and in particular to be regarded as mean, irrational and unbecoming. There are some who treat it with coarse ridicule. There are others, of more improved, but most unfortunately biassed understandings, by whom, it is, perhaps, regarded with a secret contempt. I say, improved, and yet unfortunately biassed; for I hold religious anxiety in some form of it, to be one state, I had almost said, one attribute, of every reflecting and superior mind. There are the elements of religious thought and fear in such a mind; there is a weariness of earthly vanities; there is a want which the world does not supply; there is a reaching forth to God and to eternity. It was so, with the sages of antiquity. It has been so, with the great and the wise ever since: except in cases, where a bad heart, or some peculiarly unfortunate influence has perverted and biassed their opinions. There have been such influences without doubt: and perhaps, they have existed in an uncommon degree, in the religious history of our own country. Religious solicitude has been so often connected with extravagance, weakness, fanaticism, fallacious excitement and slavish terror; it has so often subsided, after it came to its crisis, into an awful stupidity, or begotten an outrageous confidence, (for all strong emotion tends to this,) or else as in some instances has resulted in melancholy insanity; that really it has been regarded by some as an impeachment of the understanding to indulge it. There are others probably who, if they do not look upon this anxiety with contempt as a weakness regard it with pity, as a mistake. In other words, they regard it as utterly needless. They are accustomed to think of religion rather exclusively as the quiet discharge of common duties; as being honest and industrious and outwardly decent. They seem to think that religion is not a subject on which the whole of our nature is to be employed-the fervent and earnest, as well as the intelligent and reflecting. They want a religion that is simply rational and calm. If they saw one, that was very anxious about his religious character and prospects—if they knew that his feelings often impelled him to seek the shade of retirement where he might meditate and pray-if they knew that he sometimes shed tears of concern over his religious interests, they would involuntarily feel as if this was too much.

Now, whether such anxiety is too much; whether it is more than is demanded by the nature of the case and the religion of the New Testament, let it be candidly inquired.

Tell me, then,-if any doubt on this subject-do you doubt, because you hold it to be unlawful and improper to be anxious at all? It is too much gravely to propound, and to number up the reasons for this state of mind, and I will defend it rather on the lowest supposition short of the most absolute and impracticable stoicism. Is it admitted then that it is proper to be anxious at all? Were hope and fear, do you suppose, (and the union of these makes anxiety,)—were they intended for any use or exercise? You answer that undoubtedly they were; that they were intended alternately to encourage and to alarm the mind, in order to preserve it from danger and to prompt it to exertion. Now, in moral beings-beings, the very object of whose existence is their moral-their religious perfection and happiness-on what can these principles of hope and fear so properly and directly bear as on religion? What shall call forth their most earnest exercise if this shall not? What shall move us to solicitude and apprehension, if the matter of our happiness, of our salvation shall not? Are the principles of our nature to be turned to every purpose but to the very purpose for which we were created?

But how is the fact? However we might reason about the propriety of being anxious, the fact is that we are anxious, about every thing on earth that affects our happiness. If religion is excluded from our solicitude be it remembered that it is the only subject of any practical concern that is so. There are anxieties, there are fears and tremblings about every thing else in life, if not about this. Surely anxiety is not so uncommon, so alien to our hearts, that it must be rejected for being unnatural or monstrous. Oh! no: our hearts tell us that there are anxieties for our possessions, our comforts, our friends, our children and every thing that we call ours. Now, amidst all the fears and cares and solicitudes that form a portion of our daily experience, are there none that turn to the perfection and safety of the immortal part within us? Are we forever solicitous about the phantoms of life that we pursue, a d does it never occur to us to reflect, what we ourselves are that pursue them, and whither this pursuit-whither this progress of life is conducting us? Or, is it of no consequence what we are, and what is our destination? Who will risk his sense and intellect on the credit of such a proposition? Who does not know that his happiness, and his worth, depend, not upon what he gets, but upon what he is; not upon

his possessions, but upon his virtues; not upon what he has in this vanishing state but upon what he SHALL have, in the eternal allotments of his being; in the enduring qualities of his mind?

