But where shall you find one who answers this happy and amiable character? Wherever you find a _Christian_: for this, and this alone is real, genuine _Christianity_. Surely you did not imagine, that _Christianity_ was no more than such a system of _opinions_ as is vulgarly called _faith_? Or a strict and regular attendance on any kind of _external worship_? O no! Were this all that it implied, Christianity were indeed a poor, empty, shallow thing: such as none but half-thinkers could admire, and all who think freely and generously must despise. But this is not the case: the spirit above described, this alone, is Christianity. And if so, it is no wonder, that even a celebrated unbeliever should make that frank declaration, “Well, after all, these Christian dogs, are the happiest fellows upon earth!” Indeed they are. Nay, we may say more. They are the only happy men upon earth: and that tho’ we should have no regard at all to the particular circumstances above-mentioned. Suppose there was no such thing as a comet in the universe, or none that would ever approach the solar system; suppose there had never been an earthquake in the world, or that we were assured there never would be another: yet what advantage has a Christian (I mean always a real, scriptural Christian) above all other men upon earth? What advantage has he over _you_ in particular, if you do not believe the Christian system? For suppose you have utterly driven away storms, lightnings, earthquakes, comets, yet there is another grim enemy at the door; and you cannot drive him away, it is death. “O _that death_ (said a gentleman of large possessions, of good health, and a chearful natural temper) I do not love to think of it! it comes in and spoils all.” So it does indeed. It comes with its “miscreated front,” and spoils all your mirth, diversions, pleasures! It turns all into the silence of a tomb, into rottenness and dust. And many times it will not stay till the trembling hand of old age beckons to it: but it leaps upon you, while you are in the dawn of life, in the bloom and strength of your years. “The morning flowers display their sweets, And gay their silken leaves unfold, Unmindful of the noon-tide heats, And fearless of the evening cold. Nipp’d by the wind’s unkindly blast, Parch’d by the sun’s directer ray The momentary glories waste, The short-liv’d beauties die away.” And where are you then? Does your soul disperse and dissolve into common air? Or does it share the fate of its former companion, and moulder into dust! Or does it remain conscious of its own existence, in some distant, unknown world? ’Tis all unknown! A black, dreary, melancholy scene! Clouds and darkness rest upon it.