confirmation of this during my stay at Fairmount. Mr. Stevens had
engaged to accompany Mr. Roscoe to Norton, on a trifling matter of
business; and as they were to start at ten o'clock, Mr. Roscoe rose
rather early, took breakfast with Mrs. Roscoe, conducted family
prayer as usual, and then retired into his study. Mr. Stevens
came, and as Mr. Roscoe did not make his appearance, Mrs. Roscoe
rang the bell, and desired the servant to call him. The servant
went to his room, knocked several times, but receiving no answer
she opened the door, and saw her master in the attitude of prayer.
This circumstance induced her quietly to retire, but on closing the
door, she was so much struck with the singular position in which she
had seen his head, that she returned towards him, and immediately
exclaimed in consternation, "My master is dead!" This exclamation,
which was heard by Mr. Stevens, induced him to run up stairs,
where he found the servant standing, petrified by terror, near
her venerable master, who had, when engaged in the holy exercise
of communion with God his Saviour, left the scene of his earthly
cares and bliss, to take possession of his heavenly inheritance.
His hands were yet warm, and his countenance had undergone no
change, but the eyelids and the mouth had fallen--there was no
respiration, no motion, for he had ceased to be a citizen of earth.
The consternation which this unexpected event occasioned cannot
be described. It burst upon the family like a thunder-storm. Mrs.
Roscoe hastened into the study. "My husband, my dear husband!"
she exclaimed, and was carried fainting into an adjoining room,
where she remained for a quarter of an hour in a state of total
insensibility, unconscious of her loss, till she saw Mr. Stevens
approaching her.
"And is my husband dead, Sir?"
"Be composed, my dear friend, it is the Lord's doing."
"Yes, Sir, I know it; but it is still a terrible trial. Does Sophia
know it? Oh! tell her to come to me immediately."
Mr. Stevens hastened to convey the mournful tidings to Mr. and Mrs.
Lewellin. When he rode up the lawn in front of their house he saw
them returning from a morning's walk, and after an exchange of a few
common-place inquiries, he took Mr. Lewellin aside, and communicated
the intelligence. Mrs. Lewellin, on looking through the parlour
window saw that Mr. Stevens was the bearer of some news that deeply
affected her husband; and feeling apprehensive that it bore some
reference to her parents, she immediately rushed out, and asked if
all was well.
"Yes, my dear," said her husband, "all is well that the Lord does."
"Yes, I know it; but what has he done?"
"Your father"----
"My father! What! tell me!"
"Your father," said Mr. Stevens, "was taken suddenly ill this
morning, and when I left him was not able to speak to me."
"Is he living, Sir? O, tell me! Suspense tortures me! Let me know
the full extent of the calamity!"
"Your father is now mingling his praises with the redeemed before
the throne!"
"What! and have I lost my father? Is he gone without giving me his
blessing? How did he die?"
"We found him dead on his knees in the study."
"On his knees! O, happy saint!"
"His death has indeed been a translation."
"And how does my dear mother sustain the blow?"
"She wishes to see you immediately."
They hastened to the house of mourning, but on entering the
breakfast-parlour in which Mr. Roscoe had only a few hours before
partaken of his last meal on earth, Mrs. Lewellin's feelings
overcame her. On recovering from this hysteric fit she became more
composed, and expressed a desire to see her afflicted mother, and
being supported by Mr. Lewellin and Mr. Stevens, she was led into
the room where the bereaved widow sat, silent and motionless, in all
the solitude and agony of grief. She rose to meet her daughter, and
in a moment they were closely locked in each other's embrace, but
they were too much overpowered with anguish to utter any words but
those of sorrow. They wept aloud, but in their weeping there was the
majesty of grief, bending in unmurmuring submission to the will of
their heavenly Father.
"And is my father dead?"
"Yes, my child, you have lost your father, and I have lost my
husband."
Mrs. Lewellin looked round the room, and having fixed her eye on
his full-length picture, she approached it, and said, "There he is!
yes, there he is! My father! speak, my father! It is thy Sophia that
speaks to thee!" She stood silent for a few moments, and then sunk
in the arms of her husband. For several hours she continued in a
state of high delirium, but became gradually composed, and retired
to rest. Next morning she awoke with her feelings less agitated;
and though she wept when she saw her mother, yet she spoke of their
mutual loss with more tranquillity.
