Review and Herald, Vol. 18, No. 14. (9/3/1861)

Review and Herald

Sep 3, 1861

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 3, 1861

The Atonement.

By Albert Barnes

BY ALBERT BARNES.

IS REPENTANCE A SUFFICIENT GROUND OF HOPE?

THE question which next occurs is, whether repentance for sin will of itself be a sufficient ground of hope without an atonement.

There can be no doubt that men often rely on this. Either as a sort of expiation for sin, or as recommending them to God, or as being all that is possible in the case, or as in some unknown way making it proper for God to pardon on that account, men do rely on this as a ground of hope. They would allege that they themselves are required to forgive an offending neighbor; that a parent should forgive a child; that it would be unjust, in the intercourse of man with man, to refuse to forgive when one who has offended is penitent; and, they ask, why may not God be expected to forgive in the same way? If it would be unjust in man not to forgive in such circumstances, why is it not equally unjust in God? They would refer, perhaps, to the fact that even in the Bible we are commanded to forgive an offending brother "not only seven times, but seventy times seven," if he turn and repent (Luke xvii, 4; Matt. xviii, 21, 22), and that without any atonement or reparation; and they would ask whether we are to suppose that God will act on a different principle from that which he requires in us. Thus, in a quotation before made, Dr. Priestley says, "We are commanded to forgive others as we ourselves hope to be forgiven, and to be merciful as our Father who is in heaven is merciful. But surely we are not thereby authorized to insist upon any atonement or satisfaction before we give up our resentments toward an offending brother. Indeed, how could it deserve the name of forgiveness if we did?"

The inquiry now is, whether this view is sustained by the actual course of events in the world so as to be a just foundation of hope for man; that is, whether it is a matter of fact under the divine administration that repentance for sin arrests the effects of transgression and restores the offender to the favor of God; whether it so re-instates him in the position in which he was before the offense was committed that he has no reason to dread any infliction of the penalty of law? If it does, then it may be argued with plausibility that it might be safe for man to trust to the effect of repentance without an atonement.

In reference to this inquiry, the following remarks may be made.

(1.) It is clear that repentance is not what the law demands. No law of God or of man contains this as a part of its requirement, that there shall be repentance for a fault; that is, that an offense may be tolerated by the law on condition that there shall be a suitable expression of penitence after the offense has been committed. In no country, barbarous or civilized, has such an article been inserted into a code of laws as a part of its provisions or as connected with its administration. No parent would feel that this was a safe principle in the field of domestic legislation, even with all the guarantees and securities that exist to secure the observance of law in the sanctity of the household. No friend would consent to this as one of the conditions of friendship,—that any or all the obligations of truth, kindness, respect, fidelity, might be disregarded; that the proposed friend might even invade the sanctity of conjugal life and rob him of domestic peace, on condition that there should be suitable repentance and reformation afterward. No man could make this a condition on which he would be willing to live with his fellow man; no neighborhood would be safe if these were the terms on which it was understood that neighbors were to keep up their intercourse with each other. Law knows but two things,—the absolute precept, and the penalty: the one to be obeyed, the other to be suffered. All else than this belongs to another system and cannot be regarded as any part of the demand of law. It could not be argued beforehand, therefore, that such an arrangement was to be expected in the divine legislation. In fact, there is no proof in the nature of things that such an arrangement exists in the divine constitution respecting those who are the subjects of law.

