The YOUNG CHRISTIAN. A familiar illustration of the principles of Christian duty.

BY JACOB ABBOTT.



Michigan State Agricultural College Library

No.

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Nov 5.

State Agricultural CollegeT. C. Abbot

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INTRODUCTION.

I. OBJECT OF THE BOOK.

THIS book is intended to explain and illustrate, in a simple manner, the principles of Christian duty, and is intended, not for children, nor exclusively for the young, but for all who are just commencing a religious life, and who feel desirous of receiving a familiar explanation of the first principles of piety. As it is a fact, however, that such persons are generally among the young, that is, from fifteen to twenty-five years of age, the work has been adapted in its style, and in the character of its illustrations, to their mental habits.

I have, however, looked more towards childhood than towards maturity in choosing the form in which I have presented the truth, and the narrative or dialogue by which I have illustrated it. A young man of twenty-five will look back to his boyhood, and understand an illustration drawn from one of its scenes, far more easily than the boy can look forward to future life, and comprehend and appreciate allusions to the pursuits of the man. I trust that the reader of mature mind, into whose hands this book may fall, will excuse this partiality for the young.

II. STYLE AND LANGUAGE.

I have made no effort to simplify the language. It is not necessary to do this even for children. They will understand the language of maturity easily enough, if the logic and rhetoric are theirs. I have attempted, therefore, to present each subject in such an aspect, and to illustrate it in such a way as is adapted to the young mind, using, however, such language as has suggested itself spontaneously. It is a great but a very common error, to suppose that merely to simplify diction is the way to gain access to the young. Hence, a sermon for children is seldom any thing more than a sermon for men, with easy words substituted for the hard ones. This goes on the supposition that the great difficulty is to make children understand religious truth. Whereas there is no difficulty at all in this. The difficulty is in interesting them in it. They will understand readily enough, if they are interested in the form and manner in which the subject comes before them.

These principles will explain the great number of narratives and dialogues and statements of facts which are introduced to give vividness to the conceptions of my readers. Many of these are imaginary--cases supposed for the purpose of illustration. Where this is the case, however, it is distinctly stated; and all those accounts which are introduced as statements of facts are strictly true. I am not certain but that some individuals may object to the number of imaginary incidents which I have thus introduced. If the principles stated above are not considered satisfactory, I must appeal to authority. This book is not more full of parables than were the discourses of Jesus Christ. I shelter myself under his example.

III. REQUEST TO PARENTS.

Every parent knows there is great danger that children will run over the pages of a book where narrative and dialogue are introduced to illustrate religious truth, and that they will, with peculiar dexterity, find out and read all that has the interest of a story, and skip the rest. There will, perhaps, in this volume be less danger from this, from the fact that the whole is so intimately interwoven as to render it in most cases difficult to separate. A mother can, however, effectually prevent it, if she pleases. If her children are young, and she fears this danger, let her read the book to them, or let her assign a distinct and a limited portion for each reading; and after it is read, let her examine them in it, asking questions in regard to the plan and design of the chapter, the circumstances of each narrative, and especially the purpose for which it is introduced. This, however, must be done, not in the suspicious manner of hearing a lesson which you fear has not been learned, but with the winning tone of kindness and confidence.

IV. THEOLOGY OF THE WORK.

As to the theology of the work, it takes everywhere for granted that salvation is to be obtained through repentance for past sin, and trust for forgiveness in the atonement of Jesus Christ. It is not, however, a work on theology. It is designed to enforce the practice, not to discuss the theory of religion. Its object is to explain and illustrate Christian duty; but it exhibits this duty as based on those great principles in which all denominations of evangelical Christians concur.

V. OTHER BOOKS OF THE KIND.

There are already several most interesting and useful books before the public, whose object is the same with this--to give Christian instruction to the young. This work appears not as their rival, but as their companion. Most young Christians have, in the course of half a dozen years, time to read a great many pages; and as each writer discusses different topics, or presents them in new aspects and relations, it is well that books of this class should be multiplied. If twenty different individuals in various parts of our country, whom Providence has placed in such circumstances as to interest them particularly in the young, would write for them, the books would all be read if they were properly written, and would all do good. They would be different, if they were the results of the independent reflection and observation of the authors, and each would coöperate with and assist the others.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.CONFESSION. Introduction--Nature of confession--Case supposed--Story of the boys' disobedience on the ice--Consequences--Their unhappiness--Guilt a burden--Means of relief--The boy's confession--His conversation with his father--Confession of little faults--The torn letter--The anonymous letter--Reparation compared with confession--Confession of great crimes--Punishment--Story of boys on the ice continued--To parents and teachers--Confession a privilege--Depression of spirits--Its remedy--Careless confession--Anecdote--Punishment--An experiment--Story of the dulled tool--Story continued--Confession to God--Necessity of true repentance--Immediate repentance--Salvation by Christ,... 13

CHAPTER II.THE FRIEND. Story of an infant school--The new scholar--The protector appointed--Qualifications--Power and sympathy--Story of the sailor-boy--The captain's want of sympathy--The little ship--The Saviour--His thirty years of life--Howard--Story of Howard--Imaginary scene--The voluntary prisoner--The Saviour--The child's little difficulties--Human sympathy--The murderer's cell--Sympathy for the guilty--The keeper's kindness to the prisoner--The Saviour--The Saviour's sympathy--Common distrust of it--Illustration--Case of the sick man--Jesus Christ a physician--Struggling with temptation--The benevolent teacher--The teacher imagined to become a scholar--Howard--Sympathy of Christ--The bruised reed--The metaphor of the bruised reed,... 32

CHAPTER III.PRAYER. The absent son--The father's promise--Its implied limitations--Improper requests--Requests in an improper manner--The letter--Our Saviour's promise--Prayers denied--Power of prayer--Granting requests in another form--The boy asking for a knife--The sick man unexpectedly cured--Submissive spirit--Prayers of the young--The packet--Description of the packet--The calm--The Christian traveller--Books and tracts--The long passage--The approaching storm--They watch the light--The storm increases--Going about--Splitting of the topsail--Danger--Protection never certain--Object of prayer in danger--True composure in danger--The prayer at sea--Effects--Sincerity of prayer--Ardor in prayer--All can pray who wish to.A difficulty about selfishness--Reply--Invitation to the weary--The prodigal--The nobleman--The desk--The father's refusal--Real selfishness--Prayer of faith--The morning prayer-meeting--The young Christian's difficulty--The mother--God decides--A favorable answer to prayer never certain--Danger of perversion--The humble teacher--Conclusion--Story of the ship concluded--The storm subsides--They arrive safely at Provincetown,... 50

CHAPTER IV.CONSEQUENCES OF NEGLECTING DUTY. Neglecting duty--Injury which this book will do--The disobedient child--The message disregarded--The Christian message.Story of Louisa--Her character--The evening meeting--Louisa's interest in religion--Conversation with her--Increasing interest--Unwilling to yield to God--Her sickness--She sends for her pastor--Her alarm--Her increasing anxiety--Death-bed repentance--Increasing sickness and mental suffering--Danger--Louisa's despair--Her advice to her young friends--Last visit--Her sufferings--She dies at midnight--Her feelings at last,... 78

CHAPTER V.ALMOST A CHRISTIAN. Almost a Christian--Louisa's case a common one--Neglecting duty when it is clearly pointed out--Secret of continuing in sin--First, procrastination--The student's evening walks--The admission to college--Resolutions for vacations; for senior years; for future life--Now is the accepted time--Second, love of the world--Sacrifices necessary in becoming a Christian--Losing a friend; an enjoyment--Third, fear of the world--Difficulties foretold by the Saviour--Entire surrender required--Real submission--Changing sides--Address to a young man,... 91

CHAPTER VI.DIFFICULTIES IN RELIGION. Story of the Chinese and the map--Difficulties in all subjects--Astronomical difficulties--Difficulties in religion to be expected--First difficulty--Attempt to avoid it--Conversation continued--Second difficulty--Extent of the creation--Difficulty--The existence of suffering inexplicable--The pirate condemned to die--Accountability--Foreknowledge--Story of father and son--Imaginary conversation with an infidel--Answering prayer-- Case supposed--The sick son--Miraculous interference in answering prayer--Sources of difficulty--Algebra--The surd--Difficulty theoretical--None in practice.Objects of this chapter--1. Inquiries--Disobedient school-boy--2. Perplexities of Christians--Way to avoid them--Plausible reasoning sometimes unsafe--Scholars in geometry--Drawing inferences--Story of the knights and the statue--The shield of brass and iron--One kind of controversy--3. Difficulties of children--Children's questions--4. Difficulties of parents and teachers--The school-boy's question--A humble, docile spirit,... 106

CHAPTER VII.EVIDENCES OF CHRISTIANITY. The doubting clerk--The unexpected letter--The sick child--Possible mistakes--Men act from reasonable evidence--Evidences of Christianity, Historical, Internal, and Experimental--Illustration--The phosphorus.1. Historical Evidence--Seal--Miracles--Examining witnesses--The court--The court-room--The prisoner--His accusation and trial--Testimony of the owner; of the watchman--The lawyer's question--The watchman's story--The prisoner convicted--Points secured on trials--Three points to be attended to--Irruption of the barbarians--Old manuscripts--Genuineness of the Scriptures--Quotations--Illustration--Use made of quotations--Paley's Evidences--Necessity for proving the genuineness of the Scriptures--The original records not remaining--The second point--Opportunities of knowing--The housebreaker's trial--Sacred writers could not have been mistaken--They were eye-witnesses--Third point--Their style of writing--Impartiality--Elevated views--They were disinterested--Our Saviour's farewell address--Interested witnesses--Battle of Lexington--Parliament and Congress--Points proved--Argument from prophecy--Prophecies--False prophecies--Subject difficult--Were the Christian witneses believed?--Contest with paganism--Power of truth.2. Internal Evidence--Unity of the Scriptures--The Bible a number of books--Its single object--The Bible a history of Christ--Sacrifices--Meaning of sacrifices--Their moral influence--Conclusion of the book--Appropriate language--The advent of the Saviour--Its time and place--The Mediterranean sea--Interesting Associations--Character of God--Language of nature; of the Bible--The sufferer in the hospital--Jehovah just, as well as merciful--Butler's Analogy.3. Case of sickness supposed--Medicine--Proof of it--The mother--The mother and her sick son--The unbeliever--Power of Christianity--Particular case--Prisons--Old and new system of discipline--Stories of the convicts--The disobedient son--Conversation--Struggles with sin--Second story--Nature of ardent spirit--W.'s crime--Learning to read in prison--First lesson--Effect of the Bible upon W.--Sins against God--W.'s mental sufferings--His prayer--His way of finding the 51st psalm--His relief--Close of the convicts' stories--Charlestown state-prison--Old building--Crowded night rooms--Arms--Prison yard--Chapel--Prisoners going to Sabbath-school--Aspect of the school--Prisoners' dress--Limited circulation of the Bible--Fear of death--The sick young man--Sting of death--The dying mother--Practical directions--Difficulties--Disputes--Doing duty,... 133

CHAPTER VIII.STUDY OF THE BIBLE. Way to study the Bible--The young man's experiment--The family circle--Distribution of books--Interest of the children--Particular directions--Familiar sounds--The motto in the school-room--Description from the Bible--Vivid conceptions--Picturing the scene in the mind--Clear conceptions--West's picture of Christ rejected--Effect upon the assembly--Writing questions--God's command to Abraham--Questions upon the passage--Questions written by a boy--Many faulty--Utility of writing questions--Many questions on one verse--Experiment tried by a mother--A Sabbath-school teacher--Rewriting Scripture--The boy's evening work--Actual case--Passage--Difficulty arising--Explanation of it--Story of Micah, a specimen--Two specimens on the same subject--Questions--Collating the Scriptures--Plan tried by James and John--Effect of this method--Three accounts of Paul's conversion--Advantages of the plan--List of lessons--Difficulties to be anticipated--Studying the subjects--The Sabbath--Jerusalem--List of topics--Too little intellectual study of the Bible--Object of the historic form--Reading practically--Daily reading of the Bible--Useless reading--The apprentice--reading two verses aright,... 221

CHAPTER IX.THE SABBATH. History of the Sabbath--Change from Saturday to Sunday--Beginning of the Sabbath--Idle controversies--A father's command to his boys--The question about the clock and the dial--Universal principle--Two doves--A day of twenty-three and a half hours--A day at the pole--A day lost--No sunset for months--Sabbath in Greenland--Change to first day--No change in the command--The creation--Principle important-Non-essentials--Liability to evasion--Human and divine laws--Spirit of the law--James' way of reading the Bible--A boy studying his lesson--The boat--The careful mother--Way to interest children--Conversation with the children--Ingenuity of a clergyman--Necessity of variety--religious books--Way of spending the Sabbath--Various duties--System in religious exercises--Waste of time prevented--Rest on the Sabbath--Distinct duties to be performed--Way to make self-examination interesting and useful--Minuteness of self-examination--Prayer--Studying the Bible, and conversation on the Sabbath--Frivolous conversation--Public worship--Responsibility of the hearers--the farmer and his boys--Duty of ther hearers to be interested--Sinister motives at church--Way to detect them--Heartless worship--Way in which it is indicated--Appearance of evil--The summer evening--A walk--Walking, riding, sailing on the sabbath,... 257

CHAPTER X.TRIAL AND DISCIPLINE. 1. Nature of Trial--The steam-boat on trial--Efforts of the engineer--Improvements--Final results--Her power--Safe and successful action--Life a time of trial--Trials of childhood--The child and the forbidden book--Commands--Pain--Advantage of trial in childhood--Putting playthings out of reach--Conversation with a mother--Trials not to be shunned--Instruction and practice--The merchant's plan for his son--A voyage of difficulty--Its effects.2. The uses of Trial--Self-knowledge--The deceived mother--True submission distinguished from false--The engineer was watchful--Trial a means of improvement--The boy studying division--The moral and arithmetical question--Practical directions--God's providence universal--Losses of every kind from God--The careless engineer--Neglect of duty--Concluding remarks,... 294

CHAPTER XI.PERSONAL IMPROVEMENT. 1. Moral improvement--General improvement a Christian duty--Moral improvement--Faults--The vain boy--Way to reform him--Conversation with his father--Instances of vanity--The boy's list--Effect of this confession--Secret confession to be minute--Secret prayer often too general--Way to make prayer interesting--Formal confession--Excuses--Way to make secret prayer interesting--Private prayer--Examples of minute confession--The father's letter--Object of this illustration--Faults to be corrected--Young and old persons--Other means of correcting faults--Exposure to temptation--Conversation between the boy and his friend--Great and small temptations.Growing in grace--Unavailing efforts--The mother--The man of business--The dejected Christian--Direct efforts--Freedom of feeling and freedom of action--Way to mould the heart--Metaphysical controversy--Story of the Duke of Gloucester--Richard's artful plan--The council--Violent measures--Murder of the boys--Analysis of the story--Richard's wicked character--Sense in which character is voluntary--Distinction between character and conduct--Importance of it--Moral obligation--Ways of influencing the character--Effect of Christian knowledge--The mother--The child--Gratitude--Christian action--Why Howard became interested for prisoners--Paul--Dependence upon the Holy Spirit--An evil heart--Divine influence necessary.2. Intellectual Improvement--A finished education--Object of education--1.To strengthen the powers--Robinson Crusoe's supposed experiment with Friday--Conic sections--Difficult studies--2.Acquisition of knowledge--3.Skill--Three experiments with Friday--Teaching him to count--Study of mathematics--Imperfect education--Neglect of important duties--Intellectual progress of a young mother--1. Reading--System--Variety--Thorough reading--Short works--2. Conversation--Difficulty of cultivating it--Means of cultivating it--Experiments proposed--Plans and experiments--Digesting knowledge--3. Writing--Private Journals--Form and manner--Running titles--Family journal--By brothers and sisters--Its advantages--Subjects--Notes and abstracts--True design of taking notes--Form of books--Plan--Variety--Specimens--Reynolds--Humboldt--Chronology--Synagogues--History of the Bible--Sir Humphrey Davy--Story of the sea-captain--Hiring children--The Saviour's thirst on the cross--Deceiving children--Narratives--Ellen, or "Boast not thyself of to-morrow"--The dying bed--The patient's interest in religion--Her address to her husband--Her affecting remarks to her children--Moral aspects of what is seen and heard--Power of the pen,... 315

CHAPTER XII.CONCLUSION. Responsibility of religious teachers--Injury to be done by this book--Imperfect self-application--A useless way of reading,... 385

THEYOUNG CHRISTIAN.

CHAPTER I.

CONFESSION OF SIN.

I WISH, in this first chapter, to point out to my reader something in the nature and effects of confession which every one has, perhaps, at some time experienced, but which few sufficiently consider--I mean, its influence in giving relief to the burdened spirit. But to make myself clearly understood, I must suppose a case.

Two boys, on a pleasant winter evening, ask their father to permit them to go out upon the river to skate. The father hesitates, because, though within certain limits he knows there is no danger, yet he is aware that above a certain turn of the stream the current is rapid, and the ice consequently thin. At last, however, he says, "You may go, but you must on no account go above the bend."

The boys accept the condition, and are soon among their twenty companions, shooting swiftly over the smooth black ice, sometimes gliding in graceful curves before the bright fire which they have built in the middle of the stream, and sometimes sailing away into the dim distance, in search of new and unexplored regions.

Presently a plan is formed by the other boys for going in a cheerful company far up the stream to explore its shores, and then return again in half an hour to their fire. Our two boys sigh to think of their father's prohibition to them. They faintly and hesitatingly hint that the ice may not be strong enough, but their caution has no effect upon their comrades; and the whole set forth, and soon are flying with full speed towards the limit prescribed. Our boys think they may safely accompany them till they reach the boundary which they are forbidden to pass; but while they do so, they become animated and intoxicated with the motion and the scene. They feel a little foreboding as they approach the line, but as it is not definitely marked, they do not abruptly stop. They fall a little in the rear, and see whirling through the bend of the river the whole crowd of their companions--and, after a moment's hesitation, they follow on. The spot once passed, their indecision vanishes; they press forward to the foremost rank--forget their father, their promise, their danger. God protects them, however. They spend the half hour in delight, return down the river to their fire, and at the close of the evening they take off their skates and step upon the firm ground, and walk towards their home.

The enjoyment is now over, and the punishment is to come. What punishment? I do not mean, that their father will punish them. He knows nothing of it. He trusts his boys, and, confiding in their promise, he will not ask them whether they have kept it. They have returned safely, and the forbidden ice over which they have passed never can speak to tell of their disobedience. Nor do I mean the punishment which God will inflict in another world upon undutiful children. I mean another quicker punishment, which almost always comes after transgression. And I wish my young readers would think of this more than they do.

I mean, the loss of peace of conscience.

As the boys approach their father's dwelling, unless their consciences have become seared by oft-repeated transgressions, their hearts are filled with uneasiness and foreboding care. They walk slowly and silently. As they enter the house, they shrink from their father's eye. He looks pleased and happy at their safe return. But they turn away from him as soon as they can, and prefer going to another room, or in some other way avoiding his presence. Their sister perhaps, in the gayety and kindness of her heart, tries to talk with them about their evening's enjoyment, but they wish to turn the conversation. In a word, they have done wrong, their peace of mind is gone, and they shrink from every eye, and wish to go as soon as possible to bed, that they may be unseen and forgotten.

If they have been taught to fear God, they are not happy here. They dare not--strange infatuation--repeat their evening prayer; as if they supposed they could escape God's notice by neglecting to call upon him. At last, however, they sink to sleep.

They next morning they awake with the customary cheerfulness of youth, until, as they look forth from their window, they see the clear, ice-bound stream which tempted them to sin, winding its way among the trees. They say nothing, but each feels guilty and sad. They meet their father and mother with clouded hearts, and every object at all connected with their transgression awakens the remorse which destroys their happiness. Thus they carry about with them a wearisome and heavy burden.

I suppose that in such cases most boys would continue to bear this burden; until at last they should become insensible to it, that is, until conscience is seared. But though by habit in sin the stings of remorse may be blunted, yet peace never returns thus. By repeating transgression a great many times, we all come at last to feel a general and settled uneasiness of heart, which is a constant burden. Ask such an individual if he is unhappy. He tells you no. He means, however, that he is not particularly unhappy just at that time. His burden is so uniform and constant, that he comes to consider it at last as a necessary part of his existence. He has no knowledge of what pure peace and happiness are. A man who has lived long by a waterfall, at last becomes so habituated to the noise, that silence seems a strange luxury to him. So multitudes, who have had an unquiet conscience for many years, without a single interval of repose, when they at last come and confess their sins, and find peace and happiness through faith in Christ, are surprised and delighted with the new and strange sensation.

This peace cannot come by habit in sin. A seared conscience is not a relieved one. But what is the way by which peace of mind is to be restored in such a case as the above? It is a very simple way. I wish it was more generally understood and practised.

Suppose one of these boys should say to himself, some day as he is walking alone, "I am not happy, and I have not been happy since I disobeyed my father on the ice. And no wonder, for I did very wrong. How kind he has always been to me, and how ungratefully I acted. He was right in forbidding us to go up the river, and I was very foolish and wicked to go. I have suffered more in consequence of it, than ten times as much pleasure would be worth; and if I had been drowned it would not have been strange. I am resolved to go and confess the whole to my father, and ask him to forgive me."

Having resolved upon this, he seeks the very first opportunity to relieve his mind. He is walking, we will imagine, by the side of his father, and for several minutes he hesitates, not knowing how to begin. At last, however, he makes the effort, and says in a sorrowful tone,

"Father, I have done something very wrong."

"What is it, my son?"

He hesitates and trembles, and after a moment's pause, says, "I am very sorry that I did it."

"My son," says the father, "I have observed, for a day or two, that you have not been happy, and you are evidently unhappy now. I know that you must have done something wrong. But you may do as you please about telling me what it is. If you are truly sorry for it, and freely confess it, you may have peace of mind again; if not, you will continue to suffer. Now you can do as you please."

"Well, father, I will tell you all. Do you remember that you gave us leave to go upon the river and skate the other evening?"

"Yes."

"Well, I disobeyed you, and went on a part of the ice where you told us not to go. I have been unhappy ever since, and I resolved to-day that I would come and tell you, and ask you to forgive me."

I need not detail the conversation that would follow. But there is not a child among the hundreds and perhaps thousands who will read this chapter, who does not fully understand, that by such a confession the boy will relieve himself of a burden, and go away from his father with a lighter and happier heart. He will no more dread to meet him, and to hear the sound of his voice. He can now be happy with his sister again, and look upon the beautiful stream winding in the valley, without having his heart sink within him as before, under a sense of guilt; while all the time, perhaps, his brother, who would not come and acknowledge his sin, has his heart still darkened, and his countenance made sad by the gloomy recollection of unforgiven sin.

So true are the words of Solomon, that "he that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy." We are so formed, that when we have done wrong we cannot feel at peace again until we have acknowledged our wrong to the person against whom it was done. And this acknowledgment relieves us of a burden as certainly as fire removes cold, or as water extinguishes fire. It operates in all cases, small as well as great. And yet how slowly do young persons, and even old persons, learn to use this means of gaining relief from the burdens that press on the mind. The remedies for almost every external evil are soon discovered, and are at once applied; but the remedy for that uneasiness which results from having neglected some duty or committed some sin, and which consists in penitent confession of it to the person injured, and to God, how slowly is it learned, and how reluctantly practised.

I once knew a boy who was intrusted with a letter to be carried to a distant place. On his way, or just after his arrival, in attempting to take the letter out of his pocket suddenly, he tore it completely in two. He was in consternation. What to do he did not know. He did not dare to carry the letter in its mangled condition, and he did not dare to destroy it. He did accordingly the most foolish thing he could do; he kept it for many days, doubting and waiting, and feeling anxious and unhappy whenever it came in his sight. At last he thought that this was folly; he took the letter and carried it to the person to whom it was addressed, saying,

"Here is a letter which I was intrusted with for you, and in taking it out of my pocket, I very carelessly tore it in two. I am sorry for it, but I have no excuse."

The receiver of the letter said it was no matter, and the boy went home, suddenly and entirely relieved.

My reader will say, "Why, this was a very simple way of getting over the difficulty. Why did not he think of it before?"

I know it was a simple way. The whole story is simple, but it is true, and it exactly illustrates the idea I am endeavoring to enforce, namely, that in little things, as well as in great things, the confession of sin gives relief to the mind.

I will now mention one other case which illustrates the same general truth, but which is in one respect very different from all the preceding.

A merchant was one morning sitting in his counting-room, preparing for the business of the day, when his clerk entered with several letters from the post-office. Among them was one in a strange handwritting and with the words "Money inclosed" written upon the outside. As the merchant was not at that time expecting any money, his attention was first attracted to this letter. He opened it, and read somewhat as follows:

"SIR--Some time ago I defrauded you of some money. You did not know it then, and I suppose you never would have known it, unless I had informed you. But I have had no peace of mind since it was done, and send you back the money in this letter. Hoping that God will forgive this and all my other sins,

I remarked that this case was totally different from all the others in one respect. Reader, do you notice the difference? It consists in this, namely, that here not only was the sin confessed, but reparation was made. The man not only acknowledged the fraud, but he paid back the money. And if any of my readers are but little acquainted with human nature, they may perhaps imagine that it was the reparation, and not the confession, which restored peace of mind. But I think I can show very clearly, that making reparation is not effectual. Suppose this man, instead of writing the above letter, had just come into the store and asked to buy some article or other, and in paying for it, and managed dexterously to put into the hands of the clerk a larger sum than was due, so as to repay, without the merchant's knowledge, the whole amount of which he had defrauded him. Do you think this would have restored his peace of mind? No, not even if he had thus secretly paid back double what he had unjustly taken. It was the confession, the acknowledgment of having done wrong, which really quieted his troubled conscience, and gave him peace.

It is not probable that this confession was sufficient to make him perfectly happy again, because it was incomplete. The reparation was perfect, but the acknowledgment was not. The reader will observe that the letter has no name signed to it, and the merchant could not by any means discover who was the writer of it. Now if the man had honestly told the whole, if he had written his name and place of residence, and described fully all the circumstances of the original fraud, he would have been much more fully relieved. All confession which is intended to bring back peace of mind when it is gone, should be open and thorough. There are, indeed, many cases where, from peculiar circumstances, it is not the duty of the individual to give his name. This, however, does not affect the general principle, that the more full and free the confession is, the more perfect will be the restoration of peace.

So strongly is this principle fixed by the Creator in the human heart, that men who have committed crimes to which the laws of the land annex the most severe public punishments, after enduring some time in secrecy the remorse which crime almost always brings, have at last openly come forward and surrendered themselves to the magistrate, and acknowledged their guilt, and have felt their hearts relieved and lightened by receiving an ignominious public punishment, in exchange for the inward tortures of remorse. Even a murderer has been known to come forward to relieve the horrors of his soul by confession, though he knew that this confession would chain him in a dark stone cell, and after a short but gloomy interval, bring him to the gallows.

My reader, you can try the power of confession, and enjoy the relief and happiness it will bring, without paying such a fearful price as this. But these cases lead me to remark upon one other subject connected with confession; I mean punishment. Sometimes, as I before remarked, when a person confesses some wrong, he brings himself under the necessity of repairing the injury done, and at other times of submitting to punishment. Parents often forgive their children when they have done wrong, if they will only confess it; and though this ought sometimes to be done, there is yet great danger that children in such cases will soon acquire a habit of doing wrong, and then coming to confess it with a careless air, as if it was not of much consequence, or rather, as if confessing the sin destroyed it, and left them perfectly innocent.

I should think, on this account, that the father whose sons had disobeyed him on the ice, would be much at a loss to know what to do, after one of his boys had so frankly acknowledged it. I can suppose him saying to his son, "Well, my son, I am glad you have told me freely all about this. You did very wrong, and I am very much at a loss to know what I ought to do. I will consider it, and speak to you by and by about it. In the meantime, you may be assured that I forgive you from my heart, and if I should conclude to do any thing farther, it will not be because I am now displeased, but because I wish to save you effectually from doing wrong in future."

When the father is left to muse by himself upon the subject, we may imagine him to be thinking as follows:

"Well, I should not have thought that my boys would have broken their promise, and disobeyed me. I wonder if my eldest disobeyed also. The youngest only spoke of himself; shall I ask him? No. Each shall stand on independent ground. If the other sinned too, he too may come voluntarily and obtain peace by confession, or he must continue to bear the tortures of self-reproach. And now, if I take no farther notice of the transgression which is already acknowledged, I am afraid that my son will the next time yield more easily to temptation, thinking that he has only to acknowledge it to be forgiven. Shall I forbid his skating any more this winter, or for a month; or shall I require him, every time he returns, to give me an exact account where he has been? I wish I could forgive and forget it entirely, but I am afraid I ought not."

Thus he would be perplexed; and if he was a wise parent, and under the influence of Christian principle, and not of mere parental feeling, he would probably do something more than merely pass it by. The boy would find that confession to such a father is not merely nominal; that it brings with it inconvenience, or deprivation of enjoyment, or perhaps positive punishment. Still, he would rejoice in the opportunity to acknowledge his sins; for the loss of a little pleasure, or the suffering of punishment, he would feel to be a very small price to pay for returning peace of conscience, and he would fly to confession as a refuge from self-reproach, whenever he had done wrong.

Let the parents or the teachers who may read this, take this view of the nature of confession, and practise upon it in their intercourse with their children and their pupils. Meet them kindly when they come forward to acknowledge their faults. Sympathize with them in the struggle which you know they must make at such a time, and consider how strong the temptation was which led them to sin. And in every thing of the nature of punishment which you inflict, be sure the prevention of future guilt is your motive, and not the gratification of your own present feeling of displeasure. If this is done, those under your care will soon value confession as a privilege, and will often seek in it a refuge from inward suffering.

Yes, an opportunity to acknowledge wrong of any kind is a great privilege; and if any of my readers are satisfied that what I have been advancing on this subject is true, I hope they will prove by experiment the correctness of these principles. Almost every person has at all times some little sources of uneasiness upon his mind. They are not very well defined in their nature and cause, but still they exist, and they very much disturb the happiness. Now, if you look within long enough to seize hold of and examine these feelings of secret uneasiness, you will find that, in almost every case, they are connected with something wrong which you have done. That anxious brow of yours then is clouded with remorse; we call it by soft names, as care, solicitude, perplexity, but it is generally a slight remorse, so weak as not to force its true character upon your notice, but yet strong enough to destroy peace of mind. A great deal of what is called depression of spirits arises from this source. There are duties which you do not faithfully discharge, or inclinations which you habitually indulge when you know they ought to be denied. Conscience keeps up, therefore, a continual murmur, but she murmurs so gently that you do not recognize her voice, and yet it destroys your rest. You feel restless and unhappy, and wonder what can be the cause.

Let no one now say, or even suppose, that I think that all the depression of spirits which exists in human hearts is nothing but a secret sense of guilt. I know that there is real solicitude about the future, unconnected with remorse for the past; and there is often a sinking of the spirits in disease, which moral remedies will not touch. These cases are, however, comparatively few. A far greater proportion of the restlessness and of the corroding cares of human hearts is produced, or at least very much aggravated, by being connected with guilt.

I suppose some of my readers are going over these pages only for amusement. They will be interested, perhaps, in the illustrations, and if of mature or cultivated minds, in the point to which I am endeavoring to make them tend. I hope, however, that there are some who are reading really and honestly for the sake of moral improvement. To those I would say, Do you never feel unquiet in spirit, restless, or sad? Do you never experience a secret uneasiness of heart, of which you do not know the exact cause, but which destroys, or at least disturbs your peace? If you do, take this course. Instead of flying from those feelings when they come into your heart, advance boldly to meet them. Grasp and examine them. Find their cause. You will find, in nine cases out of ten, that their cause is something wrong in your own conduct or character. Young persons will generally find something wrong towards their parents. Now go and confess these faults. Do not endeavor to palliate or excuse them, but endeavor, on the contrary, to see their worst side; and if you confess them freely and fully, trusting in the merits of Christ for forgiveness from God, and resolving to sin no more, peace will return.

After I had written thus far, I read these pages to a gentleman who visited me, and he remarked, that before I closed the chapter I ought to caution my readers against acquiring the habit of doing wrong and then coming carelessly to confess it without any real sorrow, as though the acknowledgment atoned for the sin, and wiped all the guilt away.

"I was once," said he, "visiting in a family, and while we were sitting at the fire, a little boy came in and did some wanton, wilful mischief.

"'Why, my child,' said the mother, 'see what you have done. That was very wrong; but you are sorry for it, I suppose. Are you not?"

"'Yes, ma,' said the boy carelessly, running away at the same time to play.

"'Yes,' said the mother, 'he is sorry. He does wrong sometimes, but then he is always sorry for it, and acknowledges it. You are sorry now; are you not, my son?'

"'Yes, ma,' said the boy, as he ran capering about the room, striking the furniture and his little sister with his whip."

My friend thought there was some danger that this sort of confession might be made. And it is undoubtedly often made. But it does no good. Confession must come from the heart, or it will not relieve or improve the heart.

This anecdote shows the necessity of some punishment in all governments. If a father forgives the disobedience of his children simply upon their confessing it--I mean, if he makes this his settled and regular course--his children will often disobey, expecting to make peace by confession as a matter of course; and the confession will thus not only become a useless form, but will become the very lure which tempts them to sin.

A teacher once made a rule, that if any irregularity occurred in any of the classes, the assistant who heard the class was to send the person in fault to him. At first the pupils felt this very much. One and another would come with tears in their eyes to acknowledge some fault, although it was perhaps only a very slight one. The teacher inflicted no punishment, but asked them to be careful in future, and sent them away kindly. Soon, however, they began to feel less penitent when they had done wrong. They came more and more as a matter of form, until at last they would come and state their fault as carelessly as if they were merely giving their teacher a piece of indifferent information. No; confession must never be understood as making any atonement for sin. Whenever you acknowledge that you have done wrong, do it with sincere penitence, looking to Christ for pardon--ready to make all the reparation in your power, if it is a case which admits of reparation--to submit to the just punishment, if any is inflicted--and always resolving most firmly, that by the aid of divine grace, you will sin no more.

Let all my readers, then, whether old or young, look at once around them, and seek diligently for every thing wrong which they have done towards their fellows, and try the experiment of acknowledging the wrong in every case, that they may see how much such a course will bring peace and happiness to their hearts. When, however, I say that every thing wrong ought to be acknowledged, I do not mean that it is, in every case, necessary to make a formal confession in language. Acknowledgments may be made by actions as distinctly and as cordially as by words. An example will best illustrate this.

A journeyman in a carpenter's shop borrowed a plane of his comrade, and in giving it back to him, it was accidentally dropped and dulled. The lender maintained that the borrower ought to sharpen it, while the borrower said that it was not his fault, and an angry controversy arose between them. It would have taken but a few minutes to have sharpened the instrument, but after having once contended about it, each was determined not to yield. The plane was laid down in its damaged state, each declaring that he would not sharpen it.

The borrower however did not feel easy, and as he lay down that night to rest, the thought of his foolish contention made him unhappy. He reflected too, that since his friend had been willing to lend him his instrument, he ought to have borne himself all the risk of its return. He regretted that he had refused to do what now, on cool reflection, he saw was clearly his duty.

On the following morning, therefore, he went half an hour earlier than usual to the shop, and while alone there, with the help of grindstone and hone, he put the unfortunate plane in the best possible order, laid it in its proper place, and when his companion came in, said to him pleasantly,

"I wish you would try your plane, and see how it cuts this morning."

Now was not this a most full and complete acknowledgment of having been wrong? And yet there is not a syllable of confession in language. Any way by which you can openly manifest your conviction that you have done wrong, and your determination to do so no more, is sufficient. The mode best for the purpose will vary with circumstances: sometimes by words, sometimes by writing, and sometimes by action. The only thing that is essential is, that the heart should feel what in these various ways it attempts to express.

I doubt not now, but that many of my readers who have taken up this book with a desire to find religious instruction in it, have been for some time wishing to have me come to the subject of the confession of sin to God. His Spirit has convinced you of sin, of righteousness, and of a judgment to come. You feel that you are a sinner against God; that the greatest of all your transgressions have been against him, and that your heart and life are full of guilt, so that you deserve to be eternally banished from his favor. You feel the keenest sorrow at the thought of the ineffable goodness and excellence of Him against whom you have sinned, and you cannot rest till you receive his gracious forgiveness.

It matters little by what means your mind has been led to this point. Perhaps it was a sense of the unhappiness which guilt brings upon the heart, as in the case above supposed, that first put you upon thinking of the evil nature of sin, so that now you turn from it with abhorrence, and desire above all things to be free from it. Perhaps it was a terror of the wrath to come that first aroused you. Or it may be, that in the fulness of your joy at receiving some great and unexpected blessing in life, God led you to reflect with new emotions on the number and magnitude of his gifts, and your own unworthiness; and thus the goodness of God has led you to repentance. Or, as you mingled with the people of God in the house of prayer, he blessed you with such a view of the glorious beauty of his holiness, as carried you captive with delight and love, and at the same time made you abhor yourself, and repent in dust and ashes. The Spirit of God has many ways of bringing the soul to the footstool of mercy, a sincere penitent; but in some way or other he must do it, or we are lost. The Bible addresses every man as a guilty wanderer from God, ready to perish; and even a child can see that we can never be in a right state, and of course not in a safe or happy state, without a penitent and thorough forsaking of sin. This penitence, if true, will spring not so much from a sense of the ill consequences of sin, as from a view of the goodness and holiness of our heavenly Father, and the manifold guilt of sin against him.

I have no doubt that this is the state of mind of many of those who will read this chapter; and the question, "How shall I find the way to my heavenly Father?" is one in which you feel a deep concern. The answer to this inquiry is, return, like the prodigal son, with penitent, broken-hearted confession: "Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am not worthy to be called thy son." Confession of sin is the same in its nature and tendency when made to God as when made to your fellow-man. When you have finished this chapter, then, shut the book, go alone before your Maker, and search out, reflect upon, and penitently acknowledge all your sins. Acknowledge them frankly and fully, and try to see and feel the worst, not by merely calling your offences by harsh names, but by calmly looking at the aggravating circumstances. While you do this, do not spend your strength in trying to feel strong emotion. You cannot feel emotion by merely trying to feel it. There is no necessity of prolonged terror, no need of agony of body or of mind, no need of gloom of countenance. Go, and sincerely acknowledge your sins to God, praying him to forgive you through the death and merits of Christ.

But perhaps some of you will say, "I am surprised to hear you say, that there is no need of strong agitation of mind, before we can be forgiven for sin. I am sure that there often is very strong feeling of this kind. There is terror and agony of mind, and afterwards the individual becomes a sincere Christian."

It is true, there is sometimes strong and continued agitation; nor is any possible degree of distressing fear, self-reproach, or sorrow unreasonable in one who has been brought to realize that he is so guilty as to be worthy only of hell, and that he can be saved from it by nothing less than the precious blood of Christ. Such agonizing emotions, however, are not requisite to sincere penitence, and can do nothing towards atoning for sin. The amazing change by which a sinner passes from death to life, is often wrought with a gentleness peculiar to omnipotent grace; and the soul is scarcely conscious of fear or remorse, in the fulness of love, joy, and gratitude with which it hastens to Christ.

There is often, however, a continued distress of a very different kind: not the sorrow of humble, broken-hearted penitents grieving over their sins, but the struggle of impenitent souls convicted of their guilt, yet unwilling to yield to God and confess their sins to him. As soon as this unwillingness is gone, and they come to their God and Saviour with all their hearts, the mental suffering vanishes. I said, that if you were willing now to confess your sins to God with sincere penitence, you might at once be happy. Of course, if you are unwilling, if you see that you are sinning against him, and will not come and make peace, you then have indeed cause to tremble.

The truth is, that God commands "men everywhere to repent." It is a notorious fact, that multitudes will not comply. When the duty of humbly confessing their sins to God is clearly brought before them, there is often so great a desire to continue in sin, that a very painful struggle continues for some time. Now this struggle is all our own fault; it is something that we add altogether; and it is displeasing to God. He says, come to me at once. Ministers of the gospel do not urge this continued struggle, while sin is cherished in the heart: so far from desiring it are they, that they urge their hearers to repent and come at once to the Saviour, and be happy; and when any of their hearers are suffering in consequence of indecision, the pastor, so far from wishing them to continue in this state, urges them with all his power to terminate it at once, by giving up their hearts to God and to happiness. And yet, so reluctant are men to give their hearts to God, and so exceedingly common is this guilty struggle, that by the young it is often considered as a painful part of duty. They confound it with a just and needful sorrow for sin, and think they cannot become Christians without it. Some try to awaken it and continue it, and are sad because they cannot succeed. Others, who are serving their Maker, and endeavoring to grow in grace and to prepare for heaven, feel but little confidence in his sympathy or affection for them, because just before they found peace with God, sin did not make such violent and desperate efforts in their hearts as in some others, to retain its hold.

No, my reader, there is no necessity of any prolonged struggle or suffering. If the Spirit of God has led you sincerely to deplore your sins, you may confess them now, and from this moment be calm and peaceful and happy.

My readers will recollect that I mentioned, in the early part of this chapter, two points connected with confession, namely, reparation and punishment. In confessing sins to God, we have no reparation to make to him, and no punishment to suffer. We have a Saviour, and we fly to him. We have destroyed ourselves by sin, and we cannot be saved but by the unmerited grace of God as displayed in the atoning sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ. "Him hath God set forth as a propitiation, through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness: that he might be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus." Rom. 3:20-26. There is no other way of salvation. No obedience or suffering of ours can atone for transgression. Christ has suffered for us, and will save us if we go to him. I hope very many of my readers will see that both duty and happiness urge them to take the simple course I have endeavored to describe and illustrate, and that they will now be led to take it, and follow me through the remaining chapters of this book with hearts bent on loving and serving God.

CHAPTER II.

THE FRIEND.

THERE is a very excellent infant-school in one of the chief towns of Switzerland, where many young children are collected under the care of a most kind and faithful superintendent, to receive moral and intellectual instruction. When a new pupil is admitted, she looks with fear and trembling upon the strange scene before her. A large open room is filled with the children standing in rows or collected in busy groups, and in the pleasant play-ground, verdant with grass and trees, many others are seen full of activity and happiness.

It is the custom, whenever a new scholar enters the school, for the teacher to collect all the children in the great room, extending them in a line around it; and then he walks into the midst, leading the little stranger by the hand, and something like the following conversation ensues.

TEACHER. "Here is a little girl who has come to join our school. She is a stranger, and is afraid. Will you all promise to treat her kindly?"

PUPILS. All answering together. "Yes, sir, we will."

TEACHER. "She has told me that she will try to be a good girl and to do her duty, but sometimes she will forget, I am afraid, and sometimes she will yield to temptation and do wrong. Now which of the older children will be her little friend, to be with her for a few days till she becomes acquainted with the school, and tell her what she ought to do, and help her to watch herself, that she may avoid doing wrong?"

Several voices at once: "I will, I will, sir."

The teacher then selects from those who thus volunteer, one of the best and oldest children, and constitutes her the friend and protector of the stranger. They are together wherever they go. A strong mutual attachment springs up between them. If the stranger is injured in any way, the protector feels aggrieved: kindness shown to one touches almost as effectually the other, and thus the trembling stranger is guided and encouraged, and led on to duty and to strength by the influence of her protector, though that protector is only another child.

We all need a protector, especially in our moral interests. The human heart seems to be formed to lean upon something stronger than itself for support. We are so surrounded with difficulties and temptations and dangers here, that we need a refuge in which we can trust. Children find such a protector and such a refuge in their parents. How much safer you feel in sickness, if your father or your mother is by your bedside. How often, in a summer evening, when a dark heavy cloud is thundering in the sky, and the window glitters with the brightness of the lightning, do the children of a family sigh for their father's return, and feel relieved and almost safe when he comes among them. But when man is mature he can find no earthly protector. He must go alone, unless he has a friend above. We should have needed such a friend even if we were not a fallen race; but now, the true friend of man must be the sinner's friend. We are all, young and old, in perishing need of one who can deliver us from the dreadful penalty of sin, and extricate us from its fatal dominion.

We should wish a protector and friend to possess two distinct qualifications, which it is very difficult to find united: that he should be our superior both in knowledge and power, so that we can confide in his protection; and yet have been in the same circumstances with ourselves, that he may understand and appreciate our necessities.

Now my object in this chapter is, to endeavor to show my readers that they need, and that they can have, for their safe guidance through life, just such a protector and friend--one that has power to save to the uttermost, and yet one that knows by his own experience all your trials and cares. I know that if any of you go and confess your sins to God, and begin a life of piety now, yet you will, without aid from above, wander away into sin, forget your resolutions, displease God more than ever, and more than ever destroy your own peace of mind. I wish, therefore, to persuade all those who desire to be delivered from sin and death, and henceforth to love and serve God, to come now and unite themselves in indissoluble bonds with the moral Protector and Friend whose character I am about to describe.

In the epistle to the Hebrews, second chapter and sixteenth verse, there occurs the following remarkable passage: "For verily he," that is, Christ, "took not on him the nature of angels; but he took on him the seed of Abraham. Wherefore in all things it behooved him to be made like unto his brethren, that he might be a merciful and faithful High-priest in things pertaining to God." Here you see how the two qualifications named above were united in our Saviour. He might have come from heaven and died upon the cross to make atonement for our sins, without suffering as he did so long a pilgrimage below, as a "man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." But he came and lived here thirty years, tasted of every bitter cup which we have to drink, and thus knows by experience all our trials and troubles, and is able more effectually to sympathize with us and help us. He took not on him the nature of angels, but he took on him the seed of Abraham, that is, the nature of man.

I wish my readers would pause, and reflect a moment upon these two elements in the character of a valuable protector, namely, power and sympathy, and consider how seldom they are united. I will give one or two examples which may help to illustrate the subject.

A mother with a large family, and but slender means to provide for their wants, concluded to send her eldest son to sea. She knew that though the toils and labors of a seafaring life were extreme, they could be borne, and they brought with them many pleasures and many useful results. She agreed, therefore, with a sea-captain, a distant relative of hers, to admit her boy on board his ship. The captain became really interested in his new friend--said he would take good care of him, teach him his duty on shipboard, and help him on in the world, if he was diligent and faithful.

The boy looked with some dread upon the prospect of bidding farewell to his mother, to his brothers and sisters, and his quiet home, to explore unknown and untried scenes, and to encounter the dangers of a stormy ocean. He however bade all farewell, and was soon tossing upon the waters, feeling safe under his new protector. He soon found, however, that the captain had power, but that he had not sympathy. He would sometimes, in a stormy night, when the masts were reeling to and fro, and the bleak wind was whistling through the frozen rigging, make him go aloft, though the poor boy, unaccustomed to the giddy height, was in an agony of terror, and in real danger of falling headlong to the deck. The captain had forgotten what were his own feelings when he was himself a boy, or he would probably have taught this necessary part of seamanship in a more gentle and gradual manner. He thought the boy ought to learn, and his want of sympathy with his feelings led him to a course which was severe, and in fact cruel, though not intentionally so.

The captain never spoke to his young charge, except to command him. He took no interest in his little concerns. Once the boy spent all his leisure time industriously in rigging out a little ship complete. "This," thought he, "will please the captain. He wants me to learn, and this will show him that I have been learning." As he went on, however from day to day, the captain took no notice of his work. A word or a look of satisfaction from his protector would have gratified him exceedingly. But no, the stern weather-beaten officer could not sympathize with a child, or appreciate his feelings at all; and one day when the boy had been sent away from his work for a moment, the captain came upon deck, and after looking around a moment, he said to a rough-looking man standing there, "I say, Jack, I wish you would clear away a little here: coil those lines--and that boy's bauble there, you may as well throw it overboard; he never will make any thing of it."

Commands on board ship must be obeyed; and the poor cabin-boy came up from below just in time to catch the captain's words, and to see his little ship fly from the sailor's hands into the waves. It fell upon its side--its sails were drenched with the water, and it fast receded from view. The boy went to his hammock and wept bitterly. His heart was wounded deeply, but the stern captain did not know it. How could he sympathize with the feelings of a child?

And yet this captain was the real friend of the boy. He protected him in all great dangers, took great care of him when in foreign ports, that he should not be exposed to sickness nor to temptation. When they returned home he recommended him to another ship, where, through the captain's influence, he had a better situation and higher wages, and he assisted him in various ways for many years. Now this boy had a protector who had power but not sympathy.

This boy, however, might have had a friend who would have sympathized with him fully, but who would have had no power. I might illustrate this case also by supposing, in the next ship which he should enter, that the captain should feel no interest in him at all, but that he should have with him there a brother, or another boy of his own age, who would be his constant companion and friend, entering into all his feelings, sympathizing with him in his enjoyments and in his troubles, but yet having no power to protect him from real evils, or to avert any dangers which might threaten. I might suppose such a case, and following the boy in imagination into the new scene, I might show that sympathy alone is not sufficient. But it is not necessary to do this. All my readers, doubtless, already fully understand the distinction between these two, and the necessity that they should be united in such a protector as we all need.

The great Friend of sinners unites these. He is "able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God through him," for "he ever liveth to make intercession for us;" and he can fully sympathize with us in all our trials and cares, for he has been upon the earth, suffering all that we have to suffer, and drinking of every cup which is presented to our lips. He became flesh, that is, he became a man, and dwelt among us; so that, as the Bible most forcibly and beautifully expresses it, "we have not a high-priest which cannot be touched with a feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin."

It must be borne in mind, that our Saviour did not commence his public ministrations till he was thirty years of age. Thirty years he dwelt among us, learning, in his own slow and painful experience, what it is to be a human being in this world of trial. Have I a reader who is only ten or twelve years of age? Remember, the Saviour was once as young as you--exposed to such little difficulties and trials as you are. He has gone through the whole, from infancy upward, and he does not forget. You may be sure, then, that he is ready to sympathize with you. If any thing is great enough to interest you, you may be sure it is great enough to interest him in your behalf. He remembers his own childhood, and will sympathize with the feelings of yours.

This plan of coming into our world and becoming one of us, and remaining in obscurity so long, that he might learn by experiment what the human condition is, in all its details, was certainly a very extraordinary one. It is spoken of as very extraordinary everywhere in the Bible.

You have all heard of Howard the philanthropist. When he was thirty or forty years of age, there were, everywhere in Europe, jails and dungeons filled with wretched prisoners, some of whom were guilty and some innocent. They were crowded together in small, cold, damp rooms. Their food was scanty and bad--dreadful diseases broke out among them; and when this was the case they were, in a vast multitude of cases, left to suffer and to die in unmitigated agony. Very few knew their condition, and there were none to pity or relieve them, until Howard undertook the task. He left his home in England and went forth, encountering every difficulty and every discouragement, until he had explored thoroughly this mass of misery and brought it to public view, and had done every thing he could to mitigate its severity.

This was extraordinary enough, and it attracted universal attention. All Europe was surprised that a man should devote years of life to a most arduous and hazardous labor, exposing himself to the most loathsome influences and to the worst diseases, without any prospect of remuneration, and all for the sole purpose of relieving the sufferings of criminals--of men whom the world had cast off as unfit for human society. It was, I acknowledge, extraordinary; but what would have been the sensation produced, if Howard could not have gained admission to these scenes, so as effectually to accomplish his object, without becoming himself a prisoner, and thus sharing for a time the fate of those whom he was endeavoring to save? Suppose he should consent to this. Imagine him approaching for this purpose some dreary prison. He passes its dismal threshold, and the bolts and bars of the gloomiest dungeon are turned upon him. He lays aside the comfortable dress of the citizen for the many-colored garb of confinement and disgrace. He holds out his arm for the manacles, and lies down at night upon his bed of straw, and lingers away months, or perhaps years of wretchedness, for no other purpose than that he may know fully what wretchedness is. He thus looks misery in the face, and takes it by the hand, and he emerges at last from his cell, emaciated by disease, worn out by the gloom of perpetual night, and his heart sickened by the atmosphere of sin and shame. Suppose he had done this, how strongly could he, after it, sympathize with the sufferings of a prisoner, and how cordially and with what confidence could the inmates of those abodes come to him with their story of woe.

Now, we have such a Saviour as this, though all comparisons fail fully to illustrate what he has done and suffered for us. He has been among us. He has himself experienced every kind of trial and suffering which we have to endure. So that if we choose him for our friend, we may come to him on every occasion, sure of finding not only power to relieve us, but sympathy to feel for us. No matter what may be the source of our trial, whether great or small, if it is great enough to interest us, it is great enough to interest him for us. Perhaps some young child who reads this has been pained to the heart by the unkindness of some one in whom he had reposed all his confidence. The action which showed this neglect or unkindness was so trifling, that perhaps the little sufferer feels that no one can sympathize with him in apparently so small a cause of sorrow. But Jesus Christ was once as young a child as you; he too, doubtless, had companions and friends, and if he did not experience unkindness and ingratitude at their hands, childhood was the only time of his life in which he was free from these injuries. He, doubtless, knows them full well; and there is one thing in which the sympathy of our Saviour differs from that of every other friend--he judges not from the magnitude of the cause of sorrow, but from the real effect of that cause upon the heart which suffers it. If a child is agitated by a trifling cause, he looks at the greatness of the agitation and suffering, not at the insignificance of the cause. But it is not so with men; they judge from external circumstances.

In all the greater trials of life, I mean those which come from greater and more permanent causes, we may confidently expect sympathy and fellow-feeling if we come to the Saviour. Does poverty threaten you? He knows what poverty is better than you; for years, he knew not where to lay his head. Do you suffer from the unkind treatment of others? He has tried this in the extreme, and can fully sympathize with you. Do you weep over the grave of a beloved friend? Jesus wept from this cause long before you. In fact, he went about the world not only to do good, but to taste of suffering, and fully knows, with all the vividness of experience, exactly what suffering in all its variety is.

We all love sympathy when we are suffering, but there is one occasion on which we feel the need of it still more--I mean in temptation. We need sympathy when we are struggling with temptation, and still more when we have done wrong, and are reaping its bitter fruits. A dreadful murder was once committed, which aroused the alarm and indignation of an extensive community; every one expressed the strongest abhorrence of the deed, and great efforts were made to procure the arrest and punishment of the criminal. And this was right. But with this feeling there should have been, in every heart, strong compassion for the miserable criminal.

He was arrested, tried, and condemned to die; and a few hours before the execution of the sentence, I went with a clergyman who often visited him, to see him in his cell.

When we had entered his gloomy prison, the jailer closed behind us its massive iron door, and barred and locked it. We found ourselves in a spacious passage, with a stone floor, and stone walls, and stone roof, and with narrow iron doors on each side, leading to the cells of the various prisoners. We ascended the stairs, and found every story assuming the same rigid features of iron and stone. In a corner of the upper story was the cell of the murderer.

A little grated window opened into the passage-way. The jailer tapped softly at the window, and informed the prisoner, in a kind and gentle tone, that the clergyman had come.

"Should you like to have us come in?" asked the jailer.

The prisoner instantly assented, and the jailer unbolted and unbarred the door. "Strange!" thought I. "Here is a man who has outraged the laws of both God and man, and a whole community has arisen in justice and declared that he is unworthy to live, and to-morrow, by the hand of justice, he is to die. And yet his very keeper treats him so tenderly that he will not come into his cell without first obtaining permission!"

As we passed through the narrow aperture in the thick stone wall which the iron door had closed, the whole aspect of the room and of the prisoner was one which effectually removed my surprise that he should be treated with kindness and compassion. He was pale and haggard, and he trembled very exceedingly. He seemed exhausted by the agony of remorse and terror. A few hours before, his wife had been in the cell to bid him a final farewell, and the next day he was to be led forth to execution in the presence of thousands. In the meantime the walls and floor and roof of his cell--of continued, uninterrupted stone and iron--seemed to say to him, wherever he looked, "You shall not escape." It seemed as if the eye would have rested with a feeling of relief upon a board or a curtain, even if it concealed a stone behind, with so forbidding and relentless a gripe did this dismal cell seem to hold its unhappy tenant. As I looked between the heavy iron bars of his grated window upon the distant plains and hills, and thought how ardently he must wish that he were once more innocent and free, I almost forgot the cold-blooded brutality of the crime in mourning over the misery and ruin of the man.

The world does in some such cases sympathize with one suffering from remorse; but, generally, men are indignant with the offender if his crime is great, and they treat him with ridicule and scorn if it is small. Jesus Christ, however, pities a sinner. He loved us while we were yet in our sins; he came to save us. He came, not to inflict the punishment which our sin deserved, but to redeem us from the sufferings and purify us from the guilt into which it had brought us.

This is everywhere very apparent in his whole history. Often the greatest sinners came to him, and he never reproached them when they came with a humble and penitent heart. He always endeavored to relieve them of their burden of guilt, and to give them assurance of pardon and peace. On one occasion, how kindly does he say to a very guilty sinner, "I do not condemn thee; go, and sin no more." Instead of intending to add to the burden of guilt by exhibiting coldly the contrast of his own bright example, or by administering severe rebukes, he says, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Persons who wish to be saved from sin, very often distrust the Saviour's willingness to receive them. They acknowledge, in general terms, his kindness and compassion, and think that he is, in all ordinary cases, willing to save the chief of sinners; but they think there is something peculiar in their case, which should prevent them from coming to him in confidence. I observed that this peculiarity is almost always one of two things: first, that they do not engage ardently enough in the work of salvation; or, in the second place, that they have often resolved before, and broken their resolutions.

Do not some of you, my readers, feel unwilling to come to the Saviour, because you think that you do not feel a sufficient interest in the subject? You know that you are sinners, and think you would like to be free from sin. You would like such a friend as I describe the Saviour to be, but you have no sufficiently strong conviction, and you fear the promises are not for you.

Or perhaps some of you, though you feel a deep interest in the subject, may be discouraged and disheartened by the sins you find yourselves constantly committing, and by your repeatedly broken resolutions. You think the Saviour must be wearied out by your continual backslidings and sins, and you are ready to give up the contest, and to think that final holiness and peace are not for you.

Now there are throughout our land vast multitudes who are vainly endeavoring to make their hearts better, in order to recommend themselves to their Saviour's care. You must indeed use every effort to obtain deliverance from the bondage of sin, but not as a means of recommending yourself to the Saviour. Come to him at once, just as you are, and seek his sympathy and assistance in the work.

Inquirers after the path of piety are very slow to learn that the Saviour is the friend of sinners. They will not learn that he came to help us while we are in our trials and difficulties, not after we get out of them. How many say in their hearts, I must overcome this sin, or free myself from that temptation, and then I will come to the Saviour. I must have clearer views of my own sins, or deeper penitence, or awaken true love to God in my heart, and then, but not till then, can I expect Christ to be my friend. What, do you suppose that it is the office of Jesus Christ to stand aloof from the struggling sinner until he has, by his own unaided strength, and without assistance or sympathy, finished the contest, and then only to come and offer his congratulations after the victory is won? Is this such a Saviour as you imagine the Bible to describe?

At the door of one of the chambers of the house in which you reside, you hear a moaning sound, as of one in distress. You enter hastily, and find a sick man writhing in pain, and struggling alone with his sufferings. As soon as you understand the case, you say to him,

"We must send for a physician immediately; there is one at the next door who will come in in a moment."

"O no," groans out the sufferer, "I am in no state to send for a physician. My head aches dreadfully--I am almost distracted with pain. I fear I am very dangerously ill."

"Then we must have a physician immediately," you reply. "Run and call him," you say, turning to an attendant; "ask him to come as soon as possible."

"O stop, stop!" says the sick man, "wait till I get a little easier; my breath is very short and my pulse very feeble, and besides I have been getting worse and worse every half hour for some time, and I am afraid there is no hope for me. Wait a little while, and perhaps I may feel better, and then I will send for him."

You would turn, after hearing such words, and say in a low voice to the attendant, "He is wandering in mind. Call the physician immediately."

Now Jesus Christ is a physician. He comes to heal your sins. If you wish to be healed, come to him at once, just as you are. The soul that waits for purer motives, or for a deeper sense of guilt, or for a stronger interest in the subject, before it comes to Christ, is a sick person waiting for health before he sends for a physician. Jesus Christ came to help you in obtaining these feelings, not to receive you after you have made yourself holy without him. You have I well know, great and arduous struggles to make with sin. Just as certainly as you attempt them alone, you will become discouraged and fail. Come to the Saviour before you begin them, for I do assure you you will need help.

One great object which our Saviour had in view in remaining so long in the world was, that he might experience our temptations, and the contests which they bring up in the heart.

It is very often the case, that persons are struggling with temptations and sins almost in solitude, and those to whom they are directly accountable do not appreciate the circumstances in which they are placed, and the efforts they make to overcome temptation. I presume that teachers very often blame their pupils with a severity which they would not use if they remembered distinctly the feelings of childhood. Perhaps a little boy is placed on a seat near his intimate friend, and charged upon pain of punishment not to whisper. He tries to refrain, and succeeds perhaps for half an hour in avoiding every temptation. At last some unexpected occurrence or some sudden thought darts into his mind; his resolutions are forgotten; the presence of the master, the regulations of the school, and the special prohibition to him, all flit from his mind; and after the forbidden act, which occupied but an instant, is done, he immediately awakes to the consciousness of having disobeyed, and looks up just in time to see the stern eye of his teacher upon him speaking most distinctly of displeasure and of punishment. Now if any severe punishment should follow such a transgression, how disproportionate would it be to the guilt! The boy has indeed done wrong, but how slight must the wrong be in the view of any one who could look into the heart, and estimate truly its moral movements in such a case. It is unquestionably true, and every wise teacher is fully aware of it, that in school discipline there is constant danger that the teacher will estimate erroneously the moral character of the actions he witnesses, just because he has forgotten the feelings of childhood. He cannot appreciate its temptations or understand its difficulties, and many a little struggler with the inclinations which would draw him from duty, is chilled and discouraged in his efforts, because the teacher never knows that he is making an effort to do his duty, or at least never understands the difficulties and trials which he finds in his way.

Suppose now, that such a teacher should say to himself, and suppose he could by some magic power carry the plan into effect, "I will become a little child myself, and go to school. I will take these same lessons which I assign, and endeavor to keep myself the rules which I have been endeavoring to enforce. I will spend two or three weeks in this way, that I may learn by actual experience what the difficulties and temptations and trials of childhood are." Suppose he could carry this plan into effect, and laying aside his accumulated knowledge and that strength of moral principle which long habit had formed, should assume the youth and the spirits and all the feelings of childhood, and should take his place in some neighboring school, unknown to his new companions, to partake with them in all their trials and temptations. He toils upon a perplexing lesson, that he may know by experience what the perplexity of childhood is: he obeys the strictest rules, that he may understand the difficulty of obedience; and he exposes himself to the unkindness or oppression of the vicious boys, that he may learn how hard it is patiently to endure them. After fully making the experiment, he resumes his former character, and returns to his station of authority. Now if this were done, how cordially, how much better could he afterwards sympathize with his pupils in their trials, and with what confidence could they come to him in all their cares.

Now we have such a Saviour as this. The Word was made flesh, that is, became man, and dwelt among us. He took not on him the nature of angels, but the nature of man. "Wherefore it behooved him in all things to be made like unto his brethren, that he might be a merciful and faithful high-priest." "We have not a high-priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted like as we are."

My reader will doubtless observe that this case is somewhat similar to that of Howard, which I imagined in the former part of this chapter. I was then upon the subject of sympathy with suffering. I imagined Howard to become a prisoner, that he might understand and sympathize with the sufferings of prisoners. Now I am speaking of the subject of temptation and struggling against sin, and I imagine the teacher to become a child, that he may appreciate the trials and temptations of childhood.

We may trust in the sympathy of our Saviour in this last respect as well as in the other. His disposition to feel compassion and sympathy in regard to those who had brought themselves into difficulty by doing wrong, was very often manifested while he was upon the earth, and we may be sure his character is not in this respect altered now.

But it is time that I should bring this chapter to a close. The sum and substance of what I have been endeavoring to illustrate in it is this: Christ is the sinner's friend; he is able and willing to save you from the punishment and from the power of sin. If you confess all your sins and seek their forgiveness through his blood, and resolve henceforth to lead a life of piety, you will need a friend and helper. You will want sympathy both in your sufferings and in your struggles with temptation. Our Lord Jesus Christ will sympathize with you and help you in both.

I once knew a benevolent gentleman whose fortune rendered him independent, but whose medical knowledge and skill were of a very high order, and he practised constantly without fee or reward, for the simple purpose of relieving suffering. The only things necessary to secure his attention were to be sick, to need his aid, and to send for him. He did not wish his patients to become convalescent before he would visit them; nor did he inquire how often they had been sick before. There was one poor lad who took cold, I believe, by breaking through the ice in the winter, and he was rendered a helpless cripple for years, and yet this gentleman or some of his family visited him almost daily during all this time, and instead of getting tired of his patient, he became more and more interested in him to the last. Now our Redeemer is such a physician. He does not ask any preparation before we send for him; nor does he get tired of us because he has helped us back from our wanderings to duty and happiness a great many times. Some one asked him once how often he ought to forgive his brother after repeated transgressions. "Shall I forgive him seven times?" was the question. "Forgive," said the Saviour, "not only seven times, but seventy times seven." How strange it is, that after this a backsliding Christian can ever hesitate to come back at once after he has wandered, with an assurance that God will forgive.

"A bruised reed he shall not break." How beautiful and striking an illustration of our Redeemer's kindness to those who have sinned. A planter walks out into his grounds, and among the reeds growing there, there is one, young, green, and slender, which a rude blast has broken. Its verdant top is drenched in the waters which bathe its root; and perhaps he hesitates for a moment whether to tear it from the spot and throw it away. But no; he raises it to its place, carefully adjusts its bruised stem, and sustains it by a support till it once more acquire its former strength and beauty. Now Jesus Christ is this planter. Every backsliding, humbled Christian is a bruised reed; and O how many are now thriving and vigorous, that in the hour of humiliation have been saved by his tenderness.

Come then to this Friend, all of you. Having intrusted your soul to him as your Saviour, bring all your interests and hopes and fears to him; he will sympathize in them all. And whenever you have wandered, never hesitate a moment to return.

CHAPTER III

PRAYER.

As I have on this subject many separate points to discuss, I shall arrange what I have to say under several distinct heads, that the view presented may be the better understood and remembered.

I. The power of prayer. This subject may be best illustrated by describing a case.

A kind and affectionate father, whose son had arrived at an age which rendered it necessary for him to prepare for the business of life, concluded to send him from home. Their mutual attachment was strong, and though each knew it was for the best, each looked upon the approaching separation with regret. The father felt solicitous for the future character and happiness of his boy, as he was now to go forth into new temptations and dangers; and the son was reluctant to leave the quiet and the happiness of his father's fireside for the bustle of business and the rough exposures of the crowded city where he was for the future to find a home. The hour of separation, however, at last arrives, and the father says to him at parting,

"My son, be faithful, do your duty, and you will be happy. Remember your parents, the efforts they have made, and the affection they feel for you. Watch against temptation, and shun it. I will supply all your wants. When you wish for any thing write to me, and you shall have it. And may God bless you, and keep you safe and happy."

My reader will observe that this language, which is not fiction, but fact, for it has in substance been addressed in a thousand instances under the circumstances above described, contains a promise to send the son whatever he shall ask for. But the meaning of it is not--and no boy would understand it to be--that every possible request which he might make would be certainly granted. Although the promise is made in the few simple words, "whenever you want any thing, write to me and you shall have it," yet the meaning expressed fully would be, "whenever you wish for any thing which as far as you can see is proper for you, if you will let me know it I will send it, unless I see that it is better for you not to have it, or unless there are other special reasons which prevent my complying."

