46 HOMAGE TO FOLLY. to make, there is in themselves any inkling of a predisposition to that fanlt against which I am desirous to caution them. It is a failing more general than is supposed. It attacks many, and brings them to the brink of ruin, before they themselves, far less others, are aware that they are subject to it. I have known weeping friends deploring a young man's inclination to riot and drink, at a time when he would much rather have drunk a glass of water than a glass of brandy. He merely wished to be, or to be thought, a roaring fellow. But he did become a drunkard after all --a despised, disgraced, diseased drunkard and beggar! He mocked the enemy, and the enemy clutched him and held him fast. And so he died the death. tion, is much greater. Fellows of this kind, the self-examination which I entreat the reader finding that under no circumstances can they ever rise beyond the lower ranks of their professions, will often be found trying to hoodwink their neighbors, by getting up an idea that their failure is owing solely to their imprudence. They are too dull to discern-for even the dullest of mankind may be vain, and vanity may still more besot him-they are too dull, I say, to discern that, by all whose regard is worth preserving, they would be infinitely more respected if they fail after industrious, persevering efforts, than if their non-success were ascribable to their own misconduct. "Poor Crossly! he has indeed made a mess of it! But it is all his own fault; he could have done better, but he would not!" are words sweeter to these caitiffs than would be the opinion of a sensible person, that they would have done well if they could. There are numbers of impostors of this class, whose aim is to pass themselves off for very clever persons, who les good opportunities by abusing or neglecting them. I have my eye upon one of them, who, having a fair position offered to him, on the strength of his supposed "cleverness," and being endowed with just brains enough to inform him that he was incompetent to it, actually went out of the way until the opportunity passed by, and when he again made his appearance, went about boasting about the loss he had sustained by what he called his "spree!" Having a suspicion of the chap, I instituted minute inquiries as to his whereabouts during his retirement from public life; and I found, as I half expected I should, that he had been all the while as sober as a judge of sessions ought to be. The individual in question, though as devoid as any being above the level of idiocy could be of any one quality useful to society or to himself, had just sufficient low cunning to impose on very credulous, very inexperienced, and very ignorant people, and become what John Neal would term a consummate "loafer," on a small scale. There is a good deal of such imposture abroad; an army of stupid, lazy, debauched scamps, who, till they are quite broken down, continue-in virtue of what they never have been-to guzzle and gorge themselves at other people's expense, and then skulk, in a dishonored dotage, at an age scarcely past the meridian, to the workhouse. On such characters, young or old, an appeal of this kind would be thrown away; and I rather address myself to those who, endowed with good qualities of head and heart, find that, on causes. There are many vices, great and small, which people who have no leaning towards them affect, through morbid vanity, eccentricity, and other It is a species of hypocrisy which, in its ultimate consequences, is, as I have already remarked, scarcely less baneful than the hypocrisy of the actually wicked. It rebounds, with fatal effect, on those who indulge in it. People may rely on it they can never be too good, or appear to be better than they ought to be. There is no human being without faults, and grave faults too; let us not take pride in seeming worse than we are. We are bad enough, the very best of us. Amongst the developments of false vanity-all vanity is false, but this especially false and foolish-is the feeling which prompts some persons to feel ashamed of a civil or good-natured action, if it appears to have any shade of the appearance of "simplicity" attached to it, whilst at the same time they will often take a perverse pleasure in recounting some petty, perhaps shabby act of theirs, which may tend to convey an idea of their cunning. There are men---honest men, too, as the world goes--who, judging from their conversation, might almost be supposed to prefer the character of a rogue to that of an honest man; and, though they be not dealers in "sharp practice," they will fabricate stories indicative of their proficiency therein. These persons should pause; they are in danger. If they could practically realize the social position of those who really deal in such arts, and who have obtained the reputation of being dealers therein, they would recoil with horror, and bless their stars that their own eyes were opened before the world had made up its mind to take them at their word. Nothing on earth is more easily lost than "s good name," nothing on earth more hard to be THE ELEVENTH HOUR. regained. Society is not too full of charitable allowance for peccadilloes. It is much more keen-eyed for faults than for virtues; and it is positively unnecessary to set about sharpening its sight, by protesting that if it looks closer it will discover cracks and crannies, of which it does not dream, in our character. There was a time when persons in all grades, and perhaps in the highest walks of life more than in any other, did really take a pride in the commission of personal enormities which would now debar the perpetrator from all decent association. Then, drunkenness, gaming, unchastity, pugnacity leading to mortal encounter, were amongst the characteristics of the man of mettle. Now, things are changed in that respect. The qualities, or brutalities, (for the latter