"It is a favourite hymn of mine," observed Mr. Lewellin; "and the last stanza, to which you refer, brings to my recollection the lines of Cowper:—

But no sorrow is so deep and pungent as that which the mind usually feels when pierced by the convictions of guilt; and yet there is a sacredness in the passion which distinguishes it from unmingled anguish or grief. When first excited, it often occasions deep mental depression; but when relief is obtained, by a clear perception of the way of salvation through faith in the death of Jesus Christ, it is turned into a spring of grateful joy."

"But the generality of professing Christians," said Miss Roscoe, "scornfully reject those religious sentiments which commence their moral operations by inflicting pain in the mind. They are religious, but their religious opinions are not permitted to excite either the passion of sorrow or of joy; and as soon as a person begins to feel what he believes, he is denounced a fanatic."

"Yes," replied Mr. Lewellin, "when a person begins to feel the moral efficacy of the truth, he is regarded by many as falling into a state of idiotcy, or rising to a pitch of frenzy. We may feel the charm of music, but not the charm of devotional sentiment; we may be depressed when we give offence to an endeared friend, but a recollection of our transgressions against our Father who is in heaven must occasion no regret; the imagination may be delighted by captivating scenery, but not with the sublime visions of future bliss. No! An excitement which takes its rise in such causes is considered by the semi-Christians of the present age as a certain indication of a disordered intellect or degenerated taste."

"The veil of ignorance," observed the Rev. Mr. Guion, "which is thrown over the mind of the unregenerate, renders them incapable of forming any clear perceptions of the nature or design of the gospel. They reduce the whole of religion to a human arrangement, which merely requires an external homage to an established formula; and conclude that after they have uttered the solemn responses of the Liturgy, listened to the sermon which the clergyman delivers, and taken the sacrament, they have discharged the whole of their duty towards God; and as they have no clear perceptions of revealed truth, they cannot have any powerful religious impressions. Their heart is as cold during the service as the marble slab which bears down to succeeding generations the names of the deceased of past ages; and as they never feel deep sorrow for sin, nor ardent love for an unseen Redeemer, we ought not to be astonished if they treat with contempt the excitement of such emotions in the breast of others."

"Certainly not," replied Miss Roscoe; "I very well recollect being much surprised when I accidentally heard a little girl singing the following verse of a hymn, which I now much admire:—

I was quite incapable of conceiving how religion could give pleasure. I compared a religious service with a concert; and while the recollection of the one produced a pleasant feeling, the other appeared dull and insipid. I compared a Sabbath-day with another day, and regretted that custom had set it apart for observances which were repugnant to my taste. If I went to church, I felt no interest in the service; and if I stayed away, I was unconscious of having sustained any loss of mental improvement or enjoyment."

"But I presume," said Mr. Lewellin, "that now you can trace the connection between religion and pleasure."

"Yes, Sir; there is an inseparable connection between the influence of religious truth on the heart, and the highest degree of mental enjoyment; it brings the soul into a new world of being, where objects, unseen by the natural eye, disclose their beauties; and truths, unfelt by the unrenewed mind, excite a joy which is unspeakable. Now I can understand the Scriptures; the Saviour is invested with overpowering charms, and the futurity which stretches beyond the grave, presents a clear and spacious scene of bliss to my imagination."

"How naturally," observed Mr. Guion, "the mind of an enlightened Christian associates the hope of future happiness with the name of the Redeemer. How cheering and animating to believe that after the sorrows and turmoils of this life have ceased, we shall enter into rest. What a scene of sublime grandeur will open on us then, enkindling emotions of astonishment and joyous delight infinitely beyond any ever previously felt!"

"I admit," said Mr. Lewellin, "that the external beauties of the heavenly world will impart a high degree of delight, but the society of the place will constitute the chief source of felicity. We shall behold the Son of God seated on his throne of majesty and grace. He is the perfection of beauty, and his form is as glorious as his nature is pure. What an impression will be produced when we see him face to face!"

"I love," said Mrs. Stevens, "to think of heaven as the dwelling-place of my Redeemer. The very anticipation of the first interview with him whom unseen I love and adore, excites a feeling in my soul, rich in all that is sacred and delightful. I have, it is true, many ties which bind me to earth, yet there are seasons when I can sing the ardent language of the poet without a faltering accent—

I had as yet taken no part in the conversation, but this reference to Jesus Christ now living in the celestial world, led me to remark that the sufferings he endured when on earth were a decisive proof that he came to accomplish some wonderful ulterior design. We know, from the testimony of the Word of God, that there are beings in heaven of divers rank and order; but from what has taken place, and what is still taking place in the economy of the Divine procedure, we find that a new order of beings is to be called into existence, and one which is to take precedence of all others—to stand out conspicuously for the admiration of all worlds, as the most marvellous specimens of the creating power of God. But instead of putting forth his creative power, as when the angelic orders were called into existence, the Lord Jesus himself, in human form, comes into the dark and wicked world, and, out of the most impure elements, moulds a people for himself, whom he will acknowledge as his brethren, and to whom the angels of God are to act for ever as ministering spirits.

Mr. Lewellin replied: "We are accustomed to say that the facts of real life are often more startling and surprising than the wildest conceptions of romance, but the fact to which you have just given such a prominency is one which must have taken all beings, of all worlds, by surprise; the lowest and the meanest in the scale of intelligence, if not the most polluted and the most vile, are advanced, through the condescending grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, to stand at the head of the intelligent creation of God."

