Chapter XII: Part II (3)

In compliance with custom, he spent the first few weeks after his marriage amidst scenes of gaiety and pleasure--in receiving and returning the visits of his friends and associates; and though he found an apology for this course of life in the example of others, yet he felt it to be injurious to the religious tone of his mind, and longed to return to his more settled religious habits. Had Mrs. Beaufoy possessed a similar spirit, this incursion into the land of the enemy would not have been productive of any essential injury; but as she was now treading on her native soil, and moving in an element congenial to her taste, she succeeded in estranging her husband from the simplicity of a religious life, and induced him to adopt the habits of the men of the world. The prayer-meeting, in which his voice had often been heard, leading the devotion of others, was now deserted for dinner and evening parties. The sacredness of religious conversation with those who loved and feared the Lord, was exchanged for the vain and trifling conversation of the votaries of fashion; and though on the Sabbath-day he was seen in his pew, yet the marked seriousness and peaceful serenity of his countenance was supplanted by the knitted brow, or the listless and inattentive air. The society of his former religious friends, including Mr. Lewellin, now became less agreeable to him than that of some gay worldlings, into whose company he was frequently thrown. His letters to myself also were shorter and more reserved; but I was still far from suspecting the dangerous nature of the career on which he was now entering. Thus while retaining a name and a place amongst the members of the church, he was rapidly receding from the purity and fervour of the Christian spirit.

One of the earliest symptoms of apostasy from the pure faith of Christ, is a fastidiousness of hearing, which few preachers can please. The truth as it is in Jesus is tolerated on account of the form or the manner in which it is presented; and the messenger is admired more than the message which he delivers. Though we would not condemn a predilection for the more graceful and the more eloquent appeals of the pulpit, nor insinuate that a correct taste is a _prima facie_ evidence of a heart in a state of departure from God, yet it requires no lengthened argument to prove that when the truths of the gospel are not loved and received for their own sake, and on account of their beneficial tendency, it is a decisive proof that the tone of the mind is injured; and that, notwithstanding the outward appearance of devotion which may be kept up by a professor, he is not walking in the fear of the Lord, nor in the comfort of the Holy Ghost. He may have his favourite preachers; but if the truth which they preach is not esteemed when it is delivered by men equally zealous, and equally devoted to God, though not equally gifted, we are supplied with a melancholy symptom of his being in a backsliding state. It was this spirit of preference for the learning of Paul--for the eloquence of Apollos--and for the peculiar charms of Cephas, amongst the members of the church of Corinth, that the apostle regards as an evidence of their indifference to Christ; and which he adduces as a proof that a corrupt leaven was then working amongst them. "For while one saith, I am of Paul; and another, I am of Apollos," is it not a convincing proof, that the speaker is more delighted with the correctness of the language which a preacher employs, than the purity of the doctrines which he preaches?

Mr. Beaufoy, on his settlement in London, gave a decided preference to the most evangelical and the most experimental preachers in his Connexion; but now he began to admire the most fanciful and the most florid, to whom he listened as an amateur does to a piece of music--more for the gratification of his taste than the spiritual improvement of his mind; and as he could not always hear them, he began to absent himself from the chapel when they were not expected. His habit of attendance at length became so irregular, that some of his Christian brethren, who had watched with great anxiety the progress of his defection, felt it their duty to have him admonished; and they deputed an aged elder, in whom dwelt the spirit of wisdom and of grace, to visit him.

The manner in which reproof is received often developes the real temper and disposition of the mind, and supplies us with a good criterion to form a correct judgment of character. "Let the righteous smite me," said the Psalmist, when reviewing the imperfections of his conduct, "it shall be a kindness; and let him reprove me, it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head." And it is by the kind admonitions and the gentle reproofs that we timely receive from those of our friends who watch over us, that we are often indebted, under the Divine blessing, for our spiritual prosperity, and to which we may trace our recovery from that state of religious declension, to which we are so fatally prone.

"Indeed," said Mr. Beaufoy to his venerable friend, in whose company he had formerly passed many a pleasant hour, "I think I am at liberty to attend where and when I please, without being subject to the inquisitorial interference of others. And though you are pleased to say, that my late conduct has given my best friends reason to fear that I am not so spiritual as when they first knew me, yet you will permit me to say that I am the best judge on that subject."

"You certainly," replied the venerable elder, "are at liberty to go where you please; but I hope you will not go away from Him who 'hath the words of eternal life;' and are at liberty to go when you please; but do not forget the Divine injunction which commands us to 'consider one another, to provoke unto love and to good works; not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is.'"

"I hope I shall not, Sir; but I must be permitted to consult my own taste in the choice of the preachers on whose ministry I attend, without being censured for any decrease in the spirituality of my mind. If I do not talk quite so much on religious subjects as I once did, that is no proof that I feel less; as we become reserved on these high and awful considerations in proportion as we are impressed by them."

