ciation was so deliberate that his voice trembled on every syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, 5 acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews: the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of indignation; and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched.

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But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv ing meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not 15 what they do" the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect was 20 inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans and sobs and shrieks of the congregation.

It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began 25 to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For

I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the 30 fall. But-no; the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic.

The first sentence, with which he broke the awful silence, was a quotation from Rousseau:* “ Socrates† died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God.”

*Rousseau (pronounced Rôus-sŌ) was a brilliant and eloquent French writer, who flourished during the middle of the last century.

† Socrates was a celebrated philosopher of Athens, in Greece, who was condemned to death upon false charges of irreligion and impiety B. C. 400.

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before, did I completely under5 stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton; and, associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of 10 their genius, you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then, the few minutes of portentous, death15 like silence which reigned throughout the house: the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher" 20then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice- "but Jesus Christ-like a God!" If he had been indeed and in 25 truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine.

XV.-EXCUSES FOR A NEGLECT OF RELIGION.

BUCKMINSTER.

[JOSEPH STEVENS BUCKMINSTER was born May 26, 1784, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire; was graduated at Harvard College in 1800, and was ordained as pastor of the church in Brattle Street in Boston, January 30, 1805; and died June 9, 1812. Few men have ever brought higher qualifications to the sacred office which he held. His religious faith was deep and fervid, and his life and conversation, from his childhood upward, were of spotless purity. His mind was rich, vigorous, sound, and discriminating; and his attainments, both in his own profession and in general literature, were extensive and accurate.

The style of his sermon is graceful, finished, and yet simple-easily rising into eloquence, and adapting itself to the highest tone of discussion, and at the same time presenting practical truths with the utmost plainness and directness. It is hardly possible to overstate the effect he produced as a preacher, for his admirable discourses were commended by rare personal advantages as a speaker. His countenance was beautiful and expressive, his voice of magic sweetness, and his manner dignified, persuasive, and natural. Few men have ever accomplished more in a life of twenty-eight years, whether we look at the growth of his own powers or his moral and spiritual influence over others. He was social in his tastes, and was regarded by his friends with a peculiar mixture of admiration, reverence, and love.

Two volumes of Mr. Buckminster's sermons have been published, with an introductory memoir by the Rev. Samuel Cooper Thacher; and a more extended biography, by his sister, Mrs. Eliza Buckminster Lee, appeared in 1849, from the press of Messrs. Crosby & Nichols, of Boston.]

FIRST, it is often said that time is wanted for the duties of religion. The calls of business, the press of occupation, the cares of life, will not suffer me, says one, to give that time to the duties of piety, which otherwise I would 5 gladly bestow. Say you this without a blush? You

have no time, then, for the especial service of that great Being, whose goodness alone has drawn out to its present length your cobweb thread of life; whose care alone has continued you in possession of that unseen property which

10 you call your time. You have no time, then, to devote to

that great Being on whose existence the existence of the universe depends; a being so great that if his attention could for an instant be diverted, you fall never again to rise; if his promise should fail, your hopes, your expecta15 tions vanish into air; if his power should be weakened, man, angel, nature perishes.

But for what else can you find no leisure? Do you find none for amusement? Or is amusement itself your occupation? Perhaps pleasure is the pressing business of 20 your life; perhaps pleasure stands waiting to catch your precious moments as they pass. Do you find none for the pursuit of curious and secular knowledge? If you find none, then, for religion, it is perhaps because you wish to find none; it would be, you think, a tasteless occupation, an insipid entertainment.

But this excuse is founded on a most erroneous conception of the nature of religion. It is supposed to be something, which interrupts business, which wastes time, and interferes with all the pleasant and profitable pursuits of 5 life. It is supposed to be something which must be practised apart from everything else, a distinct profession, a peculiar occupation. The means of religion-meditation, reading, and prayer — will, and ought, indeed, to occupy distinct portions of our time; but religion itself demands 10 not distinct hours. Religion will attend you not as a troublesome, but as a pleasant and useful companion in every proper place, and every temperate occupation of life. It will follow you to the warehouse or to the office; it will retreat with you to the country, it will dwell with you in 15 town; it will cross the seas, or travel over mountains, or remain with you at home. Without your consent, it will not desert you in prosperity, or forget you in adversity. It will grow up with you in youth, and grow old with you in age; it will attend you, with peculiar pleasure, to the 20 hovels of the poor, or the chamber of the sick; it will retire with you to your closet, and watch by your bed, or walk with you in gladsome union to the house of God; it will follow you beyond the confines of the world, and dwell with you in heaven forever, as its native residence.

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.

It is said, religion is dull, unsocial, uncharitable, enthusiastic, a damper of human joy, a morose intruder upon human pleasure. If this were true, nothing could be more incongruous than the parable which represents it as an entertainment. But if this be the character of relig30 ion, it is surely the very reverse of what we should suppose it to be, and the reverse, indeed, of what it ought to be. Perhaps, in your distorted vision, you have mistaken sobriety for dulness, equanimity for moroseness, disinclination to bad company for aversion to society, abhorrence 35 of vice for uncharitableness, and piety for enthusiasm.

No doubt, at the table of boisterous intemperance, relig

ion, if she were admitted as a guest, 'would wear a very dull countenance. In a revel of debauchery, and amidst the brisk interchange of profanity and folly, 'religion might appear indeed a dumb, unsocial intruder, ignorant 5 of the rhetoric of oaths, and the ornaments of obscenity. These are scenes, it must be acknowledged, of what is falsely called pleasure, in which religion, if embodied and introduced, would be as unwelcome a guest as the emblematic coffin which the Egyptians used to introduce in 10 the midst of their entertainments. From such instances,

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however, to accuse religion of being unfriendly to the enjoyment of life, is as absurd as to interpret unfavorably the silence of a foreigner, who understands not a word of our language.

But as long as intemperance is not pleasure, as long as profaneness, impurity, or scandal is not wit, as long as excess is not the perfection of mirth, as long as selfishness is not the surest enjoyment, and as long as gratitude, love, reverence, and resignation are not superstitious affec20 tions, so long religion lays not an icy hand on the true

joys of life. Without her, all other pleasures become tasteless, and at last painful. To explain to you, indeed, how much she exalts, purifies, and prolongs the pleasures of sense and imagination, and what peculiar sources of 25 consolation, cheerfulness, and contentment she opens to herself, would lead us at present into too wide a range.

Excuses for a neglect of religion are suggested by different seasons of life. Youth, in the fulness of its spirit, defers it to the sobriety of manhood; manhood, encum30 bered with cares, defers it to the leisure of old age; old age, weak and hesitating, is unable to enter on an untried mode of life. The excuses of youth are those which are most frequently offered, and most easily admitted. The restrictions of religion, though proper enough for maturer 35 age, are too severe, it is said, for this frolicsome and gladsome period. Its consolations, too, they do not want.