vince me of it. For I do not know what the life of a mind is that can be thus estranged from religion. Occupying a point of space amidst infinite systems of beauty and harmony-a breathing hour of time between the eternity past and the eternity to come; seeing clear manifestations of boundless power and wisdom on every side in the whole creation, and yet ignorant of ten thousand mysteries, that fill that creation from its lowest depth to its topmost height; a mind seeing this, and feeling this, and tried, too, with the ten thousand events of life-ay, and suffering, often-times sinking, and yet at other times soaring and aspiring to things infinite and immortal ;—that mind, I say what is it?-What is it made of, and what is it made for, if it does not sometimes stretch out the hand of entreaty, for a guidance and support, for a voice of teaching and a solution of mysteries beyond this world? Let it be so, that right, and rectitude, and obligation, and duty were all out of the question: yet where is curiosity? Where is the questioning that belongs to a thoughtful and intelligent creature amidst a scene like this? It is a mystery, I will not say of iniquity; but it is a mystery of dulness, surpassing all comprehension. O! men of this world, whosoever ye are!-O! men who are altogether of this world!— talk not to us of our mysteries, till ye have cleared up your own mysteries. A mind, insensible to all the highest interests of a mind-a mind, bereft of all the attributes of a thinking, inquiring, suffering, unsatisfied being-what is it, I ask again? Is it matter, or spirit? Is it an earthly creature? No; for its thoughts stretch beyond the earth. Is it a heavenly

being? No; for it cares not for heaven. What is it then, and where is its place? Where, in the universe of things, is its place?

Ah! how surely is that out of its place for which no position can be found, in the eye of reason or of common sense, or even of imagination! Let him who has wandered, whether in the ways of gain, or of philosophy, or of fashion, to the verge of that shadowy region, that shore of spectral illusions, that world of spiritual death and mental chaos, where nothing is right, nor reasonable, nor sure, nor safe; let him start back, as from the gulf of annihilation, and return to the way of life. Let him turn back to the solid ground of faith, of reason, of wisdom. Let him enter upon the path that is bright with truth and virtue-the path that shineth brighter and brighter to the perfect day.

1 PETER i. 17.

And if ye call on the Father, who without respect of persons judgeth according to every man's work, pass the time of your sojourning here in fear.

I HAVE spoken, in my last discourse from these words, of the practical apology for religious indifference; the apology, that is to say, which a man finds in his own heart, and which he expresses when he says that "he does not need religion-that he is very well as he is now." I have appealed to life, to the love of happiness, to the desire for improvement; I have appealed to the mind, nay, and the senses, to say whether this can be so: and they have all answered, and truly answered, as I think, that this grand practical assumption of religious indifference is utterly mistaken, untrue, unfounded in the nature of things, and of the mind.

I shall now proceed to consider the theoretical defence of religious indifference; the apology, that is to say, of a limited creed. Let us see, then, whether the most limited creed still is not ample and solemn enough to overshadow with awe the most negligent mind that takes shelter under it.

If, says the apostle, "ye call on the Father." Here is recognised the first article of almost universal belief that there is a God! It is indeed the first article of

every creed-the foundation principle of every religion; it is, as we call it, the first truth and the plainest truth; and we utter it in common words and tones, such as we give to all other truth, till the danger is, that all its sublimity and mysteriousness will be lost in its certainty, and familiarity, and constant repetition. But what a truth is it, and what mind that thinks of it can be indifferent? That there is a God, and with such attributes-eternal, but existing in time; infinite, but existing in space, all around us; all-creating, himself uncreated; all-sustaining, himself independent; all-seeing, himself invisible; all-comprehending, himself incomprehensible-whose mind that thinks of it is not lost, is not overwhelmed in this truth? To acknowledge this, and not to be religious, is an utter and almost inconceivable contradiction of ideas. It is a moral absurdity, which no language can express. It is like saying there is light, and not seeing it; there is danger, and not fearing it; there is sublimity, and not reverencing; there is glory, and not admiring; there is beauty or loveliness, and not loving it. It is more-for it is saying that there is a Being to whom all these ideas belong, without measure or end, and not entertaining any correspondent

emotion.

There is no thought which we can admit to our minds concerning God but it is a solemn thought. If he dwelt at an infinite distance from us; if his presence never came near to us; if he never had any concern with us; if the world had formed itself and us by certain self-producing powers of its own; if we and our humble sphere were too insignificant to be noticed; still that atheism in the thoughts leaves to us

the conception of a Being, though distant, yet so wonderful, that the bare idea of him must strike us with awe; that the bare idea of him might be enough to arrest the most careless mind, and to fix it for ever in the profoundest admiration. But, suppose that the doctrine concerning that great Being came nearer to us-suppose that God were the actual Maker of this world and our Maker, but had left all to itself, as some seem to imagine, and took no further account of the work of his hands: yet how much does even that supposition leave us to awaken a religious devoutness? Even then we should have it to consider that we dwell where God has been! that we dwell amidst the tokens of a mighty presence passed away! that every hill and mountain lifted up before us the dread monuments of departed omnipotence! What a thought might that be, to strike the mind with the profoundest awe! He who should wander amidst some silent city of the mighty dead, amidst broken columns and falling temples, and feel no serious nor sublime emotion, would not be guilty of such unpardonable inconsistency or dulness, as the moral being who acknowledges in any sense that there is a God, and feels no religious awe.

But how solemn is the truth, and what words shall declare it,—that this awful and glorious Being is not in the infinite height, nor in the unfathomable depth only, nor in the immeasurable distance where thought and imagination have never wandered; but that God is here also!—here in all the majesty and glory that fill the heavens with his splendours! "Oh, God!” should we not exclaim, if we felt this-"God, who art present with us! help our unbelief and indifference." Indifference! my brethren,-and the admission that