Infamy of Commodus.—?His Death.—?The Reign of Pertinax.—?The Mob of Soldiers.—?Death of Pertinax.—?Julian purchases the Crown.—?Rival Claimants.—?Severus.—?Persecutions.—?Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas.—?The Reign of Caracalla.—?Fiendlike Atrocities.—?Elagabalus, Priest of the Sun.—?Death by the Mob.—?Alexander and his Christian Mother.—?Contrast between Paganism and Christianity.—?The Sin of Unbelief.

FTER a stormy reign of twenty-three years, the Emperor Aurelius died, and his son Commodus, nineteen years of age, succeeded to the throne. He was a demon. His atrocities Imust not describe: nothing can be imagined, in the way of loathsome, brutal, fiendlike vice, of which he was not guilty. Afoul pagan, he filled the palaces of Rome with all the atrocities of iniquity.

He murdered one of his own sisters, and worse than murdered the rest. He amused himself in cutting off the lips and noses of those who incurred his displeasure. The rich he slew, to get their money; the virtuous, because their example reproved his vices; the influential, fearing lest they should attain too much power.

Under Commodus, the Christians were not exposed to governmental persecution, though there were occasional acts of the grossest outrage. One of his female favorites, who had great influence over him, became their protector. Conversions were rapidly multiplied. Many of the most noble and opulent in Rome embraced the Christian faith, which they could see presented the only hope for this lost world. One of these very distinguished men, Apollonius, an accomplished scholar, presented to the Roman senate a very eloquent appeal in favor of Christianity. The senate demanded that he should retract his opinions. As he refused, he was sent to the block, and beheaded.

The outrages Commodus was perpetrating, and the executions he was daily ordering, at length became intolerable. His nominal wife, the same Marcia who had protected the Christians, finding, from a memorandum which she picked from his pocket, that he had doomed her with several others to die, gave him a cup of poison. As he was reeling under the influence of the draught, an accomplice plunged a dagger into his heart, and “he went to his own place.” “To his own place!” Where was that place? No one can be familiar with the history of the awful crimes which have been perpetrated upon this globe, and not feel that there is necessity for justice and retribution beyond the grave.

The joy in Rome was indescribable when the rumor spread through the thronged streets, on the morning of the 1st of January, 193, that the tyrant was dead. The senate and army placed Pertinax, mayor of Rome, upon the vacant throne. He was, for a pagan, a good man. He found the nation with an empty treasury, and enormously in debt, and attempted to economize; but the army demanded the wealth and luxury which could be obtained only by rapine.

Commodus had accumulated a vast amount of gold and silver plate; chariots of most costly construction; robes of imperial purple, heavily embroidered with gems and gold; and last, but not least, he had seized, and crowded into his harem, six hundred of the most beautiful boys and girls. The plate, the chariots, the robes, and the handsome boys and beautiful girls, were all sold to the highest bidder. It is Christianity alone which recognizes the brotherhood of man. Pertinax, a pagan, could perhaps see no wrong in selling these young men and maidens into slavery. All the money thus infamously obtained was honestly paid into the exhausted treasury.

The army had loved Commodus. He allowed the soldiers unlimited license; he filled their purses with gold; he crowded their camp with male and female slaves. Pertinax wished to introduce reforms. The army hated Pertinax because he was good, as devils hate angels. “Away with him!” was the cry which resounded through the whole encampment.

Three hundred burly wretches, from the encampment outside the walls of Rome, marched to the palace. Deliberately they cut off the head of Pertinax. Parading it upon a lance, they, with shouts of triumph, marched back through the streets of Rome to their barracks. The citizens looked on in dismay: they dared not utter a word. The army was their master. Astanding army and an unarmed people place any nation at the mercy of an ambitious general.

Sixteen thousand soldiers, thoroughly trained, and heavily armed in steel coats of mail, were always quartered just outside the gates of Rome. From their commanding encampment on the broad summits of the Quirinal and Viminal Hills they held the millions of the Roman capital in subjection. The gory head of Pertinax was elevated upon a pike. The brutal soldiery gathered around it with yells and hootings, and offered the crown to the highest bidder.

