The benefits which I have enumerated, as resulting from prescribed religious forms, are sufficient to prove them requisite, reasonable and useful. But all the considerations which have been offered are of a general nature. When we come to the inquiry of what kinds of forms are best, how many should there be, and how should they be observed, the discussion will of course assume a more particuliar bearing. It must be laid down as a principle, that religious rites, in order that they may produce the most beneficial effects, prevent abuses, and be in harmony with a pure and spiritual religion, must be simple and few. I hope to establish the truth of this proposition by the following considerations.

Observances are so far valuable as they produce good dispositions, and no farther. Whatever, therefore, tends to make them valued for themselves tends to destroy all that is valuable in their efficacy. And they are even negative and harmless, only so long as they do not absolutely exclude good dispositions, and no longer. That is to say; whatever there may be in them which diverts the attention from the objects to which they ought to have directed it; whatever there may be in the means, which takes away the thoughts and affections from the end, perverts the very design of those means, and renders them not only useless, but pernicious. Rites, therefore, should in the first place be simple; simple, both in their nature, and in the manner of observing them.

To this necessary simplicity two fatal enemies are opposed-mystery and splendour.

All the good effects which result from a simple manner of apprehending a religious ceremony are destroyed by mystery. To perform a rite, or to partake in it, with desirable effects on ourselves, we must understand what it means. We must have some knowledge of its object,

before we can answer that object—at least, if we have any thing to do with its operation; and, if we have not, why engage in it at all? A mysterious ceremony is a waste of time, if it be not worse than a waste. It either overwhelms and stupifies the mind, at the precise moment when the mind should have been unusually vigorous and active; or it absorbs those energies in barren astonishment, which ought to have been employed in practical reflection. A mystérious rite, as might be supposed, has some such influence as a magical spell, enchaining the best of the mental powers in an idle imprisonment, when they ought to be in pursuit of the worthiest achievements.

The necessary simplicity of religious rites is opposed likewise by splendour, which relates to the manner of performing them. Flaming altars, and bleeding victims, tapers, incense, and costly robes, are all but so many enticements to draw away the mind from charity and duty. It has been said that they elevate the thoughts and kindle a glow of devotion. It may be So. But what is the nature of the elevation and the glow? Is it the elevation which aspires after what is noble and useful in character? Is it the glow which warms the heart with benevolence, and sympathy, and love to man? Is it not rather an elevation bewildered in its own flight, and a glow exhausted in its own burning? These confused, and tumultuous, and undefinable sensations are profitless; they bring no good thing to pass. And, if they stopped here, it would be well. But they are not merely unproductive to the votary, they deceive him. They have a lie in their right hand. They say to his heart-it is enough. They permit him to depart from the service satisfied with himself, and thinking that the Deity is satisfied with what he has done--when he ought to have departed with a determination to do more than he has ever yet accomplished, and

anxious to gain the divine approbation by every moral exertion in his power. And even this is not the extent of the evil. He comes to the sacrifice, or the ceremony, with the mistaken idea that its forms will relieve him of a burthen of sin; and he goes away fatally convinced that they have done so. And what follows? He feels himself at liberty to sin again, because he knows where to find a refuge for crime, however accumulated, and a remedy for guilt, however aggravated.

There are, then, two evils, which result from splendour in the rites of religion. The one is, that it engrosses those feelings which should have received a practical direction; and the other, that it is an inducement to ascribe merit and power to what is arrayed with so much show and circumstance, and requires so much trouble and cost.

We have seen that religious rites should be simple, both in their nature, and in the manner of their celebration. That they may produce the good ends for which they are adapted, they should also be few in number. A multiplicity of rites will be followed by evil consequences very similar to those, which arise from their splendour, and their mystery. Attention, value, merit, influence, efficacy, are all taken away from the ends, and given up to the means. Religion is naturally made to consist in its external institutions, when they present themselves so often, that there is no opportunity for attending to any thing else. The mind has no other alternative; it must devote itself to guests who make such constant calls. They who are disposed to do any thing in the service of religion, are never prone to blame themselves for doing too little, in any shape. They are very unwilling to suppose that any labour, of any kind, will be labour lost. Of course, that labour will be preferred, which is attended with the least real difficulty. It is easier to prepare a

pageant, than it is to overcome a rebellious propensity. Men will rend their garments, but not their hearts; they will bow their knees, but not their pride; they will tear the flesh from their bodies, but not their bad passions from their souls. They are very ready with their altar service, lip service, eye service-—any service, but the service of the heart and the life. These corporeal acts, they vainly imagine, entitle them to a moral equivalent. "Wherefore have we fasted," say they," and thou seest not? wherefore have we afflicted our soul, and thou takest no knowledge?" A natural deduction will be, that the more frequently, carefully, and expensively they are got up, the greater will be the claim for a spiritual return. He, therefore, who is hurried from a procession to a sacrifice, from a sacrifice to a lustration, and then to a feast and a fast, and then back again through the whole routine, is persuaded, and he must be persuaded, that he has surely done enough to please and propitiate heaven, and that these vain and empty observances are the substance and sum of religion. In truth, he has neither time nor ability to extract any real improvement from ceremonies, which succeed each other so rapidly. The attention and the feelings are so often excited, that they are worn out by the excitement, and last no longer than the exciting cause. Even the false devotion, which rises upon clouds of incense, and burns with the flame of the sacrifice, vanishes with the last wreath of the column, dies with the last ember on the altar. In short, they who never hear of religion, though they may hear of it every hour, except in connexion with a ceremony, are almost forced into the belief that ceremony is religion, and that religion is nothing but ceremony.

From the foregoing considerations may be drawn the most satisfactory inferences in favour of our own religion.

In the first place, it has its instituted rites. Thus are secured to it those general advantages, which were mentioned in the beginning of this Essay. In the next place, these rites are both simple in nature, and few in number. Thus are the best effects of such institutions ensured, and their worst abuses prevented.

I am aware that this last is not a prevailing sentiment among Christians, and that many will contradict my assertions, when I say, that there is no mystery in the nature of christian ordinances, and that there should be no splendour in their celebration. It is well that in this case there is an appeal, which cannot be denied, to an authority, which cannot be questioned nor overruled. It is altogether in vain to refer me to opinions, however ancient, and to names, however venerable, when I have before me the standard of revelation. There is no authority so old and so decisive as the Bible. Now it would be difficult to conceive any thing more simple and plain than the scripture account of the institution of Baptism and the Lord's Supper. When I read those sacred records, I can discover no intimation of unlocked designs, or supernatural operations, nor any requisitions of pomp and pageantry. But while I can see in them nothing which looks like a spell, or incantation, or magical influence of ind, I gratefully acknowledge their moral influence, and their moral utility. I gratefully acknowledge the benign authority, which these affecting rites are calculated to exert over the mind, temper, heart, and habits; and the important share which they may have in the great system of our discipline, which begins with our birth, and ends-we know not where-and which is to qualify us to hold communion with our God, and our Saviour, and the spirits of the just made perfect, in a temple not built with hands. One of these rites, that of the Communion, or Lord's