"Though it has pleased God," said the bereaved widow, "to deprive
us of the visible presence of one we so ardently loved, we must not
abandon ourselves to unavailing grief--we must not sorrow as others
that have no hope; but rather bow down our souls in submission to
his holy will and say, 'Even so, O righteous Father, for so it hath
seemed good in thy sight.'"
"I hope, my dear mother, I can repeat that sentiment; but still I
feel that I have lost one of the best of fathers that ever called a
child his own; and if I should be unable to control my feelings, I
hope you will bear with me. Ours is no common loss."
* * * * *
To relieve myself in some measure from the depression which this
bereavement had occasioned, I bent my footsteps towards Farmer
Pickford's homestead, and there I saw his son George, and had from
him a rough outline of his adventures, which I will briefly narrate.
He left the port of London, on board a merchant vessel, in company
with Jack Summers, who had seduced him into the ways of iniquity;
but poor Jack fell overboard, and was drowned, before he set sail.
His first voyage was to Havana; where, one day, he went on shore
with the ship's carpenter. They visited the slave-market, where
they saw men, women, and children sold like beasts of burden. This
sickened them, both of the West Indies and slavery; but he said,
"We served them out," for, on stepping into their boat they found,
coiled up in the jib-sail, a negro lad, about the age of fifteen,
who said, "Me let go wid you." They contrived to get him on board
without his being seen; George took off the top of an empty water
butt, put the negro in, gave him a bottle of water and some bread
and cheese, and told him to lie still till the ship was under
weigh. Early the next morning the negro's master came to inquire if
there was a black boy on board; and when the captain, who didn't
know anything about it, assured him that there was not, he turned
back; and soon after the vessel set sail. "We brought him away with
us," said George, "and he has been with me ever since, and he is
one of the best fellows of the crew for work." This voyage, upon
the whole, was a very pleasant one, and he took a strong liking
to a seafaring life. His second voyage was to Madeira, and this,
also, was a pleasant one, notwithstanding a short though violent
storm, which, to quote his own expression, "the little snug vessel
outrode in gallant style." His third voyage was to Calcutta; but,
on rounding the Cape, they encountered a tremendous hurricane,
which lasted several days and nights without intermission; fears
were entertained for the safety of the vessel, as she got fearfully
strained; and now it was that the captain discovered the superior
capabilities of George, for, having been apprenticed to a carpenter,
he was able to take the berth of the ship's carpenter, who died some
weeks before. On his return to port, the mate was promoted to the
captain's berth, who took the command of another ship; and George
Pickford took the berth of the mate. His character for sobriety and
activity gave much satisfaction to Messrs. B., his employers; and
he was a great favourite with the crew. Nothing occurred of any
great importance for the next three years, till his last visit to
Calcutta, when the ship was detained for upwards of two months; the
captain giving him permission to go ashore as often as he pleased.
Here he met a young man whom he knew--a native of Broadhurst, but
now a resident in Calcutta--a decidedly pious man, who invited
him to spend the following Sabbath with him. He did so; and they
went together to the chapel in which Mr. James Hill, an English
missionary, preached. As he sat directly opposite the pulpit, the
eye of the preacher fell directly upon him--at least he thought so;
and the text, "Be sure your sin will find you out," (Num. xxxii.
23), brought his sin of dishonesty to his master, undutifulness to
his parents, and his uniform forgetfulness of God, and contempt
for his authority, with such vividness to his recollection that he
hastened on board as rapidly as possible. There, in the quietude
of his own berth, he pondered over this new discovery, which was
accompanied by a train of novel and poignant emotions. His soul
was overwhelmed with grief; but yet it was a grief which gave him
more relief than pain. It was pungent, but it did not drive him
to despair. Mr. Hill, in the conclusion of his discourse, quoted
the words of Jesus Christ--"Whosoever believeth in him should not
perish." "I caught hold of that promise," he said, "and I kept hold
of it; and I found it a rope strong enough to save me. I believed I
should not perish; I tried to pray, but could not get further than
the prayer of the publican, 'God, be merciful to me a sinner.'" He
stated that he longed for the return of Sabbath during the whole of
the week; and when it came, though his duties on board required his
attention in the morning, yet in the evening he was at liberty, and
he again heard the same minister preach the glorious gospel of the
blessed God. He felt its great moral power on his heart, reducing
the wild tumult of feeling to a peaceful calm, and giving him a good
hope, through grace, of pardon and salvation. The next morning the
ship weighed anchor, and set sail; and he closed his statement to me
as follows:--"I left my home a wild lad, and a criminal; I lived in
bold rebellion against God up to the age of twenty-three; I acted a
most unkind and undutiful part towards my dear parents, by keeping
them in a state of ignorance of my whereabouts. When I went into
Mr. Hill's chapel I had no more desire for conversion than I have
now to be unconverted; but the Lord had compassion on me, and has
saved me: glory be to his holy name. I am a brand plucked from the
burning, if ever there was one plucked; now I wish to live to show
my gratitude to the Lord Jesus Christ, for saving me; and to do good
to my fellow-sailors. I am glad to say that two of our crew are
God-fearing men; and we often meet together for reading the Bible
and prayer. I had many precious moments, in prayer to the Lord, on
our voyage back; and sometimes felt his presence near me, especially
one night in a fearful storm. I knew he had the winds and the waves
under his command. I trusted in him, and felt secure.
