if you would allow me, bring you to our common Saviour, and see you again united to his fold. What, my dear Henry, shall I say to prevail upon you to forsake your ruinous course, and return to your duty? Let me assure you that prayers and tears will follow you to the last. God grant that they may not be swift witnesses against you in the day of judgment. "As ever, your affectionate brother." As Henry's eyes ran hastily over the lines of this letter, his heart palpitated, his countenance changed, first being deeply flushed, then turning as pale as a corpse-and when he had read the last word, his hand which held the letter fell into his lap, and the tears coursed down his cheeks. He rose up, and walked off to a retired spot, where he alternately wept immoderately, and made strong efforts to brace himself up, and recover his wonted indifference. He, however, resolved that he would never again be seen intoxicated. This purpose was adhered to for several months; but, in an evil hour, he was again overcome, and now he seemed more fatally prostrated than ever. The efforts of friends were again renewed, and they finally succeeded in prevailing upon the object of their solicitude to "sign the pledge." Strong hopes were now entertained that Henry would not relapse. For months he was sober and industrious as ever, and the family seemed to think the danger had passed over, and felt their hopes assured. The consternation of the Raymond family, and of their sympathizing friends, may be better imagined than described, upon the dreadful event of another lapse of poor Henry. Circumstances transpired, which are so common and well known that they need not be described, which proved more than a match for the strength of purpose and the power of conscience, which, in this case, had been too much relied upon, and down went the unfortunate victim of a rampant appetite, deeper than ever, into the mire of intemperance. Henry now lost his self-respect, and, to a most fearful extent, his respect for the feelings and admonitions of his friends. He spent days and weeks from home-he lounged about rum-shops and country towns, until he became an object of general commiseration. Many now gave up Harry Raymond for lost. His youthful companion almost lost heart, and scarcely knew how to brook the evils.which she suffered. Old Mr. Raymond often groaned out, "Poor Harry is ruined—and, I fear, will never be recovered." But there was one heart that held out-supported by faith and hope-graces which had been tried as in the fire, and which, at this period of life, had ceased to falter. And whose heart was this but that of the mother of the unfortunate and apparently ruined victim of a monster vice? The heart of the mother felt most keenly the fearful situation of the object of her solicitude-she was not blind to his dangers nor his faults-she saw the impotency of human resolutions, and all motives founded upon mere self-respect or worldly prospects in a struggle with an overpowering appetite for the intoxicating draught; but she knew full well the efficacy of prayer. Her dependence was upon God alone, and not upon plans of man's devising. She never, for a moment, gave up poor Harry;" but despite of all the discouraging circumstances which arose, she persisted in believing, and in declaring, that "her prodigal son would finally return." 66 In the mean time, no efforts were spared to awaken the conscience, to alarm the fears, and to rekindle the domestic feelings of the inebriate. Whenever he came home-at whatever hour of the day or night-under whatever circumstances— however degraded and disgusting his appearance, he always met a kind reception, and found prompt provisions made for his pressing wants. When he had recovered himself from a state of entire or partial intoxication, he was then kindly expostulated with, and urged to "stay at home," and give the family the pleasure of his company, and the benefit of his help upon the farm. These "cords of love" would restrain him for a while; but the stern demands of a morbid appetite would finally break them asunder, and the victim would again find himself bound within the folds of the monstrous serpent, whose coils are as crushing as those of the merciless anaconda, and whose venom is cruel as the grave. Prayer was made unceasingly for poor Henry. He was formally remembered in the morning and evening sacrifice. His case was carried to God in secret by a large circle of relatives and acquaintances; and often in the social prayer meeting was fervent intercession offered up to God for the same object by a score of earnest, believing Christians. Several of Mr. Raymond's family were located in the neighborhood, and Catherine Dunbar was one. It happened that on a beautiful morning, Henry Raymond came to his sister's house unusually sober, especially considering that he had heen absent from home for a week or more. While a breakfast was being prepared for him, he sat in the corner in a pensive mood, and, after he had taken his breakfast, he resumed the same position, and seemed lost in thought. Catherine finally interrupted his revery with a proposition which seemed to astonish him. "Harry," said