from me, had it not been for another circumstance. I had one gay
friend to whom I was much attached; indeed, with the exception of
my parents, she was the only person I really loved. She completely
ruled me, though one of the most gentle creatures I ever knew.
I was never so happy as when in her company. She was as fond of
the gay world as myself. On one occasion we had both accepted an
invitation to a grand ball given by Sir John Markham, but in the
morning I received a note from my friend requesting me not to expect
to meet her there; adding, 'I withdraw from the gay world, and
for ever. It is a vain show, which promises happiness, but yields
none. Don't be alarmed; I will explain when I see you.' This note
took me by surprise; but I was more pleased than distressed. I
refrained from going to the ball, and went to see my friend. She
then informed me that her attention had recently been turned to her
Bible, by a sermon she heard preached by the Rev. James Harrington
Evans, and she had resolved to seek lasting happiness by yielding
herself to God, through the redemption of Christ Jesus the Lord. Her
conversation, though somewhat unintelligible to me, was in perfect
harmony with the sentiments I had previously heard others express. I
now readily complied with her earnest solicitation to accompany her,
on the following Sunday morning, to hear the same eloquent preacher.
We went together. His text was, 'For through him we both have access
by one Spirit unto the Father' (Eph. ii. 18). When he was explaining
to us the nature of access to the Father, and showing us why and how
we ought to come to Him, the veil was removed, and the light of life
shone with clear radiance into my heart. I felt subdued, captivated;
and, for the first time of my life, I could say, 'Now I know where
true happiness is to be found.' _Now_ I could understand your
letter. I followed, then, without hesitation, my friend's example,
in withdrawing from the gay world."
"I suppose," here remarked Mrs. Lewellin, "the secession of two such
gay devotees from the circle of fashion, occasioned some little
tumult?"
"O, yes, we had a few calls from some of the more inquisitive, who
live on excitement; but we were both inflexible, and now we are
subjected to no annoyance."
"What did your parents say?"
"I think they were more pleased than otherwise, especially my dear
mother, whose health had been rapidly declining for some months.
Very soon afterwards she was confined to her room; and God honoured
me to be the instrument in directing her to the Lamb of God, who
gave his life a ransom for many. She passed through a severe ordeal
of mental suffering during her long illness; but when descending
into the dark valley, she saw, by faith, Jesus coming to receive
her; and she died in peace."
"These varied conflicts, my dear Miss Rawlins, in which you have
been engaged, must have proved a severe trial to you."
"They have rather seriously affected my health, which has given way,
and occasioned our present visit to Malvern."
"I congratulate you on your rescue from the allurements of a vain
and giddy world. Now that you are made alive from the dead, you must
yield yourself to God, to fear, and love, and glorify him, and show
forth his praise."
"As I have now, my dear Mrs. Lewellin, unbosomed to you the secrets
of my heart, I shall feel more at ease. But, O! where can I find
words adequate to express my grateful feelings to my adorable
Saviour, for the marvellous manifestations of his sovereign
compassion and love to my dear mother, my beloved friend, and
myself!"
The next day Mrs. Lewellin went with Miss Rawlins, to see the old
woman who lived in the cottage on the common. On entering, they
found her in her arm chair, with her Bible open before her, so
intent on what she was reading, that she did not appear to notice
them, till she was spoken to.
"Sit down, ladies; I am glad to see you."
"At your old employment, I see," said Miss Rawlins.
"Why, Miss, I don't know that I can be at a better. It is proper
that a child should read his father's epistles of love, and that a
servant should study to know what his master requires him to do and
suffer."
"Do you ever feel weary of reading the parts of the Bible you have
read before?"
"It is, Miss, with God's Word, as it is with God's world. We enjoy a
serene evening and the beauties and melodies of the spring, as much
this year, as we did in any gone-by year of our life. I was just
thinking, before you ladies came in, that I could say nearly off at
heart the third chapter of John's Gospel; and yet I could read it
again, with as much pleasure and profit, if not more, than I did the
first time I read it. There is such a wonderful depth, and such a
rich fulness and living power in God's Word."
"What book," inquired Mrs. Lewellin, "do you like next to the Bible?"
