The prodigal reclaimed. Or, The sinner's ruin and recovery

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Chapter I

The Story of Charles L . The Prodigal's career.

Passing up the East River from the city of New York, just before the traveller enters Long Island Sound, he may be tempted to inquire the name of the owner of a fine house and spacious grounds, that attract the eye, and by their elegance and neatness appear to be in the hands of a man of wealth and taste. His name is not known to me, but the spot, now the abode of strangers, is full of deep and painful interest as the early home of one whose story I am about to tell.

Charles L was the son of a wealthy

man of business in the city of New York.

His parents were neither of them Cliristians, but their associations were chiefly among religious friends, and their social and domestic relations were governed by a rigid regard to sound morals.

Charles was an only son. Nursed on the lap of luxury, and in infancy and childhood freely indulged by the fondness of a tender mother and a father who doated on his boy, it is not to be wondered at that he soon displayed a will of his own, and a disposition to have it gratified without much regard to the feelings or wishes of those around him. But Charles was not what is called a bad boy. In very early life he discovered some traits of character that endeared him to those who loved his parents and who mourned at that parental and mistaken tenderness, which was leaving his will unsubdued and preparing the son and the parents for future pain.

It was the kind suggestion of these more judicious friends that led Mr. L to resolve and Mrs. L to consent to place

their son, now a fine boy of ten years of age, under the roof of an uncle in a quiet New England village. A few months after this plan was agreed upon, Charles found himself in the family of a country pastor, whom he was to look upon in the light of a father, and whose word was to be his law.

Here the sweet influences of the religion of Jesus Christ were felt in the hearts and shown in the lives of a well regulated Christian family. The morning sun saw them always with the word of God before them, and after a portion of its sacred truths was read, they were led to the throne of grace in fervent prayer by the head of the pious household. The evening was closed with the same hallowed exercises, and then too there was singing that went up from hearts full of grati tude and love. The Sabbath was remembered to be kept holy. Modern conformity to the world may think it too severe, but the Sabbath was regarded there as the Lord's day, not man's. There was no light or vain conversation, no reading of worldly books, no walking the streets or fields except to go to the house of God, or to do an act of kindness to an afflicted neighbor. Religion, the reli- 1* b THE PRODIGAL RECLAIMED.

gion of the Bible, — not a weak and cold system of morality that philosophy may teach without a revelation from heaven, and which makes no more of Christ than a martyr or a hero, — but that religion which owns and teaches the sinfulness of the heart and the sinner's need of forf^iveness throuorh the merits of another, that brings out the necessity of Christ's death as the only ground on which God can be just when he pardons ; that religion was the power that reigned by love in the family of the New I^ngland pastor.

I am thus particular, that it may be seen how changed must be the circumstances with which Charles was now surrounded. Placed in" such a family and required to conform to the same rules thai; all obeyed, he was not slow in showing out the natural aversion of his heart to every thing that was good. If he gave a decent attention to the religious exercises of the house, if he treated the Sabbath and the institutions of religion with respect, it was too plain that he yielded a reluctant tribute to what he could not avoid. But the good pastor loved the boy, and tenderly and faithfully sought to impress the principles of divine truth upon his soul. Charles spent some four or five years under this instruction, visiting his parents two or three times in the course of the year, at which seasons he enjoyed again the sweets of indulgence, and learned to hate the restraints of a religious family and the dullness of a peaceful village. He had, however, at the village school pursued his studies preparatory to college, and at the age of fifteen he was glad to take leave of his best friends in the country, and enter the university.

In reciting these facts (for this and what is to come are not matters of fancy, but the records of what are familiar to some still living), my design is not to follow the subject of this sketch through all the walks of childhood and youth, to mark the several steps by w^hich he reached the end of a short and gay career of folly and sin ; but that those who read may learn to shun the rocks on which he was early wrecked, or rather the whirlpool in which he was swallowed, I will mark some of them on the map before us.