Now a boy may in such a case make a great many requests which the father might refuse without being considered by any one as breaking his promise.

1. He may ask something which the father knows would, in the end, injure him. Suppose he should request his father to supply him with double his usual amount of pocket money, and the father should see clearly that the effect of granting the request would be to cultivate in him careless and extravagant habits of expenditure, and to divert his attention from his business. In such a case the father would undoubtedly refuse, and no one would imagine that he was breaking his promise. The boy, if he had done right, would not have asked.

2. He may ask something which, if granted, would interfere with the rights or happiness of others. There was a watch, we will imagine, hanging up in his father's house, used by all the family--the only timepiece accessible to them. Now supposing the boy, growing selfish and vain, and thinking that his importance among his comrades would be a little increased by a watch, should write to his father to send that to him. Who would think that his father would be obliged to comply on account of his parting promise to his son to supply all his wants? Even Christians very often make such selfish requests, and wonder why their prayers are not heard. A farmer who has one field which needs watering, will pray for rain with great earnestness, forgeting that God has to take care of the ten thousand fields all around his own, and that they perhaps need the sun. A mother who hasa boy at sea will pray for prosperous winds for him, forgetting that the ocean is whitened with sails all under God's care, and that the breeze which bears one onward must retard another. But more on this subject presently.

3. He may ask in an improper manner. Suppose the father should take from the post-office a letter in his son's handwriting, and on breaking the seal, should read as follows:

"DEAR FATHER--You must let me come home next week to Christmas. I wanted to come last year, but you would not let me, and now I must come. I want you to write me immediately, and send it back by the driver, telling me I may come.

Who would think that a father ought to grant a request made in such a way as this? It is to be feared that Christians sometimes bring demands, instead of requests, to God.

I have mentioned now three cases in which the father might, without breaking his promise, refuse the requests of his boy: where it would be injurious to him, unjust to others, or where the request is made in an improper manner. All promises of such a sort as this are universally considered as liable to these exceptions.

Our Saviour tells us, "Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will do it." This is common language, such as men address to men, and is doubtless to be understood according to its most natural and familiar import. It evidently implies that our requests, humbly and properly presented in the name of Christ, through whom alone we have access to God the Father, will have a real influence with him in regard to things entirely beyond our control. But God must reserve the right to deny our requests when made in an improper spirit or manner, and when they ask what would injure us, or interfere with the general good.

If any of you have, in accordance with the views presented in the two preceding chapters, confessed your past sins, and obtained mercy through faith in the Redeemer, you will take great pleasure in bringing your requests to God. And you may, in doing this, sometimes pray for success in some enterprise when God sees that it is on the whole best that you should fail. A man may ask that God will place him in some important station of influence or usefulness, when the eye that can see the whole discovers that the general good will be promoted by another arrangement. Thus in many similar ways your prayers may sometimes come within the excepted cases, and then God will not grant them. Still, God has revealed himself as the hearer of prayer; and it will at last be seen that he was more ready to grant all our requests presented in the name of Christ, than we were to spread them before him.

There is even among Christians a great deal of distrust of the power of prayer. Some think that prayer exerts a good influence upon their own hearts, and thus they continue the practice, without, however, having any very cordial belief that their prayers are really listened to and granted as requests by the great Jehovah. Many persons imagine that prayer has an efficacy in some such way as this: A man asks God to protect and bless him in his business. By offering the prayer every day, he is reminded of his dependence; he thinks of the necessity of his own industry and patient effort; and thus, through the influence of his prayer, the causes of prosperity are brought to operate more fully in his case, and prosperity comes.

This is indeed often one of the happy results of believing prayer; but it can by no means be regarded as a granting of the request, or a fulfilment of the promise, "Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father, he shall do it." The Father shall do it. This is a promise that God shall do something which we ask him to do--not that the natural effect of our asking will be favorable in its influence upon us.

There is another way in which it seems to me there is a great deal of want of faith in God in regard to the efficacy of prayer. It is often said that requests may not be granted in the precise form in which they were offered, but that they are always answered in some way or other. A mother, for instance, who has a son at sea, prays morning and evening for his safe return. Letter after letter comes, assuring her of his continued safety, until at last the sad news arrives that his ship has been dashed upon a rock or sunk in the waves. Now can it be said that the mother's prayer was granted? Suppose that she was, by this afflicting providence, weaned from the world and prepared for heaven, and thus inconceivably benefited by the event. Was this, in any common or correct use of language, granting the request in another form; or was it denying it because it was inconsistent with her greatest good? Suppose a child asks his father to let him keep a knife he has found, and the father takes it away, knowing that he would probably injure himself with it. Is this granting the request in another form? No. We ought, whenever the particular request we make is not granted, to consider it as a denial, and to suppose that it comes under one of the cases of exceptions I have already specified.

There is, indeed, such a thing as granting a request in another form from that in which it was made. A family, one of whose members is in feeble health, prays for that member, that God would restore him. They come sincerely and earnestly to the throne of grace, and ask God to spare his life and make him well. Instead, however, of growing better, he grows suddenly worse. He is attacked with violent sickness, and his friends think that their prayers cannot be heard, and suppose that they must follow him to the grave. The sickness however soon passes away, and instead of carrying him to the tomb, by means of some mysterious influence which is in such cases often exerted upon the constitution, he rises from his sick bed with renewed bodily powers, and as his strength gradually returns, he finds that his constitution is renewed and health entirely restored. Now this is granting the request, because the thing requested, that is, the restoration to health, is obtained, though the manner was unexpected; but if the man should die, no matter what great benefits to all resulted from his death, it is certainly not right to say that the request was granted in any way. It was denied, because God saw it was best that it should be denied.

Let us then keep constantly in view the fact, that our petitions often are, and must be denied--positively and absolutely refused. The language which our Saviour uses, though without any specified exceptions, contains the exceptions that in all human language are in all such cases implied. The feelings, however, which, in this view of the subject, we ought to cherish, may properly be presented under the following head:

II. A submissive spirit in prayer. We ought unquestionably to bring a great many requests to God relating to our daily pursuits. We ought to express to him our common desires, ask success in our common enterprises and plans. Young persons, it seems to me, ought to do this far more than they do. They ought to bring all their little interests and concerns, morning and evening, to their Friend above. Whatever interests you, as I have already once or twice remarked, will interest him. Bring to him freely your little troubles and cares, and express your wants. If the young cannot come to God with their own appropriate and peculiar concerns, they are in reality without a protector. If, however, we are in the habit of bringing all our wants to God, we shall often ask for something which it is far better for us not to have. We cannot always judge correctly; but unless we know that what we want is dangerous, or that it will be injurious, it is proper to ask for it. If we do or might know, to request it would be obviously wrong. David prayed very earnestly that his child might live, but God thought it not best to grant the petition. David did right to pray, for he probably did not know but that the request might be safely granted. Let us feel therefore, when we come with our petitions, that perhaps God will think it best for us that they should be denied.

This is peculiarly the case in praying for deliverance from danger. Our hearts may be relieved and lightened by committing ourselves to God's care, but we can never feel on that account sure that we are safe. God very often makes sickness, or a storm at sea, or the lightning, or any other source of common danger and alarm, the means of removing a Christian from the world. You do not know but that he will remove you in this way. The next time a thunder-storm arises in the west, it may be God's design to bring one of its terrific bolts upon your head, and you cannot of course avert it by simply asking God to spare you. He will listen to your prayer, take it into kind consideration, and if you ask in a proper spirit, he will probably give you a calm and happy heart, even in the most imminent danger. But you cannot be sure you will escape the lightning. The ground of your peace must be, that God will do what is best, not that he will certainly do what you wish.

From one of the small seaport towns of New England, a packet once set sail for Boston. These packets, which are intended to carry passengers, have one large cabin. The berths--which perhaps I ought to inform some of my young readers, are a sort of shelves, upon which passengers at sea sleep, one above the other--are arranged around this cabin, and a movable partition, which can be thrown open by day, divides the room at night into two parts. On board one of these packets, then, a few years ago, a number of persons, ladies and gentlemen, previously entire strangers to each other, found themselves slowly sailing out of an eastern harbor, on a coasting voyage of about two hundred miles. They did not know how long they were to be together, what adventures might befall them, or what dangers they might share. They were however to spend their time in the same room, and as they were tossing upon the waves in the same vessel, a sense of common interest and of common danger brought them at once to terms of intimacy.

The next morning there was scarcely a breath of air. The vessel heaved gently on the water, whose surface was polished like glass, though it swelled and sunk with the undulations of distant storms. In the tedium of waiting for wind, each one of the passengers and crew amused himself in his own way. Here, you might see a cluster talking; there, two or three passengers gathering around a sailor who was letting down his line for fish. Others, in various places, had their books.

A Christian traveller who was present, sat down upon the quarter-deck, and opened a little bundle of books and newspapers and tracts, which he had provided for the occasion.

Presently a gentleman who had been sitting for half an hour gazing, for want of other employment, upon every sprig of sea-weed or floating bubble he could see, advanced to him, and asked,

"Will you lend me something to read?"

"Certainly, sir, any thing I have; but most of my stock here is of a religious character, and I do not know whether you will take any interest in it."

The gentleman replied that he should. He selected a newspaper or a tract, took his seat again, and began to read. Presently a lady made the same request; others looked as though they wished to, but hesitated. Our traveller observing this, said to all within hearing,

"If others of the company would like any thing I have, I should be happy to have them take it. I always carry a supply of reading when I travel, though I select my books perhaps too much to suit my own taste alone. What I have here is chiefly of a religious character, and it may not be so generally interesting on that account. You are heartily welcome to any of these, however, if you please. Sitting here with nothing to do is rather dull."

The books and tracts were soon generally in circulation, the passengers were nearly all busy in reading them, and the time passed swiftly away. Our traveller became known as a Christian; and were I now upon the subject of Christian influence, I might describe many interesting occurrences which took place, the Christian acquaintances which he formed, and the conversations which he had with various persons on board the vessel. But I am going so much into detail in this story, that I fear you have almost lost sight of our subject, which is the duty of praying to God with the feeling that he will, after all, do as he pleases about granting the request. I must hasten to the conclusion of my story.

The passage was an uncommonly long one. They hoped to reach their port in two days, but after ten had passed away, they were still far from Boston, night was coming on, and what was still worse, the captain, who stood anxiously at the helm, said there were signs of a terrific storm. A dark haze extended itself over the whole southern sky. The swell of the sea increased. The rising wind moaned in most melancholy tones through the rigging. The captain gave orders to take in sail, to make every thing snug about the vessel, and had supper prepared earlier than usual, "because," said he, "I expect, from the looks of the sky yonder, that an hour hence you will not manage a cup of tea very handily."

The passengers ate their supper in silence. Their hearts were full of foreboding fears. The captain endeavored to encourage them. He said that they were not far from Boston. He hoped soon to see the light. If they could make out to get into the harbor before it began to blow very hard, they should be safe. "Yes," said he, "I am in hopes to land you all safely at the T before ten o'clock. Unless we can get fairly into the harbor, however, I shall have to put about and stand out to sea; for if we are to have a storm, we must not stay tossing about near the rocks."

The storm increased. Sail after sail was reefed or taken in, but still the spirits of the company were sustained by knowing that they were advancing towards Boston, and by the hope that they should soon stand upon the firm shore. So great, however, was the pitching and rolling of the ship, that most of the passengers retreated to their berths and braced themselves there. A few of the more hardy or experienced remained upon deck, clinging to the masts or to the rigging, and watching with interest the distant glimmering of the Boston light, which had a short time before come into view.

"We are not very far from the light," said the captain, "but it blows pretty hard."

"Do you think we shall get in?" asked a passenger.

"I do not know," said he, shaking his head; "it is a bad night. I will, however, try for it."

The passengers watched the light. They observed that the captain did not like to talk while he was at the helm, and they forbore to ask him questions. They knew that as long as they were going towards the light there was hope, and they watched it therefore with a very eager eye. Sometimes the ship would veer a little from her course, and as the light moved off to the right or to the left, they were filled with solicitude lest the captain was going to abandon the effort and put out again to sea.

He kept, however, steadily on another half-hour, though wind and wave seemed to do their utmost to compel him to return. The light grew larger and brighter as they approached it, but the wind increased so rapidly that the captain seemed much perplexed to know what to do. He put the helm into the hands of a sailor and went forward, and stood there looking upon the dark, gloomy horizon until he was completely drenched with the spray. In a few minutes he returned suddenly.

"'Tis of no use," said he; and then taking the helm again, he called out in his loudest voice to the sailors who were before, which however the roaring of the waves almost drowned,

"Ready about."

The sailors answered, "Ready."

A moment after, the captain's voice was again heard in the loud but monotonous tone of command:

"Helm's alee."

There was bustle at the bows of the ship. A great sail flapped in the wind with a sound of thunder; the ropes rattled; the boom swung with violence across the deck; and the bow, which had been pointed directly to the lighthouse, their only star of hope, now swept swiftly around the horizon, until it left it behind them. The vessel plunged into the waves; and to complete this scene of terror, a loud sound, like a clap of rattling thunder, burst close over their heads, arousing every passenger, and producing universal alarm. It was the splitting of the topsail.

The melancholy intelligence was soon spread below, that the effort to reach Boston was abandoned, and that they were now standing out to the open sea, and that consequently they must be all night exposed unsheltered to the violence of the storm. Although the commotion had already been enough to fill the passengers with fear, yet, to an eye accustomed to the ocean, there had not been any real danger. But real danger soon came. The wind increased, and the vessel labored so much in struggling against its fury, that even the captain thought it doubtful whether they should ever see the land.

When I commenced this description, I had no intention of giving so full a narrative of the circumstances of a storm at sea, and perhaps my reader has almost forgotten what is my subject, and for what purpose I have introduced this incident. My design was to illustrate the feelings with which prayer ought to be offered in danger, and I wished therefore to give you a vivid idea of a situation of danger on the deep. Our passengers were now in imminent danger. They were all in their berths below; for so violent was the motion of the vessel that it was not safe to attempt to stand. The wish was intimated by some, and the desire soon extended to all, that a prayer should be offered, and they looked to our Christian traveller to express their petitions at the throne of grace.

Now many persons may have such conceptions of the nature of prayer as to suppose, that if this company should now sincerely unite in commending themselves to God's protection, he would certainly bring them safe to land. But many cases have occurred in which Christians who have been in the midst of danger, have fled to Jehovah for protection, and offered sincere and doubtless acceptable prayer to him, who yet were not delivered from the danger immediately impending over them. Are real Christians never lost at sea? Do real Christians who, on their sick beds, pray that God will restore them to health, never die? Is a Christian who, on commencing a journey, asks divine protection, never overturned in a coach? Is the family which always asks, in its evening prayer, that God will grant them quiet repose, never called up by the sudden sickness of a child, or aroused at midnight by a cry of fire? Facts universally testify that God does not grant every request in the precise form and manner in which, in our ignorance, it is presented. He knows what is best, and complies with our requests so far as he sees to be consistent.

Then you will say, What good does it do to pray to God in danger, if we can have no assurance that we shall be safe? It does great good. You cannot be sure that you will be certainly preserved from that danger, but you can rest calmly and peacefully in the assurance that God will graciously regard your prayer, and do what on the whole is for the best. "And will this feeling," you ask, "enable any one to rest in peace while he is out at sea in a storm, and in danger every moment of sinking?" Yes, it will, if fully possessed. If we could feel assured that God was our friend, and if we had entire confidence in him, no danger would terrify us; we should be calm and happy in all situations. Christians have very often been calm and happy when not danger merely, but certain death was approaching, so strong has been their confidence in God. And is there not good reason why it should be so? Shall a Christian who knows the affection of his heavenly Father, and who knows that there is a future world of peace and joy, shall he refuse to be calm in danger, unless he can first be sure that he shall certainly be preserved uninjured? No. When we ask God's protection in danger, we may, in all ordinary cases, expect protection. He has promised to grant our requests, unless special reasons prevent. Now, as we cannot know what these special reasons are, we cannot be certain of security, and consequently the foundation of our peace and happiness at such times must be, not the belief that we are certainly safe, but a calm and happy acquiescence in God's will. Not a sparrow falls to the ground without his knowledge; still, sparrows often do fall. All that we can be absolutely certain of is, that whatever happens to us will come with the knowledge and permission of our best and greatest Friend; and every calamity which comes in this way, we ought to be willing to meet.

But to return to our ship. The passengers were all below. It was no longer safe for them to attempt to stand in any part of the vessel, and the Christian traveller called upon God to save them from their common danger. What prayer he offered I do not know. I learned the circumstances of the danger of this packet, first from a father on shore, who was waiting the arrival of his boy who was on board when the storm came on, and afterwards from several of the passengers when they had all safely reached the land. I do not therefore know what the prayer was, but that I may the more distinctly convey to my young readers an idea of the spirit with which prayer in danger should be offered, I will write one which it seems to me might with propriety be offered on such an occasion. Let us imagine, then, that the terrified passengers, in their various berths in the dark cabin, listen and hear, as well as the howling of the tempest and the roaring of the waves will permit, the following petition, in which they endeavor cordially to join:

"Almighty God, thou hast promised to be with two or three who unite to call upon thee, wherever they are; we come therefore with full confidence that thou art with us now, and that thou, who dost rule wind and waves, art really present, to hear what we have to say as we come before thee.

"Grant, Holy Spirit, that all of us who are now present, exposed to this danger, may come with our whole hearts to thee. When in health and safety we break thy commands and neglect our duty, and then when danger comes, and no arm but thine can help, we are ashamed and afraid to come to thee. But O, our Father, let not one of us hesitate now. We thank thee for teaching us, by so irresistible a proof, how dependent we are upon thee. May we all be willing to learn the lesson, and may we bow humbly before thee now, even if we have never bowed before.

"We come to ask that thou wilt protect us in this danger, and bring us safely to our homes. Thou canst protect from greater dangers than these. Wilt thou protect us. Save us from finding our watery grave here in the deep, and save our beloved parents and brothers and sisters, at home, from the anxiety they must even now feel, and from the anguish such tidings of our destruction must give. Almighty Father, save us, we pray thee.

"Nevertheless, not our will, but thine be done. We see but a part, and thou seest the whole. If thou seest it to be best that we should go down here to a watery grave, we would acquiesce in thy will. We have solemnly given ourselves to thee, and chosen thee for our portion. We have--if we love thee at all--committed ourselves to thy care and to thy disposal. We have rejoiced in this dependence upon thee when we have been in health and safety, and we will not shrink from our covenant to be thine, now we are in danger. Do with us as seemeth good in thy sight, only give to us all a calm and happy acquiescence in thy will. Pardon our sins, so that we may be at peace with thee; and whether we are to live or die, may our hearts be thine, through Christ our Redeemer. Amen."

Such may have been the spirit of the prayer. Such I presume was the spirit of the petition offered on this occasion. Every heart which will sincerely offer such a prayer when in danger, will feel relieved from its solicitude and fear. I am aware that in a case of imminent exposure of life, the terror excited is often a physical feeling which moral causes will not fully control. Still, this calm acquiescence in God's superior wisdom and power will do more than any other feeling can to produce peace.

III. Sincerity in prayer. Prayer is, in all ordinary cases, and it ought to be, a calm and peaceful exercise, not an agitating one. Many persons waste the hour of prayer in trying to feel some deep agitation, imagining that sincere and acceptable prayer cannot be offered without it. You must be sincere when you pray, but you may be calm. Read our Saviour's model of prayer: "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread," etc. What a peaceful, quiet spirit it breathes. The great question in regard to your prayer being acceptable, is this: Do you wish for any thing which you know no one but God can grant, and are you willing to ask him in the name of Jesus Christ? If so, come at once and ask him. Ask with that degree of feeling which your interest in the request prompts, and no more. If you wish to increase your feeling, you cannot do it in any way except by increasing your interest in the request. You may give additional vividness to your idea of the value of the object sought by thinking of it, and considering how great a blessing it would be to you if granted, and thus you may increase your ardor in prayer. But all direct attempts to produce this ardor by effort will fail; or if they succeed in producing some sort of excitement, it is not a healthy, acceptable interest in prayer.

Now, after this explanation, those who read this can easily tell whether they are prepared to offer, this night, acceptable prayer to God. Do you wish to have God take care of you while you sleep? I do not mean, do you wish to be safe--every body wishes to be safe, but do you wish to have God at your bedside, protecting you? If you do not, if the feeling of his presence would be a burden to you and a restraint, of course you will not ask him to come. But suppose you are desirous of having him present, are you then willing to ask him? I do not inquire whether you are willing to struggle a long time with your heart to awaken deep feeling enough to justify, in your opinion, coming to God. Are you willing, as you retire to rest to-night, to breathe a short and simple petition to God to come and be your friend and protector for the night, to acknowledge that you do not deserve his protection, and that you ask it in the name of Jesus Christ? If you are willing to do this, and if you actually do it, and if you ask with that degree of feeling which a sincere desire for God's protection prompts, you may lie down in peace, sure that you have offered acceptable prayer.

But here I must mention a difficulty which many and many a time, has been brought to me by serious-minded persons who wish to pray to God, but who think they should not pray aright. I presume this difficulty has occurred to many who will read this chapter. I fancy I can perceive thoughts like these passing through the mind of some thoughtful, conscientious one, who has taken up this book honestly desiring to find in it religious instruction.

"If I understand the author right, he says that if I to-night pray to God to protect me, just because I want protection, or rather, because I want his protection, that will be acceptable prayer. But it seems to me that it would be mere selfishness. I wish for a great many things which I know none but God can grant, but if I ask them only because I feel the need of them, it is only a selfish desire for my own happiness, and I cannot expect to be heard. I long for such a friend as Jesus Christ, that I may come to him in all my trials and troubles, and seek strength from him in temptation. But then this is all love of my own happiness. I cannot be happy in sin; it is odious to me: there is a foreboding and a burden from which I wish to be relieved. But unless I have a higher motive than a wish to obtain peace and happiness in Christ, I cannot expect to be heard."

I have no doubt there are some who are substantially in this state of mind. They are deterred by this difficulty from coming cordially to their great Friend above. I have stated the difficulty as distinctly and fully as I can, adopting as nearly as possible the words in which it has often been presented to me. I hope you will attend carefully to my reply, and if it is satisfactory now, lay it up in your memories, and never be embarrassed by this difficulty again.

My reply is substantially this: that a genuine desire for the peace and happiness of piety is a perfectly proper motive for coming to God. It is the motive which the Bible everywhere presents. It is not, in any proper sense of the term, selfishness.

First, it is a perfectly proper motive. God is our great Creator and Protector, and he made us weak and dependent, but desirous of peace and happiness, for the very purpose of having us look to him for it. He never intended to make a universe of stoics, in which each one should be entirely indifferent about his own happiness. The spectacle which he wishes to see is all happy, and all happy in him. He wishes us to desire and seek true happiness, and to come to him for it; and the very existence of such a desire in you is the work of his renewing Spirit.

Again, the Bible everywhere presents the peace and happiness of piety as the motive why we should seek it. Jesus stood and cried in a great concourse of people, "Come unto me, all ye that labor, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." How strange that any one can imagine after this, that a love of the rest Christ will give, and a desire to be relieved of our burden of sin, is not a proper motive for coming to Jesus Christ. The prodigal son, perhaps the most striking and complete emblem of the penitent sinner which the Bible contains, says, "How many hired servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, while I perish with hunger; I will arise, and go to my father." Who would think, after reading this parable, that any sinner would be afraid to come to the Saviour because his motive is to have his wants supplied? Look at the thousands who came to our Saviour to be healed of their diseases, or to be rescued from some suffering. Did he ever turn them away because they came for their own benefit? A nobleman once came. His son was at the point of death. Parental affection urged him on. He came and begged the Saviour to come and save his son. He was so far from being under the influence of any high philosophical notions of faith and disinterestedness, that when the Saviour began to speak of faith and the influence of miracles upon it, he almost interrupted him by saying, "Come down, ere my child die." And did the Saviour repulse him, and say he was influenced by wrong motives? He wanted happiness, and he was willing to come to Jesus Christ for it. And God wishes to see the whole human race eager for the pure joys of piety, and flocking around his throne to obtain them. O, if any of you are weary of the burden of sin, and long for the peace and happiness of piety, come boldly for it. Never fear that God will call it selfishness, and drive you away.

Once more: I said this could not be called selfishness; desiring the happiness of true religion, and taking the proper means to obtain it from God, cannot properly be called selfishness. Suppose two children, whose parents had taught them habits of regularity and order so fully, that they take pleasure in the systematic arrangement of all their little property, come and ask their father to let them have a large desk which stands useless in the garret, to bring to their little room as a place of deposit for their books and papers and toys. Suppose now he should inquire of the boys, and should find that they have planned the disposal of their effects exactly in the shelves and drawers of the desk, and are anticipating much enjoyment from the expected acquisition. He sees their countenances brightened with animation as they wait breathlessly to catch his answer, and then to fly away and commence the removal. Now suppose the father should stop them by such absurd words as these:

"My boys, I am very sorry to find that you are so selfish. I strongly suspect that the reason why you want that desk is, because you expect some pleasure from it. Perhaps you think you will enjoy your property more by seeing it well arranged in such a good storehouse, or perhaps you think you can spend rainy afternoons in your room more pleasantly if you have it. Now that is very wrong; that is selfishness. To desire any thing for the sake of the happiness which it affords, is selfishness. Unless you can ask for some better motive than that, I cannot grant your requests."

I do not think that any gravity of countenance which could be assumed would lead the boys to imagine that their father could be serious in this. Certainly no parent would ever say it; and if earthly parents know how to give good gifts to their children, "how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him?" that is, to them that ask him for it as a good gift--something which is to do good to them.

But what is selfishness? Why, if the desk, instead of lying useless in the garret, was used by the older brothers, and the younger wished to take it away, that would be selfishness. A disposition to encroach upon the claims of God, or upon the rights of others, in order to secure our own pleasure, is selfishness; and we must not come to God with this spirit. If any one, however, desires peace and happiness, and is satisfied that God only can give it, let him come and ask. "Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters." God never will repulse you because thirst urges you to come.

IV. Faith in prayer. It is a very common impression among young persons, and perhaps some of mature minds are not entirely free from the same perplexity, that in order to render prayer acceptable, the Christian must have a full belief that his request will be granted. This is called the prayer of faith. Hence many persons, when they strongly desire some spiritual blessing for themselves or others, make a great deal of effort while they pray for it, to believe that they shall receive it. Come with me to the morning prayer-meeting. A few Christians whose duties of business press upon them during the day, assemble by the gray light of the dawn around the early fire of some Christian neighbor. They read and reflect a moment upon a few verses of the Bible. They sing a hymn, and are just about to kneel before God to unite in prayer for his blessing upon themselves and upon their families and neighbors during the day, when perhaps one of the number addresses the meeting as follows:

"My brethren, we come this morning to ask great blessings, but we must have faith, or we cannot expect that God will hear us. He has promised to hear us, and to give us whatever we ask, believing. Let us believe, then, firmly and cordially, that God will hear us. And let us ask for great blessings. God is ready to give us the greatest, if we only have faith."

They then unite in prayer, and there kneels with them, in a corner of the room, unnoticed perhaps by all but God, a young disciple, who understands the exhortation which was given, to mean that she must fully believe that the blessings to be asked will certainly be granted. She tries, therefore, as she listens to the words of the prayer, to believe this. Perhaps the first request is, that God would pour out his Spirit upon all present, and purify them, and keep them that day devoted to his service and free from all sin. Now she thinks it right to pray for this; she sincerely desires it, but she cannot really believe that it will be fully granted. Then she reproves herself for her unbelief; that is, for the feeling that it is not probable that all present will be perfectly pure and holy during that day. She struggles against this feeling, but she cannot conquer it. Belief rests on evidence, not on determination.

The next petition is for a powerful revival of pure religion in that neighborhood; that, by a divine influence exerted over their hearts, Christians may be led to love their Maker more and to serve him better; and that those who are living in sin may universally be awakened to a conviction of their guilt and danger, and be persuaded to serve Jehovah. Now our young Christian sincerely desires this--she hopes for it; but she is distressed because she cannot cordially believe that it will certainly come, and she considers this feeling a want of faith. She rises from her posture of devotion anxious and unhappy, because she does not feel absolutely sure that what she has asked is on the whole for the best, and that it will certainly be granted.

Now all her difficulty arises from misunderstanding the nature of the faith which ought to be exercised in prayer. The remarks made meant, or they ought to have meant, that we are to come to God confident that he will do what is on the whole for the best--not positive that he will do exactly what we ask. God never has given assemblies of Christians authority to mark out a course for him to pursue in such a sense as that he shall be bound to pursue it. He has promised to give us what we ask; but still the exceptions, universally understood to be implied by this language in other cases, are attached to it in this. We must offer our petitions, trusting in God, believing, as the Bible expresses it, "that he is, and that he is the rewarder of them that diligently seek him;" but after we have offered our most earnest requests, we must leave the matter with him. This is what is meant by the prayer of faith, so often alluded to by Christian ministers. And this was the kind of faith our Saviour required of those who came to him to be healed. "Believest thou," said he, "that I am able to do this?" not that I shall do it. When the apostles and brethren came together to pray for Peter, they were so far from believing that their prayer for his deliverance would be granted, that they were incredulous when they saw him. They trusted in God, and believed that he would do what was right. This confidence in him was the faith they exercised. "Believing that ye shall receive them," then, must mean, believing that God is able and willing to grant, except in those cases where imperious reasons compel him to deny. He sees many material considerations in every case which are entirely beyond our view, and we must leave him to decide.

It is very often said, that prayer for spiritual blessings will always be heard and granted. True, when the humble and believing penitent asks God for mercy on his own soul, his prayer is never denied; but when we ask for spiritual blessings upon others, we can be no more absolutely certain of a direct answer than in asking for temporal blessings. God does often withhold the influences of his Spirit, as we all know full well. Who of us can tell what are the causes? Look at yonder mother. She has an only son. Her first prayer in regard to him was, that God would make him his. She consecrated him to his Maker's service at his earliest breath. She rocked him to sleep in infancy, singing a hymn of acknowledgment that he was the Lord's. As soon as he could understand the lesson, she taught him his duty to his great Creator. She has often knelt with him in prayer, and her whole heart is set upon having her only son devoted to the service of God. But all her efforts are fruitless, and her prayers are not answered. Her son grows up in indifference about God, which perhaps becomes, when he has arrived at maturity, open hostility. How many such mothers there are! She was praying, too, for spiritual blessings, for the conversion of a son to God; but the sovereign Ruler leaves him, notwithstanding these supplications, to his own chosen way.

Yes, God is a Sovereign. He dispenses all his favors as he himself thinks best. He listens to our requests, and takes them into kind consideration, but he reserves to himself the right to make the ultimate decision. Let us come to him, then, with filial confidence, and with a deep sense of our need of the blessings we ask, but always with this humble feeling, that God sees farther than we, and can judge better, and that he will himself make the ultimate decision in regard to every thing we ask.

And we must remember, that this is just as true with regard to spiritual blessings as to any other. The cause of religion advances in the world, through a blessing on the labors of Christians to spread the gospel, in a manner which we cannot predict or account for. But every one, whatever may be his ideas of the boundlessness of human freedom or human responsibility, acknowledges that the determining where the gospel shall triumph and where it shall fail, and regulating its progress throughout the earth, rests in the hands of the Supreme. Now what man is there who can understand the principles which guide Jehovah in the exercise of the power which he so obviously possesses? How many secretly think that the sudden conversion of a whole city, perhaps, to God would be a glorious achievement of the Redeemer, and fancy that if they had the power over the heart which God possesses, they would produce the effect at once, and exhibit the magnificent spectacle of the undisputed reign of holiness and peace in a community of one hundred thousand. Suppose now every Christian in some great city were to unite in a sincere and heartfelt prayer that God would pour out his Spirit universally among them, and in a single day awaken all the multitudes around them to piety. It is indeed unquestionably true, that if this united prayer should be offered, and should be accompanied by the efforts which sincerity in the prayer would insure, most uncommon effects would follow. But who believes that the whole city would be converted in a day? No one. Why? Because this not according to the analogy of God's working in spreading the gospel. And why does he not work in this way, converting whole communities at once, leading them to him by his own direct agency upon the heart, as he now often leads individuals in silence and solitude? Why does not God work in this manner? Some one may say, because Christians are so cold and negligent in duty. Why then does not the power which raised up Paul raise up thousands like him now, and enkindling within them the spirit and devotedness of the great apostle, send them forth to bring the world at once to him? Who can tell?

No; we cannot direct. God guides by his own wisdom the chariot of his coming. We can ask, but we cannot dictate. If we attempt to take the reins, we find them far above our reach, and the wheels roll on where God points the way.

The experienced Christian who reads these remarks, intended to show that God really controls and directs every thing relating to the progress of piety in the world, will immediately say, "How liable are we to pervert this truth, so as to excuse our own neglect of duty." Yes, it is so. Men are everywhere so prone to throw off responsibility from themselves, that the minister of the gospel is often almost afraid to describe fully and cordially God's supreme power over the heart, for fear that men will lose their sense of their own accountability. A mother will ask that God will change the hearts of her children, and sometimes wait, as the expresses it, for God's time to come, while she in the meantime does nothing, or at most she goes over the same formal round of duties, without any of that spirit and enterprise and ingenuity which she would exercise if she knew that something depended upon her own efforts. But this perversion of scripture truth is not necessary or unavoidable. However difficult it may be for us to understand how man can be fully free and fully accountable, while God retains so much direct power over his heart as the Bible so distinctly describes, it is possible cordially to feel the accountability, and at the same time sincerely to acknowledge the dependence. Look at the case of that Christian teacher. She prays most earnestly that God would come and bless the school to which she belongs. She brings individual cases in secrecy and solitude before God. She prays that faults may be forgiven, froward dispositions softened, and all brought under the influence of Christian love. She asks that God will pour out his Spirit and diffuse peace and happiness over the school-room, improving every character, purifying and ennobling every heart, and making the dejected happy and the happy happier still. She has seen such an influence diffused over a school--she knows it is from above, and she looks to Him who rules human hearts to come into her circle with his benign influences once more. Now, does she after this go away and spend her time in inaction, on the ground that God only can change the heart, and that she has done all in her power by bringing the case to him? No; she comes to her morning duties in the school-room with a heart full of desire to do something to promote what she has asked God to bestow. And she does accomplish something. By her kindness she wins her companions to her confidence and love, and in thousand nameless ways which never can be described, but which a heart full of love will always be discovering, she carries forward very effectually in her little circle the cause for which she prays.

It is so universally. When a minister allows his sense of his entire dependence on God to become feeble or indistinct, his efforts, instead of increasing, diminish. It may be called the Christian paradox, that he who, in theory, ascribes least efficacy to human efforts, and most to the Spirit of God, in the salvation of men, is ordinarily most indefatigable in those very efforts which he knows are of themselves utterly fruitless and vain.

And here I must close this chapter by urging my readers to commence immediately the practice of bringing all their wants and cares to God. I trust some have been persuaded by it to do so. The following texts, prayerfully consulted, may afford them direction and encouragement: Psa. 145:18; Matt. 7:7-11; John 14:13; Eph. 3:20, 21; Phil. 4:6, 7; Heb. 4:14-16; 10:19-22; James 1:5-7.

Some of my young readers, however, probably wish to know what became of the packet-ship which I left in imminent danger out in the bay; for that narrative is substantially true, though I was not an eye-witness of the scene. When I left them they were tossing about upon the waves; the storm was increasing, the captain had almost given them over for lost, and those of the passengers who were not prepared to die were greatly agitated by remorse and terror. Things continued in this state for some hours, and very few of those on board expected to see another morning. The passengers in the cabin, however, before long perceived that the violence of the tempest was a little abating; the thunder of the wind and waves grew somewhat less; and though the pitching and tossing of the ship rather increased than diminished, they began to cherish a little hope; some of the number even fell into a troubled sleep.

At last there were indications of the morning. The dim form of objects in the cabin began to be a little more distinct. The gray light of day looked down through the narrow window of the deck. As the passengers aroused themselves, one after another, and looked forth from their berths, they perceived at once that the danger was over. They went to the deck, clinging to something firm for support, for the wind was still brisk, and the sea still heaved and tumbled in great commotion. But the danger was over. The sky was clear. A broad zone of light extended itself in the east, indicating the approaching sun; and not many miles distant there was extended a level sandy shore lined with dwellings, and opening to a small harbor, filled with vessels which had sought shelter there from the fury of the storm. It was Provincetown, at the extremity of the Cape. I need not say that the passengers and crew assembled once more at the throne of grace before they landed, to give thanks to God for having heard their prayer and granted them protection.

CHAPTER IV.

CONSEQUENCES OF NEGLECTING DUTY.

I HAVE now, in the several chapters which the reader has already had the opportunity of perusing, endeavored clearly to explain the first steps to be taken in Christian duty, and the principles and feelings by which they ought to be guided, and I think that all who have read these pages must have understood clearly and distinctly what they ought to do. Take, for example, the subject of the first chapter--Confession. You cannot read or even think upon that subject for half an hour, without seeing plainly that you have disobeyed God again and again, and that you have, by thus doing what you know to be wrong, destroyed your peace of mind and displeased your Maker. This no one can deny. There is a vast variety of religious opinion and religious controversy in the world, but I believe no sect, believing the existence of the Deity, was ever heard of, which maintained that man does not do wrong, or that he ought not to acknowledge his sins to God.

But when you saw clearly that you had done wrong, and destroyed your peace, did you go and seek this reconciliation? How many probably read that chapter, and distinctly understood what duty it urged upon them, and saw the reasonableness of that duty, and yet shut the book and laid it away, without ever intending at all to set resolutely about doing it. To understand clearly what duty is, and to have a disposition to do it, are very different things.

I have during the preceding chapters been explaining what the duty of my readers is. I have said scarcely any thing to persuade you to do it, and as I have gone on from page to page, and endeavored so to explain and illustrate the principles of piety that every one could clearly understand, the melancholy reflection has often forced itself upon me, "How many now will read or hear read these things, and yet entirely neglect to do any thing I describe." "Melancholy reflection!" you perhaps will say; "why do you call it a melancholy reflection? If some are induced to do their duty in consequence of your explanations, you may rejoice in the good which is done, and not think at all of those who disregard what you say. The book will certainly do them no harm."

Will do them no harm? I wish that could be true. But it is not. The religious teacher cannot console himself with the thought, that when his efforts do no good, they will do no harm. For he must, if he speaks distinctly, and brings fairly forward a subject of duty, cause every one of his readers to decide for it or against it; and when a person decides against duty, is he not injured? Is not good principle defeated or weakened, and his heart hardened against a future appeal?

The chapter on Confession of Sin, for example, has been undoubtedly read by many who shut the book and laid it aside without at all attempting to perform the duty there pointed out. The duty was plainly brought before them. They could not, and probably would not, deny its obligation. But instead of going accordingly to God, and seeking peace and reconciliation to him by a free confession of guilt, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, they laid the book away, and after a very short time all the serious thoughts it suggested vanished from their minds, and they returned as before to their sins. Now this is deciding once more, distinctly against God.

For, to decide against God, it is not necessary to use the actual language of disobedience. Suppose that a father sends a child to call back his little sister, who is going away contrary to her father's wishes. The boy runs and overtakes her, and delivers his message. The child stops a moment, and listens to the command that she should return immediately to her home. She hesitates--thinks of her father and of her duty to obey him, and then looks over the green fields through which she was walking; and longs to enjoy the forbidden pleasure. There is a momentary struggle in her heart, and then she turns away and walks boldly and carelessly on. The messenger returns slowly and sadly home.

But why does he return sadly? He has done his duty in delivering the message; why should he be sad? He is sad to think of the double guilt which his sister has incurred. He thinks that the occasion which his coming up to her presented, might have been the means of her return and of her forgiveness, but that it was the means of confirming her in disobedience, and of hardening her heart against the claims of her father.

It is just so with the messages which a Christian teacher brings to those who listen to his words. If they do not listen to obey, they listen to reject and disobey, and every refusal to do duty hardens the heart in sin. There can be no question, therefore, that such a book as this must, in many cases, be the innocent means of fixing human souls in their sins; as the gospel itself, while it is a savor of life unto life to some, to others is a savor of death unto death.

Reader, is your name on the sad catalogue of those who read religious books and listen to religious instruction merely to bring the question of duty again and again before your minds, only to decide that you will not do it? If it is, read and consider attentively the narrative to which the remainder of this chapter is devoted. It has never before been published. I providentially met with it in manuscript while writing these chapters, and it teaches so forcibly the lesson that ought now to be impressed upon my readers, that I requested of the clergyman who wrote it permission to insert it here. The circumstances are of recent occurence, and the reader may rely upon the strict truth and faithfulness of the description.

The reader will observe, however, that there are no remarkable incidents in this case. There are no peculiar circumstances of any kind to give interest to the narrative. It is only a plain common instance, such as are occuring all around us by tens of thousands, of the consequences of being only almost persuaded to be a Christian.

STORY OF LOUISA.

"Shortly after my settlement in the ministry, I observed in the congregation a young lady whose blooming countenance and cheerful air showed perfect health and high elation of spirits. Her appearance satisfied me at once that she was amiable and thoughtless. There was no one of my charge whose prospects for long life were more promising than her own, and perhaps no one who looked forward to the future with more pleasing hopes of enjoyment. To her eye the world seemed bright. She often said she wished to enjoy more of it before she became a Christian.

"Louisa--for by that name I shall call her--manifested no particular hostility to religion, but wished to live a gay and merry life till just before her death, and then to become pious and die happy. She was constant in her attendance at church, and while others seemed moved by the exhibition of the Saviour's love, she seemed entirely unaffected. Upon whatever subject I preached, her countenance retained the same marks of indifference and unconcern. The same easy smile played upon her features, whether sin or death, or heaven or hell, was the theme of discourse. One evening I invited a few of the young ladies of my society to meet at my house. She came with her companions. I had sought the interview with them, that I might more directly urge upon them the importance of religion. All in the room were affected--and she, though evidently moved, endeavored to conceal her feelings.

"The interest in this great subject manifested by those present was such, that I informed them that I would meet, in a week from that time, any who wished for personal conversation. The appointed evening arrived, and I was delighted in seeing, with two or three others, Louisa enter my house.

"I conversed with each one individually. They generally, with much frankness, expressed their state of feeling. Most of them manifested much solicitude respecting their eternal interests. Louisa appeared different from all the rest. She was anxious and unable to conceal her anxiety, and yet ashamed to have it known. She had come to converse with me upon the subject of religion, and yet was making an evident effort to appear indifferent. I had long felt interested in Louisa, and was glad of this opportunity to converse with her.

"'Louisa,' said I, 'I am happy to see you here this evening, and particularly so, as you have come interested in the subject of religion.'

"She made no reply.

"'Have you been long thinking upon this subject, Louisa?'

"'I always thought the subject important, sir, but have not attended to it as I suppose I ought.'

"'Do you now feel the subject to be more important than you have previously?'

"'I don't know, sir; I think I want to be a Christian.'

"'Do you feel that you are a sinner, Louisa?'

"'I know that I am a sinner, for the Bible says so; but I suppose that I do not feel it enough.'

"'Can you expect that God will receive you into his favor while you are in such a state of mind? He has made you, and he is now taking care of you, giving you every blessing and every enjoyment you have, and yet you have lived many years without any gratitude to him, and continually breaking his commandments, and now do not feel that you are a sinner. What would you think of a child whose kind and affectionate parents had done every thing in their power to make her happy, and who should yet not feel that she had done any thing wrong, though she had been every day disobeying her parents, and had never expressed any gratitude for their kindness? You, Louisa, would abhor such a child. And yet this is the way you have been treating your heavenly Father. And he has heard you say this evening, that you do not feel that you have done wrong, and he sees your heart and knows how unfeeling it is. Now, Louisa, you must be lost, unless you repent of your sins and ask humbly and earnestly for forgiveness. And why will you not? You know that Christ has died to atone for sin, and that God will forgive you for his Son's sake, if you are penitent.'

"To this Louisa made no reply. She did not seem displeased, neither did her feelings appear subdued.

"After addressing a few general remarks to my young friends, we kneeled in prayer, and the interview closed. Another meeting was appointed on the same evening of the succeeding week. Louisa again made her appearance with the same young ladies and a few others. She appeared much more deeply impressed. Her coldness and reserve had given place to a frank expression of interest and exhibition of feeling.

"'Well, Louisa,' said I, as in turn I commenced conversing with her, 'I was almost afraid I should not see you here this evening.'

"'I feel, sir,' said she, 'that it is time for me to attend to my immortal soul. I have neglected it too long.'

"'Do you feel that you are a sinner, Louisa?'

"'Yes, sir, I do.'

"'Do you think, Louisa, you have any claim upon God to forgive you?'

"'No, sir. It would be just in God to leave me to perish. I think I want to repent, but I cannot. I want to love God, but do not know how I can.'

"'Do you remember, Louisa, that Christ has said, 'Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Well, Louisa, now count the cost; are you ready to give up all for Christ? Are you ready to turn from your gay companions, and lay aside your frivolous pleasures, and acknowledge the Saviour publicly, and be derided, as perhaps you will be, by your former friends, and live a life of prayer and of effort to glorify God?'

"She hesitated for a moment, and then replied, 'I am afraid not.'

"'Well, Louisa, the terms of acceptance with God are plain, and there is no altering them. You cannot serve God and mammon. If you would be a Christian, you must renounce all sin, and with a broken heart surrender yourself entirely to the Saviour.'

"The evening's interview closed as before, and a similar appointment was made for the next week. Some of the young ladies present, I had reason to believe, had accepted the offer of salvation. The next week about the same number were present, but Louisa was not with them; a slight cold had detained her. But the week after she again appeared. To my great disappointment I found her interest diminishing. Though not exhibiting that cold reserve which she at first manifested, she seemed far less anxious than at our last interview: the Spirit was grieved away. This was the last time she called to see me; but alas, I was soon called to see her under circumstances which at that time were but little anticipated. These social meetings continued for some time, and many of Louisa's associates, I have cause to hope, became the disciples of Jesus.

"Two or three months passed away, and my various duties so far engrossed my mind that my particular interest in Louisa's spiritual welfare had given place to other solicitudes; when one day as I was riding out, making parochial visits, one of my parishioners informed me that she was quite unwell, and desired to see me. In a few moments I was in her sick chamber. She had taken a violent cold, and it had settled into a fever. She was lying in her bed, her cheek glowing with the feverish hue, and her lips parched with thirst. She seemed agitated when I entered the room, and the moment I stood by her bedside and inquired how she did, she covered her face with both hands and burst into a flood of tears.

"Her sister, who was by her bedside, immediately turned to me and said, 'Sir, she is in great distress of mind. Mental agony has kept her awake nearly all night. She has wanted very much to see you, that you might converse with her.'

"I was fearful that the agitation of her feelings might seriously injure her health, and did all I consistently could to soothe and quiet her.

"'But, sir,' said Louisa, 'I am sick, and may die; I know that I am not a Christian; and O, if I die in this state of mind, what will become of me? What will become of me?' and again she burst into tears.

"What could I say? Every word she said was true. Her eyes were opened to her danger. There was cause for alarm. Sickness was upon her. Delirium might soon ensue; death might be very near; and her soul was unprepared to appear before God. She saw it all; she felt it all. Fever was burning in her veins. But she forgot her pain, in view of the terrors of approaching judgment.

"I told her that the Lord was good, and that his tender mercies were over all his works; that he was more ready to forgive than we to ask forgiveness.

"'But, sir,' said she, 'I have known my duty long, and have not done it. I have been ashamed of the Saviour, and grieved away the Spirit; and now I am upon a sick bed, and perhaps must die. O, if I were but a Christian, I should be willing to die.'

"I told her of the Saviour's love. I pointed to many of God's precious promises to the penitent. I endeavored to induce her to resign her soul calmly to the Saviour. But all was unavailing. Trembling and agitated she was looking forward to the dark future. The Spirit of the Lord had opened her eyes, and through her own reflections had led her into this state of alarm. I knelt by her bedside and fervently prayed that the Holy Spirit would guide her to the truth, and that the Saviour would speak peace to her troubled soul. O could they who are postponing repentance to a sick bed, have witnessed the suffering of this once merry girl, they would shudder at the thought of trusting to a death-bed repentance. How poor a time to prepare to meet God, when the mind is enfeebled, when the body is restless or racked with pain, and when mental agitation frustrates the skill of the physician. Yet so it is. One half the world are postponing repentance to a dying bed. And when sickness comes, the very circumstance of being unprepared hurries the miserable victim to the grave.

"The next day I called again to see Louisa. Her fever was still raging, and its fires were fanned by mental suffering. Poor girl! thought I, as the first glance of her countenance showed the strong lineaments of despair. I needed not to ask how she felt. Her countenance told her feelings. And I knew that while her mind was in this state, restoration to health was out of the question.

"'And can you not, Louisa,' said I, 'trust your soul with the Saviour who died for you? He has said, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."'

"'Oh, sir, I know the Saviour is merciful, but somehow or other I cannot go to him; I do not know why. Oh, I am miserable indeed.'

"'Do you think, Louisa, that you are penitent for sin? If you are, you will be forgiven; for God who gave his Son to die for us, is more ready to pardon than we to ask forgiveness. He is more ready to give good gifts to the penitent, than any earthly parent to give bread to his hungry child.'

"I then opened the Bible at the fifteenth chapter of Luke, and read the parable of the prodigal son. I particularly directed her attention to the twentieth verse: 'When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell upon his neck, and kissed him.'

"'O, sir,' said she, 'none of these promises are for me. I find no peace to my troubled spirit. I have long been sinning against God, and now he is summoning me to render up my account; and O, what an account have I to render! The doctor gives me medicine, but I feel that it does no good, for I can think of nothing but my poor soul. Even if I were perfectly well, I could hardly endure the view which God has given me of my sins. If they were forgiven, how happy should I be; but now, O!"--her voice was stopped by a fit of shuddering, which agitated those around her with the fear that she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves were more quiet, and I kneeled to commend her spirit to the Lord.

"As I rode home, her despairing countenance was unceasingly before me. Her lamentations, her mournful groans, were continually crying in my ears. As I kneeled with my family at evening, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. All night I tossed restlessly upon my pillow, dreaming of unavailing efforts at this sick bed.

"Another morning came. As I knocked at the door of her dwelling I felt a most painful solicitude as to the answer I might receive.

"'How is Louisa this morning?' said I to the person who opened the door.

"'She is fast failing, sir, and the doctor thinks she cannot recover. We have just sent for her friends to come and see her before she dies.'

"'Is her mind more composed than it has been?'

"'O no, sir. She has had a dreadful night. She says that she is lost, and that there is no hope for her.'

"I went into her chamber. Despair was pictured more deeply than ever upon her flushed and fevered countenance. I was surprised at the strength she still manifested as she tossed from side to side. Death was evidently drawing near. She knew it. She had lived without God, and felt that she was unprepared to appear before him. A few of her young friends were standing by her bedside. She warned them in the most affecting terms to prepare for death while in health. She told them of the mental agony she was then enduring, and of the heavier woes which were thickly scattered through that endless career she was about to enter. All her conversation was interspersed with the most heart-rending exclamations of despair. She said she knew that God was ready to forgive the sincerely penitent, but that her sorrow was not sorrow for sin, but dread of its awful penalty.

"I had already said all that I could to lead her to the Saviour; but no Saviour cast his love on this dying bed--no ray of peace cheered the departing soul. Youth and beauty were struggling with death; and as that eye which but a few days before had sparkled with gayety, now gazed on to eternity, it was fixed in an expression of despair.

"'By many a death-bed I had been,

And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this.'"

"There was nothing that could be said. The moanings of the sufferer mingled with the prayer, which was almost inarticulately uttered, from the emotions which the scene inspired.

"Late in the afternoon I called again. But her reason was gone, and in restless agony she was grappling with death. Her friends were standing around her, but she did not recognize them. Every eye in the room was filled with tears, but poor Louisa saw not, and heeded not their weeping. It was a scene which neither pen nor pencil can portray. At the present moment that chamber of death is as vividly present to my mind as it was when I looked upon it through irrepressible tears. I can now see the disorder of the dying bed--the restless form--the swollen veins---the hectic, burning cheek--the eyes rolling wildly around the room--and the weeping friends. Who can describe such a scene? And who can imagine the emotions which one must feel who knew her history, and who knew that this delirium succeeded temporal, and perhaps preceded eternal despair? Louisa could no longer listen to my prayers; she could no longer receive the precious instructions of God's word. And what could be said to console her friends? Nothing. 'Be still, and know that I am God,' was all that could be said. I could only look and listen with reverence, inwardly praying that the sad spectacle might not be lost upon any of us. For some time I lingered around the solemn scene in silence. Not a word was spoken. All knew that death was near. The friends, who were most deeply affected, struggled hard to restrain the audible expression of grief. In silence I had entered the room, and in silence and sadness I went away.

"Early the next morning I called at the door to inquire for Louisa.

"'She is dead, sir,' was the reply to my question.

"'At what time did she die?'

"'About midnight, sir.'

"'Was her reason restored before her death?'

"'It appeared partially to return a few moments before she breathed her last, but she was almost gone, and we could hardly understand what she said.'

"'Did she seem any more peaceful in mind?'

"'Her friends thought, sir, that she did express a willingness to depart, but she was so weak and so far gone that it was impossible for her to express her mind with any clearness.'

"This was all that could be said of the eternal prospects of one who 'wished to live a gay and merry life till just before death, and then to become pious and die happy.' Reader,

CHAPTER V.

ALMOST A CHRISTIAN.

THE melancholy story related in the last chapter is not an uncommon one. It is the story of thousands. All that is necessary, reader, to make the case your own, is, that you should feel such a degree of interest in religious duties as to open your eyes clearly to their demands, but yet not enough to induce you cordially to comply with them--and then, that death should approach you while you are thus unprepared. The gloomy forebodings and the dreadful remorse which darkened Louisa's last hours, must in such a case be yours.

It was not my intention, when forming the plan of this work, to have it present religious truth and duty in gloomy or melancholy aspects. Religion is a most cheerful and happy thing to practice, but a most sad and melancholy thing to neglect; and as undoubtedly some who read this book will read it only to understand their duty, without at all setting their hearts upon the performance of it, I ought to devote one or two chapters particularly to them. The case of Louisa, though it was a melancholy one, was real. And what has once occurred, may occur again. You will observe, too, that all the suffering which she manifested in her dying hour was the work of conscience. The minister did all he could to soothe and calm her. Examine all the conversation he had with her at her bedside, and you will find that it was the language of kind invitation.

Sometimes such a dying scene as this is the portion of an individual who has lived a life of open and unbridled wickedness. But, generally, continued impiety and vice lull the conscience into a slumber which it requires a stronger power than that of sickness or approaching death to break. Louisa was ALMOST A CHRISTIAN. She was nearly persuaded to begin a life of piety. In just such a state of mind, my reader, it is very probable you may be. Perhaps, since you have been reading this book, you have been thinking more and more seriously of your Christian duty, and felt a stronger and stronger intention of doing it, at least at some future time. You ought, after having read the first chapter, to have gone at once and fully confessed all your sins to God. When you read the second, you should have cordially welcomed the Saviour as your friend, and chosen him as your Redeemer and portion. You ought to have been induced by the third to begin immediately a life of prayer, and to have been constant and ardent at the throne of grace since you read it. But perhaps you neglected all this. You understand very clearly what Christian duty is. It is plain to you that there is a Being above, with whom you ought to live in constant communion. You understand clearly how you are to begin your duty, if you have neglected it heretofore, by coming and confessing all your sins, and seeking forgiveness through Jesus Christ, who has died for you. Thus you well know what duty is. The solitary difficulty is, that you will not do it.

But why? What can be the cause of that apparent infatuation which consists in continually neglecting a duty which you acknowledge to be a duty, and which you know it would increase your happiness to perform? Were I to ask you, it is very probable you would say what I have known a great many others to say in your situation--it would be this:

"I know I am a sinner against God, and I wish to repent and be forgiven, and to love and serve my Maker, but I do not see how I can."

My reader, is this your state of mind? Many persons do use this language, and use it honestly. That is, they use it honestly, if they mean by it what the language properly does mean, that they see the propriety and duty and happiness of a new life, so that in some sense they desire it, but that some secret cause which they have not yet discovered prevents their obedience. I design in this chapter to help you to discover what that cause is. If you really wish to discover and to remove it, you will read the chapter carefully, with a willingness to be convinced, and you will often pause to apply what is said to your own case.

There are three very common causes which operate to prevent persons who are almost Christians, from becoming so altogether.

I. A spirit of procrastination. Waiting for a more convenient season. The following case illustrates this part of our subject.

A boy of about twelve or fourteen years of age, a member of an academy, in which he is pursuing his studies preparatory to his admission to college, sees the duty of commencing a Christian life. He walks some evening at sunset alone over the green fields which surround the village in which he resides, and the stillness and beauty of the scene around him bring him to a serious and thoughtful frame of mind. God is speaking to him in the features of beauty and splendor in which the face of nature is decked. The glorious western sky reminds him of the hand which spread its glowing colors. He looks into the dark grove in the edge of which he is walking, and its expression of deep, unbroken solitude brings a feeling of calm solemnity over his soul. The declining sun--the last faint whispers of the dying evening breeze--the solitary and mournful note which comes to him from a lofty branch of some tall tree in the depth of the forest--these, and the thousand other circumstances of such a scene, speak to him most distinctly of the flight of time, and of the approach of that evening when the sun of his life is to decline, and this world cease for ever to be his home.

As he muses on this scene, he feels the necessity of a preparation for death, and as he walks slowly homeward, he is almost determined to come at once to the conclusion to commence immediately a life of piety. He reflects however upon the unpleasant publicity of such a change. He has many irreligious friends whom it is hard to relinquish, and he shrinks from forming new acquaintances in a place he is so soon to leave. He reflects that he is soon to be transferred to college, and that there he can begin anew. He resolves, that when he enters college walls, he will enter a Christian; that he will from the first be known as one determined to do his duty towards God. He will form no irreligious friendships, and then he will have none to sunder. He will fall into no irreligious practices, and then he will have none to abandon. He thinks he can thus avoid the awkwardness of a public change. He is ungenerous enough to wish to steal thus secretly into the kingdom of heaven, without humbling any of his pride by an open admission that he has been wrong. He waits for "a convenient season."

When he finds himself on college ground, however, his heart does not turn any more easily to his duties towards God. First, there is the feverish interest of the examination; then, the novelty of the public recitation-room; the untried, unknown instructor; the new room-mate; and all the multiplied and varied excitements which are always to be found in college walls. There are new acquaintances to form, new countenances to speculate upon, and new characters to study; and in these and similar objects of occupation and interest, week after week glides rapidly away. At last on Saturday evening, the last of the term, he is walking over the college grounds, and among the other serious reflections that come upon his mind, there are the following:

"One whole term has now passed, and what have become of all my resolutions to return to God? How swiftly the weeks have glided away, and I have been going farther and farther away from God and from duty. I find that I cannot in college, any more than in any other place, become a Christian without effort and self-denial. I must come boldly to the duty of giving up my heart to God and commencing publicly a Christian life; and whenever I do this, it must be hard at first. I will attend to the subject this vacation. I shall be quiet and retired at home, and shall have a favorable opportunity there to attend to my duty and turn to God. I will come back to college next term a new man."

Such are his reflections. Instead of resolving to do his duty now, he looks forward again, notwithstanding his former disappointment, to another more convenient season. The bustle of the closing term, and the plans and preparations for the approaching vacation, soon engross his mind, and instead of coming to his Maker at once and going home a Christian, he puts it off in hopes to return one. Vain hope. He will undoubtedly come back as he goes, procrastinating duty.

Term after term and vacation after vacation pass away, and the work of preparation for another world is still postponed and neglected. The longer it is postponed the worse it is, for he is becoming more and more known as an irreligious young man, and more and more intimately connected with those whose influence is all against religion. He soon quiets conscience with the reflection, that while he is in the lower classes, he is much more under the control of public opinion; others, older and more advanced than he, take the lead in forming the sentiments of the community, and it is harder for him to act independently now, on a subject which affects his standing in the estimation of his companions, than it will be when he shall have passed on to a higher class, and shall have influence in forming a public sentiment to act upon others, instead of having others form it for him.

The closing months of college life at last come on, bringing with them less and less disposition to do his duty. He has become familiarized to the idea of living without God. His long and intimate acquaintance with irreligious companions has bound him to them by ties which he is not willing to sunder. Not ties of affection; for there is seldom much confidence or love in such a case. They are ties of mere acquaintance--mere community of sentiment and action. Yet he dreads to break away from what gives him little pleasure, and is thus bound by a mysterious and unreasonable, but almost hopeless slavery. He leaves college either utterly confirmed in insensibility to religious truth, or else, when he occasionally thinks of the subject, faintly hoping that in the bustle of future life some more convenient season may occur, which he may seize as a time for making his peace with God.

This is the history of many a college student, and by a slight change of the circumstances of the description, it might be made the history of thousands of others in every walk of life. The secret of this procrastination is this: The subject of it is deluded by the chimerical hope of finding some opportunity of coming to God without real submission; some way of changing sides on a most momentous subject, without the mortification of changing--of getting right without the humiliating acknowledgment of having been wrong. Now these difficulties, which constitute the straitness of the gate through which we must enter, cannot be avoided. We cannot go round them--we cannot climb up some other way, and it is useless to wait for some other way to offer. The work of coming directly and decidedly to our Maker, to confess sin and to ask his forgiveness, must be done. The public acknowledgment that we have been wrong, which a public change of conduct implies, must be made, and it will be painful. Irreligious friends must, as intimates and associates, be abandoned; and whenever that is done it will require an effort. These steps must be taken, and the difficulty of taking them is increased, not diminished, by the lapse of time.

My reader, is not the reason why you cannot repent of sin and love God this--that you can never say, "I am willing to do it now?" Are you willing to be, from this time, the servant and follower of Jehovah; or are you trying the mad experiment of postponement and delay?

II. Love of the world. This is the second of the three secret obstacles to piety which I was to mention; I mean, secret obstacles in the way of those who think that they wish to be penitent, but that they cannot. I am not now considering the causes which are operating so extensively in chaining the great mass of mankind down in their bondage to sin; I speak only of those who feel some interest in this subject, who think they desire salvation, and are willing to do what God requires, but cannot. Under this second head I am to endeavor to show, that many of my readers who are in this state of mind are prevented from doing their duty by a secret love of the world. I shall not however succeed in showing this, unless you coöperate with me. If, while you read it, you put yourself in an attitude of defence, you can easily set aside what I have to say. I shall suppose, howover, that you really wish to know, and that you will apply what I present, with impartiality and candor to yourselves.

In one sense, it is right to love the world. God has made it for our enjoyment, and filled it with sources of happiness for the very purpose of having us enjoy them. We are to look upon it, therefore, as a scene in which the Creator intended that we should be happy, and we are to derive from it all the happiness that we reasonably can.

There are, however, temptations in this world, as all will admit; that is, pleasures which beckon us away from duty. When a young person begins to think of religious duty, these pleasures, which have perhaps long been enjoyed, come up to view--not very distinctly, but still with so much effect as to blind the mind and harden the heart. Perhaps, my reader, you can think of some irreligious companion whom you know you must give up if you become an open and decided Christian. Even if you do not give up him, you expect that he will give up you, if such a change should take place in your character. Now, although you do not distinctly make a comparison between the pleasures of his society on the one side, and the peace and happiness of religion on the other, and after balancing their claims decide against God and duty; although you make no formal decision like this, yet the image of that friend, and the recollection of the past pleasures of his society, and the prospect of future enjoyment, come into your mind and secretly hold you a prisoner. The chain is wound around your heart, and its pressure is so gentle that you scarcely perceive it. Still, it holds you firmly, and until you loosen the link, it will hold you. You do right, while you are in this state of mind, to say that you cannot love God. Our Saviour says the same. "If any man come to me, and hate not," that is, is not cordially willing to give up, if necessary, "his father and mother, and wife and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple." You cannot be the disciple of Christ till you are willing to give up the world in all its forms.

Perhaps it is not a friend that keeps you from the Saviour, but some other object. You may indulge yourself in some practice which conscience secretly condemns. Perhaps there is a favorite amusement which you must give up if you should become a consistent Christian. You do not distinctly bring this up before your mind, into formal comparison with the hope of a happy immortality, and decide that it is superior. It insinuates itself into your mind, and shuts its avenues against the light. You wonder that you do not see and feel, and cannot discover the cause.

III. Fear of the world. Where love of the world binds MICHIGAN STATE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE Library one soul in sin, the fear of it, in some form or other, binds ten. Every one is surrounded by a circle of influence, it may be small or great, which is hostile to piety. To take the attitude of a humble Christian in the presence of this circle of acquaintances and friends, to abandon your past course of conduct with the acknowledgment that it has been entirely wrong, and to encounter the cold and forbidding, or perhaps scornful looks of those whom you have been accustomed to call your friends--all this is trying. You shrink from it. You do not very distinctly take it into consideration, but it operates with an influence the more unmanageable, because it is unseen. My object in alluding to it here, therefore, is to bring it out to view, that you may distinctly see it, and bring fairly up the question whether you will be deterred by such a consideration from doing your duty towards your Maker.

These three reasons are ordinarily the chief apparent causes why those who are almost Christians do not become so altogether. They are strong reasons. They hold a great many individuals in lasting bondage, and they will probably continue to hold many of my readers in their chains. It is no small thing, and with hearts and habits like ours it is no easy thing, to become a Christian.

Jesus Christ foretold all these obstacles. He was very frank and open in all his statements. He never intended to bring any one into unforeseen difficulties. He stated very plainly what he expected of his followers; he described the sacrifices they must make to please him, and the troubles they must endure; and when he left them at last, he told them plainly that should they persevere in his service after he was gone, they must go on expecting to suffer, to bleed, and to die in this cause.

"Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple." How strong an expression! What an entire surrender of the individuals addressed does it require! And yet he says, "My yoke is easy, and my burden is light." How is this? Does not the first declaration imply that the service of Christ is a hard service? And does not the latter imply that it is easy? There are two classes of passages in the Scriptures which seem, on this point, to speak a different language. But the explanation is this: It is hard for you to come to Jesus Christ. Worldly pleasures beckon you away. Dangers and difficulties frown upon you, and above all the rest,pride--pride, that most unconquerable of enemies, stands erect and says you must not take the attitude of a humble Christian. Now all these obstacles you must overcome. The world must be relinquished; the claims of even father and mother, if they interfere with duty to God, must give way; the trials which in a life of piety will await you, must be boldly encountered, and pride must yield. But when this is done, the surrender once made, all is happy--the yoke is easy, and the burden is light. If the heart is really submissive to God, if its own affections have indeed been crucified, and if God really reigns there, peace comes; and peace and happiness will really reign, unless returning pride and worldliness renew the struggle. The government of God in the soul, is a government which regulates, but does not enslave; it diffuses over the heart unmingled peace and happiness.

Let all then distinctly understand, that there is no becoming a disciple of Jesus Christ without real submission, and submission is no pleasant work for human nature to perform. It is hard for us to acknowledge that we have been wrong--to bow to a power which we have long opposed, and thus publicly and openly to change sides on a subject which divides the world. But it must be done. Enmity to God, or uncompromising submission to his will, is the only alternative.

