I had generally found that a Sunday passed in a visit was so heavy a day, that I had been accustomed so to arrange my engagements, as commonly to exclude this from the days spent from home. I had often found that even where the week had been pleasantly occupied, the necessity of passing several hours of a season peculiarly designed for religious purposes, with people whose habits have little similarity with our own, either draws one into their relaxed mode of getting rid of the day, or drives one to a retirement which having an unsociable appearance, is liable to the reproach of austerity and gloom.

The case was quite different at Stanley Grove. The seriousness was without severity, and the cheerfulness had no mixture of levity. The family seemed more than usually animated, and there was a variety in the religious pursuits of the young people, enlivened by intervals of cheerful and improving conversation, which particularly struck Lady Belfield. She observed to me, that the difficulty of getting through the Sunday, without any mixture of worldly occupations or amusements on the one hand, or of disgust and weariness on the other, was among the many right things which she had never been able to accomplish in her own family.

As we walked from church one Sunday, Miss Stanley told me that her father does not approve the habit of criticising the sermon. He says that the custom of pointing out the faults, can not be maintained without the custom of watching for them; that it gives the attention a wrong turn, and leads the hearer only to treasure up such passages as may serve for animadversion, and a display, not of Christian temper, but of critical skill. If the general tenor and principle be right, that is the main point they are to look to, and not to hunt for philosophical errors; that the hearer would do well to observe, whether it is not "he that sleeps," as often, at least, as "Homer nods:" a remark exemplified at church, as often as on the occasion which suggested it; that a critical spirit is the worst that can be brought out of church, being a symptom of an unhumbled mind, and an evidence that whatever the sermon may have done for others, it has not benefited the caviler.

Here Mr. Stanley joined us. I found he did not encourage his family to take down the sermon. "It is no disparagement," said he, "to the discourse preached, to presume that there may be as good already printed. Why, therefore, not read the printed sermon at home in the evening, instead of that by which you ought to have been improving while it was delivering? If it be true that faith cometh by hearing, an inferior sermon, 'coming warm and instant from the heart,' assisted by all the surrounding solemnities which make a sermon heard, so different from one read, may strike more forcibly than an abler discourse coolly perused at home. In writing, the mechanical act must necessarily lessen the effect to the writer, and to the spectator it diminishes the dignity of the scene, and seems like short-hand writer taking down a trial.

"But that, my daughters may not plead this as an excuse for inattention," continued he, "I make it a part of their evening duty to repeat what they retain, separately, to me in my library. The consciousness that this repetition will be required of them, stimulates their diligence; and the exercise itself not only strengthens the memory, but habituates to serious reflection."

At tea, Ph[oe]be, a charming, warm-hearted creature, but who now and then, carried away by the impulse of the moment, forgets habits and prohibitions, said, "I think, papa, Dr. Barlow was rather dull to-day. There was nothing new in the sermon." "My dear," replied her father, "we do not go to church to hear news. Christianity is no novelty; and though it is true that we go to be instructed, yet we require to be reminded full as much as to be taught. General truths are what we all acknowledge, and all forget. We acknowledge them, because a general assent of the understanding costs but little; and we forget them, because the remembrance would force upon the conscience a great deal of practical labor. To believe, and remember, and act upon, common, undisputed, general truths, is the most important part of religion. This, though in fact very difficult, is overlooked, on account of its being supposed very easy. To keep up in the heart a lively impression of a few plain momentous truths, is of more use than the ablest discussion of a hundred controverted points.

"Now tell me, Ph[oe]be, do you really think that you have remembered and practiced all the instructions you have received from Dr. Barlow's sermons last year? If you have, though you will have a better right to be critical, you will be less disposed to be so. If you have not, do not complain that the sermon is not new till you have made all possible use of the old ones; which if you had done, you would have acquired so much humility, that you would meekly listen even to what you already know. But however the discourse may have been superfluous to such deep divines as Miss Ph[oe]be Stanley, it will be very useful to me, and to other hearers who are not so wise."

