92 Sermon Illustrations on Repentance

VOW8, Non-Performance of Andreas, a Hungarian king, having vowed to go to the holy wars, went to Jerusalem with all his forces; and when there bathed himself as if to wash off his promise, and returned home again, without striking a blow. Such is the case of many at present. Spencer.

A person who possessed a speculative acquaintance with divine truth, had, by unremitting industry, and carefully watching every opportunity of increasing his wealth, accumulated the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds. But alas! he became engrossed and entangled with the world, and to its acquisitions he appears to have sacrificed infinitely higher interests. A dangerous sickness, that brought death near to his view, awakened his fears. Conscience reminded him of his neglect of eternal concerns, and filled him with awful forebodings of future misery. A little before he expired he was heard to say, "My possessions amount to twenty-five thousand pounds. One half of this my property I would give, so that I might live one fortnight longer, to repent and seek salvation."

When the committee of a Bible Association, in the state of New-York, were making exertions to supply every destitute family with a copy of the book of God, a distributor called at a house where he met with an angry repulse. The man of the house was full of "cursing and bitterness;" he would not suffer a Bible to be left at his house. "If left any where," said he, "it shall be left at the barn." "Very well," the distributor meekly replied; "I do not know that I could select a better place for it: our blessed Savior once lay in a manger!" He went quickly to the barn, and deposited the sacred treasure in a safe place, with much prayer that it might bless even him who would not allow it to remain in his house. The man, struck with the unexpected reply of the distributor, was led to think of his own rashness and guilt, and especially of the Savior's birth-place. After two or three days his distress became so great, that he went out to the barn in search of the rejected volume. He turned to the passage which records the circumstances connected with the birth of the Redeemer, and wept, and repented, and consecrated himself to God through faith in Christ. The once spurned book now found a place, not only in his house, but its truths were received into his heart, and controlled his life.

The following affecting account was written, in 1775, by a Christian minister in London, to the Rev. Dr. Ryland, who then resided at Northampton:—A young lady, who was educated at an academy at Bedford, but who afterwards resided in town, became dangerously ill. Her father, a true Christian, procured for her a lodging in the neighbourhood, to try the effects of a change of air. Finding her disorder prevail, he thought it high time for her to be concerned about her soul, and asked her what she thought of eternity. She replied, "Do not talk to me about eternity. You want me out of the way; but I shall live long enough to enjoy all that you have in the world." He left her. Next evening the mistress of the house where she was, said, "Ma'am, I think you look a good deal worse." "Worse! I am much better. Why do you talk to me about death?" "You certainly are worse; do let the servant sit up with you to-night." "No, I am not about to die." They went to bed; at four in the morning she awoke her servant, who asked, "What is amiss, ma'am?" "Amiss! I'm dying, I'm dying!" The family was called up; the mistress, coming in to see her, was thus addressed: "I won't die now; I am determined I won't die; I will live." Getting worse and worse, she said, "I feel I must die," and in an agony screamed out, "Lord! what must I do?" Her servant replied, "You must turn to the Saviour." She fell back on the bed, and in a moment expired.

It is related of Lieutenant-Colonel John Blackader, formerly deputy governor of Stirling castle, that though in early life he had been unhappily engaged in a duel, and had killed his antagonist, yet being convinced of its sinfulness, he observed the anniversary of the day with penitence and prayer.

A Welshman was for some time awfully habituated to the vice of drunkenness, but was at length restored to sobriety by the following singular incident. He had a tame goat, which would follow him to the alehouse he frequented. One day, by way of frolic, he gave the animal so much ale that it became intoxicated. What particularly struck the Welshman was, that from that time, though the creature would follow him to the door, he never could get it to enter the house. He was thereby led to see how much his sin had sunk him beneath a beast, and from that period became a sober man.

CURE FOR DRUNKENNESS. A man in Maryland notoriously addicted to this vice, hearing an uproar in his kitchen one evening, had the curiosity to step, without noise, to the door, to know what was the matter, when he beheld his servants, indulging in the most unbounded roar of laughter at a couple of his negro boys, who were mimicking himself in his drunken fits; showing how he reeled and staggered; how he looked and nodded, and hickuped and tumbled. The picture which these children of nature drew of him, and which had filled the rest with so much merriment, struck him so forcibly, that he became a perfectly sober man, to the unspeakable joy of his wife and children.