The only question that remains, then, is whether the virtues of religion; whether a religious temper and spirit; whether, in fine, all that present character and future happiness which are implied in salvation, are of so easy attainment, that there is no need of anxiety about them? And here it is in this very point, my Brethren, that the argument attains its climax. True piety, real and spiritual virtue-or in other words, real, moral worth, is infinitely the best acquisition we can make. This surely might awaken our zeal, to possess it. But, then, it is also, infinitely the most difficult acquisition that we can make. This addresses our fear; this, if any thing can, must awaken our solicitude. The case is incomparably stronger than the acquisition of property, about which it is thought so lawful to be anxious. To the latter, all the strongest propensities of our nature impel us. But in securing the former, in securing our religious welfare, we have every thing to contend with. We have temptations without; we have foes within. How hard is it to govern our own spirit! How hard is it to preserve a kind, gentle, meek and forgiving temper, in a world of competitions, calumnies and provocations! How hard to maintain a devout spirit, when material objects so press us on every side, and there are so many evil influences within and without us, to estrange us from God! How hardly shall they that have riches, enter into the kingdom of God! How hardly shall they that have many worldly gratifications and pleasures, or great offices and honors, or idolized children and friends; or else bitter disputes and contentions, bad tempers and habits, sensual desires and vicious propensities—a questionable love of prayer but a positive and unquestionable love of the world-how hardly shall these enter into the kingdom of heaven! the kingdom of purity! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for such to

enter.

Indeed I might appeal to the heathen writers on morals, and it is natural in speaking of the reason and nature of the case to appeal to these oracles of reason,-who though they recommended a far less difficult, and far less estimable virtue, than we are instructed to seek after, insist on more zeal, ear

nestness and solicitude, than, I fear, is often found among us. No labors no pains were thought too much; no effort abstinence or sacrifice was to be spared; no dangers nor hardships were to be shunned, in the attainment of virtue. They needed but the light of reason to teach them that no high excellence was to be attained without laborious and anxious effort. -Indeed there is a loftiness of mind, in the writings of some of these mighty dead, which in a sort of Jewish habit we have, of casting contempt on the heathen, we are apt to undervalue and which does most severely reproach our low and worldly views. There was a high sense of the worth of the soul entertained by these sages of the ancient philosophy; there was a solemn interest about its destination; there was a prying inquisitiveness and a boding melancholy, on this great concern, that puts our indifference to shame. Let us not imagine that this indifference is the coolness of philosophy, or the intrepidity of superior intellect. It is not courage about futurity, but it is cowardice, that dares not look to the future, or it is stupidity still more shameful, that perceives nothing there, that should awaken its concern. Let it claim no kindred with philosophy. Let it pretend to no alliance with thought and greatness. He who looks with coolness or contempt on the religious anxieties of his neighbor, has a right indeed to enjoy his opinion; but he must enjoy it in an almost solitary seclusion from the greatest, and wisest, and best men on earth. He might have found some learned companions in the last age, but, I trust, he will hardly find them in this. And whatever he may think, he may depend upon it, that, in this, he does not stand among the men of thought and feeling, among the intellectual and the gifted, among the great minds of the world!

But let us not make too much of this case. There is after all a great deal of religious anxiety among us: too little indeed, but still so much, that probably there are none to be found, who would not feel sensibly relieved, if they could be sure that the great interests of their religious and eternal wellbeing were safe. The strength and bitterness of contempt with which some persons have ridiculed religious concern has only betrayed the very solicitude which they condemn. Reason, I thank God, is too strong for us all on this subject. Our nature speaks out and proclaims its origin. We have all, even the most indifferent, some fears and tremblings about

futurity. The fault is, that they are not strong nor permanent enough, to lead to any substantial and practical results. We do not cherish them as we ought. And one reason is that we have superficial views of religion itself,—we are not enough convinced, that to beings such as we are, solicitude is a necessary part of religion; we are not, I fear, thoroughly embued with the spirit of the New Testament. We may have reasoned well; we may have speculated greatly, and yet not have justly and earnestly felt. We may have judged, as sensible and thoughtful men would, and have given our respect to religion; and yet we may not have gone beyond this, as we must go, to attain to the deep feeling of christians.

Let me therefore direct you to the instructions of the New Testament. And from these I must be content with adducing one observation, and bringing one example.

The observation is this; that you can find nothing-I believe, at least, that you can find nothing in the instructions of the New Testament more striking than their adaptation to awaken in us the very feeling of which I have been speaking; to awaken in us a solemn anxiety about our duties, and dangers and prospects as religious beings.

It would seem impossible to mistake the tenor of our Saviour's teaching on this point. Indeed he came into the world to save that which was lost, and he acted and taught as if the object was infinitely interesting and our danger unspeakably affecting. "What shall it profit a man," says he, "if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Would you know what exertions and sacrifices he would recommend for its welfare? hear him again. "If thy hand offend thee cut it off; if thine eye offend thee--i. e. in either case, cause thee to offend--pluck it out, for it is better for thee to enter into life halt and maimed, than having two eyes or two hands to be cast into hell." Do you ask whether the danger here implied, is of any general concern, or whether it is confined to a few notorious offenders? Hear him yet again. On a certain occasion there were some present who told him of the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. And Jesus said, suppose yc that these Galileans were sinners above all the Galileans. I tell you nay, but except YE repent, ye shall ALL likewise perish." Will it now be said that these are only isolated passages, that they stand by themselves, and do not indicate the general tenor of his instructions? If you would put this sug