from the book called Death Bed Scenes by Davis Clark. Dying Without Religion. Section 1. The Dying Sinner. Number 1. Louis XV of France. Tell what lesson may be read beside a sinner's restless bed. The closing scenes of the life of Louis XV, altogether one of the most depraved and sensual of the monarchs who ever occupied the throne of France, were full of horror. Vice, in all the forms which it could assume, had entered into the systematic depravity of his unlicensed pleasures. His disgusting depravity exposed him to the smallpox and the dread of all society. Though flattered for a time into the belief that there was no danger, he was at length undeceived. But owing to the prevalence of court intrigue, it was at the latest possible moment. Surrounded by all the guilty minions of his corrupted court, he, who had not forgotten the lessons of virtue and religion taught by Massalon in his early career, felt himself unprepared to die. He caused his guilty companions to be sent away, telling them that he would recall them should he recover from his disorder. Just before dismissing one of the most degraded among them, he said, May God grant that my disorder may not be dangerous. However, it may become so if it is as yet harmless, and I would fain die as a believer and not as an infidel. I have been a great sinner, doubtless, but I have ever observed Lent with the most scrupulous exactitude, and have caused more than a hundred thousand masses to be said for the repose of unhappy souls. I have respected the clergy and punished the authors of all impious works, so that I flatter myself I have not been a very bad Christian. This effort at self-deception did not, however, succeed, and when the disorder advanced a little further, the dying king ordered a public proclamation to be made before the court of his repentance for his past scandals and his desire is spared to amend his life. Even yet, conscience was not satisfied. His agony and anguish were extreme, and amidst the utmost virulence of his fatal disorder, deserted by most of his courtiers, who fled in terror from the dread infection, with none to soothe his dying pillow, and no hope in which to die, occupied when reason was awake, by uttering in broken sentences the religious horror of which he was the subject. This licentious and most unhappy king expired. 2. A Dying Follower of the World The following affecting account of the dying hours of a man of gaiety and pleasure was given by Mr. Hervey, and a letter to that son of dissipation, sin, and folly, the late Beau Nash of Bath. It was designed as a friendly warning to him to prepare to meet his God, though it is to be apprehended the warning was in vain. I was not long since called to visit a poor gentleman, or a while, of the most robust body and the gayest temper I ever knew. But when I visited him, oh, how was a glory departed from him! I found him no more that sprightly and vivacious son of joy which he used to be. but languishing, pining away and withering under the chastening hand of God, his limbs feeble and trembling, his countenance forlorn and ghastly, and the little breath he had left, sobbed out in sorrowful sighs, his body hastening apace to the dust, to lodge in the silent grave, the land of darkness and desolation, his soul just going to God who gave it, preparing to wing itself away unto its long home, to enter upon an unchangeable and eternal state. When I was come up into his chamber, and had seated myself on his bed, he first cast a most wishful look upon me, and then began, as well as he was able, to speak. O that I had been wise, that I had known this, that I had considered my letter end! Ah, mister, death is knocking at my doors, and a few hours more I shall draw my last gasp, and then judgment, the tremendous judgment! How shall I appear unprepared as I am before the all-knowing and omnipotent God? How shall I endure the day of His coming, when I mention, among many other things, that strict holiness? Which he had formerly so slightly esteemed, He replied with a hasty eagerness, Oh, that holiness is the only thing I now long for, I have not words to tell you how highly I value it. I would gladly part with all my estate, Large as it is, or a world to obtain it. Now my benighted eyes are enlightened, I clearly discern the things that are excellent. What is there in the place whither I am going but God? Oh, what is there to be desired on earth but religion? But if this God should restore you to health, had I think you that you should alter your former course? I call heaven and earth to witness, he said. I would labor for holiness, as I shall soon labor for life. As for riches and pleasures and the applauses of men, I count them as dross and dung, no more than my happiness and the feathers that lie on the floor. Oh, if the righteous judge would try me once more, if he would but reprieve and spare me a little longer, and what a spirit would I spend the remainder of my days! I would know no other business, aim at no other end, than perfecting myself in holiness. Whatever contributed to that, every means of grace, every opportunity of spiritual improvement, should be dearer to me than thousands of gold and silver. But, alas, why do I amuse myself with fond imaginations? The best resolutions are now insignificant, because they are too late. The day in which I should have worked is over and gone, and I see a sad, horrible night approaching, bringing with it the blackness of darkness forever. Heretofore, woe is me! When God called, I refused. When He invited, I was one of them that made excuse. Now, therefore, I receive the reward of my deeds. Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me. I smart and am in sore anguish already, and yet this is but the beginning of sorrows. It doth not yet appear what I shall be, but surely I shall be ruined, undone, and destroyed with an everlasting destruction. This sad scene I saw with mine eyes. These words, and many more equally affecting, I heard with mine ears, and soon after attended the unhappy gentleman to his tomb. 3. Lord Chesterfield Of all the accounts which are left us, of the latter end of those who are gone before into the eternal state, several are more horrible, but few so affecting as that which is given us by his own pen of the late Lord Chesterfield. It shows us incontestably what a poor creature man is, notwithstanding the highest polish which he is capable of receiving, without the knowledge and experience of those satisfactions which true religion yields. and what egregious fools all those persons are, who squander away their precious time, and what the world by a strange perversion of language calls pleasure. I have enjoyed all the pleasures of this world, and consequently know their futility, and do not regret their loss. I appraise them at their real value, which, in truth, is very low, whereas those who have not experienced always overrate them. They only see their gate outside and are dazzled with their glare, but I have been behind the scenes. It is a common notion, and like many common ones, a very false one, that those who have led a life of pleasure and business can never be easy in retirement. Whereas I am persuaded that they are the only people who can, if they have any sense and reflection. They can look back without an evil eye upon what they from knowledge despise. Others have always a hankering after what they are not acquainted with. I look upon all that has passed as one of those romantic dreams that opium commonly occasions, and I do by no means desire to repeat the nauseous dose for the sake of the fugitive dream. When I say that I have no regret, I do not mean that I have no remorse, for a life either of business or still more of pleasure never was and never will be a state of innocence. But God, who knows the strength of human passions and the weakness of human reason, will, it is to be hoped, rather mercifully pardon than justly punish acknowledged errors. I have been as wicked and as vain, though not as wise as Solomon, but am now at last wise enough to feel and attest the truth of his reflection, that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. This truth is never sufficiently discovered or felt by mere speculation. Experience in this case is necessary for conviction, though perhaps at the expense of some mortality. My health is always bad, though sometimes better and sometimes worse, and my deafness deprives me of the comforts of society which other people have in their illnesses. This, you must allow, is an unfortunate latter end of life, and consequently a tiresome one. But I must own to that it is a sort of balance to the tumultuous and imaginary pleasures of the former part of it. I consider my present wretched old age as a just compensation for the follies, not to say sins, of my youth. At the same time, I am thankful that I feel none of those torturing ills which frequently attend the last stage of life, and I flatter myself that I shall go off quietly and with resignation. My stay in this world cannot be long. God who placed me here only knows when he will order me out of it. But whenever he does, I shall willingly obey his command. I wait for it, imploring the mercy of my Creator and deprecating his justice. The best of us must trust to the former and dread the latter. I think I am not afraid of my journeys in, but will not answer for myself when the object draws very near and is very sure. For when one does see death near, let the best or the worst people say what they please. It is a serious consideration. The divine attribute of mercy, which gives us comfort, cannot make us forget the attribute of justice, which must blend some fears with our hope. When I reflect, however, upon the poor remainder of my life, I look upon it as a burden that must every day grow heavier from the natural progression of physical ills, the usual companions of increasing years. And my reason tells me that I should wish for the end of it. But instinct, often stronger than reason, and perhaps softener in the right, makes me take all proper methods to put it off. I consider life as one who is wholly unconcerned in it. And even when I reflect upon what I have seen, what I have heard, and what I have done myself, I can hardly persuade myself that all the frivolous hurry and bustle and pleasures of the world had any reality, but they seem to have been the dreams of restless nights. This philosophy, however, I thank God, neither makes me sour nor melancholic. I see the folly and absurdity of mankind without indignation or peevishness. I wish them wiser and consequently better than they are." Lord Chesterfield This is a life. These are the mortifying acknowledgments, and this is a poor sneaking end of the best-bred man of the age. Not one word about a mediator. He acknowledges indeed his frailties, but yet in such a way as to extenuate his offenses. One would suppose him to have been an old heathen philosopher that had never heard of the name of Jesus, rather than a penitent Christian whose life had abounded with a variety of vices. NUMBER FOUR. PHILIP III, KING OF SPAIN. Philip III was born in the year 1577, and succeeded to the crown of Spain in the twenty-first year of his age. Of an inactive disposition, and averse to the trouble of governing a great kingdom, he committed the whole administration of affairs to his minister and favourite, and this was the source of many calamities to his subjects, and of perplexity and distress to himself. When this king drew near the end of his days, he desired, as the last action of his life, to see and to bless his children. He told the prince, his successor he had sent for him, that he might behold the vanity of crowns and tiaras, and learn to prepare for eternity. He kindly addressed all his children, gave them his blessing, and dismissed them with fervent prayers for their happiness, both here and hereafter. During the progress of his disorder, he appeared to be greatly disturbed in mind. He made repeated confessions of his sins and implored divine mercy. He said to those around him that he had often been guilty of dissimulation in matters of government. He deeply regretted his indolence and blamed himself much for having devolved the cares of the state on his ministers. When he reflected that he had not in all things made the will of God the rule of his government, he trembled, crying out at different times. O, if it should please Heaven to prolong my life, how different from the past should my future conduct be! The affecting expressions of his repentance and devotion drew tears from the eyes of those who surrounded him. The priests who attended him, unwilling to bruise a broken reed, endeavored to cheer and compose his troubled mind by consolatory views of the Divine Mercy and the assurances which the Gospel affords of assistance to the weak. and a pardon to the penitent. At length the alternate tumult of hope and fear, which had so greatly agitated his mind, subsided into a gentle calm, and he died peacefully in the forty-third year of his life and the twenty-third of his reign. 