"
The stranger turned a lowering look at the speaker, and then composing
himself into an air of self-abasement, he continued in the same
repelling tones,--
"It is not everyone that crieth out for mercy, that will be heard. The
ways of Providence are not to be judged by men--'Many are called, but
few chosen.' It is easier to talk of humility than to feel it. Are you
so humble, vile worm, as to wish to glorify God by your own damnation?
If not, away with you for a publican and a Pharisee!"
Such gross fanaticism was uncommon in America, and Miss Peyton began to
imbibe the impression that her guest was deranged; but remembering that
he had been sent by a well-known divine, and one of reputation, she
discarded the idea, and, with some forbearance, observed,--
"I may deceive myself, in believing that mercy is proffered to all, but
it is so soothing a doctrine, that I would not willingly be undeceived."
"Mercy is only for the elect," cried the stranger, with an unaccountable
energy; "and you are in the 'valley of the shadow of death.' Are you not
a follower of idle ceremonies, which belong to the vain church that our
tyrants would gladly establish here, along with their stamp acts and tea
laws? Answer me that, woman; and remember, that Heaven hears your
answer; are you not of that idolatrous communion?"
"I worship at the altars of my fathers," said Miss Peyton, motioning to
Henry for silence; "but bow to no other idol than my own infirmities.
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