"Then," said Miss Roscoe, "to be a redeemed sinner, when the ulterior purpose of Jesus Christ is actually accomplished in us, will be regarded as a nobler mark of distinction than to be an archangel."

"Yes, the angels of God are the servants of the celestial establishment, but redeemed sinners are the sons of God, fashioned like unto the glorious form of Jesus Christ himself, each one being the express image of Jehovah's person."

An allusion having been made to the impression which must have been made on the minds of the apostles when gazing on the ascension of Jesus Christ, I mentioned that I had recently heard an intimate friend give a graphic description of the scene, in a discourse delivered in his own chapel, and, at my request, he was kind enough to give me a copy of it. As it bore an emphatic relation to the subject of our conversation, I then read it to the party:—

"When going with his apostles from Jerusalem to Bethany, he stops, and stops somewhat abruptly, as though under the impulse of some new thought—they also stop; and when he lifts up his hands, they gather around him; he speaks—they listen with fixed eagerness of attention; he blesses them, though in what form of expression we are not told; they feel the power of his blessing diffusing through their soul an indescribable sensation of calm and ecstatic joy; still looking on him with intense earnestness, at once expressive of their confidence and their love, they suddenly see a movement, and are startled, but not affrighted; he moves, he rises above them, and enters a trackless pathway, on which no one but himself could tread; he is parted from them, gradually ascending higher and higher, till at length a bright cloud receives him, and he disappears out of their sight. They are petrified to the spot, not by terror, but amazement; no one speaks—all instinctively feel that the spot is too hallowed for sounds of human utterance. Two messengers from the celestial world break the silence of ecstatic wonder, saying, 'Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? this same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven.' The apostles bow in reverential awe, and on the spot on which he stood before he was parted from them, they kneel down and worship him, and then return to Jerusalem with great joy.

"With what raptures did the celestial spirits hail his return, and with what joyful awe did they witness his re-investure with the glory he had with the Father before the world was. A new and never-to-be-forgotten era in the annals of immortality is now begun; the new dispensation of mediatorial grace and love, for which the events of four thousand years had been a preparation, is now established; inaugurated into his office as a king and a priest on his throne, he presents to the joyous spectators the first redeemed sinner brought from earth to grace his triumphs. And who is selected for this novel manifestation of his power and his love? A man of genius? a man of rank? a man of Platonic virtue or of Socratic fame? No: a man of crime! who but a few days before was hanging on a cross of infamy and torture, reviling him who is now presenting him faultless before the presence of the Most High, amidst the praises of myriads of celestial spirits. What a wondrous scene!"

"Yes," said Mr. Guion, "that is a scene I should like to have beheld, but the resurrection will surpass it in awful grandeur; and this we shall all see."

This animating conversation excited a degree of feeling which I am not able to describe. Every countenance beamed with delight, and even Miss Denham, who had been a mere listener, manifested an interest in it which I was rather surprised to witness. At length Mr. Stevens rang the bell, when the servants entered the parlour, and Mr. Guion, after reading a portion of the Scriptures, engaged in prayer. He was solemn and devout, and though no visions of glory were seen, nor any supernatural voices heard, yet the Divine presence was eminently enjoyed, and we rose from our knees and sang—

On resuming our seats, Mrs. Stevens said: "I think that all the pleasures of religion are not reserved for another world. There are some which we may partake of in this, and one of the most gratifying is the pleasure of doing good to others."

She then read to us a letter she had received from an aged Dissenting minister, who had a large family and a very limited income, imploring her generous assistance to enable him to extricate himself from some pecuniary embarrassments.

"I am a clergyman," said Mr. Guion, "and feel no disposition to leave the church, but I know how to respect a Dissenting minister, and to sympathize with him in his afflictions. But this good man wants something more than sympathy, and I feel thankful that it is in my power to offer it."

"I have already collected a few pounds," said Mrs. Stevens, "which, with the addition of your liberal donation, will be a very acceptable present."

"The charity of bigotry," said Mr. Lewellin, "is restricted in its sympathies, and, like the Levite, will pass by the sufferer if he belong to another denomination, without extending relief; but the benevolence of the gospel, like the good Samaritan, asks no invidious questions, weeps with them that weep, and rejoices with them that rejoice, and rising to an elevation which renders the landmarks of religious distinctions invisible, pours down its charities upon all who are in trouble."

"I assure you, Sir," replied Mr. Guion, "that as I advance in life and become more imbued with the love of the truth, I feel an increasing attachment to real Christians of every denomination, particularly the faithful ministers of Jesus Christ. When I first took orders I was a first-rate bigot; I resolved to have nothing to do with Dissenters. I despised them. I contemned our venerable friend Mr. Ingleby for his liberality, and refused to associate with him because he associated with some pious Dissenters. I thought that as they left the church they should be banished from all intercourse with our society; and such was the degree of my hostility towards them, that it would have given me pleasure to have seen them sent to some distant colony, where they could live by themselves. But since it hath pleased God to call me out of the darkness of ignorance in which I was involved, into his marvellous light, and shed abroad his love in my soul by the power of the Holy Ghost, I have cherished the pure benevolence of the gospel, and now recognize all as fellow-heirs of the grace of life who bear the image and breathe the spirit of Jesus Christ."

