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THE 
 
 JOTHAM ANDERSOxN, 
 
 Minister of the Gospel, - 
 
 I have been young, and now am old. 
 O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name together. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PUBLISHED AT THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER OFFICE. 
 
 John B. Russell, printer. 
 ^ 1824. 
 
^\|A- 
 
 61* 
 6 
 
 
 DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: 
 
 District Clerics office. 
 BE IT REMEMBERED, that on the eighth day of March 
 A. D. 1824, in the forty eighth year of the independence of 
 the United States of America, David Reed of the said Dis- 
 trict, has deposited in this office the title of a book the right 
 whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words following, to wit: 
 " The Recollections of Jotham Anderson, Minister of the 
 Gospel. 
 
 I have been young, and now am old. 
 
 O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name 
 together."'' 
 
 In Conformity to an act of the Congress of the United States, 
 entitled, " An act for the encouragement of Learning, by se- 
 curing the Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors 
 and proprietors of such Copies, during the times therein men- 
 tioned ;" and also to an act entitled, " An Act supplementa- 
 ry to an Act, intitled, An Act for tbe encouragement of 
 Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts and Books, 
 to the Authors and Proprietors of such copies during the time 
 herein mentioned ; and extending the benefits thereof to the 
 Arts of Designing, Engraving and Etching Historical, and 
 other Prints: 11 J.NO. VV, DAVIS, Chrh of the pistrict 
 
 of Massachusetts, 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following chapters are republished, 
 with very slight alterations, from the 
 Christian Register, where they had ap- 
 peared as they icere written from week to 
 week. The author has been gratified to 
 learn that they are thought to be of good 
 tendency, and has consented that they shall 
 appear in the present form, although his 
 plan is far from being completed. IVIieiher 
 it will be carried on to a completion or noi> 
 depends upon circumstances which cannot 
 be foreseen. In the mean time it will be a 
 subject of grateful rejoicing to him, if his 
 humble fragment shall be the means of 
 doing any thing for that personal religion, 
 which is the first and greatest concern of 
 

 
RECOLLECTIONS, &c 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I have lived long enough in the world to 
 exhaust all its pleasures, and to be more 
 than wearied with its cares. Like other 
 old men, I look back, upon a life of min- 
 gled joy and sorrow, light and darkness, 
 and take an equally melancholy satisfaction 
 in the remembrance of each. There is one 
 light, as I look back, which I see shining 
 every where ; brighter than the sun of my 
 prosperity, and casting the rainbow of peace 
 on every cloud of my adversity — and that 
 is the light of God's love. I cannot remem- 
 ber the hour when I have seen it hidden. 
 O, that I had always honoured and loved 
 it as became his child ! — And even now, 
 when the infirmities of age are stealing 
 1* 
 
upon me, and to the outward eye of man no- 
 thing remains for me but toil and sorrow — 
 even now, that love is not withdrawn. It has 
 lighted up, as I may say, a torch of hope, 
 which dissipates all the present clouds of 
 earth, and scatters the thick darkness of 
 the valley of the shadow of death. He who 
 was the guide of my youth, is the strength 
 of my age. He who was my sun at the 
 noon of life, is my shield at its close. — 
 Why should I fear for the future, when the 
 past, though chequered with ill, is yet one 
 continued testimony of divine faithfulness r 
 Methinks, as I draw near the tomb, I am 
 as much tranquilized and gladdened by my 
 remembrance of the past, as by my hope 
 of the future. And why should I not be ? 
 For my faith in the promises is always the 
 clearer and brighter, when I think of my ex- 
 perience of past faithfulness ; and my hope 
 is never so steadfast, as when it is supported 
 upon the arm of memory. It is when I reflect 
 on the joy and peace of days gone by, that 
 I feel most able to trust those which " are 
 coming. It is then, that 
 
 Religion bears my spirits up^ 
 And I enjoy a blessed hope.. 
 
I cannot remember the time when I had 
 not a sense of religion, and a fear of God; 
 and I have no doubt that it is owing to my 
 early and habitual impressions, which be- 
 came interwoven in my soul, as a part of 
 its very fabric, or constitution, that I have 
 enjoyed such quietness and steadfastness 
 throughout a long pilgrimage. Little do pa- 
 rents consider, while they are forming their 
 infants' hearts and characters upon other 
 principles, and teaching them to act by 
 other motives, how difficult they render 
 a subjection to religious motives after- 
 ward, and how they subtract from the sum 
 of their religious enjoyment ! Were all 
 mothers like mine, how greatly would the 
 obedience of the young christian's pilgrim- 
 age be facilitated, and its peace ensured ! — 
 I love to dwell on the memory of that hon- 
 oured woman. My earliest recollection of 
 her is in the act teaching me to pray, — when 
 she every evening took me on her knees, 
 and clasping my little hands, made me re- 
 peat after her my childish petitions. Me- 
 thinks I still see the beautiful expression of 
 her maternal eye, and feel the kiss, full of 
 
affection and piety, with which she closed 
 the service. At such times, she would ex- 
 plain to me the purposes of prayer, and 
 teach me to love the good Being, who gave 
 me father and mother, and made me happy. 
 It was her practice also, to seize the mo- 
 ments when my young heart was overflow- 
 ing with cheerfulness and good will, to re- 
 mind me of the Father above, and direct 
 my gratitude to him. Thus his image be- 
 came associated in my thoughts, with all 
 that was gladsome and delightful ; with 
 every satisfaction and every enjoyment. It 
 was mingled with all my remembrances of 
 maternal fondness ; and the love of God 
 grew upon the same branch with the love 
 of my parents. I sought to please him, I 
 feared to offend him, I loved to speak of 
 him, and to him, in the innocent openness 
 of my young heart, and to regard him, in 
 all respects, as I did my parents. Thus 
 there was nothing of severity, or gloom, or 
 dread, in my early religious feelings. I 
 knew nothing of the dislike of religion, 
 which I have seen in many others. The 
 judicious piety of my parents, made it a de- 
 
light to me and not a burden. I saw it mix- 
 ing with all their thoughts and pursuits, 
 most evidently the ingredient of life which 
 did most to make them happy ;. never cast- 
 ing a gloom over them, never arraying them 
 in sternness, nor driving away innocent 
 pleasures ; — and thus it found its way to 
 my heart, and (blessed be He who has sup- 
 ported me) has never left my heart, or ceas- 
 ed to be its joy and peace. I have much 
 inconsistency to be ashamed of, and many 
 sins to lament ; but, thanks to my pious pa- 
 rents, and the grace of God, I have never 
 failed to find religion a pleasure, and never 
 withdrawn from my father's God. 
 
 O that parents would but take a hint of 
 wisdom from this, and treat the young im- 
 mortals committed to them, as if they were 
 indeed immortal ! — /have no children. — It 
 hath not pleased my Father that I shall leave 
 my name behind me. I cannot, therefore, 
 repay to my own offspring, the debt which 
 I owe to my parents ; I can only intreat 
 others to do it. And I do most earnestly 
 solicit them to drive austerit) r from their reli- 
 gious teachings, and to make the idea of 
 
10 
 
 God not only one of the earliest, but one of 
 the happiest of the infant mind. Let it be 
 presented, not rarely, with ceremony, and 
 on occasions of sadness and alarm — as if a 
 fearful object of dread, which shuns all that 
 is happy ; but let it be a familiar thought, 
 beloved, because always connected with 
 happiness, and to be feared only by those 
 who do wrong. 
 
 Thus passed the years of my childhood 
 — happier were never known. I was made 
 early familiar with the history and truths of 
 revealed religion, and taught to act every 
 day from a regard to them before any other 
 motive. My parents were very seldom known 
 to employ other motives with their children 
 than those of religion. And the consequence 
 was, I was always made to inquire, Is it 
 right? Will it please God? Would Jesus 
 approve this ? Is this doing as I would 
 he done by? — till such questions formed the 
 standard of my conduct, just as What will 
 people think? Is this genteel? Is this for my 
 interest ? are the inquiries which decide the 
 men of the world. They referred me, on 
 all occasions, to the life and example of the 
 
11 
 
 Saviour, and taught me to contemplate with 
 admiration and delight, the purity, benevo- 
 lence, and piety, of that holy pattern. They 
 tried to make it my ambition to imitate him ; 
 and never shall I forget how 1 was sometimes 
 affected by the earnest and feeling manner 
 in which they told me the wonderful story 
 of his love and sufferings, and urged me to 
 begin young and follow him. 
 
 Such, in general, was something of the 
 system of paternal instruction to which I 
 owed so much ; for it gave me a religious 
 propensity, which in all the after struggles 
 and sins of life, I never lost. — Truly, God's 
 greatest blessings are pious and faithful 
 parents ! 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 In the account I gave, in the former 
 chapter, of my religious education, I rather 
 described the method of my parents, and 
 the design they had in view, than its actual 
 effect on myself; — for lean, by no means, 
 think that I at anv time became altogether 
 
12 
 
 such as they wished to make me. But, as- 
 suredly, their labour was not lost, for the 
 seed which they so faithfully planted, and 
 assiduously cultivated, never has died, how- 
 ever feebly it may have flourished. The 
 trunk has grown old, and begins to decay ; 
 it will soon fail ; but there is hope that it 
 " will sprout again, though the root thereof 
 wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof 
 die in the ground," — that it will spring up 
 with new vigour and eternal beauty in the 
 garden of God. 
 
 My childhood passed like that of other 
 children who have tender and watchful 
 parents, and has left as few distinct traces, 
 which are worth recording. The waves of 
 time have flowed over the track which my 
 little boat made, and I can discern its path 
 no longer. 
 
 I was in my thirteenth year when I lost 
 my mother. This is one of the events which 
 made a lasting impression. She had been, 
 for a long time, gradually wasting away, 
 and I had seen the anxious countenance and 
 manner with which my father watched her. 
 But a boy, even of thirteen, is not likely to 
 
13 
 
 understand or realize such signs, and I re- 
 member I had no foreboding of the coming 
 calamity. But, at length, I observed an 
 altered tone in the morning and evening 
 prayer of my father, which impressed me. 
 I began to suspect the truth. I observed 
 more narrowly. I discovered that the form 
 was wasted, the cheek had grown pale, the 
 eye had sunk, and disease had made a fear- 
 ful onset, while my childish eyes had been 
 blinded. And I do not wonder that they 
 were blinded ; for the calm and cheerful 
 manner of my mother was unaltered, and 
 she spoke and smiled as she always had 
 done. But I now saw the truth, and every 
 hour served to make me see it yet more 
 plainly. My solicitude soon betrayed itself, 
 and then my father summoned resolution to 
 speak upon the subject to his children. The 
 others were younger than myself. They 
 were frolicking in all the unapprehensive 
 lightness of childhood, when he called us 
 around him. There were four of us. The 
 youngest sprung upon his knee, and play- 
 fully put her lips to his mouth ; while the rest 
 of us, who perceived the emotion upon his 
 2 
 
14 
 
 face, gazed upon him, and gave him our 
 hands without speaking. As soon as he 
 could command himself — "My children," 
 said he, " God has given you a good mother ; 
 but he is about to take her away from you. 
 You will not see her much longer. She is 
 visited by a disease which is hurrying her to 
 the grave, and we can do nothing but weep, 
 and give her back to God. But we must 
 not weep," said he, bursting into tears, " for 
 she is only going home ; going to be happy, 
 which she has not been here. It would be 
 wrong to mourn, for she is only going to 
 sleep a sweet sleep, and we shall all, by and 
 bye, sleep too, and then shall all rise to- 
 gether, if we have been good." 
 
 Not many days after this, my mother 
 called me to her, as I sat in the chamber, 
 and, kissing my cheek — " You are old 
 enough," said she, " to know what death 
 means, and to learn a lesson from it. I am 
 soon to die. I have known it for a long 
 time, and have perfectly prepared my mind 
 to meet the event. I have no longer reluc- 
 tance or fear. And now, my dear son, while 
 I speak to you, perhaps for the last time, 
 
15 
 
 hear my parting counsel. I have tried to 
 teach you your duty, and to fill your mind 
 with religious principles. Do not swerve 
 from those principles. They are my support 
 now, they always have been my support. 
 You will need them as much as I do. And 
 if you would cherish them, and have them 
 strong, I charge you never pass a day with- 
 out prayer. — Promise me this, and I shall 
 feel easy." I kissed her hand, and bowed 
 my head ; for I could not speak. She put 
 her hand beneath the pillow, and taking 
 thence a locket, containing a braid of her 
 own hair, she gave it to me. "I do not 
 know," said she, " that departed spirits are 
 acquainted with what happens to the friends 
 they have left on earth ; but if they are, I 
 shall never cease to watch your life with 
 maternal solicitude. Think of this when- 
 ever your eyes meet this memorial of my 
 love. Reflect that, perhaps I see you, 
 and remember the promise you have made 
 me ; or, if not so" — she added in a voice of 
 inconceivable expressiveness,— " reflect that 
 God sees you, and bears witness whether 
 you keep that promise or not. My dear 
 
m 
 
 son, farewell ! a mother's parting blessing 
 is on your head ; and do Thou, O Father, 
 bless him, and make him thine!" She 
 kissed me again, and sunk back exhausted* 
 It seems as if I still heard her voice, and 
 gazed upon her composed, but animated 
 features. And it is one of the joyful antici- 
 pations of my approaching removal from 
 earth, that I shall again see that face, and 
 be united to her pure spirit, never to part 
 again. I had no spirit, after this, to leave 
 her side, or to engage in any occupation. 
 I was suffered to remain near her ; to see 
 the gradual approach of dissolution ; and 
 to witness the tranquillity and cheerfulness 
 with which christian faith can await the ap- 
 palling summons. She was too weak to 
 say much, but sometimes gave a word of 
 encouragement, admonition, or blessing, to 
 those who were near her, and after she be- 
 came unable to speak, she still looked un- 
 utterable things, and smiled upon those 
 who did her any little offices of kindness. — 
 All was peace within and without ; and 
 gently at last did she sink asleep in Jesus, 
 without a groan or a struggle, and with an 
 
17 
 
 expression on her face as if she had already 
 caught a glimpse of the glory to come. 
 
