come to it now, in the last place; and it is nothing more nor less than

The Religion of the Heart.

The heart, and the heart alone, is the seat of the religious affections; of holy love, of faith, of every pious emotion. By nature the heart of every man is wrong, is sinful, is full of evil; and it is never right till renewed by the Holy Spirit. A man's heart is right when he exercises right affections towards God, towards the Lord Jesus Christ, and towards his fellow-men. The essence of true religion is holy love, delight in the character of God, in his law, in Christ as all our salvation and all our desire, and in the fellowship of those who bear his image. Wherever this divine love exists, the heart is right, is regenerate; for "whosoever loveth is born of God, and knoweth God." But whatever other religion any one may possess, let him be assured that he lacks the "one thing needful." It may be this "form of godliness," or that, or the other, but it lacks "the power." True religion is something which will endure the ordeal of death, something which we can take along with us into the other world; and what can this be but love? Nothing but love, or a right state of heart, which is the same thing, can fit us for heaven. "Charity (love) never faileth; but whether there be prophets, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away." All else but love is the garniture of religion in the present state of our being. And without this love, without "holiness," for the terms are synonymous, "no man shall see the Lord."

Suppose you could follow into the future world a man of the most exalted genius, of the largest knowledge, of the most spotless moral character, with all the advantages for happiness which could be enumerated, save just this one thing, "the love of God shed abroad in his heart:" oh, what a wretched creature would he be; what a miserable eternity would spread out before him! His organs of sense, which afforded him so much pleasure here, he has left in the grave. His social affections are for ever extinguished. All the goodly apparel of outward morality fell off from him with the garments which he exchanged for a shroud. His intellect, his memory, his conscience, he has indeed carried with him; but oh! how much better, had it been possible, to have left them all behind, for they will only aggravate his eternal punishment.

But here let me not be misunderstood. When I say that the religion of the heart is the only true religion, and that all the other religions in the world can never carry a man to heaven, I am very far from asserting or believing that it rejects the alliance of the eye and the ear, of the intellect, imagination, conscience, outward morality, the social affections, or excitement. On the contrary, I believe that most of these are essential to a healthy and vigorous piety, and that all of them, when kept in due subordina

tion, aid and quicken its growth. True religion elevates, ennobles, and purifies all the human faculties.

So far is the devout Christian from shutting his eyes to the beauties of nature, or turning away his ear from its sweet harmonies, that the more devout he is, the more he enjoys them all. He sees the wisdom, power, and goodness of God in every thing around him, as he never saw them till he was brought out of darkness into marvellous light; and lifting up his eyes to the sparkling heavens, "looking through nature up to nature's God," he exclaims, "My Father made them all."

So of intellect, perceptions, and pleasures. If man were not endowed with a rational soul, he could have no religion at all; for he could have no knowledge of the great and glorious truths which lie at the very foundation. But the truly regenerated man sees moral relations with a peculiar clearness. There is more of intellect, more of well-balanced reason in his convictions than there ever was before; for the eyes of his understanding, which sin had blinded, are enlightened by the Spirit of God. The essential difference, in this respect, between his present and former state, is that then his religion was at best a cold speculative orthodoxy, with which the heart had nothing to do, but now his intellect is warmed and enlightened by Divine love.

So again of imagination. The religion of the heart does not destroy this faculty, nor refuse its alliance. It only sanctifies it, and holds it in check with a golden thread, as it were, when it would run wild and mock the mind with mere airy conceits. I can see no reason why imagination, under the control of perfect holiness, may not be a source of pure enjoyment in heaven, as I am sure in the present world it may be one of the handmaids of religion, though it can never be a substitute for it.

