JAMES BURTON was a small farmer, who, with his wife and five children, lived in a remote village in one of the northern counties. He was a sensible, hard-working man, a kind father, and loving husband. Among the neighbors Burton passed for a pious man. His religious feelings were often strong and fervent, and few surpassed him in punctual attendance at a place of worship, but James Burton knew not the Saviour. He often mistook his own emotions and feelings for true godliness, but whenever it might interfere with interest or pleasure, God’s word was practically set aside by him. Now Burton was in the habit of paying a weekly visit to the neighboring market town, where he was thrown with many men of his own station and calling. These men made Burton’s religion their constant joke, and on one occasion they declared that he wore it only to please the parson, and that he abstained from drink from fear of his wife. This was too much for him, and he resolved to show himself a man of independent spirit, the result of which was, that he was carried home helplessly drunk, amid the loud laughter and jeers of his companions.
What pen can describe his bitter feelings of remorse and shame when he awoke to reason! Henceforth he thought religious people would have no confidence in him. A return to his former habits he knew would provoke the scorn and contempt of the ungodly, whoever despise a turncoat. How happy had it been if Farmer Burton had known where to look for strength and support! The “Friend of publicans and sinners” would not have scorned and rejected him, Jesus would have welcomed him; but instead of seeking pardon, the unhappy man sought to deaden the pangs of conscience by a repetition of his sin.
This terrible career continued for many months, the power of amendment growing less and less, and self-condemnation greater and greater, until misery of mind and a shattered constitution made a wreck of him.
His wife and children, once so dear, were now the objects of his fury, and often in his outbreaks of savage temper they were obliged to flee from him. This was especially the case on the Lord’s day, when the preparation for their church awakened recollections of happier times, quickened the stings of self-reproach, and made him, if possible, doubly miserable. Having cast off God, and turned against his family, the farmer now began to neglect his fields, and soon reduced himself to the verge of bankruptcy, but still onward and downward he went.
The wan look and tearful eye of his loving wife appealed in vain to his hard heart; the heritage of shame and beggary that stared his children in the face moved him not; the evil spirit which destroyed his human sympathies had transformed the man into the demon. Such was James Burton when the writer first became acquainted with him, and his red and restless eye, haggard countenance, emaciated frame, and fierce excited manner, are still fresh to memory.
When the writer spoke to the unhappy man as to the dreadful consequences of his excesses—ruin now and woe hereafter—Burton admitted all, urged no excuse, but spoke in a dreadful tone of the hell where he said he knew he soon should be. He seemed to have made up his mind to perish, and to regard his present condition as beyond hope. How true it is that Satan tempts to sin that he may tempt to despair.
“James Burton,” said I, on the evening of that day on which he had buried his eldest child, “you are miserable.” He looked at me for a moment, and then, fiercely smiting his bosom, replied, “I feel hell, here! I am the devil’s slave, and shall be his companion forever. Sir, I am lost, lost forever.”
“Not forever,” I said. “Do not speak so: lost indeed you are, but Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost. James Burton, there is hope for you.”
He shook his head, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears. A short prayer closed this scene, of which there were frequent recurrences.
But no gospel light penetrated the gloom, no sorrow for sinning against God could be discovered. On visiting him one Saturday afternoon, I noticed a great change: instead of his usual excited mariner, an air of repose was about him, and something like hope seemed to dawn on his dark brow.
“Burton, I hope you have found peace through the blood of Jesus,” I said.
“Not yet, not yet, but I hope to reform; I will abandon my wicked companions, I will drink no more.”
“It is well,” I said;” but a present obedience, even if perfect, could not blot out past sin; so present obedience being imperfect itself needs an atonement―it is only Christ’s blood which can meet your need.”
“I will do my best,” was the reply,” and God is merciful.”
“Do your best, and to what end? To accomplish that which Jesus has already done! Oh, beware of Satan’s delusions; if you can be saved by your obedience, then Christ died needlessly. He has done enough to save you. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved,’ just as you are. ‘To him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.’”
To all this he made no reply, and though these same truths were enforced from time to time they took no hold on his conscience. The heart of man is more opposed to the gospel of God than to His law, and a hard attempt to keep the law with an uncertain end is preferred to a free, full, and everlasting forgiveness.
The publican turned Pharisee. Burton not only forsook the company of his former companions, but sternly reproved them whilst some derided, others prophesied that before long he would again join their set. Sometime after this he was seized with fever, which reduced him to the brink of the grave. He viewed his seemingly approaching death with composure, resting upon the supposed merit of his reformed life. Slowly, but at length he recovered, once more to sit by his own fireside, but no gladness beamed in his eye, and some painful feeling seemed to labor in his breast. The mystery was soon solved. When the writer suggested that the sickness and recovery were cause for prayer and thanksgiving, turning a glaring eye towards the speaker, he declared that he had served God long enough, and would serve Him no more; “Others who drink and swear and break the Sabbath have had good health, whilst I, who have reformed, have been laid low.” From this time he refused to see the writer, and plunged willfully into his former sin.
Years passed away and the writer was summoned to a distant field of labor, but the remembrance of the wretched man would sometimes recur like a horrible dream, and serve as an example to warn others. Taking up a newspaper one day his attention was attracted by the words, “Coroner’s Inquest”― he read on as follows; ― “On Monday last the body of a man named James Burton was found dead in a ditch near C―. It appeared in evidence that the deceased was a habitual drunkard. He left the ‘Swan Inn’ on Sunday night in a state of intoxication, and it is supposed he must have fallen into a ditch, and thus to have been smothered. He leaves a wife and large family in utter destitution.”
The hapless wife survived him a few months, dying of a broken heart, while his poor children were thrown upon the parish.
Reader, there are, alas! many like James Burton; many turn from outward sin to mere religion, but their last end is worse than their first. None but Christ can take the soul out of Satan’s grip. How is it with you? God warns you by this dark story. Oh! let nothing stop you coming, just as you are, a lost sinner, to Christ Himself, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” But if you still refuse Him who speaks to you from heaven, the misery of a dark eternity will be upon your own head. You have the warning, oh! do not neglect it.