 There are some who would keep children 
 from the chamber of death, and remove 
 from their minds, as soon as possible, the 
 impressions which sorrow may have made. 
 They little consider the natural buoyancy 
 of the mind, and the tendency of all feeling 
 to pass away from a young heart. My fa- 
 ther was one of those who thought the sol- 
 emn impressions of such a season should 
 be deepened, and pains taken to make them 
 lasting. He thought that much might be 
 done to give right views of the value and 
 purposes of existence, and to get ready that 
 frame of mind which is best fitted to meet 
 and endure the changes of the world. By 
 his conversation, therefore, and instruction, 
 for a long period, he kept fresh the feelings 
 to which this sad event had given birth. — 
 He did not converse a great deal in the for- 
 mal way; it was not his habit, and he rath- 
 er avoided it, from a persuasion that it was 
 not an effectual mode of addressing young 
 persons. I do not think that he ever made 
 «a long harangue to his children upon any 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 subject. His custom was to seize moments 
 when their minds were cheerful and at ease, 
 or when any remarkable event had excited 
 their attention, and by a few concise, point- 
 ed remarks, sometimes by only one single 
 emphatic expression, convey the important 
 lesson. He would then leave it to work 
 upon their minds. And it would often hap- 
 pen that the words would sink down into 
 their hearts, and never be forgotten. I can 
 recall many examples of forcible sayings 
 thus uttered, which were of great use to me 
 afterward ; but am certain that the same 
 sentiment, diluted into a formal speech of 
 fifteen or twenty minutes, would have made 
 no impression, and been altogether lost. 
 
 Upon the present occasion, he pursued 
 his customary course. He spoke seldom ; 
 but because seldom, I dwelt the more upon 
 what he did say. I forgot nothing. And 
 as he directed my reading, and the whole 
 occupation of my time, I was, for a long sea- 
 son, prevented from returning to the sports 
 of my childhood, or regaining the frolick- 
 some dispositions of boyhood. 
 
1£ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The education of his children now became 
 the favorite employment of my father. His 
 parish was in a small and retired village, 
 and his parishioners of that humble class, 
 who require nothing more of their minister 
 than an affectionate interest in their welfare, 
 and the plainest instruction in the plainest 
 truths. His duties as a minister, therefore, 
 were not burdensome, and afforded him 
 ample time for the superintendance of his 
 children's education. He was a man of ex- 
 cellent understanding, and admirable love 
 of learning; and well do I remember how 
 delightful he made those years of instruction, 
 by orally communicating the various know- 
 ledge with which his mind was full. It was 
 the dear wish of his heart, that I should 
 follow him in the ministerial profession ; and 
 while he strove to give me settled principles 
 of religion and habitual devotion, he strove 
 zealously also to store my mind with every 
 variety of knowledge that could adorn and 
 strengthen it. He had a great abhorrence 
 of an ill-educated ministry ; and kept me 
 
20 
 
 from college till I was eighteen, with the 
 express design of teaching me many things 
 which he thought I could not learn there. 
 Though at the same time, I doubt not, he 
 was influenced by the wish to gratify him- 
 self by so pleasant an occupation of his 
 lonely and widowed time. 
 
 As the time approached when I was to 
 go to college, it became necessary to provide 
 some additional means for supporting me 
 there. A country minister may manage 
 with his children at home pretty well, for 
 they may aid him in his little farm. But it 
 is not so easy to support them abroad. It 
 was consequently necessary that I should 
 try to earn something for myself. A school 
 was found for me in a town thirty miles dis- 
 tant, and I left home in November, to spend 
 the winter in this new and anxious employ- 
 ment. My little wardrobe and a few books 
 were tied together in a handkerchief, and 
 slung over my shoulder with a stick, and so 
 I trudged along, as many greater men have 
 done. 
 
 This winter was an important one to me, 
 as it left its traces upon my whole after life. 
 
21 
 
 I was a very bashful young man, wholly 
 unaccustomed to the society of men, and 
 quite ignorant of the world. Great, there- 
 fore, were the sufferings I endured, both in 
 school, and out of school. I was anxious, 
 from principle, to do my duty ; but from 
 timidity and inexperience, I failed to give 
 perfect satisfaction. My own anxiety ex- 
 aggerated my deficiency, to my own view, 
 and often did I wet my pillow with the tears 
 that were wrung from my oppressed heart. 
 Such trials, however, did me good, as they 
 helped me in learning to face the world, 
 and cast me more exclusively on my religious 
 convictions for support and happiness. I 
 have always found that seasons of removal 
 to strange places and new duties, have been 
 those in which my faith and sense of duty 
 have been most rapidly improved. When all 
 others were strangers around me, I went 
 the more frequently to God, as a father and 
 accustomed friend. 
 
 But what I remember particularly in this 
 season, was the trial I underwent in learning 
 the stress that was laid upon the differences 
 among Christians. My father, as I have 
 
22 
 
 said before, lived in a retired village, to 
 which the noise of the polemic world did 
 not reach ; and whose inhabitants, happy in 
 the simplicity of good and holy lives, felt no 
 interest in the questions of words, on which 
 the faith and charity of so many are sus- 
 pended. They read their Bibles, attended 
 public worship, and lived soberly, righteous- 
 ly, and piously in the world. There was 
 nothing among them of the pride either of 
 orthodoxy or heresy. My father held, him- 
 self, and was laborious to instil into his peo- 
 ple, the most enlarged charity toward all. 
 He was disgusted at the spirit of narrowness 
 and bigotry, which he had always seen ac- 
 companying a vehement zeal for particular 
 forms of faith. He therefore rarely alluded, 
 either in preaching or in conversation, to the 
 differences among christians. He seldom 
 even named the names of theological parties. 
 And thus it happened that, strange as it 
 may seem, I grew up almost ignorant that 
 there were parties in religion, entirely un- 
 acquainted with their badges of distinction, 
 and with none of that prejudice for and 
 against names, which is often the earliest 
 
23 
 
 lesson in religion. It had not escaped me, 
 in the books which fell in my way, that 
 there had been divisions and strifes in the 
 church ; but I saw and heard nothing of 
 them in the world around me, and I felt as 
 though nothing of them existed. 
 
 On the evening of my arrival at my new 
 quarters, I was greatly struck with the tone 
 and language of my host and hostess in 
 speaking of religion. It was different from 
 any thing I had ever heard before, and it 
 puzzled me. Mrs Hilson was so frequent 
 in her scriptural allusions, and phrases of 
 piety, as to introduce them sometimes very 
 improperly and irreverently ; but in her 
 husband there seemed a constantly half- 
 suppressed sneer, and disposition to throw 
 ridicule on the subject. Both were so dif- 
 ferent from the serious, manly, intelligible, 
 and reverent manner in which I had always 
 seen the subject treated at home, that I was 
 not a little perplexed to know what to think. 
 One of the school committee, who was also 
 deacon of the church, came in during the 
 evening, to see the new master, and give 
 his instructions. As I was too diffident to 
 
24 
 
 talk much, and the deacon had but little to 
 say on the business of my profession, the 
 conversation took a turn but little different 
 from a catechetical lecture. After many 
 common-place questions, such as an inquisi- 
 tive stranger naturally puts first, deacon 
 Lumbard inquired what were the opinions 
 of my father. I felt ashamed not to be able 
 to give a direct answer, and waited for him 
 to put the question in a different shape, 
 " I mean," said the deacon, " is he Arminian 
 or Calvinist ?" This question was hardly 
 more intelligible to me than the former ; but 
 thinking it would never do to say I did not 
 understand him, and feeling tolerably con- 
 fident that I should speak the truth, I replied, 
 " I believe he is an Arminian." The deacon 
 gave a hem ! of surprise, and walked across 
 the room. Mrs Hilson dropped her knitting, 
 and fixed upon me a look of sad concern ; 
 and her husband stopped poking the fire, 
 and turned round with a half merry stare, 
 as if to know whether he had heard aright. 
 I felt my face colour suddenly all over, and 
 I thought I must have made some dreadful 
 blunder. No one spoke for some time. At 
 
25 
 
 length the deacon said—" An Arminian ! — 
 we dont think much of Arminians here." 
 The tone of his voice went to my heart, and 
 the sound of it rung in my ears for weeks. 
 I never had before witnessed this abhorrence 
 of a name ; and such a crowd of feelings 
 rose within me, that I could do nothing but 
 remain silent and confused. Mr Hilson re- 
 lieved me by saying, " But, deacon, there 
 may be some good men amongst the Ar- 
 minians." " That's more than you know, 
 or I either," said the deacon. " But you 
 think it's possible they may be saved, don't 
 you ?" rejoined my host. " It is not promis- 
 ed," replied the deacon ; " it is not in the 
 covenant ; and as they do not hold the true 
 faith, they are certainly in a dangerous way. 
 I should not expect I could be saved myself, 
 if I was one of them." " But all things are 
 possible with God," said Mrs Hilson mildly. 
 " True," said the deacon ; " and if any of 
 his elect be in this error, he will snatch 
 them from it before they die." 
 
 The course which conversation had thus 
 taken, led to the statement of all the tenets 
 of Calvinism, to which I listened with 
 3 
 
26 
 
 amazement, sometimes mingled with hor- 
 ror; for many things were so new and strange, 
 so apparently contradictory, so repugnant 
 to my most cherished feelings of religion, 
 that I seemed to be in some region of ro- 
 mance, rather than among Christians. Of 
 one thing I felt certain, that if I had wrongly 
 called my father an Arminian, at least he 
 was not a Calvinist. But what is there so 
 much an object of horror in an Arminian ; — 
 why so difficult for him to be saved ? — I was 
 lost in the perplexity of my own thoughts. 
 Before the deacon went, he proposed to 
 join the family in prayer. He first read the 
 8th chapter of Romans, and then poured 
 out along and earnest prayer, of great vehe- 
 mence and minuteness, in which I was 
 made an object of special supplication. 
 The loudness and fervour of this act of wor- 
 ship, so different from the calm and subdued 
 tone of my father, thrilled and agitated me 
 with a new feeling ; and when the deacon, 
 as he went out, put his hand solemnly on 
 my head, and with an affectionate emphasis, 
 wished me God's blessing and success in 
 my new office,.! was overpowered, and burst 
 
27 
 
 into tears. I cannot pretend to explain my 
 feelings. They were a chaos of confusion. 
 I was young, every thing was novel, my situa- 
 tion was such as to render me uncommonly 
 susceptible, and religion w r as presented to 
 me in a form altogether new, and with 
 something inexplicably solemn in the man- 
 ners of its professors. Those who have 
 been ever placed in a situation in any mea- 
 sure similar, will understand something of 
 the feelings which kept me many hours 
 awake that night ; and will easily perceive 
 that I could come to no conclusion, except 
 that of writing to my father as soon as pos- 
 sible, to inquire what was an Arminian, and 
 what he himself was. Being quieted by this 
 determination, and comforted by my prayers, 
 I at last fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Under some circumstances, the feelings I 
 have named would soon have passed away, 
 and my mind have returned to its usual state. 
 But my situation was such as to keep me 
 
28 
 
 agitated and harassed in spirit for a long 
 season. I however always have seen cause 
 to rejoice in that trial of my faith, and to 
 render thanks to my heavenly Father, who 
 thus established, strengthened, and settled 
 me in the true and living way. 
 
 It was expected of the master that he 
 should pray in the school, morning and 
 evening. I knew it to be the custom, and 
 had been greatly disturbed in the anticipa- 
 tion of being called to its performance ; for, 
 as I have said, my natural diffidence was 
 extreme. As the time drew near, the dread 
 of it weighed upon my" mind with an oppres- 
 sion which I cannot describe ; and when the 
 moment came, upon the first morning, my 
 resolution failed me, and I commenced the 
 ordinary business without a prayer. This, 
 however, was no relief, for I felt that I had 
 done wrong. My conscience severely re- 
 proached me, and for several days I was 
 made wretched by the struggle to overcome 
 what I thought a sinful timidity and shrink- 
 ing from religious duty, which could not fail 
 to bring upon me the heavy displeasure of 
 God. At length my religious sense of duty 
 
29 
 
 got the victory, and on Saturday morning, 
 I, for the first time in my life, addressed my 
 Creator in the presence of fellow-beings. 
 I was so engrossed by my own feelings in 
 this affair, that it had not occurred to me 
 that I might draw upon myself the displeas- 
 ure of the village. It had not even suggested 
 itself to me, that what was done in school 
 was known abroad. I returned to my lodg- 
 ings at noon, happy in the triumph I had 
 gained over myself. I was hardly seated, 
 when a gentleman entered, who was intro- 
 duced to me as Mr Reynolds, the minister 
 of the parish. He saluted me coldly, and 
 after a momentary pause, began the con- 
 versation by saying with some sternness, 
 " Young man, I understand that you do not 
 pray in your school. The duty never was 
 neglected before in this town ; and if you 
 are not sensible enough of its importance to 
 attend to it, you are unfit for the place. — 
 How can we expect a blessing on our chil- 
 dren, if God be not remembered in their 
 instructions ; and how can he be fit to teach, 
 who will not seek wisdom from above." 
 This unexpected address confounded me ; 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 and, after all that I had suffered in my mind, 
 was more than I could sustain. I burst into 
 tears, and, as well as I was able, stated the 
 exact truth. Mr Reynolds was not a man to 
 appreciate the diffidence which had caused 
 my error, and he rebuked me for yielding 
 to it. He expressed his satisfaction, how- 
 ever, that I had conquered it. "■ I have 
 heard of your father," said he, " though I 
 do not know him personally. I am not so- 
 licitous for the acquaintance of those who 
 are not perfectly sound in their views ; and 
 I am not surprised that the religious faith 
 he has brought you up in, is too weak to 
 overcome your fear of the world. Nothing 
 but the genuine gospel can subdue that false 
 pride of the natural heart. But I trust you 
 will learn better. God has sent you here 
 at a propitious season for the interests of 
 your soul, and I do not doubt you will find 
 it blessed to you. There is a powerful work 
 of grace going on amongst us. The Holy 
 Spirit is evidently in the midst, and there is 
 a great rattling among the dry bones. Our 
 meetings are frequent, full, and solemn. 
 You must attend them, of course, as many 
 
3t 
 
 as you can, and you will see such operations 
 of Divine power as are wonderful to be- 
 hold." 
 
 Much more, and more earnestly, he talked 
 on this topic, and at length pressed me with 
 close and trying questions respecting my 
 own religious opinions and experience ; and 
 drew from me a minute account of negli- 
 gences and failures, which he represented 
 to me as glaring and dangerous defects. 
 My conscience was a tender one, and easily 
 joined in accusations against myself. I had a 
 horror of displaying myself to greater advan- 
 tage than the truth, which led me to conceal 
 almost every thing in my religious character 
 which he would have approved. I could 
 not bring myself to speak of those secret 
 exercises of my spirit, which I accounted 
 sacred to the inspection of heaven. Mr 
 Reynolds argued warmly, and warned me 
 earnestly. His tone of expostulation was 
 powerful in itself, as well as new to me. I 
 felt it to my heart's core. My timid spirit 
 shrunk and trembled. He left me in a state 
 of amazement and anxiety, which robbed 
 me of the perfect possession of my faculties 
 for the remainder of the day. 
 