It is right that this should be the only alternative. Just look at the facts. The Creator of all has proclaimed as the law of his empire, that all beings should love him supremely, and their fellows as themselves. We have always known that this was his law; we know too that it is reasonable in its nature, and most excellent in its tendency. No man can say that it is not exactly calculated to diffuse universal happiness; nor can any man deny that its almost unceasing violation here has filled the world with misery and crime. Now, excellent and reasonable as this law is, there are millions in the human family who have spent all their lives in the constant violation of it. They know that they never have, for a single moment, loved God supremely, or loved their neighbor as themselves. Now all of us who are, or who have been in this state, have been plainly living in opposition to God and to the general happiness. We have been violating known duty, continuing in acknowledged sin; and the effect has not been confined to ourselves, the influence has extended. Our example has been in favor of irreligion; and as our sin has thus been public, can we complain that God should require our acknowledgment to be public too? No; submission to God must be entire, unqualified, unreserved, or we cannot expect God to receive it.

But let me be more particular. Perhaps some young man who reads this is almost persuaded to be a Christian. He is still an irreligious man. I do not mean that he openly opposes religion, but that he is without piety. Were I to address such an one individually, I would say to him, "You, sir, are probably to remain twenty or thirty years in the community of which you now form a part. These years will be in the very prime of your life. Your influence is now great; it is increasing, and it must increase. God has brought you into this scene. Your original powers and your education you owe to him. The habits of industry and of integrity which you have acquired, would not have been yours without his aid. He has held you up and brought you forward; and now, as the opening prospects of usefulness and happiness lie before you, he calls upon you to come to him, and to assist in the execution of his plans for the promotion of human happiness. Will you come? There will be a great deal of suffering which you can alleviate during the twenty years that are before you, if you will set your heart upon alleviating suffering. There will be much vice which your influence may prevent, if you will exert it aright. You may be the means too of bringing many an unhappy sinner to the Saviour who died for him, if you will seek and love that Saviour yourself, and aim to promote his cause." "But no," do you say? "I have been, I acknowledge, in the wrong, but I cannot bow to truth and duty, and humble pride--abandon my ground, and stand before the world the acknowledged victim of folly and sin." Then you cannot serve God. Unless you will do this, you cannot be Christ's disciple.

Is there an unchristian parent who reads these pages? God has especial claims upon you in your family circle. You are moulding the hearts of these children by your influence, and the lineaments which your daily example is calling forth here are probably to last. You are doing work for a very long futurity. You endeavor to promote the happiness of your children for this life, but God shows the way to make them happy for ever, and he invites you to come and coöperate with him in training them for the skies. But you cannot do this with the hope of acceptance unless your own heart is right with him. If you have been against him thus far, you cannot coöperate with him till you cease your opposition, humble yourselves before him, accept of mercy by trusting alone in Christ for salvation, and resolve to enter upon the performance of all known duty.

For example, you have perhaps hitherto neglected family prayer; and you know you cannot do your whole duty till you bow before Him at the fireside altar for the first time. Do you say this is a hard duty, and you cannot perform it? Look well to the state of your own heart. You must humble yourself before God, and when you do so as you ought, there will be no very great self-denial in taking the attitude before your family of a pardoned sinner, seeking mercy for yourself and them at the cross of Him who gave himself to die for man.

Look at that youth, the favored object in the circle of friends and companions in which he moves. His upright character has commanded respect, and his amiable disposition has secured affection. His companions seek his society; they observe and imitate his example; they catch and adopt his opinions. He has never, now, said a word against religion. He complies respectfully with all its external observances, and in fine does all which he can do without being personally humbled. But how would he shrink from having it whispered about in the circle in which he moves, that he is anxious for the salvation of his soul. How unwilling would he be that it should be known that he went to his pastor for personal religious instruction, or that he had taken any step which should admit before all that he had been himself, personally, a guilty rebel against God, and that he wished to change sides now, and do good as openly and as publicly as he had before done injury. But O, reflect; you have taken an open stand against God, and are you not willing to take an open stand in his favor? I know it is painful--it is the very crucifixion of the flesh; but God cannot propose any other terms than that those who have been open enemies should become open friends, and no generous mind can ask any easier conditions.

Indeed, if another mode of entering the kingdom of heaven had been proposed, we should ourselves see its impropriety. Suppose the Saviour were to say to a sinner thus: "You have been my enemy, I know. In the controversy which has existed between God and his revolted subjects, you have taken the wrong side. You have been known to be without piety, and for many long years you have been exerting an influence against God, and against the happiness of the creation. But I am ready to forgive you, if you will return to me now. And as publicly giving up in such a controversy is always painful to the pride of the human heart, I will excuse you from this. You may come secretly and be my friend, to save you the mortification of publicly changing sides in a question on which your opinions and your conduct have long been known."

To this, a spirit of any nobleness or generosity would reply, "If I have been in the wrong, and I freely acknowledge that I have, I choose openly to avow it. My repentance shall be known as extensively as my sin. I will not come and make my peace secretly with God, and leave my example to go on alluring, as it has done, others to live in sin. If pride remonstrates, I will cut it down; and if my comrades deride my change, I will bear their reproaches. They cannot injure me as much as my ungodly example and influence has injured them."

Whether, however, the sinner sees the necessity of his being really humbled before he is forgiven, or not, God sees it--every holy being sees it; and Jehovah's determination is fixed. We must submit, or we cannot enter his blessed kingdom.

Do you not now, my reader, see what is the reason why you cannot be a Christian? You say you wish to be, but cannot; and in nine out of ten of such cases the difficulty is, you are not cordially willing to give up all to God. Pride is not yet humbled, or the world is not yet surrendered; and until it is, you cannot expect peace. You know you have been wrong, and you wish now to be right; but this cannot be without an open change, and this you shrink from. The jailer who came trembling to know what he must do to be saved, was told to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. How humiliating! to appear the next morning a spectacle to the whole community--a stern public officer bowed down to submission through the influence of the very prisoners committed to his charge. Yet he was willing to encounter it. And you, if you can consent to yield--to yield every thing--to throw down every weapon, and give up every refuge, and come now to the Saviour, bearing your cross--that is, bringing life and reputation and all you hold dear, and placing it at his supreme disposal, you may depend upon forgiveness and peace. But while your heart is full of reservations, while the world retains its hold and pride is unsubdued, and you are thus unwilling openly and decidedly to take the right side, is it unjust or unkind in God to consider you as upon the wrong one? Far be it from me to advocate ostentation in piety. The humble, retiring Christian, who communes with his own heart and with God, is in the right road to growth in grace and to usefulness; but every one ought to be willing, and, if he is really penitent, will be willing, that the part he takes in this great question should be known.

I now dismiss this subject, not to resume it again in this volume. Knowing, as I did, that there would undoubtedly be many among the readers of this book who can only be called almost Christians, I could not avoid devoting a chapter or two to them. I have now explained as distinctly as I have been able to do it, the submission of the heart which is necessary to becoming a Christian, and what are the difficulties in the way. I should evince but a slight knowledge of the human heart if I were not to expect that many who read this will still remain only almost Christians. I must here, however, take my final leave of them, and invite the others, those who cordially take the Saviour as their portion, to go on with me through the remaining chapters of the book, which I shall devote entirely to those who are altogether Christians.

CHAPTER VI.

DIFFICULTIES IN RELIGION.

THE young Christian, conscientiously desiring to know and to do his duty, is, at the outset of his course, perplexed by a multitude of difficulties which are more or less remotely connected with the subject of religion, and which will arise to his view. These difficulties in many cases cannot be removed; the embarrassing perplexity, however, which arises from them, always can, and it is to this subject that I wish to devote the present chapter. My plan will be, in the first place, to endeavor thoroughly to convince all who read it, that difficulties must be expected--difficulties too which they cannot entirely surmount; and in the second place, to explain and illustrate the spirit with which they must be met.

It is characteristic of the human mind, not to be willing to wait long in suspense on any question presented to it for decision. When any new question or new subject comes before us, we grasp hastily at the little information in regard to it within our immediate reach, and then hurry to a decision. We are not often willing to wait to consider whether the subject is fairly within the grasp of our powers, and whether all the facts which are important to a proper consideration of it are before us. We decide at once. It is not pleasant to be in suspense. Suspense implies ignorance, and to admit ignorance is humiliating.

Hence, most persons have a settled belief upon almost every question which has been brought before them. In expressing their opinions, they mention things which they believe, and things which they do not believe; but very few people have a third class of questions which they acknowledge to be beyond their grasp, so that in regard to them they can neither believe nor disbelieve, but must remain in suspense. Now this is the secret of nine-tenths of the differences of opinion, and of the sharp disputes by which this world is made so noisy a scene. Men jump at conclusions before they distinctly understand the premises, and as each one sees only a part of what he ought to see before forming his opinion, it is not surprising that each should see a different part, and should consequently be led to different results. They then fall into a dispute, each presenting his own partial view, and shutting his eyes to that exhibited by his opponent.

Some of the mistakes which men thus fall into are melancholy; others only ludicrous. Some European traveller showed a map of the world to a Chinese philosopher. The philosopher looked at it a few moments, and then turned with a proud and haughty look, and said to the by-standers, "This map is entirely wrong; the English know nothing of geography. They have got China out upon one side of the world, whereas it is, in fact, exactly in the middle."

Multitudes of amusing stories are related by travellers of the mistakes and misconceptions and false reasonings of semibarbarous people, about the subjects of European science and philosophy. They go to reasoning at once, and fall into the grossest errors; but still, they have much more confidence in their silly speculations, than in any evidence which their minds are capable of receiving.

But you will perhaps say, Do you mean to compare us with such savages? Yes; the human mind, in its tendencies, is everywhere the same. The truths which relate to the world of spirits are, to us, what European science is to a South Sea islander. Our minds experience the same difficulty in grasping them, and we hurry to the same wild speculations and false conclusions.

It is not surprising that the truths contained in a revelation from heaven should be beyond our grasp. We cannot even fairly grasp the truths relating to the mere physical motions of this earth. We know, for instance, that the distinction downward is only towards the earth. Now let your imagination extend half round the globe. Think of the people who are standing upon it, exactly opposite to ourselves, and try to realize that downward is towards the earth there. You believe it, I know; but can you, in the expressive phrase of children, make it seem so?

Again, you know, if you believe that the earth revolves, that the room you are in revolves with it, and that consequently it was, six hours ago, in a position the reverse of what it now is--so that the floor was in a direction corresponding to that of the walls now. Now can you, by any mental effort, realize this? Or will you acknowledge that even this simple astronomical subject is beyond your grasp?

Once more. Suppose the earth and sun and stars were all annihilated, and one small ball existed alone in space. You can imagine this state of things for a moment. Now there would be, as you well know, if you have the slightest astronomical knowledge, no down or up in such case, for there would be no central body to attract. Now when you fancy this ball thus floating in empty space, can you realize that there would be no tendency in it to move in one direction rather than another? You may believe that it would not move; but fix your mind upon it for a moment, and then look off from it, first in one direction, then in another, until you have looked in every direction, and can you make all these seem the same? No; we cannot divest ourselves of the impression that one of these is more properly up, and the other more properly down, though the slightest astronomical knowledge will convince us that this impression is a mere delusion. Even this simple and unquestionable truth is beyond the grasp of the human mind, at least until after it has, by very long contemplation on such subjects, divested itself of the prejudices of the senses.

Is it surprising, then, that when a revelation comes to us from a world which is entirely unseen and unknown, describing to us in some degree God's character and the principles of his government, there should be many things in it which we cannot now understand? No. There are, and from the nature of the case must be, a thousand difficulties insuperable to us at present. Now if we do not cordially feel and admit this, we shall waste much time in needless perplexity. My object, in this chapter, is to convince all who read it, that they must expect to find difficulties, insuperable difficulties, in the various aspects of religious truth, and to try to persuade you to admit this, and to repose quietly in acknowledged ignorance, in those cases where the human mind cannot know. The difficulties are never questions of practical duty, and sometimes are very remotely connected with any religious truth. Some of them I shall however describe, not with the design of explaining them, because I purposely collect such as I believe cannot be explained satisfactorily to young persons, but with the design of bringing all cordially to feel that they must be ignorant, and that they may as well acknowledge their ignorance at once.

First difficulty. It is a common opinion that God existed before the creation of the world, alone and unemployed from eternity. Now the difficulty is this: How could a being who was infinite in benevolence and power waste all that time, when it might have been employed in making millions and millions happy? The creation was not far from six thousand years ago, and six thousand years, compared with the eternity beyond, are nothing. So that it would seem that almost the whole of the existence of a benevolent and omnipotent Being, who delights in doing good and promoting happiness, has been spent in doing nothing.

Perhaps some one will make an effort to escape from the difficulty by supposing, what is very probably true, that other worlds were created long before this. But let such an one consider, that however remote the first creation may have been, there is beyond it, so far as we can see, an eternity of solitude and inaction.

Remember, I say so far as we can see, for I am far from believing that Jehovah has ever wasted time. I know nothing about it; I can see and reason just far enough to perceive that the whole subject is beyond my grasp, and I leave it, contented not to know, and not to pretend to know any thing about it.

After reading these remarks at one time to an assembly of young persons, several of them gathered around me, and attempted to show that there was in fact no difficulty in this first case.

"Why," said I, "what explanation have you?"

"I think," was the reply, "that God might have been creating worlds from all eternity, and thus never have been unemployed."

"If that had been the case," replied I, "would or would not some one of these worlds have been eternal?"

"Yes, sir," they all answered with one voice.

"Then you suppose that some of these worlds were eternal and others not. The first which were created had no beginning; but after a time, according to this hypothesis, Jehovah began to create them at definite periods. This is evidently absurd. Besides, those which were eternal must have existed as long as God has existed; and if you admit that, it seems that you must admit that they are independent of God; for if they have existed for ever, they could not have been created."

One of the party attempted to avoid this by saying, that though the whole series of creations has been eternal, yet that every particular creation may have been at some definite point of time; so that each one world has had but a limited existence, though the whole series has been eternal.

"But," said I, "can you conceive, clearly conceive, of an eternal series of creations of matter, without believing that some matter itself is eternal? And if you suppose matter itself to be eternal, can you understand how God can have created that which has existed as long as he has himself?"

This was the substance of the conversation, which, however, in all its details, occupied half an hour. And I believe all who engaged in it cordially acknowledged that the whole subject was entirely beyond the grasp of their minds.

As this book may fall into the hands of some theological scholar, I beg that he will bear in mind that I do not present this subject as one that would perplex him, but as one which must perplex the young. I maintain, that whatever trained metaphysicians may understand, or fancy that they can understand, it is entirely beyond the reach of such minds as those for whom this book is intended.

Second difficulty. When in a still and cloudless summer evening you have looked upon the stars of the sky, you have often wondered at the almost boundless extent of the creation. That faint star which twinkles so feebly that you almost fear that the next gentle breeze will extinguish it, or that the next light cloud will sweep it away, has burned with the same feeble but inextinguishable beam ever since the creation. The sun has blazed around the heavens--storms have agitated and wrecked the skies--the moon has waxed and waned over it; but it burns on the same. It may be obscured by some commotion of the elements for a time; but when cloud and storm have passed away, you will find it shining on unchanged, in the same place, and with the same brightness, and with precisely the same hue which it exhibited before the flood.

It is a great blazing sun, burning at its immense distance with inconceivable brightness and glory, probably surrounded by many worlds whose millions of inhabitants are cheered by its rays. Now, as you all well know, every star which twinkles in the sky, and thousands of others which the telescope alone brings to view, are probably thus surrounded by life and intelligence and happiness in ten thousand forms. Stand now under the open sky, and estimate as largely as you please the extent of the creation. However widely you may in imagination expand its boundaries, still it seems to human reason that it must have a limit. Now, go with me in imagination to that limit. Let us take our station at the remotest star, and look upon the one side into the regions which God has filled with intelligence and happiness; and on the other side into the far wider regions of gloomy darkness and solitude that lie beyond. Make the circle of the habitable universe as large as you will, how much more extensive, according to any ideas of space which we can form, must be the dreary waste beyond. The regions which God has filled by his works and plans dwindle to a little fertile island in the midst of a boundless ocean. But why is this? Who can explain or understand how a Being boundless in power and desirous of promoting the greatest possible amount of enjoyment, can leave so immense a portion unoccupied, and confine all his works to a region which, though immense to our conceptions, is, after all, but a little spot, a mere point, compared with the boundless expanse around?

Now, I by no means believe that there is such an immense void as my reasoning seems to prove there must be. My object is to show, that in these subjects which are beyond our grasp, we may reason plausibly, and only plunge ourselves in difficulties without end. Therefore on such subjects I distrust all reasoning. I never reason on them except for the purpose of showing how utterly the subject is beyond our grasp; and in regard to such questions, I have no opinion--I believe nothing, and disbelieve nothing.

Third difficulty. The existence of suffering. It seems to me that the human mind is utterly incapable of explaining how suffering can find its way into any world which is under the control of a benevolent and an omnipotent God. If he is benevolent, he will desire to avoid all suffering; and if he is omnipotent, he will be able to do it. Now, this reasoning seems to be a perfect moral demonstration; no person can reply to it. Some one may faintly say, that the suffering we witness is the means of producing a higher general good; and then I have only to ask, But why could not an omnipotent Being secure the higher good without the suffering? And it is a question which it seems to me no man can answer. The only rational course which we can take is to say, sincerely and cordially, we do not know. We are just commencing our existence, just beginning to think and to reason about our Creator's plans, and we must expect to find hundreds of subjects which we cannot understand.

Fourth difficulty. Human accountability. Instead of calling this a difficulty, I ought to call it a cluster of difficulties; for unanswerable questions may be raised without end out of this subject.

Look at yonder gloomy procession. In the cart there sits a man who has been convicted of piracy and murder upon the high seas, and he is condemned to die. Now, that man was taught from his youth to be a robber and a murderer; he was trained up to blood: conscience did doubtless remonstrate; there was a law written on his heart which condemned him; but he was urged on by his companions, and perhaps by his very father, to stifle its voice. Had he been born and brought up in a Christian land with a kind Christian parent, and surrounded by the influences of the Bible and the church and the Sabbath-school, he would undoubtedly never have committed the deed. And yet he must be punished for a crime which, had he been in our circumstances, he would not have committed; and which his very judge perhaps would have been guilty of, had he been exposed to the temptations which overwhelmed the prisoner.

In a multitude of books on metaphysics, the following train of reasoning is presented. The human mind, as it comes from the hand of the Creator, is endued with certain susceptibilities to be affected by external objects. For instance, an injury awakens resentment in every mind. The heart is so constituted, that when the youngest child receives an injury which it can understand, a feeling of resentment comes up in his breast. It need not have been so--indeed, it would not have been so, but for the fall. We might unquestionably have been so formed that mere compassion for the guilt of the individual who had inflicted it, or a simple desire to remove the suffering, or any other feeling whatever, might rise. But God decided, when he formed our minds, what should be their tendencies.

He has not only decided upon the constitutional tendencies of the mind, but has arranged all the circumstances to which each individual is to be exposed; and these, so far as we can see, constitute the whole which affects the formation of character--the original tendencies and the circumstances of life by which they are developed or restrained. God has, therefore, the whole control in the formation of the character of every individual.

This seems, at least to a great many minds, perfect demonstration; and it brings us at once to that greatest of all questions in physics or metaphysics, in the whole circle of human inquiry--a question which has caused more disputes, destroyed more Christian peace of mind, given rise to more vain systems formed by philosophical attempts to evade the difficulty, than almost any other question whatever: How can man be accountable, when God has had such entire control in the formation of his character?

I know that some among my readers will think that I make the difficulty greater than it is. They will think they can see much to lighten it, and will perhaps deny some of my assumptions. Of such an one I would simply ask, were he before me--after having heard all he should have to say on the subject--"Can you, sir, after all, honestly say that you understand, clearly understand, how man can be fully accountable, and yet his heart be as much under divine control as it certainly is?" Every honest man will acknowledge that he is often, in his thoughts on this subject, lost in perplexity, and forced to admit the narrow limit of the human powers.

But again. No one denies that God foreknows perfectly every thing that happens. Now, suppose a father were to say to his child, "My son, you are going to a scene of temptation to-day; you will be exposed to some injury, and will be in danger of using some harsh and resentful words. Now, I wish you to be careful. Bear injury patiently, and do not use opprobrious language in return."

All this would be very well; but suppose that in addition the father were to say, "My son, I have contrived to ascertain what you will say, and I have written here upon this paper every word you will utter to-day."

"Every word you think I shall speak, you mean," says the boy.

"No," says the father, "every word you will speak; they are all written exactly. I have by some mysterious means ascertained them, and here they are. And it is absolutely certain that you will speak every thing which is written here, and not a syllable besides."

Could any boy, after such a statement, go away believing what his father had said, and yet feeling that he himself could be, notwithstanding, free to act and speak that day as he pleased?

Now God knows, as all will acknowledge, every thing which will take place, just as certainly as if it were written. The mere fact of expressing it in language would make no difference. We may consider our future conduct to be as clearly known, and as certain, as if our histories were minutely written; and where is the man--with perhaps the exception of a few who have made metaphysical philosophy a study for years--who will not acknowledge that this truth, which nobody will deny, throws a little perplexity over his mind when he looks at that moral freedom and entire accountability which the Bible and human consciousness both attribute to man?

Fifth difficulty. It is common to prove the existence of God from his works in the following manner: We see created objects; they must have had a cause, for nothing can arise out of nothing. There must have been, therefore, some great first cause which we call God.

Now this reasoning is very plausible; but suppose the infidel to whom you present it should say, "But what brought God into existence?"

You answer, "He is uncaused."

"Very well," he replies, "then he came from nothing; so that it seems something can come from nothing."

"No," you reply, "he existed from eternity."

"And I suppose," replies the atheist, "that the world has existed uncaused from all eternity; and why is not my supposition as good as yours? There are no more marks of design in the structure of this earth, than there are in the nicely balanced and adjusted powers and attributes of Jehovah."

Now this does not shake my confidence in the being of a God. Notwithstanding the difficulty of reasoning with an infidel who is determined not to be convinced, the proofs from marks of design are conclusive to every unbiassed mind. We know there is a God--every man knows there is; though they who are resolved to break his laws sometimes vainly seek shelter in a denial of his existence: like the foolish child who, when at midnight the thunder-storm rages in the skies, buries his face in his pillow, and fancies that he finds protection from the forked lightning by just shutting his eyes to its glare. No; it only shakes my confidence in all abstract reasonings upon subjects which are beyond my grasp.

Sixth difficulty. How can God really answer prayer without in fact miraculously interrupting the course of nature? That God does answer prayer by an exertion of his power in cases to which human influence does not reach, seems evident from the following passage: "The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much. Elias was a man subject to like passions as we are, and he prayed earnestly that it might not rain; and it rained not on the earth by the space of three years and six months. And he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain, and the earth brought forth her fruit." James 5:16-18. Now, if the natural effect of prayer as an exercise of the heart were all, this illustration would be altogether inappropriate. It must teach that the prayers of men will have an influence with Jehovah, so that he shall order, differently from what he otherwise would do, events beyond human control. Now how can this in fact be done without a miracle? A miracle is nothing more than an interruption of the ordinary course of nature. Now, if the ordinary course of nature would in any case bring us what we ask, it is plain we do not owe it to God's answering prayer. If the regular course of nature would not bring it, then it seems that God cannot grant the request without interrupting more or less that course, and this is a miracle. This reasoning appears simple enough, and it is difficult to see how the conclusion can be avoided.

But to make the point plainer, let me suppose a case. A mother, whose son is sick in a foreign port, asks for prayers in a seaman's chapel, that he may be restored to health and returned in safety. The young man is perhaps ten thousand miles from home. The prayer can have no power to put in operation any earthly cause which can reach him. If it reaches him at all, it must be by a divine interposition.

But how can God answer this prayer without in reality interfering miraculously with the laws of nature? If the young man would have recovered without it, then his restoration cannot very correctly be said to be in answer to prayer. If he recovers, when, without the prayer, he would have died, then it seems very plain that God must interfere somewhere to interrupt what would have been the ordinary course of nature; he must arrest supernaturally the progress of the disease, or give to medicine an efficacy which, without his special interference, it would not have possessed; or suggest to his physician a course of treatment which the ordinary laws of thought would not have presented to his mind; either of which, according to any philosophical definition, is a miracle.

Now undoubtedly God, in some secret way that we cannot now understand, can, without disturbing the laws of nature, grant our requests. The difficulty is merely one to our limited powers; but to these powers it is insurmountable.

I might go on with such an enumeration to an indefinite length; but I have, I hope, already brought up points enough; and let my reader remember, that it is not necessary for my purpose that he should admit that all these questions are beyond the grasp of his mind. It is enough for my present object, that each one will admit that some of them are. One will say that he can understand the subject of God's answering prayer; another will think there is no difficulty in regard to God's foreknowledge of human actions; and thus every reader will perhaps find some one of these which he thinks he understands. But will not each one acknowledge that there are some which he cannot understand? If so, he will cordially feel that there are subjects connected with important religious truth which are beyond the grasp of the human mind, and this conviction is what I have been endeavoring to establish.

The real difficulties which I have brought to view in the preceding pages are few. They are only brought up again and again in different forms, that they might be more clearly seen. Eternal duration; infinite space; the nature of moral agency--these are the fountains of perplexity from which, in various ways, I have drawn in this chapter. They are subjects which the human mind cannot grasp, and they involve in difficulty every proposition of which they form an element. You may remove the difficulty from one part of the ground to the other, you may conceal it by sophistry, you may obscure it by declamation; but, after all that you have done, it will remain a difficulty still, and the acute and candid mind will see its true character through all the forms in which you may attempt to disguise it. The disputes and the theorizing with which the theological world is filled on the subject of moral agency, for example: the vain attempts to form some philosophical theory which will explain the subject, remind me of the labors of a schoolboy endeavoring to solve an equation containing one "irrational term." He transposes the troublesome surd from one side to the other--he multiplies and divides it--he adds to it and subtracts from it--he tries involution and evolution upon it; but notwithstanding every metamorphosis, it remains a surd still; and though he may have lost sight of it himself, by throwing it into some complicated multinomial expression, the practised mathematician will see, by a glance of the eye, that an insuperable difficulty is there.

So these great moral subjects contain intrinsic and insurmountable difficulties, which it is most philosophical to acknowledge, not to deny or conceal. We ought to be willing to remain, in a measure, ignorant on such subjects, if we can only distinctly know our duty. It is indeed best, in ordinary cases, to look into the subject--to examine it carefully, so as to find where the difficulty is--see what firm ground we have all around it, and let the region of uncertainty and ignorance be circumscribed by a definite boundary. But when this is done, look calmly upon the surface of the deep which you know you cannot sound, and acknowledge the limit of your powers with a humble and quiet spirit.

In order to avoid that mental anxiety which the contemplation of insurmountable difficulty is calculated to awaken, it is well to make a broad and constant distinction between a theoretical and practical question. The inquiry what duty is, is in every case a practical question. The principles upon which that duty is required form often a mere question of theory, into which it is of no importance that we should enter. Shall the Sabbath commence on Saturday evening or on Sunday morning? That is a practical difficulty. Your decision of it will affect your practice at once. "Why did God appoint one day in seven, rather than one in six or one in eight, for holy time?" That is just as plainly theoretical. Now almost every question relating to the reasons which influence the Creator in his dealings with men--questions in regard to the essence of his character, the constitution of man as a moral being, the grounds on which he permitted the introduction of moral evil amidst the creations of his hand--these are theoretical questions. If we believe the plain declarations of the Bible in regard to the facts on these subjects, those facts will indeed influence our conduct, but we may safely leave the theory to Him who has the responsibility of reigning in the universe.

Take, for instance, the question of eternal punishment. There is a great deal of speculation on what ought and what ought not to be the doom of impenitent sinners who continue in sin during their period of probation. But what reasonable man who will reflect a moment, can imagine that any human mind can take in such a view of God's administration as to enable it really to grasp this question? What powers can comprehend so fully the nature and the consequences of sin and punishment--not for a few years only, but for ever; and not upon a few minds only, but upon the universe, as to be able to form any opinion at all in regard to the course which the Supreme ought to take in the punishment of sin? Why, the noisy, riotous tenants of a crowded jail-room are far more capable of discussing the principles of penal jurisprudence than we are of forming any opinion, upon abstract grounds, of the proper extent and duration of future punishment. The jailer would say to his prisoners, if they remonstrated with him on the severity of their sentence, "The law decides this question; we have nothing to do with it: the law will be executed." And so, if a man should attempt to reason with me to prove, on abstract grounds, that a holy God cannot inflict eternal punishment, might I not say to him, "Sir, why do you perplex me with the question of the punishment of the enemies of God? I have not that punishment to assign. God says, that the wicked shall go away into everlasting punishment. He has decided. I cannot stand on the eminence which he occupies, and see all that led him to this decision. My duty is, to believe what he says, and to escape as swiftly as I can to the Refuge from that storm."

Nine-tenths of the difficulties which beset the paths of young Christians would be avoided by such a spirit as this: by our taking God's decisions, and spending our strength in performing the practical duties which arise from them, and leaving the grounds of those decisions with him.

This principle may be applied in a multitude of cases in which Scripture declarations are a ground of doubt and difficulty to Christians. "Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God that worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure." So far as this text is considered in its practical aspects, how plain and simple it is; and yet how easy to lose ourselves in the theoretical speculations to which it may give rise. The duties it requires are plain and simple. Make effort yourself with patient fidelity, but feel at the same time a humble sense of your dependence upon God. The theory upon which these two duties are founded, is lost in obscurity which the human mind cannot penetrate.

The words "work out," etc., seem to imply that the power necessary to perform the duty rests with man, while the latter part of the verse, "for it is God," etc., seems to attribute it to God. How is this? What degree of agency has man himself in the production of those holy feelings which the Bible represents as necessary to salvation, and how far are they the work of God? This is a question which, as has been already remarked, has come up in a thousand forms. It has been the foundation of many a captious cavil, as well as of many an honest doubt. If the Bible had taught us that man alone had power over his conduct, so as to be entirely independent of an over-ruling hand, we could understand it. Or if it had maintained that God reigned in the human heart, and controlled its emotions and feelings to such an extent as to free man from the responsibility, this too would be plain. But it takes neither of these grounds. In some passages it plainly teaches us that all the responsibility of human conduct rests upon the individual being who exhibits it. In other places we are informed that the great God is supreme in the moral as in the material world, and that he turns the hearts of men as surely and as easily as the rivers of water. And these two truths, so perplexing to philosophy, are brought, by a moral daring for which the Bible is remarkable, directly side by side in the passage before us. There is no softening of language to obscure the distinctness of the difficulty--there are no terms of limitation to bring it in within narrow bounds--there is no interpretation to explain, no qualifications to modify. But it stands fair and legible, and unalterable, upon the pages of the word of God--saying to us in language which we cannot misunderstand, you must make active and earnest efforts yourselves in the pursuit of holiness; and you must still submit to the power that rules in your heart, and look for assistance to God, who works in you to will and to do.

It ought however to be said again and again, that the difficulty is not a practical, but a theoretical one. There is no difficulty in making the efforts required by the former part of the passage, and at the same time in feeling the dependence on God required in the latter. The difficulty is in understanding the principle upon which the two are founded. It seems to me that this is a very fundamental point. Persons seeking, or thinking that they are seeking to enter the kingdom of heaven, are often encumbered with these very difficulties. They cannot understand the comparative influence which God and man have over the human heart, and hence they remain at a stand, not knowing what to do. They forget that the difficulty, great as it is, is one of speculation, not of action, and therefore they ought not to waste a thought upon it, until at least they have obtained peace with God. Two separate duties are required. We can understand them well enough, and they are not inconsistent with each other. Exert yourselves to the utmost in seeking salvation. What difficulty is there in this? Place all your hope of success in God. What difficulty is there in this? And what difficulty is there in making exertion ourselves, and feeling reliance on God at the same time? There is none. It has been done a thousand times. It is done by thousands now. It can be done by all. But we cannot understand, it may be said, the principle upon which these two duties are enjoined. True, we cannot understand it. The theory is involved in darkness, in which any who choose may easily lose themselves; but the duties are plain. God has enjoined them, and, as dutiful children, we ought to feel that if he clearly tells us what we are to do, he may properly conceal in many cases the reasons of his requirements.

There are three or four very common evils which, by taking up the subject of this chapter so formally, I have been wishing to remove. I will mention them:

1. The useless perplexity of religious inquirers. A young person, perhaps one of my readers, is almost persuaded to be a Christian. You reflect upon your lost condition as a sinner, and feel desolate and unhappy. You think of God's goodness to you, and are half inclined to come to him. Instead, however, of thinking only of your duty, trusting in Christ for pardon, resisting temptation, and commencing a life of practical piety, you immediately seize upon some theoretical difficulty connected with theology, and trouble yourself about that. Perhaps you cannot understand how God influences the human heart, or how man can be accountable, if the Holy Spirit alone sanctifies. "How can I work out my own salvation," you say, "if it is God who worketh in me to will and to do?" Or perhaps you perplex your head about the magnitude or duration of future punishment, or the number who will be saved, as though the administration of Jehovah's government would come upon your shoulders if you became a Christian, and you must therefore understand thoroughly its principles before you incur such a responsibility. How absurd! Can you not trust God to manage his own empire, at least until after you have come yourself fully over to his side?

Suppose a child were to show a disobedient and rebellious spirit in school, and should be called upon by his teacher to reform, and should, after pausing a moment, begin to say, "I ought to conduct differently, I know, and I think seriously of returning to my duty. But there are some things about it which I do not understand."

"What things?" says the teacher.

"Why," says the boy, "I do not see what I should do if you and my father were to command me to do opposite things. I do not clearly understand whom I ought to obey."

"Do you not know," replies the teacher, "that you now disobey me in cases where your father and myself both wish you to obey? Come and do your duty in these. You have nothing to do with such a question as you mention. Come and do your duty."

"But," says the boy, "there is another great difficulty, which I never could understand. Suppose my father or you should command me to do something wrong; then I should be bound to obey my father, and also bound not to do what is wrong. Now I cannot understand what I ought to do in such a case."

Thus he goes on. Instead of returning immediately to the right path, becoming a dutiful son and a docile pupil at once, in the thousand plain cases which are every day occurring, he looks every way in search of difficulties with which he hopes to perplex his teacher and excuse his neglect of duty.

Speculating inquirer, are you not doing the same? When it is most plainly your duty to begin to love God and serve him at once in the thousand plain instances which occur daily, instead of doing it with all your heart, trusting in God that he will do right, do you not search through the whole administration of his government for fancied difficulties--difficulties to your feeble powers--feeble originally, but rendered feebler still by your continuance in sin? With these difficulties you embarrass yourself, and strive to perplex your minister, or your Sabbath-school teacher, or your parent, and thus find a momentary respite from the reproaches of a wounded spirit by carrying the war away from your own conscience, which is the proper field, into your pastor's or your parent's intellect. While the argument is going on here, your sense of guilt subsides, conscience is seared, and you fall back to coldness and hardness of heart. Now, why will you thus waste your time and your moral strength on questions in regard to which you have no responsibility, instead of walking in the plain path of duty which lies open before you?

2. Useless perplexities of a Christian. In bringing up to view so plainly the insuperable difficulties connected with religious truth, I have been hoping to divert the minds of Christians from being perplexed and embarrassed by them. Once make up your mind, fully and cordially, that there are depths which the sounding-line of your intellect will not reach, and you will repose in the conviction that you do not and cannot now know, with a peace of mind which you cannot in any other way secure. How many persons perplex themselves again and again, and go on perplexing themselves all through life, in fruitless endeavors to understand thoroughly the precise and exact relation which Jesus Christ bears to the Father. The Bible gives us clearly, and in simple and definite language, all about the Saviour which it is of practical importance for us to know. The Word wasGod, and the Word became flesh, or man. Now just be willing to stop here. "But no," says some one who loves his Saviour, and wishes to understand his character, "I want to have clear ideas on this subject; I want to know precisely what relation he sustained to the Father before he became man. Was he in all respects identical; or was he a different being, or a different person; and what is the difference between a person and a being? When he became man, I want to know precisely how the two natures came together."

You want to know; but how will you ascertain? Does the Bible tell you? It tells you that your Saviour was God, and that he became man. If you rest upon the Bible, you must rest here. Will you trust to your own speculations? Will you build up inferences upon what the Bible states, and think, if you are cautious in your reasoning, you can be safe in your conclusions? You cannot be safe in your conclusions. No mind can be trusted a moment to draw conclusions even from well established premises on a subject which it does not fully grasp.

If you doubt this, just make the following experiment. Undertake to teach the elements of geometry to a class of intelligent young people; and as they go on from truth to truth, lead them into conversation, induce them to apply the active energies of their minds to the subject, in reasoning themselves from the truths which their text-book explains, and you will soon be convinced how far the human mind can be trusted in its inferences on a subject which is beyond its grasp. Your pupils will bring you apparent contradictions, arising, as they think they can show, from the truths established; and will demonstrate, most satisfactorily to themselves, the most absurd propositions. In one case, an intelligent scholar in a class in college attempted to demonstrate the absurdity of the famous "Forty-seventh." He drew his diagram, and wrote out his demonstration, and showed it to his class; and it was long before any of them could detect the fallacy. The mathematical reader will understand this, and all may understand, that, in this case, the pupil made out a chain of reasoning perfectly satisfactory to his own mind, which however led to absurdity and falsehood.

You say, perhaps, "Well, this was because he had just begun the study; he knew scarcely any thing about it. Such mistakes would only be made by the merest beginners."

That is exactly what I wish you to say; and to admit the same thing in regard to ourselves, as students of religious truth. We are mere beginners; we know almost nothing of such subjects as God, eternity, and the constitution of mind. The moment, therefore, we leave the plain propositions of the Bible, which are all that are necessary for us to understand, and go to drawing inferences, we involve ourselves in absurdity and falsehood, no matter how directly and inevitably our inferences seem to follow. Whenever I hear a man attempting to prove, from the nature of the case, that the Word could not have been God, and afterwards have become flesh, or that God cannot reign in the heart, as the Bible says he does, and yet leave man free and accountable, I always think of the college sophomore endeavoring by his own blundering reasoning to upset the proposition of Pythagoras.

These subjects, which are too difficult in their very nature for our powers, are the source of very many of the unhappy controversies which agitate the church. The mind is not capable of grasping fully the whole truth. Each side seizes a part, and building its own inferences upon these partial premises, they soon find that their own opinions come into collision with those of their neighbors.

Moralists tell the following story, which very happily illustrates this species of controversy. In the days of knighterrantry, when individual adventurers rode about the world, seeking employment in their profession, which was that of the sword, two strong and warlike knights, coming from opposite directions, met each other at a place where a statue was erected. On the arm of the statue was a shield, one side of which was of iron, the other of brass; and as our two heroes reined up their steeds, the statue was upon the side of the road between them, in such a manner that the shield presented its surface of brass to the one, and of iron to the other. They immediately fell into conversation in regard to the structure before them, when one, incidentally alluding to the iron shield, the other corrected him, by remarking that it was of brass. The knight upon the iron side of course did not receive the correction: he maintained that he was right; and, after carrying on the controversy for a short time by harsh language, they gradually grew angry, and soon drew their swords. A long and furious combat ensued; and when at last both were exhausted, unhorsed, and lying wounded upon the ground, they found that the whole cause of their trouble was, that they could not see both sides of a shield at a time.

Now, religious truth is sometimes such a shield, with various aspects, and the human mind cannot clearly see all at a time. Two Christian knights, clad in strong armor, come up to some such subject as moral agency, and view it from opposite stations. One looks at the power which man has over his heart, and laying his foundation there, he builds up his theory upon that alone. Another looks upon the divine power in the human heart, and laying his own separate foundation, builds up his theory. The human mind is incapable, in fact, of grasping the subject--of understanding how man can be free and accountable, and yet be so much under the control of God as the Bible represents. Our Christian soldiers, however, do not consider this. Each takes his own view, and carries it out so far as to interfere with that of the other. They converse about it; they talk more and more warmly; then a long controversy ensues: if they have influence over others, their dispute agitates the church, and divides brethren from brethren. And why? Why, just because our Creator has so formed us that we cannot, from one point of view, see both sides of the shield at the same time. The combatants, after a long battle, are both unhorsed and wounded; their usefulness and their Christian character is injured or destroyed.

Now, what is the true course for us to take in regard to such a subject? Simply this. Look at our dependence on God for a change of heart and for the exercise of right feeling, just as the Bible presents this subject, and go cordially and fully just as far as the Bible goes, which is a great way. Fix in your heart that feeling of dependence and humility which this view is calculated to give. Then look at the other aspect of this subject, the active power of man, and go here just as far as the Bible goes, and carefully learn the lesson of diligence which it teaches. Suppose you cannot find where the two come together, be willing to be ignorant of a theory which God has not revealed.

It has been my design, in presenting this subject, to convince Christians that they cannot understand every thing connected with Christian theology, and to try to induce them to repose willingly and peacefully in a sense of ignorance fully realized and frankly acknowledged.

3. Difficulties of children. I have discussed this subject too with direct reference to children, for the sake of trying to guard you against two faults. One is, coming to your parents or teachers with questions, and expecting that they can in all cases give a satisfactory answer. They cannot. They do not know. The wisest parent, the highest intellect, is incapable of answering the questions which the youngest child can ask in regard to the truths of Christianity. Do not expect it, then. You may ask questions freely, but when the answers are not perfectly satisfactory to you, consider the subject as beyond the grasp of your present powers. Be satisfied if you can understand the principles of duty, and spend your moral strength in endeavoring to be as faithful as possible there.

There is one other suggestion which I wish to make to you. When you carry questions or difficulties of any kind to your parents or teachers, be very careful to be actuated by a sincere desire to learn, instead of coming as young person very often do, with a secret desire to display their own acuteness and discrimination in seeing the difficulty. How often have young persons brought questions to me, when it has been perfectly evident that their whole object was, not to be taught by it, but to show me their own shrewdness and dexterity. They listen in such cases to what I say, not to be taught by it, but to think what they can reply to it, and bring objection upon objection with a spirit which refuses to be satisfied. Be careful to avoid this. Ask for the sake of learning. Listen with a predisposition to be satisfied with the answer, and never enter into argument, and dispute with your parent or your teacher, with a view to show your dexterity. If you have this spirit and exercise it, an intelligent parent will always detect it.

4. Difficulties of parents and teachers. I wish to make this discussion the means of helping parents and teachers, and older brothers and sisters, out of one of their most common difficulties--I mean, that of answering questions brought to them by the young. Learn to say, "I do not know." If you really will learn to say this frankly and openly, it will help you out of a great many trou les.

You are a Sabbath-school teacher, I will imagine. A bright-looking boy, whose vanity has been fanned by flattery, says to you before his class,

"There is one thing in the lesson I do not understand. It says God made the earth first, and afterwards the sun. Now, the sun stands still, and the earth and all the planets move round it. It seems to me, therefore, that he would have been more likely to have created the sun first, for that is the largest and is in the middle, and afterwards the planets."

As he says this, you see a half smile of self-complacency upon his countenance as he looks round upon his classmates to observe how they receive this astonishing display of youthful acumen. If now you attempt any explanation, he does not follow you with any desire to have the difficulty removed. He either is absorbed in thinking how shrewdly he discovered and expressed the difficulty, or else, if he listens to your reply, it is to find something in it upon which he can hang a new question, or prolong the difficulty. He feels a sort of pride in not having his question easily answered. He cannot be instructed while in this state of mind.

"What, then, would you say to a boy in such a case?" you will ask.

I would say this to him: "I do not understand that very well myself. I know nothing about the creation but what that chapter tells me. You can think about it, and perhaps some explanation will occur to you. In the mean time it is not very necessary for us to know. It is not necessary for you to understand exactly how God made the world, in order to enable you to be a good boy this week."

And thus universally I would inculcate the importance of a humble, docile spirit, which will disarm every theoretical difficulty of its power to perplex us, or to disturb our peace.

CHAPTER VII.

EVIDENCES OF CHRISTIANITY.

THE first inquiry which meets us, in entering upon the consideration of this subject, is, "What sort of evidence are we to expect?" The only proper answer is, that sort of evidence which men require to produce conviction and to control the conduct in other cases. The human mind is so constituted, that men are governed by a certain kind and degree of evidence in all the concerns of life--a kind and a degree which are adapted to the circumstances in which we are placed here. This evidence, however, almost always falls very far short of demonstration, or absolute certainty. Still, it is enough to control the conduct. By the influence of it, a man will embark in the most momentous enterprises, and he is often induced by it to abandon his most favorite plans. Still, it is very far short of demonstration, or absolute certainty. For example, a merchant receives in his counting-room a newspaper which marks the prices of some species of goods at a foreign port as very high. He immediately determines to purchase a quantity, and to send a cargo there; but suppose, as he is making arrangements for this purpose, his clerk should say to him, "Perhaps this information may not be correct. The correspondent of the editor may have made a false statement for some fraudulent purpose, or the communication may have been forged; or some evil-minded person having the article in question for sale, may have contrived by stealth to alter the types, so as to cause the paper to make a false report, at least in some of the copies."

Now in such a case would the merchant be influenced in the slightest degree by such a sceptical spirit as this? Would he attempt to reply to these suppositions, and to show that the channel of communication between the distant port and his own counting-room could not have been broken in upon by fraud somewhere in its course, so as to bring a false statement to him? He could not show this. His only reply must be, if he should reply at all, "The evidence of this printed sheet is not perfect demonstration, but it is just such evidence in kind and degree as I act upon in all my business; and it is enough. Were I to pause with the spirit of your present objections, and refuse to act whenever such doubts as those you have presented might be entertained, I might close my business at once, and spend life in inaction. I could not, in one case in ten thousand, get the evidence which would satisfy such a spirit."

Again: you are a parent, I suppose; you have a son travelling at a distance from home, and you receive some day a letter from the post-office in a strange handwriting, and signed by a name you have never heard, informing you that your son has been taken sick at one of the villages on his route, and that he is lying dangerously ill at the house of the writer, and has requested that his father might be informed of his condition, and urged to come and see him before he dies.

Where now is the father who, in such a case, would say to himself, "Stop, this may be a deception; some one may have forged this letter to impose upon me. Before I take this journey, I must write to some responsible man in that village to ascertain the facts."

No; instead of looking with suspicion upon the letter, scrutinizing it carefully to find marks of counterfeiting, he would not even read it a second time. As soon as he had caught a glimpse of its contents, he would throw it hastily aside, and urging the arrangements for his departure to the utmost, he would hasten away, saying, "Let me go as soon as possible to my dying son."

I will state one more case, though perhaps it is so evident, upon a moment's reflection, that men do not wait for perfect certainty in the evidence upon which they act, that I have already stated too many.

Your child is sick, and as he lies tossing in a burning fever on his bed, the physician comes in to visit him. He looks for a few minutes at the patient, examines the symptoms, and then hastily writes an almost illegible prescription, whose irregular and abbreviated characters are entirely unintelligible to all but professional eyes. You give this prescription to a messenger--perhaps to some one whom you do not know--and he carries it to the apothecary, who, from the indiscriminate multitude of jars and drawers and boxes, filled with every powerful medicine and corroding acid and deadly poison, selects a little here and a little there, with which, talking perhaps all the time to those around him, he compounds a remedy for your son. The messenger brings it to the sick chamber, and as he puts it into your hands, do you think of stopping to consider the possibility of a mistake? How easily might the physician, by substituting one barbarous Latin name for another, or by making one little character too few or too many, have so altered the ingredients, or the proportions of the mixture, as to convert that which was intended to be a remedy to an active and fatal poison. How easily might the apothecary, by using the wrong weight, or mistaking one white powder for another precisely similar in appearance, or by giving your messenger the parcel intended for another customer, send you, not a remedy which would allay the fever and bring repose to the restless child, but an irritating stimulus, which should urge on to double fury the raging of the disease, or terminate it at once by sudden death.

How possible are these; but who stops to consider them? How absurd would it be to consider them. You administer the remedy with unhesitating confidence, and in a few days the returning health of your child shows that it is wise for you to act, even in cases of life and death, on reasonable evidence, without waiting for the absolute certainty of moral demonstration.

Now this is exactly the case with the subject of the Christian religion. It comes purporting to be a message from heaven, and it brings with it just such a kind of evidence as men act upon in all their other concerns. The evidence is abundant and satisfactory; at the same time, however, any one who dislikes the truths or the requirements of this gospel may easily, like the sceptical clerk in the case above-mentioned, make objections and difficulties innumerable. A man may be an infidel if he pleases. There is no such irresistible weight of argument that the mind is absolutely forced to admit it, as it is to believe that two and three make five. In regard to this latter truth, such is the nature of the human mind, that there is not, and there cannot be an individual who can doubt it. In regard to Christianity, however, as with all other truths of a moral nature which regulate the moral conduct of mankind, there is no such irresistible evidence. The light is clear, if a man is willing to see; but it is not so vividly intense as to force itself through his eyelids, if he chooses to close them. Any one may walk in darkness if he will.

The evidences of Christianity are usually considered a of two kinds--historical and internal. There may properly be added a third, which I shall call experimental. These three kinds are entirely distinct in their nature.

1. If we look back upon the history of Christianity, we find it was introduced into the world under very remarkable circumstances. Miracles were performed, and future events foretold, in attestation of its divine origin, and the founder was restored to life after being crucified by his enemies. These, with the various circumstances connected with them, constitute the historical evidence of Christianity.

2. If now we examine the book itself, its truths, its doctrines, its spirit, we find that it is exactly such in its nature and tendency as we should expect a message from Jehovah to such beings as we, would be. This is the internal evidence.

3. And if we look upon the effects which the Bible produces all around us upon the guilt and misery of society wherever it is faithfully and properly applied, we find it efficient for the purposes for which it was sent. It comes to cure the diseases of sin--and it does cure them. It is intended to lead men to abandon vice and crime, and to bring them to God--and it does bring them by hundreds and thousands. If we make the experiment with it, we find that it succeeds in accomplishing its objects. This we may call the experimental evidence.

These three kinds of evidence are so entirely distinct in their nature, that they apply to other subjects. You have a substance which you suppose is phosphorus. For what reason? Why, in the first place, a boy in whom you place confidence brought it for you from the chemist's, who said it was phosphorus. This is the historical evidence: it relates to the history of the article before it came into your possession. In the second place, you examine it, and it looks like phosphorus. Its color, consistence, and form, all agree. This is internal evidence: it results from internal examination. In the third place, you try it. It burns with a most bright and vivid flame. This last may be called experimental evidence; and it ought to be noticed, that this last is the best of the three. No matter what grounds of doubt and hesitation there may be in regard to the first and second kinds of evidence, if the article simply proves its properties on trial. If any one should say to you, "I suspect your messenger was not honest;" or, "This is too dark or too hard to be phosphorus;" your reply would be, "Sir, there can be no possible doubt of it. Just see how it burns."

Just so with the evidences of Christianity. It is interesting to look into the historical evidences that it is a revelation from heaven, and to contemplate also the internal indications of its origin; but after all, the great evidence which is most palpable, most convincing to the human mind, and on which it is best for Christians generally, and especially young Christians, chiefly to rely, is the experimental--the effects of the gospel, under the agency of the Holy Spirit, in changing the character and saving from suffering and sin.

I. HISTORICAL EVIDENCE.

If the Creator should intend to send a communication of his will to his creatures, we might have supposed that he would, at the time of his making it, accompany the revelation with something or other which should be a proof that it really came from him. Monarchs have always had some way of authenticating their communications with their subjects, or with distant officers. This is the origin of the use of seals. The monarch at home possesses a seal of a peculiar character. When he sends any communication to a distance, he impresses this seal upon the wax connected with the parchment upon which the letter is written. This gives it authority. No one else possessing such a seal, it is plain that no one can give the impression of it, and a seal of this kind is very difficult to be counterfeited. Various other devices have been resorted to by persons in authority to authenticate their communications.

In the same manner it is reasonable to expect that Jehovah, when he sends a message to men, will have some way of convincing us that it really comes from him. There are so many bad men in the world who are willing to deceive mankind, that we could not possibly tell, when a pretended revelation comes to us, whether it was really a revelation from heaven or a design of wicked men, unless God should set some marks upon it, or accompany it with some indications which bad men could not imitate.

The Bible professes to have been accompanied by such marks. They are the power of working miracles and foretelling future events, possessed by those who brought the various messages it contains. It is plain that man, without divine assistance, could have had no such power. If this power then really accompanied those who were the instruments of introducing the Christian religion into the world, we may safely conclude that it was given them by God, and as he would never give this power to sanction imposture, the message brought must be from him.

The way, then, to ascertain whether these miracles were actually performed, is like that of ascertaining all other matters of fact, by calling upon those who witnessed them for their testimony.

The manner in which these witnesses are to be examined, is similar to that pursued in ordinary courts of justice. It is similar, I mean, in its principles, not in its forms. I know of nothing which shows more convincingly the satisfactory nature of this evidence, than a comparison of it with that usually relied on in courts of justice. In order, then, to exhibit the former distinctly, I shall minutely describe the course pursued, and to make my description more definite, I shall select a particular case.

I was once walking in the streets of a large city, in which I was a stranger, looking around for some striking exhibitions of human character or efforts, when I saw several persons, of apparently low rank in life, standing before the door of what was apparently some public building. I thought it was probably a court-house, and that these were the men who had been called as witnesses, and that they were waiting for their turn to testify. As courts are always open to the public, I concluded to go in and hear some of the causes. I walked up the steps and entered a spacious hall, and at the foot of a flight of stairs saw a little painted sign, saying that the court-room was above. I passed up and pushed open the light baize door, which admitted me to the room itself.

At the end at which I entered there were two rows of seats, one row on each side of an aisle which led up through the centre. These seats seemed to be for spectators; for those on one side were nearly filled with women, and those on the other by men. I advanced up the aisle until I nearly reached the centre of the room, and then took my seat among the spectators, where I could distinctly hear and see all that passed. Before me, at the farther end of the room, sat the judge, in a sort of desk on an elevated platform, and in front of him was another desk, lower, which was occupied by the clerk, whose business it was to make a record of all the causes that were tried. There was an area in front of the judge, in which were seats for the various lawyers; and in boxes at the sides were seats for the jury, who were to hear the evidence, and decide what facts were proved. On one side of the room was a door made of iron grating, with sharp points upon the top, which led, I supposed, to an apartment where the prisoners were kept.

Not long after I had taken my seat, the clerk said that the next cause was the trial of O--- B--- for housebreaking. The judge commanded an officer to bring the prisoner into court. The officer went to the iron door I have described, unlocked it, and brought out of the room into which it opened, a prisoner; he looked guilty and ashamed; his face was pale--not as though he was afraid, but as if his constitution had been impaired by vice. They brought him into the middle of the room, and placed him in a sort of pew with high sides, and shut him in. He leaned against the front of it, looked at the judge, and began to listen to his trial.

The clerk read the accusation. It was, that he had broken open an unoccupied house once or twice, and taken from it articles belonging to the owner of the house. The judge asked him if he pleaded guilty, or not guilty. He said, Not guilty. The judge then asked the jury at the side to listen to the evidence, so that they might be prepared to decide whether this man did break open the house or not.

Men not accustomed to speak in public assemblies, could not easily give their testimony in such a case, so that it would be fully understood on all the important points. In fact, very few know fully what the important points are. Hence, it is necessary that there should be lawyers present, who can ask questions, and thus examine the witnesses in such a manner as to bring out fully all the facts in the case. There is one lawyer appointed by the government, whose business it is to bring to view all the facts which indicate the prisoner's guilt; and another on the part of the prisoner, who takes care that nothing is omitted or lost sight of which would be in his favor. When the prisoner has not procured any counsel, the judge appoints some one for him; this was done in the case before us.

The first witness called was the owner of the house. It is necessary that each witness should be a man of good character, and that he should testify only to what he saw or heard. No one is permitted to tell what some one else told him; for stories are very likely to be altered in repetition; so that, even in a complicated case, each man goes only so far as his own personal knowledge extends. And in order to be sure that the jury shall have his own story, he is obliged to come personally into court, and tell the story in presence of all. The owner of this house was probably a man of business; and a great deal of valuable time would have been saved if he had been permitted to write down his account and send it in. But no; every witness, where it is possible, must actually come into court and present his evidence with his own voice. This remark it is important to remember, as the principle will come to view when we consider the other case.

This witness testified, that he owned a certain house; that he moved out of it, and locked it up, leaving some articles in an upper chamber; that one day he went in and found that the house had been entered, I believe by a window, and that the chamber-door had been broken open, and some of the articles taken away. He said that he then employed a watchman to sleep in the house, and to try to catch the thief.

Here he had to stop; for, although he knew how the watchman succeeded, he was not permitted to tell, for he did not see it. No man testifies except to what he has seen or heard.

The watchman was next called. The lawyer for the government asked him,

"Were you employed by the owner of this house to watch for a thief in it?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did he tell you when he engaged you?"

"He told me that his house had been broken open, and he wished me to watch for the thief."

"Did you do it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, relate to the jury what occurred that night."

"I watched several nights. For some nights nothing occurred. All was quiet till morning."

"In what room did you stay?"

"In the room under the chamber from which the articles had been stolen."

"Well, go on with your account."

"At last, on the fifteenth of June, as I was then watching, about three o'clock in the morning I heard a noise. Some one was coming softly up stairs. He went up into the room over my head, and after remaining a few minutes there, he began to come down. I immediately went out into the entry and seized him, and took him to the watch-house. The next morning he was put in prison."

The lawyer then pointed to the prisoner at the bar, and asked if that was the man. The witness said it was.

The judge then asked the counsel for the prisoner if he had any questions to ask, and he did ask one or two, but they were not material. The jury then consulted together, and all agreed that the prisoner was proved guilty; and the judge ordered him to be sent back to the prison till he should determine what punishment must be assigned.

This is substantially the way in which all trials are conducted. Three or four points are considered very necessary: first, that the witnesses should be of good character; second, that they should have actually witnessed what they describe; and third, that the precise account which they themselves give, should come into court. These points the judge or the lawyers secure. The latter they obtain by having the witness himself always come, if it is possible, even if he has to leave most important business for this purpose. If, from sickness or any other similar cause, he cannot come, his testimony is taken down in writing and signed by himself, and that paper, the very one which he signed, must be brought into court and read there. This is called a deposition. The second point is secured by not allowing any man to go any farther in his testimony than he himself saw or heard. So that sometimes, when the case is complicated, a very large number of witnesses are called before the whole case is presented to the jury. The first point they secure by inquiring into the character of the witnesses. If any man can be proved to be unworthy of credit, his testimony is set aside.

Now all these points must be looked at in examining the evidence of the Christian miracles. I alter the arrangement, however, placing them now in the order in which it is most convenient to examine them.

1. We must ascertain that we have the exact account given by the witnesses themselves.

2. We must ascertain that they had distinct opportunities to witness what they describe.

3. We must have evidence that they are credible; that is, that they are honest men, and that their word can be relied upon.

These three points I shall examine in order in reference to the Christian miracles. The witnesses are the four evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John; and the first inquiry, according to the list above presented, is to determine whether we have exactly the account which they themselves give. Witnesses are commonly called into court to tell their own story, and then there can be no mistake. If that is impossible, as I remarked above, their deposition is taken with certain forms, and the very paper they originally signed is brought and read in court. But neither of these courses can be taken here. For, in the first place, the witnesses have been for a long time dead, so that they cannot come forward to give their testimony; and though they did write a full account at the time, yet it was so many years ago that no writing could remain to the present period. Time has entirely destroyed all vestiges of the writings of those days.

I presume all my readers are aware, that not long after the time of our Saviour the barbarians from the north, in innumberable hordes, began to pour down upon the Roman empire, until at last they subverted and destroyed it. Very many of these barbarians became nominal Christians and preserved some copies of the Bible, and in fact they saved many extensive and valuable libraries of manuscripts in rolls--the art of printing not being then known--but they destroyed most of the institutions and the accumulated property of civilized life, and brought a long period of ignorance and semibarbarism, called the "dark ages," upon the world. After some time, however, there began to be in various parts of Europe a gradual improvement. The monks in the various convents having no other employment, began to explore the old libraries and to study the books. They made themselves acquainted with the languages in which they were written, and when the art of printing was invented they published them. In consequence, however, of the immense number of manuscripts collected in some of the libraries, a long time elapsed before they were fully explored, and even now the work is not absolutely completed. New writings are occasionally brought to light and published. The difficulty of deciphering such old, worn out, faded, and almost illegible parchment rolls, is very great.

A great deal of interest was felt at the very first by these explorers, to find the oldest copies of the Bible, or of any parts of the Bible. They wished to have the most accurate and authentic copy possible; and the more ancient the copy, the more probable it was that it was taken directly from the original, and consequently the more it was to be depended upon. If they could have found a manuscript which was evidently the very copy originally written by the author himself, it would have been considered invaluable.

The number of manuscripts of the whole or of parts of the Hebrew Bible thus found, and now preserved in various libraries of Europe, is more than four hundred; and of the Greek Testament, not far from one hundred and fifty. They are scattered all over Europe, and are preserved in the libraries with great care. The oldest of them, however, was written several hundred years after the death of Christ, so that we now cannot ever have the manuscripts actually written by the original witnesses. The two methods usually relied on, therefore, in courts of justice, for being sure that the actual story of the witness himself is presented in court, fail in this case. We must resort, therefore, to another method equally certain, but different in form.

The evidence relied upon to prove that the books we have now, or rather the ancient manuscripts in the libraries in Europe from which they are translated, are really the same with the accounts originally written by the witnesses themselves, is this: Immediately after they were written, a great many other Christian writers, very much interested in these accounts, began to quote them in their own letters and books. They quoted them much more copiously than it is customary to quote now, because the art of printing puts every important book within the reach of all who are interested in it. Then, the original accounts were only in manuscript, and consequently could be seen and read only by a few. These few, therefore, in their writings made frequent and copious extracts from them; and these extracts have come down to us separately, and each one proves that the passage it contains, which is in the account now, was in that account when the quotation was made.

An imaginary instance will make this plain. The Vatican manuscript, as it is called, that is, a very ancient manuscript preserved in the library of the Vatican at Rome, is supposed to have been written about four hundred years after Christ. It contains, we will suppose, John's gospel, just as we have it now in our Bibles. This proves, that if the real original account which John gave was altered at all after he wrote it, it was altered before that time. Now suppose a Christian at Antioch, living two hundred years before the Vatican manuscript was written, had been writing a book, and in it had mentioned John's gospel, and had copied out a whole chapter. This book he leaves at Antioch: it is copied there again and again, and some copies are found there at the revival of learning after the dark ages. Here we have one chapter proved to have been in John's account two hundred years earlier than the date of the Vatican manuscript. In the same manner another chapter might have been quoted in another book kept at Alexandria, another at Rome, etc. Now the fact is, that these quotations have been so numerous, that they have formed an uninterrupted succession of evidences, beginning but a very short time after the original accounts were written, and coming down to modern times. Every chapter and verse is not indeed confirmed in this way, but every thing in the least degree important is. All the material facts, and every particular in regard to which there could be any necessity for this evidence, are furnished with it. Learned men have taken a great deal of pains to explore and collect this mass of evidence in favor of the genuineness of the sacred books. These quotations have been most carefully examined and republished; so that all who are inclined to go into an examination of them can do so. Dr. Paley, in his Evidences of Christianity, has presented enough to satisfy any mind of sufficient attainments to appreciate such an argument.

I say, of sufficient attainments--for there are very few, excepting professed scholars, who can have time to go fully enough into an examination of this subject to form an independent judgment. I have not attempted in the above remarks to present you with the argument itself, but only to explain the nature of it. As I remarked before, I do not think the historical argument is calculated to come with so much force to the minds of Christians generally, as one of another kind, which I shall presently exhibit. All ought, however, to understand its nature.

We may consider, then, the fact of these almost innumerable quotations from the writers of the New Testament, and copies and translations from them, forming a series which commenced soon after the writings first appeared, and continuing in uninterrupted succession down to the present time, as abundant evidence that the story we now have, is the story originally given by the witnesses themselves. This evidence does satisfy all who fully examine it. And this is the first point in the investigation.

But the question will arise in the minds of many of my readers, Why is it necessary to prove so fully and formally such a point as this? Why is it necessary to show so carefully that these are precisely, in all important respects, the very accounts originally written by the witnesses themselves? The answer is this. Unless this point were very carefully and fully proved, we might have supposed that the prevailing belief of the truth of the Christian miracles, and the general circulation of our present books, might have arisen in this way. Suppose that, eighteen hundred years ago, a good man named Jesus Christ had been dissatisfied with the prevailing errors and superstitions, and had taught a purer system of religious and moral duty. His followers become strongly attached to him. They repeat to one another his instructions, follow him from place to place, and soon attract the attention of the authorities of the country. He is persecuted by his enemies, and put to death. After his death, his disciples make greater and greater efforts to promote his principles. They relate, with some exaggeration, the incidents of his life. His benevolence and kindness to the sick and to the afflicted are gradually, as the stories are repeated again and again, magnified to the exertion of miraculous power. One extraordinary narrative after another gradually gains credit and circulation. No one intends to deceive, but according to the universal tendency in such cases, even where stories that strongly interest the feelings are circulated among good men, the accounts gradually and insensibly assume a marvellous and miraculous air, and after a time, when years have elapsed, and no method of ascertaining the truth remains, these exaggerated and false stories are committed to writing, and these writings come down to us. This supposition might very plausibly have been made. But the evidence afforded by the series of quotations I have above described cuts it off altogether. That long and uninterrupted series carries us irresistibly back to the very time when the events occurred. There is no time left for exaggeration and misrepresentation. We prove that the accounts which we now have were written on the spot--that they were in circulation, and exposed to rigid scrutiny immediately after the events themselves took place--and we are thus compelled to believe that the original records, made at the time, have been preserved unaltered to the present day.

"But does this," you will ask, "prove that the accounts are true?" Most certainly not. We have not yet attempted to prove them true. We have not yet come to the examination of the evidence itself at all. The original witnesses, if we admit that these accounts were written by them, may have been mistaken, or they may have been false witnesses. We have said nothing yet on these points. The reader must bear in mind what is the precise point now before us. It is simply to show that the accounts we have now, whatever they may contain, are the very accounts which the witnesses themselves wrote. The depositions are properly authenticated; not, indeed, by the common legal forms--seal and signature and witness--but by abundant evidence, and evidence of exactly the kind which is always most relied on, and entirely relied on, in all other cases, where the examination of very ancient documents comes up. This point being thus settled, we are now prepared to examine the evidence itself, in reference to the other points I have mentioned. As it is very desirable, in order to have clear views of any argument, that a distinct view of its parts should be kept in mind, the reader is requested to look back to page 144, for an enumeration of the points to be examined, and he will recollect that we have yet discussed only the first, and proceed now to the second.

2. We must ascertain that the writers of these accounts had distinct opportunities to witness what they describe.

Now, in regard to this, their own testimony is to be taken. It is common to ask witnesses on the stand, in a court of justice, about the opportunities they had of knowing certainly, or the possibility that they might be mistaken, and they give their own account of the situation in which they were placed. This account is admitted and believed, like all their other testimony, unless something appears which shows that the witness is not to be trusted, and then all his statements are discredited together.

I noticed in the trial above described, that the counsel for the prisoner was particular on this point. He asked the witness, after he had told all the story about his detecting the man in the chamber, as follows:

"But are you sure that that," pointing to the prisoner, "was the man?"

"Yes, perfectly sure. I could not be mistaken, for I took him at once to the watch-house."

This was decisive; it proved that the witness had a most excellent opportunity to know what he described, and that there was no possibility of mistake. Suppose, however, that the thief had been active enough to have run down stairs and escaped, allowing the witness only a glimpse of his person, and the next day the witness had met a man in the street whom he supposed to be the same, and had procured his arrest and trial, the jury would in this case have placed far less confidence in his testimony, even if they knew that he was a very honest man and intended to tell the truth. The difficulty would have been the want of a full and unquestionable opportunity to know what the truth was.

