superstitious people indulge, to give an ominous meaning to many
of the casualties of life; and to allow themselves to be more
terrified by the screeching of an owl, the clicking of an insect,
or the howling of a dog, than the real and afflictive dispensations
of Providence. As society improves in knowledge, especially the
knowledge of the Scriptures, this propensity will become weaker and
weaker; and though some traces of its existence may be discovered,
at times, in the most cultivated minds, yet it is not invested
with that magic power which it exercises over the illiterate. Many
efforts have been employed to expose its absurdity, but if we
intermingle with the uninformed inhabitants of a village, we shall
have indubitable evidence that its influence still continues to
operate. The same elegant writer to whom I have just referred,
observes:--"I know but one way of fortifying my soul against these
gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that is, by securing to
myself the friendship and affection of that Being who disposes of
events, and governs futurity. He sees, at one view, the whole thread
of my existence, not only that part of it which I have already
passed through, but that which runs forward into all the depths
of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to
his care; when I awake, I give myself up to his direction. Amidst
all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to him for help,
and question not but he will either avert them, or turn them to my
advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the
death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it; because I am
sure he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and
support me under them."[27]
[27] In connection with the above subject, the author may be
permitted to narrate the two following cases which occurred a few
years since in the town where he then resided:--The chief actors
in the scenes to be described were persons occupying a respectable
station in society, and who habitually associated with intelligent
and pious people. He and his wife accepted an invitation to dine
with a large party. The dinner was laid out in first-rate style,
grace was said with becoming solemnity, and we took our seats in due
form, when our hostess rose suddenly and rushed out of the room,
pale and affrighted, as though the turkey which she was preparing
to dismember had suddenly metamorphosed itself into a hobgoblin. We
then heard her exclaim, when she found herself alone in the hall,
nearly breathless with terror, "O dear, O dear! there are thirteen!"
I looked at my wife and she looked at me, in utter amazement,
wondering what presage of coming evil could lurk under the number
_thirteen_. At length our good-natured host said to one of his
daughters, "Eliza, you must retire, and we will send your plate to
you in the other room. You know your Mamma's objection to sit down
at the table with such an unlucky number." Eliza quietly withdrew,
and then her mother silently entered, almost as pale as a corpse,
but her natural colour returned soon after she commenced her carving
labours. _Thirteen_ an unlucky number! How odd! I could not make it
out, and continued to puzzle my head with it during dinner. However,
we were informed, before the party broke up, that one person was
sure to die very soon after eating a hearty dinner with _twelve_,
however hale and vigorous they might all be.
The other case is as follows:--A friend of the author had been
married, and he and his wife went to pay the customary wedding
visit. The sister of the bride was in waiting to receive the
company; her mother keeping watch, to see that everything was done
in due order. There was a goodly muster of persons, including uncles
and aunts, first and second cousins, and friends and acquaintances
almost without number. At last the uncle of the bride, a fine
portly man, made his appearance, and was in the act of entering the
parlour with his hearty congratulations to his niece, when the door
was suddenly and rather unceremoniously slammed to by his sister,
as though he had been some grim demon, bent on mischief. "Daniel,
don't come in; Daniel, you must not come in; Daniel, you shan't come
in," exclaimed the lady. "What's the matter now?" said Daniel, who
apparently was as much surprised at not being permitted to see us
as we were at not being permitted to see him. "What's the matter!"
re-echoed his sister; "_why, you have got your black coat on!_"
Daniel was obliged to doff his black coat and put on a blue one,
made for a much smaller man, and then he appeared amongst us. Moving
nearly as gracefully as a man would do in a strait waistcoat, his
appearance was a severe tax on our gravity. The mystery of the black
coat rejected, and the blue coat honoured by a presentation, still
remained unsolved to my wife and myself, till we overheard a grave
matron say, "It was very lucky, as the dear creature wouldn't die
now." That is, as was more fully explained afterwards, the black
coat would have betokened the death of the bride, if she had seen
it. Alas! poor human nature. What a specimen of its absurdity and
folly! The black coat of the author was invested with no fatal
presage, as he belonged to the clerical order; otherwise, like Uncle
Daniel, he must have changed it before he could have tasted a bit of
the wedding cake.
