he nor his wife could venture on their excursion up the river. It
brought over their imagination the scenes of departed bliss--revived
recollections which were sacred and subduing--and plunged Mr.
Beaufoy into deep mental agony. Mrs. Beaufoy, however, was of a more
heedless turn of mind, and endeavoured to assuage her husband's
grief by saying, "You know you still believe the gospel;" but she
had no power over the anguish which was consuming his happiness.
"Yes," said he, "I do believe it, or this letter would not disquiet
me. I have departed from the Lord, and I am gone past recovery.
Mine is no common apostasy. My doom is fixed. My end will be awful.
Where, ah! where can I go when he cometh 'to execute judgment upon
all?' Yes, I do believe the gospel. I feel I do. I believe it, and
tremble. Its terrors are upon me. The piercing language of the
prophet has been following me ever since the death of that holy
man, whose warning voice I despised, and now they enter as fire
into my bones: 'Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy
backslidings shall reprove thee: know, therefore, and see, that it
is an evil thing and bitter that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy
God, and that my fear is not in thee, saith the Lord God of hosts.'"
The Lord employs various means to recover his people from a
backsliding state; and though for a season he compels them to feel
the evil and the bitterness of their sin, yet he finally restores
unto them the joy of his salvation. When, however, an apostate has
been given up to the hardness of his heart, neither the language of
mercy, nor the terrors of judgment will produce any other effect
than that of accelerating the dreadful catastrophe. He goes on from
bad to worse, till at length he comes to the fearful end of his
career. Thus it was with Mr. Beaufoy. The extreme agony into which
he was thrown by the simple appeals of his mother's letter gradually
abated; but he felt it necessary to adopt some new and extraordinary
expedients, to gain some small degree of tranquillity. His
attachment to his wife was strong, and it had gained such ascendency
over him that he refused to leave his home except she accompanied
him; but now a melancholy gloom was cast over all his pleasant
things, and those from which he had extracted the sweetest comforts
of life became as bitter as wormwood to his taste. Though he
forbore, at this early stage of his mental anguish, to reproach her
as the cause of his apostasy, yet he secretly laid the sin to her
charge, and began occasionally to feel that her society aggravated
the evil, which her kindness prompted her to attempt to alleviate.
He became reserved, refused to attend any place of worship, and
often stayed from home to a very late hour. At first Mrs. Beaufoy
hoped that another sudden change would take place, and bring back
the domestic happiness of former times; but at length she was
awakened to a full discovery of the extent of the misery by which
she was surrounded. Her husband was no more the interesting and
affectionate companion of her retired hours--no more the attentive
and fond lover. He became now a thoroughly dissipated character,
rarely returned home till long after his wife's eyes had become
heavy by watching for him; and when he did, it was only to exhibit
his own disgrace, and torture her feelings. She would sometimes
venture to remonstrate with him, and hang over him with all the
affection of former days, when he would relent, and pledge himself
to change his course; but he had lost the power of self-control,
and felt compelled to seek for ease from the anguish of his spirit
amidst scenes of convivial mirth and folly.
The whirl of dissipation and the riot of intemperance are expedients
to which many resort when trouble comes upon them; but they increase
the evils sought to be removed; for though a temporary exhilaration
of the spirits may be produced, and the fearful forebodings of
future woe driven away for a short season, it is only to make them
return with redoubled force to inflict keener anguish. A voice is
sometimes heard speaking from the celestial glory, saying, "Call
upon me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee;" but that voice
cannot be heard amidst the revelling and excitement of a theatre or
tavern. It speaks to the penitent sinner when he is alone--bowed
down beneath his burden and despairing of help. Retire then, thou
poor backslider, from the haunts of evil--and yet hope for mercy.
Thy guilt is great, thy wound is deep, but there is virtue in the
balm of Gilead when applied by the great Physician. Go, then, into
thy closet, shut the door, confess thy sins, shed the penitential
tear, and implore forgiveness. Here others have acknowledged their
iniquities, and here they have obtained consolation. Your case
may be desperate, but it is not hopeless; and though you may be
tempted to despair, yet resist those whisperings of Satan, which, if
listened to, would seal your final doom.