"O, dear, Ma'am, I have long done with all other books. I used
to like good John Bunyan's _Pilgrim_, and I have read it through
many times; but now I care about no book but my Bible. I sometimes
think I should like to take the Bible with me to heaven, as then I
should be able to have some dark sayings explained, which I can't
understand now."
"You have no doubts, I suppose, about the certainty of your
salvation?"
"No, Ma'am; not _now_. Some time since, I was greatly distressed
with doubts and fears, but now all my anxieties are at rest. I stand
with my staff in my hand, waiting to hear my Father call me home. He
will call soon."
"How simple, and how dignified," said Mrs. Lewellin, as they were
leaving the cottage, "are the anticipations of an old disciple, when
approaching the entrance to the heavenly kingdom!"
"And what a contrast," replied Miss Rawlins, "to the devotees of
fashion! They will amuse themselves at the card-table, till their
hands become too enfeebled to play; and even on a death-bed will
listen with deep interest to descriptions of operas and plays, a new
singer, or a new actor; inquire with eager curiosity who wore the
most splendid dress at the ball--what new marriage is now on the
_tapis_--in short, will listen to anything, however trifling, to
keep off the thought of dying."
"Yes," said Mrs. Lewellin; "and when, for form's sake, the
officiating priest is sent for, and he has gone through the
prescribed ceremonies--has read the absolution and given the
sacrament, and they have thus made their peace with God--they still
live on, as long as they can live, amidst the gay scenes of former
times now gone from them for ever. But to that one great event in
their moral history, which is so certain, and so near at hand,
all references or allusions are imperatively forbidden, as though
its entire oblivion could prevent its actual occurrence. O, it is
painful to think of the terrific surprise and overwhelming horror
which will seize on their spirits, when they pass into the eternal
world!"
"Yes, my dear; and if _our_ preparations for death, and if our
reminiscences and anticipations when dying, should bear, as I trust
they will, a nearer resemblance to the dignified deportment, and the
sweet serenity of the old woman on the common, than to the criminal
frivolity of these self-doomed devotees of fashionable life, we
must, in imitation of the devout Psalmist, and with tears of joyous
gratitude, ever say--'Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy
name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth's sake'--(Psalm
cxv. 1.)"
On their return from this visit, Mrs. Lewellin said, with some
embarrassment of manner, "We have now, my dear Miss Rawlins, been at
Malvern longer than we contemplated. We leave to-morrow, but I hope
that we may again meet somewhere on earth, to renew the sweet and
hallowed intercourse we have so much enjoyed here."
"I am thankful that you kept the secret of your departure to the
last moment. An earlier intimation of the exact time would have had
on my heart a very depressing effect. Our conversations at Malvern
will ever be held by me in pleasing remembrance, and I shall long
for an opportunity to renew them. Good night. We will have no formal
parting. It will be too painful."
As Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin had exceeded the time which they had
originally contemplated spending on their tour, they now proceeded
homewards to Rockhill, where they found Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and a
few other friends, waiting to welcome them to their new home. The
meeting was a delightful one, nothing having occurred to either
party, during their absence, to occasion annoyance or perplexity.
A few months after their return, Mrs. Lewellin received the
following letter from Miss Rawlins:--
"DEAR MRS. LEWELLIN,--It will give you, I have no doubt, some
pleasure to hear that I am again in my father's house, and in
the enjoyment of perfect health and vigour. And you will, I
doubt not, unite with me in humble adoration and gratitude to
the God of all grace, not only for the grace bestowed on me--one
of the most worthless of the unworthy--but for his marvellous
loving-kindness to my dear father, who is so much delighted,
and so deeply moved by the preaching of the Rev. J. H. Evans,
that he attends his chapel with me regularly every Sabbath.
Though there is no decisive evidence that he is become a new
creature in Christ Jesus, yet I hope he is entering the narrow
way that leads to life. He spends much of his time in reading
his Bible and Doddridge's _Exposition_, and is very earnest in
his inquiries about coming to Christ to be saved. Truly the
God of grace often works wonders. My endeared friend, Miss
Forrester, whom you saw with me at Malvern, is now, and is
likely to continue to be for some time, an inmate in our family.
We were one in spirit when we were living and moving amidst the
frivolous and ensnaring gaieties of life; and we are still one
in spirit now we are both united to the Lord; but it is a spirit
of a purer nature, and one that death cannot destroy.
