The Danger of Young Men Away from Home Proved and Illustrated by Two Examples
Jf I select but two, it is not because only two could be found, for, alas! they occur by thousands; but because it is not wished to swell inconveniently the bulk of this volume: and the two selected are adequate, as being the types of a large class.
A young man, whose history is related in a little book entitled, “The Happy Transformation; or, the History of a London Apprentice,“* left home to learn the trade of a woollen-draper in the metropolis. He carried from his father’s house an unblemished moral reputation, and a general respect for religion. His situation was a laborious one;” but,” he observes,” often when toiling hard through the day, and travelling from one end of London to the other, ready to sink with fatigue, perhaps from six o’clock in the morning till eleven o’clock at night, I have been cheerful and happy, from the consideration that I was in the path of honest industry, and that I should one day reap a reward. I felt ambitious to be able to soothe the declining years of my father, and do something for his com-
* I shall be happy if this notice of the work shall induce many young men to purchase and read it. The work is published by Wightman, price Is.
fort when he was unable to provide for himself. These feelings warmed my heart while I was honest, virtuous, and happy.” Corrupted, as I have shown before, by a fellow-apprentice, he was soon initiated into the practices of iniquity, which everywhere abound, and in the metropolis superabound. Public worship was neglected, the Sabbath habitually violated, every scene of dissipation resorted to, and every habit of vice contracted. Yet withal, misery mingled with his sinful gratifications; the cup of pleasure was embittered with the gall and wormwood of remorse; and under the stings of conscience, and the hopelessness of improvement, he at one time resolved on self-destruction — a resolution, by the interposition of Providence, happily prevented. At length, his extravagance led to habits of dishonesty. He was detected, arrested, and conveyed to prison, and thus relates, in a letter, the scene to which his courses had conducted him, and the feelings with which he occupied it: —
“MY DEAR FRIEND,
“You will easily conceive whither such a course of vice as these letters have portrayed must have led; and that, having once broken through my integrity, such habits would soon render it necessary to ‘add iniquity unto iniquity.’ Just so I found it; and I commenced a system of dishonesty and breach of confidence toward my employers which might have terminated in an ignominious death. At first, a few shillings, at convenient and far-distant opportunities, sufficed, or rather, was as much as I dared to take; but at length I proceeded to pounds. I could not, however, be happy under such circumstances, and I plainly saw that ruin would ensue: I was therefore anxious to leave my engagement, and enter upon some course of business where I should be less exposed to temptation, or where I could make use of only my own property. I had made several attempts to effect my purpose, and should probably have succeeded; but, in the mean time, suspicion fell upon me. A snare was laid by one of the firm, and I fell into it. Oh, what words can express my horror, when, on one Saturday morning, my employer called me into his parlour, and charged me with robbery. I denied the charge: he persisted, and begged me to confess, threatening to send for an officer if I did not. I was confounded, and could not confess, though I wished to do so. He produced my signature for money which I had not accounted for: I still equivocated. My brother, who had lately engaged in the same house, was called in. Oh, who can describe his agony! He conjured me to confess my guilt, ifguilly; but, while I hesitated, or rather attempted to explain, the police-officer arrived. My drawers and boxes were examined, and several suspicious circumstances appeared. I was given up to the officer, who led me off to Union Hall, and placed me in the prisoner’s box, with several of the lowest blackguards London could produce. Alas! what a situation was I in! Overwhelmed with shame, I sank down on the box, and hid myself among these wretches by sitting on the floor. At length my name was called out, and my charge read over to me in open court. The magistrate, however, advised me to make no reply. This, I believe, was at the instigation of my employer and brother, who wished to avoid pushing matters to an extremity with me. I was then taken away by the officer, fastened by handcuffs to a dirty-looking fellow, and thrust into a dark hole. The business of the day, at length closed at the office, a cart drew up for the criminals, and myself, with about a dozen others, were thrust into it, handcuffed, and tied together by a long cord. In this way we were conducted to Horsemonger-lane prison. Here my appearance made my wretchedness the greater, for the dandyism of my person afforded the prisoners fair ground for their scurrilous wit. On arriving at the prison, I was ordered, in a savage voice, to pull off my boot which was replaced by a heavy iron. In vain I remonstrated; all the reply I could get was, “People don’t come here for their good behaviour.” My person was strictly searched, and my watch, money, and every thing valuable was taken from me; so that I was left without a farthing to help myself. Thus, in the middle of winter, the day before Christmas-day, which I had anticipated spending with some gay friends in the country, was I thrust into a cold prison; a stone cell was my sleeping-room, a wooden block was my bedstead, and a little, poor, thin covering was all I had to wrap myself up in. By day I was called to mix with about thirty abandoned sinners, in a small, dirty apartment, in my division of the prison; and, by night, was locked, bolted, and barred in my solitary cell. Our food consisted of bread and water, with, now and then a little soup, supplied by the charity of some benevolent people in the neighbourhood. My legs were galled with the heavy iron, and my distracted mind much more galled by a sense of my shame and guilt.
