Reading from the book, Dying Testimonies of the Saved and Unsaved, gathered from authentic sources compiled by Reverend S.B. Shaw, focusing on the dying testimonies of infidels, the awful death of an infidel's son. I will never be guilty of founding my hopes for the future upon such a compiled mess of trash as is contained in that book, the Bible, mother. Talk of that's being the production of an infinite mind. A boy ten years of age, if he was half-witted, could have told a straighter story and made a better book. I believe it to be the greatest mess of lies ever imposed upon the public. I would rather go to hell, if there is such a place, and have the name of Bowen to that imposter, Jesus Christ, and be dependent on his merits for salvation. Beware, beware, my son, for God is not mocked. Although he beareth with the wicked long, yet he will not keep his anger forever. And all men are sin shall be forgiven men, except to sin against the Holy Ghost, which has no forgiveness. And many are the examples, both in sacred and profane history, of men who have been smitten down in the midst of their sinning against that blessed Spirit. Very well, Father, I'll risk all the cutting down that I shall get for cursing that book, and all the agonies connected therewith. Let it come. I'm not at all scared. Oh, Father, lay not this sin to his charge, for he knows not what he does. Yes, I do know what I'm about and what I say and mean it. John, do you mean to drive your mother raving distracted? Oh, my God, what have I done that this dreadful trial should come upon me in my old age? Mother, if you don't want to hear me speak my sentiments, why do you always begin the subject? If you do not want to hear it, don't ever broach the subject again, for I shall never talk of that book in any other way. The above conversation took place between two fond parents and an only son, who was at home on a visit from college, and was now about to return. And the cause of this outburst was that kind-hearted Christian parents had assayed to give him a few words of kind admonition, which alas proved to be the last. And the above were his last words, which he spoke to them as he left the house. How anxiously those fond parents looked after him, as though something told them that something dreadful would happen. With scalding tears were those that coursed their way down those feral cheeks. Oh, that they might have been put in the bottle of mercy! Poor wretched young man, it did better for him had the avalanche from the mountain crushed him beneath his deadly weight ere those words escaped his lips. Little did he think that he who said, Honor thy father and mother, and he that hardeneth his heart and stiffeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy was so soon going to call him to give an account for those words. so heart-rending to his aged parents, and so dreadful in the sight of a holy God. He'd imbibed these dreadful principles from an infidel roommate at college. Beware, young man, with whom you associate, lest you fall as did this unfortunate young man. John B. left his home and hastened to the depot, where he took the cars which were to bear him to M., where he was in a few months to finish his studies. The whistle blew, and away swept the cars across the trembling plain. But alas, they had gone but a few miles, when the cars coming around a curve and a deep cut, came suddenly upon an obstruction on the track, which threw the engine and two of the cars at once from the rails. As fate would seem to have it, the wicked son, John B., was that moment passing between them. He was thrown in an instant from the platform, his left arm being broken and his skull fractured by the fall. and in an instant one of the wheels passed directly over both his legs near the body, breaking and mangling them in the most dreadful manner. Strange as it may seem, no one else was injured. The dreadful news soon reached his already grief-stricken parents, and ere long that beloved yet ungrateful son was born back to them, not as he left, but lying upon a litter, a poor, mangled, raving maniac. Why these pious parents were called to pass through this dreadful trial, he whose ways are in the deep and past finding out only knows, except by this sad example of his wrath many might be saved. Many skillful physicians were called, but the fiat of the Almighty had gone forth, and man could not recall it. When the news reached the college, his classmates hastened to see him. When they came, nature was fast sinking, but the immortal part was becoming dreadfully alive. Oh, that heart-rending scene, his reason returning, brought with it a dreadful sense of his situation. His first words were, and oh, may never mortal hear such a cry as that again upon the shores of time, Mother! Mother! I'm lost! Lost! Lost! Damned! Damned! Damned forever! And as his classmates drew near to the bed, among whom was the one who had poisoned his mind with infidelity, with a dreadful effort he rose in the bed and cried, as he fixed his glaring eye upon him, J, you have brought me to this! You have damned my soul! May the curses of the Almighty and the Lamb rest upon your soul forever! Then, like a hellish fiend, he gnashed his teeth, and tried to get hold of him that he might tear him in pieces. Then followed a scene from which the strongest fled with horror. But those poor parents had to hear and see it all, for he would not suffer them to be away a moment. He fell back upon his bed, exhausted, crying, O mother, mother, give me some water to quench this fire that is burning me to death. Then he tore his hair and rent his breast, a fire had already