Remains of the late Rev. Charles Wolfe ... with a brief memoir of his life

aralHHl

)<l! i CHHi nJHiHrPl liHr Hill

\>W ■■■■■*«■■ SHE n

* ; iH mi

■ HH H

I SSI

m H H

M I mm

iY'*'.'. ';;Y>'' i H^HV
<}:• H '.'.'s ■ ■■:

Jl B^H iSffi Kiln

^H H HP
H ffil^WSll

■ ■ Bfa

HHH 11

Iwll^^HI

' H H Sffl

H Ha

H 111 11

HH HI K

HH»1H^B
^^^^^HT

rap fl wmMmI™

'Ul! PBBI

bh he hsc m

i?tf2?h:ii>:< BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBn

*o 0*

'+ <?

v 6

/-

% ^

$%.

&

o 0

*A

%$• :_i

,-j

V

^ <fr

. >

%<£'

'>•

<*■ J

2*

i\

x0o

\<cP

^0

v ,>

V

C AA

"O

"OO^

\

.ftf

v0 o

% .#'■

\\ '? *< I I J)

Mtmuim

Or THE LATE

REV. CHARLES WOLFE, A. B.

mnw® (om^MiLiis w©jum,moM.

Trom a drawing Ijy I. I. HxLSseH.

FubUsJuxl by K.&T. T. Sarvtirhcftoru 1828.

REMAINS

OP THE LATE

REV. CHARLES WOLFE, A. B.

CURATE OF DONOUGHMORE, DIOCESS OF ARMAGH.

WITH A BRIEF

$&tmoiv ot ftfe Site.

BY THE

REV. JOHN A. RUSSELL, M. A.
i

'O HIS EXCELLENCY THE LORD LIEUTENANT 0
AND CURATE OF ST. WERBURGH's, DUBLIN.

CHAPLAIN TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE LORD LIEUTENANT OF IRELAND,

PUBLISHED BY H. & F. J. HUNTINGTON.

M.DCCC. XXVIII.

■ Wl4-

ADVERTISEMENT.

In offering to the public this first American edition of the
Memoir and Remains of the Rev. Charles Wolfe, the hope is
confidently entertained, that it may prove an acceptable ser-
vice, not only to the cause of refined taste and elegant litera-
ture, but of pure and undefiled religion. High as Mr. Wolfe
must be ranked as a scholar and a poet, it is as the faithful
minister of the Church of Christ that he presents the strong-
est claims to our affection and admiration, and to that which
is far above every other motive, the approbation of God. It
was much to produce, in the well known ' lines on the burial of
Sir John Moore,' the most splendid and touching lyric of the
age — it was far more, to devote to an obscure country flock
talents and accomplishments which would have done honour
to the proudest station, and to wear out prematurely in their
service a life to which the walks of pleasure and the heights
of ambition offered such powerful temptations. Let us hope
that, through the blessing of its Divine Head, the example of
this zeal and self devotion will not be lost to the Church of
Christ. Let us learn from it, that earnestness and enthusi-
asm in the sacred cause may yet be in entire subjection to
truth and soberness, and saved, by the divine guidance, from
the dangerous errors of extravagance and fanaticism.

Hartford, April 15, 1828. G. W. D. ,

1*

PREFACE.

It was long a matter of painful doubt to the Editor
whether he should be justifiable in committing to the
press the collection of Remains contained in these vol-
umes ; convinced as he was that none of them were ev-
er designed for that purpose by the Author himself, who,
indeed, would have shrunk from the idea of publication.
However, his hesitation has been overborne by the
strong hope that they may prove generally instructive
as well as interesting, and afford a peculiar gratifica-
tion to a wide circle of friends.

It was at first intended to publish the Sermons only ;
but, on a more mature consideration, it seemed advisa-
ble to give a short account of the Author, interspersed
with his poems and other remains, particularly as many
of them have been for a considerable time in private cir-
culation amongst a few acquaintances, and would, most
probably, have found their way to the press in some oth-
er shape. In fact, their publication appeared inevitable ;
and it therefore seemed better that they should go forth
to the public through the hands of a friend, who was in
possession of all the original manuscripts, and who had
also the happiness of an uninterrupted intimacy and
communication with the Author, from the time he en-
tered college until his lamented death.

VIII. PREFACE.

The state in which the papers were committed to him
rendered it a task of greater labour to select, arrange,
and transcribe them for the press, than can easily be im-
agined. This circumstance, and the late arrival of
some promised communications, caused a greater delay
in the publication than the writer could have anticipa-
ted.

The miscellaneous nature of the work may possibly
render it more generally useful than one exclusively up-
on religious subjects. Many, who admire the raptures
of the poet, may be induced to regard with reverence
the instructions of the divine : they may feel a peculiar
desire to mark what thoughts a heart, animated by the
Muse, can bring forth when hallowed by a loftier and
purer inspiration.

The Editor is painfully conscious how imperfect is
the sketch which he has here given of the Author's
life and character ; and must throw himself upon the
indulgence of the friends who are most deeply interest-
ed in the work, with an humble hope that they will make
candid allowance for any error of judgment, or defect in
execution, which they may observe in the performance
of the pleasing but anxious task he has had to fulfil.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Memoir . 13

«* Jugurtha incarcerates, vitam ingemit relictam'' ... 17

Battle of Busaco ; Deliverance of Portugal 24

Burial of Sir John Moore . . , 31

Spanish Song 35

The Grave of Dermid 36

Song 38

Song 39

The Frailty of Beauty 40

The College Course 43

Patriotism 51

Fragments of a Speech delivered in the Chair, in the

Historical Society 55

Farewell to Lough Bray 71

Song 73

The Dargle . . , 74

Birth-day Poem . . , 78

Song 80

To a Friend 81

Speech before a Meeting of the Irish Tract Society, Edin-
burgh, May 1821 ,..,.,.•.,,,,,,,,,. JJ5

*• CONTENTS.

SERMONS.
SERMON I.

ECCLESIASTES, XH. 1.

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth 147

PAGE

SERMON II.

Hebrews, xi. 1.
Faith is the substance of things hoped for ; the ev-
idence of things not seen 158

SERMON III.

Genesis, i. 26.
And God said, Let us make man in our image, af-
ter our likeness 167

SERMON IV.

Matthew, xiii. 44.

The kingdom of Heaven is like unto treasure hid
in afield; the which when a man hath found, he
hideth, and for joy thereof goeth, andselleth all
that he hath, and buyeth that field 177

SERMON V.

Matthew, xi. 28.

Come unto me, all ye that labour, and are heavy la-
den, and I will give you rest 185

SERMON VI.

Matthew, ix. 12.

They that be whole need not a physician, but they
that are sick 198

CONTENTS. XI.

SERMON VII.
1 Corinthians, vi. 20.

PAGB

Ye are bought with a price 206

SERMON VIII.

Colossians, iii. 2.
Set your affections on things above, not on things
on the earth . 215

SERMON IX.

Luke, ix. 23.

And he said to them all, If any man will come af-
ter me, let him deny himself and take up his cross
daily and follow me ... 222

SERMON X.

Matthew, xi. 30.
My yoke is easy, and my burden is light 230

SERMON XI.

Romans, v. 12.
By one man sin entered into the world 238

SERMON XII,

1 Corinthians, xiii. 12, 13.
Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to
face : now I know in part ; but then shall I know
even as also I am known. And now abideth
Faith, Hope, Charity, these three ; but the great'
est of these is Charity 248

XII. CONTENTS.

SERMON XIII.
Ecclesiastes, viii. 11.

PAGE

Because sentence against an evil work is not execut-
ed speedily ; therefore the heart of the sons of
men is fully set in them to do evil 256

SERMON XIV.

1 John, iv. 10.

Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he
loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation
for our sins 265

SERMON XV.

1 Corinthians, x. 13.

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is
common to man : but God is faithful, who will
not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able ;
but will with the temptation also make a way to
escape, that ye may be able to bear it ...... 272

APPENDIX.

Observations on Religious Poetry 279

Jesus raising Lazarus 281

On the Death of Abel (prize poem) 262

Graecia capta ferum Victorem cepit 286

Principiis Obsta 287

Ira furor brevis est 288

Miscellaneous Thoughts 288

REMAINS

OF

THE REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Jn attempting to sketch even a brief Memoir of a
friend, whose existence had been for many years blend-
ed with our own, there are difficulties which may be
more easily conceived than described.

It is hard to restrain the pen from the expression of
feelings which to others would be tedious and uninter-
esting. It is hard also to speak fully and freely of the
immediate subject of the narrative, without an appa-
rent self-obtrusion. This, however, shall be careful-
ly avoided in the present little work ; the object of
which is, simply, to collect the Remains, and record a
few particulars of the life and character of one, little
known to the world ; but who, throughout the circle
in which he moved, excited an interest which cannot
easily be forgotten, and diffused blessings with which
his name and his memory will long be held in grateful
association.

Amidst the pensive recollections awakened by an
attempt to record the life of a departed friend, there
may be much to afford comfort and instruction to one's
self, which it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to
convey to an uninterested reader. It can easily be
conceived in general, with what a tender and prevail-
ing influence the instructions received at former periods

2

*4 REMAINS OF

of life come home to the heart when they are associa-
ted with the recollection of the amiable qualities, the
exalted principles, and the early death of a cherished
friend, from whom they have been imbibed. " Amidst
the sadness of such a remembrance (says an eloquent
writer,)* it will be a consolation that they are not en-
tirely lost to us. Wise monitions, when they return on
us with this melancholy charm, have more pathetic co-
gency than when they were first uttered by the voice of
a living friend." " It will be an interesting occupa-
tion to recount the advantages which we have received
from beings who have left the world, and to reinforce
our virtues from the dust of those who first taught
them."

Such have been the feelings of the writer, and such
will probably be the feelings of other friends upon the
recollections which this little memoir may awaken.
But, upon these sentiments it is unnecessary, as it would
perhaps be obtrusive, to dilate. I shall therefore pass
on to the immediate subject of the memoir.

To those who have personally known him whose Re-
mains are presented in this volume to the public, it
may be satisfactory to learn some particulars of his life.

Charles Wolfe was the youngest son of Theobald
Wolfe, Esq. Blackhall, county Kildare. His mother
was the daughter of the Rev. Peter Lombard. He was
born in Dublin, 14th December, in the year 1791.
The family from which he was descended has not been
undistinguished. Through the military achievements
of the illustrious hero of Quebec, the name stctnds con-
spicuous upon the records of British renown. It has
also been signalised at the Irish bar, especially in the
person of the much-lamented Lord Kilwarden, one of
the same family, who was elevated to the dignity of the
judicial bench. At an early age the subject of this
memoir lost his father ; not long after whose death, the
family removed to England, where they resided for
some years. Charles was sent to a school in Bath in

* Foster's Essays, p. 16,

THE llEY. C. WOLFE. 15

the year 1801 ; from which, in a few months, he was
obliged to return home in consequence of the delicacy
of his health, which interrupted his education for
twelve months. Upon his recovery, he was placed un-
der the tuition of Dr. Evans, in Salisbury, from which
he was removed in the year 1805 ; and soon after was
sent as a boarder to Winchester school, of which Mr.
Richards, sen. was then the able master. There he
soon distinguished himself by his great proficiency in
classical knowledge, and by his early powers of Latin
and Greek versification, and displayed the dawnings of
a genius which promised to set him amidst that bright
constellation of British poets which adorns the litera-
ture oi the present age.

The many high testimonies to his amiable disposition
and superior talents, which are supplied by the affec-
tionate letters of his schoolmasters, shew that he was
not overvalued by his own family, with every member
of which he seems to have been the special favourite.
I cannot better describe the manner in which his cha-
racter as a boy was appreciated at school and at home,
and how deservedly it was so prized, than in the follow-
ing simple language of a very near relative, to whom
I am indebted for some of the particulars of his life al-
ready mentioned. " The letters I enclose you bear
testimony to the amiable character of my dear, dear
Charles, such as I ever remember it. Those from Mr.
Richards I can better estimate than any one else, from
knowing that he was not easily pleased in a pupil, or
apt to natter. He was greatly attracted by superior
talents ; but you will see that he speaks of qualities of
more value. He never received even a slight punish-
ment or reprimand at any school to which he ever went ;
and in nearly twelve years that he was under my moth-
er's care, I cannot recollect that he ever acted contrary
to her wishes, or caused her a moment's pain, except
parting with her when he went to school. I do not
know whether he ever told you that he had, when a
boy, a wish to enter the army, which was acquired by

16

REMAINS OP

being in the way of military scenes ; but, when he
found that it would give his mother pain, he totally
gave up the idea, which I am sure, all his life, he thank-
ed God that he had done. In 1808 he left Winchester
(where he had been three years), owing to our coming
to Ireland, as my mother could not think of leaving
him behind. His company was her first earthly com-
fort, and she could not relinquish it ; indeed, we used
to count the hours when the time drew near that he
was expected. We were often told that we would spoil
him, but you know whether it was so. When we arri-
ved in Ireland, it was intended that he should go to
some other school ; but he did not go to any, nor had
he any one to read with him, so that he entered college
with much less previous instruction than most others.
I believe you knew him soon after ; and I need not
tell you of him since, or what he has been even if I
could. I have never heard of a schoolfellow or a col-
lege acquaintance who did not respect or love him ; but
I will not say more to you."

The pleasing testimony to his character and abili-
ties contained in this extract is indeed fully borne out
by the accounts which some of his schoolfellows have
given of him to the writer. They spoke of him with
the strongest affection, and represented him as the
pride of Winchester school. Some of the poems and
Latin verses by which he distinguished himself there,
shall appear at the close of this volume.

In the year 1809, he entered the University of Dub-
lin, under the tuition of the late Rev. Dr. Davenport,
who immediately conceived the highest interest for him,
and continued to shew it by special proofs of his fa-
vour. In a few months after his entrance, the writer
had the happiness of becoming acquainted with him.
This casual acquaintance soon became a cordial inti-
macy, which quickly ripened into a friendship that
continued not only uninterrupted, but was cemented
more and more by constant intercourse, and by com-
munity of pursuits : it was, above all, improved and

THE REV. C. WOLFE. *$

sweetened by an unreserved interchange of thoughts
on those subjects which affect our eternal interests, and
open to us the prospects of friendships which death can
only suspend, but not destroy.

Our author immediately distinguished himself by his
high classical attainments, for which he was early re-
warded by many academical honours. The first English
poem which attracted general notice was written very
early in his college course, upon a subject proposed by
the heads of the university. It evinces a boldnes of
thought, a vigour of expression, and somewhat of a
dramatic spirit, which seems to entitle it to a place in
this litttle collection ; and it shall therefore be present-
ed first in order to the reader. The prison-scene of
Jugurtha (which is the subject of the poem) gave the
author full scope for a masterly exhibition of the dark-
est and deadliest passions of human nature in fierce
conflict. Disappointed ambition, revenge, despair, re-
morse, were to be represented as raging by turns in the
captive's mind, or dashing, as it were, against each
other, and struggling for utterance. The subject was
proposed in the following form. —

"JUGURTHA INCARCERATUS, VITAM INGEMIT
RELICTAM."

Well — is the rack prepared — the pincers heated ?

Where is the scourge ? How — not employ'd in Rome ?

We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome ?

I'm sorry for it ; I could enjoy it now ;

I might have felt them yesterday ; but now, —

Now I have seen my funeral procession ;

The chariot-wheels of Marius have roll'd o'er me ;

His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph ;

I have attain'd that terrible consummation

My soul could stand aloof, and from on high

Look down upon the ruins of my body,

Smiling in apathy ; I feel no longer ;

I challenge Rome to give another pang. — -

Gods ! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause

2*

18

REMAINS OF

Before his car, and scowl upon the mob ;

The curse of Rome was burning on my lips,

And I hadgnaw'd my chain, and hurl'd it at them?

But that I knew he would have smiled again. —

A king ! and led before the gaudy Marius,

Before those shouting masters of the world,

As if I had been conquer'd : while each street,

Each peopled wall, and each insulting window,

Peal'd forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head.

Oh ! for a lion from thy woods, Numidia ! —

Or had I, in that moment of disgrace,

Enjoy'd the freedom but of yonder slave,

I would have made my monument in Rome.

Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool,

To think disgrace entombs the hero's soul,—-

For ever damps his fires, and dims his glories ;

That no bright laurel can adorn the brow

That once has bow'd ; no victory's trumpet-sound

Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains :

No ; — could one glimpse of victory and vengeance

Dart preciously across me, I could kiss

Thy footstep's dust again ; then all in flame,

With Massinissa's energies unquench'd,

Start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp

The gory laurel reeking in my view,

And force a passage through disgrace to glory —

Victory ! Vengeance ! Glory ! — Oh these chains I

My soul 's in fetters, too ; for, from this moment,

Through all eternity I see but — death ;

To me there's nothing future now, but death :

Then come and let me gloom upon the past. —

So then — Numidia's lost ; those daring projects —

(Projects that ne'er were breathed to mortal man,

That would have startled Marius on his car,)

O'erthrown, defeated ! What avails it now,

That my proud views despised the narrow limits,

Which minds that span and measure out ambition

Had fix'd to mine ; and, while I seem'd intent

On savage subjects and Numidian forests,

THE REV C. WOLFE 19

My soul had pass'd the bounds of Africa ! —
Defeated, overthrown I yet to the last
Ambition taught rne hope, and still my mind,
Through danger, flight, and carnage, grasp'd dominion i
And had not Bocchus — curses, curses on him ! —
What Rome has done, she did it for ambition ;
What Rome has done, I might — I would have done ;
What thou hast done, thou wretch ! — Oh had she proved
Nobly deceitful ; had she seized the traitor,
And join'd him with the fate of the betray'd,
I had forgiven her all ; for he had been
The consolation of my prison hours ;
I could forget my woes in stinging him ;
And if, before this day, his little soul

Had not in bondage wept itself away,

Rome and Jugurtha should have triumph'd o'er him.

Look here, thou caitiff, if thou canst, and see

The fragments of Jugurtha ; view him wrapt

In the last shred he borrowed from Numidia ;

'Tis cover'd with the dust of Rome ; behold

His rooted gaze upon the chains he wears,

And on the channels they have wrought upon him ;

Then look around upon his dungeon walls,

And view yon scanty mat, on which his frame

He flings, and rushes from his thoughts to sleep.
Sleep !

I'll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever :

When I slept last, T heard Adherbal scream.

I'll sleep no more ! I'll think until I die :

My eyes shall pore upon my miseries,

Until my miseries shall be no more. —

Yet wherefore did he scream ? Why, I have heard

His living scream, — it was not half so frightful.

Whence comes the difference ? When the man was living,

Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments

With placid vengeance, and each anguish'd cry

Gave me stern satisfaction ; now he's dead,

And his lips move not ; — yet his voice's image

Flash'd such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul,

20 REMAINS OF

I would not mount Numidia's throne again,
Did ev'ry night bring such a scream as that.
Oh yes, 'twas I that caused that living one,
And therefore did its echo seem so frightful : —
If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee ;
Wilt thou not be contented ?— But thou say'st,
'* My father was to thee a father also ;
He watch'd thy infant years, he gave thee all
That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came,

Than came a kingdom also ; yet didst thou"

Oh I am faint ! — they have not brought me food —

How did I not perceive it until now ?

Hold, — my Numidian cruise is still about me —

No drop within — Oh faithful friend, companion

Of many a weary march and thirsty day,

'Tis the first time that thou hast fail'd my lips. —

Gods ! I'm in tears ! — I did not think of weeping.

Oh Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this ?

Ha ! — I behold the ruins of a city;

And on a craggy fragment sits a form

That seems in ruins also ; how unmoved,

How stern he looks ! Amazement ! it is Marius !

Ha ! Marius, think'st thou now upon Jugurtha ?

He turns ! he's caught my eye ! I see no more !

The above poem was written in the first year of his
college course, at which early period he had gained the
highest distinction amongst his contemporaries for his
classical attainments. Towards the close of the same
year, he had to sustain a severe domestic affliction, in
the death of his mother, — an event which wrought
upon his affectionate heart an impression of the deepest
regret.

As soon as he was enabled to resume his studies, he
entered upon them with diligence. He did not, at first,
apply, with much interest or assiduity, to the course of
science prescribed in our university ; and it appears
that the circumstance which first led him to bestow

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 21

upon it the attention proportioned to its importance,
was a desire to assist some less gifted acquaintance in
that branch of his academic pursuits. This was in-
deed truly characteristic of his natural disposition,
which ever led him to apply himself with greater zeal in
promoting the advantage or interest of others than his
own. It had, however, a favourable effect upon his
own studies, as it drew out his talents for scientific ac-
quirements, and gave such an impulse to his progress,
that he soon after won the prize from the most distin-
guished competitors, at an examination in which the
severer sciences formed the leading subjects. When
his circumstances, some time afterwards, rendered it
expedient for him to undertake the duties of a college
tutor, he discharged the task with such singular devo-
ted ness and disinterested anxiety, as materially to en-
trench upon his own particular studies. He was indeed
so prodigal of his labour and of his time to each pupil,
that he reserved little leisure for his own pursuits or
relaxations.

At the usual period, he obtained a scolarship, with
the highest honour, upon which he immediately became
a resident in college. A new theatre of literary honour
was opened to him, at the commencement of the same
year, where his genius for composition in prose and
verse, and his natural powers of oratorical excellence,
had more ample sphere for exercise and cultivation.
In the Historical Society, of which he was now admit-
ted a member, they were encouraged and expanded by
the stimulus of generous competition, and by constant
mental collision with the most accomplished and en-
lightened of his fellow-students. He soon obtained
medals for oratory, and for compositions in prose and
verse ; and was early appointed to the honourable office
of opening the sessions, after the summer recess, by a
speech from the chair. This was the grand post of
distinction to which the most successful speakers in
the society continually aspired. The main object of
the address, was to unfold the advantages resulting

22

REMAINS OF

from the Institution, and to expatiate at large upon its
three leading departments, — History, Poetry, and Ora-
tory. Cur author, though he had not fully completed
his speech, was received with the highest applause, and
the gold medal was adjudged to him by unanimous ac-
clamation. This speech seems never to have been
written out fairly ; but some fragments of it have been
preserved, which, with a few other of his early produc-
tions, shall be presented to the reader in the course of
this volume.

Most of his poems were written within a very short
period, during his abode in college ; but the order in
which they were composed cannot be exactly ascer-
tained. It is not the editor's object to enter into any
minute critique upon the several fugitive little pieces
which are here collected together. They shall be ac-
companied principally with such brief notices as may
appear necessary to throw light upon the occasions
which gave rise to them, and the circumstances under
which they were written.

The next specimen of his poetical talents, which it
may not be uninteresting to insert here, seems to have
been but little valued by himself, as he never took the
trouble of transcribing more than a few lines from the
first rude sketch. His native modesty, and the fastid-
ious judgment which he exercised over all his own
compositions, led him often to undervalue what even his
most judicious friends approved and admired.

The subject of the present poem is one of great his-
torical interest. It chiefly refers to the battle of Busaco,
which first inspired the allied armies with mutual con-
fidence, and led the way to those successful struggles
which terminated in the complete deliverance of Portugal
from the usurpation and tyranny of France. A brief
account of this engagement, extracted from the Edin-
burgh Annual Register (vol. iii. p. 462,) may form an
appropriate introduction to the poem.

' Busaco, which was now to become famous in Bri-
tish history, had long been a venerable name in Portu-

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

93

gal. It is the only place in that kingdom where the
barefooted Carmelites possessed what, in their lan-
guage, is called a desart, an establishment where those
brethren whose devotion flies to the highest pitch, may
at once enjoy the advantage of the eremite, with the
security of the cenobite life ; one of those places
where man has converted an earthly paradise into a
purgatory for himself, but where superstition almost
seems sanctified by every thing around it. The soli-
tude and silence of Busaco were now to be broken by
events, in which its hermits, dead as they were to the
world, might be permitted to feel all the agitation of
worldly hope and fear. The British and Portuguse
army was posted along the ridge, extending nearly eight
miles, and forming the segment of a circle, whose ex-
treme points embraced every part of the enemy's po-
sition, and from whence every movement of the enemy
below could be immediately observed. On the 26th
Sept. 1810, the light troops on both sides were engaged
throughout the line ; at six on the following morning,
the French made two desperate attacks upon Lord Wel-
linton's position ; one on the right, the other on the
left of the highest point of the sierra : this spot is re-
markable as commanding one of the most extensive
views in Portugal ; and on the very summit stands a
cross, planted upon a basis of masonry of such magni-
tude, that it is said that three thousand carts of stone
were used in the work. One division of French in-
fantry gained the top of the ridge, and was driven back
with the bayonet ; another division, farther on the
right, was repulsed before it could reach the top. On
the left they made their attack with three divisions,
only one of which made any progress towards the sum-
mit, and this was charged with the bayonet, and driven
down with immense loss. Some of the Portuguese
charging a superior force, got so wedged in among
them, that they had not room to use their bayonets ;
they turned up the but-ends of their muskets, and plied
them with such vigour, as completely to clear the way."

24 REMAINS OF

BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF PORTUGAL

The breeze sigh'd sadly o'er the midnight flood ;
On Lisbon's tow'rs Don Henry's spirit stood :
He wore not helm, he wore not casque ; his hair
Streamed like a funeral banner in the air :
In mournful attitude, with aspect drear,
He held revers'd his country's guardian spear ;
Dark was his eye, and gloomy was his brow,
He gaz'd with sternness on the wave below ;
Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook,
While sorrow's torrent from his bosom broke : —
Fiends ! may the angel of destruction shed
This blood-red cup of horrors on your head !

Throughout, your camp may hell-born demons play,

Grin ruin to your host, and howl dismay !

Was it for this, dear, desolated shore !

I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour,

Allur'd from fairer Italy the maid,

And here the gound-works of the empire laid ? '

Is there a bolt to mortal guidance giv'n ? —

Where are the thund'ring delegates of Heav'n —

Through Europe's plains the tyrant's voice is heard,

And blood-red anarchy her flag- has rear'd,

Roll'd round her gorgon-eyes from native France,

And petrified the nations with a glance ;

Affrighted Italy her blasted vines

Has dropp'd, and Spain let fall her orange lines,

And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke

Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke.

Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave,

A heart to pity, and an arm to save ?

To Britain, glorious Britain, will I call,

Her bulwark, valour, — and the sea, her wall.

Around her crest, Gaul's jav'lins idly play,

And glance with baffled impotence away ;

Her hands the redd'ning bolts of vengeance bear,

Fate's on her helm, and death upon her spear ;

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

-She scorns at Victory's shrine her vows to pay,

She grasps the laurel, she commands the day.

England, what ! ho ! — as thus the spectre spoke,

All Lisbon's turrets to their bases shook : —

England, what ! ho ! — again the spectre cried,

And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide,

England, to arms ! — at this dread call advance !

Assist, defend, protect ! — now tremble, France !—

He spoke, — then plunged into the river's breast,

And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest.

O'er seas, o'er shores the solemn summons pass'd,

It rode upon the pinions of the blast :

The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are fled,

See ! the dawn broke as Britain rear'd her head !

With Albion's spear upon her shield she smote ;

Through every island rung the inspiring note.

Roused at the sound, the English lion rose,

And burnt to meet hereditary foes ;

From Highland rocks came ev'ry Scottish clan ;

Forward rush'd Erin's sons, and led the van :

The Usurper shook, — then sent each chief of name,

Partners of victory, sharers of his fame,

Who bore Gaul's standard through the hostile throng,

While Lodi trembled as they rush'd along ;

Who traversed Egypt's plains and Syria's waste,

And left a red memorial where they pass'd ;

Who bathed, midst French and Austrian heaps of slain,

Their gory footsteps on Marengo's plain :

And those who laid the Prussian glories low,

Yet felt a Brunswick's last expiring blow ;

Who on Vimeria's heights were taught to feel

The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel ;

Who hung on British Moore in his retreat,

And purchas'd dear experience by defeat.

Such were the chiefs that Gaul's batailia led ; —

Yet England came, they met her, and tliey fled.

At dark Busaco's foot stood France's might,

The hopes of Britain occupied the height.

3

.25

^6 REMAINS OF

Gaul's mantling terrors to the summit tend, —

Hold, Britain, charge not, — the attack suspend ; —

Hush'd be the British whirlwind, — not a breath

Be heard within thy host, — be still as death ! —

"With gathering gloom comes France's dark array,—

Rest, Britain on thy arms, — thy march delay —

See ! France has gain'd the summit of the hill !

See ! she advances ! Soldier yet be still —

She's at our bayonets, — touches every gun, —

Now speed thee, England ! and the work is done. —

Now where is France ? — Yon mountain heap of dead,

Yon scatter'd band will tell you how they sped ;

The dying groan, the penetrating yell,

May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell :

Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt,

Her brightest spear is shiver'd to the hilt.

Nor ceased they here ; but from the mountain height,

Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the Sght,

Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain,

And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train :

The vanquish'd squadrons dread an added loss ;

They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse; —

Why lingers Wellesley ? Does he fear their force ?

Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse ?

Alas ! by hands unseen, he deals the blow,

By hands unseen, he prostrates ev'ry foe.

One night — (and France- still shudders at that night,

Pregnant with death , with horror, and affright ;)

One night — on plans of victory intent,

A spy into the hostile camp he sent ;

It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivel'd, wild, —

A haggard visage that had never smiled ;

The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close,

The miscreant's eyes had never known repose ; —

Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way,

And Britain's soldiers, e'er the dawn of day,

Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's tread :-

For Famine — raging Famine claim'd her dead :

THE REV. C WOLFE.

•27

With frantic haste they fled the fatal post,
Long boldly held — now miserably lost ;
Dismay, confusion through the rout appear,
Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear.
No, sweet Humanity ! I dare not tell
How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell ;
I dare not paint the agonizing look
The mother gave, when Gaul her infant took, —
Took, and while yet the cherub's smile was fresh,
Pierced its fair limbs and tore its baby-flesh —
I dare not paint the wife's transporting woe,
When sunk her husband by Massena's blow ; —
Hear, thou dread warrior ! hear, thou man of blood !
Hear, thou, with female, infant gore imbrued !
When, sinking in the horrors of the tomb,
The avenging angel shall pronounce thy doom —
When war's loud yell grows faint, the drum's dead roll
Strikes languid, and more languid on the soul —
When Britain's cannons may unheeded roar,
And Wellesley's name has power to fright no more,—
Yon widow's shrieks shall pierce thee till thou rave,
And form a dread artillery in the grave !
Heard ye that burst of joy ? From Beira's coast
To Algarve's southern boundaries it crost ;
It pass'd from undulating Tagus1 source,
And burst where Guadiana holds his course.
Farewell ! proud France ! (they cried) thy power is broke -9
Farewell forever to thy iron yoke .'
But blest for ever be old Ocean's queen,
Still on his bosom may she reign serene.
When on these plains our future offspring gaze,
To them our grateful heart shall sound thy praise.
To Britain's generous aid these plains we owe,
For us she drew the sword, and bent the bow.
We sunk, we crouch'd beneath a tyrant's hand-
Victorious Britain loosed the usurper's band.
We bow'd to France, obey'd each stern decree,—
Majestic Britain rose — and all was free.

2S REMAINS OF

It requires no apology for introducing here a poem
already well known to the public — the Ode on the Bu-
rial of Sir John Moore. For some years past it has
excited considerable interest in the literary circles ;
and it was mentioned by a highly respectable authority,
as having been long a matter of surprise among them,
that its author had not revealed his name, or published
any other similar production. Subsequently to this ac-
count, it has obtained a very general popularity from
the splendid eulogium pronounced upon it by the late
Lord Byron. Little as the author himself seemed to val-
ue the shadowy prize of poetic reputation, or of any mere
worldly distinction, it appears but an act of literary
justice to establish his claim to the production of a po-
em so justly, and so honourably appreciated, by giving
it a place amongst his more valuable remains. The
noble poet's enthusiastic admiration of this nameless
and unpatronized effusion of genius, is authenticated
in a late work, entitled, " Medwin's Conversations of
Byron." The impress of such a name upon the poetic
merits of an ode deemed not unworthy of his lordship's
own transcendent powers, is too valuable not to be re-
corded here.

The passage alluded to occurs in vol ii. p. 154
(second edit.) of the above-mentioned publication, and
is as follows : —

" The conversation turned after dinner on the lyrical
poetry of the day ; and a question arose as to which
was the most perfect ode that had been produced. —
Shelley contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, be-
ginning— ' Ye Clouds,' &c. ; others named some of
Moore's Irish Melodies, and Campbell's Hohenlinden ;
and had Lord Byron not been present, his own Invoca-
tion in Manfred, or the Ode to Napoleon, or on Promo-
theus, might have been cited.

" ' Like Gray,' said he, ■ Campbell smells too much
of the oil : he is never satisfied with what he does ; his
finest things have been spoiled by over-polish. Like

THE REV. C WOLFE,

29

paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The great
art is effect, no matter how produced.

" ' I will shew you an ode you have never seen, that
I consider little inferior to the best which the present
prolific age has brought forth.' With this, he left the
table, almost before the cloth was removed, and return-
ed with a magazine, from which he read the following
lines on Sir John Moore's burial.

" 'The feeling with which he recited these admira-
ble stanzas I shall never forget. After he had come to
an end, he repeated the third, and said it was perfect,
particularly the lines —

* But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
' With his martial cloak around him.'

" ' I should have taken the whole,' said Shelley,' 'for
a rough sketch of Campbell's.'

" ' No,' replied Lord Byron; 'Campbell would have
claimed it, if it had been his.' "

The poem found its way to the press without the
concurrence or knowledge of the author. It was re-
cited by a friend in presence of a gentleman travelling
towards the north of Ireland, who was so much struck
with it, that he requested and obtained a copy ; and
immediately after, it appeared in the Newry Telegraph,
with the initials of the author's name. From that it
was copied into most of the London prints, and thence
into the Dublin papers ; and subsequently it appeared,
with some considerable errors, in the Edinburgh An-
nual Register, which contained the narrative that first
kindled the poet's feelings on the subject, and supplied
the materials to his mind. It remained for a long time
unclaimed; and other poems,* in the mean time, ap-
peared, falsely purporting to be written by the same
unknown hand, which the author would not take the
pains to disavow. It lately, however, seemed to have

* Amongst those was an " Address to Sleep," which appeared in
Blackwood's Magazine.

30 REMAINS OF

become the prey of some literary spoliators, whose dis-
honest ambition was immediately detected and exposed.
Indeed, it is hard to say, whether the claims were urg-
ed seriously, or whether it was a stratagem to draw out
the acknowledgment of the real author. However, the
matter has been placed beyond dispute, by the proof
that it appeared with the initials C. W., in an Irish print,
long prior to the alleged dates which its false claimants
assign.

It is unnecessary to enter into further particulars
upon this point, as the question has been set at rest ;
and as Captain Medwin, who at first conjectured the
poem to have been written by Lord Byron himself, has
avowed, in his second edition of his work, that " his
supposition was erroneous, and that it appears to be the
production of the late Rev. C. Wolfe." It may be in-
teresting to prefix the paragraph in the narrative of Sir
John Moore's burial, which produced so strong an
emotion in the mind of our author, and prompted this
immediate and spontaneous effusion of poetic genius.

" Sir John Moore had often said, that if he was killed
in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The
body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corun-
na. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there,
by a party of the 9th regiment, the aides du-camp at-
tending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the
officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was,
in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was
hastened ; for, about eight in the morning, some firing
was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious at-
tack were made, they should be ordered away, and not
suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his
family bore him to the grave ; the funeral service was
read by the chaplain ; and the corpse was covered with
earth." — Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808, p. 458.

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

I.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried*

II.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

III.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.
IV.
Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

V.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !
VI.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
VII.
But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ;
And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was suddenly firing.

3i

32 REMAINS OP

VIII.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone —

But we left him alone with his glory !

The principal errors in most of the copies of this po-
em were pointed out by an early friend of the author
in an eloquent letter, which appeared in the Morning
Chronicle, October 29th, 1824. One error, however,
which occurred in the first line of the third stanza, he
omitted to correct. The word " confined" was substi-
tuted for " enclosed," manifestly for the worse, as it
appears somewhat artificial, and inconsistent with the
nervous simplicity of thought and expression which
marks the whole poem. The third line of the fourth
stanza has been commonly altered thus — " on the face
of the dead." I cannot forbear quoting the critical
and just observations of the friend above mentioned,
upon this unhappy error. " The expression as it has
been printed, is common-place ; that for which it was
ignorantly substituted, is original and affecting. The
poet did not merely mean to tell us the fact, that the
comrades of Moore gazed on the face of their dead
chief, — but he meant to convey an idea of the impres-
sion which that form of death made upon them.
( They gazed on the face that ivas dead,' gives not
merely the fact, but the sentiment of death. It is like
some of those fine scriptural expressions where the
simplest terms are exuberant with imagination. It in-
timates the awful contrast between the heroic anima-
tion which kindled up that countenance just before in
action, and its now cold, ghastly, and appalling sereni-
ty."— Upon another error which has universally pre-
vailed, in the seventh stanza, the same eloquent friend
has observed, " The third and fourth lines have been
thus given,

* And we heard by the distant and random gun,
44 That the foe was suddenly firing :

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 33

But it was originally written,

* And we. heard the distant and random gun
* Of the enemy suddenly firing.'*

I need scarcely point out to any reader of the least
poetic taste the superiority of this passage to the fic-
titious one. The statement of the foe being sudden-
ly firing, implies a new and vigorous attack, which was
contrary to fact. The lines, as Wolfe wrote them, are
better poetry, and more agreeable to truth. They rep-
resent the enemy, who had come on with the flush of
anticipated victory, now sullen in defeat, firing rather
from vain irritation than useful valour, keeping up a
show of hostilities by * the distant and random gun,'
but not venturing on any fresh and animated onset. In
this way, the passage becomes as picturesque as it is
concise and energetic."

It appears from the interesting conversation in which
the above poem was assigned so high a place in the
lyrical compositions of our language, that Campbell's
Hohenlinden was also brought forward by some of the
company as one of the finest specimens of the same or-
der. This powerfully descriptive and sublime ode was
a peculiar favourite with our author. The awful im-
agery presented in such a rapid succession of bold and
vivid flashes, — the burning thoughts which break forth
in such condensed energy of expression, — and the in-
cidental touches of deep and genuine pathos which
characterise the whole poem, never failed intensely to
affect his imagination, and to draw out the most raptu-
rous expressions of admiration. It was, indeed, the

* The writer of the above observation seems not to have been
aware, that the fourth line of this stanza was at first written by the
author as I have copied it. It was subsequently altered in the way
he gives it, at the suggestion of a literary friend ; but it seems proper
to print it as it actually stands in the author's own manuscript, from
which I take it. There is no difference in sense ; but, perhaps, some
may think the rhythm better as it was originally written.

I

34 REMAINS OF

peculiar temperament of his mind, to display its emo-
tions by the strongest outward demonstrations.

Such were his intellectual sensibilities, and the cor-
responding vivacity of his animal spirits, that the ex-
citation of his feelings generally discovered itself by the
most lively expressions, and sometimes by an unre-
strained vehemence of gesticulation, which often af-
forded amusement to his more sedate or less impressible
acquaintances.

Whenever in the company of his friends any thing
occurred in his reading, or to his memory, which pow-
erfully affected his imagination, he usually started from
his seat, flung aside his chair, and paced about the
room, giving vent to his admiration in repeated excla-
mations of delight, and in gestures of the most anima-
ted rapture. Nothing produced these emotions more
strongly than music, of the pleasures of which he was
in the highest degree susceptible. He had an ear form-
ed to enjoy, in the most exquisite manner, the simplest
melody or the richest harmony. With but little culti-
vation, he had acquired sufficient skill in the theory of
this accomplishment to relish its highest charms, and
to exercise a discriminative taste in the appreciation of
any composition or performance in that delightful art.
Sacred music, above all, (especially the compositions
of Handel) had the most subduing, the most transport-
ing effect upon his feelings, and seemed to enliven and
sublimate his devotion to the highest pitch. He under-
stood and felt all the poetry of music, and was particu-
larly felicitous in catching the spirit and character of a
simple air or a national melody. One of two speci-
mens of the adaptation of his poetical talents to such
subjects may give some idea of this.

He was so much struck by the grand national Span-
ish air, " Viva el Rey Fernando," the first time he
heard it played by a friend, that he immediately com-
menced singing it over and over again, until he produ-
ced an English song admirably suited to the tune. The
air, which has the character of an animated march,

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 35

opens in a strain of grandeur, and suddenly subsides,
for a few bars, into a slow and pathetic modulation,
from which it abruptly starts again into all the enthu-
siasm of martial spirit. The words are happily adapted
to these transitions; but the air should be known, in
order that the merits of the song should be duly es-
teemed. The first change in the expression of the air
occurs at the ninth line of the song, and continues to
the end of the twelfth line.

SPANISH SONG.
Jlxr — Viva el Rey Fernando.

The chains of Spain are breaking —
Let Gaul despair, and fly ;

Her wrathful trumpet's speaking —
Let tyrants hear, and die.

Her standard o'er us arching

Is burning red and far ;
The soul of Spain is inarching

In thunders to the war. —
Look round your lovely Spain,
And say, shall Gaul remain ? —

Behold yon burning valley —

Behold yon naked plain —
Let us hear their drum —
Let them come, let them come '

For vengeance and freedom rally,

And, Spaniards ! onward for Spain !

Remember, remember Barossa —
Remember Napoleon's chain —
Remember your own Saragossa,

And strike for the cause of Spain-
Remember your own Saragossa,
And onward, onward for Spain !

36> REMAINS OF

The following little tale may serve to shew with
what feeling and refinement of taste he entered into
the spirit of our national melodies. It was designed as
a characteristic introduction to the well-known and ad-
mired song, — "The last Rose of Summer."

This is the grave of Dermid : — he was the best min-
strel among us all, — a youth of a romantic genius, and
of the most tremulous and yet the most impetuous feel-
ing. He knew all our old national airs, of every char-
acter and description : according as his song was in a
lofty or a mournful strain, the village represented a
camp or a funeral ; but if Dermid were in his merry
mood, the lads and lasses were hurried into dance with
a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One day our chieftain
committed a cruel and wanton outrage against one of
our peaceful villagers. Dermid's harp was in his hand
when he heard it. With all the thoughtlessness and
independent sensibility of a poet's indignation, he
struck the chords that never spoke without response, —
and the detestation became universal. He was driven
from amongst us by our enraged chief; and all his re-
lations, and the maid he loved, attended our banished
minstrel into the wide world. For three years there
were no tidings of Dermid, and the song and dance
were silent ; when one of our little boys came running
in and told us that he saw Dermid approaching at a dis-
tance. Instantly the whole village was in commotion ;
the youths and maidens assembled on the green, and
agreed to celebrate the arrival of their poet with a
dance ; they fixed upon the air he was to play for them ;
it was the merriest of his collection. The ring was
formed ; — all looked eagerly towards the quarter from
which he was to arrive, determined to greet their fa-
vourite bard with a cheer. But they were checked
the instant he appeared ; he came slowly and languidly
and loiteringly along ; — his countenance had a cold,
dim, and careless aspect, very different from that ex-
pressive tearfulness which marked his features, even in
his more melancholy moments : his harp was swinging

THE REV. C WOLFE. 37

heavily upon his arm ; — it seemed a burden to him ;
it was much shattered, and some of the strings were
broken. He looked at us for a few moments, — then,
relapsing into vacancy, advanced, without quickening
his pace, to his accustomed stone, and sat down in si-
lence. After a pause, we ventured to ask him for his
friends ; — he first looked up sharply in our faces, — next,
down upon his harp, — then struck a few notes of a
wild and desponding melody, which we had never heard
before ; but his hand dropped, and he did not finish it.
Again we paused — then, knowing well that if we could
give the smallest mirthful impulse to his feelings, his
whole soul would soon follow, we asked him for the
merry air we had chosen. We were surprised at the
readiness with which he seemed to comply ; — but it
was the same wild and heart-breaking strain he had
commenced. In fact, we found that the soul of the
minstrel had become an entire void, except one solita-
ry ray, that vibrated sluggishly through its very darkest
part : it was like the sea in a dark calm, which you
only know to be in motion by the panting which you
hear ; he had totally forgotten every trace of his form-
er strains, not only those that were more gay and airy,
but even those of a more pensive cast ; and he had got
in their stead that one dreary, single melody ; it was
about a lonely rose that had outlived all his compan-
ions ; this he continued singing and playing from day
to, day, until he spread an unusual gloom over the
whole village : he seemed to perceive it, for he retired
to the churchyard, and remained singing it there to
the day of his death. The afflicted constantly repair-
ed to hear it, and he died singing it to a maid who had
lost her lover. The orphans have learnt it, and still
chant it over poor Dermid's grave.

Another of his favourite melodies was the popular
Irish air " Gramachree." He never heard it without
being sensibly affected by its deep and tender expres-
sion ; but he thought that no words had ever been
written for it which came up to his idea of the peculiar

4

38

REMAINS OF

pathos which pervades the whole strain. He said they
all appeared to him to want individuality of feeling.
At the desire of a friend he gave his own conception
of it in these verses, which it seems hard to read, per-
haps impossible to hear sung, without tears.

SONG.

Air — Gramachree.

I.

If I had thought thon could'st have died,

I might not weep for thee ;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be ;
It never through my mind had past,

The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou should'st smile no more !

II.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again ;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain !
But when I speak — thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead !

III.

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold, and all serene —
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own ;
But there I lay thee in thy grave —

And I am now alone !

THE REV. C. WOLFE $®

IV.

1 do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me ;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee :
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore !

He was asked whether he had any real incident in
view, or had witnessed any immediate occurrence
which might have prompted these lines. His reply
was, " He had not ; but that he had sung the air over
and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which
mood he composed the words."

The following song was written, at the request of a
lady of high professional character as a musician, for
an air of her own composition, which I believe was
never published : —

SONG.
I.

Go, forget me — why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling ?

Go, forget me — and to-morrow
Brightly smile and sweetly sing.

Smile — though I shall not be" near thee :

Sing — though I shall never hear thee :
May thy soul with pleasure shine
Lasting as the gloom of mine !

Go, forget me, &c.

II.

Like the Sun, thy presence glowing,
Clothes the meanest things in light j;

And when thou, like him art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.

40 REMAINS OF

All things look'd so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee ;
By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too refined.
Like the Sun, &c.

III.

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell ;

Go, for me no longer beaming —
Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well !

Go, and all that once delighted

Take, and leave me all benighted ;
Glory's burning — generous swell,
Fancy and the Poet's shell.

Go, thou vision, &c.

THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY.

I.

I must tune up my harp's broken string,
For the fair has commanded the strain ;

But yet such a theme will I sing,
That 1 think she'll not ask me again :

II.

For I'll tell her — Youth's blossom is blown,
And that Beauty, the flower, must fade ;

(And sure, if a lady can frown,
She'll frown at the words I have said.)
III.

The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet !

They come. — and as quickly they fly :
The violet how modest and sweet I

Yet the Spring sees it open and die.
IV.

How snow-white the lily appears !

Yet the life of a lily 's a day ;
And the snow that it equals, in tears

To-morrow must vanish away.

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

V.

Ah, Beauty ! of all things on earth
How many thy charms most desire !

Yet Beauty with Youth has its birth, —
And Beauty with Youth must expire.

VI.

Ah, fair ones ! so sad is the tale,
That my song in my sorrow I steep ;

And where I intended to rail,
I must lay down my harp, and must weep.

VII.

But Virtue indignantly seized
The harp as it fell from my hand ;

Serene was her look, though displeased,
And she utter'd her awful command.

VIII.

" Thy tears and thy pity employ

" For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain-
" But those who my blessings enjoy

" Thy tears and thy pity disdain.

IX.

" For Beauty alone ne'er bestow 'd
" Such a charm as Religion has lent ;

" And the cheek of a belle never glow'd
" With a smile like the smile of content.

X.

" Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage,
" No hue, no complexion can brave ;

** For Beauty must yield to old age,
** But I will not yield to the grave."

41

The history of Mr. Wolfe's college life is too defi-
cient in incidents of general interest to dwell minutely
upon it. He never took any share in concerns of a

public nature ; but, on the contrary, endeavoured to

4#

42 REMAINS OF

shun all occasions of notoriety. This portion of his
life, accordingly, supplies but little other materials for
his memoir than a short account of his studies, and of
his few desultory poetical efforts. Before we enter upon
the more important part of his life, or attempt to ex-
hibit his character in its more serious aspect, it may be
well to collect together, in this part of the volume, the
principal compositions by which he distinguished him-
self amongst his fellow-students, and gave so fair a
promise of future celebrity. Two of those which ob-
tained medals in the Historical Society shall be given
here at full length, and such parts of his speech on
opening the sessions as the editor has been able to
collect with accuracy from the mutilated fragments of
the manuscript.

The prose composition which follows will be princi-
pally interesting to those who are conversant with the
usual course of academic studies. It seems unneces-
sary to add any explanatory notes for such readers ; and
perhaps no helps of this kind, that would not be abso-
lutely tedious, could materially heighten the interest to
others.

Its general design and manner may possibly remind
some readers of a beautiful paper by Addison, in the
Tatler, called, " The vision of the Hill of Fame." I do
not know that the author was acquainted with it : but
even though it may possibly have suggested the outline
of the plan to his mind, it will be found that the image-
ry and descriptive parts are perfectly original. In two
or three instances, the same characters which are intro-
duced in this vision appear in that of Addison ; but it
will probably be allowed that the peculiar genius and
character of each is more distinctly and fully brought
to light in this little work of fancy, and that, on the
whole, it need scarcely shrink from a comparison with
the beautiful paper above mentioned.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 43

THE COLLEGE COURSE.

At the close of that eventful day — to me the period
of a new existence, and the date to which I yet refer
many a pleasure and many a pain — on which I became
the adopted son of the university, I lay for a long time
pensive and sleepless, pondering on the state into
which I had entered, and anxious to ascertain what
treatment I was to expect from my second mother ; till
at length, though not naturally superstitious, I took my
gown, as yet perfect and untorn, and folding it up with
a sort of sacred awe, (not totally devoid of pride at my
new dignity,) I placed it on the bed, and, blessing the
omen, reclined my head upon this academic pillow.
You smile, no doubt, at the account — I have often
smiled at the recollection of it myself — and yet the
charm was successful ; for scarcely had I closed my
eyes, before it raised a vision which I shall never for-
get, and upon the remembrance of which, whether in
the midst of occupation or the midst of sorrows, I have
often lingered with fondness.

I fancied myself in front of those awful portals, from
which I had that day, for the first time, emerged. They
opened spontaneously ; and I beheld a monster of a
most extraordinary appearance seated in the entrance.
He had three heads ; and a poet would have called him
Cerberus ; but I, to whom nature never gave a simile,
discovered his name to be Syllogism. Two of the heads
grew from the same neck ; one larger than the other.
The third grew from the other two, and always leaned
to the weaker side. It seemed not to have any thing
original ; but catching at the words which fell at one
time from the greater head, and at the other from the
smaller, it formed a ludicrous combination from both.
They all talked with a sort of harsh and systematic
volubility ; and yet I was surprised to find, that their
whole grammar consisted of one verb, one case, and
one rule in syntax. At this moment, an old man ad-

44 REMAINS OF

vanced, of a most venerable and commanding appear-
ance ; and Syllogism shrunk at his approach. Instant-
ly I felt as if my mind was unfolding itself, and that
the recesses of my heart, and the springs of my feel-
ings, were thrown open to his view. His visage was
emaciated with cares, but they were not the cares of
the world ; his cheeks were pale with watching, but
they were not the vigils of avaiice. He turned to me
with a look of encouragement, and unfolded to my
eyes a map the most magnificent I had ever beheld —
it was a map of the intellect. There I saw a thousand
rivers, and thousands and ten thousands of rills and
rivulets branching from them ; yet all these he traced
to two grand sources; and the mountains whence those
sources issued, he told me, reached to heaven : and for
that very reason, clouds and impenetrable darkness
enveloped them. He then pursued them through all
thpir windings, — pausing, at times, to shew the delight-
ful verdure of their banks — their mild and equable
flow — and often pointing to the dreary desert occasion-
ed by their absence, and the frightful precipice by their
torrents. At length he traced them to the one grand
ocean — the ocean of knowledge. On this were innu-
merable straits and quicksands : and he shewed me the
waiers of probability, and the wrecks of millions who
had mistaken their soundings : and lastly, those vast
polar waters which the Deity had locked with barriers
of eternal ice, and from which, those who entered them
returned no more. I observed that he was rather
garrulous and fond of repetition ; but I checked any
disrespectful idea that might occur, by recollecting it
was the effect of his condescension. He waved the
roll at his departure ; and retiring, he left me in admi-
ration.

The next was one whose steps were irregularly slow,
and his paces measured with extreme exactness. His
eye was rivetted upon a chain which he w.is slowly link-
ing ; the links were eternal adamant, and the chain was
indissoluble. His look was the most contemplative I

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 45

had ever beheld : Reason seemed totally to have ex-
pelled all the passions, (which frequently share, and
sometimes usurp her throne,) and to reign uncontrolled
upon his brow ; until, at the close of about five min-
utes, when he had accomplished some happy link in his
chain, he gave a start of ecstacy, and Reason seemed
to share her throne with Joy, and to reign triumphant
and combined upon his brow. Two other sages then
approached hiin, and from their conference, I collect-
ed that these two were Plato and Pythagoras ; and that
their intention was to lay the foundation of their tem-
ple of science. Pythagoras laid the corner stone : all
mutually contributed their labours ; but I observed that
they consigned to the first the arrangement of the ma-
terials. More than half the work was effected, when
their strength began to droop, and I trembled for the
temple, — I trembled for mankind ; when a youth ad-
vanced, arrayed in a robe depicted with strange sym-
bols and characters ; his language was almost wholly
numerical, so that I could not discover the country from
which he came ; but I believe he was an Arab : he
joined them with alacrity ; and the foundation was com-
plete.

Just at that moment a flourish of martial music as-
sailed my ear, so grand that Plato, Pythagoras, and the
temple were forgotten, and every sense was directed to
the quarter whence it issued. A flood of glory envel-
oped him who entered, and concealed him, at first,
from my view ; but I heard the thunder of his foot-
steps. At length, I perceived an old man of the most
august deportment : gods and men appeared to obey
him ; for he raised his sceptre to heaven, and it thun-
dered ; he stretched it over the earth, and a shock of a
thousand armies was heard ; he struck the ground, and
the groans of Erebus arose. His garment flowed loose
and unrestrained ; and a crown of immortal amaranths
overshadowed his brow, in artless and unarranged lux-
uriance. I now found that I had known him long be-
fore ; the fire of heaven was in his eyes ; and this was

46 REMAINS OF

the cause that I did not at first recollect that I had
known him before ; for then he was blind ; but the
powers of darkness could no longer control them, and
they had " burst their cerements." I knew him now;
and knowing him, I almost instinctively looked for an-
other, and that other came. Unlike the rapid step of
the former, his was composed and majestic ; his gar-
ment flowed — not unrestrained, but was adjusted with
the most graceful and admirable symmetry : his wreath
was not so luxuriant, but selected and combined with a
taste the most fascinating and charming : he held a
golden ploughshare in his right hand, and in his left
a rich cluster of grapes ; while bees fluttered in harm-
less swarms around his garland. He approached the
first with a timid and hesitating step, and plucked
some of the amaranths from his crown : the first turned
to detect the theft ; but when he perceived the exqui-
site judgment with which they were disposed, he beam-
ed forth an immortal smile of approbation : it was the
smile of Apollo upon Mercury, when he found that he
had stolen his arrows.