Col. B— was a man of amiable manners and well-informed mind. Being much employed in public business which called him from place to place, ardent spirit was often set before him with an invitation to drink. At first he took a social glass for civility's sake. But at length a habit was formed, and appetite began to crave its customary indulgence. He drank more largely, and once or twice was quite overcome. His friends were alarmed. He was on the brink of a precipice from which many had fallen to the lowest pitch of wretchedness. In his sober hours he saw the danger he was in. Said he to himself one day when alone, "Shall Colonel B— rule, or shall rum rule? If Colonel B— rule, he and his family may be respectable and happy; but if rum rule, Colonel B— is ruined, his property wasted, and his family made wretched!" At length, said he, I set down my foot, and said, "Colonel B— shall rule and rum obey." And from that day Colonel B— did rule. He immediately broke off from his intemperate habits, and lived to a good old age, virtuous, respected, and happy. Let every one who has acquired or is acquiring a similar habit, go and do likewise.

Mr. Fleming, in his Fulfilling of the Scriptures, relates the case of a man who was a very great sinner, and for his horrible wickedness was put to death in the town of Ayr, Scotland. This man had been so stupid and brutish a fellow, that all who knew him thought him beyond the reach of all ordinary means of grace; but while the man was in prison, the Lord wonderfully wrought on his heart, and in such a measure discovered to him his sinfulness, that after much serious exercise and sore wrestling, a most kindly work of repentance followed, with great assurance of mercy, insomuch, that when he came to the place of execution, he could not cease crying out to the people, under the sense of pardon, and the comforts of the presence and favor of God: "O, He is a great forgiver! He is a great forgiver!" And he added the following words: "Now hath perfect love cast out fear. I know God hath nothing to lay against me, for Jesus Christ hath paid all; and those are free whom the Son makes free."

Colonel Gardiner, says Doctor Doddridge, was habitually so immersed in intrigues, that if not the whole business, at least the whole happiness of his life consisted in them; and he had too much leisure for one who was so prone to abuse it. His fine constitution, than which, perhaps, there was hardly ever a better, gave him great opportunities of indulging himself in these excesses; and his good spirits enabled him to pursue his pleasures of every kind in so alert and sprightly a manner, that multitudes envied him, and called him, by a dreadful kind of compliment, "The happy rake." Yet still the checks of conscience, and some remaining principles of an excellent education, would break in upon his most licentious hours; and I particularly remember he told me, that when the close of it, however, he found that he was mentioned, as residuary legatee, in these words, "All the rest of my estate and effects I leave to my son Peere Williams, knowing that he will spend it all."

On hearing this he burst into tears. "My father," said he, "has touched the right string, and his reproach shall not be thrown away." His conduct from that time was altered, and he became an honor to the Christian profession.

# LICENTIOUSNESS.

Some of his dissolute companions were once congratulating him on his distinguished felicity, a dog happening at that time to come into the room, he could not forbear groaning inwardly, and saying to himself, "Oh that I were that dog!" Such was then his happiness, and such, perhaps, is that of hundreds more, who bear themselves highest in the contempt of religion, and glory in that infamous servitude which they affect to call liberty.

A young man, of vicious principles and habits, wasted in two or three years a large patrimony in profligacy. When his last means were exhausted, his worthless associates, who called themselves his friends, treated him with neglect. Reduced to absolute want, he one day went out of the house with an intention to put an end to his life; but wandering awhile almost unconsciously, he came to the brow of an eminence which overlooked what were lately his estates. Here he sat down, and remained fixed in thought for some hours, at the end of which he sprang from the ground with a vehement exulting emotion. He had formed his resolution, which was, that all those estates should be his again; he had formed his plan too, which he instantly began to execute. He walked hastily forward, determined to seize the first opportunity to gain money, though it were ever so small a sum, and resolved not to spend, if he could help it, a farthing of whatever he might obtain. The first thing that drew his attention was a heap of coals, shot out of carts on the pavement before a house. He offered himself to put them in the place where they were to be laid, and was employed. He received a few pence for his labor; and then, in pursuance of the saving part of his plan, requested some small gratuity of meat and drink, which was given to him. He then looked out for the next thing that might offer, and went, with indefatigable industry, through a succession of servile employments in different places, of longer and shorter duration, still scrupulously avoiding, as far as possible, the expense of a penny. He promptly seized every opportunity which could advance his design, without regarding the meanness of occupation or appearance. By this method he gained, after a considerable time, money enough to purchase, in order to sell again, a few cattle, of which he had taken pains to understand the value. He speedily but cautiously turned his first gains into second advan- | | --- | tages; retained without a single deviation his extreme parsimony; and thus advanced by degrees into larger transactions and incipient wealth. The final result was that he more than recovered his lost possessions, and died an inveterate miser, worth sixty thousand pounds. Happy would it have been for this individual, if he had discovered the same anxiety to recover the heavenly inheritance he had lost, and had pursued it with similar decision and perseverance.

