DISCOURSE XXX.

PERFECTION.

2 Cor. xiii. 11. BE PERFECT.

To most persons, this is discouraging language. It does not furnish a very frequent theme of preaching, except among a particular body of Christians, who, struck with its commonness in the Scriptures and with its neglect, have associated themselves on its special basis, and are styled Perfectionists. But the idea is, not that we should grasp perfection as an immediate result, but make it our aim; and this, so far from discouraging, only inspires. Is there no reason in the condition of the church, as well as authority in the Bible, for urging the precept, "Be perfect"? Is there not among us much more of a contented and barely respectable virtue, than of the thirst and aspiration after excellence? How many are satisfied to be as good as others, to reach the current medium of reputable character, to stand with the majority, that potent talisman in our community, and seek to accumulate fancied morality enough for a passport into the gates of

heaven! To such men the gospel is a sealed book; nor can one gleam of its real meaning penetrate their souls, till the perfection it proposes dawn upon them, and they pursue it as their glorious end.

But what is this perfection? First, it includes all the virtues. It suffers us not to rely on some good qualities to the neglect of others, or to hope that we can, by a partial innocence, compound with God for the commission of any sin. In the scales of his justice, generosity will not atone for intemperance, irritability, or dishonesty ; but the virtues least congenial with our temperament, or most trying to our resolution, he requires us to cherish with the greatest care. Again, perfection requires that each quality should be free from taint, like the Jew's unblemished offering, and without debasing alloy. Lastly, perfection requires that all the graces be expanded to an unlimited degree. As the seed contains in spotless purity every part of the plant, as the infant's frame is perfect in every member, as the child's harp may be no less harmonious than the great organ, or his tiny trumpet mock in its note the alarming blast of battle, yet all these things are of imperfect size or power; so how many faultless yet feeble characters need unfolding towards the perfection of moral stature and strength!

But, immeasurable as perfection is, shall it not be our aim? See how every thing great and good on this earth has grown out of the aim at perfection.

Its fruits, if not in religion, are everywhere else around us. Why do we live in such comfortable dwellings? Because men were not satisfied with a cave in the ground, or a rude fabric above it; but aimed at perfection, till the lowliest of our abodes surpass those once occupied by kings and princes. Why that proudest monument of architectural skill careering swiftly between continents, through the waste of waters? Because men were not satisfied with the creaking raft, slowly pushed upon the quiet stream, or with the timid boat that crept along the coast; but pressed on to perfection, till they came to span the breadth of the seas almost with the punctuality of the revolutions of the globe. See the Eastern caravan, once, with flocks and herds and merchandise, plodding its dull way through the desert by the thirst for improvement, the aspiring to perfection, it is now transformed into a self-moving train, bearing through hills, over rivers and plains, greater multitudes and stores, as on the wings of the wind. Behold there a pale student, bending in tedious toil over a manuscript, which he is transcribing upon parchment by a process so expensively long and laborious that a few books exhaust a for

tune.

But progress is made; perfection is aimed at; and now the word of God is printed as in a moment, and the shelf of the poor man lined with treasures of knowledge that would once have excited the envy of monarchs.

In yonder village a painter paces, in quiet meditation, his little room. Beautiful pictures has he sent

forth to charm every beholder; but he alone is not satisfied. He draws some grand theme from the mighty chronicle of the Bible. He would turn the words of the rapt prophet into colors. He would hold up to the eyes of men a scene of the divine judgments, that should awe down every form of sin, and exalt every resolve of holiness in their hearts. The finished result of his labors is shortly expected. But the idea of perfection has seized with an overmastering grasp upon him, and it must give him pause. How shall that awful writing of doom be pencilled on the plastered wall? How shall that finger, as it were of a man's hand, and yet the finger of God, be revealed? How shall those voluptuous forms below, that have been all relaxed with the wine and the feast and the dalliance of the hour, be represented in their transition so swift to consciencestricken alarm, prostrate terror, ineffectual rage, and palsied suspense, as they are confronted by flaming characters of celestial indignation, which the soothsayers, with magic scrolls, and strange garb, and juggling arts, can but mutter and mumble over, and only the servant of Almighty God calmly explain? How shall it be done according to the perfect pattern shown in the Mount of Revelation of God's word? The artist thinks and labors, month by month, and year after year. The figures of Babylonish king and consort, of Hebrew seer and maiden, and of Chaldee magician, grow into expressive portraits under his hand. The visible grandeur of God the Judge, over against the presumptuous

sins of man, approaches its completeness. The spectator would now be entranced with the wondrous delineation. But the swiftly conceiving mind, which shapes out its imaginations of that dread tribunal so suddenly set up in the hall of revelry, is not yet content. The idea of perfection, that smote it, smites it again. The aspiration after a new and higher beauty, that carried it to one point, lifts it to another, and bears it far aloft, in successive flights, ever above its own work. Yet still, on those few feet of canvas, the earnest laborer breathes out, for the best of a lifetime, the patient and exhaustless enthusiasm of his soul. He hides the object, dear as a living child to its mother, from every eye, and presses on to the mark. If he walks, he catches a new trait of expression, some fresh line of lustrous illumination, to transfer to this painted scripture which he is composing. If he sleeps, some suggestion of an improvement will steal even into his dreams. In weariness and in sickness, he still climbs slowly, painfully, to his task. In absence, his soul turns back, and makes all nature tributary to his art. And on his expiring day he seizes his pencil to strive, by another stroke still, after the perfection which runs before him, and leaves his work as with the last breath of his mouth, and movement of his hand, upon it, to show, amid unfinished groups, and the measured lines for a new trial, that, if absolute perfection cannot be reached here on earth, yet heights of splendor and excellence can be attained, beyond all the thoughts of him whom the glorious