " is taken 
 literally by some, and held to be a good 
 ground for keeping tliem so. Nothing 
 in the world is inveighed against with 
 such bitterness as wealth and rank. 
 
 Now hereditary rank, supported by 
 entailed estates, I admit to be a great 
 social injustice. But passing by these 
 human arrangements, and coming down 
 to the general fact, to the providential 
 order, I should like to have some one 
 tell me how it is possible to prevent 
 inequality, ay, and great inequality of 
 lot, without breaking down entirely the 
 free will, the free energy by which the 
 world is a world, and not a mere system 
 of machinery. Make all men equal to- 
 day ; give them equal property, equal 
 means, equal comforts. Difference, ay, 
 the hated distinction, begins to-morrow, 
 as surely as they are left to act freely. 
 
 Let us accept, then, this fact of ine- 
 quality as inevitable, and see whether it 
 is at war with social justice or improve- 
 ment. Ts it at war with social justice ? 
 Certainly the very opposite is the truth. 
 Perfect and perpetual equality of lot 
 would be the most manifest ///justice. 
 It would not be rewarding men accord- 
 ding to their deeds, but the very con- 
 trary. Sluggards and knaves might 
 like it, but nobody else could. 
 
 And then with regard to improvement ; 
 if all men stood upon an exact level, 
 how much of the necessary and palpa- 
 ble stimulus to exertion would be taken 
 away .' If I saw no man above me in 
 
 any respect, I should be apt to be con- 
 tent with what I am ; I should fail, 
 perhaps, to be reminded that there is 
 anything higher for me to attain. The 
 child, for instance, stands to his parent 
 in the relation of inequality ; but sup- 
 pose he did not ; suppose he saw, or 
 thought, his parent to be no wiser nor 
 stronger than he ; he would be in a 
 deplorable condition for his improve- 
 ment. Indeed, this whole strife for visi- 
 ble pre-eminence overrates the prize 
 altogether, — undervalues the inward 
 strength and nobleness, of which it is 
 properly nothing but the symbol, and 
 ought to drive men upon that inward 
 sufficiency as the only relief from envy, 
 jealousy, and base ambition. 
 
 But it may be said, there is some- 
 thing more trying in the problem of 
 society than competition, and that' is, 
 this terrible solidarity — the suffering 
 caused us by others — suffering of the 
 innocent for the guilty ; suffering, pro- 
 ce.eding from individuals, but spreading 
 far and wide ; running through all the 
 fibres of social existence. The answer 
 is, — could there ' be society vi'ithout 
 this exposure ? Manifestly not. With- 
 out sympathy, there could be no society ; 
 with it, there must be pain for others' 
 afflictions ; ay, and suffering, loss, trou- 
 ble, from others' errings. 
 
 And this necessity, like every other 
 in the system, is turned into a benefi- 
 cent law. The care for one another, — 
 that most anxious and watchful care, 
 that others, our children, our relatives, 
 our friends, should do well ; the feeling, 
 on the part of the tempted man, that a 
 thousand eyes are turned toward him, 
 — eyes that will kindle with joy at his 
 well-doing and that would weep bitterly 
 over his fall ; all this is a conservative 
 force, to preserve the virtue of men, 
 and to prevent aberration, — a force 
 lent by the union of all the bonds of 
 human interest and all the ties of human 
 sympathy ; and without which, it is 
 manifest, society could not stand. As 
 in the system of nature, it is said that 
 every particle of matter, though it be 
 
 J 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 581 
 
 upon a dunj^hill, contributes to the 
 universal order ; so in the system of 
 society, the poorest creature in the 
 world, one that lies upon that dung- 
 hill, has relations to the welfare of all ; 
 all power and wealth and well-being are 
 worse off for him. It is true ; it is 
 inevitable ; it is well ; and well were it 
 if we more thoughtfully laid it to heart. 
 
 Having thus attempted to meet the 
 leading questions that arise with regard 
 to the great social discipline of human- 
 ity, let us now turn to its direct and 
 unquestionable instrumentality. 
 
 Society is the great educator. More 
 than universities, more than schools, 
 more than books, society educates. 
 Nature is the schoolhouse, and many 
 lessons are written upon its walls ; but 
 man is the effective teacher. Parents, 
 relatives, friends, associates; social 
 manners, maxims, morals, worships, the 
 daily example, the fireside conversation, 
 the casual interview, the spirit that 
 breathes through the whole atmosphere 
 of life, — these are the powers and influ- 
 ences that train the mass of mankind. 
 Even books, which are daily assuming a 
 larger place in human training, are but 
 the influence of man on man. 
 
 It is evident that one of the leading 
 and ordained means by which men are 
 raised in the scale of knowledge and 
 virtue, is the conversation, example, in- 
 fluence of men superior to themselves. 
 It seems, if one may say so, to be the 
 purpose, the intent, the effort of nature, 
 — of Providence, to bring men together, 
 and to bring them together, for the most 
 part, in relations of discipleship and 
 teaching. The social nature, first, draws 
 them to intercourse. Perpetual solitari- 
 ness is intolerable. But then, much of 
 their intercourse is on terms of inequal- 
 ity. Equals in age, people in society, 
 seldom meet, but one is able to teach or 
 tell something, and the other is desirous 
 to learn it. The lower are strongly 
 drawn to the higher. Children are not 
 content to be always by themselves; 
 curiosity, reverence, filial affection, draw 
 them to their superiors. In the whole 
 
 business of life — tillage, mechanism, 
 manufacture, merchandise — a younger 
 generation is connected with an elder, 
 to be taught by it. Barbarous tribes go 
 on forever in their barbarism, till they 
 are brought into the presence of superior 
 culture. The Chinese exclusion hns 
 kept that people stationary, though civili- 
 zation has been knocking at their gates 
 for more than three centuries.* And it 
 is better — I speak of mere results, not 
 principles — that the way for light 
 should be opened into that country by 
 English cannon-balls, or the rending 
 asunder of the empire, than never to be 
 opened. But such a fixed barrier to 
 civilization is a solitary phenomenon in 
 history. Nations, the barbarous and 
 civilized, by some means or other, in 
 the everlasting ferment of human inter- 
 ests and passions, are thrown into com- 
 munication and interfusion, — if by no 
 better means, by war, by subjugation, 
 by capture ; for Providence, if one may 
 say so, will have them come together. 
 Human injustice and cruelty are not to 
 be abetted in this matter. There are 
 better ways which Christian civilization 
 ought to learn, — travel, trade, missions 
 of light and mercy ; but, some way, the 
 nations must mingle together, or the ig- 
 norant will never be enlightened, the 
 savage never civilized. 
 
 Where are the ruder peasantry of 
 Europe now resorting, for work and for 
 subsistence ? To the heart of England 
 and America. Many an enlightened 
 man, building a railroad, or improving 
 his estate, many a refined woman in her 
 household, is made their teacher, — little 
 suspecting the office, perhaps. It were 
 fortunate, I think, for both parties, if 
 they did ; it might make the relation 
 more kindly and holy ; but any way the 
 work will be done. 
 
 How fine and delicate and penetrat- 
 ing is this power of man to influence 
 his kind! A word, a tone, a look, — 
 nothing goes to the depths of the soul 
 like that. The dexterous hands and 
 the embracing arms, the commanding 
 
 * Wi.liams's " Middle Kingdom," cliap. xxi. 
 
582 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 eye and the persuasive lips and the 
 stately presence are fitted for nothing 
 more remarkably than to teach. Travel- 
 ling on a railroad, one day, I saw a little 
 child in the company of some half a 
 dozen affectionate relatives. From hand 
 to hand it passed — to be amused, to be 
 soothed, to be taught something from 
 moment to moment — to receive many 
 lessons, and more caresses, all the day 
 long. " Here," I thought with myself, 
 " is a company of unpaid, loving, willing, 
 unwearied teachers. Such governesses 
 could scarce be hired on any terms." 
 Well, it was not a nobleman's child ; it 
 was not a rich man's child, that I know ; 
 every man's child has such training. 
 The same thing, substantially, is passing 
 in every house where childhood lives, 
 every day. 
 
 How sharp, too, and jealous, is the 
 guardianship of society over the virtue 
 of its members ! How preventive and 
 corrective are its sorrow and indigna- 
 tion at their failures ! A parent's grief 
 is such a warning and retribution as 
 prisons and dungeons could not bring 
 upon his erring child. And then it is 
 to be observed that the grosser and 
 more ruinous vices are such as soon 
 betray themselves, and cannot be long 
 concealed. The police of society is very 
 likely to find them out. And selfishness, 
 covetousness, vanity, do not escape. 
 The repulsive atmosphere of common 
 feeling about the selfish man, the cold 
 shadow in which the miser walks, 'the 
 stinging criticisms upon the vain man, 
 proclaim that society is not an idle cen- 
 sor. What does pubhc opinion brand, 
 what does literature satirize, all over the 
 world, but the faults and foibles of men ? 
 Society has thrones for the good and 
 noble, and purple and gold are but rags 
 and dust in the comparison. Society 
 has prisons and penitentiaries for the 
 base and bad, and stone walls and silent 
 cells are not so cold and death-like. 
 
 Let us now proceed to a third subject 
 presented by the complex nature of man, 
 and that is, the relation of sex, and the 
 consequent order of the family. 
 
 This great bond of many interwoven 
 relations — home — is deserving, at tht 
 present day, of some special attention 
 and study. The facility and extent of 
 modern intercourse tend to create a 
 kind of cosmopolite feeling in the world. 
 Colonization, too, weakens the family 
 ties. Increasing luxury, the expensive- 
 ness of living — one of the worst effects 
 of our artificial civilization — is un- 
 friendly to marriage. Engrossing busi- 
 ness, especially in cities, is drawing 
 away the attention of many from home 
 and home culture. Withal, some of the 
 social reforms are directly proposing to 
 substitute joint-stock corporations for 
 separate and independent households. 
 Amidst these tendencies, let us see if 
 we can find what is the order'of nature, 
 and why it is established. 
 
 What, then, makes the family ? What 
 is it that carries man beyond community, 
 neighborhood, society, friendship, to this 
 inner circle of life ? What makes the 
 family? It is an institution so estab- 
 lished and universal that few, perhaps, 
 have ever asked themselves the ques- 
 tion; and yet it involves, as I conceive, 
 some of the profoundest views of the 
 wisdom of Providence. 
 
 In the human relation of sex, then, is 
 laid the foundation for home. In this, 
 that is to say, is laid the foundation for 
 a peculiar and permanent attachi/ietit, 
 which leads the subjects of it to wish to 
 dwell together, and apart from others. 
 Thus the great Master says, that God 
 jnade them male and female, that they 
 two should become one ; that they 
 should be united in an interest that sep- 
 arates them from others. On this pur- 
 pose and intent of He.iven, He founded 
 the sanctity of marriage. Suppose the 
 distinction of sex not to exist, and that 
 there were no such attachment as is 
 now founded upon it, and no such rela- 
 tion of two persons to certain other 
 persons who are their children, as is 
 now established ; and then it is evident 
 that although there might be social ties 
 and temporary unions of friendship, and 
 even a common residence, there could 
 
 1 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 583 
 
 be no family. Men might be gregarious, 
 but they could not be domestic. They 
 might live together, but they could not 
 be one, in that almost mysterious tie of 
 affinity and kindred. 
 
 Next, to strengthen the family bond, 
 another provision is made. Why does 
 not the infant child, like the young of 
 animals, arrive in a few days or weeks 
 at its maturity, and the ability to take 
 care of itself? I know of no ultimate 
 reason for this, but the purpose of 
 Heaven to "set the solitary in families." 
 Children might have been formed as 
 well to come to maturity — certainly to 
 physical maturity — in twenty weeks, as 
 in twenty years. A twenty years'' care 
 of their offspring is assigned to parents, 
 in order to establish a school of natural 
 and moral influence. The schoolhouses 
 of a nation indicate its purpose to give 
 its children a certain technical educa- 
 tion. The domestic abodes of the world 
 manifest a purpose of the overruling 
 Providence no less clear and explicit. 
 Youthful love and parental affection, 
 which are of God's creating and not 
 ours, lay every corner-stone in them, 
 and raise every protecting wall. In idle 
 unconsciousness may that love between 
 the sexes grow up; the theme of jesting 
 comment may it be, to those around ; 
 but such is its great mission, such is 
 the solemn bond which it lays upon the 
 world. The problem of parental love 
 and filial subjection may be wrougiit 
 out with weariness and sorrow, or with 
 thoughtless, or with reflecting and holy 
 gladness ; but such is the momentous 
 solution of th.Tt problem. 
 
 We have said that society is the great 
 educator. The family is the primary 
 school of that education. The pupils 
 are children, — delicate in frame, docile 
 in spirit, susceptible of influence. Nor 
 IS it easy, if indeed it is possible, to 
 conceive how the object could have 
 been efTected without that relation. I 
 have said in a former lecture, that the 
 only conceivable beginning of existence 
 for a rational being is infancy, — a state, 
 that is to say, of ignorance and desti- 
 
 tution ; in which impressions, knowl- 
 edge, virtue, holiness, are to be ac- 
 quired; since those things are by 
 definition matters of experience and 
 volition, and incapable of creation. Had 
 man been full formed at once, then, — 
 i. e., not in knowledge and virtue, but 
 in mere strength of body and mind, 
 which is conceivable, — had there been 
 thus far a state of physical and mental 
 equality, the rigid fibre would have found 
 its fellow, in the obstinate will, and 
 neither would, nor could, perhaps, have 
 yielded to the voice of instruction nor 
 to the sway of discipline. But a child's 
 docility, a child's meekness, — could we 
 understand it, — is something Heaven- 
 sent, something, I had almost said, 
 fearful to contemplate. The mingled 
 veneration and love with which it looks 
 up to a good parent ; the mingled 
 wonder and fear with which it looks 
 up to a bad parent, who has lost in 
 vice or rage the government of him- 
 self, — what contrast on earth could be 
 more touching ! Alas ! in how many 
 dwellings stands that poor stricken child, 
 gazing with awe and terror upon the 
 frenzy of inebriety or the furv of anger, 
 and parting not with its meekness and 
 subinissiveness, amidst all its agonies 
 and wrongs ! It is God's child, not 
 man's, and might well be the minister of 
 God to the evil man, — nay, and is so. 
 
 Scarcely less remarkable is the in- 
 fluence of the family state upon its 
 elder members. Marriage recalls man 
 from what would be otherwise his wild 
 roving through the world, and assigns 
 to him a home. That home becomes 
 the natural centre of his affections, 
 cares, and labors. But for this bond, 
 life would be nomadic, and its ties 
 transient as the traveller's footstep. 
 This gives a sphere, a locality to human 
 pursuit, makes of it a regular, concen- 
 trated industry, makes frugality, fore- 
 sight, care, self-restraint necessary, calls 
 sympathy to the bedside of sickness and 
 suffering, and turns man's dwelling into 
 a sanctuary of sorrow, a memorial of 
 death, and threshold of eternity. But I 
 
584 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 need not dwell longer upon so familiar 
 a theme as the good influence of home. 
 
 I only wish you distinctly to see what 
 is the origin of this institution. It is 
 divine ; and because it is divine, it is 
 universal. Amidst the wide wandering 
 of men upon earth, diversified by all 
 the varieties of condition and culture, 
 there is one tie, drawing evermore to 
 one spot, — one heart-drawing evermore 
 to one magnetic centre ; and if 1 were 
 to put the question to the whole human 
 race — what is that ? — the answer would 
 be, it is home. Before government, be- 
 fore society, city, community, existed, 
 there was a home. It is no human, no 
 civil, no factitious institution. God made 
 it. It was rooted in the foundations of 
 the world. From the brooding dark- 
 ness of primeval time, the first objects 
 that emerge to sight are homes, — not 
 nations, but families. It was a home 
 that floated upon the waters of the 
 great Deluge. The first altar built on 
 Ararat was the home-altar. It was the 
 home-altar that lighted the steps of men 
 and generations in their wide dispersion 
 over the earth. It was " the pillar of 
 cloud and fire ; " and if that light had 
 gone out, the human race would have 
 become extinct. 
 
 The first brand of misery upon the 
 human brow, and the darkest to-day, is 
 excision from home. - God pity such an 
 outcast ! But how few such are there ! 
 Outcast from every other tie a man may 
 be ; — but find the veriest wretch that 
 roams the earth or the sea, and one 
 spot there is to which he clings with a 
 saving confidence, if there be any sav- 
 ing for him ; he knows, — he knows 
 that there is one place on earth where 
 the memory and care of him linger, and 
 live, and can never die. 
 
 I have spoken now of the one grand 
 object of the distinction of the sexes. 
 I say nothing of the direct, personal 
 relation considered by itself. It is diflS- 
 cult to speak of it, — a difificulty lying in 
 the very delicacy and depth of the rela- 
 tion. There is, perhaps, a mystery in 
 this marriage of hearts which we can- 
 
 not understand. It is a union beyond 
 worldly interest, beyond selfish attach- 
 ment, beyond friendship ; it is the union 
 of natures, counterpart to one another, 
 of which the two make one, in a sense 
 pertaining to no other human relation. 
 Certainly, if the world were occupied by 
 men or by women alone, it would be 
 but half a world. The grace and charm 
 of life would be gone, and each would 
 roam through the earth in comparatively 
 sad and solitary isolation. And who- 
 ever would blend the sexes, blot out the 
 distinction, make their pursuits and call- 
 ings the same, their very dress the same, 
 would be guilty of treason, not to man 
 or woman only, but to the majesty of 
 Providence itself. 
 
 Finally, there is, in the complex na- 
 ture of man, a bond and a balance of 
 its powers and tendencies most worthy 
 to be observed. 
 
 The union of the mind and body, com- 
 monly called a mystery, is more than 
 that; it. is a wonder. The rushing tide 
 that pours through the heart, swollen 
 and discharged sixty or seventy times a 
 minute, for eighty years, without wear- 
 ing away its channel, — this is a com- 
 monly cited instance. But more miracu- 
 lous still, perhaps, is the human head. 
 That the mind should be linked with a 
 substance so frail and fragile as the 
 brain, seated in a mesh like gossamer, 
 not on a marble throne ; that its fiery 
 thoughts should not tear it in pieces ; that 
 its swelling emotions should not burst 
 the dehcate integument; that it should 
 keep sane and strong when one thread 
 diseased deranges all ; that it should so 
 long keep touch and time, when thrill- 
 ing nerves and throbbing ganglions are 
 its ministers, — this is the wondrous 
 bond and balance of soul and body. 
 
 Look at this balance of the faculties, 
 mental, moral, and jjhysical, in a larger 
 view. See how all those tendencies 
 and impulses, which left to themselves 
 would go to destruction, are restrained 
 by one another, and by the union of all. 
 Bv the constitution of our nature, the 
 raging appetites, the wayward passions 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 5S5 
 
 themselves, are bonds. Anger is ex- 
 hausted by its own violence, and sinks 
 to pity at the wound it inflicts. Natural 
 affection, in its rudest state, is yet a tie 
 to sometliing. Passion, I say, is itself 
 restraint. Bonds are woven out of the 
 free and wild affections. Man must 
 love. Then something must he love, — 
 wife, children, home, friend. He must 
 sustain relations, — to cherished child- 
 liood, or to beseeching weakness and 
 tenderness. All his passions, then, his 
 loves, hates, hopes, fears, unite to put 
 and press and drive him into some 
 controlling and protecting order. The 
 leading, visible form of that order is 
 Government. That great bond that 
 holds a nation together is spun and 
 woven out of the texture and strife of 
 all human passions and interests. Gov- 
 ernment is not a thing of chance or of 
 will, but of necessity, of God. 
 
 Nor only so ; not only is there a bond, 
 but there is, as I was saying, a balance 
 among the human powers that tends to 
 control and keep them right, — to keep 
 them, at any rate, from the uttermost 
 wrong. Man is a kingdom ; and no 
 political balance of powers was ever so 
 exquisite and admirable as the equilib- 
 rium of forces in him. There are the 
 citizen affections; there is the populace 
 of the passions, — and their interests are 
 opposite, their control mutual. There 
 is the mob of reckless and raging de- 
 sires ; but sobriety, thoughtfulness, or- 
 der, come to meet it. Or ambition 
 arises, and would sweep to its end over 
 a kingdom in ruins, but private regards 
 come to check it ; those human hearts 
 that it would tread and crush beneath 
 its feet put forth tendrils and snares 
 that entangle and fetter its reckless 
 strides. And everywhere, sobering fact, 
 sobering labor, tame down the impulses 
 of imagination and appetite, — of wild 
 dreaming or wild craving of fortunes, 
 honors, splendors, gratifications. Every- 
 where the rushing tides of passion are 
 met by cross-currents, and are met, too, 
 by the rugged shores of circumstance 
 
 and necessity. Ay, necessity, like an 
 iron fate, stands in the way ; weakness, 
 sickness, pain, death, stand in the way ; 
 and heat and cold and storm and ocean 
 waves, and rocky heights, and the cold, 
 bare mountains of limitation and diffi- 
 culty, stand as barriers against the wide- 
 flowing desolations of passion and vice 
 and violence. 
 
 Thus it is in all nature and life ; for 
 humanity, in this balance of its powers, 
 is both influenced and imaged by the 
 universe around it. Any one of the 
 agencies within us or around us, left to 
 operate alone, would destroy alike the 
 order of nature and humanity. This 
 atmosphere, you know, in which we 
 move so easily and lightl}-, sustains us, 
 as it were, with millions of elastic and 
 invisible cords ; so that if a vacuum 
 were suddenly produced beneath us 
 or by our side, we should be instantly 
 crushed to the earth, as by the weight 
 of a mountain. So it is with the bal- 
 ance of our intellectual powers ; let one 
 faculty be struck away, and everything 
 falls into ruins. 
 
 Thus man stands, amidst universal 
 nature and life, in the very equilibrium 
 of contending forces ; where attraction 
 balances attraction, and power checks 
 power ; where heat and cold, winds and 
 waters, swell up to the point that is 
 necessary to sustain him ; and his sport 
 and his play is amidst waves of infinite 
 motion and heavings of boundless might, 
 — on the very verge of precipices from 
 which he never falls, and amidst the vi- 
 brations of vast elements which hold 
 and rock him as a child in their protect- 
 ing arms. Thus the powers of nature, 
 both material and moral, Hke reined 
 coursers, are held beneath some mighty 
 hand : and man is borne onward in the 
 car of life, amidst all but bursting thun- 
 der and whelming earthquake ; borne 
 gently and smoothly, his repose the 
 product of infinite conflict, and the 
 very music of his joys the fiarmony 
 of that which, unrestrained, would be 
 boundless discordance and destruction. 
 
586 
 
 THE PROBLEM OP HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 ON THE SPECIAL INFLUENCE UPON HUMAN CULTURE OF THE DISCI- 
 PLINE OF NATURE, OF THE OCCUPATIONS OF LIFE, AND OF THE 
 ARTS OF EXPRESSION; OR, THE MENTAL AND MORAL ACTIVITY 
 ELICITED BY MAN'S CONNECTION WITH NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 Thus far in these lectures we have 
 done, or attempted to do, two things. 
 First, we have laid down the founda- 
 tion principles, the basis in theory, of 
 the problem of human destiny : and 
 that we found in the necessary charac- 
 ter of a creation, whether material" or 
 moral ; and especially in the natural im- 
 possibility of conferring unmixed, and 
 unconditioned good upon rational be- 
 ings. Next, we have shown the actual 
 basis of the problem ; the basis of it, so 
 to speak, as a working problem ; and 
 this we found in the frame of the world; 
 in the arrangements of material and ani- 
 mal nature, in the physical organization 
 of man, in his mental and moral consti- 
 tution, and in his complex nature. 
 
 Now, out of this basis spring certain 
 forms of human activity. These are to 
 be considered in this lecture ; and the 
 conditions of that activity, the helps and 
 the hindrances, in the next. 
 
 I am about to lead you, my friends, 
 into actual life, into the bosom of hu- 
 man experience. But because it is the 
 actual, common, daily scene that will be 
 before our eyes, I must pray you not to 
 overlook the stupendous moral, the sub- 
 lime end, to which it points. I do not 
 propose to teach you a transcendental 
 philosophy, but a philosophy that mixes 
 itself up with the very life that we live, 
 and the very being that we are. 
 
 We are then to consider, at present, 
 certain forms of human activity that are 
 developed from nature and life. With 
 this view we shall consider man in two 
 points of light — first, as nature takes 
 him in hand ; and next, as Providence 
 
 apprentices him to certain life-tasks. I 
 say he is apprenticed to them ; and that, 
 by an indenture of older than feudal or 
 Roman date. In all that is circumstan- 
 tial, man is less free than he is apt to 
 think. Thus, he does not sow nor reap, 
 does not fabricate things nor trade in 
 them, — does not write deeds nor pre- 
 scriptions, nor sermons nor poems, — 
 does not paint nor sing, nor make stat- 
 ues nor buildings nor books, simply be- 
 cause he fancied to do so, but because 
 there was an irresistible necessity or 
 impulse to do these things. The ac- 
 tivity, art, occupation of life, could not 
 have taken other forms, at man's pleas- 
 ure ; he was obliged to adopt these. He 
 walks in the leading-strings of a Wis- 
 dom higher than his own ; and one of 
 the objects of this lecture is to show 
 how they are fitted to influence him, and 
 to affect the general order of the world. 
 
 But, in tlie first place, we are to con- 
 sider how it is that nature takes him in 
 hand, — to move, to influence, to instruct 
 him. 
 
 I have already spoken of nature's in- 
 fluence. I have spoken of its fertility, 
 order, and beauty, as ministering both 
 to human convenience and human cul- 
 ture. But 1 wish to press the con- 
 sideration to another point, — to that 
 development and specific direction of 
 the human faculties to which it drives 
 and compels us. It is necessary to re- 
 turn to this subject of nature's influence 
 again and again, in order to meet the 
 objections that arise froin this quarter. 
 Objections, I say; for it is a problem 
 that I am dealing with, and it is natural 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 58; 
 
 that my discourse should often be col- 
 ored by this aspect of the matter in 
 hand. 
 
 There has always been a theory in 
 the world that matter is essentially an- 
 tagonistic, hostile to mind. And a very 
 strange theory it is, certainly ; that the 
 very spliere for man, the very house of 
 life, should be regarded, not as built for 
 iiis convenience, comfort, and growth, 
 but as thrown down in his path, to be 
 an obstruction and hindrance to him. 
 But such has been a very prevalent way 
 of thinking. There is much ancient 
 philosophy and much modern poetry to 
 this purpose, whose effect needs to be 
 examined. One of the old Manicliaean 
 writers — and they professed to be 
 Christians, too, some of them — speaks 
 of the " bad principle " in the world as 
 self-existent, and hostile not only to 
 man, but to God. Sometimes he calls 
 this bad principle nature ; sometimes 
 matter ; sometimes Satan, and devil.* 
 Plato, wisest of the heathen, makes 
 Socrates say, in the Phaedo : " There 
 is another pure earth, above the pure 
 heavens, where the stars are, which is 
 commonly called ether. The earth we 
 inhabit is properly nothing else than 
 the sediment of the other : upon which 
 we are scattered like so many ants 
 dwelling in holes, or like frogs that live 
 in some marsh near the sea. We are 
 immersed in these cells, he says, — 
 mewed up within some hole of the 
 earth;" and he maintains that it is the 
 great business of a wise man to prepare 
 to die, and to escape from a world full 
 of fetters, clogs, and obstructions. 
 
 Let us see if, with better lights, we 
 cmnoi better understand this constitu- 
 tion of things, — i. e., of nature and of 
 liumanity as placed in the midst of it. 
 Nature, it is true, does not spread for 
 man a soft couch to lull him to repose ; 
 nor does she set around that couch 
 ai)undant supplies, which it requires 
 only the stretching out of his hand 
 to obtain. For the animal races she 
 does so provide. She prepares food 
 • Lardner's Works, vol. ii. p. 189. 
 
 and clothing for the?n with little care 
 of theirs. She spreads their table, 
 for wliich no cookery is needed ; she 
 weaves and fits their garments with- 
 out loom or needle ; and her trees and 
 caves and rocks are their habitations. 
 Yet man is said to be her favorite, — 
 and so he is ; but thus does she deal 
 with her favorite: she turns him out, 
 naked, cold, and shivering, upon the 
 earth ; with needs that admit of no com- 
 promise ; with a delicate frame that can- 
 not lie upon the bare ground an hour, 
 but must have immediate protection ; 
 with a hunger that cannot procrastinate 
 the needed supply, but must be fed to- 
 day and every day. And now, why is 
 all this ? I suppose, if man could have 
 made of the earth a bed, and if an apple 
 or a chestnut a day could have sufficed 
 him for food, he would have goi his bar- 
 rel of apples or his bushel of chestnuts, 
 and lain down upon the earth and done 
 nothing — till the stock was gone. But 
 nature will not permit this, — I say, will 
 ViOi permit it, — for hers is no voluntary 
 system. She has taken a bond of man 
 for the fulfilment of one of her primary 
 objects, — his activity; because, if he 
 were left to indolence, all were lost. 
 That bond is as strong as her own 
 ribbed rocks, and close pressing upon 
 man as the very flesh in which it is 
 folded and sealed. So is this solid and 
 insensible world filled with meaning to 
 him. The blind and voiceless elements 
 seem to look upon him and speak to 
 him, and the dark clothing of flesh and 
 sense which is wrapped around him be- 
 comes a network of moral tissues, and 
 everything says, "Arouse thyself ! up 
 and be doing ! for nature — the system 
 of things — will not have thee here on 
 any other terms." 
 
 But what, again, does nature demand 
 of this activity .'' The answer is, dis- 
 cretion. Immediately and inevitably a 
 principle of intelligence is infused into 
 this activity. Immediately the agent 
 becomes a pupil. Nature all around 
 says even to infancy, — what all hu- 
 man speech says to it, — " Take care ! " 
 
588 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 I 
 
 It is, all over the world, the first phrase 
 of the parent's teaching, the first of 
 the child's learning, — " Take care ! " 
 and this phrase but interprets what na- 
 ture says to all her children. Not as 
 an all-indulgent mother does she re- 
 ceive them to her lap, but with a cer- 
 tain matronly sobriety, ay, and " the 
 graver countenance of love," saying, 
 •' Take care, — smooth paths ■ are not 
 around thee, but stones and stubs, 
 thorns and briers ; soft elements alone 
 do not embosom thee, but drenching 
 rains will visit thee, and chilling dews, 
 and winter's blast, and summer's heat ; 
 harmless things are not these around 
 thee, but see ! here is fire that may 
 burn, and water that may drown ; here 
 are unseen damps and secret poisons, 
 the rough bark of trees and sharp points 
 of contact. Thou must learn, or thou 
 must suffer." 
 
 Ay, suffer ! What human school has 
 a discipline like nature's ? In these 
 schools we are apt to think that pun- 
 ishments are cruel and degrading ; but 
 nature has whips and stripes for the 
 negligent. Her discipline strikes deep ; 
 it stamps itself upon the human frame, 
 — and upon what a frame ! All soft- 
 ness, all delicacy ; not clothed wiih the 
 mail of leviathan nor endowed with in- 
 terior organs like those of the ostrich 
 or the whale, and yet a frame strong 
 with care, while weakest of all things 
 without it. What a wonderful organ, 
 in this view, is the human stomach! — 
 the main source of energy to the sys- 
 tem, strong enough to digest iron and 
 steel, working like some powerful ma- 
 chine ; and yet, do you let it be over- 
 worked or otherwise injured, and it is 
 the most delicate and susceptible of all 
 things, — trembling like an aspen-leaf 
 at every agitation, and sinking and faint- 
 ing under a feather's weight of food 
 or drink. What a system, in this view, 
 is that of the nerves! — insensible as 
 leathern thongs in their health, trem- 
 bling cords of agony in their disease ! 
 
 I would not dwell upon these matters 
 as abstract facts. I would have my dis- 
 
 course teach as nature teaches. Do 
 you not see the wonder which nature 
 and humanity thus present to us .'' Do 
 you not see man as a frail and delicate 
 child, cast into the bosom of universal 
 teaching .'' Ay, that teaching comes out 
 to him in tongues of flame, and it pene- 
 trates his hand in the little, seemingly 
 useless thorn, and it assails his foot 
 with stones of stumbling, and it flashes 
 into his eyes with the light of day, and 
 it broods over his path with the dark- 
 ness of night, and it sweeps around his 
 head with the wings of the tempest, and 
 it startles him to awe and fear with the 
 crash of thunder. The universe is not 
 more filled with light and air and solid 
 matter than it is filled and crowded with 
 wisdom and instruction. 
 
 But more, far more, than this does 
 nature teach, — not activity or self-care 
 a,lone, but a larger wisdom. To show 
 this fully, we should be obliged to en- 
 ter the vast domain of modern science. 
 What can we possibly say, in the few 
 words for which we have space here, 
 upon a theme so immense and mag- 
 nificent ? 
 
 But in what I shall say let me still 
 speak of man as nature's pupil. It is 
 common, I know, in this connection, to 
 celebrate the achievements of man ; to 
 say "how much has he discovered and 
 learned ! " But the true philosopher is 
 disposed rather to say, how much does 
 nature -teacli, and how much have I yet 
 to learn ! The dying words of the great 
 La Place, when he withdrew his eyes 
 from those depths of heaven which he 
 had so profoundly studied, — his last 
 words were : " That which I know, is 
 limited ; that which I do not know, is 
 infinite." What noble devotees indeed 
 have been found at the shrine of na- 
 ture ! Anaxagoras, and Aristotle, and 
 Copernicus, and Kepler, and Galileo, 
 and Newton, and the Herschels, and 
 Boyle, and Davy, and Cuvier, and 
 Ehrenberg, and Blumenbach, and Ber- 
 zelius, and many who bear up the hon- 
 ors of those great names at the present 
 day, besides a multitude of a kindred 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 589 
 
 spirit, though of less fame, who, morn- 
 ing and evening, at noonday and at mid- 
 nio-ht, are watching by all the avenues 
 and at all the gates of this sublime tem- 
 ple. Secrets unimaginable are yet to 
 be detected, wonders upon wonders are 
 yet to be unfolded ; and that the wise 
 well know. 
 
 But let us glance a moment at some 
 of its actual revelations. 
 
 Liglit passes at the rate of twelve 
 millions of miles in a minute.* Sir 
 Willi.im Herschel was of opinion that 
 by the aid of his forty-feet reflector his 
 eye descried nebulae (now mostly re- 
 solved into stars) from which it would 
 take the light nearly two millions of 
 years to reach us.f Professor Nichol 
 says that Lord Rosse's telescope cer- 
 tainly penetrates a depth from which 
 the liglit would require si.xty thousand 
 years to come to us. Struck with these 
 statements, and feeling as if there must 
 be some e.xtravagance or vagueness 
 about them, 1 turned to Sir John Her- 
 schel's Elementary Treatise on Astron- 
 omy, and there I find it stated that the 
 period cannot be less than a thousand 
 years ; how much more is unknown. 
 Subsequent calculations have proved, I 
 believe, that it cannot be less than ten 
 thousand. 
 
 Let it be observed that I am now 
 speaking of our own system ; not, in- 
 deed, the solar system, but that vast 
 bed of stars called the Galaxy, which, 
 in the line of its extension, gathers so 
 many stars to the sight as to present 
 that whitish appearance which we call 
 the Milky Way. And yet this is now 
 discovered to be but one of many uni- 
 verses. Rosse"s telescope has dis- 
 solved into systems of countless stars 
 the nebuls that had been descried in 
 the far-lying regions of space. And 
 
 • It is not material to the statement whether light 
 is regarded as a substance, or whether, according to 
 the later theory, the effect of light is pioduced by the 
 vibrations of some substance, some infinitely diffused 
 ether. In this case the vibrations pass with equal 
 rapidity, — a fact more wonderful still. 
 
 t Philosophical Transactions for 1802, p. 498. See 
 note in Humboldt's Cosmos, vol. i. p. 154, Am. Ed. 
 
 i of these systems, — these universes, — 
 vast perhaps as our own, more than two 
 thousand have been seen and numbered. 
 Well may ows be called a uttiverse, 
 — whether we consider its vastness or its 
 order. We have said that from some of 
 its bodies a ray of light takes ten thou- 
 sand, and it may be fifty thousand, years 
 to reach us. It scarcely matters, to any 
 conception we can form, which estimate 
 we adopt. But think of it ! Before the 
 time of Sesostris, before the earliest 
 date of recorded time, it may be, that 
 ray of light left its home, and through 
 distances awful and inconceivable it 
 has come, traversing twelve millions 
 of miles in a minute, and reporting of 
 unnumbered millions of resplendent 
 suns, scattered like star-dust through 
 that illimitable infinitude of space. 
 
 But again, all these millions of spheres 
 which compose our universe are revolv- 
 ing around one central point, — the star 
 Alcyone, in the constellation Pleiades, — 
 at the rate of about four hundred thou- 
 sand miles each day. And all these uni- 
 verses, it may be, are revolving around 
 another centre, — the throne of the In- 
 finite Might. 
 
 And yet, when we turn to the oppo- 
 site extreme, scarce less a wonder meets 
 us. Millions of creatures, organized, 
 active, sportive, live in a drop of water. 
 The galionella, an extinct species of 
 animalcule, was an organized being, and 
 had a kind of integument like a shell. 
 And Ehrenberg tells us that in a single 
 cubic inch of the polishing slate of Bilin 
 are forty thousand millions of the sili- 
 cious frames of the galionella.* 
 
 In this, awful universe, we need not 
 say, is stupendous power. It is in the 
 roll and sweep of infinite systems ; but 
 it is also, and long was unsuspected, in 
 the very bosom of the air around us. 
 Take four cubic feet of the vapor that 
 softly steals from the river's bosom, 
 and it is seemingly nothing ; you wave 
 your hand in it as if it were nothing ; 
 and yet in the expansion and contrac- 
 tion of those four cubic feet of vapor 
 * See Humboldt's Cosmos, vol. i. p. 150, Am. Ed. 
 
590 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 I 
 
 is power enough to move long trains 
 of lieavy-laden cars through our fields, 
 as swiftly almost as the bird flies. For 
 myself, I must confess that I can never 
 cease to look with wonder at this marvel 
 that is daily before my eyes. And for 
 the swiftness of nature's messengers, — 
 what are these that are darting on 
 telegraphic lines over our heads, and 
 bearing living thoughts, hundreds of 
 miles in an instant.'' The time may 
 soon come, when a man shall send his 
 fireside talk in a moment, from the 
 tropic to the pole, and tell of marriage 
 or birth, of sickness or death, even while 
 it is passing, to his friend half across the 
 globe. The time may come when the 
 earth shall be a vast whispering-gallery, 
 and thoughts shall circulate around it 
 as freely as sunbeams. 
 
 Why do we not tremble with fear 
 amidst the swiftness and power of these 
 tremendous agents in nature ? It is, 
 because we believe in an infinite Order, 
 — an infinite Goodness. It is a mar- 
 vellous confidence. It is a solemn 
 thing to live as we do, — to live thus 
 as children of faith. We recline upon 
 tlie bosom of this tremendous Nature, 
 where there is power enough within the 
 wave of our hand to tear us ten thou- 
 sand times in pieces, as confidingly as 
 in the lap of a parent. Our knowl- 
 edge of things around us is small, but 
 our faith boundless. To the little child, 
 nature is a stranger, and has some 
 rough points about her: but how soon 
 does he come to look upon her as a 
 mother! See him basking in the sun- 
 shine, bathing in the water, running in 
 the fields, with his bright locks float- 
 ing in the wind : everywhere he feels 
 as if kind arms were around him. He 
 confides in the uniform beneficence of 
 nature. If he had studied her millions 
 of years, he could not be more sure. 
 How knoweth he this so surely.-' It is 
 because not you nor I, but God, hath 
 taught that weak and innocent child. 
 " And thus," says Chalmers, with equal 
 justness and beauty, " a truth, the uni- 
 formity of nature, which would seem to 
 
 require Omniscience for its grasp, as 
 co-extensive with all nature and all his- 
 tory, is deposited by the hand of God 
 in the little cell of a nursling's cogi- 
 tations." * 
 
 From this survey of nature, not merely 
 as the theatre of human training, whose 
 general structure is fitted for that end, — 
 which was the subject of a former lec- 
 ture, — but of nature as effectually en- 
 forcing and impressively teaching certain 
 things — activity, self-care, and a wider 
 and diviner intelligence, let us now turn 
 to the specific tasks that are set for man 
 in the field of life. These are the oc- 
 cupations of life ; embracing in their 
 range all its laborious pursuits, its prac- 
 tical arts and learned professions. And 
 I wish to make it appear, as I have al- 
 ready said, that these are all a part of the 
 system of things, in which we are placed. 
 Some of these occupations are looked 
 upon as degrading, some as hard and 
 almost cruel. In some, — and this is 
 sometimes particularly felt in the learned 
 professions, — many persons so little dis- 
 tinguish themselves, that there is noth- 
 ing to gratify thei-r ambition, and they 
 become discouraged and disheartened in 
 their callings. Now in all these pursuits 
 and professions it ought to be felt that 
 there is a duty imposed by the Great 
 Taskmaster, which it is well and right 
 anfl honorable to discharge. I have 
 been struck with observing how much in 
 the popular literature of England, in the 
 ballads and songs, for instance, this 
 sense of duty is urged, and especially 
 upon one particular class. I mean mili- 
 tary men. In the songs of Dibdin, for 
 instance, this is very striking. The com- 
 mon sailor is taught to feel that he is to 
 stand in his lot, however humble, because 
 it is his duty. And equally true is it that 
 this is to be every man's strength and 
 stay in his daily tasks, — duty. We can- 
 not get along without it. 
 
 Let us, in the first place, cast a glance 
 at these tasks, to see how they spring 
 from the necessity of things, and are the 
 ordained vocations of men. 
 
 * Chalmers's Biidgewater Treatise, p. 203, Am. Ed. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 591 
 
 The feudal system and its predecessor, 
 the slave system, never wrought a great- 
 er or more pernicious falsehood into the 
 history of human life than this, — that 
 labor is degrading, a thing to be depre- 
 cated and shunned ; and that idleness 
 — doing nothing — is the honored and 
 happy condition. The great visible fact 
 of the world is work, and, first of all, 
 work upon the world itself; that is to 
 say, tilling the soil. The entire human 
 race draws subsistence from the earth 
 upon this condition, — work, — as truly 
 as all plants and trees derive their life 
 through the roots that connect them 
 with the ground. Instead of roots, hu- 
 man hands are stretched out to draw 
 supplies from the earth and from the 
 sea. Not that every man is a farmer or 
 a fisherman ; but every man — artisan, 
 merchant, or professional man — does 
 something that connects him with that 
 supply. Next, manufacture, — the cook- 
 ing of food, the weaving of wool and cot- 
 ton into clothing, the fashioning of stone 
 and wood and the metals into houses 
 and furniture, and a thousand conven- 
 iences, — it is an ordinance. Then, 
 again, trade, — the merchant's vocation, 
 the exxhange of the productions of dif- 
 ferent countries and climates, — it is 
 an ordinance. How idle to say, by way 
 of objection, that it produces nothing! 
 Exchange is as necessary to human 
 comfort and civilization, as production. 
 Are the learned professions any less 
 ordinances, — functions ordained in the 
 very nature and necessity of tilings? All 
 men cannot study the laws of the human 
 constitution, the symptoms of disease 
 and the methods of cure ; therefore 
 there must be physicians. Men gener- 
 ally cannot devote themselves to the 
 education of their children ; tlierefore 
 there must be teacliers of reading, writ- 
 ing, numbers, — of sciences, languages, 
 music, painting, &c. Numerous rela- 
 tions necessarily spring up between 
 persons, estates, lands, chattels. The 
 rights of men to property and personal 
 security ; the ascertaining and defining 
 of those rights by able treatises and care- 
 
 fully drawn statutes ; the necessity, to 
 prevent infinite confusion and injustice, 
 of general principles, and of instruments, 
 covenants, testaments drawn in accord- 
 ance with them, — all tliis is the subject 
 of a complicated and profound science. 
 There must be men to understand it ; 
 there must be lawyers. Worship is a 
 duty, religious instruction a need of hu- 
 manity; therefore there must be pastors, 
 preachers, divines. Some persons do 
 not see the need of this profession, and 
 propose to abolish it; but the world has 
 judged otherwise. There must be some- 
 body, at least, to preside over the rites 
 of public worship. Finally, statesman- 
 ship, the guidance of the affairs of na- 
 tions, is an indispensable vocation in 
 the order of all civilized society. And 
 all these vocations, I still say, are natu- 
 ral ordinances of life, necessary results 
 of the human nature and condition, bound 
 up with the constitution of the world ; 
 without which the world cannot exist, 
 civilized society cannot exist. 
 
 Let us now look at these pursuits 
 and employments of men, in the next 
 place, as the means of development and 
 culture. 
 
 The world, we say, is a school ; the 
 object is culture. Let us look at it in 
 this light. Do we imagine that some- 
 thing better than the present plan might 
 have been devised to answer the end ? 
 Let us see. Suppose that to learn and 
 to teach had been the sole and immedi- 
 ate business of human life. Suppose 
 that the generations of men, housed, 
 fed, clothed, provided for without any 
 care of their own, had been placed, as 
 it were, on school forms, rank behind 
 rank : and that a few, the aged and the 
 wise, had stood before them to give 
 instruction. Would that seem to us 
 better than this incessant, varied, volun- 
 tary activity? That is to say, instead 
 of finding his education in this activity, 
 would he have found a more abstract 
 system better ? 
 
 I would not make any unfair repre- 
 sentation, or draw a picture that does 
 injustice to the supposition in question. 
 
592 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 1 
 
 Suppose that in any way — in families, 
 or under the most attractive circum- 
 stances — direct teacliing and learning 
 were the sole business of life. And I 
 say again, does it seem to us that this 
 would be better ? Assuming that de- 
 velopment, culture, is the end of life, 
 does it seem to us that having nothing 
 to do but to study the works of God 
 would have been the better plan ? Does 
 it seem to us a great waste of time to 
 dig and delve, to plough and sow and 
 reap, to manufacture and buy and 
 sell ; or to cook and wash and keep 
 the house ? Should we account it a 
 blessed fortune, if we had jiothing to 
 do but to read and study and medi- 
 tate ? 
 
 Abstractly, perhaps, it may appear to 
 be so, and in some other state of being 
 this may be the method of culture. 
 But we have now to look at this state ; 
 and we have a large range of considera- 
 tions to take into the account. There 
 may be individuals far advanced on 
 the path of improvement, to whom a life 
 of study may be better suited than 
 to others ; and yet the scholastic life, 
 compared with the active, is question- 
 able. But we have to consider the 
 race, and the race as beginning in in- 
 fancy, and as travelling up slowly on 
 the path of progress, and little qualified 
 even now, in the mass, for a life of 
 study. Men in general would find it 
 very dull to spend their time in the 
 contemplation of facts or theories. 
 They must obtain their development in 
 some other way. Nature can hardly 
 be a laboratory to them yet ; still less a 
 library : it must be a workshop. The 
 life of every child before us is a picture 
 of the general life. We do not begin 
 with giving it books or lessons. For 
 four or five years it is left very much 
 to its own activity, — a period during 
 which, nevertheless, it has been said by 
 a celebrated statesman,* that we prob- 
 ably acquire more ideas, — not mere 
 knowledge, which comes partly from 
 reasoning on ideas, — but more ideas, 
 
 * Lord Brougham. 
 
 more of the elements of reasoning, than 
 we acquire during our whole life after. 
 
 But let us look next at the whole 
 course of life and of generations, — 
 at the discipline for all men. Would 
 study, as the sole business, be better 
 than action ? 
 
 It must be a very strong being that 
 can afford to think all the time, and 
 do nothing but think. Colleges would 
 become madhouses, were it not for 
 vacations. Schools of abstract specu- 
 lation' have often proved themselves to 
 be wild enough, even when composed 
 of the most learned men. The extrava- 
 gances of the old schoolmen is proof 
 enough of this. 
 
 Perpetual thinking, at any rate, is 
 more than anybody can bear. We 
 should be cast, and flung helpless down 
 in the toils of thought, if the line were 
 never broken ; and it is well that event, 
 action, circumstance, comes to_ break it. 
 The question, indeed, is not between 
 thought and action, but whether it is 
 best that they should be blended ; and 
 of this I have no doubt. 
 
 For it is further .to be considered that 
 this mingling of action with thought 
 introduces into life an element of 
 individual experience, of untaught, 
 self-taught knowledge, of personal ex- 
 perimenting, which is of immense im- 
 portance to the character. It brings 
 truth to the test of fact, and makes it 
 more vital. It makes every attainment 
 more thorough, and fixes it more deeply 
 in the mind. Other things being equal, 
 he will best understand the law who 
 practises it; or the physical constitu- 
 tion of man, who studies it with a view 
 to healing; or theology, who puts in 
 order his thoughts to state them to 
 others, i. e., to preach them. 
 
 And, finally, I do not see how he can 
 be said to understand virtue at all who 
 does not put it in practice. All the 
 moral, i. e., the highest, ends of life 
 seem absolutely to require action in 
 order to their accomplishment. The 
 mere contemplation of virtue or of truth, 
 however divine, is apt to degenerate 
 
THE PRObLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 593 
 
 into sickly sentiment. It is liable to 
 become dreamy, inefficient, and super- 
 ficial. And there are too many exam- 
 ples to prove that in the upper surface 
 of the character many noble, ay, and 
 religious thoughts may have their place, 
 while in the layers and depths beneath 
 all may be bad and wrong. It requires 
 action to develop the true moral energy. 
 It requires that the very deeps of 
 character and life be stirred up. It 
 requires contact and conflict with toil, 
 trial, difficulty, with sickness, sorrow, 
 and pain, with all that makes the moral 
 discipline of life. 
 
 On the whole, then, I am persuaded 
 that this discipline, which is found in 
 the ordained occupations of life, is a 
 good training, — is the best conceiva- 
 ble. I do not accept as at all reason- 
 able the common complaint that these 
 occupations are mere drudgery to the 
 spirit, mere waste time to the soul, 
 mere toiling and moiling, mere buying 
 and selling, mere writing deeds or pre- 
 scriptions, — with no end but to get 
 bread. They do a great deal for man 
 beyond this, in his own despite ; and 
 they would do a great deal more if he 
 saw what they were meant to do, — if 
 he but had the reflection and wisdom 
 distinctly to say with himself, ''There 
 was no need in the nature of things that 
 I should be a worker ; God could have 
 provided for me without that, as he has 
 for the birds of the air ; but I am made 
 a worker for the development of ener- 
 gies, for the culture of virtues. I am 
 made a worker that I may be something 
 higher, stronger, nobler, than a mere 
 enjoyer, or a mere idler, or a mere 
 learner." 
 
 But observe now the actual process. 
 See a man who cultivates his farm. 
 He must work. But that is not all he 
 has to do. He has to think, and to 
 think a good deal, in order to do the 
 work well. Therp are various soils 
 on his farm, suited to various uses ; 
 there are different products to be 
 reared ; there are successive seasons, 
 demanding attention and foresight ; 
 
 there must be a general plan, and the 
 details must be wrought out with care 
 and judgment. So much is indispensa- 
 ble, and much more might be easily 
 added, — a knowledge of agricultural 
 chemistry, a scientific cultivation of the 
 land. And with this connects itself the 
 whole circle of family duties and affec- 
 tions ; the home stands in the midst, — 
 the visible guardian and presiding gen- 
 ius of the scene, — the holy altar, the 
 sacred hearthstone, that shed light and 
 warmth like the sun upon all around. 
 Such the centre and such the circum- 
 ference of rural life, — the best bond to 
 virtue, and sphere of healthiest activity ; 
 the great page of nature spread around 
 and within, some thoughtful inquiry and 
 some reading to understand it, — what 
 better school, what holier sanctuary, 
 could there be for man than this ? 
 
 Go now to the manufactory and the 
 workshop. Here the materials which 
 nature provides are to be wrought into 
 a thousand forms, for human conven- 
 ience and comfort. Intellect, invention, 
 skill, dexterity, are here brouglit into 
 the most adroit and brilliant activity ; 
 revolving wheels, the swift-flying shuttle, 
 the sharpened instrument, best image 
 the mechanic intellect of a people. No 
 man can pass through our workshops 
 and factories without being astonished 
 at what is there achieved. This is not 
 a dull school. When Heaven ordained 
 that man should be an artisan, a manu- 
 facturer, it did not appoint the tnsk to 
 benumb his faculties, but to quicken and 
 sharpen them to the keenest exercise. 
 
 And again, I ask with regard to tlie 
 merchant's calling, does Heaven frown 
 upon that, — as some of the satirists 
 and reformers do ? Beneficent ex- 
 changer of the products of all climes 
 and countries ; bringer of comforts to all 
 firesides tliroughout the world ; promoter 
 of peaceful intercourse ; civilizer of the 
 nations ; whose sails whiten every sea ; 
 in the bright track of whose empires 
 are Phoenicia and Carthage, and old 
 Spain and Greece, and Holland and 
 England and America, — is this to be 
 
 38 
 
594 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 rated as a barren and unproductive call- 
 ing ? Is it the misfortune of the world 
 that it must have this instrumentality ? 
 " But it corrupts the inuividual^'' — will 
 some one say ? Only as everything 
 corrupts him who will. Some of the no- 
 blest virtues, — some of the noblest men 
 in the world, are reared in this field. 
 
 Turn, in fine, to the learned profes- 
 sions. These, too, take their place in 
 the order of Providence. Let us see 
 what place ; and what functions they 
 may be for those who discharge them. 
 
 In this distrustful, this all-doubting 
 age, it has fallen to the lot of the medi- 
 cal profession, I think, to be brought 
 into question more than any other. The 
 reason is, that the field of its investi- 
 gation lies in the dark ; so that the pro- 
 cesses of cure and the principles of 
 evidence are more obscure ; and the 
 generality of men are more incompetent 
 to judge here than anywhere else. Dr. 
 Abercrombie, in his " Intellectual Phi- 
 losophy," mentions the case of a physi- 
 cian, who retired in disgust from his 
 profession, saying, that " the practice of 
 medicine was like a man striking with a 
 club in the dark ; if he hit the disease, 
 he killed the disease ; if he hit the 
 patient, he killed the patient " Now I 
 think that this man was himself striking 
 in the dark, when he said that ; and not 
 only so, but leaving all the rest of the 
 world in the dark. The darker the mat- 
 ter is, the more need to seek for light. 
 The science of healing, however imper- 
 fect, the study of coiistant cause and 
 effect for thousands of years, must have 
 .■^ome value ; it is a good study ; and 
 for the practice of what is thus learned, 
 I know not what can call out finer sym- 
 pathies than this ministration of relief 
 to sickness and pain, nor any that wins 
 for itself a more enviable place in the 
 confidence and affection of society. 
 
 The legal profession, again, has no 
 small amount of prejudice to contend 
 with. It cannot be denied that it is 
 necessary ; somebody must understand 
 and administer the laws ; and to do this 
 requires a life devoted to it. But still, 
 
 this enlistment in the cause of bad 
 passions, this espousal and defence of 
 the wrong side, is thought by many to 
 be unprincipled. I have long wondered 
 that some member of this profession 
 does not take up and thoroughly discuss 
 the moral questions which thus press 
 upon it. It really very much concerns, 
 not only the honor of the profession, 
 but the healthiness of the pubhc con- 
 science, that this should be done. In 
 brief, the principles are these : In every 
 legal question there are two parties ; in 
 the minds of judge and jury there are 
 two sides, which have a claim to be con- 
 sidered and weighed ; counsel represent 
 these parties, espouse these sides. The 
 original party has a right to state his 
 case ; then surely another, better quali- 
 fied, may do it for him. And in all ordi- 
 nary cases the lawyer does not and 
 cannot know which side is wrong, till 
 the evidence is all given in and the 
 case fully argued. This is the theoretic 
 ground for legal practice : and certainly 
 there is nothing in it that is at war with 
 the great ends of Providence, — nothing 
 that forbids a high moral culture ; ever}-- 
 thing, on ihe contrary, that requires it. 
 It is, rightly viewed, a high and noble 
 vocation. It is the sphere of justice, 
 the forum of eloquence, the school of J 
 statesmanship. ■fll 
 
 Of the clerical profession, in the pres- ^" 
 ent connection, I need say nothing but 
 this : it is the ultimate and culminating 
 ministration to the highest hfe of tlie 
 world ; and of the teachers of youth — 
 that fourth profession — that they must 
 learn before tliey teach ; that the very 
 condition of their function is intelli- 
 gence, and its end, instruction ; that 
 they, more than any other distinct class 
 of men, lay the very foundations of all 
 human culture. 
 
 Let us now come to consider, in fine, 
 as forms of human activity, the arts of 
 expression. Nature teaches and en- 
 forces many things for human develop- 
 ment and instruction ; the ordinary oc- 
 cupations of life assist the same design ; 
 but this is not all. Men are possessed 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 595 
 
 of great and divine ideas and senti- 
 ments ; and to paint them, sculpture 
 them, build them in architecture, sing 
 them in music, utter them in eloquent 
 speech, write them in books, in essays, 
 sermons, poems, dramas, fictions, phi- 
 losophies, histories,— this is an irresisti- 
 ble propensity of human nature. 
 
 Art, inspiration, power, in these forms 
 naturally places itself at the head of 
 the human influences by which the 
 world is cultivated and carried forward. 
 The greatest thing in the world doubt- 
 less is a sacred life ; the greatest power, 
 a pure example ; but this is the end of 
 all, and we do not here contemplate it 
 as a means. As means, art is greatest. 
 A beautiful thought, a great idea, made 
 to quicken the intellect, to touch the 
 heart, to penetrate the hfe, — this is the 
 grandest office that can be committed 
 to human hands. Every faithful artist 
 of every grade belongs to this inagnifi- 
 cent institute for the instruction of the 
 world. 
 
 Criticism in literature within the last 
 forty years has passed through a very 
 remarkable change. Any one may trace 
 it in the leading journals, of that stand- 
 ing; as for instance, in the " Edinburgh 
 Review." Formerly literary criticism 
 was very much occupied with form and 
 details in art, and had very little refer- 
 ence to the true design. Now it has 
 come to be received as an unquestioned 
 canon of criticism, that there can be no 
 high art without inoral elements ; that 
 irreverence and atheism would kill all 
 high artistic excellence, as surely as 
 they would kill all high moral excel- 
 lence ; that the most sublime and 
 beautiful things, whether in nature or 
 humanity, are imprints and signatures 
 of the Divine hand ; and that to expre.';s 
 these things the soul of art must com- 
 mune with what is divine, — must be 
 breathed upon by the sanctity of re- 
 ligion. It is not as it was in the days 
 of Voltaire and Helvetius and D'Hol- 
 back, and Hume and Gibbon ; now it is 
 understood that no man can be ^ great 
 writer, a great poet, novelist, or phi- | 
 
 losopher, who does not recognize and 
 feel what is greatest in man, — the spirit 
 of humanity and the sense of what is 
 above it. I hardly know of any more 
 significant mark upon the world, indica- 
 tive of the world's progress, than this. 
 
 There is one grand mistake often 
 made in the appreciation of art, aris- 
 ing from the honor and fame that at- 
 tend it. I suspect that it is quite a 
 common notion that men study, write, 
 speak, paint, build, for fame. Totally 
 and infinitely otherwise is the fact with 
 all true men. They live for an idea, — 
 live to develop, embody, express it ; and 
 all extraneous considerations only hin- 
 der and hurt their work. But this is 
 often misunderstood. I have, many 
 times, had observations made to myself, 
 implying that the stimulants to my own 
 professional effort must be small in re- 
 tired country places, and came to their 
 culminating point only in the great cen- 
 tres of society. The implication always 
 pains, and, if I must say the truth, some- 
 what angers me. It is a total misconcep- 
 tion, to say the least. A true man will 
 preach as well in the Isle of Shoals as in 
 Boston or New York ; nay, better., I am 
 inclined to think ; for he will not have 
 there the miserable envelopment of city 
 criticism or dclat to disturb him. This 
 is tlie reason why men seldom speak 
 so well on extraordinaiy occasiojis as 
 when left, undisturbed, to the free and 
 natural force of their minds and flow 
 of their feelings, in their ordinary pro- 
 fessional walk. If I were to offer an 
 artist a million of dollars to paint me a 
 picture, unless his were one of the 
 greatest and deepest minds, which noth- 
 ing con\d divert from its idea, I should 
 not expect as good a picture from him 
 as I should if he painted it for nothing. 
 
 No, believe me, the effluence of genius 
 can no more be bought or sold, than the 
 light that streams from the fountain of 
 day. It is the light of the world ; and 
 it is not man's purchase, but God's gift; 
 it is God's light shining through the 
 soul. Raphael or Michael Angelo may 
 be employed by Pope Julius or Pope 
 
596 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 Sixtus, — patronized by them, as the 
 phrase is ; Shakspeare may be honored 
 by (2ueen Elizabeth, or Dante protected 
 by the Lord of Ravenna; but all that 
 pontiff, monarch, or lord can do for 
 genius is, to let it alone, simply to give 
 it an opportunity to work ; all their lar- 
 gesses can do no more than that. No, 
 tiie light shines from a higher sphere 
 than this world. It shines into the ar- 
 tist's studio and philosopher's laiiora- 
 tory ; it falls upon the still places of 
 deep meditation ; the pen that writes 
 immortal song, immortal thought in any 
 form, is a rod that conveys the lightning 
 from heaven to earth ; and the breath of 
 eloquent speech is an afflatus that comes 
 from far above windy currents of human 
 applause. 
 
 It concerns my purpose in this lecture, 
 to insist on this mission of all true intel- 
 lectual labor, and to remind every worker 
 in this field, however high or however 
 humble, of his real vocation. " I am 
 not distinguished," one may say ; " the 
 world, Europe, England, does not know 
 me, — will never know me." What then ? 
 Do what thou canst. Somebody will 
 know it. No true word or work is ever 
 lost. Stand thou in thy lot ; do thy work ; 
 for the great Being that framed the world 
 assuredly meant' that somebody should 
 do it, — tiiat men and women of various 
 gifts should do it, as they are able. Or 
 one may say, " My part in this good voca- 
 tion is not held by the world in due ap- 
 preciation and honor; I sing the music, 
 or speak the dramas, that others have 
 written ; and my calling is profaned in 
 the common parlance of the day ; the 
 church anathematizes it, and society en- 
 joys without respecting it." I admit 
 the injustice ; and for this special rea- 
 son, that these callings are naturally 
 good, and for the evil in them, society 
 and the church are much to blame. 
 Naturally good, I say ; for the world 
 would not know or feel what Beethoven 
 and Handel have composed, or Shak- 
 speare or Calderon have written, if there 
 had not been those who studied them, 
 and, inspired by kindred genius, learned 
 
 to breathe out their thouirhts in sone 
 and dramatic speech. 
 
 Why can we not look at the goodly 
 band of human occupations and arts as 
 it is ; and depreciate no trade that is ne- 
 cessary, no art that is useful, no minis- 
 tration that springs from the bosom of 
 nature, and is thus clearly ordained of 
 Heaven? If there be abuses of such 
 ministration, let them be remedied ; but 
 rejection and scorn of any one thing that 
 God has made to be or to be done, is 
 not lawful, nor reverent to Heaven.* 
 
 Let this whole system of nature and 
 life appear as it is ; as it stands in the 
 great order and design of Providence. 
 Let nature, let the solid world, be more 
 than a material world, — even the area 
 on which a grand moral structure is to 
 be built up, itself helping the ultimate 
 design in many ways. Let the works of 
 man take their proper place, — the place 
 assigned them in the plan of Heaven. 
 Let agriculture lay the basis of ttie 
 world-building. Let mechanism and 
 manufacture rear and adorn the vast 
 abode of life. Let trade and commerce 
 replenish it with their treasures. Let 
 the liberal and learned professions stand 
 as stately pillars in the edifice of society. 
 But when all this is done, still there 
 are wants to be supplied. There is a 
 thought in the bosom of humanity that 
 longs to be uttered. The heart of the 
 world would break, if there were no 
 voice to give it relief, — to give it utter- 
 ance. There is, too, a slumber upon 
 the world which needs that voice. There 
 are dim corners and dark caverns, that 
 
 * I have always thought, however, that this fair 
 and reasonable appreciation of all the lawful and ne- 
 cessary vocations in society could never be the result 
 but of the highest and most reflective civilization. It 
 was with surprise, therefore, that I read the following 
 passage in Bossuet upon the Egyptian system of so- 
 ciety : " 11 falloit qu'il y eut des emplois et des per- 
 sonnes pi us considerables, comme il faut qu'il y ait des 
 yeux dans le corps. Leur ^clat ne fait pas mepriser 
 les pieds ni les parties les plus basses. Ainsi, parmi 
 les Egyptiens, les pretres et les soldats avaient des 
 marques d'honneur particuli^res ; mais tous les me- 
 tiers, jusqu'aux moindres, ^taient en estime; et on ne 
 croyoit pas pouvoir sans crime mepriser les citoyens 
 dont les travaux, quels qu'ils fussent, contribuoient 
 au bien public." — L'fiisloire UniverselU, troisiime 
 partie, chapitre premier. 
 
 I 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 597 
 
 want light. There is weariness to be 
 cheered, and pain to be soothed, and 
 the dull routine of toil to be relieved, and 
 the dry dead matter of fact to be invest- 
 ed with hues of imagination, and the 
 mystery of life to be cleared up, and a 
 great, dread, blank destitution that needs 
 resource and refreshment, — needs in- 
 spiring beauty and melody to breathe 
 life into it. 
 
 Then let the artist men come and do 
 their work. Let statues stand in many 
 a niche and recess, and pictures hang 
 upon the wall, that shall fill the surround- 
 ing air with their sublimity and loveli- 
 ness. Let essays and histories, let writ- 
 ten speech and printed books, be ranged 
 in unending alcoves to pour instruction 
 upon the world. Let poetry and fiction 
 lift up the heavy curtains of sense and 
 materialism, and unfold visions of beauty, 
 like the flushes of morning, or of part- 
 ing day behind the dark mountains. Let 
 music wave its wings of light and air 
 through the world, and sweep the chords 
 that are strung in the human heart with 
 its entrancing melodies. Let lofty and 
 commanding eloquence thunder in the 
 ears of men the words of truth and 
 justice, 
 
 " Or, in strains as sweet 
 .\s angels use, . . . whisper peace." 
 
 Let majestic philosophy touch the dark 
 secret of life, and turn its bright side as 
 a living light upon the paths of men. 
 
 Come, other Platos and Bacons ! — do 
 we not exclaim ? come, other Newtons 
 and La Places ! — other Beethovens and 
 Handels ! — come, other Homers and 
 Dantes, Miltons and Shakspeares ! — 
 other Demostheneses and Ciceros, and 
 Massillons ! — and fill the long track of 
 future ages with your glorious train, and 
 lead on the world through ever-bright- 
 ening ages to knowledge, to virtue, and 
 to immortal life ! 
 
 Under such auspices, my friends, vis- 
 ions of better days to come rise before 
 me. I look upon a company of people, 
 a plantation, a district, or a township 
 among us ; and, compared with a Hot- 
 tentot village or the tents of Al.iric, 
 
 there is great progress now, — order, 
 comfort, and a certain amount of culture. 
 But, alas ! there is destitution, ignorance, 
 crime, weariness, heart-heaviness enou<di 
 still. Cold and chill is the day of life to 
 many within the protected pale of our 
 modern civilization ; and the bright sky 
 is of a leaden hue to them ; and the 
 eyes are dim, and the spirit is sad and 
 heavy, that should sympathize with the 
 fair and lovely picture of the world 
 around them. God be thanked that it 
 is no worse, — that ours /j a protected 
 civilization, protected from the tortures 
 of old superstition and from the blows 
 of feudal oppression ; ay, that it is free ; 
 that no baron's arm here can strike and 
 scatter youth and innocence into street 
 dust for him to travel on to his accursed 
 ends, nor cast down the noblest hearts 
 to sigh in his dungeons. But there is 
 uncivilized misery enough among us still ; 
 misery that comes from want of knowl- 
 edge, refinement, culture, and the gra- 
 cious influence of the beautiful arts and 
 virtues. There are blows of domestic 
 tyranny. There are cruel words spoken, 
 fit only for barbarians. There is hard 
 and bitter and grinding toil for many. 
 There is the life-long struggle for cul- 
 ture and comfort; struggle with painful 
 conditions of need, and uncongenial and 
 ill-requited taskwork ; struggle in school- 
 rooms and factories and perhaps homes ; 
 struggle in all the callings and all the 
 liberal professions of life, — for I hear 
 voices of complaint from them all. Sad 
 isolation, secret and untold griefs, dis- 
 appointed hopes, aims, and affections, 
 wearying mental strifes and question- 
 ings, brood far and wide upon the heart 
 of modern society. 
 
 But I believe in a better day that is 
 coming. Improved agriculture, manu- 
 facture, and mechanism, less labor and 
 more result, more leisure, better culture, 
 high philosophy, beautiful art, inspiring 
 music, resources that will not need the 
 base appliances of sense, will come ; and 
 with them truth, purity, and virtue ; rev- 
 erent piety building its altar in all human 
 abodes ; and the worship that is gentle- 
 
598 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 ness and disinterestedness, and holy 
 love, hallowing all the scene ; and human 
 life will go forth, amidst the beautiful 
 earth and beneath the blessed heavens, 
 
 in harmony with their spirit, in fulfilment 
 of their high teaching and intent, and 
 in communion with the all-surrounding 
 li":ht and loveliness. 
 
 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 AGAINST DESPONDENCY. — HELPS AND HINDRANCES, OR A CONSID- 
 ERATION OF THE MORAL TRIALS OR EMERGENCIES THAT ATTEND 
 THE WORKING OUT OF OUR HUMAN PROBLEM. 
 
 We are now penetrating deeper into 
 the world-problem, — the great problem 
 of our humanity ; and we are to consider 
 this evening some of the interior, the 
 mental and moral conditions on which 
 it is to be wrought out. 
 
 I have been sensible at every step that 
 the subject upon which I am engaged in 
 these lectures requires a far larger dis- 
 cussion than I am able here to give it. 
 It is indeed a subject for a great work, 
 rather than for a few lectures ; 1 am 
 tempted to say, for the greatest work in 
 the domain of philosophy; and for a 
 work, too, that is yet to be written. My 
 conviction is, so far as my reading has 
 extended, that only a few fragments 
 worthy of a place in it have yet appeared 
 in the literature of the world. And it is 
 a work which, when it is accomplished 
 by the united powers of genius, learning, 
 and piety exhausted upon a life of study, 
 and concentrated in a book of wisdom, 
 will be of only less value than the Bible 
 itself. Happy and crowned with bless- 
 ings shall he be who can achieve it. I 
 can but express my sense of the value 
 and grandeur of the undertaking. 1 but 
 see in future time, when thought shall be 
 more cosmopolitan and comprehensive 
 than it is now, — I can but prophesy 
 that then some gifted nature shall ap- 
 pear, which, imbued and informed with 
 the German lore, penetration, and spirit- 
 uality, with the French clearness and" 
 vivacity, and the solid English sense and 
 
 feeling, shall so unfold the problem of 
 human destiny, as to become a second 
 Plato — and a greater — the greatest 
 uninspired teacher of men. 
 
 Let us, however, pursue our task as 
 we can, in these lectures, and consider 
 this evening some of the interior con- 
 ditions, trials, and emergencies which 
 attend the working out of our human 
 problem, the helps and hindrances to it 
 as a practical work, and the courage 
 and cheerfulness wliich ought to attend 
 it, instead of the depression and de- 
 spondency which too commonly darken 
 the way ; for, in particular, I wish it 
 to be considered whether there is any- 
 thing arbitrary or unnecessarily dis- 
 tressing, or whether there is, to the ex- 
 tent usually supposed, anything peculiar 
 or strange in the conditions of hitman 
 attainment. 
 
 We are apt to imagine that there is 
 something very peculiar in man's case. 
 Probation, for instance, is thought to 
 be peculiar to him. The problem of 
 the Origin of Evil is commonly re- 
 garded as pertaining to humanity alone, 
 as darkening no world but this. The 
 very constitution, as well as physical 
 condition, of human nature is supposed 
 to stand in direct contrast with that ot 
 other beings in other worlds. It is very 
 easy to see how this idea arose. For 
 ages, the only beings beside men who 
 were imagined to exist in the universe 
 were angels, seraphs, — superhuman na- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 599 
 
 tures, dwellers in the empyrean heaven. 
 It was not suspected that the surround- 
 ing worlds were inhabited ; and when 
 that conception arose, it very naturally 
 peopled those worlds with the same be- 
 ings, i. e., with angels. All other beings 
 than men, before supposed to exist, 
 were angels ; therefore these were an- 
 gels. The very contrary might have 
 been more justly inferred, since those 
 worlds are of the same nature, order, 
 and company with our own. But the 
 nT)re irrational notion very naturally 
 prevailed for a time, though I think it 
 is now beginning to give way to the 
 reasonable idea that those dwellers on 
 high — dwellers on high to 7cs, but no 
 more than we are to thefu — are indeed 
 our brethren.* 
 
 But let us now proceed to that fur- 
 tiier consideration of the interior and 
 trying conditions of human culture, 
 which I have proposed as the design 
 of this lecture. 
 
 The fundamental condition I have al- 
 ready discussed, — that is to say, free- 
 dom, free will, and the consequent lia- 
 bility to error and to evil. This fact 
 of freedom I took for granted ; the 
 necessity of it to virtue I took for 
 granted. I started from these points 
 as the very intuitions of experience. 
 I know that, under the limitations of 
 course imposed by a finite and moral 
 nature, I am free, and that I cannot 
 be virtuous unless I am so. I know, 
 that is to say, that I possess a rational 
 and modified freedom ; that I am free, 
 not indeed to do everything possible, 
 but to do and to be all that is involved 
 in virtue and a virtuous happiness. I 
 am not free to disregard motives ; but 
 I am free to yield to good or bad ones 
 at my pleasure ; free to cherish the 
 good and to resist the bad ; free, at any 
 rate, to turn my thoughts to which I 
 will, and thus to give them weight and 
 power. I am not free to be indifferent 
 to happiness ; but I am free to deter- 
 mine what kind of happiness I will seek 
 
 * Oersted's " Soul in Nature " has some interest- 
 ing discussions upon this point. 
 
 for. And tliis freedom, it is plain, is, 
 in its very nature, a restless and peril- 
 ous element. A mechanical or irrational 
 creation might have perfect security and 
 undisturbed enjoyment ; a free creation, 
 a virtuous, improving, advancing crea- 
 tion, must be liable to sin and pain and 
 trouble. 
 
 But there are other conditions, — im- 
 perfection, effort, and struggle ; peni- 
 tence or regret for failure ; illusion, 
 fluctuation, indefiniteness in the pro- 
 cess ; and the clogs and the obstruc- 
 tions which flesh is heir to. Let us 
 examine them. The question naturally 
 arises, Is not this an unattractive way? 
 Is not imperfection undesirable, and 
 effort toilsome, and penitence sad ? and 
 are not illusion, fluctuation, indefinite- 
 ness, obstruction, undesirable .'' and is 
 not the path to good, therefore, an over- 
 shadowed and mournful path ? 
 
 Grant that it is so to a certain ex- 
 tent ; yet surely it would be a sufficient 
 vindication to show that it is the only 
 possible path. This vindication I offer ; 
 but I think that in thus considering the 
 condidons of progress, we shall come 
 to be convinced that they are not alto- 
 gether dark nor repulsive. 
 
 I. First, imperfection is to be con- 
 sidered. I should hardly touch upon 
 this point with a view to explain or de- 
 fend it, so clearly inevitable is it ; but 
 I wish to expand this element of the 
 problem into its due place and propor- 
 tions. I say imperfection. In all the 
 ranks and orders of being — in the 
 seraph as in the child — there must be 
 imperfection. The grades may be dif- 
 ferent, but the thing is the same ; and 
 whatever objection lies against our de- 
 gree of imperfection, in principle lies 
 against every other. The tliinsj, I say, 
 is alike inevitable and unobjectionable. 
 Our grade is human ; others may be 
 superhuman, angelic, we know not what. 
 — thrones, princedoms, principalities of 
 heaven. Nay, what if it were true that 
 they had started from infancy, as we 
 do ? What supposition, indeed, so rea- 
 sonable ? Is it not, in fact, inevitable, 
 
6oo 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 in some sense of the word infancy ? 
 We speak of imperfection ; we say titat 
 is inevitable. Must not the first steps 
 of imperfection be infancy, — if not of 
 the body, yet of the mind ? If every 
 created existence had a beginning, — 
 if it had nothing of experience at the 
 first, — if all its knowledge and virtue 
 were to be acquired, — if the highest 
 dweller among the stars of light must 
 remember the time when he began to 
 be, began to learn, began to choose the 
 right and to adore the infinite perfec- 
 tion, and if his whole being has been 
 a progress, — must not his beginning 
 have been an infancy ? 
 
 And is it not reasonable, nay, is it 
 not inevitable, to suppose that the first 
 steps were attended with more or less 
 of mistake, of erring ? What is imper- 
 fection ? It is limited capacity, knowl- 
 edge, virtue. It implies that there are 
 truths not yet seen, propositions not 
 yet solved, points of light, heights of 
 attainment, not yet reached. It is so 
 with us ; must it not be so with the 
 highest finite natures ? They may have 
 gone far beyond all voluntary erring ; 
 they may be in this sense sinless ; but 
 in the vast breadth of their activity 
 there must be things for them to try, 
 questions for them to solve, as truly 
 as in our humble daily walk there are 
 for us. It must be so ; if not, then 
 they have learned all, and have stopped 
 in the career of progress. A gloomy 
 pause ! For if there is no progress, 
 there can be no activity ; if no activity, 
 no happiness. 
 
 II. This brings us to the second point, 
 — effort ; and in general, I say, is it not 
 a good condition ? Is it not a favored, 
 a fortunate condition ? All experience 
 testifies that the highest happiness is 
 found 'in action, bodily, mental, moral. 
 Any of them, all of them, are good. 
 So persuaded am I of this, that no 
 prospect for a month or a year seems 
 to me so attractive as a plemim, a 
 crowded fulness, of healthful and wise 
 activity ; and one of the highest bene- 
 factions of which I c.\n conceive, in the 
 
 better world which we hope for, would 
 be the privilege, the power of inces- 
 sant, never-wearying, glorious activity ; 
 no more dulness, no more sleep ; no 
 stupor of disease nor sluggishness of 
 the overwrought brain ; no heavy head 
 nor fainting heart ; but action, travel, 
 growth, increasing knowledge, expand- 
 ing visions of God, amidst the bright 
 and boundless spheres that roll around 
 us. No soft, bland region do I see 
 above, lulled to repose, curtained with 
 moveless clouds, and basking beneath 
 a tranquil sky; that heaven of the Hin- 
 doo, of the Turk, ay, and of our Chris- 
 tian childhood, too, is giving place to 
 manlier and maturer thoughts of ever- 
 unfolding life and joy. 
 
 But now if I substitute for effort the 
 word struggle, immediately the prob- 
 lem assumes a darker aspect. " I am 
 weary," says one ; " I would rest. Why 
 must I still fight this battle ? Why 
 could I not win the prize on easier 
 terms ?" I answer, IV/iat prize .'' En- 
 joyment, pleasure, outward abundance ? 
 That you might have had on easier 
 terms. Mountains might have been 
 coined into gold for you, and the riv- 
 ers have flowed with milk and honey, 
 and the trees have dropped manna and 
 distilled wine, — and all this you might 
 have had as cheap as the grass which 
 the innocent sheep crops in the sum- 
 mer field ; but the heights of virtue, 
 the sweep of expanding knowledge, the 
 pathway of immortal joy, — with other 
 thoughts, on other terms, are these 
 things to be achieved. Is it hard to 
 achieve them ? Nay, what if you were 
 to learn that they are never to be 
 achieved as things laid up, like gold, 
 in a secure coffer ; that they are never 
 to be achieved or kept, but as they are 
 held in the free and immortal grasp of 
 beings who prize them above the uni-^ 
 verse beside ? Such, 1 believe, is the 
 everlasting tenure by which wisdom anc 
 virtue are held. 
 
 III. But this is not all. With waver-^ 
 ing and wayward steps, stumbling anC 
 sometimes falling, we press on to \\\i 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 6oi 
 
 great end of our being, true virtue, true 
 blessedness. Repenting, regret for fail- 
 ure, is an essential condition of all true 
 moral life. 
 
 The keenness of this regret is really 
 a remarkable tiling in our moral consti- 
 tution ; and nothing indeed can account 
 for its sharpness but its high mission ; 
 which is, to cut the bonds of evil. Even 
 in his sports a man cannot shoot and 
 miss the mark, cannot strike the ball 
 and lose the game, without a gesture of 
 disappointment and vexation. But in 
 the game of life, how often and how 
 seriously do we miss and fail ! Passion 
 crosses the track and sways us from 
 the mark. The lawful senses, the inno- 
 cent affections, often go too far; and 
 their erring is discovered only through 
 experiment and by the result. And so 
 it is in our social relations. How often 
 does a man say, after having tried, and, 
 it may be, honestly tried a thing, two or 
 three times, — some measure with his 
 child, some interference with the affec- 
 tions of others, or some principle with 
 the public, — "I shall never do that 
 again I " The whole history of the 
 world, of government, of society, of 
 philanthropy, of charity to the poor and 
 suffering, is but a history of experiment- 
 ing ; of errors corrected by their conse- 
 quences, of truths shaken and sifted 
 from the chaff of falsehood, amidst the 
 mighty winnowings of social and na- 
 tional convulsion. 
 
 But, not to be led away from the 
 individual reference, — this private re- 
 gret, this sorrow for erring and wrong- 
 doing, — what just mind will complain of 
 it as a grievance and hardship? '■'■Let 
 me repent,'' such an one would say, — 
 " 1st me sorrow for my faults and follies ; 
 it is balm to my wound ; God in pity 
 has made it, not a scathing fire, but as 
 the gentle dew of mercy to my nature." 
 This emotion occupies so large a place 
 in the actual working out of our prob- 
 lem, that I must dwell upon it a moment 
 longer; not indeed with a view to the 
 duty, — whicli should be urged in another 
 place, — but to the philosophy of the 
 
 matter. A man thinks, for instance, 
 that wealth will satisfy him, that sensi- 
 tive pleasure will satisfy him, or that 
 knowledge will fill the measure of his 
 capacity. He does not accurately dis- 
 tinguish, at first, between the boundaries 
 of right and wrong; his reason, perhaps, 
 is not clear in its discriminations, but 
 his passions, alas ! are clear in their de- 
 mand ; he knows what he wants, but he 
 does not know what is best for him ; he 
 wants this, and he wants that. Well, 
 he gets it — the knowledge, the wealth, 
 the pleasure, the dclat — he gets it ; he 
 tries it, and he finds that it will not do. 
 With Solomon, and with many another 
 seeker, he says, it is all vanity. Dis- 
 appointed, grieved, sorrowful, he turns 
 back ; and whither must he turn ? To 
 deeper, purer, more spiritual resources. 
 He finds, if he finds anything true, that 
 nothing but virtue, sanctity, God, will 
 satisfy him. He wonders that he did 
 not see this before ; he reproaches him- 
 self ; he repents. The sense of his folly 
 is keen and bitter ; but it is salutary. 
 He has learned now, by experience, the 
 hatefulness of evil and the preciousness 
 of good ; and only by such experience, 
 perhaps, could he learn. This inward 
 conflict has made the only true theory 
 of welfare a thousand times more true 
 to him. NoiiJ he knows what is best for 
 him, and nothing can tear from him that 
 conviction. To all allurements he can 
 say, " Ah ! I know you ; I know where 
 ye lead ; I know your false, accursed, 
 blighting charms." Thus his repentings 
 have been the steps of progress. Thus 
 his errors have taught him to cease from 
 the way that causeth to err. And I 
 cannot but think that a more humble 
 and tender, a nobler and more beautiful 
 virtue may come out of erring, than 
 would have ever been otherwise at- 
 tained. 
 
 But besides imperfection, struggle 
 and sorrow in the practical working out 
 of the human problem, there are other 
 things to be considered ; things which 
 at first sight seem to be hindrances in 
 the moral course, but which, I think, as 
 
602 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 I 
 
 man is constituted, will be found, on 
 examination, to be helps and not hin- 
 drances. How talk you, it may be said, 
 of a sublime destiny for man, when we 
 see him baffled by illusions, subject to 
 perpetual fluctuations, bewildered by a 
 painful indefiniteness in all his moral 
 relations, and chained to physical con- 
 ditions full of difficulty and obstruction, 
 rather than furnished with wings to try 
 the courses of a heavenly virtue .' 
 
 IV. Illusion, then, — the fourth point 
 to be considered. 
 
 We cannot see things as they are. 
 We mistake form for substance. We 
 mistake semblances for realities. All 
 things are veiled and muffled to us, as 
 if to keep us from the sharpest contact. 
 We live in a universe of symbols, and 
 but slowly grasp the sense. It is the 
 hardest thing in the world to get at the 
 very truth, — at the inmost reality ; and 
 nothing, perhaps, more distinctly marks 
 the progress of a mind, than the gradual 
 disenchantment by which the shows of 
 life dissolve, — not into nothing, as they 
 do with the idle and worldly, — but dis- 
 solve away into the truths that lie within 
 or behind them. But illusion ; is it, as 
 is commonly supposed, the antagonist 
 of truth ? Rather it is often the envel- 
 opment ; the husk that protects the 
 corn ; the flower that is preparing for 
 fruit. 
 
 Such a flower is youthful enthusiasm. 
 The experienced eye looks gravely upon 
 it ; wisdom sits aloft and sees clearly its 
 mistakes. But wisdom would not crush 
 that flower. It hath the beauty of its 
 time, and will produce fruit. It is like 
 the flowery style of a youthful and im- 
 aginative writer. " Too much efflo- 
 rescence," we say; but there is promise 
 in it. 
 
 Illusion is often a glare that dazzles 
 and bewilders ; but it also draws and 
 fixes the eye that will yet penetrate 
 through it. Is it not childish and fool- 
 ish in barbarous tribes, to be attracted 
 as they are by the mere gewgaws and 
 trinkets of civilization, without looking 
 at its actual superiority? But they can- 
 
 not at once see that ; and in the mean 
 time the glitter and show draw them to 
 intercourse, — the only means of im- 
 provement. 
 
 In a manner not very unlike this, it 
 seems necessary that the whole youthful 
 world should look with admiration upon 
 the splendor and glare of life, for they 
 cannot at once attain to sage and pro- 
 found spirituality. They must be inter- 
 ested in something, that their faculties 
 may be kept awake and active. They 
 must have rattles in childhood ; they 
 must have dresses and gayeties in 
 youth ; they must have exclusive friend- 
 ships and passionate regards; they must 
 marry and be given in marriage, though 
 they are hereafter to be, in expansive 
 affection, as the angels of heaven. And 
 when this childhood of life seems, as it 
 does with many, to run into their matu- 
 rity, and they live upon the outside of 
 things and do not know what the things 
 mean ; still, I say, better to live so, than 
 not at all ; better this action, than death : 
 it may nurture strength and faculty for 
 something higher. Better the school of 
 worldliness than no school. That a man 
 should not see the deep foundations of 
 his strength and sufficiency; that he 
 should not feel a possession in all things, 
 higher than ownership, and enjoy a use 
 more sacred than mere property, is a 
 sad thing ; but the Master of life hath 
 patience with it, and will perhaps con- 
 duct it to something better. 
 
 This whole tremendous illusion about 
 wealth, — I say not about the means of 
 livelihood, for that is a reasonable care, 
 — but about accumulation, mere accu- 
 mulation, and the means of outward 
 splendor, with no care for the treasure 
 or the hght within; we complain of it 
 much at this day, and with good reason. 
 But I have seen a man who was educated i 
 by the splendid things that his wealth 
 brought around him ; educated by his i 
 pictures, by his furniture, by his rich j 
 mansion. He was not, to be sure, so 
 much the master of his house, as his 
 house was master of him ; and it taught 
 him some things. The elegances around 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 603 
 
 Iiim did something to cultivate, polish, 
 and refine his manners and thoughts. 
 He felt that he must do something to 
 raise himself up to such a style of living. 
 A certain consistency demanded it of 
 him ; demanded, at any rate, that his 
 children should be educated for such a 
 splendid lot. 
 
 No error, no mistake, perhaps, is a 
 dead mass of obstruction in the mind; 
 it is often the very scaffolding of truth, 
 or tlie shore that props up a weaker 
 part till a firm buttress can be placed 
 beneath. Thus, to many minds, there 
 is hardly any greater stumbling-block 
 than the differences of faith. "So niariy 
 creeds, so many religions," it is said ; 
 " they cannot all be true." No, nor any 
 of them altogether true, perhaps, i. e., 
 as men modify them. Bufwhat is not 
 true may be a temporary outwork to the 
 true. And every honest builder may 
 have unconsciously constructed such as 
 he needed. Ages build so; and, I think, 
 individual men. It is very plain to me 
 that rude and dark ages could not have 
 done without their superstition ; and 
 every mind may be a reduced picture of 
 those ages. But what, now, if I were 
 to say, in view of the differences of 
 faith, that I would not believe in any- 
 thing? It would be a startling declara- 
 tion. And yet if it were even so with 
 me, — yet the error of such absurd and 
 universal scepticism might be a tempo- 
 rary shield against the edge of particular 
 errors; infidelity might not harm me so 
 much as some creeds would ; atheism 
 itself might shield me for a time from 
 some Moloch worship ; and thus I 
 might be led by a way that I knew not, 
 to an end that I did not think of. 
 
 In fine, we complain of illusion; we 
 ask for reality ; but it may be that we 
 ask for more than can be wisely given. 
 Who knows whether he be able yet to 
 grapple with the naked spirituality of 
 truth ? Let reality be fully unveiled, 
 — all semblances dissipated, all interpos- 
 ing clouds swept away, — and I know 
 not but the world would go mad. We 
 talk about the absolute in truth, — seek 
 
 for it. Very likely success would be 
 fatal. Very possibly the human mind 
 could not bear it. Here is this solemn 
 vesture of mystery upon us and upon all 
 about us. Perhaps it is only so, that 
 we "sit, clothed and in our right mind." 
 Give us the piercing "microscopic eye," 
 and nature, we are told, disrobed of its 
 soft veil of beauty, would appear like a 
 ghastly skeleton. And so it might be 
 widi life, if our wish could be indulged 
 to pierce all its secrets and mysteries. 
 And so, to see the future life — that 
 which we so long for — might be more 
 than we could bear. 
 
 V. The thing to be next considered, is 
 fluctiiatio7i. Is it an evil .-• Life miglit 
 be stagnant without it, as the sea with- 
 out its waves. 
 
 In the whole system of things, no law 
 seems to be more universahthan fluctua- 
 tion. I have often thought that if, after 
 the manner of the most ancient philoso- 
 phers, I were to form any generalizing 
 theory concerning the constitution or 
 the primordial element of things, it 
 would not be water with Thales, nor 
 numbers with Pythagoras ; it would not 
 be the atomic nor the dynamic theory 
 that I should adopt, — not the theory of 
 changing atoms nor of permanent forces, 
 not the theory that makes all loose or 
 all fast, — but the theory of eternal 
 swaying to and fro, the theory of eter- 
 nal fluctuation. Of the original nature, 
 the essence of things, we know nothing ; 
 but we know that all things are in a 
 state of change, of conflict, of balancing 
 to and fro. We see it in winds and 
 tides, in times and seasons, in action 
 and reaction, growth and decay, day 
 and night, and the going and coming of 
 the heavenly spheres. Nay, light itself 
 is now found to be but a vibration. 
 And when, as the sun images its great 
 daily revolution in my apartment, by the 
 light that steals along the wall, I have 
 observed how the line of light sways 
 slightly, almost imperceptibly, to and 
 fro as it advances, it has seemed to me 
 a silent type of the infinite mutation. 
 
 Now that which seems to appertain to 
 
6o4 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 everything else belongs also to the mo- 
 tions and moods of the human mind, — 
 constant fluctuation Especially where 
 the mind's experience is very strong, 
 definite, and marked, is this observable. 
 As the wailings over the dead in Ori- 
 ental countries rise from time to time, 
 so in all affliction does wave succeed 
 to wave. And in states of mental anxi- 
 ety and distress, I have often remarked 
 it, and have been able to anticipate with 
 great confidence in what state I should 
 find such a mind, on any approaching 
 interview. 
 
 Now all this may be thought to be 
 very discouraging, — this swaying back- 
 ward and forward, this gaining and los- 
 ing ; but how would you have it ? One 
 perpetual strain upon the faculties, — we 
 could not bear it. One unshadowed 
 vision, — it would make life monotonous. 
 One unvarying state of mind, — how 
 much that is of priceless worth would it 
 cut off from our experience? After toil, 
 how sweet is rest ! After pain and dan- 
 ger, ease is elysium, and safety a blessed 
 thanksgiving. Besides, in darkness and 
 need lessons are learned that never 
 would be learned in light and gladness ; 
 lessons of humility, of conscious weak- 
 ness, of self-despairing. Heaven-trusting 
 prayer. That feeling which, from time 
 to time, comes over us, that we are noth- 
 ing and know nothing, how powerful a 
 stimulus is it ! Even in languor the mind 
 is nursing up the strength that will soon 
 be put forth in new efforts. But moral 
 depression is often very different from 
 languor, — is the very reverse of lan- 
 guor. It is when most discouraged and 
 cast down that the mind is often mak- 
 ing the most rapid progress. When the 
 waves are highest, a}-, and the storm is 
 darkest, is the ship often sailing fastest; 
 and the bold voyager says, " Give me 
 that, rather than everlasting calm and 
 sunshine." We are cradled on an ocean 
 whose tides are sweeping on to eternity: 
 not on the bosom of a summer lake can 
 we be borne to that far, unseen, and 
 shadowy land. 
 
 In short, the jrreat trouble is that we 
 
 are moral beings at all. If we were 
 machines, we might be put on a smooth 
 and even course. If we were animals, 
 we might have walked in the way of 
 unerring instinct. But we are moral 
 beings, and imperfection, effort, regret, 
 illusion, fluctuation, are our disciphne., 
 We are moral beings, and are to work 
 out our own problem, under an adminis 
 tration of reasonable motives, induce- 
 ments, fears, and hopes. 
 
 And that we may do so, a certain 
 indefiniteness in our moral relations is 
 necessary. I have touched upon this 
 topic in a former lecture ; but there are 
 so many persons who halt at this point ; 
 who do not feel as if there were any 
 clear, strong, controlling moral order in 
 this world ; who misunderstand this con- 
 dition of progress which we call moral in- 
 definiteness, — that I wish to say a word 
 or two further upon the subject. If, — 
 such is their feeling, — if penalty more 
 ^directly and clearly followed transgres- 
 sion ; if the bad intent never succeeded, if 
 deceit, lying, knavery, never prospered ; 
 if remorse immediately followed wrong ; 
 or if disease, for instance, struck the 
 first excess with an instant blow, or the 
 all-powerful hand hurled its swift thun- 
 derbolt upon injustice, — a moral provi- 
 dence would be more manifest. And 
 then, too, if our good endeavors were 
 more immediately rewarded by success, 
 the system would seem to be more en- 
 couraging. 
 
 But, in the first place, let not this in- 
 definiteness be overrated. The results 
 do follow both good and evil conduct 
 very soon ; and the consequences are 
 often more certain than manifest. The 
 bad man may seem to get along very 
 comfortably ; he is guilty of atrocious 
 deeds, but he has no conscience, you 
 say, no remorse ; he seems very happy 
 for the time. But he is not, even for 
 the time. There is a secret, dull pain, 
 and a pitiable impoverishment in the 
 soul, of which he is himself, perhaps, 
 but half conscious. And then the good 
 man is not so happy or so successful 
 as he might be, because he is but half 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 Cos 
 
 good. It is the misery of our better 
 purposes, that they are not so thorough 
 and decided as they ought to be. We 
 do not know what we migiit be if 
 we threw away all reserves and gave 
 ourselves up wholly to rectitude and 
 purity. 
 
 But, in the next place, let us observe 
 how the moral indeliniteness complained 
 of, such as it is, conduces to the train- 
 ing of man. If Providence were to 
 follow every dereliction with an instant 
 blow, the mind might be overwhelmed 
 by that close-pursuing retribution. It 
 would have no liberty or leisure to work 
 out its solemn moral problem. Startled 
 by the impending peril, it would leap 
 from side to side, or rush through life 
 as from an executioner. Or it would 
 hold itself in one cowering endeavor 
 to preserve a negative rectitude, rather 
 than tempt the heights of lofty and 
 perilous virtue. Something, we see, is 
 left to man's sagacity, to his reflection, 
 to his reasonings from experience. A 
 tield is opened on earth for his generos- 
 ity, his fearlessness and freedom. Un- 
 der a system as rigid and exact as the 
 objector seems to demand, I do not 
 see much place or chance for self- 
 moved, noble, and disinterested virtue. 
 
 VI. But, " No," it may be said, "no, 
 the great trouble is no^ that we are 
 moral beings at all, but that the moral 
 is so darkened, obstructed, burdened 
 by the physical nature." The soul, 
 says one, is a noble thing in itself; 
 it has high aspirations, and seems at 
 times to have the wings of an angel ; 
 but how fearfully is it chained to sense, 
 to sensual passion, and to sensual in- 
 firmity I How many a man, who is 
 striving to be virtuous, is thrown almost 
 into despair at times, under the awful 
 relapses of his mind into sense, — which 
 lays hold upon him like a lion in its 
 strength ! And then, when he would 
 tight on through lite, how does the 
 darkness of sleep come over him, and 
 bury him in its shadow! When he 
 should be doing his great work, and is 
 doing it, that leaden sceptre is stretched 
 
 over him, and he is vanquished ; nay, 
 perhaps " wicked dreams abuse the cur- 
 tained sleep," and he awakes feeling as 
 if he were a dishonored being. 
 
 But if you will carefully examine all 
 these matters, you will find, in the first 
 place, that there is not one of the forms 
 of sensation but is essential to human 
 virtue or to human existence. I have 
 not time to go into detail here, and 
 indeed have discussed the subject be- 
 fore ; but if you will examine the appe- 
 tites and passions of a man, one by one, 
 and survey them in all their relations, 
 you will find that there is not one that 
 can be spared from that complex moral 
 constitution of human life, from that 
 whole sum of influences, by which hu- 
 manity is trained to industry, to domes- 
 tic affection, to social order, and spiritual 
 sanctity. 
 
 And, in the next place, how do physi- 
 cal need and infirmity contribute to the 
 same end? I have said in a former 
 lecture, '• If I could see that eating and 
 drinking, and sleeping and waking, are 
 ordinances," it would clear up one large 
 part of the picture of human life. Well, 
 I do see it. I see that physical wants 
 are the first great bonds to labor, 
 care, foresight, prudence. I see, too, 
 that physical infirmities — weariness and 
 sleep — have their moral uses. Sleep, 
 for instance. For a being that often 
 errs and fails, it is wtW that he should 
 often begin anew ; that the chain of evil 
 associations should be broken ; that he 
 should begin a new day and turn over a 
 new leaf ; that the pure morning influ- 
 ences, and his freshly wakened powers, 
 should incline and enable him to start 
 anew in his moral career. I confess 
 that I am glad to be sometimes de- 
 livered from myself, — from my own 
 thoughts, from their weariness and per- 
 plexity. I am not always good com- 
 pany enough to wish to be always with 
 myself. Let me sleep ; let me escape : 
 as one says to an importunate creditor 
 hard to account with, " I will see you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 And then again, to evil at large, what 
 
6o6 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 a direct, peremptory, and powerful check 
 is sleep ! What would become of the 
 world if wickedness never slept ; if re- 
 venge, if intrigue, if guilty revelling, 
 never slept ; if tyranny, scorn, and hate 
 never slept ? Thus is the activity of 
 man for evil bounded by the mighty 
 barriers of in-walling darkness and iron 
 slumber. The oppressor's busy brain, 
 teeming with mischief, loses its fearful 
 energy, and for a while can devise no 
 more mischief ; the tyrant's arm sinks 
 nerveless by his side, and is as harm- 
 less as an infant's ; brutal intemperance, 
 which otherwise would destroy the man, 
 ends in stupor and insensibility, — the 
 man sleeps, and awakes sober, — sober, 
 which, but for God's interposition, he 
 might never have been ; wickedness 
 sleeps its awful sleep, which, however 
 awful, is less so than the dread energy 
 of its waking life. Meanwhile the vic- 
 tims of oppression and wrong sleep, and 
 forget for a while the blows and burdens 
 that are laid upon them. 
 
 Nor is this all. It is a blessing that 
 misery, from whatever cause, finds that 
 temporary refuge. What should we do 
 if sorrow never slept ; if the broken 
 heart were never lulled to rest by its own 
 meanings ? Well for us that sleep comes 
 to our rescue, — 
 
 " Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, 
 The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath. 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second 
 course; " — 
 
 well for us that it comes and lays its 
 hand upon the burdened heart and ach- 
 ing brow. God " giveth his beloved 
 sleep." 
 
 But while I have been thus discours- 
 ing on these trials of the human lot and 
 heart, I can fancy some one saying to 
 me, " Ah ! smoothly you discourse upon 
 these matters, sir ! easily j'ou seem to 
 settle the points one after another ; but 
 here am I, after all, weak, struggling, 
 sorrowful : here am I, bewildered, tossed 
 to and fro, and fighting a hard battle • 
 here am I," perhaps one may say, " poor, 
 ay, poor in natural ability, poor in for- 
 tune, poor in the respect of society ; nay. 
 
 more, impoverished by my honesty, a 
 martyr to conscience, with jio fair chance ; 
 depressed, forsaken, and forlorn : and 
 yet you tell me that the laws of my being 
 are wise, that Providence is kind, that 
 all is well. Well? — God forgive my 
 thought! — how is it well, when I am 
 such an one, and so hard bested ? Oh ! 
 why could I not have been perfectly in- 
 nocent and perfectly happy ? Fair do- 
 main of life and light and joy! — it is 
 not mine ! Why, in the realm of infinite 
 power, could not such have been ap- 
 pointed to me .'' " 
 
 I do not cast reproach upon the sol- 
 emn and painful question. I do not 
 blame the cry of human sorrow that asks 
 for light : it is my own. I do not believe 
 that it is displeasing to the great Being 
 who made us, that we should humbly 
 ask why His goodness has dealt thus 
 with us. I cannot but believe that 
 just as a good father on earth would be 
 pleased with that fearless but modest 
 question from his sensitive child, so the 
 Infinite Parent is better pleased with 
 such question than with the usual stolid 
 or cowering acquiescence ; and that 
 the time will come when filial piety will 
 understand this freedom. 
 
 And I freely say, that if any needless 
 but fatal and crushing weight were laid 
 upon the world ; if any law like that of 
 Malthus on population, now sufficiently 
 refuted, — if any such law were to be dis- 
 covered, proving that population must 
 increase much faster than food, and 
 therefore that famine, or war, or some 
 other catastrophe is the irreversible 
 doom of human society — if any such 
 crack, or flaw, or jar were found in the 
 frame of the world, which was destined 
 to split or break it in pieces, that then I 
 should be dumb, and have nothing to 
 answer. But I see none such ; I see 
 nothing in the constitution of the world 
 that is designed to ruin it ; nothing that 
 is destined, in the long run, to be preju- 
 dicial to the cause of human virtue and 
 happiness. 
 
 It may be thought that in the com- 
 plaint just now stated, there is ojte diffi- 
 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 607 
 
 culty alluded to which requires attention ; 
 that is to say, that an ascendency is 
 o-iven to intellect which is not fair to vir- 
 tue and conscience ; that in the affairs 
 of life, in the necessary business of life, 
 honesty is not a match for cleverness 
 and cunning. It is even maintained by 
 some, that trade, and also that legal 
 praclice, cannot be carried on with a 
 good conscience, — that, at any rate, an 
 honest man cannot succeed in them, un- 
 less it be by some immense ascendency 
 of talent. This I do not believe. If it 
 be true, what means the maxim univer- 
 sally received, that "honesty is the 
 best policy " ? Still, I admit that, in the 
 action of life, a rather startling ascen- 
 dency is given to intellect. Doubtless 
 it is hard for one to feel that he lacks 
 talent, wit, capability. But the feeling, 
 however, does not prove the fact. I 
 have often observed that such complain- 
 ant ill makes out his case. Modesty 
 certainly is no proof of inferiority. I 
 am inclined to think, if you begin with 
 idiocy and go up to the highest genius, 
 that self-complacency will be found to 
 be in an inverse ratio. Still, as I said 
 before, I admit, of course, that there is 
 actual inferiority, whether a man knows 
 it or not, and that it tells very seriously 
 upon the fortunes of life. What then ? 
 Would you have all men made and kept 
 equal ? Surely not. Would you have 
 keener wits precluded from gaining any, 
 even any temporary advantage ? I think 
 that, on reflection, you would say, no. 
 I think, indeed, that in a free system it 
 would be impossible. 
 
 If, indeed, there were created a class 
 of beings on earth, of such superiority 
 that, by mere dint of talent or cunning, 
 they swept the board clean of all life'^s 
 prizes, then a staggering problem would 
 be presented. But it is not so. Still 
 you say, "The case is very hard. Con- 
 science is a hindrance to success." I 
 insist that you mistake here, on the 
 whole. I say, you are mistaken. But 
 so far as you are not. this I say : life 
 was given not to gain fortunes and hon- 
 ors, but to gain a fortune within^ and 
 
 an honor within, of an infinitely nobler 
 kind. 
 
 VII. In short, the discipline of this life 
 involves trial and difiiculty. Must it 
 not, — I come now to this point last, — 
 must it not be essentially the discipline 
 of all moral life .' Lift your eyes to the 
 stars. Can it be essentially otherwise 
 there? I draw no unwarranted analo- 
 gies. I say nothing about circumstances. 
 But must not the constituent elements 
 of which we have spoken — freedom, im- 
 perfection, mistake, learning, progress — 
 enter into all moral life ? Does the Bible 
 oppose this analogy ? Certainly not ; 
 because it says nothing about the inhab- 
 itants of those worlds ; nothing of their 
 being inhabited. We believe that they 
 are inhabited, — but on other grounds. 
 Millions of creatures dwell in a drop of 
 water ; can those vast spheres be void ? 
 We cannot believe it. But we are taught 
 absolutely nothing about the condition 
 of their inhabitants. We are left to rea- 
 son about it as wisely as we can. They 
 may be higher than we ; they may be 
 lower ; we know nothing about it. But 
 we know this ; we know that we cannot 
 conceive of a free, moral nature, as 
 learning, without some mistakes and 
 some regrets. Possibly, ours may not 
 be the lowest rank in the order of crea- 
 tion. One of the propositions of the 
 celebrated Erasmus, that was brought 
 into question before the university of 
 Paris, was, 'that he was not sure that 
 an angel was more excellent than a 
 man." If he had said he was not sure 
 that an inhabitant of Mars or Saturn 
 was more excellent, i. e., of a higher 
 order, than man, it would have been a 
 pregnant doubt ; and one that would 
 receive better entertainment in this age 
 than it did in his. 
 
 Now it is very obvious that the gen- 
 eral tendency in men's minds, to dis- 
 couragement and despondency in all 
 their higher, their religious contempla- 
 tions, must be immensely increased by 
 this idea that they are placed in a dark, 
 dismal, blighted world, — cut off from the 
 great fellowship of worlds. Under the 
 
6oS 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 I 
 
 common depreciation of this world, we 
 do not see the significance, the grandeur 
 and beauty of its discipline. We are 
 impatient with many things, we are in- 
 different to more, because we do not see 
 that our life, that all moral life, is meant 
 to be everywhere and in every act a 
 moral experimenting ; and thus, that 
 nothing is mean, nothing is low in its 
 intent. As we walk through the dusty 
 street or the thronged mart, through the 
 busy manufactory or the ploughed fur- 
 row, or amidst the homes of humble 
 care or splendid opulence, we are apt to 
 think of nothing but the present and 
 pressing engagement. We do not see 
 in this a part of the great and solemn 
 training of the worlds to wisdom and 
 virtue. The true spiritual philosophy 
 would dart a ray into this dusty cloud 
 of life which would make every particle 
 of it brighter than gold. I say that 
 there is not a care, nor a toil, nor a trial, 
 — not an act of business, — not a cry of 
 childhood, nor a cut finger, nor a lost 
 key, nor a threaded needle, but it has 
 its place in this training of imperfect 
 creatures to prudence, wisdom, and 
 sanctity. 
 
 But looking at this world alone, as 
 many do — looking upon it as a sad 
 and lonely world — looking upon it as 
 invested with a cloud of low and mean 
 cares and trials, there is, in riot a few 
 minds, a prevailing dejection every way 
 injurious and greatly to be regretted. 
 There is dejection especially in their 
 religion, and naturally so. Sad and low 
 and heavy beat the pulses of spiritual 
 life, because we do not feel that they 
 throb with the great moral harmonies 
 of the universe. Sorrowful is our cry 
 for help, because it seems to us to be 
 solitary and alone. As outcasts and 
 
 deserted, we feel as if there coxild be no 
 sympathy for us in all the surrounding 
 worlds. If we saw the same — as to its 
 principles — the same great moral disci- 
 pline in those bright spheres as in our 
 own, and saw it to be the best possi- 
 ble, would it not give us courage and 
 strength ? But why should it not be so ? 
 Is not the supposition favored by all rea- 
 sonable analogies .'* 
 
 For me, I shall venture to say, the 
 universe is not parcelled out thus : 
 here, a dark prison-house ; there, a 
 city of sapphire and gold ; beneath, a 
 gulf of fire, where sink the groaning na- 
 tions ; and far around, heavenly heights, 
 on whose battlements stand the shin- 
 ing ones ; — this universe of Milton's 
 poetry is not the universe to mej but 
 lo ! through worlds unnumbered and 
 unbounded rise the myriad ranks of 
 being ; each having its own sphere ; 
 each moral creation advancing ; and all 
 holding on their subhme career, from 
 knowledge to knowledge, and from 
 glory to glory, through the bright, the 
 everlasting ages. 
 
 Such is the view of universal life, — 
 such, I mean, as I have given it at 
 length in this discourse, is the view 
 which commends itself to me as the 
 most just and reasonable, as most ac- 
 cordant with the infinite wisdom and 
 goodness. I do not know how it will 
 appear to you, my friends, but to me it 
 is an inexpressible satisfaction. Witli 
 it I can be resolute, I can be cheerful, 
 I can be happy, amidst all the trials 
 and difficulties of this tried life. I do 
 not know how it will appear to you ; 
 but if I have lifted one unnecessary 
 cloud from the face of the world, I shall 
 not have spoken in vain. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 609 
 
 LECTURE IX. 
 
 PROBLEMS IN MAn's INDIVIDUAL LIFE ! PHYSICAL PAIN ; 
 HEREDITARY EVIL ; DEATH. 
 
 I Nt)W wish to take up some of the 
 vexed questions in the philosophy of 
 human life and history ; some of those 
 facts in the human condition which are 
 usually thought to be the most myste- 
 rious and unaccountable, the most irrec- 
 oncilable with creative wisdom and good- 
 ness ; such as pain, hereditary evil, death, 
 — such as polytheism and idolatry, des- 
 potism, war, slavery, and the prevalence 
 of error. These facts naturally divide 
 themselves into two classes : those which 
 come home to man's individual life, and 
 those which spread themselves over his 
 social life. We have therefore to con- 
 sider (so to speak) private problems and 
 social or historic problems. The first will 
 occupy our attention in the present lec- 
 ture ; that is to say, pain, hereditary evil, 
 and death. 
 
