ii^'^: THE MUSEUM Is DUblidicd every monili, at Six Dollars ^ a year, by E LITTELL, S8 Chesuut-street, PhlUdelphii. Edinburgh, Q • ETCHINGS FRORt ^wm mami®i®irg w%m%m^ / By THOMAS CHARLTON HENRY, D.D. halt Pastor ojthe Second Presbyterian Church, Charleston, S. C. When I bethink ttie of that speech uhylear, • Of Mutability, and well it weigh: "^ • Me seems, that though she all unworthy were • Of the Heaven's rule ; yet very sooth to say, In all things else she bears the greatest sway. Which makes rae loath this state of life so tickle, And love of things so vain and cast away ; Whose flowering pride, so fading and so fickle, Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle. Then 'gin I think on that which Nature said. Of that same time when no more change shall be. But stedfast rest of all things firmly stayd Upon the pillaurs of Eternity, That is contrayr to Mutability : For all that moveth doth in change deligKt, But thenceforth all shall rest eternally Witli him that is tlie God of Sabaoth hight : Oh that great Sabaoth God. grant me that Sabaoth's sight. CHARLESTON : OBSERVER OFPICB PRESS. .^♦tD BV D. W. HARRISON, CHARLESTON — E. LlTTELt, PHlLADIlPniA- /OHN r. HAVE."?, N. YORK — CROCKER AND BREnSTER, BOSTO.", District of South Carolina. (1j> S.) Be it remembered, That on the Fifth day of December, A. U. 3827, and in the fifty-second year of the Independence of the United States of America, the Rev. Samuel S. S. Davis deposited in this office the fitle of a book the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words fol- lowing:, to wit: " Etchinj^s from the Religious World. By Thomas Charlton Henry, D. D. late Pastor of the 2d Presbyterian Church, Charleston, S. C." In conformity to the Act ofCongress of the United States, enfititled " An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books to the Authors and Proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned" — And also an Act entitled " An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled ' An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books to the Au- thors and Proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned, and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints." JAMES JERVEY, District Clerk To , Esq. My Dear Sir, Why should we destroy the notes of the day I Some ten years hence, they avou1(^ enahle us to act our part again in the scenes of the past. And if there be too much paiu in the re-creation of things that have perished, to be counter-balanced by the pleasure they offer ; the gold of experience, for which we paid so dear, is worthy of preservation. It is passable coin. Our judgement never refuses it. Let me tell you, I love to hoard together the communications which make up a chronicle of the great and little events of life. They may be of little worth in the hour for which they were intended ; but they grow richer by pre- servation than any thing else that age improves. They have power to recal the seasons to which they belonged. Every line revokes matters and men. A single word and the eye al- ways catches that particular word- — —suiri' VLions manner and place, riant or sombre^ cheerful or sad, as they were. It does more. It introduces them without the duskiness which our own selfish part had thrown around them. We see Avliat lias been, as it was. We are too disinterested, when it has so far gone by, to be blinded by our personal prepossessions or pol- icy. And when these ten years or any other good round number that you will, is completed, if there be a moment in life when truth is most unshackled in her agency, it is when we look over such a pile of life's monuments. It is in the very article of such doing that I have been, for hours, engaged. And, verily, I have been more deeply affected than ever by the soberest realities before. You may smile when I say it, but there is a natural getting up, and a natural keeping, — as artists speak, — in this retrospect, fOr which I was hardly prepared. I find myself in an indefinable mood. I see the past with a distinctness which fancy assim- ilates to our sight of things Avhen we shall bo in eternity. Where in the dealings of inter- course I have been wrong, I am confounded at niy folly. I can see in the mountain of evil the gradual up-building — tlie first grain of sand that, coinnienced its formation. Where I have been useful, I can discover the workmanship of a hand that was then invisible. What teas, existed in temporary colours, like writing in sympathetic ink ; and it had departed with its colouring. But here was a chymical process that restored the whole to shape again. In five minutes I shifted the scenes of months. In five more, the ratio was trebled : For there is an " attraction of aggregation" in moral as well as in physical science. There is not a circumstance connected with this pile of papers which is too indilfcrent to awaken emotion. — Even that letter, Avhich I have just destined to the flames, as the most jnnnaterial part of the past, gave rise to a mul- titudinous association of thought. The writer, it is true, never awakened nmch interest in my bosom : and we never exchanged any other communications than those of business or form. But then, this is the latest trace that remains of him. He was one who made up part of a circle in which I moved. And that circle is dissolved. It parted and melted away, like all that is of artificial or natural light. The next I shall know of that man will be in a world of spirits. There is something painful in destroy- ing this vestige. It hastens him into oblivion. 1 am SQ miicli more insulated, mvsclf Vi. Such was the fate of some fifty such sheet:?. But there was not one of them that did not ponit out some spots in my pilgrimage, to which I could trace events that have borne on iny present circumstances, or on my disposition and temper. How distinctly can I see that the greatest concerns in life — concerns which form a part of our moral being, arise from little springs, like the mightiest rivers of our earth. How plainly do I observe that every thing is a link — or at least a component part of a link, — in the history of religious experience Those sheets are consuming before me. The flame which wrapt them, is flickering in its last blue shade of colour, upon some warping frag- ment that shrinks up, and passes away, as the light cinders that ascended before it. There go the mementos of years ! — The chain of the past is broken. — The absent are to be forgotten until I meet them again. The deeds between us have gone up already : The hour of each, returned unto Him Avho spoke time into being, and deposited before him all it had gathered. Part of my existence seems stricken oft*: — For, despite of us, oblivion of the past seems to diminish the scale of our being : The mem- ory of what teas, makes more than a fanciful portion of the ens prcesentis, VII. " Our own aftairs are of magnitude to us, if they are so to no one else. While I turned from the lost pile, it seemed to leave much such a monument to my credit, as the baths of Alexandria did to that of Omar : — Self-love is pleased in comparing little things with great. Now what has all this to do with the packet I send you 1 You shall hear : A folded sheet, which had been read again and again, laid on the top of the yet unsentenced mass of papers. Its seal had not been fractured in opening. — The moment I cast my eye on the impression, and read Je ne change (fen mourant, an array of thoughts, pressing, conflicting, and painful, stood before me. The catchct had a charm to revive reflections which I had condemned to forgctfulness. Jc ne change (fen mourant, was a pretty conceit which vanity made for friend- ship — which was intended to pass as a senti- ment, (a thing that in modes of life means not much,) but which the receiver from one whom he loved, would credit to its utmost ; just as our vanity loves to credit the first salutation of a letter, and its final subscription, although the writer may mean nothing in either. I could not escape from the crowd of living reflections which pressed upon me, while I held vm. this sheet in my hands. I read the signa- ture — I invohmtarily pronounced the name with all the familiarity of former days. The car, as well as the eye, has its fancy. I heard the same manly voice, once used to answer, sounding again. A thought occurred to me, in practical cha- racter : and to that thought you owe the pack- et which travels in company with these lines. — ' Might I not detain, and pinion down, much that once was present, and which this hour has remanded again V I do not wish to live over all the past : who does \ — I do not wish to pre- serve any thing of autobiogra][)hy, excepting so far as the reprieve of certain sheets will do so, for my own musings, and, let me add, for my OAvn benefit. But somebody has said, that, " a record of our thoughts as they occur might be digested into something of value." And any body might say, that, a record of what thousands of us have witnessed — " the merest deeds of the day" — would be of greater worth ; just so far as example is a better teacher and a better disciplinarian than precept. Many d tale that was of private interest, and that was replete with instruction, and that deserved to live, is entombed with its witnesses and actors. ix. I have reached my point at last. — 1 deter- iiiincd to enclose with certain strokes of the pen, pictures of some things as they were ; to secure them before they and their moral es- caped. Yet there was a difficulty in my way. To be able even to say " quorum pars fui,^'' is an incidental aflair. But to tell the thing as it w as, so as to present it to the eye of a friend, exactly as it met our own, is not so easy a task. It may be freshened to our o>vn sight by the record we have made. But it is because we have auxiliaries that supply all that was want- ing in effect : and these it is not in our power to transfer to another. The verisimilitude of matter may be communicated : but the mind cannot impart its impressions so easily : and our world would be strangely altered if it could. But there w as another obstacle in my way : I knew my incompetency to describe a scene of feeling. There is a talent in the fil- ling up, which, if I dared covet, I would have almost envied others. On the other hand, there w as some compensation for this defect : It was truth which I had to relate : and it is truth which I have told. If there be any ex- terior embellishment, it will not deceive you, who will easily discern it. If the reasoning or argument, i« colloquy, is not always seriatim — and I mention this snider the peradvcnture that it might reaoJi the observation of some con- cerned — why tlicn, I have only to plead against the charge of error, that any slight alteration !>cre, or even an important one, cannot afiect ion that exists in his own heart, to that of the credulous obser- Tin: TWO PRISONERS. 15 vcr : or that tlie skk should display what may be so easily taken for the proof of a radical change. It is false that, " A Deatli bed 's a detector of the lieart,' or that here '• TiiTd Dissiiaiulation drops tlie mask :" We may be dishonest to ourselves until " the silver cord is loosed," and the spirit enters a workl >\iiere falsehood can play her part no more. The Peripatetic who defined hope, •' the dream of a waking man," might have ex- tended his meaning to tlie spiritual interest of thousands, who continue to hope, with all the fallacy of a nightly vision, until the astounding realities of eternity break on the senses. And he who said of truth, that it was " Heaven- born, with numberless counterfeits on earth," little knew how extensive was the application of his remark to concerns of infinite moment. At a late hour in the night, a note v»as once put into my hands, from the keeper of a prison in the neighbouring street of the city. It con- tained a request to visit two young men, who were under sentence of death, and who were expected to pay the penalty of a violated law on the ensuing morning. The illness of the Clergyman who ordinarily odiciated as Chap 16 THE TWO PRISONERS, lain, and the earnest desire of the prisoners, whom I had once before visited, furnished in- ducements to my compHance. It was a melancholy errand, although it was one of mercy. The uninterrupted stillness of the night, the unseasonableness of the time, and the nature of my visit, conspired together to produce confused and uneasy sensations. And, when I arrived at the; gate of the prison, I had some reason to suspect myself of default in that great ingredient of ^n acceptable sa- crifice — cheerfulness in the offering. The Turnkey, whose orders had prepared him to expect me, led the way through the great hall of the dreary building to the mas- sive door, which separated the interior from the publick gaze. Having traversed a narrow pas- sage, and descended a flight of stone steps, we found ourselves in the range of solitary cells. The grating of hinges once more over, we were enclosed within the confinement of " The Two Prisoners." For some reason, not now recollected, the ordinary rule of the prison had been waved, and the partners in crime had been kept together, from the period of their sen- tence. An earthen pitcher, and an unbroken loaf of brown bread, were on a table in the centre of THE TWO FRISONER8. 17 the Stone floor. Two beds of straw, with tlieir woollen coverings, completed the furniture of the apartment. Near the ceiling, a small, thick-grated window, which served rather to ventilate than to light, and a heavy ring fasten- ed to the floor, were all else, apart from the culprit*!, on which the sight might have rested. " And so here," thought I, " is part payment of ' the wag^s of sin :' Sin that might have begun its debtorship, insensibly, with the gnilty, in mere imaginings, before a purpose was fledged or formed : that went on from fancy, to pur- pose, and to act : from the smaller deed, that most startled an active conscience, to the bol- der transgression, in which the conscience is inert. And yet this is only an earnest of full payment. Tomorrow the debtor is to begin his full discharge. Six hours to come, — and nights and days are to be numbered no more. Six hours — and the ear shall tingle with the sounds of eternity. — And these hours are passing with a fleetness that seems merciless and horrible " The prisoners had risen on our entrajice. Each was sitting at the foot of his pallet. — The dim light of the lantern was just sufficient to read an expression of countenance which is seldom unmarked on such an occasion. There was a striking diflerence betw^een the two 3 18 rilE TWO PRISOr^EKS. young men. The wild stare, anti fallen coun- tenance of one, was the very personification ol' despair. The eye of the other, w as moistened and mild : his forehead was smooth : and his whole features evinced a frame of mind con- tented, if not happy. A month before, this was not so. There had been strong expectations of a reprieve. iVIuch interest had been used ; and many pal- liating circumstances had been presented, to effect a pardon. But the Governor seemed inflexible. And for a week past, all inquiry on the part of the prisoners had been answered by a decided negative. It w as this int.-lligence, so often confirmed, that brought the disposi- tions and tempers of both into visible exercise. B , was of an ardent and sanguine temperament. He had hoped much from the humanity of the jury, during his trial : and when the verdict of, " Guilty," was announced in the Court, though his heart sunk within him for the moment, he transferred his expecta- tions to the clemency of the Executive : and the indulgence of his fancy had, in a fortnight, produced an assurance of ultimate safety. In the meanwhile, the doubts and fears of his friends were giving way to a conviction ol" iiopelessness. The good Chaplain communi- THE TWO PRISONERS. 10 cated this melancholy news. And his daily visits were directed exclusively to the concerns of a fntiire world. B reluctantly loos- ened his hold on earthly things ; and sufl'ered his attention to be drawn to the subject of his ouilt and depravity. In a short time, he ac- knowledged the turpitude of his heart, the jus- tice of the sentence which had been passed ai>ainst him, and his desert of eternal death. And many and bitter were the tears which he shed, as he looked back on a life of impeni- tence and folly. He accused himself with a severity of expression that betokened indigna- tion awakened against sin. He was astonish- ed that divine mercy could be tendered to a wretch so vile as himself He feared to apply invitations which appeared too gracious for one in his condition ; for conscience rebutted them all with her full scroll of recorded crime.— Yet this conflict was short. For several days past, he had announced his belief in the " Friend of Sinners." He had thought of a Manasseh and a David, of aft oflending Ephraim, a pollu- ted Mary, and a persecuting Saul. He saw the world as a theatre of Divine compassion, where the attribute of mercy had, times with- out number, triumphed over the power of guilt. And he was now ever ready to speak of the 2Q THE TWO PRISONERS. peace-giting blood of Christ — of the exalted expectations which gladdened his own bosom — and of the joy which awaited his undeserving mu\. It was in this mood I found liim. He took my hand, and, while he clasped it with fervour, expressed his gratitude for my visit. "It is the last," said he, " you will ever be called to pay me." The tone in which he uttered this was neith- er plaintive nor strong ; but it seemed to par- take of both. And it was in concord w ith an expression of countenance Avhich, of all others, I would have chosen for one who was on the borders of eternity. Had 1 not been appriz- ed of this change, I should have been aston- ished at the appearance it exhibited : But now it was touching. — And who does not know that there are certain aspects of coun- tenance which seem more unequivocal than the most plausible professions — and in sight of which we abandon our distrust under the dictate as well as tha consent of our feel- ings 1 I sat down on the pallet by his side. I felt that I was addressing one Avho had been made a trophy of distinguishing grace : and whom, in a very few hours, that grace was THE TWO PRISONERS. 2i to welcome in Heaven. The distance between the two worlds grew less. The acclamations of joy, and tlie song of victory, were soon to be audible to one of us. My curiosity was awakened to know more of the sensations of a man, who seemed to be foregathering tlic feelings of an unearthly spirit ; and whose very enthusiasm, in such an hour, appeared to have been collected from above. I asked, — " is vour contidence in the Saviour never shaken V *' Never now. 1 can trust in the sufficiency of his atonement. And I have no fear in com- mitting my soul into his hands." " Do you think you have done any thing to merit pardon f ' " No, sir, nothing. I know tiiat I am the chief of sinners. My hope is entirely in Jesus Cirist.'* " If you Avere spared, would you devote your life to tlie cause of the Redeemer V As I proposed this question, the other pri- soner started. He cast his eye full upon me with a visage of active anxiety, tempered with a ray of hope. B paid no attention to this ; but replied with promptness, as if no in- terruption had been caused by the sudden clanking of his companion's chains : " I trust I should ; my strength would be in the Saviour still. But I have no desire to be spared in the Ayorld any longer." Z'Z Tin: TWO PRISONERS. " Yet surely yon would make no choice, apart from His will !" " No, none. I am willing to go or stay ; 1 do not pray for either." " Is sin hateful in itself V " Yes, sir ; without an idea of Hell it would be as loathsome as it is now." "Can you admire God in the justice of his character !" " I can, and do. If he cast me off forever, I think I should still see the excellence of his justice." Such was the commencement of an hour's conversation with this youth. During this time I asked every question which seemed necessary to try the nature of his views, and to detect, if possible, any self-deception which he might be practising on his heart. Every answer was satisfactory, while in its manner it was modest and humble. I forgot the op- pressive gloom of the apartment : or rather, hope had cheered and lighted it, while he described the operations of the Holy Spirit on his soul. At the conclusion of this time he begged me to unite with him in a hynm of praise. I. consented. And with a voice that was full THE TWO PRISONERS. 23 and clear, he struck up a tunc to the following words : Hark ! hark ! what sounds are those so pleasing '. Sinners, wipe the falling tear : Tis love divine, and never ceasing Flows from Jesus to the ear. " Come unto me all ye that labour ; *' Sinners, heavy-laden, come ; •' None are more welcome to the Saviour. •' Than the wretched and undone. " No longer let the Tempter keep you •' Fast in chains of unbelief; 1 " Though late in life, the Word assures you " Christ could save the dying Thief. •' Ho! all ye sinners heavy-laden, " Fly to Christ — the Saviour's breast; " Receive the pressing invitation ; " Come, and I will give you rest." What a scene for the niidniglit hour of a dungeon ! ' But God,' tliougiit I, ' can esta- |jli.sh the glory of his presence as well within the walls of the Criminal's cell, as in the courts of his Temple.' The most painful part of my task remained to be accomplished. I approached the seat of the second culprit. His face was covered by his hands : and when I inquired into the state of his mind, at this awful juncture, lie hardly lifted them to say — " I do'nt know." " What a condition for a soul within a step of the Judgement-throne !" I exclaimed. -4 THE TM O PRISONERS. " Is there no hope V said he,— with a wistful look, that seemed to search my very thoughts. " There is hui)e, for the penitent and beUev- ing." " No, not tliat — is there no liope of pardon f ' " None, except from Heaven." " Oh God— Oh God !" " My dear Sir, reflect one moment" *• I cannot reflect. I dare not think. If I consider the past, I see what might have been ; and the past brings me shuddering to the pre- sent. If 1 think of the present — w here am 1 1 and who can think in such a condition I — If I reflect on the future tomorrow oh Sir, is there indeed no hope I " I have already said, no. Let me advise yon,- as yon vahie your soul, not to lose a mo- ment of the little time before you. If yon die in this state, yon are lost forever." " I know that. But I cannot feel it. I am confused. Every thing seems dark within and around me. That horrible execution haunts me ever. I cannot sleep. The first dozing only brings a dream of the crowd and the gal- lows. I collect myself again, and I say — 7iOj mot yet For ten days past, I have counted the hours to lengthen time. And now I have been counting the minutes. Only three bun- TIIR TWO PRISOi\ERS. 'Zki died remain : no — less — since I have l)ecn talking to you — " " Let me beseech you to look to Jesus Christ. It is possible" " No ; noth- ing is possible. — My heart is heavy and cold as that stone. It sinks me down. My head grows dizzy. And I feel such a throbbing Oh what a dreadful thing it must be to die !" " My dear Sir, you are wasting these pre- cious minutes." " I know it. I have been doing nothing else since I have been here. I have tried several times to pray : but I could sec nothing before me, wliile 1 felt a dreadful moving within me. I know there is a Heaven and a Hell ; but I cannot conceive of either. Every thing seems mixed up together. I cannot separate them." I could easily conceive how a mind made up of subtle and tumultuous elements might be wrought into this half phrenzied action. Its powers were incapable of coherency, as I have seen the nerves of a powerful man, in an hour of peril. I knew the cause of all this. I could trace its progress. But I know no way to remove the evil. The case appeared remedi- less. There was but one chord of his heart that seemed susceptible of regular vibration. All the rest were loose and flaccid. And yet, touching this one could answer no good end. 4 2(J THE TWO PRISONERS. What could be done ? Entreaty and warning were mis-spent breatli. The horrible and shapeless images, whicli flitted before this poor suflTerer, were formed by his fancy from things of earth. And neither judgement nor imagi- nation were to be moved one step beyond it. What an awful plunge into eternity was now to be taken ! What an inconceivable moment when the rallied powers of the spirit were to resume their energies under the lash of re- morse ! The interview ended with prayer. I know not how I addressed the throne of grace. I can- not well recollect the feelings of the occasion. But I know that they were warring. — We shook hands together and parted. The officer took up the light : and as he approached the door, and its shadow was covering the two prisoners ; when I gave them a parting gaze, my soul seemed heavy within me ; and I retraced my way with sensations which no man may choose for his own. Then followed restless hours of feverish ex- citement. Every few minutes' dozing brought the prisoners before me. At one time, I saw them dying : the first, with a lovely smile : the second, in the convulsive throes of despair. At another time, I was intent on the vast con- THE TWO PRISONERS. 27 ^•egation assembled before the place of death. I watched their countenances. I read their emotions. And again, at another, I had visited the convicts again ; and both were uniting in praise. And in all this, every thing was tan- gible and near. It was not " such stuft* as dreams are made of," in common cases. The forms continued after my eyes were opened. I had to reason that these things were not as they appeared. So difficult may it be to re- move the phantasms of an agitated mind. At a late hour I arose. A messenger was aw aiting me below . Judge my astonishment, when I found him a servant of the Superinten- dant w ith the news of a reprieve ! This seem- ed as unreal now as the fanciful visions of the night. It had been contemplated to communicate the intelligence on the scaflold. Until then, the officer to whom the reprieve had been sent, was directed, provisionally, to keep it undivul- ged. Certain reasons of expediency, arising, I think, from the state of the more unhappy prisoner, altered the arrangement. And at six o'clock — the hour fixed for the execution — the harbinger of good news entered the cell. To one of its tenants this was an awful moment ; for he had fainted before the officer had spoken. 