has his attention turned toward that affecting kindness of the Saviour, until his own case brings it before him, and until a hope of pardon arouses his observation.

Farewell.-Reader, if you believe that you never sinned, we tell you farewell in despair; for sin has benumbed your soul into a stupidity which is hopeless. If you know you are a sinner, get pardoned forthwith, for this is the only wise course. If you wish pardon, our farewell advice, as to the manner of seeking it, is to act just as you would do if you saw the Redeemer.

Without seeing the Saviour, ask as you would if you did see him; without hearing him speak, attend to his written words just as you would do if you heard him speak them. "Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed." Without seeing the white throne, before which we must certainly stand in judgment, act as you will wish you had when you do see it; without seeing the bright flashes of the peaceful abode, and the joyous features of the white-robed society, act as vigorously as the worth of such a residence should prompt; without looking down into the red atmosphere, where are thrown together "the fearful, and the unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and all liars," act so as to avoid their company and their eternity. Farewell,

CHAPTER XLVI.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR'S UNBELIEF, HIS DELIVERANCE THEREFROM, AND THE MEANS OF HIS ESCAPE.

DEAR READER,-One way to make plain the cure of infidelity, is to give examples of deliverance.

We can remember minute particulars of our own case with more accuracy than those of any other. Facts are never read with less interest in consequence of being presented as the lever by which other minds have been shaken or overturned.

Before entering upon the means of escape from unbelief, it is necessary to notice the mode of descending into that abyss.

* My parents were professors of religion, with plain education, but well informed in holy things. Firm, ardent, and unassuming, infidelity came not before their thoughts. It seemed to be their impression that entire unbelief belonged to only a few, or that where it was avowed it could scarcely be sincere. I never remember to have heard the truth of inspiration questioned by mortal lips until the age of sixteen; when, having passed through the usual college course, too hastily, I went to read medicine in Danville, Kentucky. As soon as I mixed with society, I, of course, entered the company of some who were admirers of the French philosophy. I was not as much with the world as others, but I heard them speak occasionally. When talking of religion their feelings were always awake. They seemed to believe that

* When speaking of ourselves we abbreviate labour, and avoid incessant change of case, by using the first instead of the third person.

in disregarding inspiration there was something peculiarly original and lofty. The sparkle of the eye, the curl of the lip, and the tone of voice, if interpreted, seemed to say that the rest of mankind were contemptible fools, but "we are not." Their remarks impressed me, but not deeply. That their sarcasms and jeers influenced me toward infidelity, was because men love darkness more than light; for their arguments were so destitute of fact for foundation, that, ignorant as I was, I could sometimes see they were in reality favouring the other side.

I had some longing after the character of singular intellectual independence, and some leaning toward the dignified strut; but I did not assume either as yet, for my habits of morality remained, and my reverence for superior age and deeper research. It was necessary that I should receive praise from some source, before all diffidence or modesty should be swallowed up in selfeşteer. And this intoxicating poison was not wanting. After the expiration of three years, I became surgeon's mate, or second physician, to a regiment of Kentucky militia, which wintered near the northern lakes. The approbation of many around me there led me to feel as though I was one of the actors on life's wide stage. After this, as I frequented the wine club or the card party, reverence for the Bible diminished; and as my respect for holy precepts diminished, my sinful habits increased. Infidelity inclines us toward pride, festivity, and dissipation, whilst these engender infidelity. Like two ponderous metallic globes hung together on the side of a declivity, they mutually assist each other down the steep, and the farther they proceed, the greater is their momentum. After this I became first surgeon to a regiment of Tennessee troops which served at Mobile. There I became acquainted with many officers of the regular army,

whose intimacy was not calculated to lead me toward God or heaven. During this time, and after this, all worldly success only injured me. It increased my haughtiness, or added to my means of profuse pecuniary expenditure. Revelry darkened the cloud that enveloped my soul, and of course I advanced rapidly in unbelief. my race of infidelity I never reached entire atheism. I was what was called a deist. After a time I began to have moments of doubt whether or not God existed; and moving still onward, it was not long before those short seasons of atheism began to lengthen and to blacken, when I was mercifully arrested. The means of my escape employ our next attention.

In

CHAPTER XLVII.

Means of Rescue.-I had not become an infidel by perusing the writings of unbelievers. I had never read a volume of their productions. I knew that some of these authors were renowned for their literature, and distinguished for their talents. I felt strengthened in my creed by the recollection that many of the great and intellectual believed as I did. I might have asked myself the question, If I am an infidel without assistance, what will I be when aided by the arguments of all those books? I was led, casually, to read a book whose author I knew stood at the head of the infidel army. The man with whom I boarded bought at auction Voltaire's Philosophical Dictionary, and cast it into his library. I read it, and some months after, not knowing but I might have been mistaken in my first impression, I

read the work again. When I name different impres sions made on me by this and other productions, in different months and years, I cannot be accurate as to date or order. I cannot vouch for time or priority, only that such and such influences were made on my mind by such and such arguments. I did not renounce infidelity The struggle occupied many months.

at once.

I opened the volume already named, and read the remarks of the author on a verse where Solomon speaks of wine sparkling in the glass. This he avowed could not have been written by Solomon, for there was no glass, he said, in Solomon's day. My blood ran somewhat cold on reading this; and well it might. I had before this, through motives of ambition only, read a course of history, which made me partially acquainted with former days. I knew that Archimedes was said to burn the Roman fleet with burning glasses, which no one thinks of disputing, and we have no more account of glass in the days of Archimedes than we have in the days of Solomon. I knew that Voltaire knew this, and it was not through ignorance that he penned his assertions. I knew that although the probability was that there was glass both in the days of Archimedes and of Solomon, yet it mattered not, and it did not affect the authenticity of the text named in the smallest degree, because, in many nations and in ancient days, smooth things were called glass. I knew that thousands would read the Philosophical Dictionary who were utterly unacquainted with history. I knew that the author knew that ten thousands of boys and ploughmen would read who would know nothing of the facts stated, and of course the statement of the Dictionary would appear to them plain and conclusive. I was aware that if I had known nothing of ancient