(2.) It is a matter of fact that mere repentance does not remove the effects of sin and restore an offender to the condition in which he was before he committed the offense. "The present conduct of the penitent will receive God's approbation, but the reformation of the sinner cannot have a retrospective effect. The agent may be changed, but his former sins cannot be thereby canceled: the convert and the sinner are the same individual person, and the agent must be answerable for his whole conduct." Even Cicero goes no further on this subject than to assert, Quem pœnitet peccasse, pene est innocens, 'The penitent is only almost innocent.' Does repentance bring back the property that has been squandered in gambling or dissipation, the health that has been ruined by debauchery and intemperance, the reputation that has been lost by fraud and dishonesty, the public favor that has been forfeited by forgery or fraud, the vigor of early years that has been wasted by profligacy? Will any penitence, however sincere or prolonged, bring up from the grave the man that has been murdered, and restore him to his family and friends? Will it call back to the ways of purity the young female that has been led into a career of sin by the acts of the seducer? No. All these are now fixed. They belong to the past. They cannot be changed. The health is permanently destroyed; the property is wasted; the sacred citadel of virtue has been taken; the murdered man is in his grave; the victim of seduction is ruined. No repentance on the part of him who has caused any of these things can ever change them; no repentance can place the offender himself in the situation in which he was before he committed the crime. By reformation a man may indeed regain an honorable position in society; but even under the most favorable circumstances this removes but a part of the evils caused by a sinful course. It brings back nothing that was lost; it changes no facts in the past; it furnishes no assurance of the divine favor. The consequences of a sinful course are not to be turned aside by floods of tears. The erring female cannot avert the effects of a criminal course by nights of weeping,—by the fact that the heart is broken by the remembrance of crime.

(3.) Equally clear is it that mere repentance does not remove the effects of crime on the conscience of the offender himself. Even though all the external consequences of sin could be averted by an act of penitence, still, there would be consequences of guilt on the mind itself which would not be removed. Remorse, the sense of self-dissatisfaction, the apprehension of what may occur hereafter, would still remain. There is nothing in the bitterest repentance that has any effect in silencing the deep self-disapprobation which arises from the commission of crime. That springs up in the mind entirely irrespective of the apprehension of the consequences of guilt and the dread of the future,—however it may, as a secondary effect, suggest that there is much to dread hereafter. That feeling of self-disapprobation or remorse

is one quite independent of any loss of health or property or reputation as the effect of the deed done. It stands by itself. It springs directly out of the crime. It would exist if there were no future to be dreaded, and would exist in view of the crime itself if it had done nothing to waste health, to destroy property, or to injure reputation. And this is in no manner affected by mere repentance. An offender, no matter how much he weeps, no matter how bitter or how prolonged may be his penitence, cannot, does not, feel that the crime which he has committed is in any way affected by his sorrow for it. It is none the less; it seems to him none the less. Even should he wholly reform, and become eminently virtuous, that would not affect his own sense of the evil of the sin, except to deepen his sense of that evil. The same thing is true in his apprehension of what is to come as the reward of sin; for sin not only produces remorse in view of the past, but it directs the mind on to that which is to come. By a law of our nature, the apprehension of what is to occur beyond the grave springs up in the mind just as the feeling of remorse does,—an apprehension quite separate from remorse, indeed, in its nature, though conjoined with it in fact. It is so separate that it must be dealt with in its own way, and be removed by an arrangement that shall have a special adaptation to it. And this is not removed by repentance. The mind of the guilty man does not feel any assurance, however deep the penitence, that there will be no consequences of sin to be apprehended in a future world. After all the tears that he may shed; after the keenest mental sorrow that his mind can experience at the remembrance of guilt, it is still true that the apprehension in regard to the world to come will not be lessened. There is a conviction that the crime deserves a deeper retribution than the mere shedding of tears; and there will be a conviction that nothing has been done by repentance to furnish any security that the sin will not draw on fearful consequences in the future world. No act of penitence, no tears or mental sorrow, can remove from the mind the consciousness of guilt; none can remove the apprehension of the wrath to come. No such act can secure to a guilty man peace on a bed of death; none, therefore, can accomplish what is needful to have accomplished in behalf of the guilty.