Shortly after leaving Miss Newnham, we turned aside into a fine
old park; and feeling rather fatigued, seated ourselves beneath a
clump of trees that stood near the foot-path. As we sat watching the
hares and rabbits which came out of a neighbouring coppice, and the
stately deer which fed around us, unawed by our presence, the Squire
passed by, and in a most good-humoured and kindly manner invited us
to take some refreshment at the Hall. The invitation was accepted;
and we soon found ourselves in a large antique parlour, in which the
spirit of hospitality had dwelt from time immemorial.
The Squire, or to call him by his own name, Mr. Bradley, was a fine
looking old gentleman, of about sixty years of age, but with a deep
trace of melancholy imprinted on his countenance. He had one child,
who was sent, when eleven years of age, to a first-rate classical
school, to be prepared for Oxford. When about the age of fourteen,
according to a barbarous custom which still prevails in most of our
great schools, he was chosen by a senior scholar to fight another
boy about his own age. After contending till his strength was nearly
exhausted, he received a blow on his right temple, which sent him
lifeless to the ground. At first the boys thought him only stunned,
and taking him up carefully, they carried him into a shed, when, to
their horror, they found that he was dead! Horror-struck at this
ghastly spectacle, they knew not what to do; but at length the
dismal news reached the ears of the master--medical assistance was
sent for, but it came too late. This fatal catastrophe happened
just before Christmas, when the fond parents were preparing to
receive their child once more under their roof during the holidays.
When the tidings reached them, they were frantic with grief, and
resolved to punish the authors of their calamity; but on cool
reflection they forbore doing so, and sunk down into a state of
melancholy, from which they have never perfectly recovered.
This sad bereavement brought about a singular change in the habits
of the Squire, who now became a very religious man. He had family
prayer morning and evening, attended church regularly, and observed
the fasts with a degree of monkish austerity which is rarely met
with amongst Protestants. As his religion, however, contained no
recognition of a living Saviour, it did not reach his heart, nor
produce that exquisite taste for the enjoyment of spiritual things
which is formed when the inner man is renewed in its spirit and
disposition.
And here the author would remark, before he gives the sequel of this
interview with the Squire, that the Christian scheme of salvation
differs from every other system of religion in one very important
particular--it does not admit any person to the denomination of a
believer, who does not feel its influence on his heart; nor can a
person discern its adaptation to the moral condition of man, till
such influence is felt. Hence it discriminates between the man
who holds the truth in unrighteousness, and the man who receives
it with meekness and in faith; and while it imparts to the latter
all its consolations and its hopes, it pronounces the sentence of
condemnation on the former, although his moral character may be
adorned with the varied beauties of social virtue. To the one it
unveils a scene of contemplation, which displays the purity and
grandeur of the Divine nature--the equity and glory of his wise, yet
mysterious dispensations of providence and of grace; to the other it
remains as an unconnected and unharmonious scheme of religion, which
no skill can simplify, and which no labour can methodically arrange.
To the one it opens a fountain of living waters, of which they who
drink never thirst after a more salubrious draught of happiness; to
the other it is as a stagnant lake, whose waters are bitter, like
those of ancient Marah. To the one it makes known a Saviour, in
the efficacy of his death, in the riches of his grace, and in the
prevalence of his intercession: to the other it exhibits him as the
Man of sorrows, who once fasted in the desert, and preached in the
temple--who once wept on Olivet, and groaned on Calvary--and who
derives all his celebrity from the records of history, rather than
from the manifestation of his love in renewing and sanctifying the
soul. So that while these two persons profess the same faith, bear
the same denominational character, worship in the same church, and
observe the same ceremonial rites and institutions; they cannot hold
any communion with each other in spirit, because their perceptions,
taste, and moral inclinations are as much opposed to each other as
the purity of the Divine nature is opposed to the impurity of the
human.
