THE
SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON.

DRAWN BY G. H. THOMAS. ENGRAVED BY W. L. THOMAS.

THE OLD SHEPHERD.

Vol. i. page 2.

the
Sheepfold
and the
Common
OR
Within & Without.

Blackie & Son Glasgow Edinburgh and London.

THE
SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON:
OR,
WITHIN AND WITHOUT.

VOL. I.

"My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me."—John x. 27.
"Them that are without God judgeth."—1 Cor. v. 13.

BLACKIE AND SON:
GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, LONDON, AND NEW YORK.

———

MDCCCLXI.

GLASGOW:
W. G. BLACKIE AND CO., PRINTERS,
VILLAFIELD.

PREFACE.

This Work was originally published, above thirty years ago, under the title of the Evangelical Rambler. It has long been out of print; and its republication at the present time has been recommended, as calculated to assist in arresting the progress of some popular errors and dangerous institutions, and in aiding the advancement of truth and social happiness. This opinion was strengthened by a knowledge of the fact, that, according to the most accurate calculations, from sixty thousand to a hundred thousand copies of the Work, under its original title, were issued from the English press, whilst in America it obtained an equally extended circulation; and from the still more important fact of the Author having received, from a large number of persons, assurances, both by letter and personal interviews, of their having derived their first religious impressions and convictions from perusing its pages. A new and thoroughly-revised Edition is, therefore, now issued, under the title of "The Sheepfold and the Common," as being more descriptive of the aim and intention of the Work than its former name.

The object of the Work is to afford instruction and amusement, conveyed by a simple narration of the events of every-day life. In constructing his story, the Author has availed himself occasionally of the conceptions of his fancy, and at other times he has crowded into a narrow compass facts and incidents culled from an extended period of his history; but reality forms the basis of every narrative and of every scene he has described. He has departed from the common-place habit of presenting the grand truths of the Christian faith in didactic and dogmatic statements, preferring the dramatic form, as more likely to arrest the attention and interest the feelings, especially of the youthful and imaginative portion of the community. In adopting this style of composition, he has thus endeavoured to follow the footsteps of the great Prophet of Israel, who often spake in parables, veiling truth in a beauteous external vehicle, to captivate and teach his hearers, while their prejudices were lying dormant. In no book of human authorship can we find specimens of imaginative composition that will compare with the following examples from the New Testament, which the Author quotes, in illustration and defence of the principle on which his Work is based.

On no occasion during the ministry of Jesus Christ are we so thoroughly convinced of the fatal danger of trusting in our own attainments and doings for our salvation, and of the absolute safety of reposing exclusive confidence in Him for this inestimable blessing, as when he places us in imagination on the shore, after the desolating storm has completed its work of destruction, leaving us to gaze on the ruins of the one house erected on the sand; while we see the other remaining secure on the unmoved and unshaken rock, in stern and tranquil defiance of all tempests and hurricanes. See Matt. vii. 24-28.

We have more definite and more vivid impressions of the invisible world—of the calm repose and fraternal fellowship of the saved, and of the privations and anguish of the lost, when reading our Lord's description of the condition of Lazarus and the rich man, than is produced on our minds by his announcement of the issue of the day of judgment, when the wicked go away into everlasting punishment, and the righteous into life eternal. Luke xvi. 19-26.

The Work, under its new title, "The Sheepfold and the Common," has undergone a very careful revision; many portions of the original have been re-written, and others omitted to make room for new matter of more interest and importance at the present time. While carrying out the main object of the Work, as already adverted to—namely, to present the grand doctrines of the Christian faith in a pleasing and attractive manner—the Author has also endeavoured to elucidate various topics important to the church at large and to the well-being of society in general; and though he has not plunged into the mazes of controversy, with the obscure and often unintelligible advocates of the theological heresies of the age, yet many of the more prominent of these have been subjected to a severe and, he trusts, an impartial examination.

If the re-issue of this Work should prove as successful in conveying spiritual life to the spiritually dead—in relieving the anxious inquirer from his misgivings and perplexities—and in administering the consolations of faith and hope to the devout believer, while passing through the varied seasons of his eventful history, as it proved in its less perfect and less attractive form—then, whether living or dying, the Author will indulge the hope of meeting many, at the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ, who will be to him a crown of rejoicing for ever.

CONTENTS.

VOL I.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

VOL. I.

THE
SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON.

THE LONELY WIDOW.

I n the summer of the year 18—, I took an excursion through part of the west of England; and after travelling on horseback several days, I resolved to tarry at the beautiful village of Stanmoor. Passing along, I stopped in front of a small but respectable looking inn, whose honeysuckled porch and tidy exterior promised to afford a tranquil and comfortable place of sojourn, and I made up my mind to rest for a season beneath its humble roof. Having taken my horse to the stable, and given the hostler instructions to take good care of him, I was shown into a neat small back room, which commanded a very beautiful view. As I stood gazing and musing while the homely-looking landlady was preparing my coffee, the lines of Milton's Morning Hymn recurred to my recollection; but never, till that moment, had they produced such an exciting effect:—

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good:
Almighty! Thine this universal frame:
Thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable: who sitt'st above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine."

My cogitations were interrupted by the landlady, who, as a mark of respect, herself brought in my coffee, &c., put a small bell on the table, and assured me, with a great deal of good-natured ease, that she would endeavour to make me comfortable as long as I chose to honour her house with my company. Having partaken of the provision of the table, I resolved on taking a walk, and was told, that if I turned short round to the right when past the clump of fir-trees, I should soon come to a pleasant valley. This direction I followed; and in about a quarter of an hour I entered one of the most romantic vales I have ever visited. The sun was still gilding the tops of the distant hills; the blue sky was enlivened by the song of the thrush, and the responding notes of the yellow-hammer. As I walked on, my attention was attracted by the bleating of a flock of sheep, which I saw at a distance ascending a steep path, leading to a neighbouring fold. I quickened my pace, that I might have some conversation with the shepherd, who, with his dog, was bringing up the rear. He was an old man of a swarthy complexion, and strongly marked features; his gray hairs hung in locks over his shoulders, and his manners seemed to indicate the presence of a superior mind. He made a courteous bow; I saluted him, and remarked—"You are taking your flock home to rest, which I hope sometimes reminds you of the approach of that hour when you must rest from all your labours."

"Yes, it does; and, blessed be God, there is a rest provided for his people."

This pious expression sprang a mine of exquisite feeling in my breast; and I instantaneously felt a profound veneration and respect for the old man, whom I now looked upon as a son of God in the disguise of lowly and lonely humanity.

"I presume you know something about Jesus Christ, who is the way to that place of rest."

"Yes, he is now my Saviour, though for many years I lived without knowing anything about him. I often feel sorry when I think of the many precious hours I have wasted by reading ballads and foolish books, which I ought to have spent in reading my Bible."

"Do you ever attend a place of worship?"

"No, I never leave my flock."

"How, then, did you come to know anything about Jesus Christ?"

He put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a tract, and said, as the big tear dropped upon his cheek, "This is the blessed book that made known to me a blessed Saviour; and I would not part with it for all the world."

Feeling anxious to hold in my hand the instrument which had been employed by the "Eternal Spirit" in turning this aged man from darkness to light, I asked him to let me see the tract. It bore the following title, which had become nearly obliterated by frequent use:—"The Good Old Way; or the Religion of our Forefathers, as explained in the Articles, Liturgy, and Homilies of the Church of England." I said to him, "How did you get this tract?"

"A lady gave it me one day, about three years ago; I don't know her; but I hope she will be recompensed at the resurrection of the just."

"How do you spend your leisure time now?"

"In reading my Bible, which tells me so much about that dear Saviour, in whom, through grace, I have believed, and who is able to keep that which I have committed to him against the great day."

"I suppose you are much more happy now than you were before you knew him?"

This question brought over his countenance one of the finest expressions of delight I ever beheld; and, after a short pause, he said, "More happy, Sir! I never was happy till I obtained mercy; but now I am happy, and expect before long to join that blessed company we read of in the Revelation, who serve God day and night in his temple."

Having made a few unimportant inquiries about his family, the state of agriculture, and the population of the district, I wished him a good night, and left him. As I passed along, I said to myself, I should like to watch the countenance, and listen to the remarks of this converted shepherd, while some philosophic sceptic, in flippant style, or in graver tone and sarcastic sneer, says to him, "Why, shepherd, you have been long living amidst visible and splendid realities; but now, in your old age, you are living under the spell of legendary delusions. The Deity whom you now adore is nothing but the idol of your own creation. The reported facts and doctrines of the Bible, which have had such an effect on your imagination, are either fabulous tales or superstitious dogmas; and, notwithstanding your airy flights into another world, you, like your sheep, will cease to be, when death comes to release you from your labours, for there is no other world."