And conscience, certainly, is a most watchful supervisor of our religious thoughts, words, and actions. Though yielding to its remonstrances, and doing many things to appease its troublesome importunity, is no certain evidence of piety, on the other hand, stifling its honest voice is a proof of the contrary. The most devoted Christians are the most conscientious men. A good conscience is an essential part of true religion, while at the same time it can never be a substitute for right affections of the heart. However wide awake the conscience may be, in the absence of holy love there is no meetness for the kingdom of heaven. Beyond a doubt, the consciences of the wicked will be more active and goading than ever in the world of despair.

So again, although the social affections are not saving, nothing purifies and sweetens them like true religion. It makes men better and happier in all the endearing relations of life. These affections, even when unsanctified, act a most important part in families,neighborhoods, and larger communities. Human existence would be intolerable, and I may add, impossible, without them.

which, like the dew and the manna, drop down from heaven. As they cast their eyes over some enchanting landscape, or look up in a clear night to the pure sapphire, sown by the hand of Omnipotence all over the sky, they exclaim, "This is a beautiful world, a glorious universe!" and they are entranced. It is heaven to them. They do not desire, they cannot conceive of any higher, purer enjoyment; and they are sure this must be true religion, if there is any such thing. The bliss of Paradise may be more ecstatic, but the difference, they are confident, must be only in degree. The fields may be more elysian, and the firmament more sparkling, but it must be a sensuous paradise, or it will be no heaven to them.

So of music. There are those who drink in the melody, as it is poured out from the deep-toned organ and full choir, till they are sweetly intoxicated; and as sacred music delights them most of all, perhaps, they identify it with a feeling of pure devotion, and are quite confident they can never be weary of listening to the angelic choirs; when at the same time all this fervor, all this ecstacy, is the mere religion of sense-of an exquisitely tuned ear, with which the heart has nothing to do. Here their devotion begins, and here it ends. As soon as the last strains of the anthem. have died away, and the messenger of God rises in his place to propound the great truths of the gospel, to discourse to them about the true heaven and the way to be saved, all at once "their ears are dull of hearing." Oh, what a weariness is the prayer and the sermon! In vain is the blessed Saviour held up before them. They "see no form nor comeliness in him, why they should desire him." In a word, the more spiritual and heavenly the worship, the more irksome to them. In their estimation, the holiest zeal for the glory of God, the most active strivings for the salvation of men, the purest and most fervent piety, are no better than ranting enthusiasm, or sanctimonious hypocrisy. And yet, they think themselves very religious. They are, in their way; but alas! what is it, save the religion of a musical ear? How totally different from that of a humble and contrite heart. We pass,

II. To the Religion of Forms and Ceremonies. I hardly need to say, that Romanism is preeminently of this character; a system the most dazzling, seductive, and overpowering, that ever bewildered and enslaved the human mind. Consider for a moment what it presents to the eye and the ear: the vast cathedral, with its towers and pinnacles, on which the abrasion of centuries has made no perceptible impression; the long-drawn aisles, immense columns, and lofty arches; the apostles and prophets always looking in through stained windows; the holy font at the entrance; the interior, one vast chamber of imagery, full of altars, and statues, and paintings; devotees of both sexes and all ages, kneeling, bowing, and crossing themselves every where upon the pavements; the Saviour on the cross always bleeding before

their eyes in the agonies of crucifixion, above the high altar; the gorgeous canonicals of the priests; the elevation of the host; the burning of incense; the solemn tones of the organ; the chanting, the requiems; the tombs of canonized saints; the worship of the Virgin; prayers for the dead; and in short, all the imposing mummery of a sensuous and idolatrous ritual. Add to all this, an indefinite number of fasts, and vigils, and processions, and saints' days; and how mournfully demonstrative it is that the religion of the vast majority of Romanists is the religion of forms and ceremonies merely. Oh! how few of such worshippers ever consider that "God is a spirit, and that they who worship him, must worship him in spirit and in truth."

