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shut. In another minute, he heard a rattle in the throat, and a convulsive struggle-flew to the bed, caught his head upon his shoulder, and called to one of the servants to fetch Mrs. Arnold. She had but just left the room before his last conversation with the physician, in order to acquaint her son with his father's danger, of which he was still unconscious, when she heard herself called from above. She rushed up stairs, told her son to bring the rest of the children, and with her own hands applied the remedies that were brought, in the hope of restoring animation, though herself feeling from the moment that she saw him that he had already passed away. He was indeed no longer conscious. The sobs and cries of his children as they entered and saw their father's state made no impression upon him -the eyes were fixed-the countenance was unmovedthere was a heaving of the chest-deep gasps escaped at prolonged intervals; and just as the usual medical attendant arrived, and as the old school-house servant, in an agony of grief, rushed with the others into the room in the hope of seeing his master once more he breathed his last.

"It must have been shortly before eight, A.M., that he expired, though it was naturally impossible for those who were present to adjust their recollections of what passed, with precise exactness of time or place. So short and sudden had been the seizure, that hardly any one out of the household itself had heard of his illness before its fatal close. His guest and former pupil, who had slept in a remote part of the house, was coming down to breakfast as usual, thinking of questions to which the conversation of the preceding night had given rise, and which, by the great kindness of his manner, he felt doubly encouraged to ask him, when he was met on the staircase by the announcement of his death. The masters knew nothing till the moment when, almost at the same time, at the different boarding-houses the fatal message was delivered, in all its startling abruptness, that Dr. Arnold was dead! What that Sunday was in Rugby, it is hard fully to represent. The incredulity-the bewilderment-the agitated inquiries for every detail-the blank more awful than sorrow, that prevailed through the vacant services of that long and dreary day-the feeling as if the very place had passed away with him who had so emphatically been in every sense its head-the sympathy which hardly dared to con

template, and which yet could not but fix the thoughts
and looks of all on the desolate house, where the fatherless
family were gathered round the chamber of death."
This striking scene needs no comment :-

"Is that a death-bed where the Christian lies?' ▪
'Yes! but not his. 'Tis death itself that dies." "

I CAN'T REPENT. *

ONE of the most solemn assemblies that I have ever seen was convened on the evening of the sabbath, in a private house. It was an inquirers' meeting, at which more than a hundred persons were present, most of them young or in middle life. There was a spacious hall, extending from the front door along the side of three parlours which opened into it, as well as into each other; and at the rear of this hall was a staircase extending to the second story of the house. Moveable benches were placed along each side of this hall, to afford seats for those who attended the meeting, and who could not be accommodated in the parlours. After the meetings had been continued for a few 1 weeks, it became manifest that the hall was the preferred place. I was accustomed to stand, while addressing the assembly, in one of the doors opening into the parlour, where my eye had a full view of all those in the hall, on the stairs, and in one of the parlours. Besides a general exhortation, it was my ordinary custom to speak to each individual, passing from one to another; and all those in the hall and on the stairs could hear every word which I uttered in this conversation, and most of what any one said to me. I should greatly have preferred to converse with each one alone, as there would have been less restraint on their part, and on my own, more certainty that what I was saying would be truly applicable, and would not be applied by any one for whom it was not intended. And besides this, individuals would sometimes use expressions so erroneous, that I was unwilling others should hear them, lest they might be injured by it. To avoid this, I used to speak in a low tone of voice; and if the expressions of any individual were becoming such as I feared might be injurious, I usually broke off the conversa

* By Dr. Spencer of New York.

tion suddenly, by saying, I will call and see you to

morrow.

On the evening to which I now allude all the seats were filled, and persons were seated on each stair entirely to the top, and many had found their place on the floor above. It was a calm and mild summer evening, and perfect stillness reigned over the assembled crowd, unbroken except by the long breathing or the deep sigh of some anxious soul. I thought I had never seen so still, so solemn, and so thoughtful an assembly. I closed the front door, after all had entered, and took my stand in my accustomed place. I hesitated to speak. I was afraid to utter a word. It seemed to me that anything I could say would be less solemn, impressive, instructive, than that tomb-like silence in an assembly of so many immortal souls, each visited by the Holy Spirit. I stood, for some time, in perfect silence. The power of that silence was painful. The people sat before me like statues of marble-not a movement, not a sound. It ap peared as if they had all ceased to breathe. At length I broke the silence by saying, "Each one of you is thinking of his own immortal soul and of his God." Again I paused for a minute, for I was overawed, and knew not what to say. Then falling on my knees, I commenced prayer. They all spontaneously knelt. After a short prayer, I proposed to speak a few words to each one of them, as far as it was possible, and requested all of them, except the individual with whom I should be conversing, to be engaged in reflection or in silent prayer to God. Passing rapidly from one to another, I had spoken to all those in the parlours and in the hall, till I had reached about the middle of it, where every word spoken could be heard by the whole. assembly. Coming to a man, about thirty years of age, whom I had seen there three times before, I said to him :

"I did not expect to see you here to-night. I thought you would have come to repentance before this time, and would have no occasion any longer to ask, ' What must I do to be saved'?"