Then came one in whose sparkling eye and rosy
cheeks, wit and good humour for ever beamed. I found
I had known him before ; and I confess I had the im-
pudence to run and shake hands with him. His crown
was of almost every leaf and flower that the earth pro-
duces ; among the rest, the myrtle of Venus, and the
vine-leaf of Bacchus. At one time he gave enforce-
ment to virtue and morality, with as much gravity as he
could command ; at another, he handed me a goblet
with an enchanting familiarity. I observed that he had
an arrow from the quiver of Cupid ; yet, as soon as he
had anointed it with a juice he had obtained from Mo-
mus, it became the shaft of Satire. At length he reti-
red, and bidding me not to forget the happy hours we
had spent together, he followed the other two. — Fare-
well, immortal bards, I will not forget you : I will often
turn from occupation and the world to you ; and even
when I enter on paths strewed with the flowers of oth-

THE REV. C. WOLFE, 47

er poets, I will remember that many of the sweetest are
yours !

Then appeared a hero in a Grecian habit, who seem-
ed deeply intent upon delineating a portrait, and, from
the inscription, 1 perceived it to be that of Socrates.
When it was perfected, he suddenly dropped the por-
trait, and grasped his sword, but still retained the pen ;
at the same time, an invisible hand spread the spoils of
Persia over his shoulders.

Next came a Roman, whose words and appearance
were widely at variance ; his loose garments indicated
his dissolute life, while his language was chaste and
succinct ; his gestures indicated the debauchee, while
historic truih and philosophic morality issued from his
tongue.

The next was in the habit of a Carthaginian slave :
modest wit and unaffected humour came in all the sim-
plicity of nature from his lips : he held a volume which
he incessantly studied, and in which I perceived the
name of Menander. I then saw one whose face it was
impossible to behold without laughter : — the most poig-
nant and yet the most indirect satire was depicted in every
feature. I knew that he was a native of the East, as
he discharged his arrows in the Parthian method ; but
he wore a Grecian garment, so truly graceful and gen-
uine, that it would not have disgraced the wardrobe of
Plato. Still I could not help feeling some indignation,
when I saw him point his arrow in the direction in
which Homer departed, and set his foot upon the im-
age which Xenophon had dropt. I believe he perceiv-
ed my displeasure ; for he turned, and handing me
three volumes, which I found to be Herodotus, Thu-
cydides, and Xenophon, accompanied them with such
a beautiful flow of precepts upon the mode in which I
should imitate them, that I totally forgot my resent-
ment.

Two others then appeared, similar in many respects,
yet possessing some striking marks of difference. The
first wielded a vengeful lash, under which folly and

48

REMAINS OF

vice writhed in torture. Bold, intrepid, and open was
his brow ; and as the streams of satire issued from his
tongue, Rome seemed to rise with all its debauchery
before me ; — yet, once that he extended his theme to
mankind in general, Rome and its peculiarities were
forgotten, and he burst forth into a strain of such sub-
lime morality, that I listened in expectation that, in
the next sentence, I should hear the name of Christ
issuing from his lips. The second who appeared used
the lash with the same adroitness and severity, but
with more caution. He seemed fearful of detection : —
his face was muffled in such a manner, that many words
escaped my ear, and therefore I could not always fully
understand him.

Scarcely had they departed, when I thought I heard
the shout of countless multitudes ; and a Grecian and
a Roman entered, both in the attitude of speaking.
The first looked like Jove haranguing the gods. The
thunder seemed to issue from his tongue, and the light-
ning from his eye ; he stopped not to ornament, but ail
was irresistibly simple and commanding. But the
second put me in mind of 'Apollo : — the Graces and
the Muses seemed to throng around the rostra on which
he stood : the music of Helicon was on his lips ; and
his eye, though devoid of the lightning of the former,
beamed with a steady and diffusive light, — an eye that
told all that was within, and collected all that was with-
out. The first clanked a massy chain, and defied me
to elude it ; the second, ere I was aware, had silently
entangled me in golden shackles. A civic crown ap-
peared to descend, and was just lighting upon the head
of the first, when I beheld one hastily advance, and
attempt to withdraw it ; he was equal to his antagonist
in agility, but inferior in strength, and after a de-perate
contest he was compelled to yield, and the crown rest-
ed for ever on the victor's brow. Over the head of the
last was inscribed, in characters of living gold, " Pater
Patriae, " — and tyrants, usurpers, women, and hirelings,
eagerly attempted in vain to erase it.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 49

But who can describe the scene that followed ? — a
scene of stupendous grandeur and overwhelming mag-
nificence. For then advanced the man of science —
the priest of nature, who cast a long and venturous
look into the holy of holies ! the sanctuary of crea-
tion. Heaven and Earth saluted him — the Elements
paid him homage, and Nature gave a burst of univer-
sal gratulation. He waved his wand, — and it seemed
as if a vast curtain had been withdrawn from ti,e face
of heaven, and I saw the Sun with all his satellites in
tenfold magnitude and splendour, as if just fresh from
the Creator ; the print of his hand was upon them ;
and the traces of his finger when he described the or-
bits in which they should move, were visible ; the har-
mony of their motions was so great that it could not
be confined to one sense ; the harps of cherubim and
seraphim beat time to their movements ; — " the morning
stars were singing together, and all the sons of God
were shouting for joy." 1 looked again at the sage : —
angels and archangels were conversing with him, and
were revealing to him the mysteries of the universe.
After some interval, he stooped to the earth, — and a
voice, (as it were) from the bowels of the earth, seem-
ed to declare the secrets of its prison-house, and the
power of that tremendous grasp which holds the world
together. Instantly a great number of philosophers
crowded around him to catch the sound of the voice :
each, according to the different words which he caught,
formed some peculiar instrument, either of surprising
efficacy, or beautiful construction. Still I never with-
drew my eyes from him, upon whom indeed all eyes
were intent ; and I beheld a rainbow, like a glory, en-
circling his brow ; and the seven colours of heaven
beamed with a living lustre around him.

I know not how to describe the ludicrous circum-
stance which drew my attention from a scene so en«^
chanting ; I saw a figure approach, which I did not at
first perceive to be myself, so tattered and disfigured
was my academic dress ; while I was looking at my-

5

50 REMAINS OF

self with the most sincere mortification,* my gown be-
gan gradually to gather itself into large and graceful
folds above my whole person ; the sleeves began to
lengthen ; and a sleek velvet overspread the unsightly
pasteboard of my cap. I assure you, I gazed with
perfect self-conceit upon the improvement of my cos-
tume ; but I was soon roused from my dream of vanity,
by the appearance of Archimedes weighing the king of
Syracuse's crown in water, and detecting the fraud of
its master.

Then advanced two buskined Grecians, both in long
and sweeping garments, who looked with an eye of
jealousy upon each other, and often related the same
tale in different style and language, but still with all its
shades of sorrow and horror. Their voices both seem-
ed to have softened down the deep-toned thunder of
Homer, into the refined tenderness of Athenian music.
They were attended by a band of virgins, who mim-
icked all their motions, — wept as they wept, and raged
as they raged Their language was sometimes so enig-
matical, that, but for their beauty, I should have taken
them for sphinxes.

The last of that illustrious train which my vision
presented, unfolded an immense picture, where I saw
Rome in all and throvgh all its vicissitudes. I saw it
rising under Romulus, — and sinking beneath the Gauls,
— reviving under Camillus, — trembling befoie Hanni-
bal,— triumphant with Scipio, — the mistress of the
world beneath Augustus. But alas ! a large and bril-
liant portion was lacerated and defaced ; and I, in the
warmth of my emotions, cursed the unclassichand that
could mar so fair a picture. I then heard a confused
noise of Reason, right Reason, Obligation, Govern-
ment,— when, unluckily, my cap, which I had hung but
loosely on a peg, fell and awoke me. I must how-
ever remark, that there were many forms, in academic

* It may be proper to observe, that this alludes to the change of
academic costume upon obtaining a scholarship, which honourable
distinction he had just then acquired.

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

51

dresses, passing to and fro during my dream, which I
did not then notice, but which I have since learnt to
value most dearly ; friends, who have since formed the
brightest parts of the picture, and without whom, the
beauties of the rest would to me have almost termina-
ted with the vision in which they appeared ; — friends,
to whom I have turned from the page of Horace, to re-
alize the scenes he has described ; whose kindness has
assisted me, — whose generosity has upheld me, — and
whose conversation has heightened my hours of pleas-
ure, and mitigated my days of despair : and when I
shall revert from the toils of manhood, and the imbe-
cility of age, to this youthful period, it shall not be one
of my least gratifications to recollect, that while I was
employed in cultivating an acquaintance with the illus-
strious dead, I did not neglect to form a still more en-
dearing attachment to the living.

PATRIOTISM.

Angels of glory ! came she not from you ?

Are there not patriots in the heav'n of heav'ns 1

And hath not every seraph some dear spot —

Throughout th' expanse of worlds some favourite home

On which he fixes with domestic fondness ?

Doth not e'en Michael on his seat of fire,

Close to the footstool of the throne of God,

Rest on his harp awhile, and from the face

And burning glories of the Deity,

Loosen his rivetted and raptured gaze,

To bend one bright, one transient downward glance,

One patriot look upon his native star ?

Or do I err ? — and is your bliss complete,

Without one spot to claim your warmer smile,

And e'en an angel's partiality ?

And is that passion, which we deem divine,

Which makes the timid brave, the brave resistless,—

Makes men seem heroes, — heroes, demigods —

A poor, mere mortal feeling ? — No ! 'tis false !

The Deity himself proves it divine ;

53 REMAINS OF

For when the Deity conversed with men,

He was himself a Patriot !* — to the earth —

To all mankind a Saviour was he sent,

And all he loved with a Redeemer's love ;

Yet still, his warmest love, his tenderest care,

His life, his heart, his blessings, and his mournings,

His smiles, his tears, he gave to thee, Jerusalem —

To thee, his country ! — Though, with a prophet's gaze,

He saw the future sorrows of the world ;

And all the miseries of the human race,

From age to age, rehearsed their parts before him jj

Though he beheld the fall of gasping Rome,

Crush'd by descending Vandals ; though he heard

The shriek of Poland, when the spoilers came ;

Though he saw Europe in the conflagration

Which now is burning, and his eye could pierce

* The observation of Bishop Newton upon the passage of Scripture
thus-- alluded to, may be introduced here as authority for the boldness
of this expression. — " So deeply was our Saviour affected, and so ten-
derly did he lament over the calamities which were coming upon his
nation ! Such a generous and amiable pattern of a. patriot-spirit hath
he left to his disciples, and so contrary to truth is the insinuation of a
noble writer, that there is nothing in the Gospels to recommend and
encourage the love of one's country !" — 18th Dissert, on the Prophe-
cies, vol. ii. p. 138.

I beg leave to add a quotation from Brown's admirable Essays on
Lord Shaftesbury's Characteristics. To the objection of the noble
writer, that " Christianity does not enjoin a zeal for the public and our
country," — it is thus replied : " If by zeal for the public, and love of
our country be meant such a regard to its welfare as shall induce us to
sacrifice every view of private interest for its establishment, yet still
in subordination to the greater law of universal justice, — that is natu-
rally, nay, necessarily involved in the law of universal charity. The
noble writer indeed affirms, that it is no essential part of the Chris-
tian's charity. On the contrary, it is a chief part of the Christian's
charity. It comes nobly recommended by the examples of Jesus and
St. Paul ; the one wept over the approaching desolation of his coun-
try ; the other declared his willingness to be cut off from the Christian
community, if by this means he might save his countrymen." Speak-
ing of the principle of universal love, in which this natural affection is
included, the same author observes : " Christianity alone hath kindled
in the heart of man this vital principle, which, beaming there as from
a centre, like the great fountain of light and life that sustains and
cheers the attendant planets, renders its proselytes indeed burning;
and shining lights, shedding their kindly influence on all around them
in that just proportion which their respective distances may demand."
—Pp. 231, 236.— Editor.

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

The coming woes that we have yet to feel ; —

Yet still, o'er Sion's walls alone he hung ;

Thought of no trench but that round Sion cast ;

Beheld no widows mourn, but Israel's daughters ;

Beheld no slaughter but of Judah's sons —

On them alone the tears of Heav'n he dropp'd ;

Dwelt on the horrors of their fall — and sigh'd,

M Hadst thou but known, even thou in this thy day,

" The things which do belong unto thy peace, —

" Hadst thou, O hadst thou known, Jerusalem !" —

Yet well he knew what anguish should be his

From those he wept for ; well did he foresee

The scourge — the thorns — the cross — the agony 5

Yet still, how oft upon thy sons he laid

The hands of health ; how oft beneath his wing

Thy children would have gather'd, O Jerusalem ! —

Thou art not mortal — thou didst come from Heav'11,

Spirit of patriotism ! thou art divine !

Then, seraph ! where thy first descent on earth f

Heav'n's hallelujahs, for what soil abandon'd ? —

Close by the side of Adam, ere he woke

Into existence, was thy hallowed stand ;

On Eden, and on thee, his eyes unclosed :

For say, — instead of wisdom's sacred tree,

And its sweet fatal fruit, had Heav'n denied

His daily visit to his natal spot, —

Say, could our father boast one day's obedience ?—

And wherefore, Eden, when he pass'd for ever

Thy gates, in slow and silent bitterness, —

Why did he turn that look of bursting anguish

Upon thy fruits, thy groves, thy vales, thy fountains,

And why inhale with agonising fervour

The last — last breeze that blew from thee upon him ?.— ■

'Twas not alone because thy fruits were sweet —

Thy groves were music — and thy fountains, health —

Thy breezes, balm — thy valleys, loveliness ;

But that they were the first his ear, eye, taste,

Or smell, or feeling had perceived or tasted,

Heard, seen, inhaled ; — because thou wert his country!

Yes, frail and sorrowing sire, thy sons forgive thee !

5*

53

54 REMAINS OF

True, thou hast lost us Eden and its joys,

But thou hast suffer'd doubly by the loss !

We were not born there — it was not our country !

O holy Angel -' thou hast given us each

This substitute for Paradise ; with thee,

The vale of snow may be our summer walk ;

The pointed rock, the bower of our repose ;

The cataract, our music ; while, for food,

Thy fingers, icy-cold, perhaps may pluck

The mountain-berry ; yet, with thee, we'll smile —

Nor shiver, when we hear, that father Adam

Once lived in brighter climes, on sweeter food. —

But, ah ! at least to this our second Eden

Permit no artful serpent to approach ;

Let no foul traitor grasp at fruits which thou

Hast interdicted ; and no sword of flame

Flash forth despair, and wave us to our exile.

Yet, rather than that I should rise in shame

Upon my country's downfall, or should draw

One tear from her, or e'en one frown from thee —

Rather than that I should approach her walls,

Like Caius Marcius, with her foes combined,

Or turn, like Sylla, her own sons upon her, —

Let me sit down in silence, by thy side,

Upon the banks of Babylon, — and weep,

When we remember all that we have lost :

Nor shall we always on the stranger's willow

Allow our harp in sorrow to repose ;

But when thy converse has inspired my soul,

Roused it to frenzy, taught me to forget

Distance, and time, and place, and wo, and exile,

And I no more behold Euphrates' bank,

And hearno more the clanking of my fetters, —

Then, in thy fervours, shalt thou snatch thy harp,

And strike me one of Sion's loftiest songs,

Until I pour my soul upon the notes —

Deep from my heart — and they shall waft it home.

OErin ! O my mother ! I will love thee !

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

Whether upon thy green, Atlantic throne,

Thousitt'st august, majestic, and sublime ;

Or on thy empire's last remaining fragment,

Bendest forlorn, dejected and forsaken, —

Thy smiles, thy tears, thy blessings, and thy woes,.

Thy glory and thy infamy, be mine !

Should Heav'n but teach me to display my heart,

With Deborah's notes thy triumphs would I sing —

Would weep thy woes with Jeremiah's tears ;

But for a. warning voice, which though thy fall

Had been begun, should check thee in mid-air, —

Isaiah's lips of fire should utter, Hold ! —

Not e'en thy vices can withdraw me from thee ; —

Thy crimes I'd shun — thyself 'would still embrace ;

For, e'en to me, Omnipotence might grant

To be the " tenth just man," to save thee, Erin ! —

And when I leave thee, should the lowest seat

In heav'n be mine, — should smiling mercy grant

One dim and distant vision of its glories, —

Then if the least of all the blest can mix

With heaven one thought of earth, — I'll think of thee I

55

The fragments of the speech delivered from the
chair, in the Historical Society, which shall now be
presented to the reader, can give but an imperfect idea
of its merits as a whole ; however, they may serve to
exhibit the character of his mind at that early period
of his life, and afford an interesting ground of compari-
son between his juvenile efforts as <i speaker, and his
graver exertions in maturer years, when the sublime
realities of religion had more fully engaged those sen-
sibilities which were now so keenly alive to the romance
of poetry and the charms of general literature.

After a modest and appropriate introduction, and a
high panegyric on the objects and constitution of the
society he was addressing, the speaker thus, pro-
ceeds : —

56 REMAINS OF

She (the Historical Society) sends her ambassador,
to recall the wavering and disaffected to their allegi-
ance, by displaying the beauties of her constitution ;
that you may not desert the station for which nature
and education have designed you ; that you should not
dare to frustrate a nation's hope, which looks to you
for the guardians of her laws and the champions of her
political prosperity ; that you should not presume to
neglect the voice of your God, who demands from
among you the supports of his church ; that a portion
of mind, — a mass of concentrated intellect, may issue
from these walls, and overshadow the land ; and that,
at length, after a glorious career of enlightened and
diffusive utility, you may retire with dignity from the
part you have acted, and Ireland command posterity to
imitate your example. Such are the objects to which
you are now invited, from low pursuits and sordid
gratifications.

tP 9r tt t£ w

Poetry* demands no laborious intellectual intensity
to imbibe her angelic counsels ; it is upon the hours of
our pleasures she descends ; it is our recreation she
exalts. Thus, she makes our hours of rapture or en-
joyment, the hours of our greatest elevation of soul :
our relaxations become the most dignified moments of
our existence.

Will Science bend from her throne, or Philosophy
relax her stateliness, to attend us in our brighter mo-
ments and regulate our pleasures ? Science and Philos-
ophy we must follow for their favours ; but lovely, love-
ly Poetry condescends to be our companion. Poetry
possesses an attribute of which all her sisters are des-
titute. The mind must conform itself to them ; but
Poetry conforms herself to the mind : she accompanies

* The introductory part of the subject of Poetry (which those who
heard the speech delivered can recollect as peculiarly happy,) is not
to be found amongst the loose papers from which these fragments are
transcribed. This will account for the abruptness with which this
part commences. — Editor.

THE RET. C. WOLFE* 57

it in every varied posture and every delicate inflection^
— in buoyancy, and exertion, and indolerice.

It is this insinuation into all our pleasures, which
gives her a species of omnipresence ; for, to him who
loves her, — where is not Poetry ? * * *

And believe not those who tell you that she will se-
duce the youthful mind from severe occupations — that
science is excluded from her power, and philosophy
from the heaven of her conversation. In the first ages
of man, the Sciences entered the world in the disguise
of Poetry. Morality it not only taught but impelled.
Instruction was conveyed not by preceptive sternness,
but by the burst of inspiration. The bard was then
all in all. He accounted for the phenomena of nature ;
he inquired into the essence of the mind ; and the
savage looked up to him for the ethics that were to reg-
ulate his conduct. Poetry (it is known) had an early
and intimate connexion with Astronomy : some say
that she was born in yonder starry sphere, — that she
first descended upon man, in the dews of heaven, while
gazing on the firmament ; and the first music that
saluted mortal ears, was the harmony of the morning
stars : and, in process of greater refinement, when
Poetry and Philosophy were necessarily distinguished,
yet did their union and attachment still remain. To-
gether they visited the same happy plains : the Muses
danced in the groves of Academus : and Greece gave
the world at once its sages and its bards.

But didactic poetry not only admits, but requires the
co-operation of Philosophy and Science ; and our bold
and independent language, by removing the barriers of
rhyme, has thrown open to both a wider range for
combined exertion. Then doubt not the rapturous ex-
clamation of that sightless bard, who could penetrate
all the mysteries of the one, and tasted all the joys and
consolations of the other, when he cried in admiration,

" How charming is divine Philosophy !"

for he found it

" musical as is Apollo's lyre."

5S REMAINS OP

O divine preceptress! that extinguishes no youthful
ardour, but sends it kindling up to heaven, — that col-
lects all the riches of the material creation, to beautify
and illustrate the moral world, — that, by instilling ad-
miration of what is lovely and sublime, assimilates the
soul to what it admires, — that, setting unattainable per-
fection in the eye of youth, yet renders it so fascinating
that he cannot but proceed.

# # # # #

But the science which Poetry loves most to study and
to inculcate, is the philosophy of human nature, — the
science of the human heart. The man of the world
will tell you that he understands it, and will send you
to the world as the source of his knowledge. He has
collected a few loathsome and selfish depravities, and
bestows them, without distinction of character, as the
attributes of the whole human race ; and the result of
all his important calculations, mighty researches, and
accumulated experience, is caution, distrust, and a con-
tracted heart. But do not you likewise ; do you look
upon your common nature with hearts full of sensibili-
ty ; weak as it is, contemplate its grand and generous
faculties, as well as its baser ingredients ; — let it be
yours to pity — perhaps to improve it. Poetry, both
ancient and modern, presents the heart and passions
perpetually to our contemplation.

# # # * *

The criticism of Poetry is perhaps the best introduc-
tion to an analysis of the human mind. The dreari-
ness of metaphysical abstraction has often deterred
genius from attempting a rugged pursuit, in which the
mind is almost always fugitive, and will not pause to
admit of a near inspection : but to ascertain the nature
of the sublime, the beautiful, and picturesque,— to in-
vestigate the sources of our purest pleasures, and cul-
tivate a taste, quick, delicate, and philosophical, — these
bestow a gracefulnes and elegance upon metaphysical
disquisitions, that relax their sternness, and invite to
more profound investigation. Nor would they merely

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 59

invite, — they would advance, they would enliven our
progress ; and a sensibility of taste would make us ac-
quainted with many a posture, and many a nice inflec-
tion of the mind, which logical and unrefined penetra-
tion would never have discovered.

# * # # *

But the man of the world interposes, and tells us our
joys are but ideal. Poor wretch ! and what are your
realities 1 The smile of capricious royalty, which the
next hour's detraction may turn to a frown ; the shout
of a stupid multitude, which scarcely waits a change of
sentiment before it becomes the hiss of detestation ;
the roar of nocturnal intemperance, which soon dies
away in the groans of an expiring constitution ; a cat-
alogue of possessions, which extravagance may dissi-
pate, which the robber may enjoy, and which war and
the elements may annihilate ; and, when sorrow and
misfortune shall send you to your own heart for conso-
lation, you will find it without imagination, to enliven,
and yet without sensibility enough to break it. — Give
me my visions and my phantoms again ; they will not
desert me, — phantoms as they are, the world has not
the magic to dispel them ; they shall still remain to
give rapture to my joy and alleviation to my sorrows ;
for gracious Nature has decreed that imagination shall
survive when friends and fortune have forsaken us :
nay, even when reason itself has departed, and even
when the noblest of our faculties is fled, not madness
itself should quench that loveliest one : and well did
the Grecian bard attest his conviction that the Muse
would not abandon her afflicted votaries, when, amid
the horrors of shipwreck, the poet stood naked over
the ruins of his fortune, and said, " I have lost no-
thing." Yet, once he had enjoyed all the pomp and
magnificence of courts, and all the luxury that afflu-
ence could procure ; but well he knew that winds and
waves could not waft him from his Muse. They might
fling him in mid-ocean, and one single, solitary rock,
amid the wilderness of waters, might be his home, —

60 REMAINS OF

yet even there the Mus? would follow ; — she would seat
him on the topmost crag, and place all the grandeur of
sky and ocean beneath his dominion, — the riches of the
firmament,

" And all the dread magnificence of heaven."

He would exult in the terrors of the deep, and hold
mysterious converse with the genius of the storm ; —
the very desolation that surrounded him wouid minis-
ter to his pleasures, and add a fearful enthusiasm to his
contemplations. Nor, to these alone would his enjoy-
ments be confined : but, while he seemed chained by
nature to the rock on which he sat, his soul might be
wandering into regions wild and luxuriant as the fancy
that gave them birth, which Philosophy was never des-
tined to discover, nor even Poetry, till then, had ex-
plored.

Nor will the Muse leave her son comfortless in that
more dreary solitude into which he may be drifted by
shi >wreck upon an ungrateful world, where the poet
stands isolated in the midst of mankind.

Tiiere lived a divine old man, whose everlasting re-
mains we have all admired, whose memory is the pride
of England and of Nature. His youth was distinguish-
ed by a happier lot than, perhaps, genius has often en-
joyed at the commencement of its career : he was ena-
bled, by the liberality of fortune, to dedicate his soul to
the cultivation of those classical accomplishments in
which almost his infancy delighted : he had attracted
admiration at the period when it is most exquisitely
felt : he stood forth the literary and political champion
of republican England ; — and Europe acknowledged
him the conqueror But the storm arose ; his fortune
sunk with the republic which he had defended ; the
name which future ages have consecrated was forgot-
ten ; and neglect was embittered by remembered ce-
lebrity. Age was advancing — Health was retreating —

THE REV. C WOLFE.

61

Nature hid her face from him for ever, for never more
to him returned —

" Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
" Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
*',0r Mocks or herds, or human face divine." —

What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from
penury — from neglect — from infamy — from darkness 1
— Not in a querulous and peevish despondency: not in
an unmanly recantation of principles — erroneous , but
unchanged ; not in the tremendous renunciation of
what Heaven has given, and Heaven alone should take
away ; — but he turned from a distracted country and a
voluptuous court, — he turned from triumphant enemies
and inefficient friends, — he turned from a world that
to him was a universal blank, to the Muse that sits
among the cherubim, — and she caught him into heav-
en ! — The clouds that obscured his vision upon earth
instantaneously vanished before the blaze of celestial
effulgence, and his eyes opened at once upon all the
glories and terrors of the Almighty, — the seats of eter-
nal beatitude and bottomless perdition. What, though
to look upon the face of this earth- was still denied —
what was it to him, that one of the outcast atoms of
creation was concealed from his view — when the Deity
•permitted the Muse to unlock his mysteries, and dis-
close to the poet the recesses of the universe — when
she bade his soul expand into its immensity, and enjoy
as well its horrors as its magnificence — what was it to
him that he had " fallen upon evil days and evil
tongues," for the Muse could transplant his spirit into
the bowers of Eden, where the frown of fortune was
disregarded, and the weight of incumbent infirmity for-
gotten in the smile that beamed on primeval innocence,
and the tear that was consecrated to man's first disobe-
dience.

63

REMAINS OF

The Muse, in this instance, raised the soul immedi-
ately, almost visibly, to heaven, and brought Religion,
with all her charms, to co-operate in the consolation she
bestowed. — But were we to analyse the effects of Poet-
ry, we should soon discover that this is no partial un-
ion, but that the Muse must be necessarily a worship-
per and an adorer of the Deity. I do not call upon you
to view her in the moments of enraptured piety, — in
her vigils and devotions with Young, or her heavenly
conversations with Cowper : it is her interest that there
should be a God — it is her occupation to dwell with de-
light upon his attributes ; for are not the beautiful and
sublime perpetual objects of her contemplation ? And
she will naturally seek where they reside in superior
perfection ; — and where shall she look for sublimity but
in that unseen Being in whom is nothing finite, — that
Being of eternity, immensity, and omnipotence 1 Nay,
even in ideas of inferior sublimity, obscurity and terror,
that are their leading characteristics, often impart a
nameless sensation of some unknown and mysterious
presence ; and darkness and silence, the tempest and
the whirlwind, have borne testimony to the existence of
God.

Would not an universal cloud settle upon all the
beauties of creation, if it were supposed that they had
not emanated from Almighty energy ? — In the works
of art, we are not content with the accuracy of feature
and the glow of colouring, until we have traced the
mind that guided the chisel and gave the pencil its del-
icacies and animation ; nor can we look with delight
upon the features of nature without hailing the celestial
Intelligence that gave them birth ; and there is some-
thing inexpressibly mournful in beholding an object
with proportions and loveliness that seem immediately
from heaven, to think that fair form and that exquisite
and expressive harmony was a mass flung together by
the dull and unselecting hand of Chance, and that no
mighty master of the work rejoiced in its completion.

The Deity is too sublime for Poetry to doubt his ex-

THE REV. C. WOLFE. &>

istence. Creation has too much of the Divinity insin-
uated into her beauties to allow her to hesitate : she
demands no proof, — she waits for no demonstration ; —
she looks, and she believes ; — she admires, and she
adores. Nor is it alone with natural religion that she
maintains this intimate connexion ; for what is the
Christian's hope, but Poetry in her purest and most
ethereal essence 1 Mark the Christian when the holy
transport is upon him, — when the world sweeps by, and
is disregarded, — when his whole frame seems to have
precipitated his soul into other regions — is not Fancy
wandering among the heavenly host, or bending be-
neath the throne of its Creator, — is not his soul teeming
with all the imagery of heaven — is it not expanding
with unutterable poetry 1

But let humbled infidelity declare her triumphs, and
the homage of Voltaire to the Muse's piety remain a
bright memorial of her allegiance to Christianity.
When the powers of hell seemed for a time to prevail,
and his principles had given a shock to the faith of Eu-
rope, the daring blasphemer ventured to approach the
dramatic Muse ; — but no inspiration would she vouch-
safe to dignify the sentiments of impiety and atheism.
He found that no impassioned emotion could be roused,
— no tragic interest excited, — no generous and lofty
feeling called into action, where those dark and chilling
feelings pervade : he complied with the only terms
upon which the Muse would impart her fervours ; and
the tragedies of Voltaire display the loveliness of Chris-
tianity, below, indeed, what a Christian would feel, but
almost beyond what unbelieving genius could con-
ceive. Such was the victory of Poetry, when she ar-
rested the apostate while marching onward to the de-
solation of mankind, — when the champion of modern
philosophy fell down before the altar she had raised,
and breathed forth the incense of an infidel's adora-
tion ! When he came, like the disobedient prophet, that.
he might curse the people of God, and behold i( h^
blessed them altogether."

64 REMAINS OF

But why do I adduce mortal testimony ? From the
beginning she was one of the ministering spirits that
stand round the throne of God, to issue forth at his
word, and do his errands upon the earth. Sometimes
she has been the herald of an offending nation's down-
fall ; and often has she been sent commissioned to
transgressing man, with prophecy and warningupon her
lips ; — but (at other times) she has been intrusted with
" glad tidings of great joy ;" and Poetry was the anti-
cipating Apostle, the prophetic Evangelist, whose,
" feet were beautiful upon the mountains — that publish-
ed salvation — that said unto Zion, Thy God reigneth !"
— Yet has she been accused of co-operating with luxu-
ry and fostering the seeds of private indolence and
public supineness ; she has been stigmatised as the
origin of moral deformity, because she often conde-
scends to attend upon guilty man ; and where virtue
has failed to withdraw him from his vices, has softened
their effects, and prevented him from falling into bru-
tality. The spoils of Persia would have relaxed the
energies of Greece although Poetry had never descend-
ed from her throne on high to bless the visions of Gre-
cian enthusiasm ; and happy, polished, enchanting
Greece, the idol of our fondest imagination, would have
sunk into oblivion — into stupid luxury and mindless
indolence. Thus, also, when the genius of Roman in-
dependence was abandoning the world to Octavius, and
retiring from his empire into everlasting exile, the
Muse collected all her energies to bestow departing con-
solation ; she wrought a moral miracle to arrest the
headlong degeneracy of Rome, and raised up Augustus
to counteract the crimes that Octavius had committed.

w * w tt *r

But turn to Poetry and History united for your in*
struction. Human nature is common to both ; but dif-
ferent are their modes of tuition. They supply their
respective delineations of character. Poetry, when at
maturity, observes it as well with a painter's eye as with
fhe scrutiny of a philosopher. She seizes the moment

THE REV. C. WOLFE 65

of sketching it when in its most picturesque attitude ;
or, if there be many, she groups them so as that they
may produce the best general effects ; and thus, with-
out annihilating their deformities, she makes them con-
duce to a pleasing and fascinating impression. But
rigid History takes character as she finds it ; she dis-
plays it more exact and impartial, but less attractive to
our contemplation. Poetry displays the moral character ;
History, the moral and political. Poetry makes the char-
acter more palpable ; History more complete.

Behold History bending over the dying Theban !
the warriors are weeping around him ; the javelin is
still in his side. They imagined his glory was termin-
ating with his life ; they fancied that because he had
no mortal representative who should bear the merit of
Epaminondas to future ages, that posterity would have
been permitted to forget him ; they thought they were
sympathising with the mighty man, when they mourn-
fully exclaimed, "You have no child !" At the word,
the hero half arose ; the splendour of futurity irradia-
ted his countenance ; the beams of History's immortal
smile played upon his features, and his soul went forth,

rejoicing, and exclaiming — " 1 have t"
# # * # #

While Hannibal was raging in the bowels of Italy,
and observing the moment when Rome was vulnerable,
she looked to her statesmen in her hour of peril ; but
statesmen were the pupils of their own experience :
she thought the Fabii and Marcelli could form a tem-
porary check to his advance or his ravages ; but Scipio
looked into the ages that were past, and saw the prefig-
uration of Rome's deliverance. We are told that the
Muse of history descended upon the meditating hero ;
that she shewed him the harbour of Syracuse, and told
him a tale of former days : " That in the dead of night,
when Syracuse was plunged in universal mourning and
consternation, when the overwhelming navy of Carthage
was riding in her harbour, and the next day's light
threatened to conduct the enemy into her citadel — -

6*

<J6 REMAINS OP

with a policy unique and sublime, she clandestinely dis-
missed her garrison to the coast of Africa, and when
the senate of Carthage expected the gates of Syracuse
to open, they heard that the warriors of Syracuse were
beneath her own walls." The hero applied the glori-
ous suggestion : — he embarked his legions — he sailed
to Africa ; he left the host of Carthage in Italy, and
obeyed the instructions of History. And did she in-
struct him aright? — You will read your answer in the
tears of Hannibal when he threw his last look upon the
delightful plains of Italy.

Such was the benefit of historical retrospect in an-
cient days ; but its value is now incalculably augment-
ed ; for, of the sciences, history is that which is al-
ways advancing. Mathematics and philosophical im-
provements may be long at a stand ; poetry and the
arts are often stationary, often retrograde ; but every
year, every month, every day, is contributing its know-
ledge to the grand magazine of historical experience.
Look at what the last years have added, and behold how
History gathers as she rolls along — what new attrac-
tions she holds forth to mankind. But, with what an
accession of beauty she invites the Briton to the study
of her charms, while she recounts the actsaand heroism

and glories of her country !

# # # * #

Let the energies of England be extinct ; — let her ar-
mies be overwhelmed ;— let her navy become the spoil
of the enemy and the ocean ; — let the national credit
become a by-word ; — let the last dregs of an exhausted
treasury be wrung from her coffers ; — let the constitu-
tion crumble ; — let the enemy ride in her capital, and
her frame fall asunder in political dissolution ; — then
stand with History on one hand, and Oratory on the
other, over the grave in which her energies lie en-
tombed,— and cry aloud ! Tell her that there was a
time when the soul of a Briton would not bend before
the congregated world : — tell her that she once called
her sons around her and wrung the charter of her

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 6?

liberties from a reluctant despot's hand : — tell her that
she was the parent of the band of brothers that fought
on Crispin's day : — tell her that Spain sent forth a na-
tion upon the seas against her, and that England and
the elements overwhelmed it : — tell her that six centu-
ries were toiling to erect the edifice of her constitution,
and that at length the temple arose : — tell her that there
are plains in every quarter of the globe where Victory
has buried the bones of her heroes, —

" That the spirits of her fathers

" Shall start from ev'ry wave,

" For the deck it was their field of fame,

" And ocean was their grave :"—

When the earth opened upon Lisbon and swallowed her
in the womb, — tell her that she stretched her hand
across the seas and raised her from the bowels of the
earth into the world again : — tell her that when the
enemy of human liberty arose, the freedom of the
whole world took refuge with her ; that, with an arm
of victory, alone and unaided, she flung back the
usurper, till recreant Europe blushed with shame ; —
tell her all this ; and I say that the power of lethargy
must be omnipotent, if she does not shake the dust from
her neck, and rise in flames of annihilating vengeance
on her destroyer. *.'.*.,**

For him who peruses history, every hero has fought,
— every philosopher has instructed, — every legislator
has organised , — every blessing was bestowed, — every
calamity was inflicted for his information. In public,
he is in the audit of his counsellors, and enters the sen-
ate with Pericles, Solon, and Lycurgus about him : in
private, he walks among the tombs of the mighty dead ;
and every tomb is an oracle. — But who is he that should
pronounce this awakening call 1 who is he whose voice
should be the trumpet and war-cry to an enslaved and
degraded nation 1 — It should be the voice of such a
one as he who stood over slumbering Greece, and ut-

68 REMAINS OF

tered a note at which Athens started from her indo-
lence, Thebes roused from her lethargies, and Macedon
trembled. * * * *

Soon after the delivery of this speech, Mr. Wolfe
began to turn his mind with more than his usual dili-
gence to the minor branches of mathematics and natu-
ral philosophy prescribed in the under-graduate course :
and in the short time he thus devoted his labours, he
evinced so great a capacity for scientific attainments,
that those friends who could best estimate his talents
for such abstruse subjects, earnestly urged him to the
arduous task of reading for a fellowship. His diffidence
in his own powers, however, prevented him from enter-
ing upon it until some time after he took the degree of
Bachelor of Arts, to which he was admitted in the year
1814. He was at length persuaded to determine upon
this pursuit, and* all his friends entertained the most
sanguine hopes of his success, so far as they could de-
pend upon the steadiness of his application.

For a short period he prosecuted his studies with
such effect as to render it a matter of regret to all who
were interested for him, that he did not persevere in his
efforts, and that he allowed any trifling interruptions to
divert him from his object. He evinced, indeed, a
solidity of understanding, and a clearness of concep-
tion, which, with ordinary diligence and proper man-
agement, might have soon made him master of all those
branches of learning required in the fellowship course
of the Dublin University ; but the habits of his mind
and the peculiarity of his disposition, and the variety of
his taste, seemed adverse to any thing like continued
and laborious application to one definite object. It was
a singular characteristic of his mind, that he seldom
read any book throughout, not even those works in
which he appeared most to delight. Whatever he read,
he thoroughly digested and accurately retained ; but
his progress through any book of an argumentative or

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 69

speculative nature was impeded by a disputative habit
of thought and a fertility of invention, which suggested
ingenious objections and started new theories at every
step. Accordingly, this constitution of mind led him
rather to investigate the grounds of an author's hypoth-
esis, and to satisfy his own mind upon the relative
probabilities of conflicting opinions, than to plod on
patiently through a long course, merely to lay up
in his memory the particular views and arguments of
each writer, without consideration of their importance
or their foundation. He was not content to know what
an author's opinions were, but how far they were right
or wrong. The examination of a single metaphysical
speculation of Locke, or a moral argument of Butler,
usually cost him more time and thought than would
carry ordinary minds through a whole volume. It was
also remarkable that in the perusal of mere works of
fancy — the most interesting poems and romances of the
day — he lingered with such delight on the first striking
passages, or entered into such minute criticism upon
every beauty and defect as ho went along, that it usual-
ly happened, either that the volume was hurried from
him, or some other engagement interrupted him before
he had finished it. A great portion of what he had
thus read he could almost repeat from memory; and
while the recollection afforded him much ground of fu-
ture enjoyment, it was sufficient also to set his own
mind at work in the same direction.

The facility of his disposition also exposed him to
many interruptions in his studies. Even in the midst
of the most important engagements, he had not resolu-
tion to deny himself to any visiter. He used to watch
anxiously for every knock at his door, lest any one
should be disappointed or delayed who sought for him ;
and such was the good-natured simplicity of his heart,
that, however sorely he sometimes felt the intrusion,
he still rendered himself so agreeable even to his most
common-place acquaintances, as to encourage a repeti-
tion of their importunities. He allowed himself to be-

70 REMAINS OP

Come the usual deputy of every one who applied to
him to perform any of the routine collegiate duties
which he was qualified to discharge ; and thus his time
was so much invaded, that he seldom had any interval
for continued application to his own immediate busi-
ness. Besides, the social habit of his disposition, which
delighted in the company of select friends, and prefer-
red the animated encounter of conversational debate
to the less inviting exercise of solitary study ; and his
varied taste, which could take interest in every object
of rational and intellectual enjoyment, served to scatter
his mind and divert it from that steadiness of applica-
tion which is actually necessary for the attainment of
distinguished eminence in any pursuit.

About the time he had entertained thoughts of read-
ing for a fellowship, he had become acquainted with an
interesting and highly respectable family, who resided
in the most picturesque part of the county of Dublin.
Previously to this he had been long immured within the
city, and had seldom made even a day's excursion
amidst the lovely scenery of the surrounding country.
The beauties of nature seemed to break upon him with
all the charms of novelty, and were heightened by being
shared with friends of congenial feelings. The sensa-
tions thus excited soon awakened his slumbering Muse,
and found their natural expression in all the fervours
•f poetic inspiration. The reader shall be presented
here with a specimen of his powers in descriptive poet-
ry. The subject is " Lough Bray :" a romantic and
magnificent scene, which lies about six miles south of
Rathfarnham, in the northern part of the county Wick-
low. It is a sequestered spot in the midst of a region
of wildest mountains and hills. There are two lakes
called the upper and the lower, the latter of which is
the more beautiful and extensive. It is situated near
the top of an abrupt mountain, and is almost circular
in its shape, a circumstance which has probably given
rise to the conjecture that it may be the crater of an
extinct volcano. Its area is said to be thirty-seven Irish

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 71

acres. Close beside it stands a precipice of several
hundred feet, near the top of which is a dark over-
hanging cliff, commonly called the " Eagle's Crag ;"
and the lake itself sometimes overflows and glides down
the side of the mountain in the opposite direction. This
brief description of the principal features of the scene,
may serve to prepare the reader for what he is to expect
in the little poem which follows.

FAREWELL TO LOUGH BRAY.

Then fare thee well ! — I leave thy rocks and glens,

And all thy wild and random majesty,

To plunge amid the world's deformities,

And see how hideously mankind deface

What God hath given them good : — while viewing thee,

I think how grand and beautiful is God,

When man has not intruded on his works,

But left his bright creation unimpaired.

'Twas therefore I approached thee with an awe

Delightful, — therefore eyed, with joy grotesque —

With joy I could not speak ; (for on this heart

Has beauteous Nature seldom smiled, and scarce

A casual wind has blown the veil aside,

And shewn me her immortal lineaments,)

1Twas therefore did my heart expand, to mark

Thy pensive uniformity of gloom,

The deep and holy darkness of thy wave,

And that stern rocky form, whose aspect stood

Athwart us, and confronted us at once,

Seeming to vindicate the worship due,

And yet reclined in proud recumbency,

As if secure the homage would be paid :

It look'd the genius of the place, and seem'd

To superstition's eye, to exercise

Some sacred, unknown function. — Blessed scene* !

Fraught with primeval grandeur ! or if aught

Is changed in thee, it is no mortal touch

78 REMAINS OF

That sharpen'd thy rough brow, or fringed thy skirts

With coarse luxuriance : — 'twas the lightning's force

Dash'd its strong flash across thee, and did point

The crag ; or, with his stormy thunderbolt,

Th' Almighty architect himself disjoin'd

Yon rock ; then flung it down where now it hangs,

And said, " Do thou lie there ;" — and genial rains,

(Which e'en without the good man's prayer came down)

Call'd forth thy vegetation. — Then I watch'd

The clouds that coursed along the sky, to which

A trembling splendour o'er the waters moved

Responsive ; while at times it stole to land,

And smiled among the mountain's dusky locks.

Surely there linger beings in this place,

For whom all this is done : — it cannot be,

That all this fair profusion is bestow'd

For such wild wayward pilgrims as ourselves.

Haply some glorious spirits here await

The opening of heaven's portals ; who disport

Along the bosom of the lucid lake ;

Who cluster on that peak ; or playful peep

Into yon eagle's nest ;-then sit them down

And talk of those they left on earth, and those

Whom they shall meet in heaven : and, haply tired,

(If blessed spirits tire in such employ,)

The slumbering phantoms lay them down to rest

Upon the bosom of the dewy breeze. —

Ah ! whither do I roam — I dare not think —

Alas ! I must forget thee ; for I go

To mix with narrow minds and hollow hearts —

1 must forget thee — fare thee, fare thee well !

The following stanzas will convey some idea of the
sensations with which the poet returned from such
scenes as this to the sombre walls of a college, and
how painful lie felt the transition from such enjoyments
to the grave occupation of academic studies.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 73

SONG.

I.

O say not that my heart is cold

To auglit that once could warm it — -
That Nature's form so dear of old

No more has power to charm it ;
Or that th' ungenerous world can chill

One glow of fond emotion
For those who made it dearer still,

And shared my wild devotion.

II.

Still oft those solemn scenes [ view

In rapt and dreamy sadness ;
Oft look on those who lov'd them too

With fancy's idle gladness ;
Again I long'd to view the light

In Nature's features glowing ;
Again to tread the mountain's height,

And taste the soul's o'erflowing.

III.

Stern Duty rose, and frowning flung

His leaden chain around me ;
With iron look and sullen tongue

He mutter'd as he bound me —
45 The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,

Unfit for toil the creature ;
These for the free alone are given, —

But what have slaves with Nature ?"

A description of an enchanting scene in the county
Wicklow— "the Dargle," or "Glen of the Oak"—
cannot fail to interest any one who has had the happi-
ness to visit it, and is gift jd with taste to enjoy it. This
little sketch, though written in prose, is animated by
the very spirit of poetry, and is so graphically accurate

6

74 REMAINS OF

in the delineation of every feature of that lovely spot,
that it seems capable of summoning up before the ima-
gination, as by magic, the whole scene, in all its vivid
colouring and its distinctive forms of beauty.

THE DARGLE.

We found ourselves at Bray about ten in the morn-
ing, with that disposition to be pleased which seldom
allows itself to be disappointed ; and the sense of our
escape from every thing not only of routine, but of
regularity, into the country of mountains and glens and
valleys and waterfalls, inspired us with a sort of gay
wildness and independence, that disposed us to find
more of the romantic and picturesque than perhaps
Nature ever intended. If, therefore, gentle reader,
thou shouldest here meet with any extravagances at
which thy sober feelings may be inclined to revolt,
bethink thee, that the immortal Syntax himself, when
just escaped from the everlasting dulness of a school,
did descry a landscape even in a post, — a circumstance
which probably no one had ever discovered before.

We proceeded to the Dargle along the small river
whose waters were flowing gently towards us after hav-
ing passed through the beautiful scenes we were to
visit. It was here a tranquil stream, and its banks but
thinly clothed ; but at the opening of the Dargle-gate,
the scene was instantly changed. At once we were
immersed in a sylvan wilderness, where the trees were
thronging and crowding around us ; and the river had
suddenly changed its tone, and was srunding wildly up
the wooded bank that sloped down to its edge. We pre-
cipitated ourselves towards the sound, — and when we
stopped and looked around us, the mountains, the
champaign, and almost the sky had disappeared. We
were at the bottom of a deep winding glen, whose steep
sides had suddenly shut out every appearance of the
world that we had left. At our feet a stream was
struggling with the multitude of rude rocks, which

THE REV. C WOLFE.

75

Nature, in one of her primeval convulsions, had flung
here and there in masses into its current ; sometimes
uniting into irregular ledges, over which the water
swept with impetuosity ; — sometimes standing insulated
in the stream, and increasing the energies of the river
by their resistance ; — sometimes breaking forward from
the bank, and giving a bolder effect to its romantic out-
line. The opposite side of the glen, that rose steeply
and almost perpendicularly from the very brink of the
river, was one precipice of foliage from top to bottom,
where the trees rose directly above each other (their
roots and backs being in a jrreat degree concealed by
the profusion of leaves in those below them,) and a
broken sunbeam now and then struggled through the
boughs, and sometimes contrived to reach the river.

The side along which we proceeded was equally
high, but more sloping and diversified ; and the wood-
ing, at one time retiring from the stream, while at
another a close cluster of trees of the freshest verdure
advanced into the river, bending over it in attitudes at
once graceful and fantastic, and forming a picturesque
and luxuriant counterpart to the little naked promonto-
ries of rock which we before observed. Both sides of
the glen completely enclosed us from the view of every
thing external, except a narrow tract of sky just over
our heads, which corresponded in some degree to the
course of the stream below ; so that in fact the sun
seemed a stranger, only occasionally visiting us from
another system. Sometimes while we were engaged in
contemplating the strong darkness of the river as it
rushed along, and the pensive loveliness of the foliage
overhanging it, a sudden gleam of sunshine quietly yet
instantaneously diffused itself over the scene, as if it
smiled almost from some internal perception of pleasure,
and felt a glow of instinctive exhilaration. Thus did
we wander from charm to charm, and from beauty to
beauty, endlessly varying, though all breathing the
same wild and secluded luxury, the same poetical vo-
luptuousness. This new region, set apart from the

76 REMAINS OP

rest of creation, with its class of fanciful joys attached
to it, seemed allotted to some creature of different ele-
ments from our own, — some airy being, whose only es-
sence was imagination. As the thought occupied us,
we opened upon a new object which seemed to confirm
it. The profuse wooding which formed the steep and
rich barrier of the opposite side oi the river, was sud-
denly interrupted by a huge naked rock that stood out
into the stream, as if it had swelled forward indignantly
from the touch of cultivation, and, proud of its primi-
tive barrenness, had flung aside the hand that was dis-
pensing beauty around it, and that would have intruded
upon its craggy and original majesty. It was here that
our imaginations fixed a residence for the Genius of the
river and the Spirit of the Dargle. A sort of watery
cell was formed by the protrusion of this bold figure
from the one side, and the thick foliage that met it
across from the other, and threw a solemn darkness
over the water. In front, a fragment of rock stood in
the middle of the current, like a threshold, and a
spreading tree hung its branches directly over it, like a
spacious screen in face of the cell. From this we began
gradually to ascend, until our side became nearly as
steep as the opposite, while the wooding was thicken-
ing on both at every step ; so that the glen soon formed
one steep and magnificent gulf of foliage. The river
at a vast distance, almost directly below us; the glad
sparkling and flashing of its waters, only occasionally
seen, and its wild voice mellowed and refined as it
reached us through thousands of leaves and branches ;
the variety of hues, and the mazy irregularity of the
trees that descended from our feet to the river, — were
finely contrasted with the heavier and more monoto-
nous mass that met it in the bottom, down the other
side.

In stepping back a few paces, we just descried, over
the opposite boundary, the top of Sugar-loaf, in dim and
distant perspective. The sensations of a mariner,
when, after a long voyage without sight of shore, he

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

77

suddenly perceives symptoms of land where land was
not expected, could not be more novel and curious,
than those excited in us by this little silent notice of
regions which we had literally forgotten, — so totally
were we engrossed in our present enchantment, and so
much were our minds, like our view, bounded by the
sides of the glen. This single object let in a whole
train of recollections and associations : but the charm
could not be more gradually and more pleasingly bro-
ken. The glen, still retaining all its characteristic
luxuriance, began gracefully to widen, — the country to
open upon us, and the mountains to rise ; and at length,
after a gentle descent, we passed the Daigle-gate, and
found ourselves standing over the delightful valley of
Powerscourt. It was like the transition from the en-
joyments of an Ariel to those of human nature, — from
the blissful abode of some sylphic genius, to the happi-
est habitations of mortal men, — from all the restless and
visionary delights of fancy, to the calm glow of real and
romantic happiness. Our minds that were before con-
fused by the throng of beauties that enclosed and soli-
cited them on every side, now expanded and reposed
upon the scene before us. The Sun himself seemed
liberated, and rejoicing in his emancipation. The val-
ley indeed " lay smiling before us ;" the river, no long-
er dashing over rock and struggling with impediments,
was flowing brightly and cheerfully along in the sun,
bordered by meadows of the liveliest green, and now
and then embowered in a cluster of trees. One little
field of the freshest verdure swelled forward beyond the
rest, round which the river wound, so as to give it the
appearance of an island. In this we observed a mower
whetting his sithe, and the sound was just sufficient to
reach us faintly and at intervals. To the left was the
Dargle, where all the beauties that had so much en-
chanted us were now one undistinguishable mass of
leaves. Confronting us, stood Sugar-loaf, with his train
of rough and abrupt mountains, remaining dark in the
midst of sunshine, like the frowning guardians of the

6*

78 REMAINS OF

valley. These were contrasted with the grand flowing
outline of the mountains to our right, and the exquisite
refinement and variety of the light that spread itself
over their gigantic sides. Far to the left, the sea was
again disclosed to our view, and behind us was the Scalp,
like the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of
thorns and briars.

A BIRTH-DAY POEM.

Oh have you not heard of the harp that lay

This morning across the pilgrim's way —

The wayward youth that loved to wander

By twilight lone up the mountain yonder ?

