dowed with mere life and instinct, bow to inevitable fate; but there are no premonitions to alarm them; they feel the pang of nature but not of conscience; it is momentary, and then follow the undisturbed repose,—the slumbers of eternal rest. Not so with man. That which arms death with his greatest terror, is, what we know and what we do not know on subjects of the highest moment to our well-being and happiness. In one word, our knowledge and our ignorance equally awaken in our souls the most appalling dismay, when we think of ourselves as creatures, as dependent creatures, as accountable creatures, - as sinful and dying creatures. On all these points our knowledge and ignorance are strangely blended, and leave us nothing to hope and everything to dread.

Let us inquire, for a moment, how all this is met by those systems, which either do not recognise or which reject Christianity.

With regard to this worst and most to be dreaded consummation, the state of mind which is naturally induced by what we know and what we do not know philosophy, as it is called, cannot advance us a single step. It may increase the vividness of our perceptions and strengthen our convictions as to the truth of all we know; but it can add nothing new,-it cannot lift up the veil and remove our ignorance. It can offer nothing to allay our fears,—nothing to mitigate the real terrors of death. The examples of some of the philosophers of the ancient world in contravention of this statement have been referred to, and their tranquil and happy departure quoted in favour of their principles. But who does not perceive that their repose in death, the tranquillity which they felt and displayed, is a totally different thing from the peace which pervades the bosom of the dying Christian? In many cases it was mere apathy, proceeding from a mind disciplined to an unnatural persuasion that insensibility was the highest virtue. In many more it was mere dissatisfaction with life; in others an entire disbelief of the reality of

the state on which they were about to enter; and in some the resignation which flows from the desire to be released from excessive pain. The deaths of which we are now speaking likewise differ essentially from the peaceful departure of Christians, in this :-In the one case, the passive virtues alone are summoned to the task of bearing the weight of unavoidable evil; in the other, there is not only submissive endurance, but positive enjoyment; the bitterness is not only neutralized, but a sweetness is actually infused into the cup of mortality. So much for philosophy. And we may inquire, How far have superstition, and false religions the inventions of men, contributed to dispel the terrors of death?

Thus

Superstition is the creature of human fear, invented for the sole purpose of annihilating that fear by imaginations the most vile, principles the most atrocious, actions the most diabolical. it obliterates and destroys all that is great, holy, and divine in the universe, for the purpose of deceiving the soul into a fallacious confidence in the hour of death. But there is one grand antidote yet to be noticed which professes to annihilate the terrors of death, and by a method exclusively its own. This is infidelity. With what success we may easily ascertain by considering the nature of the process which it employs and its general effect upon its votaries where its principles are brought to the test. To ensure peace in death infidelity endeavours to divest sin of its turpitude, and thus offers the greatest violence to the conscience, to extinguish in the soul the natural longing after a future state, and thus leaves to operate with all its power the dread of falling into nought. But infidelity is the most treacherous as well as the most daring enemy of man. It takes off its mask and reveals its real character to its victim in the hour of his utmost need, in the moment of his greatest peril. It flatters its votaries till they find themselves in the presence of the king of terrors; and then their false friend laughs them to scorn, and departs,

faith of demons, who believe and tremble. Hume, indeed, affected stoical unconcern-he could joke: but it was not a comedy that was enacted in his dying chamber-it was a deeper tragedy than earth has often witnessed. Tranquillity and infidelity are not natural allies-and in death they cannot meet. For, if we suppose that the infidel wavers, and that scepticism places him in equilibrio between the opposite decisions of faith and unbelief, what terrible apprehensions must be the consequence. It may, after all, be true, that religion that he has impugned; that Jesus, whom he has blasphemed, may, after all, be the Son of God; and that hell, he so often despised as a figment of the brain, may turn out to be no less than an everlasting reality. But let us take another supposition, that the unbeliever possesses in his own mind a full assurance of the truth of his principles. This very assurance must greatly augment the natural terrors of death. If infidelity be true, that this life is our only possession, and this world our all, we must, to be consistent with ourselves, set an infinite value upon both. On these principles death comes, not only to rob us of life, but of being. But the future, the dread future, the Bible is no longer a book, its truths are living realities, its revelations visions of hell and eternity. One who until his last illness boasted of his infidelity, exclaimed, struggling in death, "That there is a God I know, because I feel his wrath; that there is a hell I am certain, having received the dreadful earnest of my inheritance here." "I give," says Hobbes, "my body to the dust; and my soul to the great perhaps; I am going to take a leap in the dark.” "I am abandoned of God and man" was the bitter experience of Voltaire when he yielded up the ghost.

From these miserable comforters we turn to the gospel, and fearlessly maintain, that Christianity, sincerely embraced, and exerting its uncontracted influence in forming the character, subdues and annihilates those considerations

which invest it with peculiar terrors.