"I can't repent," said he, with a sort of determined and despairing accent, and so loudly as to startle us all.

Instantly I felt sorry for this expression. But I thought it would not do to avoid noticing it, and leave it sounding in the ears of so many impenitent sinners. I immediately answered, as I stood before him, as gently and yet solemnly as I could:

"What an awfully wicked heart you must have! You can't repent! You love sin so well, that you cannot be sorry for it-you cannot forsake it-you cannot hate it! You must be in an awful condition indeed! You are so much the enemy of God that you cannot be sorry for having offended him-you cannot cease to contend against him; and even now, while you are sensible of the impropriety and unhappiness of it, you cannot cease to resist the Holy Spirit, who strives with you to bring you to repentance! You must have an awfully depraved heart!"

"I can't repent," said he again, with an accent of grief and intolerable vexation-"I can't repent with such a heart!"

"That means," said I, "that you have become too wicked to desire to become any better, for nothing but wickedness makes repentance difficult. And then, you just plead one sin as an excuse for another-the sin of your heart as an excuse for the continued sin of your heart."

Still he insisted. "I can't repent! I would if I could !" And the tears rolled down his cheeks, of which he seemed to be utterly unconscious, as well as unconscious of the presence of any one but myself.

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"You would if you could," said I, "is only a selfrighteous and self-justifying excuse. Your deceitful heart means by it that you are not so wicked as to continue in your impenitence willingly. It means that you are willing to repent, but you cannot. You are deceived. You are not willing. You think you are, but you are in an error. You never will be willing, unless God shall verify in you the promise, My people shall be willing in the day of my power. In that power lies your only hope, as I have told you before, when I urged you to pray. If you are willing to repent, what hinders you? I am willing you should repent. All of us here are willing. Every angel in heaven is willing you should repent. Christ, who died to redeem you, is willing. God the Father is willing. The Holy Spirit is willing, who at this moment strives with you to bring you to repentance. What hinders you, then? Yourself only! And when you say you can't repent, you mean that you are not to be blamed for coming here to-night with an impenitent heart. You are wofully deceived! God blames you! The whole Bible blames you! Your own conscience, though you strive to silence it, blames you! This excuse will not stand."

"I can't repent!" said he again, in a harsh, vociferating voice, as if in anger.

"Then God can't save you," said I; "for he cannot lie, and he has said the impenitent shall be destroyed. You say you cannot repent. He has not said so. He commands you to repent."

He replied, with much agitation, but in a subdued tone: "I am sure I have tried long, and my mind has been greatly tormented. All has done no good. I do not see how I can repent."

"There are a

"Other people have repented," said I. great many penitents in the world. I find there are some here to-night, who think they have come to repentance since they were here last sabbath evening. One of them told me then very much the same thing you tell me now, that it did not seem to him he ever could turn from sin; but he has found out that it is possible. As to your having tried so long, the length of time will not save you. If a man has his face turned the wrong way, the longer he goes on the worse off he becomes. He would do well to stop, and turn about. Such is the call of the Bible: Turn ᎩᎾ, turn ye; for why will ye die? Repent, and turn yourselves from all your transgressions; so iniquity shall not be your ruin. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord.' Other people have turned to God, and you ought to. But your mind has seized on the idea of your trying and your trouble, and you make an excuse and a self-righteousness of them."

.

"Do you think I am self-righteous?" said he.

"I know you are. That is your grand difficulty. You have been trying to save yourself. You are trying now. When you tried to repent, your heart aimed after repentance, as something to recommend you to God, and constitute a reason why he should forgive and save you. It was just an operation of a self-righteous spirit. It was just an attempt to save yourself, to have your religion save you, instead of relying by faith upon Jesus Christ to be saved from wrath through him. This is precisely the case with every impenitent sinner. The error is one. The forms of it may be various, but in all cases it is substantially the same thing. St. Paul has given a perfect description of it: 'Going about' (from one thing to another, from one device or attempt to another)-going about to establish a right

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