 Let us distinctly keep in mind the end 
 which we are considering throughout 
 these discussions. The end is human 
 culture ; not pleasure merely, not im- 
 mediate enjoyment, but joy of a higher 
 kind, the ultimate strength and noble- 
 ness of the human character 5 not an 
 unconditional happiness, to be given to 
 man as it may be given to an animal, 
 but the higher happiness which, by the 
 very nature of it, he is obliged to 
 work out for himself. And the ques- 
 tion is : Do the conditions of our beino-. 
 just referred to, promote the great end ? 
 It is true that this is not the only ques- 
 tion ; for we are bound to show that 
 these conditions are either inevitable 
 in the constitution of things or neces- 
 sary to human culture, and also that the 
 severity of the means is not dispropor- 
 tioned to the value of the end. 
 
 To proceed, then, — with these state- 
 ments in view, — here is this terrible 
 
 fact of pain. And I mean now physi- 
 cal pain. That which is mental we 
 have considered in a former lecture, — 
 under the head of imperfection, strug- 
 gle, penitence, illusion, fluctuation, mor- 
 al indefiniteness, &c. And the pain 
 of bereavement will naturally come 
 under our view when we speak of death. 
 The point now before us is physical 
 pain. And a sharp point it is. I con- 
 fess, for myself, an exceeding dread of 
 pain. Montaigne reckons it the one 
 comprehensive calamity of our being, — 
 le pire accident de noire eire, — redu- 
 cing all others to that. What we fear 
 in death, he says, is pain ; and \n poverty, 
 it is pain, — i. e., want, anxiety, hunger, 
 thirst, cold. Be this as it may, tiie 
 evil, no doubt, is sufficiently felt. There 
 is no need to dwell upon it, in the aggre- 
 gate or in the detail. It is the detail, in- 
 deed, it is the individual suffering, that 
 presses upon us as a problem to be solved, 
 rather than the asfgfresfate. The asEfre- 
 gate affects us, it is true, through sy7n- 
 pathy, but not directly as pain. The 
 illness of thousands does not make me 
 more ill. Pain is a solitary thing It 
 does not require, like the misery of war, 
 an army to produce it ; nor can an arm}-, 
 though vast as that of Xerxes, fight off 
 from its commander, for one minute, 
 the pang of a toothache. It is the sharp 
 puncture of pain in my own flesh ; it is, 
 yet more, the suffering of years or of a 
 life, tliat moves us to deep questioning. 
 'Y\\& first — bare pain — is the law 
 which we are to explain ; the last — in 
 its unusual degree or continuance — is 
 an exception which, it may be, we can- 
 not explain ; unless, indeed, it shall be 
 found to come under some one of the 
 categories of the law. 
 
 39 
 
6io 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 The law is that of pain ; of pain, not 
 usually severe nor perpetual, but gen- 
 eral, moderate, occasional. And the 
 main question is, Is it useful ? 
 
 Now, in general, we find no difficulty 
 in answering this question in the affirm- 
 ative. Pain is a sentinel that warns 
 us of danger. And therefore it stands 
 upon the outposts of this citadel, the 
 body ; for pain is keenest, the surgeon's 
 knife is felt keenest, on the surface. 
 Now, be it granted that pain does us 
 some harm ; but it saves us from worse 
 harm. If fire did not pain, it might 
 burn us up. If cold did not pain us, it 
 might freeze us to death. If disease 
 did not pain us, we might die before we 
 knew that we were sick. If contacts, of 
 all sorts, with surrounding objects — the 
 woodman's axe, the carpenter's saw, the 
 farmer's harrow — did not hurt us, they 
 might cut and tear us all to pieces. 
 Think of it. A knife, held by a careless 
 hand, approaches us ; it touches 'the 
 skin. We start back. Why ? Because 
 there is pain. But for this, it might 
 have entered the body and cut some 
 vital organ. An old Greek verse says, 
 " The gods sell us the blessings they 
 bestow." These are the best terms for 
 us. They make us careful and prudent. 
 Unconditional giving might lead to reck- 
 less squandering. Pain, then, is a 
 teacher of prudence, of self-care. Nay, 
 and if happiness alone were considered, 
 it might be argued that an occasional 
 bitter drop gives a zest to the cup of 
 enjoyment ; as hunger does to the feast, 
 or sharp cold to the winter's fire. But 
 in moral relations the argument is still 
 stronger. Here is a human soul clothed 
 with a body, to be trained to virtue, to 
 self-command, to spiritual strength and 
 nobleness. Would perpetual ease and 
 pleasure, a perpetual lu.xury of sensation, 
 best do that ? We know that it would 
 not. Every wise and thoughtful man, at 
 least, knows that some pain, some sick- 
 ness, some rebuke of the senses, is good 
 for him. Such a man often feels, in 
 long-continued states of ease and com- 
 fort, that it is time something should 
 
 come to try, to discipline, to inure, and 
 ennoble his nature. He is afraid of un- 
 interrupted enjoyment. Pain, patiently 
 and nobly endured, peculiarly strengtli- 
 ens and spiritualizes the soul. Heinrich 
 Heine says, " Only the man who has 
 known bodily sufferings is truly a »z«;/." 
 The loftiest states of mind, and, com- 
 pared with mere sensual indulgence, the 
 happiest, are those of courageous 'endur- 
 ance ; and the martyr is often happier 
 than the voluptuary. Cicero says, speak- 
 ing of the sacrifice of Regulus, and after 
 describing his happy fortunes, — he had 
 carried on great wars, had been twice 
 consul, had had triumphal honors de- 
 creed to him, — " nothing was so great 
 as his death ; " when, to fulfil his word, 
 he went back to Carthage to suffer all 
 that could be inflicted on him. " To us 
 hearing of it," says Cicero, "it is sad ; 
 to him suffering it, it was a joy, it was a 
 pleasure ; " erat iwliiptarius. " For," 
 he adds, "not the light and gay in their 
 jollity, nor their wantonness, nor their 
 laughter or jesting, — companion of dis- 
 soluteness, — but the serious and resolved 
 in their endurance and constancy, are 
 happy." * This is tlie general statement 
 to be made with regard to pain. It is 
 general, indeed, and does not propose 
 to cover every case. 
 
 But now, it may be asked, could not 
 the same end have been gained, the 
 same nobleness, the same constancy, 
 have been achieved, without pain 'i 
 Which is, I think, as if one should ask, 
 whether the wood could not have been 
 cut into shape without the axe, or the 
 marble without the chisel, or the gold 
 purified without the furnace. But let us 
 answer ; and we say, not in any way that 
 we can conceive of. First, it may have 
 been absolutely inevitable in the nature 
 of things, that a frame sensitive to pleas- 
 ure should be liable to pain. This may 
 be the explanation of that long-continued 
 and severe pain which presents the 
 hardest problem in our physical life. 
 With such causes foregoing, such a 
 train of influences, mental, moral, or 
 
 * De Finibus, ii. 20. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 6ll 
 
 physical, as produced this terrible suf- 
 fering, it may have been impossible, 
 without a miracle, to prevent it. Ordi- 
 narily, indeed, such pain is not long 
 continued. It destroys life, or life de- 
 stroys it. Si grar'is, brevis j si ioiigus, 
 levis, "if severe, brief; if long, light," 
 is the old adage ; and it is true. But if it 
 fail, and the terrible case of protracted 
 anguish is before us, we may be obliged 
 to leave it under some great law of the 
 human constitution, which makes pre- 
 vention impossible. I may be told that 
 such pain does no good ; that it breaks 
 down mind and body together ; and 
 therefore that it cannot, in any way, be 
 useful. But we do not know that. In 
 the great cycle of eternity all may come 
 right. How much happier the sufferer 
 may be forever, for this present pain, we 
 know not. AH experience, all known 
 analogies, favor the idea of that immense 
 remuneration. 
 
 The word remuneration may startle 
 some ; and they may ask, if the sufferer 
 does not deserve all this pain ; not in- 
 deed, as meaning that he in particular, 
 but that all men deserve as much. I an- 
 swer, that it is very easy to talk about 
 ill-deserving in the general and in the 
 abstract. Do you think that you de- 
 serve to have a tooth extracted or a fin- 
 ger chopped off every day, — or any 
 pain as great as that, every day, for ten 
 years in succession ? But there are suf- 
 ferers who endure far more than that 
 amount of pain daily. Some pains are 
 doubtless punitive ; such, for instance, 
 as follov/ sensual excess or gross negli- 
 gence ; that is very plain. Autliors of 
 a certain religious school — like McCosh 
 on the Method of the Divine Govern- 
 ment — sometimes write as if they had 
 found out a great secret, unknown to 
 philosophy, when they discover that 
 pain is punitive ; that the world is wicked 
 and needs and deserves chastisement. 
 This, however, is no mystery, nor mat- 
 ter of doubt. But it will not do to 
 bring all pain under this category ; 
 to resort, with Leibnitz, to the " evilof 
 sin " as the sole " reason for the evil of 
 
 pain." Some pain in a sensitive organi- 
 zation, and sometimes great pain, may 
 be inevitable. If it is not, let some one 
 answer me this question : why do ani- 
 7)uils suffer ? Tlicy have not sinned. 
 
 But, secondly, if pain be not abso- 
 lutely inevitable, it is relatively inevita- 
 ble ; it is necessary, that is to say, to 
 the intellectual and moral training of 
 humanity. 
 
 To see this, it is necessary to observe 
 two things. One is, that every physical 
 organism, as it befits a higher nature, is 
 endowed with a more susceptible nervous 
 constitution. We see this gradation in 
 fishes, bugs, birds, and quadrupeds. In 
 man the highest point is attained. He 
 is clothed all over with a network of 
 nervous tissues. These minister to a 
 higher than animal culture. Do you 
 wish that your watch was a stone, that 
 it might not get out of order.' To 
 escape neuralgia, would you be a fish 
 or an ostrich ? 
 
 The other thing to be noted is, that 
 for moral purposes, this exposure to 
 pain is still more manifestly inevitable. 
 It is a less evil preferred to a greater, 
 one of which is itnavoidable. It is only 
 necessary to state the case, to see the 
 conclusion. Give a finite and free na- 
 ture ; give a body for its training ; fill 
 that body with perpetual enjoyment; let 
 no amount of negligence or recklessness 
 hurt it; let no excess, no intemperance 
 nor debauchery, no indulgence, bring 
 retributive and disciphnary suffering 
 into it ; and the ruin of this being would 
 be as certain as his existence. Is there 
 too tmich of this restraint and counter- 
 action in the world .'' We know there is 
 not. I may struggle against this con- 
 clusion ; but I do not see how I can get 
 rid of it. I would have man moral and 
 free, and I cannot have him infinite ; I 
 would have him win the prize of immor- 
 tal virtue ; I would have the hostile ten- 
 dencies of his ignorance and wilfulness 
 checked, controlled : I see that pain is 
 such a restraint ; I must confess it to 
 be good. 
 
 Nor does the immortal prize cost too 
 
6l2 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 dear. We are in an unfair situation for 
 the argument noiv. We are in tlie 
 midst of the disciphne, and have not yet 
 experienced the full result. We are in 
 the battle, and have not won the day. 
 But if ever the day come when we shall 
 rise to the height of the immortal victory, 
 well shall we know that it is worth all 
 that it costs ; ay, and infinitely more. 
 Nay, many feel that now, and bless their 
 adversity as a greater benefactor to them 
 than ever was their prosperity. 
 
 But let us come to that form of evil — 
 be it suffering, sickness, mental disease, 
 or unhappy temperament — that is he- 
 reditary. This, it may be thought, is far 
 harder to account for. It may be said 
 that it is an injustice ; " the fathers have 
 eaten sour grapes, and the children's 
 teeth are set on edge." Is not that 
 hard ? And can it be expected to be 
 useful? No; not if all pain must 
 be regarded as punitive, in order to be 
 profitable ; for this plainly is not. But 
 suppose that in the best possible system 
 of things, the best for all, the best for 
 the sufferer, this pain, this thread of suf- 
 fering in the great and useful bond of 
 hereditary transmission, is a thing that 
 could not be extricated, without tearing 
 the system all to pieces ; would not that 
 alter the case ? And what, after all, is 
 there that is so peculiar or strange in the 
 case ? An incendiary sets fire to the 
 citv, and my house is burne'd. A flood 
 pours down the valley, and sweeps away 
 my mill. In either case, I am an inno- 
 cent sufferer. What then? Would I 
 destroy the quality of fire, or stop the 
 spring freshet ? I belong to a general 
 system. If everything in it conspired 
 for my benefit, it would not be general. 
 It is impossible that general laws, those, 
 for instance, of heat, cold, wind, rain, 
 should work no inconvenience nor ill to 
 anybody. I want rain when my neigh- 
 bor wants the sun. I want a wind when 
 he wants a calm. The law that is good 
 for all must expose some to harm. Why 
 should exemption be demanded from 
 the law of hereditary transmission — 
 provided it be a good law ? What harm 
 
 or wrong does it, more than any other 
 general law ? 
 
 But now consider, that it is, in fact, 
 a law of immense utility. First, it lies, 
 I think, at the foundation of national- 
 ity. What is it that makes the French- 
 man so different from the Italian or 
 German or Englishman ? It is not 
 cliinate ; it is not situation alone; it is 
 not the train of historic events. Back 
 and beyond all these, we must go to 
 something in the blood, in the tem- 
 perament, that makes a Frenchman a 
 Frenchman ; something which is propa- 
 gated from age to age, and which thus 
 creates those separate schools of cul- 
 ture called nations. It is well that 
 they are separate ; that they have sepa- 
 rate governments, institutions, litera- 
 ture ; that they should be working out 
 experiments by themselves, free from 
 foreign influences, sentiments, vices, — 
 experiments which may ultimately inure 
 to the benefit of the whole. This may 
 be the final cause of the difference of 
 languages, — to keep people separate. 
 I am sure I am glad that the French 
 literature cannot pour its unobstructed 
 tide into the channels of common read- 
 ing in this country. The better things, 
 science, philosophy, do come, through 
 the investigations of learned men ; the 
 worse things, the dregs of popular liter- 
 ature, are mainly kept out. 
 
 Next to the bond cf nationality, and 
 stronger, and more necessary and use- 
 ful, is the family bond ; and this, I 
 think, is created by the law of heredi- 
 tary transmission. I say, not the 
 family, but the family bond, — that 
 mysterious affinity which is involved in 
 the relation of kindred. I shall have 
 occasion in another connection to speak 
 of the descent of property, and may 
 fairly add the weight of that consider- 
 ation to what I am now saying; but 
 I speak now of the descent of char- 
 acter ; of that congruity, that sympathy, 
 that union, that oneness, which is made 
 by affinity. It is a bond, not only of 
 indescribable interest, but of incalcula- 
 ble utility ; the very heart's hold, in 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 613 
 
 this world, upon unpurchased affection, 
 assured confidence, comfort, and happi- 
 ness. The words parent, child, brother, 
 sister, — there are no words like these. 
 And even if the word friend is a higher 
 and more awful word, yet to how few, 
 in its highest sense, can it be applied! 
 There doubtless are some persons, of 
 singularly attractive and attaching na- 
 tures, or of certain cosmopolitan habi- 
 tudes, who can do better than others 
 without the family bond. But how 
 many, amidst the coldness and indif- 
 ference of the world, would wander 
 through life in sad isolation, feeling 
 that they had none to care for them, if 
 they could not return and lean upon the 
 bosom of domestic affection ! . Amicist 
 the wide-flowing fibres of human feel- 
 ing, amidst the wilfulness and reckless- 
 ness of men's passions and regards, are 
 set these fast knots, these ties of kin- 
 dred, to hold the social world together ; 
 nay, and they link together family after 
 family in succession, and thus become 
 the binding ties of generation to gener- 
 ation, and of age to age. 
 
 Now I suppose it is obvious, that if 
 any thing is hereditary; if influence, 
 temperament, character, the very life- 
 blood, flows down from sire to son ; if 
 good or bad name descends, then some 
 evil must pass on along with the good. 
 The one cannot be separated from the 
 other. Nay, and observe that the gen- 
 eral influence of all this must be good. 
 The very thought of this transmission 
 must be salutary. What a premium 
 upon good conduct is it, and what a tre- 
 mendous admonition to bad conduct I 
 Many a tempted man has been startled 
 and struck to the heart with tliat thought, 
 — that his children may inherit his pas- 
 sions, his vices, his diseases. Nature 
 within us keeps a stricter account with 
 us than we think. It expects us to do 
 right ; and so exquisitely is everything 
 adjusted within us and around us, that 
 we can never do wrong with impunity. 
 In all these awful depths of humanity 
 and life there is no hiding-place where 
 evil '"an be buried forever. It may he 
 
 cloaked in secrecy or decency all our 
 lives, and yet break out in misleading 
 and misery to our children, and to our 
 children's children ; ay, ".unto the third 
 and fourth generation."' 
 
 But the subject to which I intended 
 to devote the principal part of this lec- 
 ture is the end of earthly pains and of 
 the human generations, — the solemn 
 departure from this Hfe. 
 
 Three great facts, says the Italian 
 Vico, are everywhere found, embedded 
 in the foundations of human society : 
 " worship, marriage, and burial." Among 
 all nations, in all ages, exist these sol- 
 emn usages ; and without them, human 
 society could not exist. They are not 
 mere facts, and universal facts; but 
 their signiticance is manifest ; they are 
 essential ministrations to the moral cul- 
 ture of the human race. 
 
 The rites of sepulture are as peculiar 
 to man as those of worship or marriage. 
 Man is the only being on earth that 
 buries his dead. This usage is the ex- 
 pression of a sentiment far beyond the 
 reach of animal instinct. It is not mere 
 convenience that suggests the practice. 
 It is a sentiment : it is a sense of 
 fitness ; it is a dictate of respect for 
 the venerable form of humanity ; it is 
 to garner up its sacred dust as rever- 
 ently as if it were laid in a royal mauso- 
 leum, where, 
 
 " Nor steel, nor poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, 
 Can touch it further." 
 
 Man marks as holy the spot where he 
 lays down the frame of the spirit's life 
 to its " dread repose ;" and over those 
 holy remains he builds the sepulchre, ihe 
 tomb, the pyramid. He builds them as 
 monuments of veneration and affection ; 
 as testimonials to the solemn import of 
 death, and to the hope of immortality. 
 
 It is in this light that I am now to 
 contemplate death ; not as a bare fact, 
 not as the simple ceasing of life, — for 
 animals too die, — but as clothed with 
 moral sentiments, and as ministering to 
 the moral improvement of mankind. 
 
 By the unreflecting mass of men, 
 
6i4 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 death is regarded simply as the great- 
 est of evils. They survey its ravages 
 with dread and horror. They see no 
 beneficent agencies in the appointment; 
 they scarcely see it as an appointment 
 at all. They behold its approach to 
 their own dwelling, not in the spirit 
 of calm philosophy or resignation, but 
 si'Tioly with a desire to resist its en- 
 trance. To " deliver those who all 
 their lifetime are in bondage through 
 fear of death," was one express design 
 of Christianity ; but only in a few minds 
 has this design been fulfilled. Death 
 is still regarded, not as an ordinance, 
 but as a catastrophe. It is like the 
 earthquake to the material world ; that 
 which whelms all. It is the one calam- 
 ity; that which strikes a deeper shaft 
 into the world than any other. It is 
 the fixed doom which makes all other 
 calamity light and phenomenal. The 
 world trembles at it, grows pale before 
 it, as it trembles and grows pale before 
 nothing else. Nay, and with reflecting 
 persons, I think, the feeling that they 
 7mist die, is usually the feeling as of 
 some stern necessity. " Now let me 
 depart : it is good for me to go hence," 
 is a language sometimes heard ; but it 
 is rare. That dark veil, at the te-mi- 
 nation of the view, there forever sus- 
 pended, casts a shade over the whole 
 of life. 
 
 Can it have been meant, is it reason- 
 able, that an event so necessary, so 
 universal, and appointed doubtless in 
 wisdom and goodness, should be thus re- 
 garded .'' For death, it is evident, in fact, 
 if not in form, is a part of the original 
 world-plan. I know that it is commonly 
 looked upon as the consequence of sin, 
 the consequence of the fall. But ob- 
 serve the language in which this doom, 
 supposed to be consequent upon the 
 fall of man, is pronounced. It is in the 
 third chapter of Genesis. It is a doom, 
 in general, of toil and pain and sorrow ; 
 and when death is mentioned, it is in 
 these terms : " In the sweat of tliy face 
 shalt thou eat bread, till thou return 
 unto the ground ; for out of it wast 
 
 thou taken ; for dust tJioii art, and unto 
 dust shalt thou return." " Till thou re- 
 turn to the ground." This, then, is repre- 
 sented as a part of the already appointed 
 ordination of nature. '■'■For out of it 
 wast thou taken." The reason assigned 
 has no reference to the fall, but to the 
 constitution of human nature. " For 
 dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou 
 return." That is, thou shalt die, for 
 thou art naturally mortal ; earth has part 
 in thee, and shall reclaim her own. 
 
 I have no wish to strain this language 
 to the support of any theory ; and per- 
 haps it does imply that if Adam had 
 stood in innocence, the doom, or rather 
 the present form of that doom, might 
 have been averted ; but then it certainly 
 does imply also that it was the natural 
 consequence of the human conformation. 
 Saint Paul indeed says, that " death 
 came into the world by sin : " but he 
 may mean death figuratively, i. e.. 
 misery ; as where he says, " The com- 
 mandment which was ordained to life, 
 I found to be to death" i. e., to misery, to 
 despair. Some able commentators have 
 been of this opinion.* But whether it 
 be so or not, is not material to the view 
 I take ; which is this, — that there is a 
 wide distinction to be made between 
 death, as a gloomy, fearful, distressful 
 event, and simple departure from this 
 life. " That death," says Jeremy Tay- 
 lor, "which God threatened to Adam, 
 and which passed upon his posterity, is 
 not the going out of this world, but the 
 manner of going." Grant, then, that 
 death as a mode of departure were the 
 consequence of sin, yet the simple exit 
 from this life, the return of the body to 
 the dust, is evidently a part of the origi- 
 nal plan. It belongs to the constitu- 
 tion of man and of the world. 
 
 Dissolution, death, is that to whicli 
 the human body tends by its essential 
 constitution. It is as much 'in the 
 natural course of things as childhood, 
 youth, manhood, age. The earth, too, 
 was evidently made for transition, not 
 for permanent abode to its inhabitants. 
 
 * See Koppe on Romans v. 12. 
 
 Li 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 615 
 
 If successive generations enter it, gener- 
 ations in succession must leave it. Its 
 supplies of food are limited. Its ac- 
 cumulating generations could not even 
 stand M^on it. One therefore must give 
 place to another. If not, there would 
 have been no place for tis, at any rate ; 
 we should not have been here to dis- 
 cuss the matter, anyway- 
 
 All this is but saying that each gener- 
 ation must die. In this sense, therefore, 
 death was a part of the original plan ; 
 the departure from this world, that is to 
 .say. was a part of it, even as that most 
 ancient Scripture record of it implies. 
 But still, doubtless, this departure may 
 have assumed a particular character in 
 consequence of sin. It may be, I re- 
 peat, a death, dark and fearful, — dis- 
 tressful both to body and mind. Vice, 
 for instance, brings on disease, and 
 disease produces death ; and this death, 
 thus premature and agonizing, is the 
 fruit of sin. And doubtless in many 
 wavs, and in every way, departure from 
 this world must be a more afflictive 
 event, both to the sufferer and to sur- 
 vivors, in consequence of our moral 
 darkness, wandering, and weakness. 
 
 Nevertheless, — for I must insist upon 
 this point, — the departure, in some way, 
 is inevitable. The over-crowded dwell- 
 ing must dismiss some of its inmates ; 
 the over-populous nation must send out 
 colonies. Thus must the world, so to 
 speak, colonize its inhabitants, translate 
 them to another country ; else death 
 would come amidst horrors now un- 
 known, amidst the agonies of famine 
 and the suffocation of fulness. 
 
 I do not know whether I succeed in 
 the attempt ; but I wish to impress 
 upon your minds the conviction, that 
 man's life on earth could not have been 
 meant to be immortal : that death, con- 
 sidered as a simple exit from this world, 
 must have been as certainly a part of 
 the originj\l plan, as birth ; that, if the 
 system of the world is capable of de- 
 fence, this inevitable part of it must be ; 
 in fine, that if God is good, this ordi- 
 nation must be a good, and not an evil. 
 
 For, so long as this natural and wise limi- 
 tation of the period of life is looked 
 upon as an unnatural and dreadful 
 catastrophe, — as wreck and ruin to the 
 genuine, all-comprehending order of na- 
 ture, and not a legitimate and beneficent 
 part of it, — it is in vain that we speak 
 of it, and urge the grounds for placing 
 it among the wise and good ordinances 
 of our being. 
 
 Let us now consider this event, first, 
 in its circumstances, and then, in its 
 direct ministration to the great ends 
 of our being. The circumstances to 
 which I refer are the isolation that at- 
 tends it, and the disease and suffering 
 that usually conduct to it ; and the ques- 
 tion may arise, — why these arrange- 
 ments, so full of pain and affliction 'i 
 
 First, the event is isolated. "Alas ! " 
 one may say, " earth does 7wt colonize 
 its inhabitants ; it does not dismiss them 
 in tribes and families ; then were we 
 spared the sorrows of bereavement ; one 
 by one men depart for the spirit land." 
 But let us see how important this ar- 
 rangement is, not only to human culture, 
 but to the general intent and economy 
 of the human condition. What would 
 become of the cultivation of the earth, 
 where would be the transmitted fruits 
 of experience, and in what state would 
 be the whole training of the human race, 
 if men departed for the other life in 
 companies, in families ? Take away 
 that one bond from the world, — inheri- 
 tance, inheritance of property and ex- 
 perience, — and the world could not stand 
 in its present order; it would fall to 
 pieces. Houses, estates, would decay, if 
 none, neither friends nor children, none 
 for whom we had any regard, were to 
 take them from our hands ; all forecast, 
 prudence, industry, would die out of the 
 world ; like the animal tribes, each gen- 
 eration would have to take up the lesson 
 anew. It is only upon the plan of single 
 isolated departures from the world, that 
 its instruction can be kept up, or its pro- 
 gress carried forward. If nations, gen- 
 erations, died off at once, all the labors 
 of humanity would only weave its wind- 
 
6i6 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 ing sheet. But now, throughout the 
 mighty frame of society, unnumbered 
 hands sinl: from the loom at every 
 moment, and unnumbered new ones 
 rise, to ply the great task ; and thus 
 is woven the unbroken web of ever-pro- 
 gressive human fortunes. 
 
 Next, let us consider the illness that 
 is usually the precursor of death. Why, 
 it may be said, the pains of mortal dis- 
 ease ? Why so much suffering that is 
 apparently useless, i. e., morally^ use- 
 less .'' I might answer, holding to the 
 strict coherence and continuity of the 
 present and future life, that it is no more 
 useless than any disciplinary pain. But 
 I am looking now only at the general 
 economy of the human condition ; the 
 advantage or disadvantage for this life. 
 And in this view, it may be assumed, 
 without regard to the moral issue, that 
 it is desirable, almost necessary, that 
 men should have some premonition of 
 their departure from this world ; that 
 they should not drop instantly from the 
 scene. They wish to give directions 
 and make arrangements for the future. 
 Endless difficulty and confusion would 
 arise with regard to property, to trusts, 
 to important matters involving the wel- 
 fare and comfort of survivors, without 
 this final disposition. And then with re- 
 gard to the pain of a last illness, simply 
 considered ; suppose the premonition 
 were to be distinctly given in some 
 other way, and long enough previous to 
 the event ; suppose there were some- 
 thing in the human system that gave 
 the note of preparation, like the clock 
 liefore it strikes the hour : does not the 
 illness that slowly breaks the tie to life 
 and makes the sufferer willing, and per- 
 haps desirous to depart, cause \e^^ pain 
 than would be felt in one week passed 
 in health, under the doom of that fear- 
 ful certainty ? For one in the midst of 
 health and enjoyment, in the fresh and 
 vivid sense of what life is, and of all its 
 ties, to be told that he shall die next 
 Monday ; what a dread interval would 
 it be, — at least to most men ! I can- 
 not doubt that the present mode of our 
 
 dismission from life is more merciful 
 than that would be. " No escape ! " 
 _ says Egmont in Goethe's drama — (he 
 was doomed to the scaffold by the cruel 
 Duke of Alva) — " no escape ! Sweet 
 life ! beautiful, kindly wont of being and 
 action ! — from thee shall I part — so 
 quietly part t Not in the tumult of 
 battle, nor amidst the noise of arms, 
 dost thou give thy swift farewell ; thou 
 takest no hasty leave — cuttest not short 
 the moment of parting. I shall take 
 thy hand — look yet awhile into thine 
 eyes — feel all lovingly thy beauty, thy 
 preciousness — then tear myself away 
 
 — and say, farewell ! " More merciful, 
 I repeat, than this, is God's ordinance 
 of sickness and pain as the pathway to 
 the grave. 
 
 I will venture to add that death some- 
 times brings specific relief, — from evils 
 for which there is no other remedy ; 
 from sickness and pain which nothing 
 else can end ; from painful relations, 
 from mental difficulties, from embarrass- 
 ing crises in life, of which nothing else 
 can break the knot, the bondage and 
 sorrow. It is not always hard to die. 
 There are those, and more of them per- 
 haps than we think, who desire to die. 
 I have looked upon those, in sad rela- 
 tions to one another, or to the world, of 
 whom I have said, "Nothing that I see 
 but death can help you." And there 
 are persons involved in such moral 
 emergencies — so desperate and irreme- 
 diable — that they are fain to say, " Let 
 me die ; let death deliver me ; I would 
 begin anew; I vfould try again " There 
 may be more of them, I repeat, than we 
 think. 
 
 But let us now proceed to the main! 
 and final question — the moral question! 
 
 — to be examined: whether the highest! 
 culture, the safety and happiness of thisj 
 life, do not make the appointed departurej 
 from it, however naturally unwelcome, | 
 actually necessary, and even desirable. 
 In this view, I am to speak of death,! 
 not merely as the end of this life, but asj 
 the passage to anotlier. 
 
 The learned Bishop Warburton, as- 
 
THE PROBLEiVI OF HUMAN DESTINY, 
 
 617 
 
 suming, though, as I think, erroneously 
 assuming, that the Hebrews had no 
 knowledge of a future hfe, has gone 
 into a very elaborate argument to show 
 that Moses must have had a divine 
 Legation, attested by miracles. P^or he 
 maintained that without the expectation 
 of future rewards and punishments, 
 nothing but a special and miraculous 
 interposition could hold a people in the 
 bonds of moral order. Doubtless the 
 argument is just, whatever may be 
 thought of the premises. What could 
 keep in any bounds the swellings of am- 
 bition, pride, cruelty, luxury, and licen- 
 tiousness, did not death interpose its 
 dread barrier? It is commonly called 
 "the king of terrors;" as if in that 
 character it were to be deprecated. But 
 its terrors are for those who most need 
 them. And well is it, that that shadowy 
 king stands in the path, and says to 
 self-indulgence, " Remember ! " and to 
 oppression, " Beware ! " — else were not 
 the earth habitable. 
 
 But I wish to speak of this event in 
 its widest relations to human improve- 
 ment ; not merely as a terror, but as 
 every way a wisely appointed and good 
 discipline. 
 
 Death is an epoch in our moral course. 
 A youth at school is far more likely to 
 be affected by the prospect of an ap- 
 proaching examination, than by his 
 general responsibility. Then he is to 
 answer for himself. Then his learning 
 is to be brought to the test. Theti his 
 fidelity or neglect is distinctly to appear. 
 Such is the coming hour of death to the 
 moral learner. It brings the sense of 
 obligation to a point from which there 
 is no escape. It brings the great moral 
 trial of life to a solemn issue. Doubt- 
 less there is a higher thought, a larger 
 view, for the manhood of reason ; but 
 in this respect, most men are yet chil- 
 dren, and need the discipline of children. 
 Doubtless the moment that lies in the 
 distance of a thousand years is to an- 
 swer for the moment that is now pass- 
 ing ; the whole vast future is bound to 
 the present hour by the indissoluble 
 
 chain of cause and effect ; but for 
 creatures of our limited capacity that 
 prospect is too general, and it seems 
 expedient that there should be distinct 
 steps in our progress ; that manhood, 
 for instance, should distinctly answer 
 for youth, and age for manhood ; and, in 
 like manner, the immediate future life 
 for the life that now is. 
 
 Again, the nearness of the event has 
 its purpose. If any one should ask why 
 the allotted term of man's existence on 
 earth should be so brief, I still answer, 
 that I see in this a wise ordination 
 The advancement of the world depends 
 on the earlier vigor and flexibility of life. 
 I say not upon young men and women, 
 — for that seems to me one of the follies 
 of our time, — but upon the age between 
 twenty-five and sixty-five. After that, 
 opinions usually become settled, habits 
 fixed ; and the world may not look for 
 new ideas, innovating enterprises, nor 
 the enthusiasm to prosecute them. In- 
 ventions, reforms, are seldom to be seen 
 in old age. Age has indeed its part to 
 act ; to guide the zeal and restrain the 
 rashness of the young. Its experience 
 and wisdom are to be respected ; far 
 more, I think, than they are at this 
 day ; but old men, generally, are not the 
 working men of the world. What, then, 
 is the ordinance that is to meet this 
 condition of humanity ? Tiie scythe of 
 death mows down the generations, that 
 it may provide for a more vigorous 
 growth. The axe that "is laid at the 
 root," cuts away the aged trees, that 
 younger and fairer ones may shoot up 
 in their stead. The builder removes 
 fixtures that he may prepare for im- 
 provements. Thus the world is con- 
 tinually recruited with fresh strength, 
 and is pervaded with an imaginative 
 and flexible enterprise ; and thus its 
 arts are advanced ; its fields are culti- 
 vated with increasing skill ; its houses 
 are built on improved plans; its science 
 and literature are constantly rising; and 
 its religious systems are advancing to 
 higher truths and wider ranges of vision. 
 Death, then, grim and fearful as it is 
 
6i8 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 accounted, is, like decay in nature, the 
 constant improver, enricher, and beauti- 
 fier of the world. 
 
 Yet further, the inevitableness of the 
 coming change is a weighty element of 
 its moral power. The certainty of it ; 
 the feeling that nothing can stay the 
 event ; that no hoard of gold, nor crown 
 of honor, nor crowd of cares, nor press- 
 ure of engagements, nor thronging 
 visions of coming prosperity, nor mo- 
 mentous crisis in affairs, can ward off 
 the inevitable hour, — how does that 
 feeling penetrate through the whole of 
 life, and sober, at times, the wildest 
 levity, and subdue the haughtiest am- 
 bition ! The Grecian Epaminondas, 
 when told that a distinguished general 
 had died while the battle was raging, 
 exclaimed, "Ye gods! how can a man 
 find time to die, at a moment like this ! " 
 But every man must find time to die I 
 Ay, the man of blood, whose ruthless 
 sword has cut down its thousands and 
 ten thousands ; who was deaf to the 
 groans and pleadings of human misery ; 
 who has crushed ten thousand human 
 hearts beneath his blood-stained car, — 
 Tamerlane or Alaric, Cjesar or Napoleon, 
 — he has, in God's dread forbearance, 
 found a time to kill ; but he has also, in 
 God's awful justice, found a time to die! 
 And the private man, the man who dwells 
 in the deepest seclusion; who lives hid- 
 den and shrouded from the public eye ; 
 who draws the veil of midnight around 
 Ills deeds ; that man still feels that an 
 eye is upon him ; he is obhged to con- 
 front the awful image of death ; he can- 
 not escape. "But I must die!" is a 
 thought that steals upon many a worldly 
 dream and many a silent rumination. 
 He feels it, though no solemn message, 
 as in the Egyptian feasts, take up the 
 admonition and say, "Remember! thou 
 must die ! " 
 
 Yet not with terror onl}', but with ten- 
 derness, does death touch the human 
 heart, — touches it with a gracious sym- 
 pathy and sorrow. One may know the 
 house where death has set his mark, 
 lono; after the time. Traces are left in 
 
 its affections that are never worn out. 
 Traces are left in nieinoriam, in poetry, 
 in all human sentiment. Death is not 
 the sundering, but the consecration of 
 friendship. It strengthens that holy 
 bond. It makes the departed dearer. 
 It gives new power and sanctity to their 
 example. It invests their virtues with 
 the radiance of angel beauty. It canon- 
 izes them as patron saints and guardian 
 angels of the household. 
 
 Nor could it fulfil its high mission, if 
 men departed from the world in families, 
 in tribes, in generations. Then, indeed, 
 were we spared the sorrows of bereave- 
 ment, but at the expense of much that 
 is most sacred in life. If families were 
 dismissed from life together, they would 
 inevitably become selfish, contracting 
 their thoughts and affections within 
 those domestic spheres in which all 
 their destinies were bound up. If gen- 
 erations were mowed down at once, like 
 the ripened harvests, then had there 
 been no history of public deeds nor 
 record of private worth. The invisible 
 presence of virtue that now pervades 
 and hallows the earth, that consecrates 
 our dwellings and makes them far more 
 than the abodes of life, would be with- 
 drawn from the fellowship of men ; and 
 the signal lights of heroic example that 
 are now shining through the ages would 
 all go out in utter darkness. A work- 
 ing-day world, a utilitarian world, we 
 should have ; shut up to the cares and 
 interests of the generation that is passing 
 over it ; not as now a world that is over- 
 spread with the mounds ot departed na- 
 tions, with the dust of buried empire, — 
 the theatre of majestic history, the her- 
 itage of genius, the altar of holy martyr- 
 dom. The earth is no longer the mere 
 material globe that at the beginning 
 rolled round its parent sun : it is the 
 tomb of generations, the monument of 
 ages. From out of its hollow recesses 
 and echoing caverns, what oracles come ! 
 Upon its majestic brow, what names 
 are written, — Assyria, Egypt, Phoenicia, 
 Greece, Rome ; the Goth, the Gaul, the 
 Saxon, the Slavonic race, and races of 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 619 
 
 the old, the dateless, American time ! 
 The very dwellings, the cities of the 
 world, have become monumental. AW 
 present convenience, not bustling ac- 
 tivity alone, but the sanctity of death 
 makes them what they are. Their walls 
 have echoed to joys and sorrows that 
 have passed away. High, heroic hearts 
 have throbbed within them, tliat beat no 
 more; pain and patience have built altars 
 in them to lowly resignation and prayer; 
 the last sigh has ascended from them, 
 and, as holy incense, consecrated them 
 forever. Oh ! not the present alone is 
 here; but the image of the majestic past 
 stalks through the world, and casts its 
 solemn mantle over the life of to-day ! 
 We live that we may garner up the 
 treasures of humanity, and, adding to 
 them the little that we can, transmit 
 them to those that come after. We 
 survive, with whatever pain to our- 
 selves, that virtue may not die. We 
 guard the holy bequest. See we to it 
 that it waste not nor dwindle in our 
 hands ! 
 
 Nay, in another respect, the grandeur 
 of death imparts a reflected dignity to 
 life. God puts honor on the being to 
 whom He says, "Thou shalt die!" — 
 to whom He does not veil the event, 
 as He does to animal natures, but un- 
 folds the clear prospect. He, to whom 
 the grandest achievement of courage 
 and heroism should be proposed, could 
 not be a mean creature. But every man 
 is to meet the grandeur of death. In 
 these mortal lists he stands, — ay, the 
 youth, the child, the frailest spirit that 
 ever was clothed with the habiliments 
 of mortality ; and he knows that he is 
 to meet a crisis more sublime and mys- 
 
 terious than any other that ever chal- 
 lenged mortal courage. The meanest 
 man lives with that prospect before 
 him. More than that which makes 
 heroism sublime, it is his to encounter. 
 Yes, and in the bosom of death are 
 powers greater than itself. I have seeti 
 them ; I have seen them triumph when 
 death was nearest and mightiest ; and 
 I believe in them, — I believe in those 
 inborn powers of life and immortality 
 more than I beheve in death. They 
 will bear me up more than death will 
 weigh me down. I hve ; and this liv- 
 ing, conscious being which I am to-day 
 is a greater wonder to me than it is 
 that I should go on and on. How I 
 came to be, astonishes me far more 
 than how I should continue to be. 
 And if I am to continue, if I am to live 
 forever, I must have a realm fitted for 
 such life. Eternity of being must have 
 infinitude of space for its range. I 
 would visit other worlds ; and espe- 
 cially does the desire grow intenser, as 
 the boundless splendors of the starry 
 heavens are unfolded wider and wider. 
 But I cannot go to them, — I cannot 
 skirt the coasts of Sirius and the Plei- 
 ades with this body. Then, — some 
 time, — in God's good time, — let it 
 drop. Let my spirit wander free. Let 
 this body drop ; as when one leaves the 
 vehicle that had borne him on a journey. 
 — to ascend some lofty mountain, — to 
 lift his gaze to wider heavens and a 
 vaster horizon. So let my spirit wander 
 free — and far. Let it wander through 
 the realm of infinite good ; its range as 
 unconfined as its nature ; its faith, the 
 faith of Christ ; its hope, a hope full of 
 immortality ! 
 
620 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 LECTURE X. 
 
 HISTORIC PROBLEMS : POLYTHEISM, DESPOTISM, WAR, SLAVERY, 
 
 THE PREVALENCE AND MINISTRY OF ERROR IN THE SYSTEM 
 OF THE WORLD. 
 
 I MUST now take up the great social 
 problems to which I referred in my 
 last lecture, — Polytheism, Despotism, 
 War, Slavery, and that problem which 
 embraces them all : the Prevalence and 
 Ministry of Error. 
 
 "A grim and fearful host of ills," it 
 may be said, " to preside over the des- 
 tiny of the human race ; or if not to 
 preside, to prevail, — to have darkened 
 the world with fear, to have bound it 
 in chains, to have torn it with violence, 
 from the beginning ; to have led the 
 generations of men in mazes of darkness 
 and wandering through all ages ! How 
 can such things have been ordained or 
 permitted ? How in any way could 
 such things have been the agencies of 
 a good and wise Providence ? " 
 
 Now, in dealing with these questions, 
 we must take along with us what has 
 been already said upon the very grounds 
 and principles of the human problem. 
 Man, as a moral being, must of necessity 
 be free ; as a created being, he must be 
 imperfect and ignorant ; as a being whose 
 destiny it is to improve, he must dei;;ifi 
 somewhere ; nay, as a being, all whose 
 knowledge and virtue are to be ac- 
 quired, he must begin at a point where 
 he has no virtue or knowledge ; i. e., he 
 must begin in infancy. Look, then, at 
 this being, and consider what must be 
 the inevitable laws of his development, 
 and what the probable course of it. 
 Do not ask why this or that could not 
 have been hindered ; but see that the 
 principle of hindrance would be fatal 
 to the system ; that the demand for 
 divine interference made by millions, 
 irretrievably complicates, and, if lis- 
 
 tened to, ruins all. See man, then, as 
 he is and must be. Imperfect, igno- 
 rant, infantile, — yet endowed with 
 powerful energies and impulses, with- 
 out which he would be nothing, — he 
 is placed upon the earth to do what he 
 pleases. Deprive him of the liberty 
 to do so, and you unmake the man. 
 Deprive him of his imperfection, his 
 ignorance, his exposure to error, and 
 you make him God. Or, yet once more : 
 interfere with his free development by 
 incessant miracles to ward off the evils 
 into which he falls, and you break up 
 the whole regular training on which 
 that development depends. Take the 
 case of any evil, any wrong, any misery 
 that ever was inflicted, and consider it. 
 The assassin's arm is raised to murder. 
 Almighty power could arrest it ; but 
 then the agent would not be free. Two 
 armies are about to rush into battle. 
 Almighty power could in an instant 
 chain tliese hosts like statues to the 
 earth ; but then they would not be free, 
 would not be men. 
 
 I must desire you further to take it 
 into the account, not only that some 
 evils were likely to flow from such a 
 constitution of things, but that these 
 very evils which we are to consider 
 were the natural, if not inevitable, de- 
 velopments of human ignorance and 
 weakness ; nay, and of the higher hu- 
 man sentiments, too, — of the feelings 
 of r/^/// and of religion. Not from 
 some dark cavern are they let loose, 
 like avenging furies, not from some 
 fabled Pandora's box have they issued, 
 but from the bosom of humanity ; nor 
 from any constitutional badness of na- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 621 
 
 ture, but from passions, from errors, 
 from mistakes, from collisions, from cir- 
 cumstances necessarily attaching to this 
 n.iture. I praj' you to look more nearly 
 into these evils than you do when you 
 generalize and sum them up into one 
 portentous and crushing mass of gratui- 
 tous calamity and wrong. Thus, error, 
 for instance, — religious error, super- 
 stition in many forms, — could man es- 
 cape it ? Thus, again, in rude and 
 lawless times, was not the governing 
 hand likely to hold things with a strong 
 grasp, — to be despotic and oppressive? 
 And when questions arose between na- 
 tions, was it not natural that they should 
 resort to physical force, i. e., to war ? 
 Could rude barbarians stand still to 
 argue ? Could they settle, could they 
 understand, any code of international 
 law ? Was it not almost inevitable that 
 they should fight ? If the question was 
 about a piece of land, or a fishery, was 
 there anything else for them to do but 
 to endeavor to push one another from 
 the disputed possession .'' Supposing 
 the parties to be honest, — supposing 
 that each believed the thing in question 
 to belong to him, — -supposing there was 
 no umpire to which they could appeal, 
 — must not a natural sense oi justice 
 have led them to strive for their right ? 
 War is ordinarily the clash of opinions. 
 " You have got that which is mine," 
 one says ; "you will not give it to me ; 
 you will not listen to my just claims for 
 it; then I must take it from you." In 
 fact, must not this, where the case 
 arises, be the language of to-day ? But, 
 certainly, where neither right nor rea- 
 son would be listened to, must not the 
 party wronged, or conceiving himself to 
 be wronged, enforce his claim with the 
 strong arm, or else sit down, abused, 
 crushed, robbed, and despoiled on every 
 hand ? 
 
 Doubtless there has been violence 
 enough in the world which has had no 
 such plea. I only wished to show that 
 it is not all blank malignity nor wilful 
 error which has filled the world with 
 darkness and sorrow. And do you not 
 
 suppose, let me ask, that He who made 
 the world foresaw all this .-' and are sin 
 and pain agreeable to Infinite Benevo- 
 lence ? Must you not believe that God 
 would have prevented them had there 
 not been obstacles to prevention in the 
 very nature of things and in the wel- 
 fare of the beings he made .'' 
 
 It is of some such intrinsic obstacle, 
 I think, that Plato speaks, under the 
 name of "necessity," — a something 
 inevitably and inextricably interwoven 
 with the constitution of things, and pre- 
 venting the exclusion of evil and mis- 
 ery from the world. He appears to me 
 obscurely to intimate, in a pas.sage of 
 the Timaeus, that view of the origin of 
 evil which I have endeavored plainly to 
 set forth in these lectures as the true 
 and only solution of that dark problem. 
 His mind evidently had not settled w^^on 
 any theory. Sometimes he speaks of a 
 malignant being, next in power to God, 
 as having introduced evil into the crea- 
 tion ; sometimes of dark, intractable, 
 obstinate inatter as the source of evil ; 
 for these old ideas of Zoroaster seem 
 to have pervaded all antiquity. But in 
 the Timaeus we find him speaking of 
 ^'necessity'''' as some strong and appar- 
 ently opposing power, "on which," to 
 use the language of a learned commen- 
 tator,* — "on which the divine energy 
 was constantly exercised, not so much 
 in directly overcoming as in controlling 
 and directing it to the accomplishment 
 of the Divine purposes." "But since," 
 says Plato, "mind [i. e., the Supreme 
 Mind] rules necessity by persuading 
 her to bring to the best results the 
 most of things as they are generated 
 [or made], thus in this way, through 
 necessity overcome by rational persua- 
 sion, this universe received its con- 
 struction," or was fashioned into its 
 present order. 
 
 " By rational persuasion," says Plato, 
 i. e., not by irresistible coercion, but by 
 a wise urging and turning of things that 
 are unavoidably liable to evil to good 
 
 * Prnf. Tayler Lewis on " Plato against the Athe- 
 ists," p. 217. 
 
622 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 account. This is the Hght, in fact, in 
 which I am about to speak of the spe- 
 cial problems which are now before us. 
 
 Indeed, our Holy Scriptures teach a 
 doctrine not dissimilar to this ; as when 
 they say that " God causes the wrath of 
 man to praise him, and the remainder 
 of wrath he restrains ; " as when they 
 say that he permitted certain things to 
 the Hebrew people "because of the 
 hardness of their hearts," i. e., because 
 they could bear no better ; as when 
 they say, " I gave them statut^s that 
 were not good," i. e., not absolutely 
 good, not in themselves desirable, but 
 tolerated, and turned to good account. 
 
 I know there are those who regard 
 human superstition, oppression, and 
 strife, simply and only as the results 
 of a depraved nature ; who see no far- 
 ther into the great problem of human 
 fortunes ; who, as they look back upon 
 the history of the world, only exclaim, 
 " See what a wicked race ! " But the 
 philosophy of human life and history, 
 and, as I conceive, a just reverence for 
 the Divine Providence, demand another 
 consideration of things. It would be 
 deplorable for us to leave the world- 
 story in that blank abstraction. It 
 would quench all good faith in the past 
 and all good hope of the future. It 
 would be strange, also, nay, incredible, 
 that human nature and history should 
 want all those evidences of wise and 
 good design of which the material world 
 is full. 
 
 I say, then, and lay down these three 
 propositions : First, that the bad insti- 
 tutions and usages of the world, whether 
 religious, political, or warlike, have been 
 better than none ; secondly, that they 
 have been the only ones in every age 
 that the world could then receive ; and 
 thirdly, that they have ministered to 
 human energy and improvement, and 
 ultimately to human happiness. 
 
 First, they have been better than 
 none. Idolatry has been better than 
 no religion ; superstition, than no re- 
 straint ; despotism, than no govern- 
 ment. War itself has been better than 
 
 no activity, — better than savage stupor 
 and indolence, or stupid submission to 
 wrong. It has developed more strength, 
 more heroism, more virtue, than abso- 
 lute languor or moral indifference would 
 have done. The strife of man with 
 man in the assertion of rights, or what 
 were deemed to be rights, was better 
 than a total disregard of all right. For 
 suppose that one man or nation does 
 another man or nation a gross wrong, 
 — taking away with the strong hand 
 lands, goods, property, rights, nay, wife 
 and children ; the invading nation car- 
 ries them off : would you have the 
 wrong quietly acquiesced in, submitted 
 to in dull stupidity .'' It would be to 
 deny our humanity. No, we would have 
 every man feel the right, and fairly as- 
 sert and defend it. We would have 
 force applied for that end where it is 
 necessary ; and this force, intervening 
 in national questions, is war. Some 
 wars have been right, though many 
 have been wrong. We must not, for 
 the abuses of a principle, however enor- 
 mous, discard the principle. It is right 
 to assert our rights, and to compel oth- 
 ers, if we cannot persuade them, to 
 abstain from wrong. This appertains to 
 our humanity. A sense of right must 
 so assert itself ; and if rights could be 
 violated, and no resistance, no conten- 
 tion followed, humanity itself would be 
 dead. 
 
 Secondly, the institutions and usages 
 of every age have been the only ones it 
 could receive. The mind of every age 
 has been bodied forth in its religious 
 systems, in its political forms, in its 
 activity, whatever that activity has been. 
 Its action, its idea of right, and its mode 
 of righting itself would have been bet- 
 ter if its mind had been more improved. 
 Each form of development has been 
 that which the spirit of the time gave 
 to it. 
 
 Let us state this point, however, with 
 proper care and qualification. In one 
 respect, the rudest age is susceptible of 
 hii^h teaching, — is capable of receiving 
 the very highest ideals. There are cer- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 623 
 
 tain innate ideas of right, of justice, of 
 religion, — eternal intuitions, — to which 
 appeal may always be made. To these, 
 prophets and wise men have ever ap- 
 pealed, and met an unhesitating re- 
 sponse. But institutions, usages, are 
 different things. These must be in 
 general accordance with the culture of 
 a people. Yet even here there is still 
 room for the reformer ; because the 
 institutions are ever falling behind the 
 culture, and need to be reformed. Nev- 
 ertheless, the reform in any given period 
 could not proceed beyond a certain 
 point. 
 
 In ages of darkness and ignorance 
 and materialism, superstition was inevi- 
 table ; oppression was inevitable ; war 
 was inevitable. Men could not arrive 
 at once at refined and spiritual ideas of 
 God, or at those ideas of moral justice 
 that should banish oppression and war. 
 They could not comprehend, they could 
 not agree upon, those principles that 
 should supersede coercion and strife 
 with the strong hand. Alas ! the world 
 does not comprehend them yet. But to 
 the infant world it had been as impos- 
 sible to teach the highest ideas of re- 
 ligion, of law, and of the right social 
 relationships, as it would be to instruct 
 one of our infant schools in the mathe- 
 matics, in astronomy, and moral phi- 
 losophy. 
 
 Thirdly, the defective religion, polity, 
 and intercourse of the nations have min- 
 istered to their energy, improvement, 
 and happiness. They have not only 
 been better than none ; they have not 
 only been, in general, as good as the 
 general mind could receive ; but they 
 have done good. This observation 
 opens the whole field of our present 
 discussion. 
 
 But in entering upon it, I wish care- 
 fully to state the ground upon which I 
 proceed. I said in my opening lecture 
 that in the prosecution of the subject I 
 had nothing more at heart than to show 
 how this system of human free action, 
 while necessarily free, in order to be a 
 moral system, is nevertheless governed 
 
 and controlled so as to bring about good 
 ends. But I seek now, in this connec- 
 tion, to make the distinction between 
 freedom and control — between the err- 
 ing of the human will and the over- 
 ruling of it for good — perfectly explicit 
 and clear. In man as a free agent 
 there is, of necessity, the power and 
 liability to err, to go wrong. Acting 
 freely, he runs into polytheism and 
 idolatry : he builds up despotic govern- 
 ments ; he wages cruel war ; he op- 
 presses his fellow. Now in this mass 
 of error and evil there are two ele- 
 ments. There was mistake, incident to 
 the infancy and ignorance of the world. 
 Or, there was theoretical imperfection, — 
 a"^, for instance, in idolatry and despot- 
 ism, — and yet, withal, a certain fitness 
 for the time. And there was downrigtit 
 and wicked hate and cruelty. Now tltis 
 I am not to defend. I do not say, with 
 some, that evil is good ; that there is no 
 evil in the universe. I say and feel tltat 
 hate and cruelty are evil and wrong and 
 odious. But I maintain that out of this 
 whole system, — out of mistake and im- 
 perfection, and in spite of hate and 
 wrong, good has come ; and this it is 
 my simple and sole business to show. 
 It is not to defend human erring; not 
 to lessen my own or yoiir sense of it ; 
 but to show the guardianship over it of 
 a divine and guiding Providence. 
 
 There is one point, especially, on 
 which I admit all that can be charged 
 upon human erring ; and that is, the 
 abuse of power ; of power in religion, 
 of power in government ; of power mili- 
 tary, feudal, social, individual. Power 
 of every kind has been abused beyond 
 anything else that man has possessed. 
 There is nothing that distresses me in 
 the contemplation of past ages or of the 
 present age, like the inhuinaniiy of 
 power. That which furnishes the no- 
 blest opportunity for doing good has 
 been turned into the most frightful in- 
 strument of cruelty and oppression. 
 "Man's inhumanity to man," — whether 
 it be a doom to the prison, to the rack, 
 or the fire, or whether it be the scornful 
 
624 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 word of the superior to the inferior, — I 
 have nothing to say for it ; I give it up 
 to the righteous indignation of all just 
 men. Let that indignation rise higher 
 and higher ; let it accumulate in moun- 
 tain masses, to crush and drive the 
 accursed thing out of the world. 
 
 What, then, am I to say to all this ? 
 'I'liis^ first of all : that to a free nature, 
 even tliat ]iatefitl abuse could not be 
 forbidden. Man must do what he will. 
 Here, now, to-day, you have power to 
 strike down an inferior in strength or 
 station. God does not miraculously 
 interpose to wither the lifted arm, or to 
 palsy the proud and scornful tongue. 
 And then, next, I must resist the im- 
 pression that all this abuse of power is 
 a mass of unmitigated evil. I must not 
 le^ve it to be supposed that this has 
 been a godless and forsaken world. 
 Amidst the strugglings of man with 
 man, I must endeavor to show that all 
 has not been intentional wrong ; that 
 there have been unavoidable mistakes ; 
 that there have been insuperable diffi- 
 culties ; and that there has been good 
 amidst evil. I must endeavor also to 
 correct our own mistakes in looking at 
 these things, and to present the great 
 institutions that have presided over 
 the world, in the justest light that I 
 can. 
 
 In the first place, then, we are to speak 
 of Polytheism and Idolatry. And here 
 we find immediate occasion for apply- 
 ing the observation just made to the 
 old 7-elioion. There are mistaken views 
 witfi which we have grown up from our 
 childhood, that need to be reconsidered. 
 For instance, beast worship, among the 
 Egyptians, the worship of dogs, cats, 
 and even of meaner creatures ; looking 
 at it as we have, it has, of course, always 
 seemed to us an unspeakable degrada- 
 tion. In the view we have been accus- 
 tomed to take of it, it might well have 
 seemed to us, as partly it has, an incred- 
 ible degradation. It passes belief that 
 any human beings should be so stupid 
 as literally to worship the meanest rep- 
 tiles. Yet more is this incredible of a 
 
 cultivated people, like the Egyptians, 
 who had carried the practical arts to a 
 point hardly surpassed by ourselves ; 
 who had a learned priesthood, to which 
 the Grecian sages resorted for instruc- 
 tion ; upon one of whose temples, at 
 Sais, was recorded that sublime inscrip- 
 tion, expressive of the Divine nature, — 
 the sublimest of all heathen antiquity, — 
 " I am all that has been, all that is, and 
 all that shall be. No mortal has ever 
 raised the veil that conceals me ! " * 
 
 What, then, was this mysterious Exist- 
 ence ? It was that great Life of Nature, 
 which all the East worshipped. And 
 no doubt it was this great Life of Nature 
 that the Egyptians worshipped under 
 animal forms. In this view, Hegel 
 maintains that the worship of animals is 
 noway less respectable than the worship 
 of the sun and stars. t He remarks, in- 
 deed, that there is something peculiarly 
 incomprehensible and mysterious in the 
 animal spirit — dumb and shut up — 
 never articulating its thought. If we 
 coinpare it with the spirit in ourselves, 
 he says, it is clear that we less under- 
 stand it; for we know ourselves by con- 
 sciousness. But what is passing in the 
 horse, the ox, or the dog, we do not 
 know ; and the idea and the observation 
 must be familiar to us all, that "we 
 should like to know what they think." 
 " A black cat stealing by us in the twi- 
 light," says Hegel, "brings over our 
 minds an impression as of something 
 preternatural." 
 
 Then, again, with regard to idolatry, 
 the worship of images ; the idea that 
 these images of wood and stone were 
 literally worshipped as the all-powerful 
 deities who presided over the world, is 
 utterly inadmissible. They were wor- 
 shipped, doubtless, as representatives, 
 symbols of the gods. This worship, 
 however, became so gross that it was 
 vehemently denounced by the Hebrew 
 prophets ; though there is reason to be- 
 lieve that there was a time when a spe- 
 
 * Proclus adds, " and the fruit I have produced is 
 the sun ! " 
 
 t Philosophic der Geschichte, pp. 258, 259, 
 
 i 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 625 
 
 cies of images, called Terapbim, were 
 recognized in the Hebrew worship.* 
 
 And with regard, in fine, to polythe- 
 ism itself, great as the error was, yet 
 it was natural, and perhaps unavoidable. 
 The rude mind, in the infancy of the 
 world, first awaking to the concep- 
 tion of unseen, stupendous, creative 
 agencies around it, would not, perhaps 
 could not, immediately learn that all 
 these agencies centred in one Being. 
 
 But I must desire you to observe, 
 that, great as the error and the evil of 
 polytheism were, it was not powerless, 
 nor altogether useless. What a keen 
 and quickened sense of religion must 
 it have nourished ! We have no devo- 
 tees to compare with those of India 
 and Thibet. In Lassa, the metropo- 
 lis of Buddhism, says the traveller, M. 
 Hue, the whole population gathers at 
 nightfall into little circles for prayer ; 
 the sound goes up from the whole city. 
 But look at the ancient polytheism. 
 Erring as it was, yet how strong it 
 must have been, and intense, and ever 
 awake ! A local deity, instead of one 
 far off; a god of the field and the 
 stream and the grove, and of the house, 
 and of the very liearthstone ; how must 
 it have struck the every-day and hourly 
 thought of men ! In the later ages of 
 Grecian and Roman refinement this 
 religion was dying out, and so making 
 way for another ; men did not believe 
 in the religion of their fathers, and the 
 Christian apologists might well speak, 
 as they did speak, of its inefificacy ; 
 but in its pristine strength it was far 
 from deserving that charge. Then, 
 again, the idol, the visible symbol of 
 the present deity in every household ; 
 how must it have appealed to the imagi- 
 nation, and the very sense ! Its wooden 
 or stony eye ; how must it have seemed 
 at times to look into the very misdeeds 
 of men ! The Catholics feel a similar 
 influence now, and their sense of relig- 
 ion, whatever may be thought of it in 
 other views, is stronger and more fre- 
 
 * See Hosea iii. 4, 5, and Newman's Hebrew Mon- 
 archy, p. 28. 
 
 quently awakened, I have no doubt, 
 than that of many Protestants. Nay, 
 I should doubt whether the Protestant 
 world has not swung too far toward the 
 limit of bare and naked spiritualism. 
 Some sense of this I mark in that ex- 
 traordinary movement some years ago, 
 known as Puseyism, in the Church of 
 England; in which, if there were some 
 things that I could not sympathize with, 
 yet this tendency to reconsider and 
 reassume some elements of the past, 
 were it wisely controlled, I cannot help 
 regarding as healthy and good. Tlien, 
 again, and once more, the sacrifices of 
 the old religion, the victim on the altar, 
 the daily rising incense, ■ — all that di- 
 rect and visible appeal to Heaven; how 
 impressive must it have been to the 
 worshipper ! And every head of a 
 household, too, was a consecrated priest ; 
 now, few men comparatively are priests 
 in their famihes, in any sense. And 
 when the parent took his child from its 
 mother's bosom and sent it through the 
 fire, a victim to Moloch, — dreadful god ! 
 — that offering was not hypocritical, 
 but terribly sincere ; it was not a mere 
 form, but religion awfully in earnest ; 
 it was not mere cruelty, but the shud- 
 dering homage of religious fear, — of 
 a fear strong enough to tear the very 
 life-cords from the palpitating heart ! 
 In all this there was much error ; but 
 in all this there was a tremendous power 
 to bind the rude mind to religion of 
 some sort, and to restrain its wildest 
 excesses. The bond of religion, the 
 dread of Divine displeasure, I am in- 
 clined to think, was j-/r<?//^^'-t7' then than it 
 is now. Men now, in courts of justice 
 and in national quarrels, appeal against 
 bad faith, to Heaven ; but not perhaps 
 with such positive impression and effect 
 as when they said in old time, " The 
 gods will punish you ! Neptune will 
 awake his storms, Jupiter will launch 
 his thunder against you ; the god of 
 the rooftree will desolate your dwelling ; 
 the god of the field will sweep down 
 your harvests, or will send disease 
 among your flocks ! " Other things are 
 
 40 
 
626 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 ■I 
 
 indeed to be desired in religion besides 
 strength, and no one would bring back 
 the old superstition ; but here, I say, 
 was strength ; here was a power over 
 the infant world, the highest that it 
 could receive, which guided and con- 
 trolled its steps, and was leading them 
 on to something better. 
 
 Turn now, in the second place, to the 
 political relations of men. A hard and 
 grinding despotism weighed upon the 
 ancient world. Equal laws, the just 
 rights of men, were unknown. The 
 chieftain — patriarch, priest, or king — 
 reigned with absolute authority. Here 
 and there democracies, republics, sprang 
 up, but died away as soon, and were, in 
 fact, despotic while they lasted. And 
 throughout the ancient world there was 
 no just conception of the equal rights 
 of men. The many bowed down to the 
 few with absolute, slavish, superstitious 
 allegiance. The people^ even in feudal 
 Europe, says Guizot, were as timid as 
 sheep. We see the injustice and falsity 
 of all this. We have better theories. 
 But what would our theories of equal 
 rights have done, if they had been cast 
 into the bosom of the old Asiatic na- 
 tions ; ay, or into the communes and 
 kingdoms of the Middle Ages ? Torn 
 them all to pieces. Society could not 
 have lived a day with these theories. 
 The single, strong arm was necessary to 
 bind and hold together the wild elements 
 of the primeval world. The deep and 
 lowly submission to it was necessary. 
 It was more than merely necessary; it 
 was beneficial. Absolute rule was the 
 best thing p issible ; and it was attended 
 with the then best possible results. 
 
 This instinct, the blind instinct of 
 obedience, natural to rude and savage 
 life, worked usefully in two ways. First, 
 it was a good guidance for those whose 
 minds could not yet rise to any high or 
 reverential obedience to law, or to a 
 political constitution. It was well that 
 something should attach them to the 
 chieftain, to the king, to the head of the 
 state. And then the sentiment was 
 saved from the meanness and degrada- 
 
 tion that would otherwise have belonged 
 to it, by its being so reverential, affec- 
 tionate, and disinterested. There was 
 something affecting and beautiful, as 
 well as fit for its time, in these old hom- 
 ages to superior rank. The attachment 
 of the Scottish clansman to his chief, of 
 the feudal retainer to his lord, was often 
 of the most touching character. It is 
 good to reverence somethini^; and even 
 the excess of the homage is better than 
 the opposite extreme. I had rather pay 
 it, than always to stand up stiffly for my 
 rights. I like the story of the son of 
 Ivan IV., of Russia, better than some 
 with which our theories of equal rights 
 might furnish us. The armies of the 
 emperor, says the annalist, had been 
 worsted in one or two engagements. 
 His favorite son said, " Let me go and 
 take the command." The brutal father, 
 stung with self-reproach, jealousy, and 
 anger, felled him to the ground, with a 
 blow, that, it was evident, must prove 
 mortal. Struck with horror at what he 
 had done, the emperor rolled in agony 
 upon the floor, and offered millions to 
 his physicians if they would save his 
 I child. The dying son, as he lay upon 
 i his couch, strove to reas.sure his father. 
 i "You did right," he said, "to strike me. 
 I ought not to have asked you that 
 1 question. I have offended against the 
 ; laws of the empire and against you ; and 
 { I deserve to die." 
 
 I All power, alas ! is liable to abuse, 
 and to the grossest ; but protestants 
 against despotism as we Americans are, 
 ! we are prone perhaps to do it some in- 
 [ justice. Certain it is, that it has often 
 i been paternal and protective, in propor- 
 , tion as the homage to it has been filial 
 j and affectionate. Hegel says that there 
 I was more personal freedom in the old 
 ; Assyrian Empire than in Rome. In 
 I those soft Eastern climes, especially, 
 the government was paternal, the people 
 as children, compared with the stern 
 Roman rule and the stalwart Roman 
 men. The Oriental despotism, com- 
 pared with the Roman, was as a flowery 
 girdle to an iron band. The Persian 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 627 
 
 monarch was a sort of teacher and sage 
 to the people ; attendant scribes, in 
 court and camp, were ever at hand to 
 write down his sayings ; and these were 
 deposited in the state archives, as the 
 annals of iiis reign,* — a tremendous 
 environment for a man, and it must have 
 made him thoughtful, and his speech 
 the wiser. In the earliest times of the 
 East, the patriarchal king sat in the 
 gate. The Persian royal palace was 
 called the Porte, or Gate,t — and hence 
 the phrase Sublime Porte, to describe 
 the Ottoman sovereignty, — the patri- 
 archal king sat in the gate, to hear com- 
 plaints and award justice ; and although, 
 in later times and in crowded empires, 
 this was, of course, impossible, yet al- 
 ways there was a right of personal ap- 
 peal, as of children to a parent, unknown 
 to our more complicated systems of 
 administration. The court was a scene 
 of magnificent hospitality : Ctesias, a 
 Greek historian of Artaxerxes' time, 
 says that fifteen thousand persons sat 
 down daily at the king's table ; seem- 
 ingly an incredible number ; according 
 to Xenophon, it took — I know not hoiv 
 many persons to make Cambyses' bed. J 
 In short, more ease, freedom, and hap- 
 piness existed under these old despot- 
 isms, than we are apt to think, — bad 
 as they undoubtedly were. 
 
 But I must now turn, in the third 
 place, to a more awful element in the 
 world-problem ; and that is war. 
 
 I have already said that it has been, 
 and is, inevitable. In fact, unless we 
 give up the right of self-preservation ; 
 unless we go the length of saying that 
 any man who pleases may take what he 
 will of ours, or may break our limbs, or 
 ijeat us to death, without resistance 
 from us, we admit the principle that lies 
 at the bottom of war. But let us con- 
 sider further, whether it has not a provi- 
 dential place in the world, among the 
 means of its discipline and culture. 
 
 * Heeren, Asiatic Nations, vol. i. p. 55, Bohn'sed. 
 + Ibid., p. 260. 
 
 X Heeren's Researches, Asiatic Nations, vol. 1. p. 
 254- 
 
 There certainly have been worse 
 things in the world than war. There 
 have been states and conditions of Iiu- 
 man society worse than that of martial 
 conflict, and which that conflict has 
 broken up : deep-seated injustice, which 
 nothing but a violent shock could over- 
 turn ; intolerable oppression, universal 
 corruption and licentiousness, universal 
 eflfeminacy and stupor. Better that the 
 cause of justice and right be pleaded 
 with the sword, than not pleaded at all. 
 I had rather see the moral sentiments, 
 or the material interests of men, in fierce 
 collision, than in a state of palsy and 
 death ; it is more hopeful, if not more 
 agreeable. 
 
 Then, again, war is a means of inter- 
 course, communication of knowledge, 
 interfusion of ideas, between nations. 
 In some cases, there seems no other 
 way to lift a people out of its stupor and 
 degradation. By means of isolation 
 alone China has remained the same for 
 ages. But in times when there was no 
 printing, and little travel, nations lay 
 side by side more ignorant of each other 
 than people now are in opposite hemi- 
 spheres. What, then, did a war effect ? 
 It brought nations into the presence of 
 each other's homes, institutions, usages, 
 arts. Thus the Northern barbarians 
 were brought to look upon the Roman 
 civilization. Imagine the Roman Em- 
 pire to have gone on undisturbed, sink- 
 ing deeper and deeper into lethargy, 
 luxury, and corruption; and the Goths 
 and Vandals to have remained in their 
 rock fastnesses and woody deserts, the 
 same brutish people. Instead of this, 
 the invasions have given us — cultivated 
 Europe. 
 
 But we must go to a question more 
 radical, with regard to the influence of 
 war upon the human character and con- 
 dition. Could the world, or can it, go 
 on nobly — go on improving — go on 
 safely even, without this dread discipline 
 of war.? The elder Bonaparte is re- 
 ported to have said, "The conscription 
 is the everlasting root of a nation, its 
 moral purification, the real foundation 
 
628 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 of its habits." I do not know precisely 
 what he meant by that ; but I should 
 interpret it thus : Lay upon every fam- 
 ily in a nation the bond of that dread 
 liability, — that one of its members may 
 be called forth to fight and die for his 
 country, and you put a principle of 
 sobriety, of manliness, of sacrifice, of 
 obedience to the law, of consecration to 
 the common weal, into that family, which 
 nothing else perhaps could impart to it. 
 Who does not feel that such an inquisi- 
 tion coming to the household, for son, 
 brother, or father, must search out and 
 stir to the very heart everything loyal, 
 heroic, ay, and religious, in it .'' And 
 how many have felt this in the present 
 solemn crisis in our country ! How 
 many have found life, with them, to be 
 more earnest, high-hearted, meditative, 
 and prayerful than it ever was before ! 
 
 Suppose, on the contrary, — in this na- 
 tion or any other, — war never to come. 
 Days, years, centuries, pass on, and in 
 all the households of a people there is 
 nothing but toil, accumulation, multipli- 
 cation of comforts and luxuries, care 
 for themselves and their children. Can 
 human nature be trusted thus to go on, 
 in profound and unbroken peace and 
 prosperity ? In its present state, I must 
 doubt whether it can. We have been 
 wont, in former days, to bless ourselves 
 that, separated by the ocean from Eu- 
 rope and European complications, we 
 had the prospect of going on for ages, 
 undisturbed by the alarms and horrors 
 of war. That dream is broken by in- 
 testine discord, and by the levelling of 
 the ocean barrier through steam com- 
 munication ; and for my part, I believe 
 it is best for us that we are to take our 
 share in the solemn experience and dis- 
 cipline of nations. 
 
 But at the same time, while I see and 
 admit the inevitableness and the moral 
 uses of war, I believe that the war time is 
 a transition state in the world, and that 
 a better time is to come. I look upon 
 war as being to the body politic what 
 disease is to the individual. When men 
 learn to live more wisely, simply, and 
 
 innocently, there will be less disease .^ 
 ultimately there may be little or nons 
 But till then, disease is not only ine^ 
 table in the constitution, but is a moral 
 element bound up with it and essential 
 to its welfare. So with war: human 
 society will outgrow it, when it out- 
 grows its vices, its angry passions, 
 its injustice, selfishness, and ambition. 
 Till then, the world must suffer, and I 
 believe it is best that it should suffer, 
 from this fearful scourge.* 
 
 The last specific problem to be consid- 
 ered is slavery; the subjection of man to 
 man ; the subjection, not of man to the 
 Government, but of man to. man — of 
 the serf to his feudal lord, of the slave 
 to his master. It is a fact, in the his- 
 tory of past ages, too universal to be 
 overlooked ; too deep founded in the 
 order of the world to be passed by. I 
 am acquainted with no such fact among 
 animals — except the ant — as one mak- 
 ing a servant, serf, or slave of another ; 
 or one species, of another and inferior 
 species. Everywhere in the history of 
 the human race, we are met with this 
 stupendous problem : how is it, or why 
 is it, that man has thus been subject to 
 man ; that a condition, directly opposite 
 to every free tendency of humanity, 
 should have been as universal, almost, 
 as if it had been an ordinance of 
 nature .'' 
 
 I desire you to dismiss from your 
 thoughts all those questions connected 
 with this subject, which are so warmly 
 debated at the present moment : I am 
 looking at the course of ages, and not 
 at the controversy of to-day. Keep your 
 own opinions, whatever they be ; for 
 the present I controvert none of them. 
 Nay, let a man entertain the worst 
 
 * I have been led to some modification of my views 
 of war, by M. Prudhon's La Guerre et la Paix 
 (War and Peace). I liave been led to see it, that is 
 to say, more as a Providential fact; to be accepted 
 with patience, instead of being regarded simply as 
 horrible. M. Cousin led the way, in the same course 
 of thought, in his Lectures Introductory to the Phi- 
 losophy of History ; see lee. ix., latter part. With re- 
 gard to the New Testament protest against fighting, I 
 regard it as a protest, not against war absolutely, but 
 against the ordinary war spirit. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 629 
 
 opinion possible of the system ; all the 
 more reason is there, it seems to me, 
 why he should desire to see, in the calm 
 survey of God's government over the 
 world, all the good he can see, coming 
 out of it; and all the more the worse 
 he thinks of it. 
 
 Montesquieu observes, in his Spirit 
 of Laws, that slavery, cruel as it seems, 
 and unjust as it certainly is in the form 
 of chattel slavery, had its origin in com- 
 parative mercy. That is to say, it suc- 
 ceeded, in the morality of nations, the 
 barbarous practice of putting to death 
 all captives made in war. But I was 
 about to observe, that there was another 
 step which society had to take, that in- 
 volved greater difficulty. It passed from 
 the slaughter to the slavery of captives ; 
 that perhaps was not difficult, and it 
 certainly was beneficial. But how was 
 it to pass from its nomadic state, from 
 the wild and wandering habits of the 
 hunter and shepherd, to settled abode, 
 and the tillage of the soil ? It has been 
 contended by an able French writer, 
 M. Auguste Comte, that fixed occupation 
 must have been originally enforced ; that 
 the necessary industry could not have 
 been obtained but by compulsion. He 
 maintains that the natural indolence of 
 mankind, and especially in warm climates, 
 could, in no other way, have been over- 
 come. We, stirring Anglo-Saxon men, 
 cannot understand it, perhaps; and tliere 
 may be more truth in it than we sus- 
 pect. If it be so, then look at it. Here 
 are men doomed to death, saved alive : 
 that is something. Then here is a soil 
 which, in the ruder ages, nobodv will 
 cultivate without compulsion ; and these 
 men are put to work upon it. I have 
 said in former lectures, that hunger was 
 a spur to activity. To re'^ular activit)', 
 to industry, other inducements may have 
 been necessary. And although they may 
 have been wrongfully or cruelly applied, 
 yet it cannot but be grateful — looking 
 away from man's injustice to God's wis- 
 dom and goodness — to see any good 
 that has come out of evil. 
 
 In the next place, this translation of 
 
 men from states of barbarism and igno- 
 rance into more civilized communities, 
 has been a means sometimes, - has 
 opened a school, however unintention- 
 ally, for their improvement. Civilization 
 has tlnis taken the wilder natures into 
 its bosom, and, with however much im- 
 perfection and error, has performed the 
 office of education. The Thracian and 
 German tribes experienced that effect 
 in the old Roman school : and there 
 is one instance on record where the 
 civilizing influence came from the other 
 side ; for Herodotus tells us that the 
 Lydians did that service to their Per- 
 sian conquerors and masters. But look 
 at Africa. Surrounded by a wall of 
 darkness, and filled with cruelty and 
 blood ; with no civilizing influence in 
 herself, as the story of ages has proved; 
 what now do we see ? Britain sends to 
 her borders the man-stealer, to tear her 
 children from her bosom and transport 
 them to the American colonies. It was 
 a deed of unmingled atrocity ; compared 
 with which capture in war was generous 
 and honorable : the African king of 
 Dahomey grows white by the side of 
 the Saxon slave-trader. But what fol- 
 lows "i The African people in this coun- 
 try improve, and are now far advanced 
 beyond their kindred at home. And 
 now they begin to return ; they are 
 building a state on their native borders, 
 which proinises to stop the slave trade 
 with Africa, and to spread light and 
 civihzation through her dark solitudes. 
 Was this the best means conceivable, to 
 such an end .-^ No, but it was a means, 
 and the best means possible — man be- 
 ing left free to act his pleasure. Was 
 it his design to civilize Africa ? No. 
 but God may overrule his action to 
 bring about that result.* 
 
 We have now examined the four great 
 historic prolilems : Polytheism and Idol- 
 
 * I cannot leave this subject without lifting up my 
 hands and heart to the great hope that the way is 
 now opened for pureing our American soil from the 
 stain of slavery. Many of us have lung been asking 
 how this was ever to be done. At length we see the 
 way. The slave system is destroving itself. The 
 madness of the slavemaster is breaking the chains of 
 the slave. 
 
630 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 atry, Despotism, War, and Servitude. 
 But these are all wrapped up and com- 
 prehended in another, which is yet to 
 be considered ; and that is the preva- 
 lence of error. The place and part which 
 error has had in the world, and in the 
 working out of the world's problem, — 
 this more precisely is what we have to 
 consider. 
 
 Some place and part it must neces- 
 sarily have had. For although men 
 might have just ideas of certain abso- 
 lute truths^ and have had them, — as 
 of the beauty and rectitude of justice 
 and benevolence, — yet when they came 
 to apply these ideas to practice, to in- 
 stitutions in religion, in government ; 
 to usages in war, or to the relations of 
 man to man, it was inevitable that they 
 should err. What place, then, has this 
 erring ? 
 
 Now to some, the problem may pre- 
 sent itself in this way, — that things 
 should have been so ordered in Divine 
 Providence, that error should seem to 
 have been better than truth, polytheism 
 than pure theism, despotism than equal 
 rule, servitude than freedom, war than 
 peace. That error should seem to have 
 worked better than truth, wrong than 
 right, — does it not appear to be a con- 
 tradiction in ideas ? Does it not stamp 
 the charge of essential falsity upon hu- 
 man nature itself? 
 
 To this I reply, in the first place, that 
 it is mainly a ;«2j-statement of the prob- 
 lem. The case is too broadly stated, 
 and only requires some analysis, to be 
 relieved of its main difficulty. In all the 
 instances referred to, there has been a 
 mixture of truth and error. And it is 
 the truth, and not the error, in every 
 case, that has been useful. Thus in re- 
 ligion ; the belief in an all-creating Power; 
 the feeling that that power was present 
 in all nature and life ; and the attempt 
 .simply to express or body it forth in 
 visible forms, — all this was riglit, and 
 it was useful. Even the giving to this 
 Power "a local habitation and a name " 
 for every place it occupied, was, to a 
 certain extent, right ; it conveyed a 
 
 juster idea, I am tempted to say, than 
 that extreme ai)straction of thought 
 which sees God nowhere. The exxesses 
 to which all this went, the low and de- 
 grading forms of idolatry, the errors, in 
 short, were the things that were not use- 
 ful. The essential strength of polythe- 
 ism lay in the truths, and not in t!ie 
 falsehoods it involved. So also with re- 
 gard to superstition, — that men should 
 fear God, should feel that He is dis- 
 pleased with evil; that He would pun- 
 ish evil, — this was right : and it was 
 useful. When it went too far, when it 
 created an irrational terror ; in so far, 
 that is to say, as it was false, it was 
 not useful. Then again that govern- 
 ment siiould be strong, and controlling, 
 and, simply as a form of government, 
 despotic, was necessary and beneficial. 
 That political form is the best, the near- 
 est to right, which is best suited to 
 the people to be governed. And for a 
 rude, ignorant, lawless people, a strong, 
 central, controlling power is best. But 
 the selfishness, injustice, and cruelty 
 with which it is often exercised are not 
 good, nor do they work any good. The 
 ideas of divine right in a government, 
 and of the duty of religious obedience 
 to it, could they be justly construed, are 
 right and useful ; and they have worked 
 usefully in all ages. It is evident that 
 God meant that nations should have 
 some kind of government ; for they can- 
 not/;^ nations, cannot be moral, peaceful, 
 well-ordered communities, without it. 
 Government, therefore, in acertain sense, 
 is of God. What, then, has been the 
 error .'' That of investing government 
 with irresponsible, unlimited power, — 
 that of consecrating its abuses, worship- 
 ping its very tyranny, enthroning its 
 very corruption. That part of absolute 
 sovereignty has not been the useful part. 
 The truth has been good, but not the 
 error. Then, once more, with regard 
 to war and servitude, — in considering 
 which, the question is about usages 
 ratlier than theories, — certainly I do not 
 say that evil has worked better than 
 good would have done A war may 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 63^ 
 
 h^ right, — a battle to defend homes 
 and households, to resist overwhelming 
 wrong, to achieve a lawful freedom 
 Such a war does good. It sets up and 
 sanctifies with blood the great and ever- 
 lasting claim of right. Human blood is 
 not too dear to pour out for such cause. 
 The names of Thermopylae and Salamis, 
 of Bunker Hill and Yorktown and Fort 
 Moultrie, are watchwords to honor, to 
 patriotic vigilance and self-sacrifice in all 
 lime. But wars of mere ambition and 
 desire of conquest have another account 
 to setde ; the worse they have been, the 
 worse has been their influence ; and 
 any good that has sprung from them has 
 been incidental, and has arisen in spite 
 of them. And so in the subjection of 
 man to man, — not the bad elements, but 
 the good, have done good ; not injustice 
 or cruelty, but kindness and care, — the 
 superiority that has been humane and 
 gentle. If you could suppose that, not 
 by human violence and injustice, but by 
 the simple fiat of Providence, a rude, 
 ignorant, nomadic people was taken and 
 transferred to the presence of a culti- 
 vated people, to be trained to regular in- 
 dustry and social and spiritual improve- 
 ment, you would say thalwTis a good. 
 
 Thus I think that I see a great, a sol- 
 emn, a Divine Providence extracting 
 good out of all the conditions upon which 
 humanity has fallen. I think that it be- 
 comes me to be patient with what God 
 has permitted. I look with awe upon 
 the sphere in which an Infinite Provi- 
 dence is working. I think it is but 
 reverent to seek for the good that is 
 evolved from the dark and mysterious 
 ways of Heaven, rather than to look 
 upon anything tliat Heaven permits, as 
 altogether dark and evil. I understand 
 well enough what indignation at evil and 
 wrong is ; but I doubt whether that is 
 the last and best state of any thoughtful 
 mind. I might rail at the world, and 
 heap wrath and scorn upon it ; but I 
 believe that philosophy is better than 
 satire With a brotherly consideration 
 and sympathy and sorrow must I take 
 into my heart the struggling fortunes of 
 my kind. What mistakes, what errors, 
 
 what crimes, what sufferings, what over- 
 whelming floods of disaster, what a 
 mournful train of evils, filling the long 
 track of ages ! I must see something 
 besides this, — something beside evil or 
 the Evil One in the world. I must see 
 God in history, or I must not look at 
 it at all. 
 
 But far be it from me, at the same 
 time, to spread the shield of this philoso- 
 phy over any mistakes that now demand 
 to be corrected, over any evils that now 
 can be remedied. 
 
 That evil has been overruled for good 
 in certain circumstances is no argument 
 for abetting or perpetuating it, but the 
 very contrary. In the calm and philo- 
 sophic consideration of the past, I can 
 have patience with its errors and abuses ; 
 but patience with prese?it evil and 
 wrong, though possibly to some impet- 
 uous spirits it may need to be recom- 
 mended, is a virtue scarce likely to need 
 any general inculcation or enforcement. 
 On the contrary, we are far too liable to 
 acquiesce in established wrong, far too 
 slow to apprehend the high point after 
 which we should be reaching and striving. 
 Custom, habitude, even prejudice, has its 
 uses ; there would be no stability with- 
 out it, but it would be death, if it were 
 not mixed up with the element of prog- 
 ress. Therefore we need ever to hear 
 the stirring words of the reformer. The 
 human mind must not stand still. It 
 cannot indeed forsake entirely "the old 
 paths," nor ought it to do so. But it 
 must not stand still. Therefore, I say, 
 must the great word, ReforjJi, be sounded 
 out through tlie world. It has been 
 sounded out through all past ages. It 
 has been the trumpet call that has led 
 on that grand march of progress whose 
 steps are centuries ; whose history is 
 the hislpry of all time ; whose forces 
 are every day sweeping on with acceler- 
 ated movement ; and whose final victory 
 must be the redemption of the world 
 from Idolatry and Despotism, and War 
 and Bondage and Error. 
 
 To trace this great movement in the 
 world will be the object of the two 
 remaining lectures. 
 
632 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 LECTURE XI. 
 
 HISTORIC VIEW OF HUMANITY : HUMAN PROGRESS, — THE AGENCIES 
 EMPLOYED IN IT ; THE HISTORY OF THOUGHT, OF INSTITUTIONS, 
 AND OF ACTIONS OR EVENTS. 
 
 We have hitherto surveyed human- 
 ity in its fixed and permanent condi- 
 tions. We are now to contemplate it 
 in its grand movement. Hitherto, that 
 is to say, our studies have been occu- 
 pied with man simply as a being, sub- 
 ject to certain principles and influences, 
 and subject to them in all ages, — sub- 
 ject to them alike, though not in the 
 same degree, at the beginning as now. 
 We have considered, first, the ultimate 
 end evidently proposed in the creation 
 around us and within us, — human cul- 
 ture ; secondly, the fundamental princi- 
 ple on which the end is to be achieved, 
 — moral freedom. Then, in five follow- 
 ing lectures, we considered the minis- 
 tration to this end, first, of the physical 
 creation of nature ; secondly, of man's 
 physical organization ; thirdly, of his 
 mental and moral constitution ; fourthly, 
 of his complex nature, including the 
 periods of life, society, sex, &c. ; and 
 fifthlv, of the occupation and arts of 
 life, — agriculture, manufactures, trade, 
 and the learned professions, — and of 
 architecture, sculpture, painting, music, 
 poetry, and literature. In three more 
 lectures we have considered certain 
 circumstances pertaining to the hu- 
 man condition and culture, and circum- 
 stances which are thought to involve 
 peculiar difficulty : as, first, imperfec- 
 tion, effort, and penitence ; illusion, 
 fluctuation, indefiniteness of moral at- 
 tainment, and bondage to the physi- 
 cal infirmities and appetites ; secondly, 
 pain, hereditary evil, death ; and thirdly, 
 polytheism, despotism, war, servitude, 
 and error. 
 
 These are the subjects in which I 
 have endeavored to interest you in the 
 
 ten previous lectures. In the two that 
 remain of the course, I wish to invite 
 your attention to the historic view of 
 the human race ; to single out some 
 of the leading traits that have marked 
 its successive developments ; to con- 
 template — of course it must be in the 
 most general way — the story of the 
 world from the beginning. 
 
 What was that beginning ? What, 
 may we suppose, was the condition 
 and character of the first inhabitants 
 of the earth ? With the purpose which 
 I have in view, I have no occasion to 
 discuss the question whether the vari- 
 ous races of men had their origin in dis- 
 tinct stocks, created in different parts 
 of the world, or in the one pair in Eden. 
 Were the first created men. whether 
 many or few, brought into existence in 
 a state of high development, — incar- 
 nate angels in wisdom, knowledge, vir- 
 tue, — or in a state of infancy, igno- 
 rance, and weakness ? The question is 
 enveloped in thick darkness ; and with 
 regard to it we are left mainly to in- 
 ference. Proceeding upon this ground, 
 I adopt, for my part, the theory of an 
 infancy for mankind, — I mean, of an in- 
 tellectual and moral infancy. There is 
 no evidence in the Scripture record, 
 whatever value or validity may be as- 
 cribed to it, that Adam was advanced 
 beyond that condition. We are told 
 that he was innocent at first,— which 
 he might be in a moral infancy; and I 
 find no mental act ascribed to him but 
 that of naming the animals, — which is 
 the first and humblest step of thought ; 
 and I say that the natural inference, 
 from all we know, is, that the human 
 race, like the human individual, began 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 ^33 
 
 its career in infancy. When I see a 
 tree growing through successive years, 
 I naturally trace it back to the sapling. 
 When I see a river gradually enlarging 
 as it flows, I justly conclude, not that 
 it burst forth from the earth at first a 
 noble and majestic stream, but that it 
 began as a little rill. From the earliest 
 recorded history of the human race, we 
 see a constant progress ; and as we fol- 
 low it back, step by step, we naturally 
 trace it to a beginning, — to an infancy. 
 
 From this beginning, I say, to the 
 present day, there has been a progress, 
 — a gradual advancement in human cul- 
 ture, character, knowledge, institution!;, 
 government, state of society, religion, 
 virtue, and happiness. I shall take this 
 for granted ; I suppose that nobody de- 
 nies it. It will be the ground idea of 
 these two lectures. It will not be, there- 
 fore, by analysis that I shall proceed, 
 i. e., by taking the multifarious facts of 
 history and life and tracing them up 
 to the one principle of progress, but 
 by synthesis rather ; i. e., assuming the 
 principle of progress as lying at the 
 root of humanity, I shall speak of its 
 actions and fortunes in successive ages 
 as the natural unfoldings of that prin- 
 ciple. The fact of progress will be 
 equally made out on either plan. 
 
 But I shall not attempt, after the man- 
 ner of the German philosophers, to con- 
 struct the world out of an idea. Ficiite, 
 proceeding on Plato's doctrine of innate, 
 seminal, world-producing ideas, — a doc- 
 trine often reproduced in the later Ger- 
 man philosophy, — undertakes to deduce 
 the epochs of human development and 
 history, in their necessary order, from 
 a certain principle. He conceives that 
 things jnust have unfolded themselves 
 according to a certain plan which he 
 has wrought out in his own abstract 
 contemplations. He tells his auditors, 
 that, as a philosopher, he is not con- 
 cerned with the facts, but only with his 
 theory. He plainly says : "If the phi- 
 losopher must deduce from the unity of 
 his presupposed principle all the pos- 
 sible phenomena of experience, it is 
 
 obvious that in the fulfilment of this 
 purpose he does not require the aid of 
 experience," and that '' he pays no re- 
 spect whatever to experience." * He 
 says to his hearers, in substance : " I 
 see, I know, from the very nature of 
 humanity, and from the very nature of 
 things, that the human race must pass 
 through certain epochs. Two principles 
 lie at the bottom, — reason and free- 
 dom. The end is free self-culture. The 
 epochs must be these : the first, when 
 reason is obeyed as an instinct ; the 
 second, when despotic authority fas- 
 tens itself upon the neck of this obe- 
 dient reason ; the third, when the human 
 mind struggles to free itself from this 
 yoke, — which is the present age ; the 
 fourth, when reason shall reign as specu- 
 lative truth ; and the fifth, when it shall 
 reign as moral wisdom. Now I shall 
 draw out these epochs from the one 
 principle of free self-culture as a mat- 
 ter of abstract reasoning. Yo2C will see 
 whether the facts correspond ; that is 
 not my concern." 
 
 I have thus referred to this work of 
 Fichte — it is tliat on " The Character- 
 istics of the Present Age" — not only 
 as very curious and interesting, but as 
 pursuing a method in direct contrast 
 to that which I propose ; for while I 
 recognize the law of progress as self- 
 evident and certain, — it being the very 
 nature of the mind and of all its facul- 
 ties to expand and advance, as much as 
 it is of a tree to grow, or of a stream 
 to flow onward, — I shall not attempt to 
 deduce the necessary results of this law, 
 but to point out the actual results. 
 
 It has been made to appear, I trust, 
 in our previous lectures, that all the 
 great laws of nature, of Hfe, and of hu- 
 manity, tend to promote, as their end, 
 human culture. As the proper comple- 
 ment of this representation, which has 
 thus far been mostly applied to indi- 
 vidual life, I wish now to show how the 
 whole course of history, the collective 
 life of the race, falls into accordance 
 with it. For this purpose I propose 
 
 * Fichte's Characteristics of the Present Age, p. 3. 
 
<^34 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 to take a cursory view of the leading 
 processes, circumstances, and agencies 
 which have contributed to this result. 
 
 With the task I have before me, it 
 is time that I should have done with 
 preliminary observations ; but there are 
 yet two points which I must impress on 
 your minds, even at the risk of repeti- 
 tion, because in this matter they are the 
 opposite poles of thought, upon which 
 everything turns. 
 
 Two principles, then, I say, preside 
 over the world-development, — human 
 spontaneity and Divine control. When 
 you look back upon past ages, upon 
 past races, upon the heaving elements 
 of the world's life, what impression do 
 thev convey to you ? Do they not ap- 
 pear to you in disconnected fragments, 
 in stupendous revolution, in wild and 
 almost fortuitous disorder ? Do not the 
 fortunes of men, in this larger view, 
 appear like a chaotic mass of accidents ? 
 Bear in mind, then, on the one hand, — 
 do not merely say., but see clearly, and 
 fully admit, — that in the working out of 
 the imman problem men 7nust act their 
 part freely, ay, foolishly, madly, distract- 
 edly, if you please, — any way, so it be 
 freely done. In vain shall we look for 
 any exact system of arrangements by 
 which everything can be said to have 
 helped on the race, in the most direct 
 way, to the most rapid advancement. 
 No, it could not be so; the race must 
 find, and make, and work out its own 
 way. Cruelties, butcheries, battles, 
 murders, crushing oppressions, confla- 
 grations kindled by incendiary hands, 
 the whelming of cities and nations in 
 fire and blood, —-these things could 
 not be helped, if man was to be free. 
 Nay, free thought by its natiiral expan- 
 sion has burst asunder, age after age, 
 the very frames and fixtures in which 
 it grew, — the idolatries, despotisms, 
 false systems, cratnping institutions, — 
 and much to the general advantage, 
 though to much temporary harm. 
 
 But recollect, on the other hand, that 
 things have never been left to run their 
 own wild course, free from Divine con- 
 
 trol. In the very bosom of humanity 
 are many checks, placed there by a Di- 
 vine hand. There is what M. Guizot 
 calls the " natural morality of man, , 
 which," as he truly says, '" never aban- 
 dons him in any condition, in any age 
 of society, and mixes itself with the 
 most brutal empire of ignorance or pas- 
 sion." * Men grow weary of wicked- 
 ness and ashamed of degradation. One 
 wonders, sometimes, that human pas- 
 sion stops anywhere ; but it does stop. 
 One wonders that communities and na- 
 tions, sinking lower and lower into disso- 
 luteness, do not sink to utter perdition; 
 but there are powers put forth to arrest 
 their career. Powerful as evil is, there 
 are antagonist powers still stronger. 
 There is the w^OE that evil brings ; a 
 flaming sword, set upon the heaven- 
 erected barriers and battlements of all 
 times, for the protection of the human 
 race. And other messengers, too, are 
 sent forth ; yet more distinct interpret- 
 ers of the Great Will above. Through 
 ages of declension from virtue and piety, 
 ever from time to time has rung out the 
 stern and solemn voice of the reformer. 
 Some Moses, some Menes or Confucius, 
 some Zoroaster, some Socrates, has aris- 
 en to call back the forgetful world from 
 its wanderings. As Christians, we be- 
 lieve, also, in special interpositions for 
 the rescue of the world from evil and 
 misery. 
 
 But this leads me to speak, as I pro- 
 pose to do in the present lecture, of the 
 agencies which have been employed for 
 the world's advancement. In consider- 
 ing these agencies, I shall not confine 
 myself to any one precise order in which 
 they have appeared, but sliall be gov- 
 erned by that of time or affiliation or 
 natural precedence, as I may find con- 
 venient. 
 
 Thus the history of thought, in the 
 first place, would take the natural pre- 
 cedence over every other topic ; because 
 thought lies behind all other agencies, 
 and is the cause of them. This great 
 
 * Hisloire de la Civilisation en France, tome i. 
 p. 262. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 635 
 
 subject would naturally divide itself into 
 a history of philosophy and a history of 
 public sentiment. The first would em- 
 brace the theories of the few profound, 
 speculative thinkers, from Thales and 
 Pythagoras down to the present day. 
 The second would occupy itself with the 
 pervading, the popular ideas, sentiments, 
 and aims that have prevailed in succes- 
 sive ages. The first has been the sub- 
 ject of many treatises. The second has 
 not, that I am aware, been attempted 
 in any work distinctly and exclusively 
 devoted to it. It may be that the his- 
 tory of popular opinion would be too 
 multifarious and too vague for any such 
 definite treatment. But if the successive 
 phases of public sentiment, like the theo- 
 ries of philosophy, could be traced ; if 
 the dominant thoughts that stirred in 
 the bosom of the old Assyrian civiliza- 
 tion, of tlie Egyptian, the Phoenician, the 
 Hebrew, the Grecian, Roman, feudal, 
 and modern civilization, could be un- 
 folded to me, I should better understand 
 the world and the problem of the world's 
 life than by any other means whatever. 
 
 This history of human thought, both 
 philosophic and popular, — you must 
 see at once how impossible it is that I 
 should deal with it here, except by the 
 most general suggestions, even if I were 
 ever so much qualified to do it. But 
 consider, in this matter of mental devel- 
 opment, how natural it is, and we may 
 say certain, that every man's indi- 
 vidual life is a picture of the world's 
 life. Look at the natural traits of indi- 
 vidual life. In childhood, docility, — 
 receiving impressions with little ques- 
 tioning of them, wilfulness and wayward- 
 ness controlled by authority ; timidity, 
 also, — fears, natural or superstitious : 
 in early manhood, the forming of opin- 
 ions, the struggling with questions, the 
 liability to be misled by false theories ; 
 premature judgments, and presumption 
 and confidence, in the same proportion: 
 in later manhood, a correction of those 
 errors, a larger knowledge and experi- 
 ence, a settling down upon more simple 
 and certain bases of thought ; more cau- 
 
 tion, more modesty, more wisdom : in 
 short, impressions for \k\t first period, 
 assumptions for the second, solid results 
 for the third, — these are the natural 
 steps of individual progress. They have 
 been tiie steps of the world's progress. 
 These are the steps, indeed, which Au- 
 guste Comte has so laboriously traced 
 out, under the denominations of what he 
 calls the theologic era, the metaphysic 
 era, and tiie era of the positive philoso- 
 phy ; i. e., in other words, the ages of su- 
 perstition, of theory or assumption, and 
 of the observation of facts ; for, I think, 
 his terms are new, rather than his ideas 
 of progress. 
 
 But let us look at the luorLfs periods. 
 The first was that of superstitious obedi- 
 ence to whatever was taught or estab- 
 lished. It embraces the oldest Asiatic 
 nations, together with the Egyptians, 
 and, indeed, all the rudest tribes of men 
 everywhere. Its grand characteristic is 
 that of childlike and implicit acquies- 
 cence in the existing system, in the 
 political or social order, as a Divine 
 enactment. Whether that order was 
 caste, or subjection to a priesthood, or 
 to a patriarchal head, or to the king, it 
 was never questioned. Kings were often 
 slain by their rii/als, but the people, in 
 those earliest days, seldom rose against 
 them. We can hardly comprehend, at 
 this day, that absolute obedience. And 
 we must not confound it with rational 
 obedience, which is one of the latest 
 fruits of the highest culture. It was un- 
 reasoning, instinctive obedience And 
 the lessons to be obeyed extended to 
 everything; to the daily action of life as 
 well as to political relations. Men took 
 tlieir trade, their occupation, from their 
 fathers. In India and Egypt, it was 
 assigned to them by the law of caste ; 
 but among all rude people the same 
 principle has prevailed, though not to 
 the same extent. Then, in political 
 relations, the chieftain, the king, was 
 priest also ; and in that double charac- 
 ter was regarded with unbounded awe, 
 and had unbounded power. This was 
 the childhood of the world. 
 
636 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 The next period begins with Greece, 
 and embraces Rome and the whole of 
 semi-civiHzed Europe in the Middle 
 Ages. It is the period in wiiich thought 
 began to be free. It is the period of 
 struggling theories ; about philosophy, 
 poHtics, law, and the social relation- 
 ships. Thales and Pythagoras, — both 
 of Phoenician origin, though born and 
 brought up (about six centuries before 
 the Christian era) in the great cities of 
 Miletus and Samos, — were the harbin- 
 gers of this second period in the history 
 of human thought ; "but it burst forth 
 in morning splendor in the schools of 
 Socrates and Plato, and of Aristotle. 
 Now, one of the darkest problems in 
 the history of thought is the apparent 
 declension in philosophy from the time 
 of Plato and Aristotle to the time of 
 Bacon ; a period of about twenty centu- 
 ries. Platonism in the new Platonic 
 schools of Rome and Alexandria, in the 
 second and third centuries, died out 
 into mysticism and pantheism. Aris- 
 totle's system arose and flourished in 
 the eighth century, under the culture 
 of Arabian philosophers : and partly 
 through the Arabian schools in Spain, 
 and the fostering care of Charlemagne 
 and Alfred, it attained, under the name 
 of the scholastic philosophy, to a firrn 
 lodgment in the culture of Europe. It 
 was less spiritual, less elevating than 
 that of Plato; yet it prevailed. It was 
 full of irrational hypotheses, and barren 
 syllogisms and subtilties ; more fitted 
 to exercise human thought than to lead 
 it to any true knowledge. Why, then, 
 did it prevail 1 May we not fairly sug- 
 gest that it may have been better and 
 safer for the human mind in that stage 
 of its culture than the philosophy of 
 Plato ? Plato's philosophy, we see, 
 was abused : it declined into mysticism 
 and pantheism ! Aristotle's, more for- 
 mal and mechanical, held its place more 
 firmly. And do we not see a type of 
 this phase of the world-development 
 in our own individual progress ? Is 
 there not a time in our mind's life, 
 between youth and later manhood, 
 
 when we are struggling, rather than 
 attaining; when the faculties, the tools 
 of thought, are sharpening rather than 
 building; or when their building is ex- 
 perimental rather than final ; when we 
 are trying many things, many theories, 
 and do not yet find the track to clear and 
 settled conclusions? In politics, how- 
 ever, in the science of law, in ideas of 
 social justice, there was, at the same 
 time, a great progress. And in this 
 connection we must not forget that 
 grand achievement, — the separation of 
 the temporal and spiritual powers.* 
 The union of political and spiritual 
 authority, in the same hands, formed 
 and established in the ancient world 
 the most solid and impregnable despot- 
 ism. Christianity set up a new thought 
 in the world, that was to reign over 
 kings and emperors. It was the power, 
 not of an idol god, but of an omnipres- 
 ent Divinity ; not of a ceremonial func- 
 tion, but of a god-obeying conscience. 
 In the persons of the Christian priest- 
 hood, it separated itself from the 
 temporal power, struggled with it. and 
 at length gained the ascendency. When 
 Pope Hildebrand, in 1077, summoned 
 the Emperor of Germany, Henry VI., 
 to Canossa, in the Apennines, and 
 made him do penance on the cold 
 mountain side for three days before he 
 would admit him to his presence or 
 give him absolution, the battle was 
 fought and won. Doubtless the relig- 
 ious power in its separate form was 
 enough abused, but its separation was 
 a great step onward. 
 
 The third great period in the history 
 of human thought commenced with the 
 sixteenth century. The revival of learn- 
 ing, the protest of Luther, the invention 
 of printing, the discovery of America, 
 nearly simultaneous, gave a new spring 
 to men's minds, and philosophy partook 
 of the general movement. Under the 
 guidance of Bacon, Leibnitz, and their 
 successors, it turned away from subtil- 
 ties and theories, to real knowledge, 
 and to its foundation principles. For 
 
 * Comte, Philosophie Positive, S4th lecture. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 ^n 
 
 the last three centuries, then, the hu- 
 man mind, having struggled out from 
 the cloud-land of the Middle Ages, has 
 been advancing on firmer ground, and 
 in clearer light, and to more decided 
 and substantial results. It is the man- 
 hood of the world. 
 
 I am sensible that this discoursing 
 is too abstract and cursory to be profit- 
 ably pursued. But it may serve to 
 convince you that there has been a 
 lirogress in the highest regions of 
 thought ; in that search for truth vi^hich 
 touches the vital springs of all human 
 welfare. 
 
 Let me add a word on the progress 
 of thought as it appears in the form of 
 public sentiment. And let it be con- 
 sidered that public, like individual opin- 
 ion, will always be working itself out 
 into expression, into action. Now the 
 progress of public sentiment through 
 ages has manifested itself in a con- 
 stantly increasing respect for freedom, 
 for justice, for humanity. Let us dwell 
 upon this last point for a moment ; for 
 it covers the whole ground. 
 
 Civilization, says M. Guizot, em- 
 braces two elements, the improvement 
 of society, and the improvement of the 
 man ; and the question, he says, which 
 is to be put to all events, is, — What 
 have they done for the one or the 
 other ? Of these two developments, 
 he further asks, which is the end, and 
 which the means ? Was the individual 
 made to advance society, or society the 
 individual?* And he quotes Royer 
 CoUard in favor of the latter view. 
 Can there be any doubt about it ? Of 
 course the actual tendencies are recip- 
 rocal ; general culture helps individual ; 
 the individual, in turn, helps society. 
 But if any one asks which is the ulti- 
 mate end, 1 say the culture of the 
 individual soul. Indeed, what is the 
 development, improvement, perfection, 
 happiness of society, when analyzed, 
 but that of individuals ? Society, like 
 humanity, is a mere abstraction ; only 
 
 * Histoire de la Civilisation en Europe, tome ii. 
 PP- 23. 24. 
 
 individuals have any actual being or 
 fortune, weal or woe. Society is only 
 a relation; man is the substance. So- 
 ciety passes away ; man is immortal. 
 The family, tribe, commune, nation, 
 state, is instrumental ; man, final. So- 
 ciety can do nothing greater than to 
 make noble and happy men. But men 
 can do something greater than to make 
 noble institutions, — to make them- 
 selves noble. It is beautiful to die for 
 one's country ; but it is more beautiful, 
 it is maje'stic, to die for the right, — for 
 the sense of right in the lonely and pri- 
 vate heart. 
 
 Now the progress of the world, of 
 society, of freedom, of education, in- 
 telligence, literature, religion, has wit- 
 nessed a gradual development of con- 
 scious individuality, of the worth of man, 
 of the individual man. It may be traced 
 down through successive institutions 
 and ages.* Under the ancient despot- 
 isms, Assyrian and Egyptian, still more 
 in China and India, the man was noth- 
 ing. Society was strong ; but the man 
 was nothing. Armies of hundreds of 
 thousands of men, with terrible unity, 
 cohesion, and force, swept over the 
 world ; still the individual man was 
 nothing but a particle of that destroying 
 cloud. In the Roman time, man was 
 nothing but for the state. The sole 
 thought of parental affection, yea, of 
 the tenderest maternity, was, to rear 
 children for the state. Christianity 
 gave birth to individuality. Feudalism 
 permitted the great idea to grow. Man 
 became free, and learned more and 
 more that he was a man. The con- 
 sciousness of one's self has gone on 
 developing ever since, till, in these days, 
 it is tending in some instances to isola- 
 tion, to a sort of intellectual monachism, 
 to fastidious peculiarities of thought 
 and modes of speech, and almost to 
 self-apotheosis. Its creed is a very 
 short one : " I believe — in myself ; " 
 and its practice equally brief : " I will 
 live in, by, and for myself." 
 
 * To do this was the favorite thought of Hegel 
 in his Philosophy of History. 
 
6sS 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 P'rom the History of Thought, the 
 next step naturally is to the History of 
 Institutions ; though they are closely 
 connected, and cannot, in our considera- 
 tion of them, be entirely separated. 
 
 And here religion, by every right, 
 claims the first place, — by its dignity, 
 its priority in time, and the extent of 
 its influence. 
 
