CHAPTER 27 THE CONVERSION OF AN INFIDEL

CHAPTER 27 THE CONVERSION OF AN INFIDEL When we were traveling the Cross Creek circuit, in the year 1814, one of the most wonderful manifestations of divine grace, in the awakening and conversion of an infidel, occurred that we were ever permitted to witness during our whole itinerant career. There lived in the bounds of the circuit, not for from Steubenville, an infidel of wealth and distinction. He belonged to the French school of infidelity, which, in the Reign of Terror in France, had, in consequence of its disgust at the crimes and corruptions, and mummeries of Romanism, renounced all religion, vetoing Christianity, deifying reason, and writing over the cemeteries, "Death an eternal sleep." He was a devoted student of Voltaire, and Rosseau, and D’Alembert, and being educated and talented but few were able or felt disposed to meet him in argument on the subject of religion.

Indeed, he was a terror to all Christians in the neighborhood, and he never lost an opportunity to instill his infidel principles into the minds of all who would listen to his deceptive and dangerous philosophy — falsely so called. He was a man of great influence in the county, and all that influence was thrown into the scale of infidelity. His principles were not only destructive of the general morals of the community, but were insidiously working their way into the impressible minds of the young and rising generation, poisoning them with infidelity. When he met with one equally well skilled in argument, and capable of showing the sophistry of his reasoning, and of tearing off the vail from the hideous form of the monster infidelity, he never would fail to fly to that last resort of infidels as their test of truth, ridicule, well knowing how potent such a weapon is in skillful hands. Where few can reason all can laugh, and as the depraved human heart is always on the infidel’s side, often has the multitude, which usually collected in those days around disputants, been excited to laughter at the sallies of wit and ridicule the infidel would bring to bear upon his antagonist. Where the majority were irreligious it was easy to see how fearful would be the odds against the Christian, though armed with the panoply of truth. What men wish to be true they require but little evidence to convince them of its truth; and, on the other hand, what they do not wish to be true no amount of evidence is sufficient to convince them of its falsehood. The sinner would gladly believe, though there is a God, that the terrible denunciations which he has made against sin are the mere product of priestcraft, gotten up to frighten people into a belief of Christianity, and any denial of that fact, supported by the merest semblance of an argument, would be seized with the greatest avidity, even as a drowning man would catch at a straw. As an illustration of this, we once heard a public speaker, in a courthouse, haranguing a large crowd on the subject of religion. He had much to say about the priestcraft of orthodox preachers, and labored hard, and, as he thought, successfully, to prove that there was no hell; that it was all a mere bugbear to frighten the weak and credulous. One of his audience, a wealthy planter, on a visit from the far south, seemed to be in ecstasies at the preaching, and could scarcely restrain himself from shouting aloud his approbation. Good news from a far country, or cold water to a thirsty soul, could not have been more refreshing to the southerner than the glad tidings of this discourse. At length the speaker closed, and came down from the judge’s bench, where he had been standing. The crowd gathered around him, but none were so eager to grasp his hand as the planter. "God bless your dear soul," said he, "I thank you a thousand times for that sermon. It’s all true, every word of it, and commends itself to the reason of man." But, as he was turning to go away, a new thought seemed to strike him, and returning to the preacher, he said, "Your sermon is true — true, no doubt of it in the least, sir; but, by hell, I’ll give you a hogs head of tobacco if you will insure it." There is the difficulty. Infidels fear that religion is true. With the best of them, in their brightest, happiest hours, there is "a fearful looking-for of judgment." But we must resume our narrative. This infidel would not attend any religious meetings, and paid a total disregard to all the institutions of religion. Strange as it may seem, with all his avowed infidelity and unblushing opposition to religion, he was chosen to represent the county in the Legislature of the state. God save us when our liberties and rights are intrusted to the hands of those who neither fear God nor regard man; for, though we could not make religion a test of qualification nor require a profession thereof as indispensable to a legislator, we would, nevertheless, require in the candidate for public favor, a decent respect for the opinions and rights of others. If it may be argued that men of infidel sentiments have been good statesmen and patriots, and have served their country with fidelity, we reply, their statesmanship and patriotism were not the result of their infidelity, but they existed in spite of it. The family of the subject of our narrative consisted of a wife and one child — a lovely daughter, beautiful and accomplished, having received what is termed a polite and fashionable education. The mother was alike infidel in sentiment with the father, and, of course, as it was with the father and mother, so it was with the daughter. Her youthful mind was made to take into its first impressions the blank and cheerless doctrines of infidelity. One has said, "Of all the melancholy sights that meet the gaze of mortals, nothing is half so drear and desolate as that of an infidel mother. For her there is no God and Savior; no bright and cheering hopes of immortality and eternal life beyond the grave. Home, with its endearments and angel faces, was designed to remind us constantly of the family of God in heaven; but where the cold night of infidelity reigns, and no voices of prayer and praise are heard, life is a dull, leaden dream, and death an eternal sleep." This lovely girl, notwithstanding the cold and dreary sphere in which she had taken her existence and moved, was, nevertheless, of an amiable disposition. She was the infidel’s daughter, and the child of a prayerless mother; but yet she possessed a genial mind and a trusting heart. We have heard it said of some, "they are naturally religious," and if it were possible for any to have a native religious character such might be ascribed to her. But, like the young ruler whom Jesus loved for his amiability of disposition and morality of conduct, she lacked one thing, and that was the regenerating grace of God, without which all natural graces will prove unavailing as requisites for heaven. Not a very great distance from her father’s residence there was a preaching-place, where the Methodist itinerants held meeting regularly every two weeks. A special meeting had been appointed to continue several days, and as the father was absent at the Legislature, she went to the meeting without the knowledge of her mother. Dressed, as she was, in fashionable style, when she entered the rude cabin, and took her seat among the old-fashioned Methodists, she became an object of general attention, quite as much so as an old-fashioned Methodist now would be if she were to come into one of our fashionable congregations with her plain gown and Quaker bonnet. But she did not come out of mere idle curiosity; she was strangely drawn to the house of worship, and there was a power at work, in regard to the nature of which she was unconscious. She had, as we have already seen, been reared in utter ignorance of religion, and all that she was taught concerning it was, that it was a system of priestcraft; and though there might be some honest, deluded professors of religion, the most of them were arrant hypocrites.