"The Psalmist says," replied the elder, "'While I was musing the fire burned; then spake I with my tongue.' I know you are displeased with me, my brother, for the language which I have addressed to you; and I assure you, that your displeasure gives me greater sorrow than the cause of my visit, inasmuch as it convinces me that your heart is not right with God. I have but a few years to live, and perhaps only a few hours; and as I may not live to repeat a visit which is as unacceptable to you as it is painful to myself, I cannot leave you without giving you and Mrs. Beaufoy a message from the Lord--'Take heed, lest there be in you an evil heart of unbelief, in departing from the living God.'"

"I have no doubt, Sir, but your motives are good, and that you deem the solemn admonition of the apostle necessary; but you will permit us to form our own judgment on the propriety of its application."

The venerable elder then arose, took his young brother by the hand, and wept; and after struggling for some moments to subdue the feelings which were agitating his breast, he said, "My brother, I fear that you have departed from the Lord, and that his Spirit has departed from you; but let us kneel together at the throne of grace, as we used to kneel when the light of his countenance shone upon you, and pray for its return." He then knelt down, and offered up a solemn and affecting prayer, which bespoke the fidelity of his affection for his erring brother. When he arose, he received the cold thanks of courtesy for his labour of love, and retired under a strong presentiment that he should see his fellow-member's face no more. And so it proved; for his feeble frame had received a shock that evening from which he had not strength to recover. He hastened home as fast as his tottering limbs would carry him--partook of his frugal meal--read the twenty-third Psalm, and, in company with his pious housekeeper (for he had buried his wife about six weeks before this affliction came upon him), he knelt down, and closed the toils of the day in the hallowed exercise of communion with God. One petition he presented which he had never been heard to utter before--"And if, Lord, it should please thee to call thy servant this night, I thank thee that I am at last enabled to adopt the language of Simeon--'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.'" This petition was expressed with an energy of voice which indicated the animation of a mind feeling its near approach to the prize of its high calling of God in Christ Jesus. He retired to bed at his usual hour, but he was restless and feverish; and about midnight he rang the bell. His housekeeper entered his room, and on drawing aside the curtain of his bed, heard him say,

"O! the pain, the bliss of dying."

He requested her to fetch his pious medical friend, who speedily arrived, but it was only to confirm his old servant's worst fears. The dying elder now related to the doctor, as a member of the same church with himself, the particulars of his visit to Mr. Beaufoy. "I know," he said, "I am dying, and that in a very few hours I shall see the King in his beauty; but death hath lost its sting, and I have lost my fears. I have long waited for my salvation, and now it is come. I die in full and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life. Give my dying love to my dear wandering brother, and tell him that the language of the prophet is so impressed on my mind, that I cannot leave the body without expressing a desire that he will meditate on it. 'Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backsliding shall reprove thee; know, therefore, and see, that it is an evil thing and bitter that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, and that my fear is not in thee, saith the Lord God of hosts.'" He now gently waved his hand as he repeated the triumphant language of the apostle:--"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ;" and reclining on the bosom of his friend, he had one strong convulsive struggle, and then expired with a smile settled on his venerable countenance.

The sudden death of this devout elder, who had been for more than fifty years an ornament to his Christian profession, produced a powerful sensation through the whole Society; and many attended his funeral as an expression of the esteem and veneration in which they held his character. Deep and heartfelt was the sorrow expressed on the countenance of the assembled throng on that occasion, and every one seemed to mourn as though he had lost a father or a brother. On the following Sabbath, his funeral sermon was preached in the chapel by the Rev. Mr. R----, from the words, "The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness" (Prov. xvi. 31). After a correct delineation of the character of the deceased, he described the closing scene of his life. "He was," said the preacher, "not only a good, but a devout man, and pre-eminently endowed by the God of all grace, with a double portion of the spirit of wisdom and understanding. Tremblingly alive for the honour of his Master's cause, he would often weep when it was endangered by the inconsistent conduct of its professed friends; and it was to an extraordinary excitement occasioned by a visit of mercy to a fellow-member, that we may ascribe his sudden decease. His tender and sympathetic spirit yearning over the object of its solicitude, was thrown into an agitation from which his feeble frame never recovered. Having finished the work assigned him, he sunk beneath the weight of his own grief, but not till he had assured his mourning friends that he died in full and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life. Be ye followers of him, who through faith and patience is now inheriting the promises; and be on your guard, lest, in departing from the living God, you should bring down the gray hairs of some venerable elder with sorrow to his grave, whose love may impel him to manifest a care for your soul." Mr. Beaufoy heard this discourse, but it was evident by his restlessness, and the indignant look which he cast towards the preacher, that his pride was mortified, by the allusions which were made to him.