[Illustration: JAMES GODWIN
W. L. THOMAS.
MR. BEAUFOY'S EMOTION ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S LETTER.
Vol. ii. p. 261.]
THE FRUITS OF APOSTASY.
As many months had now elapsed since either Mr. or Mrs. Beaufoy
had been to any place of worship, the latter availed herself of
an opportunity which occurred to allude to it, when her husband
replied, "I wish you to go, Sophia, for it is enough that one of us
perish." Dreading the return of his paroxysm of agony, she diverted
his attention from the subject, and endeavoured to soothe and cheer
his spirits. She so far succeeded as to bring over his countenance
the pleasant smile of former times, but little did she imagine
that this pleasing sign was so soon to be obliterated. The servant
entered the parlour with a letter, which she gave to her master. He
placed it on the table and sat musing for some minutes. He wept,
though unconscious of the tear that involuntarily trickled down his
cheek, and sighed, as if unconscious that any ear was listening. He
again took the letter--pressed it to his lips, and wept, and sighed
again, as though he thought himself alone. "Yes, my mother, I know
thy hand, and if thou knewest the agony of my heart, thou wouldst
pity me." He opened it; but he had not read many words before he
started from his seat, as if wounded by an invisible hand, then,
with firmly pressed lips, perused the letter, threw it on the floor,
and was retiring abruptly from the room, when he recognized his
wife. "What's the matter, Henry?" she exclaimed, as she attempted to
follow him. "Read that," he sternly replied, pointing to the letter,
and, suddenly, walking to the door, left the house. Mrs. Beaufoy,
with trembling hand, picked up the letter and read as follows:--
"MY DEAR HENRY,--Your father is no more: he died last night,
just as the clock was striking eleven. He ne'er smiled on us
after he heard that you had forsaken the Lord, and he went to
the grave mourning. He said just before he died, 'Tell my dear
boy, for he is still my son, that my last tear was shed on
his account.' When I wiped off the big tear that was rolling
down his cheek, he became composed for a few minutes, and then
prayed, 'O Lord God, heal the backslidings of thine Ephraim,'
and died before he could finish the supplication.
"And now, my son, you have broken your father's heart, I grieve
to say it, and, I believe, will bring down my gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave. O! consider your dreadful state, and how
fearful to think of, should you be suddenly cut off in it!
Remember your dear father's last words.
"I feel quite unable to write you a longer letter to-day. If you
can come down to the funeral, I need not say how glad I should
be to see you; if not, may the Lord reclaim and bless you.
"I know you love Sophia, and I wish you to love her; for she has
been a kind wife to you, and a most attentive daughter to your
father and myself, but I fear she has been a snare to you. If
she had feared the Lord she would have kept you from evil. May
the Lord bless and reclaim you both.--Your bereaved mother,
"AMELIA BEAUFOY."
On reading this communication, Mrs. Beaufoy's conscience smote
her, and she wept long and bitterly. Then perusing it anew, she
exclaimed, "Cruel charge! A snare to my husband! the cause of his
being led astray! cruel charge! Is it not enough for me to bear his
unkindness, without having to endure such reproaches?" She threw
the letter from her, and rose, endeavouring to cast off the load
of sorrow which oppressed her spirit. "I cannot endure it. I am of
all women the most miserable. I have no one to share my grief. Oh
death!--no!--I am not prepared to die." She resumed her seat, and
though the letter possessed a sting sharper than that of a scorpion,
she took it, read it again, and again it wounded her. "If she had
feared the Lord she would have kept you from evil." "Cruel charge! I
have tried to keep him, but could not." She paused, then could only
ejaculate, "Woe is me!"
The ringing of the bell announced the return of Mr. Beaufoy; but
his dark, lowering look bespoke the inward conflict. On taking his
seat his eye caught sight of the letter near the place where he had
thrown it down a few hours before. Moving back, as if from an adder,
he said, "Have you been reading it?"
"Yes, Henry, I have."
"And what do you think of the charges?"
"They are cruel."
"Rather say, they are just, though severe."
"You know that I have often attempted to reclaim you."
"But did you not first lead me astray? Till I knew you I was a
happy, because a religious man; but from that ill-fated hour when,
enticed by your influence and example to abandon the house of prayer
for the theatre and ball-room, I have had no mental peace. I have
forsaken God, and he, in anger, has forsaken me."
