As, in the providence of God, I have been brought into contact with thousands of persons who have told me with much candor the history of their own minds, and conversed freely in reference to the all-important subject of their salvation, I have thought it to be my duty to record some of the facts I have met, for the benefit and warning of others. That there is a point when the Holy Spirit, if wilfully and perseveringly resisted, ceases to strive with man, no one doubts who believes in his renewing and sanctifying agency; but too many take it for granted that this point is not reached till the close of life, and neglect or resist the strivings of the Spirit till he gives them up to hardness of heart and blindness of mind, perhaps many years before their earthly existence has terminated.

The first case I shall mention is that of a woman about thirty years of age, with whom I conversed in the presence of her mother. I inquired if she was a member of any church. She answered, “No.” I asked if she had not at some time felt concern for her salvation. “Yes,” she said, “I think but few have been more anxious on the subject than I was once.” I asked at what period of her life this occurred, when she gave me the following account of God’s dealings with her. “When I was about fifteen years old, I felt that I was a great sinner in the sight of God. Often my distress was so great that I could not sleep; and for three years I seldom had peace for a week at a time. I knew that the Holy Spirit was striving with me, and that I ought to yield my heart to his influence; but I thought it would cut off my pleasures in the midst of youth. I tried to banish the thoughts of eternity; but they would still return and interrupt my pleasure. I tried reading novels and romances; they gave me relief for a while, but my distress returned. At last I went to the ballroom—and I have never since had such feelings as before.” “And have you no fears,” said I, “that you have grieved away the Spirit of God for ever?” “Yes,” she replied, “I have no doubt of that, and that I shall be lost.” I proceeded to describe the state and misery of the lost, and appealed to her, by the prayers of her mother and the tears which were then falling from her sunken eyes, by the danger of an eternal separation from pious friends, by the glories of heaven and the agonies of the Son of God, now to make her peace with him and be saved. “All this,” she calmly replied, “has been tried upon me before. Nothing that you or any other man can say on that subject, can move me now. My doom is fixed.”

Another case was that of Mr. B——, who was over seventy years old, and living an ungodly life. I approached him with kindness, and at length he conversed freely. I spoke of the goodness of God to him in his advanced years, and asked if he hoped he had an interest in Christ. He replied, “No.” I asked if he received the Bible as the word of God. He answered, “Yes.” I said, “The Bible teaches that a man must be born again before he can enter the kingdom of God; do you think you have experienced that change?” “No,” said he, “I never have.” I saw that he was intelligent, and inquired if no “still small voice” had ever whispered to him, “Son, give me thy heart?” “Yes,” said he, “often. I used to feel, but for many years I have not felt as I did when I was young. I then had some very serious times.” I asked at what period he had felt most deeply the importance of religion. He replied, “When I was seventeen I began to feel deeply at times, and this continued for two or three years; but I determined to put it off till I should be settled in life. After I was married, I reflected that the time had come when I had promised to attend to religion; but I had bought this farm, and I thought it would not suit me to become religious till it was paid for, as some time would have to be devoted to attend church, and also some expense. I then resolved to put it off ten years; but when the ten years came round, I thought no more about it. I often try to think, but I cannot keep my mind on the subject one moment.” I urged him by all the terrors of dying an enemy of God, to set about the work of repentance. “It is too late,” said he, “I believe my doom is sealed; and it is just that it should be so, for the Spirit strove long with me, but I refused.” I then turned to his children, young men and young women who were around him, and entreated them not to put off the subject of religion, or grieve the Spirit of God in their youthful days. The old man added, “Mind that. If I had attended to it then, it would have been well with me to-day; but now it is too late.”

On conversing with a man in middle life, he informed me that his father was a devoted Christian, that he was faithfully instructed and his mind was early impressed with the importance of religion. In his youth, there was a period of six months in which he was in distress, day and night; and a voice within seemed to be continually saying, “Forsake your sins and come unto me, and I will give you peace.” “But,” he added, “I did not wish to be a Christian then; I thought it would ruin my pleasures. I visited a part of the country where dancing and balls were frequent; in a little time my serious thoughts were gone, and I have never had any since.” I asked if he did not fear that God had given him up. “Yes,” said he, “I am afraid he has. I go to church and read the Bible, and try to feel, but I cannot.” I strove to arouse his fears, but it was in vain. I afterwards learned that he was pursuing his worldly business on the Sabbath.