How that wild harp came there not the wisest can know,

It lay silent and lone on the mountain's brow ;

The eagle's down on the strings that lay

Proved he there had awaited the dawning ray;

But no track could be seen, nor a footstep was near,

Save the course of the hare o'er the strings in fear, —

And ah ! no minstrel is here to be seen

On our mountain's brow, or our valleys green ;

And if there were, he had miss'd full soon

His wild companion so sweet and boon —

"While the youth stood gazing on aghast,

The wind it rose strong, and the wind it rose fast,

Quick on the harp it came swinging, swinging —

Then away through the strings it went singing, singing,

Till a peal there arose so lofty and loud

That the eagle hung breathless upon his cloud,

And away through the strings the wind it went sweeping

Till the spirit awoke, that among them was sleeping —

It awoke, it awoke ;

It spoke, it spoke —
" I am the spirit of Erin's might,
That brighten'd in peace, and that nerved her in fight-*-

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 79

The spirit that lives in the blast of the mountain,
And tunes her voice to the roll of the fountain—
The spirit of giddy and frantic gladness —
The spirit of most heart-rending sadness —
The spirit of maidens weeping on

Wildly, tenderly —
The spirit of heroes thundering on

Gloriously, gloriously ; —
And though my voice is seldom heard,
Now another's song 's preferr'd,
I tell thee, stranger, I have sung
Where Tara's hundred harps have rung —
And I have rode by Brien's side,
Rolling back the Danish tide —
And know each echo long and slow
Of still — romantic Gland ulough ;
Though now my song but seldom thrills,

Lately a stranger awaken'd me ;
And Genius came from Scotland's hille

A pilgrim for my minstrelsy. —
But come — more faintly blows the gale,
And my voice begins to fail —
Pilgrim, take this simple lyre—
And yet it holds a nation's fire —
Take it, while with me 'tis swelling,
To your stately lowland dwelling —
There she dwells — my Erin's maid-
In her charming native shade ;
I have placed my stamp upon her,
Erin's radiant brow of honour ;
Spirits lambent — heart that's glowing —
Mind that's rich, and soul o'erflowing ;
She moves with her bounding mountain-grace,
And the light of her heart is in her face :
Tell the maid — 1 claim her mine —
For Erin it is her's to shine ;
And, that she still increase her store
Of intellect and fancy's lore,

30 REMAINS OF

That I demand from her a mind
Solid, brilliant, strong, refined;
And that she prize a patriot's fire
Beyond what avarice can desire ;
And she must pour a patriot's song
Her romantic hills along." —
Her name is * * *

Faintly died

The blast upon tha mountain side,
Nor scarcely o'er the clouds it brush'd ;
And now the murmuring sound is hush'd, —
Yet sweetly, sweetly, * * rung
On the faltering spirit's tongue —
Speak again, the youth he cried, —
But no faltering spirit replied ;
Wild harp, wild harp,

To * * I will take thee—
Wild harp, wild harp,

She perhaps will wake thee.

SONG.

I.

Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue,

Yet it was not that that won me ;
But a little bright drop from her soul was there —

'Tis that that has undone me.

II.

I might have pass'd that lovely cheek,
Nor, perchance, my heart have left me ;

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there,
Of my heart it forever bereft me.

III.

I might have forgotten that red, red lip —
Yet how from the thought to sever ?

But there was a smile from the sunshine withiK.
And that smile I'll remember for ever.

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

IV.

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay,

The elegant form that haunts me —
'Tis the graceful delicate mind that moves

In every step, that enchants me.

V.

Let me not hear the nightingale sing,
Though 1 once in its notes delighted ;

The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth,
Has left me no music beside it.

VI.

Who could blame had I loved that face,
Ere my eye could twice explore her ?

Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there,
And her warm — warm heart I adore her,

81

TO A FRIEND.

I.

My own friend — my own friend !
There's no one like my own friend ;

For all the goJd

The world can hold,
I would not give my own friend.

II.

So bold and frank his bearing, boy,
Should you meet him onward faring, boy,
In Lapland's snow
Or Chili's glow,
You'd say, What news from Erin, boy ?

III.

He has a curious mind, boy —
'Tis jovial — 'tis refined, boy —

'Tis richly fraught

With random thought,
And feelings wildly kind, boy.

82 REMAINS OF

IV.

'Twas eaten up with care, boy,
For circle, line, and square, boy —

And few believed

That genius thrived
Upon such drowsy fare, boy.

V.

But his heart that beat so strong, boy,
Forbade her slumber long, boy —

So she shook her wing,

And with a spring
Away she bore along, boy.

VI.

She wavers unconfined, boy,
All wayward on the wind, boy ,;

Yet her song

All along
Was of those left behind, boy.

VII.

And we may let him roam, boy,
For years and years to come, boy ;

In storms and seas—

In mirth and ease,
He'll ne'er forget his home, boy,

VIII.

O give him not to wear, boy,
Your rings of braided hair, boy — ■

Without this fuss

He'll think of us—
His heart — he has us there, boy.

IX.
For what can't be undone, boy,
He will not blubber on, boy —

He'll brightly smile,

Yet think the while
Upon the friend that's gone, boy.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 83

X.

0 saw you his fire-side, boy,
And those that round it bide, boy,

You'd glow to see

The thrilling glee
Around his fire-side, boy.

XI.
Their airy poignant mirth, boy,
From feeling has its birth, boy :

'Tis worth the groans

And the moans
Of half the dolts on earth, boy.

XII.

Each soul that there has smiled, boy,
Is Erin's native child, boy—

A woodbine flower

In Erin's bower,
So elegant, so wild, boy.

XIII.
The surly clouds that roll, boy,
Will not for storms console, boy ;

'Tis the rainbow's light

So tenderly bright
That softens and cheers the soul, boy.

XIV.
I'd ask no friends to mourn, boy,
When I to dust return, boy —
No breath of sigh
Or brine of eye
Should gather round my urn, boy.
XV.

1 just would ask a tear, boy,
From every eye that's there, boy ;

Then a smile each day,
All sweetly gay,
My memory should repair, boy.

*4

REMAINS OF

XVI.

The laugh that there end' ^rs, boy-
The memory of your years, boy —

Would more delight

Your hovering sprite
Than halt the world's teirs, boy.

Something, perhaps, may be discovered in the latter
poems beyond the mere inspiration of the Mase; and
it might therefore appear inexpedient to pass by, with-
out some short notice, a circumstance in the life of our
author so interesting as tnat which the reader may have
already suspected. With the family alluded to in these
poems, he had been for some time in habits of the most
friendly intercourse, and frequently had trie happiness
of spending a few < ays upon a visit at their country
residence, sharing in all the refined pleasures of their
domestic circle, and partaking with them in the exhila-
rating enjoyment of the rural and romantic scenery
around them. With every member of the family he
soon became cordially intimate ; but with one this inti-
macy gradually and almost unconsciously grew into a
decided attacnment. The attainment of a fellowship
would indeed have afforded him means sufficient to
realise his hopes; but, unhappily, the statute which
rendered marriage incompatible with that honourable
station, had been lately revived. His prospects of ob-
taining a competency in any other pursuit were so dis-
tant and uncertain, that the family of the young lady
deemed it prudent at once to break off all further inter-
course, before a mutual engagement had actually taken
place.

How severely this disappointment pressed upon a
heart like his, may easily be conceived. It would be
injustice to him to deny that he long and deeply felt
it: but he had been habitually so far under the influ-
ence of religious principles, as to feel nssured that
every event of our lives is under the regulation of a

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

85

wise Providence, and that by a resigned acquiescence
in his arrangements, even our bitterest trials may be
overruled for our best interests — our truest happiness.
This circumstance, perhaps, weakened the stimulus
to his exertions for the attainment of a fellowship, —
but he had long bfeore relaxed them ; it does not, how-
ever, appear that it had any influence in determining
the choice of his profession, as the prevailing tendency
of his mind had always been towards the sacred office
of the ministry.

In a short time after this severe disappointment, and
a few days previous to his ordination (which took place
in November IS17,) his feelings received another shock
by the death of a dear fellow-student,* one of his most

* The editor cannot forbear indulging his feelings by a brief record
of the lamented friend alluded to in the above passage. The name of
Hercules Henry Graves, with whom we were both united in bonds of
the closest intimacy, will not be read, even by a common acquaintance,
without awakening sentiments of regret for the loss which society has
sustained in the early removal of so much intellectual and moral worth.
He was the second son of the learned and excellent Dean Graves,
professor of divinity in the Dublin University. With talents at once
solid and shining, he combined an invincible perseverance, a mascu-
line strength of understanding, and an energv of spirit which crowned
his academic labours with the most distinguished honours, and afford-
ed the surest pledge of rapid advancement to professional eminence.
These rare endowments of mind were accompanied by qualities oi
greater value, — a high moral taste, a purity of principle, a generosity
of spirit, and an affectionate temperament of heart which secured him
the respect and legardof every individual, of his widely extended ac-
quaintance.

This happv union of mental and moral qualities was set off by a
constant flow of good-humour, an equability of temper, and a frank-
ness and cordiality of manners, which diffused an instantaneous glow
of exhilaration through every circle in which he appeared. He was
on the point of being called to the Irish bar, and was universally al-
lowed to be the most promising aspirant of his contemporaries to its
honours and emoluments, when, unhappily, his health began to break
down. He was ordered to the South of France, where he died in
November 1817, " in the fear of God, and the faith of Jesus Christ,"
as he himself wished it to be recorded on his tomb. His illness was
made the happy occasion of directing his mind more fullv to the con-
cerns of his immortal soul, which he felt he had too much overlooked
in the busy pursuit of earthly objects. The study of religion had not,
however, been neglected by him : with our author and two other
friends he had been in the habit of reading and discussing some of the

8

86 REMAINS OF

valued and intimate friends. Under the deep impression
of two such afflictive trials, he was obliged to prepare
for a removal from society which he loved, — from the
centre of science and literature, to which he was so
much devoted, to an obscure and remote country cura-
cy in the north of Ireland, where he could not hope to
meet one individual to enter into his feelings, or to hold
communion with him upon the accustomed subjects of
his former pursuits. He felt as if he had been trans-
planted into a totally new world ; as a missionary aban-
doning home and friends, and cherished habits, for the
awful and important work to which he had solemnly
devoted himself.

At first he was engaged in a temporary curacy, not
far remote from the situation in which he was soon
afterwards permanently fixed. An extract from a letter
to one of his college friends, will give some idea of the
state of his feelings upon his arrival at the place where
he was now to enter upon his new sphere of duties.

Ballyclog, Tyrone, Dec. 11th, 1617.

MY DEAR

I am now sitting by myself, opposite my turf-fire,
with my Bible beside me, in the only furnished room of

ablest works upon the evidences of the Christian faith ; and it is to
be presumed, that the impressions thus made upon his understanding
were not lost upon his heart. They seemed to have recurred to his
inind with full force in hi* illness. He took special comfort in the gra-
cious assurance, " Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast
out ;" anxiously considering the full import of the phrase, "to come
unto Christ." The view of our blessed Redeemer, as God and Man,
— as one " able and willing to save to the uttermost all that come unto
the Father through him," was indeed " an anchor of his soul, both
fure- and steadfast," at the near prospect of eternity. It enabled
him not merely to close his eyes with resignation upon the brightest
earthly prospects, but to look forward with holv hope to an imperish-
able happiness. May this, amongst many other similar examples,
serve to shew that vital religion is not unworthy of the greatest men-
tal powers, or incompatible with the highest attainments of secular
learning ; and may it impress upon the conscience of every reader,
that a time will come when the strongest mind will want all the sus-
taining consolations which a steadfast faith in the Gospel is calculated
to bestow.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 87

the Glebe House, surrounded by mountains, frost and
snow, and by a set of people with whom I am totally
unacquainted, except a disbanded artilleryman, his wife
and two children, who attend me, the churchwarden
and clerk of the parish. Do not however conceive that
I repine ; I rather congratulate myself on my situation ;
however, I am beginning rather poetically than histori-
cally, and at once hurrying you ' in medias res.' Alas !
what could bring Horace into my head here 1 — Well, I
arrived at Auchnacloy, without an adventure, on Sat-
urday, at half-past eleven ; posted from thence to the
Glebe House of Mr. S , a fine large mansion, situa-
ted in a wild, bleak country, alternately mountain and
bog. * * * On Sunday I arrived at this place,
where I opened my career by reading prayers. * * *
Comparatively happy should I be if I could continue the
hermit of B ; but I am not doomed to such seclu-
sion. * * * My dear I want you and my

friends more than ever. Write immediately all of you

to the hermit of B

Ever yours,

C. W."

MY DEAR

I shall follow your example in not wasting my paper
either in professions or apologies. Suffice it to say,
that a day or two before I received your letter, I had

written to C. D , which I conceived was writing to

the gang ; and was since obliged to leave my hermit-
age at Ballyclog, and officiate in my own parish for the
first time on Christmas-day, not being qualified to con-
secrate the sacrament ; and since my return have been

for some time engaged at * * * Well, my

dear fellow, though it may appear as selfish as paradoxi-
cal, I look upon you as more my companion since I

88 REMAINS OF

have heard that you are more alone. You are more
like me, and have more leisure to think of me. * * *
I am now in a country Jar superior, both in cultivation
and society, to that which is my ultimate destination.
I am surrounded by grandees, who count their incomes
by thousands, and by clergymen innumerable ; — how-
ever, I have kept out of their reach ; I have preferred
my turf-fire, my books, and the memory of the friends
I have left, to all the society that Tyrone can furnish —

with one bright exception. At M 's I am indeed

every way at home , I am at home in friendship and
hospitality, in science and literature, in our common
friends and acquaintance, and topics of religion. * * *

Ever vours,

C. W"

Before we proceed further, it may be important as
well as interesting to give some view of the religious
character of the author previous to his ordination, and
to trace the progress of his mind towards that high
state of Christian principle to which he afterwards at-
tained.

His family all represent him as being from childhood
impressed with religious feelings ; and during his col-
lege life, the writer had full opportunity of perceiving
that they had not been effaced.

The pure moral taste, which seemed almost a natu-
ral element of his mind, may properly be attributed to
the gradual and insensible operation of that divine
principle with which he had been so early imbued.

In many cases, " The kingdom of God (as our bles-
sed Lord himself declares) is as if a man should cast
3eed in the ground ; and should sleep, and rise night
and day, and the seed should spring and grow up, he
knoweth not how — first the blade — then the ear — after
that, the full corn in the ear."

Such, in some measure, appears to have been the

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 89

advancement of his mind in the formation of that high
religious character which he ultimately reached ; but,
in his case, there was at least one marked stage of this
progress. Religion had evidently a restraining influence
on him at all times ; it kept him back from the vulgar
dissipation and usual vices of youth. He was exem-
plary, I might say blameless, in his moral conduct, and
scrupulous in the discharge of duty : and though natu-
rally impetuous in his feelings, habitually lively and even
playful in his temper and manners, yet there was mani-
festly an influence in his heart and a guard upon his
tongue, which never permitted him to violate the rules
of strictest chastity or decorum. He was devout and
regular in his haoits of private prayer and in attend-
ance upon public worship ; and I have often seen him
affected even to tears in reading the sacred Word of
inspiration. But when he came to preach the doctrines
and duties of Christianity to others, they burst upon
his mimJ in their full magnitude, and in all their awful
extent : he felt that he himself had not given up his
whole heart to God, — that the Gospel of Christ had held
but a divided empire in his soul ; and he looked back
upon his earliest years with self-reproach and self-dis-
trust, when he called to mind the subordinate place
which the love of God had possessed in his heart. — If
such a man could feel reason to contemplate the days
of his youth with emotions of this kind, what should be
the feelings of him who has lived altogether " without
God in the world V' — who has scarce ever known what
it was to control a passion or regulate a desire, or per-
form a sins-le action, with an exclusive reference to the
divine will 1

" Yet will there come an hour to him,
When anguish in his breast shall wake,
And that bright eye-ball, weak and dim,
<3azing on former days, shall ache ; —

8*

90 REMAINS OF

When solitude bids visions drear
Of raptures, now no longer dear,
In gloomy ghastliness appear —
When thoughts arise of errors past —
Of prospects foully overcast —
Of passion's unresisted rage —
Of youth that thought not upon age —
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nurst,
That caught the giddy eye at first,
But like the flowers of Syrian sands,
That crumbled in the closing hands."*

I will venture to introduce here, merely as indica-
tions of his youthful piety, some religious thoughts
which are scattered among his earliest papers.

Those miserable sceptics who boast of their imagin-
ary discernment, are only a sort of intellectual glow-
worm : — they borrow their glimmer from darkness, and
exult in its pitiful and momentary spark : but the day —
" the day-spring from on high" will soon come, — and
then they are but — worms ! — Dost thou dispute the ex-
istence of a Providence 1 From thee, dust and reptile,
I appeal to the Heavens ; from thee, undistinguished
link in the chain of nature, I appeal to the Universe.

I have often considered, that if it were proposed to
man by his Maker, to select and mention the most
faultless transactions of his life, and to offer up the
catalogue at the shrine of his Judge, that he would ei-
ther be totally confounded and perplexed, or would make
a very erroneous and defective selection : he would
even offer up vices for virtues ; sins for acts of good-
ness : he would perhaps present a memorial of deeds
which appeared meritorious to the world and to him-
self, whose motive was perhaps not only unchristian,
but criminal, — the incentive to which was a lurking,
smothered pride, a deceitful and seductive ambition, or
some passion which screened and shrouded itself in the
garb of religion. I will suppose that at such an awful

* Anster's Poems (Edinburgh, 1819,) p. 146.

THE REV C. WOLFE 91

crisis, when he was to make such an oblation to his
Father and Redeemer, he perceives the futility of those
splendid actions which dazzled his inconsiderate fel-
low-creatures, as the native offspring of virtue : I will
suppose that he perceives their insufficiency and omits
them ; yet, even of his silent retired behaviour, of his
noiseless and unseen conduct, how many actions are
there which may dazzle himself! He will certainly
make a statement of some deed which appeared to him
generous and charitable ; and will think that because
it was done in secret and without ostentation, its motive
must be pure; (but, alas! pride can inhabit the lonely
chamber and the solitary bosom — can mingle in the
prayers of the anchorite, and can stretch the hand of
bounty ; for we can flatter ourselves — yes, as destruc-
tively as the world can flatter us ;) while perhaps some
little thought which we had long forgotten as insignifi-
cant,— some truly devout contemplation, — some pious
reflection drawn from the very depth of the heart, may
be that offering which his God looked for, — that forgot-
ten contemplation — that reflection, which was the ema-
nation of a soul which then felt the genuine influence
of religion. How difficult is it then to be acquainted
with ourselves, and what a true confession do we make
when we say, " There is no health in us !" * *

These reflections will appear to the pious reader to
indicate something more than vague and general no-
tions of religion. They exhibit, at least, the dawning
of an enlightened conscience, and an early sensibility
to the impressions of divine truth. It is natural to sup-
poe that such a mind would be fully alive to the re-
sponsibility of the ministerial office ; and accordingly,
when the period approached when Mr. W. had to de-
termine upon the solemn undertaking, he gave up his
mind to the most anxious consideration of the duties it
imposed upon him, and of the preparation of mind and
heart which it required. Some of those standard works
on the evidences of Christianity, which he had been in
the habit of reading, he now resumed for the purpose

92 REMAINS OF

of a more serious and practical investigation. He
seems to have dwelt with peculiar interest upon Bishop
Butler's unanswerable work upon the Analogy of Reli-
gion, &,c. This treasure of deep and original thought
— the leading object of which is to expose the unrea-
sonableness of the ordinary arguments against the
truth of religion — seems to have been peculiarly suited
to the character of his mind, which was easily startled
by difficulties, and was quick in the discovery of objec-
tions. His copious notes upon this book, shew not only
how accurately he scrutinized every argument, but how
practically he expanded and applied every important
reflection which it contains. Some of the observa-
tions thus suggested, and which seem to have impressed
his own mind most deeply, are here selected, with the
hope that they may prove not unacceptable or unin-
structive to the general reader. They may serve to in-
culcate a stronger sense of the vast importance of reli-
gion as a subject of anxious and candid inquiry, and
may induce some who are unacquainted with the valu-
able work from which they have been deduced, to give
it a serious and deliberate perusal.

There is strong evidence of the truth of Christian*
ity : but it is certain that no one can, upon principles
of reason, be satisfied of the contrary : now the prac-
tical consequence to be drawn from this is not attended
to by every one concerned in it. This suggests an ex-
cellent way of beginning with a Deist or Atheist . —
Have you satisfactorily disproved Christianity ? Is it
possible that all the evidence (collectively taken,) though
it may not have satisfied you of its truth, has been sat-
isfactorily removed ? Are you at your ease upon the
subject ? And if not, what a miserable man must you
be ! Surely it is not such a hollow case.

This may be the best way of proceeding, whatever
may be the truth denied ; — the existence of a God, of
a moral governor, of a future life, the truth of Scrip-
ture, &c. : ind it is, in fact, the state in which we pro-
bably are by nature — not so much with convincing proof

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 93

that there is a future state, as with no convincing proof
to the contrary. If it be objected, that it is rather
slender ground upon which to stand, merely that we
cannot prove the contrary , or the falsehood of the thing;
we may answer, that it is not intended to be ground to
rest on ; — it is intended to set us in motion ; and the
evidence will grow in proportion to the earnestness and
sincerity to ascertain the point. Now, is there not a
moral fitness in this, — that evidence should be progres-
sive, and that in proportion to the singleness of eye and
the diligence with which it is sought and investigated ?
And does it not appear particularly becoming the Di-
vine Majesty that this should be the case in all inquiries
respecting his works and dispensations 1 and that he
who enters upon the investigation in a presumptuous,
careless, or profane state of mind, should be confound-
ed 1 In this point of view, also, may be regarded the
objections made by some to the insufficiency of the
evidence in proof of a state of future punishment : it
may be answered, — Are you duly affected by the bare
surm se — by the mere whisper, that there is such a
state ? Does it excite that degree of concern and in-
quiry which it ought ? And if it does not, is it not a
proof that there is something more than a mere want
of evidence concerned in your unbelief? Is there any
thing improbable in the supposition, that the Almighty
may proportion the evidence to the degree of sincere
earnestness manifested in the inquiry ? — and that when
the earnestness is proportioned to the object, the evi-
dence shall be proportioned to the earnestness 1

In order to give an idea of the way in which the
truth may grow upon a man, we may speak of the
growing conviction arising from the constant observa-
tion of the artlessness and simplicity of the style of the
divine writings, as an evidence of their truth, and that
arising from the self-application of the tiuths and prin-
ciples of the Gospel, until at length a man shall expe-
rience what Scripture intimates, " The witness in him-
self;" which passage alone shews, that the Scripture

94 REMAINS OF

itself declares the witness shall be greater after the at-
tainment of the Christian spirit, than at the beginning
of a cold investigation. Is there any thing unbecoming
in this ? The conduct of the people of Sychar may
serve as an illustration, John, iv. 39, &c. It may also
be observed, that it is a grand test of truth, that the
more it is examined, the clearer it appears. Thus, too,
the apparent contradictions of Scripture are reduced
to harmony by examination, as the apparent irregulari-
ties cf nature by the microscope.

The analogy in favour of our future state, founded
on the various changes that we and other animals un-
dergo, is of considerable weight. It might" be, perhaps,
a little weakened by the consideration that these chan-
ges are all attended with sensible proofs ; and that
therefore we could not draw as strong a conclusion, by
analogy, in favour of one that should not be attended
with them. It might at the same time be reolied, that
unless we draw the conclusion that there are no chan-
ges but what we have faculties to witness, the objection
is of no weight. It might also be answered, that there
may be very sufficient proof of our existence after death
to beings capable of receiving it, though not to those of
the same species : as we have abundant proof of the
changes of worms into flies, while perhaps the worms
of the same species, until their change arrives also, have
no idea, and no proof of it, — perhaps have not senses to
witness it.

The credibility of a future state of existence is fully
sufficient to become a practical principle, however low
the evidence may appear : for, at the very lowest, we
cannot prove the negative.

But further, that a being should be formed of such a
nature as man, and placed in such a situation as to try
this most momentous question, and feel an interest in
its determination, and yet never be able to arrive at a
satisfactory negative, is not only a practical proof, but
perhaps a stronger evidence of the actual truth of the
thing, than would at first be imagined. This state of

THE REV. C. WOLFE, 95

doubt and perplexity upon the most important and in-
teresting of all subjects, is a curious moral phenome-
non : — and where are we to look for the solution 1 It
is solved by revelation : — for, taking the two principles,
the immortality and the fall of man, nothing is so con-
ceivable as that the fall, in destroying so much of the
moral excellence of man, carried off many of the proofs
of his immortality along with it, — proofs, many of
which, it is natural to suppose, were of a m -rat charac-
ter,— perhaps the greatest of them, a moral fitness
for it.

From Bishop Butler's observations on " Divine Pun-
ishments," there may be ready and experimental an-
swers deduced to many of the common-place and pop-
ular objections advanced against the reality or severity
of future punishments. One favourite plea is the char-
acter of the Divine Being : " He is too merciful and
benevolent to visit human infirmity with such rigorous
severity." But what is the fact ? He only allows men
" to make themselves as miserable as ever they please."
He gives thern faculties to inquire and discover conse-
quences ; and if, by either not exerting them, or not
complying with their rational dictates when exercised,
they incur pain and misery, it is their own doing, and
he leaves them to " eat the fruit of their own devices."
Thus if we consider the Deity as merely passive in the
business, and we observe men from want of sufficient
consideration (for they generally bestow more or less
upon their worldly concerns) bringing on themselves
disease, misery, and ruin, — what an awful state is his
who has never seriously and earnestly given himself to
the consideration of the things of another world ! Nor
is it very likely that, when want of consideration (a fault
of little magnitude in the estimation of men, and even
dignified by some with virtuous titles and epithets) can
produce such tremendous results here, — the consequen-
ces of sin, spiritual and external; (although men over-
look and despise them,) will be so very light or so very
inconsiderable, as they would fondly persuade them-

06 REMAINS OF

selves they are, in another world. And hence too we
see the fody, in general, of pleading ignorance or sin-
cerity as our excuse ior carelessness or rin ; for we find
thoughtlessness and neglect often produce as disastrous
consequences as vice itself: and the sin here is plain;
for a creature not only gifted with, out distinguished,
in a great degree, from the rest of the creation, by pow-
ers of deliberation and observation, is bound to use
them ; and if he shoves aside a subject, the most im-
portant upon which those powers can be employed, on
which his happiness chiefly depends, and one which is
often forced upon his attention by outward events and
circumstances, without full, deliberate meditation, and
without arriving at any well-grounded conclusion upon
the matter, what shall be said of that man's sincerity ?
There is an evident dishonesty and unfairness evinced
in shutting his eyes to what he is absolutely bound to
contemplate, — and he must take the consequences :
and such is the case of all those who have not seriously,
earnestly, and deliberately considered the things that
belong unto their peace. They may not be guilty of
hypocrisy towards their fellow-creatures, but they act
the hypocrite to God and to themselves.

The inefficiency of repentance (in the common ac-
ceptation) may be enforced by considering a man on a
bed of pain and sickness, to which he has been brought
by his own folly or wickedness. Do we find that floods
of tears, and protestations of amendment, ever produce
any improvement in that man's bodily state 1 — What
reason have we to conclude, from precedent or analogy,
that they will relieve his soul?

Repentauce, in its fullest sense, a change from a state
of enmity to a state of love to God, one would think
is ever acceptable : but this is always the work of the
Spirit given through Jesus Christ, and never appears to
bo the meaning attached to it by the careless or the
ungodly, or even apprehended by them ; and therefore
it does not enter into the present question.

The profligate argument, that if God gave us such

THE REV. G. WOLFE. 97

and such passions, he gave them to be enjoyed without
restraint, is here immediately answered : If God gave
us such and such faculties, he gave them to be used,
and their use is to control those passions ; and we daily
see the woful consequences of not exercising them, by
actual observation. If the offence, by which the pas-
sion is gratified, is committed against ourselves, perhaps
we should come to a different conclusion.

Man is gifted with powers of looking to the future t
and evidently for the purpose of mainly preferring it
to the present : he is therefore a creature made to look
forward, — and to what, is the question. Some men
madly fasten upon the present moment, and shut their
eyes to what is naturally to follow ; and accordingly
they reap the fruit of their folly in due season : others,
who are either of a more calculating, or a more enter-
prising, or a more ambitious disposition, look forward to
various futurities at various distances ; but death comes
equally upon all, and their futurities are no more to
them. To what, then, is man made to look forward 1
There are here also to be taken into account the multi-
plied uncertainties attending the success of the various
projects, arising out of unnumbered events and circum-
stances which it is beyond the power of the natural fac-
ulties to foresee or avert. This may be urged in con-
trast to revelation. * * * *

Such reflections as these may tend to shew that his
faith was not the offspring of mere feeling, — that the
doctrines of Christianity were not embraced by him
simply from their congeniality to his pure and fervid
imagination ; but that he applied himself with all the
sober calculation of common sense, and all the powers
of a clear and reasoning mind, to the examination of
the important subject. His religion was the conviction
of the understanding, as well as the persuasion of the
heart. With a firm assurance of the truth and impor-
tance of the great principles of the Gospel as they are
interpreted and maintained by the Church of England,
he entered upon the arduous duties of the ministry!

9

03

REMAINS OF

The more he was engaged in the work, the more deep-
ly he felt the responsibility — the more he was in the
habit of teaching others, the more he seemed to learn
himself. He thus came more in contact, as it were, with
the business of religion ; his views became more vivid,
his heart more engaged ; and every day's experience
appears to have strengthened his faith and heightened
his devotion. The process by which his religious
character was formed seems to have been so gradual,
that it produced little apparent change in his external
manners. His natural spirits were not so much re-
pressed as regulated, his vivacity of temper was rather
chastened than abated, by the predominant influence of
religion. There was nothing which appeared con-
strained, or harsh, or assumed in his deportment ; and
thus his ministry was rendered doubly useful, especially
amongst the higher classes, with wrhom the simplicity
and cheerfulness of his disposition, and the easy and
undesigned disclosure of his fine talents and genuine
piety, usually secured him a favourable reception and a
candid attention.

A few more extracts from his letters may illustrate
this part, of his character better than any mere descrip-
tion. It should be observed, that when he sat down,
after the fatigue of parochial cares, to converse with
his absent friends, he sought for a relaxation of mind,
and usually gave full scope to that buoyant liveliness of
temper for which he was remarkable ; and thus, per-
haps, those who were not acquainted with him can
hardly estimate the intense anxiety and interest he felt
upon subjects to which he sometimes appears to allude
in a playfulness of spirit : besides, his nature so much
recoiled from any thing like ostentation, that he seldom
entered into any detail of his laborious duties, or men-
tioned any such particulars of his ministry, (except in
an incidental manner) as might supply an adequate idea
of his usefulness as a clergyman.

The following letter was written upon his return to
his parish, after a short visit to Dublin : —

THE REV. C WOLFE. 99

C. Caulfidd, Jan. 28th, 1818.

MY DEAR

A man often derives a wonderful advantage from a
cold and fatiguing journey, after taking leave of his
friends ; viz. he understands the comfort of lolling
quietly and alone by his fire-side, after his arrival at his
destination : a pleasure which would have been totally
lost if he had been transported there without difficulty,
and at once from the region of friendship and society.
Every situation borrows much of its character from
that by which it was immediately preceded. This
would have been all melancholy and solitude, if it had
immediately succeeded the glow of affectionate and lite-
rary conviviality ; but when it follows the rumbling of a
coach, the rattling of a post-chaise, the shivering of a
wintry night's journey, and the conversation of people
to whom you are almost totally indifferent, it then be-
comes comfort and repose. So I found at my arrival at
my own cottage on Saturday ; my fire-side, from con-
trast, became a kind of lesser friend, or at least a conso-
lation for the loss of friends.

Nothing could be more fortunate than the state of
things during my absence ; there was no duty to be
performed : and of this I am the more sensible, as I
had scarcely arrived before I met a great supply of bu-
siness, such as I should have been very much concern-
ed if it had occurred in my absence. I have already
seen enough of service to be again fully naturalized.
I am again the weather-beaten curate : — I have trudged
roads — forded bogs — braved snow and rain — become
umpire between the living — have counselled the sick —
administered to the dying — and to-morrow shall bury the
dead. — Here have I written three sides without coming
to the matter in hand, * * *

Yours affectionately,
C. W.'s

100 REMAINS OF

March 24th, 1818.

" MY DEAR

" Although I have not received an answer to a letter
which I wrote to you, and the date of which I have had
time to forget, I am induced to write again, and re-
double my blow, partly in order to shame you into an
answer, and partly to employ you to execute a commis-
sion for me in turn.

I attended Mr. my predecessor in the cure,

through some of the parish business, and have not yet re-
covered from my consternation. — Oh! I must bid a long
farewell to literature, and all the pleasures and associa-
tions which it carries along with it ! — Do not think that
I repine, and least of all, at my duty as a Christian and
a clergyman ; but here is a parish large beyond all pro-
portion, in which the curate, who here does every thing,
will be unavoidably called on every moment to act in-
directly as a magistrate ; and, as I must take a cottage
and a few acres of meadow, I shall have to encounter
all the horrors of house-keeping, and all the cares of
an establishment. Considering all this, and the length
of time that even one visit, strictly professional, would
take up, from the extent of the parish, what time shall
I have for taking up even a book of divinity 1 But ' my
hand is to the plough, and I must not look back.'— At

B a small parish, where I have had little to do but

what is connected immediately with my duty, I think
I have got on pretty well. I told you that I had been
preceded in that parish by an excellent man, and found
them far better informed than perhaps any parish in
our part of the world, and prepared to be disgusted with
any successor. We agree however very well : the
parish and I are on visiting terms, and in the habit of
conversing on Christian topics ; and they tell me that
they wish for my continuance. I look upon it as a pro-
vidential circumstance, that I have been first called to
the performance of duty more moderate and more pure*

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 101

ly apostolical, and was not at once plunged into the
parish, where it is excessive, and of a more mixed

nature.

# # * * *

Yours ever,
C. W."

The next letter gives an account of his removal from
his temporary post, and his final settlement in Castle
Caulfield, the principal village of the parish of Donough-
more. It was written after a visit to Dublin upon some
parochial business.

July 7th, 1818.

" MY DEAR

It is probable that you have accounted for my silence
in the right way — by the trouble and confusion of

shifting my quarters. I have left B with sincere

regret, and am now in the comfortable predicament of
having left one habitation without having got into an-
other, like Sheridan's Jew, who renounced his religion
for the purpose of inheriting a legacy, but had too
much conscience immediately to adopt any other, and
is accordingly represented * as a dead wall between the
church and the synagogue.'

" I had but a melancholy sort of a journey to Dun-
gannon, being, for the first half of the way, in perpet-
ual danger of falling asleep, and consequently of falling
off the top of the coach, from the fatigue of the col-
lege election, and the incessant patrolling through
Dublin the day after ; and for the other half, trundling
on so vile a vehicle, over so vile a road, that twenty
doses of laudanum could not have then effected it. On
leaving Dungannon for this (my rector's house) I was
met by the family, who told me I was to do duty at

B the next day, and so I changed my direction and

repaired there, nothing loath ; and the next day mount-
ed my old pulpit, where I had begun to feel myself at

9*

102 REMAINS OF

home, and received a most kind welcome from my con-
gregation.

As I was apprised that I was to stay no longer than
the next Saturday, I made the best of my time, in
taking leave of my parishioners ; and I assure you, it
was a painful and a gratifying task, — although I had,
a little before, gone through a rehearsal in Dublin, much
more trying. I promised that I would go to see them
again whenever I could escape from the parish I was
going to ; and my rich parishioners declared that I must
(as they term it) complete their ' conversion. I, of

course, spent as much time as I could with Mr. M *

I parted with him on Saturday morning ; and the same
day set out for this house, in rather a melancholy humour,
but with a peculiarly ludicrous equipage and attend-
ance. One waggon contained my whole fortune and
family, (with the exception of a cow, which was driven
along-siHe of the waggon) and its contents were two
large trunks, a bed and its appendages ; and on the top
of these, which were piled up so as to make a very com-
manding appearance, sat a woman (my future house-
keeper) and her three children, and by their side stood
a calf of three weeks old, which has lately become an
inmate in my family.

I am at present living in this house, where I am
treated with the kindest hospitality ; but expect in
about a week to be established in my new abode, and
to enter upon all the awful cares of a family man. In-
deed, I go down there every day, as it is, and give di-
rections with as knowing an air as the best manager
among them, lest any should detect my ignorance. I
preached last Sunday in this church, and whatever
intercourse has yet taken place between me and my
parishioners, seems to promise a good understanding
between us. But I want friends — friends — and give
my most affectionate remembrance to all of them that
you meet.

Yours, &c.
C. W."

THE RET. C. WOLFE. 10*

Castle Caulfield, Oct. 20th, 1818.

ft Mtf DEAR ■

I should have complied with your request sooner, of
writing to assure you that I was not offended at your
delay, if I did not conceive that you possessed a very
comfortable degree of well-grounded assurance upon
the point already. I had accounted for your delay by
imagining some of its causes, before I received your
chapter of accidents. However, do not for the future
conceal any disaster or misfortune from me while it is
in progress, nor wait until it is brought to a close. It
is a slovenly way of treating a friend, only to invite
him to rejoice in the victory, without giving him a
share in the perils through which it is achieved.

I have had no such signal adventures to communi-
cate. Alas ! I have no disasters now to diversify
my life, not having many of those enjoyments which
render men obnoxious to them, except when my foot
sinks up to the ancle in a bog, as I am looking for a
stray sheep. My life is now nearly made up of visits
to my parishioners, both sick and in health. Notwith-
standing, the parish is so large that I have yet to form
an acquaintance with a very formidable number of them.
The parish and I have become very good friends : the
congregation has increased, and the Presbyterians
sometimes pay me a visit. There is a great number of
Methodists in the part of the parish surrounding the
village, who are many of them very worthy people, and
among the most regular attendants upon the church.
With many of my flock I live upon affectionate terms.
There is a fair proportion of religious men amongst
them, with a due allowance of profligates. None of
them rise so high as the class of gentlemen, but there
is a good number of a very respectable description.
I am particularly attentive to the school : there, in fact,
I think most good can be done; and, besides the obvi-
ous advantages, it is a means of conciliating all sects of

104 REMAINS OF

Christians, by taking an interest in the welfare of their
children.

Our Sunday-School is very large, and is attended by
the Roman Catholics and Presbyterians : the day i#
never a Sabbath to me ; however, it is the kind of la-
bour that is best repaid, for you always find that some
progress is made, some fruit soon produced ; whereas,
your labouis with the old and the adult often fail of pro-
ducing any effect, and, at the best, it is in general latent
and gradual.

Yours, &c.
C. W."

Castle Caulfield, April 27th, 1819.

U MY DEAR

# * * « jyjy congregation is much increased,
and does not seem inclined to diminish, and there is a
degree of piety in some of the highest orders of people
in this county and the county Armagh, and a degree
of propriety in others, that makes them alive to the
conduct of clergymen, and active in their inquiries re-
specting them. I never knew before, that a humble
curate (a word that seems to imply the very essence of
obscurity,) was so much a public character as I find he
is, or should be, in the North, where the number of
Protestants of different classes seems to have kept re-
ligion more alive than in any other part.

An event in my parish that should not be omitted,
is the vestry. Some false and industrious reports had

been spread respecting the object that and I

had in view, in raising money for the foundation of the
school we had in contemplation ; and a great number
of people came for the purpose of voting against us.
You, who know me, may judge of my anxiety at the
prospect of having to fight, where I came to preach
peace and charity, and my apprehension of falling out
with Presbyterians, whom I feel desirous of conciliating,

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 105

and with whom I have been on the most friendly foot-
ing. At length the day arrived, when I made a speeth,
clearing away all misrepresentations, and stating the
exertions I had made. I was seconded very ably by

; and the consequence was a most cordial and

unanimous grant of <£JL40, with * long life to you Mr.
Wolfe, and long may you reign over us V The good
feeling that reigned throughout the whole, really made
up one of the most gratifying scenes I have witnessed
for a long time.

Yours, &c.
C. W."

The following letter gives an affecting account of
the death of a valued friend, to whom he had lately be-
come particularly attached, the Rev. Dr. Meredith,
formerly a fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, and then
rector of Ardtrea. He was esteemed one of the most
distinguished scholars in the university to which he
belonged. His genius for mathematical acquirements
especially, was universally allowed to be of the first
order ; and his qualifications as a public examiner and
lecturer were so eminent, as to render his early retire-
ment from the duties of a fellowship a serious loss to
the college. Of our author's talents he entertained the
highest opinion ; and his congeniality of disposition
soon led him to appreciate fully the still higher qualities
of his heart.

Castle Caulfield, May 4th, 1819.

" MY DEAR

" I am just come from the house of mourning ! Last
night I helped to lay poor M: in his coffin, and fol-
lowed him this morning to his grave. The visitation
was truly awful. Last Tuesday (this day week) he was
struck to the ground by a fit of apoplexy, and from that
moment until the hour of his death, on Sunday evening,

106 REMAINS OF

he never articulated. I did not hear of his danger un-
til Sunday evening, and yesterday morning I ran ten
miles, like a madman, and was only in time to see hie
dead body, it will be a cruel and bitter thought to
me for many a day, that I had not one farewell from
him, while he was on the brink of the world. Oh !

one of my heart-strings is broken ! the only way I

have of describing my attachment to that man, is by

telling you, that next to you and D , he was the

person in whose society I took the greatest delight. A
visit to Ardtrea was often in prospect, to sustain me in
many of my cheerless labours. My gems are falling
away ; but I do hope and trust, it is because ' God is

making up his jewels.' Dr. M was a man of a

truly Christian temper of mind. We used naturally to
fall upon religious subjects ; and I now revert, with pe-
culiar gratification, to the cordiality with which ' we
took sweet counsel together,' upon those topics. You
know that he was possessed of the first and most dis-
tinguishing characteristic of a Christian disposition, hu*

milky. He preached the Sunday before for , and

the sermon was unusually solemn and impressive, and
in the true spirit of the Gospel. Indeed, from several
circumstances, he seems to have had some strange pre-
sentiments of what was to happen. His air and look

some time before his dissolution had, as told me,

an expression of the most awful and profound devo-
tion. * * • * *

Yours, &c.
C. W."

On his return after another visit to Dublin, he thus
writes.

Castle Caulfield, Jan. 19th, 1820.

" MY DEAR

As it was the irksomeness of making a long apology
at the beginning of my letter, that has for the last

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 107

week deterred me from writing to you, I beg leave to re-
move the obstacle altogether, and proceed to business,
although you will find an apology in the course of the
entertainment. You may remember the blunder that
was said to have been committed by a certain historian,
who had related a shipwreck that had taken place on
the coast of Bohemia : do not, however, suspect me of
the same ignorance of geography, when I inform you,
that in my voyage from Dublin to Castle Caulfield,
I was shipwrecked on the coast of Monaghan : until
then I had always thought it an inland county ; but to
my surprise, I found that half the country, between this
place and Ardee, was under water. The fact is, a riv-
er had overflowed the road, so as to render the bank
undistinguishable, and the wheel went down ; another
step would have upset us altogether ; and in a few days
you might have seen me in the Newry paper. As it
was, it cost me a raw hour between three and four in the
morning, before we were able to weigh anchor again.

Well, I was indeed highly pleased that the leaven
had been working during my absence ; for though I
was too late to go through the parish, and give them a
regular summons, I found a greater number of commu-
nicants on Christmas-day, than I think I had ever seen
before in this church. Why, if I had stayed away
another month, no one can calculate the improvement
that might have been effected by my absence. Another
comfortable consideration is, that there never was less
duty to be done in the parish than while I was away,
and never more than since I returned. The very day
after my return, I was summoned to see a Presbyterian,
and between them and my own people, I have had
scarcely any rest ; and I assure you this has been the
cause of my taciturnity. I do not think I have ever
been so free from even the affectation of a cough, as
since I returned. Long life to flannels and comforta-
bles ! and a long life to those who bestow them, (' a long
life —even forever!')

My school, as I anticipated, has declined during the

108

REMAINS OP

severity of the winter, but I expect it to revive with the
spring, according to the course of nature. However,
I have some fears that the Pone's letter will prove a frost
— a killing frost. I should not be very much surprised
to find it a forgery.

Yours, &c.
C. W."

The sphere of duty in which Mr. W. was engaged,
was extensive and laborious. A large portion of the
parish was situated in a wild hilly country, abounding
in bogs and trackless wastes ; and the population was so
scattered, that it was a work of no ordinary difficulty
to keep up that intercourse with his flock, upon which
the success of a Christian minister so much depends.
When he entered upon his work, he found the church
rather thinly attended ; but in a short time the effects
of his constant zeal, his impressive style of preaching,
and his daily and affectionate converse with his parish-
ioners, were visible in the crowded and attentive con-
gregations which began to gather round him.

The number of those who soon became regular at-
tendants at (he holy communion, was so great, as to ex-
ceed the whole ordinary congregation at the com-
mencement of his ministry.

Amongst his constant hearers were many of the
Presbyterians, who seemed much attracted by the ear-
nestness of his devotion in reading the Liturgy — the
energy of his appeals, and the general simplicity of his
lite ; and such was the respect they began to feel
towards him, that they frequently sent for him to ad-
minister spiritual comfort and support to them in the
trying hour of sickness, and at the approach of death.

A large portion of the Protestants in his parish were
of that denomination ; and no small number were of
the class of Wesleyan Methodists. Though differing
on many points from these two bodies of Christians, he
however maintained with them the most friendly inter-

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 109

course, and entered familiarly into discussion on the
subjects upon which they were at issue with him.

There was nothing in the course of his duties as a
clergyman (as he himself declared) which he found
more difficult and trying at first, than how to discover
and pursue the best mode of dealing with the numerous
conscientious Dissenters in his parish, and especially
with the Wesleyan Methodists, who claim connexion
with the Church of England. While he lamented
their errors, he revered their piety ; and at length suc-
ceeded beyond his hopes in softening their prejudices,
and conciliating their good will. This he effected by
taking care, in his visits amongst them, to dwell par-
ticularly upon the grand and vital truths in which he
mainly agreed with them, and, above all, by a patience
of contradiction (yet without a surrender or compro-
mise of opinion) on the points upon which they differ-
ed. It is a curious fact, that some of the Methodists,
on a few occasions, sought to put his Christian char-
acter to the test by purposely using harsh and humilia-
ting expressions towards him, in their conversations
upon the nature of religion. This strange mode of
inquisition he was enabled to bear with the meekness
of a child ; and some of them afterwards assured him,
that they considered the temper with which such a trial
is endured as a leading criterion of true conversion, and
were happy to find in him so unequivocal proof of a re-
generate spirit.

They soon learned to value his instructions as a
Christian minister, though conveyed in a manner differ-
ent from what they usually heard, and divested of pe-
culiarities which they habitually associated with the
very essence of the Gospel. He says himself — " I am
here between Methodists and Calvinists (or Presbyteri-
ans,) and I have preached to both in the church, and
conversed with both in the cottage ; and I have been
sometimes amused to observe the awkward surprise
with which they have heard me insist upon the great

10

110 REMAINS OF

doctrines, without bringing in their own peculiar tenets,
or using their own technical cant."

From some hasty notes which he took down, it ap-
pears that he sometimes entered into discussions with
them on those views by which they seemed, to him, to
confine the process of divine grace in the conversion of
sinners within limits unauthorised by Scripture. The fol-
lowing brief remarks (amongst others) shew the sobrie-
ty of thought with which he entered into the considera-
tion of such subjects.

All system-makers cramp aud encumber religion, by
telling you, that the mind of a sinner always proceeds
through certain stages ; of conviction, repentance, faith,
justification, &c. The mind when converted will in-
deed have the same sense of the nature of sin, of human
corruption, of the want of a Redeemer, &c. The end
arrived at is the same ; but the ways of arriving at it
are various, according to the variety of dispositions
upon which it has to act. Thus, upon a profligate, a
drunkard, an extortioner, and upon a man of liberal,
generous, independent principles, I am sure the ways
of acting are very different. Compare all the different
instances of conversion in Scripture, the jailor, Lydia,
Cornelius, the thief, &c. — But the Methodists adopt a
class of converts, and deduce a general rule for their
particular case ; whereas, there seems to be no general
rule in Scripture. This is prescribing laws to God's
Holy Spirit. He seems to have various ways of effect-
ing a sinner's conversion, and of adapting himself to
different dispositions : so that the method of a Metho-
dist appears unfounded, in assigning a certain process.

It is no weak proof of the Christian spirit, to be
able to recognise the loveliness and sublimity of true
piety in the lowliest or most forbidding forms ; to discern
its excellence, though dwarfed by intellectual little-
ness, or degraded by the mean garb of ignorance ; to
revere it, even when surrounded by the most ludicrous
accompaniments. It is, on the contrary, an index of

THE REV. C. WOLFE. HI

spiritual dulness, perhaps, of mental incapacity, to un-
dervalue or despise any form of sound religion, merely
on account of such disadvantageous associations. But
our author held the great truths of Christianity so close
to his heart, that nothing could intervene to cloud their
beauty : his spiritual taste and perspicacity was such,
that it quickly descried, and (as by a magnetic attraction)
embraced a kindred spirit, in whatever guise it appear-
ed. It could separate the dross ; it could detach the
grosser elements ; and delighted to look forward to that
happy time when the spirit of genuine religion, howev-
er depressed by the meanness of the subject in which
it happens to dwell, or disfigured by the unhappy com-
binations with which, here on earth, it may be attend-
ed, will assuredly shine forth in all its radiant purity
and native grandeur.

The success of a Christian pastor depends almost as
much on the manner as the matter of his instruction.
In this respect Mr. W. was peculiarly happy, especially
with the lower classes of the people, who were much
engaged by the affectionate cordiality and the simple
earnestness of his deportment towards them. In his
conversations with the plain farmer or humble labourer,
he usually laid his hands upon their shoulder, or caught
them by the arm ; and while he was insinuating his
arguments, or enforcing his appeals with all the variety
of simple illustrations which a prolific fancy could sup-
ply, he fastened an anxious eye upon the countenance
of the person he was addressing, as if eagerly awaiting
some gleam of intelligence; to shew that he was under-
stood and felt.

The solemnity, the tenderness, the energy of his
manner, could not fail to impress upon their minds, at
least, that his zeal for their souls was disinterested and
sincere.

The state of gross demoralization in which a large
portion of the lower classes in his parish was sunk,
rendered it necessary for him sometimes to adopt a
style of preaching not the most consonant to his own

112 REMAINS OF

feelings. His natural turn of mind would have led him
to dwell most upon the loftier motives, the more tender
appeals, the gentler topics of persuasion with which the
Gospel abounds; but the dull and stubborn natures
which he had to encounter, frequently required " the
terrors of the Lord" to be placed before them ; the vices
he had to overthrow called for the strongest weapon he
could wield. He often, indeed, sought to win such
souls unto Christ by the attractive beauties and the be-
nign spirit of the Gospel ; but, alas !

" Leviathan is not so tamed."

Amongst the people whom he had to address he found
drunkenness and impurity, and their base kindred
vices, lamentably prevalent ; and therefore he felt it
necessary to stigmatise such practices in the plainest
terms : he could not find approach to minds of so coarse
an order, without frequently arraying against them the
most awful denunciations of Divine Justice.

He seldom had his sermons fully written out and pre-
pared for delivery ; yet this arose not from any dearth
of mental resources, much less from confidence or neg-
lect. It arose from an intense feeling of the awful re-
sponsibility of the duty. His mind was not only im-
pressed, but agitated, by the sense that he was "as a
dying man speaking to dying men ;" and the solici-
tude he felt as to the choice of his subject, the topics
best suited to his purpose, the most lively and practical
manner in which they might be presented, was the real
cause which usually delayed his full preparation. He
knew the vast importance of that brief space of time,
during which a minister is permitted to address his
flock ; and he was fearful lest an idle or unprofitable
word should escape his lips, or lest those moments
which are so pregnant with the concerns of eternity
should be squandered away in vague harangue or bar-
ren discussion. He was never satisfied with first
thoughts ; he revolved them over and over,, with the
hope that others more suitable, more striking, more

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 113

perspicuous, might present themselves to his mind ; and
thus he had seldom more than half his sermon commit*
ted to paper when the time arrived for its delivery.
However, his mind was so fully impregnated with his
subject, and his command of language so prompt, that
he never was at a loss to complete in the pulpit what he
had left unfinished at his desk.*

He had no temptation to a vain display of argumen-
tative skill, or rhetorical accomplishments, or the mere
graces of composition, in presence of the congregation
he had to address ; and indeed he had attained such
an elevation of mind and purity of heart, as to stand
above the reach of such a snare in any situation. He
did not despise such things ; he could appreciate their
value, and make them tributary to the single object
of his ministry. He seemed fully sensible of the ad-
vantage and necessity of a chaste embellishment of
style, such as is recommended by Augustine, who says,
that a sermon is perfect in this respect, when " nee
inornata relinquitur, nee indecenter ornatur." He avail-
ed himself also of the powers of a poetic and vivid
imagination, not so much to adorn or beautify, as to
illustrate and enforce his subject ; to gain entrance
into the understanding, and take the passions by sur-
prise.

During the year that the typhus fever raged most vio-
lently in the north of Ireland, his neighbourhood was
much afflicted with the disease ; and thus the important
duty of visiting the sick (which to him was always a
work of most anxious solicitude) was vastly increased ;
and he accordingly applied himself with indefatigable
zeal in every quarter of his extended parish, in admin-
istering temporal and spiritual aid to his poor flock. In
the discharge of such duties he exposed himself to fre-
quent colds ; and his disregard of all precaution, and

* This appearance of extemporaneous preaching brought him into
much favour with the good Presbyterians and Methodists, who flocked
to hear him. Some of them were indeed so pleased with his manner,
as to say, " he would almost do for a meeting minister."

10*

114 REMAINS OF

of the ordinary comforts of life to which he had been
accustomed, soon, unhappily, confirmed a consumptive
tendency in his constitution, of which some symptoms
appeared when in college. His frame was robust, and
his general health usually strong; but an habitual
cough, of which he himself seemed almost unconscious,
often excited the apprehensions of his friends ; and
at length, in the spring of 1S21, the complaint, of
which it seemed the forerunner, began to make mani-
fest inroads upon his constitution. No arguments, how-
ever, could for a long time dissuade him from his usual
work. So little did he himself regard the fatal symp-
toms, that he could not be prevailed upon to relax his
parochial labours. At length, however, his altered
looks and other unfavourable symptoms appeared so
alarming, that some of his most respectable parishion-
ers wrote to his friends in Dublin to urge them to use
their influence in persuading him to retire for awhile
from his arduous duties, and to have the best medical
advice for him without further delay. But such was
the anxiety he felt for his parish, and so little conscious
did he seem of the declining state of his health, that no
entreaties could avail.

The repeated accounts of his sinking health at last
impelled the friend who now feebly attempts this hum-
ble record of his worth, to set off at once to visit him,
and to use all his influence to induce him to submit to
what appeared so plainly the will of Providence, and
to suspend his labours until his strength should be suffi-
ciently recruited to resume them with renewed vigour.
In the mean time (about the middle of May 1821) he
had been hurried off to Scotland by the importunate
entreaties of a kind and respected brother clergyman
in his neighbourhood, in order to consult a physician
celebrated for his skill in such cases. On his way to
Edinburgh he happened to fall in with a deputation
from the Irish tract-society, who were going to that city
to hold a meeting for the promotion of their important
objects. Notwithstanding the languor of his frame,

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 115

and the irritation of a harrassing cough, he was pre-
vailed upon to exert his eloquence in this interesting
cause. In some of the speeches made upon that occa-
sion he thought that the dark side of the character of
his countrymen had been strongly exhibited, while the
brighter part was almost entirely kept out of view.
With characteristic feeling he stood up to present the
whole image, with all its beauties as well as its defects.
His address was taken down in short-hand, and sub-
mitted to him for a hurried correction as he was step-
ping into his carriage. The following outline which
was preserved may appear worth insertion.

SPEECH BEFORE A MEETING OF THE IRISH
TRACT SOCIETY, EDINBURGH, MAY, 1821.

SIR,

I have not the vanity to imagine that the words of
an obscure individual, who is a total stranger to almost
all those whom he addresses, and, except within a few
days, a stranger to the country which they inhabit,
could produce any considerable effect in exciting you
to the pc rformance of your duty, or in recommending
the object which you are assembled to promote.

