Christmas Stories

Wildgoose's spirit was a little up at Lucy's not choosing to trust him at once. He was deeply gratified by her acknowledgment that she was attached to him; but at the same time felt something like pique and ill-humour, at what he called her want of confidence in him. He was doubly resolved, however, to prove by his conduct that she had no reason to doubt his steadiness.

Every thing now seemed going on well. John passed his days in honest labour, and spent his evenings at home. He saw Lucy frequently; but soon after Christmas she was obliged to return to her place, which was in the family of a respectable gentleman, at some distance.

Towards the latter end of the second week in January, Wildgoose happened to be passing the public house, when Atkins and two or three others came running out, and eagerly asked him whether he had heard the news. "News!" said John, "what news do you mean?" "News in which you are very nearly concerned," said Mike Simmons; "but we can't tell you here; come in with us into the house." To enter the door of the Fighting Cocks was rather contrary to Wildgoose's resolution; but his desire to hear news, in which he was so greatly interested, got the better of his scruples. He therefore went in, and found two or three other men, of no very good character, sitting round the fire, with their beer on the table. Jack felt bound to call for some too, and asked to hear their news. "And sad news it is," said Will; "the Quarter Sessions are just over; and – would you believe it! – they have sentenced poor Tom Cade to transportation." Wildgoose did not happen to have heard of the law, by which such nightly depredators, if armed in any way, are made liable to that punishment[f] (#Footnote_F_6), and expressed some surprise. "Yes, they have condemned him to transportation," exclaimed the whole party; "transportation! only for trying to shoot a pheasant or two." "Now there you mistake the matter," said old Truman, (who, as he lodged with his son-in-law, was present at more of these conversations than he wished,) "you mistake the matter altogether. The law does not transport a man merely for killing a pheasant, but for going out at night armed, and prepared for deeds of violence against those whose duty it is to protect the game. The law gives every man a right to take care of his property. It gives the owner of a manor and land a sort of property in the game on his manor and land, and a right to appoint persons to preserve it. If lawless men choose to go, where they have no right to be at all, prepared to beat, wound, and perhaps to kill, the men, whose duty it is to protect the game, they deserve to be trounced pretty tightly. Besides, you must remember, when a man is taken to in this way, he can't be punished at all without a fair trial by a jury; while in common game cases the justice is both judge and jury too. To be sure," added he, "if a man thinks himself wronged by a justice's judgment, he has always a right to appeal against it." Having said this, old Truman, who did not much like the company, and had no hopes of reforming them, went to bed.

[f] (#FNanchor_F_6) See Note [F.] (#Footnote_F__13)

"For all the old man's fine talking," cried Atkins, "I say it is very hard and cruel usage of poor Tom: and I never suffer a friend to be wronged without being revenged. Sir John's pheasants, at all rates, shall pay for it, and I would advise the keepers not to put themselves in harm's way." "Let's go to-night," said Tim Nesbit, "there will be a fine moon; and besides, I understand Sir John comes home to-morrow from Wales, and then we shan't have so good a chance." This was agreed upon, and Tim began singing the poacher's song;

Oh! 'tis a merry moony night;
To catch the little hares O!

They sat on drinking, though not so as to get intoxicated, till they thought the time suited their purpose. When preparing to start, Atkins said to Wildgoose, who had taken a good deal more beer than of late he had been accustomed to, "You'll go with us, Jack?" Wildgoose replied, that he had given up poaching for good and all, and should go quietly home. "Now don't ye be shy," said Maurice Croft, "come along, like a hearty fellow as you used to be." John still continued firm, and said that he should go back to his mother. "Aye, let Johnny go and be tied to his mother's apron string; that's a good Johnny," cried Tim Nesbit, "I always thought him a chicken-hearted fellow. Why, did'nt Bob tell you that he was turned methodist? You can't expect a fellow like that to be true to his friends, or to have any spirit about him." "When a man has, as you may say, lost a limb in the service," said Bob Fowler, who was sitting by the fire with his arm in a sling, "it's all fair that he should be a little backward, but I can't bear that a stout young fellow like that should turn coward." Wildgoose felt mortified, and vexed, and angered; and his anger was upon the point of so far getting the better, as to make him still more determined upon avoiding their company; when Atkins, who had not joined in the cry against him, pretended to take his part. "Jack's as stout-hearted a fellow as any of you," said he, "and he'll shew it to-night. I know he'll go with us, if it's only to pleasure me, that have always been his friend, and run the risk of the pillory to get him off; and just to prove to you once for all that he's no coward." "Come, Jack, I know you'll come with us this once, and we won't plague you again about it. What has been said now, was all said in joke, so you mus'nt be angry. You know you need'nt carry a gun if you do'nt like it, but you shall just come and see the sport. No harm can come of it: as we shall be five of us, you may be sure the keepers will be wise enough to keep their distance."