began to burn, a smoke of which shall ascend up forever and ever. And then again he cried, O mother, save me, the devils have come after me! O mother, take me in your arms, and don't let them have me! And as his mother drew near to him, he buried his face in that fond bosom which had nourished and cherished him, but alas could not now protect her shield from the storm of the Almighty's wrath. for he turned from her, and with an unearthly voice he shrieked, FATHER, FATHER, MOTHER, SAVE ME, THEY COME TO DRAG MY SOUL, MY SOUL, TO HELL, and with his eyes startling from their sockets he fell back upon his bed of corpse. The spirit had fled, not like that of Lazarus born on the wings of a convoy of angels, but dragged by fins to meet a fearful doom. May his dreadful fall prove a warning to those who would unwittingly walk in the same path. from Ernest Christian, September 1867. The Sad Death of a Lost Man Near the town of Cay in Texas, there lived and prospered a wealthy farmer, the son of a Methodist preacher, with whom the writer was intimately acquainted. He was highly respected in the community in which he lived. He was a kind-hearted and benevolent man, but however had one great fault, he was very profane. He would utter the most horrible oaths without seemingly the least provocation. On several occasions I remember having seen him under deep conviction for salvation during revival meetings. On one occasion, during a camp meeting, he was brought under powerful conviction. He afterwards said he was suddenly frightened and felt as if he wanted to run away from the place. Just one year from that time, another camp meeting was held at the same place, and he was again brought under conviction but refused to yield, after which he was suddenly taken ill and died in three days. I was with him in his last moment. He seemed to be utterly forsaken of the Lord from the beginning of his sickness. The most powerful medicines had no effect on him whatever. Just as the sun of a beautiful Sabbath morning rose in its splendor over the eastern hills, he died in horrible agony. All through the night previous to his death, he suffered untold physical and mental torture. He offered the physicians all his earthly possessions, that they would save his life. He was stubborn till the very last, and would not acknowledge his fear of death until a few moments before he died. Then suddenly he began to look, then to stare, horribly surprised and frightened, into the vacancy before him, then exclaimed as if he beheld a king of tears in all of his merciless wrath,â€"My God! The indescribable expression of his countenance at this juncture, together with the despairing tones in which he uttered these last words, made every heart quake. His wife screamed and begged a brother to pray for him, but he was so terror-stricken that he rushed out of the room. The dying man continued to stare in dreadful astonishment, his mouth wide open and his eyes protruding out of their sockets, till at last, with an awful groan, like a flood with rapid force, death bore the wretch away. His little three-year-old son, the idol of his father's heart, was convulsed with grief. This little boy, then so innocent, grew up to be a wicked young man and died a horrible death. Oh, how sad! When we reflect that in hell there are millions of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, hopelessly lost. given over forever to the mad ravages of eternal pitiless wrath, ever frightened by real ghosts, tortured by serpents and scorpions, gnawed by the worm that never dies. And when we reflect of this, the future state of the wicked will never abate its fury, but according to the natural law of sin, degradation and wretchedness will grow worse and more furious as the black ages of eternity roll up. From darker realms we turned for relief from the sad reverie to the man of sorrows, who tasted death for every man, then to the beautiful city whose builder and maker is God, to the bliss of the glorified, who will shine as the stars for ever and ever. Then with renewed efforts we continued with gratitude to work out our own and the salvation of others with fear and trembling." From The Ambassador the last hours on earth of the noted French infidel Voltaire. When Voltaire felt the stroke that he realized must terminate in death, he was overpowered with remorse. He had once sent for the priest and wanted to be reconciled with the Church. His infidel flatterers hastened to his chamber to prevent his recantation, but it was only to witness his ignominy in their own. He cursed them to their faces, and as his distress was increased by their presence, he repeatedly and loudly exclaimed, Be gone! It is you that have brought me to my present condition. Leave me, I say! Be gone! What a wretched glory is this which you have produced to me! Hoping to outlay his anguish by a written recantation, he had it prepared, signed it, and sought witness, but it was all unavailing. For two months he was tortured with such an agony as led him at times to gnash his teeth in impotent rage against God and man. At other times, in plaintive accents, he would plead, O Lord Jesus!" Then, turning his face, he would cry out, I must die abandoned of God and of men. As his end drew near, his condition became so frightful that his infidel associates were afraid to approach his bedside. Still they guarded the door, that others may not know how awfully an infidel was compelled to die. Even his nurse repeatedly said, For all the wealth of Europe, she would never see another infidel die. It was a scene of horror that lies beyond all exaggeration. Such is a well-attested end