I only rise to express my thanks on the part of that
country which I should find it impossible to love and
value as I ought, without also regarding with affection
that country which has proved itself her benefactor.
I confess that I perform this office with shame and mor-
tification : I should wish to have seen my country
standing forth in the proud character of a benefactress,
and taking her rank amongst those whose privilege it
is "to give gifts unto men," instead of appearing in the
attitude of a suppliant, with a petition in her hand.
Perhaps it is right that these proud feelings should be
humbled ; perhaps the two countries thus occupy that
relative situation which they are best qualified to fill ;
— perhaps Scotland is formed to yield assistance; but
assuredly there is in Ireland all the heart to return it.

116

REMAINS OF

The Irish character seems to possess a greater capa-
bility either of good or of evil than that of any other
nation upon the face of the globe. There is a quickness
of intellect, a vivacity of fancy, a restlessness of curi-
osity, and a warmth of heart, that can be turned either
to the very best or the very worst of purposes, and form
the elements either of the most exalted or the most de-
graded of rational beings. They in some degree re-
semble in their effects the power and versatility of fire,
that sometimes bursts from the volcano, and overflows
and desolates the whole scene by which it is surround*
ed ; that is son etimes applied by the incendiary to the
house where the family are sleeping at midnight, and
consumes them in their beds ; or can be turned by pow-
erful and complicated machinery to the service of man ;
that can be made to rise in incense before the throne of
God in heaven. And thus also these elements, when
either left to themselves, or perverted by designing and
wicked men, can form the most atrocious character that
ever moved upon the face of the earth : but if the light
of the Gospel of Jesus Christ shines in upon them, they
compose the most illustrious specimen of an exalted and
truly spiritual Christian that perhaps we shall here be
permitted to behold. This is not mere theory and fond
speculation : we have proofs of both. Alas ! for the
first we have only to appeal to the melancholy state-
ments of depravity which you have just heard ; and
for the second, we have only to appeal to the state of
religion in Ireland at this instant : for, sir, in Ireland
" the winter is past, and the spring is begun ;" and there
is, in the religious aspect of the country, an appearance
of growth, a promise and anticipation almost more de-
lightful than the fulfilment. There is a spiritual glow
throughout the land ; and when the power of religious
truth acts upon a warm and generous heart, and sends
all its energy in one direction, it produces a beautiful
specimen of living and devoted Christianity ; and we
are spared in Ireland, probably more than in any other
country, that most tremendous of all moral spectacles,

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 117

more tremendous than even the debauchee plunging
into sensuality — the spectacle of a man with the light
of the Gospel in his head, without its warmth in his
heart. From this view of the Irish character, it is ob-
vious that they require both unceasing attention, and
the greatest delicacy in the treatment. Such a people
must have constant food for the mind, food for the fancy,
food for the affections : if it is not given, they will find
it for themselves, and therefore both great liberality and
great judgment are necessary in supplying it. I can
testify, from actual observation, to the insatiable avidity
with which tracts are sought, and the deep interest
which is excited in those who peruse them. We trust,
then, the good work will go on, and that Scotland will
rejoice to see the sun of Ireland arise ; and, though it
may not be given to this generation to behold it, yet our
posterity will see the day, when Ireland shall rise from
the posture of a suppliant, and take her station by the
side of Scotland.

On his return from Scotland, the writer met him at
a friend's house within a few miles of his own resi-
dence ; and, on the following Sunday, accompanied
him through the principal part of his parish to the
church ; and never can he forget the scene he witness-
ed as they drove together along the road, and through
the village. It must give a more lively idea of his
character and conduct as a parish clergyman than any
laboured delineation, or than a mere detail of particu-
lar facts. As he quickly passed by, all the poor people
and children ran out to their cabin-doors to welcome
him, with looks and expressions of the most ardent af-
fection, and with all that wild devotion of gratitude so
characteristic of the Irish peasantry. Many fell upon
their knees invoking blessings upon him ; and long af-
ter they were out of hearing, they remamed in the
same attitude, shewing by their gestures that they were
still offering up prayers for him ; and some even follow-
ed the carriage a long distance, making the most anx-

119 REMAINS OF

ious inquiries about his health. He was sensibly moved
by this manifestation of feeling, and met it with all
that heartiness of expression, and that affectionate sim-
plicity of manner, whicii made him as much an object
of love, as his exalted virtues rendered him an object of
respect. The intimate knowledge he seemed to have
acquired of all their domestic histories, appeared from
the short but significant inquiries he made of each in-
dividual as he was hurried along ; while, at the same
time, he gave a rapid sketch of the particular charac-
ters of several who presented themselves — pointing to
one with a sigh, and to another with looks of fond con-
gratulation. It was, indeed, impossible to behold a
scene like this (which can scarcely be described) with-
out the deepest but most pleasing emotions. It seemed
to realise the often-imagined picture of a primitive
minister of the Gospel of Christ, living in the hearts of
his flock, " willing to spend, and to be spent upon
them," and enjoying the happy interchange of mutual
affection. It clearly shewed the kind of intercourse
that habitually existed between him and his parishion-
ers ; and afforded a pleasing proof, that a faithful and
firm discharge of duty, when accompanied by kindly
sympathies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to
gain the hearts of the humbler ranks of the people.

It can scarcely be a matter of surprise that he should
feel much reluctance in leaving a station where his
ministry appeared to be so useful and acceptable ; and
accordingly, though peremptorily required by the phy-
sician he had just consulted, to retire for some time
from all clerical duties, it was with difficulty he could
be dislodged from his post, and forced away to Dublin,
where most of his friends resided.

It was hoped that timely relaxation from duty, and
a change in his mode of living to what he had been
originally accustomed, and suitable to the present deli-
cate state of his health, might avert the fatal disease
with which he was threatened. The habits of his life,
while he resided on his cure, were in every respect

THE REV. C. WOLFE, 119

calculated to confirm his constitutional tendency to
consumption. He seldom thought of providing a regu-
lar meal ; and his humble cottage exhibited every ap-
pearance of the neglect of the ordinary comforts of
life. A few straggling rush-bottomed chairs, piled up
with his books, a small rickety table before the fire-
place, covered with parish memoranda, and two trunks
containing all his papers — serving at the same time to
cover the broken parts of the floor, — constituted all the
furniture of his sitting-room. The mouldy walls of the
closet in which he slept were hanging with loose folds
of damp paper ; and between this wretched cell and his
parlour was the kitchen, which was occupied by the
disbanded soldier, his wife, and their numerous brood
of children, who had migrated with him from his first
quarters, and seemed now in full possession of the whole
concern, entertaining him merely as a lodger, and
usurping the entire disposal of his small plot of ground,
as the absolute lords of the soil.

After he left this comfortless home, he resigned him-
self entirely to the disposal of his family. Though his
malady seemed to increase, and his frame to become
more emaciated, still his natural spirits and mental
elasticity continued unimpaired, — so much so, that he
continued to preach occasionally in Dublin with his
usual energy, until the friendly physician to whom he
had now submitted his case absolutely forbade all pre-
sent exercise of clerical duties.

His anxiety about the provision for his duties in his
parish, seemed for a long time materially to interrupt
every enjoyment which might tend to his recovery. In-
deed, his feelings were so alive to the subject, that he
could scarcely be satisfied with any arrangement which
his kind clerical friends could make for him, under
conviction that no occasional deputy can fully fill the
place of the regular minister of the parish ; and un-
happily the advanced age and infirmities of his rector
rendered any exertions on his part impracticable. But
he shall speak for himself.

120 REMAINS OF

Dublin, May 28th, 1821.

MY DEAR MRS.

I did not wish to write until something decisive had

occurred ; and at length the die is cast : Doctor

has, in fact, stripped me of my gown. You may con-
ceive me obstinate, when I confess that even his opin-
ion has not yet, in my mind, justified the alarm of my
friends, or convinced me of my danger ; but however,
it has done what is more essential and more satisfacto-
ry ; it has shewn me the course which Providence di-
rects me to take, and this is the only question for me to
decide ; the rest is in better hands. The dread I felt
of choosing for myself, instead of ' running the race that
is set before me,' is removed ; and I now feel myself
obliged to resign, at least for a season, the trust which
was reposed in me. What the ultimate event may be,
and whether I shall ever be again permitted to exercise
my ministry in Castle Caulfield, I cannot foresee ; and
although I am thus replaced amongst my oldest friends,
and where natural inclination would lead me, I cannot
but look with the liveliest regret at the possibility of
never returning to a parish to which I was bound, for
three years, by the most solemn ties, and to a family in
which I have experienced the most unwearied kind-
ness and affection. I do not conceal from you the great
anxiety I feel that my successor, whether he is to be
temporary or permanent, may be an active, spiritual
minister. I do not know indeed that any circumstance
would give me more pain than that my poor flock
should fall into the hands of a careless, worldly-minded
pastor. * * * * *

Yours, &c.
C. W."

THE REV. C. WOLFE, 121

Dublin, June 14th, 1621 .

" MY DEAR

Although I have nothing conclusive to relate, I feel
as if, in this state of uncertainty, my silence would look
like neglect. Having failed in my attempts to procure ft
temporary substitute, and being absolutely withheld bf
my friends from returning, I at length came to the reso-
lution of resigning the trust reposed in me. However
painful it might be to my feelings, I could no longer
reconcile it to myself to leave the parish in such a state
of disorder and confusion. I know that wherever
there is not a minister resident in the parish, every
thing is at a stand ; the sick and the schools are not at-
tended to, and those that are in health are ' left to walk
in their own ways.' I could not divest myself of a sense
of responsibility for all these consequences.

Actuated by these motives, I waited upon the pri
mate, and tendered my resignation. He liesitated tc
accept it, and urged me to continue my search for e
substitute. * * * As soon as any thing is
determined on, I shall let you know.

Yours, &>c.
C. W."

Blackhall, July 24th, 1631.

" MY DEAR

* * If I had known, at the commence •
ment of this business, that matters would have continu-
ed so long in a state of uncertainty, I would have fig-
turned to my post at all hazards. I felt so much dis-
tress, not only at the deserted state of my parish, but
also at the trouble and embarrassment that I have occa-
sioned to my friends, that I made three attempts to re-
sign, in which I failed. A very little thing would make
me break jail, for I feel myself strong enough for such

/ 11

122 REMAINS OF

an undertaking ; but I am not allowed to have an opin-
ion upon this subject : therefore it is that I generally
say little about it in my letters. When any of my poor
people inquire for me, you may tell them that nothing
would injure my health more than to hear that my flock
was scattered. I am very happy to hear so favourable
an account of the parish, and Sunday-school ; for the
latter of which, I know to whom I am principally in-
debted.

I do indeed lament that I am not at hand when you
fancy I could minister consolation ; but I know, by ex-
perience, that God often removes from us every earthly
support, in order to draw us near to himself, and to
prevent us from trusting to the creature rather than the
Creator ; and he sometimes puts ' lover and friend far
from us, and removes our acquaintance out of sight/
in order that he may break through all disguises, and
reveal himself as our all-sufficient Friend. Give my

blessing and my most affectionate regards to Mrs. ;

remember me to each and all at Mr. -.

Yours, &c.
C. W.'

Black Rock, June 13th, 1821.

'' DEAR SIR,

I regret very much, that although you have been a
considerable time in the neighbourhood of Castle
Caulfield, I am able to address you only by letter. I as-
sure you it was fully my intention to have returned your
visit ; but the duties of an extensive parish, which I
had not been able to reduce into any kind of system,
and which were rendered more laborious by the want
of a horse, repeatedly prevented me from fulfilling it.
Indeed, the occasion of the present letter is in some
degree a proof. The irregularity of my movements in
my parish produced a degree of inattention to my
health, and gave rise to some symptoms of an attack

THE REV. C. WOLFE.

123

upon my lungs, which have alarmed my friends, and
induced them to take me altogether out of my own
hands, and placed me under the jurisdiction of a phy-
sician, who has actually stripped me of my gown, and
interdicted me, under pain of a consumption, from the
performance of any clerical duty for a very considera-
ble time. I have made several unavailing attempts to
procure a temporary substitute ; and being unwilling to
leave my poor flock any longer without a shepherd, I
waited upon the primate, and tendered my resignation,
but he hesitated to accept it.

My chief object is to provide an active and zealous
minister for a parish in whose spiritual welfare I can-
not cease to feel a lively interest.

Yours, &c.
0.- W."

" DEAR SIR,

* ■ * * With respect to catechising the children;
there is a lamentable deficiency, arising from a difficul-
ty that I found it more easy to discover than to remove.
In a very large parish, particularly where they are not
collected in any considerable numbers in a town, it is
impossible that any one day or any one place will suf-
fice. My desire of devising a method that would fully
meet the want, and which I trusted would suggest it-
self upon a closer acquaintance with the parish, indu-
ced me to delay the adoption of some that might have
been of partial service ; and the wish of effecting more
than perhaps could be done, prevented me from doing
all that might have been done ; so that even on Sun-
days I did not make the catechising as distinct from the
business of the Sunday-school as I ought. I shall be
very happy, if I am ever to succeed you, to follow any
plan or improvement that you may introduce. * * *

I have been occupied and agitated by preparations
for my departure for the Continent, and inquiries as to

l%f REMAINS OF

the best destination for invalids, which have not yet
been satisfactorily answered ; these, and my removal to
town, where I have become the victim of leeches and
blisters, have prevented me from undertaking an an-
swer to your letter, which could not be done extempore.
as I fear you will perceive by the length of this epistle

Yours, &c.
C. W."

For some months after his removal from his parish,
his health appeared to fluctuate, as is sometimes the
case at the commencement of such complaints as his ;
and it was considered necessary, towards the approach
of winter, that he should go to the South of France,
as the most probable means of averting from him the
threatened malady. In his attempt to reach Bourdeaux,
Ije was twice driven back to Holyhead by violent and
adverse gales, and suffered so much from the effects,
that it was deemed prudent to abandon the plan, and
settle near Exeter during the winter and ensuing
spring. From this place his next letters were written.

Exeter, Feb. 18th, 1822.

" MY DEAR

Welcome once more !* I feel as if we had a second
parting when we last exchanged letters ; and now that
we once more renew a correspondence, it looks like a
meeting after a long separation. But you may be assu-
red that neither you nor yours were forgotten by me at
those times when I knew you would most wish to be
remembered ; those seasons at which, I trust, I am re-
membered by you all. I will not trouble you with all
the tedious reasons of my silence ; the silence itself
was tedious enough. Suffice it to say, that a man may

* The remainder of the above was upon the subject of an offer.
which had just been made to him, of the curacy of Armagh ; apost of
great importance and responsibility, with regard to which proposal he
felt the most anxious embarrassment. — EnrroR.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 1*25

be very idle, and have no leisure, especially no leisure
of mind ; and that a man's time may be in a great
measure unoccupied, and yet not his own. I will not
tell you of the length of time it takes to wind me up
and set me a-going for the day ; but I find that the
toilette of an invalid is as long and as troublesome as
that of a dutchess, — and perhaps the whole day often
spent with little more profit. It will be sufficient to teli
you, that I can scarcely make out an hour and a half a
day for actual study. * *

Yours, &c.
C. W."

Exeter, April 2d, 1822.

" MY DEAR MRS. —

If I had written to you as often as I intended it3
since I left Ireland, you would have been by this time
weary of my correspondence. Often and often I have
reproached myself, for leaving some of my best and
kindest friends the least room for suspecting me to be
guilty of forgetfulness or indifference ; but you have
witnessed so much of those fatal habits of delay and
procrastination, by which I am pre-eminently distin-
guished, that you are not at a loss to assign a cause for
my silence, without being reduced to the necessity of
accusing me of coldness and ingratitude. Indeed, from
having observed my sad deficiency in corresponding
with the nearest members of my own family, you may
well say, ' Well ! after all, sure he has treated me as
his sister.' * * *

You have heard of course from of our re-
peated attempts to reach Bourdeaux, and our repeated
disappointments, having been twice driven back to
Holyhead. There we lived for a month in a state of
anxious uncertainty, not knowing each day what was
to be our destination on the morrow ; and when at

11*

**6 REMAINS OF

length we arrived at this place, I relaxed into a state of
lassitude and debility, and my cough grew worse : how-
ever, with the blessing of God, I think my cough con-
siderably reduced, and my strength, in some degree,
returning. Whatever good effect has been produced, I
may attribute, under the Father of all mercies, to the
friends whom I trust I may say He has provided for
me. Of the unwearied and devoted affection of my
sisters, who accompanied me, I shall say nothing ; but
the Christian friends that I have found, where I expect-
ed to meet none but strangers, I should feel myself al-
most guilty of ingratitude, if I did not mention.

I am now writing under the roof of a fellow-coun-
tryman, a brother Christian and a brother in the minis-
try, who has become an excellent physician by sad and
constant experience in his own person, and who has
taken me altogether under his own care, and who does
not allow me to move, speak, write, or think, except by
special permission ; and this, by the by, is the reason
that this letter comes limping so slowly after its prede-
cessor, which I trust has long since reached you. Un-
der the care of this kind physician and truly exalted
Christian, in whose family I am almost domesticated, I
think I find my strength returning. — But I must pass to
a subject far less agreeable than this, to the curacy of
Armagh. I suppose you have been already informed

by that it was offered me by Lord L , and that,

after much hesitation and anxiety, I accepted it. It
cannot be necessary to tell you that it was altogether
unsolicited ; indeed, so much so, that I was equally sur-
prised and dismayed by the offer. I shrunk from it al-
most instinctively, when I considered not only the aw-
ful responsibility of the office itself, but the numerous
appendages attached to it, the chaplaincy of the garri-
son, the chaplaincy and inspectorship of the jail, and
the superintendence of several charitable institutions.
£t is indeed one of the very last situations I should
choose if I consulted either my own ease or emolu-
ment. * * *

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 127

* Who is sufficient for these things ?'~-It was the
very answer to this question that made me hesitate to
refuse ; for no man is sufficient for these things, and
yet some one must undertake them ; and I feared that I
should be guilty of distrusting Him whose * strength is
made perfect in weakness/ and of consulting my own
ease and convenience in preference to his service, if I
declined it. I therefore conceived it best to reply that
I was willing to undertake it ; but could not possibly
name any period within which I could engage to enter
upon it in person ; nor could I make any exertion to
obtain a substitute. I was informed in answer, that the
primate had approved of my nomination, and that eve-
ry exertion would be made to obtain a substitute, which
however is found to be more difficult than was imagin-
ed, both on account of the weight of duty, and the in-
definite period for which he would be required. If per-
mitted to decide for myself, I would have engaged to
return before June ; but my friends, both old and new,
who have taken me altogether out of my own hands,
and who have me completely in their power, will not al-
low me to name any time for returning to my duties. —

My dear Mrs. , I feel it a great relief to think

that I am writing to one who can fully enter into my
feelings and motives ; and that, in relating my views
and conduct in this business, I am in no danger of be-
ing misunderstood : and surely you cannot but enter

into my feelings when I convey through you to Mr.

the resignation of the curacy of Donoughmore. In-
deed, if you do not give me credit for them, I am afraid
it would be hopeless to attempt to express them. Will
you allow me to intrust you with my farewell to all my

friends, both at M and in the parish ? Assure

Mr. and Mrs. that I shall never forget the kind-
ness and hospitality I have enjoyed under their roof ;

and give my kindest remembrance to , and my

solemn blessing to all those of my flock to whom you
think it will be of any value : but how shall I say fare-
well to you and Mrs. , who have indeed treated

me as a brother and a son 1 I can only commend you

128 REMAINS OF

to One who has said that ' whoso doeth the will of his
Father, the same is his brother, and sister, and mother ;'
the great Shepherd of the sheep, who, unlike other
shepherds, will never leave or forsake them. It is pain-
ful to hear that many have wandered from the fold ;
but there are some who, I trust, have seen and felt the
glory and love of Christ, and will hold fast their confi-
dence unto the end. I hope, if I am indeed ever set-
tled in Armagh, to see you face to face.

Yours, &c.
C. W."

Oswestry, May 22, 1822,

" MY DEAR MRS.

We are thus far on our way to poor Ireland, for bet-
ter for worse ; and we propose to rest here for a few
days, with our friends who have accompanied us. My
strength is, I trust, considerably improved ; but my
cough not considerably abated.

I hope soon to ascertain when I shall be able to
return to active duty. So much for myself ; — but how
tremendous was the primate's death ! what a thunder-
stroke ! the thing itself, and the circumstances attend-
ing it were sufficiently appalling, — but to us its probable
consequences are most distressing. Poor Castle Caul-
field ! what will become of it now 1 How the Lord
seems to have disappointed my calculations ! but per-
haps it is only to shew that he can do things much bet-
ter his own way, as he often fulfils our best desires in
the manner we least expected, in order that while he
comforts he may humble us, and teach us to ascribe all
the glory to him. And we should not forget, that we
may promote the cause as much by our prayers as by
our contrivances and exertions. What a privilege it
is, and what a consolation, that we have One upon
whom we may cast our cares ; and that in our closets,

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 120

when no one hears or dreams of it, we may ask of the
' great Shepherd and Bishop,' that he would appoint a
faithful pastor over the sheep that are scattered — and
be heard ! At the same time we should use whatever
legitimate means are in our reach to effect the object of
our prayer.

But this brings me to the chief subject of your last
letter — the wandering of your mind in prayer. Per-
haps the evil of our nature never displays itself more
fully than in our religious acts and exercises ; and the
more enlightened and experienced a true Christian be-
comes, the more does he discover of the sinfulness of
his nature, and of the pollutions and mixed motives of
even his best performances. But there is a gracious
provision made for these. Towards the close of the
4th of Hebrews you will find, ' that we have not an
high priest that cannot be touched with a feeling of our
infirmities ; but was in all points tempted like as we
are, yet without sin :' and, at the end of the same
chapter, this is again urged as a motive for coming
* boldly to the throne of grace :' and if you look to (I
believe) the 4th chapter of Leviticus, you will see that
the great high priest was * to bear the iniquity of the
holy things of the people of God.' This is our en-
couragement and consolation in approaching the throne
of grace, that there is One who enters into all our feel-
ings, and sympathises with us in our infirmities, and
yet, at the same time, is almighty to save ! This is the
glory of that truth — that the divine and human nature
are united in one person, and that he oilers our feeble
and imperfect petitions with irresistible energy and ef-
fect. This consideration, at the same time, so far from
damping our fervour in prayer, or inducing us to give
way to wandering thoughts or coldness of feeling while
engaged in it, will be an additional incentive to earnest-
ness and devotion. It will, by removing fear, increase
our confidence ; it will kindle greater love to that gra-
cious Intercessor ; and we shall look forward with
greater hope to that period when all languor and cor-

*30 REMAINS OF

ruption shall be done away. The Lord direct, and
sanctify, and sustain you, and crown you and yours
with every blessing.

Yours with the sincerest affection,

C. W."

After his return from Exeter, he remained during the
summer with his friends in and near Dublin. His gen-
eral health appeared not to have undergone any materi*
al change in the mean time ; but his cough continued
so violent and distressing that he was ordered to go to
Bourdeaux, and back again, for the benefit of the voy-
age. He thus writes to a near relative, on his arrival
there.

Bourdeaux, 29th August, 1822.

" MY DEAR

This morning, after an anxious and boisterous voy-
age, we cast anchor in front of Bourdeaux. From
Saturday night till Thursday morning we were strug^
gling through the channel, — at one time in danger of
being becalmed, and at others endeavouring to make
the best of violent and unfavourable winds, until at
length, early on Thursday, we were swept past the
Land's End by a rapid gale. Late on the evening of
the same day we came within view of the island of
Ushant, and entered the formidable Bay of Biscay. It
was, however, so smooth and beautiful, and the clear
French sky over our heads, and the warm elastic air
about us, were so enlivening, that the terrible bay seem-
ed to welcome and invite us ; and during the whole of
Friday we sailed gently and quietly along ; and the
deadly and incessant sickness under which I had la-
boured until then, and which I will not attempt to de-
scribe, began to give way, and I almost enjoyed the
scene. But on Saturday it threw off its disguise, and
began to appear in its real character, and we were tos-
sed and lashed furiously along, till at length, on Sunday
morning, after a stormy night, to our great refreshment,

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 131

we arrived at the mouth of the Garonne, about sixty
miles from Bourdeaux. If it had not been the Lord's
day, which I would gladly have spent in another way, I
should have sincerely enjoyed the scene, in sailing up
the noblest and grandest river I ever beheld. We an-
chored that night at Pauillac, half way up the river be-
tween the mouth and the city. For the first time, I
slept as it were upon dry land, and rose this morning
refreshed. The sail from Pauillac to Bourdeaux was
indeed delightful ; but the repose I now enjoy infinitely
more so ; for all the passengers are gone ashore but
myself, and I spend the remainder of the day quietly on
board the packet alone, where I shall sleep to-night,
and will go to-morrow early to look for lodgings. My
cough only appeared occasionally during the voyage,
and was never violent or continued ; and I have been
told by all the passengers that there was a very remark-
able improvement visible towards the close of the voy-
age. The heat is very severe, but the sky very clear
and beautiful. I will not say any thing of the passen-
gers, &c. as I hope this letter will not reach you much
sooner than myself.

I feel indeed that I have been most graciously
dealt with ; and that the same good Providence that
before forbade me to go, has now gone along with me.
May he be with you !

Yours, &c.
C. W."

In less than a month he returned from Bourdeaux,
and seemed to have derived some benefit from the voy-
age ; but this was of short continuance. The fatal
disease which had been long apprehended proved to
have taken full hold of his constitution ; his strength
appeared to sink fast, and his spirits to flag. The
bounding step, which expressed a constant buoyancy of
mind, now became slow and feeble ; his robust and up-
right figure began to droop ; his marked and prominent
features acquired a sharpness of form, and his complex-

132 REMAINS OP

ion, naturally fair, assumed the pallid cast of wasting
disease ; and all the other symptoms of consumption
soon discovered themselves ; and,

" Even when his serious eyes were lighted up
With kindling mirth, and from his lips distilled
Words soft as dew and cheerful as the dawn,
Then too I could have wept ; for on his face,
Eye, voice, and smile, nor less his bending frame-—
By other cause impaired than length of years —
Lay something that still turned the thoughtful heart
To melancholy dreams — dreams of decay,
Of death, and burial, and the silent tomb."

It is indeed the privilege of the Christian to look far
above those dreary scenes, — to fasten his eye upon that
light which burns beyond the tomb ; but still, some*
times the sight of a dying friend will naturally turn the
thoughts to the more immediate circumstances of death ;
and this, perhaps, most of all, at the moment when one
suddenly discerns, with a startled conviction, the first
sure and ominous vestige of death upon the counte-
nance of a beloved object. But faith will not dwell upon
such thoughts — " such melancholy dreams :" it will
look up with serene and holy confidence to " Him who
is the resurrection and the life ;" and thus comfort it-
self with an unfailing consolation.

About the end of November it was thought advisa-
ble, as the last remaining hope, that he should guard
against the severity of the winter, by removing to the
Cove of Cork, which, by its peculiar situation, is shel-
tered on all sides from the harsh and prevailing winds.
Thither he was accompanied by the writer and a near
relative to whom he was fondly attached. For a short
time he appeared to revive a little ; and sometimes en-
tered into conversation with almost his usual anima-
tion ; but the first unfavourable change of weather
shattered his remaining strength : his cough now be-
came nearly incessant, and a distressing languor weigh-

THE REV. C. WOLFE. *3S

ed down his frame. In this state he continued until
the 21st of February, 1823, upon the morning of which
day he expired, in the 32d year of his age.

During the whole course of his illness (though, to-
wards the close, apparently not unconscious of his dan-
ger) he never expressed any apprehensions to his
friends, but once, that he suddenly observed a new
symptom, to which he pointed with a look and expres-
sion of the gentlest, calmest resignation. He seemed
particularly on his guard against uttering a word which
could excite the fears of the dear relative who clung so
devotedly to him until his last moments. A short time
before he died, she ventured to disclose to him her long-
concealed apprehensions, saying (with a humility like
his own,) that she felt she needed correction ; and
that, at last, the Lord had sent " a worm into her
gourd." " What !" replied he, " is it in afflicting me ?
— indeed, I believe you love me sinfully : I may, how-
ever, bless this illness if it leads me to more spiritual
communion with you than before."

One night that his animal spirits were particularly
depressed, he said to her, " I want comfort to night :"
and upon her reminding him of the blessings he had
been the instrument of conveying to the souls of many
of his nearest relatives, he faintly exclaimed, " Stop,
stop — that is comfort enough for one night."

It is natural for a religious mind to feel a lively in-
terest in every record of the last illness and death of
any eminent servant of God — to expect some happy
evidences of triumphant faith and holy resignation in
such a trying state — at the awful moment when all the
vast realities of an eternal world are about to be dis-
closed to the disembodied spirit. There are some per-
sons who perhaps look for such evidences chiefly in ar-
dent ejaculations, in affecting expressions of self-hu-
miliation, in palpable impressions of present comfort,
or raptures of joyful anticipation ; but these may not
be, after all, unequivocal or indispensable tests of the
presence and power of true faith. It should not be

12

134

REMAINS OF

forgotten how much depends upon the state of the ani-
mal system at such times, upon the nature of the com-
plaint, or even on the peculiar constitution of the mind
itself. As in the case of the steadfast and holy Chris-
tian here recorded, the disease may be such as to en-
cumber the faculties of the soul by a peculiar pressure
upon the body : the corruptible part may " weigh down
the mind which museth on many things," and thus in-
capacitate it for any energetic manifestation of its feel-
ings. It was the nature of his particular malady to
bring on an oppressive lassitude of spirits ; and he was
also afflicted with a raking cough, which for some time
before his death disabled him from speaking a single
sentence without incurring a violent paroxysm.

One interesting fact, however, may prove, with more
certainty than a thousand rapturous expressions, the as-
cendancy of his faith in the midst of these depressing
circumstances.

On the day before his dissolution, the medical gen-
tleman who attended him felt it his duty to apprise
him of his immediate danger, and expressed himself
thus : " Your mind, sir, seems to be so raised above
this world that I need not fear to communicate to you
my candid opinion of your state." " Yes, sir," replied
he, " I trust I have been learning to live above the
world :" and he then made some impressive observa-
tions on the ground of his own hopes ; and having af-
terwards heard that they had a favourable effect, he en-
tered more fully into the subject with him on his next
visit, and continued speaking for an hour, in such a
convincing, affecting, and solemn strain, (and this at a
time when he seemed incapable of uttering a single
sentence,) that the physician, on retiring to the adjoin-
ing room, threw himself on the sofa, in tears, exclaim-
ing, " There is something superhuman about that man ;
it is astonishing to see such a mind in a body so wasted ;
such mental vigour in a poor frame dropping into the
grave l"

Let not then the cold sceptic (to maintain a precari-

THE REV. C. WOLFE. 135

ous theory on uncertain observations) seek to degrade
his own nature, in the face of facts like this, by identi-
fying the imperishable soul with its frail tenement. —
There are moments, he may see, at which that divine
and immaterial principle can throw off the pressure of
its earthly encumbrance, even when it appears to slum-
ber in a deadly torpor. When its own appropriate ex-
citements are presented to it, it can " burst its cere-
ments," and rise superior to the ruins amidst which it
seems to be buried.

This incident is abundantly sufficient to indicate the
strength of principle and the ardour of feeling which
may possess the soul at a time when, perhaps, it finds
no utterance. His feelings indeed appeared too deep
for superficial expressions. The state of mind towards
which he seemed to aspire, was what the excellent
Henry Martin preferred above all others, " a sweet and
holy seriousness ;" and indeed he seemed to have at-
tained it. His was a calm serenity, a profound thought-
fulness, a retired communion with his God, which
could not, probably, vent itself in verbal ebullitions ;
but when an opportunity of doing good to the soul of a
fellow-sinner presented itself, he shewed how strongly
he felt the Gospel to be " the power of salvation to his
own soul," by his zeal to impart it to another.

It is important thus to see that true religion consists
not so much in the constant fervour of the feelings, as
in a fixedness of principle, in the intelligent, determin-
ate choice of the will ; that the one may fluctuate while
the other remains steadfast and immovable.

From the time that Mr. W. came to Cove he seemed
scarcely to relish any subject of conversation but that
which bore upon what is, in truth, at all times " the
one thing needful."

His Bible was his chief companion ; he seemed also
deeply interested in Worthington's treatise on " Self-
resignaton ;" and occasionally read with satisfaction
l( Omicron's Letters, by the Rev. J. Newton."

Upon the subject of religion he was always peculiar-

136

REMAINS OF

ly indisposed to controversy. He delighted to seize
the great principles, to embrace the vital truths ; and
read with pleasure any author in whose writings he
could find them : he valued as brethren all who main-
tained them, and diligently sought to co-operate with
them " in their works and labours of love." His own
views seemed not to have undergone any change from
the time of his ordination ; but they became more and
more vivid, and, of course, more influential upon his
principles and affections.

During the last few days of his life, when his suffer-
ings became more distressing, his constant expression
was, " This light affliction, this light affliction !" and
when the awful crisis drew near, he still maintained the
same sweet spirit of resignation. Even then he shew-
ed an instance of that thoughtful benevolence, that
amiable tenderness of feeling, which formed a striking
trait in his character : — he expressed much anxiety
about the accommodation of an attendant who was
sleeping in an adjoining room ; and gave even minute
directions respecting it.

On going to bed he felt very drowsy ; and soon after,
the stupor of death began to creep over him. He be-
gan to pray for all his dearest friends individually; but
his voice faltering, he could only say — " God bless them
all ! The peace of God and of Jesus Christ overshad-
ow them, dwell in them, reign in them !" " My
peace," said he, addressing his sister, ("the peace I
now feel) be with you !" — " Thou, O God, wilt keep
him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee." —
His speech again began to fail, and he fell into a slum-
ber ; but whenever his senses were recalled he return-
ed to prayer. He repeated part of the Lord's prayer,
but was unable to proceed ; and at last, with a compo-
sure scarcely credible at such a moment, he whispered
to the dear relative who hung over his death-bed,
" Close this eye, the other is closed already ; and now
farewell !" Then, having again uttered part of the

THE REV. C WOLFE.

137

Lord's prayer, he fell asleep. " He is not dead, but
sleepeth."

To this imperfect record I cannot forbear annexing
the following discriminative sketch of the mental and
moral endowments of its interesting subject. It is from
the eloquent pen of the Rev. Dr. Miller, late fellow of
Trinity College, Dublin, author of "Lectures on the
Philosophy of Modern History." It formed the con-
clusion of a letter to the editor of a London paper, in
which he fully establishes the claim of the true author
to the disputed Ode on Sir John Moore.

" The poetical talent (continues the learned writer)
which could produce such an ode was, however, but a
minor qualification in the character of this young man ;
for he combined eloquence of the first order with the
zeal of an apostle. During the short time in which he
held a curacy in the diocese of Armagh, he so wholly
devoted himself to the discharge of his duties in a very
populous parish, that he exhausted his strength by ex-
ertions disproportioned to his constitution, and was cut
off by disease in what should have been the bloom of
youth. This zeal, which was too powerful for his bod-
ily frame, was yet controlled by a vigorous and manly
intellect, which all the ardour of religion and poetry
could never urge to enthusiasm. His opinions were as
sober as if they were merely speculative ; his fancy
was as vivid as if he never reasoned ; his conduct as
zealous as if he thought only of his practical duties ;
every thing in him held its proper place except a due
consideration of himself, and to his neglect of this he
became an early victim."

12*

SERMONS.

INTRODUCTION.

It seems proper to introduce these Sermons with a few
prefatory observations. — It should be borne in recollection,
that none of them were designed by their author for publica-
tion. They were all, with a single exception, composed for a
plain but intelligent country congregation ; and some of them
were afterwards preached, with slight alterations, in Dublin.

It appears, from the great variety of short hints preserved
with each sermon, that the writer's mind had been teeming
with thoughts which he had not time or space to introduce. —
Some of the topics were probably rejected as not suited to his
flock ; but a few leading words were briefly and confusedly
thrown together : some sparkles of thought were thus kept
alive, which might have been sufficient to rekindle whole
trains of reflections and forms of address, adapted to future oc-
casions.

The reader will not, of course, expect to meet in these ser-
mons any thing like trains of abstract or metaphysical rea-
soning, or learned elucidations of Scripture. Such would
have been altogether misplaced, in discourses addressed to the
middle and lower classes of society ; and, indeed, it may be
said that there are few congregations to which such a mode of
preaching is adapted ; none, perhaps, before whom it should
not be sparingly employed. The character of the author's
mind, and of his accomplishments as a scholar, was such as, in
other circumstances, might have led him to occasional exer-
cises ot this kind, in which, doubtless, he would have exhibit-
ed that acuteness and subtilty as a reasoner, and that ingenui-
ty as a commentator, which distinguished him in conversa-
tional discussion,

142 INTRODUCTION.

Sermons which partake of such a character abound in our
language. We are in no want of learned and argumentative
discourses. There is a rich magazine of sound theological
erudition in the sermons of our best divines ; enough, indeed,
to form a complete body of divinity.

There are also many useful volumes of a plain, instructive
character, in which the great doctrines and duties of Chris-
tianity are simply and faithfully expounded. But most of
them are deficient in interest. They present little to excite
the curiosity, to seize upon the imagination, or to penetrate
the heart. They serve well enough to direct, but are insuffi-
cient to impel. They are rather sound catechetical lectures,
than awakening appeals ; formal statements, than affecting,
heart-stirring exhortations. Such, I believe, are generally
allowed to be the prevailing defects in our modern sermons.

Those which are here submitted to the public, it is hoped,
may appear at least as samples of that description most want-
ed, and best fitted for general usefulness. They are, howev-
er, to be regarded merely as specimens of the author's style of
preaching.

Their principal merit appears to be, that though originally
composed for a plain congregation, they were cast in such a
shape as to be easily adapted, by slight alterations, to the most
cultivated minds. " This (says an able writer* on oratory)
is a difficult task. Some dispositions indeed there are who
fall into it naturally ; but usually it is the fruit of serious re-
flection and long experience. It costs a man of quick parts
and extensive knowledge much pain and self-denial to reject
every thing curious, and fine, and acute, which his faculties
and erudition offer to him ; and to confine himself within the
limits of common sense. But, after all, the principal difficul-
ty herein is not from nature, but our own fault, — from wrong
passions, ambition, interest, or self-praise. Preach not for

* Lectures concerning Oratory, 'by J. Lawson, D. D. Lecturer in
Oratory and History, Trinity College, Dublin. Pp. 394, 395 (1 795.)

INTRODUCTION.

143

preferment or fame, — but for God and virtue. If your genius
admits of it, you will then be concise, nervous, and full.1'

It is this quality (thus justly commended) which seems to
have chiefly distinguished our author as a preacher. This is
no unsupported assertion. Many persons, as well as the edit-
or, can bear testimony to the strong emotions which the same
sermons, with little alterations, excited amongst the extreme
classes of society — in the minds of the literate and illiterate —
the religious and the worldly.

A sermon read, is, indeed, different from a sermon spoken ;
and it is possible that the effect of these sermons was much
aided by a mode of delivery peculiarly suitable to their style
and matter. Sometimes it was authoritative and abrupt ;
sometimes slow and measured ; and at other times rapid — al-
most hurried. Sometimes there was a blunt and homely
plainness, and often a soothing tenderness of manner ; but all
was natural and unlaboured ; more remarkable, perhaps, for
energy and expression than for gracefulness, — for an earnest
simplicity, than a studied elegance.

It may be necessary for the editor to say a few words as to
the task he has had to perform. Many of the manuscripts
were in such a state as to require much labour to transcribe
them for the press ; and a large portion of some of the ser-
mons, towards the close of the volume, was written out in
such evident haste, as to cause some inaccuracies which it
was absolutely necessary to correct. This, however, has been
sparingly done ; perhaps, some may think too sparingly.

For such necessary corrections the editor hopes he need not
apologise ; as the nature of all posthumous works, not design-
ed for publication, usually demands them ; and as his intimate
friendship with the author, and his acquaintance with all his
opinions and feelings, must be a full security that the duty has
been performed with rigid caution and fidelity.

The present selection has been made chiefly with a refer-
ence to the author's own probable estimate of his sermons. —

144 INTRODUCTION.

All which he preached in Dublin are included, as it may be
naturally supposed they were among- the number which he
had most thoroughly considered and prepared. A few others
are added, which some, probably, may think not inferior.

Under the circumstances in which they were composed, and
in which they now appear before the public, it will be unne-
cessary, it is hoped, to deprecate the scrutiny of literary or
theological criticism. In hortatory appeals like these, it is
unreasonable to expect all the precision of a formal essay. —
There is a certain boldness and latitude of phrase to be allow-
ed in such discourses : the form of expression cannot easily
be compressed within the narrow limits, or tamed down into
the meagre statements, of a scholastic system. In these ser-
mons, however, it will be found that all the grand doctrines
of the Gospel, which alone can give vitality and energy to re-
ligious instruction, are prominently, faithfully, and practically
inculcated. Happy will it be, if they are perused with a dis-
position of mind in any degree correspondent with the feel-
ings* by which they were dictated, or proportioned to the

* These feelings may, in some degree, be illustrated by a few ex-
tracts from his private reflections, which were never meant to meet
any eye but his own : they were roughly entered upon a few scattered

{•apers, merely as hints for his own direction. They shew, in a strong
ight, the genuine workings of his heart, — the kind of mental and
spiritual exercise in which he engaged in the preparation of his ser-
mons,— and the anxiety he felt about the style and topics most likely
to make practical impressions upon the consciences of his hearers.

Take a case in which God acts or speaks affectionately, — almost al-
ways one on the spiritual nature of sin, — on self-deceit— self-know-
ledge.

Let it keep me humble to think how I myself have sinned in the
face of light, and against the motives I have to withhold me ; against
the knowledge of God's wrath ; against it and his redeeming love ;
against my own preaching ; against the especial need of a minister,
upon whose spiritual state depends, in a great degree, the state of hia
flock.

Preach a sermon in which every false sentiment is supposed uttered
on the death-bed ; a sermon in which we suppose the sensations of a
■inner looking back upon those whom he may have misled, or neglect-
ed to instruct, — a father upon his children, &c. — a pastor upon his
flock ; when each shall say, " I pray thee send some one unto my fa-
ther's house." — Give also the retrospect from Heaven upon those
whom, through the grace of God, we may have assisted.

INTRODUCTION,

145

momentous object which their pious author held steadily in
view. If his glorified spirit be now permitted to share in the
joy which angels feel " over one sinner that repenteth," there
is not one of all the heavenly host which encircles the throne
of God, that would enjoy a holier delight than he in witnessing
the restoration of an immortal soul to its Father and its God :
—and surely it would, if possible, enhance such joy, if he
could be assured that, even in a single instance, this humble
record of his words was conducive to effect that object which
was nearest to his heart when they passed through his living
lips ; and that thus, " though absent from us in the body," he
was still instrumental in the blessed work of " converting a
sinner from the error of his way, and saving a soul alive."

That He who is the Author of every good and perfect gift,
may accompany them with the healthful and saving influence
of his grace to the heart of every reader, is the fervent pray-
er of

THE EDITOR.

Bring in familiar topics. — Begin naturally and easily, but so as to
excite curiosity — with an incident or anecdote. Begin in an original
and striking, but sedate manner. Before writing, read poetry and ora-
tory. " Look constantly to the Bible. Every thing you read, read
with a view to this."
* Give full weight to objections — with all fondness of human frailty.
Seize late, almost present occurrences. Imagine that you are arguing
with the most profligate, ambitious, and talented opponent.

Let my object be to improve myself first. — Enter into the feelings
of your congregation, — into their failings. Throw them upon arguing
against themselves : — advise them affectionately.

- ■

13

SERMON I.

ECCLESIASTES, xii. 1.

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.

We all know that we shall have to remember oar
Creator at one time or another. We cannot but know
that he has many ways of inviting us to remember him
— " the sun that he makes to rise upon the evil and the
good — the rain that he sends down upon the just and
the unjust — the fruitful seasons, by which he fills our
hearts with food and gladness" — the weekly returns of
his holy Sabbath — 'the ministry of the Gospel of salva-
tion— and the table which he spreads before us, which
he has instituted as a peculiar memorial of himself, and
at which he invites us to eat of the bread of life, and to
drink from the fountain of living water.

And we cannot but know that he has also the means
of making himself remembered, and that he will not
always allow himself to be forgotten, — but that he has
certain agents at his disposal, by which, when he pleas-
es, he can command our attention, — the sword — the
famine — the pestilence — the death-bed — the last trump-
et— " the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not
quenched."

Such a Being cannot be remembered too often, or
too soon. There is no one here that will venture to
say, that there ever existed a man from the foundation
of the world who remembered him too much, or began
to fix his thoughts upon him too early. We need
scarcely go farther, then, to discover what is to become

148

SERMON I.

of those who habitually forget him ; who only think of
him when he is started into their minds by something
violent or accidental, and who say, " It is yet time
enough to remember my Creator." Why they might
as well say when death comes, it is yet time enough to
die. It is hard to conceive the fate of these men, if
they are cut off in this state of forgetfulness, to be any
thing but evil and misery ; in fact, it would put our in-
vention to no easy trial, to imagine what good thing
they would be capable of enjoying in the other world.
Look into their own breasts ; — they hope for nothing,
they promise themselves nothing ; for they cannot think
of these things when they forget Him who is the Au-
thor and Giver of these things. If then there were no
other reason for remembering our Creator in the days of
our youth, than that we may never have an old age
vouchsafed to us, in which we may recall him to our
thoughts ; that between us and that old age there may
be a great gulf fixed that we shall never pass ; if this
were the only reason, should it not be enough .? Nay,
the sin of thus trifling with him and our own immortal
souls, by deferring their consideration to a future oppor-
tunity, may be the very means of provoking him to
withhold that opportunity for ever.

But there is another reason for remembering our
Creator in the days of our youth. The days of our
youth are the days of our blessings. It would be hard
to find, throughout the whole range of creation, a more
glorious and interesting object, than youth just entering
into active life, just rejoicing as a giant to run his
course. Set him alongside of the noblest animal of
any other species ; compare him with the old and de-
caying members of his own — and what a difference !
In those days we enter into life with a shower of God's
blessings upon our heads ; we come adorned with all
the choicest gifts of the Almighty ; with strength of
body, with activity of limb, with health and vigour of
constitution, with every thing to fit us both for labour
and for enjoyment ; if not endowed with a sufficiency,

SERMON I.

149

endowed with what is better, the power of obtaining it
for ourselves by an honest and manly industry ; with
-senses keen and observing; with spirits high, lively,
and untameable, that shake off care and sorrow when-
ever they attempt to fasten upon our mind, and that en-
able us to make pleasure for ourselves, where we do not
Jind it, and to draw enjoyment and gratification from
things in which they see nothing but pain, vexation.,
and disappointment.

But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind
and the memory, with which we have been endowed by
the Almighty, are then all fresh, alive, and vigorous. —
Alas ! we seldom think what an astonishing gift is that
understanding which we enjoy — the bright light that
God has kindled within us — until our old age comes,
when we find that that understanding is wearing away,
and that light becoming dim. Then shall we feel bit-
terly, most bitterly, what it is to have enjoyed, in the
days of our youth, that privilege which seems to be
withheld from all the animals by whom we are surround-
ed,— even the privilege of knowing that there is a God ;
the privilege even of barely thinking upon such a Be-
ing ; but more than that, the privilege of studying and
understanding the astonishing variety of his works, of
observing the ways of his providence, of admiring his
power, his wisdom, and his goodness ; the power of ac-
quiring knowledge of a thousand different kinds, and
the power of laying it up in our memory, and using it
when we please : and this in the days of our youth,
when the mind is all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful,
and when we actually seem to take knowledge by force,
and when the memory is large and spacious, so as to ad-
mit and contain the good things that we learn ; and
where the place that should be filled by knowledge has
not yet been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and
anxieties.

In the days of our youth, too, our hearts are warm-
est, and our feelings and .our attachments are strongest
and most disinterested ; we Tiave not yet learnt the bit*

13*

150

SERMON I.

ter lessons that are acquired by a mixture with the
world, where we often lose our best and kindest affec-
tions, and are taught in return selfishness, avarice, sus-
picion, and deceit. Our hopes and our friendships
have not yet been checked by disappointment, nor our
kindness and generosity by ingratitude. Thus, dres-
sed out in all the riches of his Creator's goodness, with
the marks of God's hand yet fresh upon him — with
health, with strength, with mind, with memory, with
warmth and liberality of heart — youth comes forward
into life, covered over and hung round with memorials
of his Creator. Is it necessarv to ask, whether this
man should remember his Creator ? Supposing that
there was no stronger motive than gratitude for all these
blessings, would it be a hard thing to ask, that the Lord
of health, and strength, and mind, and memory, should
have a place in the memory that he has himself be-
stowed 1 — and yet if our recollection of our Creator
depended only upon our gratitude, is there one heart on
the earth that would rise, of its own accord, to the
throne of goodness, to offer its voluntary incense of
praise and thanksgiving for all the unnumbered bene-
fits that have been showered upon our heads 1 It is
well that our recollection of our Creator depends upon
a more severe and a more powerful motive ; for we can-
not imagine that God has lavished upon us all this pro-
fusion of his treasures, without intending that they
should be used in a particular way. Would you believe
any one that told you, that God, who gives the meanest
blessing to the meanest animal for some certain use,
can have glorified you with such powers and riches of
body and of mind, and that he has yet left the manage-
ment to your own humour and caprice ? Really and
truly, do you believe that you have been supplied with
all these magnificent gifts for so many toys to trifle with,
and not so many weapons that you are to wield in the
service of the God who gave them 1 It is impossible.
We cannot but know and feel in our hearts, that they
were given for great purposes, and that they are not at

SERMON I.

151

our disposal ; that God will require the fruits of his
own gifts ; that if we use them as " instruments of un-
righteousness unto sin, and not as instruments of right-
eousness unto God" — " the wages of those things is
death;" that if we prostitute the health and the
strength that he has given us, to drunkenness and de-
bauchery, and the mind that he has given us, to pride,
revenge, covetousness, or impurity ; if we do not use
them for the purpose both of understanding his will and
obeying it ; of worshipping him in spirit and in truth ;
of ff letting our light so shine before men, that they may
see our good works, and glorify our Father which is in
heaven ;" we shall have turned all these blessings to
our ruin. At our peril, then, are we bound to remem-
ber our Creator, in order that we may consult his will
and obey his commands, so as to be able to render an
account of the talents with which we have been in-
trusted. And accordingly, about two verses before this
passage, as if to prepare us for the precept, " Remem-
ber thy Creator in the days of thy youth," there come
these solemn and powerful words — " Rejoice, O young
man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in the
days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart,
and in the sight of thine eyes : but know thou, that for
all these things God will bring thee into judgment."

We have now considered the days of our youth as
the days of our blessings, but there remains another
consideration still more awakening ; for the days of
our youth are also the days of our dangers. If a young
man, at his first outset into life, were to have all the
temptations that he was afterwards to undergo suddenly
presented before his view ; if all the unseen enemies of
his soul, his peace, and his innocence, were all, at oncet
to become visible ; if all his future scenes of blasphe^
my, riot, and intemperance, were, by one flash of light-
ning, disclosed to his contemplation, — I suppose that
nothing less than a look into the next world, if it were
possible, could produce a more terrible shock upon his
feelings ; perhaps it would be too much for him to see

152 SERMON I.

at once the thousand ways in which the world, the flesh,
and the devil would lay siege to his soul — would solicit
his passions — would undermine his resolutions — the
thousand artifices by which they would endeavour to
render vice more and more familiar to his taste, and in-
sinuate its poison into his very constitution. Now what
safeguard can he take, entering, as he does, among
such a host of enemies — enemies, too, that go slowly to
work, so that a man scarcely perceives that he is losing
ground and giving way 1 He must take some fixed
and unchangeable principle of conduct, or he is ruined ;
there must be something solid and immovable, at which
his mind may ride at anchor, — something that will not
change, or shift, or flatter, but will always tell him the
stern — the pure — the terrifying truth.

Now what is the principle from which we naturally
act in the days of our youth 1 Either from none at all,
or we are governed by custom, by example, by fashion,
and by the opinion of those into whose company we are
generally thrown. Would it not be enough to observe,
without going a step farther, that this is nothing less
than making mankind our God — than making our com-
pany our God 1 For, recollect, that whatever you take
as your chief rule in life, and the leading governor and
director of your conduct, that is your God ; it is to you
what God should be — it is in God's place — it is this you
remember when you should remember your Creator ;
in this you live, and upon this you must depend when
you die.

But let us examine this rule — this God that we take
unto ourselves, to direct us through the dangers of our
youth — and what is it 1 The opinion of that very
world, and of those very companions who are the means
of seducing us from our duty ; the very world that sup-
plies aH these temptations, that gives way to them, that
riots and indulges in them, is that from which we take
our laws and principles ; composed of men just as
willing lo yield to temptation as ourselves, and just as
Anxious to discover the same excuses. And thus, those

SERMON I.

153

whose principles, example, and applause, are to us in-
stead of God, are the companions of our carousals, of
our revellings, of our debauches, and of our impurities,
and who give the name of virtue and vice to whatever
they please, without consulting Him who is the fountain
of all virtue, and the burning enemy of all vice.

But this is not all, nor perhaps the worst. The opin-
ions of the world, as to virtue and vice, are not only
ruinously false, but they are as changeable as they are
false. What, in one age of the world, would have
branded a man with infamy as long as he breathed, be-
comes not only pardonable, but reputable in another. —
The customs of the world, and the fashionable crimes
of society, are shifting from age to age. For one in-
stance out of a hundred : — some time ago there existed
a nation where theft was honoured, as a proof of skill
and dexterity ; while, in that very same nation, drunk-
enness and immodesty — intemperance of any kind —
would have ruined a man's reputation for ever. Now
look at the change ! In our days, the one is stigmati-
sed with punishment and dishonour, while men often
boast of their achievements in the other. How is a
man to be guided by this childish and despicable world,
that has not yet learnt, in six thousand years, to guide
and regulate itself 1 — that calls a thing virtue at one
time, and vice at another ; that calls evil good, and
good evil ; that puts bitter for sweet, and sweet for bit-
ter 1 Let him put it aside from him with contempt,
and let him " remember his Creator.5' He will not
shift and change with times and seasons. The fashions
and opinions of the world may turn round and round
with the world itself; but the law of God stands un-
changed and unchangeable as the God that endureth
for ever and ever : they have perished, and shall per-
ish ; but he hath remained and shall still remain : the
fashions and opinions of the world shall all " wax old
as doth a garment, and he shall fold them up, and they
shall be changed ; but he is the same, and his years
shall not fail." Why, one thought upon God, in the

154

SERMON I.

midst of dissipation and profligacy, of oaths and drunk-
enness, of indecencies of language and of conduct, of
revenge, animosity, and blood, (nay, in the midst of
the less clamorous and more refined criminalities which
are sanctioned by society,) I say, one thought upon
God would produce little less than a kind of revelation ;
it would carry along with it such holiness, such purity,
such love, that he must distinguish virtue from vice
through the flimsy and miserable disguise in which they
have been enveloped by mankind; the path of duty
would be open before him, and guilt would come home
to his breast, though the laugh and the scorn of socie-
ty were echoing around.