"I often think of our unlooked-for meeting at Malvern, and the
pleasant hours of Christian intercourse we spent together when
there. I hope both you and Mr. Lewellin have been enjoying good
health since your return home. I need not say how glad I shall
be to hear from you. Write soon, and believe me, ever yours,
"LETITIA."
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Some months having now elapsed since Mr. Lewellin's marriage, I
set off to pay my long promised visit to my esteemed friend and
his lady. I was accompanied by Mrs. Orme, who joined me in London
from the Elms, and after a pleasant journey we arrived safely at
Rockhill. It was promptly decided that the first half of my time
should be spent with them, and the other at Fairmount, with Mr. and
Mrs. Stevens. The day after my arrival, I took a stroll round the
farm with Mr. Lewellin, and I was much gratified by its general
appearance. I did not see his bailiff, Harry Pickford, as he was
gone to Weyhill fair, to purchase a few South-down sheep; but I
had great pleasure in hearing that his master had every reason to
be satisfied with him, and that great confidence was placed in his
judgment and activity. "He is," Mrs. Lewellin facetiously remarked,
"an able professor in the science of agriculture; and I think,
Sir, if you examine Mr. Lewellin, you will pronounce him an apt
scholar. He has made much rapid progress in his studies during the
session;--he may possibly take a degree."
On the Sabbath it was arranged, while we were at breakfast, that
Mrs. Orme should ride to church with our kind host and hostess;
but I preferred walking, as I wished to take the same route I
had taken some years before, and ascertain, if possible, what
practical effect had resulted from my casual advice to Robert
Curliffe, whom, on a previous occasion, I had found working in his
garden,[36] with his two sons. It was a fine autumn morning, without
a cloud; the air was genial and invigorating, and the stillness of
the solitary lane along which I was passing formed an agreeable
contrast to the noise and bustle of the thronged streets of my town
residence. Robert's cottage still stood where I first saw it, but
its appearance was greatly improved, and his garden was in a higher
state of cultivation. These were auspicious signs, and formed, as
will shortly be seen, fresh illustrations of an oft-repeated remark,
that the work of grace in the heart contributes to the promoting of
temporal as well as spiritual comfort. On entering his cottage, I
found him dressed in his Sunday clothes, with his Bible beside him
on the table, and in his hand Fuller's _Gospel its own Witness_. He
expressed great joy at seeing me; and his wife, offering me a chair,
said, "You will see a change here, Sir, since your first visit; the
grace of God is a wonder-working power."
[36] Vol. i. p. 110.
"And I suppose you are both happier than when you preferred working
in the garden on the Sabbath to going to church?"
"Yes, Sir," said Robert, "we are; and we are better off in worldly
matters. Our home is a quieter home. Our lads are more orderly in
their manners, and both go to Mr. Ingleby's Sunday-school. We are a
reformed family."
"I shouldn't like," said Robert's wife, "for things to go back into
their old state; it would be like a good garden going back to a
common waste."
"You have now something of more importance to think about and talk
about, than about planting and weeding your garden."
"Yes, Sir, the wonderful facts of the Bible; especially God's
unspeakable gift of a Saviour who is able and willing to save us."
"What the Lord has done for us in our souls, since you had the first
talk with our Robert, has given me a wonderful liking to the Bible,
and to Mr. Ingleby's preaching. Before that time, if I read a bit
of a chapter, I could not make out its meaning; and if I heard a
sermon, it made no impression on my heart; it came in at one ear,
and went out at t'other. Ah! dear; things are wonderfully changed
in us. I shouldn't like them to be changed back again; it would be
worse than seeing our garden overrun with thistles and nettles."
I now pressed on to church. The Curate read the Liturgy with
great solemnity and pathos. My Dissenting prejudices subsided as
I listened to the solemn words of prayer; and the responses had a
soul-inspiring effect. "Yes," I said to myself, "the prayers are
simple, sublime, and appropriate; they are such as a sinner should
offer up, when kneeling before the Lord; they prepare the heart to
unite with the voices of the heavenly kingdom in their chorus of
thanksgiving and praise." At length I saw the vestry door open; the
venerable Rector walked out, ascended the flight of stairs, and
entered his pulpit. After a short extempore prayer, he announced his
text--"And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a
great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and
fell on his neck, and kissed him" (Luke xv. 20).
