plause. Suppose that a company were assembled to consider and discuss some grand method to be proposed, for acquiring fortunes for themselves-some south-sea scheme, or project for acquiring the mines of Potosi; and suppose that some one should rise to speak to that company, who could not speak eloquently, nor in an interesting manner: grant all that— but suppose this dull speaker could say something, could state some fact or consideration, to help on the great inquiry. Would the company say that they could not listen to him? Would the people say that they would not come to hear him again? No, the speaker might be as awkward and as prosaic, as he pleased; he might be some humble observer, some young engineer-but he would have attentive and crowded auditories. A feeling in the hearers would supply all other deficiencies.

Shall this be so in worldly affairs, and shall there be nothing like it in religious affairs? Grant that the speaker on religion is not the most interesting; grant that he is dull; grant that his emotions are constitutionally less earnest than yours are-yet I say what business have you to come to church to be passive in the service, to be acted on, and not yourselves to act? And yet more, what warrant have you, to let your affections to your God depend on the infirmity of any mortal being? Is that awful presence that filleth the sanctuary, though no cloud of incense be there-is the vital and never-dying interest which you have in your own mind-is the wide scene of living mercies that surrounds you, and which you have come to meditate upon-is it all indifferent to you, because one poor, erring mortal is cold and dead to it? I do not ask

you to say that he is not dull, if he is dull; I do not ask you to say that he is interesting; but I ask you to be interested in spite of him. His very dulness, if he is dull, ought to move you. If you cannot weep with him, you ought to weep for him.

Besides, the weakest or the dullest man tells you truths of transcendent glory and power. He tells you that "God is love;" and how might that truth, though he uttered not another word, or none but dull words— how might that truth spread itself out into the most glorious and blessed contemplations! Indeed, the simple truths are after all the great truths. Neither are they always best understood. The very readi ness of assent is sometimes an obstacle to the fulness of the impression. Very simple matters, I am aware, are those to which I am venturing to call your attention, in this hour of our solemnities; and yet do I believe, that if they were clearly perceived and felt among men at large, they would begin, from this moment, the regeneration of the world!

But pass now from the silent and holy sanctuary, to the bustling scene of this world's business and pursuit. "Here," the worldly man will say, "we have reality. Here, indeed, are interests. Here is something worth being concerned about." And yet even here do the interests of religion and virtue pursue him, and press themselves upon his attention.

Look, for instance, at the condition of life, the possession, or the want, of those blessings for which business is prosecuted. What is it that distresses the poor man, and makes poverty in the ordinary condition of it, the burden that it is? It is not, in this country, it is not usually, hunger, nor cold, nor naked

ness. It is some artificial want created by the wrong state of society. It is something nearer yet to us, and yet more unnecessary. It is mortification, discontent, peevish complaining, or envy of a better condition; and all these are evils of the mind. Again, what is it that troubles the rich man, or the man who is successfully striving to be rich? It is not poverty, certainly, nor is it exactly possession. It is occasional disappointment, it is continual anxiety, it is the extravagant desire of property, or worse than all, the vicious abuse of it; and all these too are evils of the mind.

But let our worldly man, who will see nothing but the outside of things, who will value nothing but possessions, take another view of his interest. What is it that cheats, circumvents, overreaches him? It is dishonesty. What disturbs, vexes, angers him? It is some wrong from another, or something wrong in himself. What steals his purse, or robs his person? It is not some unfortunate mischance that has come across his path. It is a being in whom nothing worse resides, than fraud and violence. What robs him of that, which is dearer than property, his fair name among his fellows? It is the poisonous breath of foul and accursed slander. And what is it, in fine, that threatens the security, order, peace, and well-being of society at large; that threatens, if unrestrained, to deprive our estates, our comforts, our domestic enjoyments, our personal respectability, and our whole social condition, of more than half their value? It is the spirit of injustice and wild misrule in the human breast; it is political intrigue, or popular violence; it is the progress of corruption, intemperance, lascivi

ousness, the progress of vice and sin, in all their forms. I know that these are very simple truths; but if they are very simple, and very certain, how is it that men are so worldly? Put obligation out of the question; how is it, that they are not more sagacious and wary with regard to their interests? How is it that the means of religion and virtue are so indifferent to many, in comparison with the means of acquiring property or office? How is it that many unite and contribute so coldly and reluctantly for the support of government, learning, and Christian institutions, who so eagerly combine for the prosecution of moneyed speculations, and of party and worldly enterprises? How is it, I repeat? Men desire happiness; and a very clear argument may be set forth to show them where their happiness lies. And yet here is presented to you the broad fact--and with this fact I will close the present meditation-that while men's welfare depends mainly on their own minds, they are actually and almost universally seeking it in things without them: that among the objects of actual desire and pursuit, affections and virtues, in the world's esteem, bear no comparison with possessions and honours; nay, that men are every where and every day, sacrificing-ay, sacrificing affections and virtues-sacrificing the dearest treasures of the soul, for what they call goods, and pleasures, and distinctions.

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DISCOURSE VII.

SPIRITUAL INTERESTS REAL AND SUPREME.

JOHN VI. 27. LABOUR NOT FOR THE MEAT THAT PERISHETH, BUT FOR THAT MEAT WHICH ENDURETH UNTO ETERNAL LIFE.

THE interests of the mind and heart,-spiritual interests, in other words-the interests involved in religion, are real and supreme. Neglected, disregarded, ridiculed, ruined as they may be--ruined as they may be in mere folly, in mere scorn-they are still real and supreme. Notwithstanding all appearances, delusions, fashions, and opinions to the contrary, this is true, and will be true for ever. All essential interests centre ultimately in the soul; all that do not centre there, are circumstantial, transitory, evanescent; they belong to the things that perish.

This is what I have endeavoured to show this morning, and for this purpose I have appealed in the first place, to society.

My second appeal is to Providence. Society indeed, is a part of the system of Providence; but let me invite you to consider under this head, that the interest of the soul urged in the gospel, is, in every respect, the great object of heaven's care and providence.

The world, which is appointed for our temporary dwelling place, was made for this end. The whole