narration:--"In the cottage to which we are going reside a poor
man and his wife, who have had a large family, but all have died
in infancy except one beautiful daughter. She, when only sixteen,
entered the family of a respectable farmer in the adjoining parish,
where she continued four years, and would, in all human probability,
have continued there till now, had it not been for a dashing London
servant, who, when on a visit to her own father, got acquainted
with her; and by telling her of the high wages, and the little
work _which town servants have_, made her dissatisfied with her
place; and, in opposition to the advice of all her friends, she gave
notice to leave, and actually went to London to try her fortune.
When she arrived there she called on her friend, who had promised
to procure her a situation; but was informed that no good one had
yet turned up. She was recommended to take a lodging, for which
she would have to pay only two shillings a-week, and no doubt, if
she made proper inquiry, she would hear of something that would
be for her advantage. Thus thrown on the world, without a home,
and without a friend, she would have fallen a victim to her folly,
had not Providence interposed to protect her. As she was passing
along the Strand, with her bundle under her arm, a lady, who had
once seen her at my house, recognized her, and asked her where she
was going. The poor girl related her mournful tale, and implored
pity. This lady took her to her own home, but as she was not in
want of a servant, she could not retain her; yet she procured for
her the best situation in her power. But, instead of high wages,
she had not so much as when in the country; and her work was much
more laborious. Thus disappointed, and having too high a spirit
to return home, she gave herself up to grief; and taking a severe
cold, which she neglected, her strength soon wasted away, and she
was obliged to throw up her situation, and go into lodgings for the
recovery of her health. But disease had made too great progress to
be arrested; and after parting with nearly all her clothes to defray
the expenses she had incurred, she was reduced to the alternative of
dying for want or returning home. She wrote to her father, telling
him she was very ill, and did not expect to live, and desiring as a
favour that he would permit her to come home, and die in the room
where she was born. As soon as the old man received her letter he
hastened to our house; never did I witness such a burst of feeling.
'O Madam! my dear Harriet is very ill; she has sent us this----,
and wants to come home, she says, to die.' He wept, like the old
patriarch, when he saw the bloody coat instead of his darling son.
I endeavoured to console him as well as I could, and immediately
made an arrangement for her return. In the course of the next
week, the grief-worn parents had the melancholy gratification of
embracing their child. She was obliged to take to her bed on the
very day of her arrival. I saw her the day after, and received from
her a faithful narrative of her life. The wreck of beauty was still
visible amidst the ruins of her constitution; and the hectic flush
gave, at intervals, a superhuman expression to her countenance.
I felt conscious that she was hastening to the grave; and this
circumstance deeply depressed the feelings of her pious parents, who
were fearfully apprehensive that she was not prepared for death and
the final judgment. I requested them to leave us alone together,
when I began to converse with her on the value of her soul, and on
the only way of salvation. She wept, and said that she was fully
aware of her danger and desert; but added, 'I hope that the Friend
of sinners will have mercy on me. My conscience has often smote me;
the anguish of my mind I cannot describe; but I lay myself at His
feet, and cry, God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' I have," added
Mrs. Stevens, "regularly renewed my visits almost every day; and I
hope that my feeble efforts have been made the means of leading her
to the Saviour."
We now alighted from the carriage, and entered the cottage. Its
cleanliness and order bespoke the presence of taste and religious
feeling. As soon as the poor girl heard that there was a minister of
the gospel in the house, she expressed an ardent desire to see me.
When I approached her bedside, she exclaimed, "'This is a faithful
saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into
the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief.' My pious parents
impressed this fact on my memory in the days of my childhood, yet
it never reached my heart till since I have been confined in this
chamber. I have spent the prime of my days in vanity and sin,
neglecting the means of grace, and disregarding the remonstrances of
my own conscience; and, had not an invisible hand arrested me in my
progress, I should have gone on till I had lost my soul. But here
I am, a monument of mercy; a sinner saved through the blood of the
Lamb. That kind lady is the best earthly friend I ever had. She has
been the means of making known to me the way of life; and now I can
say, 'I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is
able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day.'"
I expressed the pleasure I felt at hearing these joyful tidings,
mingled my tears of gratitude with those of her relatives and
friends, and after commending her soul to the care of the Lord
Jesus, I bade her adieu, till we meet in that world where no disease
will invade the constitution, where death will never burst asunder
the bonds of social union, and where
"Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown."
As we rode back to Fairmount, I congratulated Mrs. Stevens on the
honour which God had conferred on her, in employing her as the
instrument of saving this dying girl from the pangs of the second
death.
"It is an honour which I prize more than gold and silver, and which
imparts a purer joy to my mind than ever heaved the bosom of a mere
earthly philanthropist; it invests the eternal world with a fresh
charm, as I expect to embrace my Harriet, as my own child in the
faith.
"I have often thought, that if the infidel could perceive the
sources of pleasure which Christianity opens to the pious mind,
he would be less disposed to reproach her as hostile to human
happiness."
"Yes, but such is the degree of his mental aversion to pure
Christianity, that her more sublime doctrines are turned into
themes of ridicule; the spirit which she inspires in her friends is
regarded as the wild-fire of fanaticism, and our efforts to save
a soul from death are stigmatized as a paltry manoeuvre to gain a
proselyte to our party; and though we may attempt to justify our
conduct on the admitted principles of social benevolence, yet we can
but rarely succeed."
