"Religion," said Mr. Ingleby, "has a fine effect on the soul in the day of prosperity; but its excellency is most visible in the season of adversity; then it shines with peculiar radiance, demonstrating its superhuman origin, by the omnipotence of its power in moderating the intensity of grief, and inspiring the soul with a hope full of immortality."

SATURDAY EVENING AT FAIRMOUNT.

And does not the visible creation display the goodness of God? Pain is not the object of contrivance, which would have been the case had the Creator been a malevolent being. The eye is formed for the purpose of vision, not to be injured by the atom floating in the air; the ear for hearing, not for aching; the hand and the foot to be active and useful, not to be lacerated by instruments of torture.

The sun was now creeping gently down the western horizon; the sky was clear and bright, as on the eve of the first day of the creation; no sounds broke in upon my calm serenity, except the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep penned in a neighbouring fold; and, just as I was rising to a more glorious theme of contemplation, my attention was arrested by the appearance of a gentleman, who was walking along the bank of a river, gliding through the vale beneath me. His manner was singular. Now he advanced with hurried steps the distance of fifty yards, then suddenly stopped, looked round him, advanced again, again stopped, stood motionless, then approached the brink of the river, receded, walked up to the edge again, paused, appeared wrapped in deep and solemn thought, retraced his steps, abruptly stopped, fixed his cane in the ground, threw down his gloves, took off his hat, advanced, and fell. During the whole of these apparently mysterious movements, my sympathies were excited, and I was making every necessary preparation to save a soul from death. My feelings were too violently agitated to allow of cool reflection; but I could not refrain from paying the tributary sigh to that unknown cause of woe which appeared to be hurrying an intelligent and accountable being out of a world on which I had been gazing with so much delight, and sending him, stained with the blood of his own life, into another and a changeless economy of existence.

As soon as I saw him fall, I rushed forward; and, as the river was not more than a few hundred yards distant from me, I felt conscious that I should be able to reach him in time to save his life; but just as I was going to leap over the stile that stood midway between us, I saw him raising himself on his knees. I drew back, and looking through the hedge, I perceived that he had not fallen into the river, but among the high rushes that grew on its brink, and that he was not meditating the destruction of his own life, but the rescue of a little lamb, that had accidentally slipped into the stream. The transition of my mind from one of the most awful subjects of contemplation, to a touching incident of human benevolence, was not less gratifying to my feelings than the sudden hushing of the midnight tempest is to the mariner, who, having lost his compass, can steer his vessel only by the light of the polar star.

Curiosity impelled me to watch the movements of this stranger, and I beheld him cautiously removing the weeds which were entwined around the exhausted lamb, and then carrying it to its dam, which, I imagined from her bleating, instinctively knew the danger from which her offspring had been delivered. This sight brought to my recollection the language of the prophet, who represents the Redeemer as gathering the lambs with his arms, and carrying them in his bosom.

On perceiving the stranger advancing towards the stile which I intended to cross, I again seated myself on my former post of observation, and soon had the gratification of seeing him saunter up the lane. He was a young man, on whom the God of nature had bestowed a fine exterior form; and who by an action, which he was not conscious I had witnessed, had strongly prepossessed me in his favour. I arose on his coming near me; we exchanged the customary bow of polite recognition; and, after passing a few cursory remarks on the varied scenery around us, we moved onwards together, and were soon engaged in a very interesting and important discussion.

"I have, Sir," he said, "left the bustling city, in which I have spent the greater part of my life, to survey for myself those rural beauties and employments which I have been accustomed to view through the medium of the press."

"No fancy," I observed, "can paint the beauties of nature, in all their varied forms, and hues, and rich combinations. The landscape pleases when on the canvas; but there is no life, no motion, no sound, all which are necessary to make the representation really correct."

"True, Sir, but we are much indebted to the pencil for introducing rural scenes and scenery into our crowded cities, by which we are told, through the medium of the eye, that there are living beauties in nature which we may see. This is my first visit to the country. I have been wandering about for several weeks, travelling from village to village, and penetrating into woods and forests; trying to make myself familiar with the manners and habits, the sentiments and feelings, of the various orders of rustic life. I have conversed with the opulent and indigent farmer; with the man who holds the plough, and the man who drives the team; with the shepherd and the woodman; I have looked into their houses and their huts, and have investigated their plans of domestic economy; and I think I shall now return home with a more correct opinion of the actual state of things that I once entertained. The beauties of nature are more beautiful than I anticipated; but I have searched in vain for that rural simplicity, and innocence, and joy, which ancient and modern poets have described in such glowing colours. For simplicity, I have found rudeness; for innocence, low cunning; for contentment, murmuring dissatisfaction; for sportive playfulness, almost universal lamentation. To quote the language of a poet who first introduced scepticism into my unsuspecting breast:—

"I have often been charmed with the pastoral life of the poets, but I have never found a counterpart to their descriptions. Theirshepherdesses are clothed with the verdant beauty of paradisaical innocence, and their shepherds are men of genius; the sky beneath which their ewes lamb and their dogs sleep, knows nothing of the war of elements; but when I visit the actual spots from whence they collect their enchanting imagery, I see the ponderous cloud overhanging the defenceless fold; and am soon convinced that

"The poets have long been practising an illusion on our credulity; and though, after the deception is discovered, we may continue to admire their highly-wrought descriptions, yet, the charm of reality having vanished, we feel dissatisfied."