of the one who had a natural sovereignty of intellect, excellent education, great wealth, and much earthly honor. We may all well exclaim with Balaam, Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his. from the dying testimonies of the saved and the unsaved. Oh, I have missed it at last! Some time ago, a physician called upon a young man who was ill. He sat for a little while by the bedside, examining his patient, and then he honestly told him the sad intelligence that he had but a very short time to live. The young man was astonished. He did not expect it would come to that so soon. He forgot that death comes in such an hour as you think not. At length he looked up into the face of the doctor, and with the most despairing countenance repeated the expression, I have missed it at last. What have you missed? inquired a tender-hearted, sympathizing physician. I have missed it at last again, he repeated. Missed what? Doctor, I have missed the salvation of my soul. Oh, say not so. It is not so. Do you remember the thief on the cross? Yes, I remember the thief on the cross, and I remember that he never said to the Holy Ghost, Go thy way. But I did, and now he is saying to me, Go your way. He lay gasping a while, and looking up with a vacant, starting eye, he said, I was awakened and was anxious about my soul a little time ago, but I did not want to be saved then. Something seemed to say to me, Don't put it off, make sure of salvation. I said to myself, I will postpone it. I knew I ought not to do it. I knew I was a great sinner and needed a Savior. I resolved, however, to dismiss the subject for the present. Yet I could not get my own consent to do it until I had promised to take it up again, at a time not remote and more favorable. I bargained away, resisted, and insulted the Holy Spirit. I never thought of coming to this. I meant to have made my salvation sure, and now I have missed it at last. You remember, said the doctor, that there were some who came at the eleventh hour. My eleventh hour, he rejoined, was when I had that call of the Spirit. I've had none since, shall not have. I am given over to be lost. Oh, I have missed it. I have sold my soul for nothing, a feather, a straw, undone forever. This was said with such indescribable despondency that nothing was said in reply. After lying a few moments, he raised his head, and looking all around the room as if for some desired object, he buried his face in the pillow, and again exclaimed in agony and horror, Oh, I have missed it at last! and died. Reader, you need not miss your salvation, for you may have it now. What you have read is a true story. How earnestly it says to you, now is the accepted time. Today, if you will hear his voice, harden not your hearts. Hebrew 3, 7 and 8." From The Firebrand the awful end of a backslider. The following is a short account of the life and death of William Pope of Bolton in Lancashire. He was at one time a member of the Methodist Society and was a professing Christian and a happy man. His wife, a devoted saint, died triumphantly. After her death, his zeal for religion declined, and by associating with backslidden professors, he entered the path of ruin. His companions even professed to believe in the redemption of devils. William became an admirer of their scheme, a frequenter with them of the public house, and in time a common drunkard. He finally became a disciple of Thomas Paine and associated himself with a number of deistical persons at Bolton who assembled together on Sundays to confirm each other in their infidelity. They amused themselves with throwing the Word of God on the floor, kicking it around the room, and treading it under their feet. God laid his hand on this man's body and he was seized with consumption. Mr. Rhodes was requested to visit William Pope. He says, When I first saw him, he said to me, Last night, I believe, I was in hell, and felt the horrors and torment of the damned, but God has brought me back again and given me a little longer respite. The gloom of guilty terror does not sit so heavy upon me as it did, and I have something like a faint hope that after all I have done, God may yet save me. After exhorting him to repentance and confidence in the Almighty Savior, I prayed with him and left him. In the evening he sent for me again. I found him in the utmost distress, overwhelmed with bitter anguish and despair. I endeavored to encourage him. I spoke of the infinite merit of the great Redeemer, and mentioned several cases in which God has saved the greatest sinners. But he answered, No case of any that has been mentioned is comparable to mine. I have no contrition. I cannot repent. God will damn me. I know the day of grace is lost. God has said as such as are in my case, I will laugh at your calamity and mock when your fear cometh. I said, Have you ever known anything of the mercy and love of God? Oh yes, he replied. Many years ago I truly repented and sought the Lord and found peace and happiness. I prayed with him after exhorting him to seek the Lord, and had great hopes of his salvation. He appeared much affected, and begged I would represent his case in our society and pray for him. I did so that evening, and many hearty petitions were put up for him. Mr. Barraclough gives a following account of what he witnessed. He says, I went to see William Pope, and as soon as he saw me, he exclaimed, You are come to see one who is damned forever. I answered, I hope not. Christ can save the chief of sinners. He replied, I have denied him, I have denied him, therefore he has cast me off forever. I know the day of grace is past, gone, gone, never more to