 This grand impress upon the world 
 is a sublime testimony to human nature. 
 Religion was the dominant thought of 
 all the early ages. The sceptic, nay, the 
 atheist philosopher of history and hu- 
 manity, has been obliged to take it 
 into the very heart of his theory ; for 
 no account can be given of the world, 
 without it. But in the ancient world 
 especially, religion reigned supreme. 
 It was the shadow in every grove, the 
 wind upon every shore, the waving 
 harvest in every field; the sunlit moun- 
 tains were its burning altars ; the deep- 
 sunken glens and caverns its haunted 
 chambers ; its idols were in every house, 
 its signet was upon every hearthstone ; 
 birth and burial, feast and fight, it 
 claimed for its own ; it was the conse- 
 cration of marriage, the strength of gov- 
 ernment, the sanctitude of kingship ; it 
 was the seal upon everything sacred ; 
 upon every oath and covenant and bond 
 in the world. Nay, and concerning the 
 more modern ages, the ablest judge 
 on the subject, M. Guizot, says, that 
 " until the fifteenth century, we see in 
 Europe no general and powerful ideas, 
 really acting upon the masses, but re- 
 ligious ideas."* " Yea," savs Plutarch, 
 who stood a little this side of the divid- 
 ing line between the pagan and the 
 Christian ages,f and thus belonged to 
 our Christian era in ^/>«^, though not in 
 faith, — " yea, shouldst thou wander 
 through the earth, thou mayest find 
 cities without walls, without a king, 
 without houses, without coin, without 
 theatre or gymnasium ; but never wilt 
 thou behold a city without a god, with- 
 out prayer, without oracle, without 
 
 * Civilization in Europe, p. 307. 
 t Died about A. D. 120. 
 
 sacrifice. Sooner might a city stand 
 without ground, than a state sustain 
 itself witliout religion. This is the 
 cement of ail society, and the support 
 of all legislation." * 
 
 In religious ideas and institutions, it 
 is hardly necessary to show that there 
 has been a constant progress from the 
 earliest ages ; but its steps have been 
 more marked than is likely to be com- 
 prehended by the common and vague 
 impression of the fact. The first form, 
 — I except, of course, from this account 
 of the natural progress the Hebrew 
 system, — the first form of religion that 
 prevailed over the world was Fetichism ; 
 a word derived from the Portuguese 
 fetisso, meaning a block, worshipped as 
 an idol. It prevailed over all Asia and 
 in Egypt, and was substantially tiie 
 worship of nature. It was the worship 
 of nature, or of idols, the monstrous 
 births of nature ; for the idolatry of 
 these countries is widely to be distin- 
 guished from that of Greece. So gross 
 were the Oriental ideas, that the idol 
 was sometimes chained by the leg to 
 his place in the temple, lest he should 
 leave it, and desert his worshippers. 
 The idols were ugly and misshapen, 
 often huge and monstrous ; like the 
 statue oi Nebuchadnezzar, fifty cubits 
 (about one hundred feet) high, or like 
 the colossal Sphinx at Gize in Egypt, 
 one hundred and fifty feet long, and 
 sixty-three feet high. The Sphinx, you 
 know, was in the form of a human head 
 on the body of a lion, — humanity, as 
 one has said, looking out from animal- 
 ism. Indeed, the Egyptian, as a worship 
 of animal fife, was an advance upon the 
 mere worship of material nature ; and 
 was an approach — was a "looking out," 
 perhaps we may say — to the Grecian 
 development. This, the Grecian devel- 
 opment, was the second step, and was 
 the worship of deified human attributes; 
 the worsliip, that is to say, of the gods 
 under these i epresentations ; for we are 
 always to understand this by the wor- 
 
 * Quoted from the Biblical Repository, vol. ii. 
 
 p. 25<;. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 ^39 
 
 sliip, as it is called, of outward forms. 
 The Greek worship formed its symbols 
 of the Divinity by an idealizing, not 
 of nature, but of humanity. That is to 
 sav, it was distinctively this ; for much, 
 doubtless, of the old Oriental worship 
 was left ; it is always to be remembered 
 that much of the spirit of every previous, 
 flows into the succeeding age. The 
 Greeks, then, deified humanity ; the 
 most illustrious men they had known, 
 represented their idea of God; and they 
 made their idols in the most beautiful 
 human forms. It was a step onward. 
 Next, the Romans abjured idolatry en- 
 tirely. This trait the better prepared 
 them for the further and last great re- 
 ligious step in the world, the introduc- 
 tion of Christianity. Christianity has 
 presided over all the best culture in the 
 world since its advent. It has itself 
 passed through successive stages of 
 development and improvement. That 
 is to say, its principles have been better 
 and better understood. 
 
 But before speaking more particularly 
 of Christianity, let us turn a moment to 
 consider the place which the Hebrew 
 religion has held in the world. 
 
 There is scarcely anything that is 
 so urgently demanded in our literature 
 as a work which will justly discriminate 
 and fairly present the claims of the He- 
 brew system to our attention and ven- 
 eration. The Bible is regarded by a 
 pirt of the world as a literal record of 
 the words of God, — a theory which pre- 
 cludes all free appreciation ; and by an- 
 other part, as a book of old and useless 
 stories, and formal and antiquated writ- 
 i"J?s, — a presumption that altogether 
 overlooks its true character. For here 
 is a book that stands out, amidst the 
 darkness of antiquity, in bold relief and 
 uiichallenged superiority to everything 
 aruund it. Here, in the first place, is 
 the most valid history of the earliest 
 known period of the world ; of the time 
 before the flood. Here, in the second 
 place, is a record of the most liberal 
 polity of ancient times. There was 
 nothing among surrounding nations to 
 
 compare with the freedom of the He- 
 brew state. Here, in the third place, 
 is the sublimest poetry of the ancient, 
 if not, indeed, of any time. Some of 
 the ablest critics have agreed to assign 
 to the Book of Job and the writings of 
 Isaiah a place, not only above the In- 
 dian Mahabarat, but above the Iliad 
 itself. And in the fourth place, here are 
 writings, of such lofty spiritualism and 
 devotion, tiiat they not only leave all 
 conteiTiporary records far behind, but 
 have been the food of piety and the 
 language of prayer, among the most 
 enlightened nations, to the present day. 
 Compare the prayers in the Zend-Avesta 
 and the Iliad with those of David, — and 
 they are all nearly contemporaneous, — 
 and you must feel that David soared far 
 above them all. 
 
 Such a system of lofty spiritualism, 
 moral wisdom, and civil polity could not 
 fail to have some effect upon the sur- 
 rounding nations. Indeed, M. Auguste 
 Comte himself, though far enough from 
 recognizing any element of supernatural- 
 ism in the Hebrew system, is disposed 
 to ascribe to it the initiative and lead- 
 ing part in the great transition of the 
 world from polytheism to the worship 
 of one God.* The position of the He- 
 brew state favored such an influence. 
 It stood in the centre of the most an- 
 cient civilizations, with Assyria on the 
 one hand and Phoenicia and Egypt on 
 the other. At a later day it was a cen- 
 tral province of the Roman Empire. 
 And, as if its office were meant to be 
 diffusion, the Hebrew state was never 
 at any time a locked-up and impregnable 
 kingdom. It was frequently overrun by 
 the armies of Egypt and Assyria and 
 Rome ; many times they desolated and 
 despoiled the Holy Temple ; yet they 
 found there no idol nor idol- worship, 
 but only a simple altar to the one in- 
 visible God. They dashed it in pieces, 
 indeed, with idolatrous rage ; but they 
 must have felt the sublimity of the sym- 
 bol and the worship. So little, in truth, 
 did the Hebrew theocracy exist for its 
 
 • Philosophie Positive, vol. v. pp 290, 291. 
 
040 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY, 
 
 own sake ; so much for the lifting up of 
 a standard of pure theism to the nations, 
 as the Hebrews themselves were often 
 told, that they were rcai-ed as a people 
 in Egypt, and were more than once car- 
 ried into captivity into Assyria. Not 
 for national aggrandizement did the He- 
 brew state exist, but for the diffusion 
 of higher truths than the world had 
 elsewhere attained, and thus to prepare 
 the way for a still higher and purer 
 religion. 
 
 This was Christianity. The crisis of 
 its advent and the consequences must 
 occupy some attention, even in the most 
 cursory notice of the world's progress. 
 
 The old religions were worn out. The 
 Asiatic and Egyptian worship of nature 
 had given place to the Grecian mythol- 
 ogy, and to this had succeeded the Ro- 
 man latitudinarianism and indifference. 
 Though abjuring idolatry, Rome ad- 
 mitted the gods of all nations indif- 
 ferently into her pantheon, and her 
 philosophers believed in none. The 
 observation of Cicero is familiar to you, 
 that the very priests could not help 
 laughing in one another's faces as they 
 celebrated the sacred rites. All faith 
 was fast dying out of the world, and 
 where faith is dead, nothing lives. 
 
 Then it was that Christianity came, 
 as we may say, to the world's rescue : 
 and many circumstances favored its in- 
 troduction. I do not choose to say, as 
 most writers do, that Providence es- 
 pecially prepared these circumstances ; 
 they arose in a natural way; the facilities 
 of communication apened by the extent 
 of the Roman Empire, language and 
 law, the prevalence of peace, the failure 
 of polytheism, and the despondency of 
 philosophy, all favored the new religion. 
 Occasion was taken from these circum- 
 stances, we may doubtless say : it was 
 "the fulness of time." But what I wish 
 especially to mark is the crisis in civili- 
 zation. Civilized society, to which the 
 rescue came, was about to sink under 
 the weight of its own inherent vices. 
 The life of the world had been gathered 
 up in Rome to one central point; the 
 
 limbs had been drained to fill the heart 
 to repletion ; and now that destruction 
 threatened it from very plethora and 
 consequent gangrene and corruption, 
 now, too, that the Goth and the Vandal 
 were coming to pierce it, that mighty 
 heart was about to burst in deluges of 
 blood. It had been an awful problem 
 for any philosopher of those days, any 
 Cicero or Plotinus, to consider Jioiv, 
 from that dark and mysterious abyss 
 into which humanity was descending, it 
 should emerge, — how, and in what form 
 and character. But there was a power 
 coming to help and to rescue, of which 
 the philosophers knew nothing. Chris- 
 tianity descended with the world into 
 that awful abyss, where the wild tor- 
 rents and stormy winds of human pas- 
 sion were struggling together in the 
 night-brooding chaos; and that heavenly 
 Guardian and Restorer brought it up 
 again to stand on a firm basis. For 
 then it was that the spiritual powers, 
 the dread sanctions, and the imposing 
 ceremonies of the Christian religion 
 awed the rude invader. Then it was 
 that its mitred bishops clothed them- 
 selves with the office of the civil magis- 
 trate to restrain the lawless. Then it 
 was that its monasteries preserved the 
 treasures of the ancient learning. Then 
 it was, above all, that the one great idea 
 arose in the world, to reign over all after 
 ages, — the Christ, the divinest being 
 that ever appeared in the world, and 
 the most human ; divine to inspire rev- 
 erence, human to win confidence ; and 
 suffering in such wise as to touch the 
 springs of love and pity through all 
 time. And it did touch the hearts of 
 men. It transformed many from earthly 
 baseness into confessors, saints, and 
 martyrs. And it is a circumstance to 
 which I wish to call your particular at- 
 tention, that the lives of these holy men 
 became the popular literature of the 
 world from the sixth to the eighth cen- 
 tury. The profane literature had disap- 
 peared ; and these Lives of the Saints 
 took its place. The Collection of Bol- 
 land, a Belgian Jesuit, with its continua- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 641 
 
 tion, consists of fifty-three volumes of 
 these Lives. I wish I had time to recite 
 to you some of these legends of the 
 early Christian saints. They were often 
 extravar'ant ; but they contained some 
 of the most beautiful pictures of hero- 
 ism, self-sacrifice, and saintly pity and 
 care for the poor and suffering, that can 
 be found in any literature of any age. 
 And these, amidst the wild license and 
 cruelty of b.irons and robbers, were the 
 good Christian legends that circulated 
 among the people.* 
 
 And thus, amidst the corruptions and 
 vices of succeeding times, Christianity 
 has ever stood forth as the image of 
 purity and goodness. It has not been 
 as in the ancient heathen time, when 
 the religion was no better than the mor- 
 als of the people. Ever, in the Chris- 
 tian ages, there has been an ideal, draw- 
 ing on to something better. And thus 
 Christianity has ever been impressing 
 itself more and more upon governments, 
 upon social institutions, and upon art. 
 It has made governments more just 
 and tolerant. It has built hospitals and 
 asylums on the sites of voluptuous baths 
 and bloody amphitheatres. It has formed 
 worshipping congregations, built for 
 them temples for meditative thougiit, for 
 instruction, — a thing unknown toother 
 religions ; an institution, indeed, of almost 
 inappreciable value. And what but the 
 Christian idea has been imaged forth in 
 the architecture of Europe ; in its solemn 
 temples, its majestic cathedrals, its time- 
 hallowed universities ? And what is it 
 that is spread in forms of living beauty 
 upon the walls of Italy ? It is the great 
 Christian idea. The moving incidents 
 of the Christian story, and the sublime 
 virtues of Christian confessors and mar- 
 tyrs, are there portrayed before the 
 /passing generations. 
 
 I cannot dwell longer upon the insti- 
 tutions that have advanced the world; 
 and must come, in the third place, to 
 actions and events. Ideas, institutions, 
 actions, — this is the order of my dis- 
 
 • Guizot, Histoire de la Civilisation en France, 
 i6e et 176 lemons. 
 
 course ; and I am obliged to content 
 myself with the mention of only some 
 instances under each head. 
 
 As I shall pass from the agencies em- 
 ployed in the world's progress, to con- 
 sider in my next and last lecture the 
 actual steps of it, I shall reserve several 
 points, under the head of action, for the 
 places into which they naturally and 
 chronologically fall; and I shall take up, 
 in this lecture, only some of those move- 
 ments of a general character which have 
 occurred occasionally and indifierently 
 in all ages. 
 
 The first is colonization. The great, 
 peaceful colonizers of the world — for 
 the military colonization practised by 
 Rome and Russia does not come under 
 our present view — have been Phoenicia 
 and Greece, England and Holland : 
 Phoenicia having had colonies in Spain 
 and Northern Africa ; Greece, in Asia 
 Minor and Southern Italy ; and England 
 and Holland, in the East Indies and in 
 America. This swarming of the hives 
 of men has always been attended with 
 certain advantages to the cause of civili- 
 zation and progress. Heeren says, " It 
 is from the bosom of colonies that civil 
 Hberty, nearly in all ages, has set forth." * 
 It is easy to see that colonization is 
 likely to be an emancipation from many 
 prejudices and many inconvenient usages 
 at home. Men, in a long-established 
 order of society, become weary of bur- 
 densome and cramping institutions long 
 before they can get rid of them. They 
 have improved ideas which tliey desire 
 to put in practice ; and when founding 
 new communities, they are certain to do 
 it. Our own forefathers, indeed, came 
 to this country with that distinct pur- 
 pose ; and in consequence they abol- 
 ished all state religion, all orders of 
 nobility, and all irresponsible govern- 
 ment. 
 
 The next great movement which I 
 shall mention, is invasion. By this I 
 do not mean international war, to set- 
 tle some temporary quarrel, but those 
 
 * Historical Researches — Asiatic Nations, vol. i. 
 P- 303. 
 
 41 
 
642 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 immense tides in human affairs by which 
 either barbarism has poured itself down 
 upon the seats of civihzation to settle 
 itself there, or civilization has_ invaded 
 barbarism to uproot and supplant it. Of 
 the first kind, was the invasion of India 
 and Persia from the central mountain 
 land of Asia, and of the Roman Empire 
 from Northern Europe and Tartary. Of 
 the second, are the remarkable move- 
 ments of the present day, — of Russia 
 upon Tartary and Circassia, of France 
 upon Northern Africa, and of England 
 upon Southern Asia. 
 
 Here opens an awful page in human 
 affairs, written in blood and blackened 
 with many atrocities and miseries ; and 
 we must pause to consider it. And 
 everything depends upon our standpoint. 
 If we demand some artificial., best atl- 
 turc for the human race ; if we permit 
 ourselves to say — why was it not car- 
 ried forward in civilization, with the few- 
 est blunders, troubles, and .sufferings, 
 and all according to some factitious ideal 
 of our own ? — we shall meet with a con- 
 founding problem. But let us say, here 
 is a race made as it is made, and, as we 
 are bound to think, wisely made, and 
 of necessity left mainly to work out its 
 own way ; and from this standpoint, 
 what do we see } Nations, in fertile 
 realms, like Persia and Italy, grow in 
 wealth, comfort, and luxury, and sink 
 into indulgence, licentiousness, base- 
 ness of every sort. Every tendency is 
 downward, and there is no internal 
 power or life to bring them up. Injus- 
 tice, cruelty, and corruption cry to 
 Heaven for their destruction ; and moral 
 debility, waste, and woe have left no 
 argument on earth for their continu- 
 ance. The cup of iniquity and misery is 
 full ; and the rudest barbarism is better 
 and happier than this effete, worn-out, 
 blighted civilization. 
 
 Then, from the founts of primeval na- 
 ture are collected the mountain streams, 
 that pour a new life through the cor- 
 rupted channels of the old society. The 
 streams are turbid and violent, indeed ; 
 ^but after the first rush is over, and they 
 
 have swept the choking filth from the 
 old channels, they become in time calmer 
 and purer. The elements that compose 
 the new civilization are better than the 
 old. In fact, the better part of the old 
 are retained. For the barbarian cannot 
 understand the effeminacy, the sloth, the 
 luxury, the artificial vices into whose 
 presence he comes ; but the visible im- 
 provements, the comfortable dwellings, 
 the useful arts, and even the institutions 
 and laws, he, in a measure, comprehends 
 and partly adopts. 
 
 He is improved. But now at length he 
 too sinks into debility and corrujjtion, 
 and is prepared to share the fate of his 
 predecessors. And certainly, if this ter- 
 rible revolution in the wiieel of fate, by 
 which another invasion is to cast ////// 
 out and sweep him away, — if this, 1 say, 
 were but mere repetition, without any 
 progress, the problem of all human his- 
 tory would be as dark as ever. But the 
 contrary is the undoubted fact. The 
 experiment is not in vain. The new 
 civilizations that arise are ever better, 
 and have been growing better through 
 all ages. 
 
 Let us now turn to the counter move- 
 ment of civilization upon barbarism. 
 The most remarkable instance of this 
 is the establishment of the British 
 power in India. It is the most stu- 
 pendous spectacle of an age full of 
 wonders. Within a century past, more 
 than a hundred millions of barbarous 
 people — the number is now said to 
 amount to one hundred and fifty mil- 
 lion, — a population greater than that of 
 the Roman Empire in the time of Clau- | 
 dius, — spreading over twenty-seven de- 
 grees of latitude,* and almost as many 
 of longitude, from Cape Comorin to the 
 Himalaya Mountains, and from Persia 
 to the Ganges — have come under the 
 ascendency of the highest civilization 
 in Europe. Commenced by a company 
 of merchants, and carried on by a people 
 from the other side of the world, noth- 
 ing could have been more unintentional 
 or improbable than the result of this 
 
 • From b° to 35°. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINV. 
 
 643 
 
 movement. That in this stupendous 
 march of events, great suffering, great 
 wrong, has been inflicted, that princes 
 and nations have been trampled under 
 foot, cannot be denied. And yet it has 
 not been a course of mere reckless and 
 ruthless conquest. Many of the Indian 
 princes have been t'aken under British 
 protection at their own instance ; many 
 others have met with subjugation as the 
 reward of unjust aggressions on their 
 purt. And the English are not a people 
 to let oppression, in their name, go un- 
 challenged ; as the trial pf Warren Hast- 
 ings, Mr. Fox's East India Bill, and 
 many other parliamentary interpositions 
 show. They have labored, at the same 
 time, to suppress many abuses and to 
 spread education among the people. 
 
 The effects must be immense, must be 
 incalculable ; and they must be good. 
 For two thousand years India has made 
 hardly a step forward ; bound in the 
 chains of political despotism, of a re- 
 ligion at once dreamy, cruel, and de- 
 grading, and the fatal institution of 
 caste. All this is destined to give 
 place to Christian order, law, religion, 
 and society. Where Alexander with 
 his armies, and Mohammedan con- 
 querors, and Tamerlane with his Mon- 
 gol hosts, swept like a destroying 
 cloud, leaving behind them the same 
 sterile immobility and death which they 
 found, — in that land a new realm is 
 rising, with the seeds of a new life in it. 
 -Meanwhile England is spreading her 
 influence far, both to the east and 
 west of India. Already she meditates 
 a land route by railroad from the 
 -Mediterranean to Hindostan, through 
 the plains of the Euphrates and Ti<'ris ; 
 and that fallow ground of the old As- 
 syrian Empires, which has lain waste 
 for ages, is to be turned into a fruitful 
 field, busy with thronging life, by the 
 ploughshare of modern civilization. Eng- 
 land seems destined to regenerate en- 
 tire Southern Asia, from the Mediter- 
 ranean to the China Sea. What a 
 magnificent mission for that Island 
 Oueen ! 
 
 There is one further topic to which. 
 but for fear of exhausting your pa- 
 tience, I should give some space in this 
 lecture : and that is political revolu- 
 tions, or, more exactly, popular resist- 
 ance to arbitrary power. Insurrections 
 of the people against the governinent 
 are seldom aroused without a cause ; 
 when successful, they are usually fol- 
 lowed by beneficial changes ; and even 
 when they fail, they often do good ser- 
 vice to the cause of liberty and justice. 
 It is to this last point, as the darkest in 
 the case, that I shall direct your atten- 
 tion in close. 
 
 The burden of the case, so to speak, 
 usually rests, as we survey it in history, 
 upon the sad fate of conspicuous indi- 
 viduals ; for they are ordinarily the 
 victims. Ever since history began the 
 record of human struggles for justice 
 and for progress, we see that the rack 
 and the scaffold, the market-place and 
 the battle-field, have been stained with 
 the blood of the free and strong-hearted, 
 of patriots and martyrs, of men who 
 died nobly because they could not live 
 ignobly. To any high and heroic sensi- 
 bility, it is the saddest and most agoniz- 
 ing spectacle in the world. 
 
 But the moving story, that stirs our 
 blood with indignation and pity when 
 we read it, does not end here. No, 
 there is another account to be made of 
 deeds like these. Haughty power has 
 its day, and martyred heroism has its 
 day, — ay, and it sets in darkness and 
 blood ; but, that day past, and they 
 change places forever. Forever hal- 
 lowed and dear to all mankind is that 
 martyred heroism. Every drop of inno- 
 cent blood that ever tyranny and in- 
 justice have shed, has been sprinkled 
 upon the heart of the world, as upon 
 an altar, to cause the flame of indignant 
 virtue to mount higher. No such wea- 
 pon was ever formed on earth to sustain 
 the right, no such \yeapon to beat down 
 the wrong, as the battered sword of 
 martyred patriotism. Separated from 
 all earthly dross in the furnace of 
 tyranny, forged on the anvil of hard 
 
644 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 injustice and oppression, and tempered 
 in lioly blood, it is lifted up as a stan- 
 dard before the eyes of all mankind. 
 
 Nor let it be thought that things 
 like these are buried in obscurity; as 
 the tyrant would have the names of his 
 victims. Some of tis, perhaps, never 
 heard of the Duke of Alva and of the 
 Count Egmont, — the one, the brutal 
 Spanish commander in the Low Coun- 
 tries, whose cruelties were such that he 
 drove a hundred thousand people from 
 their country, and boasted that he had 
 cau,«ed the public execution of eighteen 
 thousand persons ; and the other, a 
 young nobleman — the Count Egmont 
 — otherwise to have been unknown in 
 history, whom he sent to the scaffold ; 
 but all Germany, all Europe, lias heard 
 of them ; of the one for execration, of 
 the other for pity ; the pen of genius 
 has written their names on everlasting 
 tablets ; in history, in ballads, in dra- 
 matic story, they are known, and will 
 be, to theend of the world. 
 
 But we all have heard of the heroic 
 Wallace of Scotland. From indignant 
 resistance to the English soldiery sta- 
 tioned in his country, he was led to 
 armed assertion of her rights ; and 
 after many daring actions he was de- 
 feated through the jealousy of the Scot- 
 tish nobles, and by the command of 
 Edward I. was beheaded and quartered 
 in the English capital. With grief and 
 indignation we read the story. We sym- 
 pathize with the lonely sufferer, torn 
 from his country and his home, and 
 sinking to his doom amidst exulting 
 crowds of enemies. But there is an- 
 other award, far other than that of the 
 English court and the London of that 
 day. Suppose that behind that hostile 
 crowd had risen an amphitheatre, on 
 which were seated a hundred thousand 
 spectators, all execrating the deed, and 
 lauding and glorifying the victim of arbi- 
 trary power. He, alas ! saw no such 
 majestic amphitheatre, but only mur- 
 derous foes around him. Yet how feebly 
 would that crowded theatre represent 
 the verdict of posterity ! How do the 
 
 ranks of ages on ages rise, to take the 
 victim's part; ay, to the end of time, — 
 to celebrate, through all time, with song 
 and paean and dramatic scene and his- 
 toric story, his nobleness and heroism 1 
 Yes, it is such, in tlieir melancholy but 
 glorious fate, that fire the hearts of mil- 
 lions with new indignation at wrong, 
 with new enthusiasm for the right. It 
 is such, in their melancholy but glorious 
 fate, that are the noblest teachers of all 
 mankind. Chairs of philosophy, pulpits, 
 forums, thrones, sink to the dust before 
 them. 
 
 The difference between the faint ap- 
 proval which contemporaries give to 
 virtue, and the decisive and loud award 
 of posterity, is strikingly evinced by a 
 passage in Herodotus concerning Aris- 
 tides. Herodotus was born in the very 
 year of the banishment of Aristides 
 from Athens, — i. e., four hundred and 
 eighty-four years before the Christian 
 era. Speaking of that event, Herodo- 
 tus uses this language: "He was ban- 
 ished by a vote of the people, althougli 
 my information induces me to consider 
 him as the most upright and excellent 
 of his fellow-citizens." * •' My info*-- 
 mation induces me to consider him," — 
 is the cautious language of the time : 
 while the ages have rung with the title of 
 the "Just," appropriated without doubt 
 or hesitation to the name of Aristides ; 
 while every language, every literature, 
 every writing of human speech, from 
 the school-boy's theme to. the sage's 
 thesis, has repeated the eulogium ; and 
 while, moreover, the name of Themis- 
 tocles, the adversary of Aristides, the 
 most successful man of his day, — pro- 
 claimed by all Greece the greatest gen- 
 eral at the battle of Salamis, but worldly- 
 wise, wily, and unprincipled, — while 
 that name, I say, wins no good verdict 
 from posterity. There stands the little 
 day's vote of Athens on one side, and 
 the verdict of sixty generations of man- 
 kind on the other. 
 
 It has been thought wrong, to desire 
 martyrdom ; but I can think of no death 
 * Book viii sec. 79. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 645 
 
 so much to be coveted, as. after having 
 lived a heroic life, to consummate all in 
 one bright example, which, at no more 
 cost than an hour's pain, shall send light 
 and power through the world. This is 
 heaven's commission to suffering inno- 
 cence. This is Heaven's vindication of 
 its bitter pain. The lowliest sigh from 
 the valleys of Piedmont is echoed from 
 distant continents. One glance from the 
 dying martyr's eye flashes througli the 
 ages. Small cost for such stupendous 
 purchase ! Little to do and to suffer, 
 for so much to follow ! That little done. 
 
 is worth the world beside. Let us not 
 despair at the dark pictures which his- 
 tory spreads before us. From that 
 darkness is the brightest flashing out of 
 heroic virtue. In the dark cloud is em- 
 bosomed a splendor that outshines the 
 common light of day. Ay, and but for 
 the gathering storm, that sometimes 
 closes around the noblest men that the 
 world ever saw, their virtues had never 
 been signalized nor clothed with honor 
 and beauty for the admiration of all 
 mankind. 
 
 LECTURE XII. 
 
 HISTORIC VIEW OF HUMANITY : HUMAN PROGRESS, — THE STEPS OF IT. 
 
 I HAVE considered, in my last lecture, 
 some of the great agencies by which 
 human progress has been promoted. I 
 propose now to trace the steps of this 
 progress. A few preliminary observa- 
 tions may prepare us to take a juster 
 view of it. 
 
 There are difficulties, in many minds, 
 about the world's life, which do not 
 press equally upon individual life. Many 
 feel that in their personal experience 
 and lot moral laws are revealed, and 
 that things are tending to moral issues ; 
 that there really is a high purpose in 
 their own life. " But to what end," 
 they say, "have the wild, warring, 
 slaughtering, struggling nations lived ? 
 This wide waste and desolation which 
 history spreads before us, — this con- 
 fused turmoil of follies and crimes, — 
 what necessity has there been for it ? 
 What good has come of it?" Such is 
 the view which they take of the past 
 life of the human race, that they are al- 
 most ready to feel, in the spirit of the 
 Manichcean philosophy, as if the domain 
 of the world had been divided between 
 good and evil spirits ; ay, and had been 
 
 given to the evil more than the good. 
 Nay, there are those who say that man 
 is but an animal, sprung from the ape, 
 and stami>ed with animalism in his whole 
 embryotic development. 
 
 Now suppose it were true that hu- 
 manity is a development from animalism. 
 Yet even upon t/iis theory, as upon every 
 view of the world, one fact is found to 
 be involved in the whole history of hu- 
 manity ; and that is \\\&fact of progress. 
 Everywhere, from the beginning, through 
 all ages, there has been progress. If, 
 indeed, the race had been running down, 
 or if it had stood stationary amidst its 
 struggles and sufferings, then, must we 
 have given it up to the scorn of the sat- 
 irist or of the false philosopher. Then 
 had our problem found no solution. But 
 progress redeems all, pays for all ; shows 
 that in all things, however dark and my.s- 
 terious, there has been a good intent and 
 tendency, a good Providence, ruling all, 
 
 " From seeming evil still educing good, 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression." 
 
 This, it is our present design to trace 
 and show. 
 
646 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 And we may observe that this order 
 of progress has presided over successive 
 productions and races on earth, before 
 the .appearance of man. There were, 
 unknown ages ago, monstrous amphib- 
 ious creatures ; nameless when they 
 lived, for there was none on earth to 
 name them ; and it has been left to the 
 present age to classify them, — the ich- 
 thyosaurus, the megatherium, the mega- 
 lonyx, — names that seem monstrous 
 and fabulous like themselves; but they 
 have lived. Then appeared more per- 
 fect animals ; then man. The vegetable 
 products, too, kept pace with the needs 
 of animal life. When those amphibious 
 monsters were seventy feet long, when 
 there were such swarms and clouds of 
 insects that their fossil remains formed 
 quarries and mountains of rock, then 
 our common fern and brake shot up sev- 
 enty and eighty feet high. Not till man 
 was brought upon the scene, perhaps, 
 were created "the grass, the herb yield- 
 ing seed, and the fruit-tree yielding 
 fruit after his kind." And Mr. Agassiz 
 says that no fossil remains of roses are 
 found, of a date prior to the advent of 
 man. Let me add, in passing, that these 
 discoveries of modern science do not 
 conflict with the Mosaic account of the 
 creation ; since, in a just construction, 
 the " days " there spoken of are not to be 
 taken for periods of twenty-four hours, — 
 certainly not the first period, which was 
 before the sun is represented as meas- 
 uring the day, — but for a term of indefi- 
 nite length, during which the earth was 
 "without form and void," not yet pre- 
 pared and beautified for the abode of 
 man. 
 
 But the important observation is, that 
 in all progress, the past has ever been 
 preparing for the future; and in the 
 progress of rational beings, that the fu- 
 ture is ever borrowing wisdom from the 
 past. Tradition, history, experiment, 
 are ever spreading before mankind the 
 facts from which they are perpetually 
 drawing almost unconscious conclusions. 
 With the philosophic observer, however, 
 they are not unconscious, but plainly 
 
 traced out. The work which John Ad- 
 ams wrote in defence of our political 
 Constitution, and for the guidance of our 
 Revolutionary times, was founded alto- 
 gether upon the experience of nations. 
 In matters of practical wisdom, it is only 
 by experience that we truly know any- 
 thing ; quantum sunius, scimusj and 
 only so it is that the world knows or 
 can know. It is striking to see how 
 ono. political truth after another slowly , 
 rises out of the bosom of past ages of 91 
 experience ; first, that the people must ^"l 
 share the government, to make it safe 
 and just ; and with this conviction, falls 
 the divine right of kings : next, that the 
 people's interest in the government 
 must be expressed through representa- 
 tion, through suffrage ; and with this, 
 sinks a hereditary nobility : then, on 
 some experience of the representative 
 system, that majorities may tyrannize ; 
 and the sanctity of numbers begins to 
 be called in question, the rights of mi- 
 norities to be insisted on, and the neces- 
 sity asserted, of intelligence, of educa- 
 tion ; nay, more, of virtue, of mutual 
 regard, of reverence for the Supreme 
 Lawgiver. 
 
 Thus great principles take their place 
 with us as famihar truths ; and we al- 
 most forget whence they have come 
 and what they have cost. Our common- 
 est beliefs are the fruit of ages of exper- 
 iment. They are familiar, and we imag- 
 ine that they were easily acquired. We 
 cannot look " to the rock whence they 
 were hewn, nor to the hole of the pit 
 whence they were digged." We think 
 them intuitions ; but the truth is, the 
 steps of centuries have led to them ; the 
 pathway of generations has been opened, 
 through mountains and through deserts, 
 through flood and fire, to bring down to 
 us the precious heritage. 
 
 Yet further, I must pray you not to 
 look at the material in this world alone, 
 but at the spiritual yet more. Not as a 
 dull, obstinate, intractable world must 
 we see it, but as God's ever-renewed 
 and instant work ; not as a mass of mat- 
 ter and sense and corruption, but as 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 647 
 
 penetrated all through and forever with 
 spiritual rays ; not as darkness and 
 gloom, chaos and night and storm, but 
 as the theatre and story of a heavenly 
 order ; not, if I may say so, as if it were 
 that dull, familiar place which we call 
 the world, for which we have no respect 
 because it is familiar, as the husband- 
 man unwisely has none for his farm, 
 because he has always trodden it and 
 toiled upon it ; but rather should we 
 look upon this world as some vast re- 
 pository of life, some fair planet, rolling 
 tlirough the heavens, and bearing, midst 
 light and shade, midst change and strug- 
 gle, midst varying forms of development, 
 — Celtic, Saxon, Slavonic, Gothic, and 
 African, — its infinite burden of human 
 joy and sorrow : concerning which we 
 would know, as far as we 7nay know, 
 the divine history of God's providence 
 over it. 
 
 But there is one further preliminary 
 point to which, in this connection, I 
 wish more particularly to draw your at- 
 tention ; and that is, that the progress 
 of the world has been a purpose and a 
 plan abqve all human sagacity ; inas- 
 much as it has been carried forward by 
 man, while acting in total unconscious- 
 ness of any such instrumentality. 
 
 It has been justly observed that, in 
 some views, animal instinct is a clearer 
 proof of Divine direction than human 
 reason. Reason acts for itself. Within 
 a certain sphere it seems to act inde- 
 pendently of the Power that made it. 
 Instinct, on the contrary, is the mere 
 vehicle of an intention acting through 
 it. Unconscious tendencies in human 
 nature bear a similar character. And it 
 is by these mainly that the world has 
 been. advanced. Men, nations, genera- 
 tions, have not purposely combined to 
 secure its progress. No grand council, 
 amphictyonic or ecclesiastic, Grecian or 
 Roman, ever sat down and solemnly 
 resolved that the world should improve. 
 If there was such a design from the be- 
 ginning, and if it has been steadily kept 
 in view, it has come from a thought 
 l>ehind all, and above all; it has been , 
 
 God's design, and not man's. And, in 
 point of fact, it has been a purpose not 
 of man's, but of God's creation ; it has 
 been a purpose aided, as we Christians 
 believe, by Divine interposition ; it has 
 been, as I have said, a purpose accom- 
 plished by man while acting in total 
 ignorance of it ; and it has been a 
 purpose, too, accompHshed in spite of 
 man. 
 
 But it was especially of human uncon- 
 sciousness in this matter that I proposed 
 to speak. A French writer, M. Hello,* 
 has devoted an entire work to the illus- 
 tration of this point in the history of 
 France. He contemplates the elements 
 of national progress as social, territorial, 
 and political. Thus, under the first 
 head, he says that the gradually in- 
 creasing freedom of the mass of the 
 people, the circumstances that aided it, 
 the pecuniary needs of kings, which cast 
 them upon the help of the people, the 
 means provided by which the cities 
 bought their privileges, and hence the 
 rights of property, the value of labor, 
 and the increasing dignity of labor, — 
 that all this did not come from any de- 
 sign of man, but from God. Then again, 
 with regard to the territorial element, — 
 to hold together an iminense empire like 
 France, he says, some principle, some 
 power, was necessary, some permanent 
 bond of union. What should it be ? 
 Perhaps there was no other possible in 
 that country but a metropolitan city ; 
 the centre from wliich should radiate 
 the great routes to the extremity of the 
 kingdom ; to which everything should 
 be subordinate ; to which all the world 
 should resort. Such is the great central 
 city of that empire ; and when it is said 
 that "Paris is France," the importance 
 of this may be tnore than its import in 
 the common speech of men. I have 
 sometimes felt, for myself, that this rela- 
 tion of the imperial city was a great 
 hardship to the provincial towns and 
 districts ; but I confess that this view 
 of it has put a different aspect upon 
 the matter. But what has given to the 
 * Philosophie de I'histoire de France. 
 
648 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 central city this pre-eminence ? Not the 
 intention of those who founded it, but 
 the course of events, the force of cir- 
 cumstances, — in other words, tlie provi- 
 dence of God. A similai* course of 
 observations conducts the writer to a 
 hke conclusion witli regard to the pohti- 
 cal element, — the government, — wliich 
 has been gradually changed and im- 
 proved by struggles between the king 
 and nobles and people, mainly of a per- 
 sonal character, and having little refer- 
 ence to the general good. " Modern 
 Europe," says M. Guizot, "is born of 
 the struggles of different classes of so- 
 ciety." Society has wrought out these 
 changes, but society did not know what 
 it was about. 
 
 This view, which M. Hello takes of 
 his country's history, is a good, a relig- 
 ious, and you will think, perhaps, a 
 somewhat remarkable view of things for 
 a French philosopher; and I was will- 
 ing to spread it before you. 
 
 But the same view may be extended 
 to the entire history of the world. Its 
 progress has been carried forward by 
 many agencies that were unconscious 
 of their high mission. 
 
 He who discovered the mariner's 
 compass, he who invented the art of 
 printing, they who perfected the steam 
 engine, little thought, perhaps, what in- 
 struments they were putting into the 
 hands of humanity for advancing its 
 great end. Each one developed his 
 own genius, followed his own taste, in 
 his individual sphere ; in his privacy, he 
 held the thread of inventive thought; 
 in his humble workshop, he pursued his 
 task ; but the eye of Providence looked 
 upon that work, and saw those narrow 
 walls burst asunder and the wide world 
 pervaded, illuminated, revolutionized, by 
 the ingenuity of that dreaming recluse. 
 — a Gutenberg or Faust, a Fitch or 
 Fulton, a Watt or Arkwright ! 
 
 In like manner, science has owed its 
 triumphs mainly to the simple love of 
 knowledge, to single-hearted enthusi- 
 asm. But the secrets of nature which 
 it has unfolded, the unsuspected powers 
 
 which it has developed from the earth, 
 and the wisdom which it has drawn 
 from the skies, have united to bear the 
 world onward, though Newton, "child- 
 like sage," and Davy, torch-bearer in 
 the dark earth-mines, thought of but 
 httle, perhaps, besides their studies. 
 
 And so it has been with men of gen- 
 ius, those masters of human thought, 
 that they have labored, not for influ- 
 ence, but for utterance, — not for fame, 
 but for truth. Genius is the grandest 
 power on earth, for in its highest form 
 it is religious as well as intellectual ; 
 and yet it has been well said, that it is 
 as remarkable for its unconsciousness 
 as for its energy. The eloquent thought, 
 the epic story, the life-imaging drama, 
 have come .from depths of self-devel- 
 opment far beneath all calculation of 
 results. 
 
 And why has not thought terminated 
 in itself? Wiiy has it not ministered 
 only to its own improvement, died in its 
 own bosom ? Why are the noblest ema- 
 nations of human genius running on glo- 
 rious errands through the earth and to 
 the ends of the world? Is it ncit evident 
 that God has made man thus to act on 
 man, for the general enlightening and 
 advancement ? If the imperial minds 
 in this magnificent empire of thought 
 were conscious of their appointment 
 and mission, then the plan and the intent 
 were plain ; but how much more strik- 
 ing is it, when just in proportion to their 
 efficiency has been their ««conscious- 
 ness of the glorious ministration for 
 which they are raised up ! 
 
 But it is time that I should proceed, 
 as I proposed, to take a brief survey of 
 the actual course of things, the steps 
 of human progress. 
 
 The first two thousand years are very 
 dark in every sense, whether as history 
 to be studied, or problem to be solved. 
 A wild wandering over the earth, as far 
 as we can judge, — men nomadic, — 
 hunters, shepherds ; no civilization, at 
 least, capable of making any record of 
 itself. 
 
 The infant school of the world had 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 649 
 
 rude teachers, — cold and hunger and 
 nakedness and need and peril were its 
 teachers. The early cosmogonies rep- 
 resented the earth when it first became 
 the abode of man as a scene of dis- 
 order and misery. Diodorus the Sicilian 
 speaks of the trees, plants, animals, 
 and man himself, as springing from the 
 mud warmed by the sun, and pictures 
 the first men as brutish and weak. 
 Heraclitus, according to Plutarch, im- 
 agined the original habitable earth to 
 have been but a mass of cinders, left by 
 volcanic fires. Plutarch himself gives 
 his opinion in the touching picture 
 which he draws, of a man of the ear- 
 liest period, addressing tliose of later 
 ages. " Oh ! how are you cherished of 
 the gods," he says, "you who live now! 
 How fortunate is your time ! The fer- 
 tile earth yields you a thousand fruits ; 
 all nature is engaged but in giving you 
 delights ; but our birthtime was mourn- 
 ful and sterile ; the world was so new 
 that we were in want of everything ; 
 the air was not pure ; the sun was ob- 
 scured ; the rivers overflowed their 
 banks ; all was marsh and thicket and 
 forest ; the fields were not cultivated ; 
 our misery was extreme ; we had neither 
 inventions nor inventors; our hunger 
 was never appeased ; we tore the limbs 
 of wild animals to devour them, when 
 we could find neither moss nor bark ; 
 and if we found an acorn, we danced 
 around the oak, chanting the praises of 
 the earth ; we had no other fetes nor 
 rejoicings but these; and all the rest of 
 our life was trouble and poverty and 
 sadness." * 
 
 But let us leave this period of the 
 world's infancy, which is indeed, as you 
 see it in the historic charts, covered 
 with clouds ; concerning which we can 
 offer nothing but conjectures ; and come 
 at once to our proper starting-point, — 
 the earliest period of recorded history. 
 We can trace no proper history of the 
 world but in the form of nationalities ; 
 and we know nothing of nations earlier 
 
 * See Boullanger, — Antiquitd Ddvoilde, tome i. 
 pp. 19s, 196. 
 
 than the Chinese, the Indians of Hindo- 
 stan, the Persians, and the Egyptians; 
 nor anything of them earlier than about 
 the year 2000 of the Mosaic era. 
 
 In the survey which I am about to 
 take of known epochs and of distinct 
 nationalities, the points to which I wish 
 to invite your attention are these : that 
 every great step which the world has 
 taken has been a manifest improvement 
 upon the past, and a manifest prepara- 
 tion for further progress ; that at every 
 great step, the world has paused and 
 gained a foothold, in which it has rallied 
 the energies of the past, to throw them 
 into the fortunes of the future ; that 
 every great era of civilization, in other 
 words, has presented these two remark- 
 able facts, — it has received and collect- 
 ed the improvements of the preceding 
 era, its poliucal forms, its laws, philoso- 
 phies, theologies, literatures ; it has 
 carried them to the highest point it was 
 able ; and then it has cast them into 
 the bosom of the future.* Thus im- 
 provement has passed on : from Asia 
 and Egypt to Greece, from Greece to 
 Rome, from Rome to the feudal forms 
 of Central Europe, and from Central or 
 Continental, to Western Europe, and to 
 America. 
 
 The childhood of civilization, then, 
 was in Southern Asia. In the soft 
 clime and fragrant bowers of the East 
 was man's birthplace and cradle. There, 
 indeed, was the Eden of the world, and 
 there was its childhood nurtured. There 
 were the earliest and simplest govern- 
 ments ; patriarchal, despotic, but paren- 
 tal, too, — parental in their indulgence, 
 parental in their summary discipline and 
 instant punishment; and there were in- 
 stitutions fitted in every respect to be 
 the leading-strings of the world's child- 
 hood. Do you not see men there 
 seated as on school forms, in the great 
 divisions of caste ; generation after 
 generation taking their places on those 
 
 * I state this in the most general way. I know 
 how many exceptions and deviations there may 
 seem to be; but such, taking the whole world into 
 the account, I believe to be tlie general course of things. 
 
6qo 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 forms, with all the docility of children ; 
 finding them, to a certain extent, seats 
 of instruction, and at any rate barriers, 
 against universal anarchy, — barriers, 
 indeed, without which they could re- 
 ceive no instruction ? Caste, in India 
 and Egypt, was nothing else but the 
 extreme of a principle that has pre- 
 vailed in all ages ; i. e., the division of 
 society into ranks and orders. The 
 Indian parent taught his son his own 
 trade or pursuit, and the son could 
 follow no other. He could not, like the 
 German apprentice in the Middle Ages, 
 wander over the country for three years 
 as a journeyman. The German had 
 more liberty ; but his liberty was strictly 
 limited. There have always been re- 
 strictions upon the freedom of occupa- 
 tion ; till in this country every man is 
 allowed — I had almost said — to do 
 luhat he will, where he will. But this 
 liberty would have been disorder and 
 ruin in the old Indian or Egyptian life. 
 It could no more have borne the same 
 liberty than literal children could, in 
 these days. Do you not see, again, the 
 leading traits of childhood, in the ab- 
 solute and universal submission to 
 authority, and in the unreasoning, un- 
 aspiring contentment with their lot, 
 of Hindostan and China ? Do you 
 not also see the people of Southern 
 Asia, and of Egypt, lapped in the bosom 
 of a rich mother earth and of a mild 
 embracing climate ; with few wants, 
 with few cares, with few calls to exer- 
 tion ? Do you not see them, moreover, 
 wrapped about with material influences, 
 pupils of matter, taking all their ideas 
 from physical nature, and so building 
 vast pyramids and splendid mausole- 
 ums and stupendous rock-temples, ex- 
 cavated from the very mountains, like 
 those of Petra and Ellora ; and esti- 
 mating the forces of their armies alone 
 by numbers ; attracted by outward 
 decorations, conceiving of power, of 
 kingship, always as something seated 
 upon a magnificent throne, holding out 
 a jewelled sceptre and clothed with gor- 
 geous habiliments ? Look at Xerxes 
 
 and Darius, thus seated on their thrones, 
 
 — the great child-kings ; surrounded 
 by the cloud of innumerable hosts ; 
 Oriental homages at their feet ; silk- 
 en tent-curtains swelling in the night 
 breeze over them ; music in their ears : 
 they never imagined that anything of 
 hardship or peril could approach them : 
 
 — when lo ! at Plataea and Marathon 
 shot the lightning of intellect into that 
 cloud, and scattered the visions of 
 Oriental greatness, and revolutionized 
 the ideas of an age. 
 
 There is discrimination doubtless to 
 be made, among these Oriental nations, 
 in regard to progress. In China, life 
 retires back into the most childish sim- 
 plicity, docility, and subjection. The 
 emperor was the government, and the 
 law, and the morality, and the religion, 
 
 — and the very people ; all was absorbed 
 into him. The rigor oi caste in India — 
 i. e., recognized classes with recognized 
 rights^ was something better than this 
 stereotyped, this solidified unity. The 
 subjection of inferiors was such in 
 China, that if a son complained of his 
 father, or a younger brother of his 
 elder, he was to be whipped with a 
 hundred blows and banished three 
 years, even if his complaint were just ; 
 if not, he was to be strangled, If a son 
 lifted his hand against his father, his 
 flesh was to be torn froin his body with 
 hot pincers. I am speaking of the 
 past ; such is the law ; how often it 
 is executed now, I do not know. In 
 China, all was prosaic, — life, learning, 
 and philosophy alike. The earliest 
 Chinese sage divided all knowledge 
 into three departments, — silk culture, 
 bridge building, and the training of 
 burden-bearing animals. The philos- 
 ophy of Confucius never went beyond 
 the simplest precepts of morality and 
 religious veneration. No deep ques- 
 tions are discussed ; no sense is enter- 
 tained, apparently, that there are such 
 questions. It is the very earliest 
 childhood of philosophy. The Indian 
 philosophy, with all its dreaminess and 
 mysticism, goes far beyond this. It 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 651 
 
 meditates the deepest questions. The 
 secret of nature, the mystery of God, 
 the end of being, invite its contempla- 
 tion. Its system indeed was pantheism ; 
 but the Chinese could hardly be said to 
 have any system. And although they 
 were a purer people than those of India, 
 it was because they were more child- 
 like, submissive, and timid. The men- 
 dacity of the people of India is well 
 known. The Chinese, perhaps, did not 
 dare to lie. 
 
 The Persian was considerably ad- 
 vanced beyond either. The Light 
 which he worshipped was not Lama, not 
 Brahma, not any particular existence, 
 but the sentient All itself. It was not 
 Ormuzd as the original principle, but 
 the Zeroene Akerene, — the infinite and 
 uncreated Life. And the Persian Zend- 
 Avesta — i. e., living words — dis- 
 coursed far more nobly than the old 
 Indian mythologies. In all respects, 
 too, political and social, the Persian life 
 was a clear step beyond the Indian. 
 In fine, the Phoenicians, the Hebrews, 
 and the Egyptians, it is well known, 
 went far beyond them all ; whether we 
 consider their polity, their religion, their 
 commerce, learning, or arts. In fact, 
 as you advance westward from the 
 farthest East, every step of your survey 
 is a step of progress ; and I believe the 
 rule will hold good, as you travel on 
 through successive nations and ages 
 down to the present day. " Westward 
 the star of etnpire takes its way," says 
 Berkeley : certainly that has been the 
 course of the empire of civilization. 
 
 We have glanced now at its first great 
 phase ; in which docility, submission, 
 mental slavery to religion, to govern- 
 ment, to social order, held almost abso- 
 •lute sway. 
 
 But Asia at length ceased to be the 
 theatre to which the eyes of men were 
 directed ; and the great drama of the 
 world's story passed away to the shores 
 of Greece. 
 
 Here was a new world, a new people, 
 a new genus of the human race. Off- 
 shoots perhaps from Oriental civiliza- 
 
 tion, that took root on the shores and 
 islands of Asia Minor, small tribes that 
 wandered at their will along the north- 
 ern boundaries of the Mediterranean, 
 born of the sea, bred among the hills, 
 they had escaped from Oriental pas- 
 si veness and from the bondage of great 
 empires ; they were hardy, vigorous, 
 active, and, above all, free. For here 
 especially was the birth of intellectual 
 freedom ; of a freely working and crea- 
 tive energy, which unfolded itself in 
 religion, in polity, and in literature. 
 
 So situated, trained, and endowed, 
 Greece made a large step in the world's 
 progress. She took from Asia and 
 Egypt what they had to give, their laws, 
 their systems of philosophy, their mythol- 
 ogies, their crude and gigantic forms of 
 art, and refined them from their gross- 
 ness, stripped tiiem of tlieir clumsy 
 overlay! ngs, idealized what was crude 
 and material in them, and wrought them 
 into delicacy and beauty, — both of 
 form and thought. She rose from 
 sense to idealism. The earth-gods 
 gave place to celestial powers. The 
 fabled war of the earth-born Titans 
 against the heavenly divinities who 
 overcame them, is probably the mytho- 
 logical expression of that fact. But 
 all the mythology and religious art of 
 Greece had their precursors and proto- 
 types in Egypt and Asia. The Sun 
 in the Persian worship, the Osiris of 
 the Egyptians, was in Greece the 
 beautiful Apollo. " The gods of Greece, 
 says Heeren, " were moral persons :" 
 they were not symbolical, but ideal ; 
 and they could no longer be represent- 
 ed as monsters with many heads and 
 arms. 
 
 But Greece had more to do than to 
 make statues or to spiritualize or hu- 
 manize the old mythologies. In her 
 was developed the first free, political 
 energy in the world. There had been 
 singular freedom in the Hebrew land ; 
 but it was comparatively passive ; and 
 besides, it was pressed on either side 
 by the Assyrian and Egyptian mon- 
 archies. In Greece, freedom had a 
 
652 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 field to itself. Yet more, it was dis- 
 enthralled from Oriental languor. It 
 breathed its inspiration into the whole 
 life of the people. It expressed itself 
 in literature. It resolved itself into 
 deeds. It was full of restless, of youth- 
 ful activity. Yes, upon the hills of 
 Greece went forth the struggling youth 
 of the world ; it went forth in toil, and 
 it went forth in battle. Her soil was 
 comparatively sterile, and her climate 
 bracing, though pure and delicious ; 
 and hers was the hard hand, the strong 
 sinew, and the manly nurture. Her 
 very sports were races and wrestlings 
 and feats of strength. 
 
 The Grecian literature was a still 
 more remarkable stride, and may seem 
 to bring into question our position, that 
 she lived in the youth of time. There 
 are indeed wonders in it that cannot be 
 accounted for, except by an original 
 power, a divine energy native to the 
 human soul, and hardly yet recognized 
 in our theories of culture. That the 
 poems of Homer, defying all after com- 
 petition in epic verse, should have burst 
 out from the darkness of a rude and 
 almost unknown antiquity, is a mystery, 
 for which I confess I have no other 
 solution. The perfection of the Greek 
 language and style surprises me far 
 less. For it appears to me that the 
 whole Greek culture owed a great deal 
 of its perfection and power to the liin- 
 ited channel in which it flowed, to the 
 singleness of its aim ; which was, to 
 embody nature and humanity in their 
 simplest and grandest characteristics, 
 without grasping the wider ranges and 
 more complicated forms of human 
 thought. I think I have known a youth 
 of twenty who in his style approached 
 much more nearly to the Greek sim- 
 plicity and purity than he did at forty, 
 when he had much more complex and 
 difficult forms of thought to grapple with. 
 Deep philosophizing is very apt to spoil 
 the style, or at least this kind of perfec- 
 tion in it. And the modern poet, who 
 sounds the depths of the modern mind, 
 has far more difficulty in expressing his 
 
 thought with force and clearness, than 
 had Homer and Sophocles. And I 
 maintain that the whole literature of 
 the Greeks was youthful, compared 
 with that of modern times. There was 
 nothing in their drama like that com- 
 prehension of the whole breadth of our 
 humanity which we see in Shakspeare, 
 or the espousal of its noblest interests 
 and aifections in Schiller. There was 
 nothing in their poetry like the intro- 
 version, the self-communion, the sub- 
 jective character of modern genius, in 
 Wordsworth and Browning. There was 
 nothing in Herodotus and Thucydides 
 to compare with the philosophical in- 
 sight into history, of Herder and Guizot. 
 There was nothing in Plato and Aris- 
 totle to compare with the breadth of 
 Bacon and Leibnitz, or the sharp and 
 patient analysis of Locke or of Kant. 
 Of ancient and modern science I need say 
 nothing ; for there is 710 comparison. 
 
 The next great step of the world was 
 planted in Rome. But was it a step 
 onward ? This it may seem more diffi- 
 cult to prove. In philosophy, in poetry, 
 in art, in graceful culture, certainly it was 
 not. But there were two offices which 
 Rome discharged for the world's culture, 
 that were of more practical and diffusive 
 benefit than anything done in Greece. 
 
 The first was that of lawgiver ; more 
 important to the world, at that period, 
 than philosophy or art. In this respect 
 she went entirely beyond her predeces- 
 sor. For impracticable political theories, 
 like those of Plato, and for ill-defined 
 rights of property and persons, she sub- 
 stituted a grand and elaborated Code of 
 Law. Law has far more to do with the 
 welfare of well-ordered society than 
 books or theories, orations or poems, 
 pictures or statues. The Roman law 
 was precisely what her barbarian in- 
 vaders needed ; nay, and of such per- 
 manent value is it, that it has continued, 
 under the name of the Civil Law, to be 
 the guide of more than half the culti- 
 vated world to this day. 
 
 The second office which Rome dis- 
 charged for the world was that of dif- 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 ^53 
 
 fuscr. That which was pent up within 
 the narrow confines of Greece was now 
 scattered through the world. Plato and 
 Aristotle, Homer and Herodotus, /Es- 
 chyliis and Sophocles, were transplanted 
 to the banks of the Rhine, the Seine, 
 and the Thames. Stores of cultivated 
 wisdom there were in the world ; but 
 how should they benefit, how enlighten, 
 the Gaul, the Saxon, the rude tribes of 
 Germany? It was for that stupendous 
 and earth-shadowing power, that spread 
 her wings from Britain to Parthia and 
 India, to bear to the nations the burden 
 of ancient lore. Her legions swept 
 through the world; but not for evil 
 alone ; philosophy and the arts, and 
 Christianity too, followed in their train. 
 Gaul and Britain might have remained 
 unchristianized for ages, if they had not 
 come within the sweep of the Roman 
 power. 
 
 For the part which she had to act, 
 Rome was fitted by her character and 
 whole training. She who was to spread 
 iierself over the earth, had no hotne 
 character to begin with. Not from quiet 
 patriarchal hearths did she take her ori- 
 gin, but from a robber's lair. Rome, at | 
 the first, was a nest of military marau- 
 ders, a refuge of renegades from sur- 
 rounding tribes, a colluvies, says Livy 
 himself, a sink into which flowed the 
 dregs of the Latin cities around ; their 
 very wives these Roman robbers tore 
 from the Sabines, and the children of 
 this violence were Ishmaels. From this 
 origin came, not beauty nor grace, nor 
 the liberality which commerce, friendly 
 communication with the world, give ; 
 but simple, concentrated strength. The 
 Roman was a man of iron nerve and 
 firmness. In his girding arm was a 
 power to hold in check those tendencies 
 which, in Greece, had snapped the bonds 
 of social order. The beautiful Grecian 
 theories of right, with the Roman, 
 hardened into law. Law, with him, as 
 lias been often observed, was morality, 
 religion, the only idea of right. Relig- 
 ion, — religio, from religare, to bind, — 
 it was simply a state bond. The Roman 
 
 genius is not attractive, not beautiful to 
 us ; but it had its use. Cicero is its 
 fairest representative, but for spiritual 
 beauty he does not compare with Plato. 
 His religion was a correct sentiment, 
 often noble, touching sometimes from 
 its sadness ; but it does not freely and 
 joyously well up from the deep fountains 
 within, like Plato's. In short, the joy- 
 ous and graceful Grecian boy of fifteen 
 has become, in Rome, as we sometimes 
 see a youth of twenty, when first touch- 
 ing the practical interests of life, utili- 
 tarian, selfish, grasping. It is not beauti- 
 ful. An iron jar is not so beautiful as 
 a porcelain vase ; but it may be more 
 useful ; it can better hold and transmit 
 what is deposited in it. 
 
 And when that iron jar was expanded 
 to a mighty vase, wide as the world, and 
 then broke in pieces, we do not lament 
 over it ; we say, it had served its pur- 
 pose. Perhaps no great empire ever 
 fell, with so little of the sympathy of 
 the world, as this. When we learn from 
 Tacitus, that even so early as the first 
 century, the armies of Rome, ay, of old 
 military Rome, were composed wholly of 
 foreigners ; when we read that, in the 
 fourth century, in a time of famine, all 
 the teachers of youth were banished 
 from the city, and six thousand dancers 
 were retained, — we give up a people 
 who had lost all the spirit for which na- 
 tional existence is worth preserving. 
 
 The dissolution of the Roman Empire 
 opens to us the next great scene in hu- 
 man affairs. The theatre is Central and 
 Western Europe. The political form 
 is feudality. The social powers are the 
 family and individual force. The pre- 
 siding genius is Christianity ; sadly cor- 
 rupted, indeed, but still it is Christianity. 
 To adventure upon this restless sea of 
 the Middle Ages, with all its struggling 
 elements, its crossing tides, and stormy 
 winds, is of course more than I propose; 
 but something may be said to indicate 
 the great current that was bearing the 
 world onward. 
 
 The feudal system was far freer than 
 the despotisms that preceded it. It was 
 
654 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY 
 
 not, as I think is often supposed, a mere 
 relation of barons and serfs ; it was a 
 general form of government, a political 
 hierarchy, extending from the emperor 
 or king, through successive grades, down 
 to the lowest subject; barons, counts, 
 lords, kings, as well as serfs, holding 
 their power or privilege respectively of 
 their superiors, and holding it on con- 
 dition of certain services to be rendered. 
 The tenure was a fee ; a word from the 
 old Teutonic, or from the Latin, yfii^'i- — 
 fede in Italian — fe in Spanish, i. e., a 
 trust. The idea involved in this tenure 
 was that of a duty, — of the low to the 
 high, and of the high to the low. It is 
 obvious, then, that the feudal system un- 
 dertook to define the relations of the 
 governing and the governed. It recog- 
 nized in both alike certain rights and 
 duties. This, if I mistake not, was a 
 new thing in the world. Tiie old Ro- 
 man law minutely described the rights 
 and duties of citizens toward one another, 
 but not the reciprocal claims of the gov- 
 ernment and people. That is to say, it 
 was law, but not a constitution. In the 
 feudal time was first heard in the world 
 the word privileges. It was the fashion 
 of the time, so to speak, to demand 
 them. The religious orders, as well as 
 the civil, were constantly obtaining/^rzW- 
 leges from their superiors. Privileges, 
 I repeat ; it was a word of potent effect, 
 a precedent never to be forgotten. The 
 whole struggle in Europe, by which 
 political freedom advanced, has been a 
 struggle for privileges, — a struggle of 
 nobles with kings, of the people with 
 them both. 
 
 Next, as M. Guizot has remarked,* 
 a n&vi family culture sprang from the 
 feudal system. The feudal lords, the 
 feudal superiors of every rank, dwelt 
 apart and alone. They were driven by 
 their very isolation to some culture, to 
 some mental resources ; and they were 
 numerous enough to give some tone to 
 public sentiment. Woman assumed a 
 new place, a new importance in society. 
 The romantic poetry of the period and 
 
 * Civilization in Europe, 4th lecture. 
 
 the spirit of chivalry both afford suffi- 
 cient proof of that. 
 
 But, above all, individual force was 
 developed in this period. Men began 
 slowly to learn and to feel that they 
 were men, that they had rights, that 
 they had individual, yea, and immortal 
 interests. Christianity inspired this feel- 
 ing, but feudalism fostered it beyond 
 all previous systems. Service to supe- 
 riors was voluntary; the serf or vassal 
 might choose his suzerain, and exact 
 guarantees from him. A new feeling 
 of selfhood, self-consciousness, self-reli- 
 ance, slowly grew up in the human 
 breast. It grew especially in the cities. 
 Commerce and mechanic art made men 
 rich and strong ; and they were able to 
 buy or exact from kings and nobles im- 
 portant concessions. There was much 
 freedom in Greece, but little individual 
 force. And when did there ever stand 
 upon the earth such a visible rep- 
 resentative of individual force as the 
 armed knight, — clad, himself and his 
 good ateed, in complete steel, with his 
 plated gauntlets, and breastplate, and 
 shield, and barred helmet, with his 
 double-edged falchion on one side, and 
 poniard on the other, and the axe at 
 his saddle-bow, and his long lance rest- 
 ing upon the stirrup, — a moving tower 
 of iron seated upon a fire-breathing en- 
 gine ? Our modern men dwindle into 
 puny citizens compared with this. 
 
 And the good knight must needs 
 wage war, ^ — must wage it even to the 
 walls of Jerusalem. And what fol- 
 lowed ? Why, he must have means, — 
 must have money. And where could 
 he get it ? Why, of the good burgesses 
 and citizens. And did they give it for 
 nothing ? No, tliey bought privileges 
 of knights and nobles and kings. Thus 
 the whole course of things, and espe- ^ 
 cially the Crusades, helped to raise the I 
 people, to sink the rulers. Tlie iron 
 tower, like the image of Nebuchad- 
 nezzar, was destined to fall, and crum- 
 ble in pieces, and disappear from the 
 earth. 
 I I have siid that Christianity presided 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 655 
 
 over this epoch. However imperfectly 
 understood, it did reign with absolute 
 swav. It was a law from which there 
 was no appeal. The high and the power- 
 ful, thougli they violated, never dared 
 formally to set it aside. They trembled 
 before its spiritual powers and awful 
 retributions. And it was not only a 
 law of right, but a spirit of mercy. It 
 not only awed, but softened the hearts 
 of men. It was an image of suffering 
 p:Uience and pity that they worshipped. 
 That one perfect life, — that one great 
 sacrifice, — think what its appeal must 
 have been compared with the influence 
 of any former religion. It espoused, 
 aiiove all, the cause of the poor, the suf- 
 fering, the wronged, and crushed. The 
 gosjjel was humanity, even more than it 
 was divinity. The light that came into 
 the world was veiled in the softened 
 shadow of human pity and gentleness. 
 
 Still, however, the civilization of this 
 period was extremely immature. It 
 was full of misdirected efforts and wild 
 struggles. No satisfactory civil order 
 was established, nor proper recognition 
 of human rights obtained. The human 
 race went on through the Middle Ages 
 like a rash and reckless youth when 
 approaching his majority. It pursued 
 a wild and irregular career, now rising, 
 now falling, now stumbling on the dark 
 mountains of ignorance, and now wal- 
 lowing in the great Roman sink of sensu- 
 ality, — with broken columns and fallen 
 temples all around, — now filled with the 
 fierce, hot haste of passion, and then 
 witli the sullen melancholy of despair. 
 -All its labors were tentative. The whole 
 course of things was a series of experi- 
 ments preparing for a future and brighter 
 day. 
 
 In that brighter day I believe we now 
 stand, — in the great day of the world's 
 mnnhood, — not in the latter, however, 
 but in the earlier part of that day ; for I 
 look upon the grand agents now in the 
 field as having only commenced their 
 magnificent work. 
 
 This epoch, beginning with the six- 
 teenth century, is crowded with events 
 
 which are alike proofs and promises of 
 advancement, — the birth, as a popular 
 fact, of free religious thought in the 
 Reformation in Germany ; the great 
 stand for political liberty in England, 
 and the building up and prosperity of 
 the American republic ; the establish- 
 ment of the inductive philosophy, and 
 the almost entire creation of the physi- 
 cal sciences ; the rise of the fine arts 
 in Italy, and the cultivation of music, 
 which are almost wholly within this 
 period ; the invention of the art of 
 printing, of the cotton gin, and of the 
 steam engine ; the introduction of the 
 system of common schools and the dif- 
 fusion of knowledge among the people ; 
 in fine, the unprecedented impulse given 
 to the minds of men by the universal 
 spirit of improvement. 
 
 All this, I need not insist, is prog- 
 ress. Neither can I dwell upon these 
 subjects in detail ; nor is it necessary, 
 perhaps, for my purpose ; they speak 
 sufficiently for themselves. I can only 
 refer, in general, to the indications 
 which these agencies bear to the sphere 
 in which they are working, and to the 
 encouragement, if not a more solemn 
 feeling, which they should inspire. 
 
 Look, then, at this grand array ot 
 forces. Can any one of them stop ? 
 Can the spirit of freedom, political or 
 religious, die out from the hearts of 
 men? Have they got hold of rights, 
 and will they ever let them go ? Can 
 philosophy or science stop ? Go ask 
 the studious and enthusiastic toilers in 
 those enchanted fields, and they will 
 tell you that you might as well ex- 
 pect them to desire the sun to go 
 down when its morning light is spread 
 upon the mountains. Can genius be 
 quenched, or the fine arts dash chisel 
 and palette to the ground, or music, 
 that is making the air of the world 
 vibrate to its melodies, die out into 
 mournful silence ? Can men stop print- 
 ing hooks, or reading them ? Can they 
 break the steam engine in pieces, un- 
 less they fiind, if that be possible, a bet- 
 ter power ? But will they give up, after 
 
656 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTINY. 
 
 having found it, a power to bear their 
 cars over the land and their ships over 
 the sea ? Can this pestilent notion of 
 educating the people — this universal 
 diffusion of knowledge — by any means 
 have a stop put to it ? I am afraid 
 not. Let Austria try. But she does not 
 try. She is swept on by the resistless 
 current. No, the spirit of improvement 
 has got hold of the world, and the ex- 
 orcism to drive it out is not yet found, 
 and never will be. No, the world has 
 got beyond the waverings of its youth ; 
 it has come of age. It has come to 
 the sober thought and settled purpose 
 of manhood, and nothing can shake 
 that thought and purpose. Look again 
 at the theatre of this modern culture. 
 It is Western Europe and America, — 
 not an inaccessible mountain land, fit 
 to be the fastness of mere freedom, — 
 not a vast plain, like those of Asia, 
 opened for the expansion of immense 
 empires, — but a tract of the earth 
 washed by oceans, intersected by bays 
 and rivers, essentially commercial, hav- 
 ing easy communication with all the 
 world. It is the grand propagandist 
 portion of the world. Its inhabitants, 
 descending from races in whom the 
 fullest measure of human energy has 
 been developed, have become the most 
 enlightened nations of the earth, and 
 the most rapidly growing. The Saxon 
 race, which two centuries ago was only 
 three millions, now numbers fifty-three 
 millions. These countries, thus ad- 
 vanced in civilization, filled with manu- 
 factories, with arts, with books, with 
 inventions for human comfort and im- 
 provement, possess the very advantages 
 which the rest of the world wants ; and 
 now, just when they are prepared for 
 this office of diffusion, is the grand in- 
 strument of diffusion put into their 
 hands, — I mean, of course, the power 
 of steam. Now, at length, shall they 
 send back to Asia and the farthest Tar- 
 tary the cultivated children descended 
 from their swarming colonies, and to 
 Africa the descendants of the captives 
 once torn from her bosom. It has be- 
 
 come just as certain that steamships 
 and steam cars shall penetrate the soli- 
 tudes of Africa and the crowded vil- 
 lages of populous Asia, and carry to 
 them our arts, our sciences, our litera- 
 ture, and our religion, as that the light 
 which breaks upon the eastern horizon 
 shall spread itself through the world. 
 
 1 know that dark fears are entertained 
 by some concerning what is passing 
 in these very countries, — popular out- 
 breaks, decline of the old reverence, 
 signs, as they think, of social deteriora- 
 tion. But it seems to me, with all due 
 respect for their opinion, that they are 
 looking at the little eddyings on the 
 stream of events, and not at the deep 
 current. There are popular outbreaks, 
 but they soon pass away. There is less 
 respect for rank and riches — less even 
 than there should be — the world does 
 not easily stop at the right point ; but 
 is there less respect for talent, learn- 
 ing, and worth ? I believe that the indi- 
 cations, which the alarmists constantly 
 adduce, are the superficial ones. The 
 movement of things is perhaps never 
 direct, but in circles. Rubbish and 
 straw are on the outside, and* they are 
 blown this way and that way; and in 
 the wide sweep of the elements, in the 
 vast gyrations of the slow revolution- 
 ary movement that is bearing on the 
 civilized world, things may seem to be 
 going backward, and may really be go- 
 ing backward in certain quarters, — i. e., 
 relatively going backward, while all is 
 actually going forward. Nay, and the 
 more violent are the gusts upon the sur- 
 face, the eddies upon the stream, the 
 more rapid and strong may be the great 
 and onward tendency. 
 
 This impression which prevails in the 
 minds of some of the best men, that 
 we are in a state of social deterioration, 
 is no new thing in the world, and it is a 
 very curious thing. I have sometimes 
 thought that it proceeds, in part, from a 
 natural modesty ; that it results, under 
 this influence, from a comparison very 
 likely to be made by superior minds, 
 and not by the body of the people. Our 
 
THE PROBLEM OF HUMAN DESTIiNY. 
 
 657 
 
 predecessors^ the leading men, by whom, 
 as pillars, the world was borne up, are 
 venerable lo us; the places they filled, 
 the presidencies, the magistracies ; the 
 parts they acted— of orators, judges, 
 lawyers, clergy — were clothed with 
 dignity and honor ; they were great and 
 noble men to us ; their figures loom up 
 majestically in the dim land of the past. 
 .Vow these great functions — these presi- 
 dencies, magistracies, forums, pulpits — 
 have fallen into the hands of us, pygmy 
 men : these high places have sunk down 
 to the level of our common and every- 
 day life ; we are nothing to ourselves, 
 compared with wliat l/'iiy were to us ; 
 we cannot believe that we equal them, 
 or anything near it ; all is run down, we 
 say ; society is deteriorating ; the world 
 is growing more ignoble every day. 
 The next generation will probably make 
 the same reflection, when it compares 
 itself with us. 
 
 It is no new thing in the world, as I 
 have said; and if it were true, — if the 
 world, according to this impression, had 
 been really ever growing worse, it must 
 have come, by this time, to a sad pass 
 indeed. Even the old Greek Hesiod 
 thought that he was living in " an iron 
 age," and that all the happy ages had gone 
 by. LonginUs, who lived in the time of 
 Aurelian and in the court of Zenobia, 
 compared the men of his day to chil- 
 dren, whose limbs were contracted and 
 cramped by bandages.* The decadence 
 of Rome might well justify something 
 of this despondency. And we can sym- 
 pathize with the noble Cicero in his sad- 
 ness, who, writing to his friend Atticus, 
 from his retreat in the beautiful island 
 of Astura, says, " I retire in the morning 
 to the thick and wild wood, and do not 
 leave it till evening. Next to you, the 
 dearest tiling is solitude. In this, my 
 converse is with letters ; but tears often 
 interrupt it. I restrain them as much 
 as I can ; but as yet, am not equal to 
 it."t More magnanimously fought his 
 battle with discouragement a modern 
 man. and in an hour no less dark. It 
 
 * De Sublimitate, chap. 43. 
 t Epist. ad Atticuni, B. xii. 15. 
 
 was amidst the horrors of the French 
 Revolution. There, in a street in Paris, 
 in a house sought for hiding, and while 
 the blood of the innocent and noble was 
 flowing around him, sat a man whose 
 quiet employment was the writing of a 
 book. That man was the Marquis de 
 Condorcet. And what, think you, was 
 the subject of the book he was writing ? 
 It was niati's certain progress to liberty, 
 virtue, and happi/uss. 
 
 It is certain. It is certain ijecause 
 it is the purpose of Heaven. It is cer- 
 tain because of what it has already cost. 
 It is certain because all the steps of 
 past progress are promises. And what 
 promises .-* Promises earned from ages 
 of toil and sorrow ; promises written on . 
 the rack and the scaffold, where patriots 
 have died for liberty, and Christians for 
 truth ; promises pronounced over the 
 gloomy altars where sorrowing nations 
 have been slain ; ay, and sealed in the 
 blood of the noblest men in the world : 
 such promises shall not go unfulfilled. 
 
 Ever solemn is the story of the world. 
 A solemn thing it is for us, the Ameri- 
 can people, to take our place in the 
 great procession of nations. Whence 
 came we, and why are we here, but to 
 do our part ? The sorrowing ages call 
 upon us to do our part. The tears and 
 groans of long-suflfering and sighing 
 humanity call upon us to do our part. 
 Empires crushed under the weight of 
 hopeless bondage — millions that have 
 wandered in the darkness of ignorance 
 and amidst the terrors of superstition, 
 address to us — to ks especially — the 
 great adjuration ; and they say, O ve, a 
 people, free, intelligent, Christian ! — 
 who know your duty and have liberty to 
 perform it ; O ye, a people, whose foot 
 is set upon an unchartered soil ; whose 
 hands are filled with the riches of the 
 world ; whose children, partners of your- 
 selves, are to wander down the coming 
 ages, through the fairest domain that 
 God ever gave to man ; hear the voice 
 of humanity; hear the voice that comes 
 from earth — and that comes from 
 Heaven ! 
 
 42 
 
THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 SERMONS. 
 
 ON THE CULTIVATION OF THE 
 RELIGIOUS AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Psalm cxlv. lo : "All thy works praise thee, O 
 Lord, and thy saints bless thee." 
 
 There is a cluster of stars in the 
 southern heavens appearing to the 
 naked eye as a faint haze, scarcely 
 larger than a hand's-breadth, but which 
 is seen by the telescope to be filled with 
 innumerable suns. Suns, they must be, 
 because they could not be seen if they 
 were planetary orbs ; and again, suns, 
 because it is found by the spectrum 
 analysis that they are composed of the 
 same materials as our own. If a canvas 
 were lifted up, high and vast as a moun- 
 tain-side, and then if it were filled with 
 jets of golden light, thickest in the 
 centre, and sown all round with bril- 
 liant points, some impression, might be 
 taken of that wondrous spectacle in the 
 heavens. 
 
 There is a bed of coral, and many 
 such there are, in the Pacific Seas, filled 
 with animalcules, — living creatures, un- 
 numbered as the stars in that far-off 
 universe ; so small that only the micro- 
 scope can discover them ; each one with 
 an exquisite organization ; each one fit- 
 ted for its work, and all working with 
 perfect enjoyment. The whole popula- 
 tion of our globe is but as a unit to the 
 countless millions which inhabit those 
 coral beds. How much enjoyment there 
 lis in a hundred millions of them, — and 
 
 there are more than that in a drop of 
 water, — how much enjoyment, I say, in 
 that drop of water, compared with what 
 there is in a single animal, an ox or a 
 lion, we do not know ; but they are ac- 
 tive ; they feed and sport — I have seen 
 them ; they are sensitive creatures, they 
 play and they work ; they build houses, 
 larger than royal palaces, — houses in 
 which they Uve, and when they die they 
 leave behind them tombs, the cemetery 
 ranges of coral reef which line the shores 
 of continents. 
 
 Between these extremes of the crea- 
 tion, between the almost infinitely great 
 and the infinitesimally small, there is 
 a universe of splendor, beauty, and be- 
 neficence ; systems within' systems of 
 material order, from the hyssop that 
 springeth by the wall, to the cedar of 
 Lebanon ; from the taper that shines in 
 our chamber, to Sirius flaming with the 
 blaze of a hundred suns ; worlds within 
 worlds of life ; hundreds of thousands 
 of animal species on earth and millions, 
 perhaps, of such living worlds in the 
 spheres around us ; and hierarchies of 
 immortal souls, made to behold and 
 enjoy all this wonder and beauty : — 
 
 "There's not the smallest orb which thou be- 
 hold'st, 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins." 
 
 Above all these worlds of life, these 
 systems of worlds, there is One Being, 
 from whom they have proceeded, — from 
 One Being, or from nothing; who can 
 
RELIGIOUS CULTURE. 
 
 659 
 
 believe that it is from nothing ? No, as 
 we look upon this stupendous frame of 
 thino-s, one thought predominates over 
 all others ; and we say of this universe, 
 '• wliose Builder and Maker is God," I 
 know of Him the least possible com- 
 pared with what He is ; and yet there is 
 nothing of which 1 know so much. All 
 else that I know is knowing something 
 of Him. No perception of my mind, 
 no tliought, no imagination, no affec- 
 tion, but relates to something which 
 His power has made or His goadness 
 given. 
 
 What place does this great Idea hold 
 in our minds ? Not, what place as an 
 abstraction, but as a reality; what place 
 in our daily thoughts, in our cherished 
 affections, in the very culture of our 
 minds and hearts, in the very forming 
 our character, in the living springs of 
 our happiness, in what we most earnestly 
 seek to know and realize and make our 
 own.' Does it hold any such place, — 
 I. e., in most minds ? When the gran- 
 deur and beauty of nature are before us, 
 when we gaze upon beautiful scenery, 
 does the thought of that great Presence 
 often come over us, and irradi ite them 
 with new glory? When we mingle vvith 
 our fellow-beings in happy intercourse, 
 ao we often think of that Goodness that 
 breathes through all human affections ? 
 Ana when the visible world is shut out, 
 when we lay ourselves down to rest, 
 alone, in silence and darkness, does the 
 all-creating Life, that stirs in every beat- 
 ing pulse and thrilling nerve, in this 
 whole complicated and wondrous frame, 
 and in the mind that soars above it, 
 often fill us with adoring gratitude and 
 peaceful trust ? 
 
 If not, why does it not? Why is it 
 that that which is not only greatest as 
 an object of thought, but which lias the 
 most vital relations with all that we 
 think, occupies so small a space in the 
 actual thoughts of men ? We admire 
 grandeur and beauty ; it is a law of our 
 nature. We are not made to prefer the 
 mean and low, for contemplation, to that 
 which is lofty and sublime. We could 
 
 not bend our gaze upon the ground, or 
 upon any gem that sparkled in it, if an 
 angel presence were passing by. How, 
 then, is this ? How is it that this 
 anomaly in human experience is to be 
 understood ? How is it that the pulpit 
 can hurl down denunciations upon the 
 people for their neglect of God, and the 
 people, convicted and conscience-strick- 
 en, can do nothing but bow submissive 
 before it ? A man would resent the 
 charge of indifference to liuman friend- 
 ship and affection. Accuse him of being 
 thankless to his benefactor, and he feels 
 it like a wound. Tell him even that he 
 has no taste, no sense of what is beauti- 
 ful or grand in nature or art, no admira- 
 tion nor reverence for the noblest things, 
 for the noblest men in the world, and 
 he will be as indignant as if he were 
 defamed. How is it, then, that he can 
 pass on in life and through life, uncon- 
 cerned at being cold and dead to that 
 which is the source of all that is glorious 
 and beautiful, — seldom brought to any 
 solemn pause or meditation, seldom 
 drawn to admiration or wonder, by all 
 the Glory and Goodness and Loveliness 
 that shine around him ? 
 
 Doubtless there are reasons, partly 
 moral, but partly mental also. Scrip- 
 ture saith, '-Your iniquities have sepa- 
 rated between )'ou and your God." 
 Doubtless the thought of an Infinite 
 Holiness strikes us with restraining awe. 
 Infinite Perfection, through our miscon- 
 ception of it, causes our imperfection to 
 stand aghast, aloof, at a distance. It 
 could never have been meant that it 
 should do so. Infinite Perfection is In- 
 finite Love, and should win and draw all 
 creatures to it. And there is nothing 
 which to my mind more completely sums 
 up the meaning of the mission of fesus, 
 than that he came ''to bring us nigh to 
 God." 
 
 But there are mental difficulties also 
 in the way. Sympathy is the nurse of 
 affection ; but we hesitate to apply that 
 term to the relation between us and the 
 Infinite One. I will not say that His 
 invisibility hinders us from feeling His 
 
66o 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 presence ; for man's spirit is just as 
 truly invisible. But human loveliness is 
 clothed with a form, is manifested by a 
 countenance, b}' actions and expressions, 
 which appeal more easily and movingly 
 to our affections. Nor yet is this all. 
 Greater hindrances than all these are 
 found in false ideas of God. These 
 take root, alas ! in the very nurture of 
 (;ur childhood. All that makes religion 
 disagreeable to us, all the gloom and 
 constraint that gathered in the faces of 
 our friends when God was spoken of, a!l 
 the weariness of enforced worship, — 
 sabbaths and sermons and cateciiisings, 
 — all these influences have collected 
 around the great central Idea to make 
 it something strange and repulsive. 
 And when we grew up into life, what 
 were we taught concerning God? What 
 was tiie character ascribed to Him ? 
 Doubtless it was said that He is infi- 
 nitely good ; and that^ detached from all 
 other considerations, would draw love to 
 Him, and has. But theology has over- 
 shadowed the bright picture, and created 
 a character which, if it were attributed 
 to any other being, it would be impos- 
 sible to love. Men have been taught 
 that.it was natural to them to hate their 
 Maker: and such a Being as has been 
 represented to be their Maker, a Being 
 who has brought them into existence, 
 with a nature totally depraved and ut- 
 terly helpless, unable to render obedi- 
 ence, and yet. for failing of it, to be 
 doomed to endless misery; yes, infants, 
 little children too, who had not sinned, 
 doomed to be cast into everlasting fire, 
 there to suffer forever, not for anything 
 they had done, but for Adam's fall ; such 
 a Being, I say, men could not love ; but 
 such a Being their Maker is not. The 
 dogma of endless pain for the errings 
 of a short life is fast dying out of the 
 world ; but its influence upon our minds 
 does not die so fast. Let not those wlio 
 flntter themselves that they have escaped 
 from the shadow of darkening creeds, 
 imagine that they have escaped alto- 
 gether. The motley of errors which 
 ages have laid, fold after fold, upon the 
 
 human mind, cannot be stripped off in a 
 single generation. 
 
 Now all this enforces the necessity of 
 care and culture for our religious affec- 
 tions. And yet this is precisely what is 
 liable to be overlooked. It is so with all 
 our affections. The idea of cultivating 
 tliem enters into few men's thoughts. 
 Family attachment, for instance, friend- 
 ship, love, are regarded as things to be left 
 to themselves. Because they are natu- 
 ral and spontaneous, which they are in 
 their origin, it is thought that they are 
 to be left to themselves. Culture, care 
 of them, would distort or stunt them, it 
 is thought, would mar their beauty or 
 check their freedom. Like wild growths 
 of nature, they are left to be, to run to 
 waste or to overgrowth ; not to be trained 
 to higher perfection and beauty, as in a 
 garden. 
 
 Thus wedlock, the tap-root of all well- 
 ordered human society, is looked upon 
 as a simple, perhaps sudden, love- 
 growth, — ''love at first sight," it is 
 sometimes called, — and it is expected 
 to make a happy life of itself Its first 
 rapture is taken to be the pledge of life- 
 long happiness. Alas ! there are those, 
 and too many such, who find that to be 
 a dreadful mistake. I once heard a 
 lecturer, who boldly said, " No : wed- 
 lock is not meant for happiness alone, 
 but for development, discipline, trial of 
 the character." Certain it is, and plain, 
 that two imperfect human wills cannot 
 be bound together in any possible re- 
 lation without difference and difficulty 
 sometimes springing up. Questions 
 must often arise. " Is this, or that 
 way, the best ? Which of two things 
 is right .'' — which expedient?" It is 
 impossible that any two minds should 
 always agree. And that is a reason, I 
 think, for the separate employments 
 that seem to be appointed to the sexes, 
 — for separate spheres of action, — that 
 there be not too much collision. But, 
 any way, it is certain that there is 
 enough, and inevitably enough, to make 
 candor, patience, and forbearance neces- 
 sary ; in other words, to make cultiva- 
 
RELIGIOUS CULTURE. 
 
 66 1 
 
 tion, thought, watchfulness, indispensa- 
 ble to the perfection and blessedness of 
 connubial love. 
 
 I have turned aside from my theme 
 for a moment to give this as an illustra- 
 tion ; for that which is true in the sphere 
 of our highest earthly affections is still 
 more true in the higher sphere of our re- 
 ligious affections. Religion in the soul is 
 regarded as a gift bestowed, rather than 
 as a talent to be improved. But neg- 
 lected, bound up and laid aside in a 
 napkin, it will find no acceptance nor 
 favor nor help from Heaven. 
 
 The higher any culture is in the soul, 
 the more will it cost to reach it ; the high- 
 est education in science, literature, phi- 
 losophy, art, more study and effort than 
 the lowest. If, then, there is, between 
 every soul and its Maker, a bond more 
 sacred, a relation more exalted, than 
 any other ; if this one thing in human 
 experience is loftier, is more sublime 
 than any other ; if there is such a thing 
 possible for man as the love of God, a 
 reverence, an adoration which no words 
 can utter, a trust and joy in the Infinite 
 Rectitude, bringing perfect peace, bring- 
 ing the unshaken assurance that all is 
 well, and will end well, — if such a stay 
 and strength can be found by the weak 
 and troubled soul, and such a profound 
 and soul-filling satisfaction, would the 
 study and care and prayer of a life be 
 accounted too much to gain it 1 
 
 But now everything depends on the 
 mode of seeking; in other words, upon 
 the method of culture, and upon the 
 motive, too. If piety is cultivated with 
 reluctance, with much pain, and much 
 mere pains-taking, only to escape per- 
 dition, only to secure the favor of a 
 jealous God, nothing will be gained but 
 dearth and barrenness and death ; or 
 if life of a certain kind, if a selfish 
 satisfaction, it will not be piety, but 
 superstition. 
 
 Therefore the first thing in the cul- 
 ture of piety is to think rightly of God ; 
 not only by ridding our minds of the 
 false ideas to which I have referred, but 
 by positive conceptions of the Divine 
 
 Nature as that which justly draws to it 
 an unhesitating and unbounded affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Now that which hinders this is either 
 a distrust of the Infinite Goodness, or 
 else it is the failure to see this Goodness 
 as real, as intentional, as the attribute 
 of a Being. Consider first the failure 
 to see. I cannot love or revere an ab- 
 straction. I cannot love a universe of 
 things, though it be co-ordinated to do 
 me good. There must be a meaning, a 
 motive, an intent in all this, or I am left 
 cold, indiflferent, and thankless. And 
 this is the condition of too many minds. 
 The earth and sky give us light and 
 food and raiment, and the common 
 tliought does not go beyond them. 
 '' What a beautiful day ! " one ,says, 
 and thinks no more of it, — perhaps 
 never does. The stream of social affec- 
 tions flows through us and around us ; 
 and what pours that flood-tide of joy 
 through the world is unthought of: 
 swift-winged thoughts fly from mind to 
 mind in wonderful interchanges all the 
 day long, and they are as birds of 
 the air, scarcely regarded ; never sing- 
 ing out our thanksgiving to the all- 
 quickening Life. We are shut up in 
 this visible round of nature and life, as 
 in a theatre ; the lights, the scenes, 
 engage us : and who wrought this won- 
 derful drama, who has filled it with 
 beauty, with delight, with joyous satis- 
 faction, — this Source of all is out of 
 the common reach of men's thoughts. 
 
 " Filled it with delight, with joy," do 
 you say? Ah! if it were so. Here 
 comes in the distrust. Pain, bitter pain, 
 of body and mind ; " the heart-ache and 
 the thousand ills that flesh is heir to;"' 
 can it be Goodness, unmingled Good- 
 ness, that sends all tiiis upon us ? This 
 is not often expressed, but it is felt, as 
 a brooding distrust. I remember being 
 told of a man, otherwise respectable, 
 who was drawing nigh to his end, in 
 great and previously long-continued 
 suffering, who broke out into open- 
 mouthed rage at his lot ; who did what 
 the wife of Job counselled /i:>n to do ; 
 
66: 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 who cursed God and died. He said, 
 " Speak not to me of God, as a Being to 
 love. God Almighty, if there be a God, 
 would never inflict upon me such suf- 
 fering if he were a good Being." Now 
 suppose that this man had Hved to learn 
 a new lesson from the discipline of sor- 
 row and pain. Suppose that he had 
 lived to learn that suffering contributes 
 to make a far grander manhood than 
 uninterrupted enjoyment could. Suppose 
 he had risen from his sick-bed, with a 
 new and more tender sympathy for «// 
 suffering ; nay, that he had been led to 
 consecrate his life to the soothing and 
 relief of all suffering ; and that he had 
 thus come to a far other and nobler end, 
 amidst the blessings and thanksgivings 
 of multitudes whom he had lived to 
 comfort and help. Would he not then 
 have seen that " whom God loveth, he 
 chasteneth " ? Why, even Bidpai, the 
 old Asiatic fabulist, knew that. Boe- 
 thius and many another ancient sage 
 and sufferer knew that. They all say, 
 what our Christian teachers say, that 
 the path to the highest for man is 
 through hardship and trial and heroic 
 endurance ; nay, that martyrdom — to 
 die for the right, amidst fire and blood 
 — is the very crown of humanity. 
 
 It is said, I know, that animals have 
 no such remuneration for what they suf- 
 fer. And it may be asked why they 
 should suffer at all, since it is not for 
 their sins, nor for their improvement. 
 The problem may be too deep for us 
 to fathom. But we see in all animal 
 life an immense superabundance of en- 
 joyment, with but few of the drawbacks 
 that are found in our human lot. And 
 seeing this, more than one miserable 
 Imman creature has envied them their 
 happy condition. And such is their en- 
 joyment of existence, and such are the 
 evidences of a divine goodness and wis- 
 dom all around us, that I should not so 
 much wonder at the animal lot, as I 
 should at the presumption that turned 
 it into an argument for distrust of God. 
 Surely it is reasonable to believe, and it 
 is monstrous to doubt, that the best was 
 
 ordained for them, as for all things, — the 
 best that was iDossible. We do not know 
 that it was possible to give any creature 
 a constitution sensitive to pleasure, with- 
 out its being liable to pain; the one 
 being the correlative of the other. Un- 
 conditioned good may be as impossible 
 to created beings as absolute perfection. 
 Impossibilities are beyond the reach of 
 any power to achieve or wisdom to will. 
 Nobody denies that the streams which 
 flow down our valleys are beneficent 
 and beautiful, though they sometimes 
 swell into freshets that tear away their 
 banks or the buildings upon them. 
 
 And there is a stream of blessings, 
 flowing through the wcrld, through the 
 universe, in outpoured life, in the light 
 of suns and stars, — 
 
 " Bright effluence of bright essence increate," — 
 
 in the astonishing system of molecules, 
 now discovered, now found to be atoms 
 or forces propagated with inconceivable 
 swiftness through the whole material 
 creation, causing it to throb from side 
 to side, as with pulses of the infinite 
 Life. All this must draw our wonder, 
 delight, and admiration to the all-won- 
 derful Cause, whatever else we know 
 or do not know concerning it. 
 
 How can any rational being look upon 
 all this outward show, and never think- 
 of the infinite Reality ! How can he 
 idly glance at the pages of such a vol- 
 ume, and never ask what it tells him ! 
 Imagine social life to be such, — a mere 
 outside show, and no thought nor affec- 
 tion of ours going beyond the visible 
 action to the loving hearts around us ! 
 It would be an inconceivable blindness. 
 But an infinite goodness ! — think of 
 that ; and no thought going behind the 
 gifts to the Giver ! If it had created 
 beauty, and the sense of the beautiful 
 alone, that would be enough to chal- 
 lenge perpetual admiration. Why should 
 not a thoughtful man pause and meditate 
 upon all this, and deliberately and ear- 
 nestly set himself to acquire, to cultivate 
 the habit of looking through the seen to 
 the Unseen ? I put it to such thought- 
 
RELIGIOUS CULTURE. 
 
 663 
 
 ful man ; and I say, one of two things 
 is certain and must be accepted by you. 
 Either there is no God : the universe 
 of things is all that exists ; or there is a 
 God, — the Cause of ail this wonderful 
 universe th.it is around us. If atheism 
 is the mournful conclusion to which any 
 one has come, then in that mournfulness 
 I must leave him, so far as my present 
 argument is concerned ; appeal, expos- 
 tulation, calling upon all religious aspi- 
 rations, has nothing to do with him. 
 But if there is a God, what then ? If it 
 is a fool that says, " There is no God ; " 
 what is he who says there is a God, 
 there is such a transcendent and all- 
 glorious Existence, and does not bow 
 down with awe and wonder, with joy 
 and gladness in His presence, — does 
 not feel that that is the one central Idea 
 about which everything revolves .'' Ev- 
 ery thing, — the stars in their courses, 
 the train of all earthly events, the 
 tlioughts, the purposes, the reverence, 
 the obedience of every living soul. 
 
 To arrest the thoughts, to fix them 
 from time to time in meditation upon 
 God, to lift the undisturbed soul to 
 Him in aspiration and prayer, to read 
 books written by devout men ; to see 
 how David, how Isaiah, how Jesus, 
 felt the great presence ; to meditate 
 upon the words of the Psalmist, " O 
 God, Thou art my God, early will I seeic 
 Thee ; " to listen when Jesus savs, 
 "Father, my Father!" — is not this 
 what any one can do, what he will do, if 
 he is interested to learn this great wis- 
 dom ; what he ivoiild do, to be acquaint- 
 ed with anything that he desires to 
 know, — as the artist with his model, the 
 poet with his theme, the philosopher 
 with his problem ? Shall everything be 
 studied, inquired into, meditated upon, 
 but the Source of all thought, knowledge, 
 and wisdom .? Shall a man seek to 
 know of everything but of God ? The 
 partisan theology of sects is laden in 
 these days, I know, with the heaviest 
 opprobrium ; but theology, in the true 
 sense of the word, is the noblest of sci- 
 ences and pursuits. 
 
 But let not this daily meditation, this 
 holy retreat, that I am speaking of, be 
 spoiled by formality or by constraint ; 
 let it, in the time and manner of it, be 
 freely chosen, and freely used as every 
 one finds best for him. There are many 
 who go daily to their prayers, to what 
 they call, perhaps, " saj'i/ig their pray- 
 ers," reluctantly ; to keep their religious 
 account right ; to do that without vvhicli 
 they would not be Christians, and could 
 have no Christian hope; like the pilgrim 
 to Mecca or Loretto, to touch a certain 
 spot, or to perform a certain rite, neces- 
 sary to salvation. Fatal is all such 
 praying ; leaving the soul cold, reluc- 
 tant, sad in its devotions, or if with a 
 selfish joy, no better for it. No; let the 
 retreat into private thought be welcome, 
 free, sought for a higher end than safety. 
 No matter for the manner of it : walk- 
 ing in a grove, sitting in silence, or 
 kneeling in lowly adoration. Let it be 
 a mingling of meditations and prayers ; 
 of thoughts of ourselves, of our errings 
 and needs, — a seeking for help and 
 strength, but above all a sinking into 
 the depths unknown, of the all-divine 
 and good and beautiful. God is far 
 away from the too common habits of 
 our minds ; let us draw nigh to Him, to 
 "be filled," as St. Paul expresses it, — 
 "to be filled, with all His fulness." 
 
 Blessed beyond all price is the place 
 and the hour of such visitation from On 
 high ; yea, one touch of that great feel- 
 ing ; but the whole of life, the world, is 
 the sphere to be blessed by an habitual 
 sense of the ever-present and all-sur- 
 rounding Goodness : and to attain this, 
 is the special and earnest endeavor which 
 I would urge. 
 
 There is a sense of the Divine Pres- 
 ence, in which one may be said, like 
 Enoch of old, to walk with God. It is 
 not distinctly prayer : it is better than 
 prayer ; it is the outcome of prayer ; but 
 who will ever attain to this without learn- 
 ing by direct endeavor to look through 
 life, through the world, through nature, 
 up to nature's God ? 
 
 Ah ! this all-surrounding Goodness, — 
 
664 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 it is too vast and glorious for us to com- 
 prehend ; and, alas for us ! it seems so 
 impersonal at times. It must be real 
 and living; goodness cannot be an at- 
 tribute of matter ; whatever has made 
 me good and happy must have meant it ; 
 sunshine and showers and spring ver- 
 dure have no thought in them to do 
 that; the joy and love that flow through 
 ( ur hearts cannot have come from 
 nothing : and yet, the all-pervading 
 Goodness seems so impersonal at times. 
 It is liable to seem so, from its bound- 
 less and ceaseless diffusion. And it 
 moves on in such majestic and unbend- 
 ing order ; it shines in the sun, it falls 
 in the rain ; all is silent, voiceless, un- 
 varying law, — " the light, the fountains 
 sweet," morning and evening ; the splen- 
 dor of day and the night shade for re- 
 pose, hill and dale, flowing streams and 
 waving grain-fields, — so that he who 
 looks upon all this with vague and un- 
 thinking gaze, will never come to know 
 the living God. 
 
 Then, and if it be so, must come in 
 place of this vague, unthinking gaze, a 
 thoughtful, careful, cultivated attention. 
 A book is opened to us, in nature and 
 in our own souls, for us to read. Shall 
 we not strive to penetrate through its 
 visible letters to its great meaning ? 
 Why, even the work of an earthly sage 
 demands that much of us. What would 
 be said of one, who looked upon the 
 works of a great human genius, of Shak- 
 speare or Milton, and took notice of 
 nothing but the exterior appearance, ■ — 
 the fine binding, the beautiful type, the 
 gilded edges, — and never cared to go 
 beyond to the volumed wisdom within ? 
 And if such a superficial person should 
 come u!ider our observation, could we 
 help saying to him, — why do you not 
 look more deeply into these volumes, to 
 see what genius, light, and beauty are 
 within them ? 
 
 Oman of thought ! — if such will listen 
 to me," — why was thought given you, if 
 not to rise to the Source of all thought .'' 
 I am sorrv, in what 1 am saying, to use 
 this tone of urgency, of urgent argument. 
 
 — so spontaneous, so freely upspring- 
 ing is the devotion of a soul once 
 touched, once translated into that sphere 
 of heavenly light and life. But it must 
 be Jij'i^ed, it must be urged, upon a workl 
 that is living without God. It is a new 
 word to that world. And, accepted, it 
 would make a new heavens and a new 
 earth. But if habit is strong, and argu- 
 ment with it, alas ! unavailing, though I 
 trust it is not, yet if 1 thought it must 
 be so, 1 would turn to the season in 
 which habits are not formed, to the plas- 
 tic season of youth : and I would say, — 
 begin that life, which you have just re- 
 ceived from the Infinite Goodness, by 
 confiding in it, by loving it. What is it 
 that has kindled the heavens over you 
 and opened your eyes to all this wonder 
 and beauty around you ? Just stepped 
 out from nothing, just awakened to tiiis 
 joyous existence ; flowers blossoming in 
 your path, pleasant fields and play- 
 grounds around you ; sweet fields, not 
 beyond the swelling flood, but here and 
 now around you : sweeter affections in 
 your hearts, that make the names of 
 father, mother, brother, sister, so dear ; 
 what is it that has opened these foun- 
 tains of joy and gladness ; what is it 
 that hath poured around you all this 
 flood of blessings ? It is Goodness, over- 
 flowing, unbounded, unspeakable. It is 
 God. If God were not, nothing of all 
 this had ever been. Turn, child of God ! 
 
 — turn, like the morning-glory, to that 
 Sun which alone can impart to your 
 life its brightest hues, and fill it with 
 more than earthly fragrance. 
 
 In old time, "men sought the Lord, 
 if haply they might feel after Him and 
 find Him." So must they seek Him 
 still, with earnest desire and endeavor. 
 Truly and rightly to love the Infinite 
 Goodness, is to do so, not of constraint, 
 not for hire, not for heaven, but for itself, 
 
 — simply, sincerely, willingly, gladly, 
 just as we love everything good and 
 lovely. We grow in the love of our 
 friend by being with him, in body or in 
 spirit. So must we be with God, in 
 meditation, in communion, in the full 
 
RIGHTEOUSNESS THE CENTRAL LAW. 
 
 66= 
 
 sense of His presence. David knew 
 tlie way. "O God, Thou art my God, 
 early will I seek Thee : my soul thirsteth 
 for Thee, my flesh longeth for Thee ; to 
 see Thy power and Thy glory. Because 
 Thy loving-kindness is better than life, 
 my lips shall praise Thee. Thus will I 
 bless Thee while I live ; I will Hft up 
 my hands in Thy name." 
 
 II. 
 
 RIGHTEOUSNESS, THE SELF-RE- 
 VEALED AND CENTRAL LAW. 
 
 "THE ETERNAL POWER, NOT OURSELVES, 
 TH.\T M.\KES FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS." 
 
 Job xxxvi. 3 : " I will fetch my knowledge from 
 afar, and will ascribe righteousness to my Maker." 
 
 The expression, " I will fetch my 
 knowledge from afar," is to be explained 
 by the circumstances. The controver- 
 sy between Job and his friends had 
 hitherto turned principally upon Job's 
 particular case. But now comes for- 
 ward at last Elihu, the youngest of 
 them, and more of a Radical than his 
 elders, and he says, " I will fetch my 
 knowledge from afar." That is, I will 
 go behind and beyond these old ques- 
 tions about Providence, and these per- 
 sonal questions about Job ; I will go 
 down to the root of all truth. What- 
 ever else be true or false, " I will ascribe 
 righteousness to my Maker." 
 
 That which Elihu says, or what I 
 understand him to mean, suggests to 
 me the subject of my discourse this 
 morning. And there is some analogy 
 between that old debate and the circum- 
 stances in which I speak to you. For 
 tliere are questions debated now about 
 that very system of things which was 
 brought into controversy in the book of 
 Job, — questions, indeed, concerning na- 
 ture and life, concerning God and man, 
 more abstruse and scientific than those 
 old ones ; and what I propose to naain- 
 tain, going behind all these questions, 
 is, that righteousness, whatever else be 
 
 disputed about, is inwrought and in- 
 trenched in the very nature of things, in 
 the universe of things, — in all things, I 
 say, from the highest to the lowest, from 
 man to the whole material creation be- 
 low him. In. man, I say, and in nature. 
 
 First, in man, in huinan nature, tliere 
 is a sense of right and wrong. Original, 
 and a part of the human constitution, 
 or else inevitably developed, there is a 
 sense of right and wrong. Language 
 cannot state a stronger opposition of 
 thought than these words express. We 
 may not be able to explain it, but we 
 feel it. The right is right, we say, and 
 the wrong is wrong. But look into 
 men's faces when they utter these 
 words, and they will expound to you 
 the great fact of which I speak. What 
 fact .'' Why, the fact of conscience. I 
 have heard it argued as against this 
 fact, that men differ about what is right, 
 and what wrong. But this makes no 
 difference in \\\€\x feeling towards right 
 and wrong. Differ as they may, though 
 they do not differ essentially, yet what a 
 man thinks to be right, he approves of, 
 and what he thinks to be wrong, he con- 
 demns. It is t\\\s feelitig that I insist 
 upon; and it is incontrovertibly human. 
 All men have it. It varies in development 
 with culture ; but it is always the same 
 feeling. It is clearer at maturity than in 
 childhood ; clearer among cultivated 
 nations than among rude and ignorant 
 tribes ; but it is everywhere a fact 
 embedded in human nature. All con- 
 versation and conduct, all that men say 
 or write or do, all literature, all insti- 
 tutions, all laws, all governments, testify 
 to this difference which men make be- 
 tween right and wrong. 
 
 And this furthermore is to be said, 
 and this especially, that the feeling I 
 am speaking of exists in men in spite 
 of them. How glad would it make the 
 liar, the knave, the base sensualist, to 
 be able to say that his course is right : 
 that what the world calls his baseness, 
 is something noble and beautiful ! But 
 he cannot say it. This shows a Will 
 speaking through him, other than his 
 
666 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 own will. It shows that righteousness 
 is a law laid down for him in the very 
 foundations of his nature. 
 
 There are two contending theories of 
 morals ; but they both, in this respect, 
 conduct to the same conclusion. The 
 Transcendentalist says that the sense 
 of right is intuitive ; that it belongs to 
 the very constitution of our being: and 
 of the truth of this theory I have no 
 doubt. The Utilitarian says, a thing 
 is right because it is useful. But if 
 such is the constitution of things that 
 the usefulness of certain actions sets 
 them up as right and binding, then we 
 see the same law of righteousness 
 established as a law of our being ; es- 
 tablished not by ourselves, but by the 
 Power that has placed us in this world. 
 
 Turn now from man to the sphere 
 beneath him, to the material world. 
 
 Put two men upon the earth to test 
 the character of nature, the one indo- 
 lent, reckless, given over to sensual 
 self-indulgence ; the other, industrious, 
 heedful, temperate, conscious of duties 
 to be performed. Can there be any 
 doubt to which nature is favorable and 
 friendly ? The one she fights against 
 in every way. She will not allow him 
 competence nor comfort nor peace. 
 She says to him, " Beg, wander, starve ; 
 do what you will : I will not help you. 
 Man may take you in, shivering at his 
 door ; but my cold and storm will not 
 spare you." To the other — but I 
 need not report what she says to the 
 other. Everywhere, indeed, nature is a 
 teacher of truth and wisdom. Every- 
 where she opens a book more wonderful 
 in its contents than all the other books 
 in the world. He who reads therein, 
 and understands it, and gathers its 
 beauty into his soul, will be a wise and 
 good man. Such is the system of 
 things. 
 
 We can conceive of a world con- 
 structed differently, constructed for in- 
 dulgence alone ; for luxurious ease, for 
 voluptuous enjoyment, for revelling and 
 excess ; with palaces built and stored, 
 with soft cushions spread all around. 
 
 and fountains of maddening stimulants 
 bursting from every hillside. But it is 
 not so. Nay, nothing but resolute and 
 righteous virtue can adjust itself to the 
 material conditions of human existence. 
 Nay, more ; not only does nature say, 
 " Be right, to be on good terms with 
 me," but she keeps sharp reckoning 
 with her human inhabitant. Conscience 
 itself is not so strict with him as she is. 
 She will not pardon idleness nor neg- 
 ligence. She rebukes, she repels im- 
 providence, slighting, haste, and passion. 
 Industry, care, and fidelity, ay, regular 
 and regulated industry, nature will 
 have J and Jias it too, in spite of all 
 human reluctance and wilfulness. Hu- 
 manity is bound up in this moral bond ; 
 without which all would go to wreck, 
 without which it could not exist at all. 
 
 I wonder if the cultivators of the soil 
 often think of this. For here is a sys- 
 tem cf things around them, framed in 
 rectitude ; which favors the right, and 
 punishes the wrong. And this is true 
 upon the largest scale, as upon the 
 smallest ; not upon farms only, but 
 upon continents. Let men cut off all 
 the forests, and there shall be drought 
 and dried-up streams. Let the marshes 
 be left undrained, and there shall be 
 miasma and fever. Let cities be filthy, 
 and there shall the pestilence walk in 
 darkness and destruction waste at noon- 
 day. Here is a world with elements 
 and agencies which demand fidelity and 
 obedience as strictly as if they were 
 enacted and written laws. Nobody 
 doubts that the lawgiver demands rec- 
 titude ; equally evident is it that nature 
 does. 
 
 Thus, then, it is manifest, first, that 
 the sentiment of the right is wrought 
 into the very structure of our being ; 
 and, next, that there is a teaching, nay, 
 and a bolstering of it, in the very frame 
 of nature. 
 
 And consider what would have be- 
 come of the world if this had been 
 otherwise. Imagine -that the law of 
 righteousness had not thus pressed 
 upon the world. Imagine that wrong- 
 
RIGHTEOUSNESS THE CENTRAL LAW. 
 
 667 
 
 doing had comman.ded the homage now 
 given to right-doing ; that injustice, 
 fraud, intemperance, everything base, 
 had been held to be deserving of honor 
 and praise. Not only vi'ould it have 
 been a worthless world, but it could not 
 long have existed at all. The one bad 
 principle set up in place of the good 
 and right would have whelmed the 
 human race in utter ruin. All order, 
 all government, all public law, and all 
 private virtue would have gone down 
 before it. All reposes upon the sub- 
 lime idea of the right. It was not left 
 to any human conventions to establish 
 it. It establishes t/ient. Far deeper- 
 founded than unstable human opinion, 
 it is evidently the will of the Power that 
 made us. 
 
 But it is not its use alone, it is not 
 its political or social necessity alone, 
 that vindicates it; useful or not, it is. 
 And it is not common-sense alone that 
 receives it, but alike the profoundest 
 philosophy. It is noteworthy that the 
 greatest speculative thinker we have, 
 the German Kant, after having pushed 
 his searching analysis to the doubt of 
 everything else, settles at last upon this 
 moral sense as the only certainty to 
 build upon. This was his " categori- 
 cal imperative," — that which absolutely 
 i07)imands assent. That to do good 
 to others is right, and to hate and hurt 
 them is wrong, this is a certainty, the 
 contrary of which cannot be entertained 
 in thesis nor in thought. This is a 
 truth for all ages ; nay, for all worlds. 
 There can be no world where this is 
 not a truth. Infinitude cannot swell 
 beyond it, nor eternity waste nor wear 
 it out. 
 
 And now if any who hear me shall 
 think that the point which I have 
 li bored to establish is too obvious, too 
 self-evident to make it worth while 
 to insist upon it, or too abstract to be 
 of any practical importance, let me go 
 on to say something of what it has 
 to do with our lives, and with our 
 thoughts, on the greatest subjects of 
 human thought. 
 