On my return to Fairmount, after this interview with George, I met
the Farmer, who gave me his usual hearty shake of the hand.
"Have you been to my homestead?"
"Yes, and have seen your son George, and had a long chat with him."
"He is grown a finish sort of a chap. He's more of the gemman than
his father, and no mistake. He has seen a main bit of the world,
like. How well he talks; and what a power of matter he has to say.
He keeps us up rather latish with his stories. Some are funny
and make us laugh; and some are shocking. Man is a bad fellow
everywhere till the grace of God touches his heart. Howsomever,
George has scraped up a goodish bit of money. Ay, if a man has any
luck at sea, he often gets on faster than we do here on land."
"Your son, I rather think, has found something more valuable than
gold, or silver, or precious stones."
"The Lord be praised. Yes, he has found the precious pearl of great
price. That's a proof to my mind that Jesus Christ is everywhere,
or my George would not have found him in Calcutta, which, he says,
is thousands of miles off. I suppose he has told you about the
sarmunt that made him feel all at once that he was in a new world?
He must have been as much surprised, when going out of the chapel as
Zaccheus was when he dropped down out of the sycamore tree. What a
wonder-working power the grace of God is, and no mistake!"
"You were not at home, I believe, when your son arrived?"
"No, I had been all the morning, along with two of my men, doing
a bit of hedging and ditching in one of my lower meadows, t'other
side of the hill. And all the while I was working, I was thinking
over the sarmunt Mr. Ingleby preached on Sunday morning. It was one
of great power; it touched me to the quick, like. And just as I was
coming down the hill, to get a bit of dinner, I saw a chap running
across the fold-yard into the house. I wondered who it could be.
After a bit, he came out, and my mistress with him, and I saw her
pointing towards me. I felt all at once a power of strange thoughts
rush into me; and I stood still as the chap was running towards me,
jumping over hedge and ditch, like a greyhound after a hare. When
he got a bit nearer, about five hundred yards off, I thought all
at once it was the step and swing of George; and I heard him cry
out, 'Father! father!' as loud as he could bawl; but for the life
of me I couldn't speak a word more, and I couldn't have been more
frightened if I had seen two ghosts. I seemed stuck fast into the
ground with my tongue tied; so that I was obliged to leave him to do
all the work of hugging, and kissing, and such like. When I got a
bit over my fright, I told him I was main glad to see him back; and
that I would give him as good a supper as was put on the table the
night you gave us the sarmunt in the barn about the conversion of
Zaccheus."
"It must have been a joyous meeting to you."
"I have been thinking two or three times since, that it is almost
worth while to lose a youngster for a year or two, for the delight
of seeing him come back safe and sound. You should hear him read the
Bible and pray. It would do your heart good, Sir. Now, Sir, when
will you come and give us the sarmunt in the barn? George shall read
out the hymn, and pitch the tune, and then you will have a sample
of his cleverness in such matters. Old William, the shepherd, says
he'll take the biggest wether-bell he can find, and he'll go round
to all the cottages and farm-houses in those parts, and cry notice
of it. I must clear out both barns to find room for the people;
they'll come as thick as rooks after the plough. The Lord be praised
that I should ever live to see such joyous times and such wonderful
doings: no sham work; and I must not forget to thank you for the
part you have had in them."
"You may expect me next Wednesday week."
"Very well, Sir, I shall expect you on that day."
"But one thing I have to request, and that is, that you don't get
such a splendid supper as you did last time."
"I never trouble myself about kitchen matters. I leave that to my
wife, whose name is Martha; and you know that the Bible tells us
that Martha always has a liking to give a good treatment to our best
friends. No, no, I mustn't speak about such a matter; if I do, there
will be a rookery in the kitchen."