In the same manner, if there is any thing which might operate to produce delusion, a jury would receive testimony with great hesitation. For example, suppose a witness should testify that he saw some supernatural appearance in going through a dark wood by night. Few would believe him, however honest a man he might be, on account of the great danger of being deceived in going through a scene full of irregular objects, such as the varieties of vegetation, the broken rocks, the whitened trunks of decaying trees, and going through too at night, when all forms are vague and indeterminate, and easily modified by the imagination or the fears. Again, an honest man, one in whose word I place great confidence, may tell me of a cure for rheumatism. He says he has tried it, and it always does great good. I receive his testimony with great doubt, because he cannot probably, with the little experience he has, know how much the benefit he experienced was owing to the supposed remedy, and how much to other causes. If the same man should come home from Boston, and say that the state-house was burnt--that he saw it all in flames--or any other extraordinary fact, far more extraordinary than the efficacy of a remedy for rheumatism, I should believe him, if it was only a case where he had distinct and unquestionable opportunity to observe, and where no room was left for mistake or delusion.

Now, if we examine the miracles which our Saviour performed, and the opportunity which the disciples had of witnessing them, we shall see that there could not have been a mistake. Remember, however, that I am not now saying that their story must be true. I am only here showing that they could not have been mistaken. They must have known whether what they were saying was true or not. The case could not be like that of a man telling a ghost story--something which he thinks is true, but which is in reality not so. The things done were done in open day. They were done in presence of multitudes; and they were of such a nature that those who witnessed them could not be deceived: healing what are called incurable diseases; feeding multitudes with a small supply of food; walking on the sea; rising from the grave, after remaining upon the cross till Roman soldiers were satisfied that life was gone. Who could be a better judge of death than a Roman soldier? These, and a multitude of similar things, might be given as proofs that these witnesses could not be mistaken in what they described. They knew whether they were true or not. And consequently if the third point, that is, their honesty, should be proved, we must believe what they say. If they had informed us only of a few miraculous events, and those seen by a few people, or of such a character as to render the witnesses peculiarly liable to be deceived, we might have admitted their honesty, but denied the truth of their statements. As it is, however, we cannot do this.

Not only were the facts themselves of so open and public a character that there could not be any mistake about them, but the writers of our accounts were eye-witnesses of them. They did not obtain a knowledge of them by hearsay or report: they wrote what they themselves saw and heard. It is noticeable, that they themselves placed peculiar stress upon this circumstance. Luke begins his gospel by saying, "It seemed good to me, having had perfect understanding of all things from the first, to write unto thee." John, at the close of his book, distinctly records the fact, that the writer of the account was one of the principal actors in the scenes he describes. Peter, in his defence of himself before the Jewish authorities, says he cannot but speak the things he has seen and heard. But perhaps the most striking of all is, that when the apostles came together to elect one to take the place of Judas, they restricted themselves in their selection to those who had been from the beginning witnesses of the whole. "Wherefore," was the proposition, "of these men which have companied with us, all the time that the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism of John, unto that same day that he was taken up from us, must one be ordained to be a witness with us of his resurrection." These men understood the laws of the human mind in regard to believing testimony. They knew well what was necessary to make out a case, and they secured it.

We have now explained how the first two points in our chain of reasoning are established, and we may consider it as certain, in the first place, that though our witnesses are not living, and consequently cannot present us their testimony in person, and although so long a time has elapsed that their original writings are worn out and destroyed, yet that there is abundant evidence that we have the real account which they delivered; and in the second place, that they could not be mistaken in the facts to which they give their testimony, as they were eye-witnesses of them, and the facts are of such a nature that there could be no delusion. There is no possible way now, after these two points are established, by which their testimony can be set aside, except by the supposition that they were impostors. This brings us to our third and last point, mentioned on page 144.

3. We must have evidence that our witnesses are credible; that is, that they are honest men, and that their word can be relied upon.

The evidence on this point is, if possible, more complete and more absolutely unquestionable than upon either of the others: the honest and candid manner in which they relate their story is evidence; it is plain, straightforward, and simple. Their writings have exactly the air and tone of men conscious that they are telling the truth, but aware that it will be regarded with very different feelings by their readers. They narrate, frankly and fully, the events in which they or their companions were to blame; and they do nothing more in regard to the guilt of their enemies. There are no palliating or extenuating statements or expressions on the one side, nor any disposition to apply epithets of odium or exaggeration upon the other. The story is simply told, and left to work its own way.

How differently do men act in other cases. How easily can you tell upon which side the writer is, when he gives an account of circumstances relating to a contest between two individuals or two parties. Open any history of the campaign in Russia or of the battle of Waterloo, and how long can you doubt whether the author is a friend or an enemy of Napoleon? Now, turn to St. John's account of the trial and crucifixion of the Saviour--a most unparalleled scene of cruel suffering--and there is not a harsh epithet, and scarcely an expression of displeasure, on the part of the writer, from the beginning to the end of it: you would scarcely know what was his opinion. Take, for instance, the account of the preference of Barabbas by the Jews. Another writer would have said, "The Jews were so bent on the destruction of their innocent and helpless victim, that when Pilate proposed to release him, in accordance with their custom of having a prisoner annually set at liberty on the day of their great festival, they chose a base malefactor in his stead; they preferred that a robber, justly condemned for his crimes, should be let loose upon society, rather than that the meek and lowly Jesus should again go forth to do good to all." But what does John say? There is no attempt in his account to make a display of the guilt of the Jews--no effort to throw odium upon them--no exaggeration--no coloring. "Will ye," says Pilate, "that I release unto you the King of the Jews? Then cried they all again, saying, Not this man, but Barabbas. Now Barabbas was a robber."

In the same spirit is the whole account--not only the narrative of this writer, but all the writers of the New Testament: it breathes a spirit of calm, composed dignity, which scarcely any thing can equal. In the midst of one of the greatest moral excitements which the world has ever seen, and writing upon the very subject of that excitement, and themselves the very objects of it, they exhibit a self-possession and a composure almost without a parallel. Exposed to most extraordinary persecution and consequent suffering, they never revile or retort upon their oppressors. It is impossible possible to avoid the conclusion, when reading the chapters of the New Testament, that the writers understood and felt the moral sublimity of the position they were occupying. They seem to have felt that they were speaking, not to a few thousand cotemporaries in Judea, but to countless millions of human beings, scattered over the earth, or coming up, generation after generation, to read their story, to the end of time. They rise entirely above all the influences then pressing so strongly upon them, and in calm and fearless independence offer their testimony. They could not have done this--it is not in human nature to do it--had they not been sustained by this consideration, namely, they knew that they were telling THE TRUTH on the most momentous subject ever presented to men, and THAT THEY WERE TELLING IT TO THE WHOLE WORLD.

Another proof of their honesty is, that they were entirely disinterested; or rather, they were interested to conceal the truth, not to tell it. Their testimony brought them nothing, and could bring them nothing but reproach and suffering and death. They saw this in the history of the Saviour, and instead of endeavoring to keep them unconscious of the sufferings that awaited them, he plainly and frankly foretold the rest before he left them. He told them in the most affecting manner--the communication he made is recorded in the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters of the gospel according to St. John--all that should befall them. "You must not expect," said he, in substance, "to find the world more kind to you than it has been to me. They have persecuted me, and they will persecute you. They will put you out of the synagogues, and whosoever killeth you will think he doeth God service. I tell you these things beforehand, so that when the time shall come, you will remember that I told you, and be comforted. I wish you to understand the dangers and trials that await you. You must not, however, be dejected or discouraged because I have told you these things. It is necessary for me to go away, and it is necessary for you to encounter these evils. But it is only for a little time. The years will pass away swiftly, and when you have done your duty here, you shall come to me again, and find a perpetual home with me and my Father in a happier world."

Such was the substance of this part of our Saviour's farewell address. His disciples listened to it in sadness, but they did not shrink from their duty. A very few hours after hearing these last words of their Master in their place of retirement, they found themselves gazing in terror, and at a distance, at that dreadful throng which was pouring out of the gates of Jerusalem to see their beloved Master struggling upon the cross. They were overwhelmed by this scene; but terror triumphed only for a time. Immediately after the Saviour's ascension, we find them assembled, making calmly, but with fixed determination, their arrangements for future efforts, and waiting for the command from above--one hundred and twenty in an upper chamber, planning a campaign against the world! They knew, they must have known, that they themselves went forward to suffering and to death. They went forward, however. They told their story. They suffered and died. Must they not have been honest men?

The way in which men are interested is always to be considered in judging of their testimony. If a juryman is interested in the result of a trial, he is set aside; he cannot judge impartially. If a witness is interested at all, his testimony is received with a great deal of caution, or else absolutely rejected. And whenever a case is of such a nature that all those who were witnesses of the facts are interested on one side or on the other, it is extremely difficult to ascertain the truth. A very striking example of this is furnished by the circumstances of the battle of Lexington, at the commencement of the American Revolution. Each of the parties, anticipating a struggle, and desirous of being prepared for it, had made efforts to get as much of the arms and ammunition of the country as possible into its own hands, and the British general in Boston, understanding that there was at Concord a supply of military stores, conceived the design of sending a party in the night to Concord to obtain it. He kept his design, or rather tried to keep it, secret. Late in the evening, the troops embarked in boats on the west side of the peninsula on which Boston is built, and sailed across the cove to the main land.

This was done in silence, and it was hoped in secrecy. The Americans however, in some way, heard of the plan. The country was alarmed; men rode on horseback at midnight from town to town, ringing the bells and calling out the inhabitants, and by three o'clock in the morning a number of troops were collected at Lexington to oppose the progress of the British detachment.

Now, neither party wished to begin the contest. Like two boys eager for a quarrel, each wished to throw the odium of striking the first blow upon the other. This difficulty is however usually soon surmounted, and in this case the musketry was soon speaking distinctly on both sides. After a momentary conflict the Americans were dispersed, and the British moved on to the place of their destination.

Now, after all this was over, there arose the question, not in itself very important, one would think, but yet made so by those concerned at the time, "Who began this affray? Who fired first?" To determine this point, the American Congress are said to have instituted a formal inquiry. They examined witnesses who were on the spot and saw the whole, and they found abundant and satisfactory evidence that the British soldiers fired first, and that the Americans did not discharge their pieces until they were compelled to do it in self-defence. The British Parliament entered into a similar inquiry, and they came to an equally satisfactory conclusion--only it happened to be exactly the reverse of the other. They examined witnesses who were on the spot and saw the whole, and they found abundant evidence that the American soldiers fired first, and that the British did not discharge their pieces until they were compelled to do it in self-defence. Now, the reason for this disagreement unquestionably was, that each nation examined only its own soldiers, and the soldiers on both sides were interested. Suppose now, that there had been in the American army a considerable number who admitted that the first guns were fired from their own ranks. Suppose that, in consequence of this their testimony, they brought upon themselves the dislike of the whole army, and to a great extent, of the nation at large--how strong would have been the reliance placed upon such testimony! "There cannot be a doubt," the British would have said, "that you fired upon us first--half of your own troops say so." This would have been a very fair inference. When men bear testimony contrary to their own interests or feelings, they are generally believed.

We have thus abundant evidence that the original propagators of the gospel were honest men, and this completes the three positions necessary to prove that the Christian miracles were actually performed.

1. We are sure that the witnesses are honest men.

2. The facts are of such a nature, that the witnesses could not have been deceived in them.

3. It is proved that we have exactly the account which they themselves gave.

The miracles being once proved, the divine authority of the religion is proved; for no man can imagine that the Deity would exert his power in producing miraculous effects to give authority to a message which he did not send.

There is one other independent head of the external evidences of Christianity: it is the argument from prophecy. They who brought the communication which is offered to us as a message from heaven, said that they were enduedth the power, not only of working miracles, but of fore elling future events. In some cases, human sagacity can oresee what is future, and even distant. They however professed to exercise this power in cases to which no human skill or foresight could have extended. Such a power as this is evidently miraculous, and they who possessed it must have received it from the Creator.

One or two examples will clearly illustrate the nature of this argument. A great number of the prophets who appeared in the early years of the sacred history, foretold the coming of a Saviour. Precisely what sort of a Saviour he was to be, was not distinctly foretold--at least, not so distinctly as to remove all misconceptions on the subject. So certain is it, however, that such prophecies were uttered, and generally published, that there prevailed throughout the Jewish nation, and even to some extent in neighboring countries, a general expectation that an extraordinary personage was to appear. We have evidence enough of this--not merely from the Scriptures themselves, but from a multitude of other writings, which appeared at that time, and which have come down to us by separate and independent channels. There can be no question in the mind of any one who will examine the subject, that the coming of Christ was predicted with so much distinctness as to produce an almost universal expectation of the appearance of some very extraordinary personage; and the event corresponded with the prediction. A most extraordinary personage appeared; the most extraordinary, as all will acknowledge--Christians and infidels--that ever appeared upon the earth.

Our Saviour's prediction of the destruction of Jerusalem is another example. The scene was described with astonishing minuteness and accuracy, sixty or seventy years before it took place; and there was, at the time of the prediction, no reason whatever, so far as human foresight could extend, to expect such a catastrophe.

Now, to examine fully this species of argument, several points ought to receive special attention. First, we must ascertain that the prophecy was really anterior to the event which is alleged to have occurred in fulfillment of it. Secondly, that the event is such an one as human sagacity could not have foreseen. Thirdly, that there were not, in similar writings, a multitude of other prophecies which failed, and that those only have been preserved which have apparently succeeded. Fourthly, we must ascertain that the events themselves were not under the control of men in such a way as to enable those who were interested in the success of the prophecy to bring about the corresponding result.

Now to examine thoroughly all these points, so as really to form an independent judgment upon them, and to take nothing upon trust, requires, in some instances, no little maturity of mind, and in others, no little scholarship and laborious research. The young must almost entirely take this argument upon trust. I can here only explain its nature, and thus prepare you to read more understandingly other works on this subject. Those who have gone into it most thoroughly, as is the case with all the historical evidences of Christianity, have been most convinced of the firmness of the ground. The most profound scholars in all Christian nations, if they have given the subject due attention, have been most decided in their belief of the Christian religion.

This completes the view which I intended to give of the historical argument. It would require a volume to present the argument itself in all its detail. My design has been to give a clear idea of the nature of this kind of reasoning, not to present all the facts upon which the various pillars of the argument are founded. And here I might rest this part of my subject, were it not that there is one consideration which corroborates very much the conclusion to which we have come. The question very naturally arises, "Was this story believed at the time? It seems to be a plain case, that the disciples of Christ made out very decisive evidence of their divine commission; but the people who lived at that time, and upon the spot, had a much better opportunity of judging in this case than we have. Now, did they believe this account?"

The answer is, it was believed. The story spread with a rapidity to which no other revolution in the public mind can afford a parallel. When the hundred and twenty assembled in their upper room, paganism was enjoying undisturbed and unquestioned possession of the whole Roman empire. Paganism reigned in every crowded city and in every distant province. Her temples crowned a thousand summits; and the multitude, whose interests were identified with the support of her rights, might at any time arm themselves with all the power of the Cæsars to resist the encroachments of truth. A hundred and twenty, with the story of a crucified Galilean rising from the dead, came forth to attack this mighty fabric; and they prevailed. Opprobrium and ridicule, gentle persuasion and stern menaces; imprisonment, fire and sword, torture and death, tried all their powers in vain. And by what means did the fearless assailants in this most unequal war prevail against such an array as this? Why, simply by reiterating the declaration, Jesus Christ did rise from the grave; and you ought to repent of your sins and believe on him. And they conquered. "The truth is great, and it will prevail," said a Roman writer. He could not have found an example like this. The simple declaration of a number of competent witnesses, after a most energetic struggle, prevails over one of the greatest civil and military powers which the world has ever seen. Yes; the story was believed. It spread with unexampled rapidity, and is revolutionizing the moral world.

But we must pass to the second species of evidence we have enumerated.

II. INTERNAL EVIDENCE.

This evidence consists of an examination of the contents of the Bible, to see whether the declarations it contains are such as we may suppose would really come from our Maker. We ought to enter upon such an examination, however, with great caution; for if the book is really a message from Heaven, we are to receive it, whatever it may contain. It is not for us to decide what our Maker ought, and what he ought not, to communicate to us. It is interesting, however, to examine the contents of the Scriptures, to see the indications, with which the volume is filled, that it is from God. Some of these indications I shall mention.

1. The remarkable simplicity of its whole design. It seems to have one simple and single object from the beginning to the end; and this is very remarkable, if we consider how many distinct authors it has, and in what distant periods it was written. The Bible is not a book, but a library. It consists of a large number of books entirely separate and distinct, bound up together. The times at which the various parts were written are scattered over a period of fifteen hundred years. The authors are numerous. It would be a very interesting exercise for young persons to attempt to make out an accurate list of them. They are of every variety of character and standing--learned and unlearned, rich and poor, kings, poets, generals. There is every variety in the character of the authors and of the style; and yet one single, simple design is kept in view from the beginning to the end, with a steadiness which is astonishing. But what is that object? It may be stated thus:

The Bible is a history of the redemption of sinners by Jesus Christ, and it is nothing more. From the beginning to the end of it, with a very few, if any exceptions, it is nothing but that. Open at Genesis and follow on, chapter after chapter, and book after book, until you come to the final benediction in the last chapter of Revelation, it all bears upon this. Now if this book was planned by the Supreme, and if he superintended its execution during the fifteen centuries it was in progress, all this is easily accounted for. Nothing else can account for it.

But I must show more fully that this is the single and simple aim of the Scriptures. Let us briefly review its contents. It begins by explaining simply and clearly the creation of the world, and God's design in creating it. His intention was to have had a happy community to tenant it, who should be united in each other, and united to him; forming one family of undivided hearts and aims, all interested in the common welfare, and all looking to him as to the common bond of union and the common source of happiness. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbor as thyself," was unquestionably the law originally written on the human heart.

Men sinned, however; they broke God's law, and the Bible then describes the consequences of sin, in bringing suffering upon the human family. The earth was filled with violence. One dreadful experiment was tried, by the flood, of the power of punishment--retribution--to bring men back to duty; but they who escaped the flood, escaped only to go on in sin.

It is noticeable, that in one of the very first chapters of the Bible, the coming of the Saviour is foretold, and from that time the sacred history marks out and follows with minute accuracy the line of succession which is to conduct us to that Saviour. There were a vast many nations on the earth, or existing in embryo, at the time when the Israelites were in Egypt, whose history is far more important, in every respect but one, than is the history of the Jews. There were the Egyptians, the Assyrians, and the Persians. The sacred history neglects them all, and turns its whole attention to a body of Egyptian slaves; and why? Because among these slaves there was the ancestor of the coming Messiah.

The Bible represents Jehovah as conducting this nation by his own hand to a country which was to be their home, in order that he might preserve them separate from the rest of mankind, and make them the keepers of his communications with men. A great part of the Old Testament history is occupied in giving us an account of the particular institutions established among this people, and of the circumstances of their own private history. In regard to their institutions, there seem to have been two distinct objects. One was to preserve them separate from the idolatrous nations around, in order that the worship of the true God might be the better preserved. The other object, perhaps more important, was effected by the institution of sacrifices: of this I shall presently speak more fully. This Jewish nation, however, in its institutions and history, is followed by the sacred writers, who keep all the time as close as possible to the line of succession leading to Jesus Christ. The coming Saviour is often alluded to, especially whenever any great crisis occurring in their history furnishes an occasion upon which God makes to some leading individual a distinct communication in regard to his plans.

It is remarkable, how large a number of the individuals whose lives are given in the Old Testament, were the ancestors of Christ, and how steadily there is kept in view the future coming of the Son of God.

I have mentioned sacrifices. The design of Jehovah in establishing these rites so early, and taking such effectual precautions to secure their observance, seems to have been this: to familiarize the minds of men to the idea, that there must be atoning blood--that penitence is insufficient. We are all much more ready to admit this in reference to any other government than to the divine. Many a father sees the inefficacy of pardon, merely upon the ground of sorrow and confession, to restrain his sons from sin; and many a politician will admit the folly of such a course in civil society, who yet thinks that God may govern his dominions on such a principle. In all God's dealings, however, with man, he has taken other ground. Sacrifices were instituted so early, that they have spread to almost every people under the sun. Wherever you go--to the most distant heathen nation--to the most barbarous tribe--or to the remotest island of the ocean, you will find almost all prepared, by the very customs which have been handed down from the time of Noah, to admit the necessity, that there must be retributive suffering where there has been sin. God required the Jews, when they had done wrong, to bring an offering--not to lead them to suppose that the sufferings of bulls and goats could take away sin, but that some atonement was necessary. The effect upon their minds was undoubtedly this: A man having committed some sin, instead of merely confessing his guilt, and expecting forgiveness as a matter of course, came with the innocent dove, or the harmless lamb, and offered it in sacrifice; and when he did it, if he did it in the right spirit, he unquestionably felt that his sin had done an injury to the government of God, which he himself could not repair. He could not come back to innocence alone. The ceremony must have had a most powerful influence in producing a practical conviction that sin, once committed, could not be recalled by the individual who had committed it, but must involve consequences beyond his control. That is precisely the conviction necessary to enable us to avail ourselves of the redemption of Christ. It is exactly the preparation of heart to lead us to him. We have sinned, and the evil we have done it is out of our power to remedy. We may stop sinning, but the evil influence of our past guilt must be checked by some other agency far more powerful than any penitence of ours. The Jews, then, by coming habitually to the sacrifices of their law, had this feeling thoroughly wrought into all their thoughts and feelings on the subject of sin and pardon. When they came with sincere penitence to offer the sacrifice required by the law, and with such a feeling as I have described, they were undoubtedly forgiven through the mediation of a far greater sacrifice, which was only represented by the dove or the lamb.

If we thus look at the Jewish history and institutions, and examine their spirit and design, we shall see that they all point to Christ. One single object is aimed at in all. After the history is brought down to the return from the captivity, it is suddenly concluded--and why? Because all is now ready for the coming of Christ. There is a chasm of several hundred years, not because the events of that time are less interesting than of the preceding--to the eye of the mere scholar or political historian, they are more so--but because they do not bear at all upon the great event, the redemption of mankind by Jesus Christ, to which the whole Bible tends. The nation in which the promised Saviour is to come, is followed in its various difficulties and adventures, until it becomes finally established in the country where the Messiah is to appear, and then left. There could not be a stronger proof that the Bible has the history of Christ for its great object, or that this object is kept steadily in view.

As we draw towards the development of the great plan of salvation, the story becomes more minute, and the interest increases. The great Redeemer at length appears. We have, from four separate writers, a narrative of his life; we have a simple account of the first efforts to spread the news of salvation through him; we have a few of the writings of some of those who originally received his instructions, and then a revelation of the future--in some respects clear and distinct in the awful pictures of scenes to come which it draws, and in others dark, and as yet unintelligible to us-closes the volume.

There is something deeply sublime in the language with which this final conclusion of the sacred volume is announced. Perhaps it was intended to apply particularly to the book of Revelation itself, but we can scarcely read it without the conviction, that the writer felt that he was bringing to a close a series of communications from heaven which had been in progress fifteen hundred years. The great subject of the whole was now fairly presented to mankind. The nature and the effects of sin, the way of salvation, and the future scenes through which we are all to pass, had been described, and he closes with the invitation--O how cordially is it expressed--"And the Spirit and the bride say, Come; and let him that heareth say, Come;" that is, spread the invitation far and wide. Let every one that heareth it repeat the sound. "Let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."

And then he says--and how appropriate for the last words of the Bible--

"I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book; and if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book."

Yes, the plan and object of the Bible is single and simple from beginning to end. Amidst all that endless variety which makes it an inexhaustible mine of interest and instruction, the great ultimate design is never lost sight of or forgotten. That design is, the redemption of a lost world by the Son of God--a design which is surely great enough for God to announce to his creatures.

There is something interesting in the time and place selected for the advent of the Saviour. This earth being a globe, of course has not, that is, its surface has not any geographical centre; but if we take into view its moral and political condition and history, it has some parts far more suitable to be radiant points from which any extraordinary message from heaven is to be disseminated than others. It would be difficult to find a place more suitable for such a purpose, than the very country chosen by Jehovah as the scene of the sufferings and death of Christ. Look upon the map, and you find that the land of Canaan is situated upon the eastern coast of the Mediterranean sea; and if you look east, west, north, and south, at the various connections of this spot, you will find that no other on earth will compare with it for the purpose for which it was selected. Egypt and the other regions of Africa on the south, are balanced by Syria and the Caucasian countries on the north. There were the Persian and Assyrian empires on the east, and there were the Grecian and Roman empires on the west. India and China, with their immense multitudes, are upon one side, and modern France, and England, and Germany, with their vast political power, upon the other. Then look upon the Mediterranean sea--on the borders of which Canaan lies--bathing as it does the shores of three quarters of the globe, and bearing upon its bosom a large proportion of all the ships that sailed for the first five thousand years of the earth's history. Palestine is a most remarkable spot for such a purpose. If no such communication had ever been made from heaven, and the earth had remained in darkness and paganism to the present day, its history having remained, in other respects, the same as it has been, and we had looked over it to find the best station for an embassy from above, Judea would have been the very spot. We should have pointed to the Levant, and said, here is the moral centre of the world. If a missionary from heaven is to be sent, let him be stationed here.

It is astonishing how much of the interesting history of the human race has had for its scene the shores of the Mediterranean. Egypt is there. There is Greece. Xerxes, Darius, Solomon, Cæsar, Hannibal, knew no extended sea but the Mediterranean. The mighty armies of Persia, and the smaller, but invincible bands of the Grecians, passed its tributaries. Pompey fled across it--the fleets of Rome and Carthage sustained their deadly struggles upon its waters; and, until the discovery of the passage round the Cape of Good Hope, the commerce of the world passed through the ports of the Mediterranean. If we go back to ancient ages, we find the Phenician sailors--the first who ventured upon the unstable element--slowly and fearfully steering their little barks along the shores of this sea; and if we come down to modern times, we see the ships of every nation proudly ploughing its waves, or riding at anchor in its harbors. There is not a region upon the face of the earth so associated with the recollection of all that is interesting in the history of our race, as the shores of the Mediterranean sea; nor a place more likely to be chosen by the Creator as the spot where he would establish his communication with men, than the land of Judea.

The time selected is as worthy of notice as the place; I mean now, the time of the advent of the Messiah. The world had been the scene of war and bloodshed for many centuries--empire after empire had arisen upon the ruins of the preceding, none, however, obtaining a very general sway; at last the Roman power obtained universal ascendency--and all was at peace. A very considerable degree of civilization and knowledge prevailed over a great part of the then known world; and every thing was favorable to the announcement and rapid spread of a message from heaven, provided that the message itself should come properly authenticated. The message did come, and it was properly authenticated; and the peculiar suitableness of the time and place selected was seen in the very rapid spread of the gospel over almost half the globe.

There is another topic of internal evidence of the truth of Christianity. The character and administration of God, as exhibited in the Bible, correspond precisely with the same character and administration as exhibited in the light of nature. They both exhibit God as most benevolent in his character, but most decided and efficient in his government. In both, we find him providing most fully for the happiness of his creatures, but in both we see him frowning upon sin with an awful severity of judgment. This is a fundamental point, and it ought to be fully understood. Let us look then at God as he reveals himself in his providence, comparing these views of him with those which the Bible presents.

See yonder child, beginning life with streams of enjoyment coming in at every sense; he is so formed that every thing he has to do is a source of delight: he has an eye; God has contrived it most ingeniously, to be the means by which pleasure comes in every moment to him--he has an ear, so intricately formed that no anatomist or physiologist has yet been able to understand its mysteries. God has so planned it, that he takes in with delight the sounds which float around him. How many times, and in how many ways, does he find enjoyment by its instrumentality: the tones of conversation--the evening song of his mother--the hum of the insect--the noise of the storm--the rumbling of distant thunder. For how many different but delightful emotions has the Creator provided! So with all the other senses. And now, after you have examined in this way the whole structure, body and mind, of this being, follow him out to a summer's walk, and see how a benevolent Creator pours upon him, from all the scenery of nature, an almost overwhelming tide of delight. God smiles upon him in the aspect of the blue heavens, in the verdure of the fields, in the balmy breath of air upon his cheek, and in the very powers and faculties themselves, which he has so formed that every motion is delight, and every pulsation a thrill of pleasure. Such a revelation does nature make to us of the character of God, and of his feelings towards his creatures; and the Bible corresponds: "God is love."

But nature speaks to us sometimes in another tone. Let this child grow up, and abandon himself to vice and crime, and after the lapse of a few years let us see him again. How changed will be the scene! To see him, you must follow me to the hospital-room of an almshouse; for he has given himself up to vice, and endured suffering as a vagabond in the streets, until society can no longer endure to witness his misery, and they send him to an asylum out of their sight, in mercy both to themselves and to him. He lies upon his bed of straw in uninterrupted agony--his bones are gnawed, and his flesh corroded by disease--every motion is torment, every pulsation is agony; for the God who has so formed the human constitution, that in innocence, and in the health which generally attends it, all is happiness and peace, has yet so formed it, that vice can bring upon it sufferings--awful sufferings, of which no one but the miserable victim can conceive. I once saw in an almshouse, a sufferer whose picture has been in my imagination while I have been writing the above. I have used general terms in my description. I might have given a much more detailed and vivid picture of his condition, but it was too shocking. Were my readers to see the scene, even through the medium of a description of ordinary clearness, the image of it would haunt them day and night. As I stood by the side of this man, and reflected that God had brought him into that condition, and that God was holding him there, and probably would hold him in the same awful suffering while life should remain, I could not help saying to myself, "With what an efficient and decided moral Governor have we to do!" No man would have held this miserable being in his sufferings a moment: the superintendent of the hospital would have released him instantly, it it had been in his power; but God had the power, and he held the guilty breaker of his law under the dreadful weight of its penalty. Man shrinks from witnessing suffering, even where it is necessary to inflict it; but this feeling will not measure, and it has no power to limit, God's dreadful energy in the punishment of sin. All nature tells us so, and the language that the Bible uses is the same: "God is a consuming fire." Our feelings can no more contemplate with composure, as our hearts are now constituted, the judgments which the Bible denounces against the wicked in another world, than they can the agonies of delirium tremens, or the gnawings of the diseases with which God overwhelms the dissipated and the vile. In both cases there is a severity whose justice we must admit, but whose consequences we cannot calmly follow. If any one thinks that I describe the character of God in too dark and gloomy colors, I have only to say, that all nature and all revelation unite in painting God in the most dark and gloomy colors possible, as he exhibits himself towards those who persist in breaking his law. He is love to his friends, but he is a consuming fire to his foes; and every one ought to go to the judgment, expecting to find a Monarch thus decided and efficient in the execution of his laws, presiding there.

"The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice," says the Psalmist; and again he says, "The Lord reigneth, let the people tremble." We have abundant evidence, both in nature and revelation, that we must rejoice with trembling, under the government of God; for that government is most efficient and decided against sin--and we are sinners.

There are many other points of correspondence between the character and administration of God, as described in the Bible, and as exhibited in the constitution of nature; but I must not stop now to describe them. Butler, in an admirable work usually called Butler's Analogy, has explored this ground fully; and I would recommend to all my readers who take an interest in this subject, to obtain and study that work. I say study it, for it is not a work to be merely read, in the ordinary sense of that term; it must be most thoroughly studied, and studied too by minds in no inconsiderable degree mature, in order to be fully appreciated.

I have endeavored, by thus mentioning several points in which evidence may be found in favor of the truth of the Scriptures, from an examination of their contents, to illustrate the nature of the internal evidence. I have not designed to present the argument fully. Having accomplished, however, the purpose intended, I now proceed to the third head I proposed.

III. EXPERIMENTAL EVIDENCE.

The experimental evidence of the truth of Christianity is its moral power over the human heart. This is the most convincing of all. It is direct. There is no laborious examination of witnesses to bring the truth to us--no groping in the dimness of ancient times, and straining the sight to ascertain the forms of objects and the characters of occurences there. All is before us. We can see distinctly, for the proof is near. We can examine it minutely and leisurely, for it is constantly recurring.

I have remarked, that I considered this species of evidence far more calculated to make a strong impression upon the mind than either of the two preceding heads I have described, on account of the difficulty, on the part of those whose lives are not devoted to literary pursuits, of looking back eighteen hundred years, and judging with confidence of evidence in regard to events that occurred then. But I have often heard it remarked, by men amply qualified to investigate such subjects, that the power of the Bible, as they have often seen it exerted, in elevating to virtue and to happiness some miserable victim of vice and crime, has made a far stronger impression upon them, in favor of its divine origin, than any examination of the labored arguments of learned men. Now this must be so, not only in the case of Christianity, but in all similar cases.

Suppose that some dreadful plague should break out in London, and after raging for many months--suspending all business, driving away from the city all who could fly, and carrying consternation and death into all the families that should remain--suppose that, after all this, the news should arrive, that in some distant part of the earth a remedy had been discovered for the disease. We will imagine it to have been in China. Perhaps the same disease had broken out in former times at Canton, and some plant growing in that vicinity had been found to be a specific against it: it would cure the sick and protect the healthy. The government of Great Britain sends a ship to China to obtain a supply of the remedy. The time usually required for the voyage passes, and a telegraph announces the arrival of the ship on her return. She sails up the Thames, comes to anchor, and soon the remedy for which they have all waited so anxiously is in full circulation about the city. Now, what will interest the people of London most in such a case? Will it be an examination of the officers of that ship, in order to satisfy themselves that they are not imposing some spurious article on the nation? Will they lay aside the remedy itself, and allow the sick to die, and the healthy to be attacked, while they examine the proof that this ship has actually been to China, and that her supercargo was really faithful in obtaining the identical article for which he was sent? No; all such inquiries, if they were made at all, would be left to the few official agents by whom the ship had been employed. The mass of the population would turn themselves to the remedy itself, with the eager question, "Will this medicine cure?" And notwithstanding any scepticism or opposition of a few who might be interested in sustaining some other mode of treatment, the imported remedy, if found successful upon trial, would soon be in universal use among the sick all over the city.

Now, shall a man who is still under the power and dominion of sin, with this great remedy--which has saved, and is continually saving thousands all around him--entirely within his reach, shall he waste his time in speculations and inquiries in regard to the manner in which Christianity came into the world, instead of flying to it at once as the remedy for all his sin and suffering? No; come at once and try the remedy. It restores others to health and happiness, and it will restore you. Come and be saved by it, and then you may inquire at your leisure how it came into the world.

In regard to the case supposed above, I have spoken of the scepticism or opposition of those who might be interested in some other mode of treatment. Suppose one of these men, interested in the continuance of the disease, and inhuman enough to desire on this account to perpetuate the misery of his fellows, should come into some wretched tenement in a crowded part of the city, and should find there one or two inmates under all the power of the disease. They are children. The mother has been away to some public office from which the remedy is distributed to the poor, and has obtained a supply for her dying boys. As she comes to their bedside, and begins with trembling joy to administer it, her hand is arrested by the visitor, who says to her, "Stop; how do you know that this is a real remedy for this disease? I believe it is all an imposition. That ship never came from China. I believe the captain and crew all united in an attempt to impose upon the community; at any rate, you have yet no evidence to the contrary. You have not examined her papers, you have seen no official documents, you have heard no witnesses. If you are wise, you will look into this subject a little before you place your confidence in a remedy which will probably, after all, prove only imposture and delusion."

What would be the reply? The mother, if she should stop to say any thing, would say this:

"I have not time to examine any documents or witnesses; my children are dying. Besides, this medicine has cured hundreds in this city, and is curing hundreds more. Nay, I was myself sick, and it cured me. That is the evidence I rely upon. I believe it will save them, and there is nothing else to try."

That is in substance what she would say, and they who wish to be saved from sin should say the same. You suffer now under this disease, and you must suffer more hereafter, and nothing but Christianity pretends to be able to save. It is successful wherever it is tried. Now, suppose an infidel or a vicious man, interested in perpetuating sin in this world, and inhuman enough to be willing that the sufferings of sin should continue to burden his fellows, should come and say to you, "This religion is delusion; it is all an imposture." You need not go with him into any examination of documents and witnesses; you ought only to say, "Christianity saves others, and makes them virtuous and happy; and I hope it will save me."

But I must present more distinctly the evidence that the gospel of Christ has power to rescue from sin, and that it exhibits this power now in the world. "And now, how shall I show this?" thought I, when I first began to reflect on the way in which I should treat this part of my subject. "How shall I present most clearly and vividly to the young the moral power of Christianity?" I thought first of the elevated rank in knowledge, in civilization, to which all Christian nations had attained, and concluded to show, if I could, that the passions and sins of men always, when left to themselves, loaded communities with a burden which kept the mind from expanding, and the arts of life from flourishing, and bound down the whole in barbarism, or in subjection to despotic power. Among the thousands of nations which this earth has seen, there have not been more than half a dozen exceptions to this. Christianity controls these passions, and purifies communities to such an extent, that mind is free; and then the energies with which God has provided them freely expand. Religion has taken off the pressure which had imprisoned them; and thus Christian nations have arisen to a rank and power and freedom which no other communities have ever attained. There is not a savage Christian nation on the globe. A savage Christian! It is a contradiction in terms.

But I thought that such general views and statements were not calculated to produce so distinct and clear an impression upon the mind, especially upon the young; and then I thought that I might point my readers to particular cases which have occured undoubtedly within the observation of every one. There is not a village in our land where are not to be seen some of the triumphs of the gospel. There is a vicious man reclaimed, or a careless, selfish, ungovernable young man made humble and faithful and docile, by the power of the gospel. Such cases are within the observation of every one; and if each one of my readers would look at some such case which has occurred within his own immediate reach, and examine all its circumstances, he would find in it an overwhelming proof that the gospel is indeed a remedy for sin.

But to show distinctly the efficacy of this remedy for sin, I shall point you to its operation in particular cases. And in choosing the cases to present, I have selected some where the disease had indeed made great progress, but which are, in other respects, very common. They are both cases of convicts in a state-prison. I might perhaps have selected narrations far more interesting and striking, but I have chosen to present those which may be taken as a fair specimen of the ordinary effects of the Bible, under the divine blessing, in saving from sin. My object is utility, and it is therefore far better to secure sound logic than to bring forward a romantic story.

The reason I take the cases of convicts is, because I am now considering Christianity in regard to its power to heal the disease, sin; of course, the more violent the form of the disease, the more clear is the exhibition of power in the remedy which cures it. The prisons of our country may be considered as hospitals, moral hospitals, where those whose diseases have become so violent and malignant, that it is no longer safe to allow them to go at large in society, are shut up, so that they can injure no one, at least for a time. It has been, and is now the practice in many countries, to shut up these miserable victims together, and leave them to themselves. Of course, they grew worse and worse. The practice is as absurd as it would be to send a hundred patients, in all the stages of fever, consumption, and plague, into one great crowded hospital together, with no physician, no medicine, and no attendants but turnkeys, and there to leave them, each one by the unobstructed intercommunication conveying his own peculiar infection to all the rest; the whole exposed to every cause that can aggravate disease, and thus forming one living mass of pestilence and corruption. Such have been a great many prisons, and those who entered them came out far worse than they went in.

Some philanthropists formed, some years ago, the plan of visiting these prisons, and carrying the Bible there, believing that its divine truths would cure even those desperate cases of disease--and it has succeeded. A vast number of the most abandoned men have been entirely reformed by it. I do not mean, that they have pretended to be reformed while in the prison, but that they have proved themselves reformed by their good conduct after having been restored to society, when the time of their imprisonment had expired.

The account of the first case I shall mention was taken down from the individual's own lips. There is nothing extraordinary in it, except that he was a very bad man. I give the account in his own language, except that I have in one or two instances inserted a few words to make the sense more clear, and I have omitted some of the very frank confessions of his vices and crimes, which could not be properly introduced into this book.

THE FIRST CONVICT'S STORY.

"When I had been in prison about eighteen months, I began to think of my past ways, and to see that I had sinned against God--to think about dying, and where I should go when I should die and appear before God. When I first came here, I did not think any thing about dying; I had no just idea of the holy Scriptures, and did not know any thing of the Lord. Once I went off from all my friends, and never let any of them know where I was going. I led one of my brothers away, and it was the means of his death. After I lost my brother I went home again, and my father blamed me for leading him away. I had been two years from home, and my parents said that I was the means of my brother's death. They tried to make me steady, and get me work at home then; but I wouldn't be steady more than a few months before I went off again. My father told me I was fitting myself for the state's prison. I went away, however, and it was only about two months before I committed my crime, and was put into jail. That was the first time I ever saw the inside of a prison. I often used to think of my brother after I came into prison. A great many nights I used to see a black coffin placed before me, and hear a voice telling me I must go soon and follow him. I not only thought of these things, but all my wicked thoughts and all my actions were presented before me--what I had done, and how I had walked in the sight of the Lord. I used to be a very vicious man, and all the places where I had been would appear before me. And I used to be a violent blaspheme too, and a riotous person; and I saw a sign which said, this is the road adulterous persons and blasphemers go.

"After I had thought about my wicked life, I felt that I had incurred the holy displeasure of the Lord, and deserved all that he could inflict upon me. I thought that I could not suffer too much. I could then see the hand of the Lord, how it had followed me in every place where I had been. I found that it was the law of the Lord that brought me here for sins which I had committed against God, and not against my fellow-men." Here the gentleman who was visiting him asked him,

"How does your heart appear to you now?"

"My heart appears at times set upon evil; but then, again, sometimes I feel that I shall get to heaven; and then, again, I feel very much discouraged. Whenever wicked thoughts arise in my heart, I sometimes feel that the Lord has given me up. Then, again, there is something to enliven my feelings, and all my wicked thoughts go away; my worldly thoughts will be drawn away, and my mind will be on heavenly things. I did not know what it meant when my heart used to burn within me, until I asked my teacher in Sabbath-school, if a man's heart would be warm when he had right feelings of heart."

"Do you find temptation to sin now?" asked the gentleman.

"Yes, sir."

"What do you do?"

"I trust in the Lord."

"Do you yield to your evil passions and lusts now?"

"I have, sometimes. I feel now that the Lord will keep me from them. There is nothing that causes me to grieve so much as that very thing."

"Does it take away your happiness?"

"It did for a time."

"What security can you have, that when you go out you will not do just as you have done?"

"All my hope is in the Lord. I rely upon the mercy of the Lord to keep me. Of myself, I can do nothing; I rely upon the mercy of the Lord."

"Were you a drunken man?"

"I have been intoxicated a number of times, but I was never much given to it."

In the course of the conversation the convict said,

"I want to ask if, after men have repented of their sins, there will ever be times when they will give up to their lusts?"

"It is a very bad sign if they do," replied the gentleman.

"Once, when I was greatly tempted, I wept before the Lord night after night, and there was a man appeared to me in the room, and said to me, 'Thy sins are pardoned;' and since that I have been no more tempted, and I think it was to show me that I had trusted too much to my own heart. I thought I had been so long without any temptation, that I was fairly weaned. I thought so; but then I was tempted, and now I know I trusted more to my own heart than I did to the Lord."

Such was the substance of the conversation, taken down by the gentleman on the spot, and copied by me for this book, from his original record. And I beg that my readers will not forget that my object in presenting it, is not to offer them a remarkable or an interesting story. There is nothing remarkable in it, and, excepting for the purpose of my argument, nothing particularly interesting. It is, however, a remarkably fair specimen of the ordinary operation of religious truth, in convicting of sin and bringing man back to his duty.

But I must postpone the comments upon this story which I intend to make, until I have given the second narrative. The reason why I present two is, because no one that I could obtain exhibits, so fully as I could wish, all the important points I wish to bring to view.

THE SECOND CONVICT'S STORY.

There lived in one of the middle states, some years ago a man whom I shall call W---. I suppress his real name. His character was bad, and he lived with another man whose character was worse than his own.

His employer having some quarrel with another man, wanted W--- to kill him. He endeavored for five or six months to induce him to do it, but he did not succeed. W--- however showed a degree of indecision about it which encouraged his wicked employer to persevere. A good man would have refused an application like that in such a manner that it never would have been renewed.

The employer, however, understood his character, and, like all other bad men who endeavor to induce others to commit crime, he knew of an agent which would effectually assist him to prevail upon W--- to do the fatal deed. That agent was ardent spirit--the universal stimulus to crime. He accordingly gave it to him, not in such quantities as completely to intoxicate him, but moderately, only enough to destroy what little conscience he had, and yet leave him, in a considerable degree, the possession of his faculties.

After he had drank the rum, he went and lay down to sleep in the skirts of a wood, where they expected to commit the murder. In a little while another man, who had been employed to assist in this work, came and woke him up, and said to him, "If we mean to do any thing, we had better do it now." W--- accordingly rose, and they went together. When they came to their victim, W--- shot at him, and then his accomplice took the gun and beat him over the head till he was dead.

Two persons were hung for this crime, and W--- was sentenced to the state-prison for a long time. The man whom they had killed was a very bad man; but as W--- afterwards said, that was no cloak for him.

When W--- came to the prison, he was very ignorant; he did not know his own age accurately, and he could not read. There was in that prison, however, a very faithful chaplain, who, knowing that the Bible alone could be the means of reforming the miserable convicts, always placed that book before them immediately. When they could not read, he used to teach them. I have been told that this course has been taken to teach them: the first lesson was the first word in the Bible--I-n.

"That word is, In," the teacher would say to the prisoner in his cell. "Can you see how many letters there are in it?"

"Two," the prisoner would reply, after examining it.

"Yes," answers the teacher; "the first letter is called i; the second, n. These letters are very common in the Bible, and in all reading; see if you can find another n anywhere on this page."

The prisoner then would look very attentively along the lines until he found the letter required. If he made a mistake, and found an m or an r instead, the teacher would explain the difference, and call his attention more fully to the true form of the n. He would also explain the difference between the capital and small i, and show his pupil that he must expect to find the small i, generally. He would then leave him, asking him to find as many of these letters as he could before the teacher should come again. The next lesson would be the next word, the; and thus the pupil would go on slowly, spelling his way, until he had learned to read for himself.

The attempt to learn to read was proposed to W---, and he commenced it; and although considerably advanced in life, he made no little progress in his work. He was soon able to read considerably; and as the truths of the word of God came home to his mind, they produced their usual effects there: they led him to see his sins, and to feel them; and they led him to come to the Saviour for pardon. His whole character was changed; but I must allow him to describe this change in his own words.

These words were taken down by the same gentleman whom I have mentioned before. He visited him in prison, and after first conversing with him in regard to the crime for which he had been committed, asked him,

"Well, W---, how do this and all your other sins now appear to you?"

"Very great," said he; "but this does not appear so great as all my other sins against God--cursing and swearing, and getting drunk. When I first began to reflect in my cell, I saw my sins so great that I felt I could not be forgiven. I was sitting down one day at my work in the prison, and the chaplain came along and asked me my crime. I told him.

"'That,' said he, 'is one of the greatest crimes; but then you may remember David's sin, and he was forgiven. Let your crime be as great as it will, pray to God, and put your trust in him, and you shall find rest to your soul.'

"He told me also, that if I could not read, he would visit me in my cell, and put me in the way. I shall ever love him while God gives me breath; I shall love the chaplain, for he put me in the way to obtain the salvation of my soul; he made me promise him faithfully that I would go to God, and try to find mercy; and yet, master, I had doubt in my heart--my sins were so heavy--whether I should be forgiven. The chaplain soon left me, and I went into my cell and poured out my heart to God to have mercy on me. The more I prayed the more miserable I grew. Heavier and heavier were my sins.

"The next day Mr. B--- came along, and I asked him to read a chapter to me; and, as God would have it, he turned to the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah. It said, 'Every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters; and he that hath no money, come ye, buy wine and milk without price.' He read along to where the prophet says, 'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.'

"I found this gave me great encouragement to go on to pray, to see if I could find relief from all my troubles--the load of sin that was on my heart. I thought and prayed, and the more I prayed the more wretched I grew--the heavier my sins appeared to be.

"A night or two after that, the chaplain came to my cell and asked me how I felt. I told him my sins were greater than I could bear--so guilty--so heavy. He asked me if I thought praying would make my sins any less; I gave him no answer. He soon left me, and I went again to prayer. I was almost fit to expire. In all my sorrows I had not a right sorrow. My sorrow was because I had sinned against man.

"The Sunday following, just after I had carried my dinner into my cell, I put my dinner down, and went to prayer. I rose, and just as I rose from my prayer the chaplain was at the door. 'We are all guilty creatures,' he said to me, 'and we cannot be saved unless God, for Christ's sake, will save us. If we pray and go to God, we must go in the name of Jesus Christ; if we expect to be saved, we must be saved through the blood and righteousness of Jesus Christ.' Then I picked up encouragement.

"'The sins which you have committed,' he went on, 'are against your fellow-creatures, but they are much more against God.' Now I never knew before that they were against God. When the chaplain left me I went to prayer again. I could eat nothing that day. I did not eat a mouthful.

"I recollected at that time that a minister had told me, whenever I had a chapter read, to have the fifty-first Psalm. I could not see any body to get to read it, and how to find it I did not know; and the Sunday following, before the keeper unlocked the door, I rose up and went to prayer, and I prayed, 'O Lord, thou knowest I am ignorant, brought up in ignorance. Thou knowest my bringing up. Nothing is too hard for thee to do. May it please thee, O Lord, to show me that chapter, that I may read it with understanding.' I rose from prayer, and went to my Bible and took it up. I began at the first Psalm, and turned over and counted every Psalm, and it appeared to me that God was with me, and I counted right to the fifty-first Psalm. I could read a little, and I begun to spell H-a-v-e m-e-r-c-y, etc.; I looked over the Psalm and spelt it, and read it, and then put the Bible down, and fell upon my knees and prayed, 'Have mercy upon me; O God, according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquities, and cleanse me from my sins, for my sin is ever before me. Against thee, thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight; that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and clear when thou judgest.'

"When I came to the words, 'Deliver me from blood-guiltiness,' I was struck dumb. I could not say any more at that time. I fell upon my knees and prayed to God to have mercy upon me, for Christ's sake. But I only grew more and more miserable. The load of my sins was heavier and heavier.

"All that I had ever done came plain and open in my sight, and I was led to see that I must perish; there was no help for me; all my sin was upon my own head."

Such is the miserable criminal's account of the suffering to which he was brought by the sense of guilt which the Bible was the means of fastening upon his soul. He continued in this state for some time, until at last, as he himself describes it, one day, when he was praying in his cell, his burden of guilt was removed. He felt that he might hope for pardon through Jesus Christ. The relief which this feeling brought over his mind seems to have been almost indescribable. Every thing wore a new aspect; even the gloomy prison seemed a cheerful and happy place. His expressions of joy would appear almost extravagant to any person not sufficiently acquainted with the human mind to understand how the whole aspect of external objects will be controlled by the emotions which reign in the heart. W--- concluded his narration in these words:

"And ever since that, master, this place where I have been confined, has been to me more like a palace than a prison--every thing goes agreeable. I find I have a deceitful heart; but Jesus tells me, if I lack knowledge he will always lend, if I cast my care on Jesus, and do not forget to pray. It is my prayer, morning and evening, that I may hold out. If I die here, let me die, Lord, in thine arms. I have great reason to bless this institution, and every stone in it."

Now although it is not very common to obtain, in writing, accounts of changes of character among convicts so full and minute as this, yet the cases themselves are very common; so common, that where a prison is regulated in such a manner that the prisoners are not exposed to evil influence from each other, and the Bible has the opportunity to try its power, the whole aspect of the prison is changed. After I had written the above, I was conversing upon the subject of this chapter with a gentleman much interested in the improvement of prisons, and he asked me if I had ever visited the prison at Charlestown, Massachusetts. I told him I had not. "If you will go over with me, Sabbath morning," said he, "and visit the Sabbath school formed there, you will see the moral power of the Bible far more distinctly than you can by any such single descriptions as these."

I of course gladly availed myself of the opportunity to accompany him. We walked accordingly on Sabbath morning, at the appointed hour, over one of those long bridges which connect the peninsula of Boston with the main land. The prison is situated in Charlestown, on a point of land near the Charles river. The yard extends to the water's edge, to afford facilities for lading and unlading the boats which transport stone--hammering stone for building being the principal business at which the convicts are employed.

When we reached the outer gate of the prison-yard we pushed it open, and on closing itself after we entered, it struck a bell, which gave notice to the keeper of the inner gate that some one was coming. This inner gate, made of strong iron bars, was opened for us, and we passed up the steps of a large stone building, through which lay our passage to the yard beyond. This building consists of one large central edifice, occupied by the family of the warden and by some of the keepers, and two extensive wings. In these wings the prisoners were formerly confined, in rooms of moderate size; many convicts however being lodged in one room. This was the old system of prison discipline, of which I have already spoken, and the prisoners almost invariably grew worse instead of better under it. A young man, perhaps just beginning a career of vice, or overcome for the first time by some strong temptation, was placed during the long hours of the night in one of these crowded rooms. Of course he grew worse by such an exposure. Those who had grown old in sin instructed him in all their wicked arts. He became familiarized to infamy; and even while under sentence for one crime, often formed plans for others, to be executed as soon as he should escape into society again. The consequence was, that these night rooms, in the wings of this great building, were, as they were often called, schools of vice and crime.

The first room we entered in this edifice seemed to be a sort of an office, and a row of swords and guns, which were arranged there ready to be used at a moment's notice, proclaimed the intention of the keepers to resort to the most decided measures if the prisoners should make any attempt to escape. We passed through this room, and one or two others, every narrow passage being guarded by a formidable door of iron, which a turnkey opened and shut for us as we passed.

We entered a spacious and beautiful yard in the rear of this building. I say it was beautiful, because it struck the eye most pleasantly by its expression of neatness and industry. It was spacious, and extensive shops were arranged around it, in which the convicts were accustomed to work; and upon the smooth and level floor, I had almost said, of the area enclosed, were many large and beautiful blocks of hammered granite, the fruits of the prisoners' industry.

We walked across the yard and came to a long stone building one story high, behind which rose another spacious edifice of stone. In this last were the prisoners' cells. I am not certain that I shall be able to convey to my young readers a very accurate idea of the arrangement and of the interior of these buildings, but I am very desirous of doing so, as it will give them clearer ideas of what I intend to present, in regard in the moral aspects of such an institution as this. Will you not then make an effort to picture distinctly to your minds what I am describing?

The long low building which I have mentioned, had a strong iron door in the centre, and from that door a passage-way extended across to the great new prison beyond. On one side of this passage-way was a large room appropriated to preparing food for the prisoners, and on the other side was the chapel. When we came up to the iron door in the front of the building, we found several gentlemen, who had come over from Boston to act as teachers in the Sabbath-school, waiting for admission. They were waiting until the prisoners themselves should have passed into the chapel; for when we arrived, they were coming in a long procession, from their cells in the rear, into this building, each one bringing the tin vessel from which he had eaten his breakfast, and laying it upon a sort of counter as he passed on into the chapel. We could see this by looking through an opening in the iron door.

When all the prisoners had gone into the chapel, the outer door was opened by a keeper, and we all passed in; the heavy door was swung to behind us, and its strong bolt secured. We turned from the entry into that end of the building which was used as a chapel. There was an aisle passing up the centre, on each side of which were seats half filled with the convicts. The chaplain stood in a pulpit at the farther end, and on each side of him were the teachers, gentlemen from Boston, who had come to assist these unhappy men to read and to understand the word of God.

It was a most delightful May morning, and the whole aspect of the room, as I looked over it from my stand near the chaplain, was that of cheerfulness and happiness, not of gloom. The sun beamed in brightly at the windows, and the walls of the room of the purest white, the neat benches, and the nicely sanded floor, gave a most pleasant aspect to the whole.

The congregation presented a singular and striking appearance. Had it not been for their dress, I might have forgotten that I was in a prison. But they were all dressed in coarse clothes of two colors, one side of the body being red, and the other of some different hue. This is the uniform of crime. The object of it is, I suppose, not to mortify them with a perpetual badge of disgrace, but to expose any one who should by any means escape, to immediate detection by the inhabitants of the country around.

"Is it possible," thought I, as I looked over this most interesting assembly, "that all these men have come voluntarily this morning to read and study the word of God?" Yes, that was the fact. This exercise was entirely voluntary; and out of two or three hundred who had been condemned for crime, about one half were accustomed to come voluntarily on Sabbath morning to study the book which proclaims from heaven free forgiveness of every sin.

The chaplain opened the school with prayer. He then explained to the teachers that the plan to be pursued was simply to hear the prisoners read the Bible, and explain its contents to them. He desired them to confine their conversation strictly to the business in hand, and requested the prisoners not to ask, and the teachers not to answer any questions relating to other subjects. He then distributed the teachers around the room, giving each one a small class. Three convicts fell to my charge.

I opened the New Testament, and let them read in rotation; and more apparently humble and docile students of the Bible I never saw. They read slowly and with hesitation, and I thought at first, with a little embarrassment; this however soon passed away, and it was most interesting to watch the eager expression upon their countenances as the various truths which were such glad tidings to them came to view. We came almost accidentally to the parables of the one sheep and the one piece of money which was lost, Luke 15, and it seemed as if the whole chapter was written expressly for prisoners.

One of these convicts, after expressing a strong interest in these parables, said that the Bible appeared like a very different book to him now, from what it did in former times.

"How did it formerly appear to you?" asked I.

"Oh, I used to despise it. I used to wonder why so much was made of the Bible. It seemed to me that I could write as good a book myself."

"Well, are your views of it changed now?"

"O yes," said he, "I am now fully persuaded it is the word of God."

"What caused you to disbelieve formerly; was it the influence of bad company?"

"Why, sir, to be frank; it was ignorance. I had not studied it. I had read it a little here and there, but not attentively, or with a right spirit."

"What led you to change your views of it?"

"I did not change my views until I came to this institution. I had some days of solitary confinement when I first came, with no book but the Bible; and when I first began to reflect, I recollected that a Christian family whom I once lived with, seemed to enjoy more real, substantial happiness than any other persons I ever saw; and this led me to think there might possibly be something in religion. So I thought I would examine the Bible in earnest, and I found it a very different book from what I had supposed. I took a very strong interest in it, and at last a minister preached a sermon here from the text, 'What shall I do to inherit eternal life?' and that, I hope, led me to the Saviour. I hope and trust that I have really given my heart to God."

I told him that what he said gave me great pleasure, and that I hoped he would persevere in Christian duty, and find the Bible a source of happiness to him as long as he should live.

"When I first came to this institution," he replied, "I thought it was rather a hard case to be shut up here so long. My time is, however, now almost out. In a few weeks I shall go away; but if I have really been led to see and forsake my sins, I shall never have any reason to regret coming here."

The chaplain about this time gave notice that it was time for the services to be closed, and I could not converse with my other scholars much. One of them told me, however, that he had been brought up by pious parents, and had read the Bible when he was a child. "It was, however," said he, "only to please my parents. I gave no heed to it. I have found it, since I came to this institution, a very different book."

I afterwards learned that there was as much reason as, under the circumstances, there could be, to hope that all three of these criminals had really repented of sin and obtained peace with God, and that they would return to society to be useful and happy while they live and be admitted to heaven when they die.

Such cases as these too are becoming very numerous in prisons where the convicts are separated from each other, and brought under the influence of the word of God. Since this plan has been adopted in this very prison, the results have been most decisive. The number of prisoners, and especially of recommitments, is very much reduced. The whole number of convicts, which was formerly 375, has been reduced under the operation of this system to 225, and is now constantly decreasing.

But I must proceed with the description of my visit. At the close of the Sabbath-school, the convicts who had attended it marched out, and presently returned with all the other prisoners in a long procession, to attend public worship; they filled the chapel. The preacher addressed them on the subject of temperance; and as he explained to them the nature of ardent spirit, and the consequences of its use, they listened with the most eager and uninterrupted attention. Each had his Bible under his arm--his only companion in his solitary cell-and it was evident, I thought, from the countenances of the whole assembly, that in the hour of stillness and solitude it had been at work upon the conscience of many a hardened sinner there. It seemed impossible for a man to look upon that assembly, understanding their circumstances, and knowing how exclusively the Bible had been used as the means of restoring them to moral health, and how successful it had been, and yet doubt whether the book was really from God.

After the meeting was closed the prisoners marched by divisions in regular order, each under the care of a keeper, back to the great building in the rear, which contained their cells. As they passed through the entry, each one took from the place where he had left it, the tin vessel now containing his evening meal, and they marched in long procession to their silent and solitary lodgings. We followed them into the building. Its construction is peculiar; and as it is similar to those now almost universally built for prisoners, I shall describe it.

It contains a building within a building--the outer one being a mere shell, consisting of walls and a roof, with rows of narrow, grated windows in the sides. The inner building is distinct and independent, with a passage several feet wide all around between it and the outer walls. This inner building is simply a block of cells, four or five stories high, arranged back to back, so that the doors open on each side into the passage-way I have already described. The doors, however, of the lower story only can be entered from the floor of the passage-way itself, and to gain access to the others, long narrow galleries, supported by iron pillars, project from each story. A staircase at one end leads to these.

There were no windows to the cells, except a grated opening in the narrow but heavy iron door; and this, it will be perceived, did not furnish an access to the open air, for the outer building entirely enclosed the inner like a case. Sufficient light, however, found its way through the outer windows, and thence through the grated door, to cheer the prisoner a little in his solitude, and to allow him to read the pages of the word of God.

When we came into the passage-way below, the trains of prisoners were passing along the galleries, and entering, one after another, their respective cells. Each one closed after him the massive door, and there was something peculiarly solemn and impressive in the heavy sound, produced in regular succession, as door after door closed upon the unfortunate inmates. Each keeper passed along after the prisoners of his division had entered their cells, and locked them in; and after the last party-colored dress had disappeared, and the last bolt sounded to its place, the keepers one after another returned, and all was silence and apparent solitude.

Though it was now the middle of a bright May afternoon, it was but twilight within these walls--the twilight of a prison--and so still, that one could hardly realize that within the sound of his voice more than two hundred criminals were confined. And yet, they were within the sound of one voice; for the construction of these buildings is such, that every prisoner can hear the chaplain when conducting religious services in the passage-way. He stands there, not seeing an individual whom he addresses--nothing before him but the cold, repulsive aspect of the granite walls and floor and pillars, doors and locks of iron--and reads the chapter, and offers the evening prayer in the hearing of hundreds; and each prisoner, alone in his cell, seated upon his little bench, hears through the grated window the voice of one unseen, explaining to him the word of God, or guiding him in his supplications for the forgiveness of his sins, and preparation for heaven.

As we stood contemplating this scene, one of the officers of the prison standing there, said to my companion,

"How different this is from what we used to see and hear in the old prison."

"Has there been," asked I, "a very decided change in the aspect of the prisoners since their removal to this building?"

"O yes," said he, "every thing is changed. Why, when they occupied the old building, and were locked up several together in a room, there was nothing but cursing and swearing, and riot, and quarrelling, and blasphemy, to be heard all night. How they would rave against religion and the Bible and ministers. Nothing would have tempted me to have staid in the prison, if that state of things had continued. Now it is a quiet and peaceful family."

We passed out at last. A keeper, with a sword at his side and a pistol at his belt, closed and locked the door after us, and we passed through the yard, and through the great edifice which I first described, out beyond the prison walls, and returned to our homes.

Now, if there was any one thing which stood forth to view in all this scene more distinctly and vividly than all the rest, it was, that these effects were the work of the Bible. The very essence of the whole system is simply to cut off the bad influences which would otherwise gain access to the prisoner, and lay before him the Bible. This was done with kindness and sympathy indeed, but still the word of God was most evidently the remedy which was applied. The prisoners came to their place of worship with their Bibles in their hands--the teachers in the Sabbath-school confined their efforts to reading and explaining the sacred book--and it was affecting to observe, that as they went to their solitary cells, they found there the word of God for their only companion. So unquestionable is the moral power of this book, that the very authorities of the state, actuated by a desire to save the community from the injuries of wicked men, place a Bible, at the public expense, in the cell of every convict committed for crime.

Those little cells, so small that the narrow bed, when let down at night, leaves the prisoner scarcely room to stand--destitute of almost every comfort, and showing, by their whole aspect, that their design is to connect the most gloomy associations possible with the idea of crime--every one of those narrow and naked cells must have its Bible. Every legislator knows that that is the book to call back the guilty criminal from his sins. And though men may in speculation deny its authority and question its influence in practice, when they wish to awaken conscience in the abandoned, and to recall them so far at least to duty that society may be safe from their crimes, they are unanimous in invoking its aid.

But I must return to the two convicts' stories. I did not intend to have digressed so far from them. My readers are requested to recall those narratives to mind, for I wish to analyze them a little, that I may present more distinctly the nature of the process by which convalescence and ultimate health return to a sin-sick soul; for I wish to consider these not in the light of detached and separate instances, but as fair specimens of cases which are constantly occurring by tens of thousands in Christian lands.

I should like to have you notice the following points, which are brought to view by those narratives.

1. The Bible was the means of the change. One of the convicts said he had no proper views of the Scriptures till he came to the prison; the other could not read them at all; and it was plainly by means of this book that they were brought to understand their true characters. So, at Charlestown, the whole plan of moral influence consisted in bringing, in a kind and sympathizing manner, the truths of the word of God to those minds. I was told by one of the teachers who was present at the time of my visit, that he had in his class a convict who had been repeatedly imprisoned, having been confined once or twice in the old building. "And," said he, "it only made me worse. But now there is a new state of things. When I came to this prison, I found nothing but my Bible; and I believe it has made me a new man." The gentleman who had taught that class said, that he gave every evidence which could be given in so short a time, of being a humbled, renewed man.

2. The Bible leads men to see that their sins are against God. This you will perceive to be the case, from a review of the convicts' stories. And this is one of the great peculiarities of the Scriptures. They lead us to see that we owe obligations to our Maker--a truth that is always neglected or forgotten till the Bible brings it to view.

But what is the meaning of our sins being against God? I once knew a boy so abandoned to evil passions, and so utterly destitute of moral principle, that he set fire to his mother's house in a fit of anger with her for some reproof or punishment. I do not know whether he intended to burn it entirely, or whether he expected that the fire would be extinguished, and he should thus only frighten his mother. A great deal of injury was in fact done by the fire, which was however at last extinguished. Now, the boy very probably supposed this offence was against his mother alone. He knew he was responsible to her authority, and thought of nothing more.

How surprised, then, would he be, if some friend of his, after he had done this, should converse with him as follows:

"Do you know what you have done?"

"Yes, I set mother's house on fire."

"And what do you expect will be the consequence?"

"Why, perhaps she will punish me; but I don't care for that."

"I think you will find that that is not the worst of it."

"What is the worst of it?"

"Why, you have broken the law of the land, and I expect every hour that the officers will be after you to take you up."

"The officers!" says the boy, astonished and alarmed; "I didn't know any thing about the law of the land."

"There is a law of the land, you will find, and you have broken it, and they will have you tried and put in the state-prison for it."

At this, the boy would perhaps pause and turn pale, and his next word would probably either be, "I don't believe it," or else, "What shall I do?" Perhaps he would attempt to excuse himself by saying,

"I did not know that it was against any law--I only did it to plague my mother."

"That makes no difference," his friend would reply; "it will not help you at all. The law of every community is, and ought to be, very decided against incendiaries, because, as you well know, when you set fire to your house, you endangered the others near, and in fact the whole village. As to your not knowing that it was against the law, that makes no difference; you knew that it was wrong."