5. TERRORS OF DEATH The subject of this narrative was born of poor but honest parents and was taught the first principles of religion in a Sabbath school. At the age of sixteen, she engaged in service in her native village. In the first place, she continued two years. In her eighteenth year, she removed into a religious family. Till then, she had lived ignorant of the gospel and careless about her eternal state. But during her continuance in this situation, she appeared deeply impressed. with a sense of her sinfulness, and made an open profession of religion. In her nineteenth year, she removed to a place much superior to the former, as it respects this world. But alas, the master of the house was a lover of pleasure more than a lover of God. Here religious duties were not only neglected, but even ridiculed. She met with no little persecution from her fellow servants. This induced her to neglect private prayer and other means of grace. In length, she was seldom seen at public worship. A Christian friend perceived her declension by her backwardness to discourse on religious subjects. She had previously been very forward to converse on the best things, but at this time was quite the reverse. Yet she did not return back to the world without considerable checks of conscience. She knew that she was doing wrong, but became hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. About the twentieth year of her age, she broke a blood vessel. An apothecary was sent for immediately, but no relief could be afforded. Her appointed time was now arrived. On a day after the circumstance took place, she was visited by the person who had observed her departure from the way of life, and who states the following particulars of different interviews with her. On asking her how she was, she said, very bad. Very bad. I then told her I understood there was no hope of her recovery, and proceeded to inquire how it was with her in regard to her eternal welfare. She exclaimed, That is what I want. My life I care not for, if my sins were pardoned. I then spoke of the power and willingness of Christ to save lost sinners. But she answered there was no pardon for her, she had been such a great sinner. I then enlarged on the precious promises of the gospel and its invitations to miserable sinners, but all seemed to aggravate the feelings of her guilty conscience. She burst into tears and said, Oh, that I had repented when the Spirit of God was striving with me, but now I am undone. I then offered up a prayer for her, and, finding that talking to her was only sharpening the stings of her wounded conscience, I left her. I again visited her late in the evening of the same day. She was much weaker from the loss of blood, and her countenance bespoke the dreadful horror of her mind, which no doubt hastened her speedy dissolution. On asking her how she felt, she answered, Miserable, miserable. I then repeated some encouraging passages of Scripture to backsliders, but alas, all in vain. Her soul labored under the greatest agonies. She exclaimed, Oh, how have I been deceived! When I was in health, I delayed repentance from time to time. Oh, that I had my time to live over again! Oh, that I had obeyed the gospel, but now I must burn in hell forever! Oh, I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! In this manner she continued breathing out most horrible expressions. I reminded her that Jesus Christ would in no wise cast out those sinners who come to him, and that his blood cleanseth from all sin. She said the blood of Christ will be the greatest torment I shall have in hell. Tell me no more about it. I then left her with feelings not to be described. She died next morning at six o'clock. I inquired of the woman who attended her if she continued in the same state to the last. She said she was much worse after I left her, and that they durst not stay in the room with her. She was heard to exclaim several times about an hour before her end, ETERNITY! ETERNITY! O to burn throughout ETERNITY! Thus died at the age of twenty this miserable mortal. " In her mournful departure she adds another to the many solemn proofs which we have, that eternity demands all the care of an immortal being, and that the hours passed on a deathbed are not the time for repentance. 6. Sir Thomas Smith O pleasures past, what are you now, But thorns about my bleeding brow, Specters that hover round my brain, And aggravate and mock my pain. Sir Thomas Smith was born in the year 1514, And received a liberal and polished education. In 1542 he was made King's Professor of Civil Law In the University of Cambridge, And Chancellor of the Diocese of Ely. He was several times employed by Queen Elizabeth, As her ambassador to the court of France, and executed the high office of Secretary of State to that princess. His abilities were excellent, and his attainments uncommonly great. He was a philosopher, a physician, a chemist, a mathematician, a linguist, an historian, and an architect. This distinguished person, a short time before his decease, was much affected by the prospect of his dissolution and of a future state. He sent to his friends the bishops of Winchester and Worcester, and entreated them to state to him from the Holy Scriptures the plainest and surest way of making his peace with God, adding, It is lamentable that men consider not for what end they are born into the world till they are ready to go out of it. 7. THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM George Filliers, Duke of Buckingham, was a pretended atheist and one of the most distinguished persons at the court of Charles II. Pleasure was his idol, and he pursued the paths of sin and folly till poverty and ruin overtook him. Not long before his death, he wrote the following letter to Dr. Barrow, whom he appears to have highly esteemed, quote, I always looked upon you as a man of true virtue and know you to be a person of sound judgment. For however I may act in opposition to the principles of religion or to the dictates of reason, I can honestly assure you I had always the highest veneration for both. The world and I may shake hands, for I dare affirm we are heartily weary of each other. O Doctor, what a prodigal have I been of the most valuable of all possessions, time. I have squandered it away with a persuasion that was lasting, and now, when a few days would be worth a hectic comb of worlds, I cannot flatter myself with a prospect of half a dozen hours. How despicable is that man, who never prays to his God