Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
* * * * *
[Illustration: cover]
THE
SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON.
[Illustration:
DRAWN BY G. H. THOMAS. ENGRAVED BY W. L. THOMAS.
THE OLD SHEPHERD.
Vol. i. page 2.]
[Illustration:
the
Sheepfold
and the
Common
OR
WITHIN & WITHOUT.
Blackie & Son Glasgow Edinburgh and London.]
THE
SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON:
OR,
WITHIN AND WITHOUT.
VOL. I.
"My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow
me."--JOHN x. 27.
"Them that are without God judgeth."--1 COR. v. 13.
[Illustration: logo]
BLACKIE AND SON:
GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, LONDON, AND NEW YORK.
MDCCCLXI.
GLASGOW:
W. G. BLACKIE AND CO., PRINTERS,
VILLAFIELD.
PREFACE.
This Work was originally published, above thirty years ago,
under the title of the _Evangelical Rambler_. It has long been
out of print; and its republication at the present time has been
recommended, as calculated to assist in arresting the progress
of some popular errors and dangerous institutions, and in aiding
the advancement of truth and social happiness. This opinion was
strengthened by a knowledge of the fact, that, according to the most
accurate calculations, from sixty thousand to a hundred thousand
copies of the Work, under its original title, were issued from the
English press, whilst in America it obtained an equally extended
circulation; and from the still more important fact of the Author
having received, from a large number of persons, assurances, both by
letter and personal interviews, of their having derived their first
religious impressions and convictions from perusing its pages. A new
and thoroughly-revised Edition is, therefore, now issued, under the
title of "THE SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON," as being more descriptive
of the aim and intention of the Work than its former name.
The object of the Work is to afford instruction and amusement,
conveyed by a simple narration of the events of every-day life. In
constructing his story, the Author has availed himself occasionally
of the conceptions of his fancy, and at other times he has crowded
into a narrow compass facts and incidents culled from an extended
period of his history; but reality forms the basis of every
narrative and of every scene he has described. He has departed
from the common-place habit of presenting the grand truths of the
Christian faith in didactic and dogmatic statements, preferring the
dramatic form, as more likely to arrest the attention and interest
the feelings, especially of the youthful and imaginative portion
of the community. In adopting this style of composition, he has
thus endeavoured to follow the footsteps of the great Prophet of
Israel, who often spake in parables, veiling truth in a beauteous
external vehicle, to captivate and teach his hearers, while their
prejudices were lying dormant. In no book of human authorship can we
find specimens of imaginative composition that will compare with the
following examples from the New Testament, which the Author quotes,
in illustration and defence of the principle on which his Work is
based.
On no occasion during the ministry of Jesus Christ are we so
thoroughly convinced of the fatal danger of trusting in our own
attainments and doings for our salvation, and of the absolute
safety of reposing exclusive confidence in Him for this inestimable
blessing, as when he places us in imagination on the shore, after
the desolating storm has completed its work of destruction, leaving
us to gaze on the ruins of the one house erected on the sand; while
we see the other remaining secure on the unmoved and unshaken rock,
in stern and tranquil defiance of all tempests and hurricanes. _See_
Matt. vii. 24-28.
We have more definite and more vivid impressions of the invisible
world--of the calm repose and fraternal fellowship of the saved, and
of the privations and anguish of the lost, when reading our Lord's
description of the condition of Lazarus and the rich man, than is
produced on our minds by his announcement of the issue of the day of
judgment, when the wicked go away into everlasting punishment, and
the righteous into life eternal. Luke xvi. 19-26.
The Work, under its new title, "THE SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON," has
undergone a very careful revision; many portions of the original
have been re-written, and others omitted to make room for new
matter of more interest and importance at the present time. While
carrying out the main object of the Work, as already adverted
to--namely, to present the grand doctrines of the Christian faith in
a pleasing and attractive manner--the Author has also endeavoured to
elucidate various topics important to the church at large and to the
well-being of society in general; and though he has not plunged into
the mazes of controversy, with the obscure and often unintelligible
advocates of the theological heresies of the age, yet many of the
more prominent of these have been subjected to a severe and, he
trusts, an impartial examination.
If the re-issue of this Work should prove as successful in conveying
spiritual life to the spiritually dead--in relieving the anxious
inquirer from his misgivings and perplexities--and in administering
the consolations of faith and hope to the devout believer, while
passing through the varied seasons of his eventful history, as it
proved in its less perfect and less attractive form--then, whether
living or dying, the Author will indulge the hope of meeting many,
at the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ, who will be to him a crown
of rejoicing for ever.
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CONTENTS.
VOL I.