"It is now," said the Squire, "fifteen years since I lost my son.
It was a grievous affliction--one which has embittered life to me:
and if I could overcome the dread of death, I should long to lie
down in our family vault, to rest in peace with the dead of past
generations."
"To lose a child," I replied, "in the common course of nature, must
be a severe affliction to a parent; but to lose an only son, and in
such a way as you lost yours, must be a trial almost too heavy to be
borne."
"O, Sir, it nearly bereft us of our senses; and we have gone but
little into company since. There's his likeness," pointing to a good
painting hanging over the fireplace, "and it is a very correct one;
and here is his favourite dog, which we have preserved; but you see,
like his master, his life is gone. This is the end of man."
"Yes, Sir, it is appointed unto man once to die, and after death the
judgment."
"And it is this judgment after death which makes death so dreadful.
I have been preparing myself for my latter end ever since the death
of my child; and the more I think of its solemnity and importance,
the more I am alarmed. We know what this life is; but of the next
life we have no knowledge; and we know the beings with whom we now
associate; but who can form a conception of disembodied spirits?"
"The dread of death often operates as a spell on the happiness of
life; and brings down the wealthy and prosperous to a state of
mental wretchedness, equally deplorable with that of the destitute
and forlorn."
"Sir," said the Squire, with great emphasis, fixing his eye on
myself as he spoke, "it brings us lower, because, as we have
stronger temptations to the love of life, we have greater reluctance
to resign it. Here we are distinguished by greater possessions,
occupy a more exalted station, and have a greater variety of
enjoyments at our command; but we are not sure that we shall be even
admitted into the kingdom of heaven when we die; and, for aught we
know, the same fate may await us which befel a certain rich man, of
whom we read in the Bible."
"That fact, Sir," I replied, "is calculated to excite a high degree
of terror in the breast of a rich man, because it teaches us, that
God does not continue the line of distinction between the rich and
the poor beyond this life."
"The distinction, Sir, may be preserved, but it may be against us,
as poor Lazarus was comforted, while the rich man was tormented.
I have a servant, who works for me in my garden, on whom I often
look with envy; and if I could attain that composure in prospect of
death which he possesses, I would gladly exchange my mansion for his
cottage."
"I presume, Sir, he is a religious man?"
"Yes, he is a religious man, and so am I; but he has the art of
deriving consolation from his religion, while I can derive none from
mine."
"But how is that? Is he a more learned or a more virtuous man than
you are?"
"No, Sir; he is virtuous, and he is intelligent for a person in his
rank of life; but he says he does not derive any consolation from
his virtue."
"I presume, Sir, he is a man of prayer?"
"Yes, and so am I, though I use a form, and he prays extempore--so I
have heard."
"I presume he attends a place of worship?"
"Yes; he now goes to the chapel which has lately been built in the
village. This is the only thing in his conduct I disapprove of. I
think we ought to keep to the Church, and not sanction this new
religion, which is overrunning the country."
"But now, suppose this new religion, as you term it, should be the
very religion from which your gardener derives all his consolation
against the fear of death, would it not be an act of cruelty and of
injustice if you were to attempt to deprive him of it?"
"But why can't he derive his consolations from the religion of the
Church of England?"
"Then, Sir," I replied, "why don't you? You say that you have
attended your parish church regularly for the last fifteen years,
and yet you are as much in dread of death as you were when you first
entered within its doors."
"Very true; there's a mystery about it which I can't unravel."
"Shall I explain it, Sir?"
"I wish you would; and as it is a question which perplexes Mrs.
Bradley no less than myself, I will fetch her, if you will excuse me
for a few minutes."
The Squire soon returned, accompanied by his lady, who welcomed us
to the Hall, with the greatest cordiality and politeness.
