IvIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 University of California. 
 
 Mrs. SARAH P. WALSWORTH, 
 
 Received October, 1894. 
 ^Accessions No. 5^/32. • Clems No. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
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 X.. ^^ 
 
 V.c <•/ C?-"^^-^^ 
 
 Y *>-K-^A-^?^ . O i 
 
WRITINGS 
 
 EEV. WILLIAM BRADFORD HOMER, 
 
 V 
 
 LATE PASTOR OF THE 
 
 CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH IN SOUTH BERWICK, ME. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY AND A MEMOIR 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARDS A. PARK, 
 
 I-ROFESSOR IN ATSfDOTBR THEOI.OGICAL SEMINAUr 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRESS OF T. R. MARVIN, 24 CONGRESS STREET. 
 1849. 
 

 ATZjlJiJL^ 
 
 Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1 849, 
 
 By T. R. Marvin, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 Soon after the subject of the following Memoir had been 
 called from life, his friends expressed a unanimous desire that 
 some of the fruits of his scholarship should be given to the 
 public. The parish over which he had been ordained, and the 
 Association of ministers with which he had been connected, 
 testified their regard to his memory by formally requesting his 
 sermons for the press. Candidates for the sacred office and 
 clergymen who had but recently commenced their labors were 
 especially earnest for the publication of his essays and dis- 
 courses. It was often said that the writings of a young man 
 are peculiarly attractive to scholars of his own age, that his 
 excellence, whatever it be, engages more of their sympathetic 
 interest and is therefore more readily imitated, than the excel- 
 lence of a writer who is further removed from them in age and 
 cultivation. There is sometimes an approach to perfectness in 
 a model which discourages all attempts to equal it, and men 
 are often less benefited by such a copy than by one which is 
 less highly finished. Man has a tendency to imitation which 
 cannot be entirely repressed. Whenever he may properly in- 
 dulge it, he should look not merely for standards which are 
 free from fault, but also for such as are imitabky and such as 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 afford incentives to original exertion. It is not claimed that 
 the writings of Mr. Homer furnish a model for the imitation of 
 all, but it is thought that they exhibit some good qualities 
 which are seldom found in the pulpit, and that they may stim- 
 ulate the youthful preacher to attain those varied excellences 
 which are called for by the various wants of the community. 
 They show that in the esteem of a Christian scholar there is 
 no human composition so important or so dignified as a ser- 
 mon, if it be a true sermon, and not in the words of Bishop 
 Andrews ^^ called so by a charitable construction ; " that the 
 pulpit is not only the " preacher's throne," but is raised far 
 above any other station on earth, and that all attainments in 
 ancient or modern literature may be properly subordinated to 
 the work of " persuading men in Christ's stead to become 
 reconciled to God." They show the influence of a minister's 
 private character upon his public performances, that an orator 
 must be a good man, and that virtue is profitable unto all 
 things in this life. 
 
 It was with great reluctance that the editor of the present 
 volume undertook to prepare it for the press. He well knew 
 that Mr. Homer did not write for the public eye, that he dread- 
 ed the criticisms of the multitude, and would have shrunk back 
 from the remotest suggestion of printing his posthumous 
 remains. " When I am gone," he once remarked, " I wish that 
 nothing more than my name and my age may be told to those 
 who survive me." The sermons which he left were his incipi- 
 ient efforts, the greater part of them were written amid the 
 duties of the Theological Seminary, and the remainder of them 
 during the anxieties of a new pastoral relation, a relation 
 which he sustained but a few weeks and from which he was 
 called away while younger than the majority of those who are 
 
PREFACE. ¥ 
 
 preparing to enter upon it. Several of the discourses which it 
 was necessary to leave unpublished are more flexible, racy 
 and vigorous than these which are taken for publication, and 
 of these which are taken rather than selected, some were the 
 production of but a few hours, and none had received the finish 
 which he had intended to give them. The editor, then, was not 
 allowed to search a large treasury for its brightest gems, but 
 was obliged to use nearly half, and some of them the least 
 pungent of all the discourses which their author had ever 
 written. Denied almost entirely the use of his eyes, the 
 editor has been dependent on some of his friends for the 
 superintendence of the press, and has been compelled to 
 omit some correcting processes which he would gladly have 
 performed. Fearing to mar the individuality of Mr. Homer'a 
 writings, he has left unmodified some of the statements that 
 seem to him not entirely accurate. No alterations have been 
 made but such as leave unimpaired the identity of Mr. Homer's 
 character and style, and such as when once suggested to him 
 would probably have received his sanction. In preparing the 
 Memoir, the editor has been much assisted by several friends 
 of the deceased, but has fallen below the standard which he 
 had set up, and has failed in delineating the character which 
 he understood for himself better than he could describe for 
 others. He dismisses the work, not with the "frigid tran- 
 quillity " which Dr. Johnson speaks of, but with the reflection 
 that under many disadvantages he has done what he could for 
 the memory of one who deserves a better memorial. 
 
 Theol. Sent. AjidoveVy ) 
 May 2, 1842. ) 
 
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 So numerous were the personal friends of the subject of 
 the following Memoir, and especially of his late honored 
 father, that an edition of twelve hundred and fifty copies of his 
 Writings was soon exhausted, and the volume has been out of 
 print for some years. There has been such a demand for it, 
 however, as to justify the issue of a second edition. The 
 editor regrets, that his health and avocations have rendered it 
 impossible for him to make those alterations in the volume 
 which he deemed desirable. He has omitted the " Abstracts 
 and Notes on the Classics," also the Plans of some of Mr. 
 Homer's unpublished doctrinal discourses, which appeared in 
 the first edition ; has inserted a few additional sentences in 
 the Memoir, a Sketch of the Character of Mr. Homer's father, 
 and an I ntroductory Essay ; but in other respects has been 
 compelled to make the second issue a simple reprint of the 
 first. The Introductory Essay has been inserted at the instance 
 of friends, who thought that a discussion of the religious influ- 
 ence of Theological Seminaries might be fitly prefixed to the 
 writings of one who had been educated, to an unusual extent, 
 aloof from the family circle, at public institutions of learning, 
 and the most important part of whose life was spent at a 
 " school of the prophets." 
 
 Theol. Scm.^,Ambvei; > 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Religious Influence of Theological Seminaries, . . . xi 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 Mr. Homer's Childhood, 13 
 
 Early Youth and Residence at Amherst College, . , 21 
 
 Activity in a Revival of Religion, 28 
 
 Habits of Self- contemplation, . . . . . . 36 
 
 Residence at the Theological Seminary, .... 46 
 
 Health and Physical Regimen, 58 
 
 Results of Scholarship, 62 
 
 Character as a Friend, 63 
 
 Developments in Affliction, 69 
 
 Religious Character, 80 
 
 Facetiousness, 89 
 
 Residence at South Berwick, Maine, 97 
 
 Character as a Preacher, 105 
 
 Last Days, 132 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 Sketch of the character of Mr. George J. Homer, . . 148 
 Brief Plans of Lectures on the Iliad and the Odyssey of 
 Homer, and on the Oratory of Demosthenes, with Books 
 
 of Reference 156 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 LITERARY ADDRESSES. 
 
 The Posthumous Power of the Pulpit, .... 161 
 
 The Dramatic Element in Pulpit Oratory, . . . . 168 
 
 DISCOURSES. 
 I. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH UPON THE 
 SINNER. 
 
 Matthew 13 : 57.— A Prophet is not without honor, save in 
 
 his own country, and in his own house, .... 183 
 
 II. 
 
 the SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 
 
 1 Corinthians 6 : 3. — Know ye not that we shaU judge 
 angels? 200 
 
 ni. 
 
 THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 
 
 1 Corinthians 6 : 3. — ^Know ye not that we shall judge 
 angels r . . . 2U 
 
 IV. 
 
 the character anl) condition of the sinner who is nearly a 
 christian. 
 
 Mark 12 : 34.— Thou art not far from the kingdom of God, 228 
 
 V. 
 
 FITNESS OF THE MEDIATOR TO BE THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 John 5 : 27. — And hath given him aiithority to execute 
 judgment also, because he is the Son of Man, . . . 244 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 VI. 
 
 JESUS OUR MASTER, TEACHER, EXAMPLE AND REFUGE. 
 
 Matthew 11 : 29. — Take my yoke upon you, and learn of 
 me ; for I am meek and lowly in heart : and ye shall find 
 rest unto your souls, 262 
 
 vn. 
 
 the responsibility of a man for his INFLUENCE OVER OTHERS. 
 
 Genesis 4 : 9, 10. — And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is 
 Abel, thy brother ? And he said, I know not : am I my 
 brother's keeper ? And he said, What hast thou done ? 
 The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the 
 ground, 274 
 
 VIII. 
 
 CHARACTER OF PONTIUS PILATE. 
 
 Luke 23 : 24. — And Pilate gave sentence that it should be 
 
 as they required, 286 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE NEGLECT OF DUTY AN OCCASION OF POSITIVE SIN. 
 
 Genesis 4 : 7. — K thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door, 308 
 
 X. 
 
 THE CULTIVATION OF THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NO PROOF OF HOLINESS. 
 
 Matthew 8 : 21, 22. — And another of his disciples said unto 
 him, Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father. But 
 Jesus said unto him, Follow me ; and let the dead bury 
 their dead, . . 321 
 
 XL 
 
 the connection between CHRISTIANITY AND THE SOCIAL 
 AFFECTIONS. 
 
 John 19 : 26, 27. — When Jesus therefore saw his mother, 
 and the disciple standing by whom he loved, he saith un- 
 to his mother. Woman, behold thy son ! Then saith he 
 to the disciple, Behold thy mother ! And from that hour 
 that disciple took her into his own house, . , . 335 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE EXTENT AND BROADNESS OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 Psalm 119 : 96. — I have seen an end of all perfection : but 
 
 th.y commandment is exceeding broad, .... 349 
 
 xin. 
 
 THE CHARACTER AND THE REAVAM) OF ENOCH. 
 
 Genesis 5 : 24.-^ And Enoch walked with. God ; and he was 
 not, for God took him, . 364 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE DUTY OF IMMEDIATE OBEDIENCE TO THE DIVINE COMMANDS. 
 
 PsALM 119 : 60.— I made haste, and delayed not to keep thy 
 commandments, 379 
 
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY 
 
 ON THE 
 
 RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE OF THEOLOGICAL SEMINARIES- 
 
 It is proverbially said that tlie character of a man 
 is made by circumstances, and it is another proverb 
 lbaLcircunistaaces^bend«lQ..thaail£U^ With a quali- 
 fication both of these maxims are true, without it 
 both are false. All men receive an influence, some 
 more, others less, from the scenes amid which they 
 move ; aud„alljiieix.puL,forth some degreejof force, 
 greater or s.m.aUer,-in .controlling the agencies which 
 surround them. It is a remark of John Newton, 
 that ''none but he who made the world can make 
 a minister of the gospel ; " still, he who made the 
 world has chosen to govern it by secondary causes, 
 and also in his new creation complies with laws 
 which himself has instituted, and transmits his 
 grace in channels marked out by his own sovereign 
 wisdom. He forms the character of his ministers 
 not only by direct interposition, but also by the 
 outward state in which he places them. It is the 
 
Xll 
 
 dictate of prudence, then, to examine the circum- 
 stances in which they have been educated and by 
 which their character has been partially moulded. 
 In making this examination we cannot overlook 
 the influence of Theological Seminaries. By some 
 these schools have been regarded as sanctuaries to 
 which our youth may flee from the very temptations 
 of sin ; where they may sit with folded arms and 
 imbibe that grace for which men in the world must 
 persevere in agonizing. But he who searches for 
 such a spiritual Dorado on earth, will never find 
 it, save in his own fancy. It is an ordinance of 
 t faeaven tha t fallen men who en^ the kingdom of 
 "IGod shall pass through tribulation. Our life must 
 be a wrestling-scene. Wherever we roam, good 
 influences and evil influences will be working upon 
 us, and the very promise of singing a triumphal 
 song in heaven implies the need of a warfare on 
 earth. But there is an opposite extreme, and as 
 some imagine the spiritual benefits of a Theological 
 School to be unmingled, so others exaggerate both 
 the degree and the necessity of its evil influence on 
 the heart. Even the student in such a school will 
 sometimes so overrate the power of his temptations 
 as to expect to be injured by them, and it is unto 
 him according to his faith. He would fain derive 
 consolation for his present loss from the hope of re- 
 gaining his spirituality in his future ofiice ; but he 
 who now accustoms himself to omit inward strug- 
 gles against outward evils weakens the mainspring 
 of his character, and forms a habit which may 
 make him ever, more than he ought to be, the 
 
XIU 
 
 crert/z/re of circumstances. The fact is that a Theo- 
 logical Seminary has peculiar characteristics, several 
 of which may, but need not become harmful; many 
 of which are, and all of which may be made con- 
 ducive to spiritual progress. As the church i^ un- 
 der Gtxl dependent on its minis]^,r-?^jUld..-as. th 
 dopaiidjtbrjheir usefulness on the tone of their re- 
 ligious feeling, and as this is affected well or ill 
 by the circumstances of their education, it may not 
 be inopportune to consider some of the distinctive 
 characteristics of a Theological Seminary in their 
 influence on the piety of its members. 
 
 I. One peculiarity in the life of a theological stu- 
 dent is, that he is called to a vigorous exercise of 
 his mind. He is learning the most comprehensive 
 of sciences, and is disciplining himself for a work 
 which requires a rare union of sagacity with learn- 
 ing, of logical acumen with refined taste. If he 
 jnerely desire the office of a bishop, but do not exert 
 his powers to a degree commensurate with tfTe"" 
 claims of that great office, he sins against the spe- 
 cial call of Providence ; he is guilty of that wliich 
 involves the essence of all moral evil, the neglecting . 
 of the very duties which are appropriately required/ 
 of him. He is willing, perhaps, to do some things, 
 but unwilling to do the precise things which he is 
 appointed and expected to do. If, for the sake of 
 being uset^il out of his place, he shrink away from 
 the disciplinary toil required of him as a candidate, 
 then he will be apt, in his official course, for the 
 sake of intermeddling with something for which he 
 has no vocation, to omit the peculiar labors de- 
 b 
 
XIV 
 
 manded of him as a pastor. He will often be found 
 
 where he ought not, seldom where he ought to be. 
 
 I ,/ vVhatever our sphere of hfe, if we evade the" sef- 
 
 I j vices distinctively allotted to that sphere, we do as 
 
 j much as in us lies, to increase the cx)nfusion and 
 
 L the misrule of the moral world. _____-.,^= 
 
 The mental labor to which the theological stu- 
 dent is called, may conduce to his religious ad- 
 vancement. If he be in danger of cherishing a 
 pride of intellect, he may best subdue that pride by 
 sober work. Hard labor brings down high looks. 
 In proportion to the vigor which he adds to his 
 mental powers may be the ardor and the strength 
 of his pious emotion. He who is able to take large 
 views of divine truth, is thereby capacitated for 
 large measures of love. A comprehensive survey 
 of the character of God, such a survey as presup- 
 poses toil and severe discipline of mind, may be an 
 antecedent of the most enlarged piety, of a reverence 
 too })rofound, of a complacency too exalted for a 
 man of feeble or listless intellect. The original 
 law of our constitution is, that feeling shall follow 
 perception ; and in obedience to this law the heart 
 is often enlarged as the understanding is expanded, 
 and the moral nature contracts as the mental range 
 is limited. It is not always true that the emotions 
 are less active in maturer life than they are in early 
 youth, and that the advance of manhood, while it 
 strengthens the intellectual, ossifies the seiisitive 
 part of our nature. Bacon and Burke became the 
 richer in their sensibilities as years added to the 
 masculine vigor of their understanding. We see in 
 
XV 
 
 the writings of Cyprian, Chrysostom and Augustine, 
 that as their intellect was developed by time, so 
 was their religious character matured, and they 
 grew in grace as they advanced in knowledge. It 
 is not always true that, for a single day, an excite- 
 ment of our intellectual deadens our emotive nature. 
 The reverse is often, as it ought to be the fact. 
 The severe argumentation of a theologian often 
 jDrcpares his feelings for the influence of the doc- ^ 
 trine which has absorbed his thoughts. Thfe 
 emotion is lighted up by the fires of the intellect, y > 
 The activity of the search for truth may give a zest 
 to the enjoyment of it. All the capabilities of the 
 soul were designed to be in harmony; the emotions 
 are to catch the excitement of the thoughts, and 
 the weariness of the reason is to be relieved by 
 the nimbleness of the sentiment which has been 
 awaked and enlivened by study. 
 
 The influences of mental action, however, upon 
 the religious character are not always such as he 
 who formed us for labor designed that they should 
 be. Piet^[_^^^ intellectual as well as a moral ex-., 
 ercise, and often requires a vigorous cooperation of 
 the understanding with the affections. It is impos- 
 sible to be idly religious. Languid sentimentalism 
 is not the consecrating of self to God. Pietism is 
 one thing, piety another. When the student has 
 wearied his mind in the laborious analysis of truth, 
 he often shrinks away from the stimulus of the 
 emotions. His fatigue indisposes him to stretch 
 out his thoughts for such a view of the divine ex- 
 cellences as will call forth an earnest love, and he 
 
XVI 
 
 retires from his study with too much lassitude for a 
 promising entrance into his closet. While he is 
 absorbed in his investigation of doctrine he often 
 feels forbidden to break the chain of his reasonings, 
 compelled to go forward in one consecutive series 
 of thoughts, straight forward, not wandering into 
 by-paths of devotion even. He toils on until he 
 is too much exhausted to appreciate the beauties of 
 the truth which he has wrought out, and his evening 
 prayer, if uttered at all, is too much like the music 
 of him who had been taxed beyond his strength 
 and fell sleeping upon his instrument. 
 
 It is not so in other walks of life. While the 
 shepherd watches his flock, he may muse at the 
 same time upon the kind oversight of the Great 
 Shepherd of us all, and when his daily labor is 
 closed, his mind may be fresh for communion with 
 him who carrieth the lambs in his bosom. A cer- 
 tain class of candidates for the ministry have been 
 too willing to suppose that there is in the very na- 
 ture, and not merely in the unwise regulation of 
 studious habits, something incompatible with high 
 religious culture, and have therefore foreborne to 
 store their minds with wealth lest they should im- 
 poverish the nobler part of their being. By no 
 means, however, is it a necessity, it is a simple mis- 
 management, which makes the exertion of the in- 
 tellect interfere with the improvement of the affec- 
 tions. Let the student sanctify unto the Lord the 
 hours of early morning; let him consecrate his fresh 
 energies and not merely his jaded powers to the 
 God of his life ; let him intermit his studies when- 
 
xvu 
 
 ever the health of his soul demands a change, and 
 refresh his mind for its abstracted researches in 
 communing with the Spirit of truth ; let him vary 
 the type of his piety according to the varying sub- 
 jects of his contemplation, and make the state of 
 his heart appropriate to the scenes in which his 
 duty places him. If he fasten his mind intensely 
 for too long a time on an absorbing process of ar- 
 gument, he may become too nervously excited for 
 taking rest in God. Needful indeed it is, and 
 healthful also, to fix our thoughts with steadfast- 
 ness on some one theme ; but it is not amiss to look 
 away from it betimes for the sake of looking up- 
 ward to Him from whom cometh every good sug- 
 gestion. The most cunning performer in music 
 will stop as often as he needs to attune his instru- 
 ment, and they who labor on dizzy heights will 
 now and then cast a glance above them for the 
 sake of adjusting the balance of their frames. He 
 who would perform the greatest amount of intel- 
 lectual labor, must not allow the head to attain an 
 overgrowth at the heart's expense, but must pre- 
 serve his susceptibilities in unison, making one a 
 complement to another, and cultivating each singly 
 to that extent which the perfection of all collec- 
 tively allows. 
 
 II. Another peculiarity in the life of a theological 
 student is, the exercise of his mind on religious 
 subjects. These subjects are the appropriate ali- 
 ment of pious emotion, and it is by meditating on 
 them that such emotion becomes healthy and elas- 
 tic. When we look at the accountant absorbed in 
 
xvm 
 
 his arithmetical calculations, or at the machinist 
 corrugating his brow over the working of wheels 
 and pullies, we turn our eyes away with a feeling 
 -i)f relief to the student of theology, who holds com- 
 munion with spiritual truths and is walking all the 
 day amid the realities of a world above^ur own. 
 Thrice blessed is that man whose hourly vocation 
 it is, aloof from the cares of earth, to nourish his 
 soul with the fruits of the tree of life. There is no 
 branch of theological study, but it may yield nutri- 
 ment to the religious sensibilities. As th e bee ex- 
 tracts honex from poison, so the pious heart will 
 Herive susteiiance from the speculations_of even un- 
 godly men. James Brainerd Taylor was wont to 
 speak with reverence and gratitude of certain theo- 
 logical theories which are often regarded as barren 
 of moral advantage, but which were found by him 
 to consolidate the faith and fortify the purposes of a 
 devout inquirer. The fact is, there is no shading 
 of religious doctrine, no peculiar analysis of it, no 
 distant relation of it, no philosophical theory illus- 
 trating it, no reducing of it to its appropriate results, 
 no speculative querying about it, which may not 
 enlarge and strengthen the spirit of a right-minded 
 scholar. While John Calvin was looking down into 
 those depths of religious truth which are thought 
 by some to make the head dizzy and to jeopard the 
 safe action of the heart, he was invigorating his 
 nature for the stern duties which awaited him, he 
 was acquiring a more rational and comprehensive 
 faith, he was refining his taste for the milder beau- 
 ties of the Bible, and was even fitting himself to 
 
XIX 
 
 enjoy the placidness of the lake and the grandeur 
 of the mountains that environed the scene of his 
 meditations. That good man was declared by the 
 learned Scaliger to be the most erudite scholar in 
 Europe, and on his death bed when dissuaded by 
 his friends from the prosecution of his studies, he ex- 
 claimed, '^vultis ne me otiosum a Deo apprehendi?" 
 His biography is a full proof that theological and 
 metaphysical speculation may be as life to the soul. 
 The idea that its appropriate influence is to subvert 
 the simplicity of faith, is a prejudice which has nar- 
 rowed many an intellect and dwarfed the heart. 
 It has often been objected, that if the scholar exam- 
 ine abstruse theories, he will dispute upon thejn, and 
 that the spirit of controversy is alien from that of 
 the Gospel. But we read of the Apostle Paul, that 
 he disputed with the devout persons and in the 
 market daily. There is peril in theological debate, 
 and there is peril in abstinence from it. The peace 
 of the soul may be disturbed by it, and the want of 
 it may make the student inert and sluggish. There 
 is lianger every where, but the greatest danger of 
 the scholar is where he has the least enthusiasm in 
 the studies of his profession. If the members of a 
 Theological Seminary are afraid of prying into the 
 relations of truth lest they become proud ; if 
 they shrink away from the manly encounter 
 in argument, lest they lose the meekness of the 
 Gospel, the danger is that they will become indolent, 
 and where a hundred indolent young men are in 
 daily intercourse they will degrade one another. 
 In other circumstances they may be good Christians, 
 
XX 
 
 but now they have nothing to do, and idle men, 
 good or bad, will do mischief. Where even exem- 
 plary Christians are guilty of the solecism of a lazy 
 life, there is the other solecism of confusion and 
 every evil work. 
 
 It is a fancy of some students, that their way of 
 advancing in holiness is to repress their regard for 
 every thing scientific and attend exclusively to 
 dtheir own moral growth. But this experiment has 
 b~een tried ni monastic institutions and has resulted 
 in the increase of spiritual selfishness and pride. 
 The true lesson of Protestantism is, that piety is 
 inirtured by diligence in our honest calling what- 
 ever that calling may be, that one who will honor 
 God must labor for him either with the intellect or 
 the muscles, that the heart will rise highest in true 
 devotion after irTias been interested in some needful 
 toil, and that the man who shuns the tasks of his 
 profession in order to give his religious feeling a 
 freer scope and an easier progress upward, is like 
 the boyvvho cuts the twine that bound his kite to 
 the earth and thus hopes to make the light frame 
 ascend higher and unobstructed toward the heavens. 
 No; if a student will not work for truth, neither 
 shall he eat of its richest and rarest fruits. It is a 
 decree of heaven, that our healthy religious growth 
 shall be the result not of listless wishes for it, but 
 of industry in some one honest work. 
 
 Still, there are tendencies of theological study 
 which need to be wisely controlled. The welfare 
 of the soul requires alternation in its exercises. 
 When it has long pursued one train of thought, it 
 
XXI 
 
 craves a new impulse, an entire change in its asso- 
 ciations. After an engrossing research into the laws 
 of man, Sir Matthew Hale would recreate his spirit 
 by communing with the grace of Christ. John 
 Mason Good would gain the needed refreshment of 
 his mind, by diverting it from the phenomena of 
 disease and death to the promises of life and im- 
 mortality. But the transition from the studies of a 
 theologian to his practical musings, is not so marked 
 a change. Dr. Bellamy was indisposed to relax his 
 wearied intellect with the same class of sentiments 
 which would renovate the spirit of Roger Sherman. 
 In searching for an alterative in the type of his re- 
 flections, the clerical student is often prompted to 
 select those objects which have the least affinity 
 with his professional studies. Because his daily 
 routine is graver than that of other men, he seeks 
 variety in trains of thought which may prevent his 
 seriousness from degenerating into a morbid gloom. 
 Hence comes it to pass, that when the minister's 
 bow is unstrung it sometimes flies into the opposite 
 curve. Prom his sombre and perhaps depressing 
 lucubrations he often finds an insufficient relief in 
 the hymns of Cowper or the Confessions of Au- 
 gustine, and turns instinctively to something more 
 novel, more diversified, more unlike those saddening 
 thoughts which his mental health requires him to 
 dissipate. This is not always an irreligious craving 
 but a natural one, not that kind of nature which is 
 to be repressed but that kind which is to be con- 
 trolled. A wise control of it is preeminently need- 
 ful among a collection of youthful students. When 
 
xxu 
 
 they seek to unburden their minds in easy conver- 
 sation, like that of Martin Luther or Dr. Wither- 
 spoon or Robert Hall, they are in danger of ending 
 in levity what they began in cheerfulness, and of 
 allowing the buoyancy of their age and the sympa- 
 thies of their companionship to lengthen out a rec- 
 reation into an employment. 
 
 There is another evil. The student of theology 
 is discomposed by the intrusion of scholastic ideas 
 into the current of his devotional meditations. He 
 has been speculating all the day upon the existence 
 of the great First Cause ; and when the evening 
 prayer is offered, some sceptical theory stretches it- 
 self out as a brazen wall between himself and his 
 Maker. We often read of clergymen who like 
 I Payson have been haunted with atheistic doubts in 
 thelFTiour of devotion, and have found it difficult 
 to believe in those cardinal doctrines which they 
 had thoroughly pmYeS.lC^^'^r^eT'JAt the sacra- 
 mental supper the words, ' This is my body,' come 
 with a renovating power to the simple-hearted com- 
 municant, but at his side a student of theology will 
 be insensibly led to count up those subtle interpre- 
 tations by which the meaning of these words ceases 
 to be plain, and thus will he unconsciously allow 
 the place for pious sentiment to be usurped by the 
 processes of philology. The humble peasant has 
 none but a spiritual association with the text, ^ One 
 thing is needful,' but the elevated scholar, remem- 
 bering the analysis of critics, is drawn away from 
 the solemn import of this text to inquire, whether 
 it were designed to recommend a restriction of our 
 
XXIU 
 
 diet to one kind of food at a repast. Of a single 
 short verse in the New Testament,^ commentators 
 have given two hundred and fifty different explana- 
 tions. The verse would suggest a wholesome sen- 
 timent to the heart of one whose ignorance is bliss, 
 while it would fail to reach the feelings of the stu- 
 dent taxing his memory with the enumeration of the 
 criticisms under which the usefulness of the verse 
 would lie buried. Some of the sweetest passages 
 of the Bible are wrapped round about with scholas- 
 tic comments, and the practical wisdom which was 
 designed for the consolation of Israel is hidden, for 
 a time, from him who would make himself familiar 
 with the sophistries by which that wisdom has 
 been explained away. All this is one part of the 
 probation of the clerical scholar. He, as well as 
 the statesman or the mechanic, has peculiar trials of 
 his faith, and he is called to resist his own allure- 
 ments to evil, not the allurements of other men. 
 He must not shrink from his duty because in per- 
 forming it he is exposed to a failure. He must not 
 hesitate to 'give attendance to reading,' but must 
 brace himself against those influences by which 
 ' knowledge puffeth up.' He must not forbear to 
 struggle with the objections of men, but must also 
 struggle through them, must look over and beyond 
 them, and keep habitually in sight the beauty and 
 the glory of the truth which these objections would 
 conceal. It is possible for him through grace to 
 acquire such a mastery over his habits of mental 
 
 ' Galatians 3 : 20. 
 
XXIV 
 
 suggestion as, at the proper hour, to dissociate the 
 doctrines of the Bible from the tortuosities of spec- 
 ulation concerning them, and let them shine forth 
 in their own light and burn away the mists in 
 which cavilers would envelop them. It is recorded 
 of President Porter, that although accustomed for 
 years to the daily perusal of sermons for the purpose 
 of criticising them, he had so regulated his mind as 
 almost entirely to banish his critical propensities 
 from the house and the hour of worship, and to lis- 
 ten to discourses like the unlettered believer, with 
 the simple intent to enrich his heart by them.^ 
 Such a power over the associating principle should 
 be toiled for, and all the influences of time and 
 place should be made tributary to it; for in its at- 
 tainment lies the scholar's safety and strength. If 
 he can not fix his steady gaze upon the moral aspect 
 of a doctrine in his study chamber, let him retire to 
 his closet and shut the door. If he can not confine 
 himself to a spiritual interpretation of the Bible 
 when he reads the page covered with his critical 
 pencilings, let him preserve a copy of the sacred 
 volume whose margins shall be pure from all traces 
 of scholastic research. Let him so adjust his spec- 
 ulations and his devotions, that the tormer shall 
 never crowd the latter from their rightful sphere. 
 Let him be so at home with the practical influence 
 of every truth, that it shall at once evoke its fitting 
 emotion. This is indeed a labor ; but what state 
 of man is free from toil ? It is a task which is to 
 
 ' See Meraoir of Dr. Porter, p. 181. 
 
XXV 
 
 be coveted, for it makes the scholar ' strong in the 
 grace that is in Christ Jesus.' Who shall 'endure 
 hardness as a good soldier,' and make all trials con- 
 duce to the soul's virtue, if not the man who is 
 fitting himself to contend with principalities and 
 powers ? And what influences can be turned in 
 favor of our moral culture, if not the influences of 
 religious doctrine, of that study which is only be- 
 gun here to be prosecuted in heaven? It is a study 
 not exempt from moral danger, for althoug}i t£^^ 
 pure all thin£s are pure, yet to the defiled xace of 
 Adam is nothing pure, not even thd^^ mind,,§nd 
 
 conscience. The riches of heaven's pavement, 
 trodden gold, will attract the eyes of Mammon 
 downward. But what then ? Shall he who would 
 lead the armies of Israel to fight the good fight of 
 faith, shrink away from the first aspect of danger ? 
 He n ee d s , Jke .^ discipl i ne . of- perils- For the in- 
 crease of his moral hardihood he needs to wrestle 
 with the wild beasts of Ephesus. He needs to feel 
 the occasion for taking to himself the whole armor 
 of God, so that he may train his hearers to stand fast 
 in their evil day. He needs to experience the reason 
 and the comfort of those words of blessed promise, 
 ' To him that overcometh will I give to sit down 
 with me on my throne, even as I overcame, and am 
 set down with my Father on his throne.' 
 "^^IH. Allusions have been made already to the im- 
 portance of rendering times and seasons conducive 
 to the quickening of our spiritual nature. These 
 allusions suggest a distinct peculiarity in the life of 
 a Theological School ; a peculiarity in the asso- 
 
XXVI 
 
 (nations of time and place by which it affects the 
 religious character. It is the law of contiguity 
 which regulates the ordinary suggestions of the 
 mind. We wish to see a distinction between those 
 outward objects which are of sacred, and those 
 which are of secular interest. That crav ing fur 
 varietyand ^appropriateness, which is part and 
 parcel of our nat uresis not fullj^ satTsfied^^^'^^ss 
 the things which are of holy assqciatiqn^be sepa- 
 ^^J^SL-lJ!^^ JK^S^^ ^^^[*^^Y. concern. Now in 
 some Theological as well as Literary Institutions, 
 there is not much external and visible difference 
 between the scenes where the heart is to be nur- 
 tured, and those where the intellect is to receive its 
 sturdy discipline. With a pious fondness does the 
 imlettered Christian repair* to the house of God. 
 That is a consecrated temple. He looks upon 
 its pulpit with such an awe and love, as give 
 to the words uttered from it a meaning and a 
 power far above that of the same words spoken 
 elsewhere. In a sanctuary distant from his home, 
 embowered amid venerable trees, pointing its spire 
 upward with a wise significance, surrounded with 
 the graves of a beloved ancestry ; a building where 
 fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, rich and 
 poor, lettered and ignorant blend their voices in 
 one anthem of praise and kneel down together 
 before one Saviour, the God of all the families of 
 the earth ; where all meet their friendly shepherd 
 whose reverend locks are a memento of his long- 
 tried faithfulness ; in a house thus peculiar and set 
 apart, there is a commingling of spirits, a sanctity 
 
XXVll 
 
 of interest, a quickness of suggestion, which 
 answer well to the longings of our religious nature. 
 But when a conipanj of cloistered young men step 
 jSiu t from Thei r own rooms into another which has 
 but little of the form or the comeliness oF a church, 
 into a room whicli is designed and used for literary 
 rehearsals and academic festivities, a room which is 
 associated with severity of criticism and acrimony 
 of debate and free encounter of wit, and when 
 tl^ey meet there but few with whom they are not 
 in daily intercourse, few stranger^ whose beaming 
 countenances remind them that this is a peculiar 
 day and this a house for the outpouring of new 
 sympathies of the heart, few children to gladden 
 the temple of the Lord with their innocent hosan- 
 naSj few pious Simeons to jhed the sacred ness of 
 their venerable age over the house where they were 
 baptized in infancy, and whence they are ready to 
 depart in peace to the garden hard by in which 
 their fathers are sleeping ; where there is no one 
 man who is clothed with the dignity of a pastor, to 
 whom all look up for goodly counsel, and around 
 whose paternal form the pleasant memories of old 
 and young entwine themselves ; when thirty or 
 forty youthful preachers assemble in the half litera- 
 ry, half religious chapel and find it hard to refrain 
 from criticising the preacher of the day, who in his 
 turn will repay each of them with fault-finding ; 
 when we think of this undiversified, monotonous, 
 ungenial and almost learned worship, then it seems, 
 at least on the first glance, that this is no place for 
 the rest of the Sabbath, no house for the swallow 
 
XXVlll 
 
 to build her peaceful nest in, no scene where the 
 good Shepherd follows after the flock, with benig- 
 nant eye, while they wander beside the still waters 
 and over the green pastures. 
 
 Still this want of distinction between the visible 
 objects which are of ordinary and those which are of 
 devotional interest, need not result in a loss of reli- 
 gious feeling. It is indeed an evil, but one which 
 may be in part prevented, by providing the Theo- 
 logical School with a sanctuary which may not be 
 likewise used as«a receptacle of mere literary or 
 musical practitioners ; with a pastor also who shall 
 be regarded as something more than one who is 
 learning to preach, and shall allure into his fold 
 whole families of men, women aad children, a 
 more various auditory than that of mere and dry 
 scholastics. But if the evil be not thus removed, 
 it may be resisted ; "and" 1n disciplining the heart 
 against it, is called forth the true manliness of char-^ 
 acter. It may lead some to a more chastened 
 contemplation of truth in its essence, to a purer and 
 more abstracted pietyya piety that can go alone 
 without the crutches of merely external scenes, 
 and that will go for help to him who is a Spirit and 
 by whom the faith and love of all who seek him 
 in earnest shall be preserved fresh and glowing, 
 ^-^t may lead others to a habit of investing all objects 
 with holy associations. Martin Luther objected to 
 religious holidays, because they prevented men from 
 regarding every day as holy unto the Lord. John 
 Knox frowned upon the idea that church-edifices 
 are peculiarly sacred, for such an^ idea kept men 
 
XXIX 
 
 from looking upon all houses and all places as 
 consecrated by the divine presence. Jfj^^^hen, ! 
 there is but little distinction between the sacred I U 
 and the secular, the Sabbath-day scenes and the 
 every-day scenes of some Theological Schools, 
 the student should train himself to regard his 
 duties for every day as akin to the peculiar du- 
 ties of the Sabbath, and his common routine of 
 employment as indistinguishable from what would 
 be the special sacred ness of other professions. 
 That which is called his ordinary life should be the "^ 
 life of those who dwell night and day in the tem- 
 ple ; and one reason why it is not broken up by 
 occurrences of peculiar solemnity should be, that it - 
 is all peculiarly solemn. When_Jie feels the want 
 of visible distinctions between his daily outgoings 
 and his more sacred walks, let him remember that 
 hallowed remembrances cluster around those objects 
 which appear to him so common, and that a band 
 of holy men look down from heaven upon the spot 
 of his residence as rich in its suggestions of what 
 it has been and is still to be ; as a spot where the 
 church is small in number but has contained or will 
 contain hundreds or thousands of the Lord's minis- 
 isters ; where the fountain is noiseless and few 
 drink from it at any one time, but it is ever flowing 
 and annually sends forth its streams to the ends of 
 the earth. 
 
 There is often, indeed, a peculiarity in the local 
 associations of a theological student. But this 
 peculiarity is not always unfavorable to his religious 
 sentiment. When the members of retired churches 
 
XXX 
 
 come for the first time to the most ancient Theo- 
 logical Seminary in New England, they do not feel 
 that the place is barren of religious suggestions. 
 They inquire with earnestness, Where was the 
 study of Samuel J. Mills ? Where was the chosen 
 walk of Levi Parsons ? On which of these sur- 
 rounding hills did Gordon Hall construct his arbor 
 for prayer ? Through which of these fields and 
 groves did Newell, Judson and King, Marsh and 
 Wilcox love to wander ? Over all these grounds 
 which are laid out for the church, the student 
 is treading in the footsteps of godly men who 
 being dead yet speak to him of these still retreats 
 as made holy by the wonderful presence of their 
 Saviour. While he sighs for some of the associa- 
 tions which cluster around the sanctuary of his 
 native village, he may still discipline himself to 
 regard the literary chapel as eloquent in its memen- 
 toes of divine truths there dispensed, of stores of 
 spiritual wisdom there garnered up, and of vows 
 there made to sacrifice all the tendernesses of home 
 to the welfare of strangers and barbarians. He 
 listens to the preaching of young men whose histo- 
 ry is to be entwined with that of the church, and 
 whose first sermons he will long remember as the 
 first-fruits of a rich harvest ; of men now standing 
 as successors to a thousand youthful preachers who 
 have occupied the same pulpit in years gone by, 
 and to some of whom the whole world have be- 
 come debtors. The cup from which he drinks the 
 wine of his Saviour's table, is the cup of commun- 
 ion with a band of chosen missionaries who once 
 
XXXI 
 
 drank from the same identical vase, a goodly com- 
 pany of whom are now communing with their 
 Saviour in a house not made with hands. Prayer 
 that has changed the moral aspect of the world, 
 once resounded through the very halls which are by 
 some imagined to be destitute of sacred suggestions. 
 Hours of spiritual agony have been suffered in 
 them, and the moon that journeys over this still en- 
 closure has looked down upon the vigils of many a 
 hard-nerved man bending his knee before the God 
 who never slumbereth, and crying ' Here am I, 
 send me.' From the Byzantine Capitol, and the 
 shores of the ^gean Sea, are coming back grateful 
 and loving thoughts toward the sj^ot which has 
 been the refreshing-place for pilgrims who went 
 hence into all the world ; and daily orisons go up 
 even yetjror,him who^studies in ihis hallowed spot^ 
 from the mountains of Lebanon and the Persian 
 plains, leading him to reflect what manner of man 
 he ought to be. To a considerate student, and 
 none other should anticipate the sacred office, such 
 a resting-place for the anointed ones of the Lord 
 loses its frigid and stiff appearance, and seems to be 
 blended with the sympathies of all who pray for 
 the nurseries of religious learning. From beneath 
 its chilly surface there come reminiscences which 
 transform the chambers of literary exercise into the 
 presence-chamber of the Eternal, and connect the 
 yoiithfid pxeacher, in a yjsjble j'eunion, with those 
 who have turned many unto righteousness, ajpd 
 who wUl^ shj.neja5. the stars forever^^ud^ever. 
 
 In none of our Theological Seminaries is the 
 
XXXll 
 
 student always, in some of them never, confined to 
 the worship of God in a literary hall and with a 
 literary congregation. He is often, and in some 
 Institutions uniformly, permitted to frequent the 
 more promiscuous gatherings of worshippers, to 
 mingle his sympathies with the most unsophisti- 
 cated of his brethren, and to reap the benefits as 
 well as the evils of a style of preaching not 
 especially adapted to himself as a theologian. It 
 is objected, that he does not find a religious home 
 in the church however popular, with which he may 
 become united for a few months ; that he regards 
 himself, and is regarded by his fellow-worshippers as 
 a stranger or a semi-professional visitant. It is said 
 that the private student of some affectionate pastor, 
 who is received into the bosom of the pastor's fam- 
 ily, and is therefore looked upon with a personal 
 interest by the whole village church, enjoys a 
 better system of local influences than that which 
 operates on the member of a public Institution, 
 whose individual welfare is forgotten in that of the 
 multitude of his fellow candidates, and whose 
 participation in the religious exercises of the com- 
 munity is frigidly esteemed by some as a system of 
 experiments for his own good, rather than the good 
 of those whom he addresses. But while he fore- 
 goes certain advantages which may be enjoyed by 
 the more private scholar, he is favored with others 
 which are peculiar to his public situation. The 
 hour of his devotional fellowship with his compan- 
 ions in study, of that blending of kindred minds 
 into one generous, expansive spirit, of prayer to 
 
XXXlll 
 
 God in a chaste, refined language with which all 
 sympathize IHd'wh^ tKe'* spbritaiieous outHo w , 
 of none but equals in mental and moral culture, \ 
 this is an hour of purity and elevation of feeling, •f\ 
 of high aims and cheering anticipations, such as ; : 
 lijre,s_lp.|ig in^ the recollection and never ceases to W 
 incorporate its liiffuehce with the life. There are 
 hundreds of preachers, whose memory lingers around 
 no earthly place with more gratitude than the 
 Theological Chamber of Yale College, in which 
 their religious enthusiasm was kindled by the sym- 
 pathetic fervor of their fellow-students. How 
 many rooms at Williams, Dartmouth and Middle- 
 bury, will be visited with delight by youthful but 
 reverent scholars, who have heard from their fathers 
 of the ^nnoyingjfyiowsh^^ which those apart- 
 
 ments have become identified with the history of 
 the church. The life of a young theologian who 
 is faithful to the duties of the Seminary, may be 
 diversified with but few visits to those staid but 
 cheerful parlors, which were so long remembered 
 by the licentiates from Northampton, Stockbridge, 
 Bethlem, Great Barrington, Colebrook and Goshen ; 
 yet, as in all of nature's works, there is here a 
 compensative process ; the loss of one privilege is 
 balanced by the gain of another, the genial recol- 
 lections of gathering around the family hearth 
 give place to remembrances of more intellectual 
 and more enrapturing intercourse with men, who 
 were so disentangled from earthly cares that they 
 lived for the spirit and made no provision for 
 the flesh. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 IV. But these remarks anticipate our succeeding 
 topic. The life at a Theological School is distin- 
 guished from that of the ordinary Christian, in the 
 kind of facilities which it affords for social intercourse 
 and practical beneficence. It is what may be called in 
 a modified phrase an unnatural mode of living, and 
 as such it has some tendencies which need to be 
 resisted. It is not the ordinary plan of nature for 
 young men to withdraw themselves from all other 
 classes of society, and foregoing the sympathies of 
 the world, to find their most genial companions in 
 books. It is good to take walks of charity, to visit 
 the lame and the blind, to mingle in the family 
 group who surround their fireside in tears, and to 
 join in the glee of children who have not learned 
 to conceal the heartiness of their friendships. By 
 doing good in the varied scenes of life, we receive 
 more than we give away. Still, on the whole it is 
 wise for the scholar to shut himself out, for a season, 
 from"some of the associations of active life. Nature 
 often crosses her own paths ; and although it is not 
 healthful to deviate for a long time from her favorite 
 laws, yet she often prescribes, for a short period, 
 what for a continuance would be really unnatural. 
 She sends her frosts to blight the vegetation which 
 she had nurtured, and imbeds the embryo worm in 
 the young fruit. She bids us prune the tree to 
 promote its growth, and amputate the arm to pre- 
 serve the body. The good of the world demands 
 a temporary seclusion of some classes from promis- 
 cuous society. Not only miners, mariners and 
 soldiers, but tradesmen also and statesmen, lawyers 
 
XXXV 
 
 and physicians must have a season of immuring 
 themselves in the business of their profession and 
 keeping aloof from the common influences of the 
 multitude. If a man will be a student, and a 
 theologian., ifl List be one, he cannot dispense with 
 tjie discipline of s^IUude); and as nothing which 
 duty requires need injure him, so that abstinence 
 from social pleasures which makes his intellect 
 hardy, need not, although by his fault it may, 
 shrivel up his affections. Chrysostom, Jerome, 
 Augustine, Luther, Calvin, Zwingle, Oecolampad, 
 and indeed nearly all the fathers and reformers of 
 the church, were indebted for the usefulness of 
 their manhood to the busy retirement of their 
 earlier years. In this country, and in this age of 
 steam engines and telegraph wires, we are in danger 
 of shortening the professed novitiate of a clergy- 
 man, and_thu,s_k£e^ng him ever- a- real lioyice. 
 The ardent youth hears in his still chamber the cry 
 for immediate action, and he sp)rings from the folios 
 which were tasking his mind, and soon loses him- 
 self and is in a degree lost to others in the whirl of 
 a society which knows no rest, and which is there- 
 fore in more need of guides patiently trained. We 
 would by no means revive the monastic seclusion 
 of the earlier church. Our theological students 
 may and should sally forth on errands of mercy 
 to the poor, should interest themselves in Sabbath 
 schools and the circulation of religious tracts, and 
 go out into promiscuous society often enough to 
 preserve their minds in tone, to keep their thoughts 
 from spoiling ' like bales unopened to the sun.' 
 
XXXVl 
 
 ^ But the bane of the^^re^nt age is a prurient incli- 
 j nation to that which is directly and exclusively 
 /practical. Not the Tialf nor the third of a Semi- 
 nary year should be spent in these outward walks 
 of beneficence. The business of theological students 
 is not now to preach the gospel, but to qualify 
 themselves for preaching it hereafter. At this time 
 they have facilities which they will find at no other 
 period for enriching their treasuries with pearls of 
 great price ; and if they sacrifice their present privi- 
 leges to the miscellaneous employments of common 
 life, they are like the mower who does in the sun- 
 shine the work of a cloudy day, or the orchardist 
 who leaves the root of the tree to decay while he 
 strives to invigorate the branches. 
 
 But although the Seminary student is called to 
 spend his time in /severe thought^ and is therefore 
 deprived of some opportunities for practical useful- 
 ness, he is yet furnished, in the direct line of his 
 vocation, with other opportunities of rare promise. 
 For his want of intercourse with promiscuous 
 society, he is more than compensated by his facility 
 of exert ing^an influence «pott~a-«ele€t.and,^jQQOSt 
 impoTtant circle, the future ministers, of the cross. 
 In prepariri^_ himself for his office,. he comes into 
 lily contact with Christian scholars w^hgijare the 
 ^imense^ spirit of the churches) and on the shaping 
 of whose character depends under God the moral 
 state of the community. He may double his im- 
 provement by sharing it with a hundred men who 
 are to be the spiritual guides of a hundred churches. 
 He may find a vent for his own benevolence in 
 
xxxvu 
 
 striving to elevate the literary character of these 
 defenders of the faith, and tlms preparing them to 
 reach a more influential class of minds than they 
 were previously aiming to affect. He may he the 
 means of heightening their religious aspirations, 
 and thereby raising to a more exalted standard the 
 piety of those who may be committed to their spir- 
 itual care. His duty calls him often to address 
 this attentive company of men, whose great object 
 now is their own improvement, but who are ex- 
 pecting ere long to take the oversight, each of a 
 thousand, and all of a hundred thousand souls, and 
 through each of these promising hearers he may 
 hope to transmit an influence over whole churches 
 and communities. He speaks to a small auditory, 
 but the influence of his well digested words may 
 be communicated to thousands whom he will never 
 see, and to whom his name will remain unknown 
 until the day when all his hidden beneficence shall 
 be published to the universe. At first his agency 
 seems to be hemmed into a small space, but at last 
 it will diffuse itself over an extensive surface. 
 Now it is concentrated like an aroma of the East, 
 pent up in golden vials only to be preserved the 
 longer and spread abroad the more widely. The 
 biography of Pliny Fisk illustrates the fact, that a 
 theological candidate may confer an essential benefit 
 upon his race by the mere influence which he exerts 
 upon his associates in study. The missionary ad- 
 dresses of Dwight and Bridgman and Schauflier 
 were heard by a few men ; but they were men^ 
 and the addresses were heard^ and the energy of 
 
XXXVlll 
 
 them was retained, and borne away to pulpits and 
 Sabbath schools and Bible classes, and will we hope 
 be working amid our churches in the next genera- 
 tion. The student often desires more scope for doing 
 good than the Seminary allots to him, and, isjjp pa- 
 tient of his three lyears of durance in so contracted 
 a sphere ; but it is doubtful whether he will ever be 
 promoted to a station where his words and still 
 more his example can make so deep, so extensive, 
 so enduring an impress as in this narrow enclosure. 
 He is touching the chords of no common harp, and 
 long after he is dead its melodies may linger amid 
 the arches of the temple of God. During his pre- 
 paratory studies, he may accomplish the work of a 
 long life, and if summoned to his reward, like the 
 author of the ensuing discourses, at the very com- 
 mencement of his professional career, he may go 
 as one that hath set in motion a train of influences 
 which will not cease till they have stirred up the 
 spirit of churches in distant lands. He pants for a 
 more sympathetic life than that of libraries and lec- 
 ture rooms, and in due time he shall have it ; but 
 for a season he must be an intellectual man, and 
 must operate with refined instruments upon choice 
 minds. His light must remain in some degree sta- 
 tionary, but it is now sending abroad divergent 
 beams and will irradiate an ever widening area. 
 Restless for doing good ? Complaining that he has 
 no spring to benevolent action ? Longing for a 
 widened thgatr^.jof,J.lsefulness ? Let_the_S^eminary 
 student (schppl his hearOiirto a sympathy with, the 
 discipline to which God has called him ; let him 
 
XXXIX 
 
 form those habits which will make him through 
 life ' a workman that iieedeth not to be ashamed; ' 
 let him study now the books to which he cannot 
 have access hereafter ; let him collect the materials 
 here which he cannot find elsewhere ; let him roam 
 over the broad fields of sacred learning, and thus 
 do good prospectively to the multitudes who shall 
 partake of the harvest which he is garnering up ; 
 let him be careful and faithful in his criticisms upon 
 his brethren, speaking to them the truth in love, 
 and hearing it from them with patience ; let him 
 stimulate them to a habit of self-denial and allure 
 them to a more earnest piety ; let him listen to 
 them when they speak, and thus encourage them 
 to hope that their words are not in vain ; let him 
 be punctual at their religious gatherings, give im- 
 pulse and soul to their societies for mental and spir- 
 itual culture, take a hearty interest in their corres- 
 pondence with missionaries and with men of God 
 in distant Institutions of learning ; let him regard 
 the Seminary as a whispering gallery whither are 
 wafted all the cries for help from the Caffrarian 
 mother and the poor children of the Hindoo ; let him 
 refresh his feelings with those doctrines which the 
 angels desire to look into and which he is toiling to 
 imderstand ; let him show forth in his daily conduct 
 the sweetness and beauty of Christian truth and 
 live as a representative of him who revealed it ; 
 thus will he find himself on no barren heath which 
 he has but little motive to cultivate, but in a para- 
 dise of benevolent action, where he may sow the 
 good seed in good soil, and the fruit of it will be 
 
xl 
 
 scattered throughout the world, and be multiplied a 
 hundred fold in this life, and spring up again in the 
 life everlasting. 
 
 The distinctive purpose of a Seminary education 
 is often misapprehended. This purf^ose is to obtain 
 a clear view of jeligious doct^iiie Jn jt£ nature.,aod 
 relations, an a])propriate feeling wjth^re^a^^^ 
 / and a power to communicate it in a manner coagru- 
 \ ous with itself and with the mind vvhich is to receive 
 \^. T^his clear View of truth involves an accurate 
 acquaintance with the Greek and Hebrew Scriptures, 
 with the history of doctrine and of its influences 
 in all ages, with the logicjaI.arrang;pmpnt i\\uJL..j^fQof 
 of its subordinate parts, and the relations of^jijo 
 the scieiTceslirfd'l'he pursuits of m§^i. The appro- 
 priate feeling in view of this truth implies both a 
 meditative and a comprehensive piety ; a habit of 
 examining each doctrine in its practical bearings 
 and of yielding to the specific moral impressions of 
 each, of subjecting the conscience and the heart to 
 the influence not merely of a single class of moral 
 principles but of all classes, of the entire circle of 
 ideas which are comprehended in the evangelical 
 system. Such a thoughtful and expansive piety 
 comes only from a persevering application of the 
 whole soul to the word and works of God and to 
 his mercy-seat. And the fitting expression of this 
 piety in the appropriate enforcement of the truths 
 which elicit it, implies such a familiarity with 
 Christian doctrine, with the laws of mind, with the 
 literature of the world, such a jliscipline of the 
 heart, intellect and physical organs, as cannoM^e 
 
xli 
 
 ^tained without a protracted and severe effprt. 
 Tlns~Tsllie~~pnrpos^^ at a Tlieological 
 
 Seminary, and it does not allow that within the 
 twenty-five or seven months devoted to it ^ the 
 scholar shall be extensively engaged in visiting pro- 
 miscuous companies, in teaching the secular arts or 
 sciences, in working the machinery of popular be- 
 neficence. He has more than enough to do in being 
 a Mieeper at home,' in 'studying to be quiet and 
 attend to his own distinctively appropriate business,' 
 in reading of the wants of the world, in doing 
 good to his brethren. The design of a Theological 
 education is not to become familiar with the cus- 
 toms of society, but to acquire that character by 
 which in subsequent life these customs will be 
 learned most rapidly and safely. The purpose 61 \ 
 what was once called a Divinity College is not to \ 
 teach the arts of politeness, but to inspire the heart 
 with such chastened emotions as will ripen into, and 
 naturally express themselves in the manners of a 
 gentleman.^ It is not the great o bject~ of^u c Ka 
 School to furnish facilities for immediate operation 
 on the world, but to educe and educate the powers 
 for their highest ultimate influence. Let the cFiar- 
 acter be formed, and the ' accomplishnQLanlS-i^f 
 life 'wTmTe acquired withjess difficully than is sup- 
 j)osed. We by no means assert that the student 
 should become an anchorite, but that he should par- 
 
 ^ In nearly all our Theological Seminaries the time spent in 
 actual study is not more than nine months in the year, so that the 
 whole three years' course includes nine months of vacation from 
 sedentary employment. 
 
xlii 
 
 ticipate in the general movements of society only 
 so far as conduces to the happy and healthful ab- 
 sorption of his soul in divine contemplations. He 
 should not confine his mind exclusively to the stud- 
 ies of the School, but should make them prominent, 
 and all other avocations incidental and subordinate. 
 His life, save in the regular intervals of recess from 
 the exercises of the Seminary, is to be meditative 
 rather than publicly active. It is an unwise impa- 
 tience of discipline, a zeal not according to, but 
 subversive of knowledge, a haste to be in advance 
 of his merits, which inclines him to omit the study 
 of Calvin and Turretin, Cudworth and Butler, Ne- 
 ander, Hengstenberg and Robinson, for the sake of 
 some rpracticar agenci^s^twhich others can perform 
 as well as himself^ an3_ne_cajn. perform at some 
 future time better than at the present. The fire- 
 man may do some good by stopping to adjust a 
 pavement on the side-walk, but more good by has- 
 tening to extinguisli the flames. The soldier may 
 perform an act of kindness by halting on his march 
 for the sake of cultivating a neglected field, but his 
 kindness will be the greater, if he move straight for- 
 ward to the battle ground where the safety of the 
 nation calls him to stand. A candidate for ^th^^ sa- 
 gred'offic? may accomplish something for his Mas- 
 ter, if the main object of his care be his Music 
 Class or his Reading Society ; if his vacations be 
 spent in services which exhaust and unfit him for 
 the duties of the term, and if his term be spent in 
 preparing himself for the labors of the next vaca- 
 tion, but he will accomplish far more of permanent 
 
xliii 
 
 value if he dedicate his term-time to the duties be- 
 fitting it, and his weeks of recess from Seminary 
 employment to such o ccupahons as may recreate^ 
 and refresh his spir it forja vigorous renewal of his 
 t pilsj if he hide himself for a little while amid the 
 struggles peculiar to an inquirer after truth, and 
 learn his ' worldly wisdom ' when he can do so 
 without sacrificing his punctual observance of Sem- 
 inary rules ; if he persevere in digging ' for hid 
 treasures' even till the noisy world forget him for a 
 season, since it is only by these_deep, under-ground, 
 .and_^uU_j:£Sjg.arche§^J^^ f to 
 
 bjiag. ouiU^Jbj^^lXg^^^ oki Un- 
 
 less during the three years of his preparative study 
 he lay a broad, firm foundation for his theological 
 science, he never will lay it,^ but will erect his su- 
 perstructure on the sand ; whereas the practical 
 tact, the familiarity with conventional usages, if it 
 have not been previously, will be hereafter readily 
 attained.' In such a nation and age as this, one of 
 the last of our fears should be that men will become 
 too scientific, and will eschew the common busi- 
 nesses of life. 
 
 V. A Theological School is often said to be char- 
 
 ^ The late excellent Mr. M'Cheyne, writing to a young student 
 says, ** Remember, you are now forming the character of your fu- 
 ture ministry in great measure, if God spare you. If you acquire 
 slovenly or sleepy habits of study now, you will never get the 
 better of it. Do every thing in its own time. Do every thing in 
 earnest ; — if it is worth doing, then do it with all your might. 
 Above all, keep much in the presence of God. Never see the face 
 of man till you have seen his face who is our life, our all. Pray for 
 others : j)ray for your teachers, fellow students, Scc."—M'Che)jnes 
 Life, Letters and Lectures. Am. Ed. p. 30. 
 
xliv 
 
 acterized by a disproportion in its appeals to the va- 
 ried sensibilities of our nature. There is indeed some 
 disproportion, for no one state in life meets all the 
 demands of the soul, and our full discipline requires 
 that we pass under diversified systems of influence. 
 There is some disproportion, but not so great as in 
 many other spheres of duty, not so great as in the 
 mechanical employments, nor in the secular profes- 
 sions, although greater than in that sacred office 
 which for its freedom from one-sided developments 
 may well be called the 'good work.' So far as 
 there is a want of symmetry in the influences of 
 our Theological Schools, it is an evil ; for when 
 the instincts of onr nature are too much repressed 
 tlR e y become t e ve r i s h, a 1 1 d d i s t u r b t h e e qu an i m i t y o f 
 tlie soul. Piety is a superstructure, the solidity and 
 the beauty of wiiich are increased by the soundness 
 of the sensibilities which underlie it. 
 
 It has been said that the Seminary life, by con- 
 fining the student to one small class of associ- 
 ates, diminishes his regard for public opinion and 
 repels him from those manly recreations which 
 would be recommended by a more promiscuous 
 intercourse, into an unworthy, a puerile, perhaps a 
 degrading habit of thought and converse. And it 
 has therefore been proposed to dissolve the intimacy 
 of students, to separate them from each other, and 
 make them men of the world while they are train- 
 ii]g themselves for the church. Such a separation, 
 however, deadens the enthusiasm of the candidate 
 in his appropriate work, dissipates his mind when 
 it ought to be concentrated on edifying truth, and 
 
xlv 
 
 cuts him off from t hose never to be forgotten friend- 
 .^JBg^witkhis co^ ^ 
 
 toils are sweetened and his soul drawn out toward 
 the communion of the saints. It is indeed easy to 
 dimmish pam by destroynig hie, and to remove the 
 evils of an Institution by giving up the preponder- 
 ating good to which, in this world, some imperfec- 
 tions must be incidental. But it is not wise to 
 break in pieces an instrument because it may get 
 out of tune. Doubtless the student may become 
 bashful and clownish, and may slink into those 
 moral foibles to which a public sentiment would 
 make him superior, but he is not required to be- 
 come so much of an eremite as to lower the dig- 
 nity of his mental habits. And besides, he is 
 encompassed with a great cloud of witnesses ; he 
 is in daily converse with Isaiah and the weeping 
 prophet and the sweet singer of Israel ; he reasons 
 out the purifying demonstrations of Paul, and is 
 melted by the words of the beloved disciple, and if 
 these companions cannot elevate his social tenden- 
 cies and make him feel the power of the public 
 sentiment of heaven, then his one-sidedness is a 
 want of sensibility to religious truth more than to 
 the opinions of the world. It is the torpidness of 
 his spiritual, more than of his social emotions. It 
 is a defect of symmetry which mere evening parties 
 will not rectify. It is not removed, save by prayer 
 and fasting. 
 
 It has been said that the Seminary student, torn 
 away from the endearing influences of home, find- 
 ing but little time for admiring the beauties of na- 
 
 % 
 
xlvi 
 
 ture and art, immersed in intellectual pursuits amid 
 a company of young men, loses and learns to des- 
 pise all tenderness of emotion. It is true that he 
 may exsiccate his sensibilities by never considering 
 ' the lilies how they grow,' and by living as if 
 there were no birds of the air and no concord of 
 sweet sounds. But this would be his neglect, or 
 rather abuse of his privileges. It must be confessed 
 that there is a difference, and not always in the stu- 
 dent's favor, between waking up in the morning at 
 the bleating of the sheep on one's paternal hills, and 
 being roused by what is unhappily called the alarm' 
 bell of the chapel ; between reclining at noon under 
 the ancestral tree that overshadows the well, and 
 being driven by want of some soothing conversa- 
 tion into the reading room. But the minister was 
 not born to listen always to the soft voices of his 
 kindred at home. He has stern duties to perform, 
 and to be baptized with straitenuig baptisms. He 
 must grow up to stand alone. He must cultivate 
 the manly as well as the childlike graces, nor in his 
 punctual observance of rule need he become callous 
 to the gentler impressions of family attachment. 
 The tones of his father's counsel may often pene- 
 trate his study walls, and he may seem to hear at 
 evening the whispering of his mother's prayers ; 
 and the sad anticipation or the sadder remembrance 
 of his parents' dying words may save him from 
 hardness of heart. He may receive a softening in- 
 fluence from thinking of the past anxieties and the 
 present hopes of his friends far away ; and when- 
 ever Providence crowns his labors with success he 
 
xlvii 
 
 may sympathize with the touching gratitude of 
 Epaminondas who, after the battle of Leuctra, at 
 once thanked the gods that his father and mother 
 were ahve to enjoy his prosperity. 
 
 The condition of ourjheobgicai^studem^ is often 
 lamented as that of sheep without a shepherd. 
 Thej^are said to be in a transition state between^ 
 the flock and tlie pashu'^ and deprived of. the genial 
 influences of each. It were well, indeed, if our 
 Seminaries of sacred learning were supplied each 
 with a distinctive pastor. We plead that it may be 
 so. But until this plea be granted, our students 
 must, as in fact they do, regard their teachers as 
 their spiritual guides. They must also become^ 
 pastors to themselves. They can not expect pre- 
 cisely the same kind of clerical oversight which 
 they once enjoyed. '£heyhave reached a crisis in 
 their life. They have burst theirTeadThg-strings. 
 They must regard themselves as, in one sense, j 
 already set apart to the office of a bishop, and must I 
 create for their own souls those influences which fj 
 are provided for the ordinary laj^man by the minis- J' 
 ter^who is je|„,QYcr^jiHn^ The disadvantage under 
 which they labor in the want of one whose sole 
 object it is to superintend their religious interests, 
 is supplied in some measure by other agencies op- 
 erating upon them, aiid need not, nor does it in 
 fact, result in the same one-sided development which 
 we should expect in a less privileged condition. 
 
 The circumstances which have suggested the 
 preceding objections to the partial influences of a 
 Seminary lite, have also excited the fear that such 
 
xlviii 
 
 a life adaiinisters jj^jtoijippsprt ioneJLgti> ^»lu to t he 
 JpYgof disli.a$;J.iori. This love is an original prin- 
 ciple of the soul, was designed to be an antagonist 
 to the desire of repose, to be kept decidedly subor- 
 dinate, and to be used as an auxiliary to the love of 
 truth. It needs not to be expelled but to be regu- 
 lated. In all conditions of life it is fostered ; in 
 some more, in others less. In men of intense men- 
 tal excitement, and men familiar with illustrious 
 names it is peculiarly active ; hence more obvious 
 in scholars than in farmers. It is most easily 
 excited in men of imaginative minds, hence in 
 poets and orators, more than in philosophers; there- 
 fore in popular preachers more than in scientific 
 theologians. It is most highly stimulated by forms 
 of outward display, by sonorous titles and imposing 
 badges of office ; hence it is more inflammable 
 among soldiers than merchants, among candidates 
 for mitres and the loftiness of bishoprics than 
 among candidates for the Puritan pulpit. It is 
 most readily enkindled by the hope of some specific 
 honor, for which there are many competitors but 
 which only one can attain. Hence it is more 
 active in the jurist awaiting an immediate decision 
 of a litigated cause, or in the statesman aiming at 
 an ofiice from which he would exclude all others, 
 than in the private scholar searching for the truth 
 which is open to all ; more active in the English 
 or Scottish candidate who writes his theological 
 essay for a prize, than in our own theological stu- 
 dents who feel no stimulus from the exclusive 
 honor conferred by a gold medal or even, as was 
 
xlix 
 
 once the fact, by a valedictory oration. It may be, 
 although this is a sad abuse, more energetic among 
 men who are looking for an influence over the 
 spiritual, than among those who aim to control the 
 temporal hopes and fears of man. It is more 
 fervid among young men than old, among youth 
 collected together than separated from each other ; 
 among them if near a mutual equality, than if so 
 unequal as to lessen the hope of competition. 
 
 It appears, then^ ^h at^jiiere ^re ps y c h olo g ic aL, 
 influences of a Seminary life which foster the emu- 
 lous principle ; not so much, however, as it is fog-, 
 ferejS^m^soine conditions, but more Jhan in certain 
 others. Accordingfy, there have been instances in 
 which the love of distinction has usurped the 
 place of higher motives, in the mind of the young 
 theologian. Here and there it has crippled him in 
 the pursuit of truth ;,for truth must be sought from 
 the hearty love of it, and not. for the sake of the 
 inquirer's personal fame. Occasionally it has dis- 
 turbed the balance of his powers ; for he is a 
 disordered man who loves knowledge more than 
 piety, and the display of knowledge more than its 
 excellence. In certain cases his health may have 
 been injured by the intensity of his desire to shine 
 like those stars which, as Bacon says, have much 
 admiration from the world but no rest for them- 
 selves. Sometimes this feeling has carried itself 
 back to the old associations of college life, and 
 prompted to the forming of college clans and 
 almost to the arraigning of one set of alumni as a 
 kind of literary banditti against those who did not 
 
1 
 
 receive at the same seat of learning, what they 
 vainly talk of as their liberal education. It has 
 also now and then engendered the spirit of envy, a 
 natural though not an inevitable lesnlt of emula- 
 tion, a spirit which is often found in its most 
 virulent type where there is the faintest desire for 
 honorable distinction, a base spirit which involves 
 sin in its essence, and therefore is no part of our 
 original make as exhibited in Adam before he fell, 
 but in its very incipient budding is a fruit of 
 the forbidden tree. The vitiated love of honor, 
 whether among young or old, is a fertile source of 
 controversies that tear and rend the church. It 
 urges forward some men to the invention of novel- 
 ties which disturb our peace. It makes other men 
 eager for the resuscitating of old things which are 
 ready to die. It fires one with a zeal to become 
 notorious for the defence of a heresy. It makes 
 another quick-scented for something a little out of 
 the way ; and he sinelleth the battle afar off, and 
 goeth on to meet the armed men. ' Thebulis,' 
 says an old writer, < created great disturbances in 
 the church, because he could not attain the bishop- 
 ric of Jerusalem.' ' Tertullian turned Montanist 
 in discontent for missing the bishopric of Carthage 
 after Agrippinus, and so did Montanus himself for 
 the same discontent.' * Novatus would have been 
 bishop of Rome, Donatus of Carthage, Arius of 
 Alexandria, Aerius of Sebastia, but they all missed, 
 and therefore all of them vexed Cliristendom.' 
 
 TJrie_und^ie^Jove of distinction, then, if found 
 among candidates ior tfi¥ ministry, rntist be a gTiev^ 
 
 -.-*.*?Wi>!T'*i?: 
 
li 
 
 oils fault . By £his sinJej^hs.,McMttgdU It is not, 
 however, so commonly indulged by them as the 
 preceding remarks might seem to imply, ^t^is not 
 true, that so many of them are yielding to the tero^t- 
 atioiis of hunor as to the allurements. of repose. It 
 is by no means the fact, that the majority of them 
 are at severe painstaking to earn a name which may 
 be an ornament to the church ; that they are put- 
 ting forth all their energies to qualify themselves 
 for the high stations which they were made to fill, 
 and to operate on the most important class of minds 
 which they are by nature fitted to influence. Many, 
 many of them are guiltless of such aspirations and 
 of such toils. Often does a student glide easily 
 throu£[h his professional course, and then sink into 
 some comparatively low and narrow circle, when 
 he might have risen to be the spiritual guide of an 
 extensive and an intelligent community, the preach- 
 er of righteousness to minds of enlarged compass 
 and of permanent influence, the translator of the 
 Bible for a whole nation, the pioneer of the church 
 among dark tribes of men whose latest posterity 
 would call him blessed. It is far from being an un- 
 due love of distinction, which prominently character- 
 izes the members of our Theological Schools. There 
 is more reason for lamenting their want of a proper 
 attention to those gifts of God which ought to be 
 laboriously developed ; their want of a true regard 
 for excellence whatever and wherever it be ; their 
 want of a fitting impulse to exert an elevating 
 power, not merely over a single parish, but over a 
 whole land. In our schools of the prophets there 
 
lii 
 
 is not enough of effort to turn every constitutional 
 principle into what it ought to be, an incentive to 
 virtue ; to make the natural love of esteem blend 
 its own influence with the nobler influence of good 
 will to men ; to direct the emulous principle, when 
 repressed within its prescribed limits, into the chan- 
 nel of the desire to glorify Him to whom all our 
 sensibilities should be subservient. The psycho- 
 logical temptations, then, which these Schools pre- 
 sent to the sense of honor, have proved far less 
 effective than they would have been, if their force 
 were not blunted by the native love of ease. 
 
 Besides, there are 'moral influences of a Seminary 
 life which are a counterpoise to its natural tempta- 
 tions, and allay the undue excitement of a love of dis- 
 tinction. It inspires the student with a loftier motive 
 than that of his own fame. It unveils the beauty of 
 sacred truths, and allures to their study by the serene 
 pleasure which they impart to all who will forget 
 their own littleness in that which only is great. It 
 interests the student in looking for the glory of the 
 Spirit of truth, and he who can fasten his eye upon 
 his own rush-light amid the effulgence of the Sun 
 of righteousness, hath but little honor in reserve for 
 him, seek it as he may. The Seminary course pre- 
 sents to the student one impressive volume of doc- 
 trine which convinces him that he who would be 
 first must be last, and he who would save his name 
 must be willing to lose it. It represents to him the 
 very nature of his anticipated profession, as requir- 
 ing that one who would become a master in Israel 
 must be and remain like a little child ; as making it 
 
liii 
 
 certain that if ajnin^terjeek^^^ 
 that which deservespraiggjjind aim to display ge- 
 nius and learning rather than to have humility and 
 faith, then will his fame, even if he acquire it, be- 
 come infamous. The Seminary life binds together, 
 in the same cause and with the same intent, a com- 
 pany of men who have the same recollection of past 
 deliverances and the same hope of future blessed- 
 ness, and each of whom receives good from every 
 new attainment of his brother. It assembles them, 
 morning and evening, to blend their voices as one in 
 the hymn of praise and their hearts in the accents 
 of prayer. It calls them to bow the knee together 
 in the social circle, and in the presence of One who 
 took little children in his arms and blessed them, 
 and to sit together around the table of that Servant 
 of servants who washed his disciples' feet on the 
 evening before his bearing his cross toward Calvary. 
 True, the human heart is depraved enough to burst 
 through all these cords of brotherly a ttachment, 
 and to plunge on in the selfish chase for an apple of 
 discord. True, there is a tendency of all created 
 things downward, as Adam fell from Paradise, and 
 Satan like lightning from heaven ; but the candi- 
 date for the ministry, who can repine when his fel- 
 low candidates become more useful or more prom- 
 ising than himself, abuses the moral influences of 
 his station, and, instead of making nature an aid to 
 grace, distorts the privileges of grace into the ser- 
 vice of a corrupted nature. 
 
 There are, as we perceive, some disproportions in 
 the influences of a Seminary course. It is possible 
 
liv 
 
 to make them pander to sin ; but except the pasto- 
 ral office, there is no state where the disproportion 
 is so clearly in favor of holiness. The perfecting 
 orffiie^student's whole character is his professed 
 aim. Religious thought and feeling is his business, 
 from which he has no inconsistent avocation. The 
 truths which he studies are as various as the char- 
 acter and the works of God, and are accurately- 
 adjusted to all the powers and all the emotions of 
 man. They are an exuberant provision of stim- 
 ulants and sedatives. They are profound enough 
 to humble as well as to strengthen his understand- 
 ing, and thus make him wise. They are immense 
 and infinite, as high as deep, and thus they expand 
 his imagination. They animate his hope, for they 
 give foretastes of the richest joys. They arouse 
 his fear, for they portray the direst evils from neg- 
 lecting them. They command his reverence, for 
 they are the truths to which all the other sciences 
 pay tribute. Botany and chemistry; and geology 
 and natural history maii:e' all their earthly uses 
 subordinate to tfie^^^ of theological "doc- 
 
 trine. Even astronomy, sublime as it is, serveT~as 
 the star in the east to guide wise men to the scene 
 of the babe of Bethlehem. These purifying truths 
 are the objects of his constant familiarity. The 
 right study of them demands, as well as gives a 
 spirit in accordance with them. They cannot be 
 seen in their full beauty without the spiritual eye. 
 Neither can they be preached in their full power 
 without a spiritual voice. Earnest piety, then, 
 must be desired by the young theologian as his first 
 
Iv 
 
 good, for it is an instrument by which he learns, 
 and learns to use, tlie doctrines which in their turn 
 make his piety the more earnest. His success in 
 his work depends on his devotion, and his devotion 
 is increased by his success. His i n te|^^st^ i s duty , U> 
 and duty is his interest. God has d one ^ g J^^ t things 
 for him by calling him to the ministry, and there I 
 are great tliiugs in store for him in an oilice so im- I 
 pressive, in a world and in an age so impressible* J 
 He is now on the threshold of the tem})le, looking 
 at what is, and what has been, and what is to be. 
 It must be then, that an undevout theologian is 
 mad. Let another take his bishopric, if he do not 
 feel the influences of his vocation pressing upon 
 him from all sides to all good ; if he do not go on 
 from strength to strength, overcoming sin after sin, 
 and adding grace to grace, untd he appear in Zion 
 before God. 
 
 If the moral danger of our Theological Semina- 
 ries were more imminent than it is, they would still 
 deserve to be encouraged. It is often needful for 
 men to engage in perilous duties, and expose them- 
 selves to temptation for the sake of shielding 
 others from sin. The conscience of the miner may 
 require him to sink him'seTnarTeTow" the regions 
 of light, and forfeit many religious privileges which 
 are enjoyed in the sunshine ; that of the mariner 
 may justify him in sailing beyond the sight of 
 school-houses and sanctuaries, into climes and under 
 influences which tend to enervate his moral sensi- 
 bilities ; that of the clergyman may impel him to t Mi 
 read many volumes whose unresisted tendency is to * ' « 
 
Ivi 
 
 \h/^ " "^^'•"iiiiUfi , ilitlft ifjailh ,.if^.f/'>.4hfai fiff.T'^ ; that of the 
 
 mission a fy n;La v constrain hnn to expatriate himself 
 from Christian society, and mingle with men whose 
 influence is in itself debasing, amid scenes which 
 present strong temptations to sin. These are the 
 sorest of self-denials, but they are justified whea 
 needed. Allurements to evil are not necessarily in- 
 
 ■V.- • jJv:;,--^-*^ 
 
 jurious. They do not enforce a guilty compliance. 
 They will, by being resisted, fortify the characiijf 
 and Hiigiueut its religious power. The.y..ax!§_some- 
 timos deinaiided for the welfare of the worldjand it 
 is expedient that a few should suffer the severe 
 conflicts with temptation, rather than that a multi- 
 ude should be inveigled into ruin. Our Theologi- 
 cal Schools even if they were more perilous than 
 they are, would be demanded by the necessities of 
 the church. They are wanted to discipline and in- 
 vigorate, to enlarge and enrich the intellect of good 
 men, to excite a professional enthusiasm without 
 which the ministry becomes indolent and unfaithful, 
 to provide a thesaurus from which Christians in 
 common life may draw timely aid, to quicken the 
 progress and amplify the field of sacred learning. 
 Forty years ago a country merchant prefaced a mu- 
 nificent bequest to a Theological School, with the 
 somewhat affluent words, ' Whereas the cause of 
 Christianity may be essentially promoted by en- 
 couraging a (ew young men, eminently distinguished 
 by their talents, industry and piety, to continue 
 their theological studies and literary researches, at 
 an Institution where, with the assistance of able 
 Professors, they may enjoy the singular advantage 
 
Ivii 
 
 of exploring a public library abounding in books on 
 general science and richly endowed with rare and 
 costly writings, in various languages, on subjects 
 highly interesting to the cause of sacred truth, my 
 will further is,' etc. etc. Such a comprehensive 
 interest in the progress of truth is more needful 
 now than ever. Crowds of foreign emigrants, 
 needing the Gospel, press on our pathway, iden- 
 tify the cause of Home with that of Foreign Mis- 
 sions, and require us to augment the number of 
 men who shall evangelize other nations within our 
 own borders. The alarming rapidity with which 
 our national possessions are extended, our unprece- 
 dented facilities for influence over distant lands, the 
 accelerating progress of our laymen in the arts and 
 sciences, create a necessity for more and better 
 teachers than have hitherto adorned our pulpits. 
 The great questions that agitate the public mind 
 are, in their fundamental character, theological. 
 They are the questions of marriage and divorce, of 
 capital punishment, of war, of temperance, of sla- 
 very, of the political value of the Sabbath, of the 
 need of government in the State, in schools, in 
 families even, of the ultimate standard of faith, of 
 the respect due to the language of the Bible, ijg^ 
 who would be a patriot in our day must be a theo- 
 Jogian, and they who teach our rising ministry must 
 send abroad men who can grapple with the ethical 
 difficulties of politicians and can instruct the lead- 
 ers of the people. 
 
 But while the times demand a more thorough 
 training of ministerial candidates than has been 
 
Iviii 
 
 previously reqniredj they render it the more diffi- 
 cult for the solitary pastor to superintend this 
 training. They accumulate upon him an unwonted 
 amount of parochial labor, and task his powers to 
 the utmost, in providing for the mental wants of 
 himself and his parishioners. Modern theolog^ians 
 cannot be appropriately disciplined, save in connec- 
 tion with large libraries, in the companionship of 
 Equals with whom their minds may come in ani- 
 rnating and invigorating collision, under the ^ar- 
 ^ianship of teachers who distribute the various 
 aepartments of theology among themselves, anSTby 
 this division of labor are qualified to instruct, each 
 fin a single, limited sphere, more accurately and 
 faithfully tKH^tRey'^ could do, i f each wire ' to 
 comprehend in his survey the entire domain of 
 theological learning. The competent instruction of 
 a student in the whole circle of sacred science, by 
 one man who is immersed in the practical details 
 of the pastoral office, would require that man to be 
 a giant such as we cannot expect until the day of 
 miracles return. A course of discipline, then, 
 which God has made needful for the strength of 
 his church, he has not environed with such moral 
 difficulties as overbalance its good results. If these 
 difficulties were more fearful than they are, they 
 should be met and overcome, for the consolidating 
 of the faith of him who is commanded to be not a 
 novice, for the defence of a church that is assailed 
 on her outposts and at her citadel and is crying for 
 strong men to rescue her in the name of the Lord, 
 for the glory of Him who promises to be with his 
 
lix 
 
 ministers alway even in their sharpest conflicts. 
 But the moral danger of onr Theological Schools 
 is extensively overrated. Their spiritual state is 
 indeed alternately brightened and darkened by that 
 of the churches from which they receive their 
 students, and is too seldom like the light of Goshen 
 shining serene amid the surrounding darkness ; but 
 it is not so beclouded as to discourage the friends 
 of an earnest piety or to dim the hopes of those 
 who look for great things in our Israel. The sober 
 truth is, that as the well-watered plains of Sodom 
 furnished motives to virtue, and the garden of Eden 
 presented allurements to sin, so a Theological Sem- 
 inary and even a church exert influences which 
 may confirm the soul in holiness or vitiate its sensi- 
 bilities. No strange thing has happened to these 
 institutions ; they are a part of a great system of 
 agencies which result in far more good than evil ; 
 the foibles connected with them in -this, imperfect^ 
 world call for our penitence and submission, but 
 the superior benefits^ flowi^ elicjt pur 
 
 deeper gratitude for the past and onr more confiding, 
 hope for the future. Let no man confine his vision 
 to the dark spots on the sun's disk. Charity hopelh 
 all things. 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 There are two classes of youthful productions which 
 will always attract greater interest than is authorized by 
 their intrinsic value. One class comprise the effusions 
 of children whose physical system becomes a prey to their 
 mental precocity, and whose premature death imparts a 
 pleasing sadness to their expressions *' too old for child- 
 hood." The other class comprise the juvenile efforts of 
 those whose matured life has been full of honors, and the 
 excellence of whose manhood has lent a charm to the es- 
 says of their minority. When Benjamin Franklin was in 
 his fourteenth year, he composed two ballads, printed 
 them with his own hands, and went around the streets of 
 Boston, selling them for his brother James to whom he 
 had been apprenticed. One of them was in relation to a 
 shipwreck, the other to a piracy ; both of them were, in 
 his own words, '' wretched stuff, written in the common 
 street-ballad style ; " yet if some carrier of a penny news- 
 paper in Boston, could now find these doggerel rhymes, he 
 would make his fortune by hawking them around the 
 same streets where their author sold them for a pittance, 
 and even that for the benefit of his elder brother. We 
 are interested in inverting the spy-glass, and making the 
 objects appear small and remote, which we know to be 
 2 
 
14 MSMOIR. 
 
 large and near. As we love to imagine the future great- 
 ness of a mind that promises more, perhaps, than it will 
 ever perform, so we love to examine the incipient efforts 
 of a mind that has performed more than it originally 
 promised. On the one hand, the writings of Mr. Homer 
 will not attract the interest of such as love nothing 
 but the marvelous, and are pleased only when am.azed, 
 for they exhibit no unhealthful precocity, and he lived 
 too long to present the most striking and dazzling con- 
 trast between his years and his powers. On the other 
 hand, his productions may receive but little regard from 
 those who can discover no merit where the indications of 
 youth have not been equaled by the attainments of man- 
 hood, and where the seal of a great name has not been 
 Stamped upon essays which betoken more of value than 
 they contain. But although he did not live long enough 
 to invest his early efforts with the interest which they 
 might have borrowed from the high scholarship which he 
 promised, he was not called away until he had exhibited 
 some mental processes which may well receive the notice 
 of meditative minds, nor until he had made himself im- 
 mortal in the memory of some friends, who loved him be- 
 cause they knew him, and who will honor his name by 
 the continued study of his character. 
 
 MR. homer's childhood. 
 
 William Bradford Homer was born in Boston, Jan- 
 uary 31, 1817. He was the second son of Mr. George J. 
 and Mrs. Mary Homer. ^ On the maternal side, he was a 
 lineal descendant, of the eighth generation, from William 
 Bradford, a passenger in the Mayflower, and the second 
 governor of Plymouth colony. From the age of five years 
 until within six months of his death he was a pupil in the 
 
 * See Appendix to the Memoir, Note A. 
 
MEMOIR. 1^ 
 
 schools, and the whole course of his pupilage seems to have 
 been one of success. " Behave as well as Bradford Ho- 
 mer," was a remark sometimes made by his teachers to his 
 fellow pupils. The severest chastisement which he ever 
 received from an instructor, was the following admonition, 
 ** Bradford, be careful to keep truth on your side. " So 
 deeply was his spirit wounded by this reprimand, that 
 even in maturer life he never could meet the reprover 
 without uneasiness. He was, from the first, a truth-lov- 
 ing boy, and the mere suspicion of unfaithfulness to his 
 word was one of the most mortifying punishments he 
 could receive. 
 
 It was a principle with his parents, as with the mother 
 of George Herbert, that " as our bodies take a nourish- 
 ment suitable to the meat on which we feed, so our souls 
 do as insensibly take in vice by the example or conver- 
 sation with wicked company ; that ignorance of vice is 
 the best preservation of virtue, and that the very knowl- 
 edge of wickedness is as tinder to inflame and kindle sin, 
 and to keep it burning." In accordance with this prin- 
 ciple, great care was taken to prevent Bradford from 
 associating with improper companions. He was often 
 sent, of a holiday, with a few select associates, to a quiet 
 rural residence in the vicinity of Boston, and was furnish- 
 ed there with such amusements as nurtured a distaste for 
 the dissipating scenes of a parade-ground. He was kept 
 a stranger to the indecorous language and sports so fre- 
 quent among the children in large cities. No improper 
 word would pass his lips, because none would enter his 
 ear. He was unacquainted with the vocabulary of vice, 
 and when he afterwards read it in Shakspeare, he read 
 it with the simple-hearted innocence of a child. He 
 preserved, through life, the same unsophisticated spirit. 
 His words, his manners, and his whole appearance proved 
 him to be guileless and untainted, " the purity of his 
 
 (I 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 mind breaking out, and dilating itself, even to his body, 
 clothes, and habitation." 
 
 When about seven years of age, he went through a 
 private course of exercises in elocution, under the care 
 of Mr. William Russell of Boston, and early acquired 
 that flexibility and distinctness of speech, which con- 
 tributed to his subsequent success in the pulpit. In his 
 eleventh year, he was sent to Amherst, Mass., where he 
 spent three years as a member of Mt. Pleasant Classical 
 Institution, and afterwards, with the exception of a single 
 twelve-month, and of occasional brief vacations, he never 
 resided under his father's roof Whenever the boy left 
 home, it was with suppressed tears, and for a day or two 
 after his arrival at the institution, he was sorely and sadly 
 homesick. For days before the close of his term, his 
 heart would leap for joy at the thought of revisiting his 
 friends ; and when, with elastic step, he had alighted 
 from the stage-coach at his parents' door, he entered the 
 house with boundings of heart and brought hilarity with 
 him. In the words of his father, '' to have seen his glad 
 and happy countenance on meeting his friends, after a 
 few months' separation from them, would have moved the 
 heart of a stoic." That he retained his innocent dispo- 
 sitions during so long continued an exile from his kindred, 
 is one sign of the excellence of his moral temperament. 
 His early and protracted absence was, perhaps, more 
 serviceable to him, than it would have been to ordinary 
 children. Had his attachment to home, and his disposi- 
 tion to cling around a few intimate and choice friends 
 been met with no opposing influences, his character might 
 have been deficient in the masculine virtues. But his 
 residence among strangers obliged him to plan for him- 
 self, and counteracted those efleminate tendencies which 
 are often encouraged in sensitive and confiding children. 
 To the stranger who noticed his pliant manners and con- 
 
MEMOIR. 17 
 
 ciliating temper, he might have appeared to fail in manli- 
 ness and independence ; but his intimate friends always 
 recognized in him •* a mind of his own." 
 
 It was in August, 1827, that he became a pupil at Mt. 
 Pleasant, and his tastes were never more gratified than 
 with the beauties of this enchanting spot. Here he de- 
 voted much attention to the cultivation of his manners, 
 and became a gentleman before he was a man. He ac- 
 quired that ease of address and gracefulness of action, 
 which, if attained at all, must generally be attained in 
 early life, and which afterwards secured his admission to 
 circles of society inaccessible to some clergymen. Those 
 minor accomplishments which were not beneath the 
 notice of a boy at eleven years of age, gave him an influ- 
 ence at twenty-four, which others, equal to him in un- 
 polished worth, could not exert. Men who disliked his 
 doctrines were pleased with the blandness and urbanity 
 of him who enforced them, and his delicacy of form and 
 attitude would recommend the severity of his reproof. 
 "I like him," said one of his hearers, "because he moves 
 on springs." 
 
 He was particularly studious in the Latin, ancient and 
 modern Greek, and French languages. Several of his 
 essays in the ancient Greek were published in successive 
 numbers of a Juvenile Monthly, printed for the pupils of 
 the institution. His progress in the modern Greek was 
 still more flattering. He wrote many compositions in 
 this language, and delivered one of them at a public 
 exhibition, when about twelve years of age. He also 
 conversed in it with considerable fluency. His teacher, 
 Mr. Gregory Perdicari, a native of Greece, and now 
 United States' consul at Athens, was in the habit of 
 taking him to various families in the town, and conversing 
 with him in modern Greek, thus exhibiting him as a kind 
 of literary show. Mr. Homer often alluded to this parade 
 2* 
 
18 MEMOIR. 
 
 as more conducive to his progress in the native language 
 of Mr. Perdicari, than in humility. His vocal organs 
 being remarkably ductile, and his discipline in the Greek 
 and French pronunciation having been thus early and 
 exact, he afterwards found but little difficulty in catching 
 the sounds of the German and other languages. The 
 recommendations which were written of him by his 
 teachers at Mt. Pleasant, are such, that if he ever saw 
 them, he must have been mature beyond his years, to 
 have borne his faculties meekly. " I have no recollec- 
 tion," says one of them,^ " that during the three years of 
 his pupilage at Amherst, I ever had occasion to speak to 
 him in the way of censure. It would be extraordinary 
 indeed, if he were not sometimes found in fault, subjected, 
 as all the students were, to a discipline of some severity ; 
 but if such were the case, the general correctness of his 
 deportment and amiability of his manners, have, in my 
 mind, suffered no shade of it to rest upon his memory." 
 