but in the time of his distress! In what manner can he supplicate that omnipotent being in his affliction, with reverence whom, in the tide of his prosperity, he never remembered with dread? Do not brand me with infidelity when I tell you I am almost ashamed to offer up my petitions to the throne of grace, or of imploring that divine mercy in the next world which I have so scandalously abused in this. Shall ingratitude to man be looked on as the blackest of crimes, and not ingratitude to God? Shall an insult offered to the king be looked on in the most offensive light, and yet no notice taken when the king of kings is treated with indignity and disrespect? The companions of my former libertinism would scarce believe their eyes were you to show them this epistle. They would laugh at me as a dreaming enthusiast, or pity me as a timorous wretch who was shocked at the appearance of futurity. They are more entitled to my pity than my resentment. A future state may very well strike terror into any man who has not acted well in this life, and he must have an uncommon share of courage and deed who does not shrink at the presence of his God. You see, my dear doctor, the apprehensions of death will soon bring the most profligate to a proper use of their understanding. I am haunted by remorse, despised by my acquaintance, and I fear forsaken by my God. There is nothing so dangerous, my dear doctor, as extraordinary abilities. I cannot be accused of vanity now by being sensible that I was once possessed of uncommon qualifications, as I sincerely regret that I was ever blessed with any at all. My rank in life made these accomplishments more conspicuous and fascinated with the general applause which they procured. I never considered about the proper means by which they should be displayed. Hence, to purchase a smile from a blockhead whom I despised, I have frequently treated the virtuous with disrespect, and sported with the holy name of heaven to obtain a laugh from a parcel of fools who were entitled to nothing but my contempt. Your men of wit, my dear doctor, look on themselves as discharged from the duties of religion, and confine the doctrines of the gospel to people of meaner understandings, and look on that man to be of a narrow genius who studies to be good. Would a pity that the holy writings are not made the criterion of true judgment. Favor me, my dear doctor, with a visit as soon as possible. Writing to you gives me some ease. I am of opinion this is the last visit I shall ever solicit from you. My distemper is powerful. Come and pray for the departed spirit of the unhappy. Buckingham. " 8. A Skeptical Physician How richly were my noontide trances hung, With gorgeous tapestry of picture joys, Till at death's toll whose restless iron tongue Calls for his millions at a meal! Starting, I woke, and found myself undone. There is a very affecting narrative in the confession of a deist at the gates of death. The gentleman in question was a very respectable person of the medical profession and maidenhead. He was a man of pleasures as far as business would permit, but his favorable amusement was the card table at which he spent much time, and would frequently say to Mr. Cook a dissenting minister, I am prodigiously fond of cards. While he was visiting one of his patients he was suddenly taken ill. His conscience was alarmed. His deistical principles, of which he had long made his boast, while in health, gave way. He lamented his sad condition and most affecting and pitiable accents. Among other things, he acknowledged with unutterable distress his neglect of the Lord's Day and the public worship of God. When he was well, he could say he was easy without the Bible. He had no fears for his soul. He believed it would die with his body, and he was never disturbed about these things. He could read profane history with as much pleasure as another reads his Bible. But when he was ill and apprehended himself to be on the brink of the grave, he was thrown into such unutterable agony as to be bereft of his reason. In the most bitter terms he bewailed his past folly, mourned over his lost opportunities, declared his full purpose, if restored, of attending to the great concerns of his soul, and solemnly warned his companions not to follow his example, and cried unto God for mercy. A length, after having lain for some time in a senseless state, he breathed out his soul with a dismal groan. 9. A Young Lady The late Reverend Dr. Henry of Charleston, South Carolina, states that an accomplished and amiable young woman, in the town of, had been deeply affected by a sense of her spiritual danger. She was the only child of a fond and affectionate parent. The deep depression which accompanied her discovery of her status as sinner awakened all the jealousies of the father. He dreaded the loss of that sprightliness and vivacity which constituted the life of his domestic circle. He was startled by the answers which his questions elicited, while he foresaw or thought he foresaw an encroachment on the hitherto unbroken tranquility of a deceived heart. Efforts were made to remove the cause of disquietude, but they were such efforts as unsanctified wisdom directed. The Bible at last, oh how little may a parent know the far reaching of the deed when he snatches a word of life from the hand of a child. The Bible and other books of religion were removed from her possession, and their place was supplied with works of fiction. An excursion of pleasure was proposed and declined. An offer of gayer amusement was likewise refused. Promises Remonstrances and threatenings followed, but the father's infatuated perseverance at last brought compliance. Alas, how little may a parent be aware that he is decking his offspring with the fillets of death, and leading them to the sacrifice like a follower of Moloch. The end was accomplished. All thoughts of piety and all concern for the immortal future vanished together. But alas, in less than a year was a gaudy deception exploded. The fascinating and gay young lady was prostrated by a fever that bade defiance to medical skill. The approach of death was unequivocal, and the countenance of every attendant fell as if they had heard the flight of his arrow. The glazing eye was dim in hopelessness, and yet there seemed a something in its expiring rays that told reproof and tenderness and terror in the same glance. And that voice, its tone was still decided, but sepulchral. My father, last year I would have sought the Redeemer. Father, your child is." Eternity