It is clear, therefore, that there is no reason why men should rely on repentance as a ground of hope in regard to the remission of sin. It is certain that there is no such ground of hope given by God himself to mankind; for the rejector of revelation pretends to no promise of this kind, and no such promise is made to man in the Bible. It is equally certain that the course of events furnishes no such ground of hope; for, as we have seen, mere repentance does not remove the effects of guilt and restore the offender to his former position, does not take away remorse from the mind, and does not remove the dread of the wrath to come. And it is equally certain that it has not been one of the principles of natural religion that mankind would be restored to the divine favor on mere repentance; for, if there has been any one thing more unequivocally declared by the conduct of mankind than any other, it is that something more than this is necessary. All nations have believed in the necessity of sacrifices for sin. Everywhere upon the earth bloody offerings have been presented to the gods as an expiation for guilt. Penances and pilgrimages, fastings and tortures, have been added to penitence. Bullocks, rams, goats, prisoners of war, old men and children, have been sacrificed to the gods to expiate crime and to secure the efficacy of repentance; and from the light of nature it is impossible to demonstrate;—and therefore it is wrong to assume—that mere repentance will restore an offender to the divine favor. Hence on this ground we argue the necessity of an atonement. That the atonement of Christ would meet the difficulties in the case, and would accomplish the effects necessary to be secured, is a point which a rejector of revelation may fairly require us to demonstrate.

The next inquiry is, whether an expiation for sin can be so made by punishment as to answer the ends of law and to render an atonement unnecessary; that is, whether a sinner may so rely on the sufferings which come upon him as the fruit of sin that an atonement is not necessary in his case. In other words, is sin sufficiently expiated by the sufferings endured in the world as the consequence of transgression?

In considering this question, it will be necessary to examine the subject of punishment.

(1.) The first point relates to the views which prevail among men in regard to the design of punishment.

The prevailing views on that subject are the following:

(a.) That it is to protect the community from a repetition of the offense.

(b.) That it is to deter others, by example, from the commission of the same offense.

(c.) That it is to reform the offender.

In these views there would be found no element in the notion of punishment based on the idea that it is an expression of the sense entertained by the community of the evil of crime as such; or that it is a carrying out of the idea involved in the phrase that the offender ought to be punished.

What, then, is the design of punishment? I answer: While it has as a subordinate design the purpose of deterring others from the commission of the same offense and securing the safety of the community, it has a much higher end as its main design. It is an expression of the sense entertained of the value of the law, and is the measure of the sense which is entertained of that value. It is inflicted because it is right that it should be inflicted. It is inflicted because the offense deserves such an expression. There is, back of any idea of restraining others, or of reforming the offender himself, or of protecting the community, the feeling that it is right that the offender should be made to suffer; that he ought to be punished; that it would be wrong if he were not punished. And, when we see a man justly punished, we think of this not as tending to reform him, or as designed to protect the community, or to be an example to deter others; but we think of him as suffering that which our nature tells us is right, whatever may be the consequences in these other respects; and in that view of the matter we acquiesce in the infliction. We may rejoice in the belief that these incidental effects will follow from the infliction of the punishment; but we should regard it as a violation of justice if these views should guide the magistrate in determining the amount of punishment; that is, if it were only so much as would best tend to reform the offender, or to deter others, or to protect the community. We demand something more: we demand that which will in some proper sense express what the crime deserves. The sufferer in the case, in our apprehension, is not a martyr: he is a criminal. The sufferings do not make an appeal to our compassion: for just so far as they do they are either unjust, or our feelings are wrong. Our nature teaches us to discriminate carefully between the ills which one suffers by misfortune and the ills which he suffers by crime; between the sufferings of the martyr and the sufferings of the murderer; between the man who languishes in prison under an unjust sentence and the man who lies there under a just sentence of law. In nothing are our feelings more accurately defined than they are in making this distinction; in nothing do we, when we set out our nature, discriminate more accurately than in the feelings which we have toward the innocent who suffer, and the guilty. And just so far as the same emotions come to be cherished in a community in regard to the sufferings of the innocent and of the guilty,—just so far as the feelings which we have in respect to the martyr becomes our prevailing feelings toward the man who is suffering the penalty of the law for his crime,—just so far as the distinction between a just compassion for an innocent sufferer and the feeling of approbation which we have on the proper infliction of the penalty of the law on the guilty shall be obliterated in public sentiment,—just so far will all the proper ends of justice be defeated, and the processes of justice become a mockery. If there is anything that is deeply fixed in the nature of man, it is the conviction that certain courses of conduct deserve certain results; that when crimes are committed they should excite in us the feeling that they deserve punishment and are not mere objects of sympathy; that they should be treated as crimes, and not as virtues; and that they who have committed them should be treated as criminals, and not as martyrs.