"Now, Sir," said the Squire, "if you will explain to us how it is
our gardener derives that consolation against the fear of death from
this new religion, which we cannot derive from the good old religion
of our forefathers, you will confer a great favour, and we shall
esteem your visit the most agreeable one we have ever received."
"In the first place," I observed, "you have fallen into a mistake.
The religion of the chapel is not a new religion, but the religion
of the Bible, exhibited in a simple and popular form, and does not
differ from the doctrinal articles of the Established church."
"Indeed, Sir. Why, then, my gardener and I profess the same faith.
But how is it he derives so much consolation from that which gives
me none?"
"Because, to quote the language of the Scripture, he has been
renewed in the spirit of his mind, and has had the eyes of his
understanding enlightened, so that he is enabled to trace the
connection between the facts of Christianity and their application
to his mind; while you, for want of this supernatural illumination,
admit the facts only, without perceiving how they can, or how they
do, produce the intended effect. For example: you admit that you
are a guilty sinner in relation to God, and under a sentence of
condemnation, which is the reason why you dread death; and you admit
that Jesus Christ died for sinners; but you cannot perceive _how_ it
is that his death operates to remove guilt, and to inspire a hope
of eternal blessedness. There is, if I may use such an expression,
a palpable darkness intervening between the fact of human guilt,
and the fact of the Saviour's death for its expiation, which
prevents your seeing how the latter does actually become the means
of removing the former. Hence your faith in the death of Christ
does not give you that consolation of which you sometimes hear your
pious gardener speak; because, for want of an adequate power of
perception, you cannot see how to apply its moral efficacy to your
heart and conscience."
"How to apply the moral efficacy of the death of Christ to my
heart and conscience! Why, I was not aware that anything more was
necessary, on my part, than simply admitting the fact of his death."
"Then what meaning can you affix to the language of the
apostle--'God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our
Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I
unto the world?' But such is the spiritual darkness that rests
on the human mind, that the moral design of his death cannot be
perceived without the illumination of the Holy Spirit. Why, the
prayers and liturgy of your own Church most unequivocally recognize
the necessity of this supernatural illumination."[28]
[28] See vol. i. p. 313.
"I never felt the necessity of this spiritual illumination to which
you refer, or most likely I should have sought after it."
"I presume you would; but your not feeling the necessity of it forms
no valid objection against the necessity of it. It may be necessary,
and yet you may not perceive it; as the natural man, according
to the testimony of St. Paul--that is, the man unaided by Divine
assistance--'receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God; for they
are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are
spiritually discerned."
"You have certainly opened a new path of inquiry before me; and
though I cannot at present see the need of any supernatural
assistance to enable me to understand what I read in my Bible, yet,
if the necessity of it be clearly stated in Holy Writ, I shall not
hesitate to admit it.[29] But, to advert to the religion of this
village chapel, am I to understand that the doctrines of the Church
of England are preached in it?"
[29] The reader is referred to vol. i. p. 249.
"Yes, Sir."
"Then they have not brought a new religion into the village?"
"No, Sir; they have brought no new religion into the village, but
merely present the old religion of the Bible and of Protestantism in
a new form."
"And yet when they talk on religious subjects, they employ a very
different phraseology of speech from that which we have been
accustomed to use."
"Very likely, because they are more familiar with the phraseology of
the Scriptures than you are; and they feel the power of religious
truth on their heart more forcibly than you profess to do. Your
religion, if I judge from your conversation, is the religion
of opinion, theirs of belief--yours of speculation, theirs of
principle--yours of forms and ceremonies, theirs of knowledge and of
feeling--yours of times and seasons, theirs of habitual devotion;
and while you derive no consolation from the routine of duties which
you perform, they have peace with God through Jesus Christ."
"I have heard," said the Squire, "that their religion makes them
happy, and raises them above the fear of dying--the great points I
have been aiming to reach for fifteen years, but I am as far off as
when I first began the pursuit."