I have said there were some traits of his character that endeared him to his parents and friends. Grown up to youth, full of spirits and fond of pleasure, Charles was the life of the circle of young companions that gathered around him. Generous to a fault, and supplied too freely by his fjither with spending money, he had both the disposition and the means to indulge himself and others in those amusements that lay the foundation for future vice, and spread flowers in the pathway to eternal ruin.

Long before he left college he had distinguished himself in the ball-room far more than in his class ; and he was far more ambitious to obtain conquests in the halls of fashionable folly than in the fields of learning, or the world of fame. Passionately fond of dancing, he pursued it with enthusiasm, at the risk of health and reputation, and regardless of the kind advice which reflecting friends wasted upon him.

While Charles was in college, his father purchased the beautiful place on the East River to which I have already referred, for a summer residence. His winters were passed in the city, and when Charles came home, with no taste for the drudgery of professional life, and no fitness for business, he was installed in his father's counting-room as a clerk, spending his days in the forms of business, and his evenings in the pursuit of pleasure.

The TfiEATRE was his favorite resort. Its glare and glitter, its thrilling excitements and wild amusements caught his heart, and night after night he revelled in ideal scenes of passionate interest, till he learned to look with cold indifference upon the every-day realities about him.

He found his way to the gaming-table, and with reckless impetuosity plunged into the vortex which there opens for the souls of the young. Not far from the theatre and the billiard-room, was the house of her whose steps take hold on hell. With madness that defied all restraint, and shut out hope of his recovery, he abandoned himself to sensual indulgences without shame, and resisted, as the counsels of an enemy, the efforts of friends

10 THt: PRODIGAL RECLAIMED.

who, at each step of his downward course, had interfered to save him from ruin.

How often in these days of dissipation had a mother wept over him, with tears that none but heart-broken mothers shed over ruined sons! How often had a fond father sought him out in the dark and hidden haunts of vice to which he nightly resorted, and mingling a parent's love with the strong authority of an injured father, led him home, and watched by his bedside till the morning light, that with the first return of consciousness he might extort a promise of reform. Such influences, stronger than any restraining power but the grace of God, might have saved him but for the grasp of an enemy that w^as dragging him downward to death and hell. It was scarcely possible that he should have run his course thus far without having drunk often and deeply of the intoxicating cup. Intemperance had marked him for its prey. This was some years ago, in the morning of the great temperance reformation which has since so signally and gloriously blessed our country and the world. And when he was persuaded by the united entreaties of his parents and friends to pledge himself to abstain from " ardent spirits," the smile of hope was seen on a mother's faded cheek, and a mountain weight was removed from his father's heart.

There was a change in Charles that all regarded with intense delight. It lasted for months. Again he was the pride of his parents and the centre of a thousand hopes.

The cup of happiness seemed to his parents to be full when Charles led to the altar, and brought home to their house, a lovely bride, whom of all others they had chosen as one who would make him happy, and throw around him the restraints of love, should he ever be allured again into the paths of vice.

On the very evening of his marriage, it was painfully evident that he was not beyond the reach of the destroyer. I have said that this period was at the opening of the present temperance reformation, and few had then thought of danger from the use of wine. But in the festivities of the marriage day, in the midst of company of which young L was ibe life and soul, and called on again and again to drink to his '' health and happiness ;" (Oh ! the mockery of such words over the wine-cup !) he lost command of his appetite, and before he suspected his danger he was overcome. Deeply mortified at this occurrence, he determined to regain his self-respect by a rigid adherence to entire abstinence from all means of intoxication. But the appetite was excited, and it would be gratified. The rest of the story is soon told.

Months passed away and the once elegant,

accomplished, fascinating Charles L was

sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss of shameful, disgusting intemperance. The appetite became a passion, the passion became a mania. The last hope of his recovery was now blasted. The prospects of wealth and honor and domestic bliss had lost all charms in his eye. The gross sensuality of his darling sins, the vile companions of his nightly debauch, the delirious excitements of the theatre and gaming-table, again absorbed the desires of his depraved heart. In vain did parental affection plead, in vain did a young wife, with their first-born on her breast, weep tears of bitter grief over his fall ; in vain did he hear the strong appeals of religious truth ; in vain was he admonished of the danger to his immortal soul, and the certainty of his swift destruction, if he persisted in his downward course ; — he was in the grasp of the destroyer. Deaf to the cries of affection, blind to his own guilt and shame, and dead to all the sweet sensibilities of the soul, he was lost, and lost for ever.