32 
 
 In the afternoon, when, of course, I was 
 unengaged, several friends of my host cal- 
 led in, who were interested in the religious 
 state of the village, and made it the subject 
 of their conversation. They talked of the 
 meetings which had been held, of the cases 
 of those who had been affected, and des- 
 cribed at length the situation and exercises 
 of some of the converts. A wholly novel 
 scene was thus unveiled to me. I saw re- 
 ligion and religious feelings presented in a 
 new light. And the eagerness with which 
 the matter was discussed, the breathless 
 curiosity and sympathy expressed in the 
 eye, the flushed cheek, and the impatient 
 attitudes of speakers and listeners, were 
 calculated to make a deep impression upon 
 a novice like myself. The comparison of 
 this exhibition with what 1 had always seen, 
 and reverenced, and loved as true religion, 
 perplexed and distressed me. I could gain 
 no peace after many hours of anxious think- 
 ing, but by remembering that longer obser- 
 vation would teach me what was right, and 
 that it was my duty to wait patiently. I gave 
 myself, therefore, to the reading of the 
 
33 
 
 Scriptures, and at length laid myself down 
 calmly to await the opening of the sabbath 
 day. 
 
 On this occasion, and on thousands since, 
 I have derived peace from prayer, when 
 every thing else conspired to vex and dis- 
 tress me : — a proof of itself, that a devotion 
 of spirit is the essence of true religion ; and 
 that he who has this, cannot be lost to God, 
 nor be a stranger to his favour, however he 
 inav err in controverted truths* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It is impossible for me to follow minute- 
 ly my recollections of this memorable win- 
 ter. They would fill a large volume, in- 
 stead of the few sheets which my tremb- 
 ling hand is able to write. It must suffice 
 to say that the new scenes into which I was 
 thrown, continued to be occasions of sever- 
 est perplexity and anxiety for many weeks. 
 I had been bred religiously, I had been 
 scrupulously conscientious, I had thought 
 myself a lover of God and man, and rejoic- 
 
34 
 
 ed in the hope in heaven. But my religion 
 had been noiseless and secret. I had sel- 
 dom conversed respecting it, except at par- 
 ticular moments with my father. I had nev- 
 er been excited by crowds assembled, nor 
 had I ever been conscious of any extraordi- 
 nary change in my dispositions, or feelings, 
 or life. I had gone on quietly from child- 
 hood to youth, conscienciously, but calmly, 
 and with no display of zeal. I had seen in 
 my father precisely the same operation of 
 religion which I had witnessed in myself, 
 except that it was far more perfect. 1 had 
 thought this the true christian character ; 
 and though often I had sighed over my 
 imperfections, yet I never had suspected 
 that I was wrong in principle. 
 
 But if what I now saw and heard were 
 the genuine exhibition of religion, then I 
 had been entirely and wofully deceived. If 
 I must believe what was perpetually urged 
 in my ears, then I was only a hypocrite, 
 without Christ, and without hope. Nothing 
 can exceed the distress with which this 
 thought was attended. Many nights did I 
 pass sleepless and weeping with uncontrol- 
 
35 
 
 lable anguish of spirit. I became almost 
 unfit for any duty. My thoughts pi eyed on 
 my health, till my robust body wasted un- 
 der the torture of the mind, and my cheek 
 was pale and sunken. 
 
 For why, thought I, should I not believe 
 all that I see and hear ? I cannot deny the 
 existence of the sincerest, heartiest religion 
 here. Earth cannot contain a purer and 
 meeker spirit than my hostess possesses ; 
 and where is there more real and actuating 
 piety than in deacon Lumbard, though he 
 be a little narrow ; and where a nobler 
 benevolence and more solemn concern for 
 Christianity than in Mr Reynolds, though 
 he be a little rough ? and then how general 
 and deep is the religious impression that 
 prevails — how serious, how anxious, how 
 devout is the whole village — how indefati- 
 gable in teaching and learning — what a 
 sense of the evil of sin, and dread of the 
 Divine displeasure — and not my own father 
 could discover more anxiety for my good 
 than my friends do here. 
 
 Yet, while I thus looked with reverence 
 upon the zeal and piety I witnessed, I could 
 
36 
 
 not listen to the representations of gospel 
 doctrine, which were perpetually made, 
 without a certain horror. This, I was told, 
 was an infallible sign of an unrenewed 
 heart ; and this served to aggravate my 
 distress. I never had studied controversy, 
 nor heard it preached ; but my father had 
 always implied something very different 
 from what I now heard, and I could not 
 reconcile the representations I now met, 
 with the impressions I had received from 
 the Bible. My blood chilled when I heard 
 the arbitrary decree of election announced, 
 and, connected with it, the joy of the right- 
 teous in the sufferings of the wicked. I 
 was most distressingly bewildered in the 
 contradictions about depravity and account- 
 ability, irresistible grace, involuntary faith, 
 and changes rung, without end, on jus- 
 tification, adoption, sanctification, and 
 imputation. It was a wilderness to me. I 
 turned on every side and could find no re- 
 lief. If I had only seen these things in 
 books I should have passed them by as 
 wild speculations. But I found them rilling 
 the minds and thoughts of men, whose re- 
 
37 
 
 ligious zeal was more imposing to my mind 
 than any thing I had ever met with ; men 
 whom I honoured and loved, who treated 
 me with assiduous kindness, and who assur- 
 ed me, with the earnestness of the most sol- 
 emn asseveration, that they built all their 
 religion and all their hope on these doc- 
 trines, and that they could conceive of no 
 salvation on any other ground. Thus be- 
 set, what could I do ? Who would wonder 
 if I had yielded ? 
 
 I at length told those who had interested 
 themselves most warmly in my behalf, that 
 there was but one course for me to take, 
 namely, to examine the scriptures anew with 
 fresh care, and abide by the result. To this 
 proposal they warmly assented, not doubting 
 that the Holy Ghost would teach me ; and 
 they left me with solemn prayer to pursue 
 this design. 
 
 I look back to the doing of this work 
 with highest gratitude and satisfaction. 
 Every leisure minute found me at my Bible, 
 and the morning often broke while I was 
 yet studying. Earnest were my prayers 
 for light, and sincere my wish to be in- 
 4 
 
38 
 
 structed ; and He who heareth prayer heard 
 me, enlightened me, and gave me a happy 
 confidence in the result of my labour. My 
 opinions became fixed and grounded on 
 the sure testimony of God ; and I no longer 
 felt embarrassment at the very opposite 
 representations of gospel truth which were 
 prevailing around me. They could still 
 sometimes blind my eyes for a moment 
 with the dust of metaphysical subtlety ; but 
 the breath of the Divine word soon blew it 
 away, and I saw clearly. 
 
 I now became tranquil and happy. My 
 cheerfulness of spirit returned, and with it 
 health. My anxieties ended in a serene and 
 settled peace, no more to be disturbed by 
 the tumult round about me. I came out 
 of the trial in every respect the better for 
 having passed through it. My opinions 
 were more clearly defined and more solidly 
 grounded. My devout feelings were be- 
 come deeper and more ardent. While at 
 the same time, my intimacy with the senti- 
 ments and characters of those who differed 
 from me gave me a juster view of them, and 
 a more real regard for them, than under 
 
39 
 
 any other circumstances I could have attain- 
 ed. This has been of incalculable benefit 
 to me through life. I have been preserved 
 by it from a great deal of false and censo- 
 rious judging, and enabled to discriminate 
 between the merits and weaknesses of my 
 more orthodox brethren, so as to maintain 
 for them a sincere respect and unchanging 
 charity. And I have always found that 
 those are least bigoted, who are best ac- 
 quainted with those whom they oppose. 
 Nothing destroys uncharitableness and cen- 
 soriousness so certainly, as an intimacy with 
 the habitual feelings and characters of men 
 of other sects. Bigotry is the offspring of 
 ignorance. 
 
 Such was the end, and such, in few words, 
 have been the consequences of the scenes I 
 have described. But my trials were not yet 
 over. My own mind was satisfied, but others 
 were dissatisfied ; and I was doomed to en- 
 dure coldness, reproach, suspicion, and a- 
 lienation from many who had been forward 
 to instruct me, and who had professed the 
 warmest friendship. I was made the subject 
 of village gossip and scandal ; a thousand 
 
40 
 
 false and calumnious reports were spread 
 abroad ; and I became little better than a 
 heathen and a publican to the zealots, who, 
 a few weeks before, seemed ready to sacri- 
 fice even their lives for me. But of these 
 things I must speak in another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER Vf. 
 
 The trials to which I alluded in my last 
 chapter, as coming upon me in consequence 
 of my decision in regard to religion, were 
 of several sorts. I can name them but in 
 few words. I had supposed that all who 
 professed a friendship for me, and had so 
 zealously interested themselves in my be- 
 half, would rejoice with me in the relief of 
 mind I had gained, even though they might 
 have wished that my conclusions had been 
 nearer their own. But in this I was disap- 
 pointed. From the moment it became known 
 in what manner my concern of mind had 
 terminated, and that I was not to be brought 
 out as a convert after their fashion ; there 
 was a manifest change in the manners of 
 
41 
 
 many toward me. Instead of cordiality I 
 found coldness, instead of a welcome I met 
 a repulse. And I soon found that all their 
 zeal for my soul's welfare, was little more 
 at bottom than a desire to have the eclat of 
 the schoolmaster's conversion ; that there 
 was a grievous disappointment, not at the 
 danger in which my soul was placed, but in 
 this frustration of a party object. I had too 
 much proof of this to fear that I charge them 
 wrongfully. 
 
 But this was not the case with all. Some 
 were truly and benevolently afflicted for my 
 own sake. Amongst these was my excel- 
 lent hostess, Mrs Hilson. I had all along 
 held the most free communication with her ; 
 she knew the whole state of my mind, and 
 had acted toward me the part of a mother. 
 She was too gentle and meek to be bigoted ; 
 but as all her own rich treasures of religious 
 comfort and hope were built on the doc- 
 trines she had been taught, and they were 
 dearly associated with every pious and be- 
 nevolent sentiment of her soul, she very 
 naturally could conceive of no real religious 
 happiness from any different source. When 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 she found that I could not draw from this> 
 she was troubled ; for she thought there 
 was none other. She did not question my 
 sincerity, but lamented my blindness in not 
 seizing what, from her own experience, she 
 knew to be the only secret of happiness. 
 Wiser persons than she have made the 
 same mistake of trying all others by their 
 own experience ; while in fact men's expe- 
 riences differ as much as their faces. 
 
 I never shall forget the kind and tender 
 interest she expressed toward me to the last 
 of my residence in the village. She was in 
 all my solicitudes a faithful friend. To her 
 I could unbosom myself without restraint, 
 and find relief from her sympathy. Our 
 hearts could feel and pray together, however 
 we might vary in our creeds. And to the 
 last of her life, while her friends and my 
 friends were zealously accusing each other 
 of corrupting the whole gospel, she ceased 
 not to feel, that there might be Chris- 
 tians who were not Calvinists ; and I, for 
 her sake, have always been able to see the 
 spirit of the gospel reigning even among 
 those whose speculations were most hostile 
 
43 
 
 to its trdths. Indeed, who that has ever 
 formed an intimate acquaintance beyond 
 the narrow pale of his own sect, does not 
 feel the wicked meanness of that bigotry 
 which confines piety and salvation to those 
 who agree with himself? 
 
 " I still hope," said Mrs Hilson, the eve- 
 ning before I returned to my father's house 
 — " I still hope and trust, that you will see 
 reason to think differently." " I pray that 
 I may," said I, " if I am wrong ; I have no 
 wish but to learn and follow the truth ; and 
 I say sincerely, that I think I could in a 
 moment embrace any opinion which could 
 be proved to be of divine authority. You 
 have yourself seen how anxious I have felt, 
 and how diligently I have sought." " Cer- 
 tainly, certainly," she replied ; " you have 
 done your duty well, and I think God will 
 not leave so sincere a soul in darkness. It 
 is this that makes me sure you will, by and 
 bye, be brought right. We must wait His 
 good time." 
 
 " But why," said Mr Hilson, who was a 
 blunt, good-natured man, "why, Betsey, 
 should you wish master Anderson to change ? 
 
44 
 
 I am sure there is not a cleverer, honester 
 man, nor better master to be found. And 
 as for his religion, he 's as serious and 
 prayerful, and studies his Bible as hard as 
 any of them, though to be sure, he is not for 
 making such a noise about it. Now to my 
 mind, this is the right way ; and I am sure, 
 that if any body could make me a Christian, 
 it would be just this Mr Anderson. And 
 his quiet sort of religion, now, would do 
 more to work upon the minds of one half 
 the people here, than all the stir that 's been 
 made this winter. Why, there 's a great 
 many been driven away from all kinds of 
 religion by the confusion we 've had about 
 it. I believe I should have been myself, if 
 it had not been for the master. And 
 there 's many a one that will never get over 
 his disgust, but is made, I warrant it, pro- 
 fane for life." 
 
 " You astonish me," said I, for this was 
 entirely new to me ; " it is not conceivable 
 that men should be so unreasonable. What, 
 fly off to irreligion, because their neighbours 
 are so engaged in religion ? They must be 
 very ill-disposed persons." 
 
45 
 
 " No ;" replied he, " not so ill-disposed 
 neither ; some very consciencious men have 
 been affected in this way ; and if I was to 
 speak my mind, I should say that this stir 
 has cooled as many friends to religion as it 
 has made." 
 
 " Husband, husband," cried Mrs Hilson, 
 " how can you say so ? I am truly ashamed 
 of you." 
 
 " Look here, my dear," said he, " who is 
 likely to know most of it : you, who see 
 only one side — or I, who see both sides ? 
 Now I know all that 's going on, and all 
 that 's said, everywhere in the village ; while 
 you only know what passes at meeting and 
 among go-to-meeting folks ; and I can tell 
 you beyond all doubt that the devil has 
 gained some disciples as well as Christ 
 I '11 tell you a few things. I 've heard more 
 swearing, and seen more drinking and ill- 
 temper amongst the men, because of this 
 thing, than I ever knew in the village before 
 in my life ; and from some very reputable 
 folks too. There 's the Joneses and the 
 Malcolms have not been calm this two 
 months ; and there ? s no doubt their wives 
 
46 
 
 would do more for religion by staying at 
 home and making their houses happy with 
 it, than by running away and causing their 
 husbands and children to hate it. — Then, 
 besides those that are hurt in this way, you 
 know there are some of the converts that are 
 said to be none the better since their zeal 
 has cooled. You know how ** and *** and 
 **** turned out, and there are more too." 
 
 " You ought not to triumph over this," 
 said I. 
 