heard the remainder of the sentence, for it was not uttered in time. The wretched survivor now saw before him the fruit of a disorder whose seeds had been sown when his delighted look followed the steps of his idol in the maze of a dance. Oh, how often, when I have witnessed the earthly wisdom of a parent banishing the thoughts of eternity, have I dwelt on that expression which seemed a last reflection from a season of departed hope. Last year I would have sought the Redeemer." Number 10. I won't die. The following affecting account was written in 1775 by a Christian minister of London to the late Reverend Dr. Ryland, who then resided at Northampton. A young lady, who was educated at an academy at Bedford, but was afterwards resided in town, became dangerously ill. Her father, a true Christian, procured for her a lodging in a neighbourhood to try the effect of a change of air. Finding her disorder prevail, he thought it high time for her to be concerned about her soul, and asked her what she thought of eternity. She replied, Do not talk to me about eternity. You want me out of the way, but I shall live long enough to enjoy all that you have in the world. He left her. Next evening the mistress of the house where she was said, Ma'am, I think you look a good deal worse. Worse? I am much better. Why do you talk to me about death? You certainly are worse. Do let the servants sit up with you tonight." No! I am not about to die!" They went to bed. At four in the morning she awoke, her servant who asked, "'What is amiss, ma'am?' "'Amiss! I am dying! I am dying!' The family was called up. The mistress coming in to see her was thus addressed. "'I won't die now! I am determined I won't die! I will live!' It getting worse and worse, she said, I feel I must die, and in agony screamed out, Lord, what must I do? Her servant replied, You must turn to the Savior. She fell back on the bed, and in a moment, expired. 11. Tellerand was a courtier with all his eminent talents. When in the last moments of his existence, this remarkable man received a visit from Louis Philippe, King of the French. Though he had but a few moments to live, he introduced his medical attendants, nurses, and friends to the King, with a formality and adequate belonging to the Ancien Régime. How do you feel? said the King. I am suffering, sire, the pangs of the damned. John Isbet, a lawyer of Glasgow, was a mocker of piety and a drunkard. In 1681, when the martyr, the Reverend Donald Cargo, was on the way to the scene of his sufferings for Christ's cause and crown, this man cruelly insulted him in public. As the martyr stood in chains, he said to him, Mr. Donald, Mr. Cargo, whom he thus addressed, was an aged man, his hair as white as snow. He had long been the eloquent minister of the High Church of Glasgow, loved and revered by all good men. Mr. Donald, will you give us one word more?" alluding in mockery to a familiar phrase which this eminent man of God frequently used when summing up his discourses. The martyr, turning his eyes in tears of sorrow and regret on him, has said to him in that deep and solemn tone so peculiar to him, "'Mock not, lest your bands be made strong.'" He added, after a solemn pause, "'That day is coming when you shall not have one word to say, though you would.'" The historian Woodrow adds, not many days after this, the Lord was pleased to lay his hands on that bad man. At Glasgow, where he lived, he fell suddenly ill, and for three days his tongue swelled, and though he seemed very earnest to speak, yet he could not command one word, and he died in great torment and seeming terror. This faithful historian, who published his great work in folio, The History of the Sufferings of the Church, and so on, in the year 1722, has added these words, Some yet alive know the truth of this passage. Number 13, Sir Thomas Scott. Thomas Scott, a privileged councillor of James V of Scotland, was a noted persecutor of the reformers. Being taken suddenly ill and finding himself dying, he cried out to the Roman priests who sought to comfort him, Be gone, you and your trumpery! Until this moment I believed that there was neither a God nor a hell. Now I know and I feel that there are both, and I am doomed to perdition by the just judgment of the Almighty." William Emerson, number 14. William Emerson was in his day an eminent mathematician and scholar, but being an infidel, the fruits of it were profaneness, vice, and drunkenness. In his last days he exhibited a painful spectacle. In his paroxysms of the stone he would crawl on his hands and knees, uttering at times broken sentences of prayer, intermingled with blasphemies and profane swearing. What a contrast between his death and that of Sir Isaac Newton, who died of the same painful disease! In the severest paroxysms, which even forced large drops of sweat that ran down his face, Sir Isaac never uttered a complaint or showed the least impatience. 15. DYING WITHOUT HOPE The unhappy subject of this sketch, by her ill temper, rendered the life of her first husband so wretched that he became intemperate and finally drowned himself. She then married a second husband, with whom she also lived very unhappily. Her second husband died suddenly, and she was charged with having given him poison in a bowl of coffee. Of that, however, there was no positive testimony, and the subject was never legally investigated. Not long after the death of her last husband, says the narrator, her own health began to decline, and then it was that I became personally acquainted with her. She was very unpopular in her own neighborhood, and her health had been sinking some time before she received much attention from those around her. Her mother-in-law, who took care of her, represented her case as being very distressing, stating that she was extremely sick and without the necessities of life. Hearing that, I ventured to call at her house to ascertain what was her real situation. That was the first time I recollect having seen her. She was propped up in bed, suffering severe pain, attended by cough and emaciation. Her abode was truly cheerless. She had but few comforts, and was without the means of procuring them. Her situation was made known to an influential gentleman, who was a means of procuring a pension for her, in consideration of her husband's having been a soldier in the American Revolution. Before I left her, I made some inquiries into her state of mind with regard to the subject of death, and whether she thought she would be happy or miserable after death. She