With what indignant astonishment, blended with pity, would the old shepherd look on such a man; doubting, for a few moments, whether he was not some infernal spirit in the human form. I can easily imagine he would reply: "It is odd, Sir, that such a poor ignorant old man as I be, that has lived for more than sixty years without thinking about God at all, should all at once, and without intending to do it, create by the force of my fancy such a pure, benevolent, and glorious Being, as I now believe God to be; who stoops from his high and lofty throne to listen to my poor prayers, and to answer them too. And it is mainly odd, Sir, methinks, that these tales of the Bible, if they be fabulous, and these doctrines of the Bible, if they be nothing but superstitious dogmas, as you call them, should all at once, and without my thinking of such a thing being done, work such a great and blessed change in my hard and wicked heart, and should make me so happy as I now be. It is, methinks, a main pity that they have not worked on your heart as they have on mine, and then you would be about as unable and as unwilling to doubt their truth as I be. You say, Sir, there is no other world; I should like to know how you happen to know this? have you been to the sun, and the moon, and all the stars, and every where else to see? If you have not, according to my plain way of thinking, I think it is a main act of presumption for you to say so. You tell me that I shall cease to be at death, just as these sheep will cease to be. I should like to know how you happen to know this. Has our Maker spoken to you out of heaven, and told you so: or is it mere guess-work with you? No, no, Sir; I am not going to take your random guess-work sayings as true gospel; I like Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John too well for that; and now, to let you know my mind, I tell you plainly, you come too late to make a poor man disbelieve his Bible, if you don't come before he has felt the enlightening and renewing and refreshing power of its blessed truths on his soul; he has then the Witness within, and that's a witness that can't lie. I won't give up the truthful testimony of this living Witness for your random guess-work sayings, which you yourself can't know to be true. I don't want, Sir, to offend you; but I look upon you as a false prophet, who may deceive the wicked, but can't deceive a man who fears God and loves Jesus Christ as I do, and shall do for ever."

Perfect stillness prevailed around; no sounds were heard but my own footsteps, and the occasional notes of the nightingale, until I came to a brake, when I heard the following verses of a favourite hymn, though the singer was concealed:—

"The calm retreat, the silent shade
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem by thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow thee.

"There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!

"There, like the nightingale, she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.

"Author and guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And—all harmonious names in one—
My Saviour! thou art mine.

"What thanks I owe thee, and what love!
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above
When time shall be no more."

I lingered here some time after the music had died away, luxuriating in my own hallowed reflections; and then advancing a few steps, I perceived, seated in a hollow, a decent middle-aged woman, and, apparently, her daughter, who were thus pouring forth their evening hymn of praise. I then returned to the inn, had my supper, and after engaging in prayer with the family, retired to rest. In the morning I rose early and revisited the vale, humming over, as I sauntered along, the following suggestive and consolatory lines of a modern poet:—

"God is here; how sweet the sound!
All I feel and all I see,
Nature teems, above, around,
With universal Deity.

"Is there danger? Void of fear,
Though the death-wing'd arrow fly,
I can answer, God is here,
And I move beneath his eye.

"When I pray, he hears my pray'r;
When I weep, he sees my grief:
Do I wander? He is here,
Ready to afford relief."

I reached the end of the walk before aware of it; when I saw a cottage, towards which I bent my steps. It was small, yet tastefully adorned with jessamine, honey-suckles, and rose-trees, with a neat flower-garden in front, inclosed by a hawthorn hedge; and while admiring its varied beauties, an elderly female made her appearance, whose physiognomy and whose manners were very prepossessing. After a little desultory conversation, as I stood resting my arm on the top of her little wicket-gate, she invited me to come in and rest myself. I accepted her invitation, and soon found that I was in the society of one of the Lord's "hidden ones." My hostess was a widow, whose husband had been dead about seven years. She informed me that her father, a man of piety and of wealth, had given her an education becoming his station; that at the age of seventeen she yielded herself to God, as one alive from the dead, and before she reached her twentieth year, she was married to one of the most amiable and one of the most attentive men that ever became a husband. A kind Providence smiled upon them during the first twelve years of their wedded life, when a series of disasters befell them, which turned their paradise of bliss into a valley of weeping. Her father having made some large speculations in the wool-trade, lost the whole of his property, and not having been inured to affliction in his earlier days, his vigorous constitution gave way, and he died, exclaiming, "Though I have lost all my worldly substance, yet the pearl of great price is still mine." The insolvency of her father shook public confidence in the commercial respectability of her husband, who was soon obliged to call together his creditors; and though there was more than sufficient property to meet their demands, yet, by making him a bankrupt, they did not receive quite half their amount. When his affairs were wound up, and he had obtained his certificate, his friends raised a subscription for him, and he recommenced business; but the hand of the Lord was against him, and he could not succeed.

An interesting daughter, who, from the age of seven years, had been seeking the Lord, was so overwhelmed by the afflictions of her parents, that she fell into a rapid decline; and though there were occasionally some bright prospects of her recovery, yet at last the night of death came and sealed up the vision of life. The father, who was a man of a very delicate frame, gradually sank beneath his accumulated trials, and left his widow with a son, without any resources for their future maintenance.

Her son was sent to a boarding-school, where he was educated at the expense of his uncle; and as the place of her nativity had lost all its attractions, she chose to retire to the lonely cottage in which I found her, where He who multiplied the widow's oil has never suffered her to want any good thing.

An occasional tear fell from her eye while she was relating this tale of woe, yet there was a dignified composure in her countenance, and that led me to remark—"I presume, Madam, that though you have met with such severe losses, you have not lost your confidence in God, nor the peace of mind it yields."

"No, Sir; I have enjoyed in this cottage more of the Divine presence than I ever felt in the days of prosperity, and would not willingly return to the world, and hazard the loss of my spiritual consolations, could I obtain its highest prizes. I know that my afflictions have been sent by my heavenly Father, who is too wise to err, and too good to act unkindly. He has designs to accomplish, by his dispensations, which may appear to us mysterious, because to us they are unknown; but though clouds and darkness are round about him, yet righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne. I now find the wells of salvation yield sweeter waters than when resorted to in former times, and my prospect of future glory is brighter and more animating than in the days of my greatest prosperity."

On expressing my surprise that she could willingly reside where the means of grace could not be fully enjoyed, she informed me that she was not deprived of these privileges. "If you look in that direction, you will see a spire rising among the trees on yonder hill. In that church the gospel is preached in its purity and in its power, and the Rector, who is an amiable man, usually preaches on Sabbath morning, when I attend. In the afternoon I stay at home and meditate on what I have heard; and in the evening I go to hear an excellent minister of Christ, who preaches in a small Dissenting chapel at the other end of our hamlet."

"Then you are no bigot?"

"No, I love all who love Christ; and to me it is immaterial where I go, if I can obtain an interview with Him, whom unseen I love."

"As the gospel is preached in your village, I hope you have met with some with whom you can enjoy Christian fellowship."

"Yes, the Lord has a few in this modern Sardis who have escaped the general pollution, and are walking worthy their high vocation. We meet once in the week for prayer and conversation, and are often favoured with times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord."

"Have you ever had any conversation with a pious shepherd, who feeds his flock in your beautiful vale?"

"O yes, he is often our chaplain. The word of Christ dwells in him richly. He has an excellent gift in prayer, and is an Israelite indeed; a beautiful specimen of the new-creating power of the Almighty."

"But do you never wish to reside in a town, where you could enjoy an extensive intercourse with the religious world?"

"O no; I have lived long enough to know that a few select friends, whose minds are uncontaminated by the censorious spirit of the age, are a richer treasure than a promiscuous throng, enslaved and governed by sectarian prejudices."

The room in which we were conversing was neatly furnished; a few pictures decorated one of the side walls, and a small library was placed in the centre of the opposite. I found among the books a copy of Robinson's Village Sermons, and on taking it from the shelf, I observed, "Robinson was an extraordinary man, but the eventide of his life was comparative darkness."

"Yes, it was; but the productions of his pen have often yielded me pure mental enjoyment; and, if you will permit me, I will show you a passage in one of his sermons, which I never read without bearing a personal testimony to its accuracy:—'Is it a benefit to understand the spirit and see the beauty of the Holy Scriptures? Afflictions teach Christians the worth of their Bibles, and so wrap up their hearts in the oracles of God. The Bible is but an insipid book to us before afflictions bring us to feel the want of it, and then how many comfortable passages do we find which lay neglected and unknown before! I recollect an instance in a history of some who fled from persecution in this country to that then wild desert, America. Among many other hardships, they were sometimes in such straits for bread, that the very crusts of their former tables in England would have been a dainty to them. Necessity drove the women and children to the sea-side to look for a ship expected to bring them provisions; but no ship for many weeks appeared; however, they saw in the sands vast quantities of shell-fish, since called clams, a sort of mussels. Hunger impelled them to taste, and at length they fed almost wholly on them, and to their own astonishment were as cheerful, fat, and lusty as they had been in England with their fill of the best provisions. A worthy man one day, after they had all dined on clams without bread, returned God thanks for causing them to suck of the abundance of the seas, and of treasures hid in the sand—a passage in the 33d chapter of Deuteronomy, a part of the blessing with which Moses blessed the tribe of Zebulun before his death; a passage till then unobserved by the company, but which ever after endeared the writings of Moses to them."