But the law of God is not left to our own capricious
recollections ; — it is entered upon record — it has been
rained down upon us from heaven — it has been practi-
sed, fulfilled, and embodied in the Son of God, and
sanctified by the blood of the Legislator. Here must
the young man remember his Creator, while the world,
the flesh, and the devil, are crowding around to devour
him. With this law in his hand, and the Son of God
by his side, let him go through the furnace, or he is
lost.

But suppose that all this has been neglected, and
that you, notwithstanding, have been permitted, by the
mercies of the God you have forgotten, to arrive at the
borders of an unholy old age ; — how will you then set
about remembering your Creator — reserving for the
dregs of sickness and infirmity, the work of youth in
all its vigour — offering rude and cruel violence to lan-
guid nature, as she is retiring to her repose — returning
indeed to a second childhood, and beginning life anew,
just as you are dropping into the grave — obliged to un-
do all that you have -done — to turn out the whole tribe
of loathsome ideas that have lain festering in your mind,
and to purify a diseased and corrupted memory from all
the sordid thoughts and recollections that have filled the
place which should have been occupied by your Crea-
tor ? And then, too, when you shall come to teach

SERMON 1. 155

this precept to your children, instead of pronouncing it
with all the dignity of a father — of one who is to them
in the place of God upon earth, you will hang your
head and drop your grey hairs in shame before the son
that should honour and respect you ; you will blush to
look your child in the face, when you read him a lesson
that you never practised ; and your lips will quiver, and
your tongue will falter, when you say to him, " Re-
member your Creator in the days of your youth." And
yet, are we to say that there is no hope for such a man ?
God forbid. If there were no hope for those who have
forgotten their Creator, which of us could lift his eyes
to heaven 1 You, and all the world, and he who warns
you of its consequences, every day and every hour, have
forgotten their Creator. We have used the awful bles-
sings that he has bestowed upon us, for our sport and
amusement, and forgotten from whom they come ; and
we have rushed into the dangers and temptations of
life, with nothing to guide us but the impulses of our
own guilty nature, or the opinion of a world that has
drawn its principles from its practice, instead of form'
ing its practice vpon its principles. Those who feel
this in the depth of their hearts, and the awful state to
which it has brought them, will know how to value the
great and glorious atonement that has been made for
them upon the cross. It will be music to their ears to
be told, that to those who have forgotten their Creator,
it is yet said, Remember your Redeemer, and live. —
Open wide your memory and your heart to this blessed
Redeemer, and let the King of Glory come in. Just
think, — whom will you remember instead of him 1 —
Who is there that shall fill his place, and sit upon the
throne of your memory, that will return you faithfully
love for love — thought for thought ? Will the object
that is dearest to you upon earth ? The heart of that
being may be now cold and faithless ; that heart will
certainly be one day cold and mouldering in the grave,
and all the profusion of memory that you lavish upon
that barren spot, will never make one fresh though^ or

156

SERMON I.

one genial recollection spring from the ashes that you
loved, to reward your fond and hopeless prodigality. —
But there is not one pure thought, one holy recollection
that struggles to rise to that gracious Being, that shall
be allowed to fall to the ground, but shall be kindly re-
ceived, and richly repaid; and he will return it from
on high with a rain of blessings upon your head. Go,
and remember Him who thought of you before you
had the power of thinking either of him or of yourself,
—making you young and lusty as an eagle, and only
" a little lower than the angels, — crowning you with
majesty and honour ;" — who remembered you when
you had forgotten him and yourself, and all that became
a creature whom his Creator had marked out for im-
mortality ; — who remembered you when he bowed his
head upon the cross ; and who is ready to recognise
you before his Father and the holy angels — even before
the Creator whom you had forgotten. Go, and think
of him — for at this instant he is thinking of every one
of you !

SERMON II.

Hebrews, xi. 1.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence
of things not seen.

We all profess a firm belief in the truths which God
has been pleased to declare. Now the Scriptures con-
tain certain threats and certain promises ; — threats of
vengeance and punishment to every soul that sinneth ;
promises of mercy and immortality to all that fly to the
refuge appointed in a Redeemer ; and therefore, when
we declare that we believe in God's word, we at the
same time profess a firm faith in the reality of these
threats and these promises, and in the certainty that,
sooner or later, they will be carried into execution.

And perhaps nothing could shock or affront us more,
than that any man should venture to hint a suspicion of
the soundness of our faith, or insinuate that we doubt-
ed the truth of these things. However, there are so
many men of all kinds, of all characters, of all descrip-
tions, who declare that they have this faith ; men who
perhaps never spent one serious and solemn hour, in the
course of their lives, in the consideration of these things,
which they profess to believe ; men who live just as
they would if they never believed them, — that there is
some reason to fear that some fatal mistake exists
among mankind upon this point ; and we shall do well
to look to ourselves, and examine whether all is as safe
as we could wish, and whether we do really and truly
believe the things that the word of God contains.

14

158 SERMON II.

Now the word of God itself supplies us with an ex-
cellent method of considering this subject ; and it is
the more satisfactory, because it is one which our own
common sense seems to acknowledge at once ; " Faith
is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of
things not seen." It is to us instead of sight, it is as
if we had seen the things that we believe, and is there-
fore to produce the same effect. This is a principle to
which our common sense subscribes ; for if we were
to assure any man that a certain fact existed, and re-
quire him to act as he certainly would if he had seen it
himself, what reason could he give for refusing 1 None,
but that he doubted it, that he was not sure of its ex-
istence.

Thus, then, if we believe those things sincerely, from
our heart and soul — if we are not dissembling with God
and deceiving ourselves, our belief of these things must
be as if we had seen them ; our belief of the threats
and the promises of God must be as if we witnessed
them actually fulfilled.

Our inquiry, then, naturally is, what would be the
case if we really beheld them'? Suppose that we were
now suddenly conveyed into the world of spirits, and it
was given unto you to see the strange doings of futuri-
ty ; suppose the curtain withdrawn that conceals them
from view, when you should behold a "great white
throne, and Him who sat upon it, from whose face the
earth and the heaven fled awray, and there was no place
found for them ;" thousand thousands ministering unto
him ; the judgment set, and the books opened ; when
you should hear the trumpet sound, and in a moment,
in the twinkling of an eye, the dead, small and great,
stand before God, to be judged out of those things that
are written in the book : (for all this is actually in the
word of God ; of all this, faith is the substance and the
evidence ;) and then, when you should find that " with-
out holiness no man could see the Lord," that none but
the " pure in heart should see God," and that it was
the secrets of men's hearts that God judged in that

SERMON II.

159

day, and that for every idle word they must give ac-
count, and that every mouth was stopped, and naturally
" all the world was guilty before God ;" and that " by
the deeds of the law no flesh was justified in his sight ;"
(for all this is actually in the word of God, and of all
this, faith is the substance and the evidence ;) and then,
when you should find, that " without shedding of blood
there is no remission," and that there was but one
Mediator between God and man ; when you should per-
ceive that there was then " one name," and but " one
name under heaven by which men must be saved,"
and it was inquired, whether " every one that named
that name had departed from iniquity ;" and that, in
consequence, he "separated one from the other, as
a shepherd divideth the sheep from the goats ;" that on
the left were those who walked after the flesh, and those
who were guilty of " adultery, fornication, uncleanness,
lasciviousness, hatred, variance, emulation, wrath, strife,
sedition, heresies, envyings, murder, drunkenness, re-
velling, and such like ;" and that on the right were those
** who walked after the Spirit," and who " brought
forth love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, good-
ness, faith, meekness, temperance ;" and when you
should hear him say to those on his left, " Depart, ye
cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and
his angels; and to those on his right, " Come, ye bles-
sed children of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepar-
ed for you from the foundation of the world :" (for all
these things are actually in the word of God, and of
all this, faith is the substance and the evidence ;) and
then, when this scene was closed, if you were to follow
those two different classes of men to the abode that wai
to be theirs to all eternity, — what would be your sensa-
tions? When first you should visit the mansions of ever-
lasting misery, and should behold " indignation and
wrath, tribulation and anguish, upon the souls of those
who had done evil ;" when, through the regions of out-
er darkness, you should hear " weeping and gnashing of
teeth," and should discern through the gloom the writh-

!60 SERMON II.

ings of the worm that dieth not, and the waving of the
flame that shall never be quenched : and when, in the
second place, you should enter the heavenly Jerusalem,
and should be saluted at the first step with the sweet
melody of angels over " sinners that had repented,3'
and should see the Lord God wiping away all tears from
their eyes ; where there was no more death, neither
sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain
for ever ; where they shall hunger no more, neither
thirst any more ; where the city hath no need of sun or
moon to shine in it ; for the glory of God lightens it,
and the Lamb is the light thereof; when you should
see there the pure river of the water of life, " and in
the midst of the street of that city, the tree of life, and
the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne feeding
them, and leading them unto fountains of water ;" and
should hear them sing a new song before the throne,
which no man could learn, save those that are redeem-
ed from the earth ; (for all this is actually in the word
of God, and of all this, faith is the substance and the
evidence ;) — now, after having thus looked into futuri-
ty, and taken a view of the objects of your faith, sup-
pose you again alight upon earth, and return to the
company of human beings, and the pursuits of your
ordinary occupation, — what a changed man would you
be ! what a new aspect would the earth wear, and all
the objects by which you are surrounded ! what new
conceptions would you form of happiness and misery !
what new desires, nay, what new passions would you
find, as it were, introduced into your heart ! what a
stranger would you find yourself in the midst of those
things among which you were perfectly at home ! " How
is the gold become dim, how is the most fine gold
changed !" " How are the riches corrupted, and the
garments moth-eaten !" How poor is wealth, and how
mean are honours !. For when you looked on them,
then would occur to you the riches you had gazed on
in the heavenly Jerusalem — the glories by which it was
illuminated.

SERMON II.

161

With what horror would you then look on the drunk-
en revel and the wanton debauch; for the moment they
presented themselves before you, the groans would sound
in your ears that you had heard from the bottomless pit.
When you heard the laugh of wild intemperance and
frantic intoxication, it would be drowned in the shrieks
of the damned, that would be still echoing about you;
and if you heard a fellow-creature sin, whether against
yourself or not, no matter, (you have just seen what
will make you think very lightly of all earthly pains
and injuries,) what would be uppermost in your minds?
Any little petty rancour, any little mean revenge, or
any cold and unheeding indifference 1 No : bat you
would think of the terrible portion which that man was
earning for himself in " the lake that burns with ever-
lasting brimstone," and you would fly to " snatch him
as a brand from the burning;" you would look upon all
around you with a most anxious and affectionate inter-
est, recollecting that they were all heirs of the happi-
ness or misery which you had just been witnessing in
the other world ; you would be to them a prophet, an
evangelist, an apostle, — " the voice of one crying in the
wilderness;" you would summon all your powers to
teach them the things that belong unto their peace, to
unlock to them heaven and hell; to describe the hor-
rors you had beheld in the one, and the glories you had
seen in the other.

And then with what new eyes would you look upon
sin ! How many things would then appear awful sins,
which you before overlooked and undervalued, when
you recollected that " for every idle word that a man
spoke, God brought him into judgment ;" — when you
recollected that it was the secrets of men's hearts that
you saw God judging — that you saw him untwisting a
man's very heart-strings, and finding what was enclosed
within; " for the word of God is quick and powerful,
and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to
the dividing asunder the joints and marrow, the soul

14*

162 SERMON II.

and spirit, and is a discerner of the thoughts and in-
tents of the heart!"

Little would you then think of giving gentle names
to sins which may appear light and pardonable in your
own eyes, when you recollected how they stained and
corrupted the soul in the eyes of Him " who is of pur-
er eyes, than to behold iniquity."

How then would your conversation become purified,
refined, and exalted : and if you found any corrupt
communication proceeding out of your mouth, how
would you check it like poison, when you would recol-
lect the songs of blessed spirits that you had heard
above ! and you would think, — Can I hope with such
lips as these to join the ranks of those whom I heard
crying, " Holy, holy, holy V And then how would the
very innocent pleasures of life sink in your estimation,
when you thought of those pleasures you had seen at
the right hand of God. How would you fear lest they
should become uppermost in your heart, and engage
your best and choicest affections, and thus you should
be tempted to choose your portion upon earth, and for-
feit your treasure which is in heaven : " for where your
treasure is, there will your heart be also!" Not "the
harp or the viol, tabret or the pipe, or the wine," would
make you " forget the work of the Lord, or the opera-
tion of his hands ;" M but your right hand would forget
her cunning, yea, your tongue would cleave to the roof
of your mouth, ere you preferred not Jerusalem in your
mirth." You would feel yourself a stranger and a pil-
grim on the earth; a citizen of a far distant country,
an exile from your native land ; and you would often
steal from the company of the foreigner, to think of the
beauties of your home, — its love and delightful inhabit-
ants,— to cast a longing, lingering look towards its
shores, and meditate sweetly upon your return. Such
would you be, if you had actually seen those things of
which your faith is the substance and the evidence ;
and therefore such must you be, if you really believe
these truths,

SERMON II. 163

And now let each man compare what he is with what
we have just found he would be if he had seen what he
professes to believe. And are you like it 1 Is there any
striking resemblance? No doubt the impressions would
be much more lively and powerful if they had been
actually seen. It is scarcely to be expected that we
should attain so great a degree of spiritual excellence,
as if we had seen them face to face ; but the simple
question that every man of plain common sense has to
ask himself, is this — Whether there is to be so very
great a difference between a man who had seen these
things, and a man who from his heart and soul believed
these things to be true, and that one day or other he
shall see these things? Is your life (I will not say equal
to, but is it) like that which we have been just descri-
bing 1 Does it fall short of it in degree, not in kind ? or
(what is the true and most important question) is it con-
tinually approaching it 1 Is it more and more like it,
though you may not hope to attain it on this side of the
grave 1 Remember, there were two diiferent men that
applied to our Saviour for relief; they were both fathers,
and came to ask it for their children. As soon as
Christ had said to one of them, " Thy son liveth," he
went his way, believing the word that Jesus spake, and
accordingly he found his son fully restored ; — now this
man's faith, in this instance, was the substance of what
he hoped for, the perfect evidence of what he had not
seen. But when Christ asked the other father, " Be-
lievest thou that I am able to do this thing?" the father
answered, with tears in his eyes, "Lord, I believe,
help thou mine unbelief!" He felt that his faith was not
as it should be, that it was not the evidence of what
he did not see; but he felt humbled under the sense of
his weakness, eager to have it remedied and removed,
— and he prayed with all his heart that his faith might
be confirmed and invigorated. And was he disappoint-
ed ? The good and benevolent Being who never yet re-
jected the prayer of humble earnestness, said unto him,
even as unto the other, " Thy son liveth."

164 SERMON II.

But there is an actual difference between the com-
mon faith of a man of the world and of a real and
genuine Christian. The one is the business of a mo-
ment; it begins and ends with a repetition of his creed,
— it is despatched in the service of the day. But with
the other it is a living principle, always growing and
increasing ; always approaching the state of one who
had actually seen what he believes, and of controlling,
directing, and animating his whole conduct. He will
always have those future things, which God has assured
him he shall one day behold, so fully before him, as to
have all the effect of reality upon his life and conversa-
tion. Just conceive what would be your manner of
speaking and acting, if on every Sabbath, instead of
coming to hear of these truths, you had them actually
disclosed to your contemplation ; would you spend the
ensuing week as you now intend to spend it 1 And yet
be assured you do not virtually believe these truths, un-
less your faith in some degree performs the office of your
sight, and discloses heaven and hell before you.

But do not mistake ; as your faith improves and ad-
vances it will lose more of the threats and the terrors
of religion, and draw closer and closer to its hopes, its
promises, its pleasures and enjoyments ; for observe,
faith is not described to be the substance of things fear-
ed, but the "substance of things hoped for." For af-
ter the soul of a sinner has been thoroughly awakened
both to its guilt and its danger, and has fled from God's
justice to the love of a Redeemer, it soon forgets the
punishment from which it is escaping, in the glories to
which it is approaching ; and though faith represents
before us both heaven and hell, yet as the spirit advan-
ces in its path of duty, and rises upwards towards its
God, the mansions of misery are left farther and farther
beneath ; the flames grow fainter, and the groans die
away ; while, at the same time, the gates of heaven are
more clearly discerned, and the voices of the redeemed
more distinctly heard.

Thus fear gives way to hope ; and the Christian who

SERMON II. 165

has taken up his cross, and followed his Redeemer, has
seldom to look behind at the wrath that he is escaping,
but onward and upward, at the Saviour who is his hope
and his conductor. This is the grand practical princi-
ple of the Gospel, the moving-spring of the Christian's
duty, and the rich fountain of his obedience ; that faith
which displays his Redeemer as actually present, and
the glorious blessings which he has purchased, full in
view. This is no fable, no nice fanciful speculation ;
it is a principle that has been acted upon since the foun-
dation of the world.

The chapter before us contains a splendid catalogue
of those that were moved, inspired, and invigorated by
its mighty energies; — men that "forsook their country,"
went out, not knowing whither they went, and became
strangers and pilgrims upon the earth — Abraham and
all the patriarchs ; men who, through the distance of a
thousand years, saw the Redeemer afar off, before he
had descended upon earth, and followed the bare and
distant promise of God, as if it were the full and living
substance: they submitted to exile, suffering, and re-
proach ; and what is the reason that is assigned 1 "As
seeing Him who is invisible." The Redeemer, to
them, was a dim and twinkling star ; and yet cheerful-
ly and gratefully did they steer their lonely course by
its mild and sacred influence. But upon us the Sun of
Righteousness has risen.

The apostle (after closing his glorious list of those
who saw Him that was invisible, long before he came,)
turns round upon those who believe that he has come,
and summons them to imitate their example : " Where-
fore, seeing we are compassed with so great a cloud of
witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin
that doth so easily beset us : and let us run with pa-
tience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus,
the author and the finisher of our faith;" unto Jesus—
who was invisible !

And gloriously did he who tells you that your " faith
must be the substance of things hoped for," and who

166 SERMON II.

summons you to look unto the invisible Redeemer — glori-
ously did he fulfil his own injunction; for, looking unto
him, did he and the whole company of the apostles, and
the glorious army of martyrs, precipitate themselves
through peril, persecution, and death. The descrip-
tion of what they suffered makes the blood run cold; —
and yet how do they speak of it? " This light affliction !
this light affliction, which endureth but for a moment,
worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight
of glory; while we look not at the things which are
seen, but at the things which are not seen." It was by
looking at things invisible as if actually present, that
they proved more than conquerors in all their struggles.

Another of that glorious company, exhorting his con-
verts to give trial of their faith, points to Him that is
invisible — "whom having not seen, ye love; in whom,
though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice
with joy unspeakable and full of glory.5'

May we, as we value the souls that he has purchased
— as we value the blessings that he offers, so keep him
living in our view, that we may run the race that is set
before us ; and whether it be our destiny to perish by
the slow and icy hand of disease, or by the angry vio-
lence of man, may we be found looking unto the " Au-
thor and Finisher of our faith, with our eye fixed on
Him that is invisible !"

SERMON III.

Genesis, i. 26.

And God said, Let us make man in our image after
our likeness.

If a man were suddenly asked, To what created be-
ing he would compare the Almighty; what object,
among all those that surrounded him, he conceived to
have been originally intended by its Creator for his pe-
culiar image and representative 1 he would probably
point to the sun, and would say, that there he saw God
at once most faithfully and most gloriously represented.
He would say, that in it we seemed "to live, and move,
and have our being;" that every where, and at every
moment, its influence is felt ; that it appears to possess
the power of calling things into existence, and of con-
signing them to nothing again ; that all creation seems
to depend upon it for sustenance, comfort, and enjoy-
ment ; that by its kind and gracious light we become
acquainted with each other, and with the objects by
which we are surrounded ; that it both gives us all that
we enjoy, and afterwards enables us to enjoy it; and
that, like its Almighty Creator, it has no respect of
persons, but scatters its rich blessings abroad with
generous and impartial liberality. This would be a
very natural answer : and thus we find that the first
kind of idolatry of which men were guilty, was the
worship of the sun ; and in some nations it is still con-
tinued, and he is there regarded not so much the image
of the Divinity, as the Divinity himself.

168 SERMON III.

But there was a time when there was a more magni-
ficent representative of the Godhead. There was a
time when we were preferred before the sun, and the
moon, and the host of heaven. But a little before, God
had formed the sun, and the stars, and the firmament,
and he saw that they were good ; and yet not one of
these did he pronounce his image, — and as if he thought
he was coming to a greater work than all before, and
one in which he felt himself more particularly interest-
ed, he seems to prepare Himself for our creation, —
" Let us make man in our own image." For the pro-
duction of inferior animated beings, he was contented
to employ inferior agents : when he would create other
living things, he commands the waters and the earth to
produce them. " Let the waters bring forth abundant-
ly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may
fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven;
— and let the earth bring forth the living creature after
his kind, and cattle, and creeping thing, and beasts of
the earth after their kind." But when he comes to
man, he seems to rise to the work Himself; " Let us
make man in our own image." He appears to have
taken great and unbounded delight in the production
of mankind. The blessing which he pronounced upon
him is repeated a second time, as if he felt peculiar
pleasure in bestowing it ; and when his work was fin-
ished, he looked with fondness upon the image of him-
self that he had made, and pronounced it to be very
good ; it is as if he had said, ' I give you a portion of
my glory and my character ; I consign it into your
hands and your care. Behold, I gave the sun a portion
of my light, and bade him go forth with it into the world
as my servant and my minister ; but I give you a share
of my attributes and my immortality, and my everlasting
blessing is upon you if you fulfil the trust.' — Which of
us will now stand forward and claim the fulfilment 1

This image — this beautiful image has been long since
shivered and disfigured ; but its fragments remain to
testify that it once existed. There is in the hearts of

SERMON III, 169

men a testimony that they shall live for ever ; a voice
that echoes through futurity; a sense that they shall
see strange things in another world; thoughts that
wander through eternity, and find no resting place.
This is a fragment of God's image, a shattered remnant
of his immortality, and it is there to testify against us ;
for if it had been perfect, nothing would be more delight-
ful than to think that we should live for ever ; to look
forward into brighter scenes, and rejoice in the glory
that should be revealed. All the gold of Arabia would
not be worth one hour's excursion of the mind of man
into the regions of futurity. For ever and for ever
would his mind be reaching forward, and dwelling with
fondness upon the thought, that never, from age to age,
when time should be no more, should he cease from
being. The pleasures of the spirits that walk to and
fro in the light of God's countenance, and circle his
throne rejoicing, would crowd his fancy and delight his
hopes. Visions of celestial happiness would visit him
in dreams of the night, and, compared with the dim
and distant perspective of eternity, all earthly things
would seem "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable."
And what is the fact? Let every man judge himself
how his natural heart shrinks from the contemplation
of a future state of being ; how he shudders to look
into eternity, as into some dreary and bottomless pit.
What a cold and dismal thing does immortality appear ;
and what a refreshment it is to his spirits to withdraw
his thoughts from the consideration, and return to his
beloved earth! And then, only observe with what ^ea-
gerness and desperation he gives up soul and body to
the pursuit of things which he knows full well will
«oon be to him as if they had never been. And yet,
this man, if you were to ask him the question, would
tell you, that he expected to live for ever ; and that
when his body was mouldering in the dust from which
it was taken, his soul would plunge into an ocean of
spirits without bottom and without shore. This he
would tell you gravely, as a matter of course. And

15

170 SERMON III.

then only observe him for one week or for one day, or
for this day, which has been sanctified to immortal pur-
poses, and you will find his cares, his hopes, his fears,
his wishes, his affections, busied and bustling about this
little span of earth, and this little measure of time which
he occupies, and death finds this immortal being making
playthings of sand, and carries him away from them all,
into a land where they shall all be forgotten. This is
a strange and astonishing contradiction, — the only
thing that looks like a blunder through all the works of
nature. Every thing else seems to know its appointed
time and its appointed place : — the sun knows his place
in the heavens, he does his duty in the firmament, and
brings round the seasons in their order, and the ocean
knows the boundaries beyond which it must not dare to
pass ; — every animal knows the home that kind nature
has provided — " the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass
his master's crib: but Israel doth not know; my people
doth not consider." Among all the creatures that sur-
round us, we are the only beings that look not to our
native home ; the only beings that seem to have broken
the laws of nature ; to have forgotten our owner, and
the mansions of our Father's house. This naked ex-
pectation of immortality, while we see no beauty in it,
that we should desire it — while we are feeding on ashes,
and have lost our relish for immortal food — is one of the
fragments of God's image ; it shews that it once exist-
ed, and that it now is broken.

But look again, and observe all the astonishing fac-
ulties of man; his reason, his memory, his imagination.
Observe only how he can, as it were, take knowledge by
violence, how he can lock it up in his memory, and keep
it in store for his use ; with what quickness and ingenu-
ity he can invent and contrive ; with what judgment
he can weigh, and deliberate, and decide ; how he can
extort nature's secrets, how he can penetrate into the
distant works of God, and inform when the sun shall
be darkened, and when the moon shall refuse to give
her light.

SERMON III. 171

Consider all these astonishing faculties, worthy of
the master piece of God, and then look at the brutal
and abominable passions that blacken and deface his
soul ; look at this same immortal creature, beautified
with all the gifts of the Almighty, blotting out the very
understanding with which he has been glorified, by a
drunkenness of which brutes are incapable ; nay, some-
times "glorying in his shame," and boasting of hav-
ing thus spoiled the good work of God ! Observe him
next, inflamed with lust, and plunged into profligacy
and debauchery, and making the eternal soul, that has
been armed with such glorious faculties, the servant
and slave of his perishable body. Observe him rioting
in hatred, malignity, and revenge, and admitting the
dark passions of an evil spirit into the soul that the
Almighty had made to be an habitation for himself.

Measure now this creature with himself; the wonder-
ful powers of his mind, the grasp of his memory, the
lightning of his invention, with the depravity of which
the beast of the field is incapable ; the impurity that
brings his soul into bondage to his body, the malice
and revenge that make hi n an abode of the spirit of
darkness. Truly " the wild beasts are in our ruins,
and the dragons are in our pleasant places." These
are fragments of an image that was beautiful ; enough
to shew that it once existed, and that now it is broken.

And amongst these ruins there is a voice sometimes
heard, like the spirit of a departed inhabitant, unwil-
ling to leave even the ruins of the palace which he
once had occupied ; a voice that " reasons of right-
eousness, temperance, and judgment to come ;" that
sometimes catches the ear in the momentary stillness
of the day, and still more in the dead of the night, be-
fore deep sleep falleth upon men ; but, like the murmur
of a ghost, men cannot bear to listen to it, but hurry
out of its reach. And thus does conscience sometimes
remind us of former days, of hours of sin, of time
squandered away that can never be recovered, of an
impure heart, of a worldly and carnal mind, and provea

172

SERMON III.

that it is a remnant of God ; for it tells us " that for
all these things, God will bring us into judgment."

But, alas ! it does no more than reproach and con-
demn ; for, alas ! it cannot change an old heart ; it
cannot u create a new spirit within us ;" it cannot
raise our affections from the dust upon which we are
treading ; it cannot fill us with heavenly dispositions ;
it cannot make us look forward with delight, to scenes
of future glory. Alas ! this is beyond the power of
conscience ; it serves to reproach, but cannot restore ;
— it is but a ghost among the ruins, — but a voice
among the tombs ; it is a poor remnant of what once
was a living image of the Almighty ; enough to shew
that it once existed, and that now it is broken.

But again, observe him gifted with the power of
speech, the power of communicating thought for
thought, and circulating knowledge, and truth, and
love through all his fellow-creatures. Just conceive
for one moment what he would be without it ; how
black, how ignorant, how dreary, how comfortless ! —
where would then be mutual assistance, mutual advice r
the communication of knowledge, the interchange of
affection ? Observe man, the only created being en-
dowed with this glorious faculty, and then consider the
use that he has made of it. Listen to the curses and
the blasphemy against the very Being who bestowed ity
who gave it, that it might rise before the throne in hal-
lelujahs. Then hear the falsehood, the deceit, the pre-
varication issuing through the channel where truth
should for ever flow ; then hear the impure and wan-
ton jest, that circulates poison, and nurses and assists
the natural corruption of the heart, when (God knows!)
it has enough to corrupt and brutalise it within ; then
listen to the scandal, the malice, the invective, and the
recrimination, upon the tongue to which God gave the
eloquence of affection and benevolence, and the music
of pity and consolation ; then attend to the lips that
can be eloquent and voluble on every subject but one,
—that can descant on the market and its prices, on

SERMON III. 173

the world and its fashions and its politics, nay, on eve-
ry little impulse of the feelings, and every fine-spun
sentiment of the mind ; but if the great God intrudes
into conversation, his ways or his dispensations, his
mercies and his loving-kindnesses, the tide begins to
ebb, the glow of society dies away, and the cold and
heartless silence betrays that an unwelcome stranger
has made his appearance. Truly this is a magnificent
fragment of that illustrious image ; enough to shew
that it once existed, and that now it is shivered and
broken.

Alas ! it is no wonder that when God looked again
upon the earth, and saw the wickedness of man, that
he said, " I will destroy man from off the face of the
earth." Nor was he deterred from doing so by the
multitude that it overwhelmed in ruin. In those days,
no doubt, they compared themselves with one another ;
no doubt they said, ■ We are all tolerably alike ; none
of us is singularly wicked ; if God punishes me, he
must punish the rest of mankind along with me.' But
did God therefore withhold his hand ? No ; but it is
stated as the very reason of his vengeance, that all the
earth was sunk in wickedness ; and their guilt was ag-
gravated by the very circumstance that they counten-
anced each other in their sin, and thus joined in a kind
of deliberate rebellion against his authority.

But, even leaving punishment out of the account,
conceive what must be the natural consequence of
having, as it were, disappointed the object of our crea-
tion, and of having run counter to God's original in-
tention. Must not the natural end of those things be
ruin ? But, " Thou turnest man to destruction :
again thou sayest, Come again, ye children of men." —
The Creator said, once more, " Let us make man in
our own image ;" and he came down himself from
heaven to create him a second time. He left his bright
and glorious abode on high, for us poor and wretched
wanderers, who had not only forsaken his good and
pleasant paths, but had actually forgotten that we need-

15*

174

SERMON III.

ed one to bring us back again ; who were so degenera~
ted as to have forgotten onr degeneracy ; and he came
to create us anew, and he came as " a man of sorrows,,
and acquainted with grief :" that we might once more
become the image of God, he was contented to come
himself in the image of man ; and by that stupendous
atonement upon the cross, — by that sacrifice, which
will be regarded with astonishment by men and angels
to all eternity, he has accomplished his new work of
creation. We are told that " our old man was crucifi-
ed with him ;" so that we are to " put off, according to
the former conversation, the old man which is corrupt
according to the deceitful lusts, and put on the new
man, which after God is created in righteousness and
true holiness." We are declared expressly to be
" God's workmanship, created anew in Christ Jesus,
unto good works."

But how is it, you will say, that the death of Christ
becomes second life to us 1 How is it that his suffer-
ings can create us anew \ By this one sacrifice he bore
in his own person the punishment due to our sins*
" He was wounded for our transgressions, he was
bruised for our iniquities ; the chastisement of our
peace was upon him ; and by his stripes we are healed.
All we, like sheep, had gone astray, we turned every
one to his own way ; and the Lord hath laid on him
the iniquity of us all." By this satisfaction to his jus-
tice, the communication was once more opened between
God and man ; for we are told, " That God was in
Christ, reconciling the world unto himself, not impu-
ting their trespasses ;" and through his merits, his
atonement, and his intercession, the gift of the Holy
Spirit was procured, by which the image of God may
be again stamped upon our hearts, and our souls mould-
ed into a resemblance to Him " who is of purer eyes
than to behold iniquity." Thus does God again
" breathe into his nostrils the breath of life, and man
again becomes a living soul," Him that cometh to this

SERMON IV.

175

good Creator, he " will in no wise cast out ;" " for as
God liveth, he willeth not the death of a sinner."

But we must come deeply sensible of our want of a
renewing spirit and of a purifying influence. God will
not cast his pearls before swine, " lest they trample
them under foot." We must learn our lost and ruined
state. We must feel that our natural hearts have wan-
dered far from him who is the only fountain of all that
is good ; that we have followed our own ways and our
own imaginations, and that we are unable to recover
ourselves from the broad way that leadeth to destruc-
tion ; for it is not a few partial changes, a few sins now
and then forsaken, that can restore us to our former
glorious state. Alas ! the poison has sunk deeper ;
it has mixed with our heart's blood, and penetrated into
our vitals. If we do not feel thus naturally corrupt
and helpless, and that we need a higher power than
our own to change, to strengthen, and to purify — let us
save ourselves ; let us not call ourselves by the name of
Christ; let us act a bold, manly, and a consistent part ;
renounce him, and declare honestly that by our own
strength will we stand or fall ,* that by ourselves we
are willing to encounter the burning eye of God ; that
we are able to deliver ourselves from that justice which
demands blood for sin ; and that we can change and
purify our own hearts, and of ourselves mould them into
the image of the Almighty.

But if we feel ourselves truly unable either to escape
from punishment or to qualify ourselves for heaven, let
us come with an humble and contrite spirit to Him who
died that he might give gifts unto men, and submit our-
selves to his creative influence. "A bruised reed will
he not break." " He will gather the lambs with his
arms." As we look to him with prayer, and converse
with him through his Gospel, we shall find new and
better dispositions growing within us, — holier habits of
thought collecting and increasing, — a new interest ex-
cited within us about things regarded before with indif-
ference,— a power over sin that is an earnest of future
triumphs, — a pleasure in studying the divine dispensa-

176 SERMON IV.

tions, and discovering fresh traces of wisdom and good*
ness where others see nothing but what is gloomy and
unintelligible, — and an activity in the fulfilment of
every duty to God and man. And then " to him that
hath shall be given ;" — our progress in grace and obedi-
ence will every day become easier and more delightful,
— our perceptions of future and invisible things will be-
come more lively, and our affections will be set upon
things eternal in the heavens, where Christ sitteth at
the right hand of God. Those subjects of thought
which we before considered cheerless and tiresome, will
wear a beauty that was before unperceived : — and the
obedience that before appeared irksome and insupport-
able, will become our light yoke and our easy burden.
We shall be able to measure our advance, by keeping
our eye steadfastly fixed upon him, who came to new-
create us by his Spirit into the image of God ; who was
himself the express image of the Father, softened down
to human comprehension and human imitation. By
keeping our eye upon that holy and divine Redeemer
as our pattern, and as the source of our means of con-
forming to it ; by constantly asking ourselves the so-
lemn and humiliating question — " Is it thus that Christ
would have thought, or said, or acted ? — or is this the
temper by which he would have been actuated V — can
we alone attain even the faintest resemblance. How-
ever short we may be of our divine original, we must
not dare to take any human pattern. Even the devoted
Paul said, " Be ye followers of me as I am of Christ."
Divine and delightful Redeemer ! who didst turn from
thy bright course among the stars unto the valley of the
shadow of death for our sake, — suffer us not — suffer us
not to think it too much to turn from the broad way (hat
leadeth to destruction, to meet thee in this career of
mercy ! Suffer us not to look at thee only to hate thy
beams, that bring to our remembrance what we were —
from what height fallen ! but change us by thy light
and thy Spirit to thine own glorious image ; " and
when we awake up after thy likeness, we shall be satis*
fied with it."

SERMON IV

Matthew, xiii. 44.

The kingdom of Heaven is like unto treasure hid in a
field, the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and
for joy thereof goeth, and selleth all that he hath, and
buyeth that field.

This is our Saviour's account of the kingdom of
Heaven. The great body of mankind appear to differ
with him in opinion. They do not seem to agree with
him in either of the two points that he has here stated ;
— neither acknowledging, that the kingdom of Heaven
is a hidden treasure ; nor admitting that, even when
discovered, it may cost a man all that he has to attain
it. That they are of a different opinion from our Sa-
viour upon these subjects scarcely requires a proof.
The case between them may be briefly stated thus : —
According to him, the kingdom of Heaven is a bidden
treasure. Salvation is a treasure which is naturally
none of ours. Among all the riches that nature has
scattered over the surface of the world, it is not to be
found. — If we would find it, we must turn our back
upon them all ; and seek for it as if we were diving
into the bowels of the earth. But what says the world 1
So far from regarding everlasting life as a hidden treas-
ure which they must use all their power and diligence
to explore, they consider it to be something that they
may stoop for in their hurry through life, without either
checking their speed, or turning aside either to the
right hand or to the left. If they really and soberly

178

SERMON IV.

believed that eternal life was something that was natu-
rally hidden from them, and which they must turn out
of their way to look for, or perish for ever, — it seems
impossible that they could go wandering up and down
the face of the earth in search of other objects, with
the weight of such a conviction as this hanging heavy
upon their souls. With such a thought as this follow-
ing them, like a spectre, through life, — gliding by them
during the business of the day, — glaring upon them in
the repose of the night, — what strength or what spirits
would these wretched men have to go on snatching
those things, the end of which they knew to be death ?
And yet, look back at the world from which you have
now for a few moments escaped, and to which you will
soon, in a few moments, return ; and recollect, — how
many do you imagine have ever stopped short in the
middle of their career, and for even one day have look-
ed round for salvation ; — who have stepped aside out of
the world as it was sweeping along, and have returned
to seek for the solitary spot where the treasures of mercy
and immortality were concealed ? Nay, rather, how
many do you recollect, who were following every object
of human pursuit except this one — that is worth them
all ? Recollect how many of them would look at you
as a strange man, who had taken up wild and fanciful
notions, if you were to ask them a plain question, that
shall be put to them at the day of judgment, — " Did you
seek Jirst the kingdom of God, and his righteousness V
Truly, if they seek a kingdom of Heaven, it cannot be
that of which our Saviour speaks, for " that is a hid-
den treasure ;" truly, if they find a kingdom of Heaven,
it must be a new one of their own discovery, — they
must stumble upon it in the highway, and meet it in
the markets ; but let them not look for that which he
has promised, for, alas ! it lies not in the wide gate,
and the broad way ; for, if we believe him, they lead
to destruction. And if you will trust for salvation to
your generous Redeemer, who paid himself, body and
blood, for you, rather than to the hollow-hearted world,

SERMON IV. 179

that would wring the last pittance from your dying grasp
before it was cold, you must retire from the broad and
beaten track where the world is driving along in pursuit
of all its vanities, and seek for the treasure that God has
buried ; and, as you approach the spot, be sure to put
your shoes from off your feet, for " the place where
you stand is holy ground :" you must leave earth and
earthly things behind you, for, remember, you are look-
ing for the kingdom of Heaven.

Observe the reason why the treasure is hidden. Is it
that your Almighty Father is unwilling that you should
attain it ? Is it that he takes pleasure in your destruc-
tion? Or is it that he apprehends his riches may be ex-
pended, his beneficence impoverished, his store of
mercies exhausted ? Is he too unmindful of you to save
you? " Behold, he makes his sun to rise on the just
and the unjust." No: but if we observe the circum-
stances under which this very parable was delivered,
we shall learn why salvation is hidden from us : it
was related, amongst many other parables, to a vast
multitude that covered the sea-shore. The subjects of
which these parables treated were the most awful upon
which the human mind and the human heart can be
exercised : — the laws, the judgments, the dispensations
of God : the duty of man in this state ; his lot in that
which is to come. Yet from this multitude the king-
dom of God was hid ; they understood not what he
spake ; though " they had eyes, they saw not ; though
they had ears, they heard not ; and their hearts were
hardened." The great truths of religion were sound-
ing around them on every side — and they attended not;
for they looked for an earthly prince, who should bring
them riches, power, and dominion ; they looked for the
kingdom of this world — they looked not for the king-
dom of heaven ; and therefore was that treasure hid
from them, because they understood not its value ; they
did not feel it to be a treasure. No : God will not
" cast his pearls before swine." But come to him with
a profound sense of the value of an immortal soul ; come

180

SERMON IV.

to him with humble anxiety to learn where your treasure
is buried, and he will not be wanting to you. If you
lack wisdom, ask him ; for " he giveth to all men libe-
rally, and upbraideth not." Take your Bible on the
one side, and your heart on the other, and weigh them
well together. Look in the one at the holiness of God ;
look in the other at the corruption and insignificance
of man ; then prostrate yourself before your Father,
and beseech him to shew you the way of salvation, —
and he will not be wanting. There will be angels with
you at midnight, who will descend upon you while you
are studying his will, and tell you that " for you is born
a Saviour." He will command his star to rise for you
in the East, and it shall stand over the place where your
treasure lies. There go, and ye shall find that " which
cannot be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be weigh-
ed for the price thereof. It cannot be valued with the
gold of Ophir, with the onyx, or the sapphire ; no men-
tion.shall be made of corals or of pearls ; and the topaz
of Ethiopia cannot equal it." Take care how you un-
dervalue this salvation ; for remember, and remember
again, that the reason why this treasure is hidden from
any man is, — because he does not feel its value. If
the kingdom of Heaven be hid from you ; if Christ's
atonement be not yours ; if he be still buried, and be
not risen for you ; the reason is because you do not
know its value ; for, to them that believe, " Christ cru-
cified is the power of God and the wisdom of God."

How then are we to know and feel its value % The
first thing is evidently this ; to know and feel what sin
is, in all its awful enormity : for is it not evident, that
we cannot estimate and embrace salvation unless we
are profoundly sensible of the danger from which we
are saved 1 Consult your own common-sense. Is it
not folly to say, that you believe in Jesus Christ, and
hope to be saved by his blood from your sins, when you
are not fully sensible of the guilt of those sins, and the
punishment they would draw down upon your head 1
Be assured God will not save those who do not deeply

SERMON IV.

181

feel, from the very bottom of their hearts, their want
of a Saviour. If you do not feel it, save yourself; but
if you think that too bold an undertaking, then away
to your own heart, and know what it is to have offend-
ed Almighty God, and to have called for nothing less
than the blood of Christ to purify it ! Consider only the
things you have done ; consider all your direct and de-
liberate transgressions of the Law of God, against
which your own conscience exclaimed loudly, but in
vain: consider all these things that you have left un-
done which you ought to have done, all your silent
omissions ; — sins, many of which stole by you softly,
without noise, or alarm to your conscience, because you
did not keep it alive and vigilant to your immortal con-
cerns ; — awful and treacherous sins ! because they
gather as you count them, so that you know not how
many are behind: but, above all, consider that sin,
which is the fountain of all other sin, the disposition of
mind from which they flow, — the habitual forgetfulness
of God ; the everlasting and uninterrupted transgres-
sion of the great Law of God to man, — " Thou shalt
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy
soul, and with all thy strength." Then, when you
have weighed those sins and fallen down prostrate un-
der the weight of them before your gracious Redeemer,
smiting your breast and saying, " God be merciful to
me a sinner !" then will you be able to understand the
value of that treasure which God has bestowed, and
then indeed will you feel the reason why it is buried and
hidden from the rabble who are running headlong after
riches, and pleasures, and honours, — because they do
not feel their want of it.

But though a sense of sin, a broken and contrite
heart, is the first and indispensable requisite to forming
a just estimate of our redemption, and, therefore, to our
taking the full advantage of it ; blessed be God ! it is
not the only one.

There is a second requisite behind : and what is it ?
The words before us will disclose : " Which treasure

16

182

SERMON IV.

when a man hath found, for joy thereof he goeth, and
selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field." The
first, the necessary, the bitter requisite, is grief; grief
for those sins that nailed the Son of God to the cross,
and pierced his side. But the second is joy ; joy that
man cannot give, and man cannot take away. Now
observe that this joy depends for its very existence upon
the sorrow that precedes it, and is in proportion to its
extent : for to say that we shall rejoice at a salvation
from those sins which caused us no sorrow or no alarm,
would be truly absurd : and here can we see how a
Christian's sorrow and a Christian's joy go hand in hand ;
and as " there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that
repenteth, than over ninety and nine who need no
repentance ;" so is there more joy in the breast of that
sinner over his own repentance, than will ever exist in
the breast of those who fancy they need none. Let
this convince us how poor, how cold, how hardened are
our hearts ! for how few of us can really remember to
have rejoiced over the salvation which Christ has
wrought for him, with half the delight which he has
felt at some earthly success, some temporal advantage.
Recollect, there will be an hour of your life — the last —
when the sweetest music that ever reached your ear
would be the voice that would' whisper, with an author-
ity from God, that " yours was the kingdom of heaven."
It would make the blood thrill freely again through the
frame from which it was just ebbing and subsiding : it
would make the faint lips colour, and utter a gasp of
thankfulness, that appeared to have been locked in ever-
lasting silence ; it would make the eyes open with a
gleam of joy, that appeared to have been closed for
ever. Have you felt any thing like this?

But beware how you mistake that joy which may indi-
cate that you have found that treasure. Behold ! you
will know it by its fruits ; for he who felt that joy
" went and sold all that he had, and bought that field."
He made no bargain : he did not say, this much of the
world will I keep, and thus much will I resign ; he did

SERMON IV. 183

not say, I will keep my covetousness, but I will resign
my sensuality ; he did not say, I will retain my drunk-
enness, but will surrender my malice and revenge : but
he comes humbly and devotedly, and flings down his
vices, his passions, and his prejudices, before the
throne of Almighty God, and says, " Take all, take
every thing, take what thou wilt, and give me that which
contains my salvation !"

It is true, men will laugh at his improvidence and
simplicity : and when they see him cheerfully relin-
quishing the riches they so desperately pursue, and the
pleasures of which they are so fondly enamoured, they
will exclaim, What a foolish bargain has this man
made in giving such a fine price for that barren field !
■ — but what will he care, when he knows what it con-
tains ? Morning and evening will he retire to the solita-
ry spot, and beseech his good Father to put a holy
guard over the place, that no evil may come near, to
rob him of his hope and his happiness : and in the
day will he watch, lest he should be plundered by that
enemy, who knows its value well, for he once enjoyed it,
and has lost it for ever.

Yet do not conceive that he will remain in listless re-
tirement and indolent meditation ; for in that treasure
he will find the armour of righteousness, in which he
will array himself on the right hand and on the left ; —
from that treasure will he take the helmet of salva-
tion and place it firmly upon his head ; — from that
will he gird himself with the sword of the Spirit, and
his feet shall be shod with the preparation of the gospel
of peace : — and at the time when men are fretting them-
selves about their hollow pleasures, — forgetting per-
haps that such a being ever existed, — or remember-
ing him only in order to ridicule the silly sacrifice that
the poor man had made, — he will come out suddenly
amongst them, all richly and gorgeously apparelled, to
run his race of faith, and hope, and charity, in the
eyes of all mankind ; so that men shall look at each
other aghast, and shall say, as they did of him who is

184 SERMON IV.

the author and giver of all these gifts,, — " Is not this
the son of a man like ourselves 1" Whence hath this
man all these things 1 But they cannot long mistake
whence it proceeds : — when such a light shines before
men, they cannot but say, " Truly this is God's work !"
and many may be led to look for that treasure, which
they see can produce such glorious riches.

SERMON V.

Matthew, x. 28

Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.

If an inhabitant of some distant part of the universe,
— some angel that had never visited the earth, had
been told that there was a world in which such an in-
vitation had been neglected and despised, he would
surely say: "The inhabitants of that world must be a
very happy people ; — there can be but few among them
that labour and are heavy laden ; — no doubt they must
be strangers to poverty, sorrow, and misfortune ; — the
pestilence cannot come nigh their dwellings, neither
does death ever knock at their doors; — and, of course,
they must be unacquainted with sin, and all the miser-
ies that are its everlasting companions. "

If such were our case, we might let our Bibles moul-
der into dust, and "refuse to hear the voice of the
charmer, charm he never so wisely;" — even of him
who says, " Come unto me, and I will give you rest."
So that the first thing we are naturally led to consider
iii this, as in every other invitation, is the kind of per-
sons to whom it is addressed : for if we do not find that
we correspond to the description, it would be a waste
of time to expend any further consideration upon the
subject.

It is addressed to those that labour and are heavy la-
den : so are all the promises of the Gospel. They are
alj made in language of the fondest, the kindest, the

16*

186

SERMON V.

most affectionate consolation. It is language that could
not be understood, that would be utterly unmeaning, if
addressed to those who were perfectly at ease in their
feelings, and had no weight upon their minds. To him
that is at ease in his possessions, the Gospel speaks in
a solemn and hollow voice : " Thou fool, this night thy
soul may be required of thee, and then, whose shall all
those things be V But to those whose hearts are dis-
quieted within them, it speaks in a tone of the softest
tenderness, and the most enchanting compassion.

How is the office of our Redeemer described, first
by the prophet, and afterwards by himself? " The Spir-
it of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord hath
anointed me to preach good tidings to the meek ; he
hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, — to pro-
claim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the
prison to them that are bound ; — to comfort all that
mourn ; — to give unto them beauty for ashes, — the oil
of joy, for mourning, — the garment of praise for the
spirit of heaviness.'5

Now this is what our Saviour came to perform : it is
the formal description of his office ; and you perceive
he is sent to the broken-hearted, — to the captives, — to
them that are bound, — to them that mourn, — to them
that are in the spirit of heaviness. At one time, he is
beautifully represented as speaking " a word in season
to him that is weary;" at another, he is described as
"the Sun of Righteousness, rising with healing on his
wings." He opened his ministry with blessings " on
the poor in Spirit ;" with blessings " on them that
mourn." He answered the accusations of the proud
men who were at ease in their possessions, and who felt
not heavy laden, that he " came not to those that were
whole, but to those that were sick;" and then he points
to the humble publican who came heavy-laden to the
house of God, so that he could not lift up his eyes unto
heaven, under his burden, — and that man found rest
unto his soul. And when that Redeemer was about to
depart, — that Redeemer, whose office it was to bind up

SERMON V. 187

the broken-hearted, to comfort them that mourn, to
give rest to the heavy-laden, — what did he promise ?
"Another Comforter, that should abide with us for
ever." Such is the strain of the Gospel from begin-
ning to end. It is the ministry of consolation, that
therefore, from its very nature, speaks only to them that
need to be consoled.

The Gospel is " a word in season to him that is
weary ;" therefore it speaks only to him that is weary,
to him that is seeking rest and finding none; and to
him it brings relief, refreshment, and repose. It finds
you a bruised reed, — it props and supports you. It
finds you weeping, — and it wipes away all tears from
your eyes. It finds you fearful, cheerless, disquieted, —
and it gives you courage, hope, and tranquillity. There
is a wilderness before her, and the garden of Eden be-
hind ; before her is lamentation, and mourning, and
woe ; behind her, come thanksgiving and the voice of
melody.

Thus is the Gospel an invitation to those that are
heavy-laden ; and it is the business of every man to ask
himself solemnly the question — " Is he one of those
who are invited?" If you be one of those who labour
and are heavy-laden, — come now, come freely, and you
shall find rest unto your souls ! (We shall presently con-
sider how you are to come, so as to accept this invi-
tation.)

But if you are not heavy-laden, ask yourself the cause.
Is it because you have already accepted this invitation,
and have already found rest unto your soul? If this be
the case, " good luck have thou with thine honour ! ride
on, because of the word of truth, of meekness, and of
righteousness !"

But is your mind at ease? is there no weight upon
your spirits? You are, perhaps, at rest ; but it may not
be the rest that Christ has promised. Then this invita-
tion is not to you ; it is to the heavy-laden : the Gospel
has no promises for you ; for its promises are those of
comfort and consolation. If you are contented with this

188 SERMON V.

fearful ease, "sleep on, and take your rest!" perhaps
you will not awake until the sound of the last trumpet.
But if this is too terrible a resolution, then rouse your-
self this instant But you may say, "How am I to be
come one of those who are here invited? Am I to go
wandering over the world in search of some burden that
may qualify me to accept this invitation ? Am I to in-
vent some new kind of grief for myself, — to strike out
some unnatural kind of uneasiness? Where is this
heavy burden ? where is this sorrow, without which I
cannot come to him?" — "Behold it is nigh thee, even
in thy mouth and in thy heart." It is in thy mouth : —
there is scarcely a day of our lives that we do not utter
or hear some complaint against mankind, and the worldr
and the inconstancy of human affairs. Where will you
turn yourself without meeting a man to salute you with
a murmur ? to tell you that something has gone wrong
with him — that something is not as it should be?
Where will you find a man that has not some thorn in
his side ? The world is full of these cowardly and des-
picable complaints ; — and no one dreams of a neglect-
ed Saviour, that stands ready to give you rest from them
all. Really and truly, do you mean to say that, when
you are asked at the day of judgment why you did not
come to him who offered rest to the heavy-laden, you
will be able to answer with sincerity — " I was too hap-
py to come to him; I felt no burden." But it would
not be in thy mouth, if it were not also in thy heart.

Consider the words : they are set in opposition to
the words "yoke and burden," a few verses below ?
where Christ offers his yoke to those that labour, and
his burden to those that are heavy-laden: so that the
words imply bondage and toil. It means : — Come to
me, all ye that labour under any galling yoke, and all
ye that are laden with any heavy burdens, and I will
give you rest.

First : are you one who are in the service of any sin
against which you know that the wrath of God is regis-
tered ? Are you in bondage to any of your lusts or

SERMON V.

189

appetites, and labouring under its yoke, so that it turns
and drives you, like one of your own cattle, wherever
it pleases, so that it does what it likes with you, and
says,- — " Go, and you go ; do this, and you do it?" and
do you afterwards feel the heavy burden of your own
contempt, and of a guilty conscience, — a burden that
makes you feel you have degraded yourself to the rank
of a brute, that can be turned with a bit and a bridle,
— a burden that weighs you down and prevents you
from looking up to Heaven like a man, lest you see
wrath written against you, and fiery indignation 1 Or
are you one who are in the service of the world, fret-
ting yourself under a yoke of toils, and cares, and
watchings, and long calculations ; and have you felt the
burden of many a bitter disappointment ; and, at all
events, the weight upon your mind, that an hour will
come when you will be called away from all the things
upon which you have set your affections ; when you
will find that you have made your treasure upon earth,
and will have to leave your heart with it behind you ?
Or are you one who has been trying to earn your own
way to Heaven — toiling to make up with Heaven a long
account of debtor and creditor ; and have you discover-
ed that you have all this time been heaping an insup-
portable burden upon your back ; that the law is spirit-
ual, but that you are carnal, sold under sin?