"But why recriminate on me the guilt of your own sin? You have
withdrawn from me your love and your society, and will you now in
exchange give me your reproaches? If we have sinned together, and
provoked the Lord to anger, let us now kneel together before his
mercy-seat, and together confess our sins, and implore forgiveness."
"You may pray and obtain mercy, but I cannot; no, I cannot."
"The Lord waits to be gracious."
"Yes, to the penitent, but my heart is too hard to feel penitential
sorrow."
"But is not the Redeemer exalted to give repentance?"
"To _you_ he will give it, but not to _me_. I have fallen away,
and incensed justice renders it impossible to renew me again to
repentance, for I have crucified the Son of God afresh, and put him
to an open shame."
"But justice relents when a sinner prays, and mercy"--
"Oh! speak not of mercy."
"But mercy rejoiceth over judgment."
"Yes, but when mercy is rejected, as in my case, justice avenges
the insult in a terrible form. Let us change the theme, Sophia. I am
too full of agony to dwell on it. It awakens recollections that I
wish to banish for ever. It is like handling the deadly weapon which
is to extinguish life."
"The blood of Christ, dear Henry, cleanseth from all sin."
"But I have counted the blood of the covenant wherewith he was
sanctified an unholy thing."
"But, Henry, is He not still able to save to the uttermost all that
come unto God by him; and have you sinned beyond his recovering
grace?"
"I know my doom," he curtly replied.
It is not always in our power to ascertain the precise moment when
the Divine Spirit begins the good work of grace in the heart,
nor yet to say what specific means he employs to effect it, but
sometimes an unpremeditated effort to convey instruction, or
warning, or consolation to another, is made to re-act on the speaker
to produce the great change. Thus it was in the experience of Mrs.
Beaufoy. She felt the force of her own remarks, and when reflecting
on them, at a subsequent period, she could not but yield to their
influence. The charge brought against her, of having led her husband
astray, she _now_ admitted to be just. But what an admission! to
be not merely accessory to his apostasy, but the primary cause
of it--not merely a partaker of his guilt, but the means of its
contraction and its accumulation. Her sin, which had been concealed
from her, _now_ started up in all its aggravated form and appalling
aspect. "Yes, 'tis true; if I had feared the Lord, I might have
kept him from going astray, and we might have been walking in his
commandments and ordinances blameless. I enticed him from the paths
of righteousness, and into what an abyss of misery are we both
plunged! I remember the night when I first induced him to leave the
house of prayer to accompany me to the theatre, and I remember the
anguish of his spirit after our return. I then told him that he
would not injure his principles by yielding sometimes to the customs
of the world, but alas, I was deceived! I alone am to blame, and
if I could suffer alone, I would patiently endure the terrible
inflictions of justice I have merited. But alas! I have raised the
storm which has long since laid waste all our domestic felicity, and
which is now threatening a deluge of wrath! Where, O where, can we
take refuge from the impending evil!"
As she was thus bemoaning her unhappy state, she thought of her
long-neglected Bible, and taking it from the book-case, she pressed
it to her lips and prayed for grace to understand and feel its
instructive and consolatory truths. On turning over its pages, her
eye caught the following passage, which in a few moments mitigated
in a slight degree the agitation of her mind--"And a man shall be
as an hiding-place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as
rivers of water in a dry place; as the shadow of a great rock in a
weary land." But as there are
"No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels,"
so there is
"No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals;"
and though her distressed spirit was lifted up above the
overwhelming flood, yet it was still enveloped by the gloom of
desponding fears. She attempted to pray, but her heart was too
tightly bound by mental anguish to give vent to her grief. Hitherto
she had borne her sorrows with an unbending spirit, and usually wore
a placid aspect when in the company of her husband or her other
friends; but now her countenance was changed, and it was evident her
soul was in trouble.
"You appear unhappy," said her husband, one day, on finding her in
tears; "is it on my account or your own?"
