SABBATH EVENING AT FAIRMOUNT.

Happily for him, and for the neighbourhood in which he lived, his pastor, the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, was a man of a most catholic spirit, who viewed the circumstantial differences which prevail among Christians as of little consequence, in comparison with the more important truths on which they are agreed. He felt a stronger attachment to the Redeemer than to the formula of the church of which he was a minister; and though he was a man of order, and conscientious in the observance of all ecclesiastical laws, yet he thought that the Word of God ought not to be bound by human restrictions.

As the population of the parish was large, and the gospel was not preached within the distance of two miles from Mr. Stevens' villa, he, at the suggestion of his amiable lady, conceived the design of building a small chapel in its immediate vicinity, for a religious service on Sabbath evenings. He was aware that he should subject himself to the sarcasms, if not to the contempt, of the more fashionable and bigoted; but he esteemed the reproach of Christ a greater honour than the applause of men; and seeing the people around him perishing for lack of the knowledge of the way of salvation, he thought it his duty to do all in his power to make it known to them. But he did not venture on the execution of his plan till he had first consulted his pastor, who, instead of censuring him for his zeal, or presuming to silence him for not possessing the mysterious charm of office, grace, encouraged him to proceed. "If," said the holy man, "you can get the people to love the gospel in the evening, they will soon come to church to hear it in the morning; and if they should be converted through the instrumentality of lay preaching, they will love the Saviour as much, and be at last as happy in heaven, as though the great change were produced through the instrumentality of clerical preaching."

The chapel was built on an elevated spot of ground near the roadside, so that it was visible from the most populous parts of the hamlet; and though the building of it gave great offence to a few, yet it pleased the majority. At first, Mr. Stevens read a sermon to the congregation; but after a while he composed discourses, which he delivered extempore; and being a man of reading, and of a ready utterance, his labours gave very general satisfaction. Some of the thoughtless had become serious, and some of the dissipated had become religious, which he considered a satisfactory proof of the Divine blessing; and though he was much importuned by some of his friends to abandon what they called his wild project, and resume his more orderly habits of a regular churchman, yet he steadily refused to do so. His reply to the gainsayer was, "The love of Christ constraineth me."

On the Sabbath evening we were at Fairmount, the Rev. Mr. Morris was expected to preach a charity sermon for the school which was established and superintended by Mrs. Stevens. He came early in the afternoon, and after tea, while he withdrew to prepare for the pulpit, I retired for meditation; and in passing through the hall, my attention was arrested by a female, who was waiting with her little girl to see Mrs. Stevens. She informed me that her parents had never given her any religious instruction; that no one ever taught her to read the Scriptures, or keep holy the Sabbath day; and that, till recently, she had no expectation of living in another world after death. When about eighteen years of age, having lost her father and mother, she married a soldier, who belonged to a foot regiment, and she was permitted to go with him to the continent. While sojourning among strangers, she was exposed to the most extreme hardships; but her greatest trial was the death of her husband, who was killed just before the birth of her child. After his decease she returned to England, and settled in her native village; where, like the majority around her, she lived without God, without Christ, and without hope, till after the erection of the chapel. Having often felt the disadvantages of her inability to read or write, she resolved, if possible, to give her child an education; and as soon as she heard of the establishment of this school, she applied for her admission, and her request was granted. The children were taught in the afternoon of the Sabbath, and they usually attended the public service in the evening, with their parents.

On one occasion Mr. Stevens addressed his rustic audience from the following words: "Come, see a man, which told me all things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?" (John iv. 29). As he proceeded to unveil the hidden mysteries of the heart, the conscience of this widow began to smite her; she could not imagine from what source he had derived such an accurate knowledge of her character and history; she felt self-condemned; and had it not been for the invitation which was given to the weary and heavy laden, to come to Jesus Christ, she must, to quote her own language, "have gone home in despair." But the wound was no sooner inflicted than it was healed; and though her views of the scheme of salvation were circumscribed, yet they were clear, and operated with so much force on her moral character, that she was become a new creature in Christ Jesus.

Thus, while the sons of science pour contempt on the gospel as beneath their notice, and the patrons of ecclesiastical order condemn all departures from the restrictions and limitations of human authority, yet its history demonstrates that the God of all grace will employ it as the means of converting sinners, even when it is preached by men who have not studied theology within the walls of a college, and also when it is preached in places which have not been invested with the charm of human consecration.

From the garden in which I was walking I had an extensive view of the surrounding country, and watched with peculiar delight the people advancing in every direction towards the house of prayer. It indeed was a lovely sight! The old and the young, the healthy and the infirm, the poor, and a few of the rich, were pressing onward, with eagerness and decorum, apparently conscious that they were going to worship the Lord of hosts.

