A young man left his father's house in the country at the age of fifteen. He had a pious mother, and had been the subject of early religious instructions and impressions. After he began to reside in the city, according to his parents' directions he attended the faithful preaching of the gospel, and was of hopeful habits. He, however, kept himself aloof from the more personal and special means of religion, yet still believing it to be important, and designing to attend to it at a future time. He formed an acquaintance with associates less favourable to religion, with whom his feelings gradually learned to sympathize. He went on in this way some four or five years without much obvious change; though he was of course resisting convictions, hardening his heart, and laying the foundation of his moral ruin.. He often received letters from his mother, reminding him of his duty, and urging him to it, over some of which he was constrained to drop a tear and make good resolutions. to think and judge for himself without her assistance; that she was a kind and good mother, but did not know so much about the customs of the city, and what was most becoming a young man in his situation, as he did himself. About this time he fell in with some infidel writings. He at first hesitated whether to read them; but as he had attended the infidel meetings once or twice without experiencing any harm, he thought there could be no danger in just seeing what they had to say, especially as it was his principle to examine all sides. He first read; then doubted; then began to be wiser than all his teachers; and, at length, slid quite over into the yawning gulf. His seat in the church, at first only occasionally deserted, was at length entirely forsaken. He was now prepared for more desperate steps. For certain irregularities and vices, he lost his place of employment; and all know how difficult it is for a young man to obtain a second place, when he has lost the first by improper conduct. He at length succeeded in finding employment, but it was not such as he had lost. It was a much humbler and more menial condition to which he found himself reduced. His ambition was broken down; he was mortified and discouraged. This subjected him still more to the power of the baser motives. To these he continued to yield more and more; losing, of course, what remained of self-respect, and falling under those severe lashes of self-reproach, which, if they do not bring to repentance, drive to more desperate lengths in and rapid consumption. sin. I will not detail the sad particulars respecting his subsequent course for four or five years. After several fruitless attempts to retrieve He has a wasting cough, with night sweatsseems to be very much dejectedsays but little—and is at times apparently in very great distress of mind." his circumstances, he changed his I of course took an early opportuplace of residence, hoping to do bet-nity to visit him, and found his conter. Bat his character and habits went with him. For five years he did not write a single letter to his parents, and, according to his statement, they did not even know where he was; although they were most of the time only about a hundred and fifty miles distant. But he had determined that neither they, nor any of his former acquaintances, should know where he was, or what he was doing. He attempted to play upon the stage, but could not succeed. He then gambled, but usually lost, when he had anything to lose. How he obtained the means of subsistence during these years of profligacy, they can only tell who are acquainted with that manner of life. He wandered from place to place, prodigal, reckless, forlorn, rapidly wasting his health, till he at length came to the condition in which I first saw him. One day an individual came to me and said, "There is a young man at my house, whom I am desirous to have you visit. We took him in some three or four weeks since, out of charity, for he is destitute, homeless, and sick, although he is a young man of respectable manners, and appears to have seen better days. But we cannot get much out of him; he does not incline to talk. The physician thinks that he is in a fixed dition even worse than had been represented. A wan, ghastly countenance, a sunken eye, a hollow voice, an expression of intolerable anxiety upon his countenance-everything indicating extreme wretchedness and an opening grave. He was at first disinclined to converse; he seemed to be shut up within himself, and no efforts could draw him out. I addressed a few words to him, such as I thought best calculated to lead his thoughts to the Saviour, and, with his permission, offered a short prayer. who were Soon after I renewed the visit. He was lying in bed, and had just recovered from a severe paroxysm of coughing. After a few moments he beckoned me to him, and, with a low voice, said he should like to see me alone a few moments. The nurse and lady of the house, present, left the room. were alone, he fixed his eye upon me in silence for a moment. There seemed to be a conflict in his mind whether to speak or refrain. At length his struggling spirit burst its enclosure, and he began to tell something of his history. When we He was now in his twenty-sixth year. For nearly five years he had been, as he supposed, a confirmed infidel. He had become an alien from his parents-they did not even know where he was, nor was he willing they should. He felt that he had ruined himself. He saw clearly where the work of ruin commenced; it was in his resisting his early convictions of truth and duty. His father was not a pious man; but his mother was pious, and he had no doubt she had wept rivers of tears over him." After a gush of emotion, which for a moment suspended his utterance, he proceeded. "It was not infidelity that ruined him; the procuring cause of his ruin lay farther back. He was virtually ruined before he became an avowed infidel. It was his resisting the admonitions of God that made him an infidel; but his infidelity had served to precipitate him into more open and desperate iniquities. Since he had embraced infidelity, he had committed vices at which his earlier youth would have shuddered-fraud, gambling, drunkenness, seduction; he had led others into the same vices. are "But these," continued he, only the warts and excrescences of my ruined character; the ruin itself lies deep in the soul, and the misery Iwith which it is overtaken here is only premonitory of the everlasting misery which awaits it beyond the grave. For several years I have tried to disbelieve the Bible. I have succeeded. I have been a confirmed infidel. More than that-I have been an atheist. I used to hear it said that no man can be a real atheist; but I know to the contrary. I have been an atheist. I have perfectly and fatally succeeded in becoming given over to a strong