Nor are Romanists alone in this fatal delusion. It has crept into the pale of Protestantism, or rather, the "old leaven" was never thoroughly purged out. From the days of Elizabeth to the present time, forms and ceremonies have been clung to in churches. called reformed, (and in many things truly reformed,) as if the "form of godliness" was more essential than the power. Many, there is reason to fear, lay more stress upon the saving efficacy of baptism, the laying on of hands by the apostolic succession, and the prescribed ceremonies of worship, than upon that "faith which works by love, and purifies the heart."

III. We next come to the Religion of the Intellect. Man has an intelligent and immortal soul. He is endowed by the Creator with faculties of mind, as well as organs of sense. Made but a little lower than the angels, his thoughts are deep and high, and "wander through eternity." He can investigate, he can reason, he can look at religion in its principles, in its harmonious relations, and in its adaptation to man's condition and wants. He can compare different systems and articles of faith with one another, and with the Word of God. He can see and admire the symmetry and beauty of the gospel plan, while yet his heart is unrenewed, just as he admires the architectural beauty and proportions of a Grecian temple. We have some such men in most of our well-instructed congregations. Having been religiously educated in the family, and sat under sound and discriminating preaching, their speculative views are substantially correct. They believe in man's total apostasy from God; in the necessity of regeneration by the Spirit of God; in the Deity and atonement of Christ; in the absolute necessity of faith and repentance; in a coming judgment; and in the eternity of future rewards and punishments. In short, they believe every thing you could desire. Their heads are right. They are decidedly orthodox, more so than some real Christians; and they glory in their orthodoxy. They discriminate with remarkable clearness. They pride themselves in being champions of the faith once delivered to the saints, and he must be no ordinary tactician who can foil them. They see a kind of architectural beauty, sublimity, and completeness

in the Bible which charms them. It is a grand and glorious revelation, which commends itself to their understanding as worthy of the wisdom and benevolence of its divine Author. They believe it. They embrace it intellectually and honestly. But this is the whole of their religion; not a part, as it ought to be, but the whole of it. Here they stop. Their heads are as clear as a winter night, but their hearts are just as cold. It is all intellect. They believe; and so do the devils believe and tremble, but that can never save them. Next in order,

IV. Comes the Religion of Imagination. This is the religion of poetry and romance; and those who embrace it are chiefly persons of a nervous temperament, the morbid devourers of novels and plays; dreamy idealists, who scorn the dull and plodding realities of this every-day world, and so create a world for themselves, somewhere above the clouds, but as far from the throne of God and the Lamb as they can get. It must be a world of everlasting sunshine and the most voluptuous enjoyment. There must be no sickness there, no sorrow, no imperfect beings. All must be angels, and yet not one of them such as the Bible describes. The love and service of God constitute no part of the happiness of this imaginary heaven. It is a world sprung from nothing, at the bidding of the romancer, and filled with more than elysian delights. That the direct tendency of much of the admired poetry and so-called polite literature of the day is as above described, cannot be denied.

Do you say there is nothing of heaven in all this? It is not the heaven of the Bible, to be sure; but it is all the heaven that thousands wish for. It is not the New Jerusalem, nor any thing like it. It bears no resemblance to the mansions of the blessed. It is not the religion of the gospel. It is a mere figment of the brain, an airy nothing, and yet they try to grasp it; they cleave to it. It is all they have, and they do not crave any thing more substantial. The true heaven is infinitely too spiritual and holy for them, and so they must have an ideal paradise, and a religion suited to it. This is what I mean by the religion of the imagination. We pass now,

V. To the Religion of Conscience. Every person has a conscience. I stop not here to inquire whether conscience is a distinct faculty of the mind, or the reason alone, governing in the empire of morals and religion. By whatever name called, it is that instinctive faculty of the human soul which distinguishes between right and wrong; which, as the vicegerent of God, approves and condemns, rewards and punishes. Men may learn to stop their ears against the voice of conscience by a long course of sinful indulgences, they may sear it as with a hot iron, but they cannot get rid of it. It will remain in their bosoms, and make its voice heard sooner or later.

In early life, the conscience is exceedingly tender, and under