Fidelity on the part of a minister is essential, not only to his happiness, but his usefulness; yet when he permits his feelings to overpower the dictates of prudence, he is in danger of frustrating the design he wishes to accomplish. He should declare the word of life without fear; but in administering reproof, he should never be so personal in his remarks or allusions, as to turn the eyes of an audience on the individual who may deserve it. By the adoption of such a course no one would feel secure from attack, when he comes to hear the message of grace; nor is it likely that the offender will be reclaimed from the error of his way, when he finds himself made a spectacle of reproach in the presence of his brethren. Instead of relenting, he will be hardened; and may be induced to abandon the place which the angel of mercy visits with his healing power, rather than remain to receive instruction and reproof. A minister should always combine the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove; and while he desires to be faithful in the pulpit, he should be solicitous to guard against all appearance of personality.

When the power of vital religion is declining in its influence over the mind of a professor, and he begins to cherish feelings and adopt habits which are opposed to the purity of his avowed principles, he will not be able to endure the close appeals of the pulpit. Prudence will often keep him from making any complaints against the general fidelity of the ministry, even while his heart is writhing under it; and his habits of intimacy with his Christian brethren will sometimes prevent him from leaving a society with which he has formed a close and a sacred union; but when the principle of apostasy has gained ascendency over his conscience, and he begins to treat the friendly remonstrances and admonitions with contempt, he will soon discover some justifiable cause of offence, and retire in disgust, if not in wrath.

Thus it was with Mr. Beaufoy. Stung to the quick by the allusions which the preacher made to the visit of the venerable elder, and the supposed cause of his sudden death, he left the chapel in the greatest indignation; and the following morning, he sent his arrears of subscription to the managers, requesting, at the same time, that they would consider him as no longer a member of their church.

On being informed of her husband's abandoning his connection with the Wesleyans, Mrs. Beaufoy was rather pleased than disappointed, as she hoped she would now have greater scope for sharing in the amusements of the gay world. Both thought it right, however, still to attend some place of worship, and thus keep up the appearance of respect for the public services of religion. Where to go, was a question which they could not easily determine; but as some of their friends, whose acquaintance they had lately made, attended a Socinian meeting in E---- Street, they resolved to go there on the following Sabbath. This sudden transition, from the fervid devotion of Methodism, to the frigid apathy of Socinianism, produced no unpleasant impressions on the mind of his wife, but Mr. Beaufoy was not quite prepared for it. His heart was become hardened through the deceitfulness of sin, yet he still believed in the essential doctrines of Christianity, which retained their dominion over him, though they had lost their original power of impression. They were both struck with the gracefulness of the preacher's manner, and admired his elocution; but Mr. Beaufoy could not renounce the divinity, or the atonement of Christ, nor could he regard the doctrine of regeneration as a corruption of the gospel. Mrs. Beaufoy thought that every modification of Christianity was equally acceptable to God, but Mr. Beaufoy was capable of distinguishing truth from error; and while she adopted for her creed the poet's stanza,

"For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
His can't be wrong, whose life is in the right,"

he was convinced that no man ought to be considered a Christian, who rejected the leading doctrines of revelation.

At length, when expressing his abhorrence of some of the daring charges which he heard advanced against the orthodox faith, and which he considered as tending to universal scepticism, she replied, "Well, my dear, you can very easily retain your own opinions, and yet attend on Mr. B----'s ministry, because he cannot force you to believe against the dictates of your own judgment, and if you sometimes hear them controverted, that circumstance ought not to disquiet you. As your belief is founded on evidence, and matured by deep reflection, you are in no danger of being carried about with every wind of doctrine, but may fairly calculate on your ability to hold it fast, amidst all the efforts which may be employed to destroy or disturb it." "Very true," he replied, "I like the morals of Socinianism better than the doctrines. Well it shall be so;"--and so it was. They took their pew, and occupied it; and as the only restraint which had kept them for a long time from a more extended course of gaiety was now removed, they began to walk more openly in the ways of their own heart, and in the sight of their own eyes. Hitherto they had kept up some semblance of religion, but now they began to conform to the customs of the world, and to avail themselves of the various sources of gratification which its pleasures and amusements afford. Family-prayer, the last vestige of their former habits of devotion, was now entirely neglected. The Bible, which they once revered as their guide to everlasting life, was thrown aside; and though Mr. Beaufoy could not forget that he had been a religious man, yet he wished others to believe that now he was a more happy one.