delusion to believe a lie that I might be damned, because I obeyed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness. But I am no longer an atheist. I am convinced that there is a God. I feel-I know that I am an accountable being, and that a righteous judgment awaits me in eternity." After a moment's rest, his countenance gathering more intensity of expression, he added, with increased energy, "But the most terrible thing to reflect upon is, that I have not only ruined myself, but have been the cause of leading others to ruin. Oh, I am sure that the everlasting execration of ruined souls must follow me into eternity! Oh, that I had never been born, or had sunk in death upon my mother's arms!" 66 I here endeavoured to cast oil upon the rising waves of emotion, to calm his tempestuous spirit, by reminding him of the great mercy and forgiveness there is in God, &c. No," replied he, "not for me-I cannot be forgiven, and I cannot repent. My day of grace is all over. But I feel greatly relieved since I have told you my story. I am glad you came, sir. Wretched as I am, this is the best moment I have seen for a long time. I have hitherto kept all this to myself; it has been as a fire shut up in my breast. I have not known one hour of peace since I left the paths of virtue; and for two or three years I have been perfectly wretched. I have often been upon the point of committing suicide." After a few words intended to direct his mind to the source of hope, I left him, promising to see him again the next morning, if he should I survive till then. He did survive; | over, he that confesseth and forthe morning came, but it was no saketh his sins shall find mercy.'" morning to him. The sweet rays of "No, no; I cannot approach Godthe rising sun shot no kindling gleam of hope into his dark and troubled | soul. I had hoped, I had almost expected to find it otherwise. "How do you do, my friend, this morning?" "As miserable as sin and wrath can make me!" This he said with an emphasis which surprised and startled me. “And did you obtain no rest last night?" "Not a moment's rest; my soul has been in perfect misery." "But you are excited; your body is diseased, and your mind is weak and morbid. You ought to endeavour to compose yourself to rest, become calm, and look to that source of forgiveness and mercy which is still open to you, if you will repent and believe.” "No, no; it is impossible-I cannot compose myself—I cannot be calm. My body is well enough, but my soul has been in hell all night! I have denied that there is a hell; I have scoffed at it; I have induced others to do the same, and now God is convincing me of my error. Oh, I know now that there is a hell; I feel it in my own spirit. I am glad that you have come to see me, that I may tell you how miserable I am. This is the only relief I can get. You are the first person to whom I have ventured to make known my misery. I have for a long time kept it to myself, but I can no longer conceal it." "It is well for you to acknowledge your sins; but you should confess them to God, as well as to your fellowHe has said, 'only acknowledge thy transgressions;' and, more men. cannot meet him-I cannot! Oh, that the same grave which will soon bury my body, could bury my soul with it. Oh, that I might be annihilated! This is what I have long hoped for and expected; but this hope has failed. I never before realized the meaning of that scripture, 'when a wicked man dieth, his expectations shall perish.' All my expectations have perished. I have been for some time reviewing my past life, and during the last night that passage kept passing like a burning arrow through my spirit, 'Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.' Yes, I have walked in the way of my heart, and in the sight of my eyes, and now God is bringing me into judgment. The arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison thereof drinketh up my spirit.' You can pray for me, but it is of no You are very kind; the family here are very kind; I thank you all, but you cannot save me, 'my soul is damned! the seal of reprobation is already upon me!"" use. These last were precisely his words; and they were uttered with a pathos, a sort of calm, fixed, significant earnestness, which almost overcame us. I can never forget his expression, when he fixed his dark, restless, glassy eyes upon us, and uttered these last words. Perceiving it in vain to say anything more to him while in that state, we withdrew, that he might, if possible, be composed to rest. The next day I called again to see him, and found him dying. His power of utterance had almost failed him. I took hold of his hand, and told him it would afford us great relief to know that he left the world reconciled to God, and trusting in the Saviour's grace. His only reply was, and they were the last words I heard him utter, "If the grave would bury my soul with my body, I should consider it my best friend-that would be immeasurably better for me than my present condition, or anything I have a right to expect." After again commending him, in a short prayer, to the mercy of God, I was obliged to leave him. In about an hour afterwards he died. The next day I attended his funeral. It was the most gloomy occasion to which I was ever summoned. Not a relative was present. Here was a young man, evidently of fine natural talents, who might have been a comfort to his parents, an ornament to society, a blessing to mankind; who might have pursued a useful and happy life, and secured a character which would have set him among the stars of the firmament, to shine there for ever, cut off from life, happiness, and hope, when he had only reached his twenty-sixth year. Chapters for Junior Teachers & Senior Scholars. STEPHEN ARCHER; OR, FATHER SAYS WHEN HE WAS A BOY. BY OLD ALAN GRAY. แ 'WELL, Stephen Archer, I see that you are going home from your Sunday school, and I hope you are taking away something that will be of use to you. A sad pity it is that the parents of Sunday scholars do not help their children more than they usually do, by setting them a good example, and by carrying on the work of instruction; and thus it is That so many young people adopt a bad rule, that your father is an upright, thinking man, and your mother a pious woman; and that is one reason why, with God's blessing, you are going on so well as you are. If all parents were like yours, it would strengthen the hands, and be a cordial to the hearts of teachers; and they need it, for they have many discouragements. I dare say, Stephen, that your father often talks to you kindly, and points out the changes that have taken And forget all at home that they learn at place in the world, as well as the the school. "I know, Stephen, that your parents are of a different sort. I know Tell me, only way to a better. Stephen, in what way he talks to you." |