Julian, a vile demagogue, the richest man in Rome, offered a thousand dollars to each soldier, making sixteen millions of dollars. He could easily win back treble the sum by extortion and the plunder of war. The soldiers accepted the offer. Surrounding Julian, they marched in dense column into the city to the capitol, and compelled the senate to recognize him as emperor. There were sixteen thousand swords as so many indisputable arguments to enforce their demands. The senate, with the sword at its throat, obsequiously obeyed. The trembling populace was equally submissive. With apparently universal acclaim, Julian was proclaimed emperor.

But there were other imperial armies besides the sixteen thousand which held Rome in awe. There was one in Greece of twenty thousand, one of twenty thousand in Britain, and one of thirty thousand in Syria. Each of these armies followed the example of the Pretorian Guard, as the army at Rome was called. Each chose an emperor from among its generals. There were thus four rival emperors, each at the head of a powerful army. The arbitrament of bloody battle alone could decide who should hold the prize.

The three distant armies commenced an impetuous march upon Julian at Rome. Severus from Greece was nearest. With giant strides he pressed forward, sweeping all opposition before him. As he drew near the camp of the Pretorian Guard, the soldiers, who had already received their thousand dollars each from Julian, coolly cut off Julian’s head, and sent it to Severus. The two armies then fraternized under Severus, and took possession of Rome.

Albinus was advancing with his twenty thousand men from Britain. Enormous bribes were sent to him by Severus; and he gave in his adhesion to the successful general who was so formidably intrenched at Rome. Niger then, marching from Syria, was easily routed by the three combined armies opposed to him. He was taken captive, and beheaded. Severus thus became emperor without a rival. In commemoration of his victory, he reared in Rome a colossal triumphal arch, which remains to the present day.

Severus was a thoroughly bad man; and yet he protected the Christians. Aphysician who had embraced the new religion had saved the life of his child. Severus gratefully took him into the palace, and treated him with the utmost kindness. Though unwilling to regulate his own conduct by the religion of Jesus, he so far appreciated the excellence of Christianity as to appoint one of its advocates as teacher of his child. When the fury of the populace at Rome rose against the Christians, Severus interposed to shield them.

But in remote parts of the empire, where the power of the crown was but feebly felt, persecution raged terribly. The father of the renowned Eusebius was beheaded: his property was confiscated, and his widow and children left utterly destitute. Eusebius, who was then but seventeen years of age, and a very earnest Christian, was so anxious to follow his father to martyrdom, that his mother could with great difficulty restrain him. He lived to establish a reputation which has filled the world with his name.

In Africa, also, the persecution was violent. In Carthage, twelve Christians at one time were brought before the pro-consul, three of whom were females. They refused to abjure their faith, and were condemned to be beheaded. We have a minute account of the trial,—the questions and their answers. Upon being condemned to death simply for being Christians, they knelt together, and thanked God that they were honored with the crown of martyrdom. Joyfully each one received the death-blow. It was at this time, and at Carthage, that Tertullian wrote his world-renowned apology for Christianity. It was so eloquent in its rhetoric, and so convincing in its logic, that it exerted a very powerful influence over all thoughtful minds.

The martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas at Carthage was one of the memorable events of this persecution. Perpetua was a Roman lady of exalted birth, and highly educated, who had become a Christian. Felicitas was a young Christian bride, about to become a mother. The parents of Perpetua were pagans, and also her two brothers. She was but twenty-two years of age, recently married, and had an infant child.