she, "come, go with me to the meeting this morning; we are having very interesting services at the church." "Me go with you to church!" answered Henry : "that would be of no use-nobody cares anything about me." "Dear Henry," rejoined Catherine, "how can you think so! have we not all given you evidence enough of our regards, and our anxious desires for your welfare?" Henry hung his head, and with quivering lips and broken utterance, rejoined: "I am not fit to be seen in decent company;" and looking upon himself as though until that moment he had been perfectly insensible to the condition of his person, added: "Kate, I have yet a little too much pride to show my head in the church in such a condition as this." "You are right, Harry, perfectly right," answered Catherine, "and I can help you out of the trouble at once-wash yourself up, and I'll furnish you with a good suit of clothes. You and Thomas"-her husband-"are just of a size." "I don't know about borrowing a suit of clothes to wear to meeting," answered Henry. "My dear brother," rejoined Catherine, "it is no time for you to indulge in such foolish pride; this may be the last of your day of grace. Come now," said she, taking him by the arm, "do please me this time, and I will promise you that you will never regret it." Henry sat dumb for a moment, and then began to move as though he had consented. The suit was soon in readiness, and he was washed and shaved. The next hour he walked up to the church by the side of Catherine; and no little surprise was occasioned by his appearance. The pious old couple had been heard, that morning especially, to pray that God would reach the heart of their miserable son. They were seated when Henry entered; and it was to them the signal of a fervent ejaculation to God, that the wanderer might be awakened and reclaimed. The discourse was appropriate, and sank down into the hearts of many; and Henry Raymond was among those who felt "the word of God, like a hammer, breaking in pieces the rock." He, however, managed to hold up his head until the social prayermeeting came on. At a particular stage of the exercises, old Mr. Raymond, with his melodious, tremulous voice, struck up "Come, ye sinners, poor and needy"--when, quick as a flash of lightning, a thousand old associations were revived in Henry's mind. His heart began to melt; and when the old gentleman poured out a flood of melting melody upon the lines"If you tarry till you're better, You will never come at all; Not the righteous, Sinners Jesus came to call ". the fountains of grief were unstopped, and poor Henry wept and sobbed aloud. A few encouraging words were whispered in his ear; and, after the service had closed, he returned with Catherine, silent and sad. The circumstances had electrified the assembly, and constituted the principal topic of conversation on the way home. The pious hoped, and the careless were astonished but none uttered a contemptuous word. One of Henry's companions, who was present, seemed to partake of the sympathies of the occasion. "Now," said he, "if Harry should take a religious turn, blame me if I think it would hurt him-for the fact is, he's getting a little bit too bad." Another rejoined: "If he should come out strong, won't they have a time over at the old man's? I should like to be there, and see them carry on about five minutes." Old Mr. Raymond and his consort went home with an unusually quick step; and upon entering the cottage, the old lady said to Harriet, (who had remained at home, brooding over her troubles,) “Dear Harriet, what do you think? Henry was at meeting, and seemed much affected. "Henry at meeting!" exclaimed Harriet, and leaning her head upon her hand, she sighed, and said no more. When the tide of Henry's feelings ha ings of godly sorrow, while he audibly uttered the publican's prayer, "God be merciful to me, a sinner." Many encouraging words were spoken to the returning prodigal, while fervent prayers were offered up for his deliverance from the guilt of sin, and the power of an almost invincible habit. The service closed, and Henry joined Harriet at the door, and they walked, arm in arm, to the cottage. When all were seated, Henry made a most humble confession, and was proceeding to "ask pardon" for all the wrongs he had inflict subsided a little, he was the subject of severe temptation; and upon being prompted by Catherine to return to the meeting at evening, he said: "I think I'll not go this evening." "Go; yes, Henry, do go," | answered Catherine. "The people," said Henry, "stared at me as though I had been an elephant; and I've no doubt they all know whose clothes I have on.” "Don't mind that, it's nobody's business, Henry; and, besides, I tell you they are all glad to see you there. Even Dick Simons made remarks upon the subject that would astonish you; and besides, now, just recollect that all is at stake-nowed upon their feelings, when old Mr. you may turn the scale for woe or bliss by this one decision." Henry lingered, and Catherine implored-at one period he seemed finally to have resolved to decline attending the meeting that evening."Kate," said he, "just let me stay here and read the Bible, and I'll