Just as she finished reading, a farmer-looking man came to the door with a letter, which Mrs. Lewellin took and opened with eagerness. She wept as she read, and involuntarily exclaimed—"O George! my son, my son!" Unwilling to withhold consolation from one who had passed through such fiery trials, I asked her if she had received any intelligence of a very painful nature.

"Yes," she said, while endeavouring to suppress the rising grief of her heart, "I have a letter from my dear boy, who has resided in London for the last two years. He is very ill. O Sir! if——." A long silence ensued, which was interrupted only by the expressions of strong maternal grief. "If he had felt the power of divine grace changing his heart——." She wept again. "But I fear he has been drawn away from religion by evil companions. Oh! if he were to die, where could I ever find rest? This is a trial which pierces my heart."

"I am not surprised to witness such excessive grief; but may not this affliction be sent to elicit the meaning of some obscure passage of the Sacred Volume? Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness; that is, deliverance comes when most needed, but as often when least expected. The set time for your son's conversion may be nigh at hand; and He who worketh all things after the counsel of His own will may now be making the necessary preparations for this great event; so that your mourning may very soon be turned into rejoicing."

"If the Lord should be pleased to renew the soul of my dear boy, I shall, like the father, when he saw his prodigal son retracing his steps to his long-deserted home, feel an ecstasy of joy. The crisis in his moral history may be coming. I will betake myself to special prayer, and in faith and hope wait the issue. Nothing is impossible with God."

THE WIDOW'S SON.

George Lewellin, the son of the lonely widow, at the decease of his father was twelve years of age. He finished his education under the direction of his uncle; and, having attained his seventeenth year, he was placed in a merchant's counting-house in London. In person he was tall and slender, prepossessing in appearance and manners, unreserved in disposition, of an amiable temper, and disposed, from the ingenuous sincerity of his heart, to regard every one as his friend who courted his society. Soon after his entrance on his new course of life, he received an affectionate letter from his mother, cautioning him against the many temptations of the metropolis:—

"As, my dear George, you are removed from under the immediate inspection of your friends, and will be exposed to a variety of temptations, permit me to urge upon you the importance of reading the Scriptures daily, of regularly attending some place of worship on the Sabbath-day, and of avoiding the company of the gay and dissipated. If companions entice you to the play-house, to card parties, or to places of public amusement, do not allow them to prevail upon you; for, if you once give way to their entreaties, you will soon be overcome. I have had many trials. I have lost my property; I have buried your lovely sister; I have wept over the tomb of your pious father; and to see you turning your back on religion, would bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. But I hope better things of you, though I thus write. Let me hear from you soon, and often; and give me a faithful account of how you spend your time; and believe me to be yours, most affectionately," &c.

His reply will give the reader some insight into the state of his mind and situation:—

"My Dear Mother,—I thank you for your kind letter. Yes; you have had many trials, but I hope you have, at least, one living comfort left. To promote your happiness will be, I trust, the constant effort of my life; and as I know something of the value of prayer, I hope you will always have me in remembrance when at a throne of grace. I have a good room at a Mr. Jordan's, in the City Road. Mr. Jordan is a plain, pious man, and his wife appears very amiable. They have no children, and they treat me as their son. I very much like the situation which my uncle has procured for me. There are, in the office, three clerks besides myself, but they are all my seniors. The oldest is married, and has a family. The next is the son of a Friend, but he has thrown off the plain garb, and often ridicules the simple mode of speech for which that scrupulous people are distinguished. The other is the only son of a country esquire of large fortune. They treat me with the greatest kindness; and so does the gentleman in whose service I have the honour of being employed. My time is fully occupied; and though business is new to me, yet I begin to find the difficulties attending it giving way. I will try to please, and I hope shall be successful. As I know you feel more anxious about my spiritual than my temporal prosperity, I shall give you an account of the manner in which I spend my Sabbaths. I regularly attend church twice a-day, and have already heard some of the most celebrated preachers in London, but have not yet determined to what congregation I shall attach myself. Variety is charming, but I rather think that a stated ministry is the most profitable. I often think of you and your lovely retreat, and wish I could pop in upon you to receive the maternal blessing."

A material change soon took place in the principles and habits of young Lewellin, and it may be proper to give a brief account of those to whose influence it may be ascribed. The senior clerk in the office was an amiable man, but his mind was deeply tinctured by the deistical sentiments of the age. He would occasionally throw out some insinuations against professors; but as he perceived it gave Lewellin pain, he was rather sparing in his remarks. Mr. Gordon, the semi-Quaker, was less guarded; and, being a young man of a ready wit and polished manners, he became a dangerous companion. Having been educated under a severe discipline, which taught him to regard the cut of the coat and the construction of a sentence as important if not essential branches of religion, he had imbibed deep-rooted prejudices against it; and, though still in regular attendance at meeting on first-day morning, yet he usually spent the other parts of the Sabbath at some place of public resort. His respectability introduced him into the best society, and his principles fitted him for the worst. He narrowly watched Lewellin; and resolved to emancipate him, if possible, from under the control of his religious opinions and habits; and he proceeded with great caution in this work of moral destruction, being aware that, if his principles were stormed before they were undermined, he should excite a powerful resistance. Having laid his plan of seduction, he soon began to carry it into execution. On leaving the office one evening, he politely asked Lewellin to spend an hour with him. Lewellin frankly accepted his invitation, and they had a long conversation together, during which Gordon displayed so much good-nature, such a fund of anecdote, and such a rich vein of wit, that he gained an entire ascendency over his friend, who expressed a desire that the intimacy now formed might be perpetuated. The clock struck eleven, when Lewellin suddenly started from his chair, and took his hat and cane; but was detained two hours longer by the powerful attractions of his companion. At length he bade him good-night. As he passed down Fleet Street, his conscience began to smite him. "What would my dear mother feel if she knew where I am at this hour!" But, having resolved that he would never again be guilty of such an act of imprudence, his faithful monitor was hushed to silence:—"He is a charming man!—What an extensive knowledge of the world!—What a fund of anecdote; and how well he narrates and describes! A new scene is opening before me." Thus he talked to himself, till he reached his lodgings, where he found the family very much alarmed.

"Dear Sir," said Mrs. Jordan, as soon as the passage door was opened, "we are very glad to see you. We were fearful that you had lost yourself, or that some greater evil had befallen you."

"I am sorry," replied Lewellin, "that I have kept you up so late; but Mr. Gordon pressed me to spend the evening with him, and the time slipped by before I was aware of it."

"I am glad to see you home," said Mr. Jordan; "and, as we have been expecting you every minute for the last three hours, we have not yet had family prayer." The good man knelt down, and prayed most affectionately for his young friend, who stood exposed to so many temptations.

Next day Lewellin went to the office as usual, but nothing particular occurred till the evening, when Gordon asked him to accept the loan of a book, which he had no doubt would amuse him. He took it, and hastened home to peruse it. Immediately after tea he retired to his own room. He opened the volume, read the title-page, threw the book on the table, and exclaimed, "No; I'll not read it. I gave my word of honour to my mother that I would never read a novel; and I will not sacrifice my honour to please any friend." He paced the room backwards and forwards for some time, reflecting on the past evening, till the thoughts of his heart troubled him, when he seated himself in the arm-chair which was standing near the table. As the book was elegantly bound, he took it up, and examined the workmanship; read the whole of the title-page, and then the preface; and, finding nothing very objectionable, he read on, till startled by a knock at the door. "Who is there?" "Will you come down to supper, Sir?" He took out his watch, and found that he had been reading two hours, and as it was the first novel he ever read, it had so deeply fixed his attention, that he had nearly finished it before he felt conscious of what he was doing. "Yes, yes, I'll come presently; but don't wait." "Let me see, there are thirty more pages; I'll finish it." He read on, but the charm was broken by a recollection of his vow; and he again threw the book from him, exclaiming, "Fascinating wretch, thou hast beguiled me of my honour!" He hastened out of the room, that he might avoid the reflections of his own mind; and when he entered the parlour, he found an interesting young man, of whom he had often heard Mr. Jordan speak. This young man was intelligent and pious, highly accomplished in his manners, and just on the eve of being married. After supper he engaged in family prayer; and when offering up his devout thanksgivings to the God of all grace, for preserving him from the paths of the destroyer, and guiding his feet in the way of peace, he made a natural transition to the situation of Lewellin, and most fervently prayed that he might be enabled to escape the pollution of the world, and consecrate himself to the service of the God of his fathers. Lewellin endeavoured to conceal his emotions, but the recollection of his having that night sacrificed his honour, threw such a melancholy air over his countenance, that Mrs. Jordan, who felt deeply interested in his welfare, abruptly asked him if he was unwell. The question perplexed him; but assuming his ordinary cheerfulness, he replied, "No, Madam." Having sat a little longer, he took leave of the company, and retired to rest. On casting his eye on the book, as he stood musing, he said, "Well, I don't know that I have received any moral injury from reading it; and perhaps my mother did wrong to press me to pledge my word that I would not read a novel."