 There is in the material universe a 
 law of gravitation. It holds the earth 
 in its orbit, and it holds all things upon 
 its surface to the centre ; so that neither 
 winds nor waves, nor volcanoes nor 
 earthquakes, can break the great bond 
 nor the prevailing order. How uncon- 
 scious are we apt to be, of our bless- 
 ings ! I never heard anybody give 
 thanks for the law of gravitation ; yet 
 in this stand the security and calmness 
 in which we hold all our blessings. In 
 like manner there is a moral bond laid 
 upon the world ; and no upheavings of 
 human violence, no struggles of wilful 
 passion, no devices of the crafty nor 
 tumult of the people, can annul the 
 everlasting law. If it were not for this, 
 in what overwhelming anxieties would 
 our lives be passed. 
 
 But this law goes yet deeper ; it goes 
 deep into the conduct of life ; it is not 
 only security, but admonition, serious 
 and weighty. 
 
 Whoever steps upon this world, who- 
 ever in his youth looks out upon the 
 path before him, has some idea of what 
 he will do, and how he will do it ; what 
 rule he will walk by. What shall it 
 be ? What shall he do ? Right and 
 wrong are before him. Conscience 
 commands the one. Passion, indul- 
 gence, vice, dishonesty, draw him the 
 other way. Which shall he follow, — 
 the right, or the wrong ? Ah ! what 
 fatal decision, if he chooses the wrong, 
 or shall let evil temptation choose it for 
 him ! He fights against heaven and 
 earth, against the great laws of his 
 being and of the universe around him. 
 Everything is against him. Out from 
 the height and from the depth, from 
 sky and earth, from the labor-field and 
 the merchant's wharf, comes the ever- 
 lasting cry, "Woe, woe unto him that 
 calls evil good ; that puts darkness for 
 light ! " 
 
 Is it not so } What man ever felt it 
 to be good for him to be a bad man ? 
 For an hour or a day he may have 
 exulted in a bad deed ; some flush of 
 success, some delusion of maddening 
 
668 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 passion, may have blinded him. What 
 temporary delusions there maybe in the 
 human heart, in that unfathomed mys- 
 tery of good and evil struggling to- 
 gether, I will not answer for. But no 
 man ever came to the completion of this 
 experiment, to the end of a long life, 
 on which manifest wickedness has set 
 its stamp, and ever thought it to be a 
 satisfactory or happy life. No mad and 
 self-willed monarch, like Charles XII. 
 of Sweden, who 
 
 " Left a name at which the world grew pale, 
 To point a moral or adorn a tale ; " 
 
 no Imperial voluptuary like Nero or 
 Caligula, ever found his life to be a 
 happy one. And even where secret 
 selfishness is hidden under the veils of 
 seeming success in ambitious schemes 
 or in the pride of ill-got gain, and the 
 man persuades himself that he is a good 
 man, nay, and a good Christian, yet 
 that secret selfishness, like a canker 
 within, eats out all worth and welfare. 
 
 In evil times, like those upon which, 
 in some respects, we are fallen, when 
 gigantic dishonesty both in public and 
 private life walks abroad, not unrebuked, 
 thank God, but unblushing ; when good 
 men sigh almost in despair, and the weak 
 sink in the struggle with the strong; 
 when the old honesty and the old re- 
 ligion together are called in question, 
 and success seems to be made the god 
 of this world, it is good for us to re- 
 member that there is a hand yet ruling 
 in the world, stronger than any man's 
 hand. Let bad men succeed ; let plot- 
 ters prosper in their devices ; let volup- 
 tuaries revel in guilty pleasure ; let vile 
 politicians sell the public weal for place 
 and power; let all go down, or seem 
 to go down ; let truth be fallen in the 
 streets, and its great confessors be led 
 to the stake ; and earth and hell rise 
 to embroil the order of the world, — yet 
 calm and strong, yea, unconquerable, 
 omnipotent, is the everlasting right. 
 The feeblest man that is wronged, the 
 weakest victim that is broken upon the 
 rack, the poorest slave dashed bleeding 
 
 to the earth, may lift his hand to Heaven 
 and take hold of the Almightiness of 
 Infinite Rectitude. God is for him, 
 tliough all the world be against him. 
 
 Yet more than a resource and a sup- 
 port, more than a rule of conduct, is this 
 rectitude ; it is supreme and all-pervad- 
 ing authority. Men are apt to think, 
 when they are doing something which 
 their own mind condemns, that it is only 
 their own little conscience that they are 
 dealing with ; and they turn it aside or 
 cast it down, as if it were but a small 
 obstacle in their way. They reason, or 
 they trifle with it ; they say, perliaps. that 
 it " is but a notion ; " tJiey would have 
 a larger liberty ; they draw a defence, for 
 some excess or license, out of their own 
 peculiar case ; they are sick or miser- 
 able, or torn with exceptionable or he- 
 reditary passions ; and so they get rid, 
 and are glad to get rid, of their little 
 scruples. But this conscience within 
 them is the expositor of an Infinite 
 Conscience, that pervades heaven and 
 earth. The electric spark that touches 
 the nerve of their moral sense, from 
 time to time, is part of the lightning 
 stream that flashes from one side of 
 the world to the other. I remember 
 that James Otis — one of our great 
 names of the Revolution, that is never 
 to be forgotten — desired, in his declin- 
 ing days, to die by lightning. I have 
 stood in the very doorway where he 
 stood, gazing upon a departing thunder- 
 storm, when a bolt flashed back, as if to 
 answer his wish, and laid him dead upon 
 the threshold. It was an event awful to 
 witness. But what would it have been, 
 if he had stood there, to brave and defy 
 the power that struck him down ! That 
 is what every man does, who consciously 
 and obstinately violates his conscience ; 
 who does, and persists in doing, what he 
 knows to be wrong. It is a more awful 
 fkin^, than this easy and worldly con- 
 science takes to heart, to consider. Is 
 it not to withstand the righteous law 
 that is written within him ? Is not the 
 voice he refuses to hear, the voice of 
 God.? 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
RIGHTEOUSNESS THE CENTRAL LAW. 
 
 669 
 
 But is it tlie voice of God ? /s there 
 a God?— one may say. The grave 
 controversies of the day venture even 
 upon that awful question. 
 
 I go, then, to a further application. I 
 have said that the all-pervading right- 
 eousness of which I have been speak- 
 ing has to do, not only with our lives, 
 but with our thoughts, on the greatest 
 subjects of human thought. Let us 
 consider it. 
 
 The universe, we say, is imbued, in- 
 terpenetrated with the element of right- 
 eousness. It is as manifest as the power 
 of gravitation. Not more certainly is 
 there something that draws and holds 
 us to the earth, than there is something 
 that draws us to an approval of the 
 right. What is it ? We say that ani- 
 mal instinct is put into the animal na- 
 ture for its guidance, by the power that 
 made it. Is it not equally evident that 
 the sense of right is put into moral na- 
 tures for their guidance, by the power 
 that made them.'' And must not the 
 power that has laid that law upon them, 
 itself be righteous ? 
 
 Consider that there are only two 
 kinds of power that are conceivable 
 — matter and spirit, thought and thing. 
 Can righteousness, or can that which 
 creates the sense of righteousness, be 
 a thing ? Can any form or force ma- 
 terial be such a cause ? Can leaf or 
 tree, can wind or wave, can flower or 
 star, can light or motion, or any con- 
 course or action of all these, have given 
 birth to righteousness ? — for we have 
 materialists who say that everything 
 comes from a material organization. 
 But does not this conception which we 
 have of righteousness in our minds, and 
 have it in spite of ourselves, — does it 
 not imply of necessity something di- 
 vine as its cause ? I say, of necessity. 
 For this idea of righteousness is as 
 much an evolution in me as any that 
 the scientist finds in nature. It must 
 have come from somewhere : where has 
 it come from ? Dr. Darwin says that 
 everything comes in the form of evo- 
 lution, — evolution of plants, of animals, 
 
 up to man ; it is a law of nature ; it 
 must be so. But so is conscience an 
 evolution. Nay, so does he regard it. 
 And this is the way in which he traces 
 it, and proposes to account for it. Men 
 see, he says, that certain actions pro- 
 mote the common welfare. Therefore 
 they favor them. Their selfishness leads 
 them to do so. But why does the feel- 
 ing arise in them, which is not selfish- 
 ness, which opposes their selfishness, — 
 the feeling that they ought to perform 
 those actions .'' That, I think, is what he 
 does not account for, nor does any Utili- 
 tarian theory. That sense of the right, 
 that sense of righteousness, lies behind 
 all their theories ; and nothing can ac- 
 count for it but a Cause behind all, 
 which has produced it. It is the voice 
 of God in the soul. 
 
 Let us look at it in the soul itself, and 
 ask again, — what is it .'' And whence 
 came it ? Here in man is this sense of 
 right, this feeling that it is a duty to do 
 it, — this feeling, not merely that a thing 
 is useful and best, but that he ought to 
 do what is useful and best. It is in man ; 
 it is a part of him ; it is laid upon him 
 and he cannot throw it off. Man would 
 not be man without it. Without it he 
 could not live with his fellows, but as 
 a beast lives. Let any man say that 
 wrong is better than right, hate than 
 love, falsehood than truth ; and you 
 would not marry with him, you would not 
 trade with him, you would not have him 
 sit upon a jury ; he would be cut off and 
 cast out from the race. 
 
 What is this sense of right, then, I 
 still say, this sense of righteousness, 
 that exists in the' human soul .'' What 
 has made it ? What has made it to be 
 in us ? Is it the human will.'' It exists 
 in spite of the human will. Let all men 
 unite and combine to put it down. They 
 cannot do it. They can no more destroy 
 it than they can destroy any power or 
 law of nature. If. therefore, no material 
 force can have given birth to it, and 
 no human will can have done it; if it 
 stands as an everlasting fact in the very 
 constitution of things ; then it must be 
 
 £/0' 
 
 ^'\ 
 
670 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 something behind all: then it must be 
 the all-originating Cause : then it must 
 be an Infinite Righteousness. And an 
 infinite righteousness, — what is that? 
 It is God ! And of all contradictions in 
 idea, I know of none greater than this, 
 — to suppose this grand moral law of 
 the universe, this intense moral senti- 
 ment, this stupendous meaning, to be 
 everywhere, without any one to originate 
 or mean it ; to suppose this sublime 
 order and authority to pervade all things, 
 and none to create or ordain it. 
 
 But now I ask a further question. 
 Can there be righteousness without 
 beneficence ? An eminent writer speaks 
 with reiterating confidence " of that in 
 the universe which makes for righteous- 
 ness." It is his shibboleth. "A Power,"' 
 he says, " which makes for righteous- 
 ness ; " he is sure of that. But why 
 does he not say also — a Power that 
 makes for beneficence ? Not to dwell 
 upon the million-fold evidence of its 
 beneficence, can there, I ask, be right- 
 eousness without it ? Can we conceive 
 of a Being or Power, as the all-origi- 
 nating, all-governing Righteousness, un- 
 less it be good, unless it wishes well to all 
 things, to all creatures ? It is impossible. 
 Then the way is open for a profound 
 piety, for unspeakable gratitude and 
 love. However incomprehensible is that 
 Infinitude of being, if in the centre of 
 all is an infinite love, we may render to 
 it the homage of our whole soul, and 
 say, " Let all within us praise it." VVe 
 may be swallowed up in it as the bless- 
 ing, the beatitude, the joy of our lives. 
 For is it not the sublimest joy, to know 
 that we have our being in a glorious 
 system of things which rests upon this 
 everlasting foundation, — righteousness, 
 and an all-loving righteousness ? Mr. 
 Tyndall, in common with some of the 
 ancient sages, shrinks from all words as 
 applicable to it ; he will not even call 
 it ''a cause." But can he or anybody 
 else doubt that there is manifested, in 
 this universe, a preference of good to 
 evil? Let this good be happiness, or 
 let it be moral good ; is not a preference 
 
 of it the manifestation of an all-lovinff 
 righteousness .•' 
 
 Why, my friends, do I labor to estab- 
 lish this primal truth of all religion ? It 
 is because it is the consecration of the 
 universe. It is not because a belief in 
 it is necessary to salvation. It is not 
 because creeds declare and pulpits 
 preach it. It is not alone because all 
 human interests, all order and welfare, 
 rise or fall with it. But it is because of 
 its own transcendent glory and beauty ; 
 because to extinguish it would be to put 
 out the light of life, to darken the sun 
 in the heavens, to disrobe all nature of 
 its charm and loveliness. Without it, 
 life would lose its sanctity, and the mind 
 its centre : all its loftiest tendencies 
 would be disowned, all its highest as- 
 pirations crushed down ; an orphanage 
 would come upon the world, more deso 
 late than if all earthly parents were cut 
 down at a blow, — orphanage that would 
 cut us off from the Father in heaven. 
 It would be treason against the imperial 
 grandeur of the universe. All the won- 
 ders of power and wisdom and benefi 
 cence that fill and- crowd all existence, 
 from the minutest point on earth to the 
 majestic stars on high, demand and en- 
 force this religious homage, — the great- 
 est that man can render, and itself his 
 own greatness; and a homage which all 
 greatest souls must desire to render. 
 
 And therefore it is that some men, 
 who have been called Atheists, were not 
 altogether such. Spinoza was not, and 
 Auguste Comte was not, and Strauss was 
 not altogether such. They felt that there 
 was something behind all, the Cause of 
 all, that was to be adored and worsh ipped. 
 They thought that it could not be for- 
 mulated in any human speech or idea ; 
 that was the amount of their denial. 
 But they all felt, I think, — how could 
 they help it?-— that there was some- 
 thing, a divine glory, shining through 
 the heavens and the earth, and througii 
 the human soul, behind and above the 
 things thetnselves. 
 
 I have endeavored in this discourse 
 to show you that. The celebrated chem- 
 
REASONABLENESS AND GREATNESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 671 
 
 <st, Sir Humphry Davy, said, " The 
 greatest blessing that I know or crave 
 in life is a firm religious faith." 1 think 
 I have shown you the ground for that. 
 It is impregnable; it is undeniable. I 
 have known men, who said that they 
 were .Atheists ; but I have never seen the 
 man who believed in an infinite malig- 
 nitj-, or who denied that rectitude is the 
 law of all men, of all societies, of the 
 universe of men and things. Upon that 
 foundation I stand in this discourse. Do 
 not call it a heathen discoursing, though 
 it goes behind Christianity. I believe 
 in Christianity. I accept, I welcome, 
 that great teaching. But in an age of 
 doubts and speculations I deem that 
 it is good to see that there is a divine, 
 a deep-founded, an everlasting trtith of 
 thiiii^s, on which all religions repose. 
 That which is right, and in being right 
 is good, by all men's admission and by 
 all nature's testimony, is the eternal and 
 all-holy bond. It is the moral gravita- 
 tion of the world. It is the solidarity 
 of the universe. It is the manifested 
 will and wisdom and goodness of God. 
 " Now unto Him, the eternal, immortal, 
 invisible, the only wise God, be honor 
 and glory for ever and ever : amen." 
 
 III. 
 
 ON THE REASONABLENESS AND 
 GREATNESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 PsAi.M Ixxiii. 25, 26 : " Whom have I in heaven 
 but Thee ? and there is none upon earth that I desire 
 besides Thee. My flesh and my heart faileth : but 
 God is the strength ot my heart, and my portion for- 
 ever " 
 
 What wonderful language is this, 
 to burst out from the darkness of an- 
 tiquity, from the depth of dark and 
 idolatrous ages ! Dismiss all reverence 
 for David as an inspired person, and 
 come to the matter as a mere philoso- 
 pher, and what a phenomenon is pre- 
 sented to you ! A soul, not merely rev- 
 erent and awe-struck at the thought of 
 God, like that of Zoroaster or Confucius, 
 not alone philosophically and calmly con- 
 templating the Divinity, like Socrates 
 
 or Cicero, but penetrated through and 
 through with affection as well as ven- 
 eration; absorbed into the love of this 
 Infinite Being; finding its deepest satis- 
 factions and resources in Him ; com- 
 muning, pleading with Him as if His 
 favor and presence were the only light 
 and joy of life ; saying, " Whom have I 
 in heaven but Thee? and there is none 
 upon earth that I desire besides Thee," 
 — this, I say, is a phenomenon in human 
 experience with which there is nothing 
 that I know in heathen antiquity to bear 
 any comparison. 
 
 To exhibit fully this phenomenon, it 
 would be necessary to present a pic- 
 ture of ancient heathen devotion, and 
 in contrast with it to quote large por- 
 tions of the entire Psalms. The poems 
 of Homer, for instance, are nearly con- 
 temporaneous with the Psalms of David. 
 Those poems are full of prayers and 
 appeals to the Deity ; and nothing, cer- 
 tainly, can be more remarkable than the 
 contrast between them and the devo- 
 tions of the king of Israel. The fer- 
 vor and tenderness of the latter seem 
 like — what they are — the breathings 
 of a soul divinely touched and taught ; 
 and the contrast is the more remark- 
 able because the Homeric prayers are 
 addressed to a Deity full of human 
 passions and weaknesses, — whom, on 
 that account, it might be thought that 
 man could more easily approach. Yet 
 how cold, stately, formal, and distant 
 they are! — merely asking aid in war 
 or in policy, never throughout betray- 
 ing for once the remotest approach to 
 David's feeling of absorbing interest in 
 the Supreme Being, of his delight in the 
 contemplation of God, of the concen- 
 tration of all his powers in that joy and 
 worship. 
 
 "O Jove," — thus runs the transla- 
 tion of one of the sublimest of the 
 Homeric prayers, — 
 
 " O Jove, most great and glorious ! who dost nile 
 The tempest, — dweller of the ethereal space ! 
 Let not the sim go down, and night come on. 
 Ere I shall lay the halls of Priam waste. 
 With fire, and give their portals to the flames." 
 
6/2 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 It is a prayer, you perceive, against 
 enemies. Hardly to be found, I think, 
 in Grecian or Roman antiquity is a 
 prayer of anyone for his own soul, — 
 for his spiritual well-being ; and noth- 
 ing approaching to the feeling that 
 treasures up its happiness in God. 
 
 In the Zend-Avesta, the words of the 
 old Persian religion, is a prayer which 
 has something of the former character, 
 but how little has it of the fervor of 
 David's prayer ! " O you benign Mas- 
 ters," it says, " who reserve for men 
 the reward they merit, remunerate pub- 
 licly the suppliant who invokes you. 
 May I be pure in this world and happy 
 in the next ; and may the soul of Zoro- 
 aster, the pure genius, those of all the 
 servants of Ormuzd, — i. e., of the good 
 l^rinciple, — of all the initiated, of all 
 the laborers, of all the artisans of the 
 world, come to meet me in the highest 
 heaven, the seat of happiness. May 
 the accursed source of sin and evil be 
 banished forever ! May the world be 
 pure, the heavens excellent, and finally 
 may purity and holiness prevail ! " 
 
 Scarcely anything can be more beau- 
 tiful, nothing that I know in heathen 
 antiquity is so beautiful, as the prayer 
 of the Persian poet Saadi, — "O God, 
 have mercy upon the wicked ; for thou 
 hast done everything for the good in 
 having made them good." 
 
 But turn now from all this, excellent 
 as it is, after its inanner, to the lan- 
 guage of David : " O God, Thou art 
 my God ; early will I seek Thee : my 
 soul thirsteth for Thee ; my flesh long- 
 eth for Thee, in a dry and thirsty land 
 where no water is ; to see Thy power 
 and Thy glory so as I have seen Thee 
 in the sanctuary. Because Thy loving- 
 kindness is better than life, my lips 
 shall praise Thee. Thus will I bless 
 Thee while I live ; I will lift up my 
 hands in Thy name." Again, what a 
 touching entreaty was that of David ! 
 " Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my 
 cry come before Thee. Hide not Thy 
 face from me, in the day when I am 
 in trouble." " Bow down thine ear, O 
 
 Lord, hear me ; for I am poor and 
 needy. Preserve my soul, for I am 
 holy," i. e., consecrate to Thee ; " O 
 Thou my God, save Thy servant that 
 trusteth in Thee. Be merciful unto 
 me, O Lord, for 1 cry unto Thee daily. 
 Rejoice the soul of Thy servant : for 
 unto Thee do I lift up my soul." 
 
 But this feeling, let us now observe, 
 is not peculiar to David. His language 
 is adopted as the nearest to the heart, 
 
 — the more than native language of a 
 multitude of Christian souls. It is the 
 language of to-day ; it never wears out ; 
 it is fresh forever ; it is, perhaps, the 
 only language of antiquity that breathes 
 in the deepest heart of the modern 
 world. You are aware that in the dia- 
 ries of many religious persons, in the 
 secret records of their experience, and 
 also in the teachings of the pulpit and 
 in the public utterances of prayer, this 
 sense is often expressed, not merely of 
 the supremacy, the majesty of God, but 
 of the soul's supreme interest in Him, 
 
 — this sense of nearness to Him, — of 
 His felt presence, and of being- swal- 
 lowed up in Him, as the highest satis- 
 faction and sufficiency. I am afraid lest 
 I express myself irreverently ; but I sup- 
 pose that no language, however strong, 
 can adequately express the mind's de- 
 sire of knowing and communing with 
 the Infinite Being, — and this, not be- 
 cause of any mystical peculiarity of the 
 affection, but because of the Infinite 
 Glory and Beauty which it contemplates. 
 It was with this feeling — not to escape 
 evil and perdition — that David said, 
 "My soul thirsteth for God, for the 
 living God; when shall I come and ap- 
 pear before God ? " 
 
 Now there is a question upon whicli 
 I would respectfully turn the attention 
 of those who hear me, and that is upon 
 their own view of this highest piety, — 
 this highest aspiration after the love and 
 the life of God in the soul. I would fain 
 know, I would fain have it considered 
 with ourselves, what is the thought we 
 entertain of this particular part of the 
 experience of religious and devout men. 
 
REASONABLENESS AND GREATNESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 ^7Z 
 
 What tliink we in this respect of David 
 and Isaiah, of Paul and John, and of the 
 Christ himself ? What think we of Fdne- 
 lon and Jeremy Taylor and Baxter and 
 Brainerd, and of holy men among our- 
 selves, who have died in the odor of 
 sanctity, the very tones of whose touch- 
 ing prayers yet linger in our ears ? I 
 know that there are those who feel all 
 this, or who at least sympathize with 
 it, — with nothing in the world so much. 
 But then, there is another class, I can- 
 not be mistaken in supposing, who look 
 upon all tliis with a distant and almost 
 repelling awe. It is something very 
 holy, they suppose. They do not ven- 
 ture to call .it in question ; they sup- 
 pose it is very proper for certain per- 
 sons, — they admire it in the clergy and 
 in saints and devotees, — but for them- 
 selves, they know nothing of it. They 
 would be shocked if they found them- 
 selves privately adopting as their own 
 the devout language of David — or of 
 Brainerd ; this kind of experience is 
 out of their reach, out of their sphere. 
 I say they commend it in the clergy ; 
 but are there not those who, in fact, 
 regard it as something professional, as 
 something unnatural and irrational, as a 
 kind of pious ecstasy or hallucination, 
 as a certain exalted state into which 
 some men work themselves up, or into 
 which their feelings flow periodically, 
 but not in which they live healthily and 
 habitually ? Perhaps there are some 
 persons who go yet farther, and say, 
 " What so much need is there of these 
 great and all-absorbing thoughts of 
 God ? What so much need of recog- 
 nizing His presence and communing 
 with His perfection ? " Perhaps it is a 
 pantheistic tendency ; perhaps it is the 
 tendency of a mind from which, through 
 worldliness or through reaction against 
 superstition or sanctimony, the religious 
 sentiment has died out. " What need," 
 it says, "of devotion ? I have all that I 
 want without it. For my sensitive na- 
 ture, here is a world of bounty ; and for 
 my aesthetic nature, my taste, here is a 
 world of beauty ; for my intellect, sci- 
 
 ence and philosophy ; for my heart, there 
 are beings around me to love. What 
 need of more ? I could go on forever 
 so, were it permitted to me. 1 could go 
 on forever so, contented, satisfied, with- 
 out worship, without ever lifting my 
 thoughts above, without any need ideal- 
 ly of God, without any need to me that 
 there be a God." In short, a man may 
 say, " I understand about being good ; 
 I grant the necessity and reasonable- 
 ness of that ; but as to religion, piety, 
 prayer, I do not know, — that is another 
 thing." 
 
 So much, indeed, is devotion another 
 thing; so little does it stand in its own 
 right ; so little is its natural and noble 
 claim felt, that I much fear it would sink 
 to a lower place than it now holds with 
 many, if it were not for the idea that 
 tlie recognition of God is necessary to 
 save them from perdition. Dread per- 
 version ! by which the idea of God, in- 
 stead of filling the universe with light 
 and glory and joy, is but a scourge to 
 drive men to prayer or a screen to shield 
 them from destruction ! How many, re- 
 pelled by such superstitious impressions, 
 are living without God in the world ! 
 The very idea they have of the Infinite 
 Life brings death into their soul ! 
 
 Against this I would now enter my 
 earnest protest. I would labor to sub- 
 stitute the rational for the superstitious 
 view of religion. In other words, I 
 would endeavor to vindicate the simple 
 piety of David and of all the communion 
 of saints ; to show that it is founded in 
 the deepest nature of the soul, in the 
 deepest reason of things, and is justly 
 productive of the most rational as well 
 as unspeakable comfort and joy. 
 
 The point we are to consider, let me 
 observe, is material ; it is radical ; it 
 lies at the foundation ; all our worship, 
 prayer, preaching, holds to this, or to 
 nothing. It is the point of departure 
 and the point of return for everything 
 in our religious institution. If deep, 
 affectionate devotion be not rational, if 
 pantheistic dreaming, if a distant, mere 
 awe-struck superstition can rightly oc- 
 
674 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 cupy its place, I must take my leave of 
 all religious communion, of all churches, 
 this day. Some kind of moral lecture- 
 ship might remain here, — no more. 
 That which is indeed infinite, the Infi- 
 nite Glory, Beauty, Life, must be infi- 
 nite to me, or nothing. There is no 
 middle ground, though upon such mul- 
 titudes attempt to stand. " Whom have 
 I in heaven but Thee?" says the enrap- 
 tured Psalmist, "and there is none 
 upon earth that I desire beside Thee." 
 Is this profoundest truth, though it pre- 
 sents but one side of the deepest truth, 
 — tor humanity, too, is to have its place 
 in our regards, — is the Psalmist rational 
 as well as enraptured ? Let me attempt 
 to answer. 
 
 First, then, in my deepest nature, in 
 the very nature of my soul, there is a 
 necessity — bond, strong as my life, 
 strong as my being — that connects me 
 with Him who made me. I hardly 
 know how to express this feeling. It 
 seems to me like a revelation ; and yet 
 I believe that it is a part of human 
 nature. And I am not now considering 
 the proof of the being of a God, but only 
 tiie necessity of His being to my m.ind. 
 The thought of Him is counterpart to 
 every thought I have. Everything in 
 me bears reference to him: mind in me, 
 to an Infinite Mind ; power in me, to a 
 Power without me ; conscience in me, 
 to a Conscience all around me. The 
 silent air, the solemn infinitude of space, 
 the boundless heavens, seem to me full 
 of that, — that Infinite Presence. Like 
 gravitation in the material world, so is 
 the thought of God in the universe of 
 mind. It is supposed ; it is implied ; 
 it is the inevitable basis and bond of 
 everything. That centre in the circle of 
 thought gone, and everything is gone. 
 That bond broken, and all things rush 
 into disorder, into chaos. If a man 
 says that he does not feel this, I an- 
 swer, neither does he consciously feel 
 many things that are true. There are 
 many that never heard of first truths, of 
 intuitive truths, and that have no dis- 
 tinct consciousness of them ; and yet 
 
 thinking men know that, for all minds, 
 there are such truths. And so the think- 
 ing, the fully developed, man knows that 
 the thought of God is inwrought, by a 
 thousand penetrating ties, into the very 
 frame and foundation of his being. It 
 were as easy to deny the social ten- 
 dency in man as to deny this religious 
 tendency. Place a man in a situation 
 that ministered everything possible to 
 his solitary pleasure, in the most splen- 
 did palace, in the fairest garden, and let 
 him dwell there alone; and in sadness 
 and misery he would sigh for compan- 
 ionship. Nothing but the extinction of 
 his social nature, nothing but social in- 
 sanity, could save him from this misery. 
 And so if you place a man, a large- 
 thinking and fully developed man, in 
 this glorious universe, and blot out for 
 him the thought of God, and he would 
 be miserable ; there would be an awful 
 chasm without him which nothing could 
 fill; a preying want within him which 
 nothing could appease. Nothing but 
 spiritual death or spiritual insanity could 
 save him from a feeling of orphanage 
 more gloomy than' the loss of parents, 
 of all friends, of all the world be- 
 side. 
 
 In the next place, look at the nature 
 of things. And is there not a nature 
 of things, — something beside the things 
 themselves ? If the universe were an 
 infinite mass or congeries of mere ob- 
 jects, without any thought or soul dwell- 
 ing in them and shining through them, 
 it could possess no interest for us; for 
 us, i. e., as reasonable beings. Food 
 for the appetite there might be, and 
 color and form for the eye, and sound 
 for the ear, and relish for the palate. 
 These things in nature meet, doubtless, 
 and gratify certain sensitive needs. But 
 for the mind that thinks, for the moral, 
 soul that feels, there must be something 
 more in nature than food and form and 
 sound. There is a tneaning, an inform- 
 ing soul, an all-pervading wisdom, an 
 interpenetrating love, without which 
 philosophy itself would be barren, and 
 faith de.id, and communion with nature 
 
REASONABLENESS AND GREATNESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 6/5 
 
 a senseless phrase, and the universe, 
 with ail its visible glories, a dreary 
 blank. And if I were contending here 
 for tlie being of a God, I might say that 
 this clearly adapted, this spiritually re- 
 ceptive faculty of the soul is itself a 
 Dowerful argument. When you examine 
 the structure of the eye, you say, without 
 doubt, this is an organ for light : the tele- 
 scope is not more evidently made for 
 light than is the eye. If all were brood- 
 ing darkness yet, — and while in fact all 
 is brooding darkness to the unborn, — 
 still you say this organ was made for 
 light : light is to come ; somewhere 
 there is light. Not less clearly is the 
 soul, in its essential structure, an or- 
 ganization adapted to spiritual light, to 
 moral beauty, to the contemplation of 
 the Divinity. A teacher of the deaf and 
 dumb once told me that he always found 
 that faculty, that adaptation of the soul, 
 ready to receive and welcome the idea 
 of God when first communicated. The 
 soul may be very blind yet; its powers 
 may yet be but slightly developed ; but 
 somewhere there must be a spiritual 
 glory for it to behold. 
 
 And, indeed, our argument for its 
 action^ \. e., for devotion, springs natu- 
 rally from this consideration of its 
 structure. The argument, too, is as 
 clear as that from our social nature to 
 social affection. And we must remem- 
 ber, to make the parallel complete, that 
 man, the essential man, man in his 
 essence, is, amidst all the crowded life 
 around us, as invisible as God. Now, 
 if we regarded men as mere facts, mere 
 forms ; if we recognized no soul in 
 ihem, and felt no soul in ourselves flow- 
 ing out to them, society would be mere 
 mechanism. Social affection, social 
 communing it is, that spreads over 
 human intercourse its inexpressible 
 charm. And so if the forms of nature 
 were mere forms or mere mechanical 
 combinations ; if there were no soul in 
 them, and no soul in us flowing out to 
 it, the universe would be disrobed of all 
 its charm ; the world would not be a 
 home ; and without Father, Guardian, 
 
 or Guide, we should wander through 
 the earth as outcasts and orphans. 
 
 But let us commune with God in 
 nature ; let the mountain heights be 
 altars of prayer, and the ocean waves 
 murmur hymns of thanksgiving ; let 
 the glory of setting suns be the shrine 
 of devotion, and the silent invisible air 
 the breathing of God's presence, and 
 the boundless light, the shining out 
 of the infinite love and beauty ; and 
 then no language can tell the blessing 
 and joy of that beatific vision. A 
 thousand worlds coined into gold and 
 cast at our feet would be as mere peb- 
 bles upon the seashore compared with 
 that vision. What is matter to me, 
 but for that which it manifests ? Dead, 
 inert, useless, till I see in it the Life 
 divine. That seen, an infinite treasure 
 is found, a boundless joy felt, but 
 never before. What is matter, I re- 
 peat, but for its uses ? Why, even the 
 voluptuary says, the cup is nothing, but 
 for the relish of it. But there are 
 higher souls, that drink a richer 
 draught from the cup of nature, — 
 brimming to its golden rim of the hori- 
 zon round, with God's bounty and 
 loveliness. Is it not for this chiefly 
 that nature is to be valued .^ What 
 deep things, indeed, are there in nature ! 
 What depths yet unfathomed of wi^lom 
 and love and beauty ! What deep 
 things are there in our souls, too ; 
 things of wonder and mystery, of "pas- 
 sion and glory " and sorrow and aspira- 
 tion ! What depths does music open 
 within us, — realms through which no 
 criticism has ever yet travelled ! What 
 deep chords in us are struck by 
 the wonder-inspiring tones of poetry 
 and uttered human speech, sounding 
 through lower deeps that never yet 
 found tongue or pen to utter them ! 
 These all point to the infinite, ineffable, 
 all-encompassing grandeur and loveli- 
 ness. Out of these depths does the 
 soul " cry out for God, for the living 
 God." I have seen that passion in 
 great souls ; and sometimes thought 
 they pressed too far, or rather, I should 
 
6/6 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 say, with unwise assumption, as to what 
 they can reach ; but it is the grandest 
 passion of humanity ; and its satisfaction 
 the grandest that humanity can know. 
 
 In the third place, and finally, — not 
 only is a humble and devout commun- 
 ion with God the soul's instinctive and 
 primal need, and nature's grandest min- 
 istration, but it is to the heart a comfort 
 and reliance indispensable. " My flesh 
 and my heart faileth," says the Psalm- 
 ist ; " but God is the strength of my 
 heart, and my portion forever." 
 
 Comfort is a word sufficiently utili- 
 tarian ; all men would find comfort. 
 But can the softest clothing, the most 
 luxurious ministration to the appetites, 
 the warm fireside and the folding cur- 
 tains and cushions of ease and luxury, 
 minister all that we want of comfort.'' 
 In the business and hurry of life the 
 mind is indeed occupied, but not com- 
 forted : far otherwise, as you well know ; 
 vexed and wearied rather. But when 
 the day's care is ended and the mind 
 sinks to repose, when the solitary and 
 silent hour cometh, in that silence and 
 solitude of thought, does not the mind 
 feel the need of a resource beyond all 
 that business and success and fortune 
 and worldly .splendor can impart ? And 
 can society or family or friends fill the 
 mind's thought, need, or desire? It is 
 a question of experience. If there be 
 those who can say that the social min- 
 istration is enough, with them my argu- 
 ment, or this part of it at least, fails. 
 But who can say it ? Whose mind 
 does not soar above all things finite, 
 for its rest and sufficiency .'' Whose 
 thought does not penetrate where the 
 outstretched arms of human friendship 
 cannot follow nor support it, — into the 
 realm of death, into the regions of 
 immortality; into depths of need, into 
 heights of aspiration, which only infi- 
 nite goodness can fill ? 
 
 Nor is it in solitude alone that this 
 is felt ; but yet more, if possible, in the 
 fullest sense of earthly joy and glory. 
 When I stand upon the top of the 
 world, then it is that I look beyond, — 
 
 to God and to eternity. And when 
 touched with all the ministering powers 
 of this universe to me ; when the 
 trances of vision and sound steal over 
 me ; and the breath and fragrance of 
 summer fields, and the soundless ocean 
 of light and beauty above, bathe me in 
 their mysterious life ; and I hope and 
 long, in such " high hour," that this 
 universe shall yet, as a divinely attuned 
 instrument, become harmonized to my 
 being and sing eternal anthems in mine 
 ears, — in what can my hope seek ful- 
 filment and fruition but in God? He 
 to whom that high path of thought is 
 opened must desire to pursue it for- 
 ever ; and when he sees the dark 
 barrier of the grave before him, what 
 joy is it for him to be enabled to say. 
 " Though I walk through the valley of 
 the shadow of death. Thy rod and Thy 
 staff, they shall comfort me." 
 
 " My flesh and my heart faileth," 
 says the Psalmist : and they often do 
 fail, even in these high meditations. 
 But they fail too, and that utterly, 
 beneath many a crushing blow that 
 falls upon us in this world. And under 
 such infliction the sinking heart cries 
 out for help divine, for help beyond all 
 mortal help, as naturally as the frail, 
 suffering infant cries out for its mother's 
 arm. I speak not of lighter griefs now, 
 which may be smothered in worldly 
 engagements or pleasures ; the deep 
 and desolate sorrow of bereavement is 
 another thing ; and it feels that nothing 
 but God, nothing but a power beyond 
 itself and beyond the world, can help it. 
 K faith, ?L faith in God, is the one only 
 thing that it wants and seeks and prays 
 for tJieii. And when that faith comes ; 
 when the heart that God had suffered 
 to be broken that it may open to receive 
 the infinite treasure, — when that heart 
 says, " It is my Father's hand ; not evil 
 but good does it intend for me ; I am 
 surrounded and embosomed in infinite 
 love : " that is a revelation, that is a 
 support and comfort, compared with 
 which all the treasures of the world are 
 as nothing;. 
 
REASONABLENESS AND GREATNESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 6tj 
 
 I have thus attempted, feebly I know, 
 to vindicate the reasonableness and 
 o-randeur of devotion ; to set forth this 
 o-reat, inspired idea of the knowledge 
 and love of God as entitled to the most 
 rational confidence and acceptance. 
 Ikit alas ! this is not the ordinary expe- 
 rience ; rather do we hear, on every 
 hand, complaints of coldness and dead- 
 ness in this particular relation. This 
 fact justifies, I conceive, the frequency 
 with which, in our discourses from the 
 pulpit, we return to the theme on which I 
 have now been meditating, — the knowl- 
 edge and love of God. To my thought 
 this is no arbitrary condition of salva- 
 tion, but the natural and necessary law 
 of our highest welfare. Just as 1 should 
 say, — without refinement, without a 
 cultivated mind and taste, without, at 
 least, an admiration and enthusiasm 
 for the high, heroical, and beautiful in 
 character, you cannot attain to an ele- 
 vated happiness ; so, and only far more, 
 should I say, — without the love of God, 
 you cannot reach the height of joy, of 
 beatitude, for which your nature was 
 made. Just as I should lament over 
 one who had no feeling for music, for 
 art, for the beauty of nature or for the 
 beauty of human genius or virtue ; so, 
 and only the more, must I lament over 
 him who has no feeling for the divine 
 majesty and loveliness that shine through 
 all the beauty of nature and humanity, 
 and through all supernal natures and all 
 the glory of the heavenly worlds. Is he 
 to be pitied who never gazes with emo- 
 tion upon a glorious sunset ; whose 
 plodding eye, ever fixed upon the 
 ground, never sees it ? And what then 
 shall we think of him who never sees 
 and never adores the Glory that is 
 enshrined in the tabernacle of parting 
 day, in the splendors of morning and 
 in the awful depths of the noontide 
 heaven .'' 
 
 Why, — let me say to those who com- 
 plain of the coldness and deadness of 
 their devout affections, — why do you 
 not, putting away all superstition, look 
 at this subject in the light of simple 
 
 reason ? You do, from time to time, 
 unless you are an utterly stupid and 
 earth-born soul, — you do admire the 
 things which, elevated and purified, are 
 the very idea of God. You look at the 
 beauty, the glory of a gorgeous sunset, 
 and it fills you with rapture. You ga^.e 
 at a picture of moral loveliness and 
 grandeur, hero, saint, or martyr, and 
 you ' are melted into tears before it. 
 You behold the loveliness of living hu- 
 man virtue ; you read of noble disin- 
 terestedness ; you read of those ■ who 
 die for their country or for mankind, — 
 of those who, touched with pity for 
 human sorrows, wear out their lives to 
 relieve the poor, the sick, and the mis- 
 erable, the outcast, tiie wandering, and 
 the insane ; and your gushing sympathy 
 and admirauon testify that you feel all 
 this. But ail this, and all that you can 
 admire and love, refined from all earthly 
 imperfection and elevated above all 
 human grandeur and loveliness, is the 
 very idea of God. The separate traits 
 of mercy here collect into one infinite 
 Goodness. The scattered rays ol 
 light here gather into one infinite splen- 
 dor. That Light and Love are not 
 withdrawn from us to an immeasurable 
 distance, but visit us and beam and 
 breathe upon us in sacred and tender 
 pity. The Infinite Goodness is not 
 far oi¥, but near us ; it compasses our 
 path and our lying down, and is ac- 
 quainted with all our ways. The evening 
 shade, the guarded sleep, the morning 
 resurrection ; the clothing air and the 
 cheering light; every bounty that falls 
 from heaven ; every bounty that 
 springs from earth ; every loving heart 
 that blesses us ; every sacred example 
 that wins us ; every holy page that 
 teaches us ; holy men, blessed apostles, 
 heroic martyrs, the Son of God himself, 
 "the brightness of God'" orlory and the 
 express image of His person," — all 
 these are the revelation, the presence, 
 the manifested love of the One, all-holy, 
 all-perfect, ever-blessed, the incompre- 
 hensible, the ineffable ; whom to know 
 is life, whom to resemble is perfection, 
 
6/8 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS 
 
 whom to love is the divinest bhss. 
 Of Him, what less can we say than this : 
 " Whom have I in heaven but thee ? and 
 there is none upon earth that I desire 
 beside thee. My flesh and my heart 
 faileth : but God is the strength of my 
 heart, and my portion forever." 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE ALTERNATIVE. 
 
 I Cor. XV. 32: " If after the manner of men I 
 have fought with beasts at Ephesus, what advan- 
 tageth it me, if the dead rise not ? Let us eat and 
 drink; for to-morrow we die." 
 
 The alternative here presented, I pro- 
 pose, in this discourse, to consider ; and 
 that in regard, not alone to the particu- 
 lar points specified in the text, but in 
 general to the great fundamental truths 
 of religion. If we do not accept them, 
 what then? The alternative, I say; 
 this is the point, and may be the title 
 of my discourse. Religion in its ground 
 principles, or no religion ; a firm and 
 happy faith, or the great dread waste 
 and blank of unbelief; this is the alter- 
 native. 
 
 Let us, then, I say, take our stand de- 
 cidedly on one ground or the other. If 
 this world is our only world, let us oc- 
 cupy it as such. If the senses are the 
 only sources of enjoyment, let us use 
 them as such. But, on the contrary, if 
 there is a life above sense and beyond 
 the world, let us act upon that convic- 
 tion ; fighting the good fight of faith 
 manfully, meeting toil, trial, conflict, 
 martyrdom, with- courage. Such alter- 
 native it is, that for certain ends in our 
 religious meditation I wish to present 
 to you. 
 
 It is the duty of the preacher to con- 
 tribute what he can to the amount of 
 human happiness ; to do what he can 
 to conduct men's minds to wise con- 
 clusions and to just principles of living. 
 And especially is it his duty, when the 
 mental culture of the world is running 
 to discontent, to anxiety, and to that 1 
 
 miserable incertitude which arises from 
 the breaking up of old faiths or old 
 modes of reasoning, without the defi- 
 nite settling of new ones. This, I think, 
 is the condition of many at the pres- 
 ent day. There are many minds, I con- 
 ceive, which are not grounded upon any 
 system either of belief or of unbelief ; 
 which are practically settled neither up- 
 on Thei.sm nor Atheism ; neither upon 
 Providence nor chance ; neither upon 
 Bible ground nor upon infidel ground; 
 neither upon this life nor another life ; 
 but are in a middle region, between the 
 two, wandering in shadows, seeing noth- 
 ing clearly, feeling nothing distincdy ; 
 in a position, in short, alike false to rea- 
 son and painful to experience. 
 
 Now, I do not propose to deal at 
 large with this vague and unsettled 
 way of thinking; I desire to bring 
 everything here, to a single point. 
 And the point is this, — that but one 
 of the two great opposing ideas about 
 religion can be true ; that from any just 
 conduct of the understanding it will 
 follow that one or the other of them 
 must be adopted. And then, 'having 
 stated this point, I wish to inquire 
 whether some important practical prin- 
 ciples would not follow from such 
 decision. 
 
 I say, then, that of the two opposing 
 theories, the theory of religion and the 
 theory of no religion, but one can be 
 true. In regard to the minor points of 
 creeds, there may be selection and com- 
 bination, a spiritual eclecticism ; but we 
 cannot deal so with the foundation doc- 
 trines. We cannot take something from 
 Atheism and something from Theism, 
 something from the doctrine of Provi- 
 dence, and something from the doctrine 
 of chance, and so compound one sys- 
 tem. This is impossible. We are 
 obliged to make our election, and to 
 abide by it. A God we must believe in, 
 or no God ; a Providence or no Provi- 
 dence, — no power ruling the world, no 
 sovereign will, no controlling order ; in 
 a future life where the blessed shall 
 be forever, or no future life, no hope 
 
THE ALTERNATIVE. 
 
 679 
 
 beyond the grave. To one or other of 
 these creeds we are in reason distinctly 
 bound. In reason we cannot be hover- 
 ino- between them. This is not a case 
 of more or less true or false, but of 
 absolute truth or falsehood. It cannot 
 be partly true that there is a God, a 
 Providence, a future life; it is alto- 
 gether true or altogether false. 
 
 I. This being stated, the first obser- 
 vation I have to make is, in the spirit of 
 tlie apostolic alternative, — which is in- 
 deed the keenest irony, — that from either 
 of these grounds firmly taken I could 
 draw more tranquillity and more com- 
 fort, as it appears to me, than most men 
 do from their half-way belief. For sup- 
 pose there were no personal Divinity, 
 who careth for us, and no future life. 
 Our being, then, is but the chance evo- 
 lution of infinite motion ; the ephemera 
 of a day in the eyes of eternity. Matter 
 and mind strangely resolved themselves 
 into this compact form, this breathing 
 frame ; and soon it shall be unbound 
 again from the golden chain of exist- 
 ence, and we shall no more belong to 
 the living universe. It is indeed a blank 
 and barren scepticism ; but even from 
 this might be obtained the tranquillity 
 of apathy. Why shouldst thou care 
 much for anything, if this breath of 
 life is all ; if it is to be extinguished 
 soon and forever, and may be at any 
 moment ? " Let us eat and drink," says 
 the Apostle, " for to-morrow we die." 
 Let us idle or trifle away the time ; for 
 it is not worth a deeper thought. As a 
 theory, to be sure, this is dreadfully un- 
 satisfactory; and its unsatisfactoriness 
 is an argument for something better. 
 But if that better be firmly rejected ; if 
 man's being is but the accident of an 
 hour ; if his fortunes are but bubbles 
 on the ever-flowing stream ; if his life 
 is but as the life of animal, bird, or in- 
 sect, let him sport it away as they do. 
 Let him derive his wisdom from the 
 conditions of his being. His being is, 
 indeed, on that supposition, but " a 
 fortuitous concourse of atoms ; " and 
 his wisdom is, to think deeply, to care 
 
 deeply for nothing. The supineness 
 and levity consequent on such a theory 
 would indeed be shocking to reason 
 and to faith ; but to the theory itself 
 they would not be shocking. They are 
 the proper and natural state of utter 
 scepticism. Whether there are not ele- 
 ments in humanity which such a scepti- 
 cism cannot satisfy, is another question ; 
 but that a life of apathy and vanity is 
 all that such scepticism would naturally 
 lead to, there can be no doubt. 
 
 But if, on the contrary, a reasonable 
 faith be accepted as the mind's reliance ; 
 if there is a God who " ruleth all things," 
 and if this world and all worlds are 
 under the dominion of His good provi- 
 dence ; if it is among the ordinances 
 of His mercy, that we shall surely live 
 hereafter ; if there is another life in 
 whose bright and boundless regions we 
 may wander forever, — there finding our 
 lost treasures, there gathering the lost 
 ones of earth ; then, — what then ? Oh ! 
 is it much that cloud and darkness, for 
 a moment, fall upon the path that is 
 leading to everlasting brightness ? I 
 speak not to the case of bodily pain now, 
 but only of the mind's sorrow and con- 
 flict ; and 1 suppose a good mind, a 
 mind intending and striving to be right ; 
 and this being supposed, I say, this 
 scene is soon to close, and an eternal 
 one is about to open before us ; why 
 shall we be perturbed, restless, or anx- 
 ious about the present? It is only a 
 night's trouble before the everlasting 
 day that is about to break around us. If 
 a day's travel were to take us to our 
 home, or to some blessed country where 
 we were to dwell in peace and gladness 
 forever, should we think much of that 
 day's annoyances and cares? Let us 
 only believe what we say we believe, — 
 that God is our keeper and guide, and 
 will one day conduct our feet to the ever- 
 lasting abodes ; and then, although life's 
 trouble and death's change must be felt, 
 and must be feared in a measure, yet 
 will they be swallowed up in the over- 
 ruling sentiment of trust, in the over- 
 ruling sentiment of the future. Let me 
 
68o 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 believe, and not merely say I believe. 
 Let God's presence be an abode with 
 me, and heaven a reality, the home of 
 my hope ; and then I can be strong and 
 patient and cheerful and victorious in 
 that all-conquering faith. 
 
 11. In the next place, of these two 
 theories, what are the comparative moral 
 tendencies ? which is the best theory ? 
 which is the noblest 1 which is fitted 
 to make the best and noblest men .? 
 You would hardly have patience with 
 me, if I were to discuss this question 
 seriously, or at length. I have said that 
 the theory of utter scepticism might lead 
 to the calm of utter indifference ; but 
 that, I think, is all that it can do, which 
 wears any appearance of benefit to man. 
 Certainly, no lofty virtues could spring 
 from it. Nay, I believe it is universally 
 admitted that the absolute denial of a 
 providence and a future life would whelm 
 the world in utter moral ruin. I think 
 that every man must be conscious for 
 himself, that to his own virtue such 
 scepticism would be a terrible if not a 
 fatal shock. But at any rate, however 
 the virtue formed by religious convic- 
 tions might stand for a while, after the 
 convictions failed, it is clear that it 
 would be altogether impossible to train 
 up the human race to any lofty improve- 
 ment, to any self-restraint, or self-sacri- 
 fice, to any noble achievements, public 
 or private, under a system that had ex- 
 pelled from the world all faith, wliether 
 in God, or providence, or futurity, — 
 under a system that made this earth the 
 product of chance, and this life the end of 
 human existence. In such a case human 
 history had not been worth writing, and 
 human life had not been worth living. 
 The human race would have sunk down 
 to brutish sense if it ever rose for a 
 moment above that grade. And can 
 there be any serious doubt in a case 
 like this ? One theory would make 
 brutes, and the other men ; one, a his- 
 tory, and the other no history, nothing 
 to tell of the world worth telling ; one, 
 poetry, art, beauty, inspiration, the other, 
 nothing but granaries and money-vaults : 
 
 can there be any doubt ? For it really 
 comes to this ; whether we are to hold 
 the loftiest and noblest sentiments in the 
 world to be illusions, and the lowest and 
 most worldly sentiments to be the only 
 stable realities. 
 
 Now I have only to ask one further 
 question. Not which is noblest, merely, 
 but for which do you judge that human 
 nature was made, — for vice, or for vir- 
 tue ; for evil, or for good ; for brutish 
 indulgence, or for sacred purity ; for 
 ferocious cruelty, or for gentle pity and 
 love ; for violence and ruin, in short, or 
 for order, improvement, and happiness ? 
 Judge, I say, between these ; for, as you 
 choose, so must you adopt either the 
 system of faith or the system of no 
 faith. If you take vice, evil, brutality, 
 ferocity, ruin, for your choice, lo ! here 
 is the very instrument for their produc- 
 tion, fitted to your hand-, scepticism, a 
 thorough conviction that there is noth- 
 ing beyond the senses to live for or hope 
 for, — this will inevitably produce all 
 these results. But if, on the contrary, you 
 believe that virtue, good, purity, love, 
 well-being, are the ends for which the hu- 
 man soul was made, then your part, your 
 inevitable choice, is faith ; faith in God, 
 in providence, in immortality. Judge, 
 I say. But you have judged already. 
 Every institution of government, every 
 court of law, every school-house, not to 
 say every church, is standing evidence 
 of your conviction, that man is made for 
 improvement and well-being, and not for 
 deterioration and destruction. 
 
 And if all this be true, into what a 
 strange and horrible supposition must 
 the sceptic be thrown ! I do not know 
 that I am speaking to one such sceptic ; 
 but I wish to show to you who believe, 
 yet all too feebly believe, how strong is 
 the ground for faith. For I say, into 
 what a strange and horrible supposition 
 is the sceptic thrown ! It is even this ; 
 that the welfare of the world is made to 
 depend on a lie. That welfare, it is cer- 
 tain, depends on faith ; and faith, he 
 holds, is all a delusion, a falsehood, a 
 lie. Surely, the mind that has coine to 
 
THE ALTERNATIVE. 
 
 68 1 
 
 that point touches on chaos ; the moral 
 elements of the universe must seem to 
 it to be whirling about in wild confusion ; 
 and for my own part, I know of nothing 
 that would so make me feel as if I had 
 come to the very verge of insanity, as 
 that tremendous disorder of my reason 
 within me, and of the universe around 
 me. 
 
 III. But I go farther; and I ask now if 
 it is possible for human experience to do 
 without religion, and faith in religion. 
 Let the elements of human nature be 
 developed into whatsoever forms they 
 will, — into whatsoever apathy, or levity, 
 or recklessness, or passion, or excess, or 
 violence ; is it possible that they can be 
 wrought into any satisfactory combi- 
 nation with unbelief ? On that barren 
 rock, can the hardest human bosom lean 
 and find repose ? The question is not 
 now, can this theory make human na- 
 ture good ; but can human nature bear 
 it ; can it endure such a theory ? 
 
 When I ask this question, my breth- 
 ren, a large range of experience comes 
 within my view ; of experience, natural, 
 indeed, but strong, nay, wild and fearful 
 too, and mixing itself up with a troubled 
 scene of events. We_^ are made with 
 undying affections. Erring, lawless, 
 wild as they may be, yet they are un- 
 quenchable. Do what we will to our- 
 selves, we cannot annihilate ourselves ; 
 and we cannot smother the inward 
 yearnings of our souls. This, that I 
 say, is not a matter of sentiment, but a 
 matter of fact. So are we made. To 
 desire, to fear, to hope, to love, is a 
 necessity. In apathy, that grave of the 
 soul, we may bury our affections, and 
 think they are dead ; but to-morrow they 
 will rise again, with renewed and im- 
 mortal vigor. And now, such a nature 
 as this, — where is it put to act its part ? 
 Into a world of change, decay, dissolu- 
 tion ! The beings whom our affections 
 grasp, as if forever, lo ! they die ! — 
 they vanish ! What a change ! One 
 moment before, my friend was here ; the 
 fullest circle and measure of reality was 
 here with me ; a presence that filled the 
 
 surrounding space with light, — a pres- 
 ence that made the very air breathe and 
 throb as with living pulses ; and now in 
 his place is — nothing ! and the breath- 
 less wonder of the bereft one can only 
 shriek or sigh in the awful void, —noth- 
 ing ! And yet, though the undying 
 thought is thus bound to the dying ob- 
 ject, yet can it never learn its lesson ; 
 never can it, so to speak, adjust itself to 
 death ; but ever since the first pall was 
 spread over the face of man, the same 
 tears have been poured out upon it, the 
 same shudderings have shaken mortal 
 hearts as they bent over it : and the 
 same wild and distracted affections have 
 rushed to the barriers of time, and de- 
 manded of eternity their lost treasures. 
 Oh ! if there were no answer, — if there 
 were no hereafter, might we not bow 
 before the dread Author of our being, 
 and say, why, — why hast thou made us 
 thus .'' Why could we not forget, as the 
 bird its young, or the hare its mate ? 
 Why must our affections linger on in 
 living death, and wear and waste us to 
 the grave, if they are not the harbingers 
 of something beyond the grave 1 
 
 And then, again, how naturally, how 
 irresistibly do our thoughts break forth 
 beyond the bounds of tliis world, into 
 the regions of the everlasting and the 
 mfinite ! I have said that on the scep- 
 tic's theory man should be content with 
 earth, and think of nothing beyond ; but 
 can he keep his thoughts bound to earth } 
 No, he cannot. There is ever a wave 
 beneath him, coming from eternity and 
 going to eternity, sweeping him on ; and 
 his soul can never take root in the visi- 
 ble realities of the present hour. Or 
 he is as one who builds his house on 
 an isthmus between two rushing seas. 
 While they are wearing away the foun- 
 dation, his thought embarks itself upon 
 those boundless floods, unknowing where 
 they roll, or what distant shores they 
 lave. On this narrow strip of earth man 
 does not walk as the grazing ox or the 
 draught-horse, but rather as one that 
 walketh in dreams. Less like the ani- 
 mal is he, at the worst ; and more like 
 
632 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 the ruined archangel of Milton's imagi- 
 nation, treading the uncertain soil of 
 the world on which he is fallen, and ex- 
 ploring, on every side, the dim regions 
 of undefined possibihty. What an ex- 
 ploring that is, what a sighing for light, 
 the wide spread of spiritualism, or spir- 
 itism, proves. No, this is not an imagi- 
 nary being of whom I speak; it is you, 
 my friend ; it is myself. 1 might say, 
 perhaps, that in right of our thought, 
 we feel that we belong to other worlds 
 than this ; that a little more or less of 
 distance is not material ; that as the 
 earth is ours, alike is the solar system, 
 is the sidereal heaven, ours. But this 
 much I may certainly say ; that this 
 world can no more content us than any 
 one field in it could content us ; and 
 that for the same reason ; because we 
 see beyond it, — far, far, infinitely be- 
 yond it. 
 
 Bound, now, the prospect by the 
 dreary negations of the sceptic school ; 
 no God, no providence, no life here- 
 after. I can conceive a mind so con- 
 stituted as to be really flung, sometimes, 
 upon this resort. I can conceive of a 
 mind that may say, "Well, since it is 
 my sad fortune to be certain of nothing 
 in the spiritual realm, I will stretch my- 
 self on this narrow ground of visible 
 reahty, and see what relief, what com- 
 fort I can find there.'' What can he 
 find ? Despair ! — for all the greatness 
 and the great hope of his nature, noth- 
 ing but this, — dark, desolate, brooding 
 despair ! The transparent skies fold 
 themselves into a heavy and impene- 
 trable veil around him ; the earth is 
 a tomb ; the stars are but lights of a 
 gloomy sepulchre. "But no," it may 
 be said, " even to the sceptic it still is 
 a fair world; it is a bright world; and 
 bright is the hour of life that is passed, 
 upon it." Extract from human nature 
 certain elements, — the undying affec- 
 tion, the infinite desire, the longing 
 after something above and beyond ; 
 make it, in other words, an animal na- 
 ture, — and all this is true. But so long 
 as this nature is human, it must have 
 
 aspirings, needs, ay, and conflicts, cross- 
 es, sorrows. Events cannot pass over 
 us like summer clouds. The earth can- 
 not be to us a bosom of repose. We 
 must fight our battle ; and in that bat- 
 tle the soul must rise to victory, or it 
 must sink to despair. But how can it 
 fight on the sceptic's field .^ All its as- 
 pirations denied, all its hopes crushed, 
 all its ambition mocked ; no end for it 
 but a grave ; no monument but a tomb ; 
 no guerdon but annihilation ; where can 
 it find courage for its conflict? No- 
 where. It is sent to do that which it 
 cannot do. It is sent to do that which, 
 by supposition, it has no motive nor 
 means for doing. 
 
 I say it fearlessly ; no greater incon- 
 gruity was ever conceived of, than that 
 which would exist between such a na- 
 ture and such a fate. Beneath the heav- 
 ens, through all the range of nature, was 
 never found such an incongruity. If 
 you saw a noble bird, fallen by some 
 mischance into a quicksand, and there 
 vainly struggling till it sank and per- 
 ished, you would look on with pity and 
 say, "Ah ! poor denizen of air and sky, 
 thou wast never made to strive with an 
 element like that." If you saw a whole 
 tribe of winged creatures, involved by 
 an ordinance of nature in a fate like 
 that, you would stand aghast. You 
 know that in the whole round of nature 
 no such teirible solecism can be found. 
 And is there a being, and a whole race 
 of beings, made in aspiration to soar to 
 heaven, to spread the wing over the in- 
 finite depths, to stretch its flight through 
 the boundless ages, and is this race 
 doomed, in successive millions, to strug- 
 gle with the gross elements of earth, to 
 struggle in vain, and to sink at last, the 
 hapless victims of some stupendous mis- 
 creation .'' Is this fair earth, then, but 
 the disastrous gulf of wrecked genera- 
 tions ? Have they come out from the 
 bosom of the infinite, — those troops and 
 myriads of souls, instinct with thoughts 
 divine and hopes immortal, only to perish 
 on this shore of dark and dread mis- 
 chance ? Forbid it, reason, religion ! 
 
THE ALTERNATIVE. 
 
 68- 
 
 Earth, heaven, forbid it! It were an 
 intolerable fate. The supposition is 
 intolerable. 
 
 My friends, I have tlius endeavored 
 to strengthen in you and in myself those 
 great reliances in which are all our sta- 
 bility and consolation. For this pur- 
 pose I have thought it good to throw 
 the mind upon the only alternative; 
 and, by showing the intolerableness 
 both to reason and experience of that 
 alternative, to bring new support to the 
 great principles of our faith. 
 
 It appears to me that both our temp- 
 tations and afflictions are doubled by 
 the want of decision about those prin- 
 ciples. Let the tempted man think of 
 it. If over the place of threatened dere- 
 liction, political, social, or sensual, — if 
 over that spot bends the eye of all-wit- 
 nessing God ; if the infinite Authorit}', 
 tlie infinite Sacredness, is there, forbid- 
 ding the deed, canst thou do it ? Is it 
 there, or is it not there ? Settle that ; 
 for thou must act accordingly. Let the 
 sufferer think of it. Say, my friend, if 
 there is a God ; if he is good ; if all the 
 events of life are the ordinances of his 
 wisdom and goodness ; if all is good, if 
 all is best J if we are convinced that it 
 is best, that sickness and pain and death 
 should be here, even though we cannot 
 altogether see why; and if we assuredly 
 believe that when this dream of life is 
 over, the broken ties of earth shall be 
 knitted up again, and the families of 
 earth shall walk together in the regions 
 of heaven, — say, if all this is true, can 
 we not lift up our heads from every pros- 
 trating blow .' Can we not smile through 
 our tears? Can we not hold our hearts 
 firm in good hope and cheerful trust ? 
 
 IV. But, in any case and upon either 
 theory, I say, in the last place, that this 
 life is not worth the anxieties which we 
 give it ; that this life ought not to be 
 clothed about with wasting solicitudes. 
 Hov.' long it shall last, wiien or how it 
 shall end, is of less importance than 
 we make it. It is of less importance in 
 the all-wise account ; why shall we not 
 strive to make it so in ours 1 
 
 But, any rate, the very uncertainty of 
 life, the very insecurity of its posses- 
 sions, is an argument for indifference on 
 the one hand, or for all-concjuering faith 
 on the other. Hast thou not lost a 
 parent, a child, or a friend, dearer than 
 life ? Last week, last month, did not 
 thine acquaintance die, — as good, as 
 strong as thou ? Dost thou not see all 
 things goodly and fair on earth swept 
 away as summer clouds ? If thou art 
 but as one of these transitory and van- 
 ishing shadows, then take thy lot with 
 appropriate indifference ; thy being is 
 not worth a further thought or care. If 
 God careth not for it, why shalt thou 
 care .'' Or, if there is no God, why shalt 
 thou care for anything ? But if thou 
 art the child of Heaven, if thou art as 
 one who shall triumph over all that is 
 frail and mortal, and live forever, then 
 tread the things of earth beneath thy 
 feet, and stand girded and hoping in the 
 immortal paths. 
 
 For my own part, I have long striven 
 to adjust my mind, if I may so express 
 myself, to this great event of death. I 
 do not say that I have succeeded. But 
 this is what I am disposed to say, as the 
 result of my present thinking. Let us 
 see each death, more than we do, as 
 coming under the general ordinance. 
 Should it seem a strange or shocking 
 thing that one dieth ? Why, ail men 
 are dying. It is the tale of ages ; it is 
 the experience of thousands this hour ; 
 even while I have been speaking, thou- 
 sands have departed from this life ; it is 
 what shall soon be your lot a,nd mine ; 
 it shall in a few years sweep away the 
 whole living generation. That great 
 course of nature, that transition which 
 is passing upon the whole living universe, 
 should it be a shock, a catastrophe as it 
 were, to rend the world ? Ought it to 
 be so, that distraction and agony should 
 wait around this great, all-comprehend- 
 ing ordinance of divine wisdom ? Would 
 the good God have appointed it, if it 
 had been for anything but good ? If 
 it be good, should we reject it ? And if 
 it were evil, can we resist it ? Even 
 
684 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 then would I yield to no unmanly weak- 
 ness. Even then would 1 welcome the 
 stoic's firmness, or the sceptic's apathy. 
 If I could say nothing better when the 
 hour came, I would say with Mirabeau, 
 to his surrounding friends : " To-day I 
 shall die; nothing remains but to be 
 enveloped with perfumes, to be crowned 
 with flowers, to be surrounded with 
 music, and so to enter peaceably into 
 the eternal sleep." But, thanks be to 
 God ! for us, believers, there is a better 
 hope. In that better hope, shame were 
 it for us, if we have not a better calm- 
 ness, a better courage. When others 
 die, then, let us not mourn as those who 
 have no hope ; but let us still feel that 
 we may hold them dear, and hold them 
 for our own, in the great faith of God 
 and of immortality. And when our own 
 time is come, let us calmly wrap the 
 mantle of death about us, and say, in 
 the words of our great Master and Fore- 
 runner, — "Father, the hour is come; 
 and we come to Thee. To Thee, all 
 Goodness, all Wisdom, — to Thee, O 
 Thou Infinitude of life and love, we 
 come ; and in peace, in prayer, and in 
 faith, yield ourselves to Thy will." 
 
 V. 
 
 TRUTH IN ALL RELIGIONS. 
 
 MicAH vi. 6, 7, 8 : "Wherewith shall I come be- 
 fore the Lord, and bow myself before the high God ? 
 Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with 
 calves of a year old ? Will the Lord be pleased with 
 thousands of rams, or with ten thousands of rivers of 
 oil ? Shall I give mv first-born for my transgression, 
 the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul? He hath 
 showed thee, O man, what is good : and what doth 
 the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love 
 mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God ? " 
 
 The questions here asked concerning 
 Religion, and the comprehensiveness of 
 the answer, seem to me to make a fit 
 introduction to the kind of discourse 
 v.'hich I propose to you this morning. 
 It is a time of tnatiy questions about 
 relii^ton, the time we live in ; and it nat- 
 urally leads us to wish to settle our 
 
 minds upon the great subject as far as 
 we can, by positive and comprehensive 
 statements ; to look at religion, with the 
 largest view, as root, and growth, and 
 branch, and fruit: and by fruit, I mean 
 the result and outcome of the whole 
 matter. For in any interest, whether for 
 thought or action, which is vital and 
 fundamental with us, and religion is 
 both, we must begin with the roots and 
 grounds of it; then, we naturally pro- 
 ceed to its springing up, to its unfolding, 
 — how it grew, and by what means : 
 then to its modifications, or branches. 
 and the fair view and construction of 
 them ; and finally to the fruit of all, the 
 product and end to' be sought, from all 
 these diversities of human opinion and 
 institution. 
 
 I. First, then, I find the roots of all 
 religion in human nature, — set there by 
 the hand that made it. I need not dwell 
 upon this point, for I think it is very 
 well understood among us, though per- 
 haps not often enough recognized. I 
 believe in primal intuitions of truth, of 
 right, of religion. Without this foun- 
 dation no religion' could be built up in 
 the human soul. Without these original 
 intuitions no word about religion could 
 ever be understood. What do the words 
 good, just, right, religious, mean ? Take 
 away the interpreting conscience and 
 nobody would know. You might as 
 well speak them to the horse or the o.\. 
 It is with religious culture in inan as 
 with all other. Take away the original, 
 intuitive axioms, and there could be no 
 geometry. Take away the fundamental 
 perceptions of beauty, and there could 
 be no art. Take away first truths'from 
 our moral reasonings, and there could 
 be neither ethics nor philosophy. In 
 all nature there are germs of growth, 
 and so there are in human nature. But 
 this is too plain to insist upon. 
 
 II. In the second place, the devel- 
 opment of religion, its unfolding and 
 growth, have appeared under various 
 systems of thought, of culture, and, 
 ritual in successive ages ; but I wish 
 now to say that the unfolding has 
 
TRUTH IN ALL RELIGIONS. 
 
 685 
 
 appeared particularly in written rec- 
 ords, in books, which may be called the 
 Bibles of the ages, as the Vedas and the 
 Koran ; and notably in our holy Scrip- 
 tures, both of the Old and New Testa- 
 ment. In these are found, I believe, 
 the greatest religious utterances that 
 have ever been heard in the world. 
 
 The old Hebrew Spiritualism, first, 
 in the devotions of David and the sub- 
 limity of Isaiah, surpasses everything 
 that appeared in their time. And I 
 know of nothing in antiquity that com- 
 pares with the ideas of polity, of justice 
 and kindness, which the statutes of 
 Moses disclose, — restraining despotic 
 power, mitigating slavery, requiring len- 
 ity to strangers, consideration for the 
 poor that gleaned the harvest-fields, 
 and merciful treatment of animals even, 
 and tlie like, — or that equals in tender- 
 ness and pathos the stories of Joseph, 
 of Esther, and of Ruth. 
 
 Not that eT'erjthing in these records 
 of the Hebrew religion is to be ac- 
 cepted. The cosmogony, i. e., the origi- 
 nation of things, cannot be. The 
 historic verity cannot be : nor even 
 the morality always ; as, for instance, 
 the war-spirit and practice of the con- 
 querors of Canaan. Nor is it to be 
 supposed that God gave his sanction to 
 everything that the Hebrew people did 
 or said or wrote in the Old Testament. 
 There is a popular mistake about that 
 phrase, — "Thus saith the Lord." It 
 simply expressed the Leader's or 
 Prophet's conviction that he acted or 
 spoke in accordance with the divine 
 Will. In that grand chapter, the ist of 
 Isaiah, when the prophet says, "Your 
 new moons and your appointed feasts 
 my soul hateth ; they are a trouble unto 
 me ; I am weary to bear them : " this is 
 not to be taken as the language of God, 
 but the prophet's own highly figurative 
 language, in which he sets forth God's 
 displeasure at the empty ceremonies 
 and hypocrisies of the people. And 
 that everything in the moral notions 
 inculcated is not right, must be re- 
 garded by Christians as evident from 
 
 the fact that Jesus contradicted and 
 superseded those old Hebrew ideas 
 about hating enemies, — about "an eye 
 for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth." 
 But I lay down for you a better law, — 
 is what he says. 
 
 And yet while these concessions are 
 to be made, it would be a pity not to 
 see what grandeur, what beauty there 
 is in these old Bible records. There is 
 nothing more difficult for the highest 
 genius, taste, and piety combined, than 
 to write a book of prayer and praise. 
 David wrote his Psalms more than two 
 thousand years ago, and they have 
 sufficed for the most cultivated nations 
 and ages ever since ; they are read and 
 chanted in ten thousands of churches this 
 day ; and nothing has ever surpassed 
 or equalled them. Is this marvel, thus 
 standing out in the eyes of all men, to 
 be slurred over by criticisms upon some 
 of his language.? The imprecations of 
 David are often referred to as a blot 
 upon his writings ; but I confess that 
 I am not disposed to give them up to 
 the common unqualified disparagement. 
 Why shall not a man /i-e/ the causeless 
 wrong that is done him .'' Why may 
 he not wish that it shall be visited with 
 the evil that it deserves ? Why not that 
 it shall be punished ? It ts punished. 
 God punishes it. Shall we assume to 
 be more merciful than God ? There 
 is a place for justice as well, as mercy, 
 for indignadon as well as pity. Jesus, 
 whose glorious hyperboles in behalf 
 of mercy were not meant for literal 
 teachings, — Jesus himself once looked 
 round about him with indignation, and 
 at other times denounced the heaviest 
 woes upon his enemies, the hypocriti- 
 cal Pharisees. And Paul, when he 
 stood a bound and helpless prisoner 
 before the Jewish Council, and the high 
 priest commanded them that stood by 
 to smite him on the mouth, — Paul 
 said unto him, "God shall smite thee, 
 thou whited wall." I don't think that 
 was amiably said ; and I respect him 
 the more for his feeling, and for express- 
 ing his feeling, at such an indignity. 
 
686 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 Turn now from the great Psalmist of 
 Israel to the Hebrew prophets, and see 
 what men these were. No such men 
 ever stood up in any other nation or 
 age of the world. Their appearance is 
 positively a phenomenon in history. 
 But look at them, I say, not as phe- 
 nomenal persons only, not merely as 
 inspired prophets, but as 7Hefi, rising 
 up to challenge every wrong, public or 
 private, loving their country, pleading 
 with God and man for its good ; but 
 speaking, in the face and in peril of 
 kingly wrath and popular indignation, 
 in tones of unsparing rebuke. They 
 were the real kings of that old Hebrew 
 time. Think of men rising up among 
 ns, to speak to president and people, 
 in the way they did ; ay, speaking to 
 the people of Boston or New York, 
 as they did to Jerusalem and its priests 
 and rulers ! Not everything that they 
 said is, indeed, of interest to us now ; 
 but they have left their mark upon the 
 religious history of the world. 
 
 Other ancient teachers, the Brahmins 
 and Buddhists, spoke, indeed, grand 
 words and fine, for truth and righteous- 
 ness. Admirable sentences may be 
 quoted from them. Yet I find them 
 generally to be abstract and vague. 
 But the Hebrew prophets struck down 
 deep into the conscience, into daily life, 
 into the sins and backslidings of the 
 people. And when you read what 
 the Hebrew seers said of the Supreme 
 Being, think what it was ! They broke 
 down, with one blow, the whole system 
 of Idolatry, and set up instead, without 
 idol or image, the sublime idea of one 
 sole, sovereign, immaterial, and invisible 
 God ! It was a wonderful revelation to 
 the old idolatrous ages. 
 
 But when we come to the Christian 
 development of religion, a far higher 
 and wider range of ideas, duties, and 
 hopes is opened to us. It is not the 
 unity or spirituality of God alone ; it 
 is not merely kindness to men ; but 
 God our Father, all men our breth- 
 ren, — immortalit}', from vague dreams, 
 brought to light ; and Jesus, the most 
 
 perfect being, standing before the world 
 in such loveliness as no other, in my 
 eyes, ever stood. It is remarkable that 
 amidst all the question and doubt about 
 him that there has been, and is now, 
 among men, no one has ever denied 
 him this transcendent glory. Even 
 Voltaire and Rousseau admitted it. 
 Voltaire says, " I take the part of the 
 real Jesus against the errors of the 
 Church about him." Rousseau cele- 
 brates, in a well-known passage, the 
 almost miraculous beauty of his teach- 
 ing and life. The remarkable contribu- 
 tions of recent authorship to this theme 
 all bear the same stamp. The writers 
 of the books entitled "Jesus and his 
 Biographers," and " The Veil Partly 
 Lifted," of " Ecce Homo " and " Ecce 
 Deus," and Strauss and Kenan, the 
 most of them not orthodox, and some 
 of them very sceptical, yet all unite in 
 pouring out homages at his feet, — at 
 the feet of the divinest man. 
 
 III. Let me now say something, in 
 the third place, of the modifications, 
 the various forms into which religion 
 has branched out in its growtli, and of 
 the view which, I think, is to be enter- 
 tained of them. 
 
 In taking this survey, I stand — or 
 at least in this discourse I propose to 
 take a position — above all forms, all 
 dogmatic faiths, all sects. In theology, 
 I differ from others ; all men must dif- 
 fer, more or less, one from another. In 
 theology, I dispute ; I accept or I re- 
 ject this or that. But in a larger phi- 
 losophy, taking the broadest view of 
 religion, I think a man might say, with- 
 out any undue assumption, — I compre- 
 hend all ; I quarrel with none. 
 
 When I look even at heathenism in 
 religion, and when I see that, at the 
 time, there could be no better ; that 
 men's minds could reach to nothing 
 higher, — I say, I am glad there was that. 
 I do not scorn it, nor brand it as utterly 
 bad. I find something to sympathize 
 with, in the religion of the darkest ages, 
 — the ultimate intent, the looking up to 
 heaven with dim and awe-struck gaze. 
 
TRUTH IN ALL RELIGIONS. 
 
 687 
 
 The miner welcomes any shining grains 
 of golden ore, however incrusted with 
 rust and rubbish. As ciiildhood, in its 
 ignorance, its errors and crudities of 
 conception, is to be regarded with ten- 
 derness and forbearance, so is heathen- 
 ism. 
 
 For, let it be more distinctly consid- 
 ered that all men's religion, every man's 
 religious system, is of necessity the best 
 that he knows or can conceive of. It is 
 not in human nature to accept an infe- 
 rior thing when it sees that which seems 
 to it better. The rudest barbarians, if 
 better things are offered to them than 
 they have, and which they know to be 
 better, — better arms to fight with, better 
 contrivances for hunting, trapping, or 
 tillage, could not help adopting them. 
 Nay, and the better things, too suddenly 
 put into their hands, — exploding guns 
 instead of bows and arrows, steel traps 
 instead of gins and snares, — might only 
 injure them, or tear them to pieces. 
 And so with faiths. And so it seems to 
 be a part of the Providential order, that 
 nations and communities in their re- 
 ligion, should advance slowly to do so 
 safely. New ideas in religion, thrust 
 suddenly upon them, might only tear 
 and rend their religious faith. It would 
 be putting new wine into old bottles, or 
 new cloth to old garments, with the con- 
 sequences indicated by the Master. 
 
 I do not say, of course, that ignorant 
 people and nations should not be taught 
 better things. Certainly I do not ob- 
 ject to judicious Christian missions. 
 But I think it is a wise proceeding on 
 their part, when they direct their spe- 
 cial attention to the young, to teaching 
 the children in schools, as Schwartz 
 did, and Mr. Dall is doing in India ; 
 or to teaching agriculture and the 
 practical arts -with religion, as other 
 missionaries, and especially the Roman 
 Catholic, have done. Our Protestant 
 missionaries, some of them, have seemed 
 to think, that with the five points, — tlie 
 bare, naked five points — thrust into 
 men's faces, they could pierce hide- 
 bound Heathenism, and bring it captive 
 
 to Christ. But all such efforts have 
 met with signal failure. It may be said 
 that, at the first, Christianity came sud- 
 denly to the nations with its message. 
 But it is to be remembered that the 
 Apostles of the holy mission preached, 
 not to ignorant barbarians, but in pol- 
 ished cities, where the Roman law and 
 the Greek literature had diffused their 
 influence. 
 
 I am saying that the view taken, even 
 of the Pagan systems, should be one of 
 candor and consideration, rather than 
 the prejudiced and proscrijjtive one 
 that usually is taken. But yet more 
 true, of course, is this, of the Christian 
 systems and sects. Nay, I believe 
 that every Christian sect has something 
 right in its system ; and yet more, 
 something right at heart, even the intent 
 to be right. But in every system, I say, 
 there is some good principle, some val- 
 uable element, that attaches to it its 
 adherents. The orderly decorum of the 
 Church of England service, the good 
 and fit opening exhortation ( in the 
 beginning of every religious service I 
 always want to say something like t/iai), 
 the cheerful and solemn chantings, the 
 prayers, and the Litany, for the most 
 part, but especially those lovely Col- 
 lects ; the Readings and Responses, the 
 part which the Congregation takes in the 
 audible worship ; but then, on the other 
 hand, and the farthest extreme from 
 that, the freedom, for the outpourings 
 of feeling, of the Methodist worship, 
 the social and affectionate character 
 of the Methodist usages and teachings, 
 the heart-warmth that beats througli 
 all the irregularities of love-feasts and 
 camp-meetings ; then, the austerity of 
 Calvinism, whether Presbyterian. Con- 
 gregational, or Baptist, and especially as 
 it determines upon the life, to make it, 
 what it is, a strict and perilous trial- 
 time for all mortal men ; and again, the 
 more rational and liberal tenor of the 
 Arminian, Unitarian, and Universalist 
 faith ; and the fine humanity and spirit- 
 uahsm of the mystic, Swedenborg ; and 
 the simple intuitive reliance and broth- 
 
688 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 erly charity of the Friends ; and, stand- 
 ing over all, in its claims, the Roman 
 Catholic Church, setting up Religion, 
 in absolute sovereignty over the world, 
 though wrongly placing it in one fallible 
 human hand, — each and all of these 
 systems and churches, I say, have 
 something in them to win our respect 
 and sympathy. I stretch out my hands 
 in charity and accord to the main in- 
 tent of them all. I have an eclectic 
 principle that enables me to separate the 
 good from what I think to be the evil, 
 in everyone of them. 
 
 I am sensible that this is not the 
 attitude usually taken towards the re- 
 ligions of the world. It is condemna- 
 tion that is commonly dealt out by each 
 one to all the rest. And if religion were 
 solely a matter of controversy, this 
 doubtless would be the honest stand- 
 point : each one, of course, must think 
 its own way the best. But why should 
 it be solely a matter of controversy ? 
 Why should not the deep interest at 
 stake, the difficulty and darkness that 
 surround it, and the claimed sincerity 
 of all, make it a subject of profound 
 and even affectionate sympathy ? Why 
 should a man, when he sees his neigh- 
 bor going to church, say in his mind, 
 '■'■He is going to another church, — a 
 formal Episcopal Church, or a grim 
 Presbyterian, or a heretic Unitarian ? '' 
 Or when he looks over to the other side 
 of the world, and thinks of the Brahmin 
 or the Buddhist resorting to his temple, 
 why should he regard only with aversion 
 or scorn the poor Pagan worshipper? 
 This weary and burdened humanity, sin- 
 stricken and saddened with its errings, 
 seeking for help; this bewildered and 
 blinded nature, penetrated with the 
 great idea of God, and seeking, — to use 
 the touching words of Paul, — "seek- 
 ing, if haply it may feel after him and 
 find him ; " these brother-souls around 
 us, gathering together for worship, for 
 prayer, drawn by private griefs and 
 strugglings which none but God only 
 knows, drawn from homes where trial 
 and sorrow and bereavement are, and 
 
 where death shall soon be, — what can 
 win us to tenderness and sympathy if 
 not this ! 
 
 But if any of those who thus go to 
 worship the Infinite One, and to seek 
 favor and blessing from heaven, take 
 upon them to say, " We only are in the 
 right, ours is the only plan of salvation ; " 
 if any sectarian, rending the seamless 
 robe of Christ, while snatching at the 
 whole of it to cover himself alone, — if 
 any sectarian shall say that Jiis is the 
 only Chitrch, and all others but heretic 
 meetings, I am tempted to answer, "Good j 
 sir, content yourself; you have not this 
 matter to decide upon : there is a larger 
 thought than yours, which takes you in 
 also ; have more comfort in religion, and 
 a little less assurance ; hast thou faith ? 
 have it to thyself before God. Happy 
 is he that condemneth not himself in 
 that thing which he alloweth." For 
 why, — as St. Paul also says, — "why 
 dost thou judge thy brother ? or why 
 dost thou set at nought thy brother ? for 
 we shall all stand before the judgment- 
 seat of Christ." 
 
 IV. Having thus .spoken of religion 
 in its root and growth and branches, it 
 remains to consider, in the fourth place, 
 what it is, as fruit to feed and strengthen 
 the soul: what are its cardinal truths 
 and indispensable duties. From all 
 questions about creeds and churches 
 and sects we naturally appeal, as the 
 prophet did, to what is simple and cer- 
 tain in religion : "He hath showed thee, 
 O man, what is good. And what doth 
 the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, 
 and to love mercy, and to walk humbly 
 with thy God ? " 
 
 There are two theories or ways of 
 thinking about religion, — the theory 
 of nonchalance, of indifference, and the 
 theory of true and profound interest in 
 it. There is a theory of nonchalance ; 
 and it is the ground taken by more per- 
 sons, I suspect, than we may imagine. 
 There are many who say, " Religion is 
 something that we cannot understand, 
 and with which we do not concern our- 
 selves. The wise differ about it, the 
 
TRUTH IN ALL RELIGIONS. 
 
 689 
 
 learned dispute, the sects are all at 
 variance : lo ! here, lo ! there, tljey say : 
 and amidst the confusion, we find noth- 
 insj better than to retire and stand aloof. 
 Besides, we do not see any relation that 
 the matter has to our real happiness. 
 The teachers tell us that it will have ; 
 but we cannot be driven into anything 
 by our selfish fears. We had rather be 
 indifferent than superstitious. And the 
 Church, though it calls, does not win us. 
 It appears to be a body of initiated per- 
 sons ; they profess to have some pecul- 
 iar experience, from which we are ex- 
 cluded as the profane world ; and what 
 can we do but stand apart in utter in- 
 difference .'' " 
 
 If this nonchalance stopped at forms, 
 or even at creeds, at abstruse specula- 
 tions, I could understand it. But if it 
 extends to the great reality lying beneath 
 all, then I must stand clear from it, in 
 absolute wonder at its position. I can- 
 not speak for others ; but for myself, I 
 should think myself an idiot, if I did 
 not take the profoundest interest in 
 religion. The lenity with which I have 
 spoken of other forms of faith does not 
 make me any less a believer in my 
 own. I am a believer in Christianity ; of 
 course, if I were not, I should not stand 
 in this pulpit ; but I am, moreover, a 
 believer in a particular interpretation of 
 Christianity, — not as accepting every- 
 thing that comes under its name, but as 
 holding that construction of the Great 
 Religion in preference to any other. 
 
 I believe in one God. I beHeve in the 
 Father, the one God ; and I believe in the 
 Son: and I believe in the Holy Ghost: not 
 that these three are one, but that these 
 three expressions stand for great and 
 precious and fundamental statements 
 of the Christian faith. What is meant 
 by the first two, is obvious, and does not 
 here require explanation ; but I believe 
 in the Holy Ghost. — i. e., in a divine 
 power spiritually working in the world, 
 and in all the hearts of men. 
 
 I believe also in man ; not in his per- 
 fection, but that his imperfection implies 
 that there is something undeveloped, 
 
 unfinished in him, and that he is capable 
 of advancing towards perfection. Ani- 
 mals are perfect in their kind : the bird 
 cannot be more perfect than it is ; there 
 is nothing undeveloped in it ; and it has 
 no idea of going beyond. It is not so 
 with man. I believe in man ; in his 
 conscience, in his moral freedom, and in 
 his power to do right ; and that he doss 
 something right : that he is neither nat- 
 urally nor altogether wrong. This faith 
 in man is instinctive ; and it is remark- 
 able to see, notwithstanding all the de- 
 ception and wrong we meet with, how 
 naturally we all believe in what our 
 neighbor says or promises to us. A 
 thousand times, perhaps, we are de- 
 ceived : and still we go on believing. 
 This shows that to ourselves it is not 
 natural to lie ; and he who always acts 
 as if he were going to be taken in, is 
 denaturalized, if not worse. 
 
 1 beheve in goodness. I believe in 
 the goodness of many around me ; but I 
 mean, now, that I believe in absolute 
 goodness, — in its reality, its precious- 
 ness, its infinite preciousness. I believe 
 in nothing else as I believe in that. I 
 believe that pure love — pure, unselfish, 
 uncalculating, unstinted love — is the 
 chief good, the only essential good, the 
 infinite and eternal good ; that it is 
 blessing, beatitude, blessedness, — the 
 blessedness of the Infinite Being and 
 of all his rational creatures. 
 
 I am saying these things in the way of 
 statement, rather than reasoning. I am 
 speaking as it were in apothegms ; let 
 me go on to do so, in a few more words, 
 and thus to express freely my thoughts 
 of the best and highest things ; for these 
 are my religion. 
 
 We all believe in prayer in some sense ; 
 it is distinctively the great thing in re- 
 ligion. But the best of all prayers is 
 that which rises spontaneously in the 
 heart, in the silent walk, in the still cham- 
 ber, or it may be in the busy throng of 
 life, — the thanksgiving that rises like 
 incense, the devotion unbidden, the ab- 
 sorption into God, which says, '• I have 
 all in Thee ; I want nothing: do with 
 
 44 
 
690 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 me what Thou wilt, now in time and 
 hereafter in eternity. I am happy, I am 
 full of joy ; having all in Thee, 1 desire 
 nothing beside." 
 
 And yet because -we are liable to for- 
 get God, and we want to live our instant 
 and perpetual life in Him, it is meet that 
 we have some distinct time or times, 
 every day, for this recollection and com- 
 munion. And besides, there must be 
 something of method in our deepest 
 studies and most earnest pursuits, that 
 we may grow and gain success in them. 
 
 But nevertheless, since prayer is so 
 great an action that the mind sometimes 
 shrinks from it, in its weakness and 
 weariness, and because all enforced for- 
 mality is liable to be irksome, it is also 
 meet and best that we should resort to 
 our secret devotions in great freedom, 
 as to the manner or order, — almost with- 
 out order, and with no precise method ; 
 walking or sitting or kneeling, as is 
 most natural to the mind's mood at the 
 time: let there be meditations, or self- 
 communings, or the thoughts that may 
 freely arise, — thoughts of our duties or 
 failures, or of Providence, or of the In- 
 finite Goodness ; just to rest for the time 
 in the all-embosoming sense of things 
 divine. Prayer should not be all hard 
 and strenuous supplication, but some- 
 times reasonings of the heart with itself, 
 or expansions of the soul into the infinite 
 realm of light and life. Thus spoke to 
 me, and in this wise, a sage and venerable 
 teacher in theology, to whom I once re- 
 sorted to commune with him upon the 
 troubles of my mind in this very thing; 
 and he told me that he commonly went 
 for his daily devotions to walk in a grove 
 near his house. Let no one speak of 
 this daily resort as "going to say his 
 prayers : " the very phrase is an offence ; 
 but let him say, — it is going to God, 
 going to find the infinite resource and 
 treasure and felicity. Wisdom, beauty, 
 glorv, beneficence so wonderful, all 
 around us, and appealing to us through 
 every wonderful sense and faculty ; who 
 that has a rational soul must not pause, 
 from time to time, to think of it ? 
 
 Devotion is subject to some new and 
 unusual^ trials under the Hght of mod- 
 ern science. Millions of creatures in a 
 drop of water, millions of glorious orbs 
 rolling through seemingly unbounded 
 space, and all these, it may be, but a 
 portion of the works of God, — our 
 minds stagger under the stupendous 
 conception of such a Being, and our 
 thoughts are liable to sink into vague- 
 ness and obscurit}', if not incredulity 
 and scepticism ! But God is : some 
 Cause there must be for all these won- 
 ders, and that Cause must be good. 
 My mind, sinking into whatever awful 
 questions it may, settles firmly upon 
 that. My nature in every faculty pro- 
 claims an Infinite Goodness. And such 
 beneficent adaptations to every sense 
 and power in me, — gratification for 
 taste and smell and touch, visions of 
 beauty for the eye, music for the ear, 
 truth for the mind, sanctity and love 
 for the soul, — what can manifest good- 
 ness if all this does not ? My whole 
 being is one living embodiment of mani- 
 festation ; and I should be guilty of 
 denial and treason to my very nature, 
 if I \Vere not a religious, reverent, and 
 grateful creature of the God who made 
 me. 
 
 But rehgion is not all devoutness. 
 Piety is the first commandment ; but 
 virtue is like it, — equally requisite. 
 Religion is not spirituality alone, as 
 men construe that word ; it is right 
 living, fair dealing, in act and word and 
 thought, honest buying and selling ; it 
 is speaking the truth, and speaking it 
 in love, — never causelessly to hurt 
 or harm any one, never calling any 
 man, but with great pain, a bad man.; 
 it is friendliness and forbearance and 
 a loving heart; it is self-control, self- 
 denial, self-sacrifice, when occasion 
 calls. 
 
 How must a man be girded with 
 strength, to do and to be all this ! And 
 yet what weakness in all mortal hearts !j 
 What exposures to selfishness and im- 
 patience and passion and appetite, and ' 
 a thousand wily temptations 1 There 
 
THE SYMBOL AND THE REALITY 
 
 691 
 
 must be watching, and praying, and 
 resolving, and the strong will. " Be 
 strong,'' said the angel to, Daniel, "yea, 
 be strong." " More power is shown," 
 said Starr King, "in silently treading 
 a passion (like ambition) under foot, 
 and thus being unknown, than when it 
 blazes forth, and makes a great fame." 
 And here we stand in these mortal lists, 
 in this battle of life, to fight with cour- 
 age and win the day, or to succumb and 
 sink in cowardice and shame and mis- 
 erable defeat. 
 
 The fight goes hard, indeed, with the 
 very condition of our being, — with what 
 we are., and the state in wiiich we are. 
 That we should be so weak, and yet 
 have such a work to do ; that such tre- 
 mendous issues should hang upon our 
 feeble will, — happiness or misery, such 
 as we are capable of, health or disease, 
 glory or shame ; and then that we are 
 environed, beset with such difficulties ; 
 that such clouds should be spread over 
 all the scene, and that such awful things 
 should be going on beneath them, — 
 wars, and famines, and pestilences, and 
 earthquakes ; and yet that this should 
 be God's world, — God's wisdom in it, 
 God's infinite love brooding over it, — 
 I believe it ; I have worked my way 
 out through days and years- of reason- 
 ing, and I stand firm and calm in that 
 faith. But great is that faith ; all the 
 powers of our being, spiritual and intel- 
 lectual, are gathered up in that action. 
 Well does an apostle say, " And this is 
 the victory, even our faith." 
 
 God has surrounded our being with 
 mysteries ; and he has given us that 
 faith to conquer by, — that one staff to 
 walk by. C)uit that, and all is wander- 
 ing and stumbling, in chaos, in utter 
 darkness. To all questions about re- 
 ligion, — root, growth, branches, sys- 
 tems of religion, — sects, churches, rites, 
 forms, philosophies, this is the answer: 
 " He hath showed thee, O man, what 
 is good : and what doth the Lord re- 
 quire of thee, but to do justly, to love 
 mercy, and to walk humbly with thy 
 God.?" 
 
 VL 
 
 THE SYMBOL AND THE REALITY. 
 
 Psalm xxxix. 6 : " Surely every man walketh in 
 a vain show." 
 
 There is a failure to apprehend 
 the reality in life. There is, amidst 
 its boundless activity and engrossing 
 earnestness, a failure to grasp the real 
 and vital thing that most concerns us, 
 to which I wish to invite your thoughts 
 in this morning's meditation. There are 
 many men, if I do not misjudge the 
 tenor of their lives, who are " walking 
 in a vain show." Tliey do not pene- 
 trate beneath the surface to the inmost 
 meaning of their life. There is some- 
 thing in life which they have never 
 reached, — an interest, a charm, a glory 
 in life which they have never perceived. 
 They are dealing witii forms and with 
 facts, and that is unavoidable ; but they 
 do not go beyond, as they ought, to the 
 meaning of the forms, to the philosophy 
 of the facts. Animals live, we suppose, 
 without any of this deeper, this ulterior 
 consideration of things ; and in this re- 
 spect the life of most men is too much 
 an animal life. 
 
 Let me state the point with a little 
 more formality. We are wont to say 
 that the universe, the world, life, — all 
 that exists, in short, — is composed or 
 two parts, the visible and the invisible ; 
 and further, that the visible reveals the 
 invisible. Thus it is said in Scripture, 
 that the invisible things of God are 
 known by the things that are made, 
 even his eternal power and Godhead. 
 The visible things, then, are symbols. 
 They are not the great realities, but 
 symbols of those realities. The visi- 
 ble human form, for instance, is but a 
 symbol of the reality, the spirit within ; 
 and all its visible action, occupation, 
 toil, change, all sickness, health, ful- 
 ness, want, pursuit, attainment, — the 
 whole busy round of life, is symbolical ; 
 it means something else than appears. 
 The world itself is a symbol ; the uni- 
 verse is a symbol. Now what I say is, 
 
692 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 that most men stop at the symbol, at 
 the outside appearance, and do not go 
 to the reality that is shadowed forth 
 by it. 
 
 Let your thoughts carry this into de- 
 tail a moment, and see if it is not true. 
 A man is engaged in a profession, or 
 occupied with business or with toil. 
 How seldom does he go beneath the 
 visible fact to the deeper meaning of all 
 this ! The affairs of life are machinery 
 to most men ; the deeper philosophy of 
 things is out of their sight. This whole 
 sphere of things called business is 
 meant for culture ; who thinks of it as 
 culture ? 
 
 Again, a man is sick. Now there was 
 no need in the nature of things, i. e., in 
 his material nature, that he should be 
 sick. In that he has a body there was 
 no need of it. Animals seldom suffer 
 under this corrective discipline. Will 
 it be said that man is endowed with a 
 more delicate physical organization, and 
 that is the reason ? Very well ; that 
 carries us back a step farther. Why 
 has he this more delicate organization ? 
 For the culture of the soul. It tends to 
 accomplish that end ; why then should 
 we not say that was its design ? The 
 sickness of the body, then, is part of a 
 system of moral development and ad- 
 vancement. Often it is the very con- 
 sequence and corrective of moral evil. 
 Always it calls for moral strength. And 
 yet it is very possible to pass through a 
 severe illness, the most monitory fact in 
 life, penetrative and piercing almost as 
 conscience itself, without any thought of 
 the deeper meaning of the dispensation. 
 It is not merely a want of religion of 
 wliich I speak ; it is a want of general 
 insight into the meaning of things. We 
 walk " in a vain show." The word ren- 
 dered show means an image, a shadow. 
 And it is amidst shadows that we live. 
 We live, and know not what it is to live; 
 we suffer, but know not wherefore ; we 
 rejoice, but to no lofty end. We are 
 high or low, rich or poor, without know- 
 ing the meanings of greatness or hum- 
 bleness, or the real and ultimate ends of 
 
 wealth or poverty. Our life, it is to be 
 observed, is necessarily a visible action, 
 a series of events, a succession of sen- 
 sitive pleasures and pains, a train of 
 physical causes and effects. The ques- 
 tion is, to what deeper design and dis- 
 cipline does all this point ? And with 
 this question, I think, but few minds are 
 habitually conversant. In a crowd of- 
 cares, in the throng of society, in the 
 whirl of alternate occupation and pleas- 
 ure, most men pass their lives ; and too 
 often, amidst it all, there is no large 
 philosophy, no deep meditation, no gen- 
 uine spirituality, and no effectual faith. 
 
 The Symbol and the Reality, then, — 
 let this be the theme of our present 
 meditation. I have spoken of the gen- 
 eral failure to apprehend the reality. 
 Let us first consider some of the causes 
 of this defect, and next the remedy 
 for it. 
 
 I. The first cause is found in the 
 necessary preponderance, at the earliest 
 periods of life, of the physical over the 
 spiritual man. This consideration is so - 
 obvious that I need not dwell upon it. 
 Our childhood is nourished, supported, 
 educated by the visible, by symbols ; 
 and is not to be required immediately 
 to enter into the deeper and more rec- 
 ondite meknings of things. A child 
 must be expected, in the round of his 
 pleasures and studies, often to tread un- 
 consciously on the hidden springs of 
 wisdom and mystery. More than is 
 usual, indeed, they should be laid open 
 to him. Thus, for instance, I have often 
 known a child of eight or ten years 
 old earnestly to inquire why it must 
 learn, why its studies must be so hard, 
 why it may not neglect the harder tasks, 
 and sport away its days in ease and 
 pleasure. This may be an occasion, I 
 think, for explaining something of God's 
 great discipline in human hfe, for show- 
 ing that tasks are given to develop en- 
 ergies, and trials to nurture submission 
 and patience. The child may be told 
 that if his mind were not put to task he 
 would always be a child, — he would 
 never grow up to be a man. 
 
THE SYMBOL AND THE REALITY 
 
 693 
 
 If more of this nature were taught, 
 if especially the youth who is going 
 tlirough the rounds of professional, mer- 
 cantile, or mechanical apprenticeship, 
 were instructed more than he is in the 
 principles of things, were taught to 
 reason and reflect, he would be saved, 
 in part, from the operation of the second 
 cause I was about to mention, and, that 
 is routine. 
 
 Routine, I say, receives the pupil of 
 technical education and sends him in 
 the mill-horse round of life, no wiser 
 to-day than he was yesterday, no wiser 
 at forty than he was at twenty. Some 
 added slcill he acquires in performing 
 his daily tasks, but no added wisdom, it 
 may be, in regard to their ultimate design 
 and meaning. Thus the care of the 
 house, the care of the farm, the care of 
 the manufactory, the warehouse, the 
 office, instead of becoming a field of 
 expansive improvement, becomes a 
 mechanism to lock up the faculties in 
 barren sterility. The busy action of life 
 frustrates its very intent. This, I say, 
 is the effect of routine. If the things 
 we do every day were done but once in 
 )ife, they would arrest the mind and 
 awaken reflection. But this constant 
 repetition of every day's task makes 
 the whole formal and factitious. Life is 
 bereft of vitality. The action lacks the 
 interpreting thought. We cease to know 
 why we act — almost why we live. 
 
 This effect, again, is increased by the 
 pressure of occupation. So much to do, 
 leaves us little time to think. If we 
 solemnly set apart a season each day 
 for meditation and prayer, this tendency 
 of business to sink the spiritual nature 
 out of sight may be happily controlled. 
 But, on the contrary, a man who rises in 
 the morning with only time to make his 
 toilet and hurry to his morning meal, 
 who then hastens to his business, and 
 then back again to his dinner, and after- 
 wards perhaps to business or to business 
 studies again, and finally sinks to stupor 
 by his fireside or rushes into society, — 
 this man, I say, is likely to go blind and 
 stumbling through all the moral emer- 
 
 gencies of his being, througli the infinite 
 of things that surrounds him, and to 
 know nothing, nothing of himself, noth- 
 ing of God, nothing of the grandeur of 
 his existence, nothing of all those sub- 
 lime teachings that are breathed alike 
 from the stars above him and from every 
 wayside around him. 
 
 And now, in fine, when education and 
 routine and occupation have conducted 
 a man to the point towards which most 
 men are pressing, — that is to say, to 
 the possession of property, to wealtl^, — 
 what is the effect of this condition .'' 
 Still more, I fear, to protect and to 
 shield him, so to speak, from the naked 
 realities of life. Oh ! the way in which 
 a man knows life, who takes it shivering 
 and shelterless under the storms of dis- 
 aster and sorrow, — how different is it 
 likely to be, from that knowledge which 
 comes through folding curtains and soft 
 raiment! On this account I have come 
 to look with considerable distrust, I 
 confess, upon prosperous fortunes ; to 
 doubt whether they are not often made 
 pillows to keep men from the closest 
 contact with the great spiritual realities 
 of life. They make men independent in 
 more respects than is apt to be well for 
 them ; independent of exertion, inde- 
 pendent of the ordinary restraints of 
 life, and of its plain and homely needs 
 and trials ; independent of one another. 
 For an illustration of this last point, 
 though it is not very applicable to our 
 state of society, observe the effect of 
 wealth upon the conjugal relation, in 
 the opulent families of Europe. If a 
 difficulty arises, the parties can separate, 
 live apart, keep separate establishments: 
 that is to say, they can evade the moral 
 emergency that has arisen. In mere 
 moderate circumstances they would be 
 o])liged to meet it, to compose the 
 difference, to learn patience and for- 
 bearance. 
 
 Thus again, to take an instance that 
 may occur anywhere, — a young person, 
 nursed in luxury, has fallen into a reck- 
 less depression from some cause or 
 other ; she is disturbed and made 
 
694 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 almost sick by some cross to pride or 
 passion ; in short, slie is in the con- 
 dition of the spoiled child that needs 
 correction : and now the friend, the 
 mother, the care-taker, says, " Let us 
 surprise her with some unexpected 
 pleasure, or let us take her a journey, 
 or have company, or some excursion, 
 or some recreation." In short, some- 
 thing is devised to ward off the ques- 
 tion, the emergency that was designed 
 to call out the energy, subdue the will, 
 discipline the nature. In moderate cir- 
 cumstances, probably, this emergency 
 must have been fairly met. With the 
 easements of more prosperous condi- 
 tion, it is escaped. 
 
 Indeed, what else, with many, is the 
 pursuit of pleasure, what else are the 
 resorts of luxury, the indulgences of 
 pampered sense, but escape ? They 
 bring no satisfaction, but they have an 
 indirect use ; and this it is, — to provide 
 escape from the inward need, to divert 
 the soul's craving from itself, to pour 
 the slaking draught over the burning 
 spot within, and thus to soothe the irri- 
 tation for the time. 
 
 Of course I do not deny that wealth 
 may provide a beautiful ministration for 
 sickness, for sick nerves and saddened 
 spirits. Only let the case for relief be 
 subjected to any fine moral discrimi- 
 nation, and all is well. But this con- 
 stant indulgence which wealth is apt to 
 bring with it ; this perpetual softening 
 of the lot, plastering of the sore, help- 
 ing with opiates and stimulants, — how 
 different it is from the wise discipline 
 of Providence ! With a rough hand 
 it shakes the indolent and the self- 
 indulgent, — ay, the rough hand of dis- 
 ease and pain. With ingredients dis- 
 tilled in our very souls, and by the very 
 fire of our passions, it imbitters every 
 cup of pride, every sweet that selfish- 
 ness tastes. With the heavy and the 
 strong bonds of experience it brings 
 and compels a man to stand before it, 
 as before the master, to receive the 
 lesson. 
 
 And that the true end and interest of 
 
 life is that we should learn the lesson ; 
 that all the visible pursuits and posses- 
 sions of life, all its fortunes and vicissi- 
 tudes, have an ulterior purpose and one 
 that centres in the soul ; that the soul 
 and the soul's interest are the great 
 realities which interpret all forms, all 
 modes of things, all events on earth : 
 that God made us all for ends high and 
 solemn and everlasting as spiritual na- 
 tures are high and everlasting ; that he 
 did not send us into this world to be 
 the sport of a thousand accidents, but 
 through all to work out a great salva- 
 tion ; and, therefore, that the true wis- 
 dom of life is that, in all things and in 
 all situations, alone or in a crowd, at 
 home or on a journey, laboring or re- 
 posing, gaining or losing, rejoicing or 
 sorrowing, we should ever be conver- 
 sant with this deep and hidden reality, 
 — all this, 1 suppose, is as evident to any 
 moderate degree of reflection as it is 
 undoubtedly recognized in our Christian 
 faith. 
 
 II. I have attempted to expose the 
 danger — from education, from routine, 
 from occupation, and from acquisition — 
 of losing sight of this reality. Let me 
 now, in the next place, say something 
 on the means to be used and the dis- 
 positions to be cultivated, in resistance 
 to this tendency of so many things to 
 keep us on the surface. 
 
 The first is philosophy, the philosophy 
 of life. Be not alarmed, my brethren, 
 as if I were now going quite on to hea- 
 then ground in my teachings ; I say phi- 
 losophy. There is little danger of its 
 doing any harm ; for few persons enough 
 are likely to know anything about it. 
 What I recommend is, some mental 
 task ; enough reading, enougli reflec- 
 tion, enough listening to the pulpit, if 
 that really teaches us, to establish in 
 our minds some general view and theory 
 of life as a whole ; of its real end, and of 
 the way in which its visible action minis- 
 ters to that end. There is a sad want of 
 books on the subject, especially in our 
 own language ; for Germany and France 
 have been much more fruitful in this 
 
THE SYMBOL AND THE REALITY. 
 
 695 
 
 kind of disquisition. But still I would 
 advise the reading of what there is 
 among us. Or at least, if one has lime 
 for nothing else, let him read George 
 Combe's book on the Constitution of 
 Man. He will find himself assisted in 
 one department of the philosophy of 
 life, that of the human system. He 
 will find that beneath its fleshly cover- 
 ings and its obvious passions lie hidden 
 many spiritual meanings. If all nature 
 and all life were thus disclosed to us, if 
 all the processes and relations of hu- 
 man and earthly things were thus inter- 
 preted, what an unveiling would that 
 be ! — how would the dead fact on every 
 side take a soul, and the dumb event 
 speak out, and the barren forms of things 
 be clothed with living expression ! We 
 should then commune with the interior 
 soul of life ; because all events would 
 be a language discoursing evermore of 
 that very thing. The heavens and the 
 earth would be written over with that 
 language, and the whole of life would 
 be a converse, more or less directly, 
 with that hidden wisdom. 
 
 In the next place, I would say that 
 some particular time must be taken for 
 this kind of study and effort ; and es- 
 pecially for the practical, or, if I may 
 say so, the executive part of it. To 
 meditate daily, to pray daily, seems a 
 means indispensable for breaking this 
 surface crust of formality, habit, rou- 
 tine, which hides the living springs of 
 wisdom. To counteract the tendency 
 of engrossing business or care, and es- 
 pecially of luxurious condition or of the 
 ambition to be great in the world, there 
 seems necessary, from time to time, a 
 strong impression of the unseen reali- 
 ties of our being. This impression, by 
 the very laws of the mind, is to be 
 gained only by fixed attention ; and 
 this serious and devoted attention is 
 the very meditation and prayer that I 
 recommend. 
 
 I will not enlarge here upon the obvi- 
 ous importance of this daily, this deeper 
 thought ; but I cannot help observing 
 that there is a superstitious feeling 
 
 about its importance, which is likely 
 to prove an obstacle, in some ininds, 
 to the just and reasonable considera- 
 tion of it. The feeling nakedly stated 
 is this : " It cannot be that I am a 
 Christian, if I do not pray daily," i. e., 
 in form and manner. Now whatever 
 may be true upon this point, I should 
 not wish any person to be dragged 
 to the service by this kind of force 
 put upon his conscience, or, to speak 
 more justly, upon his fears. Look upon 
 it rather, I should say, not as if it were 
 this technical condition, not even as if 
 it were any religious action at all. Ask 
 yourself the simple question, whether, 
 in a confused mass of events such as 
 make up our lives, some regulating 
 thought is not necessary ; amidst su- 
 perficial forms and overspreading dis- 
 guises, some deeper searching; amidst 
 the swaying and misleading senses, some 
 penetrating meditation. Ask whether, 
 when everything is carrying the mind 
 out of itself, some daily self-commun- 
 ion, sinking to the depths within, and 
 whether, amidst the loud bustle of hur- 
 rying life, some daily and solemn pause, 
 some deeper silence in the soul, be not 
 good and wise. One such quiet and 
 silent hour, some solemn moments even, 
 would at times strip off many of the 
 illusions of sense and of the world, that 
 slowly wind themselves about us, and 
 would unveil to us the great and eternal 
 realities of our being. One gaze at the 
 stars in the solemn silence of night is 
 often enough to break up some spell 
 of worldly vanity or trouble. But from 
 deeper meditation, how often would a 
 man come forth with a freer step and 
 a more fearless spirit, — a being loftier 
 and more independent, stronger to meet 
 temptation and to bear calamity; and 
 why ? Because he had calmly looked 
 into the regions of the spirit's life, to 
 which all this outward scene doth min- 
 ister; because his thoughts had visited 
 a world, — not far off, but near him, 
 in him, — a world of blessed affections 
 and hopes, far beyond the reach of this 
 world's change and disaster and gran- 
 
696 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 deur ; because he had learned for once 
 to say, " My conscience, my soul, is my- 
 self, my all ; and whatever else belongs 
 to me — rags of beggary or plated gold 
 of fortune, garment of humble toil or 
 gilded crown of honor — is but the 
 perishable ministration of an hour ; be- 
 cause, I say once more, he had stood 
 some moments on the threshold of heav- 
 en, and, looking out from this darkened 
 archway of time upon the everlasting 
 inheritance, had said, " Come, thou im- 
 mortal life ! I am swallowed up in 
 thee ! " 
 
 I might dwell upon other means for 
 obtaining this insight that penetrates 
 beneath the surface of life, and espe- 
 cially upon a deeper reading of the Gos- 
 pel, — of the wonderful story of him 
 whose life was all reality, whose every 
 act and thought seemed to touch the 
 springs of unseen power, whose great 
 reliance was upon a world unseen, who 
 never for a moment lost, amidst the vis- 
 ible, the sense of the invisible ; and who 
 spake evermore of things unseen, of the 
 soul's hidden resource, and of the pres- 
 ence of God, as if they were as manifest 
 as the open shows of life. I might 
 dwell upon all this, but the considera- 
 tion is obvious ; it is sufficient to com- 
 mend it to your attention ; and I will 
 pray you rather to turn your thoughts 
 a moment, in -close, to the vital impor- 
 tance of the thing itself. 
 