I do not know whether this boy learned that he had broken the law, and was in great danger of punishment, by any such conversation as the above. I know, however, that he learned it in some way, and he fled; he escaped to a distant city, but the officers found him there; and I saw him afterwards confined in his cell.

Now, when men sin in this world, they almost always forget the very important circumstance, that they are sinning against God. They look upon their offences as committed solely against their fellow-men; they feel sometimes a little compunction in regard to those few cases where their conduct has injured their fellows; they never consider these as offences against a far higher law--and as to all their other conduct, they feel entirely at ease in regard to it.

Now, the Bible comes in in such cases; and where its voice is heeded, it holds with men a conversation much like that which I have described between the boy and his friend.

"Do you know," it says to one who has been living an irreligious life for many years, "what you have been doing?"

"Yes," he replies, "I have very often done wrong. I have sometimes been idle, and sometimes a little passionate; but then I have endeavored to make up for lost time by subsequent industry, and I have always repaired all the injuries of every kind that I have done to others. On the whole, I have been a good neighbor and an honest man; I have been kind in my family, and upright as a citizen."

"Ah," says the Bible, "do you not know that there is a God, and that by utterly neglecting him, you have been all the time unceasingly breaking his law? You have been living for yourself, detached and separate from all around you, except so far as your interests or instinctive feelings have formed a frail tie. What a divided and miserable community would be the result, if all God's creatures were to act upon the same principle!"

"Besides," continues the word of God, "the sins which you acknowledge you have committed, and which you seem to consider as chiefly against men, are in a far higher sense against God. They are violations of his law, and he has annexed a most awful penalty to such transgressions. In fact, it is possible that some of his officers are now sent to summon you to trial and condemnation for your sins."

Thus men are led to see by the Bible what law they have broken, and what punishment they have to fear. The convict whose conversation I have above given, saw, as he expresses it, that all his sins had been "against God."

3. The Bible makes men FEEL their guilt. Undoubtedly many of my readers will go over the explanation I have just given of our connection with God, and of the fact that all our sins are against him, very carelessly. I do not mean, that they will not be interested in the mere reading: I mean, that they will not realize the truth, in its application to themselves. Nothing is more common than for persons to see and to acknowledge the truths I have been presenting, without feeling any compunction for their guilt; but the Bible arouses conscience; it is "quick and powerful, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of the soul and spirit."

It is one of the most remarkable properties of the human mind, that a consciousness of guilt may remain a long time dormant in it--producing no uneasiness and no suffering; and yet, after the lapse of years, it will burst forth with most terrific power, and drive the victim of it to actual despair. This has often been the case. A man who has committed sin, is like one bitten by a mad dog. The momentary pain is slight--the wound soon heals; it may keep up from time to time a slight irritation, just enough to remind him occasionally of the occurrence; but ordinarily it is forgotten, and he goes on with his daily amusements and pleasures, entirely unconscious of danger.

But though the wound is healed, the dreadful infection which it has admitted to his system is circulating insidiously there. The poison glides imperceptibly along his veins and arteries for weeks, months, years. It does not mar his enjoyments or disturb his repose; but still the dreadful enemy, though slumbering, is there. At last, in some unexpected hour, it rises upon him in all its strength, and overwhelms and conquers him entirely. It brings agony to his body and indescribable horror to his soul, and hurries him through furious paroxysms of madness and despair to inevitable death.

And it is just so with sin. A murderer, for example, will often slumber ten, twenty, or thirty years over his crime. The knowledge of it will be in his heart, like a lurking poison, during all that time. He will recollect it without anxiety or compunction, and look forward to the future without alarm. At last, however, some circumstance, often apparently trifling, will awaken him; he will begin to feel his guilt; conscience will suddenly rise upon him like an armed man, and overwhelm him with all the horrors of remorse and despair. Perhaps, if one had tried a few weeks before to make him feel his guilt, it would have been vain, he was so utterly hardened in it--so dead in trespasses and sins; but now, you will find it far more difficult to allay or to mitigate the storm which has, perhaps spontaneously, arisen.

Every person, therefore, who commits sin, takes a viper into his bosom--a viper which may delay stinging him for many years, but it will sting him at last, unless it is removed; he is unaware of the misery which awaits him, but it must come notwithstanding: and the wonder is, that the sense of guilt will remain so entirely dormant as it often does, so that no warning, no expostulation, no remonstrance will disturb the death-like repose; and yet, at last the volcano will often burst forth spontaneously, or from some apparently trifling cause, and overwhelm the sinner in suffering.

Now we certainly should not wish that this suffering should come upon any individual, were it not that in a vast multitude of cases it leads him to repent of and to forsake his sins. Remorse is not penitence it is true, but it very frequently leads to it. The truths of the Bible are not designed to produce a sorrow that worketh death, but, by the power of the Holy Spirit, to awaken such a sense of guilt as shall lead to unfeigned repentance and eternal life.

4. The Bible leads men to a Saviour. Men everywhere have the impression that penitence cannot remove and expiate guilt. Whenever we do wrong, there is implanted, as it were in the very soul, a fearful looking forward to punishment to come in consequence of it. We know that no government can be efficiently maintained where its settled, regular plan is to forgive always upon confession. Now it is found by universal experience, and the cases I have narrated happily illustrate this, that when men are really brought to feel their sins against God, they cannot be quieted by any general assurances that God is merciful. They know he is merciful, but then they know he is just. They know he is the great moral Governor of the universe; and the youngest child, or the most ignorant savage, has an instinct, I might almost call it, which so assures him of the necessity of a retribution that he cannot rest--after a repeated disobedience--in the hope that his penitence alone will secure his pardon. Hence, in many countries they have various ways of doing penance, that is, inflicting severe voluntary suffering upon themselves by way of retribution for their sins. Now when men, under such circumstances, hear that a Saviour has died for sinners, it brings relief. It is very often the case that there is not a very clear idea of the way in which his sufferings are of avail in opening the way for pardon; in fact, it is not absolutely necessary that there should be very clear ideas on this subject. The mind, however darkened and ignorant, is capable of seeing that these sufferings may in some way stop the evil consequences of its sins, and open the way for pardon, and yet not fully understand in all their detail the various moral influences which the crucifixion of the Son of God is calculated to produce.

My reader, do you feel a secret, but continual burden from a sense of your sins? Make a full trial of the experiment of coming and asking forgiveness in the Saviour's name, and see if it does not bring relief.

I suppose that most of my readers remember the story of Regulus. The ancient cities of Rome and Carthage stood opposite to each other, across the Mediterranean sea. As these two cities grew up to power and distinction nearly together, they were the rivals and enemies of each other. There was many a hard fought battle between their armies and their fleets.

At last Regulus, a celebrated Roman general, was sent across the sea to carry the war if possible to the very gates of Carthage. He was at first very successful, and took many prisoners and sent them to Rome. At length, however, the scale was turned, the Roman army was conquered, and Regulus himself was captured and thrown into a Carthaginian prison.

After some time, however, had elapsed, the Carthaginians, foreseeing that the Roman power would in the end overwhelm their own, concluded to send an embassy to Rome to offer peace. They proposed to Regulus to go on this embassy. They intrusted him with the commission, saying to him, "We wish you would go to Rome and propose to your countrymen to make peace with us, and endeavor to persuade them to comply. If you do not succeed, however, we expect you to return to us again as our lawful prisoner. We shall confide in your word."

Regulus accepted the trust. He set off to Rome, promising to return to Carthage if the Romans should not accede to the peace. He sailed across the sea and up the Tiber, and was soon approaching the gates of the great city. He had determined, however, to do all in his power to prevent a peace, knowing that it would not be for the interest of his country to make one. He understood, therefore, that he was going to his native city only to communicate his message, and then to return to imprisonment, torture, and death, at Carthage.

His wife came out of the gates to meet him, rejoicing in his return. He received her dejected, silent, and sad. "I am a Carthaginian prisoner still," said he, "and must soon return to my chains."

He refused to enter the city. He had indeed a message for the senate, but the Roman senate was not accustomed to admit foreigners to their sessions within the city. He sent them word, therefore, that Regulus, no longer a Roman general, but a Carthaginian prisoner, was the bearer of a message to them, and wished them to hold, as usual, a meeting without the gates for the purpose of receiving it.

The senate came. They heard the proposal which the Carthaginians sent, and the arguments of Regulus against it. The arguments prevailed. They decided against peace, and Regulus began to speak of his return.

"Return!" said his friends and the senators and all the people of Rome; "you are under no obligation to return to Carthage."

"I promised to return," said Regulus, "and I must keep my word. I am well aware that the disappointed and exasperated Carthaginians will inflict upon me cruel tortures, but I am their prisoner still, and I must keep my word."

The Romans did all in their power to persuade Regulus that a promise extorted under such circumstances was not binding, and that he could be under no obligations to return. But all was vain. He bade the senate and his countrymen and his wife farewell, and was soon sailing back to the land of his enemies. The Carthaginians were enraged at the result of his mission. They put him to death by the most cruel tortures.

When the tidings of his death came back to Rome, the senate and the people, who had already been much impressed by the patriotism of Regulus and his firm adherence to his word, were overwhelmed with admiration and gratitude. This feeling was mixed too with a strong desire of revenge upon the Carthaginians, and a decree was passed, giving up the Carthaginian prisoners then in their hands to Marcia the wife of Regulus, to be disposed of as she might desire. She most unjustly and cruelly ordered them all to be put to death by the same sufferings which her lamented husband had endured.

My story, thus far, is substantially true. The dialogue I have given is intended to exhibit the substance of what was said, not the exact words. The facts, however, are correctly stated. The whole occurrence is matter of history.

In order, however, to make the use of this story which I have intended, I must now go on in fiction. I will suppose that Marcia, instead of desiring to gratify a revengeful spirit by destroying the lives of the innocent prisoners at Rome, in retaliation for the murder of her husband, had been actuated by a nobler spirit, and had sent such a message as this to the Roman senate, in reply to their proposal to her:

"I do not wish for revenge. It will do no good, either to Regulus who is dead, or to his unhappy widow who survives, to torture or to destroy the miserable captives in our hands. Dispose of them as the good of the state requires. If you think, however, that any thing is due from the commonwealth to the memory of Regulus or to his surviving friends, let it be paid in happiness, not in suffering. There are in the public prisons many miserable convicts condemned for their crimes; let them be forgiven for Regulus' sake, if they will acknowledge their crimes and return to their duty."

A Roman senate would have granted undoubtedly such a request as this, if made under such circumstances as I have described. Let us suppose they had done so, and that the prison doors had been opened, and the offers of pardon had been circulated among the convicts there.

Now I wish my reader to bear in mind, that I am not intending here to offer an illustration of the way in which our salvation is effected by the sufferings of the Son of God; no analogy drawn from any earthly transactions, can fully illustrate the way in which the Lamb of God takes away the sins of the world. My object is to illustrate the spiritwith which the offer of mercy through him is to be received, and I have made this supposition for the purpose of placing these prisoners in a situation somewhat like that of condemned sinners in this world, that I may show how the Bible brings relief to those suffering under the burden of sin, by offering them mercy through a Saviour.

A messenger comes then, we will suppose, among the imprisoned malefactors--tells them he brings good news to them--an offer of pardon from the Roman senate. The prisoners look incredulous. They know that the Roman government is an efficient one, and that it is accustomed to execute its laws. "We are justly imprisoned," they would say, "and our time is not yet expired--there can be no forgiveness for us till the law sets us free."

The messenger then relates to them, that in consequence of the distinguished services and subsequently cruel sufferings of a great Roman general, the senate had wished to make to his widow some public expression of the sympathy and gratitude of the commonwealth, and that she had asked it as a boon, that every penitent prisoner, willing to abandon his crimes and return to his duty, might be set free for her husband's sake.

Now, unquestionably, if there were any among these prisoners who were really penitent for sin and willing to return to duty, their abhorrence of their crimes would be increased, and their determination to be faithful citizens in future would be strengthened by receiving such an offer of pardon. Nay, it would not be surprising if some who were still hardened in their sins, and even in the midst of noise and revelry in the prison at the very time the messenger appeared, should be arrested, and their feelings touched by such an address.

"How different," they might reflect, "is the conduct of Regulus from ours. We have been, by our vices and crimes, bringing injuries without number upon our country. He, by his labors and sufferings, has been unceasingly endeavoring to do her good; and Marcia, too--it was kind for her to think of us. When we were at liberty, we thought only of gratifying our own passions; we made no effort to promote the happiness of others, or to diminish their sufferings; we will return to our duty, and imitate the example they have set for us."

It would not be surprising if such a transaction had awakened these reflections in some minds; and on the whole, the effect of the offer of mercy through Jesus Christ produces very similar effects in the world to those I have here imagined in the prison. When men are told in general terms, that God is merciful and will forgive their sins, it does not in ordinary cases really relieve them. Though perhaps they do not say it distinctly, yet they feel that God's government, to be efficient, must have strict laws, and penalties strictly executed; and they are afraid that a mere reliance on God's general mercy may not be quite safe. Thousands trust to this till they come to their dying hour and then abandon it.

But when men are told by the word of God, that Jesus Christ died for them--the just for the unjust--and that they must come, asking forgiveness in his name and for his sake, it throws a different aspect over the whole case; a bright gleam of hope from a new and unexpected quarter darts in. Though they may not know fully in what way the sufferings of Christ may be the means of opening the way for their forgiveness, they still can see that it is very possible it may in some way do this. It is not necessary that we should understand fully the way. The convicts might be released without knowing all about the story of Regulus, or comprehending exactly how such a transaction as their release on his account would affect the public mind in Rome, so as to obviate the evil effects of laxity in the administration of public justice. There might be many a poor ignorant convict who could not comprehend such subjects at all, and who yet might possess the spirit of mind which should bring him most fully within the conditions of release. Such an one might come to the officer appointed for the purpose, and say,

"I am very grateful to the Roman senate for offering to pardon me for the sake of Regulus. I was really guilty of the crime for which I was sentenced, and the term of my imprisonment is not longer than I justly deserve; but I am glad to be restored to freedom and to happiness now. I shall always be grateful to the senate, and shall cherish the memory of Regulus as long as I live."

Now if a prisoner had this spirit, there is no question that he would be released, whether he was or was not statesman or philosopher enough to understand fully the moral character and influence of such a transaction; and so, my reader, if you are willing to acknowledge and to forsake your sins, and to accept of freedom and happiness in future, on account of another's merits and sufferings, you need not distress yourself because you do not fully comprehend the nature of that great transaction of which Gethsemane and Calvary were the scene. It cannot be fully understood here. From the windows of our prison-house in this world, we can see but a small part of the great city of God. We cannot therefore appreciate fully any of the plans of his government; we can, however, feel right ourselves. We can ask forgiveness in Christ's name, and believe, on the authority of God's word, that God has set forth Jesus Christ to be a propitiation for us, that we might be saved through faith in his blood--that is, by our trusting in his sufferings--that God might be just, and yet save those who trust in the Saviour. See Rom. 3:23-26.

But to return to the Roman prison. I have represented one prisoner as accepting the offer, and going out to freedom in consequence of it. Let us now suppose that the public officer appointed by the senate to carry the message to the prisoners, and to receive their replies, should meet in one of the rooms a very different reception. He passes, we will suppose, along a dark passage-way, until he comes to the door of a gloomy dungeon; the keeper removes the heavy rusty bars and unbolts and unlocks the door, and as he opens it, he hears the unexpected sounds of mirth and revelry within.

As he enters, he sees the wretched-looking inmates lying around the cold stone floor upon their beds of straw. In a corner sit some with wild and haggard looks, relating to each other, with noisy but unnatural mirth, the profane jest or immoral story. In the middle of the room, two are quarrelling for a morsel of food which each claims, filling the air with their dreadful oaths and imprecations. Near the door lies a miserable object half covered in his tattered garment, and endeavoring in vain to get a little sleep. A small grated window high in the wall admits a dim light, just sufficient to reveal to view the objects which compose this scene of vice and misery.

The quarrellers and the rioters pause a moment, each retaining his attitude, and listen while the messenger from the senate lays before them the offer of forgiveness and freedom. They gaze upon him for a few minutes with vacant looks, but before he has fairly finished his message, the angry combatants recommence their war--the story-teller in the corner goes on with his narrative--the sleeper composes himself again to rest--and perhaps some fierce and angry-looking criminal comes up to the messenger and says, in a stern voice, "Away, you have no business here."

Do you think that these prisoners would be liberated for the sake of Regulus? No. The bolts and bars must be closed upon them again, and they must bear their sentence to the full. This is the way that multitudes receive the offers of forgiveness through Jesus Christ.

Once more. Suppose this messenger were to meet, in some part of the prison, one of the convicts walking back and forth alone in his cell, and should repeat to him the story which he was commissioned to bring.

"Forgiveness for the sake of Regulus!" says he, with a tone of scorn; "I want no forgiveness on account of another; you have no right to shut me up here for any thing I have done; it is unjust and cruel. I demand release on my own account--without any condition or any acknowledgment of my dependence for it upon the merits of another."

Now if the messenger should meet with the exhibition of such a spirit as this, he would turn away and close the bolts and bars of the prison again upon such a convict, and seek subjects of mercy elsewhere. God too requires of us all a humble and subdued spirit, and willingness to accept of pardon in the name of Jesus Christ, who died for us. We must come with the spirit which I first described--the spirit of the convict who said,

"I am grateful to the Roman senate for offering to pardon me for the sake of Regulus. I was really guilty of the crime for which I was sentenced, and the term of my imprisonment is not longer than I justly deserve; but I am glad to be restored to freedom and happiness now. I shall always be grateful to the senate, and shall cherish the memory of Regulus as long as I live."

Before dismissing this illustration, I wish to remind my readers again, that I have been endeavoring to exhibit by it the spirit of mind with which we ought to receive the offer of mercy through Jesus Christ, not the nature of the atonement which he has made for sin. The case I have imagined could not safely occur in any human government, because there would be no way of ascertaining who among the convicts were truly penitent, and were really determined on leading a life of virtue in future. Several other difficulties, which in God's government do not exist, are unavoidable in every human empire. The spirit of mind with which the offer of free forgiveness in Jesus' name is welcomed or refused, is all which I design by this illustration to explain. If the heart is really ready to acknowledge its guilt, and willing to accept of pardon which it does not deserve, the offer of a Saviour is most admirably calculated to restore peace of conscience, and heal the wounded spirit. And nothing but the Bible can make such an offer. Thus one of the most powerful means by which it changes character, is awakening the sensibilities of the heart through the exhibition of a Saviour crucified for our sins, and leading us to feel that we may be forgiven, and the obligation and authority of the law we have broken be yet sustained.

5. These changes of character are real and permanent, though often attended with strong excitement, and sometimes with mental delusion. My readers recollect that the first convict saw at one time a black coffin, according to his statement; and at another, he was addressed by an audible voice in his cell, telling him that his sins were pardoned. These two circumstances were what chiefly induced me to insert that narrative, that I might bring up distinctly this point, namely, that the changes of character produced by the Bible are sometimes attended with mental delusion in little things, especially among those minds that have been but little disciplined by philosophical thought. I could not have a fair specimen without including an example of this.

The human mind is so constituted, as all who have studied its nature are fully aware, that when any subject of great interest, or any strong emotion, takes possession of it, it operates immediately upon the body, producing sometimes animal excitement, and sometimes delusions of the senses. So that these very delusions, and this very bodily excitement, prove the greatness and the reality of the emotions of heart which have occasioned them. If a man becomes very much interested in any scheme, how likely he is to become enthusiastic in it. And this enthusiasm the public usually consider as proving, not disproving, his sincerity. It indicates the strength of the interest which he feels. It is astonishing what extravagances people will put up with from men engaged in the prosecution of favorite plans, and will consider them as pleasant indications of the strength of the interest which is felt. Brinley, a famous canal engineer, was so much interested in his favorite mode of transportation, that he used to express the opinion that a canal was far more valuable to a country than a navigable river. He was once asked what he supposed Providence intended in creating rivers. He said they were good for nothing but to feed canals. And this story has been copied by every biographer of Brinley; it has been told again and again, in lectures and conversations and debates, as a pleasant instance of extravagance in a man devoted to a favorite pursuit, which proves nothing but the greatness of the interest he feels in it. Nobody ever thought the worse of Brinley for it, or distrusted his judgment on any point in the science of engineering. Millions were risked on his opinion while he was living, and his name is remembered with the highest respect. So Christians of uncultivated minds will be sometimes extravagant in their opinions, or in their conduct, and only show by it the strength of the interest they feel.

A man who is inventing a machine, will become so excited that he cannot sleep. He will perhaps, in his efforts to obtain repose, fall into an uncertain state between sleeping and waking, in which, half in reverie and half in dream, fancy will present him with splendid images of success. He will hear a voice or see a figure, or he will be assured by some extraordinary mode that he shall overcome all his difficulties, if he will persevere. In the morning, light and the full possession of his faculties return, and as he is generally a man of intelligence, he can analyze the operations of his mind, and separate the false from the true. If he w an unenlightened man, however, and should in the morning tell his story, how narrow would be the philosophy which would say to him, "Sir, it is all a delusion. Your mind is evidently turned. You had better give up your invention, and return to other pursuits." It would be a great deal more wise to neglect altogether the story of supernatural voices and appearances which he might tell, and judge of the value of his proposed invention by examining impartially his plan itself, and calculating on sober evidence the probability of success or failure.

So, my reader, when you hear of any thing which you deem extravagance or delusion among Christians, remember how immense a change the beginning of a Christian course sometimes is. The man has been all his life neglecting and disliking religion. He has been engrossed in sinful pursuits and pleasures, and perhaps addicted to open vice. All at once, while contemplating God's holy truth, his eyes are opened--he sees his guilt, and his imminent danger of ruin. He is, and he must be, strongly excited. If he feels in any just degree his condition, he cannot sleep. Can an arrested malefactor sleep quietly the first night in his cell? He must be strongly excited, and this excitement must, in many cases, bring something like temporary mental delusion. He may do and say many things in which calm spectators cannot sympathize. But it is most certainly very unphilosophical to fasten upon these, and say it is all delusion and wildness. The real question to be considered is this: Is a bad character really changed for a good one? If so, it is a great moral change, invaluable in its nature and results, productive of inconceivable good to the individual himself, and to all connected with him. The excess of feeling is momentary and harmless. In regard to the permanency of the change in the case of those convicts, there is one whose subsequent character I have no means of knowing. The other, however, when he was liberated, became a useful and respectable citizen; and after sustaining uninjured for two or three years the temptations of the world, he was admitted to a Christian church; and up to the latest accounts which I have been able to obtain, he was a most trustworthy man and an exemplary Christian. An abandoned profligate, imprisoned for his crimes, becomes a useful and a virtuous man. Can you expect such a change without excitement? How unphilosophical then is it to fasten upon the slight and momentary indications of excitement as evidence that there is nothing real in the case.

And yet, unphilosophical as this is, I have no doubt that there are many persons whose eyes, if they were reading the first convict's story, would catch at once the accounts of the supernatural appearances which he thought he saw, and they would stop short there. "Ah," they would say, "he heard a voice forgiving his sins--he saw a black coffin. It is all fanaticism and delusion." This is narrow-mindedness. The intellect which reasons thus, is in such a state that it does not take a survey of the whole of a subject presented, so as to form an independent and unbiassed opinion. The man fastens upon one little blemish which happens to be turned towards him and seeing no farther, he condemns the whole. Like the inexperienced mariner, who thinks he has come to a barren and inhospitable land, because he sees nothing but precipitous rocks or sandy beaches on the shore which first comes to view.

There is, however, a narrow-mindedness which may operate in another way. Many a sincere Christian will read such an account and be perfectly satisfied, because he meets with a few expressions of penitence, that the convict's heart is really changed. He thinks the criminal has certainly become a Christian, just because he talks like one. Whereas it is very possible that he is only repeating language which he has heard others use, for the sake of exciting sympathy, or pretending to be reformed, in hope of pardon and release from his cell. Now, it is as narrow-minded to judge from a very partial knowledge of facts in one way as in another. An experienced Christian can indeed often form a tolerably safe opinion of the reality or fictitiousness of a pretended change by conversation; but the great decisive evidence after all, is perseverance in a holy life.

If then men who have been abandoned to vice become virtuous and trustworthy citizens, and exemplify for years the graces of the Christian character, we will bear with a little excitement, and even enthusiasm, at the time of the change. For it is, after all, of comparatively little consequence whether this excitement shows itself by some open manifestation, as by the black coffin rising to the disturbed imagination of the convict in his cell, or the loud shout, "Glory to God," which resounds in the camp-meeting; or whether it is subdued and restrained, as in the still solemnity of an inquiry-meeting on the evening of the Sabbath, or in the solitary suffering of an awakened sinner mourning at midnight the burden of his sins. Remember, that I say it is of little consequence, not that it is of none. It would be better if men would follow Jesus as readily and as easily as Matthew did. Jesus said unto him, "Arise, and follow me; and he arose and followed him." Immediate submission, with cordial confidence in the Saviour, will at once remove all mental suffering and all cause for it. But if men will only give up their sins and lead lives of actual piety, we will not quarrel with them about the manner in which they enter the new way.

Such, then, are some of the effects of the Bible upon the human character considered in detail. I have thought it best, in order to show the moral power of this book as distinctly as possible, to analyze thus minutely the operation of it in some particular cases. But the argument would be very deficient if I should leave it here; for if these cases were uncommon, they would prove but little. But they are not uncommon. Even in prisons, a very large number of such cases have, as I have already stated, occurred; and the subjects of such changes have gone, when they have been liberated, in peace and happiness to their homes. There are now scattered over our land vast numbers who have been brought, from every stage and degree of guilt, to seek pardon through the Saviour, and to begin a life of virtue and piety. The influence of the Bible, too, upon the community at large is so great, that every country where it freely circulates is distinguished for the peace which reigns there. Vice is comparatively unknown, property and life are safe, every man sits under his own vine and fig-tree, with none to molest or make him afraid. But when man is left to himself, he makes his home a den of robbers. If you travel on the Nile or the Tigris, you must look well to your means of defence. Men must go in caravans in all those regions for mutual protection. But how would an armed escort for a traveller appear on the banks of the Connecticut or the Hudson?

And yet, though benefits so great are procured to society by the Bible, they are procured, after all, only by a limited application of its moral power. It is a very small proportion of the whole population, even in the United States, which attends at all to the commands and instructions of the word of God. The numbers are however rapidly increasing. The cause of God is advancing with great rapidity; and as a military despotism or a Christian republic must be the ultimate destiny of the nation, we can look only to the spread of the influence of the Bible to save our country from ruin.

I will close this chapter by mentioning one more evidence of the moral power of the Bible--it is its effect in destroying the fear of death. The fear of death is in part instinctive, not founded on reasoning. It is reasonable for us to fear some things connected with death, and a sense of unpardoned sin will make death terrible indeed; but no small part of the apprehension which every man feels in looking forward to that hour, is the result of an instinctive principle which Providence has implanted in the human mind; and the only way by which it can be counteracted without the Bible, is by banishing the subject from the thoughts. That is the way that soldiers acquire courage in battle--by accustoming themselves not to think of death at all. It is not in human nature to contemplate its approach, habitually and calmly, without such a preparation as the Bible gives.

Come in imagination to this sick chamber. That young man tossing restlessly upon his pillow is soon to die. His physicians have given him over. His friends despair, but, by a most absurd and preposterous species of kindness, they will not tell him of his danger, for they know he is unprepared to die, and the knowledge of the approach of the dread hour they think will distress him. But the sad secret they cannot conceal; he reads his sentence in their anxious looks and agitated words--his pale cheek turns paler with fear and to the natural restlessness of disease, there is added the overwhelming agitation of mental anguish. Can you soothe him? Can you calm him? Your very effort reveals to him his danger more distinctly, and his heart sinks within him in hopeless terror. Sometimes, it is true, this fear of death does not reign in the heart at the closing hour, for reason may be gone, or the soul may sink into stupor. But when death is really foreseen and known to be near, while the faculties retain their power, the expectation of it weighs down the human spirit with overwhelming fears.

But the Bible tells us that the sting of death is sin, and that Christ will give believers the victory over it. The Bible most faithfully keeps this promise. See that dying Christian mother. She knows that death is near, and has calmly made all her arrangements for the closing scene. She is a Christian, and looks forward to an entrance into the world of spirits with no foreboding and no anxiety. Her husband and children and friends stand in agitation and distress around her bedside, but she is calm. A Christian death-bed very often exhibits the astonishing spectacle of composure and happiness in the one who is to drink the cup; while those around, who are only witnesses of the scene, are overwhelmed in agitation and sorrow. The very one who is to encounter the suffering, is the only one who can look forward to it without fear. It is because the Spirit of God has applied the truths of the Bible to her heart, and by their instrumentality has disarmed death, the very king of terrors, and given to a weak and suffering mortal the victory over all his power.

But I must close this chapter, and with it close the short and simple view I have been endeavoring to give of the evidences of Christianity. I cannot but hope that my readers see evidence enough to satisfy them that the Bible is really the word of God. If you do, lay up the conviction in your heart, and let it guide and influence you. But let me, before I dismiss the subject, give you two or three short practical directions.

1. Do not think there is no other side to this question. There are a great many things which may be said against the Bible, and some things which you, with your present attainments in Christian knowledge, perhaps cannot answer. But they do not touch or affect the great arguments by which the authority of the Bible is sustained. They are all small, detached difficulties. Then let your mind rest, calmly and with confidence, upon the great but simple arguments on which the strong foundations of your belief stand.

2. Never dispute upon the evidences of the Christian religion. The difficulty with unbelievers is one of the heart, not of the intellect, and you cannot alter the heart by disputing. When they present you with arguments against Christianity, reply in substance, "What you say does not reach the broad and deep foundations upon which, in my view, Christianity rests; and consequently, notwithstanding what you say, I still place confidence in the word of God."

3. Notice this, which, if you will watch your own experience, you will find to be true. Your confidence in the word of God and in the truths of religion will be almost exactly proportional to the fidelity with which you serve Christ. When you lose your interest in your progress in piety, neglect prayer, and wander into sin, then you will begin to be in darkness and doubt. If you are so unhappy as to get into such a state, do not waste your time in trying to reason yourself back to belief again. Return to duty. Come to God and confess your wanderings, seek forgiveness through Christ, and submit your heart to be inclined to him. If you do this, light for the intellect and peace for the heart will come back together.

CHAPTER VIII.

STUDY OF THE BIBLE.

IT is not my intention in this chapter to give any description of the Bible itself, or of its history since it came into the world; nor shall I endeavor to establish its divine authority, or present the evidences or the nature of its inspiration. My object is to point out practical duty, and I shall confine myself to a description of the best methods of reading and studying the book.

I ought, however, to remark at the outset, that I intend the chapter to be of a highly practical character, and I shall go accordingly into minute detail. Besides, I am writing for the young, and shall, as I have generally done in this book, confine myself exclusively to them; for I have much more hope that they will be influenced to follow the course which I shall endeavor to describe, than that my efforts will produce any good effect upon those who have gone beyond the meridian of life. If a man has passed the age of thirty without the Bible, it is to be feared that he will go on unaided by its light through the remainder of his pilgrimage. It is different, however, with the young. You shrink from passing life in impiety. You know that the Bible can be the only safe lamp to your feet; and if you are not now living by its light, there is hope that you may be persuaded to come and give yourself up to its guidance.

The Bible should be studied. Every person, old or young, ignorant or learned, should devote a portion of time every day, or, where this is impossible, at least every Sabbath to the study of the Scriptures, in the more strict and proper sense of that term. But to show precisely what I mean by this study of the Bible, I will describe a particular case. A young man with only such opportunities as are possessed by all, resolves to take this course. He selects the epistle to the Ephesians for his first subject; he obtains such books and helps as he finds in his own family, or as he can obtain from a religious friend, or procure from a Sabbath-school library. It is not too much to suppose that he will have a sacred atlas, some commentary, and probably a Bible dictionary. He should also have pen, ink, and paper; and thus provided, he sits down early in the morning to his work. He raises a short but heartfelt prayer to God that he will assist and bless him, and then commences his inquires.

The epistle to the Ephesians I have supposed to be his subject. He sees that the first question evidently is, "Who were the Ephesians?" He finds the city of Ephesus upon the map; and from the preface to the epistle contained in the commentary, or from any other source to which he can have access, he learns what sort of a city it was--what was the character of the inhabitants, and if possible what condition the city was in at the time this letter was written. He next inquires in regard to the writer of this letter or epistle, as it is called. It was Paul; and what did Paul know of the Ephesians; had he ever been there; or was he writing to strangers? To settle these points, so evidently important to a correct understanding of the letter, he examines the Acts of the Apostles--in which an account of St. Paul's labors is contained--to learn whether Paul went there, and if so, what happened while he was there. He finds that many interesting incidents occurred during Paul's visits, and his curiosity is excited to know whether these things will be alluded to in the letter; he also endeavors to ascertain where Paul was when he wrote the letter. After having thus ascertained every thing relating to the circumstances of the case as far as he is able he is prepared to come to the epistle itself, and enter with spirit and interest into an examination of its contents.

He first glances his eye cursorily through the chapters of the book, that he may take in at once a general view of its object and design--perhaps he makes out a brief list of the topics discussed, and thus has a distinct general idea of the whole before he enters into a minute examination of the parts. The time devoted to these preparatory inquiries is well employed; for by it he is now prepared to enter with interest into the very soul and spirit of the letter. While he was ignorant of these points, his knowledge of the epistle itself must have been very vague and superficial. Suppose I were now to introduce into this book a letter, and should begin at once, without saying by whom the letter was written, or to whom it was addressed. It would be preposterous. If I wished to excite your interest, I should describe particularly the parties and the circumstances which produced the letter originally. And yet, how many Christians there are, who could not tell whether Paul's letter to the Ephesians was written before or after he went there, or where Titus was when Paul wrote to him, or for what special purpose he wrote.

Take another case. The father and mother whom Providence has placed at the head of a family, contrive to close their worldly business at an early hour on Saturday evening, and gather around the table at their fireside all those who are committed to their charge. They choose some subject for examination--real, thorough examination. Perhaps it is the rebuilding of Jerusalem after the captivity. The various books calculated to assist their inquiries are distributed among the members of the group; the reference Bible is given to one--the Concordance to another--an Expositor to the third--the Bible Dictionary to the fourth; and then, when all are seated, and the divine blessing has been asked upon their labors, the father asks them all to turn to any part of the Scriptures which gives information upon the subject. They examine first the account of the destruction of the city, when the Jews were carried captive, that they may know in what condition it was probably found on their return. They search in several books for an account of the first movements in Babylon of those who were desirous of return; they examine the plans they formed; compare one account with another; every question which occurs is asked, and the information which it seeks for obtained. The two expeditions of Ezra and Nehemiah are examined--the object of each, and the connection between them. Under the control of a judicious parent, even secular history might be occasionally referred to to throw light upon the subject. We may properly avail ourselves of any helps of this kind, so far as their tendency is really to throw light upon the sacred volume. The children of the family soon take a strong interest in the study, their inquiries are encouraged, their curiosity is awakened; they regard it a pleasure, not a task. Instead of the evening of Saturday, the afternoon or evening of the Sabbath, if more convenient, may be used; and if the children are members of a Sabbath-school, their next lesson may be the subject. Those accustomed to the use of the pen will derive great advantage from writing, each evening, notes or abstracts expressing, in a concise and simple style, the new knowledge they have acquired; and every difficulty should be noted, that it may be presented at a convenient opportunity to some other Christian student, to the superintendent of the Sabbath-school or to a minister of the gospel.

This method of studying the Scriptures which I have thus attempted to describe, and which I might illustrate by supposing many other cases, is not intended for one class alone; not for the ignorant peculiarly, nor for the wise; not for the rich, nor for the poor; but for all. The solitary widow, in her lonely cottage among the distant mountains, with nothing but her simple Bible in her hand, by the light of her evening fire, may pursue this course of comparing scripture with scripture, and entering into the spirit of sacred story, throwing herself back to ancient times, and thus preparing herself to grasp more completely, and to feel more vividly, the moral lessons which the Bible is mainly intended to teach. And the most cultivated scholar may pursue this course in his quiet study, surrounded by all the helps to a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures which learning can produce or wealth obtain.

I hope the specimens I have given are sufficient to convey to my readers the general idea I have in view, when I speak of studying the Bible, in contradistinction from the mere cursory reading of it, which is so common among Christians. But I must illustrate in minute detail the various methods of doing this; for there are many persons who really wish to study the Bible more intellectually, and to receive more vivid impressions from it, but who really do not know exactly what they are to do to secure these objects. I shall therefore describe some of the means which can easily be adopted, and which will be very efficient for this purpose.

1. Picturing to the imagination the scenes described. There is a very common difficulty felt by multitudes in reading the Bible, which admits of so sure and easy a remedy by the above direction, that I cannot avoid devoting a few paragraphs to the formal consideration of it.

A person who is convinced that it is his duty to read the word of God, and who really desires to read it, and to receive instruction from it, sits down to the work. He opens perhaps to a passage in the gospels, and reads on verse after verse. The phraseology is all perfectly familiar. He has read the same passage a hundred times before, and the words fall upon his ear like a sound long familiar, producing no impression and awakening no idea. After going through a few verses, he finds that he is making no real progress; perhaps his mind has left his work altogether, and is wandering to some other subject. He begins back, therefore, a few verses, and endeavors to become interested in the narrative, but it is to little purpose; and after spending half an hour in reading, he shuts his book, and instead of feeling that renewed moral strength and peace of mind which comes from the proper use of the word of God, he feels disappointed and dissatisfied, and returns to his other duties more unquiet in spirit than before. What a vast proportion of the reading of the Bible, as practised in Christian countries, does this description justly portray.

Now some one may say, that this careless and useless study of God's word arises from a cold and indifferent state of heart towards God. It does unquestionably often arise, in a great degree, from this source, but not entirely. There is another difficulty not connected with the moral state of the heart. It is this:

Words that have been often repeated gradually lose their power to awaken vivid ideas in the mind. The clock which has struck perhaps many thousand times in your room, you at last cease even to hear. On the walls of a school-room there was once painted in large letters, "A PLACE FOR EVERY THING, AND EVERY THING IN ITS PLACE;" but after a little time the pupils, becoming familiar with the sight of the inscription, lost altogether its meaning; and a boy would open his disorderly desk and look among the confused mass of books and slates and papers there for some article he had lost, and then, as he looked around the room, his eyes would fall on the conspicuous motto, without thinking a moment of the incongruity between its excellent precept and his own disorderly practice. It is always so. The oft-repeated sound falls at last powerless and unheeded on the ear.

The difficulty, then, that I am now to consider is, that in reading the Bible, especially those portions which are familiar, we stop with merely repeating once more the words, instead of penetrating fully to the meaning beyond. In order to illustrate this difficulty and its remedy more fully, let me take a passage, the sixth chapter of St. John for example, to which I have opened.

How familiar, now, this sounds to every reader. Every phrase comes upon the ear like an oft-told tale, but it makes a very slight impression upon the mind. The next verse, though perhaps few of my readers know now what it is, will sound equally familiar when they read it here:

Now, suppose this passage and the verses which follow it were read at morning prayer by the master of a family; how many of the children would hear it without being interested, or receiving any clear and vivid ideas from the description. And how many would there be who, if they were asked two hours afterwards what had been read that morning, would be utterly unable to tell.

But now, suppose that this same father could, by some magic power, show to his children the real scene which these verses describe. Suppose he could go back through the eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since these events occurred, and taking his family to some elevation in the romantic scenery of Palestine, from which they might overlook the country of Galilee, actually show them all that this chapter describes.

"Do you see," he might say, "that wide sea which spreads out beneath us and occupies the whole extent of the valley? That is the sea of Tiberias; it is also called the sea of Galilee. All this country which spreads around it is Galilee. Those distant mountains are in Galilee, and that beautiful wood which skirts the shore is a Galilean forest."

"Why is it called the sea of Tiberias?" a child might ask.

"Do you see at the foot of that hill, on the opposite shore of the lake, a small town? It extends along the margin of the water for a considerable distance. That is Tiberias, and the lake sometimes takes its name.

"But look--there is a small boat coming round a point of land which juts out beautifully from this side of the lake. It is slowly making its way across the water--we can almost hear the splashing of the oars. It contains the Saviour and some of his disciples. They are steering towards Tiberias--now they approach the shore--they stop at the landing, and the Saviour, followed by his disciples, walks upon the shore."

Suppose now that this party of observers can remain a little longer at their post, and see in a short time that some sick person is brought to the Saviour to be healed. Another and another comes. A crowd gradually collects around him. He retreats slowly up the rising ground, and after a little time he is seen to take his place upon an elevated spot, where he can overlook and address the throng which has collected around him.

If this could be done, how strong and how lasting an impression would be made upon those minds. Years, and perhaps the whole of life itself, would not obliterate it. Even this faint description, though it brings nothing new to the mind, will probably make a much stronger and more lasting impression than merely reading the narration would do. And what is the reason? How is it that what I have here said has impressed this scene upon your minds more distinctly than the simple language of the Bible? Why, it is only because I have endeavored to lead you to picture this scene to your minds--to conceive of it strongly and clearly. Now any person can do this for himself in regard to any passage of Scripture. It is not necessary that I should go on and delineate in this manner the whole of the account. Each reader can, if he will task his imagination, paint for himself the scenes which the Bible describes. And if he does bring his intellect and his powers of conception to the work, and read, not merely to repeat, formally and coldly, sounds already familiar, but to bring to his mind vivid and clear conceptions of all which is represented there, he will be interested. He will find new and striking scenes coming up continually to view, and will be surprised at the novelty and interest which this simple and easy effort will throw over those very portions of the Bible to which the ear has become most completely familiar.

I wish now that every one of my readers would really try this experiment. It will do very little good merely to read the foregoing directions and resolve generally to try in future to form vivid and clear conceptions of what is described when you are reading; you must make a particular effort to learn to do this. Now the next time you sit down to reading the Bible, turn to the fifth chapter of the gospel according to St. Luke, and picture to yourself as vividly as possible the scene described there. Do not think of a shore in general, but conceive of some particular shore. Give it shape and form. Let it be rocky or sandy, or high or low, bordered with woods, or with hills, or with meadows. Let it be something distinct. You may, if you please, conceive it to be a long sandy beach, with a lofty bank and a verdant field behind; or you may have it an open wood, sloping gradually down to the water's edge; or a rocky, irregular coast, full of indentations; or a deep and narrow bay, whose shores are overhung with willows. Let it assume either of these forms, or any other which your fancy may portray, and which may suit the circumstances of the narrative; only let it be something distinct--clear and distinct in all its parts; so that if you had power to represent upon canvas by painting the conceptions of your mind, you might execute a perfect picture of the whole scene.

To do this properly will require time and thought. You must be alone, or at least uninterrupted, and your first effort will be a difficult one. The power of forming clear and vivid conceptions of this kind varies greatly in different individuals. The faculty can, however, be cultivated and strengthened by exercise. Historical painters, that is, painters of historical scenes, are enabled to produce very great effects by the possession of this power. West, for example, formed in his own mind a clear and vivid and interesting conception of the scene which was exhibited when the crowd of angry Jews rejected the Saviour and called for his crucifixion. He painted this scene, and the great picture which he has thus produced has been gazed at with intense interest by many thousands.

I saw this picture in the gallery of the Athenæum at Boston. The gallery is a large and lofty apartment, lighted by windows above, and containing seats for hundreds. As I came up the stairs which lead into the room, and stepped from them upon the floor of the apartment, I found a large company assembled. The picture, which was, as I should suppose, ten or fifteen feet long, stood against one side of the apartment, and before it, arranged upon the seats, were the assembled spectators, who were gazing with intense interest, and almost in perfect silence, upon the scene. As we came forward before the canvas we felt the same solemn impression which had silenced the others; and it was interesting and affecting to observe, as party after party came up the stairs, talking with their usual freedom, that their voices gradually died away, and they stood silent and subdued before the picture of the Saviour.

Yes; there stood the Saviour in the middle of the picture, passive and resigned, and with a countenance whose expression plainly said that his thoughts were far away. The Roman governor stood before his palace endeavoring to persuade the mob to consent to their prisoner's release. The uncovered and hard-featured soldiery sat at his feet upon the cross which they had been carrying, and were holding in their hands the spikes with which the limbs of the innocent one before them were to be pierced. All the other attendant circumstances were most vividly and strikingly represented. The mob were there, with fury and rage and hate in every variety upon their countenances. Barabbas was there, with his look of hardened and unsubdued guilt--and the centurion's little daughter, whose life Jesus had saved, stood by her father, apparently entreating him to interpose his power to rescue her preserver.

Now West must have possessed, in order to succeed in executing such a work, the power, first, of forming a clear mental conception of the scene, and secondly, of representing this scene by colors on the canvas. The former of these only is the one necessary for the object I have above described, and you ought, while reading accounts of scripture scenes, to form as vivid and distinct conceptions of the scenes described as if you were actually intending to represent them by the pencil.

2. Writing questions. A young man, with pen and paper before him, sits down, I will suppose, to the examination of some portion of the Bible, intending to write questions upon the passage, such as he would ask if he were teaching a class in a Sabbath-school. Suppose he opens to the account of Abraham's offering Isaac.

The following is the passage: I copy it, that the reader may the better understand the questions.

"1. And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham; and he said, Behold, here I am.

"2. And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt-offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.

"3. And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt-offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.

"4. Then on the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off.

"5. And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass, and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come again to you."

He reads this narrative carefully, verse by verse, and writes a question for every important fact stated. Perhaps the questions might be somewhat as follows. The reader, in examining them, is particularly requested to compare the questions individually with the verses in which the answers are contained. I ought also to remark, that I do not offer these as examples of good questions, but only as a specimen of such as I suppose most young persons would write.

1. To what land did God command Abraham to go to offer up his son?"

2. How was he to be offered?

3. Was he to be offered on a mountain?

4. How did Abraham travel?

5. What time did he set out?

6. How many attendants had he?

7. How long a journey was it?

8. What is stated in the fifth verse?

I have written these questions as I imagine they might be written by intelligent young persons. Some of them are, however, evidently not good. A leading question ought not to be asked, that is, one so written as to imply what the answer is; nor ought it to be so written that the answer should be simply yes or no. No. 3 of the above is a leading question. No. 8, too, is a bad question. It is not important that one should remember what is told in any particular verse. It would have been better in some such form as this:

In order, however, that my readers might understand what is actually attainable by young persons in such an exercise, I asked a boy to write for me some questions on Acts 19, and I insert them just as he gave them to me. It was his first attempt.

"When Apollos was at Corinth, what did Paul do?

Whom did he find there?

What did he say to them?

What answer did they make?

What did he then ask them?

What did they say?

What did Paul then say?

When Paul had laid his hands upon them, what happened?

How many men were they?

Where did Paul then go?

What did he do?

What did he do when divers were hardened?

For how long a time did this continue?

What happened to those who dwelt in Asia?

By whose hands did God perform special miracles?

In what manner did Paul heal the sick?

What is said in the thirteenth verse?

What is the meaning of exorcist?

How many were there that did so?

What did the evil spirit say?

What did the man in whom was the evil spirit do?

What did they do?

To whom was this known?

What fell on them?

Whose name was magnified?

What did many do who believed?

What did many do who used curious arts?

After these things were ended, what did Paul design to do?

Where did he say he must go after he had been there?

Whom did he send into Macedonia?

What were their names?

Where did he stay?

What happened at that time?

What was the cause of it?

Who was Demetrius?

What accusation did he bring against Paul?

What did he say was in danger?

What did they do when they heard these things?

What happened to the city?

What else did they do?

What kept Paul from going in to the people?"

My readers will all see that these questions are, many of them, quite faulty. A second attempt, if the writer had read the remarks I have made, or if he had actually tried his questions upon a class, would probably have been much better.

If any person will attempt such an exercise as this, he will find it among one of the most efficient means of fixing upon his mind the facts contained in any portion of history, which he can possibly devise. In order to make out the question, you look at the fact in various aspects and relations. All its connections are considered, and the mind becomes thoroughly familiarized with it; for you will find, after a very little practice, that the same fact may be made the subject of a great number of different questions, and looking at these and choosing between them is a most valuable intellectual exercise. Take, for instance, the very question I have already spoken of particularly, No. 8. See how many different questions, or rather, in how many forms, some bad and some good, the same question can be asked upon the single verse to which it relates.

1. What did Abraham say to the young men when he reached the mountain?

2. What plan did Abraham form when he reached the mountain?

3. Did all the party go together to the place where Isaac was to be offered?

4. How was the party divided when they reached the mountain?

5. How many persons went with Abraham to the place of sacrifice?

6. When Abraham went with Isaac alone to the place of sacrifice, what did he say he was going for?

7. When Abraham left the young men behind, to go with Isaac alone to the place of sacrifice, did he say what he was going to do?

8. What did he tell them he was going to do? Was this the truth? Was it the whole truth? Are we always bound to tell the whole truth?

The reader will thus see that one and the same fact may be viewed in so many aspects and relations as to suggest a very large number of questions. After a very little practice, several questions will suggest themselves at each verse to any individual who attempts the exercise. He will consider which to choose. He will in thus considering, necessarily view the fact stated under its various aspects, and acquire a far more thorough and permanent knowledge of it than is possible in any other way. So great is the advantage of this method of writing questions upon a book which the pupil desires thoroughly to understand, that it is not unfrequently adopted in schools--each pupil of a class being required to write questions upon a part or upon the whole of a lesson, which questions are then read and answered at the recitation.

I fancy now that I can hear some one of my readers, of a mind somewhat mature, saying, "I will myself try this experiment, and after writing the questions, I will read them to some younger members of the family, to see if they can find the answers." Perhaps the individual who resolves on this experiment is the head of a family--a mother. She gathers her children around, after the public services on the Sabbath, and says to them, "We will study a chapter in the Bible. I will study, and you shall study. I will read it carefully, and write in this little book all the questions I can think of; and you at the same time may read it attentively, and try to understand it, and remember what it says. Then, after tea, we will gather around the table before our bright fire, and I will read my questions, and you may see if you can answer them."

The children enter with spirit into the plan. They gather into a little circle, and read their lesson aloud, verse by verse, questioning each other in regard to its difficulties, and endeavoring to anticipate the questions which the mother is preparing. Even the little Benjamin of the family is interested; who, though he can scarcely read, looks attentively upon his Bible with the large print, hoping that there will be some easy question which will come to him.

At the appointed hour they gather with eager interest to their recitation. The mother finds that many of her questions are ambiguous, some too difficult, and others could not be answered from fault of the scholars; still, a large proportion are understood and answered. The moral lessons of the chapter are brought to view, and gently but forcibly impressed upon the heart.

Are you a Sabbath-school teacher? Lay aside your printed question-book for one Sabbath, and write questions yourself upon the lesson of the day. Then compare what you have written with those printed for your use. Strike out from your own list all which are upon the other, and carry the rest with you to your class, and say to your pupils somewhat as follows:

"I have been writing some new questions on this lesson. Now I do not suppose you can answer many of them, because you did not have them while you were studying. But should you like to have me read them to you, and let you try?"

You will in such a case find the curiosity and interest of your class strongly awakened; and though your first experiment may not fully succeed, you may say to them, "I will write some more for next week. When you are studying your lessons then, I should like to have you remember that I am writing other questions than those in the book, and endeavor to understand and remember every fact stated in the lesson, so that you can answer all my questions as well as the printed ones. I know it will be hard, but I presume you can do it."

A Sabbath-school teacher who will make such efforts as these to render his work more intellectual, and to interest himself and his pupils more deeply in the thorough study of their lessons, will find that both himself and his pupils will advance with at least double rapidity.

3. Re-writing portions of Scripture. Read, or rather study some portion of Scripture thoroughly, and then write the substance of it in your own language. I can illustrate this best, perhaps, by repeating the following dialogue. It is, I will suppose, Sabbath evening: the family are going out, and one son, a boy of fourteen, is to be left at home.

"What shall I do this evening?" asks the son.

"What would you like to do?"

"I don't know. I am to be all the evening alone, and I want something to employ my time."

The father turns to the fifth chapter of Luke, and says,

"Take this chapter, read the first eleven verses, and form a clear and distinct conception of the whole scene, just as if you had witnessed it. Then write an account of it in your own language. Be careful to write entirely in your own language."

"Must I not use the language of the Bible at all?"

"No. You have two separate things to do. First read the account attentively and thoroughly, in order to form in your own mind a distinct picture of the whole. Try to see it as plainly as if you had stood upon the bank, and actually looked down upon the whole transaction. Then shut your Bible, and write your own account of it, just as if you were writing a letter to me, and describing something which you had yourself seen."

Now suppose the boy engages in this work in the manner described above, with how much more interest than usual will he read the passage. He will scrutinize it carefully, examine every circumstance of the narrative minutely, and notice many points of interest which would ordinarily escape him.

Once when I asked a lad, under similar circumstances to the above, to re-write this passage, he had not been five minutes at his work before he came with a question which I presume hundreds of my readers have never thought to ask, though they all have doubtless read the passage again and again. I will first give the passage.

LUKE 5:1-11.

"1. And it came to pass, that as the people pressed upon him to hear the word of God, he stood by the lake of Gennesaret,

"2. And saw two ships standing by the lake: but the fishermen were gone out of them, and were washing their nets.

"3. And he entered into one of the ships, which was Simon's, and prayed him that he would thrust out a little from the land. And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship.

"4. Now, when he had left speaking, he said unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught.

"5. And Simon answering, said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless, at thy word, I will let down the net.

"6. And when they had this done, they enclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net brake.

"7. And they beckoned unto their partners, which were in the other ship, that they should come and help them. And they came, and filled both the ships, so that they began to sink.

"8. When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus' knees, saying, Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.

"9. For he was astonished, and all that were with him, at the draught of the fishes which they had taken:

"10. And so was also James and John the sons of Zebedee, which were partners with Simon. And Jesus said unto Simon, Fear not: from henceforth thou shalt catch men.

"11. And when they had brought their ships to land, they forsook all, and followed him."

The difficulty proposed was this:

"In the second verse," says he, "it is said, that the fishermen had gone out of their boats, and were washing their nets; but in the third, Christ enters one of them and asks Simon to move off a little from the shore: that seems as if Simon was in his boat."

How apparent was it from this question, that he was reading the Bible understandingly, and not merely repeating once more the familiar sounds by which the scenes of that passage are described. Upon a little reflection it was manifest that Simon might have remained in his boat, while the fishermen generally had gone ashore; or he might have stood near, so as to be easily addressed by the Saviour. The difficulty vanished in a moment. But by the ordinary, dull, sluggish reading of the Bible, both difficulty and solution would have been alike unseen.

The following was the description produced in this case: I copy it without alteration, that my readers may see, from actual inspection of an actual example, what degree of success they may expect to attain.

"Once, as Jesus was standing near a lake called Gennesaret, a great multitude crowded around him, wishing to have him address them. He saw near the shore two fishing-vessels, but the fishermen had gone away to clean their nets. He went into one of them, which belonged to Simon, and asked him to shove the vessel out a little way into the water, and he talked to the people from the deck. When he had finished, he told Simon to go out into the sea and cast in their nets, in order to get some fish. And Simon said to him, we have been working all night, and have not caught any thing; but as you have desired it, we will let down our nets again. Having done it, they took a great many fishes, and their net was broken, and there were so many fishes that both ships were filled and began to sink. Simon was so much astonished, and they that were with him, at taking so many fishes this time, when they had been laboring all night and caught nothing, that (he fell down before Jesus, saying, Depart from me, for I am a sinful man.) Simon's companions, James and John, were also surprised at the fishes. And when they had brought their ships to the shore, they left all their things and followed Jesus."

The part enclosed in a parenthesis is scripture language. The boy said he could not express that idea in any other way, and he adopted that method of indicating that the language of the Bible was in that clause retained.

I have obtained also several other specimens of a similar character, written by persons of different ages and of various intellectual attainments, two or three of which I will insert here. The reader will observe that these were written by persons of very different degrees of mental maturity. The style is very dissimilar in the different specimens, and they show therefore more distinctly, that the exercise is of such a nature as to be adapted to every age and capacity.

THE STORY OF MICAH.

"A woman belonging to one of the tribes of the Israelites, from a mistaken idea of true religion, resolved to procure some images for her household worship, intending to consecrate her son to act as priest. She accordingly dedicated to the Lord the sum to be paid for making the images, and laid it aside for the purpose. This money was stolen from her by Micah, the very son for whose benefit chiefly she had formed the plan. Upon missing the money, she was greatly enraged, and pronounced, in the hearing of her son, the severest imprecations upon the sacrilegious thief. This so terrified Micah, that he confessed his crime and restored the money to his mother. Her joy was very great at receiving again her treasure. She told her son to what purpose it was appropriated, and they accordingly procured the images. It was agreed, that instead of Micah, one of his sons should act as priest, until a more suitable person should be obtained. The son was accordingly provided with sacerdotal apparel and consecrated to the priesthood.

"Under these circumstances the idol-worship went on for some time, until there came one day to the house of Micah a wandering Levite, by the name of Jonathan. This man seemed to be out of employment, and being of the Levites, the tribe set apart for the holy offices, Micah thought he should do well to retain him as his family priest. Accordingly he made to him proposals to this effect, offering him for his services his board, one suit of clothes, and a small sum of money a year. Jonathan very gladly agreed to these terms, and was forthwith constituted priest.

"It happened soon after, that there came to Micah's house a number of men who had been sent out by the tribe of Dan to survey the adjacent country, with a view to enlarging their own territories. When these men came to Micah's house, they recognized with surprise the voice of the newly-consecrated priest. They inquired how he came there, and what he was about. The Levite told them his story, and the Danites seem to have regarded the circumstances of the affair as perfectly proper; for they even requested that he would inquire of the Lord for them, if they should meet with success in their present expedition. The Levite pretended to make the inquiry, and returned to them a favorable answer. The event was such as the Levite predicted. The Danites succeeded in driving before them the inhabitants of the territories they wished to possess. After the conquest, as the army were passing the house of Micah, the five men who had first been sent out, and who had stopped at this house, informed the others that there were in it a graven and a molten image, and a priest with an ephod; and perhaps intimating, that in their new settlement they would themselves need such an establishment, they inquired what had best be done. After some deliberation, it was agreed forcibly to take from Micah his images and the sacerdotal garments, and to entice the priest to go with them. Accordingly, while the rest of the army remained as guards at the entrance of the house, the five men before mentioned went in and commenced their depredations. The priest inquired in amazement what they were about. 'Hush,' said the men; 'say nothing, and go with us; will it not be more to your advantage to be the priest of a whole tribe than of only one man?' The Levite was overjoyed at the proposal, and prepared immediately to set out with them.

"Great was the dismay of Micah upon finding himself thus robbed of priest and gods. He called his neighbors to his assistance, and collecting a small company together, he went in pursuit of the depredators. As he approached the army, they inquired of him why he had come out with such a company. 'What ails you?' said they. 'What ails me!' replied Micah; 'you have taken from me my priest and my gods, and now you ask, 'What ails me?' 'You had better return to your house,' said some one of the number, 'or you will lose your life.' Seeing that there was no possibility of prevailing against hundreds of armed men, Micah took the advice of the Danite and returned home.

"Meanwhile the army of the Danites pursued their way to the place of their destination, where they established the worship of their stolen images, under the direction of the runaway priest."

The two following are upon the same subject, but the writers were eleven and seventeen years of age. They are accordingly very different in their style and character.

BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.

"The king of Babylon, named Belshazzar, made a great feast for all his lords, his wives and concubines. And he sent and took from the house of the Lord the golden and silver vessels, and he and his company drank wine out of them. While they were enjoying in impious mirth the feast, the fingers of a man's hand were seen on the plastering of the wall, over against the candlestick. Then was the king very much frightened, and hisknees smote against each other. He sent for all the wise men in the kingdom to read the writing, but they could not. Then he called aloud again, If any man can read it he shall be clothed in scarlet, and have a chain of gold around his neck, and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom. Then came in his wife the queen to tell him that there was a man who could interpret dreams, whose name was Daniel. He read the writing. Mene--God hath finished thy kingdom. Tekel--Thou art weighed, and art found wanting.

"Peres--Thy kingdom is given to the Medes and Persians. Then was a proclamation made, that he was the third ruler in the kingdom.

"And the same night the king died."

STORY OF BELSHAZZAR.

"It was night; but the usual stillness of that hour was broken by the sounds of feasting and revelry. It had been a festival day in Babylon, and the inhabitants had not yet sunk into repose. The song and the dance still continued, and the voice of music was heard. All seemed in perfect security, and no precautions had been taken to avoid the danger which hung over their devoted heads. An invading army was, even then, surrounding the walls of the city; but those who ought to have defended it, confident and secure, left it unguarded and exposed to the attacks of the enemy. Fear was excluded even from the walls of the palace, and the monarch was giving his own example of rioting and mirth to his subjects. A thousand of the noblest lords in his kingdom were feasting with him as his invited guests. They had already 'tarried long at the wine,' when Belshazzar, in the pride and impiety of his heart, commanded his servants to bring the silver and golden vessels which had been taken by his grandfather Nebuchadnezzar from the temple at Jerusalem. They were brought, and filled with wine; and as they drank it, they extolled their gods of wood and of stone.

"But while they were thus sacrilegiously employed, their mirth was suddenly changed into amazement and consternation. A hand like that of a man was seen to write upon the wall of the palace; and as they gazed upon it, it traced the sentence, 'Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.' No one among that vast company understood its meaning, but to their affrighted imagination it was full of portentous import. The king, who was exceedingly terrified, sent in haste for all the astrologers, and those persons in whose powers of divination he had been accustomed to place confidence; but none could explain the mysterious warning. At this juncture the queen entered, and informed the king that Daniel was in the city, and that he was supposed to possess the wisdom of the gods. He was hastily summoned into the royal presence, and after reproving the trembling and condemned monarch for the pride of heart which he had manifested, revealed to him the doom which was pronounced upon him. He told him, that his kingdom and his own life were nearly at a close; that his empire should be divided between the Medes and Persians; and also, that his own character had been examined, and found lamentably deficient.

"The reward which had been promised was now bestowed upon Daniel. He was arrayed in a kingly robe, adorned with a golden chain, and proclaimed the third in authority in the kingdom. Ere the next rising sun Belshazzar was numbered with the dead."

QUESTIONS.

At what time and under what circumstances had the golden and silver vessels been taken from the temple at Jerusalem?

In what language was the writing upon the wall; and why could no one of the wise men of Babylon interpret it?

Why were the Chaldeans included among the astrologers and soothsayers?

The original writing was, "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin;" why, in the interpretation, is Peres substituted for Upharsin?

It is a very good plan to write questions at the close of such an exercise as in the last specimen, bringing up difficulties which have occurred to the writer while reading and writing the account. These questions can be subsequently proposed to some person qualified to answer them. The whole plan may be adopted more or less extensively, according to the time and taste of the individual. I knew a young man who re-wrote the whole book of the Acts in this way. The result he preserved in a neat manuscript, and the effort undoubtedly impressed the facts on his memory with a distinctness which remained for years.

4. Collating the Scriptures. The next method I shall describe, by which variety and efficiency can be given to your study of the Scriptures, may be called collation. It consists of carefully comparing two or more different accounts of the same transaction.

To illustrate it, I will imagine that two young persons sit down on a Sabbath afternoon by their fireside to read the Bible, and they conclude to collate the several accounts of Paul's conversion. To show that this exercise does not require any advanced age, or maturity of mind, I will imagine that the scholars are quite young, and will give in detail the conversation, as we might imagine it in such a case to be. We will suppose James to be thirteen or fourteen years of age, and John some years younger.

JOHN. "Well, what shall we read?"

JAMES. "I think it would be a good plan for us to read and compare the two accounts of the conversion of Paul. Here is the first account in the ninth chapter of the Acts, and I believe he afterwards gave some account of it himself in his speech."

JOHN. "What speech?"

JAMES. "Some speech he made at his trial. I will try to find it; it is somewhere in the last part of the book of Acts."

The boys turn over the leaves of their Bibles, until at last James says,

"Here it is; I have found it: it is in the twenty-sixth chapter."

"No," says John, "it is in the twenty-second; it begins at the fourth verse."

JAMES. "Let me see it. O, there are two accounts in his speeches: that makes three in all. Would you compare them all?"

JOHN. "Yes; we can put our fingers into all the places, and read one verse of one, and then one verse of another, and so go through."

JAMES. "Well, let us see where these two speeches were made."

The boys then examine the introductory remarks connected with these two addresses of the apostle, and learn before whom and under what circumstances they were made, and then proceed with their comparison.

JAMES. "I will read first in the ninth chapter.

"'1. And Saul, yet breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord, went unto the high-priest,

"'2. And desired of him letters to Damascus to the synagogues, that if he found any of this way, whether they were men or women, he might bring them bound unto Jerusalem.'

"Now you may read as much," he continues, "in the twenty-second chapter."

JOHN. "Where shall I begin?"

JAMES. Looking at the passage: "At the fifth verse, I believe."

JOHN. Reading: "'5. As also the high-priest both bear me witness, and all the estate of the elders; from whom also I received letters unto the brethren, and went to Damascus, to bring them which were there bound unto Jerusalem, for to be punished.'

"Do you see any difference, James?"

JAMES. "Yes; there are two differences: it says in the first account, that he took letters from the high-priest; and in the second, from the elders too--all the estate of the elders. It says too, in the first account, that his letters were to the synagogues, but in the second, that they were to the brethren."

Boys of twelve years of age would probably see no farther than to notice such obvious points of comparison as those I have mentioned; but a maturer mind, attempting this same exercise, would go far deeper, and consequently with a stronger interest, into the subject. Such an one will take great pleasure in observing how every expression in the account in the twenty-second chapter corresponds with the circumstances in which Paul was placed. He was in Jerusalem. A great popular tumult had been excited against him. A few of his determined enemies had, by the arts with which it is always easy for bad men to inflame the multitude, urged them on almost to fury, and an immense throng had gathered around him, with the marks of the most determined hostility in their looks and gestures and actions. At this moment a Roman military force appeared for his rescue; he was drawn out from the crowd, and standing upon the stairs of the castle, above the tumultuous sea from which he had been saved, he attempts to address the assembly.

He had been represented to the crowd as a foreigner--an Egyptian, who had come to Jerusalem to excite sedition and tumult; and of course his first aim would naturally be to destroy this impression, and present himself before this assembly as their fellow-countryman--one who had long resided among them, and had regarded them as brethren. How natural is it, therefore, that he should speak so distinctly of his connection with the Jewish nation. He commences his account with the statement that he is a Jew--by birth, by education, and by feelings. This peculiarity in the speaker's condition accounts most fully and in a most interesting manner for the difference between the expressions which he uses here, and those used in the ninth chapter. Where, in the narrative, the high-priest only was alluded to--in the defence, the speaker mentions respectfully all the estate of the elders. The historian, employing the simple historical style, says that Paul went with letters to the synagogues. The orator, in his effort to allay irritated feeling, uses the word brethren--a term equally correct, but far more suitable to his purpose.

I make these remarks, not to go into a commentary upon Paul's speech, but to show what kind of reflections will occur to an intelligent mind, in thus collating different portions of the sacred volume. Notice every difference; and endeavor to discover, in the circumstances of the case, its cause. You will find by so doing that new and striking beauties will arise to view at every step; the pages of the Bible will look brighter and brighter, with meaning hitherto unseen, and you will find new exhibitions of character and conduct so natural and yet so simple as to constitute almost irresistible evidence of the reality of the scenes which the sacred history describes.

There are a great many of the events of which two different accounts are given in the Bible, which may be advantageously collated in the manner I have described. In hopes that some of my readers will study the Scriptures in this way, I enumerate some of them.