28 THE TWO PRISOAERS. The other received the information with no vis- ible emotion. He was cahn and composed; uttered a half audible ejaculation of gratitude ; and, without changing a feature, was conduc- ted through the open air of the court yard, to the adjoining residence of the Superintendant's family. Such was tl^e information of the Messenger. If this had been the conclusion of the story, I should have drawn no very distinct inference from it, excepting that of the sovereign mercy of Him whose favour may reach us in extremes. We should have had " the confessions of B j for they were taken down at his own desire. We should have read the account of a remark- able conversion. And I could not have refused a verbal testimony of my own strong hopes, in favour of the penitent. Whatever untruths are uttered in similar instances, and however inju- dicious their dissemination may be, I should have rested on something almosrt as firm as as- surance here. Such were the reflections which occu})ied my mind, soon after the intelligence of pardon from the Executive. A week afterwards, I met an evening party of pious acquaintances, at the house of a friend. Among these were two Clergymen of eminent THE TWU ritlSJO.NF.RS. -^.^ reputation for [iwty ajid acquiicnieiits. Tlui conversation turned on *' Tlie Two Prisoners." I learnt that one of thein liad left the city on the night succeeding the news of his reprieve. B had been received into the house of tiie Superintendant : who, being a pious man, re- tained a sincere interest for his late charge. lie had furnished him every possible means of instruction during his confinement ; often con- versed with him ; and rejoiced as much as any, in the happy reverse of his prospects. To all this he added a more substantial proof of his good will, by making his own house the resi- dence of his charge, until some means might be devised for his future support. " And du- ring the past week," it was added, " his bene- factor has expressed much satisfaction in his deportment and conversation. B has fre- cpiently led in family prayer ; and his manner is devout, subdued and humble." " What a change !" — said 3Iiss O, — a spright- ly young lady, who had listened with great ap- parent interest to the report of our informant — " A brand jducked from the fire !" " I should not repose uidimited confidence in the change," said Mr. N , one of the Clergymen present. 30 THE TWO PRISONERS. " But surely, Sir," — said the young lady, in a voice that indicated feelings wounded by the. doubt just expressed " you can tell us enough to banish suspicions, which, to say the least, are painful t" The appeal was to myself, I recounted the particulars of my memorable interview, as they had already been given. And I concluded with an expression of my own favourable feelings in behalf of B . " I confess," said Mr. N , " there is some- thing painful in the doubt I have suggested. And that doubt may need some apology, when I add, to all the testimony which has been given, my own acknowledgement that I have heard nothing prejudicial to our best hopes, on the subject. But you may account for my distrust, or for my want of the strcmg confidence which you entertain, when I say, that the expected ap- proach of death has been the season of more delusion than any other in which I have been present. During a ministration of thirty years, I have known many who expressed flattering- hopes on a death-bed ; and who have departed, leaving a consolatory feeling in the breasts of surviving relatives. But it has been my lot to stand by the sick couch of many others, whose evidence of a spiritual change, effected there. TIIK TWO PRISONERS. 31 was quite as complete ; and yet not one of them carried that chani»e into subsequent years." Mr. A strengthened tliis statement, from his own observation : While I could not re- member that any thing, within the range of mine, contradicted it : " In the case of B ," continued Mr. N , " I confess that my sympathies are all enlisted. But I am not without anxiety for the result. Time will tell us more, hereafter. In the mean- while, he will be a subject of prayer with all of us. Yet I could go very little further. I would not like to say of any one, in wiiom a recent change has taken place, that I am persuaded of his stability. And in such an instance as this, though I would hope, it would be not with- out trembling. I do not doubt that B is satisfied of the transformation, in himself: For I attribute no deliberate hypocrisy to any one, in his circumstances. In a certain sense, I am always assured of sincerity there ; and even when time has removed these favourable appearances ; and the hitherto restrained pas- sions have returned to their natural course, I would not join the world around me, in ascri- bing the past to affectation, or to any sinister design. But I know that the change which takes place near to " the article of death," or 32 THE TWO PRISONERS. in some other great exigency, is very liable to suspicion. Both the faith and repentance of such a season are apt to be spurious. Yet this self-persuasion of pardon and peace may create all the outward appearances whrch are visible in a true hope. A placid smile may play on the lips. A sweetness of expression may suf- fuse the whole countenance. And our own feeUngs, accordingly, are prepared to give the most favourable opinion. Our liability to mis- take is plain, when we remember that true and fictitious graces will produce the same outward appearances, for the moment, in the living or dying." " But when a friend has really deceased" — rejoined Miss O — " if that friend, on a sick bed, had indicated all those evidences which B has shewn, would you not trust that all is well with him now ^ for he could not return to the evils of the world." " I should have the same confidence, that I have this hour in B , with the following difference : that in the former case, I should not be able to ascer- tain the truth in this world : in the latter, we may in a few months, or years at most, form some estimate of the true state of the heart. Had B , been ushered into eternity on the day ap])ointed for his execution, he would have been as much a Christian as he is now. If his THE l^VO PRISONERS. 33 life and conversation be consistent with his present profession, our conchision will fairly be, that, in the event of his death, he would have ascended where neither pain nor guilt is known. But should the reverse of this appear, our inference will be, that he would have taken his place among- the spirits of the lost. If an^ gels ever rejoiced in his new birth, they will continue to rejoice. Their pleasures will never be marred by disappointment. The rejoicings of Heaven are never for uncertainties. " In such a time as a dying hour," — asked one of the company, — " would not God prevent the operations of a deceitful heart ? In man's last opportunity, w ould he not present the truth be- fore his mind !" " There is a mistaken idea usually attached to a dying hour" — said 3Ir. N . " We easi- ly connect with it something that is sacred ; something of a peculiar nearness and readiness, in God. The very pain and suffering appear expiatory. So does remorse. Thus the con- sequences of sin are viewed as an atonement for it. All this is the deduction of feeling. The Bible does not encourage it : and there is no reason for it. We are as liable to be de- ceived at such a time as at any other. Per- haps more so. The mental stupor which takes 34 THE TWO PRISONERS. possession of many, is often mistaken for the calmness of evangelical peace. And the re- signation of others — of which so much has been said — is the very essence of a legal tem- per — the utterance of what is not felt ; or of what is forced upon the sufferer, by himself, as a task to procure the favour of God. Inert- ness of conscience, owing to the decline of the faculties, in a sinking frame, easily gives room for a delusive hope : and the dying man him- self is satisfied because he has no painful re- flections. Add to all this, the prevalent deceit of the imagination, as likely to operate now as ever." " But I have not yet done" — continued Mr. K . " A clear rpvflation nf the truth is too frequently wanted. Even the feelings of the minister of the Gospel, who in other cases is faithful, often prevent his disturbing the sick, by questions that seem too close, or doctrines too discriminating. Many good men act here as if a hint were sufficient on the topics intro- duced ; as if the approach of death would it- self complete the lesson, and the mind were now quick in its apprehensions of truth. Hence the real state of the heart, and the true cha- racter of Him with whom we have to do, are very little discussed. These arc subjects whicii THE TWO PRISONERS, .% seem too severe for the diseased, and which the circumstance of a supposed tenderness of con- science renders unnecessary. More gentle- ness — and gentleness of a mistaken nature — is deemed expedient to the sinner dying, than to the sinner in health." " But, independently of this, the constitu- tional traits of the sick are most apt to come into play at such an hour. There are some men whose buoyancy of spirit will not permit them to sink long under sorrow. They either rise quickly to the surface again, by the aid of a ready fancy, or they shake oft* the superin- cumbent weight, as they escape to other, and difterent, reflections. Such men are deluded by their own vain imaginations, from the cra- dle to the grave. They never permit a deep sense of sin to afliect the heart ; while every other kind of grief is under some command. We find it hard to reach deep into the bosoms of such men : as we do to enter those of many who cherish secret views of their Maker, utter- ly unevangelical and false. Nor is this all : Friends who visit the couch of the dying at- tempt to lend their assistance to make the trans- ition, from a state of Nature to one of Grace, more easy and quick. They bring in an arti- ficial frame of mind, which satisfies both them- 36 THE TWO PRISOAERiJ. Shelves and the dying, while it has nothing to do with the divine operations of faith. On the whole, 1 am persuaded, that instead of there being less danger of deception than in health, there is much more." " There is" — said a gentleman who had been until this evening, a stranger to most of the company, but who with the rest of us, had by this time felt an increasing interest in the de- bate — " there is, you must allow, an eminent example of mercy in a dying hour, in the Thief crucified with the Saviour !" " There is, indeed. But it is an example of a very extraordinary character. If a case had been presented to us in the Bible, of one whom redeeming mercy reached in a dying hour after having ineffectually pursued him in former days, I should consider it a case in point. But not so here. The instance of the dying Thief proves the possibility of regeneration, in a last hour. And I would, therefore, never discou- rage any one at this critical period. I would present the mercy of Jesus Christ, as rich and free. I would never permit the flame of hope to go out, while that of life continued burning. I know the power of God ; and desire to be the last who could deny the fulness of his com- passign. I am wiUing to believe too, tliat other* THE TWO PRISONERS. 37 aud if you please, that many other examples of Avoiider-working grace, in a deatli season, may have been witnessed in a sin-stricken world. But that these displays of sovereif^nty are more rare than our feelings would lead us to believe, is to me equally plain. The dying Thief was an actor in the most extraordinary scene that was ever exhibited on eartli. He was atrophy of victory in a conflict between the powers of Darkness and Light ; as the resurrection of many of the dead w as an emblem of the great resur- rection hereafter.— But what was the character of this man \ Was he one w liom the spirit of God had often invited by his word, and whose mind had often been enlightened in vain \ — one who had frequently despised the tenders of fa- vour X — one who had continued impenitent, despite of all admonition I — Had he been such, the instance were certainly more encouraging. On the contrary, we have reason to believe that this man was a member of the numerous ban- ditti, who inhabited the rocks and dens of Ju- dea, and who were outlawed from instruction as well as from society. He was one who believed, not in sight of miracles, but in the liour of the Sa\iour's humihation, when every thing w as opposed to his faith ; and w hen the disciples had deserted their master. I will be bold to say, that more light avus communicated 58 TIIi; TWU PRISONERS. to this companion of the suffering Messiah, than any one of tlic disciples had then received ; for he seems to have understood the true na- ture 9f the Saviour's kingdom, wliile they con- tinued ignorant of it some time after his resur- rection. Indeed, all the circumstances of the case appear to have rendered it a complete anomaly." " What, then, do you think of the labourers called in the eleventh hour ?" — inquired the gentleman. " That is not to our purpose. It related to the calling of the Gentiles into the Church of God ; and cannot, possibly, have any connex- ion Avith our subject. It was a reply to a Jew- ish murmur. But if it were to our purpose, you will recollect that these labourers had not been called before. They are described as wanting opportunity. To return : A death bed repentance is certainly a departure from the ordinary routine of the Creator's dealing. It is life that he demands. It is in life that the Holy Spirit carries on the work of sanctifying grace — a gradual fitting of the soul, while the example extends the kingdom of the Redeem- er. The process of sanctifying grace is not usually that of an hour, whatever it may be under a more extraordinary influence. Trial?, THE T^^o PRisoisf^is. ;^ sorrows, and changes, in a variety of forms fall to the ordinary lot of the Christian, as part of the means of purifying, humbling, and instruct- ing him. Moreover, if God has demanded our lives, as a service to him, and as a part of the conditions of our salvation, — if we continue to refuse the requirement, will he, who alone giveth repentance, be as likely to grant it when the choice of taking up the yoke and burden of Christ is no longer left us i Thus far the question in relation to Jiim is against us. For a moment let us look at it in respect to the sin- ner himself. — In health every thing is more fa- vourable to serious thought. I know there is a prevalent opinion to the contrary, which it is hard to remove. We are apt to imagine, — as accompaniments of fatal disease, — a tenderness of feeling — a fixedness of thought on eternal things — a subdued temper — freedom from temp- tation — and a preparation, by the nearness oi' another world, for the inlluence of grace. To me it is strange that such fancies are so perti- naciously held. The lethargy from disease — • the racking of pain — the cherished hope of re- covery, or the eager grasping at it — the im- pairing of the judgement — the dread of disso- lution — these, or a part of them, as well as many other causes, are seriously against u«. 40 THE TWO PRISONERS. And where there is so much else to tliiiik of, it cannot be easy to bend all onr faculties to a subject which requires their clearest exercise and their constant play, while the natural prin- ciples and feelings of the heart are repugnant to it."* " There is something depressing in that state- ment"' — said Miss O. whose natural vivacity gave way to truths which she could not deny, but which came home with unusual seriousness to her bosom — " Let us return to B . I have thought it a happy evidence in his favour, when I heard of his willingness, and even desire, to * Since writing the above, the following quotation from the works of a Jiving writer, has met my eye: — " The amazed spirit is about to dislodge — who shall speak its terror and dismay ? When he cries out in the bit- •' terness of his soul, ' What capacity has a diseased man — what time '" has a dying man — what disposition has a sinful man to acquire good •• principles, to unlearn false notions, to renounce bad practices, to cs- " tablish right habits, to begin to love God, to begin to hate sin ? How " is the stupendous concern of salvation to be worked out by a mind " incompclent to the most ordinary concerns ?' The infinite impor- tance of what he has to do — the goading conviction that it must be done — the utter inability of doing good — the dreadful combination in liis mind of both the necessity and incapacity — the despair of ciowding the concerns of an age into a moment — the impossibility of beginning a repentance which should have been completed — of setting about a peace wliich should have been concluded — of suing for a pardon which should have been obtained ; all these complicated concerns, without strength, without time, without hope, with a clouded memory, a disjointed reason, a wounded spirit, undefined terrors, remembered sins, an anti- cipated punishmcMit, an angry God, an accusing conscience, altogetliei intolerably augment the sufferings of a body, which stands in little need o3 the insupportable burden of a distracteii mind to aggravate its tor- ments.— i/, Moore THE TWO PRISONEHS. 41 die, expressed in much stronger terms than those repeated to us by 3Ir. , this eve- ning." " If so, I regret that I cannot agree with you even here. As a general rule, I believe it may be said, that men arc seldom in the best state of mind when they arc foncard to die. To feel that it is better to depart may be the ex- ercise of a lively hope ; but let it be separated from a sense of our duty, and from a predominant wish for whatever is most to our Redeemer's glory, and there is a defect in such a feeling that betrays an unhallowed selfishness. When the prophet sat under the Juniper tree and prayed for death, I do not believe him to have been in the best frame of mind. Good men may display the same folly ; but it will be in their bad moments. And conduct at such times is no proper precedent for us." *' But are there not certain evidences which we must admit to be infallible V^ " I should not like to attach so strong an epithet to any which have existed only for a short time. 15ut what evidences would seem to approach this character V " I do not exactly know. Suppose we beijin first, witli a fleep sense of nuilt V 6 12 THE TWO PRISO.XEUaf. " A sense of guilt, to a gretiter or less de- gree, will certainly precetio conversion, although its intensity may vary in cliflerent persons. But you want some designating quality, as an appen- dage to this evidence. You are yet to be con- vinced that this sense of guilt is not of a legal character : that mere dread of punishment which belongs to our desire of self-preserva- tion ; or that feeling of horror, which belongs to many a remorseful spirit ; and which is at least as likely to disparage the honor of God as to promote it. If you refer to evangelical repentance, you are certainly right. But this is begging the question. We want some proof that the repentance is evangelical ; and not a sorrow which may ' work death' in one form, if it do not in another." " I will go on," — continued Miss O. "To this I would add sor- row for the sins of others. David mourned for the sins of the people, as well as for his own." " You are right. The true penitent will look with abhorrence on iniquity. Like the convict- ed Corinthians, he will feel a holy indignation against sin. And happy is it for him that he does so. But here, too, you are assuming a postulate which is not yet conceded. A con- fession of sin, and a true sense of it. are, some- THE TWO PRISONERS. 43 times very dilTcrent things. The abandoned .sinner in the hour of dan2,er may both feel and confess his guilt. And ii he iiavc composure enough to think, he may see and confess ' the exceeding sinfulness of sin' every where. Or. what is more to our point, he may believe that he does so. Now, what I have to ask for here, is the une(juiv()cal nmrk of sincerity." " I will strengthen tjie case. My example shall acknowledge the olfencc of his past life, to be against his God : not merely as a matter which, in the very nature of things, must bring its after-woe, but as an evil against the right- ous Judge of the Universe : he shall cry, " against thee, and thee only have I sinned, and done this great evd." " Very good :" rejoined Mr. N , " all this ts the language of the true penitent. But you are to recollect that we are now looking for something more than language, however strong and ex))ressive it may be. Confessions may rank very low in the list of infallihles.^^ " True, sir. But may not their consistency and cliaracter go far \ their consistency w ith themselves, and the tone of their character, conformed to that of admitted examples ? Now- let me give a few more strokes to my picture : and then look at it as a whole : There shall 44 THE TWO PRISONERS. be an acknowledgement of the justice of God. in his sentence against the guilty. Good re- sokitions shall follow ; and these shall be made before God." " Excellent ! — You certainly do well in com- paring the different dispositions of mind with one another, as we sometimes compare one Chris- tian grace with another, in order to ascertain its worth : or, as we look for other graces, where we see the appearance of one. But you know that where one grace is spurious, all the rest will be so likewise ; for altliough all our graces may not be in equal exercise, none will be wanting. Now, if a single fictitious quality of religion present an attractive appearance, much more will a combination do so. And your picture, as a whole, beautiful as it might be to the hu- man eye, may he very unacceptable in the sight of God. 1 am afraid you will think me hy- percritical. And I know that there does ap- pear something unamiable in a severe analysis of principles which our humanity would pass as " stamp-proof," without examination. But as I have already expressed my own strong hopes in favour of B , to whom, if you please, we will suppose my remarks to have no application, — you will bear with me if I ex- tend these remarks still further on the general question." THE TWO PRISONERS. 45 '' There is"— continued Mr. N , *• there is a portrait drawn by an inspired hand, which has all the touches of your own picture-»-all the evidences which you have given to the pen- itent — and yet neither of us would like to be the original." " Indeed ! in the Scriptures V^ •' Yes ; even there. In the book of Exodus, you will find an account of one who made a publick confession of his guilt— was sensible of his danger— acknowledged the righteousness of God — his own guilt against him, and that of his people likewise — b(3sought the i)rayers of holy men in his behalf — and made the most earnest resolutions. A^ow had matters stood thus for some days, without any change in the heart of this individual, — and had he then died a natural death, it is very doubtful whether we should not have ranked him among the troj)hies of grace. But the word of God has left no room for doubt. As it has given us no fair example of a death bed repentance, and that, perhaps, to prevent an undue reliance on such hope<5 — while it enlarges much on the goodness and forbearance of its divine author — so it has prevented us many examples of vain expccta- ions, and hypocritical graces. In the ])resent one, you have the prayer answered. And is it not 46 ^HE TWO PRISONERS. true, that many a sinner awakened under ai- fliction, and apparently humbled like this man, conceives the answer of his prayer for the re- moval of affliction to be an evidence of his ac- ceptance and favour with God I In this case, the confessions were not from the heart — the resolutions were a consequent of mere perso- nal danger — there was no true humiliation be- fore God — and there was a desire to treat with the Almighty on terms which he never pre- scribed — a secret desire of which the sinner may be unconscious. When the rod was with- drawn, every relenting feeling went with it. And the late sensibilities — like all other un- sanctified sensibility in the day of evil or alarm — left the heart more hardened, and more ripe for its doom." Miss O., during a discussion of which I have given but a part, saw her " infaUiblcs'^ stealing away, one after another, before either of them had sustained as rigid a scrutiny as it might have received. She felt compelled to yield her as- sent to truths which were adapted to sober the pleasures of a sanguine and enthusiastic fancy. " I admit," — said she — " that repentance is a habit, and not an act. It must accompany us through life." THE TWO PKISONERS. 47 " You are right," said Mr. N , " it is this very position which renders our dependence on deatli-bed hopes, at best uncertain. There is no time to try them. Tliey pass througli no ordeal. The criterion which the Redeemer gave us, " by their fruits ye shall know them," is out of our reach. Sensible of all this, then, ^vhile I would not diminish the consolation of the friends of a death-bed penitent, by any surmises of a possible deception — while I would pay such deference to their feelings as not to infringe them — I would not dane to raise the voice of un- qualified eulogy in behalf of the deparied ; lest I inspire hopes in the bosom of procrastinators, in their own behalf, from a source of whose worth I am very far from being certain. The benevolence and compassions of God I can most gratefully proclaim. But their applica- tion in any extraordinary rase, without stronii. proof, I should deem it unsafe to assume, as a lesson to others. There is enough to comfort, to warn, or to encourage us without uncertain- ties. But above all, I must lift up my protes- tations against these " Dying Confessions ;" which are, often, not so much a record of crime as demonstrations of the facility with which a hardened, and perhaps blood-stained convict passes from villainy to saintits dwell, " Glorious, though invisible." It was a memorable day to the inhabi tants of the little valley of P . From the house of the thrifty farmer down to the cottage of the day-labourer, every tenement had given up its inhabitants. Here, fatliers might have been seen leading their children slowly up the knoll on which the Parsonage stands, followed by the mother with her infant offspring. Un- der those Elms, which, a fortnight since, threw a deep shade over the humble mansion, but which were now reliquishing thcii* foliage; you 54 THE COUNTRY PASTOR's FUNERAL. might have beheld groups of older and young- er men, listening to those who claimed the pri- vilege of speaking, or whose opportunities en- abled them to tell something of the last hours of the departed. There, you might have heard an aged Christian, describing the solemnity of an installation some thirty years gone by ; while the youth around him hung upon his lips, and recurred, at the close of the tale, to the melan- choly occasion on which they had now assem- bled. And there, you might have learned the beginning and progress of a disease that sun- dered the pastoral connexion, and recalled the ambassador of God to his final account. A few yards from this spot, you might have passed through the throng which skirted the dwelling, and entered the house of mourning. There was no sable habiliment to announce the work of death — save a few black hoods that denoted a distant relationship in the wear- ers — but nature had clothed every countenance in a garb of unfeigned sorrow. The two rooms, which, with a narrow entry composed the ground floor, were occupied by females, indiscriminately seated. In the cen- tre of one of these, a plain walnut coffin rested on a low bier. It was unroofed : and the un- covered face of its tenant was visible. It was THE COUNTRY PASTOR S FUINERAL. 