“Oh what a scene does a common prison present! And how much fitted is such a place to harden the inmates in crime, and to turn even the well-disposed into consummate villains. Here every thing wicked and abominable is laughed at. The man who manifests any remorse is bantered and ridiculed, till he is glad to shake it off, and sear his conscience. If any one seemed disposed to plead guilty of his charge, he was taunted with, * Oh! you are going to tell God Almighty’s truth, are you?’ Plans of villany are talked over; the different means of disposing of stolen property are pointed out; technical language is taught for every purpose; and, in short, an introduction is afforded to every vice the devil can wish his votaries to engage in. I was at first disgusted and dismayed, but matters of convenience induced me to try and forget myself, and descend to the base level of the wicked throng. I joined them in several of their low revelries, and forced myself into a sort of complacence of their conduct.
“I at first thought I should be left to suffer alone, and my country friends know nothing of my disgrace: but here also I was disappointed; for a lad from my native town saw and knew me, and carried the news of my imprisonment down among my friends. I was confounded and astonished at what I had done J but my severest exercises of mind referred to the anguish that I knew I should bring Upon the mind of my aged father. I felt that I should bring down his” gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.” My nights were to me intolerable. I was then left alone in my gloom, to review the past, and feel theupbraidings of my guilty conscience. I would gladly have escaped; but I had now no wish to lay violent hands on myself. I was determined not to add to my load of crime, but to submit to whatever might come upon me.”
I now present to you a still more awful scene and more tragic narrative than this, which is related by the Rev. Hubbard Winslow, of America: —
“The inspired writer says, ‘Some men’s sins are open beforehand, going before to judgment; and some men they follow after,’ 1 Tim. v. 24. That is, sometimes sin begins to be overtaken with retributions in the present world, so far at least as to illustrate the fact that we are under a righteous moral government. Such instances seem to anticipate the retributions of eternity. Many are so sceptical in regard to what lies beyond the grave, that God sometimes brings the judgment, as it were, to this side of it. As he sometimes grants a portion of the very joys of heaven to the soul of a dying Christian, that he may thereby encourage the pious in the way of obedience, he also some times sends a portion of the very woes of perdition to the soul of the dying sinner, that he may there by teach the wicked to turn from his evil ways, and live.
“As an illustration of this, I have concluded, after much hesitation, to mention the particulars of a case which fell under my own observation. I sh’all state the facts as they occurred, without any exaggeration or embellishment.
“A young man left his father’s house in the country, at the age of fifteen. He had a pious mother, and had been the subject of early religious instructions and impressions. After he began to reside in the city, according to his parent’s directions, he attended for a while upon the faithful preaching of the gospel, and was of hopeful habits. He, however, kept himself aloof from the more personal and special means of religion, yet still believing it to be important, and designing to attend to it at a future time. He formed an acquaintance with associates less favourable to piety, with whom his feelings gradually learned to sympathize. He went on in this way for four or five years without much obvious change ‘, though he was, of course, resisting convictions, hardening his heart, grieving the Spirit of God, and laying the foundation of his moral ruin. He often received letters from his mother, reminding him of his duty, and urging him to it; over some of which he was constrained to drop a tear, and make good resolutions.
“But the way of his heart was backward from God. Every month hardened him the more in impiety. He at length began to visit rather freely the theatre, and other dissipating amusements and pleasures. His place in the house of God was sometimes vacated, especially in the afternoon, and he was scarcely ever at the evening religious lectures. His mother’s letters he read with less attention than formerly; for he had begun to suppose himself a young man of some consequence, quite competent to think and judge for himself, without her assistance: he thought, indeed, she was a kind and good mother, but that she did not know so much about the customs of the city, and what was most becoming a young man in his situation, as himself.
“About this time, he fell in with some sceptical writings. He at first hesitated as to reading them; but as he had attended infidel meetings once or twice without experiencing any harm, he thought there could be no danger in just seeing what its writers had to say, especially as it was his principle to examine all sides. He first read, then doubted, then began to be more wise than all his teachers; and at length slid quite over into the yawning gulf! His seat in the house of God, at first only occasionally deserted, was at length quite forsaken.