"I think," said Mr. Stevens, "that the spirit of bigotry is decidedly antichristian, as it separates those from each other who are redeemed by the precious blood of Christ, and it has a natural tendency to excite strong aversion in the minds of unbelievers against religion; hence we ought to watch and pray, lest we should be imperceptibly injured by it."

"But do you think," said Miss Roscoe, "that it is possible for a real Christian to possess an atom of bigotry?"

"An atom!" exclaimed Mr. Lewellin, "I know some who are enslaved by it."

"What! and Christians?" said Miss Roscoe.

"Yes."

"Indeed! I should have thought it impossible. But you would not adduce their bigotry as an evidence of their personal religion?"

"O no, it is an evidence of their personal weakness."

"From such a spirit, Sir, I hope we shall ever be preserved. I would shun it as much for its meanness as I do for its malignity; and look on it as a demon who destroys the harmony which ought to prevail among all who rest their hope in Christ."

MISS ROSCOE.

"Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last week, I have felt the extremes of anguish and of joy. My life is indeed a chequered one, and I often wonder how the scene will end."

"Yes, my dear, the life of every Christian is a chequered life. He is liable to a continued change of feeling, and the scene of Providence is ever shifting; the current of his history may run on for a season in a smooth and even course, but it is constantly exposed to obstructions. Joy and grief are very delicate passions; and as they have such a powerful influence over us, it is wisely ordained that we shall not be kept in a state of perpetual excitement. They come in as with a flood of feeling; but, instead of laying waste the mind, they often become the means of enriching it with the most nutritious consolations."

"But how difficult it is to control grief, when it springs out of a domestic calamity."

"I hope, my dear, you have no new domestic trial."

"I am not aware that I have a new one, but I have one that has inflicted a most poignant wound, and I know not what steps to take. My dear parents manifest the most decided hostility to my religious opinions and habits. When they confined their hostility within the bounds of argument and persuasion, I found it comparatively easy to maintain the contest; but now they begin to reproach me, and I fear their attachment is on the decline. To survive the loss of their affection, I think, will be to live too long for my own peace. Where shall I find another home? Where shall I find another father? Where shall I find happiness when my parents cease to love me and regard me as their daughter?"

"Though your parents are hostile to your religious opinions and habits, their hostility will not continue always. They are disappointed by your not appearing in that circle of society in which they expected you to move; and are mortified by the satirical remarks which your religious profession has provoked; but time will soften down these asperities of feeling, and they will eventually tolerate what they may never be disposed to sanction."

"But what ought I to do? Am I to sacrifice my religious principles to parental solicitation? I have been advised to do so, as obedience to parents is a cardinal virtue of Christianity. It is a virtue which ought to live in the heart of every child; yet I feel I cannot give it that form of expression which they wish. It is this that aggravates my sorrow. I love them, I revere them, I would sacrifice my health and my life to please them; but I cannot, I dare not sacrifice my conscience."

"Your situation is very delicate and painful; yet you must remember that you are under the peculiar protection of the Redeemer. He has all power in heaven and on earth, and works all things after the counsel of his own will. He can cause light to spring out of darkness, and often comes forth to deliver his people when they despair of help. I would advise you to be firm, yet temperate; to blend the utmost degree of kindness with inflexible decision; to avoid every appearance of eccentricity; not to introduce religious questions in conversation at an improper time, and when you do introduce them, cautiously abstain from minor and subordinate topics; bear reproach without murmuring; never discover an eagerness to expose erroneous views of truth, unless you have reason to conclude that it can be done without giving offence; and, as a general maxim, prove the truth and the excellence of your religious sentiments and opinions, more by your life than by your tongue."

"I sometimes think that I shall sink beneath my afflictions, but at other times I rise above them. I know that it is through much tribulation that the righteous are to enter the kingdom, and I know, also, that amidst all their tribulations they enjoy peace. The candidate for immortality ought not to object to the cross; but when the cross is prepared by those we love, it becomes peculiarly oppressive. After much deliberation and many prayers, I resolved on writing to my parents, and have placed in the hands of my father, as I left home, a letter, a copy of which I will read to you:—

"'My Beloved Parents,—It is with many varied and conflicting emotions that I now address you; you may think it strange that I have chosen the more formal style of writing, rather than conversing with you, but I trust you will agree with me that, considering the importance of the subject which is now engaging so much of our mutual thoughts and feelings, and the different opinions we entertain, it is of great consequence that we should fully understand each others' sentiments. Upon your kind sympathy I throw myself; judge me not harshly; though compelled to differ from you on many points, still let me have your usual kindness and consideration.

