frailty? What strong purpose of his is not liable to failure? What affection of his heart can say, "I have strength, I am established, and nothing can move me." How weak is man in trouble, in perplexity, in doubt-how weak in affliction, or when sickness bows the spirit, or when approaching death is unloosing all the bands of his pride and selfreliance! And whose spirit does not sometimes faint under its intrinsic weakness, under its native frailty, and the burden and pressure of its necessities? Religion then should bring supply, and support, and strength to the soul; and the gospel does bring supply, and support, and strength. And it thus meets a universal want. Every mind wants the stability which principle gives; wants the comfort which piety gives; wants it continually, in all the varying experience of life.

I have said, also, that religion should be adapted to the various degrees of mental improvement, and I may add, to the diversities of temperament. Now, there are sluggish natures that need to be aroused. All the machinery of spiritual terror can scarce be too much to arouse some persons, though it may indeed be very improperly applied. But on the contrary, there are minds so excitable and sensitive, that religion should come to them with all its sobering and tranquillizing influence. In how many cases do we witness this! How many are there whose minds are chilled or stupified by denunciation! How many are repelled by severity, or crushed by a weight of fear and anxiety! How many such are there that need a helping hand to be stretched out to them; that need to be raised, and soothed, and comforted; that need to be won with gentleness, and cheered with promises! The gospel has terrors, indeed, but it is not all terror; and its most awful rebukes soften into pity over the fearful, the dejected, the anxious, and humble.

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But the most striking circumstance, in the adaptation of religion to the different degrees of mental improvement, is its character, as supplying not merely the general necessities, but the conscious wants of the mind. There may be some who have never been conscious of these intrinsic wants, though they spring from human nature, and must be sooner or later felt. To the very young, or to the unreflecting, religion can be scarcely anything more, perhaps, than direction. It says, "Do this, and do that; and refrain from this gratification, and beware of that danger." It is chiefly a set of rules and precepts to them. Speak to them of religion as the grand resort of the mind,that which meets its inward necessities, supplies its deep-felt wants, fills its capacious desires,-and they do not well understand you, or they do not understand why this view of the subject should be so interesting to you. But another mind shall be bound to the gospel by nothing so much as by its wants. It craves something thus vast, glorious, infinite, and eternal. It sought-sought long, perhaps, and anxiously for something thus satisfying; and it has found what it long and painfully sought, in the teachings of Jesus-in the love of Godin that world of spiritual thoughts and objects which the great teacher has opened in that solemn and majestic vision of immortality which he has brought to light. To such a religion the soul clings with a peace and satisfaction never to be expressed-never to be uttered. It says, "To whom shall I go-to whom shall I go? thou, O blessed religion, minister and messenger from heaven!-thou hast the words of eternal life, of eternal joy!" The language which proclaims the sufficiency of

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religion, which sets forth the attraction and the greatness of it, as supplying the great intellectual want, is no chimerical language; it is not merely a familiar language; but it is intimate with the deepest and the dearest feelings of the heart.

In descending to the more specific applications of the principle of religion to human nature, I must content myself, for the present, with one further observation; and that is, that it meets and mingles with all the varieties of natural temperament and disposition.

The

Religion should not propose to break up all the diversities of individual character; and Christianity does not propose this. It did not propose this even when it first broke upon the world with manifestation and miracle. It allowed the rash and forward Peter, the timid and doubting Thomas, the mild and affectionate John, the resolute and fervent Paul, still to retain all their peculiarities of character. way of becoming religious, or interested in religion, was not the same to all. There was Cornelius, the Pagan, whose "alms and prayers were accepted;" and there were others who became Christians without "so much as hearing that there was any Holy Ghost." There were the immediate disciples of our Lord, who, through a course of gradual teaching, came to apprehend his spiritual kingdom; and there was Paul, to whom this knowledge came by miracle, and with a light brighter than the sun. There was the terrified jailer who fell down trembling and said, "what must I do to be saved?" and there was the cautious and inquiring Nicodemus, who, as if he had been reflecting on the matter, said, "we know that thou art a teacher come from God, for no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except God be with him.