55 4)Iacicl and serene ; and exhibited more of the aspect of an unconscious invahd, than of one from whom the living spirit had fled. There was nothing ghastly in it, nothing appalling, nothing repulsive. You would have said of the inanimate frame, as the Apostle said of former companions of the Redeemer, that it had " fallen asleep." There w as one eye fixed on the spectacle. — It was that of a minister of the Gospel, whose iield of labour, some four miles distant, was one of the adjoining parishes. He had been the confidential friend of the deceased during one half the term of his ministry. They were of kindred feeling and congenial tempers. The sincerity of the friendship of either had never been tried by jealousy or suspicion. The sur- vivor was past the climacteric of sixty. The departed had not quite reached it. But the heads of both were blanched : and the furrows which care had'made were equally deep. — This spectator did not w eep. His gaze was serious, and half-vacant : and it had continued so for an hour. It was plain that the workings of the soul were elsewhere ; and you could have surmised, from that look, the very locality of thought. Fancy had blended the absent and present spirit together. And the survivor seem- 56 THE COUNTRY PASTOR's FUXERAL. ed but half earthly, while his mind wandered on to the new abode of his friend. There is something sacred in sorrow, even to him who cannot enter into all its sym- pathies ; unless sensuality has brutalized the faculties, or ferocious habits have curdled the milk of uman kindness. But where that sor- row is mingled with piety, and broods, for a season, over its object, with all the softened feelings of Heavenly hope, it is difficult to res* train our respect. It was so here. Each in this assembly of mourners — while she forgot not her personal loss — as she glanced at this abstracted man of God, seemed unwilling to break in on his grief, while she made efforts to repress the utterings of her own. The long preparatory interval, between the collecting of the attendants, and the movement toAvards the " narrow house," which usually occurs in the obsequies of the dead, and which seemed to have been protracted here by a re- luctance to give up the cold remains, was now drawing to a close. The low hum of appronch- insT voices was not to be mistaken. It was the nearing of the ministers of death. There was no conductor of ceremonies. None of that form of proceeding so general in tiic interment THE country-pastor's FUNERAL. 57 of the great, and so long established by custom in populous cities. Tiiree parishioners, of whom one was the Senior Elder of the Church entered the door of the apartment in silence. Another followed, supporting the feeble widow, who had just de- scended from her chamber, attended by two daughters, whose unveiled faces betokened the elTects of sleeplessness and weeping. They ad- vanced in turn, and imprinted a kiss on the chilled lips of the dead, followed by a gush of feeling that forced the flood-gates which would have restricted it within its bounds. 3Iany who were present imitated an example which nature dictated, and which, I am sure, nature would have defended. Oh, there is a power in love, whose energy overcomes all other feeling ! The lips of the living and dead were united — and no shrink- ing was there. The same principle which sup- ported the affectionate female disciples of Jesus to the place of his sepulchre, and banished the superstitions of the spot and the hour, attached a dearness to the cold frame of the departed husband, father and pastor, and imparted a warmth to the lips so unconsciously pressed. It is love, too, which bears up the bereaved, in the midnight visit to the chambers of the dead ; 8 58 THE country-pastor's funeral. without the intrusion of idle fancy, or the fears of a disturbed imagination. Oh yes ; and it is the same principle Avhich familiarizes the ap- proach of dissolution to the dying Christian^ lights the dark passage before him, and utters its greeting to the stern realities of an untried moment. In the midst of sobs more audible, the scene became one of more activity. Numbers of the crowd, who had stood by the door, as if w ait- ing the last opportunity of beholding a counte- nance beloved in life, entered the room in sin- gle file- — passed round the coffin, — stood for a moment at its head — and successively gave room to others. Here and there, the line was broken by one or another, who paused still longer to take hold of one of the hands that crossed each other on the breast of death. It was a hand with which they Avere familiar : and its affectionate grasp had often seconded a sincere inquiry into their welfare. — The in- gress became gradually more infrequent, until it ceased altogether. The se ior Elder advanced with his two as- sistants to the bier. Another pause succeeded : a low whisper might have been faintly heard — and the gaze of the three was directed to the venerable minister whose office it was to per- THE COUXTRT-PASTOR's FUNERAL. 50 form the last duties, which society pays to its its iiieiiibers, for the kite friend of his bosom. He stirred not. His visage continued unalter- ed.' His eye was yet unfilled. A hundred had successively stood between him and the ajipa- rent object of his look — still it remained unal- tered — not a muscle had moved. The work proceeded. The lid of the coffin was slowly put on its place. The two parish- ioners fitted the fastenings. I am not confi- dent — but I thought I saw the head of one of them averted in the act. The grating of the screw succeeded. There was something start- ling anew in the sound. Heavy sighs could be heard. And, in one instance, a loud groan came full on the ear. — I could not wonder at this : I could have echoed it back. A frosty shuddering crept over me. I reflected on the imprisonment of the body — and it was all we had of one beloved — the care taken to confine it— the last look at the deceased — and there is something in that term last, which forces on us a sense of utter bereavement and loneliness — A momentary colour slightly tinged the cheek of the surviving friend, and gave place again to its former paleness. He arose : stood for a moment as if to recall the powers of a mind whose forces had been scattered, or to summon 60 THE country-pastor's funeral. resolution for the duties before him. He walk- ed to the porch — looked around on the await- ing congregation, and sat heavily on the seat that was near him. I know not what passed within his breast, but I know there was a con- flict there. This was the summer-evening's seat of the deceased. And it had been a thou- sand times the spot where they had taken sweet counsel together. It was rich in the imagery of the past to a memory active in re-calling the by-gone scenes. But it possibly reminded of a present desolation. And so might all that was around it. The half denuded rose-tree, which the season was unclothing — the red-ber- ried vine secured to the wall of the parsonage, and the Indian-creeper that crossed its Avay, and encroached on its territory — all reminded cf the hands that had reared them, and which were soon to moulder and mingle in dust. There are inomcnts which condense the deal- ings and doings of years : and bring the words and thoughts which accompanied them within a narrow compass. But they are moments which have " a local habitation :" when things around us prompt the memory, and speak their several parts. It is a combination which retrieves from oblivion much that is painful, and much that is lovely. Such was the scene THE COUiMIl\ -pastor's rUISliUAL. Gl and time I am describing now. Yet much as they told, their duration was short. A siiuf- fling- sound, folh)wetl by the laden bier, sup- ported on the shoulders of four young men, again recalled to himself the abstracted occu- pant of the porch. The line of movement was taken up. The ranks were filled in order. The sound of the Church-bell struck for the first time on the ear ; and it vibrated to the heart of every auditor. That bell had never sounded a regular note before. It had been suspended only two days previously to this visit of death. It was the purchase of a subscription raised by the de- ceased, and augmented by his personal liberal- ity. It gave its first knel to him. I know not what there might have seemed portentous in this. But I know that in such hours the heart is credulous in omens. We suspect leadings to the future in things that are present. The judgement acts with feebleness. Fancy reigns sole directress. Oh how admirably adapted to meet all the exigencies which a natural superstition creates, are the principles of the Redeemer's Gosjjel ! And how plainly do we see this in proportion to the simplicity in which they are preserved^ and the purity iii which they arc taught ! 62 THE country-pastor's funeral. And how distinctly the converse of this has been seen, when the ambition and the folly of men have mixed their own devices with the principles of God. It is undeniably true that the spirit of man needs some other stay than that of mere human teaching. It has its weaknesses even where the intellect is most vigorous. And easy as it may, generally, be to conceal them, there are times when they are too distinct to be unnoted by ourselves. What wonder, then that the favourite seat of superstition is the bosom of the Infidel ! The procession advanced, almost silently, — save when a half stifled sob, or the quarter minute strokes of the bell, varied its stillness. — What a season for reflection ! Who can recount the consequences which flow from the death of a faithful ambassador of God ? The demise of a moarch changes the hands of government, and gives a new cast to the temporal destiny of its subjects. But in all this, hardly a perceptible eflect may take place in the fate of their souls. From the de- cease of a spiritual teacher, effects shall flow far and wide through eternity. — His, is a long account : for his, was a task of no less than infinite moment. THE country-pastor's flneral. C3 It required a resoliitiou of sacred imparting'. It called for the breatliinos of a Heavenly Spi- rit. It needed a holy jealousy for the rights of Jehovah. It demanded a patience, and yet a zeal and a meekness, which belong to no na- tural mould of man. It enjoined an activity in the midst of the infection of spiritual death. It imposed a responsibility from which an un- aided angel might shrink, and leave the duty undone. And yet the weakest of mortals, nerved by power divine, might take up the bur- den. It was to such feeble hands, that the great Head of the Church committed this stu- pendous work from the beginning : And it is still by instruments of flesh and blood he moves on the mighty wheels of his moral govern- ment. The cares, the hopes, and the pleasures of a faithful ministration are of a class peculiar to themselves. No untried man may fairly con- ceive them. But when his work is done, and the ofticer goes up to return his commission to Him who gave it, there are arrears at whose unfolding, humanity might revolt. And there shall they stand, until the iinal day when they confront all whom they concerned. This was no field of fancy for the specula- tions of a busv mind. While I felt assured of 64 THE couiv try-pastor's funeral. the peace of the departed — while I could not doubt of his rest and hisjoy — I was sensible, too, that many there were wending their way to the " the long home" of his body, towards whom he stood now in a new and awful character For them, his earnest tones of importunity, and the voice of his prayer were to be heard no more. For them, in whose behalf he had plead- ed to their own souls, and to their God, he had exchanged the title of minister of reconcilia- tion, for that of icitness before the throne of Jehovah. Whatever the issue of a succeeding ministry, privileges of a certain description had passed away. The herald of many years was ffone. And the messass^e he had delivered was *• the savour of life unto life, or of death unto death." — Could they have realized for a single instant, all that this reflection told — could they have seen the new epoch now marked in their lives, how would fearfulness have covered the history of the past, and extended into the un- certainty of the future ! — But no : we bless the chamber where the good man dies : we pay the deference of funeral rites : we honor virtues of which we scarcely thought in the living example : and perhaps we cover weaknesses which belong to mortality in its best estate, and which often jnar to the sight tlie fairest Avork of grace. — THE COUNTRY PASTOR's FUNERAL. 65 But hundreds take up the threadirtgs of a fu- neral procession — in such a case as this — who remember the man, and forget the ambassador. Hundreds, who find no instruction in one of the most pointed admonitions which Heaven ever sends to the guilty ; and who see no per- sonal application in a warning unequivocal and full. I have sometimes thought that if ever the malignant hope of spirits accursed, exulted in one earthly scene above all others, it were in the failure of the admonition here. And I have thought, too, that if the adversary of souls were to express his highest wish for the doom of a victim, it would be, not that the rays of the Gospel might shine feebly on him ; nor that his privileges might be imperfect and few ; nor that an unmoved conscience should retain its still- ness in the heart : it would be the malicious prayer — " shed the light of thy mercy around that soul — let the power of thy law reach to his bosom — give activity to his conscience — multiply his advantages, and vary his opportu- nities — then let habit render indifferent that light — let perverseness nullify the law^ — lull conscience to rest again — and let every blood- bought advantage bring the listlessness of a dull 9 66 THE COUNTRY PASTOR's FUIVERAL. monotony— ^this were the highest triumph of Hell over an ab.indoned soul !" . I knew that there were those bringing up the rear of our ranks, who had felt the convictions of holy truth : whose successful effort it had been to erase impressions again and again : who remembered a solemn season to the souls, with the secret shame which a recollected hour of weakness brings — or with a stupid insensi- bility — or with an utter recklessness of all that had once scattered the hopes of a fictitious peace. And I thought, how powerless may become the most solemn appeals to the heart : how the very remembrance of an affecting in- terview with the departed pastor, in the day of thoughtfulness, may be perverted into a spirit- ual stupefaction ! The procession was now winding into th( gateway of the Church-yard. The last stroke of the bell was dying away : and, excepting the obtrusion of sorrow, or the light tread ovei a gravelled walk, w hich passed through a beau tiful avenue of Locusts, there was a saddening quiet befitting the act and the time. On the left of the Church, a weeping willow wavec over tlie little mound of earth to which ou: steps were directed. On one side of this Stood a rude stonC; with the inscription *. iHJu; COUNTRY pastor's FUNERAL. C7 A Tribute To the Memory of Louisa R***'* Who dcpaited (his life Rlay IS, 18— Aged 17 years. We meet among the family of Christ. It was the uiicoiitli chiselling of a father's hand. And the planting of that willow was his : and the ashes of parent and child were no\v to blend together. The bearers deposited the bier. The Sex- ton, a hard-featnred, middle aged man — placed two ropes at the liead and foot of the coffin ; and it was let softly down to the bed prepared for its reception. The rnmbliiig sound of the withdrawing ropes was like an electric shock to the multitude around us. But it miparted very little change to the countenance of the officiating minister. I could be melted by the gush of sorrow that bathes the face of a suflerer. I could feel that his woes have come home to my own bosom and are the mutual property of us both. Or, where no such deep feeling has formed a part- nership in woe, there must be diffiirent mate- rials from those of my own constitution to re~ sist an appeal to a momentary emotion. But there was something far past this in the officia. ting minister. lie stood on the pile of earth 08 THE COUNTRY PASTOR'S FUNERAL. which was to cover the entombed body, and a portion of which had aheady descended under tlie pressure, and rattled on the tenement of the dead. For twenty yards before him the ground was gently sloping ; and it gave him a fair command of every eye that was not cast down or covered. As he looked beyond him, I would have given much for a sketch of his features. They spoke not an effort to obtain the mastery of his feelings. There was no struggle between the passions and the judge- ment. There was no yielding to the strong grasp of sorrow. I have noted both of these : and I could take part in the conflict of the for- mer, or participate in the calmness of the lat- ter. But there was an expression of some- thing here less definable than either. It was a mysterious expression. It might have reached the heart of him who saw it and penetrated its inmost chambers. It would have settled down the most mercurial spirits that ever belonged to a volatile mind ; and held forth something of 'principle to that of the most undisciplined. It was the outworkings of a vigorous faith ; that had rendered the events and scenes around it the steppings of a ladder on which it arose to the Heavens : a faith well-practised and skilful in the disposition of materials for its exercise. THE COUM'RY PASTOR's FtiNERAL. C9 A faitli that wrought with iiotliing imaginary ; but was never at a loss tor truths to nourisli and support it. Its possessor was gifted with little of the lore of research. He believed. And he possessed the enviable art of interpre- ting all that he saw, by the rules of that hal- lowed belief, and then of appl} ing the result to its confirmation. What an a(Unirable example to the Christian ! How opposite was all :his to that notion of faith which views it as the mere assuager of a present sorrow, until time shall hurry us on Ironi the sight of that sorrow — or merely as the prop of the departing soul in its last exigency of sundering. True faith is a principle. And its strength or weakness will depend on its habitual action, or its periodical inertness. Give it to one whose study is not of books, but men ; one who applies the truths from which it spiang to all that he sees — and whose every pursuit is inse- perable from some of its influence — and there exists not a cause of action so ccpiitablc and so powerful in the human bosom. And still is there nothing in it to neutralize the best affec- tions of our nature — nothing to indurate sensi- bilities which are necessary to the hapi)iness or ■«vell-])eing of society. If contemplation over abstract the niiud in its seasons, an habitual 70 »rHE COUNTRY PASTOr's FUNERAL. activity in the scenes of the world, will leave a readiness to regard every claim that world may present. Tliis is not speculation. It is truth. We kno\v too little, — even the most favoured among us, — of the regular effects of this heavenly gift. We understand how universally it might act ; but restricting it too much to times and sea- sons, we find its influence irregular, and its pow- er fitful and capricious. We attribute to out- w/ird circumstances all their deleterious conse- quences on our faith, when we should have learned to apply them to its benefit. We make too little use of the minor events of life, when they might have been powerful adjutors in promoting this grace. And we too easily forget that of all the virtues of the Christian, there is not one that requires a more habitual exercise, or sinks lower under neglect : Not one more fitted to the state in which we live, or so purifying for that to which we are looking. When the Christian reaches the destination which awaits him, or approaches its confines with collectedness of thought, will he not be astonished that he so little improved a talent which mercy committed to his trust — that he thought so little of its riches — and saw so small an extent of its application I And will he not THE COUNTRY PASTOR's FUNERAL. 71 discover that much of liis complaint of obscu- rity of views originated in remissness of his own. The man of Faith, who stood on the mound before me, was very far from being unmoved by the scene in which he was about to take so active a part. Like liim who wept over the suflerings of humanity by the tomb of Lazarus, he Imd a tear more ready for the griefs of others than for liis own. If lie had acquired an habi- tual firmness, there were hours in which it re- laxed. And who does not know that it is com- paratively easy to restrict emotion within its secret place, while the tongue is permitted to be silent, and no muscular action is demanded ? And who has ever officiated at the grave of a friend that did not feel his firmness unsettling in the first effort to speak I It was now I saw the lips before me curled and quivering. — The eye filled A deep moving agitation shook the frame in which it heaved. But it was all momentary as the pause it occasioned. A slight flush covered his cheeks — tears flowed down them in hurried succession ; and, as if the opening of their fountains had given imm)y other cares, to watch the particulars which THE COU>TRY PASTOR's FUNERAL. 81 go on to decide the stake at issue. Yet if ever there was an hour that might liave brought this truth to the siglit, it was the one whose last minutes were now passing away. And there were some, who, as they looked at the opened grave, felt tliat they could give much for one learning more. And there were some over Avhoni there came a painful sense of the nearness of eternity : For even the elements claimed a right to teach in their turn, as a shower of leaves swept through the assembly, and a cold autumnal cloud chilled and dimmed the scenery " We all do fade as a leaf," was the construction of the hieroglyphic les- son A brief, but impressive prayer closed the ex- ercises of the occasion. " The clods of the valley" were drawn to the chasm their remo- val had left. The crowd slowly dispersed. And in less than half an hour, the place of tombs was silent and solitary. There comes a day when new sounds, unlike any with which earth is familiar, shall rend the air of that spot ; and the agitated ground shall give back its deposit ; and Pastor and People shall meet again. And the secrets of some hearts which were not visible this hour, shall be legible as the pencillings of light. 82 THE COUNTRY PASTOR's FUNERAL. In the meanwhile, the careless may return to his folly. The pious shall grow in his faith ; and yet neither may often think, and neither shall fairly conceive, of the swelled record that has gone up from the scene of a " pastor's fu- neral." Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal king, Tlie saint, the father, and the husband prays ; Hope springs exulting on triumpiiant wing, That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear ; Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. . Come, peace of mind, delightful guest ! Beturn, and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart : — Or shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless hear thee say, Farewell ! we meet no more ^ There is not a private scene on earth more delightful than that of the assembling of a pious family around the domestic altar ; ming- ling the incense of grateful emotions in one current that ascends to the throne of God. It is the union of those ^vllo are kindred in the flesh, and rendered still more kindred by the blending of spirit. Delightful hour! when hopes go up in company, and enter " within the veil" together. How often have I loved to contemplate the beginning and ending of a day with a I'amilv who have a common inheritance 84 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. above ; to see those who were to take on them the image of death, and to pass, with death's unconsciousness, the watches of the night, com- mitting their souls to Him who shed Hght through the tomb ; or those who give an early hour of each new day to Him who shall here- after bid them rise to the brightness of eternal day. And are not Angels intent on a spectacle which attracts around it the atmosphere of Heaven, and gives a faint shadowing of the exalted family above ! There is a taste here that fits its possessors for the purer enjoyment of unmixed spiriiuality. There is a feeling of dependence on a common parent, which unites his children to him, while it retains them to- gether as members of one body. There is no cement so strong as that of family devotion. There is no flame that consumes so eflectually the little jealousies of life, or that purifies so well the feelings which arise from a daily in- tercourse, as that of the family-altar. Happy hour ! too little appreciated by ihe best of men, and yet presenting some of the brightest spots " in memory's waste." Thousands turn with disgust from its visions of faith, and yet there lives not the infidel on earth who might not quail when he compares the hopes of his bo- THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 85 aom with that of those who have an interest there. The family of Morleys had just risen from the posture of prayer. Tiie Bible was care- fully returned to its place. The father and mother were retiring to rest. And the two sisters had resumed their seats by the fire. A spectator who could have read the hearts of these young females might have seen a struggle within them that is not of every day's occur- rence. It was plain that neither of them was liappy. And yet both had participated with emotion in the exercises recently closed. It was manifest, too, that the sUence which had been sustained for a quarter of an hour, was painful to a4 least one of them. Clara looked wistfully at her sister, as if doubtful whether she might obtrude on her at- tention, or whether the act might not be repug- nant to a heart that seemed full and oppressed. She ventured to speak " What a wonder- ful change is this in our family 1" " Yes, it is indeed." " And how happy it is to feel that sympathy of desires, and to enjoy that union of interest which belong to our ofl'erings of morning and evening sacrifice ! Our parents were always affectionate ; but they never appeared to me so 86 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. clear as they do this moment. And you, too, Maria." — The sister sighed. A tear glistened in the eye of the afiectionate girl, as it met the solicitous gaze of Clara, for a moment. Slie was reluctant to speak ; or unwilling to trust herself in what she considered a moment of weakness. And another long interval of still- ness succeeded. They parted for the night. Each offered her fervent petitions to the throne of grace ; for each had an interest there : and yet each was dispirited and restless. Both had sincerely united at the domestic altar ; and yet neither recollected that occasion without a sigh. Nature had never formed ties that promised more durability or strength than those with which she had connected the hearts of Maria and Clara Morley. It was not personal pique.; it was not wounded pride, nor the contempti- ble jealousy of disturbed selfishness that had marred the peace of these two bosoms. Each had always felt that, to susceptible affection, " A small unkindness is a great offence." And since they had reached maturity, both were governed, in their conduct towards each other, by laws more effective than the colder suggestions of mere duty. The family which I am about to present to the notice of tlie reader, consisted of the per- THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 87 sonages whom I have aheady introduced, and an elder brother who had been absent for a year in Europe, and whose return was now eagerly expected. The village had been bless- ed with a pow erful and extensive revival, in the midst of which Maria had arrived after a visit of six months to the city of B . She was, however, no stranger to the work which had lately been WTOUght in her parents and sister. The aunt in w hose hospitalities she had recent- ly shared, attended the ministry of a man whose labours had been owned by his Divine Master ; and who might certainly have considered his success with Maria Morley, in an early period of her visit, as one of the rewards of his faith- fulness. Miss Nares, — for so I shall call the maiden aunt just mentioned, — was a woman of a good natural mind, of strong feelings, and of a gen- erous temper. Her understanding had receiv- ed very little cultivation from books ; but her memory was retentive ; and she had carefully treasured up the public and private instructions of her Pastor. Of the latter she received a larger share than any other member of the congregation. Her rank in life, her property, and her freedom from domestic cares, rend<3red her an invaluable acquisition to one who was 88 THE DIVIDED FA3in.Y. indefatigably engaged in behalf of his flock, A week, therefore, seldom passed without a visit of some hours from Mr. Wythe. And during such times she was the depository of parochial secrets, the co-adjutor in counsel, and the wil- ling assistant in schemes of benevolence. How far she was flattered by such compli- mentary partialities, as women under such cir- cumstances are said to be, I have never learnt. Although I am aware that it was shrewdly sus- pected by many that the influence of these at- tentions was not lost on the mind of their ob- ject. But then the world judges harshly. And it is not unapt to impute dispositions and tem- pers, which arise from unsanctified disappoint- ments, to that class of people who, for some two centuries past, have received the sarcastic appellation of " religious old Maids :" and Miss Nares had passed over the dreaded line of single thirty. Congregational difficulties, and parish slanders, are commonly set down in the gross, to the credit of those who are said to possess a prescriptive right to a certain kind of activity in the Church. And I have heard even a worthy minister say, that he " never knew the array of two parties in a divided con- gregation, in which the principle agents werf not of this class.'' THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 89 There is always sometliing either rash or il- liberal in sweeping imputations. In the pre- sent instance 1 am sure of the latter. And those who attempt to account for the supposed truth of so broad a position by examining the eifects of a solitary life, defeated hopes, or of a potty ambition in a field to which the whole cneriries are transierrcd, arc guilty of an act of injustice in assuming a disputed position. Miss Narcs was so far free from weaknesses sometimes attributed to her, that she really felt no desire to be more conspicuous than the na- ture of her chosen pursuits rendered indispen- sably necessary. She never spoke of herself: and appeared to consider her w hole agency in acts of benevolence as simply instrumental in the hands of a higher power. If assiduous attentions had ever flattered her vanity — as they have done in so many instances before her — she certainly was not sensible of it ; and they did not detract one jot from the ordinary softness of her maimers and deportment. Her suavity was rarely disturbed. And her brow had acquired a placidness which neither con- tradiction, nor personal mortification, was like- ly to discompose. There was one feature in the mind of this ladv, which deserves particular notice : it was 90 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. a susceptibility and retentiveness of impres- sion ; tAvo qualities which are seldom united in the same individual, and, perhaps, are never so by nature. Nor would they have been so here, had not principles which were once admitted, been set down as incontrovertible, and all which threatened to produce a contradictory impres- sion, been rejected as untenable. In the early part of her life she had imbibed no decided no- tions of religion. Except by name, she knew little or nothing of the various creeds, or the difierent sects of Christianity. And when her heart was touched by divine power, it was un- der the ministration of the Pastor with whom she was now on so intimate a footing, and who belonged to a denomination different from that of her parents before her, or that of the Mor- ley family. With the utmost consciencious- ness she united herself with a peo|)le among whom she had received her first serious im- pressions, on an occasional visit to their Church ; and in whose society she had found relief from painful conviction. All this was natural enough. But Miss Nares did not stop here. To her it was con- clusive that a ministry which had been blessed to her was not only the one to which she was providentially directed, but obviously the one THE DIVIUKO FAMILY. 91 wliiclj was nearest to the trutli. This idea once settled, all that could oj)posc it \vas dis- carded at sight ; and all that coidd confirm it was sought for with avidity, lltii- preposses- sions had been won, and her judgement was called to establish theni, as the principal task assigned to it. Bcsidiv'^, lik(^ many others, she had an avowed dislike ot* unsettledness of mind. It was uidiappy. It was an impediment to growth in grace. And the earlier her religious opinions were decided, the greater would be her security from falling. Whether, or how far, she was right in all this, is not the province of a mere chronicle to judge. But my pro- mised feature is not finished. Another touch will complete it : There is a kind of fiiscination in certain words, when they reach certain people, which is perfectly irresistible. In a greater or less 3 (liflbrence, was not only in opposition to the divine will, but an encouragement to error. Under the roof ol' this lady, the mind of i>Ia- ria Morley had received a new complexion. Impressed with a sense of relii^ion, soon after her arrival there, nmch of the instruction which she received, directed her attention to the ex- clusive rectitude of a particular sectarian faith. Never was scholar more apt : and never the example and precepts of a teacher more suc- cessful. 31aria had nothing to unlearn : for she had never reflected on the subject ; or, at least, had never examined it. She had no difliculties to embarrass her : for all arguments which were intro'Uiced into a feigned debate, got up to try the atrength of the two sides, were always fair ly beaten ofl" the ground ; and Maria was left in surprise at the weakness of those who could profess to defend them. — There is nothing easier than to concpier the; troops of an enemy at the fireside ; or to rout them in a fictitious engage- ment, when we have chosen their weapons for them. And if, after this, we are ever foiled in a real attack, it is not for want of an acquired confidence in ourselves. On the expiration of her first lour months in the city, Maria had obtained a reluctant per- mission from her father, to unite herself with 94 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. the Church to which her aunt was attached. Some weeks ai'terwarcls, a vague report reach- ed her, of a revival in her native vilhige. And that intelhgcnce was confirmed by letters from both her parents and sister, communicating the happy tidings of a spiritual change in the fam- ily. The lines from her father, which at the same time recalled her home, gave an affecting account of the manner in which her parents Imd.been led from worldliness to arrace. But there was something peculiarly touching in every expression from the pen of Clara. A cool reader might have called it enthusiastic ; but it was an enthusiasm for which good nature v, ould have adjudged no heavy penalty. Is there not something in the ardour of the youthful convert, which, with all its errors, and its dreams of fancy, wins our admiration when- ever it attracts our notice I Is there not a charm in that enthusiasm which glows with the first love of a Saviour l which lights up the counte- nance by a flame that burns within the heart and flings a sacred cheerfulness around the path of the young Christian I There is indeed. And though we may smile at what appears to participate in romance — and though we may mourn over our sober predictions of the pains and sorrows) which the future will bring, — no THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 95 Christian can contemplate the young and ar- dent infant in Christ, m ithont some feeling of approving pleasure. There was a passage in Clara's letter which deserves a moment's notice — " We shall now be more united as a family than ever. And for ourselves, my dear sister, we hold our rela- tionship to each other more closely tlian in years that are past. I long to embrace you. I long to interchange sympathies which are new to us both. I see something lovely in the coun- tenance of every Christian. How nuich more will it be so in my Maria" 31aria read the sheet over and over, with a perfect reciprocity of feeling. She, too, longed for the affectionate embrace of meeting. Her bosom glowed with desire. Fancy transferred hei- to a circle more beloved than ever now. 8he thought of the hymn in which she had joined at the close of the communion-service : Our souls by love together knit. Cemented, mixt in one, One hope, one heart, one mind, one voice, Tis heaven on earth begun. And when thou makcst thy jcu-cLs up. And sct'st thy starry crown ; When all thy sparkling gems shall shine . Proclaim'd by thee thine own ; May wc, a little band of lov< . Be sinners changed by grace. From glory unto glory raised BehoW thcc, face t« face ' 96 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. But she thought not now of that occasion.. The words of Christian union echoed in her ears from the paternal fire-side. The sweet voice of her sister thrilled every nerve : a voice to which she had often listened in other lays, but now given, with all its attendant science, to Him whom Angels sing. Oh, let judge- mciit condemn the disportings of imagination as it may : still, her's is a region peopled with all whom we love, and decked with all that is fair. Where a spiritual taste governs her cre- ative power, and the creatures and scenes of her foniiing are those with which blessed spirits w oidd deem it no stooping to share, is there an hour nearer to the bliss of Heaven, that that in which a sanctified and elevated fancy reigns 1 If tlie curse has marred a faculty that once shed a pure light through the heart and the mind, and if depravity has prostituted a noble gift of our Maker, to ends that are sel- fish and sensual, are there not moments, with some, when grace gives to it energies that are as hallowed as they are lofty 1 In absence from those whom we love with spiritual affection, may we not borrow the fleet wings of a power that counts not the leagues of separation ? Or when we stand by the tomb «f one whoirt ^^c knew in communications befitting our highest THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 07 hopes, who shall forbid that we rise on these wings ? And who has not reasoned with him- self in such an hour "Pfottotlic grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend belov'd The spirit is not tiierc .' Often together have we talked of death How sweet it were to see All doubtful things made clear; How sweet it were with powers Such as the Cherubim, To view the depths of Heaven / ! thou hast first » Begun the travel of eternity 1 gaze amid the stars And think that thou art there. Unfettered as the thought that follows thee— — And we have often said how sweet it were, ^Vith unseen ministry of Angel power To watch the friends we luved We did not err ; Sure I have felt thy presence ; thou hast given A birth to holy thought ; Hast kept mc from the world We did not err ; Our best affections here. They are not like tlie toys of infancy The soul outgrows them not, Wc do not cast them off." Or was ever spur more effective given to the imagination of one waiting for the revelation of glory, than that of the Apostle's expres- sion " Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for theni that 13 98 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. love him !" Or than some of those unfinislicd liiiits, which other inspired penmen have left, touching the grandeur of our future home l Maria was awakened from her reverie by the entrance of her Aunt. The good lady read the letters of Mr. and Mrs. Morley, with an interest nearly as strong as that of her neice. They were tears of gratitude and joy which were mingled together. One thought, and one only, came up as a cloud before the jnind of Miss JVarcs. But that thought was untold ; and that cloud extended no further. Clara's letter was taken up next. A sliade thickened on the brow of the reader. And although an expres- sion of pleasure followed, it was qualified al- most to coldness. Her young relative saw this. She did not understand it ; and its chilling power penetrated the more deeply. She could have wept afresh : but it would have been in mortification. Her ardour was not met ; and to her susceptible mind this was as painful as a repulse. Could her Aimt have doubted the .sincerity of her sister I or could the enthusiasm which warmed her pages, have come into col- lision with feelings less sanguine, and more re- gular 1 Neither was possible. There was no clue to the mystery. Perhaps another hour would solve it And Maria's fancv besjan to Tirr DivinEi) fvmit.y. 99 resiiino its liap[)y ai'tivity ni.!,;iiii. Another hoiii* did solve it. Tlie roiniiiiK'icr of the day passed, as days coiiiiiiojdy pass in laniilies of the pious. If tliere was notlnnj^- particularly iustructivo iu till' conversation at 'meals, there v. as nothing to encourarizcd at her father's want of discernment. And it de- termined her to act with less reserve on another occasion. No judicious and affectionate head of a fam- ily can forsee a division in religious belief among its members, without entertaining serious appre- hensions for the result. Mr. Morley had dread- ed those little bickerings which he had some- times witnessed among the professing children of God. And he was not ignorant that where these existed among relatives zealous far their different opinions, the peace if not the whole happiness, of the parties was always at stake. Whatever evil had ever arisen, within his own knowledge, from a diversity of political opinions, he had never known it alarming : but always like- ly to be removed in any of those revolutions of public sentiment to which a republick is con- stantly subjected. But in matters of religious opinion it was not so. Here the object of con- tention is permanent ; and it lasts with the lives of the parties. In the former, allowances are made for the warmth of debate ; and much that is personally caustic may give but little offence. TItE DIVIDED FAMILY 117 Even imputations that arc severe, are easily explained by a latitude of meaning, and easily fogotten. Not so in the latter. Here a defe- rence is claimed on the score of charity by both sides ; likely to be granted by neither. Each believes that the honour of God is at hazard ; and each feels bound to " contend earnestly for the faith once delivered to the saints." Manner, mode of expression, and, above all, a sense of weakness on one side of the argument, and a displayed and overweening consciousness of strength on the other, inflict wounds which are among the most difficult to heaL, Charity leaves the plain of contest to the two combatants, without waiting to see the issue. But nowhere is this truth so extensive- ly applicable as in family dift'erences of faith, where the parties reside together, and where each is influenced by zeal. The principle is precisely the same on which it is commonly re- marked, that domestic feuds are, of all others the most bitter and most irreconcilable. As- sailant and defendant both demand an influence over each other's mind, which neither yields. Both conceive themselves at liberty to abandon the rules of courtesy, and neither grants the liber- ty. Both conceive that affection ought to prevent offence from the harshness of terms, and im- lib THE DIVIDED FAMILY. plied suspicion of integrity, but neither admits it in himself. Both secretly feel that the sub- ject on which they are engaged, is paramount to all the partialities of natural affection. Here Mr. Morley believed he had reason for apprehension. He was aware that the school in which Maria had received her late religious instructions, was one likely to make the deep- est impression on her mind. Two letters which he had received from his sister-in-law, previous to his own change, sufficiently convinced him of this. But it gave him little uneasiness while he knew of no fuel to feed the flame of jealou- sy, and nothing solid with which his daughter's opinions could come in collision. He would have preferred her uniting with a less exclusive communion, and told her so. Yet his prefe- rence was not sufficiently strong to thwart her inclinations. But now that every member of the family at home had felt, and taken, a part in the subject of religion, the face of things was altered. Nothing had ever seriously dis- turbed the harmony of his house. The sisters had ever been devoted to each other. A sepa- ration in religious belief, if it did not cool the ardour of their attachment, might somehow qualify their affection. Or, at least, it would bring new temptations. It would demand a THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 119 caution and forbearance hitherto uncalled for, and in some measure painful. It might create a reserve in minds that had been congenial, and open to each other : for it is often the first out- let of affection from the heart, and it is widen- <^d by the escape of the remainder. And al- though he might not dread an evil so serious as this, there was enough to alarm him still. The course which Mr. 3Iorley had prescribed for himself and family was one of prudence. He prohibited the introduction of any subject which might touch the particular views of Ma- ria, or give room for any discussion in which they were involved, until he had conversed witii her himself. He examined, with care, both sides of the question. And he did so with candour. He cared very little whicli side was right. And he was perfectly w illing to relin- quish opinions which he could not believe of primary importance, or connected in any way with the primary doctrines of the Gospel, rath- er than encounter the more formidable alter- native of a division in his family. Mrs. 3Ior- ley and Clara, therefore, perfectly understood the manner by which he evaded the challenge of Maria. And they were not sorry to observe the success of his management. On the following afternoon the sisters were alone together ; and Maria renewed her effort. 120 THE DWIDEI) FAMILY. Clara explicitly declined the discussion of a question which she had not examined. And all that her sister could obtain from her was, a promise to investigate it with her at another time. " In the meanwhile," she added, " I fear no investigation can ever reconcile me to a se- paration from the great body of the Church of Christ. Many of our friends, in the village, liavc recently obtained the same hope with my- self. So, too, have our parents. There is something too endearing in the idea of a per- fect union with God's people on earth, and espe- cially with those whom we have always loved, to suffer mc to relinquish it. You will pardon me if I say that I have strong prejudices here. Instead of examining whether a rite of a Church has been properly administered, in one, or another, form, so strong are my feelings on another part of the question between us, that I should be irresistibly tempted to begin my inquiries there. I would set out with the ad- mission that you are right, and that I am con- sequently wrong. But then I would ask, if two individuals are mutually convinced of their own correctness in their opposite views, in the man- ner of administering an ordinance, and each entertained a persuasion of the piety of the other, whether there is not a radical defect in a system, which, on account of this difference, THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 121 sunders these friends, and utterly forbids their uniting in the most affecting emblem ^f love. Or, if this disunion be the proper effect of such a diversity of sentiment, then I am at a loss why tlie Saviour has not left us an express and positive direction, in respect to the manner of this rite, and especially so if such disunion were to be occasioned by it, and he had taken so much pains to inculcate harmony among his disciples. It must be admitted, at best, that revelation is not clear enough on the matter of our difference to prevent the learned and the good from taking opposite sides. This alone convinces me tiiat it cannot be a matter of im- portance. But it is rendered a matter of al- most vital importance, if taking one view of the question debars us from an intercommu- nion with those who hold the other. Now I am not sure that this is not assuming an au- thority which no Church on earth has a right to exercise. Any way of thinking, which in- volves a principle of this magnitude of evil, seems to me to carry its condemnation on its own front. And I am so tempted to fly from it that I fmd it hard to examine its features." " Sister !" " I know there is something of a harshness in this mode of expression. But it is difficult to 16 1^2 TWE DIVfCED FAMILY. avoid an appearance of harshness on a subject so repulsive. The very terms which it suggests, unpleasant as they are, are a fair transcript of the images it brings before us. I am sure it cannot be possible for you, Maria, to reflect upon it, without feeling your tenderest affec- tions rudely assailed ; or without lamenting that any sentiment can be found in the Bible, which, while it effects no possible good, thereby rives the bands of spiritual union." Maria did not like this appeal. She was not prepared for it. Yet to parry it now was im- possible. To answer it was equally so. She felt that it was unfair to allude to her sensibili- ties on a point in regard to which they were so vulnerable. Yet to say so, it occurred to her, was almost giving up the question : For a principle which in its simplest form could pro- duce such an eft'ect on the heart, seemed hard- ly reconcileable with the harmonizing precepts of the Gospel, while it appeared to frown on sensibilities which were never forbidden, and which are necessary to our happiness. — But Maria was able to rally herself at least for the present. She accused herself of weakness in the retreat which a momentary silence had indicated. Her favourite argument, of the duty of selX-denial, was at hand. But Clara THE DIVIDED FAMILY. ijja gave a sad sliockto this by the inquiry, * -vvUcther we are at liberty to make an artificial cross for ourselves, any more than to create temptations to test our obedience or strength — and particularly when we are doing violence to our nature, Avith- out a prospect of real good, either to our own souls or those of others.' The discussion came near to personality, as such discussions usually do ; and although neith- er of the sisters was disposed to inflict pain in the bosom of the other, neither was insensible of receiving it. Any unhappy allusions that Avere made, referred to the disunion of their profession, and to the disappointed hopes of both. Both wept ; but neither felt disposed to yiekl . Such was the state of things in the night with which this narrative commenced ; when the prayer at the family altar i-evived afresh the feelings of the afternoon. Mr. Blorley had made it a leading petition that the great Head of the Church would unite with each other the hearts of all his household. A petition in which Maria could heartily join, though she saw less hope of its accomplishment, and felt more the necessity of special influence to crown her own efforts with success. 