"Then I must send her a note and make the request myself."
"Well, just as you like, Sir; but I guess it won't matter. Women,
you know, don't like to be put out of their way; and I am sure of
one thing, that if you give us a good sarmunt, as you are sure to do
if you preach, she will give you a good supper, which she is sure
to do if she does the cookery. Why, Paul says, if you mind, Sir,
that we must give our carnal things to them that give us spiritual
things."
As I was taking my leave of him, he said--"Please, Sir, just stop
one minute. It almost got out of my head; but it's back again. Did
George tell you what he says to his mother and me? He says he is
mate of this ship, which I suppose is a goodish sort of a thing;
and he says he thinks he shall be made a captain after he has had
another voyage or two, which I suppose is something better; and he
says he'll take his brother Sam with him and show him Calcutta and
----, I forget what he calls it, but it is where our tea comes from;
and he says he'll make him a bonny sailor, which he says is better
than ploughing or turnip sowing. But his mother don't like this
talk, for she says she shall never sleep at night when the wind gets
up and the lightning comes. Well, I would rather keep them both at
home, than let either of them go; but George has a desperate liking
for the sea: and it seems to be his calling, and we must trust the
Lord to take care of them. O dear, how I forget things! My thinkings
about George coming back to us and Sam going from us, drives almost
everything out of my head. I heard Bob Curliffe say, as I was
crossing the lane on the top of the hill, that he heard his master
say to Mr. Hyde that Mr. Roscoe is dead, is that true, Sir?"
"Yes; he died suddenly, yesterday morning, when on his knees in
prayer."
"That's just how I should like to die, and no mistake. What a
wonderful change for a man--all in a moment; from earth to heaven
in no time! Mr. Ingleby will give us a grand sarmunt on Sunday on
this subject, or I am no prophet. I shouldn't wonder if he takes the
matter of Enoch's getting into heaven without dying. I should like
that way of going, but we must leave all to the Lord. After all, I
don't care how I go, or who sees me go, so as I get into heaven at
last."
The Farmer was right in his predictions. Mr. Ingleby did give us an
excellent sermon on the translation of Enoch; and this was followed
by an admirable sketch of the character of our deceased friend. But
I can do no more than transcribe the subjoined paragraph, which I
took down at the time I heard it:--
"When it pleaseth God to visit our friends with a lengthened
indisposition before he removes them, we have the pleasure of
administering to them the consolations of religion--of exchanging
the expressions of Christian sympathy--and catching from their lips
some sublime expressions of anticipated bliss. The sufferings,
however, which they generally endure are so keen and so poignant,
that in many instances we are thankful when the contest is over.
But if death comes in an unexpected hour, and bears off a friend
without giving us any warning, we are plunged into the lowest abyss
of sorrow, because we are denied the privilege of bidding him adieu:
yet as a mitigation of our anguish we have this consolation, that he
was not called to _walk_ through the dreary valley, being borne as
'on angels' wings' to heaven. In such a case his departure partakes
more of a translation than an act of dying; he oversteps the grave,
and enters into the possession of his purchased inheritance without
having his fears awakened by the solemnity of his removal, or his
peace disturbed by the anxieties and distress which it occasions to
others. One hour he is with his friends on earth, busily employed
in all the duties of his station--the next with his friends in the
celestial world, joining with them in their ascriptions of praise
to Him that sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb. One hour he is
mourning here below over the imperfections of his character--the
next he feels himself made perfect in purity and in blessedness;
and while those who revered and loved him are weeping around his
breathless corpse, he is taking his part in the exercises of that
sacred temple in which the worshippers serve the Lord day and night
for ever."
* * * * *
At last the long expected Wednesday night came, and Mr. Stevens
drove me in his gig to Farmer Pickford's, where I found the barn
full of people waiting my arrival. His son George commenced the
service by reading a hymn, and he read it very well; he then led
off the singing; his brother Harry, a good tenor, standing on his
left, and his father, a good bass, on his right. His mother, with
two or three younger females, stood behind, and altogether a very
effective rustic choir was formed. I selected for my text the 23d
verse of the 11th chapter of the Acts--"Who, when he came, and had
seen the grace of God, was glad, and exhorted them all, that with
purpose of heart they would cleave unto the Lord."
"This, my dear brethren," I observed, "is very likely the last
time I may ever meet you, and address you, in this rustic temple,
which is as glorious in the eyes of the Holy One of Israel, as the
magnificent temple at Jerusalem, which was his local dwelling-place
in ancient times. For here he has condescended to visit you, though
unseen, and listen to your prayers and your praises; and here the
glorious gospel of his grace has proved his power to your salvation.
