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THE BEACON! What is a Beacon? What does it mean, and why is this paper to be so called? It is probable that this will be the question asked by probable that this will be the question asked by many into whose hands this paper may fall; and as no one seems so immediately bound to supply the answer as he who occasions the enquiry, the first step which the Editor of the Beacon takes, shall be to explain the reason of the name which is affixed to his paper; and in doing so to give his readers some idea of the object contemplated, and of the purposes which it is desired to accomplish. A Beacon, if we refer to Johnson's Dictionary, we shall find to be a word expressive of two different objects, employed for different purposes, but each eminently useful. Such, we hope, our present publication will prove; and as we believe that the word made use of is peculiarly appropriate, and does signify with great exactness the objects we have in view; we are not unwilling to adopt the definition of the dictionary as the description of our work, and to illustrate the end to be promoted by our undertaking through the use to which Beacons of another kind have been turned. A Beacon, the great Lexicographer tells us, is derived from a Saxon word which means a signal; and he describes it first as something raised on an eminence, to be fired on the approach of an enemy to alarm the country.-Another sense he adds, which is that of marks erected, or lights made in the night, to direct navigators in their course, and warn them from rocks, shallows, and sand-banks.

We see at once that the use of a Beacon was twofold. It was to give warning against an enemy, and it was to give guidance towards a friend; it had double use, a and a double purpose; and in taking this name for the present publication, we think that we have intimated, as distinctly as a name can do, the objects to which it will be directed, and the end which, under God's blessing, we trust it may be found to accomplish.

The first purpose of a Beacon, we are told, is to give warning of an enemy's approach. In former times, when wars were more common, and before this country enjoyed the blessings which the mercy of God has vouchsafed to us through a united kingdom, and an established govern

1839.

RECTOR OF

ST. PETER'S, CHESTER.

[PRICE 3d.

We

ment, Beacons were parts of the general system of defence. In most of our counties some high hills still retain the name, which proves the purpose to which they had been formerly applied. In that lofty ridge which goes by the name of the Malvern Hills, the summit that looks eastward is called the Worcestershire Beacon; and that on the western side, the Herefordshire Beacon; doubtless because that on each of these eminences stacks of furze, or other combustible matters used to be raised, to be fired on the event of an invasion, and to give notice to the country at large of the danger that was at hand. may conceive, with little effort of imagination, what the effect must have been which was produced by this awful notice. The blaze, as it rose upwards to the sky, must have carried terror and alarm over the country which lay below. A few minutes before, all that was there was calm and peaceful. The cattle were penned in their yards; the families were collected in their homes, and locked in sleep, dreaming of the work or the pleasure of the past day, and anticipating the same for the morrow. The first sleeper's eye that opened, and beheld the ruddy flame enlightening the heaven, was the commencement of general alarm; and the scream which woke the sleeping family must have spread from house to house with the rapidity of terror. Mothers must have been seen starting from sleep, snatching up their children, gathering together the most moveable or the most valuable articles of property, and preparing hastily for flight. The men must have been seen driving off the cattle to some place of safety, or girding on their arms to meet the approaching enemy. In a word, the Beacon fire gave notice of danger; and notice was given, that men might take warning by the Beacon,

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And spreading broad its wavering light,
Shakes its loose tresses on the night?
Is yon red glare the western star?
O, 'tis the Beacon-blaze of war—!
Scarce could she draw her tightened breath,
For well she knew the fire of death!
The warden viewed it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long;
Till at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river rung around.
The blast alarmed the festal ball,
And startled forth the warriors all.

The rest of this animated and picturesque description we must omit, leaving to our readers to consult or not, as they think fit, the poem from which the passage is taken. Our purpose is served by shewing that this was the use of a Beacon in its first sense-that it was a signal of danger, a means of giving wide and general notice of an enemy at hand.

Such also will be the object of the present publication. It is intended that by its means an alarm shall be sounded whenever any dangerous errors are creeping on the public mind. It will be our object to look round the whole horizon of society, and wherever we see mischief coming, wherever we see Irreligion, Infidelity, or Vice invading the land, the world shall have notice. given, the sleepers shall be awakened, the weak shall be told to fly, the bold and the manly shall be called out to resist the enemy, and protect themselves.

We have seen that a Beacon likewise signifies "marks erected, or lights made in the night, to direct navigators in their course, and warn them from rocks, shallows, and sand-banks."

