I speak thus, my brethren, not to praise goodly temples the less, but to praise sanctity and solemn intent the more. Meet it is, that the temples of a nation's worship should be goodly and fair. I cannot think that this is the only point at which liberality is to pause, and expense to be carefully restricted. Every large city in the country is each year lavishing upon luxuries, entertainments, spectacles-upon things that perish with the passing year-enough to build ten noble churches; and every town and village is doing the same thing in its proportion. Now surely, if there is anything for which a people should be willing even to strain their resources somewhat, it is to do that well. which is to be done but once in the course of some hundred years; to bestow some unusual care and expense on that which is to be associated with religious ideas, and in that important relation to be viewed, with pleasure or disgust, by the eyes of passing gene

rations.

Architecture is a language, as truly as sculpture and painting-nay, as truly as literature, as poetry. The front of a majestic and beautiful church is known and read of all men. The stranger, the gazer, the passerby, though he read nothing else, reads that. And there are religious edifices in the world, whose effect in elevating the mind, cannot be transcended by any painting or statue, by any poem or eloquent discourse. And suppose that such poem or discourse could be so depicted as to be set up in an enduring form, and to make an instant and inevitable impression, by the very way side where multitudes and generations are walking. Would it not be a goodly work to place it there? Would not the very idea, the bare possibility of it

course.

awaken the utmost enthusiasm? But a magnificent piece of architecture is such a poem-is such a disInsomuch that I will venture to say, and I say it advisedly and deliberately, that I should value as much, in any city or town, the effect of the York Minster in England, as of that great work of England's sublimest bard, the "Paradise Lost." He who gazes upon such a structure, is melted, enraptured, overwhelmed, with delight and veneration; he feels as he does when he gazes upon the sublime objects of nature. And to place a majestic cathedral in one of our cities -would that it might yet be done here!-would be, as if you could place the loftiest mountain of the Alps in its neighbourhood, to bear up the thoughts of its inhabitants to sublimity, to beauty, to heaven!

A church, too, is more than a work of art; it is a symbol. It is a symbol of religion; a visible sign and setting forth of the religious sentiment. Churches are the outward consecration of our cities, of our villages, of our country, of the world. They are visible tokens of the invisible; they lead the thoughts to the unseen and infinite. Their rising towers, their pointed spires, recognize a communication between earth and heaven. They are like the ladder which Jacob saw in vision, on which the angels of God were ascending and descending; and he who pauses beneath them in the sacred hours, to meditate and pray, is sometimes led to exclaim, with the ancient patriarch, "how dreadful is this place! this is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!" What would a city or a village be, even in appearance, even to the passing traveller, without churches!-a city of habitations and warehouses, and houses of entertainment for the way

faring man, and houses of pleasure for the gay; but without one structure to recognize the sense of devotion and of duty? Would not the very traveller hasten, for his life, from such a city, as the city of destruction? And what a striking testimony is it, to the universal sense of some kind of religion, that one such city was never found in the world!

Man is ever struggling upward to something above and beyond him. I do not say that he is always making the right moral effort; but that his thought, his mind, his feeling, never satisfied with the earth, soars, instinctively soars, away from it-even though he scarcely knows whither. But, my brethren, do not we know where our thoughts soar? Have we not a purpose in this erection? Do we not feel that we have need of such a place of resort? We know that the lights of heaven are often obscured by earthly mists, and we build here a tower of observation, where we may come up and gaze upon their unclouded brightness. We know that the waves of our earthly fortunes and experiences roll in wild and fearful commotion around us; and we build here a Pharos, a light-house, to guide us upon the dark and stormy sea. And long as that lofty tower stands, may it bear the blessed light of guidance and hope to us and our children!

We have departed from the custom of our churches, by giving this structure a name. We denominate it,

the Church of the Messiah. We did not wish that it should bear down to future times a sectarian title, or that its name should change with successive pastors. We are sensible that it will often be called by these names, and we pretend not to force a name upon any one; though the congregation have unanimously

adopted the one now designated. But we hope that in process of time it will come to bear this title in familiar usage. We hope that this name-one permanent name-a name most sacred, will become venerable and hoary, through the associations of coming years and the attachment of succeeding generations. At the same time, we do not lay aside our denomination as a religious society. We are "The Second Congregational Unitarian Society," worshipping in the Church of the Messiah.

II. I have thus spoken in general, of the consecration of this place, to the great sentiment of religion. But this naturally leads us to something more specific; in other words, to the distinct views and uses which have been contemplated in the erection of this building.

Let me then say, that our main desire and purposé is, to consecrate this place of worship, not to any extra ordinary novelties; not to any strange and singular opinions; not to any controversial dogmas; not to any vain presumption that we alone, on all points, are right, and that others, on all points, are wrong. We would consecrate this Church, not to pride of opinion, but to modesty and humility; not to assurance, but to inquiry; not to any unbecoming claim of infallibility, but to the great principle of religious progress. We stand here on a humble spot, upon a vast globe, which is yet itself but a humble spot amidst the infinitude of worlds and systems-and here, in the morning twilight of our being, we build an altar to lowly seeking and earnest prayer for light; we build an altar not only to the truth which we do know, but the truth which we hope to know. Yet none the less do we build it, to the truth which we dỏ

know. To the old, the primal, the time-hallowed truths of all religion; to the elder faith of Christians, -sanctified by their prayers and sealed with their blood; to the common, so far as it is the most heartfelt, faith of all Christians now, do we dedicate this temple. To the unity of the faith in the bond of peace, do we dedicate it; to one God, the Father; to one Saviour, Jesus Christ; to one Divine Spirit, sent to enlighten, sanctify, and save us; to the faith of a divine revelation, and of an universal and kind providence ; to the boundless grace of God in the Gospel, to the instruction of mankind in righteousness, to their redemption from sin, and to the hope of everlasting life. Above all, and emphatically, do we dedicate this church to the cross of Christ. We call it after the name of the great Messiah. We dedicate it to his cross. That symbol, if the act would not be misunderstood, would I gladly see raised high, above the tower of this consecrated building. It is the distinctive symbol of our salvation. In that cross, to my eyes, shine most brightly, the mercy of God and the hope of man. In saying this, I intend to say nothing blindly or mysteriously. Out of mystery into reality, would I bring that great sacrifice; out of a vague and ineffectual reliance, into a distinct and living sympathy; out of theory, into practice; out of study into the heart. I utter no professional dictum, when I say, that I hold the heartfelt knowledge of what that cross meaneth, to be the dearest knowledge on earth. Truly and deeply, and in a sense not yet enough understood, it is saving knowledge. The Catholic worships that cross. I too would have it worshipped; but it should not be the worshipping of a mere symbol, nor of the mere agony