How

Now it is painful to observe, at this day, how little of this individuality there is in the prevailing and popular experience of religion. A certain process is pointed out, a certain result is described; particular views and feelings are insisted on as the only right and true state of mind, and every man strives to bring himself through the required process to the given result. It is common, indeed, to observe, that if you read one account of a conversion, one account of a religious excitement, you have all. I charge not this to any particular set of opinions, though it may be found to have been connected with some creeds more than with others; but it results too from the very weakness of human nature. One man leans on the experience of another, and it contributes to his satisfaction, of course, to have the same experience. refreshing is it, amidst this dull and artificial uniformity, to meet with a man whose religion is his own; who has thought and felt for himself; who has not propped up his hopes on other men's opinions; who has been willing to commune with the spirit of religion and of God alone; and who brings forth to you the fruits of his experience, fresh and original, and is not much concerned for your judgment of them, provided they have nourished and comforted himself. I would not desire that every man should view all the matters of piety as I do, but would rather that every man should bring the results of his own individual conviction to aid the common cause of right knowledge and judgment. In the diversities of character and situation that exist, there will naturally be diversities of religious experience. Some, as I have said before, are constitutionally lively, and others serious; some are ardent,

and others moderate; some, also, are inclined to be social, and others to be retired. Knowledge and ignorance, too, and refinement and rudeness of character, are cases to be provided for. And a true and thorough religion-this is the special observation I wish to make on the diversities of character-a true and thorough religion, when it enters the mind, will show itself by its naturally blending and mingling with the mind as it is; it will sit easily upon the character; it will take forms in accordance, not with the bad, but with the constitutional tempers and dispositions it finds in its subjects.

Nay, I will say yet further, that religion ought not to repress the natural buoyancy of our affections, the innocent gaiety of the heart. True religion was not designed to do this. Undoubtedly it will discriminate. It will check what is extravagant in us, all tumultuous and excessive joy about acquisitions of little consequence, or of doubtful utility to us; it will correct what is deformed; it will uproot what is hurtful. But there is a native buoyancy of the heart, the meed of youth, or of health, which is a sensation of our animal nature, a tendency of our being. This, true religion does not propose to withstand. It does not war against our nature. As well should the cultivator of a beautiful and variegated garden cut up all the flowers in it, or lay weights and encumbrances on them, lest they should be too flourishing and fair. Religion is designed for the culture of our natural faculties, not for their eradication!

It would be easy now, did the time permit, to illustrate the views which have been presented, by a reference to the teachings of our Saviour. He did not address one passion or part of our nature alone, or chiefly. There was no one manner of address; and we feel sure as we read, that there was no one tone. He did not confine himself to any one class of subjects. He was not always speaking of death, nor of judgment, nor of eternity; frequently and solemnly as he spoke of them. He was not always speaking of the state of the sinner, nor of repentance and the new heart; though on these subjects too he delivered his solemn message. There was a varied adaptation, in his discourses, to every condition of mind, and every duty of life, and every situation in which his hearers were placed. Neither did the preaching of our Saviour possess, exclusively, any one moral complexion. It was not terror only, nor promise only; it was not, exclusively, severity nor gentleness; but it was each one of them in its place, and all of them always subdued to the tone of perfect sobriety. At one time we hear him saying, with lofty self-respect, "Neither tell I you by what authority I do these things:"at another, with all the majesty of the Son of God, we hear him, in reply to the fatal question of the judgment-hall, "Art thou the Christ?" we hear him say, "I am; and hereafter ye shall see the Son of Man seated on the throne of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven." But it is the same voice that says, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest: take my yoke, which is easy, and my burden, which is light, and ye shall find rest to your souls. At one time he speaks in the language of terror, and says, "Fear not them who, after that they have killed the body, have no more that they can do; but fear Him who is able to cast both soul and body into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear him." But at another time the awful admonisher breaks out into the pathetic excla

mation, "Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem! how often would I have gathered your children, even as a hen gathereth her brood under her wings, but ye would not."