If one part of our office will be to give warning of danger, another and a more agreeable part will be that of guiding to comfort and to peace those who are in error and distress; and we do not know that we can illustrate this part of our object better than by the simple narrative of an occasion when a Beacon was found useful.

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were

It happened some years ago that a family who were residing for the benefit of the sea air at Dinduced by the solicitations of the eldest son, a fine lad of fifteen, to attempt an excursion on the sea. The boat, which was chosen by the proposer of the excursion, was a small one belonging to an old man in the place, and which he was in the habit of letting out to the visitors. On most occasions he made a point of going in it himself; but sometimes when the weather was fair, and the sail was to be short, he trusted it to the management of his grandson, a lad not older than the youth by whom the vessel was engaged. On this occasion the appearance of the weather was so favourable, and the trip proposed was so short, that he thought his own presence unnecessary, and yielded to the wishes of the young people who insisted on having charge of the vessel themselves. The party had been detained for some time at their lodgings by the arrival of friends, and the afternoon was advanced ere they

left the shore. Nothing, however, could promise more fairly than the elements at the time when they went aboard. The sky was clear; the sea, merely ruffled by a breeze, allowed the boat to skim rapidly over its surface; and they glided on, delighted with their success, till the town had disappeared, and the cliffs were fast sinking out of sight. By this time it was obviously necessary to return, but this young pilot had not taken into consideration the flood-tide which they had to meet, and the effect that the current would have upon their

course.

The boat, however, was put about, her head was turned to the point which they knew to be their home; and the return was commenced, though with spirits less cheerful than before. Gradually the evening set in, and with the evening came on a fog, so thick that it was impossible to see any thing more than a hundred yards distant. The sea no longer wore the bright blue tint which had delighted them in the morning, but looked dark and yellow. The cheerful ripple of the morning gave way to a heavy dull swell, and the boat, instead of bounding over the waves as it had done before, alternately sunk or rose on a wave, which in the darkness of the evening seemed little less than a mountain. The spirits of the party subsided under this change of circumstances. Instead of the incessant talk and loud laugh which had been heard, they gradually grew silent; each drew nearer to his neighbour; and a whispering enquiry, which alone broke the stillness, betrayed every now and then the anxiety that was felt by each. At last the father of the family, in a low tone of voice, addressed the sailor-lad who was at the helm, and asked him what he knew of their situation? The answers which he received were anything but satisfactory. That the boat's head had been pointed rightly when they commenced their return was certain; but whether she had kept her course, whether the tide had not had an effect, or what that effect had been, he could not presume to know. They might have swerved from the right line, and been unconsciously stealing over towards the French Coast; they might have been drifting with the current towards the Goodwin Sands; all this might have been happening, and as they had no compass on board, and not a star was to be seen above, it was impossible to speak confidently on the subject. Replies like these were not calculated to relieve the mind of an anxious and affectionate parent, and he sunk into sad and melancholy musings as to the consequences that might follow. Earnestly, but vainly, did they strain their eyes in the hope of seeing some star in the heaven which might enable them to ascertain their course or some vessel from which information might be obtained. The younger children, overcome by the cold and damp, began to cry. The mother struggled against her own fears in endeavouring to soothe and comfort them; and the father tried to persuade her there was no real reason for alarm, while he felt within himself there was little room for hope. They still kept their way, though in total uncertainty as to its direction. The minutes seemed like hours, and they fancied that they must have wandered far away from their mark, and were getting more and

more out to sea.

At last, through the dense haze which had added darkness to the night, an appearance met the eye, and immediately drew their attention. What is that? cried the eldest son. What is that, which I see there? cried the father. After a moment's pause, the young boatman, afraid of committing himself by too hasty a declaration, said, "thank God, it is the Harbour Light. I see where we are. Sit still, and we shall be soon ashore!" It is not easy to describe the feelings which this sudden appearance produced. Tears dropped fast and silently down the parents' cheeks, while the children gladly repeated the intelligence to each other. The boat stole forward quickly. The Pier-head, which the fog had hidden from their sight, was nearer than they believed; in a few minutes the lights of the town burst upon them; they traced the line of houses on the Cliff, by the row of lamps in front, and at last the very windows of their home lighted up, and beaming with the promise of warmth and comfort, burst upon their view.

Need I say that in the thankful recollections of that evening the Beacon was not forgotten? Had it not been for that Beacon, said the sailor-lad, we should have missed the harbour-mouth. Had it not been for that Beacon, said the mother, we should have been still floating on the dark ocean! Had it not been for that Beacon, said the children, we should never have got home. Had it not been for that Beacon, said the father, we should have been all lost. Nor can we doubt that had it not been for the guidance which that Beacon offered to those wanderers, they never would have reached the happy home they called their own.