go again tomorrow." Catherine thought she saw the device of Satan in the proposition; and felt that it was the very point at which defeat would probably be fatal; and now she rallied and made a fresh assault. Throwing her arms around Henry's neck, she burst into tears, and exclaimed, "O, my dearest brother, can you thwart the hopes of father, mother, and Harriet-poor dear Harriet by one fatal step. I have just learned that Harriet will be at the meeting to-night-and, O, how disappointed and grieved she will be ""Stop, stop, Kate!" said Henry, "I'll go, come what will." | Raymond interrupted him with, "My He went to the meeting; and there were all the connections and neighbors in a state of breathless anxiety to see how poor Harry Raymond would shape his course. Harriet, pensive and trembling, took her seat in a retired place, as much out of sight as possible, and waited the issue. The matter in Henry's mind was now settled. He had already broke ground, and he must go on, or, in all certainty, be a fresh occasion of grief to his friends, be jeered by his companions in sin, and probably be forsaken by God, and soon plunged into irretrievable ruin. The old gentleman instantly bowed suitable time he arose, and, with a tremb- down, and all followed his example. He ling voice, confessed his sins, and express- prayed in tremulous and plaintive tones, ed his purpose to lead a new life. His but in the language of assurance. When story was brief, but it produced a wonder- he had concluded, the venerable matron ful effect upon the audience, and marvel- followed, in much the same strain, with ously strengthened his own resolutions. the additional circumstance, that she He knelt down, and gave vent to the feel-humbly asked God now to fulfil the prom At a 66 muttered out—“It is an ill wind that blows no good. I shall now be likely to get my grog bil, for Harry will go to work, and he's as honest a fellow as ever lived." All was now right in the cottage. Henry set himself at work to improve the condition of things upon the premises, and to provide himself with decent apparel, while he lacked no aid which his wants required. His debts were soon discharged, and almost before he was aware of it, he had gained universal confidence. He was soon called upon, in turn, to lead the fam "Dear Henry," said the old gentleman, now pray for yourself." Henry ejaculated, "Save, Lord, or I perish. O my sins-my sins press me down like mountains! Canst thou have mercy upon such a wretch as I am?" and ended with broken utterances of sorrow, and some ex-ily devotions, and to take an active part in pressions which indicated an approach to despair. All retired; but there was little sleep for the inmates of the cottage during that memorable night. In the morning old Mr. Raymond chose for the occasion the one hundred and sixteenth psalm. It was a perfect expression of the feelings of the penitent Henry. When all bowed down in prayer, the patriarch addressed the throne of grace in importunate and confiding language, particularly pleading the promises made to those who are of "a contrite spirit.” This went to Henry's heart, and he arose from his knees with hope springing up in his soul; he saw "men as trees walking." Light increased through the day, and the following night found Henry Raymond a calm, confiding disciple, at the feet of Jesus. Now the joy of the pious exhibited itself in the most free and tender congratulations. Henry Raymond was welcomed to the religious circles of the village, and all the privileges of the Church. All were glad, and all most cordially sympathized with the Raymonds. Even a certain class of wags seemed delighted, and often would remark, "A happy turn this for poor Harry." "Yes," another would add, "and I hope he will stick to his text." The news soon spread throughout the neighboring towns, and it was, of course, matter of remark with the different classes of persons, according to their tastes and moral sentiments. Some predicted that his religious career would be short, while others ardently hoped for better things. The tavern keepers, for the present, at least, had lost a constant visitor; and one of these heartless men, upon hearing of the conversion of Harry Raymond, dryly social meetings; and when he opened his mouth to speak or pray, all were silent and solemn. Many who, on other occacasions, showed little regard for religion, were moved to tears by his affecting appeals, and were often heard to remark"Harry is now sincere, anyhow, whatever he does hereafter." All Henry Raymond's friends rejoiced. at the marvelous change which had taken place in his life and conduct, but they "rejoiced with trembling." They did not immediately spread the matter abroad, by writing letters to distant members of the family, but prudently set themselves to surround the object of their solicitude with every encouragement and help to constancy. In the mean time James, with a portion of his family, came to visit his parents, not knowing whether he should find Henry with the heart of a brother, if even alive. On reaching the neighborhood he met a friend of the family who, after identifying James Raymond, earnestly asked, “Have