The children commenced the service by singing a hymn, composed for the occasion; and such was the effect which it produced on the crowded congregation, that many wept—not tears of grief, but of joy. The Rev. Mr. Morris preached a very judicious sermon, from the words of Solomon: "Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it" (Prov. xxii. 6). When enforcing on parents the importance of training up their children in the way in which they should go, he said, "You may be denied the gratification of seeing any immediate advantage resulting from your labours; but you ought not, therefore, to conclude that they will prove useless. The religious principles which you instil into their minds may lie concealed for a long time without being destroyed, as the seed which the husbandman casts in the ground remains inactive till called forth into expansion and growth under a mild and genial influence. They may be striking root, and shooting up into active life, at the time when you are despairing of ever reaping the reward of your labour." He illustrated and confirmed these remarks by a quotation taken from Cecil's Remains. "Where," says Cecil, "parental influence does not convert, it hampers. It hangs on the wheels of evil. I had a pious mother, who dropped things in my way. I could never rid myself of them. I was a professed infidel; but then I liked to be an infidel in company, rather than when alone. I was wretched when by myself. These principles and maxims spoiled my pleasure. With my companions I would sometimes stifle them; like embers, we kept one another warm. Besides, I was here a sort of a hero. I had beguiled several of my associates into my own opinions, and I had to maintain a character before them. But I could not divest myself of my better principles. I went with one of my companions to see the Minor; he could laugh heartily, but I could not. The ridicule on regeneration was high sport to him—to me it was none; it could not move my features. He knew no difference between regeneration and transubstantiation. I did. I knew there was such a thing. I was afraid and ashamed to laugh at it. Parental influence thus cleaves to a man; it harasses him; it throws itself continually in his way."

On walking from the chapel, after the close of the service, I overtook a gentleman, who confessed that he had been hostile to the benevolent designs of Mr. Stevens, but that, in future, he would co-operate with him.

"And why, Sir," I asked, "were you hostile to them?"

"Because I did not understand them; and it is to this cause, I have no doubt, that we may attribute much of the opposition he has met with."

"The world," I replied, "is governed by prejudice, and not by reason; and hence, what is excellent and beneficial is often condemned and often opposed, because prejudice has been excited against it by misrepresentation or misconception. Prejudice led Nathaniel to exclaim, when the advent of the Saviour was announced to him, 'Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?' And prejudice often induces many, in modern times, to say, 'Can any good result from teaching children to read, or from preaching the truth in any other place than in a church?'"

"Yes, Sir," was the reply; "and it is very difficult to dislodge prejudice after it has taken possession of the mind; for though there are seasons when its absurdity is admitted, yet the dread of abandoning old opinions, which have received the sanction of ages, and of adopting new ones, which are held in general contempt, operates with such force, that but few are courageous enough to overcome it. The following lines of a modern poet may be thought severe, but they are correct:—

"True, Sir; but the few who burst the bonds of prejudice, and claim the privilege of thinking, and judging, and acting for themselves, though contemned and reproached by the multitude, are the pioneers of an adventurous and ever active benevolence, the ornaments and benefactors of the age and the country in which they live. Suppose Mr. Stevens had been held in subjection by the bigoted opinions of others, the children who are now taught to fear God and honour man, would be left to rise up in life without any accurate perceptions of their duties; and the village, which now enjoys the light of life, would still be sitting in the shadow of death. He may be ridiculed for his zeal, and reprobated for his irregularities as a member of the Established Church; but can any one who believes the truth of the Scripture, suppose that his conduct is displeasing to Him who requires all his disciples to do what they can to hasten the coming of His kingdom?"

"I knew Mr. Stevens," said the stranger, "when he was a man of gaiety and of pleasure, and I have known him since he has been a religious man; and although unable to account for the amazing change which has been produced in him, yet I always gave him credit for meaning well. Some religious people are ashamed of their principles, but he has professed them openly; some contend for them in a rude, dogmatic, and antichristian manner, but he has displayed as much amiability of temper as he has decision of conduct; and while many whom I know have conformed as much as possible to the customs and habits of the world to avoid its censures, he has uniformly paid as much respect to the preceptive parts of Christianity, as he has discovered zeal in the propagation of its doctrinal tenets. And it is this uniform consistency of conduct on his part, that induced me to attend the Union Chapel this evening, and I do not hesitate to say that I have been gratified and instructed."

When I reached Fairmount I had the pleasure of being introduced to Miss Roscoe, who had ventured, for the first time, to attend the chapel. This young lady united in her person the fascinations of beauty with superior mental accomplishments; and though she would occasionally intermingle with the gay and the fashionable, and participate in their pleasures, yet she was more attached to reading and retirement. This disposition was cherished by her father, who was a man of close study, and passionately fond of disputation. He would sometimes relax from the ardour of intellectual pursuits, and enter into the amusements of the theatre, the ball-room, and the card party, with energy and vivacity; but soon he would grow weary of such pastimes, and return to his more rational employments. He was well read in history—a good botanist—had acquired an extensive knowledge of the science of geology—had studied Blackstone and Burn with attention; but the largest portion of his time was devoted to the investigation of the Scriptures. After Miss Roscoe had finished her education at a boarding-school, she pursued her studies under the superintendence of her father, who was eminently qualified to enrich her mind with the treasures of knowledge and of wisdom. Thus months and years rolled on in regular succession, with but few incidents of a painful nature, till He

inflicted a wound in her heart, which was attended with an unusual depression of spirit. She felt the stroke, but knew not from whence it came, nor could her father tell her who could heal it. He was advised to try what effect a change of air and society would have on her spirits; and hence he removed his family to Dawlish in Devonshire, where they spent the whole of the summer; but still her morbid melancholy increased, and the physician recommended a visit to Bath for the winter, as the only expedient which was likely to prevent the entire loss of health, if not of her reason. Here she was hurried, by the ardour of parental solicitude, into scenes of gaiety and amusement, which now had lost their charm; and though she often refused to go, saying that they could afford her no pleasure, yet, her reluctance being regarded as an inveterate symptom of her complaint, she was compelled to yield, till she frankly said, "If you wish me to regain my long-lost tranquillity, cease to force me where the gaiety of others increases my mental depression, and let me return home, that, in the retirement of solitude, I may find rest from the aggravating amusements of human gaiety and folly."

Mrs. Stevens, who was intimate with the family, and had held some religious conversation with Miss Roscoe before she left home, made a morning call on her return, when she found her alone. Referring to Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul, which she had presented to her on a former occasion, she received a reply which gave her great pleasure; and, from some incidental expressions, she was convinced that the cause of her depression lay in the deep recesses of her heart. She therefore suggested to her, as the only effectual means of its removal, a perusal of the Scriptures. "I once felt," she said, "what you now feel, and though my mental anguish was not so acute as yours, nor so overwhelming in its influence, yet I should have sunk under it, had it not been for the consolations of mercy which I found in the Bible."

This communication, which was not less unexpected than the appearance of the angel of God to Hagar, as she sat in the solitude of maternal grief, mourning over her child in the agonies of death, raised the spirit of Miss Roscoe from beneath that load of depression which was sinking her into despair, and she inquired, with singular emphasis of expression:—

"And do you indeed think that the Bible will afford me any relief? I have not been permitted to see it since the commencement of my illness; but if you recommend it, I will peruse it."

"Yes, my dear; that book, which a thoughtless world despises, is Heaven's best gift to man.

"But," said Miss Roscoe, whose independent mind had not lost its intellectual vigour during the gloomy night of mental sadness, "what does the Bible reveal, which is so peculiarly appropriate to me?"

"It reveals a Saviour, who came into the world to save sinners."

"That truth I know, and I cannot banish it from my recollection; but I cannot perceive how the belief of it is calculated to bring back my long-lost happiness."

"But, my dear, if you did believe it, in the scriptural acceptation of the term, it would not only remove the depression of your spirits, but raise you into a higher and a purer state of felicity than that from whence you are fallen."

"I do believe it, and what more is required?"

"What more, my dear Miss Roscoe? You should reduce your belief to a practical operation, and, in the most simple and humble form of speech, plead the merits of the Saviour's death for the remission of your sins, for peace of conscience, and for eternal life. 'For through Him we have access by one Spirit unto the Father.' You are unhappy, but know not the cause; and that morbid melancholy which has destroyed your health, and laid waste the vivacity of your spirits, has hitherto set at defiance every expedient which you have employed for its removal; but such is the mysterious efficacy of the death of Jesus Christ, when the design of his death is perceived, that it makes the wounded spirit whole, and it calms the troubled breast. The state of your mind is neither hopeless nor singular; and though at present you may not be able to perceive how your mental anguish can issue in mental peace, yet, if you try the efficacy of prayer, you will see 'the darkened cloud withdraw;' and then you will adore the grace which humbles to exalt, which impoverishes to enrich, and which renders our sources of earthly pleasure incapable of affording delight, that we may be compelled to derive our supreme felicity from fellowship with the Father, and his Son Jesus Christ."

This intercourse led to an intimacy, which soon ripened into a strong attachment; and that morbid melancholy, which had withstood the rural charms of Dawlish, and the captivating amusements of Bath, began to give way under the religious communications of a friend, who had often been ridiculed for her zeal, and sometimes reproached for attempting to disturb the peace of those whose happiness she lived to promote.

Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe saw, with no ordinary emotions of delight, the dawning of serenity on the countenance of their beloved child, but knew not the cause till they accidentally saw her reading the Bible, which they had been recommended to keep from her. In the evening, as they were sitting together, Mr. Roscoe said, "I think, my dear Sophia, that you are regaining your former vivacity."

"I am more happy than I was, but not so happy as I wish to be."

"The light of bliss, I hope, my dear, is shining on you, but I fear lest it should again depart. You must be cautious what you read; and if you will permit me to offer you my advice, I would recommend you light reading, which, I think, would just now have a good effect."

"I thank you, my dear father, for your advice, but such reading would bring back the gloom which the light of revealed truth is scattering from around my mind. There is no book which I read with so much pleasure as the Bible."

"The Bible contains much important history; it abounds with interesting narratives; it makes us familiar with the customs of ancient times, and supplies us with some inimitable specimens of good composition; but I would advise you not to read the Epistles of the New Testament, lest they should perplex and bewilder you, and lead you off into a state of mental distraction, which no human skill would be able to control or subdue."

"You know, my dear father, that no human skill has been able to control or remove that fixed melancholy under which I have been labouring for nine months; but I feel now greatly relieved from it; and I assure you that it is the perusal of that portion of the Scripture which you wish me to avoid, to which I attribute, under the blessing of God, the delightful change which has taken place in the state and frame of my mind."

THE BIBLE DISDAINED.

Yes, man dies; but he still lives. He passes from one locality and condition of existence to another. He will never die again. No, his next life is endless. If saved, what varied and splendid forms of beauty and of grandeur will open on his vision the moment he passes the dark frontier that divides the visible from the unseen world! What sounds of harmony, coming from the pure and happy spirits of the celestial state, will vibrate on his ear! What ecstasy will he feel when presented faultless before the glorious presence of the Divine Majesty! If lost!—Woe, woe, woe! My heart recoils from a contemplation of his fearful and changeless destiny.