She was arrested, and thrown into prison. Her aged father, who loved Perpetua tenderly, prostrated himself upon his knees before his daughter, and, with tears gushing from his eyes, entreated her to save her life by sacrificing to the gods. She remained firm. The high social position of the captive caused a large crowd to be assembled at the trial. Her father came, bringing to the court her babe, and entreating Perpetua, for the sake of her child, to save her life. He hoped that the sight of her child would cause her to relent, and renounce Jesus. The public prosecutor, Hilarien, then said to her,—

“In mercy to your aged father, in mercy to your babe, throw not away your life, but sacrifice to the gods.”

“I am a Christian,” she replied, “and cannot deny Christ.” The anguish of her father was so great, that he was unable to restrain loud expressions of grief; and the brutal soldiers drove him off with cruel blows. “I felt the blows,” says Perpetua in a brief memorial which she left of her trials, “as if they had fallen on myself.” Perpetua was then condemned to be torn to pieces by wild beasts.

“When the day for the spectacle arrived,” says Perpetua, “my father threw himself on the ground, tore his beard, cursed the day in which he was born, and uttered piercing cries which were sufficient to move the hardest heart.”

Both Perpetua and Felicitas were doomed to the same death. The two victims were led into the arena of the vast amphitheatre, where, with the utmost ingenuity of cruelty, they were to be gored to death by bulls. The rising seats which surrounded the amphitheatre were crowded with spectators to enjoy the spectacle.

Let us, in imagination, descend into the dark, damp dungeons opening into the arena. Here in this den are growling lions, gaunt and fierce; and here is a den of panthers with glaring eyeballs. They have been kept starved for many days to make them furious. Here in this cell of stone and iron, which the glare of the torch but feebly illumines, is a band of Christians,—fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. They are to be thrown to-morrow into the arena naked, that they may be torn to pieces by the panthers and the lions, and that the hundred thousand pagan spectators may enjoy the sport of seeing them torn limb from limb, and devoured by the fierce and starved beasts.

In one of these cells Perpetua and Felicitas were confined. In another were several wild bulls. It was a glorious summer’s day, and the cloudless sun shone down upon the amphitheatre, over which a silken awning was spread, and which was crowded with many thousands of spectators. Here were congregated all the wealth and beauty and fashion of the city,—vestal virgins, pontiffs, ambassadors, senators, and, in the loftiest tier, a countless throng of slaves. Carthaginian ladies, affecting the utmost delicacy and refinement, vied with men in the eagerness with which they watched the bloody scenes.

In the centre of the arena there was suspended a large network bag of strong fine twine, with interstices so large as to afford no covering or veil whatever to the person. Perpetua was first brought into the arena, young and beautiful, a pure and modest Christian lady. She was led forth entirely divested of her clothing, that to the bitterness of martyrdom might be added the pangs of wounded modesty. Ahundred thousand voices assailed her with insult and derision. Brutal soldiers placed her in the transparent network. There she hung in mid-air, but two feet from the ground, as if floating in space. Then the burly executioners gave her a swing with their brawny arms, whirling her in a wide circle around the arena, and retired.

An iron door creaks upon its hinges, and flies open. Out from the dungeon leaps the bull, with flaming eyes, tail in air, bellowing, and pawing the sand in rage. He glares around for an instant upon the shouting thousands, and then catches a view of the maiden swinging before him. With a bound he plunges upon her, and buries his horns in her side. The blood gushes forth, and she is tossed ten feet in the air; while the shrieks of the tortured victim are lost in the hundred thousand shouts of joy.

This scene cannot be described: it can hardly be imagined. Lunge after lunge the bull plunges upon his victim, piercing, tossing, tearing, mangling, till the sand of the arena is drenched with the blood of the victim; until her body swings around, a lifeless, mangled mass, having lost all semblance of humanity. Felicitas in the mean time is compelled to gaze upon the scene, that she may taste twice the bitterness of death. In her turn she is placed in the suspended network, and in the same fiery chariot of martyrdom ascends to heaven.

Several other Christians perished at the same time, being torn by wild beasts, and devoured by half-famished bears, leopards, and wild boars. Pages might be filled with similar accounts; but this record must be brief.