you heard from Henry lately?" "Not a word," was the reply. "Well, then," rejoined he, "I have good news for you. He is clothed, and in his right mind. has experienced religion, and for the last six months has been as sober and respectable a man as there is in the town." This was "good news," indeed. What the character of the meeting and the visit was, the reader may judge. He And now I end my story by saying that Henry Raymond was assisted in the matter of improving his education by his bro thers. He entered the ministry in due time, and, at the time of this present writing, for thirteen years has been a faithful and successful laborer in the vineyard of the Lord. [For the National Magazine.] REV. RICHARD M'ALLISTER. MANY NY pleasing facts connected with the early history of Methodism are, no doubt, embalmed in the memories of its older ministers. They delight to relate them as illustrations of the work of God in its origin and early progress, and they generally interest, and not unfrequently edify their hearers. One such incident is in my possession, and I communicate it for the reader's entertainment, and perchance instruction. Within the bounds of the Philadelphia and Baltimore Conferences, many yet remember the devoted Richard M'Allister. I knew him well. It is more than thirty years ago that I had the privilege of forming his acquaintance. Nearly three years I lived in his father's house, and the incidents I shall relate I received directly from the family or himself. Archibald M'Allister, Esq., the father of Richard, was a man of note in his neighborhood. He had been an officer in the revolutionary army, and had something of the military in his character. To a genial warmth of feeling, ease, and cordiality of manner, and real kindness of heart, he added a considerable share of self-will. He was easily excited; but his passion soon died away, and left him subject to the kindest feelings. His residence was at Fort Hunter, on the east bank of the Susquehanna River, six miles above Harrisburg, where he owned a handsome property, which still remains in the family. It is a romantic region. On the one side the majestic Susquehanna rolls its ceaseless tide of waters, which, chafed and irritated by the numerous rocks against which they perpetually beat in their passage, send forth a constant murmur, amounting in damp weather even to a roar. Some distance above the house, the river breaks through a spur of the Blue Mountain and makes a rapid descent, forming what are called Hunter's Falls. The channel of the river, though the stream is a mile wide, is very narrow, and is navigable for rafts and arks only a few weeks in the year; that is, in the freshets of spring and fall. The farm is surrounded by mountain ridges, green and well wooded to the top. The entire scenery is beautifully picturesque and wild. The road from Fort Hunter to Clark's Ferry was one of the most romantic that I ever saw. In some spots it was truly sublime, the towering mountains rising abruptly from the water's edge. I say was; for the Pennsylvania Canal, made since that day, has very much changed its character. But it is wildly grand still; and no doubt many a voyager on the canal has felt his mind elevated to sublimity as, passing between the mountain base and the noble river, he has seen the immense masses of rock jutting out high above his head, threatening to fall upon him and crush him and his frail craft at once. It was but a few years before I resided there that Methodism had been introduced into that neighborhood. I found two members of Mr. M'Allister's family (nieces) members of the Methodist Church; and also a daughter, but she was married and had removed to the state of NewYork. Richard had already commenced his ministry. It is of this fact in his history that I am about to speak. When the Methodist ministers first came into his neighborhood, Mr. M'Allister was strongly opposed to them. Nevertheless, he at length yielded so far as to allow them to establish meetings on his property, his tenants, and work people, and servants forming a considerable part of the congregation. At length his oldest daughter and youngest son united with this flock, at that time so feeble and lightly esteemed in the circle of his acquaintance. This was far from being agreeable to the father's wishes; but he was not implacable nor unreasonable. In fact he found that these people were not as he at first supposed, "setters forth of strange gods," but only "preached unto them Jesus and the resurrection." A decided change in his views took place, so that he at length gave land upon his estate to build a church, and contributed a large part toward the expense. Many still remember the old Fishing Creek Church, on what was then, and for many years afterward, Dauphin Circuit. An unostentatious church, to be sure, it was, nestling there in the valley, with the mountain streamlet gurgling by its side; yet to many souls is that little church dear, for it was radiant with more than wordly charms. To many it was as the gate of heaven. Yet was Mr. M'Allister still far from possessing a sanctified or Christian spirit. This was a great grief to his eminently |