It has been very justly observed, that when we begin to think lightly of error we are in great danger of being corrupted by it; and the experience of all ages proves, that if a professor hold the truth in unrighteousness, he is ultimately given up to believe a lie. That there have been many departures from evangelical principles in modern times no one will presume to deny; but if they were closely examined, it would be found that they were preceded by a neglect of private prayer, watchfulness, self-diffidence, and walking humbly with God; and every one may perceive that they are followed with similar effects. It has been acknowledged by some who have embraced the Socinian system, that since they entertained those views they have lost even the gift of prayer. Perhaps they might draw up and read an _address to the Deity_; but they could not pray. Where the principles of the gospel are abandoned, the spirit of prayer and all communion with God will likewise depart. The confession of Peter, that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God, is thought to be that which our Lord denominates the rock on which he would build his church. We are sure that the belief of this article of faith was required as a test of Christianity; and who can look into the Christian world with attention, and not perceive that it still continues the key-stone of the building? If this give way, the fabric falls. Relapses of this nature are infinitely dangerous. He that declines in holy practice has to labour against the remonstrances of conscience; but he that brings himself to think lightly of sin, and meanly of the Saviour (which is what every false system of religion teaches), has gone far towards silencing the accusations of this unpleasant monitor. He is upon good terms with himself. The disorder of his soul is deep, but it is of a flattering nature. The declension of serious religion in him is no less apparent to others than the physical decay of the body in a consumption, where in each case the party himself frequently has no suspicion of his danger.

As Mr. Beaufoy had no family, the love of accumulation had less dominion over his mind than the passion for display, which had taken an earlier possession of his mind than he himself was aware of, and to its fatal tendency may be attributed, in a great measure, all the evils and misery of his subsequent life.

On this subject we may here quote the words of a judicious writer:--"We need not affect singularity in things indifferent, but to maintain a constant endeavour to follow in the train of fashion, is not only an indication of a vain and little mind, but is certainly inconsistent with pressing towards the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. The desire of making an appearance has ruined many people in their circumstances--more in their characters--and most of all in their souls. We may flatter ourselves that we can pursue these things, and be religious at the same time; but it is a mistake. The vanity of mind which they cherish destroys everything of a humble, serious, and holy nature, rendering us an easy prey to the temptations which are thrown in our way. A Christian's rule is the revealed will of God; and where the customs of the world run counter to this, it is his business to withstand them, even though in so doing he may have to withstand a multitude--yea, and a multitude of people of fashion; but if we feel ambitious of their applause, we shall not be able to endure the scorn which a singularity of conduct will draw upon us. Thus we shall be carried down the stream of this world; and shall either fall into the gulf of perdition, or if any good thing should be found in us towards the Lord God of Israel, it will be indiscernible and useless."

Mr. Beaufoy's amiable disposition, and admirable conversational powers, made his society courted by an extensive circle of acquaintances. Balls, parties, and theatres now consumed the hours of the evenings which were once devoted to reading, meditation, and prayer; and not unfrequently the sanctity of the Sabbath was violated by excursions to the country. It was just after they had made an engagement to take an excursion on the Thames on the ensuing Sabbath, that Mr. Beaufoy received a letter from his aged mother, whom he held in the highest veneration, and from whom he wished to conceal the fact of his apostasy. It breathed a spirit of gentle reproach and remonstrance, and opened to his view her agony of mind, occasioned by the intelligence of the defection of her beloved son from the paths of righteousness:--

"BROOKCOMBE, _12th July, 18--_.

"MY DEAR HENRY,--You know I always dreaded your going to London,
and now, if what I hear be true, I have cause for my fears. A
friend called on us the other day, and told us that you had
left our Society and become a Socinian. I don't know much about
Socinians, but I understand they say that Jesus Christ is
nothing more than a man, and that we must not expect 'redemption
through his blood, or the forgiveness of sins through the riches
of his grace,' but from our own good works. And have you, my
Henry, forsaken that Saviour whom, unseen, you loved when you
lived at home with us? and have you made a shipwreck of that
precious faith which once filled you with so much joy and peace
in believing? and have you departed from the ways of the Lord
for the pleasures of sin, which are only for a season? We have
had no rest since we received these awful tidings, and the
spirit of your poor dear father is so broken with sorrow, that
he has not had a smile upon his countenance since. And can
you, my dear Henry, leave the Saviour who once had compassion
on you, and did such great things for you, as you so often told
us of? If you leave him now, how will you be able to stand
before him, when he comes with 'ten thousand of his saints, to
execute judgment upon all; and to convince all that are ungodly
among them of all their ungodly deeds which they have ungodly
committed, and of all their hard speeches which ungodly sinners
have spoken against him?' O let me entreat you to return to the
Lord with weeping and supplication, and he will yet have mercy
upon you, and heal all your backslidings; he will accept you
graciously, and love you freely. I cannot give you up, no, I
cannot! You are my child, and I cannot endure the thought of
living separated from you in another world. Let me hear from
you directly, and tell me if you are as happy, and as holy, and
as spiritually-minded now, as when you first believed in the
Lord Jesus Christ. Your father joins me in love to you and dear
Sophia, and in beseeching both of you to consider the error of
your ways ere it be too late. --Your affectionate mother,

AMELIA BEAUFOY."