The Rev. William Romaine, of London, in crossing the Black Friar's bridge, came up with a man who, in a style of unusual and fearful impiety, called upon God "to damn his soul for Christ's sake!" Mr. Romaine, laying his hand upon the blasphemer's shoulder, said: "My friend, God has done many things for Christ's sake, and perhaps he will do THAT too;" and passed on. The reproof, quite as original as the imprecation, went to the wretch's heart; and was the occasion of his "turning from the power of Satan unto God," and becoming an exemplary follower of that Redeemer whom he had been in the habit of insulting. "A word spoken in due season, how good is it!" The power of Jesus to save, how mighty! His grace, how free!

# 339. Profanity Rebuked, Suppressed, Abandoned.

HOOD.—"A man," says the Rev. J. Todd, "who is now a minister of the Gospel, gave me the following account. I tell it to you in order to show you what repentance is. 'I had one of the kindest and best of fathers; and when I was a little white-headed boy about six years old, he used to carry me to school before him on his horse, to help me in my little plans, and always seemed trying to make me happy; and he never seemed so happy himself, as when making me happy. When I was six years old, he came home one day, very sick. My mother, too, was sick, and thus nobody but my two sisters could take care of my father. In a few days he was worse, very sick, and all the physicians in the region were called in to see him. The next Sabbath morning early, he was evidently much worse. As I went into his room he stretched out his hand to me and said, "My little boy, I am very sick. I wish you to take that paper on the stand, and run to Mr. C.'s, and get me the medicine written on that paper." I took the paper and went to the apothecary's shop, as I had often done before. It was about half a mile off; but when I got there, I found it shut, and as Mr. C. lived a quarter of a mile seized it, and holding it up to his eyes with great earnestness, seemed much agitated. After a few seconds, he handed back the card, saying, "Write it on the other side." The Dr. did so, in larger letters. He took it again, and after gazing earnestly upon it a few seconds, returned it, and said, "Lend John your pencil, and let him put a stroke under it." The black man took the pencil and did so, leaving it on the table. "Ah!" said the dying man, "Remorse, you don't know what it means! you don't know what it means." But added presently, "I cast myself on the Lord Jesus Christ for mercy."

# REPENTANCE.

further off, I concluded not to go to find him. I then set out for home. On my way back I contrived what to say. I knew how wicked it was to tell a lie, but one sin always leads to another. On going in to my father, I saw that he was in great pain; and though pale and weak, I could see great drops of sweat standing on his forehead, forced out by the pain. O then I was sorry I had not gone and found the apothecary. At length he said to me, "My son has got the medicine, I hope, for I am in great pain." I hung my head and muttered, for my conscience smote me, "No, sir, Mr. Carter says he has got none!" "Has got none! Is this possible?" He then cast a keen eye upon me, and seeing my head hang, and probably suspecting my falsehood, said, in the mildest, kindest tone, "My little boy will see his father suffer great pain for the want of that medicine!" I went out of the room, and alone, and cried. I was soon called back. My brothers had come, and were standing —all the children were standing round his bed, and he was committing my poor mother to their care, and giving them his last advice. I was the youngest, and when he laid his hand on my head and told me "that in a few hours I should have no father; that he would in a day or two be buried up;—that I must now make God my father, love him, obey him, and always do right and speak the truth, because the eye of God is always upon me"—it seemed as if I should sink; and when he laid his hand upon my head again and prayed for the blessing of God the Redeemer to rest upon me, "soon to be a fatherless orphan," I dared not look at him I felt so guilty. Sobbing, I rushed from his bed-side, and thought I wished I could die. They soon told me he could not speak. O how much would I have given to go in and tell him that I had told a lie, and ask him once more to lay his hand on my head and forgive me! I crept in once more and heard the minister pray for "the dying man." O how my heart ached. I snatched my hat and ran to the apothecary's house and got the medicine. I ran home with all my might, and ran in, and ran up to my father's bed-side to confess my sin, crying out, "O here father,"—but I was hushed: and I then saw that he was pale, and that all in the room were weeping. My dear father was dead! And the last thing I ever spake to him was to tell a lie! I sobbed as if my heart would break; for his kindnesses, his tender looks, and my own sin, all rushed upon my own mind. And as I gazed upon his cold, pale face, and saw his eyes shut, and his lips closed, could I help thinking of his last words; "My little boy will see his father suffer great pain for the want of that medicine;" I could not know but he died for the want of it.