 It must be a sad failure, by itself 
 considered, without any reference to 
 consequences; it must be a terrible 
 oversight ; it must be an irreparable 
 loss, — to pass through hfe, ignorant or 
 unconscious of those grand realities 
 that impart to it all its interest, charm, 
 and majesty. If all visible things are 
 but symbols of siiblimer truths that lie em- 
 bosomed in them ; if all palpable events 
 are but shadows, or at most but bodies 
 that have a soul ; if beneath all the splen- 
 dor and beauty of nature and of exist- 
 ence there is an all-disposing thought 
 and wisdom, — not to recognize it, is 
 surely one of the most pitiable mental 
 defaults. It is a thousand-fold more 
 
 unfortunate than to be ignorant of all 
 languages, of all technical sciences, of 
 all that the world calls wisdom. To be 
 bhnd in a land of beauty, to be deaf in 
 a land of music, — these would be but 
 figures to set forth that greater depriva- 
 tion. What would you think of a man 
 who looked upon some great and heroic < 
 action that shone out from the flame of 
 martyrdom or before the lowering front 
 of battle, and saw it only as a mere visi- 
 ble thing, — saw nothing of the heroic 
 soul behind, that thus flashed out in the 
 brave symbolic deed .'' Could you ex- 
 press your sense of that man's misfor- 
 tune or moral stupidity ? Yet there are 
 some who approach that degree of blind- 
 ness. If you take note of men's conver- 
 sation, you will often find those who stop 
 at the visible fact. Nay, there are men 
 whose baseness utterly debars them from 
 ever seeing a martyr's soul, from ever 
 seeing a great and heroic action. But 
 such, in regard to the whole action and 
 scene of life, are all superficial world- 
 lings ; who live in and for the visible 
 alone ; alike without philosophy, with- 
 out meditation, and without the deep- 
 searching wisdom of the Gospel. No 
 matter in what guise or goodly show 
 they walk through this life, surround- 
 ed with what splendors of fortune, or 
 wrapped about with what robes of fash- 
 ion, or lauded howsoever much as the 
 great and wise of this world ; they are 
 poor and miserable and blind and naked 
 and destitute, and the life they are living 
 is a poor and paltry life. 
 
 Such is the want of insight in itself, 
 without any regard to consequences. 
 But now, I say, in the next place, that 
 it has consequences. For the want of 
 this insight is the want of faith, the 
 want of deep-founded principle, the want 
 of a great strong thought to live by. My 
 view of life, at least, is this: that no 
 man, amidst its swaying passions and 
 sweeping tides, can stand firm and 
 steady, unless he plants his foot in an 
 invisible world. 
 
 It is not a small thing, it is not the 
 most common thing, — the instances of 
 
THE SYMBOL AND THE REALITY. 
 
 697 
 
 failure are many, — to walk through this ] 
 life in simple, quiet, erect dignity and 
 ease, leaning neither one way nor the | 
 other too much, neither strutting nor 
 crouching, nor too stiff nor too pliant, 
 nor fidgeting, nor too self-conscious, nor 
 thinking too much of one's self any way ; 
 but rather as if occupied with a thought 
 deeper than the visible scene, or with a 
 purpose that carries a man out of his 
 visible personality and clear of others at 
 the same time, and makes him a truly 
 independent and respectable being. The 
 man who is leaning upon the visible, 
 shifting, and wavering objects of this 
 world cannot be such a man. I have 
 often marked, in my daily walk, such vo- 
 taries and victims of visible condition, 
 — some of whom were bent and bowed 
 in demeanor, all acquiescence and sub- 
 mission; ^/leir whole manner said, "My 
 life is dependence on others ; " others 
 with assumption and hauteur in every 
 step ; t/iet'r manner as plainly saying, 
 " I have wealth, or I have reputation, 
 or I have a position that bids the world 
 stand and mark me." Yet these were 
 as far as the other from the erect and 
 easy posture of him who lives in thoughts 
 and not in things, in realities and not in 
 forms. , 
 
 If you say that all this relates to mere 
 manner, it is still true ; but it does no^ 
 relate to mere manner, it points to a 
 deeper principle. That principle is, 
 that the stronghold of a man's virtue, 
 calmness, dignity, welfare, is in the 
 unseen world, — the world of faith and 
 trust, the world of sentiments, reflections, 
 motives, thoughts, that go beyond the 
 visible scene. 
 
 That world of conscience and of God's 
 presence, — how does it trouble us, rath- 
 er than guide and sustain us ! We are 
 not faithful to our deeper convictions, — 
 to those convictions that spring from 
 the unseen life within us, and that 
 point to the unseen Life that reigns all 
 around us. We do not let //lem mould 
 and fashion our life for us. Then would 
 the inward power go forth and beautify 
 the whole creation amidst which we live. 
 
 Then would the inmost peace spread 
 peace and gladness all around us. But 
 now the visitations from that inner world, 
 repressed and hindered from their right- 
 ful office, come forth in flashes of re- 
 buke, or in low mutterings of displeasure, 
 that fill us with alarm. 
 
 Alas ! it will never do. The world 
 within must fashion the world without, 
 or it will never be a happy world to us. 
 I know not how it may be with the men 
 of milder climes and more facile natures, 
 for I have marked them as they seemed 
 to sport or dream away their lives ; but 
 for you, men of the northern clime, men 
 of the Saxon blood, men of deeper sen- 
 timents and deeper necessities, I tell 
 you that a life of sense, of form, fashion, 
 and worldliness, will never do. Forever 
 is there a consciousness hanging about 
 you, haunting your paths, struggling in 
 your deepest bosoms, that demands 
 something better. Upward you must 
 go towards heaven, or downward you 
 must sink towards hell, — discontent, in- 
 temperance, perhaps, certain misery in 
 that path ; for you cannot contentedly 
 toil away your life in labor-fields, c^ 
 sport away your life on the bright plaint 
 But let the inner feeling, the inner pu. 
 pose, fashion your outward life; and for 
 the worldling's world, which you so re- 
 sign, they shall give you back another 
 world, brighter than passion ever found, 
 or worldly dreams of fancy ever im- 
 agined. Like the heavens, which spread 
 themselves in tenfold sublimity and 
 beauty before the eye kindling with the 
 light of astronomic lore, so shall the 
 world go forth before you. All things 
 shall be great, all things shall be good, 
 all things blessed, for you who see their 
 purpose and ministration; for you who 
 have carried a great and wise philoso- 
 phy and a high and adoring faith into 
 them. Ye shall not say, in common and 
 cant phrase, "What poor things are pos- 
 sessions and honors, or what indifferent 
 things are poverty and toil ! " but rather, 
 " What great things are they .all in their 
 meaning and intent!" So shall your 
 spirit, getting rid of galling discontent 
 
698 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 and mean envy, walk abroad in freedom 
 and gladness, take the broad pathway 
 of generous love and soaring faith, till 
 you enter that world where the hidden 
 things become manifest, and the secret 
 things known, and the now invisible vir- 
 tue wears the everlasting crown. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ON THE LOVE OF GOD, AND OF 
 
 MAN. 
 
 I John iv. 20: " He that loveth not liis brother, 
 whom he hath seen, how can he love God, whom he 
 hath not seen?" 
 
 The stress here laid upon social 
 virtue, I wish to speak of, first, in this 
 discourse; and then, in the second 
 place, conceding to religion the highest 
 place, to speak of certain mistaken 
 ideas of the relation of religion to 
 society. 
 
 Perhaps I shall best indicate my pur- 
 pose by saying more distinctly at the 
 outset what the views are, both of relig- 
 ion and social virtue, which I mean to 
 controvert, — of virtue, as something 
 commonplace, low, and easy to be at- 
 tained in comparison with religion, and 
 of religion, the far higher attainment, 
 as necessarily holding a position of 
 antagonism with society, and as unfit- 
 ting its possessors for playing any fair 
 and welcome part in it. 
 
 For the need there is of such a gen- 
 eral discussion in the pulpit, I may say, 
 without contradiction, I think, that the 
 social virtues are too little considered 
 in the common teachings of religion. 
 How rare it is to hear a sermon on 
 social influence, on simple honesty, 
 on truth-telling, or even upon the family 
 ties ! All this is usually passed over as 
 mere superficial morality. It is not 
 treated of as if it had any vital concern 
 with what is specifically called the sal- 
 vation of men. Many sermons are 
 preached to awaken men's minds to 
 this great concern, and they are awak- 
 ened to it ; but if, in such an hour. 
 
 when men are asking what they shall 
 do to be saved, the preacher were to 
 select any social duty for his topic, he 
 would be thought to have departed en- 
 tirely from his proper business. The 
 state of the affections towards God 
 engrosses his attention. The whole 
 matter of conversion turns upon that. 
 Something about duties toward men 
 comes in, perhaps, as a consequence, 
 but not as a part of the thing itself. 
 So it has always been. In former days 
 penances and pilgrimages, in latter days 
 prayers and meditations, have usurped 
 almost the whole idea of spiritual rec- 
 titude. So it was in ancient times. 
 And with regard to this error, the peo- 
 ple were very solemnly admonished : 
 "Bring no more vain oblations; in- 
 cense is an abomination to me ; your 
 new moons and sabbaths and calling of 
 assemblies I cannot away with. And 
 when ye spread forth your hands, I will 
 hide mine eyes from you ; yea, when 
 ye make many prayers, I will not hear 
 you." Why.'' "Your hands are full 
 of blood." Then comes the exhorta- 
 tion to amendment ; and what is it ? 
 " Wash you, make you clean ; put away 
 the evil of your doings from before mine 
 eyes ; cease tc^ do evil ; learn to do 
 well ; seek judgment, relieve the op- 
 pressed, do justice to the fatherless, 
 defend the cause of the widow." This 
 is, throughout, a solemn remonstrance 
 against religiousness and religious ob- 
 servances, in behalf of the social 
 virtues. 
 
 Let us now proceed to consider them. 
 What are they 1 Justice, truth, gener- 
 osity, candor, pity, gentleness, forbear- 
 ance, disinterestedness, forgiveness. 
 The bare abstract mention of these 
 qualities shows that they are of no 
 small account. But I do not mean 
 to dwell upon them as abstractions. 
 To show what they are, and especially 
 what place they have in a good and 
 right life, let me ask two questions. 
 Wherein lies a man's most constant 
 struggle to be right ? And what are 
 the sorest temptations that assail him ? 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD, AND OF MAN. 
 
 699 
 
 In answer to the first question, I say 
 that tlie great struggle to be and to do 
 riirht Hes in the social relations. It is 
 in the intercourse of man with man, 
 it is where heart is brought to heart, 
 and hand to hand, that tlie rectitude of 
 the mind is most severely tried. Ac- 
 cordingly, the pressure of our Bible, 
 if not of our pulpit, teachings is mostly 
 upon the conduct of life. Look at any 
 catalogue of Christian virtues in the 
 New Testament, and see how large 
 a proportion of it is social. "The 
 fruits of the Spirit," says Paul to the 
 Galatians, " are love, joy, peace, long- 
 suffering, gentleness, goodness, fidelity, 
 meekness, temperance." Why joy is 
 put into this catalogue, it might puzzle 
 a philosophical generalizer to know ; 
 since joy, strictly speaking, is not a 
 virtue. But how does the spirit of the 
 great apostolic martyr, all whose life 
 was martyrdom, shine out in this per- 
 petual refrain, — "joy and rejoicing ! " 
 And indeed, joy, upspringing, outflow- 
 ing joy, in a world so full of pain and 
 sorrow, though it possess no distinct 
 character as a virtue, is the flower and 
 crown of all virtues. 
 
 But the point on wliich I am about 
 to insist more particularly is, that the 
 trial and test of every one's character 
 lies in the social relations. I venerate 
 devotion. It is the loftiest tendency 
 of our nature. It stands first in the 
 Christian order, and is necessary to 
 give the true character to all the social 
 virtues. But after all, it seems to me 
 easier to be devout than to be good. 
 You may be surprised at this declara- 
 tion, and may impute it to the habits 
 of a mind which, from its situation, is 
 much accustomed to religious contem- 
 plation. You may say that the very 
 contrary is true in your experience ; 
 that it is much easier for you to be 
 good than to l^e devout. But let us see 
 if tiiis opinion is accordant with the real 
 nature of things. In worship you stand 
 apart from all human competitions ; 
 you are alone, you simply lift your 
 eyes, in reverence and delight, to the 
 
 Infinite Goodness and Loveliness, or in 
 prayer to the Infinite Mercy. No envy 
 can intrude, no strife, for there can be 
 no controversy, — at least none such as 
 a man hath with his fellow. In your 
 intercourse with man, all this is re- 
 versed. He is your competitor ; he is 
 imperfect, and you are almost obliged 
 to love him and confide in him by 
 halves ; he wrongs you, contradicts 
 your opinion, injures your interest, or 
 slights your person ; or if not, you are 
 liable to think this of him; and it is 
 proportionally hard to love him. You 
 may tell me that it is comparatively 
 easy to be amiable ; and I will tell you 
 when it is so. It is when you are cher- 
 ished and caressed ; when you are ad- 
 mired ; when fortune and human favor 
 shine upon you. But let strife, rival- 
 ship, and detraction come ; let slight, 
 neglect, and rejection come ; and where 
 is your amiableness then ? I pray God 
 you may keep it in your heart ; but I 
 tell you it will be hard to keep it there. 
 And easy might you then find it, to fly 
 from the fiery atmosphere of loud and 
 angry contention to the cool and still 
 retreats of prayer. And well were it 
 that you should fly there, — but for 
 strength, not escape from your trial. 
 Ay, and let me still remind you that 
 it may be easier to pray than to prac- 
 tise. It is too likely, indeed, that, rush- 
 ing to that resort with a disturbed and 
 angry mind, you may pray ill ; but alas ! 
 your doing is likely to be worse than 
 your praying. Many seem to be good 
 men, God-ward, who are not good, 
 man-ward. Many have prayed away 
 their lives in cells and hermitages, who 
 were very little qualified for the severe 
 ordeal of society. And many now are 
 praying for hours every day, who seem 
 very little to understand the delicacy 
 and tenderness of the social relations ; 
 who in actual life are not calm, kind, 
 and wise, but passionate, opinionated, 
 self-sufiicient, sour, and disagreeable. 
 
 But I have said, too, that the sorest 
 of a man's teinptations are social. It 
 is, indeed, but a part of the same thing; 
 
yoo 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 but let us look at the matter in this 
 light a moment. What is it that a man 
 is tempted to do that is wrong ? Almost 
 ever it is something that invades the 
 welfare of his neighbor. It is some- 
 thing hard, cruel, over-reaching, dis- 
 honest, unjust ; something that despoils 
 another of property, fame, or virtue. 
 What are the forms of evil that assail 
 a man's virtue? "Hatred, variance," — 
 so runs the apostolic catalogue, — ''emu- 
 lations, wrath, strife, seditions, schisms, 
 envyings, murders, drunkenness, revel- 
 lings, and such like." 
 
 I do not know but I may seem to be 
 insisting unnecessarily upon a very plain 
 thing ; but when so large a part of the 
 teachings of the pulpit relates to some- 
 thing else than the actual virtues and 
 vices of the social condition, I have 
 thought it important to make so dis- 
 tinct a statement. It is necessary, at 
 least, that it be fairly considered, in or- 
 der that we may understand the dignity 
 and beauty of the social virtues. 
 
 For here it is, amidst the press and 
 throng of human interests and passions; 
 here it is, amidst the waves of public 
 opinion and the eddyings of private in- 
 terference, that social virtue is to stand 
 firm and true. I know that its greatest 
 charm is commonly represented as con- 
 sisting in what is technically called phi- 
 lanthropy, — in visiting the sick, the 
 poor and destitute, or in relieving the 
 blind, the deaf, the insane, the forsaken, 
 or the oppressed. These are, indeed, 
 lofty forms of virtue, and I praise them; 
 they are a part of that which I wish 
 lo hold up to your admiration. But 
 there is another sphere, little considered, 
 stil' more trying, still more lofty, where 
 the philanthropist often fails, and the 
 man of boundless charities is often 
 wanting. It is the great fellowship of 
 society, where you sit in your own dwell- 
 ing, in the neighborhood of surround- 
 ing families ; it is the college or the 
 school, where you have competitors ; it 
 is the gay throng of society, where you 
 are sought or slighted. There it is that 
 personal beauty often despoils the heart 
 
 of all its beauty ; there it is that flattery 
 bereaves the mind of all its simplicity 
 and modesty, or neglect of all its can- 
 dor and kindliness ; there it is that en- 
 vious passions so distort the soul that 
 only concealment makes social life en- 
 durable. Yes, the great atmosphere of 
 society breathes upon us, and heat and 
 cold are not keener visitations. Nay, 
 neither sword nor scymitar more sharply 
 pierces the heart than the every-day 
 passions of human society. 
 
 Courteous manners help us, and when 
 they come from the mind and heart they 
 show like flowers in a cultured garden. 
 How superior is this to the ordinary cul- 
 tivation of the arts ! A person of real 
 courtesy, forgetful of himself, of real 
 delicacy, considerate of others, a person 
 of sense and tact, simple and sincere in 
 manners and speech, true to himself 
 and others, — how superior is he to one 
 who is merely accomplished in music, 
 painting, or the speaking of languages ! 
 The one has cultivated his whole be- 
 ing, the other only a special art or 
 faculty. 
 
 Nor is the true social culture limited 
 to any distinction of worldly state or 
 fortune. It may be found in any of our 
 abodes, and the humblest of them, as 
 truly as in the palaces of kings. The 
 same bond of social duty presses upon 
 all. To make the comparison more spe- 
 cific : the king has a house and house- 
 hold, fellow-men, friends, kindred, with 
 whom he comes into various contact ; 
 so have I. The king has business, has 
 affairs to manage, questions to settle ; 
 so have I. The monarch has affections 
 to cultivate, passions to control, temp- 
 tations to withstand; so have I. Now 
 suppose that I, a merchant, lawyer, phy- 
 sician, clergyman, or any man of human, 
 household, business cares and aflfairs, 
 have as much as I can do to meet the 
 moral exigencies of my situation. The 
 monarch can do no more. He does 
 what he can. He could do no more, 
 though he had a world for his kingdom. 
 His moral power is not to be measured 
 by the extent of his dominion. Every 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD, AND OF MAN. 
 
 701 
 
 man has realm enough for all his moral 
 energy in tlie daily sphere of his life. 
 
 And what I have now been saying is, 
 that this life of social relations presents 
 us with some of the loftiest trials and 
 some of the noblest forms of human 
 virtue, and that it is in the collisions of 
 social life that the jewel of virtue re- 
 ceives its brightest polish. 
 
 And let me add, that upon many a 
 lowly bosom that gem shines more 
 bright and beautiful than it is ever 
 likely to shine in any court of royalty 
 or crown of empire ; and this for the 
 very reason that it shines in loneliness 
 and obscurity, and is surrounded with 
 no circlet of gazing and flattering eyes. 
 There are positions in life, in society, 
 where all loveliness is seen and noted, 
 chronicled in men's admiring comments, 
 and perhaps celebrated in adulatory son- 
 nets and songs. And well, perhaps, that 
 it is so. I would not repress the admi- 
 ration of society towards the lovely and 
 good. But there is many a lowly cot- 
 tage, many a lonely bedside of sickness 
 and pain, to which genius brings no 
 offering, to which the footsteps of the 
 enthusiastic never come; to which there 
 is no cheering visitation, but the visita- 
 tion of angels. Thei-e is humble toil ; 
 there is patient assiduity ; there is noble 
 disinterestedness ; there is unwearied 
 patience and heroic sacrifice. The great 
 world passes by, and it toils on in silence. 
 To its gentle footsteps there are no echo- 
 ing praises ; arpund its modest beauty 
 gathers no circle of admirers. It never 
 thought of honor, it never asked to be 
 known. Unsung, unrecorded, is the 
 labor of its life, and shall be, till the 
 heavens are no more, till the great 
 promise of Christ is fulfilled, till the 
 last shall be first, till the lowliest shall 
 be Inftiest, and the poverty of this world 
 shall be the riches and glory of heaven. 
 I have thus spoken of the value and 
 greatness of social virtue. I have now 
 only space left me. in the second place, 
 to say a few words on the relation which 
 religion should have to society. In a 
 certain school of religious thought it is 
 
 regarded as a relation of antagonism ; 
 but I maintain that it should be a rela- 
 tion of amity ; in other words, that it 
 should recognize the social virtues ; 
 nay, more, that a true religion should 
 be lovely in the eyes of society. 
 
 " What ! " some will say, " do you 
 mean to aver that holiness, conformity 
 to God's law, discipleship to Jesus, the 
 feelings of the regenerate soul, are at- 
 tractive to surrounding society ? Do 
 you mean to say that the wicked world 
 will love this character, or that one's 
 own unregenerate relations will love it ? 
 Will darkness love light, or evil good ? 
 Is not the friendship of this world de- 
 clared to be enmity with God ? And 
 will it not, therefore, be enmity with 
 God's people .^ Can I expect to be 
 loved because I am a Christian ? Am 
 I not disliked and shunned for that very 
 cause ? Has godliness, forsooth, become 
 a precious thing in the world.? Do I 
 find it so? Does not, on the contrary, 
 my very philanthropy, my compassion 
 for souls, draw upon me their contempt 
 and anger ? Are not these the most 
 marked badges of my faithful disciple- 
 ship ? Well might I tremble for myself 
 if the world were pleased with me. Ah I 
 ye accommodating, time-serving, praise- 
 loving Christians! The world may like 
 you and your religion ; but let me rath- 
 er, with all the faithful, l)ear the burden 
 of reproach and obloquy." 
 
 Here is a mass of errors, which could 
 be disentangled if I had time for it ; 
 but it will be sufficient for you,- 1 think, 
 if I simply turn your attention to them. 
 
 The first is an error of interpretation. 
 The early Christian teachers and their 
 converts stood before the world as re- 
 formers. They condemned both the 
 religion and morals of surrounding soci- 
 ety : therefore that society hated them. 
 The friendship of such a world would 
 have been enmity with God. Jesus 
 himself once said to his disciples, 
 " The world cannot hale you, but me 
 it hateth." Why ? " Because I testify 
 of it, that the works thereof are evil." 
 That is, because I stand before it as 
 
702 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 a teacher, a censor, and reformer. Ye j 
 do not ; and, therefore, ye are not yet 
 hated. 
 
 The second is an error of theology. 
 The mass of mankind, theology says, 
 are totally depraved. It follows as an 
 inference that they will perfectly hate 
 all good men. It follows as an infer- 
 ence that the body of society, consist- 
 ing mostly of unregenerate persons, will 
 hate all the best people they know, — 
 that is, as the theology assumes, all 
 Christian people ; that true Christians 
 cannot be lovely in their eyes. But I 
 leave you to conclude, as you must, 
 from all human experience, that the in- 
 ference upsets the theory. 
 
 The third error lies deeper, and con- 
 sists in the mistake of what it is to 
 be a Christian. A man claiming to be 
 such may say, " I am not beloved ; I 
 am not a favorite with society ; nay, 
 I am disliked for my religion. That is 
 my chief offence. If I could settle 
 down into the common track, I should 
 do very well." If such an objector 
 were here to listen to my reply, I sup- 
 pose it would surprise him ; for I really 
 think that his very case may confirm 
 my principle. The dislike of him may 
 by no means be a dislike of true re- 
 ligious goodness. The asstcmption that 
 he is very religious, that he is better 
 than others, that certainly is neither 
 relitiion nor goodness. It is not the 
 natural form or dress of religion or 
 goodness ; it wears quite a different 
 aspect. • Only suppose a few persons 
 to claim that they have all the knowl- 
 edge in the world ; would the dislike 
 of them be the dishke of knowledge ? 
 
 Oh, sirs, I would say, what if you 
 should be a little more modest and tol- 
 erant ! What if you should think a 
 little less how much other men want 
 religion, and a little more how much 
 you want it yourself ! What if you 
 should bow down in an unfeigned hu- 
 mility, that could not take on this ar- 
 rogance of piety, which becomes no 
 human creature ! I do not believe 
 that you would have any less religion, 
 
 though men would love you more. Hu- 
 man love, the dearest earthly boon, — 
 why should it not be given to religion 
 and religious men ? Why should not 
 he be the best Christian whom men 
 love most ? I believe it should be so. 
 1 plead this claim of religion. The evil 
 that is done by severing it from all kind- 
 hness and genialness, from all 'social 
 attraction, is incalculable, and almost 
 irreparable. Alas ! grounded in the very 
 heart of society is the notion that re- 
 ligion is essentially disagreeable. It 
 is a monstrous and fatal error. My 
 friends, I repudiate, I reject the idea ; 
 I reject it with indignation. I do not 
 believe in the disagreeableness of re- 
 ligion. I have no faith in the excel- 
 lence of disagreeable people. 
 
 Let me not be misunderstood. Re- 
 ligion in the soul, that profound rever- 
 ence and love for the Infinite Per- 
 fection, must and should be precious 
 and priceless with its possessor ; and 
 I respect the feelings of the man who, 
 conscious of the treasure, the joy which 
 he has in his own religious affections, 
 is earnestly desirous of winning others 
 to share them. The only question is 
 about the manner of doing it. But this, 
 surely, is not by making his religion an 
 assumption of superiority or of singular- 
 ity among men ; nay, and direct appeal 
 is not usually the best way of approach- 
 ing them. There are occasions which 
 may make it proper, there are inti- 
 macies which may justify it ; but ordi- 
 narily, the best influence, in my opinion, 
 is the indirect influence of a man's gen- 
 eral character and conversation. Let 
 the heart be left to draw its own infer- 
 ence. It is mentioned in the biography 
 of Robert Hall that he never spoke to 
 men of religion at all in his private and 
 parochial intercourse, though he was 
 the most powerful preacher of it in Eng- 
 land. You may say it was a fault. I 
 think it was a fault ; but I cannot help 
 respecting him for it. It arose from 
 that extreme susceptibility and delicacy 
 of feeling which were the elements of 
 his extraordinary eloquence. 
 
TRUTHFULNESS. 
 
 703 
 
 I have been speaking, in the latter 
 part of this discourse, of a religion that 
 may be, and ought to be, lovely in the 
 eyes of society. There is one example 
 of this which I am the more disposed 
 to mention, in close, because it comes 
 from what is commonly considered as 
 the ascetic side of religion. It is that 
 of the celebrated statesman and philan- 
 thropist, William Wilberforce. " The 
 difference between him and his fellow- 
 Christians," says a notice of him, soon 
 after his death, in the "Edinburgh Re- 
 view," '"consisted in the exhibition which 
 he made of his religion. A piety so pro- 
 found was never so entirely free from 
 asceticism. It was allied to all the pur- 
 suits and all the innocent pleasures of 
 life ; we might almost say, to all its 
 blameless whims and humors. With a 
 settled peace of mind arising from his 
 piety, he felt that perfect freedom which 
 enabled him to give the reins to his con- 
 stitutional vivacity, and the most devo- 
 tional of men was at the same time the 
 most playful and exhilarating of com- 
 panions. His presence was as fatal to 
 dulness as to immorality. His mirth 
 was as irresistible as the first laughter 
 of childhood." Sir James iVIackintosh 
 said of Wilberforce, that he was " the 
 most amusable of all men." And yet 
 his character was one of the grand bul- 
 warks of the most devoted piety in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 And I thus instance and signalize it 
 for tlie sake both of religion and virtue. 
 Tliey beloncj together. We utterly mis- 
 take in our culture when we make our 
 religion unamiable, or our amiableness 
 undevout. The mnjestic and the lowly, 
 the solemn and the gay, are to meet in 
 our humanity, — to meet and mutually 
 to relieve, soften, and exalt each other. 
 Your virtue will grow dwarfish and 
 worldly, if you sever it from the high 
 and central reverence of religion. Nor 
 yet do I want to see in any man's char- 
 acter a too exclusive religiousness. I 
 do not want to see what you call an 
 apostolic sanctity in any man's face. I 
 want to see the li";hts and shadows of 
 
 human feeling blending upon it and 
 beautifying each other. It is said of 
 Wilberforce, that "pathos and drollery, 
 solemn musings and playful fancies, 
 yearnings of the soul over the tragic, 
 and the most contagious mirth over 
 the ludicrous events of life, all rapidly 
 succeeding each other, and all harnio- 
 niously, because unconsciously, blended, 
 threw over his conversation a spell which 
 no prejudice, dulness, nor ill-humor could 
 resist." 
 
 So, after his measure and manner, let 
 it be with every man. Solemn let his 
 musings be, and playful his fancies ; 
 deep and dear his devotion, and free for 
 every happy mood his life and conver- 
 sation. He need not ask whether admi- 
 ration will follow; let him be sure that 
 it will follow. Social admiration is un- 
 chained, at this day, as it never was 
 before. It is getting free from bondage 
 to caste, to rank, to wealth, and all 
 worldly distinctions. Every day the 
 ocean cTf human affections is rising 
 higher and higher; and above its serene 
 and majestic flood I see a throne set ; 
 it is the throne of highest Goodness. 
 Oh I if beneath that enthroned Loveli- 
 ness men could learn to live, — in the 
 lowliness of prayer and the gayety of in- 
 nocence, in the heroism of self-control 
 and the beauty of freedom, then were 
 fulfilled that old prophecy to the Church 
 of sanctity at once and goodness, " Lift 
 thine eyes round about thee, and see ; 
 they shall come to thee ; thy sons shall 
 come from far, and fair daughters be 
 nursed at thy side ; then shalt thou see 
 and flow together : and thy heart shall 
 fear, and thy heart shall be enlarged." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ON TRUTHFULNESS. 
 
 Eph. iv. 15 : " Speaking the truth in love." 
 
 I LAY emphasis on the last word of 
 this apostolic direction. Speaking the 
 truth in lo7ie, I suppose, is the only way 
 
704 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 in which it can be rightly spoken. It 
 is said that truth sometimes breaks out 
 from anger. It may ; but anger is apt 
 to confuse the mind, while good temper 
 calms and clears it. Truth may dart 
 from the cloud and storm of wrath ; but 
 that fierce blaze scorches where it falls ; 
 it does the ofifice of fire and not of light ; 
 and what we seek in truth, is the calm 
 liglit of life. Truth, the guide of men, 
 is often compared to the pole-star. But 
 that star is known to men, not by its 
 piercing splendor, but by a softened haze 
 around it. The comparison is perilous ; 
 but I will venture to say that truth, when 
 shining with its purest lustre, is invested 
 with the soft, not dark nor dense, but 
 with the soft and transparent veil of 
 love. 
 
 I remember an anecdote which I read, 
 many years ago, in the London " Chris- 
 tian Observer," of a clergyman who, in 
 the presence of a brother clergyman 
 visiting him, very plainly and solemnly 
 reproved a person who came Into his 
 study, but so reproved him as to awaken 
 no resentment whatever. And yet, so 
 severe was the rebuke, that when the 
 man so dealt with retired from their 
 presence, the stranger could not help 
 exclaiming, " How could you speak in 
 that way, and not give offence I " " Ah, 
 my friend," was the reply, " when love 
 is in the heart, you can say anything." 
 This was indeed the key of the mystery. 
 Love is the only shield of truth. Love 
 indeed is not its basis, for truth stands 
 in its own right ; but love must arm and 
 clothe it all round, to prepare it for its 
 lofty action and ordeal. 
 
 To bespeak your more earnest atten- 
 tion to this virtue, I would say something, 
 in the first place, of the difficulty of 
 practising and the danger of swerving 
 from it. 
 
 I have sometimes thought, although 
 there are other virtues to be cultivated, 
 that it would be well for a man to make 
 it, for a while, his chief moral discipline, 
 to walk all the day long and all the month 
 through, with this one predominant 
 thought in his heart, — " Now let me, 
 
 wherever I go, and whatever I am called 
 to converse upon, speak the exact truth, 
 
 — no faltering, no wavering, any more; 
 the straight line is stretched before me, 
 and my thoughts shall cling to it, even 
 as the mariner holds on to the line that 
 is stretched from the ship to the shore, 
 to stay him amidst tiie waves. My re- 
 serves I may have ; delicacy, modesty, 
 imposes them, and the rights of my own 
 mind justify them ; but so far as I do 
 speak, I will say precisely what I think ; 
 my tongue, without wavering, shall an- 
 swer to my thought ; it shall not be an 
 instrument of deception in my mouth, 
 in this threshold of the soul ; it shall 
 not be there like a cheating porter to lie 
 for the master within ; truth shall en- 
 shrine my heart, and my utterance shall 
 be its unfaltering oracle ; truth is not 
 mine to bandy about at my pleasure, but 
 it is an immortal law, to bind me for- 
 ever ; and I will no more think it pos- 
 sible to swerve, than the prophet as he 
 stands by the very altar of revelation." 
 So said St. Paul, resolute in that, as 
 Luther was before the German Diet, 
 " We can say nothing against the truth, 
 but for the truth." And so should every 
 man say, whether he speaks from the 
 pulpit, from the bar, or from the bench, 
 by the fireside or by the wayside, at 
 home or abroad, in the social throng 
 or the throng of the Exchange. How 
 would this simple purpose dignify ever)' 
 situation, every interview, and even the 
 otherwise humblest talk ! For we en- 
 tirely mistake, if we suppose that because 
 we are occupied with little things, we 
 must be governed by little principles. 
 We lose the very grandeur of life and 
 are blind to the very truth of things if 
 we do so. No : principles high as 
 Heaven bear down upon every moment, 
 and the eyes of infinite Rectitude, like 
 the all-encompassing dome of stars, look 
 
 — look down upon every action and 
 upon every thought. 
 
 In that awful presence, what can live 
 and hold up its head but truth, truth 
 constant and unwavering ? You may 
 tell me that it is difficult ; and I admit it. 
 
TRUTHFULNESS. 
 
 705 
 
 It is the highest and the most instantly 
 pressing trial of virtue. The temptations 
 to sensuality come comparatively but sel- 
 dom; and when they prevail they bring 
 dishonor with them. But the world is 
 full, I am afraid we must say, of respect- 
 able lying. It mingles with business, it 
 mingles with politics; it spreads itself 
 all over the face of society ; in evasions 
 that deceive, and innuendoes that mis- 
 lead, and civilities that are heartless and 
 smiles that are false, and words that do 
 not mean what they say, — idle compli- 
 ments and silly flatteries, the only re- 
 sources of brainless young men, and the 
 only satisfactions of equally brainless 
 young women, sophistries unceasing as 
 the hours, shadings of speech, not de- 
 signed to present the truth, but to please, 
 forever to please. Oh ! the soul of a 
 man, that is as a rattle-box, hollow, hol- 
 low, with nothing in it but fictions and 
 sophistries, or like a dice-box, with noth- 
 ing but false dice in it. Is it a thing 
 unheard of.' Is it altogether rare ? But 
 I will tell you what ts rare a man or 
 a woman who always speaks the true, 
 true thought, — ^/tai is a wonder in soci- 
 ety. You know that it is. I will find 
 you a thousand Orthodox Christians, 
 and a hundred Liberal ones, and fifty 
 philanthropists, and ten times as many 
 zealots, for one man that always speaks 
 his true, true thought. 
 
 "What!" you may say, "is Chris- 
 tianity to come here ? We thought it 
 was confined to churches, and altars, 
 and closets, and such like places." Yes, 
 sirs, I answer, it is to come here. It 
 is to come where men live and breathe 
 and talk, and act their daily and hourly 
 part in society. 
 
 " Well," you may say, " it is all in 
 vain to speak of it. The thing de- 
 manded is too difficult to be done." 
 Still I grant that it is difficult. It is 
 hard to say to your neighbor just what 
 you think. He explains to you how he 
 has made what he calls a good bargain, 
 and you do not approve of it ; it is hard 
 to tell him so. He lias bought a house, 
 or furniture, or a picture, and he wants 
 
 you to admire his taste, and you do not ; 
 it is hard to say that. He has cherished 
 children, or dear friends, and he wants 
 your good opinion of them ; it is hard 
 to refuse it. He wants a recommenda- 
 tion for himself to some place or situa- 
 tion, he wants a testimonial to qualities 
 which he has not ; it is very hard to say, 
 " I cannot give it." I am fully sensible 
 of the danger of swerving. I confess 
 for myself, that I like to agree with peo- 
 ple. I do not like to contradict them. 
 It is very disagreeable to me. When 
 one says of a lecture, or sermon, or 
 poem, or song, " Was it not beautiful ? " 
 I do not want to say, no. And observe 
 that I do not say a man is bound to 
 speak all that he thinks. He may be 
 silent. He may make no answer. Or 
 he may, I conceive, often come to that 
 point with his neighbor where he will 
 say, " Now I do not wish to speak on 
 that subject, because I differ with you 
 and may offend you ; " but if he is urged 
 I and compelled to go on, then, as God's 
 law of truth is upon his soul, let him 
 speak what he thinks ; let him speak 
 it if he die. To die is comparatively a 
 small thing; to lie is to kill the soul. 
 
 But we must press this matter to a 
 closer statement, and to a more exact 
 definition of the moral law with regard 
 to it. Let me premise that it is my busi- 
 ness to state the law ; as it would be if 
 I were to speak of the love of our neigh- 
 bor, or forgiveness of injuries; or hon- 
 esty in trade. If any one shall think 
 that he can find exceptions, — cases in 
 which he is fiot bound to love his neigh- 
 bor or to forgive him, or to be honest, 
 or to speak the truth, — I can only say 
 that the burden is upon his conscience ; 
 I cannot take it upon mine. 
 
 But let us now proceed to consider 
 what is the nature and obligation of this 
 virtue. What is it to speak the truth ? 
 And why is a man bound to speak it ? 
 
 First, what is it to speak the truth ? 
 It is to say nothing with the intent to 
 deceive. The essence of the thing lies 
 in the intention. What we say may be 
 literally true ; and yet if it is said with 
 
 45 
 
7o6 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 the purpose of misleading another, it is 
 talsehood, just as much as if the thing 
 itself were false. My neighbor cannot 
 see my thought. I propose, I profess 
 when I speak, to show it to him. He 
 confides in my doing so ; why else 
 should he listen to me ? Words are 
 the medium of communication. Now 
 if I speak to him a word which, whether 
 literally true or false, is intended to de- 
 ceive him, I as truly falsify, as if I 
 passed upon him a base coin instead 
 of pure gold. The bond which he has 
 taken from my lips has proved fictitious, 
 valueless, and worse than valueless. 
 
 I need not dwell upon a case so plain. 
 It is mere inanity of mind that can lead 
 any such palterer with words to say, 
 " Did I not speak exactly what was 
 true ?" And, on the other hand, it is an 
 equally mistaken scruple that leads any 
 one to hesitate about the morality of 
 parables, stories, and fictions ; because 
 that in these there is no intent to 
 deceive. 
 
 But why is a man bound to speak the 
 truth ? I answer, because it is right. 
 The obligation, though it may be en- 
 forced by utility, is found in the very 
 nature of the thing. 
 
 Duties may be divided into two kinds, 
 relative and absolute. There are ac- 
 tions, which are made right or wrong 
 by circumstances, such as labor, charity, 
 hospitality. Sometimes it is right to 
 perform such actions, and sometimes 
 not. But truth-telling is one of the 
 absolute duties. It is always right to 
 speak truly. If tliere are any circum- 
 stances which may make it seem right 
 to tell a lie, they must be very extraordi- 
 nary ; too extraordinary for common life, 
 — tremendous emergencies, which must 
 furnish, if they can, their own special 
 vindication ; as when it is believed that 
 a city may be saved from a besieging 
 army, by a false word spoken to a guide 
 or spy. They must be stronger cases, I 
 think, than are ordinarily put, to justify 
 falsehood. 
 
 The cases ordinarily put, are such as 
 these. A robber, with intent to murder, 
 
 asks me the way which a traveller has 
 taken. May I not tell him a falsehood, 
 to divert him from his purpose .-' Or, 
 having made me his victim, he swears 
 me to secrecy as the price of life. May 
 I not break my word ? Again, my 
 friend is sick ; his life hangs by a 
 thread. His child, let us suppose, has 
 died in an adjoining room. If I tell 
 him of his loss, my opinion is that it 
 will be fatal to him. May I not then, 
 morning after morning, and hour after 
 hour, tell him that his child is recover- 
 ing 1 Yet again ; the physician has a 
 patient, whose chances of recovery, he 
 thinks, depend on his being at ease and 
 undisturbed in mind. The patient asks 
 him whether there is any alarming or 
 fatal symptom in his case. The phy- 
 sician believes that there is. May he 
 answer and say, he believes not .'' 
 
 Now, whatever others may say of 
 these cases, I cannot say, yes. The 
 one question involved is simply this, — 
 is it right to lie, to save life? — or, to 
 speak more exactly, for the chance of 
 saving life .'* For we do not know, in 
 any of these cases,- that life would be 
 sacrificed by speaking the truth. There 
 is uncertainty in the very motive we 
 jjlead ; the only certainty is the blank 
 and positive falsehood. But suppose 
 that we did know. The martyr knows 
 that a lie would save him. Would we 
 have him speak it ? It would discrown 
 the very glory of the world to say so. 
 Besides, where would this argument for 
 falsehood stop ? Life is at hazard in 
 courts of justice, and it may be thought 
 to be so in courses of business. A dis- 
 honest bankrupt may say, "It would kill 
 my wife and children to be stripped of 
 everything." And there are those to 
 whom their property or reputation is 
 dearer than life. Then the argument 
 that justifies falsehood comes into ac- 
 counts, comes into trade, comes into so- 
 ciety, comes everywhere. And is there 
 not, in fact, a permitted laxity in the 
 world with regard to truth-telling, that 
 must have sprung frorn some false prin- 
 ciple, a principle, therefore, which is 
 
TRUTHFULNESS. 
 
 707 
 
 doing infinitely greater harm than can 
 be counterbalanced by any good that 
 is gained by it, in certain occasional 
 and extraordinary circumstances ? 
 
 Some have thought it sufficient to say, 
 and among them Dr. Paley, that our 
 enemy or the robber, who is the enemy 
 of society, has no right to know tlie 
 truth. That, I answer, is not the ques- 
 tion. The question is, not what are 
 his rights, but what is right for us. If 
 a man commits a purse of gold to me 
 in trust, to be returned at his demand, 
 certainly no bad character or bad intent 
 of his could justify me in withholding it. 
 I have taken the trust, and must dis- 
 charge it. And so when I profess to 
 speak the truth, I have taken a trust, 
 and must discharge it. I am not obliged 
 to speak. I may keep silence. But if 
 I do speak, I am obliged to speak the 
 truth. Suppose that intrusted property 
 might be withheld or misused on the 
 plea that the owner was a bad man, 
 and had no right to fidelity on our part ; 
 where then would be faith or honor or 
 trust in society ? 
 
 But more than expediency is to be 
 heard in (his argument. There is a 
 higher law which is proclaimed in every 
 healthful human conscience. No such 
 conscience ever found it a pleasing 
 thing to tell a lie. Whatever necessity 
 be pleaded for it, it is a painful necessity. 
 If there ever was a palpable case, in 
 which an Authority above us speaks 
 within us, I believe this is that case. 
 And to bring it to the clearest test, — if 
 it is right to tell a falsehood, it is right 
 to call God to witness. But could any 
 man without horror call God to witness 
 the truth of what he knew to be false ? 
 That, in courts of law, is called perjury, 
 and it is punished as such by our human 
 law. Yet God is witness to every false- 
 hood. The splendors of his omniscience 
 as truly surround it as they do the act of 
 perjury amidst the solemnities of an oath. 
 My argument, very brief indeed, is 
 brought to a conclusion ; but so, per- 
 haps, is not the mind of my hearer. 
 At least, I can conceive that some 
 
 one, surprised and even indignant at 
 what he may think such an extreme of 
 moral rigor, may say, — '• You .strain the 
 bond so hard that it will snap. It is 
 not wise to teach as you do. If it is 
 bad to demand too little in morals, it 
 may Ije liurtful to demand too much.' 
 What, then, would the objector have 
 me say .'' Would it not be a fine mond 
 precept to put forth, — " You must 
 speak the truth generally, but you may 
 utter a falsehood when you think it 
 necessary " ? The falsest man would 
 be content with this license. No, the 
 true wisdom is to lift up the standard of 
 duty, and not to let it down. The true 
 moral prudence, and, if I may say so, 
 policy with our own minds, is not to 
 plead for lying, but for truth. 
 
 And further : if there be any that 
 hear me, who are either surprised or 
 indignant at what they may call this 
 extreme of moral rigor, one thing I 
 iiave to say in fine, and it is this. Take 
 whatever ground you will, and how- 
 ever low, one thing you will not deny, — 
 that to be true and more true, to tell 
 the truth and act the truth more and 
 more, this is the upward path. Grant- 
 ing this, you will give me all that I ask 
 in behalf of the soul's culture and prog- 
 ress. Whatever difficulties there may 
 be, whatever questions in mere casuistry 
 may be put, one thing, I still say, is 
 clear, and for this end I have endeav- 
 ored to impress your minds with the 
 solemn sanctions of this virtue ; and 
 that is, that we should constantly aim 
 and endeavor to bring more and more 
 of truth into our minds, into our hearts, 
 into our conversation, into our business, 
 into our whole life's duty and culture. 
 
 And I am not willing to leave the 
 subject without saying something, in the 
 last place, of the value and greatness 
 of this virtue, and of the place it should 
 hold in both ourpei'sonal and social im- 
 provement. Lightly as it is apt to be 
 regarded, easily and idly as it is shoved 
 aside, I ask, is it a small thing, — either 
 for ourselves, or for society ? 
 
 Nay, I think that it has a strong claim, 
 
7o8 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 not only in its worth, but in its advan- 
 tages, both personal and social. How 
 would it simplify and dignify a man's 
 life, for him to hold to the truth! It 
 would lead him out of a dark labyrinth 
 into the open daylight. He would 
 have no perplexing" or petty interests 
 to consult, but only the simple monitor 
 within. His soul would not be ever 
 running abroad, in every direction, upon 
 all the sensitive fibres of social vanity, 
 jealousy, and rivalship, but would stay 
 at home, seated calmly upon the throne 
 of conscious integrity. And then, too, 
 what an advantage would it be to oth- 
 ers ! Half of the misunderstandings in 
 the world live only upon falsehood or 
 concealment. One word of truth would 
 break like lightning upon the cloud and 
 disperse it. How many vague and in- 
 jurious suspicions or positive misrepre- 
 sentations concerning any one of yoii 
 may have been stealing through society 
 for years, and might have been cleared 
 away, if one of the many words spoken 
 behind your back had been spoken to 
 your face ! Who has not had occasion, 
 at some moment of his life, to feel that 
 something was the matter between him 
 and others, — he did not know what? 
 Who, indeed, does not feel that he is 
 liable to be misconstrued, that there 
 are circumstances, peculiarities in his 
 case, which others cannot know ; and 
 who, in such case, would not be glad if 
 some one would speak plainly to him? 
 I would not advocate any intrusiveness : 
 but every man must have some ac- 
 quaintances who are entitled to speak 
 to him in such a case. And there must 
 be more than one among us who is 
 ready to say, " I am willing to open my 
 bosom purposes to all the world. There 
 is not a principle nor point in my life 
 and conduct which I am not perfectly 
 willing with a kind friend or acquaint- 
 ance freely and fairly to discuss. 
 Whether I am thought guilty of pride, 
 or duplicity, or self-indulgence, or cove- 
 tousness, or unkindness, or neglect of 
 my duties in any way, let me hear ; if 
 I cannot defend it, I will mend it." 
 
 It seems degrading to me and others, 
 to be ever keeping up appearances. It 
 involves real discourtesy to a man to 
 imply, by constant flatteries or soften- 
 ings of speech towards him, that he 
 cannot bear the truth, that his vanity 
 or selfishness or sensitiveness will be 
 ever up in arms against it, that he can 
 bear nothing manly nor honest from 
 those around him, that he has none of 
 the nobleness either of self-subsistence 
 or of humility. There is no true re- 
 spect shown, either for himself or for 
 anybody else, by this ever-pohte pallia- 
 tion, but the very contrary. It shows 
 that society is full of faults. Nor is 
 there any dignity in this restraint. It 
 IS not candor nor consideration, but 
 only mean cowardice Yox do men never 
 speak, and speak plainly, of the faults 
 of their neighbors ? Yes, by themselves 
 they can talk, — talk long and eloquently 
 and very piteously of the errors and 
 mistakes of their friends ; nothing is 
 like the discrimination and detail and 
 ingenuity of speech which they can 
 show the7-e. But let them come into 
 the presence of one of these unfortunate 
 acquaintances ; and then that tongue, 
 which just before was sharp as a sword 
 and rough as a file, becomes pliant and 
 obsequious as a whipped menial. This 
 is not the enforced slavery that chains 
 the Umbs of a man ; it is the far more 
 degrading, because it is the voluntary 
 slavery of the tongue, of tlie most imme- 
 diate organ of the soul. 
 
 Besides, society, for its own improve- 
 ment, has a right to ask something from 
 society, beyond this constant evasion 
 and double dealing. One mind does 
 not discharge its duty to another, when 
 clothed in this costume of fashionable 
 common-place. " Speak to me," I am 
 sometimes tempted to say, — " speak to 
 me thy tiiought : say something; say 
 anything ; say what is strange, odd, or 
 even erroneous, so tliou say what thou 
 thinkest, what thou dost feel, and not 
 merely what thou thinkest decorous and 
 polite." I might as well be talking with 
 parrots, I might as well be dealing with 
 
TRUTHFULNESS. 
 
 709 
 
 machines, as with people who are for- 
 ever seeming what they are not, and 
 saying what they do not feel ; who are 
 cut and shaped by fashion, as truly as 
 their garments are. In fact, how little 
 do we ever come to know one another 
 in these formal civilities of society ! 
 How refreshing in such scenes is one 
 word of reality; one word that puts 
 upon mind the stamp of individuality ! 
 A person, perfectly true and natural, is 
 like a fresh stream in the desert. " Oh ! 
 that she would do an odd thing," said 
 Goethe . and who has not sometimes 
 felt it ? One such thing done : in other 
 words, one natural action, one thing 
 spoken in pure self-forgetfulness, one 
 genuine outspeaking from the heart, is 
 like a talisman, that dissolves some 
 rigid and painful spell of all surround- 
 ing affectation. 
 
 I am sensible that observations like 
 these are liable to be misconstrued. I 
 advocate no undue forwardness, no in- 
 decorum. Let there be dignity, a proper 
 reserve and a perfect courtesy. The 
 beauty of society lies in the combina- 
 tion. The highest perfection of this 
 kind is found in the highest good-breed- 
 ing; not in a "threatening urbanity," as 
 some one has called it, not in that sharply 
 defined etiquette, that makes society 
 look to one of the uninitiated as if it 
 were full of spring-guns, swords, and 
 scymitars. Dr. Franklin was put as 
 much at ease in Parisian society as he 
 would have been among the craft of 
 printers at home. This observation re- 
 lates, it is true, to mere perfection of 
 manners ; but it shows that grace and 
 simplicity are not at war; and I say that 
 truth and an easy and kind behavior 
 need not be; and I have ventured upon 
 the freedom of these remarks, because I 
 cannot allow it to be objected, that sim 
 plicity is dangerous to decorum, or that 
 truth must be maintained at the expense 
 of courtesy 
 
 But if to combine truth with courtesy 
 be thought difficult, there is another 
 thing, calling for a still* loftier elevation 
 and nobleness of character; and that is, 
 
 to combine truth with love. You say, 
 perhaps, " How am I honestly to treat 
 those whom I do not like, who differ 
 from me in their opinions, or tastes, or 
 culture .'' They are of my acquaintance, 
 they come to me ; by what means am 1 
 to be at once hospitable to them and 
 true to myself .'' " I answer, by truly 
 loving them, by a hearty good-will, by a 
 desire to promote their happiness, by 
 taking real pleasure in such offices of 
 hospitality and goodness. Such, we are 
 told by his biographers, was the spirit 
 of the German philosopher and poet, 
 Novalis. He really loved to talk with 
 what are called ordinary people : he 
 wanted to know, as indeed he loved, all 
 men ; and 1 imagine that we shall, none 
 of us, pretend to a higher or purer or 
 more peculiar culture than that of No- 
 valis. In trudi, it is the mark of a hard, 
 defective, and ungenial cultivation, to be 
 bristling all over with points of repug- 
 nance to those who are not just like 
 ourselves ; who are not as gifted or 
 accomplished as we are, or as we think 
 we are. It is a want of the large hu- 
 manity. It is unworthy of cultivated 
 minds. It belongs to the littleness and 
 technicality of superficial fashion, — 
 where, indeed, it reigns supreme. Or 
 must we make the exception that there 
 is a certain vile pride of intellect that is 
 worse } At any rate, it is more unpar- 
 donable. The true, large, noble mind 
 sees that which is kindred to it in every 
 man, — sees gentle humanity everywhere, 
 and might see virtues, beneath the hum- 
 blest garb, that would shame all its fine 
 culture. 
 
 Yes, we are put to that severe test in 
 our intercourse with men, — whether we 
 love tiiem. If we do not, then we must 
 sacrifice truth or sacrifice general so- 
 ciety. There is no alternative. If we 
 have not a genuine and generous good- 
 heartedness, we must meet with many 
 people whom we do not wish to meet, 
 whom for no reason do we wish to meet. 
 And then if our manners say that we 
 have any sort of pleasure in their com- 
 pany, they will involve a sacrifice of our 
 
710 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 truth. A popular person must be a very 
 good-hearted person, or a hypocrite. 
 
 Now every one desires to be popular, 
 or at least to be agreeable. It is one 
 of the strongest desires of our nature. 
 No one wishes to make an unpleasant 
 or ungrateful impression upon those with 
 whom he mingles in society. And here 
 it is, amidst mingled sympathies, affec- 
 tions, partialities, and almost boundless 
 cravings for esteem, that every man and 
 every woman must stand firm, — must 
 speak the truth, and to do so they must 
 speak it in love. 
 
 But whether in love or in hate, I am 
 tempted to say, let every man speak it. 
 If he has not love to support him, let 
 him fall back on the stern principle of 
 rectitude. Give me a rough, blunt, hon- 
 est man, rather than a time-server or 
 a parasite. Give me a Luther rather 
 than an Erasmus ; a Hampden or a Pym 
 rather than a double-dealing Strafford; 
 a fearless Paul rather than a flattering 
 Tertullus. One there has been greater 
 than the Apostle, greater than all, who 
 came into the world to bear witness to 
 the truth, and who, endowed with un- 
 paralleled gentleness and pity, ever 
 spoke the truth, spoke it at the cost of 
 ease, of favor with men, and of life itself. 
 He died a martyr to the truth. And by 
 no means could the preacher so shock 
 and pain a Christian audience, as by ad- 
 mitting that ever by one act or word 
 did he swerve from the conscious truth 
 that was in him. 
 
 This, then, do I set forth, my friends, 
 as one of the loftiest and most impera- 
 tive of the Christian virtues. Does any 
 man ask to do some signal thing in his 
 iife? Does he say that he would be a 
 religious man, but does not know how 
 to set about it ? I answer, let him speak 
 the truth. Let him do it always. Let 
 him do it immediately. The word is 
 nigh him, in his heart and in his mouth, 
 to do it. In the ne.xt conversation he 
 holds, let him speak the truth. If he 
 talks about this discourse which he has 
 heard, let him speak the truth. And let 
 him not fool nor falsify his own heart 
 
 by saying that there is no religion in it. " 
 It should be a religion in his heart to 
 speak the truth. It is indeed a thing 
 most spiritual to which he is called. It 
 may be a regeneration to which he is 
 called. It is a religious reverence for 
 the ever-present, the all-witnessing God ^ 
 of truth. 1 
 
 Let him, I still say, speak the truth. 
 Let him speak it the next thing he 
 speaks. Let him speak it, always and 
 everywhere, — at home and abroad, in 
 the house and by the way, at the trading- 
 house and the horse-fair, when he buys 
 and when he sells, in business and in 
 society, in life and in death, let him 
 speak the true word. 
 
 Could I bring any who hear me, and 
 especially those just entering upon life, 
 to a solemn resolve ever to speak the 
 truth, — call it what you will, religion 
 or morality, I care not, — I should feel 
 that I had not spoken in vain. That 
 right habit would instantly begin to 
 correct every wrong habit. All evil, 
 all wrong, all debasing license of the 
 senses, is covered over with lying. 
 Strip off that covering ; and the world 
 would become guilty before God ; and 
 a grand reform would begin, where the 
 Gospel begins it, with repentance. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ON IMPATIENCE. 
 
 Psalm xxxvii. i, 7, 8 : " Fret not thyself be- 
 cause of evil doers, neither be thou envious against 
 the workers of iniquity. Rest in the Lord, and wait 
 patiently for him ; fret not thyself because of him who 
 prospereth in his way, because of the man who bring- 
 eth wicked devices to pass. Cease from anger, and 
 forsake wrath ; fret not thyself in any wise to do evil." 
 
 Impatience, — fretting against evil- 
 doers, ay, and against those who do 
 well, but do not things in the right 
 way; fretting not only at men, but 
 things ; fretting at obstacles and incon- 
 veniences, and especially at petty annoy- 
 ances and vexations, — this is a state 
 of mind, I am inclined to think, more 
 
IMPATIENCE. 
 
 711 
 
 common and more indefensible than 
 is apt to be suspected. On preaching 
 once a sermon upon conscience, in 
 which I had endeavored to extend the 
 sphere of conscience to a wider circle 
 than is usually embraced by it, a 
 thoughtful hearer said to me, when 
 coming out of church, '' Yes, it is all 
 true ; but you have not touched me?'' 
 « Ah ? " I said, " how not ? " " Be- 
 cause," was the reply, " my sin is im- 
 patience." 
 
 I was led to reflect on the subject. 
 1 could not recollect that I had ever 
 heard a sermon upon it. And yet it 
 appeared to me probable, as I thought 
 of it, that this very fault covered more 
 ground than any other in life. I saw 
 that it was more likely than many other 
 faults to be kept out of sight. Impa- 
 tience, it is true, is apt to break out in 
 hasty words and actions ; but it is often 
 a solitary vice. A man may fret him- 
 self and nobody may know it. Loss of 
 self-possession is loss of self-respect ; 
 and one would take care not to disclose 
 it. Into the whole texture of life may 
 be woven these cross threads of impa- 
 tience, and all done in the silent loom 
 of thought. A man may fret his life 
 long at his neighbor's prosperity, yet 
 more at what he considers his neigh- 
 bor's perverseness and incivility, and 
 never speak of it. Many a one, if he 
 were to tell us what passes in his 
 private apartment, would confess an 
 occasional irritation, with the arrange- 
 ments or rtYj-arrangements rather, with 
 his wardrobe, his toilet, his pen and 
 ink, or his fire that was too cold or too 
 hot, — going to the length of flinging 
 down or breaking things ; of which the 
 world knows nothing. 
 
 Doubtless there are different tem- 
 peraments, which are likely to develop 
 this tendency to haste and passion in 
 different degrees. There ar-e men who 
 apparently have no fierves, nothing in 
 them that feels the edge of annoyance. 
 And there are men who are not only 
 nervous but earnest and impetuous ; 
 the onward rush of whose spirits can- 
 
 not encounter obstacles without some 
 disturbance. And doubtless, too, it is 
 to be considered, tliough it seldom is 
 sufficiently considered in our moral 
 teachings, that every tendency in our 
 nature has its uses as well as abuses. 
 A person, not at all impatient at failure 
 and frustration, not in the least vexed 
 at his own blundering and forgetful- 
 ness, or at the negligence or careless- 
 ness of others, would be scarce likely 
 to be making himself better, or persons 
 and things around him belter. He 
 who has earnestly set his heart upon 
 having things done in the best way, — 
 in his house, in his office, on his farm 
 or in his factory, in society or in his 
 country, — can hardly see things go 
 wrong, without an emotion bordering 
 on impatience. Men may be too pa- 
 tient, — of disarray in their dwellings 
 and about them, or of disorder in their 
 affairs, of evils and wrongs in society : 
 such patience has no virtue in it, nor 
 the promise of any. 
 
 Still, it will not be denied that the 
 contrary tendency may, and commonly 
 does, go too far ; and I shall now 
 propose for your consideration some 
 thoughts that may show the reasonable- 
 ness of bringing it under due control. 
 
 I have admitted that this tendency 
 has its uses. That is to say, when it 
 is simply a strong dissatisfaction with 
 what is wrong or imperfect, and what 
 it is in our power to amend, it is a good 
 element. But when it is a fretting at 
 what we can't help, when it is, in any 
 way, a hasty and passionate emotion, 
 then it is 7wt good ; and this is what 
 we commonly mean by impatience. 
 
 And before speaking of it on moral 
 grounds, I may say, in passing, that on 
 economical grounds it must be pro- 
 nounced to be very unwise. There 
 is an economy of our powers, always 
 to be considered in a wise culture ; and 
 impatience is a waste of them, and a 
 useless waste: it does no good. No 
 knot of difficulty, as no literal knot, 
 is best untied by hasty and violent 
 hands. Things may be botched, or 
 
712 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 they may be torn in pieces, but they 
 are never well mended, by haste or 
 anger. Cahnly setting about the cor- 
 rection of what is wrong is the only 
 way to repair it. Calmness and method, 
 — these two qualities, I believe, char- 
 acterize all successful effort ; but there 
 is neither calmness nor method in 
 impatience. And, in fine, it does no 
 good, any way. It does not lessen the 
 obstacle, but only the skill to remove 
 it. There is no help in it, but only 
 blindness and frustration. So much 
 wear and tear of the spirit, so much 
 chafing and strife and discomfort in the 
 mind, ought to have some compensa- 
 tion ; but there is none at all. It is 
 all beating the air, and labor in vain. 
 Here are fit powers and apt instruments 
 to do the work, — the work of life in 
 every kind ; memory and judgment and 
 will, eyes and hands and fingers ; but 
 they are all thrown into confusion by 
 impatience. If a machine, fitted in its 
 orderly going on to do a certain tiling, 
 were suddenly to fall into disorder, 
 twitching and racking and pulling con- 
 trary ways, the master would immedi- 
 ately stop it : he would decide at once 
 that things must not go on in that way. 
 In the machine, it would be disorder ; 
 in the man, it is distraction and folly: 
 and the governing reason ought to say, 
 " Stop, and wait till you are arranged 
 for some orderly proceeding." Fret 
 not thyself because of evil-doers, or 
 imperfect doings ; fret not thyself in 
 any wise to do evil. 
 
 It is doing evil to fret ourselves in 
 any wise, and this is what I proposed 
 especially to consider. And the ground 
 on which I place this moral view is 
 this: that, as imperfect beings, we have 
 our part assigned to us in this world, 
 amidst circumstances and objects that 
 are meant to cultivate and improve us ; 
 that all which tasks and tries, and which 
 we suffer, perhaps, to irritate and vex 
 us, was designed not to irritate and vex 
 us, but to cultivate our faculties, to nur- 
 ture in us strength, aptitude, endurance; 
 to spread a field for the calm victory of 
 
 reason and virtue over the obstacles that 
 surround us. Impatience, then, is an 
 offence against the whole order of Prov- 
 idence. And as in good minds it arises 
 from failing to consider this, it is this 
 that I would attempt to show. 
 
 Observe, in the first place, that by no 
 conceivable, I think I may say by no 
 possible, arrangement of things could 
 obstruction and difficulty be removed J 
 from the system. If indeed these hin- I 
 drances and obstacles were gratuitous, 
 if they were put into the system for no 
 other purpose than to thwart and vex 
 us, then might we justly complain. But 
 there cati be no adjustment of freely 
 working and imperfect natures to any 
 conceivable set of instruments without 
 involving more or less trial of patience. 
 Instinct or mechanism may perhaps be 
 made to work with unerring precision ; 
 the bee may build its cell without mis- 
 take ; the band may be exactly fitted to 
 the pulley, the cog to the wheel : but so 
 cannot the free will, so cannot an im- 
 perfect and experimenting nature, work 
 into any conditions. The elements may 
 be ever so perfect, but the imperfection 
 of the agent must always create diffi- 
 culty. Nay, more, if there were no 
 difficulty; if man, like the animal, walked 
 in the paths of unerring instinct, not 
 only would he not be a moral agent, but 
 he would not be an improving agent. 
 Difficulty is the very school of culture 
 and progress-. 
 
 So it is, then ; so it is inevitably, in 
 the very nature of things ; so it is or- 
 dained to be : and anything in us that 
 resists or thwarts this constitution of 
 things is hostile to the especial wisdom 
 and law of that Providence which has 
 made us and appointed all our relations 
 to the objects around us. Now impa- 
 tience is that very thing. I need not 
 repeat that it does no good; that it does 
 not help us at all in any respect: it is 
 more than negative, — it is a positive 
 quarrel with the great discipline of life. 
 
 Let us consider the matter in some 
 detail. Impatience has various provo- 
 cations : events and circumstances pro- 
 
IMPATIENCE. 
 
 713 
 
 yoke it ; men and things ; things great 
 and small, but chiefly of the latter kind. 
 Great calamities, as has been often ob- 
 served, perilous sickness, approaching 
 death, dread bereavement, usually weigh 
 down to awful resignation or to more 
 awful despair, the lesser irritations of 
 the mind. 
 
 Here is a being, then, who is placed 
 in a thousand contacts with a thousand 
 little things. He may have great aims, 
 he may be a great man, but he must 
 deal with small instruments ; and not 
 only with little things, but with litde 
 men. But to speak more properly of 
 every man's vocation : it is not to roll 
 on the great world, nor to wield the 
 thunder, nor to sweep the skies with 
 cloud and tempest ; but to till the 
 ground with plough and hoe and harrow, 
 or to build houses with saw and chisel 
 and hammer, or to manufacture or bar- 
 ter the conveniences of life, or to paint 
 or write with pen or pencil, or to play 
 skilfully on an instrument. Now every 
 one of these things is liable to get out of 
 order. Nothing can man touch, but it 
 may break or wear out, or rust and be 
 dulled, and not work well, or become 
 entangled and full of hindrance and 
 thwarting to his immediate design. Or 
 if he would do one of the greatest things 
 that man ca7i do, — tliink grandly, and 
 grandly utter his thought, — if he would 
 put forth, and speak, and embody in 
 himself some great word, that shall task 
 his powers to tiie uttermost, some great 
 word that shall be truth and guidance 
 to his country or to the world, still how 
 dimly the matter reveals itself to him at 
 \ the first ! Or if one bright point shines 
 I out, how many imperfect thoughts and 
 phrases are to be formed and fashioned 
 
 I and shaded and adjusted ! They will 
 i not leap forth perfect for his use, but 
 
 must be painfully elaborated into a re- 
 
 II suit. Then must he be patient. In 
 work or study he must be patient. Fa- 
 miliar is what the great Newton said, but 
 it may be repeated here, as most signifi- 
 cant : "If I have surpassed other men, 
 it is only by dint of patient thinking." 
 
 Then, I say, he must be patient ; pa- 
 tient of labor, patient with difficulty, 
 with contradiction. It is God's most 
 special ordinance for the hfe-task, — 
 patience. He is not only cast into a 
 world of a thousand little things, but of 
 things neither ready-made for him nor 
 precisely adjusted to an unerring use ; 
 the very contrary is the fact. He can- 
 not, like the animal, live under the open 
 sky, and eat and lie down and rise up, 
 without care. He must build his house, 
 and he must furnish his house, and he 
 must keep his house. A house builded, 
 furnished, kept, — it is a brief descrip- 
 tion, but it is the epitome of endless 
 cares. Nothing will be, or at least 
 nothing will keep., as we want it. The 
 spider will weave in the window and the 
 cornice, the busy ant and buzzing fly 
 will bring annoyance, and every apart- 
 ment will be choked with disarray and 
 discomfort if we do not constantly put 
 things in order. Farm and garden and 
 workshop and factory, in hke man- 
 ner, will go all to wreck and ruin if 
 there is not this constant and minute 
 attention. 
 
 What does all this mean ? Why is it 
 that man, with the vast reach of his na- 
 ture, the vast breadth of his compre- 
 hension, must contract his attention to 
 things so minute .'' Because, as I con- 
 ceive, this is the natural ordinance for 
 such a being ; because, that is to say, 
 he is not yet fit to deal with greater 
 things alone, — his nature could not bear 
 the strain. If all men were statesmen, 
 for instance, they would sink under the 
 load, as even the few often do. Indeed, 
 I have often thought that the monotony 
 of many of our employments — the rou- 
 tine, felt to be so tedious, of sewing and 
 stitching, of making pins and buttons, 
 and of other similar avocations — might 
 act usefully as a sedative and relief for 
 the over-strained faculties. But certain 
 it is that things many and minute neces- 
 sarily make up the sum of influences by 
 which man is fashioned and formed to 
 wisdom and excellence. The instru- 
 ments that chip the marble into a per- 
 
714 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 feet statue are many of them very small, 
 
 — some of them hardly larger than a 
 needle's point. If man had to meet 
 some moral crisis or to practise some 
 high virtue but once in a day or once in 
 a month, it might be far easier and far 
 less noble than it is to answer the call 
 and to be equal to the exigency of every 
 hour's, of every moment's discipline. 
 
 I must insist on this as a significant 
 and not^ though at first it may seem to 
 be, a mysterious ordination of Provi- 
 dence. When I look into a summer 
 parlor, and see the man who sits there 
 
 — the paragon of creatures on earth, the 
 chief and head of the world — assailed 
 all day by insect annoyances, the gnat, 
 the fly, the mosquito, it is something 
 so disproportionate and singular, that I 
 ask a reason for it. And I do not say, 
 that the only reason is a vioral one. 
 These swarms of insect life, scavengers 
 of the air, minister to health ; and they 
 may minister in ways not commonly 
 thought of ; they may keep the sluggish 
 from sleeping through all the summer 
 afternoon, and the surfeited, for aught 
 I know, from apoplexy. But they may 
 have, I conceive, another and moral 
 ministry ; for they are not \\\z smallest 
 tilings tliat are put into the sphere of 
 the human training. That is to say, 
 they may be part and parcel of a great 
 system, in which ease, quiescence, indul- 
 gence, are not the o!)ject, but patience, 
 self-government, wakeful thought, and 
 watchful virtue ; and the buzzing fiy may 
 help to that, as well as the flying mote 
 or thread-like nerves. It is thus, at any 
 rate, that men must pursue all the great 
 tasks of life ; amidst the interruptions 
 and stings of a thousand petty annoy- 
 ances and thwarting difficulties. The 
 plough and the harrow will break in the 
 field ; the tire will part from the wheel, 
 or the horse will cast his shoe in the way ; 
 the thread will slip from the needle, and 
 the needle's eye is small, and will be 
 blind to the dimmed sight ; the garments 
 we wear will not exactly fit; neither 
 food nor fuel will do a perfect service ; 
 a certain pertinacious tendency to dis- 
 
 order or discomfort will meet us at ev- 
 ery turn ; the course of nothing will run 
 smooth ; men, as well as things, will 
 disappoint and disturb us ; the imper- 
 fections of our fellow-beings will annoy 
 us ; engagements with them will not 
 dove-tail into one another ; all agencies 
 will not coalesce ; some will be too 
 slow, and others too fast : what, then, are 
 we to do ? We must be patient, or be 
 the fools and sport of circumstances. 
 We must be patient, or lose the day, 
 lose the battle of every day's life. We 
 cannot escape the conflict. We must 
 fight the battle, and win or lose. Pa- 
 tience is victory : impatience is miser- 
 able and mean defeat. Patience is gain : 
 impatience is loss, is frustration, so far 
 as it goes, of the very end of life. 
 
 Does not life, in this view, does not 
 daily life, rise before us in a serious and 
 even solemn aspect ? Man is placed 
 here to learn. He is at school. What 
 if, instead of studying the book, he tears 
 the leaves in pieces like a froward child, 
 and scatters them upon the wind 1 What 
 if, instead of calmly addressing himself 
 to the removal of obstacles, to bringing 
 order out of confusion, to rectifying er- 
 rors and meeting disappointments, and 
 untying the knots of difficulty, he frets 
 and rages and involves and entangles all 
 in greater difficulty.'' What if, instead 
 of acquiescing in the plan of life, and 
 laboring to bring himself into harmony 
 with the system of nature, he petulantly 
 throws all into worse confusion, worse 
 than nature ever made for him? Could 
 he set himself more directly against the 
 very order of Providence ? Could he 
 more palpably disobey, if he plainly said, 
 " I will 7iot submit to things as they are, 
 — I will not submit to Heaven ' ? 
 
 And the misery of this temper shows 
 the evil of it. No man is more con- 
 stantly unhappy, or makes others more 
 so, than the impatient man. He is out 
 of harmony witli tilings ; and all things 
 fight and worry and wound him. He 
 feels himself dishonored, too, by his im- 
 patience ; and he does lose, so far as he 
 indulges it, the true dignity of li;'e. He 
 
IMPATIENCE. 
 
 715 
 
 is not cast, indeed, like the victim of 
 sensual vice, into the slough of dishon- 
 or ; his garment perhaps is not soiled; 
 but it is burnt through, in a thousand 
 spots, by the ever-dropping little sparks 
 of petulance ; and it is in tatters and 
 disorder with the ever-crossing flurries 
 of angry passion ; and he seems to him- 
 self, and to others, as one who scrambles 
 through life, rather than as one who 
 walks in the calm and dignified robe 
 of conscious self-possession. Constant 
 fretting and fault-finding and breaking 
 out into sarcasm and anger may bereave 
 a house of all honor, peace, and comfort, 
 almost as effectually as gluttony and 
 drunkenness. Or suppose that the fret- 
 ful temper be hidden and smothered in 
 the heart ; then it wastes and consumes 
 the springs of the inmost life. 
 
 I cannot but suppose that any person 
 conscious of this tendency would gladly 
 consider how it is to be checked and 
 controlled. Let us therefore, in a few 
 words, direct our thoughts, in close, to 
 the remedies for impatience. 
 
 And the first is, distinctly and delib- 
 erately to settle our minds to the expec- 
 tation of difficulties. It is for this rea- 
 son, in part, that I have endeavored to 
 lay open the plan of human culture by 
 little tasks and trials of our intelligence 
 and virtue, and to show that this is an 
 inevitable part of the common lot. The 
 impatient are always surprised by their 
 difficulties and disappointments. Nay, 
 they often go to the length of imagining 
 that trials and mishaps are their peculiar 
 ill luck. They complain as if untoward 
 chance made them its special mark and 
 butt. " It always rains, when they want 
 to travel. The harness always breaks, 
 when they ride. The water is always 
 low, when their corn is to be ground. 
 Their neighbor is always engaged, when 
 they want him ; the smith is always 
 shoeing a horse, when they want him 
 to make a staple^'' Nay, it goes to the 
 length of being a sort of superstition ,- 
 and the man says, " I knew it would be 
 just so : things never do come right for 
 me. ' ' 
 
 Now what I have to recommend to the 
 impatient man, in the first place, is that 
 he work out and eliminate from his prob- 
 lem, as fast as he can, this element of 
 surprise, this notion of a peculiarity in 
 his case, this idea that he is honored 
 with the special attention, as of some 
 hostile power. It is twt so. His is the 
 common lot. Let him calmly say, then, 
 in every crisis, at every turn of his hand 
 to a new thing, at the threshold of his 
 apartment when he enters it, "Of course 
 there will be difficulties here : nothing 
 is perfect ; no condition, no place, can 
 be free from obstruction or inconven- 
 ience ; no task can offer perfect facility ; 
 and what I have to do is, to meet, to 
 disentangle or to overcome the difficul- 
 ties of every task, of every situation and 
 emergency, as a part of the very thing 
 I have to do." You are not vexed be- 
 cause you have to build a house, or to 
 entertain friends or distinguished per- 
 sons in it, or to conduct an active or 
 prosperous business in the world, or to 
 fill an honorable office. It is when mis- 
 takes, crosses, disappointments, are to 
 be met, that you are vexed. But this 
 is a part of the very thing to be done ; 
 of the building, the entertaining, the 
 business, the office. This meeting with 
 tnistakes and crosses, I say, is a part of 
 it. I think if every man would fairly 
 settle this with himself, and could learn 
 to say to every petty mischance, " Yes, 
 of course something must task and try 
 me at every step," he would find great 
 help in that single conviction. And 
 then, too, if he be a wise man, he will 
 see to it that he does not go on con- 
 stantly making and multiplying trials 
 of this sort, by his own improvidence, 
 negligence, and carelessness. 
 
 The next remedy for impatience is 
 a reasonable submission to the will of 
 Providence. This every right-minded 
 man must desire to render, if he be- 
 lieves in a Providence, and believes 
 that the small occasions which try his 
 patience are a part of it. But they are 
 a part of it. We see that they are a 
 part of it. We know that they must be. 
 
7i6 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 1 
 
 The "divine ordering of all things im- 
 plies the ordering of everything. There 
 is a Providence that reigns over all the 
 scene and lot of our life. In the buzz- 
 ing insect its wisdom speaks as truly 
 as in the winged tempest; in the fall 
 of a sparrow as truly as in the fall of 
 an empire. The hairs of our head are 
 numbered; and every thread in the tan- 
 gled skein of events is numbered, and 
 hath its ministry. Out from that tan- 
 gled skein, out from each trivial event 
 and circumstance, out from the thorn- 
 bush by the wayside, God's wisdom is 
 speaking as truly as from the height of 
 heaven. Forever is it teaching ; for- 
 ever must we be learning, — in lowli- 
 ness, in submission, in patience, must 
 we be learning. Believe me, the thought 
 I utter is not too high for the humblest 
 occasion. In the thought of God alone 
 is sovereign strength and Sacred calm- 
 ness. The lowliest virtue is thus linked 
 to the throne of heaven. Impatience 
 is unbelief, — is denial of God ; and 
 unbelief is perdition, the very soul's 
 misery. Thus is the great truth of 
 Scripture brought down to be truth 
 of every moment. 
 
 In fine, the lofty and admirable state 
 of a mind that has got rid of its im- 
 patience may well win us to make the 
 effort for that calm and sacred free- 
 dom. I do not doubt there is more 
 than one who hears me that might 
 justly say, " I would give more to ob- 
 tain that calmness and self-control — 
 it more concerns my inmost honor and 
 happiness — than to learn ten languages 
 or to gain tens of thousands of gold." 
 The occasions that try us may be small, 
 but the principle that governs us must 
 be the greatest possible. The littleness 
 of the events and instruments that we 
 are dealing with is ever cheating us out 
 of the true grandeur of life. " Greater 
 is he that ruleth his own spirit than he 
 that taketh a city." A man may rule 
 an empire, and yet not govern himself. 
 A man may stand, brave and calm and 
 self-possessed, the battle's shock, that 
 breaks into the awful house of life, and 
 
 yet may be disturbed and shaken in 
 spirit, and utterly thrown from his self- 
 possession, by the breaking of a china 
 jar. He may drive his car of victory 
 through fields which epic song shall 
 celebrate, and yet be completely upset 
 by the snapping of a harp-string. Oh, 
 fine and delicate and manifold and much 
 entangled are the tissues of life which 
 surround us ! and he who brings music 
 out of the discord, and harmony out 
 of confusion, — he who walks through 
 life with an even temper and a gentle 
 patience, patient with himself, patient 
 with others, patient with difficulties 
 and crosses, thoughtful, not of showy 
 appearances, but of inmost realities, 
 thoughtful of virtue and of God, — he 
 has an every-day greatness beyond that 
 which is won in battle, or chanted in 
 cathedrals, or heralded with the shout 
 and pageantry of a triumphal proces- 
 sion. 
 
 X. 
 
 ON SELF-RENUNCIATION. 
 
 Heb. xi. 25 : " Choosing rather to suffer affliction 
 with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of 
 sin for a season." 
 
 I HAVE heard it said in a sermon 
 on these words, — somewhat strangely, 
 I thought, since it seemed to brow- 
 beat the very text, — that there are no 
 pleasures of sin. The meaning of the 
 preacher was, I suppose, that there are 
 no ultimate advantages in it. Now that 
 the balance of happiness, during any 
 period that is sufficient for the trial, is 
 on the side of virtue, is doubtless true. 
 But the text itself admits that there 
 are "pleasures of sin," though brief 
 and transitory, though for a season, 
 and it places upon that very ground 
 the grandeur of the principle which it 
 commends to our admiration. 
 
 And what is that ? It is the princi- 
 ple which is commonly — though, for a 
 reason I shall presently state, not very 
 happily — denominated self-renunciation, 
 or self-sacrifice. Renunciation of self- 
 
SELF-RENUNCIATION. 
 
 717 
 
 ishness would be a juster description of 
 it. It is, in other words, a preferring 
 of virtue, cost what it may, to any pleas- 
 ures or advantages that can be enjoyed 
 without it. Moses "chose rather to suf- 
 fer with the people of God '" than to be 
 happy or honored with any other peo- 
 ple. Egypt, its king and court, were 
 there to allure him with every pleasure ; 
 and there, abroad in the fields, in the 
 brick-yards, were his poor, despised 
 people, — toil and scorn their lot. He 
 did not hesitate which to choose. But 
 it was great choosing. It was a great 
 principle to act upon. " Renounce," it 
 says to us, — " renounce thy selfish and 
 pleasure-seeking self for what is right. 
 Choose the right rather than advan- 
 tage. Choose virtue rather than en- 
 joyment. Choose virtue singly, first of 
 all, and for its own sake, and let en- 
 joyment take care of itself. Better to 
 endure want or pain as a good man, 
 than to enjoy pleasure or wealth as a 
 bad man. You can do without pleasure, 
 you can do without wealth, you can do 
 without worldly eclat or advantage ; but 
 you cannot do without integrity, truth, 
 honesty, inward honor. 
 
 I have said that self-sacrifice, or self- 
 renunciation, is not the best phrase to 
 set forth this principle ; for in true obe- 
 dience to it a man does jiot sacrifice 
 nor renounce, but cherishes and grati- 
 fies his highest self, the loftiest and 
 dearest faculty of his nature, his sense 
 of rectitude. That the highest point of 
 virtue, however, shoiild have been de- 
 nominated self-renunciation rather than 
 self-gratification, is indeed one of those 
 significant facts embedded in language 
 which reveals the character of past 
 ages. Men's self has been selfishness, 
 else had not self needed to be denied. 
 Had they been better than they have 
 been, had their prevailing desires been 
 high and pure, then self-gratification 
 had been their law and welfare. 
 
 But still I must say that the pursuit 
 of virtue in its aim runs wide of what 
 has been called the universal passion, — 
 the love of happiness ; that is to say, 
 
 it is altogether a distinct thing. It is 
 as different from the love of happiness, 
 and as much higher, as the delight of 
 giving food to a famishing man is higher 
 than the pleasure of tasting it ourselves. 
 And if the love of the right is a distinct 
 thing, it may be a motive by itself ; and 
 if it is a greater thing, then it may be 
 a more powerful motive than the other. 
 Let the love of happiness be a motive 
 to virtue, but it is not the highest. No, 
 my brethren, it is no over-refinement — 
 though utilitarians maintain it is — to 
 say that virtue must be sought for its 
 own sake, and especially that the high- 
 est deed of virtue is always done for its 
 own sake ; it is a simple fact, — it is a 
 fact which every good man's conscious- 
 ness gives him. The righteous man will 
 do the thing that is right because it is 
 right ; he does not pause upon any pal- 
 try calculations about advantage. When 
 I say /^;//rK calculations, I am sensible 
 that I speak his feeling in his noblest 
 frames of mind, rather than the strict 
 truth. The advantage, the interest, the 
 happiness, is indeed a great thing; but 
 great as it is, it is not the good man's 
 greatest thought nor highest motive. In 
 the lower ranges of virtue, indeed, — 
 in struggling out from intemperance or 
 licentiousness or a life of fraud, — a man 
 may think much of tlie evils they have 
 brought upon him or will bring upon 
 him. The fear of hell is better than 
 no motive for escaping from evil ; but 
 as a man rises, he will come to hate all 
 evil and to love all goodness, for them- 
 selves. 
 
 But I am not content with asserting 
 the lofty principle I contend for, merely 
 as a matter of speculative truth ; I ap- 
 peal more distinctly to experience. Is 
 he really a good man, — is he a good 
 man, at all, who gives alms, or makes 
 prayers, to be seen of men? Our Mas- 
 ter, on the contrary, pronounces him to 
 be a hypocrite. But I speak to the true 
 man's own expci'iejtce, and I say, — when 
 a good man does a good action, is he 
 always, I might almost say, is he ever, 
 thinking of the happiness it will yield 
 
718 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 him ? It is very proper, no doubt, to 
 vindicate the place which happiness has 
 in the theory of virtue ; but in the prac- 
 tice I think the love of it has very little 
 place. When a generous man is spread- 
 ing around iiim the gifts which Heaven's 
 beneficence has poured upon him, he is 
 «o/ all the while thinking of the returns 
 of profit or praise. Tlie true patriot is 
 not thinking of the fame he will reap, 
 but of the country he would save. Nay, 
 it is when the tide of battle turns against 
 him, and darkness and disaster hang 
 upon his standard, — in the cloud and 
 the storm, unseen, alone — in the thick 
 battle, — that he flings himself upon the 
 altar of his great sacrifice, to die ! " It 
 is beautiful," says an ancient sentence, 
 " to die for our country : " and all the 
 ages give echo to it; but had it said 
 "profitable," that sentence had never 
 been repeated. And, to descend to the 
 humbler scenes of domestic life, what 
 is it that carries many a one around us 
 through all the unnumbered steps of 
 maternal care and watching ? Is it the 
 mother's expectation that her children 
 will one day repay her ? Nay, if there 
 be a stricken one in that little flock, one 
 that through long and lingering disease 
 ^nust die, — can do nothing for her, but 
 must die, — upon that weak and droop- 
 ing head, upon that pained and com- 
 plaining brow, does she not pour out 
 her love without measure ? 
 
 Indeed, the disinterestedness of all the 
 loftier human aflTections and pursuits is 
 in direct contradiction to what is often 
 alleged concerning the utter selfishness 
 of the world. The artist labors to em- 
 body his idea of beauty on the canvas 
 or in marble or in music, — between 
 lonely walls he labors, often forgetting 
 the world that is without : the poet, the 
 author, retires to the still haunts of medi- 
 tation, and weaves the unbought colors 
 of his imagination into pictures that be- 
 guile the stealing hours ; the eloquent 
 man pours forth his soul in the unre- 
 strained tide of speech ; and if either 
 of them could think, in the great hour 
 and access of inspiration, of a price for 
 
 it, though that price were fame, //laf 
 thought would strike the very energy of 
 genius with the palsy of death. 
 
 This, mv brethren, is the loftiness of 
 virtue. This is the loftiness of our 
 Christian teaching. This is the glory 
 of him who endured the cross and de- 
 spised the shame, for the salvation of the 
 world. "Shall not a good man, then," 
 I may be asked, "have respect to the 
 recompense of reward," even as Moses 
 is said to have had respect unto it.-* He 
 shall, indeed. But what is that recom- 
 pense ? It is not mere escape from 
 hell. It is not heaven even, as a place 
 of refuge or security. It is not mere 
 happiness, — no, not infinite and ever- 
 lasting happiness alone. A higher 
 thought than this enters into that rec- 
 ompense of reward. It is the right, 
 that a noble mind seeks ; it is the true, 
 the just, the holy and pure ; it is disin- 
 terestedness ; it is sanctity; it is some- 
 thing far better than happiness. " Oh ! 
 heaven," I hear some one sigh. " I wish 
 1 could be liappy : I think / should be 
 content with iliat.'''' Would you be con- 
 tent to be happy without any regard to 
 what made you so ? Alas ! then your 
 spirit is broken by the cares and sorrows 
 of life, or you have never risen to the 
 lofty range of virtue. Rectitude does 
 indeed confer the true happiness, but it 
 is not happiness that gives it its beauty 
 and grandeur. Happiness, compared 
 with rectitude, is but as a beggar at the 
 door of a prince. Virtue is the only 
 princely thing upon earth. 
 
 I have thus laid before you what I 
 understand to be the essential basis of 
 true rectitude. Other things may help 
 to build it up, circumstances, customs, 
 worships, motives of interest ; but this 
 is the foundation, — the love of the right 
 for its own sake. I may now be asked, — 
 of what use is this view of the subject 1 
 This question I shall attempt to answer 
 
 I say, then, that the point in hand 
 touches, first, the matter of happiness 
 itself ; secondly, the solution of the 
 grand problem of life; and thirdly, the 
 essential worth and dignity of virtue. 
 
SELF-RENUNCIATION. 
 
 719 
 
 First, the matter of happiness itself. 
 I have come to entertain the opinion, my 
 friends, that with reference to being 
 happy, we think too much of it, and too 
 little of being right and pure. We come 
 forward into life demanding happiness, 
 and portraying to ourselves many a fairy 
 scene, where it is to be enjoyed. There 
 is indeed a beau ideal of earthly felicity 
 in many minds, which I doubt whether 
 it is good for them. There is a worldly 
 dreaming about happiness, which can 
 never be realized. Many are expecting 
 from every quarter, — from friendship, 
 from domestic life, from property, from 
 honor, a more unalloyed good than they 
 will ever receive. Their disappointment 
 in life is proportioned to their expec- 
 tations ; and this world is shaded and 
 saddened to their vision, because they 
 did not see it as what it is, and perhaps 
 inevitably is, — a system of moral devel- 
 opment, necessarily attended with much, 
 very much trial. At any rate, I do not 
 see it to be the design of the divine 
 Providence, so much to make us imme- 
 diately happy, as to train us, through 
 suffering often, for a diviner good. I 
 see that mere enjoyment, in the divine 
 plan, is often sacrificed to thit higher 
 end. I see, moreover, that this higher 
 thing, this immortal good within me, is 
 the only thing upon which I can lay any 
 sure grasp and make certain. Now I 
 say, if each of us could thus look upon 
 life ; if we could see that all things on 
 earth but virtue were made and meant 
 to hang loosely upon us, and to flutter 
 about us in every breeze ; that pleasures, 
 fortunes, honors, ay, empires, t'nrones, 
 swing round this all-comprehending, 
 central good ; that as the poor student, 
 when he looks upon iiis plain apparel or 
 scanty fare, says, '-It is no matter, so 
 long as I get learning," so if we could 
 say of the greater learning. "Let me be 
 poor or neglected, it is no matter so long 
 as I get wisdom, truth, purity ; " I be- 
 lieve we should not only be better for 
 this view of things, but happier too. 
 This philosophy of life is grounded in 
 our very nature ; in the essential differ- 
 
 ence between substance and show, be- 
 tween the mortal and immortal. It is 
 but the great Christian paradox, that 
 when we are humblest, we are most ex- 
 alted ; that when we lose our life for 
 virtue, we gain a nobler life; that when 
 we think most for others, we do the 
 most for ourselves ; that when we are 
 the most bound to duty, our mind is 
 freest for enjoyment. 
 
 And this state of mind, I now say in 
 the second place, furnishes the true, 
 practical solution of the greatest prob- 
 lem in human life, — the problem of 
 evil. If we are always thinking of hap- 
 piness, as the first and main thing ; if 
 we are always asking that, and that 
 alone, and that every instant, I see not 
 how we are to get along with the trials 
 and questionings of our minds in the 
 constant experience of life. It requires 
 a hardier reasoner to meet this great 
 life-argument. It requires one who can 
 see the grandeur of sanctity, the sover- 
 eignty of virtue, — can see that it sits 
 as king, and everything should bow to 
 it, ay, and everything be sacrificed for 
 loyalty to it. It requires one who can 
 say, when unlawful resources are offered 
 even to the lawful passions, "It is writ- 
 ten that man shall not live by bread 
 alone, but by every word of God ; " 
 who when all the kingdoms of this 
 world are spread before him, to seduce 
 him from his allegiance to Heaven, can 
 say, " Get thee behind me, Satan ; for 
 it is written, thou shalt worship the 
 Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou 
 serve." Yes, it requires a vision like 
 that of Jesus, to look through the other- 
 wise dark mystery of life. It tincst be 
 a dark mystery forever, to sensuality, 
 to the love of ease, to the mere love of 
 happiness. But to the high and sacred 
 intent of virtue, it is not a mystery, 
 though there be things that are myste- 
 rious in it ; yet in its main purpose and 
 character, life is not a mystery. It is a 
 salvation to be wrought out ; it is a bat- 
 tle to be won ; it is a crown of glory, 
 to be wrested from the grasp of diffi- 
 culty and from the edge of peril, and to 
 
720 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 be brightened, if need be, in the fires 
 of martyrdom. Life itself, according, to 
 the Christian teaching, is not to be held 
 dear in comparison with virtue ; and 
 surely not, therefore, the ease and pleas- 
 ure of life. The world, according to 
 that teaching, is the field of a great 
 and solemn conflict ; light and darkness 
 struggle together upon this field ; storm 
 and shadow and sunlight hurry over it 
 in quick succession ; blows and wounds 
 and deaths fall on every side ; and the 
 battle-cry here must not be, " Ease ! 
 ease ! — happiness ! happiness ! " — but, 
 " Courage ! virtue ! victory ! " This is 
 the cry that must animate, this the prin- 
 ciple that must sustain us. 
 
 Let me now proceed to speak, lastly, 
 of the dignity of this principle, and of 
 the place which this consideration of 
 it has in our life, both private and 
 national. 
 
 In a world whose action, if not whose 
 sentiment, is so much circumscribed by 
 the pursuits of gain and pleasure, it is of 
 no small importance to press this con- 
 sideration of the dignity of virtue. There 
 is a sentiment, even in a worldly life, 
 that goes beyond the visible scene, and 
 I acknowledge it ; but the action is too 
 apt to engross and narrow and degrade 
 us. We are liable to fall into a low 
 and mean way of thinking in all our 
 pursuits ; as if the pence-table and the 
 counter and the warehouse, or as if 
 office or dclat, or as if to take our 
 place in the social sphere, were not 
 merely the means to something, but 
 were the very end of life. 
 
 Therefore it is, that upon the peace- 
 ful scene of prosperity and luxury often 
 breaks the thunder of calamity. So it 
 has ever been in the providence of God, 
 whether dealing with the life of men 
 or of nations. Amidst the wrecks of 
 friendship, fame, and fortune ^e are 
 taught that enjoyment is not the chief 
 end of life ; that tliere is something 
 better than to sit down in quiescence 
 and security ; that fortitude is dearer 
 gain than fortune ; that heroism is no- 
 bler than honor ; and that friendship 
 
 itself, the dearest of all earthly boons, 
 even that can be foregone, for the high 
 sanctity of principle. And therefore it 
 is, that even in the desolations of war 
 the optimist finds something to relieve 
 the dark picture. War, dread evil as 
 it is, and a most awful accumulation of 
 evils, is not the worst thing in the world. 
 There may be a state of peaceful and 
 prosperous life, of what is called civil- 
 ized life, that is worse than war. The 
 sword does not wound the interests of 
 humanity so deeply as the unscrupulous 
 selfishness and sensuality that cut all 
 the bonds of human society. And if 
 modern civilization cannot raise man- 
 kind above such degradation, there will 
 be war again and again. 
 
 Men think much and say much in 
 these days — and it is well thev should 
 — of the horrors of war ; the bare ru- 
 mor of its approach fills us with agita- 
 tion ; but there is a danger that comes 
 without herald or rumor. It steals 
 upon a people in low maxims, debas- 
 ing aims, corrupting pleasures. If we 
 do not keep high among us the stand- 
 ard of rectitude, the dignity of personal 
 character : if we let down our mark to 
 mere lucre, to mere success and mean 
 bargaining for it: if the old, the pris- 
 tine virtues become but shows and 
 shams, and only pleasures are real : if 
 money buys everything, and even offices 
 and honors are at auction, and the na- 
 tional character sinks in the boundless 
 scramble of private aim and public am- 
 bition, this very country may arrive at a 
 condition that is worse than war. Yes, 
 and from the darkest annals of war I 
 can draw better things to contemplate 
 than from the luxuries and indulgences 
 of boundless opulence, or the abuses of 
 vaunted freedorn. Better than the ener- 
 vated Sybarite or the unprincipled poli- 
 tician, were it to be Regulus ; better to 
 go back and die in Carthage, than to 
 live amidst the favors and flatteries of 
 Rome. Better to be the noble Arnold 
 von Winkelried, of the Swiss Under- 
 walden, who, when the fixed and ser- 
 ried lances of the Austrian army were 
 
SELF-RENUNCIATION. 
 
 721 
 
 before him at the battle of Sempach, 
 and there seemed no way to break 
 through them, turned to his people, 
 saying, " I will make a way for you ; 
 faithful, dear confederates, think of my 
 family ! " — then rushed upon the op- 
 posing phalanx, and took their lances 
 into his very bosom, and died to give 
 his people freedom. 
 
 This was the martyrdom of virtue-; 
 and better it is to die for the right than 
 to live for aught else. All beside, — soft 
 clothing ye may have, that makes the 
 body delicate and the nerves to shrink 
 from pain ; palace-roofs ye may raise, 
 and soft couches ye may spread be- 
 neath, and silken draperies may veil 
 your windows from the glare of day ; 
 no tent-curtains around you, flapping 
 in the night-wind ; no ragged walls of 
 ghastly catacombs, like those to which 
 the early Christians fled for refuge ; no 
 persecutor's sword, flashing through the 
 torch-lit gloom of noisome dungeons : 
 but, if, while luxury and splendor in- 
 crease, all high and stern principle, 
 social and political, shall die away, bet- 
 ter were it that the sword of a Decian 
 persecution or of a Gothic invasion 
 should strike in, and cut the bonds of 
 effeminate softness, and break the spell 
 of ever-complying sophistry and world- 
 liness. Oh, venerable to me, to all men, 
 venerable forever, are the dwellings, 
 where amidst peril and terror and the 
 inquisition for blood, where in dark- 
 ness and silence, men and women have 
 kneeled before the altars of Christ, and 
 have said, " Let us die, but let us not 
 deny thee. Denial — betrayal — no, 
 never ! Come rather the sacrifice of 
 blood ! " Holy names of Polycarp and 
 Servetus and Cranmer ! — where in our 
 daj-s of peace and prosperity shall such 
 names be found ? 
 
 But I must not leave it to be supposed 
 that the high and sacred adherence to 
 truth and right can find no place but in 
 scenes of war and persecution. Ever}'- 
 where and every day that great princi- 
 ple is demanded. Every man and thing 
 that approaches you may ask you to 
 
 swerve. Among "the pleasures of sin," 
 spoken of in the text, are the pleasures 
 of praise, popularity, and influence. To 
 these especially Moses stood superior 
 when he cast in his lot with a despised 
 people and a despised religion. If thou 
 wouldst imitate him, then stand up 
 openly and firmly for thy principle, be 
 it in religion, or politics, or social right. 
 If, when the occasion demands this, thou 
 dost, for the good opinion of men, or for 
 office, or for gain, hold back or conceal 
 or equivocate, thou art, before the altar 
 of God and conscience, a dishonored 
 man. If thou hast a feeling for human- 
 ity, for the sometimes despised multi- 
 tude, for the equal rights and interests 
 of all men, a feeling which all noble 
 spirits have, utter it: and let no brow of 
 pride or privilege, in this country or any 
 other country, awe thee down. In all 
 situations and places, amidst the gayeties 
 and hypocrisies of fashion, in thy draw- 
 ing-room when thou talkest with thine 
 acquaintance, speak, if thou speakest at 
 all, the thought that is in thee ; speak 
 what thou meanest ; let a noble and 
 fearless simplicity take the place of 
 heartless acquiescence and innuendo ; 
 keep thy naturalness and truth amidst 
 the miserable sophistries and affecta- 
 tions of society. For know that in these 
 scenes thou mayest as really swerve 
 from thine integrity as if thou hadst 
 stood before the image of Nebuchad- 
 nezzar or of Trajan, and forsworn thy 
 religion. Life is forever deceiving us 
 by the appearance of what is little and 
 trivial, when in reality the deepest prin- 
 ciples are involved. The idlest walk 
 you take, to-day or to-morrow, may be 
 tracked all over with the steps of moral 
 cowardice and base desertion of the 
 truth. Yes, as you walk through a gay 
 city-street or a village-street, you may 
 by flattering homages to some, or by 
 cold neglect or patronizing contempt to 
 others, utterly compromise all the lofti- 
 ness and dignity of your mind. In that 
 gallery of living pictures there is many 
 a one that presents the unlovely and 
 odious features of worldly pride and 
 
722 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 vanity; and I deem it not too solemn 
 to say that many a false word uttered 
 there shall be called into judgment. 
 
 To these few thoughts upon the dig- 
 nity, the nobleness of the holy and right 
 principle, let me add one further consid- 
 eration. In the bosom of the deepest 
 trouble that principle may live; and it 
 is the only sustaining and comforting 
 principle that can live there. Sur- 
 rounded, as we all are liable to be at 
 times, with the darkest cloud of fears 
 and anxieties and sorrows, is it not 
 something to know that the light of life, 
 the great stay and strength of our being, 
 may still be within us .-' It is my lot, not 
 very unfrequently, to meet with per- 
 sons, in their weary and sorrowing walk 
 through life, to whom this is all I can 
 say. I am obliged to say, " You cannot 
 be happy now, but strive to be right. 
 Joyousness is gone from you, I know, 
 l:)ut think of nobleness. Man has failed, 
 but think of God. Oh ! to be conse- 
 crate, patient, true, is still left to you. 
 Happiness you cannot have now ; but 
 you may have blessedness." 
 
 Is it not to this very condition that 
 the grandeur of Christ's example ad- 
 dresses itself ? The bright, immortal 
 seal of sanctity was to be set in the 
 dark mould of earthly calamity and 
 affliction. The beauty, the majesty of a 
 holy soul was to shine out, like a seraphic 
 countenance, from overshadowing griefs 
 and pains. He could have ascended a 
 throne, but he refused it. He might 
 have had twelve legions of angels to 
 help him ; but he did not ask for them. 
 The Father might have sent him rescue; 
 but no, — not for this did he come. No, 
 but to show, amidst sorrow and deser- 
 tion and rejection and crucifixion, and 
 all that men call defeat and ignominy, 
 the grandeur of a power and sacrifice, 
 to lift our poor, despairing and sin-bur- 
 dened humanity to cheering courage and 
 heavenly bliss. " Be of good cheer," he 
 says amidst it all ; " in the world ye 
 shall have tribulation : but be of good 
 cheer; I have overcome the world." 
 iHow remarkable is his language in this 
 
 respect ! How touchingly, how glori- 
 ously contrasted with the circumstances 
 of his life was the language of his spirit ! 
 Encompassed all round with trouble, he 
 says, — ay, to the disciples of sorrow and 
 persecution he says, — " Peace I leave 
 with you ; my peace I give unto you ; 
 not as the world giveth, give I unto 
 you." Amidst a life of want and wan- 
 dering, of denial and desertion, he says, 
 " Come unto me, all that labor and are 
 heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." 
 Amidst hunger and distress, poverty 
 and privation, he says, " I have food to 
 eat that ye know not of." Lord, ever- 
 more give us this bread ! In all time 
 of our trouble and affliction, in all time of 
 our want and weariness and wandering, 
 evermore give us this bread ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 ON PERFECTION. 
 
 Matt. v. 48: " Be ye therefore perfect, as j'our 
 F.ither in heaven is perfect." 
 
 The comparison here made, the stan- 
 dard set up, cannot fail, I suppose, to 
 suggest to every one the necessity of 
 sometimes receiving the words of Scrip- 
 ture, not in an absolute but in a qualified 
 sense. This language literally under- 
 stood would be chargeable with blas- 
 phemy. And if to be perfect as God 
 is perfect is impossible, so is any per- 
 fection that excludes all weakness, error, 
 and defect. 
 
 What, then, is the meaning of this 
 commandment? It is that we should 
 strive for the highest excellence that i% 
 possible to us. It is especially that we 
 should never, in any case, intentionally 
 or wilfully do what is wrong, nor ever 
 indulge any wrong feeling. And then as 
 to all the errors of inadvertence, haste, 
 and passion, which we cannot altogether 
 prevent, it is that we should resist and 
 check and remove them, as fast and as 
 far as we can. It is, in short, — and this 
 is the practical point that I propose 
 now to lay before you, — that we should 
 
PERFECTION. 
 
 72 ' 
 
 aim at the highest, and ever strive to 
 reach it. 
 
 There are, doubtless, many hindrances 
 to high attainment ; but it is still more 
 important to observe that there are 
 some obstacles even to a high aim, and 
 which arise particularly from that erro- 
 neous interpretation of the command- 
 ment to which I have adverted ; from 
 straining the interpretation up to a lofty 
 ideal point of demand, a point so lofty 
 that the practical aim cannot follow it. 
 Tiie Bible is supposed to require an im- 
 practicable perfection. The law of the 
 Old Testament and the requisition of 
 the New, so far as that element of law 
 enters into it, are conceived to demand 
 absolute, sinless perfection. But this is 
 impossible. Human infirmity does not 
 admit of it. It is as much out of our 
 reach as a flight with angel wings up to 
 the visible heavens. Now the obvious 
 effect of demanding literally such an 
 ascension from any man as his duty, 
 would be that he would do nothing at 
 all. 
 
 And I say that such an interpretation 
 of the commandment is wrong. All 
 language is to be explained by the sub- 
 ject and the circumstances. Literally, 
 man cannot be perfect as God is perfect ; 
 nor absolutely perfect in any way. Why, 
 then, is it supposed to be demanded of 
 him ? Because, it is said, an infinitely 
 holy God could demand no less. But 
 \s\\-\\ good can it do to demand of men 
 an impossible perfection ? And the an- 
 swer is ; it is meant to humble them, 
 and to show them the greatness of their 
 sins. 
 
 But it is not easy to see how the con- 
 sequence follows in either case. The 
 potency of certain customary forms of 
 e.xpression is a very curious subject for 
 the philosopher to investigate. That an 
 infinitely holy Being, for instance, must 
 require perfect holiness of his creatures; 
 we might as well say that an infinitely 
 powerful Being must require perfect 
 strength of his creatures, or that an in- 
 finitely wise Being must require perfect 
 wisdom, or that an infinitely intelligent 
 
 Being must require perfect intelligence 
 of his creatures. And then, again, how 
 it is that failing of an impracticable, 
 impossible holiness should humble any 
 one, it must require a very strange kind 
 of reasoning to show ; so strange, indeed, 
 that I do not believe any man ever ivas 
 truly humbled by it. No real, none but 
 a factitious, humility ever was produced 
 in this way. 
 
 And now, in fine, if you add to this 
 popular construction of the command- 
 ment, as a mere ideal standard, the 
 notion that men, in seeking their salva- 
 tion, are to turn away from the bright 
 and terrible law of purity, to the arms 
 of a pitying, all-embracing mere)', it 
 would be difiicult, I think, to conceive 
 of any system of interpretation more 
 completely fitted to neutralize the whole 
 moral force of the Bible. A command- 
 ment, impracticable, and therefore not 
 winning, not encouraging, not inspiring 
 any effort after excellence, but only 
 fitted to crush men down to despair 
 and an imaginary humiliation : a mercy 
 coming to their rescue from the hostile 
 precept ; not a co-ordinate power with 
 the law, but a protector from the law ; 
 saying to the sinner, " You may fall 
 quite short of the high Bible rule ; it is 
 not to be expected that you will comply 
 with it ; that is not the law of salvation, 
 but of condemnation ; ignore, repudiate, 
 pass by the strict and intolerable law, 
 and cast yourself simply, solely, uncon- 
 ditionally upon the merit purchased for 
 you, and all will be well," — this looks, 
 I say, like a purposed and planned com- 
 bination, though I know it is not so 
 intended, to relax and let down the 
 whole moral authority of the Scrip- 
 tures. Much is said against the doc- 
 trine of the perfectionists ; but in truth 
 I must say that it seems to me better 
 and safer than this. I know it is said 
 that where this interpretation has pre- 
 vailed, nations and societies have been 
 singularly virtuous. That the negative, 
 ascetic, and merely strict virtues have 
 flourished under such a system, I do not 
 deny. Mr. Layard tells us that the devil- 
 
724 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 worshippers of Armenia are very virtu- 
 ous ; but that this is true of the high, 
 heroical, and generous virtues I do not 
 see, nor beheve. Nay, I have some 
 doubt whether in any emergency of 
 peril or suffering, in a shipwreclc or a 
 battle, as large an amount of generous 
 and courageous self-sacrifice would 
 be found under this Antinomian, this 
 Calvinistic culture, as under the prompt- 
 ings of ordinary and honorable senti- 
 ment. 
 
 At any rate, I do regard this matter of 
 which I have been speaking, as one 
 of very serious application to the state 
 of our modern, Christian society. If 
 we look up to the highest purity which 
 Jesus demands as something attainable, 
 as something which we are bound to 
 strive after, and in fact to reach, then 
 we stand in a relation with it of en- 
 couragement, of hope and earnest effort, 
 and of real humility for our failure. 
 But if, on the contrary, the thing is too 
 high for human reach, then it ceases 
 to be a rule for us, we are content to 
 sink far below it ; with an ironical allu- 
 sion, perhaps, to the high, impracticable 
 Christianity, we say that we are poor 
 sinners who have no thought of being 
 so good ; the stings of self-reproach 
 are exchanged for a certain idle trifling, 
 both about sin and holiness ; and all 
 the active moral forces that should be 
 striving in the bosom of a Christian 
 people are struck with sad inefficiency 
 or fatal paralysis. Now I seriously 
 think, and must venture to say, that this 
 is too much the state of all our religious 
 communities. Is it not a natural con- 
 sequence of the reasoning ? What if 
 in a school of learning the high scho- 
 lastic measure of attainment were re- 
 garded by the pupils as a mere ideal 
 of excellence, laid down only to be 
 looked at, not to be reached, — only 
 as a mere mockery of their powers of 
 acquisition ? What if the rule were, 
 that they should master geometry in 
 three days, and Greek in a fortnight ? 
 Would they strive for it ? Would they 
 not sink into utter despondency or easy 
 
 indifference ? The Christian school, 
 alas ! is full of easy, contented medi- 
 ocrity. There is far too little in it of 
 high, heroical, self-denying effort after 
 excellence. It is rare to see any mind 
 touched, inspired, with that great pas- 
 sion after goodness and purity, and the 
 fixed will to obtain it. Many men, 
 most men, I fear, are living on at ease, 
 year after year, without one vigorous 
 step of improvement. That which 
 would not for a moment content the 
 student, the seeker of fortune or fame, 
 the lawyer, the physician, the politician, 
 the soldier, contents many a man who 
 calls himself a Christian. What con- 
 tents him .'' Even to stand still ; to 
 advance to no higher grade ; to have 
 no more love and purity in his heart 
 at the end of the year, no more com- 
 mand of his passions, of his worldli- 
 ness, anger, or sensuality, than he had 
 at the beginning of the year. 
 