She never read the Bible; for her father considered it too immoral a book to put in his daughter’s hands, preferring the writings of French infidels, and even the blasphemous scurrility of Paine himself, to that book. Beside this, she never heard a Gospel sermon, being prevented from attending all religious meetings. Of course to her every thing was new; and though she could appear with ease and grace in the drawing-room or gilded saloon, she felt embarrassed in the midst of a worshipping assembly. She composed herself, however, as well as she was able; and when the preacher rose, and with solemn voice announced the text, "God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life," her attention was absorbed. This was the first and all of the Gospel she had ever heard, and it sounded strangely in her ears. She had read Rosseau’s opinion of Jesus Christ, and was disposed to look on him as an innocent, upright man, and she coincided with him in opposition to other infidel writers who had asserted that he was an impostor. When the preacher fully opened his theme, representing God’s love in sending his Son into the world to die for us, and the love of Christ in coming and taking upon himself our load of guilt and shame, illustrated by scenes drawn from real life, and enforced and applied to the listening audience, the heart of the young girl was broken up, and she wept aloud. Every eye was suffused in tears, and many were the warm and ardent prayers that went up to heaven in behalf of that weeping one. When the meeting was ended she returned home; but so deeply was she affected by what she had heard that it was impossible for her to conceal her feelings from her mother, who, in a stern voice, asked her where she had been, almost as soon as she entered the sitting-room. On being informed that she had been to meeting, she became very much excited, and said, in an angry tone, ’’ If you go again those ignorant fanatics will ruin you forever; and if it comes to your father’s ears that you have been to Methodist meeting, he will banish you from the house; besides, you ought to know better. The instructions you have received should guard you against all such improprieties, and I hope hereafter I shall never hear of your being at such a place."