Poor Ph[oe]be blushed up to her ears; tears rushed into her eyes. She was so overcome with shame that, regardless of the company, she flew into her father's arms, and softly whispered that if he would forgive her foolish vanity, she would never again be above being taught. The fond, but not blind father, withdrew with her. Lucilla followed, with looks of anxious love.

During their short absence, Mrs. Stanley said, "Lucilla is so practically aware of the truth of her father's observation, that she often says she finds as much advantage as pleasure in teaching the children at her school. This elementary instruction obliges her continually to recur to first principles, and to keep constantly uppermost in her mind those great truths contained in the articles of our belief, the commandments, and the prayer taught by our Redeemer. This perpetual simplifying of religion she assures me, keeps her more humble, fixes her attention on fundamental truths, and makes her more indifferent to controverted points."

In a few minutes Mr. Stanley and his daughters returned cheerful and happy: Lucilla smiling like the angel of peace and love.

"If I were not afraid," said Lady Belfield, "of falling under the same censure with my friend Ph[oe]be," smiling on the sweet girl, "I should venture to say that I thought the sermon rather too severe."

"Do not be afraid, madam," replied Mr. Stanley; "though I disapprove that cheap and cruel criticism which makes a man an offender for a word, yet discussion does not necessarily involve censoriousness; so far from it, it is fair to discuss whatever seems to be doubtful, and I shall be glad to hear your ladyship's objections."

"Well then," replied she, in the most modest tone and accent, "with all my reverence for Dr. Barlow, I thought him a little unreasonable in seeming to expect universal goodness from creatures whom he yet insisted were fallen creatures."

"Perhaps, madam," said Mr. Stanley, "you mistook his meaning, for he appeared to me perfectly consistent, not only with himself, but with his invariable rule and guide, the Scriptures. Sanctification—will you allow me to use so serious a word?—however imperfect, must be universal. It is not the improvement of any one faculty, or quality, or temper, which divines mean, when they say we are renewed in part, so much as that the change is not perfect, the holiness is not complete in any part or power, or faculty, though progressive in all. He who earnestly desires a universal victory over sin, knows which of his evil dispositions or affections it is that is yet unsubdued. This rebellious enemy he vigilantly sets himself to watch against, to struggle with, and, through divine grace, to conquer. The test of his sincerity does not so much consist in avoiding many faults to which he has no temptation, as in conquering that one to which his natural bent and bias forcibly impel him."

Lady Belfield said, "But is it not impossible to bring every part of our nature under this absolute dominion? Suppose a man is very passionate, and yet very charitable; would you look upon that person to be in a dangerous state?"

"It is not my province, madam, to decide," replied Mr. Stanley. "'God,' as Bishop Sanderson says, 'reserves this royalty to himself of being the searcher of hearts.' I can not judge how far he resists anger, nor what are his secret struggles against it. God, who expects not perfection, expects sincerity. Though complete, unmixed goodness is not to be attained in this imperfect state, yet the earnest desire after it is the only sure criterion of the sincerity we profess. If the man you allude to does not watch, and pray, and strive against the passion of anger, which is his natural infirmity, I should doubt whether any of his affections were really renewed; and I should fear that his charity was rather a mere habitual feeling, though a most amiable one, than a Christian grace. He indulges in charity, because it is a constitutional bias, and costs him nothing. He indulges in passion, because it is a natural bias also; and to set about a victory over it would cost him a great deal. This should put him on a strict self-examination; when he would probably find that, while he gives the uncontrolled reins to any one wrong inclination, his religion, even when he does right things, is questionable. True religion is seated in the heart; that is the centre from which all the lines of right practice must diverge. It is the great duty and chief business of a Christian to labor to make all his affections, with all their motives, tendencies, and operations, subservient to the word and will of God. His irregular passions, which are still apt to start out into disorder, will require vigilance to the end. He must not think all is safe, because the more tractable ones are not rebellious; but he may entertain a cheerful hope, when those which were once rebellious are become tractable."

