Prayer.—A Moon-light Scene.—Resignation.
The harper would frequently sit under a large elm, a few paces from the
house, and play some of the most plaintive Welsh tunes. While the people
were eating their supper, Mrs. Mason desired him to play her some
favourite airs; and she and the children walked round the tree under
which he sat, on the stump of another.
The moon rose in cloudless majesty, and a number of stars twinkled near
her. The softened landscape inspired tranquillity, while the strain of
rustic melody gave a pleasing melancholy to the whole—and made the tear
start, whose source could scarcely be traced. The pleasure the sight of
harmless mirth gave rise to in Mrs. Mason’s bosom, roused every tender
feeling—set in motion her spirits.—She laughed with the poor whom she had
made happy, and wept when she recollected her own sorrows; the illusions
of youth—the gay expectations that had formerly clipped the wings of
time.—She turned to the girls—I have been very unfortunate, my young
friends; but my griefs are now of a placid kind. Heavy misfortunes have
obscured the sun I gazed at when first I entered life—early attachments
have been broken—the death of friends I loved has so clouded my days;
that neither the beams of prosperity, nor even those of benevolence, can
dissipate the gloom; but I am not lost in a thick fog.—My state of mind
rather resembles the scene before you, it is quiet—I am weaned from the
world, but not disgusted—for I can still do good—and in futurity a sun
will rise to cheer my heart.—Beyond the night of death, I hail the dawn
of an eternal day! I mention my state of mind to you, that I may tell
you what supports me.
The festivity within, and the placidity without, led my thoughts
naturally to the source from whence my comfort springs—to the Great
Bestower of every blessing. Prayer, my children, is the dearest
privilege of man, and the support of a feeling heart. Mine has too often
been wounded by ingratitude; my fellow-creatures, whom I have fondly
loved, have neglected me—I have heard their last sigh, and thrown my eyes
round an empty world; but then more particularly feeling the presence of
my Creator, I poured out my soul before Him—and was no longer alone!—I
now daily contemplate His wonderful goodness; and, though at an awful
distance, try to imitate Him. This view of things is a spur to activity,
and a consolation in disappointment.
There is in fact a constant intercourse kept up with the Creator, when we
learn to consider Him, as the fountain of truth, which our understanding
naturally thirsts after. But His goodness brings Him still more on a
level with our bounded capacities—for we trace it in every work of mercy,
and feel, in sorrow particularly, His fatherly care. Every blessing is
doubled when we suppose it comes from Him, and afflictions almost lose
their name when we believe they are sent to correct, not crush us.—Whilst
we are alive to gratitude and admiration, we must adore God.
The human soul is so framed, that goodness and truth must fill it with
ineffable pleasure, and the nearer it approaches to perfection, the more
earnestly will it pursue those virtues, discerning more clearly their
beauty.
The Supreme Being dwells in the universe. He is as essentially present
to the wicked as to the good; but the latter delight in His presence, and
try to please Him, whilst the former shrink from a Judge, who is of too
pure a nature to behold iniquity.—The wicked wish for the rocks to cover
them, mountains, or the angry sea, which we the other day surveyed, to
hide them from the presence of that Being—in whose presence only they
could find joy. You feel emotions that incite you to do good; and
painful ones disturb you, when you have resisted the faithful internal
monitor. The wiser, and the better you grow, the more visible, if I may
use the expression, will God become—For wisdom consists in searching Him
out—and goodness in endeavouring to copy His attributes.
To attain any thing great, a model must be held up to exercise our
understanding, and engage our affections. A view of the disinterested
goodness of God is therefore calculated to touch us more than can be
conceived by a depraved mind. When the love of God is shed abroad in our
hearts; true courage will animate our conduct, for nothing can hurt those
who trust in Him. If the desire of acting right is ever present with us,
if admiration of goodness fills our souls; we may be said to pray
constantly. And if we try to do justice to all our fellow-creatures, and
even to the brute creation; and assist them as far as we can, we prove
whose servants we are, and whose laws we transcribe in our lives.
Never be very anxious, when you pray, what _words_ to use; regulate your
_thoughts_; and recollect that virtue calms the passions, gives clearness
to the understanding, and opens it to pleasures that the thoughtless and
vicious have not a glimpse of. You must, believe me, be acquainted with
God to find peace, to rise superior to worldly temptations. Habitual
devotion is of the utmost consequence to our happiness, as what oftenest
occupies the thoughts will influence our actions. But, observe what I
say,—_that_ devotion is mockery and selfishness, which does not improve
our moral character.
Men, of old, prayed to the devil, sacrificed their children to him; and
committed every kind of barbarity and impurity. But we who serve a
long-suffering God should pity the weakness of our fellow-creatures; we
must not beg for mercy and not shew it;—we must not acknowledge that we
have offended, without trying to avoid doing so in future. We are to
deal with our fellow-creatures as we expect to be dealt with. This is
practical prayer!—Those who practise it feel frequently sublime
pleasures, and lively hopes animate them in this vale of tears; that seem
a foretaste of the felicity they will enjoy, when the understanding is
more enlightened, and the affections properly regulated.
To-morrow I will take you to visit the school-mistress of the village,
and relate her story, to enforce what I have been saying.
Now you may go and dance one or two dances; and I will join you after I
have taken a walk, which I wish to enjoy alone.