return. I entreated him not to be too hasty and to pray. He answered, I cannot pray, my heart is quite hardened. I have no desire to receive any blessing at the hand of God. And then he cried out, O the hell, the torment, the fire that I feel within me! O eternity, eternity! To dwell forever with devils and damned spirits in the burning lake must be my portion, and that justly. On Thursday I found him groaning under the weight of the displeasure of God. His eyes rolled to and fro. He lifted up his hands, and with vehemence cried out, O the burning flame, the hell, the pain I feel! I have done, done the deed, the horrible, damnable deed! I prayed with him, and while I was praying he said with inexpressible rage, I will not have salvation at the hand of God. No, no, I will not ask it of him." After a short pause he cried out, "'Oh, how I long to be in the bottomless pit, in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone!' The day following I saw him again. I said, "'William, your pain is inexpressible!' He groaned, and with a loud voice cried out, "'Eternity will explain my torments. I tell you again, I am damned. I will not have salvation. He called me to him as if to speak to me, but as soon as I came within his reach, he struck me on the head with all his might, and gnashing his teeth, cried out, God will not hear your prayers. At another time he said, I have crucified the Son of God afresh, and counted the blood of the covenant an unholy thing. Oh, that wicked and horrible deed of blaspheming against the Holy Ghost, which I know I have committed. He was often heard to exclaim, I want nothing but hell, come oh devil and take me. At another time he said, oh what a terrible thing it is. Once I might and would not, now I would and must not. He declared that he was best satisfied when cursing. The day he died, when Mr. Rhodes visited him and asked the privileged to pray once more with him, he cried out with great strength concerning his weakness, no, and passed away in the evening without God. Backslider, do you know you are in danger of the fires of hell? Do you know you are fast approaching the line by us unseen, that crosses every path, that marks a boundary between God's mercy and His wrath? You are, and unless you turn quickly, you with William Pope will be risen in hell through all eternity. God says a backslider in heart shall be filled with his own ways. But he says again, return ye backsliding children and I will heal your backslidings. O come back and be healed before God shall say of you, he is joined to his idols, let him alone. I am now reading from the book The Young Christian by Jacob Abbott, in the chapter The Consequences of Neglecting Duty, the story of Louisa. Shortly after my settlement in the ministry, 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 at once that she was amiable and thoughtless. There was no one of my charge whose prospects for long life were more promising than her own, and perhaps no one who looked forward to the future with more pleasing hopes of enjoyment. To her eye, the world seemed bright. 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 constant in her attendance at church, and while others seemed moved by the exhibition of the Saviour's love, she seemed entirely unaffected. Upon whatever subject I preach, her countenance retained the same marks of indifference and unconcern. The same easy smile played upon her features whether sin or death or heaven or hell was the theme of discourse. 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 with them 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. The interest in this great subject manifested by those present was such that I informed them that I would meet in a week from that time any who wished for personal conversation. The appointed evening arrived, and I was delighted in seeing, with two or three others, Louisa enter my house. I conversed with each one individually. They generally, with much frankness, expressed their state of feeling. Most of them manifested much solicitude respecting their eternal interest. Louisa appeared different from all the rest. She was anxious and unable to conceal her anxiety, and yet ashamed to have it known. She had come to converse with me upon the subject of religion, and yet was making an evident effort to appear indifferent. I had long felt interested in Louisa, and was glad of this opportunity to converse with her. "'Louisa,' said I, "'I am happy to see you here this evening, and particularly so as you have come interested in the subject of religion. She made no reply. Have you been long 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 to be more important than you have previously? I don't know, sir. I think I want to be a Christian. Do you feel that you are a sinner, Louisa? I know that I am a sinner, for the Bible says so, but I suppose that I do not feel it enough. Can you expect that God will receive you into His favor while you are in such a state of mind? He has made you, and He is now taking care of you, giving you every blessing and every enjoyment you have, and yet you have lived many years without any gratitude to Him, and continually breaking His commandments, and now do not feel that you are a sinner. What would you think of a child whose kind and affectionate parents had done everything in their power to make her happy, and who should yet not feel that she had done anything wrong, though she had been every day disobeying her parents and had never expressed any gratitude for their kindness? 