Such as the harbour-light was on that occasion to this boating party, such, we trust, this publication will prove to many lost like them, and in ignorance of the way which leads to peace. It will be a Beacon. It will shew them the course they ought to follow. It will throw across the dark troubled surface of this world a clear and steady light, capable of arresting the wanderers on their course, and of pointing out the real home, the place where they may find rest to their souls.

In setting forward this work, we feel that we have but one single object in view, the good of our fellow-creatures; and we also feel that we are justified in saying, that there is but one way in which that object can be generally and effectually promoted. To every information which can tend to the relief of present evil, our pages will be always open; but they will be chiefly dedicated to the promotion of that moral good in which the reality of happiness consists, and they will attempt the accomplishment of this work by no other means than those which God himself has ordained for the purpose, the knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ, "who of God is made unto us Wisdom, and Righteousness, and Sanctification, and Redemption."

INFIDELITY AND SOCIALISM.

It is more in sorrow than in anger that I come forward to say something about Infidelity and Socialism, falsely so named. My table is half covered with the infidel tracts and books of the present day. I have taken up one after the other, but there is not one which I have not laid down, after reading a few pages or a few sentences, not merely with disgust, but with weariness. The heaviness and vapid staleness of their statements are what has chiefly struck me.

It is, I feel, a sad waste of time to wade through closely printed columns of exploded errors set forth in the altered form of crude theories. I say crude theories, for however old and out of date and exploded they may be, crudeness must be their character for ever. I think of a remark which I find in Mr. Cecil's Remains, when I look upon the works of Mr. Owen, and others of his school, "Have you read my key to the Romans?" said Dr. T—, of Norwich, to Mr. Newton. I have turned it over. You have turned it over. And is this the treatment a book must meet with which has cost me many years of hard study? Must I be told at last that you have turned it over, and then thrown it aside? You ought to have read it carefully, and then weighed deliberately what comes forward on so serious a subject." "Hold!" said Mr. Newton, "when I read, I wish to read to a good purpose; and there are some books, which contradict on the very face of them, what appear to me to be first principles. You surely will not say that I am bound to read such books. If a man tells me that he has a very elaborate argument to prove that two and two make five, I have something else to do than to attend to this argument. If I find that the very first mouthful of meat which I take from a fine-looking joint on my table is tainted, I need not eat through it to be convinced that I ought to send it away.'

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I am inclined to believe that wise men, and men of honest purpose, think more of facts than of theories; and I will, therefore, bring before them one of those facts which are commonly met with in the daily walk of one like myself; a minister of the gospel of life and peace to the wretched and the dying.

I had not been long settled at Hodnet when I was told that a poor lad, with whom I had not yet become acquainted, was in a hopeless state of health, and much in need of instruction. I heard this one Saturday evening, and as I felt that he had no time to lose, I set off after evening service, on the following afternoon to visit him. His mother's cottage was in one of the lanes near the hamlet of Wollerton; and by the time I reached the door the day was fast closing in. The evening, even for one in March, was unusally cold and dismal. But the gloom which had gathered upon every outward object around me, at the close of that day, was not darker nor heavier than that which hung upon the spirits of the wretched boy whom I came to visit. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, who led me at once to the inner chamber. I found a slight and delicate-looking youth about sixteen years of age. Though he received me with the respectful manner of one who was evidently wellbred and intelligent, I perceived plainly that he had no wish to see me, or, as he afterwards told me, any minister of religion. He hung down his head, and sat without speaking, except to answer the questions I put to him;

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but his replies were given, I could see, ur willingly, and in very few words. His mother told me that he had been in low spirits since his last walk to Market Drayton, where the Doctor, whom he had consulted, after partly stripping him, had examined him, and told him ab ruptly that there was no human probability of his ever getting better in this world. I tried in vain to draw him into conversation, or to make him feel how fully I entered into his feelings, how tenderly I sympathised with him. He said nothing, but when I knelt down and prayed beside him, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears trickled out through his fingers. His face was still bent down when I took leave of him, and left the cottage.