 It was at Mt. Pleasant, in May, 1828, that the great 
 and radical change occurred in Mr. Homer's moral feel- 
 ings. There was, at this time, a general religious ex- 
 citement among the pupils of the institution. The 
 spacious mansion became a temple of worshippers, and 
 the contiguous grove resounded with the voice of prayer. 
 Perhaps at no place is there more of sympathy and con- 
 tagion, than at a large boarding-school of children, and 
 hence the religious agitations at such a' school need to be 
 carefully scrutinized and wisely regulated, or they will be 
 of no permanent benefit. Of the forty boys who mani- 
 fested symtoms of spiritual life during this revival, not 
 one-fifth of the number retained their religious promise. 
 It is to be regretted, that Mr. Homer has left no very spe- 
 cific account of his feelings at this critical period of his 
 
 ^ Francis Fellowes, Esq. 
 
MEMOIR. 19 
 
 life. His letter announcing his conversion is a very sim- 
 ple one, and he seems to rejoice in his change, not so 
 much because it will save his soul, as because it will 
 please his father and his mother ; and to be anxious, not 
 so much to persevere in the Christian life, as to see his 
 brothers and play-mates turn to God as he has done. 
 Four years after his supposed conversion, when he was 
 about to profess his religious faith, he made the following 
 statement to the committee who examined him for ad- 
 mission to the church/ '' I was much distressed, while 
 at Mt. Pleasant, in view of my sinfulness, but after two 
 or three days, I indulged a hope of pardon. I had, at 
 that time, different views of myself, of God and of Christ, 
 from those which I had previously entertained. I felt a 
 love for my Maker, and wished to devote myself to his 
 service. I began to delight in prayer, and in the Bible, 
 which seemed to me a new book. I felt anxiety for the 
 salvation of others, and was induced to converse with 
 them on personal religion, I felt reconciled to the holi- 
 ness and justice of God, and that it would be right in him 
 to cast me from his presence. Since that time I have 
 had occasional doubts with regard to my Christian char- 
 acter, but have had clearer views than ever of the nature 
 of sin and holiness, and of the divine perfections." 
 
 Soon after his conversion, he derived great benefit from 
 Spring's Essays on the Distinguishing Traits of Christian 
 Character. ''I used," he said, "to take down the book, 
 from its particular place on a particular shelf, every 
 Sunday, and bring my mind to its severe scrutiny ; and 
 if during the week, I was tempted to sin, a glance 
 at the book on the shelf, would, as its contents 
 frowned through the cover, deter me." One of his 
 
 * He was admitted to Park-street church., Boston, in. December, 
 1832. 
 
20 
 
 letters, written about this period, is on the importance of 
 secret prayer, and he appears to have commenced his 
 religious life with excellent plans in reference to this 
 duty. • He adhered to them with exactness until his death. 
 The effect of his conversion upon his intellectual char- 
 acter was marked. He became more manly and mature. 
 He also became more, and more gentle in his temper, and 
 more ready to turn the other cheek to his smiting play- 
 mate. In one of the most characteristic letters of his 
 childhood he writes to a relative, " A little boy from 
 Boston, whose parents I believe you know very well, but 
 whose name I believe. I will not mention here, a few days 
 ago, as I was playing with him, because I did something 
 that he did not like, called me ' religious,' thinking that 
 he would plague me. But, in fact, it was one of the best 
 names I had ever received. It was the first time that I 
 ever heard any one call me so." In the words of Robert 
 Boyle, " this trivial passage I have mentioned now, not 
 that I think that in itself it deserves a relation, but be- 
 cause as the sun is seen best at his rising and setting, so 
 men's native dispositions are clearliest perceived whilst 
 they are children, and when they are dying. These 
 little, sudden actions are the greatest discoverers of men's 
 true humors." 
 
 In August, 1831, he left the school at Mt. Pleasant, 
 where it may be said of him, as Izaak Walton said of one 
 before him, " The beauties of his pretty behavior and wit 
 shined, and became so eminent and lovely in this his 
 innocent age, that he seemed to be marked out for piety, 
 and to become the care of Heaven and of a particular 
 good angel to guard and guide him. And thus he con- 
 tinued in that school, till he came to be [accomplished] 
 in the learned languages, and especially in the Greek 
 tongue, in which he after proved an excellent critic." 
 
MEMOIR. 21' 
 
 MR. homer's early YOUTH, AND RESIDENCE AT AMHERST 
 COLLEGE. 
 
 The biography of a man of letters may often be com- 
 prised in these words : he was born, he studied, he pub- 
 lished, he died. Of Mr. Homer, it can scarcely be said 
 that he published ; for he shrunk with peculiar sensitive- 
 ness from any exposure of his compositions to public 
 criticism.^ There is no remarkable feat of his perform- 
 ance, no foreign travel, not even a personal accident, not 
 so much as the overturning of a stage-coach in which he 
 was journeying, nor the loss of a book, nor a week of 
 serious illness, nor any imminent danger or hair-breadth 
 escape, which can be mentioned to change the scene in 
 the drama of his life. His whole biography must be spun 
 out from his intellectual and hidden existence. It is 
 generally said of him by those who watched his earlier 
 years, that he was a happy and a faultless boy. Not that 
 he was free from sin, but that the graces of his character 
 so won upon his observers that his foibles were less dis- 
 tinctly noticed. Not but that he had his hours of trouble 
 and complaining ; but ordinarily his life was blithesome 
 and joyous. 
 
 After leaving Mt. Pleasant in August, 1830, he pur- 
 sued his classical studies in Boston until September, 
 1831. The succeeding year he spent at Phillips Acade- 
 my, Andover, Mass. Toward the close of the academical 
 year, he was appointed to pronounce the valedictory 
 addresses at the ensuing anniversary of the school. All 
 of his class being older than himself, some of them by 
 
 * He wrote several anonymous articles for the newspapers, and 
 for the Shi-ine, a college periodical ; a brief review of Tappan on 
 the "Will for the Biblical Repository, and a few Notes on the poet 
 Homer, for Professor Fiske's edition of Eschenburg's Manual of 
 Classical Literature, 
 
22 MEMOIR. 
 
 six or seven years, and most of them being far more manly 
 than himself in stature and appearance, he recoiled from 
 this exercise, and endeavored to obtain release from it. 
 But there was no exemption ; and with heartfelt pain he 
 appeared on the platform at the head of his class. 
 
 From Phillips Academy he removed to Amherst Col- 
 lege, which he entered in September, 1832. Here he 
 felt at home. This was the spot of his literary and reli- 
 gious nativity. He loved the quiet of its groves, the 
 richness of its valleys, the graceful curvatures of the 
 mountains that are round about it, and the sacred trains 
 of thought that are suggested by the neighboring spires, 
 the still villages, and the river that winds calmly by them. 
 The rich scenery of the place had a benign influence on 
 his sensitive spirit, stored his mind with images of beauty, 
 and became so associated with his labors that he loved 
 them the more for the beauties amid which they were per- 
 formed. During his four collegiate years he resided in a 
 private house, at a distance from the college buildings ; and 
 although some of his fellow students who lived in those 
 buildings would often find it difficult to hear the prayer- 
 bell in the morning, he had a quick ear in that regard, 
 nor was he tardy in obeying the summons. It is easy for 
 a student to become a sincere invalid on a cold morning, 
 when some recondite lesson is to be recited ; but Mr. 
 Homer never understood the conveniences of college 
 sickness, and his slender form would press its way through 
 the snow-drift and against the driving sleet, just as if there 
 were but one course possible to be pursued, and that the 
 course of duty. Says Dr. Humphrey, the late President 
 of the institution, "when Mr. Homer entered college, he 
 sustained a fine examination, and though he had several 
 worthy competitors, he soon took the first rank in his 
 class, whrch he held to the end of his collegiate course. 
 This he did, not by any intuitive and mysterious process, 
 
MEMOIR. 23 
 
 but by diligent application to study. He never dreamed, 
 I believe, that he was a genius, even in his Freshman 
 year, when so many flatter themselves that ' they are the 
 people, and wisdom will die with them.' Whatever 
 shorter road there may be to the temple of science, he 
 never troubled himself to inquire for it, but was content 
 to toil on in the old beaten track. He made it a rule to 
 get every lesson, and to get it well. I doubt whether he 
 ever made a poor recitation while he was in college." 
 
 " In the forms and syntax of Latin and Greek," says 
 Professor Fiske, " he was more thorough than is common, 
 even among those generally accounted good scholars. Yet 
 his mind never seemed to rest satisfied with a mere mastery 
 of his author's constructions. He had a singular felicity 
 in penetrating the spirit of an ancient idiom, and bringing 
 it out to view, and commending it to the feelings by an 
 appropriate modern phraseology. When he had failed of 
 making the full analysis of a construction, and did not 
 detect all the elements of it until he had received hints 
 or questions at the moment of reciting, it was sometimes 
 delightful to notice how he would eagerly seize them, and 
 comprehend at once the force and significancy of the 
 combination, and present the meaning with singular per- 
 spicuity and elegance, clothing every idea with a fasci- 
 nating drapery at the very instant of its conception. This 
 could not fail to be observed by his companions; perhaps 
 it was more fully appreciated by the teacher. If I some- 
 times helped him in breaking the shell, he always seemed 
 to find a sweeter meat than I had tasted. While he had 
 a strong relish for poetic beauty, and possessed an imagi- 
 nation highly active, and truly rich in ideal pictures, he 
 had also a striking fondness for exact thought, and for 
 lucid order and symmetry in arrangement, and neatness 
 and accuracy in style and performance." 
 
 In Mental and Moral Philosophy he took a pleasing 
 
 •^-^^ at THB ^^ 
 
 TTWTxrs'B.ST'rr 
 
^4 MEMOIR. 
 
 interest, and some of his essays in this department would 
 not have dishonored him at the age of twenty-four. 
 When he had finished Butler's Analogy, he remarked, 
 that his closing lesson was but the beginning of his at- 
 tention to that book, that he should pursue the study of 
 it as long as he lived ; and it is an interesting fact, that 
 this was one of the last books which he studied, and 
 among the last notes which he left in pencilling, were 
 notes upon his favorite Analogy. 
 
 He never resorted to any dishonorable means for ob- 
 taining the favor of his teachers, but he treated them 
 with spontaneous affection and respect. He considered 
 who they were and where they were, and honored their 
 office as well as their character. He looked with utter 
 contempt upon those notions of smartness, with which 
 young men, especially from our cities, are often possessed, 
 and by which they are led to disturb the order of college. 
 When any youthful hero deemed it a point of honor for 
 him to oppose the discipline of his teachers, he was 
 taught by Mr. Homer that such bravery is a low and 
 craven spirit ; that the true courage of a student consists 
 in getting his lessons, and if one wishes to do some great 
 thing, and make himself known as superior to vulgar 
 prejudices, he must move when the bell calls him, and 
 keep his door closed in study hours, and take off his hat 
 when he meets a superior. The refining influence of 
 Mr. Homer upon his companions in college was gratefully 
 recognized by them, and has been transmitted through 
 successive classes to the present day. He breathed the 
 spirit of a gentleman, and by the amenity of his manners 
 he won many to a life of order and decorum. 
 
 He mingled in the social circles at college with chas- 
 tened hilarity. In the literary associations he held a 
 conspicuous place. He joined in their debates with en- 
 thusiasm, and bore the conflict of opinion with marked 
 
MEMOIfti SHP 
 
 urbanity. He was chosen President of the Athenian 
 Society, the Chi Delta Theta, and the Society of Inquiry, 
 all of which he aided by his generosity as well as zeal. 
 He had much of the esprit-du-corps in relation to the 
 college, and appeared to study not more for his own good, 
 than to advance the literary character of the institution. 
 Several brief notices which he published in the news- 
 papers, show how jealous he was for the honor of his 
 Alma Mater. He early endeavored to promote an inte- 
 rest in it among its Alumni, and to strengthen the tie of 
 brotherhood that united them. 
 
 No pne was ever more sincerely attached to his class- 
 mates than Mr. Horner. Writing from Andover Theo- 
 logical Seminary, he says, •' I love Amherst more and 
 more every day, and with something of the sensitive 
 aflfection of a homesick child. I have not yet removed 
 myself so far from the beautiful associations of my col- 
 lege life, but that I can truly say, that * distance lends 
 enchantment to the view.' The little items of difficulty, 
 which form the dark shades of the picture, are growing 
 dimmer and dimmer, and the outline is rising in graceful 
 proportion. I look back upon our class as one beautiful 
 whole, imperfect without its imperfections. I may find 
 noble spirits here, but none nobler than theirs ; warm 
 hearts, but nowhere a kinder and more cheering sympa- 
 thy." 
 
 Again he writes, *' I assure you I have formed no 
 friendships here, (Andover,) which can compare with the 
 friendships of college life. There is no sentiment about 
 this remark. I love those old associations with a chaste 
 and manly affection. I never expect any other scenes to 
 come back upon my mind with such refreshing power. 
 Have you ever begun with Freshman year, and traced 
 down the history of your mind, your opinions, your inti- 
 macies, to the very last ? It is queer, but affecting. I 
 3 
 
36 MEMOIR/ 
 
 rather suspect that I could not meet a man who was grad- 
 uated with us without a peculiar grasp of the hand, and 
 an uncommon throbbing of the heart. There were some 
 men in our class whom I never did like, and perhaps I 
 never can. But I never can call such men hard names. 
 I rather think if I should meet such a one now, my eye 
 would say brother^ and my heart would beat hrotheTf 
 though my tongue did not utter the word." 
 
 Amid all the rivalries and jealousies, the debates and 
 turmoils of collegiate life, Mr. Homer preserved that 
 sweetness and serenity of spirit, which the religion of 
 Jesus is so well fitted to impart. He did not lose his love of 
 home, a love which seldom exists in a vicious mind, and ill 
 comports with the envy and rancor of aspirants for colle- 
 giate honors. The following letter, written during his last 
 year at college, is but one among numerous specimens of 
 the pure out-flowings of his soul. 
 
 " December 13, 1835. My dear mother, — I presume 
 that you were at Natick on Thanksgiving day. If so, 
 your thoughts were undoubtedly in the same place with 
 mine. Both of us, though absent in the body, were pres- 
 ent in spirit at honie. There is no time when my mind 
 lingers so tenaciously upon the associations which I have 
 left behind, and I am so ready to say, ' O that I had wings 
 like a dove,' that I might fly away to mingle with them 
 once more. I could not forbear the recollection, that on 
 each of the last two anniversary seasons, there was one 
 in our group who met with us for the last time. The 
 scene was participated in by those who were almost dis- 
 embodied spirits, — ^jast lingering a moment before finally 
 withdrawing themselves from our view. I was speaking 
 of our regard for home being enhanced by absence. I 
 have sometimes thought that the principle may be applied 
 to our experience respecting that better home, with refer- 
 
MEMOIR. !W 
 
 cnce to which we are * strangers and pilgrims * here. I 
 know not but that it may be a visionary idea, but it is one 
 of those trains of thought which I love to pursue. It 
 seems to me that if we ever arrive at heaven, when our 
 toils and sufferings here are all over, our enjoyment must 
 be higher than that of angels who have never left their 
 Father's presence. To them he can say, as in the parable 
 of the prodigal son, * Son, thou art ever with me, and all 
 that I have is thine.' But we have just arrived from our 
 long and toilsome pilgrimage. Here we were with all 
 our cares and sorrows, ' without were fightings, within 
 were fears ; ' and our sole comfort was found in the antici- 
 pation of the rest that was in reserve for us. When the 
 anticipation comes to be realized, and we find how infi- 
 nitely the reality exceeds the expectation, and how glori- 
 ously faith is swallowed up in sight, it seems to me that 
 our joy must be more ecstatic, as our redemption is more 
 wonderful. But perhaps this is unprofitable speculation, 
 and I was led into it before I was aware. It is sufficient 
 for us if we do keep our eyes fixed steadfastly upward, 
 and our souls longingfor a release. 
 
 I thank you very much for the extract you sent me from 
 the Life of Parsons. You judged rightly in supposing it 
 applicable to me. I have wished again and again that I 
 might recommence my Senior year. Every day seems to 
 augment the proof, that it is a season when the moral im- 
 pressions of college life are most deep and permanent, 
 when the religion of the heart is assuming its shape and 
 character for life. And how important is each day and 
 each year becoming, as the preparation for the great 
 work, for which I am preparing, approaches its comple- 
 tion. Whatever of worldly ambition may have prompted 
 me hitherto, should here be cast aside as an unholy and 
 unbecoming principle. This is the time for self-sacrifices, 
 for withdrawal fi-om the world, for a new and more bind- 
 
28 MEMOIR. 
 
 ing covenant with God. I know it all, I can write it all, 
 I can say it all, but I do not realize it. I would not ven- 
 ture to lay hold on the ark of God with unholy hands, and 
 yet I may, unless I search my heart, and look upward for 
 purifying power." 
 
 Mr. Homer was graduated at Amherst, in September, 
 1836. The valedictory honors of his class were assigned 
 him, though he had repeatedly expressed his wish that 
 they might be awarded to another person whom he es- 
 teemed more worthy of them. He was so much affected 
 by the scenes of his graduation, that he failed to pronounce 
 his addresses with sufficient strength of voice. Soon 
 afterward, he writes to a college friend, " I had long an- 
 ticipated the day of our graduation as a solemn and over- 
 whelming occasion to my sensibilities, but the anticipa- 
 tion exceeded the reality. There was too close and too 
 rapid a succession of exciting topics, each of which occur- 
 ring alone would have been sufficient to prostrate me. 
 My mind lost the discipline, my feelings avoided the shock 
 which would otherwise have resulted. That was a solemn 
 hour, when we stood up together for the last time, with 
 the silver cord just loosed, that had bound us so long. 
 Men would not look upon us in that associate capacity 
 henceforward, — God would so look upon us forever. But 
 to us and the interesting audience that surrounded us, 
 that scene, and — hurrying through the lightning-like 
 course of time which would ensue, — the last trumpet 
 which alone could call us all together again, — how inti- 
 mately connected ! But I did not realize it at the time." 
 
 MR. HOMER IN A REVIVAL OF RELIGION. 
 
 On a Sabbath morning in the early part of his Fresh- 
 man year, Mr. Homer was called upon to offer a prayer 
 
MEMOIR. ^9 
 
 at a public religious meeting. Being youthful and diffi- 
 dent, he declined the service. A member of an advanced 
 class rose soon afterward, and uttered a severe reproof of 
 those Freshmen who refused to take their part in leading 
 the devotions of the students. This public reproof 
 wounded Mr. Homer so deeply, that he could not, for a 
 long time, attend the Sabbath morning prayer-meeting 
 without uneasiness ; and so different was he, in his tastes 
 and education, from many of his brethren, that he did 
 not associate with them so much as his higher interests 
 required. Hence, for a year or more, he was less active 
 in their promiscuous assemblies, than he might have been 
 wisely. His religious life, though a guileless, was yet a 
 hidden one. He attended with conscientious regularity 
 the Saturday evening prayer-meeting of his classmates, 
 for with them he could feel at home. But in his Junior 
 year, he began to emerge from his retirement, and to lose 
 somewhat of the sensitiveness which had deterred him 
 from conspicuous effort. In November, 1834, he was 
 deeply saddened by the death of his classmate, Mr. P. C. 
 Walker. He did not lose the religious influence of this 
 bereavement for a long time, and it gradually prepared 
 him to participate in a religious revival which occurred 
 soon afterward in college. Among the documents that 
 he preserved with especial care is found the following 
 paper, which is marked " private," and which no one ever 
 heard of before his death. 
 
 "Amherst College, March 27, 1835.— The Lord has 
 in great mercy come very near to this institution. There 
 has existed in the minds of his children, for nearly two 
 weeks past, a solemn sense of the presence of the influ- 
 ences of the Holy Spirit which has almost prostrated them 
 in the dust. Many who were wandering like lost sheep, 
 have been once more gathered to the fold of the blessed 
 3* 
 
30 MEMOIR. 
 
 Redeemer, and have had restored to them the joys of their 
 first love. The operation of these sacred influences I 
 seem to have felt, stealing its way through the adamantine 
 casement which the world has thrown about my heart, 
 and waking me from the sinful lethargy which has so long 
 paralyzed my spiritual energies. I think I have had some 
 sense of my own weakness and vileness, and have been 
 led to prostrate myself at the foot of the cross, to seek 
 for pardon and for grace to renovate the man of sin within 
 me. I pray for a more overwhelming view of my past 
 criminality and worthlessness, and for a more fixed deter- 
 mination to consecrate all my powers to God's service, to 
 be his for time, and his for eternity. Believing that it 
 would be for my own spiritual advantage to have by me a 
 written covenant, into which I desire solemnly to enter in 
 the presence of God, of the blessed Redeemer and of the 
 Holy Spirit, I pray for their guidance and their blessing, 
 while I append my name to the following Resolutions : 
 
 Resolved, — that Christ and his cause shall claim the 
 first attention of my thoughts, and that it shall be my 
 daily prayer, * Lord, what wilt thou have me to do,' for 
 the honor of thy name, this day ? 
 
 Resolved, — that I will pray more fervently to be deliv- 
 ered from that devotion to the world, which would cause 
 its miserable vanities to usurp the place in my affections 
 which Christ ought to occupy, — that I may live as a 
 stranger and a pilgrim who seeks a city yet to come. 
 
 " The dearest idol I have known, 
 Whate'er that idol be, 
 Help me to tear it from thy throne, 
 And worship only Thee." 
 
 Resolved, — that it shall be my prayerful endeavor so to 
 aspire after holiness, and a constantly increasing assimi- 
 lation to the divine character, as to be able to sympathize 
 
MEMOIR. 91 
 
 with the Psalmist of Israel in those spiritual longings so 
 beautifully expressed, — 'As the hart panteth after the 
 water-brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.' 
 
 Resolved, — that I will be engaged in no occupation 
 upon which I cannot ask for God's blessing ; and that I 
 will strive to make study a Christian duty, upon the per- 
 formance of which I may enter with humble prayer for 
 the divine assistance, and for the acquisition of that in- 
 tellectual discipline which will better prepare me to an- 
 swer the great end of my being. 
 
 Resolved, — that I will strive to have my intercourse 
 with my fellow students a Christian intercourse ; that my 
 conversation shall evince that the great subject of religion 
 is uppermost in my thoughts, and I may be enabled con- 
 sistently to recommend a serious consideration of its 
 claims to all who know not God, and obey not the gospel. 
 
 The task is a great one, and the responsibility of such 
 solemn vows is too awful for a weak and vile worm like 
 myself But my hope is not in an arm of flesh. I look 
 to heaven for help. 
 
 And now, Lord God, draw nigh and witness the conse- 
 cration. Blessed Saviour, seal it with thy blood. Holy 
 Ghost, sanctify it to my heart. 
 
 Signed, William Bradford Homer." 
 
 Mr. Homer's activity in this revival was prudent and 
 cheerful. He not only forbore to make unseemly aggres- 
 sions upon the tastes of his comrades, but he dissuaded 
 others from making them. He was sagacious in his plans 
 for obtaining access to those who had previously been im- 
 pervious to right influences. Those who were unused 
 to the stimulus of a revival, and, from their temperament, 
 were in danger of being neglected by some and irritated 
 by others, found in him a friend, liberal, generous, affec- 
 tionate, faithful, unsparing. The following letters show 
 
32 MEMOIR. 
 
 how far he was from spiritual indifference on the one 
 hand, and fanaticism on the other. To his mother he 
 writes ; 
 
 " April 9, 1835. — I presume from the reports that have 
 been circulated, that you have been anxiously looking for 
 information of what the Lord is doing for us ; and I am 
 happy in the confidence that you are among the mothers 
 who never forget to pray for the spiritual prosperity of 
 this institution. Although the information I am able to 
 communicate is not so cheering as I could wish, and the 
 work has not yet assumed that marked and prominent 
 character which would render publicity expedient, I have 
 felt unable to suffer you to remain any longer in uncer- 
 tainty as to our situation ; but I must request, for reasons 
 which will be very manifest, that you do not permit this 
 letter to go from the family, and that no further use be 
 made of its contents, than to stimulate Christians to pray 
 that we may have a more powerful manifestation of grace 
 than we have yet experienced. That there has been here 
 for some weeks past, a very special influence operating 
 upon the heart, almost every member of college can tes- 
 tify from his own experience. And that we have enjoyed, 
 and are still enjoying, a revival of religion, in the strict- 
 est sense of the term, no one who has witnessed the revi- 
 val of the languishing graces of God's children, and the 
 deep humiliation and contrite repentance of those who 
 had wandered far, and forgotten their first love, can deny. 
 Such a solemn sense of responsibility, and such a spirit 
 of prayer as seems to have pervaded the church, I have 
 never before seen exhibited. Nor are we entirely desti- 
 tute of encouragement to labor and pray for the conver- 
 sion of our impenitent fellow students, for we trust there 
 are a few who have been recently brought from nature's 
 darkness to the marvelous light of the gospel. The sub- 
 
MEMOIR. 3SS 
 
 jects of the work are sufficiently numerous to make us all 
 grateful, and few enough to impress upon us the impor- 
 ta.nce of continuing to wrestle in prayer, until many are 
 brought to yield to the influences of the Holy Spirit in 
 his present gracious visitation. I believe there is a gen- 
 eral determination on the part of Christians, to persevere 
 in their prayers and their efforts for the salvation of souls. 
 We are in an extremely critical situation, but there can 
 be no doubt, from the manifestations we have already had 
 of God's willingness to bless us, that if we will but con- 
 tinue to be prayerful and faithful, the work will go on 
 with still greater power. That we may be prepared for 
 duty, we need the prayers of all who have an interest at 
 the throne of grace. I presume you are ready to inquire 
 what has been the influence of all this upon my own re- 
 ligious feelings, and whether my heart is in the work. I 
 humbly trust that it has been blest to me, in tearing me, 
 in some measure, from my attachment to the world, and 
 aiding me in an entire consecration of myself to the ser- 
 vice of Christ. It seems to me now, that I can occa- 
 sionally have a glimpse of the unspeakable glory of living 
 for Christ ; and then the vanities which have so long en- 
 grossed my attention, appear in their real insignificance, 
 and I can feel a desire to be entirely devoted to his ser- 
 vice. But I am weak, and the deceitfulness of my heart 
 makes me fear that the impressions I have received may 
 be transient, and the idols I have cherished so long, may 
 again resume their place, and leanness once more be sent 
 upon my soul. I am disheartened and discouraged except 
 when I look to the promises of the gospel, and find that if 
 I will but be faithful there* is no danger of fainting, for 
 they that wait on the Lord shall run and not be weary, 
 and walk and not faint. And I derive encouragement 
 from the thought, that you will not forget to pray, that I 
 
34 MEMOIR. 
 
 may not suffer this season to pass without becoming per- 
 manently holier and better." 
 
 April 28, 1835, he thus writes to his father : " The 
 solemnity still continues in college. There have been, 
 as we hope, about twenty conversions, of which six are 
 in our class. Perhaps, however, it would not be best to 
 say any thing of this publicly. We hope to see still more 
 of our classmates and friends becoming the subjects of 
 renewing grace before the close of the term ; but there 
 must be much prayer, or the numerous anxieties and an- 
 ticipations incident upon the close of the term, will oblige 
 many to suffer this precious harvest-time to close without 
 securing the salvation of their souls. With regard to 
 myself, I feel unworthy to say any thing, but I cannot re- 
 frain from expressing an humble hope, that this may con- 
 stitute an era in my religious course. It has been to me, 
 in all probability, the most important and interesting sea- 
 son of my life. But I feel miserably weak, and when I 
 look forward to the temptations that await me, I tremble 
 at the possibility of my so treating the influences of the 
 Spirit, as to lose their permanent and lasting advantage. 
 Such contemplations will serve, as I trust, to give me an 
 entire sense of my dependence on Him in whom alone is 
 my hope." 
 
 Four years afterward, he writes, April 26, 1839, " I 
 look back upon the college revival, as one of the most 
 critical periods of my whole religious history. I feel 
 deeply guilty that I did not avail myself more fully of the 
 unusual opportunity afforded for benefiting myself and 
 others ; but I bless God for what he permitted me to 
 gain. For worlds I would not have lived through that 
 scene in coldness and stupidity, or lost the rich gifts it 
 renewed to my soul," 
 
MEMOIR. 35 
 
 Mr. Homer was not insensible to the objections which 
 are frequently urged against revivals of religion, and es- 
 pecially in our colleges. During one period of his resi- 
 dence at Andover, he was unduly influenced by these 
 objections, but he at length recovered from their power. 
 " God," he wrote, " has come so close to my own fireside, 
 that I cannot question the reality of his interposition." 
 In an animated controversy, an opposer of such excite- 
 ments remarked to him, that these revivals generally 
 occurred in the second term of the college year, and it 
 was unreasonable to suppose that the influences of the 
 Divine Spirit were limited to the months of March, April 
 and May. But to this he replied, that during the first 
 term the students were unacquainted with each other, a new 
 class having recently entered ; that during the third term, 
 there was a great tendency to dissipation of mind, in 
 consequence of the warmth of the season, the frequent 
 allurements to places of festivity, the approach of com- 
 mencement, and the preparation of one class for departure 
 from college ; that the second term was the only one 
 remaining unbroken, and presenting those still scenes 
 which ever invite the Spirit of peace. The physical con- 
 dition of the students also, during this term, fits them 
 peculiarly for religious contemplations. To the objection, 
 that these revivals interrupted the scholar's progress 
 in study, he replied, that the evil, though often an attend- 
 ant, was an unnecessary one ; that the religious excite- 
 ment would be more protracted and more healthful if the 
 students continued a moderate application to their clas- 
 sics ; that he himself endeavored to preserve as much 
 regularity in his scientific pursuits during a revival, as 
 during a period of religious apathy, and that, in some 
 respects, his mind was better fitted for study by the ex- 
 traordinary efforts of the conference and inquiry room. 
 To the objection that there was too great an accumulation 
 
36 MEMOIR. 
 
 of incentive applied to the mind of an impenitent student 
 at such a time, too many and too earnest exhortations 
 addressed to him, he replied, that this also need not be ; 
 that prudence was needful on the part of Christians, and 
 was easy to be exercised ; that they need not and should 
 not converse at hap-hazard with their fellow-students, 
 but should know what had been previously said, and what 
 was now important to be added ; that the Christian 
 scholar should be peculiarly delicate in his approaches to 
 his companions, and should insinuate his exhortations, 
 rather than cast them abruptly upon the mind, and that 
 he should practise all those winning graces of manner 
 which will allure to a pleasant consideration of a theme 
 naturally distasteful. 
 
 HABITS OF SELF-CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 There is so little of outward adventure in the life of a 
 student, that he forms the habit of turning his eye in- 
 ward. He is not carried along with the whirl of busi- 
 ness, so as to preclude his frequent questionings with 
 himself. Who am I ? Where, whence am I ? Whither, 
 how am I going? And when his prospects for mental 
 improvement are darkened, when disease threatens to 
 cripple his intellect, or misfortune closes the volume of 
 wisdom to his eyes, he has misgivings of heart which he 
 will tell of to no one but his God. The most touching 
 words ever penned by Buckminster, are those which he 
 wrote in his twenty-first year, when he began to feel the 
 premonitions of a wasting intellect. " I pray God," he 
 writes, " that I may be prepared, not so much for death, 
 as for the loss of health, and, perhaps, of mental facul- 
 ties. The repetition of these fits must, at length, reduce 
 me to idiocy. Can I resign myself to the loss of memo- 
 ry, and of that knowledge I may have vainly prided 
 
MEMOIR. 87 
 
 myself upon ? O God ! enable me to bear this thought, 
 and make it familiar to my mind, that by thy grace I may 
 be willing to endure life, as long as thou pleasest to 
 lengthen it. It is not enough to be willing to leave the 
 world, when God pleases ; we should be willing, even to 
 live useless in it, if he, in his holy providence, should 
 send such a calamity upon us. I think I perceive my 
 memory fails me. O God save me from that hour ! " 
 
 The subject of this memoir was fond of looking within 
 himself, of measuring his capacities, of scanning his 
 faults, and scrutinizing the probable grounds of his future 
 failures or successes. Nor were his self-contemplations 
 always healthful. He had too many forebodings that his 
 youthful promise would not be realized in his subsequent 
 attainments. It cannot be said that he had been a child 
 of precocious genius. He had performed no intellectual 
 feat like that of Hartly, who devised the plan of his great 
 work, while at the age of nine or ten he was swinging on 
 his father's gate, or of Robert Hall, who read the pro- 
 foundest treatises in our language before he had reached 
 his eleventh year ; but there had been an uncommon 
 balance of the mental and moral powers in the childhood 
 of Mr. Homer, and also a maturity of religious principle. 
 He had been still and retiring, while other children were 
 leaping in the ring, and he had obtained more symmetry 
 of mental character, and a more complete scholarship, 
 than others of greater native talent and less industry. It 
 was not singular, that with his meditative cast of mind, 
 he should often inquire whether his known superiority 
 were merely ephemeral, depending entirely on his facti- 
 tious advantages and on youthful impulses. There is an 
 excellence which belongs to a young man and fades away 
 with advancing years, or even becomes a fault at middle 
 age. Many who have possessed it, and have died in the 
 morning of life, acquired a greater distinction than they 
 4 
 
38 MEMOIR. 
 
 could have retained ; and their early death was the seal 
 of their future fame. Mr. Homer often feared that his 
 own mental acquisitions would be less useful in manhood, 
 than they were flattering in his minority. The very ex- 
 istence of his fears indicates that they were groundless. 
 His mental course was onward till his dying day, and his 
 attainments were both designed and fitted for future use- 
 fulness more than for present distinction. His efforts 
 were preparatory. The most labored part of his writings 
 was in the form of hints and notes for future use.' His 
 eye was fixed upon manhood as the harvest season, for 
 which, in the spring-time of life, he must sow the seed 
 with diligence. But the character of his studies did not 
 remove the fear, that the indications of his youth would 
 be remembered as the buddings of a flower that never 
 blossomed. He meditated more on the early history of 
 those remarkable children who never became remarkable 
 men, than on the childhood of Des Cartes, Bacon, Boyle, 
 Newton, Jones, Johnson, Franklin, and indeed a majority 
 of our intellectual masters. Sometimes, in the twilight, 
 he would be found sitting in his room alone and pen- 
 sive. He would not disclose his sorrov/s, but he had 
 been holding converse with his past hours, and learning 
 from them the vanity of even the joys that were in store. 
 Sometimes would he be seen walking in solitude and with 
 a downcast look ; and the saddened tones of his voice 
 would show that his thoughts had been wandering amid 
 the dark scenes of life. Often, when a question was put 
 to him, it would remain unanswered longer than polite- 
 ness allowed, for he was absorbed in some meditations 
 that he could not express. But occasionally he would 
 open his heart to a friend, and tell the results of his 
 
 ^ See a specimen of these in the •' Abstracts and Notes on the 
 Classics," inserted as an Appendix to the First Edition of his 
 Writings. 
 
MEMOIR. dH 
 
 introspection and retrospection. " To-day," he says, ** I 
 have been reading over the compositions of my child- 
 hood. They form the most instructive volume in my 
 library. They teach me to be humble, and to fear God, 
 and to trust in heaven, and to lay up no treasures on the 
 earth." A few passages from his letters, written at Am- 
 herst and Andover, will unfold his habit of religious 
 meditation, his love of introverting the mental eye, and 
 his tendency to that occasional gloom, which is either the 
 prerogative or the misfortune of sensitive men. 
 
 April 20, 1834. (Sophomore year at college.) — 
 ** Spring has just begun to bud and blossom in Amherst, 
 and we are now in the enjoyment of the most delightful 
 weather. A few weeks will close a term in some respects 
 eventful, and will find me, I fear, but a few steps on my 
 way, and with far less advancement in spiritual character 
 than I have had opportunity to make. How much do 
 these rapid transitions from term to term in college, re- 
 mind one of the changes of life. All pass rapidly away. 
 It seems but a few days since I was a thoughtless, light- 
 minded school-boy, and now I am just beginning to think 
 of the great object of my existence. It will be but a 
 short time, before college scenes and college studies will 
 give place to the more important preparation for the du- 
 ties of a profession. Then will come life, — to which all 
 that has preceded, has been but as the preface of a book. 
 Read a few pages and you come to the conclusion — 
 death ! What creatures we are 1 And in view of the 
 vanity of our lives, how ready ought we to be to give our- 
 selves up entirely to the service of God," 
 
 June 23, 1834. " I am this term alone, as I men- 
 tioned in my last, and it is my present intention to remain 
 so, if circumstances permit, through the remainder of my 
 
40 
 
 M£MOIR. 
 
 college course. I have had as kind and pleasant a room- 
 mate as I could have M^ished, but I am extremely doubtful 
 as to the general influence of that close and uninterrupted 
 companionship, upon persons in my situation. There is 
 unquestionable benefit to be derived from such a plan, 
 but I think it is more than over-balanced by the opportu- 
 nity afforded in a solitary room for that silent and unin- 
 terrupted meditation, which is so necessary to the student. 
 Not that I am becoming a hermit, for there is enough of 
 the bustle of society for any one, when I am obliged to 
 leave my room and mingle in college associations. But 
 when I return, instead of finding more society there, I 
 ought to be alone, and in retirement to ponder the lessons 
 on human character, which may have been thrown in my 
 way when I have been abroad, I am certainly surrounded 
 at present with all the advantages I could possibly enjoy, 
 and I trust I shall be enabled to make a right use 
 of them." 
 
 September 6, 1835, to a college classmate : " Could 
 you read my thoughts as they had been a book, for the 
 past week, you would find something to laugh at, some- 
 thing to frown at, something to weep at, and, if I mistake 
 not your (temperament), something in hieroglyphics 
 which you could not decipher or understand. And now 
 what and where am I ? I look to the past, to its solemn 
 vows of consecration, of non-conformity, to its bitter ex- 
 periences of sin and temptation and disappointment. I 
 look to the future, — a few days of misty and uncertain 
 prospect, but the great universal * vanishing-point * of 
 eternity just as sure as my own existence. I look to the 
 Bible, and the words ' strangers and pilgrims ' meet my 
 eye. ' Strangers and pilgrims ! ' and, blessed be God, 
 that is not all ; but, — ' who seek a city yet to come, even 
 a heavenly,' where there is a balm for every wound, a 
 
MEMOIR. 41 
 
 pillow for every weary one. * Strangers and pilgrims ! ' 
 and I have been thinking to-night how foolish we are in 
 idealizing what is but earthly at best, and when we are 
 not content with present realities, reveling in what must 
 be, of its very nature, not a whit more substantial, in- 
 stead of making our imaginations the temple of the spir- 
 itual man. But I fear this is a misty sentence. I simply 
 mean, my friend, that the Christian can and ought to 
 build his castles not in air, but in heaven." 
 
 In the same year he writes to a classmate, " There 
 have been days when I was almost sad that my life had 
 not terminated with my college course, for I felt that I 
 was doomed to a puny growth, and it would have been a 
 relief to me if my death rather than my life should crush 
 the hopes of my friends. But that was sinful pride. I 
 knew it. I did try to leave the discouragements which, 
 in a morbid multitude, seemed to be pressing upon me. 
 And if any thing gave me relief it was submission to the 
 will of a divine and merciful Parent. I feel some happi- 
 ness in such submission. There will be moments when 
 peace will be whispered to the most agitated bosom, — in 
 prayer. And remember, there is one whose imperfect 
 petitions often mingle with his own desires, the thought 
 of your growth in holiness, your crown in heaven." 
 
 February 6, 1836. (Senior year at college.) — ** The 
 present term has opened quite pleasantly and promises to 
 be one of great labor. I mean that it shall be with me. 
 It mortifies me excessively when I look back on the three 
 years and a half which I have spent in the enjoyment of 
 these advantages for improvement, and find how I have 
 frittered myself away. More than all it humbles me 
 when I think how little I have penetrated my own heart ; 
 what small progress I have made in self-acquaintance, 
 4* 
 
42 MEMOIR. 
 
 and how needful it is for me, in order to repress my 
 pridfe, to think often and solemnly of the weak points in 
 my character. It is not with you^ as it has been with me. 
 You have just commenced your course, while I can think 
 of myself only as about to close an important part of 
 mine. College life has been to me a sort of parenthesis, 
 distinct in itself, yet useful chiefly in its bearings upon 
 what succeeds. It should be a great preparatory school, 
 not merely in the intellectual discipline which it affords, 
 or the knowledge which it imparts, but in the science of 
 self-government bf which the principles are here devel- 
 oped, to the perception of all who have ears to hear and 
 eyes to see. But when I remember how often I have 
 closed my mind against the rich lessons which I might have 
 learned, and how little effort I have been making to apply 
 the experience of my daily life to the great business of 
 knowing and mastering myself, I confess I am fearful that 
 I am not ready for the responsibilities of an educated 
 man, more than all, of a minister of the gospel of Jesus 
 Christ. Time is hastening me on to the close of my 
 college life. I seem to stand on an eminence. The 
 great field of my anticipated labor with its rich and wav- 
 ing harvest meets my eye, but how little does it affect my 
 heart ! O let me improve each moment as it passes, in 
 preparation for that glorious work. Let me gird on the 
 gospel implements and prepare to thrust in the sickle. 
 Let me labor long and unweariedly where my great Master 
 shall direct. And then when that life, of which the four 
 years of my college course are an emblem, shall also be 
 closing, and I stand straining my eye for the prospect of 
 my eternal home, richer fields and golden harvests may 
 be spread out before the vision of my faith. Excuse, my 
 dear friend, these rambling thoughts, which interest me, 
 
 ^ Mr. James G. Brown. 
 
MEMOIR. 43 
 
 I am well aware, more than they do you ; but if by com- 
 municating, I can fix them more deeply in my own heart, 
 you will not be altogether uninterested." 
 
 Feb. 18, 1837. (Junior year at Andover.) — "Last 
 Tuesday was the most miserable day I ever experienced. 
 I arose in the morning jaded and depressed. It was the 
 turn of the eighty-eighth Psalm to present itself to my 
 devotional meditations, and it seemed a remarkable provi- 
 dence, as a more precise and accurate mirror of my own 
 feelings could nowhere have been selected. It was no 
 religious exercise, I frankly own, but in the solitude of 
 my gloom, I am almost ashamed to confess it, I did pour 
 out my soul like water over that Psalm. Such prospects 
 of discouragement as pressed themselves upon me, I pray 
 to be relieved from henceforth and forever. There is 
 one dreadful thought, that at such moments comes upon 
 my mind. I would whisper it in your ear. It is that my 
 mind has already reached its maturity, that I shall never 
 grow to a larger than my present intellectual stature. 
 My developments were early, perhaps too early. I have 
 always been beyond my years. And you know that it is 
 no unusual phenomenon that minds too soon matured are 
 of a stinted growth, and those who were men in boyhood 
 become boys in manhood. I know that this is a wicked 
 thought. It may be the conception of a diseased imagi- 
 nation. It undoubtedly is the offspring of a pride of 
 intellect, rather than of that humble and submissive spirit 
 which bows in meek resignation to the will of God. But 
 it is a dreadful thought in itself, and in its accompani- 
 ments, when I think of the disappointment of the affec- 
 tionate hopes that have been centred in me. God forgive 
 me, if I ever think of honoring the earthly objects of my 
 love more than the heavenly." 
 
44 MEMOIR. 
 
 July 1, 1840. (Senior year at Andover.) — '< In a late 
 singular book, there is one passage that speaks to my own 
 spiritual condition, and has sometimes touched my heart 
 with a power that is almost wild. — * Look not mournfully 
 into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve 
 the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy 
 future, without fear and with a manly heart.' " 
 
 It may be said that some of the foregoing passages be- 
 tray pride and ambition in their author. He had some 
 pride ; and who has not 1 who, especially, that has en- 
 joyed a life of uniform distinction ? But it was not pride, 
 far from it ; it was meekness, and modesty, and an hum- 
 ble temper, that characterized his daily intercourse. 
 True, he had a high self-respect, and it raised him above 
 the meannesses to which a selfish man is prone. His 
 keen sense of honor answered the purpose of a second 
 conscience, and he was too high-minded to flatter or to 
 prevaricate or connive at any sly and insidious manceuvre. 
 He was too proud to make any use of Lord Bacon's 
 maxim, that *' the best composition and temperature is to 
 have openness in fame and opinion, secrecy in habit, dis- 
 simulation in seasonable use, and a power to feign if there 
 be no remedy." He was frank because he respected 
 himself, but whenever he found that his self-esteem was 
 becoming inordinate, he employed expedients too humili- 
 ating to be related, for subduing the evil. 
 
 That he had some ambition too, will not be denied. 
 Sensitiveness was his permeating quality, and as he was 
 sensitive to every thing else, so was he to the esteem of 
 his fellow men. Having a strong aspiration after all 
 good, he was not regardless of the good there is in the 
 esteem of the wise. The love of excelling he considered 
 an original principle of our nature, not to be eradicated, 
 but controlled. He did not pretend to have banished it 
 
MEMOIR. 45' 
 
 from himself, as some men have pretended, and have 
 therefore courted the praise of the world for their superi- 
 ority to the love of praise ; but he struggled and prayed 
 that his native desire of excellence might be turned into 
 the channel of virtue, and operate as a simple desire of 
 rising in holiness and in the favor of God. During a 
 long and confiding intimacy with him, I never detected 
 the least symptom of envy, nor any inclination to an arti- 
 fice for self-promotion. I never heard him whisper a syl- 
 lable against any one who might be considered his rival, 
 but he always extolled his companions in proportion as 
 they came near or went beyond his own attainments. He 
 was more fond of confessing a fault, than of pretending 
 to a virtue, and he often acknowledged his ignorance, but 
 seldom told of his acquisitions. It seemed that his desire 
 of excelling, so far as it degenerated into a faulty ambi- 
 tion, was far less faulty than the indolence of those who 
 fear to move upward lest they should become vain and 
 airy, and therefore sink downward into an imbecile and 
 stupid life. 
 
 It may be objected, that the secret confessions of fault 
 which the preceding letters contain should not be exposed 
 to the world. They would not be, if the present memoir 
 were designed for a eulogy. They would not be, if the 
 character of its subject needed to be glossed over and 
 his foibles artfully concealed. But of what advantage is 
 a biography above a fictitious tale, when but half the truth 
 is told, and the character of a man is painted as that of 
 an angel 1 The Christian philosopher objects to novels, 
 because they give false views of life and benumb our 
 sympathies with man as he is actually found. And what 
 are too many of our biographies but likenesses of nothing 
 which is in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in 
 the waters under the earth ? The true idea of a memoir 
 w, that it shall impart the general and combined impres- 
 
46 MEMOIR. 
 
 sion of its subject; that it shall give no undue prominence 
 to his foibles, nor make a needless exposure of his un- 
 covered sins, and shall by no means imply that a man may 
 live selfishly among us, and be canonized when he has 
 gone from us ; that he may sin cunningly here, and only 
 his virtues shall be rehearsed hereafter. As the love of 
 posthumous favor is one incentive to virtue, so the fear of 
 censure from our survivors is a dissuasive from vice. 
 
 MR. HOMER AT THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 
 
 After his graduation, Mr. Homer was desired by some 
 of his friends to spend a year in the instruction of youth. 
 It was thought that his labors in such a sphere would 
 help to prepare him for the hardnesses and conflicts of 
 professional life. He had been in the schools from his 
 early childhood, had encountered but little of the selfish- 
 ness and bluntness of the world, and a divorcement from 
 the select circles in which he had mingled would give 
 him one important kind of discipline which thus far he 
 had not received. But he was wedded to his studies, and 
 the thought of interrupting them was more than his lite- 
 rary spirit could endure. He accordingly entered the 
 Theological Seminary at Andover, in October, 1836. 
 Soon after the commencement of his studies, he writes 
 to an intimate friend, 
 
 November 4, 1836, " There is an altar to which we 
 have common access. Remember me there. For myself, 
 in the new and interesting situation in which I am placed, 
 with my hand just touching the ark of God, and my 
 mind advancing every day to the crisis of its development, 
 I have never so deeply realized the necessity of looking 
 upward for guidance and support. * Without are fight- 
 ings, within are fears»' A few weeks will undoubtedly 
 
MEMOIR. 47 
 
 decide whether I am to do much or little in my Master's 
 service. And how consoling to me the reflection, that 
 other hearts in Christian sympathy are bearing the same 
 burden to the same mercy seat. I have read somewhere, 
 perhaps it is in Jeremy Taylor, that the union of prayer 
 in Christians, (however widely separated,) for the same 
 object, is like the clouds of incense ascending from differ- 
 ent altars, and in separate columns, but blending in rich 
 and graceful harmony above." 
 
 December 18, 1836, he writes, "The work which I 
 have in view seems every day to be enlarging before me, 
 and I am constantly reminded of the importance of such 
 industry and regularity as must operate as a check on 
 many of my enjoyments. I believe that I have acquired 
 some new views upon this subject, since I came to Ando- 
 ver, which make my college life and acquisitions look 
 very insignificant. Yet it should always be my desire and 
 aim, not to confine myself to mental cultivation, but to 
 be making constant efforts for spiritual advancement, that 
 I may grow in knowledge and in grace together." 
 
 Soon after he entered the institution, he began to med- 
 itate upon the course of his future life. He first attended 
 to the claims of the heathen upon his services. He writes 
 to two of his friends the following account of his medita- 
 tions : 
 
 "February 12 and 18, 1837. — I mentioned to you just 
 as we separated last Sunday evening, that my mind had 
 been considerably occupied of late, with the claims of the 
 missionary service. I prefer that you say nothing about 
 it at present, as how soon, or how, the question may be 
 decided is uncertain. On the first Monday in January 
 last, (1837,) I commenced the examination of the subject, 
 
48 MEMOIR. 
 
 without the least doubt as to the manner in which it would 
 be settled. I tried to consider the subject prayerfully, 
 and I confess my views and feelings did undergo a deci- 
 ded revolution. I found that some arguments which I 
 had thought conclusive in favor of my remaining at home, 
 were without foundation. I think that on that day, the 
 attractions of home and country and friends, and the 
 bright visions of future happiness which I had cherished, 
 were robbed of their charm, and I saw the full wants of 
 perishing millions ; myself in darkness upon a single 
 point." "When the peculiar sensitiveness of my tem- 
 perament, the strength of my attachment to home, the 
 habit of dependence I had always cultivated, all seemed 
 to hold me back, I asked myself if Henry Martyn had 
 not these infirmities to a far greater extent, if he did not 
 leave his home under circumstances more affecting and 
 wounding to those sensibilities, than could accompany 
 me, and did not God raise him above them all ? With 
 half his piety, with half his scholarship, with half his de- 
 votion to the work, a tenth part of either of which I can- 
 not aspire to now, yet by cultivation and industry and 
 resolution I might attain, would not God bless my feeble 
 labors, and make me in such a sphere a happy and a 
 useful man ? Ah, my dear friend, this is not a question 
 between the infirmities of the flesh, and the claims of 
 God, but between the opposing calls of duty ; not a ques- 
 tion between earthly enjoyment and self-sacrifice, but be- 
 tween duty and duty. Can I be more useful abroad than 
 at home ? Upon this now rests the whole question. My 
 facility in the acquisition of languages would give me 
 the advantage over many, perhaps over most that go on 
 missions. But is my mind better adapted for communi- 
 cating with such spirits as are found on heathen, or on 
 Christian shores? Can my influence be most extensive 
 and most blessed abroad, or at home 1 Here I wait for 
 
MEMOIR. 49 
 
 light. The remarkable change which took place in my 
 views when I prayed for divine direction, I am sometimes 
 inclined to regard as the only indication which God will 
 give of my personal duty. Yet I would not be hasty. 
 A mistake abroad is worse than a mistake at home ; the 
 one may be rectified in time, the other never^_ If I could 
 go with the assurance that I might strengthen the hands 
 of my fellow laborers, instead of proving to them an in- 
 supportable burden, I believe in the view I have some- 
 times taken of earthly attachments, I could leave the 
 brightest visions I have ever dwelt upon. What is life, — 
 so short, and eternity so near at hand. If I have succeeded 
 in making myself intelligible, write me your views upon 
 the subject." 
 
 After a severe conflict between opposing claims, Mr. 
 Homer finally concluded, that his duty was to remain at 
 home. He next examined the question whether he should 
 look to the ministry as the sphere of his principal labors, 
 or to the office of a teacher ; and he decided that his pe- 
 culiar tastes and aptitudes promised him a greater degree 
 of usefulness in the chair of instruction than in the pulpit. 
 It became, therefore, his fixed purpose to qualify himself 
 as far as he could in his leisure hours for the duties of a 
 teacher. With this view he intended to pass two or three 
 years at the German Universities, as soon as he had at- 
 tained some experience in the ministry. He by no means 
 meant to forego the privileges and the pleasures of a 
 pastor's life ; he chose to bear for a season the responsi- 
 bilities of a parish minister ; so might he become more 
 familiar with the influences and the energies of the gos- 
 pel, deepen his interest in the religious welfare of his 
 race, and learn the sacred arts of persuading men to vir- 
 tue. He wished, also, to enliven his sympathies with the 
 various classes of men, and to acquire that freshness of 
 5 
 
50 MEMOIR. 
 
 feeling which the atmosphere of a literary institution 
 needs rather than gives. By this discipline he hoped 
 through the grace of God, to sanctify his literary influence. 
 
 In the spring of 1837, he left the seminary for a year, 
 continuing his residence at Andover, and enjoying many 
 privileges of the Institution. He adopted this plan, partly 
 for the purpose of enjoying a more complete course of 
 biblical instruction, than the ill health of Professor Stuart 
 would allow him to give to the class with which Mr. Ho- 
 mer had been connected, partly for the purpose of privately 
 reviewing his Hebrew studies, and writing analyses of 
 several of the sacred books ; and partly for a more en- 
 larged and comprehensive investigation of both the class- 
 ical and the sacred Greek. In addition to these labors, 
 he paid some attention to the Arabic language, and still 
 more to the German. During the year he was without 
 any restraint save that of his own moral principle, but he 
 never was more energetic or industrious. He was as me- 
 thodical in the division of his time as if he were regulated 
 by the seminary bell. In the course of this year, Novem- 
 ber II, 1837, he writes as follows : ** I have been very 
 hard at work since my return with the exception of two 
 or three days. Eleven hours in the day, from eight in 
 the morning till ten in the evening, I devote to my studies. 
 This I mention not from any feeling of vanity, but to 
 show that I am not the loafer here that I am in Boston." 
 When he had again connected himself with the seminary, 
 he writes, '• Yesterday I surrendered my liberty, that is, 
 again made myself a subject of the laws of the Theolog- 
 ical Seminary, I do not know how well I shall ' lohip 
 into the tracesJ The proof I have given of my ability to 
 take care of myself, is no proof of the ability of the law 
 to take care of me." 
 
 Indeed it was one of the marked features of Mr. 
 Homer's mind to observe a strict regularity and order in 
 
MEMOIR. St 
 
 all things. It was an instinct with him to ^ct according 
 to plan. He made no parade about it, he adhered to sys- 
 tem because he loved system, because system grew with 
 him and he with it. His whole life was mapped out be- 
 fore him, and to the hours of every day were assigned 
 their respective labors. It is said of Dr. Kirkland, Presi- 
 dent of Harvard College, that " it was not uncommon for 
 him to bring into the pulpit half a dozen sermons or more, 
 and, on the instant, construct from their pages a new ser- 
 mon as he went along, turning the leaves backwards and 
 forwards, and connecting them together by the thread of 
 his extemporaneous discourse. These scattered leaves 
 resembled those of the Sybil, not only in their confusion, 
 causing many to marvel how he could marshal and manage 
 them so adroitly, but also in their deep and hidden wis- 
 dom, and in the fact that when two-thirds of what he had 
 thus brought into the pulpit was omitted,- — thrown by as 
 unworthy of delivery, — the remaining third which he ut- 
 tered, was more precious than the entire pile of manu- 
 script, containing, as it did, the spirit and the essence, 
 the condensed and concentrated wisdom of the whole." ^ 
 Such a confusion of the materials of thought would be 
 one of the last features of Mr. Homer's mind, even in an 
 extreme old age. All his academy compositions he had 
 arranged in one packet, his college compositions in 
 another, his literary addresses, poetical effusions, etc. in a 
 third ; his notes upon his classical and theological studies 
 he had accurately classified ; his essays on the doctrines 
 of the gospel were prepared as if for the press, and were 
 preserved as the foundation of a series of doctrinal dis- 
 courses which he had planned before the close of his mid- 
 dle year. Many of his manuscript sermons, though never 
 
 ^ Rev. Mr. Young's Discourse on the Life and Charatster of Pres- 
 ident Kirkland, p, 41, 
 
52 MEMOIR. 
 
 copied, were written as if he were anticipating what was 
 furthest possible from his thoughts, that they would be 
 printed verbatim et literatim. In looking over his papers 
 thus arranged and systematized, one would think of the 
 remark made by Curran to Grattan, as one which never 
 could be made to Mr. Homer — " You would be the great- 
 est man of our age, if you would buy up a few yards of 
 red tape, and tie up your bills and papers." 
 
 While at Andover his mind seemed to acquire new ra- 
 pidity of movement. It was surprising to his friends that 
 he could accomplish so much. He kept himself minutely 
 acquainted with the political news of the day, was famil- 
 iar with its current literature ; every new book which was 
 published he would form some kind of acquaintance with, 
 and was far as any one from neglecting the appropriate 
 exercises of his class. All that he did he perfected with 
 singular ease, seldom appeared to be hurried, but was 
 happy with his books, and enjoyed them as companions. 
 
 Throughout his seminary, as well as his collegiate life, 
 he avoided promiscuous company. From feeling rather 
 than from principle, he followed the rule, *' Be kind to 
 all, friendly with some, intimate with ^qw." He was too 
 exclusive in his intercourse with certain companions in 
 study, and he too seldom sought the acquaintance of oth- 
 ers: Not that he was a recluse, or had the feelings or 
 manners of an anchorite ; he seemed to be familiar with 
 the usages of the best society ; but he lived above them, 
 though not regardless of them, and preferred his intellec- 
 tual pleasures to the intercourse of fashionable circles. 
 To some of his friends he remarked, when a Senior at 
 Amherst, "Yesterday, Mr. , by dint of long persua- 
 sion, induced me to get into a chaise with him and ride 
 over to Hatfield. He wished, he said, to show me more 
 of the world than I had yet seen. I enjoyed my visit 
 mightily, and formed a higher opinion of mankind thaa 
 
MEMOIR. «5^ 
 
 from the maxims of Rochefoucault I was expecting to 
 form." 
 
 In the winter of Mr. Homer's Middle year at Andover, 
 he received the appointment of Tutor at Amherst College. 
 He was solicited, earnestly and repeatedly, by several of 
 his friends at Amherst and Andover, to accept the ap- 
 pointment, but in vain. He had settled the plan of his 
 future life, and no entreaties could prevail with him to re- 
 linquish or interrupt it. He thus writes on the subject to 
 a classmate : — " You will no doubt be surprised at my de- 
 cision to decline the Tutorship at Amherst. It is not a 
 hasty one. I have had the subject before my mind ever 
 since I left college, and have often anticipated the situa- 
 tion with great pleasure. But for almost a year it 
 has been my undoubting conviction that my duty calls 
 me immediately to complete my theological studies, and 
 enter the profession where I doubt not my Master designs 
 I should serve him for a season. I say /or a season, for I 
 ought not to conceal from you, what you have yourself 
 once intimated, that I do not look upon the ministry as 
 the sphere of my permanent operation, or greatest useful- 
 ness. The more full development of certain tastes, 
 which were partially exhibited during my college course, 
 has led me to apply myself almost exclusively to studies, 
 which, while they delight and profit me, are, I would hope, 
 furnishing me with some preparation to spend the greater 
 part of my life among scenes which I was born for, and 
 which I should delight to call my home." 
 
 The reader will be more readily let into Mr. Homer's 
 study at Andover, by perusing a ^q\\ extracts from his 
 correspondence, than by any lengthened description. 
 
 August 4, I83S. — " As to the question of authorship, I 
 have no intention at present, at least, of venturing into 
 that uncertain wilderness. Of all subjects, the poet Ho- 
 5* 
 
54 MEMOIR. 
 
 mer would be the one I should choose, as I am better ac- 
 quainted with it than with any other, and have furnished 
 myself within a year or two with the materials for a pretty 
 extensive work. But my purposes are far more modest. 
 Having completed the writings attributed to Homer, I 
 wished to satisfy myself upon the existence of such an 
 individual. I have been for several weeks examining the 
 German theory of Homer, and I have perfectly satisfied 
 my mind that it is all moon-shine. I have come to the 
 conclusion, not only that the Iliad is the single production 
 of one author, but that in all probability the Iliad and 
 Odyssey are the production of one and the same individ- 
 ual. I do rejoice, most heartily, in the ability to be in 
 poetry, (not to speak it profanely,) a monotheist. Excuse 
 my egotism. I think I have heard you express a contrary 
 opinion on this topic, and were it not for my utter detes- 
 tation of literary corrrespondence, I should challenge you 
 to an immediate discussion. Blackwell's work I have not 
 yet read, but expect from it abundant entertainment." 
 
 September 8, 1838. — '* I have recently obtained a com- 
 plete list of Macaulay's articles, and have been reading 
 them in course. There is a splendid article on Dryden, 
 another on Johnson, another on Machiavelli, and another 
 on Pitt, besides several grand historical articles. That is 
 the man for me. We are endeavoring to get up an edition 
 of his miscellaneous writings on a plan similar to Emer- 
 son's edition of Carlyle. * Not that we love Caesar less, 
 but that we love Rome more.' We have written to Eng- 
 land, to Macaulay and Lord Napier, (editor of the Edin- 
 burgh Review,) and should we be thence encouraged to 
 proceed, the work will goon without delay. A prospectus 
 has already been somewhat prematurely issued by Weeks 
 and Jordan of Boston." 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 dk 
 
 November 3, 1838.— "I returned to this delightful 
 spot, (Andover,) a little more than a week ago, and am 
 now regularly started in my course of study for the term. 
 I occupy my forenoons with Theology, my afternoons with 
 German, and my evenings with Demosthenes ; which last 
 I like hugely, as I find in the edition I purchased in Bos- 
 ton all the helps that a student can possibly need. With 
 regard to text books in theology, I own Dick and Dwight, 
 and have out of the library Knapp, Storr and Flatt, and 
 Hopkins, as standard authorities, besides miscellaneous 
 controversial documents on particular points. I consider 
 Knapp as worth a thousand, and value him more than all 
 the rest together. His chief excellence consists in expo- 
 sing the loose reasoning of the advocates of truth, of 
 which in ordinary theologians I find a great abundance. 
 Dick is too little of a biblical scholar, and Dwight some- 
 times gives us a non sequitur, but Knapp clears away the 
 wood, hay and stubble with which most other writers have 
 decked up and fortified the gospel edifice, and shows us 
 only the polished stones." 
 
 June 8, 1839, — "It is a long time since I addressed 
 you from this solitary room. But here they all are, the 
 books, the maps, the table and the inkstand, as I left 
 them ; and here I sit with my white jacket, before me the 
 sheet that is my speaking-trumpet to you, behind me the 
 open windows, the balmy air and the melody of birds. I 
 have been hoping and praying that I may be enabled on 
 the morrow to commence aright the duties of the new 
 term." 
 
 December 14, 1839. — "Three of our students have 
 formed a little coterie for the purpose of examinino- and 
 discussing theological subjects. We meet twice a week 
 at my room. We also have once a week an evenincr ex- 
 
56 MEMOIR. 
 
 ercise in homiletics, at my room, when one of us recites 
 the substance of an original discourse, the other two offi- 
 ciating as hearers." 
 
 January 3, 1840. — " I anticipate this as a year of 
 thrilling interest to me, no doubt the most momentous of 
 my life. It will be the year of my commission as a min- 
 ister of God, the first year of the great work of my life. 
 For the first time I shall emerge from the preparatory 
 stages in which I have heretofore been occupied, and put 
 on the garb of practical manhood." 
 
 March 26, 1840. — •' I have now pretty much completed 
 the severer duties of the term, having finished six ser- 
 mons. I have been delivering two lectures on Jeremy 
 Taylor before a select club. They were extemporaneous, 
 and each two hours long." — " I have read seven critiques 
 upon characters in Shakspeare before another club formed 
 for English criticism. I am beginning to go for clubs 
 and coteries. Solitary study I find does not bring out 
 the whole man. Combine the solitary with the social is 
 the rule." 
 
 From the preceding letters the reader will perceive, 
 that notwithstanding Mr. Homer's intention to spend the 
 greater part of his life in the chair of literary instruction, 
 he yet applied himself to the duties of a preacher with all 
 the enthusiasm which he had hitherto devoted to his more 
 private studies. The laws of the Theological Seminary 
 require each member of the Senior class to write four 
 sermons during the year. This small number is demand- 
 ed, because it is esteemed far more important for a 
 minister, in his novitiate, to write well, than to write 
 much. But Mr. Homer wrote three times the number of 
 sermons which the law requires, and became as eager to 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 57 
 
 preach them, as he had been desirous hitherto of avoid- 
 ing public observation. So long had he been confined to 
 preparatory labors, that he became impatient for the 
 active duties of his profession, and seemed to leap for 
 joy at the prospect of doing good in the pulpit. His 
 mind sprung like a bow hastening to discharge its arrow. 
 He had been judicious heretofore, in the mode of spend- 
 ing his vacations, he had devoted them to the recreating 
 of his mind and his body, and had regarded as somewhat 
 comical the remark of Wyttembach, that vacations were 
 designed for teachers to relax their powers, and for pupils 
 to review their studies. But at the close of his first Se- 
 nior term at Andover, when his mind had been agitated 
 by the severest affliction of hi^ life, and he had still per- 
 formed an unusual amount of intellectual labor, he was 
 persuaded to spend the seminary recess in pastoral duties 
 at South Berwick, Maine. The first vacation in which 
 he evidently needed repose, was the first in which 
 he refused to take it. To several of his friends, he gives 
 the following account of his labors : '' I preached a third 
 service in Boston last Sabbath evening, and although 
 Monday and Tuesday I felt as well as ever, yet I think I 
 must have over-strained myself, and prepared for the la- 
 mentable result. On Wednesday I had a touch of the 
 real bronchitis, which, since that time has assumed the 
 various forms of cold, cough, hoarseness, sore lips, till at 
 length it has deepened into that most unpoetical, vexa- 
 tious disease, a cold in the head. I conduct a prayer 
 meeting on Sunday evenings, and preach a lecture on 
 Friday evenings. When this interesting cold in my head 
 allows me to do any thing, I enjoy myself much in read- 
 ing and writing. Last week I wrote two sermons, beside 
 reading Carlyle, John Foster, Longfellow's Hyperion, 
 (choice)." — " I ought not in any case to have spent my va- 
 cation in the labors which I have been performing, espe- 
 
58 MEMOIR. 
 
 cially when I was as unwell as when I left Boston, I 
 have very narrowly escaped a fever since being here." 
 
 But notwithstanding his want of repose, he appeared 
 at the seminary during its summer session, as elastic as 
 ever, and as punctual at the required exercises ; wrote 
 his essay on the Posthumous Power of the Pulpit, with 
 which he closed the services of his class at their Anniver- 
 sary, wrote his oration on the Dramatic Element in Pul- 
 pit Oratory, which he delivered on leaving the president's 
 chair of the Porter Rhetorical Society, decided one of 
 the most important questions of his life, that of his imme- 
 diate settlement in the ministry, composed four sermons, 
 and preached so often and with so much zeal, that the end 
 of the term found him again exhausted. But on the Sab- 
 bath after the exciting scenes of the Anniversary, he 
 preached three times ; on the succeeding Monday returned 
 to his old study at Andover, wrote two sermons in six 
 days, preached on the next Sabbath two sermons at Salem, 
 two in Boston a week afterward, and during the ensuing 
 month preached six times at Buffalo, N. Y., and once at 
 Newark, N. J. He thus allowed himself but little repose 
 from the commencement of his Senior year to the period 
 of his ordination. How little he enjoyed after that period, 
 the sequel will show. 
 
 HEALTH AND PHYSICAL REGIMEN. 
 
 The life of Mr. Homer was as we have seen a happy 
 one. It was exempt from many of the ills to which lite- 
 rary men are exposed. His memoir is not, like that of 
 some others, a record of aches and groans. He went 
 straight forward in one uninterrupted course of improve- 
 ment until a fortnight before his death. No pecuniary 
 want, no alarming disease, no domestic affliction ever 
 compelled him to leave his studies for a single month. 
 
MEMOIR. 59 
 
 ^ He performed his intellectual labors with as much facility 
 as diligence. Labor ipse vnluptas was his motto and the 
 secret of his success. Never more happy than with bis 
 books, and having never learned from experience the ills 
 or the perils of sickness, he was unwilling to adopt any 
 severe regimen of body. If confidence in the soundness 
 of one's constitution were a preventive of disease, his health 
 would never have failed, for he used to say that he did not 
 know enough about sickness to become a hypochondriac. 
 He was abstemious in his diet, but he ate and drank what 
 he chose. He was regular, as in every thing else, so also 
 in his exercise, but this exercise was regularly too little. 
 In his most prudent days he was content with a morning 
 and evening walk. The dumb-bells were too monotonous 
 and unintellectual for him, the athletic games were too 
 puerile, the wood-saw and the axe were better fitted to 
 increase his self-denial than his physical vigor ; of horse- 
 manship he was utterly ignorant, and indeed there was 
 nothing which could allure him from his books, to those 
 exercises which would have strengthened his mus- 
 cular system. Even in childhood, he was a more suc- 
 cessful competitor for a prize in the school-room, than 
 for victory on the play-ground. 
 
 ** Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled, 
 Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
 Of squabbling imps." 
 
 His friends often remonstrated with him on the perils of 
 his sedentary life. They endeavored to beguile him into 
 a system of more vigorous exercise, as the friends of 
 Richard Hooker would fain do with the judicious youth. 
 '* Richard, I sent for you back," said the bishop of Salis- 
 bury, " to lend you a horse which hath carried me many 
 a mile, and, I thank God, with much ease ; and presently 
 delivered into his hands a walking-staff with which he 
 
60 MEMom. 
 
 professed he had traveled through many parts of Germa- 
 ny." But a man must lose his health twice before he 
 will learn to take care of it. He needs the " regret of 
 folly to make him wise," and the pains of disease to 
 make him healthy. The subject of this memoir had an 
 instinctive abhorrence of ultraism in religion, politics and 
 literature ; and he had seen so much of ultraism in diet- 
 etics, that he was repelled into an opposite fault. '• As 
 to this gastric juice," he said, *' I know nothing about it, 
 and care less. Nobody should think of it but the doctor. 
 Animal food I eat, because I have read in the books that 
 man is not a carniverous animal. All kinds of bread are 
 nutritious to me, except what is called dyspeptic bread, 
 and I am never injured by my food, save when I eat for 
 the purpose of promoting my health. I am told that I 
 must not exert my faculties immediately after dinner, but 
 I never knew the day when I could not apply my mind in 
 the afternoon as well as the morning. I am likewise told 
 that the forenoon is better for study than the evening, but 
 so far am I from finding any difference between them, 
 that although I am not an Hibernian, I find the evening 
 the best part of the day." When he read the words of 
 Richard Baxter, *' I had in my family the benefit of a 
 godly, understanding, faithful servant, near sixty years 
 old, who eased me of all care, and laid out all my money 
 for housekeeping, so that I never had one hour's trouble 
 about it, nor ever took one day's account of her for four- 
 teen years together," he would say, ♦* that is the way to 
 live ; " but it is not the way to live long. He who aims 
 at an entire divorce from earthly cares that he may live a 
 more intellectual life, should remember the paper kite's 
 complaining of the string which held it to the earth, and 
 hindered its rise toward heaven. 
 
 In some respects, however, the habits of Mr. Homer 
 were favorable to his health. He had the art of relievincr 
 
MEMOIR. 61 
 
 a strained faculty by varying its exercise. It may be said 
 of him, as of Robert Hall, " He found the advantages of 
 passing from one subject to another at short intervals, 
 generally of about two hours : thus casting off the men- 
 tal fatigue that one subject had occasioned, by directing 
 his attention to another, and thereby preserving the intel- 
 lect in a state of elastic energy, from the beginning to 
 the end of the time devoted daily to study." His inno- 
 cence and cheerfulness of temper, his control over all his 
 passions, helped to preserve a continued elasticity in his 
 well-nigh spiritual body. His exercise also, though insuf- 
 ficient in degree, was favorable in kind. It was taken 
 pleasantly, with a cheering companion, and in forgetful- 
 ness of his solitary labors. If three or four of his literary 
 friends had gone with him to his parish, and walked with 
 him there as they had done at Andover, he might have 
 been indebted to them for his life. Professor Tholuck of 
 Halle, who is more familiar with biblical literature than 
 with our manners and customs, recently assigned three 
 reasons for not visiting the United States ; first, the rife- 
 ness of our mob spirit, which might, as he said, endanger 
 his life ; secondly, the prevalence of dyspepsia, which is 
 somewhat peculiar to our students ; and thirdly, the want 
 of promenades in our cities and villages. It was a prom- 
 enade, which Mr. Homer needed at South Berwick, to 
 allure him from his books, and fascinate his eye during 
 the solitary ramble. The probability is, that had he 
 always lived in the groves of the academy, and walked 
 by the gently flowing Ilissus, he had glided smoothly 
 through a long and honorable life. But a man cannot 
 always live in a sequestered bower, nor is that the scene 
 for the perfecting of the soul. It is well that he must 
 wrestle with the perplexities of life. It is an old Chinese 
 proverb, that a gem cannot be polished without friction, 
 nor a man be improved without adversity. When the 
 6 
 
62 MEMOIR. 
 
 subject of this notice left his retreat at Andover, and 
 hastened to his parochial toils, he exposed his constitution 
 to a sudden shock. Without a hal)it of athletic Iribor, 
 without interest in any employment which he could pur- 
 sue in the open air, with a system exhausted by the efforts 
 of his Senior year, he was ill fitted for the multiplied re- 
 sponsibilities which he chose to heap upon himself as a 
 pastor. But the melancholy issue of his life is reserved 
 for a future section. It is enough to say, 
 
 " In his own mind our cause of mourning grew, 
 The falcMon's temper ate tbe scabbard through." 
 
 RESULTS OF MR. 
 
 The fruits of mental application are not always tangi- 
 ble. They are seen in the character rather than the 
 exploits of the mind. There is a mellowness of feeling, 
 a refinement of sensibility, a generous and liberal spirit, 
 which, more than any display of erudition, betoken the 
 scholar. The subject of this memoir found the reward 
 of his studies, not so much in the treasures of knowledge 
 which he had amassed, as in the nice adjustment of his 
 moral and mental power, the beautiful symmetry of his 
 tastes and affections and faculties, the balancing, not 
 indeed exact, but more accurate than is common, between 
 one energy and another of his mind and his heart. One 
 of his friends has aptly remarked, that " he displayed the 
 perfectness of growth, a kind of finish, even in his early 
 youth; the shrub possessing the same proportion of parts 
 as the tree which it will become ere long." He had also 
 that candor of mind which comes of an enlarged scholar- 
 ship. He could never have been a partizan in theology, 
 as a young man often loves to be, and he would probably 
 have done much good by his freedom from that narrow 
 
MEMOIR. 69 
 
 spirit which will cling to a sect or school, be it new or 
 old. But the richest fruit of his scholarship was seen in 
 his increasing capacity for improvement. The rapidity 
 of his mental advances seemed to be accelerating every 
 day, until a half month before his death. He had laid a 
 broad and deep foundation for an intellectual structure 
 which would have risen fair and high. 
 
 Before he had closed his twenty-second year, he had 
 accumulated much that would have quickened his mental 
 growth for a long time to come. He had written nume- 
 rous essays and orations, four quarto volumes of notes on 
 his collecriate studies, eight volumes of abstracts and 
 theses upon the topics of his Seminary course, had ac- 
 quired six foreign languages, some of which he had mas- 
 tered, had studied with philosophical acumen the writings 
 of Hesiod, Herodotus, Longinus, Dionysius Halicarnas- 
 seus, Aeschylus and Euripides, and many of the old 
 English prose authors ; had written an analysis of each 
 book in the Iliad and of the Odyssey, with copious anno- 
 tations upon them, a critical disquisition also upon each 
 of the minor poems and fragments ascribed to the father 
 of poetry, an analysis of the orations of Demosthenes 
 and Aeschines, with extensive criticisms upon each, and 
 various translations from Latin and German commenta- 
 tors upon the sacred and classical writings. He had also 
 collected materials for at least three courses of lectures 
 upon Homer and Demosthenes, and thought himself pre- 
 pared to finish these courses with but little additional 
 study, and within a short time.^ 
 
 MR. HOMER AS A FRIEND. 
 
 It is not as a scholar that Mr. Homer is most pleasantly 
 remembered, but as a friend. There was an affectionate- 
 
 ♦ See Appendix to the Memoir, Note B. 
 
64 MEMOIR. 
 
 ness and a confiding frankness in his heart and manner, 
 which wound others around him in a strange way. The 
 beauties of his social nature still linger in the remem- 
 brance, like the spent breathings of an Aeolian harp, and 
 we would fain muse upon them in silence, rather than de- 
 scribe them- to a stranger. His companions never 
 admired so much as they loved him, and they cling to his 
 memory with a tenacity that will never let it go. Their 
 feelings toward him now that he has gone, are his highest 
 praise. They prove that his character was a combination 
 of such virtues as have won the lasting esteem of all who 
 were admitted into the sanctuary of his heart, and that 
 his influence will be the greater and the better as he was 
 the more intimately known. It is said of an eminent 
 preacher, that all who never associated with him will be 
 profited by his discourses. The usefulness of the ser- 
 mons in the present volume will be increased by the 
 familiar knowledge of their author's character. It is 
 somewhat singular that each of his friends supposed him- 
 self to be the peculiar object of Mr. Homer's regard, and 
 each has said, without suspecting the same to have been 
 said by another, " I imagine that he disclosed his feelings 
 to me as freely and confidentially, as to any one living." 
 And even now, he seems, like a good portrait, to be fix- 
 ing his eye distinctively and winningly upon every indi- 
 vidual of his chosen brotherhood. 
 
 He did not select his associates logically, by way of 
 inference from any sermon of Bishop Atterbury or Dr. 
 Blair on the choice of companions, nor after a wise cal- 
 culation of the benefit he might receive from them ; not 
 because they were rich, nor because they were popular, 
 nor because they were learned did he choose them, but 
 because he was drawn to them by the mutual attractions 
 of his own and their nature. He was their friend before 
 he judiciously resolved to be so. Neither did he confine 
 
MEMOIR. 65 
 
 his attachments to those who were cast in his own mould. 
 He preferred circumstantial varieties amid general sym- 
 pathies. Nor was he blind to the imperfection of his 
 associates ; he saw it, and frankly reproved it, but with 
 all their faults he loved them still. He sometimes in- 
 dulged them with his confidence merely because they 
 wished it. He freely gave them his hand because they 
 gave him their hearts. He acted on the principle which 
 Dr. Payson commends, " The man that wants me is the 
 man I want." He said of himself, " Alas, I am suscep- 
 tible, very susceptible, too susceptible ; " and if any one 
 appealed to his generosity, or his pity, or his Christian 
 benevolence, the appeal was not in vain. Hence he would 
 sometimes contract an intimacy less profitable to himself, 
 than it was flattering to his comrade. He did not draw 
 near to men in their prosperity, and find himself other- 
 wise employed in their adversity, nor when his friends 
 were in pain did he study as calmly as if it were well 
 with them. When the multitude frowned upon men 
 whom he valued, he was not "ashamed of their chain." 
 True worth, wherever he discerned it, he would com- 
 mend, though it were hidden from the view of others, by 
 some unpleasant traits with which it was combined. 
 
 It is soothing to recall the interest which was ever man- 
 ifested by Mr. Homer in those of his fellow students who 
 needed his sympathies. He ministered to his sick class- 
 mates as one who suffered with them, and if any of his 
 fellow travelers in the walks of literature were arrested 
 by death, he missed them and spoke of them as his breth- 
 ren. When young men are herded together in a public 
 institution and secluded from the humanizing influences 
 of the domestic circle, they often become obtuse in their 
 sensibilities, and acquire a roughness and a coarseness 
 which they mistake for the sign of manhood ; and when 
 they bear one of their number to the grave, they some- 
 6* 
 
66 MEMOIR. 
 
 times affect to be superior to such refinements of expres- 
 sion as are prompted by nature in its truth and healthful- 
 ness. In more instances than one, our departed friend 
 perceived some heartless formality at the obsequies of a 
 comrade, and with his peculiar delicacy strove to prevent 
 its recurrence. He remembered as one of the most 
 pleasing, though melancholy services of his life, how he 
 once smoothed the pillow of a dying classmate,* studied 
 to ascertain the most exact proprieties of the funeral rites, 
 and then attended the cold remains to the home of the 
 bereaved parents, who resided a hundred miles from Am- 
 herst, and were ignorant of the death of their son until 
 a half hour before the corpse arrived. During this jour- 
 ney in an inclement season of the year, and over well 
 nigh impassable roads, his sensibilities were so much ex- 
 cited, that for days after his return, his tones of voice 
 were mournful, and he seemed to have lost a brother. 
 
 While a student at Andover, he writes, Aug. 3, 1838, 
 " Yesterday one of our number, Mr. Homer Taylor, died 
 of typhus fever. He had been sick only a fortnight, and 
 was not supposed to be dangerously ill until a day or two 
 previous to his death. There were some peculiarly inter- 
 esting circumstances connected with his departure. His 
 delirium, brought on by the violence of his disease, was 
 almost wholly religious. The fact seemed to furnish as 
 cheering evidence, as in such circumstances could be af- 
 forded, of the holiness of his previous life. It seemed as 
 if the power that disordered his mind could not expel, 
 but only confused, those pious contemplations on which 
 he loved to dwell." — '* We buried him at evening. * Thou 
 art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,' that 
 beautiful hymn by Bishop Heber, was sung at the grave, 
 and the solemn toll of the bell mingled most richly with 
 
 » Mr. D. C. RowelL 
 
MEMOIR. 9^ 
 
 the tones of the music. As we turned away from the 
 grave-yard, the sinking sun repeated the lesson of admo- 
 nition. It seemed like the voice of providence and the 
 voice of nature speaking together." 
 
 Eleven of Mr. Homer's collegiate classmates died before 
 him, and not one of them dropped into his grave without 
 calling forth some lamentation from the subject of this 
 memoir. *' One by one," he says, *' we shall all drop 
 away, till the last survivor looks back on the catalogue of 
 the dead. Who will that last survivor be 1 " ** O what 
 are our prospects of worldly honor or happiness, compared 
 with those that brighten the fading vision and cheer the 
 sinking spirit." 
 
 It is not pretended, that in Mr. Homer's intercourse 
 with his friends he was one of those marvelous proper 
 men, who never say anything which is not fit for the press, 
 or write a private letter which is not prepared for the pul)- 
 lic eye. He did not talk like a book, nor compose his 
 epistles as he composed notes on Aeschines. He agreed 
 with Hazlitt, that " to expect an author to talk as he writes 
 is ridiculous, and even if he did so, you would find fault 
 with him as a pedant. We should read authors, and not 
 converse with them." Those who enjoyed his correspond- 
 ence, which was voluminous for one of his years, value 
 his letters highly, but will not allow many of them to be 
 published, they are so full of private allusions, of out- 
 flowings from his own free nature. They are such as 
 none but a friend could write to a friend, and the greater 
 portion of them would lose their interest on the printed 
 page, as the dew-drop parts with its brilliancy when taken 
 up by the chemist for an analysis. What we wish in a 
 friendly correspondence is, that the letter be an emanation 
 of the friend who writes it, that it be himself drawn out, 
 not with any desire of making a show, for this is not 
 friendly, not with any very prominent desire of giving in- 
 
68 MEMOIR. 
 
 struction, for this is the correspondence of a lecturer, or 
 of a professor, or of a student, rather than of a man ; but 
 with the desire of communing heart with heart, and trans- 
 fusing one's own familiar thoughts or feelings into the 
 soul of another who is absent in body but present in sym- 
 pathy. There are some who can engage in an agreeable 
 kind of letter-writing which tends more immediately and 
 avowedly to intellectual edification, but this is the collo- 
 quy of judgment with judgment, and has no peculiar re- 
 lation to the communings of friend with friend. The 
 subject of this memoir was a true and hearty friend, and 
 all his scholarship never left him a dried up specimen of 
 humanity. 
 
 But it must not be imagined that his friendship was un- 
 profitable either to himself or to others. The nature of 
 it may be learned from the following description which he 
 has given of one' to whom he had been attached from 
 early childhood, and with whom he had shared the most 
 hidden joys of his life. " I think," he says, " that Mr. 
 Brown was made for my friend, and that I was made for 
 his ; for his faults were those which I have not, and mine 
 are those which he had not. There is a depression in my 
 character where his had a protuberance, and there is a 
 fulness with myself which corresponded with a deficiency 
 in him, so that we met exactly and sympathized in all 
 points." " I may safely say," he writes again, " that of 
 the whole circle of my acquaintance, although there was 
 not one who would better adorn and enliven by his social 
 qualities a circle of pleasure, there was not one who pos- 
 sessed a deeper spirit of piety, or lived nearer to his Sa- 
 viour. I am surrounded by mementos of his religious 
 worth, always valued, but since his death most precious. 
 His letters to me breathed the spirit of a man in whose 
 
 ' Mv. James G. Brown, formerly of Boston, Mass. 
 
MEMOm. 
 
 m 
 
 soul religion was the chief treasure. His voice, the tones 
 of which were so familiar in this room, that I hear them 
 this moment, and have heard them again and again since 
 his departure, I remember chiefly for its eloquence in pri- 
 vate prayer, and on the great subject which so often made 
 his eye kindle and his heart overflow. I need not assure 
 you how wide is the vacancy which his loss has left in my 
 heart. Differences of education and temperament and 
 circumstances had only deepened our long attachment. 
 There never has been a time since our first acquaintance, 
 when my interest in him has not led me to anticipate how 
 severe would be the shock of his death. Even now, 
 although the first anguish of grief is over, there are, and 
 there must be for a long time to come, hours when its 
 bitterness will recur afresh to the spirit. Yet God's holy 
 will be done." 
 
 MR. HOMER IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 The last of the preceding paragraph suggests a theme 
 for the present. Though the life of our friend was one of 
 sunshine, still there were a few dark clouds which cast 
 their shadow over his feelings and prospects. It is well 
 that he did not go through this vale of tears, without 
 leaving some illustrations of his fitness to endure the ills, 
 as well as enjoy the pleasures of the world. His manly 
 grief, his calm submission to the will of heaven, and the 
 felicitous mode in which he ministered consolation to his 
 afflicted friends, will be seen by the following extract^ 
 from his correspondence ; 
 
 Andover, Theological Seminary, January 20, and 
 February 27, 1840. — ** The friend of my early days has 
 been torn from me. You know how deep and long con- 
 tinued has been my attachment to Mr. James G. Brown. 
 
70 MEMOIR. 
 
 My love for him had been growing deeper and deeper 
 every year, until it had sent its roots into the very depths 
 of my soul. For the last few years he had been engaged 
 in commerce at New Orleans, but wishing to gratify the 
 desires, and appease the anxieties of the many who loved 
 him, he had relinquished his business in that city, and 
 was preparing for a permanent residence among his friends 
 at the north. Just before embarking for New Orleans, 
 he wrote as follows : ' I feel a delight in thinking there 
 is One into whose hands I can commit my spirit, and who 
 can command the winds and waves to bear me in 
 safety to my destined port. But if the sea is to prove my 
 grave and burial-place, I pray God that I may be fully 
 prepared for whatever he is to call me to pass through. 
 Infinite wisdom is on the throne, and that which is done 
 is sure to be right.' 
 
 There were some peculiar reasons which made me de- 
 sirous of seeing him at this time. Never before had I 
 anticipated such pleasure in meeting him, and never be- 
 fore had I looked for his return with such anxiety. For 
 the first time in my life, I examined the ship news every 
 day, from his embarkation at New Orleans to his arrival 
 at New York. The recent disasters on the coast had 
 made me apprehensive of peril for him on his homeward 
 voyage, and I read each paper till I saw with joy the re- 
 cord of his safe return. But he had a perilous passage, 
 and it is almost by a miracle that he escaped the disasters 
 of the sea. Where we least looked for danger, where we 
 all felt as secure as by our own firesides, at the threshold 
 of his home, he met the death from which he had been 
 saved in the hour of previous danger.^ On the afternoon 
 of the thirteenth of January, he left New York for Boston 
 in the steamer Lexington. Amid the flames which con- 
 
 ^ This incident probably suggested the illustration to be found at 
 the close of Sermon IV, 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 71 
 
 sumed that ill-fated boat, or amid the cold waters that 
 swallowed up so many of our fellow citizens on that dark 
 night, he perished. His friends feel assured that he died 
 valiantly and sweetly, and resigned himself with Christian 
 composure to the will of his Lord. A (ew days after the 
 conflagration, his trunk was found upon the beach. It 
 had been exposed to piratical rapacity, but the rude hands 
 of the robbers had left what was more precious than all 
 which they took, his pocket Bible and his Daily Food. 
 It was soothing to find that he had recently marked for 
 his perusal the twenty-third Psalm, which embraces the 
 significant verses, 'The Lord is my shepherd,' and 
 * Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
 death, I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; thy rod 
 and thy staff, they comfort me.' In his Daily Food he 
 had turned the leaf at the following passages which had 
 been selected for this last day of his life, and which, from 
 his known habits, we believe he had been pondering dur- 
 ing his few last hours : * He that endureth to the end 
 shall be saved,' and, ' Watch therefore, for ye know nei- 
 ther the day nor the hour wherein the Son of Man 
 Cometh.' I have requested Mrs. Sigourney to commemo- 
 rate these and other incidents in a poetical effusion. The 
 following are her stanzas, and there is a charming sim- 
 plicity and a quiet piety about them, which place them far 
 above every thing which has yet been written in reference 
 to that sad disaster. 
 