Night came, and with it came the hour for meeting. Now commenced a conflict in the mind of the daughter. She had never disobeyed her mother, nor did she ever feel disposed to set contrary to her wishes in any respect; but her heart longed for the place of prayer, and she felt strongly drawn to it by a secret, invisible agency she could not resist. "Shall I," said she to herself, "disobey my mother, and incur the displeasure of my father, and perhaps banishment from home? But the preacher said that the Savior of the world declared that "whosoever loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whosoever will not forsake father and mother for my sake and the Gospel’s, shall not enter heaven." "I will forsake all for Christ." The crisis had come; the gate was passed; and her joyous destiny was sealed forever. She left her home and went to meeting. An inviting sermon was preached, at the close of which seekers of religion were invited to kneel at the mourner’s bench, and pray for pardon. No sooner was the invitation given than she pressed her way through the crowd, and fell upon the beach, crying for mercy. Her full heart now poured forth its griefs in sobs and fervent prayers. The whole congregation was taken by surprise, and filled with utter astonishment at the scene, knowing, as the most of them did, the utter contempt in which her father and mother held religion and all religious exercises. Surely, thought they, this must be the special interposition of God, and every heart was lifted up in fervent prayer in her behalf. There, at that mourner’s bench, she struggled in agonizing prayer for two hours. It was apparently the noon of night, and yet she was not converted. Never was mourner more deeply engaged. She had made the last resolve. One after another of the faithful had poured out their hearts at the mercy seat in her behalf; hymn after hymn was sung, as only those can sing who sing with the spirit; but still she came not through the dark valley. Faith began to flag, and some thought the penitent must disrobe herself of her hat, and plume, and flowers, and ruffles, ere the Lord could bless. But God looks at the heart, and he saw, down deep in its own recesses, a soul absorbed in grief, conscious of nothing but its guilt and sin. At length the last hymn was rolling up from swelling hearts and tuneful voices to heaven. The last stanza was reached,

"Yet save a trembling sinner, Lord, Whose hopes, still hovering round thy word, Would light on some sweet promise there, Some sure support against despair;" and as the last strain sounded in the ear of the penitent she gently threw back her head, and opened her calm blue eyes, yet sparkling with tears; but they were the tears that told of sins forgiven. She had emerged from the darkness and the light of heaven was beaming upon her happy countenance, and an unearthly radiance gleamed like a glory on her brow. If before she was beautiful, now that she was adorned with heavenly grace one might think she could claim kindred with the skies. She arose, and embraced in her arms the sisters who had prayed with her, and pointed her to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world. She had passed the noon of many a night in scenes of guilty mirth and revelry, where she was the foremost of the band, the fairest of the fair; but never did such joy and gladness come to her soul as she experienced on that occasion. She returned home, feeling now that she could gladly bear any thing for the sake of her Lord and Master. When she arrived she related to her mother what had occurred, and exclaimed, "O, how precious is the Savior!" She would have embraced her mother in her arms; but she repulsed her and reproached her, telling her that if she did not cease her nonsense she would drive her away from the house, and that she had disgraced the family and ruined herself forever. She retired to her room, and spent the remainder of the night in prayer and praise to God.

Soon it was noised abroad that the infidel’s daughter was converted; and some of his friends, supposing, doubtless, that they would render him great service, wrote to him on the subject, giving him the most absurd and ridiculous accounts of her exercises while at the mourner’s bench, and after she was converted. When Mr. P. received this intelligence he was greatly enraged, and swore that he would banish his daughter from his house, and she should be entirely disinherited and disowned. All this moved not the converted daughter; for she realized the truth of the Divine declaration, "When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." The day was at length fixed for his return home, and Eliza — for that was the daughter’s name — placed herself at the window to watch his arrival. In the afternoon he was seen approaching on horseback, and Eliza hastened out to the gate to meet her father. When, with a pale, sweet countenance, she stepped up to her father to embrace and kiss him, he rudely seized her by the arm, and, with his horsewhip, whipped her out of the gate, telling her to begone, and, with many curses, forbidding her return. Sadly she went weeping down the lane; but she thought of what her Savior had suffered for her, and her heart was staid up under the mighty load which oppressed it. She realized then, to its fullest extent, what it was to love the Lord Jesus more than all else besides. Though she had lost natural friends she had found spiritual friends. That "manifold more in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting," is what only religion can give.

