of terror or persuasion, would be a visionary prospect; yet, have
we never seen the prodigal return? Have we never heard the parent
exclaim, "For this my son was dead, but is alive again; he was lost,
but is found?"
George Lewellin left London a few days after he had communicated
the state of his health to his mother, and reached her home the
following morning; when she saw him, as he was opening the wicket
gate in front of the house, she sprang up, ran, fell on his neck,
and kissed him. The interview was affecting; and it was some moments
before either of them could speak. On raising her eyes to survey
the once lovely form of her only son, now emaciated by disease, she
could not refrain from exclaiming, as she pressed him still closer
to her agonized bosom, "O, George, what's the matter? How long have
you been ill? Why did you conceal your illness from me?"
"Be composed, mother; I am better, and have no doubt but relaxation
from business, and the fresh air of the country, will be the means
of bringing me about again. The porter is waiting with my trunk; I
will thank you to satisfy him for his trouble, as I have no change."
During the first week after his arrival he began to mend; and all
indulged a hope of his speedy recovery; but disease had taken too
deep root in his constitution to be suddenly eradicated; and within
a fortnight the fever returned with increasing violence, setting at
defiance the skill of the physician, who confessed that his life was
in the most imminent danger. He now took to his bed, and said to a
young friend who called to see him: "I shall never leave this room
till I am carried out by the ministers of death." On the following
Sabbath, his mother ventured to ask him how he felt in prospect of
death. This question agitated him. He became restless, a sullen
gloom was thrown over his countenance, and he remained silent. This
silence inflicted a deeper wound in her tender bosom than the most
piercing cries of mental anguish; and though she endeavoured to
conceal her grief, yet she was unable to do so. "O, George, do tell
me. When I lost your father, I had the consolation of knowing that
he was gone to heaven; and your dear departed sister said, just
before she left me, 'Weep not for me, for I shall soon see the King
in his beauty;' and will _you die_ without allowing me to indulge
the hope of meeting you in heaven?"
[Illustration:
DRAWN BY G. H. THOMAS. ENGRAVED BY W. L. THOMAS.
RETURN OF THE WIDOW'S SON.
Vol. i. page 23.]
"My dear mother, I have deceived you once, but deception is now at
an end; I have 'trampled under foot the blood of the covenant,' and
that blood is now crying for vengeance against me. I know my doom;
and, however painful it may be to your feelings to see your own
child lingering out the few remaining days of his life, without one
cheering hope, yet I _do_ request that you will not embitter my last
hours by making any allusions to heaven."
"O, George, my child!"
"O, my mother, I am undone!"
As his mind was in such a perturbed state, Mrs. Lewellin thought it
prudent to turn the current of conversation; and, after listening
to a detailed account of his course of life when in London, she
retired to try the efficacy of prayer. In the evening a pious young
friend called to see him, to whom he said, "I will thank you to
remove that Bible out of my sight, for its very presence agonizes
me. Such a book ought not to lie near such a wretch as I am. It is
like compelling the criminal to ride on his own coffin to the place
of execution."
"But, my dear Sir, that holy book contains a revelation of mercy and
grace to sinners, and offers salvation to the chief."
"I know all that, and therefore I wish it removed; for I have made
sport with the revelation of mercy."
"But the Lord waits to be gracious."
"No; he is now laughing at my calamity; and soon the curtain of life
will drop, and then his injured justice will be glorified in my
condemnation. Give me a draught of water."
He drank the whole in haste; and, on giving back the cup, said,
"It would afford me some relief if I could hope to find a spring
of water in hell. But, no; not one drop there to cool my parched
tongue!"
"O, George, do not put from you the words of peace."
"The words of peace, to my soul, are like the dragon's sting or the
viper's bite; and the voice of mercy sounds more awful in my ears
than the footsteps of vengeance. I know my doom; and if you wish me
to have a moment's calm while the respite lasts, talk of earth, of
its joys, or of its sorrows; but bring me not near the spot where
Mercy died for man."
