keep you from forming extravagant expectations, and guard you
against the depressing influence of those momentary disappointments
which you may feel. It is generally admitted, by the most competent
judges, that temper is the hinge on which the happiness of domestic
life turns; and if you can contrive to keep this always in a
good condition, you will never be disturbed by the gratings of
discontent, or the harsher sounds of anger or of discord. You are, I
believe, both amiable, and have, during a long courtship, preserved
the equilibrium of your temper--
'Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
Which humour, interposed, too often makes;'
yet you have now entered on a course in which you will find the
correctness of the poet's remark exemplified--
The kindest and the happiest pair,
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, every day they live,
To pity, and perhaps forgive.'
"I have known some who have been very fond of each other before
marriage, and for some time after it, but their affection has
gradually dwindled into indifference, even while they have been
unconscious of any change. This is an evil against which I wish you
to be on your guard. You may now suppose that such an event cannot
occur; but what _has_ befallen others _may_ befal you. Pure love
is a delicate plant, which suffers by neglect; and though you may
imagine that by virtue of its inherent strength, it will perpetually
yield the fragrance and the fruit of conjugal felicity, yet it will
not do so without the most assiduous care. Endeavour, then, ever to
exercise towards each other an amiable and forbearing temper, which
will make you appear no less lovely in each other's estimation when
the gray hairs of age come upon you, than when in the full bloom of
youthful vigour.
'The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserved by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention:
But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first inspired the flame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate and blind;
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure.'
"But if pure affection may be regarded as the foundation on which
domestic happiness rests, it is the province of good sense to raise
the superstructure--to decorate and embellish it--to secure its
internal harmony, and to cast up those mounds and bulwarks which
will protect it from external annoyance and danger. I do not know
that I can define this expression better than by calling it, that
sense of propriety which is suited to the situation in which the
member of a family is placed. Good sense will teach you to keep your
proper station in your family; when to see and when not to see the
faults and the excellencies of others; when and how to administer
reproof, or to give commendation; and how to uphold your authority
without the appearance of severity. It will also induce you to
pay great attention to the little things of domestic life, which
exercise so material an influence in promoting its happiness.
"As _your_ manners will have a material influence over all the
subordinate members of your household, the exercise of your good
sense will teach you the importance of keeping your proper station,
lest you should, by an act of encroachment, give excitement to any
evil tempers or dispositions, which the occasion may appear to
justify. I am aware of the extreme difficulty of marking out the
exact boundary within which you ought to keep in the exercise of
your authority, or in your habit of personal inspection; but as an
improper interference with the opinions or the prescribed duties of
others very rarely fails to give offence, even when no offence is
intended, good sense will keep you on your guard against rousing
unnecessarily irritable feelings. I do not wish you to suffer
your servants to govern you, nor do I wish you to stand in awe of
them, as I am convinced, from long observation, that the sceptre
of authority should be held by the heads of a family; but as your
comfort will depend very materially on those by whom you are served,
I would advise you to study their temper and their disposition,
and so to shape your commands as to secure obedience without a
murmur, and bring about reform without opposition. Remember that
your servants are not slaves, to be governed by authority without
reason--that they are not stoics, to be treated as though they had
no feeling; but are your equals in relation to God, though your
inferiors in relation to civil society--who have as strong a claim
on your generosity, as you have on their fidelity, and who will in
general reward your kindness and sympathy by their affection and
grateful obedience.
"If there be one sight more lovely than another in the present
world, that sight is a happy family, whose different members live
together in love and in peace, bearing each other's burdens,
anticipating each other's wants, and endeavouring, by the thousand
nameless expressions of kindness which they may show to each other,
to secure and augment each other's felicity.
"As you are both disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ, you will, I
have no doubt, erect an altar of devotion in your habitation; but
you must guard against the supposition, that all the duties of
family religion are discharged when you have presented the morning
and evening sacrifice. You may have servants to instruct who are
ignorant of the nature and design of the gospel of peace, or whose
positive aversion to every form of religion renders remonstrance or
persuasion necessary. Though you may imagine that the instruction
of the pulpit will prove the means of removing their prejudices,
and imparting to them clear perceptions of the truth as it is in
Jesus, yet I would advise you not to trust entirely to it. A little
private conversation with them, when a favourable opportunity
occurs, or a few familiar remarks made before or after reading a
portion of the Scriptures, when you are collected together for
the purpose of family prayer, may have a powerful effect on their
minds, and lead them to work out their own salvation with fear and
trembling. And if you should be instrumental in bringing any of them
to repentance, and to the knowledge of the truth, you will have an
ample compensation for your anxiety and labour, in the more ardent
attachment which they will feel for you, and the greater fidelity
with which they will serve you.