frankly told me she was sinking rapidly, and that she had no right to believe her heart had ever been changed, that she was without hope of happiness beyond the grave, and also stated that her bodily afflictions were light compared with the uneasiness of mind she suffered about her soul. I advised her to seek earnestly for the renewing and sanctifying operations of the Holy Spirit, and to cast herself entirely upon the Lord Jesus Christ, assuring her He never casts away any who sincerely fly to Him for refuge. She asked me to entreat the Lord for her, a request which she made of several other persons. When her state of mind was made known, many pious persons visited her and conversed with her upon the subject of religion. Some read the scriptures to her and prayed with her. Others selected tracts suited to her case and sent them to be read during her intervals from pain. Gentlemen as well as ladies called to see her and prayed with her. She wept much and prayed herself and appeared earnestly engaged. I saw her frequently while in that distress and found her deeply exercised. The promises of the gospel were repeated to her, but she constantly insisted that they could not reach her case. that her sins were too great to be forgiven. She had probably been guilty of some aggravated sin, which she never confessed. The sympathies of the community were all now exercised in her favor, and those who had once avoided her took pleasure in contributing to her comfort. She had been in that state of distress for many weeks, perhaps two months, when she ceased praying and became a blasphemer. This was about three weeks before her death. She had been using profane language several days before I ventured to see her. I had read of Altamont and Newport, but had never seen such a case, and I now determined to go and see what human nature is when left to itself. Now, instead of expressing satisfaction at seeing me, she began to use the most profane language, calling for curses not only upon me, but upon the Almighty Himself. While I was there, her mother offered her some coffee, but she threw it from her. and cried out, Give me some cold water, for I am going to hell, and I shall get none there. Then she exclaimed, I feel hell within me, and I am suffering the torments of hell. She then stretched out her arm, which was nothing but skin and bone, and asked if this was not a poor arm to burn in hell fire. She appeared entirely sensible of the sovereignty and justice of God, fully sensible of a future state of rewards and punishments, and that she was sinking down to endless woe. When reminded that God was willing to save all who came to Him, sincerely desiring to be forgiven, she cursed God in the most profane manner, saying, He might have saved her if He would, and wished that her Maker was suffering the torments which were awaiting her. Some persons wished to pray with her, but she would not allow them. A lady attempted to read the Bible to her, but she cursed the Bible and ordered her to desist. The lady asked her if she was angry with her. She said, no, not with her in particular, but she was angry with everybody and angry with the Almighty. She told the lady she not only hated everybody, but everybody hated her, and she expected when she died to be thrown out into the street, no one caring enough for her to have her interred. The lady told her such a circumstance should not occur where she had power to prevent it, and promised her that she would see her decently interred. She then requested that she might be buried in the Episcopal churchyard. After her death, the lady complied with her promise and attended the funeral. The man who made the coffin, our black man, the mother-in-law and a little daughter of the deceased, and the lady alluded to, composed a funeral procession. I called to see the corpse. It was the most dreadfully distorted object I ever witnessed. The countenance had the same haggard expression it had before the soul left the body. I never made her but one visit after she began to use profane language, accepting the visit paid to her lifeless remains. My feelings were too much agitated to bear a repetition of the scene, but there was at least 100 persons who visited her, and they can testify the truth of this statement. 16. Dying Regrets I was called upon one morning, now many years ago, says a minister of the gospel, to visit a gentleman, one of my congregation, who was apparently in a dying state. Not having heard of his illness before, but knowing his previous history, I felt startled and greatly distressed. For he was one who had trifled with religious convictions, and had so far stifled them as greatly to abandon his religious connections. satisfying his conscience by attending one's service on the Sabbath, frequently abstaining himself altogether, and seeking in worldly associations and amusements to silence the voice within and bury in oblivion the remembrance of his past religious impressions. On entering his dying chamber with a look of unutterable anguish, he exclaimed, Oh, sir, I am lost. Your very presence condemns me. The sermons you have preached, your faithful warnings from the pulpit, what is to become of my soul, my poor, neglected soul? I have just been told that I cannot live. My hours are numbered. I have no pain now, but that is a precursor of death. He was dying of inflammation in the bowels. And I shall soon be in eternity. O stifled convictions, neglected Bible, misimproved Sabbath! How will you rise up in judgment to condemn me? O sir, what will become of me?" I endeavored to calm his mind and told him he must not add unbelief to the catalogue of his sins, that the gospel was a revelation of mercy, that the blood of Christ cleanses from all sin, that whosoever cometh unto him he will in no wise cast out. that is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto him. Uttermost!" the dying man exclaimed, uttermost, that there is a gleam of hope even for me if I had time. But even now I feel that stage approaching which will absorb my faculties and terminate my sad life. Oh, what would I give for one week, one day? Oh, precious time, how have I wasted it? Oh, my dear pastor, pity me, pray for me. My thoughts grow confused, I cannot pray myself." I then knelt down and prayed with him. which he was most fervently joined, summoning all his strength to keep awake. I shall never forget the grasp of his hand when I alluded to the fullness and sufficiency of divine grace. I left him with feelings which it is impossible to describe, and returned according to my promise in a few hours. I found him still sensible, but evidently sinking under the power of slumber from which he would never awake. 