It is not for me to pronounce that God had said of all these persons, they are “joined to their idols, let them alone;” “woe to them when I depart from them;” but the state of all such is unspeakably alarming. If the eye of such a one falls upon these lines—if you have persisted in saying, “Go thy way for this time; let me alone, that I may have the pleasures of this life,” and have quenched the Spirit by resorting to amusements, the novel, the ballroom, or the theatre, God may have given you what you desired; but what have you now of all these pleasures? Can you look back upon them with an approving conscience? Will they bring you consolation in a dying hour? Have you not even now in your own soul, if you would make the confession, the gnawings of the worm that never dies, the burning of the fire that is never quenched? If the Spirit of God is now striving with you, it is the most momentous period of your existence. It is perhaps the turning-point between heaven and hell—the songs of angels, or the wailings of the finally lost. Beware of stifling the Spirit. Multitudes have told me the dreadful tale, “I went to scenes of amusement, or turned to the exciting romance, and I have felt no anxiety since.” While the Spirit strives it is the seed-time of eternal life, the embryo of a happy immortality. Sit not down to count the loss of sinful pleasures; receive the Saviour into your heart, and you will have pleasures lasting as eternity—pleasures that leave no sting behind—pleasures that will sustain the soul when on your dying pillow, when the last trumpet shall sound, and the congregated world stand before God.

Many facts of a more cheering character might be given. The Rev. N. C——, who had a pastoral charge in M—— county, said to me, “A colporteur had left a copy of the Anxious Inquirer in the house of a wealthy man in M—— county. After some time he became interested for his salvation. One day while there on a visit I pointed him to a chapter in this book, and requested him to read it. He read it, and soon found peace. Like every real Christian, he desired the salvation of his relations. He sent the book to his brother, a physician, who, together with a sister, were led to Christ by reading it. The book is kept in the family as an heir-loom.” On another occasion Rev. Mr. C—— said he was sent for to go some distance to see a sick woman. His custom was always to carry with him a few select books to give or loan. He gave her a copy of the Anxious Inquirer, and requested her husband to read it to her. Both were irreligious; but by God’s blessing on reading this book, both were led to the Saviour. A colporteur sold a copy of the same book to a man who sent it to an absent son. It led him and two of his companions to Christ. A colporteur gave a copy of Baxter’s Call to a very wicked family, who never went to church. Within ten months he found the reading of it had been blessed to three of the household. A tract put into a wagoner’s feed-trough while driving his team on the Sabbath, was the means of stopping him from travelling on the Sabbath, and led him to repentance. He became eminent for his piety and usefulness in the church.

A missionary who preached once a month in a wild region, and gave part of his time to colporteur work, often told me of a family that lived just beside his little mountain church, but never entered it. When he began the colporteur work he made them a visit. The man told him he did not wish him to say any thing to him on the subject of religion; that if he wanted to hear him, he could go to the church. All the time he talked and prayed, the man was muttering, and his wife increased the speed of her wheel to drown his voice. Finding all his efforts to get their attention in vain, he laid down a copy of Baxter’s Call and a few tracts, and left them. On his return to fill his next appointment at the little church, to his surprise this man and his wife were in the church near the pulpit. During service they were deeply exercised. At the close he spoke to them about their souls. They told him that after he left their house they began to think about the way they had treated him, and had read his little books, and found they were great sinners. At his next communion they both joined his church, and they were among the most consistent and useful of its members.

One morning I took the stage to go to the railroad, some sixteen miles distant. There were two gentlemen in the stage. Both knew me, but I did not know them. One was a preacher, with whom I talked all the way to the dÉpÔt. While waiting for the cars, the other passenger, a fine-looking young man, said, “I can’t let this opportunity pass without making myself known to you. Do you remember laying your hand on the shoulder of a youth in the town of B—— six years ago, and urging him to seek the favor of God, and handing him a little book?” I said I had no recollection of it, as I was doing something of that sort almost every day. “Well,” said he, “that talk and book were the means, I trust, of my salvation. I have since that time gone through college, and hope soon to preach the gospel.” He was the son of a poor widow. He is now an able minister of the New Testament.

One day while on a journey, I came to a very small cabin on the top of a high mountain. A poor widow was by the door in very homely apparel. I asked her if she had a Bible. “No,” said she, “but I have a part of a Testament, and a number of little tracts.” Seeing a number of clean but poorly clad children, I began to ask them questions. The answers they gave would have done credit to most of our Sunday-school children. I asked her if she had a church or Sunday-school near. “No; there is no church or Sunday-school anywhere in reach. My children have never been in either, and I have not been at church for eight years.” “Why,” said I, “madam, how have you got your children so well instructed?” She ran into her cabin and brought her whole library, which consisted of a part of a Testament, and several little books and tracts sewed together, which I learned had been given her by colporteurs in their visits. Said she, “I read these to my children every Sunday, and teach them to read them, till they know all that is in them.” I added to her supply little books till the countenances of herself and her children were radiant with joy, and I felt it was truly “more blessed to give than to receive.”

A few miles further on I stopped at another cabin. The woman looked at me a moment. “Oh, I know you. You are the man that preached and gave us tracts at the church down on the river. I trust I was converted there. Can’t you give me some tracts to give away? I am living now among very wicked people.” I gave her a package, and passed on.