The Emperor Severus died on an expedition to Britain, in the year of our Lord211, leaving the crown to his two sons, Caracalla and Geta. They were both thoroughly depraved boys. Caracalla, the elder, invited his brother Geta to meet him in the presence of his mother to confer upon the division of the empire. During the conference, Caracalla drew near his brother, and, taking a dagger from beneath his dress, buried it to the hilt in Geta’s heart. The murdered boy sprang into his mother’s arms, and died, she being deluged with the blood of her son. This was early in the third century, when pagan Rome was at the summit of its wealth, refinement, luxury, and power. The murderer of Geta thus became sole emperor of Rome.

Christianity was beginning to create a public conscience. It was throwing the light of future judgment and final retribution upon such hideous crimes. Both of these young men, depraved though they were, had received some religious instruction. The stings of remorse imbittered every remaining hour of Caracalla’s life. The image of his brother Geta, gasping, shrieking, dying, bathed in blood, in the arms of his terrified mother, pursued the murderer to his grave: but it did not soften his heart; it only hardened him in sin, and inflamed his soul with almost insane jealousy and fear. Every individual who was supposed to be in the interest of Geta was put to death, without regard to age or sex. In the course of a few months, twenty thousand perished by this wholesale proscription.

A wag in one of the schools in Alexandria wrote a burlesque verse upon Caracalla. The tyrant, in consequence, ordered the whole city to be destroyed. Every man, woman, and child was ordered to be put to death. Afew only of the young and beautiful were reserved as slaves.

The only way in this world to be happy is to strive to promote the happiness of others. He who makes others wretched is always wretched himself. Caracalla lived the life of a demon, filling the world with woe; but, in all the empire, there was scarcely to be found a greater wretch than he.

One of his generals, Macrinus, who had displeased the emperor, learning that he was doomed to death, engaged a centurion, a man of herculean strength, to assassinate him. Adagger through the back pierced the heart of the tyrant. Thus terminated the diabolical sway of Caracalla, with which God had allowed the world to be cursed for six years.

The army had adored Caracalla; for he had given free rein to the license of the soldiers, and had enriched them by plunder. Macrinus, the assassin, was not illustrious either by birth, wealth, or military exploits. The soldiers reluctantly, and with many murmurs, submitted to the decision of the senate recognizing him as emperor. The army was encamped in winter quarters in Syria. Macrinus, exulting in new-born dignity, was luxuriating in his palace at Antioch. Under these circumstances, a Syrian soldier, by the name of Elagabalus, a reckless, unprincipled man, formed a conspiracy in the camp outside the walls of Antioch. He assumed that he was a son of one of the concubines of Caracalla. The soldiers, eager for the renewal of their former privileges of plunder and outrage, enthusiastically rallied around the banner of the insurgent general. There was one short battle. Macrinus was slain, and the troops with one accord welcomed Elagabalus as emperor. The senate, not daring to present opposition to the army, obsequiously confirmed its vote.

This rude, untamed pagan was a worshipper of the sun. He had been a high priest in one of the idol temples. With his army enlarged by brutal hordes from the East, he marched upon Rome in the double capacity of pagan pontiff and emperor. He was arrayed in sacerdotal robes of damask embroidered with gold. Agorgeous tiara was upon his brow; and he wore bracelets and a necklace incrusted with priceless gems. The city pavements over which he passed were sprinkled with gold-dust. Six milk-white horses, sumptuously caparisoned, drew a chariot containing a black stone, the symbol of the god he worshipped. Elagabalus, as pontiff, held the reins with his back to the horses, that his eyes might not be for a moment turned from the object of his idolatry.

A new temple was reared for this new idol on the Palatine Hill. Its worship was introduced with splendor such as Rome had never yet witnessed. Syrian girls of great beauty danced around the altar. Elagabalus, with his crowd of adorers of the new divinity, rioted in those dissolute rites, which even the pen of a Roman historian shrinks from recording.