is their fitting designation,) which were then the best recommendations to "good society," are now enough to brand him a vagabond and an outcast. And it is well that this is so, very well, indeed. But it is probable that there remains some of the leaven of a worse state of things; that the illideas long since cast off by the higher classes are still, not indeed encouraged, but remembered with some degree of jocular leniency, amongst the least discerning and intelligent of those who move in less exalted circles. And this may partly account for the circumstance that an inconsiderate youth will often play pranks intended to impress those who witness them with an idea that he is cast in the mould of the wits, gallante, and brilliant debauchees, of whose extravagances we read such startling traditions, and that he may play his pranks with impunity, and still stand well with the world. Away with the delusion! It is soul-killing and body-killing. But, leaving for a moment the religious part of the question, it is the most certain forerunner of ridicule, contempt, and disgrace. That it should retain its hold upon any portion of the people, and that, of late, it should appear to have even gained ground, is a matter which I impute to the existence of something radically wrong-some grave though latent defect in the social and literary education which young people receive. Much is said, and truly said, of the increased intelligence of this age. But I ask-and while I ask, I doubt—are the beauty and wisdom of CANDOR sufficiently inculcated amongst the young? The dogmatic truths of religion, those truths without which the dry normal rules of mere morality ever fail to make a really good man, are, I trust, duly attended to in all wellregulated families and schools. Are the details of mental working in each individual child 47 watched and guided as carefully as they ought to be, with the view of guarding him from fatal errors in judging what can and what cannot be said and done, without prejudice, by one who would win a fair position in life? Is care taken to prevent him from being seduced, unknown to himself, into a latent admiration of acts which seem so very different when described by an eloquent writer in a novel, or a jovial companion by the fireside, and when committed before our face by living human beings? I fear not. And if my fear be well founded, am I not justified in repeating my call upon all who have the awful charge of "training a child in the way he should go," to take care betimes so to train him that he shall be in no danger of adopting the idea that glory or admiration, even of that kind which vanity feeds on, can ever be retained by paying even an outward homage to Folly! THE ELEVENTH HOUR. SOME years since, a`gentleman, well known for his liberality and zeal, was passing through an obscure alley in London, one Sabbath morning, distributing religious tracts as he went along. A woman, with whom he left one of the little publications, informed him that she had a lodger in an apartment in the house who appeared to be very ill, and who she thought would feel pleased and grateful if the gentleman would pay him a visit. He instantly complied with the request, and was introduced to a room almost destitute of furniture, where, upon a miserable bed, he perceived the ruins of a fine young man, in the last stage of emaciation and decay. The gentleman, with his accustomed kindness and fidelity, entered into conversation with him, and was pleased to discover that the unhappy sufferer was not only fully prepared to receive his instructions, but that he appeared to be truly impressed with the character of his state, acquainted with the system of salvation through the crucified Saviour, and manifesting those dispositions of repentance and of faith which are so essential to the safety of the soul. He confessed he had been brought up in respectability, that he had received a religious education, that he had fallen a victim to the multiform seductions of vice, that he had abandoned his parental home, that his constitution had been ruined by excess, and that his present condition had resulted from his own depravity. He then proceeded, in broken language and with exhausted strength, to describe how in his misery, like the prodigal son in the parable, he had come to himself; how all the impressions of early life had been revived by an influence from above; how earnestly and penitently he had cast himself before the throne of grace; how hope had animated him while dwelling upon the love and mediation of the Redeemer; and how, at last, he was enabled to indulge in some expectations of final forgiveness and acceptance beyond the grave. When the gentleman kindly inquired if he could do any thing for him, the young man with considerable hesitation, but yet with absorbing earnestness, said: "I hope I have obtained the forgiveness of God: would that I could receive that of my father!" The gentleman, whose feelings were very strongly excited, offered his services, and inquired the parent's address; and it was with some astonishment that he heard the name of an individual whom he knew to be occupying a station of respectability and reputation. As the situation of the young man admitted of no delay, he immediately repaired to the residence of the father, whom he found at home, and to whom he was introduced. Some embarrassment followed. At length the gentleman said: "I believe, Sir, you have a son." The old man became violently affected, burst into a flood of tears, and sufficiently exemplified how much the conduct of his child had agonized his heart. The gentleman, after some delay, proceeded, with as much caution as he could exercise, to narrate the eircumstance which had transpired in the morning, and concluded by offering his services to conduct the parent to an interview with his erring, but penitent child. A silent assent having been given, they