"'I am fully aware of the deep and poignant sorrow which my late course of conduct has brought upon you; you have ever been to me kind and indulgent, have brought me up in the enjoyment of every comfort and elegance which your station in life has enabled you to command; no expense has been spared to fit me for the position in society you wish me to occupy; and now, by my own act and decision, I deprive you of the pleasure and reward which you so naturally expect. You wish to see me moving in elegant society, joining with youthful vigour in those scenes of amusement and worldly gaiety in which you think I ought to find delight, and attribute my objections to such amusements to a morbid antipathy to the elegancies of life, and an assumption of ascetic rigour ill suited to the character of one who has enjoyed my advantages. Both from love and duty, you require me again to frequent these scenes of amusement in which I now feel no interest, again to conform to the usages of fashionable life, and again to be, what I once was, "a giddy worldling." My dear parents, were it an earthly attachment you asked me to surrender, however great the sacrifice, however my heart, its woman's hopes and happiness might be wrecked, so great is the affection I bear you, so high a regard have I for parental authority, that I would yield. But what is it that you ask of me? Not such a sacrifice as this—that time, your love, and other ties might heal—but the sacrifice of all I hold most dear, most valuable—the sacrifice of myself, my precious and immortal soul. Start not, my father, but ponder well and deeply what I say. Judge me not by this world's judgment, but by the Scripture authority, which I know you revere, and will never gainsay. I believe in no strange doctrine; no new or fanciful form of religious truth has taken possession of my heart and feelings. Taking the testimony of Scripture for my guidance, seeking to be led alone by its revealed truth, and to learn and to obey its commands, how can I conform to the world, and yet remain a disciple of Christ Jesus? The two are impossible! "Be ye not conformed to the world" is a solemn command, to which I must yield obedience. It has pleased God in his providence so to influence my heart and conscience, that I now see things with a different eye than before; I must therefore regulate my conduct by these convictions. Love of the world, and worldly pleasures, cannot find a place in the heart of one who has given herself to Christ. You may plead that God requires not sacrifices such as these from his people, especially in opposition to parental authority; and that I have no right to blast your happiness, and bring disgrace upon your family by my eccentric notions. I cannot admit that by my decision I am justly incurring your displeasure, or disgracing myself and you. I cannot, conscientiously with my sense of duty to Christ, any longer mix with the gay and thoughtless, make myself a partner in their follies, or join in their amusements; but I am not required to shun literary pursuits, the improvement of my mind, and those intellectual enjoyments in which I have ever delighted; but believing, as I do, the utter inconsistency of all worldly dissipation and gaiety with the pursuits of a Christian life, I must for ever renounce them. I am prepared for all that misrepresentation and contempt from others may do to wound and annoy, but cannot give up my religious principles, and what I consider my Christian duty. I trust, with the blessing of God, and help from him, sustained by the love and sympathy of my dear Redeemer, I could willingly become a martyr, but never either an inconsistent professor or an apostate.

"'My beloved parents, ponder well ere you deprive me of your confidence and affection; listen not to the satire and bitterness of others, who cannot judge me as I ought to be judged. Believe me—supreme love to the Saviour will not make me love you less; my religious feelings will not make me indifferent to the claims of parental regard, authority, and affection. I shall not be less your child because I call God my father. I implore you, let not domestic strife and sorrow enter our once happy home! For the sake of peace, must I conform to the world, return to the habits and customs of fashionable life, be again—what I once was—one of the gay and thoughtless, or no longer the child of your fondest affections, or perhaps even an inmate of your home? Bear with me while I tell you; my choice is made; I am prepared to sacrifice everything but my religious freedom, my love for my Saviour, and obedience to his authority. 'He that loveth father and mother more than me, is not worthy of me.'

"'It will not be long, at the longest space of time, before this world, with all its gaieties and follies, will pass away from us; we know not how much of sorrow or joy lies before us; what will sustain us should sorrow as a flood flow over us, desolation, and bitter woe? Will the jocund laugh, the merry dance, the enlivening strain of earth's sweetest music, soothe the heart overburdened with deepest sorrow? If we have no other foundation to rest upon than these—no other friendship than that of the world, which is as evanescent as its happiness—where shall we go if sorrow withers our joys and enters our home? But we may escape these, and, like a peaceful stream, our years may glide from us, our sky still be bright and serene, and a cloudless sunset cheer our departing day; but night follows day—and there is a night, dark and stormy if unenlightened from above, coming upon us all, for which we each one must prepare—the night of death! What will it avail us then whether riches or poverty, rank or meanness, has been our portion here? These will not save us; all that human love and friendship can effect will be unavailing then, if our hope is not on high—if an Almighty friend is not with us to divide for us the waters of dissolution—to become our intercessor and Saviour. Oh! my beloved parents, dearer to me than life itself, think of these things; think of the last earthly scene; let me prepare for it, and forget not that the same preparation is needful for you.

"'I can no longer trifle with the things of time; an eternity of bliss or woe is before me. I am prepared for the sacrifice of all earthly honour and happiness, that I may be safe in Christ, and prepared to meet him at his coming. That you, my dear parents, may finally meet me in the heavenly world, where no sorrow can enter, and where the voice of discord is never heard, is the sincere prayer of your affectionate and dutiful child,

"'Sophia.'"

"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Stevens, "but this letter will operate greatly in your favour. Your parents are labouring under a misapprehension, which your open and frank statement will remove; and while they must admire the independence which claims its rights, they will respect those religious principles which no human authority can, or ought even to attempt to subdue."