There is one more consideration to be suggested in regard to the hope cherished by men that salvation may be secured as the effect of punishment without an atonement. It is this: If salvation is to be attained in that way, it must be by having endured the full penalty of the law. If that were done, it is to be admitted that salvation would follow as a matter of course. If the entire penalty of the law is exhausted, if all that sin deserves has been expiated, the law can have no further demands, and the offender might claim salvation. But he would be saved by justice—not by mercy. He would assert a right to admission to heaven; he would not go there by grace. This is the opinion of a portion of those who believe in the doctrine of 'universal salvation.' The foundation of their belief is that men will suffer according to their deserts in a future state; that the degree and the duration of their sufferings will be different according to the different degrees of their guilt; but that all will ultimately exhaust the penalty of the law, and having suffered all that their sins deserve, will then be saved. That is, they will be saved by justice; and to them an atonement would be useless. And, if the full penalty of the law was endured, they would undoubtedly be saved. But who can demonstrate that the full penalty of the law has been borne in any case? Who would undertake to bear it as the basis of his own hope of heaven? It is certainly possible that the penalty of the law may be everlasting punishment; and no one who undertakes to endure the penalty of the law can demonstrate that this is not what the law of God denounces against sin. No one can prove that at a given point in the future he could assume that he had endured all that the law demands and could therefore assert a right to be saved. No one can refer to a promise or an intimation that such a period will ever arrive. But, unless this can be done, then an atonement is absolutely necessary for the salvation of the sinner; that is, something is required which will answer the ends of the penalty of the law, and make it proper to release the offender as if he had himself borne the penalty.

FORGIVENESS.

"Forgive and ye shall be forgiven." Luke vi, 37. "How oft? Until seventy times seven." Matt. xviii, 21. See also Matt. vi, 12, 15; Mark xi, 25, 26, etc. etc.

Forgive! 'Tis Heaven's divine command, The measure of its grace; Said Jesus, "When ye praying stand Within the holy place, Bring no resentments in your hand, No frowns upon your face."

Though oft repeated,—seven times seven, In guilt's most hateful forms, "Forgive as thou wouldst be forgiven;" Dost thou accept the terms, Yet proudly hope to enter heaven Frowning on fellow worms?

I know my dreadful sin abounds, I feel the deep offense, I owe my Lord ten thousand pounds, And thee a hundred pence; Both, both, with shame and grief profound, My burdened soul laments.

And dost not thou to Him confess, Like me, a mighty debt, Without one plea of righteousness Its charges to offset? Which only grace—free, sovereign grace, Can cancel or forget?

Has not thy daily prayer been heard, Repeated morn and even, "As I forgive offences, Lord, So be my sins forgiven?" Ah! should he take thee at thy word, Where were thy hopes of heaven!

Since 'tis to grace—free, sovereign grace, The most exalted bow, Who, who of all our blood-bought race Will be censerious now, Or to the guiltiest say, "Give place, I'm holier than thou?"

The Timely Warning.

By G. W. A.

[The following touching narrative was selected for the INSTRUCTOR, with the request that if it was not published it might be returned. We hand it over to Bro. White, as not inappropriate for the REVIEW. Its length prevents it from appearing in the INSTRUCTOR. We just add, let those boys and youth who think it manly to spurn their mother's kind control, read this "Timely Warning," and weep floods of tears for their ingratitude.

AN AFFECTING STORY.

My father, after an absence of three years, returned to the home so dear to him. He had made his last voyage, and rejoiced to have reached a haven of rest from the perils of the sea. During his absence, I had grown from a mere child and a baby of my mother's, for I was her youngest, into a rough, careless, and headstrong boy. Her gentle voice no longer restrained me. I was often wilful, and sometimes disobedient. I thought it indicated manly superiority to be independent of woman's influence. My father's return was a fortunate circumstance for me. He soon perceived the spirit of insubordination stirring within me. I saw by his manner that it displeased him, although for a few days he said nothing to me about it.

