that there can be no religious earnestness but what breaks out into extravagance and fanaticism. If they had not identified two things essentially different, they would be no more afraid of enthusiasm in religion than they are afraid of enthusiasm in science, in literature, in the arts. It would be, in their account, a noble and beautiful thing. But now, the very description of a person as " zealous in his religion" carries with it a kind of imputation upon his understanding and liberality. Hence, in the train of consequences; it comes to pass that many are cold in religion. "For this cause, many sleep." They apparently think it better to sleep in security than to wake in distraction; they prefer stupor to madness; they had rather perish in their senses than in a fit of insanity; this, at least, is the light in which matters appear to them; and how is it strange, that, repelled by the ordinary forms of religious emotion, and identifying all religious feeling with these, they should sink down into a cold, chilling, cheerless insensibility.

But I must not leave it to be supposed, that men of taste and refinement alone are exposed to this result. The truth is, that the popular sensibility on this subject has been itself deficient in real strength and true fervour; it has been remarkable, thus far, for wanting those qualities which were necessary to give it depth and impressiveness in its own sphere and from no quarter have there been more bitter complaints of coldness, than from the very sphere of fanaticism. The observation may seem to be a singular one, perhaps, and the fact scarcely credible: but if you will take the pains to observe, I am confident you will find it to be true, that the wildest sects and the wildest

excitements are precisely those from which there come, from time to time, the deepest confessions of coldness and stupidity. Yes, in the bosom of fanaticism is harboured the deepest and most painful doubt about the truth and reality of religion. And the reason is, that neither there, nor in any of the modifications of spiritual extravagance, has religion been familiar enough to have become an easy, natural, abiding guest; nor reflective enough to have settled down into a principle and habit; nor has it long enough rested in the soul, amidst quietness and silence, to have become incorporated with its nature.

And thus it comes to pass that in many, perhaps in most minds, where religion gains admission, it is felt to be a strange, mysterious, extraordinary thing. I think, indeed, that the religious experience of the world, generally, has not got beyond this point; it is still an extraordinary thing. And it is obvious that this sense of its being extraordinary will not be favourable to composure, steadiness, and permanency of feeling, but rather to excitement, wonder, delight, and all those tumultuous emotions that speedily pass away.

I am afraid, too, that this consciousness of religious experience, as being something extraordinary, has another injurious and repulsive effect; that is to say, that it gives birth to that religious vanity, that spiritual pride, that sense of personal importance, which is so apt to spring up with religious zeal. I know, indeed, that the gospel demands humility; and I know that Christians have been much given to self-disparagement; but I know, too, that no sooner does a man "obtain religion," to use the common phrase, than his own sense of the great and wonderful thing which he conceives has happened to him, and the attentions of

those around him, usually contribute to invest him with a very disagreeable air of self-importance. There is a strange delusion, by which a man contrives to think himself very humble, and to be very proud, at the same time. He says that he is the greatest of sinners, a most wonderful instance of the triumph of Divine grace; and perhaps he is never so proud as when he says it. His confession is made with a saving clause; and the saving clause is very likely to be more with him than the confession. He is the greatest of sinners; but then he is rescued. He is a most extraordinary instance of grace; but then it follows, certainly, that he is himself a very extraordinary person.

Whether this be a just account of the matter or not, it is certain that spiritual vanity has been, thus far in the world, one of the prevailing forms of religious experience. And since this quality,—I mean, vanity, whether religious or otherwise, is always one the most offensive and insufferable, since it always brings more unpopularity upon its possessor, I had almost said, than all other bad qualities put together, it is not strange that it should have brought some discredit upon religion, and especially upon religious zeal and earnestness. There are there must be— not a few, who will stand aside and aloof, and say, "Let me have no religion rather than that:" and one of the most important duties of religious teaching is, to show them that they may have religion without presumption, pride, or ostentation; nay, and that the religion, which they hold in simplicity, modesty, and singleness of heart, with no thought of others, with no thought of themselves, will be far more deep, thorough, and fervent, as well as far more graceful and beautiful.

There is one effect of this sense of religion as something very extraordinary, which I must mention before leaving this topic; and that is upon the manifestations of religious sensibility. The sense of the extraordinary tends to give expansion and exuberance to the expression of religious feeling-tends, if the phrase will be understood, to too much manifestation. Our sensibility always takes arms against an appearance of this sort. This explains the reason why some religious conversation and some preaching, which seems to be charged and overcharged with religious fervour, which vents itself, perhaps, in a passion of tears, which is full of exclamations and entreaties, and exhorts us to feel with every moving interjection in the language, yet never moves us at all. The precise reason is, that the expression is overcharged. We wonder at our insensibility, perhaps; we think it is very wicked in us not to feel; but the fact is, we are, all this while, true to nature. Possibly some might think, though I will not suspect any one who hears me of holding the opinion, that this apology ought not to be stated; that selfreproach is so rare a thing, and so good a thing, that men should be left to accuse themselves as much as ever they will. I confess that I can understand no such reasoning as this. On the contrary, I have regretted to hear the language of self-reproach in such cases; because I do not think it just, and because I know that every false self-accusation tends to blunt the edge of the true self-accusation. Doubtless, men should always feel religion if they can; but the question is now, about being made to feel it by a particular manifestation. And I say, if the manifestation be overcharged; if it go beyond the feeling, rather than

come short of it; if there be more expression, vociferation, gesture, than genuine emotion, it will inevitably, with the discerning, have an effect the very contrary of what was intended. No; let one speak to us by our fireside, or in the pulpit, with an emotion which he is obliged to restrain; let it appear evident that he lays a check upon his feelings; let one stand before us-I care not with what varied expression with the cheek flushed or blanched, with the tear suppressed or flowing, with the voice soft or loud, only so that the expression never seem to outrun, to exceed the feeling; and he is almost as sure of our sympathy as that we are human beings.

The observation I have made on this point cannot be useless to any one, if it teaches only this, that nothing forced or factitious will answer any good purpose in religion; that if we would accomplish any thing for ourselves or others in this great cause, we must engage in it with our whole heart; that the sources of real religious influence are none other than the fountains of the heart-the fountains of honest, earnest, irrepressible sensibility.

III. I must now add, in the third place, that there are mistakes, as in the vehement demand for religious sensibility, and concerning its nature and expressions, so also with regard to its Supreme Object.

We must allow, indeed, that on this point there are some intrinsic difficulties. There are difficulties attending the love of an Infinite, Eternal, Invisible, Incomprehensible Being. Our love of him must be divested of many of those sympathies and supports which enkindle and strengthen in us the love of one another. We feel obliged to guard every word in