"Oh! they are the best of parents, and if they had not been influenced by the evil spirit of others, they never would have disturbed my peace. I blame not them, but the officious few who, like the ancient Pharisees, will not go into the kingdom of heaven themselves, nor suffer them that are entering to go in. But I forgive them. They demand my pity—they have it—and my prayers also, for they know not what they do. I will now, as a diversion from this painful subject, read to you an interesting letter which I have just received from a young friend with whom I formed an acquaintance when at Dawlish, and I have no doubt it will give you great pleasure, as it has given me. She was, when I first knew her, devoted to the pleasures of this world; but now, I trust, she is seeking those of a better:—

"'My Dear Sophia,—I received your last letter; on looking at the date of it, I must apologize to you for leaving it so long unanswered. It came to me while my mind was in an agitated state, and I had almost abandoned the hope of future happiness. Not that I have been called to pass through any scene of earthly trial and disappointment, but my volatile and thoughtless heart has been deeply impressed by the conviction of my sinfulness in the sight of God, and my consequent danger. Although I have received a religious education, and ever felt a reverence for what is sacred and sublime, yet love for real religion had never found a place in my heart. Far from my thoughts and feelings was all regard for what is most essential to our eternal interests. Fond of the society of the worldly and gay, my chief pleasure and pursuits have been in the world—gayest among the gay, the festive dance, the evening assembly—all the pleasures which may be derived from the associations and charms which this vain and transitory scene can give, had acquired a complete ascendency over my heart. The thought of death and futurity I banished from me, living on in a state of careless, thoughtless indifference.

"'At this time a friend presented to me a little treatise, and I could not from politeness refuse to read it. From its perusal I have received those deep and powerful impressions, which, I trust, may never be effaced from my heart. I now see wherein I have acted so foolishly. God, in his great mercy, has poured into my soul the light of Divine truth. Oh! how greatly are all things changed to me! I can no longer find pleasure in worldly dissipation and gaiety; I have entirely forsaken those scenes of folly and sin; and am I not happy? The peace and true joy which only a Christian can know, has taken possession of my heart; love to my Saviour, who lived and died for me, and a sense of his forgiving mercy, is my chief delight. In the study of the Holy Scriptures I find intense enjoyment; the time I formerly spent in thoughtless gaiety I now devote to the improvement of my mind, and the sacred delights of private devotion. If you, my dear Sophia, have felt the renewing influence of Divine truth, you will be able to rejoice with me, and fully comprehend the gratitude I feel to Him who has arrested my steps, and is now, I trust, leading me in the paths of purer happiness and peace.

"'Hoping soon to receive another letter from you, and with kind remembrances from my dear parents, believe me, ever your sincere friend,

"'Louisa.'"

"It is pleasing," said Mrs. Stevens, "to see the progress which the truth is making. It is true we cannot boast of numbers, when we compare the righteous with the irreligious, yet our number is on the increase. The poor in general hear and receive the gospel; and the God of all grace is calling some in the higher ranks of society to be the living witnesses to its truth and excellence."

"But how few the number! We may quote the language of the apostle as descriptive of the present state of the higher orders: 'Not many wise, not many mighty, not many noble are called.' Alas! no. The wise disdain to receive instruction from the fishermen of Galilee; the mighty are too proud to yield subjection to the authority of the son of the carpenter; and the noble contemn the ignominy and reproach of the cross. They support the dignity of the church, while they debase the character of its Founder; venerate its ministers, while they despise and reject the authority of their Master; observe its sacraments and its ceremonies, while they repudiate the design for which they were instituted; and move onward towards the unknown world of spirits, without ever agitating the great question, What must I do to be saved? Alas! they are self-doomed to endless woe. "We should pity and pray for them."

"Their talents, their rank, and their wealth, often excite our envy; but if we knew all the moral disadvantages which are attendant on their great possessions, such a passion would never glow in our breast. They are exempted from many of the evils which press on the lower and middle classes of society, but they are not exempted from the pangs of sorrow, nor the visitations of death. A late senator,[9] whose knowledge of human life and manners was as comprehensive as his eloquence was brilliant and fascinating, has somewhere said, 'that to the great the consolations of religion are as necessary as its instructions. They, too, are among the unhappy. They feel personal pain and domestic sorrow. In these they have no privilege, but are subject to pay their full contingent to the contributions levied on mortality.'"

"From the intercourse which I have held with the higher circles, I am of opinion that there is a much smaller proportion of real happiness among them than is generally imagined; and when I reflect on the temptations and dangers to which they are necessarily exposed, I feel no disposition to envy them. But what rank of life is free from danger? Who, of all the human family, would ever seek redemption through the blood of Christ, unless impelled by an invisible force? What heart would ever glow with love to God, unless that passion be enkindled as with a live coal from off his own hallowed altar? And where this passion does glow, what force can extinguish it? And if we have been made to differ from others, ought we not to distinguish ourselves both by the purity of our life, and the ardour of our zeal for the honour of the Lord Jesus?"

"Where much is given, much is required. Our responsibility rises in proportion to the elevation of our rank and the extent of our influence. When I see a professing Christian, possessed of wealth and of leisure, freed from the incumbrances of the world, yet living a supine and comparatively inactive life—while he makes no effort to form plans for the moral welfare of society, or to lend his aid to those already established—I feel the force of the apostolic question, How dwelleth the love of God in him?"

"There is, in my opinion, a grand peculiarity in the religion of Jesus Christ, which cannot be expressed in more emphatic language than that of Paul:—'For the love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead: and that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them and rose again.'"

THE FAMILY OF THE LAWSONS.

He married early in life, and made what was thought a prudent choice; he had no fortune with his wife, but soon found he had a fortune in her; for what he gained by industry, she preserved by rigid economy. He used often to repeat with satisfaction one of her choice maxims—those tradesmen who begin life as gentlefolks, often end life as paupers. Mrs. Lawson's early habits of economy in process of time degenerated into extreme parsimony; and though she would often talk of charity, yet she usually excused herself from the practice of this virtue by quoting the common adage—we must be just before we are generous. Though a rigid economy was the order of the house, Mrs. Lawson was more anxious for the education of her children than her husband. He often used to say, "Where is the necessity of spending so much money in education, when we got on well enough without it?" To which she would aptly reply, "The times are changed, and if we wish our children to move with respectability in that rank of life to which their fortunes will elevate them, we must train them up for it."