LESSONS.

SOLOMON'S CHOICE. 1 Kings and 2 Chronicles.

DEDICATION OF THE TEMPLE. 1 Kings, 2 Chronicles

REVOLT OF THE TEN TRIBES. 1 Kings, 2 Chronicles

STORY OF ELISHA.

STORY OF ELIJAH.

STORY OF HEZEKIAH. Kings, Chronicles, and Isaiah.

GENEALOGICAL LINE FROM ADAM TO ABRAHAM. Genesi- and 1 Chronicles.

CATALOGUE OF THE KINGS OF ISRAEL. Kings and Chronicles.

CATALOGUE OF THE KINGS OF JUDAH. Kings and Chronicles.

PREACHING OF JOHN THE BAPTIST. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

THE TEMPTATION OF CHRIST. Matthew, Mark, and Luke.

THE SAVIOUR'S ARREST. Four Evangelists.

HIS TRIAL. Four Evangelists.

HIS DEATH. Four Evangelists.

HIS RESURRECTION. Four Evangelists.

INSTITUTION OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. Matthew and 1 Corinthians.

GENEALOGY OF CHRIST. Matthew and Luke.

The above subjects differ very much in the degree of intellectual effort necessary for their examination, and in nearly all the reader will often be involved in difficulties which he cannot easily remove. If we merely read the Bible, chapter after chapter, in a sluggish and formal manner, we see little to interest us and little to perplex; but in the more thorough and scrutinizing mode of study which I here suggest, both by this mode and the others I have been describing, we shall find beauties and difficulties coming up together. Let every one then who undertakes such a collation of different accounts, expect difficulty. Do not be surprised at apparent contradictions in the narrative; you will find many. Do not be surprised when you find various circumstances in the different accounts which you find it impossible for you to bring together into one view; you must expect such difficulties. Look at them calmly and patiently; seek solutions from commentaries and from older Christians, and what you cannot by these means understand, quietly leave. A book which, under divine guidance, employed the pens of from fifty to a hundred writers--scattered through a period of four thousand years; whose scenes extend over a region of immense extent, and whose narratives are involved with the most minute history of all the great nations of antiquity--Babylon, Assyria, Persia, Greece, and Rome--such a book you must not expect to understand fully in a day.

5. Studying by subjects. Select some subject upon which a good deal of information may be found in various parts of the Bible, and make it your object to bring together into one view all that the Bible says upon that subject. Take, for instance, the life of the apostle Peter. Suppose you make it your business on one Sabbath, with the help of a brother, or sister, or any other friend who will unite with you in the work, to obtain all the information which the Bible gives in regard to him. By the help of the Concordance you find all the places in which he is mentioned--you compare the various accounts in the four gospels; see in what they agree and in what they differ. After following down his history as far as the evangelists bring it, you take up the book of the Acts, and go through that for information in regard to this apostle, omitting those parts which relate to other subjects. In this way you become fully acquainted with his character and history; you understand it as a whole.

Jerusalem is another good subject, and the examination would afford scope for the exercise of the faculties of the highest minds for many Sabbaths: find when the city is first named; and from the manner in which it is mentioned, and the circumstances connected with the earliest accounts of it, ascertain what sort of a city it was at that time. Then follow its history down; notice the changes as they occur; understand every revolution; examine the circumstances of every battle and siege of which it is the scene, and thus become acquainted with its whole story down to the time when the sacred narration leaves it. To do this well, will require patient and careful investigation. You cannot do it as you can read a chapter, carelessly and with an unconcerned and uninterested mind; you must, if you would succeed in such an investigation, engage in it in earnest. And that is the very advantage of such a method of study; it breaks up effectually that habit of listless, dull, inattentive reading of the Bible which so extensively prevails.

You may take the subject of the Sabbath: examine the circumstances of its first appointment, and then follow its history down, so far as it is given in the Bible, to the last Sabbath alluded to on the sacred pages.

The variety of topics which might profitably be studied in this way is vastly greater than would at first be supposed. There are a great number of biographical and geographical topics--a great number which relate to manners, and customs, and sacred institutions. In fact, the whole Bible may be analyzed in this way, and its various contents brought before the mind in new aspects, and with a freshness and vividness which, in the mere repeated reading of the Scriptures in regular course, can never be seen. It may assist the reader who is disposed to try the experiment, if I present a small list; it might be extended easily to any length.

BIOGRAPHICAL TOPICS.Hezekiah.Isaiah.Peter.Daniel.Jeremiah.Nicodemus.Elijah.Herod.Judas.Elisha.John the Baptist.GEOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL TOPICS.Jerusalem.Jordan.Sidon.Egypt.Damascus.Philistines.Nile.Samaria.Moabites.Babylon.Sea of Galilee.Ammonites.Red Sea.Tyre.Ethiopia.TOPICS RELATING TO RELIGIOUS RITES.Sacrifices.Passover.Baptism.Sabbath.Fasting.Lord's Supper.Pentecost.Ark of the Covenant.Synagogues.Feast of Tabernacles.Tabernacle.

BIOGRAPHICAL TOPICS.

GEOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL TOPICS.

TOPICS RELATING TO RELIGIOUS RITES.

There are various other methods which might be mentioned and described; but enough has been said to enable, I think, any one who is disposed, to engage at once, for a short time each Sabbath, in such an intellectual study of the Bible. Parents can try the experiments I have above described in their families; and Sabbath-school teachers can try them in their classes. Sabbath-schools would be astonishingly improved at once, if the teachers would put their ingenuity into requisition to devise and execute new plans, so as to give variety to the exercises. There would be a spirit and interest exhibited, both by teacher and pupil, which the mere servile reading of printed questions, and listening to answers mechanically learned, never can produce.

There is far too little of this intellectual study of the Bible, even among the most devoted Christians. Its literature, its history, its biography, the connection of its parts--all are very little understood. It is indeed true, that the final aim of the Bible is to teach us personal religious duty. It comes to the conscience, not to the literary taste of men; and is designed to guide their devotions, not to gratify their curiosity, or their love of historic truth. But why is it that God has chosen the historic form, as a means of communicating his truth? Why is it that his communications with mankind were for so many years so completely involved with the political history of a powerful nation, that its whole history must be given? Why is our Saviour's mission so connected with the Roman government, and all this connection so fully detailed that no inconsiderable portion of the geography and customs and laws of that mighty empire are detailed in the evangelists and Acts? The moral lessons which our Saviour taught might have been presented in their simple didactic form. The whole plan of salvation, through the sufferings of a Redeemer, might have been given us in one single statement, instead of leaving us to gather it piece by piece from multitudes of narratives and addresses and letters. Why is it then, that instead of one simple proclamation from the Majesty on high, we have sixty or seventy different books, introducing us to the public history of twenty nations, and to minute incidents in the biographies of a thousand men? One reason doubtless is, that we may be excited by the incident and story; that religion and impiety may be respectively presented to us in living and acting reality; and that the principles of God's government, and of his dealing with men, may come to us in all the vividness of actual fact. If, then, we neglect to understand this history as history, and to enter into all the incidents which are detailed, we lose the very benefit which the Spirit had in view in making the Bible such a volume as it is. Without such an occasional effort to make the Scriptures a study, examining them intellectually, comparing one part with another, and endeavoring to bring vividly to view the scenes which they present to our minds, it may safely be said that no one can truly understand the Bible, or enter into the spirit of its descriptions, its warnings, and its appeals.

But after all, the great object in studying the Bible is not merely to understand it. The revelation which God has made is addressed, not so much to the intellect as to the consciences and hearts of men; and unless it reaches the conscience and the heart, it entirely fails of accomplishing its object. We ought indeed to gain an intellectual knowledge of it, but that is only to be considered as a means to enable us the more fully to apply to our own characters and conduct the practical lessons which it teaches.

All persons, therefore, even if unable to secure time daily for a systematic study of the Bible, should read a portion of it practically every day. This part of my subject does not need so full an illustration as the other, for the great difficulty in regard to reading the Scriptures practically, is a want of disposition to do it. They who really wish to learn their duty and overcome their temptations, who desire that the sins of their hearts and lives should be brought to their view by the word of God, will be enabled to make for themselves an application of the truths which the Bible contains.

Will not all my readers do this, faithfully and perseveringly? Resolve to bring a short portion of the preceptive or devotional parts of the Scriptures home to your heart every day; and let your object be, not so much to extend your intellectual view of the field opened to you in its pages, as to increase its moral and spiritual influence upon your heart and conduct. Be not so careful, then, to read this exact quantity or that; but to bring home some portion really and fully to the heart and to the conscience--to do it so forcibly, that the influence of those few verses read and pondered in the morning, will go with you through the day.

Reading the Bible is, however, sometimes practised with a very different spirit from this. A boy, for example, whose parent or whose Sabbath-school teacher has convinced him that he ought to read the Bible daily, takes his book and sits down by the fire, and reads away, rapidly and thoughtlessly, the portion which comes in course. He looks up occasionally, to observe the sports of his brothers and sisters, or to join in their conversation, and then returns again to the verse he left. In fifteen minutes he rises from his seat, shuts his book, and pushes it into its place upon the shelf, saying, "There, I have read my chapter;" and this is the last he knows or thinks of the Bible during the day.

Consider now another case. In an unfurnished and almost an unfinished little room in some crowded alley of a populous city, you may see a lad who has just arisen from his humble bed, and is ready to go forth to his daily duties. He is a young apprentice--and must almost immediately go forth to kindle his morning fire, and to prepare his place of business for the labors of the day. He first, however, takes his little Testament from his chest--and breathes, while he opens it, a silent prayer that God will fix the lesson that he is about to read, upon his conscience and his heart. "Holy Spirit," whispers he, "graciously apply the instructions of this book to my heart, and let me be governed by it to-day; so that I may perform faithfully all my duties to myself, to my companions, to my master, and to thee." He opens the book, and reads perhaps as follows: "Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love; in honor preferring one another." He pauses--his faithful self-applying thoughts run over the scenes through which he is that day to pass, and he considers in what cases this verse ought to influence him. "'Be kindly affectioned.' I must treat my brothers and sisters, and all my companions, kindly to-day. I must try to save them trouble, and to promote their happiness. 'In honor preferring one another.'" As he sees these words, he sighs to reflect how many times he has been jealous of his fellow-apprentices on account of marks of trust and favor shown to them, or envious of the somewhat superior privileges enjoyed by those older than himself, and he prays that God will forgive him, and make him humble and kind-hearted in future, to all around him.

"Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord." He stops to consider whether he is habitually industrious, improving all his time in such a manner as to be of the greatest advantage to his master; whether he is fervent in spirit, that is, cordially devoted to God's service, and full of benevolent desires for the happiness of all; whether he serves the Lord in what he does, that is, whether all his duties are discharged from motives of love to his Maker and Preserver. While he thus muses, the fire burns. He shuts his book, and asks God to protect him, as he now must go out into the labors and temptations of the day. God does bless and protect him. He has read, indeed, but two verses; but these verses he carries in his heart, and they serve as a memorial of kindness and love to man, and fidelity towards God, which accompanies him wherever he goes, and keeps him safe and happy. The Bible is thus a light to his feet and a lamp to his paths. Which now of these, do you think, reads the Bible aright?

Let no child who reads this understand me to say that I consider two verses enough of the Bible to read each day. What I mean by this case is, that so much more depends upon the spirit and manner with which the Bible is read, than the quantity, that a very small portion, properly read, may be far more useful than a much larger quantity hurried over in a careless and thoughtless manner. No precise rules can be given in regard to quantity; it must vary with circumstances, and of these the individual must, in most cases, be the judge.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SABBATH.

MY readers are undoubtedly generally aware, that the present obligation to keep the Sabbath has been, by some persons, denied, on the ground that keeping one day in seven holy is a sort of ceremony, and that it was only intended to be required of the Jewish nation. I do not intend, in this chapter, to enter at all into a discussion of that subject. Most, if not all of those who will read this book, are undoubtedly satisfied in regard to it. I will, however, simply state the facts, on the ground of which the present binding authority of the Lord's day is generally admitted by Christians.

As soon as God had finished the creation, it is stated that he rested on the seventh day, and sanctified it; that is, he set it apart for a sacred use. The time and the circumstances under which this was done, sufficiently indicate that it was intended to apply to the whole race, and to extend through all time. A ceremony solemnly established at the foundation of an empire would be universally considered as designed to extend as far and continue as long as the empire itself should extend and continue, unless it should be distinctly repealed. And so with a duty established at the foundation of a world.

Many years afterwards the Creator gave a very distinct code of laws to his people, the Jews. These laws were of two kinds, ceremonial and moral. It was the design of the former to be binding only upon the Jewish nation; the latter are of permanent and universal authority.

The ceremonial laws were merely repeated to Moses, and he made a record of them; you will find them in nearly all the chapters of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. All the regulations relating to sacrifices are of this character. The moral laws were, however, given in the most solemn manner from mount Sinai. They are the ten commandments, and they were written, by the direct power of God himself, upon tablets of stone, which were carefully preserved.

Now, as if to remove all possible ground of doubt in regard to his design, the observance of the Sabbath was made the subject of one of these ten commandments; and it has been observed from that day to this, by a vast majority of all those who have wished to obey their Maker's commands.

These facts are abundantly sufficient to convince those who are willing to keep the Sabbath, that God intended that all men should keep it. They who are not convinced, reveal by their doubts their unwillingness to obey. I would advise, therefore, any one who has doubts about the divine authority of the Sabbath, not to spend his time in looking for the arguments for and against in this controversy, but to come at once to his heart. Ask yourself this question: "Do I fully understand what it is to remember the Sabbath-day and keep it holy, and am I cordially and sincerely willing to do it?" In the affirmative answer to this question you will find the solution to all your doubts.

The Sabbath was observed, from its establishment down to the coming of Christ, on the seventh day of the week, that is, our Saturday. Our Saviour rose from the dead on the day after the Sabbath, and we find, soon after his resurrection, that Christians observed that day instead of the former one, as sacred time. There is no direct command to do this on record, and no indication that there was any controversy about it at the time. They all at once simultaneously change. They keep one day in seven as before, but it is a different day. We infer that they had some authority for so doing, though it is not at all necessary that that authority should be specified. It is the custom in most of the schools in New England to consider the afternoon of Saturday a half-holiday. Now, suppose a boy should leave this country to go on a foreign voyage, and after being absent many months, should return, and find, when Saturday afternoon comes, that all the boys in his native town go to school as usual, but that on Monday afternoon the schools are all suspended. He sees that this is the universal custom, and it continues so permanently. Now it is not, under these circumstances, at all necessary that the original vote of the school committee by which the change was made should come before him. The universality of the practice is the best of evidence in such a case. No boy would wish for more. It is just so with the evidence we have that the Sabbath was changed. Suddenly all Christians changed their practice; they changed together, and without any evidence of a controversy, and the new arrangement has been adopted from that day to this.

But yet all persons are not quite satisfied about it, and there are various other questions connected with the time of the Sabbath, which have occasioned in the minds of many Christians serious doubt and perplexities. Some imagine that they ought to have more evidence of the change from the seventh to the first day of the week; they think too, that the Sabbath is intended to be commemorative of God's rest after finishing the creation, and that this object is lost by altering the day; and some lose themselves in endless arguments on the question whether sunset, midnight, or morning marks the beginning of the sacred day. The difference of views on this subject produces some difference of practice. There are some Christians who prefer to keep Saturday as holy time, and not Sunday, regarding the former as the seventh day meant by the commandment. There is a difference of practice, too, in regard to the time of commencing the holy day. In some places the Sabbath is understood to begin on the evening of Saturday, so that when the sun goes down on Sunday evening, they return to their usual duties and cares. In other places, midnight is considered as the limit which marks the beginning and the end of sacred time.

The actual inconvenience arising from this diversity is comparatively slight. The great evil which these differences of opinion produce, is the interminable disputes which arise from them. Perhaps some of my readers, when they saw the subject of the Sabbath announced, may have been curious to know which side I was going to take in regard to some of these points; for example, on the question whether it is proper to commence holy time on Saturday evening, or on Sabbath morning. Now, in fact, I am going to take both sides. I am going to try to convince you that it is entirely immaterial which is adopted, and that the whole subject is completely unworthy of being made a matter of controversy among Christian brethren.

When God gives us a command, I am aware that we must obey it exactly. But a command is obeyed exactly, if it is obeyed in all the particulars expressed in the words of it. I think the following principle may be laid down as fundamental in regard to all laws partaking of a ceremonial character, human and divine. So far as the ceremonial part is essential, it will be distinctly described in the command. The fourth command partakes of the ceremonial character. It is for the observance of a particular day. It specifies what day, but it does not specify at what hour it is to begin, and therefore we are left at liberty to begin it so as to correspond with any established and common mode of computing time.

But to illustrate the above-mentioned principle--for it seems to me that if it were cordially and fully admitted, it would save a vast number of disputes on many other subjects--let us suppose that a father, about to be absent from his home, leaves his two boys with the command that they shall work, every day, a little while in the garden. Now, in such a case as this, the boys ought not to consider themselves as limited to any particular time for doing it. They must consider their father's design in the command, and act in such a manner as to comply with the spirit of it; but they may do as they please about the time of beginning. They may work in the morning, or in the evening, or at midnight, according to their own convenience.

Suppose, however, he had been a little more definite, and had said, "I wish you, my boys, while I am absent, to work a few hours every forenoon in the garden." This would have been a little more definite. And just so far as it is definite in regard to the time, just so far it would be binding in that respect. They would not now be at liberty to choose whether they would work forenoon or afternoon, but still they would be at liberty in regard to the precise time of beginning. If one of the boys should attempt to prove that they ought to begin exactly at half-past eight, because the father had usually begun at that hour, or because the neighbors did, the other might reply, that the time of beginning was not specified in the command, and they might, if they chose, begin at an earlier or later hour, if they only honestly fulfilled the command by working faithfully as much as they supposed their father meant by the expression, "a few hours."

Let us, however, make the command more definite still. Imagine the father to have said, "I wish you, my sons, to spend from nine to twelve o'clock every day, in the garden, working for me." This leaves them much less discretionary power. The time for beginning and ending is distinctly specified, and the command is binding, in regard to these points of form and manner, just so far as they are distinctly specified. Still, there is room for a dispute. The spirit which makes so much of a controversy on the question whether holy time begins at sundown or at midnight, would have easily made a controversy here. For we will suppose that there was a clock in the hall of the house and a dial in the garden. All my readers are aware, I presume, that a clock, if it is a good one, keeps regular, equal time; but that there is some irregularity in the motions of the heavenly bodies, which prevents the dial from always corresponding with it exactly. Sometimes the dial, which marks apparent time, that is, what appears to be the time by the sun, is before, and sometimes behind the clocks; for they mark the real, or true time, as it is called. Now, how easily might these boys get into a dispute on the question whether their father meant them to keep true or apparent time, that is, whether he meant them to begin by the clock or by the dial: sometimes the difference is fifteen minutes. They might say, that they must obey their father's command exactly, and each might undertake to show, from arguments drawn from the nature of time, which perhaps neither of them understood, or from the father's practice, or the practice of other workmen in the vicinity, that one method of computation or the other was the proper one. How unwise would this be. The proper ground unquestionably for boys in such a case to take would be, "It is no matter which mode of reckoning we adopt; it was not father's object to have us begin at any precise moment." "If you prefer the clock," one might say, "I have no objection to it. I think we have a right to take which we please, for father did not specify any thing in regard to it; and if he had had any preference, he would have stated it."

Just so in regard to the Sabbath. God says in substance, "Keep holy one day in seven." There is no minute specification in regard to the moment of commencing; we are at liberty, therefore, to commence according to any established and common method of computing time.

May not, then, the principle stated above be considered as universal, in regard to obedience to all laws of a ceremonial nature? So far as the form and manner are deemed essential, they are always distinctly expressed in the law. Look at the laws in these States for the solemnization of marriages: all that is essential is distinctly expressed. So with the laws in regard to the transfer of property: every form that is intended to be required is detailed in the statute. So with the purely ceremonial laws of the Jews. If a command required the sacrifice of two doves, the Jew would plainly not feel at liberty to bring one or three, nor to offer, instead of the bird prescribed, vultures or sparrows. But he just as plainly would be at liberty to offer doves of any color; he might choose blue or white, or any other hue: and if his neighbor should say to him, "Your doves are not of the right kind; nobody offers such doves as those;" his proper reply would be, "I obey the command. The color is not specified." So with Christians in keeping the Sabbath. It is not essential whether you begin at sundown or at midnight; if you keep the Sabbath faithfully and regularly according to one method or the other, you obey the command; the moment for beginning is not specified.

It seems to me that any person who endeavors to obtain a philosophical idea of the nature of our mode of computing time by days, must see the impossibility of marking any precise limit for the commencement and close of sacred time. Astronomers commence a day at twelve o'clock at noon. Some nations begin it at midnight. On shore it is reckoned as commencing at one hour, and at sea, as at another. The day, too, begins at a different time in every different place; so that a ship at sea, beginning a day in one place and ending it in another, sometimes will have twenty-three and a half and sometimes twenty-four and a half hours in her day, and no clock or timepiece whatever can keep her time. An officer of the ship is obliged to determine the beginning of their day every noon by astronomical observation. A sea- captain can often make a difference of an hour in the length of his day, by the direction in which he steers his ship; because a day begins and ends in no two places, east and west of each other, at the same time. At Jerusalem they are six hours in advance of us in their time, and at the Sandwich Islands six hours behind. In consequence of this, it is evident that the ship, changing her longitude, must every day change her reckoning. These sources of difficulty in marking out the limits of a day, increase as we go towards the pole. A ship within fifty miles of it, might sail round on a parallel of latitude, and keep it one continual noon or midnight to her all the year; only noon and midnight would be there almost the same. At the pole itself all distinction between day and night entirely ceases; summer and winter are the only change. Habitable regions do not indeed extend to the pole, but they extend far beyond any practical distinction between noon and midnight, or evening and morning.

The difference between the times of commencing days in different parts of the earth is so great, that a ship sailing round the globe loses a whole day in her reckoning, or gains a whole day, according to the direction in which she sails. If she sets out from Boston, and passes round Cape Horn, and across the Pacific ocean, to China, thence through the Indian and Atlantic oceans home, she will find, on her arrival, that it is Tuesday with her crew when it is Wednesday on shore. Each of her days will have been a little longer than a day is in any fixed place, and of course she will have had fewer of them. So that if the passengers were Christians, and have endeavored to keep the Sabbath, they will not and cannot have corresponded with any one nation whatever in the times of their observance of it. I suppose my readers will believe these facts on my testimony; but they will have a far more vivid idea of the truth in this case, if they will ask some sea-captain who has sailed round or half round the globe. if it is not so, and converse with him on some of the interesting questions and difficulties which arise from this peculiarity in the nature of the computation of time.

But besides this difficulty arising from the variation in the time at different longitudes, there are also other causes which will produce greater difficulty still in the way of marking out a precise moment at which the boundary between sacred and common time is to be marked. As we go north or south from the equator, the lengths of the days increase in the summer season, until at last, as I have already intimated, in a certain latitude the sun ceases altogether to set for a period equal to many weeks of our reckoning. Now, what will a man who supposes that our Maker meant to command all mankind to keep the Sabbath exactly from sunset to sunset or from midnight to midnight--what will such a man say to a Christian in Greenland, where the sun does not set for months together?

Is the moral law limited to latitude in its application, or did the great Framer of it not know, or did he forget that the motions of the sun which he himself ordained, would give to some of the people to whom the command was addressed, no sunset or midnight for months at a time? No; it is absurd to press a written command to any greater strictness, in regard to the form and manner of its observance, than the letter expresses. God says to us simply, "Keep holy one day in seven." We may reckon that day in any of the prevailing methods of computing time. If it was customary in old times to reckon the day from sunset to sunset, the servants of God would probably reckon their Sabbaths so too. If it is customary now to reckon from midnight to midnight, we may reckon our Sabbath so. We must keep the command in its spirit, but we need not press the form any farther than the letter of the command itself presses it.

The same principles apply to the change from the seventh day to the first. That is not an alteration of the command, but only of practice under the command, in a point which the letter of the law does not fix. Christians labor six days and rest the seventh now. By our artificial nomenclature we call it the first; but that does not alter the real nature of the command, which is simply, that after every six days of labor there shall be regularly one of rest. This requirement has never been changed or touched; it stands among the ten commands, unaltered and unalterable, like all the rest. The practice, in a point not fixed by the phraseology of the command, is indeed altered; but that no more affects obedience to the law than a change from parchment to paper, in the drawing up of a legal instrument, would violate a law which did not prescribe the material. Who would think of saying in such a case, "The law has been altered; when the statute was enacted, the universal practice was to write upon parchment, and now men universally use paper; we can find no authority for the change, and consequently the law is broken?" The law would not be broken unless it unequivocally mentioned parchment in contradistinction from all other materials. The day then in present use is to be continued as the holy time until it is changed by proper authority, and the change made known in a proper manner. But that authority and that manner need not be by any means so formal as was the original command, because it does not alter that command at all; it only alters practice arising under the command, and that in a point which the law itself does not specify.

Some one may perhaps, however, say that the Sabbath was in commemoration of the rest of Jehovah after the creation, and that this object is lost by the change. But if the precise time of God's resting is to be reckoned, it is to be reckoned according to the culmination of the sun at Eden, and the day there is many hours in advance of us here; so that strict, precise accuracy, in regard to hours and minutes is, in every view of the case, entirely out of the question; and the fact that the command does not attempt to secure it, gives evidence that it was intended for general circulation among mankind. To a person standing still in one place, and looking no farther than to his own limited horizon, the word day seems definite enough; but when a voice from mount Sinai speaks to the whole world, commanding all men, at sea and on land, in Arctic regions and under an equinoctial sun, under every meridian and at every parallel, to remember one day in seven and keep it holy, there must be great diversity in the form and moment of obedience. We cannot, looking over the whole field, find a precise and universal limit. The command, if we consider it as addressed to the world, is entirely indefinite in regard to the precise period of the commencement and close of sacred time; but the great principle of it is clear: Keep one day in seven, according to some common mode of computation, holy to the Lord.

I should not have spent so much time in endeavoring to prove that minute accuracy in regard to the form and manner of obeying this command are unattainable, were it not that this discussion involves a principle which applies to many other cases; so that if you are induced to see its reasonableness and to admit its force in this case, you will be saved a great deal of useless perplexity about the minutiæ of forms in a great many other cases. Remember then this principle, that commands are to be obeyed in their spirit, except where the precise form is a matter of positive and distinct specification.

I have one or two practical remarks to make in reference to this part of my subject.

1. In respect to those points of duty on which the Scriptures give no direct instructions, you will do well to conform to the customs of Christians around you. If you live in a community where the Sabbath is generally commenced on Saturday evening, begin yours at that time: conform not only in this, but in all other unimportant points; kneel, or stand, or sit at prayers, as other people do around you. I have known persons so controlled by the determination to have their own way in little things, and to consider all other ways wrong, that they could not sit at table while a blessing was asked, as is the common custom in many places, without being very much shocked at the imaginary irreverence. Some men will be pained if a minister says we in the pulpit, and others will quarrel with him if he says I; and a grave discussion is sometimes carried on, on such points as these, in religious journals. One Christian cannot endure a written prayer; another cannot bear an extempore one. A is troubled if there is an organ in the church, and B thinks that music at church is nothing without one. C will almost leave the meeting-house if he should see the minister come in wearing a silk gown; and D would be equally shocked at seeing him without one. Now, all this is wrong. These points are not determined by any express command in the Bible, and consequently they are left to the varying taste and convenience of mankind. Every person may perhaps have a slight preference, but this preference he ought at all times to be willing to give up, in consideration of the wishes and feeling of his Christian brother. He who intends to do good in this world, must go about among mankind with a spirit which will lead him to conform, easily and pleasantly to the customs of men, except in those cases where the letter or the spirit of the Bible forbids.

2. This discussion reminds me of one great and striking characteristic of many, if not all, of God's commands. They are peculiarly liable to evasion. This is one of their excellences, as a part of a system of moral discipline. The object of human laws is to prevent injury from crime--not to improve and perfect the character. The object of divine laws is to discipline moral beings, to train them up to moral strength, and make them sincere and faithful servants of their Master in heaven. This gives rise to a great difference in the form of the commands themselves. How much pains do men take, when making laws, to cut off every possible chance of escape, by specifying with minute accuracy all the details of transgression. Hence the enactments of men are very voluminous. The laws of a state on the subject of theft will fill a volume; but GOD disposes of the whole subject in four words, "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL." The human lawgiver studies to cut off, by the fulness and legal accuracy of his language, every opportunity for quibbling or evasion; but if any man wishes to escape from the laws of God by quibbling and evasion, he may--the door is wide open: and this is what gives the law of God its admirable adaptedness to be the means of moral discipline to the human soul.

The reason why it produces this effect is this: The more strict and minute are the details of a command, the less room is there for the exercise of fidelity and voluntary obedience. God might, in regard to the Sabbath for example, have been so precise and specific in his command, that the whole world might know exactly the moment when sacred time is to begin, and exactly the manner in which its hours are to be spent; nay, more, he might have so interrupted the course of nature, that all the business of life must have ceased, and men have been compelled to rest on the Sabbath. But this would have been no moral trial; it would have afforded no moral discipline. God does not accordingly adopt such a course. He expresses his command in general and simple language. They who wish to obey, can easily ascertain what they ought to do; and they who do not, will easily find excuses.

There are some, and perhaps many, who make the question whether Saturday or Sunday evening is to be kept, an excuse for keeping neither. But those who wish to obey God's commands, will keep one or the other faithfully; and one great design in having uncertainty in such cases as this, is unquestionably to try us--to see who does and who does not wish on vain pretexts to evade God's commands.

I proceed to consider the spirit and manner in which the Sabbath should be kept.

The Sabbath is designed to interpose an effectual interruption to all worldly business, and to promote as highly as possible the improvement of the character. Do, then, these two things: first, suspend all worldly pursuits; and, second, spend the day in such a manner as will best promote your spiritual improvement. The first point is easy; I shall therefore pass it by, and direct my attention immediately to the last.

There are wise and there are unwise ways of keeping the Sabbath holy. James is a boy who has set his heart upon reading the Bible through in as short a time as possible, and he thinks there is no way of spending the Sabbath so properly as by his carrying forward this good work with all his strength. He carries his Bible to bed with him at night, and places it under his pillow, that he may read as soon as it is light in the morning. You may see him at breakfast-time counting up the chapters he has read, and calculating how long it will take him at that rate to get through a certain book. He can hardly wait for family prayers to be over, he is so eager to drive forward his work. He reads a great many chapters in the course of the day, and lies down at night congratulating himself on his progress; but alas, he has made no progress in piety. Reading chapters in the Bible as if he was reading on a wager, is not making progress in piety. He has not examined his heart that day. He has not made resolutions for future duty. He has not learned to be a more dutiful son, a more affectionate brother, or a more humble and devoted Christian. No, he has read twenty chapters in the Bible. He has been making no new discoveries of his secret sins, has obtained no new views of his duty, has not drawn nigh to God and found peace and happiness in communion with him; no, he has had no time for that--he has been busy all day running over his twenty chapters in the Bible. It were well if James was aware that his real motive for this work is the pride of thinking and perhaps of telling others how much he has read, an that the cultivation of such a spirit is a bad way of spending God's holy day. I would not say a word against reading the Bible, but it must be read in a proper manner. Many a boy has wasted every hour of the Sabbath, and yet done little else but read the Bible from morning to night.

Many young persons think there is no way to break the Sabbath but by work or play. But the spirit and meaning of the fourth command undoubtedly is, that the Sabbath should be devoted to the real improvement of the Christian character. And if this is neglected, the Sabbath is broken, no matter in what way its hours may have been spent.

Yes, if this is neglected, the command is disobeyed; no formal attention to any external duty whatever can be made a substitute. A boy sits at his window studying his Sabbath-school lesson; his object, I will suppose, is not to learn his duty and to do it, but he wishes to surpass some companion at the recitation, or perhaps is actuated by a mere selfish desire to obtain a reward which has been, perhaps very improperly, offered him; he looks out of the window across the valley which extends before his father's house, and sees upon a beautiful pond there, a boat full of his playmates pushing off from the shore on an excursion of pleasure.

"Ah," says he, "those wicked boys, they are breaking the Sabbath."

Yes, they are breaking the Sabbath--and so is he; both are perverting it. God looks at the heart, and requires that all should spend the Sabbath in sincere efforts to discover and confess and abandon sin, and to become pure and holy and devoted to him. Now, both the boys in the boat and the one at the window are neglecting this. They are doing it for the pleasure of a sail; he is doing it for the honor of superiority in his class. The day is misspent and perverted in both cases.

Mrs. X--- is the mother of several children, and she is exceedingly desirous that all her family should faithfully keep the Sabbath. She cannot bear the thought that it should be profaned by any under her roof. Before sacred time comes, therefore, the whole house is put in order, all worldly business is brought to a close, so that the minds of all her family may be free. All this is excellent; but how does she actually spend the sacred hours? Why, her whole attention is devoted to enforcing the mere external duties of religion in her household. She is careful to banish every secular book; she requires one child to sit still and read the Bible; another she confines to a prayer-book, or to some good book of religious exhortation; a third is kept studying a Sabbath-school lesson. All, however, must be still; it is her great desire and aim to banish every thing like worldly work or play. There must be no light conversation, and even the little infant creeping upon the floor, has to relinquish her playthings and spend the day in inaction.

Now, when night comes, this mother thinks that she has kept the Sabbath, and induced her household to keep it too; and perhaps she has. But all that I have described does not prove that she has kept it according to God's original design. God did not institute the Sabbath in order merely that children might be kept from play, or that they might be forced to read, mechanically, good books; but that they might, in worshipping and serving him, improve their characters, and make real preparation for another world. Now, unless a mother adopts such methods as shall most effectually promote the spiritual improvement of her children, and unless she succeeds in interesting them in it, she does not attain the object in view. If your children are spending the day in a cold and heartless manner, complying with your rules from mere fear of your authority, they are not, properly speaking, keeping the Sabbath. The end in view is not attained.

But many a mother who reads this will ask, "How can I interest my children in such efforts to improve?" You will find a hundred ways, if you set your hearts upon it. The only danger is, that you will not fully feel the necessity of it. You are satisfied, or there is great danger that you will be satisfied with the mere formality of external decorum on the Lord's day, forgetting that the empire in which your influence ought to reign on that day, is the empire of the heart, not the external conduct only. You ought, therefore, to aim at adopting such means of addressing and influencing your children as shall seem best calculated to reach and control their hearts. If you really wish to do this, and really try to do it, you will soon learn.

Imagine such a scene as this: A mother, with several children under eight or ten years of age, collects them in her chamber on a pleasant Sabbath afternoon in summer, and with a cheerful countenance and pleasant tone of voice, when all are seated, addresses them as follows:

"Well, children, you know what the Sabbath is for; it is to give us time and opportunity to improve. I suppose you want to improve. One way to do it is to find out our faults, and then correct them. Are you willing now to try to find out your faults?"

"Yes, mother."

"I have thought of this plan. How should you like it? I will pause a minute or two, and we will all try to think of faults that we have seen among ourselves last week. You may try, and I will try. After a minute or two, I will ask you all around. Should you like to do this?"

A mother who manages her children in a proper manner with habitual kindness and affection, will receive a cordial assent to such a proposal as this. After a few minutes she puts the question round:

"Mary, have you thought of any thing?"

"Yes, mother; I think that John and I quarrel sometimes."

"Do you think of any particular case which happened last week?"

Mary hesitates, and John looks a little confused.

"You may do just as you please," says the mother, "about mentioning it. It is unpleasant to think and talk about our faults, and of course it will be unpleasant for you to describe particularly any thing wrong which you have done. But then if you do honestly and frankly confess it, I think you will be much less likely to do wrong in the same way next week."

Mary then tells, in her own simple style, the story of some childish contention, not with the shrinking and hesitation of extorted acknowledgment, but openly and frankly, and in such a manner as greatly to diminish the danger of falling into such a sin again. When she has said all, which, however, may not perhaps have been more than two or three sentences, the mother continues, addressing herself to the others:

"Well, children, you have heard what Mary has said. Have you observed any thing in her expressions which tended to show that she has wished to throw the blame off upon John?"

They will probably say, Yes. A child would not be a very impartial historian in such a case, and other children would be very shrewd to detect the indications of bias.

"Now I do not know," says the mother, "but that John was most to blame. Mary told the story, on the whole, in a very proper manner. I only asked the question, to remind you all that our object is now to learn our own faults, and to correct them; and you must all try to see as much as possible where you yourselves have been to blame."

She then turns to some passages of the Bible on the subject of forbearance and harmony between brothers and sisters, and reads them--not for the purpose of loading her children with invective and reproach, but of kindly and mildly pointing out what God's commands are, and the necessity as well as the happiness of obeying them.

If this is done in a proper manner, and if the mother watches the feelings of her little charge, and applies her means of influence skilfully, she may hope to succeed, certainly after one or two trials, in producing a dislike of contention, a desire to avoid it, and a resolution to sin, in this respect, no more. She may in the same manner go through the circle--fault after fault will be brought up, its nature and its consequences kindly pointed out, and those commands of God which bear upon the subject, plainly brought to view. The interview may be closed by a short and simple prayer--that God will forgive, for Christ's sake, the sins they have confessed, and give them all strength to resist temptation during the coming week. Such an exercise, if managed as every kind and faithful mother can manage it, will generally succeed; the children will go away from it with consciences relieved in some degree from the burden of sin; they will look back upon it as a serious, but a happy interview, and will feel--though a wise mother will not be overanxious to draw from them an expression of that feeling--that it is a happy thing to repent of sin, and to return to duty. I asked my readers at the outset to imagine this scene; but in fact it is not an imaginary scene--in substance, it is reality.

This, now, is a proper employment of a part of the Sabbath. Such an influence comes to the heart, and it accomplishes directly and immediately the very object that God had in view in the appointment of the Sabbath. I only offer it, however, as a specimen; if repeated in exactly this form every Sabbath, the sameness might become tiresome. The idea which I mean to convey is, that the heart must be reached, and the process of improvement must be advancing, or the object of the Sabbath is lost. Let my young readers remember this. Unless you are improving and elevating your character, discovering your faults and correcting them, learning God's will as it applies to your own conduct, confessing and forsaking your sins, and looking by faith to the Saviour--unless you are doing such work as this, you cannot be properly keeping the Sabbath-day. The simple question then is, are you willing to devote honestly and conscientiously one day in seven to real and sincere efforts to make progress in piety?

If you are willing, and every Christian certainly will be, you are not to go forward blindly, reading and reflecting without system or plan, on the vain supposition that if the mind is actually employed on religious subjects, all is going on well. You must take into careful consideration the nature of the human mind, and the means which, according to the laws which the Creator has given it, are most calculated to have an influence over it. This principle will require attention to several points.

1. Variety in the exercises of the Sabbath. When I was thinking of this topic, and considering how I should present it here, I one day accidentally fell into conversation with a clergyman who had had far more experience as a teacher than I have enjoyed. I requested him to reduce to writing the views he expressed, that I might insert them here. He soon after sent me the following:

"Many Christians who feel deeply the importance of spending the Sabbath in a proper manner, find, notwithstanding all their endeavors, that the sacred hours do at times pass heavily along. Now the Sabbath should be not only the Christian's most profitable, but most happy day. I once knew a young Christian who resolved that he would pass the whole day in prayer; but very soon he became exhausted and weary. He however persevered through the whole day, with the exception of the few necessary interruptions; and when night came, he felt a deadness and exhaustion of feeling which he unhappily mistook for spiritual desertion. No human mind can, in ordinary cases, sustain such long and intense application to one subject; there must be variety, to give cheerfulness and to invigorate. Often a conscientious young Christian takes his Bible, resolving to spend the Sabbath in reading the Bible and in prayer. He perhaps passes an hour or two in this way very pleasantly, and then he feels tired; he tries to rouse his feelings, and bitterly condemns himself for unavoidable languor. I have known persons to be greatly disquieted and distrustful of their Christian character, because they could not pass the whole of the Sabbath pleasantly in uninterrupted reading the Bible and prayer.

"There is a wide difference between spiritual desertion and mental exhaustion. To avoid this mental exhaustion, and to keep the spirits animated and cheerful, much variety of pursuit is necessary. Who would be willing to go to church, and have the whole time occupied with a sermon, or a prayer, or a hymn? How few are there who can, with pleasure and profit, listen to a sermon of one hour's length. There must be a diversity of exercises to make public worship agreeable, and there must be diversity to give pleasure to private devotion.

"Let the sacred hours of the Sabbath, then, be appropriated to a variety of religious employments. Suppose the case of a young married man. He wishes to pass the Sabbath in a way acceptable to God, and to enjoy his religious duties. He rises in good season in the morning, and commences the day with a short, but fervent prayer for the divine blessing; he then passes the time till breakfast in reading the Bible. Perhaps, for the sake of variety, he spends a part of the time in reading the devotional portions, and a part in perusing its interesting history. At the breakfast-table, with cheerful countenance and heart, he leads the conversation to religious subjects; after breakfast he passes an hour in reading some valuable religious book. Books are so numerous now, that the best practical works upon Christianity are easily obtained by all. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, Baxter's Saints' Rest and Call to the Unconverted, Doddridge's Rise and Progress, and kindred works, are of standard merit, and works with which all Christians may, and should be acquainted. It is very desirable that the Christian should have on hand some such book, which he will read in course, a moderate portion every day, until he has finished it.

"At length the time arrives for the assembling of his family for morning prayers. He carries his principle, for securing an interesting variety, here. Sometimes he will read religious intelligence from a periodical; sometimes he reads an interesting narrative from a tract--always taking care to select something which will excite attention. After finishing this, he opens the Bible and selects some appropriate passage, and reads it, with occasional remarks, intended to deepen the impression upon his own mind, and upon the minds of those in the circle around him. He then reads a hymn, and after singing a few verses, if the family are able to sing, bows at the family altar in prayer. The variety which he has thus introduced into the exercise has continued to interest the feelings, and no occasion has been offered for lassitude or tedium.

"He now walks the room for exercise, and reviews the past week; he thinks of the opportunities to do good which he has neglected; examines his feelings and his conduct, and in ejaculatory prayer, seeks forgiveness. When he enters the place of public worship his mind is ready for active service there--he unites with his pastor in prayer. When a hymn is read, he attends to the sentiment, and makes melody in heart to God when singing his praises. He listens attentively to the sermon, feeling that the responsibility of being interested in it comes upon him, and he prays that God will bless it to his own soul, and to the conversion of others.

"Perhaps, in the interval between forenoon and afternoon service, he has a class in the Sabbath-school, or is himself a member of the Bible class: these duties he performs with a sincere desire to do good. After the close of the afternoon services he retires for secret prayer. He appropriates a proper period to this duty, and presents his own private and personal wants, and the spiritual interests of others, in minute detail to God: he looks forward, too, to the duties of the week; he brings before his mind the temptations to which he will be exposed, the opportunities for exerting a Christian influence which he possesses, and forms his plans of Christian usefulness for the week; he thinks of some good object which he will try to advance, of some individual whom he will try to lead to the Saviour. He forms his resolutions, and perhaps writes them down, that he may refer to them again the next Sabbath, in the review of the week. At the appointed hour he assembles his family for evening prayers. A brief reference to the religious exercises of the day, or some interesting narrative, followed by the Bible, singing, and prayer, again give variety and animation to the exercise; and when all the duties of the day are over, as he is retiring to rest, he passes the few moments which remain before slumber has wrapt his senses in forgetfulness, in reviewing the duties of the day. The Sabbath has been profitably and happily spent. It has been to him a rich season of improvement and of enjoyment. He has made a Sabbath-day's journey towards heaven; he has obtained strength to meet the allurements and temptations of life. During the week he looks back upon the Sabbath with pleasure, and when the light of another holy morning dawns upon him, he can sincerely say,

"Welcome, delightful morn,

Thou day of sacred rest;

I hail thy kind return--

Lord, make these moments blest."

"In this way the Sabbath is a delight. It is a day of refreshment, and the spirit of man longs eagerly for its approach. I have introduced the above example simply as an illustration of what I mean by saying that there should be variety in the exercises of the Sabbath. Probably no one who reads these pages will find it expedient to adopt precisely the same course. But all may proceed upon the same principle, and adapt their plans to their situation.

2. "System in the exercises of the Sabbath. Much time is often lost upon the Sabbath for want of a regular plan. If a person reads half an hour in the Bible, and then stops to think what he shall take up next, his mind is perplexed. He says, 'Shall I now retire for secret prayer, or shall I read a tract, or shall I take up Baxter's Saints' Rest?' Several moments are lost in deciding. Perhaps he takes Baxter; but while reading, he stops to consider whether it would not have been better to have taken something else; and then his mind is diverted from his book by thinking what he shall next read: thus much time is lost, and the mind is perplexed. It is therefore wisdom to have a plan previously formed for the whole day. With a little reflection a plan may easily be formed, appropriating systematically the time of the Sabbath to the several duties which ought to be performed. Many persons constantly do this. In all cases there will be unavoidable interruptions. But we may derive much assistance from rules, without making ourselves slaves to them. If you have domestic duties which must be performed upon the Sabbath, have them performed, if possible, by a given hour, that they may not intrude upon all the hours of the sacred day. If you are constantly exposed to interruptions, if there is no time of the day which you can call your own, then let your plans be formed in accordance with this peculiarity in your situation. Three things all may guard against--indolence, a worldly spirit, and too long application of the mind to one subject. There are no lawful situations in life, in which we may not pass the day with improvement to ourselves and acceptably to God."

3. Rest on the Sabbath. We ought to remember, that God has ordained the Sabbath as a day of rest from labor, as well as a day of spiritual improvement, and it ought to be made such.

It is undoubtedly wrong to apply our minds so uninterruptedly to religious duties during the day, as to feel worn out and exhausted at night. There are indeed some exceptions; ministers and Sabbath-school teachers must, in fact, often do a very hard day's work on the Sabbath; they are laboring for the religious good of others, and must be often fatigued by their efforts. But Christians generally must not so fill up the hours with mental labor as to prevent the rest which God requires on his holy day.

These three points, variety, system, and rest, ought to be attended to in order to secure the greatest possible moral progress in that day. A teacher of a school would be very unwise, were he to require his pupils to spend the whole of a day in actual study--much less would he keep them during all that time upon one single book or subject. Nor would he, on the other hand, relinquish all system, and do every hour whatever should happen to suggest itself to his thoughts. He knows that his pupils will actually advance more rapidly if he systematizes, and at the same time varies their exercises, and allows intervals of rest and recreation. The Christian too, who watches the movements of his own mind--and every Christian ought to do this--will soon learn that he must adopt substantially the same plan, if he wishes to make rapid progress in piety.

I will now proceed to mention, in order to be specific, several duties which I think ought to be performed on the Sabbath. I advise every one of my readers, immediately after perusing my account of these duties, to sit down and form a plan for himself, assigning to each one of them an appropriate place, devoting an hour or half an hour to each, according to his age and his circumstances in other respects. This plan ought not, however, to occupy all the hours of the day; some should be left unappropriated, to allow opportunity for rest, and to perform such duties as may from time to time arise to view. Make your plan, and resolve to try it for one Sabbath only. You can then consider whether to continue it, or to modify it, or to abandon it altogether.

1. Self-examination. I do not mean by this, the mere asking yourself some general questions in regard to your heart, and the habitual feelings of it. I mean, going over minutely the various occurrences of the week, to see what you have done, and what motives have actuated you. You can attend to this most successfully, by considering the subject under several distinct heads.

(1.) Your ultimate object of pursuit. Think what has chiefly interested and occupied you during the week, and what is the final, ultimate object you have in view in what you have been doing. Review all the labors that have been connected with that pursuit, whatever it may be, and find in what respects you have been pursuing your object with a wrong spirit.

(2.) Duties to parents. Consider what has been your conduct towards your parents, if you are still connected with them. Have you had any difficulty of any kind with them? Have they reproved you once during the week, or been dissatisfied with you in any respect? If so, what was it for? Think over the whole occurrence, and see wherein you were to blame in it; look at your habitual conduct towards your parents, or those under whose care you are placed. Have you at any time disobeyed them, or neglected to obey them with alacrity? Have you had any dispute with them, or been sullen or ill-humored on account of any of their measures? You must look also to the other side of the question, and consider what good you have done to your parents. Self-examination implies the investigation of what is right in the character, as well as what is wrong. What good, then, have you done to your parents? In what cases did you comply with their wishes when you were tempted not to comply? When did you give them pleasure by your attention, or by your faithful and ready obedience to their commands? You can spend half an hour most profitably, not in merely answering these individual questions, but in a careful review of all your conduct towards your parents, going into minute detail.

(3.) Companions. What has been your deportment towards your companions? How many have you made happier during the past week? Think of what good you have done, and of the way in which you did it. How many too have you made unhappy? If you have had any contention, call to mind all the circumstances of it--the angry, or reproachful, or ill-humored words which you have used, and the spirit of heart which you cherished. It will require a long time to review thoroughly all those events of a week which illustrate the spirit with which you have acted towards your companions.

(4.) Fidelity in business. You have some employment in which you ought to have been diligent and faithful during the week. Look over minutely your conduct in this respect; begin with Monday morning and come down to Saturday night, and see, by a careful examination of the labors of the week, whether you have been "diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord."

(5.) Secret sins. This is a most important head of self-examination. You have committed secret sins; you have cherished feelings which others have not known, or you have in secret done what you would blush to have exposed to view. Explore all this ground thoroughly, and confess and forsake such sins.

I might mention a number of similar points, but it is unnecessary, as my object is only to show that self-examination, to be effectual, must be minute, and must be brought to bear immediately and directly upon the actual conduct. You will succeed much better if you divide the ground in some such manner as above described.

2. Prayer. This is the second duty which I shall mention, for which a place ought to be particularly assigned on the Sabbath. I have in several places in this book alluded to the subject of prayer, and I shall merely here say in what respects prayer on the Sabbath should be peculiar. More time should be allotted to the exercise, and it should also take a wider range. Consider your whole character, and look back upon the past, and forward to the future, so as to take a comprehensive view of your condition and prospects, and let your supplications be such as this extended survey will suggest to you.

There is one thing, however, which I ought to say here, though I shall speak more distinctly of it in a subsequent chapter. It is this: Take a firm and an immovable stand in the duty of secret prayer; let nothing tempt you to neglect or postpone or curtail it, or pass over the season of your communication with God in a hurried and formal manner. Neglecting the closet is the beginning of backsliding, and the end of happiness and peace.

3. Studying the Bible. In the chapter devoted expressly to this subject, I have mentioned a variety of methods by which the study of the Bible may be made more interesting and profitable than it now ordinarily is. Every young Christian ought to allot a specific and regular time, every Sabbath-day, to the systematic study of the Bible by some such methods as those.

4. Conversation. The older and more intelligent members of a family may do much towards making the day pass pleasantly and profitably, by making some effort to prepare subjects for conversation. Suppose a family take such a course as this: A daughter studying the Bible alone in her chamber, finds some difficult and yet interesting question arising from the passage she is investigating. "I will ask about it at dinner," she says; "my brothers and sisters will be interested in it and in father's answer; for perhaps he will be able to answer it." The mother is reading some Christian biography, and coming to an interesting passage, she says to herself, "I will tell this story at dinner to-day, it will interest the children." The father inquires mentally, as the dinner-hour approaches, "What shall we talk about to-day?" Perhaps he recollects some occurrence which has taken place during the week which illustrates some religious truth, or is an example of religious duty. Thus each one comes to the table prepared to contribute something to the common stock of conversation. The dinner-hour, in such a case, will not pass heavily; all will be interested and profited by the remarks which will be made on the various topics which will come up. If any family into which this book may come will really try this experiment, they will find, in a very short time, that subjects for conversation will come up in far greater numbers, and exciting much greater interest than they would at first have supposed. There may be an agreement made at breakfast, that each one of the family will endeavor to bring forward some fact or some question at dinner, and then the father may call upon all in turn.

A great many persons imagine that conversation is something that must be left entirely to itself--that there can be no preparation for it, and no arrangements made to secure interest and profit from it. But the truth is, if there is any thing which demands forethought and arrangement, it is this very business of conversation--especially religious conversation on the Sabbath. Without some such efforts as I have above described, the Christian family, when assembled at dinner or tea, must spend the time in silence or frivolous remarks, criticisms upon the preacher, or discussions on subjects which keep those who are conscientious constantly uneasy, because they doubt whether the subjects upon which they are speaking are suitable to the sacredness of the Lord's day.

Many persons have no idea of religious conversation, excepting a forced and formal exhortation from the master of the family, or from a Christian minister. They cannot understand how a whole family can be interested, from the aged grand-parent down to the youngest child, in a conversation exactly calculated to promote the objects of the Sabbath. But let such persons try the experiment I have mentioned above, and they will discover their mistake. The ways by which a family may be interested by means of judicious and ingenious efforts on the part of a parent, or an older brother or sister, are very numerous. Sometimes a question may be proposed in regard to duty. A case may be imagined, or some real case which has actually occurred may be stated, and the question may be asked, What ought to be done in such a case? Or some question may be started for discussion--I do not mean for formal argument as in a parliamentary assembly, but for free interchange of opinion.

5. Public worship. It is perfectly astonishing what a tendency there is among mankind, and even among Christians, to throw off the whole responsibility of public worship upon the minister. The disposition is almost universal Come with me into this church and observe the congregation assembled. The minister reads a hymn, and while he is reading it, how great a proportion of the hearers are entirely regardless of its contents. He rises to offer a prayer, and if we could see the hearts of those present, how many we should find who are really making no effort at all to accompany him to the throne of grace. At last he names his text, and the eyes of almost all the assembly are turned towards him. As he looks over the congregation he sees an expression of interest upon the countenances of his hearers, and perhaps expects they are going to listen with interest to what he has to say. He begins the delivery of his message, endeavoring to explain to them the principles of duty, or to present the considerations which should urge them to it. Now let me ask, while this exercise is going forward, upon whom does the responsibility of it chiefly come? Is it the duty of a minister to interest the people, or that of the people to be interested by their own efforts in the message the minister brings? Are you, in receiving a message from above, to reject it, or listen to it carelessly and with an inattentive and listless air, because it is not presented in such a manner as to compel you, by the novelty of its illustrations or the beauty of its diction, to give it your regard?

A farmer sends his boys into a field to spend the day in work. He tells them what to do for an hour, and says, that after that time he shall send a man to explain to them how they are to proceed through the day. The boys go on with their work, until at length the expected messenger appears. He begins to tell them how the land is to be ploughed, or in what way the father wishes the seed to be put into the ground. The boys listen to him a minute or two, until one, perceiving some oddity in the man's manner, bursts into a laugh; another sits down on a green bank under a tree, and gradually falls into a state of drowsy insensibility; a third looks away with vacant countenance upon the hills and mountains around, utterly regardless of the message. The boys, consequently, do not learn what their father wishes them to do, and do not do it; and when night comes, and they are called to account for the labors of the day, they try to justify themselves with this preposterous excuse: "Why," they say to their father, "the man you sent us was not an interesting man, and so we did not pay any attention to his message. He had no talent at making his mode of explanation novel and striking, and so we did not listen to it." "I could not possibly fix my attention," says one. "He was a very sleepy talker," says another; "I could not keep awake." "He was dressed so," says a third, "and he had such a tone, that I could not help laughing at him."

Such are the excuses which many persons give for not giving heed to religious instruction on the Sabbath. They try to throw off all responsibility upon the minister; and if he does not awaken, by the power of his genius, an interest in their minds, they consider themselves entirely excused from feeling any. They say in substance to themselves, "We know we have disobeyed God, and he is sending us messengers to communicate to us the offers of forgiveness for the past and direction for the future; but unless he sends us agreeable and ingenious and eloquent men, we will pay no attention to any of them."

Who can stand in the judgment with such an excuse? And yet, it is the actual feeling of thousands. But, my reader, I do urge you to abandon altogether this plan of throwing off upon the minister whom Providence has sent to you, the responsibility of the interest you take in public instruction. It is his duty to deliver his message plainly and intelligibly, but it is your duty, most unquestionably, to be interested in it. Go to public worship feeling that you have something to do there. You must be interested in what you hear, if it is a plain exhibition of religious truth; and you must apply it to your own conscience and heart by real active effort, or you must incur the guilt of rejecting the message from heaven. The less interesting the preacher is, the more active and the more arduous the duty of his hearers. They should look him steadily in the face, and listen in silence and with deep attention to what he has to say; and see at all times, that while it is the minister's duty to be faithful in delivering his message, it is their most imperious duty to take heed how they hear.

There are a great many persons who are very constant in their attendance upon public worship, and who think their motive is respect for religion, and a desire to obey God's commands, when in fact they are controlled by other motives altogether. I do not mean by this, that they attend public worship, and sustain by their influence the ordinances of religion, through a distinct and deliberate design of merely promoting, in some way, their own worldly interest by it. Actual, intentional hypocrisy, is a means which few men will knowingly adopt to accomplish their purposes. It is so evidently mean and base, that even the honorable principles of this world are usually sufficient to preserve the breasts of men from its pollution. It is degrading and humiliating to admit it, knowingly and voluntarily, as a principle of action. The great danger is from a hypocrisy, or something nearly allied to it, which comes in secrecy or disguise. It is not always an easy thing for us to decide by what motives we are governed in the actions which we perform. We are often swayed by inducements, of which, without rigid and impartial scrutiny, we are entirely unconscious; for there may be one motive of fair and honorable appearance, which stands out to the view of the individual as the director of his actions; and there may be another of far different character, which in reality guides him, but which is coiled up like a main-spring, in a secret place, and thus eludes his observation. The Bible, when it teaches us that the heart is deceitful above all things, tells us nothing which an unbiassed observation of human nature will not everywhere confirm.

Now, if some sinister motive is for a time actuating a Christian in his religious course, he can very easily detect it by the manner in which the public duties of the Sabbath are performed. A man who is secretly influenced by some worldly consideration in what he does, may be attentive and faithful in all the open and public services of religion. If we are thus influenced, however, as it is external appearance only which can bring us worldly advantage, we shall go no farther than the outward appearance. We may rise with God's people in his house of prayer, and assume the posture of reverential supplication; but if appearances are all which we regard, we shall be satisfied with merely assuming the posture. We may join with our lips in the song of praise; and if to be seen of men is our object, the service of the lip is all that is necessary for its accomplishment, and that will be all to which we shall aim. And we may listen with apparent attention to the message which the preacher delivers, but the appearance of attention will be all, if our object is such that this appearance will attain it.

On the other hand, if an honest intention of worshipping God be the motive which calls a man to the weekly assembly, it will carry him farther than a mere compliance with the external form. When, in the season of prayer, recognizing the presence of the great God of heaven and earth, he rises to assume the attitude of respectful reverence, his heart will feel the reverence which his action implies. His thoughts, instead of wandering to the ends of the earth, will ascend in devout aspirations to heaven. Contrition for the offences which he has committed against that Being who has been kind to him as a father--resolutions to conform his conduct and character more completely to the divine will--longings for that assistance from above, without which, past experience and the word of God inform him that his efforts will be strength spent for naught--and ardent supplications for blessings upon his fellow-men, dictated by a benevolence which comprises in its view the whole human family, and which looks forward, in its good-will to men, to the enjoyments of eternity, as well as to the comforts and conveniences of time--these will be the emotions which will control the heart of the man of sincerity, while the affections of the man of form will be grovelling upon the farm, the money, or the merchandise.

The song of praise too, from the one who really worships God, will not be merely music on the tongue, it will be an expression of warm feeling from the heart. The voice of adoration and praise will arise from a soul which adores and praises, and which, as it lifts up that voice, will be itself elevated by the emotions of gratitude and love; while the offerer of an external worship will be lost in vacancy during the singing of God's praises, or only interested in the mere music of the song.

And in listening to the sermon, the conscientious worshipper will give earnest heed to the things which relate to his everlasting peace. Knowing that he has, in multiplied instances, transgressed a law which God has established and enforced by dreadful sanctions, he is convinced that it becomes him to attend in earnest to the means of averting the consequences of his guilt. With this view, his mind is fixed in attention to the way of reconciliation with God, and to the duties which devolve upon him who cherishes hopes of immortality; while all this time he who is contented with outward conformity, is lost in a mental, and perhaps in a bodily slumber.

Let me urge my readers, then, to be careful how they perform the duties of public worship. The responsibility of being interested in them, and profited by them, comes chiefly upon you. You cannot throw it off upon your minister. Examine yourself with reference to the spirit and feelings with which these duties are performed. They afford you a very fine opportunity for close and faithful self-examination; for the sinister motives which, in a greater or less degree, undoubtedly exist in your hearts, will show themselves here.

There is one thing more that I ought to present to the consideration of my readers before closing the chapter on this subject. It is this:

In keeping the Sabbath, avoid all appearance of evil. I have endeavored in this discussion to accomplish two objects. First, to convince my readers that the mere form in which the Sabbath is kept, except so far as it is a matter of express command, is not material; and secondly, to convey to the mind a distinct idea of what I understand to be the spirit of the command, and to persuade all my readers to aim at producing, by the best means within their reach, upon their own hearts and lives the effect which God had designed in the establishment of the institution. From these views of the subject, were I to stop here, it might seem that if we take such a course as shall really secure our own religious improvement on the Sabbath, we may do it in any way; for example, that we may walk, or ride, or visit, provided that we so regulate and control our thoughts and conversation as to make the spiritual improvement which it is the object of the day to secure. But no. We must avoid the appearance of evil. We must not seem to be breaking or disregarding God's commands.

For example. A Christian living on the sea-shore, after having spent the day in the various duties which have presented themselves to his attention, stands at the door of his house and looks out upon the glassy surface of the bay which stretches before him. It is a summer evening. The sun is just setting, throwing his bright beams over the water, and gilding every object upon which it shines. The Christian looks over this scene of beauty, and its expression of calmness and peace is transferred to his own soul. He feels the presence of God in it all, and rejoices in the power and goodness of the great Being who reigns in every scene of beauty or of grandeur which nature exhibits.

With his heart filled with such thoughts, he walks down upon the beach to indulge in the contemplation of God's goodness to mankind and to him. Now he is, it must be admitted, while doing this, accomplishing the object of the Sabbath by meditation on the character of God. He may say, perhaps, that his views of divine goodness and power are more distinct and vivid while he is walking out among the beauties of nature, if his heart is in a right state, than they would be if he was shut up in his study. Why then may he not walk out at evening?

And why may he not step into the little boat which floats in the cove, and unloosen its chain and push himself off from the shore, that while rocked by the gentle, dying swell of the sea, he may lose himself more completely in the absorbing feeling of God's presence, and muse more uninterruptedly upon his Creator's power? Shall he go?

No; stop, Christian, stop. Before you spend your half-hour in a boat upon the water, or even in your evening walk, consider what will be the influence of the example you are going to set to others. Will you appear, while you are doing this, to be remembering the Sabbath-day to keep it holy? Is it best, on the whole, that riding, walking, and sailing should be among the occupations of holy time? Will God be honored and his Sabbath kept if all spend the Sabbath evening as you are about to spend it?

These questions must be answered on a principle which will apply to multitudes of other cases. Take a course which, were it universally imitated, would promote the greatest good; otherwise you may be doing that which, though safe for yourself, will be of incalculable injury, through the influence of your example upon others.

CHAPTER X.

TRIAL AND DICIPLINE.

I. NATURE OF TRIAL.

THE Bible everywhere conveys the idea that this life is not our home, but a state of probation, that is, of trial and discipline, which is intended to prepare us for the life to come. In order that all, even the youngest of my readers, may understand what is meant by this, I shall illustrate it by some familiar examples drawn from the actual business of life.

When a large steam-boat is built with the intention of having her employed upon the waters of a great river, she must be proved before put to service. Before trial, it is somewhat doubtful whether she will succeed. In the first place, it is not absolutely certain whether her machinery will work at all. There may be some flaw in the iron, or an imperfection in some part of the workmanship, which will prevent the motion of her wheels. Or if this is not the case, the power of the machinery may not be sufficient to propel her through the water with such force as to overcome the current; or she may, when brought to encounter the rapids at some narrow passage in the stream, not be able to force her way against their resistance.

The engineer therefore resolves to try her in all these respects, that her security and her power may be properly proved before she is intrusted with her valuable cargo of human lives. He cautiously builds a fire under her boiler; he watches with eager interest the rising of the steam-gage, and scrutinizes every part of the machinery as it gradually comes under the control of the tremendous power which he is cautiously applying. With what interest does he observe the first stroke of the ponderous piston; and when at length the fastenings of the boat are let go, and the motion is communicated to the wheels, and the mighty mass slowly moves away from the wharf, how deep and eager an interest does he feel in all her movements and in every indication he can discover of her future success.

The engine, however, works imperfectly, as every one must on its first trial; and the object in this experiment is not to gratify idle curiosity by seeing that she will move, but to discover and remedy every little imperfection, and to remove every obstacle which prevents more entire success. For this purpose you will see our engineer examining, most minutely and most attentively, every part of her complicated machinery. The crowd on the wharf may be simply gazing on her majestic progress as she moves off from the shore, but the engineer is within looking with faithful examination into all the minutiæ of the motion. He scrutinizes the action of every lever and the friction of every joint; here he oils a bearing, there he tightens a nut; one part of the machinery has too much play, and he confines it--another too much friction, and he loosens it; now he stops the engine, now reverses her motion, and again sends the boat forward in her course. He discovers, perhaps, some great improvement of which she is susceptible, and when he returns to the wharf and has extinguished her fire, he orders the necessary alterations.

The next day he puts his boat to the trial again, and she glides over the water more smoothly and swiftly than before. The jar which he had noticed is gone, and the friction reduced; the beams play more smoothly, and the alteration which he has made produces a more equable motion in the shaft, or gives greater effect to the stroke of the paddles upon the water.

When at length her motion is such as to satisfy him, upon the smooth surface of the river, he turns her course towards the rapids, to see how she will sustain a greater trial. As he increases her steam, to give her power to overcome the new force with which she has to contend, he watches her boiler with eager interest, inspects the gage and the safety-valves, and from her movements under the increased pressure of her steam he receives suggestions for further improvements, or for precautions which will insure greater safety. These he executes; and thus he perhaps goes on for many days, or even weeks, trying and examining, for the purpose of improvement, every working of that mighty power, to which he knows hundreds of lives are soon to be intrusted. This now is probation--trial for the sake of improvement. And what are its results? Why, after this course has been thoroughly and faithfully pursued, this floating palace receives upon her broad deck, and in her carpeted and curtained cabins, her four or five hundred passengers, who pour in, in one long procession of happy groups, over the bridge of planks--father and son, mother and children, young husband and wife--all with implicit confidence trusting themselves and their dearest interests to her power. See her as she floats away--how beautiful and yet how powerful are all her motions! That beam glides up and down gently and smoothly in its grooves, and yet, gentle as it seems, hundreds of horses could not hold it still; there is no apparent violence, but every movement is with almost irresistible power. How graceful is her form, and yet how mighty is the momentum with which she presses on her way. Loaded with life, and herself the very symbol of life and power, she seems something unreal, which, ere we look again, will have vanished away. And though she has within her bosom a furnace glowing with furious fires, and a reservoir of death--the elements of most dreadful ruin and conflagration--of destruction the most complete, and agony the most unutterable; and though her strength is equal to the unit d energy of two thousand men, she restrains it all. She was constructed by genius, and has been tried and improved by fidelity and skill; and one man governs and controls her, stops her and sets her in motion, turns her this way and that, as easily and certainly as the child guides the gentle lamb. She walks over the hundred and sixty miles of her route without rest and without fatigue, and the passengers who have slept in safety in their berths, with destruction by water without, and by fire within, defended only by a plank from the one, and by a sheet of copper from the other, land at the appointed time in safety.