“He was now quite prepared for more desperate steps. He lost his situation from certain irregularities and vices; and all know how difficult it is for a young man to obtain a second place, when the first is forfeited by improper conduct. He at length succeeded in finding employment, but it was not such as he had lost. It was a much humbler and more menial condition to which he found him self reduced. His ambition was broken down; he was mortified and discouraged. This subjected him still more to the power of the baser motives. To these he continued to yield more and more; losing of course what remained of self-respect, and falling under those severe lashes of self-reproach which, if they do not bring to repentance, drive to more desperate lengths in sin.
“I will not detail the sad particulars respecting his subsequent course for four or five years. After several fruitless attempts to retrieve his circumstances, he changed his place of residence, hoping to do better. But his character and habits went with him. For five years he did not write a single letter to his parents, and according to his statement they did not know any thing of him; although they were most of the time only about a hundred and iifty miles distant. But he had determined that neither they nor any of his former acquaintances should know where he was, or what he was doing.
“He attempted to act upon the stage, but could not succeed. He even undertook to be a juggler, but soon found it quite out of his province. He began to gamble; but usually lost when he had any thing to lose. How he obtained the means of subsistence during his years of profligacy, they can tell who are acquainted with that manner of life better than I can. He wandered from place to place, prodigal, reckless, forlorn, rapidly wasting his health, till at length he was reduced to the condition in which I first saw him.
“One day an individual applied to me, and said, * There is a young man at my house, whom I am desirous you should visit. We took him in some three or four weeks since, out of charity; for he is destitute, homeless, and sick; although he is a young man of respectable manners, and appears to have seen better days. But we cannot get much out of him. He is not inclined to talk. The physician thinks that he is in a fixed and rapid consumption. He has a wasting cough, with night sweats, seems to be very much dejected, says but little, and is at times apparently in very great distress of mind. I asked him if he was willing to see a minister or some other Christian friend: he at first refused; but has since consented.’
“I, of course, took an early opportunity to visit him, and found his condition even worse than had been represented. It presented a wan, ghastly countenance, a sunken eye, a hollow voice, as from the tomb, an expression of intolerable anxiety upon his countenance, every thing indicating extreme wretchedness and an opening grave. He was at first disinclined to converse; he seemed to be completely reserved, and no efforts could draw him forth. I addressed a few words to him, such as I thought best calculated to leadjiis thoughts to the Saviour, and with his permission offered a short prayer. On retiring, I asked him if he would like to have me call again. He assented.
“Soon after, I renewed the visit. He was lying in bed, and had just recovered from a severe paroxysm of coughing. After a short time, he beckoned me to him, and with a low voice said he should like to see me alone for a few moments. The nurse and lady of the house, who were present, left the room. When we were alone, he fixed his eyes upon me in silence. There seemed to be a conflict in his mind, whether to speak or refrain. At length his struggling spirit burst its enclosure, and he began to tell something of his history.
“He was now in his twenty-sixth year. For nearly five years he had been, as he supposed, a confirmed infidel. He had become an alien from his parents, they did not even know where he was, nor was he willing that they should. He felt that he had ruined himself. He saw clearly where the work of ruin commenced; it was in his resisting his early convictions of truth and duty. His father was not a godly man; but his mother was pious, and he had no doubt she had wept rivers of tears over him.
“After a gust of emotion, which for a moment suspended his utterance, he proceeded: — It was not infidelity that ruined him; the procuring cause of his ruin lay farther back. He was virtually ruined before he became an avowed infidel. It was his resisting* the admonitions of God and the striving of his Spirit, that made him an infidel; but his in fidelity had served to plunge him into more open and desperate iniquities. Since he had embraced infidelity, he had committed vices at which his earlier youth would have shuddered: fraud, gambling, drunkenness, seduction; he had led others into the same vices.
“‘But these,’ continued he, ’ are only the warts and excrescences of my ruined character; the ruin itself lies deep in the soul, and the misery with which it is overtaken here is only premonitory of the everlasting misery which awaits it beyond the grave. For several years I have tried to disbelieve the Bible. I have succeeded. I have been a confirmed infidel. More than that — I have been an atheist. I used to hear it said that no man could be really an atheist; but I know to the contrary. I have been an atheist. I have perfectly and fatally succeeded in being given over to a strong delusion, to believe a lie that I might be damned, because I obeyed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness. But I am no longer an atheist, I am convinced that there is a God. I feel, I know, that I am an accountable being, and that a righteous judgment awaits me in eternity.’