"If, Sir, you had been labouring under some physical malady for
the space of fifteen years, without deriving any benefit from the
prescriptions of your regular family physician, I presume you would
call in other advice?"
"I have no doubt of it, Sir; I should suspect his want of judgment."
"Why not, Sir, act on the same principle, on the more important
question relating to your soul--its peace, and its salvation?
Your attendance at the church has been in vain. Why not dismiss
your prejudices, and go to the village chapel? You have ocular
demonstration, that the people who worship there are happy, and
live in the anticipation of future happiness. Why not make the
experiment, which can subject you to no loss, and may lead to a
glorious issue?"
"We are slaves, Sir, to prejudice. Yes, we create our own tyrant,
and then yield to his iron sway! What fools we all are!"
"I should not object," said Mrs. Bradley, "to go to the village
chapel, if I thought I could obtain any spiritual benefit. I am
weary of life. I want something to bring peace to my heart."
"Make the experiment, Madam."
"I feel inclined to do it; but yet I have a strange reluctance."
"I will venture," said the Squire, "and give a proof that I am
sincere in my efforts to obtain the hope of salvation."
We now left the Hall, much pleased with our visit, and bent our
steps towards home. It was a beautiful evening, and as we passed
along we were charmed by the varied notes of my favourite bird, the
thrush, whose harmony was occasionally disturbed by the cawing of
the rooks on their return from their daily pilgrimage. We returned
to the public road just as the sun was setting, and while admiring
the lustre which he threw around him on his departure, I remarked
to Miss Holmes, what a fine emblem it presented of the dying
Christian, whose pathway through life resembles the shining light,
which shineth brighter and brighter, yet reserves its brightest
splendour for its setting, when a halo of glory encircles him as he
disappears, leaving spectators astonished and delighted more by the
closing scene, than by the progressive majesty of his course.
On ascending the slope leading to the entrance of the village, a
respectable looking man stepped out of a cottage by the roadside,
and on recognizing Mrs. Newell and Miss Holmes, with myself, as a
clergyman, invited us to walk in. His large Bible was on the table,
and the family were preparing for evening worship. After a little
desultory conversation, he begged that I would lead their devotions,
a request with which I gladly complied--reading a chapter of the
Bible and offering up a prayer.
"I am happy, ladies," said the cottager's wife, when service was
concluded, "to see you in my house; it is an honour which I have
long coveted, but never expected; and we are much obliged to you,
Sir, for your kindness in praying for us this evening. May the Lord
reward you."
"And I am happy," I replied, "that you have an altar of devotion
erected in your family; and I hope that your morning and evening
sacrifices, like those of the Hebrew temple, will regularly ascend
before the Lord of hosts, and be accepted by him."
I was now agreeably surprised to find myself in the cottage, and in
the company of the gardener, whose religion had been the subject of
discussion at the Hall.
"We have just had," I remarked, "a long and interesting conversation
with the Squire on religious subjects; and we were much pleased
with the seriousness of his manner, and the eagerness with which
he listened to our remarks, but like many others, he has no clear
perception of the nature or design of the gospel of Christ."
"He is, Sir," said the gardener, "a most singular man. Sometimes
he is very devout--reads his Bible with great attention, and will
often come to me in the garden, to talk about religion, and I have
sometimes seen him so powerfully impressed by it, that he has shed
tears when speaking of the restless state of his mind; but at other
times he is equally gay and thoughtless, and disposed to turn
religion and religious people into ridicule. He is very unhappy,
though he is very rich; and has many good qualities, though he is
not a spiritual man."
"I suppose," I said, "you would not exchange your cottage for his
mansion, if you were obliged along with the exchange to part with
your consolations and hopes?"
"O, no, I would not exchange situation and state with my master; for
I am happy, but he is not--I can think of death with composure, but
he dreads it--I can look forward to eternity with delight, but he
shrinks back from its approach, as a child would recoil in terror on
seeing some hideous figure."