CONCLUSION.
Hastening to the end of our narrative, we pass by several
intervening months, and witness again another Sabbath morning in
May.
Some twenty miles from the city of Philadelphia, a sparkling
little brook passes through the meadow of a beautiful farm,
losing itself in a thick wood that divides the contiguous
estates.
On that lovely May morning,--that serene Sabbath,--there
might have been seen,--there was seen by the Omniscient eye,--a
lad, some fifteen years old, walking thoughtfully along the
margin of that little stream, and penetrating into the thickest
part of the wood. He carried a book in his hand, and sat down
close by the stream, under the shade of an old beech tree. And
as he read, the tears streamed from his eyes, and his sighs
indicated a burdened spirit. Indeed, his heart was very sad. He
was oppressed by the consciousness of the great sinfulness of
his life and heart against the holy and benevolent God. He
remembered the early instructions he had received at home and in
the Sabbath-school. He recalled the precious privileges he had
enjoyed, and he remembered, with anguish and shame, how wickedly
he had disregarded all these instructions, abused all these
privileges, and sinned against his own knowledge of right,
against his conscience and his God. He had long been burdened
with these distressing emotions; he had often prayed, but had
found little relief of his anguish, even in prayer. And now,
even on this calm and beautiful Sabbath morning, there seemed to
his heart a gloom in the landscape. There was a smile, he knew,
upon the face of nature, but he felt that it beamed not for him.
The carol of wild birds rung out sweetly around him; but the
music saddened his heart yet more, for there was no inward
response of gratitude and joy. The bright green of the Spring
foliage and of the waving grass seemed dark and gloomy, as he
gazed upon it through tearful eyes. His mourning spirit gave its
own sombre interpretation to all the lovely scenes of nature. He
deeply felt that he was a wretched sinner against God, and he
could not see how God could be merciful to one who had so
grievously transgressed. He scarcely dared to hope for the
pardon of his iniquities, and was in almost utter despair of
ever obtaining mercy.
The book he had taken with him in his morning walk, was
"Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul." He read,
carefully, the twelfth chapter in that excellent work, entitled,
"The invitation to Christ of the sinner overwhelmed with a sense of
the greatness of his sins." He was convinced that Jesus Christ was
_able_ to save even _him_; and the strong assurances of his
_willingness_ to save, "even to the uttermost," furnished in the
promises of the gospel, began to dawn upon his mind as he read what
seemed like a new revelation to his soul. When he read these words
of Jesus, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest,"--"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise
cast out,"--though he had read, or heard them read, a thousand
times before, it seemed now as though they had been written
expressly for him. There seemed a freshness, a force, a glorious
personal adaptation in them which he had never seen before.
He turned over the leaves of the book, and the chapter on "Self
Dedication" caught his eye. He read it; and when he came to the
prayer with which that chapter closes, he kneeled down, with the
book open before him, and solemnly, and with his whole heart,
repeated that fervent prayer. It seemed to have been written on
purpose to express his emotions and desires. When he had
concluded, he closed the book, and remained still upon his
knees, and tried, in his own language, to repeat the sentiments
of that solemn act of Dedication. Never was a boy more sincere
and earnest than he.
How long he prayed he did not know; but when he rose and looked
round him, the sun had long passed its meridian, and the shadows
of the trees were cast towards the east.
There was a delicious, joyful calm in his soul. All doubts of
God's willingness to pardon and receive him had gone. A veil
seemed to have been removed from the character of God. He
thought of God as he had never thought before,--not as a stern
and unrelenting Judge, but as a forgiving, loving Father. He
saw, as he had never seen before, how sinners could be adopted
as children of God, for the sake of the sufferings and sacrifice
of Jesus.
His spirit was very calm, but O, how happy! He had solemnly given
himself to God, pleading the merits of Jesus as the reason for his
acceptance, and he believed that God had received him, pardoned his
transgressions, and accepted him as one of his own children. Again
and again did he throw himself on the greensward, and pour out his
soul in gratitude and in prayer. It was the happiest day his life
had ever known.
The whole aspect of nature seemed changed in his eyes. The
gloomy shroud, that seemed to envelop it in the morning, had
passed away. The smile of God seemed reflected from every
sunbeam that played upon the green leaves and danced over the
distant waving meadow. There was sweet melody now in the songs
of the birds, in the rippling of the brook, in the hum of the
bees, and in the sighing of the soft breeze. All seemed to sing
of the goodness and grace of the adorable Creator. "_Old_ things
had passed away, behold all things had become _new_."
That lad was the RODNEY ROVERTON of this little volume. That
change was wrought by the regenerating grace of God. It was the
"peace of God, that passeth all understanding," diffused through
all his soul. Where "sin had abounded, grace did much more
abound."
Rodney Roverton yet lives. He has been, for many years, a professed
disciple of Jesus Christ, and an honored and successful minister of
the Gospel.