their sensibilities, they admire him; but if he gives a plain exhibition of gospel truth, they are inattentive and uninterested. No matter how unscriptural the former may be; he may preach baptismal regeneration, transubstantiation, or almost any thing else-still, if the discourse is full of the tender and the pathetic, this is enough to please the thorough-going sentimentalist.

Such a state of mind exposes its possessor to serious dangers. It makes feeling, rather than the Bible, a spiritual guide. It measures the beneficial influence of religious instruction, not by its tendency to enlighten the understanding, awaken the conscience, and sanctify the heart-but by its power to awaken and nourish mere feeling. Just so far, therefore, as this spirit prevails in the church, it diminishes the security against the introduction of false teachers, and prepares the way for the substitution of "another gospel," instead of "the truth as it is in Jesus." In a church thoroughly imbued with this spirit, all that would be necessary to effect a change so deplorable, is, a preacher capable of arraying error in a more sentimental garb than that in which the people had been accustomed to see the truth exhibited. Rome well understands this principle. She knows how much more pleasant it is to the unrenewed heart to indulge in sentimental emotion, than it is to feel conviction for sin. She knows, too, that there are many who would gladly have some form of religion, but who are unwilling to abstain from "fleshly lusts, which war against the soul." She knows that religious sentimentalism is adapted to please this class of minds, and she has laid her plans accordingly. Her imposing ceremonies, her solemn processions, her rites appealing so strongly to the imagination, her churches, into many of which the light of heaven is not permitted to enter, till it is softened by being transmitted through colored glass-all attest her skill in adapting her arrangements to this feeling which is so strong in many minds. So varied are her devices for this purpose, that he must be a singular being who cannot find some among them, corresponding to his own state of mind. And her success has, in a great measure, corresponded to her skill and her efforts. Those who are acquainted with her history know something of what she has accomplished by these means;

but the full extent of the influence exerted by her ruinous delusions is known only to God.

The Saviour has said, referring to God the Father, "If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself." He thus exhibits obedience to the will of God, not only as an essential element in Christian character, but also as an indispensable requisite to clear views of religious truth. The Christian religion is thus shown to be eminently practical, and the relation between truth and duty is clearly brought to view. But in this aspect, religion presents no beauty to the eye of the sentimentalist. In his view, the beauty of religion consists not in its truth, or its holiness, but in its power to awaken emotion. Hence the state of feeling which he admires and cherishes does not lead him to search for truth, or to have clear views of duty. It does not lead him to pray, "That which I know not, teach thou me," and "O let me not wander from thy commandments." Its primary object is emotion. Το this, truth and duty are only secondary. It is easy to see how such a state of feeling, should it become predominant in the Christian church, would open the flood-gates of error, both in doctrine and in practice.

Again, religious sentimentalism gives distorted views of the character of Christianity, regarded as a whole. There is much in the religion of Christ, on which the eye of taste will delight to linger. But still many of its truths are invested with a solemnity so awful, that a rightly balanced mind will instinctively shrink from contemplating them merely as objects of taste. It will feel that they occupy higher, holier ground. Few indeed would dare contemplate the day of judgment in this light, or look upon it as a proper subject for that peculiar kind of taste and emotion in which the sentimentalist delights. But the tendency of this feeling is to throw the great doctrines which constitute the life and soul of Christianity into the shade, and to give to those truths which may be made to minister to mere sentiment a far higher place than they deserve.

Religious sentimentalism greatly increases the danger of self-deception. There is scarcely a Christian grace, of which it cannot assume the semblance. Repentance, under its metamorphosing hand, becomes a tender sorrow for having injured and defaced so beautiful a thing as the

soul of man. Or, if there is some appearance of regard to the claims of God, the feeling exercised in respect to those. claims is simply regret for having interfered with the regular operation of so beautiful a system as that of the divine government. Humility no longer says, "God, be merciful to me a sinner," but indulges, instead of this, in sentimental inusings on the desolations which sin has made, and weeps over affecting pictures of decay and ruin, drawn by the pencil of imagination. Faith no longer rests in simple and undoubting reliance on the promises of God, and so

"Bids earth roll, nor feels its idle whirl."