On my previous visit to Fairmount, I had observed that the
infirmities of age were fast creeping upon Mr. Ingleby, and this
was now much more manifest, though it could scarcely be wondered
at, as the good Rector had considerably advanced beyond the period
generally allotted to the life of man, being now upwards of eighty
years of age. His voice, however, was still clear and sonorous; and
though there was less activity and brilliancy of imagination, yet
the same bold and impassioned appeals to the conscience and the
heart came from his lips as when I first heard him. He commanded
the attention of his audience, and he rewarded it. After describing
the old man walking anxiously up and down in the cool of the
evening in front of his rural mansion, situated, it might be, in
some remote quarter of Palestine, he proceeded to recount his
supposed soliloquy, while thinking of his long-lost child:--"'Is he
still living, or has he been devoured by some wild beast of prey!
Is he in affluence, or is he in want! Does he ever think of his
home, and of his father, or has he forgotten both! Shall I ever
see him again! Shall I ever embrace him again, as I embraced him
the morning he left me! Shall I ever hear him address me 'father,'
as I was once accustomed to hear him call me!' The old man is now
just going to retire for the night, when something is seen moving
in the distance--it advances--it is a man--a poor forlorn outcast,
come to ask for shelter; he shall not be denied; he looks more
fixedly--the figure advances, yet it is still a great way off; it
is--no, it cannot be; he looks--it is, it is my son! See how the
old man runs to embrace the traveller! What a joyous meeting! what
a night of gladsome mirth and hallowed devotion! And who, beloved
brethren, supplies me with the materials for this dramatic sketch?
Jesus Christ. For what purpose? To assure us that our heavenly
Father feels more compassion for a relenting sinner than he can feel
sorrow for his sins; and that He feels more paternal delight in the
exercise of mercy, than a sinner can feel joy by having all his sins
forgiven him."
When the sermon was over, I saw Farmer Pickford and his wife
standing at the corner of the lane, waiting for my approach.
"I am glad to see you back again. I have looked for this day, many
a day, and many a night, since you were preaching in the barn. You
look well, Sir. Time makes no change in your appearance."
"I hope, Sir," said Mrs. Pickford, "you will come and see us; we
shall be so much pleased."
"We have had, Farmer, a very touching sermon this morning."
"It touched me to the quick, and no mistake. I have shed more tears
this morning than I ever shed in any morning since I was born. It
made me feel a power of trouble, like."
"And it greatly affected me," said Mrs. Pickford; "it made me think
of our long lost George; shall we ever see him again?"
"He, my dear friend, who brought back the prodigal of the gospel,
can bring back your dear son."
"I hope he will," replied the Farmer. "I don't care in what
condition he comes home, so that he does come back, and I live long
enough to receive him. He may come in rags for what I care. I'll
give him a capital supper, and a new suit; and we'll have a joyous
merry-making, and no mistake. You'll give us another sarmunt in the
barn?"
"Yes, do, Sir," urged his wife; "we shall be so pleased, and
profited, too. One of our neighbours, Mr. Richards, was so impressed
by your discourse on the conversion of Zaccheus, that he is quite a
changed character. He was, before he heard it, a very irreligious
man; but now he regularly goes to church every Sabbath morning, and
to Mr. Stevens' chapel every Sabbath evening. And he comes to our
weekly prayer-meeting; and we often have edifying conversation with
him."
"Before he heard that sarmunt," said the Farmer, "Richards was just
what I was before your first talk to me about my soul--a drunken,
swearing sort of chap; but now he keeps as sober as a judge; and
his talk is quite heavenly. He gets on in the good things faster
than I do; I'm still but a dullish sort of a scollard; worse luck.
But after all, I know something about the one thing needful; that's
worth knowing. The Lord be praised; and many thanks to you, Sir."
"I hope, Farmer, by this time, that you enjoy a well-grounded
assurance, that you are accepted in the Beloved, and feel safe for
eternity."
"As for that, Sir, I must speak with great care. I must not be
too bold. Howsomever, I don't fear dying, and that's a main good
thing; a kind of a triumph, like; the Lord be praised. I love Jesus
Christ--that's certain; I love my Bible, and I love the services of
God's house more than I used to love the ways of sin, and that is
saying a good deal. Will you give us another sarmunt in the barn,
Sir?"
