Mr. Roscoe.—"There are a great many in my brother's parish, and yet they generally attend church once on the Sabbath. They are very free in their remarks on his conversion, which, they say, is passing from one theological absurdity to another; the Curate, in their estimation, is a very amiable and zealous fanatic. At the conclusion of the sermon from which I have given you one extract, he made this striking appeal to them, and he was kind enough to give me a copy of it:—
"'I will now admit, for the sake of the question I have to propose, that what we believe is fictitious; that there is, in fact, no future state of existence for man; no such visions of glory for us to behold when we pass out of life; and no such scenes of bliss for us to enjoy as I have now been endeavouring to portray. But suppose we really believe that there are, I appeal to you whether our faith does not tend to sustain our spirits when suffering under the ills of life; and whether we have not something in prospect, which is an adequate compensation for the anticipated loss of life and all its possessions. Is it nothing to a noble mind, rich in the stores of knowledge, and still richer in the anticipations of hope—endowed with faculties too valuable to be annihilated without a pang of regret keener than ever pierced the heart of sorrow—to believe that he is superior in the duration of his being to the beasts of the field and the creeping things of the earth; that he is superior to the trees of the wood, the shrubs of the lawn, and the flowers of the garden; ordained to live after they have outlived their life, and to live on for ever in dignity and in happiness? Take the case of a poor believer, who has to sustain the hardships and privations of life, often not knowing how to get the next meal for himself and family, or where to get the means of protecting his scanty household property against the distraints of his landlord. Is it nothing to him to be able to look forward to the coming of a period when he shall be in the possession of an inheritance uncorrupted, undefiled, and that will never fade away? Take the case of one who has had to weather all through life the storms of adversity; to stand exposed to the blasts of calumny, reproach, and wrongful testimony; who has had to suffer, like the apostle of the Gentiles, the peril of the deep, the peril of the wilderness, and the more galling peril of false brethren. Is it nothing for such a man of accumulative trials, to be able to believe that, after a few more storms have agitated the waters of life, and after a few more reproaches have assailed his reputation, he shall enter into the port of eternal safety, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are for ever at rest? Or take the case of one who has been a living martyr to physical afflictions and sufferings; who has scarcely ever breathed the breath of uncontaminated health, though she has wandered from one salubrious place to another, to catch its invigorating inhaling; whose food has been tasteless, and to whom restless nights and days of weariness and pain have been appointed; and whose ethereal spirit has been held in a state of langour and depression by the mysterious action of disease on her nervous sensibilities. Is it nothing to such a sufferer to believe that, after a few more months or years of agonizing and torturous endurance, the dark night of her mourning will pass away in the dawn of the bright and serene morning of immortality, whose sun will rise without a cloud, never to go down or pass under a momentary eclipse?
"'Why, then, I ask the infidel, will you attempt to destroy or disturb the faith of such believers? Why not let each one go daily, in the quietness of his spirit, to draw the waters of healing, of refreshment, and invigoration from this perennial well, which he has found in the wilderness? Why attempt to throw a dark and impenetrable veil over the enchanting scenes which the opening heavens partially disclose, and on which he gazes in joyous hope and in ecstasy of longing? Why not let him remain, under what you call the spell of his delusion, when it entails on you no loss or suffering, but which imparts to him such holy and sublime enjoyments? Suppose it be—what you tell him it is—all a delusion; yet if he die under its power he will never know it; why not, then, let him die in peace? surely his peaceful death can occasion you no bitter regret. Why try to rouse him out of his elysian reverie, simply to let him know that death is coming to deprive him of all his sublime anticipations, and slip him out of existence? What gratification can success in such a species of destructive labour afford you? You are not the daring highway robber, who plunders another to enrich himself; you are the wanton or the malignant incendiary, who devastates that you may revel in the irreparable losses which you inflict on others, with no prospect of personal advantage. But suppose that what you reject as fanciful and fabulous, should turn out at last to be a reality, then your doom is certain and truly awful; you will pass into the eternal world alone, a lost spirit, to perish, yet retaining your consciousness for ever. And you cannot know that it is not a reality, unless you can acquire all knowledge, and this you cannot do while you live. You must die to know that there is no hereafter; and if you survive your own death, and live on in some intermediate state, you must visit every nook and corner of the vast universe before you can know that there is no heaven and no hell. Why, then, proudly arrogate to yourself the possession of knowledge which you know that it is impossible for you to acquire? and why, while unable to decide against the reality of what we believe, are you not in terror lest you should be labouring under a criminal self-deception? If there be another world, which you cannot disprove, with what horror will your spirit, when disembodied, enter it, to meet her fearful and merited doom, to dwell for ever amongst the devil and his angels?
"'The efforts which you are now making to induce others to reject the Christian faith as an imposition on human credulity, will receive AT LAST a recompense; and what will that be?—their bitterest curses, which will be an aggravation to your misery, far beyond the capability of human conception. There, in the eternal world, you will be a lost spirit, assailed by other lost spirits, reproaching you as the prime agent in effecting their ruin for ever; and with emotions of deadly hatred, and in terms of malignant accusation, corresponding with the awful intensity of their mental suffering. Regret then, on their account or on your own, will be useless; for could you shed as many tears of sorrow, as there have been dew-drops since the birth of creation; could you heave as many sighs and groans, as there have been pulsations of pain since the first child of sorrow felt the bitterness of grief; and could you offer as many petitions for mercy, as there have been lamentations of woe since Esau endured the anguish of unavailing repentance, it would be of no use. Once lost, by dying in your sins, there is no possibility of recovery or escape. When, then, the final issue is so tremendously awful, the preparatory anxiety and caution to avoid it cannot be too scrupulous or guarded; but to advert to it with a spirit of levity, or to deem it too insignificant and unimportant to demand the most solemn attention, is to give decisive evidence that you have prematurely fitted yourselves for destruction, and are ripe for hell, before the reaper is in readiness to put in the sickle of death to cut you down.'"
Rev. Mr. Ingleby.—"This, Sir, must have been a most impressive sermon. What effect did it appear to produce?"
Mr. Roscoe.—"The congregation listened to it with profound attention; and some were subdued; they quailed under it."
Rev. Mr. Ingleby.—"If, Sir, a few years since, you had seen and heard in some night vision, what you have now seen and heard under the broad daylight of positive reality, you would have thought, when awakening out of your sleep, that you had witnessed something of what God could do, but you could not have anticipated its actual occurrence."
Mr. Roscoe.—"That's very true, Sir; I wish you would go, and see and judge for yourself."
Miss Roscoe.—"Yes, do, Sir; and, if you will permit me, I will accompany you. It is the Lord's doing, and it is a very choice specimen of the Divine workmanship."