_Page_
The Lonely Widow, 1
The Widow's Son, 11
The Widow's Son Reclaimed, 21
Fairmount, 32
A Morning's Ramble, 43
The Horningsham Sailor, 53
The Rector of Broadhurst, 65
A Visit to the Rectory, 76
Saturday Evening at Fairmount, 92
A Sabbath Morning at Fairmount, 107
Sabbath Evening at Fairmount, 121
The Bible Disdained, 132
The Bible Precious, 149
The Family of the Roscoes, 154
The Social Party, 164
Miss Roscoe, 174
A Village Funeral, 186
Miss Roscoe withdraws from Gay Life, 197
Fresh Perplexities, 209
The Religious Party, 217
Miss Roscoe, 226
The Family of the Lawsons, 235
Calm Discussion, 246
Self-Delusion, 257
A Night Calamity, 266
A Surprise, 276
The Consultation, 287
The Dark Vale Illumined, 297
Intemperate Zeal, 307
Baptismal Regeneration a Fiction, 317
The Retired Christian, 328
Spiritual Regeneration a Reality, 336
The Evidences of Spiritual Regeneration, 346
On Conversion, 357
The Tendency of Evangelical Preaching, 370
On Attending an Evangelical Ministry, 383
The Unhappy One, 397
The Scene Changes, 410
The Tractarian at Fault, 421
The Popular Delusion, 443
The Churchman's Lament, 455
Right at Last, 478
The Quakeress, 495
An Escape from a False Refuge, 518
Christmas, 544
Winter Scenes, 560
On Apostolical Succession, 574
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
VOL. I.
_Page_
THE OLD SHEPHERD, _Frontispiece_.
WITHIN AND WITHOUT, _Engraved Title_.
Return of the Widow's Son, 22
A Prospect of Fairmount, 32
First Interview with Farmer Pickford, 47
The Church of the Neglected Parish, 66
Mr. Guion's First Interview with the Misses Brownjohn, 82
A Lamb of the Flock Borne to her Rest, 87
The Woodman's Family in Affliction, 105
"We Work on Sunday till Dinner-time," 110
Mr. Tennent and the Tract-seller, 151
The House of Mourning, 187
Evening Walk--Moonrise, 261
The Lost Child Restored, 270
The Dark Vale Illumined, 300
The Discussion in the Stage Coach, 423
Christmas Eve, 551
The Death of the Woodman, 570
THE
SHEEPFOLD AND THE COMMON.
THE LONELY WIDOW.
In the summer of the year 18--, I took an excursion through part
of the west of England; and after travelling on horseback several
days, I resolved to tarry at the beautiful village of Stanmoor.
Passing along, I stopped in front of a small but respectable looking
inn, whose honeysuckled porch and tidy exterior promised to afford
a tranquil and comfortable place of sojourn, and I made up my mind
to rest for a season beneath its humble roof. Having taken my
horse to the stable, and given the hostler instructions to take
good care of him, I was shown into a neat small back room, which
commanded a very beautiful view. As I stood gazing and musing while
the homely-looking landlady was preparing my coffee, the lines of
Milton's Morning Hymn recurred to my recollection; but never, till
that moment, had they produced such an exciting effect:--
"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good:
Almighty! Thine this universal frame:
Thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable: who sitt'st above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine."
My cogitations were interrupted by the landlady, who, as a mark of
respect, herself brought in my coffee, &c., put a small bell on the
table, and assured me, with a great deal of good-natured ease, that
she would endeavour to make me comfortable as long as I chose to
honour her house with my company. Having partaken of the provision
of the table, I resolved on taking a walk, and was told, that if I
turned short round to the right when past the clump of fir-trees, I
should soon come to a pleasant valley. This direction I followed;
and in about a quarter of an hour I entered one of the most romantic
vales I have ever visited. The sun was still gilding the tops of the
distant hills; the blue sky was enlivened by the song of the thrush,
and the responding notes of the yellow-hammer. As I walked on, my
attention was attracted by the bleating of a flock of sheep, which I
saw at a distance ascending a steep path, leading to a neighbouring
fold. I quickened my pace, that I might have some conversation with
the shepherd, who, with his dog, was bringing up the rear. He was an
old man of a swarthy complexion, and strongly marked features; his
gray hairs hung in locks over his shoulders, and his manners seemed
to indicate the presence of a superior mind. He made a courteous
bow; I saluted him, and remarked--"You are taking your flock home
to rest, which I hope sometimes reminds you of the approach of that
hour when you must rest from all your labours."
"Yes, it does; and, blessed be God, there is a rest provided for his
people."
This pious expression sprang a mine of exquisite feeling in my
breast; and I instantaneously felt a profound veneration and respect
for the old man, whom I now looked upon as a son of God in the
disguise of lowly and lonely humanity.
"I presume you know something about Jesus Christ, who is the way to
that place of rest."
"Yes, he is now my Saviour, though for many years I lived without
knowing anything about him. I often feel sorry when I think of the
many precious hours I have wasted by reading ballads and foolish
books, which I ought to have spent in reading my Bible."
"Do you ever attend a place of worship?"
"No, I never leave my flock."
"How, then, did you come to know anything about Jesus Christ?"
He put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a tract, and said,
as the big tear dropped upon his cheek, "This is the blessed book
that made known to me a blessed Saviour; and I would not part with
it for all the world."
Feeling anxious to hold in my hand the instrument which had been
employed by the "Eternal Spirit" in turning this aged man from
darkness to light, I asked him to let me see the tract. It bore the
following title, which had become nearly obliterated by frequent
use:--"The Good Old Way; or the Religion of our Forefathers, as
explained in the Articles, Liturgy, and Homilies of the Church of
England." I said to him, "How did you get this tract?"