"Like snows that fall where waters glide, Earth’s pleasures fade away;

They rest in time’s resistless tide, And cold are while they stay. But joys that from religion flow, Like stars that gild the night, Amid the deepest gloom of woe, Shine forth with sweetest light." Not far from her father’s residence lived a pious Methodist — a poor widow — and she was apprised of the state of things at the house of Mr. P. When she saw Eliza coming to her house one evening, she was not at a loss to conjecture the cause. The poor widow gave her a cordial reception, and spoke to her words of kindness and comfort. Eliza asked permission to go into the little room, and be allowed to remain there undisturbed, No sooner was she alone than she fell upon her knees, and commenced pouring out her soul to God in prayer for her wicked father and mother. But we must return to the father. As he gazed after Eliza, who went sobbing down the lane, it seemed as though a thousand fiends of darkness had taken possession of his soul. He went to the house, and met his wife; but she was equally wretched, having witnessed what was done. He sat down. They spoke not, except in monosyllables. The supper-hour arrived, but he refused to eat, though he had been riding all day. Now and then a groan would escape his lips. He went to his library, and turned over his books and papers; but it was in a hurried manner, and with a vacant look. At length he retired to his chamber, but not to rest. Sleep had forsaken his eyelids, and if he did close them, the sweet, angel face of his banished Eliza would send daggers to his soul. Thus he spent a sleepless night. Next day he wandered about over the farm, and through the woods, like one seeking, with the greatest anxiety, for something that was lost. It was evident to all that there was something resting upon his mind that greatly troubled him. The cause of that trouble his proud, infidel heart would not allow him to disclose, even if the human heart were disposed to lift the vail from the secret sanctuary of its bitterness.

Unable to find rest he again sought his chamber; but, alas! his anguish increased, and he began to see the shallowness of his infidelity, and also its dark, horrid nature, in that it could prompt him to drive his lovely, and otherwise obedient daughter from his house, simply because she had become a Christian. From that moment he was a changed man — not that he was converted; but from a hard, impenitent sinner he was brought to relent and pray. There he prayed for hours; but not one ray of hope penetrated his darkness. His abused and banished Eliza would rise before him, and his convictions increased, till he raved like the demoniac among the tombs of Gadara. It seemed as if he would not be able much longer to support the mountain weight that was crushing him; for the sorrows of hell got hold upon him, and he anticipated the pain of the second death.

Flying from his room, he called his servant-boy, and ordering him to saddle Eliza’s horse and mount another, he directed him to go to every house in the neighborhood in quest of his daughter, and if he found her to bring her home. Seeing that his orders were immediately obeyed, he returned to his chamber; but the load that pressed upon his heart was removed, and the anguish that drank up his spirits was gone. He was comforted, but not converted. The raging deep was calmed, but the sun shone not upon its dark waters. He walked out into the garden, and there, beneath Eliza’s favorite bower, he kneeled down, and again lifted up his heart and commended himself to God. Scarcely had his knees touched the ground till the Sun of righteousness arose, with healing in its beams, upon him, and pervading all the great deep of his mind, lighted it up with the peace and calm of heaven. For twenty-four hours, without eating or sleeping, Eliza remained in that widow’s room, engaged in earnest supplication for her father. The pious mother in Israel, in looking out of her window, as the day was drawing to a close, saw the servant coming with two horses, and she ran immediately into the little room, exclaiming, "Eliza, arise, your father has sent for you. I see John coming with your horse and saddle." The happy child arose, and burst out in rapturous exclamations of praise to God for his goodness and mercy in touching her father’s heart. She was soon in her saddle, and the faithful charger bore her fleetly to her home as if proud of his burden. When in sight of home she saw her weeping father, standing at the same gate from whence, on the evening before, he had driven her a fugitive abroad. She sprang from her horse into his arms, and embracing his child with a love he never experienced before, he exclaimed, "My angel of mercy, I give you my heart and my hand to travel with you to the heavenly inheritance." It was a happy family; for the mother was soon converted, and joined with the father and daughter in the service of God, and they all continued faithful disciples of Christ till they were called from the Church militant to the Church triumphant in heaven.