"I am unhappy on your account, Henry, and I am unhappy on my own;
and I know not where to go for relief. I feel the justice of our
dear mother's charge, though I deemed it cruel at the time. I have
indeed led you astray, and am the guilty cause of all the misery
into which we are both plunged. If I could suffer alone, it would be
an alleviation of my anguish, but I cannot. O, Henry, return with
me to the Lord, from whom we have departed, and as we have sinned
together, and now suffer together, let us enter his presence, and
confess our guilt; and then his anger will be turned away, and he
will comfort us."
"_You_ may obtain mercy, Sophia, but _I_ cannot; yours have been
the sins of ignorance, but mine have been committed against the
clearest light and the deepest conviction of their aggravated guilt.
You may plead the promises of the Bible, as a sinner under the
first convictions of sin; but I bear upon me the reproach of having
forsaken the God of my mercies; and while there are no obstructions
in the way of your access to the throne of grace, that throne is
guarded by a flaming sword which turneth every way to keep me off
from touching the sceptre of mercy. I know my doom, and I deserve
it."
He continued in this frame of mind for many months; and though he
abandoned the society of his former companions, and the haunts of
evil which he had been accustomed to frequent, yet no arguments,
however weighty, or entreaties, however urgent, could induce him
to revisit a place of worship, or resume his practice of family
devotion. At length an insidious disease, which had long been
undermining his constitution, began to manifest itself, and it was
evident that his course in this world was fast coming to an end.
He was urged to try change of air; and with this view he proceeded
with his wife to the pleasant village of Parkdale, from which I
was somewhat surprised, shortly after my return from Fairmount, to
receive a letter written by Mrs. Beaufoy, earnestly beseeching me to
come and see her husband, as she feared he had not long to live, and
had expressed a wish to see me. My intercourse with Mr. Beaufoy had
been completely suspended for some years past. As already mentioned,
his letters first became shorter and more reserved, and at length
ceased altogether. On one occasion that I called on him in London,
his manner was so dry, and expressed so little cordiality, that I
felt convinced my visit was disagreeable, and, consequently, never
repeated it. On hearing, however, of his lamentable defection from
the path of truth, I deemed it my duty to address two or three
letters to him on the subject; but to none of these did I receive
any answer. When at Fairmount, Mr. Lewellin informed me that he
had seen nothing of Mr. Beaufoy for a long time, as latterly he
had become quite estranged from his early friends, and established
himself in the midst of gay and irreligious society. On receiving
the above communication, I at once resolved to proceed to Parkdale,
about forty miles distant, in the earnest hope that I might be of
some benefit to Mr. Beaufoy, whom, notwithstanding all the past
coolness between us, I still continued to regard with considerable
interest. On my arrival, I found that I had been anxiously expected
by his wife, who appeared to be much relieved at seeing me, and
after a short conversation, led me to her husband's room. He
received me with strong expressions of affection, and regret for
his past rudeness and neglect. "O! Mr. ----," he exclaimed, "this
is indeed kindness to come and see a poor dying wretch, whose
conduct has been so deserving of censure. I have been a wicked man,
an undutiful son, and a renegade from the faith; and now I feel a
dagger thrust through my heart, which can never be removed."
"Dear Sir," I replied, "there is one Physician who can remove it,
and one specific that can heal the wound."
"I know it. I do not doubt his power, as that would be an insult
to his omnipotence; but I cannot believe in his willingness. No, I
cannot!"
"But which is the greatest insult, to doubt his ability to save to
the uttermost, or his willingness? Has he not said, 'Him that cometh
unto me I will in no wise cast out?'"
"But, Sir, the passage which you have now quoted, is addressed to
sinners under the first convictions of sin, and not to apostates who
have fallen from their former steadfastness. My doom is fixed, and
you have only to read the words of the prophet to know its nature.
'Because I have purged thee, and thou wast not purged, thou shalt
not be purged from thy filthiness any more, till I have caused my
fury to rest upon thee.'"
"But why, my friend, should you appropriate that awful passage to
your condemnation, when you live under a dispensation of grace,
which has made provision for the salvation of the chief of sinners?"
"I do it, Sir, because I know and feel that it is a debt of justice
which I owe to the insulted grace of Heaven. That passage is the
only one in the Bible on which I can dwell with any degree of ease."
"But can you derive any mental ease from reflecting on a passage
which denounces indignation and wrath?"