This letter shook the unhallowed purpose of his soul, and neither he nor his wife could venture on their excursion up the river. It brought over their imagination the scenes of departed bliss--revived recollections which were sacred and subduing--and plunged Mr. Beaufoy into deep mental agony. Mrs. Beaufoy, however, was of a more heedless turn of mind, and endeavoured to assuage her husband's grief by saying, "You know you still believe the gospel;" but she had no power over the anguish which was consuming his happiness. "Yes," said he, "I do believe it, or this letter would not disquiet me. I have departed from the Lord, and I am gone past recovery. Mine is no common apostasy. My doom is fixed. My end will be awful. Where, ah! where can I go when he cometh 'to execute judgment upon all?' Yes, I do believe the gospel. I feel I do. I believe it, and tremble. Its terrors are upon me. The piercing language of the prophet has been following me ever since the death of that holy man, whose warning voice I despised, and now they enter as fire into my bones: 'Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backslidings shall reprove thee: know, therefore, and see, that it is an evil thing and bitter that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, and that my fear is not in thee, saith the Lord God of hosts.'"

The Lord employs various means to recover his people from a backsliding state; and though for a season he compels them to feel the evil and the bitterness of their sin, yet he finally restores unto them the joy of his salvation. When, however, an apostate has been given up to the hardness of his heart, neither the language of mercy, nor the terrors of judgment will produce any other effect than that of accelerating the dreadful catastrophe. He goes on from bad to worse, till at length he comes to the fearful end of his career. Thus it was with Mr. Beaufoy. The extreme agony into which he was thrown by the simple appeals of his mother's letter gradually abated; but he felt it necessary to adopt some new and extraordinary expedients, to gain some small degree of tranquillity. His attachment to his wife was strong, and it had gained such ascendency over him that he refused to leave his home except she accompanied him; but now a melancholy gloom was cast over all his pleasant things, and those from which he had extracted the sweetest comforts of life became as bitter as wormwood to his taste. Though he forbore, at this early stage of his mental anguish, to reproach her as the cause of his apostasy, yet he secretly laid the sin to her charge, and began occasionally to feel that her society aggravated the evil, which her kindness prompted her to attempt to alleviate. He became reserved, refused to attend any place of worship, and often stayed from home to a very late hour. At first Mrs. Beaufoy hoped that another sudden change would take place, and bring back the domestic happiness of former times; but at length she was awakened to a full discovery of the extent of the misery by which she was surrounded. Her husband was no more the interesting and affectionate companion of her retired hours--no more the attentive and fond lover. He became now a thoroughly dissipated character, rarely returned home till long after his wife's eyes had become heavy by watching for him; and when he did, it was only to exhibit his own disgrace, and torture her feelings. She would sometimes venture to remonstrate with him, and hang over him with all the affection of former days, when he would relent, and pledge himself to change his course; but he had lost the power of self-control, and felt compelled to seek for ease from the anguish of his spirit amidst scenes of convivial mirth and folly.

The whirl of dissipation and the riot of intemperance are expedients to which many resort when trouble comes upon them; but they increase the evils sought to be removed; for though a temporary exhilaration of the spirits may be produced, and the fearful forebodings of future woe driven away for a short season, it is only to make them return with redoubled force to inflict keener anguish. A voice is sometimes heard speaking from the celestial glory, saying, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee;" but that voice cannot be heard amidst the revelling and excitement of a theatre or tavern. It speaks to the penitent sinner when he is alone--bowed down beneath his burden and despairing of help. Retire then, thou poor backslider, from the haunts of evil--and yet hope for mercy. Thy guilt is great, thy wound is deep, but there is virtue in the balm of Gilead when applied by the great Physician. Go, then, into thy closet, shut the door, confess thy sins, shed the penitential tear, and implore forgiveness. Here others have acknowledged their iniquities, and here they have obtained consolation. Your case may be desperate, but it is not hopeless; and though you may be tempted to despair, yet resist those whisperings of Satan, which, if listened to, would seal your final doom.

W. L. THOMAS.

MR. BEAUFOY'S EMOTION ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S LETTER.

Vol. ii. p. 261.]

THE FRUITS OF APOSTASY.

As many months had now elapsed since either Mr. or Mrs. Beaufoy had been to any place of worship, the latter availed herself of an opportunity which occurred to allude to it, when her husband replied, "I wish you to go, Sophia, for it is enough that one of us perish." Dreading the return of his paroxysm of agony, she diverted his attention from the subject, and endeavoured to soothe and cheer his spirits. She so far succeeded as to bring over his countenance the pleasant smile of former times, but little did she imagine that this pleasing sign was so soon to be obliterated. The servant entered the parlour with a letter, which she gave to her master. He placed it on the table and sat musing for some minutes. He wept, though unconscious of the tear that involuntarily trickled down his cheek, and sighed, as if unconscious that any ear was listening. He again took the letter--pressed it to his lips, and wept, and sighed again, as though he thought himself alone. "Yes, my mother, I know thy hand, and if thou knewest the agony of my heart, thou wouldst pity me." He opened it; but he had not read many words before he started from his seat, as if wounded by an invisible hand, then, with firmly pressed lips, perused the letter, threw it on the floor, and was retiring abruptly from the room, when he recognized his wife. "What's the matter, Henry?" she exclaimed, as she attempted to follow him. "Read that," he sternly replied, pointing to the letter, and, suddenly, walking to the door, left the house. Mrs. Beaufoy, with trembling hand, picked up the letter and read as follows:--