Our conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by a gentleman, who
stepped out of his garden, and informed Mrs. Stevens that the poor
widow was worse, and was not expected to live through the day. This
communication very deeply affected her. She paused, and then said,
"Do you think that I may be permitted to see her?"
"Why, Madam," replied Mr. Roscoe, "the medical attendant has given
express orders that no one be allowed to see her except the nurse.
I hear that she _has made her peace with God_, and is not afraid to
die. It will be a happy release for her."
"I hope Mrs. and Miss Roscoe are well; you will make my compliments
to them, and say that we hope to see them at Fairmount very soon."
"Mr. Roscoe," said Mrs. Stevens, "is our nearest neighbour, but
I fear that he has no just perception of the _nature_ of true
religion; though he is, _in his own estimation, a very religious
man_. He is so amiable in temper, so kind in disposition, and so
benevolent in spirit, that every one esteems him who knows him; but
I fear that he substitutes this exterior amiability in the place
of the atonement of Jesus Christ; and thinks that nothing more is
necessary for salvation except an attendance at his parish church.
But I feel for the dying widow. I saw her at the commencement of her
illness; but when I told her _that she was a sinner, and that she
could not be saved but through faith in the merits of Jesus Christ_,
she told me that _she had never done any harm in her life, and
that she did not doubt of the mercy of God_. I have called several
times since; but, as I attempted _to disturb her peace in her
dying moments_, I have not been permitted to see her again; and I
understand some very severe remarks have been made on what is called
my _cruel conduct_."
"Yes, Madam," I replied, "the spirit of the world will often forbid
the herald of mercy entering the chamber of affliction, and will
wrap up the departing soul in the winding-sheet of self-security
before it enters the valley of the shadow of death. The language of
Jesus Christ in reference to such a state of mind is _very, very_
awful: 'Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not
prophesied in thy name; and in thy name have cast out devils; and
in thy name done many wonderful works? And then I will profess unto
them, I never knew you: depart from me ye that work iniquity.'"
"I grant," said Mrs. Stevens, "that prudence often renders it
necessary to exclude even intimate friends from the sick chamber,
lest the patient should have too much excitement; but to exclude
friends merely _because they are religious_, and who may be disposed
to say something in relation to that tremendous scene which
eternity opens on the disembodied spirit, is a crime of no ordinary
magnitude; and if the spirit were permitted to step back, after that
scene has been beheld, in what indignant language would she condemn
such an act of fatal cruelty."
"It is a most momentous event in the history of a human being, when
he passes from one world to another; when he steps out of time
into eternity; but how perilously awful to make the passage when
unprepared to go. I recollect going to see one of my hearers who
was dangerously ill; but on recognizing my well-known foot-tread as
I entered his chamber, he concealed himself under the bed-clothes,
and we spoke not for several minutes; no sounds were heard, but his
heavy sighs and piercing groans. He put out his hand, which I took,
and gently pressed; we still remained silent, both being too highly
surcharged with mental emotion to give utterance to what we felt.
At length he threw off the bed-clothes, looked on me with intense
earnestness, and exclaimed, 'O Sir, I am lost; I shall be in hell
before the morning.'"
"What a terrific vision! were you able to speak any words of peace
to his soul?"
"I did speak words of peace, but they gave him neither peace nor
comfort."
"Did he die, Sir?"
"Yes, he died the very next day; and his last words were, 'I AM
LOST; LOST FOR EVER!'"
"How very awful!"
"In such a case the tremendous catastrophe is expected; but now,
let us think for a moment of a person passing out of one world to
another (as many alas! do) under a delusive expectation of going to
heaven; but on stepping out of time into eternity, he finds himself
in hell. What must be his surprise; his terror-struck anguish; his
fearful, his terrific exclamations of agonized woe; his condition,
bearing some analogy, though infinitely more tremendous and
appalling, to that of a culprit tried and cast for death, when in a
trance, knowing nothing of the process or the issue, till he feels
the minister of death adjusting the rope on the fatal platform;
awakening up to a state of consciousness just before the drop falls.
While in a trance, he might be moving amidst the congratulations
of his family and his friends, to take possession of a newly
bequeathed inheritance; with what terrific consternation would
he, on recovering the use of his reason, find himself under the
gallows of infamy, tied to its cross beam, the executioner by his
side, stepping back to draw the bolt which is to give him to death
struggles and to death."
"Your illustration is terrific; but it is not equal to the
tremendous reality--a soul lost, when, under a fatal delusion,
expecting to be saved."
We now came in sight of Fairmount, and that turned the current of
our conversation to a more interesting theme. I remarked, "that
I thought the country more favourable to devotional feeling than
the city. The gaiety and the bustle of the one distract the mind;
whereas the quietude of the other composes it."
"True, Sir, but the spirit of devotion would soon languish
beside the murmuring stream, or beneath the silent shade, unless
invigorated by the unction which cometh from above. If we, who
live in the country, have fewer temptations than those who live
in cities, yet in general we have fewer religious advantages; and
though not altogether deprived of the society of Christian friends,
yet it is but seldom that we are surrounded by a sufficient number
to admit of making a selection."
On entering the parlour, