no feeling about religion, except a most obdurate and inflexible indifference. We may approach them, indeed, with the arguments of Christianity, and they assent, or with its convenience, and they perceive, or with its ethics, and they admire; and thus far they will give us the hand of their cordiality. But the moment any thing like experimental piety is brought up, they demur at once, and not only demur, but absolutely put away from them the whole religiousness of the Bible, with all that is binding in its au. thority, and all that is personal in its application. My hearers, I know not how to assail this sultry composure of impenitence, for I know not from what it springs. Do you imagine that the preacher rises in the sanctuary to amuse or to excite you? Do you look upon Inspiration as a mere picture of morals, over which he throws the coloring or drapery which may chance to suit the style of his rhetoric? If not, what is the reason that doctrines, which, if true, might almost move a heart of adamant to excitement, are heard day after day with so little emotion? Surely, if an angel were to light upon our earth, he would suppose, of some of us, that we expected Christ Jesus to appear incarnate, and walk through our streets. He would say that we were waiting for the crimsoned and agonizing scenes of Calvary to be acted over again for our redemption. In fact, I have sometimes thought myself, that there are those among us who never will feel the urgencies of religion, till the Son of Man does appear in the splendors of the judg ment; and if at other times I have a better hope, it is not because I rely on any human instrumentalities, but simply and entirely because "the Lord God omnipotent reigneth." Now, my hearers, what, upon the whole, is the substance of the message which the great Captain of Salvation has received to-day from this part of Mount Zion? Is it not true-and if true, is it not most solemn and alarming? Is it not calculated to throw us, one and all, upon our knees, before God, for the outpouring of His Spirit, and the visitations of His grace? I know, indeed, there are some feel. ings which this anniversary brings along with it of a glad. some kind. We cannot forget that Providence has shed over our infant Church the smiles of a protecting patronage. We cannot repress our recollections of the distinguished liberality which has reared this house of our worship. But when we go further-when we leave the generosities of the congregation, and take a census of the real disciples of Christ, the heart sickens and sinks. There is an incident, my hearers, related of the apostle John, which I have often thought of when standing in this desk.* We are told, that upon one of his missionary excur. sions in the decline of life, he became strongly attached to a youth of very rare accomplishments. As might be sup. posed, he pressed upon him the doctrines of the Gospel, till at last his efforts were crowned with seeming success. The young man was baptised, entered the communion of the Church, and lived for some time as a Christian; but, at length, seduced by bad examples, he dropped all his religious pretensions, and went on from step to step, till he was chosen the leader of a band of robbers. When St. John passed that way again, he learned the catastrophe of his favorite, and was pointed to a neighboring mountain where he was said to harbor. Thither the aged apostle hurried, and, having been seized by some of the band, requested to be led to their captain. The moment the young man saw him, he attempted to make off, but the apostle called after him, and persuaded him to stop. The robber stood still, and trembled, and hid his convulsed face in his hands, and sobbed aloud, till, finally, the venerable saint, by his prayers and tears, • See McChord's Last Appeal, p. 185. prevailed upon him to return to the fold of a deserted Saviour. And, my brethren, are there not many here who bear a resemblance to that youthful delinquent? Are there not many the children of baptism and prayer, who have been nursed in the arms of piety, and trained to the observances of religion, and yet are now wandering in cheerless exile from the Church of Christ? Everywhere, indeed, I see the embellishments of visible morality, but I look in vain for the anxious eye, the throbbing bosom, the inquiring tongue, to betoken the pursuit of experimental godliness. In vain have you heard the story of the Cross. In vain has the friend of sinners thrown open the kingdom of Heaven, and hung out to you the signals of encouragement and invitation. Yet, all of you, or nearly all, have been taught to remember your Creator in the days of your youth; and though I cannot speak to you with the reclaiming pathos of the ancient disciple, I can say, you still have the offer of pardon. I can say, that even while you are a great way off, you have a Father in Heaven who is willing to run and fall upon your necks and welcome you back to the ranks of a rejoicing family. Come, then, for all things are now ready. Come and make your peace with God, and set about the business of eternity. Come and drink of the waters of life, and when next the Son of Man shall inquire, "Watchman, what of the night?" O let the answer ring through the celestial world, that the morning has appeared,-that the day has dawned, and the day-spring, from on high, has visited us with the light and the glory of salvation. SERMON XXXI.* "The righteous hath hope in his death." NEXT to the salvation of men, the loftiest aim of Christianity is to strip the grave of its terrors. This is exclusively her work. She has performed it unaided. It is an achievement peculiarly her own; and while we approach, once more, the table she has spread before us, I know of no subject better calculated to awaken in us a gratitude befitting the solemnities of the occasion. The truth is, whe ther we are, or are not, the children of God, we must die. With that point religion has nothing to do; but it has much to do with the manner of dying. It lends to the followers of Christ a triumph which is found nowhere else; they, like the rest of the world, are walking down to the sepulchre, but, unlike the rest of the world, they carry with them the promise of our text, to cheer them as they go along, and to shed over their path the light of its encouragement and consolation. Aside, therefore, from any further reason, the subject of death accords impressively with the design of a Communion Sabbath. But we have another inducement for selecting it, which you can easily di vine. One of our number, who looked forward with joy to this day, has bidden us farewell; and in her place, we see only the badges of mourning. How solemn, my hearers, is the dispensation! How loud and alarming is the voice which issues from her vacated seat, "Be ye also ready!" Alarming, did I say? Why should it alarm you, to exchange a vale of tears for the welcoming bosom of a Savi * Preached on Communion Sabbath, after the death of Mrs. Brand. our? No: unbelief may startle-impenitence may be dismayed, but the child of God can survey the grave with a countenance unchanged. He can look upon the closing eye-the shivering pulse-the sinking head-the sepulchral hearse the heavy clod. He can view them with composure; for Christianity tramples all these chilly images under her feet, and invigorates the misgivings of nature with the triumphant assurance of the Gospel, "The righteous hath hope in his death." But what is meant by the declaration, that the righteous hath hope in his death? Beyond the grave, my hearers, all is a dark unknown. It is the land of silence. No traveller returns to tell us what he has seen, what he has heard, or upon what state of being he has been ushered. This mysterious uncertainty throws over all of us a feeling of suspense and fear; but when an impenitent sinner walks down to the tomb, you can imagine the forebodings which must bear him company. He knows that he is guilty. He feels himself unpardoned. He sees the tribunal of a holy God before him, and no Saviour, no Saviour to stand by him in the moment of launching upon his final destiny. O, what must be his emotions? Now, it is an exemption from these terrors which is guaranteed by our text, to the children of God. The promise is, that every real Christian shall enjoy the presence of Christ in his dying hour; that he shall find the fear of the grave retiring before him the nearer he approaches its brink, and be enabled to triumph over all its horrors. And, my hearers, we might presume beforehand that this would be the case. Is it probable, that Christ should cheer his disciples through life, with his promises, and receive them beyond it to his glory, and yet, leave the dreary interval-the hour of exchanging worlds, unvisited and unblessed with his consolations? Is it likely that, at the very moment when most they needed his presence-while |