"I have more than once heard it remarked, that social intimacy very
often proves injurious to that intimate Christian fellowship, on
which the growth, if not the vitality of personal religion very
materially depends. Hence, husbands and wives, parents and children,
frequently converse more freely on the experimental influence of
religion with distant associates or comparative strangers than with
each other. But this ought not to be. They who are animated by the
like precious faith, and who have to encounter the same spiritual
difficulties, ought not to suffer the closeness of their union to
operate as a reason why they should hold no spiritual communion with
each other. Let me then entreat you, now you are just on the eve of
forming your domestic habits, to avoid this evil, into which too
many fall; and by the most unreserved mental communications, become
helpers of each other's faith and hope.
'If pains afflict, or wrongs oppress,
If cares distract, or fears dismay,
If guilt deject, or sin distress,'
do not lock up your grief as a profound secret, which a false
delicacy may wish you to conceal from one another; but rather
disclose it without reserve, and you will meet in your reciprocal
sympathy a relief from your burden of sorrow. And that you may
cultivate this intimate religious fellowship, allow me to suggest to
you the adoption of a habit, which I think eminently conducive to
your spiritual prosperity. Always retire, during some part of the
day or the evening, to pray _with each other_, and for each other;
and you will find that the line of the poet records a fact, which
your own experience will soon attest to be true, that prayer
'Brings ev'ry blessing from above.'
It enriches the mind with the treasures of spiritual wisdom, while
it imparts a sweetness to the disposition, and an amiability to the
temper, which cares and anxieties will not impair.
"And though, my young friends, I cannot cheer you with the hope of
being able to pass through life without coming into contact with
its temptations, its disappointments, and its bereavements, yet He
in whom you trust, and to whom you have both devoted yourselves in
the spring-time of your life, will never leave you nor forsake you,
but will be a very present help in every time of trouble. If you
are spared till the time of old age, I trust you will be 'like a
tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth fruit in
his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth
shall prosper.' And if you should be removed in early life, you will
be transplanted to that celestial paradise, where you will flourish
in undecaying strength and glory for ever. It is but a little while
that I shall live on earth as a spectator of your bliss; but if
spirits are allowed in their disembodied state to visit, though
unseen, the abodes of mortals, I shall often be with you, 'joying
and beholding your order, and the steadfastness of your faith in
Christ.'"
AN OLD FRIENDSHIP REVIVED.
After a delightful tour through the west of England, and part of
South Wales, Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin arrived at Malvern, where they
intended to remain for some time previous to returning home. On the
Saturday after their arrival, in ascending the hill behind the town,
they passed two ladies, when Mrs. Lewellin said, "I think I know the
tallest; she appears to be an invalid, and, to judge from her fixed
look, I should infer that she had a faint recognition of myself."
They turned back to pass them again, if possible, but they lost
sight of them in the little crowd of fashionables enjoying their
morning promenade. As they were sauntering along on their return
to their hotel, they passed what appeared to be a small place of
worship, and on making inquiries, they found it was a Dissenting
chapel.
"We ought," Mr. Lewellin remarked, "to be devoutly thankful to
Divine Providence for raising up so many of these unobtrusive little
sanctuaries--they are the retreats of the gospel, when it is driven
out from the Established Church, as is too often the case."
"To me," replied his wife, "any place is a Bethel, if its walls echo
to the name of Jesus."
The next day was the Sabbath. They were seated near the door of the
chapel, when they saw the two ladies enter whom they had observed on
the preceding day; but as they passed on to occupy a pew near to the
pulpit, they could not get a sight of the face of either of them.
The service was conducted as usual with extreme simplicity--singing,
without the aid of any instrumental music, and extemporary prayer,
free, however, from monotony or tautology. The sermon was short
and impressive, setting forth the grand truths of revelation in
a simple, earnest manner, and enforcing them in tones of mild,
persuasive, yet commanding eloquence. The text would be considered
by many a very commonplace one, yet it is one which embodies the
whole theory of Divine truth--"This is a faithful saying, and worthy
of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save
sinners; of whom I am chief" (1 Tim. i. 15). When the two stranger
ladies were walking up the passage, after the close of the service,
Mrs. Lewellin contrived to be standing with her pew door partly
open, but drew it back as they were in the act of passing. The eye
of the invalid lady caught hers; she paused, and exclaimed with
emotion--"And is it you, my dear Miss Roscoe?"
"Not Miss Roscoe _now_," replied Mrs. Lewellin, waving her hand
towards her husband; "I have exchanged it for Lewellin. And is it
you, my dear Miss Rawlins?"
