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SICK CALLS.-No. III.

BY THE REV. EDWARD PRICE, M.A.

THE INFIDEL.

IT was in the early spring of last year that I first conceived the the idea of penning these reminiscences of a missionary life. I had just escaped, through the mercy of God, from the horrors of a long and dangerous fever; from weeks of delirium; and the languid helplessness of convalescence. I was then residing in a little quiet nook on the Sussex coast, enjoying the hospitality of the same kind and venerable friend who, two-andtwenty years ago, received me into the Church. The sea air soon restored my shattered health. It was my favourite occupation to wander alone at sunset on the smooth sands; to watch the tiny white sail of the fisher's boat, till it faded,-was lost on the far distant horizon; to gaze with musing eye on the graceful flight of the sea-gull, dipping its delicate white wing in the crested billow; and then, following with eager look, the flitting purple shadows, as they scudded rapidly over the darkening bosom of the sea. Then, to seat my wearied limbs on the jutting fragments of a rock, listening with rapt attention to the booming surf, as it slowly, but surely won its way. And then, lulled by the dreamy music of that surf, to think on bygone days, and the many strange and mournful events I had encountered. And then, the fair and beautiful moon would arise from that far distant line, where sea and sky seem to meet and mingle; throwing, in one long and silvery track, her brightness over the dark blue waters. And then, the twinkling stars would appear, and shine in the firmament; and they all proclaimed, in their own silent eloquence, the glory,—the majesty of their Omnipotent Creator,

It was on such an evening, that the following narrative occurred to my recollection. One by one, the events shaped themselves in my memory, until the whole stood clear, and as well defined as if those events had been of recent occurrence.

In these days of unbelief, it may be that some one of that unhappy class, who with reckless folly,-with pitiable hardihood deny the efficacy, the truth of revealed religion; who coolly scoff at its salutary power, and resign themselves with apathy to the gloomy thought and conviction of their soul's annihilation: who say there is no hereafter; and, that the soul, or thinking principle of man, perishes like the brute beast of the field. It may be, some one, perchance, of this unhappily numerous class,

may glance his eye over this narrative; let him not despise the warning it conveys; let him see infidelity stripped of its boasted shield and panoply of philosophy, in its last solemn conflict with death. Let him come, and stand by the death-bed of him who, in his folly said, there is no God,-there is no hereafter; and witness, if he can, with an unblanched cheek, the reaction of fears too agonizing for utterance; the overwhelming conviction of an hereafter. Alas! utterly unprovided for, let him see, in fine, whether infidelity, the panacea of a diseased mind, can impart peace or consolation in the closing scene of human existence.

"Remember next Thursday," said my old friend Mrs B. "Mind and be punctual at six: and don't forget it is our wedding day. By the bye," she continued, "you will meet a cousin of ours at dinner. I wish sincerely you would make his acquaintance: he is, I am sorry to say, an unbeliever; you may have some influence over him,- try and do what you can for him."

I promised acquiescence, but had strong doubts of succeeding. Thursday evening came. The husband of Mrs. B. was an old friend of mine-in fact, we were at the same school together in early youth, and a warm friendship had been ever maintained between us. He and his wife had both become converts a few years previously, and I had the happiness of receiving them into the Church. They had no family; but enjoyed, in the highest degree, domestic harmony and felicity.

On my entering the drawing-room, I received, as I always did, the warmest welcome from my host and hostess. Two more guests arrived, and then the expected cousin. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, about five and thirty years of age; slightly, but well made; of a pale and thoughtful cast of feature, and a magnificently expansive brow. He was evidently a man of high intellect, and his voice had a most winning and persuasive intonation. His smile, too, had a melancholy sweetness, and I thought I rarely beheld a more dangerous or captivating advocate of unbelief. On my introduction to him, the usual courteous salutation ensued, and the ordinary topics of the day were discussed, until dinner was announced.

We were seated opposite, and I had a good opportunity of making a quiet study of that incomprehensible being,-a sceptic. Dinner passed as dinners usually do. After the cloth was removed, and the dessert and wines placed in all their tempting array, the conversation took a widely discursive and cheerful strain. Every topic, save that of religion, was well and lightly touched on. Politics; the merits of the premier; the chance of a dissolution; the last crack speech in the House; O'Connell and his rent; Ireland,-her long sufferings,-her faults,

and many virtues; steam,--and its stupendous advancement; America; France and many other subjects of interest, came successively on the tapis; and on all, and each of these, Mr. H, the sceptic cousin, spoke well and fluently. He had the rare merit of never speaking for effect; but what he said, was well said, and just, and no more than was sufficient to make you perfectly cognizant of the fact.

After coffee, we had a little,-just enough,- of most excellent music. One of Beethoven's lovely trios was charmingly played. Mrs. B-, our hostess, presided at the piano; her husband played the violoncello, and their cousin, the violin. Then followed a duet for the violin and piano-one of Pasiello's finest. Mr. H- was the best amateur player I ever heard. His tone was pure, and exquisitely vocal. In an adagio, he poured forth a strain of such plaintive melody, so thrilling and mournful, that every listener was moved almost to tears. His playing shewed that he had a heart which had been deeply tried by sorrow.

The conversation took a musical turn. Mrs. B. mentioned to me that her cousin had a fine collection of old violins, upon which, I expressed the great pleasure it would give me to see them. He laughingly acceded, and said:

"I have heard, sir, that you are as great an enthusiast as myself about a Cremona. I shall be most happy to see you to-morrow, and you can judge for yourself."

