and move it to the best and highest purposes, those purposes which are alone consistent with its own wants and its own spiritual nature.

The distinguishing peculiarity of these discourses, is, in fact, that they aim to persuade and convince men, with an earnestness and power from which there is no escaping, of their spiritual and immortal nature, of the exceeding and eternal worth of that nature, of the primary obligation to value and cultivate it, of the inexpressible sin of neglecting, abusing, perverting it. The title-page announces Discourses on various subjects, and they are various in the common sense of the word, but still they are only different points of view from which the attention is directed to one central prospect. Whatever be the name of the discourse, its great end and aim is to bring men to acknowledge, not coldly and theoretically, but earnestly and abidingly, that they are responsible creatures, immortal creatures, living under the eye and government of an infinite God, and having far higher trusts and interests than any which belong to this world alone. Whether the discourse be" on Human Nature," or on "the Appeal of Religion to Human Nature," or "on Religious Sensibility," or "Religious Indifference," the purpose of the preacher is always to show that religion is man's proper element, real happiness, true nobility. And he pursues this purpose with an earnestness of tone, a copiousness of illustration, a force of reasoning, and a constant directness of application, which absolutely insist on a hearing, and which rivet the attention of the soul to the one spiritual object. Notwithstanding, therefore, that this volume consists of separate discourses on various subjects, there is an almost epic unity, which connects one with another, and binds the whole together. It is rare to meet with a collection of sermons, from which the impression derived is of so single a character.

Although we are aware that extracts from a book often lose their effect as specimens, by being taken away from their proper place and connexion, yet we will venture to give a few from these discourses, because we are satisfied that they will create a desire in those who read them to read the whole volume; and we wish that the volume may be read by as many as possible. If it be read, we can have little doubt with respect to its influence.

We will quote from the first discourse, a part of the wri

ter's defence of human nature against a cold and sneering philosophy, against the proverbial calumnies of a certain set of sages, whose selfish sarcasm too often passes for wisdom.

"But in the third place; where, let us ask, has this man studied human nature? Lord Chesterfield observes, and the observation is worthy of a man who never seems to have looked beneath the surface of any thing, that the Court and the Camp are the places, in which a knowledge of mankind is to be gained. And we may remark, that it is from two fields not altogether dissimilar, that our skeptic about virtue always gains his knowledge of mankind I mean, from fashion and business; the two most artificial spheres of active life. Our objector has witnessed heartless civilities, and imagines that he is acquainted with the deep fountains of human nature. Or, he has been out into the paths of business, and seen men girt up for competition, and acting in that artificial state of things which trade produces; and he imagines that he has witnessed the free and unsophisticated workings of the human heart; he supposes that the laws of trade are also the laws of human affection. He thinks himself deeply read in the book of the human heart, that unfathomable mystery, because he is acquainted with notes and bonds, with cards and compliments. "How completely, then, is this man disqualified from judging of human nature! There is a power, which few possess, which none have attained in perfection; a power to unlock the retired, the deeper, and nobler sensibilities of men's minds, to draw out the hoarded and hidden virtues of the soul, to open the fountains which custom and ceremony and reserve have sealed up: it is a power, I repeat, which few possess, how evidently does our objector possess it not, and yet, without some portion of which, no man should think himself qualified to study human nature. Men know but little of each other, after all; but little know how many good and tender affections are suppressed and kept out of sight, by diffidence, by delicacy, by the fear of appearing awkward or ostentatious, by habits of life, by education, by sensitiveness, and even by strong sensibility, that sometimes puts on a hard and rough exterior for its own check or protection. And the power that penetrates all these barriers, must be an extraordinary one. There must belong to it charity, and kindness, and forbearance, and sagacity, and fidelity to the trust which the opening heart reposes in it. But how peculiarly, I repeat, how totally devoid of this power of opening and unfolding the real character of his fellows, must be the scoffer at human nature!

"I have said that this man gathers his conclusions from the most formal and artificial aspects of the world. He never could have drawn them from the holy retreats of domestic life, to say noth

ing of those deeper privacies of the heart of which I have just been speaking; he never could have drawn his conclusions from those family scenes, where unnumbered, nameless, minute, and indescribable sacrifices are daily made, by thousands and ten thousands all around us; he never could have drawn them from the selfdevoting mother's cares, or from the grateful return, the lovely assiduity and tenderness of filial affection; he never could have derived his contemptuous inference from the sick-room, where friendship, in silent prayer, watches and tends its charge. No: he dare not go out from our dwellings, from our temples, from our hospitals, he dare not tread upon the holy places of the land, the high places, where the devout have prayed, and the brave have died; and proclaim, that patriotism is a visionary sentiment, and piety a selfish delusion, and charity a pretence, and virtue a name." pp. 20-22.

But the writer discriminates. He is by no means blind to the weaknesses, errors, sins, and wickednesses of men. It is the impartial truth of his estimate, which places him on ground so high and strong. He says;

"True it is, and I would not be one to weaken nor obscure the truth, that man is sinful; but he is not satisfied with sinning. Not his conscience only, but his wants, his natural affections, are not satisfied. He pays deep penalties for his transgressions. And these sufferings proclaim a higher nature. The pain, the disappointment, the dissatisfaction, that wait on an evil course, show that the human soul was not made to be the instrument of sin, but its lofty avenger. The desolated affections, the haggard countenance, the pallid and sunken cheek, the sighings of grief, proclaim that these are ruins indeed, but they proclaim, that something noble has fallen into ruin, proclaim it by signs mournful, yet venerable, like the desolations of an ancient temple, like its broken walls, and fallen columns, and the hollow sounds of decay that sink down heavily among its deserted recesses.