Such incessant and reckless devotion to the intoxicating bowl was making serious inroads upon his once vigorous constitution. When he came home from his nightly revels, his wild, demoniac ravings gave sad warnings that he might speedily fall a victim to the drunkard's scourge, the delirium tremens. Even in this last strucrorle, when reason had deserted the throne, and conscience had long been drowned in the wine-cup, and, to the hearts that loved him most, death seemed the only relief that would ever be theirs, even in 2 this last struode there was once more liajhted up a faint gleam of hope.

One morninsf, after a night of more than his accustomed revelry, he awoke apparently to the strong and vivid consciousness that he was in the road to hell. From the time that he left the fireside of the good pastor in New England, he had seldom given a thought, never an hour^ to the memory of the lessons which were then, with so much faithfulness and love, imprinted on his young heart. But impressions thus made are never entirely obliterated. They may be forgotten in the midst of the follies and sins of a gay career ; they may be buried under other and deeper impressions that exert a controlling and destroying power ; but they are still there, and in some hour, perhaps of delirium, perhaps of calm reflection, perhaps on a dying bed, or it may be in the world of despair, they will be remembered and reviewed, with all the distinctness of the time when they were graven in the mind. So was it now with Charles.

His wife was struck with mingled astonishment and joy as she heard him engaged in earnest prayer for the pardon of his many sins for the sake of Jesus Christ. She wept with him, and though quite unused to the language of prayer, she poured out the desires of her bursting heart that God would have mercy on the poor prodigal, and lead him back to the paths of virtue and of peace.

At this juncture, I was sent for, and in a few moments, was at his side.

" Oh," said he, as I entered the room, " I am glad you have come. I have been praying for the pardon of my many sins, and God has heard my poor prayers for the sake of his Son. I feel better now. I am happy now. I am going to heaven now ! There, there comes an angel, there another ; don't you see them coming ? There, I am going now ; come, and go with me to glory."

I saw in an instant that he was wandering, though he was so peaceful and apparently so happy, that his friends were weeping for joy at the prospect of his sudden conversion from the error of his ways.

I assured him that there was no immediate prospect of his departure, and sitting quietly on the bed which he thought was a car on which he was about to be conveyed to heaven, I spoke to him freely of, his past Hfe, the necessity of sincere repentance for his many transgressions of God's holy laws, and of the infinite provisions made by Jesus Christ for the forgiveness even of the chief of sinners. Then it was that I saw the strength of those impressions which had been made on his heart while under the instruction of the excellent clergyman of whom I have spoken. The whole plan of salvation was distinctly before his mind, and the views of divine truth which he expressed were far more clear and complete than are usually shown by intelligent men who have not enjoyed religious instruction in their childhood. I dealt faithfully with him, as one who has an account to give before God. But what could be done for a man whose reason was gone, and whose fancy spread before him visions of celestial glory on which he was soon to enter ? I prayed with him, and left him.

A few days more and I was sent for again. In the mean time he had plunged deeper than ever into his destroying indulgences, and the terrible delirium that haunts the drunkard's brain had obtained the mastery. One wild scene of unbridled excess had followed another in swift succession, till he was laid upon his dying bed. No, he did not have a dying bed 1 No visions of angels waiting to convey him to heaven now floated before his eyes. No dreams of pardon and peace by the blood of the dear Redeemer, shed their soothing influence on his soul.

^'Take them off! Oh, take them o^," he screamed as I came into his chamber. " They have come for me ; I see them, I feel them ; this is hell."