 But I trust that all this is seen to be 
 wrong, and that the way is opened, by 
 what has been said, to enforce the pre- 
 cept of the text, — " Be ye perfect." As 
 an apostle exhorts, '* Whatsoever things 
 are true, whatsoever things are honest, 
 whatsoever things are just, whatsoever 
 things are pure, whatsoever things are 
 lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
 report, if there be any virtue, and if 
 there be any praise, think on these 
 things." Let us, then, think on these 
 things. 
 
 1. And, in the first place, I say that 
 the perfection proposed to us is both 
 attainable and indispensable. That 
 which we are commanded to do, we 
 can do. What we are required to be, 
 that we can be. And that we must 
 be. That we must be, to be saved. 
 Salvation, — when shall we get rid of 
 our miserable, technical ideas of it ? — 
 salvation is purity of heart and life. 
 That is the single discrimination that 
 cuts off all this evasion, shuffling, and 
 laxity of principle. There is mercy, 
 as we believe, but no mercy that 
 relaxes the bond of commandment. 
 Only so good and holy as we are, only 
 
PERFECTION. 
 
 725 
 
 so happy shall we be, in this world or 
 in any other world. Mercy encourages, 
 helps us to be this, does not dispense 
 with it. Nor do I believe that one iota 
 of goodness or holiness will ever be 
 ours, but by our voluntary embracing 
 and cherishing of it. Death will not 
 break this great and eternal bond. 
 Happy as we are holy : holy as we 
 voluntarily become so, — this, I believe, 
 is the law for this world and for every 
 world. 
 
 II. But, it will be said, we cannot 
 be holy to the extent required, in a 
 moment or with a step : that impossi- 
 bility in the case, at least, is undeniable. 
 True ; but we can set ourselves about 
 it. We can do more than we do. We 
 can be better than we are. The power 
 to improve, — who really and sincerely 
 denies it ? What mean all command, 
 exhortation, remonstrance, reproach, 
 but this ? Neither does the true doc- 
 trine of the divine aid hinder the infer- 
 ence. God helps us ; in our conscience, 
 in the very sense of what is divine and 
 pure, and in every way needful to us, 
 as I believe ; but all this leaves the 
 power to improve untouched and un- 
 questionable. 
 
 Let us carry, this a moment into 
 detail. A man believes in God. And 
 to the Infinite Goodness he feels that 
 he ought to be grateful, and towards 
 the Infinite Love, that he should be 
 inspired with a reverent and devout 
 affection. But these affections he does 
 not feel as he ought, — as he would. 
 Then I say he can cultivate them. He 
 can think of the Infinite Goodness. 
 He can pray. He can call to mind, in 
 the morning, the Alinighty power by 
 which he lives, and from time to time, 
 during the day, the sacred presence in 
 which he lives ; and he can associate 
 with these all the beauty of nature and 
 the blessedness of life. To do all this, 
 is an act of simple volition ; and if he 
 will sincerely and steadfastly seek to 
 live in the Great Presence, he can, he 
 will ; he will become a devout man ; 
 and he will live a diviner and more 
 
 blessed life than if all the worlds on 
 high were his possessions. 
 
 Again, every man has some faults that 
 are peculiarly his own. He is ambitious, 
 covetous of fame or wealth, or envious 
 or discontented ; or he is impatient, hasty, 
 and given to bursts of anger ; or he is 
 liable to tell untruths, a cowardly pre- 
 varicator ; or he is prone to indulge his 
 senses and appetites too far. Or he 
 may be guilty of all these ; for, alas ! 
 evil passions easily consort together, 
 and dwell often in the same bosom. 
 And most men are mainly content to re- 
 main as they are, and are more ready to 
 cloak or to defend their faults, than to 
 extirpate them. They have never heard 
 the command, "Be ye perfect." They 
 have never seen that the command 
 really applies to them. They have never 
 felt the inspiring call to rise to the high- 
 est virtue and purity that they can. But 
 I say, if a man feels the impulse and the 
 desire to rise, he can rise. He can cor- 
 rect his faults. The common plea con- 
 cerning his failures, that "he can't help 
 it," is not true. He can help it. He can 
 help it, just as the student can help 
 being an ignorant and idle scholar. I 
 say, he can help it. He does not know, 
 he can hardly conceive what he may do, 
 if he will try. He can begin right. In- 
 stead of defending his ambition or anger 
 or untruth or sensuality, he can honestly 
 and manfully say, " It is wrong." He 
 can repent, and resolve to amend. He 
 can think, every night, wherein he has 
 failed or erred. He can bring that 
 humbling thought into his morning 
 prayer. I have heard a man plead that 
 he does not know Jioiv to pray, when 
 that duty is urged upon him. But let 
 him think deeply of his own heart and 
 life, and he will know how to pray, and 
 he will not know how to help it. Let 
 him every morning, I say, in the con- 
 sciousness of yesterday's errors, pray to 
 God that he may that day learn to com- 
 mand his passions, to control his ten- 
 dencies to evil, " to lay aside the sins 
 that most easily beset him ; " and that 
 in all things he may be more wise, calm, 
 
726 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 gentle, true, and pure. And not as if his 
 morning's prayer finished his day's re- 
 ligion ; but let him strive to do and to be 
 ail this. And, not leaving all defence- 
 less and neglected, like a careless idler 
 in the great work of life, let him set 
 guards around him, and charge his heart 
 to be faithful and true. Let him but 
 look upon his life's true work, as the 
 student upon his science or the merchant 
 upon his gains ; as if additions and suc- 
 cessive steps belonged to it, and it were 
 nothing without them ; or, like the noble 
 Roman of old, let him count the day in 
 which no good deed is done, no advance 
 made, as a day lost. Let every day of 
 the year be such, and wliat results might 
 it not witness ! Three hundred and sixty- 
 five days, each and every one, — each 
 and every one consecrated to self-knowl- 
 edge and progress, — what might they 
 not do ? Three hundred and sixty-five 
 days ! ay, count them and consider 
 them ; and say, what might they not 
 do ? Ah ! what years were these to 
 put into the record of life ! But now, 
 alas ! with too many of us, the sun rises 
 and sets upon our sloth ; and the year 
 opens and closes upon our idleness and 
 inaction ! 
 
 in. But we can advance, — this is 
 what I have been saying, — and now I 
 add, that we can rise high. 
 
 We hear much of human weakness. 
 It is the perpetual theme of the pulpit. 
 It is men's constant apology for their 
 negligence, nay, and for their faults, I 
 am afraid, and even for their vices. We 
 hear much of human weakness. I wish 
 we could hear something of human 
 strength. We hear much of what man 
 can't do ; I wish we might hear some- 
 thing of what he can do. I wish we 
 could understand and beHeve something 
 of the power that God has given us to 
 overcome evil, and to rise to " glory and 
 virtue." Yes, to "glory and virtue : " 
 fortothese,saith holy Scripture, God has 
 called us. Nor let the suggestion, that 
 we can do nothing \v\TiiO\JT God, break 
 the force of the exhortation. It was 
 never meant to lessen our exertion nor 
 
 to derogate from our own proper effi- 
 ciency. All human power — reason, 
 conscience, will — is given and ever 
 sustained by God ; and His spirit, the 
 breath divine in our souls, may help us in 
 ways that we do not understand. Let 
 all this be humbly and gratefully admitted. 
 All the reservation that I make, is for 
 that free Jise of the God-given power, 
 which is and must be our own. And it 
 is the amount of this reservation, it is 
 the strength that lies thete, that needs 
 a new consideration among us : for our 
 attention has been turned all the other 
 way. Yes, the strength that lies there, 
 in the human will and effort, — let it not 
 offend you if I say, that it is the strong- 
 hold of human hope. For what is the 
 ground of our fear concerning any man ; 
 of our fear that he will not be a Chris- 
 tian ; that he will not come out well ; 
 that he will fail in the great life-trial ? It 
 is not that God's power and mercy will 
 fail to him, but that he will fail to him- 
 self. It is personal neglect alone that 
 will ruin any man ; it is personal fidelity 
 only that can save him. 
 
 And that fidelity, the strength that 
 lies in single-hearted resolve, — what may 
 it not do ? What else has carried men 
 to the loftiest heights of virtue ? What 
 is it that distinguishes the noblest 
 Christian man from him that is so weak 
 and wavering that he scarce deserves 
 the name of Christian ? What but re- 
 solving, striving, laboring, praying to be 
 good and pure ? 
 
 In the genera/ field of human life and 
 history, what is the striking fact that 
 draws our attention ? Human strength, 
 energy, activity. It tills all fields, and 
 ploughs the ocean wave. It builds man- 
 ufactories ; it opens highways over plains 
 and mountains and rivers. It achieves 
 wonders in art and science and literature. 
 It stirs in the bosom of nations, and 
 wields the power that rules over them. 
 This powerful energy, that is working 
 all over the world, — why does it not 
 enter into the field of our religious cul- 
 ture .'' Because, as one reason, because 
 the very guardians of that field stand 
 
PERFECTION. 
 
 7^7 
 
 before it and say to all human energy, 
 " You can do nothing here." What a 
 lamentable mistake ! This field is open 
 to all. All cannot be artists, or authors, 
 or statesmen. But all can be more 
 than what the world calls great : they 
 can be good ; yes, and in that they can 
 be great. 
 
 Not to dwell upon this matter ab- 
 stractly, let me give an instance or two, 
 of deeds more illustrative than any 
 words I can use. The name of Ober- 
 lin, the celebrated pastor of the Ban-de- 
 la-Roche in Alsace, is known to us all. 
 Oberlin's story is fame. But there was 
 a humble servant of Oberlin, of whom, 
 perhaps, we have not heard ; yet the 
 Continent of Europe at one time heard 
 of her; the Academy of the French In- 
 stitute decreed to her the prize annually 
 awarded to virtuous actions ; and the 
 celebrated Cuvier drew up the Report 
 of the Academy, giving a recital of her 
 virtues. Perhaps I cannot do better 
 than to read the statement he made, 
 in his own words. " A young female 
 peasant," he says, " of one of these 
 villages [i. e., of the Ban-de-la-Roche], 
 Louisa Schepler, hardly fifteen years of 
 age, was so struck with the virtues of 
 this man of God [Oberlin], that although 
 she enjoyed a small patrimony, she asked 
 leave to enter his service and to take 
 part in his charitable labors. From that 
 time, without receiving any salary, she 
 never left him. As his aid, his messen- 
 ger, she carried to every cottage all 
 kinds of consolation. Never was better 
 exemplified the influence of the heart in 
 enlarging the understanding. Drawn 
 by the heart to the holy pastor, she un- 
 derstood him, and often astonished him 
 with happy suggestions, and especially 
 with that of an infant-school, for the 
 children of the poor peasants. The 
 honor," says Baron Cuvier, " of an idea 
 which has already been so fruitful, and 
 which will soon be adopted everywhere, 
 is due to Louisa Schepler, — to this poor 
 peasant of Bellefosse. In old age she 
 still instructed these children, a hundred 
 
 in number ; but this, in which she had 
 assistant teachers, was only a part of 
 her sphere ; she was abroad among the 
 mountain cottages, encountering deep 
 snows, cold winds, and torrents swollen 
 with heavy rains : and when she re- 
 turned, fatigued, wet, and pierced with 
 cold, to Oberlin's home, her affectionate 
 attention was still extended to all around 
 her." " What care and watching," says 
 one, " when Oberlin or any member of 
 the family was sick ! " "I know not," 
 says Baron Cuvier, " whether Louisa 
 Schepler is acquainted with the action 
 of the Academy in decreeing to her this 
 token of its admiration ; but all who 
 know her, know the use to which she 
 will put it." And so it was ; she spent 
 the sum, five thousand francs, which 
 was presented to her by the Academy, 
 in those acts of charity and love to 
 which her life was devoted. 
 
 Let me take another instance from 
 the opposite sphere of life, — that of the 
 crowded and luxurious city, — to show 
 what he may do, who will. I think it 
 was about forty years ago that an aged 
 gentleman was living in the city of Lon- 
 don, in wealth and ease, derived from 
 the produce of his estates in the Island 
 of Barbadoes. Some facts came to his 
 knowledge that led him to suspect that 
 his slaves were cruelly treated. At the 
 age of eighty he left his luxurious home 
 and crossed the ocean to examine for 
 himself. He dwelt among his people 
 for ten years. He took a fatherly care 
 of them ; he improved their condition 
 and character; he prepared them for 
 freedom ; and, dying at the age of nine- 
 ty, he left them with a copyhold of his 
 estates. Well might the " Edinburgh Re- 
 view" say, " We take shame to ourselves 
 that, while we have been occupied with 
 the deeds of kings and conquerors, we 
 have never heard till now of the name 
 of Joshua Steele ! " 
 
 Yes, of heroes and hero-worship we 
 hear much. But there is a spiritual 
 heroism, little known ; that of the man 
 who resolves to conquer himself, — hard- 
 
728 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 est of all conquests. Impatience, envy, 
 rage, selfishness, eager for success or 
 sullen at defeat, passions of the flesh 
 and passions of the spirit, — these are 
 his enemies. In the silent depths of 
 the heart he fights his battle. Nor 
 trumpet nor clarion lifts its voice upon 
 the air to tell of his conflict or of his 
 victory. What he does and what he 
 suffers, no man knoweth. God only 
 knows. Not on one bloody day does 
 he fight, — at Waterloo or Yorktown,— 
 and win fame forever; but all through 
 his life does he wage the war, and 
 wins no fame. Not to lift himself to 
 lionor, but to forget himself, to still 
 the throbs of self-conscious disquiet 
 and all selfish passion, — • this is his 
 endeavor. In the midnight and in the 
 morning, in the throng and in the si- 
 lent hour, ever is it his holy care and 
 prayer to keep all right within him, to 
 keep all just and true, to keep all pure. 
 Loneliness and neglect and sorrow may 
 be upon his path, even as they were 
 upon the path of Christ, but still he 
 takes up the blessed cross and follows 
 the divine Master ; amidst foes without 
 and fightings within, amidst selfish pleas 
 for ease, and treacherous passions and 
 worldly allurements, he presses on 
 "towards the mark, — for the prize of 
 the high calling of God, in Christ 
 Jesus." 
 
 The world knoweth it not ; but there 
 is no such nobleness in the world as that. 
 And when the true man's work is done ; 
 when the last hour is spreading its sol- 
 emn shadow around, and the last con- 
 flict with mortal infirmity is passing, 
 then shall he say with the noble Apos- 
 tle, " I have fought a good fight, I have 
 finished my course, 1 have kept the faith ; 
 henceforth there is laid up for me a 
 crown of righteousness, which the Lord, 
 the righteous Judge, will give me in that 
 day : and not to me only," he adds, for 
 the encouragement of every humble dis- 
 ciple, — for the encouragement of every 
 one of as, — " and not to me only, but to 
 every one that loves his appearing." 
 
 XII. 
 
 HUMANITY, AND THE GOSPEL 
 DEMAND UPON IT. 
 
 Mark x. 17-21 : " And when he was gone forth 
 into the way, there came one running, and kneeled 
 to him, and asked him. Good Master, what shall 1 do 
 that I may inherit eternal hie ? And Jesus said unto 
 him, Thou knowest the commandments, Do nut 
 commit adultery. Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not 
 bear false witness, Defraud not, Honor thy father and 
 mother. And he answered and said to him, All these 
 have I observed from my youth. Then Jesus be- 
 holding him loved him, and said unto him. One 
 thing thou lackest." 
 
 Why did Jesus love him ? He was 
 not a disciple ; he was not a Christian ; 
 he was not a follower of the Master. 
 He was invited to be, but he refused. 
 And yet there was something lovely in 
 him. What was it ? According to the 
 prevailing views of religion, he was un- 
 regenerate ; i. e., a totally depraved be- 
 ing. He had only the virtues of our 
 common humanity, — such at least as 
 are often found in it, and especially in 
 its youth, — freedom from base vices, 
 integrity, honesty, obedience to parents. 
 What was it, then ? In short, what /laa/ 
 he, and what did he lack? 
 
 These are the questions which I pro- 
 pose to consider in this discourse ; in 
 other words, what humanity is in its 
 best natural affections, and what is the 
 Gospel demand upon it. And I say at 
 once, and at the outset, that I mean to 
 speak a wordy^r our hjimanity, for this 
 great brotherhood of men: while I shall 
 not fail, at the same time, to speak as 
 distinctly of what is required of it. And 
 I shall do the first, because I think that 
 all those views of our common human 
 kind, whedier found in theology or phi- 
 losophy, which brand it with shame and 
 dishonor, which represent men as a 
 poor, debased, and wretched race of 
 creatures, — that all such views are not 
 only wrong, but hurtful, making us less 
 kind, considerate, friendly, and affec- 
 tionate with one another. But when I 
 come to speak of the Gospel demand, 
 I shall say that it is great, it is high ; 
 the Gospel requires a step, clear, dis- 
 
 1 
 
HUMANITY AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 729 
 
 tinct, and momentous, beyond natural 
 and spontaneous sentiment ; but tlie de- 
 mand is made, not in any scorn of man, 
 not in any injustice to him, not in dero- 
 gation from any excellence or charm or 
 worth that belongs to him. 
 
 There is, then, a respect for humanity, 
 a sympathy with it, a tenderness, an 
 affection for it, — indicated, I conceive, 
 by our Saviour's treatment of the young 
 man, in the Gospel, — which have had 
 too little place in our pulpits. I say, in 
 our pulpits ; for the world will love what 
 is lovely, without asking leave of the 
 pulpit. It is in our religious teaching 
 that this recognition is wanting. It 
 avails not for us to have rejected certain 
 statements of human depravity. Doc- 
 trines spread their influence far beyond 
 the profession of them, and live in pub- 
 lic sentiment long after they have died 
 out of the creed ; and I firmly believe 
 that none of our pulpits do justice to the 
 kindly, tender, solemn, and stupendous 
 nature that God has given us ; that here 
 is a thing created, this human soul, this 
 humanity within us, which no creed, no 
 preaching, appreciates. 
 
 Humanity, I say ; and let us look at 
 it, for a few moments, and try to see it 
 as it is. Humanity, I say ; and if I had 
 space for so large a discussion, I would 
 fain look at it in its depths ; for I be- 
 lieve that there are depths in it, that 
 lie far down beneath sensation, beneath 
 selfishness, beneath all worldly passion ; 
 but let us look at it in its palpable and 
 unquestioned aspects, in what we all 
 know it to be. 
 
 Humanity, I repeat, — what a story is 
 there to tell of it ! What moving for- 
 tunes, what sacred emergencies, what 
 experiences never unveiled, what sorrow 
 and sacrifice, enter into a human life ! 
 Must we be harsh and hard with it, be- 
 cause we speak from the pulpit ? Look 
 at it, I say. Take any family history, — 
 from birth to death, from marriage to 
 burial, from fresh young life to venera- 
 ble old age, — dare we, in the name of 
 religion, smite it with desecrating scorn ? 
 
 Marriage, the central, primal bond, — 
 
 is it an unholy bond ? " To love and to 
 cherish till death us do part ; " are those 
 idle words, or words of low or evil im- 
 port 1 No ; God made that bond. Tell 
 me not of worldly convenience or inter- 
 est in the matter. These belong to cer- 
 tain (so-called) fashionable, exceptional 
 states or classes of society. It is not 
 the common ordinance of sacred wed- 
 lock. No ; a sense of duty, thoughts 
 of honor and fidelity, a plighted troth, a 
 bond from which death only shall take 
 the seal, — these things solemnize the 
 hour and foreshadow the future. 
 
 That future draws on ; those scenes 
 arise, and become realities. Children 
 are born. " Can a mother forget ? " 
 The daily care and nightly watch of all 
 her fresh and vigorous years — that love 
 of hers that never dies or declines — 
 testifies that she does not forget. Doth 
 the father not care ? He toils and la- 
 bors, he wears himself out in business 
 or study, with constant thought of that 
 sacred home. How often does a man 
 think, — "If I could get through this 
 business, by which I might make a pro- 
 vision for my family, I could die more 
 content. Should it be my fate to perish 
 on the wreck of car or ship on which 
 I travel to secure this object, my last 
 thought will be one of comfort that I 
 have made this provision." Is it not 
 something remarkable ? He is, in his 
 thought, leaving this world ; he is going 
 out into the spiritual realm ; his own 
 personal, immortal interest hes all be- 
 yond ; and yet do his thoughts hover 
 and cling about those he leaves on 
 earth. 
 
 But the inevitable hour draws on, that 
 is to close the mortal scene. Children 
 die. Of their guardian parents, one is 
 taken, and the other left. There is 
 mourning in the household. Who shall 
 dare to call it a base and selfish mourn- 
 ing? " Let us go and die with him ! " 
 is the cry of nature. And "the dead, 
 the loved, the lost," — they are not dead 
 to memory, to affection. We love them ; 
 we cherish them ; we build their mon- 
 uments ; we mind their wishes more 
 
730 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 than aught on earth. Is it not a sacred 
 and disinterested affection ? They can 
 do nothing for us now, or nothing but 
 aid our virtue. Yet we hnger about the 
 very shadow of their memory, as we 
 never do about any coffer of gold or 
 crown of honor. 
 
 But another scene arises. The fam- 
 ily is broken and scattered, — is "min- 
 ished and brought low ; " the young 
 have wandered into life, to build new 
 families ; some relicts, perhaps, linger 
 on into old age. Do the young treat 
 them with coldness and neglect ? If 
 anyone is so heartless and base, the in- 
 stance is rare ; and all human sentiment 
 and feeling unite to strike it with an 
 opprobrium scarce short of infamy. 
 But how rare, I repeat, is the instance ! 
 How has it been the usage of all gener- 
 ations, rude or civilized, as they come 
 up into the world, to watch with filial 
 care and piety around the steps of those 
 who are soon to part from it and pass 
 away ! And how often is a youth, ay, 
 a child of twelve or fourteen, made so- 
 ber and thoughtful and industrious, by 
 the need or illness of a venerated parent, 
 — of a mother, perhaps, left alone in the 
 world but for him ! He watches her 
 look ; he regards her lightest wish, but 
 above all, her greatest wish, — that he 
 be worthy of her, an honor to her and 
 himself. He will do nothing to wound 
 her. He will yield to no baseness, were 
 it only for her sake. He will live so, 
 that she shall be proud and glad in 
 him. He will buckle on the armor of 
 manhood, to shield that gentle and 
 venerated form. 
 
 But now, at length, the aged have all 
 passed away, and a new generation 
 stands upon the earth, filling the vacant 
 places. Look around upon it, and what 
 do you see .'' The base and the bad, the 
 mean, treacherous, and dishonest ? Yes, 
 they are there ; but are these all ? Evil 
 is there, — dishonesty, desertion of all 
 holy trusts, dishonor to households and 
 homes. But is that all that you see? 
 Nay, how do the sympathies of society 
 rush to the rescue ! How, by one man's 
 
 erring, are hundreds touched with sor- 
 row and pity ! Yes, bad men are there, 
 but good men too. Men of business 
 are there, to whom the cheat or the lie 
 is as much out of the question, is as im- 
 possible, as self-murder. Do they spend 
 their gains meanly, upon their vices, or 
 upon their pleasures alone ? No, they 
 support their families, provide for their 
 children, give to the poor, erect hosjji- 
 tals and asylums, endow colleges, build 
 churches. Do the pious alone build 
 churches .'' No, the world, the wicked 
 world, builds them, more than anybody 
 else does it. I am sure it is a very pa- 
 tient world, to bear as it does the load 
 of religious opprobrium that is laid upon 
 it. Rather, it is a very unbelieving 
 world. It does not believe in the justice 
 of this sacerdotal opprobrium. It does 
 not accept the character which ecclesi- 
 astics give it ; if it did, it would do noth- 
 ing for churches. 
 
 As I look around upon my fellow- 
 men, I cannot bear this desecration 
 which theology and cynic criticism heap 
 upon them. I am almost oppressed, 
 sometimes, with the -charm and beauty 
 of society. There are so many good 
 people in it ; not what the preacher calls 
 Christians, not half of them that so win 
 my regard. Go where I will. East or 
 West, North or South, there are so 
 many good people ; so many women, 
 nay, all, I had nearly said, of sacred 
 purity, with tearful eye and open hand, 
 to help the needy, the neglected and 
 suffering ; so many pure^hearted and 
 generous men, too modest to call them- 
 selves Christians. 
 
 Do you imagine that these good 
 people are found only in polished or in 
 civilized society ? Let me relate to you 
 an anecdote of what took place, a few 
 years ago, in the city of Batavia, on the 
 Island of Java ; my informant knew the 
 persons and the facts. A gentleman, 
 a European and stranger, was taken 
 ill of an epidemic fever that was raging 
 in that city ; he was lying helpless, and 
 certam to die if left in that condition. 
 A Malay man from the mountain, ay, a 
 
HUMANITY AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 731 
 
 heathen man, chanced to pass by and 
 saw him, and, like the good Samaritan, 
 had compassion on him ; he caused him 
 to be conveyed to his boat on the river ; 
 he took him up to his mountain-home ; 
 lie built for him a hut of the bamboo 
 c;uie ( it was done in a few hours) ; he 
 placed two aged women with him, to nurse 
 and take care of him : they watched by 
 liis couch till the fever left him ; and 
 when he rose from that couch, tended 
 by heathen strangers, and walked 
 abroad in the village, pale and trem- 
 bling, but with thejoy of returning health, 
 all the people, my informant said, testi- 
 fied the warmest sympathy with the be- 
 nevolent deed that had saved him, and 
 showed him tlie utmost kindness. And 
 these were heathens ; such heathens 
 as the Burmese, to one of whom Mission- 
 ary Judson said, — and I will not men- 
 tion him, without expressing my rever- 
 ence for his spirit of self-sacrifice ; fie 
 was a Christian, whatever his teachings 
 were, — to one of whom Dr. Judson 
 said, " Your acquaintance " (naming 
 him) " is dead ; his soul is lost, I think." 
 " Why so ? " was the reply. " He was 
 not a disciple of Christ." " And so all 
 who are not disciples of Christ are 
 lost ? " " Yes, all," said. Dr. Judson, 
 " whether Burmese or foreigners." " It 
 is hard," said the poor Burman, think- 
 ing, doubtless, of his countrymen, who 
 had never heard of Christ. Yes, it was 
 hard; far harder, I judge, than the 
 Gospel, which declares that "in every 
 nation, he that feareth God and worketh 
 righteousness shall be accepted of Him." 
 And such, doubtless, were some of the 
 Burmese and Malays, of the latter of 
 whom we have heard that they are 
 very treacherous and cruel ; but these 
 Malays were good people. And there 
 are good people everywhere. And there 
 is good, — amidst all the evil and the 
 wrong, — there is good in human nature. 
 I have been endeavoring to look at it 
 as it is ; to look upon men as they are, 
 as we know that they are ; and in 
 accordance, as I believe, with the spirit 
 of our Master, manifested towards the 
 
 young man in the Gospel, I love these 
 kindly and noble offices of life and 
 traits of humanity. I love my kind; 
 and I will make no meanly qualifying 
 apology for saying so, because I say it 
 in the pulpit. I love this precious hu- 
 manity, its tenderness, pity, and sorrow. 
 Is it not a strange thing to look at ? 
 Out of that festering mass of guilt and 
 sin, which humanity is represented to 
 be, come these kind, supporting arms 
 that tend the sick, that pillow the ach- 
 ing head, that bear offerings to the poor 
 and needy, — come these sweet and 
 winning smiles and gentle and loving 
 tones, and fragrant breathings of affec- 
 tion, that brighten the day and embalm 
 the air of the world, — come these 
 blessed ties of friendship and home, 
 that bind us in chains of holy thraldom. 
 And who are the great and recognized 
 expounders of what humanity is ? Is 
 it not a strange thing, again ? The 
 great world-expounders of what human- 
 ity is, are the men of a divine genius, 
 such as Plato, Cicero, Dante, Spenser, 
 Milton, Shakspeare. And what have 
 they said ? The train of historic biog- 
 raphy has passed before them, and they 
 have celebrated its beauty and grandeur. 
 With glowing admiration, with tears for 
 heroic suffering, with outpoured eulogy 
 upon the great and wise, in glorious 
 song or epic story, they have portrayed 
 truth, justice, gentleness, love, honor, 
 self-sacrifice, patriotism, philanthropy ; 
 and they have portrayed them as belong- 
 ing to humanity ; not as the self-elected 
 virtue that said, " I only am right," but 
 as human virtue. Were they right, or 
 were they wrong ? All the world has 
 pronounced that they were right. " Yes," 
 some one may say, '' the blind, profane 
 world, judging in its own case ! " Are 
 not " the elect " of theology, too, judges 
 in their own case ? Who are likely X.^ be 
 right, — the one thousand, say rather 
 the ten thousand of men, or the one ? 
 Which, I sa}^ is to be relied on, the 
 universal conscience, or the Calvinistic 
 dogma ? But now, does humanity say, 
 or do its great expounders say, that all 
 
71^ 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 in man is pure and good ; that there is 
 no baseness, selfishness, cruelty, im- 
 piety in him ? No ; but they say that 
 there is something pure and good in 
 man, something right, something to be 
 esteemed and loved, in his very nature. 
 And they appeal to him, by the very 
 consciousness of that right and good, 
 without which no rational appeal could 
 be made to him, to rise higher ; ay, to 
 be regenerated from all evil, and to rise 
 to all good. 
 
 And in all this they do not differ 
 from the great Teacher. Let us listen 
 to him. 
 
 A young man approaches him, and, 
 touched by the beauty of his teaching, 
 kneels at his feet, and says, " Good 
 Master, what shall I do that I may in- 
 herit eternal life ?" Jesus answers, "Thou 
 knowest the commandments," and briefly 
 reminds him of them. " All these," he 
 answers, " I have kept from my youth." 
 The Master does not say, — " No, you 
 have kept nothing ; you have done noth- 
 ing ; you are nothing but depravity and 
 guilt." On the contrary, he looks on him 
 with affection and tenderness. He looks 
 on him and loves him. He seems to 
 say, " So far is well ; but one thing thou 
 lackest ; go thy way, sell whatsoever 
 thou hast, and give to the poor; and 
 thou shalt have treasure in heaven; and 
 come, take up the cross and follow me." 
 That is, — translated into a general 
 principle applicable to all times and 
 circumstances, — cast off all hindrances ; 
 break away from every passion, habit, 
 indulgence that would hinder you, and 
 take the great, all-surrendering resolu- 
 tion to follow conscience and the right, 
 to obey God and his law, and so to be 
 my disciple. 
 
 This is momentous teaching ; and I 
 now come to consider, in the second 
 place, what it is that the Gospel de- 
 mands of humanity. This, I say, is 
 momentous teaching. It was so then ; 
 it is so now. There is a point in human 
 experience that is more important than 
 any other, — than any other that can be, 
 in time or in eternity. There is a point 
 
 that is more fundamental and final to 
 the character, more vital in its influence, 
 more decisive in its bearing on our fu- 
 ture destiny, than any other. There is 
 a point, without passing which, no man 
 can be satisfactorily happy; and which, 
 once irrevocably passed, sets the whole 
 course of a man's being towards all the 
 happiness, virtue, and glory for which 
 being is given. It is the point where 
 a man resolves to forsake everything 
 wrong. It is the hour and the era of 
 a fixed and unalterable decision to be a 
 good man, to be a righteous man, to be 
 more than in name, in very deed to be a 
 Christian ; to enthrone conscience in 
 the soul, to be the servant of a higher law 
 than will or appetite or selfish interest. 
 It is the hour when a man says, " I have 
 done wrong, but I will do so no more. 
 I will break off from every known sin. 
 I will do right ; come loss, come re- 
 proach, come death, come whatever 
 will ; this one thing, this only, will I 
 do." 
 
 This, my brethren, is repentance ; 
 this is conversion ; this is regenera- 
 tion. This is the momentous epoch 
 in human experience, passing through 
 which, a man is '"born again." For I 
 do not understand by regeneration, the 
 putting of something into the heart 
 which was in no sense or degree there 
 before ; conscience, the sense of right, 
 was there ; some feeble, wavering love 
 of the right was there ; some occasional 
 gratitude and prayer to God ; but now 
 all this begins to be established into 
 a principle, a habit, a law. There is a 
 full and solemn self-surrendering ; there 
 is a giving up, a selling and putting 
 away of everything that hinders. Just 
 and so far as this fixed resolve enters 
 into a man's life, does a settled char- 
 acter of goodness and piety begin to be 
 formed. 
 
 Let me add to this statement a word 
 of explanation. I am not laying down 
 I any formal rule. Experience varies. A 
 life maybe tending to good, without any 
 such marked epoch in it. It may come 
 gradually to that decisive point, to that 
 
HUMANITY AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 733 
 
 fixed resolve, of which I am speaking. 
 But unless it begins in that, or comes 
 to that, it is never the truly good and 
 Christian life. That is the only step 
 tliat surely leads to progress. And that 
 step can be taken. It is in the power of 
 every human soul to take it. 
 
 To sum up what I have been saying, 
 — God has given us a nature with ele- 
 ments of good in it. It is not a hateful, 
 detestable, — it is not a mean, misera- 
 ble, utterly per\-erted nature. There are 
 beautiful things in our humanity ; in 
 "wJiat work of God is there not beauty 
 and good ? There are involuntary sen- 
 timents and affections in every moral 
 nature that God has made, which are to 
 be admired and loved, — this is what I 
 have first insisted upon. 
 
 But now I say that something beyond 
 all this is required of us. All this is 
 given ; but something is to be gained. 
 All this is involuntary ; but something 
 is. of set purpose, to be done. The 
 strong and determined will is to be put 
 forth, the will to be right and true and 
 pure, the will to build up our souls to 
 the highest perfection of which we are 
 capable. Without this, it is in vain 
 that our nature is capable of being 
 good; it will come to no good. So is 
 the earth given us to work upon : so 
 with the soil, the shower, the sunshine 
 to help; but all will run to weeds and 
 waste, unless we put forth a resolute 
 and toiling hand to rear the goodly 
 fruits of patient culture. 
 
 This immense crisis in life, the first, 
 great, strong resolve, — I do not say 
 that it settles all, it is to be followed 
 by many another, — but, I repeat, this 
 solemn self-consecration is not duly 
 apprehended, I fear, by some among 
 us. because they have rejected the doc- 
 trine of technical conversion from na- 
 tive, helpless depravity, to imparted 
 holiness. But let them beware what 
 they reject. There is a work to be 
 done in life, to which nothing but the 
 mo.st earnest desire and fixed purpose, 
 with the lowliest prayers for heavenly, 
 help, are equal ; and if we understand 
 
 the striving and agony of this great life- 
 fight with error and passion, this will 
 come with a weight to our heart and 
 conscience, which no other doctrine of 
 conversion can ever bring to bear upon 
 us. 
 
 And now let me say upon this a word 
 or two more. And this is what I say. 
 The loftiness, the strength, the glory 
 of life lies in this decision for the 
 right. He who has not so vowed his 
 soul to inward truth and sanctity may 
 be an amiable person, in many ways ; 
 he may have good sentiments and kind 
 feelings ; and yet he may not be a good 
 man. How often do we see a man 
 falling under the cravings of sensual 
 passion, falling under the temptation 
 to dishonesty, who vet has many kind 
 feelings ! No, he is not a good man. 
 That old doctrine of Calvin has its 
 truth, — that amiableness is not holi- 
 ness. The very dog is amiable, — has 
 vivid affections towards his master. 
 The true man must rise above that, 
 must take his stand on a higher plane. 
 The resolve, and the decision to abide 
 by it, is what he wants. Without this 
 he is weak, and will not resist tempta- 
 tion. How should he, when he cannot 
 even determine to resist it ? Without 
 this, he is no true man. He has not 
 yet taken that grandest step in human 
 life, the step from sentiment to prin- 
 ciple, — the step, I repeat it, from sen- 
 timent to principle. No deep insight 
 into the truth of things, into the very 
 grounds and quahties of right and 
 wrong, will he have. No martyrdom 
 of sense and passion for truth and vir- 
 tue may be expected of hitn ; no sacri- 
 fice of pleasure, profit, reputation, every- 
 thing, for allegiance to God and duty. 
 The glory of life he has not yet at- 
 tained. 
 
 No, nor its truest joy. This, further, 
 is what I say. No, nor its truest joy. 
 There is a joy in good fortune ; there 
 is a far higher in the mind's gain of 
 knowledge or truth. But there is no 
 joy like the joy of resolved virtue. 
 Dally with sin, with temptation ; say 
 
734 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 concerning any wrong thing that allures 
 the mind or the senses, " I do not know 
 but I shall do it ; I may ; I will not de- 
 cide ; I do not know ; I will see ; " and I 
 tell you that God and your own nature 
 have made that to be an anxious, an 
 unhappy state of mind. Men talk of 
 '■ enjoying themselves ; " but you do not 
 enjoy yonrself then. Say, on the con- 
 trary, " I will not do the wrong thing 
 that tempts me ; I will not get, I will 
 not have, that gain or pleasure which 
 conscience forbids ; I will never do it ; " 
 and you are free, you are disenthralled ; 
 that resolve will give you unspeakable 
 joy. 
 
 The young man in the Gospel, who 
 could not resolve to follow Christ, 
 " went away sorrowful." How signifi- 
 cant is that ! " He went away sor- 
 rowful." He kept his wealth; he kept 
 his means of luxury and pleasure ; he 
 went away, it might seem to the world, 
 to a life of indulgence and enjoyment ; 
 but he went away sad at heart. Yet 
 so it ever is, when the higher nature is 
 touched. From all faint-hearted irreso- 
 lution, from all wavering or leaning to- 
 wards unlawful ends, from all bargaining 
 to sell his soul for advantage, shall every 
 man who knows what he is doing, go 
 away with misgiving and pain. He 
 does not like the thing he is going to 
 do. He likes the prize, but he does 
 not hke the cost to honor and con- 
 science ; that is ever a bitter drop at 
 bottom. Only the bad man, who is 
 blind, unreflecting, abandoned by better 
 thoughts, can be gay. He went away, 
 this young man, touched with nobler 
 ideas ; "he went away sorrowful." Oh ! 
 if he could have followed out the first 
 enthusiasm of his heart when he kneeled 
 before the Master, if he could have given 
 up all, have given up himself, and said, 
 " Yes, blessed Master, I will follow thee ; 
 I will be thy disciple," — what joy had 
 been his ! With what joy, like that 
 of apostles and martyrs, would he have 
 met toil, pain, persecution, and death ! 
 
 This great self-consecration, could 
 we make it, and never retract ; could it 
 
 be made here to-day ; would any one 
 make it for himself ; would we, as a 
 company of men, say together, as we 
 say some holy creed, " To-day we bind 
 and pledge ourselves to the right, — 
 here, by the very altar of our prayers, 
 we abjure and cast away every linger- 
 ing, every last compromise with self- 
 indulgence and sin, every false word, 
 every fraudulent act, every mean and 
 cruel revenge, every guilty cup, every 
 guilty commerce with man or woman, — 
 here we swear an oath to God, to fight 
 for the true and pure in ourselves so 
 long as we live," — no grander conse- 
 cration was there ever, whether of patri- 
 ots in the fastnesses of Switzerland, or 
 of Latimer and Ridley by the martyr- 
 fires of England. Great hour in our be- 
 ing ! blessed hour ! — none in our life 
 could be so momentous as this ; no day 
 the beginning of so many good days to 
 come, — no day of ours that would ever 
 shine on hke this into the days and 
 years and ages of Eternity ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 HUMANITY COMPARED WITH 
 HUMAN DISTINCTIONS. 
 
 Psalm cxix. 141 : " I am small and despised, yet 
 do not 1 forget thy precepts." 
 
 To be small and despised, or, what 
 many will think amounts to the sarfie 
 thing, to be disregarded, — to be held 
 in the great world as of no account, — 
 to be unknown in the world of society, 
 in the world of politics, in the world of 
 fashion, in the world of literature, — to 
 be nothing in the world, to be nobody, 
 — this is felt by the aspiring ambition 
 of many persons to be a hard condi- 
 tion. I wish to address myself to this 
 feeling, which, springing as it does out 
 of the very nature and condition of 
 humanity, is probably not uncommon. 
 It is that with which many persons 
 look upon what is above them, — upon 
 fame, upon happy and distinguished for- 
 
HUMANITY AND HUMAN DISTINCTIONS. 
 
 735 
 
 tunes, upon wealth, beauty, or <^clat, — 
 a feeling which says, " Well, and what 
 is there for us ? Who will show us any 
 good ? " 
 
 And it is not to be overlooked that 
 life opens a sphere for almost every 
 man's and woman's, nay, and child's 
 ambition. The prizes of social distinc- 
 tion are not all in camps, or courts, 
 or crowded conventions of men. They 
 are found in the humblest village-life 
 as well; so that ambitious aspirings 
 may find a place anywhere. But the 
 worldly thought, the scholar's or the 
 statesman's, often takes a wider range. 
 It wants, perhaps, a fame that touches 
 the horizon of the world ; and when it 
 sees that, — when it sees the tide of 
 human admiration rising and bearing 
 some great name over all the seas and 
 to the farthest continents, — when that 
 name is pronounced with honor in every 
 land and language, — nay, more, when 
 it is borne down through all the ages, 
 and is domesticated in all the dwellings 
 of the world, so that scarcely a civilized 
 human being exists but has heard of 
 Plato and Demosthenes, of Cassar and 
 Cicero, of Shakspeare and Milton, — 
 then it seems to our worldly eyes as if 
 nothing on earth could compare with 
 this, — it seems as if such persons were 
 insphered in more than mortal glory; 
 we almost lose sight of their humanity, 
 and can understand something of what 
 the old Pagan world did when it actu- 
 ally deified men. The admiration shows 
 the bias of our minds, though in such 
 a comparison we hardly think, perhaps, 
 of asking what there is for us. We do 
 not ask it in such case ; but when some 
 person stands by our side who by his 
 speeches or writings has made his name 
 known in all America, in all England, 
 or when some equipage passes before 
 us blazoned with wealth, and it bears 
 its possessor to a splendid and luxu- 
 rious home, and that abode receives, 
 night after night, throng upon throng of 
 gay society, or when some person's wit 
 or beauty is the theme of general com- 
 ment, and becomes a kind of shrine of 
 
 social pilgrimage, — then there be many 
 that say, '• What is there for us ? Who 
 will show us any good ? " The ques- 
 tion often arises at some grand suc- 
 cess, or sudden acquisition of fortune, 
 or when a splendid speech is made, or 
 perchance sermon, whose tones rever- 
 berate through the land, or some nota- 
 ble entertainment or fete is given and 
 reported with names and circumstances 
 (absurdly enough, to be sure) in the 
 newspapers. The sound of all this 
 goes abroad ; the echoes penetrate into 
 the noise of business or into the still 
 and quiet country ; and there is many 
 a one to say, " What, then, is there for 
 me ? I am, in comparison, small and 
 despised ; I live in utter obscurity ; I 
 am nothing to the world ; 1 perform 
 these daily tasks, I do this business, I 
 work in my shop, or 1 till these silent 
 fields, or I tend the house ; I am small 
 and humble in my vocation, my walk, 
 jny profession ; the world knows noth- 
 ing of 7ne. I shall sink into a grave, 
 at last, as undistinguished as my lot ; 
 coming generations will nevqr ask for 
 me ; they will never know that I have 
 lived. Ten thousand such lives as mine 
 seem not worth as much as that one 
 magnificent life which is lived there 
 upon the mount. And yet I am a man, 
 too, — and not so very inferior to him, 
 if the truth were known. Is it not 
 hard .? " 
 
 And I answer, yes, it is hard, if honor, 
 if fame, be the grandest boon for human- 
 ity, the highest gift of Heaven. If the 
 ambitious world's estimate is right, it is 
 hard. But let us see. 
 
 I will not depreciate the pleasure, the 
 enjoyment to be derived from a lawful, 
 from a high and well-earned distinction. 
 Suppose it to be freed from all selfish- 
 ness ; suppose it to be the delight of 
 ministering to the relief, the entertain- 
 ment, nay, the highest improvement, of 
 mankind ; suppose that genius feel it- 
 self to be, — there has been such on the 
 earth and there is now, — to be, I say, 
 an affluent fountain from which streams 
 of refreshment and blessing are flowing 
 
736 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 all over the world, and that this high- 
 est genius, or any humbler measure of 
 it, feels this not proudly, but humbly 
 and devoutly, and says, "1 am made 
 to be such, — God has made and en- 
 dowed me to be such, — and I am glad 
 and rejoice in this great and beneficent 
 power." It is a noble distinction ; it 
 is a creative, — it is a kind of godlike 
 power. But is this the highest thing 
 in the world, — to survey one's self? 
 This is the point to which I wished 
 to bring you. Now, what is the privi- 
 lege, the grandeur, of a rational and 
 rehgious nature ? Is it not to behold 
 and enjoy a universe of good, a uni- 
 verse of lovehness and of inspiring joy? 
 Is it not to see God, and to see His 
 glory and goodness in all creatures and 
 things ? But this is accorded to every 
 rational and reverent man, to every 
 being that has the nature of man. 
 
 What, now, compared with this, is 
 the pleasure of thinking one's self some 
 great one ? One's self may be the 
 shadow that hides the vision. But 
 suppose it does not : compare the two 
 things together. There is the satisfac- 
 tion, the honor of being praised, talked 
 of, celebrated. And here is the de- 
 light, the glory of contemplating, not 
 one's self, not one's own honor, but an 
 infinitude of light, loveliness, and per- 
 fection. What is the consciousness of 
 being admired, the pleasure of look- 
 ing upon one's self as distinguished, to 
 that open eye that takes in the whole 
 realm of beauty and glory ? What is 
 a mirror reflecting yourself, compared 
 with the telescope that gathers in its 
 sweep the infinite multitude of resplen- 
 dent worlds and systems ? Suns and 
 stars rise upon the boundless fields of 
 space ; cloud-spots on those infinite 
 fields are now seen to be bright uni- 
 verses of stars ; wonder and beauty fill 
 the enraptured gazer. Take now the 
 gazer from this magnificent contempla- 
 tion, and seat him before a glass reflect- 
 ing himself ; and let the flattering world 
 bring him twenty m.ore such, to multi- 
 ply his image and show him what a 
 
 great man he is : and what will he think 
 of exchanging his sky-exploring tele- 
 scope for this, — this paltry collection 
 of cracked looking-glasses, fit to be 
 sold at the corner of the street ? 
 
 I am comparing the joy and blessing 
 of being great with the pleasure of 
 being accounted so. A man may be 
 great, and hardly know it, or be hurl 
 by it. A man like Shakspeare, uncon- 
 scious of his great place in the world, 
 who heard little in his lifetime of the 
 acclaim of praise ; of whom it has been 
 strikingly said, that ''after having writ- 
 ten his forty dramas, that have filled 
 the world and the ages with his renown, 
 he went down into the country, and 
 lived and died as one unconscious of 
 having done anything extraordinary," 
 — such a man stands amidst his fel- 
 lows in the simple and common attitude 
 of a seer of all beauty, goodliness. and 
 glory. But just in proportion as a man 
 thinks of himself, and gloats over his 
 distinction, is it all in his way, a hin- 
 drance and marring to all his proper 
 happiness as a man. How, then, reads 
 he the book of life, the book of the 
 universe ? It is as if, every time he 
 took up a newspaper or journal, he 
 looked only to see if he were men- 
 tioned, if he were praised in it ; and 
 wit and wisdom, anecdote and argu- 
 ment and information, all were nothing 
 to him, compared with that one fact. 
 No, if I must be one or the other, I 
 had rather be the humblest admirer of 
 a truly great man, than the greatest of 
 self-admirers, though I think no self- 
 admirer ever was truly great. But even 
 if such a person may have some re- 
 markable gifts, yet how poor and low 
 is his taste, his happiness, compared 
 with that of the generous, self-forget- 
 ting, enthusiastic worshipper of all worth 
 and greatness ! The vision of selfish- 
 ness runs on a single narrow line, and 
 terminates in a little opaque object, self, 
 — self-aggrandizement. The true hu- 
 man sympathy, the noble generosity 
 befitting a man, is as an eye, to which 
 ' converge millions of bright beams, that 
 
HUMANITY AND HUMAN DISTINCTIONS. 
 
 737 
 
 irradiate and fill the orb of our being 
 with their splendor and beauty. 
 
 I must desire j'ou distinctly to ob- 
 serve that the comparison we are 
 making is not between the powers of 
 different men to see, to enjoy, to un- 
 derstand the all-surrounding revelation; 
 but it is between power and the eclat of 
 power, between power and reputation. 
 Double power is doubtless a double 
 advantage. But that is not what we 
 are speaking of now. That is not pre- 
 cisely what the world is looking at, 
 when it sees a man elevated to a post 
 of honor, or covered with distinction. 
 It does not say, " What a glorious man ! 
 what a breadth of mind he has, to em- 
 brace all the wonder and beauty of all 
 things ! what inspired perceptions of all 
 loveliness and grandeur ! what a great 
 idea of God ! " No, this is not the 
 object of worldly admiration. The 
 thing co7nplai7ied of by most men is 
 not that they want the power to enjoy 
 life, — books, men, things, the world, 
 the universe ; but that they are undis- 
 tinguished, unknown ; that their tal- 
 ents are not duly acknowledged and 
 honored. 
 
 And observe, too, that the being 
 known, that great ability itself, is by 
 no means a measure of capacity for 
 the highest good and happiness. Even 
 when it is evidence of mental strctigth^ 
 — and I suppose it usually is proof of 
 some kind and degree of mental su- 
 periority, — still it is apt to be very 
 different from that wide expansion of 
 intellectual culture and generous affec- 
 tion which takes in the largest amount 
 of good. To rise into notice, it is often 
 necessary that the forces of the mind 
 be compressed into a narrow channel ; 
 the culture is apt to be technical, 
 merely legal, medical, or political ; the 
 man knows these things, perhaps, and 
 knows hardly anything else: there is a 
 constant tendency in one direction, and 
 it is often attended with much struggle, 
 competition, and jealousy ; I have hardly 
 ever seen the ordinary great man who 
 did not think and make too much of 
 
 himself, and was not too opinionated 
 and impracticable, too inaccessible to 
 the views and arguments of others, and 
 too insensible to the value of every- 
 thing out of his own walk ; and I have 
 no doubt that many a person, man or 
 woman, sitting in the lowly vale of life, 
 modest, meditative, well-read, widely in- 
 structed, exquisitely attuned in spirit to 
 all things goodly and beautiful, lias a 
 mind and nature far more receptive of 
 good, with far more inlets to all the joy 
 and grandeur of life and of the world, 
 than many have who sit far above on 
 the world's heights. 
 
 But this is not the strong point in 
 the case, — the probable effect on the 
 mind of different careers and condi- 
 tions. And the comparison, as I have 
 just said, is 7iot between different de- 
 grees of power, i. e., of endowment or. 
 ability. If this were our subject, it 
 would require quite another line of 
 argument ; a line, indeed, which ulti- 
 mately would lead us to that principle 
 of submission appealed to by the Apos- 
 tle, when he says, " Shall the thing 
 formed say to him that formed it, Why 
 hast thou made me thus ? " But I do 
 not think we are driven to that ulti- 
 mate ground here. For the question 
 here is between the grand powers and 
 attributes of the universal humanity, 
 and the reputation- of possessing them 
 in an dnusual degree. And I say that 
 a rational and spiritual and admiring 
 and adoring nature is so vast a boon, 
 that it leaves mere eminence, mere 
 reputation, mere distinction, out of the 
 range of all comparison. 
 
 On this subject, however, I am per- 
 suaded that there is a great delusion 
 in the world; and the present age, 
 perhaps, is the very crisis of that delu- 
 sion. In dark, uncultivated, unreading 
 ages, distinction was not so widely ap- 
 preciated as it is now. It was itself 
 also limited to the conduct of war and 
 the headship of empires, states, baro- 
 nies ; it was inaccessible to the many. 
 The millions lived and toiled and died, 
 with no thought — not they / — of celeb- 
 
 47 
 
738 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 rity; glad if they could live, and escape 
 being trodden under foot by their mas- 
 ters. Now the field of competition is 
 wider ; it is parcelled out into many an 
 arena of action and aspiration ; it is 
 opened to the multitude ; and the rush 
 of ambition is eager, and the sense of 
 failure and defeat is keen and bitter. 
 At the same time, our actual culture is 
 low ; we have reached the point of 
 much reading, much knowing; we read 
 and know who is distinguished, who is 
 admired, who is feted, who is borne to 
 his grave with long procession ; every 
 circumstance we know ; it is printed, 
 is pictured before our eyes. All this 
 we have come to ; but we have not 
 yet arrived at the time of deep re- 
 flection, of meditative thought, of real 
 self-appreciation. We still worship the 
 old idols. The old images of grandeur 
 are still enshrined to us, and the old 
 lights are still flaring in our eyes. 
 And if our sight is not so reverent as 
 that of the former time, but is vexed 
 and smarting with critic irritation, it 
 only shows that the malady of ages is 
 not yet healed. 
 
 But a calmer and healthier time for 
 humanity, I believe, is coming, when it 
 shall be conscious of itself, not rela- 
 tively, but absolutely, conscious of the 
 boundless treasures embosomed in it- 
 self, richer than a thousand mines of 
 gold or a thousand crowns of Impire ; 
 when to admire and love the good and 
 noble, to adore God, and to behold the 
 glory of His works, shall be felt to be 
 the very treasure and crown of human 
 existence ; and when, though a man sits 
 in the humblest nook, yet if he may look 
 out upon a universe of light and beauty, 
 it shall be such a blessing and beatitude 
 that all other things will sink out of 
 sight and comparison. 
 
 What, then, more definitely and dis- 
 tinctly have we to say to the case of 
 disappointed ambition, or to one who, 
 considering the thing to be out of the 
 question for Jiim, never had much am- 
 bition : who either says, " I am small 
 and despised, — I am nothing in the 
 
 world's account," or says, "Who will 
 show me any good? — what, then, is 
 there for me ? " 
 
 This question, brethren, must we pa- 
 tiently meet, and set forth, in form, to 
 this complainer, the inventory of his 
 powers and privileges, and the bound- 
 less sum of blessings accorded to him ? 
 Must we not rather exclaim and wonder 
 at his blindness and ingratitude ? Here 
 is a being who is not shut up within the 
 narrow confine of animal instinct, but 
 whose very senses are windows that 
 open to a universe of divine beauty and 
 grandeur ; he is a being, with reason 
 and imagination and faculties divine ; 
 he has a home, and home delights ; 
 parent, child, brother, friend, all the 
 sanctities and beatitudes of a loving na- 
 ture, belong to him ; and if nothing else 
 were left, he can pray, and that act 
 would translate his soul into a new life 
 and transform the universe into a home. 
 All things are his, if he will enjoy them ; 
 and he would not exchange his eyesight 
 for a kingdom, nor his hearing for a 
 mine of gold. All things are his ; realms 
 of infinite life and light spread before 
 him ; sunsets and stars and heaven's 
 infinitude pour their magnificence around 
 him : and what does he say ? Is he not 
 glad? Is he not thankful? Is he not 
 happy? Is he not more than content? 
 Does he not wonder, in lowliness and 
 humihty, at God's infinite goodness to 
 him ? No ; he turns away, with a dis- 
 satisfied air, and says, " I am nothing ; 
 I am not admired and praised. If I 
 could see all this from a throne, if I 
 could enjoy it in a conspicuous station, 
 I should be content." Alas ! how are 
 men fooled out of their happiness, their 
 virtue, their life's good, by this vile, 
 worldly ambition! 
 
 What an endowment, my friends, what 
 a gift divine, is the power of simple ad- 
 miration ! It kindles the eye, it swells 
 ,the heart: it transfigures our very be- 
 ing; it translates us out of ourselves ; 
 it is, I am inclined to say, the largest 
 gift of joy that can be imparted to any 
 creature. Bring any weary, nay, dull 
 
HUMANITY AND HUMAN DISTINCTIONS. 
 
 739 
 
 and weary, traveller to some mountain- 
 top where a glorious landscape bursts 
 upon him, and he is repaid for all his 
 toils; he forgets all his fatigues. A 
 garden of flowers, a shady grove, a cot- 
 tage on the green bank, any beautiful 
 object of nature's or man's handiwork, 
 touches the sense of admiration and 
 fills us with delight ; and tlie world, the 
 universe, is full of such, — from the gar- 
 den flower to the blossoming cloud, 
 opening fold after fold in the warmth of 
 the summer sky ; from the butterfly's 
 wing to the cloud-wings, streaked with 
 golden fires of the angel of the setting 
 sun. Show me such things, and you 
 give me moments, hours, of gladness ; 
 and nature is ever showing them. Or 
 show me a beautiful picture, and it is 
 mine, for a possession and with a joy 
 far beyond what mere purchase or own- 
 ership can give. Or tell me of a noble 
 action, let me read the biography of 
 good men, let me see such around me, 
 excellent persons, excellent and true and 
 honorable, pure and good beings, eyes 
 that kindle with love and tenderness, 
 and the gems of a diadem are not so 
 bright and beautiful as these. Or open 
 to me the infinitude of all this glory and 
 loveliness in the One Infinite and Good 
 Being, and words are wanting, words 
 are vain, to speak of the blessing that is 
 accorded to me. 
 
 And you are such an one, — you to 
 whom I speak, — everyone to whom I 
 speak, the poorest and humblest, the 
 smallest and most despised in your own 
 account. You say that your chance in 
 life is small, that your path is humble, 
 \\-\dA you are no great one. And yet you 
 — what are you, and where and whence 
 have you come ? From the forming 
 hand of God, created from nothing ; 
 you, who lately had no being, have 
 come to the glad precincts of heaven's 
 light ; from nothing, you have stepped 
 upon the opening threshold of this mag- 
 nificent realm of existence. You say 
 that "you are no great one ; " but your 
 eye explores the depths of heaven ; your 
 ear drinks in the music of nature ; words 
 
 of love and kindness, words of God, 
 are spoken to you, and hymnings and 
 quirings, as of heavenly angels, sweep 
 around you through the glorious realm 
 of sound. You say that "you are no 
 great one ; " and yet you may talk with 
 Plato, you may converse with Fenelon 
 and Milton, you may commune with 
 Jesus Christ, you may, — let me say it 
 reverently, — you may commune with 
 God ! You say that " you are no great 
 one ; " and yet everlasting oceans of 
 being flow and spread before you and. 
 invite you onward. What if, of two lit- 
 tle children, one should say to the other, 
 '• You are handsome, and I am not, and 
 the people notice you : " what is it to 
 their future ? Beauty changes, faculties 
 expand, and life opens its grand sphere 
 to them, irrespective of those childish 
 distinctions. But that sphere, that life 
 rising into higher life, which is opening 
 to yoii^ is not mortal, but immortal. 
 
 Brethren, I am proposing no new doc- 
 trine, using no new argument. It is the 
 old teaching of the Apostles and Fathers 
 of the Church. "The poor of this world," 
 they said, are made "rich in faith and 
 heirs of an everlasting inheritance." 
 The lowly are lifted to glory and honor 
 and immortality. "Ye are Christ's poor," 
 they said; " ye are God's children." Yes, 
 it is the Christian word that has broken 
 the tremendous spell of that worldljness 
 which deified the few and desecrated 
 the many ; which set its favorites on 
 the splendid heights of honor, and 
 cast the shadow of death and forget- 
 fulness over the undistinguished mil- 
 lions. 
 
 This is Heathenism and not Chris- 
 tianity, let it appear where it will. It 
 is heathenism in Christianity, if it pre- 
 vails among us. Christ espoused the 
 cause of the universal humanity. He 
 spake of a secret joy in the soul which 
 is above all worldly joy. He taught us 
 that seeking to be great "is not the way 
 to be great. He plainly says, — he tliat 
 exalteth himself shall be humbled ; but 
 he that humbleth himself shall be 
 exalted. 
 
740 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 Shall not all lawful distinction, then, 
 be honored, — the headship of the state, 
 the crown of intellectual power, the pre- 
 cedence in art, and the wealth that is 
 justly gained ? Yes, and every particle 
 of true merit, of real talent, yet more 
 of simple goodness, in these spheres, 
 shall be duly prized; in them, surely, 
 as much as out of them. There is no 
 radicalism in this teaching : no insane 
 proposal to pull down that which is 
 above, simply because it is above. It 
 is well that it is conspicuous. And 
 if ruder ages exaggerated its impor- 
 tance, as children do their master's, 
 that was natural ; and that , too, was 
 well. But this I say : the distinction, 
 the mere eclat, is not worth the millionth 
 part of what we all possess. This 
 1 say, that the truly great man, great 
 in mind and heart, would not consent 
 to have his power' of thought or of love 
 let down one degree lower, to have 
 his honor carried a thousand degrees 
 higher. I take hold of that judgment, 
 and make it my own. I espouse it 
 in behalf of all mankind. I speak for 
 all mankind, when I say that, humble 
 as I am, compared with many, I have 
 that within me which I would not give 
 for a million times the fame of Plato 
 or Shakspeare. 
 
 I have thus attempted to reason with 
 a mistake, which is but too natural 
 indeed, which is the commonest of all 
 mistakes in the world, but which is 
 so pernicious and fatal to all human 
 peace and virtue, that, although the 
 course of my reflections may be un- 
 usual in the pulpit, yet nothing, no 
 topic of discourse, I think, could be 
 more practical. This diseased self- 
 consciousness, this sensitiveness about 
 ourselves, this want of the simple, self- 
 forgetting habit of enjoying all the good 
 of life as it comes, all the beauty of 
 nature, all the worth and happiness of 
 our kind, all the beneficence of God, 
 — this, I say, is the one essential, 
 intrinsic, and everlasting misery of hu- 
 man life. This is the misery of miser- 
 ies, a selfish heart. The only remedy, 
 
 — to that simple, sacred, grand love of 
 the Gospel of Jesus Christ, must we 
 come, — the only remedy is a loving 
 heart. I am not going to discourse 
 upon it further. I only say, — behold 
 the disease : and behold the cure. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THIS LIFE THE PROPHECY OF 
 A FUTURE. 
 
 I John iii. 2: "Beloved, now are we the sons of 
 God ; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be." 
 
 This language is of the nature of an 
 argument. A^ow are we the sons of 
 God ; we are endowed with faculties 
 and graces which entitle us to that 
 appellation ; what may we not liope to 
 be hereafter? A little while since we 
 woke to existence, in a state of almost 
 unconscious infancy ; a few years have 
 elapsed, and now we stretch out our 
 hands to infinitude, to eternity, to God. 
 If so much can be achieved in the 
 infancy of our being and in so short a 
 space of time, what may not be the 
 future of such a beginning ? " It doth 
 not yet appear," says the Apostle, in a 
 tone of sublime expectation, "what we 
 shall be." 
 
 The intimations, then, in our present 
 being of progress and development, — 
 this is the subject of my present dis- 
 course. This life, with all of possession 
 that it has, is yet more a prophecy. 
 There are many things in us that mark 
 an unfulfilled design, — hopes and fears, 
 thoughts unutterable, imaginations, 
 ideals never realized, that strike out 
 into realms beyond this world. 
 
 It is so even in the minds of children. 
 Thoughts come into their minds, — you 
 must have witnessed them, — things 
 that they say of themselves, things that 
 they say of God, which are wonderful, 
 and out of all proportion to every- 
 thing else in their present experience; 
 thoughts that have no present result 
 in their character. They come and 
 
LIFE A PROPHECY. 
 
 741 
 
 go, like flashes of light in a summer 
 cloud. 
 
 Especially there are cases, you are 
 aware of them, in which children of five 
 or six years surpass the profoundest 
 mathematicians, in the grasp and rapid- 
 ity of their calculations. It is a human 
 mind that does this. It is, in all other 
 respects, a child's mind. May it not 
 be because some bodily clogs upon 
 thought are removed ? Might not all 
 minds be such, if they were thus 
 freed ? 
 
 Nay, are there not, in fact, such pro- 
 phetic phenomena in all minds ? In 
 sleep, in dreams, when the bodily pow- 
 ers are suspended, it is now proved 
 that the scenes and thoughts of whole 
 waking hours pass through the mind 
 in a moment. A gunshot wakes the 
 sleeper, and while waking he passes 
 through the heady currents of a long 
 day's battle. And in the few moments' 
 suspended animation of partial drown- 
 ing, a whole lifetime comes under the 
 mind's review. To what may not the 
 dreaming and half -drowned soul awake, 
 when this dull vesture of decay drops 
 from it ? And every time we open our 
 eyes upon an extended landscape, in 
 the time of that momentary glance, we 
 make a hundred mental comparisons, — 
 distinct calculations, to ascertain and 
 fix the distance of every object. What 
 may not be the range of such a mind, 
 when the immortal fields are opened 
 to it ? 
 
 There are other conditions of the 
 mind that yield a still stronger argu- 
 ment. Argument, I say ; and yet some- 
 thing like intuition there seems to be, 
 that opens to us the unsealed heights 
 of some far and future career. The 
 whole of the mind's idealizing, if it is not 
 given to mock us, must be prophecy 
 of realities that are to take body and 
 form. Why should we be able to im- 
 agine something grander than we are 
 to be .'* Why should this faculty be 
 given, if it is but to disappoint and de- 
 fraud us ? 
 
 And we do imagine great things. We 
 
 call ourselves dull creatures : and there 
 is promise in i/tt's, too : it would be a poor 
 sign for us to be satisfied. But amidst 
 all our earthly dulness, what thoughts 
 from time to time visit us, what thoughts 
 sky-piercing and full of ecstasy, that 
 seem like the stirring and uplifting of 
 angel wings for some boundless flight. 
 They come to us unbidden ; it seems as 
 if they came out from some purer sphere, 
 these heavenly dreamings of life and 
 love and beauty. What do they mean ? 
 What are they, if they are not foregleams 
 of coming light ? And the earth is full 
 of things that so move us. 
 
 "It may be a sound, 
 A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring, 
 A flower — the wind — or ocean ' ' — 
 
 which thus strikes "the electric chain 
 wherewith we are darkly bound." 
 
 And who so dull, that sometimes a 
 strain of music, heard in the twilight, 
 heard in the night-time, does not trans- 
 figure and translate his whole being 
 jnto a new form, into a higher sphere, 
 and bear him to visions beyond mortal 
 sight, realms of fancy and regions of 
 heaven ? 
 
 And loftier things there are, strong- 
 hearted truth, heroic self-denial, all-sur- 
 rendering love, patient sorrow, heaven- 
 born faith ; are these destined to sink 
 back into themseh^es and die, bearing 
 nothing ? The flame of the martyr's 
 sacrifice, that shoots out into the dark- 
 ness of this world, does it not flash back 
 from the immortal heights, that stand 
 serene in the world beyond ? Yet more ; 
 the veneration and love that go out to 
 the Infinite Perfection. God has cre- 
 ated in us that aspiration ; how can it 
 be that it should ever be disappointed ? 
 How can it be that he should ever be 
 stricken down by the Almighty hand 
 from his highest hope, who humbly says, 
 " My Father ! Father all-merciful ! open 
 to me forever and forever the boundless 
 fulness of Thy perfection. Oh ! by all 
 that I am, by all that Thou hast made 
 dear to me, vouchsafe to me the fulfil- 
 ment of the one hope !" 
 
742 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 I do not know that I can say anything, 
 to beget in myself a stronger trust than 
 what I have now said. But if it seem 
 imaginary to any, if any one, discrediting 
 these aspirations, demands that we go 
 down to the lowest grounds of human 
 experience, if he talks of ignorance and 
 failure in this poor human nature, let us 
 see how these very failures are prophetic 
 failures ; how the very barriers tempt 
 us to overleap them. 
 
 First, failure of utterance. How much 
 in us is unexpressed ! How much in 
 us is never uttered, and never can be ! 
 How many feel that the thousandth 
 part of what they experience is never 
 unfolded ! It is the peculiar prerogative 
 of genius, to breathe out its soul into 
 speech, form, music ; but what man of 
 genius ever felt that he had yet unveiled 
 half the strength and beauty of his 
 thought ? The divinest things in us 
 refuse to take any form. The sub- 
 limest, brightest, holiest things never 
 are expressed; they are never uttered 
 in poetry or eloquence, never chiselled 
 into marble, never painted on the can- 
 vas, nor even breathed in music. The 
 treasures of the world's manifested gen- 
 ius are poor, compared with its hidden 
 wealth. But for 7?iost men, who neither 
 speak, nor write, nor paint, nor sing their 
 thoughts, I feel that I walk among them 
 as muffled figures, in which is a world 
 of thought and feeling wrapped from 
 the general eye in silence and seclusion. 
 Well, perhaps, that it is so ; for the free 
 unveiling of all hearts, I suppose, would 
 make life too keen and intense, — nay, 
 tragical. Walking one day with the 
 president of one of our colleges in the 
 country, amidst the youth under his 
 charge, I said to him, " Do we con- 
 sider, — do we know what these are, that 
 are around us, apparently so quiet and 
 decorous ? Do you remember your own 
 youth ? Can you penetrate, through 
 these outward forms, to the deep, pow- 
 erful, passionate life within, to those 
 thoughts in these young hearts, that 
 rush like the swift streams or sweep 
 like the mountain winds around us.-"' 
 
 "No," was his reply,"! dare not; it 
 would kill me to enter, with that inti- 
 mate sympathy, into each one's expe- 
 rience." Doubtless it was true. I sup- 
 pose that every playground, every social 
 circle, every public assembly, holds in 
 its bosom that, which if it broke loose 
 into expression, or if it were only depict- 
 ed in each countenance, would fill us 
 with astonishment, if notafTright. Then 
 should we know that life is more than 
 we see; that it doth not appear what we 
 a7-e. 
 
 Next, failure in development. The 
 undeveloped. I say, that which exists in 
 embryo, — what is all human wisdom and 
 accomplishment to that? A drop in 
 the bucket, the small dust of the balance. 
 Take the first man you meet, however 
 ignorant, uncultivated, bent to the earth 
 alike in body and mind. What is in 
 him ? Of what is he capable ? Of intelli- 
 gence, culture, refinement; he might be 
 a man of science, a geometer, a philoso- 
 pher ; perhaps the heights of art, elo- 
 quence, poetry, are not too lofty for his 
 powers. It doth not yet appear what 
 he may be. Alas ! society is working 
 poorly for his culture ; Vi'orking against 
 it in many ways. His very trade, his 
 farming or his handicraft, might instruct 
 him, if he were rightly trained. The 
 business of life was meant to develop 
 his powers ; but now he is buried in its 
 bosom. In some other state, in some 
 future world, in some fairer clime, 
 he may come oiit, into freedom, en- 
 largement, and magnificent growth. 
 It doth not yet appear what he shall 
 be. 
 
 Again, failure in conception. Not 
 only of the undeveloped, but of the un- 
 suspected, how much may there be, in 
 our humanity, and in the yet unfolded 
 worlds of its thought and imagination ! 
 The wisest, the most highly accomplished 
 man, perhaps, little knows, either what 
 is within him, or what he is capable of. 
 None of us suspect, it may be, not even 
 the most learned, what the range of our 
 knowledge may yet embrace. Human 
 science has a'ready outstripped all past 
 
LIFE A TROPHECY. 
 
 743 
 
 anticipation. Tlie wonderful discov- 
 eries in astronomy made within tlie last 
 quarter of a century, — what inconceiv- 
 able spaces in the depths of heaven 
 have they opened to our view ! What 
 is now the field of human thought? The 
 voj-ager, who has circumnavigated the 
 globe, seems to us to have passed over 
 an immense distance. But in one sec- 
 ond, while my pulse beats once, light 
 travels eight times as far. And now it 
 is ascertained that there are stars in our 
 system, so distant that their light re- 
 quires several thousands of years to come 
 to us. But take the lowest calculation, 
 one thousand years. Every minute it 
 has travelled twelve millions of miles, 
 every hour nearly a thousand millions ; 
 and it has been coming on, on, — hours, 
 days, years, centuries : ay, ten awful, 
 silent centuries have watched its infinite 
 flight. That ray of light — think of it ! 
 Before William the Conqueror came into 
 England, during the reign of Alfred, 
 that ray of light left its native sphere, 
 sunk how inconceivably far into the 
 boundless infinitude ! for a thousand 
 years it has travelled onward, twelve 
 millions of miles each minute, and to- 
 night it will arrive ; to-night it will enter 
 the astronomer's telescope! Oh! could 
 he identify, or would he in his thought, 
 single out that ray of light, — that trav- 
 eller through the bright infinitude of 
 spheres, with what awe would he look 
 upon it ! With what bursting exclama- 
 tions or silent astonishment would he 
 sink down overwhelmed with awe and 
 wonder ! 
 
 I remember one of my townsmen, 
 who many years ago had been to see the 
 falls of Niagara, and who, on his return, 
 was asked how he felt when looking at 
 the stupendous cataract. " A few years 
 ago," he replied, "two men were over- 
 taken in the forests of Pennsylvania by 
 a tornado. The trees to which they 
 clung were twisted off, a few feet above 
 their heads, and swept on, like feathers 
 upon the blast. When it had gone by, 
 one of the travellers found a voice to 
 say to his companion, ' How is it with 
 
 you.'' — how have you felt?' Sinking 
 upon his knees, he could only exclaim, 
 'O God!'" So would one exclaim, 
 and only with the deeper awe, at this 
 stupendous unveiling of the illimitable 
 depths beyond depths, the inconceivable 
 abysses of the unbounded universe. 
 " O God ! " — well might we exclaim, — 
 "what art thou? What shall we think 
 of thy greatness ? What shall we do 
 with these swelling wonders of knowl- 
 edge ? How bear these awful revela- 
 tions ? " 
 
 But now there presents itself to us 
 something suU more worthy of our at- 
 tention, more illustrative of the theme 
 we are considering, even, than all this 
 grasp of knowledge. For, aghast, stag- 
 gered as we are, overwhelmed by such 
 thoughts of infinitude and of God, with 
 this sense of indescribable and bound- 
 less majesty and mystery that comes 
 over us, what follows ? Does it crush 
 us to the dust ? This strain upon 
 thought, where million worlds are 
 weighed, does it weaken us ? No, the 
 mighty burden does not weaken, but 
 strengthens us. " What ant I ? " — must 
 not one say ? " Is not some more stu- 
 pendous nature than I had thought of, 
 introduced to me for my own ? Is not 
 this soul indeed 3. portion of the Divin- 
 ity, partaking something of his infini- 
 tude ?" Have not those words, " made 
 in the image of God, partakers of the 
 divine nature," a new meaning? And 
 what meaning ? Who shall define it, 
 who limit, — still more, define or limit 
 what it shall be ? See, I still say, the 
 tendencies of this nature. See where 
 it stretches. A creation is discovered, 
 from whose farthest confine light is a 
 thousand — nay, it is many thousand — 
 years in coming to us. Does the soul 
 sink into itself, as it were weighed down, 
 annihilated at that thought? Is even 
 that glorious vesture of light, — stretched 
 upon the loom of eternity, woven upon 
 the bosom of infinitude, — is even that 
 a splendid veil to quench the eye in 
 darkness, or a winding-sheet to wrap 
 the soul in death ? No, it bursts forth 
 
744 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 from all confine, from the envelopment 
 of the whole known creation, and asks 
 for the unknown, looks through the 
 illimitable void beyond, in hope to dis- 
 cover other realms of the unbounded 
 All. 
 
 And then, that this far-reaching, far- 
 soaring mind, — all compact as it were 
 of light, and endowed with its swiftness, 
 
 — that this mind should be wrapped in 
 the dark garment of mortality, clothed 
 and seemingly clogged with fleshly veils, 
 subject to poor and humble needs, of 
 household care and the day's work, set 
 to hold mastery over animal instincts ; 
 that earthly passion must touch and try 
 it, and the frail senses teach and train it, 
 
 — all this begets question, deep ques- 
 tion. Is not this some majesty in dis- 
 guise ? Like the great caliph who walked 
 among his unsuspecting subjects, so 
 amidst toils and cares, and riches and 
 vanities, ay, and thrones and dominions, 
 doth not this inward majesty walk, and 
 they know it not ? What is it, that I 
 a?/i ? Can the frail senses tell me, or 
 can worldly business or pleasure teach 
 me ? Ay, or can any philosophy declare 
 it, or can any astrologic lore cast its 
 sublime horoscope ? Has it waked, as 
 Plato saith, from some earlier being.'' 
 No memory of mine runs back upon 
 long ages of preparation or progress. 
 Yesterday, my wondrous soul burst into 
 being. Whence came it, but from God ? 
 Whence could it have come, but from 
 God ? What other power, what combi- 
 nation of all the other powers in the uni- 
 verse, could have created this living 
 Thought, this adoiing soul.? But I 
 am not speaking of its origin in this dis- 
 course ; its future is our subject, — this 
 great prophecy that is wrapped up in 
 our present being. 
 
 With a view to this, let us now take 
 a different survey. Let us pass from 
 the material to the spiritual realms of 
 thought. 
 
 In these realms certain beings exist ; 
 some of them imaginary, others real. 
 We talk of holy saints and heavenly an- 
 gels. We talk of the wise and good, of 
 
 heroes and sages, of canonized martyrs 
 and men and women of almost more 
 than mortal mould and nobleness. Do 
 we consider that none of these beings, 
 whether imaginary or real, exist to us 
 but in our thought? Whatever they be, 
 however great, or strong, or wise, or glo- 
 rious, our thought is the measure that 
 we take of them. It makes no difference 
 to the case, whether this knowledge is 
 imparted or original, or whether the ob- 
 jects are imaginary or real, or whether 
 the ideas we have are too high or too 
 low. Doubtless they may be very im- 
 perfect ; they may differ widely in dif- 
 ferent men ; the very words that clothe 
 our ideas — holy, just, good, beautiful 
 
 — may mean tenfold more to some men 
 than others, — what is a garment ten 
 times brighter, to that ten times bright- 
 er vesture of thought? — but such as 
 our ideas are, they are our ideas. No 
 distinct and comprehensible thing ex- 
 ists in the spiritual realm, but it exists 
 within me, — not, indeed, as a charac- 
 ter, but as a conception. All that we 
 admire on earth or in heaven hath its 
 archetypes within us. The whole hier- 
 archy of holy men and heavenly angels 
 sits in the temple of the soul. Plato, 
 so far as I know him, is within me ; 
 and Milton and F^nelon are familiar 
 guests of my fellow-spirit ; and Gabriel 
 
 — what form soever of resplendent na- 
 ture waits around the eternal throne — 
 comes down to earth to be embodied in 
 a human conception. They are beings 
 of the imagination, you may say to us j 
 they are ideals ; and we know not pre- 
 cisely how far the reality corresponds 
 with what we think ; but the elements 
 and modes of that high imagining are 
 within us. 
 
 But now observe again the same trait 
 in our experience that was before men- 
 tioned. Are we ever satisfied with our 
 attainment in the spiritual, any more 
 than in the material sphere .-* Highest 
 man, highest angel, that we can conceive 
 of, — is not our mind ever stretching 
 to something higher ? Yes: a beautiful 
 vision of something more perfect is for- 
 
LIFE A PROPHECY. 
 
 745 
 
 ever going before and beyond every- 
 thing that we have seen or imagined. 
 How inexpressibly poor seems always 
 our own personal attainment ! And 
 what does our humility mean, but that 
 we are conscious of vast capacities neg- 
 lected ? And how deep is that con- 
 sciousness ! How does it turn us against 
 ourselves, and make a perpetual warfare 
 in our own bosoms ! How patiently do 
 men sit, and hear themselves told that 
 they are sinners, that they are erring 
 and evil ! Nay, what a strange pleas- 
 ure we have, in upbraiding and invective 
 levelled against ourselves, against hu- 
 man nature, against the age, against the 
 time, against everything that is ! 
 
 Therefore it is in part that Jesus 
 Christ gathers around him such venera- 
 tion and love as no other being on earth 
 ever did. We conceive of him as one 
 that went beyond all our experience, all 
 our definite conception. Nor is this, as 
 I believe, the ideal of fond and idolizing 
 devotees, a case where the reality did 
 not exist, and the Christian ages have 
 accumulated upon their model man all 
 the wealth of their imagination and sen- 
 timent. On the contrary, when we draw 
 nearer to the Christ, by going back and 
 reading the Christian record, the reality 
 seems ever to rise higher and higher 
 than we had imagined. I am persuaded 
 that no one sits down to that wondrous 
 record and strives to penetrate with 
 deeper insight into the mind of Christ, 
 but feels more and more that there are 
 soundless depths in it of spiritual wis- 
 dom and beauty; and the more the mere 
 conventional admiration passes away and 
 the nearer he approaches the reality, the 
 more will he feel this. How poor and 
 vague is the customary admiration of 
 Jesus, that prevails through the Chris- 
 tian world, to what that living sense of 
 the reality would be ! 
 
 But all the glowing image that any 
 have of him, be it remembered, is mir- 
 rored in the disciple's heart. "Christ 
 is formed within " it. Nay, and when 
 we rise to tlie ineffable nature of the 
 Supreme, to the unbounded Glory, which 
 
 we may study forever and find no limit \ 
 yet, I say, all that the adorer does dis- 
 tinctly behold hath its image in himself; 
 and it is expressly said in holy and awful 
 words that God is within him. Such, 
 then, is the teaching in the spiritual 
 realm concerning the nature and ten- 
 dency of those high powers that are yet 
 in their infancy ; that yet lie half slum- 
 bering in the bosom of our humanity ; 
 that do not yet appear as they shall 
 be. 
 
 And now what do we say, in both 
 views ? The mind is a mirror that re- 
 flects the universe of being. Over the 
 field of its solemn vision passes the train 
 of the heavenly worlds ; and there, too, 
 are imaged the ranks and orders of all 
 human and celestial hierarchies, known 
 or conceived of. Na}', the idea of 
 God, that shadow of unknown majesty 
 and beauty,. passes over this wondrous 
 mirror, the soul. 
 
 Is the mirror perfect ? Alas ! no ; 
 broken it is, and full of flaws, and marred 
 with rough and dark spots. No ; it 
 doth not yet appear what it shall be. I 
 see beginnings in man, no end ; wrest- 
 ling, not achievement ; unfolding, not 
 maturity. And still it is so with him 
 to the very end of life. If this world 
 nurtured man as it does all its other 
 products, vegetable and animal, to a cer- 
 tain completeness and perfection, if age 
 rounded the circuit of his attainments, 
 we might think that all he shall ever be 
 now appears. But age does not finish 
 his problem nor fulfil his destiny. Age 
 does not make his nature aged. Only 
 his body is old. Still upon the themes 
 of his highest thouglit, his mind glows 
 with more than youthful aspiration. 
 Still he sighs for light, more light. 
 Upon the borders of the grave he 
 stands, and stretches out his hands, to 
 infinity and eternity for litiht, for prog- 
 ress, for new fields resplendent with 
 everlasting light and glory. 
 
 But I will not urge it further. All 
 things beside, sooner or later, unfold 
 and display the latent powers within 
 them. The dark germ expands into the 
 
746 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 tree ; the tree opens its blossoms to the 
 sky ; the poor earth-worm becomes a 
 winged creature of the air. 
 
 But our being is not quite buried in 
 torpor and darkness. Already it is 
 bursting out into light and expansion. 
 Full it is of epochs and heroic crises. 
 It feels itself called upon to act and 
 to advance. "Onward!" is the call of 
 many a great hour of our being; ''on- 
 ward ! to the battle — and victory ! " 
 And to this earth-strife that presses 
 ujjon us every day, to this solemn wait- 
 ing, — to this dim bordering upon the 
 realm of boundless light, is there not a 
 voice that says, " Onward ! onward for- 
 ever ! " Beautiful phrase that describes 
 the departed, "they have passed on." 
 Not, they are dead; but — "they have 
 passed on ! " 
 
 God forbid that we should minister 
 here to self-complacency or pride ! We 
 are something; and I have no toleration 
 nor patience for the pulpit phrase that 
 says, we are nothing. We are some- 
 thing ; we have done something ; we 
 have attained something ; but " it doth 
 not yet appear what we shall be." Vet 
 we see through a glass darkly. Dim as 
 well as vast are the visions that float 
 before us. A grand outline is struck 
 out for us, but how httle is it filled up ! 
 Poor and weak and low especially is 
 all our spiritual strength and light; and 
 the wisest and best men most leel it to 
 be so. 
 
 Progress, then, is our being's motto 
 and hope. Gaining and losing in t/iis 
 world, rising and falling, enjoying and 
 suffering, are but the incidents of life. 
 Learning, aspiration, progress, is the 
 life of life. Onward ! then, pilgrims to 
 eternity ! The day is far spent for some 
 of us, the night is at hand ; and over 
 its sublime portal, through which the 
 evening stars of this world, but the 
 morning stars of eternity, are shining, 
 is written, " Eye hath not seen, nor 
 ear heard, neither have entered into 
 the heart of man, the things which 
 God hath prepared for them that love 
 him." 
 
 XV. 
 
 CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMI- 
 TABLE. 
 
 There are two or three passages of 
 Scripture, which I have chosen to give 
 direction to our thoughts this morning; 
 as 
 
 I Pet. ii. 21 : "Christ suffered for us, le.iving us 
 an example, that we should walk in his steps." 
 
 Heb iv. 15 : " For we have not a high priest who 
 cannot be touched with a feeling of our infirmities, 
 but who was tempted in all points as we are, yet with- 
 out sin." 
 
 John xv. 15 : "I have called you friends." 
 
 Phil, iii 10 : " That I may know him, and the 
 power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his 
 sufferings." 
 
 And the question I have to ask, is, 
 can we understand this, or must it be 
 wrapped to our minds in vagueness and 
 mystery ? We would meditate on the 
 Christ. But how ? Is it as an intelli- 
 gible being, or only as an enshrined 
 excellence, that we are to think of him ? 
 Certainly, an example to be imitated 
 must be intelligible : and the very sin- 
 lessness of the Christ is taught with the 
 emphatic admission that he was tempted 
 in all points as we are ; which shows 
 that even i/iai v/as meant for our imita- 
 tion. 
 
 The greatest thing for us is to know 
 that which is greatest ; to know, to see, 
 and feel it. And yet the loftiest moral 
 grandeur that stands in the world is, I 
 fear, the least clearly and comprehen- 
 sively seen. 
 
 There is nothing I should so much 
 value as a great and divinely seeing 
 criticism of the Gospel. We traverse a 
 sixth part of the globe to converse with 
 the great ideas of the Past, in architec- 
 ture, sculpture, and painting. We would 
 go as far again to read the highest pro- 
 ductions of the English mind, if we 
 could not reach them at less cost. But 
 it would be worth more than a pilgrim- 
 age around the world to read the Gospel 
 in a new light, to get a new insight into 
 its great meaning, a new key to its 
 boundless wealth, to /itid the treasure 
 which it holds in its very ideals of the 
 great, the true and blessed. 
 
CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMITABLE. 
 
 747 
 
 I do not mean to say that nothing 
 of this has been understood. It is in- 
 deed a striking proof of the natural- 
 ness and vitahty of the character of 
 Jesus, that it should have penetrated 
 and made its way to the heart through 
 so many folds of error and formalism 
 and superstition. But still I apprehend 
 that in the estimation of too many, his 
 character is something formal, and not 
 reallv interesting, being regarded too 
 much as a mere impassive model, his 
 perfection looked upon as some sub- 
 lime and unattainable spiritualism, and 
 his sinlessness as a negative quality, in 
 some respects below the level of lofty 
 virtue. I believe that Jesus appears to 
 most men's thoughts as a calm and un- 
 impassioned being, too uniformly grave 
 and sad for their hearty sympathy ; that 
 he always appears before them with 
 head declined and pitying eye, gentle, 
 submissive, patient; and that they never 
 justly conceive of the strength and maj- 
 esty of his nature, — of the mighty work 
 done in him as well as by him. So the 
 painters have always represented him ; 
 and such kind of reverence has there 
 been for the Christ, that it has never 
 dared to go behind the veil which it- 
 self has spread around him, and to im- 
 agine the freer actings, the light and 
 shade, the smile and tear, the domes- 
 tic freedom and joyance, the mingling 
 of spontaneous thoughts and feelings, 
 that belong to our idea of perfected 
 humanity. Jesus said to his disciples, 
 I have called you friends ; and is it 
 necessary to our idea of a good and 
 wise being, to suppose that between 
 him and his friends and pupils there 
 should have been none of the freedom 
 of friendship ? Had he been a formal 
 person, a solemn mentor alone, I can 
 hardly conceive how he could have so 
 attached his disciples to him, — have 
 drawn to himself that unutterable affec- 
 tion which they evidently felt for him ; 
 nor would he then have been, as it 
 seems to me, an example of our human- 
 ity in the full circuit of all its faculties 
 and affections. It is true that the dis- 
 
 ciples, in the narratives which set their 
 Master before us, scarcely refer to the 
 lesser feelings and lighter moods that 
 have their place even in the grandest 
 life, because it was evidently their main 
 and engrossing business to describe a 
 public mission. It is true, too, that no 
 painter or verbal describer, however he 
 may feel at liberty to present the lofty 
 Ideal in all the varied attitudes of a 
 real and genuine human life, should 
 ever fail to portray the great and holy 
 soul that shone through every act and 
 look, through the smile of love or the 
 rebuke of wisdom, through the words of 
 household talk that said, " Go and pro- 
 vide the chamber for the feast," or the 
 indignant manner that spoke in those 
 words, "Get thee behind me, Satan, for 
 thou savorest not the things that be of 
 God." 
 
 But whatever be our reverence for 
 Jesus, even though it attribute to him a 
 nature ever so extraordinary and exalted, 
 still we must remember that he is pre- 
 sented to us as the great ideal, model, 
 example, of all that we should be. An 
 example, to produce its effect upon us, 
 must appear to be at once intelligible 
 and imitable ; and we naturally desire 
 to go behind the general idea, to the 
 inner spirit and life. We never read 
 of a great and good man, whose visible 
 life is clothed with splendid and heroic 
 actions, without wishing to retire with 
 him to his privacy, to see or to know 
 what he thought as he sat in his soli- 
 tary apartment, or what he said when 
 his familiar friends were around him ; 
 and have we never striven to imagine 
 what it would have been to have walked 
 with Jesus, and to have talked with him 
 on the shore of Gennesaret, or to have 
 sat with him in the house of Mary and 
 Martha .-' There are doubtless limita- 
 tions here, i.e., as to what we can ex- 
 pect to know ; the very object of the 
 biography shows that it is occupied 
 with setting forth, as I have already 
 said, the acts and words and relation- 
 ships and events of a public mission. 
 The example is that of one who. was 
 
748 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 cut off in early life, who had not sus- 
 tained all the relations of humanity, nor 
 met all its exigencies of possible trial 
 and responsibility. We are not led to 
 ask what Jesus might have been as the 
 ruler of a state or of a household : but 
 in his relations of childhood, friendship, 
 and general benevolence, we are. And 
 we feel that it is no derogation from 
 the dignity of the Christ, that he was a 
 child, and showed all childlike subjec- 
 tion and docihty to his parents ; that 
 he was a son, and manifested signal 
 tenderness for his mother ; that he 
 was a friend, at once the most affec- 
 tionate, disinterested, and patient in his 
 love, and the most frank and faithful in 
 his reproof ; and that as a sufferer he 
 sought the sympathy of his disciples 
 and friends. Could we but know what 
 he sometimes said to them in more pri- 
 vate hours, — what he said that was 
 not in connection with his mission ! 
 And yet, are we altogether precluded 
 from this kind of knowledge ? Are not 
 some glimpses afforded us of his more 
 private character and relations t 
 
 Let us consider this. Let us con- 
 sider first what we are taught concern- 
 ing him in his social relations. 
 
 Jesus evidently discriminates among 
 the dispositions of his disciples. He 
 does not treat them all alike, or in a 
 general and staid manner, as pupils. 
 We see that he had a particular affec- 
 tion for John ; we see that he dis- 
 trusted the firmness of Peter, while he 
 confided in his attachment. What can 
 be more touching and beautiful than his 
 treatment of these disciples in the last 
 interview ? Peter had denied him, — 
 yes, in the last critical and trying hour 
 he had denied even that he knew him. 
 Jesus testified no anger nor disdain 
 towards the fallen disciple ; he did not 
 upbraid him at the time ; he only said, 
 " Peter ! " Ah, how thrilling must have 
 been that monitory and gentle tone as 
 it penetrated through the noise and 
 throng of the judgment hall ! But now 
 he does not treat him coldly. All is 
 over; the disciple has wept for his fall; 
 
 and Jesus only, yet pointedly, says to 
 him, " Simon, Son of Jonas, lovest thou 
 me more than these .'' " Peter had 
 formerly protested, " Though all men 
 forsake thee, yet will not L" Lovest 
 thou me more than these love me ? 
 Peter replies, '-Yea, Lord, thou knowest 
 that I love thee." Jesus saith unto him, 
 '' Feed my lambs." He saith unto him 
 the second time, — not immediately, per- 
 haps, — I do not read this as a kind of 
 catechism ; it was after they had supped ; 
 conversation perhaps intervened, — the 
 varying circumstances of such an inter- 
 view ; but again, Jesus, coming close to 
 the fallen disciple, says, in a low tone 
 of suppressed sorrow, " Simon, son of 
 Jonas, lovest thou me?" Peter again 
 replies, " Lord, thou knowest that I love 
 thee." Again, — after a while, perhaps, 
 — Jesus, turning to him, says, with 
 the emphasis of a third interrogation, 
 " Simon, lovest thou me ? Peter was 
 grieved because he said to him the 
 third time, Lovest thou me ? And he 
 said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all 
 things ; thou knowest that I love thee. 
 Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep." 
 Yes, Apostle shalt thou be ; yea, and 
 martyr. "Verily, verily I say unto you, 
 when thou wert young thou girdedst thy- 
 self and walkedst whither thou wouldst; 
 but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt 
 stretch forth thy hands and another 
 shall gird thee, and carry thee whither 
 thou wouldst not." Yes, true friend, 
 restored disciple, the seal of martyrdom 
 shall be put upon thy fidelity. Could 
 Peter do anything but bow his head in 
 solemn and silent acquiescence ? Yes, 
 ever curious, eager, restless, objective 
 in all his habits of thought, he turns 
 towards John, and he says, — even in 
 that overwhelming moment he says, — 
 " And what shall he do ? What shall be 
 his fate ? " Jesus replies witli the reprov- 
 ing exclamation, " If 1 will that he tarry 
 till I come, what is that to thee ! Fol- 
 low thou me ! " As if he said, " I have 
 no fears for him, let what will befall 
 him ; follow ihoti me ! " And how dif- 
 ferent from either of these is his man- 
 
CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMITABLE. 
 
 749 
 
 ner towards the traitor Judas, upon 
 whose avaricious and hardened heart 
 he knew that all expostulation would be 
 thrown away! When he had reluctantly 
 designated him as the betrayer, he says 
 brieflv and coldly, as if it were aside, 
 " What tiiou doest, do quickly." No 
 vain upbraiding, no useless comment 
 on the traitor's ingratitude, no weak 
 multiplying of words, such as an ordi- 
 nary person would have used ; but with 
 calm and stoic dignity he says, " What 
 thou doest, do quickly." 
 
 Observe him, next, in the house of 
 Martha and Mary. It was evidently a 
 house of familiar resort to Jesus. Beth- 
 any was only two miles from Jerusalem ; 
 it was a quiet suburban retreat from the 
 city throng and excitement, one of those 
 refuges by the wayside of life, where 
 wearied friendship may sit down and 
 find repose. We are told that Jesus 
 loved Martha, and her sister, and Laza- 
 rus. On a certain occasion they enter- 
 tained him. You are familiar with the 
 narrative, but let us attend to it a mo- 
 ment. Martha, we are informed, was 
 engrossed with hospitable cares ; while 
 Mary, forgetting all else, sat at the feet 
 of the revered and beloved guest, and 
 listened to his wisdom. Martha com- 
 plains of this ; and she complains in 
 terms that show the familiar, and, if I 
 may say so, the household intimacy 
 that subsisted between them. She said, 
 " Dost thou not care that my sister hath 
 left me to serve alone ? Bid her there- 
 fore that she help me." This would 
 not be said to a stranger or mere 
 acquaintance. Jesus replies, " Mar- 
 tha ! Martha ! " — and I cannot help 
 seeing something significant in that 
 repetition of her name j it seems to 
 intimate that this was not the first 
 time he had spoken of this fault, — 
 " Martha ! Martha ! thou art careful 
 and troubled about many things ; but 
 one thing is needful ; and Mary hath 
 chosen the good part ; I cannot deny 
 her the privilege she so loves." 
 
 But at length into this happy house- 
 hold trouble comes. Lazarus is sick. 
 
 Immediately the sisters send a message 
 to Jesus, as to a family friend. He re- 
 ceives the communication as perfectly 
 natural and proper ; he does not rebuke 
 the freedom ; he testifies the liveliest 
 sympathy at the intelligence ; he con- 
 verses upon it with his disciples. But 
 he does not immediately obey the im- 
 pulse of his affections. He has higher 
 thoughts of the occasion, and blends the 
 objects of his public mission with the 
 offices of private friendship. After two 
 days, when all was over, he goes to 
 Bethany. How natural to the most in- 
 timate friendship is that which follows ! 
 The sisters learn that he approaches 
 their dwelling. Martha arises and goes 
 to meet him ; and she says with some- 
 thing like reproach as well as confi- 
 dence, " If thou hadst been here, my 
 brother had not died." Then she re- 
 turns into the house, and says secretly 
 to Mary, — there must be no loud tones 
 in the house of affliction, — in whispered 
 accents she says, " The Master is come, 
 and calleth for thee." He would see 
 the one dearest, and most in sympathy 
 with himself, in that trying moment. 
 Mary goes forth and repeats the tender 
 expostulation that her sister had uttered, 
 "Thou didst not come, — oh! if thou 
 hadst been here, my brother had not 
 died ! " Jesus had spoken to Martha the 
 consolatory words, " Thy brother shall 
 live again." She had replied, almost 
 querulously, " I know that he shall rise 
 again in the resurrection at the last 
 day." Calmly he answered in that sub- 
 lime declaration, " I am the resurrec- 
 tion and the life ; he that believeth in 
 me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
 live. In that living breath of God's 
 love, in which I live, there is no death. 
 Immortal life and blessedness embosom 
 the soul that lives in that love." But 
 when he sees Mary weeping, he is 
 touched with an emotion be3'ond utter- 
 ance ; the human sympathy overcomes 
 him ; he groans in spirit and is troubled. 
 And he says to those around, " Where 
 have ye laid him ? " They say unto him, 
 "Come and see." Bending over the 
 
750 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 tomb, Jesus wept, — shed tears of sor- 
 rowing affection. And the Jews said, 
 " See, how he loved him ! " 
 
 Soon after we find Jesus again with 
 his friends in Bethany. It was perhaps 
 liis farewell visit. It was only six days 
 before the fatal passover. The grateful 
 sisters made a supper for him. IVIartha 
 again was busy with serving. But Mary 
 took a very costly ointment of spike- 
 nard, and anointed his feet, and wiped 
 his feet with her hair, and the house 
 was filled with the odor of the ointment. 
 Then broke forth reproaches from some 
 around, as if this were a waste. And 
 Jesus said, with protective rebuke, tak- 
 ing the part of this lovely disciple, " Let 
 her alone ; against the day of my bury- 
 ing has she kept this. The poor, do ye 
 say, might have been benefited by it? 
 — pleading, with hard and hackneyed 
 spirit, the ever just claim. Yes, the 
 poor indeed must be helped ; ye have 
 them always with you, but me ye have 
 not always. The claims of the poor 
 may yield, for the time, to this rich 
 and fragrant effusion of love. And 
 verily I say unto you, wherever this 
 Gospel shall be preached in all the 
 world, there shall this, which this wo- 
 man hath done, be told for a memorial 
 of her ! " 
 
 Looking at this whole narrative, say, 
 was there ever anything more lovely and 
 majestic in human friendship than this? 
 
 I must not dwell longer at present on 
 illustrations of this nature, in which I 
 have endeavored to relieve the char- 
 acter of Jesus from that sort of magis- 
 terial abstraction, which it is too apt to 
 wear to our thoughts, and to show it to 
 you as penetrated by living, generous, 
 and beautiful affections. 
 
 There is another view of it, to which, 
 with like intent, I wish to draw your 
 particular attention. ♦! mean the sin- 
 lessness of the Christ. I have said 
 that it is regarded mainly as a negative 
 quality. It is looked upon, I believe, 
 as something merely harmless, and 
 therefore tame and uninteresting ; or 
 as something merely miraculous, and 
 
 therefore as inimitable and without 
 merit. It is admirable, no doubt ; it 
 is something to be wondered at ; but 
 there is notliing, I fear, to the common 
 apprehension, strong and high, and at 
 the same time truly human in it. 
 
 Now native, passive innocence — in- 
 nocence without effort or struggle — is 
 not to us the highest and noblest qual- 
 ity. To hold the steady rein over pas- 
 sion and appetite ; to feel the impulse 
 that may carry us too far, and yet never 
 to suffer i't to carry us too far ; to stand 
 in the presence of some stupendous 
 temptation, and yet to stand firm, un- 
 faltering, and immovable, — this is the 
 highest grandeur that can be attained 
 in this world. And this grandeur, I 
 conceive, we are to ascribe to Jesus. 
 We are to remember that " he was 
 tempted in all points as we are, yet 
 without sin." Then must he have 
 known what the human tendencies to 
 evil were, while he perfectly controlled 
 them. Then was it possible for him 
 to sin, and his refraining was a volun- 
 tary act. Then must the senses have 
 spread their allurements before him, 
 and he must have resolutely forbid- 
 den to them any, the least indulgence, 
 even in thought. What else are we 
 taught in the account given of his 
 temptation in the wilderness? Appeals 
 were made to appetite, to ambition, and 
 rash reliance upon divine interposition ; 
 and he firmly rejected them all. Why 
 is celebrated his submission in Geth- 
 semane to the Will above, that had or- 
 dained for him a painful death, unless 
 there were in him a natural dread of 
 such a death ? Why his forgiveness on 
 the cross, if indignation against cruel 
 enemies were not the involuntary im- 
 pulse of wronged and persecuted in- 
 nocence ? 
 
 What glory there is here, beyond the 
 reach of mere innocence and beyond 
 the power of mere miracle ! Great men 
 have conquered kingdoms and mastered 
 thrones. Men of great mental power 
 have sounded the depths of philosophy 
 and soared to the lieights of imagination. 
 
CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMITABLE. 
 
 751 
 
 They have painted or described pictures 
 of surpassing moral beauty. But show 
 us the great man, or the inspired genius, 
 who has held all the perilous tendencies 
 of human nature in strong and over- 
 mastering control ; against whom the 
 scrutiny of eighteen centuries cannot 
 allege one fault ; wlio in the secret and 
 sublime consciousness of his own soul 
 c in say. " I am innocent ; which of you 
 convinceth me of sin ? " Show us the 
 great man who in the hidden hour of 
 secrecy and impunity, ay, and in the 
 hidings of his own bosom, alone, unseen, 
 unimpeachable, has held every human 
 passion in absolute check ; who never 
 saw an hour or a moment, in which he 
 could not bathe his conscience in sweet- 
 est innocence, and bow his soul in 
 fearless, unreproaching communion with 
 God. The world has not shown one 
 such. In that awful sanctity and sub- 
 limity, in that '"holy of holies," has 
 never stood but one being on earth, — 
 Jesus of Nazareth. How does he stand 
 apart and alone in that majesty ! What 
 an unapproached eminence is that ! He 
 could have sinned : he did not sin. He 
 could have failed to his great office : 
 he did not fail. Say not that this is 
 more than human. Say not that this 
 is beyond all human power. You know 
 not what human power is, till you have 
 put it all forth ; and till you have brought 
 about it, by the might and confidence of 
 prayer, all the power of God to help it. 
 Oh! we know not, — shame to our indo- 
 lence and apathy ! — we know not what 
 we might do and be. But Jesus knew 
 and proved it What an awful purity 
 and power was that in the depths of the 
 Christ-spirit, in that great anointed Soul ! 
 What battling is there of all the world's 
 legions and empires, like that of sin 
 with the secret heart ! Well is he who 
 gained the victory in this conflict the 
 Lord of the spiritual creation. Well 
 does he stand at the head of a long suc- 
 cession of ages ; well that, with anniver- 
 saries of joying for him or sorrowing 
 with him, he is celebrated to this day, 
 and celebrated forever ! 
 
 With the same view, i. e., to bring the 
 great Example as far as we can within 
 the range of our sympathy and imitation, 
 let us look at the sufferings of Jesus. It 
 is common to regard them as myste- 
 rious ; as superhuman, or as having 
 some peculiar relation to the deliver- 
 ance of mankind from sin and misery. 
 But if he suffered, leaving us an ex- 
 ample, there must be sometliing for us 
 to comprehend. Paul says, " That I 
 may know him, and the fellowship of his 
 sufferings." And indeed, was there ever 
 anything more touchingly human than, 
 from the account that is given, were his 
 sufferings ? Observe him and listen to 
 him in Gethsemane. When he came 
 there, he said to his disciples, " Sit ye 
 here, while 1 go and pray yonder." He 
 would be alone ; and yet not altogether 
 alone, for he took with him Peter and 
 the two sons of Zebedee. And was 
 there not something remarkable in the 
 selection? Peter needed strengthen- 
 ing ; and it was for the two sons of 
 Zebedee that their mother had asked, 
 that they should sit, the one on his right 
 hand, and the other on his left, with him 
 in his glory ; and who had said, " We 
 catt drink of the cup that thou drinkest 
 of." He would rebuke their worldli- 
 ness ; he would have them see wliat 
 that cup was. For there, he began to 
 be sorrowful and very heavy. And he 
 said, "My soul is exceeding sorrowful 
 even unto death ; tarry ye here, and 
 watch with me." " And watch with 
 me !" what more tender and relying ap- 
 peal to friendship could there be than 
 that! And he went a little farther, and 
 fell on his face, and prayed, saying. 
 " O my Father, if it be possible, let this 
 cup pass from me ; nevertheless, not as 
 I will, but as thou wilt." Oh ! look not 
 upon this as a scenic show, as a fair- 
 seeming model only: as if he knew that 
 he must fall into the bloody hands that 
 waited for him, and made this prayer of 
 submission only as a proper example. 
 No, no, sincerely he said, " If it be pos- 
 sible," — doubtless he thought it was 
 not J but it inis^ht ; he knew not how. 
 
752 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 And then, having prayed thus, he re- 
 turned to the little company of friends, 
 
 — all he Jiad, to help him in that hour ; 
 and he finds them asleep: and he says, 
 especially to Peter, lately so loud in pro- 
 fession, " What ! could ye not watch 
 with me one hour?" — and then con- 
 siderately adds, — " the spirit indeed is 
 willing, but the flesh is weak." And he 
 went away the second time, and prayed, 
 saying, " O my Father, if this cup may 
 not pass away except I drink it, thy will 
 be done ! " And the third time he went 
 and prayed in the same words. /« the 
 same words. How touching is that 
 repetition ! How natural is it to a mind 
 exhausted, absorbed by sorrow and 
 agony, to seek no variety of expression, 
 
 — to say " the same words " ! And was 
 it bodily suffering alone that invested 
 him with its horrors ? Listen to him 
 upon the cross, — " Eloi, Eloi, lama 
 sabachthani, — my God, my God, why 
 hast thou forsaken me ? " 
 
 A stoic might say that this was weak. 
 But in the grand simplicity of the Christ- 
 spirit there was no pride, no braving of 
 pain and agony, no assumption of what 
 was not in it, and never was in any 
 rational nature, — an indifference to pain 
 and agony. Not in any stoic pride, not 
 in any martyr's defiance of his persecu- 
 tors, did Jesus find his resource ; but in 
 patience, in submission, in God. But 
 was all sorrow — agony ? Oh no ! With 
 what a vision all-triumphant did he look 
 through it to the end ! and for the joy 
 that was set before him, endured the 
 cross ! 
 
 This, my brethren, is the example 
 that we are to follow. It is this that is 
 especially commended to us in the em- 
 blems of Christ's suffering and patience 
 that are set before us this day. It is 
 this which we understand by the observ- 
 ance of the Lord's Supper. 
 
 We are about to pass to that observ- 
 ance. I say, we are about to pass to 
 it ; for in my view, it is properly, and 
 so ought to be regarded, a part of 
 our morning service and meditation. 
 It is so to me. I shall not refuse to 
 
 adopt the usage of giving the benedic- 
 tion at the close of this part of the 
 service : it can never harm us to say, 
 "God bless us!" The benediction is 
 truly nothing but a short prayer. And 
 there will be an interval for all who 
 wish to retire, to do so. But I shall 
 then proceed to the ritual commemo- 
 ration which follows, as a part of our 
 morning worship and meditation. I 
 shall not enter into it, as some awful 
 peculiarity, some Eleusinian mystery, 
 tliat is to be set apart and shut up by 
 itself. It was not originally any such 
 thing, but was a portion of the stated 
 worship of the whole body of believers. 
 I have been commemorating Christ. 
 I have been reverently remembering 
 him in this whole morning's discours- 
 ing. I shall simply continue to do so. 
 I have remembered him with words ; 
 I shall now remember him with sym- 
 bols. Both are of the same character 
 as expression. Both are a setting forth 
 of what we believe and would feel. 
 The symbol, as expression., is no more 
 solemn than the word. It means no 
 more than the word. It binds no more 
 than the word, if we inwardly believe 
 and feel it ; for no bond can be stronger 
 than a man's inmost conviction and 
 feeling. 
 
 With these views, I do not wish to 
 make any solemn crisis in the service, 
 to introduce that which follows ; I do 
 not wish to give any too especial an 
 invitation to the Communion. When 
 I say, " Come to it," it is as, when I 
 rise to pray, I invite you to join me, 
 and say, " Let us pray." So I say now, 
 " Let us remember Christ in this man- 
 ner." As many here, as truly desire, 
 with convinced mind and earnest heart, 
 to come, let them come. I disclaim, 
 this Church disclaims, the right to for- 
 bid any such. And yet I do not advise 
 any to come for the first time upon any 
 sudden thought or impulse. With our 
 modern Protestant ideas upon this par- 
 ticular religious action, some, and per- 
 liaps no little, reflection is necessary to 
 bring our minds into a right state and 
 
CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMITABLE. 
 
 753 
 
 determination with regard to it. My 
 own reflection upon the subject comes 
 to this : here is an act of solemn and 
 grateful com?ncmoration — of the great- 
 est and divinest being that ever was 
 in this world. If I regarded him only 
 in this light, if I regarded him simply 
 as the divinest man, I should feel that 
 this act was fit and beautiful ; more fit 
 and beautiful than any of the commemo- 
 rations of the great and wise and good 
 that ever have been in the world. It 
 would be so to me, even if it were not 
 commanded ; even if it were an invol- 
 untary homage. If such a table were 
 spread in the wilderness, and a few 
 were gathered around it, and if I were 
 passing by, a weary wanderer, I should 
 feel drawn to join thpir company, — to 
 sit down with them, and to say, as 
 I say now, " Jesus ! Master, Teacher, 
 Guide, Example, Friend, — best friend, 
 purest example, holiest teacher, guide 
 through the wilderness of time, Master 
 that leadest to heaven, — so let me 
 revere, — so let me remember thee." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND 
 IMITABLE. 
 