"It is to be lamented," I replied, "that poets are not the only writers who try to impose on the credulity of their readers. The reading world, as it is called, revolves in a fictitious region; and hence, when its inhabitants come forth amidst the scenes of real life, they are apt to think, and feel, and talk, and act, like beings descended from an aerial planet."

"Your observation, Sir, is perfectly correct; but, in my opinion, no writers are so deserving of severe censure as religious writers. They represent as fact, what we know is fable; as real, what our intuitive sense teaches us is imaginary; and, by a dexterity which belongs exclusively to their order they try to beguile us of our innocent recreations, which they denounce as impure and pernicious, and enforce on us exercises at which our generous nature recoils; and have the effrontery to tell us, that if we wish for happiness we must seek for it in religion."

"That there has been deception practised by some religious writers no one can deny; but I cannot subscribe to every part of your sweeping charge. For if your remarks are to be admitted in their fullest extent of application, they would go to the entire banishment of all religion from society, which would be a fearful calamity—the experience of all ages and countries proves that no social fabric can be held in order and in harmony, unless its various parts are compressed together by the force of religious opinions and sanctions."

"Not, Sir, to the banishment of the religion of nature, which is simple and pure, but to the banishment of the religion of revelation, which is mystical and corrupt."

"And pray, my dear Sir, what is this religion of nature, which you say is so simple and pure? It is something of which I have heard, but I never saw its form or heard its voice."

"Why, Sir, it is that view of the perfections of the Deity which we discover in His visible works, and the consequent impressions which they make on our minds. How vast the power which has sprung yon azure arch over our revolving globe! What wisdom is displayed in the adaptation of every part of the creation to accomplish some obvious design! And it is evident, from the subservience of all things to the comfort and happiness of living beings, that goodness is an essential attribute of the Deity. It is in this vast temple, where he unveils his glory, that I offer up my orisons and my incense; and not on altars built by human hands, or within temples consecrated by priestly incantations."

"I agree with you, that power, and wisdom, and goodness, are displayed in the works of God, and that we may worship him either in the glen or on the mountain top, beside the running stream or within the recesses of pathless woods; but, as we are sinners, can we indulge any hope of mercy, unless he condescend to promise us forgiveness? And tell me from what part of the visible creation has the sound of mercy ever proceeded?"

"Why, Sir, we may presume that He who has made provision for all our temporal wants, has made provision also for our moral ones."

"We know, Sir, that the supreme magistrate feeds and clothes the state prisoner, but are we to presume, from this circumstance, that he will also remit his sentence of condemnation?"

This question produced a momentary embarrassment; but, after a short pause, he said, "I grant that a promise of mercy would be a more substantial basis for hope than a mere presumption resting on analogical reasoning."

"I thank you for this frank admission; and I think if you will investigate the subject, free from prejudice, you will find that the promise has been given."

"I know that the writers of your Scriptures have incorporated the promise of forgiveness in their scheme of religion; but I can never bring my mind to believe that they were authorized to do so by the Deity. I never can believe in the truth of Christianity. It is impossible."

"But, Sir, you will admit that it may be true, though you do not believe it?"

"Why, yes; my scepticism does not prove it false, any more than your faith proves it true."

"Now, let me suppose for a moment that it is true—in what an awful dilemma are you placed! Be candid. Are you convinced, by an unbiassed and dispassionate investigation of the evidences of Christianity, that the system is false?"

"Why, no; I have never examined them; and for this reason, I have never thought it worth while; because I cannot reconcile your doctrine of the atonement with the dictates of reason."

"But, suppose the fact of the atonement be established by proper, valid evidence, will your inability to reconcile it with the dictates of reason be any logical argument against it?"

"Most certainly it will, unless you require me to believe what I can neither understand nor comprehend; and, allow me to ask, what practical effect can be produced by the admission of any doctrine or supposed fact which is incomprehensible?"

"You believe in the existence of God; and that belief induces you to pay him homage; but can you comprehend the nature of his essence, or the modus of his existence?"

He was silent; I continued, "We have positive proof that the tides of the ocean are acted on by the moon. This is a fact, which nautical science compels us to believe; and the belief does operate on human conduct; but can you understand how its influence does act? But, waiving the introduction of other facts, which may be made to tell with crushing force against your proposition, that what is incomprehensible cannot put forth any practical power, may I be permitted to ask, what other specific objections you have to advance against the doctrine of the atonement, which is so distinctly and repeatedly brought forward by the writers of the Scriptures?"

"I have several; first, I cannot admit that the death of an innocent person can be accepted as an atonement for the sins of the guilty, without a gross violation of the laws of immutable justice. If I take for granted, what your Scriptures assert to be the case, that man is a sinner, and consequently under a sentence of condemnation, does not immutable justice require that he should stand responsible for his actions; how, then, can he transfer this responsibility to another, without disturbing the established law of moral order?"

"He does not make the transfer, he merely accepts it; the transfer is made in his behalf, by the authority of the supreme legislator; and Jesus Christ, to whom the transfer is made, willingly takes upon himself the moral responsibility of human crime and guilt."