 " And I do not," said he ; " but there are 
 them that do, and it has afforded more joy 
 and jests to infidels and blasphemers than 
 I can tell you of. Now does not this do 
 harm to real religion ? And would not it 
 all have been prevented by permitting mat- 
 ters to go on quietly and soberly as in times 
 past ? For, take five years together, there 
 would have been as many Christians made 
 in the usual way, as by all this extraordinary 
 movement ; while at the same time none of 
 this extraordinary evil would have been done. 
 This is not all. It is incredible what sin 
 has been committed in the way of slander 
 and lying, and that by very pious people 
 
47 
 
 too. I '11 tell you what reports have been 
 spread about you, master Anderson, just by 
 way of specimen. First, it got about that 
 you were under deep concern of mind, and 
 had written home to your father, who told 
 you not to be troubled, for the people were 
 mad, and religion would spoil you for a 
 schoolmaster. That you became afterward 
 more earnest, and when you could get no 
 comfort from your father's principles, he 
 sent you to Mr Reynolds, and you found 
 peace. That then your father, too, became 
 anxious, and came to see Mr Reynolds, and 
 confessed to him that he had never felt re- 
 ligion, and was more than half an infidel ; 
 and that he was converted and went home, 
 and got up a revival in his own parish. All 
 this and much more was made up out of 
 the whole cloth, and circulated as so much 
 gospel by those who knew it was all false. 
 And when it was discovered that your mind 
 was settled another way, then it was said, 
 and is believed to this day, that you have 
 got another Bible, different from ours ; and 
 that a good part of the time you pretended 
 to be studying the Scriptures, you were^pky- 
 
48 
 
 ing cards in your room with R and 
 
 E . For a whole day it was believed that 
 
 you had told the children it was all nonsense 
 to pray in the school, and you should do it 
 no longer. I could tell you a great deal more 
 of the same sort, and so you must not won- 
 der that some folks think there is no religion 
 in what bears so much bad fruit." 
 
 Mrs Hilson appeared as much discon- 
 certed at this disclosure, as I was amazed. 
 She said, however, that it was fair to look 
 on both sides, and count the wheat in the 
 field, as well as the tares. " True," said 
 her husband ; but will every body do that ? 
 Most persons will not do it ; and conse- 
 quently, most persons will be injured," 
 
 " But you and I must do it," said I. 
 " Religion is a solemn reality, whatever 
 imperfections there may be in its friends ; 
 and surely you will not on account of those 
 imperfections refuse to strive for your own 
 salvation." 
 
 Mr Hilson has since told me, that this 
 sentiment struck him more forcibly than any 
 preaching he had ever heard. I am happy 
 to add, that he became one of the most en- 
 
49 
 
 lightened and sincere Christians I have ever 
 known. 
 
 I parted from my friends the next morn- 
 ing, amidst the most affectionate wishes. 
 Deacon Lumbard came to give me his part- 
 ing blessing, and to say that he did not doubt 
 he should yet see me all he could wish, for 
 he loved me too well to think otherwise. 
 As I passed the minister's door, I stopped to 
 bid him farewell. He shook me by the hand, 
 saying he loved me none the less for my 
 honesty, and doubted not God had a blessing 
 for me. The kindness of these two good 
 men was a cordial to my spirits. I left them 
 better and happier for having known them ; 
 rejoicing that there was a better world, 
 where imperfection would be done away, 
 and where the holy light of unveiled truth 
 would dissipate the little cloud that now 
 hovered between us. 
 
50 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 My college life, on which I now entered, 
 was like that of many other young men. I 
 applied myself zealously to the duties re- 
 quired of me, and became ambitious of dis- 
 tinction. My thirst for knowledge increased, 
 and w T ith it my desire of eminence. I allowed 
 myself little time for sleep or recreation. 
 I denied myself even food, that I might sit 
 at my books without the necessity of exer- 
 cise to help digestion. I know not how it 
 was, but gradually and insidiously literary 
 distinction became my ruling passion. My 
 Bible w T as consulted less frequently, my 
 seasons of devotion were hurried over, and 
 even the worship of the sabbath came at last 
 to be attended by me with little interest or 
 feeling. 
 
 I was sometimes uneasy at perceiving the 
 change which had taken place in my affec- 
 tions, and felt alarmed for the result. But I 
 satisfied myself with saying, that as soon as I 
 should be relieved from my present hurry, or 
 have finished the study I had now on hand, I 
 
51 
 
 should have leisure to resume my religious 
 vigilance. But this leisure did not come, and 
 I suffered myself still to go on. I quieted 
 the remonstrances of my mind with the 
 persuasion, that a man can not feel equally 
 engaged at all times on any subject ; and 
 that at any rate I was preparing myself for 
 the duties of life, and why was not this as 
 acceptable service as the performance of my 
 religious duties ? Then if conscience ans- 
 wered, that the preparation for future duty 
 is no excuse for neglecting present duty, I 
 stifled the suggestion by burying my thoughts 
 in study. 
 
 I tremble to this day to think of the hazard 
 I was running, and in how dreadful a ruin it 
 might have ended, if it had not pleased God 
 to send me a rebuke. I had already entered 
 my senior year, and with a heart full of 
 ambition was pressing on to realize, in the 
 honours before me, the darling object of my 
 hope. I had overplied my powers, and they 
 gave way. My body refused to sustain the 
 labours of my mind, and after four weeks' 
 severe illness it was thought I must sink to 
 the tomb. 
 
52 
 
 Of the early part of my sickness I have 
 no recollection, except of a confused feeling 
 of disappointment and vexation at being 
 thus stopped and frustrated in my career. 
 It seems to me like some long dream, in 
 which I was struggling with envious and 
 malicious foes, who were conspiring against 
 my improvement and reputation. I seemed 
 at length to awake from the dream, and 
 found myself a feeble and helpless man, 
 stretched upon my bed, and attended by 
 friends whose anxious countenances reveal- 
 ed to me their fears. 
 
 " What is that bell for ?" was the first 
 question I asked. 
 
 " It is tolling for the Exhibition," said 
 my friend. 
 
 " The Exhibition f" said I, starting with 
 surprise ; " how long have I been sick ?" 
 
 " Nearly four weeks." 
 
 " Exhibition !" I repeated—" and I am 
 not ready ; I cannot be there ; — when I had 
 so depended on it — so longed for it — and 
 
 here am I shut out from When shall I 
 
 be able to go out, Thompson ?" 
 
 " You must lie still," said Thompson* 
 
53 
 
 u you are too weak to talk ; keep yourself 
 quiet." And he withdrew from the bed. 
 
 Thompson's voice and manner struck me, 
 and I at once suspected the truth. Never 
 shall I forget the feeling that came over me, 
 as the conviction flashed across my mind 
 that I was dangerously ill. A cold thrill 
 run through my frame, and the sweat issued 
 upon my forehead. " And is this," thought 
 I, " the end of all my toils, the completion 
 of my hopes ? Is it all to end in an early 
 grave and a forgotten memory ? Spare me, 
 
 God, that I may recover strength before 
 
 1 go hence to be seen no more." 
 
 As soon as my first surprise was over, I 
 set myself to collect my thoughts as well as 
 I was able, and to prepare my mind for the 
 event. And now the wide extent of my folly 
 became visible at once. I saw the full measure 
 of my negligence, and the whole lraworthi- 
 ness of my delusion. I felt the emptiness of 
 that ambition, for which I had sacrificed my 
 religious affections, and would have given 
 the world to return to that spiritual frame 
 which I had possessed two years before. 
 Then I thought of my privileges, my oppor- 
 " -5* 
 
54 
 
 tunities, the discipline I had passed through* 
 the early instructions of my mother, the 
 faithful counsels of my father ; — and as 1 
 thought of him, I involuntarily spoke out, 
 " Has my father been sent for, Thompson?" 
 
 Thompson looked at me with surprise, 
 and after a few moments' hesitation ans- 
 wered, yes, and that he was expected to 
 arriv e to-morrow. 
 
 To-morrow came, and at the expected 
 hour my father entered the chamber. He 
 had evidently come from a hurried journey* 
 and wore a countenance of anxiety and 
 grief. I held out my hand, and he took it 
 without speaking. We both were thinking 
 of a separation, and for some moments 
 could not trust ourselves with our voices. 
 At length I broke silence, for I had been 
 fortifying myself for the interview, and had 
 my powers under my control. 
 
 " My father," said I, " I rejoice to see you. 
 I know why you are come, and shall feel 
 the easier for your presence. You led me 
 in the beginning of life, and if my life must 
 close, it is a consolation to lean on you at 
 the last." 
 
55 
 
 " The will of God be done," said he. " I 
 had hoped it would be otherwise ordered, 
 but the will of God be done. I am glad to 
 find you look upon it so calmly. Your re- 
 ligion supports you, as I thought it would." 
 
 " I trust in God's mercy," said I ; " I need 
 it. O, my father, you do not know how 
 foolish I have been, and how nearly I have 
 lost myself in the love of worldly honours." 
 And I told him the state of my mind for 
 some time previous. " But," I continued, 
 " I have humbled myself before God, and 
 cast myself on his compassion. I have 
 thrown away my false ambition, and renew- 
 ed my vows and prayers, and I hope I have 
 found pardon and peace. I have given up 
 every thing to my Maker, and trust I may 
 depart in hope. Father, give me your 
 blessing." 
 
 He knelt down by my bed and prayed. 
 My soul was thrilled by the sound of that 
 voice, so familiar and so loved, and a thou- 
 sand tender recollections crowded upon my 
 mind. I was refreshed and strengthened 
 as I listened, and lifted nearer to heaven. 
 
 A long silence continued after he had 
 
56 
 
 tended, while we both pursued our own re- 
 flections. A length I untied from my neck 
 the locket containing my mother's hair, and 
 handed it to my father. " I wish to leave 
 this," said I, " to my sister Jane, with the 
 same injunction with which my dear mother 
 gave it to me. Tell her that it has been a 
 talisman to me in many a difficulty and 
 temptation ; and that if I had never suffered 
 myself to be unmindful to it, I should have 
 been spared the only pain I feel at this time. 
 Bid her, therefore, wear it in memory of 
 her deceased brother and mother, and as a 
 pledge that she will never pass a day with- 
 out prayer ; remembering, that if we cannot 
 see how she fulfils the pledge, God does ; 
 and the day is coming when we shall know 
 also." 
 
 I was too feeble to pursue the conversa- 
 tion, and soon became faint. I thought 
 myself dying. After I revived, I could \ 
 catch from the occasional whispers in the 
 room, that it was thought I could not live 
 through another night. I had nothing fur- 
 ther which I wished to say, and I laid 
 quietly, in the perfect possession of my 
 
57 
 
 powers, waiting the signal to depart. O, 
 the indescribable sublimity of that hour! 
 Words cannot picture the solemnity of 
 feeling which pervaded my mind, as my 
 thoughts flew, in the pressure and excite- 
 ment of the season, with the rapidity of 
 lightning, to the past and to the future, — 
 to my own life, — to the truths of Christiani- 
 ty, — to the perfections of God, — to the 
 promises of Christ, — to the prospects of 
 heaven ; and the whole was framed, with an 
 intense energy of which I can now hardly 
 conceive, into a perpetual mental prayer. 
 Thus I was occupied until sleep overcame 
 me, and I was lost in forge tfulness. 
 
 It was ordained that we should be de- 
 ceived. He who had brought me low, in- 
 tended but to chasten and heal me ; and 
 when I had learned all that a death-bed 
 could teach, he again breathed health into 
 my frame, and bade me live to praise him. 
 
53 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Seek first the kingdom of God, and the 
 righteousness thereof, and all these things 
 shall be added unto you. 
 
 These words were perpetually present to 
 my mind, during my recovery from the ill- 
 ness I have mentioned, and gave rise to 
 much salutary reflection which helped to es- 
 tablish my resolution for the future. I felt 
 how easily the one thing needful slips away 
 from those who cease to seek it, and how 
 liable even a religious man is to lose the 
 substance of happiness in pursuing the 
 shadow. I persuaded myself that if the 
 prime object of duty were secured, a man 
 could never feel any thing actually wanting 
 to his well-being ; for it is very evident that 
 the pursuit of the highest duty and most 
 permanent good, is consistent with the pur- 
 suit and enjoyment of every other object 
 really desirable. 
 
 I experienced the truth of this at once, 
 in returning to the studies of my class. My 
 great struggle had been to subdue my in- 
 
59 
 
 ordinate ambition. It had interfered with 
 ray religion, and must be sacrificed. It was 
 a dear sacrifice, but I took my resolution, 
 and it was performed. The consequence, 
 I supposed would be, that I should fall from 
 my standing as a scholar, and graduate with 
 less reputation than I had coveted. This 
 was a mortifying anticipation ; but better 
 risk my scholarship than my religion, thought 
 I, and I summoned firmness to brave the 
 result. This result was quite other than I 
 expected. In proportion as I became in- 
 different to my reputation, for mere reputa- 
 tion's sake, I found myself able to study and 
 recite with greater ease and self-possession, 
 Formerly my extreme anxiety to do well, 
 and my morbid dread of doing ill, had oc- 
 casioned an irritability and hurry of spirits, 
 which often threw me off my self-command, 
 and produced the very evils I sought to avoid. 
 But now, having little desire except to do 
 my duty, I was cool, collected, and preserved 
 the full command of my powers. So that, 
 to my surprise, I acquitted myself better 
 than formerly, and rose in my class, rather 
 than fell. A certain portion of every day 
 
60 
 
 was sacredly devoted to religious exercises 
 and studies ; and the time thus subtracted 
 from classical pursuits, was more than com- 
 pensated by the steadiness of mind and 
 equanimity of feeling which it produced. 
 
 Here then was the first reward of my re- 
 newed fidelity. I was permitted to experience, 
 then, as I have always done since, that our 
 religion has the promise of the life which 
 now is, as w T ell as of that which is to come. 
 How many deceive themselves and are 
 miserable from not knowing this ! They sell 
 themselves to the world, and take the world's 
 wages ; which at the moment of death they 
 are compelled to resign, and then have 
 nothing which they can carry hence. Where- 
 as, in the service of God, they might have no 
 less enjoyed what earth affords, besides all 
 the present and future satisfactions of the 
 soul,>which are far richer and purer. There 
 is no state of the mind so happy in itself, 
 and at the same time so fitted for success in 
 the duties of the world, and for contentment 
 amid its difficulties, as the tranquil and 
 composed frame of habitual devotion. 
 