"Yes, Sir, because then I sink to the level of my condition, and
silently approve the equity of the sentence; but when a promise
of mercy recurs to my mind, its involuntary stirrings to embrace
it throw me into a more agonized state of feeling. But I do not
complain. I deserve all I suffer, and all I have to suffer, and I
will submissively bear the indignation of the Lord, because I have
sinned against him."
"May you not hope, that this spirit of submission to the righteous
manifestations of the Divine displeasure, is a proof that you are
not totally abandoned by him; for if that were the case, you would
feel disposed, either to impeach the goodness, or murmur against the
justice of God?"
"No, Sir, I am not abandoned by him! If I were, I should enjoy the
fatal ease of _unfelt_ guilt. I am held in bondage, I am alive
to the peril of my state, and am compelled by the irresistible
convictions of my conscience to admit the equity of my condemnation,
but I dare not hope for any symptoms of returning mercy. Returning
mercy! No, mercy is clean gone for ever."
"Nay, my friend, the mercy of the Lord endureth for ever; he
delights in it, and I have no doubt but the Sun of Righteousness
will break in upon the midnight darkness of your soul, and cheer you
with the returning light and bliss of hope."
"O! speak not to me of mercy or of hope! You do but agonize me with
fresh tortures."
"But will you not admit that God _can_ turn away his anger from you,
and comfort you?"
"I admit, Sir, that all things are possible with God, which are in
accordance with his purity and his justice; but I do not think that
he can renew me again unto repentance, because I have crucified to
myself the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame. I wish,
therefore, you would allow me to remain undisturbed by any allusions
to mercy, as such allusions bring to my recollection joys that are
past, never to be recalled, and plunge me deeper and deeper in the
abyss of mental agony. O that I had passed from the nuptial altar
to a premature grave! then I should have been resting in peace; but
I will not reproach. May my sad doom operate as a warning to others
against a departure from God."
I was much distressed at this scene, but still did not abandon
hope; and, therefore, at the urgent solicitation of Mrs. Beaufoy,
consented to remain with them for a few days. His disorder continued
to increase, and on the morning after my arrival, he consented that
his mother should be sent for--a proposal which he had hitherto
always rejected, as his attachment to her, which was sincere,
made him averse to occasioning her any alarm. On receiving the
intelligence of his illness, which had hitherto been concealed from
her, she hastened to Parkdale. Her son, on hearing of her arrival,
said to his wife, "Conceal from my dear mother the state of my mind;
she cannot help me, and if she knows that I die in despair, she will
never taste another drop of comfort in this vale of tears." As she
entered the room, he raised himself on his bed and embraced her, and
they wept in silence together for some minutes.
"And why, my son," she remonstrated, "did you not let me know of
your illness before now? I would have come and nursed you as I used
to do long ago."
"I hoped that I should recover, mother, and I was unwilling to alarm
you."
"Well, my son, I hope the Lord is dealing graciously with your soul
now you are in the dark valley?"
"He is dealing righteously."
"Yes, my child, he always deals righteously; but is he dealing
graciously?" A long pause ensued.
"But why are you silent, my son? Tell your mother how the Lord is
dealing with you."
"He is dealing righteously with me, and it is our duty to bow in
submission to His will."
"I am happy to hear that you are resigned to His will; that is
a proof that He is dealing graciously. May the Lord continue to
bless you, my dear child, and may He lift upon you the light of his
countenance and give you peace."
On resuming her inquiries next day, she asked him, "Have you a good
hope through grace, of being presented faultless before the presence
of the Lord with exceeding joy?"
"To throw off the veil of concealment which I wished to rest over
the state of my mind, I confess, my dear mother, that I have no
hope."
"No hope, my child! Not one cheerful beam of hope! Is the Lord's arm
shortened, that he cannot save? or is his ear heavy, that he cannot
hear?"
"No; he is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; and it is his
immutability that plunges me into despair."
"How so, my dear son?"
"He is immutable in his threatenings against those who depart from
him."
"And is He not immutable in his promises of mercy to those who
_wish_ to return?"
"But there are no promises of mercy that suit my case."
"No promises! Why, don't you recollect what our blessed Lord said,
'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out?' And don't you
recollect what Paul says, 'Wherefore he is able also to save to the
uttermost all that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to
make intercession for them?'"