"This certainly obviates one part of my objection, but still immutable justice seems to require, to quote from your own standard of authority, that the soul that sinneth shall die, that is, I suppose, shall endure the penalty of his own crimes."

"Yes, unless some intervening act of grace be performed, which acquits the culprit, without setting aside the authority of the law by which he is condemned. You recollect what is reported of Zaleucus, a king of Greece, at a crisis when the paternal affections beat in harmony with the claims of justice."

"It has escaped my memory."

"The case was this—he passed a law which doomed an adulterer to the loss of his eyes, as the penalty of his crime. His own son was accused and condemned; and the question arose amongst the people, Will the king's son suffer, or will the law be repealed? The king very soon settled the question—his son suffers the loss of one eye, and then, to save him from total blindness, he consents to lose one of his own eyes; thus bowing to the majesty of his own law for the suppression of this popular crime. Here we see how, by an expedient devised by paternal benevolence, the authority of the law was preserved, while the guilty culprit was rescued from the extreme severity of its infliction. And now permit me to ask, whether the development of the paternal affections, in conjunction with the mitigated severity of judicial infliction, had not a necessary tendency to excite amongst the people a more profound reverence for the law, while it increased their attachment to their sovereign, and their confidence in the equity of his administration? What adulterer could expect to elude the penalty of his crime after witnessing such a spectacle of justice and of benevolence?"

"Permit me to say, I cannot perceive the bearing of this touching fact, which you have imported from Greece, on my objection to your doctrine of the atonement."

"Indeed, I am surprised at that. The Bible tells us that God stands in the relation of a paternal sovereign, who commands our subjection to his laws, while he allows us to address him as our Father. These laws we violate, and the penalty is incurred, and immutable justice requires its infliction; he provides a substitute in the person of his only begotten Son, who willingly consents to accept the appointment, and actually suffers, the just for the unjust; dying to rescue the guilty from the horrors of the second death. Here we see the conjunction of justice and mercy, the blending of the awful majesty of the Sovereign with the tenderness of paternal benevolence; the law is honoured, while the culprit is pardoned; and the practical effect of this comprehensive scheme of grace is to increase our reverence for the authority of God, while it increases also our gratitude and love to him."

"If I admit, what you take for granted, that the Deity has given us a code of laws in your Scriptures, and that the violation of any of them does actually involve man in guilt and condemnation, then, in that case, your explanation is a fair rescue of the atonement from the grasp of my objection. But I have now to call your attention to another objection, which, I think, will give you a little more trouble. But, before I bring it forward, allow me to ask one question. According to your theory, unless I misapprehend you, the atonement is a simple vindication of the Deity's moral government, enabling him to exercise mercy in conjunction with justice; and thus uphold the authority of his laws, while he passes a sentence of acquittal on the culprit who transgresses or disobeys them?"

"Yes, my theory embraces that aspect of the atonement."

"Has it any other bearing?"

"Yes, it has an important bearing on man, in relieving him from the galling pressure of conscious guilt, and giving him peace of soul, combined with a hope of final salvation."

"It is this aspect of the atonement," said the stranger, "which constitutes the germ of my objection. The atonement, if a reality, is a fact of ancient date; and, like all other historical facts, it comes transmitted to us on the evidence of testimony; and it must, I suppose, be believed before it can exert any influence or power on the mind of man."

"Most certainly."

"This is the problem I want solved; is this supposed moral power emitted directly FROM the atonement on the human spirit, when it is in a quiescent state? if so, there can be no necessity for the exercise of belief; or does the human spirit extract it by the mysterious action of its own faith? if so, as the virtue itself is both intangible and imperceptible, and consequently inconceivable, how can faith, whose object of belief must be something definite, perform the supposed action?"

"Your question is a very subtle one, but it is not a very perplexing one, because it relates to a fact of a peculiar order, all of which are self-evident, while the nature of their influence or power, and the modus of its operation—i.e., the operation of the influence of the facts of the peculiar order—are shrouded in a veil of impenetrable mystery."

"Excuse me; but I don't take the drift of your meaning."

"You object to the atonement, because you cannot conceive how it can exert any effective influence over the soul of a man oppressed by a sense of conscious guilt."

"Exactly so."

"Well, I am now going to prove that there is no logical force in your objection, and I will do this by one analogical fact, which will explain, and, I think, confirm the correctness of my meaning. Take, then, human friendship. Is the moral power of human friendship a fiction or a reality? Take the look of friendship; is there no moral power in the movement and soft beaming of the eye, especially in the falling tear? Take the countenance of friendship; is there no moral power in the bland and bewitching smile? Take the bosom of friendship; is there no moral power in the suppressed groan or noiseless sigh? Take the hand of friendship; is there no moral power in the hearty shake or gentle squeeze? Take the tongue of friendship; is there no moral power in its expressions of sympathy, or its promises of fidelity? But, Sir, what is this mystic power, which is known to act with such efficacy on the troubled and downcast spirit in the season of its perplexities and sorrows? Can you tell me what it is, or how it acts? It is a mighty something, which, like an invisible spirit of superhuman benignity, moves without a shape, speaks without a voice, passes through all resistances of doubt and misgivings without an effort, laying the throbbing heart of the anxious mourner at rest on its own impalpable bosom, where it enjoys the solace and the calm of sweet repose. Thus we have, in the common occurrences of every-day life, a philosophical defence of the moral efficacy of the power which the Scriptures ascribe to the atonement, even though we cannot define its exact nature, or explain the modus of its actual operation. It is then, like the power of human friendship, a fact which evidence attests and which uniform experience confirms."