From that day, I did not fail to be a constant visitor in the little quiet chamber of T. R. I saw that his time in this world was short; his weakness increased daily, and his countenance was bright with the hectic color of consumption. But sorry as I was to see him suffer, it was not the state of his bodily health which alarmed me. When I discovered the utter wretchedness of his mind, the desolation of his inward state, I began to feel the deepest anxiety about him. I read to him from the word of life, and prayed with him, and endeavoured to draw from him some answers to my earnest questions, some account of his own state; but for several days I felt that I had gained no ground with him. He was quiet and attentive, but he said nothing, he did not even raise his head to look me in the face. I have learnt from him that he was then without hope, either about this world or the world to come.

When I had won his confidence, I did not wonder at his deep dejection. Young as he was, he was an infidel, well read in the works of Tom Paine, and others of that wretched school, and he had been a mocker and blasphemer of the Holy Bible, and the blessed name of Jesus Christ. I could scarcely believe it possible that a youth hardly turned sixteen, residing among uneducated cottagers in that sequestered part of the country should have met with such books-but the person is still alive who will have to answer to God for having put those books into the hands of that ingenuous and gentle boy, and I have no wish to expose him. The books had been read, nay studied, and he had even gone so far, that in order to strengthen himself in his arguments against the word of God, he had frequently opened the Bible with the desire of finding something to attack or ridicule in its sacred pages. He had also been accustomed at times to take one of his vile books, or some worthless novel in his hand, and put himself in the way of a simple-minded and pious dissenter, who was in the habit of walking from Drayton to Hodnet one day in the week, that he might shew him the book, and dispute with him, and make a mock of the grief which he betrayed on hearing the language of the wretched youth. I heard this, not only from T. R., but also from the good man himself.

No words of mine can describe the utter wretchedness of mind of that poor dying boy. I did not attempt to remove it, feeling that such a work was beyond the power of any human being. But all that I could do, I endeavoured to do. I brought before him the real character of the word of God, by reading to him continually such portions of the inspired volume as seemed calculated to convey to one like himself a clear apprehension of the mind of God; and I was as constantly on my knees beside

him, endeavouring to lead his thoughts, by simple and earnest expressions of prayer, to the presence of One who is as gracious as He is glorious, as condescending as He is mighty. As long as he had strength to kneel he knelt with me, and I believe he soon discovered the deep and affectionate interest which his sinfulness and his misery had excited in me. He was constantly in my thoughts when away from him, and my thoughts were generally turned to prayers, when they were occupied with him.

I found in this instance, as I have often, nay always found, that the only thing to be done in such cases, after having humbly and diligently used the means He has appointed, is to wait upon the Lord. I soon learnt that I had to do, not only with one whose powers of mind were of no common order, but (what was of far higher importance,) with one who was in deep earnest. He began to open to me his whole heart, and fearful indeed was the spectacle disclosed, of errors in principle, and their natural consequence, sins in practice. And now, Sir,"

he said mournfully to me on one occasion, after having spoken to me with a plainness that shewed how precious truth had become to him, and he turned away his face as he spoke, looking the picture of shame and misery, "now that you know me as I am, I think you will never come near me again." I thought of Him whose minister I am, and whose lovely example I was called to follow, who never broke the "bruised reed," nor quenched the "smoking flax;" but though I let him see how deeply I felt for him, 1 did not for a moment attempt to palliate the enormity of his guilt.

We got on but slowly, for though he had often opened the Bible, during his days of dark and wilful unbelief, and knew much of its contents, he knew nothing whatever of the glorious scope of the word of God, and had never felt the warm effulgence which shines throughout its pages upon the heart of every simple-minded believer and when it pleased God to answer our prayers, and to teach him to understand "the truth as it is in Jesus," he did not pass over from confusion and misery to ungrounded hopes and raptures. If he was at length enabled to believe that his sins were forgiven, he could never forget how desperately he had offended.

From the first moment that I attended him to the very last, I never heard him make one excuse for himself, or attempt, in any way, to justify himself. After leaving him one day full of hope, and joy, and peace, I have found him the next with his countenance fallen, and bathed in tears, complaining that he was too unworthy to hope.

He did not merely hear me read, and then trouble himself no more with the subject, but before I shut the book he would ask me to mark the passage for him, and I frequently found him afterwards with the Bible upon his pillow intently occupied with it. Once I found him with our Common Prayer Book, and he told me that he had been looking very attentively over the Service for the Sacrament of Baptism, and that of the Lord's Supper. He had been in fact searching for himself, and judging for himself, and he deplored how much he had lost in never valuing those holy sacraments, and not living as one for whom they had been graciously ordained by their Divine Founder.

I have tried in vain to recal the circumstances of my many interviews with T. R. In a short diary which I

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