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, and He sees your heart and knows how unfeeling it is. Now, Louisa, you must be lost unless you repent of your sins and ask humbly and earnestly for forgiveness. And why will you not? You know that Christ has died to atone for sin, and that God will forgive you for His Son's sake if you are penitent." To this Louisa made no reply. She did not seem displeased, neither did her feelings appear subdued. After addressing a few general remarks to my young friends, we kneeled in prayer, and the interview closed. Another meeting was appointed on the same evening of the succeeding week. Louisa again made her appearance with the same young ladies and a few others. She appeared much more deeply impressed. Her coldness and reserve had given place to a frank expression of interest and exhibition of feeling. Well, Louisa, said I, as in turn I commenced conversing with her, I was almost 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. Do you remember, Louisa, that Christ has said, Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he has, he cannot be my disciple? Yes, sir. 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 in an effort to glorify God?" She hesitated for 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. You cannot serve God and mammon. If you would be a Christian, you must renounce all sin, and with a broken heart surrender yourself entirely to the Savior." The evening's interview closed as before, and a similar appointment was made for the next week. Some of the young ladies present, I had reason to believe, had accepted the offer of salvation. The next week about the same number were present, but Louisa was not with them. A slight cold had detained her, but the week after she again appeared. To my great disappointment, I found her interest diminishing. Though not exhibiting that cold reserve which she at first manifested, she seemed far less anxious than in our last interview. The spirit was grieved away. This was the last time she called to see me, but alas, I was soon called to see her. under circumstances which at that time were but little anticipated. These social meetings continued for some time, and many of Louisa's associates, I have caused to hope, became the disciples of Jesus. Two or three months passed away, and my various duties so far engrossed my mind that my particular interest in Louisa's spiritual welfare had given place to other solicitudes. When one day, as I was riding out, making parochial visits, one of my parishioners informed me that she 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 was lying in her bed, her cheek glowing with a feverish hue, and her lips parched with thirst. She seemed agitated when I entered the room, and the moment I stood by her bedside and inquired how she did, she covered her face with both hands and burst into a flood of tears. Her sister, who was by her bedside, immediately turned to me and said, Sir, she is in a 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 was fearful that the agitation of her feelings might seriously injure her health and did all I consistently could to soothe and quiet her. But sir," said Louisa, I am sick, and I may die. I know that I am not a Christian, and oh, if I die in this state of mind, what will become of me? 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, sickness was upon her, delirium might soon ensue, death might be very near, and her soul was unprepared to appear before God. She saw it all, she felt it all, fever was burning in her veins, but she forgot her pain in view of the tears of approaching judgment. I told her that the Lord was good, and that His tender mercies were over all His words, 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 sick bed and perhaps must die. Oh, if I were but a Christian, 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 was unavailing. Trembling and agitated, she was looking forward to the dark future. The Spirit of the Lord had opened her eyes, and through her own reflections had led her into the state of alarm. I knelt by her bedside, and fervently prayed that the Holy Spirit would guide her to the truth, and that the Savior would speak peace to her troubled soul. Oh, could they who are postponing repentance to a sick bed have witnessed the suffering of this once merry girl? They would shudder at the thought of trusting to a deathbed repentance. How poor a time to prepare to meet God when the mind is enfeebled, when the body is restless or wracked with pain and with mental agitation, frustrating the skill of the physician Yes, so it is, when half of the world are postponing repentance to a dying bed, and when sickness comes, the very circumstance of being unprepared hurries a miserable victim to the grave. The next day I called again to see Louisa. Her fever was still raging, and its fires were fanned by mental suffering. Poor girl, thought I, at the first glance of her countenance showing the strong liniments of despair. I needed not to ask how she felt. Her countenance told her feelings, and I knew that while her mind was in this state, restoration to health was out of the question. And can you not, Louisa, said I, trust your soul with the Savior who died for you? He has said, Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Oh, sir, I know the Savior is merciful, but somehow or other I cannot go to Him. I do not know why. Oh, I am miserable indeed. Do you think, Louisa, that you are penitent for sin? If you are, you will be forgiven, for God, who gave His Son to die for us, is more ready to pardon than we to ask forgiveness. He is more ready to give good gifts to the penitent than any earthly parent to give bread to his hungry child. I then opened the