"I am delighted that my scepticism has supplied to you such a tempting background for the beautiful sketching of the mystic power of friendship true to life, with which you have now favoured me. But you have overlooked one important fact, namely, that the human spirit is dependent on her physical senses for the transmission and reception of the power of friendship."

"True, but only as the medium of transmission and reception; and this fact supplies fresh evidence to prove, that while you are compelled to admit, on the evidence of consciousness and testimony, the power of friendship, you can neither explain nor conceive the nature of its influence, or the modus of its operation. And it is to the same evidence I appeal in confirmation of the moral power of the atonement on the human spirit, and maintain that you have no moral, or even logical right to deny it, on the ground of my inability to give you all the explanations you may ask me for, when you yourself feel a similar inability to explain how it is that a self-evident friendship works so powerfully on the heart of sorrow and of perplexity."

"Well, then, I will admit, and most readily, that you have fairly silenced my objection against the atonement, on the ground of your inability to explain, or my inability to conceive the modus of its moral operation on the human spirit; but still I hesitate to admit its reality, because I do not feel its absolute necessity, either as a basis of hope or a source of mental ease and satisfaction."

"I once, Sir, rejected the atonement as you now do, but when I saw the malignant quality of sin, I could reject it no longer; and you will allow me to say, that if it be a reality, and you finally reject it, you will inevitably perish. Permit me, therefore, to advise you to read the Scriptures attentively, examine the evidences which they adduce of their divine origin, and implore the Father of our spirits to aid the perceptions of your judgment and the tendencies of your will on this important subject of inquiry. If, after this intellectual and moral process has been adopted, you are compelled to disbelieve the Scripture doctrine of the atonement, you will have the show of argument in your favour; but if you reject it without investigation, your folly will be no less apparent, even if it be false, than your guilt will be overwhelming, if it should be true."

"We must now," said the stranger, "leave this subject of discussion, and bid adieu to each other; but I will give you my pledge of honour that I will take your advice, and if you will exchange cards with me you shall know the result, though I cannot allow you to imagine that it will afford you any satisfaction."

"It may, and I hope it will."

The stranger (whose name I perceived, on looking at his card, was Gordon), on taking leave of me, said, "I have been watching yonder cloud some time, and am apprehensive a storm is rising; but I hope we shall be able to escape it." I now hastened towards Fairmount; but, as I had wandered the distance of some miles, I soon found that it would be impossible to reach it without having to encounter the threatening tempest. As I passed through a thick coppice, the birds sat in silence on the branches, or flew with rapidity from one tree to another; the wind blew with a deep and hollow sound; and then for a few seconds ceased its howlings, as if to recover strength to send forth a more dismal groan. On descending the slope which led into the vale, a streak of lightning struck across my path, and the loud roaring thunder, echoing through the valley, produced a universal consternation in its flocks and herds. A sudden darkness came over the whole horizon; the rain came down in torrents; and, having missed my path, I knew not which way to proceed.

After walking on a considerable distance, I saw a cottage, towards which I ran for shelter, and was welcomed in. The honest woodman immediately ordered his eldest boy to fetch a large bundle of sticks to throw on the fire; and I was requested to draw near and dry myself. Up in the chimney-corner sat a fine-looking girl, about nine years of age, whose eyes were bedewed with tears; another, about three years older, sat in the window seat wrapped in pensive sadness; an athletic youth, still older, was reclining himself against the table; and the father soon drew, from the deep recesses of a wounded breast, one of the most piercing groans that ever vibrated across the sensibilities of my heart. These symptoms of grief soon convinced me that I had retreated from the disorders of the physical world, to witness the convulsive throes of the social; and my spirits, which usually ebb and flow with the tide of feeling on which they are borne, began to sink within me. "I fear," addressing myself to the father, "you are in trouble?" "O yes, Sir! our hearts are all bursting; for death is coming to bear off our little Jemima. She is up stairs, where she has now been these eight days, and her mother has never left her, night or day. She is one of the best girls a father ever loved." "But death does not come by chance." "O, no; 'the Lord gave, and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord;' but it is hard work to part. Do walk up and see her before she dies; but she is so changed!"

The surgeon, who had been anxiously expected for several hours, now arrived. "Do you think," said the grief-worn mother, "our child is dying?" This question, though familiar to the humane man, was not heard without an evident emotion of sorrow. "While there is life there is hope; but I would not advise you to be too sanguine in your expectations; she is very ill." There was no burst of anguish at this reply. They all knew Jemima was dying, though they were unwilling to believe it; and though their pulse beat a little quicker on hearing this reply, and their faces turned paler, yet they stood pressing round the bed, as if to keep off the king of terrors, whose advanced guards had taken the forlorn hope.