"Yes; and I will let you know when I can do it."
I dined in the course of the following week at Mr. Roscoe's, and
much enjoyed my visit. It revived a recollection of the discussions
of former times, between him and his Tractarian brother, now become
an able advocate of the faith he then laboured to destroy. I never
saw Mr. Roscoe looking better; his spirits were buoyant, rising at
times to youthful cheerfulness. He abounded with anecdotes, both
grave and facetious; and was, indeed, the soul of the social circle.
We were deeply interested by the narration of an occurrence which
happened on the preceding day, and which I will give in his own
words:--
"I walked yesterday as far as Brushwood House, on a little matter of
business, and on my return home, just as I came to the corner of the
coppice, I saw a respectable looking young man sitting on the stump
of a tree in the hedgerow. He rose, bowed, and said, 'My name, Sir,
is George Pickford, and I am just back from a long roving trip, on
board of a merchant ship, and I have been watching a long while for
some one to go and tell father and mother that I am back safe and
sound. I am afraid to go home till some one has told them that I am
here, because, as they don't know whether I am dead or alive, my
abrupt appearance may startle them. And if, Sir, you will be so kind
as to do this little job for me, I shall feel a power of gratitude.
It won't take you far out of the way.' After chatting awhile with
him about the places he had visited, I asked him whether he had been
successful and taken care of his money, 'Why, Sir,' he replied,
'as I am so near home, I don't mind confessing to you what I have
confessed to no man since I came on shore. I have saved upwards of
£130; and I have it in a leather bag belted round my body under my
shirt. I kept clear of the land sharks in every port we entered. I
have for the last four years kept within compass--never gaming on
board, and never drinking on shore; but before then I used to do
such things.'
"Mrs. Pickford saw me approaching the farm-house. She was all hurry
and bustle to get herself, and her neat little parlour, in order
for my reception. I took a chair and talked some time about things
in general, and then alluded to the sermon we had heard on Sabbath
morning. The tear fell from her eye, as she said to me, 'Sir, it was
a most painful sermon; it brought my George so forcibly before my
mind,'
"'You may possibly,' I remarked, 'see him again.'
"'I don't expect it, Sir. He has been gone six years come the 8th of
October; and we have not heard from him, or a word about him, since
he left us.'
"'Be of good cheer; you will see him ere long.'
"'Her look was now wild and penetrating; and she exclaimed, 'What,
Sir, do you say, and shall I see my George ere long?'
"'Be composed,' I added, 'I bring you glad tidings. Your George is
back safe and sound; and he has requested me to come and tell you.'
"'Back, Sir! safe and sound; and you have seen him; tell me,' rising
as she spoke, 'where he is, that I may see him too.'
"I then said, 'If you will sit down, and promise to remain seated
for the next quarter of an hour, you shall see him.'
"'A hard promise, Sir; but I thank the Lord he has given me an
opportunity to make it.'
"I stepped through the fold-yard, hailed George, who was on the
watch, and then led him to his mother. I shall not attempt a
description of the scene that followed. She sprang into his arms,
and he into hers.
"'Mother, forgive me.'
"'I do, my child.'
"'I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight, my mother.'
"'I forgive all, my dear, dear George; and bless the Lord for giving
me this opportunity of telling you so.'
"His younger brother and his sisters, who stood gazing and weeping,
all gathered around him, as soon as his mother withdrew her
embraces. 'But where is father?' I heard him say, as I retired from
this scene of domestic joy and happiness.
[Illustration: M. S. MORGAN.
T. BOLTON.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Vol. ii. page 480.]
"One thing I must not forget to mention. When it came up in the
course of our conversation, at our first interview, that I knew his
old master, his robbery of whom occasioned his running away, he put
a letter into my hand, and asked me if I would deliver it to him. It
contained the amount stolen, with interest, and compound interest up
to the present date: with a confession of his crime, and an entreaty
for forgiveness."
We were all deeply affected by this touching tale, particularly Mrs.
Lewellin and Mrs. Orme, who said, both speaking at the same time,
"We must go and see George and his mother, and congratulate them on
their happy meeting."
* * * * *