PREFACE.

WORSHIP is an attitude which our nature assumes, not for a purpose, but from an emotion. Whenever it is genuine, it is the natural and spontaneous utterance of a mind possessed by the conception of the infinite relations in which we stand, and aspiring towards a point of view worthy of their solemnity. And though it breathes forth the deepest and greatest of desires, it is essentially an end, and not a means; and, like the embrace of friendship, or the kiss of domestic affection, loses all its meaning when adopted from conviction of its reasonableness, or with a view to personal advantage. Those who ask, or would explain, what it is for,-whether disposed to regard it as serviceable for persuading God, or for benefitting man,-have as absolutely lost its true spirit, as the mother would forget her nature, if she were to regulate her caresses by expediency. The plaints of a sacred sorrow, the cry of penitence, the vow of duty, the brilliancy of praise, shed forth, like the laughter and the tears of infancy, from a heart conscious of nothing else, are examples of the true and primitive devotion.

In opposition to this Natural idea of worship stands the Utilitarian, which considers it an "In

strumental act;" whether, according to the sacerdotal view, its instrumentality is thought to be mystically efficacious with God; or, according to the rationalistic, intelligibly beneficial to man. The statements which this last-mentioned theory makes, respecting the value of worship to the conscience and the heart, are all quite true. But the churches which begin to justify their outward devotion by appeal to this consideration, have already lost their inward devoutness; and the individual who, with this notion of self-operation, speaks a prayer, performs an act of disciplinary prudence, not of Christian piety, and takes the air of heaven for the sake of exercise, rather than in love of the light and quest of the immensity of God.

It is evident that the natural sentiments of worship have been the parents of all that is great in sacred art; and that architecture, music, painting, and poetry, first allied themselves with religion,—not condescendingly, in order to improve it, but reverently, to receive from it their noblest consecration. They put themselves submissively into its hands, willing to take whatever forms its plastic power might impress, if they might only serve as its outward voice and manifestation. The cathedral aisle sprung up and closed over the place of prayer, like an effort to grasp the infinitude of God. Christendom, feeling that the mere articulate speech of men was harsh when it took up the Holy Name, adopted melody as its natural language, and prayed upon the organ. But the first encroachment of the rationalistic spirit checked these creations of piety, and dragged genius from the altar. Religion could not look in the glass without discovering the secret of her beauty; and too infirm to retain her simplicity