We now went down stairs; and, as the storm was over, the surgeon left, but I could not leave. "Will you," said the father, "go to prayer with us? If it were not for prayer, and the hope which the gospel gives, my heart would break." With this request I complied; and while praying to the God of all grace that the little child might be favoured with the light of his countenance in her passage through the valley of the shadow of death, I heard the mother's shriek, which convinced me that she was gone. The children started up, weeping aloud, wringing their hands, and calling, "Jemima! Jemima! don't leave us." And the mother, with a softened melancholy of countenance, appeared among as, saying, with a faltering tongue, "She exclaimed, as I was raising her up on the pillow, 'I am going to heaven!' and fell back in my arms, and died."

I remained with them about a quarter of an hour, administering to them the consolations of religion, and then left them, in company with the eldest boy, who conducted me to Fairmount, which I reached about ten o'clock. I related to my friends the adventures of my ramble, which compensated for the anxiety which my long absence and the state of the weather had occasioned. When reflecting on this fact, and contrasting the bright prospect which the gospel of Christ unveils to the juvenile as well as to the aged Christian, with the dark and cheerless gloom of infidelity, I feel its immense superiority; and with emotions which no language can describe, I pay my adorations and praises to Him who brought life and immortality to light.

A SABBATH MORNING AT FAIRMOUNT.

"He walked through the province of human misery and crime, a mysterious being, doing what He pleased, without ostentation and with perfect ease. He gave sight to the blind, and hearing to the deaf; disease, in its multifarious forms of infliction, withdrew when He issued the command; the dead arose to do Him homage; the raging elements, when His disciples were in danger, hushed to a calm at His bidding; and the dumb became vocal in His praise. These were the triumphs of benevolence over the miseries of man, requiring, on His part, no privations or suffering to effect them. Shift the scene of His history, and what a sight do we behold! He is poor, homeless, and unpitied; often weary in His great exertions of beneficence; and sometimes having to endure the extreme of hunger and of thirst. His enemies revile Him as a fanatic; denounce Him as an impostor and maniac; and accuse Him of treason and blasphemy; and secretly conspire to put Him to death. The quietude of Gethsemane, where He was pleading with heaven in behalf of the people, is broken by the foot-treads of His betrayer, stepping in advance of an armed force; in the council-chamber of Caiaphas he is maligned and insulted; and when arraigned at Pilate's tribunal, He is scourged and condemned; and at Calvary they crucify Him between two malefactors. There this illustrious Prince bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?" The pathetic tones in which this sentence was uttered—there He bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?—bathed the whole audience in tears; there was a sudden pause, and its stillness awoke me.

"This," I said, as I came back to wakeful consciousness, "is a dream, which has called up day thoughts in the visions of the night; painting on the fancy, in vivid colours, the meditations of the heart. A dream! strange phenomenon! the mysterious action of the mysterious spirit, ever active, with or without the auxiliary aid of the senses; but the facts of this dream are the realities of absolute truth—the most wonderful and important realities within the compass of universal knowledge. I can reply to the questions of the dream in my wakeful hour. He bleeds; for what? The iniquities of the people. He dies; for whom? He gave His life a ransom for the redemption and salvation of man. Wondrous event!"

On looking out of my bedroom window, I saw the sun rising in his splendour; the winds were at rest, no clouds veiled the heavens in gloom. "It is," I involuntarily exclaimed, "a delightful Sabbath morning." Seeing Hervey's Meditations on my dressing-table, I took it, and read his "Descant upon Creation," closing with the following soul-inspiring paragraph:—

"Most of all, ye ministers of the sanctuary, heralds commissioned from above, lift every one his voice like a trumpet, and loudly proclaim the Redeemer. Get ye up, ye ambassadors of peace, get ye up into the high mountains, and spread far and wide the honours of the Lamb that was slain, but is alive for evermore. Teach every sacred roof to resound with His fame, and every human heart to glow with His love. Declare, as far as the force of words will go, declare the inexhaustible fulness of that great atonement, whose merits are commensurate with the glories of the Divinity. Tell the sinful wretch what pity yearns at Immanuel's breast; what blood He has spilt, what agonies He has endured, what wonders He has wrought for the salvation of His enemies. Invite the indigent to become rich; entreat the guilty to accept of pardon; because with the crucified Jesus is plenteous redemption and all-sufficiency to save. While you, placed in conspicuous stations, proclaim the joyful sound, may I, as I steal through the vale of humble life, catch the pleasing accents! For me the Author of all blessings became a curse; for me His bones were dislocated, and His flesh was torn. He hung with streaming veins and an agonizing soul on the cross for me. O! may I, in my little sphere, and amidst the scanty circle of my acquaintance, at least whisper these glad transporting tidings!—whisper them from my own heart, that they may surely reach and sweetly penetrate theirs.

"But when men and angels raise the grand hymn; when all worlds and all beings add their collective acclamations—this full, fervent, and universal chorus, will be so inferior to the riches of the Redeemer's grace, so disproportionate to the magnificence of His glory, that it will seem but to debase the unutterable subject it attempts to exalt. The loud hallelujah will die away in the solemn mental eloquence of prostrate, rapturous, silent admiration.

On my way to the church, passing a cottage which stood a short distance from a foot-path I was crossing, I saw a man and his two sons at work in his garden; they made me a bow, which I acknowledged.