On entering the cottage I saw a stranger, in the costume of a gentleman, polite and accomplished; but there was an air of mannerism about him uncongenial to my taste. The woodman and his wife were glad to see me, and after making a few faint allusions to the mournful event which had recently occurred, they relapsed into expressive silence, which induced me to suppose that my abrupt appearance had interrupted some conversation or discussion. At length, after a little desultory and somewhat forced chit-chat, the woodman, who appeared rather singularly excited, addressing himself to the stranger, said, "There is, Sir, one evidence that the Bible comes from God, which gives to me and my wife entire satisfaction, and against which no objection can be brought that can stagger or weaken our faith."

"These good people," said the stranger, turning towards me, "appear not to have perplexities enough in the casualties and contingencies of life, and therefore they are perplexing themselves by the mysteries of the Bible."

"Yes, Sir," said the wife, "just as we should perplex ourselves if an old and endeared friend looked in to see us, bringing with him some good news. We certainly might feel a little perplexed about the accommodation we could give him, but none on account of his coming to see us, or the good news he brings; that would be a matter of rejoicing."

"I admire the happy art you possess to give a good turn to an objectionable observation. Well, Mr. Woodman, let me hear what this evidence is, which gives to you both so much satisfaction, and which you think no objection can set aside. I see," taking out his watch as he spoke, "I must soon go."

"Why, Sir, it is just this: when reading my Bible, I cannot help thinking of myself—my condition as a sinful and an immortal being—of my last end—of God, his goodness in providence, but his still greater goodness in making such grand provision, through the redemption of Christ, for my present and future happiness. These thinkings awaken in my soul gratitude, and love, and filial trust in Him, and constrain me to surrender my soul to Him, through Christ, to be redeemed, sanctified, and saved. Now, Sir, as the road which leads to your mansion must lead from it, so I think that the Bible, which leads us to God, as our father and our best friend, must come from Him."

"Well, my good fellow," rising, and taking him by the hand, "perhaps it would do you no good if I were to attempt to disturb you while reposing with so much satisfaction in your innocent delusions."

"You have, Sir, been trying to do it for the last hour and a half," said the wife, with a marked emphasis of severe rebuke, "and without directing us to any other source of comfort under our troubles. We have just lost one of our dear children; but the Bible reconciles me to that loss, by telling me that my child is now happy in heaven; but you have been trying to make us believe that this is a delusion. Why, Sir, you would, if in your power, do us a greater act of cruelty than Captain Dunlop, who lives in yon big house, attempted to do to us last autumn."

"I would scorn to commit an act of cruelty against any one, especially against you, who have behaved with so much civility to me. But what act of cruelty did the Captain meditate committing against you?"

"You see, Sir, that little running brook which feeds the watercress you have just relished so much. Well, the Captain, last autumn, cut a deep channel for it to run through the glen, in an opposite direction, but Squire Stevens interfered, and prevented him. Now, Sir, if he had done what he was going to do, he would have taken from us our stream of water. But, even then, by raising a little subscription amongst our neighbours, we might perhaps have sunk a well, and though the water might not be so good or so plentiful, yet it might have answered our purpose. But, Sir, if you take away our Bible, or, what is the same thing, if you were to destroy our belief in its inspiration and authority, you would take from us the rich flow of comfort it supplies to us in our troubles, and you would cut us off from the hope of future happiness. Now, if you had succeeded in your endeavours, your visit would be to us as great a curse as the visit of the devil was to our first parents in Eden."

"You are, indeed, eloquently ingenious. Well, the next time I come I won't say anything against your Bible."

"I hope not, Sir," said the honest woodman, who appeared much pleased with the smart reproof his wife had administered to this stranger; "for if you do, we shall then say at once, what I now say after long endurance, we would rather have your room than your company. I think, Sir, such gentlemen as you should keep within the compass of your own sceptical fraternity, and then you may say what you please, and perhaps not do much harm. But when you enter the cottage of the poor, and find them happy in God, and thankful to Him for their Bible, you ought to feel it a point of honour not to try to steal away their happiness; as I suppose you have too much honour to pocket any spoons when you go away from a rich man's house."

I listened with amazement and delight to the artless defence and severe rebuke of the woodman and his wife, and addressing them, said, "I am happy to hear you administer such a severe and just rebuke to this gentleman; and which, Sir," turning towards him, "I hope you will feel at the core of your heart, and that it will prevent your repeating elsewhere the act of meanness of which you have been guilty here—stealing a poor man's Bible, while eating his bread and cheese."

"Do you, Sir, mean to insult me? I allow no one to do that with impunity."

"Indeed, Sir! If speaking the truth, in a tone and style in which it ought to be spoken to a man in the attire and with the appearance of a gentleman, who enters a poor man's cottage, and, while feasting at his table, is mean enough to try to destroy his faith in his Bible, which is the well-spring of his happiness, be regarded by you as an insult, why, then, there is no alternative but to feel yourself insulted."

He looked, but said no more, and tossing, rather unceremoniously, a half-crown piece on the table for the refreshment he had received, he left in high dudgeon, muttering to himself as he moved away.