 John vi. 35 : "And Jesus said unto them, I am 
 the bread of life ; he that Cometh to me shall never 
 hunger ; and he that believeth on me shall never 
 thirst." 
 
 I HAVE read to you, for the morning 
 lesson, a part of the sixth chapter of 
 the Gospel of John, and to some pas- 
 sages in it, such as that which I have 
 t.iken for my text, I wish now to invite 
 your special attention. The passages 
 I refer to are those in which Jesus is 
 represented as speaking of the value, 
 importance, and grandeur of his work ; 
 of his office and person, and of his rela- 
 tion to the world. 
 
 Let me here say, that in these dis- 
 courses concerning the Christ I am 
 addressing myself to certain mistaken 
 impressions which prevail about him, 
 
 without undertaking to discriminate 
 between the genuineness of the three 
 first Gospels and the last. Here 
 stands the record as the body of Chris- 
 tians receive it ; and I propose to com- 
 ment upon the ideas of the Christ 
 which they commonly derive from the 
 general reading of it. 
 
 In the well-known work, entitled 
 ." Ecce Homo" (behold the man), the 
 writer maintains, not merely that the 
 spirit of the divine Master was des- 
 tined to reign over the world, but that 
 he would reign over men and be tlieir 
 king in such a sense that the highest 
 personal allegiance to him, and a draw- 
 ing of all spiritual life and power from 
 him, would be the distinctive character 
 of the true Christian man. 
 
 Now to this construction of the 
 language of the New Testament I do 
 not assent. Believing that the Spirit 
 of Jesus is the example for his disciples, 
 that his love and patience and self-sac- 
 rifice are to reign over men, I do not 
 admit that he is the sovereign of the 
 soul and of the spiritual world in 
 the sense contended for ; such that 
 it seems to exclude the supremacy of 
 God himself. I think that this theory 
 is at variance with the general strain of 
 Christ's own teaching. I have another 
 construction to of¥er of those passages 
 in which Jesus is represented as speak- 
 ing of his own truth and purity, of his 
 claim to reliance and homage, and of 
 his grand relation to the world ; and 
 as I have no doubt that these pas- 
 sages have troubled some, if not many, 
 thoughtful readers of the Gospels, I am 
 the more disposed to take them up and 
 consider them. 
 
 Indeed, it is this general object which 
 I have in view, rather than to contro- 
 vert the particular ideas which are 
 presented in " Ecce Homo." In many 
 passages Jesus is certainly represented 
 as speaking of himself in a very ex- 
 traordinary manner, unlike that of any 
 other teacher ; with a self-assertion and 
 self-commendation which conflict appar- 
 ently with his general humility, and 
 
 48 
 
754 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 with our ideal of the unconsciousness 
 and modesty of virtue. 
 
 The passages are such as these. 
 " This is the work of God, that ye 
 believe on him whom he hath sent." 
 Believing on him, let us say, once for 
 all, is a reverent and affectionate receiv- 
 ing of him. And consider how strong 
 the language is. The work of God in 
 the soul, the highest thing, the divinest, 
 the godlike, is the hearty receiving, 
 embracing, loving of Jesus Christ. 
 These are strong words, but they are 
 self-evidently true. They are true not 
 in some theological sense, but simply 
 as a matter of experience. If 1 ask my 
 own mind what is the highest elevation 
 to which it can rise, what the nearest 
 approach to God, I feel that it would 
 be that believing of which Jesus speaks, 
 that receiving, communing with him, 
 that realizing of his ideal, that taking 
 into my own heart the love and loveli- 
 ness of his spirit. And therefore I can 
 understand him when he says again, 
 " And this is the will of him that sent 
 me, that every one that seeth the Son 
 and belie veth on him may have ever- 
 lasting life." That is, "everlasting 
 joy," not bare life, of course, not bare 
 continuance of being ; the word Hfe is 
 figurative, and means the soul's life, the 
 fulness of all good in the heart ; it 
 means beatitude, blessedness. He that 
 believeth on me, hath not only blessed- 
 ness, but everlasting blessedness. 
 
 But further ; such a divine thing is 
 this coming to Christ, that the call to 
 it is all divine ; the disposition to re- 
 ceive him is of God. " No man can 
 come to me, except the Father draw 
 him." Draw him, not with elective 
 force, not with supernatural grace, — 
 a construction which weakens and 
 mars the teaching, — but with the 
 drawing of love; i. e., only by love, 
 love of God, will any one be drawn 
 to me. As he goes on to explain it, 
 " Every man, therefore, that hath heard 
 and hath learned of the Father, cometh 
 unto me." 
 
 And all this he repeats and reiter- 
 
 ates. " He that believeth on me hatli 
 everlasting blessedness. I am that 
 bread of life. I am the living bread 
 that came down from heaven. Whoso 
 eateth my flesh and drinketh my 
 blood," — meaning by this the most 
 intimate participation of his spirit and 
 life, — " hath eternal joy. He that eat- 
 eth my flesh and drinketh my blood, 
 dwelleth in me, and I in him.'''' That 
 is the explanation. And when the 
 people murmured among themselves, 
 saying. How can this man give us his 
 flesh to eat ? and the disciples said, 
 This is a hard saying ; who can hear 
 it ? he repHed, It is the spirit that 
 quickeneth ; the flesh profiteth nothing. 
 I am not speaking to you of literal 
 flesh ; the words that I speak to you, 
 they are spirit, and they are life. 
 
 Are there none who murmur no7v ? 
 — none who repeat what the disciples 
 of old said, "This is a hard saying" ? 
 I have met with such. One said this 
 to me : " That I must love all good- 
 ness, that I must love the sum of all 
 goodness (which is God), in order to be 
 blessed eternally, — -this I can under- 
 stand ; but must I love, must I believe, 
 receive, embrace by faith, this very 
 person, or never find happiness, never 
 attain to anything good or blessed ? 
 Millions of heathens never heard of 
 him ; has no one of them ever attained 
 to any spiritual blessing or blessed- 
 ness ? " Another said, " This frequent 
 self-assertion of the Christ, this drawing 
 of the attention to himself, this insisting 
 upon his own nearness to the Father. 
 and the Father's love and approbation 
 of him, saying, ' I do always those 
 things that please him,' — is this the 
 fit and beautiful garb of virtue ? We 
 are accustomed to say that the highest 
 things in humanity — genius, bravery, 
 heroism, sanctity — are unconscious, 
 unexacting, simply content to be. What, 
 then, are we to think of this apparent 
 self-consciousness of the Christ ? " 
 
 Let one thing be borne in mind, as 
 we pass to make reply to these natural 
 suggestions, — and, I have no doubt, 
 
CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMITABLE. 
 
 755 
 
 serious difficulties in some minds, — and 
 that is, tliat wliatever Jesus claims for 
 himself, he does always and explicitly 
 refer to the Father, as the Giver of all. 
 There is no want of modesty or humil- 
 ity, unless to be conscious of one's own 
 rectitude at all be such. 
 
 In reply, then, the first observation I 
 li.ive to make is, that this consciousness 
 of the blessedness of rectitude, of the 
 blessedness of love and purity in the 
 heart, where that blessedness exists, is 
 inevitable, and that the utterance of it, 
 in certain relations, is natural. The 
 pride of virtue and the joy of virtue 
 are very different things. Of the for- 
 mer, there is not in Jesus the slightest 
 evidence : everything he referred to 
 God. But \\\?> joy was most intense; 
 of that there is constant proof. That 
 he utters, he declares in the strongest 
 terms. Was it any derogation from 
 his dignity, that he should do so.? 
 Why, the ordinary Christian con- 
 sciousness, the virtuous consciousness 
 of good men, often takes this ground 
 in relation to evil, to vice, and the 
 misery of evil, of vice. It says, not, 
 " I am good ; " — so Jesus said, " Why 
 callest thou >ne good ? " — but it says, 
 to all aberration and wandering from 
 the right way, "/!/)/ course is happy, 
 compared with yours." The Christian 
 preacher, with such imperfect experi- 
 ence as he has of the blessedness of 
 piety and goodness, often kindles and 
 glows with this theme, the blessedness 
 of religion. The Christian parent ex- 
 postulates* with his erring son in the 
 same terms. " You are seeking hap- 
 piness," he says ; " you will never find 
 it in the path of wandering; come back 
 to us ; come to the simple way we 
 taught you in your childhood ; come 
 back, poor wanderer, to the prayers 
 you once made by your mother's side." 
 And should not he who knew, as none 
 other ever knew, the unutterable joy 
 of purity, of love, of communion with 
 the Father ; who had that which all 
 men are seeking, a sufficing joy in 
 overflowing fulness, — should not he 
 
 say, " Come unto me ; come unto me. 
 all ye that labor and are heavy-Iader, 
 and I will give you rest ; if any ma^ 
 thirst, let him come unto me and drink , 
 whosoever drinketh of the waters o( 
 earthly pleasure, sliall thirst again ; but 
 whosoever drinketh of the water that \ 
 will give him, shall never thirst" .'' U 
 seeins to me that it would be faithless- 
 ness to such a priceless trust, not ti" 
 speak. It would be to hoard and locL 
 up, not wealth, not knowledge, but ci 
 more precious treasure, and one for 
 want of which the world is pining anoi 
 perishing. Oh ! no ; one must speak, 
 — must utter forth and declare the }0\ 
 of the Infinite Presence, else the \^tx[) 
 stones would cry out. 
 
 And let it be more distinctly con- 
 sidered, that Jesus came — that he 
 frequently says — for this very end; to 
 seek the wandering, to save the lost, 
 to reforin the world from its errors and 
 corruptions, to make a new impress, 
 upon the human soul, of the loveliness 
 and blessedness of things divine. He 
 that has such a mission jniist stand 
 forth, must assert hiinself, must put for- 
 ward his personality into the contest, 
 and reason with men, — must say I and 
 you, as Jesus did with the Jews. An 
 earnest, large, sympathizing nature can- 
 not content itself to speak in mere 
 theses, mere general propositions, but 
 must come into closer and more per- 
 sonal contact. The greatest natures 
 have always shown this desire to com- 
 municate themselves, to impress their 
 convictions on others, to make otiiers 
 sharers of their light and joy; great 
 poets, great preachers, speak with this 
 intent. 
 
 I am endeavoring, you perceive, to 
 open to you the natural fountains in 
 the mind of Jesus ; and to show that, 
 as freely as any one ever uttered the 
 great swelling thoughts of his heart, so 
 freely did he. We must not look upon 
 him as a magisterial Instructor, as a 
 mere official Teacher ; the words, Mes- 
 siah, Mediator, Redeemer, lead us too 
 much to think merely of office and law 
 
756 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 and dispensation. But no ; a living, 
 loving heart breathed itself out in the 
 call, '• Come unto me, come to me, and 
 1 will give you rest." And that call 
 is as vital now, and as needful now, 
 as it ever was. 
 
 In the next place, I must observe, 
 that, as I read tiie C^ospel, there was, at 
 the same time, a certain ////personality 
 in what Jesus says of himself. When 
 he says, "Come unto me, believe in me, 
 receive me, else you perish," I under- 
 stand him to speak not of himself merely 
 as a certain person, but with a more 
 general reference to himself as an em- 
 bodiment of truth and hght and life. 
 He does not, as the language literally 
 would imply, — he does not, as I con- 
 ceive, speak of his own personality as 
 the ultimate object of all trust and love, 
 for his design was to lead men to the 
 Father. He means to say, as I under- 
 stand him, that that divine light which 
 shone in him, stcch as that, must be 
 accepted of men, or there is no life in 
 them. He generalizes that of which 
 he is the example. Of this the follow- 
 ing language is a remarkable instance. 
 "For God so loved the world, that he 
 gave his only begotten Son, that who- 
 soever believeth in him should not per- 
 ish, but have everlasting life, — i.e., 
 everlasting blessedness. He that be- 
 lieveth on him is not condemned ; but 
 he that believeth not, is condemned al- 
 ready ; because he believeth not in the 
 name of the only begotten Son of God ; " 
 i. e., because he does not receive into 
 his soul that divine light, that blessed- 
 ness, of which I am the embodiment 
 and example. And that this is a gen- 
 eral representation not appertaining to 
 him as a person merely, but to the light 
 that was in him, appears from what im- 
 mediately follows. " And this is the con- 
 demnation, that light is come into tlie 
 world, — not that I have come, but that 
 light is come into the world, — and men 
 loved darkness more than light, because 
 their deeds were evil. For every one 
 that doeth evil, hateth the light, neither 
 Cometh to the light, lest his deeds should 
 
 be reproved. But he that doeth truth, 
 cometh to the light, that his deeds may 
 be made manifest that they are wrought 
 in God." 
 
 These two observations which I have 
 now made, are of more importance, 1 
 conceive, than may appear in the ab- 
 stract statement. Jesus Christ, the 
 Saviour of the world, speaks to men, 
 speaks to us. It is of the last impor- 
 tance, that we should understand him, 
 and fairly and truly receive the impres- 
 sion which his words should make upon 
 us. If this impression is hindered by 
 any misconstruction on our part, the ut- 
 most pains should be taken to remove 
 it. This divine being is to impress us 
 by his character, his life, his words, by 
 the grandeur, nobleness, purity, and love- 
 liness of his character. If we feel that 
 he unreasonably presses himself upon 
 our attention, our faith or love, this 
 feeling must thwart the very design of 
 his coming. Let us understand, then, 
 but this ; that here was a being, filled 
 with the divinest goodness and sanc- 
 tity; that he held in the bosom of his 
 own experience a treasure of inexpres- 
 sible value to us ; that he knew the 
 secret of all welfare, and that for us to 
 know it is worth more than life ; that 
 it is life, peace, joy, blessedness un- 
 bounded and everlasting; and then, I 
 ask, what call of his, what exhortation, 
 what word of entreaty, could be too 
 tender or earnest or urgent ? Then, 
 can we not receive his solemn declara- 
 tion, " He that believeth, he that re- 
 ceiveth into his heart the liglit and love 
 that I have found, shall be saved, be 
 blessed forever ; and he that believeth 
 not, he that rejecteth the living joy of 
 faith and love, must be miserable. It 
 is but the utterance of what is to-day 
 true, and will be true forever. It is true, 
 whether Jesus had uttered it or not; 
 it was true before he uttered it ; it is 
 forever true, that only he who receives 
 into his heart a love and purity like 
 that of Christ, can be saved, can be 
 blessed. It is indeed a vital and mo- 
 mentous truth, but it is not an odious 
 
CHRIST INTELLIGIBLE AND IMITABLE. 
 
 757 
 
 or dreadful truth ; on the contrary, it 
 is the very glory of our nature, that it 
 cannot be happy in any other way. 
 
 But I must yet further observe, in 
 tlie third place, that the lofty language 
 in which Jesus spoke of himself cannot 
 be altogether understood, without sup- 
 posing that he regarded himself as 
 raised up and appointed to hold a pe- 
 culiar relation to our humanity. No 
 prophet, no moral teacher, ever uttered 
 such words as he did, concerning his 
 relation to the whole world. If he is 
 looked upon but as other prophets and 
 teachers, his language would seem in 
 some cases to be unbecoming and pre- 
 sumptuous. " I am come a light into 
 the world. And I, if I be lifted up, 
 will draw all men unto me. Neither 
 pray I for these alone, but for .those 
 that shall believe on me through their 
 word. Go and convert all nations, bap- 
 tizing them into the name — i. e., the 
 acknowledgment — of the Father, and 
 of the Soil, and of the Holy Ghost." 
 
 "And I, if I be lifted up, will draw 
 all men unto me." What words were 
 these, for one about to die on the 
 cross ! Only a thought which, b}' di- 
 vine right, took possession of the ages 
 beforehand, could utter such words. 
 What a supernatural, what a wonder- 
 ful, what a sublime confidence was 
 this ! A Hebrew teacher, of but the 
 humblest account among his people, — 
 and that the most despised and hated 
 of all people ; one whom this very 
 nation, his own nation, was about to 
 reject and cast out, as unworthy to 
 live ; who foresaw that he was doomed 
 to suffer as a convict, a malefactor, and 
 the lowest of malefactors, doomed to 
 the most ignominious and bitter death, 
 whom the public law was about to 
 strike with opprobrium; at whom the 
 rabble was to jeer in derision, and the 
 chief men, the highest men in the 
 country, were to exclaim in wrath, 
 " Crucify him, crucify him ! " — he, I 
 say, solitary, forsaken, smitten, with all 
 the world against him, all earth darken- 
 ing around him, and dark tlioughts, too, 
 
 in his own soul, which broke out in the 
 sorrowful soliloquy, " Now is my soul 
 troubled, and what shall I say ? " — yet 
 what does he say ? How calmly does 
 he reason ! Socrates, too, reasoned, 
 and said to his friends, " Death is not 
 to be dreaded ; it may lead to a higher 
 life ; let us hope for it." But what did 
 Jesus say ? " Father, the hour is come, 
 and I come to thee." And then, 1 re- 
 peat, how calmly did he reason, and 
 with what a lofty thought ! " Except 
 a corn of wheat fall into the ground and 
 die, it abideth alone ; but if it die, it 
 bringeth forth much fruit." And then, 
 looking through, looking above, looking 
 beyond that dark hour, he says, " And 
 I, if 1 be lifted from the earth, will 
 draw all men unto me." 
 
 And how have all the ages since 
 answered back to that astonishing ex- 
 pectation ! Strong as the language of 
 Jesus is, concerning himself, his mis- 
 sion, and his place in the world, history 
 has sanctioned it, to the very letter. 
 Read and ponder the contrasted por- 
 tions of that history. Its beginning is 
 the despised Judaea, termed by Roman 
 pride, and in the Roman speech of that 
 day, "a scowl upon the face of the 
 world." Yes, in Judjea, eighteen hun- 
 dred years ago, walked by her humble 
 waysides a being who has not only 
 been, through all these centuries, the 
 most revered and exalted among men, 
 but who has set up in the world a new 
 idea, a new order of greatness ; one 
 whose life was of such solemn and 
 majestic significance, that every act and 
 word of his is famiharly told in these 
 far-off centuries ; that every incident 
 and person connected with him, — the 
 circumstances of his birth, his youthful 
 visit to the temple, the humble names 
 of his friends, the woman at the well 
 of Samaria, the night-shade of Geth- 
 semane, the traitorous kiss, the vainly 
 washen hands of the wavering Pilate, 
 the tears of Peter, the crown of thorns, 
 and the prayer of the thief upon the 
 cross, — all rise into stupendous in- 
 terest and "randeur. Nothing: did he 
 
758 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 touch, but it has assumed a character 
 of greatness. Down upon the stream of 
 ages have been borne the memorials 
 of his hfe and death, of his birth and 
 passion. In all the culiivated nations 
 of the world, holy days and times and 
 seasons have commemorated all that he 
 did, and said, and suffered. And it is 
 no artificial homage. Deep into the 
 hearts of millions upon millions have 
 sunk the words that he uttered. Before 
 the ignominious cross — the very sym- 
 bol of his humiliation — have multitudes 
 kneeled, and bathed it with their tears. 
 And Jerusalem, through whose streets 
 he once walked, — Jerusalem, that sit- 
 teth solitary among the nations, — who 
 of us that could visit its lonely towers, 
 who of us that could enter its neglected 
 gates, would not be glad to prostrate 
 himself ujjon the earth, and to kiss the 
 very ground that was once trodden by 
 the feet of the Son of God ? Well, 
 then, did he say, "And I, if I be lifted 
 .up, will draw all men unto me." 
 
 But this is not all. Jesus Christ 
 bears a relation not only to the ages, 
 but to the individual soul. Every soul 
 is an epitome of the world. It is not 
 only the witness, but the conscious par- 
 taker of human weal and woe. The in- 
 terests of Jiiimaniiy are vast : the course 
 of the ao;es is majestic ; but the world, 
 the ages, the great burden of humanity, 
 the stragglings of all human need, and 
 weakness, and weariness, and sorrow, 
 and erring, are in nie. I am a world to 
 myself. And however I may speculate 
 about the world's destiny, I can feel no 
 destiny so intensely or so awfully as I 
 feel that which is embosomed in the 
 overshadowed depths of my own nature. 
 And with this great burden weighing 
 upon me, what am I ? Poor, weak, frail, 
 erring, sinning, suffering, — and liable 
 to suffer, what and how long, I know 
 not. 
 
 Now suppose that Jesus had never 
 lived in the world. The ages have 
 rolled on : the present hour has come ; 
 and I live, amidst the unnumbered mil- 
 lions that live, but with a need and 
 
 sorrow as vast and individual as if there 
 were none to share them with me. I 
 am in darkness ; or I am one, suppose, 
 that has strayed from the better path. 
 I have plunged into sin and misery and 
 despair. I have lived for a pampered 
 body, and the corrupted body has im- 
 prisoned me in its dungeon ; or I have 
 broken the laws of society, and crime 
 has imprisoned me in a literal dungeon. 
 The lights have all gone out from my 
 life ; for me there is none to help, none 
 to save ; for me there is ho God, nor 
 heaven, nor mercy, nor hope. And now 
 suppose that some pure soul, some heav- 
 en-sent friend, some minister of God's 
 pity, should come to me, — from earth 
 or from heaven, it is not material, — that 
 he should take a tender and generous 
 interest in me ; that he should speak to 
 me encouraging words, take me by the 
 hand and lift me up, tell me and per- 
 suade me to believe that God has pity 
 for me, breathe from his own loving 
 heart the word Father into mine ear, 
 convince me that I was made not to be 
 a child of despair, but a child of God. 
 Suppose that thus ' laboring with me, 
 thus talking and praying with me, — 
 throwing his helping and loving arms 
 around me, he should at length lift me 
 up, — lift up my sinning and despairing 
 soul, and raise me from darkness and 
 from the horrible pit, and carry me forth 
 to the light of day, where the heavens 
 should be bright around me and the 
 earth beautiful, — where, as 1 looked 
 around me, I should see a new world ; 
 and as I looked upward, I should see 
 new heavens — ay, an immortality of 
 joy, opening before me — what a deliv- 
 erance would that be ! Oh ! the words 
 were never found, the mortal speech 
 was never framed, that could set forth 
 the joy of that dehverance ! And sup- 
 pose, further, that this pure and noble 
 friend had taken infection from that 
 noisome dungeon where he found me, 
 and had died to save me ! What could 
 ever be, — what love, what saintliness, 
 what loveliness, what sacrifice, what 
 canonized suffering, could ever be to me 
 
THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 759 
 
 like that ! What memory could there 
 be. in all the world, like that '. I do not 
 desire to separate the death of Jesus 
 from every other death endured for the 
 rifjhteous cause. He himself Said, '-The 
 works that I do, ye shall do." Every 
 sufferer for the right, every martyr for 
 truth, dies for human virtue, dies for the 
 world ; but Jesus stands at the head of 
 all 
 
 Such is the ofifice of Christ, the Sa- 
 viour, to all who are truly touched, pen- 
 etrated, regenerated, by his word, his 
 patience, his passion and his victory: 
 and such is the memory of him in the 
 world, through all ages. It is a natural 
 claim. It is natural, simple, reasonable. 
 I desire it to be no other to any man. 
 That is what I have sought to show you. 
 I desire no factitious or forced homage 
 to this most divine, most human excel- 
 lence. Can you believe that that sub- 
 lime image of suffering and love has 
 been before the world, — has been im- 
 pressed upon the world, for eighteen 
 centuries, without the ordaining provi- 
 dence and will of God ? Can you believe 
 that all the signs and wonders of the 
 early time, all the words spoken by this 
 wonderful Being, all his conscious rela- 
 tion to the whole human race, should 
 have been meant for less than to pene- 
 trate through the world, to penetrate to 
 us, to touch all hearts with that living 
 patience and dying sorrow ? 
 
 And it has penetrated the hearts of 
 millions unnumbered, and in a manner 
 so remarkable as to vindicate the aston- 
 ishing expectation of the crucified Suf- 
 ferer and Lor!. Other great teachers 
 — Sakya Muni, Zoroaster, Confucius — 
 have been reverenced and held in re- 
 membrance ; but no other being that 
 ever wore the human form has been so 
 beloved. How deep and tender that 
 feeling has been, is evinced by what is 
 told of an aged man, who lay upon his 
 dying bed, whose failing faculties had 
 ceased to retain any recognition, even 
 of his family and nearest friends. He 
 was asked if he knew one and another ; 
 and his answer was, " No, I do not know 
 
 them." At length the question was put, 
 "Do you know Jesus Christ.'"' "Oh, 
 yes ! " — he exclaimed, the last conscious- 
 ness gleaming through his fading eyes, 
 — " Oh ! yes, he is my Saviour ! " It is 
 the last glad cry of Christian faith, when 
 dust descends to dust. It answers back 
 to the great words uttered eighteen cen- 
 turies ago, — " I am the resurrection and 
 the life ; he that believeth in me, shall 
 never die." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 2 Cor. v. 17 : "Therefore, if any man be in Christ, 
 he is a new creature ; old things are passed away : 
 behold, all things are become new." 
 
 To be "in Christ," we read here, is 
 to be •' a new creature." When the 
 Romans freed a slave, they said, " He 
 is born again." So Jesus said, in a 
 religious sense, thou must be "born 
 again," must be a new creature. To 
 be in Christ, the Christ-life in the soul, 
 is a new life to the common experience 
 of men, — new motive, new power, new 
 patience and victory. But now in that 
 new life old things will pass away. Cre- 
 ation implies dissolution ; the old dies 
 in giving birth to the new. So we see 
 it in the processes of nature. As St. 
 Paul said, " That which thou sowest 
 is not quickened, except it die." Life 
 springs from death ; and so it is not 
 contrary to the analogies of natio'e that 
 life immortal should spring from the 
 grave. When the spirit is born into 
 that future life, the body is left behind, 
 like an old and worn-out garment ; and 
 so, in the progress of the religious life 
 here, old things are left behind, the old 
 things that pertain to our spiritual child- 
 hood, ignorance, imperfect development, 
 — the old things of the Jewish dispen- 
 sation, perhaps Paul meant, — they pass 
 away ; but not the essential realities of 
 truth and faith. Tliey abide forever ; 
 they are things that are new, and for- 
 ever new. 
 
76o 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 This is the point of view from which 
 I wish now to speak. The old in re- 
 ligion dies out, — the old error, the old 
 dispensation, the old superstition ; but 
 not the old religion, — this is forever 
 new and forever fresh. For this there 
 is no decline, no decay ; for it is the 
 life of God in the soul. Upon this no 
 darkness, no night-shade, is to fall ; 
 religion is the soul's everlasting day. 
 Moods of mind, modes of experience, 
 no doubt, pass away; but not the vital 
 and precious experience itself. Thus 
 institutions, usages, customs, the means 
 that minister to humanity, decline and 
 die ; but humanity does not die. And 
 so kingdoms fall ; but that kingdom of 
 God, of which it is said that it is within 
 you, never falls. 
 
 This is the nature of all progress. 
 Compare youth with manhood, or man- 
 hood with age ; compare the earlier 
 with the maturer periods of thought, 
 of knowledge, of opinion, of faith or 
 creed ; and always it will be found, 
 where tliere is a real progress, that 
 some things drop off and fall away, 
 and that better things come in their 
 place. 
 
 But this encouraging view of things 
 is what a timid conservatism cannot ac- 
 cept ; and it is notable to see how many 
 minds, in these days, are disturbed by 
 anxiety, distrust, and alarm at the new 
 developments of opinion in religion, and 
 in science and politics as well. It is not 
 against a reasonable conservatism, but 
 ao-ainst this great and anxious distrust, 
 that I would now speak. 
 
 The point which I am to insist on 
 is one of great interest, I think, to the 
 views we entertain of our highest life 
 and welfare as individuals, and of the 
 highest life and welfare of the world. 
 These are the aspects of the subject 
 under which I shall consider it ; and in 
 both respects, I say, we are apt to be 
 discouraged without cause. 
 
 Look at individual life. There is a 
 youth of religious experience ; and how 
 many have I known, who, because it 
 was a season of great excitement, looked 
 
 back upon that as their best time, and 
 lamented its departure. There is a youth 
 of religious experience, — full of emo- 
 tion, full of joy, or, it may be, full of 
 concern, fall of doubt and fear. Oh, it 
 is not strange that upon the opening and 
 entrance into life, when the mind first 
 awakes from thoughtless childhood, and 
 looks around it, and begins to look re- 
 ality in the face, — it is not strange that 
 there should come down upon this young 
 life the awe of the question, What am 
 I ? Whither am I going ? What is to 
 become of me ? What shall I do to be 
 saved ? But time goes on ; experience 
 deepens ; questions are struggled with 
 and settled ; and the soul sinks into deep 
 and calm assurance. \\. knows now what 
 it only believed before. Now God is not 
 a Being to be sought only in morning 
 and evening prayers ; but his presence is 
 an abiding reality. Jesus Christ speaks 
 to his thought as never man spake. The 
 life of the soul is more to him than all 
 other life. 
 
 It may be in old age that all this is 
 most felt. It may be in old age that a 
 man more truly lives than he ever lived 
 before. The body decays ; the limbs 
 tremble with weakness ; the eye grows 
 dim ; the ear is dull of hearing. But 
 it is not so with the life within. There 
 all is fresh and strong, ay* and perhaps 
 joyous and gay. The work of life is 
 done, — and well that it is done ; the 
 battle is fought, and it was a good fight, 
 
 — so Paul found it. The affections have 
 freer play than they had amidst the strife 
 and turmoil of life ; the things that are 
 divine are more real and sure than ever ; 
 earth recedes, with all its little interests 
 and anxieties, and heaven is opening 
 and widening to the view. 
 
 There is a youth of life, too, as well 
 as of religion, concerning which the 
 same mistake is made ; for there is an 
 idea of youth as the only good time, as 
 the especially happy period of life. It 
 is an idea, I will venture to say, which 
 needs the correction of a wiser thought, 
 
 — I might say, of a higher civiliza- 
 tion of mind and thought. It properly 
 
THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 761 
 
 belongs to the older ages ; it is the un- 
 cultured, unspiritualized, barbaric idea, 
 which sums up all the good of life in 
 thews and sinews, in health and beauty, 
 in animal spirits, in the excitements and 
 enjovments of pleasure and passion. All 
 common speech, you know, all poetry, 
 all essay-writing, is full of that idea. 
 They give the undisputed palm to youth, 
 and sigh for the possibility of bringing 
 it back again. The treasures of expe- 
 rience, which a lifetime has gathered, 
 
 — stored knowledge, ripened wisdom, 
 strengthened faith, and purified love, — 
 seem to be of no account, and quite 
 unthought of, in comparison. It is 
 as if the mature man, trained, taught, 
 learned, accomplished, wide-reaching in 
 his grasp, full of all that makes the 
 highest life, should look back to the 
 impulsiveness and ignorance of child- 
 hood as the best time. No, there are 
 better things in life than childhood or 
 youth ever knew. Doubtless old age 
 has its disadvantages, — not in having 
 more sickness and pain, for I doubt 
 whether in the average experience of 
 life this is true. But doubtless there 
 are things that grow old and pass away, 
 
 — the vigor, the beauty, the passions, 
 ay, and follies, too, of early life ; but 
 these are not the greatest things, nor 
 the best nor the happiest things, in 
 our being. I would not give up, may 
 the aged say, the views I now have 
 of life and life's welfare, the results of 
 thought and experience, the ideas of re- 
 ligion that have been growing clearer 
 and brighter and brighter to me every 
 year of my lifer, the ideas of God, and of 
 the great and good Providence over the 
 world and the universe, — no, I would 
 not give them up for all that restored 
 youth could bring back to me. So all 
 worldly enjoyments are of the things 
 that pass away. Usage and familiarity 
 wear them out. The only way to relish 
 them at all, the only means by which 
 they can be made to satisfy the passing 
 hour, is to vary and increase and in- 
 tensify them. "More, more," the thirsty 
 soul says ; " more pleasure, and ever- 
 
 increased variety in it ; more praise, 
 and yet more of it ; more gold, more 
 splendor of apparel and garniture, more 
 drink, more feasting," — till by and by 
 excess "cloys the hungry edge of appe- 
 tite," repetition dulls enjoyment, pleas- 
 ure palls, and gold grows dim to the 
 aged and dying eyes. But there are 
 things which no repetition can ever ren- 
 der dull, no familiarity tame, no excess 
 a siarfeit. These are the things that 
 are great and divine, — truth, goodness. 
 Love and Perfection Infinite. This is 
 the stronghold of our very nature upon 
 progress, upon happiness, upon immor- 
 tality. 
 
 For if the things that take hold of the 
 highest in us, of the very religion of 
 our being, were to decline in power 
 the more we study them ; if they must 
 share the fate of a world that is passing 
 away, immortality itself would be no 
 blessing, but utter misery. And on the 
 contrary, it is no mean argument for 
 our immortality, that religion, that pure 
 and holy affection, is the one thing in 
 the soul which is ever fresh, ever 
 young, ever growing in beatitude and 
 beauty ; and that from the crumbling 
 edge of this world, from the borders of 
 the grave, rise the most impassioned 
 yearnings for a higher life beyond. 
 
 I am speaking now, and first, of 
 individual experience. I insist that 
 what in us is the best of us, never 
 grows old ; that seventy years do not, 
 nor would a thousand or million years, 
 bring any dulness or decay into the life 
 divine ; that there is this grand and 
 marked peculiarity in our being, this 
 ever fresh unfolding, this looking out 
 to immortality: as the sphinx — a 
 human head on an animal body — has 
 been said to be "animalism looking 
 out to humanity," so in our sphinx-like 
 mystery of body and soul is humanity 
 looking out to some unrealized and no- 
 bler being. There are old things that 
 pass away ; but they are temporary and 
 transient ministries to the spirit's en- 
 during life : as, in nature, the bark and 
 husk which decay and fall off are nour- 
 
lC2 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 ishing and protecting an ever fresh 
 growth within. 
 
 But what, then, is all this that we 
 hear about dulness in religion, — more 
 about dulness, alas ! in religion than in 
 anything else ? What is this coldness 
 and dearth in churches and congrega- 
 tions, of which so much complaint is 
 made ? What is this dying out of re- 
 ligion in some individual minds .'' Old 
 things pass away, and nothi7ig becomes 
 new. Some persons seem to outgrow 
 their religion, and come to look upon 
 it as a youthful illusion. Some who 
 were piously educated become scep- 
 tics, materialists, even Atheists. There 
 are those who rationalize themselves 
 into absolute coldness and death. They 
 reason away one thing after another 
 that they once believed, till nothing is 
 left. Some fall away from all Church 
 relations, or rid themselves of all bonds 
 to sect and creed, and are accounted to 
 have no rehgion at all. 
 
 What, I repeat, is to be said of all 
 this.'' Two things. One is, that those 
 who have fallen away from all the relig- 
 ion they ever had, never had any worth 
 the name. They have been catechised 
 and worried into religion, or driven into 
 it by fear, accepting it, perhaps, with 
 selfish joy, merely as a refuge from 
 perdition, or they have taken it as a 
 prescription from their spiritual guides, 
 without having been led, in either case, 
 to understand its nature, or to see and 
 feel the true and rational grounds of it. 
 As it is with knowledge, so it may be 
 with religion. The pupil may be so 
 taught, and is sometimes so taught 
 in our schools, as never to be inspired 
 with the true love of knowledge ; and 
 his books and lessons are flung away, 
 when they are done with, as a burden 
 and weariness. Old things have passed 
 away, and there is nothing in him to 
 become new. 
 
 The other thing to be said is this : 
 that much may pass away from religion, 
 and instead of its being impaired, it 
 may be strengthened by the change. 
 What has fallen off, havinir served its 
 
 purpose for the time, has left it un- 
 shackled for a freer and fresher growth. 
 Bondage in the world's religion was 
 inevitable, and had its uses, but free- 
 dom is better and stronger. As Pagan- 
 ism was succeeded by Judaism, and 
 Judaism by Christianity, and religion 
 has been ever growing in vigor and 
 purity, so may it be with individual 
 experience. A man may become freer 
 from sectarian bonds, from creed-wor- 
 ship, and from Bible-worship, and all 
 the while more profoundly interested 
 in vital religion ; less and less a Cal- 
 vinist, a Presbyterian, a Methodist, or 
 an Episcopalian, and more and more 
 a Christian. He may become large 
 enough to embrace all in his charity, 
 and to transcend all in his devotion and 
 earnestness. For, of this I am sure, 
 that with every true, sincere, and 
 thoughtful man, religion, the love of 
 God and of all that is godlike, sinks 
 ever deeper and deeper into the roots 
 of his being. 
 
 I have said that the relation between 
 the old and the new, which I am en- 
 deavoring to set forth in this discourse, 
 has regard as to individual life, so also 
 to the views we entertain of the highest 
 life and welfare of the world. Let us 
 look a little, so far as the time may 
 serve, into this broader field. 
 
 The world is troubled and anxious 
 about itself. It is a sick world, and 
 needs some healing hand. It is a dis- 
 ordered world, and wants peace. And 
 now, especially ; for now are coming 
 into the world, — unlooked for, I be- 
 lieve, by most person!, — now are 
 coming, nay and have come, political 
 troubles, huge strides of immorality 
 especially in the quest of gain, and 
 alarming scepticism in religion. Old 
 systems are crumbling to pieces on 
 every side, as, 1 think, they never were 
 before. Question, doubt, scepticism, 
 it is true, have always been in the 
 world ; but they never went to the 
 roots of things as they do now. 
 
 But I am not willing to let doubts or 
 fears press upon my mind or yours, 
 
THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 76: 
 
 as a disheartening burden. I believe 
 that all we fear, and rightly fear, is 
 to come out well. I believe that the 
 power of good in God's world is 
 greater than the power of evil ; and 
 therefore 1 look, not for the destruc- 
 tion, but for the building up of order, 
 virtue, and religion, in the days that are 
 to come. He who does not expect 
 himself to see those days, he who is 
 standing upon the verge of life, cannot 
 lose his interest in the world he is leav- 
 ing ; and if he can say anything, how- 
 ever little it may be, that leans to good 
 hope of the future, I deem that it may 
 be titly, though modestly, spoken, as 
 his parting word. I have always 
 thought that I should like to preach in 
 old age, — to stand ijp and speak, in 
 the decay of life, of that which never 
 decays. — which is becoming forever 
 new, while all things else die and pass 
 away. I did not know precisely what 
 I should wish to say ; but I have been 
 led lately, in my meditations, to put 
 down some words to say, which I am 
 now asking you to hear. 
 
 Old things pass away ; and yet all 
 things become ne'v^^ This is my theme; 
 and I am now to apply it in a larger 
 view. Decadence, difficulty, trouble, 
 always enter into this world's affairs ; 
 but I believe in a happy issue. And 
 especially there are three grand inter- 
 ests which are always thought to be in 
 peril, but which, I believe, are ultimately 
 .secure ; there are tliree things on which, 
 in fact, the welfare of the world reposes ; 
 on political justice, on social virtue, and 
 religious faith. They all stand in the 
 one central principle, that they are true; 
 that they have in them the common 
 element and essence of what is right ; 
 and neither of them can prosper, if either 
 fails. 
 
 First, then, let us say a word of politi- 
 cal justice ; for without it neither moral- 
 ity nor religion has any fair chance in 
 the world. Justice is an attribute of 
 God. It is, as among men, always a 
 sacred thing ; but its claim becomes 
 more urgent when a whole people, when 
 
 a nation, demands it. And there can be 
 no proper justice to a nation, unless its 
 opinion, its will, and its interests are 
 represented, by suffrage, in the govern- 
 ment. This truth is fast coming to be 
 recognized in the whole civilized world. 
 The old, arbitrary, unquestioned rule 
 over men, of one or of a few, is passing 
 away. Wliat is to come in its place ? 
 How will the new, the free system work .'' 
 This is the great political question now ; 
 and upon this question men's minds are 
 divided. Our own example is deeply 
 distrusted by many thoughtful men 
 abroad. It was this which turned away 
 from us the hearts of many persons in 
 England, in our great and terrible civil 
 war. They did not wish this Republic 
 to stand. They thought the experiment 
 one of evil omen to the world, and 
 although the result is disappointing 
 them, and encouraging us, thank God ! 
 still among ourselves there are not 
 wanting those who distrust our free 
 system. I know very well what it is to 
 feel some anxiety on this subject, ior I 
 have felt it all my life. But I feel it less 
 and less, and for tliese reasons. First, 
 because the free system is founded in 
 justice. It is not right that one man, a 
 hereditary monarch, or that several men, 
 an aristocracy, should, at their sole 
 pleasure, set up a government, or pre- 
 scribe laws for a whole people. It is no 
 more right than it would be for a self- 
 constituted proprietor to divide and as- 
 sign all the property of the people at 
 his pleasure, — taking for himself what 
 he pleases, and giving to every other 
 man in the community what he pleases. 
 There are other things precious, besides 
 property : life, liberty, education, the 
 pursuit of happiness, and the common 
 and natural claims to respect and influ- 
 ence ; and when I say that all this should 
 be committed, not to a few irresponsible 
 persons, but to the common judgment 
 of the whole body of the people, I plant 
 myself on the foundation of obvious and 
 eternal Riiiht, which it is the tendency 
 and law of the Will Divine to set up 
 and establish. 
 
764 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 Secondly, I entertain a calm and un- 
 disturbed confidence in the ultimate 
 prevalence and triumph of this just sys- 
 tem of government, because the actual 
 political experience of nations through 
 ages has been tending to this point. 
 Government began with chieftainship, 
 with despotism of the strong over the 
 weak ; because the weak had neither 
 power nor courage to resist. As the 
 consciousness of manhood grew in men, 
 as light broke in, limitation of the sover- 
 eign power has marked every step of pro- 
 gress ; till a limited monarchy, as it is in 
 England, and will be more and more in 
 Italy and Germany and Russia, is made 
 compatiljle with popular representation 
 in the government. And now, when the 
 last great nation is built up upon these 
 shores, it is a Republic pure and simple. 
 Can any one suppose that this free sys- 
 tem, the growth, the outcome of the ad- 
 vancing ages, is to sink into the abyss 
 of ruin .'' 
 
 I know that there are difficulties. We 
 are Reeling them ourselves. There are 
 difficulties in the way of settling our 
 national affairs into peaceful order, since 
 the war. There are especial difficulties 
 in the government of cities. But they 
 are not irremediable. There is a remedy, 
 if the people will only seek and apply it. 
 It lies in themselves, in their own spirit 
 and conduct. Let not what I say be 
 thought to be a commonplace abstrac- 
 tion, a mere sentiment, of no avail to 
 meet the case. We are accustomed, I 
 know, in a general way, to admit that 
 education, intelligence, and virtue are 
 necessary in a free State ; but the 
 remedy I speak of is more specific, and 
 lies deeper. There is, I venture to 
 maintain, a new view of citizenship, of 
 what it is to be good members of a free 
 community, which has never yet been 
 well and truly considered. We are not yet 
 educated up to a due sense of the charge 
 and responsibility which we have taken 
 upon us. The notions we have of our 
 relations to the government are notions 
 inherited from the past ; when the gov- 
 ernment did what it pleased, and all that 
 
 the people had to do, was to submit ; all 
 it had to do, was to pay taxes and keep 
 the peace. We^ in this country, have 
 infinitely more to do : to take upon our 
 very hearts a feeling for the common 
 weal ; to take a brotherly part with all 
 our fellow-citizens in the political order- 
 ing of things ; to study and learn our 
 civic duties ; to attend primary meet- 
 ings, to vote, to serve on juries, all of 
 us, rich or poor, high or low ; to let no 
 particle of influence or efficiency we pos- 
 sess, be wanting to the common weal 
 and work. There are a great many peo- 
 ple among us, especially of the rich, and 
 some of the educated, who live as if they 
 had nothing to do but to gather property, 
 or to get their books around them, and 
 enjoy their good fortune, and to let who 
 will, take care of the commonwealth. It 
 will never do. It may do for men living 
 under arbitrary rule ; but for our society 
 it will never do. It is an altogether false 
 idea of hfe, in a free and self-governed 
 society. 
 
 And all this should be taught from 
 our pulpits, and should be taught in 
 our schools. See what was done in the 
 Southern schools before the war. The 
 Southern doctrine of State Rights was 
 assiduously taught in them. The public 
 mind was thus prepared for disunion. 
 The instruction was framed to meet 
 that exigency. Now let the youth of 
 the whole country be taught another, a 
 deeper and greater thing. Let them be 
 taught that true republican citizenship 
 involves a perpetual exigency; that the 
 bond of conscience can no more safely 
 be taken off from political Hfe than it 
 can from private life. It can be taught; 
 it mtist be taught ; and the time must 
 come, I believe, when it -willhe taught. 
 I trust the common-sense of human 
 nature for thai. The time when it is 
 rightly taught and thoroughly felt and 
 acted upon may be far off, but it will 
 come. 
 
 But next to political self-government, 
 as a subject for anxious consideration, 
 is personal self-government ; in other 
 words, the morals of society, the con- 
 
THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 765 
 
 tluct of private life. To make a society 
 of true, temperate, honest, good, and 
 loving men, — this is what we want done, 
 and almost despair of. How is it to be 
 done ? Not by associations, not even 
 by churches, but by every man's watch 
 and care for himself. Or if there must 
 be associations, as there are now, for 
 almost everything, I would that we could 
 see, for once, an association, ay, or a 
 church, of Honest Men : of men bind- 
 ing themselves in every action of their 
 lives — in barter and trade, in buying 
 and selling — to be honest ; to speak the 
 word that is true, to do the thing that 
 is right. To be honest, 1 say; cost what 
 it will, to stake everything upon that. 
 
 On what high and holy ground to 
 stand, would this be ! Down in low 
 levels far beneath this too many are 
 scrambling for gratifications of selfish- 
 ness, pride, sensuality, and especially 
 for that which ministers to all, — for 
 gain. This universal haste to be rich, — 
 to be rich as the best thing on earth, 
 — is it to stride over and master the 
 world ? I do not believe it. I do not 
 believe that this golden calf is to stand 
 and be worshipped, as it now is, beneath 
 the awful heights of truth and righteous- 
 ness that are to spread over the coming 
 time. Even education, the common en- 
 lightenment of men's minds, will dis- 
 solve and break it in pieces. It is 
 not the most thoughtful, reflective, 
 cultivated class that is possessed with 
 this madness for accumulation. Coarser 
 faculties are content to be absorbed in 
 that. As men think more, read more, 
 gain more knowledge, range amidst the 
 delights of good learning, of art, poetry, 
 music, works of genius, they will see 
 that there is something better than 
 goods and gains, and the avaricious 
 passions will die out of them. 
 
 Gain for a livelihood, or for any good 
 ends, is one thing ; but gain for gain's 
 sake, is another: and this, I believe, is 
 among the old things that will pass away. 
 It must, if men ever come to know what 
 they are, or for what end they were 
 made. They will not always think it 
 
 well, or enough, to concentrate all the 
 activity of a rational and immortal na- 
 ture upon putting a few more pence or 
 pounds into the till or purse. It will 
 yet seem to be foolish and intolerable, 
 to live for that alone ; yet more, to live 
 dishonestly for that. To sacrifice every- 
 thing for gain — principle, honor, con- 
 science, everything for gain — will yet 
 be seen to be insufferable folly ; to sacri- 
 fice everything for conscience, the grand- 
 est wisdom. 
 
 Do I seem now to be talking of ab- 
 stractions, which do not come home to 
 us ? When a man stands by his desk 
 or in his grain-field, and some transac- 
 tion of business is before him, and the 
 question is, — shall I contrive or repre- 
 sent things so as to gain ten or a hun- 
 dred or a thousand dollars by dishonesty, 
 or shall I stand true to the right, true to 
 my inmost convictions, though fortune 
 falls, though the heavens fall, — is that 
 an abstraction ? I tell you we shall see 
 more and more men, who in that keen, 
 cutting trial of their souls will stand by 
 the right. It is said, there are fewer 
 such men now. It may be so for the 
 hour, in this great outburst of univer- 
 sal free action, with new methods and 
 schemes of accumulation devised by 
 unscrupulous men. Great prizes are in 
 the lottery-wheel of business, and there 
 are great rogues to snatch them. But 
 these false ideas of wealth — of wealth 
 as better than worth, of wealth as the 
 chief good — will not always prevail. 
 Men must, — educated, thoughtful men, 
 conscious of what they are, — must see 
 where their welfare lies, what the true 
 end of their being is ; and the time shall 
 be when the world will be an associa- 
 tion of honest men. 
 
 And now, in fine, if neither despotic 
 government nor mean and hateful dis- 
 honesty can live and thrive in the face 
 of reason and right, if it is the tendency 
 of all just thinking to put them down, 
 is there any reason to fear that religion 
 will decline, and die out in the world } 
 
 Yet there are those who fear it, or 
 who, at least, are troubled with anxieties 
 
•jGQ 
 
 THE TWO GREAT COMMANDMENTS. 
 
 upon this point. So many old things 
 have passed away ; so many old ideas, 
 old ways of thinking, old traditional be- 
 liefs, are slipping from men's minds, 
 that conservative persons are tempted 
 to ask whether anything will be left. 
 
 Indeed, no thoughtful man can have 
 watched the progress of scientific in- 
 vestigations for the last few years, with- 
 out being concerned at their bearing 
 upon our primary religious beliefs. Yet, 
 after all, suppose the scientific theories 
 to be established ; what do they amount 
 to ? They claim to go back to the ori- 
 gin, and trace the evolution of life upon 
 this globe. They hold that all life 'has 
 proceeded from certain original germs 
 implanted in nature; or that a certain 
 substance called protoplasm is the germ 
 or basis of all life ; or even that the 
 forces of nature produce life, without 
 germ or protoplasm, — what is called 
 " spontaneous generation." Well, sup- 
 pose it all, or any of it, to be true. 
 What has all tiiis to do with the Cause ? 
 It is all modus ope?-andi, method or or- 
 der of the creation, not Cause. It does 
 not in the least preclude me from see- 
 ing Intelligence, Wisdom, Goodness, 
 shining throuj^h all forms, through germ 
 and protoplasm, through all the forms of 
 nature. 
 
 Not to see it, is to be blind. It is as 
 if, when a human mind is speaking to 
 me through bodily organs, I should see 
 nothing but the bodily organs. The 
 mind is a fact, as truly as the tongue 
 or brain is. Intelligence in nature is 
 a fact, as certain and manifest as visi- 
 ble nature is. And then, as to this hu- 
 man mind, concerning whose origin and 
 derivation people distress themselves, — ■ 
 what has its derivation t6 do with what 
 it is ? What if my predecessor were 
 an ape, in the long procession of ranks 
 and orders of being, from mollusk to 
 man? Still I am a man. No matter 
 hoiv, — i. e., in what order of events, I 
 became such, still I am the same. And 
 this same, this being that I am, — it of- 
 fends me to have it hustled in with the 
 rubbish of materialism or the senseless- 
 
 ness of blind agency. Beyond all that 
 matter is capable of, or animals ever 
 knew, here is something, in you, and 
 in me, — how shall I express it! — a 
 thought, an aspiration, a want, a sor- 
 row, a yearning for immortality, and 
 uplifted hands, a crying out for God, for 
 the living God ! All this has for its 
 counterpart, religion. The one cannot 
 be unless the other is. 
 
 Can any one believe that this surging 
 up of humanity to the highest is to sink 
 down into the void and inane, where 
 nothing is, — destined to fulfil nothing 
 better than the dark prophecies of ma- 
 teriahsm and atheism ? Can this be the 
 end ? That mark of progression which 
 is upon everything else in man, — upon 
 his reason, his education, his love of 
 knowledge, upon the science he so ar- 
 dently pursues, — that mark of progres- 
 sion, I say, is it to be erased from the 
 very crown he wears upon his brow, — 
 his religion .'' Is he to be discrowned, 
 and cast down, and sent forth, a blind 
 wanderer and outcast, without God, 
 without hope ? 
 
 And who is it that says this ? Not 
 the religious man, but the irreligious, 
 who professes to have no religion, and 
 to want none. Is this a fit person to 
 decide upon such a point ? We ask 
 experts, not /^experts, to judge of 
 things. Suppose an ignorant person 
 were to say to educated and learned 
 men, " Your education, of which you 
 think so much, your science, which you 
 pursue so eagerly, is all an illusion, yet 
 to die out of the world ; " would they 
 think much of his opinion ? And so, 
 when irreligious sceptics, learned or 
 worldly-wise, tell us that religion is to 
 die out, we can't think much of it. 
 There is a foolish talk I sometimes 
 hear, about faith's having been greater 
 in the dark, middle ages, than it is now : 
 credulity, it should be called. Faith, 
 true faith, deepens, as thought, reason- 
 ing, feeling, the heart's great search- 
 ing, goes deeper. It is so to-day. As 
 knowledge grows, as culture advances, 
 there are more and more men whose 
 
THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 767 
 
 souls are fraught full with a swelling 
 and undying sense of religion ; who 
 seek after God, after the living God, 
 and feel that all the interest of life is 
 gone, if that great and all-hallowing 
 Presence is gone fronr. the world. 
 
 No ; religions may die out of the 
 world, but not religion. Forms, usages, 
 false ideas of religion, have changed and 
 will change, but not the central reality. 
 There is yet much of what is called 
 religion in the world, which, I have no 
 doubt, will die out of it. I hope it will. 
 I listen to ideas of religion, dishonoring 
 to reason and to God ; I listen to prayers 
 which I believe will pass away when all 
 things become new ; when a profounder 
 veneration and a more awe-struck sense 
 of what it is to pray, will come in place 
 of the formality, the facile routine, the 
 irreverent freedom of too much of our 
 Church praying. " Behold," said an 
 ancient patriarch, " I have taken upon 
 me to speak unto God ! Oh ! let not 
 the Lord be displeased, and I will 
 speak." "Do you know what you are 
 doing?'''' — I am sometimes moved to say 
 to the mere ofHcial priest, uttering words 
 of rote and custom, — do you know what 
 it is to speak unto God; to lift your 
 thoughts to Him, whose Omnipotence 
 and whose Omniscience are spread over 
 all the uncounted millions of stars, and 
 countless millions more, it may be, as 
 yet unseen, that roll and shine in the 
 boundless infinitude beyond .'' " 
 
 And yet, if any scientific philosopher 
 tells me that such an incomprehensible 
 Existence must be merely an unknown 
 Cause, a blank abstraction to our minds ; 
 if he tells me that affectionate devotion, 
 tliat adoring love, cannot rise to such 
 inconceivable Greatness, I answer, " Ls 
 it necessary to know anything wholly, 
 in order to love it, — any attribute, power, 
 or person ? To how many is the highest 
 genius, art, or learning, on earih, beyond 
 their reach to comprehend ! Yet do they 
 not gaze upon its creations with delight? 
 So, if God's greatness is beyond my 
 reach to comprehend, yet, for the very 
 reason that it is infinite, it embraces me; 
 
 it is near me to understand or feel. I 
 touch the circle of Infinitude, though 
 I cannot span it ; and the least arc of 
 the circle is hke the whole. The light 
 that streams in at my window is lovely, 
 though 1 cannot see its boundless shin- 
 ing. And why may I not say, God's 
 presence is lovely, though I cannot com- 
 prehend its infinitude .-" What a fool 
 were a man, to say he could not admire 
 the beautiful ocean-bay he looked upon, 
 with its bending shore and green mounds 
 swelling around it, because he could not 
 see the whole ocean ! Nay, it is more 
 beautiful because it is part of the great 
 whole. 
 
 I know God in his works. If the 
 written page of a book expresses to me 
 a mind, doth not this boundless volume 
 of the creation, in which intelligence is 
 manifest as plainly as in a book ? If a 
 human countenance shines and kindles 
 all over with love, doth not — to him 
 who can truly look into it — the face of 
 nature, living, lovely, loving ? How en- 
 trancing is the vision of its beauty ! 
 How manifold and wonderful the Wis- 
 dom beaming from every feature of it, 
 — every flower and tree, every mountain 
 and valley speaking to him, — and all 
 filled with myriad and joyous life, from 
 the fluttering insect, up through all ani- 
 mal forms, to man, — and man himself 
 made to behold all this wonder, all this 
 loveliness, this beneficence ! My gaze, 
 as I look upon the earth and sky, the 
 vision of my soul, meets a vision, a mani- 
 festation, an infinitude of Goodness. I 
 see, — I do not merely believe, — I see, 
 I know, that an Infinite Love reveals 
 itself through all life, all nature, all 
 being. 
 
 I have attempted, brethren, to speak 
 to you of this great assuring trust, of 
 this great faith of our being ; alas ! with 
 the old sense of failure to speak of it 
 fitly. But because it is inexpressible, 
 it is none the less assuring. There is 
 something in us too deep for words : a 
 sense of the all-divine and beauiiful, 
 which is its own assurance of being 
 true and unfailing ; something which 
 
768 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 will never die while anything lives in 
 us. No, it will not die. No, it will not 
 die. Greatly say.s the Apostle, " For I 
 am persuaded that neither death nor 
 life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor 
 powers, nor things present, nor things 
 to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any- 
 
 thing else, shall be able to separate us 
 from the love of God, which is in Christ 
 Jesus our Lord." Sound out, eternal 
 anthem ! — " Great and marvellous are 
 thy works, Lord God Almighty ; just 
 and true are thy ways." 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 AN ADDRESS BEFORE THE MINISTERIAL CONFERENCE, MAY 29, 1867. 
 
 Brethren of the Conference, — 
 I shall venture to speak to you in this 
 discourse on subjects that belong to the 
 time. This opens, doubtless, too large 
 a field to enter without some definite 
 path to pursue or some distinct points 
 of view being taken from which to sur- 
 vey it ; and I hasten to say at once, that 
 the few thoughts I have to offer will 
 come chiefly under the heads of Basis 
 and Superstructure, — of the foundation 
 in religion and the upbuilding. These 
 themes present a framework of thought 
 too vast, indeed, for discussion, and de- 
 signed only to limit it. But I desire to 
 look at this great edifice of religion, — 
 to "go round about Zion, and to mark 
 well her bulwarks," both because of the 
 dangers that seem to assail it, and be- 
 cause I am sure of its stabihty. Never, 
 certainly, was everything in religion 
 called in question, from the lowest foun- 
 dation to the topmost stone, as it is 
 now ; and yet never, I firmly believe, 
 was there so much true religious faith in 
 the world as now. If this seems to be 
 a contradiction, I do not understand it to 
 be so ; because the foundation-truths of 
 religion, though they are questioned, 
 are questioned by comparatively few, 
 while the general faith is gravitating 
 towards them more and more, is taking 
 deeper hold of the very roots of religion, 
 and "is, therefore, becoming stronger and 
 more vital. Very scepticism to-da}' is 
 often more vitally religious than was the 
 
 old Orthodox believing of the Middle 
 Ages, whose stability is so much vaunt- 
 ed by some, and whose decadence is so 
 unnecessarily lamented over by others. 
 I think that I see the general mind sink- 
 ing deeper and deeper into the truest 
 religious convictions, through the rents 
 of controversial theology, through the 
 chinks of bibhcal historic evidence and 
 the breaking up of ecclesiastical au- 
 thority. 
 
 I have known well' enough what it is 
 to doubt ; and to' doubt concerning the 
 whole dogmatic creed in which I was 
 brought up. I once gave a year to 
 retirement and study to examine this 
 creed. I examined it ; I gave it up, 
 point by point, but never for one mo- 
 ment did I lose my peace of mind. I 
 knew, or thought at least, that my earthly 
 prospects were endangered by my in- 
 quiries ; but my inmost tranquillity and 
 deepest joy were never for a moment 
 disturbed by all my doubts and difficul- 
 ties. And why? Because I felt some- 
 thino- within me — an assurance, a cer- 
 tainty — that lay beneath all doubts, be- 
 neath all dogmatic creeds. Nay, I say 
 it firmly, that beneath not only all dog- 
 matic creeds, but beneath all writings, 
 beneath all Scriptures, beneath all 
 church ordinance and authority, beneath 
 Christianity, beneath the mission of the 
 Christ himself, there is, in the solemn 
 recesses of every human soul, a foun- 
 dation of religion and religious truth. 
 
BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 769 
 
 Jesus himself spoke to that inner, that 
 diviner sense of things ; else as a 
 religions teacher he could not have 
 spoken at all. And if I be reminded 
 that Paul says, "Other foundation can 
 no man lay than that is laid, which is 
 Jesus Christ," I answer, this is true of 
 the Christian system. Jesus Christ is 
 the foundation of that. But that system 
 reposes on a foundation beneath it, — 
 the everlasting truth that underlies all 
 religions. When it is said that an archi- 
 tect lays the foundation of a building, 
 — temple, tower, or pyramid, — it is for- 
 gotten, perhaps, that this rests on a 
 deeper and broader foundation, the 
 foundation and basis of the world. 
 
 1 hardly know why I should insist 
 upon this position with any special 
 strength of statement. It is the simple 
 and acknowledged truth, I think, in our 
 religious philosophy. Certainly it is in 
 every other. All knowledge, all science, 
 rests upon an original basis in human 
 nature. All art, all perception and cul- 
 ture of the beautiful, is referred to an 
 original sense of beauty in the human 
 soul. When we speak of the most re- 
 markable instances of human develop- 
 ment ; when we speak of Shakspeare, 
 we are thinking of the wonder of his 
 genius more than of his culture, or 
 means of culture. And even if we were, 
 with the utilitarian philosophers, — not 
 all dead yet, — to refer all moral and 
 religious sentiments to sensation con- 
 nected with the love of happiness, low 
 as the basis would be compared with 
 the grand primal intuitions of humanity, 
 we should still point to the original con- 
 stitution of human nature. I am not 
 denying, by any means, the importance 
 of culture, of the upbuilding; of this I 
 shall come to speak. I am not denying 
 that the capacity would be created in 
 vain, unless it were filled with some- 
 thing ; but I am insisting, first, upon 
 this point, — the capacity, the founda- 
 tion. 
 
 But now what, more precisely, is this 
 foundation ? It is intuition. It is an 
 intuitive sense of moral obligation. . It 
 
 is an intuition of right, of justice, of 
 goodness, and the beauty of goodness. 
 It is also an intuitive idea of God, and 
 comes so near to an absolute proof of 
 his existence, that all mankind have, in 
 one form or another, received it. And, 
 again, the doctrine of immortality comes, 
 if not from a positive intuition, yet from 
 a notable instinct of humanity ; proved 
 to be such, says Guizot, by its having 
 existed among all people, from the rudest 
 to the most civilized. Human degrada- 
 tion may sometimes appear to lend but 
 poor countenance to that faith. " Such 
 poor creatures as men are, — many of 
 them at least, — can they be immortal?" 
 Some one, reporting of Coleridge's con- 
 versation, says that '• he talked one day 
 of the sense of immortality in man, and 
 of its universality, which, in his opinion, 
 caused it to partake of the nature of 
 instinct in animals. The only time I 
 ever saw Lord Byron, he added, he 
 pointed to a man in a state of brutal 
 intoxication, and asked if I thought that 
 a proof of an immortal nature. ' Your 
 inquiry, my lord, is,' I answered." — 
 "And so it was," adds the reporter; 
 "for it was the natural instinct shrink- 
 ing with abhorrence from that degrada- 
 tion, — that apparent death of the soul " 
 These, then, are the foundations of re- 
 ligion; of natural religion, of all religion, 
 laid and embedded, I believe, in the hu- 
 man soul by the hand that made it. 
 
 I wish now to single out from this 
 grand, original category of faith, one 
 point as the subject of some further 
 argument upon the foundations of re- 
 ligion. I mean the belief in God, and 
 especially in him as a righteous Being, 
 a good Being. 
 
 Why it is that our nature, our whole 
 mind, demands this Being as the object 
 of its faith and adoration ; why every- 
 thing within us "cries out for God, for 
 the living God," — I will not undertake 
 to say or explain. It may be because a 
 boundless capacity and reach of thought 
 naturally demand a boundless object, 
 that a love such as we are capable of 
 naturally soars to an infinitude of love, 
 
 49 
 
770 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 and cannot stop short of it. It is not — 
 of this I am sure — a mere desire of 
 infinite favor and protection. There is 
 a deeper element, a diviner passion, in 
 our being, that seeks its great Original. 
 And certain it is, that, if that central 
 Light be extinguished, all in us is dark 
 and desolate. Strike out moral i)ttuitifln 
 from our religion, and the corner-stone 
 is gone. Strike away the doctrine of 
 ivunortality^ and its loftiest pinnacle 
 falls. But strike at the filial faith in 
 God, — break that down, and everything 
 tumbles into ruins. 
 
 It cannot be without the profoundest 
 concern, therefore, that every thoughtful 
 man must look into those questions con- 
 cerning the Supreme Nature, which our 
 minds naturally raise, and especially 
 under the guidance of modern science. 
 It is not the "germ" doctrine of Pro- 
 fessor Darwin that troubles me. But 
 when we think of the extent of the uni- 
 verse ; when we carry our views beyond 
 our own sidereal system, so inconceiv- 
 ably vast, and embrace thousands of 
 other systems, of perhaps equal extent ; 
 and when we reflect tliat all this may 
 be but one section of the unbounded 
 creation, — what are we to think of the 
 Being who made, who sustains, and 
 who governs, the infinite whole? Our 
 minds sink overwhelmed in that bound- 
 less abysm of existence ; and we feel as 
 if we knew, and could know, nothing 
 concerning it, — nothing but that it is. 
 " I am," seems to be all that it can tell 
 us. Jonathan Edwards argues, that if 
 any, the least event, thought, or motion 
 in the universe were unknown to God, 
 or uncontrolled by him, all would go to 
 ruin. But what is that omnipotence, 
 what that omniscience, which compre- 
 hends every event, every mind, every 
 prayer, every thought, every act, every 
 animalcule, and every animalcular mo- 
 tion that takes place at every moment 
 in the universe ? Can any intelligence 
 conceivable by us, can any moral attri- 
 bute conceivable by us, belong to such 
 a Nature ? Is not such a Being, as 
 has been contended, strictly and utterly 
 
 "unknowable," "unthinkable," by us? 
 If utterly unknowable, if in every re- 
 spect so, then we are orphans ; we are, 
 to all spiritual intents and purposes, 
 atheists, "without God and without 
 hope." 
 
 But I do not yield to such a conclu- 
 sion. The argument for it is grounded 
 on the essential imperfection of all 
 our ideas of intelligence and goodness. 
 These we mus.t not ascribe to God ; 
 therefore, it is said, we can ascribe 
 nothing to him but bare existence ; 
 nothing, i. e., of an intellectual or 
 moral nature. But I make here a 
 broad, and what seems to me a very 
 material, distinction. Our mental pro- 
 cesses, embracing succession, reason- 
 ing, comparison, steps of thought, and 
 necessarily implying limitation, are one 
 thing ; quite another is our intuition 
 of truth and right, which does not 
 involve any reasoning nor imply anv 
 limitation. Intuition, grand in every 
 way, is grandest of all in this. It is 
 the archetype of the Divinity stamped 
 on the soul. It is the symbol of eter- 
 nal truth and right. It is the image 
 of God. 
 
 If it were not so; did the Infinite 
 Intuition of the true and right differ 
 essentially from ours ; did the Infinite 
 Intelligence differ entirely from what 
 we understand by intelligence ; did the 
 Infinite Goodness, or what we call 
 such, differ altogether from all we 
 understand by goodness ; might what 
 we worship as Infinite Goodness be In- 
 finite Malignity for aught we know, — 
 then there would be nothing left for us 
 to revere or love, and all inward, true 
 religion would be struck to death by 
 such fatal scepticism. 
 
 The question, broadly and abstractly 
 stated, is this : Does a thing's being 
 incomprehensible make it altogether 
 unintelligible ? On the contrary, I say 
 that the very correlative of incompre- 
 hensibility is a certain degree of intel- 
 ligibleness. We do not say, that of 
 which we know nothing is incompre- 
 hensible, but that of which we know 
 
BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 771 
 
 something. And it would seem to be 
 an obvious distinction, that the nature 
 of an object is one thing, and the extent 
 of it another : but this distinction some 
 kite reasoners, if I understand them, 
 do not seem to recognize. We do not 
 know how far a thing extends ; and, if 
 it extends beyond the grasp of our 
 conception, we do not know what it 
 is in that condition of inconceivable 
 extension. 
 
 Is this true ? Matter spreads to an 
 inconceivable extent. Does it follow 
 that it loses its nature in that exten- 
 sion ? Are we not sure, on the con- 
 trary, that it continues the same ? 
 Mind rises, even in some human 
 beings, — certainly it may in superior 
 beings, — to a point that we cannot 
 comprehend. Do we not, therefore, 
 know what its nature is ? Does intel- 
 ligence, or does goodness, by extension, 
 by infinite extension, cease to be in- 
 telligence or goodness .'' Numbers are 
 capable of indefinite, of infinite mul- 
 tiplication. The infinite multipHcation 
 we cannot comprehend. Does it follow 
 that we know nothing of the nature of 
 numbers? Nay. do we not know that 
 the nature of numbers, though infinitely 
 multiplied, must continue the same ? 
 As to comprehending, we do not com- 
 prehend anything perfectly ; and, if 
 comprehending is the condition of 
 knowing, we do not know anything. 
 It has been said that we cannot dis- 
 tinctly comprehend the number 20. 
 Certain it is, that, as we go on counting 
 from one, our ideas grow indistinct at 
 every step : and we can no more com- 
 prehend a million of units than we can 
 comprehend an infinity of them. Nay, 
 not so much perhaps : for we have a 
 distinct idea of infinitude, but we have 
 not of a million of units. But is it not 
 a strange thing for a philosopher to 
 say, you cannot comprehend a million 
 of numbers, tlierefore you do not know 
 what the nature of numbers is ; or, 
 when carried to an infinite multiplica- 
 tion, you do not know what their nature 
 is, in that infinite multiplication ? 
 
 It strikes at the validity of all knowl- 
 edge to say, that we can have no just 
 idea of that, in its nature, which we do 
 not comprehend in its entirety. Tlie 
 astronomer understands something of 
 the systems of the stars, though he 
 does not understand their whole extent. 
 I stand before the spectacle of nature : 
 a soul in me meets and perceives an 
 Intelligence and a Goodness manifest 
 in the objects around me, manifested 
 as plainly as if they were endowed with 
 speech, and uttered the thoughts that 
 are breathing and shining through 
 them. And am I to be told that, 
 because they are the expression of an 
 Infinite Mind, I know nothing of what 
 they mean, or of what that mind re- 
 veals of itself through them ? Does the 
 phrase, " God in nature," blot out al> 
 life and light from nature ? As we^' 
 might I be told that I understand noth 
 ing of what a human being says to m" 
 of what his meaning is when he speak-; 
 to me ; for his meaning derives its 
 character from an Infinite Mind as 
 truly as the meaning of nature does. 
 And surely, if I could go on studying 
 mind and matter for ages, or forever, 
 I cannot help believing that they would 
 express the same things. And yet if 
 I could go on till I comprehended all 
 created matter and all created mind, 
 came nearest to the Infinite, compre- 
 hended the universe, in fact ; yet, 
 according to these reasonings, I should 
 still know nothing of God but as some 
 unknown force. Who can yield to such 
 reasonings ? Alas ! for tlie scientific 
 tendency that is taking tlrat direction ; 
 that, merged in material objects, sees 
 not the light shining through them ! 
 No ; mind, going out to an Infinite 
 Mind, brings back to us some intelli- 
 gible conceptions, however inadequate. 
 From that boundless deep of Being, — 
 the illimitable extension of our own be- 
 ing, — come some solemn intimations 
 of its nature. But now we are told that 
 from that infinite rebound comes — noth- 
 ing ! Pardon me, my brethren, if I 
 dwell upon this subject with something 
 
772 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 of indignant earnestness. It is as vital 
 to me as my existence. Without God, 
 my being is a miserable wreck, amidst 
 the wrecks of things around me. 
 
 But I maintain, in opposition to this 
 philosophizing, that we cannot help 
 thinking of intelligence and goodness 
 as attributes of the Supreme Nature. 
 We cannot help thinking of an Infinite 
 Intelligence and Goodness any more 
 than we can help thinking of an Infi- 
 nite Cause. The Infinite, as truly as 
 the Finite, lies in the very categories of 
 thought ; and, if we do not think of an 
 infinite nothing, we must think of an in- 
 finite something. Mr. Herbert Spencer 
 does think of an infinite something, and 
 he calls it Force or Cause ; he falls 
 back upon that ; he considers that, I 
 suppose, as " thinkable." But an infi- 
 nite Cause he can no more comprehend 
 than an infinite Goodness. And if he 
 claims, in strict philosophy, the right 
 to think of an infinite Cause, why 
 should he deny the right to think of an 
 infinite Goodness ? In fact, to be all 
 the while writing, thinking of infinitude, 
 and yet to deny that it is thinkable, 
 seems a strange thing. Or, if we con- 
 template the Supreme Nature under the 
 aspect of a personal Will, is a will any 
 less a will, because it is almighty ? 
 It is a completely unauthorized, and in 
 fact an unintelligible, conclusion. As 
 James Martineau aptly says (in a pri- 
 vate letter), " It is as conceivable to 
 me that a Will should make a solar 
 system, as that it should make a dew- 
 drop ; or a forest, as that it should 
 make a tree." 
 
 I feel, brethren, the awfulness of this 
 theme. I think I understand how it is 
 that the contemplation of such a stu- 
 pendous Existence should tend to whelm 
 all distinctions. But I believe it is sim- 
 ply the tendency of our weakness. Still, 
 I believe, — after the perpetual formula 
 of all creeds, — I believe in God ; I be- 
 lieve in a Father in heaven. And I cling 
 to this faith, not alone because of my 
 weakness, but because I find that it is 
 founded in a just philosophy. I do not 
 
 accept it, as Mr. Spencer does Anthro- 
 pomorphism, as a simply needful, pro- 
 visional faith, which is yet to pass away. 
 I believe it is never to pass away. 
 
 I have thus spoken of the foundations 
 of religion as laid in certain original 
 ideas of Right, of God, and of Immor- 
 tality. 
 
 But a foundation is of no value un- 
 less something is built upon it. " Thou 
 believest in God : the devils also be- 
 lieve, and tremble." Thou believest 
 in the right, and in the immortality of 
 right ; but transient and unsubstantial 
 as dreams or reveries may be thy virtue. 
 It is but a reverie, perhaps : how shall it 
 be formed into a character ? It is, pos- 
 sibly, but a professional assumption, or 
 something taken at second-hand : how 
 shall it be thoroughly thought out and 
 felt, rooted in the soul, and so become a 
 deep and all-absorbing reality ? 
 
 How^ — this is the question now be- 
 fore us, — by what means, in what way, 
 through what agencies and influences, 
 and, most of all, by what working out 
 of the great problem in ourselves ? For 
 it is a personal, and sometimes it ap- 
 pears as if it were a fearful, problem. 
 Why is it so fearful .'' Why is it so diffi- 
 cult to solve it ? Why must we be so 
 anxious and troubled for ourselves, ard 
 for all men, tipon this one point? It 
 seems so easy in theory, it is so diffi- 
 cult in practice ; so easy and beautiful 
 simply to feel the Great Presence all 
 around as the very light ; and to breathe 
 all pure and gentle affections as the 
 very atmosphere ; and to make the very 
 ground we tread upon as the measured 
 lists of those who run a race, with prog- 
 ress at every step and certain victory 
 at the goal. Why is it so far otherwise 
 with the common experience of men ? 
 Does it not seem, at times, as if there 
 were some obstinate and intractable 
 lump of depravity in our nature, some 
 radical or inherited defect in our hu- 
 manity, to account for its disheartening 
 failures ? Such, I am well assured, is 
 noi the true philosophy of our condi- 
 tion. Flesh and sense, with their dan- 
 
BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 77: 
 
 gerous tendencies, are appointed as the 
 .scaifolding of the building widiin ; in- 
 terests, our own or others', urging on 
 the workj yet, through our blindness, 
 interfere with it ; ignorance of what the 
 light is often perplexes us, and the work 
 is to go on amidst doubt and struggle 
 and difficulty. It is difficulty, and not 
 facility, in all human endeavors, in 
 knowledge as well as in virtue, that 
 produces the noblest results. 
 
 But, amidst it all, can we do anything 
 far ourselves or others ? I answer, that 
 we can do everything, God helping us 
 '•to will and to do." To will: I place 
 that in the foreground of the whole 
 work. The true Christian is a self- 
 made man. The concentrated will to do 
 right and to be right is the first step 
 in conversion; carried out, it is conver- 
 sion. This every man can put forth, if 
 in no.other way, in these three: by ab- 
 staining from the wrong actions to which 
 the passions impel him ; by turning 
 away the minds attention from the 
 wrong to the right ; and by the diligent 
 use ot all proper means. He cannot, 
 perhaps, will virtue, will right affections, 
 into existence. In this sense, I should 
 admit the old doctrine of human in- 
 ability. God creates those affections, 
 not man. He has created the germs of 
 those affections within us: it is ours to 
 cultivate them. Just as, in geometry, 
 we do not create the axioms : they are 
 created within us ; but we build upon 
 them. 
 
 But this opens to us the broad field 
 of our inquiry. What is to be done to 
 bring men to this will and endeavor } 
 In other words, what are the influences 
 and agencies that are to come into our 
 contemplation as means of building up 
 religion in the world ? 
 
 Let us take account, then, first of the 
 breadth of these influences ; and next 
 of their place and power in the Christian 
 religion, church, and ministry. 
 
 In their breadth, they embrace all 
 that forms the character. Christianity 
 takes a leading part ; but there are 
 many things beside, to be considered. 
 
 External means have their place, but 
 there are far deeper and stronger powers 
 within. Conscience, the sense of right, 
 stands first ; that which is truly the 
 Spirit of God within us. Fear, doubtless, 
 drives many to religion ; a very ques- 
 tionable influence, and producing a very 
 questionable result. Far more profound 
 is the sense of an infinite need, wliich 
 nothing but religion can supply. And I 
 believe, if we examine our own minds, 
 we shall find that what has earliest 
 drawn us to the highest things is the 
 example of excellent persons, — of our 
 parents and friends; example, whether in 
 real life or in biography. This opens to 
 U3 the whole sphere of society, and indeed 
 of good literature (which is the life of 
 souls), as the field of religious growth. 
 
 The field is wide, as wide as the 
 world ; nay, it is the world. Religion, 
 it has been justly said, is an "earth- 
 made thing ; " and that was said by our 
 Ortliodox missionary brother, Mr. Nott, 
 of Wareham, in his preface to an ex- 
 cellent little volume of sermons, enti- 
 tled the " Birds and Lilies." It is an 
 earth-made thing, as truly as it is a 
 heavenly breath ; and all things should 
 conspire to its upbuilding. It is not 
 the Bible alone, nor the Church alone, 
 nor preaching alone ; but it is Nature, 
 it is life, it is society, it is business, it 
 is daily toil, that should be engaged in 
 this great ministration. 
 
 And all this, I conceive, should be 
 shown and taught to the people. In 
 particular, I cannot help thinking that 
 we should preach more than we do from 
 the teachings of nature. That was the 
 manner of the Great Teacher. What 
 is the view that most men have of the 
 world they live in, — of the material 
 world ? The old desecration of it is 
 only somewhat modified. It is, indeed, 
 no longer regarded as directly the work 
 of Demiurge, or Devil ; but, to men 
 generally, what is the material world ? 
 It is a mere clod to work upon, a hard 
 taskmaster, or a ])lace to build cities in, 
 or to open roads and to do business, or 
 to make a prosperous career ; and its 
 
774 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 divine laws and ministrations do not 
 come into their thouglits once in a 
 hundred times that they think of it. 
 And they never will learn any spiritual 
 lessons from it till they are taught 
 something of what it means ; something 
 of the philosophy of their condition ; 
 something to make them understand 
 that their daily labor is good for them, 
 — is essential, in fact, both to their 
 virtue and happiness. To make this 
 disparaged world, then, a religious 
 sphere ; to show how full of wonderful 
 wisdom are its laws and ordinances ; 
 to make daily life a scene of honest, 
 faithful, and pious task-work, — this 
 is to build up religion : and prayer and 
 preaching are of little avail, if this is 
 not accomphshed. 
 
 And the social sphere, — that, first, 
 which is technically called society ; so 
 dull and vapid often for want of thought 
 and the free play of thought ; so 
 chilled and crippled by envy and am- 
 bition ; so awkward under the bond- 
 age of self-consciousness and the mis- 
 erable fear of one another, — what free- 
 dom, what fresh life and joy, would be 
 poured into it by the highest religion, 
 by the sense and love of a heavenly 
 Presence all around, which would make 
 " the whole world kin " ! Then, next, 
 the social problems, — all that concerns 
 men's social rights and duties, — free- 
 dom, suffrage, obedience to law, all that 
 helps humanity, must come into the 
 large and just view of building up re- 
 ligion. " For if a man love not his 
 brother, whom he hath seen, how can 
 he love God, whom he hath not seen ? " 
 
 The love of God is, doubtless, the 
 highest sentiment : it is the first and 
 great commandment. But I have some- 
 times thought that there may be a su- 
 perstitious exaggeration of it, as com- 
 pared with the love of man, and that 
 not alone with mystics and pietists. " If 
 thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there 
 rememberest that thy brother has aught 
 against thee, leave there thy gift before 
 the altar, and go thy way ; first be rec- 
 onciled to thy brother, and then come 
 
 and offer thy gift." Wonderful words ! 
 and especially for the age in which they 
 were delivered. Not that I would dero- 
 gate anything from the supreme claim. 
 No ; I join with the mystics and the 
 pietists, with Thomas k Kempis and 
 Tauler, in that. One Power, that binds 
 the universe to perfect order ; one Jus- 
 tice, that sustains the right, and will 
 tread down all wrong ; one Wisdom, that 
 guides the stars in their courses, and 
 the footsteps of men ; one Love, that 
 embraces all creatures, through infini- 
 tude and eternity, in its fulness, — this 
 is the soul's sufficiency and beatitude 
 and rest. But we may love and vener- 
 ate in ine7i the same excellence in its 
 nature, that we love and venerate in 
 God. " The second," said the Master, 
 after having laid down the first com- 
 mandment, — "the second is like unto 
 it: thou shalt love thy neighbor as tiiy- 
 self." 
 
 But it is time that I come to what es- 
 pecially belongs to this second branch 
 of my discourse, — to Christianity, to 
 the Church and its ministrations. 
 
 The Church has its theology. Of 
 what weight and importance is this, in 
 promoting virtue and piety among the 
 people, or in moulding their character ? 
 Something, doubtless, is in this respect 
 to be attributed to it, but not every- 
 thing, nor even the principal influence. 
 Still, what a man believes, must have 
 some influence upon what he feels. In 
 fact, what he feally believes, constitutes 
 a part of what he is. But so has reli- 
 gion been severed from all rational con- 
 nection with everything else, that it has 
 been possible for the most beautiful 
 forms of character to grow up amidst 
 every variety of belief, and of the most 
 monstrous belief. The result is not 
 logical ; but men are not logical. The 
 result, too, is somewhat exceptional ; 
 and, with the body of mankind, what 
 they think, must have a great deal to 
 do with what they are. Mr. Lecky has 
 drawn a terrible picture of what the doc- 
 trines of exclusive salvation and eternal 
 perdition, for the mass of men, did, to 
 
BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 IT: 
 
 produce a general inhumanity and the 
 most relentless persecutions ; and it is 
 not more terrible than true. 
 
 Within the last twenty or thirty years 
 there has been a remarkable decadence 
 of controversial theology, and especially, 
 perhaps, among ourselves. The older 
 men among us, who took part in the 
 controversy with the Orthodox faith, 
 became thoroughly tired of it, and mostly 
 in their preaching turned away from it. 
 This tendency, I believe, has gone full 
 far, and ought to be checked. The 
 day of creeds, it is said, has gone by ; 
 but I do not think so. The day of dog- 
 matic creeds, if you please, but not of 
 vital beliefs. And I conceive that it is» 
 our duty again to spread before the peo- 
 ple, in books and tracts, the views we 
 hold of religious truth and of religion. 
 I believe they are of the utmost impor- 
 tance in building up a rational, cheerful, 
 and earnest faith and piety. 
 
 But there is a controversy which has 
 arisen among ourselves, and is of more 
 interest to us than any we have with 
 others ; and that relates to the charac- 
 ter of the claim which Christianity it- 
 self has upon our reverence. Has it 
 a supernatural claim ? Does it bear 
 upon it the stamp of miracle, either 
 in the character or in the works of its 
 Founder ? 
 
 This question turns upon the view we 
 take of the Christian records. Are they 
 reliable? Are they to be taken mainly 
 as they stand.'' Or do they consist, in 
 considerable part, of legendary accre- 
 tions that grew up about the original 
 story.' Are they, in part, of the same 
 unreliable character as the spurious Gos- 
 pels ? We have a body of such Gospels. 
 They contain internal evidence enough 
 of being spurious. No one can read 
 them without feeling it. With the ex- 
 ception of the Gospel of Nicodemus, 
 or Acts of Pilate, which is evidently a 
 constructed fiction, all these writings 
 are full of improbable, or absurd and idle 
 stories. But the genuine Gospels bear 
 all the marks of sobriety and honesty 
 together, and are, indeed, every way of 
 
 such a moral tone, that it is impossible 
 to believe that the writers intentionally 
 inserted what they knew to be mere fa- 
 bles, to embellish their narratives. And, 
 if they had given simply and only an 
 account of Jesus as a pure and sublime 
 Teacher, we should have credited them 
 without hesitation. 
 
 It must be, then, a distrust of all mira- 
 cles, that leads us to distrust the Evan- 
 gelists. It is the assumption that a 
 miracle is in itself, and altogether, an im- 
 possible and an incredible thing. Are 
 we entitled to take this ground ? Is the 
 system of the universe such a system 
 of " evolutions," rolling up everything 
 into their folds, that it is not left to 
 God himself to change or reinforce any 
 power in matter or mind ? If we say 
 this, upon what grounds can we say it ? 
 Certainly not that we intuitively know 
 it. And if upon any other ground, it 
 must be that we know all the facts and 
 possibilities in the universe ; which we 
 do not know. 
 
 The truth is, I suppose, that the rejec- 
 tion of miracles does not depend on 
 argument, but upon a general state of 
 mind. It is that state of mind which 
 Mr. Lecky has described in his admira- 
 ble book on the history of Rationalism 
 in Europe. We all know — know by 
 experience — what it is, and we all 
 welcome in general the progress of Ra- 
 tionalism. But all progress goes by 
 swayings back and forth ; and the ques- 
 tion is, whether the rationalistic tenden- 
 cy may not, on this subject, go too far ; 
 just as every other tendency — liberty, 
 equality, democracy — may at times ;.'0 
 too far. It certainly may be so; and it 
 would not surprise me to see a reaction 
 in favor of miracles. 
 
 But, however this shall be, I desire 
 for myself to touch ground amidst the 
 swayings of the great rationalistic tide, 
 and not to be carried too far. If there 
 is one state of mind that is unfavorable 
 to miracles, there is another that is fa- 
 vorable to them ; and it may be the 
 most philosophical of the two. Is the 
 Supreme Nature an infinitely loving Na- 
 
T]6 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 ture, or is it a mere impersonal Force ? 
 When 1 am most impressed with God's 
 tender mercy to every creature, and dis- 
 miss the childish thought that it cares 
 less for this world because it is one of 
 an infinite number; when I see what a 
 world it is, and feel the mighty burden, 
 upon its heart, of sorrows and strug- 
 glings and perils ; and when I behold 
 that immaculate Wonder which rose in 
 the world, eighteen centuries ago, to 
 shine with healing power upon all the 
 ages, — it does not seem to me irrational 
 to believe that this grandest interven- 
 tion for human help was marked by the 
 finger of God with some special empha- 
 sis and attestation. I cannot say that 
 I know it, — this is not a matter for 
 dogmatic and unquestionable statement ; 
 but that my mind inclines me to be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 The question here belongs to the phi- 
 losophy of Christianity, and not to its 
 essence, and ought not to alienate or 
 separate its true friends. I see as good 
 men on one side of it as the other. 
 And for good and thoughtful men to 
 hold one another under any religious 
 or social proscription for their honest 
 opinions ought to belong to the ac- 
 cursed intolerance of the past. 
 
 The truth is, the vitality of the Chris- 
 tian religion lies deeper than miracles. 
 Tiie mission of Christ is the same in its 
 object, whether attested by miracles or 
 not, — to lead us out of darkness into 
 light; out of distrust and despair to 
 filial faith ; out of sin and sorrow to 
 holiness and blessedness. Men may 
 be so led, are so led, without ever think- 
 ing of miracles or the miraculous. There 
 are miracles in the human soul, — at 
 least there are direct and divine im- 
 prints upon it, — that are of deeper 
 import than any that are externak or 
 ex'ceptional. Christianity itself is based 
 upon something deeper than its visible 
 form or claim. I accept it as the best 
 of religions, but not as the whole of re- 
 ligion. "The Christian consciousness," 
 though that phrase is constantly pro- 
 nounced as the final word, is not the 
 
 final word. The final and great word 
 — Jesus himself being witness — is 
 God, and the spirit of God breathing 
 in the human soul. Nothing offends 
 me more than the extravagant claims of 
 the Christian dogmatists, saying, " Noth- 
 ing but Christ, nothing but Christ," — 
 as if God were not, and the presence 
 of God were nothing. No : it is not 
 true that all religion lies within the com- 
 pass even of Cliristian dogma and in- 
 stitution. It comes also from the way- 
 side of still meditation. It comes from 
 the midnight stars. It comes from the 
 clouds of eventide. It came so to An- 
 toninus and Boethius, and many another, 
 ,who, without written law, were a law 
 to themselves. It comes from converse 
 with good men's presence and example 
 and heroic deeds. It comes from the 
 biographic page, from poetic inspiration, 
 from pictures of saints and martyrs, 
 from the deeps of music ; from wher- 
 ever the spirit of God, like the unseen 
 wind, breathes holy refreshment and 
 healing life through the hearts of the 
 children of men. 
 
 But I am dweUing too long upon this 
 topic ; and I have something yet to say 
 of the Church and its ministrations, as 
 the means of awakening and kindling 
 a religious life in the people. I must 
 hmit myself to a few words upon the 
 Church as a working institution (so to 
 speak) ; upon preaching and the man- 
 ner of the Great Preacher, and upon the 
 Ordinance that commemorates him. 
 
 With regard to the Church as a work- 
 ing institution, I have often thought, 
 that if I were the pastor of a church in 
 town or country, but especially in the 
 latter, I should want a building of hard- 
 ly less capacity than the church itself, 
 for various purposes. I should want a 
 library-room, and a reading-room, and 
 a lecture-room, which sliould also be a 
 chapel for conference and other religious 
 services ; and also one or two rooms 
 for charitable work. I would make this 
 a rallying-place for the congregation, 
 where they might find '• books and work 
 and healthful play " — of the intellect. 
 
BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 71. 
 
 Here I should like to talk to them, from 
 time to time, of the works of nature, of 
 the world they live in, and try to make 
 them understand somethinjj of it. I 
 should like, too, to have lectures from 
 the more intelligent members of the 
 congregation, and discussions, confer- 
 ence, questions and answers upon these 
 subjects ; and also, at times, deeper 
 roli;^ious conference. And it seems as 
 if something might be done here, to 
 make the people acquainted with the 
 intellectual world they live in. That 
 grand outcome of the world's thought 
 which we call Literature, — what a sad 
 default to reason, to common-sense, for 
 persons who can read, to pass through 
 this life-sphere, and to know nothing of 
 its sublimest oracles ! Men read, read 
 much perhaps, but what ? Ephemeral 
 trash, the last sensation novel, or the 
 newspaper ; and they know little or noth- 
 ing of Plato or Epictetus, of Hooker or 
 Addison, of Milton or Burke, hardly of 
 Shakspeare, but that such persons have 
 lived. And I firmly believe that, if any 
 pastor would take up this plan ; if he 
 did not preach so much ; if, instead of 
 wearing himself out with making formal 
 visits, and writing so many sermons, — 
 Dr. Chauncey said, two hundred were 
 as many as any man should write, — if, 
 I say, he would meet the people in this 
 way, they would know him better, and 
 he them ; and altogether they might 
 build themselves up in a culture, both 
 of knowledge and religion, that, for a 
 religious congregation, would be a new 
 thing in the world. 
 
 Such gatherings of the people might 
 be on one or two evenings of the week, 
 or on Sunday afternoons. It would be 
 better, I think, than to listen to a second 
 sermon, which drives out the first, — a 
 custom, too, which muddles the people's 
 ideas about sermons altogether, so that 
 they can tell less about them than of 
 anything else they liear or know. There 
 is too much preaching. There is too 
 much preaching for the preacher. There 
 is too much preaching for the people. 
 
 But preaching, — this is the second 
 
 point I am to notice. There is a sigh, 
 through all the land, over dull preach- 
 ing. And when a man comes along, 
 who touches and melts the heart of the 
 people, it is an era to them ; they re- 
 member it long after. I am speaking 
 in the general. I know that we have 
 interesting preachers among us, and a 
 good many of them, — more, I believe, 
 than any other people have. Still, there 
 is a sad deficiency ; and the question is, 
 — and it is the greatest practical ques- 
 tion I know, — How are we to pour a new 
 and quickening life into the pulpit ? 
 
 But, first, what would that quickening 
 life be ? I answer, simple earnestness, 
 a profound impression and religious 
 tenderness in the preacher, that would 
 touch all hearts around him. I know 
 what is said of gifts, of genius, of en- 
 thusiasm, as not belonging to every- 
 body ; and I admit all their value and 
 charm. But 1 maintain that there may 
 be a deep feeling of religion without 
 them. And he who should speak to 
 me with that feeling, — he even who 
 should so read a hymn, or a Psalm of 
 David, as to touch my heart, — would 
 do more for me, of that for which I 
 come to church, than the most splendid 
 discourse without it. The splendid dis- 
 course I can read at home ; but what I 
 go to church for is impression, — to feel 
 the power of religion. I recall now an 
 aged man of the humblest ability and 
 culture, who, when he stood up and 
 prayed in the meeting, — his slender 
 frame and white locks trembling with 
 emotion, like a holocaust of love and 
 thanksgiving, — made upon me more 
 of that impression than any other re- 
 ligious ministration that I remember 
 in my youth. Mrs. Kemble, in her 
 " Georgian Journal," tells of her read- 
 ing the words of Jesus to the slaves. 
 She said afterwards, speaking of it, 
 " As I read those words, I wondered 
 how anybody ever dared to make a 
 commentary upon them." I do not 
 doubt, that, for showing what those 
 words meant, her reading was better 
 than any commentary. I remember a 
 
//< 
 
 BASIS AND SUPERSTRUCTURE. 
 
 simple woman teaching in a Sunday 
 school, who so pronounced the word 
 God, — I do not recall anything else 
 she said, — but wlio with such a tender 
 awe pronounced that word, that it was 
 a sermon to me, such as few could 
 equal. That was forty years ago ; but 
 it has been a blessed impression upon 
 my mind ever since. 
 
 But how is this sense of things di- 
 vine, this rehgious fervor, to be ob- 
 tained, which makes the weak strong 
 and the simple-hearted more than elo- 
 quent? For answer, I think we must 
 go to our religious nurture, and to the 
 very roots of it. It has been supersti- 
 tious ; it has been based on false ideas ; 
 it has lacked a genial and inspiring 
 warmth. All this must be changed. Re- 
 ligious nurture must be as simple and 
 natural as that which awakens the love 
 of knowledge, of art, of beauty, of all 
 things lovely and beautiful. Then, if 
 the education of our youth in school 
 and college could be what it should be ! 
 Alas, it is not ! But this being so, I 
 will venture to say, that the object of 
 our theological schools should be more 
 than it has been the nurture of a re- 
 ligious spirit. The learning obtained in 
 them is well : but if our Theological 
 Instructors — I speak it with all respect 
 for them — could gather their pupils to- 
 gether weekly in earnest religious con- 
 ference, and pour an enkindling warmth 
 into those meetings, so that all hearts 
 should be touched by Jt, so that the 
 latent and slumbering sensibility should 
 be nursed into a holy fervor and joy, I 
 believe it would be worth more than all 
 the learning. 
 
 There has been one teacher — the 
 great Teacher — at whose feet we sit; 
 and his words, at which our hearts leap 
 for joy or tremble with awe, were not 
 delivered in the style of what is ordi- 
 narily called eloquence. How sober 
 and quiet they were ! but what great 
 words, and of what immense, of what 
 unequalled, power ! Gather the wisest 
 men of all ages, and not one of them, 
 nor all of them together, could do for 
 
 us what he has done. A power lies in 
 the simple record of what he said and 
 did and suffered, which no criticism can 
 shake, — which even Kenan's does not 
 propose to disturb. It has not only per- 
 vaded, it has presided over, the civiliza- 
 tion of nearly eighteen centuries ; and 
 if anything on earth is of heaven, of the 
 very providence of God, it is this. 
 
 A word now, in close, upon the Ordi- 
 nances of the Church, which, to com- 
 plete the view of Church influences, I 
 ought to speak of. 
 
 Baptism has its fitness, — the birth- 
 time rite, the celebration of a most 
 momentous event, the thankful recog- 
 nition of God's goodness, and the hum- 
 ble recognition, with prayer and conse- 
 cration, of the most solemn trust that 
 can be committed to mortals. This is 
 naturally fit and beautiful, though there 
 be no express Christian warrant for it, 
 except when applied to converts from 
 heathenism. And why shall not the 
 great Eucharistic Rite be regarded as 
 naturally fit and beautiful, — the affec- 
 tionate commemoration of the ever- 
 revered and beloved Master, — such 
 visible homage to that wonderful being 
 who stands alone in the world in the 
 thoughts of all who have ever read or 
 known of him ? It is natural to do 
 this. Great men have often been so 
 commemorated after death, — are now. 
 For a few years the memory of them 
 has been so kept alive ; but this memo- 
 rial has stood through all the Christian 
 centuries. It seems to me a serious 
 thing to lower it from its place, and 
 lay it aside. Much difficulty as I feel 
 about the too commonly mournful, con- 
 strained, and superstitious observance 
 of it, I cannot do that. It may be said 
 that the Quakers have laid it aside, 
 without any ill consequence. I doubt 
 that. Quakerism is going out into intel- 
 lectual dispersion, for want of fixtures. 
 A solemn memorial altar standing in 
 the world may serve to bind men to 
 the great Christian allegiance. I am as 
 sensible as any one can be of the mis- 
 taken ideas and manners with which the 
 
THEISM AND ATHEISM. 
 
 m 
 
 Lord's Supper has been surrounded ; 
 lliey have troubled me all my life. The 
 notions of the communion, as a test or 
 ;i profession of goodness, rather than a 
 help to it, — as a mark on the sheep of 
 the fold, or as something to be partaken 
 of with preternatural awe, — are as in- 
 jurious as they are wrong. Cannot some- 
 thing be done to correct tiiem ? Can- 
 not we, as pastors, by a manner in this 
 service free from all superstition, by a 
 manner simple, natural, cheerful, affec- 
 tionate, and earnest, do something to 
 invest it with a new character? If I 
 should hear of a company of disciples 
 that came together in a cheerful hearti- 
 ness and voluntariness to spend an hour 
 or an evening in the remembrance of 
 Jesus, — to sing hyrnns to him, perhaps, 
 as of old, — to sing anthems, to speak 
 
 of him, to admire and to glorify the 
 divinest man, — I should want to be 
 there. But it is not so with our ordi- 
 nary celebrations, — the spirit, I mean, 
 is not such. We are too literal. We fix 
 our thoughts upon the symbols, when 
 it were better that the symbols were 
 lost sight of in the feeling of what they 
 mean. The letter killeth, the form kill- 
 eth ; but the spirit maketh alive. 
 
 But the spirit maketh alive, — this 
 would be my final word, if I had any 
 to offer. The letter killeth ; in dogma, 
 in form, in institution, the letter kill- 
 eth ; but the spirit, — the breath divine 
 in our souls, the deep and living sense 
 of religion in our hearts, underlying and 
 quickening everything else, — this alone 
 can make us men; this alone can make 
 us preachers to men. 
 
 THEISM AND ATHEISM: A TALK WITH 
 MY NEIGHBOR.* 
 
 From the " Old and New," for March, 1S73. 
 
 Can a man, I said, be an atheist ? 
 On the contrary, do not the laws of 
 his mind obhge him to beheve that this 
 universe has a cause ? 
 
 '• I doubt it," was his answer. " Comte 
 was an atheist ; Vogt is an atheist. I 
 do not know but I am one myself." 
 
 I am amazed to hear you say so. 
 
 " It is natural," he replied, "that you 
 should use that word to express your 
 feeling: and I do not say positively that 
 I am an atheist. I am willing to rea- 
 son the matter with you ; but I confess 
 that, of the two doctrines, theism seems 
 to me the more amazing." 
 
 How is that ? What do you mean ? 
 
 "This is what I mean, — and I ask 
 you to consider it : if the cause of all 
 tilings is intelligent, this intelligence 
 must embrace the knowledge of all 
 :hings, must it not ? " 
 
 I have something, I susfsrested, which 
 I wish to say on the doctrine of om- 
 niscience ; but what is it that you 
 say ? 
 
 " Think, then, I say, of this world, 
 with its 1.300,000,000 of human inhabi- 
 tants, with their actions, words, and 
 thoughts ; next of the animate crea- 
 tion, with its 200,000 or 300,000 spe- 
 cies, hundreds of thousands of each 
 kmd, and unnumbered millions of some; 
 think of the animalcules that fill the 
 seas, 500,000,000 of them in a drop of 
 water; think of the action and inter- 
 action upon one another of all these 
 living organisms that fill earth, air, and 
 waters ; and of the particles of matter 
 and forces of heat, light, electricity, that 
 contribute to make up the inconceivable 
 whole. But this world is only a pin- 
 fold in the universe. Unnumbered larger 
 
 * What he said will be indicated by quctation marks. 
 
78o 
 
 THEISM AND ATHEISM: 
 
 orbs are rolling through the heavens, 
 and all filled, doubtless, with life, as the 
 world is, —filled certainly with material 
 atoms acting one upon another. Can we 
 conceive of the possibility of an intelli- 
 gence that is acquainted with all this, 
 from worlds to atoms, so that there is 
 not one of them, nor one of their mo- 
 tions, of which it can be said that God 
 doth not know it ?" 
 
 My answer to this, I said, is two- 
 fold. In the first place, our limitation 
 is no measure of the illimitable.. It 
 would be infinite presumption to make 
 our conception of possibility the judge 
 of what is possible. There is no con- 
 tradiction, no absurdity, in the idea of 
 such an infinite intelligence. Till we 
 know what omniscience is, it is not for 
 us to say what is, or is not, possible 
 to it. But, in the second place, my 
 idea of omniscience is different from 
 what you have represented omniscience 
 to be. It used to be argued by theo- 
 logians, I remember, that such omni- 
 science was necessary to an infinite and 
 unerring government ; that if the small- 
 est particle in the creation should act 
 upon another without the instant cog- 
 nition of the infinite Ruler, such action 
 might introduce a principle of bound- 
 less disorder into the system. If they 
 had said, without the control of the 
 infinite Ruler, that I could admit ; but 
 that control, I conceive, may be exer- 
 cised by the imposition of law. Sup- 
 pose all natures, material, animal, and 
 mental, to be subject to laws, — mate- 
 rial to the law of forces, animal to the 
 law of instinct, and mental to the laws 
 of reason and conscience ; then might 
 they be left to run their own course, 
 and so might they fulfil the design of 
 their existence without inspection or 
 intervention. 
 
 " Subject to law, you say ; that may 
 apply to matter and instinct, but is man 
 subject to the laws of reason and con- 
 science ?" 
 
 Yes, I replied, in the main, and the 
 long run, he is. A certain liberty, 
 doubtless, is given him. He could not 
 
 be a moral nor an improvable being, if 
 he were held fast in the bonds of law, 
 like a stone, or like the worm that crawls 
 upon it. A hberty is allowed him to 
 sway this way and that, into temporary 
 disobedience. Still the laws of reason 
 and conscience hold their place in him ; 
 they are not deposed by rebellion ; and 
 the divine and lawful sovereignty may 
 be left to vindicate and establish itself, 
 as it will in due time. 
 
 " It does not yet," he said. " I do 
 not see it. All things go on without 
 hindrance and without help, as if there 
 were nothing in existence but the things 
 themselves ; wrongs, outrages, murders, 
 are perpetrated ; slavery, tyranny, cruel 
 wai", grind men to the dust. Why, if 
 there is an almighty justice reigning 
 over the world, does it not stretch forth 
 a hand to rescue and save ? Why was 
 not that blasphemous railer, as you 
 must regard him, — he who rose in the 
 godless French convention, and said, 
 ' I deny that there is a God ; if there is 
 a God, let him prove it,' — why, I say, 
 was he not stricken down on the spot 
 where he stood ? " 
 
 Yes, I said, the poor puny blasphemer 
 could vent his breath ; the brutal tyrant 
 can crush down innocence and defy 
 justice. There is a more solemn and 
 merciful control over the world than the 
 avenging blow. There is a judgment 
 more deeply founded than what is com- 
 monly called " a judgment " upon a 
 man. 
 
 '•Well, you say so," he replied; "and 
 of course you think so ; indeed, all 
 the world thinks so. But, opinion and 
 prejudice apart, what ground is there 
 for thinking that anything exists but the 
 universe itself, — any creative and con- 
 trolling Spirit .'' You do not see it ; you 
 do not feel it ; and, strictly speaking, 
 you have no intuition of it, for intuition 
 cannot go beyond j^^-consciousness. 
 And when you come to argument, many 
 philosophers discard the argument from 
 design. And the scientific men, now, 
 are tracing back life, through endless 
 evolutions, to some original germ, not 
 
A TALK WITH MY NEIGHBOR. 
 
 781 
 
 bigger, perhaps, and no more vital ap- 
 parently, it may be. than a grain of sand. 
 Thev seem to have run everything out 
 into nothing. I do not see anything 
 behind : and I doubt if they do." 
 
 But I do. If that original germ held 
 infolded in it what has flowed out into 
 all the wonders of creation, there must 
 have been something different from the 
 material elements that compose a grain 
 of sand, — something behind or within 
 it. that we call mind, thought, design, — 
 a foreseeing, certainly, of what was to 
 be developed. 
 
 "Mind, thought, design!" he ex- 
 claimed : " may we apply such words, 
 drawn from our own experience, to the 
 Infinite?" 
 
 Doubtless we must do so, I replied, 
 with qualification; but not with a qualifi- 
 cation that excludes the radical meaning 
 from them. Design is, perhaps, espe- 
 cially a questionable word ; and I could 
 wish tliat the argument from design had 
 been called the argument from an intent 
 or purpose manifest in nature. Because 
 design carries with it an idea of con- 
 trivance, of construction, of mechanical 
 adjustment, which we have no right to 
 attribute to the infinite intelligence. 
 The purest intellection is all that we 
 may dare to ascribe to it, not the method 
 of its action. But that there must 
 be something, — some principle, some 
 power, besides dead, inert, unthinking 
 matter, I hold to be manifest and clear, 
 — the dictate and demand not more of 
 a devout piety than of the soundest 
 reason. 
 
 " After all," he said, " I think it will 
 be found to be analogy. You look upon 
 some well-adjusted piece of mechanism, 
 a watch or a cotton-gin, and you know 
 that a mind devised it; and when you 
 see similar adjustments in nature, rea- 
 soning from analogy, you ascribe it to 
 a devising mind. But analogy is not 
 proof." 
 
 But I say that analogy, be it valid or 
 not, is precisely what I propose to avoid. 
 Imagine that you had never seen any 
 machine that was made by human hands. 
 
 Come, then, to the simple fact in nature; 
 and there are facts enough vviiich have 
 no analogy to human work, and which 
 furnish the proof we seek for, quite in- 
 dependently of any such comparison. 
 You see, and cannot denv, that in nature 
 there is a certain relation of one thing 
 to another. What is it ? It is a relation 
 of means to ends. It is not merely that 
 one thing succeeds another, as antece- 
 dent and consequent, or as what is called 
 cause and effect; but one thing succeeds 
 another in an order which indicates pur- 
 pose and prevision, — which indicates 
 not a method of action, but a principle 
 of action ; not the how in nature, but 
 the ivhat must underlie the system. 
 Nothing can come out of a system which 
 was not in it. In matter there is no 
 intelligence ; but here is intelligence in 
 unbounded manifestation all around us. 
 Or will one say that intelligence is an 
 attribute of matter itself, as gravitation 
 or growth or crystallization is? Then, 
 it is all a dispute about words. Then 
 we should say, for this would be the 
 truth, however monstrously it may sound, 
 that thinking matter, or materialized 
 thought, is God. 
 
 I say that, in the relations of things, 
 there must somewhere be found a place 
 for thought. Law, which science so 
 idolizes, must be itself mental, or pro- 
 duced by mind. Mind is somewhere in 
 nature, because there are relations in it. 
 It is a vast system of relations, such 
 that the whole charm of science lies in 
 this interdependence of one thing upon 
 another. It is not bare, isolated fact 
 that occupies the philosophic student of 
 nature, but the bearing of one fact, or 
 class of facts, upon another. Evolution 
 is the quest of science now; that is, the 
 flowing out of one thing into another, 
 and higher. Theory has always been 
 the passion of the naturalist. And the 
 naturalist who holds the sublime theory 
 that all things have proceeded from an 
 Infinite Wisdom, finds a world, a universe 
 of things, in accordance with it. Is it 
 not, then, the natural, fair, and reason- 
 able impression upon our minds — call 
 
782 
 
 THEISM AND ATHEISM 
 
 you \\. proof ox not — that such a uni- 
 verse of relations has proceeded from 
 an Infinite Intelligence ? 
 
 I am taking my stand, in this argu- 
 ment, upon nature ; and, in debating 
 the matter with you, I mean to do so. 
 I know that some thinkers give up the 
 argument from material nature, and rely 
 upon the nature of the soul alone. But 
 this passes with you, I know,. for noth- 
 ing better than vague presumption. It 
 amounts only to this, that a man has 
 such impressions and convictions. I 
 perceive, too, that, on your scientific 
 theory, you might say, that as the soil 
 resolves itself into vegetable life, and 
 the animal organization develops in- 
 stinct, so the human develops thought 
 and conscience, — all springing alike 
 from the bosom of nature ; thought 
 being just as natural a product of the 
 brain as sensation is of the nervous 
 system, or vegetation of the soil. 
 
 I would embrace in my own, there- 
 fore, the whole system of relations 
 leading up to and including man. 
 Whether — as reasoning with you, at 
 least — whether the nature of the soul 
 reveals an Infinite Soul, I will not de- 
 cide. Be it admitted that intuition does 
 not prove it. Be it admitted that, as 
 vegetable life does not of itself prove 
 an infinite life, as animal instinct does 
 not prove an infinite instinct, so nei- 
 ther does the human conscience prove 
 an Infinite Conscience. Let us stand, 
 then, upon the solid foundation of the 
 world. 
 
 " Very well," he said ; " this is getting 
 down to the grounds of things. And now, 
 I ask, why, when we see the principle of 
 order and adaptation in nature, — adap- 
 tation of the form of the world to mo- 
 tion, of its structure to the habitation 
 and sustenance of living creatures, of 
 its mountains to the rivers and plains, 
 of food to the stomach, of breath to the 
 lungs, of light to the eye, — why, I re- 
 peat, shall I not say, that this is nature 
 itself, and nothing else, — that it is the 
 nature of tilings, and that is all 1 " 
 
 Well, I do not object. 
 