Next Sabbath Mr. Gordon called on him in the afternoon, and asked him to accompany him to the Lock, to hear a celebrated preacher. As they were passing through St. James's Park, they met Mr. Phillips (the other clerk in the office), with three ladies. The meeting appeared accidental; and as Mr. Phillips pressed his friends to do him and the ladies the honour of their company, politeness induced a compliance, and the whole party took an excursion on the river. They did not return till late; and it was past twelve before Lewellin reached his lodgings. On entering the parlour he made an apology for not being home earlier, and to avoid being embarrassed by any questions, took his candle, and retired to his own room. He sat himself down; but the sight of the Bible, which lay on the table, agonized his feelings, and he began to reproach himself in the bitterest terms. "Yes, a new scene is opening before me; but what a scene! No; I will break the charm before I am completely enslaved! My mother does not know it.——But the eye of God——I cannot conceal myself from him. Woe is me! I am lost! I am undone! No; I will repent. I will ask for mercy." He threw himself on his bed, and after hours of mental torture and bitter lamentation he fell asleep; but he was scared by the visions of the night, and when the light of the morning dawned, it brought no tidings of peace. At length he arose, and went to the office, where he met his companions in guilt, but his mind was too much depressed to allow him to be cheerful; and the references which were made to the excursion of the preceding evening aggravated his misery. When the business of the day was closed, he walked away in silent sadness; but he had not gone far before Gordon overtook him, and invited him to take some refreshment in a coffee-house. He strongly objected—and then consented.

"I perceive," said Gordon, "that you are unhappy, and I guess the cause. You suffer your noble mind to be tortured by the tales of the nursery. Treat them with contempt."

"No, I am not tortured by the tales of the nursery, but by the reflections of a guilty conscience."

"Conscience," said Gordon, smiling; "I had such a thing once, but as it stood in the way of my love of pleasure, I got rid of it, and now I am happy, because I am free. And I assure you that you will never be fitted to enjoy life till you form juster notions of the Deity than religion inspires; and till you open your heart to the sublime gratifications which the society and amusements of this far-famed city afford. Come, give way to the impulse of your generous nature, and accompany me this evening."

"Where?"

"Where you shall have a mental feast."

Lewellin, expecting that Gordon was going to a Philosophical Society, of which he was a member, gave his consent; nor was he undeceived, till he found himself seated in a box at Drury Lane Theatre. His conscience smote him; but as he had been decoyed there, the faithful reprover was soon silenced; the curtain was drawn, and the stage exhibited a scene which was not only new but captivating. When the play was over, Gordon said, "I have watched your countenance during the whole of the tragedy, and I perceive that you have an instinctive taste for the drama. Yes, Lewellin, this is the school to exalt the genius and amend the heart. Here our manners are polished, our taste is refined, and those moral sentiments are inculcated which make the man the gentleman."

On leaving the theatre they adjourned to an hotel, where they ordered supper, and as they sat conversing together till a very late hour, they decided on sleeping there. The Rubicon was now passed, and Lewellin, having tasted of the forbidden fruit, resolved to rid himself of his Puritanical notions (as he began to term his religious sentiments), that he might enjoy life. The first step he took was to write a letter to his kind friend, Mr. Jordan, to say that circumstances rendered it inconvenient for him to reside so far from the office, and therefore he was under the painful necessity of taking another set of rooms; he added, "I will call and settle with you; and I will thank you to send my dressing-case, &c., by the bearer." He then told his friend Gordon what he had done, who congratulated him on his courage, and assured him that he was welcome to accommodation in his apartments until he could suit himself better.

The seducer having now got his victim in his own power, hurried him through the various stages of vice with almost breathless impetuosity. The theatre, the billiard-room, the tavern, and other places, were alternately visited; and he who a few months before was horror-struck at the sight of a novel, could now occupy the seat of a scorner. But he was not suffered to remain there undisturbed. Conscience would sometimes inflict the most poignant wounds. The thought of home, of his pious father and sister, of the day of judgment, and of his loving mother, drove him at times almost frantic; when, after pronouncing a secret curse on his companion, he would plunge himself deeper in iniquity, that he might gain a momentary relief. To follow him through the course of impiety which he ran for the space of two years, during which time he involved himself in debt and in hopeless misery, would afford the reader no gratification. Disease, which had been for some time destroying his health, and impairing the vigour of his constitution, now incapacitated him for business, and he was obliged to keep to his apartments, which were near those of Mr. Gordon. For several days after his confinement he received no attention from his friend, and that left his mind more at liberty to take the black review.

He reproached himself—he reproached the destroyer of his peace—he wept, but he could not pray. He wrote a letter to his pious mother, but he burned it—he wrote another, and burned it. He wrote to his friend, Mr. Jordan, whom he had not seen since he left his house, and, just as he was directing it, the servant announced Mr. Gordon.

"Well, George, how are you?"

"Ill, very ill, and you are the cause of it!"

"I the cause of it!"

"Yes, you enticed me from the paths of virtue into the paths of vice, and though I reproach myself for my folly in giving way to your entreaties, yet, Sir, you are the seducer."

"Ah! Lewellin, you are got back to the tales of the nursery. Come, come, pluck up your spirits. You will soon get better. What does the doctor say? I was at Drury last night, and never had a finer treat."

"The doctor gives me but little hope, and your present conversation gives me less pleasure. If I die, I must appear before my Judge, and am I (wringing his hands) prepared? No!"

"Well, then, I will be off, but don't play the fool; die like a man. Phillips says he'll call to see you to-morrow, but I suppose a visit from some of the godly will be more acceptable."

"I want a visit from some one who can minister to a mind diseased."

"Well, good-bye. But die like a man, if you are doomed to death."

He was now left alone, irresolute—alarmed. He rings. "Put that letter in the post immediately." Is more composed. Mr. Jordan called on him next morning, and when he saw him could not refrain from weeping. Lewellin cautiously concealed from him the cause of his illness, but informed him that the doctor gave but little hope of his life.

"Does your dear mother know how you are?"

"No, I do not like to alarm her; but if I do not get better in a few days, I think I shall endeavour to go down and see her, and if I must die, I hope to die in her arms."

"I have called several times at your office since you left my house, but you were either engaged, or not within, and we have often wondered why you never came to see us. We have always had you in remembrance at a throne of grace."

"Ah! had I never left your house, I should not have been reduced to that state of wretchedness and woe in which you now see me. I was seduced by a worthless companion, and now—(he made a long pause)—I have cut short my life; I have ruined my soul; I shall break my mother's heart. O eternity! how I dread thee."

The tender feelings of Mr. Jordan were so strongly excited by the looks and the expressions of Lewellin, that he could make no reply for several minutes. At length he said, "But the chief of sinners may obtain mercy."

"Yes, I know that the chief of sinners may obtain mercy, if they repent and believe; but I cannot do either. I have fitted myself for destruction, and now I must prepare to go where the worm dieth not, and where the fire will never be quenched."

"Do not despair of mercy."

"Yes, I must. Despair gives me more relief than hope."

"Shall I pray with you?"

"It is too late."

"Consent."

"Then pray for my dear mother; pray that her mind may be prepared for the distressing news which will soon reach her ears. I have deceived her."

Mr. Jordan knelt down and prayed; but his importunity merely served to invest the pang of despair with an additional degree of terror.

"All is useless—

'The help of men and angels join'd
Can never reach my case.'"

"That's true, my dear young friend, but"——

"Pardon me for interrupting you, but I dare not ask for mercy. Justice demands a victim, and I must die."

"But mercy pleads."

"Yes, but she will never plead for me."

"Do try to pray."

"No, I am not disposed to offer a fresh insult to God. He has rejected me. I know my doom. It is irrevocably fixed. I deserve all I suffer, and all I have to suffer."

Mr. Jordan now left him, but called again the next evening, when he found him rather better and more composed, and was gratified to hear that he had written a letter to his mother, informing her of his indisposition, and that she might expect to see him in the space of a few days, as he had been recommended to try the effect of a change of air.

THE WIDOW'S SON RECLAIMED.

The influence of Divine truth on the youthful mind is often very salutary; it keeps the conscience tender, even when it does not keep it pure; it inspires an awe of God, and a secret dread of evil, even when it does not root out of the heart a predilection for it; and secures an external consistency of moral deportment, even while the mind remains unchanged. But such is the extreme degeneracy of our nature, that its sinful appetites and propensities will often burst through the most powerful restraints, and the fascinating temptations of an evening, or even a single hour, will often render apparently useless all the efforts of a long and painstaking course of domestic instruction and discipline. Hence the youth who has been trained up in the "fear of the Lord," on finding himself removed from under the watchful eye of parental solicitude, may, after a momentary hesitation, yield to the ensnaring seductions of the world, and launch forth into scenes of impurity and vice, braving the consequences; and though occasionally disturbed by some compunctious visitations, yet he passes on, contemning his early religious impressions, and treating with profane levity those momentous truths which once overawed and animated his soul. But can he proceed without meeting with some formidable resistances? Can he forget that the piercing eye of God follows him through all the windings and doublings of his course? Can he shake off the dread of futurity, and bid his dark forebodings cease? No; conscience stands in his way, and disputes his passage, by turning against him the sword of truth, which often inflicts a wound too deep even for intemperance to heal or soothe. He sighs for peace, but peace comes not; for there is no peace to the wicked.