If I might be permitted now, to add a suggestion of an advisory nature, it would be in the language of an apostle-"let your moderation be known to all men." The true religion, the true excellence of character, requires that we should hold all the principles and affections of our nature in a due subordination and proportion to each other; that we should subdue all the clamoring voices of passion and desire, of fear and hope, of joy and sorrow, to complete harmony; that we should regard and cultivate our nature as a whole. Almost all error is some truth carried to excess, or diminished from its proper magnitude. Almost all sin is some good or useful principle, suffered to be immoderate and ungovernable, or suppresssd and denied its proper influence and action. Let, then, moderation be a leading trait of our virtue and piety. This is not dulness. Nothing is farther from dulness. And nothing, surely, is more beautiful in character, or more touching, than to see a lively and intense sensibility controlled by the judgment; strong passions subdued and softened by reflection: and, on the other hand, to find a vigorous, clear, and manly understanding, quickened by a genuine fervor and enthusiasm. Nothing is more wise or more admirable in action than to be resolute and yet calm, earnest and yet selfpossessed, decided and yet modest; to contend for truth and right with meekness and charity; to go forward in a good cause, without pretension, to retire with dignity; to give without pride, and to withhold without meanness; to rejoice with moderation, and to suffer with patience. And nothing, I may add, was more remarkable in the character of our Saviour than this perfect sobriety, consistency, selfcontrol.

This, therefore, is the perfection of character. This will always be found, I believe, to be a late stage in the progress of religious worth from its first beginnings. It is comparatively easy to be one thing and that alone; to be all zeal, or all reasoning; all faith, or all action; all rapture, or all chilling and captious fault-finding. Here novices. begin. Thus far they may easily go. Thus far men may go, whose character is the result of temperament, and not of culture; of headlong propensity, and not of careful and conscientious discipline. It is easy for the bruised reed to be broken. It is easy for the smoking flax to be quenched. It is easy to deal rashly and rudely with the matters of religious and virtuous experience-to make a hasty effort, to have a paroxysm of emotion, to give way to a feverish and transient feeling, and then to smother and quench all the rising purposes of a better life. But true religion comes to us with a wiser and more considerate adaptation, to sustain and strengthen the bruised reed of human weakness; to fan the rising flame of virtuous and holy purposes: it comes to revive our failing courage, to restrain our wayward passions. It will not suffer us to go on with our fluctuations and our fancies; with our transient excitements and momentary struggles. It will exert a more abiding, a more rational influence. It will make us more faithful and persevering. It will lay its hand on the very energies of our nature, and will take the lead, and control the forming and perfecting of them. May we find its real and gracious power! May it lead us in the true,

the firm, the brightening path of the just, till it brings us to the perfect day.

Oh! my brethren, we sin against our own peace, we have no mercy upon ourselves, when we neglect such a religion as this. It is the only wisdom, the only soundness, the only consistency and harmony of character, the only peace and blessedness of mind. We should not have our distressing doubts and fears, we should not be so subject as we are to the distracting influences of passion or of the world without us, if we had yielded our hearts wholly to the spirit and religion of Jesus. It is a religion adapted to us all. To every affection, to every state of mind, troubled or joyous, to every period of life, it would impart the very influence that we need. How surely would it guide our youth, and how would it temper, and soften, and sanctify all the fervours of youthful affection! How well would it support our age, making it youthful again with the fervent hope of immortality! How would it lead us, too, in all the paths of earthly care, and business, and labour, turning the brief and weary courses of worldly toil into the ways that are everlasting! How faithfully and how calmly would it conduct us to the everlasting abodes! And how well, in fine, does he, of whom it was prophesied that he should not break the bruised reed nor quench the smoking flax-how well does he meet that gracious character, when he says-shall we not listen to him?-"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest: take my yoke, which is easy, and my burden, which is light: learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls."