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the Master's summons; but she does not wait like the pious ones of later generations. If it were announced to her on some bright morning, that the angels and Christ were at the door waiting, she would smile a beautiful farewell as she rode a way to glory.
But we intended to say a grandmother is an indispensable part of ihe household. The discipline of children is aided by her genial presence; for it is a happy culture for them to wait upon her feeble steps, to run to her aid when necessity demands, to bring her the needed chair, to pick up her cave or crutch, and to perform those other little acts incidental to her happiness. Then, too, how felicitously her occasional moral counsel fall upon youthful ears! So unstudied and simple, it really seems as if God spared her on purpose to talk to the grandchildren! Her, example, also, falls as light upon their young hearts. They do not perceive that it is molding their lives, and bringing forth rich fruit in noble, generous acts, that otherwise might not appear. But it is so. Many a sainted grandmother has perpetuated her influence to children's children, so that she will be called blessed at the day of judgment. Paul reminded Timothy of his indebtedness to his grandmother Lois, and affirmed that the “unfeigred faith” that was in him dwelt long before in her. He, indeed, ascribes much to his excellent mother, Eunice, but implies that she received the pith of her pious life, through grace, from her mother Lois. It would not be strange if the latter, mainly, saved young Timothy from the corruptions of the heathen city in which they lived. It is certain that all good lessons which he received in youth were imparted by her and his devoted mother. We would add another to the beatitudes in the fifth chapter of Matthew, bamely : Blessed be good grandmothers.
LIFE THROUGII D EAT II.
EXAMPLES OF DYING INFIDELS.
" Horrible is the end of the unrighteous generation."—Wis. 3: 19. MR. HOBBES was a celebrated infidel in the last age, who, in bravado, would soinetimes speak very unbecoming things of God and bis Word. Yet, when alone, he was haunted with the most tormenting reflections, and would awake in great terror, if his candle happened only to be out in the night. He could never bear any discourse of death, and seemed to cast off all thoughts of it. He lived to be upwards of ninety. His last sepsible words were, when he found he could live no longer, “I shall be glad then to find a hole to creep out of the world at. And, notwithstanding, all his high pretensions to learning and philosophy, his uneasiness constrained him to confess, when he drew near to the grave, that he was about to take a leap in the dark.” The writings of this old sinner ruined the Earl of Rochester, and many other gentlemen of the first parts in this nation, as that Nobleman himself declared, after his conversion.
The honorable Francis Newport, who died in the year 1692,, was, favored both with a liberal and religious education. After spending five years in the University, he was entered in one of the Inns of Court. Here he fell into the hands of Infidels, lost all his religious impressions, commenced Infidel himself, and became a most abandoned character, uniting himself to a club of wretches who met together constantly to encourage each other in being critically wicked. In this manner he conducted himself for several years, till at length his intemperate courses brought on an illness, which revived all his former religious impressions, accompanied with an inexpressible horror of mind. The violence of his tor-. ments was such, that he sweat in the most prodigious manner that ever was seen. In nine days he was reduced from a robust state of health to perfect weakness ; during all wbich time his language was the most dreadfal that imagination can conceive. At one time, looking towards the fire, he said, “Oh! that I was to lie and broil upon that fire for a bundred thousand years, to purchase the favor of God, and be reconciled to him again! But it is a fruitless, vain wish: millions of millions of years will bring me no nearer to the end of my tortures, than one poor
O eternity! eternity! who can properly paraphrase upon the words—for ever and ever!"
In this kind of strain he went on, till his strength was exhausted, and his dissolution approached ; when, recovering a little breath, with a groan so dreadful and loud, as if it had not been human, he cried out, “Oh! the insufferable pangs of hell and damnatiou !" and so died, death settling the visage of his face in such a form, as if the body, though dead, was sensible of the extremity of torments.
Mr. William Emmerson was, at the same time, an Infidel, and one of the first mathematicians of the age. Though, in some respects, he might be considered as a worthy man, his conduct through life was rude, vulgar, and frequently immoral. He paid no attention to religious duties, and both intoxication and profane language were familiar to him. Towards the close of his days, being afflicted with the stone, he would crawlabout the floor on his hands and knees, sometimes praying, and sometimes swearing, as the humor took him. What a poor creature is man without Religion! Sir Isaac Newton died of the same disorder, which was attended, at times, with such severe paroxysms, as forced out large drops of sweat that ran down his face. In these trying circumstances, hewever, he was never observed to utter any complaint, or to express the least impatience. What a striking contrast between the conduct of the Infidel and the Christian!
Monsieur Voltaire, during a long life, was continually treating the Holy Scriptures with coutempt, and endeavoring to spread the poison of Iufidelity through the nations. See, however, the end of such a conduct. In his last illness he sent for Dr. Tronchin ; who, when he came, found Voltaire in the greatest agonies, exclaiming with the utmost borror—I am abandoned by God and man. He then said, Doctor, I will give you half of what I am worth, if you will give me six months life. The Doctor answered, Sir, you cannot live six weeks. Voltaire replied, Then I shall go to hell, and you will go with me! and soon after expired.