The palaces of the CÆsars had been as corrupt as Europe knew how to make them; but Elagabalus transported to them all the additional vices of Asia. Modern civilization will not allow the story of his infamy to be told: the enlightenment of the nineteenth century could not bear the recital. The change which Christianity has introduced into the world is so great, that there is not a court in Europe now, no matter how corrupt, which would endure for a day a Nero or an Elagabalus.

Even pagan Rome could not long submit to so unmitigated a wretch. There was mutiny in the camp. Elagabalus was cut down in the fray. Amob of soldiers, with infuriate yells, dragged the corpse by the heels through the streets, and cast the mangled, gory mass into the Tiber. The senate passed a decree consigning his name to eternal infamy. Posterity has ratified that decree.

There are those, it is said, who believe that there is no punishment after death; that all the dead go at once to heaven. Strange must be the philosophy, and stranger still the theology, which can contemplate Elagabalus welcomed at the golden gates, angels crowding to meet him, while God, with beaming countenance, exclaims, “Well done, good and faithful servant! enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

The Pretorian Guard of sixteen thousand mailed and veteran soldiers, whose encampment was just outside the walls of Rome, took a nephew of Elagabalus,—Alexander Severus, a boy of but seventeen years of age,—and made him emperor. Two reasons influenced them: first, he was available; second, he was young, and they thought they could mould him at their will.

And now again we get a gleam of Christian light upon this dark scene,—a gleam of that Christian influence which ennobles statesmanship, purifies morals, and promotes every virtue; that sublime Christian principle, which requires, that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we do all to the glory of God.

The mother of young Alexander was a Christian. Never was the maxim more beautifully illustrated, that blessed is the boy who has a pious mother. This noble woman, notwithstanding all the unspeakable corruptions which surrounded her, had trained her child in the faith and morals of Jesus. Like a guardian angel, she had watched over her son amidst all the temptations of the palace.

Alexander, upon ascending the throne, in the very palace where Elagabalus had so recently practised his pagan orgies, habitually rose at an early hour, and upon his bended knees implored God’s guidance. He then held a cabinet council, aided by sixteen of the most virtuous senators. The affairs of state were carefully discussed, efforts being made to redress every wrong.

A few hours were then set apart for study, that he might, by intellectual culture, be better prepared for his responsible situation. He then practised for a time at the gymnasium for the promotion of his bodily vigor. After lunch, he received petitions and dictated replies till supper, at six, which was the principal meal of the day. Guests of distinction were always invited to sup with him. His table was frugal, his dress simple, his morals were pure, his manners polished and courtly. He adopted for his motto the golden maxim of Jesus our Lord: “As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.”172 It was then fresh and new. Few even of those who admired the sentiment knew that it was Jesus who had given it its emphatic announcement.

When Severus appointed a governor of a province, he first publicly propounded his name, that, if there were any disqualification, it might be mentioned. “It is thus,” he said, “the Christians appoint their pastors: Iwill do the same with my representatives.”

And yet, strange as it may seem, Alexander Severus does not seem to have been a true Christian. He was simply like many upright, high-minded, honorable young men now, who assent to Christianity, are measurably governed by its morals, but are not in heart disciples of Jesus.

Alexander was deficient in moral courage: he wished to compromise. While he professed belief in Jesus, he professed also belief in the Roman gods. He wished to build a temple in Rome, to be dedicated to Jesus Christ, for Christian worship; but the oracles told him, that, if he did this, everybody would become Christian, and the temples of the gods would be abandoned. He therefore desisted. Still, throughout his reign, Christians were protected so far as he could protect them; but, in remote sections of the empire, Christians often suffered terribly from the malice of pagan magistrates, and from the brutality of the mob.

The reforms of justice and mercy which Alexander Severus was introducing into the empire were hateful to the soldiers. They wished to give free range to their appetites and passions, and to riot in plunder. Amutiny was excited in the camp against him. In a paroxysm of rage, the Pretorian Guard, sixteen thousand strong, marched into the city, breathing threatenings and slaughter. For three days and three nights, a terrible battle raged in the streets of Rome. There was a wasting conflagration, and multitudes were slain. The city was menaced with total destruction. And all this because a virtuous emperor wished to protect the innocent, and to restrain the wicked from crime!