"A lady gave it me one day, about three years ago; I don't know her;
but I hope she will be recompensed at the resurrection of the just."
"How do you spend your leisure time now?"
"In reading my Bible, which tells me so much about that dear
Saviour, in whom, through grace, I have believed, and who is able to
keep that which I have committed to him against the great day."
"I suppose you are much more happy now than you were before you knew
him?"
This question brought over his countenance one of the finest
expressions of delight I ever beheld; and, after a short pause, he
said, "More happy, Sir! I never was happy till I obtained mercy; but
now I am happy, and expect before long to join that blessed company
we read of in the Revelation, who serve God day and night in his
temple."
Having made a few unimportant inquiries about his family, the state
of agriculture, and the population of the district, I wished him
a good night, and left him. As I passed along, I said to myself,
I should like to watch the countenance, and listen to the remarks
of this converted shepherd, while some philosophic sceptic, in
flippant style, or in graver tone and sarcastic sneer, says to
him, "Why, shepherd, you have been long living amidst visible and
splendid realities; but now, in your old age, you are living under
the spell of legendary delusions. The Deity whom you now adore
is nothing but the idol of your own creation. The reported facts
and doctrines of the Bible, which have had such an effect on your
imagination, are either fabulous tales or superstitious dogmas; and,
notwithstanding your airy flights into another world, you, like your
sheep, will cease to be, when death comes to release you from your
labours, for there is no other world."
With what indignant astonishment, blended with pity, would the old
shepherd look on such a man; doubting, for a few moments, whether
he was not some infernal spirit in the human form. I can easily
imagine he would reply: "It is odd, Sir, that such a poor ignorant
old man as I be, that has lived for more than sixty years without
thinking about God at all, should all at once, and without intending
to do it, create by the force of my fancy such a pure, benevolent,
and glorious Being, as I now believe God to be; who stoops from his
high and lofty throne to listen to my poor prayers, and to answer
them too. And it is mainly odd, Sir, methinks, that these tales of
the Bible, if they be fabulous, and these doctrines of the Bible,
if they be nothing but superstitious dogmas, as you call them,
should all at once, and without my thinking of such a thing being
done, work such a great and blessed change in my hard and wicked
heart, and should make me so happy as I now be. It is, methinks,
a main pity that they have not worked on your heart as they have
on mine, and then you would be about as unable and as unwilling to
doubt their truth as I be. You say, Sir, there is no other world;
I should like to know how you happen to know this? have you been
to the sun, and the moon, and all the stars, and every where else
to see? If you have not, according to my plain way of thinking, I
think it is a main act of presumption for you to say so. You tell me
that I shall cease to be at death, just as these sheep will cease
to be. I should like to know how you happen to know this. Has our
Maker spoken to you out of heaven, and told you so: or is it mere
guess-work with you? No, no, Sir; I am not going to take your random
guess-work sayings as true gospel; I like Matthew, Mark, Luke, and
John too well for that; and now, to let you know my mind, I tell
you plainly, you come too late to make a poor man disbelieve his
Bible, if you don't come before he has felt the enlightening and
renewing and refreshing power of its blessed truths on his soul; he
has then the Witness within, and that's a witness that can't lie. I
won't give up the truthful testimony of this living Witness for your
random guess-work sayings, which you yourself can't know to be true.
I don't want, Sir, to offend you; but I look upon you as a false
prophet, who may deceive the wicked, but can't deceive a man who
fears God and loves Jesus Christ as I do, and shall do for ever."
Perfect stillness prevailed around; no sounds were heard but my own
footsteps, and the occasional notes of the nightingale, until I came
to a brake, when I heard the following verses of a favourite hymn,
though the singer was concealed:--
"The calm retreat, the silent shade
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem by thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow thee.
"There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!
"There, like the nightingale, she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.
"Author and guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And--all harmonious names in one--
My Saviour! thou art mine.
"What thanks I owe thee, and what love!
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above
When time shall be no more."
I lingered here some time after the music had died away, luxuriating
in my own hallowed reflections; and then advancing a few steps, I
perceived, seated in a hollow, a decent middle-aged woman, and,
apparently, her daughter, who were thus pouring forth their evening
hymn of praise. I then returned to the inn, had my supper, and after
engaging in prayer with the family, retired to rest. In the morning
I rose early and revisited the vale, humming over, as I sauntered
along, the following suggestive and consolatory lines of a modern
poet:--
"God is here; how sweet the sound!
All I feel and all I see,
Nature teems, above, around,
With universal Deity.
"Is there danger? Void of fear,
Though the death-wing'd arrow fly,
I can answer, God is here,
And I move beneath his eye.
"When I pray, he hears my pray'r;
When I weep, he sees my grief:
Do I wander? He is here,
Ready to afford relief."