It was an afternoon in October, bright and golden, that my father told me to get my hat, and take a walk with him. We turned down an open lane into a fine open field—a favorite play-ground for the children in the neighborhood. After talking cheerfully on different topics for a while, my father asked me if I observed that huge shadow thrown by a mass of rocks that stood in the middle of the field? I replied that I did.

“My father owned this land,” said he. “It was my play-ground when a boy. That rock stood there then. To me it is as a beacon, and whenever I look at it I recall a dark spot in my life—an event so painful to dwell upon, that if it were not a warning to you, I should not speak of it. Listen, then, my dear boy, and learn wisdom from your father’s errors.

“My father died when I was a mere child. I was the only son. My mother was a gentle, loving woman, devoted to her children, and beloved by everybody. I remember her pale, beautiful face, her sweet affectionate smile, her kind and gentle voice. In my childhood I loved her intensely; I was never happy apart from her, and she, fearing I was becoming too much of a baby, sent me to the high school in the village. After associating a time with rude, rough boys, I lost in a measure, my fondness for home and my reverence for my mother, and it became more and more difficult for her to restrain my impetuous nature. I thought it an indication of manliness to resist her authority, and not to appear penitent, although I knew that my conduct pained her. The epithet I most dreaded was girl-boy. I could not bear to hear it said by my companions that I was tied to my mother’s apron-strings. From a quiet, home-loving child, I soon became a wild, roistering boy. My dear mother used every persuasion to induce me to seek happiness within the precincts of home. She exerted herself to make our fireside attractive; and my sister, following her self-sacrificing example, sought to entice me by planning games and diversions for my entertainment. I saw all this, but did not heed it.

“It was on an afternoon like this, that as I was about leaving the dinner-table, to spend the intermission between the morning and evening school, in the street, as usual, my mother laid her hand upon my shoulder, and said mildly but firmly, ‘My son, I wish you to come with me.’ I would have rebelled, but something in her manner saved me. She put on her bonnet, and said to me, ‘We will take a little walk together.’ I followed her in silence; and as I was passing out the door, I observed one of my rude companions skulking about the house, and I knew he was waiting for me. He sneered as I went past him. My pride was wounded to the quick. He was a very bad boy, but being some years older than myself, he exercised great influence over me. I followed my mother sulkily till we reached the spot where we now stand, beneath the shadow of this huge rock. Oh, my boy! could that hour be blotted from my memory, which has cast a dark shadow over my whole life, gladly would I exchange all that the world can offer me, for the quiet peace of mind I should enjoy. But no! like this huge, unsightly pile, stands the monument of my guilt forever.

“My mother, being feeble in health, sat down and beckoned me to sit beside her. Her look, so full of tender sorrow, is present to me now. I would not sit, but continued standing sullenly beside her. ‘Alfred, my dear son,’ said she, ‘have you lost all love for your mother?’ I did not reply. ‘I fear you have,’ she continued, ‘and may God help you to see your own heart, and me to do my duty!’ She then talked to me of my misdeeds, of the dreadful consequences of the course I was pursuing. By tears, and entreaties, and prayers, she tried to make an impression upon me. She placed before me the lives and example of great and good men; she sought to stimulate my ambition. I was moved, but too proud to show it, and remained standing in dogged silence beside her. I thought, ‘What will my companions say, if, after all my boasting, I yield at last, and finally submit to be led by a woman?’

“What agony was visible on my mother’s face when she saw that all she said and suffered failed to move me! She rose to go home, and I followed at a distance. She spoke to me no more till she reached her own door.

“‘It is school-time now,’ said she. ‘Go, my son, and once more let me beseech you to think upon what I have said.’

“‘I sha’n’t go to school,’ said I.

“She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied, firmly,

“‘Certainly you will go, Alfred. I command you.’

“‘I will not!’ said I, with a tone of defiance.

“‘One of two things you must do, Alfred—either go to school this moment, or I will lock you in your room and keep you there till you are ready to promise implicit obedience to my wishes in future.’

“‘I dare you to do it,’ said I, ‘you can’t get me up stairs.’

“‘Alfred, choose now,’ said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm. She trembled violently, and was deadly pale.