A kind Providence gave Alexander the victory. The insurgents were driven back to their camp. Still they were too powerful to be punished. The whole reign of Severus was harassed and imbittered by the outrages of this licentious soldiery.

We have now come down in our narrative to the middle of the third century. The Romans were a very powerful, and in many respects a highly-cultivated people. Their literature has excited the admiration of the world. It is still studied in the highest seats of learning. Their paganism was the best which the world has ever known. We have presented in impartial contrast the practical workings of the religion of Rome and the religion of Jesus Christ. Every thoughtful reader must be impressed with the wonderful, the divine superiority of Christianity. It must be manifest to every reflective mind, that, in the religion of Jesus Christ, we find the only hope for our lost world. That religion is not a religion of dead doctrines and pompous ceremonies, but one of a living faith and a holy life.

“Do right,” says Christianity,—“right to God by loving him and worshipping him as your heavenly Father; right to yourself by cultivating in your own heart every thing that is pure, lovely, and of good report; right to your fellow-man, regarding him as your brother, and doing every thing in your power to elevate him, purify him, and prepare him for heaven. Your past sins may all be forgiven. Christ has died upon the cross, and made atonement for them. Penitence for sin, trust in an atoning Saviour, and the earnest, prayerful return to a holy life, will open to you the gates of heaven.” This is Christianity. It needs not the enforcement of labored argument: it is its own best witness. “He that believeth on the Son of God hath the witness in himself.”173

It not unfrequently happens that a young man gets the impression that there is something a little distinguished in being an unbeliever. He assumes the air of a sceptic, and takes the ground that Christianity is the religion of weak minds; that the reason why he does not believe is, that he has more intelligence and knowledge than those people who believe.

Should there chance to be such a one who reads these pages, Iwould ask him, How do you account for the fact that the most intelligent men in the world have been Christians? Were Bacon and Boyle, Sir Matthew Hale and Herschel, men whose intellectual renown has filled centuries, weak-minded men?—and yet they were Christians. Was Napoleon Bonaparte a man of feeble intellect?—yet he said at St.Helena,—

“The loftiest intellects since the advent of Christianity have had faith, a practical faith, in the mysteries and the doctrines of the gospel; not only Bossuet and FÉnelon, who were preachers, but Descartes and Newton, Leibnitz and Pascal, Corneille and Racine, Charlemagne and LouisXIV.” Were Washington and Jackson, Clay and Lincoln, ignorant and weak men?—they were Christians. Are the presidents in nearly all the colleges and universities of Christendom incapable of comprehending the force of argument?—they are Christians.

Was Daniel Webster a man of feeble powers of comprehension, incapable of appreciating the force of an argument?—he bears the following testimony to his faith in Christianity:—

“Philosophical argument, especially that drawn from the vastness of the universe, compared with the apparent insignificance of this globe, has sometimes shaken my reason for the faith that is in me; but my heart has always assured and re-assured me that the gospel of Jesus Christ must be a divine reality. This belief enters into the very depths of my conscience. The whole history of man proves it.”

No: it is too late for any one to take the ground that Christianity is the religion of ignorant men and weak women. God has given evidence sufficient to convince every candid mind. This evidence is so abundant, that God declares it a great sin not to believe. There is no crime more severely denounced in the Bible than that of unbelief. Perhaps you say, “Icannot believe without evidence;” but God has given evidence sufficient to convert every heart which is not so wicked that it will not believe.

Not to believe will surely bring condemnation at God’s bar. To believe in Christianity, and yet not in heart to accept it, and not publicly to avow one’s faith, is perhaps a greater sin. The declaration of our Saviour is positive, that he will not recognize at the judgment-day those who have not confessed him before men.

