the world with hell anticipated; and we hear so frequently of his disciples "going to their own place" in a similar manner, that the dreadful narratives lose their effect by repetition. It was quite recently that a youth in the state of New York, who had been debauched by the ribaldrous impiety of Paine, yielded up the ghost with dire imprecations on the hour when he first saw an infidel book, and on the murderer who first put it into his hand. But who ever heard of a dying man's cursing the day in which he believed in Jesus? While such an instance, we are bold to assert, never occurred, nothing is more common than the peaceful death of them who have "tasted that the Lord is gracious." They who see practical Christianity in those retreats which the eye of a profane philosopher seldom penetrates, could easily fill a long record of dying beds softened with that bland submission, and cheered with that victorious hope, which threw so heavenly a lustre round the bed of Dr. Finley. These things carry with them their own recommendation to the conscience, which is not yet "seared as with a hot iron." If our pages fall into the hands of the young, we affectionately entreat them to "remember their Creator in the days of their youth;" "to make their calling and their election sure," before they be "hardened by the deceitfulness of sin." Rich are the tints of that VOL. IV. 22 beauty, and sweet the fragrance of those blossoms, on which, in the morning of life, the Lord our God sheds down the dews of his blessing. You would not wish to be associated with infidels in their death; shun the contagion of their principles while you are in spirits and in health. Your hearts cannot but sigh, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his." Cast in, then, your lot with him; choose for your own God the God of Samuel Finley; and like him, you shall have "hope in your death;" like him, you shall be had in everlasting remembrance," when "the memory of the wicked shall rot." CONVERSATION WITH A YOUNG TRAVELER. EVERY one has remarked the mixed, and often ill-assorted company, which meets in a public packet or stage-coach. The conversation, with all its variety, is commonly insipid, frequently disgusting, and sometimes insufferable. There are exceptions. An opportunity now and then occurs of spending an hour in a manner not unworthy of rational beings; and the incidents of a stagecoach produce or promote salutary impressions. A few years ago, one of the stages which ply between our two principal cities, was filled with a group which could never have been drawn together by mutual choice. In the company was a young man of social temper, affable manners, and considerable information. His accent was barely sufficient to show that the English was not his native tongue, and a very slight peculiarity in the |