The fever, which had remained stationary for several days, now
raged with uncontrolled violence, without impairing the vigour or
acuteness of his intellect, and all expected that a few hours would
terminate his mortal career. His mother hung over him, breathing
the purest and most ardent affection; but she was not permitted
to instil the consolations of religion, and that at length so
overpowered her feelings that she was obliged to retire, leaving her
only son the victim of despair. His eye followed her as she left
the room; and when the door closed, he burst into a flood of tears,
exclaiming, "The doom that awaits me would be less terrible, if I
could have concealed it from my mother. I have destroyed myself,
and plunged the fatal dagger into her breast. O, thou holy, thou
righteous God, thou art clear when thou judgest, and just when thou
condemnest! Have pity on my dear mother, and support her soul under
this awful visitation of thy vengeance!"
He now became more composed; but on hearing the clock strike eleven,
he started up in bed, asked for a large draught of cold water, and
expressed an ardent wish to see his mother once more, as he was
apprehensive that life was just on the eve of departing. A female
attendant went to call her, but she was asleep; and on returning,
she asked if she should awake her. After a long pause, he said,
"No; let her sleep on, and take her rest, and I will die alone, and
spare her the agony of hearing the last tremendous groan, which is
to announce my entrance into hell." He then requested that another
pillow might be placed under his head; and turning himself on his
left side, he laid himself down to expire. In about a quarter of an
hour the nurse, who was standing by his side, gently whispered, "I
think he is gone;" but on feeling his pulse, she soon ascertained
that he was in a profound sleep. He slept for several hours, during
which time the fever very much abated, and when he awoke he said,
with a firm tone, "I now think I shall recover."
"Yes, my child," replied Mrs. Lewellin, "the Lord has heard my
prayers, and answered them, by sparing your life; and I have no
doubt but he will answer them further by making this affliction the
means of bringing you to repentance, and the enjoyment of fellowship
with him."
This appropriate remark made a deep impression; he looked at his
mother, but said nothing. His recovery was as rapid as his relapse
had been dangerous; and though his strength was greatly impaired,
yet he was able to leave his room in the early part of the ensuing
week. Being now rescued from the brink of death, and animated with
the hope of returning health, as he sat alone musing over the awful
scene through which he had so recently passed, he laid his hand on
a hymn-book, which was placed on the table, and read the following
hymn with intense interest:--
"When with my mind devoutly press'd,
Dear Saviour, my revolving breast
Would past offences trace;
Trembling I make the black review,
Yet pleased behold, admiring too,
The pow'r of changing grace.
"This tongue with blasphemies defil'd,
These feet in erring paths beguil'd,
In heavenly league agree.
Who could believe such lips could praise,
Or think my dark and winding ways
Should ever lead to thee?
"These eyes, that once abused their sight,
Now lift to thee their wat'ry light,
And weep a silent flood;
These hands ascend in ceaseless pray'r;
O wash away the stains they wear,
In pure redeeming blood.
"These ears that, pleased, could entertain
The midnight oath, the lustful strain,
When round the festal board;
Now, deaf to all th' enchanting noise,
Avoid the throng, detest the joys,
And press to hear thy word.
"Thus art thou serv'd in ev'ry part;
O would'st thou more transform my heart,
This drossy thing refine;
That grace might nature's strength control,
And a new creature, body, soul,
Be, Lord, for ever thine."
While reading these verses, the determination he had formed to live
and die without hope, was shaken; but after a momentary pause, he
involuntarily exclaimed, in an under tone of utterance, "It would
be an act of presumption for me to indulge a hope of ever feeling
the power of 'changing grace.' No, it cannot be; my heart is too
hard. I am too impure, too depraved, too guilty." This novel train
of thought was broken off by the entrance of his mother into the
parlour, who was surprised and delighted by seeing him with the
hymn-book, which he still held in his hand. Without appearing to
notice it, after a casual reference to the good prospect of his
speedy restoration to health, she said, "I hope, my dear George,
as you are now able to visit your friends, that you will accompany
me in the evening to chapel, where you will hear a most excellent
minister."
