The first character of right childhood is, that it is modest.
"THERE IS NO REST IN HELL!"
AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE.
Dear Reader,—The following account being "an authenticated fact," it is put before you with the hope that you may be thereby led to solemnly consider the subject of a future state. God's truth does not require fiction to make it effectual; therefore, the net of truth should only be weighted with words of truth.
The awful, but true, narrative now put before you takes us back for something like a century, to the city of Glasgow, where, at that time, was a club of gentlemen of the first rank in that city. They met professedly for card-playing; but the members were distinguished by such a fearless excess of profligacy as to obtain for it the name of "The Hell Club."
Besides their nightly or weekly meetings, they held a grand annual festival, at which each member endeavoured to "outdo all his former outdoings" in drunkenness, blasphemy, and licentiousness. Of all who shone on these occasions, none shone half so brilliantly as Archibald Boyle. Educated by a fond and foolishly indulgent mother, he was early allowed to meet in society with members of "The Hell Club."
One night, on retiring to sleep, after returning from one of the annual meetings of the club, Boyle dreamt that he was still riding, as usual, upon his famous black horse, towards his own house—then a country seat embowered by ancient trees, and situated upon a hill now built over by the most fashionable part of Glasgow—and that he was suddenly accosted by some one, whose personal appearance he could not, in the gloom of night, distinctly discern, but who, seizing the reins, said, in a voice apparently accustomed to command, "You must go with me." "And who are you?" exclaimed Boyle, with a volley of blasphemous execrations, while he struggled to disengage his reins from the intruder's grasp. "That you will see by-and-bye," replied the same voice, in a cold, sneering tone, that thrilled through his very heart. Boyle plunged his spurs into the panting sides of his steed. The noble animal reared, and then darted forward with a speed which nearly deprived his rider of breath. But in vain—in vain! Fleeter than the wind he flew, the mysterious, half-seen guide still in front of him! Agonized by he knew not what of indescribable horror and awe, Boyle again furiously spurred the gallant horse. It fiercely reared and plunged. He lost his seat, and expected at the moment to feel himself dashed to the earth. But not so, for he continued to fall—fall—fall—it appeared to himself with an ever-increasing velocity. At length this terrific rapidity of motion abated, and, to his amazement and horror, he perceived that this mysterious attendant was close by his side. "Where," he exclaimed, in the frantic energy of despair, "where are you taking me? Where am I? Where am I going?" "To hell!" replied the same iron voice, and from the depths below the sound so familiar to his lips was suddenly re-echoed—"To hell!"