Mrs. Lawson was considered very religious by some of her most intimate friends, but she was more attached to the doctrines of the gospel than to its precepts, and usually expressed a more ardent desire to enjoy the consolations of faith, than to grow in knowledge and in grace. She was more solicitous to guard the little territory of opinion which her judgment occupied, than to extend the empire of righteousness and peace; and though she would sometimes speak of the love of God to sinners, yet such qualified terms were invariably employed, that it bore, at least in her estimation, an exclusive reference to a few of her own order. On their settlement at Broadhurst they attended the ministry of the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, but his style of preaching did not exactly suit Mrs. Lawson; sometimes he preached well, but at other times he was too legal—he dwelt too much on the preceptive part of the Scriptures, and too little on the doctrinal. He enjoined obedience to the law of God, instead of leaving the principle of grace to produce it, without any reference to obligation. He did not go sufficiently deep into Christian experience, nor employ that singular phraseology of speech which she had been accustomed to admire. Mr. Lawson and his daughters were more delighted with this new style of preaching (as it was termed) than with the old; but rather than disturb the harmony of the family, they consented to go with Mrs. Lawson on the Sabbaths a distance of six miles, to hear one of her more favourite ministers. This circumstance at first wounded the feelings of the rector, and excited no small degree of astonishment among the pious, who had anticipated that this family would have been an acquisition to their little circle; but when the spirit of Mrs. Lawson was more fully displayed, and her sentiments more generally known, it gave entire satisfaction, as they were unwilling to have their numbers augmented at the expense of their mutual felicity.

The day on which I was to dine with Mr. Lawson at length arrived. After dinner our conversation turned on religious subjects, and Mrs. Lawson distinguished herself, not less by her loquacity than by the occasional bitterness of her spirit.

"I think, Sir," she said, "that we live in very awful times; but few know the truth, and very few preach it. I do not know six ministers in the kingdom whom I could hear with any pleasure."

"Indeed, Madam, and what is the cause?"

"I hope, Sir, you know."

"But, my dear," said Mr. Lawson, "how should this gentleman, who is a stranger among us, know the cause unless you tell him?"

"If, then," said Mrs. Lawson, "I must speak, though it is with great reluctance that I bring forward such a heavy charge, they do not preach the gospel. They are in general mere moral lecturers, and their sermons are mere essays on some one branch of relative duty; but those who are called 'evangelical,' I consider most censurable; because, though they profess to know the truth, yet they are afraid to preach it."

"I presume you except Mr. Inglebly from this sweeping charge?"

"He may be a good man, but his knowledge of the gospel is very superficial. I have occasionally heard him preach a sermon which has given me a little pleasure, but his light merely serves to make his darkness the more visible. He preaches what I call a legalized gospel; instead of preaching a free salvation, he is always exhorting his hearers to be doing something; and tells them that they must look into their own heart, or to their own life, for the evidences of a work of grace."

"And pray, Madam, where is a person to look for a genuine proof of his personal religion, unless he does look into his own mind? Are we not told that a tree is to be known by its fruit? And is not this figure employed by Jesus Christ to teach us that if our moral principles are good, we shall exhibit the visible signs of their goodness in our life and conversation?"

"I hear a great deal about moral goodness in the present day, but I very seldom see any; human nature is awfully depraved; some preach about its being made better by the grace of God, but I believe it never can be improved. The heart after conversion is as deceitful and as desperately wicked as before, and if we are saved it must be by free and sovereign grace."

"I admit, with you, Madam, that those who are saved 'are saved by grace through faith;' but does not that faith purify the heart and overcome the temptations of the world? Where the principle of grace is implanted, is it not represented as reigning through righteousness unto eternal life?"

"Yes, Sir, and our evangelical moralists tell us that the principle of grace will gradually extend its influence over the whole mind, till every disposition is subdued, and we are fitted for the kingdom of heaven."

"And do we not read that he that hath the hope of future blessedness 'purifieth himself, even as God is pure?'"

"But how can we purify ourselves? Does not such an idea supersede the work of the Spirit?"

"By no means, Madam. If we are made alive from the dead by the infusion of the principle of spiritual life, we possess a certain degree of moral power; but this power does not render us self-sufficient; we become new but not independent creatures. We have duties to discharge, but we are not left to discharge them in our own strength. Mark the reasoning of the apostle: 'For if ye live after the flesh ye shall die; but if ye, through the Spirit, do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live.' Here we see human agency, in concurrence with the assistance of the Spirit, employed in mortifying the deeds of the body."

"It is but seldom," observed Mr. Lawson, "that I interfere with any religious discussion, but I must confess that I like those principles which have the best influence over our temper and our actions. My wife contends for faith, and some high points in divinity which I cannot reach; and though I readily agree with her, that faith in the atonement of Jesus Christ is essential to salvation, yet I like to see some good works following it."