There are undoubtedly those who have wickedly cherished a spirit of unbelief, until God, as a punishment, “has sent them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie.”174

The following incident affectingly illustrates this truth. The writer, a few years ago, at the close of the afternoon’s service in the church on a summer’s day, was called upon in his study by a man of dignified person and manners, whose countenance and whole demeanor indicated superior intellectual culture. Ihad noticed him for one or two sabbaths in the church. His marked features, and his profound attention to the preaching, had awakened my interest. With much courtesy he apologized for intruding upon my time, but expressed an earnest desire to have a little conversation with me.

“I have,” said he, “for several sabbaths, attended public worship in your church, and need not say that Ihave been interested in the preaching; and you will probably be surprised to have me add, that Icannot believe the sentiments you advocate. Icannot believe that the Bible is a divine revelation, or that there is any personal God. Iam what you would probably call both an infidel and an atheist; and Ishould be glad to give you a brief account of my history.

“When a young man, Ibecame interested in the writings of the French philosophers,—Voltaire, Helvetius, Diderot, and D’Alembert. Ifilled my library with their works, and perused them with eagerness. Their teachings Iaccepted. They were in harmony with my desires; and Ilived accordingly. Renouncing all faith in Christianity, in any other God than the powers of Nature, and in any future life, Isurrendered myself unrestrained to the indulgence which those principles naturally inculcated. Thus Ihave lived. Christianity and its professors have ever been the subjects of my ridicule and contempt.

“I still retain those principles. The arguments with which Ihave stored my mind, and upon which Ihave so long relied, appear to me invincible. Icannot believe that the Bible is any thing more than a human production. When Ilook upon the world, its confusion and misery, Ican see no evidence that there is any God who takes an interest in the affairs of men. Isee that the wrong is just as likely to triumph as the right. In the animal creation, there is, from the lowest to the highest, a regular gradation; and as they all, at birth, came from nothing, so, at death, into nothing they will vanish.

“I have now passed my threescore years and ten. Ihave lost most of my property. My eyesight is rapidly failing. The companions of my youthful days are all gone. Most of my children are in the grave; and Ihave no more expectation of meeting them in another world than of meeting my faithful dog or my sagacious horse. Iam aged, infirm, bereaved, and joyless. There is nothing in the retrospect of the past to give me pleasure: the present brings but weariness, gloom, and sadness: before me is the abyss of annihilation.

“Now, could I only believe as you believe,—that there is a loving heavenly Father, who watches over his children; that the trials of this life are intended to form our characters for endless happiness; that beyond the grave there is immortality, happy realms where the sorrows of earth are never known; that provision is made for the forgiveness of all my sins; and that, after a few more days here, Icould enter golden gates, and be forever in heaven with the loved ones who have gone before me,—I should indeed be the happiest man in the world. But Icannot believe it. There is no evidence sufficiently strong to remove my unbelief.”

Such was the confession of an unbeliever; and we know that such must be the moral condition of every man who is approaching the grave without the Christian’s hope. How different from this was the testimony of Paul the Christian as he drew near the close of his noble life, even with the pains of martyrdom opening before him! He writes to Timothy,—

“I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. Ihave fought a good fight; Ihave finished my course; Ihave kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day; and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.”

I will simply say in conclusion, in reference to my unhappy friend, whom Icould not but love, that though he would admit that there was a Power, which he called Nature, which had introduced him to this world, and would ere long remove him from it, no persuasions of mine could induce him to pray to that Power for light and guidance; though he would, apparently with profoundest reverence, fall upon his knees at my side, and listen to my prayers to the Creator.

Circumstances soon removed me several hundred miles from his dwelling. Whether he be living as Inow write these lines with a tearful eye, Iknow not. Afew years ago, after two years of absence, Imet him. Sorrow had left unmistakable traces upon his marked features. As Itook his hand, he admitted that there were still no rays of light to gild the gloom of his pathway to the grave.