“‘If you touch me I will kick you,’ said I, in a terrible rage. God knows I knew not what I said.

“‘Will you go, Alfred?’

“‘No!’ I replied, but quailed beneath her eye.

“‘Then follow me,’ said she, as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot—Oh, my son, hear me! I raised my foot, and kicked her—my sainted mother! How my head reels, as the torment of memory rushes over me! I kicked my mother—a feeble woman—my mother! She staggered back a few steps, and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me. I saw her heart beat against her breast. ‘Oh, heavenly Father,’ she cried, ‘forgive him—he knows not what he does!’ The gardener just then passed the door, and seeing my mother pale and almost unable to support herself, he stopped; she beckoned him in. ‘Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his own room,’ said she, and turned from me. Looking back as she was entering her room, she gave me such a look—it will follow me forever—it was a look of agony, mingled with the intensest love—it was the last unutterable pang from a heart that was broken.

“In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought, for a moment, I would fling myself from the open window, and dash my brains out, but I felt afraid to die. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my stubborn pride rose in an instant, and bade me not to yield. The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on the bed and fell asleep. I awoke at midnight, stiffened by the damp night air, terrified with frightful dreams. I would have sought my mother at that moment, for I trembled with fear, but my door was fast. With the daylight my terrors were dissipated, and I became bold in resisting all good impulses. The servant brought my meals, but I did not taste them. I thought the day would never end. Just at twilight I heard a light footstep approach the door. It was my sister, who called me by name.

“‘What may I tell mother from you?’ she asked.

“‘Nothing,’ I replied.

“‘Oh, Alfred! for my sake, for all our sakes, say that you are sorry—let me tell mother that you are sorry. She longs to forgive you.’

“‘I won’t be driven to school against my will,’ said I.

“‘But you will go if she wishes it, dear Alfred,’ said my sister, pleadingly.

“‘No I won’t,’ said I, ‘and you needn’t say a word more about it.’

“‘Oh, brother! you will kill her, you will kill her, and then you can never have a happy moment again.’

“I made no reply to this. My feelings were touched, but I still resisted their kind influence. My sister called me, but I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and again I flung myself upon the bed to pass another fearful and wretched night. Oh, God! how wretched! how fearful I did not know.

“Another footstep, slower and feebler than my sister’s disturbed me. A voice called me by name. It was my mother’s.

“‘Alfred, my son, shall I come in? Are you sorry for what you have done?’

“I cannot tell what influence, operating at that moment, made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother that thrilled through me, melted the ice from my obdurate heart, and I longed to throw myself on her neck, but I did not. No, my boy, I did not. But my words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.

“I was awakened from an uneasy slumber, by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside.

“‘Get up, Alfred. Oh, don’t wait another minute! Get up and come with me. Mother is dying.’

“I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up melancholy, and followed my sister. On the bed, pale and cold as marble, lay my mother. She had not undressed. She had thrown herself on the bed to rest; arising to go again to me, she was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and borne senseless to her room.

“I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her—my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought that she would never know it. I believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on the bed beside her. I could not weep. My heart burned in my bosom; my brain was all on fire. My sister threw her arms around me, and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a slight motion of mother’s hand—her eyes unclosed. She had recovered consciousness, but not speech. She looked at me, and moved her lips. I could not understand her words. ‘Mother, mother!’ I shrieked, ‘say only that you forgive me.’ She could not say it with her lips, but her hand pressed mine. She smiled upon me, and lifting up her thin white hands, she pressed my own within them, and cast her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer, and thus she died. I remained still kneeling beside that dear form till my gentle sister removed me. She comforted me, for she knew the heavy load of sorrow at my heart; heavier than grief for the loss of my mother; for it was a load of sorrow for sin. The joy of youth had left me forever.

“My son, the suffering such memories awake, must continue as long as life. God is merciful; but remorse for past misdeeds is a canker-worm in the heart, that preys upon it forever.”

My father ceased speaking, and buried his face in his hands. He saw and felt the bearing his narrative had upon my character and conduct. I have never forgotten it. Boys who spurn a mother’s control, who are ashamed to own that they are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or yield to her influence, beware! Lay not up for yourselves bitter memories for future years.