"MY DEAR HENRY,--Your father is no more: he died last night,
just as the clock was striking eleven. He ne'er smiled on us
after he heard that you had forsaken the Lord, and he went to
the grave mourning. He said just before he died, 'Tell my dear
boy, for he is still my son, that my last tear was shed on
his account.' When I wiped off the big tear that was rolling
down his cheek, he became composed for a few minutes, and then
prayed, 'O Lord God, heal the backslidings of thine Ephraim,'
and died before he could finish the supplication.

"And now, my son, you have broken your father's heart, I grieve
to say it, and, I believe, will bring down my gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave. O! consider your dreadful state, and how
fearful to think of, should you be suddenly cut off in it!
Remember your dear father's last words.

"I feel quite unable to write you a longer letter to-day. If you
can come down to the funeral, I need not say how glad I should
be to see you; if not, may the Lord reclaim and bless you.

"I know you love Sophia, and I wish you to love her; for she has
been a kind wife to you, and a most attentive daughter to your
father and myself, but I fear she has been a snare to you. If
she had feared the Lord she would have kept you from evil. May
the Lord bless and reclaim you both.--Your bereaved mother,

"AMELIA BEAUFOY."

On reading this communication, Mrs. Beaufoy's conscience smote her, and she wept long and bitterly. Then perusing it anew, she exclaimed, "Cruel charge! A snare to my husband! the cause of his being led astray! cruel charge! Is it not enough for me to bear his unkindness, without having to endure such reproaches?" She threw the letter from her, and rose, endeavouring to cast off the load of sorrow which oppressed her spirit. "I cannot endure it. I am of all women the most miserable. I have no one to share my grief. Oh death!--no!--I am not prepared to die." She resumed her seat, and though the letter possessed a sting sharper than that of a scorpion, she took it, read it again, and again it wounded her. "If she had feared the Lord she would have kept you from evil." "Cruel charge! I have tried to keep him, but could not." She paused, then could only ejaculate, "Woe is me!"

The ringing of the bell announced the return of Mr. Beaufoy; but his dark, lowering look bespoke the inward conflict. On taking his seat his eye caught sight of the letter near the place where he had thrown it down a few hours before. Moving back, as if from an adder, he said, "Have you been reading it?"

"Yes, Henry, I have."

"And what do you think of the charges?"

"They are cruel."

"Rather say, they are just, though severe."

"You know that I have often attempted to reclaim you."

"But did you not first lead me astray? Till I knew you I was a happy, because a religious man; but from that ill-fated hour when, enticed by your influence and example to abandon the house of prayer for the theatre and ball-room, I have had no mental peace. I have forsaken God, and he, in anger, has forsaken me."

"But why recriminate on me the guilt of your own sin? You have withdrawn from me your love and your society, and will you now in exchange give me your reproaches? If we have sinned together, and provoked the Lord to anger, let us now kneel together before his mercy-seat, and together confess our sins, and implore forgiveness."

"You may pray and obtain mercy, but I cannot; no, I cannot."

"The Lord waits to be gracious."

"Yes, to the penitent, but my heart is too hard to feel penitential sorrow."

"But is not the Redeemer exalted to give repentance?"

"To _you_ he will give it, but not to _me_. I have fallen away, and incensed justice renders it impossible to renew me again to repentance, for I have crucified the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame."

"But justice relents when a sinner prays, and mercy"--

"Oh! speak not of mercy."

"But mercy rejoiceth over judgment."

"Yes, but when mercy is rejected, as in my case, justice avenges the insult in a terrible form. Let us change the theme, Sophia. I am too full of agony to dwell on it. It awakens recollections that I wish to banish for ever. It is like handling the deadly weapon which is to extinguish life."

"The blood of Christ, dear Henry, cleanseth from all sin."

"But I have counted the blood of the covenant wherewith he was sanctified an unholy thing."

"But, Henry, is He not still able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him; and have you sinned beyond his recovering grace?"

"I know my doom," he curtly replied.