 From this time my resolution was taken 
 
61 
 
 to devote myself to the ministry. There 
 had always been a prevailing desire in my 
 mind to engage in this office ; but some- 
 times my distrust of myself, and sometimes 
 my occupation in other studies, had prevent- 
 ed me from making an absolute decision. 
 But my late experience had so wrought 
 upon me, that I could think of no other oc- 
 cupation consistent with duty. I suspected 
 it to be my father's wish, though he had 
 never intimated it to me. When I named 
 to him my determination, he expressed his 
 hearty approbation. " This," said he, " is 
 what I have looked forward to with earnest 
 hope. It has been from your childhood my 
 constant wish and prayer that I might see 
 you join with me in the great work of the 
 gospel. I rejoice that the day has come, and 
 that without one doubt or fear, I may en- 
 courage you to go on, and bid you God speed. 
 Your faith and perseverance have already 
 been tested. You know what trial is, and 
 will be able, from the wisdom of personal 
 experience, to help others who are tried. 
 Enter the work and prosper. You will still 
 meet with trials, severe and heavy ; but He, 
 6 
 
62 
 
 in whose strength you have hitherto been 
 safe, will always provide a way of escape if 
 you but seek it." 
 
 I would that I had room to record all the 
 instruction which he imparted on this and on 
 other occasions, with the affectionate piety 
 of a christian minister, and the overflowing 
 tenderness of a parent. I would that I had 
 been more sensible, at the time, of their 
 value, and how much it was enhanced by the 
 fact, that I was not long to enjoy his in- 
 tercourse. But for two precious years I did 
 enjoy it. I was employed as teacher of the 
 school in my native village, and lived and 
 studied in the house of my birth. I was 
 my parent's companion at home, and in his 
 visits abroad. I read with him the most 
 important books, in my preparatory studies, 
 and we conversed familiarly on all topics of 
 theology and morals. Happy and profitable 
 were those days ! when I was permitted to 
 cheer the declining path of him who gave me 
 birth, at the same time that I was drawing 
 from him treasures of ministerial experience 
 to guide me after he should be departed ! 
 
63 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The entrance on the ministry is a period 
 of anxiety and excitement of spirit which 
 no one can look back upon, even after the 
 lapse of years, without a throb of emotion. 
 To a conscientious man, who feels the weight 
 and responsibility of the office, the exercises 
 of that season are deep and trying. About 
 to appear as the messenger of God's word 
 to the souls of men, — to be the herald of 
 eternal truths, — to be a fellow labourer with 
 Christ in the work of human salvation, and 
 the bearer of the prayers and the interces- 
 sions of men to the mercy seat of heaven ; his 
 spirit is oppressed, and trembling, and ready 
 to faint — for how can he discharge so various 
 and awful vocations ? But then, again, when 
 he considers the incalculable importance of 
 the work to which none other on earth is 
 to be equalled ; when he thinks of the hon- 
 our of bearing part in it, the shame of draw- 
 ing back, and the wide field for doing good 
 — his spirits become animated, and he girds 
 himself for the toil with alacrity and zeal, 
 
64 
 
 It seems as it were but yesterday that I was 
 passing through this alternation of hopes 
 and fears, of exhilaration and despondency. 
 I still see the chamber which I paced for 
 hours, anxious and sleepless, night after 
 night : and where I gradually gained reso- 
 lution to begin the sacred work. Forty- 
 seven years are past and gone, but it is fresh 
 as the memory of to-day. I have passed 
 through, in those years, heavy vicissitudes 
 of earthly lot, and waves of trouble have rol- 
 led over my heart, enough to obliterate from 
 it every trace of that early anxiety. But it 
 abides vividly in my memory, and the old 
 man of seventy-two feels over again as he 
 writes, all the solicitudes of the youth of 
 twenty-five. 
 
 It was on the third of September, that af- 
 ter a ride of twenty miles, I reached the 
 village where my father had recommended 
 me to make the first trial of my gifts. I 
 bore a letter from him in my pocket to Mr 
 Carverdale, the infirm minister of the place, 
 offering my service to ajd* him on the Sab- 
 bath. The sub was just throwing its last 
 beams upon the spire of the meeting-house? 
 
65 
 
 as I came upon the little common where it 
 stood, and cast my eyes around in search of 
 the minister's house. This is easily known 
 in a country village, and I immediately rode 
 up to a neat cottage, with a small yard be- 
 fore it, which stood just back of the meeting- 
 house, and was almost lost amid the trees 
 which threw their aged branches around 
 and over it. The old gentleman was sit- 
 ting in his arm chair at the open door look- 
 ing out upon the setting sun. I alighted, 
 and approached him with the letter in my 
 hand. While he was engaged in reading 
 it I had leisure to collect myself, and study 
 the appearance of a man whom I had not 
 seen since I was a child, and to whom I 
 was an entire stranger. He was a tall, thin 
 man, whose few remaining hairs were white 
 with the hoary frost of age, and his counte- 
 nance marked with years and suffering. 
 But there was a majesty and serenity in it 
 which struck me with awe, and would have 
 become an apostle. I think St John might 
 have looked so, when he was carried into 
 the church, as he approached his hundredth 
 year, to repeat his customary benediction^ 
 Little children, love one another. 
 6* 
 
66 
 
 u You are heartily welcome," said he, 
 when he had finished the perusal of the 
 letter ; " and I thank your father for his 
 kindness in sending you. But he was al- 
 ways kind, and I can present no better 
 prayer for his son than that he may be like 
 him. I was doubting if I should be able to 
 speak to my poor people to-morrow. I am 
 unusually feeble, I have sensibly decayed 
 this week. I might not be able to address 
 them. But now they will be instructed 
 from younger lips. It will be enough for 
 me to break to them the holy bread. I am 
 glad to have all my strength for that. Who 
 knows but it may be the last time ?" 
 
 I felt called upon to say something, and 
 with the real diffidence I felt, I said that I 
 was very sorry he would not have a better 
 substitute to-morrow. 
 
 " Young man" said he, "let me warn you 
 against a trick of disparaging yourself in 
 this way. It does not become the simplici- 
 ty and sincerity of the ministerial character. 
 You are in your master's service, and should 
 use such language to none but him. It may 
 be modesty now, but it will become vanity ; 
 
67 
 
 vanity in its most disgusting dress, the 
 guise of humility. Think of nothing but 
 to do your duty. Do that as well as you 
 are able, and be not anxious to say or to 
 hear in what manner it is done." 
 
 This advice did me great good. It taught 
 me to guard against that sensitiveness to 
 the opinion of others, which is so apt to dis- 
 order the motives of action ; and has saved 
 me perhaps from that painful and ridicu- 
 lous habit, which I have witnessed in some, 
 of always speaking slightingly of what they 
 do for the sake of hearing it praised. It be- 
 comes the dignity of a preacher of the gos- 
 pel not to speak of his labours at all, ex- 
 cept to some confidential friend and for the 
 sake of improvement. 
 
 " I do not mean to pain you," continued 
 he, " for I have no reason to doubt your 
 sincerity ; but I use an old man's privi- 
 lege of plain speaking to put you on your 
 guard. My light is almost out and I must 
 do good while I can. I am as low in my 
 horizon as yonder sun now is. But while I 
 am here, I would give light to the last. It 
 has always been my prayer, that I might 
 
68 
 
 sink to my bed as that glorious luminary 
 does now, useful to the latest moment, and 
 unshadowed by a cloud. God save me 
 from the empty, shattered remnant of ex- 
 istence, which would be a weariness to my- 
 self and a burden to others. Yet I fear 
 that the prayer will not be granted, and it 
 will try my patience and faith to have it de- 
 nied. But His will be done ! You," 
 continued he, " are like that sun in his ris- 
 ing, rejoicing in the prospect before you of 
 a day of light and glory, of a work of be- 
 neficence and love, in which you shall cause 
 righteousness and piety to bud and become 
 fruitful. It is an excellent and most bles- 
 sed work ! Enter it and prosper ! May God 
 be your light, and honor you abundantly in 
 the kingdom of his dear Son." 
 
 He rose from his seat, and leaning upon 
 me entered the room where his family was 
 sitting. " We always pray at sunsetting," 
 said he. The ancient family Bible was 
 brought forward, from which a chapter was 
 read, upon which he made a few remarks, 
 and then uttered a fervent prayer. It seem- 
 ed to come from a patriarch's lips, and to 
 be instinct with the devotion of that future 
 world on whose borders he stood. 
 
69 
 
 We retired early to rest, and arose with 
 the sun, on the morning of the Sabbath. 
 The trembling voice of the aged ser- 
 vant of Christ mingled with the early stir- 
 rings of the morning breeze, and welcom- 
 ed, in the animated accents of praise, the 
 blessed recollections of holy time. His 
 whole air was serene, tranquil and thought- 
 ful. He seated himself again by the door 
 of his cottage, and remained there, musing 
 and conversing at intervals, until we were 
 summoned to the public service. 
 
 My attention had been so much diverted 
 from myself, and my mind so interested in 
 the conversation and character of this good 
 old man, that I passed through the trial of 
 my opening ministry with far happier feel- 
 ings than I had anticipated. When the 
 exercise was concluded, he arose in his 
 place, and reminded the church that the 
 emblems of their Master's love awaited 
 them. " Would to God," said he, in his 
 feeble, tremulous voice, while he turned his 
 eyes around upon the congregation ; " would 
 to God, that ye were all disposed and ready 
 to partake of them. My infirmities warn 
 
70 
 
 me that this is the last time they will be 
 dispensed by my hand. Ah, why are ye 
 not all waiting to receive them ■? For more 
 than half a century have I broken this bread 
 here ; I then entreated and urged you all 
 to come and partake. I have warned, and 
 admonished, and pleaded with you, even 
 unto tears. And yet, how many of you suf- 
 fer me to leave you, and carry up with me, 
 when 1 go hence, the sad story that you 
 have no mark of gratitude for a Saviour's 
 love, no obedience for a Saviour's dying 
 command. You are willing to oppress my 
 last hours with the bitter thought, that for 
 many of you I have laboured in vain, and 
 though I have loved you here, I may hard- 
 ly hope to join you again in the eternal 
 communion with the saints. Dear friends, 
 let it not be thus. I stand here to bid you 
 farewell. Who of you is willing it should 
 be eternal ? Who of you would part, 
 never to meet again ? I hope and pray for 
 better things. I trill hope that, although 
 we have not set down together here, we 
 shall be permitted to do it hereafter. And 
 let me ask of you for this once at least, this 
 
 
71 
 
 last opportunity, not to leave me : but re- 
 main, one and all, and witness, though you 
 do not participate. Who can tell how it 
 may please God to manifest himself to you? 
 Who can tell, while we all join our prayers 
 and devotions for the last time, what influ- 
 ence may descend to bless us ? Who can 
 tell but our remaining together now, may 
 be the omen that we shall be prepared to 
 meet in a higher state ?»" 
 
 The effect of this unexpected address, 
 delivered with quivering lips, and the pierc- 
 ing accents of deep and earnest feeling, was 
 irresistible. Not one of the congregation 
 left his place. The minister descended to 
 the table, and an affecting service ensued, 
 whose deep and touching solemnity I have 
 never seen surpassed. Many there were, 
 who, like myself, received impressions that 
 never passed away. And many, I doubt 
 not, will be found at the Supper of the 
 Lamb in heaven, who, but for that hour's 
 holy and overwhelming feeling, had never 
 sat at his table on earth. 
 
72 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It will not be thought surprising that by 
 the scene which I described in the last 
 chapter, Mr Carverdale was entirely ex- 
 hausted. While the excitement of the oc- 
 casion lasted, he looked and spoke with 
 almost the animation of youth. But, when 
 it was over, he sunk down weak, trembling, 
 and nearly fainting. The old cords had 
 been stretched more than they could bear, 
 and lost their tone for ever. When the 
 people had dispersed, he attempted to rise 
 from his seat and follow them, but was un- 
 able. Several of his friends advanced to 
 his assistance. " The light is almost burned 
 down," said he, in a voice scarcely audible ; 
 " might it only go out here at the altar, how 
 privileged I should be." Some one ex- 
 pressed ahope that it might be yet continued 
 for a season to the benefit of his church. 
 He shook his head. "No," said he ; " and 
 why should I wish it ? It is only a flicker- 
 ing, fitful flame. It may brighten a moment 
 to-day, but will be dim again to-morrow, 
 
73 
 
 and cheer no one. No ; my poor flock need 
 a vigorous flame, — a burning, and shining 
 light. I am wasted. And if it please my 
 God soon to remove me to a place among 
 the stars of the firmament, why should I 
 lament, or why should you ? For I have 
 that hope ; I thank God, I have that hope." 
 
 This he said with frequent interruptions, 
 showing that his spirit was stirring, though 
 his body was weak. He seemed unable to 
 say more, and was carried in the arms of his 
 friends to his house, and placed in bed. He 
 fell into a sort of sleep, which the physician 
 declared to be the prelude of death, and 
 which he said it would be useless and cruel 
 to disturb by attempting to prolong life. 
 " The machine," said he, " is worn out, and 
 will gradually come to a stop." 
 
 He remained in this state, apparently un- 
 conscious of what was passing around him, 
 until I was summoned to the afternoon ser- 
 vice. In the same state I found him on my 
 return. In the mean time, the report had 
 obtained currency among his parishioners, 
 that their minister was dying. With af- 
 fectionate concern they crowded around his 
 7 
 
74 
 
 dwelling, and manifested the strongest sense 
 of his worth, and liveliest gratitude for his 
 past services. . Never have I known eulogy 
 more eloquent than that which I read in 
 their tearful eyes, and whispering voices, 
 as they stood silently waiting, or anxiously 
 conversing, before the door, and beneath 
 the windows. Their sound was distinctly 
 heard in the chamber, as I stood with his 
 friends beside his bed. It at length seemed 
 to arouse him, and he opened his eyes. 
 " What is this ?" said he. 
 
 " The people have come from meeting," 
 it was replied, " and are anxious to know 
 how you do." 
 
 " They are kind souls," replied the old 
 minister ; and, turning his eyes around as if 
 looking for some one, he called me by name. 
 I bent over him, and he took my hand. 
 " Go to them, my young friend ; tell them 
 I thank them for all their fidelity and kind- 
 ness. Carry them my last farewell. Bid 
 them remember my last instructions ; and 
 God bless them." 
 