 On the death of James Giiiswold Browx, who perisJied on hoard the 
 Lexingtorty January 13, 1840. 
 
 *Watch,' — B?Li\\\ the Saviour, — ^ watch,* 
 
 Was this thy theme 
 Of holy meditation, — thou whose heart 
 Buoyant with youth and health and dreams of bliss, 
 Poured forth at morn, sweet words of parting love ? 
 Was this thy theme ? 
 
 While each rejoicing thought 
 Was radiant with bright im.ages of home. 
 
72 MEMOIR. 
 
 The glowing fireside, the fraternal smile, 
 The parent's blessed welcome, — long revolved 
 'Mid distant scenes, and now so near at hand, 
 Almost within thy grasp, — when all conspir'd 
 To Itdl the soul in fond security, — 
 Say,— didst thou watch? 
 
 The sullen, wreck-strewn beach 
 Makes answer that thou didst. 
 
 Yea,— the deep sea 
 So pitiless and stem, — who took the dead 
 Unheard, — unanswering, — to her cells profound, 
 Gave back a scroll from thee, more precious far 
 Than ingots of pure gold. 
 
 So thou didst stand 
 Firm in thy bumish'd armor, — undismayed, 
 A faithful sentinel. — The sudden call. 
 So widely terrible, in words of flame. 
 Found thee prepared. — Sharp path it was, but short, 
 To the Chief Shepherd's everlasting fold. — 
 
 Let sad affection to her wounded breast 
 
 Press this rich balm,— and treasuring up the traits 
 
 Of thy blest life, — grave on her signet ring, 
 
 * Watch,'— for ye know not when the Son of Man 
 Cometh.* 
 
 And, therefore, unto all who tread 
 Time's crumbling pathway, saith a voice from heaven, 
 
 * Watch and he ready ; ' like that faithful one ' 
 Who in the strength and beauty of his prime 
 Sank 'neath the cold wave, to return no more. 
 
 January 21, 1840. — " Of the burning of the Lexington 
 I heard first at Andover on Thursday evening. The 
 dreadful suspicion that my friend was not safe, at once 
 flashed upon my mind, but I tried to attribute my fears 
 to my own feverish and anxious spirit. Circumstances 
 came to my memory on cooler reflection which quite 
 removed my anxieties, and I was hardly prepared on 
 Friday evening for the reception of the death's list, with 
 the name of my friend too plainly and unequivocally en- 
 rolled in it. For a time it seemed too terrible to be 
 believed. What he was to me, the more than fraternal 
 affection that subsisted between us, you well know. I 
 
MEMOIR. * 78 
 
 felt for hours a sensation of loneliness in the room where 
 I had so often welcomed him, and where we had taken 
 sweet counsel together. Buried in the memory of his 
 friendship I scarcely left my study for two days.^ When 
 I came out, by the grace of God, it was with refreshment 
 that so much of sacred interest mingled with my remin- 
 iscences. I caught the well-remembered tones of his 
 voice, — but they were in prayer for you and for me, and 
 for all of us. I traced the lines of his writing, — they 
 breathed a Christian comfort and consolation to us in 
 formeT afflictions, when he too was here to mourn. Our 
 strong staff was indeed broken, and our beautiful rod; in 
 the flush of manly beauty and promise, the joy of our 
 hearts was torn from us. But he who administers the 
 chastisement brings with it a sure remedy in the reflec- 
 tion, that the home which our departed one looked for in 
 his earthly pilgrimage, he has found at the right hand of 
 Jesus. What are these repeated bereavements which 
 rend our souls with anguish but the joyous reiinion of 
 our former friends in purer scenes, — and what shall they 
 be to us, but a discipline to ripen us also to follow their 
 footsteps and participate in their reward ? I do not think 
 that one could leave the world with a brighter or sweeter 
 memento, with a more beautiful encouragement to his 
 mourning friends, than Mr. Brown left behind him. In a 
 
 ^ "I was particularly struck at the time of this sadden bereave- 
 ment with, the quiet and calm resignation with which, after a few 
 hours of deep distress, he yielded to the blow. I read him, on the 
 Sabbath evening after the intelligence was received, the beautiful 
 sermon of Tholuck, entitled, • The Testimony of our Adoption by 
 God the Surest Pledge of Eternal Life.' I could not but look 
 with admiration upon his placid countenance as he seemed to drink 
 in the words of hope and peace. I have since thought, it seems as 
 if the thought occurred to me then, that he bore the pain almost 
 too nobly ; we might have known that he was almost prepared for 
 heaven." — Extract of a letter from the lamented J. H. Bancroft. 
 7 
 
74 MEMOIR. 
 
 letter written a few moments before he went on board the 
 Lexington, be says, * I leave to-night, trusting to the 
 watchful care of my Covenant Shepherd.' Who would 
 wish for a more delightful resting place than that which 
 this Guardian Friend provides for his chosen ? It is a 
 pleasant home which he chooses for his flock. And 
 when the chief Shepherd shall appear, who can doubt 
 that our lost ones shall appear with him in glory." 
 
 " February 8, 1840. — You seem to me to dwell too 
 much upon the aggravating circumstances of our late 
 affliction. This is natural, but unnecessary, and proba- 
 bly incorrect. At first, my own soul was haunted by the 
 terrors of that fearful night, and much of the miserable 
 rhetoric that has appeared in public print upon the sub- 
 ject, has been fitted only to inflame the imagination, and 
 in all probability to carry it beyond the reality. After a 
 cooler examination, I have concluded that the physical 
 suffering of the occasion was probably far less than is 
 generally supposed. The intense and thrilling excite- 
 ment of the scene to many minds would furnish occupa- 
 tion, without giving them an opportunity to brood over 
 their own personal distresses. The human soul is fur- 
 nished by its Creator with powers of self-support, to be 
 developed in great exigencies, which are almost miracu- 
 lous. Where was there an exigency so great as that, — 
 and where was the character containing in itself more 
 sources of relief and even happiness, than that of our 
 friend who has gone ? I think it not impossible that his 
 constitutional ardor may have made him one of the first 
 who perished. If so, his struggles in the benumbing 
 waters could have been but momentary, and his death 
 may have been as serene as it was quick. We should 
 have perhaps preferred to stand by his bedside and watch 
 his lingering agonies; but for him, it was no doubt 
 
MEMOIR. 75 
 
 physically pleasanter to sink down exhausted and sense- 
 less into his ocean-bed. It was more like a quiet slumber 
 than we are apt to imagine. There is another thought 
 which has given me great consolation, even in the more 
 fearful alternative that he may have continued among the 
 last. Our dear friend was prepared to die; probably, 
 better prepared than many of us who survive. I think of 
 him in that sweet security which the pjesence of Jesus 
 can impart, resigning himself to his fate peacefully and 
 calmly. There is a deep meaning in those passages of 
 Scripture which were the theme of his last perusal and 
 meditation. There is prophetic beauty in the last words 
 which we heard from him. And now, they are as a voice 
 from heaven assuring us that no outward terrors can dis- 
 turb the serenity of God's chosen. I think of him as 
 cheering the comfortless in their gloom. With what 
 ardor may not his zeal have been animated. With what 
 efficiency and success may he not have prosecuted on the 
 burning deck, the mission he was not faithless to in the 
 common walks of life. And perhaps, many poor trem- 
 bling spirits may have been guided by his example and 
 direction to the fold of his Shepherd in heaven. There 
 is a power with which his death speaks to you and to 
 me which I cannot believe we shall be indifferent to. In 
 those last moments, his mental eye no doubt gathered in 
 the sphere of its vision the many who loved him and 
 would mourn his loss. You and I, no doubt, were there, 
 to receive the blessing and the prayer of the dying. 
 Shall not that blessing be upon us through life ? Shall 
 not those prayers be answered in our sanctification ? 
 Shall not our * daily food ' be the admonition, * watch? 
 When I was called about eight months ago, to mourn 
 over the untimely death of one whom we loved, I wrote 
 to you not to be fearful, for God would take care of me. 
 I meant, dim-sighted as I was, that it could not be that 
 
76 MEMOIR. 
 
 God would afflict us again. I felt that to the survivors 
 life was secure, for God does not often prepare his chas- 
 tisements in quick succession. But now, when I write 
 to you that God will take care of us, I mean for life or 
 for death. He knows what is best. Would God our 
 bleeding hearts might be spared another shock, yet his 
 will be done. Safe are we all, be we frail or be we vig- 
 orous, safe are we all in our Shepherd's care, and there 
 only. I leave you with this kind protector, knowing that 
 he never forsakes his chosen." 
 
 At subsequent dates he says, " In your affliction, keep 
 up a good heart, let me entreat you. It makes me sad to 
 see that you speak sorrowfully of life. Not that I blame 
 you, but it is so much better to be strong. Read over 
 and over again that ennobling Psalm of Life by Professor 
 Longfellow. Look not mournfully on the past. Trust 
 in Jesus and he will support you, and for you and me and 
 all of us will bring light out of our sorrow. And for the 
 dead, rest to their sweet spirits, a rest that is full of life 
 and love. 
 
 * We know, we know that their land is bright, 
 And we know that they love there still.' 
 
 Surely they think of and visit us, and it is not idolatrous 
 to pray that they always may. God-sent messengers are 
 they, angels of mercy watching by our bed-side and hov- 
 ering about our walk. O let us be holy and happy, sur- 
 rounded as we are by such a cloud of witnesses, — with 
 God and Christ and the holy ones whom we used to know 
 and love all gathering about our pathway, and blessing us 
 with a perpetual presence. Of those in heaven, some- 
 thing tells me that ' they love there still.' I do not know 
 that I can reason it out, but it is a demand of my soul 
 
MEMOIR. 'W 
 
 that it must be, and I know that it is so. Yes, the de- 
 parted are still here in the sweet influence of their undy- 
 ing memory, and the consciousness of their ever-present 
 though invisible sympathy and affection. Ever they hover 
 about our pathway. Ever we hear a voice saying to us, 
 Be of good cheer ! * The flowers of our fair garland are 
 torn from us here, only that they may bloom yonder, love- 
 lier and forever.* In the light which thus seems to 
 
 shine forth from my dark trial, I can adopt the language 
 of Jeremy Taylor as my own. * For myself, I bless God 
 I have observed and felt so much mercy in this angry dis- 
 pensation, that I am almost transported, I am sure, highly 
 pleased, with thinking how infinitely sweet his mercies 
 
 are when his judgments are so gracious.' Even in this 
 
 frown of God's providence, the eye of faith beholds the 
 smile of his love. He has opened to us a clear and de- 
 lightful pathway to the eternal world. Mild voices are 
 speaking to us, soft hands are beckoning to us to follow 
 the pious dead and receive their reward. I think I can 
 hear them soothing our sorrow with the sweet assurance 
 that the afflictions of life, the terrors of death are not 
 worthy to be compared with their own far more exceeding 
 and eternal weight of glory. Yesterday was the Sab- 
 bath, and while we were engaged in the imperfect worship 
 of earth, I often thought of my friend who was then em- 
 ployed in nobler and purer services. The recollection of 
 the many precious Sabbaths we had passed together in 
 this room came home to me. There was one, the last he 
 spent with me here, peculiarly fresh in its impression, and 
 delightfully soothing to my sorrow. That Sabbath, we 
 partook together of the sacramental feast. We talked 
 of the destiny of the soul, and the bliss of heaven. We 
 remembered at our social altar the then scattered mem- 
 bers of his family, never forgotten by him in his devotions. 
 One of that family, the sister whom we were so soon to 
 7* 
 
1C MEMOIR. 
 
 mourn, was that day in eternity, though we knew not of 
 it. Much of our conversation and employment, as I 
 afterwards thought, was beautifully prophetic of what I 
 dare not call, our loss, but of the new accession to the 
 society of heaven. And now, there seems to have been 
 a deeper, a still more significant prediction, which no 
 doubt was verified when the blessed spirit of the first-called 
 welcomed this brother to her happy home." t 
 
 On the afternoon of the Sabbath which the preceding 
 letter refers to, the last Sabbath in June, 1839, Mr. Homer 
 read in company with Mr. Brown, the funeral sermon of 
 Jeremy Taylor on the Countess of Carberry. He paused 
 often as he was reading, and spoke of the resemblance 
 between the virtues of the Countess as they are described 
 in the sermon, and the characteristics of the lady whom 
 he alludes to in the last of the passages quoted above, and 
 who as he afterwards learned was borne to her grave at 
 the very hour of his perusing that sermon. By a sudden 
 casualty she had been torn from her family and children 
 at Johnstown, N. Y., " and I," said Mr. Homer, " with- 
 out suspecting the appropriateness of my employment, 
 was celebrating her obsequies, while the procession were 
 slowly moving to her tomb, and I knew it not." A 
 few days after he heard of this bereavement, he wrote the 
 following letter to his friend Mr. Brown : 
 
 " July 3, 1839. — How little we thought in the pleasure 
 of our mutual welcome on the noon of Saturday that one 
 so near to us was just receiving a welcome to a sphere of 
 which ear hath not heard nor heart conceived. How 
 little we thought as we were reading over that funeral 
 discourse of Jeremy Taylor, that we were rehearsing the 
 praises of a kindred spirit who had just left our own cir- 
 cle. When we talked on Sabbath morning of the future 
 
MEMOIR. fO 
 
 blessedness of the righteous, she was, no doubt, richly 
 participating in it ; and while we were celebrating in our 
 feeble way the triumphs of Christ's love at his table, she, 
 no doubt was singing the new song, and enjoying a more 
 intimate and blissful communion. O may we meet her 
 there ! Which of us can any longer think of loving for 
 this life alone, when we hear her mild sweet voice warn- 
 ing us to love for heaven, — to cherish all our earthly affec- 
 tions in such a way that they can be perpetuated beyond 
 the grave." 
 
 On several occasions when the subject of this memoir 
 was bereaved of a friend, he gave expression to his feel- 
 ings in verse. The following lines he wrote soon after 
 the sudden bereavement to which the last of the forego- 
 ing letters has reference : 
 
 ' I hear thy voice, fond sleeper, now, 
 
 Not as it rose in gladsome hour. 
 When joy illumed thy radiant brow, 
 
 And life bloomed fair with many a flower, 
 But now with solemn tones and still 
 
 That wake each chord with finer thrill. 
 
 I hear thy voice in many a scene 
 
 Where thou in buoyant hope didst roam, ifl*^ 
 
 Not such as when thyself hast been -^^ 
 
 The cherished idol of thy home : '^^-"'^i 
 
 But now in accents richly deep ^^ffl^H^^j^ 
 
 From the low grave where thou dost sleep. 
 
 I hear thy voice in melting song. 
 
 Not as its cadence charmed the ear 
 Amid the gay and happy throng 
 
 Who gathered round thy beauty here. 
 A spirit's joy, a spirit's lyre 
 
 Thy strains of melody inspire. " t-i 't"s 
 
 I hear thy voice in fondness call, . .^ 
 
 Not as it gave its witching tone '^ 
 
 To sway with soft and gentle thrall, 
 And soothe the sorrows of thine o-\vn. 
 
 But quivering now with purer love 
 Por us below, for those above. 
 
80 MEMOIR. 
 
 I hear thy voice ! It cometh. oft '^ 
 In sorrow's gush and memory's swell, 
 
 When sigh we for its welcome soft 
 Or whisper of its sad farewell. 
 
 It comes with happy tone and blest 
 And bids us to thine own sweet rest." 
 
 MR. HOMER S RELIGIOUS CHARACTER. 
 
 The depths of the sorrow which has been indicated 
 in the foregoing letters were disclosed to but few of 
 Mr. Homer's friends. His inmost feelings he was not 
 apt to reveal. Hence his religious character was under- 
 stood only by those who were intimate with him. He 
 kept no daily record of his emotions ; he was afraid that 
 while writing his diary, he should often " turn an eye to 
 the window," and the private journal would, after all, be 
 prepared for public inspection. What will men think of 
 this, if it should ever be exposed ? is a question that slyly 
 creeps into the mind of even a secret diarist. He feared 
 the influence of a religious record upon his own heart. 
 If a man be moved by strong impulses of piety, while he 
 is making the record, he will use glowing language, and 
 this, meeting his eye a month afterward, will give him a 
 higher notion of his goodness than he can entertain truly 
 or safely. If he be moved by no such impulses, he will 
 express deep lamentation over his spiritual sloth, and when 
 he reviews the mourning record, he will form too exalted 
 an opinion of the humility that prompted it. If he have 
 defrauded his neighbor in a bargain, he will not be so wil- 
 ling to write a plain narrative of the fraud, as to pour 
 forth his sorrow for a want of trust in divine providence ; 
 and the grief expressed for this comparatively respectable 
 failing will remind him, years afterward, of his delicate 
 moral sensibility, rather than of his flagrant crime. 
 " Last week," said Mr. Homer, " I derived great pleasure 
 from reading the religious diary of . It is rich, rich^ 
 
MEMOIR. 81 
 
 in religious experience. He seems to have elaborated his 
 love to Christ until it appears to be almost seraphic. But 
 alas ! I shall never read that diary again, for I perceive 
 that a year or two before his death he re-wrote it. What 
 must a man's expectation be, in penning his religious 
 journal the second time 1 " 
 
 It is to be regretted, however, that these injurious ten- 
 dencies of keeping a private record assumed so great a 
 prominence in Mr. Homer's mind. The positive good 
 resulting from this practice would, in his own case, have 
 overbalanced the evil. But his most sacred feelings he 
 shrunk from disclosing, even to himself. He was not 
 communicative on all other themes, and silent on his own 
 Christian experience ; but his reserve on this theme was 
 precisely what we should expect from his native delicacy. 
 Indeed his whole religious character was in keeping with 
 himself He was not a doctrine in theology, neither was 
 he moral perfection, but he was — Bradford Homer — guile- 
 less and pure-minded, conscious of an earnest love, but 
 recoiling from the least semblance of a parade of it. He 
 looked and spoke naturally when religion was the theme 
 of discourse, and all his modes of manifesting religious 
 feeling were such as accorded with his temperament and 
 tastes. The phrase, naturalness of piety, is an ambigu- 
 ous one, but if it were not, it would well designate his 
 character. The perfection of goodness is to make a right 
 use of the nature which God has given us. As it is one 
 of the highest attainments to be natural in any thing, so it 
 is the last attainment of a good man, to regain entirely 
 the nature that was lost in the fall. To shun artificial 
 developments and mere conventional forms, and to let 
 one's free and full heart flow out in the channel of true 
 benevolence is a great thing ; far greater than to catch a 
 certain good tone, and to be familiar with a round of 
 
82 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 phrases that may happen to form the Shibboleth of a com- 
 munity. 
 
 Like himself his piety was retiring. Others were more 
 regular than he at the public meeting for prayer ; but there 
 has seldom been found a Christian more punctilious in 
 observing his hours of secret devotion. " After I had 
 retired at night, I always heard his voice in earnest pray- 
 er," is the testimony of one who lived in the room con- 
 tiguous to his at Amherst. The same witness is borne 
 by one at Andover. That he allowed his secret prayers 
 to be audible, is indeed somewhat of an anomaly in his 
 religious life, for he was fond of shunning the least appear- 
 ance of parade, and if any one thing more than another 
 were his abhorrence, it was Pharisaism. If the sound of 
 his piety did not go forth from the crowded hall so loudly 
 as that of others, he was faithful to the hour of religious 
 concert with a few absent friends. Like himself too, his 
 piety was kind, condescending and considerate. He was 
 not a noisy member of a Peace Society, nor clamorous for 
 Moral Reform, but he cultivated the amiable instincts of 
 his nature, and delighted in diffusing happiness among those 
 around him. His motto was, " Caritate et benevolentia 
 sublata, omnis est e vita sublata jucunditas." He did not 
 strive nor cry, nor was his voice heard in the street. He 
 did not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking 
 flax. He was ever marked for his kindness to those who 
 were feeble in the Christian faith. '' He plied them with 
 the arts of a sacred courtship," and allured them to higher 
 attainments in the spiritual life, and while he reproved 
 them, they loved him. He delighted in taking up what 
 others had thrown away, and doing what he could for the 
 rescue of one that was given over to uncovenanted mer- 
 cies. Often was he asked by one of his friends, What 
 protege have you now in your train 1 It was pleasing to 
 see the readiness with which his spirit, by an instinct, 
 
M£MOIR. 83 
 
 sought out the persecuted, the down-trodden, — how quick 
 he was to defend from all injustice the weaker of two op- 
 ponents, and if the question between the two were exactly 
 balanced, he was only to learn which was the stronger ere 
 his sympathies clustered around the feebler. From the 
 earliest days of his religious life until the last, he felt a 
 peculiar sympathy for those who had not the cheering in- 
 fluences of the right faith. He exerted an influence over 
 them which none of his brethren could attain. He would 
 labor to insinuate the truth into their minds and charm 
 away their prejudices. He would concede to them what- 
 ever he might with an approving conscience, admit the 
 force of their objections, if there were force in them, and 
 confess that he had felt the same, and tell how he was res- 
 cued from their power. Then he would intrench himself 
 upon the strong grounds of his faith, defend its essential 
 features with a determined zeal, preserve his kindness and 
 equanimity amid somewhat acrimonious assaults, and in 
 some pleasing instances he has convinced the gainsayer 
 and relieved the doubter. Not that he always would 
 directly introduce the subject of difference, but like Her- 
 bert's country parson, with his great object " he mingled 
 other discourses for conversation's sake, and to make his 
 higher purposes slip the more easily." He never meant 
 to be rash in his assaults upon the faith of his opponents, 
 but he premeditated both the subjects and the style of his 
 discourse with them, and laid his plans for skilfully allur- 
 ing them to a religious life. He once walked his room 
 until eleven o'clock at night, for the purpose of devising 
 the best scheme for reaching the conscience of one whom 
 he pitied, but he could devise no safe expedient, and 
 therefore did nothing. 
 
 In some respects it would have been wiser for himself 
 to associate more than he did with those who were con- 
 firmed and mature in the Christian life ; but while there 
 
84 MEMOIR. 
 
 were minds which could be led by him through a maze of 
 scepticism, and which needed the peculiar attractions of 
 his fellowship, he chose to forego his individual benefit. 
 In a letter to one who had but recently entered upon a 
 religious course, he says, *' I am rejoiced that you do not 
 think of losing your interest in any of your old com- 
 panions, although they may not sympathize fully with the 
 change in your views and feelings. You may do them 
 much good. I know that the intellectual arrogance of a 
 vain philosophy furnishes a most unprofitable field for la- 
 bor, but even that cannot be proof against the power of 
 a holy life, certainly not against the working of the Spirit 
 for which we may always pray. Nor are we left to our 
 religion as if it could find no response in the intellect as 
 well as the heart. Let us sometimes meet the wisdom of 
 this world upon its own ground. Surely the philosophy 
 of a mind like Paul's is not to be contemned, any more 
 than his sacred logic can be grappled with and overthrown. 
 With such a one we might be proud to sit down and weep 
 over sin, to hang our hopes on the foolishness of the cross, 
 to content ourselves with the simple revelation of myste- 
 ries at which we could but cry out, * O the depth ! ' 
 Chiefly may we be proud to sit down like children at the 
 feet of him who spake as never man spake. Human 
 philosophy never provided such an instructor, such a 
 Saviour. It is a gift to the world which meets the want of 
 every mind. And he alone is blessed who hears in the 
 words, * Come unto me,' an invitation to his own world- 
 worn and unsatisfied nature, and is determined to make 
 the noble sentiment of Chrysostom his own, ' When we 
 rise, the cross — when we lie down, the cross — in all 
 places and at all times, the cross, shining more glorious 
 than the sun.' " 
 
 There was a kind of generosity and healthfulness in 
 Mr. Homer's religious character. His views of truth 
 
MEMOIR*' ^j^ 
 
 were rational, and he learned religious lessons from all 
 that he read or heard. " Some of my brethren," he writes, 
 " have been a little scandalized at the want of spirituality 
 in the exercises which I have been describing to you. 
 But on my mind they have a decidedly religious influ- 
 ence. They send me to my knees, that I may ask God 
 for his blessing upon the good counsels which are given 
 us, and my own feeble endeavors to live up to them. 
 They give me higher views of my great work, of my 
 solemn calling ; and if this be less religious than such 
 a discourse as leaves us weary and dissatisfied, then 
 religion is something different from an active consecra-^ 
 tion of the soul to God." His healthful interest in all 
 that is good and graceful, his sympathy with natural vir*- 
 tue even where but little of it was to be found, and hiy 
 kindliness of feeling toward all who belonged to his race,, 
 and especially toward those whose character was unfortu- 
 nately misunderstood, made him appear more liberal and. 
 catholic than some would think either judicious or safe. 
 His error would always be on the side of leniency rather 
 than of bigotry. It was not his highest aim to become 
 popular in the church, but to set an example of enlarged, 
 comprehensive piety, and to secure the favor of God 
 rather than the praise of even good men. *' I tremble,?** 
 he said, " for the Christian who has a high repute in the' 
 world for his spiritual attainments. I pray God that he 
 may be as humble as he is famous. It is cruel for our 
 religious reviews to speak of living authors as eminent for 
 piety. These authors will read the commendation, and* 
 if they believe the half of what is written, they will 
 think more highly of themselves than they ought to* 
 think." 
 
 Besides his quickness of sympathy with all who were" 
 in need of moral support, his readiness to be touched 
 with the feeling of their infirmities, and his affable com- 
 8 
 
86 MEMOIR. 
 
 panionship even with such as preferred to keep aloof from 
 religious society, the more obvious peculiarities of his 
 religious action were his wisdom in adopting fit means 
 for fit ends, and his freedom from all hackneyed and cant 
 phraseology. He was not so fond of exhorting men *' to 
 embrace the Saviour," as to rely for salvation on the 
 atonement ; nor did he inquire so often " what were their 
 frames of mind," or " how they had enjoyed a particular 
 season," as he was of learning, in easy and incidental 
 converse, their spiritual state. The following is one 
 among many specimens of his style in exhorting a sinner 
 to repentance. The reader will perceive how sedulous 
 he was to avoid the phrases which so often annoy the 
 person whom they are designed to benefit, hardening the 
 heart because they disgust the taste. 
 
 "Andover, March 8, 1840. — It gives me great pleasure 
 to hear from your letter, that some of your own friends 
 are beginning to walk in the good way. I learn 
 from various sources that the Spirit of God is now 
 very near to the families and churches of Boston, 
 and I have not ceased to pray that you may not Jet this 
 golden opportunity pass unimproved. Something has 
 whispered to me that the harvest season of your soul is at 
 hand. If you suffer it to leave you before your peace is 
 made with God, who can predict that there will ever be 
 another period when the Spirit and the bride will urge 
 their invitation so persuasively as they do now ? And if 
 you resist these influences, what can be expected for the 
 lesser influences which may appeal to you in future, when 
 your heart may be more hardened than it is at present. 
 It made me glad that you could write me of being ' at 
 times anxious for the salvation of your soul.' But I re- 
 joice with trembling, for I know that Christ requires 
 something more than occasional anxiety. He demands 
 
MEMOIR. 8T 
 
 that you give yourself no rest till you have yielded to his 
 claim. I He asks something more than anxiety, — he asks 
 a full surrender of your powers and affections to his ser- 
 vice. He contemplates with no satisfaction the heart that 
 has been awakened by his voice only to disobey it. 
 Could there be a more reasonable demand than his, — 
 that you this instant fix your heart on the love that bled 
 and died for you, and love it ; that without a moment's 
 delay you resolve to keep his commands, and keep them, 
 no longer impelled by desires for your own gratification, 
 but sweetly inclined to do his will, through life and for- 
 ever. Let me entreat you not to rest secure that you are 
 on the way to repentance, for repentance is a duty that 
 must be performed now, without delay. Let me urge 
 you not to deceive yourself by imagining some more con- 
 venient season, though not far off, when you can begin to 
 live for God. JVow is the only sure moment held out in 
 the word of God, when the soul's salvation may be se- 
 cured. Will you not then repair immediately to that 
 Saviour who is waiting to receive each lost and sinful 
 child for whom he poured out his precious blood. Choose 
 him for your guide and portion Give him the heart you 
 are now wasting on the world. For every earthly sacri- 
 fice he will restore you an hundred fold, in the green pas- 
 tures through which he leads his chosen on earth, and by 
 the river of God in heaven." 
 
 It is as forming a new variety among the plants that 
 our heavenly Father hath planted, that the religious life 
 of Mr. Homer elicits the interest of his friends. Each 
 differing beauty in the garden of the Lord conduces 
 to that impression of completeness which ought to be 
 made by the whole scene. The elements of a religious 
 character are combined in various proportions in different 
 individuals. Each of these combinations has its excel- 
 
OO MEMOIB. 
 
 lences ; no one of them is a standard for exclusive imita- 
 tion. They depend on varieties of temperament and of 
 early training, and are all deficient when compared with 
 the perfect model that shines forth in the gospel. An 
 error of many Christians is, that they attach an authority 
 to the example of some imperfect man, and debar from 
 their fellowship all who do not follow that example. One 
 class of religious developments they commend too exclu- 
 sively, and are intolerant of another class which are 
 useful in their own sphere, but are not in sympathy with 
 the provincial taste. Our duty is to reverence the graces 
 of the Spirit whatsoever they be, and to aim after that 
 union of all the virtues which we discover in our great 
 Exemplar. 
 
 The subject of this memoir had not the deep self- 
 abhorrence of him who cried out in view of his sins, " In- 
 finite upon infinite— infinite upon infinite;" nor had he 
 the sombre and gloomy piety which made him walk over 
 the ground like David Brainerd, fearing that the earth 
 was just ready to open itself and swallow him up ; nor had 
 he the bruised and morbid spirit of Cowper, nor the impos- 
 ing and awe-inspiring virtues of Payson, nor the spirited 
 and impetuous piety of Baxter, pressed on by an irritated 
 nerve, and looking for no peace till he reached the Saint's 
 Everlasting Rest. There was the calm and philosophical 
 devotion of Bishop Butler, — there was the mild and 
 equable and philanthropic temper of Blair and of Tillot- 
 son ; but it was neither of these that Mr. Homer held up 
 as his exclusive model. He had not attained a perfect 
 symmetry of Christian virtue, but he was aiming after it, 
 and striving to blend the graces of the gospel into one 
 luminous yet mild, rich yet simple expression. 
 
MEMOIR. ^ 
 
 It is said by some uninspired men, that our Saviour 
 while on earth never laughed. This assertion, which is 
 probably false, would prove nothing if it were true. He 
 who left the abodes of eternal blessedness and was God 
 manifest in the flesh, he who bore a world's redemption 
 upon his heart, who came that he might suffer, and suf- 
 fered that we might be healed, who died to bear our sins, 
 and in his death was forsaken even by his Father, such 
 a being might well do many things which we may not do, 
 and abstain from much that we may practice. We, who 
 are enjoying the fruit of his labors, and are living on the 
 merits of his death, need not be always sombre and ex- 
 ceeding sorrowful. 
 
 It is also said that stern realities are before us, sick- 
 ness, bereavement, death ; and in view of the evils to 
 which we are hastening, we should repress our sportive 
 tendencies and prepare for the dark hour. It is indeed 
 good to think of our dying scenes, to think of them 
 often, so often that we may rise above the fear of death, 
 and become conquerors through him that loved us. But 
 are these to be our only thoughts ! Is there to be no 
 variety of Christian feeling ? Shall we always speak on 
 the minor key ? Are there not green spots on the earth, 
 as well as arid wastes ? Are there not bright seasons in 
 life, and joyous meetings and thrilling prospects, and is 
 not religion too often confounded with gloom and sad- 
 ness ? 
 
 The subject of this memoir was a serious and thought- 
 ful man, but was religiously careful to prevent his serious- 
 ness from being degraded into dulness. He was earnest 
 and solemn ; but *' as the two greatest men and gravest 
 divines of their time, Gregory Nazianzen and Basil, 
 could entertain one another with facetious epistles," so in 
 8* 
 
90 MEMOIR. 
 
 the present instance all needful care was taken to prevent 
 solemnity from degenerating into sanctimony. He looked 
 upon sanctimony as a solecism in the expression of good 
 feeling, as a blunder of soberness. It is not a rational 
 interest in grave and momentous concerns, but a stiff and 
 monotonous gravity where there is no need of it. It 
 consists in grieving at a time when joy would be more 
 appropriate, in wearing a sad countenance where God 
 and nature call for smiles, and speaking in semitones 
 where all demureness and whining are like snow in mid- 
 summer. It is sometimes a morbid dissatisfaction with 
 the world, and is mistaken for a rational longing after 
 heaven. It is sometimes a sullen or a misanthropic tem- 
 per, and is honored with the title of hatred to the sins of 
 men. It is a want of religious health, and may now and 
 then be cured by an innocent joyousness of temper as by 
 a medicine. It is a mortifying fact, we are men and not 
 spirits. The truth cannot be concealed, we are made of 
 the dust of the earth, and in the strange commingling of 
 mind with matter, there is a law of contraries which is as 
 fixed as any other law. If we would be intellectual we 
 must eat ; if we would be wakeful, we must sleep ; if we 
 would toil hard and long, we must rest betimes ; and if 
 we would be truly sober, sober as a man is and not as an 
 automaton, we must not dry up the vein of humor, 
 which is one of the veins that help to fill out the human 
 system. 
 
 The proper regulation of a humorous fancy was often 
 the subject of Mr. Homer's thoughts. Among the gifi^ 
 with which he had been richly endued by him who creates 
 nothing in vain, was a quick sense of the ludicrous ; and 
 this he deemed it wiser to control than to extirpate. He 
 regarded it as a part of his constitution and as a fit an- 
 tagonist to another part, a tendency to a morbid gloom. 
 He resisted this tendency like a wise and brave man, so 
 
MEMOIR. ^] 
 
 that some of his intimate companions were never aware of 
 his possessing it. As he admired that great law of the 
 universe according to which a single energy is modified 
 by its opposite, so in his own constitution he set one thing 
 over against another, and by his buoyant sallies of wit he 
 diverted his mind, in a good degree, from preying upon 
 itself He thus preserved for so long a time and amid 
 wasting toils his uninterrupted health. It was not so easy 
 for him to declare war against a comic humor, as it is for 
 those who are never assailed by such an enemy. He had 
 no very profound reverence for the self-denial of those 
 men who have resolved to banish every witticism from 
 their thoughts, if perchance one should ever be suggested 
 to them. It is not difficult for a man to be grave who can 
 never be otherwise. On the other hand, they who are 
 fond of sparkling humor are on that account disposed to 
 commend it. Men love to praise themselves by extolling 
 such faculties as they possess, and undervaluing such as 
 are denied to them. One thing is certain, we should 
 never indulge the exhilarating passions while we think 
 them wrong or injurious. Another thing is equally cer- 
 tain, we should not imagine them to be wrong or injurious, 
 unless they be so. For although innocent pleasures 
 invigorate the moral sense while they are viewed as inno- 
 cent, they produce an opposite effect when their character 
 is misunderstood. They become guilty by being thought 
 so. 
 
 The person who never smiles, will do a thousand worse 
 things from which a smile would have saved him. An 
 occasional liberty of this sort is one of the safety valves 
 of the moral constitution. " Men only become friends," 
 says Dr. Johnson, *• by community of pleasures. He who 
 cannot be.softened into gayety, cannot easily be melted 
 into kindness. Upon this principle one of Shakspeare's 
 personages despairs of gaining the love of Prince John of 
 
r 
 
 92 MEMOIR. 
 
 Lancaster, for ' he could not make him laugh.' " Dif- 
 fering temperaments, it is true, must be governed by dif- 
 ferent laws, but for every man it is the one great law, that 
 he should exercise all the sensibilities which God has 
 given him, and in the proportion which their relative value 
 prescribes ; that he should pass his best hours in labor for 
 the good of others, and in his remaining hours should 
 refresh himself for his returning toils. 
 
 There was something intangible and evanescent in the 
 sportiveness of Mr. Homer. It was so refined as to elude 
 the perception of some. He produced an effect when no 
 one could tell how or why. He was resorted to, as a 
 kind of physician, by the intimate friend who had wearied 
 himself in intense thought and had begun to suffer the 
 corroding of over-strained faculties. No one but Dr. 
 Barrow can describe his facetiousness, and the ** unfair 
 preacher" would say, that ** it consisted sometimes in pat 
 allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of 
 a trivial saying ; sometimes it lurked under an odd simili- 
 tude, or was lodged in a sly question, in a smart answer, 
 in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd imitation, in cunningly 
 diverting or cleverly retorting an objection. Sometimes 
 it was couched in a bold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, 
 in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling metaphor, in a plau- 
 sible reconciling of contradictions, in acute nonsense, or 
 in sarcastical twitches that are needful to pierce the thick 
 skins of men. Sometimes it arose only from a lucky hit- 
 ting upon what is strange, sometimes from a crafty wresting 
 of obvious matter to the purpose ; often it consisted in 
 one knows not what, and sprung up one can hardly tell 
 how. It was, in short, a manner of speaking out of the 
 simple and plain way, which by a pretty surprising 
 strangeness in conceit or expression did affect and amuse 
 the fancy, stirring in it some wonder and breeding some 
 delight thereto, gratifying curiosity with its rareness, 
 
MEMOIR. 99 
 
 diverting the mind from its road of tiresome thoughts, 
 and seasoning matters otherwise distasteful or insipid 
 with an unusual and thence grateful tang." 
 
 The facetiousness of Mr. Homer was less noticeable in 
 earlier than in later life. As his application to study 
 became the more intense, he was the more inclined to 
 refresh his exhausted spirit in the exhilarations of humor. 
 He multiplied his reliefs when he increased his tasks. 
 As the reservoir deepened and widened the jet played 
 quicker and higher. When he commenced his parochial 
 labor, he deemed it advisable to check somewhat the out- 
 flowings of his amusing fancy, but he soon found that he 
 needed the relaxation which he had abandoned ; and that, 
 whatever others might do, he could not preserve his elas- 
 ticity in toil without the aid of that nimble faculty, which 
 was designed to refresh a wearied spirit by its grotesque 
 and diverting images. He was as conscientious in his 
 indulgence as he was in his labor, for he knew like Her- 
 bert's country parson, that *' nature will not bear ever- 
 lasting droopings, and that pleasantness of disposition is 
 a great key to do good, not only because all men shun the 
 company of perpetual severity, biit also for that when 
 they are in company, instructions seasoned with pleasant- 
 ness both enter sooner and root deeper. Wherefore he 
 condescended to human frailties, both in himself and 
 others, and intermingled some mirth in his discourses 
 occasionally, according to the pulse of the hearer." 
 
 It is not pretended that Mr. Homer always indulged his 
 facetiousness with a religious motive, and controlled it 
 with a firmness of principle that never knew remission. 
 He was not one of those perfect men who live in biogra- 
 phies, but nowhere else, and who never utter a word 
 which dying they would wish to recall. All that we care 
 to say in his praise is, that the charms of his conversation 
 were greater, and the foibles of it less, than those of most 
 
94 MEMOIR. 
 
 men, even good men. His excellences were positive 
 rather than negative, and he must have been more than 
 human if they were never combined vi^ith. a fault. His 
 was a mind of vivacity and ardor, and it was a well regu- 
 lated mind ; but these properties are less favorable than 
 hebetude and coldness to the reputation of a perfectly 
 faultless man. It was common indeed to speak of him as 
 faultless, he was so free from the usual foibles of seden- 
 tary persons, from all the malignant feelings, from bigotry 
 and its kindred vices. But he well knew that one who 
 ofTendeth not in word is a perfect man, and he was quick 
 to confess that he had never attained this perfection. 
 Designing to do good by innocent accommodations 
 to others, he sometimes failed in his plan, and found it 
 easier to go down to them than bring them up to himself. 
 His virtue lay in attempting to do good when others 
 would shrink back from the effort; and if in pursuing his 
 purpose he found a temptation which " proved too strong 
 for young Melancthon," even then his failing leaned to 
 virtue's side ; but he mourned over it as one who aimed 
 to be pure from the blood of all men. 
 
 Of a summer evening, toward the close of a session in 
 the Theological Seminary, as he was winding his way 
 with a friend over one of their accustomed walks, he 
 said, as nearly as can now be remembered, '* I never ac- 
 complished so much as I have done during the past term, 
 but my influence has not been precisely what I wish to 
 have it. In my excessive labors I resorted to mental 
 relaxation as a duty, but I occasionally lost my regard to 
 it as such, and sought it as a mere pleasure. I have found 
 it hard to draw the line between the end of reason and 
 the beginning of superstition, and easy to glide from 
 facetiousness into what I have heretofore aimed to avoid, 
 levity. But I must check myself on both sides, and in 
 shunning lightness of speech must not fall into gloomi- 
 
MEMOIR. 9B 
 
 ness. When a man has committed one error he is 
 strongly tempted to rush into another of a different sort. 
 We must bear in mind that God never bestows a favor 
 upon us which is not subject to perversion, and an 
 enlightened faith will not allow us to trample on a gift of 
 Providence because it may be abused. If we have a 
 sprightliness of fancy, we must not become torpid through 
 fear of being gay. I meant to enlarge my usefulness by 
 the very thing which has diminished it, but I must not 
 diminish it still more by despising an indulgence which I 
 have used, at times, less wisely than I meant to do." 
 
 He might have added, that after all, a failure in any 
 attempt suggests some reason for gratitude. If the at- 
 tempt were a bad one, we should be thankful that we • 
 have failed in it ; if it were a good one, we should be 
 thankful that we have made it, and without the trial we 
 could not have failed. He who says nothing lest he 
 should err, is further from perfection than he who tries to 
 say a useful thing, even though his success be not equal 
 to his effort. There is a kind of taciturnity which is 
 " wise in fools, and foolish in wise men." It does no 
 prominent mischief, and not even a latent good. So 
 there is a kind of free converse which is a sweetener of 
 human life, and which disarms men strangely of an evil 
 spirit, but which, though begun with a right aim, ends 
 occasionally in some wrong impression. It springs, how- 
 ever, from a positive virtue, and this, even a little of it, is 
 better than blank stupidity. Heaven is the only place 
 . where we shall attain all that is good without any of its 
 ' alloy ; and where holiness will cease to be regarded as a 
 negative thing, a mere freedom from foibles without the 
 energy of practical benevolence. 
 
 In analyzing a character and dissecting each several 
 attribute by itself, there is always danger of giving an 
 undue prominence to some quality that is isolated from 
 
VO MEMOIR. 
 
 its connections. It should therefore be repeated, that the 
 property which we have now been canvassing was not to 
 all observers a striking, and to some not even a noticeable 
 trait in Mr. Homer's mind. It was not exhibited at all 
 times and in all companies. His character was compre- 
 hensive and symmetrical. Viewed from different points 
 of observation it disclosed varying excellences, and no 
 two of his friends would exactly agree in their delineation 
 of all its features. It may be said of him as of another, 
 ** You have not done with him when you have mentioned 
 
 "^ two or three good traits." 
 
 It may also be remarked that if his example is to be 
 followed, it should be followed in his labors as well as his 
 •reliefs. '• May I read Shakspeare as much as he did 1" 
 Yes, if you will read it with as philosophical a spirit, and 
 pray as earnestly for the guiding influences of Heaven. 
 " May I take as much interest in the Essays of Elia as 
 he took ? " Yes, if you will commune as he did with the 
 itiaster minds of the ancient world, if you will read the 
 Greek and Hebrew Scriptures with all of his sympathy 
 and delight, and if like him you will aim to resist every 
 impulse that lessens your fervor of devotion. He thought 
 so often of the scenes that lie hidden behind the veil, his 
 conscience was so enlightened, and his sense of decorum 
 so exact, that he might often be trusted where others who 
 have not his safeguards would become absorbed in a pas- 
 time, and convert a means into an end. He was enam- 
 ored of innocence, and none the less so when he found it 
 in pleasures ; but too many are enamored of pleasure 
 none the less when it is devoid of innocence. At first 
 view it seems easy to imitate a Christian scholar in his 
 diversions ; but we must remember that all true divertise- 
 ment presupposes habitual toil, and that the pleasures of 
 
 , a Christian imply a sensitiveness of the moral faculty. 
 He who would imitate another's repose must qualify him- 
 
MEMOIR. 9T 
 
 self for it by fatigue, and the fatigue of a good man is 
 obtained by useful exertion. 
 
 MR. HOMER AT SOUTH BERWICK. 
 
 In May, 1840, while Mr. Homer was a member of the 
 Theological Seminary, he spent nearly four weeks at 
 South Berwick, Maine ; and by his preaching and pastor- 
 al labor so endeared himself to the Congregational 
 church and society in that place, that they invited him to 
 become their minister. So peculiar was the interest 
 which they manifested in him, that after mature delibera- 
 tion he accepted their call. He had been earnestly en- 
 treated to take the charge of a more conspicuous parish 
 in one of our Atlantic cities ; but he chose to dwell in a 
 modest valley, amid scenes that favored his contemplative 
 habits, rather than to live amid noise and bustle and 
 parade. 
 
 The town of South Berwick is in the south-westera 
 part of the State of Maine, and is separated from the- 
 State of New Hampshire by a very narrow stream. The 
 village is near the head of the navigation of the Piscata- 
 qua, and is about fourteen miles from Portsmouth, N. H. 
 It contains four places for public worship ; the Methodist, 
 Baptist, Free-will Baptist, and Congregational, and half a 
 mile from it is a small Episcopal church. It also con- 
 tains a large and respectably endowed Academy, which 
 was founded as early as 1792, and has exerted an impor- 
 tant influence upon the character of the surrounding 
 population. From some of the eminences in South 
 Berwick there is a beautiful view of the village of Great 
 Falls, four miles toward the north-west, and of several 
 cascades upon the stream that winds through the valley. 
 Agamenticus rises about ten miles distant, and adds a 
 singular charm to the southern prospect from the village. 
 9 
 
98 MEMOIR. 
 
 There are three large manufacturing establishments in 
 the place, and the town presents many advantages for 
 commercial enterprise. It contains two thousand three 
 hundred inhabitants. The church over which Mr. Homer 
 was ordained consists of one hundred and twenty-five 
 members, and the congregation to which he preached 
 varied from two hundred and fifty to three hundred. 
 Twenty-five young men from this small town have been 
 graduated at our collegiate institutions, and Mr. Homer 
 ordinarily preached to twelve or fifteen persons who have 
 received a liberal education. 
 
 On the sixth of October, 1840, he was married, at 
 Buffalo, N. Y., to Miss Sarah M. Brown, daughter of 
 Mr. James F. Brown of Boston, and sister of Mr. 
 Homer's early and lamented friend. On the eleventh of 
 November he was ordained at South Berwick. A mem- 
 ber ^ of the Council that ordained him has written the 
 following description of his appearance at this time. 
 ** He discovered at his examination a mind that was 
 habituated to original thought. His religious views were 
 decidedly evangelical, and had been embraced after a 
 patient study. He had not adopted a creed because it was 
 recommended by great names, and he avoided stereotyped 
 phraseology in the statement of his faith. He had 
 studied the Bible for himself, and was cautious of 
 stating his views more strongly than his convictions 
 would justify. He had evidently attended to the contro- 
 verted points in metaphysics and philosophy which have 
 relation to religious faith ; and when questions were put 
 to him involving disputes of this nature, he was wary in 
 his answers, for he anticipated other questions that might 
 be in reserve. He saw whither the inquiry would lead. 
 The testimony of the Scriptures was to him a sufficient 
 
 ^ Rev. Silas Aiken, late pastor of Park-street Chxircli, Boston, Mass. 
 
MEMOIR. VSI 
 
 ground of faith ; but in matters of doubtful disputation, 
 he would declare a belief only so far as he had found 
 reasons for one. He had marked the proper limits of 
 faith. On subjects intrinsically difficult or doubtful, he 
 expressed himself with reserve. Where many young 
 men, less acquainted with the history of religious opin- 
 ions, would have blushed to confess ignorance, he freely 
 declared his doubts, and seemed aware that others were 
 equally in the dark with himself. In a word, it was obvi- 
 ous that the principles and habits of mind, so early 
 formed, gave promise of rare ability in stating, explaining 
 and defending divine truth." 
 
 The following is the Creed which Mr. Homer read 
 before the Council, and from which he had, of set 
 purpose, excluded many of the technical phrases of 
 theology. 
 
 " I believe in the existence of God. I find that such a being is 
 demanded by my moral nature, and the evidence of my own spirit 
 is confirmed by what I behold of the marks of design around me 
 and within me. 
 
 God has given in his word an infallible revelation of his own 
 character, and of his relation to his creatures. From the Holy 
 Scriptures, and from that light which every human being possesses 
 in his own soul, should be compiled his system of religioiis belief. 
 
 I accordingly believe that God is one, that he is absolutely eter- 
 nal, without beginning and without end, and as he exists without 
 succession, in him there can be neither change nor shadow of turn- 
 ing. That he has knowledge and power infinitely higher in kind 
 and degree than the knowledge and power of his creatures, and 
 that there is no place in his universe where these attributes do not 
 extend and act. I believe that to him may be ascribed goodness, 
 mercy and grace, wisdom, justice and veracity. These truths are 
 most of them rendered highly probable by reason, and all of them 
 are removed beyond a doubt by the express declaration of the 
 Bible. 
 
 A contemplation of the character of God proves how incompre- 
 hensible are his perfections, and renders it highly improbable that 
 the mode of his existence would be similar to that of his creatures. 
 
100 MEMOIR. 
 
 Accordingly I am fully prepared to believe wliat the Scriptures 
 assert of the divinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and in my 
 faith, though not in my reason, to reconcile the Trinity with the 
 Unity of God. 
 
 I believe that God has known and determined, from all eternity, 
 every thing which exists. As a distinction is made in his admin- 
 istration between the righteous and the wicked, I believe that it 
 was always intended. For wise reasons, known only to himself, 
 God selected certain of his creatures to be the subjects of grace, 
 and the heirs of glory ; while he determined to leave others to 
 perish in their sins. At the same time, as the divine decree is not 
 the rule of human conduct, I shall preach that man is as free and 
 independent in his moral and religious actions, as he is in the ptir- 
 suit of his secular business, and that every man can obey the de- 
 mands of the gospel, and will be punished for neglecting to avail 
 himseK of his ability. 
 
 I believe that our first parents were for a time perfectly holy, but 
 when they disobeyed the command of God, they fell at once from 
 their pure estate, and all their posterity were involved in the con- 
 sequences of their fall. Every human being now comes into the 
 world with a bias to sin rather than to holiness, and all his moral 
 acts are wrong until he becomes regenerated by the Spirit of God. 
 The depravity of man implies a want of will, rather than a natural 
 inability to obey the divine command. Nothing but the special 
 influences of the Holy Spirit, operating through the truth, will 
 change this perverse inclination, and make the sinner willing in 
 the day of God's power. And he, who is once radically changed 
 in his moral character, wiU be kept by divine grace from falling 
 into final impenitence and ridn. 
 
 In the renewed man there is still much of remaining imperfec- 
 tion, and no subsequent obedience can atone for previous sins. 
 God has in mercy provided a way of pardon for all men, thiough 
 the death of Jesus Christ, the Mediator. By faith in this atoning 
 Saviour we may be justified, not through the merit there is in 
 faith, but through the grace that accepts a vicarious atonement for 
 our sins. 
 
 I believe that after death there is a retribution, the reprobate 
 being cast into a state of suflering, and the elect being introduced 
 to scenes of joy. Not however until after the resurrection and 
 judgment, will the misery of the one or happiness of the other be 
 consunmiated. The soul is immortal, and every circumstance in 
 
MEMOIR. 101 
 
 its nature, and every indication of Scripture favor the idea tliat its 
 retribution, for joy or for wo, will be as lasting as its existence." 
 
 Soon after his ordination, Mr. Homer invited his parish- 
 ioners to meet him of an evening, and to hear his plans 
 for future labor. He stated to them that on the Wednes- 
 day, Thursday and Friday afternoons of each week, he 
 should make pastoral visits ; that on Monday, Tuesday 
 and Saturday afternoons he would be happy to see them 
 at his lodgings ; that he should be in his study every fore- 
 noon, and then could not allow himself to be interrupted, 
 unless in case of urgent necessity ; that he could not 
 mingle in their social parties, for his evenings were too 
 precious to be lost from his study.^ He urged his hearers 
 to regularity in their attendance upon the services of the 
 sanctuary ; he assured them that he should labor on his 
 sermons, and should preach on the Sabbath what he had 
 written during the week, whether his auditors were many 
 or few ; that he should have no rainy-day discourses for 
 rainy-day audiences, and sun-shining sermons for a fair 
 weather congregation, but should give to the few who dis- 
 regarded the storm, what he had prepared for the many 
 who were more afraid of an unpleasant atmosphere than 
 of spiritual poverty. His remarks on this occasion pro- 
 duced a salutary effect. The number of those who 
 attended church on the unpleasant Sabbaths of his min- 
 istry was greater by half than had formerly ventured 
 forth in a storm ; and though the frowning of the ele- 
 ments would still deter some of his people from visiting 
 the sanctuary, it had less influence on his own congrega-r 
 tion than on any other in the village. 
 
 The industry and system to which he had habituated 
 
 * In a letter to a friend he says, " A minister must preserve the 
 habits of a student, in other words, the student mill out, or r^itljer 
 will not out, winter evenings." 
 9*5 
 
"ftfe 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 himself in the preparatory schools were now his second 
 nature. He had never quieted himself in a loose and irreg- 
 ular discipline, with the hope that when he entered upon 
 active life, all the requisite good habits would come to 
 him of their own accord. He prescribed certain hours 
 for familiar converse with his friends, certain hours for 
 his classical studies, three times a day for his private de- 
 votions, and, with his characteristic system, he wrote the 
 names of different individuals in his society, for whom he 
 was to offer especial prayer on successive days. 
 
 His plans for beneficent action are said by his parish- 
 ioners to have been formed and executed with peculiar 
 sagacity and tact. He first endeavored to revive the Sab- 
 bath School, and by skilful efforts he gave an impulse to 
 it which it is hoped will be productive of lasting good. 
 He introduced an additional number of both teachers and 
 pupils into the school, and made it attractive to the old as 
 well as the young. He was peculiarly attentive to the 
 younger classes, and strongly attached them to himself 
 When visiting a family, he was fond, like Robert Hall, of 
 ** stealing in earlier than he was expected, that he might 
 for a time share in the gambols and gayety of the chil- 
 dren." He instituted a new plan for conducting the exer- 
 cises of a weekly religious meeting, and for promoting 
 among his people a systematic acquaintance with divine 
 truth. On the Friday evening of one week, he would 
 propose a subject, divide it into several branches, and 
 appoint three or four members of his church to investigate 
 each of these different parts, and state the results of their 
 investigation on the next Friday evening. After their 
 remarks, he gave his own views of the subject, and they 
 were always such as indicated a studious preparation. 
 Having adopted several other expedients for quickening 
 the religious feeling of his people, he devised a plan for 
 awakening among them a deeper interest in the cause of 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 m 
 
 foreign missions, and inducing them to contribute more 
 generously to our various benevolent societies. He also 
 intended to deliver an address in the spring of the year, 
 on the connection between taste and religion, and hoped 
 to persuade his fellow-citizens to adorn their village with 
 ornamental trees and with promenades. 
 
 The results of his brief ministry cannot be estimated 
 with precision. It is always difficult to ascertain the 
 amount of evil which a preacher prevents, as well as the 
 amount of good which he accomplishes ; to ascertain also 
 those general impressions of his ministry, which are often 
 more important than particular though striking instances 
 of individual benefit. He united parties among his people f 
 that had previously been discordant. He allured to the ^ j 
 sanctuary men who had formerly forsaken it. He gave j 
 to all an exalted idea of the pulpit, of a sermon, of the / 
 sacred oflice. He taught them to honor the ministry for 
 its relations to the literature and the politics and the lib- 
 erties, as well as to the virtues of the country. He pro- 
 duced such an impression upon his hearers as they had 
 never felt before, that holiness of heart is essential to all 
 that is most lovely and alluring, and that opposition to 
 evangelical truth is neither rational, nor safe, nor manly. 
 From his ministry of four months, his professional breth- 
 ren may learn both the real and factitious value of a sound 
 scholarship, in augmenting the influence of a preacher, 
 in fitting the style of his discourses for a favorable opera- 
 tion upon his hearers, and predisposing them to rely on 
 his statements as the statements of a practised thinker. 
 They may also learn the eloquence which there is in an 
 earnest desire to do good. It was the simple-hearted wish 
 of Mr. Homer to promote the religious welfare of his 
 people. They saw it, they felt it, they gave him their 
 confidence as the reward of it. They loved him because 
 he loved them. The religious zeal of a benevolent and 
 
 y^-O^ Of THE 
 
m 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 refined and honest man, especially when it is conjoined 
 with the character as well as the reputation of a scholar, 
 will always exert an influence, and often command hom- 
 age. It will receive honor from the piety, the conscience 
 of some, the amiable sentiment, the good sense of others. 
 How long Mr. Homer would have attracted the admi- 
 ration which he received in the morning of his ministerial 
 life, cannot be determined. His pungent appeals to the 
 conscience of his hearers might have increased his real 
 power over them, and at the same time have diminished 
 his seeming popularity; for it is not always the most pop- 
 ular minister who is the most influential. But until the 
 time of his death, the interest of his people in his minis- 
 trations was regularly increasing. His visits became 
 more and more acceptable, every sermon was thought to be 
 more powerful than the preceding, and his last appearance 
 in the pulpit is described by them as if they had seen an 
 angel. •* Those who were absent from his church on a 
 Sabbath would often come to me," said one of his parish- 
 ioners, " and ask me to repeat what I could remember of 
 his sermon ; and his arrangement was so lucid that I could 
 easily recall his main ideas." Many of his hearers are 
 described as fixing their eyes upon him steadfastly, and as 
 giving to him that earnest attention which a minister loves 
 to receive. " The house was so still that the slightest 
 whisper could be heard in it." He secured the esteem 
 of other denominations as well as of his own, and was 
 useful not only as the minister of a sect, but as a teacher 
 of the whole community. After the lapse of more than 
 a year, his incidental remarks are daily quoted, and the 
 veneration for his memory has excited the wonder of 
 strangers who have casually visited the place. So strong 
 and deep and long continued an impression upon so intel- 
 ligent a people, is one sign of his power and worth. Had 
 he labored among them a third of a century, rather than 
 
MEMOIR. 105 
 
 a third of a year, we might have anticipated the influence 
 that is still exerted by his precepts and example. But we 
 * did not expect that he would have compressed into four 
 months, the efficiency of a long life. " Honorable age is 
 not that which standeth in length of time, nor which is 
 measured by number of years ; but wisdom is the gray 
 hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age." 
 
 MR. HOMER AS A PREACHER. 
 
 There are various standards of pulpit eloquence, no 
 one of which can be praised to the exclusion of any other. 
 " Every man hath his proper gift of God, one after this 
 manner, and another after that." A true liberality of 
 Christian taste will be gratified with the doctrines of the 
 gospel though they be administered in varying forms. All 
 ministers need not write and speak "just as we do." 
 Men of narrow views would fain banish from the pulpit 
 every preacher who is not elegant and refined, but the 
 great Reformer said, " Human nature is a rough thing, 
 and must have some rough ministers to chastise it." 
 There is a class of the community who never will be 
 reached by softnesses and delicacies of language. We 
 often hear it said that all abstruse reasoning and recondite 
 speculation are unseemly for the pulpit. But there are 
 some hearers who demand a philosophical style of address, 
 and will listen to none but philosophical preachers. 
 Others are prejudiced against the refinements of language 
 and the graces of delivery. No one, they say, was ever 
 converted by a metaphor, and poetry is neither ** doctrine, 
 nor reproof, nor correction, nor instruction in righteous- 
 ness." But there are men of poetical fancy in our par- 
 ishes, and they are as immortal as men of business, and 
 have as much need of salvation, and are as much entitled 
 to be addressed in an ornate style as children are in a 
 
106 MEMOIR. 
 
 simple one, or mathematicians in a dry one. " Are all 
 apostles ? are all prophets ? are all teachers ? are all 
 workers of miracles ? have all gifts of healing ? do all ^ 
 speak with tongues ? do all interpret 1 But covet earn- 
 estly the best gifts." 
 
 It is not claimed that Mr. Homer's discourses present a 
 model to which all ministers should conform, but they 
 meet one demand of our natures which is too seldom 
 gratified. He was not a rude preacher, but he was plain- 
 spoken when he thought it desirable to be so ; he was not 
 distinctively a metaphysical preacher, but he did not 
 always avoid severity of argument. He had more depth 
 of thought than men of his physical conformation are 
 often supposed to have. He was not large of stature, he 
 walked with sprightliness, his voice though masculine was 
 not deep-toned, and he was not clumsy in his attitudes. 
 Now a man who is thus formed will be regarded by some 
 as less profound, than those who have a heavy movement 
 and a very deep enunciation. So much are men affected, 
 consciously or unconsciously, by the outward appearance, 
 in judging of the inward character. The nodosities of 
 the oak are deemed essential to its strength. But if the 
 subject of this memoir had been inferior to the majority 
 of students in mental vigor or acumen, he would not 
 have been so enthusiastic and persevering in his study of 
 the Greek orators and critics, nor would he have selected 
 Bishop Butler as the companion of his leisure hours. 
 But he was sensitive rather than profound, and literary 
 rather than scientific. His superiority lay in his quick 
 sympathies with the beautiful and the good, in his ardent 
 and varied emotion, and in the versatile energies of his 
 mind. He was a man of taste. He would gaze in 
 silence at an Andover sunset until the last golden tint had 
 vanished. He would instinctively stop his walk, that he 
 might listen to the song of a bird. Some graceful or ma- 
 
MEMOIR. 107 
 
 jestic sentence in Jeremy Taylor or Richard Hooker was 
 ever present in his memory. By his multifarious reading, 
 especially in the ancient classics, he had acquired a flex- 
 ible style of composition ; and this, united with his fresh- 
 ness of feeling, his earnest and natural delivery, gave an 
 extemporaneous air to his written discourses. It was by 
 his delicacy of sentiment, his elastic fancy, and the grace- 
 fulness of his inner and outer man, that he would most 
 easily have distinguished himself above his brethren in 
 the pulpit. Those who read his published sermons will 
 perceive his blandness of temper, and the mellowness of 
 his social and Christian spirit, his refined and classic 
 taste, his well stored memory. But some of his qualities 
 as a preacher are not so distinctly visible in his printed 
 discourses, as in those which are excluded by want of 
 space from the present volume. A few of the character- 
 istics which are prominent in his unpublished sermons 
 may here be mentioned. • 
 
 He was a systematic preacher. It is not meant that 
 he adjusted the thoughts of every single discourse with 
 logical exactness, but each of his sermons was a part of 
 an extended series. No one of them was a mere isolated 
 address. This discourse was designed to modify the im- 
 pression of that, and that was intended to prepare the 
 way for a third, and the third was not complete without 
 reference to others. He had formed the plan for his 
 pulpit efforts for several months or even years to come. 
 He had already commenced two series of doctrinal ser- 
 mons, although he deemed it inadvisable to announce the 
 fact that he was preaching the parts of a system. One 
 of these courses was on the character and state of 
 man ; another on the existence and attributes of God. 
 He had written two sermons in the first course and four 
 in the second, and had sketched the topics and divisions 
 for seven or eight lectures in a third course. 
 
1^ MEMOIR. 
 
 Mr. Homer aimed to unite in his sermons, the doctrinal, 
 the historical, and the practical element. " It will be one 
 object of my preaching," he said from the pulpit on the 
 Sabbath after his ordination, " to present in a systematic 
 form the doctrines of our evangelical faith — such as I 
 find them in the word of God, or the revelation of our 
 own consciousness. I am persuaded that there is a way 
 of making the sternest theology come home to the human 
 bosom, and of clothing the dry bones of metaphysical 
 belief with the breathing forms of life. I believe that 
 the minds of my people will be greatly enlarged and in- 
 vigorated by contemplating such subjects as the nature 
 and character and law of God, the free agency and 
 immortality of the human soul, and I am encouraged in 
 guiding you to these investigations, by the assurance that 
 though they lead us through fields of mystery, though 
 they demand a concentration of thought from which the 
 effeminate may well shrink, .though they constrain us 
 often, after all our toils, to sit down and mourn over our 
 own littleness, yet they all end in practical religion, in a 
 clearer defining of the relation between God and man, in 
 a louder enforcement of human duty, in a surer guidance 
 to heaven. 
 
 " I shall aim also to have much of my preaching his- 
 torical in its style, because I look upon that historical 
 book, the Bible, as a good model for the discourses of the 
 pulpit. The taste for history in the human mind ought 
 to be gratified, especially when it can be made the avenue 
 for communicating so much spiritual truth. The scenes 
 and characters of the Old and New Testament, from the 
 antiquated form in which they are presented, and chiefly 
 from our familiarity with the language of the story, have 
 lost their interest to us. We read over and over again 
 the most thrilling incidents with no emotion. Now here 
 is a field for the preacher to enter, laborious indeed, but 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 tt09 
 
 in the highest degree exciting and useful. He may em- 
 bellish the old narrative with the lights of modern study, 
 he may transform the language of history into a dramatic 
 and life-like diction, bringing the scene home to the sym- 
 pathies of his people, and then applying the distant and 
 past, to the present and near. 
 
 " But it is the chief intellectual glory of evangelical 
 preaching that it is addressed to the conscience. It is 
 interesting to notice how the ministry that arouses this 
 inward monitor, that calls into exercise this great faculty 
 of the soul, will preserve its power and exert its charm over 
 intellectual men. I wish to be distinctly understood at 
 the outset of my ministry, that I expect to gratify rather 
 than offend men by stirring up their consciences, and if 
 I am ever so unfortunate as to lose the respect and friend- 
 ship of my people, I hope I shall have sense enough to 
 attribute the failure to any thing rather than the close- 
 ness of my preaching. I should be as much ashamed of" 
 myself, if I could give no better reason for losing my 
 hearers, as I should of those who could dislike me for no- 
 better cause. There was a distinguished evangelical 
 divine, who commenced his ministrations in one of our 
 cities, at a time when a lax theology had begun to * fill' 
 the pulpit and empty the pews.' Crowds thronged 
 around the man of God, and among them the men of 
 fashion and might and mind, whose names were enrolled 
 among the congregations of the chapels of ease, but 
 whom the Sabbath evening lecture would gather in to 
 listen with awe and admiration to the doctrines they 
 would rather die than believe. Sometimes the appeal 
 was so pungent that they went out foaming with rage,, 
 and vowing that they would hear the fanatic no more^ 
 Still, there was a strange charm in that eye of reproof^ 
 which followed them through the week, and the next- 
 Sabbath evening bell would find them turning the de- 
 10 
 
^^ MEMOIR. 
 
 spised corner, and making their way through the crowded 
 aisle, and bracing themselves for another shock. The 
 truth is, there was a demand in their higher nature which 
 was not met by the weak and sickly homilies of their 
 own preachers. They wanted something vigorous to 
 grapple with, something that stirred up from the lowest 
 depths the stagnant elements of their mojal nature. 
 They wanted stronger meat to satisfy the importunate 
 cravings of minds that were well fed on every other sub- 
 ject but religion. And they found what they wanted for 
 intellectual gratification in those manly views of doctrine, 
 and those plain reproofs of sin. Tell me not then, ye 
 timid spirits, oh talk not of the inexpediency of preaching 
 to the conscience, when a distinguished writer has said, 
 ' Raise me but a barn, in the very shadow of St. Paul's 
 cathedral, and with the conscience-searching powers of a 
 Whitefield, I will throng that barn with a multitude of 
 eager listeners, while the matins and vespers of the 
 cathedral shall be chanted to the statues of the mighty 
 dead.' " - 
 
 In his practical preaching, Mr. Homer designed to be 
 moral as well as evangelical. He had himself been de- 
 sirous of attaining the virtues of a man, as well as the 
 graces of a Christian, and it was natural to expect that 
 he would strive to ornament, as well as to sanctify the 
 souls of his people. His sermons are in this respect a 
 fair index of his character. In a letter to a candidate for 
 the ministry, he says, " Let me advise you to dwell much 
 in your sermons on an elevated Christian morality. 
 Such a subject would be peculiarly adapted to the wants 
 of such a people as yours, and is required for counteract- 
 ing the Antinomian tendencies of the present age. This 
 is a subject which has been forced upon me of late, by 
 flagrant instances of criminality in the church and the 
 
MEMOIR. tit 
 
 ministry, which seem to indicate that one can be a good 
 Christian and a very bad man. The fact seems to be, 
 that in avoiding the cold and sordid system of those who 
 choose to call themselves rational rather than evangelical, 
 some of us have run to the other extreme. What are 
 technically called the * doctrines of grace/ have been so 
 exclusively preached by some, that their relative beauty is 
 impaired and the symmetry of the character formed on 
 them is disturbed. There are Christians who seem to 
 have not very elevated views of the duty of speaking and 
 acting the truth, and of other matters equally trite and 
 simple. The minister, who in the present day should 
 preach up the ten commandments with the aid of our Sa- 
 viour's exegesis, and should follow them into all their 
 spiritual signification, would do much to purify the 
 church. He would secure one of the chief beauties of 
 grace which la fruit. He would come down artfully, yet 
 with all the power of the gospel, upon the moral men who 
 care not for religion ; for where is there true morality, 
 spiritual obedience to the law on Sinai, except in the 
 bosom that has felt the power of the cross % He would 
 teach his people the important truth that the best Chris- 
 tians are not those who merely feel, but those who do 
 likewise." 
 
 It has already been remarked that Mr. Homer was 
 faithful in his public reproofs of sin. Some of his 
 friends, knowing the gentleness of his nature, supposed 
 that he might be more complaisant in the pulpit than 
 bold ; but his character was versatile, and when he be- 
 came a preacher he ceased to be a classical annotator. 
 He accommodated himself at once to the exigencies of 
 his office. If there be one feature of his unpublished 
 sermons more noticeable than another, it is the pungency, 
 the severity of his denunciation against sin and sinners, 
 
112 MEMOIR. 
 
 against the pride of the rich, the envy and demureness o{ 
 the poor, the ingratitude of both classes to Him who being 
 rich became poor for our sake, the slothfulness and inef- 
 ficiency of the church, the hard-heartedness and obsti- 
 nacy of the world. The fact is, he was so kind in hia 
 feelings, so sincere in his motive and manner, so obvious- 
 ly intent upon doing his great work and his whole work 
 and doing it well, that he could say any thing to his 
 people, and they would love him the more for saying it. 
 They respected him for his reproof, it was so honest- 
 hearted. He seemed to be so much absorbed in the 
 subject of his discourse, and to place it so completely 
 before himself, that all complaints against him, must first 
 pass through the truths which he declared. He appeared 
 to be lost in his theme, and neither to know nor care 
 whether it would be grateful to his bearers. Few men 
 would dare to utter some of the words which he spoke, 
 yet he was safe in uttering them, for he was intrenched 
 in the good will of all who heard him. 
 
 Another characteristic of Mr. Homer's unpublished 
 discourses is individuality. He wrote as an individual, 
 as himself He wrote for individuals, for his own hear- 
 ers, and not for his countrymen in general. One of his 
 favorite mottos for preaching was the quaint stanza of 
 John Bunyan : 
 
 ** Thine only way, 
 Before them all, is to say out thy say 
 In thine own native language, which, no man 
 Now useth, nor with, ease dissemble can." 
 
 He did not own a book of texts which might guide 
 him to the choice of a subject. The Bible was a suffi- 
 cient text-book, and the wants of his people suggested 
 more themes than he found time to discuss. He never 
 could have learned to use Simeon's Skeletons, nor would 
 
MEMOIR. IIS 
 
 Sturtevant's plan for filling out those skeletons, have been 
 any thing to his mind but confusion worse confounded. 
 The main power of his unpublished sermons lay in the 
 fact that they were outflowings from his own mind and 
 heart. They abound with passages that would arrest the 
 attention of every hearer, not so much because they were 
 brilliant as because they were natural, and nature, wher- 
 ever and whatever it be, will command the sympathies of 
 men ; not so much because they contained new truths, as 
 because they were shaped in a new way, and the way 
 was appropriate not to ministers in general but to Mr. 
 Homer, not to all people but to the people at South Ber- 
 wick, not on all occasions but on the very Sabbath, and 
 that part of the Sabbath when the sermon was preached. 
 
 In illustrating the idea that spiritual wakefulness does 
 not consist in dreaming about realities, he writes in one 
 of his sermons, " Upon my own mind, overworked with 
 study, or overburdened with care, the night has some- 
 times stolen in the full tide of my excited action, and 
 there is not one of the duties of my pastoral vocation that 
 I have not performed in my sleep. But I never value 
 these mental exercises, for then I am not awake. The 
 sleep may be diseased and uneasy, it may give no rest to 
 the tossing spirit, but it is sleep still." 
 
 In the same discourse, he says, ** Neither does spiritual 
 wakefulness consist in a momentary starting up from 
 sleep. The slothful man often has these temporary starts, 
 and through his half-closed eyelids, he looks out of the 
 window at the thorns and the nettles, and the broken 
 down wall. But he begs for a little more sleep and a 
 little more slumber, a little more folding of the hands to 
 sleep, and before his words are uttered, he has again sunk 
 down in unconscious stupor. O, how often have I watch- 
 ed the emotions that struggle on the face of some habitual 
 sleeper in church ! Conscience sits there on his forehead 
 10* 
 
114 MEMOIR. 
 
 to raise the falling lid, and the lip quivers with many a 
 wakeful purpose ; but the eye is vacant instead of being 
 fixed vi'ith a becoming resolution, and the good man, 
 amid a thousand fears and doubts and wishes and plans to 
 keep awake, is again overcome." 
 
 At the close of a sermon on the Eternity of God, he 
 says, *' It is a terrible thing to sin against such a being; 
 against a being who stands still while we are moving on, 
 with whom our ages of forgetfulness are all one moment, 
 and in whose mind our sins, though committed long and 
 long ago, are as fresh and as clear as the present. My 
 aged friend, there is a certain sin which you committed 
 in early youth. Its remorseful pangs are now all obliter- 
 ated. Its very features are fading, fast fading from view. 
 Idly you imagine that by the day of your death, or a few 
 ages of eternity onward, it will be all gone. But no ! 
 with the great I AM there can be no forgetfulness ; no 
 ocean of time sweeps over him its oblivious current ; your 
 sin is safe, safe in a mind that cannot grow old. My 
 young friend, you have been sinning to-day. God saw 
 you, you know he did. This morning you disobeyed your 
 mother, this forenoon you have been trifling in the house 
 of God, this noon you are going into the Sabbath school 
 with no love for the Bible ; you will go home to seek the 
 idle story rather than the book that tells about Jehovah, 
 and to-night, — mark my words and prove me if they are 
 not true, — to-night, when you lie down to rest, it shall be 
 written against you in your own conscience, that you are 
 a Sabbath-breaker. Yet to-morrow you will forget it all, 
 and you think because you have forgotten it, it will be all 
 over. But ah ! there is no to-morrow with the God who 
 looks down upon your sin. To-morrow, and next week, 
 and next year, and next century, and on and on into 
 eternity, the great I AM is ; and he looks down forever 
 
MEMOIR. 115 
 
 with the same fixed gaze upon the sin you commit to-day. 
 And when it has become far, far distant from your own 
 eye, if the film of eternal ages could gather over it, it is 
 always just as close and present to his searching gaze. 
 My friends, how sad to think that every sin becomes 
 eternal from the eternity of that being who sees it ; and 
 when we sin one moment, we do that which God must 
 abhor forever and ever. But still more sad, when in) 
 another world we shall ourselves be armed with a like 
 power ; when to our own consciences, in their resurrec- 
 tion day, the past must seem like the present ; when sins 
 between which there was an interval of weeks and 
 months and years shall all rise up together, an exceeding 
 great army ; when eternity shall be a mirror in which the 
 great past is ever reflected like an eternal Now. And in 
 that work of retribution, unless we have secured an ad- 
 vocate and a refuge, the great I AM will stand over us 
 and say, — not for thoscy but for thescy not you werCj but 
 you are, you are my enemies." 
 
 So far was Mr. Homer from adopting the general style 
 of address which may apply to everybody or anybody or 
 nobody in the congregation, a style which is intended to 
 please that class of hearers who are ever appropriating to 
 their neighbors, what ought to have been designed for 
 themselves, he particularized his hearers and addressed 
 his reproofs to ** the sinners in this house," " in these 
 pews," " to you who are slighting your early baptism," 
 " to you who are violating your sacramental vow," to 
 those listless hearers, " from whose iron visages the words 
 bound back into the preacher's face," and in a single in- 
 stance he addresses a rebuke to " one or two persons 
 among those who worship in this temple," and who would 
 neither misapprehend nor dislike his open-hearted fidelity. 
 In his delivery he used the "indicative gesture," and the 
 
116 MEMOIR. 
 
 spirit of his language was, "Thou art the man." He 
 once wrote a sermon chiefly for the sake of benefiting a 
 single individual. If he had not possessed and been 
 known to possess a harmless temper, this individualizing 
 process would have become an offensive personality. But 
 a good reputation, like the shield of faith, will ward off 
 the fiery darts of many who obey not the truth. 
 
 Nearly allied to the individuality of his discourses is 
 their simplicity. There may be a want of this excellence 
 in his choice of words, and he was too fond of the Greek 
 inversion in his arrangement of them. But in the spirit 
 and genius of his discourses, there is much of that intan- 
 gible quality which so many writers have vainly attempted 
 to describe. He gives frequent specimens of what Mar- 
 montel calls, *' that sort of amiable ingenuousness or un- 
 disguised openness which seems to give us some degree 
 of superiority over the person who shows it ; a certain 
 infantine simplicity which we love in our hearts, but 
 which displays some features of the character that we 
 think we should have wit enough to hide ; and which 
 therefore always leads us to smile at the person who dis- 
 covers this quality." The secret of the pleasure we de- 
 rive from such a character is found in its freedom from 
 artifice. We are interested in the friend or companion 
 who is not perpetually asking himself, how will my words 
 sound to others 1 what will the people think of this deed 
 or that 1 but who is willing to act out his own impulses 
 under the appropriate operation of some truth present to 
 his mind. This sort of simplicity is manifested in ways 
 innumerable. When one utters a trite idea without the 
 least suspicion that it will be considered too unimportant 
 to be expressed in such sober language, as when Izaak 
 Walton says that Sir Henry Wotton "retired into his 
 study, and there made many of his papers, that had passed 
 his pen both in the days of his youth and in the busy part 
 
MEMOIft.' 14QI 
 
 of his life, useless by a fire made there to that purpose ; " 
 when one makes a statement which will be received with 
 incredulity or with ridicule, and makes it without the 
 least apparent apprehension that it will be misunderstood 
 or abused, as when the honest Izaak says of the same Sir 
 Henry, who was suspected of a plagiarism, that " reason 
 mixed with charity should persuade us to believe that Sir 
 Henry's mind was so fixed on that part of the communion 
 of saints which is above, that a holy lethargy did surprise 
 his memory," or when one exposes his own secret fears 
 and failings with the guilelessness of a man who does not 
 dream that others are watching his frailties, in these, and 
 numberless other modes we are touched and won upon 
 by that simplicity which has been called the " nameless 
 grace of an imperfect man." Fn his unpublished sermons 
 Mr. Homer has communicated many thoughts which his 
 brethren in the ministry might thank him for expressing, 
 and still excuse themselves from uttering the same. We 
 often love to have things said, but not exactly to say them 
 ourselves. He expressed his honest feelings in an honest 
 way. Critics may smile at his childlike frankness, but 
 men and women and children will sympathize with such 
 a minister far more than with one who measures his sen- 
 tences, and never speaks without calculating the results 
 of each syllable. However correct the words may be, if 
 they seem to have come from the public mint, and not to 
 be part and parcel of the speaker himself, they are stale 
 and powerless. They are coined words, but human 
 nature cries out for words that flow forth spontaneously. 
 They are stamped words, but it is the living and breathing 
 phrase that reaches the hidden places of the heart. They 
 are indeed safe words, producing no kind of evil because 
 they produce no kind of effect. It will always be true of 
 them, that they are better fitted for posterity than for any 
 living generation. He who is *' coldly correct and criti- 
 
118 MEMOIR. 
 
 cally dull " may satisfy a reviewer, but never melts the 
 spirit of a man. 
 
 Taking a great interest in the fruits of his mental toil, 
 Mr. Homer was not ashamed to confess that, on his own 
 account as well as for their good, he desired the regular 
 attendance of his people at church. He not only taught 
 them that they might become better, but he owned that 
 he should feel better, if they were constant in their visits 
 to the sanctuary. " I entreat you," he says, " that you 
 be not over scrupulous about the height of the thermom- 
 eter, or the aspect of the clouds on a Sabbath morning, 
 that you doom not the preacher to come in from a lower- 
 ing and desolate sky to the more desolate scenes of an 
 empty church. I mean not to intrude upon the delicacies 
 of life, and I know there are many constitutions that will 
 not bear an exposure to the inclemency of the storm. I 
 leave every man's conscience to be his bodily physician. 
 But I beg of you to be consistent patients ; for that admi- 
 rable doctor is never more stupid than under the sound of 
 a church-going bell, and if the fireside of home looks 
 inviting, and the storm beats cheerlessly against the 
 window, above all if the heart from within does not cry 
 out for the courts of the Lord, it is easy, too easy to get 
 an invalid's exemption from our unscientific guide, or to 
 conjure up some lion, in the shape of a formidable snow- 
 drift, or a pelting rain, or a smoky house, no one of which 
 would excuse us to a client, or a customer, but any one 
 of them we can put off on our minister or our God. 
 Still politeness forbids me to enter the private circle and 
 say to this or that person, you ought to be at church ; as 
 a gentleman I leave you to judge for yourselves. But as 
 a minister, you must excuse me if I beg of you to remem- 
 ber the poor man whose profession obliges him to go to 
 church in all weathers, whose taste will not permit him 
 to reward the faithful few with an old sermon, or a desul- 
 
MEMOIR. ^IM 
 
 tory talk inspired by empty pews, whose sense of justice 
 obliges him to bring out the hard earnings of a week's 
 toil, when one and another and another for whom that 
 sermon was written are not in their seats. I say, I wish 
 they would think of him from the good easy chair, and 
 by the blazing hearth of home, and cast over him the 
 wing of their sympathy if they cannot give him the light 
 of their faces." 
 
 In the same discourse he says, " You should listen to 
 the preaching of the gospel with a careful regard to the 
 feelings of your minister. Remember that he is a man ; 
 by education, by profession, it may be by temperament a 
 sensitive man. He has eyes that can see. He has ears 
 that can hear. He has a heart that can feel. Let the 
 delicate and honorable deference with which you meet 
 him in the street, or welcome him to your dwellings, not 
 be entirely laid aside, when he stands before you as the 
 messenger of God. There are many persons who act as 
 if they supposed that the eminence of the pulpit raised 
 their minister above the level of human feelings, that it 
 was round about him like an impregnable fortress, and 
 every mark of contempt or disrespect or inattention from 
 the audience falls as powerless as if he were a senseless 
 machine. If he visit them at their homes, they would be 
 ashamed to treat him with such coldness and scorn, and 
 it would be deemed the lowest indecency to look out of 
 the window, or to read a newspaper, or to drop asleep in 
 the chair while he was talking with them ; but when he 
 stands before them in the pulpit, they borrow a license 
 from his remoteness and his elevation, as well as from 
 the multitude who share the responsibility of their polite- 
 ness, and they never dream that it is rude and ungentle- 
 manly, to be gazing around the house, or turning over a 
 hymn-book, or whispering some pleasantry to a neighbor, 
 
120 MEMOIR. 
 
 or fixing themselves in a good position for sleep. The 
 truth is, my friends, the minister is and ought to be more 
 keenly sensitive to these marks of public disrespect than 
 he would be to private and personal contempt. An insult 
 is offered to the fruits of his own mental toil. A contempt 
 is thrown upon his high office as a preacher. The sol- 
 emnly dedicated house of worship seems, in their view, 
 to have a claim for decorum inferior to the highway or 
 the parlor. More than all, that august Being in whose 
 name he speaks, before whom angels cast their crowns in 
 ceaseless adoration, Jehovah himself is repulsed by the 
 coldness and stupidity of earthly worshippers. And I 
 wonder how a man can preach, when such reflections are 
 pressed upon him with overwhelming power from a care- 
 less or trifling or sleeping audience. 
 
 " Let me urge you then, as one gratification and 
 encouragement to the preacher, to hear with the attitude 
 and appearance of attention. I think it cannot be gene- 
 rally known how distinct and perfect is the observation 
 of the audience from the pulpit. The hearer sees that 
 the eyes of the minister are sometimes directed towards 
 himself, but he never imagines that they distinguish him 
 from the mass of worshippers. The fact is, the preacher 
 from his observatory can discover every thing. There is 
 not a corner of the church which his eye does not pene- 
 trate. He traces the vacant seats in each pew and knows 
 who is absent. He observes the position of every hearer 
 in the house. He hears every remote whisper. He sees 
 every mark of frivolity. He feels every symptom of 
 gaping listlessness. He could go round from family to 
 family during the week, and detail with wonderful accu- 
 racy their deportment in the house of God, their interest 
 in the Sabbath services, what they had gained and what 
 they had lost of the sermon. Were it proper to unfold 
 the distinct recollection of my own recent ministrations 
 
MEMOIR. 121 
 
 among yourselves, you would be surprised to find such 
 minute circumstances in your past history brought back 
 to you with the accuracy of present consciousness. I 
 could speak of some who came regularly every morning 
 and staid away regularly every afternoon ; little thinking 
 how quickly the vacant seat would be noticed, and how 
 keenly the neglect would be felt by the stranger. I could 
 speak of others, to whom I looked in vain, Sabbath after 
 Sabbath, and sentence after sentence, for one returning 
 glance, to show that they saw and heard me. I could go 
 to others and remind them that they had listened to par- 
 ticular parts of each sermon, and followed me with only a 
 fitful interest. And I could speak with gratitude of the 
 many eyes, that were fixed upon me with a uniform atten- 
 tion, and to which I turned from the discouraging aspect 
 of the dull and the listless, and found unfailing relief and 
 refreshment. I thought then, if I could only have a con- 
 gregation filled with such hearers, with not one vacant 
 look, with every form erect, with every eye fixed upon the 
 •preacher, with every feature beaming with interest and 
 excitement, with the earnest and respectful and constant 
 attention which the truth of God, in whatever form it be 
 ministered, ought to receive; if I could stand up Sabbath 
 after Sabbath, before such an audience, what a soul- 
 stirring animation would be kindled in my speech, what a 
 delightful glow would follow me home from my Sabbath 
 labors, and during the weekly preparations of the study, 
 what life and force would be breathed Into me from the 
 consciousness that I wrote for all those attentive eyes, and 
 thought for all those excited minds, and felt for all those 
 beating hearts. 
 
 " I am sensible that many persons have acquired a 
 
 habit of listening without this attitude of attention, and 
 
 we should do wrong to judge merely from the outward 
 
 appearance. I have known individuals who could look 
 
 11 
 
i 
 
 122 MEMOIR. 
 
 up and down and everywhere except at the preacher, and 
 seem to be intent upon every thing rather than the sermon, 
 who were at the same time pondering and treasuring 
 every word that was uttered. But for the sake of exam- 
 ple, and to secure that sympathy of interest which so 
 quickly diffuses itself through a whole congregation, 1 
 would urge it upon all, to avoid that nervous restlessness 
 which obliges them constantly to change their position or to 
 vary their view, and would request them to keep the eye 
 ever on the pulpit. That fixed attitude, and that earnest 
 gaze shall secure their own reward. 
 
 "There is one other thought connected with this sub- 
 ject to which you will pardon me for alluding. You are 
 aware that there is now extensively prevalent among min- 
 isters of the gospel, a singular paralysis of the vocal 
 organs, which has driven many from their pulpits and 
 their flocks. The disease is one which has eluded the 
 researches of medical science, as it has baffled the reach 
 of medical skill. But among the many theories to ac- 
 count for its origin, I have found none more philosophical' 
 or more consonant with my own experience, than that 
 which attributes it to the stupidity and inattention of an 
 audience. It is well known that there is an active sym- 
 pathy between the mind and the body, and what more 
 natural than that a depressed and embarrassed spirit 
 should derange an organ so delicate and sensitive as the 
 human voice. Those of you who are at all accustomed 
 to public speaking can testify how much the ease of your 
 utterance depends upon the interest of your audience. If 
 you find it hard to make yourself understood, or the force 
 of your argument falls powerless upon stupid hearers, the 
 utterance at once becomes difficult, the mouth is quickly 
 parched and dry, there is a choking sensation about the 
 throat, a thousand impediments seem to check the flow of 
 language, the speaking is all up-hill work, and you sit 
 
MEMOIR. 123 
 
 down with the vocal organs irritated and inflamed, and 
 an exhaustion of your whole system tenfold greater, than if 
 yoii spoke to an audience so full of sympathy and interest 
 and excitement that the flow was easy from your heart to 
 theirs. For myself, I confess, so great has sometimes 
 been the physical difliculty with which I have preached 
 to a trifling or listless congregation, that I have been, 
 ready to wish that in the pulpit I could be stripped of 
 every sense and every faculty but that of speech, so that 
 there might not come in through my eyes and my ears and 
 my wounded sensibilities, so many impediments to the 
 easy current of my language." 
 
 Another characteristic of Mr. Homer's performances 
 in the pulpit was unity. He always endeavored to finish 
 his discourses as early as the noon of Saturday, and he 
 spent the afternoon and evening of that day in the selec- 
 tion of appropriate hymns, and in preparation for the un- 
 written exercises of the pulpit. " One thing," says a 
 writer from South Berwick, ** which could not fail to at- 
 tract the notice of the most careless hearer, was the com- 
 pleteness and mutual harmony of all the parts of Mr. 
 Homer's Sabbath exercises. The prayer, the sermon, the 
 hymns, were nicely adjusted portions of one well con- 
 structed whole. His hearers did not leave the sanctuarjl 
 with minds distracted in the attempt to grasp two or more 
 grand ideas, suggested by different parts of the service ; 
 but the one great truth which had been made prominent 
 in the discourse was so often repeated in the other ser- 
 vices, as to engross the whole attention. While the 
 sermon was the arrow designed to reach the heart, the 
 remaining exercises did but sharpen the point and speed 
 the flight of that missile. He never lost sight of the 
 truth or doctrine which he was endeavoring to establish, 
 and rarely suffered himself to be drawn aside into any 
 
124 MEMOIR. 
 
 episodes, or to be diverted into the discussion of any kin- 
 dred Kut collateral topic. The ideas suggested by the text 
 he seemed intent on reducing to the smallest possible com- 
 pass, and deriving from them the one great impression of 
 his discourse. It may not be improper to state, in show- 
 ing the benefits of this kind of preaching and the skilful 
 manner in which he conducted it, that not a few of his 
 hearers yet retain in memory the groundwork and detail 
 of many of his sermons, and are able to state the general 
 position which was advocated, and each argument by 
 which it was sustained, in its order." 
 