Wildgoose, at last, suffered himself to be persuaded. He thought that Lucy would not hear of it; and that at all events it should be the last time. Away they went, and were soon at the outside of Sir John's preserve. It was a still serene night. The moon shone brightly, and the hoar frost sparkled like diamonds on the twigs and few dead leaves.

Atkins, who on these occasions always took a sort of lead, turned to his companions, and said, "Now, remember, my boys, we don't come here to be taken, and sent out of the country like poor Tom. For my part I don't think the keepers will come near us; but if they do, we must stand true to each other, and send them home again as wise as they came." They entered the wood, and dispersing themselves so as to be at no great distance from each other, began their attack upon the sleeping pheasants. They had not fired many shots before the game-keeper, who was going his rounds, was brought to the spot. As he was getting over the hedge, one of the stakes of which he had taken hold broke short off, and let him fall back into the ditch. The noise gave the alarm to the poachers, and they most of them concealed themselves behind large trees, or the inequalities of ground in an old gravel pit. Michael Simmons was not so quick as the rest. The keeper got sight of, and soon contrived to seize him, exclaiming, "So ho! my lad! you must go along with me." He hardly uttered the words, when Maurice Croft came to the rescue of his comrade. The keeper, who was a powerful man, still kept hold of him, and warded off a blow or two which Maurice aimed, as well as he could, when he found himself suddenly seized by two men from behind, and borne to the ground. "Blind his eyes, that he may'nt see too much of us," said Black Will; "tie his hands behind him, and make him fast to this young oak tree; he shall then have the amusement of hearing what pretty work we make among his pheasants."

These orders were immediately obeyed. His gun was given to Wildgoose, who was growing more and more eager in the sport. A handkerchief was placed over his eyes, and he was bound to the tree so tightly, as to occasion a considerable degree of pain. The gang went gaily to work again, and the keeper had the mortification of hearing the pheasants fall on all sides of him.

His trusty fellow-servant, Stokes, however, was not idle. He inhabited a cottage in the park. The first shot that was fired had made him rub his eyes and raise his head from the pillow: and the second made him jump out of bed. From the number of shots he judged that the poachers were in force; and accordingly called up the two garden-men, the stable servants, and a labourer or two, who were kept in pay for such occasions. They hastened altogether to the scene of action, armed, some with guns, and the rest with stout bludgeons. The marauders soon got together, and appeared disposed to face them: but when a few blows had been struck, they found themselves so decidedly outnumbered, that they turned about and ran off in different directions. Some of Sir John's men hastened to unbind the game-keeper, while others went in pursuit. Stokes, as it happened, followed Wildgoose, and having nearly come up with him, called upon him to surrender. Wildgoose turned short round, presented his gun, and bad him keep off, or he would fire. He was determined not to be taken: and upon recognizing Stokes, he saw in him the occasion of his imprisonment, and of the difficulties which the payment of the fine had occasioned to his mother. He ought rather to have felt that he himself was the only cause of these evils, and that Stokes had merely done his duty. He had no time for reflection however; and his angry feelings of hostility, together with the desire to escape, so got the better of him, that upon Stokes's advancing to take hold of him, he fired. Stokes uttered a cry – exclaimed, "I'm a dead man" – and fell lifeless upon the ground.

Upon hearing the report of the gun, the keeper and his men quitted the pursuit of the other poachers, and hurried to the spot. For a moment or two Wildgoose stood motionless with horror at what he had done; but when he saw the men coming towards him, he endeavoured to provide for his safety by flight. Some difficulty which he found in clearing a hedge, enabled three of them to get up with him. He defended himself for a short time with the butt end of the fowling piece, but was at length overpowered and taken.

During the remainder of the night he was guarded at the keeper's house; and next morning was carried before a magistrate, who having taken the evidence of Sir John's men, committed him to the county gaol in order to take his trial at the Assizes.

Every body was sorry for poor Stokes, who was as honest and civil a fellow as any in the neighbourhood. All too felt for his widow, who with three small children were thus suddenly deprived of a kind husband, on whose industry and good character she depended for subsistence.