"In a day or two he was put into the ground and buried up. There were several ministers at the funeral, and each spoke kindly to me, but could not comfort me. Alas! they knew not what a load of sorrow lay on my heart. They could not comfort me. My father was buried, and the children all scattered abroad, for my mother was too feeble to take care of them.

"It was twelve years after this, while in college, that I went alone to the grave of my father. It took me a good while to find it; but there it was, with its humble tomb-stone, and as I stood over it I seemed to be back at his bed-side, to see his pale face, and heat his voice. Oh! the thought of that sin and wickedness cut me to the heart. It seemed as if worlds would not be too much to give, could I then only have called loud enough to have him hear me ask his forgiveness. But it was too late. He had been in the grave twelve years, and I must live and die, weeping over the ungrateful falsehood. May God forgive me."

"Which is the most delightful emotion?" said an instructor of the leaf and dumb to his pupils, after teaching them the names of our various feelings. The pupils turned instinctively to their slates, to write an answer; and one with a smiling countenance wrote Joy. It would seem as if none could write any thing else; but another with a look of more thoughtfulness, put down Hope. A third with beaming countenance wrote Gratitude. A fourth wrote Love, and other feelings still, claimed the superiority on other minds. One turned back with a countenance full of peace, and yet a tearful eye, and the teacher was surprised to find on her slate, "Repentance is the most delightful emotion." He returned to her with marks of wonder, in which her companions doubtless participated, and asked, "Why?" "Oh," said she, in the expressive language of looks and gestures, which marks these mutes—"It is so delightful to be humbled before God!"

"I pay more attention," says Mr. Booth, "to people's lives than to their deaths. In all the visits I have paid to the sick during the course of a long ministry, I never met with one, who was not previously serious, that ever recovered from what he supposed the brink of death, who afterwards performed his vows, and became religious, notwithstanding the very great appearance there was in their favor when they thought they could not recover."

A pious English physician once stated that he had known some three hundred sick persons who, soon expecting to die, had been led, as they supposed, to repentance of their sins, and saving faith in Christ, but had eventually been restored to health again. Only ten of all this number, so far as

# REPROOF

# 368. Faithfulness and Firmness in Reproving.

A young man, on reaching the door of a theatre, overheard one of the doorkeepers calling out, "This is the way to the pit." Having had some instruction in the word of God, in early life, what the man said reminded him that the employments of the theatre led to hell. The thought haunted him, and made him cease frequenting such amusements: he became attentive to the concerns of his soul, and afterwards was a minister of the gospel. The worthy minister prayed that, if it was the Lord's will, the child might be restored; but, if otherwise, that God's will and not theirs might be done. As he uttered the petition, the unhappy mother rose from her knees, and exclaimed in the agony of despair—"He sha'n't die!" All efforts to compose her were unavailing, and the clergyman was compelled to take his departure. But the fearful issue of the narrative yet remains. From that hour the boy began to improve in health, and, in the course of time, he entirely recovered. But, alas! the life of this lad, on which the mother was thus intent, was not a blessing to her or the world; for, thirteen years afterwards, he suffered death for forgery.