"These infidels, Sir," said the woodman, "in one thing are like the Pharisees of the New Testament; they won't go into the kingdom of heaven themselves, and they want to prevent others going there if they can. He began his infidel remarks before my children, but I sent them away, and told him that I would not let a child, if I knew it, get near an infected person."

"I suppose you don't often meet with infidels."

"More often, Sir, than I wish; for I generally find they are bad men—some bad in their habits, and all bad in their principles. The high-priest of their order lives up in yonder mansion, and he has many visitors. He used to come to our cottage sometimes, but he does not come now, as I offended him one day, by telling him that it was an act of meanness, as well as injustice, to try to cut off the stream of water from the poor families that live near it, for some miles in its course, and doing it to enrich his own meadows."

"Well," said his wife, "we should pity them, and pray for them, and bless the Lord for making us to differ. It often pains my heart to think of a person living a few years in wealth and honour, and then passing into the eternal world to perish for ever. We have many troubles, yet some comforts. There, Sir," pointing to her Bible, "is our grand comforter; its precious promises speak peace to the soul, and take our hopes onwards to a better world, where the weary will enjoy rest for ever."

I read the fourth chapter of Paul's Epistle to the Thessalonians, making a few comments on its last verse, adapted to the excited state of feeling occasioned by the death and burial of their little Jemima; and, after praying with them, I withdrew, yet promising to repeat my visit before my departure from Fairmount.

On getting over the stile which crossed my pathway about half-a-mile from the cottage, I saw the infidel standing where I had seen Mr. Gordon standing on a preceding Saturday evening; and though at first I thought he was waiting for me, yet I soon perceived that he was admiring the grand panoramic view which was visible from that spot. I passed within a few yards of him, and in the act of passing we exchanged a bow of recognition.

"It appears, Sir," he said, "that we are going in the same direction, and, if agreeable, I will walk with you."

I at once consented, thinking that I might have an opportunity of making an assault on his scepticism, which possibly might issue in some practical good.

"You were rather too severe upon me in the cottage."

"If I thought so, Sir, I would offer you an apology; but my few remarks, though severe, were, I think, just."

"Well, well, perhaps I did wrong. But the fact is, I found both the woodman and his wife so shrewd and intelligent, that, on hearing them make some impassioned allusions to the Bible, I thought they would appreciate some remarks tending, at least in my opinion, to counteract the terrible impression of fear and dread which a belief in the inspiration and authority of the Bible necessarily calls up and fixes in the heart."

"But you see it inspires no fear in them; it is not to them the haunting ghost of terror, but a domestic comforter."

"Well, I can't account for it; I wonder how any one who believes in the Bible, which speaks of hell and endless misery, can sleep calmly on his pillow. I suppose they must believe one part, and disbelieve the other."

"No, Sir, it is because their belief in one part inspires confidence in the love and faithfulness of God their Saviour, they can believe the other part without dread or fear."

"I presume you are a firm believer in the Bible."

"I am, Sir."

"May I be permitted to ask you what is the predominant impression it makes on your mind—terror or tranquil peace?"

"If I were to say that it never awakened an emotion of terror, I should not speak strictly correct. When I have reflected on sin, its essentially evil nature and tendency; on my own sins, their number and peculiar aggravations; on the Divine purity and justice; and on the tremendous visitations of punishment which have been, and still are inflicted on man, both in this world and in the world to come, I have felt a tumult of terror agitating my soul, of a fearful aspect. But, Sir, my faith sees one in the midst of the storm, whose eye is pity, and whose arm is power; and my prayer is, Lord save or I perish. He hears and he answers this prayer."

"But how do you know that he hears and answers your prayers?"

"Because my dark forebodings cease, and there is a calm within, as there was a great calm on the Lake of Galilee when our Lord rebuked the winds and the sea."

"Were you trained, Sir, to a belief in the Bible?"

"I once rejected the Bible as a book of fables or falsehoods."

"You, then, were once what I am now—an unbeliever; and I was once what you are now—a believer. How the human character changes as time moves slowly on, to bring out the great teacher, death, who will finally settle everything."

"Yes, Sir, and for ever."

"What awful sublimity in that short sentence—yes, and for ever. The subject of our conversation interests me, as I have heard that prisoners committed for capital offences sometimes evince a peculiar intensity of emotion when listening to the mock process of a trial; the rehearsal of the coming tragedy pleases them. But to return to our subject, may I be permitted to ask you whether you now live habitually free from terror?"

"I do, Sir."

"Never calculate on being damned for ever?"

"Never."

"And you can sleep as calmly on your pillow, with the Bible by your side, as you could if you believed the dark world of hell had vanished into air—gone out of existence for ever?"

"Yes, Sir, I can."

"This, Sir, is to me inexplicably marvellous. I wonder how any one, who believes in the Divine authority of the Bible, can ever look at it without feeling terrified, as children feel when going into a dark room, after listening to a series of fearful ghost stories."

"Why, Sir, the very design of the Christian revelation, given to us in the Bible, is not only to deliver us from the wrath to come, but from the dread of it. And this it does, when we believe in its Divine origin, and yield to its authority."

"I was a believer once, and fond of theological studies; but the predominant influence of my faith was most oppressive, at times agonizing. I could never rise above terror; the dread of being lost for ever haunted me almost day and night."