"Your cottage," I remarked, "is pleasantly situated; and you seem to have a productive garden, and keep it in good order."

"Why, yes, Sir; but it costs us a deal of hard labour."

"Have you a large family?"

"Yes, Sir, we have six children; and, thank God, they are as healthy as a spring morning."

"Who do you work for?"

"I and these two lads work for Farmer Goddard, who lives just over the hill, as good a master as ever hired a servant."

"What time do you generally devote to your garden?"

"Why, Sir, we give it a few odd hours in the week; but as that is not enough, we work at it on a Sunday morning till dinner-time."

"And what do you generally do after dinner on a Sunday?"

"The lads go on the green for a bit of a frolic, and I go up to the Plough, and spend a few hours along with some of my neighbours."

"Can you read?"

"A little, Sir; but my wife can read as well as any of my master's daughters."

"Have you a Bible?"

"Yes; but I don't read it much, because I can't understand it."

"Don't you think you could understand the following passage:—'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son.'"

"A fanatic you mean; but that is a nick-name which people who have no religion give to those who have. Now, I suppose your fellow-servant understands more about the Bible and about religion than you do?"

"More than I do! ay, more than all the rest on the farm put together. He has got the Bible at his fingers' ends, and will tell the meaning, too, off hand; and master has taken a great liking to him, and is going off to his way of thinking, which, I hear, is a mortal sorrow to mistress and the young ladies."

"Does his religion make him wretched?"

"Why, Sir, it is commonly thought in many of these parts, and by many of the gentlefolks, that religion makes people unhappy; but I am sure that our Sam is one of the happiest men on earth. I have often said to my wife that there must be something in Sam's religion which we don't know anything about; because, let whoever will be dull and sorrowful, he is always happy."

"Yes, my honest fellow, there is more in religion than you, who do not understand it, can form any notion of. Religion is something more than resting from labour on a Sunday, and going to church."

"More than that, Sir! then I wish you would tell me what it is; for I always thought that going to church was all that God required us to do; and I heard mistress say so to master t'other day, and she was in earnest when she said it, for she spoke loud enough to be heard all over the kitchen."

"Yes, I will tell you with great pleasure. As we are depraved and unholy, more disposed to love sin than to hate it, the Bible tells us that the dispositions and propensities of our mind must be changed by a supernatural power; and when this change takes place, we become new creatures—old things pass away, and all things become new. And as we are guilty sinners, we must repent of our sins, and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save sinners, even the chief."

"Ay, I see, all this belongs to the mind, and is something different from merely going to church. Now I have often been to church, but I always came out just as I went in. I never heard anything that ever touched my heart."

Pleased with this reply, which seemed to indicate an apprehension of the subject, I replied, "Yes; you may go to a church, and return from it without possessing religion, for that has a peculiar and direct reference to the heart, which is by nature deceitful and impure. But yet religion is conveyed to the heart through the medium of reading or of hearing. Hence it is our duty to read the Bible and other good books, and to go and hear the gospel preached, because it pleases God, by means of preaching, to save them that believe."

"Then I suppose, Sir, you are now going to church; but as you are a stranger in these parts, perhaps you don't know that our parish church stands yonder."

"Yes, I know it does; but I am not going to that church, because the clergyman does not preach the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. He is a blind guide."

"No, Sir; on that point you are mistaken; his eye is as sharp-sighted as a hawk's; he is the best shot in the parish."

"I don't mean that he is literally blind, but spiritually; that is, he does not understand the religion of the Bible, and therefore he does not teach it."

"That's what our Sam says, and I heard mistress let fly at him rather sharply t'other day for saying so. But master now says the same thing, which, I am told by the dairy-maid, gives mortal offence to mistress and the young ladies. But I never knew master wrong in his judgment of men and things. Where, Sir, are you going, if one may be so bold to ask?"

"I am going to hear Mr. Ingleby, whose preaching has been such a great blessing to many of his parishioners and others."

"That's the parson our Sam goes to hear; and master has taken to go to hear him lately. He wants, so I have heard, mistress to go with him, and the young ladies; but they won't; they say he is a Methodist and fantic."

"Have you ever heard him preach?"

"No, Sir. I am told that his preaching drives people out of their senses, and I should not like to part with what little I have."

"Did you ever know any one driven out of his senses by him?"

"Why, no, Sir; and I must say that I don't much believe it; and for this reason, I always find people who like his preaching more inclined to do poor people good, than those who talk against it. Why, Sir, when my wife was last confined, we all thought that she would die; and it is wonderful how kind some of Mr. Ingleby's followers were to her. They gave her what she wanted for this world, and talked to her so kindly about another world, that she has taken a liking to them, and would have been off to their religion, but I would not let her. We have had more words on this subject than any other since we have been married, which is now eighteen years come Christmas."

"And do you think that you have done right by opposing your wife? Now, suppose you were to make up your mind to go and hear Mr. Ingleby preach, how would you like for your master to say to you, No, you shall not go?"

"I should not like it at all, because I think I have a right to go where I please on a Sunday, if I do my work in the week."

"Then, has not your wife a right to go where she likes to worship God, and get religious instruction, if she does her duties at home."

"Why, yes, Sir, and I sometimes think that I have done wrong by stopping her."