17. A Rich Man A rich man was dying, and when the physician had exhausted his skill in fruitless attempts to arrest the violence of his disease, the sufferer asked, Shall I never recover? You are quite sick, answered a doctor, and should prepare for the worst. Cannot I live for a week? No, you will probably continue but a little while. Say not so, said the dying man. I will give you a hundred thousand dollars if you will prolong my life three days. I could not do it, my dear sir, for three hours," said the doctor, and the man was dead in less than an hour. LOUISA Shortly after my settlement in the ministry, says Reverend J. Q. Babbitt, I observed in the congregation a young lady whose blooming countenance and cheerful air showed perfect health and high elation of spirits. Her appearance satisfied me that she was amiable and thoughtless. To her eye the world seemed bright, and she often said she wished to enjoy more of it before she became a Christian. Louisa, for by that name I shall call her, manifested no particular hostility to religion, but wished to live a gay and merry life till just before her death, and then to become pious and die happy. She was a constant attendant to church, but while others seemed moved by the exhibition of the Savior's love, she appeared entirely unaffected. The same easy smile played upon her features whether sin or death, or heaven or hell, was a theme of discord. One evening I invited a few of the young ladies of my society to meet at my house. She came with her companions. I had sought the interview that I might more directly urge upon them the importance of religion. All in the room were affected, and she, though evidently moved, endeavored to conceal her feelings. I informed them that I would meet in a week from that time any who wished for a personal conversation, and at the appointed time was delighted to see Louisa, with two or three others, enter my house. Louisa said, I am happy to see you here this evening, particularly so as you have come interested in the subject of religion. She made no reply. Have you long been thinking upon this subject, Louisa? I always thought the subject important, sir, but have not attended to it as I suppose I ought. Do you now feel the subject more important than you have previously? I don't know, sir. I want to be a Christian. Do you feel that you are a sinner, Louisa? I know I am a sinner, for the Bible says so, but I suppose I do not feel it enough. What would you think, Louisa, of a child whom kind and affectionate parents had done everything in their power to make her happy, and who, though every day disobeying her parents and never manifesting any gratitude, should yet not feel that she had done anything wrong? You, Louisa, would abhor such a child, and yet this is the way you have been treating your Heavenly Father. And He has heard you say this evening that you do not feel that you have done wrong. You must repent of your sin and humbly and earnestly ask for forgiveness. And why will you not? You know Christ has died to atone for sin, and that God will forgive for His Son's sake if you are a penitent." To this she made no reply. She did not appear displeased, neither did her feelings appear subdued. In her interview on the succeeding week, Louisa appeared much more deeply impressed. "'Well,' said I, as in turn I came to her, "'I was afraid I should not see you here this evening. ' "'I feel, sir,' said she, "'that it is time for me to attend to my immortal soul. "'I have neglected it too long.' " 'Do you feel that you are a sinner, Louisa? ' "'Yes, sir, I do.' " 'Do you think, Louisa, you have any claim upon God to forgive you?' " 'No, sir, it would be just in God to leave me to perish, I think.' I want to repent, but I cannot. I want to love God, but do not know how I can." Well, Louisa, now count the cost. Are you ready to give up all for Christ? Are you ready to turn from your gay companions and lay aside your frivolous pleasures, and acknowledge the Savior publicly, and be derided, as perhaps you will be, by your former friends, and live a life of prayer and an effort to do good?" She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "'I am afraid not.'" Well, Louisa, the terms of acceptance with God are plain, and there is no altering them. If you will be a Christian, you must renounce all sin, and with a broken heart surrender yourself to the Savior." The interview closed with prayer, and a similar appointment was made for the next week. Some of the young ladies present I had reason to believe had accepted the terms of salvation. The next week a slight cold detained Louisa from the meeting, but the week following she again appeared. To my great disappointment, I found her interest diminishing. She seemed far less anxious than at our last interview. The spirit was grieved. This was the last time she called to see me. Two or three months passed away when one day, as I was making parochial visits, I was informed that Louisa was quite unwell and desired to see me. In a few moments I was in her sick chamber. She had taken a violent cold, and it had settled into a fever. She seemed agitated when I entered the room, and when I inquired how she did, she covered her face with both hands and burst into tears. Her sister turned to me and said, Sir, she is in great distress of mind. Mental agony has kept her awake nearly all night. She has wanted very much to see you, that you might converse with her. I feared her agitation might seriously injure her health, and did all I consistently could to soothe and quiet her. But, said Louisa, I am sick and may die. I know I am not a Christian, and, oh, if I die in this state of mind, what will become of me? And again she burst into tears. What could I say? Every word she said was true. Her eyes were open to her danger. There was cause for alarm. Delirium might soon ensue. Death might be near, and she was unprepared to appear before God. She saw it all. She felt it all. Fever was burning in her veins, but she forgot her pains in view of the terrors of approaching judgment. I told her God was good, and that he was more ready to forgive than we to ask forgiveness. But, sir," said she, I have known my duty long and have not done it. I have been ashamed of the Savior and grieved away the Spirit, and now I am upon a sickbed and perhaps must die. Oh, if I were a butchristian, I