# THEATRES.

In a large manufacturing town in the West Riding of Yorkshire, some pious persons were in the habit of leaving tracts at the different dwellings of the poor. This was done every Sunday morning, and the same tract was deposited at each habitation. On one occasion, the tract which came in course for circulation, was the narrative of "WILLIAM KELLY." There was a cut on the frontispiece to this tract representing the subject of the story sneaking bare-headed from the presence of the storming hostess, who had seized his hat as a security for a public-house score. Such a circumstance actually did take place, and proved the turning point in his life who was afterwards appropriately designated "The Happy Christian." The disgrace of the incident induced sober reflection, sober reflection issued in repentance, and repentance in one of the most pleasing specimens of lowly piety that modern days can furnish.

This tract, thus embellished, was left at the house of one of the most profligate drunkards in the place; and to him, strange to say, a circumstance precisely similar to that which arrested Kelly in his career, had occurred the evening before. His hat being detained for debt by the landlady of a neighboring alchouse, he had hastened homeward, bare-headed, incensed and ashamed, and retired to rest raging like a she-bear robbed of her young. Sunday morning found him sullen and perturbed; he hurried down stairs half dressed, and flung himself into a chair which stood beside the breakfast table; when lo! the first object that caught his attention was the frontispiece of the tract which we have been describing, placed we will not say accidentally, full in his view. Glancing at it with an eye of fierceness, he seized it, and striking the table with his fist, at the same time uttering a fearful imprecation, exclaimed, "Those villainous Methodists!—if they haven't got me already painted up to be the laughing-stock of the town; here I am without a hat. I'll be even with them." Thus he raved till the tempest of his anger had somewhat exhausted itself in oaths and menaces; then, prompted by curiosity, he thought he would ascertain what was said concerning him. A near inspection of the object of his wrath immediately corrected his preposterous error; but his curiosity having been excited, he read the little narrative, and the perusal was productive of the happiest effects. He resolved, in the strength of God, that he would reform; he repaired to a place of worship, began to search the Scriptures, and exhibited every symptom of real repentance. From being a disgrace to society, a curse to the neighborhood, and a scourge to his family, he became one of the kindest of neighbors, most faithful of servants, best of fathers, and most sober of men.

The lessons to be gathered from this interesting incident are sufficiently obvious. It needs no comment. There is, however, one particular which deserves to be appended, because it strikingly illustrates the principal inference which ought to be deduced from the fact; even the perfection of that Providence which orders the minutest circumstances in wisdom. I well remember that the venerable author was not a little chagrined, when he first saw the cut with which his production was decorated: he deemed it unfair to give such prominence to the most disgraceful feature in the history of his friend. Yet this very picture, insignificant as it might seem, was destined to conduce to an event which, contemplated in its bearings on eternity, is of a magnitude too mighty for a man to grasp.

# 415. Suicide Prevented.

The Rev. Thomas Doolittle, at one time, having finished prayer, looked round upon the congregation, and observing a young man, who had just been put into one of the pews, very uneasy in his situation, adopted the following singular expedient to detain him. Turning to one of the members of his church, who sat in the gallery, he asked this question aloud, "Brother, do you repent of coming to Christ?" "No, sir," he replied, "I never was happy till I came; I only repent that I did not come to him sooner." The minister then turned to the opposite gallery, and addressed himself to an aged member in the same manner, "Brother, do you repent of coming to Christ?" "No, sir," said he, "I have known the Lord from my youth upwards." He then looked down upon the young man, whose attention was fully engaged, and, fixing his eyes upon him, said, "Young man, are you willing to come to Christ?" This unexpected address from the pulpit, exciting the observation of all the people, so greatly affected him, that he sat down and concealed his face. The person who sat next to him encouraged him to rise and answer the question. The minister repeated "Young man, are you willing No one inquired whether even the national honor had been preserved. The matters by which politicians had irritated the nation into the war, had lost all their importance. It was enough that the ruinous war was over. An old man in Broadway, attracted by the noise to his door, was seen to pull down a placard, "To let," which had been long posted up. Never was there such joy in the city. A few evenings after, there was a general illumination, and although the snow was a foot deep and soaked with rain, yet the streets were crowded with men and women, eager to see and partake of every thing which had in it the sight or taste of peace.

