"Father, I never neglected them. I look on the preaching of Christ as the finest system of morality in the world; and his parables, such as "The Prodigal Son-the Good Samaritan" the Lost Sheep," &c. as models of divine goodness. And if I could only hear a preacher take these for his texts, and paint them in those rich colours they are capable of, I would never stay from meeting. But now, father, when I go, instead of those benevolent preachings and parables which Christ so delighted in, I hardly ever hear any thing but lean, chaffy discourses about the TRINITY, and BAPTISMS, and ELECTIONS, and REPROBATIONS, and FINAL PERSEVERANCES, and COVENANTS, and a thousand other such things which do not strike my fancy as religion at all, because not in the least calculated, as I think, to sweeten and ennoble men's natures, and make them love and do good to one another."

"There is too much truth in your remark, Ben; and I have often been sorry that our preachers lay such stress on these things, and do not stick closer to the preachings of Christ."

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"Stick closer to them, father! O no, to do them justice, sir, we must not charge them with not sticking to the text, for they never take Christ for their text, but some dark sage out of the prophets or apostles, which will better suit their gloomy education. Or if they should, by some lucky hit, honour Christ for a text, they quickly give him the go-by and lug in Calvin or some other angry doctor; and then in place of the soft showers of Gospel pity on sinners, we have nothing but the dreadful thunderings of eternal hate, with the unavailing screams of little children in hell not a span long! Now, father, as I do not look on such preaching as this to be any ways pleasing to the Deity or profitable to man, I choose to stay at home and read my books; and this is the reason, I suppose, why my brother James and the council-men here of Boston think that I have no religion.

"Your strictures on some of our ministers, my son, are in rather a strong style: but still there is too much truth in them to be denied. However, as to what your brother James and the council think of you, it is of little consequence, provided you but possess true religion."

"Aye, TRUE RELIGION, father, is another thing; and I should like to possess it. But as to such religion as theirs, I must confess, father, I never had and never wish to have it."

"But what do you mean by their religion, my son?"

"Why, I mean, father, a religion of gloomy forms and notions, that have no tendency to make men good and happy, either in themselves or to others."

"So then, my son, you make man's happiness the end of religion."

"Certainly I do, father."

"Our catechisms, Ben, make God's glory the end of religion."

"That amounts to the same thing, father; as the framers of the catechisms, I suppose, placed God's glory in the happiness of man.

"But why do you suppose that so readily, Ben?”

"Because, father, all wise workmen place their glory in the perfection of their works. The gunsmith glories in his rifle, when she never misses her aim; the clockmaker glories in his clock when she tells the time exactly. They thus glory, because their works answer the ends for which they were made. Now God, who is wiser than all workmen, had, no doubt, his ends in making man. But certainly he could not have made him with a view of getting any thing from him, seeing man has nothing to give. And as God, from his own infinite riches, has a boundless power to give; and from his infinite benevolence, must have an equal delight in giving, I can see no end so likely for his making man as to make him happy. I think, father, all this looks quite reasonable."

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Why, yes, to be sure, Ben, it does look very reasonable

indeed."

"Well then, father, since all wise workmen glory in their works when they answer the ends for which they designed them, God must glory in the happiness of man, that being the end for which he made him."

"This seems, indeed, Ben, to be perfectly agreeable to

"Yes, sir, not only to reason, but to nature too: for even nature, I think, father, in all her operations, clearly teaches that God must take an exceeding glory in our happiness; for what else could have led him to build for us such a noble world as this; adorned with so much beauty; stored with such treasures; peopled with so many fair creatures; and lighted up as it is with such gorgeous luminaries by day and by night ?"

"I am glad, my son, I touched on this subject of religion in the way I did; your mode of thinking and reasoning on

it pleases me greatly. But now taking all this for granted, what is still your idea of the true religion?"

"Why, father, if God thus places his glory in the happiness of man, does it not follow that the most acceptable thing that man can do for God, or in other words, that the true religion of man consists in his so living, as to attain the highest possible perfection and happiness of his nature, that being the chief end and glory of the Deity in creating him?” Well, but how is this to be done?"

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"Certainly, father, by imitating the Deity."

"By imitating him, child! but how are we to imitate him?"

"In his goodness, father."

"But why do you pitch on his GOODNESS rather than on any other of his attributes?"

"Because, father, this seems, evidently, the prince of all his other attributes, and greater than all."

"Take care child, that you do not blaspheme.

How can one of God's attributes be greater than another, when all are infinite?"

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Why, father, must not that which moves be greater than that which is moved?"

"What am I to understand by that, Ben?"