I reached the end of the walk before aware of it; when I saw a
cottage, towards which I bent my steps. It was small, yet tastefully
adorned with jessamine, honey-suckles, and rose-trees, with a neat
flower-garden in front, inclosed by a hawthorn hedge; and while
admiring its varied beauties, an elderly female made her appearance,
whose physiognomy and whose manners were very prepossessing. After
a little desultory conversation, as I stood resting my arm on the
top of her little wicket-gate, she invited me to come in and rest
myself. I accepted her invitation, and soon found that I was in
the society of one of the Lord's "hidden ones." My hostess was a
widow, whose husband had been dead about seven years. She informed
me that her father, a man of piety and of wealth, had given her
an education becoming his station; that at the age of seventeen
she yielded herself to God, as one alive from the dead, and before
she reached her twentieth year, she was married to one of the
most amiable and one of the most attentive men that ever became a
husband. A kind Providence smiled upon them during the first twelve
years of their wedded life, when a series of disasters befell them,
which turned their paradise of bliss into a valley of weeping. Her
father having made some large speculations in the wool-trade, lost
the whole of his property, and not having been inured to affliction
in his earlier days, his vigorous constitution gave way, and he
died, exclaiming, "Though I have lost all my worldly substance,
yet the pearl of great price is still mine." The insolvency of her
father shook public confidence in the commercial respectability of
her husband, who was soon obliged to call together his creditors;
and though there was more than sufficient property to meet their
demands, yet, by making him a bankrupt, they did not receive quite
half their amount. When his affairs were wound up, and he had
obtained his certificate, his friends raised a subscription for him,
and he recommenced business; but the hand of the Lord was against
him, and he could not succeed.
An interesting daughter, who, from the age of seven years, had been
seeking the Lord, was so overwhelmed by the afflictions of her
parents, that she fell into a rapid decline; and though there were
occasionally some bright prospects of her recovery, yet at last the
night of death came and sealed up the vision of life. The father,
who was a man of a very delicate frame, gradually sank beneath his
accumulated trials, and left his widow with a son, without any
resources for their future maintenance.
Her son was sent to a boarding-school, where he was educated at the
expense of his uncle; and as the place of her nativity had lost
all its attractions, she chose to retire to the lonely cottage in
which I found her, where He who multiplied the widow's oil has never
suffered her to want any good thing.
An occasional tear fell from her eye while she was relating this
tale of woe, yet there was a dignified composure in her countenance,
and that led me to remark--"I presume, Madam, that though you have
met with such severe losses, you have not lost your confidence in
God, nor the peace of mind it yields."
"No, Sir; I have enjoyed in this cottage more of the Divine
presence than I ever felt in the days of prosperity, and would not
willingly return to the world, and hazard the loss of my spiritual
consolations, could I obtain its highest prizes. I know that my
afflictions have been sent by my heavenly Father, who is too wise
to err, and too good to act unkindly. He has designs to accomplish,
by his dispensations, which may appear to us mysterious, because
to us they are unknown; but though clouds and darkness are round
about him, yet righteousness and judgment are the habitation of
his throne. I now find the wells of salvation yield sweeter waters
than when resorted to in former times, and my prospect of future
glory is brighter and more animating than in the days of my greatest
prosperity."
On expressing my surprise that she could willingly reside where the
means of grace could not be fully enjoyed, she informed me that
she was not deprived of these privileges. "If you look in that
direction, you will see a spire rising among the trees on yonder
hill. In that church the gospel is preached in its purity and in
its power, and the Rector, who is an amiable man, usually preaches
on Sabbath morning, when I attend. In the afternoon I stay at home
and meditate on what I have heard; and in the evening I go to hear
an excellent minister of Christ, who preaches in a small Dissenting
chapel at the other end of our hamlet."
"Then you are no bigot?"
"No, I love all who love Christ; and to me it is immaterial where I
go, if I can obtain an interview with Him, whom unseen I love."
"As the gospel is preached in your village, I hope you have met with
some with whom you can enjoy Christian fellowship."
"Yes, the Lord has a few in this modern Sardis who have escaped the
general pollution, and are walking worthy their high vocation. We
meet once in the week for prayer and conversation, and are often
favoured with times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord."
"Have you ever had any conversation with a pious shepherd, who feeds
his flock in your beautiful vale?"
"O yes, he is often our chaplain. The word of Christ dwells in him
richly. He has an excellent gift in prayer, and is an Israelite
indeed; a beautiful specimen of the new-creating power of the
Almighty."
"But do you never wish to reside in a town, where you could enjoy an
extensive intercourse with the religious world?"
"O no; I have lived long enough to know that a few select friends,
whose minds are uncontaminated by the censorious spirit of the
age, are a richer treasure than a promiscuous throng, enslaved and
governed by sectarian prejudices."
The room in which we were conversing was neatly furnished; a few
pictures decorated one of the side walls, and a small library was
placed in the centre of the opposite. I found among the books a copy
of Robinson's _Village Sermons_, and on taking it from the shelf, I
observed, "Robinson was an extraordinary man, but the eventide of
his life was comparative darkness."
"Yes, it was; but the productions of his pen have often yielded
me pure mental enjoyment; and, if you will permit me, I will show
you a passage in one of his sermons, which I never read without
bearing a personal testimony to its accuracy:--'Is it a benefit to
understand the spirit and see the beauty of the Holy Scriptures?