Discussion of Great Truths

It is the action of the waves that keeps the ocean fresh; it is the stirring of the pool that gives it all its healing; it is the discussion of great truths that eliminates great corruptions, and establishes and vindicates what God has inspired, and what men’s hearts yearn for to make them wiser, and happier, and better.

Man Made for Happiness

MAN was made to be happy, to be immortal; to live in happiness—a creation of beauty and of joy—forever: and if he is not now what his constitution once was, the fault is not in his Maker, but in him.

Satan Transformed into an Angel of Light

Satan will assume that form, and employ that instrument, which is most likely to captivate, and accomplish his purpose: ‐‐Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.—

EASTERN TOUR.

According to appointment we met with many of the scattered friends of the cause in Northern New York, at Buck's Bridge, Sabbath and first-day, Aug. 17 and 18. The gathering was larger than we anticipated, so that on the Sabbath we had a good congregation. Here were the vacant seats of several families who used to assemble at the House of Prayer at the Bridge, viz., Byington, Hilliard, Graves, White, Mead and Falshaw. These will be happy to learn that we had an excellent meeting, the best we ever enjoyed in the place. Their places were partly filled by some who have joined the little company of Sabbath-keepers in Northern New York. We were happy to meet sister Whitney and three of her sons, and some others at this place for the first time. The meeting on the Sabbath was excellent.

In the morning we felt exceedingly sorrowful. We had been reflecting upon the state of the cause, the amount of hard labor which had been bestowed in this part of the field to accomplish so little, the lack of order, and the lack of feeling upon the subject in the State. It seemed to us that it was useless for us to endure the fatigue of traveling, cause our friends so much trouble, and take of their hard-earned money to meet expenses, to have merely a good meeting, without seeing the cause advanced. But the clouds parted as we moved forward to speak to the people, and it was a season of refreshing and rejoicing to all. First-day we spoke twice to good congregations. At the close of the afternoon discourse Mrs. W. spoke with great freedom, and called in a crowd from the Methodist congregation collecting opposite our place of worship.

We feel to thank God for this good meeting, yet as we look back upon our labors in the State of New York we are stung with the thought that the balance of influence is either against, or silent upon, the subject of organization. We decide that those who, after seeing the fruits of confusion, do not now see the necessity of organization, never can see it, and never will see it. We therefore take no responsibilities only to preach, and attend to the business of the Association. And without the best of evidence that preachers and people were united in the East in seeing the necessity for that organization not opposed by the Scriptures, we could never consent to risk another eastern tour. Some who have opposed organization act as though they thought they had fully cleared themselves by ceasing their warfare. They will doubtless see the time that they will feel deeply the importance of redeeming the time they have lost in opposing the right, and will wish to undo what they have done on the wrong side. But now is the time to do what they can to free themselves, and to help others.

We pity those preachers in the East who deplore the state of things among us, yet do not see how they can be remedied with the existing lack of union on the subject of organization. They can at present do but little more than to try to hold together the broken fragments until the time of shaking shall arouse all who may remain firm to the importance of organization and discipline. We shall be greatly disappointed if the number of Sabbath-keepers does not decrease for the next twelve months.

Almost every day brings to view new facts calling for system. Bro. Czechowski needed the guidance of a well-organized body. We did for him what we regarded as our duty, and commended him to the care of our excellent Bro. Taylor and Whipple, near whom he was located. This was the best we could do. But Bro. C., following his own judgment, went to New York city, was helped much, yet suffered much, and accomplished very little. Such things discourage our liberal brethren, and burden and sink the cause. We are done moving out in any enterprise connected with the cause until system can lie at the bottom of all our operations. Mrs. W. and self have interested ourselves in behalf of the poor; but in the absence of systematic arrangements among us much care has come upon us, and at least three-fourths of those whom we have been instrumental in helping became our enemies. Now let others who choose push the battle in confusion, but we are making all preparations for a safe retreat till the army of Sabbath-keepers be organized, and the rebels against organization be purged out.

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