 I went to the door, and beckoning to the 
 several groups, collected them together, and 
 
75 
 
 spoke to them as I was desired. When I 
 returned to the chamber, the good old man 
 was taking leave of his friends, and to each 
 of them giving his blessing. He called for 
 me. He was exhausted, and could no more 
 speak audibly. His lips moved, and I 
 thought I would have given worlds to know 
 what they would utter. After a few mo- 
 ments' silence, he exerted himself again, 
 and we understood him to ask that there 
 might be prayers. I kneeled down, with 
 his hand still in mine, and commended his 
 spirit, in such words as I was able, to the 
 great Father of mercy. It was a solemn 
 moment. There was a silence and awe 
 like that of the tomb, interrupted only by 
 the laborious breathing of the dying man, 
 and the low voice of youthful supplication. 
 When I had ended, he pressed my hand, 
 but said nothing. We feared that he would 
 not speak again ; but it was permitted us 
 to hear his last words distinctly. For, when 
 something had been said respecting the 
 good man's support in death, he spoke out 
 audibly, " The testimony of conscience, 
 and the mercy of God." This was his last 
 
76 
 
 effort. We stood silently watching for his 
 departing breath, when, as the sun was go- 
 ing down, its beams forced their way 
 through an opening amid the branches of 
 the thick trees which grew before the win- 
 dows, and fell full upon his face. A smile 
 came over his countenance, and, before it 
 had entirely passed away, he ceased to 
 breathe. I remembered his conversation on 
 the preceding evening, and rejoiced at his 
 quiet departure. 
 
 When it was known that their pastor was 
 actually dead, all those of his parishioners 
 who had not retired to their homes, pressed 
 into the house to take a last look of one 
 whom they had loved and reverenced so 
 much. Not a word was spoken by any one 
 in the chamber of death. The silent gaze, 
 the tearful eye, and the cautious tread, 
 evinced the impression which was upon ev- 
 ery heart, and the feeling of awe with which 
 the sleep of the patriarch was contemplated. 
 
 My own feelings during these scenes it 
 is impossible for me to describe. But I 
 have always felt that I had reason to thank 
 God for appointing me to open my ministry 
 
77 
 
 in so singular and affecting a manner. The 
 serenity of aged piety, and the peace of a 
 christian death-bed, gave me impressions 
 which helped still more to prepare me for 
 my work. I am certain that for years this 
 day was present almost constantly to my 
 mind, and endowed me with courage, forti- 
 tude, and spirituality, which I might not 
 otherwise have attained. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 It was in less than a year after this, that I 
 found myself occupying the place of that 
 venerable old man, of whose last hours I had 
 been so unexpectedly the attendant. It may 
 readily be conceived,, that with no ordina- 
 ry feelings I took possession of the pulpit 
 where I had heard the expiring sounds of 
 his ministry, and seated myself in the room 
 where he had studied, and at the table upon 
 which he had leaned and written for half a 
 century. To my ardent view, every thing 
 about me was sacred. I fancied there was 
 inspiration in the very walls, and that I in- 
 7* 
 
78 
 
 haled a good spirit from the very air in 
 which the holy man had breathed. And 
 while I studied in his books, and dipped 
 my pen in his inkstand, — while I read from 
 his Bible in the family circle which he had 
 left, and in which I was a boarder, and 
 stood up to offer their daily devotions on 
 the spot which his prayers had consecrated, 
 I am sure that I felt a glow in my heart 
 which more important circumstances have 
 oftentimes been incapable of producing ; — 
 but which was nevertheless highly favoura- 
 ble toward forming a frame of thought and 
 feeling suited to my vocation. Indeed it 
 rarely happens to a young man to begin the 
 arduous work of the ministry under happi- 
 er auspices. The circumstances of my lot 
 and education had been so ordered, as 
 constantly to excite and keep fresh the re- 
 ligious sentiment. It had not been suffer- 
 ed to become, as in many, drowsy and dull ; 
 but had been stirred and animated by the 
 frequent remarkable scenes through which 
 I had passed. The manner of my introduc- 
 tion to my parish, was calculated to revive 
 and strengthen in no common degree, all 
 
79 
 
 the feelings I had ever experienced, and alt 
 the resolutions I had ever made, in relation 
 to the great duties of personal and pastoral 
 religion. I cannot recall to mind this pe- 
 riod, without an expression of devout grati- 
 tude to Him who appointed my lot, and in 
 whose strength I have toiled on to this day. 
 I have seen some of my brethren disheart- 
 ened and sinking beneath their load, the 
 victims of a sickly sensibility ; some miser- 
 able in their work, because their hearts 
 were not engaged in it ; and some losing 
 their reputation and usefulness through in- 
 dolence. But for myself, being always 
 possessed of bodily health, and heartily at- 
 tached to my duties, I never have found them 
 burdensome or fatiguing. And I may say 
 that I never have found them so to any, 
 except those who have wanted the spirit of 
 their office. How shall I cease then, to be 
 thankful for the early instruction of those 
 kind parents, and the severe infliction of 
 that youthful discipline, which formed in 
 me inclinations and desires which nothing 
 could have gratified, but the labours of the 
 sacred office ! They have been my pleasure ; 
 
80 
 
 and nothing else would have afforded me 
 pleasure. 
 
 I soon found, however, that there is much 
 to damp the ardour of enthusiastic expec- 
 tation, with which a young man, ignorant 
 of the world, enters upon his career. I can 
 hardly help sighing, now, when I call to mind 
 the early destruction of many fair visions, 
 which were cruelly dissipated by my further 
 acquaintance with mankind ; and the 
 severe and mortifying rebukes, by which my 
 open hearted inexperience learned prudence 
 and caution. It was a great shock to me 
 to discover, so soon as I did, the necessity 
 of distrusting appearances. This was one 
 of the first lessons which I learned by in- 
 tercourse with my parish, — perhaps one of 
 the most important I ever learned. Cer- 
 tainly none has influenced me more in my 
 whole life since ; none perhaps has made 
 me at times so unhappy. 
 
 Like other young persons, I trusted to 
 the good show which any one made, and 
 confided implicitly in all that any one might 
 say of himself. I delighted in the warm 
 expression of religious feeling, « and was 
 
81 
 
 ready to give up my heart to it, wherever I 
 might find it. I could not believe that 
 zealous profession could be made by any 
 who was insincere at heart. It was a great 
 blow to me to be undeceived. 
 
 There were few men in town more assi- 
 duous and kind in their attentions to me, 
 after my ordination, than Josiah Dunbar. 
 He recommended himself by his punctual 
 attendance at meeting, and by his fondness 
 to call upon me and converse on religious 
 subjects. He entered fully into the history 
 of his own experience, and drew from me 
 the relation of my own. His appearance 
 was austere, his manners simple and solemn, 
 his voice a little whining, and his eyes were 
 cast in humility upon the ground. His age 
 was about Mty ; and I thought that no young 
 man was ever so blest in the confidence and 
 advice of a devout parishioner. 
 
 I found however, that he was not popular 
 in the village ; and that the worldly, sober 
 part of the inhabitants, especially, spoke of 
 him rather slightingly. This grieved me ; 
 but I accounted for it by a remark which 
 he himself once, or rather often made, with 
 
82 
 
 a deep sigh and solemn shake of the head, 
 — " Ah, there is nothing that the world can 
 find lovely in the children of God. They 
 are always despised and trodden upon." — 
 My experience has since taught me that 
 this is far from being true. But at that 
 time I took it for an established fact, and 
 when I found any commendatory remark 
 which I made respecting Mr Dunbar, re- 
 ceived in silence or with a sneer, I imputed 
 it to the natural dislike of men to superior 
 goodness. 
 
 Ere long, however, I observed some 
 things in his conversation which I myself 
 disliked. He was too fond, I thought, of 
 complaining of the want of religion in others, 
 and of the great coolness of church members* 
 There was doubtless room for complaint in 
 many instances, but he was too frequent and 
 petulant, and spoke too sarcastically of 
 good moral lives. Now I could see no 
 harm in a good moral life, and once told 
 him, " that I did not think it so much against 
 a man, that he was a moral man ; that I 
 rather thought it the part of charity to be- 
 lieve that what we cannot see is as good as 
 
83 
 
 what we do see, and that what we do see 
 is, really, though not visibly, grounded on 
 right principle." He was dissatisfied with 
 this remark, and ever after affected to be 
 concerned lest I was resting too much on 
 works. He thought that I preached "works" 
 too much ; and he harassed me often with 
 minor questions about justification, and faith, 
 and righteousness. All this however was 
 done in the kindest way imaginable, and 
 with so earnest appearance of desiring my 
 good and that of the church, that, although 
 I thought he urged matters a little too much, 
 yet my respect for him and love to him 
 rather increased than diminished. No man 
 had made me so much his confidant, and 
 consequently no man was so much mine. 
 What he proved to be finally, I will tell in 
 the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was the universal custom of the people 
 in the strait days of my youth, to keep the 
 annual day of fasting literally, so far as to 
 
abstain from a dinner. Nothing was eaten 
 between breakfast and sun-down, except, 
 perchance, a light luncheon, in the interval 
 between the morning and evening services. 
 It was not uncommon, however, to com- 
 pensate for this extraordinary abstinence, 
 by a supper as extraordinary ; and the meat 
 and pudding which had been refused at 
 noon, were devoured with a keener appe- 
 tite in the evening. It was thought that 
 the whole duty was performed, if the body 
 were but mortified during day-light. 
 
 There were some in my parish who had 
 departed from this custom. Mr Dunbar 
 came to me in the week preceding fast, in 
 the spring following my ordination, lament- 
 ing the decay of ancient manners, and beg- 
 ging me to urge, in my next sermon, the im- 
 portance of a literal fast. He said much of 
 the aid which devout men had derived from 
 it in all ages, the profoundness it gave to 
 their contemplations, and how it aided their 
 prayers, and spiritual-mindedness ; he in- 
 sisted that self-mortification was necessary 
 to growth in grace, and that we were in 
 danger, from employing it too little, of be- 
 
85 
 
 coming entirely devoted to our animal and 
 sensual nature. 
 
 I replied, that I had no doubt of all this, 
 and that such had been, and would be, the 
 efficacy of fasting, when it was voluntary. 
 He that will, from religious motives, and 
 the desire of holy meditation, deny his ap- 
 petite, and spend his dining hour in devo- 
 tion, will, unquestionably, find it profitable. 
 But, if the fast be kept by compulsion, or 
 from no better motive at bottom, than be- 
 cause it is the custom, — then it will probably 
 be unprofitable, and will hinder, instead of 
 promoting the devotion of the day. Be- 
 sides,! added, temperance is abetter aid to 
 the powers of the mind than abstinence ; 
 and moreover, they who abstain at noon 
 are very likely to revel at night, and in that 
 case, whatever good may have been 
 wrought, is more than lost. Mr Dunbar 
 said he was aware that the day oftentimes 
 ended in festivity and indulgence ; but for 
 his part, he abhorred it ; in his own family, 
 the supper was always frugal and religious ; 
 and he wished that I would attack this cry- 
 ing sin as well as the other. 
 
86 
 
 u Or at least," said he, coming at last to 
 the point at which he had all along been 
 aiming, " if you do not think right to preach, 
 I wish you would speak a word of quiet ad- 
 vice to Mr Ellerton ; for his example goes 
 a great way ; and it is a sinful thing that 
 he should cook and eat on fast day just as 
 on any other day. He makes no difference 
 in the world. And what will become of 
 religion and the church, if such men are 
 to lead astray the simple people by their 
 example ? A good moral man, to be sure, 
 and the world speaks well of him. But no 
 man can say that he has ever experienced 
 religion, and I am sure, for one, that he is 
 an Arian at heart, if not a Deist. Indeed, 
 I think he ought to be brought before the 
 church, and not tolerated in quiet any long- 
 er. There is no knowing what mischief 
 his example may do ; and our fidelity to the 
 Head of the Church requires that we cut 
 him off." 
 
 Mr Dunbar had more than once before 
 spoken to the prejudice of Mr Ellerton, but 
 never so explicitly as now. I did not alto- 
 gether like the tone in which he continued 
 
37 
 
 to enlarge, and at last replied, that even if 
 I thought lukewarmness and suspected er- 
 rour proper subjects of church interference, 
 yet I was too much a stranger in the place, 
 to promote any such objects now. And as 
 for the matter of fasting, I could not inter- 
 fere at all ; for I intended myself to take 
 my usual meals. 
 
 He left me evidently disappointed. On 
 the day of the fast, there was observed in 
 him a studied appearance of rigour and 
 melancholy, and every external manifesta- 
 tion of suffering for sin, and absorption in 
 divine meditation. He was of a " sad coun- 
 tenance and disfigured his face." In the 
 evening — according, as it was ascertained, 
 to his usual custom — a sumptuous supper 
 was provided. He ate and drank to excess., 
 and died the next day in consequence of the 
 surfeit. 
 
 The shock my mind received on learning 
 these circumstances, may be easily conceiv- 
 ed ; much more so when the whole history 
 and character of the man were revealed. 
 He was discovered to have been altogeth- 
 er unprincipled in his transactions with men, 
 
88 
 
 artful, and fraudulent, and sensual ; so that, 
 in a word, for I cannot enlarge on so un- 
 pleasant a theme, his name became a by- 
 word in the village, and never was spoken 
 but with an accent of indignation. Yet so 
 great had been the cunning of the man, 
 that he had both escaped detection, and had 
 passed, for the most part, though not alto- 
 gether, without suspicion. There was but 
 one person who thoroughly knew him, and 
 that was Mr Ellerton. When I learned 
 this, I perceived at once the cause of his 
 ill will to that gentleman. 
 
 Mr Ellerton was one of the principal citi- 
 zens of the place, and in most respects the 
 very reverse of Mr Dunbar. He was, like 
 all other respectable men of that day, a 
 professor of religion. But no man could 
 be less anxious about its form. He appear- 
 ed with a dress and countenance and speech 
 like those of other gentlemen. He seldom 
 made religion the subject of conversation, 
 and was generally supposed not to be fond 
 of reading the scriptures, and not to have 
 devotions in his family. He was suspect- 
 ed also of not being quite sound in the 
 
faith. He was esteemed precisely what is 
 called a good moral man. Very few would 
 venture to call him a religious man, though 
 he was punctual at church, and friendly to 
 the ministry. But then he was proverbial 
 for his truth, integrity, and kindness, and 
 "every virtue under heaven." No man 
 could be more universally respected and 
 beloved. 
 
 I did not at this time know so much of 
 him, for my ear had been poisoned by Dun- 
 bar. I had been led to look upon him 
 coolly, and to avoid rather than seek his 
 company. I had, consequently, in the 
 seven months of my ministry, become hardly 
 in any degree acquainted with him. The 
 circumstances of Mr Dunbar's death led 
 me to suspect the correctness of my im- 
 pressions, and made me solicitous of great- 
 er intimacy with Mr Ellerton. 
 