"What do we more than others?" I replied, "is a question which is proposed to us by high authority. Many who reject Christianity carry the principles of morality to very high perfection, and are distinguished for their integrity and benevolence, but we are required to surpass them. The same mind which dwelt in Christ Jesus is to dwell in us. We are not only to admire his humility and condescension, his meekness and his devotional fervour, but to imitate it. We are not only to love him as a Saviour, and obey him as a sovereign, but to follow him as an example. If we contend for the faith, we are to 'contend earnestly,' but always with the 'meekness of wisdom.' We should never indulge ourselves in indiscriminate censure, nor vainly presume on our own infallibility, but endeavour to hold the unity of the faith without bursting the bond of peace."

The young ladies, who appeared altogether indifferent to the conversation, now withdrew. They were genteel in their manners, and seemingly amiable in their dispositions; but their style of dress gave me no high opinion of their moral taste. They were much too gay in their appearance for the daughters of religious parents, and I could not avoid receiving the impression that they spent a larger portion of their time in adjusting the plaiting of their hair, and the disposal of their ornaments, than in the cultivation of their minds. I love to see an elegant neatness in female attire, but when the passion for dress reigns in the heart, it destroys dignity of character, engenders vanity, consumes time, is always instituting comparisons which either mortify pride or inflame it; and it becomes such a perpetual drain on the resources of the pocket, that the claims of charity are rejected, because they cannot be relieved.

"My daughters," said Mrs. Lawson, "have received a very superior education, but have never seen much of fashionable life; they were never at a ball or a play; and though I once permitted them to attend a concert, yet only once. I think their taste would lead them to such scenes of amusement; but, as they know my objections, they do not press for my consent."

"As religious parents," I observed, "ought to support the sacredness of their character by the moral consistency of their conduct, so ought their children. They have the same evil dispositions and propensities as the children of the irreligious, but they are placed under more powerful obligations to repress and subdue them. It is true that parents cannot force their children to be religious, but they have a right to expect them to pay some attention to the injunctions of religion, if not for their own sake, yet from respect to the feelings and reputation of their parents. This respect for parental feeling and reputation is often the safeguard of juvenile worth; but when it is once destroyed, the barrier of restraint is broken down, and ruin becomes almost inevitable. I once said to a youth, who was pleading in favour of a fashionable amusement, 'Remember, your parents are pious; and if you persist, you will not only wound their feelings, but dishonour their reputation; and will you deliberately commit two such evils for a momentary gratification?' After a short pause, he replied, 'No, Sir; I will not purchase personal indulgence at such a price. I will never deliberately wound feelings which I ought to hold sacred, nor injure a reputation which I would allow no person to attack with impunity.'"

"That was a noble decision," said Mr. Lawson, "and the youth who formed it, I have no doubt, is an ornament to his father's house."

I now ventured to remark, that the present era afforded the Christian parent great facilities in the discharge of his religious duties towards his children, as the variety of engaging works which issue from the press are calculated not only to interest but to instruct, and the numerous societies which are formed for the education of the poor, and for evangelizing the heathen, have a tendency to keep up a high sense of the importance of religion in the youthful mind, while they call his powers into active operation."

"Yes, Sir," said Mrs. Lawson, "the press sends forth its monthly publications, but I permit very few to enter this house. I do not approve of teaching young people religion; for who can teach but the Holy Spirit? And He does not require any human performance to aid him in his work. Sunday-schools may do a little good, by keeping the children out of mischief; but I am no friend of missions to the heathen: when their time comes they will be called; and, till that 'set time' comes, it is no use for us to send them the gospel."

"Then, Madam," I asked, with some degree of surprise, "are your daughters connected with no religious institution?"

"No, Sir; and if they were to wish it, I would not give my consent. A person ought to possess religion before he engages in any religious exercises."

"I know a young lady," I observed, "who entered a Sunday-school, and she soon became an excellent teacher; but, when reflecting on the nature and design of her employment, her heart smote her, as she felt convinced that she had never experienced the power of religion on her own soul. It pleased God to bless these reflections to her conversion, and she is now an eminently devoted disciple of the Lord Jesus."

"Such a case is possible," said Mrs. Lawson, "because, 'with God all things are possible;' but I should think it an insult to Him to send my daughters to teach in a Sunday-school, or to collect for a missionary society, as an inducement for him to convert them."

"I wish," said Mr. Lawson, with great earnestness, "our daughters were converted; I should have a larger portion of happiness than I now have, and should look forward to the grave with much more composure. But, alas! all their attention is devoted to the follies of the world—dress, music, painting, and visiting, consume the greater part of their time. I see the children of other religious families decidedly pious, but I see no signs of piety in mine; I begin to think that we have neglected the means, and therefore God withholds his grace."

This remark excited a smile on the countenance of Mrs. Lawson who satirically observed, that her husband was fond of the legal dispensation. "What," she added, with great warmth of expression, "shall the Divine decree be subject to the control of our freewill? Have not the Lord's people, in every age, had wicked children? Yes; Abraham had an Ishmael, and David an Absalom, 'but the foundation of God standeth sure; the Lord knoweth them that are his.'"

"True, Madam; but are we not commanded to 'train up our children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord!' I know that we cannot give them the grace of life, but we can give them instruction; we cannot force their obedience, but we may convince them of its reasonableness; we cannot keep them from evil, but we may succeed in placing many formidable obstructions in their path to ruin."

"Very true, Sir; but human expedients will never renew their souls. This is a work which Divine grace alone can do; and I think that we ought not to labour to accomplish what we know we cannot effect."