When the dreadful intelligence reached Wildgoose's mother, she stood like a statue. She shed no tears; she uttered no lamentations; she stirred neither hand nor foot. At last, uttering a faint scream, she dropped senseless on the floor. Her eldest daughter, and a neighbour who had been called in, got her to bed, and it was long before she came to herself. At first she had but an indistinct recollection of what had happened, and felt as if awaking from a horrible dream. In proportion as her senses returned, she felt that it was no dream, but a sad reality. Her first impulse was to go to her son; but when she attempted to get up, she was unable to stand, and fell back upon the bed. A violent fever came on, attended with almost constant delirium, and the doctor had great apprehensions for her life.

The country house of the gentleman, in whose family Lucy Wilmot lived as house-maid, was at a considerable distance; and she had now accompanied her master and mistress to London. It so happened that the sad news did not reach her till a few days before the Assizes. When she had a little recovered from the first dreadful shock, she immediately determined to hasten to poor Wildgoose, in order to give him whatever comfort or assistance his awful situation would admit of. She requested therefore her mistress to allow her a short leave of absence; borrowed a few pounds of the house-keeper, placed herself on the top of a stage, and next morning reached the county town. With an aching heart, and trembling steps, she hurried to the gaol. The gaoler, who, like most of his brethren of the present day, was a kind and humane man, having asked her a few questions, conducted her into his own parlour, and promised to bring Wildgoose to her: adding, that though his duty did not permit him to leave them alone together, yet that they might depend upon his not repeating any thing of what might pass between them. Poor Lucy's heart sickened at the heavy creaking of the door which led to the prisoners' day room; and she was nearly fainting when she heard footsteps approaching the little parlour where she was sitting. When Wildgoose entered, she started up, and without speaking, eagerly tried to take his hand. He, however, uttering a deep groan, clasped both his hands to his face, and turning his head away, burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing. Lucy still held her hand stretched towards him, when he at last said in a smothered voice, "Oh! Lucy, don't try to shake hands with me; the hand of such a good girl as you are must not be touched by the hand of a murderer." He then sank on a bench, and in spite of all his efforts to command himself, gave way to an agony of grief. Lucy could hardly stand; she had, however, been internally seeking strength from Him, who alone can give it, and by his aid was supported. Her ardent wish too, to be of use, led her to exert herself to the utmost. When, after some minutes, Wildgoose became a little more composed, she spoke to him of taking steps for his defence at his trial; and said that she was provided with money in order to secure the assistance of a lawyer. At first he would not hear of it. He said that it would be of no use, and that he deserved to suffer. Lucy herself, from what she had heard, hardly indulged any hope of his acquittal; but still urged him to make use of what assistance he could, both that he might have longer space for repentance, and also for the sake of his mother. "Oh, my mother! my dear, dear mother!" exclaimed Wildgoose, striking his hand to his forehead, and giving way to the expression of the most piercing anguish. Several minutes passed before he could at all compose himself, but when he was a little calmed, he at last consented that Lucy should take whatever steps she thought expedient. With a voice almost stifled with emotion, Wildgoose then asked Lucy if she had heard any thing of the poor woman who had been deprived by his rashness of a tender husband. Lucy replied that she had not. "Alas!" said he, "what is done cannot be undone, nothing can make up to her for her loss; but if my life should be spared, how gladly would I work night and day, to keep her and her poor children from want."