Bible at the fifteenth chapter of Luke, and read the parable of the prodigal son. I particularly directed her attention to the twentieth verse. When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran and fell upon his neck, and kissed him. " 'O 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 an account. '" And oh, what an account have I to render! The doctor gives me medicine, but I feel that it does no good, for I can think of nothing but my poor soul. Even if I were perfectly well, I could hardly endure the view which God has given me of my sins. If they were forgiven, how happy should I be! But now, oh! Her voice was stopped by a fit of shuddering which agitated those around her with a fear that she might be dying. Soon, however, her nerves were more quiet, and I kneeled to commend her spirit to the Lord. As I rode home, her despairing countenance was unceasingly before me. Her lamentations, her mournful groans were continually crying in my ears. As I kneeled with my family at evening, I bore Louisa upon my heart to the throne of grace. All night I tossed restlessly upon my pillow, dreaming of unavailing efforts at the sickbed. Another morning came. As I knocked at the door of her dwelling, I felt a most painful solicitude as to the answer I might receive. "'How is Louisa this morning?' said I to the person who opened the door. "'She is fast failing, sir, and the doctor thinks she cannot recover. We have just sent for her friends to come and see her before she dies.' Is her mind more composed than it has been? Oh no, sir, she has had a dreadful night. She says that she is lost and that there is no hope for her. I went into her chamber. Despair was pictured more deeply than ever upon her flushed and fevered countenance. I was surprised at the strength she still manifested as she tossed from side to side. Death was evidently drawing near. She knew it. She had lived without God and felt that she was unprepared to appear before Him. A few of her young friends were standing by her bedside. She warned them in the most affecting terms to prepare for death while in hell. She told them of the mental agony she was then enduring, and of the heavier woes which were thickly scattered through that endless career she was about to enter. All her conversation was interspersed with the most heart-rending exclamations of despair. She said she knew that 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 that I could to lead her to the Savior, but no Savior cast His love on this dying bed. No ray of peace cheered the departing soul. Youth and beauty were struggling with death, and it's that eye which but a few days before had sparkled with gaiety, now gazed on to eternity. It was fixed in an expression of despair. By many a deathbed I had been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never wrought like this. There was nothing that could be said. The moanings of the sufferer mingled with the prayer, which was almost inarticulately uttered, from the emotions which the scene inspired. Late in the afternoon I called again, but her reason was gone, and in restless agony she was grappling with death. Her friends were standing around her, but she did not recognize them. Every eye in the room was filled with tears, but poor Louisa saw not, and he did not, their weeping. It was a scene which neither pen nor pencil can portray. 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 disorder of the dying bed, the rustless form, the swollen veins, the hectic burning cheek. The eyes rolling wildly around the room and the weeping friends. Who can describe such a scene? And who can imagine the emotions which one must feel who knew her history and who knew that this delirium succeeded temporal and perhaps preceded eternal despair? Louisa could no longer listen to my prayers. She could no longer receive the precious instructions of God's word. And what could be said to console her friends? Nothing. Be still and know that I am God was all that could be said. I could only look and listen with reverence, inwardly praying that the sad spectacle might not be lost upon any of us. For some time I lingered around the solemn scene in silence. Not a word was spoken. All knew that death was near. The friends who were most deeply affected struggled hard to restrain the audible expression of grief. In silence I had entered the room, and in silence and sadness I went away. Early the next morning I called at the door to inquire for Louisa. She is dead, sir," was her reply to my question. At what time did she die? About midnight, 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 any more peaceful in mind? Her friends thought, sir, that 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 mind with any clearness. This was all that could be said of the eternal prospects of one who wished to live a gay and merry life till just before death, and then to become pious and die happy. Reader, be wise today, tis madness to defer. from the book The Young Christian by Jacob Abbott. THE DEATH BED SCENE OF DAVID HUME, THE DEIST David Hume, the deistical philosopher and historian, was born in Edinburgh in 1711. In 1762 he published his work Natural Religion. Much of his time was spent in France, where he found many kindred spirits as vile and depraved as himself. He died in Edinburgh in 1776, aged 65 years. The Reverend E.P. Goodwin, in his work on Christianity and infidelity, shows Hume to be dishonest, indecent, and a teacher of immorality. Rev. Robert Hall, in his Modern Infidelity, says, quote, Infidelity is a joint offspring of an irreligious temper and unholy speculation employed not in examining the