EZEKIEL XXXVI. 26. And I will give you a heart of flesh.

THE subject to which I wish to invite your thoughts in this discourse, is that religious sensibility, that spiritual fervour, in other words, that "heart of flesh," which is spoken of in the text.

To a sincere and, at the same time, rational cultivator of his religious affections, it seems, at first view, a thing almost unaccountable, that Christians, apparently serious and faithful, should everywhere be found complaining of the want of religious feeling; that the grand, universal, standing complaint of almost the entire body of Christians should be a complaint of dulness. To one who has studied the principles of his own nature, or observed its tendencies; who knows that as visible beauty is made to delight the eye, so moral beauty is made to delight the mind; it seems a tremendous moral solecism, that all the affec

*The substance of the two following discourses was addressed to the graduating class in the Theological Department of Harvard University, in 1834. This circumstance will account for the form that is given to some of the topics and illustrations.

tions of this nature and mind should become cold and dead the moment they are directed to the Infinite Beauty and Glory. It will not solve the problem to say that human nature is depraved. If, indeed, the depravity of men were such that all enthusiasm for excellence had died out in the world, the general reason assigned might satisfy us. But what is the fact? What is the beauty of nature but a beauty clothed with moral associations? What is the highest beauty of literature, poetry, fiction, and the fine arts, but a moral beauty which genius has bodied forth for the admiration of the world? And what are those qualities of the human character which are treasured up in the memory and heart of nations-the objects of universal reverence and exultation, the themes of celebration, of eloquence, and of festal song, the enshrined idols of human admiration and love? Are they not patriotism, heroism, philanthropy, disinterestedness, magnanimity, martyrdom?

And yet the Being from whom all earthly beauty and human excellence are emanations, and of whom they are faint resemblances, is the very Being whom men tell us that they cannot heartily and constantly love: and the subject which is held most especially to connect us with that Being, is the very subject in which men tell us they cannot be heartily interested. No observing pastor of a religious congregation who has been favoured with the intimacy of one mind awaking to this subject, can fail to know that this is the grand complaint. The difficulty about feeling is the first great difficulty, and it is one which presses Few upon every after-step of the religious course. arrive at that point where they can say with the apos

tle, "I know in whom I have believed." The common language and tone in which even religious confidence is expressed, do not go beyond such distrustful and desponding words as these" I hope that I love God; I hope I have an interest in religion." Alas! how different from the manner in which friendship, love, domestic affection, breathe themselves into the ear, and thrill through the heart of the world!

It seems especially strange that this complaint of dulness should be heard in places devoted to the acquisition of religious knowledge, and the cultivation of religious affection; and yet it is, perhaps, nowhere more common or emphatic. And it is confined to no one species of religious seminaries; it is confined, I mean, to no one sect. I have heard it in tones as em. phatic from Catholic and Calvinistic seminaries as from any other. I have heard it as strongly expressed in other lands as in our own. But is it not very extraordinary? We hear it not from the studios of artists. We hear it not from the schools of law and medicine. There is no complaint of dulness, there is no want of enthusiasm about their appropriate objects in any of these. He, whose mind is occupied with the most abstruse questions of science or of the law; he who gazes upon a painting, or upon a statue-ay, and he who gazes upon a skeleton, does not complain that he cannot be interested in them. I have heard such a one say, "Beautiful! beautiful!" in a case where admiration seemed almost absurd; where it provoked a smile from the observer. And yet in schools-in schools of ardent youth-where the subject of attention is the Supreme and Infinite Beauty, if we may take confession for evidence-I do not say it is yours,

my brethren, but I have often heard it from persons situated as you are-yes, among such persons, if we may take confession for evidence all is cold and dead.

But I must here, and before I go any further, put forward one qualification. I do not think that confession is to be taken for evidence altogether, and without any qualification. One reason, doubtless, why Christians complain so much of the want of feeling, is to be found in the very sense which they entertain of the infinite value and greatness of the objects of their faith. And it is unquestionably true that there is often a great deal of feeling in cases where there are very sad lamentations over the want of it. Lamentation certainly does not prove total insensibility.

Still, however, there is an acknowledged deficiency; not appertaining to any one class or condition, but to the entire body of Christians. And it is especially a deficiency of natural, hearty, genuine, deep sensibility. And, once more, it is deficiency, sad, strange, and inexcusable, on a subject more than all others claiming our sensibility. And yet, again, it is a deficiency which, when existing on the part of the clergy, is most deplorable in its consequences. It is therefore every body's interest, and that for every reason, to consider what are the causes, and what are the remedies of this peculiar, prevailing, religious insensibility.

I have some question, indeed, whether this demand for sensibility-the popular rage, that is to say, for feeling, feeling alone is not, in some views, mistaken, excessive, and wrong. But let me admit, for I

cannot resist, the strength, the supremacy of the claim which religion has on our whole heart. The first and lawful demand of the mind awakened to religion, is to feel it. The last attainment is to feel it deeply, rationally, constantly. Of the awakened mind, the first consciousness always is-"I do not feel; I never did feel this subject as I ought. It claims to be felt. The solemn authority and the unspeakable goodness of God; the great prospect of immortality; the strong bond of duty upon my nature; the infinite welfare of my soul-these are themes, if there be any such, upon which I ought to feel." The mind, thus aroused from worldly neglect to the greatest of subjects, will feel its coldness, its indifference to be a dreadful burthen, and it will sigh for deliverance: and the preacher who has never such a mind to deal with, may well doubt whether he is preaching to any purpose. And in all its after-course it will hold a fervent religious sensibility to be indispensable to its peace. If its prayers are formal and heartless, if its love waxes cold, if its gratitude and humility are destitute of warmth and tenderness, it cannot be satisfied.

And it ought not to be satisfied. This demand for feeling in religion, I say, is right; it is just; and I am desirous, in this discourse, to meet it and to deal with it as such. And yet I am about to say, in the first place, that there are mistakes about it, and that in these mistakes are to be found some of the causes of the prevailing religious insensibility.

I. Is there not something wrong, then, in the first place, is there not something prejudicial to the very end in view in this vehement demand of feeling? I have said that it is mainly right, and that I intend