Afflictions teach Christians the worth of their Bibles, and so wrap
up their hearts in the oracles of God. The Bible is but an insipid
book to us before afflictions bring us to feel the want of it, and
then how many comfortable passages do we find which lay neglected
and unknown before! I recollect an instance in a history of some
who fled from persecution in this country to that then wild desert,
America. Among many other hardships, they were sometimes in such
straits for bread, that the very crusts of their former tables in
England would have been a dainty to them. Necessity drove the women
and children to the sea-side to look for a ship expected to bring
them provisions; but no ship for many weeks appeared; however, they
saw in the sands vast quantities of shell-fish, since called clams,
a sort of mussels. Hunger impelled them to taste, and at length they
fed almost wholly on them, and to their own astonishment were as
cheerful, fat, and lusty as they had been in England with their fill
of the best provisions. A worthy man one day, after they had all
dined on clams without bread, returned God thanks for causing them
to _suck of the abundance of the seas, and of treasures hid in the
sand_--a passage in the 33d chapter of Deuteronomy, a part of the
blessing with which Moses blessed the tribe of Zebulun before his
death; a passage till then unobserved by the company, but which ever
after endeared the writings of Moses to them."
Just as she finished reading, a farmer-looking man came to the door
with a letter, which Mrs. Lewellin took and opened with eagerness.
She wept as she read, and involuntarily exclaimed--"O George! my
son, my son!" Unwilling to withhold consolation from one who had
passed through such fiery trials, I asked her if she had received
any intelligence of a very painful nature.
"Yes," she said, while endeavouring to suppress the rising grief of
her heart, "I have a letter from my dear boy, who has resided in
London for the last two years. He is very ill. O Sir! if----." A
long silence ensued, which was interrupted only by the expressions
of strong maternal grief. "If he had felt the power of divine grace
changing his heart----." She wept again. "But I fear he has been
drawn away from religion by evil companions. Oh! if he were to die,
where could I ever find rest? This is a trial which pierces my
heart."
"I am not surprised to witness such excessive grief; but may not
this affliction be sent to elicit the meaning of some obscure
passage of the Sacred Volume? Unto the upright there ariseth light
in the darkness; that is, deliverance comes when most needed, but as
often when least expected. The set time for your son's conversion
may be nigh at hand; and He who worketh all things after the counsel
of His own will may now be making the necessary preparations for
this great event; so that your mourning may very soon be turned into
rejoicing."
"If the Lord should be pleased to renew the soul of my dear boy, I
shall, like the father, when he saw his prodigal son retracing his
steps to his long-deserted home, feel an ecstasy of joy. The crisis
in his moral history may be coming. I will betake myself to special
prayer, and in faith and hope wait the issue. Nothing is impossible
with God."
THE WIDOW'S SON.
George Lewellin, the son of the lonely widow, at the decease of his
father was twelve years of age. He finished his education under the
direction of his uncle; and, having attained his seventeenth year,
he was placed in a merchant's counting-house in London. In person
he was tall and slender, prepossessing in appearance and manners,
unreserved in disposition, of an amiable temper, and disposed, from
the ingenuous sincerity of his heart, to regard every one as his
friend who courted his society. Soon after his entrance on his new
course of life, he received an affectionate letter from his mother,
cautioning him against the many temptations of the metropolis:--
"As, my dear George, you are removed from under the immediate
inspection of your friends, and will be exposed to a variety of
temptations, permit me to urge upon you the importance of reading
the Scriptures daily, of regularly attending some place of worship
on the Sabbath-day, and of avoiding the company of the gay and
dissipated. If companions entice you to the play-house, to card
parties, or to places of public amusement, do not allow them to
prevail upon you; for, if you once give way to their entreaties,
you will soon be overcome. I have had many trials. I have lost my
property; I have buried your lovely sister; I have wept over the
tomb of your pious father; and to see you turning your back on
religion, would bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. But
I hope better things of you, though I thus write. Let me hear from
you soon, and often; and give me a faithful account of how you spend
your time; and believe me to be yours, most affectionately," &c.
His reply will give the reader some insight into the state of his
mind and situation:--
"MY DEAR MOTHER,--I thank you for your kind letter. Yes; you have
had many trials, but I hope you have, at least, one living comfort
left. To promote your happiness will be, I trust, the constant
effort of my life; and as I know something of the value of prayer,
I hope you will always have me in remembrance when at a throne of
grace. I have a good room at a Mr. Jordan's, in the City Road. Mr.
Jordan is a plain, pious man, and his wife appears very amiable.
They have no children, and they treat me as their son. I very much
like the situation which my uncle has procured for me. There are,
in the office, three clerks besides myself, but they are all my
seniors. The oldest is married, and has a family. The next is the
son of a Friend, but he has thrown off the plain garb, and often
ridicules the simple mode of speech for which that scrupulous people
are distinguished. The other is the only son of a country esquire of
large fortune. They treat me with the greatest kindness; and so does
the gentleman in whose service I have the honour of being employed.