# IP. PUBLIC.

to come to Christ?" With a tremulous voice he replied, "Yes, sir." "But when, sir?" added the minister in a solemn and loud tone. He mildly answered, "Now, sir." "Then stay," said he, "and learn the word of God, which you will find in 2 Cor. vi. 2: 'Behold, now is the accepted 'me; behold, now is the day of salvation.'" By this sermon he was greatly affected, and came into the vestry, after the service, bathed in tears. The reluctance to stay, which he had discovered, was occasioned by the strict injunctions of his father, who threatened, that if he went to hear such preachers, he would turn him out of doors. Having now heard the gospel, and being unable to conceal the feelings of his mind, he was afraid to meet his father. The minister sat down, and wrote an affectionate letter to him, which had so good an effect, that both father and mother came to hear for themselves. They were both brought to a knowledge of the truth; and, together with their son, were joyfully received into Christian communion.

Before the battle of Hatcher's Run, a Christian soldier said to his comrade, "You are detailed to go to the front, while I am to remain with the baggage. Let us change places. I'll go front: you remain in camp."—"What for?" said the comrade. "Because I am prepared to die, I think; but you are not." The exchange was made. The thought of the self-sacrifice of his friend, and his readiness for the exposures of life or the realities of death, led the unsaved soldier to repentance and a like preparation for life.

An actress in one of the English provincial or country theatres, was one day passing through the streets of the town in which she then resided, when her attention was attracted by the sound of voices, which she heard in a poor cottage before her. Curiosity prompted her to look in at an open door, when she saw a few poor people sitting together, one of whom, at the moment of her observation, was giving out the following hymn, which the others joined in singing:—

"Depth of mercy! can there be Mercy still reserved for me?"

The tune was sweet and simple, but she heeded it not. The words had riveted her attention, and she stood motionless, until she was invited to enter, by the woman of the house, who had observed her standing at the door. She complied, and remained during a prayer which was offered up by one of the little company; and uncouth as the expressions sounded, perhaps, to her ears, they carried with them a conviction of sincerity, on the part of the person then employed. She quitted the cottage, but the words of the hymn followed her. She could not banish them from her mind, and at last she resolved to procure the book which contained it. She did so, and the more she read it, the more decided her serious impressions became. She attended the ministry of the gospel, read her hitherto neglected and despised Bible, and bowed herself in humility and contrition of heart, before him whose mercy she now felt she needed, whose sacrifices are those of a broken heart and a contrite spirit, and who has declared, that with such sacrifices he is well pleased.

Her profession she determined at once and far ever to renounce; and for some little time excused herself from appearing on the stage, without, however, disclosing her change of sentiments or making known her resolution finally to leave it.

The manager of the theatre called upon her one morning, and requested her to sustain the principal character in a new play which was to be performed the next week for his benefit. She had frequently performed this character to general admiration; but she now, however, told him her resolution never to appear as an actress again, at the same time giving her reasons. At first he attempted to overcome her scruples by ridicule, but this was unavailing; he then represented the loss he should incur by her refusal, and concluded his arguments by promising, that if to oblige him, she would act on this occasion, it should be the last request of the kind he would ever make. Unable to resist his solicitations, she promised to appear, and on the appointed evening went to the theatre. The character she assumed required her, on her first entrance to sing a song; and when the curtain drew up, the orchestra immediately began the accompaniment. But she stood as if lost in thought, and as one forgetting all around her, and her own situation. The music ceased, but she did not sing; and supposing her to be overcome by embarrassment, the band again commenced. A second time they paused for her to begin, and still she did not open her lips. A third time the air was played, and then, with clasped hands, and eyes suffused with tears, she sang, not the words of the song, but,

"Depth of mercy! can there be Mercy still reserved for me?"

It is almost needless to add, that the performance was suddenly ended; many ridiculed, though some were induced from that memorable night to "consider their ways," and to reflect on the wonderful power of that religion which could so influence the heart, and change the life of one hitherto so vain, and so evidently pursuing the road which leadeth to destruction.

It would be satisfactory to the reader to know, that the change in Miss — was as permanent as it was singular; she walked consistently with her profession of religion for many years, and at length became the wife of a minister of the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.