The Author has interwoven, in the progress of his work, many specimens of the wonder-working power of the grace of God, in the regeneration and conversion of persons of varying degree of moral excellencies and of moral worthlessness; and of the diversified mode of operation which is observed by the Divine Spirit when effecting it. He would call the attention of the intelligent reader to the following cases, which are so many living witnesses in confirmation of the Divine origin and blissful tendency of the truth, by which they are called out of a state of spiritual death to give their testimony:—Mr. Lewellin (i. 23), the Rev. O. Guion (i. 76), Miss Roscoe (i. 129), Mr. Tennent (i. 151), Mr. Roscoe (i. 278), Farmer Pickford (i. 47, 392, 571), Miss Denham (i. 414), Rev. John Roscoe (i. 428), Miss Osbourne, the Quakeress (i. 503), Mr. and Mrs. Lobeck (i. 528-544), Mrs. Hastings—see The Effect of a Word Spoken in Season (ii. 108), Mrs. Farrington—see The Farm-house Kitchen (ii. 284), Mr. Ryder—see A Struggle for Life (ii. 493), Mr. Gordon (ii. 511-515).
That the papers are very unequal in point of interest and execution, no one is more conscious of than the writer; but what he has written, he wrote as well as he could when it was written; and he must now leave it to be dealt with, just as the candid and impartial critic may decide. He knows that perfection has never been attained; and though he feels that partiality for his own productions with which authors are charged, and to which they are compelled to plead guilty, when they speak so as to be believed, yet he is not vain enough to suppose that he has attained it. The work has its faults, which he has not skill enough to conceal, nor temerity enough to vindicate and if it possess no excellence, it will soon descend to that state of oblivion from which no interest can redeem it.
"And now," to quote the language of an elegant author, "could he flatter himself that any one would take half the pleasure in reading his numbers which he has taken in writing them, he would not fear the loss of his labour. The employment detached him from the bustle and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly; vanity and vexation flew away for a season, care and disquietude came not near his dwelling. He arose fresh as the morning to his task; the silence of the night invited him to peruse it; and he can truly say, that food and rest were not preferred before it. Happier hours than those which have been spent in composing them he never expects to see in this world: very pleasantly did they pass, and moved smoothly and swiftly along; for when thus engaged he counted no time. They are gone, but have left a relish and a fragrance upon the mind; and the remembrance of them is sweet."
It has been justly observed, that there are few things not purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness, this is the last. Those who never could agree together, shed tears when mutual discontent has determined them to final separation. Of a place which has been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the last look is taken with heaviness of heart; and the Author, who has by a series of papers contributed to the improvement and gratification of society, may expect to be forgiven, if he should feel some novel sensations pervading his breast, when his last essay is before him.
Thus in the planning and execution of our schemes, life passes away, and we advance by unconscious steps towards its termination; and though by a singular species of artifice we contrive to keep our latter end in some distant perspective of futurity, yet in our more serious moments of reflection we feel that it is approaching. And can we anticipate it with cool indifference? Can we think of taking a last look at the varied beauties of nature, which have so often charmed the eye—of hearing the last words of friendship, which have so often delighted the ear—of uttering the last adieu which is to separate us from all communion with the inhabitants of earth—without feeling a degree of pensive sadness, which nothing can relieve but the hope of a blissful immortality? And even when this hope breaks in upon our solemn musings, and dispels the gloom which envelopes them, it is not always in our power to regain that tranquillity which the approach of our last hour tends to disturb. Our last hour! It may now be distant, but ere long it will be near. Suppose it were now come! Suppose only sixty more minutes of time were allotted to us on earth! Suppose we were now within a few, a very few steps of the seat of final judgment! Suppose in a few moments we should be called to give an account of the deeds done in the body, whether good or evil! Suppose, ere the village clock proclaims to the rustic inhabitants the departure of another hour, we should be doomed to receive the decisive sentence, which will
"Remove us to yon heav'nly place,
Or shut us up in hell,"
what would be the state of our mind? Should we be calm, like the woodman, who after the toils of the day, goes home to enjoy his rest? or should we be alarmed, as when the mariner sees the first symptoms of the rising storm? Should we be in ecstasy, as when the captive is released from the prison-house of wretchedness, and restored to his home? or should we turn pale, and tremble like the condemned criminal, when he hears the first sound of his own funeral knell? These are questions which we may now dismiss under an apprehension that they relate to a remote period; but that period is not so remote, as when the questions first met the eye of the reader; and ere long it will be the present time. Are we prepared to live through our last hour; and to give up our life, when the last pulse shall beat through our veins, without wishing to prolong it? Are we ready to step across the boundary which divides the visible from the invisible world, without faltering in our passage? If so, we may live in peace. We need fear no evil. We may range into futurity, without being appalled by any rising forms of terror. We may anticipate the last hour with tranquil joy, and calmly wait its approach. But if not, we ought to feel alarm. To be gay and sportive when treading on the verge of eternal woe, would be no less than a species of mental delirium. It would be an act of criminal folly; a treasuring up to ourselves wrath against the day of wrath; and impiously smiling as the storm of the Divine displeasure is accumulating its stores of vengeance.
Let me, then, before I have taken my final farewell of my reader, urge him once more to "work out his own salvation with fear and trembling." Let me once more point his attention to "the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world." Let me once more tell him, in the language which fell from the lips of the Redeemer, when he was on the earth:—"He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him."
I have now done; and commending my well-meant though imperfect labours to the blessing of Him who alone can render them effectual to the salvation of my readers, I now retire to the more private duties of my station, yet not without indulging the hope of meeting some in the celestial world, to whom I have been the means of imparting consolation, while passing through this valley of weeping.