 " You do not object ? Then you, too, 
 are an atheist." 
 
 Let us see. You say, or suggest, that 
 the nature of things may have given 
 birth to all the wonder, wisdom, and 
 beauty of the creation. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Then I say that you endow what you 
 call the nature of things with all the 
 attributes of God. If the natiire of 
 things has done all that we see in the 
 universe around us, then the nature of 
 things is intelligent, then the nature of 
 things is beneficent, nay, lovely and glo- 
 rious. It is all, as I said before, a mere 
 dispute about words. What you call 
 the nature of things, I call God. And 
 it is no escape from the conclusion, to 
 say that things are evolved from one 
 another by insensible gradations, and 
 not by leaps from one species to an- 
 other. Intelligence and beneficence 
 are equally in all things, whether they 
 come in the one form or the other. 
 
 I have been speaking in general terms 
 of the relation of one thing to another. 
 I should like now to adduce a single 
 instance, to show hojv manifest is the 
 presence of intelligence in the system. 
 
 I met lately with a statement of some 
 one of the modern scientific theorists 
 (wlio trace everything to the effort of 
 nature to perfect itself) upon the origin 
 a7id organ of seeing. It was something 
 to this effect, — that some nerve in the 
 human organization may have caught 
 the first sensation of light, and then 
 that in the natural struggle for more 
 liglit, in the natural effort to see, at 
 length, by slow processes, the eye was 
 formed. It would be very curious to 
 consider how the parts around set to 
 work to produce this wonderful piece 
 of mechanism. It must have been 
 formed in some way ; and Dr. Darwin, 
 upon his theory, must say, — not by 
 direct creation of the orb as it is, but 
 by slow accretions, by tentative efforts 
 of the nerve of seeing, and help of the 
 parts around it, to improve the organ 
 of sight. It would be curious, I say, 
 to consider how these blind agents set 
 
A TALK WITH MY NEIGHBOR. 
 
 7S3 
 
 to work ; but the upshot of their won- 
 derful endeavors is, that they make a 
 httle globe of gelatine, — why /7t/f does 
 not appear, since one would have an- 
 swered the purpose — a little globe of 
 the consistency of gelatine, with parts 
 so arranged, one behind another, as to 
 answer the purpose of lenses, — with 
 one dcjinitcly formed lens, tlie crystal- 
 line, — and all so adjusted as to cause 
 the rays to converge and fall exactly 
 upon a focus at the bottom, that is, upon 
 the retina; at the same time coating 
 the surface beneath it with black, so as 
 to iiave no reflections of light there to 
 disturb the impression. And so wisely 
 did these unintelligent forces of nature 
 work, that they placed the eyes in hol- 
 low recesses, surrounded with a bony 
 ridge, to protect tiiem from harm, and 
 then formed the eyelashes, those ciliary 
 guards, to keep out intrusive dust and 
 insects, and then placed above, the 
 chevaux-de-frise of the eyebrow, to pre- 
 vent brine-drops of sweat from running 
 down into the eye ; and they hung tlie 
 little orb in its socket, so that, like the 
 telescope, it could be turned up and 
 down, and to one side and the other, and 
 gave the pupil the power of contraction 
 and expansion for adjustment to the 
 degree of light. And the iris, the rain- 
 bow of the eye, let us not forget that. 
 The iris doubtless makes vision clearer, 
 by cutting off scattering outside rays ; 
 but it is also made for beauty, for expres- 
 sion. The sclerotica, the white of the 
 eye, might have been drawn quite up to 
 the pupil ; but that would have been 
 hideous. So the wondrous artists painted 
 the iris, to shine with gemlike beaut}', 
 to kindle and glow and soften by turns, 
 so as to vary with every mood of the 
 mind. And, finally, they stretched a 
 telegraphic line of nerve, to convey the 
 sensation of light to the brain. 
 
 " Well," he said, with a candor that 
 I did not expect, " I cannot deny that 
 "juch a construction displays intelligence 
 as truly as the making of a telescope. 
 I admit that this, and a universe of 
 similar indications, proclaims a mind. 
 
 if anything can ; and it is grateful to 
 think so. Our physicists, by tracing 
 all things through material evolutions, 
 back to an unknown beginning almost 
 infinitely distant, seem to remove the 
 prevalent, ever-present Divine Cause 
 from men's thoughts. If not the legiti- 
 mate result, it is the natural effect of 
 their theories, to make a universe void 
 of God." 
 
 Yes, I replied, they pursue truth on 
 certain lines of thought ; they do not 
 take into their contemplation those 
 broader and grander relations which the 
 study of a universe unfolds. They 
 make a god of science, and only a myth 
 of religion. Dr. Darwin is satisfied 
 with saying, when obliged to admit that 
 the ape and gorilla have no idea of God, 
 " neither have the rudest tribes of men."* 
 He might as well have said, neither have 
 babies. The question about what is 
 human as distinguished from animal, 
 turns upon what a normal and developed 
 humanity is. Man is a religious being ; 
 the animal is not. A man growing up 
 alone, on a desert island, like Auto- 
 mathes, of the old story, would not be 
 social ; but he would quickly show 
 that his nature was so, when brought 
 into the presence of his fellows. And 
 so, when the idea of God arises in 
 the mind of the most uncultured human 
 being, he naturally accepts and wel- 
 comes it ; while all the education in the 
 world cannot give it to the ape or 
 gorilla. 
 
 The savans charge the theologians 
 with being bound up in their own pre- 
 possessions and prejudices, excluding 
 science. It might be retorted on them, 
 I think, that they are as much shut 
 up to their own inquiries and theories, 
 excluding theology. The disappearance 
 of God from all the wonder and beauty 
 of nature as they see it, so unlike the 
 way of Newton and Kepler, is as if one, 
 in making a study of the Apollo di 
 Belvedere, should be occupied alone 
 with its materials and dimensions, 
 should examine the marble of which it 
 
 * Descent of Man. vol. i. chaps, il. and iii. 
 
784 
 
 THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 is composed, analyze its elements, and 
 trace it back to its original formation, 
 should measure the height and breadth 
 of the statue, the length of the arms 
 and hands, to tlie very finger-nails, and 
 should be so absorbed in the task as 
 to forget the divine beauty of the work, 
 and the genius that fashioned it. 
 
 What an oversight ! What a void in 
 the universe, if God were not ! Think 
 of the ranks of worshippers stretching 
 through ages ; of the smoking altars, the 
 choral songs of thanksgiving that have 
 engirdled the earth ; of the successive 
 generations, bowing in cathedrals, in 
 crowded churches, and in holy retire- 
 ments, — all lifting their eyes to — noth- 
 ing ! all the sublimest, holiest, most 
 heartfelt homages in the world cast away 
 from the history of men, as nothing but 
 mere blundering and mockery, as if 
 heaven laughed earth to scorn ! I should 
 
 feel, if this were so, as if there were no 
 reality nor verity in anything. It would 
 be a universe of mere sham and show, 
 — a universe turned upside down, more 
 frightful than chaos. 
 
 What would such a world be to us 
 who live in it, who think and feel, and 
 struggle and suffer 1 Banish all design, 
 all intent, all creative thought and love 
 from the universe, and what remains ? 
 Simply a cotistitutioii of tilings, \xv\x&v^?A- 
 ing, unmeaning, unloving. Then what 
 are we, and what shall we do ? Oh ! 
 build an altar blacker than heathenism 
 ever saw, than ever was built to Moloch 
 or to Mars ; surround it with woods 
 darker than Dodona,or than Druid oaks ; 
 pour out upon it, for offering, the tears 
 of the human race, and lift up a univer- 
 sal dirge, a wail of despair, over the ex- 
 tinction of all that is dearest and holiest 
 to the human soul. 
 
 ON THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE 
 
 OF GOD. 
 
 From the "Old and New." 
 
 There is a feeling in many thought- 
 ful minds, about the Divine Infinitude, 
 whicli seems to cut them off from the 
 knowledge of the Divine Nature. Some 
 profound writers, of late, have been 
 reasoning about the infinitude of God, 
 till they have appeared to reason away 
 nearly all knowledge of him. Their 
 method, the path they have pursued, has 
 been one of negations, and, it seems 
 to me, a descending path, — a path not 
 leading upward to God, but downward 
 and away frocn him. The more they 
 study, the less they seem to know. As 
 if the sun, while they gazed upon it, 
 should retire and retire, and dwindle and 
 sink farther and farther into the depths 
 of infinitude, till nothing remained but 
 the faintest speck of light. 
 
 I would, in this essay, pursue the 
 
 opposite course. I would trace the as- 
 cending path to the knowledge of 
 God. 
 
 There is a natural and boundless de- 
 sire of knowledge, and it demands a 
 boundless object. It is the first human 
 characteristic in the child, — the desire 
 to know. It grows with our growth and 
 strengthens with our strength. I would 
 know all that I can know. I would 
 know all I can of things around me. 
 Nothing can be presented to me, no 
 new thing, no secret, no mystery, but 
 the immediate questions arise, — What 
 is it ? and what is it for ? Yet more 
 would I know all of my kind that is best 
 worth knowing. I would know all that 
 I can of the most gifted men that have 
 acted their part in the world. I read 
 history, biography, — I read books for 
 
THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 785 
 
 this : I want to know what the noblest 
 men have thought, and said, and written. 
 And, in this ascending series, surely of 
 all the beings that have been in this 
 world, he whom I most desire to know, 
 and understand, and draw nigh to, is 
 Jesus the Christ. If I could penetrate 
 into the secret, into the sanctuary of his 
 thoughts and life ; if I could know his 
 innermost meditation and trust, and pa- 
 tience and calmness, — I should account 
 it better than to understand the expe- 
 rience of any other. Let all Christian 
 professions be put aside ; let any one 
 read the Gospels, and take the natural 
 impression ; and then let him say 
 whether there is any other being, that 
 he ever read of, whose experience, whose 
 thoughts and mind; he so desires to un- 
 derstand, as that of him, who, many 
 centuries ago, walked by the hillsides of 
 Judasa, dropping words, which, gathered 
 up in the simple and inartificial reports 
 of his disciples, have been read and re- 
 membered in all the civilized world, as 
 no other have ever been read and remem- 
 bered. Libraries have been written con- 
 cerning him ; and, notably to-day, books 
 are multiplied, coming alike from men 
 of every creed and no creed, which show 
 that he is the theme of universal and 
 unabated interest. 
 
 But can we stop here 1 When we 
 have travelled upon the path of ascend- 
 ing excellence to the highest that we 
 can find on earth, then does there not 
 open to us a higher perfection for us to 
 study and meditate upon ? 
 
 That such a perfection exists, all 
 things prove. If any one has atheistic 
 doubts, I would ask him one question. 
 Has something originated this universe, 
 or nothing? Does some cause lie be- 
 hind it, — say, rather, is interfused with 
 it, — or no cause ? Reason cannot hesi- 
 tate which alternative to adopt. Much 
 as is said of a scientific materialism pre- 
 vailing, or atheism, as some indignantly 
 call it, yet, after all, I know of no writer 
 nor man who refuses to believe that the 
 universe has a Cause. 
 
 But the nature, the character, of this 
 
 Cause, — do we understand it .-' Or, as 
 some would say, can we understand it ? 
 One said to me lately, " I heard of your 
 preaching a sermon on the love of God ; 
 and that you said, or implied, that you 
 loTed God. How could you say that .'' " 
 " Why not ? " I said. "Because," was 
 the reply, " that cause, power, or being, 
 that we call God, is infinitely beyond 
 your comprehension, — is, in its nature, 
 utterly unknown to you." I saw at once 
 from whence this reasoning came, and 
 will give in a few words my reply to it. 
 It came, let me first say, from a habit of 
 mind which reasons thus : God is infi- 
 nite. We speak of Infinite Power, Infi- 
 nite Knowledge, Infinite Love. When 
 we use these words, we necessarily affix 
 to them ideas that are drawn from our 
 own experience. Can we suppose that 
 Infinitude in God is but the expansion 
 of what is in us ? More precisely, and 
 to come to the very point, can we sup- 
 pose that Intelligence in God is, in any 
 respect, like intelligence in us ? or that 
 Love in God is, in any respect, hke love 
 in us ? I answer, with the solemn reser- 
 vation that we have been always taught 
 to make for our human limitations, that I 
 think we can. And this is the ground 
 I take in answer to those who say that 
 God's Infinitude debars us from know- 
 ing anything of his nature. You con- 
 found things that are entirely diflferent. 
 You confound the nature of a thing 
 with its magnitude. You confound com- 
 prehension with intellection. You say, 
 that, because we cannot comprehend a 
 subject, therefore we can know nothing 
 about the kind of subject that it is. 
 That would debar us from all knowledge. 
 We do not comprehend the growth of 
 any spire of grass, or the life of any in- 
 sect about us, — why, or how, one or the 
 other of them is what it is. Do we, there- 
 fore, know nothing concerning its quality 
 or structure ? The growth, the life of each 
 is a mystery : do we, therefore, make 
 no distinction between the nature of a 
 vegetable and the nature of an animal ? 
 Now, to apply this to that Infinitude 
 before which we all bow down with sol- 
 
 50 
 
786 
 
 THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 emn awe, we cannot comprehend infini- 
 tude ; we cannot comprehend the In- 
 finitude of God. But it by no means 
 follows, that we cannot understand any- 
 thing of his moral, his divine nature. If 
 it does, farewell to all religion ! Let us 
 erect the Athenian altar, and bow down 
 before it, — not in awe, but in despair. 
 But it is not so with us. I cannot grasp 
 the Infinitude of God's wisdom and good- 
 ness, but I can know and feel something 
 of their nature. Humbler instances 
 might show us this. I know something 
 of what thought was in the mind of Sir 
 Isaac Newton, but I cannot compre- 
 hend all his mind or knowledge. Stand- 
 ing upon a mountain, I look upon a 
 forest with a million of trees in it. I 
 cannot count them, and could not com- 
 prehend them all if I could count them. 
 But I can understand something of the 
 nature of trees. Looking upon the 
 ocean, it were vain for me to tell or com- 
 prehend how many drops there are in 
 it ; but I can comprehend something of 
 the nature of each drop, — can analyze 
 and understand it ; or, in other words, 
 I can comprehend something of the 
 nature of water, though I cannot com- 
 prehend an ocean of it. I cannot com- 
 prehend infinite space, but I know what 
 space is. I cannot comprehend the 
 infinite multiplication of numbers, but 
 I know what numbers are ; nay, more, 
 I know that they do not change their 
 nature by multiplication. 
 
 Why should knowledge or love be 
 supposed, by increase, to change its 
 nature ? We do not see it to be so, 
 as we trace their progress from child- 
 hood to maturity. The method of 
 knowing may change, but not the es- 
 sence ; the proof, but not the result. 
 We do not ascribe the processes of our 
 mind to the Infinite Mind ; we do not 
 ascribe reasoning to it. We think of its 
 knowledge as an infinite intuition ; but 
 we understand what intuition is. Om- 
 niscience is "all-knowing." If "know- 
 ing " loses its meaning because " all " 
 is prefixed to it, then the word Omni- 
 science is without meaning. And so, 
 
 for the same reason, is every other 
 word by which we speak of God ; and 
 we are left to worship an unknown 
 God, — that is, to worship nothing. 
 
 Let us, then, proceed to inquire into 
 the nature of the originating cause. 
 It is to be known, if at all, by its ef- 
 fects. What are the effects ? What 
 is this system of things around us ? 
 It is full of relations and adjustments 
 of one thing to another. The soil 
 nourishes vegetables ; vegetables feed 
 animals ; animals serve man, — work 
 for him, feed and clothe him. In 
 each of these, science finds exquisite 
 and wonderful arrangements. Means 
 subserve ends. Ends in turn become 
 means. Nothing stands apart ; noth- 
 ing stops ; but things go on, so to say, 
 in logical sequence. Animals produce 
 their like. The bird chips the shell ; 
 — and how is this done ? Let us dwell 
 upon this instance a moment, as stand- 
 ing for thousands of similar indications. 
 The shell, this little prison, is found to 
 be cut all round the diameter of its in- 
 ner surface, so that, in hatching, it falls 
 apart. And how does the little pris- 
 oner, the embryo bird, contrive to do 
 that ? It is so folded in the shell that 
 its bill lies against the part to be cut. 
 But this is not all. Upon its bill grows 
 a little, hard excrescence, like a knife 
 or a saw. With this tool it cuts its 
 way out ; and soon after it is freed, 
 the excrescence — the knife, no longer 
 wanted — falls off. Now, I do not 
 care what this provision is called. 
 Some philosophers object to the word 
 design. They talk of development, 
 evolution, tendency. They tell us, and 
 truly, of a correlation of forces. All 
 may be resolved, it is thought, into one 
 simple principle, — motion ; nay, all 
 may be resolved back into a simple 
 germ. Be it so. But germ and prod- 
 uct, or force, or motion, whatever it 
 be, it all proceeds in a certain order, 
 in a certain relation of one thing to 
 another. 
 
 Now, here is intelligence. It is in 
 these thinjrs, whatever be the cause. 
 
THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 787 
 
 It is ]uie ; it is in the structure of 
 every plant and animal, — in man above 
 all. Intelligence is here, however it 
 came to be here. By what indication 
 could intelligence be proved to be any- 
 where, if it is not manifest in such a 
 system as this ? If a book were opened 
 before me, containing only a jumble of 
 words, having no relation to one an- 
 other, I should say, Here is nothing, or 
 nothing but idiotcy. But if the book 
 had an orderly construction of words, 
 conveying a meaning, I should say, 
 Here is intelligence ; within the covers 
 of this book is intelligence. 
 
 In the same way, that is, by observa- 
 tion, goodness is proved to be in this 
 system of things. All conscious exist- 
 ence is naturally happy. No one can 
 look with healthy eye upon the world 
 in general, whether of brute or human 
 life, without seeing this. Animalism is 
 naturally happy. Intellect is naturally 
 happy. The human affections are natu- 
 rally happy. There is one attribute of 
 animal life, which, as illustrative both of 
 intelligence and goodness, is especially 
 significant ; and that is instinct. With- 
 out any reasoning, without any deliber- 
 ation, without knowing why, the whole 
 animal creation is guided to its food, to 
 its way of life, and thousand-fold enjoy- 
 ment. It is the veliicle of an intelligence 
 not its own. Suspend this all-directing, 
 this omniscient guidance, take away 
 tlie electric spark from this vast tissue 
 of animal nerves and fibres, and the 
 whole system would fall into collapse 
 and utter ruin. The light shines 
 throtigh it, and the medium knows no 
 more of it than the glass knows of the 
 sunbeam that passes through it. 
 
 And now, is it reasonable — nay, is 
 it possible — for a rational being to do 
 anything else but ascribe all this mani- 
 fest intelligence and goodness to the 
 great Originating Cause ? Can he set 
 up mere impersonal, blind tendency, in- 
 stead of Infinite Knowledge and Good- 
 ness ? When you read the pages of a 
 book, and find them full of thought, you 
 cannot doubt that somebody wrote it. 
 
 — some mind produced it. You would 
 be thought a fool, if you said that all 
 these words and sentences dropped 
 from the dictionary, and fell into their 
 places by "natural selection." And 
 will any one say that all the words 
 and sentences of this infinite volume of 
 the Creation dropped into their places 
 without any perception or idea of their 
 relations to one another, on the part of 
 the Originating Cause .'* 
 
 But it may be said, " Why did not 
 the Infinite Intelligence and Goodness 
 make every creature perfect and per- 
 fectly happy ? " What is this impos- 
 sibility which the objector demands ? 
 That the creature should be made as 
 God, — free from all ignorance, error, 
 imperfection, and trial ? If these things 
 exist of necessity in a created system, 
 then the only question is. Are they 
 turned to good account ? Do trials and 
 sufferings in the human lot tend to make 
 men better, or worse ? Does humanity, 
 does the world, rise or sink under the 
 discipline? Certainly it rises, — it im- 
 proves. Certainly, to suffer, to strug- 
 gle, to resist evil, to conquer temptation, 
 is an upward path for individual man, 
 and a path in which millions have 
 walked. So, we are bound to judge, 
 must a finite and free moral nature 
 work out its own wisdom and welfare. 
 We see that its trials, faithfully met, 
 minister to this end; and no reasonable 
 being can doubt that this was meant 
 to be their ministry. And if they were 
 meant for this, then is the system be- 
 nevolent in what is darkest. As well 
 object to any, to all education, because- 
 it costs efforts and pains. A wealthy 
 man founds a seat of learning. There 
 will be difficulties and trials for the 
 pupils' minds, — difficulties and trials 
 incident to the process, inevitable in 
 the ascent from ignorance to knowl- 
 edge. Does any one deny, for this rea- 
 son, the value of such an institution, 
 or the benevolence of its founder .'' 
 
 Look at that training of studious 
 youth. See what unfolding of the no- 
 blest faculties there will be ; what foun- 
 
788 
 
 THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 tains of wisdom and knowledge unsealed; 
 what hierarchies of science built up ; 
 what authors, orators, statesmen, will 
 come forth from these haunts of study, 
 to enlighten, delight, improve, and guide 
 the world! Is this the work of man 
 alone, as it seems, perhaps, to him who 
 looks upon it ? Nay, it is, in the im- 
 planting of all the germs of this culture, 
 God's work. This could not be done for 
 brutes. The Cause, that is behind and 
 above all causes, has given all the pow- 
 ers and faculties and means that have 
 made a noble seat of learning to stand 
 upon the spot which otherwise might 
 have been a barren heath, or a waste 
 common, wandered over by wild sav- 
 ages. And such a school, with such 
 toil and pains and patience, is this uni- 
 verse made to be. 
 
 And suppose it were not so. Imagine 
 the very reverse to exist of that which 
 we see. Suppose that the whole crea- 
 tion, of which we are a part, were one 
 mass of deformity and misery ; that all 
 plants and trees grew gnarled and mis- 
 shapen; that all flowers were black, and 
 exhaled offensive odors ; that all ani- 
 mals were hideous to the sight ; and 
 that the human constitution bred only 
 disease and pain, and the human soul 
 was intelligent and sensitive only to see 
 and feel the all-surrounding horror ; and 
 that, instead of being beneficently adapt- 
 ed to one another, all things were in a 
 state of contradiction, thwarting, and 
 confusion : what should we think ? I 
 doubt if there would be any atheists 
 then. It would be felt that there was 
 ill-will, an infinite ill-will, that worked 
 such ill upon us. No philosopher, I 
 judge, would then be found coldly specu- 
 lating about the origin of things and 
 complacently imagining that blind, im- 
 personal laws, heaving senseless evo 
 lutions, causeless tendencies of thinqs, 
 were the authors and agents of such 
 horrible disaster and misery. Why, 
 then, should not the goodliness and 
 beauty of all things around us; and the 
 natural joy of our own existence, be at- 
 tributed to a cause altogether different 
 
 in its character, and equally real in its 
 intent ? 
 
 But, in truth, such is the overflowing 
 beneficence of things ; so are our minds 
 wrapped up in its investment ; so is it 
 the thought and spirit of every scene 
 around us, that the very familiarity and 
 the inborn assurance of it make it less 
 distinct, less impressive, less intentional 
 to us. We glide down the smooth 
 stream : all is right, all is as it should 
 be. We are so content and happy that 
 we think of nothing but the stream and 
 its verdant banks ; and it is only when 
 we are flung upon the hard rock of 
 affliction and misery, that we lift our 
 hands to heaven, and say, " Why has 
 the Almighty Will dealt with us so?" 
 
 But this is not the ordinary habit of 
 our minds. The testimony of human ex- 
 perience and feeling is the other way. 
 Naturally we feel that we do not owe 
 our existence and condition to a malig- 
 nant cause. Naturally we feel that we 
 were made not to be miserable, but to be 
 happy. Naturally we feel bound not to 
 be bad, but good. Whatever evils there 
 be, or seem to be, in the system, yet the 
 preponderance of good, or of good ten- 
 dency, is such that our minds naturally 
 lean that way. The main tide of human 
 thought runs in that direction. Let any 
 one malign the good order of things, 
 the good Providence, or the good Being 
 who is over all, and the whole world 
 brands him as a traitor to reason, to 
 common-sense. Considering what we 
 do suffer, this is a powerful testimony. 
 If the universal feehng and judgment 
 of men have weight, this is entitled to 
 special consideration. 
 
 And now, if, in accordance with tlie 
 general convictions of mankind, we be- 
 lieve that we can know something of 
 the character of God, though we cannot 
 comprehend his infinitude ; and if what 
 we do know and see around us is perfect 
 wisdom and goodness ; then, to cultivate 
 this knowledge, to study this transcen- 
 dent perfection, and to grow into its 
 likeness, is surely the most rational as 
 well as the highest aim of our behig. 
 
THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 789 
 
 Nothing can justly seem more strange, 
 more astonishing, or more lamentable, 
 than the absence of this aspiration from 
 our literature, from our science, and ap- 
 parently from the lives and thoughts of 
 most men, and even of most cultivated 
 men around us. The Buddhists, the 
 Brahmins, and even the Stoic Sages, put 
 shame upon us in this respect. " They 
 sought the Lord, if haply they might 
 f?el after him and find Him." 
 
 But I will not take on the tone now 
 of complaint or rebuke. Rather would 
 I patiently reason with myself and with 
 others, to remove obstacles and to open 
 the way to the highest. There are ob- 
 stacles besides moral alienation. The 
 theme is full of awe, and few have come 
 to see that it is equally full of light and 
 joy. Nay. by many, God is regarded 
 not as Infinite Love, but rather as In- 
 finite and All-repelling Wrath. Then 
 tlie laws of nature — its unbroken order, 
 the ever- flowing stream of its benefi- 
 cence — turn away our thoughts from 
 a real benefactor ; and the very argu- 
 ments for gratitude, sad to say, lull it 
 to sleep. We have much to do in re- 
 sistance to these tendencies. Devotion, 
 a constant sense of God's presence, a 
 habit of seeing his will and wisdom in 
 everything around us, — this is the top 
 and crown of human culture, and it will 
 cost us care and patience and prayer to 
 rise to it. 
 
 But what grandeur of elevation, what 
 fulness of joy, can compare with that? 
 I cannot doubt that most thoughtful 
 persons are sensible, and are satisfied, 
 that a heart full of love and gratitude 
 to God would be a blessing and a joy 
 beyond all others ; a strength in weak- 
 ness, a calmness in trouble, a trust and a 
 solace in affliction, beyond every other. 
 "But ah," they say, "how to get the 
 love and gratitude ! " And they rest in 
 this vague and sad feeling of estrange- 
 ment or indifference, without ever con- 
 sidering what they are to do to draw 
 nigh to the all-quickening truth. 
 
 Let me say. then, that there are va- 
 rious ways of looking at the manifesta- 
 
 tions of God in Nature and in religion, 
 and that only one of them can help us. 
 There is the worldly and thoughtless 
 way, that sees nothing. There is the 
 hard scientific way, that sees nothing but 
 facts and laws. And there is the rever- 
 ent and affectionate view, that which is 
 emphatically the Christian view. For 
 Jesus first taught men, with trust and 
 tenderness, to say, "Our P'ather." Why, 
 tiien, cannot he who would thus know 
 God, cultivate this habit of looking at 
 his works and ways ? He is surrounded 
 with manifestations of an Infinite Intel- 
 hgence and Goodness. They are here, 
 I say. They are manifest and undenia- 
 ble. Even if he were an atheist, he 
 would be bound to survey these mani- 
 festations with admiration and delight. 
 But he is not an atheist : he believes in 
 God. What, then, are these works, 
 these elements and agencies, that sur- 
 round him } They are sent and meant 
 for his good. " The round world and 
 all that is in it;" the abundance and va- 
 riety of its products for food and build- 
 ing and clothing; mountains and valleys, 
 oceans and streams, light and shadow, 
 day and night, — are all forever appeal- 
 ing to his admiration, to his mind's high- 
 est thought and holiest feeling. Why, 
 then, when evening folds him in its 
 shadow and lays him down to his night- 
 ly rest, does he not say, " There is a 
 care for me " ? Why does not the 
 morning's beam wake him to thanks- 
 giving ? I say that a rational being 
 should charge himself to think of this. 
 How is it that when food and refresh- 
 ment come from all around him, — how 
 is it, that when his whole being is inter- 
 fused with a divine beneficence, he sel- 
 dom thinks of anything but senseless 
 elements ? The fragrance of flowers 
 might be to him as the incense of 
 praise. The sweet- and healthful air 
 might breathe with inspiration. In the 
 fruit that hangs upon our summer 
 boughs he might taste and see how 
 good the Lord is. Oh, purposeless and 
 thoughtless life, that suffers itself to be 
 moulded by material influences, when 
 
790 
 
 THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 celestial grace and goodliness breathe 
 all around it, and are seeking to win it 
 to sympathy, to love, and thanksgiving ! 
 The complaint of many is, they "'■ can- 
 vot come nigh to this divine benefi- 
 cence." But it comes nigh to them. 
 It "compasses their path and their lying 
 down, and is acquainted with all their 
 ways." 
 
 This religious homage to what is 
 divine in nature is a true, just, and 
 reasonable feeling. It is not fanati- 
 cism ; it is not presumption ; it is the 
 simple, logical result of the premises. 
 Either there is a God, or there is no 
 God. If there be no God, then there 
 is no place for moral admiration, for 
 reverence, gratitude, or love, If there 
 is a God, then there is the same in- 
 trinsic reason for studying reverently 
 and earnestly what is written on the 
 earth and sky, as there is for studying 
 a volume that is written by human 
 hands. Do we try to understand only 
 that which is on a level with ourselves ? 
 No : we strive to rise to loftier minds, 
 — to minds that, in their soaring, are 
 almost out of our reach. We are 
 afraid of being pietists ; but we are not 
 afraid of being artists, poets, orators. 
 We are not afraid of being enthusiastic 
 critics upon the great works of genius. 
 We labor to appreciate the fineness and 
 beauty and grandeur of their thoughts. 
 We are eager to know all t.hat we can 
 of the men that have interested and 
 charmed us. Is all this swelling enthu- 
 siasm to stop and turn away when it 
 appro'aches the shrine of the Infinite 
 Glory and Beauty ? 
 
 If we were houseless and helpless, 
 hungry and desolate, and some human 
 benefactor were to come and give us an 
 abode, and replenish it day by day all 
 our life long, we could never think of 
 him without a vivid sense of obligation. 
 But we should be houseless and home- 
 less, destitute and miserable, without 
 a divine provision for us. I expect 
 some of my readers to pause and hesi- 
 tate upon such a comparison. They 
 will say, " We know men ; we under- 
 
 stand their feelings and can sympathize 
 with them ; but we do not, in this wise, 
 know God. We dare not to say that 
 we sympathize with God." Let us not 
 be misled by words. If there is an 
 Infinite Being who loves his creatures ; 
 if, by unnumbered, million-fold redu- 
 plications of evidence he has shown 
 it ; if, especially, he has formed us 
 to love excellence, and, therefore, his 
 own supreme perfection, — then there 
 is accordance, and may be union and 
 communion between us and him. I 
 stand firmly upon the ground I have 
 already taken. Intelligence and good- 
 ness are here ; and it is impossible to 
 refer them to any cause but an Infinite 
 Intelligence and Goodness. To say 
 that all this around us, and all these 
 thoughts and feelings in our own 
 breasts, have sprung from the evolu- 
 tions of blind and senseless forces and 
 agencies, is as intolerable logic as it 
 is bad theology. Still, to some minds 
 wrapped in speculation, which has 
 deadened their natural feeling, the old 
 and wearying trouble and doubt return. 
 I do not disguise the difficulty. The 
 divine does not come to us as the hu- 
 man does. Shrouded in the infinitude 
 of its attributes, silent, unseen, un- 
 known in much that belongs to it, 
 unimagined, unimaged to us by any 
 visible form, it seems, to our weakness 
 and blindness, hidden, far off, and un- 
 approachable. So Job complained of 
 old : " Oh that I knew where I might 
 find him ! Behold I go forward, but he 
 is not there ; and backward, but I can- 
 not perceive him : on the left hand 
 where he doth work, but I cannot be- 
 hold him ; he hideth himself on the 
 right hand, that I cannot see him." 
 
 But there ate those who do not thus 
 complain, to whom God is a reality, 
 such as nothing else is, who live habitu- 
 ally in his presence ; but I think they 
 are few. What is it that makes this 
 difference ? Is it a more affectionate 
 nature in some than others ? Is it 
 imagination, — the faculty that realizes 
 the objects of thought .'' Is it a mind 
 
THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 791 
 
 that is naturally touched with the sense 
 of what is sublime and lovely ? Per- 
 haps it is all of these; but it would 
 naturally be, more than anything, in a 
 true religious consciousness, a juster 
 view of the object of the soul's adora- 
 tion and love. In this respect the 
 ages advance, and we stand on van- 
 tage-ground. And yet here arises a 
 question of profound concern to our 
 modern experience. The degree of 
 interest which one will take in any 
 being will depend on the congenialness 
 and the relations between them. The 
 old idolater worshipped with terrible 
 sincerity, for he saw a hand that might 
 strike him down. The Hebrew re- 
 garded Jehovah as his nation's God ; 
 and in Christianity there have been 
 views of God, as rescuing certain elect 
 persons, having from eternity concen- 
 trated his purpose and love upon them, 
 which have awakened raptures of self- 
 ish gratitude. I do not mean to say 
 that the sectarian convert has been 
 altogether selfish, nor that the Hebrew 
 thought was altogether local. David's 
 song of praise, we cannot but see, often 
 bursts over all such barriers. But cer- 
 tainly we have come to entertain larger 
 and juster thoughts of a Benevolence 
 which has no favorites ; which is good 
 to all; which neither, as a man, loves 
 us, nor, as an idol, threatens us, but 
 which embraces all creatures with a 
 universal, impartial, and invisible be- 
 neficence ; and this is the cause, in 
 part, of that decay of passionate emo- 
 tions and pietistic fervors, which char- 
 acterizes the present age. And now 
 we have to resist the tendencies and 
 dangers of our time. We have to 
 break through the environment with 
 which infinitude and immutability and 
 silence and universal law surround the 
 Incomprehensible God. We have to 
 learn to delight in his goodness because 
 it is diffusive and universal ; and thus 
 may we come to find a new place, a 
 rest, and a home, and an all-sufficiency 
 in the bosom of Infinite Beneficence. 
 I believe that place will be found. 
 
 I believe that a new, a higher piety will 
 come. It must come if the world is to 
 rise and not to sink ; for piety, that is, 
 love of the All-Divine and Beautiful, 
 is the highest thing. Those who do 
 not believe in human progress may 
 think otherwise ; but, for me, it is cer- 
 tain that this social and moral system 
 of our religion and very civilization is 
 not to run down into an unbelieving, 
 brutish, and godless world. A piety 
 will come which will not be local, oc- 
 casional, exceptional, but will be the 
 pervading spirit of life, — when men 
 shall not say to one another, " Know 
 the Lord," for all shall know him, from 
 the greatest to the least. Once let men 
 come to look upon the creation around 
 them as it is ; once let them see, not 
 things alone, but the divine light and 
 life that stream through them ; and 
 then shall every day open revelations ; 
 then shall the bird upon the wing and 
 the flower in the field speak to them of 
 God ; then shall the ocean roll anthems, 
 and the streams murmur hymns ; and 
 the heavens shall be telling the glory of 
 God, and the whole earth shall be filled 
 with his praise. 
 
 And man, who is made in the image 
 of God, — man himself, who beholds 
 all these revelations, — shall we, in this 
 survey, pass by him ? Humanity is a 
 clearer revelation of God than the ma- 
 terial universe ; for what can the natu- 
 ralist find in earth or ocean, — what 
 can the astronomer see in the starry 
 heavens, — that tells him of the unseen 
 God like his own invisible thought ? 
 
 The thinker is nearer to the source 
 of thought than aught beside. Man 
 stands nearest to God. Child of some 
 heavenly parentage he must be, — child 
 of wisdom and love, — else why does 
 he lift his eyes to heaven, taught to 
 love and adore ? The poorest creature 
 in the world may look upward, and say, 
 " My God." He who may say that 
 needs no other argument for praise. 
 That man would be envied who could 
 call but his earthly sovereign his pro- 
 tector and his friend. 
 
792 
 
 THE VALIDITY OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 
 
 And it is not individual man alone, 
 but congregated man, that moves our 
 wonder and thanksgiving. From what 
 infinite urn is poured forth this flood of 
 human affections, human love, enthu- 
 siasm, and adoration ? What is it that 
 has built up in this world great systems 
 of social and over-ruling order, — great 
 hierarchies of literature and science 
 and art and religion. — and is now, 
 more than ever, stirring the human 
 heart to self-development and progress ? 
 It will not stop nor pause till it has 
 brought forth a consummation grander 
 than has ever yet been seen or im- 
 agined. Jesus, — the greatest prophet 
 and power that has appeared in the 
 world to lead on this consummation, — 
 he said, " The kingdom of heaven is 
 like a grain of mustard-seed, which 
 is indeed the least of all seeds; but, 
 when it is grown, it is the greatest 
 among herbs, and becometh a tree, so 
 that the birds of the air come and lodge 
 in its branches." 
 
 And, if we speak of the infinitude 
 of God as removing him from us, let 
 us not forget that there is a kind of 
 
 infinitude in man, a range of boundless 
 desire and aspiration, — the impress 
 upon his nature of the Infinitude from 
 which it came. We lift our thoughts, 
 we stretch out our hands, to the Infi- 
 nite ; and nothing else can satisfy us. 
 That great word — God, — the one 
 word that stands alone in its magnifi- 
 cence and beauty, — I cannot under- 
 stand, though superstition may shrink 
 from it, and materialism may seem 
 willing to blot it out, how any rational 
 mind can live far from it. How does 
 it penetrate all the depths of our being, 
 — striking every chord of love and 
 wonder and delight ! How does it irra- 
 diate the earth and the heavens with 
 its splendor and loveliness ! How does 
 it bring calmness and breathe peace 
 into all souls when it conies ! " O 
 God ! thou art my God," says the 
 Psalmist : " early will I seek thee. 
 My soul thirsteth for thee ; my flesh 
 longeth for tliee. Because thy loving- 
 kindness is better than life, my lips 
 shall praise thee. Thus will I bless 
 thee while I live : I will lift up my 
 hands in thy name.*' 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Ability, not a measure of capacity for the high- 
 est good, Tyj- 
 
 Abuse of good things no objection to the things, 
 127. Should be reformed, not the things de- 
 stroyed, 12S. 
 
 Accumulations of property, the moral principles 
 which should govern, 256. Scripture warnings 
 against the perils attending, 25S. Passion for, 
 leads to sacrificing the end of life for the means, 
 269. Lawful reasons for desiring, 270. 
 Large, an unfair distribution of the rewaids 
 of industry, 273. 
 
 Addison, his view of the Supreme Being, accord- 
 ing to Soanie Jenyns, 287. 
 
 Affections, religious, as well as other, require to 
 be cultivated, 660. 
 
 Affliction, rarer than happiness in the world, 100. 
 Increase of, by unbelief, 683. Grandeur of 
 Christ's example seen in, 722. 
 
 African, the inferiority of the, 330. If weak and 
 childish to be treated as a child, 332. Com- 
 mon humanity of the, not recognized by the 
 Southern mind, 333. 
 
 Allston, criticism of the paintings of, 310. Criti- 
 cism of the Jeremiah of, 313. 
 
 Ambition, life opens a sphere for, 735. The true 
 rebuke of disappointed, 738. 
 
 Amiableness, not holiness, 733. 
 
 Andover, Dewey enters Theological Seminary at, 
 iv. 
 
 Annoyances, petty. 714. 
 
 Anthracite coal, how to obtain a lasting fire from, 
 
 300- 
 
 Apostolic language, application of, to present 
 times, 435. 
 
 Appearances, keeping up, degrading, 708. 
 
 Appetites, the, commonly regarded as enemies, 
 corrupters of the soul, 557. Plea against this 
 charge, from their uses, 559 ; from what they 
 teach and demand, 560 ; from the inversion of 
 the natural relations of the body and mind pro- 
 duced by vice,, 563. Uses of, 559. Have bad 
 tendencies, 560. Teach moderation, 560; self- 
 denial, 561 ; activity, 562. Not one of, can be 
 spared, 605. 
 
 Approbation of goodness implies a feeling of 
 goodness, 510. 
 
 Arians, the early fathers, 496. 
 
 Aristides, story of, 644. 
 
 Art, the servant of virtue, 125. Requires the 
 stamp of mind, 307. What it includes, 308. 
 
 Artist, work of the true, 307. 
 
 Arts, the, a just representation the object of, 309. 
 Principles of culture and criticism in all, the 
 same, 310. Of design require a wide ana gen- 
 erous culture of the whole man, 315. A scepti- 
 cal age not one of great achievement in, V4- 
 Highest, will never produce a revolting imp"res- 
 sion, 316. 
 
 Atheists, many have recognized the divine glory, 
 670. 
 
 Atonement, Unitarian view of the, 345. Pre- 
 eminence given by Paul to the, 373. True 
 dignity and importance of the, 373. 
 
 Attainment, our spiritual, as unsatisfactory as 
 material, 744. 
 
 Atterbury, Bishop, on allegories in Scripture, 
 467. On the language of the Apostles, 471. 
 
 Ballads, if successful must appeal to the best 
 sentiments, 11. Of England urge a sense of 
 duty, particularly on military men, 590. 
 
 Baxter, quotation from, on the certainties of re- 
 ligious faith, 361. 
 
 Beauty, of the human countenance, 48. Moral 
 tendency of the love of, 569. The sense of, 
 innate, 569. 
 
 Belief, in the Scripture use, 482. Statement of 
 personal, in one God, in man, in goodness, in 
 prayer, 6S9. Of a man must influence his life, 
 774- 
 
 Bellows, Henry W., D.D., tribute of, to the 
 character of Dewey, v. 
 
 Beneficence, of God, conscious existence testifies 
 to the, 58. Of things, overlooked in prosperity, 
 788. 
 
 Benignity of God, the universe one revelation of 
 the, 40, 41. Nature and the mission of Jesus 
 another, 41. 
 
 Berkeley, Bishop, quotation from, on light, ^52. 
 
 Bible, Unitarian theory of the inspiration of the, 
 369. Authority for that theory, 370. The 
 books of the, to be regarded and interpreted as 
 other books, 406, 407. Doubtful passages in, 
 need qualified persons to understand them, 
 408. A fallible book, 459. Contents of the, 
 463. Books of the, to be distinguished from 
 the contents of the books, 475. Demands of 
 the. 4S2. Purpose of the, 490, 491. Grandeui 
 and beauty of the records of the, 685. 
 
 Bible stories, the charm of the, 219. 
 
 Body, organization of the, 55-?, 554. Points of 
 the, common to (he animal organism, 555 ; 
 
794 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 superior to that organism, 535-557- A won- 
 derful moral structure, 561. Teaching of the, 
 561. Care and training of the, 562. Union 
 of mind with, 5S4. 
 
 Books, religious tendency of, 125. Examples 
 of close reasoning in religious, 187. Good, 
 cannot be written by bad men, 224. Luxuries, 
 284. Prodigious multiplication of, 285. 
 
 Boston, Dr. Dewey, minister of New South So- 
 ciety in, V. 
 
 Bridgewater, bequest of the Earl of, 522. 
 
 Buckle, History of Civilization by, 524. 
 
 Bulwer, quotation from, on verse, 308. 
 
 Burial rite, in Egypt, 522. Peculiar to man, 
 613. The result of a sentiment, 613. 
 
 Burnst, Bishop, quotation from, on inspiration, 
 472. 
 
 Burnet, Thomas, Rev., theory of the earth of, 
 541. 
 
 Business, the moral end of, 235, 251. Individual 
 talent rightly comes into play in, 240. Obliga- 
 tions of seller to buyer in, 241. End of, some- 
 thing more than success, 252. A scene of 
 moral action, 253. Folly of retiring from, 255. 
 Commendable reasons for retiring from, 255. 
 The perils of, 259. Honorable character of the 
 upright man of, 261. Changes of, in modern 
 times. 265, 266. May be a means of mental 
 culture, 270. Rule of an eminent banker, on 
 the relation the amount of, done should bear to 
 capital invested, 274. 
 
 Byron, his melancholy view of life, 98. 
 
 Calamities, the lesson of, 335. Teachers of 
 wisdom, 340. 
 
 Calvinism, Five Points of, 381. An artificial sys- 
 tem, 399. The theory of, on morals, 502. 
 This theory at issue with moral philosophy, 
 50'?. At war with literature, common sense, 
 and common conduct of mankind, 505. Diffi- 
 culty of, to sustain itself in the public mind, 
 507. Inconsistency of its admission of a con- 
 science in men and its idea of total depravity, 
 510. If true, should produce a feeling of sad- 
 ness, 512. Lack of literature produced by, 
 512. Cannot be proved true, 513. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, quotation from, on men deserv- 
 ing of honor. 271. 
 
 Casablanca, lesson taught by, 89. 
 
 Ceremonial rites, insufficiency of, to Luther, 483. 
 
 Chalmers, quotation from, on the uniformity of 
 nature, 590. 
 
 Channing, Rev. William Ellery, D.D , Dewey 
 invited to be assistant of, iv. 
 
 Character, value of, 48. Gradations in, among 
 men, 194. Test of, in the social relations, 699. 
 
 Charity, unwise forms of, 270 
 
 Clieerfulness, not dependent on wealth or poverty, 
 80. 
 
 Chesterfield, Lord, a superficial observer, 6. 
 
 Childhood, the world's experimenter, 575. Crisis 
 in the passage to maturity, 575, 576. Union of 
 elders in training, 5S2. Uncompensated labor 
 for, 5S2. Feebleness of, designed to strengthen 
 the family bond, 583- 
 
 China. subjection in, 652. 
 
 Christ, the effect upon human character of perfect 
 imitation of, iii. Wherein the life of, is, and 
 wherein is not, an example for us, 112, 113. 
 Character of the teaching of, 150. Theory by 
 which a double nature in, can be proved, 36S. 
 
 Relation of the cross of, to our sins, and to the 
 pardon of sin, 377, 378 ; to virtue, 379. The 
 idea of, received from the Gospels. 753, 754. 
 What believing on, is, 754. Joy of virtue in, 
 755. The office of, to his disciples, 758, 759. 
 Beloved more than other teachers, 759. Mean- 
 ing of the term to be in, 759. See Jesus. 
 
 Christian, a man may be more of a, by losing sec- 
 tarian bonds, 762. 
 
 " Christian Examiner," Dewey a contributor to 
 the, iv. 
 
 Christianity, a religion adapted to the needs of 
 human nature, 22, 28 ; and to the whole nature, 
 23. Allows individuality, 25. Perverted by 
 erroneous views of religion, 145. As held by 
 Unitarians, a religion of power and strictness, 
 400. The spirit of the world a hidden foe to, 
 441. Founded on miracles. 448. Influence of, 
 on the feudal system, 655. Controversy on 
 supernaturalism of, 775. 
 
 Christian missions, commendable points of, 687. 
 Some reasons for the failure of, 687. 
 
 Christians, ancient fellowship of, 438. Hostility 
 between the world and, in apostohc times, 440. 
 
 Christian sects, each has something right in its 
 system, 6S7. Points worthy of general accept- 
 ance in the services of several, 6S7. 
 
 Church, needs of the, as a working institution, 
 776. Ordinances of the, 778-779. 
 
 Cicero, illustration from, of the Alexandrian corn 
 merchant, 245. On Solitude, 657. 
 
 City, a great, a sphere of moral action, 60. 
 
 Civilization, Guizot's statement regarding, 637. 
 Movement of, upon barbarism, as shown in 
 British rule in India, 642. Childliood of, in 
 Southern Asia, 649. Youth of, in Greece, 652. 
 Rome, law-maker and diffuser of. 652. In 
 Central and Western Europe, 653. 
 
 Civilizations, accomplishments of the old, 52S, 
 529. 
 
 Colonization, a help to human progress. 641. 
 
 Comfort, a utilitarian word, 676. Not felt merely 
 in solitude, 676. 
 
 Comforts, of society task and improve the intel- 
 lect, 301. 
 
 Commerce, the civilizer of nations, 253. Liberty, 
 scienc2, and religion followers of, 253. 
 
 Commercial immorality, 277. 
 
 Common sense, 46, 568. Leads to distinctly 
 moral conclusions, 569. A moral censor, 569. 
 
 Competition, not forbidden by Scripture, 139. In 
 trade only to be restrained by fairness and hon 
 esty, 242. An annoying form of selfishness ; 
 a trial of society, 579. 
 
 Comte, Auguste, quotation from, against reli- 
 gion, 116- Task undertaken by, in his Philos- 
 ophie Positive, 524. 
 
 Conceptions, suggest their opposites, 53. 
 
 Condorcet, Marquis de, anecdote of, 657. 
 
 Conduct, often at variance with sentiment, 221- 
 225. Principles of, to be distinguished from 
 rules for, 237. 
 
 Conscience, the all-pervading power of God, 49. 
 According to Calvinism, depraved, 503, 510. 
 51 1. What it is, 538. Working of a mis- 
 guided, 566. Authoritative, 570. Executive, 
 571. No escape from, 571. Sure to overtake 
 the transgressor, 572. Apparent ascendency 
 given to intellect over, 606, 607. In man in 
 spite of himself, 665. The voice of God, 668. 
 
 Conscription, remark of Napoleon on the, 627. 
 
 Contracts, the feelings not to decide the right 
 
INDEX. 
 
 795 
 
 and wrong of, 237-238. Definition of, 240. 
 Definition of fraud in, 241. Mutual advantage 
 the basis of, 246. Views of, 245-246. 
 
 Controversy, drives men to exti-enies of opinion, 
 462. 
 
 Conversion, true, 196-197. Jewish views of, 409. 
 Early Christian views of, 409. Present Chris- 
 tian views of, 410. Arguments for, and objec- 
 tions to, 41 1-412. Regarded as identical with 
 obtaining religion, 413. True view of, 414-415. 
 In Apostolic times, 434. 
 
 Courtesy, beauty of, 700. 
 
 Covetousness, the guilt of inordinate, 20. 
 
 Creation, all beautiful, 45, 46. The design in, 
 518, 519. Human culture the end of, 632. 
 Moral freedom the principle on which the end 
 of, is to be secured, 632. 
 
 Credit, too great expansion of, imprudent, 274. 
 The dangers of, 275. Dishonesty in the use of, 
 275, 276. 
 
 Creed, not a certainty, but an inference, 354; a 
 theory, 480. 
 
 Creeds, decline of, 775. 
 
 Criticism, principles of true, 310, 311. Apt to 
 overlook all but first-rate excellence, 311. 
 
 Culture, no successful, without moral feeling, 31 ■5. 
 The cultivation of the whole man, 314. True, 
 315. The end of Providence, 574. Examina- 
 tion of the interior and trying conditions of, 
 599. Indefiniteness of the process of, 601. 
 Costs according to its degree, 661. Impossi- 
 ble to brutes, 788. 
 
 Daily experience a spiritual discipline, 57. 
 
 David, the sin of, 219. Imprecations of, his own 
 imperfection, not due to the Spirit of God, 465, 
 466. Dr. Durell on the imprecations of, 473. 
 Allowance for the imprecations of, 6S5. 
 
 Dead, voices of the, 131-138. Works of the, 
 131. Memories of the, 132. The, not shut 
 off from communication with us, 136. 
 
 Death, the lesson of, 94, 233. The victory over, 
 celebrated by the sacramental table, 95. Con- 
 solations in view of, 104, 105. A good man's 
 possible thoughts on, 107, 108. Darkness of, 
 to unbelief, 137. Preparation for, 200. Sud- 
 den, why dreaded, 201. Sudden, preparation 
 for, opposed to the import of Scripture, 202. 
 Habitual readiness for, 207, 341. Regarded by 
 most men as an evil, 614. An evident and 
 original part of the system of the world, 614 
 The, threatened in Scripture, 614. Part of 
 the natural course, 614, 615. Isolation of the 
 event of, 615. Value of this isolation, 618. 
 Pain attending, 616. Influence of, on life, as 
 an epoch in the moral course, 617 ; as near, 617 ; 
 as inevitable, 618 ; as admonitory, by filling tlie 
 world with toucliing and sublime memorials, 
 61S ; and giving a grandeur to life, 618. The 
 lot of all, 683. Appointed by God for good, 
 6S3. Cannot be resisted, 684. Sceptical quo- 
 tations from Mirabeau on, 683. The Christian 
 way to meet, 6S3. 
 
 Depravation, as distinguished from depravity of 
 nature, 349. Total, 382. 
 
 Descent from the Cross, Guerin's picture of the, 
 316. 
 
 Design, the argument from, 5 1 7. Dispositions to 
 discredit, 517. Enforcement of the argument 
 from, 517. In the vegetable world, 519. In 
 the animal world, 520. in man, 520. 
 
 Despondency, nothing in human condition pecu 
 liarly calling for, 598. Grounds for not enter- 
 taining, 598. 
 
 Despotism, better than no government, 622, 626. 
 American disposition to do injustice to, 626. 
 
 Devotion, argument for, springs from the struc- 
 ture of the soul, 675. Reasonableness and 
 grandeur of, 677. Trials of, under modern 
 science, 690. The loftiest tendency of our 
 nature, 699. 
 
 Dewey, Orville, born in Sheffield, in 1794, ix. 
 Early influences shaping character of, ix. Gra- 
 duated at Williams College, ix. Early desire 
 to be a preacher, ix. Difficulties in the way, 
 ix. Enters Andover Theological Seminary, x. 
 Changes in religious faith, x. Leaves Ando- 
 ver unsettled in opinions, x. Invited to Glou- 
 cester, X. Invited to Boston to assist Dr. 
 Channing, x. Value to him of his intimacy 
 with Dr. C, X. Marries Miss Louisa Farn- 
 ham, X. Settled at New Bedford, x. Diffi- 
 culties of his work there, x. A contributor to 
 the Christian Examiner, x. Visits Europe, 
 X. Returns to Sheffield, X. Invited to Church 
 of the Messiah, N.Y.. xi. Receives degree of 
 D.D. from Harvard College, xi. Renewed ill- 
 ness, xi. Revisits Europe, xi. Returns to 
 Sheffield, xi. Delivers course of Lowell Lec- 
 tures, xi. Minister of New South Society in 
 Boston, xi. Returns to Sheffield, xi. Dies 
 there, aged 88, xii. 
 
 Dewey, Paul, iii. 
 
 Difficulty inevitable to the system of things, 712. 
 
 Discouragement, argument against, 77, 78. 
 
 Distinction, appreciation of, in rude times, yi^y. 
 
 Divine Providence, impartiality of, shown by the 
 inequalities caused by nature, 79. 
 
 Divinity of any great man may be proved by evi- 
 dence similar to that with which the Trinitarian 
 tries to prove the Deity of Jesus, 494. 
 
 Domestic virtues, fostered by rigors of climate, 79. 
 
 Doubts, essential in the process towards belief, 
 355-357; utility of, 362. 
 
 Draper, work of, on the intellectual development 
 of Europe, 524. 
 
 Durell, Dr., on David's Imprecatory Psalms, 473. 
 
 Duties, unreasonable desires not the measure of, 
 239- 
 
 Earth, how made habitable, 542. Means of 
 warming the, 543, 544. Condition and charac- 
 ter of the first inhabitants of the, 632. Early 
 cosmogonies of the, 649. 
 
 Ecce Homo, points of dissent from the writer of, 
 
 753- 754- 
 
 Edwards, Jonathan, force of the argument in his 
 work on the Will, if man be totally depraved, 
 500. 
 
 Effort and struggle, a good condition, 600. 
 
 Egmont, Count, 644. 
 
 Election, Unitarian view of the doctrine of, 350. 
 Orthodox view, 384. 
 
 Electric spark, developed by friction, an illustra- 
 tion from, ill the moral world, 58. 
 
 Elihu, argument of, in the book of Job, 665. 
 
 Envy, dependent upon nearness in competition, 5. 
 
 Epistles, local and special references of the, 429, 
 430. Should be applied to later Christian ex- 
 perience with qualification, 4:;!. 
 
 Error, religious, can not be entiiely avoided by 
 man, 621. The problem involved in the preva- 
 lence and ministry of, 630. Mis-statement of 
 
796 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 the problem, 630. Divine Providence has 
 wrought good out of, 631. 
 Evil, not a fair and natural result of moral free- 
 dom, 16. Not natural to man, 16. False no- 
 tions of what is, S3. Necessary to virtue, 83. 
 The problem of. in the world, 326. Something 
 beside, in the world, 5 28. View to be taken of, 
 530. Impossibility of excluding all, from the 
 world, 530. Theory of, of Leibnitz, 530. Prin- 
 ciple at the basis of the problem of, 531. Re- 
 sults from the limitations necessary to a created 
 system, 531. Could not have been excluded 
 from the world, 532. This fact no limitation 
 of divine power or goodness, 532. Theory of the 
 Epicureans regarding, as given by Lactantius, 
 
 532. Remark on from Rogers's Table Talk, 
 
 533. Natural, 533. Moral, 534. Argument 
 of the work of Archbishop King on tlie origin 
 of, 537, note. Problem of tlie origin of, thought 
 to pertain to humanity alone, 598. Hereditary, 
 inseparable from the best possible system of 
 things, 612. 
 
 Evils, some, must flow from human freedom and 
 ignorance, 620. These, developments of the 
 higher hunian sentiments, 620. 
 
 Excitement, the craving for, a characteristic of 
 the age, 2S4. 
 
 Existence, the blessing of, 44. 
 
 Experience, the only source of knowledge in 
 matters of practical wisdom, 646. Rise of po- 
 litical truths through, 646. Common beliefs 
 the fruit of, 646. 
 
 Eye, the construction of the, displays intelligence, 
 782, 783. 
 
 Faculty of spesch, given for the expression and 
 culture of higher things than are foinid in ani- 
 mal nature, 55. 
 
 Faith, argument for, from the constitution of the 
 mind, 66. Needed as support under affliction 
 and temptation, 68. In Christ is love of God, 
 106. Nature of, 357, 359. Not knowledge, 
 
 360. Not a matter of experience, 361. Fruits 
 of Christian, not to be held as doubtful matters, 
 
 361. True, 364. In the New Testament, rep- 
 resented as a form of saving virtue, 482. The 
 method of acceptance with God, 483. Essence 
 of, 484. Justification by, 4S4. Stands between 
 love and works, 486. The Gospel demand for, 
 reasonable, 4S7. In God, the soul's only want 
 in affliction, 676. In God and a future life, 
 strength of the ground for, 6S0. 
 
 Falsehood, is it ever justifiable.'' 706, 707. 
 
 Fame, value of, 735. 
 
 Family, the, the private school of society, 583. 
 
 Farm-house, moral import of the work of the, 59. 
 
 Farnham, Louisa, marries Orville Dewey, iv. 
 
 Farnham, William, iv. 
 
 Faults, individual, 725. How they may be over- 
 come, 725, 726. 
 
 Feudal system, 654. The source of a new fam- 
 ily culture, 654. Influence of, on the place of 
 women, 654 ; on the rights of individual man, 
 654. Presided over by Christianity, 655. 
 
 Fiction, dangers of, 11. Good in, k. Moral 
 character of most works of, good, 11. The 
 combination of the traits of real life, 290. 
 
 Fidelity, achievements possible to, 726. 
 
 Fluctuation, a universal law, 603. Belongs to 
 the moods of the mind, 604. Advantages of 
 the law of, 604. 
 
 Follen, Charles, death of, 334. 
 
 Foster, criticism of the style of the Essays on 
 Popular Ignorance, by, 290. 
 
 France, lack of the religious sentiment in, 115. 
 Hello's Philosophy of the History of, 647. 
 
 Free agency, results of, 537. A necessity to vir- 
 tue, 599. Governed and controlled to bring 
 about good ends, 623. 
 
 Freedom, distinction between, and control, 623. 
 
 Fretting, is doing evil, 712. 
 
 Fuel, waste of, 299. 
 
 Future life, reasons why we should not have an 
 actual vision of, 362. 
 
 Future punishment. Scriptural representations of, 
 not literal nor definite, 388. Duration of, not 
 definitely described, 389. Doctrine of literally 
 eternal, destroys the proofs of the goodness of 
 God, 390. Men do not believe the statements 
 in their creeds concerning, 391. A serious 
 question, 392. 
 
 Gain, true ideas of, 765. 
 
 Galionella, the, 589. 
 
 Game of life, Retsch's picture of the, 316. 
 
 Genius, the power of application, 280. Popular 
 ideas of a, 293. 
 
 Gloucester, Dewey settled at, iv. 
 
 God, benignity of, testified to in the universe, in 
 nature, and in the mission of Jesus, 41. Con- 
 scious existence a testimony to the beneficence 
 of, 58. Goodness of, extended to all, 78. 
 Most numerous favors of, are bestowed im- 
 partially, 81. The universe a revelation of, 
 185. A Father, 344. Place held in the mind 
 by the idea of, 659. Reasons why that idea 
 does not hold a larger place, 659. Character 
 falsely ascribed to, 660. The giver of good, 
 recognized in his gifts, 662, 663. Argument 
 for being of, in the spiritua ly receptive faculty 
 of the soul, 6-5. Communion with, a comfort 
 to the heart, 676. Effect upon the mind of 
 thoughts of infinitude and, 743, 744. Known 
 in his works, 767. Demanded by our nature, 
 as an object of faith and adoration, 769, The 
 final word of Christianity, 776. Ascending 
 pr.th to the knowledge of, 785. Cultivation of 
 our knowledge of the character of, the highest 
 aim of our being, 78S. True way to regard the 
 manifestations of, in nature and religion, 789; 
 the way of Jesus, 789. Sympathy with, 790. 
 
 God's love, a restraint from evil, 115-217. A 
 comfort in affliction, 217-219. 
 
 Goodness, not an attribute of matter, 664. The 
 power of, 664 
 
 Good sense, definition of, 312. 
 
 Gospel, exalted idea of the ministry of the, 164. 
 Distinction between, and law, 196. Encourage- 
 ment to deeper reading of the, 696. 
 
 Gotama, number ot the works of, stated by Dr. 
 Draper, 528, note. 
 
 Government, moral character of, 31S, 320, 321 ; 
 of our form of, 318. A free and popular, the 
 most entitled to respect and reverence, 320. 
 A moral being, 321. A trust, 322. Functions 
 of, 323, 324. Fear of God, the crown of, 325. 
 The tendency of the age to popular forms of, 
 an awful movement, 325. The people make, 
 what it is, 325. 
 
 Gravitation, value of the law of, 667. 
 
 Greatness, compared with the reputation for, 736, 
 
 12,1- 
 Greece, civilization of, 651. Literature of, 652. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 797 
 
 Kabits, force of, 204. 
 
 Hall, Robert, the most powerful preacher of Eng- 
 land, 702. 
 
 Happiness, acquired only by effort, 203. Too 
 much thought of, in life, 719. The natural rule 
 of all conscious existence, 7S7 ; due to intelli- 
 gence and goodness of the originating cause, 
 7S7. 
 
 Heathenism, not utterly bad, 686. An approach 
 to the light, 687. Reasons for the failure of 
 missions to, 687. 
 
 Heaven and hell, Unitarian views of, 351. 
 
 Hebrew prophets, their appearance a phenomenon 
 in history, 0^6. Character of the, as men, 686 ; 
 as pre ichers, 686. 
 
 Hebrew religious system, sublimity of the, 685. 
 Cosmogony of, cannot be accepted, 685. 
 
 Hegel, the philosophyof history of, 516. 
 
 Herder, analysis of his Philosophy of Humanity, 
 5 1 1). Quotation from, on the power of the 
 sen-es, 532. 
 
 Here litary transmission, the law of, a useful law, 
 612. Connection of this law with nationality; 
 and the family bond, 612. Evil must come with 
 the good of, 613. 
 
 Home, the bond of the world, 48, 583,. 584. The 
 surroundings of, teachers of religion and moral- 
 ity, 61. Influence of the, 302. 
 
 Human body, wonders of the construction of the, 
 55. Points of in common with, and in contrast 
 to the animal organism, 555-557. 
 
 Human constitution, the laws of the, moral laws, 
 562. Not a natural developer of evil, vice, in- 
 temperance, 563. 
 
 Human culture, the end of Providence, 521. 
 History of thought on, 521. In ancient times, 
 
 522. In Egypt, 522. In Greek mythology, 
 
 523. Among the Persians, 523. In the He- 
 brew religion, 523. In Christianity, 523. In 
 the Neo-Platonic School, 524. Difficulties and 
 trials of men"s mmds concerning. 524, 525. 
 Discussion of, designed not for philosophers, 
 but for the people, 525, 526. 
 
 Human depravity, Unitarian views concerning, 
 34S. 
 
 Human experience not the measure of divine 
 power, 450. 
 
 Human face, marvel of the, 55. Power of ex- 
 pression of tlie, 556. Individuality of the, 557. 
 Advantages of this individuality, 557. 
 
 Human faculties, divided mto the intellectual, to 
 apprehend truth, 566 ; the aesthetic, to appre- 
 hehd beauty, 566, the moral, to apprehend 
 right, 566. An error to disparage the, 567. 
 
 Human hand, marks of adaptation in the, 557. 
 
 Humanity, the Saviour had respect'.for, 729. Il- 
 lustration of, among inhabitants of Java, 730. 
 The expounders of, 731 : agree with the great 
 Teacher, 732. Gospel demands of, 732 ; re- 
 pentance, conversion, regeneration, 7^2. Im- 
 proves under the discipline of the world, 7S7. 
 A clearer revelation of God than the material 
 universe, 791. 
 
 Human love, the strength of, 19. 
 
 Human nature, objections to, concessions to its 
 worth, 1-9. Weak and low, lofty and strong, i. 
 Unqualified disparagement of, as unjust as un- 
 due praise, i. General and fair views of, 2. 
 Criticisms of the sceptical philosopher on. 2. 
 Replies to the same, 3-6. Low views of God 
 resulting from low views of, 2. Depreciation 
 of, proves it not worthless, 3. Not malignant, 
 
 4. Not diabolical even though selfish, 4. Power 
 of selfishness over, 5. A man's own character 
 his interpreter of, 5. By what qualities unfairly 
 judged, 6 ; by what fairly, 6. Criticisms of 
 the theologian on, 7. Very degradation of, 
 proves nobility of, 7. Spontaneous moral ex- 
 pressions of men a testimony to the exalted 
 character of, 10-12. Good men the legitimate 
 representatives of, 12-13. Wrong done by sin 
 to, 16-22. Does not choose evil as such, iS. 
 Adaptation of religion to, 22-28. The appeal 
 of religion to, 2S-35. A ground for thanksgiv- 
 ing, 42-50. Moral and religious belief an es- 
 sential principle of, 68. Has capability of good 
 as well as evil, 34.9. Calvinism's low view of, 
 
 506. Injustice. of this view of, 507. Idea can- 
 not be admitted that there is nothing good in, 
 
 507. Ideas of moral excellence belong essen- 
 tially to, 508, 509. Unconscious tendencies 
 in, a proof of divine direction, 647. Sense of 
 right and wrong in, 665. 
 
 Human strength, not enough dwelt on, 726. 
 Humboldt, William, quotation from, 515. 
 Hunger, the use of, 559. 
 
 Ideals, the rudest age susceptible of high, 623. 
 
 Ignorance, why permitted in creation, 537. 
 
 Illusion, relation of, to the problem of human 
 destiny, 602. About wealth, 602. 
 
 Imagination, development of, in youth, 117. 
 
 Impatience, the sin of, 710. Development of, due 
 to temperament, 711. Unwise on economical 
 grounds, 711. Provocations of, 712. Misery 
 following, shows evil of, 714. May be con- 
 trolled by expecting difficulties, 715 ; by a rea- 
 sonable submission to the will of Providence, 
 715. Lofty state of the mind that can control, 
 716. 
 
 Imperfection, a necessity of the universe, 599. 
 
 Impossibilities, natural, 533. 
 
 Improvement in the arts of living the first step 
 to moral and intellectual improvement, 297. 
 Comfort a friend to social, 299. 
 
 India, British influence in, 642, 643. 
 
 Indulgence, the misery of, 60. 
 
 Inequality of lot inevitable, 580. Not at war 
 with social justice or improvement, 5S0. 
 
 Infidelity, Unitarian views do not tend to pro- 
 duce, 463. Definition of, 469. A senseless 
 cry, 470. 
 
 Infinite attributes do not differ from what we un- 
 derstand by the attributes, 770. 
 
 Infinitude, in man, 792. Of God does not debar 
 us from knowledge of his nature, 785, 786. 
 
 Infirmity, contributes to human virtue and human 
 existence, 6oS. 
 
 Innocence, passive, not the noblest quality, 750. 
 
 Inquiry, advantages of, over certainty, 363. 
 
 Inspiration, correct views of, save from infidelity, 
 460. Of the .Scriptures, quotations on, from 
 Erasmus, Michselis, Bishop Marsh, Dr. Powell, 
 Dr. Paley, 461. Of every idea of the Bible, 
 not believed even by the Orthodox, 467. Ex- 
 tent of, 465-46S. Le Clerc on. 470. Bishop 
 Burnet on, 472. Jahn on modifications in the 
 doctrine of, 473. Arguments of Dr. Woods 
 on, 475, 476. Deficiencies in his ai-guments, 
 476, 477- 
 
 Instinct, a clearer proof of divine direction than 
 reason, 647. 
 
 Intellect, achievements of the, 574. Apparent 
 
798 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 ascendency given to, over virtue and conscience, 
 606, 607. 
 
 Intelligence, manifested in the structure of plants 
 and animals, 786, 7S7. 
 
 Intelligibleness a correlative of incomprehensi- 
 bility, 770, 771. 
 
 Invasion, a help to human progress, 642. 
 
 Ivan IV., of Russia, and his son, 626. 
 
 Jahn, on Ezekiel, 467. On modifications of the 
 doctrine of inspiration, 473. 
 
 Jerome, St., on the prophet Amos, 475. 
 
 Jesus, moral harmony of the character of, 208. 
 Example of, m the sphere of common life, 2:52. 
 Did he claim to be God .^370. Spoken of' in 
 the Bible as confessedly inferior to God, 371. 
 Description of circumstances attending the 
 tleath of, 374. The death of, the life of the 
 world, 375. Different vievifs of the sacrifice of, 
 376, 377- Interest to the race of his character 
 as a sufferer, 379, 3S0. How spoken of in the 
 New Testament, 436. The reverence due, 437. 
 Trinitarian evidence for deity of, would prove 
 the divinity of any good man, 494. Beauty of 
 the life and teachings of, admitted by hostile 
 critics, 686. Reason for veneration of, 745. 
 Naturalness and vitality of the character of, 
 747. Presented to us as our great model and 
 example, 747, 74S. Social relations of, 74S, 
 
 750. Sinlessness of, 730, 751. Sufferings of, 
 
 751, 752. No stoicism in, 752. Impersonality 
 in the language of, concerning himself, 756. 
 Peculiar relation to our humanity of, 757. 
 History has sanctioned the language of, con- 
 cerning himself and his mission, 757. Relation 
 of, to the individual soul, 75S. The theme of 
 universal and unabated interest, 7S5. See 
 Christ. 
 
 Job, the book of, 36. Meditation of, on God, 
 
 36. . 
 louffroi, reference to, on the end of being, 522. 
 Judith, criticism of Allori's picture of, 313. 
 Judson, and Burmese heathen, 731. 
 Justice, distinction between moral and legal, 238. 
 Justification, propriety of the Apostolic term of, 
 
 433 ; now lost, 434. 
 
 Kent, Chancellor, quotation from, on legal pro- 
 tection against fraud, 239. 
 Kepler, belief of, concerning the earth, 546. 
 
 Labor, the beneficence of the requirement of, 53. 
 Dignity and spiritual end of, 59. Religion in, 
 123. The law of, 262. The uses of, 262. 
 Public opinion derogatory to, 264. Disparag- 
 ing estimate of literary, 264. False theories 
 of, taught by the feudal system, 591. See Toil. 
 
 Lactantius, statement of the Epicurean view of 
 the problem of evil by, 532. 
 
 Language, the instrument of divine intelligence 
 and human ingenuity, 556. 
 
 La Place, quotation from on knowledge, 29?. 
 
 Law, obligation of reverence and obedience to, 
 626. 
 
 Laws, necessity of general, to man's free growth 
 and action, 538. 
 
 Lawyer, religious aspect of the vocation of the, 
 124. 
 
 Lea, William, inventor of stocking frame, death 
 of, of a broken heart, 298. 
 
 Le Clerc, quotation from, on inspiration, 470. 
 
 Legal expediency, may protect but does not abet 
 fraud, 239. 
 
 Leibnitz, theory of evil of, 530. 
 
 Lexington, burning of the steamer, 334. 
 
 Liberal Christianity, assaults on, do not prove it 
 false, 393. Modes of attack on, 394, -,96. 
 
 Life, intensity and awfulness of, 38. "Blessing 
 0^1 Z'^i 99- Moral significance of, 57. Moral 
 and spiritual, 57. Every relation of, moral, 
 60. The condition of, moral. 60. Dignity and 
 interest of, increased by regarding everything 
 in it as moral, 62. All the dignity of humr.n, 
 belongs to every, 63. Opportunities of, in 
 ordinary occasions, 64 ; made dull by want of 
 spiritual insight, 6j. Necessity of a moral pur- 
 pose to the well-being of, 6s . Faith and virtue 
 necessary to the attainment of the great ends of, 
 66. A motive to virtue, 68. A social condi- 
 tion, 69. Dependent on individual character, 
 7I) 72, 75 ; on social character, y^^ 74 • on 
 religious character, 74. Unfairness of most of 
 our complaints of, 75. Inequalities in, perma- 
 nent, 78.. A system of checks and balances, 
 79. Apparent inequalities of, not real, 80. 
 Distinctions of, unduly overrated, 82. Not 
 wisely called miserable, 86. A schcol, 90. 
 Given for moral and spiritual learning, 90. 
 Periods of, have appropriate tasks, 91. Les- 
 sons of the pursuits and conditions of, 92. A 
 conflict with difficulties, a progress in improve- 
 ment, 96. Value of, 97. Heathen views of, 
 97. Job's contempt of, 97. Youthful dreams 
 of, 97. Manhood's disappointment in, 98. 
 Dark views of, taken by the pulpit and religious 
 men, 98. Views of Jesus- and his apostles con- 
 cerning, 99. Love of, proves it a blessing, 100. 
 Disparagement of, wrong, fatal to religion and 
 improvement, loi. A test of religion, 102. 
 Spiritual identity of the future, with the pres- 
 ent, 104. Spiritual, the true, 109. Jesus the 
 interpreter of the mystery of, no. The relig- 
 ion of, 1 22-1 31. The world made for, 122. 
 The problem of, 215. Virtues of ordinary, 
 230. A means to something beyond, 340. The 
 mystery of, 526, 527. Blessings of, more than 
 the miseries, 529, 530. Advantages of a tem- 
 perate, 562. Moral adaptations of, aided by 
 physical; childhood, 576 ; manhood, 576: ace. 
 576. Discipline of, involves difficulty and trial, 
 607. Similarity of discipline of all moral, in 
 all worlds, 608. Problems in man's individual, 
 609. Historic problems of, 622. A bad. not 
 a happy, 668. Not worth the anxieties we 
 give it, 683. The action demanded if there be 
 another, 678. Failure to apprehend the reality 
 in, 691. Composed of the visible and invisible, 
 691. The visible things of, are symbols, 691. 
 Preponderance of the physical over the spirit- 
 ual at earliest periods of, 692. Lack of books 
 on the philosophy of, 694. Ignorance of the 
 grand realities of, an irreparable loss, 696. 
 Want of insight of, a want of faith, 696. Of 
 sense and fashion, repugnant to the Saxon race, 
 
 ^97- 
 
 Limitation, necessarily implies imperfection, 532. 
 
 Literature, object of, the presentation of the high- 
 est ideal, 239. Co-ordination and harmony of 
 the departments of, 282. Of the day, not con- 
 ducive to study and thought, 286 ; deficient in 
 
INDEX. 
 
 799 
 
 religious sentiment, 287. Value of a knowl- 
 edge of, ■]■]■]. 
 
 Littleton, Lord, quotation from, on the reason of 
 the law, 401. 
 
 Loni;inus, on the men of his day, 657. 
 
 Lord's Supper, answer to objections to using the, 
 155. True explanation of the passage of Cor- 
 intliians cnnc^rning, 4^2. Not a mystery, 752. 
 A remembrance of Christ with symbols, 752. 
 Beauty of the service of, 753. Right ideas 
 about, 77S, 779. A memorial altar, 77S. 
 
 Louis XVL, anecdote of, 325. 
 
 Love, infinite, the primal truth of all religion, 
 670. 
 
 Lysiniachus, anecdote of, 572. 
 
 Machinery, improved, extends the field of la- 
 bor, 29S. Relief of mankind by, 300. 
 Madonna della Seggiola, criticism of the picture 
 
 of. jij- 
 
 Maltby, Dr., on the neid of discrimination in 
 reading Paul's language, 473. 
 
 Man, intellectual achievements of, 47. Faith of 
 man in, the bond of human confidence, 48, 65, 
 I2S. The master of circumstances, 72. Defi- 
 nition of the Greek word for, 520. The top 
 of tlie world-system, 520. The end of the 
 moral system, 521. Physical constitution of, 
 553, 555-557- Spiritual constitution of, 565. 
 Complex nature of, 584. Balance of opposing 
 powers and tendencies in the nature of, 584, 
 585. As taken in hand for instruction by na- 
 ture, 5S7. Nature demands of, activity, dis- 
 cretion, care, 5S7, 588. As apprenticed by 
 Providence to certain life tasks, 593, 596. The 
 true, lives for an idea, 595. Condition of, not 
 strange nor depressing, 598, 599. As a moral 
 being, must be free, 620 ; as an intellectual 
 being, imperfect and ignorant, 620 ; must begin 
 somewhere to improve, 620. Guizot on the 
 natural morality of, 634. 
 
 Manhood, strength of, 576. 
 
 Mankind, intellectual and moral infancy of, 632. 
 
 Minufactures, reasons for encouraging domestic, 
 
 303- 
 
 Marriage, 583. Cultivation and watchfulness 
 essential to the perfection of, 660. And the 
 family, holy relations of, 729. 
 
 Martyrdom, a death to be coveted, 646, 662. 
 
 Materialism, suggests the thought of an immate- 
 rial principle, 52. Argument against, 566. 
 
 Matter, mystery of the connection between mind 
 and. 55. Desecrated by ancient philosophers, 
 deified by the modern sensual school, 561. 
 Mind more intelligible than, 565. Not antago- 
 nistic to mind, 5S7. 
 
 Meanness, wliat it consists in in man, 4. 
 
 Mechanic Arts, influence of the, on the intellect- 
 ual and moral improvement of society, 295- 
 366. Moral tendencies of, 305. Patterns of, 
 indicated in nature, 306. 
 
 Meditation, value of seasons of, in forming relig- 
 ious character, 8g ; in cUrecting attention to 
 im';een realities, 69^. 
 
 Mercies, multitude of, and blessings in individual 
 lot, 73S, 739. 
 
 Microscope, revelations of the, 5S9. 
 
 Mind, analysis of powers of, 281. Disproportion 
 of faculties of the, in different individuals, 284. 
 Causes of defective culture of the, 2S4. More 
 intelligible than matter, 565. Classes and fac- 
 
 ulties of the, 566. Proofs of, in the universe, 
 780, 781. See Soul. 
 
 Miracles, presumption against the preliminary 
 ground of the argument lor Christianity, 442. 
 Quotation from William Ware on the function 
 of, 444. Definition of, 445, 449, note. Inevi- 
 tably belong to the Cluistian system, 446. 
 Have a place in both external and internal 
 evidences, 447. Not impossible, 449, 450. 
 Ground of the sceptic against, taken by King 
 of Siam, 450. Objections to, 450, 451 . Argu- 
 ment of, to Christianity, 452. Not incredible, 
 453. The philosophical presumption for, not 
 against, 454. 
 
 Misery, the mind's, chiefly its own fault, 76. The 
 problem of, 84. Nature of, 8(). Springs from 
 the perfection of our nature, 86; and failure to 
 satisfy it, 87. A beneficent principle in tlie 
 universe, 88. 
 
 Moderation, the perfection of character, 27. 
 
 Money, interest on, 243. 
 
 Monopoly, wherein to be condemned, 243. 
 
 Moral discourses, lack in argument rather than 
 feeling, 187. 
 
 Moral efforts, spring from spontaneous moral im- 
 pressions, 10. 
 
 Moral indefiniteness, a necessity for moral beings 
 working out the problem of their destiny under 
 reasonable motives, 604. Conduces to the 
 training of man, 605. 
 
 Morality, national, improving, 319. Political, in 
 a critical condition, 320 ; false standard of judg- 
 ing, 321. 
 
 Moral power in times and seasons, 58, 59. 
 
 Moral qualities, conception of, due to experience, 
 
 384- 
 
 Morals, Transcendental and Utilitarian theories 
 of. 666. 
 
 Moral sense, the categorical imperative of Kant, 
 667. 
 
 Moral sentiments, Adam Smith's theory of, 500. 
 
 Moral World, the system of the, a system of 
 spontaneous development, 537; also of restraint 
 and correction, 538. 
 
 Moses, statutes of, superior to anything in an- 
 tiquity, 6S5. 
 
 Music, power of, arises from awaking noble senti- 
 ments, 12. Spiritual character of, 315. 
 
 Mystery, in the infinite, 55. In the finite, 56. 
 In all creation, 56. In every human life, 56. 
 
 Nathan, the rebuke of, 220. 
 
 Natural powers, not destroyed but guided by tlie 
 influence of the good spirit of God, 13, 14. 
 
 Nature, a world of mechanism, 306. Devel- 
 oped by art, 306. Adaptations of, to higher 
 spiritual culture, 549. Demands of upon man, 
 587, 590, 591. Man the pupil of, 587, 588. 
 Some revelations of, 5S9, 590. Endowed by 
 the atheist with the attributes of God, 782. 
 Religious homage to what is divine in, a rea- 
 sonable feeling, 790. 
 
 Necessity, Plato's view of, 621. 
 
 Nero, golden house of, 298. 
 
 New Bedford, Dewey settles in, iv. 
 
 New South Society, Boston, Dewey minister of, 
 v. 
 
 New Testament, internal evidence that it is a 
 revelation, 44S. 
 
 New Vork, Dewey minister of Second Unitarian 
 Church, afterwards Church of the Messiah, in, v. 
 
8oo 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Ninon de I'Enclos, anecdote of, 573. 
 Novalis, the spirit of, 709. 
 
 Obedience, usefulness of the blind instinct of, 
 626. 
 
 Occupations of life, considered as divinely ap- 
 pointed for human development, 593 ; agricul- 
 ture, 593 ; manufactures, 593 ; trade, 593 ; the 
 learned professions : the physician, 594 ; lawyer, 
 594 ; divine, 594 ; teacher, 594 ; the arts of 
 expression : authorship, 595 ; artist life, 595. 
 
 Old age, reasons for cheerfulness in, 96. Natur- 
 ally grows in virtue, 577. Exhibits the noble- 
 ness of humanity, 577. Montaigne on, 57S; 
 correspondence of the language of, with Cicero's, 
 57S. Strength of the life within, in, 760. 
 
 Omniscience, statement of the difficulties in the 
 idea of, 779 ; reply to, 780. 
 
 Orator, the, the perfect man of Cicero, 286. 
 
 Organism, the animal, ministers to instinct 
 merely, 555. The human, to intellect and 
 moral culture, 555. 
 
 Oriental nations, progress in civilization of, 650, 
 651. 
 
 Originality, true, 292. 
 
 Otis, James, illustration from the death of, i.-^y, 
 668. 
 
 Ought, significance of, 571. 
 
 Pain, useful, 610 The teacher of prudence, 
 610. Sentinel, warning of danger, 610. Mor- 
 ally necessary and ennobling, 611. Montaigne's 
 view of, 609. A solitary thing, 609. Inevita- 
 ble in the nature of tilings, 610. Relatively 
 inevitable, 6n. A remuneration for, 611. 
 
 Painters, criticism of works of several, ^lo, •^11. 
 
 Painting, comparison between, and literary com- 
 po-^iticn, 309, 310. 
 
 Paintings, value of a society for distributing, 317. 
 
 Paley, Archd., on quotations in the New Testa- 
 ment from the Old, 472. Reference to the 
 watch illustration in Natural Theology of, 517. 
 
 Parental duties demand moral firmness and pa- 
 tience, 60. 
 
 Parker, Chief Justice Isaac, tribute to the memory 
 of, 294. 
 
 Past, venerableness attaching to the, 657. 
 
 Patience, a special ordinance of God for man's 
 life task, 713. 
 
 Paul, the obscurities of, 466. Bishop Chandler on 
 the reasoning of, 471. Locke on the style and 
 temper of, 472. Bishop Marsh on the erudi- 
 tion of, 473. Dr. Maltby on discrimination in 
 regard to the language of, at different times, 473. 
 
 Penitence, a condition essential to all true moral 
 life, 60 1 . 
 
 Perfection, a universal longing, 228. The duty 
 of aiming at, 722, 723. Bible command for, 
 not to be literally interpreted, 723. Applica- 
 tion of the doctrine of, to modem Christian 
 society, 724. An attainable, and indispensable, 
 proposed to us, 724. Cannot be gained at a 
 step, 725. 
 
 Perseverance of saints, 381. 
 
 Philosophy of Humanity, analysis of Herder's, 
 519. 
 
 Physician, undevoutness unnatural m a, 124. 
 
 Physicists, effect of theories of, 783. 
 
 Picture gallery, comparison of a, with a library, 
 312- 
 
 Piety, culture of, what is required by, 661. Con- 
 ditions hindering this culture, 661. A higher, 
 likely to come, 791. 
 
 Pindar, quotation iiu.n, on life, 98. 
 
 Pleasure, the significance of, unsatisfying to man's 
 higher nature, 53, 54. The pursuit of, merely 
 an escape from self, 694. 
 
 Poetry, definition of, 2S9. Dependence of, on a 
 religious spirit, 314. 
 
 Political justice, 763, 764. Difficulties against 
 the prevalence of, 764. 
 
 Politics, spoils system in, condemned, 319, 320. 
 
 Polytheism and idolatry, better than no religion, 
 624. Mistaken views of, 624. Recognized in 
 Hebrew worship, 625. Nourished a keen sense 
 of religion, 625. 
 
 Porphyry, quotation from, concerning the philoso- 
 pher Plotinus, 560. 
 
 Poverty, abject, rare in this country, without 
 faults, 80. Artificial wants the burden of, 170. 
 
 Power, has been systematically abused by man, 
 623. Inhumanity of, 623. 
 
 Prayer, false and true, 663. The outcome of, 
 663. For spiritual well-being cannot be found 
 in Greek or Roman antiquity, 672. The great 
 thing in religion, 6S9. 
 
 Preacher, office of the, to imfold the human heart 
 to itself, 85. Rights of the, 318. Restraints 
 upon the, 318. Duty of the, to lead men's 
 minds to just principles of living, 678. How 
 shall the, gain quickening power, 776. 
 
 Present age, the earlier not later day of the world's 
 manhood, 655. 
 
 Problem of Human Destiny, Course of Lowell 
 Lectures on, v. Statement of the, 514, 516. 
 What it is not, 51:;. What it is, 515. Solution 
 of the, 539. Insufficiently treated in literature, 
 598. • 
 
 Progress, of the past and of the future, 598. In- 
 timations of, in our present being, 740-742. 
 
 Progress, human, historic view of, 632, 646. 
 How to be studied, 632. Has been gradual, 
 
 633. Fichte's manner of stud3-ing, 633. Un- 
 derlying principles of ; human spontaneity, 
 divine control, 634. Agencies employed in, 
 
 634. First thoughts on, 634. Growth of, 
 634-638. Has developed conscious individu- 
 ality, 637. Institutions that have helped, 638- 
 641. Actions and events that have advanced, 
 641-645. Historic view of, shows divine pur- 
 pose rather than human planning, 648. Has 
 been carried on by unconscious agencies, 648. 
 Steps of, 648, 649. Certainty ot continued, 
 656, 657. In the world, since the i6th centur)', 
 655, 656. In circles rather than direct, 656. 
 Steps of past, promises of, 657. 
 
 Prose, as truly an art as poetry, 308. 
 
 Proverbs, the wisdom of all ages, 569. Authority 
 of, 569. 
 
 Providence, adaptations in nature a testimony to, 
 305. Faith in, should not be shaken by calam- 
 ities, 335, 336, 337. Of God exalted by Unita- 
 rian views, 387. 
 
 Psalms, the, language of, a phenomenon, 671 ; its 
 impressive character, 672 ; contrast between, 
 and the poems of Homer, 671. 
 
 Public, the, 69. 
 
 Pulpit, the themes of, not of a nature to cause 
 dulness, 1 70. 
 
 Purity, human frame teaches a lesson of, 561. 
 
 Pyramids, projectors of, execrated by the workmen 
 on, according to Herodotus, 301. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 80 1 
 
 Quarterly Review, on Inspiration, 474. 
 Oiiinet, preparation of, to write a book on Ultra- 
 
 niontanisni, 327. 
 Quotations from the Old Testament in the New, 
 
 Paley's ideas on, 472. 
 
 Rationalism, the progress of, welcome, 775. 
 
 Recreation, not foreign to religion, 127. 
 
 Rectitude, a supreme and all-pervading authority, 
 66S. Essential basis of, 71S. Dangers from 
 lowering the standard of, 720. 
 
 Retlemption, doctrine of particular, 38 1. Hu- 
 man condition and, 497, 49S, 501. 
 
 Regeneration, Unitarian view of, 349. 
 
 Regulus, Cicero on the death of, 610. 
 
 Religion, for human beings should be adapted to 
 men, 22 ; to the whole nature, 23. Erroneous 
 forms of, have largely arisen from predominance 
 given to one part of the nature, 23. Should 
 be a guardian, 24 ; support and strengthen the 
 soul, 24 ; be adapted to diversities of tempera- 
 ment, 24 ; not repress natural affections and 
 innocent gaiety, 25. Designed to develop natu- 
 ral faculties, 25. The Saviour's preaching ful- 
 filled the requirements of, 26. Requires the 
 cultivation of our nature as a whole, 27. Mod- 
 eration an essential quality of, 27. Appeals to 
 human nature as simple goodness, 29. Not 
 identified in the popular mind with goodness, 
 29, 30. Should appeal to the highest of our 
 moral sentiments, 32. Cannot discard human 
 nature, 33. Those who are most susceptible 
 of fe^ling and enthusiasm most need the power 
 and support of, ;}],. Should address man's 
 moral nature as its friend, 34. Siiould appeal 
 with confidence in the principle addressed, 34. 
 The principle of infinite wisdom speaking to 
 men, 35. True because necessary, 66. A prin- 
 ciple of things as real as giavitation. 67. The 
 world and life cannot go on without, it6. In- 
 tellectual strength needs, more than mtellectual 
 weakness, iig. The sentiment of every period 
 of life, 118-120. Alone, gives hope of a future 
 life, 121. Served by art and literature, 125, 
 126. Duty of, to reform amusements, 127. 
 In employments, 130, 131. Identical with good- 
 ness, [3S, 152. Definition of, 139, 162. Erro- 
 neous popular ideas of, 140, 141, 147, 14S, 151, 
 159, 160. True views of, 142, 143. Defects 
 in the Calvinistlc idea of, 152; dangerous re- 
 sults of that idea of, 152. Erroneous views of, 
 conducive to the apathy of Christian communi- 
 ties, 156. What interest in, is, 165, 166. Lack 
 ot interest in, the cause of the complaint of 
 dulness in church and preachers, 170, 177. 
 Reason and feeling not to be separated in, 186, 
 1 88. Mai'ks of ration.il feeling in regard to, 
 190. Excitements in, need to be not periodical, 
 but permanent, 191. Divided between imagina- 
 tion and reality, 221. Must pass from senti- 
 ment to principle, to meet the gospel demand, 
 225. Demands the doing of right, 226, 227. 
 .\nalogy between, and law, 401-405. The 
 manifestation of, 417-420. Neglect a cause of 
 indifference to, 422. False modes of investing 
 the virtues of, a cause of indifference to, 423 : 
 mode of its inailcation another cause, 424. 
 Teaching of, too formal, 426; too abstract. 
 427 ; too artificial, 427, 428. Character of, be- 
 coming more spiritual, 442. Popular indiffer- 
 ence to, 487. The subject on which the greatest 
 
 errors have prevailed among men, 488. No 
 reform on a great scale has taken place in, 4S9. 
 True method of inquiry in, to study facts, 490. 
 Idolatry better than no, 622. Sense of, stronger 
 in Catholics than Protestants, 625. Fetichisni 
 the first form of, 638. Egyptian worship an 
 advance in, 638. The dominant thought of 
 early ages, 638. Grecian development of, 638, 
 639. Hebrew system of, 639. Christian sys- 
 tem of, 640, 641. Or no religion, 678; only 
 one of the opposing theories of, can be true, 67S ; 
 from either comes more comfort than from a 
 half-way belief, 679. Unsatisfactoriness of ihc 
 atheistic theory of, 679. Comparative moral 
 tendencies of the two theories, 680 ; which is 
 best, 6S0 ; for which was human nature made, 
 680. Human experience cannot do without, 
 6S1. The roots of, in human nature, 6S4. The 
 unfolding, has appeared under different forms 
 in successive ages, 684, 6S5. Modifications of, 
 686. Every man's, the best he knows or can 
 conceive of, 6S7. Each, of the world disposed 
 to condemn the rest, 688. Cardinal truths and 
 indispensable duties of, 688. Two theories of, 
 nonchalance, or indifference to, contrasted, 688. 
 Piety and virtue both essential to, 690. Old 
 in, dies out, 760. False ideas of, 762. Eter- 
 nal, 766, 767. Basis and superstructure of, 
 768-779. A foundation of, in every human soul, 
 768 ; this is intuition, 769. Foundations of, 
 laid in original ideas of right, God, and immor- 
 tality, 772. Agencies for building up, in the 
 world, 773. An earth-made thing, 772. 
 
 Religion and morals, the popular distinction be- 
 tween, erroneous and injurious, 353. The 
 original principles of, 354. Not matters of 
 faith, but knowledge, 359. 
 
 Religious, how to become, 416. Conversation, 
 419, 420. Education of children, mistakes in, 
 426, 427. 
 
 Religious controversy, peculiarities of, 154. 
 
 Religious culture, 157, 161. Results of true, 703. 
 
 Religious experience, youth of, 760. 
 
 Religious faith, the ground for, impregnable, 671. 
 
 Religious sensibility, popular demand for, 177, 
 
 178. Something prejudicial in this demand, 
 
 179, 180. Wliy wanting in theological semin- 
 aries, 180; mistakes concerning the character- 
 istics of, 181 : as to the supreme object of, 183. 
 How to correct these mistakes of, 1S5, 186. 
 Sure to be felt if patiently cultivated, 190. 
 
 Remorse, a testimony to a better nature, 8. 
 
 Repentance, rightly the first demand of the Gos- 
 pel, 2'. Incfficacy of deathbed, 206. 
 
 Retribution, the law of, 191, 192. Weakness of 
 excessive statements of, 192. A doctrine uni- 
 versally received, 192. A matter of experience, 
 192. A doctrine universally evaded, 193. Popu- 
 lar view of, not warranted by Scripture, ig-^. 
 Figurative character of Scripture teachings con- 
 cerning, 194. Strictness of the law of, weak- 
 ened by unauthorized views of the future life, 
 195, 196, 199. The law of, the law of God's 
 goodness, 197. Mistakes in the preaching of, 
 199. More than a doctrine, a fact, 572. Dis- 
 tinguishes between palpable vice and slight 
 erring, 572. Universal character of, 573. 
 
 Revelation, language of, would be the natural 
 language of the time when it was made, 456. 
 Definition of, 459. Probable character of a, 
 made in English, 480. 
 
 Reverence, /tfr something, a desirable quality, 626. 
 
 51 
 
802 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Revolutions, political, a help in human progress, 
 
 643, 644. 
 Righteousness, definition of, 66g. The sense of, 
 
 669. Cannot exist without beneficence, 670. 
 Rochefoucauld, reply to the maxim of, that men 
 
 rejoice in others' miseries, 4. 
 Romans, analysis of the epistle to the, 523. 
 Rome, the lawgiver of the world, 652. Diffuser 
 
 of the good and evil of civilization, 653. 
 Routine, the effect of, 693. 
 
 Saadi, beauty of a prayer of, 672. 
 
 Schepler, Louisa, servant of Oberlin, report of 
 Cuvicr on, 727. 
 
 Schleiermacher, opinion of, on the Trinity, 495. 
 
 Science, extent of the realm of, 568. The natural 
 ally of religion, 568. 
 
 Scientific investigation, bearing of, on religioiis 
 belief, 766. 
 
 Scientific men, as strong in prejudice as theolo- 
 gians, 783. 
 
 Scriptures, Unitarian views of the, 344. Dis- 
 tinction between being a Revelation, and the 
 record of a Revelation, 456. Contain no super- 
 natural perfection, 457. Discrepancies and er- 
 rors in, strengthen the testimony of, 458. Lay 
 no claim to infallible inspiration, 461. Dis- 
 crepancies in, acknowledged by all intelligent 
 students, 465. Exhibit frequent instances of 
 Jewish allegorizing, 467. 
 
 Sea, ministry of the, to man, 544. Why salt, 
 544. A hairier between nations made into a 
 medium of intercourse, 545, 546. Evaporation 
 from, 545. , 
 
 Seeing, theory of the origin and organ of, 7S2. 
 
 Self-conquest, spiritual heroism of, 727, 728. 
 
 Self-consciousness, a diseased, the misery of life, 
 740. 
 
 Self-consecration, importance of, 733, 734. 
 
 Self-government, requirements of, 319, 764, 765. 
 
 Selfishness, influence of, over human nature, 5. 
 Odiousness of, 579. Generosity in, 579. An- 
 noying forms of, 579. An inevitable trial of 
 virtue, 579. 
 
 Self-renunciation, prevalence of the principle of, 
 in Christ's life, 114. The principle of, 716. 
 The phrase not a good expression for the prin- 
 ciple, 717. 
 
 Sense of right, wrought into man's being, 665. 
 Taught by the frame of nature, 666. Condition 
 of the world without the, 666, 667. Put for 
 guidance into moral natures by the power that 
 made them, 669. 
 
 .Senses, the, not vicious, but capable of vice, 560. 
 .Servants of the mind, 560. 
 
 Sensualist, the guilt of the, 19. 
 
 Sensual pleasures, gain intensity from the mind, 
 20. 
 
 Septuagint, quotation from Lightfoot on the, 471. 
 
 Sex, the relation of, the foundation of the family, 
 582. The attempt to annul the distinctions of, 
 a wrong to woman, a conflict with Providence, 
 
 584. 
 Sexes, reasons for seiiarate spheres of, 660. 
 .Shakspeare, genius of, 292. 
 Sheffield, description of, iii. Dewey born at, iii. 
 
 Returns to, from New Bedford, iv. ; New York; 
 
 Boston ; dies at, v. 
 Sickness, often a conssquence and corrective of 
 
 moral evil, 692. Calls for moral strength, 692. 
 Sin, does a wrong to reason, 1 7. A kind of in- 
 
 sanity, 17. Wrongs conscience, iS; the affec- 
 tions, 19. An injury to the individual, 211. 
 
 Sinful, compassion for the, 210. 
 
 Slavery, condition of sections of the country in 
 regard to the extension of, 326. To judge 
 fairly how to meet, should be studied where it 
 exists, 327. Southern justification of, 328. 
 Weakness and omissions in this plea for, 329, 
 330. Reply to this plea, 330, 331. Northern 
 convictions regarding, 332. Proposed solution 
 of the problem of, 333. A problem universal 
 to the human race, 628. Montesquieu's remark 
 that its origin was in mercy, 629. A means of 
 securing necessary and regular activity and in- 
 dustry, 629 ; sometimes, even unintentionally, 
 for human improvement, 629; but perhaps not 
 the best, 629. The evils in, may be overruled 
 for desirable ends, 629. 
 
 Sleep, and waking, 58. A check to evil, 606. A 
 relief from misery, 606. 
 
 Smith, Adam, quotation from, on human propen- 
 sity to trade, 236. 
 
 Social culture, not limited to any worldly state or 
 fortune, 700, 701. 
 
 Social relations, a ground of self-discipline, 61. 
 Teach modesty and meekness, 93. 
 
 Social virtues, too little considered in religious 
 teachings, 698. What they are, 698. Value 
 and greatness of, 701. 
 
 Society, the blessings of, 47, 48. Evils in, 168. 
 Interests of, 169. Improved by increase of 
 comforts, 302. A sphere in which the double 
 nature of man acts, 578. Liable to err, 578. 
 Selfishness of, engaged on the side of honesty 
 and virtue, 578. Solidainty of, 580; evils of 
 this, 5S0, 5S1. The great educator, 581. Meant 
 to advance the individual, 637. Mistaken ideas 
 of the relation of religion to, 701, 702 ; an error 
 of interpretation, 701 ; an error of theology, 
 702 ; a misapprehension of what being a Chris- 
 tian is, 702. 
 
 Soil, the, the basis of growth, 519. 
 
 Sorrow, the lot of the Master, therefore of the 
 disciple, 90. 
 
 Soul, the treasure of the, 175, 176; care of the, 
 the greatest human interest, 176, 177. Minis- 
 try of the body to the, 553 ; of the senses and 
 appetites, 555-563; instanced in the sense of 
 touch, 555 ; the faculty of speech, 555 ; laugh- 
 ter, 556; the human hand, 557. Completely 
 apart from the physical mechanism, 566. See 
 Mind. 
 
 Stars, systems of, 589. 
 
 Southern men. complaints of, against Northern 
 men, 327. Defence by, of slavery, 328. 
 
 Speculation, the rage for, 255. 
 
 Sphere of life, seems small because of tlie possi- 
 bilities of human nature, 54. 
 
 Spiritifal interests, supreme, 164. Shown m 
 society, 165-170; by Providence, 172, 173. 
 The value of, 174. 
 
 Spiritual life, imaged by everything about us, 
 
 57- 
 Spiritual pride, 182. 
 
 Steele, Joshua, anecdote of, 333, note, 727. 
 Stewart, Dugald, Sir James Mackintosh's eulo- 
 
 gium on, 568. 
 Stream of life, reference to Cole's painting of, 50. 
 Stuart, Moses, reply to criticism by, 356, note. 
 
 Opinions of, on the Trinity, 495. 
 Study, need of a belief in, essential to the lofti- 
 est attainments, 288. The value of. Phi Beta 
 
INDEX. 
 
 803 
 
 Kappa Oration, 279-294. Deterioration of 
 
 style, from want of, 290, 291. 
 Sufferinsj, the moral uses of, 661,662. Justifica 
 
 tion of, in animals, 662. 
 -Sunday Schools, advantages of, 427. 
 Supreme Being, meditations on the nature and 
 
 character of, in the book of Job, 36. Tendency 
 
 of the mind in distress, to the, 37. 
 Sympathy, true and delicate, 37. Silence, not 
 
 words, the best expression of, 37. 
 
 Thlescope, revelations of the, 5S9. 
 
 Temptation, union of, and ministration, 558. 
 
 Temptations, increased by unbelief, 6S3. A 
 man's sorest, social, 699. 
 
 Texas, annexation of, 331. 
 
 Textual discussion, impossibility of settling ques- 
 tions by, 36S. 
 
 Theological discussion, the mass of men disquali- 
 fied for, 407. 
 
 Tiberius, letter of, 573. Confession of misery of. 
 
 Toil, the religion of, 123. Unintelligent, to be 
 pitied, 301. Nobility of, 302, 303. See l^abor. 
 
 Total depravity, the doctrine of, the source of 
 erroneous views of religion, :•,■/. 
 
 Trade, the moral laws of, 236. Quotation from 
 Adam Smith relating to, 236. Economical 
 laws of, 242. What moral policy of, does not 
 forbid, 247. A man may act on superior 
 knowledge in, 247, 248. The right and the 
 wrong in, 250. 
 
 Trade winds, 546. 
 
 Travel, value of, 304. Progress of means for, 
 305. 
 
 Trinitarian, does not adhere to the Bible, 372. 
 
 Trinity, doctrine of the, 366 ; objections to the, 
 367 ; theory by which it can be proved, 368 ; 
 Bible interpreted as other books gives no sanc- 
 tion to, 372. Scholars who have rejscted the, 
 372. Examination of the doctrine of, 491. 
 Not taught in Scripture, 493. The argument 
 against, overwhelming, 495. Opinions of 
 Schleiermacher, Archbishop Whately, Profes- 
 .sor Stuart, 495. 
 
 Truth, love the shield of, 704. Anecdote con- 
 ce:Tiing, 704. Importance of maintaining, 704. 
 Difficulty of practising, 705. What is it to 
 speak the, 705, 706. Why a man is bound to 
 speak the, 706. Depends on a higher law than 
 expediency, 707. Dignity given to a man's lifj 
 by, 70S. Society's demands concerning, 70S. 
 Combination of, with courtesy, 709 ; with love, 
 
 709. One of the loftiest and most imperative 
 Cliristian virtues, 710. Value of speaking the, 
 
 710. Adherence to, and right everywhere de- 
 manded. 721. 
 
 Unbelief, an obstacle to salvation, 4S6. How 
 it may hi scattered, 4S6. A theory unendura- 
 ble to human nature, 6S1, 682. 
 
 Unbelievers, Paul's reason for forbidding inter- 
 marriage with, 4^2. 
 
 Unitarianism, needlessness of defending every- 
 thing passing under the name of, 394. Not a 
 new thing, but primitive Christianity, 395. 
 .Meets the wants of human nature, 398. Charged 
 with coldness, 399. 
 
 Unitarians, profess to stand on the Bible, 342. 
 Reasons of, for hesitating to use some Scripture 
 
 terms commonJy used erroneously, 343. Be- 
 lieve in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 344 ; 
 the atonement, 345 ; Christ, 346 ; human de- 
 pravity, 347 ; election, 350; a future state of 
 rewards and punishments, 351 ; the importance 
 of religion, 352. Loose grounds for assuming, 
 to be infidels, 468. 
 
 Universalism, affinity of, with Calvinism, 3-57. 
 
 Universe, contrast of the infinitely great and in- 
 finitely small in, 658. The source of the, 659. 
 A school, 7S8. 
 
 Usury, the principle of, not unjust, 243, 244. 
 
 Vender, duty of, to purchaser, 250. 
 
 Verse, Bulwer's criticism of, 308. 
 
 Vesper hymn, beauty of general use of, 120, 121. 
 
 Vetturini, shortsightedness of Italian, 299. 
 
 Vice, the woes of, 560. 
 
 Vico, Jean Baptiste, reference to the Nuova 
 Scientia of, 524. On the three facts of human 
 society, 613. 
 
 Vineyard, significance of the parable of the labor- 
 ers in, 203. 
 
 Virtue, national songs a testimony to the charms 
 of, 12. Human, results from effort and pa- 
 tience under trial. 14. The bad man's desire 
 for his children to be virtuous, a testimony to, 
 iS. Necessary to the attainment of the great 
 ends of life, 65. The only everlasting good, 
 accessible to all, 82. Often not fully estimated 
 in life, 132. Grandeur of Christian, 227. The 
 crown of, 228. Work of, nobler than the work 
 of genius, 229. True place of, 231. Depends 
 on industry, 302, 592. Aristotle's definition 
 of, 509. Epicurus's definition of, 509. Cud- 
 worth's, Clarke's, Price's definitions of, 509. 
 Resolute, alone can adjust itself to the material 
 conditions of human existence, 666. The 
 dignity of, 720. Blessings in the martyrdom 
 of, 721. The principle of, sustains and com- 
 forts in trouble, 722. The pursuit of, distinct 
 from love of happiness, 717. Proved by expe- 
 rience, ■/17. 
 
 Voltaire,, quotations from, on Jesus, 6S6. 
 
 Wallace, William, influence of the death of, 
 644. 
 
 War, arises from a natural sen^e of justice, 621. 
 Better than stupid submission to wrong, 622, 
 627. A consequence of the right of self-preser- 
 vation, 627. Has moral uses, 627, 628. A 
 means of intercourse and communication of 
 knowledge among nations, 627. Discipline of, 
 helps the world's improvement, 627, 628. A 
 transition state of the world, 628. A providen- 
 tial fact, 628, note. 
 
 Warburton, Bishop, argument of, on the need of 
 miracles, 617. 
 
 Ware, William, on miracles, the foundation of 
 Christianity, 444. 
 
 Water, supply of, for cities, 304. 
 
 Wealth, a comparative term, 81. Duties attend- 
 ing the possession of, 264. Miseries attending, 
 264. Right reasons for desiring. 267. Ef- 
 fect of the desire of attaining, 268. Limita- 
 tions to the pursuit of, 273. Probable effects 
 of, on children, 277 ; individuals, and nations, 
 27S. Not conducive to energy and self-denial, 
 279. Effect of, on a man's knowledge of life. 
 693 : on trials of the will, 694. Ministrations 
 of, 694. 
 
8o4 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Whately, Archbishop, on the Trinity, 495. 
 
 White, Kirke, quotation from, on life, 9S. 
 
 Wilberforce. William, notice of religious character 
 of, 703. Remark of Sir James Mackintosh 
 concerning, 703. 
 
 Woods, Dr., reply to lectures of, 474, 475. Ar- 
 guments of, for inspiration, 475. 
 
 Work, the visible fact of the world, 591. Better 
 than abstract culture for human development, 
 
 592, 593- 
 World, erroneous religious views of the, 130. 
 Consecrated by the memory of the dead, 133. 
 Proof of a future, in the death of friends, 134. 
 God's work in the best possible, 540. The 
 material, the field of the great design of the 
 creation, 541. General arrangements of nature 
 in the, 544-547. Specific adaptations of the, 
 to man, 547-553 ; of man to the, 547. Minis- 
 trations of nature in the, to higher ends in the 
 sphere of higher culture, 549-553 ; in the mod- 
 erate fertility of the earth, 549'; the order of 
 nature, 550 ; the beauty of nature, 552. Not a 
 corrupter, 578. Need to the, of the different 
 
 occupations of men, 591, 592. The constitution 
 of the, not prejudicial to virtue and happiness, 
 606. General view to be taken of the life of 
 the, 620. Plato's view, 621. Defective politi- 
 cal, religious, and warlike institutions of the, 
 better than none, 622 ; the best the world could 
 receive, 622 ; have done good, 623. Cannot be 
 constructed out of an idea, 633. Great periods 
 of the ; that of superstitious obedience, 635 ; 
 of scholastic philosophy, 636 ; manhood of the, 
 637 ; continual progress in the life of the, 645. 
 Welfare of, rests on political justice, social 
 virtue, religious faith, 763. 
 
 Youth, often disappointed, yet ever looking fur- 
 ward, 118. Importance of instructing, in the 
 principle of things, 692. Wrongly considered 
 the especially happy period of life, 761. 
 
 Zend-Avesta, quotation from, on the problem 
 of evil, 523. A prayer from the, 672. 
 
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