My time is fully occupied; and though business is new to me, yet I
begin to find the difficulties attending it giving way. I will try
to please, and I hope shall be successful. As I know you feel more
anxious about my spiritual than my temporal prosperity, I shall
give you an account of the manner in which I spend my Sabbaths. I
regularly attend church twice a-day, and have already heard some of
the most celebrated preachers in London, but have not yet determined
to what congregation I shall attach myself. Variety is charming,
but I rather think that a stated ministry is the most profitable. I
often think of you and your lovely retreat, and wish I could pop in
upon you to receive the maternal blessing."
A material change soon took place in the principles and habits of
young Lewellin, and it may be proper to give a brief account of
those to whose influence it may be ascribed. The senior clerk in the
office was an amiable man, but his mind was deeply tinctured by the
deistical sentiments of the age. He would occasionally throw out
some insinuations against _professors_; but as he perceived it gave
Lewellin pain, he was rather sparing in his remarks. Mr. Gordon, the
semi-Quaker, was less guarded; and, being a young man of a ready
wit and polished manners, he became a dangerous companion. Having
been educated under a severe discipline, which taught him to regard
the cut of the coat and the construction of a sentence as important
if not essential branches of religion, he had imbibed deep-rooted
prejudices against it; and, though still in regular attendance at
meeting _on first-day morning_, yet he usually spent the other parts
of the Sabbath at some place of public resort. His respectability
introduced him into the best society, and his principles fitted
him for the worst. He narrowly watched Lewellin; and resolved to
emancipate him, if possible, from under the control of his religious
opinions and habits; and he proceeded with great caution in this
work of moral destruction, being aware that, if his principles were
stormed before they were undermined, he should excite a powerful
resistance. Having laid his plan of seduction, he soon began to
carry it into execution. On leaving the office one evening, he
politely asked Lewellin to spend an hour with him. Lewellin frankly
accepted his invitation, and they had a long conversation together,
during which Gordon displayed so much good-nature, such a fund of
anecdote, and such a rich vein of wit, that he gained an entire
ascendency over his friend, who expressed a desire that the intimacy
now formed might be perpetuated. The clock struck eleven, when
Lewellin suddenly started from his chair, and took his hat and
cane; but was detained two hours longer by the powerful attractions
of his companion. At length he bade him good-night. As he passed
down Fleet Street, his conscience began to smite him. "What would
my dear mother _feel_ if she knew where I am at this hour!" But,
having resolved that he would never again be guilty of such an act
of imprudence, his faithful monitor was hushed to silence:--"He is
a charming man!--What an extensive knowledge of the world!--What
a fund of anecdote; and how well he narrates and describes! A new
scene is opening before me." Thus he talked to himself, till he
reached his lodgings, where he found the family very much alarmed.
"Dear Sir," said Mrs. Jordan, as soon as the passage door was
opened, "we are very glad to see you. We were fearful that you had
lost yourself, or that some greater evil had befallen you."
"I am sorry," replied Lewellin, "that I have kept you up so late;
but Mr. Gordon pressed me to spend the evening with him, and the
time slipped by before I was aware of it."
"I am glad to see you home," said Mr. Jordan; "and, as we have been
expecting you every minute for the last three hours, we have not
yet had family prayer." The good man knelt down, and prayed most
affectionately for his young friend, who stood exposed to so many
temptations.
Next day Lewellin went to the office as usual, but nothing
particular occurred till the evening, when Gordon asked him to
accept the loan of a book, which he had no doubt would amuse him. He
took it, and hastened home to peruse it. Immediately after tea he
retired to his own room. He opened the volume, read the title-page,
threw the book on the table, and exclaimed, "No; I'll not read it.
I gave my word of honour to my mother that I would never read a
novel; and I will not sacrifice my honour to please any friend." He
paced the room backwards and forwards for some time, reflecting
on the past evening, till the thoughts of his heart troubled him,
when he seated himself in the arm-chair which was standing near
the table. As the book was elegantly bound, he took it up, and
examined the workmanship; read the whole of the title-page, and
then the preface; and, finding nothing very objectionable, he read
on, till startled by a knock at the door. "Who is there?" "Will you
come down to supper, Sir?" He took out his watch, and found that
he had been reading two hours, and as it was the first novel he
ever read, it had so deeply fixed his attention, that he had nearly
finished it before he felt conscious of what he was doing. "Yes,
yes, I'll come presently; but don't wait." "Let me see, there are
thirty more pages; I'll finish it." He read on, but the charm was
broken by a recollection of his vow; and he again threw the book
from him, exclaiming, "Fascinating wretch, thou hast beguiled me
of my honour!" He hastened out of the room, that he might avoid
the reflections of his own mind; and when he entered the parlour,
he found an interesting young man, of whom he had often heard Mr.
Jordan speak. This young man was intelligent and pious, highly
accomplished in his manners, and just on the eve of being married.
After supper he engaged in family prayer; and when offering up his
devout thanksgivings to the God of all grace, for preserving him
from the paths of the destroyer, and guiding his feet in the way of
peace, he made a natural transition to the situation of Lewellin,
and most fervently prayed that he might be enabled to escape the
pollution of the world, and consecrate himself to the service of the
God of his fathers. Lewellin endeavoured to conceal his emotions,
but the recollection of his having that night sacrificed his honour,
threw such a melancholy air over his countenance, that Mrs. Jordan,
who felt deeply interested in his welfare, abruptly asked him if he
was unwell. The question perplexed him; but assuming his ordinary
cheerfulness, he replied, "No, Madam." Having sat a little longer,
he took leave of the company, and retired to rest. On casting his
eye on the book, as he stood musing, he said, "Well, I don't know
that I have received any moral injury from reading it; and perhaps
my mother did wrong to press me to pledge my word that I would not
read a novel."