Yes, when you have finished your course, and the conflict is over,
and when you have gained the prize of your high calling, your
recollections will hover over this hallowed spot, as the spiritual
birth-place of your immortal souls; where you were quickened into
newness of life; and where 'after that ye believed, ye were sealed
with that holy Spirit of promise, which is the earnest of our
inheritance until the redemption of the purchased possession, unto
the praise of his glory' (Eph. i. 13, 14). I solemnly charge every
one of you to be faithful unto death, otherwise you will die in your
sins, and be lost for ever. And how dreadful would such a loss be!"
The service closed in the usual way, and the congregation dispersed.
The Farmer introduced several persons to me, who had received
spiritual benefit from the sermon on the conversion of Zaccheus,
particularly his neighbour Farmer Richards, of whose conversion
he had previously given me some account, and who was invited to
sup with us. This meal was as sumptuous as the former one. It was
soon over; and then before I rose from the table I thus addressed
them:--"Great spiritual changes, my dear friends, have taken place
in your family since I took my first meal in this kitchen. You,"
addressing Mr. P., "were then an unenlightened and an unrenewed
man, living without God in the world, without Christ, and without
hope; but now, with your dear wife, you have passed from death
unto life; have both tasted that the Lord is gracious; are made
fellow-heirs of the grace of life; and can rejoice in the hope
of your final salvation. Your first-born has long since yielded
himself to God, as one alive from the dead; and there sits by your
side your long-lost George, unexpectedly restored to you, and made
a new creature in Christ Jesus before he came back to receive your
parental benediction. And though the younger children are not yet
brought within the bonds of the covenant"--(I was here interrupted
by the Farmer, who, under an excitement he could not repress,
exclaimed, "I think our Sam is, for I saw him on his knees in prayer
the other night.")--"I am glad to hear this, and I trust that he,
like his two brothers, will yield himself to God, to be renewed,
sanctified, and saved; and that his dear sisters will follow their
example; and that all of you will be saved, and glorified in the
celestial world." "The Lord grant it may be so," said all. At the
urgent request of Mrs. Pickford, I read a psalm, and prayed with the
family. It was a solemn service--more solemn than any preceding one,
because it was the last. Many wept when on their knees, and some
wept when they rose up, to give and receive the final farewell. I
hastily shook hands with every one in the room, simply saying, as
I went out, "Lord bless you, and keep you. I hope we shall meet in
heaven." "Amen!" was the response, given with an earnestness and a
solemnity that was almost overpowering.
When the Farmer came to button the apron of our gig, he again took
my hand; and he said, as the tear fell from his eye, "The Lord be
praised for sending you to taste my ale and cream cheese, and you be
thanked for coming. I hope you will pray for me, that I may stick
close to the Lord, with all my heart and soul; and I hope you will
always pray for our George and his brother Sam, when the wind gets
up. Good night, gemmen; a safe ride to Fairmount. Farewell."
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
One morning, while at breakfast at Fairmount, I was surprised by
a note from Mr. John Ryder, requesting the favour of a call from
me, at Aston, before I returned home. The reader will remember Mr.
Ryder[37] as a suitor of Miss Denham, and the affecting farewell of
the latter to him on her death-bed.
[37] Vol. i. p. 420.
"There is a mystery in this," said Mr. Stevens, "which I cannot
account for. I have not seen Mr. Ryder for many months. Miss
Denham's death was a dreadful blow to him, and since then he has
never recovered his wonted spirits, but become quite a recluse,
neither paying nor receiving any visits."
"Who can tell?" I remarked; "her death may issue in his spiritual
life. I will send a reply, saying that I will call on him to-morrow
evening."
"He is a noble character," said Mrs. Stevens; "and a young man
of great intelligence and most amiable disposition. I trust his
affliction has led him to direct his attention to the only true
source of consolation. Indeed, I have some grounds for hoping that
this is the case, as I understand he has been very regular in his
attendance at church for some time past."
On going to Aston the following evening to call on Mr. Ryder, I
unexpectedly met him, and we walked together to his house. After
thanking me for my promptness in thus responding to his request,
he proceeded to disclose to me, without much reserve, the deep
perplexity and strongly excited state of his mind on the question
of personal religion; asking me, at the same time, for my advice,
and how he should act to obtain relief from his perplexities and
depression of spirit.