"Now, take my advice, let her go, and go you too, and hear and judge for yourself; and, take my word for it, you will never regret it."

I now left him, and hastened to church; and just as I entered, the venerable man read from the desk, "I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants." He conducted the devotional part of the service with great solemnity, and the congregation appeared to feel that they were under the immediate notice of the Holy One of Israel. After his entrance into the pulpit, he presented a short extemporary prayer with great simplicity and fervour, and then announced his text: Genesis xxviii. 16, 17.

I. It is the presence of God which constitutes the glory of the visible temple.

II. He is sometimes present when the worshippers are unconscious of the fact; and,

III. A belief of his presence is calculated to excite awe and delight.

As a few notes of this sermon may not be unacceptable to the reader, I will give them:

"That God actually dwells in the place where a pure worship is performed, we have the most decisive proofs. 'In all places where I record my name, I will come unto thee, and I will bless thee' (Exodus xx. 24).

"His presence is extended through all space, and operates with an undiminished force in every part of his universal dominion; but there is a more special manifestation of it where people assemble to praise and pray. And though scepticism may ridicule such a notion as giving locality to the Supreme Being, yet to deny it, is virtually to exclude him from the government of the world. But what attracts his notice? Not the rising spire, nor the tolling bell; not the Gothic arch, nor the Corinthian column; not the flowing vestment of the preacher, nor the purple robe of the hearer. These are the embellishments and attractions of human device, which may captivate and amuse the sentimental or the superstitious, but from such vain shows the Holy One turns away, to look with complacency on an object which a proud and sceptical world scorns to pity or to notice. 'To this man will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word' (Isaiah lxvi. 2).

"He is here, though you see him not, and though the sound of his awful and paternal voice is never heard; and when you come into his invisible presence, always remember that 'God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth' (John iv. 24). You must bow before him in faith, believing that his eye is upon you, and that he knows all the thoughts and desires of your heart; you must confess and deplore your sins, and pray for mercy, and for your eternal salvation in the name of Jesus Christ, giving thanks for every good and perfect gift which he has bestowed upon you. If you do this, then you may expect some special manifestations of his grace and love; but if you feel no emotions of reverence, of self-humiliation, or of gratitude, nor any intense desires for his favour and loving-kindness, then you stand chargeable—even though you may suppose you have done your duty—with the sin of hypocrisy or insincerity, and of you the Lord may say, 'This people draw near me with their mouth, and with their lips do honour me, but have removed their heart far from me, and their fear toward me is taught by the precept of men' (Isa. xxix. 13.)

"And, in addition to these exercises of mental devotion, you are to listen to what God the Lord will say to you in the ministrations of truth and grace, which His ministers are employed to conduct. We preach, warning every man, and teaching every man, that we may present every man perfect in Christ Jesus; but we warn and teach in vain, unless you believe, and receive the truth in love and gratitude, not as the word of man, but as the word of God; and if our warnings and teachings do not take effect, you will die in your sins and perish for ever. For how 'will you escape if you neglect so great salvation.'"

When going through the crowd, after the service of the church was over, I noticed the man with whom I had been conversing in the morning, a little way before me, with his wife and two of his children. When he saw me, he came up, and, thanking me for my advice, said, "I hope, Sir, I shall never forget this day; and I am sure that I shall often think of you when I don't see you."

As I was sauntering along, meditating on the realities of the visible and the invisible world, and offering my silent adorations and thanksgivings to Him who gave himself a ransom for my redemption, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me, and, turning round, I was rather abruptly addressed by a stranger, who said, "I thank you, Sir, for persuading my servant, Robert, to come to church this morning. He is a good servant, and a better informed man than most labourers; but he wants the one thing needful. Godly servants are a master's treasure."

"Am I addressing Mr. Goddard?"

"Yes, Sir; and if I mistake not, you are the gentleman who has called to see my friend, Mr. Pickford."

"Yes, I have visited him."

"I wish, Sir, you would come and see me. Your talk and prayer might do my family good, as it has done his."

"I am glad to hear that you are turning your attention to the salvation of your soul."

"Ah, Sir, I lived for many years, like most of the farmers in these parts, a sad heathenish life; and I should have lived on in this state till the hour of death, had it not pleased God to send me a godly servant. His plain and honest talk set me thinking, and reading my Bible, and then I went and heard the Rev. Mr. Ingleby preach, and the gospel came with great power to my soul. It opened before me a new scene of spiritual wonders, and a new source of spiritual comfort. But I am sorry to say that all my family are sadly opposed to spiritual things; they make light of them."

"You may live to see a change."

"I hope I may. But it is very painful, after being made alive from the dead, to see my wife and children living under the sentence of death. It makes my heart ache. What ought I to do?"

"Persuade them, when they go to public worship, to go where the gospel is preached."

"They object, Sir, and I cannot force them."

"Try the efficacy of prayer—the prayer of faith and of importunity—and calmly wait the issue."

We now parted, and when going by the church in which the Rev. Mr. Cole does duty, I picked up an elegantly bound prayer-book, and observing a fashionable couple at a distance, I quickened my pace, that I might restore what I presumed they deemed valuable, if their property. When I overtook them, I presented the book, and asked if they knew to whom it belonged.