"I feel the importance of what you say," returned Lady Belfield; "but I feel also my utter inability to set about it."

"My dear madam," said Mr. Stanley, "this is the best and most salutary feeling you can have. That very consciousness of insufficiency will, I trust, drive you to the fountain of all strength and power: it will quicken your faith, and animate your prayer; faith, which is the habitual principle of confidence in God; and prayer, which is the exercise of that principle toward him who is the object of it."

"But Dr. Barlow," said Lady Belfield, "was so discouraging! He seemed to intimate, as if the conflict of a Christian with sin must be as lasting as his life; whereas, I had hoped that victory once obtained, was obtained forever."

"The strait gate," replied Mr. Stanley, "is only the entrance of religion; the narrow way is a continued course. The Christian life, my dear Lady Belfield, is not a point but a progress. It is precisely in the race of Christianity as in the race of human glory. Julius CÆsar and St. Paul describe their respective warfares in nearly the same terms. We should count nothing done, while any thing remains undone,[2] says the Warrior. Not counting myself to have attained—forgetting the things which are behind, and pressing forward to those which are before, says the Apostle. And it is worth remarking, that they both made the disqualifying observation after attainments almost incredible. As there was no being a hero by any idler way, so there is no being a Christian by any easier road. The necessity of pursuit is the same in both cases, though the objects pursued differ as widely as the vanities of time from the riches of eternity.

"Do not think, my dear madam," added Mr. Stanley, "that I am erecting myself into a censor, much less into a model. The corruptions which I lament, I participate. The deficiencies which I deplore, I feel. Not only when I look abroad, am I persuaded of the general prevalence of evil by what I see; but when I look into my own heart, my conviction is confirmed by what I experience. I am conscious, not merely of frailties, but of sins. I will not hypocritically accuse myself of gross offenses which I have no temptation to commit, and from the commission of which, motives inferior to religion would preserve me. But I am continually humbled in detecting mixed motives in almost all I do. Such strugglings of pride with my endeavors after humility! Such irresolution in my firmest purposes! So much imperfection in my best actions! So much want of simplicity in my purest designs! Such fresh shoots of selfishness where I had hoped the plant itself had been eradicated! Such frequent deadness in duty! Such coldness in my affections! Such infirmity of will! Such proneness to earth in my highest aspirations after heaven! All these you see would hardly make, in the eyes of those who want Christian discernment, very gross sins; yet they prove demonstrably the root of sin in the heart, and the infection of nature tainting my best resolves."

"The true Christian," said I, when Mr. Stanley had done speaking, "extracts humility from the very circumstance which raises pride in the irreligious. The sight of any enormity in another makes the mere moralist proud that he is exempt from it, while the religious man is humbled from a view of the sinfulness of that nature he partakes, a nature which admits of such excesses, and from which excesses he knows that he himself is preserved by divine grace alone. I have often observed that comparison is the aliment of pride in the worldly man, and of self-abasement in the Christian."

Poor Lady Belfield looked comforted on finding that her friend Mr. Stanley was not quite so perfect as she had feared. "Happy are those," exclaimed she, looking at Lucilla, "the innocence of whose lives recommends them to the divine favor."

"Innocence," replied Mr. Stanley, "can never be pleaded as a ground of acceptance, because the thing does not exist. Innocence excludes the necessity of repentance, and where there is no sin, there can be no need of a Saviour. Whatever therefore we may be in comparison with others, innocence can afford no plea for our acceptance, without annulling the great plan of our redemption."

"One thing puzzles me," said Lady Belfield. "The most worthless people I converse with deny the doctrine of human corruption, a doctrine the truth of which one should suppose their own feelings must confirm; while those few excellent persons who almost seem to have escaped it, insist the most peremptorily on its reality. But if it be really true, surely the mercies of God are so great that he will overlook the frailties of such weak and erring mortals. So gracious a Saviour will not exact such rigorous obedience from creatures so infirm."