The scene was awful to me, heart-rending to those who loved him as none others could. Every object in the room was a demon ready to dart upon him. They leaped on the bed, they planted themselves on his breast, they laughed at his horrors, and revelled in his cries and groans. It was with great difficulty that strong men could keep him on his couch of anguish. He was determined to fly from the monsters that gathered in troops 2* about him. Seizing his opportunity when their attention was for a moment diverted, he leaped from the bed, by the side of which sat his parents, wrinkled and gray but not with age, and his own young wife with their only child in her arms ; he broke away fiom the attendants who vainly strove to hold him back ; he rushed from his chamber into the streets of the city, and there in his nakedness and madness raved like a devil escaped from hell. They caught him and forced him into the house, but could not compel him to lie down. He stood in the middle of his chamber, struggling fearfully with friends who gathered around him to pacify his maniac frenzy. His wife fell on his neck, and implored him by his love for her and his darling boy, to lie down and be still, till the storm that raged in his brain should pass by. But no tears, no prayers, no force would quiet him in that wild hour. He stood and struggled fiercely with phantoms, and raved of devils and the damned. An unearthly brightness lighted up his face as he exclaimed, *'I am ready now; I'll go, I'll go;" and he stood — a corpse ! They laid him on the bed, and closed his eyes for ever.

Such was the career and fate of one whom I knew and loved. He was a Prodigal Son. How many fall like him ; perish like him, in the very morning of their days. 't

As I have read the story of the Prodigal Son in the gospel of Jesus Christ, I have often admired its force and fidelity in portraying the course of every sinner in his apostasy from God. But more than this, it follows the prodigal, not only in his departure, but in his return to the father, whose house he deserted, and whose love he abused. And as I have dwelt upon the beauty of this story as a complete picture of the sinner's ruin and recovery, I have thought of asking the young to follow the parable with me, step by step, and patiently contemplate its wonderful fitness to lead them to a knowledge of their danger, a sense of their sinfulness, and to guide them in the w^ay of salvation.

The chapters that follow are written with this design. If any of my readers, having learned the melancholy end of poor Charles

L , should here lay down the book, it

may never be known to him who writes it ; but it may be the act which God will look upon as a cold rejection of a kind offer to lead them in the way of life everlasting. Let us read and study the parable of the Prodigal Son.

Chapter II

The object of this little book — The parable of the Prodigal Son — The analogy between the Prodigal and every sinner— An outline of the discussion.

Man is a prodigal from God. In the morning of his being he was owned as the child, and treated as the favorite of Heaven. But he has wandered away from his Maker, disowned the relationship in which he stood, squandered the goods that a father's kindness had bestowed ; and in the distance to which he has strayed he must perish miserably, unless brought back to God.

In the gospel we have a faithful history of the sinner's career. The story of the Prodigal Son was left on record to mark the voluntary departure of man from God ; the miserable condition to which sin reduces the sinner ; the bitterness of sorrow he feels when awakened to a sense of his sinfulness ; and the steps by which he must travel back to his deserted Father; his actual return, and the joy there is on earth and in heaven over one who was dead, and is alive again ; who was lost, and is found. Read the parahle with this object before the mind, and observe the parallel. It meets the case of every prodigal sinner who has returned to God. You will find it in the fifteenth chapter of Luke.

" A certain man had two sons. And the younger of them said to his father, ' Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them his living.

"And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land ; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country ; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.

" And when he came to himself, he said^ * How many hired servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger ! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him. Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son ; make me as one of thy hired servants.'

" And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, ' Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' But the father said to his servants, ' Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him ; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet ; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it ; and let us eat and be merry ; for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.' "

To follow the sinner through all his wanderings, and to lead him step by step in his return, is a task for which, here on the threshold, I feel insufficient. But the object in view is an honest one, and to accomplish it God may give strength to the weak. It may be that even this feeble attempt will meet his approbation, and secure his blessing ; and should it thus prove to be the means of leading one poor wanderer back to God, so that there should be joy in heaven over a repenting sinner, and Christ Jesus should have one more child at his feet in glory, or one more star in his crown, it will be more than sufficient reward. If you, dear reader, whose eye now rests on these words, should be persuaded by what you read, to think of the evil and the danger of sin, and under the gentle but subduing influences of the Holy Spirit, should then be raised, from the hell into which you are just ready to sink, to the joys of holiness and heaven, then will it not be in vain that these pages are written. And when you and I meet before the throne of that Saviour together, we will rejoice that this humble efibrt for his glory was made. And if you throw away the book and read no further, if you press on in sin till death overtakes you, it will still be some consolation to me, that, in the morning of your apostasy, I asked you to turn from your evil ways and live.