"I will go to oblige you, but I can anticipate no other pleasure."
"But you may derive some profit, for there the Lord condescends to
make the truth effectual to the salvation of them that believe.'
"But I cannot believe, no, I cannot; I would, but I cannot!"
"But faith, my dear child, comes by hearing; and who can tell but
this night you may feel the power of changing grace."
After tea, Mrs. Lewellin and her son walked to the chapel; and
though there were no splendid decorations to allure the devotee of
superstition, nor any sculptured forms to attract the attention of
the sentimental worshipper, yet it was invested with unrivalled
charms in her estimation, as the place where
"----The Father sits supreme,
As King Eternal, to receive
Petitions that his servants bring,
The homage which his subjects give."
The reading, the singing, and the prayer accorded with the general
tone of feeling which a select congregation usually enjoy; and
though young Lewellin conducted himself with the greatest degree
of decorum, yet it was not till after the text was announced that
he appeared interested in the service. The preacher was a young
man, of a correct taste, strong intellectual powers, and bold and
animated address; but the subject which he had chosen for discussion
was more adapted to establish the Christian in his faith, than
reclaim the sinner from the error of his ways. The text was taken
from 1st Corinthians, vi. 17: _He that is joined unto the Lord is
one spirit_. There were no flights of lofty imagination in the
composition of the discourse; no powerful appeals to the conscience;
no master-strokes of argument, levelled against either the root
or branches of infidelity; no terrific enunciations of the Divine
displeasure; but a calm and spiritual explanation and defence
of the doctrine of our union with Jesus Christ. The service was
concluded without having produced any visible effects on Lewellin,
who walked away with his mother, and the only remark he made was,
"I never heard such a sermon before." She knew not how to interpret
the meaning of this ambiguous expression, and made no reply, lest,
by coming in contact with his deistical opinions, she should be
incapable of persuading him to accompany her at a future time.
On entering the parlour, he took a candle and retired to his own
room, which gave his mother a private opportunity of imploring the
blessing of Heaven on the service of the evening. After waiting a
considerable time, she began to feel uneasy, and went to the bottom
of the stairs to listen; but on hearing his footsteps as he paced
his chamber, she resumed her seat. An hour had now elapsed since
she had seen him; the ambulating motion was no longer heard, her
fears were strongly excited, and being unable to suppress them, she
stole up softly to his door, and listening a while with breathless
anxiety, she heard, or thought she heard, an indistinct sound; she
then looked through the keyhole of the door, and lo! he was on his
knees in prayer. Had she seen visions of God, she might have been
more awed, but she could not have been more delighted. She wept as
she descended the stairs, but they were such tears as sorrow never
sheds. Her heart was full, and she gave vent to her enraptured
feeling at the footstool of His throne who had caused grace to
abound where sin had been reigning nigh unto death.
At supper her son appeared very sedate, absorbed in deep thought;
yet there was a serenity in his countenance, and an ease in his
manner, which bespoke the composure of his mind. "I think," said
his mother, "that the discourse we heard this evening placed the
happiness and security of the Christian on such a firm basis, that
we might have concluded the service by singing the beautiful lines
of Toplady:--
'Yes, I to the end shall endure,
As sure as the earnest is given,
More happy, but not more secure,
The glorified spirits in heaven.'"
"You might have sung these words, because you are a Christian, but
how could I have responded to them?"
"I hope, my dear George, you liked the sermon."
"I never heard such a sermon; at least I never heard a sermon which
produced such an effect on my mind. I could have listened till
midnight. I felt what I never felt before."
Yes! that night he felt the power of "changing grace," and the
change produced in his opinions, taste, and habits, soon became
conspicuous; and while it excited the ridicule of some, the
gratitude of others, and the astonishment of all, it was as a
witness raised from the dead to give a fresh testimony to the
divine origin of the truth which had been the means of effecting
it. He who had been a bold blasphemer, now became a man of prayer;
the intoxicating cup was exchanged for the wine of the kingdom;
the Sabbath was hallowed as a day of rest; and the amusements
and dissipations of the world were forsaken for the more refined
enjoyments of devotion.
