“I AM at rest now,” said a young man to us, “since I have received these opinions.” He had turned infidel, and comforted himself that no one knew what the future would be, and hence that he might be satisfied that for him death would be extinction.
But what is the infidel’s rest? It is the slumber of the somnambulist, who in his restless sleep walks on, on, on, unconscious whither he is going, till he reaches the verge of the precipice. The awaking comes, but it is too late. There is no rest, saith my God, for the wicked.