Christianity supplies all that knowledge which, as a dependent, accountable, guilty, and dying creature, is necessary to make me happy; it supplies all the principles which in their direct tendency raise me above the fear, the agony, and consequences of death; it furnishes me with superadded support, in the divine consolations which it ever holds in reserve as a cordial for the fainting spirit in the dying hour.

In whatever view we contemplate death, the gospel is its mighty and infallible antidote. Is it a natural evil? it is compensated by an endless life. Is it the consequence of the Divine displeasure? it is mitigated by a revelation of the Divine mercy. Is it the penalty of sin? the gospel proclaims pardon and salvation through the blood of atonement. Is it the subject of instinctive dread and terror? the gospel altogether changes its character. Under its influence it becomes not only a conquered foe, but a most munificent benefactor. It wears a heavenly smile, and instead of agonizing the heart with terror it quietly lulls it into a sweet repose. Such is the tendency of Christianity, and such, too, is its chief design. But in order to this, it must be embraced, it must form the character; its doctrines and principles must be embodied in the life; it must, in fact, become religion-a personal distinction as well as a doctrinal system.

In describing the influence of religion (or Christianity thus understood) in death, it is requisite we should ascertain what we mean by religion, or wherein it consists. By religion we do not wish you to understand the mere connection with any particular church or visible form of Christianity. If Christianity be a Divine revelation, fitted to the wants of man, and the only system which teaches him how he may obtain acceptance with God, then nothing short of the full effect of the gospel upon a human soul can fit that soul for its eternal change. Religion, as constituting the grand distinction of

felt this: "I know whom I have believed." This is the great secret of peace, and happiness, and triumph in death. But there is a natural terror in death; and how is this overcome by religion? The love of Christ, and the manifestation of Christ to the soul, are its effectual antidotes; and by these, death has not only been conquered, but has been trampled upon with a triumphant and exulting disdain. "O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?" This has been the inspired anthem of many a departing spirit. Another evil natural to death, and which often appals the dying sinner, is the darkness in which it wraps the soul and enshrouds the future. But over this darkness of the shadow of death, religion sheds her hallowed and blessed illumination, pervading all its deep recesses with the glories of an everlasting day. "Oh glory, how delightful in contemplation," exclaimed an excellent servant of Jesus when dying. "Death is but a bridge, a step,-when I look on the land of glory on the other side. Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly; make no long tarrying, O my God;" and soon after she closed her eyes and saw her God. It is said of holy Brainerd, that from time to time, at the several new symptoms of his dissolution, he was so far from being discouraged, that he seemed to be animated, as being glad at the appearances of death's approach. He often used the epithet glorious, when speaking of the day of his death, calling it that glorious day. Another Christian, after a lingering illness, and drawing near the borders of Immanuel's land, being asked how she did, replied, "Almost at home. precious Bible, true every tittle. I never thought it could have supported me thus. But it does. I never thought I could have enjoyed so much. I have not an anxious wish. It is heaven already begun. I am happy as I can be on this side heaven.

A mortal paleness on my check, But glory in my soul.'"

My

Every age, and every church, and every Christian family, have furnished instances of the power of religion in death, of a character quite as high-toned and spiritual as any of those we have now quoted; and it would be astonishing if the stream of evidence had flown in the opposite direction. Then, indeed, we might have questioned the efficacy of the gospel, which would have amounted to a denial, or, at least, a doubt of its divinity.

We are quite aware, however, that there are peculiar cases which are supposed to militate against this argument, but which, in truth, are in perfect harmony with it. The first class is of those triumphant deaths that have not been preceded by a course of religious habit and actions, but are the consequence of sudden and late repentance. Such cases must be rare where they are genuine; because they are exceptions to the general procedure of the Divine government, and must be resolved into special sovereignty; and in this view they are not the opprobrium but the glory of Christianity. In the majority of instances, we fear they are the effect of a delusion fostered by folly operating on the credulity of guilt. The next class is of those who die without terror or apprehension, who have made no profession of religion, who live without God, die without repentance, and yet hope for heaven. These cases must be resolved into ignorance, or scepticism, or stupidity, or the influence of opiates. Their tranquil mode of dying is no evidence of the safety of their state. A man walking upon a precipice is not secure because he is ignorant of his situation; but this ignorance keeps him easy, and laughing, and singing, till he falls off; and thus we are told of the wicked, that they have no bands in their death, and their strength is firm. The last class of exceptions is of those deaths that have been gloomy and comfortless, and yet have been preceded by a religious profession. These instances may arise even where religion is sincere and genuine. From imperfect knowledge of the nature of justification; and an imperfect reliance