Just consider how the apostle discovered this burden
in himself. ■- I kse»J? that in me, that is, in my Jlesh%
dwelleth no good thing ; for, to will, is present with me ;
but how to perform that which is good, I find not. I
find a law, that when I would do good, evil is present
with me." " I delight in the law of God after the in-
ward man, but I see another law in my members, war-
ring against the law of my mind, and bringing "me into
captivity to the law of sin which is in my members."
Then he exclaims, " O wretched man that I am ! who
shall deliver me from the body of this death 1" He felt
the burden hanging heavy upon his soul : during all this
time he had been engaged, as it were, in putting it into

190 SERMON V.

the balances, and weighing it ; and he found it so aw-
fully oppressive, that he cries out, " O wretched man
that I am ! who shall deliver me from this burden of
sin V*

And do you feel nothing like this in your own heart I
Do you find no law of God, and no law of sin ? A law
of God, setting before you what he loves ; and a law
of sin, leading you to say and do what he hates ? Nay,
how often have you yourself admitted that your con-
science is an awful burden, by your attempts to shake
it off; to get rid of its load, to invent some contrivance
for lessening its weight ; leaning your burden against a
shattered wall, which one day or other will give way,
and your burden bear you down to the ground. How
often are you fond of throwing in false weights, for the
purpose of deceiving yourself as to the real state of
your conscience.

But there is one remarkable consideration that is
fully sufficient of itself to convince us that we have a
load, and a very heavy one, hanging upon our hearts
and our consciences : it is simply this, — our unwilling-
ness to examine them. There is not one of us who
does not feel it to be a loathsome, a disgusting, a most
painful, and a most humiliating task. Only observe
with what eagerness we avoid it ; how many excuses
we make in order that we may escape an acquaint-
ance with our own hearts and an inquiry into our
own consciences. Now this jg « positive proof that
we know full well the inquiry would turn against us.
It is the testimony of our hearts against them-
selves at the very outset. Why should you be afraid
of examining yourself, if you did not know well
that you would find a heavy burden within ? Just con-
sider what a delightful occupation would self-examina-
tion become if we had any reason to suppose that our
hearts would make a favourable report 1 Every man
loves to hear his own praises, if he believes them to be
true. O if we had any idea that our own heart would
praise us, there would not be a more delightful task
upon eaith than that of examining ourselves. How

SERMON Y. 191

eagerly should we steal away to our closets and our Bi-
bles if we thought that we should come away satisfied
with ourselves, approving ourselves, assured that all was
safe within ! How happy should you be in weighing
your heart if you thought you should find it really a
light and an easy one ! How happy should you feel in
looking at it over and over, and again and again, if you
thought you should find it good, and pure, and holy !
What a luxury would it be to start a new virtue at every
step of our inquiry, to indulge in the contemplation of
our own goodness, and the applause of our own con-
sciences ; and what a beautiful thing would the Bible
appear to us if we thought that at every page we turn-
ed we read our own salvation ! O then, what must be
the real state of the case, when we would study any
thing rather than the book of God, and would plunge
into any society rather than the company of our own
hearts ! Is it not a proof that, in the one, we know we
should find the evidence of our guilt ; and, in the other,
the registry of our condemnation ? This plain and
simple fact, that we would do any thing rather than ex-
amine our own hearts, is a sufficient evidence of the
corruption of our nature; — we are afraid to look at it;
a sufficient ' proof of the heavy burden within; — we
are afraid to weigh it.

So that you perceive, that when God invites only
those that labour and are heavy-laden, he does not call
upon you to invent any new kind of burden or sorrow
for yourself, but merely to know and feel your real state.
Nothing can be fairer : he just requires that you should
be fully sensible of the state in which you are, before
he condescends to save you from it ; that you should
feel your burden, before he condescends to remove it.
Just conceive what a mockery it would be to talk to a
man of comforting him for sorrows that he never felt,
and of relieving him from a burden that he never en-
dured ! This is plain common-sense : may our common-
sense never rise to testify against us at the day of judg-
ment !

192 SERMON V.

Nay more, our very pleasures are a burden to us —
for how many of them are the causes of pain, of sor-
row, of remorse ! Upon how many of them do we look
back with disgust, after the enjoyment of them has
ceased ! And then, last of all, are they not bounded
by death ? This is the gulf in which they are all swal-
lowed up. So that the more of these pleasures we shall
have enjoyed, the more we shall have set our affections
upon them ; the greater will be our unwillingness to
part with them ; the greater will be the burden we
have been heaping upon our death-beds.

We have now considered to whom this invitation is
made : it is to those that labour and are heavy-laden.
Who is there that does not feel he is included in the in-
vitation 1 The next thing to be considered is, how it
is to be accepted 1 — " Come unto me." Though all
these promises are made to those who are heavy-laden,
it is that they may come : if they come not, all is lost !

It is plain, then, that the first step in coming to him
must be a full and perfect reliance upon his power and
his willingness to give you rest : and who can doubt
his power — Ms power, who is the Son of God ? who
first gained the victory over the grave himself, to shew
that death should have no dominion over those whom
he protected !

And who can doubt his willingness to save ? Who,
that looks for one moment at the cross, can dare to
doubt it 1 O ! if we were but half as willing to be
saved as he is to save us, which of us would not depart
this day redeemed 1 Only observe how he who makes
the promises, beseeches, entreats, implores you to come
to him. O ! if we were half as earnest in our prayers
to him as he is in his prayers to us, which of us would
not this day find rest unto his soul 1

But though perfect is the first step that leads to this
rest, — recollect, it is but the first; it must be immedi-
ately followed up by others. For the next verse imme-
diately proceeds : " Take my yoke upon you, and learn
of me ; for I am meek and lowly of heart." Now, to

SERMON V.

193

take a person's yoke upon you is to become his servant :
so that the meaning is, you must take me for your mas-
ter, and learn of me. You must be willing to take off
that heavy burden, the yoke of sin, the yoke of the
world, and allow him to put Ms in its place. You
must fling down at his feet your pride, your drunken-
ness, your impurity, your avarice, your worldly minded-
ness. You will make no bargains with him for keep-
ing one sin, and letting another go : this would be
mere traffic ; not taking him for your master : it would
be endeavouring to serve two masters.

The only way of being sure that you are coming to
Christ is, — are you coming all to him ? Are you keep-
ing any sin to yourself 1 Are you keeping your fa-
vourite sin ? This is the shortest and the only sure
trial. If you are not surrendering that, be assured you
are attempting to serve two masters, — Christ and that
favourite sin, whatever it may be. The only way of
trying yourself is this : — Do you allow Christ to obtain
a mastery over all your vices ? Do you make him the
fountain of all your virtues ] Do you avoid all evil for
his sake 1 And, above all, is he the bright example
that you follow 1 Do you take some poor human
standard of excellence, and put that in the place of
Christ ? Or do you look to him, not only for salvation,
but for example 1 Is his lowly and meek humility, his
pure and holy conversation, his active and benevolent
charity, his mild and gentle patience, his fervent and
constant piety, his spirit of mercy and forgiveness, —
are these your pattern of perfection to which you seek
to be conformed 1

Now the last thing to be considered is, the rest which
he bestows ; — in what does it consist, and how does he
bestow it 1 The two following verses contain a full ex-
planation : " Take my yoke upon you, and learn of
me." You perceive it is in the exchange of yokes and
burdens that this rest consists ; — in taking off the un-
easv yoke and the heavy burden, and taking in its

17

194

SERMON V.

place Christ's easy yoke and light burden : " Take my
yoke."

Now, what is Christ's yoke 1 " He that loveth me
keepeth my commandments :" and we are told by the
same apostle, " His commandment is not grievous ;"
and the reason is, because we keep his commandments
from a principle of love. It is not that we wear his
yoke and take his burden in order, like a hireling or a
slave, to earn our own rest and salvation, but it is the
free service of warm, and earnest, and humble grati-
tude ; a service of love that, after doing all, makes us
willing to exclaim, " We are unprofitable servants !"
It is because we serve one who is meek and lowly of
heart, anxious to teach us by the influence of his Spirit
how to find his yoke easy and his burden light ; how
to find it delightful to do the will of his Father which
is in Heaven, and thus to resemble our divine Master ;
so that, instead of being servants and slaves, we be-
come the friends and the brethren of our Master, and
find his service perfect freedom : our obedience is not
the means of our procuring our rest, but is the rest it-
self

The blessed Saviour always administers to those who
come to him, with heart and soul, both the means of
fulfilling his will and of finding it sweet, easy, and de-
lightful. He teaches us and enables us to do it from
humble love and earnest gratitude ; to look to him for
fresh supplies of spiritual strength ; and, whenever we
are weary and faint by the w y, to turn aside to him,
where he stands by the fountain of living waters and
gives freely to all that are athirst ; and then wit a fresh
strength we raise our light burden, and go on our way
rejoicing. It is true men choose to consider Christ as
a hard task-master, and his blessed service as gloomy
and severe : but to these men there are two very short
answers : first, that it is only to those that labour and
are heavy-laden that this is addressed, — to those who
feel an insupportable load upon their souls and their
consciences ; and to them the exchange is indeed de-

SERMON V.

195

lightful : but if these men feel themselves perfectly at
their ease, if they are happy in their present state, —
they are very welcome to take their own ease. Second-
ly, that the service of Christ always proceeds from a
motive of earnest and humble gratitude, or it is no ser-
vice at all. It is not so many separate and detached
acts of service ; but it comes warm and entire from a
holy and sacred affection that makes it a service of
perfect freedom.

SERMON VI.

Matthew, xi. 12.

They that be whole need not a physician, but they that

are sick.

We may remember that this was the answer of
Christ to the Pharisees when they reproached him with
admitting sinners into his society ; and it would, there-
fore, at first appear that they did not conceive they
were sinners themselves when they ventured to bring
such an accusation against him. And yet this seems
hardly possible : blind and self-righteous as they were,
we can scarcely imagine that any man could obtain
such a victory over his conscience, or bring the art of
self-deception to such perfection, as to fancy that he
had never sinned !

Now to us it must appear one of the strangest things
in the world how any man could entertain the least
doubt upon the subject. If a man were to tell us that
he was not a sinner, we would consider it a sign — not
of innocence, but of derangement. God knows ! ma-
ny a man seems to pass through life as if he were
walking in his sleep ; and sin and righteousness appear
nearly alike to him : he seldom opens his eyes to see
things as they really are ; but still it is impossible to
suppose that he does not often encounter a shock that
bewilders and alarms him, and stumble upon some sin
that rouses him to a sense of guilt. Really it seems
inconceivable that any man possesses the art of self-de-

SERMON Vt. W

ception to so ruinous a degree. Our Saviour's answer
may lead to the true state of the case : " They that be
whole need not a physician, but they that are sick." —
They did not perceive that sin was a disease. They
knew, indeed, that they had been guilty of several gen-
tle offences, a sin now and then ; but they had not
learned that it was a disorder seated in their very con-
stitution. This seems to have been the fatal error of
the Pharisees ; the tremendous mistake that blinded
their eyes, so that they saw not, and stopped their ears,
that they heard not. The fact is, if they had regarded
the soul as they did the body, — if they had bat reason-
ed in the one case as in the other, it is astonishing
what new and alarming views would have arisen upon
the minds of these men, and how many of them we
should have found taking the lowest seat with him who
ate and drank with publicans and sinners, and gather-
ing up the crumbs that fell from the table !

If any one of us were now suddenly informed by a
physician that a deadly malady was at this instant prey-
ing upon his vitals, that his blood was poisoned, and
his health undermined, and his constitution falling
asunder, — he would, doubtless, return to his house in
no very comfortable state of mind ; he would throw
himself upon his bed, and feed upon the gloomy
thoughts of approaching dissolution ; would begin, per-
haps, to make his will, and call his friends about him
to apprise them that he was soon to bid them farewell ;
and, if he felt a joint ache, and his pulse begin to beat
faster or slower, or if he looked in the glass and saw
his cheek turning pale, and his lip becoming livid, and
his eye growing dim, — he would say ; Alas ! he told
me nothing but the truth ! and this is that fearful dis-
ease that is to bring me to my grave ! And then how
would all the little symptoms be noted and remembered;
how would the nature and the seat of the disease be
studied and examined ; and if a physician were to drop
a hint that the disorder was within the reach of his
skill, or if there was a whisper through the family that

17*

198

SERMON VI.

something could be done, and that hope was not yet to
be renounced — the very news would be a kind of health
to you, and your faded and pallid countenance would
brighten with anticipated freshness and renovation ! —
Now, if a man were really convinced that such a dis-
ease as this had taken possession of his eternal soul,
what can we suppose would be his sensations ! If a
distant hint, if an indistinct murmur were breathed that
there was something wrong about it ; — an eternal thing
with something wrong about it ! to think that that liv-
ing spirit within us, by which we can hold communion
with the unseen world and the Father of Spirits, and
which is destined to wander through eternity, is indis-
posed and out of order ! — what alarm, what jealousy of
inquiry should it excite ? what earnest investigation of
symptoms ; what anxious search into the nature of the
complaint and the possibility of a cure ? And yet it is
astonishing with what perfect composure a man not
only can hear the voice of Almighty God warning him,
but can acknowledge that there is no health in him,
and yet scarcely think it a subject worth his inquiry !

Really it is pitiable and melancholy to hear with
what accuracy a sick man will describe all the marks
and features of his disorder ; how every passing pain,
every change, every symptom, and every fluctuation of
health and strength is treasured up, and amplified, and
discussed. What a physician does the sick man be-
come in his own case ! — nay, with what seeming plea-
sure does he dwell upon every circumstance ! with
what fond and longing eloquence he can expatiate up-
on his pangs and his sufferings, as if he loved them be-
cause they are his own ! But if you inquire into the
health of his eternal soul, its sicknesses, its symptoms,
its peculiar constitution, its signs of life and death ; all
dumb, all languid, all flat and unprofitable ! Before
we go farther ; is not this a sufficient proof that all is
wrong, — that the spirit within him has been left to take
care of itself, while the heap of dust to which it is at-
tached has excited such an interest that every grain of

SERMON VI. 199

it seems to have been weighed and counted ? O that
it would force itself upon our senses, and burst itself
upon our notice ! O that this mysterious stranger with-
in us could appear to us in some palpable shape, that
we might inspect, and handle, and examine it ; — that
we might be able to feel the beating of its pulse, and
watch the changes of its complexion ; — that we might
know when it looked pale, and sickly, and death-like,
and when it wore the fresh and rosy hue of health ! —
But it hides itself from my view, — it muffles itself from
my observation ; and though I can amuse myself with
looking at the perishable body in which it is contained
through a microscope, and studying its very infirmities
with a fond aud melancholy delight, I do not feel a
sufficient interest in the immortal and unseen spirit
within to follow it into its hiding-places, and pursue it
into its recesses. If we went no farther, this is enough
to prove that there is some fatal disease within — that
we do not seem to care for the inquiry.

But, in the next place, when the body is concerned
we seldom find that we mistake a symptom for the dis-
ease. Only observe with what scrutinising ingenuity
a man will penetrate into the hiding-places in his con-
stitution to discover the root and ground of some dis-
order that has shewn itself in some external sign ! —
And should not the blind Pharisees have known, even
of themselves, that it is from within, — " out of the
hearts of men proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, forni-
cations, murders, thefts, covetousness, deceit, lasciv-
iousness ;" that all these evil things come from within,
and " it is out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh.". These, sins as they are, these, — against
which the great God has registered his wrath, and for
all which we shall be brought into judgment, — these
are, after all, signs and symptoms of something worse
within. Our evil words and our evil deeds are only
overflowings of the soul, and do not shew the depth of
the fountain from which they proceed. It has, indeed,
its ebbs and its flows, like those diseases that shew

200

SERMON VI.

themselves at some periods more than at others ; but
we should make a sad error if we mistook the signs of
a complaint for the complaint itself. It is often by a
slight variation of the pulse, — a pain, trifling in itself,
a change in the habit or aspect, that would hardly be
observed unless narrowly examined and inspected, that
a physician detects a malady which is making serious
and frightful inroads upon the constitution.

We may at once convince ourselves of this by ima-
gining ourselves thrown into a thousand situations in
which we have seen others involved, and from which
we have been preserved we know not how ; and in
which sins, that have only shewn themselves by faint
and transient flashes, would have burst into a blaze, and
have raged with the fury of a conflagration. Awful
and tremendous truth ! that our sins, while they are
the signs, are not the measures of the sin within ; and
while they are terrible proofs that it exists, still leave us
to discover its height and its depth, its length and
breadth ; — they may graduate its tides and fluctuations f
but they leave its depths unfathomed, and its shores un-
explored. But if some powerful conjuncture of at-
tractions should operate, we know not what tempests
are lurking in its bosom, and ready to burst forth.
Then, as there are different kinds of bodily, so there
are of spiritual disorders. You will see some of an
ardent and fiery constitution, whose complaint will shew
itself by violent signs that cannot be mistaken ; and
they prove that sin and death are rioting within them,
and withering their eternal health, by an ostentation of
their depravity, by drunkenness or debauchery, or by
blasphemy, riot, or revenge. These men have the signs
of a raging fever, and they often proceed to that degree
of derangement and delirium that they actually forget
the difference between health and sickness, and fancy
that all is sefe at the moment they have attained the
height of their disorder !

But there are others of a milder temperament, where
the signs are more silent and more treacherous ; where

SERMON VI.

201

the eye is bright and the countenance is florid, and the
frame receives no shock, and the nerves remain compo-
sed, and the spirits tranquil ; — and yet death is feeding
upon the vitals ! These are the men whose walk in life
is generally decent and respectable ; but the heart and
the affections are fixed on perishable objects; — whose
care, v/hose hopes, and whose dear delight, are things
visible, that shall pass away ; — souls that feed on ashes,
and declare their kindred with the worm that perisheth
by feeding upon perishable food, — whose minds repre-
sent the tombs to which they are approaching, — whited
sepulchres, that indeed are beautiful outward, but if
you look within, you find nothing but death ! These
persons seem to descend into the grave with a fatal
gentleness that causes no shock, to awake them ; they
waste away by a lingering consumption, and feel not
that they are dwindling, and dwindling, into ruin ; and
they know not that " where thy treasure is, there will
thy heart be also ;" and that, therefore, if it be not set
upon God, and Heaven, and immortal things, thy eter-
nal soul is wasting into destruction, and the worms are
underneath thee, and cover thee !
~ There are numberless varieties of spiritual com-
plaints; perhaps equal in number to those of the body,
which are most emphatically called in Scripture, " the
plagues of men's hearts."

But now observe the various excuses we attempt to
make, the thousand ways in which we endeavour to de-
ceive ourselves with respect to the disease of the eter-
nal soul within us ; and then observe how vain — how
silly would these appear if they were applied to the body.
How often will a man make the excuse that he was born
with the seeds of this corruption, and plead this as a
reason for cherishing and encouraging it, or at least
for neglecting it and allowing it to work its own way ?
Now what should we think of a man who attempted to
quiet our fears, when we were labouring under a cruel
bodily complaint, by telling us that it is in the family,

202

SERMON VI.

and we inherit it from our ancestors ? Did it ever save
any man's life yet ?

Bat again ; there are men who will mix in that socie-
ty, and advance with the utmost security into those sit-
uations, where impurity, sensuality, and a worldly and
carnal frame of mind are encouraged, and where affec-
tions are more and more set upon earthly pleasures and
earthly enjoyments, — and yet they will declare that no
evil consequences can arise, and that they felt no spirit-
ual disadvantage from the indulgence.

Now what should we think of a man who should tell
us, if an infectious complaint were raging around us,
that we might venture securely into the midst of the
contagion, and frequent those houses where it prevailed?
and who should tell us, that if we did not actually feel
the infection, or the poison, while it was mixing with
our blood and entering into our veins, we might consid-
er ourselves safe, and conclude that the effect might
not afterwards break forth and carry us into our graves?

And yet it is thus that we often attempt to deceive our-
selves both with respect to the existence, the nature, the
danger, and the effects of our spiritual diseases; although,
any man that reasoned, thought, and acted in the same
way, with respect to the body, wrould be considered to have
forfeited his claim to the attribute of reason, and to
have renounced his common sense. And then, when
one thinks what may be the death of an eternal spirit,
— what new, what fearful, what unknown miseries it
has to undergo ! what it must be to moulder and waste
through all eternity ! we cannot dwell upon it — it is too
much !

But there is a gracious Physician, who comes to bind
up the broken-hearted ; — the good Samaritan, that
stands by the way-side, to pour wine and oil into our
wounds, to minister to our sicknesses, and to heal our
infirmities. All those who feel the cruel breach that
sin has made in their health, and who are sensible that
they cannot recover themselves, may come to him — and
he will assuredly relieve them.

SERMON VI. 203

Now, when an earthly physician is called in, what is
the first thing required of the patient ? A perfect reli-
ance upon the skill and the good-will of the physician.
What should we think of that patient who felt a disease
rioting in his vitals, and should begin to analyse the
medicines that were administered, and to demand an
account of the particular mode in which they were to
effect his cure 1 Should not the physician be obliged to
give him all the information he himself possessed before
he could explain it 1 And is it much that the Lord Je-
sus Christ should demand from us that faith which we
must necessarily place in a human being, or be content
to lie down and perish ?

Just consider how many silly expedients a sick man
will try where there is the most distant hope of recove-
ry ; and then say, whether you will not trust the all-
powerful, the all-wise, the all-gracious Being, who bore
all the sicknesses and infirmities of your bodily nature
— all for your sake, and submitted to the agonies of
death to deliver you from hopeless ruin?

Be assured that, if you really feel the burden of your
disease, you will not hesitate a moment. Come to him
with earnest, humble prayer — with a heart at once pen-
etrated with a sense of its corruptions and a love of the
Divine Being who offers to pardon and to purify — and as-
suredly he will not refuse ; for he tells us specially — that
he came not for those that are whole, but those that are
sick ; and this he himself explains in the following
verse ; — " I came not to call the righteous, but sinners,
to repentance." But here he also shews us the nature
of the cure ; he came to call them to repentance, to a
change of mind.

It must be, of course, by some change in the inner
man that a radical disease must be exterminated from
the constitution. It seems as if it were actually out of
the nature of things that it should be otherwise. When
the good and benevolent Being vouchsafed to entreat
his wayward and rebellious people to deliver their own
soul, he says, " Make you a new heart ; for why will

204 SERMON VI.

you die, O house of Israel?" as if death were the sure
and inevitable consequence of their old state, from
which it was inconsistent with the natural course of
things that they could be saved except by making a new
heart and a right spirit within them. But this he is
willing to do if we come earnestly and humbly to look
for it ; for he declares, — " I will give my Holy Spirit to
them that ask it ;" and, " he that spared not his own
Son, how shall he not also, with him, freely give us all
things !"

But we must allow him to choose his own way. It is
generally by producing new habits and tempers of mind
— new desires and affections, which gain strength by
degrees, that he effects our cure. We have seen but
few bodily cures effected by any sudden or instantane-
ous power ; and they were generally most subject to
relapse.

The good and benign Physician consults our weak-
ness and our nature at the very time that he undertakes
to overcome them. How is the cure to be conducted,
from its weak beginning, to health and maturity 1 Now,
how would an earthly physician answer this question,
proposed with respect to a bodily complaint 1 He would
say, " by exercise." Just so the new principle implant-
ed within us, — the heavenly tempers and exalted affec-
tions,— the delight in God and things invisible, that is
the dawn of health to the sick man, is to be cherished
and invigorated by a constant converse with holy things,
and a constant energy in the performance of every duty.
Consider how the great Physician was employed, when
he was upbraided by the haughty Pharisee, and when
he declared that he was engaged in the very work of
healing those who are spiritually sick, and calling sin-
ners to repentance : he was eating and drinking with
the sinners ; he was engaged in familiar, yet holy con-
versation with them ; and what though he is now far
above, out of the range of mortal sight ; though he is
not now employed in working those bodily cures which
were faint representations of the renovation of a ruined

SERMON VI.

205

soul ; although he now no longer walks in our streets,
letting his blessed shadow fall upon our infirmities as
he passes along, — yet his Word and his Spirit are still
with us — the Spirit which he sent as his substitute,
which is to aid and invigorate our prayers ; and the
Word that is a substitute for that divine conversation,
by which he spoke health to the sinner's soul, while he
sat at meat with them. And that Word is wonderfully
adapted to all varieties of constitutions, and the several
degrees of spiritual health they may have attained ; for
c< all Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is
profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for
instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may
fee perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works."

18

SERMON VII.

1 Corinthians, vi. 20,
Ye are bought with a price.

The use that St. Paul makes of these words is as re-
markable as the words themselves, Some time after he
had left the Corinthians, he was informed that many of
them, while they still professed to be Christians, had
fallen away from the purity of the Gospel which he had
preached. They no longer trembled, when the man
was gone who used to reason among them "of right-
eousness, temperance, and judgment to come," They
relapsed into former habits with an appetite that seemed
to have been sharpened and increased by the self-de-
nial to which they had for a time submitted ; and the
evil spirit, which had gone out for a season, said, " I
will return to my house whence I came out ; and he
took other spirits more wicked than himself, and went
in, and dwelt there : and the last state of many of those
men was worse than the first," St, Paul remarks, that
many vices, such as extortions, strife, envy, and re-
venge, were gaining fearful ground upon them ; many
of them indulged in gluttony, in drunkenness, in de-
bauchery, in adultery, to an extent that had been before
unknown. They prostituted their bodies to intempe-
rance, and their immortal souls to covetousness, malig-
nity, and corruption.

This was cruel and bitter intelligence to such a man

SERMON VII.

207

as Pau^— one, whose heart and soul were wrapped up
in the success of his ministry, — who seemed to rejoice
with the joy of ten thousand angels over one sinner that
repented, and mourned like one heart-broken if one
soul, that appeared to have been won from sin, had fall-
en away from its immortality. He accordingly writes
to them a letter, the most solemn and the most tender
that can well be conceived, in language at once the
most dignified and affectionate ; and he here brings
down the great argument of the Gospel upon them with
all its weight.

Perhaps we shall understand it better if we first con-
sider those which are generally used in such cases.

If a prudent man of the world, who had little re-
spect for religion, but a high sense of what is called
morality, had been sent to preach to these men, what
arguments do we conceive he would have employed ?
He would probably have said ; u The excesses in
which you indulge will ruin your health, will shorten
your days, will rack your body with pain and disease,
will enfeeble your understanding, rendering it poor, un-
steady, and effeminate, unable to follow any regular,
manly, and honourable occupation in life ; you will lose
both your own respect, and the respect of the world ;
and if you cherish ill-will, malice, and envy, it will de-
stroy your peace of mind, and keep you at variance
with your fellow-creatures, with whom you should live
in friendship and tranquillity. n And he would say very
right : these arguments are in general very true ; but,
alas ! they are seldom found to avail ; and when they do,
suppose the object gained, their hearts relieved, their
lives lengthened, their success in the pursuit of afflu-
ence secured, their reputation standing fair in the eye
of all the world j there is yet something behind ; there
is a death, and there is a judgment ; and have they
looked to them 1 have they prepared for them? Veri-
ly they have had their reward, — the reward they look-
ed for, — health, wealth, long life, and reputation. What
claim have they to any thing farther 1

208

SERMON VII.

But suppose a man who possesses a higher sense of
religion, but who forgets to look for it in his Bible, —
who recollects that there is to be a state of rewards
and punishments, but who forgets that it is only through
a blessed Mediator that we can hope for escape from
the one, and for the attainment of the other, — suppose
such a one sent to reform these profligates, what might
he say 1 He would probably say, ' The course in
which you are proceeding is offensive to Almighty God,
and will draw down his everlasting vengeance and in-
dignation upon your heads ; but, change your course,
and reform, and you will then deserve his forgiveness,
his favour, and his blessing.' Alas ! this argument
would, it is to be feared, have less chance of succeed-
ing than the former ; for while it places the objects to
be attained at a greater distance, it leaves their attain-
ment much more uncertain ; for, in the first place, how
could they know whether the God of holiness would
pardon past enormities for the sake of future obedi-
ence 1 Suppose they had lived a life of righteousness to
the very moment of which we are speaking, would they
not be obliged 'to continue it to the end 1 How then
can they know whether future obedience may atone
for past transgressions ?

But, in the next place, suppose all past sins cancel-
led, to what are they to look forward 1 One might say,
' I know not what kind of righteousness or what de-
gree of righteousness God requires. If he requires a
life of unsinning obedience, I am lost fcr ever ; if not,
I know not what vices I must give up, or what I may
still keep without forfeiting his favour. I have no
reason to say where he will draw the line : if he can en-
dure sin at all, without punishing il, he may pardon me
in my present state, without any change whatever.'

But what was the argument of Paul, the Christian
apostle, the minister of the Gospel 1 " Ye are not
your own : ye are bought with a price." You are
bought and sold, body and soul : you are no longer
your own property. Now the conclusion that he im-

SERMON V1U

20<J

Mediately draws, is, " Therefore glorify God in your
body, and in your spirit, which are God's." I do not
call upon you to renounce your evil ways, because you
think it may conduce to your own health and conve-
nience— to your own satisfaction and gratification here
— to your success in life, and to the establishment of a
fair reputation ; I should then acknowledge you to be
your own property, to belong to yourselves : nor do I
summon you to repentance because you are able to
atone for your past transgressions, and to make your
own peace with God ; this would look as if I still ac-
knowledged you to belong to yourselves, and to be your
own property, and that you could make a bargain with
Heaven, — that you could buy off a vice with a virtue
and a sin by some fit of obedience : but I challenge
you as the property of Jesus Christ, which he has pur-
chased to himself for ever and ever, that you surrender
yourself into his service, and glorify him as your Mas-
ter, your Saviour, and your Redeemer.

This is the argument of God himself to every one
amongst us, to turn from the sins of his own heart and
his own life ; and it should be as omnipotent as the
God from whom it proceeds : — " Ye are bought with a
price." From what are we bought 1 From these very
sins, and the punishment they would draw down upon
our souls. Here is every motive that can actuate a ra-
tional being : here there is no doubt of the dreadful
aspect which our sins wear in the sight of the Supreme
Being ; for they required a terrible price to release us
from them — nothing less than the blood of God ; and
here is no doubt of love and mercy and forgiveness —
for the price is paid. O then, as you would not disap-
point the good and gracious being in all that he has
done for you ; as you would not wish that that price
were paid for you in vain, acknowledge yourself his
purchased servant, and glorify him in the body and in
the spirit that he has bought ! You must become his
property. But you will say, * Behold, are not all things
his ? Are not heaven and earth, the sea, and all their

18*

210 SERMON VII.

inhabitants, — the firmament, the vast expanse of the
universe, and all that it contains, his property V Yes ;
they are indeed all his : — but there was one loved and
favoured being among them all, whom he called pecu-
liarly his own. In our Father's house there were in-
deed many hired servants ; but among all his creatures
there was one Son ; for he said, " Let us make man in
our own image :" and he formed him for a representa-
tive of himself. He was the property of God, as a child
is the property of his father. His thoughts belonged to
God ; for there was not one which he wished to con-
ceal from him : they loved to dwell upon the glori-
ous attributes of his Father, and admire the wonders of
his power and of his goodness. No foul and corrupt
desires, no sordid wishes interrupted the purity and
brightness of his soul ; no angry, envious, or revenge-
ful passion disturbed its deep and beautiful tranquillity.
The spirit of man was then clearness and sunshine ;
not a storm to ruffle, not a cloud to obscure it ; and it
was transparent to the eye of Him in whose sight the
sins that seem but specks and atoms to our view appear
enlarged to a fearful size. The language of his lips
belonged to God ; for " out of the abundance of the
heart the mouth speaketh :" and then the heart abound-
ed with all good and holy thoughts, and therefore no
foul or bitter language issued from such a fountain, but
it overflowed at his lips in praise or thanksgiving. The
deeds of his hands and the course of his life belonged
to God ; for his body was the servant of his soul, and
was the glorious instrument by which he carried the
wishes of a good and benevolent heart into execution.
" In his law did he exercise himself day and night,"
and he " glorified God in his body and his spirit." If
he was in subjection to God, he was yet in bondage to
no other being in the universe ; and His yoke was easy,
and His burden light.

What need is there to dwell upon the miserable
change 1 Which of us sees any thing like his ow
character in that which we have been considering

SERMON VII. 211

Or which of us, after reflecting for a moment upon
what man was, and ought to be, can look upon himself,
without smiting upon his breast, and saying, " God be
merciful to me a sinner !"

Who is the Lord and Master of our body and our
spirit, and whom do we glorify with them ? Whom do
we follow and obey, and whose will have we most fre-
quently and generally consulted in our conduct through
life ? To whom do our thoughts belong ? Upon what
objects do they delight to repose, and how many of
them would you wish to conceal from the pure and
everlasting gaze of your Creator ? How often would
you wish that his eye had been closed upon you, and
that he could not read the secret movements of your
heart ? Are they not often such as you would be
ashamed to disclose even to a poor mortal like yourself?
And yet there will be a day when they will be made
known, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed.

To whom does your conversation belong 1 Upon
what subjects do you most delight to speak 1 Does the
name of God occur only to be blasphemed ; or, if it
ever rudely intrudes into your conversation, is it not
banished like an unwelcome visiter that interrupts
your enjoyments 1 How often would you wish Heaven
deaf to your voice, and that the ears of the Almighty
were closed to the words of your mouth 1 And yet
there will be a day when every wanton, blasphemous,
and unholy and uncharitable expression will be read
aloud : " For every idle word that men shall speak,
they shall give an account thereof in the day of judg-
ment."

To whom do your actions belong 1 Of all that you
have done, and of all your pursuits in life, how many
have you done or undertaken for the purpose of glori-
fying Almighty God ; and how many to glorify your-
self, your own pride, your own covetousness, your
own vanity, your own malice, your own sensuality,
and the opinion of the world? And yet, "for all
these things God will bring thee into judgment."

212 SERMON VII.

Ask yourselves solemnly the question, whom have
you served ? Have we not sought to do our own
will, and not the will of him who made us ? The conse-
quence is, that instead of being free, we have fallen
into bondage to our own passions and lusts, and have
been the sport of every temptation of the world, and
the victim of that dreadful being who is the author and
promoter of all sin and all misery. When we broke
the bonds that united us to our Creator, every gust of
passion, every whisper of the world^ and every sugges-
tion of the devil, obtained dominion over us ; and what
is the consequence 1 — " Know ye not, that to whom ye
render yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are
to whom ye obey 1 Whether of sin, unto death ; or of
obedience, unto righteousness V If the Lord of your
soul, and the master whom you serve, whom you have
chiefly and most frequently consulted, be not God, re-
collect the wages of such obedience is death ; and
which of us has not been in such bondage to corruption,
and has not earned and purchased to himself the awful
reward 1 But, blessed for ever be that God who still
looked for the sons that he had lost, for the flock that
had wandered, and who paid the rafisom that once
more set us free to oUr salvation, we have been bought
with agony and bloody sweat ; with tears and groans ;
with writhings of the body, and woundings of the
spirit; with the torture of the cross, and the life of
God ; amidst darkness and fearful signs, and the rend-
ing of the rocks, and the bursting of the tombs. All
that the frame and the spirit of man could endure, was
suffered for us ; and all that the love and mercy of God
could give, was lavished upon our salvation.

Such is the value that God has set upon our heads ;
such is the price by which he purchases us back, and
makes us his own sons and his family for ever : and it
is therefore that he calls upon us to glorify him in that
body and that spirit, which he has thus made his own
by all the claims both of creation and redemption.
For, as St. Paul in another place explains it, If Christ

SERMON VII. 213

died for us, then were we all dead ; and he died for all,
that they which live should not henceforth live unto
themselves, but unto him who died for them, and rose
again."

If you reject this sacrifice, then no price has been
paid for you, or it has been paid in vain ; you do not
acknowledge it; you must save yourself, without hoping
that one single drop of your Redeemer's blood shall fall
upon your soul, to render it fit to stand before the holi-
ness of God. If your heart sinks, and your soul shud-
ders at such a thought, then recollect, that if Christ
died for you, then were you dead, — dead in trespasses
and sins, — in bondage to corruption, and the servant of
those masters whose wages is death ; and recollect that
the very purpose for which he died, and without which
you disappoint the glorious salvation that he has wrought
for you, is, " that henceforth you should not live unto
yourselves, but unto him who died for you and rose
again." We must die with him if we hope to live with
him ; we must enter into his service, and become his
disciples by glorifying him in the body and the spirit^
which he has redeemed ; and then can we look with
pure and lowly hope for the forgiveness of our past
wanderings, and of the numberless transgressions of
which we are guilty, even after we have surrendered
ourselves to his good guidance : then can we look for
support in the thousand falterings which we shall make
in our journey, when we faintly attempt to tread in his
gracious and sainted footsteps.

He has purchased your thoughts ; for he has offered
to make you the temple of his Holy Spirit, who will
purify you from sin, and fill you with righteousness and
true holiness, and who will give you strength in all your
trials, and consolation under all the cares of the world,
the infirmities of your nature, and the sinkings of your
hearts.

He has purchased the words of your mouth ; for he
has given you an example that ye should follow him,
" who when he was reviled, reviled not again, and in

214 SERMON VII.

whose mouth was found no guile ;" and who out of the
good treasure of his heart, brought forth good things.

He has purchased your bodies ; those sinful bodies,
which were once the masters of our souls, by whose
means we often become the servants of corruption and
sensuality : those members, which were before the in-
struments of unrighteousness unto sin, are now made
the instruments of righteousness unto God ; and, by the
help and power of that spirit which he always gives to
those that humbly ask him, we shall be able to wield
these stubborn and rebellious members, the former in-
struments of sin and corruption, in the living service
of our Redeemerr It is as if we had stormed the
camp of the enemy, — had seized his weapons and his
armour, and had turned them against himself.

Choose, then, which master you will serve — Mam-
mon or God. Choose, then, which wages you will
receive — Death or Immortality : and recollect that you
Can no more serve both these, than you can receive
the wages of both ; and that the service of God and of
Mammon are as inconsistent as the death and immortal-
ity that are their natural consequences. Think, before
you decide, which master loves you most ; think which
would sacrifice most for you. — Think what price the
cold and ungenerous world would give to redeem you
from a single pang of body or mind ; and think with
what kind and devoted prodigality your blessed Re-
deemer paid down himself — his body,, and his meek and
holy spirit, for your everlasting welfare.

Finally : it may be useful to reflect that the happi-
ness of the next world will consist in glorifying God in
our body, and in our spirit, and in enjoying the delights
of his everlasting presence. We can conceive no
other ; so that it might be well, even on this account
alone, to cultivate a disposition that is to constitute our
happiness to all eternity : for even if our wild hopes of
attaining heaven without glorifying him upon earth
were fulfilled, — after all, what would it come to? The
last trumpet would summon us to glorify him in our
body and in our spirit for ever and ever !

SERMON VIII.

Colossians, iii. 3.

Set your affections on things above ; not on things on
the earth.

To go to heaven when we die seems to be the grand
wish that we form to ourselves whenever we happen to
fall into a serious mood of thinking, or begin to grow
melancholy at the prospect of death. To go to heaven,
— and then it would appear that nothing more was
wanting to complete our happiness.

And yet there is one very simple question, that is
quite surprising we so seldom think of asking ; and
that is, — " What kind of place we should find it if we
went there V1 That heaven is a scene of unbounded
happiness and everlasting delight there is no doubt
whatever ; but should we find it so, is quite another
question. We know that a deaf man might be sur-
rounded with the sweetest music and the most enchant-
ing harmony, and to him it would be all dead silence ;
and a beautiful portrait or a lovely landscape would be
nothing but darkness to a blind man's eye.

But to come still nearer to the point ; we know that
the same company that would be enjoyed by a man of
one description would be actually insupportable to
another ; and that there are many situations in which
one man would find himself perfectly happy, that would
make another utterly miserable, Now, to decide the

216 SERMON VIII.

question at once, only conceive for a moment that every
man was allowed to choose for himself in this particu-
lar, and that heaven was to be just what every man
pleases ; and what would be the result 1 Only look
back upon your life, and observe the scenes in which
you felt yourself most at home — the things in which
your soul has most delighted — where your heart was
most interested and engaged ; and that would be your
heaven. Fix your eye upon those scenes of your keen-
est enjoyment — mark them well, dwell upon the cir-
cumstances by which they were characterised, — and
you have the kind of heaven that you would choose.
" Where your treasure is; there would your heart be
also."

With some men heaven would be — what we will not
dare to name : we must draw a curtain over it ; — we
might mistake it for a scene that bears another name.
With others, it would be the sumptuous board and the
splendid establishment. With others, it would be the
reward of ambition, and the shout of popular applause.
With others, a round of the amusements that fill up the
vacancies of human life. And, in general, it would
probably be just such a place as this earth, — only with
a certain number of comforts and advantages superadd-
ed, and a certain number of dangers and inconvenien-
ces removed.

Now, is it not probable that to such men as these,
heaven would be a state either of languor or of misery?
Heaven is not a theatre, that shifts the scene to suit it-
self to every foolish fancy and every silly humour of
the spectators. It has, indeed, its fulness of joy and
its pleasures for evermore : but the question is, have
we the power and the relish 'to enjoy them 1 We will
suppose, for a moment, that our hope of going to heaven
is, some way or other, fulfilled, and that (God knows
how) we have passed the fearful account that we shall
have to render, — of sins committed, of duties neglect-
ed, of blessings abused, of time squandered away. We
will suppose that we have found our way into that

SERMON VIII.

217

heaven that is the object of our hopes : — what have we
to promise ourselves 1 We know at least what we shall
not find there ; we know that " naked as we came
into this world, naked shall we go out of it ;" that the
body which held us and the earth together is laid in the
dust from which it was taken ; the bond that united us
to this lower world is snapped, and the channel through
which we communicated with it withdrawn ; and this
busy stage, upon which our affections have been run-
ning to and fro, seeking rest and finding none, is at
once concealed from our view, and becomes to us a
dead blank. Alas ! alas ! what object shall we fasten
upon to fill up the dreary vacancy which was once
occupied by our busy pursuits and our dear pleasures
upon earth 1 For the gold and the silver are gone, and
the pipe, and the viol, and the tabret, have died away
in silence. What shall we seize upon to employ our
minds, or to interest our hearts, or to excite our desires,
or to fill up our conversation ? Alas ! where is the
buying and the selling, the bustle of business, or the
enthusiasm of enterprise, that supplied us at once with
our cares and our hopes 1 Where is the flowing gob-
let, and the wild and wanton merriment that used to
set the table in a roar 1 Alas ! alas ! what shall we do
for the delightful trifles by which we contrived, while
we were upon the earth, to get rid of time, and forget
that it was rolling over our heads 1 What shall we do
for those wild pursuits by which we made ourselves mad
for a time, and hunted eternity out of our minds ?
What shall we do for conversation ; upon what subjects
shall we converse 1 And then — to go on in this way
for ever ! and for ever ! and for ever ! We cannot sit
thus dreaming through eternity. If this be Heaven
would to God he had left us still upon our beloved earth !
Wherefore have ye brought us out of Egypt, where we
ate and drank and were merry, and have left us here to
perish in the wilderness 1 Better would it have been
for us to have still our interchanges of hope and fear, of
pleasure and pain, of repose and fatigue, of joy and

19

218

SERMON VIII.

sorrow, than to endure this dismal serenity, — than to
say in the morning, " would to God it were evening ;
and in the evening, would to God it were morning."

Such is what we shall not find in heaven. But what
is it that is there ? W hat vast fund of unexampled enjoy-
ments, what crowd of fresh delio-lits? What is there to in-
terest our affections and to fill our thoughts? " Even He
that jilletk all things ;" the only Being that can satisfy
our immortal spirit ; " whom to know is life eternal,"
for " this is life eternal, to know thee, the only true
God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent." All the
blessings and delights of heaven are described as flow-
ing from him. " In thy presence is fulness of joy, and
at thy right hand are pleasures for evermore." To see
his face; to rejoice in the light of his countenance ; to
awake and behold his glory, — are the strongest and
loveliest ideas of happiness that even the language of
inspiration, and " lips touched with fire," have been
able to convey. " I beseech thee," said the prophet of
old, " shew me thy glory." " If thy presence go not
up with me, carry me not up out of this wilderness. I
will stay here in the desert with thee : for what is the
land flowing with milk and honey without thee ?" But
the everlasting employment of the blessed spirits is
praise, and adorations, and hallelujahs : — they are for
ever before the throne of God, and serve him day and
night in his temple, and they rest not day and night,
saying, " Holy ! holy ! holy !"

Now it may be well to ask ourselves soberly the ques-
tion— how much of our present happiness consists in
this which we find is to be the happiness of heaven to
all eternity 1 Really, does it suit our ideas of happi-
ness 1 Is it the happiness that we have been enjoying
for our past life 1 As God liveth ! have we been most
happy when he was nearest to us, or farthest from us ?
Have we most enjoyed ourselves when he was most in
our thoughts, or least in our thoughts ? Really, are
our greatest pleasures those with which God has least
to do 1 — and does it appear strange to us that there

SERMON VIII.

219

should be such a luxury in knowing God ? Perhaps
there are some to whom it conveys a very dead and
very cheerless idea. To know God ! to be engaged
in celebrating his praises to all eternity ! How long
could we endure sugIi a labour upon earth 1 Alas !
alas 1 how heavy and monotonous would it appear !
and what a release would it be to our spirits to launch
again from the austerity of his society into the gay
varieties of life ! Then what becomes of your hopes of
Heaven 1 Must it not miserably disappoint you? What
would become of you, a forlorn and bewildered stranger,
among the saints that rest not day and night, saying,
Holy ! holy! holy ! What would you do ? — how would
you dispose of yourself after the first glow of adoration
had subsided, and the first swell of the anthem had
died away upon your ears ? Their joys would be lost
to you ; tor it is no stupid and senseless worship in
which they are engaged ; no idle clamour, or servile
adulation. But they sing with the Spirit, and they
sing with the understanding : they know wherefore
they praise him ; it is because they are becoming more
and more acquainted with him who only is inexhausti-
ble. Every other subject of thought would be drained
by eternity ; but him, boundless and unfathomable, they
learn, and study, and adore for ever and ever !

It is no heartless inquiry into abstract science ; no
cold and merely intellectual disquisition ; but the pure
and glorious delight of a celestial spirit observing Infin-
ite Wisdom carrying into effect the designs of Infinite
Benevolence ; the thrill of admiration that arises from
being allowed to contemplate the source from which love
and goodness are for ever issuing in all directions.

They see and pursue him in the works of nature, and
are permitted to discover his glory in the heavens, and
his handy-work in the firmament. They are finding
out, by his permission, secret after secret in the vast
scheme of the universe ; and are taught how he guides
the sun in his course, and ordains her journey for the
moon ; for what purpose he made the stars, and how he

220 SERMON VIII.

upholds them aloft, and makes them his servants ; and
thousands of mysteries, of which we never dream, are
they discovering in his works ; and at every discovery
they fall down and cry — " Holy ! holy ! holy !"

But more especially do they study him in his work of
Grace and Redemption ; (" for these are things which
angels desire to look into ;") they remember that he for-
sook his throne and left his glory to look for a guilty
and outcast world, that had wilfully plunged into dark-
ness ; they remember that he took upon him our vile
and loathsome nature, bearing our sins and carrying our
infirmities ; they remember that " he was despised and
rejected of men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with
grief; that he was wounded for our sins, and bruised
for our iniquities," and tasted the bitterness of death for
our sakes : they see him afterwards ascending up on
high, and leading captivity captive^ and bestowing gifts
on man ; and behold him seated at the right hand of
the Father, and making intercession for the transgres-
sors ; and all this for beings who had deserted his pleas-
ant pastures — who had flung away his rod and his staff,
and leaned upon broken reeds ; and (what is most as-
tonishing,) had actually lost their taste and relish for
immortal things ; and yet talk of hoping to go to heav-
en, without waiting to inquire what heaven is, or what it
means. This work of mercy do the blessed inhabitants
of heaven study for ever and ever : for it is inexhausti-
ble as the works of creation itself. New beauties and
fresh glories are discovered at every view. Effects,
which perhaps never occurred to the human imagina-
tion, may be developed from time to time ; and at ev-
ery new discovery of love the whole heavenly host bright-
en with immortal gratitude, and lay down their golden
crowns before the throne, saying ; " Holy ! holy !
holy I"

But this devotion to the one great source of happiness
only serves to bind them to each other in ties that are
delightful and everlasting : stronger than all the confed-
eracies of sin ; stronger than the affections of parent and

SERMON VIII. 221

child, brother and sister, husband and wife, are the af-
fections of these immortal spirits to each other.

It is true they all turn their faces towards the throne ;
but their love and their regards all meet in him who sit-
teth upon it. Jealousy and envy, malice and revenge,
are far away, chained down in the lake that burns for
ever. Truth, clear truth, that needs no concealment,
shews them each other's hearts ; and there they find
Eternal Love written in living characters by the finger
of God.

Delightful beyond all the pleasures of the earth is the
sweet counsel that these blessed beings take with each
other, and the converse in which they indulge : it al-
ways binds them closer than before ; for the subject is
still — the one good God ; the good and great Redeemer,
who brought them together and still holds them in eter-
nal union. Is this the heaven you hoped for 1 Do you
find yourself capable of that happiness in which it con-
sists 1

19*

SERMON IX.

Luke, ix. 23.

And he said to tliem all : If any man will come after
me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily,
and follow me.

These are fearful words ! It is true, they contain an
invitation : it is true, they are written by the mildest,
the gentlest, and the most gracious being that ever mov-
ed upon the earth ; who loved us more than we have ever
loved each other, or ourselves ; and they invite us to
follow him, who leads the way to all that is good, and
pure, and holy, and delightful : but they speak of self-
denial, and sufFering, and mortification. There is not
a single human passion to which they condescend to
appeal ; — not one of our vices, our frailties, our preju-
dices, or our infirmities, not one even of the kind and
generous affections of our nature, which they deign to
conciliate or solicit for their support ; for in the same
breath it is declared — Whosoever loveth father, or moth-
er, or sister, or wife, or his own life, more than me or
the gospel, is not worthy of me."

These are fearful words : they need only be uttered
in order to prove how we disobey them. If, instead of
reading them in this place and on this day, when our
minds have attained something of a serious and solemn
cast from the service in which we have just been enga-
ged, we were to meet them in the course of our daily
occupation ; if they were to cross us in the midst of
active life, while we were pursuing some of the dearest

SERMON IX. 223

objects of our desires,— they would sound something like
the toll of a death-bell in our ears, and lead us to ask
ourselves this simple question, — Am I now following
my Redeemer, or am I following my own imaginations 1
And yet there was a time when it was obeyed by
thousands and ten thousands : there were men who re-
joiced to bear their cross ; to many he had only to say,
" Come, follow me," and they followed him : many of
them rejoiced that they were counted worthy to sutler
shame for his name ; " they were troubled on every
side, yet not distressed ; perplexed, but not in despair ;
persecuted, but not destroyed ; always bearing about in
the body the dying of the Lord Jesus — V they " glori-
ed in the cross of Christ, by which the world was cruci-
fied to them and they to the world." For three hun-
dred years they sustained their faith, and followed the
steps of their Redeemer through oppressions, torments,
and persecutions that exhausted the malice and ingenu-
ity of man ; — in which the fury with which their ene-
mies pursued them, and the miseries to which they were
exposed for their faith, could only be equalled by the
devotion and fortitude with which they were sustained.
Patiently and cheerfully did they bear their cross : it
was not long since their Redeemer himself had suffer-
ed ; his footsteps from Jerusalem to Calvary were yet
fresh upon the earth ; and it was not forgotten how he
said, " The servant is not greater than his Lord."
Those were days of affliction : but when milder times
succeeded, and when the violence of persecution had
subsided, Christians began to forget that they had
still to bear their cross : they began to fancy that there
was a different gospel for the persecuted follower of
Christ, and him who is left at ease in his possessions.
We must have persuaded ourselves that there is some-
thing very different between the gospel of those days of
glorious and devoted suffering and the gospel of these
later times, when scarce one holy thought or one pure
affection of the heart rises to our Redeemer ; when the
weight of the cross is hardly felt, and scarcely one guil-

224 SERMON IX.

ty passion is overcome, one sinful desire repressed, for
the sake of him who said, " Whoever will come after
me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily,
and follow me."

And yet let us be assured that, however times and sea-
sons may change, the everlasting gospel is still the same.
God is always to be worshipped in spirit ; for " God is
a spirit ; and they that worship him must worship him
in spirit and in truth." All the laws of the gospel are
therefore spiritual, and are consequently unchangeable ;
for however customs, and manners, and circumstances
may alter, — however the way in which we are to carry
our obedience into effect may be influenced by differ-
ence of situation, the fountain in the heart, from which
all our actions ate to proceed, must be the same, — the
obedience of the soul of man to his God must be the
same. The disposition of the Christian is the same
through all eternity : and the same spirit that led the
martyrs to the stake is to conduct us through the strug-
gles of sinful nature and the temptations of a guilty
world.

Our Saviour foresaw that in prosperity we should be
tempted to forget this,, and for that very reason he
seems to have added the word " daily " in the passage
before us, — to remind us that it is not so much by sepa-
rate acts, and mere outward sufferings,, that he expected
us to bear our cross, as by the constant disposition of
our hearts and the common tenor of our lives : and for
the same reason he takes care to explain the expres-
sion, " bearing the cross," not so much by enduring
persecution, or being willing to give up our lives in his
service, as by denying ourselves daily.

Can we be at a loss to understand this 1 We have
only to compare ourselves with him whom we are to
follow, in order to perceive how much we must deny
ourselves, and that, every hour of our lives, we have to
cast down imaginations and high things that exalt them-
selves against the knowledge of Christ : I do not even
say, look at your wil ul and deliberate sins ; — stop in

SERMON IX. 225

the midst of any earthly pursuit in which you are en-
gaged,— look into your heart, — see what passions, what
dispositions are there. Then look at the blessed Jesus ;
— look at his purity, — look at his devotion, whose meat
and drink it was to do the will of his Father whicli is
in heaven, — his exalted love to God, — his universal
love for every human being, for friend and for enemy,
— a love which nailed him to the cross, from which he
dropped the prayer, " Father, forgive them, for they
know not what they do ;" and then shall we understand
what it is to deny ourselves daily, — daily to bear our
cross, though we had never any other enemy to perse-
cute us but the sin within our own hearts. One mo-
ment's comparison between ourselves and him whom
we are here commanded to follow, will shew us that we
must crucify the guilty nature within us, — that we must
bring every guilty passion into subjection to a higher
principle, — that we must teach our earthly affections,
even the most innocent, to move like slaves only at the
permission of the spirit of holiness residing within us.

Therefore let us beware of the fatal excuses which
we hear every day of our lives :— " If we act up to the
nature that God has given us, shall we not do well ?
God cannot have given us these passions without in-
tending that they should be gratified. Why do you
therefore tell us that they are to be daily mortified and
overcome, and only indulged under the government of
such a holy feeling, that, even then, they are only half
enjoyed '?" The plain and decisive answer is this, — it
is not the nature which God has given you. Alas !
supposing, for an instant, that this corrupt and sinful
nature is that which God originally gave, — what will it
teach us? Ask the labourer, who denies himself the
repose which famished and exhausted nature seems
eagerly and almost irresistibly to demand, and who
struggles through the burning day of unremitting fa-
tigue, why he defrauds nature of every moment of rest
and recreation which he can wring from her ; and he
will tell you, that self-denial is the common lot of man ;

12Q

SERMON IX.

that when the earth was given for sustenance to man,
God said, " In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat
bread all the^days of thy life." Now what human na-
ture can do, shall it not do for its God 1 If we find our-
selves in the company of another, even of our dearest and
most confidential friend, there is a degree of self-denial
and restraint under which we lay our behaviour — a
restraint which we shew in his presence : now the re-
spect which we feel and the restraint to which we sub-
ject ourselves in the presence of a human being, shall
we not shew in the presence of "the God who is of
purer eyes than to behold iniquity," who watches every
thought of our souls, and who counts the beatings of
our hearts?