The gaoler now hinted to them that his duty required his attendance in another part of the gaol. The prisoner was therefore reconducted to his ward; and Lucy was just leaving the parlour, when a gentleman entered. From his dress and appearance she guessed him to be the chaplain of the gaol; and having ascertained by a timid and respectful enquiry that her conjecture was well founded, she implored him in the most earnest and pathetic manner to use his best offices in preparing Wildgoose for whatever might be the event of his trial. The chaplain answered, that he had already had many very serious conversations with the prisoner, about whom she seemed to be so much interested, and that he trusted that he was properly affected by his awful situation; "He appears," said he, "never to have been entirely without some impressions of religion, though his conduct was not sufficiently governed by it; and dreadful as is the crime with which he is charged, yet it has not the additional guilt of premeditation. I never dare to build much upon a profession of repentance occasioned by the near prospect of death; but as far as I can judge, his repentance is deep and sincere. He is full of shame and sorrow for having lived in such neglect of God and his laws, and for having paid no better attention to serious religion. The anguish which he feels from this last fatal deed is heart-breaking; and it becomes doubly acute, when he thinks of the desolate condition of her whom his hand has made a widow. His only hope of forgiveness is founded on God's mercy in Christ." "May I understand then, Sir," said Lucy, in an eager though tremulous voice, "that you think that if – if – if he should suffer for the crime, his eternal interests are safe?" "I dare not say so; it is not for one sinful and erring mortal to pronounce confidently on the final state of another. The mercy of God is extended to all truly penitent sinners, through the atonement of Christ. I hope that the faith and the repentance of your friend are sincere; but, generally speaking, repentance under such circumstances must be attended with much of fear and doubt[g] (#Footnote_G_7). As I said before, I hope that the penitence of this poor young man is such, that it would, if his life should be spared, shew itself to have been real, by producing the fruits of a holy life; but I presume not to speak with confidence. Let us both pray to God to perfect his repentance, and to increase and strengthen his faith." Many aspirations to this effect had already been fervently offered up by Lucy, and she renewed them with redoubled earnestness.

[g] (#FNanchor_G_7) See Note [G.] (#Footnote_G__14) To which I particularly request attention.

Lucy was allowed to see Wildgoose frequently. When the anxious time of trial came, she secured him the assistance of an able lawyer, who exerted himself in his defence. It was however all in vain. The facts of the case were so clear, and the evidence so strong, that the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of guilty. The Judge, after a short preface, in which he emphatically introduced the words of Scripture, whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed, proceeded to pronounce the awful sentence of the law. He did this in the most feeling and impressive manner, and many of the audience were in tears. When he concluded in the solemn words, "The Lord have mercy on your soul," the prisoner, who during the trial had maintained a steady but melancholy composure, seemed torn and agitated by conflicting emotions. After half uttering a deep and smothered groan, however, he in some measure recovered himself, and was removed from the bar. Lucy, it may easily be imagined, could not bear to be present at the trial, but waited in painful and breathless suspense at her lodgings. She thought that she was prepared for the worst, and had in fact never allowed herself to encourage any hope; but when the tidings of the sentence reached her, she felt a sudden mist before her eyes, and fell lifeless on the ground. The woman of the house kindly gave her every assistance; but it was long before she came to herself. At length she opened her eyes, and wildly looking round her, exclaimed, "Where is he? where is he? they have not torn him from me?" Again her eyes closed; and she lost the sense of her misery in another swoon. When she was a little recovered, the people with whom she lodged endeavoured to prevail on her to go to bed. She was, however, steady in her refusal; and as soon as her limbs were able to support her, hastened to the prison.

She now found Wildgoose heavily ironed, and additional measures taken for securing him. They grasped each other's hand in silent agony, and were long unable to speak. At length Wildgoose exerted himself so far as to give her a message to his mother and family, and Lucy employed the little time she was allowed to remain with him, in suggesting such religious consolation as seemed most adapted to his situation. The next day, which was Sunday, she received the Sacrament with him. Wildgoose was calm beyond her expectations; and behaved throughout with a seriousness and fervour of devotion, which gave her more comfort than she had yet experienced.

I must spare both myself and the reader the pain of speaking of the awful scene of the day following. It is distressing even to think, or to speak of an execution. How is it possible that such numbers – sometimes, I fear, even women – can seem to take pleasure in going to witness the last pangs of a fellow-creature, who is condemned to forfeit his life to the offended laws of his country! I would have every one pray for, and feel for, the criminal, but on no account seek to gratify curiosity, by actually witnessing his death.

The following paper was handed about, as the last dying speech of John Wildgoose.

"I acknowledge the justice of the sentence by which I suffer; and would have all young men take warning from my example. I attribute my crime and punishment, in the first place, to my neglect of the Lord's Day; and in the second, to my keeping bad company. Had I been regular in going to church, and attentive to my religious duties, I should, under the blessing of God, have preserved and increased the good impressions, which I had received from my parents. These impressions, however, I suffered to wither away. By keeping bad company I was led into poaching, in which I at first thought there was not much harm. When by a kind friend I was convinced that it was wrong, the want of firmness in religion prevented me from giving it up. Poaching made me the companion of sabbath-breakers, swearers, drunkards, and thieves; and at last led me on to the dreadful crime of murder. May God support and comfort the poor woman whom my hand has robbed of a husband, and the dear and excellent parent, whom the same rash action has deprived of a son; may He make my sad fate productive of good to all who hear of it; and may He have mercy on my own soul through Jesus Christ!"