proceeded to the house where the young man was lodging. They soon arrived at the place. The gentleman first entered the apartment. The young man, when he saw him, faintly smiled with pleasure; and then, looking farther, he perceived the gray hairs and well-known countenance of his father. With all his remaining strength, he uttered the most pathetic entreaties for forgiveness. The whole affection of his father was aroused; and, according to the description of the parable before quoted, he ran, took his son in his arms, and gave him the most endearing assurances that he was pardoned. The young man had put his arms round the neck of his father, who suddenly felt the filial embrace relaxed. He looked through his tears, and found that he held the corpse of his child! The effort and the emotion had proved too much for his strength, and his spirit had fled to the presence of its God. THE THUNDER-STORM. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. On for evening's brownest shade, Round the hermitage of Health, O'er the sick and sultry plains, And the warmness of despair; Now in deep and dreadful gloom, Clouds on clouds portentous spread, Hung o'er Nature's shrinking head: Hear ye not his chariot-wheels, From the centre to the poles: PEACE WITH GOD. AN ancient said that he would rather have the king's countenance than his coin-a good look from him, rather than gold. And I dare say that a Christian thinks himself richer when he is able to say, God is mine, than if he had a thousand mines of gold. If the sun were wanting, it would be night for all the stars; so, if the light of God's countenance be wanting, a man may sit in the shadow of death for all the glittering of worldly contentments. I beseech you, tell me: Suppose the houses were paved with pearls and walled with diamonds, still, if the roofs were open to the injuries of the heaven, would these shelter you from the storm and tempest? Would you choose to be so lodged in a hard winter? Suppose the king were to set you in the chair of state, at a table richly furnished, royally attended, but with his sword hanging over you by a thin thread, would that honor make you merry! Suppose God himself should make you this offer: "Crowr your head DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM. with rose-buds; clothe yourself in purple; fare deliciously every day; take your fill of pleasure; open your mouth wide, and I will fill you with all that heart could wish of worldly things; only this—you shall never see my face;" would you think you had a good offer? Would you accept of the condition? No. If Heaven fight against us-if the wrath of God hang over our heads-if he hide his face and be angry, yea, but a little-happy are all they that put their trust in him. Many say, "Who will show us any good? Lord! lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us." Let our house be a prison-a dungeon; but let the light of thy countenance shine in at some little opening, and that shall make it a palace, a court, a heaven! Let our bread be the bread of affliction, and our tears be our drink; but let the light of thy countenance shine upon us, and that bread shall be changed into the food of angels, and that water turned into wine! Let friends and goods and life and all forsake us; but let the light of thy countenance shine upon us, and that shall be life and friends and goods and all unto us! For as Noab, when the deluge of waters had defaced the great book of nature, had a copy of every kind of creature in that famous library of the ark, out of which all were reprinted to the world; so he that hath God hath the original copy of all blessings, out of which, if all perished, all might easily be restored. God is the best storehouse that a man can have; the best treasury that a kingdom can have. God is the best shield of any person, and the safeguard of any nation. If God be our enemy, nothing can secure us; if God be our friend, nothing can hurt us: for when the enemy girds a city round about with the straitest siege, he cannot stop the passage to heaven; and so long as that is open, there may come some relief and succor from heaven, if God be our friend. Let Pharaoh be behind, the Red Sea before, the mountains on each side, the Israelites can still find a way; and when there is no other way to escape a danger, a Christian can go by heaven! But if God be an enemy, for all their walls and bars God could, as he did on Sodom, rain on us fire and brimstone from heaven. "FAITH," says one, "is not a speculative theory, but a practical energy and it will sicken and die, if it be not fed by acts of devotion, by habits of prayer, by deeds of self-denial, by exercises of love." DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM. 49 Dr. Doddridge was on terms of very intimate friendship with Dr. Samuel Clarke, and in religious conversation they spent many happy hours together. Among other matters, a very favorite topic was the intermediate state of the soul, and the probability that at the instant of dissolution it was not introduced into the presence of all the heavenly hoste, and the splendors around the throne of God. One evening, after a conversation of this nature, Dr. Doddridge retired to rest with his mind full of the subject discussed, and in the "visions of the night" his ideas were shaped into the following beautiful form: He dreamed that he was at the house of a friend, when he was suddenly taken dangerously ill. By degrees he seemed to grow worse, and at last to expire. In an instant he was sensible that he exchanged the prison-house and sufferings of mortality for a state of liberty and happiness. Embodied in a splendid aërial form, he seemed to float in a region of pure light. Beneath him lay the earth, but not a glittering city or village, the forest or the sea, was visible. There was naught to be seen below, eave the melancholy group of friends weeping around his lifeless