Next Sabbath Mr. Gordon called on him in the afternoon, and asked
him to accompany him to the Lock, to hear a celebrated preacher. As
they were passing through St. James's Park, they met Mr. Phillips
(the other clerk in the office), with three ladies. The meeting
appeared accidental; and as Mr. Phillips pressed his friends to do
him and the ladies the honour of their company, politeness induced a
compliance, and the whole party took an excursion on the river. They
did not return till late; and it was past twelve before Lewellin
reached his lodgings. On entering the parlour he made an apology
for not being home earlier, and to avoid being embarrassed by any
questions, took his candle, and retired to his own room. He sat
himself down; but the sight of the Bible, which lay on the table,
agonized his feelings, and he began to reproach himself in the
bitterest terms. "Yes, a new scene is opening before me; but what a
scene! No; I will break the charm before I am completely enslaved!
My mother does not know it.----But the eye of God----I cannot
conceal myself from him. Woe is me! I am lost! I am undone! No; I
will repent. I will ask for mercy." He threw himself on his bed, and
after hours of mental torture and bitter lamentation he fell asleep;
but he was scared by the visions of the night, and when the light
of the morning dawned, it brought no tidings of peace. At length he
arose, and went to the office, where he met his companions in guilt,
but his mind was too much depressed to allow him to be cheerful; and
the references which were made to the excursion of the preceding
evening aggravated his misery. When the business of the day was
closed, he walked away in silent sadness; but he had not gone far
before Gordon overtook him, and invited him to take some refreshment
in a coffee-house. He strongly objected--and then consented.
"I perceive," said Gordon, "that you are unhappy, and I guess the
cause. You suffer your noble mind to be tortured by the tales of the
nursery. Treat them with contempt."
"No, I am not tortured by the tales of the nursery, but by the
reflections of a guilty conscience."
"Conscience," said Gordon, smiling; "I had such a thing once, but as
it stood in the way of my love of pleasure, I got rid of it, and now
I am happy, because I am free. And I assure you that you will never
be fitted to enjoy life till you form juster notions of the Deity
than religion inspires; and till you open your heart to the sublime
gratifications which the society and amusements of this far-famed
city afford. Come, give way to the impulse of your generous nature,
and accompany me this evening."
"Where?"
"Where you shall have a mental feast."
Lewellin, expecting that Gordon was going to a Philosophical
Society, of which he was a member, gave his consent; nor was he
undeceived, till he found himself seated in a box at Drury Lane
Theatre. His conscience smote him; but as he had been decoyed there,
the faithful reprover was soon silenced; the curtain was drawn, and
the stage exhibited a scene which was not only new but captivating.
When the play was over, Gordon said, "I have watched your
countenance during the whole of the tragedy, and I perceive that you
have an instinctive taste for the drama. Yes, Lewellin, this is the
school to exalt the genius and amend the heart. Here our manners
are polished, our taste is refined, and those moral sentiments are
inculcated which make the man _the gentleman_."
On leaving the theatre they adjourned to an hotel, where they
ordered supper, and as they sat conversing together till a very late
hour, they decided on sleeping there. The Rubicon was now passed,
and Lewellin, having tasted of the forbidden fruit, resolved to
rid himself of his Puritanical notions (as he began to term his
religious sentiments), that he might enjoy life. The first step he
took was to write a letter to his kind friend, Mr. Jordan, to say
that circumstances rendered it inconvenient for him to reside so far
from the office, and therefore he was under the painful necessity
of taking another set of rooms; he added, "I will call and settle
with you; and I will thank you to send my dressing-case, &c., by
the bearer." He then told his friend Gordon what he had done, who
congratulated him on his _courage_, and assured him that he was
welcome to accommodation in his apartments until he could suit
himself better.
The seducer having now got his victim in his own power, hurried
him through the various stages of vice with almost breathless
impetuosity. The theatre, the billiard-room, the tavern, and other
places, were alternately visited; and he who a few months before was
horror-struck at the sight of a novel, could now occupy the seat
of a scorner. But he was not suffered to remain there undisturbed.
Conscience would sometimes inflict the most poignant wounds. The
thought of home, of his pious father and sister, of the day of
judgment, and of his loving mother, drove him at times almost
frantic; when, after pronouncing a secret curse on his companion,
he would plunge himself deeper in iniquity, that he might gain a
momentary relief. To follow him through the course of impiety which
he ran for the space of two years, during which time he involved
himself in debt and in hopeless misery, would afford the reader no
gratification. Disease, which had been for some time destroying
his health, and impairing the vigour of his constitution, now
incapacitated him for business, and he was obliged to keep to his
apartments, which were near those of Mr. Gordon. For several days
after his confinement he received no attention from his friend, and
that left his mind more at liberty to take the black review.