124 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. During the succeeding week very little trans- pired worthy of record, excepting that a private interview between the father and daughter, in the library of the former, effected no other end than that of displaying the candour of the one and the firmness of the other, and it might be added, the aftectionate feelings of both. Yet it would have been obvious to an observer who had known all the parties a year before, that something of thoughtful concern occupied the bosoms of them all. The season was approach- ing in which three of them were publickly to espouse the cause of the Redeemer : but this was no ground of sadness with either. They looked forward to tliat event with all the con- fidence that attends a sincere hope in his prom- ises. Oh let it not be said that the sundering of -pious relatives at the table of Christ is of too little moment to merit all this solicitude. The young Christian, whatever his natural age, an- ticipates that solemn occasion, as a marked era of his life — as the high festival of sympathy — as the sacramental cement between the chil- dren of God— as the type of the marriage sup- per of the Lamb — as the symbol of separation between the redeemed and the lost. And even the aged Christian, who has trodden far on the THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 125 way of his pilgrimage, looks back to siuih pc> riods as distinguishable goals in his life, and gathers a freshness of feeling from the society of kindred faith. But where the partakers of the same flesh and blood are about to avouch a imity of interests in the representation of the family of Christ, who does not see the light of a spiritual affection received and reflected from each other there. In the duty of prayer, there may indeed be the blending of faith and love. But it is an act that brings not at once to the sight the glad society of Heaven : there is something of an effort to fore-gather the future ; and though it remind us of the group above, it does so by reminding us at the s;une time, that we belong to the militant below — for [)rayer is not the occupation of spirits consummated in glory. But the festival of the Lamb that was slain is the forth-shadowing of the very em- ployment of purified souls, who ascribe " pow- er and riches, and wisdom and strength, and honour and glory and blessing," to Him that died and rose again. It is the very prepara- tive scene that brings to our view the engage- ments of the blessed. I^et the heart be filled with a celestial love — let a holy gratitude as- sist in giving birth to its emotions — and there is not u place beneath the throne of God^ so 126 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. rich and so Iiappy, to his adopted children.— And then a first communion ! — who does not recollect the swellings of hope — the meek con- fidence, rising above timidity and fear — the far- cast thought from type to antitype — the aspi- rations for holy unison — the panting of a thirs- ty spirit — the lofty expectations, struggling with diffidence of self I — The three Morleys were yet infants in Christ. With all the ardour and simplicity of children they loved. But they could do no less than mourn, that Maria, dear as she was to all of them, was to stand off from the tendered ex- change of pledges. It looked like a solitary state of spiritual being, hapless and isolated. And she, too, would she not realize that desolation of feeling which a divided member of a household would encounter at this spec- tacle \ Poor Maria ! To her all conversation on the approaching occasion carried new distress. At one time, she sighed for the presence of her \unt. At another, she doubted whether any sentiment ought to keep her back from a par- ticipation at the Table ; or whether there was not some inconsistency in such a requirement. And then, again, she blamed herself for listen- ing to the voice of temptation, when it became THE DrVIDI<:D FAMILY. VJ? her to exhibit the fortitude of a decided Chris- tian. One thing tended to increase the nnhappi- ness of Maria's mind : It was the respectful deference paid to her feelings, by both parents and sister — the great delicacy with wfiicli they ever touched on the approaching occasion ; and the care which they seemed to take to ren- der her situation happy. They knew the nature of her conscientious scruples ; and they cautiously avoided inflicting through them any additional pain. This she saw and felt ; and while it fill- ed her bosom with gratitude, it rendered the struarffle there more severe than ever. The eventful morning arrived. It was a love- ly Sabbath All nature appeared to smile at its opening, and to hail the day, as if a common interest in what was to distinguish it here, were felt by the inanimate creation. We may not justly deny the influence of cither weather or scenery on minds that are sensitive, and that are intent on some great purpose of life. And yet we may be ignorant of the causes of certain eflects produced by either : effects that settle down in the memory, and become visible in every retrospect of the past. It is not superstition. It is not the spe- culations of an auguring temper. It is the im- 12S THE DIVIDED FA3IILY. pressibility of feelings, which without reflection on our own part, receive the image of all thdt is passing near them, and catcli the tints of the colouring around them. And yet are there moods, too, when we are more sensible to the effect of contrasts, than tp a congeniality of appearances around us : when a deeper impression is produced on the sunken spirits by the ciieerfulness of men and things, than by the most lugubrious sound or sight of sorrow : moments, when the appearance of happiness in others, or the cheerful aspect of nature, looks like an intentional mockery of our woes — a sarcasm on the bitterness of our grief. Sorrow may be jealous, irritable, and suspicious, when neither quality could claim a natural seat in the mind. And though not one of them was brought into visible play in Maria Morley, had she examined the chambers of her heart, she would have found some of its furniture unsuit- ed to a residence of tiie Holy Spirit : for, ami- able as she was, there was a latent proneness to murmur at the imhappiness of her lot : la- tent to herself ; forbad it met her own eye a generous temper would have flashed in the consciousness of diminished dignity of cha- racter. THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 329 The village Church had been crowded for some months past, in the services of the ^veek, as well as of the Sabbath. It was now literal- ly overflowing. Ciiristians of the neighl)our- ing towns, who during a revival of religion are in the habit of visiting its place of operation, to catch and bear back a portion of the holy fire to their own less favoured part of Zion, had sembled in numbers. At an early hour, and without a sound of confusion or bustle, every worshipper had taken his place. And an ob- server might have marked an air of expectan- cy diffused among them all. In a scene such as this the most decided op- ponent of a revival is likely to forget, for the time, both his reasonings and his prejudices. Had enthusiasm uttered one of her incoherent notes — had the excitement of mere passion an- nounced itself in an act or a voice, there were those present who would have been gladdened by an evidence of the validity of their objections ; or at least relieved from an undesirable participa- tion in the solemn feelings of the hour. How- ever we may pity or despise the ravings of fan- aticism ; or the contemptible efforts to arouse mere animal feelings, we are compelled to yield our attention without an effort to divert it, w hen 17 130 THE DIVIDED FAMILY, the " Stately stcppings" of the Most High arc distinguishable to the sight. I shall not soon forget the remark of a mili- tary officer made on an occasion similar to the one before ns : " He who on the eve of a bat- " tie cowers before the loud and tumultuous *•' shout of the enemy, loses that presence of mind " which might enable him to suspect a conscious '* weakness from the war-cry of the foe, and " that might teach him to repel the violence of *' confusion, by system and coolness. But he ' who has been on the eve of a battle may •' know that there is nothing so apalling in the " stratagems of war as the firm tread and death- " like silence of a fixed-bayonetted corps. — " Here is time for thought ; but it is thought " that dwells on certain and deliberate carnage. " I have considered this applicable to the pre- "' sent scene. The opposer of religion in o '' place of religious confusion may be affected- '' alarmed, and confounded and yield alike his ^' passions and his judgement : or he may be " excited by a sense of the ridiculous : or, a self- " collectedness may keep him on his guard ; *' and indignation against prostituted reason '' may create a renewed aversion to the sober- " est truths of the Gospel. But in the stillness THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 131 '* of such a scene as this, I have seen tlic proud- '• est votary of reason quail." And so, too, have I. I have beheld hini looking vsith a dilated eye on hundreds around him, who, without meeting his gaze, imparted the dark solemnity of their hearts to his own. L have seen in the effectual eftbrt to array his reason against the host that conscience led in his bosom, while he felt as if the ground were heaving beneath him ; and as if from the midst of the crowd he was singled out by the stern gaze of an offended God ; .^^ingled out, and ALONE — as every condemned sinner shall stand, in the throng awaiting the Judgement doom. .\nd the simplest sentence recorded on the page of revelation, and repeated by lips the most artless, has told " trumpet-tongued" with the power of Almighty breathing. I have dissec- ted again and again, the materials of such a scene. I have tried to account, by some plain rule of analogy, for effects so powerful at the moment, so permanent and efficient w^hen that moment was past. But I could discover no- thing artificial in the movements of this moral machinery — nothing gotten up — nothing pre- concerted. Every soul addressed himself to the occasion, consentaneously, and for himself. The leading feature of the whole was a disco- 1325 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. verable fixedness of thought ; and the only mark of emotion was the quiet tracing of the tear, or the fallen visage, that noted a still more redundant sorrow. Give all these symptoms to a single indivi- dual : and he that assents to evangelical truth shall call it the work of God : and can it be less so when with a mighty march they spread through the bosoms of a community I And is it any more an evidence against the Divine power of such effects that they have their seasons and are gone, than it is an evidence against the reality of the work on the day of Pentecost that its duration was brief? In both cases the results are as lasting as life in the hearts and lives of many. And strange were it if in both cases — ag ill individual instances of serious impression- there were not some whose new-found hopes were as the " morning cloud and the early dew :" Strange, if there were not in the mass that witnessed both, fears and emotions that were transient as the scene itself. There is not a cavil that is applied to the changes effect- ed in a general work of grace, that does not reach to particular examples in ordinary sea- sons. Produce the conviction in the minds oi' a hundred at once, that the spirit of God is earnest and urgent, and you have eficcted the THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 133 same end that would have been accomplished in each of the hundred, had that conviction reached them when a thousand leagues apart. Separtite an individual from the little circle in which he moves, by a change in his spiritual circumstances, and a lesson is conveyed to the remaining members of that circle, which, in a greater or less degree, is felt as a warning, and possibly carries a sense of danger to one or more. This is a fact of daily observation. But let not the example be solitary. Take the number of four or five, and it is no matter of surprise if we see the ratio of effects propor- tioned to that number : and still less so if these effects multiply themselves. Add to this the awakened zeal of Christians, which plays more than a single part in the day of refreshing — sending up the prayer of faith for the blessing of Heaven, and acting as a means on earth to excite the attention of the careless. A revival, then, is the same system of means exercised on a larger scale, which is success- fully adopted in separate antl particular cases, — with the simple difference of a multiplied force, and a united faith. And if a continuance of these means, on the part of Christians, do not extend their influence through every bosom, the reason is still the same with that which we 134 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. assign to the failure of extraordinary opportu- nities on the part of the sinner. The very ten- dency of the Gospel is to harden, where it does not melt down the natural opposition of the heart. And that tendency is the more decisive, as the privileges and calls are greater and louder. It was they who had witnessed all this, who assembled at the present auspicious hour. To many of them the scene was novel. It is true, that they had seen the spreading of the com- munion-table many a time before. But it was invested with a character to which they had been strangers. Some of them had a sacred right to a seat at the board ; and they knew of its comforts, and they prized its mercies. But even to most of these there was much that was super-added on the present occasion. Others were to touch these symbols with a yet untried hand. While in the breast of others again, a repressed sigh was labouring to escape, at the thought that a barrier yet stood between them and the consecrated table. The services of praise and prayer were im- pressive, and even affecting. In the latter the Pastor was singularly gifted. His desires flow- ed forth with all that natural ease, and all that fervency of expression, that betokened a mind familiar with a throne of grace, and, in its near- THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 135 ness, catching and returning a spiritual warmth. His language was rich ; but it was in Scripture collocation ; as if his w ish and his effort had been to address Deity in terms of his own. It was prayer in its true cliaracteristic simplicity. There w as no secondary motive ; no endeavour to affect the feelings of the assembly — no co- vert design to arouse the conscience of the un- affected, or to alarm the fears of the careless — no denunciation — no semblance of an artifice w hich betrays attention to a double object, that of addressing himself to both God and man — no prostitution of the great purpose of peti- tion — no wresting of its end. It was prayer as it should be, — the offering of a singleness of heart, that asked the ear of the Almighty, to speak to it alone. And, I thought, had the veriest opposer followed the workings of that mind, while he would have seen no stratagem that levelled a side-handed blow at himself, he must have felt at what an infinite remove was his own spirit from the place of tliat spirit that had now entered " within the vail." And in the reflection that other spirits around him had risen, too, he would have known that sense of isolation w hich sometimes steals over '• the left of God." And when the petitioner presented the hopes and desires of the Cliris- tian, he plead the security of the ground on 136 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. which he stood, Us stability and its assurance— the ground of blood-sealed promise. He spake of the love of Jesus — and thought of the mes- sage of Martha and Mary, strengthened by that reminding, "he whonithou lovesC — and! knew that human lips can prefer no plea more pre- valent. And when he held the lambs of the flock in the arms of prayer, and spake of their feebleness and their fears, their dangers and their wants, I fancied the up-lookings of the young disciples as rays converging to their com- mon point — the throne of paternal mercy. And there was a tenderness, a solicitude, and a sweet- ness of expression, in the tone and manner of the act that carried imagination to a greater than that pastor — the great and good shepherd of Israel. The discourse which succeeded was a plain and sensible exhibition of the design and pri- vileges of the sacramental supper. In this, too, there was one thing worthy of notice in the speaker — for orator he was not : it was the oc- casion that produced the impression of oratory^ and acted silently like the gesticulator behind the Roman declaimer, giving force to the de- clamation. The distinguishing point to which I allude, was the use that was made of the suf- ferings and death of the Redeemer. No at- tempt was made to call into action unnecessary THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 187 sensibilites, or to excite the passions %vhere they could be of no practical value. The pangs of* the dying Saviour were mentioned with pa- thos : but the Teelinffs were not allowed to spend and exhaust themselves on an object of mere pity, though that object were the agonies of Him " who gave himself for us." It was the consequences of sin, which such a spectacle presented — it was the evidence of both the ability and the will to save, even to the utter- most — it was the demonstration of love — it was a soul-piercing reproof of ingratitude — appealing only to those sensibilities which are intimately connected with our practice — it was these ma- terials which were woven into the address of the speaker : and not a communicant who af- terwards sat down at that table could have es- caped the reflection that purity, love, activity, and obedience, were parts of a pledge he was engaged to redeem. When the ordinances of God are thus made the instrument of rendering our sense of duty discriminating and quick, they become power- ful auxiliaries to promote a holiness of life. But whenever their great end is kept out of sight, they as easily become the means of encoura- ging a hypocritical hope. 18 138 THE DIVIDED lAxMILY. At the conclusion of the sermon, the names of more than sixty persons were repeated by the minister ; who formally invited them to the preliminary act of admission to the fellowship of the Church. These persons arose ; and presented themselves in the middle aisle, facing the pulpit. He now read a form of publick covenant, in which the newly-admitted mem- bers confessed their faith in the leading doc- trines of the Bible, their sense of guilt, and their humble hope in the Gospel ; while they renounced a life of sin, and solemnly promised, in dependence on God, to devote the future to the service of Him, to whom they now dedica" ted body and spirit. This profession and co- venant were succeeded by an affecting charge : it was one that inforced obligations lasting as life, and reaching in the effects of fidelity or apostacy, throughout eternity itself. What an engagement was here ! what a fealty avowed ! what a high and holy calling ! And yet is the responsibility of that act no greater than when invested with less of the circumstance of publicity and form. If it were rendered more memorable by the manner in which it was im- posed and assumed, nothing adventitious, and nothing of human injunction, attached to it an artificial character. That very form, as far a? THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 139 it is possible to ascertain, preserved a close re- semblance to the admission of members in the primitive days of the Church. And though 1 know not how far a general position may be hazarded, yet, as far as my own observation has extended those churches which render the admission of members alike solemn and pub- lick, have been those in which the spiritual interests have been most carefully watched, discipline the most rigidly enforced, and the means of grace the most signally blessed. It is impossible to describe the ellcct of this ceremony on the mind of an interested specta- tor without bringing near much that did not meet the eye, but reached the understanding through another medium. Yet much there was visible that was intelligible without the aid of an intcr})rcter. The aged sinner was among that band of young disciples. Three score and ten had left their track as they passed over hhn : And they had covered his heart with an armour impenetrable as the rind of Leviathan to all but a commissioned Ithuriel's spear. Here he now stood, submissive and docile and simple-hearted as the child of two sunnners. lie did not weep ; but there was a tenderness in his countenance that sweetly attempered M'ith tlie mellowness of ac^e. And others 140 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. were there, whom three score and ten had nearly reached : and there were less mature : and the youth and the maiden ; the late bold infidel — the proud opposer — and the contemner of the sanctuary. What a diversity of cha- racter a few months since ! What a lovely amalgamation now ! Spirit of God ! how wonderful thy transforming influence. A few months since, and the gentlest in that band was utterly intractable. The overweening moralist stood haughtily aloof. The lover of pleasure revelled in contempt of every warning. The drunkard was lighting the torch at botli ends to consume body and soul.— — ^Yet there they stood, enrolled under the banners of the Cross. And their hatred and their loves, their fears and their hopes and their joys, might have met each other without a jar. And they did ineet together, as they never met before. In the prayer that terminated this part of the Minis- ters duty, they met in a harmony like that of Heaven. I had observed that the loft of the choristers was nearly empty. Its usual occupants were the best singers in the congregation, without distinction of families. But all of these were now, with a single exception, numbered among th^ visible Church. By a preconcerted ar THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 141 rangc'iiKint — but one that was novel to nic — the leader of the choir struck the first words of a hymn familiar to the memory of almost every worshipper there, • Come tliou Fount of ovcry ble.-sing Tune my hcurt to sing thy grace ; Streams of mercy, never ceasing Call for songs of loudest praiic. Jesus sought me when a stranger Wandering from the fold of God; He to rescue mc from danger, Interposed with precious blood. Oh to grace how great a debtor Daily I'm constrained to be,*&.c.'" The effect was sudden, sweet and powerful, as they tiled off with tliis symphony, to the spread table in the right aisle of the building. That mingling of voices might liave penetrated every hearer. The most fastidious ear would have heard melody, even in the untrained sounds of the ungiftcd, and in the broken and tremulous utterings of age. But in the clear and strong emphasis of the words Jesus sought me when a stranger Wandering from the fold of God ; there w as the musick of the soul. It was pour- ed forth in the natural flow of feeling. It was caught up by others who rose from their seats, as that company passed, and united their voices as they brought up the rear. 142 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. A general invitation had been given to stran gers of other denominations to partake in the commemoration ; and it was accepted by many. But the song of Zion was not more general. The impression which it made was too deep, and too universal, not to carry its meaning into every mind ; and not to leave a home-felt con- Tiction with those who were silent — " I have no part or lot in this matter." The solitary chorister who occupied the orchestra and who with others had a thousand times sung the praises of the Redeemer's kingdom, sat a mute observer of the passing scene : for there was a hallowedness in the whole, that checked the mockery of unfelt praises. Oh how often have I witnessed that strange and thoughtless daring" of the uncon- verted sinner, while he sung of Heaven's glory and of the Saviour's love : or, in strains that might confound the most secure, he told of the stern justice of an unreconciled God, and of the doom of the lost ! Such and so far is the infatuation of the heart ! He that is standing on the shelving edge of the Abyss, without an emotion save the very pleasure of the deed, sings of its horrors thoughtless of himself— himself the subject of the song ! Tin: DIVIDED FAMILY. [ i\i I know that an unconverted soul can listen with pleasure to the eloquent tongue that des- cribes the terrors of a dark eternity, and tin; amusement shall be in that }50\ver of descrip- tion. But passing this is it, far past this, when his own lips take up the theme of his personal fate, and his very vanity is indulged in the act. Is there in the history of an immortal spirit a deed of doing so strange I For once it was not so here. There was a conscious contiguity of another world. Every impenitent spectator would have felt as would the condemned criminal feel, when bidden to amuse himself in chaunting the equity of his impending doom. Or, each would have feared to have mingled a note of his own with these of a lofty hope, as if the jar of hypocrisy would tempt the anger of Heaven. But Maria — unhappy Maria ! feelingly alive to all that was before her, hers was a trial that shook alike the spirit and the frame it inhabi- ted. ' She could not weep " The very source of tears was dry." Friend and acquaintance, parents and sister, had gone and left her ; not alone, but in an ideal world of living imagery — every feeling of distress personified beforo her. ^he heard, re- 144 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. ceding in its distance, the sweet warbling of her sister's voice, distinguished by its rising and its mellowness. Oh was it thus, when at B , her fancy had once awakened those sounds? The pleasure of past anticipation was changed into pain : she had there drank the surface of her cup — it was now the worm- wood and the gall. Her " cherished all of vi- sionary bliss" had fled with its bright light, leaving her bosom cheerless and sad. The musick ceased. Maria gazed with others, at the guests of yonder table. At one time, she felt an impulse to rise, and walk alone to that spot : and the pause in the service was favourable to her purpose. But she felt spell bound to her seat. At another, the whole na- ture of the ordinance was changed before her. It was any thing but a festival of love. It was a gloomy display of — she knew not what, but with which she had nothing to do. It was not religion. It was not a sacred ordinance. And at another moment again, order succeeded con- fusion : And she thought of her own piety as a solitary thing, that fitted not the nature of her social feelings, and that decreed against the exercise of her best and happiest affections So past the last heavy hour of that mor- ning. An assistant minister, who was present, THE DfVIDED FAMILY. 