remains. Himself thrilled with delight, he was surprised at their tears, and attempted to inform them of his change, but by some mysterious power utterance was denied; and as he anxiously leaned over the mourning circle, gazing fondly upon them and struggling to speak, he rose silently upon the air. Their forms became more and more distant, and gradually melted away from his sight. Reposing upon golden clouds, he found himself swiftly mounting the skies, with a venerable figure at his side guiding his mysterious movement, and in whose countenance he remarked the lineaments of youth and age were blended together with an intimate harmony and majestic sweetness. They travelled through a vast region of empty space, until at length the battlements of a glorious edifice shone in the distance; and as its form rose brilliant and distinct among the far-off shadows that flitted across their path, the guide informed him that the palace he beheld was for the present to be his mansion of rest. Gazing upon its splendor, he replied that while on the earth he had heard that eye had not seen, nor had ear heard, nor could it enter into the heart of man to con ceive the things which God had prepared for 50 HUMAN GREATNESS. those who love him; but notwithstanding the building to which they were then rapidly approaching was superior to any thing he had ever before seen, yet its grandeur had not exceeded the conceptions he had formed. The guide made no reply. They were already at the door, and entered. The guide introduced him into a spacious apartment, at the extremity of which stood a table covered with a snow-white cloth, a golden cup, and a cluster of grapes; and there he said he must remain, for he would receive in a short time a visit from the Lord of the mansion, and that during the interval before his arrival the apartment would furnish him with sufficient entertainment and instruction. The guide vanished, and he was left alone. He began to examine the decorations of the room, and observed that the walls were adorned with a number of pictures. Upon nearer inspection, he found, to his astonishment, that they formed a complete biography of his own life. Here he saw upon the canvas that angels, though unseen, had ever been his familiar attendants, and that, sent by God, they had sometimes preserved him from immediate peril. He beheld himself first as an infant just expiring, when his life was prolonged by an angel gently breathing into his nostrils. Most of the occurrences here delineated were perfectly familiar to his recollection, and unfolded many things which he had never before understood, and which had perplexed him with many doubts and much uneasiness. Among others, he was particularly struck with a picture in which he was represented as falling from his horse, when death would have been inevitable had not an angel received him in his arms, and broken the force of his descent. These merciful interpositions of God filled him with joy and gratitude, and his heart overflowed with love as he surveyed in them all an exhibition of goodness and mercy far beyond all that he had imagined. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a rap at the door. The Lord of the mansion had arrived-the door opened, and he entered. So powerful and so overwhelming, and withal of such singular beauty was his appearance, that he sank down at his feet, completely overcome by his majestic presence. His Lord gently raised him from the ground, and, taking his hands, led him forward to the table. He pressed with his fingers the juice of the grapes into the cup, and after having drunk himself, presented it to him, saying, "This is the new wine in my Like Father's kingdom." No sooner had he partaken than all uneasy sensations vanished. Perfect love had cast out fear, and he conversed with the Saviour as with an intimate friend. the silver rippling of the summer sea, he heard fall from his lips the grateful approbation: "Thy labors are over, thy work is approved, rich and glorious is thy reward." Thrilled with an unspeakable bliss, that glided into the very depth of his soul, he suddenly saw glories upon glories bursting upon his view. The Doctor awoke. Tears of rapture from his joyful interview were rolling down his cheeks. Long did the lively impressions of this charming dream remain upon his mind, and never could he speak of it without emotions of joy and tenderness. HUMAN GREATNESS. THE great man stood upon the field of battle, surrounded by a chosen army of 60,000, ready to battle to the death for their prince. He is now on a foreign shore, and his heart beats high with the confident expectation of subduing a kingdom. Well he knows the hazard he runs, in thus attacking a brave people devoted to their king, and that king both valiant and skilful. But the invader hesitated not for a moment. He longed for the sound of battle which must decide his fate. The eventful morning came, and one hundred thousand men entered the fearful conflict. Again and again the invaders, led by their general, rushed on their enemies, and as often they were repulsed, until defeat seemed inevitable. Then their commander appeared, inspiring them by his words and his conduct, and the tide of victory was turned. Thousands fell defending their country, but it availed nothing, for their country was lost. The invader triumphed, and a stranger sat upon the throne. He had, indeed, become a great man, for by his own bravery he had secured for himself a kingdom. Millions trembled at his nod, princes esteemed him as their equal and brother, and even his Holiness the Pope condescended to pay him the most paternal attentions. But the day of death came, and while the great man was expiring, his sons were quar relling by his bedside about their respective patrimonies; and, as the last gasp was drawn, the very servants, forgetful of duty and imitating their young masters, pillaged the house, |