At difFerent periods of our lives we break the kindest
and dearest ties by which nature can bind us to a fel-
low-creature : we leave friends, and home, and all the
associations of infancy and youth, for the purpose of
bettering our fortunes ; and enter into new society as
if into a new world, and undergo as it were a second
birth into new scenes : sometimes traverse the globe in
search of gain, or in the hope of a brief establishment
in life before we die ; and what can we do for these
miserable objects, shall we not do for God and for sal-
vation ? Shall we be surprised when we hear him say,
" Whoso loveth father or mother, or sister or wife, yea,
or his own life, more than me, is not worthy of me,"

Our exertions for immortal happiness, and the self-
denial necessary to accomplish it, should in fact be as
much greater than that we now are willing to exer-
cise, as immortality exceeds the objects which we now
pursue. Alas! we shall have to deny ourselves daily as
long as our nature is such as it is. This is not the na-
ture which God gave us. The nature which God gave
us was holy, pure, and an image of himself; the nature
under which we now labour is sensual, corrupt, and so
far from meriting the blessings of another world, that it
has lost even a relish for its enjoyments. Our affec-
tions are all earthly : we have no love to spare to our

SERMON IX.

227

God ; for to love the God of holiness we must become
holy, as he is holy. It is therefore that we are com-
manded to deny our nature daily. It would sound
strange if an angel were commanded to deny himself
daily. Deny what 1 His pleasure consists in the ever-
lasting consciousness that he is in the presence of God,
" at whose right hand there are pleasures for evermore."
His pleasure consists in exploring and admiring the
perfections of God — his power, his wisdom, his un-
fathomable goodness ; in holding humble communion
with his Creator, and paying him devoted and everlast-
ing adoration. Would it not sound strange if he was
commanded to deny himself these 1 But look to man!
Alas ! the difference between his pleasures and those
we have been describing will make us feel in our hearts
the necessity of 4( denying ourselves," and will shew
us the full meaning of the precept. With which of
all among us exists that feeling of love to God, and
of delight in his presence, which is all in all with the
angel 1 With which of us is it the natural feeling of
the heart 1 And yet it should be the predominant prin-
ciple, or it is nothing. It would seem absurd to state
that God should be any thing but the first and ruling
object of our affections, — that he should be subordinate
to any other. Accordingly we find that the most tre-
mendous denunciations are registered against those
" who forget God :" and as that love of God, — that de-
light in his presence, — that worship of his perfections,
which the angel enjoys, is not the natural or governing
feeling and sentiment of our souls, how fatally would
this difference shew us (even if Scripture were silent
upon the subject in every other passage but that before
us) the justice and necessity of that precept, — that
" we must deny ourselves ;" that we must contradict
our nature, and make it move in daily and perpetual
subordination to a grander principle.

But, alas ! when we look behind, when we look be-
fore, what consolation is there from the past, what hope
is there from the future ? From the past it is that we

22S SERMON IX.

have now ascertained our danger ; and a moment's
communion with our hearts will shew us how helpless
of themselves, how ineffectual and insufficient they are,
without some new vital energy to assist their weak en-
deavours, to work out the great spiritual change, with-
out which heaven and its happiness cannot be compre-
hended, much less attained. But the Redeemer says,
" Take up your cross and follow me." Here is in-
deed consolation and pardon for the past ; hope and im-
mortality for the future. As the ruins of that pure na-
ture which God had endowed us with, and the express
declaration and entire tenor of Scripture, prove that a
great change has taken place in the human race—a
moral corruption, that has broken the image which God
has made for himself, and has given a shock to a part
of his creation which he once pronounced to be " very
good ;" it appears absolutely necessary that some great
change, — some moral convulsion, — some shock equal
to the first, should take place in order to restore the. de-
rangement that was thus produced. God himself de-
scended to bring his own work back to its purity. By
the suffering on that cross he did what we could never
have done for ourselves : he made atonement for our
guilty desertion of God ; he became a full, perfect, and
sufficient sacrifice for the sins of our degenerate spe-
cies ; and, through that suffering and the merits of his
blood, he procured for us an assisting Spirit, that is to
keep pace with the weak exertions of our hearts, and
help to overcome within us the dominion of sins, from
the punishment of which we shall thus be acquitted
through his mediation.

Of this great salvation the leading condition is, Faith
in that Redeemer, — a full reliance upon him and his
merits, which only can procure us pardon and immor-
tality : and nothing can teach us to understand the na-
ture of that faith, by which only we are saved, better
than the very passage before us : — " Take up your cross
and follow me." It makes Christ, and Christ alone,
the object that we are to keep constantly, unremittingly

SERMON IX.

229

in view, as all we can depend upon for hope, and bles-
sing, and salvation ; but it shews that in order to this,
we must follow him, we must tread in his steps, we
must imitate his example. In fact, faith (that word
upon which so many stumble) includes in its significa-
tion what we all perfectly well understand by a word
very like it, fidelity ; — the fidelity of a servant to his
master, of a disciple to his teacher. We look to him
for every thing ; for hope, for example, and for strength.
For hope — to his atonement, through which only we
must look for every spiritual blessing which our
Heavenly Father bestows ; for example — to his life
of purity, and holiness, and charity ; for strength —
to his Holy Spirit, without which our feeble strug-
gles against the guilty nature within us would be all use-
Jess and unavailing.

Thus the text before us shews us, as it were, in a
beautiful picture, the connexion between faith and its
practical effects upon our lives and our feelings. It re-
presents us following Christ humbly, yet indefatigably,
under the burden of the cross ; keeping him in view as
the only ground of our hope and our reliance ; and, in
order to keep in sight, we must toil on in our journey,
bearing the cross, treading the path he has gone before
us. The moment we cease to tread in his footsteps, —
the moment we halt in the way in which he has preced-
ed,— he has got out of sight, and our faith and practice
fail at the same instant.

20

SERMON X,

Matthew, xi. 30.
My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

It is almost always by comparison that we judge of
the ease or the hardship of our situation, You will gen-
erally find, that any man who complains of the severity
of his lot, compares it either with some happier state
that he had himself formerly enjoyed, or with the more
prosperous circumstances of those by whom he is sur-
rounded ; at least you would think him entitled to very
little pity, if he continued to murmur and repine when
his situation was neither worse than what it was before,
nor worse than that of most of his neighbours.

If you should attempt to reconcile him to his situa-
tion, what would be the most natural method of pro-
ceeding 1 By comparison : by shewing him how much
worse it might have been. Now this is the best way of
estimating the ease of the Christian yoke, and of weigh-
ing the burden that our Redeemer lays upon our shoul-
ders ; and thus shall we soon discover how gracious are
those commandments which we think it hard to fulfil ;
how indulgent are those laws which we often neglect
and despise : then, when we have compared them with
other yokes and other burdens, shall we learn how easy
is that yoke to which we often refuse to submit ; how
light that burden which we often fling with impatience
to the ground.

Let us first look abroad for matter of comparison.
The greater part of the world have never yet been vis-

SERMON X.

231

ited by the Gospel of Christ ; have never yet heard the
message of love and salvation. Now it may be curious
to observe what are the religious yokes and burdens
which these people have imposed upon themselves ;
that is, in other words, what are the religious duties by
which they hope to become objects of the Divine favour,
and partakers of the blessings he bestows, — to turn
away his anger, to purchase his favour, to escape his
vengeance, and conciliate his mercy. Perhaps it would
be impossible to invent a new kind of bodily torture
which many among these wretched people have not
willingly undergone for these objects. All those who
are anxious to render themselves acceptable in the
sight of God actually devote themselves to misery, and
go in search of some new kind of suffering, by which
they think they can become more worthy of his appro-
bation. It would be a kind of punishment to us even
to hear some of them described. Death, in its ordina-
ry shape, appears much too easy, and Would be a relief
to their sufferings ; but they contrive to lengthen out its
agonies, so that many of them are dying for half their
lives in lingering torments, in which they conceive the
Supreme Being takes peculiar delight. Sometimes
these miserable men offer their children, their relations,
or their friends, as a sacrifice to appease his fury ; and at
other times they fly from the company of men, and all
the comforts of society, to devote themselves to the ser-
vice of the Almighty in caverns and wildernesses. Now
observe, this arises from no command of God, — no rev-
elation from heaven ; it is the sentence of man upon
himself — the yoke and the burden that he has laid upon
his own shoulders.

Suppose God had said to us — " Wear the yoke which
you find your fellow-creatures have voluntarily chosen.
I will allow you to attain eternal life through these suf-
ferings. Go, be your own torturer — bring your chil-
dren to my altar, and honour me with their blood ; and
banish yourself from the company of your fellow-crea-
tures for ever, and you shall be an inheritor of my king-

232 SERMON X.

dom ;" — which of us could complain 1 Measure these?
sufferings and miseries, great as they are, with life ever-
lasting— with the glories of God's presence, and the un-
seen riches of a future world, and you would say, Lord,
here I give thee my body, which thou requirest to be
burnt — here it is, ready for the agony ; and here are
the children whose blood thou requirest of my hands,
and here am I, prepared to fly from the fellowship of
my brothers, and hide my head in the woods and the
wilds from the sight of human kind, — yet still I feel it
is only through the voluntary bounty of thy goodness
and thy mercy that even all this can be made to avail,
and it will still be the effect of thy loving kindness if
even thus I become an inheritor of thy kingdom.

Such then is the yoke and the burden of our neigh-
bours,, and such is what our yoke and our burden might
have been.

It is now time to look to what it is. Where are now
our stripes, — our agonies, — the writhings of our body
and the vvoundings of our flesh 1 where is the lingering
death which we are to endure, and the visitation of the
wrath of God upon our souls % " He was wounded for
our transgressions : the chastisement of our peace was
laid on him." There was a beloved Son, whose blood
was shed for our sakes ; — but the lamb was not taken
from our flock, nor the child from our bosom : there was
one who left his home on high for this wilderness be-
neath, and has left us in our cheerful homes, and our
peaceful habitations: his yoke was indeed severe, and
his burden was heavy, for it was our toil that he endur-
ed, and our burden that he bore. " Surely, he hath
borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows !" and he has
borne and carried them away.

There is not a single pain of body or mind that we
are called upon to endure because it is pain, — or for
the sake of the suffering itself. There is indeed self-
denial and mortification. But it seems to be a law that
cannot be broken — that where there is sin there must
be pain ; as long as there is sin alive within, there will

SERMON X.

233

still be the struggle and the battle. But, even here, he
is still with us ; for, " I am with you, even to the end
of the world ;" and his holy and powerful Spirit is ever
ready to sustain us.

Now look at the imaginary god of the Indians, watch-
ing with a kind of savage delight the agonies of its vo-
taries ; and then look at your Redeemer, bearing away
all the sufferings to which you were devoted, and as-
sisting you in the conflict that you have yet to undergo !
He was verily and indeed crucified for our sakes, and
his body nailed to the tree ; but when he turns to us,
he lays the cross gently upon our shoulders, and when he
commands us to be crucified with him, he asks for no
torments, no blood, but that we should " Render our bo-
dies a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable, which is
our reasonable service ;" that we should offer them as
temples for his Holy Spirit, that we may glorify him in
our body and in our spirit. He left the bosom of his
Father to become your atonement ; but when he speaks
to you, he tells you to live still in the midst of your fam-
ily, to tell them how good the Lord is, to teach them his
judgments and his statutes, to shew them the path of
life, and to lead the way, to educate a family for heav-
en, that your " Sons may be as the young plants about
the house of your God, and your daughters as the po-
lished corners of the temple." The earth was to him a
desert and a wilderness ; he was a stranger and a pil-
grim, " that had not wrhere to lay his head :" but
when he speaks to you, so far from commanding you to
desert your common brethren and fellow-creatures, he
has united you to them by a bond as strong as that which
holds the world together ; for he has said, " As I have
loved you, so love one another ; and, by this shall all
men know that ye are my disciples." To perpetuate
this divine benevolence, he has ordained that the day
which he has chosen for himself should be a day of com-
mon assembling among those that love him, that they
may shew how they love one another. He has pronoun-
ced a blessing upon Christian fellowship, — " Where

20*

•234

SERMON X.

two or three are gathered together, I am in the midst of
them ;" and the sacrament that he left as a memorial;
of himself, he left, at the same time, as a memorial of
Christian brotherhood and affection.

Such is our yoke and our burden ! Let him, who
has thought it too hard and too heavy to bear, be pre-
pared to state it boldly when he shall appear side by side
with the poor and mistaken Indian before the throne of
God at the day of judgment. The poor heathen may
come forward with his wounded limbs and weltering
body, saying, ' 1 thought thee an austere master, de-
lighting in the miseries of thy creatures, and I have ac-
cordingly brought thee the torn remnants of a body
which I have tortured in thy service.' And the Chris-
tian will come forward, and say, * I knew that thou
didst die to save me from such sufferings and torment?,
and that thou only commandest me to keep my body in
temperance, soberness, and chastity, and I thought it
too hard for me ; and I have accordingly brought thee
the refuse and sweepings of a body that has bern cor-
rupted and brutalised in the service of profligacy and
drunkenness, — even the body which thou didst declare
should be the temple of thy Holy Spirit/ The poor In-
dian will, perhaps, shew his hands, reeking with the
blood of his children, saying, ' I thought this was the
sacrifice with which God was well pleased : and you.
the Christian, will come forward with blood upon thy
hands,also, ' I knew that thou gavest thy Son for my
sacrifice, and commandest me to lead my offspring in
the way of everlasting life ;' but the command ' was too
hard for me, to teach them thy statutes and to set them
my humble example : I have let them go the broad way
to destruction, and their blood is upon my hand — and
my heart — and my head.' The Indian will come for-
ward, and say, ^ Behold, lam come from the wood, the
desert, and the wilderness, where I fled from the cheer-
ful society of my fellow-mortals because I thought it
was pleasing in thy sight.' And the Christian will come
forward, and say, ' Behold, I come from my comforta-

SEKMCW X. ^35

ble home and the communion of my brethren, which
thou hast graciously permitted me to enjoy ; but I
thought it too hard to give thern a share of those
blessings which thou hast bestowed upon me ; I thought
it too hard to give them a portion of my time, my
trouble, my fortune, or my interest ; I thought it too
hard to keep my tongue from cursing and reviling, my
heart from hatred, and my hand from violence and re-
venge.' What will be the answer of the Judge to the
poor Indian none can presume to say. That he was
sadly mistaken in the means of salvation, and that what
he had done could never purchase him everlasting life,
is beyond a doubt ; but yet, the Judge may say,
" Come unto ine, thou heavy-laden, and I will give thee
the rest which thou couldst not purchase for thyself."
But, to the Christian, Thou, who hadst my easy yoke,
and my light burden ; thou, for whom all was already

purchased." Thank God ! it is not yet pronounced :

— begone ! and fly for thy life !

We have now compared the Christian yoke with that
of others, — we have looked abroad for comparison. We
have next to look at home, and compare it with those
yokes which the Christian yoke displaces, — those yokes
which are flung off when this is assumed.

There is the yoke of pride : — and who has not felt
its weight 1 There is scarcely a day of our lives in
which our pride is not hurt. Sometimes we meet with
direct affront ; at other times, we do not think we are
treated with the respect we deserve ; at other times, we
find that people do not entertain the opinion of us which
we would w7ish them to hold ; but, above all, how often
do we find ourselves lowered in our own opinion ; and
then the yoke of pride becomes more uneasy by our en-
deavours to regain our own good opinion, and to hide
the real state of the case from our conscience.

But the Christian's yoke is humility ; its very nature
depends upon humility : for no one has submitted to
the service of Christ, or become his disciple, until fully
sensible of his own unworthiness, and, consequently, of
his want of the merits of a Redeemer. Thus has the

236 SERMON X.

Christian become acquainted with the plague of his
own heart, — his sin has been often before him ; and,
however deeply he may lament its guilt, he has lost that
blind and haughty self-sufficiency that makes him uneasy
at the neglect of others, or afraid to stand the scrutiny
of self-examination.

There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality :
that galling yoke, which even those who wear it can-
not bear to think upon ; and, therefore, they still con-
tinue to plunge into drunkenness and profligacy lest
they should have time to think on their lost and dis-
graceful situation. Those miserable men, when the
carousal and the debauch are over, then begin to feel
the weight and the wretchedness of the yoke that they
are bearing. They then feel what it is to load their bo-
dies with pain and disease, and their everlasting souls
with every foul and sinful thought ; to have brutalised
their nature, or to have sunk it, by intoxication, into a
state of which brutes seem incapable ; and they then
feel the weight of their yoke, when this indulgence has
put them into such a state of madness and insensibility
that they may commit a crime which will be the yoke
and the burden of their consciences for the rest of their
lives. Is it necessary to compare the Christian yoke
with this '! We will not disgrace it by naming it in the
same breath.

Then there is the yoke of covetousness : and who
does not know all the cares, all the watchings, all the
restless days and sleepless nights, — and, after all, the
endless disappointments that the most prosperous and
successful will have to encounter through life 1 And
then the fearful anticipation of that day, when a man
shall find that all these things are as if they had never
been !

The Christian, indeed, has his fears and his trem-
blings,— his watchings and his prayers ; and he has to
bear his burden through the strait gate along a narrow
way. But richer than all that misers ever dreamed of,
or fancied, is the treasure over which he watches ; and
its attainment is as much more certain, as its value is

SERMON X.

237

more lasting and more glorious : u Seek, and ye shall
find," sounds sweetly in his memory, and hope already
represents the heaven to which he is approaching ; and
the love of Christ, and the power of his spirit, and the
conviction that the Lord is on his side, and that " He
is able to keep that which is committed to him," will
make his cares and his watchings more delightful than
the rich man's repose.

O ye sinners ! who have set your hearts upon the
world and its vanities, and who say that the Lord is a
hard task-master ; and who think that the spiritual de-
lights of his service, even upon this miserable earth, are
all vain imaginations, — if you do not believe that the
Lord will fulfil his promise upon earth, do you mean to
say that you believe he will fulfil his promises in heaven T
Do you pretend that you trust in Christ for acceptance
in another world when you doubt his good promise in
this ? Do you mean to say, that you believe that he is
able and willing to raise your vile body at the last day,
and that he is not able and willing to support you under
any spiritual sacrifice that you may make for his sake —
that he is not able to change and purify your old heart 1
Do you really believe the one without the other 1

But the grand difference between the Christian and
the man of the world is, that the burden of the one is
gathering as he proceeds, while that of the other is be-
coming lighter and more easy : the man of carnal mind
and worldly affections clings more and more to his be-
loved earth, and new cares thicken around his death-
bed ; — his burden is collecting as he advances, and
when he comes to the edge of the grave it bears him
down to the bottom like a mill-stone. But the Blessed
Spirit, by gradually elevating the Christian's tempers'
and desires, makes obedience become more easy, and
delightful, until he mounts into the presence of "God^
where he finds it " a service of perfect freedom."

SERMON XI.*

Preached at St. Werburgh's Church, for the Parochi'
al School of St. Audeon, 27th June, 1818.

Romans, v. (part of the 12th Verse.)
By one man sin entered into the world.

It is a gloomy thought, that we were once better than
we are : many a generous spirit has had life embittered
by such a recollection ; and a similar feeling is natu-
rally excited when we consider that we are degraded
beings in the scale of creation, and that we have lost
the attitude which we were intended to maintain among
the works of God.

It is indeed easily said, with a sigh, that we are all
fallen beings,— and it is easily forgotten again. But
when this humiliating truth has once taken possession
of the mind ; when it ceases to be a mere verbal ad-
mission, and becomes a living and habitual principle,
it is surprising what a powerful ascendency, and what a
purifying influence it exercises over the heart and the

* This was one of the author's earliest Sermons : it has been
transcribed for the press from several detached fragments of
paper, and it is supposed that parts of it have been lost, which
accounts for some apparent incoherency in the plan. How-
ever, imperfect as it is, it may not appear unworthy of a place
in this Collection, as a specimen of the author's first addresses
from the pulpit. — Editor.

SERMON XI.

239

faculties ; how it quenches the fiery and restless spirit
within us; how it subdues much of what is bold and
daring in the disposition ; how it hangs like a dead
weight upon many a haughty and aspiring thought ; how
it crushes many a proud and ambitious purpose in the
dust ! — and it is well that it should be so. It is no great
proof of courage to carry a higher spirit in the sight of
God while we are moving through life, than we expect
to sustain when we are stretched faint and powerless
upon our death-beds ; or to tread with a firmer step and
a loftier port upon the face of the earth, than when we
are advancing to the throne of God at the day of judgr
ment.

But if a sense of our degeneracy represses all the
proud and rebellious principles of our nature, it is calr
culated to draw forth in a peculiar manner all that is
humble, and kind, and amiable, and affectionate ; — it
teaches us to look upon others with a pity inspired by
our own experience ; — it calls upon us loudly to make
common cause against the misfortunes of our common
situation ; for it is a grand principle insinuated into
our nature by the Deity, that we are more intimately
linked together by a sense of common danger than by a
state of common security. Humility is the true source
of Christian benevolence ; humility, that reads its own
lot in that of a fellow-creature, — that reminds us " that
all have sinned," and that therefore we are all stran-
gers and pilgrims on the earth. It does not, like the
benevolence of the world, seat you upon an eminence,
from which, like some superior being, you may fling a
scanty and occasional pittance to the wretches whom
you see struggling beneath ; but it places you with
them, side by side, toiling onward the same way, only
better furnished for the journey, and called on by the
voice of God and all the charities of the human heart
to reach forth your hand to your weaker and more
helpless fellow-travellers.

The fall of man, and the consequent deterioration of
our nature, has been ridiculed by many of the enemies

240

SERMON XI.

of Christianity as fabulous and unphilosophical ; but it
should be recollected, that we cannot indulge a single
hope of ever rising to a higher state of being, without
admitting an equal probability, in the nature of things,
that we have fallen from it : we must give up our hopes
of a more spiritualised and glorious existence, and con-
demn the human race to utter annihilation, upon the
same principle on which we deny the possibility of
our corruption and degeneracy : and if we attentively
observe the features of the nature to which we belong,
we shall perceive a struggle between different princi-
ples, and a discordance of feeling in the same person
at different periods, that we often unconsciously regard
as the conflict of two contending natures.

We have, indeed, but a slight account of the state
from which we fell : perhaps it would have been useless
to have described it more circumstantially — we might
not be capable of understanding it. The prophet
seems to have exhausted description when he tells us,
that we were " made in the image of God;" so that, if
we wish to ascertain what we were, it would seem we
must look to the Deity himself. This would be a bold
task, even though we undertook it for the purpose of
humbling ourselves to the dust. But there is one cir-
cumstance related which helps us to understand in
what consists our humiliation : — when Adam had sin-
ned, he shrunk from the voice of God. The presence
of that gracious Being, who was identified with every
blessing that he enjoyed, was before gratefully and
gladly encountered : the thought of God was above him,
and enveloped him, and he could throw his heart open,
fearlessly, before him, and shew him his own image.
But now, how many of the thoughts of our heart would
be put to flight by one glance of God into our souls !
how many of our pleasures would vanish before the
idea of his presence ! We know too well what an en-
emy to many of our favourite pursuits is the God " who
is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity ;" and when
we hear his voice, we attempt to shut ourselves from his

SERMON XI. 241

view by excluding him from our thoughts, as if, under
the shelter of such a subterfuge as this, we could elude
either his scrutiny or his vengeance ; and if nothing
occurred to seize our attention by surprise, or force our
minds upon the consideration, perhaps the first thing
that would awaken us to a just sense of our situation
would be the sound of the last trumpet !

But sometimes we have strange misgivings. In the
depth of the night, when we are left to darkness, to si-
lence, and ourselves, the utter stillness, and the blank
void that surround us sometimes bring a powerful sense
of God's presence along with them, — and the more we
attempt to escape it, the more palpably it seems to gath-
er around us in the obscurity. Some way or other, man
can never be totally alone ; the very absence of every
other being, and of every other object of sense or
thought, appears almost necessarily and irresistibly to
suggest the presence of God. Then, when we seem
to feel ourselves, as it were, under the immediate pres-
sure of the Almighty, the thought will occur, " Was he
not equally present this day and every moment of my
life 1 and yet how little have I been influenced in my
heart, conversation, and conduct, by the sense that his
eye was everlastingly open upon me, as it is at this in-
stant!"

In the fire and vigour of active life, man devotes all
his energies, faculties, and exertions to the attainment
of some favourite object, and pursues it, as if it were
immortality itself, with a fond and desperate idolatry.
The fatal remark, that all he seeks is " vanity," in-
trudes into his conversation, or suggests itself in his
schemes. He gives it the usual tribute that is paid to
most moral truths — a sign of acknowledgment, then
hurries on, snatching his joys, and struggling through
his difficulties, until a blow is struck ! His hope, upon
which he built his happiness, is shivered ; he stands
aghast, like one startled from a dream, and the com-
mon and monotonous truth, that all he seeks is " vani-
ty," comes upon him, like something strange and orac-

21

242

SERMON XI.

ular, with a painful and bewildering novelty, arising
from the consciousness thai it had long been sounding
in his mind and echoing in his fancy, but had never be-
fore reverberated to his heart. Then, at length, when
he has no other object to which he can turn either for
pursuit or relief, lor activity or repose, he thinks of
turning himself to his God ; and the thought will oc-
cur, * If I had served my God as I have pursued this
earthly object, he would not have deserted me :' the
thought will occur, ' If God had offered me immortal
happiness, such as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,
neither hath it entered into the heart of man to con-
ceive, merely if it were then the first object of my de-
sires,— to me it had been lost ! My affections never
ascended into heaven, they went wandering to and fro
upon the earth, seeking rest and finding none.' We
then learn the nature of sin, — we learn that we have
forsaken God, and that we have not only lost immortal-
ity, but even a relish for its enjoyments.

The very pleasures we are capable of enjoying ex-
hibit something ruinous in their nature. In the course
of our lives we find that evil is not only perpetually in-
terchanging with good, but that it is actually necessary
to its very existence. If we attentively observe our
pleasures, we shall find that many of them partake of
its nature ; and if it is often an interruption to our en-
joyments, it is still oftener, perhaps always, either their
chief cause, or one of their necessary ingredients. —
Our passion for variety is an evident proof of this : we
are so far from having a lively idea of smooth and un-
interrupted happiness, that the most luxuriant descrip-
tion soon becomes languid and uninteresting ; while
the mournful, the terrible, the abrupt, possess a strange
and mysterious attraction, which seldom loses its influ-
ence over our minds. Our greatest pleasures are often
only escapes from pain ; — often grow in proportion to
it, are often heightened by contrast ; and many can re-
flect with pleasure upon the bitterest grief, in recollect-
ing the sweetness of the consolation by which it was

SERMON XI.

243

followed. Such is the incomprehensible nature to
which we belong ! We are perpetually flying from
evil, and meeting it at every turn in the shape of good ;
— pursuing good, and finding it evil in disguise ; —
talking of happiness, without well knowing what it
means.

In such a state as this, when we knew not whither
we were tending, and while no light was thrown across
the grave into another world, it is natural to suppose
that we felt comparatively little in each other's fate. —
Yet, even in a more hopeless state than" this, does our
great poet represent the fallen angels consoling each
other in their melancholy destiny, for whom no gospel
ever sounded, and no Saviour ever bled, to cheer them
into exertion, and to consecrate their communion. But
to us has he come : and if he had never said, " As I
have loved you, so love one another ;" if he had never
said, " What you give unto these little ones is given
unto me ;" would not the sense of your common fall
animate you to assist them to a common renovation ?"

And let it not be forgotten, that the charity of &
Christian and of a man of the world are far asunder.
The charity of the man of the world is bestowed as the
gift of some superior being to a creature of a lower or-
der ; the charity of the Christian is the self-devotion of

Paul for his brethren of the same great family.

* # # #

Perhaps we were destined to have risen into the rank
of angels ; perhaps we were destined to have become
ministering spirits to such heingsas ourselves.

And if there were then any guilty world which had
rebelled against its Creator, and which he had flung
from him, in his wrath, among the refuse of creation ;
and if it contained sin, and misery, and death, robbe-
ries, murders, adulteries ; if its inhabitants had forgot-
ten their God, as if he had never existed, and rivetted
their affections upon the few perishable blessings that
were not yet taken away ; if, at the same time, there
still remained some fragments of a grander nature, —

244

SERMON XI.

some scanty gleams of a brighter intellect, — some faint
and transitory glowings of purer and holier affections,
— some few traits of resemblance to that happy nature
which we enjoyed ; it might have been one of our per-
mitted occupations to visit, at certain intervals, this ru-
ined people. Then might we have enjoyed that light
and easy charity which we must not now dare to arro-
gate to ourselves,— the condescending benevolence of
superior beings to their fallen and degraded inferiors.
If, while we were wandering through the universe and
exploring the infinity of God, the sound of sorrow and
despair were to reach us from some distant and passing
world, we might turn aside, for a moment, out of our
course, and drop the consolation, without looking into
the misery that we relieved. We might make our vis-
its as we pleased, and ease a grief or share a joy, as ei-
ther was presented to our view ; and if their Creator
again looked graciously upon thai abandoned race, and
sent a Saviour to bring them back within reach of his
goodness, we might come down softly upon the shep-
herds of that people, as they were keeping watch over
their flocks by night, with good tidings of great joy, or
bear the spirits of the redeemed from a world of rest-
lessness into their everlasting repose. But this is not
the charity for such beings as we are, either to receive
or give. Our salvation was not effected by such happy
beings as these : — it was by one who was " a man of
sorrow, and acquainted with grief."

It is a cruel mockery of our nature to represent
Christian charity with all the decorations of a heathen
goddess, and arrayed in the fond and romantic orna-
ments that charm and invite the imagination. Alas !
Christian charity has no wings to bear her through a
purer and loftier atmosphere, while she showers down
blessings upon the multitude beneath : she does not
drop the sheaf into the poor man's bosom, or the gar-
land upon his cottage, while she passes in her car of
triumph over his head. But sometimes she is found in
the most loathsome of human habitations, and in con-

SERMON XI.

245

tact with wretches, from whose guilt or whose misery
the moral sense recoils, and at which the refinement of
education shudders in disgust : sometimes her figure is
scarcely discernible while she struggles her lonely and
weary way through the crowd of poverty, impurity, and
sin : she may be seen turning into the dark and com-
fortless hovel, and speaking the Messed gospel of God,
over the dying embers of a winter's fire, to the shiver-
ing, perhaps hardened beings that surround it : at other
times, she stands over the damp and squalid bed, where
the frame is racked with suffering and disease, where
perhaps conscience is doing her angry work, or is ly-
ing, still more fearfully, asleep. It is folly to attempt
to reconcile this to the Christian's mind by painting
her with the graces artd the virtues in her train. Alas !
even the blessed beings that are then perhaps actually
around him, — the constituted authorities of heaven,
that minister to a Christian's imagination, and upon
which his fancy is permitted to repose, — even these of-
ten appear to forsake him ; the guardian-angel seems
to stand far aloof above the cabin that is the scene of
pollution and depravity ; the waving of golden pinions
is but dimly seen through the soiled and shattered lat-
tice ; the song of cherubim and seraphim is only heard
faintly, aloft and at a distance, through broken' inter-
vals, between the shrieks of bodily pains, or the groans
of mental agony ! But the Christian recollects that
there was one gracious Being who went before him,
and who left an invigorating spirit behind him, whose
office was to support those whom all the world had for-
saken.

# # • , * *

Suppose it were suddenly revealed to any one among
you, that he, and he alone of all that walk upon the
face of this earth, was destined to receive the benefit of
his Redeemer's atonement, and that all the rest of man-
kind was lost — and lost to all eternity ; it is hard to say
what would be the first sensation excited in that man's
mind by the intelligence. It is indeed probable it

21*

246

SERMON XI.

would be joy — to think that all his fears respecting his
eternal destiny were now no more ; that all tho. forebo-
dings of the mind and misgivings of the heart — all the
solemn stir which we feel rising within us whenever we
look forward to a dark futurity, — to feel that all these
had now subsided for ever, — to know that he shall
stand in the everlasting sunshine of the love of God !
It is perhaps impossible that all this should not call forth
an immediate feeling of delight : bat if you wish the
sensation to continue, you must go to the wilderness ;
you must beware how you come within sight of a hu-
man being, or within sound of a human voice ; you
must recollect that you are now alone upon the earth ;
or, if you want society, you had better look for it among
the beasts of the field than among the ruined species to
which you belong ; unless indeed the Almighty, in pity
to your desolation, should send his angels before the
appointed lime, that you might learn to forget in their
society the outcast objects of your former sympathies.
But to go abroad into human society, — to walk amongst
beings who are now no longer your fellow-creatures, —
to feel the charity of your common nature rising in
your heart, and to have to crush it within you like a
sin, — to reach forth your hand to perform one of the
common kindnesses of humanity, and to find it wither-
ed by the recollection, that however you may mitigate
a present pang, the everlasting pang is irreversible ; to
turn away in despair from these children whom you
have now come to bless and to save (we hope and trust
both here and for ever) ! — perhaps it would be too
much for you ; at all events, it would be hard to state
a degree of exertion within the utmost range of human
energy, or a degree of pain within the farthest limit of
human endurance, to which you would not submit, that
you might have one companion on your lonely way from
this world to the mansions of happiness. But suppose,
at that moment, that the angel who brought the first in-
telligence returns to tell you that there are beings upon
this earth who may yet be saved, — that he was before

SERMON XI. 247

mistaken, no matter how, — perhaps he was your guar-
dian angel, and darted from the throne of grace with
the intelligence of your salvation without waiting to
hear the fate of the rest of mankind, — no matter how,
but he conies to tell you that there are beings upon the
earth who are within the reach of your Redeemer's
love, and of your own, — that some of them are now
before you, and their everlasting destiny is placed in
your hands : then, what would first occur to your mind ?
— privations, dangers, difficulties 1 No : but you
would say, Lord, what shall I do 1 shall I traverse
earth and sea, through misery and torment, that of

those whom thou hast given me I may not lose one ?

# * * #

We are not indeed called to perform duties to such
an awful extent, but we are called upon to perform sev-
eral duties of the same description. It may be yours
to move amongst your fellow-citizens, diffusing a Chris-
tian's charity and a Christian's example through many
a circle of society ; to heal many a broken heart ; to
cheer many a wounded spirit ; at least you will not for-
sake these children : — that indeed should be your light
and delightful duty. On the mature and the aged,
many a gift falls dead and unvalued — many a seed is
sown that never springs into harvest. But here, where
youth is flexible and genial (and the decency in which
they now stand before you proves how the seed is culti*
vated,) every grain that you sow may bring forth an
hundred-fold, bearing fruit to everlasting life.

SERMON XII.

1 Corinthians, xiii. 12 and 13,

Now we see throvgh a glass darkly ; but then, face to
face : now I know in part, but then shall I know,
even as also I am known. And now abideth Faith,
Hope, Charity, — these three ; but the greatest of
these is Charity.

It must sometimes appear very extraordinary, that
God has not thought fit to give us more information
respecting the pains and pleasures of the world to which
we are fast approaching. We know, indeed, that there
are the torments of hell and the delights of heaven ; —
that there are sufferings, compared with which, all the
misery that we can undergo upon the earth would ap-
pear rest and tranquillity ; and that there is a fulness of
joy that would make all earthly happiness seem " van-
ity and vexation of spirit."

This " we see in a glass darkly :" but when we at-
tempt to explore those glorious mansions of unextin-
guishable happiness, or those awful regions of hopeless
misery, or to discover of what particular kind are those
sufferinors and those enjoyments, — our search is stop-
ped. We find that, in a great measure, " clouds and
darkness rest upon them," and that we shall not well
comprehend their nature, until the day when we shall
be wrapped in the flames that shall never be quenched,
or mantled in the glories that shall shine as the firma-
ment, for ever and ever.

SERMON XII. 249

It is very natural that our curiosity should feel morti-
fied at the disapponitment ; but, besides, we cannot help
conceiving that if we were better acquainted with these
punishments and these enjoyments, we should be more
powerfully restrained from sin and more vigorously ex-
cited to obedience. We cannot help thinking, that if
the miserable man who is storing up " wrath for him-
self against the day of vengeance," — in drunkenness
and debauchery, in an unholy conversation, in an old
heart, unchanged and unsanctified, — only knew what
were the particular agonies that awaited him in the
world to come, he could not proceed in his course of
misery and perdition ; and if the Bible contained a his-
tory of the dismal abode to which he is approaching,
with a minute and circumstantial account of all its
chambers of horrors, and this wretched man were to
study before-hand the sufferings into which he was
plunged, — it seems to our frail conceptions impossible,
that he would not cast himself upon his knees, and smite
upon his breast, saying, " God be merciful to me a
sinner !" And, on the other hand, we cannot help fan-
cying that if the glories of everlasting felicity were more
distinctly revealed to the humble and contrite, who are
bearing their cross and following their Redeemer, they
would encounter temptation with greater vigour and
resolution, when the crown that was purchased for
them was hanging distinctly in view, and they had a
clearer and more lively representation of the immortal-
ity to which they were advancing.

But the fact seems to be, that in our present state we
are not capable of more than is already revealed. The
great probability is, that these pains and these plea-
sures can never be understood except by actual experi-
ence,—except by being actually suffered, or actually
enjoyed. This seems to be intimated by the apostle in
the verse immediately preceding those before us : —
" When I was a child I spake as a child, I thought as
a child ; but when I became a man, 1 put away child-
ish things." He describes our state in this life as one

250 SERMON XII.

of infancy or childhood, in which our language, and our
notions of things, must be suited to our childish capacK
ties. Now we know, or we ought to know, what a pri-
vilege it is to receive an education that cultivates and
informs our minds,— that enables us to read the word of
God, and to understand as much of his will as has been
revealed. In fact, what would we take in exchange?
And yet we know how fruitless it would be, when we
were first commencing to instruct a child in spelling, if
we should endeavour to excite it to diligence by descant-
ing on the miseries of ignorance, or enlarging on the
advantages of education, and all the pleasures that it
afforded, — or by attempting to disclose the treasures
that the word of God contains. We should see clearly
that such things were beyond its capacity ; and that,
before it could comprehend all these pleasures and ad-
vantages, it must understand them nearly as well as we
ourselves.

So it is with us, in some degree, in this mortal state.
We are mere children, and incapable of adequately
comprehending the things that belong to a more advan-
ced condition of existence. But all of which we are
capable our blessed Father has given. Let us return
to the example with which the apostle has supplied us.

When you found yourself unable to make your child
comprehend, before it could read', the advantages and
peculiar blessings of a good and religious education, by
what means would you induce it to submit to your com-
mands ? You would first endeavour to supply it with
an implicit confidence both in your wisdom and your
good-will : you would endeavour to make it feel, that
though it could not perceive the use of what you were
teaching, you were certainly working for its good : you
would shew it by your kindness and your love, — by all
the sacrifices you were willing to make for its comfort
and welfare, that you Gould have nothing but its happi-
ness in view ; and thus its confidence in your wisdom,
your good- will, and affection, would stand instead of an
actual knowledge of the advantages to be derived from

SERMON XII. 251

the instructions you were conveying, advantages

which, we have already seen, it could not yet compre-
hend.

And thus does our Father deal with us. We are
poor, ignorant, and helpless children, who do not un-
derstand either all the miseries of sin, or all the glories
of a noble and more exalted state. Such knowledge is
too wonderful for us ; we cannot attain unto it. But
the gracious Lord, in place of this knowledge, lias giv-
en us Faith, — a ground of trust and confidence in him,
that may induce us to learn his law, and to submit our-
selves, our souls and bodies, to his good government.
What proofs has he not given us of his wisdom, his
good-will, and his affection ? We need mention but
one. We need not even speak of all the noble faculties
with which he has endowed us, all the gifts that he has
showered upon our unworthy heads — health, strength,
home, and friends, — comforts and blessings that cannot
be counted. We need mention but one, — " He that
spared not his own Son, but gave him for us, how shall
he not with him, freely give us all things V This is the
great ground of a Christian's faith, — that for us blind,
childish, corrupt, and guilty sinners (so far from deserv-
ing— incapable even of understanding the enjoyments
of a future and holy state) he gave his own Son ! What
earthly parent is entitled to this confidence 1 O if we had
waited for such a proof of the kindness of an earthly fa-
ther before we had submitted ourselves to his guidance,
we should have been now naked, dark, and wandering
savages. One would have thought that we might have
given our gracious Father credit for his good intentions ;
but, though we knew God, we glorified him not as God.
It was not enough ; for though the " ox knoweth his
owner, and the ass his master's crib," we went after our
own lusts and imaginations, we would not believe what
we did not understand, — the miseries of the guilty, and
the joys of the righteous. We would not believe them,
so as to purify our hearts and change our lives and con-
versations. Yet he would win our confidence,— he

252 , SERMON XII.

would engage our affections, — he would make us regard
him as a Father, and obey him as a Father, and " he
spared not his own Son." And thus as the earthly fa-
ther, instead of vainly attempting to describe to his
child all the blessings and pleasures of good habits and
a religious education, would inspire him with a trust in
his good intentions, — so God, when nothing else could
save us, delivered up his own Son ; and thus convinces
us what good things he has in store for them that love
him, that we might be willing to forsake our own ways
— the ways of ruin and misery, and submit to be taught,
to be educated, to be directed by him ; and therefore
does he declare, " Except ye be converted, and become
as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heav-
en."

Thus faith abideth instead of knowledge, and is to
produce the same effect. It is instead of the knowledge
of the miseries of hell and the glories of heaven : for
what must we believe them to be, if it cost the blood of
the Son of God to deliver us from the one, and to pur-
chase for us the other ?

But this is not all. When your child had been led to
repose his confidence in your good intentions, and had
accordingly submitted his will to yours, and consented
to be taught, controlled, and directed by your instruc-
tions and commands, — as he advanced and improved
you would attempt to give him some distant idea of the
good and glorious effects of the discipline to which he
was submitting : as his mind became more enlarged,
you would find him better able to comprehend the hap-
py consequences. You would soon release him from
the bare necessity of taking your word that you were
working for his good. He would soon learn to guess,
from the progress he had already made, the noble ad-
vantages that were to follow : he would see them, but
still, through a glass, darkly : and thus hope would be
added to faith.

Thus does our Father educate those who have first
submitted themselves, soul and body, to his govern-

SERMON XII.

253

ment, with implicit and unbounded faith that he will
work all for their good. To those who thus with hum-
ble faith renounce their own ways, and say, " Not my
will, but thine be done," he soon causes a light to spring ;
he gives them a hope, — a hope of the particular kind of
good things which he has in reserve for them. Thus
saith St. John : " Beloved, now are we the sons of God;
and it doth not yet appear what we shall be ; but we
know, that when he shall appear we shall be like him,
for we shall see him as he is." Here is the hope of
the Christian, that he shall be made like the Saviour ;
that he shall see him and shall always enjoy his presence :
and St Paul tells us, that " we are come to the heav-
enly Jerusalem, — to an innumerable company of an-
gels, to the general assembly and church of the first-
born whose names are written in heaven, and to the
spirits of just men made perfect." This is the Christian's
hope, — that he shall be like the Saviour, — that he shall
enjoy the everlasting presence of God, and the society
of angels, and of just men made perfect. He has his eye
raised above the earth, and fixed upon objects far above
mortal vision, but not out of the sight that God has
quickened and enlightened : and, in comparison with
the glories that shall be revealed, earthly pleasures
dwindle and melt down into nothing.

Thus abideth hope instead of knowledge. Like the
patriarch in days of old, who said, " I beseech thee,
shew me thy glory ;" who was told, " thou canst not
see my face, and live : but thou shalt stand upon a rock
(and that rock was Christ,) and it shall come to pass,
when my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a cleft
of the rock, and I will cover thee with mine hand while
I pass by, and will take away mine hand, and thou
shalt see my skirts, but my face shall not be seen :" —
thus are we in a cleft of a rock, and his hand covers us,
and we see the dim light of his skirts as he passes by ;
but our flesh rests in hope that we shall one day see his
face.

But this is not all. When your child has made some

22

254

SERMON XII.

considerable progress, and, resting on faith and animat-
ed by hope, has acquired larger faculties and greater
knowledge, and has actually employed that knowledge
in an active life, and used it for its proper purposes, —
then you can say to him, ' Now you need not merely re-
ly upon my word ;' now you need not even feed upon
hope ; but now feel and know of your own experience
the beauty and delight of the discipline to which you
have submitted.

And thus does our Father deal with us in a future
■world. Faith and hope will be no more ; they will both
have done their duty, and we shall bid them farewell
ior ever . we shall then see the things that we believed,
and enjoy the things that are hoped. But charity or
love never faileth, for love will live and increase to all
eternity. In love, we have actual and present experi-
ence of the future joys of the presence of God. Now
we believe, not because of thy saying, — but we have
known and tasted it ourselves. We are expressly told
that God is love : he is not only boundless in love, but
it seems to be almost his very essence. It does not say,
love to this one, or to that one, but — love.

It is love that delights in God, — in communion with
him, — in meditation upon his attributes and his dispen-
sations, in the imitation of his perfections ; " that suf-
fered long and is kind ; that envieth not, vaunteth not
itself, and is not puffed up, doth not behave itself un-
seemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked,
thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth
in the truth." Thus, through love, shall we indeed
bear the living stamp of Almighty God upon our hearts ;
and heaven will be already begun in our souls. Thus
shall we learn something of the glories that are to come,
— something that shall be at once both a pledge and
foretaste. And thus also shall the wicked, and the
worldly, and the carnal man, obtain a foretaste of the
horror of hell, — and of the cup that he is to drain. If,
instead of a faith, that throws him upon the Lord Jesus
Christ, he has a trust in himself, and in his worldly pos-

SERMON XII.

255

sessions, for happiness ; if, instead of a hope that rais-
es his eye to heaven, his thoughts go downward to the
dust upon which he treads, and his heart is the abode of
carnal, and worldly, and malignant passions and desires,
— this man can form some conception of the fearful re-
gion of misery. He can conceive the opposite of that
love which constitutes the happiness of the blessed spir-
its above : he can conceive a scene of everlasting sel-
fishness and suspicion ; of multitudes of evil beings,
without one link of affection to unite them ; but the
everlasting scowl of hatred is upon their brows, and the
curse upon their lips. This may be a faint anticipa-
tion of those terrible scenes.

We are here, then, in a state of education for heaven ;
and we may now form some conception of the desperate
infatuation of those men who leave this mighty work
for the listlessness of old age, or the agonies of a dying
bed ! It should be nothing less than the business of an
education, — an education that begins with a faith, that
can only rise from a deep sense of our own unworthi-
ness and danger, and that our sins need the blood of
the Son of God ; — that proceeds to ahoi.e, which raises
the eye and the heart from earth to heaven, and changes
all our views ; and then proceeds to charity, which
stamps upon us the image of the pure and holy God.

SERMON X1IL

Ecclesiastes, viii. 11.

Because sentence against an evil work is not exe-
cuted speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men
is fully set in them to do evil.

If we had seen one of our neighbours struck dead by
a flash of lightning, just after he had been committing
one of our favourite sins, it is to be supposed it would
make a serious impression upon our minds. If we af-
terwards beheld two or three more of our acquaintances
blotted out of life in the same way, and for the same
reason, we should probably begin to bring the case a
little more home to ourselves. If there were afterwards
another, and another, and another ; and we were in
the habit of seeing God's wrath executed every day,
the moment it was provoked, it is surprising what a
change we should presently observe among all the care-
less and bold-faced sinners of society : drunkards shrink-
ing from the flowing bowl, as if it were filled with poi-
son ; fornicators and adulterers rushing from the thresh*
old of the house of sin and debauchery, as they would
from the flames of hell ; liars, swearers, and blasphem-
ers setting their finger upon their lips, lest they should
perish before the evil word was fully pronounced ;
thieves, misers, and extortioners, flinging away their
darling profits, lest they should be struck dead as they
touched them.

Then too, when men should see sentence executed
speedily against evil works, they could not think of the

4

SERMON XIII.

257

sin without thinking of the punishment along with it.
How cautious should we find them of venturing too near
sin, even in their tempers and conversation : we should
see a man turn pale whenever an evil thought or an
evil wish came into his mind, for how could he tell but
that the thunderbolt would fall at that moment, if he
ventured to indulge it 1 Then should we see men
watching and praying, that they might not fall into
temptation, who never knew what it was to pray be-
fore ; and, it is probable, that those who were witness-
ing the wrath of God coming down every day upon the
heads of sinners, in fire and brimstone, would be so
sensible of their danger and their weakness, that they
would renounce all trust in their own powers and their
own righteousness, and seek for his glorious strength,
who is able to shelter us from the storm and the tem-
pest, and to give us the victory over sin, through our
Lord Jesus Christ, and to make us " more than conquer-
ors, through him who loved us, and gave himself for us."

It seems to be very plain, that something like this
would be the case if God were to interfere every day to
execute sentence upon evil works. Now mark the
difference : only observe with what perfect ease men
can bring themselves to indulge in sin, as a matter of
common and ordinary occurrence, as naturally as they
partake of their sleep or their meals : and they go into
the way of temptation, and approach the brink and the
borders of sin, and say, there is no danger !

Now what can be the reason of this astonishing dif-
ference ? For every man seems to think that he would
refrain from sin if he knew that at that instant he should
stand the consequences. What can be the reason of
this difference 1 Is it that men have calmly made up
their minds, after enjoying the pleasures of sin for a
season, to resign themselves quietly and contentedly to
the " Worm that never dieth, and the flame that is never
quenched V This can hardly be the reason : it must
be something else — and what is it 1 The Psalmist has
informed us in few words : " The wicked hath said in

22*

258 SERMON XIII.

his heart, Thou wilt not require it." He does not be-
lieve that God will fulfil what he has declared ; — he
does not say so with his outward lips, but he says it in
his heart. With his outward lips he says, —It is all
very true, the sentence is gone forth ; he is a God that
will by no means clear the guilty : the soul that sin-
neth, it shall die : and " cursed is every one that con-
tinued not in the law." It is also true, that " God is
not a man, that he should lie, nor the son of man, that
he should repent ; hath he said, and shall he not do it 1"
It would be rather a bold thing for a man to say, in the
face of all this, that God would not require it. One
would think we might take God's word for more than
this ; and yet so it is, that a man, because he does not
see sentence executed against an evil work, either in
the case of others or in his own, because he does not
hear and see God's justice every day in thunder and
lightning, begins to think that God only wants to fright-
en him by such sentences. There is a chance that God
may not be in earnest : and upon this chance he
plunges in, body and soul.

It may be well to spend a little time in considering
this case. Now, before we go a step further, one sim-
ple question might decide the business. What do you
think does that man deserve, who ventures his eternal
soul upon any chance 1 Make the chance as great and
as plausible as you please : suppose, if you like, that
God had never passed regular sentence upon sin ; had
never published and registered his wrath, and that there
was only a confused murmur through mankind, a light
whisper now and then stirring in the world, that there
was sentence to be executed against the soul of every
man that doeth evil, — that there was a hell of torment
for the unrighteous and ungodly : suppose a man had
only a night's dream to such an effect : let us be our-
selves the judges, — what would that man deserve who
ventured his eternal soul upon such a chance ? Would
not any man, who held it so cheap as to let it take its
chance (be that chance great or small,) have already

SERMON XIIL $59

sold and forfeited it? The mere fact, that he allows
any thing like chance in such a concern, is enough to
turn the chance into certainty — certainty of punishment «

But, in the next place, let us consider for a little
what is the chance that any sinner now sets up against
the sentence pronounced by the God of Truth. It is, — •
that sentence is not executed speedily ; — that he has
sinned, and no thunder-bolt has fallen, no blow was
struck ; — that he has seen his neighbours sin, and that
then too no thunderbolt has fallen, and no blow was
struck. Now let us examine this chance for a moment,
and we shall be surprised to rind that, even leaving all
J the threats and denunciations of Scripture out of the
account, and taking the world as we see it and as we
have read its history, there is new proof that sentence
will be executed in the end. Now, to perceive this,
observe that in many cases sentence has been executed
against " evil works."

Look to the flood : " When God saw that the wick-
edness of man was great upon the earth, and that every
imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil
continually, he said, I will destroy man, whom I have
created, from the face of the earth, both man and
beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air ;
for it repenteth me that I have made them ;" and ac-
cordingly the flood came down upon the world of the
ungodly.

Then look to Sodom and Gomorrah: "Because the
cry of Sodom and Gomorrah was great, and their sin
very grievous, therefore the Lord rained down brim-
stone and fire out of heaven." Look next to Korah,
Dathan, and Abiram : " Behold, they rebelled against
the Lord, and against Moses and Aaron his servants, and
and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed them up,,
all that appertained to them."

Look next to the sentence upon the blasphemer :
" The son of an Israelitish woman, in a quarrel with
one of the men of Israel, blasphemed the Lord and
cursed ; and they put him in ward, that the mind of the
Lord might be shewed them ; and the Lord spake unto

260 SERMON XIII.

Moses, saying, Bring forth him that hath cursed, with-
out the camp, and Jet all that heard him lay their hands
upon his head, and let all the congregation stone him ;
and they brought forth him that had cursed, and stoned
him with stones."

Look next to the man who broke the Sabbath : " And
the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall surely be put
to death ; all the congregation shall stone him with
stones without the camp ; and they stoned him that he
died."

Look next to the fornicators, " of which there fell in
one day three and twenty thousand ;" cut off in their
iniquities; their numbers could not save them. Look,
in fact, at the whole Jewish dispensation,, where the
Almighty often made bare his arm, and executed sen-
tence speedily.

But look next to the Christian dispensation,. and behold
the guilty pair standing before the Apostles : " And
though they came with their right hands full of gifts,
yet they came with a lie upon their lips ; and the mo-
ment it was uttered, they fell down and gave up the
ghost." And turn your eyes next to Herod, arrayed in
royal apparel, sitting upon his throne, and making an
oration to the people ; and hark ! the people are shout-
ing, and saying, " It is the voice of a God !" — and
while they are shouting, the angel of the Lord had smote
him.

Look next to your own observation and experience ;
and there alone you will find sufficient proof that, in
many cases, sentence upon evil works has been execut-
ed speedily. The course of nature, and the constitu-
tion of society, have been so ordained by the wisdom
and the justice of the Almighty, that the crime often
brings the punishment along with it. The strong arm
of the law often seizes the malefactor while his crime
is still fresh upon him, and consigns him at once to
death and infamy.

Then, in the next place, God often makes drunkards
and profligates their own executioners ; murdering their

SERMON XIII.