My reader, you have within you susceptibilities and powers of which you have little present conception, energies which are hereafter to operate in producing fulness of enjoyment or horrors of suffering of which you now but little conceive. You are now on trial. God wishes you to prepare yourself for safe and happy action. He wishes you to look within, to examine the complicated movements of your heart, to detect what is wrong, to modify what needs change, and rectify every irregular motion. You go out to try your moral powers upon the stream of active life, and then return to retirement, to improve what is right and remedy what is wrong. Renewed opportunities of moral practice are given you, that you may go on from strength to strength until every part of that complicated moral machinery of which the human heart consists, will work as it ought to work, and is prepared to accomplish the mighty purposes for which your powers are designed. You are on trial--on probation now. You will enter upon active service in another world.

In order, however, that the reader may understand fully the views to be presented in this chapter, I wish to point out particularly the difference between the condition of the boat I have described, when she was on trial, and when she was afterwards in actual service. While she was on trial she sailed this way and that, merely for the purpose of ascertaining her powers and her deficiencies, in order that the former might be increased, and the latter remedied. The engineer steered her to the rapids, we supposed; but it was not because he particularly wished to pass the rapids, but only to try the power of the boat upon them. Perhaps with the same design he might run along a curved or indented shore, penetrating deep into creeks, or sweeping swiftly round projecting headlands; and this, not because he wishes to examine that shore, but only to see how his boat will obey her helm. Thus he goes on placing her again and again in situations of difficulty, for the purpose simply of proving her powers, and enabling him to perfect the operation of her machinery. Afterwards, when she comes into actual service, when she has received her load, and is transporting it to its place of destination, the object is entirely changed; service, not improvement, is now the aim. Her time of trial is ended.

The Bible everywhere considers this world as one of trial and discipline, introductory to another world of actual service. A child, as he comes forward into life, is surrounded with difficulties which might easily have been avoided if the Ruler over all had wished to avoid them. But he did not. That child is on trial--moral trial; and just exactly as the helmsman of the steam-boat steered her to the rapids for the purpose of bringing her into difficulty, so does God arrange the circumstances of childhood and youth in such a manner as to bring the individual into various difficulties which will try his moral powers, and, by discovering to him his own sinfulness and weakness, prepare him to receive Christ as his righteousness and strength.

Moreover, he may learn contentment and submission by the thousand disappointments which occur, patience and fortitude by his various sufferings, and perseverance by encountering the various obstacles which oppose his progress. These difficulties and sufferings and obstacles might all have easily been avoided. God might have so formed the human mind, and so arranged the circumstances of life, that every thing should have gone smoothly with us. But he designs these things as trials--trials for the sake of our improvement; and he has filled life with them, from the cradle to the grave.

To obtain a vivid idea of this, let us look at this little child. She is just able to walk about the floor of her mother's parlor, and though her life is full of sources of happiness, it is full likewise of sources of disappointment and suffering. A moment since she was delighted with a plaything which her mother had given her, but now she has laid it aside, and is advancing towards a valuable book which lies upon the chair. She is just reaching out her little hand to take it, when she is arrested by her mother's well-known voice:

"Mary, Mary must not touch the book."

A child as young as this will understand language though she cannot use it, and she will obey commands. She looks steadily at her mother a moment with an inquiring gaze, as if uncertain whether she heard aright. The command is repeated:

"No, Mary must not touch the book."

The child, I will suppose, has been taught to obey, but in such a case as this it is a hard duty. Her little eyes fill with tears, which perhaps she makes an effort to drive away, and soon seeks amusement elsewhere. Now, if such a child has been managed right, she will be improved by such a trial. The principle of obedience and submission will have been strengthened; it will be easier for her to yield to parental command on the next occasion.

But see, as she totters along back to her mother, she trips over her little stool and falls to the floor. The terror and pain, though we should only smile at it, are sufficient to overwhelm her entirely. Her mother gently raises her tries to soothe her, and soon you can distinctly perceive that the child is struggling to repress her emotions. Her sobs are gradually restrained, the tears flow less freely, and soon the sunshine of a smile lights up her face, and she jumps down again to play. This now has been a useful trial; pain and fright have once been conquered, and will have less power over her in future.

But though there is a real and most important benefit to be derived from these trials of infancy, the child herself cannot understand it. No child can become prepared for the future duties of life without them, and yet no child of such an age can understand why they are necessary. The mother might say to her, in attempting to explain it, as follows:

"Mary, I might save you from all these difficulties and troubles if I chose. I might put you in a room where every thing was cushioned so that you could not hurt yourself, and I might keep carefully out of your sight every article which you ought not to have. Thus you might be saved all your pains and disappointments. But I choose not to do this. I want you to become useful and happy hereafter, and so you must learn submission, and patience, and fortitude now. So I leave the book in the chair, where you can see it, and tell you you must not touch it; and I leave you to fall a little now and then, for the pain only lasts a moment. But if you try to conquer your fears and bear the pain patiently, it will do you lasting good; your character will acquire firmness and vigor, and you will thus be prepared for the duties of future life."

The child now would not understand all this, but it would be true, whether she understood it or not, and the judicious mother, who knows what is the design of education and the manner in which children are to be trained up to future duty, will not be sorry to have her children repeatedly tried. These repeated trials are the very means of forming their characters, and were it possible to avoid them entirely, instead of meeting and conquering them, the child exposed to such a course of treatment would be ruined. Sometimes parents seem to make efforts to avoid them, and in going into such a family you will find the shovel and tongs, perhaps, placed out of the way, so that the children cannot touch them, and the mother will not dare to bring a plate of cake into the room for fear that they should cry for it. Instead of accustoming them to trials of this kind, and teaching them obedience and submission, she makes a vain effort to remove all occasion for the exercise of self-denial. If, perchance, these remarks are read by any mother who feels that she is pursuing the course which they condemn, I would stop a moment to say to her as follows:

"Do you expect that you can govern your children for fifteen years to come in this way? Can you put every thing which, during all this period, they shall want, which they ought not to have, out of the way, as you do the shovel and tongs?"

"No," you reply, smiling, "I do not expect to do it. My child will soon become older, and then I can teach him obedience more easily."

"You never can teach him obedience so easily as when he is first able to understand a simple command, and that is long before he is able to walk. And there is no way by which obedience and submission can be so effectually taught to child or to man as by actual trial. That is the way in which God teaches it to you, and that is the way you ought to teach it to your child. God never puts sin away out of our reach; he leaves it all around us, and teaches us by actual trial to resist its calls."

"I know this is right," you reply; "but sometimes I am busy--I am engaged in important duties, and do not wish to be interrupted; and on such occasions I remove improper playthings out of the reach of my child, because, just then, I have not time to teach him a lesson of obedience."

But what important business is that which you put into competition with the whole character and happiness of your child? If your sons or your daughters grow up in habits of disobedience to your commands, they will imbitter your life, and bring down your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. You never can gain an ascendency over them so easily as in infancy--and you cannot in any other way so effectually undermine your power, and prevent your ever obtaining an ascendency over them, as by accustoming them in childhood to understand, that in your endeavors to keep them from doing what is wrong, you do not aim at strengthening their own moral principle, and accustoming them to meet and to resist the ordinary temptations of life, but that you depend upon a vain effort to remove them entirely away from trial; so that if you could succeed, you render it equally impossible for them to do right or wrong.

Yes; trial is essential in childhood, and God has so arranged the circumstances of early life, that parents cannot evade it. It must come. It may be removed in a very few cases, but that only brings additional difficulty upon those that remain; and it is far better not to attempt to evade it at all. Come up then, parents, boldly to the work of accustoming your children to trial. If you see a child going towards an open door, do not run to shut it so that he cannot go out; command him not to go, and enforce obedience; if you do any thing to the door at all, throw it wide open, and say mildly, "I will see whether you will disobey." Do not put the book or the paper which you wish him not to touch high upon a shelf, away from his reach; if you change its place at all, lay it upon the floor, and tell him not to touch it. Remember, that youth is a season of probation and trial, and unless you avail yourself of the opportunities of probation and trial which it presents, you lose half the advantages which the Creator had in view in arranging the circumstances of childhood as he has.

Now the whole of life is, equally with the years of childhood, a time of probation and trial; it is filled up with difficulties and obstacles, and sources of slight disappointment and suffering, for the very purpose of trying and increasing our moral strength. And all these things are, or may be, sources of enjoyment. They will be sources of enjoyment if we take the right view of them, as I shall explain more fully hereafter. God has so arranged it, that we have, in passing through life, a specimen of almost every sort of moral difficulty; and every moral power of the heart may be brought into active exercise, and cherished and strengthened by the trial, if the opportunity is rightly improved.

God has therefore made a double provision for the moral growth of men. First, he has given us instruction in our duty in the Bible; and secondly, he has given us opportunity to practise in the various difficulties and duties of life. The Bible is full and complete as a book of directions. Human life is full and complete as a field for practice. The best parade ground for drilling and disciplining an army would not be a smooth and level plain, but an irregular region, diversified with hills and plains, where the inexperienced army might practise every evolution--now passing a defile, now ascending an acclivity, now constructing and crossing a bridge. So human life, to answer the purposes intended as a field for moral exercise, must have a variety of difficulties, to enable us to practise every virtue, and to bring into active requisition every right principle of heart.

A wealthy man, I will suppose, engaged in commercial pursuits in a great city, wished to prepare his son to manage his business when he should be old enough to take charge of it. He accordingly gave him a thorough commercial education in school; but before he received him into his partnership, he thought it would be necessary to give him some practical knowledge of his future duties.

"My son," says he to himself, "is now theoretically acquainted with all that is necessary, but he wants the readiness and the firmness and the confidence of practice. To complete his education, I will give him a thorough trial. I will fit out a small vessel, and let him take charge of her cargo. I will so plan the voyage, that it shall embrace an unusual share of difficulty and trial; for my very design is to give him practical knowledge and skill, which come only through such a trial."

He accordingly fits out his ship. He thinks very little of the success of the voyage in a pecuniary point of view, because that is not his object. He rejects one port of destination, because it is too near; another, because the passage to it is short and direct; and another, because the disposal of a cargo there is attended with no difficulty. He at last thinks of a voyage which will answer his design. The passage lies through a stormy sea. Rocks and quicksands, and perhaps pirates, fill it with dangers. The port at which he will arrive is one distinguished by the intricacy of its government regulations. His son is a stranger to the language of the country, and a great discretionary power will be necessary in the selection of a return cargo. This, says the merchant, is exactly the place. This voyage will comprehend more difficulties and dangers and trials than any other, and will, accordingly, be exactly the thing for my son.

Perhaps you may say, a father would not form such a design as this--he would not expose his son to so many difficulties and dangers. I know he might not go as far as I have represented, but the reason why he would not would be, because he might be afraid that some of these dangers would overpower the young man entirely. He would not send him among rocks and whirlpools, for instance, for the sake of getting him into danger, because he would fear that that danger might result in death. If, however, he could be sure of ultimate safety--if, for example, he could, as our great Father in heaven can, go along with his boy, and, though unseen and unheard, keep constantly at his side in every danger, with power to bring effectual protection--if earthly fathers had such power as this, there would be a thousand who would take the course I have described. They would see that there could be nothing so well calculated to give maturity and efficiency to the character, and to prepare the young man for persevering fidelity and eminent success in his future business, as such a discipline as this.

The young man at length sets sail. He understands the object of his father in planning the voyage, and he goes with a cordial desire of making it the means of promoting his improvement as far as possible. Instead of being sorry that a plan embracing so many difficulties and trials had been chosen for him, he rejoices in it. He certainly would rejoice in it, if he had confidence in his father's protection. When he comes into the stormy ocean through which he has to pass, instead of murmuring at the agitated sea and gloomy sky, he stands upon the deck, riding from billow to billow, thinking of his father's presence and confiding in his protection, and growing in moral strength and fortitude every hour. The gale increases, and the fury of the storm tries his nerve to the utmost; but he does not regret its violence, or wish to quiet a single surge. He knows that it is his trial, and he rejoices in it; and when through his increasing moral strength he has triumphed over its power, he stands contemplating its fury with a spirit quiet and undisturbed. At length the wind lulls, the clouds break away, and the bright rays of the setting sun beam upon the dripping sails and rigging. The waves subside--a steady breeze carries the ship forward smoothly on her course; and he who has been enduring the discipline of the scene feels that he has made progress--that he has taken one step towards the accomplishment of the object of his voyage.

Christian, God has planned just such a voyage for you. He has filled it with difficulties and trials, that you may, by means of them, discipline and perfect all your moral powers. When, therefore, the dark, gloomy storm rises upon you, and night shuts in, and danger presses, and your heart feels itself burdened with a load which it can scarcely sustain, never repine at it. Think how near is your protector. Confide in him, and remember that your present voyage is one of trial.

II. THE USES OF TRIAL.

I think it must be very evident to all who have read what I have already written upon this subject, that it is of immense advantage to moral beings, who are to be trained up to virtue and to firmness of principle and of character, that they should not only receive instruction in duty, but that they should be thus put upon trial, to acquire by actual experience a firm and steady habit of correct moral action. This can, however, be made more clear, if I analyze more particularly the effects of such trial upon the heart.

1. It enables us to know ourselves. People never know their own character till they are tried. We very often severely condemn other persons for doing what, if we had been placed in their circumstances, we should have done ourselves. "Ye know not what spirit ye are of," said the Saviour. Very few persons know what spirit they are of, until an hour of temptation brings forth the latent propensities of the heart into action. How will a revengeful spirit slumber in a man's bosom, and his face be covered with smiles till some slight insult or indignity calls it forth, and makes him at once the subject of ungovernable passion. Yes; trial reveals to us our true character.

It brings to light the traits of Christian character which would not be understood at all without it. I have a case in mind which I will describe, which is a very common case precisely as I describe it here; so common, that very probably a great many of my readers may consider it as their own.

A Christian mother had an only child whom she tenderly loved. The mother was an influential member of the church, and was ardently interested in maintaining a high Christian character, and in studying, faithfully and perseveringly, religious truth. She became much interested in the view which the Bible presents of the divine sovereignty; she used to dwell with delight upon the contemplation of God's unlimited power over all; she used to rejoice, as she thought, in his entire authority over her; she took pleasure in reflecting that she was completely in his hands, soul and body, for time and for eternity, and she wondered that any person could find any source of difficulty or embarrassment in the scripture representations on this subject.

But she did not know her heart. Her beloved child became sick--and she stood anxious and agitated over her pillow, very far from showing a cordial willingness that God should rule. She was afraid, very much afraid, that her child would die. Instead of having that practical belief in the divine sovereignty, and that cordial confidence in God, which would have given her in this trying hour a calm and happy acquiescence in the divine will, she was restless and uneasy--her soul had no peace, morning or night. Her daughter sunk, by a progress which was slow, but irresistible, to the grave, and for weeks that mother was in utter misery because she could not find it in her heart to submit to the divine will. She had believed in the universal power of God as a theoretical truth; she had seen its abstract beauty; she thought she rejoiced in God's superintending power, but it was only while all went well with her: as soon as God began to exercise that power which she had so cordially acknowledged and rejoiced in, in a way which was painful to her, her heart rose against it in a moment, and would not submit. The trial brought out to her view her true feelings in regard to the absolute and unbounded authority of God. Now, there is a great deal of such acquiescence in God's dominion in the world, and a great deal of it is exposed by trial every day.

The case of the steam-engine, which I supposed at the commencement of this chapter, illustrates this part of my subject exactly. The engineer tried the boat for the purpose of proving fully the character and operation of her machinery. Though he had himself actually superintended the construction of every part of the work, he could not fully know the character and the power of the machine until he had tried it. While the experiment was in progress, he was watching every movement with a most scrutinizing eye; he discovered faults, or deficiencies, or imperfections, which nothing but actual trial could have revealed.

It is on exactly the same principle that discipline and trial is useful, to enable us fully to understand our characters; and in order to avail ourselves of this advantage, we should watch ourselves most carefully, when placed in any new or untried situation, to see how our moral powers are affected by it. We must notice every imperfection and every deficiency which the trial brings to our view.

2. Discipline and trial are the means of improvement. Besides giving us an insight into our characters, they will, if properly improved, enable us to advance in the attainment of every excellence. I ought however, perhaps, to say they may be made the means of improvement, rather than that they actually will be so. The steam-boat was in a better condition after the first day's trial than before; but it was because the engineer was attentive and watchful, doing his utmost to avail himself of every opportunity to increase the smoothness and the power of her motion. So with human trials.

See yonder child going to school. His slate is under his arm, and he is going this day to make an attempt to understand long division. He is young, and the lesson, though it may seem simple to us, is difficult to him. He knows what a difficult and perplexing task is before him, and he would, perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, shrink from it. But he is a Christian. He has asked forgiveness for his past sins in the name of Jesus Christ, and is endeavoring to live in such a manner as to please his Father above. He knows that God might easily have formed his mind so that mathematical truths and processes might be plain to him at once, and that he has not done so, for the very purpose of giving him a useful discipline by the trial which the effort to learn necessarily brings.

He says therefore to himself, as he walks alongs to his school-room, "My lesson to-day is not only to do this sum, but to learn to be patient and faithful in duty, and I must learn the arithmetical and the moral lesson together. I will try to do it. I will begin my work looking to God for help, and I will go on through it, if I can, with a calm and quiet spirit, so as to learn not only to divide a number, but to persevere in duty." With this spirit he sits down to his work, and watches himself narrowly, that he may check every rising of impatience, and obtain, by means of the very difficulties that now try him, a greater self-command than he ever before possessed. In fact he takes a strong interest in the very difficulty, because he is interested in the moral experiment which it enables him to make.

Now, when such a spirit as this is cherished, and the mind is under its influence in all the difficulties and trials of life, how rapidly must the heart advance in every excellence. There certainly can be no way by which a young person can so effectually acquire a patient and persevering spirit, as by meeting real difficulties with such a state of mind as I have described. They who have been trained in the hard school of difficulty and trial, almost always possess a firmness of character which it is vain to look for elsewhere. There must, however, be effort on the part of the individual to improve under the trial, or he will grow worse instead of better by it. Learning long division in schools is, perhaps, as often a means of promoting an impatient and fretful spirit as the contrary. It is the state of heart on the part of the individual that determines which effect is to be the result. Some men, by the misfortunes and crosses of life, are made misanthropes; others, through the same disappointments and sufferings, are, by the grace of God, made humble and happy Christians, with feelings kindly disposed towards their fellow-men, and calmly submissive towards God.

The object, then, which the Creator had in view in arranging the circumstances of probation and discipline in which we are placed, is two-fold: that we may understand, and that we may improve our characters. We are to learn different lessons from the different circumstances and situations in which we are placed, but we are to learn some lesson from all. God might easily have so formed the earth, and so arranged our connection with it, as to save us all the vicissitudes and trials and changes which we now experience. But he has made this world a state of discipline and trial for us, that we may have constant opportunities to call into active exercise every Christian grace. The future world is the home for which we are intended, and we are placed on trial here, that we may prepare for it; and the suffering and sorrow which we experience on the way are small evils, compared to the glorious results which we may hope for there. But I must come to the practical directions which I intended to present.

1. Consider every thing that befalls you as coming in the providence of God, and intended as a part of the system of discipline and trial through which you are to pass. This will help you to bear every thing patiently. An irreligious man is on a journey requiring special haste, and finds himself delayed by bad travelling or stormy weather, until a steam-boat, which he had intended to take, has sailed, and left him behind. He spends the twenty-four hours during which he has to wait for the next boat, in fretting and worrying over his disappointment-in useless complaints against the driver for not having brought him on more rapidly--in wishing that the weather or the travelling had been better, or in thinking how much his business must suffer by the delay. The Christian, on the other hand, hears the intelligence that the boat has left him, with a quiet spirit; and even if he was hastening to the bedside of a dying child, he would spend the intervening day in composure and peace, saying, "The Lord has ordered this. It is to try me. Heavenly Father, give me grace to stand the trial."

I say, the Christian would feel thus; I should, perhaps, have said, he ought to feel thus. Christians are very much accustomed to consider all the great trials and sufferings of life as coming from God, and as intended to try them, but they fret and vex themselves unceasingly, in regard to the little difficulties which, in the ordinary walks of life, they have to encounter--especially in what is connected with the misconduct of others. You lend a valuable book, and it is returned to you spoiled: the prints are soiled and worn; the leaves are turned down in some places, and loosened in others; the binding is defaced, and the back is broken. Now you ought not to stand looking at your spoiled volume, lamenting again and again the misfortune, and making yourself miserable for hours by your fretfulness and displeasure against the individual who was its cause. He was indeed to blame, but if you did your duty in lending the book, as without doubt you did, you are in no sense responsible, and you do wrong to make yourself miserable about it. The occurrence comes to you in the providence of God, and is intended as a trial. He watches you to see how you bear it. If you meet it with a proper spirit, and learn the lesson of patience and forbearance which it brings, that spoiled book will do you more good than any splendid volume crowded with prints, adorned with gilded binding, and preserved in a locked cabinet for you for twenty years.

So with loss of every kind, whether it comes in the form of a broken piece of china or a counterfeit ten-dollar bill, or the loss of your whole property by the misfortunes of a partner or the pressure of the times. No matter what is the magnitude or the smallness of the loss--no matter whether it comes from the culpable negligence or fraud of another, or more directly from God, through the medium of flood or fire, or the lightning of heaven; so far as it is a loss affecting you, it comes in the providence of God, and is intended as a trial. If you are really interested in what ought to be the great business of life, your growth in grace, you will find that such trials will help you to understand your own heart, and to train it up to a proper action under the government of God, more than any thing besides.

2. Make it your aim to be continually learning the lessons which God by these various trials is teaching you. Every day is a day of discipline and trial. Ask yourself every night, then, "What progress have I made to-day?" Suppose the engineer, in the case of the steam-boat on trial, to which I have several times alluded, had neglected altogether the operation of the machinery when his boat was first put to the test. Suppose that instead of examining minutely and carefully the structure and the action of the parts, with a view to removing difficulties, rectifying defects, and supplying deficiencies, he had been seated quietly upon the deck enjoying the sail. He might have been gazing at the scenery of the shore, or in vanity and self-complacency enjoying the admiration which he imagined those who stood upon the wharf were feeling for the degree of success which he had attained. While he is thus neglecting his duty, evils without number, and fraught with incalculable consequences, are working below. The defects in his machinery are not discovered and not remedied; its weaknesses remain unobserved and unrepaired; and if at last there should be intrusted to his care valuable property, nothing can reasonably be expected but its destruction.

Multitudes of men, and even great numbers of those who call themselves Christians, act the part of this infatuated engineer. God tells them that their moral powers are now on trial. He commands them to consider it their business here not to be engrossed in the objects of interest which surround them as they pass on through life, nor to be satisfied with present attainments of any kind, but to consider themselves as sailing now in troubled waters for the purpose of trial and improvement; to watch themselves with constant self-examination, and with honest efforts to rectify what is wrong and to supply what is deficient. He requires them to consider all the circumstances and occurrences of life as coming from him, and as arranged with express reference to the attainment of these objects. Notwithstanding all this, however, they neglect the duty altogether. They do not watch themselves. They do not habitually and practically regard the events of life as means to enable them to understand their hearts, to strengthen, by constant exercise, moral principle, and to grow in grace. Instead of this, they are engaged in simply endeavoring to secure as much present good as they can; and they see no good in any trial, and get no good from it. When they are sick, they spend the time in longing to get well. When they are disappointed, they make themselves miserable by useless lamentations. Losses bring endless regrets, and injuries impatience and anger, and thus half of life is spent in struggles which are really the vain and hopeless struggles of a weak man to get free from the authority and government of God.

I have now completed what I intended to present on the subject of probation; and I think that all my readers will easily see, that by taking such a view of life as this subject presents to us, the whole aspect of our residence in this world is at once changed. If you really feel what I have been endeavoring to explain, you will regard yourselves as strangers and pilgrims here, looking continually forward to another country as your home. The thousand trials and troubles of life will lose half their weight by your regarding them in their true light, that is, as means of moral discipline and improvement. You must, however, make a constant effort to do this. Make it a part of your daily self-examination not only to ascertain what is the state of your heart at the time of retirement, but to review the incidents of the day, and to see how they have operated upon you as means of moral discipline. See what traits of character those incidents have brought to your view, and what effect they have had in making you worse or better than you were in the morning. The little events and circumstances of every day must have a very important influence of one kind or of the other. If you neglect this influence, it will all go wrong. If you attend to it, it may go well and happily with you wherever you may be.

CHAPTER XI.

PERSONAL IMPROVEMENT.

THE chapters which the reader has just perused are on subjects connected with the improvement of the character: that is, they are upon the means by which this improvement is to be promoted. Studying the Bible, keeping the Sabbath, and exposure to discipline, are all intended to be means for the promotion of a moral progress. There are some things, however, which I wish to say in regard to the character itself as it goes on in the process of improvement. Reader, do you wish to avail yourself of the opportunities and means I have described? Do you wish to study the Bible, remember the Sabbath, and improve all the occurrences of life, as the means of promoting your progress in all that is good? If so, look now with me a little while into your character itself, that you may see in what respect it needs your attention, and in what way you can so employ the means I have described as to gain the fullest benefit from them. As I think that every young Christian ought most assiduously to cultivate his moral, and also his intellectual powers, I shall discuss in order both these points.

I. MORAL IMPROVEMENT.

Every young Christian will find, however sincerely and ardently he may have given up his heart to God and commenced a life of piety, that a vast number of faults remain to be corrected--faults which he acquired while he lived in sin, and which the force of habit has fixed upon him. Now, you know what these faults are, or you may very easily learn, and your first effort should be to correct them.

In order now to make clear the course which I think ought to be taken to correct such faults, I will suppose a case, and bring into it the various methods which may be adopted for this purpose; and I shall write the account with a double aspect--one towards parents, with the design of showing them what sort of efforts they ought to make to correct the faults of their children, and the other towards the young, to show what measures they should adopt to improve themselves.

First, however, I will mention a very common, but a very ineffectual mode of attempting to correct faults. A father sees in his son some exhibition of childish vanity, and he says to him instantly, at the very time of the occurence, "You are acting in a very foolish manner. You show a great deal of vanity and self-conceit by such conduct; and in fact I have observed that you are growing very vain for some months past; I don't know what we shall do to correct it."

The poor boy hangs his head and looks ashamed, and his father, talking about it a few minutes longer in a half-irritated tone, dismisses and forgets the subject. The boy refrains, perhaps, from that particular exhibition of vanity for a little while, and that is probably all the good which results from the reproof.

Another wiser parent sees with regret the rising spirit of self-conceit in his son; and instead of rushing on to attack it without plan or design at the first momentary impulse, he resorts to a very different course. He notices several cases--remembers them--reflects that the evil, which has been forming perhaps for years, cannot be corrected by a single abrupt reproof--and accordingly forms a plan for a protracted moral discipline in the case, and then seeks a favorable opportunity to execute it.

One day, after the father has been granting some unusual indulgence, and they have spent the day happily together in some plan of enjoyment, and are riding home slowly in a pleasant summer evening, he thus addresses his son:

"Well, Samuel, you have been a good boy, and we have had a pleasant time. Now, I am going to give you something to do, which, if you do it right, will wind up the day very pleasantly."

"What is it?" says Samuel.

"I am not certain that it will please you, but you may do as you choose about undertaking it. It will not be pleasant at first; the enjoyment will come afterwards."

SAMUEL. "But what is it, father? I think I shall like to do it."

FATHER. "Do you think you have any faults, Samuel?"

SAMUEL. "Yes sir; I know I have a great many."

FATHER. "Yes, you have; and all boys have. Some wish to correct them, and others do not. Now, I have supposed that you do wish to correct them, and I had thought of describing to you one of your faults, and then telling you of a particular thing which you can do which will help you to correct it. But then it will not be very pleasant for you to sit here and have me find fault with you, and mention a number of instances in which you have done wrong, and particularize all the little circumstances which increased the guilt; this, I say, will not be very pleasant, even though you know that my design is not to blame you, but to help you improve. But if you undertake it, and after a little while find that you are really improving, then you will feel happier for the effort. Now, I wish you to consider both, and tell me whether you wish me to give you a fault to correct or not."

If the boy, now, has been under a kind and gentle, but efficient government, he will almost certainly desire to have the fault, and the way by which he is to correct it, pointed out. If so, the father may proceed as follows:

"The fault I am going to mention now is vanity. Now, it is right for you to desire my approbation. It is right for you not only to do your duty, but to wish that others should know that you do it. I think, too, it is right for you to take pleasure in reflecting on your improvement, as you go on improving from year to year. But when you fancy your improvement to be greater than it is, or imagine that you have excellences which you possess only in a very slight degree, or when you obtrude some trifling honor upon the notice of strangers for the sake of getting their admiration, you exhibit vanity. Now, did you know that you had this fault?"

SAMUEL. "I do not know that I have thought of it particularly. I suppose though that I have it."

FATHER. "Your having the fault now need not discourage you, if you only take hold of it in earnest and correct it. It has grown up with you insensibly; in fact, almost all children fall into it. I presume that I had it as much as you have, when I was as young. Do you think now, that you can recollect any cases in which you have shown vanity?"

SAMUEL. "I don't know; perhaps I could if I should have a little time."

FATHER. "Well, I will give you time to think, and if you really wish to correct yourself of the fault, you may think of all the cases you can, and tell me of them. If you prefer it, you may write the list and show it to me."

Now, if the subject is taken up in this spirit, most boys who had been treated on these principles before, would receive the communication with pleasure, and would engage with interest in the work of exploring the heart. And such a boy will succeed. He will bring a list of instances, not perhaps fully detailed, but alluded to distinctly enough to recall them to mind. His list might be perhaps something as follows:

"DEAR FATHER--I have made out a list of the times in which I was vain, and I now send it to you.

"1. I brought out my writing-book a few evenings since, when some company was here, in hopes they would ask to see it.

"2. I said yesterday at table, that there was something in the lesson which none of the boys could recite until it came to me, and I recited it.

"3. I pretended to talk Latin with George when walking, thinking that you and the other gentlemen would overhear it.

"I suppose I could think of many other cases if I had time. I am glad you told me of the fault, for I think it a very foolish one, and I wish to correct it.

Now, let me ask every one of my readers who has any knowledge of human nature, whether, even if the effort of the father to correct this fault should stop here, a most powerful blow would not have been struck. Do you think that a boy can make such a self-examination, and confess freely his faults in this manner, without making a real progress in forsaking them? Can he as easily, after this, attempt to display his accomplishments, or talk of his exploits?

The process ought not to stop here, but this is the first step; confession--full, free, and particular confession. In the first chapter, I described the power of confession to restore peace of mind after it is lost by sin; and in alluding to the subject of confession again here, it will be seen that I look at another aspect of it, its tendency to promote reformation. It is in this latter respect only that I consider it now.

The first step, then, which any of you are to take in order to break the chains of any sinful habit which you have formed, is to confess it fully and freely. That single act will do more to give your fault its death-blow, than almost any thing else you can do. If you are a child, you can derive great assistance from confessing to your parents. If you shrink from talking with them face to face about your follies and faults, you can write. Or confess, and express your determination to amend, to some confidential friend of your own age; but above all, be sure to confess to God; lay the whole case before him in full detail. I cannot press upon you too fully the necessity of being distinct and definite, and going into full detail, in these confessions.

There is one very erroneous impression which young persons receive from hearing public prayer. It is always, as it ought to be, general in its language, both of confession and request. Take, for instance, the following language of the prayer-book of the Protestant Episcopal church, so admirably adapted to its purpose:

"We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us."

How general is this language. It is so with our Saviour's model of prayer: "Forgive us our debts, as we forgive those who are indebted to us." Public prayer ought to be somewhat general in its expressions, for it is the united voice often of thousands, and should express acknowledgments and petitions which are common to them all.

But the mistake that multitudes fall into is, that when they begin to pray themselves, they take public prayer as the model for secret supplication; and they spend their season of retirement in repeating the same general supplications which they hear from the pulpit in the hour of public worship. But this is a very great error. The very object of secret prayer is to afford the soul an opportunity of going minutely into its own particular and private case. There is no magic in solitude, no mysterious influence in the closet itself, to purify and sanctify the heart. It is the opportunity which the closet affords of bringing forward the individual case in all its particularity and detail, which gives to secret devotion its immense moral power. The general and comprehensive language which is adopted in public prayer, is thus adopted because it is the object of public prayer to express only those wants, and to confess those sins which are common to all who join in it. The language must necessarily, therefore, be general. But it is always the intention of those who use it, that minute detail should be given in private supplications. In the prayers of the Episcopal church, for example, the evening prayer for families is printed thus:

"We come before thee in an humble sense of our unworthiness, acknowledging our manifold transgressions of thy righteous laws. But O, gracious Father, who desirest not the death of a sinner, look upon us, we beseech thee, in mercy, and forgive us all our transgressions."

Here you will observe, that on the margin it is suggested that this entering into detail should be done even in the family worship. How much more when the individual has retired alone, for the very purpose of bringing forward the peculiar circumstances of his own case.

This is the only way to make secret prayer interesting, as well as profitable. A child, just before retiring to rest, attempts to pray. He uses substantially the expressions which he has heard in the public service: "I acknowledge that I am a great sinner. I have done this day many things which are wrong; I have neglected many duties, and broken many of thy commands." Now, how easy is it for a person to say all this with apparent fervor, and yet have present to his mind while saying it no one act in which he really feels that he has done wrong, and consequently no distinct mental feeling that he is guilty. Our confessions, half of the time, amount to nothing more than a general acknowledgment of the doctrine of human depravity. "I humbly confess that I have been a great sinner this day," says a Christian at his evening prayer; and while he says it, the real state of his mind is, "I suppose I must have been so; all men are sinners, and I know I am." As to any distinct and definite feeling of personal guilt, it is often the farthest from the mind while using such language.

It is astonishing how easily and how soon we become habituated to the general language of confession so as to use it freely without any sense of personal guilt. A parent will reprove a boy for a fault, and the boy will, as the father goes over the details, defend and excuse himself at every step. Here he will lay the blame upon his brother--there he will say he did not know what else to do--and in another respect he will say that he tried to do as well as he could. And yet, after he has finished all this, he will say gravely, "But I do not pretend to excuse myself. I know I have done wrong." I have had such cases occur continually in the management of the young.

But do not forget what is the subject of this chapter. It is the means of correcting faults; and as the first means, I am describing full and particular confession of the sins you wish to avoid in future. Before I go on, however, I wish to say one thing in regard to the effect of going into minute detail in prayer. It is the only way to make prayer interesting. When you attempt to pray at night, with a mind wearied and exhausted with the labors of the day, you find your thoughts wandering. No complaint is more common than this. There is scarcely any question which is asked of a pastor more frequently than this: "How shall I avoid the sin of wandering thoughts in prayer?" It would be asked, too, much oftener than it is, were it not that Christians shrink from acknowledging to their religious teachers a fault which seems to imply their want of interest in spiritual things. Now the remedy, in nine cases out of ten, is, coming to particulars in your prayers. Have no long formal exordiums. Abandon the common phrases of general confession and request, and come at once to the particular circumstances and minute wants and trials of the day. Describe not only particular faults, but all the minute attending circumstances. Feel that you are alone; that the restraints of publicity are removed from you; that you may safely abandon the phraseology and the form which a proper respect for the customs of men retains in the pulpit and at the family altar, and come and converse with your great Protector as a man converses with his friend; and remember, that if you fasten upon one word which you have spoken with an improper spirit, and confess your guilt in that one sin, mentioning all the circumstances which attended it, and exposing the wicked emotions which dictated it, you make more truly a confession than by repeating solemnly the best expression of the doctrine of human depravity that creed, or catechism, or system of theology ever gave.

But to return to the modes of correcting faults. If your fault is one which long habit has riveted very closely upon you, I would recommend that you confess it in writing; it is more distinct, and what you put upon paper you impress very strongly upon your mind. Suppose when evening comes, in reflecting upon the events of the day, you remember an act of unkindness to a younger brother. Now, sit down and write a full description of it, and make it appear in its true light. Do not exaggerate it, nor extenuate it, but paint it in its true colors. Express your sorrow, if you feel any, and express just as much as you feel. Be honest. Use no cant phrase of acknowledgment, but just put upon paper your actual feelings in regard to the transaction. Now, after you have done this, you may, if you please, just fold up the paper and put it into the fire; but you cannot put into the fire the vivid impression of your guilt which this mode of confession will produce. Or you may, if you prefer, preserve it for a time, that you may read it again, and renew the impression before you destroy it. But it will be better to destroy it at last. It is not in human nature to write its thoughts in such a case, with the intention of preserving the record, without being secretly influenced by the probability that the description will sooner or later be seen.

But I must pass to the second step in the progress of removing a fault. It is watchfulness. Suppose that the father, in the case which I have imagined in order to illustrate this subject, should say to his son, or which would be better still, should write to him as follows:

"MY DEAR SON--I received your account of the instances in which you have shown vanity. I am very glad you are disposed to correct yourself of this fault, and will now tell you what you are to do next.

"You would without doubt, if you had had time, have thought of many more instances, but you would not have thought of all; a great many would have escaped your notice. You show vanity many times when you do not know it yourself. When we are habituated to doing any thing wrong, we become blinded by it, so that the vainest people in the world scarcely know that they are vain at all. Now, the next step you are to take is to cultivate a delicate moral sensibility on this subject, so as to know clearly what vanity is, and always to notice when you are guilty of it. The way to do this is to watch yourself. Notice your conduct for two days, and whenever you detect yourself displaying vanity on any occasion, go and make a memorandum of it. You need not write a full description of it, for you would frequently not have time; but write enough to remind you of it, and then at the end of the two days send the list to me. In the meantime I will observe you, and if I notice any instances of this fault I will remember them, and see if I recollect any which you have not marked down.

"It will not be very pleasant, my son, to watch yourself thus for faults, but it is the most effectual means of removing them. You may, however, do just as you please about adopting this plan. If you adopt it, send your list to me; it you do not, you need not say any thing about it.

Now I wish my young readers to understand, that though I have described fully this case, partly with a design to show to parents a good way to lead their children to virtue, yet my main design is to explain to the young a course which they may take themselves immediately to correct their faults. I am in hopes that many a one who reads this chapter will say to himself, "I have some faults which I should like to correct, and I will try this experiment." I wish you would try the experiment; you all know what your faults are. One can remember that he is very often undutiful or disrespectful to his parents. Another is aware that she is not always kind to her sister. Another is irritable--often gets in a passion. Another is forward and talkative; her friends have often reproved her, but she has never made any real systematic effort to reform. Another is indolent--often neglecting known duties and wasting time. Thus every young person is sure to have some evil habit, from which, though he may be a Christian, he is not fully freed. Now just try my prescription. Take the two steps which I have described: confess fully and minutely the particular fault which you wish first to correct, for it is best to attack one enemy at a time; and then with careful watchfulness keep a record of your subsequent transgressions. You cannot do this, with a proper spirit of dependence on God and accountability to him, without breaking the chains of any fault or any habit which may now be domineering over you. The efficacy of such moral treatment in these moral diseases is far more certain and powerful than that of any cordial in restoring the fainting powers. I hope, therefore, that every young person who reads this will not merely express a cool approbation of these plans, but will resolutely set to work in examining his character, and in trying these methods of altering and improving it.

"Every young person? And why not those who are not young?" says some one. "Why cannot the old correct their faults in this way?" They can, but they seldom will. I recommend it exclusively to the young, not because it is less efficacious with others, but because others will not cordially try it. The difficulty which prevents middle-aged persons going on as rapidly as the young in improvement of every kind, is, that they are not so easily induced to make the effort. It is a mistake to suppose that it is easier for a child to reform than for a man, if the same efforts were made. A child is told of his faults; the politeness of society forbids mentioning them to a man. A child is encouraged and urged forward in efforts to improve; the man is solitary in his resolutions and unaided in his efforts. A child is willing to do any thing. Confession is not so humiliating to it; keeping a catalogue of its sins is not so shrunk from. If the man of fifty is willing to do what the boy of fifteen does, he may improve twice as fast. Some of the most remarkable cases of rapid alteration and improvement of character which I have ever known have been in the decline of age.

Let me say therefore respectfully to those who may read this book, but who are beyond the age for which it is specially intended, that we all have faults which we ought to discover and attempt to mend. They affect our happiness. They bring us down lower than we should otherwise stand in the estimation of others. Thus they impede our influence and usefulness. If we would now explore and correct these, taking some such thorough-going course as I have described, how rapidly we should at once rise in usefulness and happiness. Instead of this, however, we listen to moral and religious instruction from the pulpit, to admire the form of its expression, or perhaps to fix the general principles in our hearts; but the business of exploring thoroughly our own characters to ascertain their real condition, and going earnestly to work upon all the detail of actual and minute repair--pulling down in this place, building up in that, and altering in the other--ah, this is a business to which, in mature life, we pay but little attention.

But I must go on with my account of the means of correcting faults, for I have one more expedient to describe. I have been digressing a little to urge you to apply practically what I say to yourselves, and resolve to try the experiment. This one more expedient relates to your exposure to temptation. In regard to temptation you have, I think, two duties, namely, to avoid all great temptations, and to meet those daily occurring with a determination, by God's blessing, to conquer them.

A boy knows, I will imagine, that he has an irritable spirit; he wishes to cure himself of it. I will suppose that he has taken the two steps I have already described, and now as the morning comes, and he is about to go forth to the exposures of the day, we may suppose him to hold the following conversation with his father, or some other friend.

BOY. "I have made a great many resolutions, and I am really desirous of not becoming angry and impatient today. But I always do, and I am afraid I always shall."

FRIEND. "Do you always? Do you get angry every day?"

BOY. "I do almost always; whenever any thing happens to vex me."

FRIEND. "What are the most common things that happen to vex you?"

"Why, I almost always get angry playing marbles. George doesn't play fair, and I get angry with him, and he gets angry with me."

"Do you always get angry playing marbles?"

"We do very often."

"Then I advise you to avoid playing marbles altogether. I know you like to play, but if you find it affords too great a temptation for you to resist, you must abandon it, or you will not cure yourself of your fault. What other temptations do you have?"

"Why, I get put out with my sums at school."

"Get put out with your sums! What do you mean by that?"

"Why, I get impatient and vexed because I cannot do them, and then I get angry with them."

"What, with the sums?"

"Yes; with the sums, and the book, and the slate, and every thing else; I know it is very foolish and wicked."

"Well, now I advise you to take your slate and pencil to-day, and find some difficult sum, such as you have often been angry with, and sit down calmly to work, and see if you cannot go through it, and yet not feel vexed and angry should you fail of doing it aright. Think before you begin, how sad it is for you to be under the control of wicked passions, and ask God to help you, and then go on expecting to find difficulty, and endeavoring to meet it with a calm and patient spirit. If you succeed in this, you will really improve while you do it. By gaining one victory over yourself you will make another more easy.

"Which do you think is the greatest temptation for you, to play marbles or to do sums?"

"Why, I think playing marbles, because the boys don't play fair."

"Well; now I wish you to practise the easiest lesson first. Conquer yourself in your arithmetical temptation first, and then perhaps you can encounter the other. And I wish you would watch yourself to-day, and observe what are the trials which are too great for you to bear, and avoid them until you have acquired more moral strength. But do not flee from any temptation which you think you can resist. By meeting and resisting it, you will advance in your course."

Now this is the case in the correction of all faults. The temptations which you think you will not be successful in resisting, you ought to avoid, no matter at what sacrifice; and though you ought not to seek the trial of your strength, yet where Providence calls you to meet it, go forward to the effort which it requires with confidence in his help, and with resolution to do your duty. If you have the right spirit, he will help you; and virtuous principle will grow by an exposure which does not overpower it.

I have however spoken more fully on this subject in the chapter on discipline and trial, where the general effect of such discipline as we have here to pass through was pointed out. I have here only alluded to it again, to show how important an auxiliary it is in the correction of particular faults.

But I must pass to the consideration of another part of my subject, for the correction of absolute faults of character is by no means the only, or even the most important object of attention in Christian progress. The spirit of piety, which is the mainspring of all these efforts for the improvement of the character, is to be directly cultivated. The command, "grow in grace," seems to refer to this progress in the spirit of piety itself. The correction of external faults, and the improvement of the character in all those aspects in which intercourse between man and man is concerned, will result from it. But it is itself something different from these external changes. To grow in grace, is to have the heart itself so changed that sin shall become more and more hateful, the promotion of the general happiness an increasing object of interest and desire, the soul more and more closely united to God, so as to receive all its happiness from him.

This now is a change in the affections of the heart. Improvement in conduct will result from it, but it is in itself essentially different from right conduct. It is the fountain from which good actions are the streams. I wish therefore that every one of my readers would now turn his attention to this subject, and inquire with me, by what means he may grow most rapidly in attachment to the Saviour, and in hatred of sin. A very unwise and ineffectual kind of effort is often made, which I shall first describe, and then proceed to describe the means which may be successful in drawing the heart closer and closer to Jehovah.

To illustrate the unavailing efforts which are sometimes made to awaken in the heart a deeper and deeper interest in piety, I will suppose a case, and it is a case which is exceedingly common. A professing Christian--and, to make the case more definite, I will suppose the individual to be the mother of a family--feels that she does not love God as she ought, and she is consequently unhappy. She is aware that her affections are placed too strongly, perhaps, upon her family--her children. She knows that she is a wanderer from her Saviour, and feels at all times, when she thinks of religious duty, a settled uneasiness which mars many of her enjoyments, and often saddens her heart. Now, what does she do to remedy this difficulty? Why, when the week is passed, and her hour of prayer on the Sabbath has arrived, she thinks a little of her cold and wayward condition, and tries, by direct effort, to arouse in her heart feelings of penitence and love. But she tries in vain. I acknowledge that she is very guilty in being in such a state, but if she is so, her direct efforts to feel will be vain. She will have, for an hour, a weary and melancholy struggle--the Sabbath will pass away, rendered gloomy by her condition and her reflections--and Monday morning will come with its worldly cares and enjoyments to drift her still further away from God and from happiness.

A man of business, engrossed in the management of his prosperous affairs, knows that he is not living to God. And yet he is a member of a Christian church; he has solemnly consecrated himself to the Saviour; and when he thinks of it, he really wishes that his heart was in a different state. The world however holds him from day to day, and the only thing which he does to save himself from wandering to a returnless distance from God, is to strive a little, morning and evening, at his short period of secret devotion, to feel his sins. He makes direct effort to urge his heart to gratitude. He perhaps kneels before the throne of God, and knowing how little love for God he really feels, he strives to bring his heart to exercise more. He is trying to control his affections by direct effort--and he probably fails. He is striving in vain. He soon becomes discouraged, and yields himself again to the current which is bearing him away from holiness and peace.

I once knew a young man--and while I describe his case, it is possible that there may be many of the readers of this chapter who will say his case is like theirs--who had a faint hope that he was a Christian; but his penitence was in his opinion so feeble and heartless, his love to God was so cold, and his spark of grace, if there was any in his heart, was so faint and languishing, that he scarcely dared to hope. He did not therefore take the stand, or perform the duties of a Christian. He thought he must make more progress himself in piety before he endeavored to do any good to others; he was accordingly attempting to make this progress; he struggled with his own heart, to awaken stronger love and deeper penitence there, but it was a sad and almost fruitless struggle; he became dejected and desponding; he thought his heart was still cold and hardened in sin, and that religious feeling would not come at his bidding; and he continued for a long time unhappy himself and useless to others.

The principle which I have been designing to illustrate by these cases is, that the best way to improve or alter the affections of the heart, is not by direct efforts upon the heart itself. The degree of power which man has directly over the affections of the heart is very limited. A mere theorist will say he must have entire control over them, or they cannot be blameworthy or praiseworthy. But no one but the mere theorist will say this. A benevolent man, during an inclement season, sends fuel to a destitute and suffering family, and perhaps goes himself to visit and to cheer the sick one there. Does not he take a great pleasure in thus relieving misery, and is not this benevolent feeling praiseworthy? And yet it is not under his direct control, he cannot possibly help taking pleasure in relieving suffering. Suppose I were to say to him, "Sir, just to try a philosophical experiment, will you now alter your heart, so as to be glad to know that people are suffering. I will tell you the facts about a child that perished with the cold; and while I do it, will you so alter your heart--which must be entirely under your control, or else its emotions cannot be praiseworthy or blameworthy--as to delight in that cruel suffering?" How absurd would this be. The man must be pained to hear of sufferings which he cannot help; and yet sympathy with the sorrows of others is praiseworthy.

Again, sister and sister have become alienated from each other. The feeling which was at first coldness has become dislike; and now they whom God has placed so near together are satisfied to be sundered in heart. Suppose the parent were to say to them, "I know you can love each other, and you ought to love each other, and I command you immediately to do it." They may fear parental displeasure--they may know that they should be happier if they were united in heart; but will affection come at once at their call?

The entire free agency of man, by which is meant his freedom from all external restraint in his conduct, can hardly be asserted too frequently, or kept too distinctly in the view of every human being. There is such a thing, however, as presenting this subject in such a light as to lead the mind to the erroneous idea that all the affections of the heart are in the same sense under the control of the will as the motions of the body are. I do not mean, that any intelligent writer or preacher will advocate such a view, but only that in expressing his belief in human freedom in sweeping and unqualified terms, he may unintentionally convey the impression. There is unquestionably a very essential difference between a man's freedom of feeling and his freedom of acting. A man may be induced to act by a great variety of means--a motive of any kind, if strong enough, will be sufficient. Suppose, for instance, a sea-captain wishes to induce a man to leap off from the deck of his ship into the sea; he may attempt in a great many ways to obtain his object. He may command him to do it, and threaten punishment if he disobeys; he may try to hire him to do it; he may show the sailor that his little son has fallen overboard, and thus induce the parent to risk his life that he may save that of his child. He may thus in various ways appeal to very different feelings of the human heart--love of money, fear, or parental affection--and if by either of these, the volition, as metaphysicians term it, that is, the determination, can be formed, the man goes overboard in a moment. He can do any thing which, from any motive whatever, he resolves to do.

In regard, however, to the feelings of the heart, it is far different. Though man is equally a free agent in regard to these, it is in quite a different way; that is, the feelings of the heart are not to be managed and controlled by simple determinations, as the external conduct may be. Suppose, for instance, the captain wished that sailor to be grateful for some favor he had received, and of which he had been entirely regardless; and suppose he should command him to be grateful, and threaten him with some punishment if he should refuse; or suppose he should endeavor to hire him to be grateful, or should try to persuade him to be thankful for past favors in order to get more. It would be absurd. Gratitude, like any other feeling of the heart, though it is of a moral nature, and though man is perfectly free in exercising it, will not always come whenever one determines to bring it. The external conduct is thus controlled by the determinations of the mind, on whatever motives those determinations may be founded; but the feelings and affections of the heart are under no such direct control.

There is certainly, for all practical purposes, a great distinction between the heart and the conduct--between the moral condition of the soul and those specific acts which arise from it. Two children, a dutiful and a disobedient one, are walking together in a beautiful garden, and suddenly the gardener tells them that their father does not wish them to walk there. Now, how different will be the effect which this annunciation will make upon them. The one will immediately obey, leaving with alacrity the place which his father did not wish him to pass. The other will linger and make excuses, or perhaps altogether disobey. Just before they received the communication they were perhaps not thinking of their father at all; but though their minds were acting on other subjects, they possessed distinct and opposite characters as sons--characters which rendered it probable that one would comply with his father's wishes as soon as those wishes should be known, and that the other would not. So in all other cases; a dishonest man is dishonest in character when he is not actually stealing, and a humble and devoted Christian will have his heart in a right state even when he is entirely engrossed in some intellectual pursuit, or involved in the perplexities of business.

I am aware, that among metaphysical philosophers, there is a controversy on the question whether all which is of a moral nature, that is, which is blameworthy or praiseworthy, may not be shown to be specific, voluntary acts of the moral being. Into this question I do not intend to enter at all; for if what is commonly called character, in contradistinction from conduct, may be resolved into voluntary acts, it is certainly to be done only by a nice metaphysical analysis, which common Christians cannot be expected to follow.

To illustrate the nature of this subject, that is, the distinction, for all practical purposes, between character and conduct, I must give the following narrative, which I take from Hume, with some alterations of form to make it more intelligible in this connection.

In early periods of the English history, Richard duke of Gloucester, an intriguing and ambitious man, formed the design of usurping the throne. The former king had left several children, who were the proper heirs to the crown. They were however young, and Richard gained possession of the government, ostensibly that he might manage it until they were of age, when he was to surrender it to them again, but really with the design of putting them and all their influential friends to death, and thus usurping the throne.

One of the most powerful and faithful friends of the young princes was Lord Hastings, and the following is the account which Hume gives of the manner in which he was murdered by Richard.

"The duke of Gloucester, knowing the importance of gaining Lord Hastings, sounded at a distance his sentiments by means of a lawyer who lived in great intimacy with that nobleman; but found him impregnable in his allegiance and fidelity to the children of Edward, who had ever honored him with his friendship. He saw, therefore, that there were no longer any measures to be kept with him; and he determined to ruin utterly the man whom he despaired of engaging to concur in his usurpation. Accordingly, at a certain day, he summoned a council in the Tower, whither Lord Hastings, suspecting no design against him, repaired without hesitation. The duke of Gloucester was capable of committing the most bloody and treacherous murders with the utmost coolness and indifference. On taking his place at the council-table, he appeared in the easiest and most jovial humor imaginable; he seemed to indulge himself in familiar conversation with the counsellors before they should enter on business; and having paid some compliments to one of them on the good and early strawberries which he raised in his garden, he begged the favor of having a dish of them. A servant was immediately despatched to bring them to him. Richard then left the council, as if called away by some other business; but soon after returning, with an angry and inflamed countenance he asked them,

"'What punishment do those deserve that have plotted against my life, who am so nearly related to the king, and am intrusted with the administration of government?' Hastings replied, that they merited the punishment of traitors. 'These traitors,' then cried the protector, 'are the sorceress my brother's wife, and Jane Shore his mistress, with others their associates: see to what a condition they have reduced me by their incantations and witchcraft.' As he said this, he laid bare his arm, all shrivelled and decayed; but the counsellors, who knew that this infirmity had attended him from his birth, looked on each other with amazement; Lord Hastings began to be alarmed.

"'Certainly, my lord,' said he, 'if they be guilty of these crimes they deserve the severest punishment.'

"'And do you reply to me,' exclaimed Richard, 'with your ifs and your ands? You are the chief abettor of that witch Shore. You are yourself a traitor; and by St. Paul I will not dine before your head be brought me.'

"He struck the table with his hand; armed men rushed in at the signal; the counsellors were thrown into the utmost consternation; and one of the guards, as if by accident or a mistake, aimed a blow with a pole-axe at one of the lords named Stanley, who, aware of the danger, slunk under the table; and though he saved his life, received a severe wound in the head in Richard's presence. Hastings was seized, was hurried away, and instantly beheaded on a timber log which lay in the court of the Tower. Two hours after, a proclamation, so well penned and fairly written that it must have been prepared before, was read to the citizens of London, enumerating his offences, and apologizing to them, from the suddenness of the discovery, for the sudden execution of that nobleman, who was very popular among them."

After this act of violence, Richard went forward with his plans until he attained complete ultimate success. He caused the unhappy young princes whose claims were between him and the throne, to be confined in the Tower, a famous castle and prison on the banks of the Thames, in the lower part of London. He then sent orders to the constable of the Tower to put his innocent and helpless victims to death. The officer declined performing so infamous an act. He then ordered the constable to give up for one night the command of the Tower to another man. He did so, and the duke sent Sir James Tyrrel, who promised to see that his cruel orders were executed. But even Tyrrel was not savage enough to execute them with his own hand; he had not the hardihood even to look on while it was done. He accordingly employed three ruffians, whose names were Slater, Dighton, and Forrest, who came in the night-time to the door of the chamber in the Tower where the poor boys were confined. The murderers found them sleeping quietly in their beds. They killed them by suffocating them with the bolster and pillows, and then showed the dead bodies to Tyrrel, that he might assure Richard that they were no more. The ambitious and cruel duke became, by these means, Richard III. king of England.

Now, in reviewing this story--and a hundred others might have easily been found which would have answered the purposes of this illustration just as well--we see that the guilt which it discloses may be easily analyzed into three distinct portions.

1. The external acts. I mean, the rushing in of armed men at the table--the wounding of Lord Stanley--the beheading of Lord Hastings--the reading of the false proclamation--and the murder of the children in their bed. These deeds were not performed by Richard himself; he hired others to perpetrate these crimes, and he had not himself, directly, any thing to do with them. It may be difficult to find, in the whole story, any one external act which Richard did which was wrong.

2. The internal acts or determinations of mind. That is, the plans which Richard formed and the wicked resolutions which he came to. He must, for example, at one time have hesitated whether he should have Hastings murdered or not. He weighed the difficulties and dangers on the one side, and the advantages to his cause on the other, and at last he resolved to do it. This was a mental act. In the same manner the determination to have the princes murdered was an act of his mind. It was savage and abominable in the extreme; but what I wish to have particularly noticed in it is, that it was a voluntary act. He deliberated about it, and then he voluntarily resolved upon it. His whole conduct throughout this business is a series of most wicked mental acts, which he deliberately performed, and for which he was guilty, though he contrived to put off the external deeds of violence to the hands of others.

3. The ambitious and cruel heart which instigated these acts. Washington would not have done such things. King Alfred would not have done them. No. Richard had, by a distinction which, for all the practical purposes of life, will always be made, a savage and an unprincipled character, without which he would not have done such things. Another man, when hesitating whether to murder two innocent boys, in order to prepare a way for himself to a throne, would have found principles of compassion and of justice coming up, he knows not how or whither, but still coming up to arrest his hand. Richard had nothing of this sort. He was ambitious and sanguinary and unrelenting in character as well as in conduct. Before he performed any of these mental acts, that is, came to those wicked determinations named under the second head, he had a heart which fitted him exactly for them.

It is evident too, and this is a point of the greatest importance, that this cruel and ambitious disposition, which was the origin of all his wicked plans, is not voluntary in the same sense as the plans themselves are. In regard to his positive determinations to have the children murdered, for example, he deliberated, and then voluntarily decided upon it. But who supposes that he ever deliberated, while he was carrying forward his schemes, whether he would be a cruel or a merciful man, and decided upon the former? When he awoke each morning, he undoubtedly thought about the coming day, and formed his designs. He said to himself, "I will do this, or I will stop that. I will have this man killed to-day, or I will banish that man." But who imagines that, every morning, he considered and decided whether he should be virtuous or vicious that day in heart? Who can suppose that he formed such resolutions as these: "I will be a cruel man to-day; I will have no principle and no compassion for others, but will delight only in my own ambition?" No. He was cruel and ambitious and sanguinary without determining to be so; for the question, what general character he should cherish, probably never came up. All that he deliberated and decided upon unquestionably was, by what specific plans he should gratify the impulses of his wicked heart. He determined upon these plans, but he did not determine upon the impulses. He would sometimes resolve to plan the destruction of an enemy, or to take certain steps which should lead him to the throne; but he never said to himself, "Now I will awaken in myself an impulse of cruelty; now I will call up into my heart ungovernable ambition and love of power." No; these feelings reigned in his heart from day to day, without any direct effort on his part to keep them there. How they came, and why they remained, it is not my present purpose to inquire. All I mean here to insist upon is, that they are not, like the plans of iniquity he formed, the result of direct choice and determination, and consequently not voluntary, in the same sense in which these plans themselves are the result of direct volition.

It may be said that this wicked state of heart was the result of previous bad conduct, which had formed a habit of sin; and perhaps it was. I am not trying to account for it, but only to bring it to view. I am simply endeavoring to show there is, independently of the conduct, whether external or internal acts are meant by that term, a state of heart from which that conduct flows.

Such considerations as these, and many others which might be introduced if necessary, plainly show that man's moral feelings are far less under his direct control than his intellectual or his bodily powers. He may try to lift a weight--he may try to run, to think, or to understand-- and he will probably succeed; but it is hard to love or to hate by merely trying to. But after stating thus and illustrating this principle, there is one sentence which I ought to write in capitals, and express with the strongest emphasis in my power. The heart is not independent of our control in such a sense as to free us from moral obligation and accountability. We are most unquestionably free in the exercise of every good and of every evil feeling of the heart, and we are plainly accountable for them most fully, though we may not have exerted a direct determination or volition to bring them into being.

But is there any practical advantage, it may be asked, in drawing this distinction between the heart and the conduct? There is a great practical advantage, otherwise I should by no means have taken so much pains to exhibit it; for although the intellectual effort which is necessary on the part of the reader in going into such a discussion is of great advantage, I should not have entered upon it with that object alone. I design to introduce nothing into this book but what will be of practical utility.

It is then practically important that we should all understand, not only that our conduct--by which I mean our acts, whether internal or external--is wrong, but also that we have within us evil hearts, inclining us to go astray; and that this evil heart itself is distinct from the going astray which results from it. A clear conception of this is the only safeguard against that self-sufficiency which is destructive of all religious progress. "The heart," says the word of God "is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked." The power which created it, alone can change its tendencies, so as to make it as easy and as natural for us to do right as it is now to do wrong. To this power we must look. We must look to God too with a feeling of distrust of ourselves, and a conviction that help can come only from him "O wretched man that I am; who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" Yes, free as man is, and fully and entirely accountable as he is for all his conduct, there is a sense in which he is a miserable slave to sin, in wretched bondage to a tyrant, from whose chains no struggles of his own will ever set him free. When he realizes this, and feels humbled and powerless, and utterly dependent upon divine grace, then God is ready to come into his soul to purify and to save him.

In thus discussing this point, it has not been my intention to go metaphysically into the subject of the nature of moral agency. My design has only been to show to Christians, that the feelings of penitence for sin and ardent love to the Saviour, are not feelings which they are to bring to their hearts by struggling directly to introduce them. You cannot be penitent by simply trying to be penitent. You cannot hate sin or love God more sincerely than you do, by simply trying to feel thus. The heart is to be moulded and guided in other ways.

Some of these ways by which the heart is to be led more and more to God, I shall describe.

1. By acquiring true knowledge. If you are a Christian at all, your piety will be increased and strengthened by bringing often before your mind those truths which show the necessity of piety. Instead of struggling directly to bring penitence to your heart by an effort of the will, spend a part of your little season of retirement in reflecting on the consequences of sin. Look around you and see how many families it has made miserable, how many hearts it has desolated. Think of the power it has had in ruining the world in which we live, and how dreadful would be its ravages if God should permit it to have its way among all his creatures. Reflect how it has destroyed your own peace of mind, injured your usefulness, brought a stain upon the Christian name. Reflect upon such subjects as these, so as to increase the vividness of your knowledge--and though you make no effort to feel penitence, even if you do not think of penitence at all, it will rise in your heart if there is any grace there. You cannot look upon the consequences of sin without repenting that you have ever assisted to procure them. Peter did not repent of his treachery by trying to feel sorry. The Lord turned and looked upon Peter; that look brought with it recollection. He saw clearly his relation to his Saviour, and the ingratitude of his denial of him.

It is so with all the other emotions of piety. You will not succeed in loving God supremely by simply making the direct effort to do so. Would you become more thankful? Look at his goodness and mercy to you; see it in the thousand forms in which it shines upon you. Do not dwell upon it in generals, but come to minute particulars, and whether old or young, and whatever may be the circumstances of your lives, reflect carefully upon God's kind dealings with you. Are you a mother? As you hold your infant upon your knee, or observe its playful brothers and sisters in health and happiness around you, consider a moment by whose goodness they were given to you, and by whose mercy they are daily spared. Are you a child? Look upon the comforts and privileges and the sources of happiness which God has given you--and while you view them, remember that every week there are multitudes of children around you suffering from cold, from hunger, from neglect, or who are summoned to an early grave. I have stood at the bedside of a child who was a fortnight before in her class at the Sabbath-school, and seen her sink from day to day under the grasp of sickness and pain, until her reason failed and her strength was gone, and at last she slumbered in death. A few days afterwards she was deposited, in the depth of winter, in her cold grave. Blustering storms and wintry tempests do not indeed disturb the repose of the tomb, but when you are sitting in health and happiness at your own cheerful fireside, and hear the howling winds which sweep around you--or in a more genial season feel the warm breath of spring upon your healthful cheek--can you think of the thousand cases like the one I have alluded to, and not feel grateful to your kind Protector? If your heart is not entirely unrenewed--and I am speaking now to Christians--a devout gratitude will be warmly awakened while you reflect upon God's goodness, and thus learn how much you are indebted to him.

It is thus with other feelings; they are to come to the heart, not by the direct effort to bring them there, but by bringing to view the truths which are calculated to awaken them. If your heart is right towards God in any degree, the presentation of these truths will awaken penitence and love; and the more knowledge you acquire in regard to your relations to your Maker and his dealings with you, the more rapid will be your growth in grace.

2. The second means of growing in grace is Christian action. Faith will not only show itself by works, but works will increase faith. Let a man make an effort to relieve a sufferer, and he becomes more and more interested for him. He first sends him a little food, or a little fire, when he is sick, and he finds that this does good; it relieves the pressure, and brings cheering and encouragement to the family, before just ready to despair. The benefactor then becoming more interested in the case, sends a physician; and when the patient recovers, he procures business for him; and goes on from step to step, until perhaps at last he feels a greater interest in that one case than in all the suffering poor of the town besides. It all began by his simply sending a little wood, which was, perhaps, almost accidental, or at least prompted by a very slight benevolent feeling. This feeling has, however, increased to a strong and steady principle; and to what is its increase owing? simply to his benevolent effort.

I have already once or twice alluded to the benevolent Howard, who went through Europe visiting the prisons, that he might learn the condition of their unhappy tenants and relieve their sufferings. And how was it that he became so much interested in prisoners? It devolved upon him, in the discharge of some public duty in his own county in England, to do something for the relief of prisoners there, and the moment he began to do something for the prisoners, that moment he began to love them; and the more he did for them, the more strongly he was attached to their cause.

The apostle Paul is one of the most striking examples of the power of Christian effort to promote Christian love. He gave himself wholly to his work, and the consequence was, he became completely identified with it. He loved it better than he did life, and some of the strongest expressions of attachment to the Saviour which the Bible contains, are to be found in the language he uses when he was drawing towards the close of his labors upon earth.

If we then would grow in attachment to our Saviour, we must do something for him. But notice--it is not the mere external act which will promote your growth in piety; the act must be performed, in some degree at least, from Christian principle. You can all put this method immediately to the test. Think of something which you can do in which you will be cooperating with God. The design of God is to relieve suffering and promote happiness wherever there is opportunity; and as sin is the greatest obstacle in the way, he directs his first and chief efforts to the removal of sin. Now endeavor to find something which you can do, by which sin can be removed or suffering alleviated, and go forth to the work feeling that you are coöperating with your Saviour in his great and benevolent plans. Perhaps you will find an opportunity in your own family, or perhaps in your neighborhood; but wherever it is done, if you go forth to the duty under the influence of attachment to the Saviour and love to men, these feelings will certainly be increased by the effort. You will feel, while you do it, that you are a co-worker with God--that you are, as it were, making common cause with him, and the bonds by which you were before bound to him are strengthened.

Go forward, then, efficiently in doing good; set your hearts upon it. If you feel that you have but little love to God, bring that little into exercise, and it will grow.