"If you watched the mental process which was going on during the time you were a believer in the Bible, and can now distinctly recollect it, perhaps you will perceive there was one great act you failed to perform, which is the testing and the decisive act of a genuine believer—the passing of the Rubicon."

"To what act do you refer?"

"To the act of coming to Jesus Christ, in compliance with his own invitation and promise—'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest' (Matt. xi. 28). 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out'" (John vi. 37).

"Yes, Sir, I recollect having my eye often fixed on the two verses you have quoted, and others which speak of coming to him for life, and to be saved; but a veil of mystery hung over them which I could not lift up. I had the loftiest conceptions of his superhuman greatness and goodness; the fine blending of majesty and meekness, of dignity and condescension in his character, awakened my admiration; his pity, his love, his spotless purity, awed and delighted me; and I often felt indignant—a real loathing of spirit—when reflecting on the brutal treatment he met with from his countrymen; but I never could make out, from anything I read in the New Testament, how he could stand in the relation of a Saviour to me, or how I could perform that act of coming to him, on which he places the issue of salvation. And this is the origin of my unbelief. I had no wish to become an unbeliever; I became one against my inclination, and in opposition to early, and long-cherished, and endeared associations; but necessity compelled me; because, after long and intense thinking, I found that the proferred blessing of salvation was placed on an impracticable and an impossible contingency. Nor have I, as yet, had cause to regret it. I now can live without dread of the future; and I have no doubt, if there be another state of existence for man, as I feel inclined to believe there is, it will be one of happiness, to compensate for the sorrows and miseries which are endured in this."

"But suppose others have been enabled to perform this act of coming to Jesus Christ; and suppose, by performing it, they have entered into the actual possession of peace and joy in believing, then I think you must admit that the contingency on which the proferred blessing of salvation is suspended, comes within the capabilities of the human mind, and what others have done you might have done, and yet may live to do. By your permission I will give you a paragraph, as it bears so closely on the subject of our conversation, which one of the most distinguished men of the present age addressed to a philosophical friend. The writer had been for years a believer in the Divine origin of the Christian faith, but up to this period in his moral history, it was to him a system of abstract truths, which made no approaches to his heart, to engage his affections, or to influence his will. But by a succession of impulses and impressions, and new discoveries of his inner spirit, he began to feel restless—some degree of alarm, in fact, that he stood in need of a Saviour; and by reading the Bible with close attention, he found that Jesus Christ, who up to this time had moved in dim vision before his imagination, as an ideal or a mere historical being, was a living being, and just such a living being as he needed—one who could save him from his fears, and who alone could save him. The crisis in his moral history now arrived, and he says: 'I sicken at my own imperfect preparations. I take one decisive and immediate step, and resign my all to the sufficiency of my Saviour. I plead his own promise, that him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out. I come to him with my heart, such as it is, and I pray that the operation of his Spirit, and the power of his sanctifying faith, would make it such as it should be.' This is the experience and testimony of Dr. Chalmers, who tells us that after he thus believed and trusted in Christ, he had 'joyful moments;' he walked with God, living in the habitual expectation of eternal life."

"If, Sir, I now entertained the same belief in the truthfulness of the Bible which I once entertained, and which, without doubt, Dr. Chalmers entertained when he wrote to his friend the paragraph which you have just given to me, I should feel strongly inclined to attribute the predominancy of fear and dread over hope and peace, under which I ceaselessly suffered, to some defective view of revealed truth, or to some shortcoming in the mysterious act of mental obedience to a Divine requisition; but, to be candid, I cannot now look on the Bible with that degree of reverence I once did, and for many grave reasons. I have detected in it so many palpable errors, and so many irreconcilable discrepancies, that I cannot now receive it as a genuine and authentic revelation of the Deity."

"But neither errors nor discrepancies have ever been considered, by fair and impartial critics, as decisive evidence against the genuineness or authenticity of an ancient book; as errors, by careful collation, may be corrected, and discrepancies adjusted, as our knowledge becomes more accurate and extended. And this has been done in reference to the Bible, by many whose learning and integrity stamp a sterling worth on the result of their labours."

"I know, Sir, many men of learning, of taste, and of dogged honesty, who are staunch believers in the Bible, and candour compels me to admit that they have, to their own satisfaction, corrected the errors and harmonized the discrepancies which stagger my faith; and, perhaps, if I were to adopt the same process of labour, I might be equally successful; but I do not now see the necessity of it. I have arrived at a point of discovery which yields me as much satisfaction as you can feel in the discoveries which the Bible makes to you. I can feel, without such auxiliary aid, a calm repose in the sympathy of God with individual man, and a delight in meditating on his grandeur and his goodness, which, I think, cannot be surpassed by any emotion which the strongest faith in the promises of the Bible can inspire."

"But, Sir, how can you know that he feels sympathy for individual man, unless he tells you so?"

"I believe he does."

"But on what evidence do you base your belief? Because, to believe without evidence, would be as absurd as to withhold belief from preponderating evidence would be reprehensible."

"I infer it, from the very obvious marks of benevolent design which are apparent through the whole range of creation."

"I will not dispute this point; but permit me to ask you whether, in your belief, his sympathy is a species of refined sentimental emotion for his own gratification, or a practical manifestation of sustaining and consoling influence; and whether he sympathizes with every individual man who needs his sympathy, or only a select portion of the great family of suffering humanity?"