 I soon discovered and admired the puri- 
 ty and firmness of his moral principle. But 
 I wished to go further, and ascertain the 
 state of his religious sentiments and affec- 
 tions. When we had become well acquaint- 
 ed, and were together by ourselves, I found 
 8* 
 
90 
 
 him ready and pleased to converse frankly, 
 I immediately found that he was indeed an 
 Arian ; and as I had always been taught, 
 without knowing why, to look with horror 
 on Arianism, as little better than infidelity, 
 and to take it for granted that there could 
 be no religion at heart without the worship 
 of the trinity ; I thought that I saw at once 
 how it happened that he wore no show of 
 religion,-for he certainly could possess none; 
 that is, none of its fervour, life, and spiritu- 
 ality ; nothing of it but its decent, every day 
 morality. 
 
 But a more intimate acquaintance taught 
 me, that he was no stranger to the holiest 
 and tenderest feelings of piety ; that he had 
 experienced deeply the inward power of 
 the gospel, and acknowledged it as a religion 
 of the affections. So that, in a word, it has 
 seldom fallen to my lot to know a soul of 
 more elevated, expanded, and heavenly- 
 minded religion, than dwelt within the frame 
 of that unobtrusive man : giving direction 
 and beauty to his whole life, but itself un- 
 seen and unheard in any separate or osten- 
 tatious display. 
 
91 
 
 The observation of these two characters 
 furnished me with much matter for reflection, 
 It made me ever after cautious, and distrust- 
 ful of appearances, to a degree that was even 
 painful. I learned to be jealous of lip reli- 
 gion, and cold toward those who were for- 
 ward in profession. Nay, I was beset with 
 an indefinable reserve/which sealed my lips, 
 and checked the current of my feelings^ 
 whenever the subject of religion was touched 
 by strangers, destroying much of the comfort 
 and satisfaction I had hitherto enjoyed in re- 
 ligious conversation. How much have I suf- 
 fered from this cause ! while nothing that I 
 have gained has been able to compen- 
 sate for the quietness and peace of the 
 unsuspecting temper which I have lost. I 
 think, however, that I have gained some- 
 thing by teaching myself and others to lay 
 the stress upon the solid excellence of a good 
 life. The longer I have lived, the more 
 have I been persuaded that this is the great 
 end of human endeavour^ and the great 
 touch-stone by which we are to judge one 
 another, The heart zee cannot see ; it must 
 he left to the judgment of God* But where- 
 
92 
 
 ever the life is uniformly and consistently 
 good, I have learned to consider it as the 
 part of charity to suppose that the heart al- 
 so is right. I have been unable to join in 
 the outcry against moral lives, as if they 
 were, of course, signs of a worldly heart. I 
 have thought it mischievous : I may say I 
 have found it mischievous. Religion is 
 helped by maintaining the dignity and im- 
 portance of good works ; yea, even though 
 they stand by themselves. But it is injured 
 if they be sneered at and defamed, because, 
 however you may explain and qualify, many 
 will understand you to say, that if there be 
 faith and zeal, a good life is at best of only 
 secondary importance. They will therefore 
 make only secondary attempts to attain it. 
 How many souls have been ruined in hy- 
 pocrisy and spiritual pride, through this 
 mistake ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Mr Ellerton, of whom I spoke in the last 
 chapter, was another added to the number of 
 
93 
 
 the "excellent of the earth," whom it had been 
 my privilege to know. Some of the peculiar- 
 ities of his religious faith, and those in pretty 
 important particulars, were widely different, 
 I had reason to think, from those of any 
 other good man I had met with. He did 
 not believe in a tri-personal Deity ; and 
 this was a sort of unbelief, which I, like ten 
 thousand others, looked upon with a vague 
 sort of horror, I knew not whence nor why. 
 For a long time, therefore, I could not be- 
 lieve that he was really so good a christian 
 as he seemed to be ; and when it was im- 
 possible to doubt this, my next conclusion 
 very naturally was, that Trinitarianism, 
 though the truth, yet could not be essential 
 to the christian, for here was a christian 
 without it. This discovery did a great deal 
 to set me a thinking and to enlarge my 
 views. But its best and happiest conse- 
 quence was, to confirm me in my persuasion, 
 that the great practical and vital principles 
 of our religion are common to all believers. 
 From this persuasion I have never varied. 
 Experience has every year confirmed it ; 
 and it is still one of the most comforting 
 
94 
 
 convictions of my heart. I look forward 
 with the most delightful anticipations to the 
 day, when I shall join in one commu- 
 nion the souls of those many good men, 
 whom I have honoured and loved here, but 
 from whose fellowship I have been shut out, 
 by the miserable bars whicj^Htudice and 
 pride have put up amid tne*Jrturehes on 
 earth. 
 
 But another important consequence was, 
 that, not finding Arianism the monstrous 
 thing I had imagined it, but, on the contrary, 
 consistent with every christian grace, I was 
 led to look upon it with complacency. I felt 
 ashamed of the prejudice I had suffered 
 myself to entertain. I felt mortified and 
 humbled that I should have permitted my- 
 self to gather from the wholesale censures 
 of books, and the sweeping sneers of con- 
 versation, an inimical impression against 
 the holders of an opinion of which I knew 
 nothing. This was the precise fact. I did 
 know nothing, absolutely nothing, about 
 them. I had examined other opinions, but 
 not this. To this I had never turned my 
 attention ; had never asked a question about 
 
95 
 
 it, but had gone on in the way my father 
 taught me, taking it for granted that I was 
 right, and not so much as troubled with a sug- 
 gestion that it was possible I might be wrong. 
 I recollect perfectly well the first time the 
 thought occurred to me. It was when I had 
 become well acquainted with Mr Ellerton's 
 character, and had been striving in vain to re- 
 concile it with his anti-christian creed. The 
 question seemed to be asked me, how do 
 you know it is anti-christian ? I felt at once 
 that I did not know, for I never had inquired. 
 I cannot describe the sensation which pass- 
 ed over me, as this thought flashed through 
 my mind. A cold thrill went through my 
 frame, a tumult of thoughts crowded and 
 agitated my mind. I soon felt that it was 
 my duty to inquire, and know that whereof 
 I would affirm ; and in great anxiety of mind, 
 and earnest supplication for heavenly guid- 
 ance, I at once entered upon the investi- 
 gation. 
 
 The first discovery I made, was one, 
 which has been made by multitudes besides, 
 but which filled me with inexpressible sur- 
 prise. It was, that I was not, and never 
 
96 
 
 had been a trinitarian. When I came to 
 see the definitions and explanations of the 
 doctrine, and compared them with the state 
 of my own mind, I found that T had used 
 its language, but had never adopted its 
 meaning. I had fallen into its use, just as I 
 had fallen into the common lanoracfe of men 
 about the rising and setting of the sun — not 
 because 1 believed what the words literally 
 imply, but because it was the phraseology 
 in common use where I lived. Trinitarian 
 doxologies I had employed, — because I had 
 always heard them from childhood ; but I 
 found that I had never affixed to them trini- 
 tarian notions. I found that I never had 
 worshipped any being, but the Father of 
 Jesus Christ, and that all my religious feel- 
 ings were grounded on the supposition of 
 his single divinity. 
 
 So then, I thought to myself, I have been 
 guilty of contemning and denouncing a sen- 
 timent, which all the time I ignorantly held ; 
 and of thoughtlessly using language which 
 implied a faith different from my actual 
 opinion. This discovery humbled me to 
 the dust. I could scarcely bear the burden 
 
97 
 
 of shame and reproach which my con- 
 science heaped upon me. I have since found 
 that this thoughtlessness is by no means 
 uncommon. Inexcusable as it is, yet many 
 have I known in precisely the same situa- 
 tion with myself. Indeed I have reason to 
 believe that the large majority of those ed- 
 ucated in the orthodox faith, are no more 
 truly orthodox than I was, though they im- 
 agine themselves to be so ; and I have ac- 
 cordingly found that when they allow them- 
 selves to look fairly into the matter, they 
 discover themselves to have been unitarians 
 all their lives without knowing it. 
 
 Had I been acquainted with this fact at 
 the time of which I speak, it would have 
 saved me much unhappiness. As it was, I 
 had a long and painful labour to go through, 
 in ascertaining whether my language or my 
 opinions were the truth of revelation on this 
 subject. The one or the other must neces- 
 sarily be rejected as wrong. For two years 
 I pursued the inquiry with all the anxiety 
 and impartiality of a conscientious mind. 
 It would take too much room to detail the 
 progress of my experience at this time. 
 9 
 
98 
 
 Suffice it to say, that I obtained complete 
 satisfaction at last, and have been ever since 
 happy in the simplicity and consistency of 
 my Unitarian belief. I have known many 
 pass through the same process, with an 
 equally happy result ; and many, I may add, 
 with a result still more happy, because their 
 minds were relieved by it from the distres- 
 sing burden of other ungenerous doctrines, 
 which had preyed upon their spirits and 
 disquieted their lives, but from whose bond- 
 age I had been redeemed some time earli- 
 er. I cannot but remark here, how much 
 is effected by the light of a good conversa- 
 tion. I was set on thinking and won to 
 the knowledge of the truth, by observing 
 one man's christian deportment. It would 
 be well if christians were generally aware 
 that they can produce no so powerful argu- 
 ment in their favour, as a holy life. Thou- 
 sands will understand it and be convinced 
 by it, whom no reasoning, though it were 
 demonstrative, would at all affect. "Let 
 your light so shine before men, that they 
 may see your good works, and glorify your 
 Father who is in heaven." 
 
99 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 It was in the summer of , that Mr 
 
 Garstone took up his residence in our vil- 
 lage. It occasioned no little surprise and 
 speculation in that retired place, to find a 
 stranger of education and property, select- 
 ing it for his abode. He built a commodi- 
 ous but small house upon a little hillock by 
 the side of a beautiful pond, which lay 
 about a mile from the meeting-house. I 
 never had seen him, but as soon as he had 
 taken possession of his place, I felt it my 
 duty to call and bid him welcome. 
 
 The room into which I entered, impres- 
 sed me at once with respect for the owner 
 of the mansion, and as I cast my eyes round 
 on its neat and elegant comforts, I thought 
 I saw indications of taste and refinement 
 beyond any thing to which 1 had been ac- 
 customed. A piano forte, a rarer luxury 
 then than now, stood open on one side, and 
 opposite to it a book case, well and hand- 
 somely filled. I could give but a hasty look 
 when Mr Garstone entered. He was ap- 
 
100 
 
 parently about fifty years of age, thin and 
 pale, with a settled melancholy upon his 
 countenance, which sometimes approxima- 
 ted to sternness ; and a manner reserved 
 and cold. His appearance rather repres- 
 sed the warmth with which I was disposed 
 to greet him ; and after several ineffectual 
 attempts to throw off the restraint his man- 
 ner imposed, I left him, disappointed and 
 sad. 
 
 I looked in vain for his entrance to the 
 meeting house on Sunday, though his two 
 daughters were there. They were dressed in 
 deep mourning ; and this I thought account- 
 ed for their father's manners, though he had 
 made no allusion to any affliction. I soon 
 visited him again, and gradually we became 
 a little acquainted. His wife, I found, had 
 died about ten months previous ; he had 
 lost his only son just before, and had now 
 bid farewell to the world, intending to 
 spend the remainder of life with his daugh- 
 ters in retirement. He attended to their 
 education, he studied and read, and amus- 
 ed himself with the cultivation of his lands. 
 He had an extensive acquaintance with 
 
101 
 
 books and subjects, and oftentimes would 
 delight me with his animated and intelligent 
 conversation. I derived much instruction 
 from his society, and he seemed to take 
 pleasure in mine. But all attempts to in- 
 troduce religious conversation he uniformly 
 set aside ; and never attended public wor- 
 ship. This made me uneasy ; and I longed 
 to know why it was, that a man who was 
 evidently unhappy, was yet willing to be a 
 voluntary stranger to the consolations of 
 religion. 
 
 It was not so with his daughters. They 
 were uninstructed in religion, but they took 
 an interest in it. Indeed, as far as they had 
 been taught, they felt its great truths deeply, 
 and exercised a profound piety. They were 
 glad to converse, when it happened — which 
 was very seldom — that their father was not 
 present ; and 1 often thought that their 
 countenances expressed sorrow, that the 
 subject must be dropped on his entrance. 
 I one day expressed my surprise to them, 
 that their father should habitually absent 
 himself from public worship. They replied 
 that it had been so ever since their memory; 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 and that they believed he did it from prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 " Has he no sense of its importance and 
 value," said I ; " does he feel nothing, think 
 ?, of the great truths of religion ?" 
 
 " Alas," replied the eldest, whose name 
 was Charlotte, " I fear he thinks but too 
 much, arid feels too much. I have reason to 
 suppose, although he never speaks of it, that 
 it is this which lies at the bottom of his 
 unhappiness, and that if this burden could 
 be removed, he would be a cheerful and hap- 
 py man." 
 
 I looked at her for explanation. " Unre- 
 flecting men," said she, " may be happy 
 without religious faith ; for their habitual 
 thoughtlessness excludes the subject from 
 their minds. But a man who is in habits 
 of reflection, and who cannot keep from his 
 mind the thoughts of the Author of his be- 
 ing, and the great concerns of futurity, must 
 be often wretched without a settled faith." 
 
 " It is true, then," said I, " what I have 
 suspected, that your father is not a believ- 
 er in the Christian religion ?" 
 
 " It is," she replied ; " and to you who 
 
103 
 
 know him, this will account for all his ap- 
 pearance and habits. For how can such a 
 man, who longs and pants for the refuge of 
 its truths, be happy without them ? He 
 may have every thing else ; but the want of 
 these will leave an aching void, which 
 nothing else can fill. O what a blessed 
 day it would be to us all, which should 
 make him a believer ! He has every thing 
 else to render himself and us happy ; but for 
 want of this, there is a bitter taste to every 
 enjoyment, and discontent in every scene." 
 
 " Is he not aware of the cause of his dis- 
 satisfaction ?" I asked. 
 
 " He is," replied Charlotte, " and yet he 
 is not. That is to say, he acknowledges 
 the power of the Christian faith in others, 
 and I believe is truly happy that we possess 
 it. But he will not allow that it would do 
 any thing for himself. He insists that in 
 his literary and philosophical pursuits, he 
 has all the satisfaction that the human mind 
 can attain, and that nothing could add to 
 his happiness. But it is very seldom he 
 speaks on the subject. Indeed he is so strong- 
 ly prejudiced that we avoid any allusion to 
 
104 
 
 it altogether. For I think he is the more 
 violently positive from the very feeling he 
 has, that there is an essential thing wanting. 
 He tries in this way to stifle his feelings, and 
 to convince himself that he wants nothing." 
 
 " I have seen something like this," said 
 I, " in other cases ; but I should not sus- 
 pect it in your father. How is it that he 
 is thus prejudiced ?" 
 