As soon as Lucy had recovered her strength sufficiently to enable her to travel, she went to her native village, where she found that Mrs. Wildgoose had passed the crisis of her disorder, and was beginning to recover. Her two daughters were most attentive to her; but Lucy obtained permission to assist them in nursing, and to take her turn in sitting up by her bed-side during the night. When the poor woman's health was in some degree re-established, Lucy felt it right to return to her kind mistress; but her cheerfulness and good spirits had entirely forsaken her, and a settled melancholy seemed to have taken possession of her soul. Her only comfort is in prayer, and the consolations of religion.

After a confinement to her bed of several weeks, Susan Wildgoose was at length able to move about her house; and the wants of herself and family forced her to return to her former occupations: but she hardly spoke to any one; she served her customers in silence; and it is evident that the deep affliction under which she continually labours, will shortly bring her to the grave. Her daughters and surviving son have youth and health on their side; but their behaviour and appearance are totally changed: and instead of being merry and light-hearted, they have become pensive and serious. Time will wear away much of the acuteness of their grief, but it is probable that, as long as they live, they will never be free from the most painful and distressing recollection, that they have had a brother who was executed as a murderer.

N.B. This Tale is sold as a Tract, price 9 d.

NOTES

The following Extracts from Acts of Parliament are much abridged.

[A.] (#Footnote_A_1)

If any higler, carrier, inn-keeper, &c. shall have in his possession, or shall buy, sell, or offer for sale, any hare, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, every such higler, &c. unless such game be sent by some person qualified, shall forfeit for every hare, pheasant, &c. the sum of five pounds, half to the informer, and half to the poor. 5 Ann. c. 14. s. 2.

[B.] (#Footnote_B_2)

If any person whatsoever, whether qualified or not qualified to kill game, shall buy any hare, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, he shall, on conviction before one justice, forfeit 5l. half to the informer and half to the poor. 58 G. III. c. 75. s. 1.

Any person may recover the said penalty by information, or may sue for and recover the whole for his own use, in any court of record, wherein the plaintiff if he recovers shall have double costs. Sect. 3.

[C.] (#Footnote_C_3)

If any person shall enter any park or paddock, fenced in and inclosed, or into any garden, orchard, or yard, adjoining or belonging to any dwelling house, and shall steal any fish kept in any water therein; or shall be assisting therein; or shall receive or buy any such fish, knowing the same to be stolen; and at the Assizes be convicted of such offence, he shall be transported for seven years. 5 G. III. c. 14. s. 1, 2.

And if any person shall take or destroy, or attempt to take or destroy, any fish, in any other inclosed ground, being private property, without the consent of the owner, he shall upon conviction by one justice forfeit 5l. to the owner of the pond or fishery, and, in default of payment, shall be committed to the house of correction for any time not exceeding six months. Sect. 3, 4.

[D.] (#Footnote_D_4)

Whenever it shall appear to the justices, or to the overseers, to whom application shall be made for relief of any poor person, that he might, but for his extravagance, neglect, or wilful misconduct, have been able to maintain himself, or to support his family, it shall be lawful for the overseers (by the direction of the justices, &c.) to advance money to the person applying, by way of loan only, and take his receipt for, and engagement to repay, (without stamp;) upon default of payment, two justices may commit him for not exceeding three calendar months. 59 G. III. cap. 12. sect. 29.

[E.] (#Footnote_E_5)

If any person shall knowingly and wilfully kill, take, or destroy any hare, or use any gun, dog, snare, net, or other engine, with intent to kill, take, or destroy any hare in the night, (or in the day time, upon a Sunday or Christmas-day,) he shall on conviction, on oath of one witness, before one justice, forfeit for the first offence not exceeding 20l. nor less than 10l.; and for the second not exceeding 30l. nor less than 20l.

[F.] (#Footnote_F_6)

If any person or persons, having entered into any park, wood, plantation, or other open or inclosed ground, with intent illegally to take, or kill, game, or rabbits, or to aid and assist in so doing, shall be found at night armed with any gun, fire arms, bludgeon, or any other offensive weapon, such person being lawfully convicted, shall be adjudged guilty of a misdemeanour, and shall be sentenced to transportation for seven years, or such other punishment as may be inflicted on persons guilty of misdemeanour; and if any such offender shall return before the expiration of such term, he shall be sentenced to transportation for life. 57 G. III. cap. 90. sect. 1.