"I mean, father, that the power and wisdom of the Deity, though both unspeakably great, would probably stand still and do nothing for men, were they not moved to it by his goodness. His goodness then, which comes and puts his power and wisdom into motion, and thus fills heaven and earth with happiness, must be the greatest of all his attributes. 99

"I don't know what to say to that, Ben; certainly his power and wisdom must be very great too."

"Yes, father, they are very great indeed: but still they seem but subject to his greater benevolence which enlists them in its service and constantly gives them its own delightful work to do. For example, father, the wisdom and power of the Deity can do any thing, but his benevolence takes care that they shall do nothing but for good. The power and wisdom of the Deity could have made changes both in the earth and heavens widely different from their present state. They could, for instance, have placed the sun a great deal farther off or a great deal nearer to us. But then in the first case we should have been frozen to icicles, and in the second scorched to cinders. The power of the Deity could have

given a tenfold force to the winds, but then no tree could have stood on the land, and no ship could have sailed on the seas. The power of the Deity could also have made changes as great in all other parts of nature; it could have made every fish as monstrous as a whale, every bird dreadful as the condor, every beast as vast as the elephant, and every tree as big as a mountain. But then it must strike every one that these changes would all have been utterly for the worse, ren dering these noble parts of nature comparatively useless to us.-I say the power of the Deity could have done all this, and might have so done but for his benevolence, which would not allow such discords, but has, on the contrary, established all things on a scale of the exactest harmony with the convenience and happiness of man. Now, for example, father, the sun, though placed at an enormous distance from us, is placed at the very distance he should be for all the important purposes of light and heat; so that the earth and waters, neither frozen nor burnt, enjoy the temperature fittest for life and vegetation. Now the meadows are covered with grass; the fields with corn; the trees with leaves and fruits; presenting a spectacle of universal beauty and plenty, feasting all senses and gladdening all hearts; while man, the favoured lord of al', looking around him amidst the mingled singing of birds and skipping of beasts and leaping of fishes, is struck with wonder at the beauteous scenery, and gratefully acknowledges that benevolence is the darling attribute of the Deity."

"I thank God, my son, for giving you wisdom to reason in this way. But what is still your inference from all this,

as to true religion?"

"Why, my dear father, my inference is still in confirmation of my first answer to your question relative to the true religion, that it consists in our imitating the Deity in his goodness. Every wise parent, wishing to allure his children to any particular virtue, is careful to set them the fairest examples of the same, as knowing that example is more powerful than precept. Now since the Deity, throughout all his works, so invariably employs his great power and wisdom as the ministers of his benevolence to make his creatures happy, what can this be for but an example to us; teaching that if we wish to please him-the true end of all religion-we must imitate him in his moral goodness, which if we would but all do as steadily as he does, we should recal the golden age, and convert this world into Paradise "

"All this looks very fair, Ben; but yet after all what are we to do without FAITH ?”

"Why, father, as to Faith, I cannot say; not knowing much about it. But this I can say, that I am afraid of any substitutes to the moral character of the Deity. In short, sir, I don't love the fig-leaf."

"Fig-leaf! I don't understand you, child; what do you mean by the fig-leaf?"

"Why, father, we read in the Bible that soon as Adam had lost that true image of the Deity, his MORAL GOODNESS, instead of striving to recover it again, he went and sewed fig-leaves together to cover himself with."

"Stick to the point, child."

"I am to the point, father. I mean to say that as Adam sought a vain fig-leaf covering, rather than the imitation of the Deity in moral goodness, so his posterity have ever since been fond of running after fig-leaf substitutes."

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Aye! well I should be glad to hear you explain a little on that head, Ben."

"Father, I don't pretend to explain a subject I don't understand, but I find in PLUTARCH'S LIVES and the HEATHEN ANTIQUITIES, which I read in your old divinity library, and which no doubt give a true account of religion among the ancients, that when they were troubled on account of their crimes, they do not seem once to have thought of conciliating the Deity by reformation, and by acts of benevolence and goodness to be like him. No, they appear to have been too much enamoured of lust, and pride, and revenge, to relish moral goodness; such lessons were too much against the grain. But still something must be done to appease the Deity. Well then, since they could not sum up courage enough to attempt it by imitating his goodness, they would try it by coaxing his vanity-they would build him grand temples; and make him mighty sacrifices; and rich offerings. This I am told, father, was their fig-leaf."

"Why this, I fear, Ben, is a true bill against the poor Heathens."

"Well, I am sure, father, the Jews were equally fond of the fig-leaf; as their own countrymen, the Prophets, are con stantly charging them. JUSTICE, MERCY, and TRUTH had, it seems, no charms for them. They must have fig-leaf substitutes, such as tythings of mint, anise, and cummin, and making long prayers in the streets,' and deep groanings with disfigured faces in the synagogues.' If they but did

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