"The sinner, I repeat it, is a sufferer. He seeks happiness in low and unworthy objects, that is his sin: but he does not find it there, and that is his glory. No, he does not find it there : he returns disappointed and melancholy; and there is nothing on earth so eloquent as his grief. Read it in the pages of a Byron and a Burns. There is nothing in literature so touching as these lamentations of noble but erring natures, in the vain quest of a happiness which sin and the world can never give. The sinner is often dazzled by earthly fortune and pomp, but it is in the very midst of these things, that he sometimes most feels their emptiness; that his higher nature most feels that it is solitary and un

satisfied. It is in the giddy whirl of frivolous pursuits, and amusements, that his soul oftentimes is sick and weary with trifles and vanities; that he says of laughter, It is mad; and of mirth, What doeth it?'

"And yet it is not bare disappointment, nor the mere destitution of happiness caused by sin, it is not these alone that give testimony to a better nature. There is a higher power that bears sway in the human heart. It is remorse, sacred, uncompromising remorse, that will hear of no selfish calculations of pain and pleasure; that demands to suffer; that, of all sacrifices on earth, save those of benevolence, brings the only willing victim. What lofty revenge does the abused soul thus take, for its offences; never, no, never, in all its anger, punishing another, as, in its justice, it punishes itself!” — p. 25-27.

The conclusion is pressed again and again, as in the following paragraph.

desecration of such a naSome baser thing might

"O! my brethren, it is a pitiable ture as ours to give it up to the world. have been given, without regret; but to bow down reason and conscience, to bind them to the clods of earth; to contract those faculties that spread themselves out beyond the world, even to infinity, to contract them to worldly trifles, — it is pitiable; it is something to mourn and to weep over. He who sits down in a dungeon which another has made, has not such cause to bewail himself, as he who sits down in the dungeon which he has thus made for himself. Poverty and destitution are sad things; but there is no such poverty, there is no such destitution, as that of a covetous and worldly heart. Poverty is a sad thing; but there is no man so poor, as he who is poor in his affections and virtues. Many a house is full, where the mind is unfurnished and the heart is empty; and no hovel of mere penury ever ought to be so sad as that house. Behold, it is left desolate, to the immortal, it is left desolate, as the chambers of death. Death is there indeed; and it is the death of the soul! pp. 55, 56.

And now let us turn over the next half of the volume, and we find the same pleadings and strivings, the same tone of deeply engaged remonstrance, the same great end proposed and enforced; we meet the same spirit engaged in the same work. Now, the particular theme is religious indifference. Who can be indifferent, what man can be indifferent, to that which most concerns him as a man? What thinking creature can be indifferent to the end of his being, and the

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Ordainer of his condition and destiny? Let him consider the picture of his own life.

"Whenever a man looks around him, there are certain things which he must acknowledge. He is a living man, and there is a scene of life, there are events and ordinances of life for him to pass through, events and ordinances of life which he must pass through, let his character be what it may. It is striking indeed, to think that every mind, however reckless and trifling, must fall upon all the trials, the allotments, the fates of this mortal and momentous existence. The boast of health is no shield against disease; nor the frivolity of pleasure, against sadness and sorrow. Avarice must come to the hour of utter destitution; and pride to the hour of utter prostration. How powerful a call to religion, then, is life itself! How powerfully does it forbid all indifference! Life, I repeat, with all that makes it up; with all its great and solemn ordinations of toil, and endurance, and vicissitude, and sickness, and affliction; with all its periods, of glowing youth, and sober manhood, and thoughtful age; life, with its trembling ties of friendship, its holy rites of marriage, its sympathies of kindred, and its homes of affection; with its attendance on sickness and languishment, and its last sad offices to the beings of its love and companionship, life, I repeat, the body's frailty and decay, the soul's conflict, the mind's discipline, the heart's solemn monitress, -Oh! who can look with indifference to the Ordainer of such a lot? Who can live, and die, in perfect unconcern with regard to the Being who has made him to live and die? I confess that to my own mind, it seems inevitable that I should be moved in some way, yes, religiously moved, by this experience of life. If I were impious, I should rail at it; if I were devout, I should humbly submit to its discipline; but not to feel at all! I must be a stock, or a stone ! Life, by every joy, by every sorrow of it!-life is no neutral scene; and how can, how can he who experiences it, be neutral?" pp. 163, 164.

The preacher considers the apologies which are made for religious indifference, and shows them to be futile. He follows up this state of mind, and breaks down all its defences. He contemplates it, as it stands exposed and without defence, and declares it to be incomprehensible.

"To me, I must confess, this state of mind is one of the greatest of mysteries. We hear much of the mysteries of religion, and the negligent and indifferent are the very persons, perhaps, who complain most of mysteries, and even make of them an apology for their indifference. But I confess that they themselves present