As soon as his health was re-established, he began to prepare for
his return to his situation in London; and though he recoiled
from the prospect of being compelled to associate with his former
companions, yet he indulged the hope of being able to reclaim them
from the destructive paths of sin. He wrote to his friend, Mr.
Jordan, with whom he lodged when he first went to London, to inform
him of the change which had taken place, and to request permission
to become once more an inmate in his pious family. To this letter he
received a very encouraging reply; and the following week was fixed
on for his departure.
But he could not consent to leave the place where he had passed
from death to life--from the miseries of one world to the sublime
anticipations of another--till he had borne a public testimony of
his gratitude to the Redeemer, by receiving the memorials of his
death. He waited on the faithful minister who had been employed as
the angel of mercy to his soul, to express his desire; and on the
following Sabbath, with his honoured parent, he sat down at the
Lord's table, thus making a public profession of the faith which he
once scornfully rejected.
The morning after his return to London he went to the office, and
on entering every one arose to offer his congratulations; but Mr.
Gordon exceeded all in the ardour of his expressions. "This," said
he, "is one of the happiest days of my life, and I adore the fate
which has decreed that death shall lose a victim to restore me my
friend."
"I adore the mercy," replied Lewellin, "that has spared my life; and
I trust, my dear Sir, that my friendship will now be a purer flame
than ever burnt on the altar of my heart."
This reply created a little embarrassment to Mr. Gordon; but he
soon got over it, and resumed his accustomed vivacity of disposition
and ease of manners. In the evening they walked away together, when
Lewellin informed him that a material change had taken place in his
sentiments and in his taste; and that if he wished for a renewal of
their former intimacy, it must be on the express condition of paying
a most devout regard to the truths and institutions of revelation.
"What," said Gordon, "are you again enslaved in the trammels of
superstition; and do you expect that I shall bow my neck to such an
ignominious yoke!"
"What you deem the yoke of ignominy, I esteem the badge of honour;
and what you deem a cunningly devised fable, I esteem Divine truth.
You won me over to your sentiments, and what did they do for me?
They impaired my health. They tore up the foundation of a good
constitution, and they plunged me into despair. I lived a sceptic,
but I found that I could not die one. I am now restored to health,
to truth, to happiness; and it is my determination to consecrate
myself to the service of God my Saviour."
"Ah, I pity you."
"Pity me! Pity is for objects of misery; and had you seen me when
the terrors of death fell on me, you might have pitied me: but now I
want no pity, for I am perfectly happy; happy, because redeemed and
regenerated; and have the prospect of enjoying a state of endless
happiness in the world to come.
"Then, I suppose, in future our office is to become the hot-bed of
fanaticism, where the rank weeds of an ancient superstition are to
overshade the lovely plants of reason's golden age?"
"As I shall not obtrude my religious sentiments on the attention
of others, you may calculate on passing through your professional
duties without being annoyed, unless you first attack them; and in
that case, I shall certainly stand up in their defence."
"Well, well, that is all very fair. Then, if I do not commence the
assault, you will not open your battery."
"It will be my aim to make myself agreeable, and to recommend my
religion more by my example than by my arguments; because I know how
you will evade the one, but it is not quite certain that even _you_
can withstand the other.
"Ah, I see you resolve to play off upon me in the same way in which
I triumphed over you, and I have no objection for the experiment to
be tried; but it will not succeed."
The bold and decided manner in which Mr. Lewellin met the sarcasms
of infidelity, and avowed his supreme regard to the truth of
revelation, cut off from his former companions all hopes of
getting him again to join their ranks; and they, as by mutual
consent, abstained from either pressing or enticing him to do so.