 Another of Mr. Homer's aims in the pulpit was to give 
 a variety of religious instruction. He who secures unity 
 in every single discourse, may secure the greater variety 
 in his several discourses. " There are some persons, '* 
 he said to his people, '' who dislike preaching on the doc- 
 trines, and others who cannot bear preaching on anything 
 else. As a minister of Jesus, I am called upon rightly to 
 divide the truth, and I cannot please any one of these 
 opposites to the exclusion of all the rest. It is selfish 
 and unreasonable for one individual to set himself up as 
 the standard for a whole congregation, and to demand a 
 constant succession of services which will gratify himself 
 alone, and leave many as hungry as himself unfed. Such 
 an aristocratic and arrogant demand would be frowned 
 down anywhere else, and I must insist upon its unrea- 
 sonableness here. I beg of you, therefore, who can see 
 no manner of profit in metaphysical refinements, or theo- 
 logical speculation, who are perpetually crying out for 
 sermons on the Christian virtues, for something practical 
 to improve the life, I must beg of you not to nestle in 
 your seats and put down your heads because to-day I 
 strive to fortify the faith of the church, or remove the 
 doubts of the wavering ; for next Sabbath, your turn shall 
 come, when, so help me God, I will stir up your con- 
 
MEMOIR. 12$ 
 
 sciences, and probe your characters, and strive to make 
 you better men than you are. And I beg of you, if such 
 there be, who are suspicious of every deviation from the 
 old standards, and who would like no more variety than 
 depravity and election to-day, election and depravity to- 
 morrow, I must beg of you to lay by your jealousies and 
 anxieties, if there are some sermons where your fondly 
 cherished formulas are not even mentioned. To the Jew, 
 I hope to become a Jew, yet not on every Sabbath ; to the 
 Greek, I will become a Greek, yet not in every sermon ; 
 to each man dividing his portion in due season, if by any 
 means I may save some." 
 
 There is one description of the great model for all 
 preachers, which Mr. Homer often read with delight, and 
 spoke of as an epitome of the rules by which he meant 
 to be guided in the sacred office. '* Our Saviour," it is 
 said, *' 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 condi- 
 tion of mind and every duty of life, and every situation 
 in which his hearers were placed. Neither did the 
 preaching of our Saviour possess exclusively any one 
 moral complexion. It was not terror only, nor promise 
 only; it was not exclusively severity nor gentleness; but 
 it was each one of them in its place, and all of them 
 always subdued to the tone of perfect sobriety." 
 
 The general spirit of Mr. Homer's unpublished dis- 
 courses may be inferred from the following part of the 
 11* 
 
126 MEMOIR. 
 
 sermon which he delivered at the commencement of hia 
 pastoral labors. ' 
 
 " The dignity of the minister's office appears in the 
 fact, that he is the instrument for supplying the spiritual 
 wants of all classes of men. It is a great thing to labor 
 for the mind, that priceless gem which God himself has 
 created and adorned. It is a great thing to stir up 
 thought, to arouse interest, to gratify taste. It is a great 
 thing to reform the outward man, and make the princi- 
 ples of gospel love prevail in his conduct. It is a great 
 thing to diffuse the leaven of peace and beauty through 
 the whole mass of society, and make a paradise on earth. 
 But oh, the soul, the soul ! how it transcends in value 
 all the interests of earth, and compared with its nature 
 and its destiny and its high behests, how poor are all the 
 triumphs of intellect and taste, how weak are those efforts 
 to adorn the outward, while the inner sanctuary remains 
 untouched. The soul has diseases, and they must be 
 healed. The soul has longings, and they must be grati- 
 fied. The soul has wanderings, and they must be check- 
 ed. The soul has sorrows, and they must be stayed. 
 The soul may die forever, and it must be clothed in the 
 robes of eternal life. In the providence of God which 
 places me here to-day, while I would not be unfaithful to 
 the other parts of my calling, I desire to look upon every 
 thing as inferior and subordinate, except the ministering 
 to the immortal spirit. In all the variety of characters 
 and conditions around me, I feel that there is not one to 
 whom I have not some message, and for whom there is 
 not in the gospel I preach a fit and full supply. Is there 
 a Christian among my people who pants for a closer walk 
 with God, whose soul disdains the unsubstantial vanities 
 of the world, who cries out daily with ceaseless cravings, 
 ' O that I knew where I might find him! ' to him am I 
 
MEMOIR. 127 
 
 sent, to be his guide and shepherd, to minister the food 
 of God's word, to brighten and animate his faith and hope 
 for the future. Brother, we will commune together of 
 the love of Jesus, and the interests of the undying soul, 
 we will take sweet counsel and walk to the house of God 
 in company, till our Master call us to the upper room of 
 his feast, to the perfect union of heaven. Are there any 
 among this church who have left their first love, whose 
 faith stumbles, whose hope has become dim, and the 
 world binds them as with a magic spell to its deceitful 
 charms. Wanderers of the flock, I would call you back 
 to the altar of your baptism and your vows before angels 
 and men, and li^ht aorain the extinsruished zeal, sometimes 
 by the solemn denunciation of a ' woe upon them that are 
 at ease in Zion,' sometimes in the winning invitation of 
 the faithful, ' Come with us, and we will show you good.' 
 Are there among you the hard-hearted, the men of the 
 world, whom I shall learn to honor and respect and love 
 only to be more deeply convinced of their deplorable na- 
 kedness of soul ? O ! my friends, by the sacred rights of 
 conscience, by the precious interests of the church, by 
 the vows of God, which must curse me forever if I prove 
 recreant to my calling, I dare not shun to declare unto 
 you the whole counsel of God. I cannot hide or extenu- 
 ate your nature and character and condition. I cannot 
 soften the demands of God, or smooth over the dreadful 
 consequences of your impenitence. In all meekness and 
 humility, in all tenderness and friendship, yet with plain- 
 ness and with strictness, I must beseech you, in Christ's 
 stead, by the value you put upon your souls, by the love 
 you bear to your minister, by the power of your corrupt 
 example, by the mercies of God, by the terrors of hell, I 
 must beseech you to come out from the world, and take 
 your stand among the humble disciples of the Redeemer. 
 Are there here any restless, dissatisfied spirits to whom 
 
128 MEMOIR. 
 
 the world is losing its charm, in whose bosoms there is 
 an aching void which the old delights cannot supply, who 
 long to be numbered among the followers of Jesus ? In- 
 quirers of the way to Zion, to you, to you, I bring glad 
 tidings of great joy. Lo ! Christ has died for your sins, 
 yea and has risen again, as if to proclaim new life to your 
 long dead spirits. O ye dry bones that begin to shake, 
 hear the word of the Lord. Come forth from your en- 
 tombment. Thrust aside the grave-clothes of sin. 
 Arise, and live, and walk, and work, and it shall be well 
 with you. And in those seasons of trial and sorrow which 
 nmst bow the hearts of my people, whether the sadness 
 of a general calamity brood as with raven wing over your 
 dwellings, or one after another you come up to the house 
 of God, with tottering footsteps and heads bowed down 
 like a bulrush, and the weeds of mourning and the sigh- 
 ings of solitude to remind us that you are alone, you shall 
 find in the gospel of Jesus a warm sympathy to lighten 
 your sorrow, and elevated principles to confirm your faith. 
 The strain of comfort which it breathes, shall be, ' Come 
 unto me, ye that are weary and heavy laden,' and the pro- 
 found lesson it teaches, * All things shall work together 
 for good to them that love God.' The gospel of Jesus 
 leads in life to that which is above life. It leads beyond 
 life to heaven." 
 
 In reviewing Mr. Homer's sermons, our chief regret is 
 that he wrote them so rapidly. He exchanged but three 
 times after his ordination, and never preached extempore 
 on the Sabbath. He was compelled therefore to write 
 two discourses in a week, in some instances he wrote 
 more. One of those published in the present volume was 
 planned and finished in a single day. But a single writ- 
 ten sermon in six days is labor enough for any man. 
 Wise critics have recommended that a minister write a 
 
MEMOIR. 129 
 
 good discourse as soon as he can, and preach it when it 
 is *' about finished," If Saturday noon find him unpre- 
 pared for the Sabbath, let him furnish his people with the 
 best instruction he can command, either by an exchange 
 or by an extemporaneous effort. That good and finished 
 sermon will benefit his own character, moral as well as 
 mental, more than a score of careless and hurried homi- 
 lies. It will give him more authority over his people, se- 
 cure for them a juster balance of theological truth, a 
 higher standard of religious feeling. It is by a thorough 
 examination of some one doctrine, and by an accurate 
 adjustment of its collateral topics, that the minister ad- 
 vances and causes his people to advance every month in 
 spiritual power. When he is removed by death, the ser- 
 mons which he has elaborated with so much care will re- 
 tain a permanent value, and he will preach long after his 
 voice is stilled. The editor of Massilon's Lent Sermons 
 regards it as a prodigy that he finished a discourse in so 
 short a time as ten or twelve days. This eminent preacher 
 sometimes rewrote a single sermon fifteen or even twenty 
 times. A distinguished scholar in our own land rewrote 
 the most useful of his sermons thirteen or fourteen times, 
 and labored in connection with a literary friend two whole 
 days on as many sentences. A living divine, who has 
 been called the prince of our pulpit orators, spent a fort- 
 night on a single paragraph of one of his published ser- 
 mons, and three months in elaborating another discourse, 
 which has already accomplished more good than the four 
 thousand sermons which were written by another of our 
 pastors, at the rate of two a week. On the blank leaf of 
 one of Dr. Griffin's manuscripts it appeared that his dis- 
 course had been preached ninety times. Thus had it been 
 touched and retouched, reviewed and rewritten, until, so 
 far as the author's power availed, it was perfected. There 
 is danger indeed of acquiring a morbid appetency for 
 
130 MEMOIR. 
 
 perfection, which will polish away all positive excellence, 
 and refine into nothing every natural beauty. We have 
 read of an Italian author who would whet and whet his 
 knife till there was no steel left to make an edge. "In- 
 deed," says Carlyle, " in all things, writing or other, 
 which a man engages in, there is the indispensablest 
 beauty in knowing how to gtt done. A man frets himself 
 to no purpose, he has not the sleight of the trade, he is 
 not a craftsman but an unfortunate borer and bungler, if 
 he know not when to have done. Perfection is unattain- 
 able ; no carpenter ever made a mathematically right 
 angle, in the world ; yet all carpenters know when it is 
 right enough, and do not botch it and lose their wages in 
 making it too right. Too much pains-taking speaks dis- 
 ease in one's mind as well as too little. The adroit, 
 sound minded man will endeavor to spend upon each 
 business approximately what of pains it deserves; and with 
 a conscience void of remorse will dismiss it then. " 
 
 But Mr. Homer was not predisposed to this sickliness 
 of taste. If he had concentrated upon seventeen sermons 
 the energies which he devoted to thirty-four, he would 
 not indeed have gratified his parish with so frequent min- 
 istrations, but would have raised, still higher than he did, 
 the standard of a sermon, and would have made his post- 
 humous influence more extensive. His people however 
 were idolatrously attached to him, and were intent on 
 hearing him every Sabbath. Therefore he became unwil- 
 ling to relieve himself by exchanges with his brethren. 
 He moreover loved his work, and chose in his hearty zeal 
 to compress a great amount of it into a brief period. 
 Though he was technically a student, and had not de- 
 signed to pass his life in the pastoral relation, he began 
 to doubt whether he could ever forego the pleasure of 
 writing sermons. The more he wrote, the happier he be- 
 came. About a fortnight before his last sickness he said 
 
MEMUIR. 131 
 
 in a letter, " Preaching grows upon me. It never tires 
 nor palls. It appears to be the most glorious of all pur- 
 suits. If my health is spared, and God seems to bless 
 my labors, I shall feel very differently about leaving the 
 ministry from what I have felt. I do not know that I 
 shall turn off from the literary design which has occupied 
 my thoughts for so many years. Still I cannot but feel 
 that if I ever do leave the sacred office, for any other on 
 earth, it will be taking a long stride downward." 
 
 It deserves to be added in apology for his rapid compo- 
 sition, that Mr. Homer had been gathering the fruits of 
 Christian experience for nearly fourteen years, and had 
 accumulated the materials of his discourses long before 
 he wrote them. They were the emanations of the char- 
 acter which he had been forming, and he could express 
 with ease the trains of thought which had been familiar 
 to him for years. Whatever he did was done with ce- 
 lerity ; this was his nature. The results therefore of his 
 past religious meditations he recorded without the effort 
 and delay which ministers often require. It may be that 
 after he had gone round a certain circle of topics, he 
 would have chosen to spend a longer time on every new 
 theme. Every scholar has a certain class of subjects 
 upon which he has perhaps unconsciously expended a pe- 
 culiar degree of care, and when these are exhausted he 
 becomes once more a novice. On some themes old men 
 are young and young men are old. We are apt to regard 
 the efforts of a youthful preacher as the very beginnings 
 of his work, as mere experiments ; but they are often the 
 results of nearly all the wisdom which he will have ac- 
 quired in maturer life. lie m;iy afterward discuss new 
 topics with superior power, and may not, but on some 
 topics his first .sermons are his best. Some of our most 
 useful treatises, in theological as well as other literature, 
 have been the productions of men under twenty-five years 
 
132 MEMOIR. 
 
 of age. There is a rare justness in the following criticism 
 of Mr. Hazlitt : '* The late Mr. Opie remarked, that an 
 artist often puts his best thoughts into his first works. 
 His earliest efforts were the result of the study of all his 
 former life, whereas his later and more mature perform- 
 ances, though perhaps more skilful and finished, contained 
 only the gleamings of his after observation and experi- 
 ence." 
 
 MR. homer's last DAYS. 
 
 On the Sabbath after his ordination, Mr. Homer said to 
 his people, "We live in a solemn world. We cannot 
 take a step where sad realities do not stare us in the face. 
 We cannot form a new tie without casting our thoughts 
 forward to the death-pang that must sunder it. Amid the 
 mutual rejoicings of our recent connection, I involunta- 
 rily think of the pall and the shroud and the bier and the 
 grave ; and I behold one and another and another, who 
 now look up into my face and hear the sound of my voice, 
 for whose cold remains I shall be called ere long to dis- 
 charge the last sad offices; and God only knows but that 
 this people may bear me out to my burial. Sabbath after 
 Sabbath, I must stand up here as a dying man before dy- 
 ing men. Yet, blessed be God, I preach a gospel which 
 secures the great antidote to these ills, which enables us 
 to look above and beyond them. And if my people will 
 resolve this day to put themselves under my spiritual guar- 
 dianship, and heaven will bless the ministry which begins 
 on my part in weakness and distrust, we may hush these 
 dark forebodings, we may rest assured that death cannot 
 weaken the tie now formed, we may look forward to a 
 gladsome reiinion where the sombre weeds of the funeral 
 shall be exchanged for the white vestments of the mar- 
 riage-feast, and the happy language of the pastor shall be, 
 'Behold I and the people thou hast given me.'" 
 
MEMOIR. 133 
 
 On the New Year's Sabbath of his ministry, he 
 preached from the text, ** This year thou shalt die," the 
 same passage with which so many divines, and among 
 them both the Edwardses, have commenced the pulpit 
 services of the last year of their life. In this discourse, he 
 showed the probability that either himself or some of his 
 hearers would be called to fulfil the prediction of the text. 
 " The night, " he says, '* is far spent, the day is at hand ; 
 some of us can almost discern the first red streaks of the 
 dawn. We are hastening on, we are hastening on to the 
 brightness of an eternal day. ' Let us therefore cast off 
 the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of 
 light.' " 
 
 It is not to be understood that Mr. Homer had a pre- 
 sentiment of his early death. He had not. He was not 
 given to such presentiments. Nor had his friends been 
 fearful of such a calamity. They had not thought of him 
 in such associations, and even now they cannot recall the 
 freshness of his countenance and the elasticity of his 
 manners, without feeling that after all they have been only 
 dreaming of his death, and he is soon to appear again 
 with some bright saying or with some new hope. It had 
 not even occurred to their thoughts that the star would 
 sink away into nothing, just as men were beginning to 
 turn their glasses to it and examine it. 
 
 When a Christian has toiled faithfully and successfully 
 through a long life, he lies down upon the bed of death 
 as the bed of rest. He has finished the work which was 
 given him to do, and if by reason of strength his life 
 should be further prolonged, yet would his strength be 
 labor and sorrow. He chooses to leave the world, that 
 he may escape the weariness of a second childhood, and 
 may commune again with the friends of his youth. His 
 age is well rounded off, and death calls for his gratitude 
 rather than resignation. But the subject of this memoir 
 12 
 
134 MEMom. 
 
 had not been satiated nor disgusted with life, nof'was he 
 shut up to death as his only avenue to enjoyment. The 
 hopes and the promises of youth were clustering around 
 him, he had just begun to use the materials which he had 
 amassed ; to die, therefore, as soon as he had ended the 
 preliminaries of his chosen work, was not so much to 
 leave the world as to be torn from it. He had but re- 
 cently entered upon that state which is but a figure of the 
 union between Christ and the church, and to go so soon 
 from the companionship which he had anticipated so long, 
 was something to be submitted to rather than rejoiced in* 
 His plans were definitely formed for a life of study, he 
 had numbered the mines of intellectual wealth which he 
 was to explore, and he had every inducement to cry, '* Cut 
 me not down in the midst of my years, deprive me not of 
 the residue of my days." 
 
 His unremitted labors during his last year at Andover 
 had somewhat enfeebled his frame, and should have in- 
 duced him to defer his settlement in the ministry for sev* 
 eral months. Emerging suddenly from the seclusion of 
 a student into the duties of active life, he was more exci- 
 ted than he would have been if the transition had been 
 more gradual, or if he had previously disciplined himself, 
 as every clergyman ought to do, in some active business. 
 The excitement was greater than he could sustain without 
 a more healthful regimen of body than he was careful to 
 practice. The labors of an earnest preacher and an 
 anxious pastor cannot be united with those of a severe 
 student, without a previous and careful preparation of the 
 body as well as mind. This preparation Mr. Homer did 
 not make, and here was " the beginning of the end." 
 He felt a degree of interest in his labors which his physi- 
 cal system had not been disciplined to endure. He visit- 
 ed the sick chamber with literal sickness of heart, and 
 when called to attend a funeral, he felt as one personally 
 
MEMOIR. 135 
 
 bereaved. On the Sabbath morning he would rise before 
 the sun and look out of his study-window, in the hope of 
 seeing a clear sky. There were only six Sabbaths of his 
 ministry on which he was favored with such a prospect. 
 To him they were days of delight ; but the hail and the 
 sleet and the snow sent a chill into his spirit. " Again 
 and again have I written a sermon," he says, " for Chris- 
 tians ; and many of them were prevented by the weather 
 from hearing it. Then I have written for the impenitent, 
 and those for whom I particularly designed my discourses 
 did not come through the snow-banks to hear me. Dur- 
 ing my wedding journey, at the time of my ordination, 
 and through my whole ministry thus far, I have been per- 
 secuted by a storm." He was desirous of seeing an im- 
 mediate influence from every sermon, and was grieved if 
 he did not see it. Time would have allayed the intensity 
 of this desire, and sheathed the keen edge of the sympa- 
 thetic nerve. But he died before the time. The truths 
 which he uttered from the pulpit so absorbed his attention, 
 that they often awaked him by night. Sometimes he 
 would forget even to eat, until the studies of the day 
 were closed, and in the evening would take that refresh* 
 ment which he could not live without, but which he ought 
 to have taken at an earlier hour. He had been crowding 
 the winter with disproportioned labors, and was hoping to 
 pass the more genial months of spring in visiting his pa- 
 rishioners and journeying among his friends. He did not 
 dream that when the trees were blossoming and the time 
 of the singing of birds had come, he should be walking 
 in the paradise of God. 
 
 Sad, sad is the reflection, that he did not listen to the 
 remonstrances of his friends, and endeavor to allay the 
 zeal that was consuming him. Hitherto his books had 
 been his only care, and that care was a pleasure, and 
 every thing that interfered with their claims had been 
 
136 MEMOIR. 
 
 done for him by others ; now he was called to do every 
 thing for himself But yesterday he was a pupil ; all at 
 once he had become a teacher, and was invested with the 
 most responsible office on earth. His responsibility was 
 so new to him that it imparted a factitious strength to his 
 system, and he looked upon the admonitions of his 
 friends as needless. •' Have no anxiety for me," he often 
 said, " for I am never sick. Every day is my mind 
 becoming more and more active, and my labors easier 
 and easier. I can write three discourses now more read- 
 ily than I could write one a year ago, and instead of 
 finding it difficult to preach, I find it difficult to refrain 
 from preaching. Subjects of sermons, and plans for 
 writing them, and thoughts for filling out those plans 
 are thronging in upon me, till I know not what to do 
 with them for their multitude." He did not perceive 
 that his mind was loosing itself from his body, and was 
 acting with the rapidity of a disencumbered spirit. He 
 did not perceive that his physical state, as it predisposed 
 him to a more fervid activity, was in the more peculiar 
 need of rest. 
 
 But during the first week of March he began to 
 acknowledge what his friends had long seen, his increas- 
 ing feebleness of body ; and he promised that if they 
 would allow him to write his two discourses during that 
 week, he would forthwith relax the severity of his labors. 
 He wrote his two sermons, performed certain parochial 
 duties which would at any time have oppressed his spirit, 
 and on Sabbath morning was again frowned upon by 
 the storm that had so long haunted him like a spectre, 
 and cast a gloom over his labors in the pulpit. He was 
 so feeble that he ought not to have left his room on that 
 inclement morning, but he could not be persuaded to 
 omit the service. He preached with the power of one 
 who was uttering his last words, and administered the 
 
MEMOIR. 107 
 
 sacramental supper with unusual solemnity.^ At the 
 close of his exercises in the afternoon, he visited the sick 
 bed of a literary friend, who was in the same state of 
 delirium in which himself was destined soon to be. He 
 was troubled in spirit that his friend was apparently so 
 near the grave, and could receive no consolation. But 
 the wearied pastor had done all that he could do, had 
 whispered in the ear of the wandering invalid, ** Be of 
 
 * He closed his sermon with the following appeal to those who 
 were soon to leave the sanctuary while the church were gathering 
 around the table of their Lord; an appeal containing the last 
 words which he ever wrote for the pulpit : 
 
 " Finally, with earnest affection we invite all who are present to 
 tarry with us and view the scene. We deem it a hard thing to 
 bless the congregation, that they may turn their backs upon a feast 
 that is spread for them. Rather would we have them pause and 
 listen to its fond invitation. Guilt-stricken spirit, it has a voice 
 for thee : * Come to the fountain.' Man of the world, grasping 
 after earthly treasures, it has a voice for thee : * Come, buy wine 
 and milk without money and without price.' Bereaved and deso- 
 late one, it has a voice for thee : * Come unto me thou heavy laden, 
 and I will give thee rest.' To each and to all it utters its mes 
 sage, — * Come.' Above all to the baptized children of this church, 
 the members of Christ's body, if not the communicants at his 
 table, does it address its urgent entreaty. And as it warns them 
 not to think lightly of the table where parental faith is partakin» 
 of the emblems, it seems to utter again that sweet and blessed 
 assurance, * Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them 
 not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Oh how happy should 
 we [be if the close of our service to-day and each sacramental 
 Sabbath, should witness no separation ; if there were none here to 
 crave a blessing as they hurry away frOm the communion of saints. 
 But happier still, if the invitation might be welcomed in its 
 deepest purport, if a fcAV communions more might gather us all 
 close to the table, in happy waiting for the time when our Lord 
 himseK shall come. 
 
 * Sweet, awful hour ! the only sound 
 One gentle footstep gliding round. 
 Offering by turns on Jesus' part 
 ^ The cross to every hand and heart. 
 
 Refresh us Lord to hold it fast, 
 . And when thy veil is drawn at last, 
 Let us depart where shadows cease, 
 "With words of blessing and of peace.' " 
 
 12» 
 
138 MEMOIR. 
 
 g"ood cheer," and bidding farewell to the hope of erer 
 speaking to him again, he returned to his lodgings dis- 
 consolate and spent. Now he was ready to relinquish 
 his toils and regain his lost vigor. But he had deferred 
 his duty too long. His repose came too late. His sick 
 friend recovered. He himself was sinking into the same 
 disease. 
 
 On the evening of this Sabbath, the seventh of March, 
 he was visited by his physician, and found to be in a state 
 of great debility ; his brain and nervous system morbidly 
 sensitive, and his digestive organs much deranged. The 
 sensibility of the cerebro-spinal system was soon allayed, 
 but it returned after several days and was accompanied 
 with despondency, a disinclination to converse, and a 
 decided impression that he should never regain his health. 
 For three or four days he retained this impression in 
 silence and in sorrow. He struggled with it alone, but 
 did not reveal his fears, and never exhibited the slightest 
 disposition to murmur. On the evening of the seven- 
 teenth, he called his physician to his bed-side, and said 
 that, having watched carefully his feelings and the 
 progress of his disorder, he was decidedly convinced that 
 all was over with him for this world. " I am," he said, 
 *' a dying man. My end is near. My mind, at times, is 
 bewildered and gone. It will shortly all be gone. I am 
 incapable of connected ideas, or continued thought upon 
 any subject for any length of time. I shall soon be 
 senseless. I feel that my race is run. I am hovering 
 near eternity. My dear friend, comfort, oh comfort my 
 wife, when I am gone. Say to my dear church, that I 
 have endeavored to be faithful to my trust and to their 
 souls. But I fear that I have come short, very far short 
 of my duty. Had it pleased God, I should have been 
 happy to live an humble instrument in his hand of win- 
 ning souls to my Saviour. It was my wish to have done 
 
MEMOIR. 139 
 
 some good in life. My heavenly Father however has 
 decided otherwise. My hopes, my plans, my expectations 
 will soon be closed in death." He was asked by his 
 physician, •* How do you feel in prospect of a change of 
 worlds." He replied, " My mind is calm. I am going 
 to the bosom of my God. Through Jesus Christ, my 
 hope, my Saviour, I trust that I shall soon be one of the 
 humble worshippers about his throne." 
 
 On the morning of the eighteenth, the evil that he had 
 feared came upon him. He had often expressed his 
 dread of insanity. He trembled, he said, lest when his 
 judgment had , lost its controlling power, he should say 
 something or do something to the dishonor of religion. 
 His mind now became like a broken harp, which after 
 the strings are severed, will send forth at times a sweet 
 and strange music. There were vibrations of his pious 
 feeling which were not stilled even by insanity. In his 
 mental wanderings he went over and over the scenes of 
 his ministry, and lingered with peculiar fondness amid 
 the duties of his last Sabbath. He would often utter 
 fragments of sermons to his people, would offer an 
 earnest prayer as if he were still leading their public de- 
 votions, and was several times engaged in distributing 
 the sacramental emblems. He talked of a speedy revival 
 of religion which his people were to enjoy, and of a 
 protracted meeting in which all his hearers were to be 
 converted. *' But I am going," he says, ** to banquet 
 with the angels." " It seems to me," said one of his 
 watchers, who had spent the night in listening to his airy 
 fancies, " it seems to me that I shall never look upon the 
 world as I have looked upon it, for I have been all night 
 long in company with the angels ; " so frequent had been 
 the converse of the dying pastor with the pure spirits of 
 heaven. There were lucid intervals during his delirium, 
 but they were intervals of a moment. He would begin 
 
140 MEMOIR. 
 
 some soothing remark, but his reason would vanish ere 
 he had closed it. A few fragments of sentences are 
 preserved, which like the fragments of a Grecian pillar 
 indicate the chasteness of what is lost. ** Oh ! if it were 
 not for that sweet assurance," — and then his mind darted 
 back behind the cloud. " By the preciousness of the 
 love of Jesus," — and then he lost himself amid scenes of 
 terror.^ " In the morning," he said, as the rays of the 
 sun beamed upon him, " in the morning how beautiful, 
 and at night how horrible." — '* I pray that I may never 
 murmur against the will of God, even in my acutest 
 pains." 
 
 On the Saturday preceding his death, there was an 
 interval of fifteen minutes in which he seemed entirely 
 rational. He asked his wife if she knew him. She 
 answered, " Yes." He smiled and said in a whisper, for 
 he was too feeble to speak aloud, '* I thought I was too 
 near eternity for even you to know me. I have been 
 thinking how much happiness we have enjoyed by our 
 own fireside, and it seems mysterious that we should be 
 separated so soon. I have felt at times, that after all, 
 God would spare me to you ; but I feel now that he will 
 take me away." She said to him, **I hope that you will 
 still recover." ** No," he replied, " I shall die ; " and 
 then pausing in apparent meditation upon the pardoning 
 love of Jesus, he added, *' With that blessed assurance I 
 am going home, never to see you again in this world." 
 He desired to say more, but was persuaded to desist, and 
 these were the last words which he was conscious of 
 uttering. He said much in his subsequent delirium, and 
 just before he lost all power of connected speech, he sent 
 a request to his church, that they should be faithful to 
 the souls of dying men. This was his last message. 
 Here was his ruling passion. 
 
 When his disease had reached an alarming crisis, his 
 
MEMOIR. Ml 
 
 medical friend remained with him nearly all the time by 
 day and night. Four consulting physicians were called 
 in from South Berwick, Dover, Exeter, and Boston. 
 Prayers were offered for him by several private circles 
 convened for the purpose in his own parish and his native 
 city, at the daily morning prayer-meeting at Park-street 
 church in Boston, and at the several churches of South 
 Berwick on the Sabbath preceding his death. When the 
 preacher in his own pulpit alluded to him, there was an 
 audible movement throughout the congregation, and the 
 sobbings of his people evinced the intensity of their 
 grief ** Whoever," says one of his parishioners, " has 
 seen a circle of mourners assembled at the bedside of a 
 friend about to take his final departure, may have an idea 
 of the sadness and sorrow depicted on the countenances 
 of the people as they sat in the church ; for all felt in 
 very truth as if the father of the household were soon to 
 be removed." For a day or two before his death, groups 
 of men were seen in the street waiting for some messen- 
 ger who might bring the last report from the sick 
 chamber. A gentleman who had but recently fixed his 
 residence in the village says, " Business was in a degree 
 suspended, the usual courtesies to strangers were forgot- 
 ten. Every person seemed to be absorbed in the calamity 
 that threatened the parish. Men, women and children, 
 from all parts of the town and from all religious societies 
 indiscriminately, came in almost unbroken succession to 
 inquire concerning the dying pastor. Many of them 
 would linger about his lodgings after they had learned all 
 that could be learned, and several seated themselves in 
 different parts of the house and remained for hours in 
 one posture without uttering a word. There was an 
 unusual sobriety of deportment among the students of 
 the academy. By abandoning their play, and by the 
 stillness with which they left the school-room for their 
 
142 MEMOIR. 
 
 homes they showed that their thoughts were in the room 
 of the dying. These and similar indications were such 
 as a stranger could not fail to notice." ^ 
 
 During the night of the Sabbath, Mr. Homer's disease 
 assumed a more alarming form. Congestion of the brain 
 had passed rapidly into injflammation and effusion. The 
 face became changed, the strength failed, and the powers 
 of life were becoming feebler and feebler. 
 
 On Monday, the twenty-second of March, it was evi- 
 dent that his hour had come. Several of his parishioners 
 were gathered around his bed, uttering no words, but un- 
 able to repress their sighs. His father was standing near, 
 with one hand raised toward heaven, and in the attitude 
 of a man looking upward for the strength that none but 
 Jehovah can impart. About noon, those who had been 
 watching for every change of symptom in the wasted 
 frame, began to discover signs of returning consciousness. 
 ** If you know me, press my hand," were the last words 
 spoken to him by one who longed for another token of 
 recognition. He quickly complied, and his continued 
 pressure showed that his love was stronger than death. 
 Five minutes afterward he fell asleep, and his soul awoke 
 to an activity that shall never cease. 
 
 When death had thus finished its silent work, the 
 mourners retired to an adjoining room and kneeled before 
 
 * The preceding facts were communicated by !Mr. Horace Hall, 
 a recent member of Andover Theological Seminaiy. He began to 
 write an account of these last scenes, but died before he finished 
 it. He was attacked with the same disease which proved fatal to 
 Mr. Homer and died in the same room, on the same couch, at 
 about the same age, with the same painful delirium, and in less 
 than a year from the same time. He went to South Berwick for 
 the purpose of teaching the academy, and in the hope of enjoying 
 the society of Mr. Homer. He arrived in season to have a few 
 hours of intercourse "with the Christian scholar who was to die in 
 ^ few days, and whom he himself was to follow in a few months. 
 
MEMOllt. 
 
 Ui 
 
 the thfone of him who had smitten them. They had no 
 repining thoughts, but felt that sinking of nature which 
 can be staid only at the altar of devotion. 
 
 " It was on Monday morning," says a clergyman in the 
 vicinity of South Berwick, " that I rode over to see my 
 departing friend. Before I reached the house over which 
 so dark a cloud was hanging, I met one of his parishion- 
 ers whom I knew to be a man of rare strength of charac- 
 ter and firmness of nerve. I inquired of him at once re- 
 specting his minister ; ' most gone ' was all that he could 
 say, and we parted. When the dreaded event had trans- 
 pired, I went to the house of another parishioner, and 
 after the usual civilities, I sat with the family ten or fifteen 
 minutes without their saying a word. The general feel- 
 ing was too deep to be expressed. No one spoke in the 
 street except in low tones." 
 
 Wednesday was the day of the funeral. A large con- 
 Course assembled at the church from all neighborhoods, 
 and from all the religious denominations in the town. 
 Eighteen clergymen were present. The pulpit, the or- 
 chestra and the organ were hung in black. '' I can only 
 say of the whole scene," writes one who witnessed the 
 same, " it was overwhelming." 
 
 One of Mr. Homer's favorite hymns, " There is an 
 hour of peaceful rest," was sung to one of his favorite 
 tunes. He had himself recited and sung the stanzas so 
 often, that he seems to have selected them for his funeral 
 dirge. Rev. Mr. Young of Dover oflfered the prayer. 
 Four months previous, he had given the Right Hand of 
 Fellowship to his friend, and now his own emotion was 
 such as sometimes to check his utterance, and the sobs of 
 the audience were often so loud as to make his words in- 
 audible. Professor Edwards of Andover preached the 
 sermon. It was one which Mr. Homer had listened to 
 eighteen months before at Andover, and had spoken of 
 
144 MEMOIR. 
 
 with the interest of a man who was preparing to have it 
 repeated at his burial. The text was 1 Corinthians 15 : 
 53, " For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and 
 this mortal must put on immortality." Rev. Mr. Holt of 
 Portsmouth, who had recently offered the ordaining prayer, 
 now gave the funeral address. He contrasted the men- 
 tal associations of the minister bereft of his reason, and 
 still repeating the messages of Christian love, with the 
 associations of the mere scholar or man of business ; 
 with the *^ieted'armee " of the warrior as he died amid 
 the raging of the elements. 
 
 When these exercises were closed, the parishioners took 
 one more view of the inanimate form, and then followed 
 it in procession to the limits of the village. There they 
 parted from it and returned to their homes as sheep with- 
 out a shepherd. 
 
 Under the care of two of the most respectable inhabi- 
 tants of South Berwick, the body was conveyed to Bos- 
 ton. On the afternoon of the next day (Thursday), 
 about three hundred persons assembled in the vestry of 
 Park-street church to join in a religious service prepara- 
 tory to the entombment. " Never," says the pastor of 
 the church, '' have I witnessed the manifestation of a 
 deeper sympathy. All hearts appeared smitten, and every 
 spirit crushed under the visitation of the Almighty." 
 Several clergymen of the city were present, and three of 
 them officiated in the mournful exercises, reading appro- 
 priate hymns and Scriptures, offering prayers to God and 
 addressing the assembly. '' At length," writes a former 
 companion' of the departed, " the crowds of sympathizing 
 friends, after lingering a moment in groups around the 
 
 ^ Mr. J. H. Bancroft, of Boston, a licentiate for the Christian 
 ministry, who was destined to rejoin his friend after a short sepa- 
 ration. He was a scholar, a poet, of rich gifts, of high promise* 
 long to be remembered by his friends. 
 
MEMOIR. \4$ 
 
 coffin, gradually withdrew and the church was almost de- 
 serted. Out of Mr. Homer's very large circle of literary 
 friends, many of whom had not yet heard of his death, 
 there were only five who now stood together for their last 
 lingering look. It was hard to part even with the clay, 
 that had been animated by such a spirit. The expression 
 of sharp pain had passed from the features, there was a 
 repose upon the countenance, and the fixed gaze of a 
 moment brought back to the lips their natural smile. 
 We turned away from the loved remains, and the closing 
 of the coffin-lid told us that the face of our friend was 
 hid forever from our eyes. We followed the bearers into 
 the open air, and then into the aisle of the dead, — and 
 stood, silent and sad, until the coffin disappeared within 
 the tomb." 
 
 On the Sabbath succeeding the funeral. Rev. Mr. Aiken 
 of Park-street church delineated the character of the de- 
 ceased in a sermon from Psalm 116: 15, " Precious in 
 the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints." Dis- 
 courses in reference to the event were preached on the 
 same day by Professor Emerson at Andover Theological 
 Seminary, and by several members of the Association 
 with which Mr. Homer had been connected. A few Sab- 
 baths afterward his death was appropriately noticed in the 
 Baptist church at South Berwick. Even then, the lam- 
 entation of the audience resembled that which was heard 
 at his funeral. At a still later period, a eulogy was pro- 
 nounced upon him in the Episcopal chapel near the vil- 
 lage where he had labored, and it was still obvious that 
 the fountains of tears had not been dried up. Different 
 notices of his character appeared in several of our 
 religious and political journals, and the grief which is yet 
 felt for his death bears witness to the good impressions of 
 his life. It is the wish of some of his friends that his 
 body had been laid in the burial-ground of his parish, 
 13 
 
146 Memoir. 
 
 where a broken shaft might rise as an emblem of the life 
 that was so abruptly closed. It seemed good to his 
 family, however, that he should lie near the baptismal 
 font where he was consecrated to the God of his ances- 
 try, and hard by the altar where he devoted himself to 
 the cause for which he died. But since his honored 
 father has been called away and laid in one of the gar- 
 dens at Mount Auburn, the son has been removed to a 
 resting-place by his side, that they who were so lovely 
 and pleasant in their lives might not be divided in their 
 death. All these things, however, are of inferior mo- 
 ment ; for whether he is to rise encircled by the people 
 of his charge or by the friends of his youth, he will come 
 forth, we trust, clothed in a white robe and with a palm- 
 branch in his hand. 
 
 Twenty-four years and less than two months made up 
 the whole period of his life. It has been said, that the 
 very circumstance of his untimely death, may give him 
 a better posthumous influence than he would have exerted 
 if he had outlived the novelty of his ministrations. It 
 was one of his own favorite ideas, that a youthful minis- 
 ter, who leaves a pure memory to be embalmed in the 
 hearts of survivors, can enlist more sympathy for the 
 truth by preaching from the grave, than he could have 
 attracted by spending a long life in the pulpit.^ It may 
 be true that, in some respects, the usefulness of our 
 friend is increased by the fact that his life has been 
 broken off, but in other respects it is lessened. His mind 
 was not a reservoir that had been exhausted, but a 
 fountain that would have continued to flow. He is now 
 useful by the bare fact of his having willed to become so, 
 and his unaccomplished purposes are gratefully remem- 
 bered. But if the germ of his good influence be fra* 
 
 * See his Essay on the Posthumous Power of the Pulpit. 
 
k 
 
 MEMOIR. 147 
 
 grant, what might we not expect from its ripened fruit ? 
 It is said that death is gain to him and by his liveliness 
 of sensibility he is well fitted for high enjoyment in 
 heaven. But we never grieve for the dead who die in 
 the Lord ; we weep for ourselves only and for our 
 children. It is said that he was ill prepared to endure 
 the jarrings of the church in her militant condition, and 
 perhaps would have turned away in disgust from public 
 life. But time, which modifies all things, would have 
 blunted the keenness of his sensibility, and the pain 
 which he would have received from one source would be 
 more than balanced by the pleasures that would have 
 come in from other sources. From all such topics of 
 consolation we turn away in sickness of heart, and find 
 no repose until we bow down before the Sovereign who 
 has infinite counsels, and all of them infinitely wise. He 
 had reasons for blighting our hopes, and they were such 
 reasons as we are too weak to comprehend. He required 
 perhaps a new ornament for some niche in the temple 
 above, and he took what seemed unto him good. There 
 is no accomplishment of our friend, no treasure of 
 ancient or of modern lore, no aptness for investigation, no 
 refinement of sensibility, no grace of language or of 
 thought, but has already been combined with the essential 
 character of the soul, and will continue to transmit its 
 influence long after tongues have ceased, and knowledge 
 in its earthly form has vanished away. Then let us fall 
 in reverence before that august Being who disappointeth 
 our hopes, and casteth down our high imaginations. In 
 his view the longest life is but one day, and the shortest 
 is a thousand years. He sends us forth on a solemn 
 mission, and be our death sooner or later, we are bound 
 to leave behind us some memorial of good. Every 
 moment are our hearts " beating their funeral marches to 
 the grave ; " but as we go onward, we may, if we will, 
 
148 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 look upward, and believe where we do not know, and 
 hope where we cannot believe, and submit where we dare 
 not hope. The voice from the tomb is, that we be 
 prepared to live so long as we are called to labor, and 
 willing to die when the time of our release shall come ; 
 rejoicing to linger on the earth, which is after all so 
 goodly to look upon, and choosing rather to depart and to 
 be present with the Lord. 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 NOTE A. p. 14. 
 SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER OF MR. GEORGE J. HOx\IER. 
 
 The name of George Jot Homer ought not to be men- 
 tioned in a Memoir of his son, without a comment on his 
 virtues. His character deserves to be studied as a unique 
 specimen of goodness. It is seldom that we discover such an 
 original and marked variety of Christian excellence. The 
 central quality, around which his other virtues clustered, was 
 kindness of heart. His character was symmetrical, compre- 
 hensive of many good dispositions ; but his benevolence shone 
 forth among them all like the moon among the stars. He is 
 known to have possessed a strong, mature, well balanced 
 mind ; to have been a judicious counsellor, discreet and faith- 
 ful in reproving sin, and ready to administer such rebukes as 
 would be borne from no one less prudent than himself. Yet it 
 is not so easy to conceive of him in the act of imparting sage 
 advice or of reproving some moral delinquency, as in the act 
 of giving a cup of cold water to one of the least of the disci- 
 ples of Christ. He is known to have been, for more than 
 
APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 149 
 
 thirty years, an enterprising and prosperous merchant in Bos- 
 ton ; to have been regular in the duties of the counting-room, 
 punctual in his payments, so exact, systematic and high- 
 minded as to have sustained through severe financial crises a 
 character unimpeached and unsuspected at home and abroad. 
 But it is difficult for many of his friends to conceive of him as 
 strict in making a bargain, or to think of his counting-room as 
 a scene of nice distinctions between " mine and thine." The 
 conception which his personal friends are most apt to form of 
 his habits of business, is expressed to the life in the following 
 words of a clergyman : — " Seldom have any of my children 
 met him, without receiving some present adapted to their age 
 or circumstances. And when I have gone to his store, to pur- 
 chase such articles in his line of business as I needed, he has 
 so frequently insisted on giving them to me, that I have been 
 exceedingly embarrassed by his generosity, and in a number 
 of instances have actually gone to other places to trade, lest it 
 should be thought that I called on him with the expectation of 
 receiving a gratuitous supply of my wants." 
 
 The benevolence of Mr. Homer was peculiar for its hearti- 
 ness. It was a fountain welling up and flowing forth in grate- 
 ful charities ; it was benevolence, as distinguished from that 
 mere beneficence which may be the result of policy or of fear. 
 He performed his useful deeds with singular ease. Some men 
 appear to be always laboring to do good. We feel in con- 
 versing with them that they are calculating on some method 
 of producing a right impression upon us. But Mr. Homer's 
 goodness seemed to come of itself. He spoke the right word 
 or did the right thing, not as if he had determined on it after 
 painful examination, but as if he had never thought of the 
 possibility of his doing or saying otherwise. Hence men did 
 not feel constrained in his society, but felt at home with him 
 because he appeared to be at home with himself. He was so 
 simple and natural in the expression of his goodness, there 
 was so little of effort and straining for effect in his alms-giv- 
 ing, that it seemed easy to be just like him ; and men, who 
 admired his generosity, forgot the inward struggle which the 
 imitation of it would cost them. He was a strictly conscien- 
 13* 
 
150 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 tious man, but was the friend rather than the servant of his 
 moral sense ; was happy in being benevolent, rather than 
 benevolent for the sake of being happy. He gave to the poor, 
 not merely because he felt that he ought to give, but because 
 he loved to give. He did not submit to the law of right, so 
 much as he chose to fulfil it ; and his daily charities sprung 
 from the heartiness of his affection, and not from the fear of 
 being reproached by the stern monitor of duty within him. 
 He was eminently a " cheerful giver," instead of a grudging 
 benefactor ; a genuine philanthropist, instead of a merely use- 
 ful man. 
 
 His benevolence was diffusive ; it was true liberality., limited 
 to no one party, sect or clique. He was one of the earliest 
 patrons of the charitable societies of the day ; but he did not 
 turn all his beneficence into the channel of these associations. 
 His house was the clergyman's home. He loaded the depart- 
 ing missionary with private mementoes of his regard. He 
 furnished the candidate for the ministry with books and cloth- 
 ing. When he visited literary men of meagre income, " he 
 has sometimes," writes one of them, " left a bundle of bank- 
 notes in the Bible or in the drawer of the work-stand," and 
 gone away without an allusion to this sign of his good will. 
 He abounded in private benefactions to the feeble churches of 
 our land, contributing largely for their houses of worship, their 
 social libraries, and the support of their pastors. Nor did he 
 confine his charities to strictly religious objects. The Presi- 
 dent of many a college received from him a rich donation ; 
 many a timid freshman was presented with a valuable classic ; 
 the invalid embarking for a foreign land was furnished with 
 conveniences for his tour ; the merchant was saved from bank- 
 ruptcy by his timely aid ; the clerk was cheered on by his re- 
 wards to renewed faithfulness and perseverance ; he relieved 
 the cab-man from his pecuniary distresses ; he secured profit- 
 able labor for the reformed inebriate ; he sent to many a poor 
 widow just those articles of furniture which were needed for 
 her dependent household, and he gave to little children the 
 toys which would make them happy for the day. A distin- 
 guished Unitarian philanthropist says of him : — " He took a 
 
APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 151 
 
 lively interest in the poor boys at the Farm School ; and many 
 a time, if he saw them at my store, he would come over, take 
 them by the hand, give them friendly advice, walk with them 
 to his own store, and the boys would return each with a pen- 
 knife and tracts. He invariably g-ave each of those who were 
 going from the Institution a knife, good advice, and little 
 books ; so that in after years they would write me. Give my 
 love to the boys at the Farm School' and to Mr. Homer." 
 " The late Dr. Tuckerman, (a Unitarian clergyman and an 
 eminent philanthropist,) loved Mr. Homer, and often remarked 
 to me, that it encouraged him in his duties to visit brother H., 
 who sympathized so deeply in his labors. His life and char- 
 acter did more for Protestantism than that of any one I ever 
 knew ; for the Catholics loved him, he was so true a Christian, 
 and he had great influence over many of them. One of them 
 often called on me during Mr. Homer's last sickness, and said 
 he w^as afraid he should lose his best friend ; and when he 
 heard of his loss, he wept like a child." 
 
 The diffusiveness of Mr. Homer's charity resembled that of 
 his great Master, who was attentive to the corporeal necessi- 
 ties of men, and did not limit his compassion to the calamities 
 of the soul. It was so expansive, because it was so natural. 
 Religion found Mr. Homer a benevolent man, and it increased 
 and purified his native kindness. Without his piety he would 
 have been called good, in the parlance of the world ; with his 
 piety he won the esteem of all who revere, and even of those 
 who condemn his religious faith. His life is instructive, as it 
 shows how much the attractiveness of religion is increased by 
 a generous temper ; how much of moral power is gained by 
 that large-hearted and large-handed philanthropy which fills 
 out and goes beyond the strictly ecclesiastical charities, and 
 strives to prevent distress as distress, to promote happiness as 
 happiness, wherever it can be done, among strangers or friends, 
 political opponents or confederates, in the private retreat or 
 the large community, in the body or the mind. Wherever 
 there was suffering, the fountains of his sympathy were broken 
 up ; and therefore all men, the rich and the poor, the learned 
 and the ignorant, those who agreed with him and those who 
 
152 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 differed from him in his speculative views, did him reverence as 
 a pure-minded and single-hearted follower of Jesus. There was 
 something truly sublime in the spectacle at his funeral ; so 
 many widows were there and orphan children, so many wrin- 
 kled old men, young mechanics and sailors, so many lame, de- 
 formed, or otherwise unsightly persons, so many whose dress 
 and mien showed that they were poor, friendless, sickly, de- 
 serted, all pressing up to catch one more glance at the face of 
 him who had searched them out in their distress, and com- 
 forted them. Military obsequies are a childish pageantry, 
 compared with the honor of being followed to the tomb by 
 blind or decrepid men, and lame women, and poorly clad chil- 
 dren, each mourning the loss of a protector. 
 
 Akin to Mr. Homer's benevolence, partly comprehended 
 under it, was his modesty. His very name suggests the prin- 
 ciple which seeketh not her own, which letteth not the left 
 hand know what the right hand doeth. We often associate a 
 man's character with some particular expression of his coun- 
 tenance or attitude of his body ; and there are not a few who 
 uniformly recall the image of Mr. Homer, as elevating his 
 head, extending his hand, " giving away " some article which 
 he thought would be of use to them, and uttering the low- 
 toned words, " You need not say any thing about this." Of 
 the hundreds who were assembled at his funeral, probably 
 more than half had been the recipients of some favor from 
 him which he had requested them not to make known. It was 
 interesting to hear one and another say in cautious tones, " I 
 am indebted to him for kindnesses which 1 am not at liberty 
 to mention." His heart was so much absorbed in the welfare 
 of others, that he did not appear to notice the applause which 
 he gained by his disinterested life. So highly was he es- 
 teemed for his prudence and discretion, that he was often so- 
 licited to become a candidate for political office ; but, although 
 his interest in politics was deep, he shrunk from all such pub- 
 lic manifestation of it. He resigned office to those who loved 
 it more than he. He refused preferment in the charitable so- 
 cieties which he aided, and the highest honor which he is now 
 remembered to have accepted in these associations, is that of 
 
APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 15S 
 
 auditor of accounts. He would seldom speak a word in the 
 meeting of the church of which he was an exemplary member, 
 but he loved to listen to his brethren, how inferior soever they 
 were to himself. He usually sat in a retired place at these 
 meetings, yielding the front seats to such as were less reluc- 
 tant to take them ; and it must be confessed of him as of 
 another, that " he did not manage his brave parts to his best 
 advantage and preferment, but lost himself in an humble way." 
 The amount of good, which Mr. Homer accomplished, can 
 not be known in this world. It is impossible to measure the 
 influence of a guileless life. If he had endeavored to perform 
 some shining exploit and attract the gaze of men, he might 
 have collected into one charity all the donations which he dis- 
 tributed among the poor, and therewith have founded some 
 useful institution which would have borne his name and stood 
 as a monument of his philanthropy. But he chose to scatter 
 his munificence. His goodness was like the dew distilling 
 gently over the whole wide field, while that of some others is 
 like the stream fertilizing the banks on either hand. Our 
 Bartletts are to be honored for the magnificent endowments 
 which they make, even if they are necessitated thereby to 
 concentrate their charities within a limited sphere. Every 
 liberal man has his own proper calling. It is not a sure sign 
 of a naturally avaricious spirit, that a man will withhold small 
 contributions while he is prodigal of large bequests. Neither 
 is it true that the influence of a philanthropist is lessened by 
 his dispensing the daily charities of life so profusely as to be 
 unable to establish Professorships and endow Asylums. The 
 usefulness of a man is diminished, when ostentation is mingled 
 with his philanthropy, or when a dread of the public gaze de- 
 ters him from the beneficence which he owes to his kind. His 
 motive will sooner or later peer through his deeds, be they ex- 
 posed or covert. It was the noble heart of Mr. Homer which 
 made him the solace of the widow and orphan, the comfort of 
 troubled households, the guide of erring youth, the almoner of 
 Heaven's bounties to thousands who drank of the stream with- 
 out a knowledge of the fountain. The secrecy of his benevo- 
 lence was well known ; and while many particulars relating to 
 
154 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 his generosity are buried in the hearts of the poor, the humil- 
 ity with which he concealed them has been made an object for 
 general and admiring imitation. The sorrow and the love 
 which followed him to the tomb, and now linger around his 
 memory, are a proof that his unobtrusive spirit had exerted a 
 mellowing influence on the hearts of men. One of the noble 
 minded and most opulent merchants of Boston has recently 
 reprinted, at his own expense, the story of La Roche, as a 
 kind of parallel to the life of Mr. Homer, and in the Preface 
 to the Story it is said : 
 
 " I have another reason for wishing this tract republished. 
 If the life and character of La Roche be ideal, they may be 
 emulated and equalled. Indeed there is so great a resemblance 
 between them and those of our excellent friend, the late George 
 Joy Homer, that I do not know in what respect he was inferior 
 to the Swiss Pastor. From youth to old age, he was faithful and 
 diligent in all the duties of a humble, pious man ; and, though 
 sincerely attached to the principles of his own church, he had 
 unbounded charity for every church of Christ, and for every 
 member of it. His religion was not a mere code of articles ; 
 it was practical, a part of his daily life, controlling and guid- 
 ing all he said and did. He strove ever to be ' found watch- 
 ing,' and lived each hour as if it might be his last on earth. 
 In the church, in the counting-room, in his family, and in the 
 street, he was uniformly the same happy, faithful servant of 
 his Master. He was, indeed, a hard worker, a good neighbor, 
 and an honest, pious man ; true in all the relations of life, 
 God-ward, and man-ward. 
 
 " In reading the story of La Roche, let no one say it depicts 
 a character which mortals cannot imitate. For it was not 
 marked by traits of greater purity, benevolence, charity or 
 usefulness than that of our friend, who has gone to his reward. 
 Let us reflect often upon his pure and useful life, the princi- 
 ples by which it was directed, and the Christian liberality 
 which adorned it ; and take heart, when we think that one may 
 be so good, so useful, so much loved and respected, and yet 
 dwell in mortal form. The characters of such faithful ones 
 should be guarded and cherished for their own sakes, and for 
 
APPENDIX fO THE MEMOIR. 155 
 
 the sake of those who come after them. They are our most 
 precious public property. Their lives are charts, by which, if 
 wise, we may shape our own course over the ocean of life, 
 hoping, through the love and mercy of their God and our God, 
 for a future, never ending retinion. 
 
 ' Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright 5 
 For the end of that man is peace.' 
 
 " Our friend never held high office, nor moved in fashionable 
 society, nor obtained great wealth. Let it, therefore, be borne 
 in mind, that it is not by such means, but for the good we do to 
 others, that we are remembered and mentioned with love and 
 respect, when the places which have known us here, know us 
 no more." 
 
 It is alike honorable to Mr. Homer and to the merchants of 
 Boston, (some of whom are princes indeed,) that soon after his 
 death they came forward of their own accord, and erected a 
 beautiful monument to his memory at Mount Auburn. The 
 Inscription upon it is the following : 
 
 En iiacmorg of 
 GEOEGE JOY HOMER, 
 
 A CITIZEN OP BOSTON, 
 
 Who was born January 4th, 1782, 
 
 And died June 7th, 1845 : 
 
 AN INTELLIGENT AND UmiGHT MERCHANT, 
 
 A FRIEND AND BENEFACTOR OF THE POOR, 
 
 A GUIDE AND COUNSELLOR OF THE ERRING ; 
 
 TENDER AND TRUE IN ALL THE RELATIONS OF DOMESTIC LIFE ; 
 
 A DEVOUT AND PIOUS CHRISTIAN ; 
 
 THIS MONUMENT 
 
 IS ERECTED TO PERPETUATE THE MEMORY OF HIS VIRTUES, 
 
 BY 
 
 MANY FRIENDS. 
 
156 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 NOTE B. p. 63. 
 PLAN OF LECTURES ON HOMER AND DEMOSTHENES. 
 
 The following are the subjects of his intended Lectures, and 
 the Books of Reference which he selected after careful exam- 
 ination. 
 
 I. 
 
 CouESE OF Lectures on the Iliad. 
 
 L The German Theoiy of Homer.— II. The Life of Homer.— 
 ni. The Plot and Analysis of the Story.— IV. The Mythology of 
 the Poem. — V. Similes. — VI. Descriptions. — VII. Characters : 
 (Warriors, Old Men, Females.) — VHI. Language : (Dialects, Me- 
 tre, Harmony in sound and sentiment.) — IX. Remarkable Pas- 
 sages : (Parting of Hector with Andromache, AchiUes' Shield, 
 Battle with Rivers, Games, Priam's Supplication.) — X. Geogra- 
 phy, Truth to nature, Tenderness, Epithets, Manners, Repetition, 
 Military Discipline. 
 
 n. 
 
 Course of Lectures ox the Odyssey. 
 
 I. Comparison between the Odyssey and Iliad, and identity of 
 authorship. — II. Plot and Analysis of the Story. — III. Mythology : 
 (Elysium, Olympus, Necyomanteia, etc.) — IV. Manners. — V. De- 
 scriptions. — VI. Characters. — VII. Remarkable Passages : (Pro- 
 teus, Garden of Alcinous, Cyclops, Circe, Scylla and Charybdis.) — 
 VIII. Similes, Language, Tenderness, Simplicity, Geography. 
 
 Four or five Lectures on the Lesser Poems. 
 
 Books of Reference. 
 Wood's Essay on the Original Genius of Homer.— Wolffs Pro- 
 legomena. — Knight's Prolegoncma. (See Classical Journal, Vols. 
 Vn, Vin.) — Granville Penn's Primary Argument of the Iliad.— 
 Review of Granville Penn, London Quarterly, XXVH. — Rejoin- 
 der.— Classical Journal, XXVI.— Pope's several Essays on Homer. 
 — Dionysius Halicarnassus de compositione verborum. — Homeric 
 Question, American Quarterly, II ; London Quarterly, XLIV ; 
 Edinburgh Review, LXII ; North American Review, XXXVII. — 
 Biilwer's Athens, Book I. Chap. 8.— Book II. Chap. 2.— Schubart's 
 Ideen ueber Homer und sein Zeitalter ; (advocating very ably the 
 position that Homer was a Trojan.)— Hcercn's Politics of Ancient 
 Greece. — Dalzel's Lectures on Greek Literature. — Review of 
 Sotheby's Translation, Edinburgh Review, LI. — Review of Hejiie's 
 Homer, Edinburgh Review, 11. — Comparison between Hesiod and 
 Homer, London Quarterly, XL VII. — Thirl wall's History of Greece, 
 Vol. I.— Blackwall's Life of Homer. (Mythology, Travels, Geog- 
 
APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 157 
 
 raphy.)— Clarke's Travels. — Madame Dacier on Homer. — Transla- 
 tion of the Homeric Hymns, Blackwood's Magazine, Vols. 30, 31, 
 32. — Mitford's History of Greece, Vol. I. — Histoiro d'Homere par 
 M. Delisle do Sales. — Franceron Essai sur le question si Hom^re 
 a connu 1' usage de I'ecriture. — Constant de la Religion, Tome 3, 
 Livres 7, 8.— Hug's Erfindung dor Buchstabenschrift. — Krcuser's 
 Vorfrage ueber Homeros, seine Zeit, und Ges'dnge. Frankfort am 
 Main, 1828. — Schoell's Gcschiclite der Griecluschen Literatur. 
 Band 1. — Nitzch. de Historia Homeri Meletemata. — St. Croix' Re- 
 futation d'un paradoxe literaire. — Thiersch's Urgestalt der Odys- 
 see. — Feith's Antiquitates Homericae.— Travels of Anacharsis. — 
 Le Chevalier's Beschreibung der Ebene von Trqja. — Voyage de la 
 Troade. (Translated into English by Dalzel.) — Herder's Schriften 
 zur Griechischen Literatur. (Translated, Blackwood, XLII.) — 
 Ulysse. — Homere par Constantin Tholiades. — Review of Sotheby's 
 Translation of Homer, Blackwood, Vols. 29, 30, 31. — Rapin's Crit- 
 ical Works, Vol. I. — Dionysius Halicarnasseus. — Ars Rhetorica, 
 Chap. VIII, IX, XI. — Ko6s' Commentatio de Discrepantiis quibus- 
 dam in Odyssea occurrentibus. Hafniae, 1806. — Besseldt's Erkla- 
 rinde Einleitung zu Homer's Odyssee. Konigsburg, 1816. — G. 
 Lange's Versucli die poetische Einheit der Odyssee zu bcstimmen. 
 Darmstadt, 1826. — Topography of Troy, and its vicinity, by W. 
 Gell, Esq. of Jesus College. London, 1804. — The History of Ilium 
 or Troy, by the author of Travels in Asia Minor and Greece. 
 (Richard Chandler, D. D.) London, 1802. — Dissertation concern- 
 ing the War of Troy, and the Expedition of the Grecians ; show- 
 ing that no such expedition was ever undertaken, and that no such 
 city of Phrygia ever existed ; by Jacob Bryant, 1796. — Several 
 Replies to Bryant by J. B. S. Morritt, Esq. — Remarks and Observ- 
 ations on the Plain of Troy, made during an excursion in June, 
 1799, by William Franklin, Captain in the service of the East In- 
 dia Company, London, 1800.— Thiersch ueber das Zeitalter und 
 Vaterlaud des Homer. Halberstadt, 1824.— Dr. K. H. W. Volcker 
 ueber Ilomerische Geographic und Weltkunde. Hanover, 1830. 
 
 III. 
 
 Course of Lectures on Demosthenes. 
 
 I. The Constitution of Athens.— H. The Life of Demosthenes, 
 on the basis of the usual biographies, with a complete account of 
 his controversy Math his guardians, and his letters from exile. — IH. 
 The Rise, History and Career of Philip. — IV. The Orations of 
 Demosthenes against Philip ; their history and analysis. — V. The 
 Style of Demosthenes as developed in these speeches. — VI. The 
 remaining Public Orations of Demosthenes. — VII. The Legal Ora- 
 tory of Demosthenes. (Leptines, Midias, etc.) — VIII. The Con- 
 troversy de Corond.— IX. Translation of Dionysius de vi Demos- 
 thenis. — X. Demosthenes compared with Cicero and Modern Ora- 
 tors. 
 
 Books of Reference. 
 
 Mitford's History of Greece, Vols. VI, VII, passim. Vide Chap. 
 38, Sec. 3.— Travels of Anacharsis. — Longinus de Sublimitate. — 
 14 
 
158 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 
 
 Dionysius Halicarnasseus. — Rapin's Critical Works, Vol. I. — Fen- 
 elon on Eloquence. — Reinhard's Confessions, p. 38.— Cicero — Bru- 
 tus, 9.— Orator, 7, 8, 31. — Quinctilian, X. 1. 105, (comparison be- 
 tween Demostlienes and Cicero.) Demosthenes als Staatsmann 
 und Redner — von Becker. — Hume's Essays, (Eloquence.) — Edin- 
 burgh Review, Vols. XII, XXXIII, XXXVI.— Quarterly Review, 
 Vol. XXIX.-North American Review, Vol. XXII.— Biblical Re- 
 pository for 1838, p. 34. — Heeren's Ancient Greece. — Brougham's 
 Sketches of Public Characters, Vol. II.— D. Jenisch's iEsthetisch- 
 kritische Parallele der Demosthenes und Cicero, Berlin, 1801. 
 
LITERARY ADDRESSES. 
 
The first of the following Articles is the Essay on the Posthu- 
 mous Power of the Pulpit, with which Mr. Homer closed the 
 exercises of his class at the thirty- second Anniversary of Andover 
 Theological Seminary. The second is an Oration on the Dramatic 
 Element in Pulpit Oratory, pronounced before the Porter Rhetori- 
 cal Society in Andover Theological Institution, on ]\Ionday, 
 August 31, 1840. See page 58 of the Memoir. These two 
 Addresses and the Sermons which follow them are arranged, with 
 a single exception, according to the order of time in which they 
 were written. 
 
LITERARY ADDRESSES, 
 
 ESSAY ON THE POSTHUMOUS POWER OF THE 
 PULPITJ 
 
 It is one criterion of the value of the human soul, that 
 such a price has been paid for its redemption. It would 
 be a just estimate of the worth of the mind, did we 
 measure it by the toils and sacrifices which in all ages 
 have been endured for its advancement. The principle 
 of vicarious suffering extends beyond that atoning cross 
 which is its chief development. It pervades all history. 
 It connects itself indissolubly with the progress of man. 
 The world is one great altar of sacrifice, to which all 
 minds have contributed their offerings. One who stands 
 on the eminences of the present, may look down on the 
 long period of the past and say, The great ones of other 
 ages have toiled for me, and I have entered into their 
 
 * Rev Mr. Aiken, of Boston, in the discourse which is referred 
 to on the 145th page of the Memoir, remarked, ** Had Mr. Homer 
 looked into the future with prophetic eye, he could scarcely have 
 uttered sentiments more applicable to his own case, than the 
 following, which fell from his lii:>s on occasion of his lea^dng the 
 Theological Seminary at their last Anniversary. * The preacher, 
 who casts his eye far down the lapse of ages into the very bosom 
 of that eternity where time shall almost be forgotten, such a one 
 will make his life a life, short though it be, and will count its days 
 by laboi's, and its years by fruits. In the great harvest the question 
 shall be not /ioio lo7ig, but Jiow much. We shall all be there, these 
 venerable laborers from the vineyard, and those who go do^WTi to 
 their graves youthful and strong.' " 
 
162 THE POSTHUMOUS POWER 
 
 harvest. In me may be centering all the sacrifices and 
 labors ever endured for learning and for truth. I stood 
 by the pile of Polycarp, or studied in the cloister of 
 Augustine, or heard Luther thunder from the old high 
 pulpit, or sat through the second hour-glass of Mather's 
 long discourse, because for me, the martyr and the monk, 
 the reformer and the puritan have lived and labored and 
 died. So impressed were some of the old theologians 
 with this connection between the present and the past, 
 that they fastened on Adam's posterity an identity with 
 his person and his crime, and crowded the whole family 
 of man into the very garden where they were doomed to 
 sinfulness and to wo. 
 
 Prominent among the almoners of this posthumous 
 power is the pulpit. The preacher is laboring for the 
 future, for eternity. Death or the sure current of time 
 often bears him onward to a sphere of action too vast for 
 life. Perhaps he is doomed like all great minds to the 
 misfortune of outstripping the tardy age by a precocious 
 growth. Time will be faithful in bringing round the 
 hour of his recompense, when death shall arrest his 
 progress and allow him to be overtaken and honored by a 
 slow-moving world. Perhaps he toils in a sphere of 
 slender opportunities. Death will disentangle the spirit 
 from time and space, the present barriers of its influence, 
 and make it cross oceans, and it may be pervade the 
 earth. Perhaps he is cut off from the midst of brilliant 
 and successful exertion. Death by its startling sudden- 
 ness will so quicken his power, that it shall surpass the 
 living voice. Milton was reviled by his contemporaries 
 as a " black mouthed Zoilus," ** a profane and lascivious 
 poetaster ; " but how soon did posterity gather around his 
 bier, and the tribute to the despised dreamer became the 
 worship of a prophet indeed. The classical and learned 
 discourses of Jeremy Taylor may have been lost to the 
 
OF THE PULPIT. 
 
 fro 
 
 servants and children of Lord Carberry, to whom they 
 were first preached. But the light then kindled at 
 Golden Grove, among the peasantry of Wales, was des- 
 tined to be one of the altar fires of the British pulpit, 
 and for ages to come the treasures collected for that young 
 and illiterate audience shall be the wealth of scholars. 
 There are some present who mourned the premature 
 extinction of that graceful luminary which shed its mild 
 light on the churches of our neighboring city, in the hour 
 of their darkness and peril. But how much more may 
 have been accomplished by the spirit of the youthful 
 Huntington, moving amid those churches in the quick- 
 ened memory of his few first fruits, than if he had lived 
 till now, and had come up here to-day, with white head 
 and venerable mien to receive our homage. And through 
 the whole history of the past, how much more may such 
 minds have accomplished by this invisible transmigration 
 of their power, than if they had continued until now to 
 animate their mortal frames, walking among men with all 
 the hindrances of direct communion, and pent up within 
 the close walls of an earthly tabernacle. How wise is 
 that Providence by which the world is not left to stand 
 still and grow old, but age follows age and generation 
 comes to the relief of generation in bearing on the 
 gathered resources of the past, and we of the present 
 enter into our work like those Spanish princes who lived 
 and reveled and reigned in the cemeteries of their 
 ancestors and over their very dust. 
 
 The preacher must be sensible through his whole 
 ministry of his own fellowship with the past. In his 
 study he is surrounded by a host of these invisible spirits, 
 not merely as they stand embedded in parchment within 
 his library, but as with real presence they touch the 
 chords of feeling, or move the springs of intellect, or 
 guide the glowing pen. In the pulpit they stand by his 
 
 Of. THF 
 
164 THE POSTHUMOUS POWER 
 
 side to animate his action or to point his language, and 
 sometimes they whisper the words of ancient piety after 
 its spirit is gone. "The common-places of prayers and 
 of sermons," suggests a late eccentric writer, " are each 
 the select expression of some stricken or jubilant soul, 
 but now, like the zodiac of Denderah, and the astronomi- 
 cal monuments of the Hindoos, they do but mark the 
 height to which the waters once rose." Should some old 
 puritan be summoned from his grave to visit the churches 
 that have swerved most from his fondly-cherished stand- 
 ards, he might wonder to find a worship so goodly amid 
 the very ruins of his faith ; where filial affection has 
 graved on the memory and stereotyped in the usage the 
 phrases that are orthodox and old. 
 
 The people also as well as their spiritual teachers, feel 
 the posthumous power of the pulpit. In that great 
 analysis which shall one day be made of the world's 
 history, the influence of the pastor will stand forth as one 
 chief element which has formed and modified society. 
 The elevation of his office, the dignity of his pursuits, 
 the solemn scenes where he mingles with men, all com- 
 bine to invest his person with a mystery which throws far 
 and wide a hallowing influence. When he dies, the 
 remembrances of his example and counsel are often 
 gathered as the relics of a master spirit, and the word 
 that dropped from his lips almost unconsciously and long 
 ago, will be living and working when the voice is 
 hushed. There is a beautiful village of New England 
 from which Whitefield was driven with such rancorous 
 abuse, that he shook ofl" the dust of his feet and pro- 
 claimed that the Spirit of God should not visit that spot, 
 till the last of those persecutors was dead. The good 
 man's curse had a fearful power in it, though he was not 
 divinely armed with the prophet's sword. A conscious- 
 ness of desertion paralyzed the energies of that church ; 
 
OF THE PULPIT. 165 
 
 for nearly a century it was nurtured on the unwholesome 
 food of a strange doctrine, in the very garden of natural 
 loveliness it sat like a heath in the desert upon which 
 there could be no rain, and not till that whole generation 
 had passed from the earth did Zion appear there in her 
 beauty and strength. 
 
 It is the sentiment of an American theologian, one 
 who has himself lived to be spoken of and admired as 
 other men are after death, *' Preach for posterity." It 
 cannot be denied that some preachers live too exclusively 
 in the future. Their plans are for prospective rather 
 than for immediate usefulness. They elaborate for after 
 ages, and depend too little upon the living voice, and the 
 glorious consciousness of doing now. They stop to dry up 
 the fluids of present vitality, that they may embalm them- 
 selves as mummies for posterity. Yet while the preacher 
 should strive chiefly to act in the living present, he should 
 often draw his bow at a venture, and with unwonted ten- 
 sion, that it may reach within the veil of the great hereafter. 
 The sermons that have cost days and nights of mental 
 wrestling are those that will speak with deep-voiced power 
 to the future. Though they pass by like a forgotten dream, 
 the day shall come when those great elements of thought 
 they suggest, shall be summoned to their work. They 
 will live and act in those periods of mental exigency, 
 when the memories of the past hear a resurrection trum- 
 pet, and come forth from their graves. That preacher 
 who would be immortal, must turn off occasionally from 
 the efforts which sweep over the people the waves of tem- 
 porary excitement, and brace himself for those cool re- 
 searches and those mighty labors which strike so deep that 
 not a ripple is seen on the surface. 
 
 The preacher who would be felt and acknowledged af- 
 ter death should cultivate individuality of influence. The 
 men who are remembered as leaders and formers of 
 
166 THE POSTHUMOUS POWER ^ 
 
 mind, have stood out with personal distinctness among the 
 mass, and have had a character of their own to stamp up- 
 on the world. And the preacher should see to it that his 
 own idiosyncrasy be prominent amid the elements which 
 he must derive from without. He should cultivate that 
 portion which God and nature have assigned to him, not 
 burying his identity under the garb of a servile imitation, 
 but ever striving to be himself. If he be but the patch- 
 work from admired models, he covers over the image 
 which his Creator enstamped upon him, and posterity will 
 never distinguish his features in the indiscriminate mass. 
 He becomes but a new channel for fountains that have 
 long been open, instead of sending forth from the depths 
 of his own original nature a full current of good influen- 
 ces to mankind. 
 
 It becomes the preacher to watch also with sedulous 
 jealousy the moral and religious impressions which he 
 leaves upon others. ** If a minister," says Dr. Scott, ** go 
 to the verge of a precipice, his people will be sure to go 
 over." The corrupt doctrine, the impure example will 
 be working its silent work, long after the hand that start- 
 ed it has crumbled into dust. There is a certain disease 
 which seems to stay its progress after it has destroyed the 
 life of its victims, so that those who look into their coffins 
 for months after they are buried will find the dead in the 
 freshness of their first entombment. Sometimes a whole 
 family will follow each other with strange rapidity into 
 the embraces of this wasting foe, and there is a vulgar 
 but terrible tradition, that the dead sustain the appearance 
 of vitality by preying upon the life of surviving friends. 
 The dead one comes in to touch with skinny fingers the 
 food they eat, to taint with corrupted lungs the air they 
 breathe, to press them in a close embrace, till they are 
 won to his own ghastly fellowship. And just such 
 is the power of a diseased influence from the pulpit. It 
 
OP THE PULPIT. 167 
 
 must live long after the preacher is dead. It must stalk 
 with fearful contagion through the paths of his corrupting 
 walk. It must brood as with raven-wing over the altar 
 where he proclaimed his pestilent doctrines. It must 
 gather its victims from the lambs of his own flock, and 
 poison the famished ones that cried at his table for food. 
 Sometimes it may fix its viper-fangs in the very heart 
 of the community and reduce the whole region to the 
 loathsomenesss of death. 
 
 Finally, the preacher should cultivate a habit of living 
 above, and independently of the bondage of time, or death. 
 **We cannot deceive God and nature," says an old writer, 
 ** for a coffin is a coffin, though it be covered with a pom- 
 pous veil ; and the minutes of our time strike on, and are 
 counted by angels, till the period comes, which must give 
 warning to all the neighbors that thou art dead. And if 
 our death can be put off a little longer, what advantage 
 can it be in the accounts of nature and felicity. They 
 that three thousand years agone died unwillingly, and 
 stopped death two days or staid it a week — what is their 
 gain — where is that week 1 " And the preacher who 
 casts his eye far down the lapse of years, into the very 
 bosom of that eternity where time shall almost be forgot- 
 ten — such a one will make his life a life, short though it 
 be, and will count its days by labors, and its years by 
 fruits. In that great harvest, the question asked shall 
 be, not hoio long, but how much. We shall all be there — 
 these venerable laborers from the vineyard, and those 
 who go down to their graves youthful and strong. The 
 differences of age and station shall then be forgotten, 
 when each shall have placed in his hand and before his 
 eye that golden chain which connects him with the whole 
 brotherhood of being. And there shall be the long line 
 of our spiritual descendants, like jewels that pave the 
 eternal vista. Though they stand not by our death-beds, 
 
168 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 
 
 like those old philosophers, to inhale our spirits, we shall 
 feel our own warm breath coming back upon us, and 
 shall discern our own lineaments as in a mirror. Though 
 they seek not in the spirit of that ancient affection, to 
 place their burial-urns close to ours, or to mingle their 
 ashes with our own, long before deposited, they shall 
 come at last to lie down with us in our joy or our wo. 
 
 THE DRA.MATIC ELEMENT IN PULPIT ORATORY. 
 
 The earliest modern attempt to make the Drama a 
 vehicle of spiritual instruction, was rather amusing than 
 successful. As was its origin in classic Greece, so was 
 its revival in catholic Europe most intimately connected 
 with religion. The monks of the dark ages, unable to 
 render attractive the simple truths of the Bible, endeav- 
 ored to set forth its events and doctrines by scenic repre- 
 sentation. But the stupidity of both teacher and pupil 
 made way for barbarous anachronisms in these sacred 
 mysteries. The motley stage-group would at one time 
 bring together in strange commingling, the Saviour of 
 the world, the ass of Balaam, and the poet Virgil talking 
 in rhyme. Another catastrophe would present the fig- 
 ures of our first parents arrayed with the implements of 
 modern industry — Adam with spade and plough, and his 
 frail consort at her spinning-wheel. " I have myself," 
 says Coleridge, " a piece of this kind on the education of 
 Eve's children, in which after the fall and repentance of 
 Adam, the offended Maker condescends to visit them and 
 
IN PULPIT ORATORY. 
 
 m 
 
 to catechise the children, who with a noble contempt of 
 chronology are all brought together from Adam to Noah. 
 The good children say the ten commandments, the apos- 
 tle's creed, and the Lord's prayer ; but Cain, after he had 
 received a box on the ear for not taking off his hat, and 
 afterward offering his left hand, is tempted by the devil 
 so to blunder in the Lord's prayer as to reverse the peti- 
 tion and say it backward." 
 
 And yet there is a dramatic exhibition of truth very 
 different from the measured tread of the buskin, or the 
 fiummery of modern theatricals. The stage has become 
 so corrupt that it has degraded the very taste and spirit 
 on which it is founded. We speak of the dramatic ele- 
 ment such as it exists in true naturalness and dignity 
 within the soul of man, and such as even Inspiration has 
 employed to arouse attention to its solemn themes. The 
 Old Testament contains whole books, which are emi- 
 nently dramatic both in their structure and style. The 
 exquisite poetry of Solomon's Song takes the form of 
 almost constant dialogue between the various individuals 
 of the nuptial group, while the company of virgins, aa 
 the scholar cannot fail to notice, is like the chorus of the 
 Grecian Tragedy. The poem of Job, not alone in the 
 distinctness of its characters, but in the varied interest of 
 its scenes and the deep and startling power of its descrip- 
 tions, may lay claim to the dramatic sisterhood. Even 
 David often combines the drama with the ode, and we 
 lose the charm of some of his richest melodies, unless we 
 hear separate and responsive voices, sometimes from a 
 single companion in music and praise, sometimes from 
 the assembled chorus of Israel, again from the ever-elo- 
 quent depths of nature, and now deep and solemn from 
 the bosom of God. 
 
 Yet it is the dramatic spirit rather than the dramatic 
 form that we chiefly notice in Scripture. It is that in«- 
 15 
 
170 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 
 
 tense, vivid and picture-like expression, into which the 
 poetry of the Bible in its flashes of excitement so often 
 rises. Such are those sudden changes of person through- 
 out the Psalms, where the narrator becomes at once the 
 actor, and throws down the harp to take up the sword 
 and shield. Such is the sombre procession of ghosts that 
 Isaiah summons to meet the king of Babylon. Ushered 
 in by the exulting fir-trees and cedars of Lebanon, they 
 come to utter taunts over his unburied corse, to sound 
 the noise of viols in his ears, and to spread over him his 
 wormy coverlid. The prophets in fact are pervaded 
 throughout by this dramatic spirit. We hear in them the 
 voices of busy multitudes, and the din of bustling action. 
 They hurry us across a stage hung with every form of 
 scenery, fields waving with harvests, or bristling with 
 spears — nations charioted and crowned in triumph, or 
 sitting in sackcloth, solitary. In our ears are the shout- 
 ing for the summer-fruits, or the trumpeted alarm from 
 the mountains, or the doleful creatures howling over the 
 ruins of ancient splendor, and sometimes sweet strains of 
 the orchestral music of heaven. 
 
 Nor in the more didactic dispensation of the New Tes- 
 tament are we entirely destitute of the same rhetorical 
 feature. It is true, the inspired fishermen tell their story 
 with few of the graces of style, and but little vividness of 
 emotion. Luke, the most accomplished historian, has a 
 severe classical taste which confines him to the simple 
 language of narrative and the chasteness of Greek mod- 
 els. Paul, though he occasionally introduces the forms 
 of logical dialogue, would seem to have studied in the 
 school of Demosthenes rather than that of ^Eschylus. 
 But where can be found a richer variety of the dramatic 
 style in its simple elements, than in the parables and dis- 
 courses of our Saviour, crowded as they are with beauty 
 and tenderness and solemn sublimity, and appealing to 
 
IN PULPIT OUATORY. 
 
 »l 
 
 the soul of man from its sympathy with life and action. 
 And how fall of the loftiest dramatic life is the vision un- 
 folded at Patmos, where the spirit of Hebrew Poetry looks 
 out at the eye of the last of the prophets, and 
 
 " gorgeous tragedy, 
 In sceptred pall, comes sweeping by." 
 
 With what a magic hand are we hurried through the 
 three great acts of this sublime yet mysterious drama — to 
 watch the shifting scenes in seals and vials and trumpets 
 — each movement of the grand plot amid thunderings and 
 -earthquakes — till time deepens into eternity, and the toil- 
 ing church on earth becomes the praising church in 
 heaven. 
 
 With these inspired models, and with subjects so fitted 
 to foster the dramatic spirit, it seems natural that the 
 preacher should exhibit something of this element in his 
 discourses. The most eloquent pulpit-orators have often 
 availed themselves of the dramatic form with no little 
 effect. It may be observed in those changes of scene 
 and of character, by which the monotony of the didactic 
 discourse is relieved, and its truths stand out like life. 
 Particularly do the historical themes of the Bible furnish 
 scope for this peculiar style. A sermon founded upon a 
 scene or character in sacred history, may be in one sense 
 a perfect drama, constructed in close accordance with the 
 most classic models. The preacher may trace the pro- 
 gress of the story with a vividness surpassing pictured and 
 shifting scenery. He may present the varied characters, 
 with an individuality of delineation, more striking than if 
 they stood forth in person upon the stage. He may act 
 out the catastrophe in glowing language, and lifesome 
 gesture, as if himself were living over again the scene he 
 depicts. He may intersperse the whole with homiletic 
 preludes and interludes, like the chantings of a moral 
 
172 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 
 
 chorus, amid the stir of tragedy. Or without attempting 
 this prolonged exhibition of dramatic skill, he may, like 
 Whitefield, mingle this form with his occasional discourses 
 — varying the sameness of direct address by alternate 
 scenes of terror or of joy — causing the past and the future 
 to come homelike the living present to the soul, and mak- 
 ing the pulpit speak forth with the varied tongues of 
 angels and men. But for this dramatic form in the pulpit 
 rare powers are requisite. It demands an ability to dis- 
 tinguish and depict the nicer shades of character, or it is 
 the form without the power and life. It should be char- 
 acterized by true dignity of moral picturing, or it becomes 
 the false glare of histrionic tinsel. It should be pervaded 
 by spiritual unction, or it degenerates to buffoonery and 
 farce. 
 
 But it is the dramatic spirit which may be most suc- 
 cessfully and generally cultivated in pulpit oratory. As 
 the form of dialogue may exist without its impression of 
 vividness and force, so the dramatic spirit may pervade 
 the sermon, and warm and animate the style, where there 
 is no formal succession of scenes and persons. It is this 
 characteristic which is most opposed to the barren and 
 deadening influence of abstract theology — theology which 
 has made the men described, and the men addressed from 
 the pulpit, like statues lifeless and cold. The dramatic 
 spirit in all its dealings with men, will turn away from the 
 stiff specimen picture hung up in the garret, and in the 
 open air will draw from the breathing figures of nature. 
 And not content with re-creating the men that had been 
 turned to stones, the dramatic preacher will invade the 
 very domain of this granite Circe, to transform its stones 
 to men. Under his Ithuriel touch, abstraction becomes 
 being. The words dealed out to the people are truths 
 passed through the fire of life. Ideas stand forth with 
 the breathing force of objective realities. The lines of 
 
IN PULPIT ORATORY, ITS 
 
 his own experience blaze around his thoughts, and he 
 speaks with the energy of one who reads his doctrine in 
 the clear pages of history, or the burning revelations of 
 prophecy — with a cloud of witnesses from the past and the 
 future, gathering near to confirm with trumpet-tone the 
 sentence. He presents truth as it breathes in the stirring 
 scenes of every day life, or as it speaks in some new, yet 
 lifelike group which the imagination may call up. He is 
 so familiar with men, that he seems to dwell within the 
 temple of their very consciousness. Does he draw from 
 that store-house of scenery and character, the Bible, he 
 seems to live over again the David, and the Paul, and the 
 Jesus. To him, Christianity is one walking among men, 
 with his form erect and his eye on heaven, and Judgment 
 is the hurrying of the very audience to whom he speaks, 
 pale and trembling, before the bar of the great assize. 
 When he touches upon sin, it instantly leaves the vague 
 abstraction of depravity, and assumes a concrete and pal- 
 pable form. It is one sin selected with penetrating eye 
 from the long black catalogue. It is the very one that he 
 has wrestled with and wept over in his own closet, or 
 traced with keen sagacity in the hearts of others. It 
 stands out as no cold hypothesis, but a stern reality. The 
 subject of his discourse is the criminal himself rather 
 than the crime. He unveils the seclusion of the sinner, 
 he brings to view his parleys with conscience, his dally- 
 ings with temptation, he traces his downward progress 
 from step to step, for a moment he follows him back in 
 his weak and hesitating relapse toward virtue, till again 
 the ground crumbles beneath his feet, and the solemn 
 dramatist suspends him over the brink. The hearer goes 
 away and says — a man has spoken to us — he has spoken 
 to me. 
 
 No writer possesses more of this dramatic skill than 
 that Shakspeare of theology, John Bunyan. It has been 
 15* 
 
174 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 
 
 justly observed, that while other dramatists make their 
 men personifications of moral qualities, he turns the ab- 
 stract qualities into men. What Mr. Honest said of him- 
 self, will apply to all the characters of the Pilgrim's 
 Progress — **so the old gentleman blushed and said, not 
 Honesty in the abstract, but Honest is my name." And 
 this is the secret of Bunyan's power over us in childhood. 
 " All the world is a stage," but the young heart is most 
 full of dramatic life and action, and that author speaks to 
 its condition and kindles its love, who clothes upon the 
 ideal, and peoples it with familiar forms. The Christian's 
 conflicts and joys have a power over those fresh and buoy- 
 ant feelings, which the sternest tragedy cannot surpass. 
 With unwearied interest we follow the Pilgrim from *• the 
 slough of despond from which he could not get out by 
 reason of the burden that was upon his back," to the river 
 of death where Hope says to him, ** Be of good cheer, 
 my brother, I feel the bottom and it is good." There is 
 not a brave picture in the interpreter's house, or a goodly 
 prospect from the delectable mountains, before which we 
 do not pause and admire. In our imagination we affix to 
 each character its appropriate features, and our idea of 
 Mr. Feeble-mind, Mr. By-ends and Mr. Great-heart *'who 
 was not afraid of the lions," will be as distinct and defi- 
 nite as if they were our own traveling companions. So 
 perfect is this dramatic power ihat we become ourselves 
 in sympathy the actors, and experience as we read along 
 every alternation of feeling. We ourselves shudder at 
 the hideous pit-falls, or turn pale in the giant's dungeon, 
 or tug up the hill of difficulty, or *' awake to sing in the 
 chamber whose name is peace." We ourselves step for- 
 ward with shoulders pressed back, and glances of defi- 
 ance at those who bar up our pathway, and say with a 
 stout voice to the man with the inkhorn, " Set down my 
 name, sir ; " and it seems as if our own souls were rav- 
 
IN PULPIT ORATORY. 
 
 -m 
 
 ished at " the pleasant voices from those within, even 
 those that walk on the top of the palace." How Bunyan 
 may have employed this element in his preaching will ap- 
 pear from a homely passage, which, though a specimen 
 of the lower kind of dramatic power, is singularly adapt- 
 ed to bring home the stern realities of truth to an illiter- 
 ate audience. ''They that will have heaven," he says, 
 ** must run for it, because the devil, the law, sin, death 
 and hell follow them. There is never a poor soul that is 
 going to heaven, but the devil, the law, sin, death and 
 hell make after that soul. And I will assure you the devil 
 is nimble, he can run apace, he is light of foot ; he hath 
 overtaken many ; he hath turned up their heels, and hath 
 given them an everlasting fall. Also the law; that can 
 shoot a great way ; have a care that thou keep out of the 
 reach of those great guns, the ten commandments. Hell 
 also hath a wide mouth, and can stretch itself farther than 
 you are aware of If this were well considered, then 
 thou, as well as I, wouldst say, they that will have heaven 
 must run for it." 
 
 The French pulpit has perhaps been more distinguished 
 for the dramatic style of its discourses than any other. 
 But it is too often the glitter of theatrical show, and the 
 aim after stage-effect that is exhibited by the preachers of 
 that gay people, rather than the natural out-flowing of 
 vivid and life-like emotion. Among the old divines of 
 England, Jeremy Taylor has most availed himself of the 
 dramatic element, occasionally in prolonged passages of 
 tragic grandeur, again in the graphic lifesomeness of 
 those jcomparisons in which all nature seems endowed 
 with speech, and chiefly in that personal and individual 
 power with which he depicts and reproaches sin. '* That 
 soul that cries to those rocks to cover her, if it had not 
 been for thy perpetual temptations, might have followed 
 the Lamb in a white robe : and that poor man that is 
 
176 THB DRAMATIC ELEMENT 
 
 clothed with shame and flames of fire would have shined 
 in glory, but thou didst force him to be partner of thy 
 baseness." 
 