To indulge the hope of reclaiming such a youth by the mere force of terror or persuasion, would be a visionary prospect; yet, have we never seen the prodigal return? Have we never heard the parent exclaim, "For this my son was dead, but is alive again; he was lost, but is found?"

George Lewellin left London a few days after he had communicated the state of his health to his mother, and reached her home the following morning; when she saw him, as he was opening the wicket gate in front of the house, she sprang up, ran, fell on his neck, and kissed him. The interview was affecting; and it was some moments before either of them could speak. On raising her eyes to survey the once lovely form of her only son, now emaciated by disease, she could not refrain from exclaiming, as she pressed him still closer to her agonized bosom, "O, George, what's the matter? How long have you been ill? Why did you conceal your illness from me?"

"Be composed, mother; I am better, and have no doubt but relaxation from business, and the fresh air of the country, will be the means of bringing me about again. The porter is waiting with my trunk; I will thank you to satisfy him for his trouble, as I have no change."

During the first week after his arrival he began to mend; and all indulged a hope of his speedy recovery; but disease had taken too deep root in his constitution to be suddenly eradicated; and within a fortnight the fever returned with increasing violence, setting at defiance the skill of the physician, who confessed that his life was in the most imminent danger. He now took to his bed, and said to a young friend who called to see him: "I shall never leave this room till I am carried out by the ministers of death." On the following Sabbath, his mother ventured to ask him how he felt in prospect of death. This question agitated him. He became restless, a sullen gloom was thrown over his countenance, and he remained silent. This silence inflicted a deeper wound in her tender bosom than the most piercing cries of mental anguish; and though she endeavoured to conceal her grief, yet she was unable to do so. "O, George, do tell me. When I lost your father, I had the consolation of knowing that he was gone to heaven; and your dear departed sister said, just before she left me, 'Weep not for me, for I shall soon see the King in his beauty;' and will you die without allowing me to indulge the hope of meeting you in heaven?"

DRAWN BY G. H. THOMAS. ENGRAVED BY W. L. THOMAS.

RETURN OF THE WIDOW'S SON.

Vol. i. page 23.

"My dear mother, I have deceived you once, but deception is now at an end; I have 'trampled under foot the blood of the covenant,' and that blood is now crying for vengeance against me. I know my doom; and, however painful it may be to your feelings to see your own child lingering out the few remaining days of his life, without one cheering hope, yet I do request that you will not embitter my last hours by making any allusions to heaven."

"O, George, my child!"

"O, my mother, I am undone!"

As his mind was in such a perturbed state, Mrs. Lewellin thought it prudent to turn the current of conversation; and, after listening to a detailed account of his course of life when in London, she retired to try the efficacy of prayer. In the evening a pious young friend called to see him, to whom he said, "I will thank you to remove that Bible out of my sight, for its very presence agonizes me. Such a book ought not to lie near such a wretch as I am. It is like compelling the criminal to ride on his own coffin to the place of execution."

"But, my dear Sir, that holy book contains a revelation of mercy and grace to sinners, and offers salvation to the chief."

"I know all that, and therefore I wish it removed; for I have made sport with the revelation of mercy."

"But the Lord waits to be gracious."

"No; he is now laughing at my calamity; and soon the curtain of life will drop, and then his injured justice will be glorified in my condemnation. Give me a draught of water."

He drank the whole in haste; and, on giving back the cup, said, "It would afford me some relief if I could hope to find a spring of water in hell. But, no; not one drop there to cool my parched tongue!"

"O, George, do not put from you the words of peace."

"The words of peace, to my soul, are like the dragon's sting or the viper's bite; and the voice of mercy sounds more awful in my ears than the footsteps of vengeance. I know my doom; and if you wish me to have a moment's calm while the respite lasts, talk of earth, of its joys, or of its sorrows; but bring me not near the spot where Mercy died for man."

The fever, which had remained stationary for several days, now raged with uncontrolled violence, without impairing the vigour or acuteness of his intellect, and all expected that a few hours would terminate his mortal career. His mother hung over him, breathing the purest and most ardent affection; but she was not permitted to instil the consolations of religion, and that at length so overpowered her feelings that she was obliged to retire, leaving her only son the victim of despair. His eye followed her as she left the room; and when the door closed, he burst into a flood of tears, exclaiming, "The doom that awaits me would be less terrible, if I could have concealed it from my mother. I have destroyed myself, and plunged the fatal dagger into her breast. O, thou holy, thou righteous God, thou art clear when thou judgest, and just when thou condemnest! Have pity on my dear mother, and support her soul under this awful visitation of thy vengeance!"

He now became more composed; but on hearing the clock strike eleven, he started up in bed, asked for a large draught of cold water, and expressed an ardent wish to see his mother once more, as he was apprehensive that life was just on the eve of departing. A female attendant went to call her, but she was asleep; and on returning, she asked if she should awake her. After a long pause, he said, "No; let her sleep on, and take her rest, and I will die alone, and spare her the agony of hearing the last tremendous groan, which is to announce my entrance into hell." He then requested that another pillow might be placed under his head; and turning himself on his left side, he laid himself down to expire. In about a quarter of an hour the nurse, who was standing by his side, gently whispered, "I think he is gone;" but on feeling his pulse, she soon ascertained that he was in a profound sleep. He slept for several hours, during which time the fever very much abated, and when he awoke he said, with a firm tone, "I now think I shall recover."

"Yes, my child," replied Mrs. Lewellin, "the Lord has heard my prayers, and answered them, by sparing your life; and I have no doubt but he will answer them further by making this affliction the means of bringing you to repentance, and the enjoyment of fellowship with him."

This appropriate remark made a deep impression; he looked at his mother, but said nothing. His recovery was as rapid as his relapse had been dangerous; and though his strength was greatly impaired, yet he was able to leave his room in the early part of the ensuing week. Being now rescued from the brink of death, and animated with the hope of returning health, as he sat alone musing over the awful scene through which he had so recently passed, he laid his hand on a hymn-book, which was placed on the table, and read the following hymn with intense interest:—

"When with my mind devoutly press'd,
Dear Saviour, my revolving breast
Would past offences trace;
Trembling I make the black review,
Yet pleased behold, admiring too,
The pow'r of changing grace.

"This tongue with blasphemies defil'd,
These feet in erring paths beguil'd,
In heavenly league agree.
Who could believe such lips could praise,
Or think my dark and winding ways
Should ever lead to thee?

"These eyes, that once abused their sight,
Now lift to thee their wat'ry light,
And weep a silent flood;
These hands ascend in ceaseless pray'r;
O wash away the stains they wear,
In pure redeeming blood.

"These ears that, pleased, could entertain
The midnight oath, the lustful strain,
When round the festal board;
Now, deaf to all th' enchanting noise,
Avoid the throng, detest the joys,
And press to hear thy word.

"Thus art thou serv'd in ev'ry part;
O would'st thou more transform my heart,
This drossy thing refine;
That grace might nature's strength control,
And a new creature, body, soul,
Be, Lord, for ever thine."

While reading these verses, the determination he had formed to live and die without hope, was shaken; but after a momentary pause, he involuntarily exclaimed, in an under tone of utterance, "It would be an act of presumption for me to indulge a hope of ever feeling the power of 'changing grace.' No, it cannot be; my heart is too hard. I am too impure, too depraved, too guilty." This novel train of thought was broken off by the entrance of his mother into the parlour, who was surprised and delighted by seeing him with the hymn-book, which he still held in his hand. Without appearing to notice it, after a casual reference to the good prospect of his speedy restoration to health, she said, "I hope, my dear George, as you are now able to visit your friends, that you will accompany me in the evening to chapel, where you will hear a most excellent minister."

"I will go to oblige you, but I can anticipate no other pleasure."

"But you may derive some profit, for there the Lord condescends to make the truth effectual to the salvation of them that believe.'

"But I cannot believe, no, I cannot; I would, but I cannot!"

"But faith, my dear child, comes by hearing; and who can tell but this night you may feel the power of changing grace."

After tea, Mrs. Lewellin and her son walked to the chapel; and though there were no splendid decorations to allure the devotee of superstition, nor any sculptured forms to attract the attention of the sentimental worshipper, yet it was invested with unrivalled charms in her estimation, as the place where

"——The Father sits supreme,
As King Eternal, to receive
Petitions that his servants bring,
The homage which his subjects give."