145 concluded the services, with a practical exhor- tation to the members of the Church, and an address to the spectators. And to one, at least, it was a period of partial relief, when he dis- iiiissed the assembly. Three weeks had rolled by, when a visible alteration in the state of Maria's health attract- ed the attention of the family. Her natural colour had forsaken her cheek, save when flushed by a momentary excitement. She car- ried within her a leaven of melancholy which mixed itself with every thing, and imparted the appearance of painful eftort to the smile of pleasantry, or to the light look she would have assumed under the little incidents that might have rallied her spirits. She had more than once introduced the sub- ject nearest her heart ; but mildly and tender- ly as her arguments were met, they were easily repelled by a reasoning for which she was not prepared ; or, perhaps, by a skill in controversy vsuperior to her own — and it was of very little, importance which. She was silent in her de- feat, but not convinced. She was persuaded that others could answer her father if she could not. There were successful weapons in the hands of some, if she did not possess them. And nothing less than the defeat of Mr. Wythr 19 146 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. himself, would have weakened her convictions, or loosened her tenacity of opinion. And yet there was no jiride of sentiment — no inflexibility arising from irritated feeling. It was the pow- er of former conviction retaining its seat in the assurance of stability : And its eftects perva- ded her whole moral system. She felt that an alteration in her views would re-modify this : she would become a different being : Her fears and her enjoyments, as a Christian, would be of a different class : and in these she dreaded any change — such and so universal, may be the influence of unessential views. Thousands consider the religion of others in its bearings on the heart and the mind, as widely distinct from their own, while the grand principles of both are admitted to be the same. There is something of the familiar, but undefinable, sen- sation of home, Avliich belongs to religious opinions rather than to any other, and which attaches a strangeness to all that is not identi- cally the same. Man, too, is the creature of impressions. The least shade of prejudice alters the aspect of other's piety. Although the reality of that piety may not be questioned, yet is there something in its complexion which renders it foreign : it may be the property of a neighbour and, a friend, but it is not home THE DIVIDED FAMILY. l47 It may have its conveniences and its a on " account of such a difference of opinion as " ours, is unauthorized by the w ords of Holy " Writ. 1 view the degree of separation as of ^0 154 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. " more magnitutle than our doctrinal diffc- " rence — or rather our difterence respecting " the manner of a rite." " Of more magnitude V " Yes ; even of morcr For in the first place, " it is not exphcitly told us how that rite is to '• be performed, or there would not be a ques- •^^ tion on the subject. But even if we were " distinctly informed of that manner, a depar- " ture from it is neither immorality or heresy, " while the ordinance itself is not denied. In " the second place, it is the sacrifice of a prin- " ciple of infinite importance for one that is « finite." " Indeed ! what can that be V " The principle of unity. The Redeemer " inculcated nothing with more earnestness " than this ; and he founds upon it the success *' of the Gospel. In his affecting intercessory " prayer, in behalf of his disciples and future *' believers, he annexes this reason for his peti- " tion — ' that they may be one even as we are " one,' and that, for the following end — ' that " the world may believe that thou has sent me.' " The Apostles after their master, took every *' possible pains to maintain unity in the Church. " To this end, they w ere disposed to bear and •" forbear. They yielded to the weakness of THE DIVIDED FAMILY! 155 •^ Others, wherever they could lawfully do so. — ** What an admirable example liave we of this " in the question of meats and holy days ! •* But not communin*^ together is, surely, no " evidence of a want of proper unity." " Then I hardly know what is. The com- " mimion was the visible line between the visi- " ble Church and the world : and they alone, •* I have said were put without it, who were " deemed unworthy in doctrine or practice. " And this excommunication — to preserve con- " sistency — was followed by a refusal of ordi- •* nary fellowship." " But we do not refuse to unite with you in " prayer ; or to ask your own ministers to oc- " cupy our pulpits." " Therein is the greater inconsistency. The -' man whom I could desire to be the mouth of " the people," must be one with whom I could • sit at the Redeemer's table ; whatever dis- " qualifies him for the one, in his religious views, '' should render him unfit for the other." " But when we say, we do not moan any •' thing uncharitable, our declaration ought to be believed." '* There is certainly something so abhorrent " in the term uncharitable, that every one dis- •' claims it. And hence I am told that manv 106 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. " ill your denomination profess to regret the " exclusiveness of the sect : That even some " of its teachers do so : but still we see no al- " terfttion. Here inconsistency multiplies. To " say that we mean one thing, and yet to prac- " tice another — to avow Christian love, and " yet refuse admission to its emblems — is ccr- " tainly going a step further. Now, where two *' individuals, whom nature or circumstances " have rendered intimate, part in religious be- " lief, there is at least a faint line of demarka- " tion between them : but it may be too faint " to do harm. Yet say what we will, there " can be no unmingled feelhig of charity bcr " tvt^een those who render that line more dis- " tinct by the mutual exclusion of each other <* from communion. An essential difference is " felt. There is a want of something in the " heart. There is an ungodly jealousy : — some- " thing — something is wrong. It is in commu- <^ nities as with individuals : A want of confi- " dence destroys unity. And that especially '• when all connexion is refused in the very " place where the concord of Heaven is typi- " fied, and prejudices are supposed to be merged '• in affection. I would leave this to the con- *' science and candour of those concerned : i " would appeal to their very sensations — to THE DA'IDEP FAMILY. 157 " their own experience of feeling-. The two " beliefs, in every such instance, must create a " -consciousness of a very wide dillercncc, not " in doctrine alone, but in a repulsive con- " trast." Whatever the worth of these remarks, 3Iiss Nares thought they were not without force. She found herself on the defensive, and at- tempted to change the field of debate. But her mortification was increased on finding that 3Ir. Morley was perfectly indifferent to the doctrinal question ; and still more so on observing that he left it to her own convictions — that he was willing to admit the justice of cither side — and that he treated with sang froid, a matter which she had regarded as momentous. She thought, too, that there was a dash of acidity in his manner. But here she was mistaken. His mind w as indeed distressed, but it was not soured. It was in a state of mournful expec- tation ; but it was incapable of confounding persons and opinions ; or of attributing dishon- ourable motives to one whom he believed to be a sincere Christian. A master-poet has said, " When sorrows come, they come not single spies " But in battalions." It was so here. Unsatisfactory explanations are the preludes to open ruptures : or to some- 158 THE DIVIDED FA3IILY. thing that is kindred to them. Little misun- derstandings that might be forgotten in social life, take shape and magnitude when they are brought to no good purpose palpably before the parties. Such, too, is the effect of many religious discussions. A tacit understanding that each may retain his own views, and a mu- tual agreement to differ, are, generally more politic than easy. The two parties in the house of Mr. Morley made this discovery more frequently than was consistent with their happiness. Miss N. had often resolved to drop forever the subject odT their differences. Then again something new would occur to her mind : something that was unanswerable. Yet every effort to convince was met by an almost provoking calmness, and ended with very little variety of effect. The truce which succeeded was like that under a Carthagenian flag. Seriously as it might have been made, its stability consisted in the excite- ment of the hour ; it vanished when that hour was gone. It was forgotten under new temp- tations, which new hopes of a conquest created. Unhappily such truces serve rather to alienate than to unite. Even on neutral ground. Miss N. would pick up something which she mistook for a gauntlet ; or discover what she regarded THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 159 as a weak point in the forces of her polemical adversary, that invited an attack. In this state of things, the long absent son and brother returned. To the hearts of his parent, this event was a happy relief To Clara it was not less so. She had long been weary of the discussions which almost every day re- newed. Her spirits were jaded by the restless- ness occasioned by fears of renewed hostilities from every little incident. She was tired of watching with apprehension, terms or expres- sions which might lead to some new inuendo, and thence to polemics again. Her brother's return would furnish new and lasting topicks. Maria's expectations were not dissimilar. — If Thurston had a favourite sister, it was her- self; and she indulged a vivid expectation that some good or other would result from his re- accession to the family. But there were hopes with all of a more lofty character. He might partake of the influence of that work of grace in which the others had shared : and while the salvation of his own soul was secured, his superiour talents would become tributary to the cause of the Redeemer. Thurston Morley was one whom his associ- ates usually dignified by the appellation of high- minded. Ho was quick in his perceptions of 160 THE DIVIDEO FAMILY. right and wrong ; and tinctured a little with what is called a chivalrous spirit. Hasty, and often precipitate in his conclusions and feelings, he -»vas impetuous and calm, volatile, moody, and serious in the same hour. In addition to all this there was a sprinkle of sarcasm in his disposition, which sometimes gave pain where he never intended it, and produced many a mo- ment of mortification and self-reproach. But then he was affectionate in temper and ardent in his personal attachments. The part which Thurston was destined to act under the paternal roof, was one that brought into play by turns, every characteristic that nature and education had given him. He was shocked beyond the power of concealment by the faded looks of Maria. He wept when he saw the feebleness of her attempts to partici- pate in the cheerfulness of his own mind ; and when he beheld the languor which invariably succeeded them. The alteration which he dis- covered in the religious views of the family^ gave him neither pleasure nor pain ; for there was nothing morose, nothing of a studied se- riousness, to provoke a repulsive feeling. He bowed at the domestic altar with a respect, which, if it proceeded not from the heart, was prompted by an external reverence for the ser- THE DIVIDED FAMILY. I6l vice. He accompanied the family to the pub»f lick religious exercises which were held so fre- quently during this remarkable period. His fears were partially aroused for his own future fate, when he observed the wonderful change which nitmy of his former companions had un- dergone. He heard in silence, and witliout offence, the expostidations of one or two who professed a deep interest in his spiritual wel- fare. All this was only a three day's history. There was no deep-wrought conviction of sin : no just idea of the corruption of his heart. He was uneasy ; but his uneasiness arose from no dis- tinct perception of the truth. He was disquiet- ed : but it was a disquietude which he would have shaken off. Alas how false may be our expectations here i The work of grace is one of Sovereignty ; and the hand that achieves it must be divine. We may count on the impressibility of a friei^d. We may justly anticipate that certain means will reach his sensibilities. But beyond this, our prognostics are of little value. The most ready susceptibility may belong to one who, with all that is inviting before him, may stand aloof from the kingdom of Heaven. An awakened soul is indeed a spectacle of interest, 21 1.62 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. because we suspect an infinite and eternal cri- sis. But it intlicates nothing of certain issue — - nothing on which we may build an assurance of good. There is all that may give life to hope or fear : but there is no more. Oh how little do we understand the details of a revival ! How unfairly do we estimate much that makes up its brief but comprehen- sive history ! — The searing of the conscience^ the hardening of the heart — the gathering blindness in the midst of spiritual light, or the uplifting of the veil that hides eternity— the proud but secret opposition of a rebellious spi- rit — the powerful play of passion — the conten- tion of principlips embattling in the soul — the surrender of the aftections, or the misgivings in withholding them — the murmuring of des- pair, or the dawn of faith — the stubborn incre- dulity, or the conflict of doubts — either is in- teresting in its individual exhibition ; but when the whole are brought together within the range of the eye, they give the only fair developement of human nature that can be furnished on earth. To see, and yet be insensible to even part of this is hardly possible. And the parents and sisters of Thurston judged rightly when they anticipated a pause in his mind, when he be- held the changes around him. But the past THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 1(53 experience of neither led to an apprehension which might be as reasonable as hope in his ?3€half. They little imagined that the rock on which their expectations were to beat was one in their own household. Tiiurston's seriousness was suspected ; but neither its nature nor its degree was exactly known, when, by an accidental circumstance, the dissonance of religious opinion among the members of the family came to his knowledge, despite of Mr. Morley's injunctions and pains to conceal it. Here was a new and interesting object of attention. It afforded him relief from all that vagueness of unhappy thought, in which his mind had been for a season suspended. There is certainly no cavil taken from the armoury of Satan so powerful in the heart of the partially awakened sinner, as that of a doc- trinal difference among professors of religion — saving alone the collisions of personal preju- dice : especially where that difference is brought into visible activity in the group of his own associations. And the unhappy zeal of par- tizans in the midst of a revival has withered many a fair prospect for the soul, and left many a stain on a cause that was avowedly dear. Thurston determined to examine a subject which appeared of such material interest to 164 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. his friends. Hq did not see, and he hardly thought, that such an engagement was not only foreign from the great question of his soul's safety, but in the present state of his mind, in- imical to salutary reflection. Another difficul- ty occurred in his path : He could not disco- ver how the subject in which he was now en- gaged could be necessarily connected with a separation of interests at the Communion. This perplexed and biased his understanding. He began to deprecate the consequences of a system that w as ' alienating relatives and placing discord on the seat of harmony.' Ai^d the bit- ter temper of prejudice put to flight every thought of his own danger, and banished even the semblance of serious impressions. The descent was rapid ; for the descent in such a case is usually rapid. From one who had taken the posture of an Inquirer, he was transformed into the veriest Pyhronist. Nor was this all. Maria's declining health furnished him an argument, to which he had no right, but which he wielded to the severe vexation of his Aunt. His affection for his sister increased as it was by her circumstances, gave edge to a raillery which Miss Nares could not repel by admonition or warning. At one time, he would enter the parlour with a coun- THE lUVIDED FAMILY. U)ij tenamce of half-conoealeil gravity — ask a few questions and without a change of visage, in- fuse the severest ribaldry into the whole sub- ject. At another, he would step with good earnest into the lists with his Aunt ; who al- ways concluded him, at the end of the debate, " a more hardened sinner than ever." One hour, he wished the whole family would agree on either side — " immersed, if they pleased, fa- thom deep, and cemented by soaking." Anoth- er, he w^ould relax the muscles of Maria's face, to the great annoyance of Miss N. by some serio-comic sally. Yet all this was not the venting of spleen : nor did it arise, entirely from a love of irony or ridicule. Much of it was designed to restore the unanimity of the family : and he fancied first fruits of success whenever he dissipated for a moment, the sad composure of his sister. If habit do not always reconcile us to our situation in life, it diminishes the weight of our cares, or renders us less restive under it. A few months past, had the book of the future been opened to Mr. 31. and his family, n sight of its dark page would have been appalling in the extreme. As it was, a faint hope of some- thing better to come alleviated a present. And when disappointment succeeded these rain-bow 166 THE mVlBEJ) FAMILY. lights they would go out in one part of the ho- rizon to appear in another. vSuch, and so con- stant is that tenacity of hope that begins with the first hour of youthful imaginings, and keeps reason in her strength against the assaults of despair. It is sometimes well when affliction comes, that the spirit is partially broken to bend the neck to the yoke and the shoulders to the burden, in a half-forgetfulness of past happiness. It is well that when the lights have been extinguished one after another, memory caimot always renew the whole ; — a small num- ber only are, at a time, within reach of her call. But it is more than well when, as the grasp on earth is loosening, that on Heaven is firmer : when as the world darkens, we approach to the light of a spiritual sun. — In some good degree it was so with the Morley's, save a single ex- ception ; but that exception could raise the winds of a storm at pleasure. Thurston's respect for his father usually restrained him from any of those out-break- ings which might have been apprehended from an excited irritability. Still he could not for- give Miss Nares. Regarding her as the great instrument of all the evil he saw, and of all he ever expected to see, he overlooked every good quality of her heart, misinterpreted her motives, THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 1G7 and seized every opportunity of cmbavvassing her feelings. " Slie did enough, at first," — said he to his father, — "when she filled Maria's " head with these idle notions. If she had not '•' followed her pupil here, all would have been " well enough still. A proselyte to a new sys- '' tern is always enthusiastic : but time might " have cooled that ardour, as time commonly ' does. I never knew a young free-mason who " was not an enthusiast on his entering the *' lodge : nor one whom I have not found be- " fore many months as lukewarm as myself." " My son will recollect that the invitation to ^^ his Aunt was given with his father's consent." Thurston bowed. He was convinced of the duty of filial acquiescence. But he was not satisfied with the prudence of the measure which had produced his animadversion. The repulse, though gently given, drove him to another ground. " I must confess," — said he, — " I do not know a single objection to *' Chris- " tianity so strong as that of the bigotry which. " many of its advocates evince. It is the very " temper that would light the fires of an Auto *' de Fc. It wants but the power to be un- " merciful to the body ; it is so already to the " heart. I had rather become an inmate of "^ La Trappe, or live where every one blesses 16^ THfi DIVIDED FAIvnLY. " my expectations when I burn a sous candie " to our good lady of ." " Stay Thurston ; this is severe, undeserved- " ly severe. You are trying and condemning " one agent for the crimes of another. We *' are to judge men by their works. Let us do *' the same to Christianity. But let us not pass " sentence on that Heavenly Agent for sins " which she herself reproves, and of which slie " was never guilty herself." " But is it not true," — rejoined the son, — " that this diversity of sects is the very soul of " bigotry I and as the natural consequence of " religious freedom, is it not an evidence of a " defect in Christianity 1" " JVot at all : neither premises, nor conclu- " sion can be admitted. It is true that reli- *' gious freedom will lead to a variety of sects. "But what then? Wherever religious free- " dom exists, piety and morality are most dif- *' fusive. Our own country is a fair example. " Where difference of opinion is iolerated, as " in Great Britain, the same truth holds pro- " portionably good. The converse of this ap- " plies to those oountries in which an unquali- '' lied establishment exists ; and that in exact " proportion to the strictness with which such " an establishment is guarded. Moreover, an '< allowed diversity of sects is so far from being THE DIVIDED FAMILY, 169 ** the soul of bigotry, that it is the best security *' against its encroachments. The history of *' the terrible Inquisition, to which you have ** adverted, is full to this point ; it wants no ** auxiliary of proof." " But, sir, to return to our country, — can wc " find a better instance of bigotry than in the " denomination with which we first started V " If it be so, the argument is still misplaced. " Any denomination which excludes from coni- ^' munion those whom they allow to be exem- " plary and evangelical Christians, so far in- " fringes liberty of conscience, opposes free- " dom of opinion, and raises the standard of " religious despotism. But these are not le- " gitimate consequences of true piety. They " are not even a corruption of the truth. They " arise from a human principle with which the " truth has nothing to do." " To alter my posture, then, — how is it that " wherever zeal for Christianity exists, there " always exists with it the pride or domination " of piety. The history of the Church is writ- " ten with blood : And, excepting in primitive " days, it was the bigotry of professing Chris- ** tians that shed it. Even where it is admit- " ted that the greatest purity of doctrines ex- " isted, persecution has been scarcely less cruel 170 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. '• to opposite opinions. Let me instance the " Lollards and Puritans in their day. Among '* the first, how many were eager for havoc : '• how many held opinions incompatihle with " the welfare of society. The second, what- " ever they were in the heginning, became op- '' pressors as soon as power changed hand^ : " some of their published ordinances cannot " be read without pity for their delusion, their " narrow-mindedness, and even their cruelty. " Take other parties : — Cranmer — the mild and " amiable Cranmer — how shall we reconcile " the deeds of his day with a disposition which " nature rendered tender, without saying that " religion rendered it cruel I And even Fene- " Ion himself has not departed with a name un- " sullied with suspicion." " What does all this prove 1 that our religion " is sanguinary, or even imperfect ^ Did a " single precept in the Word of God justify " this unhallowed conduct or temper I not at " all. The spirit of the age in which these " people lived, will account for much of their " bitterness of hostility. A hatred of all that " belonged to the opposing side led to extremes, " and even to contradictions of dealing. Un- " due devotedness to certain tenets absorbed '• their thoughts, and left no room for some of THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 171 " the jnactical precepts of the Gospel. This * A\ ill be ever the case where theory ami prac- '' tice are kept distinct and apart, or where " rites and ceremonies are unduly regarded. " Some Christian virtue or other will be neg- " lected. There may be piety ; but it will be " piety imperfect ; and if you please, sometimes ** suspicious. It is a melancholy example of " the perverseness of our nature, when we see, " as we so often do, the pertinacious adherence '^ of a good man to. a matter of secondary va- '* lue ; observe how it magnifies in liis sight — •' how he grasps the straw with the tension of " gigantic mind — exhausts his very energies on '' it — and even takes by it the very measure- '' ment of fundamental principles of practice. •' Poor human weakness is ever in danger of '' betraying the cause it has espoused, llu- ** man pride mars the work that it touches. " Human sight overlooks much that is most " essential and most lovely. Human partiali- '• ties warp the judgement. And wounded hu- •' man vanity vents its revenge on things that *• are divine. I feel humbled when I hear of '• the failings of the best of men. I5nt the '< pages of the Bible have taught me to look '* for inconsistencies, or at least to expect them. •' Nor i> it less a subject of humiliation, and 172 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. " holy dependence when I see the most palpa - " ble errors embraced by men whom I antici- '* pate meeting in Heaven. The writings of '' Fenelon, Massilon and Bourdaloue have fiU- " ed many an hour with pleasure mingled with " surprize : but those of the manly, vigorous " Pascal have often left me confounded that an '' intellect so discriminating and powerful, could " cling to traditions, superstitions, and whims, " from which I shall have imagined the weak- " est mind would recoil. Yet, do I not observe " the same thing where religion is out of the " question — even in the moral sciences, — not " to say sometimes in the physical 1" " But why, if the Gospel were designed for " all men, should it give rise to such a division •' of sects I Why does it not promote unity " among its followers "!" " Your question is easily answered. If the Gospel produced all the effects you demand from it, then must it not only pass beyond its contemplated design, but it would require some other economy of moral government than that in which we live. It must suppose a change in the relationship in which we stand to God. As it i^, no system of religion could have been given which all would understand alike in its diverKified particulars. While human nature THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 173 remains as it is, the different constructions of our minds must influence their decisions in smaller points. Our judgements are warped by inclination or taste. Our education, and the circumstances under which we live, will produce their corresponding effects. The views of others, even without a conscious consent, possess the^r influence over us. We see the evidence of all this in the fact, that, not un- frequently, the very plainest practical injunc- tions are misunderstood or perverted. And matters that are not clearly revealed, and are not, therefore, of essential practical value, arc sometimes the very ones which are assumed as most clearly defined, and of most material im- portance ; and are tlius made the very line of division. But then, to prevent all this, you require the operation of a miracle : a miracle which shall change the texture of the human mind and con- form it to a universal similarity — which shall make the bias of our thoughts the same ; and compel man to think aright. But what would be the consequence of such a miracle \ not less than the destruction of our free-agency— the removal of our accountability to God. It is worthy of remark, too, that the Word of God anticipates these variations, instead of pre-sup- posing a power to prevent them. They existed 174 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. in the days of the Apostles before the Canon of Scripture was completed ; and certain du- ties respecting them were enjoined." Here ^r. M. opened the Bible and read part of the 14th Chapter of the Epistle to the Ro- mans. He considered the differences of opi- nion in that Church, which called for the ex- postulations of the inspired penman, as much resembling some of the distinctions of sects in the present day. " Preferences," he conceiv- ed, " were not prohibited ; though exclusive preferences were certainly so ; and so too, was any thing else that militated against the exer- cise of a mutual charity." — From this he pass- ed to the third chapter of the first Epistle to the Corinthians. " Here,"— said he, " appears a distinct lesson on this subject. The founda- tion on which those who have a saving hope shall build is Jesus Christ : the gold, silver, and precious stones are the fundamental truths of Christianity. The hay, icood and stuhhle, are the inventions of man. All of them may be built on the foundation that shall abide. The former will stand the ordeal of fire. The lat- ter will perish. The foundation will remain in either case ; but the superstructure of the errorist shall be destroyed ; — " he shall suffer loss hut himself shall be saved^^ rHE DIVIDED FAMILY. 