261

own bodies, — wasting and withering them with surfeit
and disease, and making their days few and evil ; sick
of life, and afraid of death, and crawling into their
graves before their time. Others execute sentence up-
on themselves, by wasting their substance in riotous
living, until they become the guests and companions of
the swine, and men begin to pity and. despise them.
And sometimes the sons become the executioners of their
fathers, — and men propagate sin from generation to ge-
neration, and see their own vices improved and multi-
plied in their own children, who return them back their
own iniquities, with interest, into their bosom, and
" bring down their grey hairs with sorrow to the grave."

And in every man's breast there is an executioner —
that he generally contrives to set asleep ; but sometimes
there comes a shock that rouses it from its slumber,
and then it begins to lash him and sting him, and smite
him upon the heart ; so that we may perceive that in
many instances (more perhaps than we at first supposed)
sentence is executed speedily,

Now we are prepared to consider the chance upon
which the sinner relies when he sins, and says in his
heart, " Thou wilt not require it." The chance is this :
I know that sentence is gone forth against every evil
work, and that it is pronounced by the God of the
Truth ; but I have sinned — often sinned, and so have
my neighbours, and the earth did not open her jaws,
neither did fire and brimstone come down from heaven,
nor did I feel any bad effect arising from it, and there-
fore I have a chance that God will not execute sentence
at all.

Now look at this chance. We have just seen that
sentence is in many cases executed, yet, strange as it
may appear, this very imperfection seems to be the
strongest possible proof that, in the next world, ven-
geance will be fulfilled to the uttermost. For observe,
if we found that every man in this life received just
what he deserved, and every evil work always brought
swift punishment along with it, what should we natu-

262 SERMON XIII.

rally conclude? There is no future punishment in store :
I see nothing wanting, every man has already received
the due reward of his works ; every thing is already
complete, and, therefore, there is nothing to be done in
the next world.

Or if, on the other hand, there were no punishment
visited upon sin at all in this world, we might be inclin-
ed to say, ' Tush ! God hath forgotten:' he never in-
terferes amongst us ; we have no proof of his hatred of
sin, or of his determination to punish it ; he is gone
away far from us, and has left us to follow our own
wills and imaginations. So that if sentence were either
perfectly executed upon the earth, or not executed at
all, we might have some reason for saying, that there
was a chance of none in a future world. But now it is
imperfectly executed ; just so much done, as to say,
"You are watched, — my eye is upon you: I neither
slumber nor sleep ; and my vengeance slumbereth not.'
And yet, at the same time, there is so little done, that
a man has to look into eternity for the accomplishment,

These occasional visitations of God's wrath, — these
sentences that sinners are often obliged to execute upon
themselves-these judgments that sometimes fall and burst
among us, come often enough to tell us, that there is punish*
ment ; but so seldom, as to prove that it is yet to come.
They seem to be rather given as evidences, than &sfid~
fitments of the wrath of God ; rather as a sign, than a
part; just as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions only
serve to show us what fires are burning and labouring
in the bowels of the earth. The flames of hell seem to
break out sometimes before their time among men in
earthly judgments, — to warn them of judgments to come.

This is the sinner's chance, — that, even if that Bible
which speaks to him terrible things were a falsehood,
the very course of nature and the current of human af-
fairs furnish the strongest possible proof of — judgment
to come. " Out of thine own mouth wilt thou be con-
demned ;'; — thine own excuse will be thy condemna-
tion. And which of us has not made this excuse?

SERMON XIII. 263

Which of us has not often said, in his heart, " Thou
wilt not require it ;" and sinned in the face of the sen-
tence registered against ail iniquity, — in the face of the
sentence registered against fornication, uncleanness,
inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetous-
ness, which is idolatry, — against anger, wrath, malice,
blasphemy, filthy communication, — in the face of the
sentence registered against all those that forget God T
But you will say, — Surely God is a merciful God ! Are
v/e not told that he is full of mercies and loving kind-
nesses, that his mercy rejoiceth against judgment, that
he has sworn, as he liveth, " that he hath no pleasure
in the death of the sinner ?" True : his mercy is indeed
boundless and astonishing ; amazing, beyond what "eye
hath seen, or ear heard, or hath entered into the heart
of man to conceive." But how has that mercy been
shewn ? By visiting sentence to the very uttermost. He
did not fling us his mercy indolently from his throne ;
but he executed sentence to the very uttermost upon
his only begotten Son. His mercy does not consist in
extinguishing his justice, but in executing it upon the
head of the Son in whom he was well-pleased. Awful
mercy ! terrible forgiveness ! mercy that we must not
dare to trifle with.

Let us be ourselves the judges : if any man makes
this mercy an argument for sin, what new punishment,
what fresh torments, how many times must the furnace
be heated for that man, — for him who dares to say, be-
cause the Lord Jesus has died for me, I will follow my
iniquities! — for him who would thus make Christ the
minister of sin ! That blessed mercy — that glorious mani-
festation of infinite love, was always Used in Scripture
as an argument for repentance, for holiness, and for all
good ; but any man that curses God's blessing, by turn-
ing it into an argument for continuing in sin, — how is
he described in Scripture 1 He is " The enemy of the
Cross of Christ ;" and " He crucifies the Son of God
afresh, and puts him to an open shame 1" It had been
"good for that man that he had never been born."

264

SERMON XIII.

Every hour of sin that you add to your life, under this
dispensation, is gathering over your head — in judgment.
The goodness of God, in not cutting you off with your
sins still green and fresh, is turning every day into wrath.
For what says the apostle 1 " Despisest thou the rich-
es of his goodness, and forbearance, and long-suffering,
not knowing that the goodness of God leadeth thee to
repentance ;" but, after thy hardness and impenitent heart
" Treasurest up wrath against the day of wrath, and re-
velation of the righteous judgment of God?" Here you see
two things : first, that the goodness of God, in bearing
with you thus long, in not blotting ,you out from the
face of the earth while you were engaged in the last sin
that you committed, was leading you to repentance : it
cannot lead to mercy but through repentance : secondly,
you see that every time you neglected and refused,
" you have been treasuring up wrath against the day of
wrath." There is a treasury of vengeance in heaven :
and day by day, and hour by hour, you have been cast-
ing in your mite. When will your cup be full ? Per-
haps at this moment it may be overflowing ; perhaps
the plain, simple warning that you hear this day may
be the last that the Lord God will ever vouchsafe to
your soul. This at least is certain, — that the next time
you return to your sin it will be in deliberate defiance
of the wrath of the Almighty. Who shall say, whether
you will be allowed to make the trial a second time 1
Probably your cup may then be full— and he may strike
you dead upon the spot. Or if not, he may let you live
as a monument of his vengeance ; and as Pharaoh was
allowed to live, after he had resisted all the means of
grace, that the Lord might openly manifest his power
and his justice upon him, God may prolong your life
only that men may see a sinner gasping without hope
upon his death-bed, — and, as they look upon the horrors
of your dying countenance, they may smite their breasts
and say, " God be merciful to me a sinner 1"

SERMON XIV.

1 John, iv. 10.

Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved
us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our
sins.

If God had waited until we loved him before he loved
us, we should not have been assembled here this day
to read the history of his mercies, and to humble our-
selves before him, in astonishment at the multitude of
his loving kindnesses. If God had waited until we loved
him, before he loved us, we should never have known
what it was to come together on a Sabbath morning, to
talk of mercy and salvation, and the holy charity that
binds us to God and to each other : we should be now
bowing our heads before the works of our hands, and
the inventions of our own imaginations : perhaps, at
this instant, we should be met together to perform our
impure and bloody ceremonies to the powers of dark-
ness : the house which is now the Lord's tabernacle,
and the place where his honour dwelleth, might be
the temple in which we adored the God of intemperance
and sensuality, or made our offerings to the wicked
spirit that delighteth in war, violence, and revenge;
or we might be nocking to the table of our evil god —
not to eat the bread of life, or to drink from the foun-
tains of the living water, but to sound his praises in
festivals of drunkenness, riot, and indecency ; or we
should be kneeling at his altar — not to offer the sacri-

23

266

SERMON XIV.

fice of a broken and a contrite heart, but to worship
him with the knife, and with the blood of our fellow-
creatures ; and, perhaps, we should now be preparing
the children that we loved as our own souls, to pass
through the fire of sacrifice that was kindled in his
honour, that we might satisfy his fury and avert his
indignation.

It is true, the very mention of these things may now
shock our feelings, and we may fancy, if we please,
that no possible conjuncture of circumstances could
have reduced us to such crimes and enormities : but
such was the state of the world at the time that the
Son of God came down upon the earth, — and we shall
not find it very easy to prove, either that we are a supe-
rior race of beings to the men of those days, or that the
natural progress of society has caused the difference
between them and ourselves.

The men of those days were our superiors in many
of the arts of civilised life, and it was then four thou-
sand years since the creation of the world. The world
had time enough to have learned how to love God, if it
could have loved hjm : but " When they knew God,
they glorified him not as God ; and their foolish heart
was darkened." They had suffered the knowledge of
God to be blotted out of their minds, and of course the
love of God had disappeared from their hearts. Their
religion only had shewed itself in their festivals, — in
drunkenness, impurity, and blood : in the common
course of their lives he was forgotten ; and, by the ter-
rible ceremonies by which they attempted to appease
his wrath, or conciliate his good-will, they proved that
they regarded him as their enemy. So that if God
had only allowed men to go on in the way which they
had chosen for themselves, if he had not turned to them
before they turned to him, we should have been now
sitting in darkness and the shadow of death, sinning on
to our ruin, without a thought upon the God whom we
were offending.

But, indeed, it is not necessary to look back to past

SERMON XIV. 267

ages in order to make this gloomy discovery. If a man
looks into his own heart but for one moment, he may
soon perceive that if God had loved us it cannot be be-
cause we have first loved him*

Among all the natural passions and affections of the
human heart, where is the love of God to be found 1
We lovo parent and child, — we love friends and coun-
try,— we love riches and honour, — we love sin in all
its shapes, and we embrace it with all our souls ; these
affections take their root in our nature, they grow wild
in our hearts, and scarcely require cultivation. But,
instead of finding religion growing naturally within,
only observe with what care and watching and anxiety
it must be cherished, and refreshed, and preserved ;
and if once neglected, yea, but for a little, how soon it
begins to wither and decay ! Any of the other affections
of our heart it would be almost impossible to get rid of:
but to acquire and cultivate a spirit of religion, is the
slow and patient work of earnest watchfulness and
persevering humility. Where is the man amongst us
who would venture to put up to God such a prayer as
this, — Regard me as I have regarded you ; treat me as
I have treated you 1 For how have we regarded him ?
how have we treated him 1 Really, do we look upon
him more as a friend or as an enemy 1 How often do
we wish that he was far away, and that his eye was
not open upon our hearts, and that he did not hear the
words of our lips, or witness the deeds of our lives ?
How often would it have been a relief to us to think
that he was not everlastingly present amongst us 1
Does not our conscience often bear testimony that we
love the things he hates, by the effort we make to for-
get and to banish him whenever we wish to give way to
our sinful propensities, or to indulge in pride, covetous-
ness, drunkenness, sensuality, or revenge 1 Is it not a
confession that he is at war with those things that we
love, and that he who loves sin cannot love God ? So
true is the word of God, which says, " He that loveth
j&e keepeth my commandments,'5

268 SERMON XIV.

It is too plain, that if God had cared as little for us as
we cared for God we should have been long since out-
cast, forsaken, and forgotten : but " herein is love, not
that we loved him, but that he loved us, and sent his
Son to be the propitiation for our sins." And thus it
is stated by St. Paul : " God commended his love to
us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for
us :" and again, " When we were enemies, we were
reconciled to God by the death of his Son." In these
passages we perceive that it means the same thing to
be a sinner — to be the enemy of God— and not to love
him ; and yet for these sinners, for these his enemies,
he sent his own Son to be the propitiation for their sins.

Herein is love ! The apostle seems to pronounce
upon this as if there was no other love in all the world
besides, — as if every thing like love was swallowed up
in this boundless profusion of mercies. It is extraor-
dinary with what cold and composed feelings we can
read and think of this extraordinary sacrifice. It is no
doubt impossible to comprehend its full extent ; per-
haps it is the employment of blessed spirits, forages and
ages to come — aye, or for all eternity, to make new
discoveries in the love of God and the death of the Re-
deemer. Grander knowledge, — new blessings, — fresh
features, from this wonderful sacrifice, may be shewing
themselves to the spirits of just men made perfect at
every moment, world without end. They are " things
which the angels desire to look into."

But God has given us, perhaps, the fullest idea of it
that we are capable of conceiving, when he tells us that
he was Ms Son — his only Son. It is as if he desired
every one of us to go to his own heart, and find out who
is the being upon the earth that is dearest to its affec-
tions,— husband, wife, or only child ; the person whom
we regarded with the fondest love and the most unboun-
ded delight ; the person in whom your whole soul
seems to be wrapped up,— in whom you almost live,
and move, and have your being ; and to imagine this
object of your hopes and affections dashed from a state

SERMON XIV.

269

*>f happiness, and flung helpless into the midst of ene-
mies and persecutors ; become " despised and rejected
of men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;"
and at length brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and
then descending into the grave with torture, insult, and
infamy. God himself seems to teach us to regard it
in this point of view, for he said unto Abraham, " Take
now* thy son, — thine only son, Isaac, whom thou lovest."
He repeats it, as if for the purpose of cutting the fa-
ther's heart, and giving it a new stab at every word of
fondness. " Take now thy son, — thine only son, Isaac
whom thou lovest, and offer him for a burnt-offering up-
on one of the mountains that I will tell thee of." Abra-
ham rose up, and took Isaac his son, and went into the
place of which God had told him. Then, on the way,
a conversation occurs, in which every word that the son
speaks is calculated to make the father's heart bleed
freshly. It would be an insult to tell a father what
were Abraham's feelings when he bound his .son, and
took the knife in his hand. At that moment, however,
the angel of the Lord called out of heaven, and bade
him stay his hand. But when the Son of God bore his
cross to the spot of agony and shame, and was laid
bleeding upon the altar, no guardian angel descended
to relieve his sufferings ; and when he cried, " My
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?" the whole
host of heaven stood still : no voice of consolation was
heard, and no minister of mercy descended to save his
Son, — his only Son, whom he loved.

Such is the idea that God has given us of his love ;
but still it is imperfect, for it seems as if every thing re-
lating to God was infinite. His power is infinite ; and
we should judge but poorly of its greatness if we mea-
sured it by human power. In like manner his wisdom
is infinite : and we should never be able to conceive its
extent by comparing it with the greatest wisdom of man.
So also may we conclude of his love. The sufferings
of Christ appear to contain something in them indescri-
bable to the human imagination, and unfathomable to

23*

270 SERMON XIV.

human discovery. His mysterious agony in the garden,
the weight of our sins upon his soul, and the fearful ex-
clamation, " My God ! my God ! why hast thou forsak-
en me !" convey an idea of suffering, that we neither
do nor can comprehend. Such is the love of God man-
ifested upon the cross, — the love of God manifest in
the flesh !

But, we may say, where was the necessity of all this
vast profusion of suffering, — this expenditure of means,
— this astonishing machinery of redemption ? Could
not God have forgiven us at a word? Now, only consid-
er what idea it is we form of God, when we imagine
that forgiveness is so very easy a matter. We conceive
him to be an arbitrary and capricious Being, who can
make laws and break them at random, and fling his par-
don to his creatures carelessly from his throne. Is this
a worthy idea of him "who cannot lie, and who cannot
repent V Recollect that mercy, with us, means the re-
versing of a law, the changing of an established order
of things : our very idea of mercy implies an imperfec-
tion in the law, in the decision upon the law, or in the
execution of the law. If human laws were perfect, or
human judges infallible, where would be the room for
mercy? It was a question reserved for the wisdom of Al-
mighty God alone, to prove how justice and mercy could
be reconciled ; to hold forth forgiveness to the offender
without violating, relaxing, or suspending that law,
which is " holy, and just, and good." Accordingly,
we find that, upon the cross, the violation of that law
was visited to the uttermost ; that " he bore our sins,
and carried our iniquities," — that " the chastisement
of our peace was upon him :"' and thus we are told,
in the passage before us, that " the love of God was
manifested in sending his Son to be the propitiation for
our sins : and again, " God was in Christ, reconciling
the world unto himself."

It is a terrible truth, which men would do well to re-
collect more than they do, that the same cross shews
God's hatred for sin as well as his love for the sinner ;

SERMON XIV. 271

the same cross shews that he cannot forgive iniquity,
and yet that he was willing to visit it upon his own Son
for our sakes : it shews us his wrath and his love, and
the one appears to be the measure of the other. We
have been this day endeavouring to fathom his love, —
and have found it impossible ; and yet the very immen-
sity of that love seems to consist in averting wrath, that
is equally boundless and inconceivable. Alas I alas !
we deceive ourselves strangely by fancying that it is an
easy thing for God to forgive sin. Consider well what
it is that makes it such an easy thing for you to commit
sin ; and you will find that it is because you fancy it an
easy thing for God to forgive it.

The great and fearful question with every man
amongst us is, " Has the blood of Jesus Christ cleansed
him from all sin ?" or, shall he himself abide the awful
consequences in the eternal world 1 For, as surely as
God is true, one or other of these must be the case.
The word of God supplies us with the means of
judgment, — " If any man be in Christ, he is a neAV
creature." It seems to be founded upon a principle
plain and obvious to any man's common sense, — if we
need no change, we need no mercy.

He now stands at the door and knocks, and invites
you to acknowledge yourselves his at his table, and if
we come with but half the good-will with which he in-
vites, and waits to receive us, we are blessed and .hap-
py beings ! Let us beware how we turn our back upon
it ; or how we take it unworthily. We must come to
that table, forsaking our sins, which were so hateful in
the sight of heaven that they crucified the Son of God,
and forsaking all claims upon the ground of our own im-
perfect righteousness. Let us " make mention of his
name only ;" and may we so share the fellowship of his
sufferings that we may know the power of his resurrec-
tion ! Amen.

SERMON XV.

1 Corinthians, x. 13.

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is com-
mon to man : but God is faithful, who will not suffer
you to be tempted above that ye are able ; but will with
the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may
be able to bear it.

Perhaps nothing can exceed the efforts of God to en-
able us to overcome temptation, except our own en-
deavours to disappoint them. There would be some-
thing amusing, if it were not too terrible to amuse us,
in observing the riches of our resources, and the curi-
ous variety of expedients which we have invented for
trifling with temptation ; forgetting, that to trifle with
temptation is to trifle with God.

Some of us plunge into it headlong, — with a sort of
heedless and frantic desperation, never stopping to look
to the right hand or to the left, even for the shadow of
an excuse ; shutting our eyes as we hurry on, and ima-
gining there is no danger, because we do not see it ;
flying so rapidly from one temptation to another, that
there is no time for thought or reflection between ; un-
til at last we arrive, full speed, at the brink of the grave !
There is no stopping then ; the force with which we ar-
rived hurries us onward of its own accord ; and we are
hurled to the bottom, with the weight of all the sins we
have committed bearing us down with greater fury.

SERMON XV. 273

There are others amongst us, who first, without any
consideration, comply with the temptation, and then
stop to look about them for the excuse : they first com-
mit the sin, not well knowing at the time what defence
they can make, but trusting to chance, or to their own
ingenuity, for finding one afterwards.

There are others, more cautious and circumspect,
who first look round for an excuse ; but the moment
they see any thing that bears any resemblance to one,
they are perfectly satisfied. They dare not look that
way again, lest a second thought should undeceive
them : it is an excuse as it stands, — but another glance,
or one moment's closer inspection, might shew them
that all was false and hollow ; and, rather than be thus
undeceived, they take it at the first view, and surren-
der to the temptation, hoping that, because Ihey had de-
ceived their own hearts, they have deceived One " that
is greater than their hearts." However, it may be well
to study them a little more attentively, as one day or oth-
er we shall have to look them in the face.

All the excuses which we are in the habit of making
appear to be reducible to two classes ; and, what is very
remarkable, they contradict each other. One of these
dangerous apologies is, that many of our particular temp-
tations are, in their very nature, different from those of
other men. We often persuade ourselves that we are
placed in circumstances totally different from those in
which other human beings are involved ; and often fan-
cy that nature has given us passions and propensities
from which the generality of mankind are entirely free,
or by which they are much less powerfully actuated.
Hence we flatter ourselves that our situation is so oriffi-
nal, and the temptations to which we are exposed so
unlike those which human nature is generally called
upon to encounter, that the transgression into which it
leads us is something new — that it stands distinct and
alone ; and we can scarcely bring ourselves to think
that God will class it with the ordinary violations of his
law, or sentence it to the same condemnation. Thus

274 SERMON XV.

we often go on, imagining that many of our transgres-
sions are exceptions to those of the generality of men,
and that we have made out a new case for ourselves in
the annals of sin, to plead before the throne of God.

This is one of our excuses ; but what is the other 1
The common frailty of our nature ; the plea that all men
do the same ; that our sins are such as the bulk of man-
kind commit ; and that we only gratify the passions of
human nature, or its common weaknesses, in complying
with such temptations. Now, would it not be enough
to shew the emptiness and silliness of these apologies, —
to consider, that there is not a single sin that we could
not justify by such means ?.If the temptation seems tobe
peculiar to us — not such as human nature is in general
subject to, the first will serve. If it be one to which
the generality of mankind are exposed, the second
comes to our relief: so that we are certain that if the
one tails the other will succeed. One would imagine
that this would be enough. But the passage before us
meets them both. As to the. first excuse, that there are
certain temptations peculiar to ourselves, and which we
do not share in common with our fellow-creatures, it
says, " There hath no temptation taken you, but such
as is common to man." But, even leaving Scripture out
of the question, what reason have we to suppose that we
are an exception to the general laws of human nature 1
Should we not rather conclude, that men who partake
of the same nature as ourselves may be subject to the
very same temptations 1 We are all inclined to con-
ceal " the sins which most easily beset us :'; therefore,
without our observation, others may be exposed to those
very trials which we conceive exclusively our own, and
may, at that instant, be making the very same excuse,
There is no doubt that men differ very much in their
character and constitution, and the ingredients of hu*
man nature are variously mixed in different beings.
The ruling propensity in one man may be avarice ; in
another, " evil concupiscence" and debauchery ; in an*
other., gluttony and drunkenness ; in another^ ambition \

SERMON XV. 275

in another, the predominant passion may be, a fondness
for mischief, for riot, and blood ; while another may be
governed by a sottish indolence, or a wild inconstancy.
But, as the apostle declares (after enumerating the gifts
of the Holy Spirit to different men) that " all these
workethoneandthe self-same spirit" — the spirit of right-
eousness,— so may it be said of these passions, all these
worketh the one and the self-same spirit — the spirit of
sinful human nature. They are the common elements of
our nature, only differently mixed ; but it is generally
in defence of the chief and ruling passion that we urge
the first exc use, which we mentioned above : and thus
every man would yield to the passion to which he was
most attache d, and would embrace the sin he most loved.
Every man would thus have chosen one part of the law
which he might break — that part which he was always
most inclined to break ; and, therefore, the very part
which he was bound to be most watchful in observing.
There chiefly, and because it is our ruling passion, and
that which exalts itself most against the love of God,
lies our perilous and fiery trial, where our greatest re-
sistance should be exerted.

There remains now only the second excuse — the
frailty of human nature ; the common tendency to sin
which we all feel. Alas ! this indeed is true : but it is
equally true, that there is " a God of purer eyes than to
behold iniquity ;" a God which has said, " The soul
that sinneth, it shall die ;" a God whom, without holi-
ness, no man shall behold. Yet, even with the sense
of this present to our minds and our hearts, how totally
unable do we feel ourselves to make that great and con-
tinued exertion — to effect that complete revolution in
heart, in conversation, and in practice, which shall
qualify us to stand before the holiness of God ! How
totally unable do we feel ourselves to make any advance,
even under the consciousness that we are bound by his
command ; bound by our own consciences, — our own
hopes and fears ; bound by the thoughts of death and
life ; bound by the prospect of misery or immortality, to

276

SERMON XV.

lay all our earthly affections at his feet, and consecrate
our very beings to his service ! How feebly do we at-
tempt to struggle through the throng and crowd of
temptations that beset and besiege us on every side, and
that stand between us and our God ! The passage be-
fore us, in reply to our first excuse, declared that there
hath no temptation taken us that is not common to man ;
but what says it to our second, — the frailty of our unfor-
tunate nature ? " God is faithful, who will not suffer
you to be tempted above that ye are able." Here, with
our warning is our great consolation. It is not merely
that God will assist us, but that he will not suffer us to be
tempted above that we are able. It is uttered in all the
majesty of conscious omnipotence. " I will not suffer
you to be tempted above that ye are able." It is as if
he had promised to work a miracle rather than allow us
to be overpowered ; it is as if he would shake the pow-
ers of heaven and earth rather than that his promise
should not be performed ; that he would check the
course of nature, that he would stop the sun in his ca-
reer, if he were found to bring us into dangers out of
which there was no escape ; that he would arrest the
profligate current of human affairs ; that he would say
to the tide of temptations, if it were pouring in too bold-
ly upon us, " Thus far shalt thou come, and no fur*
ther."

But let us fully understand the meaning and the na-
ture of this glorious promise. We may observe then,
in the first place, it is not a promise of grace which ex-
cuses us from resisting temptation, but of grace, by
which we are enabled to overcome it. So that while,
by, the blood of Christ, and by that alone, we are saved,
and while no human being shall be able to say, he has
earned salvation unto himself, we are ten times, and ten
times more, bound to wage war with the world, the
flesh, and the devil, as the unworthy sinners whom
Christ has redeemed, than as the presumptuous Phari-
see, who proudly counts over his works and his alms as
the price of his salvation. For we are endowed with

SERMON XV. 277

new motives and new strength to resist it which he,
** trusting in himself," never could experience. In
fact, God does every thing for us, short of what is in-
consistent with his own nature, which revolts at all im-
purity and sin. For our sakes, he sends his Son on
earth, to a life of sorrow and persecution, and to a
death of agony and shame, in order to redeem us from
the punishment of sin : he sends his Holy Spirit, to pu-
rify us from its corruption : he utters prophecy to warn
us : he works miracles to convince us : every thing, in
fact, that is not incompatible with the fixed principle of
his nature ; " Without holiness, no man shall see the
Lord."

The second thing to be observed in this promise, is
the inseparable connexion of divine grace with human
exertion. He does not say that he will not suffer us to
be overcome, but that " He will not suffer us to be tempt-
ed above that we are able." Here we see the genuine
operation of the grace of God. Human exertion with-
out it is hopeless, powerless, ineffectual. Dependent
upon our own exertion alone, we should be tempted
above that we are able. On the other hand, the grace
of God is given in vain, unless we embrace it humbly,
unless we hold it fast in our hearts, unless we wield it
in our hands. It does not actually vanquish the temp-
tation ; but it clothes us for the battle in the armour of
righteousness. Therefore, with watching and praying,
and with fear and trembling, let us await the approach
of every temptation that we see bearing down upon our
souls. Inspired by the animating assurance, " That
God is faithful, and will not suffer us to be tempted
above that we are able ;" and with the awful sense that
God is on our side, and that we must not dare to desert
his standard when he promises us victory, let us advance
to fight the good fight of faith. But let us march with
slow and thoughtful steps, and an humble and resigned
confidence, to meet the attack of sin and death, under
the shadow of his holiness, who would often have gath-»

24

£78 SERMON XV.

ered us under his protecting wing, and we would not.
Thus will this poor worm, who once crawled along the
earth, yielding, with a faint heart and a trembling con-
science, to every sin that assailed him, " become more
than conqueror through him that loved him."

APPENDIX.

It may be a matter of surprise to some readers that Mr.

W had not exercised his poetical talents upon religioua

subjects : bat the fact was, that he seemed to shrink from
such themes as too lofty for his genius — too pure and too aw-
ful for what he humbly thought his insufficient powers. The
standard of excellence which his imagination had raised was
so high, that no effort of his own could give him satisfaction.

He had sometimes entertained the idea that religious sub-
jects might be profitably introduced in songs adapted to na-
tional music, which might thus be made a vehicle of popular
instruction : how much he felt the delicacy and difficulty of
such a task, will appear from the judicious observations con-
tained in a letter to a pious friend who had sent him some ver-
ses written with that view.

" mi dear ,

* # * <c The poems upon which you desire my opinion
seem to be the production of a truly spiritual mind — a mind
deeply exercised in experimental religion, which sees every
object through a pure and holy medium, and turns every
thing it contemplates into devotion. But their very excel-
lence in this respect seems, in the present instance, to con-
stitute their leading defect. Their object, if I understand it
aright, is to make popular music a channel by which relir
gious feeling may be diffused through society, and thus, at
the same time, to redeem the national music from the profane^
ness and licentiousness to which it has been prostituted. As
to the first object : the natural language of a spiritual man,
which would remind one of the like spirit of much of his in-
ternal experience, would be not only uninteresting, but abso-
lutely unintelligible to the generality of mankind. He speaks
of hopes and fears, of pleasures and pains, which they could
only comprehend by having previously felt them.

28° APPENDIX.

You remember that it is said of the ' new song that was
sung before the throne,' that no man could learn that song,
save those that were redeemed from the earth : and therefore
it often happens, that those who best understand that music,
are more intelligible to heavenly than earthly beings : they
are often better understood by angels than by men. The
high degree of spirituality which they have attained often ren-
ders it not only painful, but impossible, to accommodate them-
selves to the ordinary feelings of mankind. They cannot
stoop, even though it be to conquer. To the world, their ef-
fusions are in an unknown language. In fact, they often take
for granted the very work to be done ; they presuppose that
communion of feeling and unity of spirit between themselves
and the world which it is their primary object to produce ;
and when ihey do not produce this efFect, they may even do
mischief; for the spontaneous language of a religious mind
is, generally speaking, revolting to the great mass of society :
they shrink from it as they do from the Bible.

Just consider all the caution, the judgment, and the skill,
requisite in order to introduce religion profitably into gener-
al conversation, and then you may conceive what will be the
fate of a song — to which a man has recourse for amusement,
and which he expects will appeal to his feelings — when he
finds it employed on a subject to which he has not learnt to
attach any idea of pleasure, and which speaks to feelings he
never experienced. It is on this account I conceive that a
song intended to make religion popular should not be entire-
ly of a religious cast ; that it should take in as wide a range
as any other song, should appeal to every passion and feeling
of our nature not in itself sinful, — should employ all the
scenery, the imagery, and circumstance of the songs of this
world, while religion should be indirectly introduced, or deli-
cately insinuated. I think we shall come to the same con-
clusion if we consider the reformation of the national music
as the primary object. The predominant feelings excited
and expressed by our national airs, however exquisitely de-
lightful, are manifestly human ; and it is evident that in order
to do them justice we must follow the prevailing tone. The
strain and ground-work of the words can hardly be spiritual ;
but a gleam of religion might be every now and then taste-
fully admitted, with the happiest efFect. But indeed it ap-
pears so difficult, that in the whole range of poetry there does
not occur to me, at present, an instance in which it has been
successfully executed. The only piece* which I now recollect

* The author probably would have also instanced the beautiful
Scotch ballad " I'm wearing aw a', John," if it had occurred to his
memory. — Editor.

APPENDIX.

281

as at all exemplifying1 my meaning" is Cowper's * Alexander
Selkirk,1 beginning, ' I am monarch of all I survey,' which
I believe has never been set to music. It is not professedly
religious; nay, the situation, the sentiments, and the feelings,
are such as the commonest reader can at once conceive to
be his own. It needs neither a spiritual man, nor a poet, nor
a man of taste or of education, to enter into immediate sym-
pathy with him : it is not until the fourth stanza (after he has
taken possession of his reader) that he introduces a religious
sentiment; to which, however, he had been gradually ascend-
ing ; and even then accompanies and recommends it with
what may, perhaps, be called the romantic and picturesque of
religion, * the sound of the church-going bell,' &c. He then
appears to desert the subject altogether, and only returns to
it (as it were) accidentally — but with what beauty and effect !
in the last four lines.

I am really struck with consternation at finding that I have
been writing a review rather than giving an opinion, and must
not dare to add another word, but to beg you will believe me

Yours, &c.

C. W."

It may not be uninteresting to give the following speci-
mens of his early, poetical powers upon scriptural subjects,
which he displayed when a school-boy.

JESUS RAISING LAZARUS.
Silent and sad, deep gazing on the clay.
Where Laz'rus breathless, cold, and lifeless lay,
The Saviour stood : he dropp'd a heavenly tear,
The dew of pity from a soul sincere :
He heav'd a groan !— though large his cup of woe.
Yet still for others' grief his sorrows flow ;
He knew what pains must pierce a sister's heart,
When death had sped his sharpest, deadliest dart.
And seized a brother's life. Around they stand,
Sisters and friends, a weeping, mournful band : —
His prayer he raises to the blest abode,
And mercy bears it to the throne of God :
14 Lord ! thou hast always made thy Son thy care,
Ne'er has my soul in vain preferr'd its prayer ;
Hear now, O Father ! this thy flock relieve, —

24*

282

APPENDIX.

Dry thou their tears, and teach them to believe
Thy power the sinking wretch from death can save,
And burst the iron fetters of the grave : —
Awake ! arise !" The healing words he spoke,
And death's deep slumbers in a moment broke :
Fate hears astonish'd,— trembles at the word,
And nature yields, o'ercome by nature's Lord.
Light peeps with glimmeri»g rays into his eyes ;
With lingering paces misty darkness flies ;
The pulse slow vibrates through the languid frame,
The frozen blood renews the vital flame ;
His body soon its wonted strength regains,
And life returning rushes to his veins. —
They look ! they start ! they look !— 'tis he, 'tis he .'
They see him, — and yet scarce believe they see !
On Him — on Him they turn their thankful eyes,
From whom such wond'rous benefits arise :
On him they look, who, God and Man combin'd,
Join'd mortal feelings with a heavenly mind :
On Him their warm collected blessings pour'd ;
As Man, they loved him— and as God, ador'd.

PRIZE POEM.

ON THE DEATH OF ABEL.

In youthful dignity and lovely grace,
With heaven itself reflected on his face,
In purity and innocence array'd,
The perfect work of God was Abel made.
To him the fleecy charge his sire consign'd :
An angel's figure with an angel's mind,
In him his father ev'ry blessing view'd,
And thought the joys of Paradise renew'd.
But stern and gloomy was the soul of Cain ;
A brother's virtue was the source of pain ;
Malice and hate their secret wounds impart,
And envy's vulture gnaws upon his heart :
With discontented hand he turn'd the soil,
And inly grieving, murmur'd o'er his toil.

APPENDIX.

Each with his off 'ring to the Almighty came,
Their altars raised, and fed the sacred flame.
Scarce could the pitying Abel bear to bind
A lamb, the picture of his Master's mind ;
Which to the pile with tender hand he drew,
And wept, as he the bleating victim slew.
Around, with fond regard the zephyr play'd,
Nor dared disturb th' oblation Abel made.
The gracious flames accepted, upward flew,
The Lord received them, — for his heart was true.
His first-reap'd fruits indignant Cain prepares, —
But vain his sacrifice and vain his prayers, —
For air were hollow : God and nature frown'd,
The wind dispersed them, and the Lord disown'd.
He looks behind — what flames around him rise ?
** O hell ! 'tis Abel's, Abel's sacrifice !
Curst, hated sight ! another look would tear
My soul with rage, would plunge me in despair J
Still must each wish that Abel breathes be heard ;
Still must I see his suit to mine preferr'd I
Still must this darling of creation share
His parents' dearest love, his Maker's care ;
But Cain is doom'd his sullen hate to vent —
Is doom'd his woes in silence to lament : —
Why should the sound of Abel sound more dear,
More sweet than Cain's unto my father's ear ?
Each look, that once on me with pleasure glow'd,
Each kiss, each smile, on Abel is bestow'd.
He loves me, views me with sincere delight ;
Yet, yet I hate him, yet 1 loathe his sight !
But why detest him ? why do I return
Hate for his love,— his warm affection spurn ?
Ah ! vain each effort, vain persuasion's art,
While rancour's sting is fest'ring in my heart !"
At this ill-fated moment when his rage
Nor love could bind, nor reason could assuage,
Young Abel came ; he mark'd his sullen woe,
Nor in the brother could discern the foe.
As down his cheeks the gen'rous sorrow ran,
He gazed with fondness, and at length began :

283

284 APPENDIX.

" Why low'rs that storm beneath thy clouded eye?

Why would'st thou thus thy Abel's presence fly ?

Turn thee, my brother ! view me laid thus low,

And smooth the threat'ning terrors of thy brow.

Have I offended ? is my fault so great,

That truth and friendship cannot change thy hate ?

Then tell me, Cain, Otell me all thy care ;

O cease thy grief, or let thy Abel share."

No tears prevail : his passions stronger rise ;

Increasing fury flashes from his eyes ;

At once, each fiend around his heartstrings twines, —

At once, all hell within his soul combines,

" Ah serpent !" — At the word he fiercely sprung,

Caught th' accursed weapon, brandish'd, swung,

And smote ! the stroke descended on his brow ;

The suppliant victim sunk beneath the blow :

The streaming blood distain'd his locks with gore—

Those beauteous tresses, that were gold before :

Nor could his lips a deep-drawn sigh restrain,

Not for himself he sigh'd — he sigh'd for Cain :

His dying eyes a look of pity cast,

And beam'd forgiveness, ere they closed their last.

The murd'rer view'd him with a vacant stare, —

Each thought was anguish, and each look despair.

" Abel, awake ! arise !" he trembling cried ;

14 Abel, my brother !" — but no voice replied.

At ev'ry call more madly wild he grew,

Paler than he, whom late in rage he slew.

In frighful silence o'er the corse he stood,

And chain'd in terror, wonder'd at the blood.

" Awake ! yet oh ! no voice, no smile, no breath !

O God, support me ! O should this be death !

O thought most dreadful ! how my blood congeals !

How ev'ry vein increasing horror feels !

How faint his visage, and how droops his head !

O God, he's gone ! — and I have done the deed !"

Pierced with the thought, the fatal spot he flies,

And, plunged in darkness, seeks a vain disguise.

Eve, hapless Eve ! 'twas thine these woes to see,

To weep thy own, thy children's misery !

APPENDIX.

She, all unconscious, with her husband stray'd

To meet her sons beneath their fav'rite shade :

To them the choicest fruits of all her store,

Delightful task ! a pleasing load she bore.

While with maternal love she look'd around —

Lo ! Abel, breathless, welt'ring on the ground !

She shrieked his name — 'twas all that she could say,

Then sunk, and lifeless as her Abel lay.

Not long the trance could all her senses seal,

She woke too soon returning woe to feel.

Those lips, that once gave rapture to her breast,

Now cold in death, the afflicted mother press'd.

Fix'd in the silent agony of woe,

The father stood, nor comfort could bestow.

Weep, wretched father ! hopeless mother, weep !

A long, long slumber Abel 's doom'd to sleep !

Wrapt in the tangling horrors of the wood,

The murd'rer sought to fly himself and God.

Night closed her welcome shades around his head,

But angry conscience lash'd him as he fled.

*' Here stretch thy limbs, thou wretch ! O may this blast

Bear death, and may this moment be thy last !

May blackest night eternal hold her reign ;

And may the sun forget to light the plain !

Ye shades, surround me ! darkness hide my sin !

'Tis dark without, but darker still within:

O Abel ! O my brother ! could not all

Thy love for me preserve thee from thy fall !

Why did not Heaven avert that deadly blow,

That dreadful, hated wound, that laid thee low !

O I'm in hell I each breath, each blast alarms,

And ev'ry madd'ning demon is in arms :

The voice of God, the curse of Heav'n I hear ;

The name of murder'd Abel strikes my ear,

Rolls in the thunder, rustles in the trees,

And Abel ! Abel ! murmurs in the breeze.

Still fancy scares me with his dying groan,

And clothes each scene in horrors not its own.

Curst be that day, the harbinger of woes,

When first my mother felt a mother's throes ;

When sweetly smiling on my infant face,

285

286

APPENDIX.

She blest the firstling of a future race.

O Death ! thou hidden, thou mysterious bane !

Can all thy terrors equal living pain ? —

Yet still there lies a world beyond the grave,

From whence no death, no subterfuge can save.

Thou, God of Vengeance ! these my suff'rings see,-

To all the God of Mercy, but to me !

O soothe the tortures of my guilty state, —

Great is thy vengeance, but thy mercy great.

My brother ! thou canst see how deep I grieve ;

Look down, thou injured angel, and forgive !

Far hence a wretched fugitive, I roam,

The earth my bed, the wilderness my home.

Far hence I stray from these delightful seats,

To solitary tracts, and drear retreats.

Yet ah ! the very beasts will shun my sight,

Will fly my bloody footsteps with affright.

No brother they, no faithful friend have slain,

Detested only for that crime is Cain.

Had I but lull'd each fury of my soul,

Had held each rebel passion in control,

To nature and to God had faithful proved,

And loved a brother as a brother loved, —

Then had I sunk into a grave of rest,

And Cain had breath'd his last on Abel's breast !'*

The following juvenile exercises (composed amidst the hur-
ry of public examinations, and within the short time allowed
on such occasions) were thought to give fair promise of fu-
ture excellence in Latin versification. Some of the best
verses which he wrote have been 1 )st ; and he never applied
himself afterwards to the cultivation of his talents in that
way.

GRiECIA CAPTA FERUM VICTOREM CEPIT.

Intenta bellis, et rudis artium,
Victrix juventus ingruit Atticae,
Sedesque doctrinse dicatas,
Imperio subigit superbo :

APPENDIX.

Sed non Camcenas ; ha? placido domant,
Hae saava cultu pectora molliunt,
Gratasque Romanum vaganti
Ingenioinjiciunt habenas :
Victas Athenas en juvenum cohors,
Victas Athenas Ausonium petit
Examen ; in campos Pelasgos
Roma ferex Latiumque fluxit.
Hinc mutuatur gymnasio forum
Torrentis aestus eloquii, et gravis
Demoslhenis gustavit acer
Rhetoricum Cicero fluentum.
Rapta sonori Maeonidis tuba,
Dignos magistro dat numeros Maro ;
Audaxque clangorem strepentem
Increpat, attonitusque cantat.
Chordam in Latinas iEolicam lyras
Modumque Flaccus iranstulit aureum, et
Mel dulce libavit, Poetae
Aonii labiis caducum.

287

PRINCIP1IS OBSTA.

Surge ! nee turpis teneat Voluptas ;
Arma, qua? Virtus dedit, atque Numen,
Indue, ad pugnam citus ; ecce praesens

Advenit hostis.
Advenit dirum Vitium, ille primo
Praelio tantum superandus hostis ;
Conseras pugnam, cadat atque summo

Limine victus.
Yiperae saevam genitura prolem
Ova conculca ; nisi sic latentes
Comprimas pestes, breviter tremenda

Pullulat Hydra.
Ergo vincendum Vitium juventa est :
Herculis vivas memor, et tenella
Strangulet, cunis etiam, ingruentes

Dextra dracones.

288

APPENDIX.

IRA FUROR BREVIS EST.

Quaresupremum dat gemitum Clytus ?
Senexque cara miles obit manu ?

Quis pectus invadit fidele
Ni Furiis agitatus ipsis ?
Furore felix ! cui scelus et nefas
Postquam patrasset non Ratio redit !
Non mentis ultoris flagella
Sentiet, et rabie fruetur.

Ast Ira prse-eps — perfidior Furor,

Mentes ut aegras impulit in scelus,

Relinquit, accedunt querela?,

Conscia mens, lachrymaeque inanes.

MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS.

It is curious to. observe what sources superstition used to
furnish to imagination, and what civilization has supplied for
them. This may be aptly illustrated by the circumstance of
eclipses. These formerly excited a real and present terror
in barbarous minds, and gave a wild and violent impulse to
their imaginations. Civilization has dried up this fountain
for the fancy, but has supplied the knowledge of that glorious
system of the universe, which though it does not so imperi-
ously demand consideration, yet, when considered, displays a
much more magnificent and extensive field for imagination,
which thus seems to have even gained by its alliance with
truth.

Imagination seems almost necessary to truth and reason,
and often first suggests what reason afterwards proves ; and
afterwards seems necessary (at least with such limited beings
as we are) to admire its results.

Truth and reason, when rightly considered, by developing"
the works of the Deity, are, in other words, developing the
sublime and beautiful, which are also the objects of imagina-
tion.

There is a degree of alliance between truth and imagery.
We look for a degree of probability in the wildest fits of fan-
cy ; and require, at least, apparent harmony and coherence,
and a consistency with human nature.

APPENDIX.

289

Imagination it is which sustains hope, joy, &c. Shall we
then part with it in heaven ? It appears to be a partial ex-
ertion of a more general faculty — a love of the sublime and
beautiful ; so that this our lovely earthly companion, with
whom we have wandered over mountain and wild, and by
whose side we have reposed in glen and valley, — this our
wayward and romantic guardian may rise when we rise, and
become glorified with us in heaven.

Men who accustom themselves to take comprehensive views
of practical subjects, often forget the application to themselves
as individuals, in considering the effect upon the aggregate of
mankind, or upon collective bodies. Thus meu, who with a
yiew to raise the character, and justly appreciate the good ef-
fects of Christianity, employ themselves much in considering
its influence upon society, are sometimes ignorant of its doc-
trines, and uninfluenced by its precepts. One reason is, that
in considering the aggregate of mankind the individual is
kept out of view ; another, that many of the effects upon so-
ciety are merely temporal, and all come short of those which
it produces upon any one individual upon whom it is practi-
cally influential ; another, is the pride that naturally accom-
panies the mind which is possessed of those comprehensive
powers.

It might be at once one of the most certain and the most
agreeable methods of decomposing and developing- the ingre-
dients of human nature, to take some of those passages of un-
doubted and transcendent excellence which are supplied by
poetry, oratory, and polite literature in general, and by alter-
ing one or two of the less prominent words or expressions,
perhaps a mere particle, into one apparently synonymous, to
observe the change of feeling produced by change of phrase,
,and pursue it to its source. This would be a species of meta-
physical analysis, in which, from real though delicate and un-
obtrusive data, we might, by cautious reasoning, arrive at
abstract principles. For if a change of feeling is produced,
if we feel a disappointment at any alteration, however slight,
the pleasure or pain is as real, though not as intense, as the
most extravagant joy or the most violent agon)'. Thus we
should detect many a pleasure (as we often do) only by its
loss; and, what is still more important, would be guided, in
the progress of reasoning, to its principles, and prevented
from indulging in fanciful and extravagant speculation, by
having two feelings to compare or contrast — the pleasure
with its disappointment. This might lead to a knowledge of

25

290

APPENDIX-

the principles of our nature ; to an acquaintance with the
delicacy of language and style ; to a radical improvement of
taste, and to a perception of the more retiring, but, perhaps,
the more exalted beauties of literature.

It was the greatest compliment ever passed upon one of
the greatest statesmen the world ever saw, " that he ruled
the wilderness of free minds." Shall we then deny to the
Creator an excellence that we admire in one of his creatures ?

The question between (I believe) Voltaire and Rosseau,
*' Whether the savage or the civilized state were preferable V*
is one of the greatest arguments for the utter depravation of
our species. The mere naked fact, that such a question had
arisen among rational beings — Whether they should continue
in a state allied to the brute, or exert the very faculties
which constituted them a species ? is enough ; we need go no
farther.

THE FOLLOWING WERE FOUND AMONGST
SOME OF HIS JUVENILE PAPERS.

Successful ambition is like the rainbow which spans the
sky, and is gazed at by all who behold it with admiration : it
is composed of the rays of the sun, together with the approach-
ing rain and the advancing cloud. Alas ! and does not am-
bition span the earth with a momentary grasp, and is it not
composed of the beams of glory, which are transient, and the
deluge of rain and devastation, and the cloud of misfortunes,
which are permanent ? For the rainbow fades and dies away
in an instant, and the rays of its glory depart with it ; but
the rain and cloud existed while it existed, and survived when
the rainbow and its beams had vanished. Thus does the man
of ambition derive his glory from causing ruin : the ruin is
contemporary with the glory, and outlives it. His dear beam
fades as he sinks into the grave, but he bequeaths the storm
to his fellow-creatures.

Irish music often gives us the idea of a mournful retrospect
upon past gaiety, which cannot help catching a little of the
spirit of that very gaiety which it is lamenting.

APPENDIX. ^®l

There appear to be two species of eloquence ; one arising
from a clear and intense perception of truth, the other from a
rich and powerful imagination.

The sentiment comes at once from the lips of the orator,
with language at the moment of its birth, like Minerva in
panoply from the brow of Jove.

The milk of human nature appears under as many differ-
ent modifications in the dispositions of men, as the substance,
to which it is compared, undergoes in the dairy. In some
men of a perpetual and impregnable good humour, it has all
the oiliness and consistency of butter ; in those of a liberal
and generous disposition, it has all the richness of cream ; in
men of a sickly habit of mind, it has all the mawkish insipid-
ity of whey ; and in a large portion of the community, it pos-
sesses all the sourness of buttermilk.

Solitude and Society may be illustrated by a lake and river.
In the one, indeed, we can view the heavens more calmly
and distinctly ; but we can also see our own image more
clearly, and are in danger of the sin of Narcissus : while, in
the river, the view both of the heavens and of ourselves is
more broken and disturbed ; but health and fertility are scat-
tered around.

The imperfect progress of Christianity is only analogous to
that first state of which it is the restitution — the state of Adam
in Eden. There Adam was liable to fall ; and the blessings
of Christianity — which is declared to be the restoration of
that state — are of course as much subject to rejection as the
blessings of paradise :

" Flowers of Eden that we may cast away."

Those who cavil at the apparent clashing of the attributes
ef the Deity, and at the control which they appear to exer-
cise mutually upon each other, involuntarily fall into a spe-
cies of paganism. They distribute the Deity into so many
different essences : they, in fact, deify his attributes, and
make so many independent gods. Whereas, the division of
the Deity into attributes is only an accommodation to the
weakness of human faculties. He is the simple, perfect De-
ity ; of single and uncompounded energy ; like the solar ray,
appearing more pure and simple than its ingredients.

One difficulty of a preacher is, to balance the terrors and
comforts of religion ; a difficulty in style rather than in mat=

292

APPENDIX.

ter. Those who speak upon other subjects have generally to
give the mind a strong impulse in one direction, because
their object is generally to produce one certain specific act,
i. e. a vote on a certain side ; but the preacher has to induce
a habit of acting, to regulate a man's hopes and fears. This
perhaps is one argument against extemporaneous preaching.

Shall the word of a physician alter our regimen ? Shall a
few hundreds added to, or subtracted from our fortune, alter
our style of living ? — And yet shall a visit from God produce
no change ? Shall heaven have descended upon earth,- and
earth remain what it was ? Shall the Spirit of God have com-
muned with me, and shall my soul return unpurified from the
conversation ?

Christ is " God manifest :" He is the Word — God heard :
the Light — God seen : the Life — God felt.

The difference between our Lord's style of prophecy and
that of all other prophets, is this : He seems to speak with a
clear steady perception of futurity, as if his eye was just as
calmly fixed upon future events as if the whole were a pre-
sent occurrence : the prophets appear only to have a picture,
or a strong delineation of their prominent features, and their
imaginations became heated and turbid, and agitated and
confused.

The story of St. Paul's conversion is told in three different
ways by the same author ; and when compared, the differen-
ces appear so natural, from the different situations and cir-
cumstances in which they are related, that, first, they bear
invincible testimony to the authenticity and genuineness of
the book itself; and, secondly, are a standing instance how
natural are the variations between the different Gospels ; and
prove that, instead of furnishing an objection, they are an ad-
ditional evidence of their truth. The account of the baptism
of Cornelius is told twice, and is another instance of the same
kind.

One of the uses of obscurity in the Bible is to excite curi-
osity, and to make an exercise for the faculties as well as for
the affections and dispositions, in order that the whole man
may be employed in religion ; that there may be a mode of
religious exercise which may serve both to relieve the exer-
cise of mere feeling, and serve as a kind of substratum and
arena, on which those feelings may find matter, range, and
variety.

APPENDIX. 293

However the world may affect to despise the genuine Chris-
tian, it is beyond their power ; they feel too sensibly the diffi-
culty of attaining- that very state of feeling- and disposition
which is displayed in such a character, to entertain in their
heart any mean or degrading1 opinion of the character which
they apparently undervalue. Every thought which is wrung*
from their conscience by its unwelcome obtrusion upon their
contemplation, rises in judgment against their indifference.
God has not permitted them to despise a true Christian:
they may pass him by with a haughty and supercilious cold-
ness : they may deride him with a taunting and sarcastic
irony ; but the spirit of the proudest man that ever lived will
bend before the grandeur of a Christian's humility. You are
at once awed, and you recoil upon your own conscience when
you meet with one whose feelings are purified by the Gospel.
The light of a Christian's soul, when it shines into the dark
den of a worldly heart, startles and alarms the gloomy pas-
sions that are brooding within. Is this contempt? No : but
all the virulence which is excited by the Christian graces can
be resolved into envy — the feelings of devils when they think
on the pure happiness of angels : and to complete their con-
fusion, what is at that moment the feeling in the Christian's
heart ? Pity, most unfeigned pity.

The ancients either let their passions run wild, or confined
them like wild beasts in their cages, where they were kept
muttering in their cells : but Christ has taught them their le-
gitimate exercise.

The question, Whether the passions are to be admitted in-
to religion ? divides itself into two r First, Whether the pas-
sions are unreasonable in themselves ? Secondly, Whether
they are misplaced in religion ? The first is a piece of stoi-
cism, that is too absurd and ridiculous to be maintained.

The second divides itself also into two : First, Whether the
affections are misplaced in religion, generally ? Secondly,
Whether our Saviour is the proper object of them ?

First, generally : It i&a great presumption against it, that
it proposes at once to exclude from religion so grand a part
of the composition of man. It is to be supposed, that as the
organs of the body, so the original passions of the mind, were
given for some valuable purposes by the Creator. They are
now in perpetual rebellion ; and reason alone would presume
that it would be the effect of revelation completely to repair
the consequences of this corruption. This indeed had been
tried by human systems in vain, Epicurus confirmed the

294 APPENDIX.

usurpation of the passions ; the Stoics attempted to extinguish
them ; but it is the peculiar office of Christianity to bring all
the faculties of our nature into their due subordination ;
1 that so the whole man, complete in all his functions, may
be restored to the true end of his being', and devoted, entire,
and harmonious, to the service and glory of God.7

fr--'

<p

A^X ,'V"<

• v..

" ^ c "

4 ^ J$

A

>•

•>* v

v0o

V

CK I-

a i

$>**

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process.
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide
Treatment Date: May 2009

PreservationTechnologies

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION

111 Thomson Park Drive
Cranberry Township, PA 16066
(724) 779-2111

,#'

-

^0X

'f't

-

V

V

% .C

A'

o 0

; rtv*

\0^.

Ci

u

o

A

,0o

%>^'
* -V*^

■4 t'

%>*'

^

v5 ^ v> %

. . * ^

v0 o.

^

o>

^

v

HHrai H

sedmHHHa