The reading, the singing, and the prayer accorded with the general tone of feeling which a select congregation usually enjoy; and though young Lewellin conducted himself with the greatest degree of decorum, yet it was not till after the text was announced that he appeared interested in the service. The preacher was a young man, of a correct taste, strong intellectual powers, and bold and animated address; but the subject which he had chosen for discussion was more adapted to establish the Christian in his faith, than reclaim the sinner from the error of his ways. The text was taken from 1st Corinthians, vi. 17: He that is joined unto the Lord is one spirit. There were no flights of lofty imagination in the composition of the discourse; no powerful appeals to the conscience; no master-strokes of argument, levelled against either the root or branches of infidelity; no terrific enunciations of the Divine displeasure; but a calm and spiritual explanation and defence of the doctrine of our union with Jesus Christ. The service was concluded without having produced any visible effects on Lewellin, who walked away with his mother, and the only remark he made was, "I never heard such a sermon before." She knew not how to interpret the meaning of this ambiguous expression, and made no reply, lest, by coming in contact with his deistical opinions, she should be incapable of persuading him to accompany her at a future time. On entering the parlour, he took a candle and retired to his own room, which gave his mother a private opportunity of imploring the blessing of Heaven on the service of the evening. After waiting a considerable time, she began to feel uneasy, and went to the bottom of the stairs to listen; but on hearing his footsteps as he paced his chamber, she resumed her seat. An hour had now elapsed since she had seen him; the ambulating motion was no longer heard, her fears were strongly excited, and being unable to suppress them, she stole up softly to his door, and listening a while with breathless anxiety, she heard, or thought she heard, an indistinct sound; she then looked through the keyhole of the door, and lo! he was on his knees in prayer. Had she seen visions of God, she might have been more awed, but she could not have been more delighted. She wept as she descended the stairs, but they were such tears as sorrow never sheds. Her heart was full, and she gave vent to her enraptured feeling at the footstool of His throne who had caused grace to abound where sin had been reigning nigh unto death.

At supper her son appeared very sedate, absorbed in deep thought; yet there was a serenity in his countenance, and an ease in his manner, which bespoke the composure of his mind. "I think," said his mother, "that the discourse we heard this evening placed the happiness and security of the Christian on such a firm basis, that we might have concluded the service by singing the beautiful lines of Toplady:—

'Yes, I to the end shall endure,
As sure as the earnest is given,
More happy, but not more secure,
The glorified spirits in heaven.'"

"You might have sung these words, because you are a Christian, but how could I have responded to them?"

"I hope, my dear George, you liked the sermon."

"I never heard such a sermon; at least I never heard a sermon which produced such an effect on my mind. I could have listened till midnight. I felt what I never felt before."

Yes! that night he felt the power of "changing grace," and the change produced in his opinions, taste, and habits, soon became conspicuous; and while it excited the ridicule of some, the gratitude of others, and the astonishment of all, it was as a witness raised from the dead to give a fresh testimony to the divine origin of the truth which had been the means of effecting it. He who had been a bold blasphemer, now became a man of prayer; the intoxicating cup was exchanged for the wine of the kingdom; the Sabbath was hallowed as a day of rest; and the amusements and dissipations of the world were forsaken for the more refined enjoyments of devotion.

As soon as his health was re-established, he began to prepare for his return to his situation in London; and though he recoiled from the prospect of being compelled to associate with his former companions, yet he indulged the hope of being able to reclaim them from the destructive paths of sin. He wrote to his friend, Mr. Jordan, with whom he lodged when he first went to London, to inform him of the change which had taken place, and to request permission to become once more an inmate in his pious family. To this letter he received a very encouraging reply; and the following week was fixed on for his departure.

But he could not consent to leave the place where he had passed from death to life—from the miseries of one world to the sublime anticipations of another—till he had borne a public testimony of his gratitude to the Redeemer, by receiving the memorials of his death. He waited on the faithful minister who had been employed as the angel of mercy to his soul, to express his desire; and on the following Sabbath, with his honoured parent, he sat down at the Lord's table, thus making a public profession of the faith which he once scornfully rejected.

The morning after his return to London he went to the office, and on entering every one arose to offer his congratulations; but Mr. Gordon exceeded all in the ardour of his expressions. "This," said he, "is one of the happiest days of my life, and I adore the fate which has decreed that death shall lose a victim to restore me my friend."

"I adore the mercy," replied Lewellin, "that has spared my life; and I trust, my dear Sir, that my friendship will now be a purer flame than ever burnt on the altar of my heart."

This reply created a little embarrassment to Mr. Gordon; but he soon got over it, and resumed his accustomed vivacity of disposition and ease of manners. In the evening they walked away together, when Lewellin informed him that a material change had taken place in his sentiments and in his taste; and that if he wished for a renewal of their former intimacy, it must be on the express condition of paying a most devout regard to the truths and institutions of revelation.

"What," said Gordon, "are you again enslaved in the trammels of superstition; and do you expect that I shall bow my neck to such an ignominious yoke!"

"What you deem the yoke of ignominy, I esteem the badge of honour; and what you deem a cunningly devised fable, I esteem Divine truth. You won me over to your sentiments, and what did they do for me? They impaired my health. They tore up the foundation of a good constitution, and they plunged me into despair. I lived a sceptic, but I found that I could not die one. I am now restored to health, to truth, to happiness; and it is my determination to consecrate myself to the service of God my Saviour."

"Ah, I pity you."

"Pity me! Pity is for objects of misery; and had you seen me when the terrors of death fell on me, you might have pitied me: but now I want no pity, for I am perfectly happy; happy, because redeemed and regenerated; and have the prospect of enjoying a state of endless happiness in the world to come.

"Then, I suppose, in future our office is to become the hot-bed of fanaticism, where the rank weeds of an ancient superstition are to overshade the lovely plants of reason's golden age?"

"As I shall not obtrude my religious sentiments on the attention of others, you may calculate on passing through your professional duties without being annoyed, unless you first attack them; and in that case, I shall certainly stand up in their defence."

"Well, well, that is all very fair. Then, if I do not commence the assault, you will not open your battery."

"It will be my aim to make myself agreeable, and to recommend my religion more by my example than by my arguments; because I know how you will evade the one, but it is not quite certain that even you can withstand the other.

"Ah, I see you resolve to play off upon me in the same way in which I triumphed over you, and I have no objection for the experiment to be tried; but it will not succeed."

The bold and decided manner in which Mr. Lewellin met the sarcasms of infidelity, and avowed his supreme regard to the truth of revelation, cut off from his former companions all hopes of getting him again to join their ranks; and they, as by mutual consent, abstained from either pressing or enticing him to do so. He now pursued his course without much obstruction, displaying an amiability of temper, and a dignified integrity of principle, which gained him general respect; and though some regretted the change, yet all acknowledged that it was beneficial. His mind was too powerfully imbued with the love of the grand and essential truths of revelation, to admit of his cherishing any undue predilection for the distinctive peculiarities of sectarian opinions; and hence he very easily guarded religion against the obnoxious charges to which it is too often exposed, by the dogmatism and intolerance of its injudicious advocates. He was now introduced by his friend, Mr. Jordan, to the Rev. W. C——, of whose church he became a member; and such was the vital energy which he threw into all his engagements, and such the unaffected humility which adorned his character, that he soon rose very high in the esteem of all his religious associates. As a Sunday-school teacher, as a visitor of the sick, and as an agent of the Tract Society, he was equalled by few, and surpassed by none; and he never appeared more delighted than when engaged, either alone or with others, in devising plans for the promotion of the spiritual and eternal welfare of his fellow-men; and in carrying them into execution he spared neither time, labour, nor expense.

FAIRMOUNT.

At a time when I was recovering from a long and severe illness, which had interrupted the regular discharge of my ministerial labours, and threatened the extinction of life, I received an invitation from my friend, Mr. Stevens, who lived near the romantic village of Watville, and resolved to pay him a visit. I travelled by easy stages; and in three days after I left home, I became an inmate in his hospitable villa.

The villa of Fairmount is situated on the summit of a hill, commanding an extensive view of a richly-wooded and picturesque country. On the evening of my arrival the scene was one of extreme beauty. At the base of the hill flowed a meandering river, stretching away into the far distance, sometimes lost amidst the luxuriant foliage, and again suddenly reappearing; here reposing in cool shadow, there gleaming with the rays of the setting sun. On the right, a small parish church, with its pointed arch and tapering spire, peeped through an inclosure of aged elms and sycamores; on the left, near the public road, a few white cottages, with trim gardens, where children were sporting gleefully. More distant, films of smoke marked the positions of various hamlets; and, stretching far as the eye could reach, the hills of another county rose in purple masses against the evening sky. In the meadow, the cow and the ox were feeding together, and from the sheepfold the bleating of the flock fell softly on the ear. A host of early associations rushed upon me, and filled me with pleasant recollections of days long past, and I felt relieved from the pressure and perplexities of my ordinary avocations.

Mr. Stevens, with whom I was now domiciled, was a very intelligent and pious man. In early life, like many others, he had imbibed the sceptical opinions of the age, but as they were invested with no power to

"Heal the sorrows of the heart, or allay its fears,"

he renounced them when the terrors of death fell upon him, and sought consolation at the cross of Christ. From that hour he became a decided Christian, choosing rather to suffer the reproach which is too often cast on genuine piety, than endure the pleasures of sin, which are but for a season. Soon after his translation from darkness to light, he was introduced to the amiable and pious Miss Bathurst, with whom he formed that sacred union, which has been through life a source of mutual felicity. The first few years after their marriage they were extremely anxious for an heir, but as Providence denied them this gratification, they were disposed to acquiesce in his decision, and to reduce to a practical operation the prayer which they had long been accustomed to repeat: "Thy will be done on earth, even as it is in heaven." Being exempted from the charge and the expense of a family, they were more at liberty to promote the welfare of others; and rarely a day elapsed which did not bear testimony to their benevolent exertions.