“After a moment’s rest, his countenance gathering more intensity of expression, he added, with increased energy, ‘But the most terrible thing to reflect on is, that I have not only ruined myself, but have been the cause of leading others to ruin. Oh, I am sure that the everlasting execration of ruined souls must follow me into eternity! Oh that I had never been born, or had sunk in death upon my mother’s arms!’
j” I here endeavoured to cast oil upon the rising waves of emotion, and to calm his tempestuous spirit, by reminding him of the great mercy and forgiveness there is in God. ‘No,’ replied he, ’ not for me: I cannot be forgiven, and I cannot repent. My day of grace is all over. But I feel greatly relieved since I have told you my story. I am glad you came, sir. Wretched as I am, this is the best moment I have seen for a long time. I have hitherto kept all this to myself, it has been as a fire shut up in my breast. I have not known one hour of peace since I left the paths of virtue; and for two or three years I have been perfectly wretched. I have often been upon the point of committing suicide.’
“After a few words intended to direct his mind to the source of hope, I left him, promising to see him again the next morning, if he should survive till then. He did survive — the morning came; but it was no morning to him. The sweet rays of the rising sun shot no kindling gleam of hope into his dark and troubled soul. I had hoped, I had almost expected, to find it otherwise.
“I have somewhat doubted in regard to the expediency of relating his expressions the next morning, but as I have undertaken to report the facts as they were, I do not know that I should do right to withhold a part of them; especially as he not only permitted but requested me to admonish all others by his example, if peradventure he might serve as a beacon to warn them off from the vortex into which he had been drawn. He had no longer any wish to conceal any thing; he seemed rather to wish to proclaim his wretchedness to the world. He was dead to hope and alive to despair. With recollections of his past life, an awakened conscience, eternity full in view but a step before him, and every gleam of hope excluded, — oh, it was indeed a painful illustration of the inspired truth, that ’ some men’s sins are open beforehand, going before to judgment.’
“The following conversation took place on the occasion now referred to: —
“‘How do you do, my friend, this morning?’
“‘As miserable as sin and wrath can make me!’
“This he said with an emphasis, which surprised and startled me.
“* And did you obtain no rest last night?’
“‘Not a moment’s rest; my soul has been in perfect misery.’
“‘But you are excited; your body is diseased, and your mind is weak and morbid. You ought to endeavour to compose yourself to rest, to become calm, and to look to that source of forgiveness and mercy which is still open to you, if you repent and believe.’
“‘No, no, it is impossible! I cannot compose myself, I cannot be calm. My body is well enough, but my soul has been in hell all night! I have denied that there is a hell: I have scoffed at it; I have induced others to do the same, and now God is convincing me of my error. Oh, I know now that there is a hell; I feel it in my own spirit. I am glad that you have come to see me, that I may tell you how miserable I am. This is the only relief I can get. You are the first person to whom I have ventured to make known my misery. I have for a long time kept it to myself; but I can no longer conceal it.’
“* It is well for you to acknowledge your sins. But you should confess them to God, as well as to your fellow-men. He has said, ‘Acknowledge thy transgressions;’ and moreover, * He that confesseth and forsaketh his sins, shall find mercy.’
“‘No, no, I cannot approach God — I cannot meet him — I cannot! Oh that the same grave which will soon bury my body, could bury my soul with it. Oh that I might be annihilated! This is what I have long hoped for and expected; but this hope has failed me. I never before realized the meaning of that Scripture, ‘When a wicked man dieth his expectations shall perish.’ All my expectations have perished. I have been for some time reviewing my past life, and during the last night, that passage kept passing like a burning arrow through my spirit, ‘Rejoice, 0 young man in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes; but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.’ Yes, I have walked in the way of my heart, and in the sight of my eyes; and now God is bringing me into judgment. The arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison where of drinketh up my spirit. You can pray for mejj but it is of no use. You are very kind; the family here are very kind; I thank you all; but you cannot save me. My soul is damned! — the seal of reprobation is already upon me!’
“These last were precisely his words; and they were uttered with a pathos, a sort of cairn, fixed, significant earnestness, which almost overcame us. I can never forget his expression, when he fixed his dark, restless, glassy eyes upon us, and uttered these last words. Perceiving it in vain to say any thing more to him while in that state, we withdrew, that he might, if possible, be composed to rest.’