The hour was arranged, and I departed with a strong feeling of compassion for this highly gifted man, deprived of the only solace-religion— which can mitigate the evils and sorrows of

life.

On the morrow, I paid my promised visit. He lived in the neighbourhood of Russell Square. I was shewn into his library, which contained several thousand volumes, all well bound, and in fine condition. In a few minutes he came in, and, at once, I found myself at home with him. Our conversation took a literary turn, and he shewed me the treasures of his library. I almost envied him his collection. But in one of the book-cases, which was protected by a brass wire screen, and under lock and key, I beheld, to my sorrow, a fearful array of French and English infidelity. Every work of those demon intellects who strove to sap and mine Christianity was there. Alas! how many thousands, perhaps, are now suffering in hell from those very works; and what a fearful account will those unhappy writers have to render at the judgment seat of God, for the poison they have strewn in the path of their fellow-men! The very atmos phere of the room became hateful to me, tenanted as it was by such an infidel host.

VOL. IV.

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"I perceive, sir, said Mr. H——, with a grave and courteous smile, that these works are not at all to your taste. But I am unwilling to shock the prejudices of any one. These books, you see, I keep under lock and key, and no one has access to them but myself. But come, I have metal much more attractive for you. We will adjourn to my music-room, and try the violins.

I willingly acceded. The room in which he kept his instruments was large and wainscoated. No curtains, no carpet, no sofa or stuffed chairs, to deaden the sound; but it looked as it really was, a music-room, in which every tone could be heard, in all its purity, and to the best advantage.

A grand piano, three or four music desks, some shelves,-on which reposed several violin cases, formed the contents. His violins were all of the first class. Two, a Guarnerius and a Stadiverius, were of unrivalled beauty of tone. I looked on them with reverence. Through how many generations have these delicate and fragile Cremonas survived. How many kingdoms have been lost and won; how many dynasties have been changed, since that frail and perishable wood was put together at Cremona; how many countless thousands have listened with rapt attention to their melting strains, and who are now dead, and perhaps forgotten! Mysterious instruments of melody! the art of producing you has perished with your makers. Science and skill have been tried in vain, to imitate-to reproduce you. You stand, oh Cremonas, alone in your glory!

He tried one of the finest of his violins. Chords the most pure, sweet, melodious, and brilliant, streamed from beneath his bow; then he achieved with incredible lightness and precision, the widest intervals,-ascended and descended, with marvellous facility, the chromatic and diatonic scales, and exhausted, within the space of a few bars, the whole range of chords and sounds possible upon the instrument. Then, his spirit seemed changed; a mournful, fleeting, intangible vision, -a sort of shuddering fury, as if of recollected wrongs, seemed to seize him, and tones the most appalling, strains the most agonizing, pealed from the excited strings,-until I trembled for the hapless being whom I beheld and heard. Then, he played Nel cor più, to which he imparted a tone so plaintive and desolate, that the heart was torn by it. Intermingled, were tones that seemed to be wrung from the deepest anguish of a broken heart. And then he finished with a light and graceful rondo.

"The loosened notes fell in a silver shower," and left me breathless with admiration and delight. His violin appeared a part of himself, by which he could best pourtray the workings

of his mind. He would, if he had been a professional player, have rivalled Paganini.

He finished, exhausted with his efforts.

"It is seldom," said he, "that I meet with one who can appreciate the resources of the violin. Marvellous, indeed, they are, and who can tell the extent of its limits? To the common unobservant eye, it is only a fiddle; but, who ever heard Paganini, and did not at times almost imagine that his fiddle contained a soul? And thou," said he apostrophising his Cremona, "my fine old fellow, thou wilt, perhaps, long survive me,-thy melodious tones will be heard,-will quicken the pulses of others, when I shall be no more, when this mysterious, sentient, thinking principle by which I exist, will be annihilated,—will rest in the eternal sleep of death."

"My dear sir," I rejoined, "are you quite sure, are you quite satisfied, that such will be the termination of your earthly career?"

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Perfectly so," he replied." Long ago, by intense study, by deep and mature reflection, I arrived at a calm and deep conviction, that there is no hereafter."

Here I pondered, for a few moments, on the best method of dealing with so fearful a spiritual disease; and reflecting on the great force of what is called the pride of intellect, I determined to avoid, in the commencement, any and all collision with the metaphysical objections, which, indeed, I felt I could overthrow, but to which, I perceived, he was so wedded, that, to do that, would only estrange him still further from the truth. These thoughts flashed rapidly through my mind, and I determined on a very opposite, and, as my experience, in this and in other cases, has invariably shewn me, a much more happy and effective plan.

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Allow me to ask," I said, "has this conviction tended to promote your happiness?"

"Happiness!" he exclaimed with a ghastly smile: "Happiness has long fled from this lacerated heart of mine. I seek no longer for happiness. It is a bubble,-a dream; and, oh, how miserable is the awakening! But come, sir, I must apologise for my hasty expression. It escaped from me I know not how; I am ever most careful not to shock, what I conceive, the prejudices of others. I have chosen my path, sir; it may not be the best, perhaps, but such as it is, it has given me content."

"But you would not like to die, sir, professing those opinions of unbelief? I have seen many hundreds of death-beds, and I have often witnessed extraordinary changes in the mind and heart of man in the solemn hour of dissolution. I have never

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