 Among the metaphysical divines of New England, that 
 admirable theologian. Dr. Bellamy, was particularly dis- 
 tinguished for the same element. We may see some 
 traces of it in the fourth of his profound and eloquent 
 discourses on '* the wisdom of God in the permission of 
 sin," where in his own beautiful language, '* patriarchs, 
 prophets, apostles, martyrs, and angels, mixed in the same 
 assembly, all join to carry on the conversation, each filled 
 with holy delight, while the ways of God to man, and the 
 ways of man to God, are all the theme." But it was 
 chiefly in his extemporaneous efforts, under circumstances 
 calculated to excite and enliven, that his noble frame and 
 sonorous voice seemed to kindle with the inspiration of 
 his soul. The following graphic account of the style and 
 manner of Bellamy is from the pen of an eye-witness, 
 and may be valuable as illustrating the mode in which 
 the sternest theology may be dramatized. " While I was 
 an undergraduate at New Haven," says the historian 
 Trumbull, "the Dr. preached a lecture for Mr. Bird. 
 At the time appointed there was a full house. The Dr. 
 prayed and sang, then rose before a great assembly appa- 
 rently full of expectation, and read for his text — * Cursed 
 be he that confirmeth not all the words of the law to do 
 them.' The number and appearance of the people ani- 
 mated the preacher, and he instantly presented them with 
 a view of the twelve tribes of Israel assembled on Mt. 
 Ebal and Mt. Gerizim, and the audience were made to 
 hear the Levites distinctly reading the curses, and all the 
 thousands of Jacob repeating them, uttering aloud their 
 approving Amen. Twelve times, says the Dr., it goes 
 round, round, round all the camp of Israel. Cursed be 
 the man who committeth this or the other iniquity. Nay, 
 
IN PULPIT ORATORY. -177 
 
 round it goes through all the thousands of God's chosen 
 people — * Cursed is he that confirmeth not all the words 
 of the law to do them ; and all the people shall say, Amen.' 
 Having from a variety of views established the leading 
 point, that every sin deserves eternal death, that he may 
 treat all parties fairly, he brought the objector upon the 
 stage to remonstrate against the doctrine he had advanced. 
 Then Gabriel was brought down to show the futility of 
 these objections, and the impious presumption of making 
 them against the divine law and government. They were 
 clearly answered, and the opponent was triumphantly 
 swept from the stage. The argument gained strength and 
 beauty through the whole progress." It seemed as if so 
 many new witnesses were summoned for the truth. The 
 stern doctrines of the gospel assumed a lifesomeness and 
 a plausibility, which they could not possess in the cold- 
 ness of abstract detail, and to each sinner there seemed 
 to come a voice pronouncing upon him the fearful doom 
 and demanding his approving amen. 
 
 There is a familiar passage in one of the sermons of 
 Tholuck, which is perhaps the best specimen to be found 
 in any language of the higher dramatic power. It is de- 
 signed to illustrate the danger of delay in religion, and 
 we are hurried from one scene to another with a rapidity 
 which is equaled only by the vividness with which each 
 individual picture is presented. First, we stand by a 
 burning house, and we follow the distracted parent as he 
 hurries back for the missing one, only to hear the words, 
 *• Too latc^^ from the tumbling walls. Instantly it is 
 night about us, and we hear the tramp of a courser, as 
 the wanderer flies homeward for a dying father's blessing. 
 " Too late^^ is the shriek that pierces his soul as he 
 reaches the dwelling of death. Again the scene is 
 changed. We stand by a scaflbld. The victim, the exe- 
 cutioner, the implements of death, and the shivering mul- 
 
178 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 
 
 titude are around us. Suddenly and far off on the distant 
 hill, there are signs of joy. A low murmur begins at the 
 verge of the crowd, and like a wave of sound seems 
 speedily to pervade the whole mass of being. Pardon — 
 Pardun — Pardon — but not till the guilty head has fallen, 
 " Yea," says the preacher, ** since the earth has stood, 
 the heart of many a man has been fearfully pierced 
 through by the cutting words — Too late. But oh, who 
 will describe the lamentation that shall arise, when at the 
 boundary line which parts time from eternity, the voice 
 of the righteous judge will cry — Too late. Long have 
 the wide gates of heaven stood open, and its messengers 
 have cried. To-day, to-day if ye will hear his voice. Man, 
 man, how then will it be with you, when once those gates 
 with appalling sound shall be shut for eternity." 
 
 Gentlemen of the Porter Rhetorical Society, 
 
 On former occasions like the present, you have had 
 presented from this chair, the rules and principles of 
 Christian action. We have chosen to leave behind as 
 our legacy, a branch of that great science which our 
 association is designed to cultivate, persuaded that we 
 should become better preachers if we analyzed more 
 closely the characteristics of pulpit-power, and caught 
 the spirit of its illustrious models. Brethren, let these be 
 our parting counsels. Walk among men, as those who 
 receive impressions of life, which will linger about you 
 in the closet and study. Read truth in the kindling eye, 
 and the elastic step of your brother. Let it speak out in 
 the scenes of your personal history, and the breathing 
 pictures of the world you live in. Talk with your own 
 souls as a familiar friend, and listen like David Brainerd 
 to " the various powers and affections of the mind, alter- 
 nately whispering" their part in the great drama of your 
 
IN PULPIT ORATORY. 179 
 
 inward life. Commune with men, not the men of a sin- 
 gle idea, or the creatures of some one profession, but 
 those who have the world crowded into their souls, and 
 life speaking through their language. Cultivate an ac- 
 quaintance with the great past, whether it open to you 
 the cave of the * golden-mouthed ' at Antioch, or ride 
 over the prophet's battle-field at Mecca, or come swelling 
 op in organ-tones from the English cathedral. Study phi- 
 losophically that myriad-minded man, the great dramatist. 
 Learn theology whether it burns on the brow of Lear, or 
 laughs under the coxcomb of his fool. Behold your own 
 system of belief, that in which you were baptized in 
 infancy, which you professed before angels in manhood, 
 which you hope to preach to old age, behold it speaking 
 out in the unconscious developments of genius, and value 
 it none the less that it comes not from a catechism, but 
 from a play. Chiefly imbibe the dramatic spirit of the 
 Bible, and dwell on its great eternal themes till your own 
 souls are won to a true fellowship. Above all, be your- 
 selves men, not a monk peeping out upon the world 
 through the dim lattice of a cloister ; not an owl dismal 
 and sullen in the sunshine of existence. Be a man — 
 acting, loving, living, with a sympathy for souls weighing 
 upon your hearts, beaming from your eyes, burning in 
 your speech. So may you hope to obtain what a great 
 orator has called, ♦' not eloquence merely, but action, no- 
 ble, sublime, godlike action." 
 
'mi 
 
SERMONS 
 
 16 
 
SERMON I. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS 
 TRUTH UPON THE SINNER. 
 
 A PROPHET IS NOT WITHOUT HONOll, SAVE IN HIS OWN COUNTRY, AND 
 
 IN HIS OWN HOUSE.— Matthew 13 : 57. 
 
 That must have been an impressive scene, when Jesus 
 first stood up to teach in the synagogue of his native city. 
 Nearly a year before, he had left his kindred to go up to 
 Jerusalem. During that absence, he had received the 
 seal of water from the hand of the Baptist, and witnessed 
 the descent of the Heavenly Dove with its voice of con- 
 firmation. He had met Satan in the wilderness, and 
 achieved a victory never before accomplished by man. 
 In the spirit and power of a prophet, he had purged the 
 temple at Jerusalem of its impurities. He had jourrieyed 
 through Samaria dispensing his miraculous favors, and by 
 his wisdom and his eloquence bringing multitudes to the 
 truth. Allured by those social attachments to which his 
 heart was by no means a stranger, he comes back to re- 
 visit the scenes of his childhood. He had left them a 
 poor man's son ; he returns in the power of the Holy 
 Ghost. Pale and worn with his spiritual conflicts, yet 
 animated by the success of his past labors, and enthusi- 
 astic in the consciousness of his divine mission, " he 
 stands up in the synagogue for to read." " And the eyes 
 
184 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 of all them that were in the house were fastened on him." 
 What now was the question with which this impressive 
 silence was broken ? What could they say to rid them- 
 selves of the impression of his short but thrilling dis- 
 course? "Is not this Joseph's son?" And supposing 
 that there was arrogance in his pretensions, they thrust 
 him out of the city. 
 
 After a career of successful benevolence, he appears a 
 second time in the neighborhood of his early home. 
 Again the truth of his sayings is pressed upon their 
 hearts and consciences. Again they take refuge from its 
 power by pointing to his former occupation, and to his 
 brothers and sisters who were all with them. Again the 
 Saviour of mankind is constrained to crucify the sympa- 
 thies of his humanity, and turns his back on the friends 
 of his childhood with the sentiment of the text, " A 
 prophet is not without honor, save in his own country, 
 and in his own house." 
 
 What was the chief circumstance which contributed to 
 this rejection ? No doubt the envy of an equal, or the 
 contempt of an inferior may have had part in it ; but 
 chiefly it was their familiarity with the person of the 
 prophet. Had a stranger appeared to them with these 
 high pretensions, even though his garb had been humble 
 and his mien lowly, he could not have been so contemned. 
 No doubt the multitude would have turned scornfully 
 away from the meek one ; but, who can doubt that some 
 expectant mother or daughter in Israel, some veteran 
 waiting for the promises, w^ould have hailed him as the 
 Messiah ? But now, not one comes forward to receive 
 his benediction, or to bid him God speed in his glorious 
 enterprise. He was too well known to receive the honor 
 that he merited. 
 
 Other illustrations of the principle of the text are of 
 constant occurrence. There is hardly a period in his- 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 185 
 
 lory, or a family that does not testify to its truth ; — be it 
 the discoverer of a new continent, compelled to seek pat- 
 ronage from a foreign court, or the child of genius, no- 
 where less flattered and less honored than beneath his 
 father's roof The voice of the preacher, that is as music 
 to the ears of a stranger, falls unheeded upon the slum- 
 berers of his own flock ; and he whom great men revere 
 as an oracle shall find many a familiar to doubt, and to 
 scoff at his counsels. The wonders of nature also are 
 nowhere so little revered as among those who were born 
 and nurtured under their very shadow. Who thinks of 
 pausing to wonder at the precipice which hung over his 
 cradle in infancy, or at the cataract whose thunder was 
 the music of his boyhood ? How many live indifferent 
 and careless amid natural splendors that multitudes are 
 compassing sea and land to behold ! Even truth itself — 
 how valueless does it often become to those who have 
 drawn it in with their earliest being ! And it sometimes 
 seems, as if Jesus Christ coming to visit this land of his 
 peculiar residence, this land where he has made himself 
 most familiar in the ordinances of his gospel and in the 
 blessings of his grace, comes to find that the Son of Man 
 is most despised ** in the house of his friends." It seems 
 as if his Holy Spirit, driven away by our coldness and 
 indifference, is now seeking some less enlightened regions 
 for his abode ; and we hear the sad lament as he departs 
 from us, — " Verily a prophet is not without honor, save 
 in his own country, and in his own house." 
 
 Let me invite your attention then to an illustration of 
 this principle : Familiarity with religious truths some- 
 times tends to make men insensible of their value and 
 their power. And I shall endeavor to point out some im- 
 portant truths, which, from the very frequency and clear- 
 ness with which they are revealed to us, we are prone to 
 pass by with coldness and neglect. There is indeed in. 
 16* 
 
186 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 many minds a pride of scepticism which revolts at a truth 
 so plain that the way-faring man may comprehend it, and 
 if they cannot find new avenues of evidence, they prefer 
 to show their superiority by adopting error. But it is not 
 my purpose at the present time to expose this arrogant 
 unbelief, so much as the indifference with which many 
 who believe are prone to regard the truth. 
 
 I. The effect of familiarity is illustrated in respect to 
 the existence and providence of God. 
 
 The evidence for these glorious doctrines is written 
 every where. We see it in glowing characters upon the 
 universe about us, and the universe within us. We read 
 it in the multiplied and variegated lessons of external 
 nature, and on the clear and lucid pages of our own con- 
 sciousness. Every man has his own system of natural 
 theology, but with how many is it matter of scientific 
 rather than of experimental interest. How few are there 
 who carry about with them a habit of realizing the Deity 
 they can so easily reason out in their closets, and whose 
 whole lives are one constant and glowing treatise on the 
 reality of a God. Every man, by the aid of an anato- 
 mist, can analyze the mechanism of the human eye, or 
 the human hand, and study out the marks of a wise and 
 supreme contriver ; but who thinks of this contriver as 
 picturing each gratification for the sight, or regulating 
 each motion of the limb ? And how many thousand 
 times a day we use each faculty, and never think of the 
 goodness or the greatness of our Father ! Every one 
 can admire the sun by day and the stars by night, or 
 meditate on the uniformity of nature, and the beneficent 
 arrangements every where made for the comfort and hap- 
 piness of God's creatures. But who thinks the more of 
 God that the sun rises with regularity on each succeed- 
 ing day, or that the seasons come round in their turn 
 bringing their varied blessings. My brethren, we are 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 187 
 
 good theologians in the closet and the study, and over the 
 speculations of some profound philosopher ; but when we , 
 go forth to breathe the fresh air and gaze upon the green 
 hills, though the truth is just as real and just as beautiful 
 in nature as it is in books, we are prone to lay by the stu- 
 dent ; and we fail to look upward. The very multitude 
 of evidence which surrounds us, the very frequency and 
 uniformity of the blessings we receive, render us forgetful 
 of Him who teaches the lesson and bestows the gift. We 
 have been drinking in this light, we have been nourished 
 by this bounty, from the first dawn of our being. To us 
 Jehovah is indeed " dark with excessive bright," veiled 
 behind the richness and multiplicity of his own favors.- 
 We are not like those who have been groping for ages in 
 darkness or in blindness, and to whom suddenly the sun 
 appears shining in his strength, or to whose cleared vision 
 are revealed at once the beauties of earth and sky. We 
 were not placed in the midst of the universe as Adam 
 was, with full maturity of powers. The idea of God does 
 not force itself upon us as it did upon him with instanta- 
 neous, delightful, irresistible power. We have the same 
 daylight of evidence, but it has come gradually upon us, 
 and our long familiarity has made us personally indiffer- 
 ent. *' But if we entered the world with the same reason 
 which we carry with us to an opera the first time that we 
 enter a theatre, and if the curtain of the universe were 
 to be rapidly drawn up, struck with the grandeur of every 
 thing which we saw, and all the obvious contrivances 
 exhibited, we should not," as even a French atheist has 
 confessed, '* be capable of refusing our homage to the 
 eternal power which had prepared for us such a spectacle. 
 But who thinks of marveling at what he has seen for fifty 
 years ? What multitudes are there who, wholly occupied 
 with the care of obtaining subsistence, have no time for 
 speculation ; the rise of the sun is only that which calls 
 
188 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 them to toil, and the finest night in all its softness is 
 mute to them, or tells them only that it is the hour for 
 repose." 
 
 II. The same principle is illustrated in respect to our 
 familiarity with the character of Jesus Christ. 
 
 It is a most perfect and delightful embodying of all 
 that is great and good, which is furnished to us in the 
 author of the New Testament dispensation. It commends 
 itself to our highest moral tastes. The world in the 
 brightest periods of its history has produced nothing like 
 it. The dispensation of the law with its sword of terror 
 affrighted none into such perfect obedience. Philosophy 
 in all its strugglings after ideal virtue never gave birth 
 even to a conception so pure as this. But now it comes 
 to us not as a bare conception ; for the mind of man 
 could never have originated such an idea, and the wants 
 of man demanded the personality of flesh and blood. It 
 is the Deity himself, no longer retiring from the gaze of 
 men, and veiling himself in the mystery of his own in- 
 visible and spiritual nature ; no longer making himself 
 known only by distant and terrible symbols — the flaming 
 sword, the quaking mountain, and the voice of terror — 
 but coming down to commune with men as a brother, to 
 add to the joy of the social circle by his friendly smile, 
 and to sooth the sorrow of bereavement by weeping at the 
 grave of their loved ones. It is the mystery of God man- 
 ifest in the flesh, attracting the soul by its incomprehensi- 
 ble nature, and coming home to its affections as a pro- 
 vision for its greatest wants. But, my friends, how is it 
 with us ? Do we commune constantly and intimately 
 with this fraternal guide? Do we repair for sympathy 
 and aid to this affectionate physician ? Is the presence 
 of Jesus the delight of our souls, and do we find our own 
 characters conforming themselves to his perfect pattern 
 and growing into its likeness? Ah ! to how many of us 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 169 
 
 he comes like an old familiar friend, the companion of 
 our childhood, ever by our side, yet remembered and 
 loved and longed for, only when his assiduities cease and 
 his visage is torn from us forever. At how many of 
 our hearts has he been a long time applying for admit- 
 tance, and we, strange beings that we are, are so familiar 
 with his love and patience and forbearance that we put 
 him off to a more convenient season. The first lessons 
 we read are the story of his life ; but the manger and the 
 garden and the cross are words that have lost their sig- 
 nificance to us, and fall upon the ear like threadbare tales. 
 We read of his untiring labors, and they awaken no 
 tribute of admiration. We read of the scoffings and con- 
 tempt, the agony and the blood, and they raise no grieC 
 We are daily reaping the benefits of his influence, in the 
 improvement of society and the advance of truth, but we 
 seldom think of tracing back these moral blessings to his 
 instructions, and to the new development of the great law 
 of love in his example as well as his precept. We have 
 been living so long in the noonday of the Christian reve- 
 lation, that we think not of the darkness which was 
 chased away by its sunrise, and we are so satisfied with 
 the light without, that we take no heed that the day dawn 
 and the day-star arise in our hearts. Could some one of 
 those ancient sages who groped in the night of heathen- 
 ism, yet panted for a purer illumination — could some 
 Socrates have caught but a glimpse of the approaching 
 morning, with what joy would he have hailed it. How 
 humbly would he have sat at the feet of the dimly re- 
 vealed Teacher. With what freshness and subduing 
 power would the first obscure hints of the truth as it is in 
 Jesus have come home to his soul. What a bright image 
 of the Great Master would he have exhibited in his con- 
 duct, what an untiring devotion in his life. With him 
 the sentiment, ' for me to live is Christ,' would have been 
 
190 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 no cold and forced duty, but a living and fondly cherished 
 principle ; and the cross which we bear so sluggishly 
 through gardens of ease, would have been a luxury to him 
 even up the mountain where his Lord was crucified. 
 
 III. The effect of familiarity is further illustrated in 
 respect to the atonement by the blood of the Redeemer. 
 
 There is a pathos and a power in those words, ' redemp- 
 tion by the blood of Jesus,' which are lost by our frequent 
 and heartless repetition. They reveal a mystery which 
 even " the angels have desired to look into ; " but from 
 which we turn coldly and listlessly away. They come 
 home to the human bosom in its want, and its wretched- 
 ness, with a directness and a power which they seldom 
 have to us who have always had that light to keep us from 
 despair ; and because we have never despaired, we fail to 
 do homage to the cross. The case of a poor heathen in 
 India will illustrate somewhat the native power and adap- 
 tation of this doctrine. He had been a sinner, and as all 
 mankind are sometimes conscious of guilt, he felt wretch- 
 ed for his sin. There was a load on his spirit, when 
 something said to him, there must be blood to wash the 
 stain away. He found this truth proclaimed in the reli- 
 gious system in which he had been educated, and there 
 was a response in his moral nature to the fitness of the 
 doctrine, "Without the shedding of blood there is no 
 remission." He thought he would make a sacrifice of 
 himself, and he pierced his sandals with sharp iron nails, 
 and walked for miles with the blood streaming from his 
 feet. Still the burden tarried on his soul. There was 
 no remission by that blood. The load of guilt pressed 
 as heavily as before. There was a void somewhere, he 
 knew not exactly what ; but he wanted something like a 
 hand leading him up to the Great Spirit whom he had of- 
 fended — an avenue that he saw not now between the sin- 
 offering and heaven. Faint and exhausted by his penance. 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 191 
 
 he drew near to a group who had gathered round a mis- 
 sionary from some Christian land. He was too weak and 
 too wretched to notice much that was going on ; but sud- 
 denly the words of the speaker arrested his attention — 
 -*• The blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from 
 all sin." He paused and leaned upon his staff. His face 
 lighted up with animation. The great demand of his soul 
 was met. " This is just what I want, just what I want," he 
 cried, and threw away his implements of self-torture, and 
 laid down with cheerful alacrity his burden _at the cross. 
 But to us, my brethren, this truth comes not after we 
 have exhausted ourselves in the search for peace. To us 
 this Saviour comes not to pluck out the sword with which 
 we have pierced our own bodies. And we have been so 
 long acquainted with the plan of salvation, that we do not 
 sympathize with the strong emotion of an apostle when 
 he exclaims, " Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable 
 gift!" 
 
 Not many years ago, in a destitute portion of our own 
 land, there lived a man sunk almost to the degradation of 
 heathenism. In early life he had lived within the sound 
 of the gospel, and heard something of its edifying doc- 
 trines, but they had quite faded from his memory. A 
 long life spent in brutalizing ignorance and enervating 
 dissipation, and among those who if they knew, never 
 spoke to him, of Jesus, had completely eradicated every 
 religious impression from his mind. He passed years 
 groveling in this spiritual stupidity, without one thought 
 of God. One day as he was at work in his field, suddenly 
 and mysteriously, by one of those unaccountable pro- 
 cesses by which the Holy Spirit urges conviction upon 
 the soul, the thought rushed upon him, I am a sinner, 
 and a sinner against God. He tried to banish it, but it 
 staid there still. He left his work, and sat down to give 
 iiimself up to the overpowering emotion. Every moment 
 
192 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 the picture grew deeper and blacker on the eye of his 
 soul. The acts of his past life came rushing in one after 
 one, with fearful rapidity, till the events of years were 
 concentrated into a moment, and that moment one of 
 intense and burning consciousness of guilt. He went 
 home, but the conviction followed him there. At first 
 the single idea of sin was so intense that it excluded 
 every other thought, even its eternal consequences. By 
 and by the fear and expectation of punishment took pos- 
 session of his soul. Distracted with the sense of his own 
 pollution, haunted by the angry eye of God, bowed down 
 with a foreboding of some dreadful avenging stroke, he 
 wandered about not knowing whither to repair for relief. 
 The dim light of his early education did not shine upon 
 him with its former vividness. No Bible was near to 
 teach him of the way of salvation. At length, in part 
 exhausted by the over-working of his nature, in part 
 yielding to his new views of truth, he settled down into 
 something like submission to the will of God. He had 
 become a changed man ; he communed with his Maker ; 
 he was animated by high purposes of action. Yet still 
 he felt no peace. He looked upon himself as one doomed 
 to destruction ; but he felt his deserts, and never mur- 
 mured. He was solemn as the grave. No one ever saw 
 a smile upon his countenance. Day by day he walked to 
 his field with the burden upon his soul, but still he felt 
 that God was just, and he admired that justice. He was 
 ready to bless the hand that was lifted for his destruction. 
 Months elapsed, and the minister of Jesus passed that 
 way. He heard the plan of redemption unfolded ; he 
 read in the New Testament of the sufferings of Christ, 
 and the economy of grace. How beautiful was its fit- 
 ness ! He wept, he wondered, he adored. He thought 
 of the atonement, not as a doctrine in theology to be can- 
 vassed and discussed, but as a matter of personal interest 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUT^. 193 
 
 and experience. The agony and the blood seemed con- 
 centrated on him as its object. Christ died for me, was 
 the burden of his song through life. Christ died for 
 me, were the words which trembled on his lips when he 
 died. My brethren, we give a prominence to this doc- 
 trine of Christ crucified in our preaching and our faith ; 
 we assent to it as the great source of our hope ; but who 
 of us dwells upon it with such rapture as it merits? who 
 of us stirs himself to repay this matchless, this amazing 
 debt? 
 
 IV. My last illustration of the indifference produced 
 by familiarity is in respect to the doctrine of future retri- 
 bution. 
 
 Suppose w'e had no knowledge of eternity ; suppose 
 that Christ had never come to *' bring immortality to 
 light ; " suppose moreover that every trace of this glori- 
 ous doctrine were blotted out from the nature of man ; 
 that he should look within, and read no prophetic indica- 
 tions in the desires and aspirings of his soul ; that he 
 should stand by the bedside of the dying, and no enkin- 
 dling eye, no gushing eloquence, no rapt vision of the 
 prostrate one should speak of the life of the spirit begun 
 anew, rather than ended forever ; that he should go to 
 weep at the grave, and the last sight should be the ghast- 
 liness of death, and the last sound should be the earth 
 crumbling harshly and heavily upon the coffin ; that he 
 should go away with that sight and that sound to haunt 
 him through life ; that in the one, he should read the 
 monotonous lesson of coldness and silence and corrup- 
 tion ; in the other, he should hear the hollow murmur, 
 "Death is an eternal sleep;" — no blessed hopes of re- 
 union with the departed, no sweet consciousness of their 
 still hovering about his pathway, nothing to check his 
 own rush toward that oblivious gulf, nothing to cheer the 
 prospect of eternal gloom ;-— suppose that now in the midst 
 17 
 
194 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 of this ignorance and darkness a voice was heard in heaven 
 proclaiming, " The dead shall live ! " " The dead shall 
 live ! " Those words penetrate every enr : they vibrate 
 on every soul, startling the stupid, comforting the cheer- 
 less, and lighting up the expiring eye with the brilliancy 
 of a new life. But soon a doubt clouds the new begotten 
 joy. The dead shall live, but how long ? Are they des- 
 tined to another brief career like this, and yet another 
 and another, each to be ended by the same destroyer, till 
 the last link in the chain of light goes out in darkness. 
 The dead shall live, but how long? And in the midst of 
 heaven, in characters of living light, and so that every 
 eye can see it, is written that word— ;/bre<;er. Glorious 
 thought ! This spark is quenchless. Forever is now the 
 word that trembles on every tongue, and rings through 
 the universe. Instantly how changed becomes the aspect 
 of the world ! How new and godlike the appearance of 
 the creation in the light it borrows from eternity, in the 
 dignity it assumes as the threshhold of an existence 
 which shall never terminate ! And how noble becomes 
 the bearing of man ! Yesterday the creature of a mo- 
 ment—to-day, the heir of immortality. But the revelation 
 is not yet completed. The dead shall live forever ; but 
 how ? What is to be the character of that eternity, what 
 its relation ] Does it open upon us scenes of joy or of 
 wo? Does it divide between the happy and the miserable 
 at hap-hazard, or is there some great law of distinction ? 
 The dead shall live forever, but hoio? And a still small 
 voice from the depths of the soul comes up with the 
 tidings of retribution ; and the Spirit of the living God 
 confirms the decision in the fearful sentence — " He that 
 is filthy, let him be filthy still ; and he that is holy, let 
 him be holy still." Oh ! my friends, think you that such 
 a universe would be full of cold and inactive beings ? 
 Would they give themselves any rest until they had com- 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 195 
 
 plied with the conditions of salvation ? Would there not 
 be hurrying to and fro, and anxious countenances of 
 those who would save themselves, or pluck their fellow- 
 sinners as brands from the burning ? But, as for us, we 
 do not live in such a community. These are no new 
 truths to us. Old are they as the Bible, familiar as the 
 first elements of knowledge — and we do not feel them. 
 The Christian knows that he is an heir of heaven ; but 
 he does not walk erect as if he were conscious of it. 
 The sinnerL knows that he is a candidate for hell ; but 
 he never looks aghast at its horrors. And we, my 
 brethren, surrounded by the perishing — comes their wail 
 to us from the distance of heathenism, or see we them 
 hurrying to perdition from our own families and neigh- 
 borhood — can scarcely lift a finger to hold them back from 
 their doom. A few cold prayers, a few heartless efforts,' 
 instead of the zeal and the agony of those who look into 
 the hole of the pit from which themselves have been 
 digged. 
 
 These illustrations might be indefinitely multiplied. 
 The principle of our discourse would be found true in 
 respect to almost all the more important and familiar 
 doctrines of our religion. It is verified also in our most 
 common religious privileges. We often need a tempo- 
 rary seclusion from the ordinances of the gospel, in order 
 to impress us with their value. It is '' by the rivers of 
 Babylon that we sit down and weep while we remember 
 Zion." To the traveler long absent in distant climes 
 there is an unwonted melody in the Sabbath-bells of his 
 native land. To the son just returned from his wander- 
 ings to the paternal roof, the family altar assumes a 
 beauty and a dignity he can no longer despise ; and the 
 voice of the old man at prayer has a solemn eloquence 
 that comes home to the heart. And you, my brother, 
 when xjisease or affliction have made you a long exile 
 
196 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 from the public worship of God, with what delight do yon 
 repair to his temple ! With David you sing, " how amia- 
 ble are thy tabernacles/' as you come up from the soli- 
 tude wliere you have panted and fainted for the courts of 
 the Lord. Beautiful indeed to you are the feet of them 
 that publish glad tiding^, and the walls of Jerusalem and 
 the gates of Zion you prefer above all the dwellings of 
 Jacob. 
 
 In view of this subject I remark, 
 
 First, That truth is just as real and as certain as if we 
 were not insensible to it. 
 
 If the principle of the discourse be correct, if our 
 familiarity with religious truths has often a tendency to 
 make us look coldly upon them, it must follow, that our 
 degree of appreciation is no measure of their value. It 
 is just as true, that God is every where about us, always 
 mindful of our wants, though we never think of him. It 
 is just a.s true, that Christ comes to us by the bright les- 
 sons of his example and the melting doctrines of his 
 death, though we turn our backs alike on the manger and 
 the cross. It is just as true, that we are pressing onward 
 to eternity, though we grasp after present pleasure, and 
 think not of the future. Truth is perfect and immutable 
 amid all the weakness and changes of man. God is not 
 indifferent when he finds his paternal love slighted and 
 despised. Christ is not unaffected when we turn coldly 
 away from his tender entreaties, though he come repeat- 
 edly with the expostulation, *' How often would I — but ye 
 would not." And destruction is sure to those who per- 
 severe in sin ; though they go to their doom like a blind 
 man hurrying to a precipice, or a drunkard dancing 
 among pitfalls. 
 
 Secondly, The subject teaches us the imperfection of 
 our present state, and the way to overcome it. 
 
 We are so debased by the power of sin, so groveling in 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 197 
 
 our moral tastes, so limited in our views, so short-lived in 
 our emotions, and so easily exhausted by their intensity, 
 that the most beautiful objects soon lose their beauty to 
 us. Truth seems to partake of the infirmities of our 
 poor decaying bodies. But it is not so in heaven. There 
 the soul never tires in the thought of God, however inti- 
 mate may be his manifestations. There the secret of 
 redemption is perfectly revealed, but it has an interest 
 and a power ever fresh ; and the choir of heaven never 
 grow weary or stupid, as they cease not day or night their 
 rapturous hallelujahs to the Lamb. The great reason is 
 that there, love is more perfect. And those who on earth 
 approach the nearest to the spirit of heaven, who are 
 most in love with the truth, are best able to break away 
 from this dulness and indifference. Do you suppose that 
 the true poet ever becomes indifferent to the beauties of 
 nature because of their familiarity ? No ! he loves them 
 so well, that they burst upon his vision with new glory 
 every day. Suppose you that the mother of Jesus turned 
 coldly away from him when he came to preach in the 
 neighborhood of his home? Not so. Others despised 
 him because they knew him so well ; but she who knew 
 him better than all, for the love that she bore him as her 
 son and her Saviour, no doubt received him to her bosom 
 with fresh tenderness, and pondered his sayings in her 
 heart. And so the man who loves God as he should love 
 him, can neither walk abroad nor look inward, without a 
 delightful and perpetual consciousness of his presence 
 and goodness. He to whom the Redeemer is indeed 
 ** the chief among ten thousands," never becomes wearied 
 with the oft-heard name, or cold towards the ever-present 
 brother. Rather pants he for a more intimate commun- 
 ion. The language of his soul is, " Make haste, my 
 beloved, and be thou like to a roe, or to a young hart 
 upon the mountains of spices." " Even so, come Lord 
 17* 
 
198 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 
 
 Jesus, come quickly." If the sinner would break away 
 from the stupidity he feels in the midst of light, he must 
 learn to love that light. If the Christian would wake 
 from his lethargy and have an abiding sense of the reality 
 and glory of truth, he must cwltivate a greater love for 
 it; he must meditate upon it till he discovers new grace 
 in its proportions, new life. in its lineaments, new loveli- 
 ness in its beauty — until it becomes in his soul that living 
 principle, which is as exhaustless in its nature, as it is 
 glorious in the action to which it prompts. 
 
 Thirdly, The subject teaches us that men, if saved at 
 all, are saved not because they have been furnished with 
 Christian privileges, but because th'ey have made a right 
 use of them. 
 
 There are many who live, as if they imagined men 
 could not go down to perdition from under the refining 
 influences of the gospel. But to such the subject gives 
 a fearful lesson of the tendency of these very influences 
 if they are not rightly improved, to harden the heart and 
 ripen it for destruction. If their doom be terrible who 
 have provoked swift ruin upon themselves by heaven- 
 daring crimes, how much more dreadful is the wo pro- 
 nounced by our Saviour against such as having been 
 *' exalted to heaven are thrust down to hell." My fellow 
 sinner, when you stand at the bar of judgment, and the 
 books are opened, and the sentence is about to be pro- 
 nounced against you, do not think of saying to the Judge, 
 " I know thee well. I was a member of the community 
 thou didst so often visit. Thou hast taught in our streets. 
 From my earliest childhood I learned by heart the story 
 of thy life and sufferings. And every Sabbath, thy am- 
 bassadors warned me of judgment and eternity." Then 
 shall the Judge answer and say, " Depart from me, I 
 never knew you. The doctrines of my gospel fit not 
 those for heaven, who know them so well, that they never 
 
FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 199 
 
 fed them. Your voice would mingle feebly with the 
 praises of the blood-bought band. If any sinner is to be 
 pardoned at this the eleventh hour of the universe, let it 
 rather be some poor soul who comes from the depths of 
 ignorance and gloom, and who will know how to value 
 the light and blessedness of heaven." 
 
 Finally, while this familiarity with religious truth may 
 render the impenitent on earth indifferent to its power, 
 there is no reason to believe that familiarity with suffering 
 will at all diminish the agony of their disembodied spirits. 
 It is indeed the insufferable blaze of truth that constitutes 
 the chief misery of the lost, but such as it sometimes for 
 a moment bursts upon their distracted vision in this life, 
 such will it be with ever increasing vividness and in- 
 tensity when their souls break away from these imperfect 
 frames. The naked spirit knows no reaction, and the 
 sense of God's wrath never becomes old. My fellow- 
 sinner, when you observe in this life, the nature of sick- 
 ness and suffering to destroy their own power, when jou 
 see the diseased limb losing its sensitiveness, or the long 
 prostrate invalid becoming reconciled to his lot, think not 
 that it will be so with you. It is written upon your own 
 immortal nature, as well as upon the pages of God's 
 word, that '* the worm dieth not, and the fire is not 
 quenched." 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The ])receding discoui-se was the first which Mr. Homer wrote. 
 It was preached at South Berwick, May 3, 1840 ; afterwards at 
 Danvers, Mass. 
 
SERMON II. 
 
 THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 
 
 KNOW YE NOT THAT WE SHALL JUDGE ANGELS ? — 1 Cor. 6 : 3. 
 
 These words have sometimes been thought to indicate 
 that the saints will share in the administration of the gen- 
 eral judgment. Such an idea however is not authorized 
 either by reason or revelation, and it is highly improbable 
 that the redeemed will turn away from their own award 
 of justice, to pass sentence on '* the angels who kept not 
 their first estate." There is a mode of explaining the 
 passage more consonant with the spirit and the idioms of 
 Scripture. The language of the Bible often derives its 
 significance from some single feature of analogy. The 
 metaphors of animate and inanimate creation with regard 
 to God and his people are not to be pushed to the extent 
 of their literal meaning. When Jehovah is called a rock, 
 or his people the sheep of his pasture, only a single view 
 of their character and relation may be presented. And 
 so is it in the terms derived from civil and ecclesiastical 
 polity. It is not intended to describe an office precisely 
 similar to that in church or state, but only a condition 
 marked by some similar qualities. When Christians are 
 spoken of as kings and priests, it is not meant that they 
 wear a crown or minister at an altar ; that they sway a 
 
SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS. 201 
 
 sceptre, or intercede for the sins of the people, but rather 
 that in heaven, they are exalted and honored like kings 
 and priests on earth Official relation is not at all desig- 
 nated, merely official dignity. In this way the office of a 
 judge is most appropriately employed to image forth the 
 same elevation. It is one of the most dignified and im- 
 posing of human titles. It brings before the mind the 
 picture of venerable wisdom upon its elevated seat, dicta- 
 ting the noblest of sentiments to the noblest of pupils, 
 and receiving the homage of the crowd. What more nat- 
 ural than that the beings, who are figuratively decked 
 with the sceptre of royal dignity, and the mitre of sacer- 
 dotal rank, should put on also the vestments of the judi- 
 cial station. They receive the admiring tribute of the 
 world, and they may be styled the judges of the world. 
 They are in some respects more glorious than the angels 
 of God, and they may be said to judge those angels. 
 The sentiment then, which I propose to illustrate as 
 taught in the text, is this : 
 
 Christians in heaven will, in some respects, be superior 
 to angels. 
 
 Our acquaintance with the angelic, as with other spir- 
 itual beings, is exceedingly limited. Sufficient, however, 
 may be gathered from Scripture to teach the existence of 
 an order of intelligences in many respects superior to 
 man. They are represented as the counselors of Jehovah, 
 and the swift ministers to do his will. They are the me- 
 diators of the old dispensation. Through them the Most 
 High comes down to wrestle and to commune with men. 
 In shining hosts they hover around Mount Sinai, and 
 crowd the chariots of God as the " fiery law goes forth 
 from his right hand." Sometimes they appear as minis- 
 ters of vengeance to smite down the doomed of God, and 
 strike with awe the beholders. Yet chiefly do they serve 
 on errands of mercy and love. In airy columns they 
 
202 
 
 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 follow the tribes of Israel in their wanderings, and guide 
 them to the land of promise. They watch over the elect 
 of God in temporal and in spiritual peril, " encamping 
 round about them to deliver them." They gather in 
 choirs over the shepherd-plains of Bethlehem, rending 
 the still air of evening with unwonted anthems of praise. 
 With refreshment and sympathy they visit Jesus in the 
 solitude of his temptation, and they wipe the thick drops 
 from his brow on the night of his agony. They stand by 
 as he sunders the cerements of burial, and tell the news 
 of his rising to those who are earliest at his grave. Ar- 
 rayed in white apparel they explain on Olivet the mystery 
 of his ascension, and the certainty of his second advent. 
 They shall appear again to the gaze of men, when they 
 come in the retinue of his judgment, by their pres- 
 ence to add to the imposing spectacle, and assist in the 
 services of the great day of account. 
 
 For such offices and employments, most elevated and 
 conspicuous must be their qualities. How beautiful 
 must be " the face of angels," radiant with the lustre of 
 the eternal throne. How enlarged must be " the wisdom 
 of angels," attendants as they are upon the council-cham- 
 ber of the All Wise. How vast must be their powers, 
 when even " the winds and the lightnings" cannot outstrip 
 their swiftness, or surpass their workmanship. Above 
 all, how spotless must be their purity, looking upon God 
 with a familiar gaze which could but drive the sinful to 
 despair. Yet with all these splendid capacities, with all 
 this ecstasy of devotion, they must be strangers to the joys 
 of the redeemed. Even we, my brethren, frail though 
 we be, imperfect in our best services, groping through 
 life, many of us, on an almost starless pilgrimage; even 
 we, the creatures of a day, who should tremble and turn 
 pale at the approach of one of these winged messengers 
 of immortality, are yet destined to enjoyments of which 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 203 
 
 they can know but little. There are lights in heaven to 
 be revealed to our vision which shine but dimly upon 
 their souls. There are mansions reserved for us among 
 the many in our Father's house, which they cannot enter. 
 Hard by the altar, there is a place of sweet and humble 
 devotion where we shall love to linger, but where the 
 highest archangel is too high to prostrate himself, or to 
 cast his crown. 
 
 1. We will commence our proof of the proposition 
 already laid down, by remarking, that Christians in heaven 
 will be conscious of great advancement in their condition 
 and character. 
 
 There is a familiar principle of the human mind, upon 
 which this source of happiness is founded. The law of 
 progress is one of the fixed laws of our nature ; and it is 
 a most wise provision that this progress is not accidental, 
 but the result and reward of personal effort. No great 
 advancement can be made without toil and suffering, and 
 the remembrance of the former pain is the chief ingredi- 
 ent in the present joy. The traveler, who has gained the 
 desired eminence, feels a satisfaction in looking down 
 over the steep and craggy rocks up which he has climbed, 
 and through the dark ravines where he wandered weary 
 and famishing ; and it is a satisfciction which he could 
 not have felt had an unseen hand planted his first existence 
 on the spot of his triumph. There is pleasure by a winter 
 fireside, in the companionship of loved ones, and the 
 shelter of a thrifty mansion ; but it is chiefly when the 
 rugged inmate travels over again in fancy his perilous 
 voyages, and again in memory "the storm howls through 
 the rigging." We sometimes feel as if the horrors of 
 shipwreck in the winter, of long and tedious wrestling 
 with the pestilence, of marching front to front with death 
 upon the battle field, were more than compensated by the 
 gratification of the old veteran when he recounts in after 
 
204 SUPERIORITY OP THE SAINTS 
 
 years his tales of wonder, and the sentiment speaks out 
 in his eloquent eye — 
 
 ^ . " All Avhich I saw, and part of which. I was." 
 
 Nor is this principle developed merely in circumstances 
 of outward superiority. Not only do the rich and happy 
 recur with satisfaction to the period of their poverty and 
 distress ; but the scholar prizes his acquisitions most, 
 when he thinks of the aching brow and the midnight 
 study which secured them, and hopes most cheeringly for 
 the attainments of the future, when he thinks of the 
 ignorance of the past. The Christian adores most grate- 
 fully the grace of God, when he thinks of the pollution 
 from which he has been snatched, when he looks back to 
 the temptations through which he has been guided, and 
 the spiritual hazards which have only disciplined him for 
 manliness of character and purity of faith. 
 
 We cannot deny that angels may be the subjects in 
 some measure of this law of progress. No doubt they 
 have had a period of probation, which may be now closed, 
 so that they are enjoying the assurance of complete con- 
 firmation. No doubt their capacities are progressively 
 enlarging, so that they enjoy a satisfaction similar to ours, 
 when they compare the knowledge and power of the pres- 
 ent with the past. Yet substantially their nature and 
 relations and enjoyments must have continued forever the 
 same. No cloud of misery or doubt has ever for a 
 moment obscured their vision. No sin has ever crept in 
 to defile by its slightest touch their nature. However 
 great the changes in their condition, they can never have 
 crossed *' the great gulf" from pain to bliss, from sin to 
 purity. The variation is in the degree, and not the kind 
 of their enjoyment. Not so will it be with us. AH the 
 changes we undergo in our earthly career, are not to be 
 compared with that of which we shall be sensible, when 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 205 
 
 we enter into our final reward. If we joy in our earthly 
 escapes, and our earthly advancement, what must be our 
 ecstasy at that widest and highest flight, when we enter on 
 our new career of accelerated progress. 
 
 First, The spirit will be free from the depressing influ- 
 ence of a material body. 
 
 We do wrong when we indulge in sweeping invectives 
 against our imperfect physical nature. We should not 
 undervalue the body. It is the stepping-stone to immor- 
 tality. The soul can be best cradled by it in its nascent 
 state, when first born into a world of knowledge and ac- 
 tion. Its subsequent maturity and perfection are no 
 doubt best secured by such an alliance. Its knowledge 
 of the relations of space and time, and many of its most 
 important susceptibilities of pain and pleasure, are derived 
 from its connection with this curiously wrought frame- 
 work. Yet however indebted the soul may be to the dis- 
 cipline of this preparatory school, it is evident that a ma- 
 terial frame is in no way fitted for the eternal home of the 
 spirit. Even if man had continued morally perfect, there 
 would probably have been much of imperfection incident to 
 his physical nature. The spirit, happy in the consciousness 
 of purity, would yet have panted for clearer views, larger 
 knowledge, more intimate communion with its Maker. 
 I think it is beyond a question, that the happy family would 
 have continued but for a season to pluck the fruits of the 
 garden, and enjoy the privileges of its devout and holy 
 intercourse. The eye would have beamed with the hope 
 of a brighter existence, and the mind would have ex- 
 panded in the anticipation of communion with the 
 unseen. " In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 they would have all been changed." Even those who 
 in our imperfect world have approached the nearest to 
 a subjugation of the body, seem but to have been ripened 
 for their dissevered spirituality. Enoch walked with God 
 18 
 
206 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 SO intimately, that death seemed afraid to shake at him 
 his dreadful dart. Yet he could not be left to immortality 
 on earth ; but, as if the body were no sphere for such 
 purity and cultivation, ** he was not, for God took him." 
 Elijah, in a career which seemed more like that of an an- 
 gel of light, than a prophet of earth, smote death in the 
 widow's son, and faced his stern visage in the strength 
 which the birds of the air did minister. Yet neither was 
 he left to prosecute his great work of frowning down the 
 enemies of the Lord, and shining as the conspicuous 
 forerunner of his Messiah. He was caught up in a whirl- 
 wind of flame, to be charioteer of a warfare higher than 
 that of Israel. The larger the thoughts, the more effi- 
 cient the activity, the more do we pant after a sphere of 
 unimpeded progress and action. I appeal to many of 
 you, my brethren, whether there have not been moments 
 in your experience, when views of truth or glimpses of 
 your high destiny were so vividly presented that you felt 
 unable to sustain the gaze. Bewildered and astonished, 
 you felt restless longings to be free from a frame that 
 could be so shattered by what your souls most craved and 
 loved. Your language then was, " Oh ! that I had wings 
 like a dove ; " for then would I fly out of these dim win- 
 dows into the clear noonday of the presence of my God. 
 We feel that there is that without and that within, after 
 which we hunger and thirst with unutterable cravings ; 
 yet this dying nature cannot feed upon such heavenly 
 food. 
 
 " There's not the smallest orb which thou behold' st, 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young- eyed cherubim; 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls, 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it." 
 
 ** There is," says the apostle, ** a spiritual body." 
 Wonderful and mysterious provision of divine benevo- 
 
^ '' TO THE ANGELS. 207 
 
 lence ! God does not design that the dead in Christ shall 
 be merely restored to moral perfection in heaven. He 
 unites the perfect spirit with as perfect a nature. He im- 
 bues it with a frame adapted to its high behests, and its 
 consummate cultivation. Even he hath an eye on the 
 crumbling dust of his chosen. In the morninor of the 
 great resurrection, they come not up rusty and time-worn 
 from their tabernacle of clay, or congealed and dripping 
 from their cold dark bed in the ocean. Blessed be God, 
 ** there is a spiritual body." Immortal beauty beams from 
 their brow. The robe they wear is incorruptible. On- 
 ward and upward stretches the soul's field of vision — vast, 
 illimitable. What looked dark to the earthly eye, be- 
 comes bright with the light of God. What the mind 
 toiled to attain, till its strained efforts ended in disease or 
 blindness, is now revealed in an instant, with no long 
 processes of half-seen truth to detain, but in the blessed- 
 ness of quick intuition. And farther beyond lie still un- 
 discovered truths, to keep the mind alive with perpetual 
 excitement, to prompt it to constant action, to secure by 
 vigorous exercise its discipline and continued action. 
 But principally are the hinderances to moral cultivation 
 which are incident to our physical nature, absorbed and 
 subdued in that new system. The passions assume their 
 appropriate and subordinate seat. The dim media, by 
 which the soul strove to look into perfection, shall give 
 place to perfection itself. Faith and hope shall be swal- 
 lowed up in vision. But love shall remain. *' Yea," 
 says Tholuck, *' not only shall it remain, but the narrow 
 brook, which in this life flowed froni deeply hidden foun- 
 tains, will in that life become a wide stream. Here love 
 could be preserved only while the eye of faith held the 
 invisible world directly before itself Try it, shut for an 
 instant this internal eye, and thou wilt love only what thou 
 seest. Ah ! why dost thou hang solely upon the creatures 
 
208 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 of earth and long after them ? Why, but because their 
 eye of faith is not open, and thou seest not the invisible 
 glory of the Father's image. But when there shall be no 
 more need of this intellectual exertion, when the thick 
 cloud of the earthly vale shall no longer press upon the 
 eye of faith, when the very object, in which we here 
 faintly believe, shall stand constantly before our vision — 
 oh how easy will it then be to love ! The death of the 
 believer shall be the death also of his faith and hope, but 
 it shall be the resurrection-hour of his love." 
 
 Secondly, Christians in heaven will be released from 
 the pain and misery incident to their earthly condition. 
 
 These bodies of ours are not only gross but perishing. 
 They not only hold the immortal part in vassalage, but it 
 is a vassalage which galls and goads, and sends the heart 
 bleeding and broken to the grave. '* All our life time 
 through fear of death, we are in bondage." We feel the 
 disease stealing over our own frames. We trace its sure 
 marks on the visage of our most beloved. To the vigor- 
 ous and blooming, in whom we trust most securely, death 
 comes in the form of sudden and appalling calamity. 
 " There are some persons," as an old writer has expressed 
 it, '* upon whose foreheads every man can read the sen- 
 tence of death written in the lines of a lingering sick- 
 ness, but they sometimes hear the passing-bell ring for 
 stronorer men, even loner before their own knell calls at 
 the house of their mother earth to open her doors and 
 make a bed for them." Yet there is a wretchedness more 
 dreadful than this bodily suffering, or this personal be- 
 reavement. There is a prospect more gloomy than the 
 solitude of sorrow, or the throbbings of continued pain. 
 It is when the diseases of this shattered body turn inward 
 to feed upon the mind. Even the healthful and wise and 
 good are not free from the scourge of insanity. It has 
 been estimated that its ravages are fearfully multiplying 
 
TO THE ANGELS. *SClO 
 
 as civilization advances, so that beyond the accidental 
 causes which may produce it, we must be in terror from 
 those which are incident to the progress of society. 
 There is scarcely an educated man, or one that has been 
 accustomed deeply and intensely to ponder the workings 
 of his own mind, that has not felt some forebodings of 
 this mental disease. " Chain me face to face with death," 
 says such a one, ** and let my life be prolonged in linger- 
 ing agonies, the stern monarch ever in my eyes — strip 
 from me every object of earthly love, though the deep 
 fastened fibres are left naked, and with no object to cling 
 to — yet touch not, derange not that noble workmanship 
 within. So I may look up to God from the depth of my 
 wo, I will not murmur." 
 
 In heaven all these pangs and griefs and anxieties are 
 forever hushed. There the system contemplates with de- 
 light its own healthful and symmetrical action, with no 
 feverish dread lest its wheels become disordered, and 
 begin to move with jarring and painful discord. There 
 shall be no night there. The dim ray of happiness which 
 cheered our pilgrimage deepens into the full sunlight 
 of fruition. The memory of the past, in the resurrection 
 of its forgotten treasures, becomes as vivid as the con- 
 sciousness of the present. And the light of day grows 
 brighter in the reminiscence of night. Chiefly does this 
 faculty aid us in making our former losses on earth, our 
 gain in heaven. This is a rapture which angels cannot 
 know. That seraph never receives back a child to his 
 embrace, or welcomes the returning companion from his 
 long absence. They know not of separation. Ever their 
 spirits commingle and tabernacle together, and space and 
 time can interpose no barriers to the perfection and the 
 constancy of their intercourse. Not so, my brethren, will 
 it be with us. The shining messengers who welcome us 
 home shall be our old familiar friends. Distinct and pal- 
 18* 
 
210 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 pable to our spiritual vision shall be the outline of each 
 well-remembered and well-loved form. With what joy 
 shall we recount to each other the perils of the past, and 
 congratulate ourselves on the secure and blissful and ev- 
 erlasting communion to which our God exalted us. 
 
 Thirdly, Christians in heaven will be perfectly free 
 from sin. 
 
 The perfection of the physical system which has already 
 been described, if it were under the government of de- 
 praved passions instead of being swayed by moral purity, 
 would only aggravate the misery of its possessors. The 
 absence of every external malady and pain would drive 
 the soul more dismally inward to brood over its own moral 
 wastes, and would quite shut out the prospect of relief 
 from ultimate annihilation. In a system so perfectly ar- 
 ticulated, so immense in its resources, so rapid in its ac- 
 tivity, sin would be furnished with new powers of devel- 
 opment, and new faculties of operation. With new alac- 
 rity would it stalk abroad to the work of ruin without, 
 or prey inward in the processes of its endless suicide. 
 What would be the expansion of knowledge, but the per- 
 petual communion of the guilty with the wrath of God, 
 and the ability to sound the depths of that wo into which 
 they were forever plunging. What would be the ever- 
 living memory, but the power of conjuring up the spec- 
 tres of old transgressions to haunt the scared spirit, and 
 " never down at its bidding." What would be the re- 
 newal of old associations, but a companionship where 
 each laid open to the other the hideousness of his own 
 depravity, and each was stimulated in his mad and miser- 
 able career by the mutual exhibition. Oh love it and 
 dote upon it as we may, there is nothing to be compared 
 with sin, when it unsheathes its scorpion-stings, and com- 
 mences the work of self-retribution. Bind your victim 
 to the rack, and let him linger out his eternity in lacera- 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 
 
 tions which heal up only to be torn afresh ; with a good 
 conscience and a pure soul, he may look up and smile 
 from his wretchedness. But with the enemy in his bosom 
 he is insecure in a rock-built mansion — miserable on an 
 archangel's throne. 
 
 •* He that has light within liis ovm clear breast 
 May sit i' th* centre, and enjoy bright day ; 
 But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, 
 Benighted walks under the mid-day sun, 
 Himself is his own dungeon." 
 
 The heaven of the Christian, — so speaks the tongue of 
 inspiration, so speak the demands of our own spiritual 
 nature, — is an abode of moral purity. '* There shall in 
 no wise enter into it anything that defileth." It is chiefly 
 because "the wicked cease from troubling," that "the 
 weary are at rest." To the heirs of that blissful portion 
 how delio^htful the contrast ! Here sin was their (jreat 
 enemy. It sat crouched like a lurking beast at the door 
 of their hearts. It sparkled in the cup of pleasure. Ar- 
 rayed in the habiliments of purity, it met them by the 
 way-side, and now openly and fearlessly it assailed them 
 as a strong man armed. Only in the last fading hour 
 when it stood to mock and triumph by the bed of death, 
 did it receive its signal overthrow, and shrink abashed 
 from the scene. They went through life wrestling. They 
 reach home toil-worn. But every spiritual fear is at length 
 hushed. The warring is completed. The imperishable 
 crown of victory is put on. With what delight, from 
 this house of refuge, do they look out upon the storms 
 and battles of the past. The memory of each conflict 
 enhances the value of their eternal reward. Each diffi- 
 culty over which they stumbled in their earthly pilgrimage, 
 makes more pleasant and smooth the pathway they now 
 tread. There is a luxury in the penitence they still exer- 
 cise for past transgressions, and they read over and over 
 
212 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 that dark sad history only to deepen the spirit of their 
 devotions, and increase the ardor of their piety. 
 
 It will be perceived that in this first argument, only a 
 partial superiority is claimed for the saints. It is not as- 
 serted that they excel the angels in every species of hap- 
 piness, but only in that which results from a contrast with 
 their former state. It is not so much that they are above 
 the angels now, as that they were so far below them once ; 
 not so much that they possess higher powers and are en- 
 robed in a more glorious nature, as that once their facul- 
 ties were so limited, and their views so groveling. It is 
 not that they are free from pain and safe from trouble, 
 but that once they traveled over a stony path, and wet 
 the ground with their tears. It is not that their existence 
 is more spotless, or their praise more undefiled, but that 
 once sin had a throne in their bosoms, and touched with 
 unholy hand their purest sacrifices. They are the prodi- 
 gal children brought home from long, dark, famished 
 wanderings to their Father's house. Angels are the elder 
 sons of the family — ever faithful to its regulations, ever 
 rich in its bounties, never straying beyond the privileges 
 of its joyous circle. But for the returning ones they 
 make merry and are glad. Joy swells the bosom of the 
 Father more than if he had never mourned over the lost 
 and dead. Joy beams on the countenances of the ran- 
 somed more than if they had never chafed under the sad 
 and distant captivity. Joy breathes in the praises of the 
 angels over the repenting, more than over themselves, 
 *' the ninety and nine who need no repentance." 
 
 The second point of superiority must be reserved for a 
 subsequent discourse. Let me conclude with a few words 
 suggested by the view of the subject already presented. 
 My Christian friends, it speaks the language of comfort 
 to you. It unravels the great mystery of your suffering ; 
 it shows that it is to be the occasion of your joy. Let 
 
TO THE ANGELS. SI8 
 
 not your hearts be troubled amid the vexations of your 
 present existence. Be of good cheer. The tabernacle 
 which now obstructs your spiritual vision, and impedes 
 your heavenward flight, is not to be your eternal dwelling 
 place. One day " this corruptible must put on incorrup- 
 tion, and this mortal must put on immortality." The 
 suiferings over which you now grieve shall be exchanged 
 for unalloyed bliss, and the lost for whom you mourn are 
 reserved to welcome your happy transition to the place 
 they have gone to prepare for you. Cease not your spir- 
 itual warfare day or night, for the crown of a good 
 soldier awaits you. Yea, and all these '* light afflictions, 
 which are but for a moment, shall work out for you a far 
 more exceeding and eternal weight of glory," for it is 
 because you suffer so deeply now, that you will joy so ex- 
 ultingly hereafter. Grieve not for yourselves, but rather 
 for those who participate in no such hopes; to whom 
 eternity can but aggravate the miseries of time, and 
 though the present is to them starless and sad, there is a 
 blacker night in the future to which they are hastening. 
 To them terrible indeed shall be the incorruptible body 
 they put on, only endowing them with new powers of suf- 
 fering, and making infinite their capacity for wo. To 
 them the contrast of the blessed shall be reversed. They 
 shall look back to earth as all their heaven. Its wilder- 
 nesses shall assume a beauty to their distracted gaze. Its 
 ignorance shall be deemed bliss compared with present 
 knowledge. Its sorrows shall seem joys compared with 
 present anguish. But even this heaven of their existence, 
 poor, dark, brief though it be, they shall long pray for 
 without avail. Earth was all their heaven, and even that 
 is lost forever. 
 
m^ 
 
 SERMON III 
 
 THE SAINTS IN HEA^^N SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 
 
 KNOW YE NOT THAT WE SHALL JUDGE ANGELS ? — 1 Cor. 6 : 3. 
 
 In the preceding discourse, the sentiment deduced 
 from the text and proposed for illustration, was, the supe- 
 riority of saints to angels. A sketch of the history and 
 character of angels proved that this superiority is not 
 absolute and entire, extending to every feature of the 
 constitution, but is rather limited to those particulars 
 which are connected with the change from sin to holiness. 
 The first point of superiority was stated to be, the con- 
 sciousness which those who were elevated from earth to 
 heaven might have of great advancement in their charac- 
 ter and condition. This consideration was shown to be 
 pertinent from the delight which the mind always takes 
 in contemplating its own progress. In the glorified 
 saints, the principle would be developed in several ways. 
 They would rejoice in their dismemberment from the 
 body, and in the clear views and enlarged capacities 
 attained in their new and exalted nature. They would 
 contrast their felicity with the pain and sorrow of earth, 
 and regain the treasures which were once torn from 
 them. Above all would they exult that they were now 
 free from the captivity of sin — that the chains of that 
 
SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS. dt# 
 
 great master were at length broken — and while they 
 joyed in the unimpeded exercise of present piety, they 
 would bow in sweet humility under the recollection of 
 former sin. These are sources of enjoyment to which 
 angels in the permanent elevation of their nature, and 
 their eternal freedom from sorrow and guilt, must be 
 strangers. 
 
 We proceed now to another source of the superior 
 enjoyment of the saints, and remark, 
 
 II. Christians in heaven will be superior to angels 
 from the peculiarly interesting relation they sustain to 
 Christ. 
 
 Christ is the great central attraction of heaven. The 
 author of the epistle to the Hebrews enters into an elabo- 
 rate comparison between him and the angels. He shows 
 that he has a more exalted name than they, being elevated 
 to the privileges of sonship and heirship. He sits upon 
 a throne and wields a sceptre, while they are but the 
 ministers of his will. The heavens and the earth are 
 represented as the product of his divine workmanship — 
 the finite and fading creatures of his infinite and eternal 
 power. Above all, and most conclusively for his argu- 
 ment, does the apostle appeal to that ancient description 
 of the majesty of his kingdom, where *' a fire goeth 
 before him to devour his enemies," there is a vision of 
 lightnings and a trembling world, and the hills seem to 
 " melt like wax," before the awe-inspiring presence of 
 this King of kings. Then from the midst of these terri- 
 ble manifestations, there comes forth the mandate, " Let 
 all the angels of God worship him." But not only is he 
 superior to angels, and the object of their homage ; he is 
 himself God. Mystery of mysteries— God and not God ! 
 And not only is he himself Jehovah, but Jehovah 
 descending from the throne of his deep invisible abstrac- 
 tion, and unveiling himself with peculiar beauty to the 
 
216 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 gaze. The eye that is fixed upon his loveliness needs no 
 other light. The soul that dwells under the shadow of 
 his mercy-seat can demand no better pavilion. And if 
 there be distinction in rank among the various orders of 
 heaven, will not those be the most princely, who are 
 nearest to this royal head, who bear his mark upon their 
 foreheads, and carry about with them *' the white stone 
 on which his name is written." 
 
 There are many circumstances which seem to indicate, 
 that saints in heaven will sustain a personal relation to 
 Christ more intimate and interesting than that of angels. 
 Their whole career preparatory to that elevation seems 
 fitted to fix his image most endearingly upon their hearts, 
 and to make him the great essential of their being. 
 Those seasons on earth which are most imbued with the 
 spirit of heaven, are distinguished for the preciousness 
 and the nearness with which his person seems to be 
 revealed. I appeal to some of you, whether in those 
 moments of devotion, when the world has receded, and 
 ' whether in the body or out of the body you could not 
 tell,' the one clear vision on the eye of your soul has not 
 been the face of your Redeemer. And again in the 
 seasons of trial and affliction, when the sundering of 
 earthly hopes fixed the grieved spirit on the ark of its 
 eternal refuge, and, reminded of the loneliness of your 
 pilgrimage here, you caught glimpses of " the city that 
 is yet to come" — was not the Lamb the chief light 
 thereof, when exultingly you exclaimed, that * nothing 
 should separate you from the love of Christ.' If there 
 is any one thing remarkable in the triumph of dying 
 Christians, it is the almost invariable uniformity with 
 which they express themselves concerning the Saviour. 
 To them he seems arrayed in new beauty. Tired and 
 exhausted they lean upon his arm. When they feel that 
 the night is dark and the waters are deep, through the 
 
TO THE ANGELS**-*^'***" %Vt' 
 
 shades the light of his smile is discerned, and they hear his 
 cheering voice even while all the waves are passing over 
 them. Sometimes to those whom death meets suddenly, 
 by the way side, on the ocean, though they thought not 
 of their coming doom, yet the watchful and all-seeing 
 Guardian seemed with prophetic beauty to appear t<t 
 them, and awaken almost unconsciously those views and 
 hopes which he was soon to reward with full fruition. I 
 knew of one not long since who perished thus unexpect- 
 edly. The last words heard from him were in the bloom 
 of health, and the full flush of earthly promise. Yet the 
 expression indicated that he was holding peculiar com- 
 munion with his Saviour, and that he trusted himself 
 with newly inspired faith to the care of his covenant 
 Guide. The Bible that floated ashore from the scene of 
 his terrific death had marked as the theme of his recent 
 meditation, the promise of the Shepherd to support his 
 chosen in the dark valley. Who could doubt that He 
 who appeared to him to soothe his spirit for its approach* 
 ing though unexpected conflict, not only stood by his 
 side like a minister of mercy in suffering and anguish, 
 but transported him to nearer and more blissful com- 
 munion with himself in heaven. 
 
 But let us not rest merely on these prophetic indica- 
 tions. Let us again draw aside the veil, and look in 
 upon the views and emotions of heaven. We shall find. 
 
 First, That Christians in heaven are permitted to con- 
 template Christ as their brother. 
 
 " Verily he took not on him the nature of angels, but 
 he took on him the seed of Abraham." On earth he 
 sympathized with their sorrows and struggles, with their 
 fruition he sympathizes now. In each reminiscence of 
 the past, he has with them a fellow-feeling. Once he too 
 found his aspiring nature pent up within the walls of ti, 
 fleshly tabernacle. Once he too was the victim of disap- 
 19 
 
218 SUPERIORITY OP THE SAINTS 
 
 pointment and grief — submitting his sensitive nature to 
 obloquy and abuse, wandering houseless and forsaken till 
 " his head was filled with dew, and his locks with the 
 drops of the night," groaning in spirit by the sepulchre 
 of his companions and friends', and giving up the ghost 
 with physical and mental tortures even more tlian man 
 could conceive. Nor did he, spotless and pure though 
 he was, escape the assaults of the great moral enemy. 
 He encountered sin as the great obstacle to his successful 
 mission. It met him in the depraved and short-sighted 
 views of his chosen, in the sneers and contempt of his 
 enemies. In the person of the adversary it followed his 
 famished frame to the wilderness, it whispered to him the 
 language of rebellion in the garden, it stood mocking 
 his agonies upon the cross. In that last fearful moment, 
 gathering all its strength and virulence, by some mysteri- 
 ous process, it weighed upon his soul as if himself had 
 been the guilty, and left him to expire in despair. But 
 now, like his beloved, the more exalted and glorious is 
 he, that he humbled himself so low. ♦' The Captain of 
 our salvation is made perfect through sufferings." How 
 intimate and how blissful must be the communion be- 
 tween this elder brother and the family of his saints. 
 The robe he wears is like their own, though infinitely 
 more resplendent. He no doubt appears in that glorified 
 humanity, that spiritual corporeity which is the vesture of 
 his saints. Such as it appeared on the mount of trans- 
 figuration—the sunlike visage, and the glistering raiment; 
 such as it shone forth on the morning of the ascension, 
 when a cloud enveloped his unutterable glory ; such as 
 John fainted before, when he " saw in the midst of the 
 seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man," and 
 *• heard the voice as the sound of many waters." Far as 
 the dialects of heaven exceed the impoverished epithets 
 of earth, so far will that outward glory exceed our high- 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 219 
 
 est imagination. Angels will wonder and adore. In 
 their intercourse with the saints we may conjecture that 
 their exclamations in view of this ravishing beauty will 
 be most delightful. How that form, such a one may say, 
 attracts to itself the admiring gaze of heaven. " Fairer 
 art thou than the children of men. Grace is poured into 
 thy lips. God hath blessed thee forever." He is my 
 brother, will be the reply. He was my chosen companion 
 and guide, even when I saw him not. Ever he stood by 
 my side, unfolding the picture of his spotless life, whis- 
 pering the injunctions of his blessed gospel, beckoning to 
 the participation of his own inheritance. What was 
 then revealed only to the half-opened eye of the soul, has 
 become the blessedness of full vision. I can see him as 
 he is. " Beloved, now are we the sons of God, but it 
 doth not yet appear what we shall be : but we know that 
 when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall 
 see him as he is." 
 
 Secondly, They will contemplate him as their Re- 
 deemer. 
 
 Redemption is probably the great culminating point of 
 the universe. From those glimpses which are given us 
 of the employments and praises of the upper world, we 
 cannot doubt that it is the theme upon which angels 
 most delight to dwell. And as it is the praise of heaven, 
 it is no doubt the joy of myriads of worlds unrevealed to 
 us. Only the inhabitants of earth may be directly bene- 
 fitted, but it involves principles in the divine character 
 and administration, which must attract the interest and 
 love of all God's intelligent creatures. Some seraph has 
 no doubt been employed to communicate it even to the 
 remotest corner of the creation. For long ages the uni- 
 verse may have been occupied in solving this great mys- 
 tery ; and it is worthy of such scrutiny. What an idea 
 to dwell upon is that of God coming down in the person 
 
220 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 of his Son, not merely to aid men by his example and his 
 sympathy, but to suffer for their sins. How distinguish- 
 ing the grace that selected the gloom of midnight in 
 which its rays should be revealed. Because we had sunk 
 so low, that there was no other remedy, this intercessor 
 extended bis helping hand, and nailed to his own cross 
 the sentence of our doom. Who can fathom that sove- 
 reign justice, which passed by the angels who left their 
 first estate, but for man accepted the provisions of 
 redeeming love, and brought back the worst of rebels to 
 the welcome of the best of sons. Oh ! study it and 
 analyze it as we may, bring forth from the store-house of 
 the past its analogies, and let philosophy pretend to prop 
 up with her theories this truth as it is in Jesus — it stands 
 out alone in all history — grand, solitary, sublime, baffling 
 all research, putting speculation to the blush, and leaving 
 to the inquirer nothing but the simple unexplained con- 
 cession : " Here mercy and justice have met together, 
 righteousness and peace have embraced each other." At 
 the cross of Christ, the proud intellect of man casts off 
 its arrogance, and asks for the spirit of a child. Here 
 intellio-ences more elevated than ours stand abashed as 
 they ponder this production of the infinite intellect of 
 Jehovah. And, my brethren, what dignity and honor 
 will belong to us, when we stand among that blood-bought 
 band, and remember that the great work, which extorts 
 the homage, though it exhausts the study of all worlds, 
 was devised and executed for us. To the eyes of all 
 creatures we shall stand forth, as the monuments of 
 infinite grace, and the images of our Redeemer's love. 
 
 But there is another position than that of honor and 
 dignity which we shall occupy, yet no less fraught with 
 pleasure to ourselves, or endearment to him who gave 
 himself for us. It is that humble consciousness that we 
 are not our own, but that we are bought with a price. 
 
TO THE ANGELS. S!Q1 
 
 ** Not unto us, not unto us, but to thy great name be all 
 the glory." My friends, when we feel deeply indebted to 
 a fellow-being for some benefit conferred, how is our 
 enjoyment enhanced even by the consciousness of unful- 
 filled obligation. We are so constituted that the pleasures 
 of sympathetic gratitude are higher than the satisfaction 
 of a full discharge, and the soul never flows with such 
 full and free delight, as when it pours itself out in love 
 for that which it can never repay. How we delight in 
 the presence of our benefactor. With what affectionate 
 interest do we listen to his words, and watch his slightest 
 motions. How we exult when he is honored, how we 
 rejoice when he is glad. Memory dotes on him in his 
 absence, and the glistening eye follows him even in his 
 far off* journeyings. He becomes indeed the all in all of 
 our being. Love that finds no adequate representation of 
 its depths, that will not dare to express itself in words or 
 deeds, lest the poor tribute belie the swelling heart— such 
 love returns back to the bosom from which it has no 
 outlet, and there it finds a thousand avenues through 
 which to diffuse its streams of joy, and make the life of 
 its possessor a perpetual fountain of delights. But an 
 Apostle has said that no human analogy can reach the 
 love of the Son of God. It surpasses the brightest 
 examples of history, it transcends the highest conceptions 
 which our poor sense of justice will admit. And far as 
 the benefaction of our Redeemer is superior to our 
 experience of earthly favors, so high must be the grati- 
 tude and love which follow our contemplations and 
 inspire our praises in another world. There is a luxury 
 even in the sense of our own vileness, when that poverty 
 becomes rich in the wealth of our Saviour. There is a 
 pleasure in the memory of our own sin, when that guilt 
 becomes innocence from the reflection of Christ's char- 
 acter, and we borrow a lustre and a nutriment from him, 
 19* 
 
222 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 as the planets beam only in the sun, and the branches 
 live only in the vine. 
 
 Thirdly, Jesus is the king of his saints. 
 
 It has been often questioned, whether the relation 
 between Christ and his redeemed people will subsist 
 forever. On the one hand, predictions of the eternity of 
 his reign are found both in the Old and New Testament. 
 On the other, it is distinctly intimated in one passage, 
 that a period of consummation shall arrive, when the 
 Mediator shall lay down his office, and surrender his 
 kingdom unto the Father. In order to reconcile these 
 two assertions, it has been said that the eternity predi- 
 cated of Christ's reign is only relative, and designates 
 merely a protracted and not an endless duration. But 
 the moment we admit such license with reference to 
 eternity predicated of the future state, that moment we 
 overthrow the barriers of legitimate interpretation, and 
 leave room for a host of conjectures concerning the limits 
 of future punishment. I suppose rather that the limit 
 which seems to be assigned to Christ's reisrn, is the limit 
 affixed to his official work as Mediator. Until the day of 
 judgment he has the power of standing as a daysman 
 between the sinner and his God. After that period, — 
 fearful truth to those who have not availed themselves of 
 it before, — his redemption is no longer proffered to the 
 lost. Justice seals up its dreadful account, and ceases to 
 commune with mercy. " There remaineth no more 
 sacrifice for sin." As a mediator for the future, Christ 
 lays down his office, but as the mediator of the past he 
 can never cease to shine with distinct and personal glory. 
 Neither reason nor scripture authorize the belief that his 
 peculiar relation to his chosen will ever terminate, or that 
 there can be a period when he shall lay down all his 
 official honors, and sink into the indistinguishable god- 
 head. Ever distinct and palpable will he no doubt be 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 223 
 
 to the vision of the redeemed, the continued and cease- 
 less object of their homage and their praise. It is the 
 Lamb himself that shall lead them and guide them, and 
 wipe all tears from their eyes. 
 
 Nor is it unreasonable to suppose that there are pur- 
 poses to be fulfilled by this eternal reign, purposes as yet 
 unrevealed to us, but in accomplishing which, we shall 
 have peculiar interest and instrumentality. We cannot 
 suppose that God is then any more than now to act by 
 immediate power, fulfilling his glorious plans, accomplish- 
 ing his stupendous work, by the efficacy of his simple 
 word. He will not surround himself with myriads of ex- 
 alted creatures, merely to be gazed at and admired. He 
 does not design that they shall sit down, the idle and in- 
 active spectators of his operations, but he gives them a 
 work fitted to command such energies and fiiculties as 
 theirs. This is the economy of heaven. And we, my 
 brethren, delighting as we do in our Saviour's service on 
 earth, willing to tread in the footsteps of his sorrow if we 
 may but honor his name, what must be our happiness, 
 when without the impediments which check us here, we 
 submit our new created and exalted powers to be con- 
 trolled and directed by him forever. That child of Christ 
 on earth, who is permitted the honor of bearing his gospel 
 across the ocean, and proclaiming its glad news to some 
 remote and benighted idolater, feels that it is a joyous 
 and well-paid service, though he encounters peril and re- 
 proach, and after all lays down his bones among the 
 mountains, long before the ** fruits are seen to shake like 
 Lebanon." How must he be delighted when he finds 
 himself endowed with physical properties which know no 
 fatigue — able at the will of his king to travel over space, 
 to rove among stars and suns on his errands of love, and 
 to spend eternity in those princely duties which are al- 
 ready marked out for us, though ear hath not heard, nor 
 
224 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 heart conceived their number and their vastness. In the 
 councils of that kingdom, we no doubt shall be admitted 
 to an intimacy greater than that of angels, and in the 
 prosecution of its plans, we shall be the chief adminis- 
 trators. How the benevolent heart must glow with the 
 prospect of eternal action, and we who know not how we 
 can admire too much the love of Christ as it has already 
 been revealed, may yet be employed in aiding him on 
 similar projects, which his exhaustless and infinite good- 
 ness may suggest. 
 
 Contrast the humblest saint, who comes home from his 
 earthly pilgrimage to heaven, with the highest archangel 
 who ministers before the throne. He, glorious in holiness, 
 splendid in beauty, terrible in power! We would not 
 diminish the height of his elevation, or impair the lustre 
 of his crown. But who is this that comes toil-worn and 
 timid from terrestrial strugglings, and upon whose un- 
 prepared virion the glories of the upper world are bursting 
 in their full effulgence. That song of angels which 
 ceases neither day or night — we would not detract from 
 its harmony or its significance. " Holy, holy, holy. Lord 
 God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come. Thou 
 art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honor, and 
 power, for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleas- 
 ure they are and were created." Verily the majesty of 
 the Invisible is deserving of such homage; and the won- 
 ders of creation even of old waked into melody the sons 
 of God, when with the morning-stars they "shouted and 
 sang together fL)r joy." Yet there is a song more raptu- 
 rous and elevated, such as breaks from the lips of the new 
 inmate, and is echoed by the sympathetic choir of the 
 saints, until all heaven rings with the gladsome acclama- 
 tion, " Worthy the Lamb that was slain, for he has re- 
 deemed me by his blood." John seems to have had 
 glimpses of this superiority in his apocalyptic vision. He 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 
 
 speaks of " a new song that no man could learn but the 
 hundred and forty and four thousand that were redeemed 
 from the earth." He means, that although angels are 
 constrained to join in that song, it has a significance 
 which they can never learn. Their well-trained voices 
 may harmonize with the music of the saints, but there is 
 a melody of the soul unawakened in them, a chord of the 
 heart untouched. They can never say, This Lamb was 
 slain ybr us. Accordingly, their position is represented as 
 not in such immediate proximity to the throne of Jesus. 
 The nearest to that seat of honor are those who represent 
 the church of the redeemed. They commence the new 
 and exalted strain, •* Thou art worthy to take the book, 
 and to open the seals thereof: for thou wast slain, and 
 hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kin- 
 dred and tongue and people and nation, and hast made us 
 unto our God kings and priests : and we shall reign on 
 the earth." Next after them, the angels who form a cir- 
 cle around, unable to repress their sympathy and admira- 
 tion, to the number of " ten thousand times ten thousand 
 and thousands of thousands," cry with a loud voice, 
 ** Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power 
 and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory 
 and blessing." And finally the whole intelligent universe 
 is introduced as uniting in this glorious tribute, and the 
 chorus that swells all hearts and voices is, " Blessing and 
 honor and glory and power be unto him that sitteth upon 
 the throne, and unto the Lamb forever and ever." 
 
 This subject commends itself, in the first place, to such 
 as are permitted to indulge these hopes and anticipations 
 for themselves. " What manner of persons ought they 
 to be." What self-respect, what consciousness of their 
 own dignity, should they wear in all their demeanor. 
 How ought they to look upon their brethren who are heirs 
 
22G 
 
 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 
 
 with them of the same promises. It is to this use that 
 the Apostle chiefly applies the consideration, reproving the 
 dissensions that had arisen among the disciples of Jesus. 
 And it calls this church to a holy union. That brother 
 of yours whom you wound by your opprobrium, is des- 
 tined to the honors of a judge in the New Jerusalem. 
 That weak and ignorant child of God, whom you pass by 
 as beneath your notice, has a robe reserved for him and a 
 crown more princely than earthly courts can boast. 
 When you meet him at the table of your Redeemer, re- 
 member he shall one day be admitted to his council- 
 chamber, and drink with him the new wine in the king- 
 dom of his Father. Angels may yet take up the song 
 after that slighted one, as they have already rejoiced over 
 his repentance. Oh ! my brethren, what strange beings 
 we are ! Should we go through life with our heads bowed 
 down under sorrow, if we thought of that tearless para- 
 dise ? Should we become so easy a prey to temptation, 
 and suffer men to speak lightly of our principles and our 
 piety, if we reflected on the purity to which we are des- 
 tined, and the high rank on which we bring dishonor? 
 Should we commune so seldom and so coldly with our 
 Saviour, if we remembered that he is to be one day the 
 fulness of our joy, and that angels might long for our 
 nearness to him without attaining it 1 No ! my brethren, 
 we should walk erect and joyous, so that men might know 
 us by the dignity of our mien, by the beaming of our 
 eye, by the eloquent expression of our features, all of 
 them showing the world, that we are already subsisting on 
 heavenly food. We should fly from sin as not to be 
 glanced at by the expectants of superangelic purity. We 
 should cling to Jesus as if our nearness to his throne in 
 heaven were to be measured by our nearness to his cross 
 and his altar on earth. Even here we should catch some 
 strains of that new song of the redeemed ; and released 
 
TO THE ANGELS. 227 
 
 from the fear of death, our souls would often pant with 
 restless aspirings for that brighter and better portion with 
 Christ. 
 
 Finally, our subject appeals in the language of affec- 
 tionate invitation to such as have yet no title to this bless- 
 ed inheritance. My friends, religion often comes to you 
 in a voice of terror, and it is but just that tiie terrors of 
 the law should be sounded in the ears of the slumbering 
 and the dead. But to-day, she comes arrayed in her best 
 white robe, and with a voice of mild entreaty. She holds 
 out to you a crown brighter than that of angels. She 
 brings to your ear strains of celestial music. She beck- 
 ons you to the marriage-supper of the Lamb. Behold! 
 all things are now ready. And Jesus has expended his 
 most costly sacrifice, that he might purchase you a seat 
 at the table of his chosen. Will you, can you, slight the 
 invitation, and turn away from the price of blood, and 
 the songs of heaven, and the voices of the dead, till the 
 door shall be forever shut ? 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The two preceding discourses were finished Feb. 21, 1840. In a 
 letter of the same date he says, " This week I have been writing a 
 double sei-mon from 1 Cor. 6:3,* Know ye not that we shall judge 
 angels ? ' The thought of my departed friend, Mr. Brown, was 
 constantly with me. I could not refrain from making direct 
 allusion to him, as the prophetic* indications of his death seemed 
 to speak definitely of his reward with the Shepherd." The ser- 
 mons were preached at South Berwick, May 10, 1840 ; and after- 
 wards at Danvers, Mass. Under date May 15, 1840, he writes, 
 '♦ Last Sabbath, I preached the two sermons I gave you to read, 
 and they seemed to produce very considerable impression ; much 
 more than I expected. As I was making a pastoral visit the next 
 day, a lady said to mc, * were you acquainted with that Mr. Brown 
 of Boston, to whom you alluded in 5'our afternoon discourse ?' I 
 need not tell you how the question affected me." 
 
cue -^..:- 
 
 SERMON IV. 
 
 THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SINNER 
 WHO IS NEARLY A CHRISTIAN. 
 
 *rHOU ART NOT FAR FROM THE KINGDOM OF GOD. — Mark 12 : 34. 
 
 These words were addressed to a well educated and 
 interesting young man, in the crowd of cavilers and 
 sceptics, who on a certain occasion had gathered around 
 Jesus. He alone stood forth among the captious and the 
 scoffing, as a sincere inquirer for the truth. Most pleas- 
 ing must have been the spectacle afforded by that kind 
 and conciliatory dialogue. Most eloquent must have 
 been the approval which kindled in the Saviour's eye, as 
 he saw that *'the young man answered discreetly." Beau- 
 tiful, yet not unmixed with sadness is the brief expression, 
 ** Thou art not far from the kingdom of God." • 
 
 As in many other cases of scriptural narrative, we have 
 here but the fragment of an individual's history. The sa- 
 cred penman often gives but a rapid sketch, only sufficient 
 to attract our affections, and then draws the veil over the 
 prospect. We just learn to love the man, when we lose his 
 features amid the crowd through which we are rapidly 
 hurried ; and vve trace in vain his progress and his desti- 
 nation. Yet for that very reason, more deep may be the 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 impression and more varied the instruction from the single 
 and imperfect portraiture. Imagination may seize upon 
 some trifling incident, and fill up the outline, and yet the 
 conviction will remain, that the reality may have been far 
 otherwise. Thus to the rich young man, to whom Jesus 
 addressed the reproof, *• one thing thou lackest," we gen- 
 erally attribute a continued and final impenitence. We 
 are distrustful of the fascination of wealth, and we doubt 
 if a youth would turn from them, for the discipleship of 
 such a master. And yet who knows that the reproof may 
 not have sunk deep into his heart, and there exerted its 
 appropriate influences, until he sacrificed his possessions 
 on the altar of Christ. Very different is the customary 
 apprehension of the incident in our text. We hear no 
 more of the young inquirer, and yet so pleased are we 
 with his spirit, that we picture out for him a happy end. 
 We receive the impression that he who knew so well the 
 significance of the old law, could not have been long in 
 feeling the beauty of the new ; that he who was ** not far 
 from the kingdom of God," would soon have been a 
 member of that blessed community. And yet, for aught 
 we know, a thousand incidents in the sluggish tendencies 
 of the heart, in the dangers and difficulties attendant on 
 a profession of Christianity, may have conspired to retard 
 his progress, and death may have overtaken him with his 
 hand on the door of the sanctuary, and yet before he had 
 stepped within its blessed portal. 
 
 If Christ should appear in our own day, I think it be- 
 yond a question, that such a group might be gathered 
 around him from this congregation. Here perhaps would 
 be the hardened and captious, striving like the Scribes 
 and Pharisees to entangle him in his talk. If they hear 
 not Moses and the apostles, neither would they be per- 
 suaded though Christ himself should appear to them. 
 Here too would be the serious, well-disposed, religious 
 20 
 
230 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 sinner, attracted by the beauty of his Saviour's counte- 
 nance, and admiring the wisdom of his speech. You 
 might see him following about the divine instructor, 
 watching his motions, hanging upon his lips, seeking to 
 touch, if it might be, the hem of his garment, and at- 
 tracting attention by his earnest gaze, and his sincere in- 
 quiries. Yet would there not be a shade of sadness in 
 the divine address to him, '* Thou art not far from the 
 kingdom of God." 
 
 It becomes then an interesting topic of inquiry, what 
 are the characteristics of one to whom the language of 
 the text applies, and what are the errors and dangers to 
 which he is peculiarly exposed ? 
 
 I. I propose to describe the individual who is *' not far 
 from the kingdom of God." 
 
 First, He is distinguished for a moral and amiable life. 
 There are many impenitent men whose characters have 
 been most beautifully cultivated, by the refining influences 
 of social life. To the eye of the world, there is a perfect 
 symmetry in their moral developments. Quick are they 
 in the apprehension of external duty, prompt in its per- 
 formance. There is a perpetual sunshine about their 
 walk. Under the influences of these moral graces, there 
 is a proximate cultivation which may be tending to holi- 
 ness. I do not say that of itself it ever will or ever can 
 secure holiness. I do not deny that it often brings with 
 it a self-confidence which is the very opposite of convic- 
 tion for sin. I only mention it as one among the several 
 influences, with which God may be moving upon the 
 heart of the sinner, and putting him in the position most 
 elevated in itself, and most favorable to conversion. At 
 the same time it must be admitted that there is no unva- 
 rying uniformity in the divine operations, and that the 
 Spirit often impresses truth upon men of a very diflferent 
 character. We sometimes see the abandoned suddenly 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 231 
 
 and in a moment rescued from the lowest depths of vice. 
 The very flagrancy of the crime, the very awfulness of 
 the blasphemy, the very solitude in which the criminal 
 finds himself an outcast from society, may be the means 
 of awakening the horrors of conscience, and sending him 
 a trembling penitent to the cross. The immoral man 
 must not feel obliged to wait until he has corrected his 
 moral habits and cultivated his tastes before he gives his 
 heart to God, but he should be urged to shake off his vice 
 and his impenitence together, and at once to become a 
 Christian. Yet such a one could not be appropriately 
 described as ** not far from the kingdom of God." It is 
 the greatest miracle of divine mercy that he is ever saved. 
 The tendencies of his habits are all to put far off the pe- 
 riod of his conversion. He is enervating his susceptibili- 
 ties, and blunting his conscience, and barring up the av- 
 enues through which religion might enter his soul. If by 
 divine grace such a brand is plucked from the burning, 
 there is no moral proximity of his previous to his subse- 
 quent condition. Only to those can our text apply who 
 are exercising their higher susceptibilities upon what 
 there is of good in the objects of a virtuous life. To the' 
 man who is scrupulously living up to the relations of so- 
 ciety, who sincerely designs to be a good father, a useful 
 citizen, an honorable and benevolent man ; who has a 
 heart as warm and pure and kind as we sometimes see 
 even in the unregenerate ; to such a one can be most 
 forcibly presented the importance of fidelity in his rela- 
 tions to God. He, whose conscience is sensitive to viola- 
 tions of moral duty, and who makes rectitude and honor 
 the rule of his outward conduct, might be expected to 
 open his heart most readily to the reproofs of the divine 
 law, and most promptly to cease from a career as base as 
 it is sinful. Such a one may be said, so far as moral 
 . character is concerned, to be ** not far from the kingdom 
 of God." 
 
232 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Secondly, He is a believer in the fundamental doctrines 
 of Christianity. 
 
 Morality presents little claim to the character described 
 in our text, if it be joined with unbelief That is enough 
 to counteract all the good tendencies of amiable and vir- 
 tuous life. Ordinarily faith and goodness, (I mean what 
 the world calls goodness,) go hand in hand, and this is 
 well for those who would establish the political expedi- 
 ency of correct belief And yet as if to show what an- 
 tagonist powers there are ever in human nature, the world 
 has seen some splendid examples of private and public 
 virtue conjoined with monstrous errors in religion. Such 
 a one is very far from the kingdom of God. His suscep- 
 tibilities may work right in their sphere, but the sphere 
 is wrong. His conscience may be most accurate and 
 regular in its action, but it is under the guidance of a 
 perverted understanding, and supplied with inadequate 
 data for its judgments. His moral system has lost its bal- 
 ance. The wheels move regularly, but wrong. If such 
 a one is converted, it is because conscience will some- 
 times assert for the moment its supremacy over the under- 
 standing, and religion will press its way through some se- 
 cret crevices to the heart, in spite of the mailed unbelief 
 which invests it. If we sometimes see individuals de- 
 nying some of the essential doctrines of Christianity un- 
 til after their conversion, such cases are extremely rare, 
 and all the previous probabilities are against them. Or- 
 dinarily we must believe before we are baptized with the 
 Spirit. We are sanctified through the truth. Not that 
 every mystery of religion is to be comprehended — not 
 that every dogma of the schools is to be subscribed to — 
 not that the most spiritual and elevated doctrines of our 
 faith can ever be fully appreciated by the carnal heart. 
 But it is demanded that there should be a speculative as- 
 sent to all the fundamental truths of our religion— such 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 233 
 
 truths as relate to the character and law of God, the na- 
 ture and duty and destiny of the human soul, the redemp- 
 tion provided by Jesus Christ. And he who admits that 
 he is a sinner, that his duty is to become holy, and that 
 his only hope for pardon is in the merits of Jesus — such 
 a one so far as religious opinion is concerned, is " not far 
 from the kingdom of God." 
 
 Thirdly, He who is not far from the kingdom of God 
 has a determination to become a Christian at some future 
 time. 
 