evidences of Christianity, but in detecting the vices and imperfections of confessing Christians. It is passed through various stages, each distinguished by higher gradations of impiety. For when men arrogantly abandon their guide and willfully shut their eyes on the light of heaven, It is wisely ordained that their errors shall multiply at every step, until their extravagance confutes itself, and the mischief of their principles works its own antidote. Him, the most subtle, if not the most philosophical, of the Deas, who, by perplexing the relations of cause and effect, boldly aim to introduce a universal skepticism, and to pour a more than Egyptian darkness into the whole region of morals. Again, in Melvain's evidences, quote, The nature and majesty of God are denied by Hume's argument against the miracles. It is atheism. There is no stopping place for consistency between the first principle of the essay of Hume and the last step in the denial of God with the abyss of darkness forever. Hume, accordingly, had no belief in the being of God. If he did not positively deny it, he could not assert that he believed it. He was a poor, blind, groping compound of contradictions. He was literally without God and without hope, doting about questions and strifes of words, and rejecting life and immortality out of deference to all. There is reason to believe that however unconcerned he may have seemed in the presence of his infidel friends, there were times when, being diverted neither by companions nor cards nor his works, nor books of amusements, but left to himself in the contemplation of eternity he was anything but composed and satisfied. The following account was published many years ago in Edinburgh when he died. it is not known to have been ever contradicted. About the end of 1776, a few months after the historian's death, a respectable-looking woman, dressed in black, came into the Haddington stagecoach while passing through Edinburgh. The conversation among the passengers, which had been interrupted for a few minutes, was speedily resumed, which the lady soon found to be regarding the state of mind persons were in at the prospect of death. An appeal was made in defense of infidelity, to the death of Hume as not only happy and tranquil, but mingled even with gaiety and humor. To this the lady said, Sir, you know nothing about it. I could tell you another tale. Madame replied the gentleman, I presume I have as good information as you can have on this subject, and I believe what I have asserted regarding Mr. Hume. has never been called in question," the lady continued. Sir, I was Mr. Hume's housekeeper for many years. I was with him in his last moments, and the mourning I now wear is a present from his relatives for my attention to him on his deathbed, and happy would I have been if I could have borne my testimony to the mistaken opinion that has gone abroad of his peacefully composed inn. I have, sir, never till this hour opened my mouth on this subject, but I think it a pity the world should be kept in the darks on so interesting a topic. It is true, sir, that when Mr. Hume's friends were with him he was cheerful and seemed quite unconcerned about his approaching fate, and he frequently spoke of it to them in a jocular and playful way. But when he was alone the scene was very different. He was anything but composed. His mental agitation was so great at times as to occasion his whole bed to shake. And he would not allow the candles to be put out during the night, nor would he be left alone for a minute, as I had always to ring the bell for one of the servants to be in the room before he would allow me to leave it. He struggled hard to appear composed even before me, but to one who attended his bedside for many days and nights, and witnessed his disturbed sleeps and still more disturbed wakings, who frequently heard his involuntary breathings of remorse and frightful startings, It was no difficult matter to determine that all was not right within. This continued and increased until he became insensible. I hope to God I shall never witness a similar scene. The next story is called The Great Danger, and not seeketh the Lord while he may be found. At one time, during a prayer meeting in about the year 1890, my attention was directed towards an unsaved lady who was present, who appeared to be trifling. The pastor in charge of the meeting made the remark that as a watchman upon the walls of Zion, he felt that there was danger for someone there. He could not understand why he was impressed with this thought. and repeated that he felt drawn out to say that there was danger, and someone there ought to get saved, then and there. This irreligious lady appeared unconcerned and oblivious to his remarks, and laughed when the minister shook hands with her at the close of the meeting. Just as she was preparing to leave the church, she was taken very ill, so ill that she could not go home, neither could she be taken home by friends. Everything that could be done for her relief was done, but in less than one short hour she passed into eternity. Before she died, she tore her hair, cast aside the trashy gouges that adorned her person, and of which heretofore she had been very fond. And throwing up her hand, she cried aloud for mercy, exclaiming, O Lord, have mercy on me! O Lord, help me! In this distress of body and soul she passed into the great eternity without leaving any hope to those that stood round her dying bed. This sad experience shows the danger of putting off the day and hour of salvation. For in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh. story is called I Can't Die.