the midst of the dangers of the great world, continually applies himself to purify it; just—­who swears not deceitfully against his neighbor, nor is indebted to fraudulent ways for the aggrandizement of his fortune; generous—­who with benefits repays the enemy who sought his ruin; sincere—­who sacrifices not the truth to a vile interest, and knows not the part of rendering himself agreeable by betraying his conscience; charitable—­who makes his house and interest the refuge of his fellow creatures, and himself the consolation of the afflicted; regards his wealth as the property of the poor; humble in affliction—­a Christian under injuries, and penitent even in prosperity.  Who will merit salvation?  You, my dear hearer, if you will follow these examples; for such are the souls to be saved.  Now these assuredly do not form the greatest number.  While you continue, therefore, to live like the multitude, it is a striking proof that you disregard your salvation.

These, my brethren, are truths which should make us tremble! nor are they those vague ones which are told to all men, and which none apply to themselves.  Perhaps there is not in this assembly an individual who may not say of himself, “I live like the great number; like those of my rank, age, and situation; I am lost, should I die in this path.”  Now, can anything be more capable of alarming a soul, in whom some remains of care for his salvation shall exist?  It is the multitude, nevertheless, who tremble not.  There is only a small number of the just who work out severally their salvation with fear and trembling.  All the rest are tranquil.  After having lived with the multitude, they flatter themselves they shall be particularized at death.  Every one augurs favorably for himself, and vainly imagines that he shall be an exception.

On this account it is, my brethren, that I confine myself to you who are now here assembled.  I include not the rest of men; but consider you as alone existing on the earth.  The idea which fills and terrifies me is this—­I figure to myself the present as your last hour, and the end of the world! the heavens opening above your heads—­the Savior, in all His glory, about to appear in the midst of His temple—­you only assembled here as trembling criminals, to wait His coming, and hear the sentence, either of life eternal, or everlasting death! for it is vain to flatter yourselves that you shall die more innocent than you are at this hour.  All those desires of change with which you are amused, will continue to amuse you till death arrives.  The experience of all ages proves it.  The only difference you have to expect will most likely be only a larger balance against you than what you would have to answer for now; and from what would be your destiny, were you to be judged in this moment, you may almost decide upon what it will be at death.  Now, I ask you—­and, connecting my own lot with yours, I ask it with dread—­were Jesus Christ to appear in this temple, in the midst