"Let not what I am going to say, my dear Lady Belfield," replied Mr. Stanley, "offend you; the correctness of your conduct exempts you from any particular application. But there are too many Christians who, while they speak with reverence of Christ as the Saviour of sinners, do not enough consider him as a deliverer from sin. They regard him rather as having lowered the requisitions of the law, and exonerated his followers from the necessity of that strictness of life which they view as a burdensome part of religion. From this burden they flatter themselves it was the chief object of the gospel to deliver them; and from this supposed deliverance it is, that they chiefly consider it a merciful dispensation. A cheap Christianity, of which we can acquit ourselves by a general recognition, and a few stated observances; which requires no sacrifices of the will, nor rectification of the life, is, I assure you, the prevailing system; the religion of that numerous class who like to save appearances, and to decline realities; who expect every thing hereafter while they resolve to give up nothing here; but who keep heaven in view as a snug reversion after they shall have squeezed out of this world, to the very last dregs and droppings, all it has to give."

Lady Belfield with great modesty replied, "Indeed I am ashamed to have said so much upon a topic on which I am unable and unused to debate. Sir John only smiles, and looks resolved not to help me out. Believe me, however, my dear sir, that what I have said proceeds not from presumption, but from an earnest desire of being set right. I will only venture to offer one more observation on the afternoon's sermon. Dr. Barlow, to my great surprise, spoke of the death of Christ as exhibiting practical lessons. Now though I have always considered it in a general way, as the cause of our salvation, yet its preceptive and moral benefits, I must confess, do not appear to me at all obvious."

"I conceive," replied Mr. Stanley, "our deliverance from the punishment incurred by sin, to be one great end and object of the death of our Redeemer; but I am very far from considering this as the only benefit attending it. I conceive it to be most abundant in instruction, and the strongest possible incentive to practical goodness, and that in a great variety of ways. The death of our Redeemer shows us the infinite value of our souls, by showing the inestimable price paid for them, and thus leads us to more diligence in securing their eternal felicity. It is calculated to inspire us with an unfeigned hatred of sin, and more especially to convince us of God's hatred to that, for the pardon of which such a sacrifice was deemed necessary. Now if it actually produce such an effect, it consequently stimulates us to repentance, and to an increasing dread of violating those engagements which we have so often made to lead a better life. Then the contemplation of this stupendous circumstance will tend to fill our hearts with such a sense of gratitude and obedience, as will be likely to preserve us from relapsing into fresh offenses. Again, can any motive operate so powerfully on us toward producing universal charity and forgiveness? Whatever promotes our love to God will dispose us to an increased love for our fellow-creatures. We can not converse with any man, we can not receive a kindness from any man, nay, we can not receive an injury from any man, for whom the Redeemer has not died. The remembrance of the sufferings which procured pardon for the greatest offenses, has a natural tendency to lead us to forgive small ones."

Lady Belfield said, "I had not indeed imagined there were any practical uses in an event to which I had been, however, accustomed to look with reverence as an atonement for sin."

"Of these practical effects," replied Mr. Stanley, "I will only further observe, that all human considerations put together can not so powerfully inspire us with an indifference to the vanities of life, and the allurements of unhallowed pleasures. No human motive can be so efficacious in sustaining the heart under trials, and reconciling it to afflictions. For what trials and afflictions do not sink into nothing in comparison with the sufferings attending that august event, from which we derive this support? The contemplation of this sacrifice also degrades wealth, debases power, annihilates ambition. We rise from this contemplation with a mind prepared to bear with the infirmities, to relieve the wants, to forgive the unkindnesses of men. We extract from it a more humbling sense of ourselves, a more subdued spirit, a more sober contempt of whatever the world calls great, than all the lectures of ancient philosophy, or the teachers of modern morals ever inspired."

During this little debate, Sir John maintained the most invincible silence. His countenance bore not the least mark of ill-humor or impatience, but it was serious and thoughtful, except when his wife got into any little difficulty; he then encouraged her by an affectionate smile, but listened like a man who has not quite made up his mind, yet thinks the subject too important to be dismissed without a fair and candid hearing.