"Yes, still Miss Rawlins, your old friend. How marvellous that we,
who were once two such giddy girls, should meet after so great a
lapse of time in a Dissenting chapel!"
"The God of grace often works wonders."
"Always when he saves sinners."
"And does my dear Miss Rawlins feel herself to be a sinner?"
"Yes, and one of the chief. Some others may be more vile, but no one
can be more worthless."
"Is this an illusion, or a reality? Am I in some fairy land?"
"I do not wonder at your exclamation. It is more like romance than
reality."
They walked away from the chapel together, and when parting, Mrs.
Lewellin said, "If you are at the chapel in the evening we will sit
in the same pew."
"O yes, my dear; we greatly prefer the chapel to the church. _There_
we have the pomp of religion; _here_ its beautiful simplicity. At
_church_ we hear the Church itself and its ceremonial rites held up
to us from day to day; _here_ the Saviour himself is placed before
us as the Alpha and Omega of the service. We are more partial to the
substance of the truth, than to shadowy forms."
In the evening a minister officiated, who was on a visit to Malvern
for the improvement of his health. He was a fine looking man, though
much emaciated, and preached as one whose eye was turned away from
the vanities of time, contemplating steadfastly the glories of
eternity. His text was strikingly appropriate to his own condition
and to ours:--"The fashion of this world passeth away" (1 Cor. vii.
31).
"The context to this passage," said the minister, "tells us, my
brethren, what experience confirms--that our abode on earth is
short. St. Paul, therefore, exhorts us, and we will do well to
attend to his exhortations, to guard against too fond an attachment
to any relation or possession in life. You who weep, and you who
rejoice, should moderate the intensity of your emotions; as you
will soon be far removed from the influence of the causes which
produce those feelings, and the possessions which you now hold
on the most secure tenure will soon be claimed by others. Set
not, therefore, your heart on this world, which you must so soon
leave. Its appearance is attractive, like the shifting scenes of
a theatre, or a gaudy pageant in a public procession; but it will
soon vanish from your sight, to amuse and beguile others in like
manner. There is another world--more splendid, more glorious, and
more durable--towards that you should turn your attention, and seek
with the most intense ardour of soul to be prepared to enter it.
Otherwise, when you depart from this world--and you may very soon
depart--you will go into outer darkness, and be lost for ever."
"I hope, my dear Mrs. Lewellin," said Miss Rawlins, on the following
morning, when they were promenading by themselves in a retired walk,
"you will forgive me for not replying to the last letter I received
from you. Indeed, I have often reproached myself for not doing it.
It has been the occasion of bitter grief, and some tears, especially
of late."
"I can very easily forgive you, dear Miss Rawlins; but will you
permit me to ask you why you did not reply?"
"It was, at that period of my life, absolutely unintelligible. I
concluded you were become a mystic; and I foolishly imagined you
were contemplating taking the veil, and that I should soon hear you
had entered a convent. You will not be surprised at this when you
advert to the foolish letter I wrote to you about religion."[33]
[33] Vol. i. p. 451.
"If agreeable to you," said Mrs. Lewellin, "I should like to hear by
what means you were brought to see and to feel your real character
and condition in relation to God and the eternal world."
"My history is a very singular one--abounding with incidents that
illustrate the workings of the special providence of God. You know,
my dear, in what a gay circle I moved. The concert, the drama, the
ball-room, card-parties, and novels absorbed my whole soul. I lived
in a perpetual whirl of excitement and gaiety. But I was not happy,
and often felt disgusted with my own frivolous pursuits. At length,
I had a severe and dangerous illness, brought on by imprudently
exposing myself to the cold damp air, in returning from a ball. For
some weeks my life was despaired of, and these were weeks of terror.
I was brought to the verge of the dark world, and felt appalled at
the thought of entering it. I was rebellious, too, and murmured
against God for depriving me of life at such an early period."
"It was by a cold, caught at a ball, that your old friend, Miss
Denham, lost her life."[34]
[34] Vol. i. p. 410.
"Yes; I recollect you alluded to her death in a letter I received
from you. Were you intimate with her?"
"I was with her when she died."
"Indeed! I know she was a gay devotee to the world; and, therefore,
it may be painful to hear how she died. What myriads are offered as
victims to the Moloch of fashion!"
"No, my dear, not painful. Her head was reclining on the bosom of a
pious friend, who was present with me at the interview; and her last
words were--'I am dying, but not without hope of attaining eternal
life, through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.'"