should be willing to die." I told her of the Savior's love. I pointed to many of God's precious promises to the penitent. I endeavored to induce her to resign her soul calmly to the Savior, but all seemed in vain. Trembling and agitated, she was looking forward to the dark future. The Spirit of the Lord had opened her eyes. I knelt beside her bedside and fervently prayed that the Holy Spirit would guide her, and that the Savior would speak peace to her troubled soul. Oh, could they who are postponing repentance to a sickbed have witnessed the sufferings of this once merry girl? They would shudder at the thought of trusting to a dying hour. The next day I called again. Her fever was still raging, and as fires were fanned by mental suffering. And can you not, Louisa said, I trust your soul with the Savior who died for you? He has said, Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Oh, sir, I know the Savior is merciful, but somehow I cannot go to him. I know not why. Oh, I am miserable indeed. I opened the Bible and read the parable of the prodigal son. I particularly directed her attention to the twentieth verse. When he was a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell upon his neck, and kissed him. "'Oh, sir,' said she, "'none of these promises are for me. I find no peace to my troubled spirit. I have long been sinning against God, and now he is summoning me to render up my account. Oh, what an account have I to render! Even if I were perfectly well, I could hardly endure the view God has given me of my sins. If they were forgiven, how happy I should be! But now—' Oh!" Her voice was stopped by a fit of shuddering, which agitated those around her with the fear she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves were more quiet, and I kneeled to command her spirit to the Lord. I rode home, and as I kneeled with my family at evening prayer, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. Another morning came. As I knocked at the door, I felt a painful solicitude as to the answer I might receive. How is Louisa this morning? Failing fast, sir. The doctor thinks she cannot recover. Is her mind more composed? Oh no, sir, she has had a dreadful night. She says she is lost, and there is no hope for her. I went to her chamber. Despair was pictured more deeply than ever upon her countenance. A few young friends were standing by her bedside. She warned them in the most affecting terms to prepare for death while in health. She told them of the mental agony she was enduring, and of the heavier woes which were thickly scattered through that endless career on which she was about to enter. She said she knew God was ready to forgive the sincerely penitent, but that her sorrow was not sorrow for sin, but dread of its awful penalty. I had already said all I could say to lead her to the Savior, and nothing more could be said. By many a deathbed I had been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never ought like this. Late in the afternoon I called again. Every eye in the room was filled with tears, but poor Louisa saw not, and heeded not their weeping. Her reason was gone. For some time I lingered round the solemn scene. At the present moment that chamber of death is as vividly present to my mind as it was when I looked upon it through irrepressible tears. I can now see the restless form, the swollen veins, the hectic, burning cheek, the eyes rolling wildly around the room and the weeping friends. In silence I had entered the room, and in silence and sadness I turned away. Early next morning I called at the door to inquire for Louisa. She is dead, sir. Was her reason restored before her death? It appeared partially to return a few moments before she breathed her last. But she was almost gone, and we could hardly understand what she said. Did she seem more peaceful in her mind? Her friends thought she did express a willingness to depart, but she was so weak and so far gone that it was impossible for her to express her feelings with any clearness. This is all that can be said of one who wished to live a gay and merry life till just before death, and then become pious and die happy. Reader, be wise today, tis madness to defer. " Madame de Pompadour Madame de Pompadour, before her death, became a victim of inouye and disgust at the world, the objects for which she had sacrificed honor and virtue in the court of Louis XV. Had lost her charms, and one of her last letters describes in most affecting terms her abject wretchedness. What a situation, she writes, is that of the great. They only live in the future, and are only happy in hope. There is no place in ambition. I am always gloomy, and often so unreasonably. The kindness of the king, the regards of courtiers, the attachment of my domestics, and the fidelity of a large number of friends, motives like these which ought to make me happy, affect me no longer. I have no longer an inclination for all which once pleased me. I have caused my house at Paris to be magnificently furnished. Well, that pleased me for two days. My residence at Bellevue is charming, and I alone cannot endure it. Benevolent people relate to me all the news and adventures of Paris. They think I listen, but when they have done, I ask them what they said. In a word, I do not live. I am dead before my time. I have no interest in the world. Everything conspires to embitter my life. I have imputed to me the public misery, the misfortunes of war and the triumph of my enemies. I am accused of selling everything, of disposing of everything, of governing everything. This hatred and this general aspiration of the nation grieves me exceedingly. My life is a continued death. Oppressed by such sentiments, she died, probably of a broken heart, occasioned by the sense of deserved public hatred. She but reaped the fruit of what she had sown, affording a melancholy example of the retribution her conduct had merited. As a proof of the heartlessness which habits of vice engender, it is related that on the day of her funeral the king, walking on the terrace at Versailles, and thinking, as he took out his watch, that it was a moment for the interment of her whom he had professed to love so well, said, with great unconcern, that Countess will have a fine day. Still Waters Revival Books is now located at PuritanDownloads.com. It's your worldwide online Reformation home for the very best in free and discounted classic and contemporary Puritan and Reformed books, mp3s, and videos. 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