In tracing the analogy between the prodigal in the gospel and every sinner, we will pursue such thoughts as these :

The relationship existing between God and man, — that of father and son. The happipiness of that relation, and the duties that flow from it.

The character and conduct of the sinner. He is unwilling to perform his duties, and prefers to depart from God.

God gives the sinner the privilege of having his own way if he chooses to take the consequences. He gives him his portion of goods in this life, and permits him to use or abuse them, ^n :; >1

Sin is an apostasy from God. This constitutes the guilt and misery of sin. Present and eternal misery, is present and eternal separation from God.

In the far country the prodigal wasted his substance with riotous living. The sinner wastes his time, talents and opportunities. The prodigal, by his extravagance, was reduced to want. The sinner loses peace of conscience, God's favor, and his immortal soul. 3

The prodigal became a menial ; the sinner becomes a slave.

The prodigal would fill himself with husks; sin never satisfies the soul's desires.

In the depth of the prodigal's distress, no man gave unto him. Sinners would not help each other, if they could ; they could not, if they would.

When ready to perish he began to reflect. He came to himself. Many think that when a man is under conviction of sin, he is beside himself; but he is mad who can rest securely under the guilt and danger of apostasy from

Reflection led to repentance. He determined to return and confess his sin. He arose and came. He resolved to cast himself on the sovereign mercy of an alienated father. This was faith.

When he was yet a great way off, the father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. This was the reception ; the best robe was brought ; a ring was put on his hand ; and shoes on his feet.

THE PRODIGAL RECLAIMED.

There was joy in the father's house. There is joy in heaven over one sinner that ^penteth. Will there he joy in heaven over you, this night, dear reader ?

You are addressed in this parable, and in the book you now hold in your hand. Whatever your name, or place, or age, if there is an " evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God," you are the sinner whom I would reach. Do not read and admire the fitness of this story to illustrate the case of your neighbor, but bear in mind that " if thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself; hut if thou scornest, thou alone shalt bear it." Prov. 9: 12.

THE PRODIGAL RECLAIMED.

Chapter III

Tlie relationship existing between God and man — The hap-_ piness of that relation, and the duties that flow from it— r: Sinnei-s are altogether Avithout excuse if they renounce their relationship to God and depart from him — Man in paradise, and man an apostate, a prodigal.

As a creature of God, man is under infinite obligations to obey bis Maker. As a dependent creature, receiving life, and breath, and being, from his Creator, he is bound to render the perfect love of his heart, and the sincere and ceaseless service of his life. The thing formed is subject to him who formed it. The power of the Maker is absolute, and the thing made has no right to call it in question. Were this the extent of man's obligation to God, it would justly demand his perfectobedience of every precept that has been issued from Jehovali's throne.

No conceivable excuse can be urged for the slightest departure from the requirements of the divine law. Every thing around us obeys its Maker, and why not we ?

Why is it that the whole material world, animate and inanimate, answers the end for which it was made ? Why is it that for six thousand years the countless worlds of this vast universe have moved on in their noiseless, mighty career, without derangement or decay ? Why is it that through all her operations, from the mote that floats in the sunbeam, up to the sun in whose beams it floats, nature now rejoices in the same harmony as when " the morning stars sung together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?" It is because the material world obeys its Creator's laws. Not a jot or tittle of the natural law has failed to be fulfilled. Summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, have followed each other in sweet obedience to the law that regulates the seasons of the year. Worlds on worlds, unnumbered and perhaps innumerable, roll on in '' confusion, unconfused," wheeling their wide circuits through the fields of space ; the slightest deviation from their appointed orbits might 3*