"How thankful I am to hear that. It is like the rescue of a
friend from shipwreck. But to resume my story. I was gradually
restored to health, and re-entered the gay world, amidst the warm
congratulations of my friends. At the close of the season we came to
Malvern to spend a few months. Here the mystic roll of Providence
began to unfold itself. One day, when rambling by myself over
the common, I saw a neat little cottage, which I entered. It was
occupied by an old woman, who sat reading her Bible. I apologized
for my act of intrusion; when she requested me to take a seat.
"'I hope,' she added, looking at me benignantly as she spoke, 'you
love your Bible. It tells us about Jesus Christ; about his love
for poor sinners; and about his dying for them, to save them from
perishing; and it tells us that if we come to him He will never
forsake us. There is no book like God's Book.'
"I felt confused, and soon left her; but her words followed me.
They were perpetually sounding in my ears; and yet I could not draw
out of them any intelligible meaning. A few days after this I met an
old school-fellow, looking very ill; and having promised to call on
her, I did so the following week. I found her confined to her bed,
and evidently with but a short time to live. She said to me, when
taking leave of her, 'You see, my dear Miss Rawlins, that I am now
going into another world: and I go in peace, because I look by faith
to Jesus Christ, who died to save sinners. He has assured me, in the
Bible, that if I come to him, and trust in him, He will save me. You
have been near death, but your life is spared; let me entreat you
to leave the gay and thoughtless crowd, and come by faith to Jesus
Christ to save you, and to make you happy.'
"These last words made a deep impression on my heart, and gave
rise to some painful reflections. Must I then, I said to myself,
withdraw from the gay world to be happy? Can Jesus Christ make me
happy? How is this possible, when he is dead, and gone to heaven?
These references to Jesus Christ reminded me of your letter, which,
as it happened still to be in my writing desk, I again perused. I
was struck with the harmony of sentiment and testimony between your
letter, the observations of the old woman, and the appeal of my
dying friend; and I felt its influence, even though it appeared to
me, in a great measure, unintelligible."
"It is said of Samson," remarked Mrs. Lewellin, "that the Spirit of
the Lord moved him at times; that is, he was occasionally acted on
by an unusual impulse. And something analogous to this may be traced
in our moral history; the recurrence of impressions and emotions, of
a singular character, proceeding from some unknown cause. The Lord
the Spirit is at work in the heart, but his operations are veiled in
darkness; happily, the time for explanation comes at last."
"It has been so, my dear Mrs. Lewellin, in my experience. Singular
events have been employed to produce those singular emotions; but
at the time, I could trace them to no perceptible cause, nor did I
ever suppose they would lead to any important issue. But the mystery
is now graciously explained. Soon after our return home, another
incident occurred, which exercised a material influence on my mind.
We went to dine with an old friend of my father's, who lived about
ten miles from town, and intended to return in the evening, but such
a violent storm came on, that we were glad to accept our friend's
invitation to remain for the night. At nine o'clock the parlour bell
was rung, and in a few minutes the servants entered, and our own
coachman with them, when a large Bible was placed near a clergyman,
one of the party. He read the second chapter of St. Paul's Epistle
to the Ephesians, and offered up a very solemn and impressive
prayer. This was quite novel; I had never before been present at
such a service. I was again brought into contact with the great
facts of revelation; and when on my knees before God in prayer, I
became still more restless in my mind. I felt a strong inclination
to go again to scenes of gaiety, to dispel the strange thoughts, and
still stranger forebodings, which haunted me; and yet I recoiled
from doing so, under an instinctive apprehension that they would
make me still more restless and unhappy. I felt, at times, so
miserable, that I took no interest in life. At this crisis, another
incident occurred, trivial in itself, and apparently casual, but
it was one of those agencies which were working together for my
good. Our coachman brought with him, from the pious family which we
had been visiting, some religious tracts; and on passing through
the kitchen I saw one on the dresser; it was _Poor Joseph_.[35]
I took it and read it. It delighted me from its singularity. I
involuntarily exclaimed, when I had finished reading it, 'What a
contrast between this poor half-witted man and myself! he is in
ecstasy when referring to Jesus Christ coming into the world to save
sinners, but I can only refer to this great fact with apathy and
indifference. How is this?' It appeared strange, and was a heavy
burden on my heart."
[35] Vol. i. p. 152.
"Our Lord says, 'They that be whole need not a physician, but
they that are sick' (Matt. ix. 12). A man in health looks with
indifference on the physician; but not so the dying patient. It
is a deep sense of personal guilt, and a vivid apprehension of
positive danger, that fits a sinner to form a correct estimate of
the need and value of a Saviour. When such a discovery is made and
felt, then it is hailed with rapture, and mental repose is enjoyed
as the consequence of trusting on the Saviour for pardon and
salvation."