It is not always in our power to ascertain the precise moment when the Divine Spirit begins the good work of grace in the heart, nor yet to say what specific means he employs to effect it, but sometimes an unpremeditated effort to convey instruction, or warning, or consolation to another, is made to re-act on the speaker to produce the great change. Thus it was in the experience of Mrs. Beaufoy. She felt the force of her own remarks, and when reflecting on them, at a subsequent period, she could not but yield to their influence. The charge brought against her, of having led her husband astray, she _now_ admitted to be just. But what an admission! to be not merely accessory to his apostasy, but the primary cause of it--not merely a partaker of his guilt, but the means of its contraction and its accumulation. Her sin, which had been concealed from her, _now_ started up in all its aggravated form and appalling aspect. "Yes, 'tis true; if I had feared the Lord, I might have kept him from going astray, and we might have been walking in his commandments and ordinances blameless. I enticed him from the paths of righteousness, and into what an abyss of misery are we both plunged! I remember the night when I first induced him to leave the house of prayer to accompany me to the theatre, and I remember the anguish of his spirit after our return. I then told him that he would not injure his principles by yielding sometimes to the customs of the world, but alas, I was deceived! I alone am to blame, and if I could suffer alone, I would patiently endure the terrible inflictions of justice I have merited. But alas! I have raised the storm which has long since laid waste all our domestic felicity, and which is now threatening a deluge of wrath! Where, O where, can we take refuge from the impending evil!"

As she was thus bemoaning her unhappy state, she thought of her long-neglected Bible, and taking it from the book-case, she pressed it to her lips and prayed for grace to understand and feel its instructive and consolatory truths. On turning over its pages, her eye caught the following passage, which in a few moments mitigated in a slight degree the agitation of her mind--"And a man shall be as an hiding-place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place; as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." But as there are

"No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels,"

so there is

"No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals;"

and though her distressed spirit was lifted up above the overwhelming flood, yet it was still enveloped by the gloom of desponding fears. She attempted to pray, but her heart was too tightly bound by mental anguish to give vent to her grief. Hitherto she had borne her sorrows with an unbending spirit, and usually wore a placid aspect when in the company of her husband or her other friends; but now her countenance was changed, and it was evident her soul was in trouble.

"You appear unhappy," said her husband, one day, on finding her in tears; "is it on my account or your own?"

"I am unhappy on your account, Henry, and I am unhappy on my own; and I know not where to go for relief. I feel the justice of our dear mother's charge, though I deemed it cruel at the time. I have indeed led you astray, and am the guilty cause of all the misery into which we are both plunged. If I could suffer alone, it would be an alleviation of my anguish, but I cannot. O, Henry, return with me to the Lord, from whom we have departed, and as we have sinned together, and now suffer together, let us enter his presence, and confess our guilt; and then his anger will be turned away, and he will comfort us."

"_You_ may obtain mercy, Sophia, but _I_ cannot; yours have been the sins of ignorance, but mine have been committed against the clearest light and the deepest conviction of their aggravated guilt. You may plead the promises of the Bible, as a sinner under the first convictions of sin; but I bear upon me the reproach of having forsaken the God of my mercies; and while there are no obstructions in the way of your access to the throne of grace, that throne is guarded by a flaming sword which turneth every way to keep me off from touching the sceptre of mercy. I know my doom, and I deserve it."

He continued in this frame of mind for many months; and though he abandoned the society of his former companions, and the haunts of evil which he had been accustomed to frequent, yet no arguments, however weighty, or entreaties, however urgent, could induce him to revisit a place of worship, or resume his practice of family devotion. At length an insidious disease, which had long been undermining his constitution, began to manifest itself, and it was evident that his course in this world was fast coming to an end. He was urged to try change of air; and with this view he proceeded with his wife to the pleasant village of Parkdale, from which I was somewhat surprised, shortly after my return from Fairmount, to receive a letter written by Mrs. Beaufoy, earnestly beseeching me to come and see her husband, as she feared he had not long to live, and had expressed a wish to see me. My intercourse with Mr. Beaufoy had been completely suspended for some years past. As already mentioned, his letters first became shorter and more reserved, and at length ceased altogether. On one occasion that I called on him in London, his manner was so dry, and expressed so little cordiality, that I felt convinced my visit was disagreeable, and, consequently, never repeated it. On hearing, however, of his lamentable defection from the path of truth, I deemed it my duty to address two or three letters to him on the subject; but to none of these did I receive any answer. When at Fairmount, Mr. Lewellin informed me that he had seen nothing of Mr. Beaufoy for a long time, as latterly he had become quite estranged from his early friends, and established himself in the midst of gay and irreligious society. On receiving the above communication, I at once resolved to proceed to Parkdale, about forty miles distant, in the earnest hope that I might be of some benefit to Mr. Beaufoy, whom, notwithstanding all the past coolness between us, I still continued to regard with considerable interest. On my arrival, I found that I had been anxiously expected by his wife, who appeared to be much relieved at seeing me, and after a short conversation, led me to her husband's room. He received me with strong expressions of affection, and regret for his past rudeness and neglect. "O! Mr. ----," he exclaimed, "this is indeed kindness to come and see a poor dying wretch, whose conduct has been so deserving of censure. I have been a wicked man, an undutiful son, and a renegade from the faith; and now I feel a dagger thrust through my heart, which can never be removed."

"Dear Sir," I replied, "there is one Physician who can remove it, and one specific that can heal the wound."