 The cold assent of the understanding to the truths of 
 religion, may be given by one who is in fact very far 
 from the kingdom of God. There are many men of 
 exemplary morality and unexceptionable orthodoxy, who 
 never dream of receiving any practical lessons from the 
 doctrines of their faith. The truths they admit, do not 
 go down into the depths of the soul, to awaken feeling, 
 to stimulate to resolution, to gird for action. Particularly 
 is this true of many intellectual sinners. They acknowl- 
 edge the grandeur of our religious scheme, they bow 
 down in speculative humility before the doctrines of the 
 cross, they love to exercise their powers upon the great 
 themes of the Bible, but of a personal appeal to the heart 
 from all this array of light they are never sensible. 
 Practical religion, they imagine, will do well enough for 
 the lower order of minds, but for themselves no melting 
 entreaty ever sounds in their ears, " Seek ye my face," 
 to which the soul responds, •• thy face Lord will I seek." 
 Neither can this description apply to that large class who 
 cherish some vague aind distant hope of heaven, with no 
 definite idea of the means of obtaining it ; who cheat 
 themselves with dreams of a reward, while they think not 
 of girding for the only effort which can secure it. To 
 such characters our text has no application. They are 
 like the man whom the pilgrim saw crossing the river of 
 20* 
 
234 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 death in a ferry boat, instead of breasting its current, and 
 feeling its dark waves pass over him. No angels meet 
 him on the shore — no scroll is in his bosom — no gate 
 opens at his knocking. But to those whom the doctrines 
 of our religion approach with a personal appeal, to whom 
 the cross gives a tender conscience, who feel constrained 
 at times to follow in the way of duty, though it be with 
 trembling hesitation, and who keep the eye steadily fixed 
 on the strait gate with a determination to enter it before 
 they die ; — to such Christ comes with the address in our 
 text. And such a one, so far as general purpose is con- 
 cerned, is " not far from the kingdom of God." 
 
 Fourthly, He is diligent in using the means of 
 grace. 
 
 A distant and vague resolution, if it call for no imme- 
 diate effort, is not enough to meet the description in the 
 text. Nay, so far as it is prospective, it may be the very 
 means of fixing the sinner in his condition of stupidity, 
 and making procrastination the thief and the murderer of 
 his eternal interests. But there are moments in the his- 
 tory of every sinner when the resolution just described 
 assumes a definite form, and the claims of God press 
 themselves with immediateness upon the soul. At such 
 an hour sin looks terrible to the eye. The memory of 
 past ingratitude and impenitence, and the consciousness 
 of present guilt, sit brooding upon the soul, and at times 
 weigh it down almost with the burden of despair. The 
 long neglected Bible becomes the chief companion, and 
 there are lines of light upon all its pages, blazing in upon 
 the conscience, kindling its terrors of retribution, or 
 demanding the instant performance of duty. The house 
 of God wears an aspect of sombre solemnity, and the 
 voice of the preacher stirs up depths in the soul which 
 have never before been reached. The Spirit of God is 
 very near, and angels are watching for the result of the 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 235 
 
 moral conflict. The sinner feels that the harvest season 
 of his soul has arrived, and he is determined not to let it 
 pass by unimproved. He prays with an agony of soul, 
 lest the Spirit leave him to hardness of heart, and final 
 reprobation. And such a one is in possession of the 
 chief characteristic of an almost Christian ; and so far 
 as the ordinary preliminaries of conversion are con- 
 cerned, he is certainly " not far from the kingdom of 
 God." 
 
 I have thus set before you, my friends, the traits which 
 distinguish one who is " not far from the kingdom of 
 God." He who is marked by only one of these qualities, 
 may be favorably situated so far as that one is concerned, 
 but by the absence of others, the good influence may be 
 counteracted, and he may be set with his face and his 
 footsteps downward. Chiefly on him who combines all 
 these characteristics would the Saviour turn his affection- 
 ate gaze, and to the moral, orthodox, sensitive, convicted 
 sinner, would address the language of the text. To such 
 a one, most tender and affectionate should be our appeal. 
 Our hearts yearn over him with peculiar fondness. We 
 gaze with pleasure on his pure life, the faith he embraces 
 is the light of our souls, we love to avail ourselves of a 
 heart so open to the truth, and above all we rejoice that 
 he seems in earnest for the salvation of his soul. Yet 
 we rejoice with trembling. Not for worlds would we 
 have him rush into a career of vice, or become the victim 
 of error, or steel his heart against the personal appeals of 
 the gospel, or relapse into his old stupidity and indiffer- 
 ence. But we tremble for him, lest his promising position 
 become the grave of his soul. 
 
 II. I proceed therefore to point out some errors and 
 dangers incident to the condition described in the text. 
 
 First, This condition does not imply, as is often sup- 
 posed, the commencement of holiness in the heart. 
 
236 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 I- The error on this point is more frequently a practical 
 than a speculative one. The line of distinction between 
 the Christian, and the awakened, conscientious and out- 
 wardly obedient sinner, is to many minds exceedingly 
 narrow. It seems hard to treat him like a miserable 
 rebel against God. There is a disposition to mistake his 
 seriousness and tenderness of spirit for the first breathings 
 of true religion, to feel that his load of guilt is in part 
 removed, that he is already within the threshold of the 
 kingdom. But what is religion ? Does it consist in 
 fidelity to the obligations of social life, while the love of 
 God is absent from the soul ? Does it enthrone itself in 
 the intellect, to receive with a cold assent, the truths of the 
 gospel, while the heart sends back no beatings of sympa- 
 thy for the holy theme? Does it waste itself in purposes 
 of amendment, while sin still holds the life in its iron 
 grasp ? Or does it beat about in feverish exertions after 
 holiness, and mad conflicts with the moral enemy, which 
 only prove the desperateness of a long cherished deprav- 
 ity, and the depth of a still lingering fondness ? No ! 
 religion lives not in one or all of these previous states. 
 It acknowledges no fellowship with the virtue which can 
 subsist in the depraved nature of man. It stands aloof 
 from every moral exercise, which would take it by the 
 hand, and press it into unholy union with itself It will 
 accept of nothing short of an entire consecration to God. 
 It will not divide the throne of the affections with any 
 other claimant. Its mastery must be supreme or not at 
 all. To him who is not yet its subject, whatever be his 
 moral position, it comes only with the stern, undeviating 
 command, repent — turn — live. It has no preparatory 
 services to enjoin, no walking in the way to the way 
 which it can encourage. It knows no compromise or 
 treaty with him who is ** not far from the kingdom of 
 God." Moral sinner, it comes to thee, stripping off the 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 98f 
 
 beautiful robe with which thou hast hidden thy deformity, 
 and commanding thee to heal thy wounded heart. Be- 
 lieving sinner, it comes to thee, showing how superficial 
 and empty is thy faith, and commanding thee to show thy 
 faith by thy works. Resolving sinner, it has a voice for 
 thee, ringing in thine ear the death-knell of thy hopes for 
 the future, and bidding thee this instant, resolve and do. 
 And for thee, convicted one, it has ten thousand voices of 
 entreaty and' alarm. They sound in thine ear amid the 
 worship of the sanctuary, they break forth from hills and 
 forests as thou walkest abroad among the speaking works 
 of thy Father. In the retirement of the closet, they 
 come swelling up in whispers of despair, and they startle 
 thy slumbers in the visions of the night. Say, sinner, do 
 they bring thee the language of comfort and complacency, 
 as to one already at peace with God, or do they not hover 
 with raven-wing about thy soul, as if determined to give 
 thee no peace till thou hast done the great duty. 
 
 Secondly, This condition does not necessarily lead to 
 true religion. 
 
 There are many who admit that these preparatory steps 
 do not involve the elements of piety, yet imagine that 
 they infallibly secure them. According to such, regene- 
 ration is a gradual change, involving a series of moral 
 processes. He, who steps within the magic range, 
 although he is not supposed to be converted until he has 
 crossed its utmost limit, is considered safe from the 
 further accumulation of guilt, and sure of attaining the 
 desired goal. Such persons seem to suppose that the 
 more protracted the convictions, the more radical and 
 thorough will be the conversion. They are suspicious of 
 these sudden changes. They encourage the awakened 
 sinner to press on perseveringly in the good way he has 
 begun, and he may hope for light in the end. But what 
 saith the Scripture 1 •' The word is nigh thee, even in 
 
238 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN, 
 
 thy mouth and in thy heart." Our religion is one which 
 calls for no pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre, for no long 
 routine of forms and penances, for no imposition of holy 
 hands, or external ordinances, before it can be received 
 into the heart. Upon the conscience of every moral 
 being, if it press at all, it presses this instant with its 
 whole weight of obligation. And every sinner who 
 lingers on the way, or hurries on without hurrying in, 
 though his face be towards the house of refuge, is render- 
 ing his arrival more uncertain by each moment's delay. 
 How can we encourage such a one as free from spiritual 
 danger, when we know that he is a sinner against God ? 
 How can we hold out to him the certain prospect of 
 pardon and salvation, when we know that life is not 
 sure beyond the present moment, and should he be 
 hurried unregenerate, though on the way to conversion, 
 before the bar of his Maker, the Bible furnishes no plea 
 with regard to these indifferent acts, and assigns no 
 compartment in heaven to the almost Christian. How 
 can we whisper peace to his anxiety, when we know that 
 the last struggle in the moral nature is perhaps the most 
 fearful of all, and that a thousand temptations to fatal 
 delay or to obstinate relapse may be environing him. 
 Satan rages, for his time is short — and who knows but 
 that the principles of the old man inflamed in the conflict, 
 may drag him back to hardened impenitence, and his last 
 state shall become worse than the first. 
 
 Thirdly, The condition is one which involves peculiar 
 guilt. 
 
 Guilt cannot be estimated absolutely. We have no 
 right to measure by rule the sin of any man, or to com- 
 pare mathematically the deserts of one condition of guilt 
 with those of another. Yet we are authorized to draw 
 out the peculiar circumstances of aggravation which 
 accompany each case of iniquity, and we may say that 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 in some respects one sinner is more culpable than 
 another. One of our rules of moral judgment is, that 
 blame is proportioned to the degree of light enjoyed by 
 the criminal. Not that we exculpate the exasperated 
 man, who commits a murder while his reason is deranged 
 by passion, or that we place him on the whole in a lower 
 gradation of wickedness than the assassin who proceeds 
 deliberately to the deed of death. But we locate the 
 chief guilt of the involuntary transgressor farther back, 
 and we say that in the act itself the man who strikes 
 coolly, while all the principles of his better nature are 
 rallying for his rescue, overcomes more moral barriers in 
 his way to ruin, and is so far a guiltier man. Just so is 
 it in the case of the sinner. The awakened and anxious 
 persist in impenitence, amid clearer and stronger induce- 
 ments to immediate rectitude than they who are slumber- 
 ing on in the lethargy of sin. We do not say that the 
 moral man is absolutely more culpable and degraded than 
 the vicious and abandoned. Far otherwise may be our 
 belief; far otherwise may be the view of the all-seeing 
 Judge. But inasmuch as in him, the gospel comes in 
 contact with healthier sensibilities, with a nature acute in 
 its perception of duty, with habits of prompt obedience, 
 so far it is easier for him to comply with the demands of 
 heaven, and so far it involves a greater sin, if he turn 
 away from them with scorn and neglect. So too the 
 believer of gospel truth may be far less degraded in his 
 moral nature, and an object of greater complacency, than 
 the votary of idolatrous and obscure rites, or the victim 
 of an erroneous fiith. Yet, against him there is this one 
 plea of resisting greater light, and from the shrines of 
 barbarous idolatry and the sanctuaries of a corrupted 
 faith, there shall rise up multitudes to utter against him 
 the fearful malediction, *• You knew your duty, but you 
 would not do it." And, my hearers, I would not for a 
 
240 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 moment detract from the guilt of hardened and stupid 
 impenitence, nor do I know of a condition more awful, 
 than that of him who goes to the bar of God from the 
 long unbroken slumbers of spiritual death. And yet 
 there is one view in which the convicted sinner presents 
 a spectacle more odious, and stands charged with higher 
 criminality. He is in the midst of a flood of light which 
 sends no rays into the prison house of the careless and 
 secure. On his soul there beams new lustre from the 
 throne of a forgiving Father. To his vision is revealed 
 the cross of Christ, with a glory encircling it such as the 
 world cannot behold, and the meek sufferer seems to fix 
 on him an eye of peculiar fondness. Voices of unwonted 
 eloquence blend themselves with the voice of his con- 
 science, when the Spirit and the bride at this solemn hour 
 whisper their persuasive invitation. Sin no longer wears 
 its flattering and attractive garb. Hell sends in its notes 
 of warning, and bids him seize the present instant. On 
 which side soever he turns, he beholds a beckoning hand, 
 and hears a beseeching voice. And yet he sins. He is 
 an awakened sinner — but an awakened sinner. Oh ! is 
 not this guilt — is it not madness 1 Is it not an insult to 
 the throne of grace, and the cross of Christ, that unveil 
 to him their matchless splendors ? Is it not a new thorn 
 in the Saviour's crown, or a new nail in his hands and 
 feet 1 Is it not a fighting against the gracious Spirit of 
 God? Is it not a planting of the soul, in the midst of 
 all that could allure or urge, only to show the desperate 
 obstinacy of its sin, and to heap upon itself new meas- 
 ures of the wrath of God ? 
 
 Finally, The misery of those who perish from such a 
 condition will be peculiarly great. 
 
 It has already been shown, that there is no security of 
 a favorable result. On the contrary, there may be a 
 relapse to impenitence, and death may overtake the 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 241 
 
 sinner before he has found peace with God. Peculiarly 
 embittered must be his recollections of the past, when he 
 finds his gloomy account sealed up. If there be an hour 
 of agony to the soul, it is when it calls up the successive 
 steps of its own dark history, and finds how near it often 
 was to the very highway of salvation. So close upon 
 heaven — and still it is torn away with no prospect of 
 restoration. 
 
 In one of the terrible calamities, lately occurring on 
 our Northern waters, there was a man who perished in 
 circumstances of peculiar aggravation. He had been 
 long absent from his native land, and the home of his 
 affection. For years he had been wrestling with dangers, 
 at a distance from those whom he loved. He had met 
 death in the uproar of storm and shipwreck, but death 
 had not claimed him for its victim. He had been caught 
 in the hideous embrace of the pestilence, but he con- 
 quered there. Peril and disease chased after him in his 
 journeyings, but a charm seemed to hang about his 
 person, and he escaped scarred but vigorous. And now, 
 full of gratitude for his past deliverances, and buoyant 
 with anticipations of a joyous meeting, he was hastening 
 home from his long exile, to the friends that would glow 
 more brightly at his return. But a fearful death was 
 in reserve for him on the very threshold of his home. 
 At an hour when he least thought of it, yet an hour so 
 hemmed in by an all-wise Providence from every prospect 
 of relief, and when the opposing elements seemed com- 
 bined for the general destruction, he saw that he must 
 die. As he sunk into the cold wave, and the torpor of 
 death stole over him, his eye seemed to discern upon the 
 neighboring shore, the glimmering of his own fireside, 
 and he could almost hear the welcome voices of those 
 who looked out at the lattice for his coming. Alas! it 
 was a hard thing thus to perish, just as his arms were 
 21 
 
242 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Stretched out to embrace the long lost and almost recov- 
 ered treasures of his heart. And, my friends, do you not 
 suppose he would rather have found his grave in mid 
 ocean, than on the very shores of his nativity ? Would 
 it not have been happier for him to sink down under 
 lingering disease, so far away from the hearts that 
 yearned over him that his last hours would have been 
 haunted by no visions of their presence, than to lay his 
 head on that icy pillow, while they whom he sought 
 seemed to bend over him so closely, yet unable to smooth 
 his rough bed, or to ease the pathway for his burial. 
 
 And so it is with the man who comes, like the prodigal, 
 to the threshold of his paternal mansion, to the sight of 
 his father's outstretched arms, only to linger and perish 
 before he reaches the safe enclosure, or the forgiving 
 embrace. He goes down to perdition, with the songs of 
 heaven sounding in his ears, and amid the visions of 
 angels taking up their harps to joy over his repentance. 
 Sad, sad indeed is the last farewell he bids to " the peace 
 that passeth knowledge." And agonizing will be the 
 reminiscence of that one spot in his moral history, where 
 the influence of earth and heaven all combined to bring 
 him to the very gate of paradise, while now he finds 
 himself a more miserable outcast, in consequence of the 
 elevation from which he falls. 
 
 And now, brother, thou to whom Christ addresses the 
 language of the text, " Thou art not far from the kingdom 
 of God." I wander not from the spirit of his affection, 
 when I sound these warnings in thine ears. I mean it 
 not unkindly when I tell thee, — Thou art not a Christian, 
 and thou art not sure of becoming a Christian. New 
 guilt is staining thy garment, and heart-rending will be 
 thy doom unless it be speedily washed away. In Christ's 
 stead, I stand here to-day to beseech thee without delay 
 to become reconciled to God. In Christ's name, I assure 
 
THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 5143 
 
 thee of the fondness with which the church contemplates 
 thy character and condition — not vile and odious, but 
 moral and kind; not faithless, but believing; not cold 
 and careless, but determined and anxious. She would 
 cherish thy virtues, and confirm thy faith, and light up 
 thy face with the smiles of hope. Yet it is for such as 
 thee that the church weeps, and bows down in the dust, 
 and can give herself no rest, in thy lingering delay. 
 There is danger on every side of thee but one. If thou 
 return to thine old sin, certain ruin yawns for thee, for if 
 such as thou scarcely escape, what shall become of the 
 hardened and the abandoned. If thou stand still, " sin 
 lieth at the door," ready to rush in upon thy slumbers 
 and bind thee with new chains. If thou press on in thy 
 present strugglings, thou hast but found new avenues to 
 death, and a new weight is accumulating on thy soul. 
 There is but one way for thee, and that is — Repent. 
 There is but one hope for thee, and that is the grace of 
 God. " Oh ! Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself — but in 
 me is thy help." In Thee, blessed God, is their help. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The preceding sermon, the fifth which Mr. Homer ever wrote, 
 was the first which he ever preached. It was delivered at Sher- 
 burne, Mass., March 29, 1840 ; afterwards at Boston, Salem St. 
 church; at South Berwick, May 17, 1840; at Dover, N. H. ; at 
 Danvers, Mass. ; at Buffalo, N. Y. ; and at Exeter, N. H. 
 
SERMON V 
 
 FITNESS OF THE MEDIATOR TO BE THE JUDGE OF 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 AND HATH GIVEN HIM AUTHORITY TO EXECUTE JUDGMENT ALSO, BE- 
 CAUSE HE IS THE SON OF MAN.— John 5 : 27. 
 
 The phrase " Son of Man," here denotes the Messiah- 
 ship of Jesus. It is a title borrowed from the circum- 
 stance of his humanity, although not exclusively referring 
 to that part of his nature. The Son of God was most 
 fond of describing himself by this humble appellation, 
 and it is remarkable that in the New Testament, it is 
 used in this sense by no other person. 
 
 The Scriptures very clearly predict that a day is coming 
 when God shall judge the world ; and they uniformly at- 
 tribute to Christ the office of presiding on that august 
 occasion. They speak of him as '* ordained of God to be 
 the judge of quick and dead." And our text states 
 the reason of the divine appointment, " because he is the 
 Son of Man." It will be the object of this discourse to 
 develop more fully the idea of the text, and to show that 
 
 The office of the final judge is appropriated with pecu- 
 liar fitness to the Messiah. 
 
 There are three great aspects in which Jesus the Mes- 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OP THE WORLD. 245 
 
 siah is presented to our view. He is God, he is man, he 
 is God-man. The Scriptures describe these qualities as 
 distinct and perfect, and yet uniting in mysterious har- 
 mony in the same individual. He is represented as God. 
 The name of the Supreme is attached to him under cir- 
 cumstances that admit of no qualification. The works 
 ascribed to him are such as extorted from the Psalmist the 
 devout acknowledgment — ''Jehovah, how excellent thy 
 name in all the earth." The analysis of his attributes 
 proves that he possesses qualities such as could be shared 
 only by the Infinite and the Eternal. And all men are 
 commanded to " honor the Son, even as they honor the 
 Father." He is represented as man. History, profane 
 as well as sacred, has recorded his name as that of one 
 who trode upon the earth, and wore the form and features 
 and spoke the language of our nature. From infancy to 
 manhood he grew up, his body and soul maturing together. 
 He loved as a friend, as a brother, as a son ; as a mortal, 
 he suffered and bled and died. Nor has he yet lost his 
 human identity, for we are told that those who seek his 
 glorified person, shall discern in his scarred features the 
 lineaments of his human history ; and even in his spirit- 
 ual body, " he bears about the marks of his dying." He 
 is represented still further as not God merely, not man 
 merely, but an inexplicable union of the two, by which 
 mystery alone he discharged the functions of his high 
 office. As a God, he could not have suffered ; as a man, 
 his suffering would have been no acceptable sacrifice. 
 Only as he wrapped the mantle of his humanity about his 
 incorruptible Godhead, was he fitted to stand forth as the 
 Mediator and the Redeemer of man. 
 
 I propose to show that in each of these three respects, 
 Christ is peculiarly fitted to judge the world at the last 
 day. 
 
 I. He possesses, in his divine nature, qualities which fit 
 21* 
 
246 
 
 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 him for the office. Let us consider how admirably his 
 divine attributes are suited to the judicial function, such 
 as we see it among men. 
 
 In an earthly judge, we look for uncommon attainments 
 in wisdom and knowledge. We require that he should 
 be one who has thoroughly mastered the principles of hu- 
 man law, and traced their varied application. We expect 
 in him an acute insight into the nature and character of 
 man, so that he may weigh testimony in an even balance, 
 and estimate guilt with a discriminating judgment. 
 
 Accordingly we dignify with the judicial ermine chiefly 
 such as have attained a great age, and have spent years 
 in the study of books and of men. But how much more 
 important are all these qualities to the Judge of the uni- 
 verse. Broad and deep as eternity are the principles of 
 that law, which is in the statute book of the great day of 
 account. Not only are the splendid acts of men to be 
 brought to light, such as might be established by the evi- 
 dence of a thousand witnesses ; but with impartial scruti- 
 ny the small and the great are to be gathered around the 
 same bar, the secret thoughts that lay secluded in the 
 bosom shall receive sentence with that which has been 
 published upon the housetop. The whole history of the 
 world, including the minutest details of each individual's 
 experience, is to be crowded into that single day. The 
 long agitated questions in morals are then to be decided ; 
 and to each act is to be attributed its appropriate charac- 
 ter, and adjudged its fit award. Where could venerable 
 experience be found like the wisdom of Him who existed 
 before all history, and from eternity has fixed his calm eye 
 on the long and crowded future, as if it were the present 
 moment. Who could be better qualified for the great of- 
 fice, than he who holds in his hands the books of judg- 
 ment ; of whom it was said, that " he needed not that 
 any should testify of man, for he knew what was in man ; " 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 247 
 
 and who has said of himself, "I am he that searcheth 
 the reins and hearts." 
 
 Another most important requisite of an Earthly judge, 
 is undeviating integrity. He should be one who not only 
 knows, but adheres to the law, loving it with the affection 
 of a most docile pupil, jealous of the slightest infringe- 
 ment of its claims, uniform in his quickness to discern 
 and to punish crime. He should not be one whose inter- 
 pretation of the statute or infliction of the penalty varies 
 with every shifting circumstance. He must be proof 
 against the most shining bribe — unmoved amid the tor- 
 rents of prejudice or the warm appeals of affection. 
 Wedded should he be to the law, constant in his attach- 
 ment to it. firm and manly in his vindication and enforce- 
 ment of it. Still more important is this unvarying firm- 
 ness in the judge of the universe. The influences of 
 hell combine themselves to jar the scales of justice in his 
 hands, and from many a surprised criminal, there is a cry 
 for mercy while the finger of justice is pointing to his 
 doom. Who could stand in such a scene, so like a rock, 
 as he who has been called " the same, yesterday, to-day, 
 and forever; " and who has sat enthroned above the shift- 
 ing currents of time, the still, calm I AM. His infinite 
 spirit can be ruffled by no outward agitation, and his views 
 are ever as clear as his purposes are just. Immutable in 
 his perfections, he is the fittest representative of that law 
 which is itself forever unchanged. 
 
 Still better qualified is the judge for his station, if he is 
 possessed of great power, either in his own person or in 
 the government which he serves. Weak and empty 
 would be the spectacle afforded, if he should assume his 
 high place, and send forth his oracular decisions, with no 
 ability to enforce a compliance or inflict a penalty. Such 
 a judgment-seat would be a laughing-stock. Vice would 
 stalk abroad fearlessly to its work of devastation, and 
 
248 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 would brave the venerable reprover on his very bench. 
 Virtue would retire to weep in secret places over the inef- 
 ficiency of its vindication. And law, unable to sustain 
 its majesty or life, without the nerved arm to execute, as 
 well as the sagacity and acumen to expound, would put 
 on sackcloth and ashes, or go down from its mock throne 
 to a living sepulchre. How would the judge of the earth 
 appear, if there were no power in his kindling eye to 
 make the wicked obey his mandate — depart. But of him 
 we are assured that "he is able, by his mighty working, 
 to subdue all things unto himself" The powers that 
 throng around that tribunal for their last conflict shall be 
 sadly overcome. " He holds in his hands the keys of 
 death and of hell," and he is fitted to pronounce the doom 
 of the ungodly, because he has omnipotence to execute 
 the sentence. 
 
 Mercy is another most important attribute in the char- 
 acter of a judge. An unkind and cruel man would take 
 delight in pushing the law to a needless rigor ; he would 
 close his eyes to the palliating circumstances of the crime, 
 and he would not hear that mild injunction which even 
 the law in all its sternness puts forth, — Better is it that 
 the guilty escape, than the innocent suffer. Our concep- 
 tion of the character would be greatly heightened, if the 
 judge were one who often endured great sacrifices in his 
 own person, that he might extricate the unfortunate from 
 embarrassment. And we have this quality most beautifully 
 prominent in our great and final judge. It is divine love 
 that sits on the awful seat of judgment. I speak not now 
 of the love of human sympathy, but love as it wells up in 
 the Infinite Spirit, and sends out its streams to gladden 
 and refresh the universe. Divine love it was which sug- 
 gested the great plan of redemption. And it is fit, that 
 he who was selected from all eternity to be the peculiar 
 development of this blessed attribute, in whom the love 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 249 
 
 of Jehovah was to array itself in its brightest smiles, and 
 welcome to its most affectionate embrace, should be em- 
 ployed at last to execute that law which is founded on 
 love, and of which the sternest features are but needful 
 expressions of the same unceasing benevolence. 
 
 From these considerations how appropriate does it seem 
 that a God should judge the world, and not an angel or a 
 man. Angels are fitted only to be the attendants and 
 spectators of the stupendous scene. Men are but the 
 judged. To Jehovah only could the history of the world 
 be spread out as upon a map. He alone is worthy to be 
 the vindicator of the immutable law. He only can en- 
 force and execute the dreadful sentence. He only could 
 be trusted as mingling kindness and mercy, with the strict- 
 ness and severity of his decisions. Before such as He, 
 with the dignity and majesty of the infinite and supreme, 
 heaven and hell may bow in humble adoration, and *' all 
 the nations of the earth wail because of him." Verily 
 Jehovah himself is on the throne of judgment. None 
 but a God could produce that fearful dissolving of the 
 elements, 
 
 '* When shriveling like a parched scroll, 
 The flaming heavens together roll." 
 
 None but a God could summon around him the sleep- 
 ers from their graves, 
 
 " When louder yet and yet more dread, 
 Swells the high trump that wakes the dead." 
 
 n. Christ possesses, in his Tiuman nature^ qualities 
 which fit him for the office of judge. 
 
 Certainly, if we were assured that God himself were 
 our judge, none could for a moment gainsay or resist. 
 The assurance of his infinite perfections would be a 
 pledge of the justness of his awards. And if our own 
 doom on the day of account were made known to us in 
 
250 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 some mysterious and unusual way, every mouth would be 
 stopped, and the whole world become guilty before God. 
 Yet there is something more required than a cold assent 
 of the understanding to abstract and invisible correctness. 
 As we need the incarnate Deity to bring the divine glory 
 to a level with our comprehension and sympathy, so we 
 need the incarnate Judge to influence us with a power 
 more personal and direct, to bring to the very door of our 
 consciences the processes of the great day, and to make 
 us feel their reality, as well as acknovi^ledge their truth. 
 Christ will in his humanity be revealed to our bodily 
 senses. We are not to be caught up in the air to have our 
 sentence impressed upon us in some strange and super- 
 natural manner ; we are to see it written on the lineament 
 of a human face — a face marred by the toils and sorrows 
 of a life like our own ; we are to hear it pronounced by a 
 human voice, now 'Mike the sound of many waters," yet 
 identical with that which once uttered the words of meek 
 entreaty, or of lowly prayer. No doubt the form of the 
 man Jesus will be arrayed in new loveliness, and assume 
 a lustre surpassing that of earth, yet will it retain to a 
 wonderful degree the marks of its servitude in our nature, 
 and we shall gaze on it with an intimacy such as we 
 could not feel for the " face of angels," or the unclouded 
 majesty of the Invisible. Especially shall we discern the 
 marks of his crucifixion — the wounds in his hands and 
 feet. " Behold he cometh with clouds, and every eye 
 shall see him, and they also which pierced him." " His 
 countenance," says one, " shall be most mild and peace- 
 able towards the good, and though the same, most terrible 
 towards the bad : out of his sacred wounds shall issue 
 beams of light, toward the just, full of love and sweet- 
 ness, but unto sinners full of fire and wrath, who shall 
 weep bitterly for the evils which issue from them." 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 251 
 
 " Some, 
 They who polluted with offences come, 
 Behold hun as the king 
 Of terrors, black of aspect, red of eye. 
 Reflecting back upon the sinful mind 
 Heightened with vengeance and with wrath divine. 
 Its own inborn deformity. 
 But to the righteous spirit how benign 
 His awful countenance. 
 Where tempering justice with parental love, 
 Goodness and heavenly grace, 
 And sweetest mercy shine." 
 
 Another circumstance of his humanity, is the fact that 
 he has himself been a subject of the law according to 
 which he judges. He is not taken like a foreigner from 
 some distant province of Jehovah's empire, to administer 
 and execute the law of an unknown region, but he is one 
 that heard its mandates in his own ear, and felt its power 
 upon his own life. Nor has he been a subject merely of 
 this government, he has been an obedient subject. The 
 paths of piety which he now commends, he himself once 
 trod ; and the sins he punishes, he himself once wrestled 
 with and conquered. Not as an angel, my brethren, did 
 our judge walk among us with a nature too elevated to be 
 touched by the corruptions of earth. As a man he lived, 
 frail and feeble, with a thousand avenues for sin opening 
 into his soul, and the devil watching his opportunity and 
 assailing him in his hours of bodily and spiritual ex- 
 haustion, and yet he lived pure. Not a stain defaced that 
 human soul, not one note of discord disturbed the moral 
 harmony of that life. Verily as he was fit for our high 
 priest, in that he was tempted in all points like as we, yet 
 without sin, so he is fit to be our judge, in that he can 
 say in the presence of assembled nations around his bar, 
 — I was the subject of this law. Principalities and pow- 
 ers and a frail humanity conspired to make me disloyal in 
 my allegiance, but I was faithful unto death. 
 
 Another circumstance which renders it fit that a fellow- 
 
252 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 man should be our judge, is the sympathy he would 
 feel for the joys and woes of the gathered multitude 
 around his bar. He does not invite the blessed to his own 
 inheritance as a cold desert of justice, but rejoices in 
 their exultation. He does not drive the wicked into hell, 
 as one who cares not for their fate, if so be the law is 
 glorified. No stoical sternness will darken the brow of 
 our judge. He is our brother, not only related to us by 
 ties of fellow humanity, but the most affectionate and 
 kind of our great family ; he it is who during his abode 
 in our nature exhibited a benevolence so expansive, that 
 it crossed the earth, and gathered the past and the future 
 in its warm embrace ; and there shall not be one among 
 the assembled millions so mean and obscure that he can- 
 not look up into the face of the judge and say, he loved 
 me with more than a brother's affection. And how fit is 
 it, that he whose bosom beat for the whole human race, 
 should be exalted at last to be their judge. My hearers, 
 have you ever been in court, when sentence of death was 
 pronounced against a criminal. As you fixed your eye 
 on the cold rugged visage of the condemned, and marked 
 his unmoved posture, and his iron mien, you doubted if a 
 human heart could be beating there. Perhaps a quick 
 flush passed over his features, as the word of death reached 
 his ear, and then all was calm and cold again. But when 
 you gazed on the streaming eyes of the judge, and saw 
 his venerable frame agitated and quivering under the aw- 
 ful responsibility of his mission ; when you heard the 
 choked ejaculation, " May God Almighty have mercy on 
 your soul," you felt that there was new power in the law, 
 shining through the tears of a man, and speaking in his 
 tremulous voice. Just so will it be with our final Judge. 
 The sympathies of humanity shall be conspicuous even 
 in his severest maledictions. The joy of a man swells in 
 his bosom at each act of faith and penitence he reads in 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 253 
 
 the record of his chosen, and his voice sings for gladness 
 at each new welcome to the right hand of his Father. 
 And those who go away forever from his presence, shall 
 remember the fraternal tones with which he pronounced 
 their doom ; and amid the dark lonely caverns of their 
 exile, no sound is sadder than that which follows the soul 
 from the judgment scene — " He that did eat bread with 
 me has lifted up his heel agaii*st me." 
 
 There is yet another thought connected with this part 
 of our subject. Our Saviour has in one place made 
 known to us the principle on which the award of justice 
 is to be made. Most intimately is it connected with his 
 own humanity. It shows that he is enabled in his demand 
 for service, to appeal to the tastes and sympathies of men ; 
 and, as he was himself a man, what he chiefly requires 
 seems to be, that we should cherish and exhibit a love for 
 those whom he died to save, as bearing his own image, 
 and being his own substitutes and representatives. My 
 brethren, each cup of cold water you furnish to a disciple 
 in the name of Christ, he looks upon, as an act of kind- 
 ness to himself, and feels that from you he should have 
 received only tenderness and love, when he was on the 
 same lonely pilgrimage. And when, abashed by the elo- 
 quence with which he shall recount your services to him- 
 self, you are ready to exclaim, " Lord, when saw we thee 
 an hungered and fed thee, or thirsty and gave thee drink," 
 the answer of the Judge shall be, " Inasmuch as ye have 
 done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye 
 have done it unto me." 
 
 III. In the work of redemption, Christ has given the 
 highest possible proof of his regard for the law. 
 
 There is a most intimate relation between the cross of 
 
 Christ and the law of God. If Christ came merely as an 
 
 instructor to reform and renovate the human character, 
 
 why was it necessary for him to die ? If his death was 
 
 22 
 
254 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 only an example of martyrdom for the truth, why did he 
 not give a model of cheerful and joyous suffering ? No, 
 brethren, there was an object higher than all this which 
 brought the Son of God to earth, and made him willing 
 to tread the portals of the tomb. It was that man might 
 be reconciled to God, that the barrier which sin had 
 reared between the creature and the Creator, might be- 
 come as if it had not been. The bosom that yearned for 
 the salvation of the guilty, was yet unwilling that guilt 
 should escape with no mark of the vengeance of God. 
 Justice appeared to contend with love in that mighty soul. 
 On the one hand, he saw that the repentance and sancti- 
 fication which his own gospel might secure, could not 
 wash away the stain of past offences, nor would he insult 
 the law by inflicting a partial and finite punishment for 
 an offence that in some of its relations was infinite. On 
 the other hand, his heart longed to gather the children of 
 men ransomed and forgiven about the throne of a smiling 
 Father. There was but one way in which love could 
 gratify its promptings, and yet justice feel that no insult 
 had been offered to its majesty. On me, he said, on me, 
 let the full penalty be executed. Let me be held up as a 
 spectacle for the universe of the displeasure of God 
 against sin. Let the intensity of suffering, with which 
 my innocent, sensitive nature is lacerated, be enough to 
 atone for the sins of a world, and be substituted for their 
 deserved punishment. Law shall sheath its glittering 
 sword, and stand by smiling and contented, while a voice 
 from the infinite throne proclaims, Whosoever cometh to 
 me, though mountains of guilt weigh upon his soul, will 
 he but look to the cross of Christ, he shall in no wise be 
 cast out. 
 
 I know there are many who pretend that this view 
 of a vicarious atonement has in it something shocking to 
 the sensibilities. An effeminate theology is pressing its 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OP THE WORLD. 255 
 
 claims upon our faith, which leaves no room for the in- 
 flexible justice of God. The cross of Christ indeed is 
 not a favorite, as it was not a product of human wisdom. 
 To the theologians of the synagogue it was a stumbling- 
 block. To the philosophers of the academy it was fool- 
 ishness ; and in our own day, peradventure, to some who 
 are saved, it looks more like the figment of a savage and 
 cruel faith, than the wisdom and power of God unto sal- 
 vation. To such as doubt the satisfaction of divine jus- 
 tice, and the connection between the law and the cross, 
 we need but unfold the plain story of the gospel, and ask 
 them to explain it on any other principle if they can. 
 We would lead them to Gethsemane, and point them to^ 
 the mysterious agony which there brooded on the spirit of 
 Jesus. What was there in that fearful cup, from which 
 one who had braved every danger, and given himself vol- 
 untarily to his great work, should be ready almost to 
 shrink. What was there in the anticipation of mere 
 physical suffering, to agitate his frame so deeply, that in 
 the damp air of that chilly evening the perspiration should 
 fall in clots to the ground. And amid the tortures of the 
 cross, irritating indeed to the nerves and fibres of a man 
 — but what would they have been to an unclouded spirit, 
 with the sweet memories of an innocent and benevolent 
 life, thronging in smiles over its departure, and holding 
 up the speedy fruition of its brightest hopes forever. 
 Women have been known to suffer greater physical ago- 
 nies for the truth, and with exultation and joy have gazed 
 amid their suffering upon the benignant face of Jehovah. 
 But from him, the Prince of peace and comfort to all his 
 followers, a voice was heard speaking not of the rapture 
 of his expiring spirit, but of its forlornness and gloom. 
 No 1 my brethren, while we bow weeping before the cross 
 of Christ as a development of tiielove that '* many waters 
 could not quench," while we behold in the pangs of the 
 
256 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 sufferer, the yearnings of compassion for a guilty race, 
 let us behold in it also, an awful, niysterious development 
 of another, sterner attribute. Let us bow adoring before 
 eternal right as it establishes its throne on Calvary. Amid 
 those affecting scenes, let us discern the arm of the law, 
 in the garden holding up its iron scroll, on the cross driv- 
 ing the nails and agitating the spirit, asserting its claims 
 in the quaking earth and the opening graves more loudly 
 than amid the thunder ings of Sinai, and in those awful 
 words, " it is finished," proclaiming that its demand of 
 obedience and penalty is satisfied in the innocent suffering 
 of the second Adam of our race. " Ought not Christ to 
 ^ave suffered these things, and to enter into his glory ? '* 
 And what dignity will belong to him when he comes to 
 administer the law, which he has thus triumphantly vin- 
 dicated from reproach and injustice. Surely it is fit that 
 he who hung on the cross as a representative of the law, 
 should be now intrusted with its authority in the great 
 day of final adjudication. 
 
 In view of this subject, I remark, 
 
 First, The mediatorial office must relinquish its proffers 
 to the impenitent, when the judicial office is assumed. 
 
 All legal analogies force us to this idea. The earthly 
 judge never disgraces his ermine, by assuming upon the 
 bench the part of an advocate. They who would retain 
 his counsel exclusively for their own defence, must avail 
 themselves of it before he assumes the judicial function, 
 or his learning and sagacity must be shared also by their 
 adversaries. " To the law and the testimony," is the 
 motto of the judge, and in his high seat he can listen to 
 no personal appeal ; he knows not his brother from his 
 enemy, he forgets himself. So speaks the uniform tenor 
 of Scripture upon this subject. " When the Son of God 
 appears in his glory and the holy angels with him," he is 
 described as no longer pleading with the impenitent, but 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 257 
 
 as pronouncing against them his final sentence. At the 
 hour of judgment, the office of mercy and of grace will 
 have consummated its purposes for the faithful, but for 
 the finally obdurate its efficiency must cease, and after that 
 period there is no cross to which the agonized sinner cart 
 cling as the anchor of his hope. Faith in Christ, if it 
 be not exercised before, can then be of no avail. Sad 
 truth is it for thee, lingering one, that the face of Jesus 
 will not always be lighted up with hope for the sinful, 
 neither will his voice forever whisper its invitations of 
 mercy, and its promises of pardon. The day will come 
 when his countenance shall be as lightning, and " his 
 words like seven thunders uttering their voices." Oh ! 
 secure the counsel of the affectionate Advocate while 
 thou art in the way with him, lest thou be called to meet 
 him as thy frowning Judge. 
 
 Secondly, The person of the Judge will remind the 
 righteous of their dependence on grace rather than merit 
 for salvation. 
 
 Where is there one among the blessed who could 
 submit his character and history to the searching test of 
 the All-seeing ? Where is there one who would dare to 
 meet the stern demand of the law on that dreadful day, 
 and stand forth on his own deserts to claim the reward ? 
 Can he point to a summit of perfection, to which after 
 toils and struggles he at length attained, with a spirit 
 exhausted and worn out in the conflict 7 Or if that were 
 itself a possible ground of merit, can he unfold the scroll 
 of his history, and find from its earliest dawn no stain 
 defiling it ? Ah ! how many deeds committed in the 
 darkness and solitude of midnight would blaze out there 
 to the eye of the impartial Judge ! How many thoughts 
 cherished in the secrecy of the bosom, while the eye sent 
 forth pious glances, and the voice spoke of heaven ! 
 But now on the disclosed tablet of the heart, they are as 
 22* 
 
258 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Ijegible to the Judge, as if the point of a diamond had 
 marked them. No ! brethren, legally and rightfully, we 
 cannot claim exemption from wo, much less the blessed- 
 ness of an unfading crown. When we meet the eye of 
 the Judge, there is little in its penetrating gaze that can 
 speak comfort to us. When we look to the immutable 
 law, which he stands pledged to support, we can but cry, 
 guilty, guilty, with our hands upon our mouths. Only in 
 the divine mercy do we find the ark of our refuge. It is 
 the sympathy of the brother, " bone of our bone, and 
 flesh of our flesh," to which we make our appeal. More 
 than all, it is the victory over the law, it is the great vica- 
 rious sacrifice for sin as we see it pictured forth in the 
 scarred visage of our Judge, that inspires our trembling 
 spirits with hope. " Even the most innocent person," 
 says Jeremy Taylor, *' hath great need of mercy, and he 
 that hath the greatest cause of confidence, although he 
 runs to no rocks to hide him, yet he runs to the protec- 
 tion of the cross, and hides himself under the shadow of 
 the divine mercies." And we, my brethren, when we 
 enter into that joy to which our Judge shall welcome us, 
 shall enter only among the ransomed and blood-bought ; 
 and our song shall be, — " Not unto us, not unto us, oh 
 Thou who art our Saviour and our Judge, but unto thy 
 name be all the glory." 
 
 Thirdly, Most terrible must it be to be condemned by 
 such a Judge. 
 
 ** The whole world," says one of the Fathers, " shall 
 groan when the Judge comes to give his sentence, tribe 
 and tribe sliall knock their sides together, and through 
 the naked breasts of the most mighty kings you shall see 
 their hearts beat with fearful tremblings." And, my 
 friends, the guilty, who are cast away in indignation, will 
 find in each attribute of the Judge something to aggra- 
 vate their doom. It is the unerring decision of the All- 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 259 
 
 wise, who cannot be deceived as to the character, and 
 who knoweth the desert of each criminal at his bar. It 
 is the sentence of him who holds the scales of justice 
 with an impartial hand, and administers a law that is 
 holy and just and good. It is the stern decree of one 
 who has but to speak the word, and the smoke of their 
 torment ascendeth up forever and ever. But more 
 subduing than all, it is the wrath of Divine Love under 
 which they sink, and through the frowns of present 
 displeasure, they discern the compassion that is " not 
 willing that any should perish." Verily the divine per- 
 fection as it shines forth in the person of the Judge is 
 such that every hope of escape is shut up, and every 
 rebellious thought silenced forever. 
 
 Still more will the humanity of Jesus aggravate the 
 misery of the condemned. He stands forth in the exam- 
 ple of his perfect obedience, to show them that they 
 might have obeyed. He rises up as the representative of 
 their repeated violations of the law of love, — ** Inasmuch 
 as ye did it not unto one of the least of these my 
 brethren, ye did it not unto me." It is the condemnation 
 of a sympathizing brother. Sad as it might be to sink 
 under the wrath of an infinite monarch, it will be 
 gloomier still, when the sinner must say. It was thou, a 
 man, mine equal, my familiar friend, but I did force thee 
 to become my reproving Judge. 
 
 But it will be the redemption of Jesus, as it speaks 
 forth from the wounded body, and the pierced hand that 
 points to the sinner's doom, it will be the redemption of 
 Jesus which will make that cup of wo most bitter. If 
 there is one expression in the Bible where all that is 
 awful is concentrated, it is in those words, — " the wrath 
 of the Lamb." If there is one prediction which might 
 drive the expectant sinner to a pillow of thorns, and a 
 couch of agony, it is — *' They shall look on him whom 
 
260 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 they have pierced." As a God, they cannot escape his 
 searching gaze, or shake his firm justice, or overthrow 
 his invincible power, or contradict his everlasting love. 
 As a man, they shall see that he condemns them with all 
 the stirrings of a brother's heart. As a Saviour, •* they 
 shall look on him whom they have pierced," and it will 
 be the bitterness of that wrath under which they sink, 
 that it is the wrath of a bleeding Lamb. 
 
 An old divine in describing the scene has gathered a 
 singularly imposing group around the bar of judgment. 
 '' Not only will the Redeemer be there to confound the 
 sinner — not only will conscience call up the slighted 
 love, and cry out against the base ingratitude — not only 
 will the guilty themselves hang their heads and smite 
 upon their breasts, and cast fearful glances at the face of 
 the Lamb, but the fallen spirits will be there joining to 
 judge and condemn those whom they claim for their 
 future victims. And the burden of their reproof shall be, 
 that from him who died to save, the reprobate can claim 
 no mercy for themselves. Cannot the Accuser," he 
 continues, " truly say to the Judge concerning such per- 
 sons, They were thine by creation, but mine by their own 
 choice : thou didst redeem them indeed, but they sold 
 themselves to me for a trifle, or for an unsatisfying 
 interest ; thou diedst for them, but they obeyed my com- 
 mandments : I gave them nothing. I promised them 
 nothing, but the pleasures of a night, or the joys of 
 madness, or the delights of a disease : I never hanged 
 upon the cross three long hours for them, nor endured 
 the labors of a poor life thirty-three years together for 
 their interest : only when they were thine by the merit 
 of thy death, they quickly became mine by the demerit of 
 their ingratitude ; and when thou hadst clothed their 
 soul with thy robe, and adorned them by thy graces, we 
 stripped them naked as their shame, and only put on a 
 
CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 261 
 
 robe of darkness, and they thought themselves secure 
 and went dancing to their grave, like a drunkard to a 
 fight, or a fly unto a candle : and therefore they that did 
 partake with us in our faults, must divide with us in our 
 portion and fearful interest." 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This discourse was preached first at Boston, Salem-street cliurch ; 
 afterwards at South Berwick, May 17, 1840 ; at Dover, N. H. ; 
 Boston, Park-street church ; Durham, IS". H. ; Andover, Mass. 
 Theological Chapel ; Danvers, Mass. ; Dedham, Mass. ; Salem, 
 Mass. Crombie-street church ; Charlestown, Mass, ; Buffalo, N, Y. ; 
 Newark, N. J. ; Rochester, N. H, 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 JESUS OUR MASTER, TEACHER, EXAMPLE AND 
 REFUGE. 
 
 TAKE MY YOKE UPON YOU, AND LEARN OF ME : FOR I AM MEEK AND 
 LOWLY IN HEART : AND YE SHALL FIND REST UNTO YOUR SOULS. — 
 
 Matt. 11 : 29. 
 
 These words occur in one of those bursts of tender- 
 ness and compassion which abound in the instructions of 
 our Saviour. He had just been describing his own 
 mysterious connection with the Father, when suddenly 
 the wants of the weary and wretched seem to rush upon 
 his view, and he utters that memorable invitation to all 
 that labor and are heavy laden : Come unto me and I 
 will give you rest. From the desolations of human 
 nature, the desolations that sin had caused, his eye 
 turned back upon himself, as the destined and ordained 
 Redeemer from that spiritual bondage ; — as the fountain 
 to whom the sin-worn and world-weary should repair, and 
 find refreshment and joy to their souls. And his direc- 
 tion is in the words of our text, " Take my yoke upon 
 you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, 
 and ye shall find rest unto your souls." 
 
 The passage invites us, my brethren, to look upon 
 Christ in four several aspects : 
 
RELATIONS OF CHRIST TO HIS PEOPLE. 263 
 
 I. As a master, in the services he enjoins : " Take my 
 yoke upon you." 
 
 II. As a teacher : " Learn of me." 
 
 III. As an example : " I am meek and lowly in heart." 
 
 IV. As a refuge from sorrow and sin : '* Ye shall find 
 rest unto your souls," 
 
 Let us consider Christ in these several characters, and 
 see whether he is not properly set up as the standard 
 around whom all should gather ; as he who is fitted to 
 secure the highest elevation and happiness of the human 
 soul. 
 
 I. Let us consider Christ as our master, in the services 
 he enjoins upon his children ; for he sajs, ** Take my 
 yoke upon you." 
 
 Now we are so constituted, my brethren, that what we 
 chiefly require for the full development of our powers, is 
 constant and unremitted exertion. The soul needs active 
 exercise for its health. There is no more melancholy 
 spectacle than a spiritual being wasting his days in idle- 
 ness, sleeping while other men wake, or retiring oyster- 
 like to his cell to see the current of action pass on, and 
 be himself motionless, stupid. We invariably predict for 
 such a one disease, or premature decay ; for we know 
 that there is a law of our system, broad as are its various 
 compartments, and applying alike to physical and spirit- 
 ual and mental culture. He that will not work, neither 
 shall he eat. And only the man who lives a life of vigor, 
 who commissions his faculties and powers to works of 
 toil — only he can reap in the end the pleasant fruits of a 
 laboriously exercised and symmetrically cultivated nature. 
 
 Still more important is it that we should be disciplined 
 in the course of holy action. We find ourselves created 
 under a law, to do what is wrong. It is not a law which 
 forces us, for we are free to do what is right, if we would. 
 But it is figuratively styled a law, because somehow or 
 
264 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 
 
 Other the results are invariably the same. We always do 
 wrong, until we come under a new and spiritual law, the 
 law of grace, and even then we are harassed by perpetual 
 struggles, and have to undergo the fearful conflict that 
 Paul did, when he saw the law in his members warring 
 against the law in his mind. And sometimes we cry out 
 with him : " Wretched men that we are ! " Now what 
 we most need, is something that shall inspire us with fixed 
 purposes of holy action ; action so high and ennobling 
 that it cannot fail to secure its own perpetuity ; action 
 which shall preoccupy the powers which might be 
 devoted to sin — that when temptation comes, though it 
 be in her most fascinating garb, and her most alluring 
 smile, we can look down on her from our lofty engage- 
 ments, and turn our backs in scorn. 
 
 There is a still higher good secured, if this labor be 
 in the path of difficulty and self-denial. It is true every 
 where, that nothing great can be attained without toil 
 and hazard. And it is peculiarly true of greatness of 
 soul, that it is acquired only by those who press their way 
 to it through suffering. The man whom the pilgrim saw 
 on his way to the palace, had to enter cutting and hack- 
 ing his path through grim warriors, that stood there to 
 bar up the gateway ; but he heard in his struggle a 
 pleasant voice from those within, even those that walked 
 on the top of the palace. And every man who wishes to 
 acquire true nobleness and loftiness of spirit, must reach 
 it through the pathway of suffering, in the midst of 
 fightings without, and fears within ; but he shall be 
 cheered by sweet voices from his own soul, that shall 
 seem sometimes like the music of heaven. 
 
 Now Christ in his qualities as a master, in the services 
 he enjoins, meets just these demands of the soul. He 
 asks for labor. There is not a faculty of our nature to 
 which he does not make his appeal, and which he does 
 
TO HIS PEOPLE. 265 
 
 not call into active exercise. There is not a power we 
 possess, which he does not command us to devote to his 
 service, and which may not be useful in his cause. Now 
 where could be found a purer atmosphere of action, or 
 healthier exercise for the soul, or a more beautiful devel- 
 opment of our whole system, than if we should submit 
 ourselves to the control and direction of such a master ? 
 
 He calls us too into a course of holy action. He 
 points out to us the glory of God, and the good of our 
 fellow men as the chief objects of exertion. He enjoins 
 upon us a pure and spiritual worship. He leads us in 
 the path of benevolence. He makes life one great field 
 of labor, where we may be incessantly occupied for God 
 and for souls. And he enforces these labors by the 
 highest motives which ever speak to the human bosom, 
 attachment to his own person, gratitude for his death, the 
 hope of sharing his inheritance. And, my brethren, if 
 we could but fix our eye on this master, standing by us 
 continually, encouraging us in our work by all the power 
 of his own memory and the hope of our eternal reward, 
 should we ever wish to lay down our armor. Could we 
 think for a moment of preferring the service of the world 
 to the service of Jesus. 
 
 Still more he calls us into the pathway of self-denial. 
 It is a yoke which we are commanded to take upon us. 
 First of all we must subdue this world-craving nature of 
 ours. We must bring every idolatry to which we are 
 clinging, into subjection to the law of this great master. 
 The passions that would draw us off into a career of 
 self-gratification, we must gather under this yoke. Humil- 
 iating, mortifying position as it is, we must put ourselves, 
 our whole souls there, and be governed by our divine 
 guide. It is elsewhere called a cross. We must bear 
 about with us that emblem of suffering in memory of our 
 atoning high-priest, and in memory of the self-crucifying 
 23 
 
^66 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 
 
 spirit he would have us cherish. We must count all 
 things but loss, that we may win his approving smile. 
 We must be willing to face the frowns of the world, and 
 to preach the gospel to those who would scorn or abuse 
 us. And, my brethren, what loftiness would be imparted 
 to our character, if we were ready to look suffering and 
 danger in the face, in the service of our Master — called 
 not now indeed to follow him to prison and to death, but 
 called to a daily crucifixion of our idols — to the wounds 
 of a sensitive spirit, and to hear Christ's instructive voice 
 in the afflictions and sorrows and vexations of life. Oh ! 
 what elevation might we have, if we gazed on all as the 
 cross we were to bear, and bear cheerfully for the sake 
 of Jesus, and cherished in our hearts the sentiment of 
 that ancient saint, ** When we rise, the cross — when we 
 lie down, the cross — when we go out and when we come 
 in, the cross — at all times and in all places, the cross, 
 shining more glorious than the sun." 
 
 II. Let us now proceed to consider Christ as our 
 teacher, for he says, *' Learn of me." 
 
 The soul of man needs a divinely inspired instructor. 
 Rich as are the lessons hung up in its own secret cham- 
 bers, they are read too often with a dim eye, or a bewil- 
 dered gaze, and man shows his ignorance by the false 
 interpretation of his own nature. And then when in 
 proud self-confidence and trusting only to his own inward 
 light, he walks abroad in the pathway of spiritual discov- 
 ery, how sad and how fatal have been his wanderings ; 
 and it is only when the fatigued and famished spirit will 
 sit down at the feet of Jesus, that it will find refreshment 
 and food. Yea, man needs a teacher who will renovate 
 the heart, as well as furnish the intellect, and send them 
 both together in holy fellowship to the work of self- 
 cultivation. And such a teacher is Christ. He touches 
 
TO HIS PEOPLE. 26*7 
 
 the moral affections of his pupils, and makes that love the 
 basis of his superstructure of doctrine. 
 
 The world has seen many great men, my brethren, 
 under whose instructions you and I would have loved to 
 sit. But take the philosophic sages of heathen antiquity 
 who could blend nothing Christ-like with their lessons, 
 because the oracles of the New Testament had not yet 
 been uttered, and to them the finger of prophecy had not 
 pointed out the future guide, and how lifeless appear their 
 lessons compared with his who brought life and immor- 
 tality to light. When we see how their minds struggled 
 for the truth, and contrast the feebleness of their attain- 
 ments with the mightiness of their endeavors, we are 
 reminded of 
 
 " Eyes that rolled in vain to catch the piercing ray 
 But found no dawn." 
 
 And we most beautifully recur to our own teacher, when 
 we remember that the greatest sentiment which Socrates 
 ever uttered, was that in which, forced by a sense of 
 ignorance to the unconscious prophecy, he speaks of 
 looking forward to a divine teacher who shall one day 
 appear to reveal the mysteries of truth, and make its dark 
 places plain. 
 
 Go to the inspired teachers, and you find that they live 
 and breathe in the fullness of their blessed Master. The 
 poetry of the Old Testament never glows so brightly, as 
 when it speaks of the Shiloh that is yet to come, — of the 
 grace that is poured into his lips, — of the spirit of 
 wisdom which shall encircle him. And the lessons of 
 apostolic wisdom never appear so rich, as when they 
 name the name of Jesus, and breathe his spirit, and seem 
 but new embodiments of the accents which fell from his 
 lips. 
 
 Was there ever a system of morality, more compre- 
 
268 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 
 
 hensive and yet more spiritual, than the sermon on the 
 Mount? Did the great law of love ever speak with a 
 clearer power to the soul of man ? And throughout that 
 ministry, how varied the form and yet how unaltered the 
 spirit of the truths inculcated. More than any man he 
 blended the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness 
 of the dove ; uttering many a brief maxim, which con- 
 tains volumes of meaning, and attracts the long study of 
 the greatest of minds, and yet so simple that a child can 
 understand it ; now withering an opposer with his gentle 
 sarcasm, now overpowering him with his just rebuke, 
 now winning him by his benignant invitation ; now 
 clearly unfolding a hard doctrine, now inculcating a soul- 
 stirring rule of action, now breathing a whisper of 
 pardon and peace ; yet ever the same — full of meaning, 
 and purity and love. Jesus, we will choose thee for our 
 teacher, for in thy light we shall see light. Wandering 
 for moral lessons among the teachings of earth, we do 
 but tire our vexed spirits, and blind our dim vision. We 
 come back to thee. With new delight would we bend 
 over thy pages. With child-like docility would we sit 
 down at thy feet. Oh ! teach us, guide us, enrich us 
 with thine own wisdom, exalt us at last to the new and 
 higher teachings of heaven. 
 
 III. Let us proceed to consider Christ as an example, 
 for he points to his own character as the chief source of 
 instruction when he says, *' I am meek and lowly in 
 heart." 
 
 He stands out in all history as the solitary instance of 
 a spotless human being. What the soul craves most in 
 companionship, is the personation of moral and mental 
 perfections. But every thinking man knows that such a 
 treasure cannot be found. There is not one to whom I 
 speak who has not noticed this particular in his own 
 experience. When you have fixed upon some one person 
 
TO HIS PEOPLE. 
 
 as possessing all the most admirable qualities of charac- 
 ter, and presenting to your view a most harmonious 
 picture, how invariably has a closer acquaintance or a 
 minuter inspection revealed some foibles to your view, 
 not indeed to diminish your love, but to make you weep 
 in secret places over the imperfection of your nature. 
 You have read of that ancient sculptor Phidias. On a 
 certain occasion he was commanded to mould a statue of 
 Jupiter, which should excel in the beauty of its propor- 
 tions all his former works. At the set time he brought 
 forth an image, which seemed as he was carrying it 
 through the streets, so ungainly in aspect, and so awkward 
 in posture, that the disappointed populace had well nigh 
 torn him to pieces. Bat the artist begged them to wait 
 till he had placed it on its lofty pedestal ; and then in the 
 enchantment which distance lent to the view, it stood 
 forth with such dignity and beauty and grace, that the 
 people shouted that Phidias was himself a god. And I 
 have known some men, who on the same principle have 
 shrunk from an intimacy with their fellows, from a 
 morbid fear of discovering their deficiencies. But I 
 would rather they should make a different use of their 
 sense of human frailty. I would rather it should lead 
 them to reflect how the human character must appear to 
 the eye of God, when it shuns even the scrutiny of man. 
 I would rather it should gather all men around Jesus, as 
 the great and the only spectacle of perfect humanity — as 
 able to satisfy every longing of the soul. 
 
 There is a thought touched upon by some recent writers 
 on this subject, to which I cannot help alluding. It pre- 
 sents the fitness of Christ for a universal example, from 
 the fact that his traits of character are, so to speak, uni- 
 versal rather than individual or national. His virtues are 
 not virtues arrayed in the costume of his race or his line. 
 He was not a Jew, but a man. In this respect he difTers 
 23* 
 
270 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 
 
 from every other great man, and from every other illus- 
 trious example that ever lived. They are all the peculiar 
 property of some peculiar clime or age, and they cannot 
 of course speak with equal power to those at a distance 
 from their home or their period. Not so is it with Christ. 
 He did not assume the exclusive bigotry of the Jew, the 
 formality of the pharisee, or the pedantry of the scribe ; 
 but he took his stand above the level of Judaism and its 
 various phases, on the broad, noble basis of humanity. 
 And now through these simple features he speaks to men 
 of every clime and every age. Alike the king and his 
 vassal will hear his fraternal voice. His image shines in 
 the abodes of refinement or the hovel of poverty. The 
 Bramin of India, and the Mohammedan of Persia, and 
 the native savage of our own wilds, come up from their 
 widely severed spheres of idolatry, and all unite in recog- 
 nizing in this one character the lineaments of a brother. 
 And, my brethren, to us who have adopted him as our 
 spiritual brother, shall not his gentle example — the meek- 
 ness and lowliness of his heart — shall they not speak with 
 a power that shall subdue our own lives to a delightful fel- 
 lowship. And when called to face affliction and trial, 
 shall we not be exalted and comforted, by thinking over 
 the paths of trial which he trod, and imitate his spirit of 
 meek submission till we imagine ourselves in the very 
 footsteps of his sorrow ? And when called to tread the 
 fiery pathway of temptation, let us think of the wilder- 
 ness, and the garden, and the cross ; let us remember 
 that though he wrestled as a man, he conquered, and that 
 we shall hear his voice saying to us, Be of good cheer, I 
 have overcome, and I will give you the victory ; and that 
 voice shall be to us, as was the ministering of angels to 
 the famished Jesus. There is a beautiful story of an 
 eastern king, who was journeying one cold winter's night 
 in company with his servant. The servant from fatigue 
 
TO HIS PEOPLE. 271 
 
 and cold sunk down, and had well nigh perished in the 
 snow. But when his master missed him, he turned back 
 and bade him rise, and be of good cheer, and be careful 
 to walk directly behind him, and put his feet exactly in 
 his own footsteps in the snow. And the servant did so, 
 keeping in the path through the snow which his master's 
 feet were making, and he went on rejoicingly, and fiiinted 
 no more. And, my brethren, it is so with us. When we 
 wander away from the path of our Lord's example, we 
 shall faint and die. But let us keep steadily in his foot- 
 steps, and we shall be strong. 
 
 IV. Let us briefly consider Christ, in the last place, as 
 our refuge from sorrow and sin ; for he holds it out as a 
 reward for our service, and obedience, and imitation, — 
 ** Ye shall find rest to your souls." 
 
 And the soul of man needs such rest. Oh there are 
 seasons when desolation like a whirlwind sweeps over us, 
 and the agonizing question of the stricken spirit is, 
 *' whither shall I flee for a refuge? " Adversity tears from 
 us our choicest treasures ; and we are left in the world 
 with that insufferable sense of loneliness, which makes us 
 feel though we are in the midst of a crowd that we are 
 fearfully alone. And how blessed is the heart which can 
 look up to Jesus at such an hour, with the peaceful and 
 happy exclamation, *' Whom have I in heaven but thee, 
 and there is none on earth that I desire besides thee." 
 
 But it is chiefly as a refuge from sin, that we are called 
 to contemplate our Saviour, on this interesting occasion. 
 Those are indeed hours of bitterness, when the soul wakes 
 up to the consciousness of its own past ingratitude and 
 neglect ; and the dark waves of despair seem to roll over 
 it. And from the pangs of remorse, and the angry eye 
 of God, and the gulf that yawns for the convicted one, 
 there is but one place of escape, and that is the cross of 
 Christ. In the sacred wounds, in the streaminor blood. 
 
272 
 
 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 
 
 in the despairing visage, we behold our own refuge. In 
 the voice of agony, we hear the sentence of our own 
 peace. 
 
 In a discourse which I once heard, and which I can 
 now quote only from memory, the preacher gathered 
 around the scene of the crucifixion the company of those 
 whom Jesus had benefited by his miracles of mercy. 
 These all throng about the cross, to pacify his sorrow, by 
 reminding him how rich in benefits had been his life. 
 The widow of Nain brings thither her son restored to the 
 freshness of life, from the very gateway of burial. De- 
 moniacs whom he hnd relieved sit down among the holy 
 women, clothed and in their right minds. The blind are 
 there, gazing with moistened eyes on him who had brought 
 light into the chambers of their darkness. There Lazarus 
 and his sisters look up with affection in every feature, 
 and speak with grateful voice of the mourning he had 
 turned to joy. There Jairus leads in his blooming 
 daughter, and the newly wedded pair of Cana come to 
 grace the halls of his memory with their festive oflfering. 
 These all wait upon the lonely sufferer as he hangs sus- 
 pended between heaven and earth. They would bring 
 peace to his despairing spirit. They would bring balm 
 to his wounded soul. " But when he had tasted thereof, 
 he would not drink. And he cried, It is finished, and 
 gave up the ghost." And, my brethren, why was it that 
 he could find no peace in those pleasant recollections — 
 that he could read no comfort in those grateful faces. It 
 was because the burden of our sins was upon him. And 
 he found in that fearful hour no rest for himself, that he 
 might say unto us ; " in me, in me ye shall find rest unto 
 your souls." 
 
 And now, beloved, Christ has called you to a new 
 sacramental feast. With new delight will you not come, 
 and contemplate him as your master, as your teacher, as 
 
TO HIS PEOPLE. 273 
 
 your example, as your refuge? Shall it not be, that you 
 will come forgetting the things that are behind, with their 
 depressions and discords and sins, and come up to the 
 table in holy fellowship with each other and your common 
 Lord? Will you not come to take upon you anew his 
 yoke, to learn new lessons of wisdom from his lips, to 
 have new light shed upon the pathway in which he trod, 
 and to press to your heart with new affection his blessed 
 promises. Behold him in the elements of his body and 
 his blood, as your master, and take up the cross, and bear 
 it with a spirit of self-devotion and fidelity through life. 
 Listen to him in the bread and the cup, as a teacher — 
 reminding you of your guilt, and calling you to gratitude 
 and love. Behold him in that affecting picture of disin- 
 terested suffering, as an example of lofty benevolence ; 
 and be willing, as he laid down his life for you, to lay 
 down your lives also for one another. But above all, let 
 us gaze on him as a refuge — a rest for our souls ; rest 
 amid the wanderings of earth ; rest in the dark hour of 
 despair ; rest amid the agonies of death ; rest at his own 
 right hand in heaven. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This sermon was composed during the spring vacation of Mr. 
 Homer's Senior year at the Theological Seminary. It was plan- 
 ned and fully wTitten out in a single day. He was called unex- 
 pectedly to preach a Preparatory Lecture, and having no appropri- 
 ate discourse he wrote the preceding as the Lecture. It was deliv- 
 ered at South Berwick, May, 1840 ; afterwards at South Boston, 
 New Market, N. H., and Dover, N. H. 
 
SERMON VII. 
 
 THE RESPONSIBILITY OF A MAN FOR HIS INFLUENCE 
 OVER OTHERS. 
 
 AND THE LORD SAID UNTO CAIN, WHERE IS ABEL, THY BROTHER ? AND 
 HE SAID, I KNOW NOT : AM I MY BROTHER'S KEEPER ? AND HE 
 SAID, WHAT HAST THOU DONE ? THE VOICE OF THY BROTHER'S 
 BLOOD CRIETH UNTO ME FROM THE GROUND. — Gen. 4 : 9, 10. 
 
 I HAVE selected this familiar passage, to lay before you 
 some thoughts on the duties we owe to each other. God 
 comes to the murderer, and demands of him an account 
 respecting his brother. The guilty man tries to throw off 
 the responsibility. But he cannot escape the all-searching 
 eye of Jehovah, or the voice that cries from the ground 
 for vengeance. By a very easy accommodation we can 
 apply the passage to that account which God calls every 
 man to render respecting the condition of his fellow-man. 
 The text naturally suggests a three-fold division of the 
 subject. 
 
 I. God has a right to call men to account for the 
 condition of their fellow-creatures : " Where is thy 
 brother 1 " 
 
 II. Men are disposed to deny this accountability, 
 chiefly in reference to moral and religious influence : 
 " Am I my brother's keeper ? " 
 
Man's responsibility for others. 275 
 
 III. God certainly will call men to account for the 
 influence they exert upon others : *' What hast thou 
 done ? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me 
 from the ground." 
 
 I. God has a rio^ht to call men to account for the con- 
 dition of their fellow-creatures. To each one of us it is 
 perfectly proper that he should come this evening with 
 the solemn interrogatory, " Where is thy brother ? " 
 There is not an individual present who has not the desti- 
 nies of fellow-beings in some measure committed to his 
 trust ; who may not have been operating, by something 
 that he has done this very day, upon others who live a 
 thousand miles from this place, or who may not live till a 
 thousand years from this time. 
 
 I think this will be evident if we consider. 
 
 First, The structure of man as a social being. We 
 naturally ^shun solitude. The sympathies of our nature 
 all lead us to fly to one another. They prompt us not 
 only to secure our own interests, but to seek out some 
 other being to love, and shelter, in our warm embrace, 
 from evil. One who secludes himself from his fellows, 
 and lives in the wilderness, in solitary independence of 
 every thing except the wild productions of nature, is 
 looked upon as a moral anomaly ; and even he cannot 
 escape the searching question, •' Where is thy brother ? " 
 For as he tries to shut himself out from all fellowship, 
 he is accountable for that very seclusion ; and he who 
 neglects his brother may be as guilty, as he who does his 
 brother wrong. 
 
 Society is founded upon this principle of mutual 
 dependence. And the way we test the progress of soci- 
 ety, is by examining how far its different classes assume 
 the position of mutual aid. The poor depend upon the 
 rich, and the rich depend upon the poor. One branch of 
 industry is supported by another. The tradesman is 
 
276 man's responsibility for others. 
 
 dependent on the youngest apprentice whom he supplies 
 with food and raiment. If the smallest wheel in the 
 great system were to move irregularly, the disorder would 
 be felt at the centre of operations ; and should the hand 
 say to the foot, I have no need of thee, the world would 
 stand still and refuse to stir, until harmony could be 
 restored among the discordant members. Every man 
 who feels conscious of having injured his neighbor, 
 recognizes the justice of that law which calls him to 
 account for the wrong. And it is the voice of God 
 speaking through the ordinance of man, in the words of 
 our text, ** Where is thy brother ? " 
 
 Secondly, We shall be still more fully convinced of the 
 justice of this demand of God, if we consider the nature 
 of human influence. The voice of man stirs up depths 
 in the soul of his fellow-man, which nothing else can 
 reach. And the silent example often speaks with an 
 eloquence, which no language could exhibit. It is 
 probable that we never converse with a fellow-being 
 without carrying away certain thoughts or impressions 
 from the interview, which afterwards make a part of our 
 mental furniture. In my own observation I have noticed 
 this remarkable fact. When a sensitive scholar has been 
 cherishing in secret some favorite opinion, and at length 
 meets a friend who opposes him, and an earnest discussion 
 ensues ; unless the scholar can bring his friend to an 
 agreement with him upon the spot, he often goes away 
 with misgivings about the correctness of his own theory. 
 He may have felt that he conquered his friend in argu- 
 ment, but is still discomposed by the thought that an 
 intelligent spirit cannot agree with him, and he is at last 
 compelled to retrace his steps, and modify if not abandon 
 his theory. And occasionally it is found that this same 
 friend has been undergoing a similar process in his own 
 mind, and chiefly by the power of mental sympathy has 
 
man's responsibility for others. 277 
 
 come to adopt the views of the scholar, so that the two dis- 
 putants are almost prepared to exchange ground, and fight 
 the battle over again. There is a story told of two brothers 
 by the name of Reynolds, who lived in England, in the 
 seventeenth century. One was a protestant, and the other 
 a catholic. Both fond of each other, and each anxious to 
 convert the other to his own belief They appointed a 
 day for discussion. They met and canvassed the subject 
 of their respective religions, and the result was that the 
 protestant became a catholic, and the catholic became a 
 protestant, and each remained so till his dying day. Now 
 this was no force of argument, but simply the power of 
 one human soul over another. And, my friends, could 
 the pages of our long inward history be brought to us, as 
 clearly as we shall read them by the force of that plenary 
 memory with which we are one day to be endowed, 
 should we not find that there is built up on our separate 
 individuality a superstructure from the thoughts of others ? 
 That first whisper of maternal tenderness which we 
 heard in infancy, when it ceased to vibrate on the ear, 
 did not cease to vibrate on the heart. The playmates of 
 our childhood may have contributed impulses which have 
 grown up into all-absorbing passions. And onward, all 
 the way through life, we have been gathering up these 
 impressions, and there lives and thinks and acts in us the 
 crowd of living, thinking, acting beings through which 
 we have been hurried. 
 
 There is another thought connected with this influence 
 over each other. It is eternal. It cannot cease with 
 life. It sometimes speaks from the grave with a power 
 that it did not possess before. The memory of the dead 
 forces their influence upon us with a charm that we 
 cannot resist. But that influence lives also, after the 
 power that communicated its first impulses is silent, in 
 the lives of those who felt it, and who in turn will trans- 
 24 
 
278 man'8 responsibility for others. 
 
 mit it to successive generations down to the end of time. 
 We, my friends, live among the ruins of a once mighty- 
 people, who were buried upon the very ground where we 
 now stand. Now and then we dig up their bones. But 
 where are their bodies ? And where is the dust of the 
 fathers of that race ? Decomposed to its original ele- 
 ments, it has gone to nurture the earth that sustains our 
 life, and it floats around us in the air we breathe. And 
 we ourselves in time shall return to our mother earth, to 
 enrich its resources, and to bear our share in maturing 
 its future sons. And have you never thought that our 
 souls live also on the dead. That the thoughts cherished, 
 and the words uttered years ago, by those whom the hand 
 of God has linked in with our destiny, are supplying our 
 minds and our language ; that the influence you have 
 exerted to-day over your brother, will speak through him 
 to his children and his children's children. As you have 
 read of that eastern fable of the transmigration of souls, 
 has it not seemed to you that there may be such a trans- 
 migration of influence. Do you not feel, that the spirit 
 of a remote ancestor may this day, in one sense, be look- 
 ing out at your eyes, and speaking in your voice, and you 
 yourselves in turn, by the ever-living power of your 
 influence, may stand one day in the station and whisper 
 in the ear of a remote descendant. And has not God a 
 right to demand of you, hedged in as you are by such 
 circumstances, able to move neither to the right hand nor 
 to the left as a solitary being, endowed with the privi- 
 lege of improving this power for the good of your 
 fellows, for long ages in this life and eternal ages in the 
 life to come — oh ! has he not the right to demand an 
 account of such a stewardship, of such a talent, as he 
 does, when with solemn earnestness he puts the question, 
 •* Man, where is thy brother ? " 
 
 II. I now pass to remark that men are disposed to 
 
man's responsibility for others. 279 
 
 deny this accountability, chiefly in reference to moral 
 and religious influence. With regard to worldly con- 
 cerns, they are proud to acknowledge their power over 
 each other ; they make it their boast. And the more low 
 the station, the more insignificant the agent, the more 
 exulting is the thought, that he can make even the lofty 
 and the powerful feel their dependence upon him. But 
 go to such a one, and ask him what he has done for the 
 souls of his fellow-men ; whether he has ever communi- 
 cated one spiritual truth ; whether there has been a reli- 
 gious power speaking forth from his life ; whether in 
 short the world is any better for his living in it ; and he 
 will start from you with surprise, and the language you 
 read in his perturbed countenance is, *' Am I my 
 brother's keeper ? " — I, but a private citizen, but an 
 humble member of society, comparatively poor in know- 
 ledge and property and talent? Go to the princes of 
 the earth, go to those who have been officially intrusted 
 with the concerns of their fellow-men, go to the ministers 
 of the gospel, who watch for souls as they that must give 
 account, but come not to me. " Am I my brother's 
 keeper ? " 
 
 One of the reasons why men are so prone to deny this 
 religious accountability is, that they are most conscious 
 of a deficiency here. Cain knew that he had been guilty 
 of the murder of his brother, and he thought it a very 
 sagacious mode of self-vindication to deny all responsibil- 
 ity in the matter. If conscience had but held back the 
 arm that he lifted that morning against his brother, and 
 forced him to a kind embrace rather than a murderous 
 blow, he would not have met the searching question with 
 such an answer. With a clear open front, he would have 
 stood up in the presence of Jehovah, and pointed to the 
 mild one still laying his flocks upon the altar of sacrifice. 
 And, my brethren, it is the same with us. We live 
 
280 man's responsibility for others. 
 
 forgetful of our high calling as religious beings. When 
 we pass a fellow-creature in the street, when we gather 
 our children about us in the family, when we are 
 engaged in business intercourse, we seldom look upon 
 those whom the providence of God has gathered around 
 us, as creatures destined to immortality, and as capable 
 of receiving an impression from us, which may make that 
 an immortality of joy. And when God comes to us, with 
 this solemn inquiry concerning our brother, we are so 
 conscious of entire forgetfulness, or of absolute guilt, 
 that we try to shake off all sense of obligation, and deny 
 the rightfulness of his appeal. Not so would it be, if we 
 cherished the constant sense of our power, and deter- 
 mined to exercise it for God. If our daily prayer was, 
 that he would enable us to live for others as well as 
 ourselves ; if we went forth to our duties with spirits 
 sanctified and elevated by this prayer, if every word and 
 act breathed forth the energy of this noble purpose, and 
 we made men feel that we were in love with souls ; then, 
 when our Lord should come to urge upon us the solemn 
 and searching inquiry, with joy should we go forth to 
 meet him at his coming, and our answer would be. Lord, 
 here are we, and those whom thou hast committed to our 
 spiritual guardianship. 
 
 Another of the reasons for this denial of accountability 
 for our religious influence, is that we are disposed prac- 
 tically to deny the omniscience of God. So was it with 
 Cain. Foolish man ! In the confusion of his embarrass- 
 ment, he forgot that he was proclaiming his innocence in 
 the ear of him, who would take his hurried disclaimer as 
 the strongest evidence of guilt. For the moment he 
 forgot that an eye had been upon him all that day ; that 
 it looked in upon the first impulses of his passionate 
 heart ; that it watched the fearful struggle that was going 
 on there, — an eye from which he could not escape, 
 
man's responsibility for others. 281 
 
 though he sought his victim in seclusion from the gaze of 
 men, but which blazed in upon that deed of darkness, 
 and counted every drop of innocent blood, and followed 
 the murderer home, and fixed its calm clear glance upon 
 him when he was called to his account. Oh ! could he 
 have remembered the character of him before whom he 
 stood, he would not have added such madness and folly 
 to his guilt, but would have stood speechless with terror, 
 or have prostrated himself in humble confession for his 
 crime. 
 
 And we, my friends, how often are we inclined to 
 attribute our own short-sightedness to God. Because we 
 cannot follow the consequences of our own acts ; because 
 we cannot look in upon the soul of another, and defeat 
 the impression we have made ; because we cannot trace 
 with unerring finger the progress from heart to heart and 
 from age to age, we are prone to imagine that he who 
 summons us to our account is equally ignorant. Oh ! 
 could we realize that to him the small and the great are 
 all the same, and each compartment in his moral system 
 has a firm place in his memory, and every act however 
 trivial he traces to its remotest results, our humble con- 
 fession would be, we are verily guilty concerning our 
 brother. And if we could bear about with us through 
 life the thought of that all-seeing eye, we should sympa- 
 thize with it in its watchful anxiety, lest the susceptible 
 natures which are so easily moved, should by our influ- 
 ence be moved wrong. 
 
 III. I proceed to remark that God certainly will call 
 men to account for the influence they exert upon 
 others. 
 
 The justice and impartiality of his law require this. 
 He should vindicate the constitution he has established. 
 If he has united men so indissolubly, that they become, 
 24* 
 
282 man's responsibility for others. 
 
 as it were, a part of each other, he who knows how to 
 analyze the moral commixture, must call each one to 
 answer for his separate portion of guilt. And throughout 
 the universe of God, there cannot be one so obscure and 
 mean, that no notice is taken of the share he communi- 
 cates, and the share he receives of influence. If corrup- 
 tion go forth from his silent and secret abode, but to taint 
 the atmosphere which other men breathe, the consistency 
 of the divine law requires that it should be brought forth 
 to view, and forced back in judgment upon the source to 
 which it is traced. Or if corruption enter^ though it be 
 but from the breath of a passing traveler, yet the voice of 
 the poor man's blood cries from the ground, and it will 
 one day deepen into the tones of Jehovah coming to the 
 door of the criminal's heart, with the startling inquiry. 
 Where is that brother whom thou hast injured ! The 
 Bible is full of assurances upon this solemn subject. 
 The great principle upon which Christianity is founded, 
 is that of love to our neighbor. He who hides his 
 talents in a napkin cannot escape the censure or the 
 doom of an unprofitable servant. There is no denuncia- 
 tion more awful, than that which is uttered against him 
 by whom offences come, though it be to the little ones" 
 of Christ's flock. And in the great unfolding of the 
 judgment scene, we are told that this is to be the subject 
 of the trial. The question proposed to each individual 
 around that final bar will be, What hast thou done for thy 
 brother 1 And if his spiritual nature was famishing, or 
 exposed to corruption and disease, and thou didst not put 
 forth thy hand, to extend to him the food of the word, or 
 to point him to the great physician, or to draw him into 
 the ark of safety ; but didst rather set before him the 
 unwholesome sustenance of a bad example, and didst 
 Jeave him to perish in nakedness within his dark damp 
 
man's responsibility for others. 283 
 
 prison house of sin, — then shall the Judge answer and 
 say, Depart from me ; for I was an hungered and athirst, 
 sick and in prison, and ye gave me no aid. 
 
 Our moral nature will respond more readily to no 
 retribution, than to that which we suffer for the neglect 
 or the perversion of our influence. And it will be the 
 bitterness of our doom in another world, that we shall be 
 surrounded by those who, but for us, would not have 
 come to that place of torment. 
 
 My Christian brethren, let me close this discourse with 
 one word of appeal to you. Do you consider that no 
 man liveth for himself, and no man dieth for himself? 
 Through life, each moral act sets in train its kindred 
 actions in the hearts of others, and every new act 
 awakened into being has the same power of perpetuating 
 and multiplying itself. The evil that men do lives after 
 them, and while they slumber in their graves, it may be 
 possessing all the power of its first impulse. My brother, 
 you not only possess within you as a human being the 
 elements of an extensive, a never ending power, but as a 
 Christian, you possess it to an unusual degree. You are 
 like a city set upon a hill that cannot be hid. Men look 
 upon you as the representative of goodness, as the imita- 
 tor of Jesus ; and from you the unspiritual and the 
 worldly will judge, what is religion, and who is Christ. 
 Will you not then solemnly put to yourselves the ques- 
 tion this evening, whether you are living worthily of this 
 exalted eminence ; whether the world are taking courage 
 from your inconsistent example to go on in sin ; whether 
 the members of Christ's body derive warmth and refresh- 
 ment from their communion with you, and go from your 
 presence with new views of the preciousness of their 
 faith. Are you living as if the church to which you 
 belong leaned upon you ? Are you strenuous in your 
 
284 man's responsibility for others. 
 
 endeavors to increase its spirituality, and to multiply its 
 energies ? Can you point to a soul for whose conversion 
 you are laboring and praying vi'ith a faith and zeal that 
 will not tire and faint ? Do you cultivate a missionary 
 spirit, whereby in your own person or that of others, you 
 may reach the desolate neighborhoods, the wildernesses 
 of Zion around you ? Above all, do you watch with a 
 godly jealousy over your own daily conduct and converse, 
 determined that they shall speak with an eloquence indi- 
 rect, unostentatious, inoffensive, but powerful upon all 
 who witness them ? Do you associate with men of the 
 world, as one impelled by higher purposes, and cheered 
 by brighter hopes, and subsisting on more celestial food ? 
 Does religion beam from your eye, does it animate your 
 countenance, does it breathe in all your actions, like a 
 living reality rather than a cold dead profession ? My 
 brethren, what we do must be done quickly. When we 
 are in our graves, not we but ours shall be working. 
 We shall be silent, but our influence will be living and 
 speaking still. Then we cannot recall the idle word, or 
 the sinful act, which may be moving on in its career of 
 mischief But now, while it is called to-day, if we do but 
 rouse ourselves, we may redeem the past, we may check 
 the circulation of our own sins, we may wake up to the 
 consciousness of who we are, where we are, and what we 
 can do. God shall be glorified, and souls saved, and 
 Zion rejoice in the efficiency of her sons. And when 
 we reach our heavenly abode, like a long track of light 
 and beauty shall we follow the blessed influence in its 
 eternal work. 
 
 My friends, let us all consider how fearfully and 
 wonderfully w^e are made, and that it becomes us to walk 
 softly in a universe, where one step to the right or the 
 left may be fraught with consequences so stupendous. 
 
man's responsibility for others. 285 
 
 Let us lean on God, who alone can save us from incur- 
 ring the awful guilt of abusing this precious talent, and 
 ruining the souls of men. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 "This sermon," says an intimate friend of Mr. Homer, "he 
 regarded as a mere extemporaneous effusion, without any particular 
 form or finish. It was esteemed by his hearers, however, as one of 
 his most effective discourses." He ordinarily preached it as an 
 evening lecture. It was delivered at South Berwick, May 8, 1840 ; 
 afterwards at Dover, N. H., South Boston, Portsmouth, N. H., 
 Newmarket, N. H., Danvers, Mass., Buffalo, N. Y., Rochester, 
 N. H., and Great Falls, N. H. 
 
SERMON VIII 
 
 CHARACTER OF PONTIUS PILATE. 
 
 AND PILATE GAVE SENTENCE THAT IT SHOULD BE AS THEY REQUIRED. 
 
 Luke 23 : 24. 
 
 There is an air of veritable narrative about the New 
 Testament, which distinguishes it from all other religious 
 books. Its scenes and characters are many of them a 
 part of general as well as sacred history. We look into 
 the records of other religions, and we find that the 
 beings and events they treat of are altogether of a super- 
 natural character, and such, that as men and as historians 
 we cannot sympathize with them. Even the Old Testa- 
 ment relates to a people peculiar and secluded, and as the 
 incidents and persons it brings to our view are seldom 
 recorded in the annals of classical literature, they often 
 lack the breathing form of historical realities. But the 
 New Testament marks the era of the blending of sacred 
 with secular history, of the connection of the Jews with 
 the civilized world, the world with which Livy and 
 Tacitus have made us familiar ; and this second revela- 
 tion introduces us to the society of common life ; we 
 recognize as old acquaintances the characters and laws 
 and customs brought to our view ; with the group of 
 martyrs and apostles there sometimes mingle the iron 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 287 
 
 features of the Roman soldier, and our faith is appealed to 
 with a directness and intimacy, which the purely religious 
 narrative could never acquire. It is a mark of peculiar 
 wisdom, that the most momentous event which the Bible 
 records, is brought home to us from the tribunal of a 
 well known Roman Procurator, and depicted in the 
 familiar forms of a Roman scourge and cross. 
 
 The character and history of Pontius Pilate are not 
 fully given in the gospels. But if we examine the secular 
 traditions in connection with the inspired narrative, they 
 cannot fail to throw light upon each other. The 
 accounts of the trial of Jesus seem to present the 
 governor, as characterized by general weakness of prin- 
 ciple rather than strongly-marked depravity. But the 
 record of his administration in profane history is stained 
 with every atrocity. Philo describes him as a man of 
 obstinate temper and imperturbable arrogance, and speaks 
 of the wantonness with which he condemned the inno- 
 cent, and the cruelty with which he executed the laws. 
 Incidents are related by the several historians of the 
 period, which confirm this description. On one occasion 
 he shocked the religious feelings of the Jews, by intro- 
 ducing triumphal images of Caesar into the holy city, and 
 even provoked the emperor to a rebuke. At another 
 time he appropriated the sacred treasure to defray the 
 expenses of an aqueduct to Jerusalem, and when the 
 people were assembled to complain of the outrage, he let 
 loose upon them his soldiers arrayed in the common cos- 
 tume, like so many blood-hounds to follow up and 
 chastise every breathing of rebellion. To those stern 
 features which became him as the representative of the 
 Roman government, he seems to have added a natural 
 love for cruelty, and that intense hatred of the Jews 
 which had already began to hunt down the persons and 
 the customs of that ill-fated race. 
 
288 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 
 
 Such was the man selected by the enemies of Jesus, to 
 consummate their own infamous proceedings. His ordi- 
 nary residence was at Cesarea, but he had come up to 
 Jerusalem at this time of the Passover, to hold a criminal 
 court, as well as to suppress any tumult which might rise 
 amid the vast gathering, and the religious excitements of 
 that noted festival. There were various reasons which 
 may at this time have induced the Sanhedrim to transfer 
 their criminal to the Roman judicatory. The power of 
 inflicting capital punishment had been already removed 
 from their hands, and although they need not have 
 feared a strict enforcement of the regulation, they wished 
 the punishment to be more ignominious and cruel than it 
 was their own custom to inflict. They felt moreover 
 secret misgivings of the flagrancy of their conduct, and 
 they wished to throw off" the responsibility of the final 
 issue upon one whose hardened conscience could bear 
 the weight. And they may have feared, that the fickle 
 populace would frustrate their designs by some premature 
 change of opinion, or that, after the victim had fallen, 
 the buried affections of the multitude would rise up and 
 call for vengeance on the persecutors. Agitated by a 
 consciousness of wrong, and terrified by a foreboding of 
 judgment, they gladly sought refuge and aid in the very 
 power which was their dread and hatred ; and they felt 
 safe in the co-operation of a government proverbial for its 
 recklessness of human life, swift and savage enough to 
 gratify their own insatiate cruelty, strong enough to 
 silence every whisper of opposition, and wicked enough 
 to make this outrage appear like a small drop in an ocean 
 of crime. 
 