"Before I reply to your questions, may I ask if you have any doubt on the question of his sympathy for individual man?"

"I have no doubt on the question of his sympathy and loving-kindness in behalf of those who confide in him, and who love him, because my Bible tells me so; but there is an ambiguity in your form of expression, which, in my judgment, involves a self-evident contradiction, and this is why I have asked for a clear explanation—ambiguity in reasoning being something like a sudden eclipse, which wraps everything in total darkness."

"In my theory, Sir, there is no selection—nothing like that undercurrent of partiality which runs through the Bible; all are treated alike, standing on the same level; and hence my expression, he sympathizes with individual man, means every man."

"And you believe this, without his telling you that he does cherish a practical sympathy for every man."

"I infer it, Sir, and from what I consider an infallible data—the obvious marks of benevolent design, which I can trace through the whole range of the visible creation."

"I admit your data, but object to your inference, because uniform experience decides the fact that all men do not stand on the same level, nor are they treated alike; for we cannot look in any direction without seeing inequality. I am not going, Sir, to inquire into the causes of this inequality of rank, of personal and of social condition, which is so obviously apparent, as that would raise many questions which we should not have time to discuss, but simply to notice the fact of inequality, which your proposition virtually denies. Look, for example, at yon princely mansion, and then think of the cottage where we first met. Compare the athletic frame of its wealthy occupier and his hale appearance, with an emaciated human being, whose life is pining away under a prolonged disease. Are all treated alike, and do all stand on the same level, under his administrative providence? No, Sir, there are towering mountains, rich in golden ore, and desert wastes, where the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom. And if, Sir, he sympathizes with every man, in the sense which we attach to the term, it must be sentimental; facts prove that it is not practical—the mere sympathy of the humane judge for prisoners, when leaving the dock under the sentence of death, or that of the tender-hearted physician in a ward of incurables. Go into an hospital, a prison, a poor-house, or a cottage, where its inmate is dying under prolonged and acute disease; visit the habitation of a broken-down tradesman, whose children are crying for food, while he has none to give them; pass on to the field of battle, after the work of slaughter is over, and mingle amongst the wounded; or go on board the slave ship, and look into her hold, as she moves through the middle passage, between the land of freedom and the land of perpetual bondage; and what practical proof will you find, in any of these retreats of suffering humanity, that God sympathizes with every man? You talk of the discrepancies of the Bible, and argue that they are a proof that it comes not from God. But what a terribly perplexing and appalling discrepancy do you open up between his character as a benevolent being, and his administrative providence? Follow out your course of reasoning, and then, to act consistently, you must become an atheist, and compelled to admit into your creed not only improbabilities, but absolute impossibilities."

"Well, I will admit that when we come into real, practical life, we are compelled to modify, if not to give up as indefensible, some of our speculative opinions. In fact, the issue of every inquiry, when fearlessly pursued, is uncertainty—painful, distracting uncertainty—and man becomes the sport, if not the victim, of his own speculations and investigations."

"Yes, Sir, when he will not condescend to be taught of God. If we admit the inspiration, and consequent authority of the Bible, we have an infallible teacher on all questions relating to our responsibilities and our final destiny, and the mind settles down into a state of quietude, and feels secure; but if we reject its inspiration and authority as a sham, or a dogma of superstition, we go adrift on the wide expanse of absolute uncertainty, and are left to perish, when, and where, and how we know not, till after the terrible catastrophe has occurred."

There was now a pause in our discussion; and within the space of a few minutes, a little dark cloud, like that which was seen by the prophet's servants from the heights of Carmel, overspread the heavens, and we were compelled to look for a place of refuge from the storm which was coming.

"I am going to see a poor woman, who lives in yon cottage; perhaps you will not object to accompany me; we shall find shelter there."

"Most willingly, and if she be a deserving object, I shall feel most happy to contribute a mite for her relief; for your sake, Sir."

"I thank you. Sir, for the personal compliment; and I doubt not but she will be thankful for your charitable donation, for she is very poor."

"To be candid, Sir, I like practical sympathy better than sentimental; the one is a reality, the other a sham or a mawkish emotion, little less than a self-compliment to a refined but useless sensibility—something which excites the sentimentalism of a drawing-room, when we are looking on the print of an hospital or the wreck of a vessel hanging on the wall, but which gives no relief to a rescued sailor, or a discharged incurable."

The poor inmate (Mrs. Allen) was seated in her chair, wrapped in flannel, and supported by pillows, her appearance plainly indicating that she was near death. She smiled on seeing me, but on seeing the stranger she became a little disconcerted, yet, with polite ease, she moved her hands towards two chairs, and said, "Gentlemen, be seated."

"You appear," said Mr. Tennent, "very ill."

"Yes, Sir, but I believe my life of suffering will soon end, and then all will be well—and for ever."

"I suppose you hope to go to heaven when you die?"

"I have no doubt of it, Sir."

"But as your Bible speaks of hell and eternal misery, don't you sometimes fear going there when you die?"

"I did once, Sir."

"And why not now?"

"Because my dear Saviour says, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest.' I have come to him, and do come to him daily and hourly, and he has fulfilled his promise, and given me rest of soul, as an earnest of everlasting rest, and peace, and joy."

"Then you have no fear in prospect of going into the great invisible world."