"O dear," said one of the ladies, "it is mine, but I had not missed it. I thank you, Sir; we have heard a very excellent discourse this morning from the Rev. Mr. Cole. O dear," said the lady, "I think he is one of the most heavenly preachers I ever heard."

"Is his audience very large?" I asked.

"O no, Sir; only a few genteel people attend, and a few poor old people, who receive the sacrament money, and some gifts at Christmas."

"Then, I presume, there can be but little religion in the parish, for the population is very large."

"O dear, Sir, I assure you there is a great deal too much religion in our parish, and it is on this subject that Mr. Cole has been preaching so eloquently this morning."

"Why, Madam, you both puzzle and surprise me. Too much religion in a parish where the generality of the people forsake the church, and a minister preaching eloquently against religion, which he lives to inculcate and recommend!"

"I see you are a stranger among us," said the lady, "or you would perceive the force of my remarks. The people all flock to a church just over yonder hill, where a Mr. Ingleby preaches, and really, Sir, if you associate with them, you would soon become quite dull and melancholy, particularly so. Do you know, Sir, that they are so far gone from all the elegant accomplishments of society, as to say that it is a sin to play at cards, or attend a ball, or go to a theatre, or anything of the kind? O dear, if I should ever, by any misfortune, turn over to their religion, which I daily pray I may be kept from, I should be, as the apostle says, of all, 'one of the most miserable.'"

"Well, Madam, with your antipathies to their religion, one should suppose you are in no danger."

"O dear, there are strange things that happen, Sir, in the course of one's life. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, who live at Fairmount villa, which we shall see presently, were, a few years since, as gay as any. Mrs Stevens was never herself more completely than at a ball. She is a most accomplished dancer; her action is so graceful; and even now, Sir, she moves as if she were stepping on springs, which makes me think she has some secret longings to appear amongst us again—an event we should be so glad to see, she is such a choice spirit; but now, as the apostle says, 'they are carried away with this dissimulation.' They are now so religious that they read the Bible, and sing a psalm, and say prayers every morning and evening in the family; and I am told, but I should hope there is no truth in the report, that when Mr. Stevens is from home, Mrs. Stevens so far forgets herself as to say prayers to her servants."

"You should not believe everything that report says, Madam."

"O dear, I don't believe one-half, for I heard the other day that Mrs. Stevens really goes to see a poor woman of the name of Allen, who lives in this cottage which we are now passing, and that she descends so low as to say prayers to her."

"Why, Madam, report is very busy in your neighbourhood; I am afraid you are not living in peace."

"In peace, Sir; why, I assure you, it is the very worst neighbourhood I ever was in in all my life. I never hear one person speak well of another."

"How do you account for it, Madam?"

"O, Sir, it is religion which has done it. Not the religion of our forefathers, but the religion which is imported from t'other side of that hill. Do you know, Sir, that Farmer Goddard, who was one of the pleasantest men I ever knew, has lately got infected by it; and Miss Goddard, who has just finished her education at Mrs. Roper's, told us, as we walked together to church this morning, they can do nothing to please him. That when she wanted to go to Bath with Mr. Johnson, to see the Fall of Tarquin, he would not let her go, but had the rudeness to say she was going into the way of temptation."

"And do you think, Madam, it is right for a daughter to talk against her own father?"

"Why, to be sure, Sir, you now put a question which never struck me before."

"And do you think that a person of affluence and respectability sustains any loss of reputation by visiting the poor and afflicted?"

"O, no, I have often thought of doing it myself; but really, Sir, I don't know what I could say to them. I suppose it would be necessary to descend."

"Yes, Madam; the Lord of life and glory descended, when he assumed a human form to accomplish our redemption; but I rather fear, from the general strain of your remarks, that you have no accurate conception of the design of his mission, or of his death."

"O dear, Sir, I wonder at your remark. He came to teach us to be religious."

"And, Madam, the first lesson he has taught us is to this effect: 'Verily, verily I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'"

"Do you know, Sir, I never could understand the meaning of that language; and I have asked several of my friends, but they can't tell me; and one evening when I met the Rev. Mr. Cole at a card party, I proposed the question to him, but he was so much engaged that he could not attend to it."

"But you perceive, that unless we are born again, 'we cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.' I can tell you who can explain it to you."

"Who, Sir?"

"The Rev. Mr. Ingleby."

"O dear, you alarm me. Do you think I could ever go and ask him?"

"Would you then rather live and die ignorant of the meaning of the subject, than go and ask him to explain it to you?"

"Why, Sir, if I were to be seen speaking to him, my friends would cut me, and I should never be able to appear at any of our social parties."

"But, Madam, it is a serious thing to die without possessing that which Jesus Christ says is absolutely necessary to fit us for heaven."

"But, Sir, I am not going to die yet."

"I hope not, Madam, but you must die, and must stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, and then do you think that a recollection of your card parties will afford you any pleasure?"

"But I hope to prepare for death."

"Can you, Madam, prepare too soon, when you do not know but you may die suddenly?"

"O dear, Sir, the subject begins to depress me, and I must decline pursuing it any farther, if you please."

"Read, Madam, before you retire to rest this evening, the third chapter of the gospel of John; ponder over what you read, it may do you some spiritual good."