[G.] (#Footnote_G_7)

Extracts from Stonhouse's "Sick Man's Friend," on a Death-bed Repentance.

Bishop Burnet, in his excellent book entitled the Pastoral Care, (page 173, of the fourth edition,) says, "A clergyman ought to give no encouragement to men, who have led a bad course of life, to hope much from a death-bed repentance; yet he is to set them to implore the mercies of God in Christ Jesus, and to do all they can to obtain his favour. But unless the sickness has been of long continuance, and that the person's repentance, patience, and piety, have been very extraordinary during the course of it, he must be sure to give him no positive ground of hope, but leave him to the mercies of God. For there cannot be any greater treachery to souls that is more fatal and pernicious than the giving quick and easy hopes, upon so short, so forced, and so imperfect a repentance. It not only makes those persons perish securely themselves, but it leads all about them to destruction, when they see one, of whose bad life and late repentance they have been the witnesses, put so soon in hopes, nay by some unfaithful guides made sure of salvation. This must make them go on very secure in their sins, when they see how small a measure of repentance sets all right at last: all the order and justice of a nation would be presently dissolved, should the howlings of criminals and their promises work on juries, judges, and princes. So the hopes that are given to death-bed penitents must be the most effectual means to root out the sense of religion from the minds of all who see it. Therefore, though no dying man is to be driven to despair, and left to die obstinate in his sins, yet, if we love the souls of our people, if we set a due value on the blood of Christ, and if we are touched with any sense of the honour or interests of religion, we must not say any thing that may encourage others, who are but too apt of themselves, to put all off to the last hour. We can give them no hopes from the nature of the Gospel covenant; yet, after all, the best thing a dying man can do is to repent. If he recover, that may be the seed and beginning of a new life, and a new nature in him: nor do we know the measure of the riches of God's grace and mercy."

"When," says Dr. Assheton, page 45 and 46 of his Death-bed Repentance, "you visit sick beds, and hear a poor dying creature lamenting his sins with tears, and most earnestly begging pardon for the sake of Jesus Christ; when you observe how passionately he resolves, that if God will but spare him, he will become a new man, and never be guilty of such extravagance; what do you say or do in such a case? Nay, what must such a wicked man do, who having lived in sin, shall thus happen to be surprised by death? Dare you be so uncharitable as to declare that he is past hope, that there is no remedy, but that he will certainly be damned? I answer, that I dare not presume to limit God, whose mercies are infinite. In such a case I will not censure him, but admonish and instruct him to the best of my judgment and abilities. I will exhort the dying sinner to remember his sins, to bewail them, to beg pardon for them, to form firm resolutions of amendment, and (when there is occasion) to make restitution; and having prayed earnestly for him, and recommended him to God's mercy, do I then say such a one will be damned? No, I dare not. But do I say he shall be saved? No, I cannot. What then do I resolve? What do I determine in this matter? I will be silent, and determine nothing; for as I dare not flatter him into a false and groundless presumption, so neither would I sink him into the horror of despair. I say, I will determine nothing: I will judge nothing before the time. However, I must be so faithful to my ministerial office as to admonish this dying sinner, that the Gospel (by the laws of which we are to be judged) expressly declares, that "without holiness no man shall see the Lord," and that Christ is the author of eternal salvation unto them (and to them only) who obey him. Heb. v. 9. When therefore the sick man has been vicious and extravagant all his life long, if God accepts his dying resolutions, it is more than he has promised, and it is more than he has given his ministers power to preach and declare."

Repentance is a change of heart from an evil to a good disposition; no man can justly be called a true penitent, till his heart be thus changed, and whenever that change is made, repentance is certainly complete.

Now there is reason to conclude, God will consider that life as amended, which would have been amended if he had spared it. Repentance in the sight of man cannot be known but by its fruits. The only way man can judge is by the rule Christ himself has given us, "by their fruits ye shall know them." Matt. vii. 20.

But God (our great Creator) sees the fruit in the blossom or in the seed. He (and He only) knows those resolutions which are fixed; those conversions which would be lasting; and will receive such as are qualified by holy desires for works of righteousness, without exacting from them those outward duties, which the shortness of their lives hindered them from performing. All, therefore, a minister can do, is to recommend a death-bed penitent to the mercies of God. But it is impossible for him to pronounce what will be his state in another world.