Instead of this, it is employed in drawing beautiful pictures of the divine character and government, and in contemplating, with a kind of romantic pleasure, these objects of its own creation. Or, perhaps, instead of being "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," it soars upward on the wings of fancy, to some imagined glorious palace in the skies, and amuses itself with dreams of the glory and the beauty which it pictures there. Love, under the influence of this spirit, no longer exclaims, "Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire besides thee." This is too much a matter-of-fact representation for the sentimentalist. Love, with him, fixes its looks of gentle tenderness, not on the character of God as the Bible represents it, but on such particular exhibitions of that character as are adapted to awaken sentiment and emotion. And so it is with the other Christian graces. Sentimentalism has materials out of which it can form substitutes for them all. And there is reason to fear that many a soul, arrayed in no better raiment, is now saying, "I am rich, and increased with goods, and have need of nothing."

Religious sentimentalism tends to generate and to foster spiritual pride. As real piety increases in the heart, it tends to make its possessor see more and more of his own vileness and unworthiness in the sight of God. Thus it makes him humble. But that form of supposed piety which weeps over sin rather as a violation of taste, than as a transgression of the law of God, will exert no such influence on the heart of its possessor. It will rather tend

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to puff him up by pride at the thought of his deep spiritual discernment, and lead him to regard himself as one on whom God looks with special favor. Nor is this all. Persons of this class will look with little complacency, perhaps even with contempt, upon those whose minds are not deeply imbued with sentimentalism. They will regard them as very far below themselves in spiritual attainments, if not as wholly destitute of the spirit and power of religion. The piety of all except their own class will appear to them exceedingly unlovely, if, indeed, they allow it the name of piety at all. And thus they will look upon sincere devotion to the service of God as possessing a coarse and unrefined character, and needing much purifying and elevation in order to make it compare with their own exalted attainments.

There is much in the state of public feeling at the present time, which tends to generate and to cherish religious sentimentalism. The firm and vigorous, though perhaps somewhat too stern and forbidding form which piety wore a century or two ago, has, in many parts of our country, given place to something very different; to a piety which can talk very sentimentally about the beauty of religious ordinances, and can wipe its tears very gracefully when listening to some pathetic discourse, and can admire the solemnity of light streaming through windows of colored glass, and be delighted with the soul-subduing strains of melody poured forth by the organ when touched by some master hand-but which knows very little about "enduring hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ;" and which thinks far less of walking in the steps of the Saviour, than of adıniring the beauty of his life. There are also many in whom the sense of religious obligation is so strong, and the power of conscience so great, that they dare not give up the idea of trying to be religious at some time, but who still are not willing to come out from the world and be separate," to "take up the cross and follow Jesus." Gladly indeed would they make some compromise. Gladly would they find some way in which they might be religious, without making sacrifices greater than they are willing to endure. To minds in this state, religious sentimentalism will commend itself as the very thing to meet their wishes. It will enable them to pacify conscience, and at the same time to keep on good terms with

the world; it will even tend to make many of the devotees of fashion think still more highly of them, as possessing great refinement and purity of character. Can it be doubted that from this class of persons the claims of religious sentimentalism will meet a prompt and glad response? Is there not fearful danger that by many of them this substitute for religion will be embraced instead of the reality, to their own eternal ruin?

There seems to be something in the general tone of feeling among the so-called fashionable classes, which operates to produce a similar result. It is fashionable to be very gentle and very delicate in a certain sense. To possess vigorous health is deemed ungenteel, and a firm, strong constitution is decidedly vulgar. A certain delicate languor is supposed to give an indescribable grace to the person; and to have delicate nerves or some similar ailment is a recommendation to the circles of fashionable life. How often a languishing sigh or a look of resigned despair follows some momentary vexation, exciting the contempt of sensible persons, and passing for just what it it is worth; a merry laugh, under such circumstances, or a gay remark would be infinitely wiser, better and nobler than such signs of hopeless distress and utter discouragement. When we consider with what despotic power fashion sways the opinions and feelings of multitudes, it will not appear strange that such views should give strength and currency to a state of feeling so well corresponding with them in religion.

Again, among our religious sects, there are some whose faith, and worship, and modes of speech abound in sentimentalism. Popery has always relied much on impressions made upon the senses; and a great portion of her forms of worship are, as has already been remarked, directly adapted to cherish that sentimentalism which is often mistaken for devotion. When we read the discourses of some of her most admired preachers, we can hardly fail to observe that this feature stands out in prominent relief. Their humble imitators, the Puseyites, have carried it to such an extent as to appear little short of ludicrous. And other denominations might be mentioned, in whose worship there are not wanting influences tending to produce the same effect. The growth of Popery, and the recent development and active movements of Pusey