 " It is partly," she answered, " his mis- 
 fortune, and partly his fault : His misfor- 
 tune, because in early life he was thrown 
 into the midst of fanaticism and bigotry, 
 which disgusted him, and rendered the 
 whole system incredible to him : His fault, 
 because he suffered prejudice to sway him, 
 and did not deliberately institute an in- 
 quiry which should separate the false from 
 the true, and show him that the system it- 
 self may be true and excellent, notwith- 
 standing the follies of its friends." 
 
 " Can you state to me at length," said I, 
 " the circumstances under which these in- 
 delible impressions were made ?" 
 
 Before Charlotte could more than com- 
 mence a reply to this question, Mr Garstone 
 
105 
 
 came in, and conversation took a different 
 turn. I returned home, deeply interested 
 in what I had heard, and anxious to hear 
 more. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 What I had now heard interested me too 
 much to suffer me to rest until I had learned 
 more. The history of Mr Garstone I found 
 to be this : — He was the son of parents, 
 whose religion partook of the character of 
 austerity and superstition. He was educated 
 in the most rigid restraint, and imbued dili- 
 gently with the dogmas of the Assembly's 
 Catechism. When he had grown to years 
 of understanding, being of a strong mind 
 and peculiarly susceptible feelings, his re- 
 flections on the subject of religion became 
 earnest in the extreme, and occupied him 
 day and night. A fear of God, rather 
 dreadful than pleasant, as he expressed it, 
 had always oppressed him, and it now made 
 him miserable. The doctrines which he 
 had learned in childhood, he now began to 
 
106 
 
 understand and reason upon, and apply to 
 himself. He saw that if they were true, he 
 was condemned by his birth to an eternal 
 curse, whch only the re-creating grace of 
 God could remove. And this grace was 
 appointed to visit only a chosen few. Was 
 he one of these chosen ? Should he ever 
 taste this grace ? Or was he to be abandoned 
 by the discriminating spirit of God to his 
 horrible destiny ? 
 
 Beneath the agony of heart which this 
 personal application of his creed produced, 
 he struggled long and wretchedly. His 
 misery, he told me, was indescribable. His 
 life for months was a burden of terror and 
 fear. Every thing lost its relish in the des- 
 perate attempt to gain satisfaction and hope 
 from what appeared to him the sentence of 
 despair — a sentence, which he was some- 
 times tempted to pronounce inconsistent 
 with every attribute of justice and goodness. 
 But this temptation he was taught to reject 
 as blasphemous, and a foul instigation of 
 the devil. He strove to smother every feel- 
 ing of this nature, and in spite of the clear 
 demonstration, which the more he reflected 
 
107 
 
 the more strongly was forced upon him, he 
 compelled himself to believe, that all this 
 might be so, and God still be just. In this 
 tumult of contradictions, in this struggle of 
 his mind to be reconciled to what he felt to 
 be dreadful, and tried in vain to see to be 
 right, two years of misery past away, and 
 health and cheerfulness passed away with 
 them. Reading, reflection, tears, prayers, 
 were all in vain. The counsel of friends 
 was also vain ; for his state of mind was 
 a cause of congratulation to them, being, as 
 they supposed, the struggle of the natural 
 man in the throes of the new birth, from 
 which he would come forth regenerate and 
 rejoicing. They rather increased than al- 
 layed his perplexity. They rebuked his 
 attempts to reason on the subject, and told 
 him it was vain to hope for satisfaction, ex- 
 cept only in that prostrate faith, which God 
 would give if he pleased, and when he 
 pleased. They bade him therefore wait, 
 and not be guilty of the blasphemy of trying 
 God's ways by the rules of human reason. 
 He did wait, but to no purpose. He 
 humbled himself, and strove to quell what 
 
108 
 
 was called his pride, and to believe the con- 
 sistency of what appeared to him contradic- 
 tory, and made it the burden of his prayer, 
 that he might only find peace, and he would 
 willingly sacrifice every other thing. It was 
 all in vain. No peace came. But, not to 
 prolong the story, the powers of his mind at 
 last triumphed. He found it impossible, 
 after every effort, to attribute to the 
 government of God, what he had been 
 taught to attribute to it. He gradually came 
 to the determination that such a system 
 could not be true, and he rejected it as con- 
 tradicting almost every high and holy truth, 
 which nature and common sense teach of 
 the great Creator. 
 
 I could not help being deeply interested 
 in this history. Unhappy man, thought I, 
 thus driven away from the light and com- 
 forts of God's word ! How different might 
 have been the result, if he had been blessed 
 with early opportunities like mine ! He 
 would have found help in his difficulties, as 
 I did ; he would have learned, that the gos- 
 pel of God's love is not implicated with 
 any of those dogmas, " at which reason 
 
109 
 
 stands aghast and faith herself is half con- 
 founded ; n and he might have received it 
 in its native beauty and uncorrupted lustre, 
 
 " Majestic in its own simplicity," 
 
 the ornament, support, guide, and joy of 
 his soul, conducting him tr anquilly through 
 life, to an everlasting hope. But of all this 
 he had been deprived. He had come to reject 
 the gospel, from never knowing truly its real 
 character. He had thrown away its peace, 
 from having a counterfeit offered in its stead. 
 But though he had rid himself of this 
 cause of trouble he was far from tranquility. 
 His religious propensities were strong, and 
 his education had been such as to associate 
 ideas of the highest importance with the 
 subject. His reverence for God was deep 
 and habitual, his b elief in a future state 
 fixed, and his conviction that God had re- 
 vealed himself to the world was too deep 
 rooted to be easily removed. There was 
 a great deal, too, sublime and beautiful and 
 delightful in the history, character, and 
 teaching of Jesus, which he could not re- 
 concile with his imposture, any more than 
 he could reconcile the doctrines he had 
 10 
 
110 
 
 been taught with his truth. Here, then, 
 was another distressing embarrassment. 
 At length he strove to escape from it by 
 avoiding the subject altogether. He put 
 away his Bible, he neglected public worship, 
 he involved himself in other studies and 
 active pursuits, and tried to forget all he 
 had ever known or thought about revealed 
 religion. 
 
 But he could not succeed. It came to 
 his thoughts in spite of him, and never suf- 
 fered him to be at rest. His mind often 
 misgave him; he became anxious, melancholy, 
 fitful, unsettled ; an unbeliever, yet longing 
 to believe ; striving to think himself wiser 
 and happier than others, yet secretly hoping 
 he should one day be like them ; with a 
 fixed abhorrence of what had been urged 
 on him as the peculiar doctrines' of the gos- 
 pel, yet conscious that human wisdom could 
 have no light, and human weakness no hope, 
 except from the declared mercy of heaven. 
 
 Such was Mr Garstone when I knew him ; 
 and I may truly say, that I never have seen 
 the man more deserving of compassion ; 
 nor can I imagine a more sad picture of the 
 
Ill 
 
 deplorable effects of unbelief. I bent my 
 knee in devout gratitude for the felicity I 
 enjoyed in the glorious faith and hope of 
 Christ, and breathed an earnest prayer that 
 I might be enabled to heal the errors and 
 comfort the spirit of this unhappy and mis- 
 taken man. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 My first object was to gain the confidence 
 of Mr Garstone ; for it was above all im- 
 portant, that he should not be prejudiced 
 against the person who would endeavour to 
 remove his prejudice against the Christian 
 revelation. In this attempt I had reason to 
 think that I did not fail ; and having secured 
 his friendship, I laid in wait for opportunity 
 to use it. 
 
 I was not long in finding one. It was 
 after the death of Mr Ellerton, his friend 
 and my friend. I spoke of his character, 
 and of the loss we sustained in his removal, 
 with the feelings of a friend, and of his 
 prospect in a better world, with the hope 
 
112 
 
 of a christian. I dwelt at some length on 
 the assurance of our immortality, derived 
 from the instructions and resurrection of 
 Christ, and, with all the emphasis I could 
 command, pictured the blessedness of a 
 believer's hope. I could perceive that Mr 
 Garstone was moved. I had touched a string 
 which vibrated powerfully, to every word I 
 uttered. 
 
 " These are delightful thoughts," he said, 
 
 after a pause ; " but " He hesitated 
 
 and stopped. 
 
 I took the word from his mouth. " But 
 there is no assurance of this truth, except 
 from the voice of revelation. All is doubt 
 except from the instructions of Jesus Christ. 
 His resurrection makes all clear." 
 
 " Mr Anderson," said my friend, " my 
 respect for you and for the opinions of those 
 with whom I live, has always prevented me 
 from obtruding my own sentiments on sub- 
 jects of this nature. You cannot, however, 
 be ignorant of my mind, and it were better, 
 perhaps, that we should be silent where we 
 cannot agree." 
 
 I felt that this was the decisive moment; 
 
113 
 
 and with a violent effort said the first thing 
 that occurred to me, lest I should be unable 
 to say any thing. " I know," said I, " that 
 you have doubts as to the christian revela- 
 tion ; but I hope they do not extend to the 
 immortality of the soul. And I see not 
 why we should not converse on the subject. 
 I do long to know on what your doubts are 
 grounded." 
 
 " I do believe in the immortality of the 
 soul," he replied ; " and for this very reason 
 I cannot believe in the christian religion. 
 For how can I suppose that immortal beings 
 are formed by their Creator in a bondage 
 so degrading and so hopeless, as your 
 system teaches — from which only a small 
 proportion of them can ever be rescued, 
 and they only by the sufferings and death 
 of the Creator himself in human form ? How 
 can I imagine him to be divinely commis- 
 sioned, who proclaims to me such horrors 
 — and yet calls them glad tidings and a 
 message of peace, though only calculated 
 to harass and torment the soul, as they once 
 did mine ? It is true he teaches the doc- 
 trine of a future life ; but how can I believe 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 that life suspended on so unequal condi- 
 tions ?" 
 
 He spoke with a deep and convulsive 
 emphasis, that showed how strongly he felt. 
 I asked him if he saw no evidence in fav- 
 our of Christ's pretensions ? 
 
 He answered, that all the evidence in the 
 world would not be sufficient to prove what 
 all nature and reason contradict. " Who 
 has tried to believe more than I ?" he con- 
 tinued. " Who has more earnestly longed 
 to believe ? and who has been more wretch- 
 ed for want of believing ? Yet I might as 
 as well have tried to persuade myself that 
 I could walk upon a sun-beam. But it is 
 all past; let us say no more about it. It is 
 a subject on which I have not talked nor 
 read for years. I cannot bear it." 
 
 But now that the ice was broken and the 
 first feeling over, I found him ready and 
 disposed to converse, for he saw that he 
 might entirely trust himself with me. I 
 soon drew from him the acknowledgment, 
 that there was much evidence in favour of 
 the christian system, too strong to be satis- 
 factorily set aside ; that the character of 
 
115 
 
 Jesus was inconsistent with imposture, "and 
 not less so," he added, " with the doctrines 
 he taught ;" and that a revelation was in 
 itself neither an incredible nor an undesir- 
 able thing. 
 
 " Then it appears," I remarked, " that 
 what decides you against it is the character 
 of the religion itself?" 
 
 " Yes, together with its consequences — 
 the divisions and miseries of its followers." 
 
 " How long since you made up your 
 mind in this way ?" I inquired. 
 
 " More than twenty years," was the an- 
 swer. 
 
 " And during this period you have not 
 pursued the investigation at all ?" 
 
 No — he had avoided the subject as much 
 as possible — had read no books — held no 
 conversation — not once opened the Bible, 
 
 I asked him, if he thought it safe to put 
 this confidence in the decision of his youth- 
 ful judgment, and to retain this obstinate 
 prejudice on so momentous a subject. I 
 reminded him that Christians differ in un- 
 derstanding their religion ; and how could 
 he tell that another interpretation of it 
 would not solve all his difficulties ? 
 
116 
 
 He said, that in his view this very circum- 
 stance destroyed all its claims to the cer- 
 tainty of a divine origin ; for if God should 
 teach men, he would do it clearly, and leave 
 no room to doubt his meaning. 
 
 I gave the obvious and satisfactory solu- 
 tion of this difficulty, drawn from the mor- 
 al nature and probationary state of man; 
 and then went on with the topic I had com- 
 menced. I endeavoured to show him, that 
 the objections he felt to the christian system 
 were, in fact, objections only to a certain 
 mode of interpreting that system ; and that 
 therefore he had no right to reject it, unless 
 he had satisfied himself from faithful in- 
 quiry, that this was the only true interpreta- 
 tion. " For myself," said I, u I freely de- 
 clare that I think it a very erroneous inter- 
 pretation. I have hardly less dislike to it, 
 than you have yourself. I think it an incredi- 
 ble system. But I still receive the instruc- 
 tions of Jesus with the greatest delight and 
 comfort. You have shut yourself out from 
 these, by taking the representations of your 
 catechism for a true picture of the Bible, 
 and never doing yourself the justice to as- 
 
117 
 
 certain whether they were so or not." I 
 went on to expostulate on the unreasona- 
 bleness of this conduct ; I illustrated at 
 large my own views of the christian faith ; 
 I explained to him their consistency with 
 the noblest reason and the best affections, 
 with all we delight to think concerning God, 
 and all we ought to do as moral agents ; 
 and I entreated him by all that is dear and 
 sacred, to open his mind once more to in- 
 quiry, to read the scriptures again, and try 
 to welcome Jesus as the way, the truth and 
 the life. 
 
 I was very earnest, and I did not speak 
 in vain. Mr Garstone once more opened 
 the book, which he had thrown by so long, 
 and read it with the sober judgment of ma- 
 ture life ; not interpreting it, as before, by 
 the standard of Westminster, but by the light 
 of a careful and sound comparison of itself 
 with itself. Long and zealously he studied. 
 Other matters were neglected, other studies 
 put aside. Light on this great question he 
 longed for, and he sought after it far and near. 
 He did not pause till his mind settled in a 
 firm conviction of the truth ; and with de- 
 
118 
 
 vout and happy faith he could exclaim, / 
 believe that thou art the Christ, the Son 
 of the living God. And he was able after- 
 ward, to add, Though I die with thee, yet 
 will I not deny thee. 
 
 From this time he was an altered man. 
 The change cannot be described, but it 
 was evident in every habit of his life and 
 every feature of his face. His mind was 
 at peace. He was happy. Often has he 
 described to me the relief which he'felt, as if 
 a heavy burden were removed from his soul ; 
 and instead of leaving the world a distress- 
 ed and obstinate unbeliever, he died tran- 
 quilly, triumphant in faith, rejoicing in hope. 
 
 I have met with other instances not un- 
 like this ; and I find it refreshing to my 
 soul, as the shadows of death approach, to 
 reflect that the faith which supports me, 
 I have known to vanquish confirmed infi- 
 delity, and bring home to the Saviour those 
 who had been wanderers from his peace. 
 So let it support me in that hour ! 
 
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