"No, Sir; and I long for the hour to come when I shall depart and be with Christ. I saw him in the visions of the night, when deep sleep had fallen upon me, and he appeared in glory, as when he was transfigured on Tabor."

"Do you place much dependence on dreams?"

"I place dependence on nothing, Sir, but the exceeding great and precious promises of my Bible; but it is delightsome to have, in the visions of the night, the re-appearance of day-thoughts and meditations; it is often then, from some cause which I cannot explain, they are clothed in a more visible and substantial form."

"Now, Mrs. Allen, one more question, and I have done. Do you think it possible for any argument to convince you that Jesus Christ is not a real being, only an imaginary one?"

"Do you, Sir, think it possible for any argument to convince you that you are not a real being, or that we are not all real beings, only imaginary ones. The one thing is just about as likely to be done as the other, and just about as easy."

I read part of the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, making a few remarks on what I read, and then went to pray with her, Mr. Tennent, from a sense of politeness, if not from a superior reason, kneeling with me before the throne of mercy. As the storm was now abated, and the evening far spent, we left her; but, on shaking hands with her, Mr. Tennent gave her a sovereign.

We walked away in silence, but at length he said, "Well, Sir, if your religion be, what unbelievers say it is, an invention, it is a very soothing and inspiring one. On such an occasion as this we cannot help wishing it to be real, even if we can't believe it to be so."

"You see, Sir, it answers all the purposes of a reality at the great crisis in the history of human life."

When we came to the cross-road where we were to leave each other, he said, "Do you, Sir, remain at Fairmount much longer?"

"Yes, Sir, for some weeks."

"I should like another interview, if I may be permitted to solicit such a favour."

We engaged to meet on the following Saturday evening, but we were prevented. Towards the latter end of the ensuing week, I received the subjoined note from him, which was brought by Captain Dunlop's gardener, who informed us that his master was just dead:—

"Dear Sir,—Before you receive this, I shall have left. What a contrast have I witnessed between the cottage and the mansion! What I have seen and heard during this visit will never pass from my memory. If I could believe in the efficacy of prayer, I should say, pray for me. We may never meet again, but should the Bible ever be in later life as precious to me as it was before infidelity corrupted my heart, you shall hear from me.—Yours faithfully,

"George Tennent."

We had heard of the Captain's illness, at whose mansion Mr. Tennent had been on a visit; but the announcement of his death startled and depressed us.

"Why, gardener, your master's death has been very sudden."

"Yes, Sir, he wasn't ill more than five days."

"What was the nature of his disease?"

"Inflammation of the bowels, so I heard my wife say."

"Did any clergyman visit him during his illness?"

"No, Sir, no one was with him but my wife, he was mainly fond of her, and she nursed him, and gave him his physic, and didn't leave him, night or day, till he left us all for t'other world."

"I believe, gardener, he was an infidel, and did not believe in the existence of another world."

"It happened to him, Sir, as it has happened to others before him; when death got near him his infidelity forsook him, and then his belief of another world was as strong as the apostle Paul's, so I heard my wife say."

"Do you know how he felt in the prospect of dying?"

"I heard my wife say it was a dismal scene. She trembled at night when she was left by herself with him."

"Do you know if Mr. Tennent saw him during his illness?"

"I heard my wife say that he saw him once, and they had high words."

"You don't mean they quarrelled."

"Why, no, Sir, not exactly that, but I heard my wife say that when Mr. Tennent went into his room one morning, just after breakfast, master said to him, you see, Tennent, what you and your infidelity has done for me. I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. Mr. Tennent said something in reply, so I heard my wife say, but I can't mind what, for I have been in a power of trouble since master's death, for he was a good master to me. He never went into the room after that morning, so I heard my wife say."

"Do you know if he had any hope of salvation before he died?"

"No, Sir, I don't think he had. I heard my wife say that master said next to nothing all along through his sickness, but that one awful saying, I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. He said that, Sir, so I heard my wife say, just as he was a-dying. My wife is in sore trouble about master's soul, for he was a good master to her. I tell you what, Sir, this infidelity is a bad thing. It makes people bold in wickedness and contempt of God when they are in health, but their courage leaves them when death comes. They are desperate cowards then."

"Well, gardener, I hope it will be a warning to you."

"I hope, Sir, you don't think that I be an infidel. No, Sir, I love my Bible, and so does my wife. An infidel! no, Sir; and I often told master he would repent of it some day. I can't, Sir, get the terrible words out of my ears—I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. In that storm master did go down. Good night, Sir; it's too awful to think about."

The funeral was conducted with great pomp; and when passing the gardener's cottage some days afterwards, I stepped in and saw his wife, who was in mourning for her late master. After a few leading inquiries, I got her to tell me what passed when Mr. Tennent went to see his dying friend.

"I don't mind all, Sir, but master said to him, you see Tennent, what you and your infidelity has done for me. He then said something about praying to Jesus Christ to save him, when master said to him, why, how can I do that, when you have taught me to reject Him as an impostor? I loved my Bible till I knew you; you made me ridicule it. Mr. Tennent then went out of the room in anger, and never came back. I felt for my poor master. It was very sad to see him go out of one world into another, and hear him say, just as he was going, I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. I have had no sound sleep since. I can't get the frightful words out of my ears. I am always dreaming about a boat turned over in a fearful storm, and master sinking in the great lake."

THE BIBLE PRECIOUS.