"But do we not know that the Spirit often breathes on the dry bones while the prophet is calling on them to live? We know that we cannot command a future harvest, but does that conviction prevent our sowing the seed?"

'But, Sir, it is no use to sow the seed unless God gives the increase."

"Very true, Madam, and have we any reason to expect the increase unless we do sow the seed? Are we not commanded, 'In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good?'"

"I know, Sir, that your opinions and mine are very different on most religious subjects; and I think, if we continue the debate, we shall not come to an agreement. I daily pray for the conversion of my children, and take them with me to hear the pure gospel of Jesus Christ; and I leave them in the hands of God, to do with them as seemeth good in his sight. I cannot merit grace for them, neither can they merit it for themselves. If it be given, it will be given freely; and if it be withheld, it will be withheld righteously."

The cool indifference with which she uttered these sentiments paralyzed my whole frame, and I felt that I ought to make no reply. Indeed, what reply could I make that would have made any good impressions on a mind so devoid of the common feelings of humanity, as to give utterance to expressions of such a fearful import? I involuntarily sighed over victims which a perverted faith was preparing against the day of slaughter, unless a miracle of grace should be wrought to prevent it, and speedily retired from the room, in which I had suffered more mental anguish than I had felt during my whole visit to Fairmount.

There is a strange diversity of character in the professing world, but amidst all the varieties which it contains, no one presents so many repelling qualities as the high antinomian professor. He embraces a few leading truths of the Bible, while he rejects others not less essential and important. His spirit is bitter, and his censures indiscriminate; and while he pleads for the divinity of a system which inculcates humility and meekness as cardinal virtues, he usually displays much pride, and great want of charity. He arrogates to himself the collected wisdom of the age, stamps his own opinions with the seal of infallibility, and has the vanity to suppose, and the hardihood to assert, that he, and he only, understands the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven. The compassion which sighs over the moral miseries of the world, never glows in his breast; the pity that weeps in prospect of the desolation which is coming on the ungodly, never moistens his eye; the eloquence which would warn them of their danger, and point them to the refuge of safe retreat, never quivers on his lips; and if we could penetrate the deep recesses of his soul, and render ourselves familiar with every passion which claims a local habitation there, we should find ourselves associated with the master vices of the moral world; whose breath pollutes, and whose touch defiles; whose existence, in connection with the religion of the Saviour, is a mystery which a future day will unravel, but which the present has reason bitterly to deplore.

The antinomian heresy, which, happily, is not now so prevalent in this country as it was in the early part of the present century, is qualified for mischief by the very properties which might seem to render it merely an object of contempt—its vulgarity of conception, its paucity of ideas, and its determined hostility to taste, science, and letters. It includes, within a compass which every head can contain, and every tongue can utter, a system which cancels every moral tie, consigns the whole human race to the extremes of presumption or despair, erects religion on the ruins of morality, and imparts to the dregs of stupidity all the powers of the most active poison.

To find the children of such professors of religion devoted to the follies and vices of the world, ought to excite less surprise than regret; because it is wisely and judicially ordained, that the adoption of error and the neglect of duty shall meet with a just rebuke, and a severe chastisement, in the consequences which inseparably attend them. But ought not the irreligion of such children to become a beacon to warn parents of the danger of such perverted notions and such criminal remissness? Shall we presume to insult the Holy One by offering up our prayers for their conversion, if we withhold from them instruction, and cease to exercise a constant and active vigilance over the formation of their character and their habits?

Can such professors be said to adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things? Do they "add to their faith, virtue; and to virtue, knowledge; and to knowledge, temperance; and to temperance, patience; and to patience, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, charity?" Are they conformed to the image of the Son of God? If we compare their vanity with his humility—their bitterness of spirit with his gentleness—their bigotry with his liberality—their love of discord and contention with his love of peace—their insensibility to the moral disorders of the world with the tears he shed when anticipating the desolations which were coming on the inhabitants of Jerusalem—and the rancorous eagerness which they discover to restrict the blessings of redemption to a select few, with the unbounded comprehension of his invitations addressed to all, of every age and every clime—we must feel at a loss to conceive how they can present any fair claim to fellowship with him. If the Saviour were to reappear on earth, he would calumniate no minister who preaches salvation by grace—he would break up the peace of no church which holds the unity of the faith—he would show his regard for the law of God by obeying its precepts, and unveil the glory of the gospel by proclaiming it among all people. But the modern antinomian preaches only to the elect—sets aside the authority of the law by pleading the indemnities of grace—disturbs the harmony of the brethren by the contentions of discord—and pours insufferable contempt on those holy men who endeavour to win souls to Christ, because they execute every part of their commission. We may speak of them in the language which Jacob employed in reference to two of his sons, "O my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united."

Sometimes these high antinomian sentiments are embraced by persons whose genuine piety operates as a check to their natural tendency; but they ought always to be avoided as a moral contagion, which, though kept under restraint for a season, will eventually break out, and produce essential injury in any Christian community. Who can look abroad without seeing occasion to deplore their pernicious effects? The religious instruction of children is discountenanced—the claims of the heathen are rejected—the love of the brethren no longer remains the test of discipleship—the great majority of the world are placed under the ban of reprobation—the attractive graces of the Spirit are repudiated as obnoxious to the faith—and the lovely, the merciful, the compassionate Redeemer is appealed to, to sanction these monstrosities of modern professors.

CALM DISCUSSION.