DRAWN BY S. READ ENGRAVED BY W. L. THOMAS.

A PROSPECT OF FAIRMOUNT.

Vol. i. page 32.

The morning after my arrival, Mrs. Stevens asked me if I would accompany her to see a poor pious young woman who was very ill; and, lest the distance should be an objection, she told me she had given orders for the carriage to be ready exactly at half-past ten. "And as, Sir," she remarked, "you take greater pleasure in tracing the operations of Divine grace in the renovation of the human soul than in exploring the wonders of the material universe, and feel a purer delight on seeing a repenting sinner than in gazing on the enchanting scenery to which you have made such frequent allusions, I think I can gratify you."

As we were passing along the road, she gave me the following narration:—"In the cottage to which we are going reside a poor man and his wife, who have had a large family, but all have died in infancy except one beautiful daughter. She, when only sixteen, entered the family of a respectable farmer in the adjoining parish, where she continued four years, and would, in all human probability, have continued there till now, had it not been for a dashing London servant, who, when on a visit to her own father, got acquainted with her; and by telling her of the high wages, and the little work which town servants have, made her dissatisfied with her place; and, in opposition to the advice of all her friends, she gave notice to leave, and actually went to London to try her fortune. When she arrived there she called on her friend, who had promised to procure her a situation; but was informed that no good one had yet turned up. She was recommended to take a lodging, for which she would have to pay only two shillings a-week, and no doubt, if she made proper inquiry, she would hear of something that would be for her advantage. Thus thrown on the world, without a home, and without a friend, she would have fallen a victim to her folly, had not Providence interposed to protect her. As she was passing along the Strand, with her bundle under her arm, a lady, who had once seen her at my house, recognized her, and asked her where she was going. The poor girl related her mournful tale, and implored pity. This lady took her to her own home, but as she was not in want of a servant, she could not retain her; yet she procured for her the best situation in her power. But, instead of high wages, she had not so much as when in the country; and her work was much more laborious. Thus disappointed, and having too high a spirit to return home, she gave herself up to grief; and taking a severe cold, which she neglected, her strength soon wasted away, and she was obliged to throw up her situation, and go into lodgings for the recovery of her health. But disease had made too great progress to be arrested; and after parting with nearly all her clothes to defray the expenses she had incurred, she was reduced to the alternative of dying for want or returning home. She wrote to her father, telling him she was very ill, and did not expect to live, and desiring as a favour that he would permit her to come home, and die in the room where she was born. As soon as the old man received her letter he hastened to our house; never did I witness such a burst of feeling. 'O Madam! my dear Harriet is very ill; she has sent us this——, and wants to come home, she says, to die.' He wept, like the old patriarch, when he saw the bloody coat instead of his darling son. I endeavoured to console him as well as I could, and immediately made an arrangement for her return. In the course of the next week, the grief-worn parents had the melancholy gratification of embracing their child. She was obliged to take to her bed on the very day of her arrival. I saw her the day after, and received from her a faithful narrative of her life. The wreck of beauty was still visible amidst the ruins of her constitution; and the hectic flush gave, at intervals, a superhuman expression to her countenance. I felt conscious that she was hastening to the grave; and this circumstance deeply depressed the feelings of her pious parents, who were fearfully apprehensive that she was not prepared for death and the final judgment. I requested them to leave us alone together, when I began to converse with her on the value of her soul, and on the only way of salvation. She wept, and said that she was fully aware of her danger and desert; but added, 'I hope that the Friend of sinners will have mercy on me. My conscience has often smote me; the anguish of my mind I cannot describe; but I lay myself at His feet, and cry, God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' I have," added Mrs. Stevens, "regularly renewed my visits almost every day; and I hope that my feeble efforts have been made the means of leading her to the Saviour."

We now alighted from the carriage, and entered the cottage. Its cleanliness and order bespoke the presence of taste and religious feeling. As soon as the poor girl heard that there was a minister of the gospel in the house, she expressed an ardent desire to see me. When I approached her bedside, she exclaimed, "'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief.' My pious parents impressed this fact on my memory in the days of my childhood, yet it never reached my heart till since I have been confined in this chamber. I have spent the prime of my days in vanity and sin, neglecting the means of grace, and disregarding the remonstrances of my own conscience; and, had not an invisible hand arrested me in my progress, I should have gone on till I had lost my soul. But here I am, a monument of mercy; a sinner saved through the blood of the Lamb. That kind lady is the best earthly friend I ever had. She has been the means of making known to me the way of life; and now I can say, 'I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day.'"

I expressed the pleasure I felt at hearing these joyful tidings, mingled my tears of gratitude with those of her relatives and friends, and after commending her soul to the care of the Lord Jesus, I bade her adieu, till we meet in that world where no disease will invade the constitution, where death will never burst asunder the bonds of social union, and where

"Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown."

As we rode back to Fairmount, I congratulated Mrs. Stevens on the honour which God had conferred on her, in employing her as the instrument of saving this dying girl from the pangs of the second death.

"It is an honour which I prize more than gold and silver, and which imparts a purer joy to my mind than ever heaved the bosom of a mere earthly philanthropist; it invests the eternal world with a fresh charm, as I expect to embrace my Harriet, as my own child in the faith.

"I have often thought, that if the infidel could perceive the sources of pleasure which Christianity opens to the pious mind, he would be less disposed to reproach her as hostile to human happiness."

"Yes, but such is the degree of his mental aversion to pure Christianity, that her more sublime doctrines are turned into themes of ridicule; the spirit which she inspires in her friends is regarded as the wild-fire of fanaticism, and our efforts to save a soul from death are stigmatized as a paltry manœuvre to gain a proselyte to our party; and though we may attempt to justify our conduct on the admitted principles of social benevolence, yet we can but rarely succeed."

Our conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by a gentleman, who stepped out of his garden, and informed Mrs. Stevens that the poor widow was worse, and was not expected to live through the day. This communication very deeply affected her. She paused, and then said, "Do you think that I may be permitted to see her?"

"Why, Madam," replied Mr. Roscoe, "the medical attendant has given express orders that no one be allowed to see her except the nurse. I hear that she has made her peace with God, and is not afraid to die. It will be a happy release for her."

"I hope Mrs. and Miss Roscoe are well; you will make my compliments to them, and say that we hope to see them at Fairmount very soon."

"Mr. Roscoe," said Mrs. Stevens, "is our nearest neighbour, but I fear that he has no just perception of the nature of true religion; though he is, in his own estimation, a very religious man. He is so amiable in temper, so kind in disposition, and so benevolent in spirit, that every one esteems him who knows him; but I fear that he substitutes this exterior amiability in the place of the atonement of Jesus Christ; and thinks that nothing more is necessary for salvation except an attendance at his parish church. But I feel for the dying widow. I saw her at the commencement of her illness; but when I told her that she was a sinner, and that she could not be saved but through faith in the merits of Jesus Christ, she told me that she had never done any harm in her life, and that she did not doubt of the mercy of God. I have called several times since; but, as I attempted to disturb her peace in her dying moments, I have not been permitted to see her again; and I understand some very severe remarks have been made on what is called my cruel conduct."

"Yes, Madam," I replied, "the spirit of the world will often forbid the herald of mercy entering the chamber of affliction, and will wrap up the departing soul in the winding-sheet of self-security before it enters the valley of the shadow of death. The language of Jesus Christ in reference to such a state of mind is very, very awful: 'Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name; and in thy name have cast out devils; and in thy name done many wonderful works? And then I will profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me ye that work iniquity.'"

"I grant," said Mrs. Stevens, "that prudence often renders it necessary to exclude even intimate friends from the sick chamber, lest the patient should have too much excitement; but to exclude friends merely because they are religious, and who may be disposed to say something in relation to that tremendous scene which eternity opens on the disembodied spirit, is a crime of no ordinary magnitude; and if the spirit were permitted to step back, after that scene has been beheld, in what indignant language would she condemn such an act of fatal cruelty."

"It is a most momentous event in the history of a human being, when he passes from one world to another; when he steps out of time into eternity; but how perilously awful to make the passage when unprepared to go. I recollect going to see one of my hearers who was dangerously ill; but on recognizing my well-known foot-tread as I entered his chamber, he concealed himself under the bed-clothes, and we spoke not for several minutes; no sounds were heard, but his heavy sighs and piercing groans. He put out his hand, which I took, and gently pressed; we still remained silent, both being too highly surcharged with mental emotion to give utterance to what we felt. At length he threw off the bed-clothes, looked on me with intense earnestness, and exclaimed, 'O Sir, I am lost; I shall be in hell before the morning.'"

"What a terrific vision! were you able to speak any words of peace to his soul?"

"I did speak words of peace, but they gave him neither peace nor comfort."

"Did he die, Sir?"

"Yes, he died the very next day; and his last words were, 'I am lost; lost for ever!'"

"How very awful!"