“The next day I called again to see him, and found him dying. His power of utterance had almost failed. I took hold of his hand, and told him it would afford us great relief to know that he left the world reconciled to God, and trusting in the Saviour’s grace. His only reply was, and they were the last words I heard him utter, ‘If the grave would bury my soul with my body, I should consider it my best friend; that would be immeasurably better for me than my present condition, or anything I have a right to expect.’ After again commending him in a short prayer to the mercy of God, I was obliged to leave him. In about an hour afterward he died.
“The next day I attended his funeral. It was the most gloomy occasion to which I was ever summoned. Not a relative was present. Here was a young man, evidently of fine natural talents, who might have been a comfort to his parents, an .ornament to society, and a blessing to mankind: who might have pursued a useful and happy life, and been raised to shine as the brightness of the firmament for ever and ever — cut off from life and happiness and hope, when he had only reached his twenty-sixth year.
“And what had done this dreadful work of desolation? It was sin. These are thy doings, these thy triumphs, 0 thou enemy of God and man. Destruction and misery are thine. Thou hast con verted a paradise into thorns and thistles; all that is most fair, lovely, and promising, it is thy delight to blast and destroy; that very earth which was pronounced ‘good,’ and which might have been peopled with the joys and praises of heaven, thou hast in all ages filled with weeping, lamentation, and wo. And yet will men call thee a pleasing trifle, invite thee to their bosoms, and love thee instead of God!
“This young man died, and found his grave among strangers. No mother was present, to watch the last struggles and catch the last words of her dying son. He could not. ask her forgiveness, nor know that she forgave him. No sister was there to wipe the cold sweat from his pale brow. His father had been dead some three or four years. The conduct of his son might have hastened his end. The residence of his mother was ascertained, and the facts respecting him communicated to her. She had for some time given him up for lost, supposing that he had gone off to sea, and was probably dead. Again were a mother’s tears and sorrows called forth afresh; but she, too, has since died, and gone, we trust, to that better world, which sin has not invaded, .where ’ the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.’ Some family connexions are however still living, on whose account no name and no further particulars will be given.
“Excepting the two or three last sentences, I have not given the young man’s conversation exactly in his own words, but as nearly so as I can recollect them; except that I have in some instances mitigated or withheld expressions which I deem unprofitable to repeat. I question the expediency of introducing into the minds of young people, even for the sake of administering to them a salutary warning, the more profane and blasphemous language of those that have grown ripe in sin. ‘0 my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united.’
“In reviewing the sad history of this youth, let us notice more particularly the leading steps in his progress to ruin. In the first place, he should have hearkened to the voice of God when a child. Committing himself to his care and guidance, and seeking his favour before all other things, he should have said to him, * My Father, thou art the guide of my youth.’ The lessons of his mother, and of his school, had taught him to do this; and a voice of known authority had said to him, * Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.’ It was in resistance of conscience and of known duty, that he refused obedience to this command. Had he obeyed it, he would have had sure and unfailing protection through life; his feet would never have been thus left to slide.
“In the second place, after he began to reside in the city, and was in attendance upon a faithful ministry, it was a favourable opportunity for him, before his acquaintances and habits were formed in his new situation, to yield up his heart to J&od, and to join himself to his people. He ought to have done it. When he found himself separated from the guardians of his youth, and in circumstances of untried temptation; when he felt the occasional loneliness and despondency which every young man feels, on being first actually exiled from his home, and cast upon his own resources — then was one of the seasons of God’s special visitations to him; then it was, with a great and threatening accumulation of guilt, that he turned from the counsel of his mother, of his pastor, and of other Christian friends, saying to them, ‘Go thy way for this time; when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee.’ You may observe that irreligious youths coming from the country into the city, usually become pious soon, if ever they do. If they resist religion for a considerable season in their new situation, and under the peculiar and urgent convictions which they then have, they become hardened and fall under the power of those peculiarly adverse influences which are seldom or ever surmounted.
“In the third place, his becoming the prey of infidelity greatly facilitated his progress to ruin. Had he before been faithful to his obligations, his reading and hearing something of infidelity would probably not have injured him; though it is certainly not worth while for any man to punish himself with death, in order to ascertain the quality of poison. But this young man, according to his own confessions, had sinned, as all who become infidels do, against clear convictions of truth and duty, before he was given over to ‘strong delusions to believe a lie.’
“In the fourth place, losing his situation in business was another fatal step. From that time, his course downward was, as we have seen, very rapid. His ambition was broken, his spirit subdued, his pride mortified; he left off writing to his parents, gave himself up to low vices with more fearless restraint than before; and at last became one of the most hopeless and dangerous of all characters.”