"I know it. I do not doubt his power, as that would be an insult to his omnipotence; but I cannot believe in his willingness. No, I cannot!"

"But which is the greatest insult, to doubt his ability to save to the uttermost, or his willingness? Has he not said, 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out?'"

"But, Sir, the passage which you have now quoted, is addressed to sinners under the first convictions of sin, and not to apostates who have fallen from their former steadfastness. My doom is fixed, and you have only to read the words of the prophet to know its nature. 'Because I have purged thee, and thou wast not purged, thou shalt not be purged from thy filthiness any more, till I have caused my fury to rest upon thee.'"

"But why, my friend, should you appropriate that awful passage to your condemnation, when you live under a dispensation of grace, which has made provision for the salvation of the chief of sinners?"

"I do it, Sir, because I know and feel that it is a debt of justice which I owe to the insulted grace of Heaven. That passage is the only one in the Bible on which I can dwell with any degree of ease."

"But can you derive any mental ease from reflecting on a passage which denounces indignation and wrath?"

"Yes, Sir, because then I sink to the level of my condition, and silently approve the equity of the sentence; but when a promise of mercy recurs to my mind, its involuntary stirrings to embrace it throw me into a more agonized state of feeling. But I do not complain. I deserve all I suffer, and all I have to suffer, and I will submissively bear the indignation of the Lord, because I have sinned against him."

"May you not hope, that this spirit of submission to the righteous manifestations of the Divine displeasure, is a proof that you are not totally abandoned by him; for if that were the case, you would feel disposed, either to impeach the goodness, or murmur against the justice of God?"

"No, Sir, I am not abandoned by him! If I were, I should enjoy the fatal ease of _unfelt_ guilt. I am held in bondage, I am alive to the peril of my state, and am compelled by the irresistible convictions of my conscience to admit the equity of my condemnation, but I dare not hope for any symptoms of returning mercy. Returning mercy! No, mercy is clean gone for ever."

"Nay, my friend, the mercy of the Lord endureth for ever; he delights in it, and I have no doubt but the Sun of Righteousness will break in upon the midnight darkness of your soul, and cheer you with the returning light and bliss of hope."

"O! speak not to me of mercy or of hope! You do but agonize me with fresh tortures."

"But will you not admit that God _can_ turn away his anger from you, and comfort you?"

"I admit, Sir, that all things are possible with God, which are in accordance with his purity and his justice; but I do not think that he can renew me again unto repentance, because I have crucified to myself the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame. I wish, therefore, you would allow me to remain undisturbed by any allusions to mercy, as such allusions bring to my recollection joys that are past, never to be recalled, and plunge me deeper and deeper in the abyss of mental agony. O that I had passed from the nuptial altar to a premature grave! then I should have been resting in peace; but I will not reproach. May my sad doom operate as a warning to others against a departure from God."

I was much distressed at this scene, but still did not abandon hope; and, therefore, at the urgent solicitation of Mrs. Beaufoy, consented to remain with them for a few days. His disorder continued to increase, and on the morning after my arrival, he consented that his mother should be sent for--a proposal which he had hitherto always rejected, as his attachment to her, which was sincere, made him averse to occasioning her any alarm. On receiving the intelligence of his illness, which had hitherto been concealed from her, she hastened to Parkdale. Her son, on hearing of her arrival, said to his wife, "Conceal from my dear mother the state of my mind; she cannot help me, and if she knows that I die in despair, she will never taste another drop of comfort in this vale of tears." As she entered the room, he raised himself on his bed and embraced her, and they wept in silence together for some minutes.

"And why, my son," she remonstrated, "did you not let me know of your illness before now? I would have come and nursed you as I used to do long ago."

"I hoped that I should recover, mother, and I was unwilling to alarm you."

"Well, my son, I hope the Lord is dealing graciously with your soul now you are in the dark valley?"

"He is dealing righteously."

"Yes, my child, he always deals righteously; but is he dealing graciously?" A long pause ensued.

"But why are you silent, my son? Tell your mother how the Lord is dealing with you."

"He is dealing righteously with me, and it is our duty to bow in submission to His will."

"I am happy to hear that you are resigned to His will; that is a proof that He is dealing graciously. May the Lord continue to bless you, my dear child, and may He lift upon you the light of his countenance and give you peace."

On resuming her inquiries next day, she asked him, "Have you a good hope through grace, of being presented faultless before the presence of the Lord with exceeding joy?"

"To throw off the veil of concealment which I wished to rest over the state of my mind, I confess, my dear mother, that I have no hope."

"No hope, my child! Not one cheerful beam of hope! Is the Lord's arm shortened, that he cannot save? or is his ear heavy, that he cannot hear?"

"No; he is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; and it is his immutability that plunges me into despair."

"How so, my dear son?"

"He is immutable in his threatenings against those who depart from him."

"And is He not immutable in his promises of mercy to those who _wish_ to return?"

"But there are no promises of mercy that suit my case."