175 " I would go even further," — said Mr. Mor- ley. " These difterences, I am persuaded, arc beneficial, upon the whole. They keep atten- tion awake and active. They preserve the more important truths in a purer state. Tlie action and re-action of Christian communities upon one another — where a proper temper is preserved — prevent both an inertness of feel- ing and a stagnation of principle. They lead to the extension of Christianity. They furnish a test of charity ; and, by bringing that grace into frequent exercise, they render it healthy and vigorous. I cannot deny that the motives for zeal in propagating divine truth may be, and often arc unhallowed. And where they are so, they will not pass the scrutinizing eye of God, unnoted. Still, out of this very evil He who " maketh the wrath of man to praise him," will extract good for his own kingdom. I have thought that the Apostle alludes to some such thought as this when he says — " Some indeed preach Christ even of envy and strife ; and some also of good will. The one preacii Christ of contention, not sincerely — but the other of love." — What then I notwithstanding every way, whether in pretence or in truth, Christ is preached ; and I therein do rejoico.- yea, and will rejoice." 176 THE DIVIDED FAMILY, " This relieves but part of the difficulty,"— said Thurston, who felt somewhat shaken by the sober reasoning of his father, and disposed ^ to shift his position still more. " The passage which you read last night previous to family worship, relating to the plainnesss of the way of life to the fool and way-faring men, contra- dicts facts which we see every day. Two read- ers of the Bible may adopt sentiments so much at variance that no fellowship can exist between them." " I have already partly accounted for this" — vsaid the respondent. " But J will go further. Strength of understanding, or a superior intel- lect, is not the best alembick o^ spiritual truth. The Scribes and Pharisees we|*e more highly gifted in this respect, than the felvoured Twelve. And yet they comprehended the Saviour's doc- trines no better than these illiterate men. The things of God may be hidden from the wise and great while they are revealed unto babes in knowledge and understanding. And it is a display of sovereignty when they are so. Mat- ters which belong to the soul's best interest are offered on the same terms to all. This would not be so if a greater degree of natural gifts gave one man an advantage over another. It is the disposition of the heart which guarantees the failure or success of au inquirer. Man THK DIVIDED FAMILY. 177 must be sincere before he may hope for suc- cess in holy things. He must second his in- quiries with a practice corresponding with his knowledge. It may be true that infidelity fans the passions : ])ut it was the passions that gave birth to infidelity. The child may support the parent ; but it was the parent who brought the child into being. The same truth applies to fundamental errors in religion ; and, in both cases, it is vapid boasting to triumph in the conclusions of a strong and unsanctified mind, while it is folly to gather objections from their ignorance of experimental truth." " Is there not something uncharitable in such an imputation I Does it not imply a want of integrity in some whose honesty we have ndf right to suspect f " If so, we niTist charge the fault upon the Author of the Bible, for the imputation is from him. It is a melancholy evidence of human depravity that we are more disposed to act with dishonesty towards our Maker than towards our. fellows : and the fact itself originates in a na- tural incredulity of Him whom we do not see, with whom we have no personal communica- tion, and of whom we form the most fanciful conceptions. There is a secret agency betweei. God and his creature wliich in a future revela 178 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. tion will tell fearful secrets now kept in tl.^ darkness of the bosom. But after all there is something- in the very nature of heresy which indicates a lamentable depravity in its cherish- er." " What is that r . " It is that the heretic rejects the very prin- ciples which mortify tlie pride of the natural mind, demand personal sacrifices and inflict pain. If the difference of opinion which exists had no reference to what our nature hates, I should be more willing to seat the understand- ing as umpire, and there would be less suspi- cion of an integrity which it is painful to im- peach. There may be what are called ami- nbleness and morality, in the errorist ; and he may feel confident of his own sincerity. We see these in the moral man whom grace has not renewed : but no sooner has he " come to himself," in answer to the calls of the spirit, than he discovers that beneath all his preten- sions to sincerity and candour, there was a self- deception which he had never suspected, and a haughty disposition to rebellion under the livery of allegiance." These were rather closer quarters than Thurston had sought. " I cannot see," — said he, why God permits heresies to disturl) a THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 171) Church which he desires to protect and to che- rish !" " You must have ah'cady seen that this is as natural an evil in the present state of man as any other. You have seen that it Mould re- quire a perpetual miracle to prevent it. But the truth is, even this evil has its advantages. The Christian here is in a state of probation. Every thing denotes a condition of trial. Every thing is designed to purify and establish the heirs of glory. Keeping this in sight, let inc refer you to higher authority than my own. An inspired writer has written — " there must be also, heresies among you;" and he assigns the reason himself, — " that they which are ap- proved may be made manifest among you." j\ow this is effected in several ways, and espe- cially in the following : The visible Church con- sisting of chaff and wheat, the tendency of heresies is to winnow the chaff from the wheat ; Where the true doctrines of Christ are oppos- ed in heart, by a false professor, there will be an attraction in those who hold more congenial views — an attraction which will draw them off from a body they might otherwise disturb. 1 might add, too, that heresies are to the Church what afflictions arc to the Christian ; they lead to consideration ; they institute self-inquiry.'' 180 THE DIVIDED FAMILY ** According to this application of scripture,"— interrupted Thurston, — " every thing seems to be fore-named and pre-written." Mr. Morley's brow lowered. " The feeling of that utterance is unworthy of my son," said be. " And yet as a sneer by no means adroit you have spoken of the most solemn truths. Yes ; every thing is fore-named. There is not a feeling of the unconverted sinner, not an ex- cuse, not an art, not a cavil, which is not di- rectly or indirectly mentioned in the book by which we shall be judged. Our own views may appear peculiar to ourselves, and they generally do so ; and so may our condition in the sight of God. We may rest in confidence on the singularity of our case as a ground of mercy ; but we shall one day see our whole ex- perience written in sun-beams on these pages ; and we may be confounded at a voluntary blindness as deceptive to ourselves as it was presumptuous before God." Mr. Morley spoke this in a tone of mingled tenderness and reproof. His voice fell as he drew to the close of the sentence : and it was accompanied with a look that reached where Thurston dared not gaze himself. We know not what might have been the ef- fect of a remark adapted to lay hold of his bet- TUE DIVIDED FAMILY. 1>^1 ter feelings under other circumstances. It is certain that he was startled now. But no sooner had he left the apartment than hy an easy association he thought of his disputes with his Aunt : It was a theme which with its cor- respondencies was uppermost in his mind. And while he did so, it was with a secret exultation that Miss Nares was not present at his recent defeat : and in that exultation he forgot his per- sonal concern in the late conversation. The two parents and Clara remained in the parlour. *' I entertain some hope," — said the last^ — that Thurston's mind may yet be impress- ed. He was certainly not insensible to your expostulation." " We should have greater reason to do so," — said Mr. 31. — " if his mind were less occupied in controversy." It was admitted by all that his present pro- pensity was highly unfavourable to serious thought. And yet there was no remedy for the evil. He was not likely to relinquish it, while it subserved the double purpose of amu- sing himself and of tantalizing his Aunt. At no later period than the succeeding day, a new freak called for all the patience of 3Iiss IVares. 182 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. She was sitting near a window with the two sisters. Mr. M. was reclining on the sofa with a book. The door, which hung ajar, screened him from the sight of his son, who was enter- ing the apartment with a countenance Hghted up by some happy discovery — " Aunt, I have been to Jerusalem !" " What does he mean 1" said Maria. " He will explain himself," — replied Clara, — '' it is not always easy to construe his meaning." " Well then, I'll explain myself," — said the brother. " I have read the whole history of that city and its inhabitants, down to the pre- sent day. I have found there all manner of deaths and murders, except drowning : do you understand me now V " Indeed I do not. As you sometimes say, I am no CEdippus." " Well then, I will be clearer. I read an account of a man there who sent his son all the way to Jericho to be drowned." <^ Who ^— what for V " I don't know what for, but the worthy man's name was Herod." " I cannot really see the value of the intel- ligence you have brought from the Holy Land." " But Aunt can." THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 183 Miss Nares did. Or at least she saw enough to discover a blow at her favourite tenets. There w as one way to parry it ; and there is none easier for a disputant. She assumed a contrary position : " there must have been wa- ter some feet deep at Jerusalem.*' " Well then tlie Jews were amphibious an- imals while there, for no one ever died in the w ater. You know I proved the other day that the strongest man was not Sampson, but Joan- nes de Dooper, as the Dutch Bible calls him ; for, besides compressing time, he lifted up and down thousands of people in a day, without intermission of speaking." " Ridicule is no test of truth." " Good ! I like quotations. Til give you another discovery, in return." " Reserve the benefit of your discoveries for yourself — said Mr. Morley who rose from the sofa to the surprise and mortification of the youth. Thurston was nettled, lie had read that morning in a writer of his Aunt's denomi- nation, a positive proof that when the rite which was the subject of their frequent disputes was performed by, " primitive Christians," in the way she deemed scriptural, the subject of the ordinance was always naked. This was demonstration to him that the practice could 184 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. not have originated in purest times, violatingy as it did, the laws of decency and decorum. ' To lose this argument just at the time, when his Aunt was getting into a feeze, was vexa- tious : just at the time, too, when he had caught Maria's attention by something new. And when he was about to shew that an ordinance which may be altered to suit publick sentiment, in after days, could have had no essential man- ner prescribed for it.' ' It was the loss of a triumph,' thought Thurston. ' It was the pro- tection of peace,' thought his father. xlnd neither was satisfied with the conduct of the other. It was no easy matter for Mr. Morley to dis- cover the exact line of duty in regard to his son. It was indeed plainly necessary to pro- hibit the practice of disputation in his famil}^ And this he did. But it was a kind of sullen peace that followed. One of the parties, at least, thought it unnecessarj^ " It was an in- fringement of his natural liberty. The com- plexion of the family appeared altered. Every thing was sadly different from former years : and all this is the eflect of religion." 3Ir. Blor- ley was again obliged to reason. And Thurs- ton looked around for new objections. Oh that the caviller would remember the quality of the weapon that he handles ! It THE DIVIDED FAI^riLY ISCi may not strike deep, — but it seldom fails to re- coil on him who wields it. Nor is it a securi- ty to the caviller that he means not, or believes not all that he says. There is danger in the stroke that is meant as a feint. He veho is jealous of his holy truth suffers none to trifle with it unharmed. Such was the experience of Thurston Mor- ley. He had no faith in the objections which he sometimes advanced to his father. He could have refuted them all, himself. But he had now acquired a greater disrelish of spiritual things. It had commenced in the separate in- terests of the family. Prejudice carried on its work of discoloration ; and religion lost its ex- ternal semblance of loveliness. The habit of defending error, if it did not convince him in its favour, left many of the impressions of pre- judice which error produces. The habit of cavilling gave an obliquity to his reasonings, even when alone. He became an active fabri- cator of suppositions. His natural ingenious- ness forsook him. — So true is it that falsehood, like all other vice, is never a subject of dispor- ting with impunity. — Every hint in his spiritual behalf was repelled. The hour of family de- votion was, of all others, most unwelcome.- 24 |8P TUE DIVIDED FAMILY. The Revival ceased. And the dews of Hea- ven which had fallen so copiously on the vil- lage of left Thurston Morley unmoistened among the crowd. In the meanwhile a change was going on un- der that roof, of a very different nature. The lire, whose effects were so visihle before, burnt with a violence as it consumed the last of all that was once buoyant in the bosom of Maria, Lights and shadows were no longer alternates, A dense darkness was within and around her > and it overcast all who approached her. Yet unknown to them, her faculties v/ere chained, prisoner-like, to a single thought. They only knew that she appeared loosened from earth — on the ready spring to enter eternity. Who has not witnessed the power of natural affection growing in its strength before disso- lution has parted its object from time 1 Who has not marked the collecting of sympathy, its yearnings, and its unwearying care, in such sea- son as this I" ' The approaching departure of one so dear was a vortex that swallowed the thoughts ot all. Divisions and differences were nearly for- gotten — save by one. AH hopes of Maria's recovery were aban- doned, reluctantly, but fully. The distinguish- THE DIVIDED FAMILY. 187 able stops in her disorder were all taken but the last. Her evening walk had been forsa- ken — her place at the family board was vacant : the couch of her chamber was left — and her bed had now only to relinquish her in turn, to the tenement of the dead. By her own desire, the family altar had been removed to her room. She felt that her social worshipping on earth was nearly over ; and her heart expressed its breathing with renewed fer- vour as she followed the pious leadings of her father, or the dulcet harmony of her sister's voice. It was one evening after such a season as this, that Maria beckoned the family to the side of her bed. The summons was unusual ; and it was alarming. This she saw and reheved. " I am not dying, — said she, taking the hand of Clara, — I am not even conscious of the ap- proach of death. I am feeble, but I have no suffering. One care is an inmate of my heart, and I can retain it there no longer. I believe I have been wrong. I have contended against the sweetest feelings of my nature. My con- science has been treacherous ; or I have rea- soned it into perversion. The only boon on earth I now could ask caiuiot be grauted. Had we lived together we should have met at the 188 THE DIVIDED FAMILY. festival of love — why have I suffered this part- ing ?" And she sunk exhausted by the effort of body and mind. A terrible struggle shook the watchful Thurs- ton : it broke forth in a vent of vehemence — *' bigotry is gone — but not until its victim was slain f — and with a rush that shook the apart- ment, and a deep audible groan he passed from the chamber. Mr. Morley followed him. The son repeat- ed his expression, with a stare of wildness. The father gazed on him for a moment " Thurston ! you are wrong. But if you were not, be careful that bigotry slay not a soul." It was tw» days after this, when the head of the family had opened the Bible at the usual hour of devotion, that a slight sound was heard from the bed of the patient Maria Morley was no more ! WILL NOT THE SAINTS COMMUNE TOGETHER IN HEAVEN ? •^mm A'^m^ ^mtimih^ " Father !" — said a low tremulous voice at the bedside of Mr. Norton—" Father, I feel distressed for you. I cannot rest." — It was the hour of midnight. And the speaker who inter- rupted the slumbers of her parent was a sweet child of fourteen. She had already dropped upon her knees at the side of her confounded father : and, before his efforts at self-recollection were complete, had commenced a prayer in his be- half He listened astonished at the fluency of the young petitioner. It was a new and unex- pected scene ; but his attention was chained by the language of simple and artless eloquence. He saw and heard a youthful heir of Heaven pleading with an emboldened energy, and with all the simple eloquence of nature, for the thoughtless soul of her parent. He shuddered at the simple index of his danger : and without knowing that he had articulated a word, he responded — " God grant it," to the '' amen" of the filial suppliant. " Father" — she said, and she would have spoken again, had not a prohi- 190 THE AGED SINNER. bition from one she was accustomed to obey sealed her opening lips. " Retire my child, — do not awaken your mother — retire ;" and the door opened and closed again with as little noise as the light footsteps of the affectionate intruder. I know not how far a spirit of ad- venture might be ascribed to this unseasonable transaction, by those who understood little of the anxiety which caused it : or how much of it would be attributed to the fanciful actings of an excited imagination. But I know from his own confession, that the slumbers of that night were lost to the eyes of her father, and that the sternest realities remained in the posture of warning, and caught his sight when sounds had ceased. I know that there he lay struggling to es- cape from a conscience that swelled to giant's size, and giant's strength, shapeless but terrible. Thinking was agony: to cease to think was impos- sible. Still there was nothing defined, nothing distinct, in the character of his thoughts. The forms of past crimes stood not before him : no distinct charges were audible. There was a confused mass of terrors ; but like ten thousand witnesses accusing without order or rule, it was terrific from its terrific interminglings. Oh, there are hours when sensitiveness writlies un- der agony far past that of the singlings out of THE AGED SIMVER. 191 remorse : hours wlien the clear discrimination of j^iiilt would be an alleviation of pain " The past a blank, the future black With glimpses of a dreary track ; Like li-jhtning on the desert path When midnig-ht storms are gathering wTath :" hours, when the very companionship of accu- sing crime were comparatively welcome to the solitary and defenceless feelings. But then, their reign is short. The spirit disenthralls it- self from the government of horror : and all that was, remained only as the memory of a fearful dream — an uncourted review. They are only as the mountains left by the traveller, misty in the distance, diminished, indistinct, — until they are lost from the sight. Their ter- ror is in the present : they extend but little to the future. And like all other seasons of men- tal suffering, they leave no poi-manent instruc- tion. So it was here : the darkness of the mind departed with the shadows of the night, and kept equal pace with their gradual disper- sion.-- — The family assembled at breakfast as usual. Four daughters and a son-in-law, re- cently married, witii the heads of the house- hold, made up the domestic group. iNo parental prayer had opened the duties of the morning : and no parental voice craved a blessing on the well-spread table. Mr. Norton was cheerful 192 THE AGED SINNER. as he had been at the supper hour. He recol- lected, and told some amusing incidents of the preceding day : and he laughed heartily at the ludicrous folly of a neighbour. It is true he hardly spoke to Amelia : and a sagacious spec- tator might have observed even a careful avert- ing of his face from the direction of her seat. But then Amelia was not soriy for the neglect. With a saddened heart she shrunk from obser- vation ; and she was pleased that the loquacity of her father diverted all notice from her own languor and depression of spirit. The circle broke up. The gentlemen left the house for the ordinary business of the day. The young ladies entered upon their usual avocations of domestic duty. Amelia was in a different di- vision of engagement. She retired to her chamber to ruminate over the past. From the hour in which she had left her father on the last night, she had anticipated the next meet- ing with him, in a state of mingled doubt, hope and fear. He was not offended then, for he had spoken mildly, and had responded to her prayer. Perhaps he might even be thoughtful, for God could soften a heart, which the sun of neglected privilege had hardened. And it is sometimes sweet to think what God can do : it is so near believing what He ^cill do. But THE AGED SINXER. l9JJ then her father might be ashamed of the weak- ness of that memorable hour ; and he might look on her with a frown ; and she could bear any thing better than a parental frown. 80 passed the lagging hours of darkness. Everj minute brouglit up a new speculation, or re- newed an old one : save when it returned to the Giver of time, laden with an ejaculation for the soul of her father. But now all that was over, and the meeting for whose doubtful issue she had trembled was likewise past ; but with a reversal of all her calculations. Her father did 7iot meet her with a frown : he took no notice of her entrance into the parlour. He was not thoughtful : he was light and free as air. Was the scene of the midnight hour real — or was it visionary 1 Could all that have pass- ed in her sleep ^ And was she the sole actress, while fancy furnished the appendages ? — There are agencies gone by with all of us, which seem so flatly contradicted by unexpected consequen- ces, that we look on them as fantastic rather than real. It was so with Amelia Norton. 