3. The last of the means of growing in grace which I shall now mention, is a humble sense of dependence on the influences of the Holy Spirit, and sincere prayer for those influences. I freely acknowledge the difficulty which this subject presents. If we attempt to form any theory by which we can clearly comprehend how accountability can rest upon a soul which is still dependent upon a higher power for all that is good, we shall only plunge ourselves in endless perplexity. We know that we are accountable for all our feelings, as well as for our words and deeds, and at the same time we know that those feelings will prevail within us which reason and conscience condemn, unless the Holy Spirit saves us from being their prey. How emphatically does the language of Paul describe our melancholy subjection to this law of sin.

"For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good, I find not. For the good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do. Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that when I would do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God, after the inward man: but I see another law in my members warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?"

The conclusion to which he comes in the next verse is the right one, that God will deliver us through Jesus Christ our Lord. We must feel then humbly dependent on an influence from above. Let us come daily to our Father in heaven, praying him to draw us to the Saviour; we shall not come unless he draws us. Let us feel dependent every day for a fresh supply of divine grace to keep these hearts in a proper frame. It is not enough to express this feeling in our morning prayer; we must carry it with us into all the circumstances of the day. When we are going into temptation we must say, "Lord, hold thou me up, and I shall be safe," and we must say it with a feeling of entire moral dependence on God.

Nor need we fear that this sense of dependence on God will impair our sense of personal guilt, when we wilfully sin against him. I do not attempt to present any theory by which the two may be shown to be compatible with each other. We cannot easily understand the theory, but we feel and know that both are true. We all know that we are guilty for living in sin; and we feel and know that our hearts do not change, simply by our determining that they shall. Since, then, the two truths are clear, let us cordially admit them both. Let us in the spirit of humility, and entire trust in God's word, believe our Maker when he says, "It is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy." Let us receive this cordially, however inconsistent it may seem to be with the injunction, "strive"--agonize--"to enter in at the strait gate;" and let us come before him praying that he will turn our hearts to holiness--and at the same time let us see and feel our guilt in neglecting duty and disobeying God as we do.

This feeling of entire dependence on the Holy Spirit for moral progress, is the safest and happiest feeling which the Christian can cherish. Such weakness and helplessness as ours loves protection, and if we can fully make up our minds that there is a difficulty in this subject beyond our present powers to surmount, we can feel fully our own moral responsibility, and at the same time know that our dearest moral interests are in God's care. This feeling is committing our souls to our Saviour's keeping and care. Were our hearts entirely under our own direct control, independent of God, we, and we only, could be their keepers; but if we have given our hearts to Christ, he has promised to keep us by his power. He is able to keep us. He has control, after all, in our hearts; and if we put our trust in him, he will keep us from falling, and present us at last faultless before the throne of his glory with exceeding joy.

II. INTELLECTUAL IMPROVEMENT.

It may perhaps seem strange that I should discuss the subject of intellectual progress in a book devoted to an explanation and enforcement of the principles of piety. I should not do this were I not firmly persuaded that a regular and uninterrupted intellectual progress is a duty which is peculiarly binding upon the Christian. Let the reader reflect a moment, that those intellectual powers which God has given him are intended to exist for ever, and that if he shall be prepared at death to enter the world of happiness, they will go on expanding for ever, adding not only to his means, but to his capacities of enjoyment.

The great mass of mankind consider the intellectual powers as susceptible of a certain degree of development in childhood, to prepare the individual for the active duties of life. This degree of progress they suppose to be made before the age of twenty is attained, and hence they talk of an education being finished. Now, if a parent wishes to convey the idea that his daughter has closed her studies at school, or that his son has finished his preparatory professional course, and is ready to commence practice, there is perhaps no strong objection to his using the common phrase, that the education is finished; but in any general or proper use of language, there is no such thing as a finished education. The most successful student that ever left a school, or took his degree at college, never arrived at a good place to stop in his intellectual course. In fact, the farther he goes the more desirous will he feel to go on; and if you wish to find an instance of the greatest eagerness and interest with which the pursuit of knowledge is prosecuted, you will find it undoubtedly in the case of the most accomplished and thorough scholar which the country can furnish, who has spent a long life in study, and who finds that the farther he goes the more and more widely does the boundless field of intelligence open before him.

Give up then, at once, all idea of finishing your education. The sole object of the course of discipline at any literary institution in our land is not to finish, but just to show you how to begin; to give you an impulse and a direction upon that course which you ought to pursue with unabated and uninterrupted ardor as long as you have being.

It is unquestionably true, that every person, whatever are his circumstances or condition in life, ought at all times to be making some steady efforts to enlarge his stock of knowledge, to increase his mental powers, and thus to expand the field of his intellectual vision. I suppose most of my readers are convinced of this, and are desirous, if the way can only be distinctly pointed out, of making such efforts. In fact, no inquiry is more frequently made by intelligent young persons than this: "What course of reading shall I pursue? What books shall I select, and what plan in reading them shall I adopt?" These inquiries I now propose to answer.

The objects of study are of several kinds; some of the most important I shall enumerate.

1. To increase our intellectual powers. Every one knows that there is a difference of ability in different minds, but it is not so distinctly understood that every one's abilities may be increased or strengthened by a kind of culture adapted expressly to this purpose; I mean a culture which is intended not to add to the stock of knowledge, but only to increase intellectual power. Suppose, for example, that when Robinson Crusoe on his desolate island had first found Friday the savage, he had said to himself as follows:

"This man looks wild and barbarous enough; he is to stay with me and help me in my various plans, but he could help me much more effectually if he was more of an intellectual being and less of a mere animal. Now I can increase his intellectual power by culture, and I will. But what shall I teach him?"

On reflecting a little farther upon the subject, he would say to himself as follows:

"I must not always teach him things necessary for him to know in order to assist me in my work, but I must try to teach him to think for himself. Then he will be far more valuable as a servant, than if he has to depend upon me for every thing he does."

Accordingly some evening when the two, master and man, have finished the labors of the day, Robinson is walking upon the sandy beach, with the wild savage by his side, and he concludes to give him his first lesson in mathematics. He picks up a slender and pointed shell, and with it draws carefully a circle upon the sand.

"What is that?" says Friday.

"It is what we call a circle," says Robinson. "I want you now to come and stand here, and attentively consider what I am going to tell you about it."

Now Friday has, we will suppose, never given his serious attention to any thing, or rather, he has never made a serious mental effort upon any subject for five minutes at a time in his life. The simplest mathematical principle is a complete labyrinth of perplexity to him. He comes up and looks at the smooth and beautiful curve which his master has drawn in the sand with a gaze of stupid amazement.

"Now listen carefully to what I say," says Robinson, "and see if you can understand it. Do you see this little point I make in the middle of the circle?"

Friday says he does, and wonders what is to come from the magic character which he sees before him.

"This," continues Robinson, "is a circle, and that point is the centre. Now, if I draw lines from the centre in any direction to the outside, these lines will all be equal."

So saying, he draws several lines. He sets Friday to measuring them. Friday sees that they are equal, and is pleased, from two distinct causes: one, that he has successfully exercised his thinking powers, and the other, that he has learned something which he never knew before.

I wish now that the reader would understand that Robinson does not take this course with Friday because he wishes him to understand the nature of the circle. Suppose we were to say to him, "Why did you choose such a lesson as that for your savage? You can teach him much more useful things than the properties of the circle. What good will it do him to know how to make circles? Do you expect him to draw geometrical diagrams for you, or to calculate and project eclipses."

"No," Robinson would reply; "I do not care about Friday's understanding the properties of the circle. But I do want him to be a thinking being, and if I can induce him to think half an hour steadily and carefully, it is of no consequence upon what subject his thoughts are employed. I chose the circle because that seemed easy and distinct--suitable for the first lesson. I do not know that he will ever have occasion to make use of the fact, that the radii of a circle are equal, as long as he shall live--but he will have occasion for the power of patient attention and thought which he acquired while attempting to understand that subject."

This would unquestionably be sound philosophy, and a savage who should study such a lesson on the beach of his own wild island would for ever after be less of a savage than before. The effect upon his mental powers, of one single effort like that, would last; and a series of such efforts would transform him from a fierce and ungovernable, but stupid animal, to a cultivated and intellectual man.

Thus it is with all education. One great object is to increase the powers, and this is entirely distinct from the acquisition of knowledge. Scholars very often ask, when pursuing some difficult study, "What good will it do me to know this?" But that is not the question. They ought to ask, "What good will it do me to learn it? What effect upon my habits of thinking, and upon my intellectual powers, will be produced by the efforts necessary to examine and to conquer these difficulties?"

A very fine example of this is the study of conic sections, a difficult branch of the course of mathematics pursued in college; a study which, from its difficulty and its apparent uselessness, is often very unpopular in the class pursuing it. The question is very often asked, "What good will it ever do us in after-life, to understand all these mysteries of the parabola, and the hyperbola, and the ordinates, and abscissas, and asymptotes?" The answer is, that the knowledge of the facts which you acquire will probably do you no good whatever. That is not the object, and every college officer knows full well that the mathematical principles which this science demonstrates, are not brought into use in after-life by one scholar in ten. But every college officer, and every intelligent student who will watch the operations of his own mind and the influences which such exercises exert upon it, knows equally well that the study of the higher mathematics produces an effect in enlarging and disciplining the intellectual powers which the whole of life will not obliterate.

Do not shrink then from difficult work in your efforts at intellectual improvement. You ought, if you wish to secure the greatest advantage, to have some difficult work, that you may acquire habits of patient research, and increase and strengthen your intellectual powers.

2. The acquisition of knowledge. This is another object of intellectual effort; and a moment's reflection will convince any one that the acquisition of knowledge is the duty of all. Sometimes it has been said by an individual under the influence of a misguided interest in religious truth, that he will have nothing to do with human learning; he will study nothing but the Bible, and all his leisure hours he will give to meditation and prayer--and thus he will devote his whole time and strength to the promotion of his progress in piety. But if there is any thing clearly manifest of God's intentions in regard to employment for man, it is that he should spend a very considerable portion of his time upon earth in acquiring knowledge--knowledge, in all the extent and variety in which it is offered to human powers. The whole economy of nature is such as to allure man to the investigation of it, and the whole structure of his mind is so framed as to qualify him exactly for the work. If now a person begins in early life, and even as late as twenty, and makes it a part of his constant aim to acquire knowledge--endeavoring every day to learn something which he did not know before, or to fix in the mind something which was not familiar before, he will make an almost insensible, but a most rapid and important progress. The field of his intellectual vision will widen and extend every year. His powers of mind as well as his attainments will be increased; and as he can see more extensively, so he can act more effectually every month than he could in the preceding. He thus goes on through life, growing in knowledge and in intellectual and moral power; and if his spiritual progress keeps pace, as it ought to, with his intellectual advancement, he is, with the divine assistance and blessing, exalting himself higher and higher in the scale of being, and preparing himself for a loftier and wider field of service in the world to come.

3. The acquisition of skill is a third object of intellectual effort. I point out clearly and separately the distinct objects which intellectual effort ought to have in view, that my readers may ascertain whether they are doing something to accomplish them all, and that in all the particular plans which they may adopt, they may have constantly in mind the purpose which is in view in each, in order the more effectually to secure it. I wish, therefore, that my readers would notice particularly this third head, for it is one which though in some respects quite as important as either of the others, is not often very clearly pointed out.

To recur to my illustration of Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday. The conversation which I supposed to be held with him on the subject of the circle, was not merely designed to give him information or skill, but to discipline and improve his intellectual powers by the exercise. Let us suppose now, that the next day Robinson had concluded to tell him the story of his own past adventures, and sitting down upon a green bank by the side of their hut, had given him an outline of his early life in England--of his first coming to sea--of his wanderings and adventures on the great ocean, and of his final shipwreck on the island. He describes as well as he can the form and appearance of the great ship in which he had sailed, its spacious decks and numerous company, and makes him acquainted with his hope, that ere long, a similar ship, coming from that same native land, will appear in the horizon, and come, attracted by their signals, to the island, and bear him away to his home.

Now, such a conversation as this is intended to give information. It may indeed be a useful discipline to Friday's powers to listen to it, but that is not its main design. Robinson's chief design is, to make his savage companion acquainted with facts which it is on many accounts important that he should know.

Now, let us take a third case. My readers are all doubt, less aware that savages can usually count only as far as they have fingers to illustrate their arithmetic. Some tribes can use both hands, counting as far as ten, and when they get beyond that, they hold up both hands, shake their heads as if in perplexity, and say, "Great many--great many." Other tribes can go no farther than one hand, and have no names for numbering beyond five.

Now, suppose Robinson were to undertake to teach Friday to count. He might say to himself, that it would often be a great convenience to him if Friday were able to count, so that he might ascertain and describe to him numbers higher than those which he could express by his fingers. He accordingly commences the task, and perseveres day after day in the lesson. I say day after day, for, easy as it may seem to us, it is a matter of no small difficulty to teach a savage to count. Now, although there is unquestionably an important mental discipline secured by such an effort on the part of the savage, and although the learning to count is in one sense the acquisition of knowledge, it is, in a much more important sense, the acquisition of skill. By making the process of counting familiar, Friday is not so properly acquiring a knowledge of facts, as learning something to do. It is of the nature of skill which he is to use in future times for the benefit of himself and of Robinson.

If you call to mind the various studies which are urged upon the attention of the young, you will find that skill, that is, learning to do something, is very often the object in view. It is so with arithmetic. In studying the fundamental rules, the main design is, not to bring in information to your minds, but to teach you to do something. When you read history, you are acquiring knowledge--when you study rhetoric or write composition for practice, you are acquiring skill. Now, all these three objects in a good scheme of education are to be kept constantly in view, and to be regularly provided for. A young man at college, for instance, will study his demonstration in the mathematics in the morning, for the purpose of improving and strengthening his powers; he will listen to a philosophical or chemical lecture, or study botany in the fields, in the afternoon, to obtain knowledge, and in the evening he will practice in his debating society, to acquire skill. These three things are distinct and independent, but all equally important in the business of life. If one is cultivated and the others neglected, the man is very poorly qualified for usefulness; and yet, nothing is more common than such half-educated men.

I have often known persons in whom the first of these objects alone was secured. You will recognize one who is in danger of such a result in his education, by his taking a strong interest, if he is in college, for example, in those pursuits in his class which require more of great but temporary mental effort, and by his neglecting the equally important parts of his course which would store his mind with facts. He attracts the admiration of his class by his fluent familiarity with all the mazes of the most intricate theorem or problem; and he excites an equal surprise by his apparent dulness at the recitation in history, making, as he does, the most ludicrous blunders, and showing the most lamentable ignorance of every thing which is beyond the pale of demonstration. When at last he comes out into the world, his mind is acute and powerful, but he is an entire stranger to the scene in which he is to move; he can do no good, because he does not know where his efforts are to be applied; he makes the same blunders in real life that he did in college in its history, and is soon neglected and forgotten. He had cultivated simple power, but was without information or skill; his power was consequently almost useless.

On the other hand, a young man may spend his whole strength in simply obtaining knowledge--neglecting the cultivation of mental power, or the acquisition of skill. He neglects his severer studies, and his various opportunities for practice. "Spherics!" says he, "and trigonometrical formula! What good will they ever do me? I am not going to be an almanac-maker, or to gain my livelihood by calculating eclipses." So he reads history and voyages and travels, and devours every species of periodical literature which finds its way within college walls. He very probably neglects those duties which, if faithfully performed, would cultivate the powers of conversation and writing and public speaking; and he comes out into the world equally celebrated among all who knew him, on the one hand, for the variety and extent of his general knowledge, and on the other, for the slenderness of his original mental power, and his utter want of any skill in bringing his multifarious acquisitions to bear upon the objects of life.

In the same manner I might illustrate the excessive pursuit of the last of the objects I have named, namely, the acquisition of skill, but I think it is unnecessary. My readers will, I think, all clearly see that these objects are distinct, and that all are of the first importance to every one. To be most extensively useful, you must have original mental power and knowledge of facts, and skill to apply that knowledge in the most effectual manner.

The illustrations which I have employed have referred more directly to the cases of young men in a course of public education, but I have not intended that these principles should be exclusively applied to them. Nor are they to be confined in their application to the preparatory stages of education. Take, for example, a young mother of a family. She ought at all times to be making daily intellectual progress, and this intellectual progress ought to be such as to secure a proportional attention to all the three objects I have named. She ought to investigate something which shall task her powers to the utmost, so as to secure discipline and improvement of those powers. She ought also to make regular and systematic efforts to acquire information--by reading and by conversation enlarging as much as possible the field of her vision, so that she can the more fully understand the circumstances in which she is placed, and the means of influence and usefulness within her reach. She ought also to adopt systematic plans for increasing her skill--by learning, for example, system in all her affairs--by studying improvements in the manner in which all her duties are performed--endeavoring to become more faithful and systematic and regular in all her employments. By this means she may acquire dexterity in every pursuit, an important influence over other minds, and especially a higher skill in interesting and instructing and governing her children.

But I must not go more into detail in this part of my subject. The best means of intellectual improvement demand a volume instead of a chapter, though a chapter is all which can be properly appropriated to them in such a work as this. What I have already said in regard to the three separate and distinct objects in view in education, has been chiefly designed to persuade my young readers to engage cheerfully and cordially in all the pursuits which those who are older and wiser than they have prescribed, in the various literary institutions with which they are connected. I shall with these remarks leave the subject of the pursuit of study in literary seminaries, and close the chapter with a few directions in regard to such means of improvement as may be privately resorted to by individuals, in their desire to improve.

I. READING. There are several detached directions which will be of great service to you in your private reading, it they are faithfully followed.

Read systematically. I mean by this, do not take up and read any books merely because they chance to fall in your way. You see on your neighbor's table a book which looks as if it was interesting, as you say, and you think you would like to read it. You borrow it--carry it home--and at some convenient time you begin. You soon, however, either from taking it up at a time when you were interested in something else, or from being frequently interrupted, or perhaps from the character of the book, find it rather dull; and after wasting a few hours upon the first fifty pages, you tumble over the remainder of the leaves, and then send the book home. After a few days more, you find some other book by a similar accident, and pursue the same course. Such a method of attempting to acquire knowledge from books will only dissipate the mind, destroy all habits of accurate thinking, and unfit you for any intellectual progress.

But you must not go into the opposite extreme of drawing up for yourself a set of rules and a system of reading full enough to occupy you for years, and then begin upon that with the determination of confining yourself, at all hazards, rigidly to it. What I mean by systematic reading is this:

Reflect upon your circumstances and condition in life, and consider what sort of knowledge will most increase your usefulness and happiness. Then inquire of some judicious friend for proper books. If accident throws some book in your way, consider whether the subject upon which it treats is one which comes within your plan. Inquire about it, if you cannot form an opinion yourself, and if you conclude to read it, persevere and finish it.

Systematic reading requires too, that you should secure variety in your books. Look over the departments of human knowledge, and see that your plan is so formed that it will give you some knowledge of them all. In regard to the precise time and manner in which you shall fill up the details, it is undoubtedly best not to form any exact plan. It is better to leave such to be decided by circumstances, and even by your inclinations, from time to time. You will enter with more spirit and success into the prosecution of any inquiry, if you engage in it at a time when it seems alluring and interesting to you.

Read thoroughly. Avoid getting into the habit of going over the page in a listless and mechanical manner. Make an effort to penetrate to the full meaning of your author, and think patiently of every difficult passage until you understand it; or if it baffles your unassisted efforts, have it explained. Reading thoroughly requires also that you should make yourself acquainted with all those attendant circumstances which enable you the more fully to understand the author's meaning. Examine carefully the title-page and preface of every book you read, that you may learn who wrote it, where it was written, and what it was written for. Have at hand, if possible, such helps as maps and a gazetteer and a biographical dictionary. Be careful, then, to find upon the map every place mentioned, and learn from the gazetteer what sort of place it is. If an allusion is made to any circumstances in the life of an eminent man or in public history, investigate the allusion by books or by inquiry, so as fully to understand it. If possible, find other accounts of the transactions which your author is describing, and compare one with another--reflect upon the differences in the statements, and endeavor to ascertain the truth. Such a mode of reading as this is a very slow way of getting over the pages of a book, but it is a very rapid way of acquiring knowledge.

Do not often undertake to read extensive works. A young person will sometimes commence some extensive work, beginning it with no calculation of the time which will be required to complete it, and in fact with no definite plan whatever. Such an undertaking is almost always a failure. Any mind under twenty years of age will get wearied out again and again in going through a dozen octavo volumes on any subject whatever. There is no objection to reading such works, but let it be in detached portions at a time. Select, for instance, from some approved history of England, the reign of some one monarch, Elizabeth or Alfred; or make choice of such a subject as the crusades, or the life of Mary queen of Scots, and mark off such a portion of the whole work as shall relate to the topic thus chosen. This can easily be done, and with no greater difficulty on account of its compelling the reader to begin in the middle of the history, than must always be felt in reading history. If you begin at the beginning of a work, and go regularly through to the end, you will find a thousand cases in which the narrative you read is connected with other histories in such a way as to demand the same effort to understand the connection which will be necessary in the course I have proposed.

Form then, for your reading, short and definite plans. When you commence a work, calculate how long it will take you to finish it, and endeavor to adhere to the plan you shall form in regard to the degree of rapidity with which you will proceed. This habit, if once formed, will be the means of promoting regularity and efficiency in all your plans.

II. CONVERSATION. This topic deserves a volume, instead of the very brief notice which is all that is consistent with the plan of this book. It is known and admitted to be one of the most important of all attainments, and perhaps nothing is more desired by all intelligent young persons who reflect at all upon their means of influence and improvement, than conversational power. But notwithstanding this general impression in its favor, there is nothing of half its importance which is so entirely neglected in education. And there is, it must be acknowledged, a very great difficulty in the subject. It cannot be taught in schools and by classes, like the other branches of knowledge or skill. Some few successful experiments have indeed been made, but almost every effort to make it a distinct object of attention in a literary seminary has either failed entirely, or resulted in producing a stiff and formal manner, which is very far from being pleasing. Acquiring skill in conversation therefore must, in most cases, be left to individual effort; and even here, if the acquisition of skill is made the direct object, the individual will notice his manner so much, and take so much pains with that, as to be in peculiar danger of affectation or formality. To acquire the art of conversation, then, I would recommend that you should practise conversation systematically and constantly, but that you should have some other objects than improvement in your manner of expressing yourself mainly in view. You will become interested in these objects, and consequently interested in the conversation which you make use of as a means of promoting them; and by not having your own manner directly in view, the danger of that stiffness and precision and affectation which is so common a result of efforts to improve in such an art as this, will be escaped. I will mention what these objects may be.

Make conversation a means of acquiring knowledge. Every person with whom you are thrown into casual connection has undoubtedly some knowledge which would be useful or valuable to you. You are riding in the stage, I will suppose, and the rough-looking man who sits by your side appears so unattractive that you do not imagine that he has any thing to say which can interest you. But speak to him--draw him into conversation, and you will find that he is a sea-captain who has visited a hundred ports, and can tell you many interesting stories about every clime. He will like to talk, if he finds you are interested to hear, and you may make, by his assistance, a more important progress in really useful knowledge during that day's ride, than by the study of the best lesson from a book that you ever learned. Avail yourselves, in this way, of every opportunity which Providence may place within your reach.

You may do much to anticipate and to prepare for conversation. You expect, I will suppose, to be thrown into the company of a gentleman residing in a distant city. Now, before you meet him, go to such sources of information as are within your reach, and learn all you can about that city. You will get some hints in regard to its public institutions, its situations, its business, and its objects of interest of every kind. Now you cannot read the brief notices of this sort which common books can furnish, without having your curiosity excited in regard to some points at least, and you will go into the company of the stranger, not dreading his presence and shrinking from the necessity of conversation, but eager to avail yourself of the opportunity of gratifying your curiosity, and learning something full and satisfactory from an eye-witness of the scenes which the book had so briefly described. By this means, too, the knowledge of books and of conversation--of study and of real life--will be brought together; and this is a most important object for you to secure. It will give vividness and an air of reality to written description, if you can frequently, after reading the description, have an opportunity to converse with one who has seen the object or the scene described.

You may make a more general preparation for the opportunities for conversation which you will enjoy. Consider what places and what scenes those with whom you may be casually thrown into connection will most frequently have visited, and make yourself as much acquainted with them as possible; you can then converse about them. Ascertain too what are the common topics of conversation in the place in which you reside, and learn by reading or by inquiry all you can about them; so that you may be prepared to understand fully what you hear, and make your own inquiries advantageously, and thus be qualified to engage intelligently and with good effect, in the conversations in which you may join.

On the same principle it will be well for you, when you meet with any difficulty in your reading or in your studies, or when in private meditations any inquiries arise in your minds which you cannot yourselves satisfactorily answer, not to dismiss them from your thoughts as difficulties which must remain because you cannot yourselves remove them. Consider who of your acquaintances will be most probably able to assist you in regard to each. One may be a philosophical question, another a point of general literature, and a third may be a question of christian duty. By a moment's reflection you will easily determine to whom each ought to be referred; and when the next opportunity occurs you can refer them, and give yourself and your friend equal pleasure by the conversation you will thus introduce.

Make conversation a means of digesting your knowledge. I am obliged to use the term digest, because there is no other. The food that is received into the system is, by a peculiar set of vessels, dissolved, and so incorporated with the very system itself as to become actually a part of it; it is assimilated completely, and then, and only then, does it promote its growth and strength. Now, it is just so with the reception of knowledge. It must not only be received by the mind, but it must be analyzed and incorporated with it, so as to form a part of the very mind itself; then, and not till then, can the knowledge be properly said to be really possessed. If a scholar reads a passage in an author, the mere reception of it into the mind as a mass will do very little good. Take, for example, these very remarks on conversation: a reader may peruse the pages thoroughly, and fully understand all that I say, and yet the whole that I present may lie in the mind an undigested mass, which never can nourish or sustain. On the other hand, it may be not merely received into the mind, but made a subject of thought and reflection there; it may be analyzed; the principles it explains may be applied to the circumstances of the reader; the hints may be carried out, and resolutions formed for acting in accordance with the views presented. By these and similar means the reader becomes possessed, really and fully, of new ideas on the subject of conversation. His thoughts and notions in regard to it are permanently changed. His knowledge, in a word, is digested--assimilated to his own mind, so as to become as it were a part of it, and so intimately united with it as not to be separated again.

Now, conversation affords one of the most important means of digesting what is read and heard. In fact, you cannot talk about what you learn without digesting it. Sometimes two persons read together aloud, by turns; each one freely remarking upon what is read, making inquiries, or bringing forward additional facts or illustrations connected with the subject. Sometimes two persons reading separately, come together afterwards for a walk, and each one describes his own book, and relates the substance of what it contains as far as he has read, bringing down at each successive meeting the narrative of the description as far as the reader has gone. By this means each acquires the power of language and expression, digests and fixes what he has read, and also gives information to his companion. If any two of my readers will try this experiment, they will find much pleasure and improvement from it.

III. WRITING. The third and perhaps the most important of the means of intellectual improvement is the use of the pen. The powers of the pen, as an instrument for accomplishing all the objects of intellectual effort, discipline, knowledge, and skill, are almost altogether unknown among the young. I am satisfied, however, that any general remarks which I might make would be less likely to interest my readers in this subject than a particular description of the manner in which they can best use the pen to accomplish the objects in view. I shall accordingly come at once to minute detail.

1. Personal journal. Every young person may take a great deal of pleasure in keeping a journal of his own personal history. After a very little practice the work itself will be pleasant, and the improvement which it will promote is far greater than one who has not experienced it would expect. The style should be a simple narrative of facts, chiefly descriptions of scenes through which you have passed, and memoranda in regard to important points of your history. Every thing relating to your progress in knowledge, your plans for your own improvement, the books you read, and the degree of interest which they excited, should be noted down. You ought not to resolve to write every day, because sometimes it will be impossible, and then when your resolution has once yielded to necessity, it will afterwards more easily be broken by negligence. Resolve simply to write when you can, only be careful to watch yourself, and see that you persevere in your plan, whatever interruptions may for a time suspend it. At the close of the week, think how you have been employed during the week, and make a record--a short one at least you certainly can--of what has interested you. When, from forgetfulness, or loss of interest in it, or pressure of other duties, you have for a long time neglected your journal, do not throw it aside, and take up a new book and begin formally once more, but begin where you left off--filling up with a few paragraphs the interval of the history, and thus persevere.

There should be in a journal, and in all the other sets of books which I shall describe, a double running title, so that the general title may be above the particular subjects of each individual page. This double running title would be in the following form:

1832.PERSONAL JOURNAL.63

Ride into the country.Begin botany.My sister's sickness.

The reader will understand that the number 63 represents the page. Corresponding with 1832, should be written on the opposite page the name of the place in which the writer resides, and the word private may be used instead of personal, if it is preferred. The book should be of such a form as can easily be written in, and of moderate or small size. You can begin a second volume when you have finished the first, and the volumes will in a few years begin to be numerous. Some persons adopt the plan of writing in little books, stitched together, made of ten half sheets of letter-paper--folded once, with a plain marble-paper cover. These little pamphlets are more easily written in than bound volumes; and after a dozen of them are filled, they may be bound up by a bookbinder into a volume of the size of this book. I have seen many manuscript volumes made in this way.

A journal now, kept in this systematic manner, will be interesting and valuable, if you describe in it the things that most interested you when you kept it; and if it is carried on regularly through life, even with such interruptions as I have alluded to, it will be a most valuable and most interesting document. You will read its pages again and again with profit and pleasure.

2. Family journal. Let three or four of the older brothers and sisters of a family agree to write a history of the family. Any father would procure a book for this purpose, and if the writers are young, the articles intended for insertion in it might be written first on separate paper, and then corrected and transcribed. The subjects suitable to be recorded in such a book will suggest themselves to every one; a description of the place of residence at the time of commencing the book, with similar descriptions of other places from time to time, in case of removals--the journeys or absences of the head of the family or its members--the sad scenes of sickness or death which may be witnessed, and the joyous ones of weddings, or festivities, or holidays--the manner in which the members are from time to time employed--and pictures of the scenes which the fireside group exhibits in the long winter evening--or the conversation which is heard and the plans formed at the supper-table, or in the morning walk.

If a family, when it is first established, should commence such a record of their own efforts and plans, and the various dealings of Providence towards them, the father and the mother carrying it on jointly until the children are old enough to take the pen, they would find the work a source of great improvement and pleasure. It would tend to keep distinctly in view the great object for which they ought to live, and repeatedly recognizing, as they doubtless would do, the hand of God, they would feel more sensibly and more constantly their dependence upon him.

The form and manner in which such a journal should be written might properly be the same with that described under the last head--the word family being substituted for personal in the general title. It ought also to be written in such a style and upon such subjects as shall render it proper to give children free access to it. On this account it will be well to avoid such particulars, in regard to any child, as may be flattering to his vanity when he shall become old enough to read them, and to refrain from making a record of faults which will remain a standing source of suffering and disgrace, when perhaps they ought soon to be forgotten. It is true, that one of the most important portions of such a journal would consist of the description of the various plans adopted for correcting faults, and for promoting improvement-- the peculiar moral and intellectual treatment which each child received--the success of the various experiments in education which intelligent parents will always be disposed to try--and anecdotes of children, illustrating the language, or the sentiments, or the difficulties of childhood. With a little dexterity, however, on the part of the writer, a faithful record of all these things can be kept, and yet, by an omission of names, or of some important circumstances, the evils I have above alluded to may be avoided.

3. Notes and abstracts. It is sometimes the case that young persons, when they meet any thing remarkable in the course of their reading, transcribe it, with the expectation of referring to their copy afterwards to refresh their memories, and thus, after a while, they get their desks very full of knowledge, while very little remains in the head. Now it ought to be remembered, that knowledge is of no value, or at least of scarcely any, unless it is fairly lodged in the mind, and so digested, as I have before shown, as to become a permanent possession. Now, if transcribing and writing notes and abstracts of what you read is made the means of fixing thus firmly in the mind your various acquisitions, it is of immense value; if made the substitute for it, it is worse than useless. It may be a most powerful means, as any one may prove to himself by the following experiment.

Read some history in the ordinary way, without the use of the pen, with the exception that you select some chapter in the middle of the work, with which you may try the experiment of an abstract. After having read it attentively, shut the book and write the substance of the narrative it contains. The more you deviate in style and language from your author the better, because, by such a deviation you employ more your own original resources, you reduce the knowledge you have gained to a form adapted to your own habits of thought, and you consequently make it more fully your own, and fix it more indelibly in the mind. After finishing the abstract of that chapter, go on with the remainder of the book in the usual way, by simply reading it attentively. You will find now, if you carefully try this experiment, that the chapter which you have thus treated will, for many years, stand out most conspicuous of all in your recollections of the work. The facts which it has stated will retain a lodging in your minds when all the rest are forgotten, and they will come up, when wanted for use, with a readiness which will show how entirely you made them your own.

It is on this principle, and with such a view, that notes and abstracts are to be written. Some very brief practical directions will be of service to those who wish to adopt the plan.

Do not resolve to write copious abstracts of all that you read: the labor would be too great. Never read, however, without your abstract book at hand, and record whatever strikes you as desirable to be remembered. Sometimes, when reading a book of great importance, and full of information which is new and valuable, you may write a full abstract of the whole. Gibbon, the celebrated historian, attributed, it is said, much of the success of his writing to the influence of his having made a very copious abstract of Blackstone's Commentaries, a most interesting book, and one which no young man of education can read without profit and pleasure.

Let the form of your books be like that of the journals above described; with ruled lines at the top for a double running title, to facilitate reference. These lines should be ruled on through the book at first, at least they should be kept ruled far in advance of the writing, or the writer will inadvertently omit to leave a space for them. I have known many books commenced on this plan, but never one, I believe, without having this accident occur to vex and discourage the writer.

Let your abstracts be of every variety of form and manner. Sometimes long and sometimes short, sometimes fully written in a finished style, and sometimes merely a table of contents of your book. There may be a blank line left between the separate articles, and the title of each should be written before it, and doubly underscored, that is, distinguished by a double line drawn under it. This is represented in printing by small capitals. When this is the title of the book read, and is prefixed to a long abstract, it may properly be placed over the article. Sometimes the writer will merely copy a remarkable expression, or a single interesting fact; at other times a valuable moral sentiment, or a happy illustration. He will often insert only a single paragraph from a long book, and at other times make a full abstract of its contents. But I must give specimens, as by this means I can much more readily give my readers an idea of my meaning. These specimens are not imaginary ones. They are, with one or two exceptions, all taken from three or four abstract books of different young persons, who lent them to me for this purpose. The titles in capitals represent the underscored words described above. The running title at the top should be like the specimen already given, with the exception that the words NOTES AND ABSTRACTS should be substituted for PERSONAL JOURNAL.

FRIENDSHIP.--A man should keep his friendship in constant repair.--Johnson.

REYNOLDS.--Sir Joshua Reynolds, a celebrated portrait painter, contemporary and friend of Johnson, Goldsmith, etc., one of the founders of the Royal Academy, and for many years its president. He was born near Plymouth, but resided in London during most of his life, occasionally making tours to the continent. He died at an advanced age, of a disease of the liver.--Northcote's Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

FLORENCE.--The Academy of Fine Arts in Florence is the most celebrated school of painting in the world.

HUMBOLDT'S NEW SPAIN.--Introduction gives an account of his own geometrical and astronomical observations in attempting to determine the position of several points, and likewise the other sources of information which he had. There are nine points, at each of which a communication has been proposed to be made between the Atlantic and Pacific--Vera Cruz the eastern, and Acapulco the western port of Mexico. Gold and silver, he says, travel from west to east; the ocean, the atmosphere, and civilization in a contrary direction.

The Andes in Peru are more broken and rough than in Mexico; the plains, though elevated, are comparatively small, and hemmed in by lofty mountains, or separated by deep precipitous valleys.

In Mexico the chain of mountains spreads itself out into immense plains, with few sudden declivities or precipices. Fruits of every climate may be cultivated on these elevations at the various heights, but not with so much success, on account of the rarefaction of the atmosphere, as they can in northern latitudes. At certain seasons of the year both coasts of Mexico are inaccessible on account of storms. The navigation on the east side is impeded by sand banks, washed in by the westerly currents of the ocean.

CHRONOLOGY.--Difference between the chronology of the Hebrew and Septuagint manuscripts.

Mount Ararat probably in the north of India, in Shuckford's opinion.

ENGLISH EMPIRE IN INDIA.--The English and French had, about the middle of the last century, several factories on various parts of the coasts of Hindoostan. In their quarrels with each other they endeavored to secure to themselves the cooperation of the natives, and in this way the Europeans and the Hindoos became involved in the wars of each other. The English were generally successful, and in this way gradually extended their influence and their power.

Raja Dowlah, sovereign of Bengal, a wealthy, extensive, and populous country, became a little alarmed at the progress which the English made in their contentions with the French concerning their respective settlements in that country. He endeavored to oppose them, and in consequence the Englishfomented a conspiracy against his government, enticed his prime minister to treason, and then, after fighting a single battle, placed him in command. Col. Clive was the instrument of this revolution. The province of Bengal thus came into the hands of the East India Company.

A short time afterwards the French were conquered at Coromandel, and the natives brought under the power of the English.

SYNAGOGUES.--It is generally supposed that the Jewish synagogues originated during the captivity, and were continued after their return.--Kimpton.

I should suppose, from the appearance of these articles, which were the first few pages of a large book of this kind, that they were all the notes taken of the reading of some weeks, as several books of considerable size are quoted as authority. It is not best that the writer should resolve upon any particular quantity each day, or for each book, and, as I remarked in regard to the journal, when you find that you have for some time neglected your pen, do not be discouraged and give up the plan, but just begin where you left off, and renew your work and your resolution together.

Sometimes the abstracts may be in a more abridged style, like a table of contents. They can be more rapidly written in this form, but the benefit derived from the exercise is less. The following is an example from another book, by another writer. You will perceive that the style is so condensed that the notes can merely serve as memoranda for the writer's own use. They are scarcely intelligible to another person.

HISTORY OF THE BIBLE.

Old and New Testaments. Hebrew and Greek. Continua Scriptio. At various times and places. Samaritan Pentateuch: discrepancies between it and the Hebrew Bible. Controversy. Discovery in modern times of these manuscripts.

Its preservation by successive transcripts. Old ones worn out and lost. Exemplars.

Greek Testament. Why in Greek? Circulated in manuscript.

Textus receptus. Elzevir edition. Pres. manuscripts imperfect. Written about 1,000 or 1,400 Alexandrian manuscripts Vatican. Modes of determining antiquity. British Museum.

Translations. Septuagint. Vulgate. Printed editions of the Bible and Greek Testament. Complutensian Polyglot. Sources of information. Manuscripts. Septuagint. Samaritan Pentateuch; quotations, 1514.

English. Wickliffe's. Oppositions made to it. Circulated in manuscript. Tindal's printed in Holland. Efforts to keep copies out of England. Bishop of London bought up the whole edition to burn. James' Bible. Fifty-four men at various places, Cambridge, Oxford, and Westminster. Later translations, 1607. Forty-seven men of the fifty met to compare, and after three years' labor, issued, in 1660, the most commonly approved version.

Another form in which these abstracts may be written, where the importance of the subject or the interest of the reader renders it desirable, is by giving a full and complete view of the facts on some one topic. The following, taken from a third abstract book, is a specimen:

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.

Born at Penzance, Cornwall, Eng., Dec. 1779. His family were in the middle rank in life, and in reduced circumstances, so that he was thrown upon his own efforts and resources at an early age. At the age of nine years distinguished for his poetical talents. At eighteen his acquirements in many of the sciences were good, but chemistry particularly arrested his attention. His first experiments showed originality, and his pursuit promised useful discoveries. His first examination of sea-weed proved that marine plants exert the same influence upon the air contained in the water of the ocean, as land vegetables exert upon the atmosphere. Two years after commencing his chemical studies he published his "Researches," which exhibitedgreat skill, and gave to the world many original experiments and discoveries. He first tried the experiment of inhaling the nitrous oxide--the exhilirating gas. When not much over twenty years of age he was designated to fill the chemical chair in the Royal Institution in Great Britain, founded by Count Rumford. His first efforts in this elevated sphere were turned towards endeavoring to render his powers useful and advantageous to the arts employed in the humbler walks of life. The tanning of leather and agricultural implements were among the subjects of his first attention, and he adapted himself admirably to the circumstances of the practical agriculturist. In 1806-7 he made his brilliant discoveries in galvanism; in 1810 he brought forward his theory respecting the nature of chlorine, or oxymuriatic acid, which gave rise to a memorable controversy that agitated the schools of chemistry ten years. At the close of this period nearly the whole army of chemists came over to his side. In 1812 he was knighted by the Prince Regent, (George IV.,) and was thus released from the arduous duties of the professorship, and was enabled to devote himself wholly to his pursuits. His attempts to unroll the valuable MSS. found in the ruins of Herculaneum, 1,696 in number, were frustrated by unavoidable obstacles thrown in his way by jealous superintendents of the Museum; but the enterprise was not wholly fruitless, twenty-three MSS. being partially unrolled. The year 1818 was rendered memorable by the invention of the safety lamp. Terrible disasters had occurred in the coal-mines in England for years--a species of gas extricated from the coal, on mixing with atmospheric air, takes fire from a lamp, and explodes with great violence. All previous efforts to obviate these dangers had proved ineffectual; but the experience of fourteen years, while this lamp has been in constant and extensive use, without the occurrence of a single explosion, proves its importance, and the benefit conferred on the world by its invention. In 1820, by a majority of two hundred to thirteen, he was elected president of the Royal Institution. His last great scientific effort was the discovery of a method of protecting the copper sheathing of ships from corrosion by sea-water. His method of proceeding in this and all similar cases, was simple and obvious, yet one rarely followed, namely, first to ascertain the cause of the evil, and then to find out how to control it by studying its nature. Hedied at Geneva, where he had resorted for his health, of apoplexy, aged 50 years and 6 months.

I have one more form to describe, in which these notes and abstracts may be kept. It requires a little higher intellectual effort, and is consequently more useful than the other. You meet, in conversation or in reading, with some fact which illustrates a useful and important general principle, or which suggests to you an interesting train of thought: you record the fact and the reflections which it suggests together. For example, to make use of a case which actually occurred, a sea-captain remarks in your hearing that it is unwise to promise sailors extra pay for their extra exertions in difficult emergencies, for it soon has the effect of rendering them indolent whenever such extra pay is not offered. They are continually on the watch for occasions on which they can demand it. This conversation might suggest the following entry in a note-book.

The following are similar examples, but on different subjects. The second was written by a pupil in a female school.

THE SAVIOUR'S THIRST ON THE CROSS.--The dreadful thirst of the Saviour on the cross was occasioned by the violent fever produced by the inflammation of his wounds. I met with the following passage to-day in the narrative of a soldier, which illustrates this subject:

"I remember well, as we moved down in column, shot and shell flew over and through it in quick succession. We sustained little injury from either; but a captain of the twenty-ninth had been dreadfully lacerated by a ball, and lay directly in our path. We passed close to him; he knew us all; and the heart-rending tone in which he called to us for water, or to kill him, I shall never forget. He lay alone, and we were in motion, and could give him no succor; for on this trying day, such of the dying as could not walk, lay unattended where they fell. All was hurry and struggle; every arm was wanted in the field."

DECEIVING CHILDREN.--Returning from school yesterday afternoon, my attention was arrested by the loud voice of some one addressing a child; I turned, and as I walked very leisurely, I overheard the following conversation:

LADY. "John, leave off playing in the snow; see your clean clothes now; and your shoes are filled with snow.

JOHN. "I don't care for that; I shall play here if I'm a mind to, for all you."

LADY. "You little impudence; I don't love you, I don't love you at all."

JOHN. "Well, that's no matter."

LADY. "I'll go off, then; good-night. I am going to the jail."

She turns round, and walks down the street a little distance.

LADY. "You see I'm going, John."

JOHN. "I don't care if you are."

Presently she walked slowly back and came up to John; at the same time he gave a hearty laugh, saying, "I thought you were going to the jail."

I had now got so far as not to be able to hear what more they said, but I could not help pitying the child, who thus early was taught to disobey his superiors, for surely it is nothing less.

Many parents, and even brothers and sisters, complain of the conduct of the younger members of their families, while they are continually treating them in this manner; they certainly need expect nothing better from them while they endeavor thus to deceive them.

The above examples illustrate well what I mean by turning knowledge to account, drawing from it the practical lessons which it may help to teach. This is in fact the most important part of your object in mental cultivation. Many young persons err exceedingly in seeking simply knowledge, which they treasure up in a cold and speculative form, without drawing from it any moral lessons, or making it the means of awakening any of the strong emotions of the heart. But I wish my readers would always remember, that moral progress is far more valuable than intellectual; the latter in fact is but the instrument of the former. In all your writing, then, aim at accomplishing the real object which ought always to be kept in view. In selecting from your reading, or from your personal observation, what you will impress upon your memories with the pen, choose those facts and occurrences which touched your hearts, and whose impressions your pen may strengthen or renew. I close the chapter with two specimens which will illustrate this. One, as will be evident from its own allusions, was written by a pupil in a female boarding-school; and it will be observed in reading it, how the ordinary occurrences of life may be made the means, through the instrumentality of reflection and of the pen, of fixing in the heart the lessons of the Bible. Both narratives are substantially true: the latter entirely so.

"BOAST NOT THYSELF OF TO-MORROW."--Yesterday our summer term closed, and a day of bustle it was. Every moment that could possibly be spared from our studies was devoted to preparations for returning home--packing trunks, exchanging parting words, and talking over various plans for enjoyment during the vacation, which all seemed to anticipate as a continued scene of unalloyed happiness.

My afflicted room-mate Ellen was then the happiest of the happy. She is an only daughter, a most affectionate, warm-hearted girl; and has been so much elated for the last few days at the thought of meeting her beloved parents and brothers, that she has seemed to tread on air; but I fear now, that when they meet, it will be in deep sorrow.

Last evening we assembled in the hall for our devotions, andas is customary, each young lady repeated a text of scripture before we united in prayer. "Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth," was Ellen's text. It was particularly observed by several, on account of the appropriate warning it seemed to convey. She little thought how soon her own experience would confirm its truth. After bidding our teacher good-night, she skipped up stairs with a glee and light-heartedness that could scarcely be restrained within proper bounds, exclaiming, "To-morrow--to-morrow how happy I shall be."

"Remember your text, dear Ellen," said one of our beloved companions with a sober smile, as she passed on to her own room. "I wish J. would not talk so seriously," said Ellen, as we closed our door for the night; "but then, after all, I love her the more for it. I heard some one say, that she had been much afflicted for one so young."

This morning Ellen was awake at the peep of dawn, and waked me, that I might enjoy with her, through our half-closed curtains, the deepening glow in the east, which gave promise of a fine day for her ride home. When the bell summoned us to prayers, every thing was ready for the journey, and she met the family in her riding-dress, that no time might be lost after her father, whom she expected for her, should arrive.

"Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth," were the first words that met our ear from the selection of scripture which our teacher had chosen for the morning.

"We have had your text again, Ellen," whispered one of the girls as we went to the breakfast-room. "Ominous of evil--say you not so?"

"I am not superstitious," said Ellen, smiling; "besides, it refers to to-morrow, not to to-day."

At the breakfast-table little was eaten and little was said. There were happy faces there, but the joyous excitement of the preceding evening had given place to deeper feeling. Many were in a few hours to meet their beloved parents, from whom they had been separated for several months; and all were expecting some friend to take them to their respective homes. Our parting was not, however, to be particularly painful, as all expected to meet again at the expiration of the vacation.

As we were rising from the table a servant came in with the letters which had arrived in the morning's mail. One was given to Ellen. She broke the seal, and glancing at the contents, hastily placed it in the hand of the governess and rushed up to her own room. I followed, and found her in tears, greatly agitated. Her emotion was too great to allow her to tell me the cause. The governess came up and gave me the letter to read, kindly saying at the same time that I had better leave Ellen alone a few minutes, until the first burst of sorrow should be over, and then she would be in a better state to listen to the voice of consolation.

The letter was from her parents; brief, yet evidently written under the influence of strong excitement. They had just heard of the sudden and dangerous illness of their eldest son, a young gentleman of high promise, who had nearly completed his professional studies. His physicians gave not the slightest hope of his life. His parents made immediate preparations for leaving home, with the faint hope that, by rapid travelling, they might be enabled to be with their beloved child in his dying moments. They could not take Ellen with them, and the best arrangement they could make for her was to have her remain where she then was until their return.

I returned to Ellen, but found her scarcely more composed than when I left her. To this brother she was most fondly attached. He had written to her frequently, and taken a deep interest in her studies and amusements. He expected to have been at home during a part of her vacation, and now the thought of never meeting him again was agony. I knew not what to say; I could only weep with her, and silently commend her to "Him who healeth the broken in heart," entreating that she might be enabled submissively to say, "Thy will be done."

My father consents that I should remain for two or three days with Ellen. I know that more striking instances of the uncertainty of earthly prospects are constantly occurring, but I feel that the scenes of to-day have made an impression upon my own heart and the hearts of my companions that can never be effaced. I shall never again hear others planning with confidence for the future, without thinking of poor Ellen's disappointment and affliction, and of the text, "Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth."

The other narrative is more serious still in its subject. Both might have been given with propriety as specimens of personal journals, though, as they do not give strictly the personal history of the writer, they may perhaps better be inserted here. I admit this last the more readily, as the thoughts of the final account which we all must render are brought up very distinctly to view by it, and this thought is a very proper one to be presented, now that this volume is drawing to a close, as a means of fixing the resolutions which I trust some at least of my readers have formed, and stimulating them to diligence in duty.

THE DYING BED.

On Monday, a few minutes before breakfast, a messenger came to me with a note from a gentleman whom I shall call Mr. A., whose wife, the Saturday previous, was taken suddenly ill. She became worse and worse, until she was considered in a dangerous situation. And now her husband addressed a note to me, requesting me to visit his wife, "for she is," said he, "as sick as she can well live."

Immediately after breakfast I hastened over to their house, and found her very weak and low. She seemed near her end. Having understood that neither herself nor husband were professing Christians, I attempted to point out to her without delay the way to be saved, and directed her mind at once to the Saviour of sinners. She could just speak a few words in faint and broken whispers--just enough for me to ascertain her anxious and agitated feelings. I endeavored to compose her mind, and to explain the feelings which were becoming in us as sinners, when we look to the Saviour for pardon and peace. She looked and listened with intense interest, and I have seldom felt as I then did, the responsibility of trying to direct any one, but especially any one in the immediate prospect of eternity, to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world. I looked to the Saviour to help and to guide me, to put such thoughts in my heart and words in my mouth as he saw were necessary, and as would be suited to the sick, and as I supposed, dying woman. I besought him earnestly, in silence, that he would assist me in being faithful and useful to her immortal soul.

After some few questions, and some remarks and quotations from the Saviour's words, at her request I engaged in prayer. Her husband, one son about twelve, another son about six years, and her youngest child about eighteen months, were present. Several other relations and friends were also there. We kneeled around her bedside and besought the Lord for her. Occasionally the voice of prayer was interrupted by the swoon into which she was falling every few minutes. After a short prayer we rose. All was silent, except the sighing of her friends around her, the noise of the fan, and the catching of her breath as she recovered from a swoon.

After a few minutes had elapsed, during which she seemed struggling with sickness and with a tumult of feeling in her bosom, she called the different members of her family around her. First to her husband she addressed herself somewhat in these words:

"And now, my dear husband, I hope you will keep your resolution, and not let the next communion season pass without making a profession. I have been more lukewarm than you. If I had been as much engaged as you have, we should have both of us been members of the church long ago, but I have held back. I hope you will not fail to keep your resolution."

She then most affectionately bade him farewell, expressing the tenderest interest in his religious purposes, and in the hope of a happier meeting in heaven. After a moment's pause she took her eldest son by the hand, and addressed him as follows:

"And now, my dear son William, I am going to leave you. Your poor mother is going, and you will be left without father or mother in the world; but Mr. A. has always treated you as one of his own children; and if you will be good and obedient, he will always be a father to you. Be a good boy, my son, and God will take care of you."

The poor little boy, as he held his mother's hand in one of his own, and covered his eyes with the other, wept and sobbed as though his heart would break. She then took her little Edward† He was the son of her former husband. by the hand, and bade him a similar and equally affecting adieu.

The youngest, about eighteen months old, she requested to be laid upon a pillow in her bosom. She tenderly embraced it, and all wept.

She then called for her mother-in-law, who was behind her--the bed standing in the middle of the room--"And what shall I say to you," said she; "you have been a mother to me." She turned to a gentleman who had been a long and valued friend, and who was now at her side fanning her, and in tears, and taking his hand, expressed her ardent affection and gratitude towards him for his kindness and attention during their long acquaintance. She alluded to an interview with him many years ago, and seemed most deeply affected in remembrance, as I thought, of some proofs of real fraternal kindness which she then received from him.

She sent her last message to her parents, brothers, and sisters, and when her strength and voice failed her, she just uttered in a faint whisper,

"Please to sing, 'Life is the time to serve the Lord.'"

A lady who was present, and whose eyes and heart were full, said,

"I would take another--'O for an overcoming faith!'"

The hymn-book, however, was given to her husband, who read two lines at a time of the hymn his wife had named, when all who could sing, and whose emotions would allow it, joined in singing, until the husband, completely overcome, dropped his head, unable to proceed. Another then took the book, and as well as we could, with tears and faltering voices we closed the hymn.

As I read over my description of this scene, I am so struck with its utter weakness, that I almost regret that I attempted to make it. It made an impression upon my mind that I cannot transcribe. O that the delusive hope of preparing for death upon a death-bed were banished for ever from the earth.

I have inserted the two foregoing specimens, in order to bring up as distinctly as possible this principle, namely, that in all your efforts at intellectual improvement, you ought to look with special interest at the moral bearings and relations of all which you read or hear. The heart is the true seat both of virtue and happiness, and consequently to affect the heart is the great ultimate object of all that we do. The intellect, then, is only the avenue by which the heart is to be reached, and you will derive not only more benefit, but far greater pleasure from reflection and writing, if you are accustomed to consider the moral aspects and relations of every thing which you observe, or of which you read or hear.

A great prominence has been given in this chapter to the use of the pen, as a means of intellectual and moral improvement. I assure my readers, that the power of the pen for such a purpose is not overrated. I am aware that a great many persons, though they may approve what I have said, will not make any vigorous and earnest efforts to adopt the plan. Still more will probably begin a book or two, but will soon forget their resolution, and leave the half-finished manuscript in some neglected corner of their desks finally abandoned. But if any should adopt these plans, and faithfully prosecute them, they will find that the practice of expressing in their own language with the pen such facts as they may learn, and such observations or reflections as they may make, will exert a most powerful influence upon all the habits of the mind, and upon the whole intellectual character.

CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.

As I draw towards the close of this volume, I think of the influence which it is to exert upon the many who will read it, with mingled emotions of hope and fear. I have endeavored to state, and to illustrate, some of the prominent principles of Christian duty; and if, my reader, you have perused these pages with attention and care, they must have been the means of bringing very plainly before your mind the question, whether you will or will not confess and forsake your sins, and henceforth live to God, that you may accomplish the great object for which life was given. I shall say nothing, in these few concluding paragraphs, to those who have read thus far without coming in heart to the Saviour. If they have not been persuaded ere this to do it, they would not be persuaded by any thing which I have time and space now to say. I have, however, before ending this volume, a few parting words for those who have accompanied me thus far, with at least some attempt at self-application--some desire to cherish the feelings which I have endeavored to portray--some penitence for sin, and resolutions to perform the duties which I have from time to time pressed upon them.

It is, if the Bible is true, a serious thing to have opportunity to read a religious book--and more especially for the young to have opportunity to read a practical treatise on the duties of piety, written expressly for their use. The time is coming when we shall look back upon all our privileges with sad reflections at the recollection of those which we have not improved; and it is sad for me to think, that many of those who shall have read these pages will in a future, and perhaps not a very distant day, look upon me as the innocent means of aggravating their sufferings, by having assisted to bring them light, which they nevertheless would not regard. This unpleasant part of my responsibility I must necessarily assume. I share it with every one who endeavors to lay before men the principles of duty, and the inducements to the performance of it. He who enlightens the path of piety, promotes the happiness of those who are persuaded to walk in it, but he is the innocent means of adding to the guilt and misery of such as will still turn away. To one class of persons, says Paul, "we are the savor of death unto death, and to the other, the savor of life unto life."

It is not merely to those who absolutely neglect or refuse to do their duty to God, that the ill consequences of having neglected their privileges and means of improvement will accrue. These consequences will be just as sure to those who partially neglect them. I will suppose that a young person whose heart is truly renewed, and who has begun to live to God, hears of this book, and procures it to read. She feels desirous of cultivating Christian principles, and sits down to her work with a sincere desire to derive spiritual benefit from the instructions. She does not run over the pages, culling out the stories for the sake of the interest of the narrative, and neglecting all the applications of them to the purposes of instruction; but she inquires, when a fact or an illustration is introduced, for what purpose it is used--what moral lesson it is intended to teach--and how she can learn from it something to guide her in the discharge of duty. She goes on in this manner through the book, and generally understands its truths and the principles it inculcates; but she does not cordially and in full earnest engage in the practice of them. For example, she reads the chapter on confession, and understands what I mean by full confession of all sins to God, and forms the vague and indefinite resolution to confess her sins more minutely than she has done; but she does not, in the spirit of that chapter, explore fully all her heart, and scrutinize with an impartial eye all her conduct, that every thing which is wrong may be brought to light, and frankly confessed and abandoned. She does not, in a a word, make a serious and an earnest business of confessing and forsaking all sin.

In another case, a young man who is perhaps sincerely a Christian, though the influence of Christian principle is yet weak in his heart, reads that portion of the work which relates to the Sabbath. He knows that his Sabbaths have not been spent in so pleasant or profitable a manner as they might be, and he sees that the principles pointed out there would guide him to duty and to happiness on that day, if he would faithfully and perseveringly apply them to his own case. He accordingly makes a feeble resolution to do it. The first Sabbath after he reads the chapter, his resolutions are partially kept. But he gradually neglects them, and returns to his former state of inaction and spiritual torpor on God's holy day. Perhaps I express myself too strongly in speaking of inaction and torpor as being a possible state of mind for a Christian on the Sabbath; but it must be admitted, that many approach far too near to it.

Now, there is no question that many young Christians will read this book in the manner I have above described; that is, they throw themselves, as it were, passively before it, allowing it to exert all the influence it will by its own power, but doing very little in the way of vigorous effort to obtain good from it. They seem to satisfy themselves by giving the book an opportunity to do them good, but do little to draw from it, by their own efforts, the advantages which it might afford. Now, a book of religious instruction is not like a medicine which, if it is once admitted into the system, will produce its effect without any farther effort on the part of the patient. It is a tool for you to use industriously yourself. The moral powers will not grow unless you cultivate them by your own active efforts. If you satisfy yourself with merely bringing moral and religious truth into contact with your mind, expecting it, by its own power, to produce the hoped-for fruits, you will be like a farmer who should, in the spring, just put a plough or two in one part of his field, and half-a-dozen spades and hoes in another, and expect by this means to secure a harvest. Many persons read religious books continually, but make no progress in piety. The reason is, their own moral powers are inert while they do it. The intellect may be active in reading and understanding the successive pages, but the heart and the conscience lie still, hoping that the truth may of itself do them good. They bring the instrument to the field and lay it down, and stand by its side wondering why it does not do its work.

I beg my readers not to treat this volume in that way, and not to suppose that simply reading and understanding it, however thoroughly it may be done, will do them any good. The book, of itself, never can do good. It is intended to guide its readers to Christ, and show how they may get good to themselves, and it will benefit none who are not willing to be active in its application and use.

Do you, my reader, really wish to derive permanent and real benefit from this book? If so, take the following measures; it is a course which it would be well for you always to take at the close of every book you read on the subject of duty. Recall to mind all those passages which, as you have read its pages, have presented to you something which at the time you resolved to do. Recollect, if you can, every plan recommended, which, at the time when you were reading it, seemed to be suited to your own case, and which you then thought you should adopt. If you have forgotten them, you can easily call them to mind by a little effort, or by a cursory review. You will thus bring up again to your minds those points in which the instructions of the book are particularly adapted to your own past history and present spiritual condition.

After having thus fully reconsidered the whole ground, and gathered all the important points which are peculiarly adapted to your own case into one view, consider deliberately, before you finally close the book, what you will do with regard to them. If any thing has been made plain to be your duty, consider and decide distinctly whether you will do it or not. If any thing has been shown to be conducive to your happiness, determine, deliberately and understandingly, whether you will adopt it or not. Do not leave it to be decided by chance, or by your own accidental feelings of energy or of indolence, what course you will take in reference to a subject so momentous as the questions of religious duty. I fear, however, that notwithstanding all that I can say, very many, even among the most thoughtful of my readers, will close this book without deriving from it any permanent good, either in their conduct or their hearts. It will have only produced a few good intentions, which will never be carried into effect, or aroused them to momentary effort, which will soon yield again to indolence and languor.

There is no impression that I would more strongly desire to produce in these few remaining pages, than that you should be in earnest, in deep and persevering earnest, in your efforts after holiness and salvation. If you are interested enough in religion to give up the pleasures of sin, you cannot be happy unless you secure the happiness of piety. There are, at the present day, great numbers in whose hearts religious principle has taken so strong a hold as to awaken conscience and to destroy their peace, if they continue to sin; but they do not give themselves up with all their hearts to the service of the Saviour. They feel, consequently, that they have lost the world; they cannot be satisfied with its pleasures, and they are unhappy, and feel that they are out of place when in the company of its votaries. But though they have thrown themselves out of one home, they do not, in earnest, provide themselves with another. They do not give all the heart to God. No life is more delightful than one spent in intimate communion with our Father above, and in earnest and devoted efforts to please him by promoting human happiness; and none is perhaps more unhappy, and prepares more effectually for a melancholy dying hour, than to spend our days with the path of duty plain before us, and conscience urging us to walk in it, while we hang back, and walk with a slow and hesitating step, and look away wistfully at the fruits which we dare not taste. Do not take such a course as this. When you abandon the world, abandon it entirely; and when you choose God and religion for your portion, do it with all your heart. Outrun conscience in the path of duty, instead of waiting to have your lagging steps quickened by her scourge.

Once more. Much less of life is left to you than you generally suppose. Perhaps the average age of the readers of this book is between fifteen and twenty, and fifteen or twenty years is probably, upon an average, half of life. I call you young, because you are young in reference to the active business of this world. You have just reached the full development of your powers, and have consequently but just begun the actual work of life. The long years that are past have been spent in preparation. Hence you are called young--you are said to be just beginning life, understanding, by life, the pursuits and the business of maturity. But life, if you understand by it the season of preparation for eternity, is more than half gone; life, so far as it presents opportunities and facilities for penitence and pardon--so far as it bears on the formation of character, and is to be considered as a period of probation--is unquestionably more than half gone to those who are between fifteen and twenty. In a vast number of cases it is more than half gone, even in duration, at that time; and if we consider the thousand influences which crowd around the years of childhood and youth, winning to piety, and making a surrender to Jehovah easy and pleasant then, and on the other hand look forward beyond the years of maturity and see these influences losing their power, and the heart becoming harder and harder under the deadening effects of continuance in sin, we shall not doubt a moment that the years of youth make a far more important part of our time of probation than all those that follow.

You will do right then, when you are thinking of your business or your profession, to consider life as but begun; but when you look upon the great work of preparation for another world, you might more properly consider it as nearly ended. Almost all moral changes of character are usually effected before the period at which you have arrived, and soon all that will probably remain to you on earth is to exemplify, for a few years, the character which in early life you formed. If, therefore, you would do any thing in your own heart for the cause of truth and duty, you must do it in earnest, and must do it now.

I have intended this book chiefly for the young, but I cannot close it without a word at parting to those of my readers who have passed the period of youth. If the work shall at all answer the purpose for which it is intended, it will, in some instances at least, be read by the mature; and I may perhaps, without impropriety, address a few words respectfully to them.

You are probably parents; your children have been reading this book, and you have perhaps taken it up because you are interested in whatever interests them. You feel also a very strong desire to promote their piety, and this desire leads you to wish to hear, yourselves, whatever on this subject is addressed to them. I have several times in the course of this work intimated, that the principles which it has been intended to illustrate and explain, are equally applicable to young and old. It has been adapted, in its style and manner only, to the former class; and I have hoped, as I have penned its pages, that a father might sometimes himself be affected by truths which he was reading during a winter evening to his assembled family; or that a mother might take up the book purchased for her children, and be led herself to the Saviour by a chapter which was mainly written for the purpose of winning them. I do not intend, however, to press here again your own personal duties. I have another object in view.

That object is to ask you to cooperate fully and cordially in this, and in all similar efforts to promote the welfare of your children. If you have accompanied them through this volume, you will know what parts of it are peculiarly adapted to their condition and wants. These parts you can do much to impress upon their minds by your explanations, and by encouraging them to make the efforts they require. The interest which a father or a mother takes in such a book, is a pretty sure criterion--it is almost the very regulator of that felt by the child.

If you notice any thing in the volume which you think erroneous, or calculated to lead to error; or if there is any fault which your child discovers and brings to you, with a criticism which you feel to be just, do not deny or attempt to conceal the fault because it occurs in a book whose general object and aim you approve. Separate the minute imperfections from the general object and design of the whole; and while you freely admit a condemnation of the one, show that it does not affect the character of the other, and thus remove every obstacle which would impede what is the great design of the book, to press the power of religious obligation in its most plain and simple form.

On the other hand, do not magnify the faults which you may find, or think you find, or turn off the attention of your children from the serious questions of duty which the book is intended to bring before the conscience and the heart, to a cold and speculative discussion of the style, or the logic, or the phraseology of the author. A religious book is in some degree entitled to the privilege of a religious speaker. Parents easily can, on their walk home from church, obliterate all serious impressions from the minds of their children, by conversation which shows that they are looking only at the literary aspects of the performance to which they have listened. In the same manner they can destroy the influence of a book, by turning away attention from the questions of duty which it brings up, to an inquiry into the logic of an argument, or a comment upon the dulness or the interest of a story.

There is one thing more which I may perhaps without impropriety say. Your religious influence over your children will depend far more on your example than upon your efforts to procure for them good religious instruction. They look to you for an exemplification of piety, and if they do not see this, you cannot expect that they will yield themselves to its principles on your recommendation. Your children, too, must see piety exemplified in a way which they can appreciate and understand. To make vigorous efforts for the support of the gospel--to contribute generously for the various benevolent objects of the day--and even to cultivate in your hours of secret devotion the most heartfelt and abasing penitence for sin, will not alone be enough to recommend piety effectually to your children. They look at other aspects of your conduct and character. They observe the tone of kindness or of harshness with which you speak--the tranquillity or the irritation with which you bear the little trials and disappointments of life--your patience in suffering, and your calmness in danger. They watch you to observe how faithfully you perform the ordinary duties of your station. They look with eager interest into your countenance, to see with what spirit you receive an injury, or rebuke what is wrong.

By making faithful and constant efforts to live like Christians yourselves, and to exhibit to your children those effects of piety upon your conduct and character which they can understand and appreciate, and by adapting religious instruction to the peculiar intellectual habits of the young, you may anticipate a sure and an abundant blessing upon your labors. Childhood is a most fertile part of the vineyard of the Lord. The seed which is planted there vegetates very soon, and the weeds which spring up are easily eradicated. It is in fact in every respect an easy and a pleasant spot to till, and the flowers and fruits which, with proper effort, will bloom and ripen there, surpass all others in richness and beauty.