"In such a case the tremendous catastrophe is expected; but now, let us think for a moment of a person passing out of one world to another (as many alas! do) under a delusive expectation of going to heaven; but on stepping out of time into eternity, he finds himself in hell. What must be his surprise; his terror-struck anguish; his fearful, his terrific exclamations of agonized woe; his condition, bearing some analogy, though infinitely more tremendous and appalling, to that of a culprit tried and cast for death, when in a trance, knowing nothing of the process or the issue, till he feels the minister of death adjusting the rope on the fatal platform; awakening up to a state of consciousness just before the drop falls. While in a trance, he might be moving amidst the congratulations of his family and his friends, to take possession of a newly bequeathed inheritance; with what terrific consternation would he, on recovering the use of his reason, find himself under the gallows of infamy, tied to its cross beam, the executioner by his side, stepping back to draw the bolt which is to give him to death struggles and to death."

"Your illustration is terrific; but it is not equal to the tremendous reality—a soul lost, when, under a fatal delusion, expecting to be saved."

We now came in sight of Fairmount, and that turned the current of our conversation to a more interesting theme. I remarked, "that I thought the country more favourable to devotional feeling than the city. The gaiety and the bustle of the one distract the mind; whereas the quietude of the other composes it."

"True, Sir, but the spirit of devotion would soon languish beside the murmuring stream, or beneath the silent shade, unless invigorated by the unction which cometh from above. If we, who live in the country, have fewer temptations than those who live in cities, yet in general we have fewer religious advantages; and though not altogether deprived of the society of Christian friends, yet it is but seldom that we are surrounded by a sufficient number to admit of making a selection."

On entering the parlour, Mr. Stevens soon joined us, and seemed much interested by the report of our morning's excursion. Having partaken of a plain dinner, he and I adjourned to a sequestered arbour, at the extreme point of his shrubbery, where we sat conversing the greater part of the afternoon. "Mr. Roscoe," he observed, "to whom you were introduced this morning, is a most interesting companion. He is a man of very extensive reading, of deep and close reflection, of a fine taste, very benevolent in disposition, of strict integrity, and very religious in his own way. He is rather too fond of disputation, and there is no subject which he likes to discuss more than the subject of religion, though I think he does not understand it so well as he does many others."

"Is he fond of introducing religious subjects in conversation?"

"Very."

"Does he introduce them merely for discussion, or in relation to their practical tendency?"

"Why, his uniform design, if I may be permitted to judge of his motive, is to excite a general feeling of disgust against what he calls the Methodistical or Calvinistic delusions of the age, which he regards as more injurious to our national character, and more destructive to our happiness, than even the spirit of infidelity itself."

"Then I presume that you are not very intimate."

"O yes, we are. We often protract the debate till our wives interfere, and request us to remember the hour."

"But are not some of his prejudices against the demoralizing tendency of the Methodistical delusion (to use his own phraseology) shaken by your conduct?"

"O no; he has, like many others, an ingenious expedient, by which the force of individual example against his sweeping charge is repelled. He says that our superior good sense, and our superior virtue, prevent these delusions from operating on us as they operate on others. So you see that his complaisance nullifies the argument which he cannot refute; and the mine which Christian consistency springs beneath an erroneous opinion, is countermined by the artifice which friendship employs."

"Is he very dogmatical in conversation?"

"Rather so; but he never loses his temper. Indeed, he is a most valuable man; and if it should please God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, to shine into his heart, to give him the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ, he would, I have no doubt, carry the attainments of the Christian character to the highest point of excellence."

"Is Mrs. Roscoe of the same way of thinking with her husband?"

"Why, Sir, I do not think that she ever thinks on the subject of religion. She goes to church, reads the Week's Preparation, takes the sacrament, feeds and clothes the poor, and says that, in her opinion, nothing more is required of her. She sometimes listens, it is true, to our discussions, but it is more, I apprehend, from the respect which she feels for the laws of politeness, than from any interest which she takes in the subject. Miss Roscoe, who is a most amiable creature, ventures occasionally to make a few observations, and sometimes to ask a few questions, but she is very guarded. Mrs. Stevens presented her with a copy of Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul the last time she gave us a call; and from the spirit in which she received the present, and the assurance she gave that she would read the book, we entertain some hope that the light of truth will lead her to the well-spring of true happiness."

"From a remark which Mrs. Stevens made to Mr. Roscoe, when we parted with him, I hope that I shall have the pleasure of spending an hour or two in his company before I leave Fairmount."

"Yes, he and his family dine with us next week; but you must contrive to hide the colour of your cloth if you wish to draw him out in conversation, especially religious conversation, for you Dissenting ministers do not stand very high in his esteem. He thinks that you have obtruded yourselves on an office which, for want of learning and episcopal ordination, you are not qualified to fill. He can relish none but Oxford or Cambridge men."

Mrs. Stevens, accompanied by a little niece, who was a weekly boarder at a ladies' school on the other side of the hill, came to invite us to tea in the alcove. We took a circuitous route through the shrubbery, till we entered on the lawn, at the bottom of which nature and art had combined their skill in the beautifying of this rural retreat. While sitting there, receiving the refreshment which the hand of an indulgent Providence had provided, and listening to the sweet harmony of the feathered tribe, the servant, who had just returned from the neighbouring town, delivered to his master a newspaper and a packet of letters. Mr. Stevens, having apologized for his rudeness (as he called it), proceeded to open the letters, and, to neutralize my displeasure, he placed the paper in my hands. "My dear," addressing himself to Mrs. Stevens, "I have some good news to tell you. Mr. Lewellin has accepted our invitation, and will be here, if Providence permit, next Thursday."

"One mercy, like one affliction," replied Mrs. Stevens, "seldom comes alone." Addressing herself to me, "I hope to have the pleasure of introducing to you a nephew, who has recently felt the power of the truth, which he once affected to despise."

"The society of Christian friends is always animating, but particularly the society of those who have recently passed from death to life, who have just been redeemed from the dominion of Satan, and brought into the glorious liberty of the children of God. There is usually such an expressive animation in their look and in their utterances; they have the freshness of their new life glowing upon them; and when speaking of what they know, and testifying of what they have seen and felt, they do it with a simplicity and earnestness which has a fine and powerful influence over our spirits. We glorify God in them."

"My nephew is the only son of a pious mother, and she is a widow. He was permitted to run to great lengths in the paths of evil, but the Lord has had mercy on him, and his conversion is, in my opinion, as great a proof of the divinity of this Christian faith as the conversion of St. Paul."

"Pray, is he the son of Mrs. Lewellin, who lives in the village of Stenmoor, that you refer to?"

"Yes; do you know him?"

"I have the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Lewellin, but not her son, only by character. To meet with him will be no small addition to the gratification I feel from my visit to your lovely villa."

A MORNING'S RAMBLE.

When the devotions of the morning were discharged, I strolled out alone, intending to amuse myself for a few hours in collecting some fossils, out of the quarry near the Rectory. As I was passing through a thick coppice, I met a little boy, very neatly dressed, who politely made me a country bow.

"Well, my little fellow, what is your name?" "Jemmy Allen." "And where do you live?" "In the cottage just at the end of this wood." "And how many brothers and sisters have you?" "None, Sir." "And what is your father?" "A ploughman." "And where are you going?" "Up to Squire Stevens', to get a little gruel for mother, who is very poorly." "Can you read?" "Yes, Sir, I can read the Testament, which Squire Stevens gave me." "Can you tell me who made you?" "God." "Who came into the world to save sinners?" "Jesus Christ." "What must you do to be saved?" "I must be sorry for my sins; I must pray to God to forgive me what is past, and serve him better for the time to come."

I proceeded in questioning him, and was pleased to find that he could repeat the whole of Watt's Catechism, and also a great part of that composed by the Assembly of Divines. His knowledge of the Scriptures was extensive, considering his years; and he repeated to me the whole of the commandments, with our Lord's summary of them, as recorded in the twenty-second chapter of the Gospel by Matthew. Having given him a trifle, as a reward for his past diligence, and as a stimulus for the future, I moved on, and soon came within sight of his mother's cottage, which presented to my imagination more powerful attractions than the quarry I had intended to visit. On entering, which I did without ceremony, I beheld an interesting-looking female, apparently very ill, seated in an arm-chair. I apologized for my intrusion, which occasioned her a little embarrassment. After thanking me, as a minister of Jesus Christ, for the honour I had done her, she asked me to take a seat. Her cottage stood alone, almost entirely surrounded by tall elm trees, and seemed, by its sacred furniture, consisting of a Bible, hymn-books, tracts, &c. (the symbols of the Divine presence), set apart as a local habitation for an heir of glory. A few lines, once addressed to a secluded saint, involuntarily occurred to my recollection: "Our Lord has many jewels. Among the number, there are some of such peculiar properties that he does not choose to expose them to public observation. He separates them from the general assemblage, secluding them for his own complacent contemplation, and sets them as a seal upon his heart."

"You have a lovely retreat from the world, but I suppose, like others, you are sometimes disturbed by its cares."

"I have been, but now I have cast all my cares on him who has promised to sustain me."

"Then you have reached one of the highest points of experimental religion, and may look down on this tumultuous scene with an eye of comparative indifference."

"Why, Sir, I would not exchange my situation or my prospects for any other that could be offered me. I have not much of this world's goods, nor yet many wants; but I have an unclouded prospect of future happiness, which reconciles me to my lot."