 It was at about five o'clock on Friday morning, soon 
 after the hour of sunrise, when they hurried away from 
 the scene of their own nefarious trial in the high priest's 
 court yard to the palace of Herod, where Pilate was then 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 289 
 
 residing. They were a group of strongly marked figures. 
 They wore the despairing aspect of the last men of a 
 noble race. The dignity of the old prophet was not 
 there, neither did the faithful waiting for the promises 
 light up those features with the smiles of hope. They 
 walked along that dolorous path like the ghosts of ancient 
 greatness. The ruins of the Mosaic law seemed to totter 
 in their steps. It was as if they were going to their own 
 execution. The hour of their degeneracy had arrived^ 
 and this morning it might be read in pale faces, and eyes 
 bloodshot and strained from the sleepless and exciting 
 night, and the curled lip that betokened uneasy malice. 
 Yet they are eminently conscientious men, and in all the 
 eagerness of their errand to-the Pretorium, they will not 
 venture within the heathenish enclosure, lest they become 
 unfit to eat the passover. Praiseworthy punctiliousness ! 
 They had just forgotten the once fondly cherished 
 " annise and cummin," in their heated disobedience to 
 ** the weightier matters of the law," for *'to condemn the 
 just," they had held the council by night, and consulted 
 on a capital crime at the period of the festival ; but now 
 with the foolish inconsistency of uneasy, conscience- 
 smitten criminals, they stop at the threshold. " Woe to 
 you," exclaims an old divine, " Woe to you, priests, 
 scribes, elders, hypocrites ! can there be any roof so 
 unclean as that of your own breasts? Not Pilate's walls, 
 but your hearts are impure. Is murder your errand, and 
 do ye stick at a local infection ? God shall smite you, ye 
 whited walls. Do ye long to be stained with blood, with 
 the blood of God ? and do ye fear to be defiled with the 
 touch of Pilate's pavement ? Doth so small a gnat stick 
 in your throat, while ye swallow such a camel of flagitious 
 wickedness? Go out of yourselves, ye false dissemblers, 
 if ye would not be unclean." 
 
 As it was the policy of the Roman tribunal to humor 
 25 
 
290 CHARACTER OF PILATE, 
 
 such prejudices, the governor came forth to meet them in 
 the open air. The area which he occupied during the 
 trial was somewhat elevated, and overlaid with a tesselated 
 stone pavement. Upon this was placed the seat of judg- 
 ment, one of those small painted pieces of marble which 
 the Roman magistrates carried with them on their 
 journeys. Thus he sat, surrounded by the accusers and 
 the multitude, while Jesus was left bound and guarded in 
 the porch. The parley began, *' What accusation do 
 you bring against the man ? " There was an expression 
 of firmness and force in this first question of Pilate, which 
 surprised and intimidated the accusers. They had sup- 
 posed he would condemn without a hearing. Many a 
 time, had they seen him exult over the sufferings of the 
 innocent, and they knew that he reveled in scenes of 
 blood. But now, with his lips pressed together, and with 
 the attitude and mien of a man who meant to weigh the 
 case and to do what was right, he comes forward and 
 demands a fair trial. This was one of those days when 
 the good Spirit was near to the governor. His savage 
 nature seemed softened by the divine presence. He had 
 heard of Jesus, and his conscience reproved him that he 
 had already taken sides with the persecutors, and com- 
 missioned his soldiers to aid the band that apprehended 
 him. And now a meek look from the prisoner as he had 
 passed from his presence, spoke so serenely of innocence, 
 that the heart of the Roman was touched with a tender- 
 ness that had not warmed it before. What is the accusa- 
 tion that you bring ? But the accusers saw their plans 
 thwarted ; they read a reflection of their own guilt in the 
 justice of this unjust judge ; and it was with the petulance 
 of mortified and baffled and remorseful men, that they 
 smartly replied, " If he were not a malefactor, we would 
 not have delivered him unto thee." We, the patterns of 
 morality and religion, so marvelously strict that we will 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 291 
 
 not cross your polluted threshold — and can you, the 
 representative of heathen Rome, the blood-stained gov- 
 ernor, the merciless judge, can such as you question our 
 justice ? Remorse inflamed their suspicions, and disap- 
 pointment roused their impudence. Irritated at this 
 contempt of court, but awed by the determined feelings 
 which prompted it, Pilate mingles in his answer a latent 
 sarcasm, with his first attempt to throw off from himself 
 the responsibility of what seemed inevitable. *'■ Take ye 
 him, and judge him according to your law." Punish him 
 yourselves if yoia can, a« for me, I will have no concern 
 in it. He felt the power which that mass of opposition 
 would not fail to gain ov«r him. With that foresight 
 which often accompanies conscious weakness, he read his 
 own ruin in the maddened faces of the crowd. But in that 
 \''ery acknowledgment of imbecility, in that very effort to 
 run away from the struggle to which hi-s better nature 
 called him, he loosened the ground on which he was 
 standing, he threw away those latent energies which he 
 might have summoned for a glorious conflict, and a glori- 
 ous victory of right. " Take ye him, and judge him 
 according to your law." 
 
 Yet the enemies of Jesus, as with downcast eyes they 
 replied that their law was unavailing, plainly saw that the 
 judge was not to be trifled with. Having collected their 
 thoughts from the first surprise at their reception, they 
 looked about for data, with which to prosecute the case. 
 What now must they do, in this novel and unexpected 
 position. It was hard work to condemn their victim even 
 before a Jewish court, what must it be before the stern 
 and impartial scrutiny of a Roman tribunal. It was very 
 evident that the blasphemy and sacrilege at which the 
 president of the Sanhedrim had seemed on the evening 
 previous so piously enraged, would have little effect on 
 the mind of a heathen judge. They must devise some 
 
292 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 
 
 charge gross enough for him to appreciate, and one too 
 which will appeal to his national prejudices and his selfish 
 interests. They accordingly present an accusation of 
 which nothing at all had been said on the former trial, 
 and with which as Jews they could have no concern, 
 except as the cringing informers of the government that 
 oppressed them ; an accusation therefore as mean as it 
 was palpably false — that he had set himself up as king, 
 and commanded to be appropriated to his own use, the 
 tribute that was due to Caesar. Most sensitive would the 
 governor be to such a charge, for the provincial revenue 
 was the chief object of his official guardianship, and the 
 source of his emolument. He felt as has been said, " his 
 own freehold now touched," — ** it was time for him to 
 stir." Accordingly he withdrew to the apartment where 
 Jesus had been confined, and put to him the question 
 with a mingled expression of alarm and pity : " Art thou 
 the king of the Jews 1 " And here it is, that the super- 
 ficial character of his opinions, and the general weakness 
 of his spirit most clearly manifest themselves. The pris- 
 oner in assenting to the title, explains the spiritual and 
 harmless nature of his kingdom, and his high destiny as 
 a maintainer of the truth. But all this was beyond the 
 governor's comprehension. He had heard of the learned 
 discussions of the Sophists, of the kingdom ascribed by 
 the Stoics to their great men, and like a true soldier he 
 disdained what was mystical. He felt its political harm- 
 lessness, but he did not see its moral force. To his eye 
 it was a figment of idle scholasticism. " What is 
 truth 1 " is the careless half-jesting question with which 
 he met the spiritual mystery. Oh! had he but paused 
 for an answer, had he lingered to gain the truth as it is 
 in Jesus, he would not have gone back to be tossed about 
 at the will of a rabble, he would have carried with him a 
 talisman potent against every temptation. Pilate, thou 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 293 
 
 dost bear with thee the truth, though a sneer is on thy 
 visage, but ah t thou art destined to become its weak 
 minister ; for when its fountain-head was opened to thee, 
 thou didst turn coldly away. 
 
 When Pilate returns to the multitude in the open court, 
 it is to proclaim aloud the innocence of Jesus. But ever- 
 suggestive malice is prepared to renew the conflict. 
 Instantly the charge takes a new form — that he had been 
 guilty of stirring up the people to sedition, making Gali- 
 lee the chief seat of disturbances. The inhabitants of 
 (jfalilee were distinguished for a love of liberty, which 
 theoretically took the form of a theocracy. They had 
 moreover rendered themselves peculiarly obnoxious to 
 Pilate, as we read that on a certain occasion he had 
 mingled their blood with their sacrifices. How plausible 
 and ingenious then was this new accusation at the bar of 
 the judge, and how must he appear to the government at 
 home, as the already indignant populace will represent 
 him, if he acquit the man accused by his own nation as 
 treacherous. He remembers the old reproof of the 
 emperor, and he feels his dependence on the good feelings 
 of the Jews. But stop ! " beginning at Galilee " — 
 instantly a new thought occurs to the perplexed governor. 
 To the jurisdiction of Herod the prisoner appropriately 
 belongs. He will send him to the Tetrarch. There was 
 his second parley with conscience. Another barrier of 
 his moral nature is torn away. Weaker and weaker 
 becomes the principle of justice. Slowly but surely 
 press on the mob, as they see the governor yielding inch 
 by inch. Pilate must fall. 
 
 Herod was now occupying another part of the same 
 palace where Pilate was quartered. He was a weak- 
 minded man, as he had shown himself in beheading John 
 to please a giddy girl. He received Christ as if he were 
 a juggler. He treated him like a buffoon, and finally sent 
 25* 
 
294 CHARACTER OE PILATE. 
 
 him back to the apartment of Pilate, arrayed in the worn 
 out habiliments of his own royalty, but clearing him from 
 every charge of guilt. And all that the governor gains 
 from this miserable subterfuge, is the termination of his 
 long quarrel with Herod. What a spectacle when the 
 King of kings becomes the involuntary arbiter between 
 these rival and petty powers. 
 
 What now shall the governor do ? He has made friends 
 with Herod, but not with conscience or the Jews. The 
 dilemma is again upon him. The priests and elders 
 stand before him with hungry eyes. The stern monitor 
 worries him for another effort to release the prisoner. 
 Added to the monitions from within, are the soft beseech- 
 ings of affectionate alarm from without. The wife of 
 Pilate had accompanied him to Palestine, and was now 
 with him at Jerusalem. This was contrary to the provin- 
 cial laws of the Roman government, but the peculiar 
 fondness of this woman had probably occasioned a special 
 indulgence in the case of Pilate. In the brief and soli- 
 tary mention made of her, she seems like a good angel in 
 the group of the blood-thirsty and the halting. She had 
 heard from some female companion the story of Jesus, 
 and by that power of sympathy with which his person and 
 character seem uniformly to have affected her sex, her 
 mind became intensely excited. Anxiety for his fate 
 made her dreams feverish and frightful, and the glimpse 
 she had of his grief-worn countenance as he passed along 
 from Herod's hall, recalled to her memory, and invested 
 with new and terrible meaning the visions of her sleep. 
 With prophetic eye she sees the fearful doom that over- 
 hangs her own family, and the imploring word she sends 
 in to her husband is, " Have thou nothing to do with that 
 just man." Along with that voice of tenderness, comes 
 the old charge from the maddened Jews, that the prisoner 
 had styled himself the Son of God. '• And when Pilate 
 
CHARACTER OF PTLATE. 295 
 
 heard that, he was the more afraid." The Roman faith 
 in dreams, and a superstitious fear that perchance some 
 god of his own mythology might be standing at his bar, 
 now added force and energy to the appeals of conscience. 
 He i^ roused to another effort for the innocent, but ah ! 
 how imbecile, how suicidal. It was a custom of the Ro- 
 man government, to secure popular favor, by occasionally 
 releasing prisoners, and the Jewish law seemed to point 
 to the passover as the appropriate season for this act of 
 clemency. There was another Jesus now at Pilate's bar 
 —a man hateful for every atrocity — Barabbas, or Jesus 
 the son of Abbas. He will let them choose between the 
 two. Surely the mild and gentle one will have greater 
 claims on their compassion, and they will cry out with 
 one voice for his rescue. But oh ! weak governor, dost 
 thou not see that in this miserable subterfuge, thou hast 
 yielded the two great points in the controversy, and sealed 
 the fate of the man thou wouldst fain save? Who ever 
 heard of release or pardon for one on trial, and uncon- 
 demned 1 Thou hast admitted in this very proposal, all 
 that the insatiate priests have thirsted for, that Jesus is 
 guilty. Thou dost not distinguish between him and the 
 robber who bears his name. Thou dost give up thine 
 own right of judgment, the only hope of the innocent, to 
 a prejudiced and infuriate rabble ; and canst thou wonder 
 at the mad shout that bursts back upon thee ? " Not this 
 man, but Barabbas." Where now is thy conscience, and 
 the dream and warning of thy wife, and thy own sagacious 
 plans. Pilate, there is but one step more for thee to take. 
 And that step the governor is not long in taking, 
 Foolish man! in the confusion of his embarrassment, he 
 fancied there might be compassion in the bosoms before 
 him, and to that he would make one touching appeal. 
 *' I will therefore chastise him and let him go." And 
 accordingly Jesus is handed over to the ruthless soldiers 
 
296 CHARACTER OP PILATE. 
 
 and his garments are stripped off, and his tender flesh 
 exposed to that horrible whip under which many a hardy 
 Roman soldier had perished. And when he is led forth 
 again to the pavement where his enemies are standing, it 
 is with his limbs lacerated and bleeding, his face disfig- 
 ured and swollen, his bosom heaving with the feverish ex- 
 citement with which his whole system was agitated — and 
 over all, were gathered the insignia of mock royalty, 
 pressing with thorns his bleeding forehead, or half cover- 
 ing with military garb his wounded body. Pilate saith 
 unto them, *' Behold the man ! " Those words and that 
 scene have become immortal. Painters have dipped their 
 pencils in that purple robe, and sought for ages to depict 
 that expression of suffering royalty. The church of God 
 caught up the motto and the image, and pressed them to 
 her bosom. But those, before whom they stood in the 
 power and freshness of life, who gazed on the streaming 
 wounds, and heard from cruelty herself a pitying voice, 
 " Behold the man," looked sternly and coldly upon the 
 scene. " Yea, and behold him well," exclaims bishop 
 Hall, ** behold him well, O thou proud Pilate ! O ye cruel 
 soldiers ! O ye insatiable Jews ! Ye see him base, whom 
 ye shall see glorious. The time shall surely come, wherein 
 ye shall see him in another dress. He shall shine, whom 
 ye now see to bleed ; his crown can not be now so igno- 
 minious and painful as it shall be once majestical and 
 precious." 
 
 Alas for Pilate, he knew not what he did. There are 
 some beasts of prey whom the scent or the sight of blood 
 will madden with such ferocity, that the appetite must be 
 glutted or there can be no peace. The sight of the 
 scourge on this occasion seems to have inflamed rather 
 than appeased the thirst for vengeance ; and there was 
 one dreadful thought which it suggested. In the suc- 
 cession of Roman punishment, scourging was the invari- 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 297 
 
 able preliminary of crucifixion ; and now, they who have 
 seen the prelude must behold the terrible catastrophe. 
 *' Behold the man ! " — but the shout which meets that ex- 
 clamation of pity is, "Crucify him!" ''Crucify him!" 
 And with that stern demand, there are voices of warning 
 which reach the ear of the appalled governor. " If thou 
 let this man go, thou art not Caesar's friend." — " Away 
 with him — Crucify him ! " Pilate, thine hour has come. 
 Tardy has been the process, but sure. Thy spiritual 
 doom is now consummated. The struggle is over. Thy 
 weak nature has no more subterfuges to suggest. Con- 
 science will not again lift her voice to be trifled with. 
 Henceforth thou art shattered, bedridden, the wreck of 
 thy former manhood. 
 
 ** Then Pilate took water, and washed his hands before 
 the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this 
 just person : see ye to it." Empty, vain ceremonial — 
 from a soldier, from a Roman — yet fit emblem of the 
 emptiness of principle which drove him to that cowardly 
 refuge ; fit emblem of the vanity of such a plea of inno- 
 cence. A few drops of water to wipe out that " damned 
 spot," when his agonized utterance should rather have 
 been, 
 
 " Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? No ! this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
 Making the green — one red." 
 
 Well has an old English poet represented him as under 
 the waves, and nothing visible but his hands eternally 
 washing themselves. 
 
 " He lookt a little further, and espyde 
 
 Another wretch, whose carcas deepe was drent 
 
 "Within the river, which the same did hyde ; 
 But both his handes, most filthy feculent, 
 
 Above the water Avere on high extent, 
 And faynd to wash themselves incessantly, 
 
298 
 
 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 
 
 Yet nothing cleaner were for such intent, 
 But rather fowler seemed to the eye ; 
 So lost his labour vaine and ydle industry. 
 
 The knight him calling, asked who he was, 
 Who lifting up his head, him answered thus : 
 
 • I Pilate am, the falsest iudge, alas ! 
 And most uniust, that by unrighteous 
 
 And wicked doome, to Jewes despiteous, 
 Delivered up the Lord of life to dye, 
 
 And did acquitc a murdrer felonous, 
 
 The Avhyles my handes I washt in purity, 
 
 The whyles my soule was soyled with foul iniquity.' " 
 
 There are several important moral lessons, which the 
 character and history of Pilate invite us to contemplate. 
 To a few of these, I propose now to call your attention. 
 
 First, We see the influence of a previous bad character 
 in leading a man into sin. 
 
 It is one of the most terrible retributions of a course 
 of sin, that it so involves the crinnnal that he seems bound 
 by a fatal attraction. " He is in so far in guilt that sin 
 will pluck on sin." The act committed ages ago seems 
 to stand by his side this very day, and though hated and 
 shunned from his inmost soul, and though ten thousand 
 voices cry out against its repetition, there is a dreadful 
 sympathy between the past and the present which shapes 
 the destiny of the sinner for ruin. So was it with Pilate. 
 If he had sustained the character of an equitable judge, 
 the infuriated mob would never have dared to commit to 
 him the fate of their victim. If his administration had 
 not been previously corrupt, he would not have been ap- 
 palled at the threats of the populace. Calm and unmoved 
 he would have faced that opposition, fearlessly would he 
 have stood forth in defence of right. But as it was, his 
 reputation for past cruelty was the very circumstance 
 which involved him in this forced and reluctant trans- 
 gression. It was the very temptation which stood like a 
 flaming sword at the threshold of reform, baffling every 
 pure purpose, and barring his progress toward virtue. It 
 
CHARACTER OP PILATE. 299 
 
 was the very reminiscence which made the threats of the 
 muhitude so pungent, and their appeals so confident, as 
 to a man who had become weak and cowardly under long 
 indulgence, Alas ! the governor has no weight of char- 
 acter, with which to withstand the solicitations and men- 
 aces which environ him. The conviction that Jesus is 
 innocent, forces itself upon him at every corner to which 
 he turns. Conscience utters its clear note of duty. And 
 a threatening cloud hangs over the pathway into which . 
 his cowardice would drive him. But it is to decayed and 
 decrepid and easily subdued sensibilities that the call is 
 now uttered, and he has but a tottering form with which 
 to buffet opposition. The moral nature of the man is 
 broken down, and it seems as if he must go wrong. Oh ! 
 my friend, shun the sin of this day, if you would not 
 have it come back upon you like a monster to whom you 
 have sold yourself, and who will not fail to return, though 
 it may be after long delay, to claim you as his rightful 
 victim. At the very moment when you seem most near 
 to heaven ; at the very moment when all the principles of 
 your better nature are rallying for your rescue, and the 
 bars of your dungeon are almost broken, that old sin ma^f 
 come back, and smile coldly upon you through the iron 
 grate, and mock your weak efforts to break from the im- 
 prisonment, and beckon you back to its old fellowship, 
 and come in to lie down with you upon your bed of rest- 
 lessness, as if determined to allow no peace to your sin- 
 bartered soul. 
 
 Secondly, We may learn from the history of Pilate, the 
 importance of firmness in support of truth and right. 
 
 When a man wavers from the first, or tries to compro- 
 mise the matter with his conscience, or meet duty at 
 half way, he is always sure to be driven back upon the 
 very sin he is almost determined to avoid. There is no 
 neutral ground which the moral nature can occupy with 
 
300 CHARACTER OP PILATE. 
 
 safety. There are unseen powers at work, watching its 
 irregular action, looking upon its doubts, noting down its 
 hesitancies, and taking fresh courage from every lapse to 
 win it to their own snares. If the man move slowly in 
 the pathway of duty, and ever and anon look wistfully 
 back upon the sin he is leaving behind, and instead of 
 settling the matter by one bold and decisive step, is veer- 
 ing off in this direction and that, and trying to shift the 
 responsibility, and pausing and trembling and doing his 
 little right with a pale face and a faltering gait, such a 
 man must fall in the end. So have we seen one upon a 
 rock, with the sea circling his tabernacle and crossing his 
 pathway, and even calling to him as with a mother's 
 voice ; and the tide and the waves ever gain upon him, 
 and already presume to touch with their damp breath the 
 lower fringes of his garment, and it is only by one despe- 
 rate exertion that he can clear the flood, and rest himself 
 above and beyond its gaping mouth — but still he hesitates 
 and calculates and edges along his little island, and looks 
 over his shoulder at the advancing billows as if ashamed 
 to turn his back on danger, and all the while the surges 
 boil more furiously, and the ground grows slimy beneath 
 his feet, and by and by the wet spray touches his fore- 
 head ; but still he pauses and doubts and edges along, 
 till the irritated sea pours over him, and he goes to be 
 seen no more. How strikingly did this weakness and 
 irresolution, this dallying with duty, this shuffling of 
 responsibility, this edging along upon the rock instead of 
 leaping to the shore, seal the ruin of the Roman Gover- 
 nor. Oh ! had he but boldly responded to that look which 
 the Saviour gave him ; had the majesty of the old Roman 
 looked out at his eye as he proclaimed the innocence of 
 the victim ; had he that moment laid down unhesitatingly 
 the parley with conscience, all would have been well. 
 But no ! afraid to act right, and more afraid to act wrong, 
 
CHARACTER OP PILATE. 301 
 
 he is tossed about between these two terrors till he hits 
 upon the first expedient for relief, which is the first step 
 in a downward series to crime. "Take ye him, and 
 judge him according to your law." Three more steps 
 has he to take in this lingering process, each essential, 
 each inevitable; for his moral nature will not allow him 
 to break away at once from its dictates ; while the mob, as 
 they read only of ultimate success in his already betrayed 
 weakness, press on till they push him down. Conscience 
 comes back to his rescue, after the questioning of the 
 criminal, but he finds refuge from its clear ghnce in the 
 court of Herod, and takes his next step downward. And 
 now yet again must the governor pause, when even the 
 ferocious Tetrarch sends back the prisoner uncondemned 
 —•and the safety of Herod's friendship would encourage, 
 and the dream of his wife would warn, and the still un- 
 subdued voice within would make one more appeal. But 
 no ! he has gone too far to recede. Barabbus comes to 
 his rescue, and helps him down another step, and the 
 shouts of the multitude proclaim that his descent is almost 
 consummated. And at last, well-nigh desperate from the 
 long struggle, he takes the scourge, with a haste so til- 
 advised, that it does but arm him for the work of death 
 he has not dared avoid, and as little dared perform. 
 Alas ! such eftorts for Christ, prove but stopping places 
 of crime, where he can pause and breathe, before collect- 
 ing himself for the last great sacrifice. After all these 
 struggles, he ends by condemning to death, the man 
 whose character even malice cannot impeach, and whose 
 innocence he proclaims with the very breath that utters 
 the sentence. And this lingering, painful process, does 
 Pilate undergo, rather than boldy summon his moral en- 
 ergies for one simple act of right. Oh ! my friends, when 
 duty claims your action, look it steadily in the face, and 
 turning neither to the right hand nor the left, march 
 26 
 
302 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 
 
 boldly forward. Conscience holds no fellowship with 
 those who avail themselves of an effeminate and pusillani- 
 mous policy, for keeping friendship with both right and 
 wrong. Duty lies in a straight line. It is the shortest 
 possible distance between two points, your own soul and 
 right. If you come at it by an angle, you come the 
 roundabout, wrong way. You satisfy neither conscience 
 nor the devil. You make a war within you, which will 
 not terminate till you go back and stop at the wrong 
 angle. 
 
 Thirdly, We may learn from the history of Pilate, that 
 a regard for popular favor, when opposed to conscience 
 and right, will often defeat its own ends. 
 
 The exclusive study of present, immediate effect is al- 
 most always at the expense of ultimate reputation. The 
 very restlessness which prompts to a sacrifice of duty on 
 the altar of human applause, betrays a want of self-respect 
 and dignity of character which the multitude will in the 
 end despise. That is the true basis of lasting popularity, 
 which lifts itself firmly in defence of truth, which heeds 
 not the paroxysms of rage, which displays such elements 
 of character as the sober, matured thought of the people 
 will be proud to claim in support of their rights. The 
 traitor of his country or his party is almost always in the 
 end despised by the enemy whom he has staked all to 
 gratify, and the hosts of darkness will jeer at no victim 
 with bitterer scorn, than him who sold the birthright of 
 his moral nature, for the breathings of one day's applause. 
 
 So was it with Pilate. He might have known that he 
 was giving himself up to the force of a temporary excite- 
 ment. He might have known that the deep, settled 
 hatred against Jesus, was confined to a limited cabal, 
 while the phrenzy of the mob would soon subside. Had 
 he stood out boldly against the torrent, the mass of the 
 people in the reaction of their excitement, would have 
 
CHARACTER OP PILATE. 
 
 303 
 
 rallied around him as a favorite. But in the confusion of 
 the moment he was as insane as he was wicked, and he 
 did but pave the way for his own downfall. 
 
 There is another mode in which this motive in a bad 
 man, will defeat its own end. It often places him in a 
 position of fictitious popularity. The favor that sur- 
 rounds him, is as phrenzied as that which hurried him to 
 sin. He revels in the luxury of smiles, till it proves his 
 ruin. His passions grow rampant in ihe short-lived sun- 
 shine, till they bring upon themselves swift retribution. 
 So was it with Pilate. In reward for the indulgence he 
 had granted the Jews, he seems to have assumed for him- 
 self an unbridled license of cruelty. A short time after, 
 a real impostor appeared in Samaria, and in quelling this 
 new excitement, the governor practiced upon the princi- 
 ples he had learned at the trial of Jesus, and conducted 
 himself with a brutal recklessness, which could be borne 
 no longer. The very men who had urged him to crucify 
 our Lord, and for whom he had violated the sacred rights 
 of conscience, now rose in a body, and demanded his 
 removal. Even the court of Rome shunned the society 
 of the favor-seeking office-holder. He was at length 
 driven to a place of exile, where like Judas " he went out 
 and hanged himself." Fit end for the traitor and the 
 cringing judge, and the applauses of the multitude proved 
 as worthless to the one, as the thirty pieces of silver to 
 the other ; for they too did but purchase a burial-place 
 for the bribed. 
 
 There is still another respect in which we may see 
 how suicidal is a course like Pilate's. The very act 
 for which he threw away his conscience, that he might 
 please the Jews, and avoid the anger of Caesar, is the 
 same that has given him an immortality of infamy. 
 Throughout the world, wherever the name of Pontius 
 Pilate is mentioned, it is to reproach his wanton injustice 
 
304 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 
 
 in delivering Jesus to be crucified. It is a stigma eter- 
 nally attached to his character. He is known, he is 
 remembered for nothing else Yea, a direful retribution 
 has burst upon him from the very source of which he was 
 most in terror. Oh ! my friends, there is a kind of 
 ambition, which is noble and dignified, and worthy of 
 moral beings — and it is so, because it arrays itself against 
 that principle, which so often leads to mischief When 
 you find the fear of the world frightening you from duty, 
 or the love of the world alluring you to sin, oh! that you 
 would pause a moment, and enlarge the sphere of your 
 vision, before you act. Remember that the world is 
 more than that gathering of friends whose praises you 
 court, whose taunts you shun. It comprehends the infin- 
 ity of duration, the universe of being. Act as if such a 
 world were indeed watching you, as if all posterity were 
 looking in at the door of your heart, as if eternity fixed 
 its calm, clear gaze upon you ; and '* surrounded by so 
 great a cloud of witnesses," you dare not act wrong. 
 Oh ! how the plaudits of the present, will fade away 
 before one glance from the keen-sighted, deep-voiced 
 future. How mean will appear the ambition which is 
 limited by life, compared with that which is eternal and 
 all-pervading as conscience. 
 
 Fourthly, We may learn from this subject that a bad 
 man may become God's agent in the accomplishment of 
 good. 
 
 An old divine has remarked, that the dream of Pilate's 
 wife may have been suggested by Satan, in order to pre- 
 vent the crucifixion of an atoning Saviour. But no effort 
 of the prince of darkness, any more than the strugglings 
 of human depravity can frustrate the purposes of the 
 Almighty. He fixes his calm eye on the operations of 
 his universe, and the conflicts of nations and the strifes 
 of men, are the parts of his counsel, and do but subserve 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 305 
 
 his great designs. Whoever doubted the liberty of the 
 Roman Governor ? Who can have failed to notice in his 
 sad history, the marks of an inward struggle where the 
 laws of his own mind, and the dictates of his free, moral 
 nature were at work. And yet how the sacred history 
 reminds us that each event was foreshadowed by prophe- 
 cy, and transpired in wonderful harmony with the purpose 
 of God. As has been well observed, " It is Pilate's 
 tongue that says, I find in him no fault at all. It is the 
 Jews' tongue in Pilate's mouth that says, Let him be 
 crucified. That cruel sentence cannot blot him whom 
 this attestation cleareth," neither does that long struggle 
 retard one moment the designs of Jehovah, How a 
 divine hand seems to be upon the governor, determined 
 to make each step of his erring nature speak forth of the 
 innocence and divinity of his victim. How an Almighty 
 Power is controlling and guiding every event in the 
 direction of that greatest product of benevolence, the 
 redemption of tlie world by the death of Jesus. And the 
 act which is the last yielding of a tempted man, becomes 
 " the wisdom and power of God unto salvation." Oh ! 
 man, whosoever, wheresoever thou art, that thinkest by 
 thy weak resistance to frustrate the counsel of Jehovah, 
 consider this : an eye discerns and superintends thy 
 slightest motions ; a power is working in thee and with 
 thee, and bearing thee onward to consummate the pur- 
 poses of thy being. Though it is thyself, the free, the 
 manly, the godlike, that acts, thou canst not hope by thy 
 mad efforts to thwart one plan of thy Maker, or to de. 
 range that great wheel in which thou art revolving. And 
 in anguish thou shalt one day behold, how all the strug. 
 glings of thy distempered nature, and the crafty plans of 
 sin thou didst devise, did but work together for the glory 
 of Him who created thee. Thou shalt suffer for that 
 thou didst intend, rather than that thou didst iiooomplish, 
 2Q* 
 
306 
 
 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 
 
 The evil is all thine own, the good is all thy God's. Yea, 
 *' the wrath of man shall praise Thee." 
 
 Finally, Let no one of us say, If I had heen upon that 
 judgment seat, Christ should not have been so con- 
 demned. 
 
 My friends, are we not conscious, some of us, of pos- 
 sessing similar elements in our own character. Is our 
 past life so spotless, that we never find ourselves involved 
 in new sin, by the fellowship of old transgression, or the 
 power of long-cherished habit ? Do we not hesitate and 
 waver, and choose the rivers of Damascus rather than the 
 waters of Israel, and try to make a truce with con- 
 science, by doing half our duty ? And at the very 
 moment, when we are ready to yield, does not the fear of 
 the world alarm, and do not its voices and its charms 
 sometimes drag us back from virtue ? Oh ! my impeni- 
 tent friend, I think I behold Jesus this day standing at 
 the bar of your heart, and pleading for his long neglected 
 rights. There are passions within, that gaze with fierce 
 countenance upon the meek one, and goad you on, to 
 consummate your sin by crucifying him afresh. But 
 there are better affections which prompt you to look 
 tenderly upon the self-arraigned ; and conscience, like a 
 fond queen that watches and weeps, sends in its notes of 
 remonstrance, and calls up its visions of terror. — ** Many 
 things have I suffered this day in a dream because of him." 
 Fearful is the struggle of your moral nature. For a 
 moment, you hope to conciliate the hostile parties, and 
 your agitated mind betakes itself to Herod's bar, to an 
 act of compromise, to the delay of a more convenient 
 season. But again the conflict returns, and closer and 
 hotter upon each other press the opposing ranks, and 
 louder waxes the voice of duty and the call of crime. 
 And then some darling sin comes forth for competition, 
 and lays itself down on the altar of sacrifice, and mocks 
 
CHARACTER OF PILATE. 307 
 
 you with menaces of departure, and presses you this 
 instant to choose betwen itself and Christ, while the 
 alarmed passions raise the infuriated shout, *' not this 
 man, but Barabbas." Yet still you hesitate and waver — 
 the scourge is in your hand, the cross is before you, but 
 you know not whether to nail upon it your Saviour or 
 your sin. And now fear raises her pallid form, and cries 
 out as with ten thousand voices, *' If thou let this man 
 go, thou art not Caesar's friend." Oh ! my brother, take 
 heed how this trial terminate. Take heed in memory of 
 that great assize, where Pilate and thou and I shall one 
 day stand. Then shall the terms and the parties in con- 
 troversy be changed. Then shall He sit upon the 
 judgment seat of the world, who now stands imploringly 
 before the judgment seat of our souls. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The preceding discourse was regarded by Mr. Homer as his most 
 elaborate, and in some respects, his best. It cost him an extensive 
 perusal of German commentaries, of Philo, Josephus, and other 
 ancient authors. He never preached it to his ovv^n people ; for his 
 aim in the ministry was, not to advance his own reputation, but to 
 consult the good of his hearers ; and the state of his society re- 
 quired, during the brief period of his ministration a different style 
 of address from that which he has here adopted. He preached the 
 sermon first at Andover, Theological Chapel ; afterwards at Dan- 
 vcrs, Mass. ; Salem, Crombie-street church ; Boston, Park-street 
 church ; Buffalo, N. Y. ; and Exeter, N. H. He was intending to 
 preach it at South BcrAvick as soon as the wants of his people 
 required. 
 
SERMON IX 
 
 THE NEGLECT OF DUTY AN OCCASION OF POSITIVE 
 
 SIN. 
 
 IF THOU DOEST NOT WELL, SIN LIETH AT THE DOOR. — Gcnesis 4 : 7. 
 
 It has been supposed by some critics, that the warning 
 in the text is founded upon a mode of personifying sin 
 peculiar to the Hebrew theology. These critics imagine 
 that sin is here represented as a reptile crouching at the 
 door of the human heart, watching its actions and emo- 
 tions, and ready to burst in upon it in its moments of 
 sluggishness or repose. Whether this interpretation be 
 the right one, I care not now to decide. If it be correct, 
 however, the image must not be carried beyond the gene- 
 ral principle it is meant to shadow forth. It cannot be 
 designed to intimate under this imagery that sin is actually 
 something without the soul, independent of the will — a 
 power tyrannizing over the man in his hours of spiritual 
 exhaustion, and when he cannot escape or resist its wiles. 
 Sin is the free act of a moral agent, and beyond the 
 sphere of that free action, it has no existence but that 
 which is fictitious or figurative. Neither can the text 
 imply that the neglect to do well would be harmless, pro- 
 vided it were not followed by positive transgression. The 
 sin of omission may be as aggravated as the sin of com- 
 
EVILS OP NEGLECTING DUTY. 309 
 
 mission ; and when the man has neglected known duty, 
 there is no further step for him to take in order to be in a 
 state of sin, for he is already there. The simple princi- 
 ple which the above-named interpreters would educe from 
 the text is, that the least cessation from activity in well- 
 doing leaves the heart peculiarly exposed to the power of 
 temptation, and will often result in outbreakings of de- 
 pravity which were before unsuspected. "If thou doest 
 not well, sin lieth at the door," or, by that pregnant con- 
 struction so frequent in the language of Scripture, it lieth 
 at the door, and will surely enter to claim possession of 
 thy soul. If thou live in neglect of plain and admitted 
 duty, besides the guilt of that negligence, thy moral nature 
 is deprived of its great inward power of repelling sin, and 
 by that first criminal omission thou dost start in a down- 
 ward career which will not cease till thou retrace thy 
 steps and satisfy the first demand of conscience for duty. 
 
 It will be my object, not to defend the interpretation 
 which has been given, but to assume it, as I may rightly 
 do by way of accommodation, and to apply the words 
 thus interpreted, to those who have already commenced 
 the religious life, and I shall attempt to show, that the 
 neglect of known duty will be likely to lead the Christian 
 into positive sin. 
 
 I. One argument in support of this proposition is, that 
 such a neglect will weaken the power of conscience to 
 restrain him from sin. 
 
 Every Christian is sensible how much he is dependent 
 upon the clear and regular action of this inward monitor. 
 If it utter its notes of warning with distinct and manly 
 tone, if it hold back the tempted soul with a giant's grasp, 
 its right may be vindicated in the darkest and most try- 
 ing hour. But if it speak with a hesitating utterance or 
 touch with a timid hand, the slightest wave may sweep 
 over its fortresses, the slightest volition may defeat its 
 
310 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 
 
 sway. Now, for a healthful and active state of the moral 
 faculty, there is nothing so essential as a complete and 
 symmetrical development of the Christian character ; 
 such a development as is secured only by the active exer- 
 cise of all its powers, by the faithful discharge of all its 
 duties. Conscience is a most sensitive agent — easily of- 
 fended, easily diseased. If it be slighted or corrupted in 
 one department of its agency, it will avenge the neglect 
 or show the fruits of the corruption through the whole 
 range of its administration. To-day, it comes to the 
 Christian urging his performance of duty ; to-morrow, it 
 presses him to fly from sin. As is the obedience he ren- 
 ders now to its clear injunction, so will be the readiness 
 with which it will afterwards return to avert his danger. 
 This is the great law of reciprocity which pervades his 
 moral constitution. If to-day he turn coldly from the 
 beseeching voice, or defer the call to duty to a more con- 
 venient season, or deliberately choose a state of easy, 
 quiet disobedience ; to-morrow, when conscience finds 
 him hard-pressed by the world, and just falling a prey to 
 temptation, it comes to him as one who has broken his 
 truce, who merits not and desires not its moral aid, who 
 will listen but feebly though it speak in thunder tones — 
 and its diffident warning is scarcely heard amid the uproar 
 of passion. Only the Christian who does his duty with 
 fidelity and constancy, can maintain a peace with his 
 great moral guide, and bear about within him, a protector 
 which shall never fail him. But he who is negligent and 
 careless of the work which God and his moral nature en- 
 join upon him, is ever removing farther and farther be- 
 yond the sphere of conscience, and as has been said, " to 
 him its voice is low and weak, chastising the passions as 
 old Eli did his lustful domineering sons : Not so, my 
 sons, not so." It has lost the consciousness of its own 
 power. Its original manhood is gone. 
 
EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 311 
 
 II. I proceed to notice as another circumstance which 
 exposes the negligent Christian to sin, that his moral 
 habits have become perverted. 
 
 We are, as has been often observed, creatures of habit; 
 and it is a wise provision of our Creator, encouraging us 
 in the path of duty, and warning us at the very threshold 
 of a life of sin. He who is faithful to the demands of 
 duty has a strong auxiliary against sin, in the rectitude 
 and regularity of his habits. The course of virtue be- 
 comes for him the easiest course. The constant exercise 
 of any part of the bodily system will invariably strengthen 
 those faculties which are called into use, and render their 
 action more easy and more efficient. And in the spiritual 
 system the eye that has been ever occupied with moral 
 beauty becomes quick to discern its graces or its blem- 
 ishes, and the arm that has been exercised and strength- 
 ened in the line of Christian activity, has acquired vigor 
 to wrestle with temptation, and to batter down the arts of 
 sin. The affections too have all been cultivated in the 
 life of rectitude; the love of goodness has been constantly 
 increasing with its exercise, and sin has become more odious 
 as the soul has risen above its transitory joys. For the 
 momentary raptures of sinful pleasure, such a well educa- 
 ted nature will never leave the steady and delightful 
 sources of its elevated happiness. By constant exercise 
 it has fortified itself against the inroads of moral decrepi- 
 tude, and inclosed itself round about as with walls of ad- 
 amant. But it is not so with the Christian who has 
 broken in upon the harmony and evenness of his own 
 spiritual constitution ; who has suffered some links in the 
 golden chain to be lost, some stones to be pushed out from 
 the perfect structure; who has learned the first lessons of 
 sin by forsaking the path which conscience pointed out to 
 him ; who has weakened his powers of spiritual action by 
 suffering them to lie dormant ; above all, who has lost 
 
312 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 
 
 the sweetness of a sense of inward purity which demands 
 no higher love, no higher joy. When temptation comes 
 to him, he cannot meet it with that love of holiness be- 
 gotten only by the constant maintenance of an active, 
 holy life. And the habit he has acquired of neglecting 
 Christian duty, makes it now his most natural course to 
 neglect the great duty of resisting sin. 
 
 III. The neglect of duty may deprive the Christian of 
 that which is directly and purposely designed to restrain 
 him from sin. 
 
 God has so ordered it that the spiritual nutriment of 
 his children is obtained in the performance of Christian 
 duty. This is the economy of religion. The man who 
 is faithful to the requirements of his God, is furnished with 
 so many barriers against temptation, while the negligent 
 and sluggish disarm themselves of every weapon with 
 which they could conquer the spiritual foe. The man 
 who is faithful and diligent in the study of God's word, 
 cannot read those indignant reproofs of sin, and those 
 exposures of its awful consequences, without having his 
 hatred and his dread increased, and the lamp he lights at 
 such an altar will not soon go out. The man who communes 
 daily with God, who pours out to him his soul in secret 
 penitence, who prays for spiritual strength, will secure the 
 aid for which he asks, will avoid the sin for which he 
 mourns, will be raised above the power of earth by assimi- 
 lation with the Infinite and Holy. The man who fre- 
 quents the communion of the saints, in whose soul is a 
 warm tide of Christian sympathy, who watches with fond 
 jealousy for the good of his brethren, will find in turn his 
 own errings kindly traced and reproved, his own feet re- 
 called by tender and watchful affection, his own soul puri- 
 fied by intimacy with the friends of Jesus, The man 
 who prays and labors for the conversion of sinners, shall 
 not only hide, but prevent a multitude of his own sins. 
 
EVILS OF NEGLECTING DLTV. 313 
 
 He will be more careful for the consistency of his exam- 
 ple, and at each temptation to stray, he will be frightened 
 back by the prospect of injured and ruined souls. The 
 man who devotes his property to the service of the church, 
 is not tempted to revel in earthly vanities, or to cling to 
 his treasures with a miser's grasp. And through the 
 whole course of Christian action, there is not a duty 
 which does not receive its corresponding reward. But 
 the man who looks coldly and infrequently upon his Bible, 
 who is a stranger in his closet, who shuns the company of 
 Christ's flock, who has no love for souls, no devotion to 
 the cause of charity, — such a one throws away his best 
 armor. The contest that goes on within his soul is an 
 unequal contest. On one side, is a depraved nature with 
 propensities alert and active and craving for indulgence ; 
 on the other, is the principle of holy love famished for 
 want of nutriment, unarmed with the panoply of duty, 
 and unable to repress the onset. What wonder that the 
 Christian falls into frequent sin if he neglect the only, 
 the divinely appointed means for his own rescue. 
 
 IV. The neglect of duty will deprive the Christian of 
 the influence of a good hope. 
 
 Hope is one great incentive to spiritual exertion ; a 
 most important aid to successful striving against sin. 
 There are many portions of the church, where the worst 
 thing that is said of a man is that he has lost his hope. 
 In that brief expression are crowded all the elements of 
 spiritual ruin. It is the epitaph of the buried soul. It 
 tells of the wreck of Christian principle, of the inner 
 man where sin may stalk as in a wilderness, of the last 
 hold on virtue gone. The old fable that let loose corrup- 
 tion and wo and sin upon the creatures of earth, did 
 shrewdly confine hope within the casket, lest it should go 
 forth to breathe its pure spirit over corruption, and turn 
 the bad to good. In a firm, good Christian hope, sin 
 27 
 
314 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 
 
 meets its strongest antagonist. The man who possesses 
 it has a confidence and assurance which will nerve his 
 arm and secure the victory. The brea.stplate of faith and 
 love is not sufficient without the hope of salvation for a 
 helmet. And sin will rage nowhere with more despotic 
 sway than in that dark world, where hope never comes 
 with its cheering, animating ray, with its pure and eleva- 
 ting impulses. 
 
 Now the Christian who neglects his duty must be con- 
 stantly depriving himself of this great moral auxiliary. 
 His energies will gradually sink down in discouragement. 
 Sensible of his spiritual deficiencies, he is cheered by no 
 such prospect of heaven as will make his soul indepen- 
 dent of the pleasures of sin. Deprived of the sources 
 of happiness in the Chistian life, he falls back upon the 
 world for comfort and joy. He will not walk in the ave- 
 nue of Christian duty to the fountain of living water, and 
 he must seek refreshment at broken cisterns. Moreover 
 his faith becomes dim and weak. He only that doeth the 
 will of Heaven " shall know of the doctrine." And the 
 negligent, disobedient Christian is harassed by a thousand 
 doubts and fears with regard to the character and govern- 
 ment of God, and becomes confused as to the rules of 
 moral action and the distinction between right and wrong, 
 and these depressions and doubts will make him puerile 
 and powerless in his efforts against sin. He has no de- 
 lightful consciousness of the favor of God, no sense of 
 union with Jesus, no dependence on the aid of the Holy 
 Spirit. He is not restrained by that most charming yet 
 powerful influence, the smile of a complacent Father. 
 He has wandered from the sphere of those heavenly at- 
 tractions, he has broken the bonds which bound him to 
 God. His soul is dark and solitary. He looks to the 
 church, but instead of being encouraged by its fraternal 
 sympathies, it frowns on him as an unworthy, inefficient 
 
EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 315 
 
 member. Under these combined influences he loses his 
 self-respect, and when he has lost that priceless treasure, 
 the last barrier is swept away, and he becomes the sport 
 of every tempter. Oh ! how forlorn, how shelterless is 
 the condition of him who is not only shut out from the 
 hope of heaven, from the light of faith, from the sense of 
 God's favor, from the sympathies of the church ; but who 
 is deserted by himself, who becomes the object of his own 
 despairing contempt. And how often that church-mem- 
 ber who wakes up to the consciousness that he is faithless 
 to God and to man, and disgracing his profession by a 
 barren and fruitless life — how often does such a one be- 
 come the victim of his desperate self-loathing ; sometimes 
 to sink down imbecile and decrepid, and suffer every pass- 
 ing wheel to crush him, sometimes to be urged on by 
 hopeless forebodings to a course of sin. He has no con- 
 sciousness of inward strength to sustain him in his trials. 
 When temptation assails him, it is with a weak and trem- 
 bling hand that he resists, and with a pale face which tells 
 that he expects to be conquered, that he will be conquered. 
 He finds an enemy within from whom he flees in terror ; 
 from whose dark, gloomy visions there is no refuge but 
 that sin which drowns all other cares. Oh ! brethren, 
 shun this alarming state. Brace yourselves to the most 
 self-denying activity in the service of your Redeemer. 
 Bring your pleasures, your property, your talents, your all 
 to the altar of sacrifice, rather than become liable to be 
 haunted by such a sense of your own weakness and worth- 
 lessness as shall cramp every exertion, as shall chain you 
 with worse than iron to your lusts, as shall ever prey upon 
 your moral nature. 
 
 V. A condition of idleness will peculiarly expose reli- 
 gious men to the attacks of the adversary. 
 
 He comes to them, not only when they are depressed 
 and discouraged, and too diffident of their own strength 
 
316 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 
 
 to resist with force, but he comes when the hands are un- 
 occupied with spiritual and holy labors, when the moral 
 system has sunk down into lassitude, and he there finds 
 ample range for his arts. It is a principle applying to all 
 departments of action, that the want of employment will 
 not only weaken the powers by depriving them of exer- 
 cise, but will drive the soul for relief and excitement into 
 some mischievous sphere of labor. The man that has no 
 business to occupy his mind, and no cares to employ his 
 time, you will find to be the man whose soul is invaded 
 by impure imaginings — whose tongue is laden with slan- 
 der against his neighbor. And it is pre-eminently true of 
 our spiritual life. There is deep philosophy in the simple 
 moral which we learned in childhood, that 
 
 " Satan finds some mischief still 
 For idle hands to do." 
 
 Not that the Christian is never assailed by his great 
 adversary, in the height of his spiritual activity ; for in 
 the most laborious services for God, there may be the 
 suggestions of pride, and unholy motives to overpower 
 him. But that is the devil's hardest work, to enter the 
 sanctuary of an active soul, and corrupt its impulses and 
 purposes, and make its sacrifices like the unbeaten oil or 
 the strange fire of the sanctuary. Chiefly does he tri- 
 umph, when he comes upon one who is asleep at his post, 
 and into whose ear he may whisper his hellish sugges- 
 tions, whose hands are engaged in no spiritual exercises, 
 but are all ready for his service. Such is the empty and 
 garnished house into which the unclean spirit enters, and 
 finds an easy abode. Oh! brethren, avoid this spiritual 
 idleness. Let not its dreamy lassitude steal away your 
 energies. Slumber not in the lap of this wanton who 
 can bind you with cords that you cannot break when 
 the Philistines are upon you. Remember who lieth at 
 
EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 317 
 
 the door, watching with eagle eye your moments of 
 repose, and ready to spring upon you in your slumbers. 
 Whatsoever your hands find to do, do it unto the Lord, 
 for if you do it not unto the Lord, you must do it unto 
 your great enemy. You are so constituted that you must 
 act, that you must work. •* Choose ye this day whom ye 
 will serve." 
 
 VL The negligent and inactive Christian is in danger 
 of being deserted by the Holy Spirit. 
 
 Those familiar exhortations not to grieve and not to 
 quench the Spirit of God, although of late appropriated 
 to another use, originally had reference to Christians, 
 They teach that this divine influence does not forcibly 
 retain possession of the human heart ; but if it find there 
 no fellowship of holy action it will leave it as an uncon- 
 genial sphere. The true disciple indeed is an object of 
 Heaven's peculiar favor, and upon him is set the seal of 
 that covenant which can never be broken. But he is 
 sanctified and saved only in harmony with his own exer- 
 tions. It is the Spirit which imparts efficiency to his 
 strength, but if he do not exert that strength, the Spirit 
 will withdraw his aid. *' Work out your own salvation," 
 said the Apostle to one of the churches of his care, 
 ** work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, 
 for it is God that worketh in you." And he might have 
 added, if you do not work yourselves, God will not be 
 working in you. He disdains to abide in a stupid soul, 
 He prefers rather to be the life of those that live. And 
 if there be one condition of unwonted melancholy, it is 
 that of the Christian, who by negligence has forfeited his 
 title to this heavenly aid. Thus deserted and left alone, 
 what can he do in the midst of worldly influences, with 
 a sin-craving nature pressing him to the earth, and the 
 adversary seeking for his overthrow. Whither shall he 
 flee for a refuge from those sins, that cry out within big 
 37* 
 
318 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 
 
 prayerless soul and demand their victim. And, my 
 brethren, such may be your condition, if you live uncon- 
 scious of your high calling, and neglectful of the claim 
 of duty. If you will not use the means of grace, grace 
 will not retain possession of your souls. The righteous 
 retribution, the terrible chastisement of your sloth shall 
 be, that you will be left to contend with your spiritual 
 adversaries alone. And in that solitary, unaided conflict, 
 while you wrestle with principalities and powers, and 
 have no divine arm on which to lean, most forbidding 
 shall be your overthrow. The church of God shall weep 
 over the wound you inflict upon your Saviour, over the 
 disgrace you bring upon his blessed cause, over the long 
 dark sinful night in which you shall enshroud your own 
 spirit. 
 
 There are two important inferences suggested by this 
 subject, with which the discourse will be closed. 
 
 First, It is of great importance that Christians should 
 carry their religion into all that they do. 
 
 There is a general impression among us, that religion 
 has very little to do with the world. We have days of 
 the week and hours of the day, appropriated to sacred 
 duties, and then we go forth to our secular work as if 
 God had no further claim upon us. Our religion is like 
 a garment, which we leave behind us in the closet, when 
 we go out to mingle in the busy walks of men. We 
 forget that more than any where else, we need its chas- 
 tening, sanctifying spirit amid the corruptions of active 
 life, It is the expansive nature of our religion to demand 
 and to receive the services of the shop and the study, as 
 well as the closet and the church. There is no secular 
 profession so high or so low, that it may not be compre- 
 hended within the sphere of Christian duty ; and that 
 disciple who imbibes the spirit of Christ, will have a 
 delightful consciousness that he is fulfilling his office by 
 
EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 319 
 
 industrious and sedulous devotion to the business of his 
 calling, by ever keeping in view his great taskmaster, by 
 accounting his labors and his gains an offering to the 
 Lord. With what significance is the warning of our text 
 presented to us in all the work of our hands or our 
 minds, in all our dealings with men, *' If thou doest not 
 well, sin lieth at the door." The moment we let down 
 the standard of Christian action, the moment we mingle 
 with the world as those impelled by no higher and holier 
 purposes, the moment we perform our duties with no 
 thought of their relation to God, that moment we are 
 exposed to fall. The love of gain, an unholy ambition, a 
 malignant selfishness that tramples under foot the rights 
 of our neighbor, or some other of the passions that lie in 
 wait for the defenceless citadel, may come in and usurp 
 our best affections, and drive religion from its throne. 
 And when we see a Christian brother, faithful to the 
 strictly religious duties of his profession, yet in his 
 worldly life exposed to suspicion, and becoming a 
 laughing-stock of the profane, we may learn whither to 
 trace the difficulty. He has not suffered his whole life to 
 be pervaded with the spirit of Jesus. He lays down his 
 Christian armor, at the very moment he needs it to repel 
 the onset of worldliness. In the fellowship of the saints, 
 at the altar of worship, in the service of the church, his 
 offerings may be sincere and abundant, but in the great 
 business of his life he is not acting for God. He is 
 doing, but not doing well ; and that is the door at which 
 sin may enter, and corrupt the unconsecrated purposes, 
 and inflame the unguarded passions, and press its way 
 through the soul, till it has poisoned every pious pleasure, 
 and turned the whole life into a career of wretchedness 
 and guilt. 
 
 Finally, Our subject teaches us, that the true remedy 
 for inconsistent, wandering Christians, is an immediate 
 
 
 (uiri7ERsr 
 
320 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 
 
 and active engagedness in all the duties of religion. " If 
 thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door," and it is 
 equally true, if the monster have possession of thy soul, 
 the only way to drive him from thee is by engaging in 
 those duties of which he shuns the sight. Abashed 
 by the presence of what is holy, and feeling " how awful 
 goodness is," he will shrink away and trouble thee no 
 more. 
 
 Do I speak to any member of this church, whose soul 
 is full of darkness and doubt, whose spiritual progress has 
 been, of late, like a groping upon the mountains, whose 
 feet often stumble as the enemy presses hard upon him, 
 and all the arrows pierce his flesh — Oh ! my brother, 
 Christ sends to you a message of comfort and light, " Go 
 work to-day in my vineyard." Christian, go forth to that 
 work with a manly heart. Erect once more the long- 
 prostrate altar of devotion and sacrifice within you. Put 
 your shoulder to the wheel of Christ's chariot. Give 
 your energies to the church. Labor for souls as one that 
 must give account. Make your whole existence a path- 
 way of burning zeal. So shall you be strong. So shall 
 sin cease to have dominion over you. So shall the 
 Master come and say, " Well done, good and faithful 
 servant," thou hast been faithful unto me, and now I 
 will put beneath thy feet the powers with which thou 
 didst wrestle so sorely. Yea, beloved, we are more than 
 conquerors, when Jesus lives and acts within us, in the 
 energy of a devoted Christian life. 
 
SERMON X, 
 
 THE CULTIVATION OF THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NO 
 PROOF OF HOLINESS. 
 
 AND ANOTHER OF HIS DISCIPLES SAID UNTO HIM, LOUD, SUFFER ME FIRST 
 TO GO AND BURY MY FATHER. BUT JESUS SAID UNTO HIM, FOLLOW 
 ME ; AND LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD. — Matt. 8 : 21, 22. 
 
 This is one of the hard sayings of Jesus. An early 
 and obscure tradition explains away its difficulties in a 
 manner at once satisfactory and beautiful. The individ- 
 ual addressed in the text is supposed to be the amiable 
 and affectionate John. He belonged to a family, you will 
 remember, singularly fond in their attachment to each 
 other. It was his mother who traveled a great distance, 
 that she might tender to Jesus the request so replete with 
 maternal ambition, *^ Let my two sons sit, the one on thy 
 right hand, and the other on thy left, in thy kingdom." 
 The whole history of this disciple shows how great must 
 have been the ardor of his social affections, and they no 
 doubt at first constituted the chief obstacle in the way of 
 his self-devotion to God. Now it was the custom of our 
 Saviour to adapt his instructions to the besetting sins of 
 those whom he addressed. To one who made wealth his 
 idol, he would issue the mandate, Go and sell, and give 
 to the poor ; touching each man in the most sensitive 
 
322 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 part of his nature, that he might the more clearly disclose 
 the true state of his heart. And so he comes to the 
 disciple mentioned in our text, as to one loving his 
 earthly friends with an affection bordering on idolatry, 
 and he determines to make manifest the defectiveness of 
 his character. Not that he would have checked the flow 
 of filial affection ; not that he wished to prohibit or did 
 prohibit the obsequies of a deceased parent ; but he 
 meant by the sharpness and severity of his rebuke to 
 convey more clearly the great truth, that what was lovely 
 and amiable and affectionate was not to be preferred to 
 what was religious ; neither could it be acceptable unless 
 deeply imbued with a religious spirit. 
 
 The text naturally leads us to one of the hard points in 
 our evangelical faith. It has been often said that the 
 doctrine of our entire sinfulness does violence to our 
 social sensibilities ; that it fails to recognize those moral 
 graces which give a charm and beauty to life ; that it 
 demands of the mother a judgment respecting a dutiful 
 child against which all her better feelings revolt. It 
 cannot be denied, that language unduly harsh and unau- 
 thorized by Scripture has been sometimes employed upon 
 this subject. The truth is, religion, while she assumes 
 the posture of reproof, beholds in our prostrate, fallen 
 nature, the ruins of much that is goodly, and she comes 
 to many of our constitutional susceptibilities with a 
 friendly mien, not indeed as themselves involving holi- 
 ness, but as being the avenues through which holiness 
 may enter and take possession of the soul. That is a 
 cold and unfeeling theology which places the social vir- 
 tues on a level in all respects with the instincts of brutes. 
 That is a harsh and crabbed analysis which can coolly 
 resolve the finer sentiments of our nature into mere 
 selfishness. Such theories can breathe only where they 
 are born, in the close air of the metaphysician's study ; 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 323 
 
 for under the clear sky, and amid the gladsome walks of 
 life, they must seem more like caricatures than true por- 
 traits of humanity. 
 
 I intend in subsequent discourses,* to show the true 
 connection subsisting between our religion and the social 
 virtues. I shall endeavor to vindicate religion from the 
 charge of having no fellowship with human nature, and 
 at the same time to fix the reproofs of the gospel with 
 increased severity upon the amiable sinner. This morn- 
 ing, I shall attempt to prove. 
 
 That the cultivation of the social virtues is no proof of 
 a right state of heart. 
 
 I. It may be said in support of this proposition, that 
 one who cultivates these social virtues may be neglecting 
 the most important sympathies of his moral nature. 
 
 I think it will be readily admitted that a man cannot 
 be called good, if he leaves an essential part of that 
 moral nature which God has given him to run to waste. 
 In a certain class of duties, he may be admirably correct 
 and exemplary, but he is at best but half a man. Now 
 the doctrine that asserts our depravity, as I understand it, 
 simply asserts a fact, that men are destitute of a love for 
 God as the ruling principle of life, and are governed by 
 other principles which ought to be restrained. It does 
 not assume its seat, as many have supposed, at a distance 
 from human sympathies, frowning upon every exercise of 
 the natural man as hideous and unclean. It recognizes 
 a beauty in the social virtues ; but in the very acknowledg- 
 ment of that beauty, it is the more firmly fixed in its 
 condemnation of human character, because it thus learns, 
 that there are susceptibilities in the heart unexercised ; 
 
 * These discourses the author did not live to finish. The thanks- 
 giving sermon immediately following this forms a part of the 
 contemplated course. — Ed. 
 
324 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 depths of affection which have not been reached. It 
 stands by the bedside where affection watches and weeps, 
 and knows no fatigue ; it goes to the hovel where charity 
 is dispensing her bounties, and wiping the tears of the 
 mourner ; it witnesses the flushed cheek when deeds of 
 noble, self-denying, disinterested virtue are recited ; and 
 it comes away from these scenes with the full assurance 
 that man has an affectionate nature ; that within his bosom 
 there is a conscience which has survived the fall, dispos- 
 ing him to recognize and to love the right, and to hate 
 and avoid the wrong. It is a gross misrepresentation of 
 our belief when we are charged with looking upon men 
 as blind and base, and with groveling tastes that cannot 
 appreciate what is truly excellent. No, my friends, if 
 such were the conviction of men, God would view them 
 as objects of pity rather than of reproof. But he has 
 created them with a more exalted nature, and the fault is, 
 that they devote that nature to all pursuits and affections 
 rather than the highest. And they who can love so well 
 an earthly friend, and appreciate so readily an earthly 
 obligation, and discharge so faithfully an earthly duty, 
 have no thought or care for the higher, the holier, the 
 heavenly. Let us see how religion appeals to the very 
 susceptibilities which are exercised in the course of a 
 virtuous life, that we may strip the moral sinner of every 
 refuge, and expose the odiousness and the wilfulness of 
 his depravity. 
 
 First, What could be more in accordance with our 
 nature than love for God as our Father. Filial affection 
 is one of the noblest elements of our being. There is 
 no sight which awakens warmer pleasure than that of a 
 child who cherishes in his heart the sense of obligation 
 to his parent, who remembers the tenderness that watched 
 over him in infancy, who forgets not the hand that has 
 guided him through the changing scenes of life, soften- 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 325 
 
 ing the rough path for his footsteps, and affording shelter 
 from the storm beneath the shadow of its own care. 
 Beautiful indeed does filial love become, when it is sum- 
 moned from that passive quietness into the path of labo- 
 rious, self-denying, painful effort to repay the debt; when 
 it devotes itself assiduously to the gratification of a pa- 
 rent's will, and needs but a glance of the father's eye ere 
 it go forth submissively to the ends of the earth ; when it 
 shares its last farthing with aged poverty, or watches by 
 the bedside of helpless decrepitude, and rejoicingly 
 stretches out its arm for that second childhood to lean 
 upon. But what shall be said of him who exhibits this 
 untiring devotion to an earthly parent, while he bestows^ 
 no thought upon a heavenly 1 Has not God a similar, 
 and even a greater claim upon the affections ? Is there 
 not that in the thought of his creating and preserving, 
 goodness, above all of the spiritual tenderness which he 
 manifests for the children of his care, which is fitted to 
 speak to the deepest emotions of the filial heart, and send 
 it forth in the pathway of childlike, and if need be, self- 
 crucifying obedience ? Should we not address one who 
 could feel no such promptings, in the language of aston- 
 ishment and reproof? Should we not say to him in the 
 words of a foreign preacher, " Brother, a voice from God 
 rings in thine ears, My child, why hast thou not sought 
 me 1 Yea, from infancy up — first when thou wast sitting 
 in thy mother's embrace, while she told thee the story of 
 the dear Redeemer ; and then in thy boyhood, when in 
 starry nights thou gazedst on the grandeur of thy heav- 
 enly Father's mansions, and thine eyes shed drops of 
 thankfulness, that among all his millions of worlds, he 
 forgot not thee, poor child ; and then in thy youth, when 
 sin conflicted sorely with thee, and thou learnedst the 
 truth, ' He that trusteth in his own heart is a fool,' every- 
 where and all the way has thy Father's voice cried out to 
 28 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 thee — wherefore seekest thou me not, my straying child, 
 for I am still thy Father. Oh ! ye who hang with all the 
 fibres of your system upon a creature of God, and long 
 after that creature, have you ever longed in the same way 
 after your Creator ? Why do you not learn what is the 
 blessedness of the faithful one, when his inmost soul lies 
 spread out in holy prayer before God; when the eye lin- 
 gers upon the distant, deep, clear heaven, the fairest em- 
 blem of the boundlessness, the serenity and the magnifi- 
 cence of that love which first loved us — when his ear 
 takes in no earthly sound, and only this solitary feeling 
 lives in his soul. Oh ! thou eternal one, Thou art." 
 
 I know that against this affectionate, all-absorbing com- 
 munion with our Heavenly Parent, it may be urged, that 
 it is unnatural for the creature to aspire to intimacy with 
 the Creator ; that it is hard for the visible to commune 
 with and to love the invisible. But, my friends, how is it 
 with you in your earthly affections? Do you feel no 
 emotions of love awakened by the virtues of those you 
 have never seen ? Does not the soul fix fondly upon 
 many an object that may be distant from its vision ? Do 
 we not love and commune with the dead ? Does the filial 
 principle depend upon something palpable and material 
 for its nutriment and exercise ? How often does the or- 
 phan boy deprived in infancy of his parents, before he 
 had learned to discern their visage, or to feel the warm 
 breath of their love, still cherish them in his heart, bear 
 about their image through life, behold their eyes ever 
 gazing, and their hands ever pointing out the way in 
 which he should walk. And similar to this is the com- 
 munion demanded of the soul with God. Mysterious, yet 
 not more mysterious than the dead, to each heart he 
 speaks through the ten thousand voices of the outward 
 world, and from within through the clear tones of con- 
 science, and the soft music of the filial feeling ; and his 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 327 
 
 demand is for the memory and the love and the duty 
 which the child owes to his parent. And when he finds 
 that these varied appeals are all slighted, with what justice 
 does he cry out against the vile ingratitude, " Hear, O 
 heavens, and give ear, O earth, — I have nourished and 
 brought up children, and they have rebelled against me." 
 Secondly, There is another and a beautiful class of 
 emotions to which the character and person of Christ 
 makes its appeal. He speaks to that fraternal love which 
 we cherish towards those who were nurtured by the same 
 hand, who look up into the face of the same parents, who 
 share each other's joys and sorrows, and bear each other's 
 burdens through life. There is a sense in which all man- 
 kind are our brethren, and it is possible for any one to 
 become the object of this fraternal feeling. If a fellow 
 man seems to fix on me his eye with a peculiarly fond ex- 
 pression, I am so constituted that I almost instinctively 
 give back the affectionate glance. If he seems to love 
 my society, it is my first dictate to reciprocate his friend- 
 ship. If I find that he often sacrifices his own happiness 
 for my good, a sense of obligation is joined to my recip- 
 rocated sympathy. If he daily comes to me with counsels 
 of wisdom and comfort, and his words are like apples of 
 gold in pictures of silver, he becomes to me as a brother. 
 If I perceive that his moral graces grow lovelier as I be- 
 come intimate with him, and his character daily assumes 
 a dignity and grandeur surpassing all that I had seen be- 
 fore, he is to me more than a brother. I press him to my 
 heart as meeting the highest demand of my moral nature, 
 as him whom my soul loveth. Now Christ comes to us 
 in just such a way. He appeals to our sympathy as he 
 first loves us. He appeals to our gratitude, as for our 
 sakes he descends from the peace of heaven, and strug- 
 gles and dies amid the discord of earth. He is as a 
 brother ever speaking to us by the pure, refreshing les- 
 
328 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 sons of his instructions and his life. He stands out before 
 us as the personation of that moral purity and loftiness 
 for which we search elsewhere in vain. Oh ! if there be 
 a Character that speaks to our condition, that has a right 
 to demand the warm flow of a brother's love, it is the Re- 
 deemer of man. He lived and he died not merely to 
 atone for our sins, but to afford us an object of fraternal 
 affection which should harmonize with all the higher 
 sympathies of our nature, and should satisfy every longing 
 of the soul. How the heart clinors to it as a refuore in af- 
 fliction, and in the storm of sin and sorrow, listens to 
 his cheering voice, and in the darkness of disease or old 
 age can discern his image, when other objects of affec- 
 tion have faded from the view. So felt that aged servant 
 of God with whom the sun and stars of memory had been 
 darkened, and all the daughters of music had been 
 brought low. When it was attempted to recall his con- 
 sciousness by the sound of his own name, he replied, I 
 know not the man. When mention was made of the 
 idols of his early affections, they too had all been erased 
 by the hand of age, and the old man strained the eyes of 
 his memory in vain, for he could not recall its lost treas- 
 ures. But some one spoke of the Redeemer of man, and 
 his dimmed eye lighted up with new animation, and there 
 was eloquence in his trembling voice as he said, *' I re- 
 member that Saviour ; yes, I do remember the Lord Jesus 
 Christ." But for you, my friend, in the vigor of all your 
 powers, with affections that you prove your ability to 
 cherish and exercise for others — this precious Redeemer, 
 though he comes as a brother, though he plead long with 
 you, though he offer you the choicest of his treasures, yet 
 you will not give him back a brother's heart. Can you 
 blame us that we call such singular and astonishing cold- 
 ness, depravity. 
 
 Thirdly, there is yet another principle in man, to which 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 329 
 
 religion makes its appeal. It is the philanthropic princi- 
 ple. It is founded on that natural sympathy which man 
 feels for his fellow man, which prompts him to relieve his 
 suffering, and often to endure great sacrifices to benefit 
 his condition. We sometimes see in an unregenerate 
 man this natural benevolence, displayed with wonderful 
 beauty. The feelings which prompt it are not to be de- 
 spised, and the results of its action are among the choicest 
 treasures in this world of ours. But go to such a man, 
 and appeal to his benevolent sympathies in a religious 
 way. Talk to him of the interests of the immortal soul. 
 Try to impress upon his mind the importance of laboring 
 for the spiritual as well as temporal good of his fellow be- 
 ings. Point out to him the great evil of his example as 
 irreligious, and hold up before him the promise of en- 
 larging his sphere of usefulness and making his labors 
 work for eternity. Tell him all this, and how will he 
 treat you 1 With coldness and stupidity. He is a kind 
 neighbor, ready to pluck out his eye to save a fellow 
 creature from suffering, but yet, when you bring to his 
 heart this noblest object of philanthropy, the relief of the 
 soul from sin and wo, it awakens no cordial response. 
 Oh ! is there not something in the heart of mar>, kiad and 
 tender though it be, — is there not a perverse will which 
 lifts itself up proudly and obstinately against the claims 
 of religion ; and though the appeal be to a susceptibility 
 which is active in every other relation, it is in the highest 
 of all relations dull and heedless and dead. 
 
 I think it will be obvious from these remarks, that the 
 social virtues, instead of proving the absence of depravity 
 in the natural man, only serve to fix the charge of guilt 
 more deeply upon him. They show that he is capable of 
 feeling and of doing all that religion requires, but yet he 
 refuses to love and to obey. Though religion makes its 
 appeal to him as a man, though it speaks to him as a son, 
 28* 
 
330 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 as a brother, as a philanthropist ; though its claim is sim- 
 ply for a new and loftier and more appropriate exercise of 
 susceptibilities which he possesses and knows how to di- 
 rect, yet he stands aloof from the winning voice, and will 
 not yield himself to the delightful service. His virtues 
 are amiable and lovely, but they might all subsist in an 
 atheist's bosom, they might flourish in an atheist's world. 
 There is no God in all his thoughts or affections or pur- 
 poses. This is the depth of his depravity. This is the 
 odiousness of his sin. 
 
 The proposition of this discourse may be established 
 1>y another train of remark. 
 
 II. The exclusive cultivation of these social affections 
 involves the sin of idolatry. 
 
 The gift is permitted to draw the affections from the 
 giver. God's command is that we should love him with 
 all the heart, and there is a response in our moral nature 
 to the fitness of this demand. The character and law of 
 God are suited to attract those very affections which we 
 expend on the creature. Still more, they have a far high- 
 er claim upon our hearts than the objects which in reality 
 engross them. Now, can there be idolatry more flagrant 
 than this ? God unveils his beauty and loveliness to the 
 eye of the soul, but the soul replies, My affections are 
 pre-occupied ; I prefer and I cling to the creature. These 
 «arthly treasures are my gods, and I will not have the 
 Supreme to reign over me. Impenitent parent, are you 
 not conscious of your criminality in this matter ? In 
 neglecting your Heavenly Father, do you not erect in 
 your heart an altar for your child, and do you not offer 
 there the sacrifices you owe to God ? And when he sum- 
 mons you to your final account, how will you extenuate 
 the guilt incurred, in defiling this sanctuary of your soul, 
 by a homage and a worship so misdirected ? 
 
 There is another light in which this exclusive, idol a- 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 331 
 
 trous devotion to the creature may be viewed. It mars 
 that moral symmetry which we love to see in human cul- 
 ture, and creates a monstrous disproportion in the charac- 
 ter. Suppose a father were to concentrate his affections 
 on a single child. On that one he should seem to dote 
 with a fondness equalled only by the cold indifference 
 with which he regarded all the others. On him he should 
 lavish every kindness, and heap every luxury, while the 
 rest of the famished flock should crave in vain for the 
 crumbs from the favored one's table. By what name 
 should we call that father ? Amiable as might seem to 
 be the origin of this monomania, delightful as might be 
 the sight of a fond attachment between child and parent, 
 we should call this exclusive and solitary appropriation of 
 love, a monstrous anomaly. Make the case a still stronger 
 one, and you have a faint image of the relation sustained 
 by the amiable sinner to God. Suppose the object of this 
 parent's idolatry to be the one least worthy, in all the 
 family, of his confidence and affection, while they whom 
 he passes by with neglect and indifference are the patterns 
 of all that is dutiful and exemplary. Indulgent parent, 
 affectionate son, kind-hearted brother, this is the way in 
 which you treat God. He has bound himself to you by 
 ties closer and more enduring than the ties of earth. 
 He is worthy of being loved with an affection that shall 
 absorb your soul, and give direction to all subordinate 
 loves. And yet you, infatuated in your idolatry, exhaust 
 your nature in devotion to man, till there is left not one 
 breathing of fondness for God. Is not this an odious, 
 criminal partiality ? Is it not a hideous disproportion ? 
 Is it not a depraved idolatry ? 
 
 III. These social affections may be the means of in- 
 flaming the natural heart with hatred against God. 
 
 Every sinner has in his heart the elements of this ha- 
 tred. Perhaps his circumstances have not been such as 
 
332 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 to call them forth into a violent outbreak, and he is not 
 fully conscious of present enmity to his Maker. But God 
 has so ordered it that few persons can go through life 
 without meeting with something to draw out this latent 
 principle, and lay bare to their own view the unreconciled 
 state of their affections. Now there is no more sensitive 
 spot, which God can touch, than these very social feelings, 
 and he wounds them most keenly when he comes sudden- 
 ly and mysteriously, and tears from the very bosom of 
 affection the object to which it has been clinging as its 
 life and joy. The mother that goes nightly to the cradle, 
 and watches the unconscious smile of her sleeping babe, 
 and dreams that nothing can be so fair and so good and 
 so secure from harm, is sometimes called to watch the 
 gathering flush upon the cheek, to see those little hands 
 clenched in spasmodic agony, to bend over the lingering 
 sufferer in the tediousness of a long disease, till at length 
 maternal care can be of no more avail, and her last duty 
 is to wipe the cold sweat from the forehead that was so 
 fair, and dispose the white garments for the burial. The 
 father has a son, mature and manly, over whom he has 
 watched from infancy with unwonted fondness, on whom 
 he has lavished every expenditure, to whom he has looked 
 forward as the representative of his own family and name, 
 and the comfort of his old age. He finds his graces of 
 mind and heart maturing with a beautiful harmony, and 
 begins already to lean on him as his strong staff and his 
 beautiful rod. But suddenly a deplorable disaster pros- 
 trates his hopes. The blow that strikes down the darling 
 of his pride is worse than death ; it dooms him to a per- 
 petual sight of that most awful of spectacles — a diseased 
 and shattered intellect. He beholds the glare of idiocy, 
 where was once the sprightliness of youth ; and the staff 
 on which he leaned has become a broken reed. Now 
 here are afflictions which may occur at any time to the 
 
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 333 
 
 most prosperous, and if the heart have not been educated 
 to complacency in view of the hidden depths of God's 
 character, what will it do in an hour of such deep desola- 
 tion. Here are events of which there is no adequate ex- 
 planation, except that God has caused them ; and as reli- 
 gion is needed at such an hour, not to produce a stoical 
 indifference, but a calm trust in the mysterious Provi- 
 dence, so such an hour tests the character of the soul and 
 proves its wickedness if religion be not there. OH ! my 
 friends, we live in a fearful world. Many of us go through 
 life with a small share of sorrow, but there is not one of 
 us that may not be wounded in the very part of our nature 
 where all our energies and affections would combine in 
 the agonizing prayer, "Good Lord, spare thy people !" 
 And how desolate is the heart that has no refuge to which 
 to betake itself but its own bleeding sensibilities ; which 
 has no pious promptings which cause it to look up with a 
 smile of faith to him who administers the chastening. 
 My brethren, how much better is the love to which the 
 gospel calls us, than the love we find implanted in our 
 social nature. This, devoted to objects which must fade; 
 that, fixed on objects which are unfading and eternal. 
 This, sustained amid a thousand fears and doubts which 
 increase with its fondness ; that, built on a faith in the 
 promises of God which no storms and danger can shake. 
 This, often crushed and bleeding and desolate, with its 
 idols all torn away, with its most fine gold become dim ; 
 that, a perpetual fountain of delight, flowing more serenely 
 and beautifully amid the sorrows of earth, like the river 
 of God sending its streams through the valley of death. 
 
 And now, I appeal to you, man of the affectionate na- 
 ture, whether you do not this day stand condemned before 
 God. Do you not see the depravity of your heart more 
 clearly in those very affections which you possess and ex- 
 ercise for the world, but do not, will not devote to higher 
 
334 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 
 
 objects. Can you give any reason for feeling no love to 
 God, and to Christ, and to souls, except that you are a sin- 
 ful being? Have you not cultivated your moral nature 
 with a disproportionate, idolatrous devotion to the crea- 
 ture? Are you prepared to meet the divine administration 
 with complacency and calmness, if it demands of your 
 social nature its most costly sacrifice ? Are you not an 
 enemy of God, entirely destitute of that governing prin- 
 ciple of piety, which is all that can give elevation and ho- 
 liness to your soul? Yet to such as you, though she 
 comes in the language of reproof — to such as you, religion 
 appeals with sisterly tenderness. Unto men is her call. 
 Unto the sons of men is her voice. And the demand is, 
 that you become subjects of an affection higher than 
 earthly, and live and act and love like sons of God as well 
 as sons of men. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This sermon was preached at Danvers, Mass. ; never to his o-vvn 
 people. 
 
SERMON XI 
 
 THE CONNECTION BETWEEN CHRISTIANITY AND 
 THE SOCIAL AFFECTIONS.- (A Thanksgiving Sermon.) 
 
 WHEN JESUS THEREFORE SAW HIS MOTHER, AND THE DISCIPLE 
 STANDING BY WHOM HE LOVED, HE SAITH UNTO HIS MOTHER, WO- 
 MAN, BEHOLD THY SON ! THEN SAITH HE TO THE DISCIPLE, BE- 
 HOLD THY mother! and FROM THAT HOUR THAT DISCIPLE TOOK 
 
 HER INTO HIS OWN HOUSE. — John 19 : 26, 27. 
 
 It is said, that the celebrated Dr. Johnson once read a 
 manuscript copy of the book of Ruth to a fashionable 
 circle in London. The universal exclamation of the 
 company was, " where did you get that exquisite pastoral," 
 and the thoughtless were directed to the book, which to 
 them had been associated only with gloom and dullness. 
 It is in truth remarkable, that among a people whose do- 
 mestic institutions and exclusive habits seemed so unfa- 
 vorable to social refinement, the Old Testament history 
 should abound in such delicate narratives of the affec- 
 tions. The ancient classics are notoriously deficient in 
 the sentiments of the fireside, but the more ancient lite- 
 rature of the Bible, even in the primitive traditions of pa- 
 triarchal life, seems to have held the family relation 
 among its choicest subjects. In the whole range of east- 
 ern story, 1 know of nothing more rich than the account 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 of Isaac's courtship. The witching pages of fiction have 
 never yet surpassed the true narrative of Joseph and his 
 brethren. And the sweetest refinement which modern 
 taste has thrown around the grave, is unequal to the simple 
 pathos of old Jacob, in his dying request: " Bury me with 
 my fathers, in the cave that is in the field of Ephron the 
 Hittite : There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife ; 
 there they buried Isaac and Rebecca his wife ; and 
 there I buried Leah." 
 
 Yet it was left for the genius of Christianity to con- 
 summate the work of refinement. Indeed the whole 
 career of Jesus seems to speak the language of a delight- 
 ful harmony with the social feelings of our nature. In 
 this respect, as in all others, his life stands forth as a 
 pattern for mankind to admire and imitate. His filial 
 relation in the office of mediator, and that spirit of 
 devout and affectionate submission with which he always 
 addresses the Father, seem in this respect to have a 
 peculiar significance. The fact that his miracles are 
 almost all directed to the happiness of social life, gives 
 the assurance that Christianity was designed to shed its 
 light about the domestic fireside, and to be in turn 
 refreshed by its gladdening glow. It was the sacred 
 institution of marriage, which Jesus honored by his first 
 miracle. Throughout his whole career of benevolence, 
 he seemed to take peculiar delight in healing the wounds 
 of disappointed affection, meeting desolate widowhood as 
 she was following out to his burial the last solace of her 
 life, and giving back the young man to his mother ; 
 pressing his way through the mourning minstrels around 
 the death-bed, and waking the pale maiden from her 
 sleep; healing the tortures that were worse than death, 
 and restoring to health and reason and friendship those 
 that had been a burden and a shame. Nor can we forget 
 his attachment to the little circle at Bethany, where he 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 337 
 
 used to take his Sabbath evening meal, and whither he 
 hurried with such fraternal sympathy to weep over the 
 buried love of the sisters, and call back its object to life. 
 The remarkable attachment of females to his person, 
 seems to declare the same truth concerning his social 
 character. When Chateaubriand was asked, why the 
 women of the Jewish race were so much handsomer than 
 the men ; why, with their thick eye-brows and long eye- 
 lashes to distinguish them, they had escaped the expres- 
 sion of narrowness and malignity, which like the mark of 
 Cain was fixed upon their husbands ; what there was in 
 the female, that popular literature should strive to adorn 
 and beautify and exalt in proportion as it cast odium and 
 contempt upon the male, — it was his pleasant but fiinciful 
 reply, that the reflection of some beautiful ray from 
 Christianity had rested on the brow of the Jewesses, 
 because they had not shared in the persecution of its 
 great Author. The remark was founded on truth, for the^ 
 women of Judea were the firmest friends of Jesus. It 
 was they who anointed him for his burial. Not a female 
 voice mingled in the shouts which followed him to Cal- 
 vary, not a woman joined in the fearful imprecation, 
 which fixed his blood upon the race. They gathered 
 with streaming eyes about his cross, when the ardent and 
 bold and manly had forsaken him. They were earliest 
 at his sepulchre, to engage in the last conflict with 
 corruption. And now the incident of our text shines 
 with conspicuous beauty in the same array of evidence. 
 Hanging upon the cross — in the first freshness of his 
 pain, his eye singles out one among the weeping group, 
 the mother who bare him. 
 
 " A son that never did amiss, 
 That never shamed his mother's kiss, 
 
 Nor crossed her fondest prayer ; 
 Even from the tree he deigned to bow 
 For her his agonized brow. 
 
 Her his sole earthly care." 
 
 29 
 
338 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 To whom should he intrust her ? Who would be most 
 faithful in this tender connection ? Who would best 
 watch over her desolate old age, and stretch out his arm 
 for her second childhood to lean upon ? If Peter had 
 been here, within sight of the sufferer, he would have 
 spoken out in the forwardness of his generosity, and 
 with indiscriminate readiness have invited her to share 
 the pittance of his poverty. But Peter was characterized 
 by boldness and zeal, rather than a calm, constant, fire- 
 side affection. Who but the "beloved disciple" himself 
 was qualified to be the adopted son of such a mother ? 
 The most amiable, the most refined, the most competent 
 of them all, and the only one that was constant in this 
 hour of trial and suffering. " Son, look upon thy mother, 
 — and from that hour, the disciple took her unto his own 
 house.'* 
 
 In pursuing the train of thought to which we are thus 
 led, on the connection between Christianity and the social 
 affections, 
 
 I. I remark that the social affections will almost invari- 
 ably be found to exist in their most cultivated state, under 
 the influence of Christianity. 
 
 This might be expected from that distinctive and funda- 
 mental principle of our religion first clearly taught by 
 our Saviour, *' Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself" 
 Christianity teaches man to love his brother, to regard his 
 interests, to seek his good, and it teaches this great lesson 
 with a clearness and earnestness such as is found in no 
 other moral system. Now there is no principle to which 
 society in all its varied operations is more indebted than 
 this. It is the grand stimulus of its progress. Wherever 
 religion has had a fair trial, and has lived in its purity, it 
 has indicated its own social character, not only strength- 
 ening and beautifying the ties of nature, and gathering 
 kindred and friends under its grateful shade, but widening 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 339 
 
 its arms to receive all men as brethren, and enrich all 
 men from the same fountains of happiness, and gather ail 
 men in holy union around the same great altar of sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 An attentive survey of the history of the world, cannot 
 fail to lead to the same result with regard to the social in- 
 fluence of Christianity. Go back to the remote ages of 
 antiquity, before the light of our religion had dawned 
 upon the world. Many a bright spot shall you find in the 
 moral waste. Many a city where art has lavished her 
 most gorgeous treasures, and learning has reared her 
 proudest seats. You shall find there the taste of the ar- 
 chitect, in marble columns, gracefully carved cornices, 
 and majestic temples that rear themselves towering and 
 queenlike. You shall find there the skill of the sculptor, 
 in the accurately chiseled proportions of that chief earthly 
 beauty, the human form. You shall enter suburban 
 groves, and listen to philosophy in her most inspired les- 
 sons, and poetry in her most winning strains. You shall 
 be surrounded by every thing outward that speaks of ele- 
 vation and refinement. But when you penetrate the 
 secrets of domestic life, when you look for the happiness 
 of a pure and holy fireside, the light that is in them has 
 become darkness — and "how great is that darkness!" 
 You recur to those whited sepulchres which are beautiful 
 without, but within are full of loathsomeness and corrup- 
 tion. And while you glory in the achievements of hu- 
 man taste and genius, you weep that they can attain so 
 little, when unaided by the gospel of Christ. 
 
 Follow the influence of Christianity during the ages 
 since its origin, and you will find the nature of the case 
 materially changed, yet leading to the same result. Now 
 religion and refinement seem to go hand in hand. All 
 that is splendid in art becomes consecrated to, or is conse- 
 crated by the spirit of the gospel. Painting and sculpture 
 
nm 
 
 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 expend their choicest workmanship on the subjects of the 
 Bible, and the mosaic pavement, and the arched galleries, 
 and the frescoed ceiling become vocal with the praises of 
 God. And it seems as if the social refinement of Chris- 
 tianity attracted to its own service the genius and taste of 
 man, as eminently harmonious with its spirit. Wherever 
 it pressed its way, though among the hordes of barbarism, 
 it invariably carried with it more or less of the blessings 
 of cultivated life. And wherever tribes and nations that 
 for a time have lived under its power, were left to relapse 
 into their old heathenism, or gave way to the forced estab- 
 lishment of a hostile faith, it has been generally noticed, 
 that barbarism and social debasement have come in, and 
 stalked over the ruins of Christianity with the breath of 
 a moral pestilence. 
 
 Perhaps the most obvious influence of Christianity, is 
 seen in the elevation of the female sex. In the ordinary 
 developments of heathenism, the condition of woman has 
 been degraded ; and even in the more refined and polished 
 regions of antiquity, she occupied but a secondary, and 
 that no honorable position in society. Christianity alone 
 has adjusted with propriety the relative position of the 
 sexes, and has first raised love from an instinct to a senti- 
 ment. It is the spirit of woman that gives now an un- 
 wonted charm to our popular literature, and while under 
 a darker religious atmosphere the prevailing element may 
 have been some vindictive passion, or the spell of dark 
 and fiercely brooding destiny, the theme that now attracts 
 all hearts is a refined sentiment of affection. 
 
 II. This leads me to remark, that religion acknowl- 
 edges the auxiliary moral influence of the social affec- 
 tions. 
 
 It is a fact which you cannot have failed to notice, that 
 
 heism levels its first blow at the family relation. And 
 it is a proof most striking and impressive, of the connec- 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 341 
 
 tion subsisting between the feelings cherished around the 
 fireside of home, and those enjoined by our most holy 
 faith. The ruthless hand that would blot out the thought 
 of God, would turn society into a wilderness, so dark and 
 damp that religious promptings cannot live in its un- 
 wholesome atmosphere. Its first step is to tear down the 
 domestic altar, to erase the hallowed associations of 
 childhood, to banish from the spirit the influence of its 
 better affections, and to shut out every moral restraint 
 that lifts a warning voice from the family circle. And 
 when irreligion goes to assume its throne, it has to go 
 over the ruins of all that is dear and lovely in the human 
 bosom, amid the groans of forgotten mothers, and the 
 tears of outcast children ; and its throne is in a desert of 
 human sympathies, and the subjects of its sway are no 
 longer men but brutes. 
 