He reproached himself--he reproached the destroyer of his peace--he
wept, but he could not pray. He wrote a letter to his pious mother,
but he burned it--he wrote another, and burned it. He wrote to his
friend, Mr. Jordan, whom he had not seen since he left his house,
and, just as he was directing it, the servant announced Mr. Gordon.
"Well, George, how are you?"
"Ill, very ill, and you are the cause of it!"
"I the cause of it!"
"Yes, you enticed me from the paths of virtue into the paths of
vice, and though I reproach myself for my folly in giving way to
your entreaties, yet, Sir, you are the seducer."
"Ah! Lewellin, you are got back to the tales of the nursery. Come,
come, pluck up your spirits. You will soon get better. What does the
doctor say? I was at Drury last night, and never had a finer treat."
"The doctor gives me but little hope, and your present conversation
gives me less pleasure. If I die, I must appear before my Judge, and
am I (wringing his hands) prepared? No!"
"Well, then, I will be off, but don't play the fool; die like a man.
Phillips says he'll call to see you to-morrow, but I suppose a visit
from some of the godly will be more acceptable."
"I want a visit from some one who can minister to a mind diseased."
"Well, good-bye. But die like a man, if you are doomed to death."
He was now left alone, irresolute--alarmed. He rings. "Put that
letter in the post immediately." Is more composed. Mr. Jordan called
on him next morning, and when he saw him could not refrain from
weeping. Lewellin cautiously concealed from him the cause of his
illness, but informed him that the doctor gave but little hope of
his life.
"Does your dear mother know how you are?"
"No, I do not like to alarm her; but if I do not get better in a few
days, I think I shall endeavour to go down and see her, and if I
must die, I hope to die in her arms."
"I have called several times at your office since you left my house,
but you were either engaged, or not within, and we have often
wondered why you never came to see us. We have always had you in
remembrance at a throne of grace."
"Ah! had I never left your house, I should not have been reduced to
that state of wretchedness and woe in which you now see me. I was
seduced by a worthless companion, and now--(he made a long pause)--I
have cut short my life; I have ruined my soul; I shall break my
mother's heart. O eternity! how I dread thee."
The tender feelings of Mr. Jordan were so strongly excited by the
looks and the expressions of Lewellin, that he could make no reply
for several minutes. At length he said, "But the chief of sinners
may obtain mercy."
"Yes, I know that the chief of sinners may obtain mercy, if they
repent and believe; but I cannot do either. I have fitted myself for
destruction, and now I must prepare to go where the worm dieth not,
and where the fire will never be quenched."
"Do not despair of mercy."
"Yes, I must. Despair gives me more relief than hope."
"Shall I pray with you?"
"It is too late."
"Consent."
"Then pray for my dear mother; pray that her mind may be prepared
for the distressing news which will soon reach her ears. I have
deceived her."
Mr. Jordan knelt down and prayed; but his importunity merely served
to invest the pang of despair with an additional degree of terror.
"All is useless--
'The help of men and angels join'd
Can never reach my case.'"
"That's true, my dear young friend, but"----
"Pardon me for interrupting you, but I dare not ask for mercy.
Justice demands a victim, and I must die."
"But mercy pleads."
"Yes, but she will never plead for me."
"Do try to pray."
"No, I am not disposed to offer a fresh insult to God. He has
rejected me. I know my doom. It is irrevocably fixed. I deserve all
I suffer, and all I have to suffer."
Mr. Jordan now left him, but called again the next evening, when he
found him rather better and more composed, and was gratified to hear
that he had written a letter to his mother, informing her of his
indisposition, and that she might expect to see him in the space of
a few days, as he had been recommended to try the effect of a change
of air.
THE WIDOW'S SON RECLAIMED.
The influence of Divine truth on the youthful mind is often very
salutary; it keeps the conscience tender, even when it does not keep
it pure; it inspires an awe of God, and a secret dread of evil,
even when it does not root out of the heart a predilection for it;
and secures an external consistency of moral deportment, even while
the mind remains unchanged. But such is the extreme degeneracy of
our nature, that its sinful appetites and propensities will often
burst through the most powerful restraints, and the fascinating
temptations of an evening, or even a single hour, will often render
apparently useless all the efforts of a long and painstaking course
of domestic instruction and discipline. Hence the youth who has
been trained up in the "fear of the Lord," on finding himself
removed from under the watchful eye of parental solicitude, may,
after a momentary hesitation, yield to the ensnaring seductions
of the world, and launch forth into scenes of impurity and vice,
braving the consequences; and though occasionally disturbed by
some compunctious visitations, yet he passes on, contemning his
early religious impressions, and treating with profane levity those
momentous truths which once overawed and animated his soul. But can
he proceed without meeting with some formidable resistances? Can
he forget that the piercing eye of God follows him through all the
windings and doublings of his course? Can he shake off the dread
of futurity, and bid his dark forebodings cease? No; conscience
stands in his way, and disputes his passage, by turning against him
the sword of truth, which often inflicts a wound too deep even for
intemperance to heal or soothe. He sighs for peace, but peace comes
not; for there is no peace to the wicked.