This is the liero of modern Infidels! Dare any of them say–Let me die the death of Voltaire, and let my last end be like bis ? Wonderful infatuation! This unhappy gentleman occupies the first niche in the French pantheon! That he was a man of great and various talents, none can deny: but his want of sound learning and moral qualifications, will ever prevent his being ranked with the benefactors of mankind, by the wise and good. Such a hero, indeed, is befitting a nation under judicial infatuation, to answer the wise ends of the Governor of the world.
The last days of David Hume, that celebrated Infidel, were spent in playing at whist, in cracking his jokes about Charon and his boat, and in reading Lucian, and other ludicrous books. This is a consummatum est worthy of a clever fellow, whose conscience was seared as with a hot iron! Dr. Johnson observes upon this impenitent death-bed scene“ Hume owned he had never read the New Testament with attention. Here then was a man, who had been at no pains to enquire into the truth of religion, and had continually turned his mind the other way. It was not to be expected that the prospect of death should alter his way of thinking, unless God should send an angel to set him right. He had a vanity in being thought easy." Dives fared sumptuously every day, and saw no danger : but the next thing we hear of him is—In hell he lifted up his eyes, being in torments. Rousseau has the honor of the second place in the French Pantheon. He was born at Geneva ; and, at a proper age, was bound an apprentice to an artist. During his apprenticeship he frequently robbed his master as well as other persons. Before his time was expired he decamped, and iled into the dominions of the king of Sardinia, where he changed his religion and became a Catholic. By an unexpected turn of fortune he became a footman, in which capacity he forgot not his old habit of stealing. He is detected with the stolen goods ; swears they were given him by a maid-servant of the house. The girl, being confronted with him, denies the fact, and, weeping, presses him to confess the truth ; but the young philosopher still persists in the lie, and the poor girl is driven from her place in disgrace. He then leads a life of debauchery, the relation of which would pollute these pages.
We seldom meet with so much villainy as this in a youth. His manhood however was worthy of it. IIe turned apostate a second time, was driven from within the walls of his native city of Geneva, as an incendiary, and an apostle of anarchy and infidelity; nor did he forget how to thieve. At last the philosopher marries; but, like a philosopher; that is, without going to church. He has a family of children, and like a kind, philosophical father, for fear they should want after his death, he sends them to the poor-house during his life-time! To conclude, the philosopher dies, and leaves the philosopheress, his wife, to the protection of a friend ; she marries a footman, and gets turned into the street.
This vile wretch has the impudence to say, in the work written by himself, which contains a confession of these, bis crimes, that no man can come to the throne of God and say, I am a better man than Rousseau. This account of this strange man is taken from his own Confessions, Peter Porcupine's Bloody Buoy, and the accounts published of his death.
These examples are such as give but little encouragement to any person, who has a proper concern for his own welfare, to embark, either in the atheistic or deistic schemes. In those cases, where conscience was awake, the unhappy men were filled with anguish and amazement inexpressible. And in those cases where conscience seemed to be asleep, there appears nothing enviable in their situation, even upon their own supposition, that there is no after-reckoning. If to die l ke an ass be a privilege, I give them joy of it! much good may it do them! May I die like a Christian, having a hope blooming with immortal expectations!
WHAT IS H E A VEN.
'Tis a new world of living, breathing forms,
Radiant with beauty and immortal bloom ;
Nor change is known, nor sorrow, nor the tomb !
Its thoughts like lightning, its desires like dew; 'Tis one grand atmosphere of love and song,
Of being pure, with God-head shining through,
Result of every change, yet ever new;
And draws his children near, to rest in his embrace.
My soul would dwell in distant realms of morning,
Amid the crystal sheen Which glows from star-like gems, the brows adorning
Of many a fairy queen.
There golden stars like fairy eyes are twinkling
From bright, unclouded skies,
Where crystal fountains rise.
O'er lakes where cygnets glide, And nightingales their sweet complaints are singing
At morn and even-tide.
My soul would rest on banks of fall blown roses,
And of their sweetness dream,
To hide the sunset's gleam.
In dreams I'd glide o'er lakes of crystal water,
Edged with the Em’rald's green,
The flaxen haired Undine.
Or I would ride to Bagdad in an hour
On cloth of Houasseen,
Of lamp of Alladeen.
Or I would wander 'mid the Harem's bowers,
Where lovely maidens rest,
Of Araby the blest.
Or apwards wafted on the clouds of even
Beyond the shining stars,
And gaze through crystal bars.
But, as a bird, its new fledged pinions trying,
Falls flutt'ring back to earth,
They perish at their birth.
Then rest in peace, my soul, till, downward flinging
This oumbrous load of clay,
To spirit lands away.