He now pursued his course without much obstruction, displaying an
amiability of temper, and a dignified integrity of principle, which
gained him general respect; and though some regretted the change,
yet all acknowledged that it was beneficial. His mind was too
powerfully imbued with the love of the _grand and essential truths
of revelation_, to admit of his cherishing any undue predilection
for the distinctive peculiarities of sectarian opinions; and hence
he very easily guarded religion against the obnoxious charges to
which it is too often exposed, by the dogmatism and intolerance of
its injudicious advocates. He was now introduced by his friend,
Mr. Jordan, to the Rev. W. C----, of whose church he became a
member; and such was the vital energy which he threw into all his
engagements, and such the unaffected humility which adorned his
character, that he soon rose very high in the esteem of all his
religious associates. As a Sunday-school teacher, as a visitor of
the sick, and as an agent of the Tract Society, he was equalled by
few, and surpassed by none; and he never appeared more delighted
than when engaged, either alone or with others, in devising plans
for the promotion of the spiritual and eternal welfare of his
fellow-men; and in carrying them into execution he spared neither
time, labour, nor expense.
FAIRMOUNT.
At a time when I was recovering from a long and severe illness,
which had interrupted the regular discharge of my ministerial
labours, and threatened the extinction of life, I received an
invitation from my friend, Mr. Stevens, who lived near the romantic
village of Watville, and resolved to pay him a visit. I travelled by
easy stages; and in three days after I left home, I became an inmate
in his hospitable villa.
The villa of Fairmount is situated on the summit of a hill,
commanding an extensive view of a richly-wooded and picturesque
country. On the evening of my arrival the scene was one of extreme
beauty. At the base of the hill flowed a meandering river,
stretching away into the far distance, sometimes lost amidst the
luxuriant foliage, and again suddenly reappearing; here reposing in
cool shadow, there gleaming with the rays of the setting sun. On the
right, a small parish church, with its pointed arch and tapering
spire, peeped through an inclosure of aged elms and sycamores; on
the left, near the public road, a few white cottages, with trim
gardens, where children were sporting gleefully. More distant, films
of smoke marked the positions of various hamlets; and, stretching
far as the eye could reach, the hills of another county rose in
purple masses against the evening sky. In the meadow, the cow and
the ox were feeding together, and from the sheepfold the bleating
of the flock fell softly on the ear. A host of early associations
rushed upon me, and filled me with pleasant recollections of days
long past, and I felt relieved from the pressure and perplexities of
my ordinary avocations.
Mr. Stevens, with whom I was now domiciled, was a very intelligent
and pious man. In early life, like many others, he had imbibed the
sceptical opinions of the age, but as they were invested with no
power to
"Heal the sorrows of the heart, or allay its fears,"
he renounced them when the terrors of death fell upon him, and
sought consolation at the cross of Christ. From that hour he became
a decided Christian, choosing rather to suffer the reproach which
is too often cast _on genuine piety_, than endure the pleasures of
sin, which are but for a season. Soon after _his translation from
darkness to light_, he was introduced to the amiable and pious
Miss Bathurst, with whom he formed that sacred union, which has
been through life a source of mutual felicity. The first few years
after their marriage they were extremely anxious for an heir, but
as Providence denied them this gratification, they were disposed to
acquiesce in his decision, and to reduce to a practical operation
the prayer which they had long been accustomed to repeat: "Thy will
be done on earth, even as it is in heaven." Being exempted from the
charge and the expense of a family, they were more at liberty to
promote the welfare of others; and rarely a day elapsed which did
not bear testimony to their benevolent exertions.
[Illustration:
DRAWN BY S. READ ENGRAVED BY W. L. THOMAS.
A PROSPECT OF FAIRMOUNT.
Vol. i. page 32.]
The morning after my arrival, Mrs. Stevens asked me if I would
accompany her to see a poor pious young woman who was very ill;
and, lest the distance should be an objection, she told me she had
given orders for the carriage to be ready exactly at half-past ten.
"And as, Sir," she remarked, "you take greater pleasure in tracing
the operations of Divine grace in the renovation of the human soul
than in exploring the wonders of the material universe, and feel a
purer delight on seeing a repenting sinner than in gazing on the
enchanting scenery to which you have made such frequent allusions, I
think I can gratify you."