8he could not easily believe it possible, that no positive efi'ect should result from her visit to the chamber. But then her recollection was vivid and faithful. " God grant it !"' was still fresh in her ear. She had caught the !ik/irp 194 THE AGED SINNER. glance of her father's eye with tlie dim light of tlie taper : it was iinmoistened, but she had never seen it more intent. TVo ; there was no delusion. But there was a mystery, dark, per- plexing and unaccountable still. Amelia was not too young for all these reasons, and nature had been liberal in her gift of a strong under- standing : and had it not been so, who has not seen how the powers of the mind may strength- en, when they are collected to play on a point, around which the aflections of the heart have rallied T Its discrimination is then clear, and its instructions furbished. I am not sure that a zeal for the conversion and salvation of others is a certain evidence of sincerity in religion, unless I can trace it to a source that is holy and pure. Cut I am very sure, that where no interest is aAvakened in the bosom in behalf of those who are dear there is a radical defect for which no other apparent virtues can atone. There is a generosity and benevolence, which arises like, an instinctive principle in the bosom, wholly independent of the precepts which are designed to encourage it. It is too expansive for seltish enjoyment : it is too liberal for solitary pleasure. Social as the harmony and bliss of Heaven, it would mingle and difluse : it would gather around it THE AGED Sl.NNER. 195 a iVatcrnity of its own. And natural ali'ection, powerful as mii^ht have been its exercise under its former dominion, receives a new and vigo- rous impulse under the government of grace. " Children love your parents" may be compa- ratively vague, until the heart becomes precep- tive, and the ordinary law of nature is enforced by a new argument and feeling. Or where an affectionate temper was an effective command- ment before, grace gives it new vigour, in- tenseness and delicacy. Piety is love. Love caught from the spirit w hich expanded over the realm of a fallen world, and sought the redemp- tion of its suffering creatures. And yet it has its variations too. For like the magnetic nee- dle it has its great point of attraction. It vi- brates with the attractions and affinities of kindred. It looks to God and to the good that divine mercy would achieve, while it yields to impulses from a neighbouring cognate. And yet the figure may be false. I am willing to relinquish it. There must be something right in the disposition which leads us first to desire the salvation of a relative, before we have far stretched our desire to those of common claims on our sympathy. It must be something direct between us and the great object of attraction. It cannot be uncongenial with the feelings of 196 THE AGED SINNER. Him towards a people whom he had loved from tlie beginning, to whom its heart gave its first yearnings, and for whom he said to the iVpos- tles — "Beginning at Jerusalem." The sisters of Amelia had been members oi the visible church some years before the recent change of her own affections, and time had been when they understood something of the desires which agitated her bosom. But that season was over ; or at least the anxiety which distinguished it was gone. They did indeed desire the spiritual welfare of their parent. But that interest had never awakened a solicitude deep as that of Amelia. And who does not know that it is possible ever for the Christian to remit in the zeal which distinguished the hours of his " first love." When prayer seem- ed to have been unanswered, and all personal efforts have failed, discouragement and a kind of painless despair for the present ensue : a vague hope for an indefinite future, and a com mitment of the whole matter, Avith diminished interest, into the hands of God. A resignation not unlikely to excite self-llattery, but generaL ly ominous of a devotional decline, and gene- rally characteristic of a temper fitful in its sea- sons and feelings. THi: AGED SINNEIi. (97 Tlieie are few speculations, in wliicli Chris- tians more commonly indulge than tiiat oi the probable eflects of piety on a given character. How often, when I have seen the generous and aspiring mind expending its energies, anil was- ting its fires on an object of sense, have 1 thouglit what an addition there w ere to the re- venue of the Redeemer's glory, if that ambi- tion ennobled by grace, and those talents hal- lowed by a sanctified taste, were brought, like the gifts of an eminent Apostle, to the altar of gratitude and love ! And where I have seen an inherent patience and docility, if they were leavened by a principle that is divine; Or where I have marked a steadiness of enter- prize — if its end where the cause of Jehovah. And when such speculations have failed, how often have I been tempted rather to ascribe the failure to an error in the supposed change, than the fallibility of cherished hope I Grace cor- rects the natural characteristics ; it does not de^-troy them. It changes the channel of the passions, it never arrests their How. It con- verts to some use, and tranforms its diversified gifts, the varieties of character which distin- guish the intelligent creation : and who candoid)} that this very variety will distinguish heaven, and form the same clmnijes of a morul harmo- 198 THE AGED SINNEK. ny which give a charm to the symphonies of musick. There was a naivete in the character of Ameha Norton, united with an archness which had usually rendered her the Hfe of the family ; and her sisters had often conversed on the pro- bable effects of piety on a mind of such a mould. x\.nd now that the truth of conjecture was tested, it was plain that they were not far mistaken. In the early days of her piety, there was a beautiful union of almost infantile ingen- uousness and ardour. It reminded of the com- prehensive and touching expression of the Apostle — " new-bornbabes :" confiding, impres- sible, unsuspicious and credulous. But with all there was a solidity which reflection seemed to have imparted, and a gradual vanishing of those lighter materials, which gave an air of weakness, while they made up a part of exter- nal embellishment. It was not the first, nor was it the last time that I have seen the beau tiful process of a new appropriation of natural characteristics. I have loved to behold the substance of nature wrought into a workman- ship of grace, purified by the process, and sweetly attempered with dispositions of hea- renly origin ; until there stood before me a transformed being — a spectacle of moral re- THE AGED SINNER. 190 surrection, where grossness had given way to spirituality, and a celestial light was rellected around. Or if indeed all be not perfect, and there remain excrescences which mar, and re- mind of what formerly was ; charity — an invo iuntary charity, covers them all, and a holy hope antedates the hour when neither blemish nor stain shall disfigure the workmanship of God. And I have loved, too, to watch the slower progress of a sanctifying power, where less ductile and less pliable materials Avere to be the subjects of change ; or where habit had given them a firmness, and ungoverned pas sions had rendered them unbending and per- vers^. And it was instructive to see how the circumstances of life were meeted out by om- niscient wisdom to fit the defects, and correct the evils of fallen humanity ; how affection broke the rocky temper ; and bereavement snap- ped the string that tied the heart to an object of earth, and fastened it again to Heaven : how disappointment transferred the fixed eye from the dust on which it rested, to the great end of spiritual creation : and who has not watched, or seen, or felt all this, in the myste- terious agency of his own experience. And who has not thought how fitting an employ- ment in a higher sphere, it shall be, w'hen iu 200 I HE AGKD Sirs NEK. the review of our probation here we understand the minute management and dealing of the Holy Spirit on earth, Jesus Christ himself being the interpreter? And whom has not a holy resolution invigorated, when in vicissitude or sorrow he has remembered the language of the Interpreter, " what I do thou knowest not now but thou shalt know hereafter ?" It is not always easy to measure grades in the high destiny which awaits the christian ; yet I have sometimes thought them as distin- guishable as the movements of a traveller. It is not always possible to distinguish the light breaking full on the darkness of nature in obe- dience to the divine fiat ; and yet I have some- times seen the transition, when it appeared to break like a blaze — and it was so in the in- stance of Amelia Norton. From the first hour of new hope no one could have overlooked the moral change which shone through her whole appearance, diffused itself into, and even dig- nified, her manner. There was vivacity, but it was qualified : cheerfulness, but it was con- trolled : confidence, but it was unobtrusive : simplicity, but it was reflecting : a chnrncter which art had not sophisticated, and which in- telligence and piety were hereafter to complete. All this her sisters saw and appreciated. The altered Amelia lost none of that claim to fa- THE AGED SINNER. 201 vouritism, which she had unwittingly estabhsh- ed. But not one of the family had entered so deeply into the familiarities of her heart, as to discover her cherished and powerful emotions in behalf of her father. A few words of dis- quietude she had uttered ; and they wore res- ponded with a faint echo. It was in secret she indulged in musings which led to a heaviness of heart — the first heaviness, apart from con- viction of sin, she had ever known. And it was in secret she indulged a sanguineness of anticipation, in proportion to the fervour of her prayers. A good old writer has undertaken to answer the question — " how may we certainly know when God is about to grant our prayer ?" I should be afraid of it. I should think it ha- zardous to attempt deciding, when the Holy Spirit has left us no rule. There may be a confidence of faith, there may be a fervour of breathing ; there may be a sensible nearness to the Great Hearer of prayer; and yet may ex- pectation die in all the fruitlessness of the object sought. Faitliful prayer will always be an- swered. But that uniformity will be in favour of the petitioner himself The relative to whom affection fondly clings, and for whom holy expectations are born in the bosom, may 26 202 THE AGED SINNER. Still Stand aloof and afar from the covenant of grace, while those yearnings of a pious plead- er bring down a blessing npon himself The " thorn in tlie flesh" may abide while mercieg of a character unsolicited are shed upon the soul. The efficacy of prayer consists not al- ways in the attainment of its object, even when such an attainment seems not forbidden as a jprinciple of desire. One evening in the absence of Mr. Norton, intelligence of the death of an acqaintance wa5 communicated by one of the family, and it was rendered of more interest by an account of the tranquility and peace with which she had closed a life of usefulness. It was the starting point of a conversation in which all equally shared. " It must have required a high degree of faith," said the brother-in-law, to whom I shall give the name of Sewald, in lieu of his own, — " it must have required a higli degree of faith, to have sustained her when she was leaving an unfilial and reprobate son." " Yes, but are we sure," said Caroline," that there were not some trying moments in the se- paration. She departed without an answer to the most frequent of her prayers ; and without realizing an object to which her fondest hopes had been looking for years. I do not think it TIIK AGED SINNER. 203 necessary to suppose a finished success to our hopes, in order to die happy. Thousands of in- stances occur in which the parent departs without comfort in a child, and yet blesses the hand that beckons him away. I do not mean that the Christian will always die in triumph ; nor that the experience of a last hour is a fair ordeal of faith. Trials may accompany the child of God to the ripplings of Jordan. A constitutional gloom may cover his hours. It was so with the sweet Christian bard of England. And it is so with many a saint like spirit now. The constitutional temperament may be diseas- ed : and religion is not always a remedy for disor- ders of mind which arise from the imperfec- tion of the body. Much of our spiritual des- pondency may have its source in these. Besides, subjected as we are to continual conflicts in a state of probation, we have no special promise to be delivered from them in the moment of death. Grace will be equal to our day : and it will sustain us through. But although it will bring us oiY conquerors in the end ; we may not be without a painful struggle in the critical liour. The heavenly voice, which said " fear not to go down, for I will go down with thee," will accompany the believer, until il addresses him Avhero encouraiifement is needed no more. 204 THE AGED SINNER. But it would demand the agency of a miracle, to preserve him from temptations which are in- separable from our present condition." " And yet," said Amelia, " do not the min- isters of the Gospel describe the death hour of the believer as one of the principal attractions of piety l" " They do so, and they are equally general in their description of the last moments of the impenitent. We have some judicious exceptions to such a practice ; but its frequen- cy is to be lamented. Even christians are sometimes led to pass judgement on the de- ceased, where trials of mind, or torpor of body, have prevented the full exercise of faith. We are already too much disposed to look rather for comfort than for sanctification in our daily experience. But the evil becomes additionally serious, when we are half established in a rule of expectation for a departing hour. In both cases we are liable to lose the object by a dis- proportionate intentness on it, and a conse- quent neglect of the means of securing it. And hence on the other side, many an impeni- tent sinner derives consolation from the un- marked and quiet dissolution of an acquain- tance, whose prospect in life was no better than his own." — -T THE AGED SINNER. ^05 " But I return," said Amelia, " to the case of Mrs. Stanley. It was certainly a powerful instance of faith, Avlien she so freely relinquish- ed what she had so long promised herself in the sight of a converted child. Would she not necessarily retain an assurance that her prayers might be answered hereafter ?" " Perhaps," replied 3Irs. N. " not quite an as- surance. She died as she lived — with the breathing of prayer ; and it was a consolation to her to know that God has answered many of his children long after he had received them to glory. But it does not always follow that a full confidence and persuasion of that an- swer are communicated to the believer." The conversation had now reached the con- fines of a topic which awakened all the curios- ity and solicitude of Amelia. It was with eagerness she rejoined — " yet, my dear Mother, has not God promised to answer the faithful prayers of his people f ' " He has so. But the answer may neither be in the season nor manner which we may have expected ; and it may not be even the precise object. I have no doubt the Apostle Paul prayed in faith, when he thrice besought the Lord to remove an affliction which harrassed him. He was heard with complacency, and 206 THE AGED SINNER. graciously sustained in the suffering ; but al- though he was richly blessed, the boon was withheld." " True ; but it was not consistent with the divine will to remove the thorn in the flesh ; and we believe it may not have been best for the Apostle himself. Now that does not apply to a prayer for a relative. God desires the sal- vation of all ; and he bids us pray for all." *' Right, Amelia, and it is an encouragement which we ought to appropriate to ourselves. We have known instances of the faithfulness of the Great Hearer of prayer in the circle of our own acquaintance. We have read of many others. Although God has promised blessings to his people, and will assuredly redeem his promise, still he says of them every one, as he said of the promises long since — " yet for all these will I be inquired of." It is prayer which renders us in a fit state to receive the favour, without which it will not be conferred ; or if conferred, would lose its character and its worth." " That has been my impression ; and yet I have sometimes been in serious doubt, when I re* member that an Adam, a Noah, an Abraham and a David, not to mention others, have had reprobate children : and especially when the THE AGED SINNEK. '^07 Apostle Paul appears to attach uncertainty to all that we can do, when he says — ' what knovvcst thou whether thou shalt save thy hus- band, what know est thou whether thou shalt save thy wife V he certainly means that the hus- band or wife is to act in faith, and yet he leaves the event in mere possibility." " I would answer that the secret will of God is not the rule of our actions. The bare pos- sibility of the salvation of an immortal soul is in the highest degree encouraging : and not less so is his sympathy with our sorrows, his interest in our spiritual cares, his participation in our anxiety for others, so much resembling his own when on earth, and so near akin to the very ministry of Angels." " Oh yes ! it is a dehghtful thought ! and yet" Amelia's eye betrayed emotion as she added, in the tone of a melting appeal — " and yet the bare possibil- ity, that one for whom nature taught us to feel and instructed us how to plead — oh I cannot realize it. I have once said that the saints will know each other in Heaven — will they not know who is missing too ! The sliadow of one dreadful thought reaches into eternity." " But is it right," said Sewald, '• to indulge in such thoughts \ They are chilling to our faith : they create a discouragement wjiich con 208 THE AGED SINNER. fuses our own spiritual prospects. There is every thing in the mercy and goodness of God to promote a holy confidence in him. With the assurance of this we should leave all events where they must rest at last, in his own hands. In a world of future happiness, nothing of the past will contract our pleasure, no painful re- collections will embitter it, no vacancy of heart will connect with it a sense of imperfection." " Yes ;"'added Caroline, " I have frequently reflected on the expression of our minister, when he preached from the words — " there will be no night ihere^ — the serene of Heaven will be dimmed by no care. Every affection of the soul shall be absorbed, every faculty en- grossed, and every tie, of which it is suscepti- ble, held forever by a powerful and all-per- vading attraction. The expanse of Heaven is too wide to restrict the range of an immor- tal spirit, its varieties too illimitable to pall on the pure appetite, its intelligence too vast to confine the activity of an exalted intellect. No night will be there, ' nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain.' No reminiscence of the past will painfully arrest the career of feeling and mind. Gratitude, knowledge and love will fill the en- larged chambers of heart and soul." THE AGED SINNER. 20d '"' Well repeated !" said another sister. *' Ca- roline is no listless hearer ; and to nic tlrere seems a powerful incentive to faith in a re- flection so reviving : and perhaps even more : united with a humble dependence on God, and a confiding relinquishment of our burden into the hands of the Redeemer, it appears adapt- ed to give a right direction to our desires, while by a reflex action it renders them the instru- ments of promoting our own present happi- ness." Amelia thought not so. She professed not to understand the nature of the " reflex ac- tion :" but she could well comprehend how di- minishing certainties could diminish her faith. She would have reduced the subject on a nar- rower circle of reasons. She would have al- lowed nothing provisional, nothing trammelled with conditions. The most prominent member of the family was devoid of piety ; alien to the hopes of her own bosom, and disparted from all $hat was most congenial to her. On the other hand, the same Almighty arm, which had levelled her former feelings of self-complacency with the dust, and raised her sunken spirit again, was strong as ever. T)ie same grace which had refreshed her own spirit in its lan- guishing flowed still from its oxhaustless fount. 210 THE AGED SINNER. And it shall continue to flow, while their is pol- lution on our smitten earth, or while there re- mains a single unsentenced sinner aloof from his God. All this Amelia would have said, for she thought it all with the rapidity which emo- tion gives to the mind, and which passes an argument in sight before it could be invested with half its clothing of words : which forms and retracts a position in the twinkling of an eye, and hurries the power of reflection with- out a consciousness of haste. But the object which gave life to her reason- ing entered the apartment. The change which the conversation must now necessarily take, was unwelcome to Amelia, though far less so to others. They saw her approach to a ground which it would have been painful to traverse, and which was never without agitation under the foot of its occupant. But to her at that time it was stable, and all utterly disconnected with it was unprofitable and vapid. She car- ried the idea of her father's conversion, paral- lel vfith her own being, into devotion and me- ditation. It made up a part of her very exis- tence, and gave a colour to every figment of fancyi It is not always practicable to shift the sub- ject of a social conversation suddenly : and THE AGED SINNER. 211 where it is interrupted, as in the present in stance, by the entrance of an addition to the party, there is a leehng of disingenuousness in any attempt to do so : a consciousness of art, which no man but an accustomed manoeuverer can permit without a sense of shame. 3Ir. Norton accordingly remarked a contrast between the silence on his entrance, and the mingling' of voices which he had heard in the hall. A similar change had been observable twice before. He had then thought less of it. But the repetition of the circumstance was in ill accordance with the state of his mind. He had been engaged in a matter of some impor- tance and perplexity : and had expected to lose his cares in the cheerfulness of his family. And for the most part such an expectation had been hitherto realized. If ever deference was paid to the happiness of a father by children, it was imminently so here. They met his views, and they anticipated his wishes, whenever they could consistently do so : and it is not impossible that even the strict rules of Christian consistency were sometimes forgotten, or inconsiderately sacrificed to filial affection. It is a hard duty which conscience lias to discharge, when all the feelings of natural af- fection are enlisted aL^ainst Jier : feelings which 212 THE AGED SINNER. are recommended to the understanding and the heart, and a neglect of which natm-e sets down as treason against herself. And then how ami- able seem the reasonings which the occasion elicits ! The happiness of the father is only of this world. To him there should be nothing repulsive in home. Before him religion should wear her loveliest attire of cheerfulness — the hoUiday suit, that instead of repelling shall win 1 — And tlien the Sabbath — oh there is not in the range of domestic temptations one that, approaches more furtively to the practice, than a desecration of the Sabbath, under the sway and example of parental worldliness. Where there is not an utter contempt of religious prin- ciple, and an oif-casting of ail dread of the fu- ture, consecrated time comes heavy to the im- patience of the worldly. Or, where there is a remnant of principle left from the instructions of childhood, which imposes a slight restric- tion on unholy inclinations, how cheerless is the law which prescribes holiness to the Sab- bath ! How reproving the retirement of others ! How monotonously dull all order and regulation ! But to be left alone for hours, or to witness the more profitable occupation of others repugnant as it is to our own taste — who can endure it I Xo gee aX such seasons " the sanctified air" THE AGED SINNER. 2J3 commenced with the dawu of day, deepened by the service of the Temple, and darkened into complete unsociability as tiie day was waning by" " all this" said Mr. Norton, " is the effect of superstition, not of religion." And he had said so years before Amelia understood the ex- perience of piety : and that saying had become a law passed upon the deportment of the house- hold. And never were subjects more carefully obedient: never was compromise more carefully made : never was an effort more imiform and strict, to settle conflicting claims. But now a new revolution had taken place. Amelia had become the character we have al- ready described. Not a sally of wit had she displayed for weeks. She uniformly as ever met the embraces of her father on his entrance ; and she did so more ardently than ever. But then her eye was often downcast, and there was an earnestness in her manner, which ill-comported with the levity w hich formerly distinguished her, indicating that all on her part was not told. Her cheerfulness too wore the mien rather of suppressed seriousness than of genuine hilarity. The quick sighted parent detected all this, but he was far from conjecturing the cause. And the delicate and affecting disclosure, which had toUowed his inquiry, revealed the most uuwcl- 214 THE AGED 8INNER. come intelligence which had ever reached him from his family. ***** *.******** [To this point in this interesting sketch had the beloved and lamented Author arrived, — in this affecting develop- ment of domestic character was he engaged, when the an- gel of death suddenly called him away from all his labours to his eternal rest. It is a precious fragment, replete with most touching and tender associations. It may be regard- ed as the closing act of a life devoted to the noblest purpo- ses — the last effort to do good of a spirit just taking wing for Heaven. The most elaborate and finished production of the same admirable pen could hardly have been more rnoving and impressive than this mere commencement of a disclosure of evangelical history, whose farther incidents, results and lessons of instruction and adntonition are co- vered by the veil which separates time from eternity. No mortal man can unfold the whole design of this unfinished Etching, nor adequately describe the attractive charms of devoted piety, and the fearful consequences of confirmed worldliness and hardened impenitence, which its completion would have vividly and strikingly disclosed. A request was indeed made on the bed of death, that a friend, who had en- joyed the Author's confidence in relation to this volume, would pursue the design and complete the sketch. That friend has deciphered the short-hand copy with scrupulous care and exactness without changing a thought or form of ex- pression. But he declines making any addition ; believing that the great object, in the writer's view, that of giving an affecting moral lesson and exerting a hallowed influence upon the heart, would be most effectually accomplished, bV presenting it to the reader just as it was left by the loved hand which now moulders in the dust. Let it remain a broken column, — fit memorial of the hopes that were bias- THE AGED SINNER. 215 ted, the prospects that were darkened and the hearts that were smitten and desolated by the premature death of its Author. It may be proper to state that this volume was composed expressly for publication in Europe, and without the Au- thor's name. Previously to his last sickness, however, he had been prevailed upon to consent to its being published anonymously in this country. It is now deemed proper that his name should accompany the work, as the reasons for 'V)ncealraent exist no longer.] A. W. L. XU 'f - - i '. {■': %, ;^ii ji^'.*^' .:U' <^^ :,t' t^'^ ^^ Si. t:v3