 I am aware that Christianity, from a perversion of its 
 own principles, or from an undue heed to the suggestions 
 of a heathenish expediency, has exposed itself to reproach 
 in this matter. There was a time when religion seemed 
 to turn its back upon the refined and delicate relations of 
 social life, instead of addressing them with a voice of fel- 
 lowship. What the church once fostered and encouraged 
 and ever enjoined on the most devoted of her children, 
 was a stern seclusion from what were deemed the intoxi- 
 cating seductions of social life. But she found from bitter 
 experience, not only what she had lost in refusing to take 
 those refining influences by the hand, but what she had 
 terribly gained in the immorality and corruption and dis- 
 proportion of a forced celibacy. Now-a-.days, blessed be 
 God, religion professes little fellowship with a cloistered 
 monkery that retires from the cheering faces of men and 
 women, and broods over its own gloomy pietism. The 
 place where it loves to dwell is the fireside of home, and 
 the sounds it loves to hear are the greetings of friendship 
 29* 
 
342 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 and the gladsome voices of children, and the atmosphere 
 in which it flourishes and rejoices, is that which has been 
 purified and consecrated by the warm breathings of affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Religion may sometimes avail itself of this moral power 
 of the domestic attachments, when no other influence can 
 be of advantage. It may be, and has been found a most 
 effectual means of grace. When the wanderer has strayed 
 beyond the reach of every other influence, and the ordi- 
 nary moral restraints have lost their power over him, there 
 is a pathos with which those finer chords of feeling may 
 sometimes be touched, when the sacred burial-places of 
 his social memory are made to give up their dead. There 
 rush back upon him all the scenes of his childhood, with 
 its hallowed associations, and he traces with an appalling 
 distinctness his progress from step to step towards ruin. 
 A feeling of tenderness often steals over him almost un- 
 consciously, as he thinks of the crushed hopes and broken 
 heart of a father, or beholds the swimming eye of a 
 mother, as it fixed on him its last earthly gaze of reproof, 
 or now looks down from heaven. And there may be 
 power in these reminiscences, fastening themselves upon 
 his soul, following him to his haunts of sin, and giving 
 him no peace, till in the brokenness of his spirit he ex- 
 claim, I will arise and go to my father. We instinctively 
 acknowledge the same moral indebtedness, when we hear 
 that a man of dissolute, hardened character has entered 
 upon some new relation in social life, by invariably asking 
 if the rough features of his nature are not softened, if he 
 may not be redeemed by the sacred voice from ruin. 
 
 I know there is a common religious feeling which 
 seems to imply that our affections are a hinderance to piety. 
 There are some good Christians, who in the hour of be- 
 reavement are fond of finding fault with themselves, and 
 think they are deservedly punished for the excessive love 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 343 
 
 they have lavished on a creature of God. But, my friends, 
 we do wrong when we pretend to judge of the purposes 
 and intention of our Maker ; yet if our inquisitive minds 
 will prompt us to conjecture of a hidden providence, let 
 us beware how we represent it as frowning upon our 
 earthly love. Let us remember that the demand of reli- 
 gion is, not that we should love our friends less, but our 
 God more. Let us seek first of all, that high and holy 
 devotion to our Maker, and instead of checking or sub- 
 duing it, it will give new strength and ardor to our social 
 nature, and impart a loftiness and purity which it did not 
 possess before. 
 
 IIL This leads me to remark, that religion adds the 
 spiritual to the natural affection. 
 
 It enjoins a love for the soul, a tender interest in the 
 eternal welfare of the objects of our attachment. You 
 cannot have failed to notice, what a sympathy almost 
 always subsists between a fondly cherished attachment 
 and the exercise of prayer. If the individual has been 
 prayerless before, and possesses a heart as yet unfashioned 
 by the power of holiness, there is yet something mysteri- 
 ous in those affections which draws him up to God, in 
 ardent though unacceptable worship. He seeks some 
 retired place where he may go and pour out his soul for 
 the welfare of those who are dear to him. His desires 
 rise above earthly protection, to the ministering of angels 
 and the overshadowing of heavenly wings. In his sepa- 
 rations his prayer is that of Mizpah, " The Lord watch 
 between me and thee, while we are absent one from 
 another." Now this is only the uprising of natural 
 religion in the heart ; it is a higher development of those 
 affectionate sympathies which in themselves have no 
 holiness ; but it shows what devotional elements there 
 are in our being, of which the religious man may avail 
 himself, and how naturally he who looks upon the friends 
 
344 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 of his heart as immortal beings, may be stimulated to 
 labor and pray for their salvation. God has not left such 
 a sphere of Christian activity without the seal of his 
 approval. The affection that fixes its eye upon some 
 beloved wanderer, and watches over his erring footsteps, 
 prays with a faith that cannot fail, and beckons and 
 beseeches with a love that knows no end ; — such an 
 affection shall not lose its reward. It may go forth to its 
 work with tears, but it shall return amid the shouting of 
 summer fruits. 
 
 Every religious family is bound to its members by just 
 such religious ties, and bears within itself the elements 
 of this spiritual influence. Oh ! if there be a spot on 
 earth, on which God looks down with pleasure, it is the 
 altar of family prayer. Precious incense is that which 
 goes up, each morning and each evening, from the sanc- 
 tuary of affectionate hearts. Humble may be the scene 
 of gathering, and lowly the voice of petition, but there is 
 a sacred light encircling the group, and a solemn elo- 
 quence investing those words of common penitence and 
 of common gratitude—the few kneeling together with 
 hearts that throb with one affection for each other, and 
 one desire towards God. Changes may come over that 
 family circle. They may be changes from joy to sorrow, 
 or from sorrow to joy. Poverty may strip the old mansion 
 of its costly adornments, or fortune may turn the cottage 
 into a palace, and the smiling faces that once beamed 
 among them may give place to the memory of the absent 
 and dead ; but that ancient Bible, and those words of 
 prayer, and the spot where old and young used to kneel 
 together, shall all linger in the mind, gathering richness 
 and beauty in the lapse of years, and giving to the eye 
 of age a picture which shall never lose its greenness or 
 its grace. 
 
 IV. I remark, that religion teaches us to cherish our 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 345 
 
 earthly attachments in the hope that they will be perpetu- 
 ated in heaven. 
 
 It is the chief glory of Christianity, that it brings to 
 light life and immortality beyond the grave. It is the 
 chief power of religion that it presses the soul onward 
 and upward to feed upon this great hope. It teaches how 
 unsubstantial and transitory are earthly idols, and it fixes 
 the eye on objects that are heavenly and enduring. 
 When the fibres of the soul are woven around the beings 
 who reciprocate its love, its prompting is that they be 
 nurtured for a fairer soil beyond the tomb. Thither we 
 may look amid the endearments of earth, and hope for a 
 higher and more blissful consummation in heaven. 
 
 Here is the crowning beauty of religion, in the social 
 character. The thought of eternity imparts a grandeur 
 and a depth to the affections in their ordinary exercise. 
 In the trials and anxieties of the domestic circle, the 
 thought of heaven will communicate serenity and calm- 
 ness, and drown each gloomy foreboding. And in those 
 dark hours, when the hearth becomes desolate, and the 
 mourners go about the streets, it is that blessed whisper 
 of the gospel, " we shall go to them, but they shall not 
 return to us," which assuages the bitterness of grief, and 
 confirms the shattered faith, and inspires the heart with 
 new and holy purposes. 
 
 It is in its connection with the influence and memory of 
 the dead, that religion accomplishes what nothing else 
 can achieve. I know there is a philosophy at such an 
 hour which whispers its cold lessons to the bereaved, but 
 they are truths which prop up, but cannot warm the sink- 
 ing spirit. They have no power to draw life from the 
 bitter herb. They do but strive to stay the first gush of 
 agony, and when the wounds are healed up, they leave 
 the spirit forgetful of the high moral lessons it has re- 
 ceived, and with no purification from the fire through 
 
346 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 which it has been called to pass. The precept inculcated 
 by this superficial sentimentalism is, ** Look not mourn- 
 fully on the past," rather than, ** Look joyfully upon the 
 future and be strong in hope of heaven." But not so is it 
 with religion. It speaks to us from the vacant chair by 
 the fireside, and the departed one seems again to occupy 
 it, and we are all together once more around our old 
 familiar hearth. It speaks to us in the well remembered 
 scenes which we used to traverse not alone, and our old 
 companions seem once more to be walking with us, and 
 cheering us by their counsel. It speaks to us from their 
 silent dwelling in the churchyard ; and its voice proclaims 
 that this is not the home of the dead, that they live — live 
 in our hearts, live in our lives, live in heaven. Yea, my 
 brethren, through life we may be conscious of the 
 delightful communion. We know that they live and love. 
 Ever they hover about our pathway. Ever they linger 
 about the scenes of home, and touch as with angel-wing 
 the altars at which they used to bow. And the language 
 in which they ever address us, is that of solemn counsel 
 to live above the world, to breathe on earth more of the 
 atmosphere of heaven, consecrated as it is by the presence 
 of God and the blessed ones who die in Him, that we 
 may come home, there to live and to love also. And, my 
 friends, is not that religion worthy of being adopted into 
 our families, and enshrined in our hearts, and acknowl- 
 edged in each scene of joyous festivity, which borrows 
 such a lustre from the fireside, and gives back in return 
 its own most blessed sunshine ; — a religion which can 
 draw such happiness and instruction from the very sor- 
 rows of earth, which can make the dead still live in our 
 circles with the blessedness of a new life, which can call 
 us all together at last among the families of the blessed, 
 to an eternal thanksgiving in the heavens. 
 
 I have thought, my friends, that no sentiments could 
 
A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 347 
 
 be more appropriate than these upon this return of our 
 annual festival. Our fathers were men who looked to 
 the good of posterity in the institutions they established. 
 They had secluded themselves from the blessings of their 
 native fireside, not that they loved home less, but that 
 they loved liberty more. They brought their household 
 gods with them across the ocean, though they left the old 
 altars behind. They wished to render attractive this 
 new home in the wilderness, and they gathered about it 
 the lights of Christian influence. A day set apart for 
 gratitude to God could not fail to bring the happy family 
 together, to renew their vows to one another while they 
 paid united tribute to their common Father. It is fit that 
 the day should be still hallowed as it is by all the precious 
 associations of home; that it should bring back the son to 
 his mother, the daughter-in-law to her mother-in-law ; that 
 it should gather old and young around the table of plenty 
 and the altar of thanksgiving. Let us come, my friends, 
 thanking God that we are Christians by birth, and deriv- 
 ing an impulse from these scenes, that we may become 
 Christians in heart. Let us consecrate these hours to 
 remembrances of the absent, and set up the vacant chair 
 to the table for the distant ones who remember us this 
 day in their prayers. If to some of us these associations 
 are crowded with sorrow, and we cast back our thoughts 
 to the light-hearted and joyous who were the life and sun- 
 shine of the day, but whose light has been put out 
 forever ; let us mingle these sacred memories with our 
 joys. Let the forms of the past come in to cast their 
 chastening shadow over our present pleasures. Let us 
 look away to the " fair flowers of our garland as they 
 bloom yonder lovelier and forever." 
 
 " He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know. 
 At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair field or grove he sings in now, 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
348 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 
 
 And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 Dear, beauteous death ! the jewel of the just ! 
 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark, 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
 
 Coidd man outlook that mark ! " 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The preceding discourse furnishes as good an illustration as can 
 be given of Mr. Homer's social and domestic character. A clergy- 
 man, who heard the sermon preached, and who associated its 
 breathing words with what he well knew to be the spirit of its 
 author, wrote the following account of the first and the only 
 Thanksgiving service which Mr. Homer performed. •* The sermon, 
 and indeed the entire service, Avas peculiar and very impressive. 
 His hymns were well selected. His prayer contained a recognition 
 of the hand of God in planting the American colonies, in guarding 
 and in guiding them amid difficulties and dangers ; also a full 
 expression of thanks for present blessings. Several passages from 
 the eightieth Psalm were introduced into the pl-^yer with singular 
 appropriateness. For his scripture, he read the entire book of 
 Kuth, and with such spirit as to render it altogether new and 
 charming. His sermon, though long, was delivered in his happiest 
 style, and held the attention of the congregation to the last word. 
 The whole effect was most delightful. Strangers present pro- 
 nounced it an exquisite specimen of sermonizing. I think that the 
 service, taken as a whole, was one of the most beautifully impres- 
 sive which I ever attended. In contrasting it with my own 
 performances, I felt strongly inclined to give up the clerical pro- 
 fession." — One of Mr. Homer's most intelligent parishioners was 
 asked whether the reading of the whole book of Ruth, before the 
 Thanksgiving sermon, did not prove wearisome to the audience. 
 ** It w^as the most interesting part of the service," was the reply. 
 " Mr. Homer looked as if he could not help reading the whole, and 
 the four chapters seemed only too short." The sermon was con- 
 cluded with the two final stanzas of Henry Vaughan's 'Psalm of 
 Death.' The Editor has taken the liberty to add a third stanza 
 from the same exquisite poem. The reasons for the addition will 
 be obvious to the critical reader. The sermon was never preached 
 except at South Berwick, Nov. 26, 1840. 
 
SERMON XII. 
 
 THE EXTENT AND BROADNESS OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION ! BUT THY COMMANDMENT 
 
 IS EXCEEDING BROAD. — Psalm 119 : 96. 
 
 The Psalmist employs the word law and its synonymes 
 in a most extended sense. In the text he designs to con- 
 trast the whole religious system with the vanities of life. 
 He had seen an end to all earthly perfection ; as a quaint 
 divine expresses it — " Goliath the strongest overcome, 
 Asahel the swiftest overtaken, Ahithopel the wisest 
 befooled, Absalom the fairest deformed ; " and now with 
 delight he turns to the fulness of religion, — its doctrines 
 so complete, its requirements so ample, its promises so 
 sure, its rewards so glorious. Thy commandment, he 
 exclaims with his admiring eye on the vast and multiplied 
 blessings of God's word, thy commandment is exceeding 
 broad. 
 
 Included, and perhaps prominent in the mind of the 
 writer, was the idea which lies upon the face of the text,, 
 the superiority of divine to human law. In his official 
 career as a statesman and a monarch, he had seen an end 
 to all perfection here. The code of Moses, divinely in- 
 spired as it was, and in its ampleness and wisdom calling 
 for the admiration of every child of Israel, was yet sub- 
 30 
 
350 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 jected to all the limits and deficiencies of what was human 
 and earthly. In what striking contrast to the tables of 
 stone, with all their accurate, minute and magnificent de- 
 tail, did the law of God stand forth in its simple majesty, 
 and its comprehensiveness. Let us draw out this contrast 
 in the present discourse, and consider the superior extent 
 of the divine law, and its freedom from those limits 
 which check the operation of human ordinances. 
 
 It is not my design in the present discourse to detract 
 from the honor and respect we all owe to those outward 
 forms of law under which we live. They secure our 
 peace and happiness, and they merit our gratitude. They 
 are an echo of the divine law, a shadowing forth through 
 earthly symbols of principles which are eternal, and they 
 deserve our homage and veneration. But, exposed as they 
 are to the limits and imperfections of every thing earthly 
 and human, though as perfect as they could be, we should 
 bear in mind that they are but an echo and a shadow. 
 We should look away often, to the great archetype in that 
 divine and eternal law, of which it has been so beautifully 
 said, that *' her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the 
 harmony of the world ; all things in heaven and earth do 
 her homage, the very least as feeling her care, and the 
 greatest as not exempt from her power, though each in 
 different form and manner, yet all with uniform consent 
 admiring her as the mother of their peace and joy." To 
 exalt this great original, rather than to depreciate the im- 
 perfect copy, is my present design. 
 
 I. I remark that the superior broadness of the divine 
 law is manifest, from the fact that it is designed and fitted 
 for the whole universe of moral beings. " The com- 
 mandment is exceeding broad ; " because it stretches out 
 its arms to gather the moral universe under its sway. Its 
 voice reaches every remote corner of space where spirit 
 dwells, and its power is felt and acknowledged as far as 
 its voice is heard. 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 351 
 
 First, It can reach all moral beings. 
 
 Human law of course issues its mandates for the earth 
 alone, and on men alone can it execute its penalties. It 
 cannot ascend into heaven, and bid the angels obey. It 
 cannot go down into hell, and command allegiance from 
 the rebel host. It cannot travel through space, and hold 
 up its glittering sceptre over the myriads of intelligences 
 that people the illimitable domain. A proud monarch 
 once took his seat upon the ocean shore, and bade the ad- 
 vancing tide go back, but the billows heeded not ; they 
 only rolled on, wave after wave, till in mockery they kissed 
 the monarch's feet. And if the dumb elements of nature 
 refuse obedience to an earthly mandate, how much more 
 shall the spirits of another sphere assert their independ- 
 ence of such a sway. To one accustomed to contemplate 
 himself, and the earth where he dwells, as but a speck in 
 God's moral creation, how inferior appears the jurisdiction 
 of the mightiest empire which terminates with men and 
 with earth, to the extended sway of that government which 
 rules over all. It is acknowledged above and below. It 
 is the law of heaven and of hell. It pervades all exist- 
 ence. Jehovah himself, I say it with reverence, is sub- 
 ject to its standard and its dictates. And wherever in 
 the wide universe of God conscience sits, the law is with 
 her, inseparable from her very being, speaking in her 
 voice, beaming in her smile, smiting with her scorpion 
 sting. 
 
 But it is not my purpose in this part of the discourse, 
 to push the contrast into such remote extremes, or to in- 
 sist upon the obvious and admitted extension of the divine 
 law into other spheres than our own. I wish to bring the 
 subject to a more immediate and practical bearing upon 
 ourselves, and to confine the comparison to the operation 
 of law among human beings. The contrast will be yet 
 more strikinor, if we consider how much wider is the di- 
 
352 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 vine law in its influence over men. It is designed for all 
 men. It can reach all men. It not only claims to be su- 
 perior in the universality of its jurisdiction, but it meets 
 human law in its own narrow sphere, the sphere for which 
 it has been adjusted and modeled, and it claims the victory 
 there. 
 
 I ask, where is there a human statute which extends 
 over all the earth, which reaches with its command and 
 its penalty the subjects of all dynasties, which protects and 
 punishes the savage in the wilderness, while it exerts its 
 power over you and me ? The constitution of things for- 
 bids the possibility of such a wide reaching law. I am 
 not finding fault with the arrangements of government, 
 or the divisions of society. I do not say that it would be 
 better on the whole, if all mankind could be gathered into 
 one family, or that justice would be as well administered 
 if there was but one legal code ; I only wish to call your 
 attention to the extreme narrowness of the sphere in 
 which any law can operate. The natural boundaries 
 which separate states, the diversities in opinion and lan- 
 guage, the distances which human speed and sagacity 
 cannot easily overcome, all put a limit to the extent of 
 government, and require that human law, however uniform 
 its principles, be restricted in its influence. The man 
 who steps across the little stream that skirts our own vil- 
 lage, is beyond the eye of the executive under whose pe- 
 culiar and immediate authority we live, and the man who 
 goes a little farther, and crosses another boundary almost 
 as narrow, removes himself from the power and the pro- 
 tection of that great national constitution which is our 
 boast and glory. Let the relations between the separate 
 governments be as intimate and as friendly as they may, 
 and let law protect herself as she does among us, by the 
 officer of public justice standing across the boundary with 
 the seals of both states in his right hand, there always 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 353 
 
 have been, and there always must be, incident to these 
 limits of dominion, evasions of rectitude, and escapes 
 from penalty. Compare with this the wide extent of the 
 divine law, obligatory as it is upon men of every clime 
 and tongue, covering the remotest dwellers on the face of 
 the earth under the same broad shield of protection, issu- 
 ing its mandates alike to the civilized and the barbarous, 
 to the proud citizen of a free government, and the cring- 
 ing slave under a despot's chain — the same every where 
 and to all in its present influence, and able to gather all 
 in the day of reckoning, from every kindred and tribe 
 and people under heaven, around the same tribunal of 
 judgment. 
 
 But let us bring the question to a still closer issue. We 
 have tested the extent of human law in its reference to 
 mankind at large, let us now examine it in its power over 
 the few who are included within its admitted and narrow 
 jurisdiction. We shall find even here, that the divine 
 law reaches farther than the ordinance of man ; for who 
 can pretend that every criminal receives at the hand of 
 the law under whose authority he lives, the deserts of 
 justice ? How many a shrewd transgressor can sin under 
 the very eye of the government, without detection. How 
 many a detected cri i inal can take the wings of the morn- 
 ing and fly to the uttermost parts of the sea, where the 
 eagle-eye of the police and the sentence of the court can- 
 not follow him. If in the providence of God it almost 
 always happens, that crime meets with its reward even in 
 this life, it is not so much from the vigilance of man, as 
 from that sense of divine law which agitates the guilty, 
 which rouses conscience from its long slumber, which 
 makes the criminal become his own betrayer. Under the 
 eye of God, there can be no trickery to deceive, no mist 
 to blind, no speed to run away from its searching gaze. 
 For that law we bear about within us. It is inseparable 
 30* 
 
354 EXTENT OP THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 from our being. It follows us wherever we go. The 
 more we try to look away from that living tablet of the 
 heart, the more its characters blaze out with flames of 
 indignation, and while we run away from its drawn sword, 
 iit smites us to the earth. 
 
 Whether we look then at the universe of being, at the 
 world of mankind, or at the jurisdiction of an earthly 
 court, we find that the divine law is superior, because it 
 reaches so far that not a solitary being eludes its sway. 
 
 Secondly, I notice as an indication of the fitness of the 
 divine for a universal law — to comprehend all beings, es- 
 pecially all men under its sway — the circumstance that it 
 is intelligible to all. 
 
 The mysteries of human law are in the hands of a fa- 
 vored few. It requires years of patient study to become 
 familiar with them, and the best labors of a long life to 
 master them thoroughly. Even then, there is scarcely a 
 nice question that shall be started which will not send the 
 jurist to his library, to consult his standard authorities, or 
 look over his file of precedents. The court are often dis- 
 agreed as to the precise force and tenor of the books, and 
 the language of the statutes is often so involved in techni- 
 cal intricacies and circumlocutions, that the mass of the 
 people can be acquainted with them only through their 
 learned interpreters. Every attempt to correct these de- 
 ficiencies is deserving of praise, and will not be without 
 great benefit to the state ; but let the digest be as lucid 
 and accessible as it may be, how large a proportion of 
 those who see it and read it, are ignorant of the principles 
 on which it is founded ; how many individuals never see it 
 at all. The changes too, to which the wisdom of our 
 legislators is constantly exposing the statute book, cannot 
 but introduce confusion and embarrassment into the 
 popular study of the law, so that legal science, exalted as 
 may be its origin, and ennobling as may be its principles, 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 355 
 
 must be considered too deep and obscure and variable to 
 be intelligible to the mass of our citizens. 
 
 But how different the law of God ! So simple — com- 
 prehended as it is in those few short words, Love to God 
 and love to man. So clear — clothed as it is in no misty 
 and redundant verbiage, but in the forcible characters of 
 conscience. So unchangeable in form and spirit — that 
 heaven and earth may pass away before one jot or tittle of 
 that law shall vary. Throughout the universe of God 
 there is not a solitary individual, however low his condi- 
 tion, however impoverished his attainments, that can say 
 with truth, this great law of eternal rectitude I have never 
 known ; for every human being bears within his own soul 
 a record plain and legible of the heavenly mandate, and 
 if he pervert its meaning or disregard its injunction, it is 
 his own fault. 
 
 It is a familiar principle of human jurisprudence, that 
 ignorance of the law can excuse no one. And although 
 there may be solitary cases where the operation of this 
 rule may not be strictly equitable, its uniformity no doubt 
 fortifies the state against much falsehood and evasion. 
 But the divine law goes further. It holds not only that 
 ignorance is no excuse for the criminal, but that it rather 
 aggravates his guilt. When he dares to plead ignorance 
 of what might have been so intelligible, he accuses him- 
 self of having blotted out the hand-writing of conscience, 
 of having shut his eyes to the light, of having voluntarily 
 chosen darkness and blindness — and his doom must be 
 that of one who has committed suicide upon his moral 
 nature, and trampled under foot the precious record which 
 the Creator had inscribed upon his heart. 
 
 Thirdly, I remark in proof of the universality of the 
 divine law, in its application to individuals, that it com- 
 mends itself to all. 
 
 There are many human laws which we are forced to 
 
356 EXTENT OP THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 obey, against which we are prone to murmur. Our own 
 country has been recently the scene of an almost unpre- 
 cedented excitement, in consequence of the hostility of a 
 part of the community to certain acts of the government, 
 which were becoming the supreme law of the land. The 
 most fearful revolutions which the world has ever wit- 
 nessed, have been the result of differences of opinion 
 with regard to law. The views of men vary with their 
 circumstances. And as " to err is human," it would not 
 be strange if many a code imposed upon its subjects bur- 
 dens greater than they could bear. 
 
 But of the divine law we must acknowledge that it is 
 always right. In every man's bosom it recognizes a 
 friend who will plead long and faithfully for its vindica- 
 tion ; and he who rises up against it in rebellion, rises up 
 against his own soul. It never utters its voice of com- 
 mand, where there is not a consciousness of ability to 
 obey. It is never slighted, without a pang of remorse to 
 prove that its requirements were due. Even its terrors, 
 however much we deceive ourselves for a time, its terrors, 
 I say, are in harmony with the very elements of our 
 being ; and those who suffer under its eternal frown, feel 
 constrained to go down to perdition without a murmur at 
 their doom, and to admire forever the justice and awful 
 goodness that condemn them. 
 
 We see then that the divine law, in its application to 
 individuals, has a wider and broader field than laws of 
 men. It comprehends the whole human race beneath its 
 sway. There is not one who fails to acknowledge its 
 rectitude. There is not one who can mistake its clear 
 directions. There is not one who can withdraw from its 
 gaze or its power. My hearer, thou art a subject of that 
 law. Amid the millions throughout the universe for 
 whom it is administered, it singles out thee from the 
 mass : and for thee its vigilance is as searching and its 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 357 
 
 penalty as sure, as if thou wert the only being in all God's 
 creation ; as if for thee alone the moral code was devised, 
 and for thee alone the blazing summit gave forth its voice 
 of terror, and for thee alone the smoke of their torment 
 ascendeth up forever and ever. 
 
 II. I proceed to notice as another proof of the superior 
 broadness of the divine law, that it extends to all moral 
 actions. 
 
 It not only includes all moral beings under its sway, 
 but it takes cognizance of every act however trivial and 
 minute. Not the most secret conduct of the most se- 
 cluded individual escapes its gaze or its award. 
 
 Let us notice the different classes of actions which 
 elude the vigilance of human law, that we may see the 
 superiority of the divine government in ferreting out every 
 species of transgression. 
 
 There is a large class of delinquencies within its ad- 
 mitted cognizance, which, as we have already observed, 
 the law of man can never reach. It cannot punish crime 
 unless its commission be supported by ample testimony — 
 and how many an action has it summoned to the bar of 
 justice, where an ingenious defence has confused the evi- 
 dences of guilt, or contrived a thousand subterfuges from 
 the strict enforcement of the penalty. It is wise in our 
 judicatures, that they lean on the side of mercy ; but no 
 doubt in so doing they leave the wrong unpunished, as 
 often as they extricate the unfortunate from embarrass- 
 ment. How much superior is the execution of that 
 divine law, which needs no testimony to aid its super- 
 vision of human conduct, but can discern every thing by 
 the infallible insight of the great Lawgiver himself. And 
 let the man perform his deed in the darkness of night, 
 with no witnesses, not even the birds of the air, to the 
 foul transaction ; let him bury every trace of his crime 
 so deep in the earth that a human eye cannot penetrate 
 
358 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 to it ; let him put a seal upon his lips, or retire alone to 
 the wilderness, lest his conscious guilt speak out the 
 story of his shame — the eye of the divine law has seen 
 that crime, and the book of remembrance has recorded 
 it, and the day of judgment shall reveal it upon the 
 housetop, with a distinctness equalled only by the vivid 
 consciousness of the criminal. 
 
 It is another peculiarity of human law, with regard to 
 the actions within its cognizance, that it must stop with 
 the outward development. It can discern only the exter- 
 nal act, without judging of the intents and purposes of 
 the heart. I know there are many cases where a mali- 
 cious purpose is included in the indictment, and must be 
 shown to exist before the accused person can be found 
 guilty. But I suppose that in reality this is only a legal 
 fiction, in faint and distant imitation of the divine law, 
 which makes the bad motive the whole crime. Strictly 
 speaking, our courts never judge or condemn any thing 
 but the outward act. This is evident, because the se- 
 cretly cherished purpose is never noticed, until something 
 is said or done or attempted to be done ; and whenever 
 the malicious purpose is included in the indictment, the 
 crime is not so much inferred from the malice, as the 
 malice from the nature and circumstances of the crime. 
 The law, if it ever notices the intention or motive, goes 
 from without inward, and from something the man has 
 done, judges what must have been his motive. Now in 
 the divine law the process is just the reverse, from within 
 outward. It notices the man's motive first of all ; and 
 from the character of the motive, it determines the char- 
 acter of what he has done. And how much more 
 accurate must be the decisions, and how much more 
 complete the judgments of that law, which is not forced 
 by the limits of its knowledge to reason perpetually in a 
 circle — inferring the malice from the crime and the 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 359 
 
 crime back again from the malice — but which takes the 
 natural course, goes up at once to the fountain-head, the 
 thoughts and purposes of the heart, and knows from them 
 what must be the issues in life and conduct. 
 
 But there are many external acts which human law 
 cannot reach with propriety, as it does not pretend to do. 
 It cannot enter the domestic circle, and correct the 
 private ills of the family group. It cannot check or 
 soften the acerbities of temper. It cannot push down 
 the ebullitions of envy or hatred or jealousy. It cannot 
 discern the petty tricks of trade. It cannot hale a man 
 to justice because he is pursuing the ends of a grasping 
 ambition, or hoarding the treasures of a selfish avarice, 
 or making profit on the ruin of his neighbor's soul. It 
 cannot punish the thousand omissions of duty, the neglect 
 of the sanctuary and the Bible, and the steeled heart 
 against the cry of the poor. These and similar things 
 are wisely and justly beyond the province of human law; 
 and it ought not to intrude its visage too far into the 
 chambers of conscience where God sits on the judgment 
 seat. But oh ! thou correct and exemplary citizen ; thou 
 who hast kept every law in the statute-book from thy 
 youth up ; thou who boastest thyself that thou hast never 
 stood at the criminal's bar, or turned pale at the sheriff's 
 mittimus, or shivered in the damp walls of a jail, think 
 not, most perfect man, think not that it shall be so with 
 thee at the divine assize. Terrible must be the reckon- 
 ing, when the weak, whom thy slanderous or angry 
 tongue has wounded, when the ruined whom thy secret 
 dishonesty has wronged, when the destitute, whose wants 
 thou hast slighted, all rise up as witnesses that thou hast 
 violated the great law of love, that thou hast wronged thy 
 neighbor, that thou hast hated thine own mother's son. 
 
 But it is the grand superiority of the divine law in this 
 respect, that its chief cognizance is of the spiritual man, 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 of the affections of the heart, with which human ordi- 
 nances from their very nature can have nothing to do. 
 Where the law of man lifts its salutary warning, and 
 proclaims, thou shalt not do the hurtful or the impure or 
 the mean thing, the law of God goes further and says, 
 thou shalt not cherish the incipient feeling which prompts 
 to the act, thou shalt not gaze with the eye of longing on 
 the polluted object. The law of God goes further still, 
 and where it would be profane and blasphemous for the 
 edict of man to enter, into the inner sanctuary, the very 
 holy of holies of the human bosom, it discerns the state 
 of the religious affections, the relation of the heart 
 towards God. If it finds rebellion there, if it finds posi- 
 tive hatred, or if it finds only a passive disobedience to 
 the great command. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God 
 with all thy soul, it will not deign to look further — let the 
 man be as good as he may be in his own and in other's 
 esteem ; let him be unfaltering in his loyalty to govern- 
 ment and to law, and even perfect in his citizenship ; let 
 him be amiable in the private and benevolent in the 
 public walks of life — if the love of God be absent from 
 the soul, it esteems all these virtues, not as worthless, 
 but, so far as religion is concerned, as nothing better 
 than the poisoned streams from a poisoned fountain. As 
 it summons the spiritual criminal to the bar, it proclaims 
 as the great and fearful principle on which the trial must 
 proceed — Whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet 
 offend in one point, is guilty of all. 
 
 III. I notice as the last evidence of the superior broad- 
 ness of the divine law, that it extends through all dura- 
 tion. 
 
 Time is one of the chief limits to the operation of a 
 human code. The reaper in his flight cuts down the 
 tares as well as the wheat, and the vices of men with 
 their virtues are lost in the lapse of years. The memory 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 361 
 
 of a crime long ago committed is faded and indistinct, 
 and the evidences may be so confused in the distance, 
 that the guilty will escape his doom. Human law too can- 
 not reach beyond the present life. The capital offender 
 may anticipate the sword of justice, by laying violent 
 hands upon himself, and his lifeless frame, hanging sus- 
 pended from the grate of his cell or dashed against its 
 granite walls, becomes a ghastly mockery of the court, 
 and seems to proclaim, in sepulchral tones, I am beyond 
 your power now. The waiting executioner cannot call 
 back the suspended animation, and the sheriff must knock 
 in vain at the door of the dead. 
 
 But not so the divine law. It is not subject to the mu- 
 tations of time. Co-existent with the Deity who is its 
 great administrator, its broad sweep is from eternity, into 
 eternity, through eternity. The same yesterday, to-day, 
 and forever, it brings up the crime of a century's growth, 
 as if it were but a moment old. Its action, like the be- 
 ing of God, is an eternal now ; and upon the guilty it has 
 its eye, ever with the same fixed gaze. He may hurry 
 away into forgetfulness of himself and all around him, 
 but the eye is there still. He may rush heedless into 
 eternity, but the same eye meets him in the world of 
 spirits, lighted up with new fires, which wake the memo- 
 ries of his old guilt from their long oblivion, and stir up 
 the remorseful consciousness of present alienation from 
 good. Here is the chief extent of the divine law, that its 
 obligations and its penalties are both eternal. Sometimes 
 in this life it will begin the work of retribution, and kin- 
 dle the flames of conscience with all the terrors of a pres- 
 ent and living hell ; but its grand sphere is in eternity, 
 where the spirit is left bare to its searching gaze, to the 
 recollection of past and the consciousness of present 
 guilt, compelled to hear the constant mandate to do right, 
 yet as often of its own free, evil nature drawing back to 
 31 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 
 
 do wrong, and withering under that same eye which 
 blazes on forever, and ever, and ever. This is the awful 
 power of law when for the last time it seals up the book 
 of account, and all its kind efforts to retrieve the criminal 
 have proved unavailing, and obstinately and wilfully he 
 enters the prison door, and invites the avenging stroke. 
 Oh ! Lord, how long 1 may be his distressing interrogatory 
 when ages on ages have rolled over his imprisoned spirit, 
 till his own history looks like an eternal past. Oh ! Lord, 
 how long? but the answer that comes from the judgment- 
 seat, proclaims that the arm of the law is as broad as infi- 
 nite duration, and its punishment must be as deathless as 
 conscience and the soul. 
 
 My friends, it becomes us to tremble at such a law as 
 this. Our own consciences and the word of God pro- 
 claim that the divine law is such, and that we are the sub- 
 jects of it. It is a law that pervades the universe, and it 
 fixes its eye and stretches out its arm over you and over 
 me. It is a law that is all-penetrating, and it treasures 
 up our secret as well as our out-breaking sins ; it sits by 
 our side in the sanctuary, and it follows us home to the 
 fireside and the closet, and whether we sin with the hand 
 or the tongue, or the mind, it notes all down alike. It is 
 a law that is eternal — in old age, it binds us as it did in 
 youth — in the grave, corruption cannot stay its power — 
 never, never, never, shall we cease to hear its thrilling 
 tones. It is a law, whose worm, I speak the language of 
 inspiration, whose worm, if it be once let in upon the 
 soul, can never die ; whose flame, if it be once kindled, 
 burns on and on, forever. Oh ! my friends, from a law 
 like this, so personal, so searching, so lasting, so terrible, 
 which way shall we flee ? Within is the despair of con- 
 scious guilt. Around, which way soever we turn, is that 
 keen eye and that iron sceptre and that blazing scroll. 
 But above them all, blessed be God for that sight, above 
 
EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 363 
 
 them all is the cross of Christ, and on its front, we trace 
 in living characters — ** not to destroy, but to fulfil " — 
 *• Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the 
 earth." 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 A member of the Piscataqua Association has given the subjoined account 
 of the preceding discourse. — " It was my lot to hear but one of Mr. Ho- 
 mer's sermons. The text was, ' Thy commandment is exceeding broad.' 
 It was preached at Kingston, at a meeting of our association of ministers. 
 The effect on a plain and rather small audience was sufficient to prove a 
 high testimonial to his power. 'J'he attention of the hearers was sustained 
 fully, and at times his vivid and forcible illustrations excited a thrill of sol- 
 emn feeling. He succeeded, I think, in impressing deeply on the minds of 
 all, the amazing majesty of the divine law, and the alarming condition of 
 every impenitent man. As far as I remember now, the sermon did not 
 close with a very full reference to a method of salvation. 1 remarked to 
 him at the time, that it was a pity he had not blended with his successful and 
 truly alarming appeals some closing suggestions to direct the mind to the 
 Saviour. It seemed to me at the lime that he was unconscious how skill- 
 fully and successfully he had harrowed up the minds of his hearers with 
 pointed truth, and that this might account for the absence of a more evan- 
 gelical appeal at the close; he did not seem to know how necessary his 
 sermon rendered a reference to Christ. His manner and style were both 
 intensely earnest; not violent or spasmodic, and yet so energetic as to pre- 
 sent a striking contrast with his slender form." 
 
 In reference to the criticism which this judicious writer has made upon 
 the conclusion of Mr. Homer's sermon, it may be remarked, that the error 
 specified, if it be an error, was one of principle, rather than an oversight in 
 practice. Singleness of view, unity of impression, was an especial aim of 
 Mr. Homer in his sermons ; and he disliked to admit into his peroration any 
 thought or sentiment which varied, even in its shading, from the spirit and 
 genius of his discussion. He often spoke against the practice of closing a 
 sermon designed for Christians, with an exhortation to sinners, and vict 
 versa. He was fearful of weakening one impression by an attempt to make 
 another ; and if he succeeded in leaving a stamp upon the mind by any sin- 
 gle appeal, he chose not to efface it by adding a new stamp, however excel- 
 lent in itself. 
 
 This sermon was preached to his own people at South Berwick, Dec. 6, 
 1840 ', at the Baptist church in South Berwick 3 at Kingston, Great Falls, 
 and Exeter^ N. H, 
 
SERMON XIII 
 
 THE CHAKACTER AND THE REWARD OF ENOCH. 
 
 AND ENOCH WALKED WITH GOD : AND HE WAS NOT, FOR GOD TOOK. 
 
 HIM. — Gen. 5 : 24. 
 
 This precious relic of antediluvian history occurs in 
 the midst of one of those genealogical tables so frequent 
 in Jewish annals, and so useful in preserving our Sa- 
 viour's lineage. It is remarkable for several reasons. It 
 is the only record of religious character in the regular 
 succession of the patriarchs down to the time of Noah. 
 Enoch was the seventh from Adam. Of his great pro- 
 genitor, subsequently to the fall, our account is extremely 
 limited, presenting only the enumeration of his children 
 and his years. Of the other patriarchs it is simply re- 
 corded that they lived, and that they died. Of Enoch, 
 however, the historian attempts to draw a more full and 
 accurate portrait. This portrait is interesting, as it pre- 
 sents the spectacle of a good man in the midst of a cor- 
 rupt and degenerate age. The sacred history informs us, 
 that the depravity of man was now fearfully increasing 
 throughout the earth. The prevalent neglect of public 
 worship among the descendants of Cain ; the pride that 
 was engendered in their hearts by the skill of such 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 365 
 
 artificers as Jubal and Tubal, and by the physical strength 
 of the giants in those days ; and more than all the great age 
 to which they lived, putting far off the thought of death, 
 and giving to individual sin a gigantic growth, were 
 among the circumstances which contributed to this alarm* 
 ing spread of corruption. But amid them all, how de- 
 lightful the thought, that there was one, who " faithful 
 found among the faithless," maintained a friendship with 
 God, and carried in his holy life the seeds of the hidden 
 church. This notice of Enoch is also interesting as it 
 comprises a precious biography, with sublime conciseness, 
 in a single sentence, and as it holds up so simply and so 
 beautifully the pattern of a perfect life, and a glorious exit. 
 I know of no name in ancient history more worthy of 
 Christian emulation than the name of Enoch. It outshines 
 not only the glitter of earthly conquest and secular renown, 
 but it has a charm surpassing that of inspired story, 
 where the venerable and the mighty and the gifted are 
 the theme. It may be a peculiar fantasy of mine, but for 
 myself, brethren, I would rather be Enoch in the solitary 
 grandeur of patriarchal holiness, than David with princely 
 crown, or Elijah with prophet's sword, or Isaiah with 
 harp of majestic melody. There could not be a more 
 soothing unction to my soul, than to have it come down 
 from that dark, mysterious period, in sweet and simple 
 record, " He walked with God — he was not, for God took 
 him." 
 
 Our text presents the character of Enoch, and its re- 
 compense; each singular and striking in language and in 
 fact. Let us consider the peculiar superiority of that life, 
 and the nature and propriety of its reward, 
 
 I. We will consider the character of Enoch, and at- 
 tempt to develop the significance gf the descripljon, " he 
 walked with God." 
 
 3i» 
 
366 
 
 First, This language implies that he maintained habit- 
 ual communion with God. 
 
 There is no reason to suppose that his communion was 
 aided by any visible manifestations of his almighty Friend. 
 Such peculiar intercourse between God and man was not 
 uncommon at that early period, but it seems to have been 
 reserved for uncommon emergencies, and for the revela- 
 tion of important promises or threatenings. It is hardly 
 probable, that the piety of the early saints was dependent 
 for its culture on what was tangible and palpable, and in- 
 deed the peculiar excellence of Enoch is ascribed by the 
 apostle to that faith which is " the evidence of things 
 not seen." 
 
 There is an affection which brings near to the heart the 
 absent one, though long and far removed from the outward 
 eye. Should the visible world be completely shut out 
 from view, the ever-living love would of itself make a 
 spiritual presence within the soul. And those thoughts 
 that dwelt only on the distant, would bring the distant 
 near. Then let the outward eye be opened, to gaze not 
 on cold and vacant objects, but upon scenes of nature 
 which were all associated with the departed; let the green 
 fields be the same through which he has walked with us, 
 and the blue heavens the same on which he has gazed 
 with us, and from each flower and tree the voice of the 
 absent will speak to us, and from each star the face of the 
 absent will look down on us ; then let a real communica- 
 tion be maintained with the departed, by messages of 
 love, and records of history crossing the land or the sea, 
 and bringing back tidings and tokens which the well- 
 known hand has sealed, and how perfect may be the com- 
 munication between human beings in their hours of sepa- 
 ration ; how they may walk together, though invisible and 
 inaudible and far asunder. Now here have we a faint 
 image of Enoch's communion with God. The pious love 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 367 
 
 which he cherished towards his Maker made a divine 
 presence within his own soul, and he could walk with 
 God as the divine Spirit revealed itself to the eye of that 
 inward faith. When he looked abroad, it was upon a 
 creation every object of which was associated with the 
 same invisible friend, and he could walk with God as he 
 revealed himself in the lives of holy brethren among the 
 patriarchs, or in the mark upon the forehead of Cain. 
 All nature, as it unveiled its charms to the young eye of 
 the antediluvian, was as the voice of God speaking to him 
 in flocks and in harvests, from every winding river, and 
 from every shady wood. Then he communed with God 
 by intercourse still more direct. Though no blazing 
 summit invited him upward to talk with his Maker as a 
 man talketh with his friend ; though no temple welcomed 
 him with priestly robe within its holy of holies, he prayed 
 to God in his solitary tent, in the communion of the 
 patriarchs, at home and abroad; and when he mingled 
 with men, his face shone like the face of Moses coming 
 down from the Mount, and the answer sent back from his 
 almighty Friend was richer than that which descended on 
 the house of Aaron when they ministered before the altar. 
 Not alone in the communion of love, in the revelation of 
 outward nature, but by prayer did Enoch walk with God. 
 
 Secondly, It is implied in Enoch's walk with God, that 
 he studied the divine character. 
 
 In our earthly friendships, we are never satisfied till we 
 are thoroughly acquainted with each other's souls. 
 There is a jealous curiosity almost always accompanying 
 an ardent attachment, which is restless to discover each 
 plan and purpose, and must know the inward feeling that 
 mantles the face with joy or with gloom. We never feel 
 that friendship is consummated till there is that perfect 
 unbosoming of character, and *' as face answereth lo face 
 in water, so the heart of man to man." 
 
368 Enoch's character and reward. 
 
 Now there is no reason to suppose that Enoch's piety 
 was of that unintellectual character, that he could enjoy 
 the society of his heavenly Friend without the exercise of 
 thought. Indeed, he could walk with one invisible only 
 as he was acquainted with his attributes ; and his increas- 
 ing intimacy and affection must have led him to aspire 
 after more extended knowledge, and to search into the 
 deep things of God. The opportunities for theological 
 study at that early period may have been extremely 
 limited, but he could have prosecuted his researches 
 without the aid of a prophet's school, or a learned library, 
 or a systematic creed. His proximity to the period of 
 the creation made him more intimate with the great First 
 Cause, and he could look back to that immediate exertion 
 of almighty power, as an event less distant than it is to 
 us. Adam died only fifty-seven years before Enoch's 
 translation, and Enoch probably enjoyed the society of 
 that remarkable man for more than three centuries. 
 From Adam's own lips he could learn the story of the 
 creation, he could become acquainted with the primeval 
 bliss of Eden, he could ascertain that law of paradise 
 under which our first parents sinned and fell, he could 
 look with familiar gaze into the dark problem of the 
 origin of evil. By a more minute acquaintance with the 
 events of that mysterious period, he could attain a clearer 
 insight than we into the operations of Providence, and 
 the wisdom of those counsels which were developed in 
 the ruin of the human race. He had moreover the 
 book of nature ever open to him^and those works through 
 which he communed with their divine Author were pecu- 
 liarly rich in illustration of the divine character. In his 
 own sanctified and inspired consciousness he had another 
 and better source of sacred knowledge, and favored as he 
 was by the teachings of that Great Spirit whose society 
 he cultivated, he was no doubt as highly venerated for 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 369 
 
 the extent of his attainments as for the depth of his 
 devotion. The patriarchs consulted him as their oracle ; 
 the antediluvian scholars treasured up his sayings. 
 Whatever may be thought of the oriental traditions, 
 which ascribe to him the invention of letters and learn- 
 ing, the literal import of his name implies that he was 
 initiated into rare mysteries ; and one of his predictions, 
 as it is preserved to us by an inspired apostle, discloses a 
 reach of vision which from that remote period, the very 
 beginning of the world's history, could look down through 
 all the lapse of ages to the very last event which is the 
 subject of prophecy, the final judgment of the ungodly. 
 
 Thirdly, It is implied in the description of Enoch, that 
 he was a co-worker with God. 
 
 We always look for some active development of love 
 in those who profess to be our friends. What we chiefly 
 demand is a sympathy in our pursuits, a co-operation in* 
 all our plans, a willingness to aid us by strenuous and 
 even self-denying exertions for our welffire. We cease to 
 walk with that man as a friend, who is always professing 
 his regard, and deriving a kind of enjoyment from our 
 society, if he never stir himself to forward our plans, and 
 in the hour of need remain sluggish and cold. We sus- 
 pect the motives of such a friendship, and we turn away 
 in disgust from a selfishness that can love us for its own 
 satisfiiction, while it will not lift a finger to do us good. 
 
 Now I see no reason for a common idea of Enoch's 
 walk with God — that it was a cloistered and passive piety, 
 into which he retired, to enjoy the society of his heavenly 
 Friend. I do not believe that he secluded himself from 
 earthly duty, and led the life of a hermit. I suspect that 
 he would have forfeited his claim to that blessed friend- 
 ship, if he had shrunk away in cowardice from a wicked 
 world ; or that a voice would have sought him out in his 
 seclusion, like the voice that reached the hunted prophet 
 
370 Enoch's character and reward. 
 
 of Israel in his cave — ** What dost thou here, Elijah?" 
 The very import of the phrase in other parts of the Bible 
 implies an active devotion to service and to toil, and for 
 our antediluvian priest and prophet there could have 
 been no hesitating and reluctant discharge of duty ; he 
 must have held himself ready, waiting for the call of a 
 master; he must have voluntarily sought out occasions of 
 advancing those great purposes with which his intimacy 
 with the divine mind made him familiar. 
 
 Enoch was faithful in his family, and to the world. 
 Could we learn the history of Methuselah, his first born 
 son, we should see how a father's care and counsel had 
 shed their influence on that life of nearly a thousand 
 years. And we are assured by inspired tradition that he 
 rose up fearlessly to reprove the flagrant sins of the age, 
 and to vindicate the honor of his God from reproach. 
 ** Behold," was his bold and eloquent language, as he 
 stood forth among the profane and the vile, the scoffers 
 and the murderers, the contemners of God and the cor- 
 rupters of man — as he walked among them unharmed, 
 jealously contending for his almighty Friend, '* Behold, 
 the Lord cometh with ten thousand of his saints, to exe- 
 cute judgment upon all, and to convince all that are 
 ungodly among them, of all their ungodly deeds which 
 they have ungodly committed, and of all their hard 
 speeches which ungodly sinners have spoken against 
 him." 
 
 Fourthly, It is implied in Enoch's walk with God, that 
 there must have subsisted strong mutual complacency be- 
 tween him and the Divine Being. 
 
 " How can two walk together except they be agreed ?" 
 The discovery of mutual foibles will sometimes mar the 
 warmest friendships, and that attachment is the most in- 
 timate and the most lasting which is grounded on recip- 
 rocal esteem. 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 371 
 
 Now there was evidently a peculiar love in the divine 
 mind towards this faithful and devoted servant. The an- 
 cient translators of the Old Testament considered this the 
 predominant element in the phrase, and as the best expla- 
 nation of his walk with God, we read in the Septuagint 
 version of our text, that Enoch pleased God. Paul also 
 in the epistle to the Hebrews asserts that " before his 
 translation he had this testimony, that he pleased God." 
 There was a delightful consciousness of the divine ap- 
 proval diffused through his life. Ever he walked under 
 the smile of a Father with whom he was at peace. His 
 sins were all forgiven, his sacrifices were all acceptable, 
 he looked forward with the full assurance of hope to his 
 final reward. 
 
 Similar was the satisfaction with which he contem- 
 plated the divine perfections. He admired that character 
 the more he gazed and studied, and where its mystery 
 baffled his search he bowed in humble adoration. He had 
 stood at the grave of Abel, and wept over the early grave 
 of purity and loveliness, but he never murmured at the 
 darkness and gloom of death, for it was the portion which 
 God assigned to his creatures. It was not for him to 
 question the propriety of God's dispensations. He could 
 not blame the Creator for not placing him in the garden, 
 instead of Adam, and intrusting to his pure and obedient 
 walk the destinies of the world. He found no fault that 
 himself and his children were involved in that fearful 
 downfall, as the consequence of eating an apple. No, 
 his growing complacency towards the divine character 
 hushed every uprising doubt, and he quieted himself in 
 the sweet assurance, that the friend with whom he walked 
 did every thing right. 
 
 Such was Enoch's happy walk with God — so spiritual, 
 so intelligent, so active, so concordant. Our earthly 
 friendships are short-lived. Our devotion to God is fitful 
 
372 
 
 and inconstant. But that delightful walk was continued 
 for more than three centuries, ever multiplying its blessed 
 results upon his character, and making his path like the 
 shining light which shineth more and more unto the per- 
 fect day. Such an intimate communion must have deep- 
 ened his humility, comparing as he constantly did his 
 own poor attainments with the perfection of his almighty 
 Friend. It must have increased his holiness, exposing 
 his own character to the searching gaze of that eye which 
 cannot look upon sin but with abhorrence. There must 
 have been in his own, a growing assimilation to the divine 
 life, as the result of that heavenly communion. So he 
 was found steadily persevering in that blessed career, 
 when his reward came. He walked with God, and lo! 
 he was not, for God took him. 
 
 II. Let us now proceed to consider the nature and pro- 
 priety of his reward. 
 
 There have been three different opinions with regard 
 to the translation of Enoch, 
 
 It has been thought by some, that the narrative alludes 
 to remarkable persecutions to which this servant of God 
 was exposed, and to his deliverance from them by the di- 
 vine hand. " He was not found of his enemies, for God 
 rescued him." But an interpretation so frigid and un- 
 natural, it is not worth while to examine. 
 
 It has been thought by others, that the text describes 
 poetically the sudden death of Enoch, by which he was 
 delivered from the pains of sickness, or the terrors of the 
 last struggle. It is related of one of our revolutionary 
 statesmen that it was his constant prayer that he might 
 die a sudden death. I have stood by the shattered elm 
 which suffered with that venerable hero from a liofhtninor 
 Stroke. But a desire like this was too refined for an an- 
 tediluvian patriarch, and such sudden and violent deaths, 
 are more frequently in biblical history the tokens of divine 
 displeasure. 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 373 
 
 The more probable opinion is the common one, that by 
 miraculous interposition he was taken to heaven alive, 
 without undergoing the terrors of death in any form. It 
 is the express assertion of the apostle, that he did not 
 taste death. His death moreover was premature. He 
 did not live out one-half of the portion assigned to the 
 antediluvian patriarchs — and although it is the classic 
 superstition that ** whom the gods love die young," it was 
 the prevalent notion of the Orientals that a long life was 
 the mark of God's peculiar favor, while an early death 
 was deemed the punishment for singular and enormous 
 guilt. This cutting off of the holy patriarch in the midst 
 of his years, in the bloom and vigor of life, when he was 
 a young man only 3G5 years old, must have been a mirac- 
 ulous transplanting of his existence into another and better 
 world. Not that he could have entered heaven with his 
 terrestrial body unchanged, but by some mysterious pro- 
 cess, as the Jewish Rabbins described it, •* he was disar- 
 rayed of the foundation corporeal, and clothed upon with 
 the foundation spiritual," — in a moment, in the twinkling 
 of an eye, without the purifying transformation of death, 
 ** he was fitted for paradise, to gaze on the river of life, 
 and pluck the goodly fruits of the garden forever." Let 
 us consider the peculiar propriety of such a reward. 
 
 First, The good man had become so sensitive to the 
 evil of sin, that it must have been extremely painful to 
 continue longer in a world so deeply depraved. His in- 
 timate communion with God was ever deepening and pu- 
 rifying his piety, and the holier he became, the more in- 
 tense was his abhorrence of iniquity. He was sensitive 
 to the remains of it in his own nature, and to his divinely 
 illumined eye, the personal transgressions which before 
 had escaped his notice, stood up like mountains. He was 
 pained also by the outbreakings of presumptuous sin in 
 others. He was daily doomed to hear the scoffs and blas- 
 32 
 
ttTi Enoch's character and reward. 
 
 phemies of the ungodly, to witness the proud career of re- 
 bellion as it stalked in giant strides over the earth. He was 
 jealous for the honor of his almighty Friend, and his ear 
 caught up each sound of wrong and outrage, and every 
 breathing of impiety sent a pang to his pious heart. '* That 
 righteous man dwelling among them in seeing and hearing, 
 vexed his righteous soul from day to day with their un- 
 lawful deeds." How fit that to such a one the day of de- 
 liverance should have been at hand, and that midway in 
 the journey of life, he should have been caught up to the 
 pure air and the cheering society of heaven. 
 
 Secondly, His imperfect communion with God led him 
 to pant for something more intimate. Delightful as had 
 been his devotional intercourse with his heavenly Friend, 
 deep as had been his insight into the divine character, 
 ardent and untiring as had been the devotion of his pow- 
 ers, he felt that there were barriers, in his nature, which 
 kept down his lofty aspirings, and pushed back the ener- 
 gies of which his soul was capable. He felt such delight 
 in the partial manifestations he had already received, that 
 his bosom heaved with irrepressible longings that the 
 image might be completed, and the ceaseless cry of his 
 soul was, 
 
 ♦' Oh ! for a closer walk witli God." 
 
 He panted for such union with God, as would dim the 
 vision and bewilder the spirit of a mortal. He longed to 
 look in with a familiar gaze on those sacred mysteries 
 which are hidden from human curiosity. He looked for- 
 ward with eagerness to a sphere of exertion, where he 
 should not stand up alone and unavailing against the arts 
 of the world ; but where, newly endowed, he should enter 
 on some more successful and glorious mission for his 
 king. His eye looked upward with no selfish impatience, 
 but with strong and holy desire. He felt assured of the 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 375 
 
 immortality of his being, and of its lofty destination ; but 
 he bowed in faithful siibmissiveness, and said, ** all the 
 days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change 
 come." He was in a strait betwixt two; when he looked 
 to earthly duty he chose to perform it, because it was 
 his Father's will, but yet with Paul, he said from his in- 
 most soul, " to depart is far better." And how fit that 
 those longings should have been early consummated, in 
 the disrobing of the corporeal veil which obstructed his 
 vision — when he was not — not in the gloom of spiritual 
 famishment and dimness — not in the hard lot of the la- 
 borer who casts his seed upon the rocks, for God took 
 him to himself, to the light and the nutriment of heavenly 
 society, to the mission of angels. 
 
 Thirdly, Before the Christian era, death was probably 
 an object of greater dread than it has been since. Of all 
 the patriarchs and prophets under the old dispensation, 
 we read not of one who died in triumph. Of the antedi- 
 luvian saints, it is simply recorded that they died. Of 
 Abraham and Isaac, it is only written, that " they gave 
 up the ghost in a good old age, and were gathered to their 
 people." Jacob and Joseph depart with brilliant and de- 
 lightful visions of prosperity for the nation, but they die 
 and give no sign of exultation for themselves. Through- 
 out the poetical parts of the Bible, the gloomiest figures 
 are those connected with the grave ; and if there are pas- 
 sages which express the longing for a future life, they are 
 so few and so far apart as to evince that immortality 
 had not yet been fully brought to light. The hope of 
 heaven had not become so sure and so definite that it 
 could throw its charm over the sepulchre, or light up the 
 chamber where the good man met his fate. It did not 
 assuage the pang of bereavement, it did not kindle rapt 
 visions in the dim eye, or call forth strains of music from 
 the faltering tongue. And the few, the favored ones 
 
876 Enoch's character and reward. 
 
 whom God honored with a triumphal departure were not 
 left to tread the dark pathway to heaven, but were caught 
 up at once to meet him in the air. This was the reward 
 of Enoch— that he should not lie down to a doom that 
 was dark and hopeless, and enter through the tribulation 
 of the last struggle into his final rest, but that he should 
 be clothed on earth with an immortal nature, and without 
 stopping his earthly song, the music of heaven should be 
 breathed upon his ear. 
 
 Fourthly, At the commencement of the world's history, 
 such an indication of the soul's immortal existence as 
 was given in the removal of Enoch was an important part 
 of the scheme for enlightening and saving man. 
 
 It was not God's design to leave the old dispensation in 
 utter darkness. The light of a few examples, he afforded 
 to animate the faith, and dispel the gloom of his chosen. 
 If it did not make the death scene glorious, if it called 
 forth expressions of hope but seldom and faintly, it kept 
 the righteous from despair. The death of Abel startled 
 the world into a fearful consciousness of what death was. 
 They gazed on his pale face, they felt of his cold limbs, 
 they buried his useless frame. The voice of his blood 
 cried from the ground in words of terror and vengeance, 
 but no voice came from his ransomed spirit above, to 
 bring peace and hope to those who looked forward to the 
 same fate. Being dead he yet spoke, but he spoke of the 
 favors which God imparts to a righteous man on earth, 
 rather than of the rewards which he dispenses to the 
 saints in heaven. But the translation of Enoch was a new 
 chapter in the spiritual prophecy. " He was not." Men 
 met not his face in their familiar walks, they ceased to 
 hear his voice of faithful exhortation ; but they had not 
 gathered around his death bed, or carried him out slowly 
 and heavily from his tent, or found his bones upon the 
 mountains. He was not among them, but they knew 
 
Enoch's character and reward. 377 
 
 that he was not dead. " God took him." There is then 
 a home for the righteous soul with God, there is existence 
 beyond the earth, there is reward for the faithful ; and 
 why not, was the ill-suppressed though faint whisper of 
 ancient piety, why not look forward to the abode of 
 Enoch as the mansion of all the blessed. " That little 
 candle" threw its beams down through the ages of patri- 
 archal and national history. It inspired the harp of 
 David when he sung, " I shall be satisfied when I awake 
 with thy likeness." Even Job caught a glimpse of that 
 glorious resurrection which it has been supposed to 
 typify, and exclaimed, in rapt and holy enthusiasm, '* I 
 know that my Redeemer liveth, and though after my 
 skin worms destroy this body, yet in ray flesh I shall see 
 God." 
 
 The discourse will be concluded by two brief reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 First, There is nothing in Enoch's character which 
 may not be imitated by modern Christians. He com- 
 muned with God by faith, by sight, by prayer. So can 
 we, for we have a surer word to inspire our faith, we can 
 see God in richer and more glorious works, we can 
 approach him by a new and living access to the throne of 
 grace. He studied the divine character, and sought to 
 grow in knowledge while he grew in piety. So may we, 
 in the light of a clearer revelation, and a wider experi- 
 ence than he could consult. He sought to do the divine 
 will — in labors and toils for his master, most abundant. 
 So may we, with higher advantages for pious activity, 
 with a better soil on which to work. He was the friend 
 of God — but " behold what manner of love the Father 
 hath bestowed upon us, thnt we should be called the son$ 
 of God." Oh ! my brethren, with all this superior light, 
 with the new and loftier claims of spiritual adoption upon 
 our souls, how few Enochs are there among us walking 
 
 m* 
 
378 Enoch's character and reward. 
 
 with God — thus spiritually, intelligently, actively, harmo- 
 niously walking, and panting for a purer and better por- 
 tion in heaven. 
 
 Finally, The death of a Christian ** who walks with 
 God," is more glorious than the translation of Enoch. 
 It develops clearer and larger views, and exercises a 
 brighter faith which can triumph even over the agonies 
 of dissolution. Could the antediluvian saint have gazed 
 in prospect upon a Christian death scene ; could he have 
 entered the chamber lighted with gospel promises ; could 
 he have seen hope brightening up in the midst of weak- 
 ness and pain ; could he have heard such blessed words 
 as often come from the lips of the dying ; could he have 
 seen death robbed of its sting, and swallowed up in the 
 victory of the joyous and ransomed spirit, — could Enoch 
 have known all this, he would not have asked for the 
 privilege of miraculous translation ; he would not have 
 been ambitious for a seat in Elijah's chariot ; he would 
 not have sought to bring back the cloud on which Jesus 
 went up, that it might bear him also into heaven ; but his 
 prayer would rather have been, " Let me die the death of 
 the righteous, and let my last end be like his." 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This was one of two sermons which Mr. Homer wrote in a single 
 week. It was preached at South Berwick, Dec. 27, 1840. 
 
SERMON XIV. 
 
 THE DUTY OF IMMEDIATE OBEDIENCE TO THE DI- 
 VINE COMMANDS. 
 
 I MADE HASTE, AND DELAYED NOT TO KEEP THY CO>iMANDMENTS. 
 
 Psalm 119 : 60. 
 
 The Psalm from which the text is taken, is peculiar 
 both in its structure and its style. It was probably 
 written near the close of David's life, and comprises a 
 collection of choice memoranda from his experience. 
 Particularly is it rich in the variety of its commendations 
 of the law of God, as the object of his love and his 
 obedience. There is no connected train of thought 
 through its different parts, and it has been aptly styled a 
 vase of jewels, rather than a golden chain. Yet so 
 significant and suggestive are its expressions, that the 
 mind dwells upon each isolated clause, and reads volumes 
 in each recorded meditation. The writer, in his alpha- 
 betical arrangement, designed not so much a display of 
 mechanical skill, as a mode of impressing upon the 
 memory each one of these living oracles. 
 
 Prominent in the Psalmist's experience was the trait 
 alluded to in the text. No proof of love to the law was 
 superior to this — the promptness with which he had com- 
 plied with its requirements. He remembers how the 
 
380 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 beauty and fitness of God's claim upon him were pre- 
 sented to his mind in childhood, and how unhesitatingly 
 he had yielded to the demand. With him there had been 
 no lingering among the pleasures of youth, no pushing 
 aside of the heavenly visitant to the opportunities of a 
 riper season. And now in his old age, sitting down to 
 enjoy the reminiscences of the past, to collect the scat- 
 tered fragments of his spiritual life, this bright reflection 
 starts up as the prelude of his history, and sends its light 
 through the whole train of his experiences ; — " I made 
 haste and delayed not to keep thy commandments." 
 
 I speak perhaps in the hearing of some who can 
 adopt this language as their own. It awakens a refresh- 
 ing sympathy in their bosoms. They remember with joy 
 their early consecration to God, and the reflection lights 
 up the whole memory of the past. I speak in the hear- 
 ing of others who obeyed indeed, but only after long 
 delay. Day after day they neglected the call of the 
 Spirit, and clung to the world amid ten thousand induce- 
 ments that would have drawn them to God. And now 
 they are amazed at the folly and madness of that delay. 
 They see how fearful was the risk they incurred, how 
 great are the privileges they have lost forever ; and they 
 want words to describe that grace which can pardon such 
 aggravated iniquity. They would give worlds, could 
 they begin life anew, and devote that wasted portion to 
 the services of piety. I speak no doubt in the hearing 
 of a number who are now procrastinating sinners. They 
 know their duty, but they defer its performance. They 
 yield to the sluggish tendencies of their nature, or to 
 some sinfully-suggested views, or to some delusive prom- 
 ise of future opportunities. To all such 1 wish to hold 
 up the wisdom of the Psalmist's example, and to show 
 that God's command to repentance ought to be obeyed 
 immediately. I shall consider as admitted the propriety 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 9&i 
 
 of repentance at some time or other, and shall confine 
 my remarks to the importance of immedinfe action. 
 
 I. I remark that it is the dictate of the human mind to 
 discharge with promptness those duties to which any one 
 of the three following considerations may apply : the 
 possibility of performing the duty now, the advantages of 
 performing it noia, the uncertainty of ever finding another 
 opportunity of performing it. 
 
 First, The immediate performance of the duty should 
 be seen by the mind to be possible. There are some 
 duties which from their very nature require delay. They 
 have to be looked at prospectively ; and with regard to 
 them, there can be no sense of present obligation. 
 There are some other duties which require long medita- 
 tion to satisfy the mind of their importance, and a long 
 course of preparation before it is possible to perform 
 them. In such cases the disposition to promptness is 
 manifested by immediately directing the mind to the 
 subject, and immediately beginning to prepare for the 
 work. But when the soul clearly perceives the duty of 
 the present time and the possibility of its immediate per- 
 formance, that consideration alone may be sufficient to 
 excite it to action. Apart from the calculation of bene- 
 fits to be secured, apart from the prospect of future 
 hinderance, it is the instinctive dictate of the human mind 
 in its best state to do the duty now. There is a feeling 
 of restlessness natural to man while such a possible work 
 is left unexecuted. There is a feeling of self-abasement 
 and dissatisfaction so long as a single account remains 
 uncanceled. The mere sense of present duty calls for 
 action with an immediateness that knows no delay. And 
 that is the best and the wisest man who yields to these 
 demands the instant they are admitted by the conscience, 
 even though there is no interest to allure, and no danger 
 to impel him to obedience. 
 
382 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 Secondly, This disposition to promptness is greatly 
 stimulated by the prospect of peculiar advantages which 
 may depend upon it. 
 
 Sometimes the advantages relate to the duty, and not 
 at all to the time of its performance. They can be 
 secured as well by future as by immediate action. But 
 when advantages may be obtained to-day, and if neglect- 
 ed now may be lost forever, the dictate of wisdom is to 
 improve the present moment. Thus the tradesman, 
 though his note becomes due at some future period, will 
 often be at great pains to forestall his payments, that he 
 may prevent the accumulation of interest, and secure 
 confidence and respect for his habits of business. The 
 general who finds a breach in the walls, and the garrison 
 asleep, although he might make the assault to-morrow 
 with success, urges his troops to an immediate onset ; 
 because he knows that victory will be easier before the 
 guards wake up and the breach is filled. The physician 
 may be confident that his patient will recover if attend- 
 ance be postponed a few hours, yet, if a little delay will 
 protract the process of cure, and leave the remnants of 
 disease to be struggled with through life, he makes haste 
 to the bedside, and administers the restorative the instant 
 it can be procured. The dispenser of charity may be- 
 lieve that life can be sustained still longer amid the pelt- 
 ings of cold and the craving of hunger, yet, because he 
 knows that another day of misery is added by his tardi- 
 ness, and that day might be made one of joy to the 
 famishing and shelterless circle, he hastens this moment 
 to the scene of suflTering with the bounty in his hand. 
 And that man is always ridiculed who comes up to the 
 work, successfully it may be, but not till after its harvest 
 season is over, and its first fruits have lost their freshness 
 to the taste. 
 
 Thirdly, There is a still greater incentive to immediate 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 action, if it be probable that the present is the only oppor- 
 tunity for acting at all. If it were possible to resist the 
 present call of conscience, or the demands of interest, 
 where is the man who would delay to act with the pros- 
 pect of failure staring him in the face ? If the debtor 
 feels insecure as to the permanence of his abilities, he 
 makes no delay in his payments, lest to-morrow he go 
 home with ruined credit and blasted reputation. If there 
 is a dying man to be brought back to life, there is hurry 
 in the physician's step. When the prospect is that the 
 poor may perish if exposed to the inclemency of another 
 night, no storm can keep back the charitable visitant. 
 Here is the greatest incentive to human action — the des- 
 pair of future opportunities. How it nerves the arm to- 
 day, to think that it may be nerveless to-morrow. How 
 it quickens the step in pursuit of an object, to imagine 
 that hereafter the path may be obstructed, or the power of 
 pursuing it lost, or the object itself removed beyond the 
 reach. ** Boast not thyself of to-morrow," is the dictate 
 of human as well as divine wisdom ; and if the man were 
 deprived of every other motive, the uncertainty of the 
 future alone would be enough to impel him, with anxious 
 brow, with agitated and nervous energy, with the com- 
 bined powers of the whole man, to seize the present in- 
 stant for the discharge of its great duties. 
 
 Suppose now a duty in which all these circumstances 
 were combined ; suppose the individual were urged on by 
 the pressure of present obligation ever bearing him down 
 with its iron weight, and admitting no relief but from in- 
 stant action ; suppose, moreover, that as he tried to shake 
 off that burden, there should come up before him the 
 array of joys and privileges to be secured by an imme- 
 diate movement, and to be lost forever, if such a move- 
 ment were not made ; and suppose, as he turned away 
 from the spectacle in hope of discovering some " loop- 
 
384 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 hole of retreat," there should start upon his vision the 
 prospect of despair for the future, and the thought of the 
 last opportunity gone forever should haunt him ; — what 
 would be thought of a man so importuned by circum- 
 stances, so hedged in by motives, if he should still break 
 away from every influence, and rush on in his career of 
 neglect. But just such is the condition of the delaying 
 sinner ; for I propose to show, 
 
 II. That all these three considerations unite in the 
 highest possible degree in the repentance he is urged to 
 perform : first, it is a duty which can be done now ; sec- 
 ondly, the highest advantages in the universe depend upon 
 its immediate performance ; and thirdly, there is no secu- 
 rity in delay. 
 
 First, The sinner cannot resist the pressure of present 
 obligation by any idea of the absolute impossibility of 
 immediate repentance. On the contrary, all the circum- 
 stances connected with the duty show that it can be done 
 now ; and nothing but the desperate depravity of the 
 heart, and the want of a willing mind, prevents its imme- 
 diate performance. 
 
 One of the circumstances which prove this, is the na- 
 ture of the divine command, whether found in the word 
 of God or in our own consciences. The direction of our 
 Saviour is to all, without distinction, sinners as well as 
 Christians — '* Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all 
 thy heart." It is not commanded to love him to-morrow; 
 it is not commanded to begin a course of preparation 
 which may result at some future time in compliance ; but 
 •* thou shalt love ; " and the command is echoed by the 
 conscience of the sinner restless in his sense of disobe- 
 dience, " thou shalt love." To him that is at ease in his 
 sins, and has not God in all his thoughts, there comes with 
 still more appropriateness the mandate — " Repent ; " and 
 the present moment, and every moment claims this duty 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 988 
 
 as its own, and urges the sinner to immediate action. 
 The sense of obligation respects the present, and not at 
 all the future. What is to be hereafter is not yet obliga- 
 tory. And the sinner who says, I will repent to-morrow, 
 neither obeys the command of Scripture, nor satisfies the 
 claim of conscience, but only makes an abortive effort, by 
 a cheat, to rid himself of both. Now, should we believe 
 that God commands in this urgent manner what the sin- 
 ner can in no way perform 1 That he drives him on by 
 the voice from above, and the voice from conscience, to 
 what is in every sense an impossibility? That he dooms 
 him to the frowns of Heaven, and the lashings of remorse, 
 when he knows that the sinner is absolutely and literally 
 unable to do otherwise than as he does ? We call that 
 king a tyrant who commands us this instant to raise a 
 burden which he knows we cannot lift. And what should 
 be said of him who would lay a tax on the soul too griev- 
 ous to be borne ; a yoke which, so far from being easy, a 
 burden which, so far from being light, are intolerable and 
 every way impossible to be endured ? There is nothing 
 like this in the government of Heaven. Just and true art 
 thou, O God, in all thy words and in all thy works. 
 
 Another circumstance which shows the possibility of 
 immediate repentance is found in the very nature of the 
 duty. It is not one which finds no corresponding emo- 
 tions in the soul of man. There is a sense of fitness 
 within him which it meets. There is a panting after eleva- 
 tion which it gratifies. There is an aching void which it 
 fills. We come to you who love the world with an unsat- 
 isfying, self-loathing fondness, and we point you to an ob- 
 ject worthy of your highest capacities for affection. We 
 come to you who are exhausted and worn out in sin, and 
 we invite you to a service which can renew your strength, 
 and remove your faintness and fatigue. The being whom 
 we commend to your affection, is not one whom it is hard 
 33 
 
386 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 to love, unless the sinful will makes it hard. He is a be- 
 ing who loves you. He is not one that has withdrawn 
 from your knowledge, and quite veiled himself in the ma- 
 jesty of his inscrutable perfections. You can see him 
 wherever you go — in the mountain or the stream, in the 
 earth or the sky. 
 
 Awake, asleep, at home, abroad, 
 You are surrounded still with God. 
 
 Nor has he merely hung himself up in his universe like 
 a picture to be gazed at and admired. To each one of 
 you he comes nigh with proofs of his personal interest 
 and affection. He is your father. Day by day has he 
 watched over you with a tenderness that has not ceased 
 even in your ingratitude. A mother may forget the child 
 of her bosom, but God never forgets his erring, ungrate- 
 ful offspring. Nor is this all. He contemplates your 
 moral condition and prospects with unfeigned sorrow. 
 Not willing that any should perish, he has multiplied mo- 
 tive upon motive for leading you to repentance. He has 
 unveiled the glory of his character, to see if he could not 
 attract your admiring gaze. He has sacrificed his Son, 
 to make known to you the strugglings of his omnipotent 
 Spirit. Sometimes he has opened to you the terrific gates 
 of wo, and you have heard the eternal sighing from which 
 he would redeem you. And now this hour he comes 
 once more with his entreaties of love — " How shall I give 
 thee up, Ephraim ? How shall I deliver thee, Israel 1 
 How shall I make thee as Admah ? How shall I set thee 
 as Zeboim ? " 
 
 We point you to the character of Christ, the one alto- 
 gether lovely. If there can be an object commending it- 
 self to the affectionate susceptibilities of your nature, you 
 find it in the amiable and lovely Son of God. How fcndly 
 you would have admired such a child or such a brother ; 
 but the relation he sustains to you is more intimate and 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 endearing. He is your Redeemer. Each step he took in 
 his pilgrimage, the thought of you went with him. You 
 accompanied him as he retired to the garden in the night 
 of his agony, you stood by his side when the earth quaked 
 in the spiritual darkness of the sufferer. The arms which 
 were stretched out upon the cross were meant to bring 
 you into the embrace of his redemption, and the sundered 
 bands of the grave brought to you the liberty of a glori- 
 ous resurrection. In tliose last words to his chosen on 
 the morning of his ascension, his eye gathered time and 
 space within the sphere of its vision, and fixed its serene 
 gaze on every creature. And can you talk without self- 
 reproach of an entire and absolute want of power to love 
 him in his purity, when he deigned to love you in your 
 vileness. 
 
 Nor is the service to which the duty of repentance calls 
 you an unreasonable service. You are not called on to 
 commence a pilgrimage requiring great forethought and 
 preparation. You are not called to a perpetual seclusion 
 from the world, before which you must '* go and bid them 
 farewell that are in the house." You have spent years in 
 slighting the infinite love of God, and you are called upon 
 to exercise penitence in view of the neglect. You have 
 been living with low aims, and you are now called to the 
 dignity of exalted and noble purposes of action. There 
 is a glory in living for God and for the eternal destinies 
 of the soul, which is worthy of your nature. And the 
 exchange you are commanded to make, is one that com- 
 mends itself to the instinctive and instantaneous judgment 
 of every soul that will pause in its career of guilt and 
 think. 
 
 Here then is the work of repentance. Begin to love 
 God and to serve him. God is before you in all his per- 
 fection — does it require a long while for you to determine 
 whether he is worthy of your love? Must you have time 
 
388 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 to count the cost before you can enter upon his service ? 
 Be not deceived. God is as lovely now as he ever will 
 be, and his service is as good and reasonable a service. 
 There can be no intermediate state between sin and holi- 
 ness, no moral purgatory where you may sit down to un- 
 dergo some process of purification, or receive some mi- 
 raculous light into your soul. *• He that is not for God 
 is against him." The claims of this love and this service 
 will wait for no such tardy workmen, but must pass them 
 by as still unfruitful and disobedient. 
 
 Another circumstance which proves not only that the 
 sinner can but may repent, is the divine aid which may 
 be furnished him in the work. The sinner never will 
 avail himself of his natural ability without divine aid. 
 Notwithstanding the reasonableness of the claims of God, 
 men have an obstinacy and a perverseness of will which 
 prevent their yielding. God often sends his Holy Spirit 
 to counteract this opposing influence ; to make the truth 
 a more vivid reality to the eye of the soul ; to fix the gaze 
 upon it with an intenseness that makes it hard for the 
 sinner to break away from the attraction. " Can the 
 Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" but, 
 blessed be God, the sinner may hope for a divine co- 
 worker, and he need not despair. My impenitent friend, 
 are you this moment listening with some degree of ear- 
 nestness to this presentation of your duty — the Holy Spirit 
 is directing your soul to the truth. Are you fixing your 
 gaze on the lovely character of Jehovah — Jehovah himself 
 is unveiling his hitherto hidden glories to your view. 
 Will you not now resolve to be the Lord's? An almighty 
 influence may '' work in you both to will and to do of his 
 good pleasure." Without delay, then, ** work out your 
 own salvation with fear and trembling." 
 
 Secondly, The advantages secured by repentance at 
 the present time, are lost if the work is delayed to a future 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 season. Even if the duty be subsequently performed, it 
 cannot be in circumstances so favorable as the present. 
 Each fleeting moment carries with it opportunities which 
 depart never more to return. And if it could be revealed 
 that salvation in the end was sure, still he who could 
 seize the passing instant to commence a life of holiness, 
 would be the wisest man, because by delaying present 
 duty he would lose inestimable benefits. 
 
 One of these benefits is implied in the very nature of 
 the work of repentance. The sinner is now in a state of 
 guilt, comfortless, remorseful guilt. He may pretend to 
 be absorbed in the vanities of the world ; he may affect 
 gaiety amid the threatenings of God's law; but he knows, 
 and in his serious moments he will confess, that he is not 
 happy. He carries about within him an enemy that is 
 perpetually warring with his peace. Amid the whirl of 
 passion he hears a voice of terror. In the solitary night 
 of the soul he is scared by hideous shapes. All his life- 
 time he is in bondage. But repentance instantly breaks 
 the fetters which bind him, chases away the spectres of 
 his darkness, and the mild accents of a Father strike 
 music upon his ear — My child, thy sins are forgiven thee. 
 If he put off the work, though it be only for a day, or a 
 week, or a year, all the intervening time he must continue 
 the victim of that terror and that servitude. When he 
 looks up to God, there meets him a frown of wrath, rather 
 than a smile of love. When he looks into his soul, there 
 is not a ray of purity to relieve the prospect of total cor- 
 ruption. All this while, the burden is accumulating. 
 All this while, the crucifixion of the Son of God goes on 
 afresh. Oh ! my friends, is it a light thing to be living 
 under the anger of the Almighty, though it be but for a 
 day? Is it a light thing to persist in wronging a father 
 of your affections, though it be but another week? Is it 
 a light thing to continue to trample under foot the blood 
 3:J * 
 
390 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 of the covenant, though you may at some future period 
 receive that offended one to your embrace, and wash in 
 that fountain for uncleanness. 
 
 Another of these advantages is the immediate com- 
 mencement of the work of sanctification in the soul. 
 This is not the work of a day or a year, but of a whole 
 life. Ask the aged Christian, why he would wish a re- 
 newal of his youth, and a recommencement of his pil- 
 grimage, and he will tell you, it is because he would com- 
 plete the process of maturing his Christian character, and 
 go home to God *' like a shock of corn fully ripe in its 
 season." And not only does the nature of the work ren- 
 der it one of long-protracted and strenuous exertion, but 
 every moment of delay aggravates the difficulty of accom- 
 plishment. Perseverance in siu tends to deepen the cor- 
 ruption of our nature. The longer the indulgence, the 
 harder is it to break up completely and radically the habit 
 of transgression, and the weaker is the aid of those natu- 
 ral principles of good which have been shattered and 
 worn out by perpetual opposition. The Christian life is 
 a warfare, not only requiring the longest possible cam- 
 paign for its victorious issue, but dependent on an early 
 beginning for the keenness of its weapons, and the ease 
 with which the battle may be won. My friend, even if 
 you were sure of your final salvation, how much better to 
 begin now the work of self-discipline, rather than wait for 
 the weakness of disease and the decrepitude of dotage, 
 and then go home to heaven but a spiritual babe, hardly 
 fit for the Master's service. 
 
 Another of these benefits is the immediate chano-e in 
 the influence exerted upon others. *' One sinner destroy- 
 eth much good." We are creatures of example. No one 
 can estimate the immensity of the good or the evil he may 
 do his fellow-men. A single individual, obscure and 
 weak, has power over a multitude that no man can num- 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 391 
 
 ber ; and power that is eternal. Each moment of our 
 existence may be fraught with the destinies of thousands 
 whom we have never seen. I know of a Christian, in a 
 comparatively humble walk in life, who never dreamed of 
 acting beyond the narrow sphere which God seemed to 
 have appointed her ; but when she died, a voice went 
 forth from her grave which was heard all over the moun- 
 tains and vallies of her native land, and crossed the ocean 
 to shed the '• undecaying sunset " of her example upon 
 the old world, and make multitudes of every tongue " rise 
 up to call her blessed." And what is true of the power 
 of religious influence, is truer still of the influence of 
 sin ; because the depravity of man is fitted to receive and 
 cherish the unholy impression. If the mysteries of this 
 great subject were unfolded to our view, and we could 
 see the separate links in this invisible chain, what truths 
 would it not disclose of the power of the weakest. The 
 pollution that defiles a family or a neighborhood or a na- 
 tion, might be traced back to a solitary thought in the 
 bosom of some obscure individual who lived ages and 
 ages ago. But that was no solitary thought. Though it 
 did not express itself audibly in words ; it spoke forth in 
 the louder language of the eye or the life, and waked into 
 being kindred thoughts in the breasts of others, to go on 
 to their work of devastation and death forever. But, my 
 friends, each one of you may be destined to a work for 
 God, as distinguished as you are now performing for sin 
 and wo. If your name is not known, your character will 
 be felt. The secret aspirations you put up in the depths 
 of your soul after holiness and communion with God, may 
 be the first link in a golden chain that connects you with 
 the ends of the earth. Acres and acres hence, some fellow 
 saint on the plains of heaven may trace back his own 
 conversion to the impulse you started by this day's re- 
 pentance, and may point you to a multitude whom him- 
 
392 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 self has called to share your blessedness. The man who 
 repents, if it may be, on his death-bed, after a long life 
 of disobedience to God, has to go to heaven with the 
 reminiscence of days and years, each moment of which 
 has perhaps been fitting souls as precious as his own for 
 destruction ; and the evil of his life is living on in its un- 
 deviating career of mischief, while he is praising God 
 among the redeemed. In this view, how important, my 
 friends, is immediate activity. If you do hope for future 
 opportunities as good for yourself, you cannot be so 
 selfish as to care nothing for others whom your present 
 course may ruin. Remember that the evil you may do, 
 if you continue longer in sin, you can never undo, even 
 though you hereafter attain the highest summit of perfec- 
 tion on earth, and the ofiice of an archangel in heaven. 
 Cease then this murderous career. This instant begin 
 the service of God, and give the first impulse to a train 
 of influences which may go on and gather an ever in- 
 creasing light through the ages of a blessed eternity. 
 
 Thirdly, If the duty of repentance is neglected now, 
 there is reason to fear that it will never be performed. If 
 the advantages of the present opportunity are not heeded, 
 how much less will be noticed the inferior advantages of 
 the future. You who defer the work of repentance can 
 have no well-grounded expectation of another period like 
 this; but you perhaps imagine that the sudden providence 
 of God may arrest your downward progress, or that the 
 immediate prospect of eternity in sickness or old age 
 may alarm you into religion. I need not reply by allud- 
 ing to the well known uncertainty of your existence 
 beyond the present moment. But how do you know that 
 the providence you are anticipating may not deprive you 
 of your reason ? What hope can you cherish that you 
 can terminate aright, on the tossings of your death-bed, 
 the struggle which now in the vigor of all your powers 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 393 
 
 you terminate wrong ? And old age — interesting old 
 age — amiable old age — trust it not, trust it not in its 
 decay and its dimness. You have seen the hoary-headed 
 sinner full of self-gratulation for the past, full of hope for 
 the future. Not a cloud dimmed the brightness of his 
 reminiscences, not a cloud hung over his eternal pros- 
 pects. Deluded old man ! he had passed his fourscore 
 years in empty pleasures, and now he had forgotten their 
 utter emptiness. He had been without God in the world, 
 but he did not remember his solitariness, lie was tottering 
 along with the phantom of an inane fancy in his embrace, 
 and leaning on a staiF that could not support him. Oh ! 
 if there be a spectacle in the universe for one to weep 
 over with tears that can bring no relief, it will be such as 
 you, sinner, will afford, if you delay the work of this hour 
 until you are too old to appreciate its claims. 
 
 But aside from the uncertainty of life, the distraction 
 of sickness, the blindness of dotage, there is another 
 circumstance which increases the improbability of your 
 future repentance. It is the accumulation of power 
 which every habit of sin is acquiring, the longer it is 
 indulged. Conscience is an easily offended monitor, and 
 the reproof that is slighted to-day is more feebly uttered 
 to-morrow, and the third day its whispers may be too low 
 to wake up the lethargy of the soul. The sins which you 
 cling to now, will cling to you hereafter, and the work 
 which early attended to, would have been comparatively 
 like the putting off of a garment, will become at length 
 like the plucking out of a right eye, or the cutting off of 
 a right hand. God's Spirit will come less frequently to 
 the heart that is only hardened by his influences, and 
 which at every slighted visit is the more strengthened to 
 resist his future solicitations. Do not expect that amid 
 all these discouraging circumstances, after this protracted 
 career of guilt, a divine hand will be upon you to draw 
 
394 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 
 
 you back to the commencement of your journey ; to 
 remove at once the fixedness of your sin. The Spirit of 
 God, when it acts at all, operates in harmony with your 
 own agency. ** It doth persuade" you, while you can lis- 
 ten and ponder and understand. It presents truth to the 
 eye, and it fixes the eye upon it. The more dimmed has 
 become the vision by sinful indulgence, the more difficult 
 will be the conversion by the truth. Ah ! is there not 
 such a thing as a total blindness even in this life, which 
 no divine influence will cure.- The Spirit is kind and 
 compassionate ; it takes a long while to grieve him utter- 
 ly away ; but he will not strive forever. When the soul, 
 as it were, immures itself in dungeon walls, he will find 
 some crevice to let in the light ; but when every aperture 
 is closed, and the doors are barred and bolted with a 
 strength that yields to no knocking, then sadly, indeed, 
 but surely the Spirit takes his eternal flight. " There is 
 a sin unto death." In every man's destination there is a 
 limit beyond which if he go, he is lost forever. Could 
 you visit the abodes of despair, many a wretched one 
 could point you to the moment in his history when for 
 the last time he rejected the proflfered aid, and sealed his 
 own doom. Oh ! my hearers, who of you has reached 
 this critical period ? Mighty in sin, mighty in strength 
 to cope with the Mightiest of all, with eyes that can 
 hardly see; with ears that can hardly hear; with a heart 
 that can hardly feel. Yet to-day, after so long a time, 
 God comes to thee with a gentle voice. Hear you not 
 the tenderness of his invitation as it falls upon your well 
 nigh paralyzed sense ? See you not the beauty of his 
 truth, as he holds it up to your almost blinded vision ? 
 Do not the repentings well nigh " kindle together," even 
 in your sluggish, death-stricken spirit ? If you would 
 rouse yourself to listen and to gaze, to love and to obey, 
 this last mission mi^ht prove your spiritual birth-day. 
 
IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 395 
 
 But if you still scorn and reject, you may not see him 
 again till he is " laughing at your calamity ; " you may not 
 hear him, till the sentence already determined is pro- 
 nounced in your ear. 
 
 I have thus set before you, my friends, the urgent 
 claims of immediate repentance. I see not that as rational 
 beings, you have any way of escape. In the former part 
 of the discourse you saw how promptly you would have 
 acted in worldly concerns which called for your immediate 
 exertion ; and now you see that the call of religious duty 
 is infinitely louder and more pressing. Oh! be not in- 
 consistent. Deny not to the famishing soul that suste- 
 nance you bestow on the body. Take not from God the 
 moments you give to man. Now you are able, abuse not 
 the precious talent. Now rich is the prize held out to 
 you, trample not the jewel beneath your feet. Shall I not 
 add, now or never I for who knows but the dark uncer- 
 tainty of the future to which you leave yourselves may 
 prove certain and eternal darkess to your souls? The 
 considerations here presented apply to the minutest divi- 
 sions of time. You are not called upon to repent this 
 year, this day, this hour, but this moment. Delay not an 
 instant. Set not up points in the immediate future for 
 action ; but now choose, resolve, do. Now say in your 
 heart, I will be the Lord's, and now be the Lord's. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The preceding discourse was the second which Mr. Homer ever 
 wrote, and was preached at Sherburne, Mass., in the afternoon of 
 the first Sabbath on which he ever occupied the pulpit. •' On that 
 afternoon," as he writes to a friend, **I preached on immediate re- 
 pentance, my plainest and homeliest sermon." It was afterwards 
 preached at Boston, Salem-street church ; at Durham, N. H ; and 
 at South Berwick, May 3, 1840, 
 
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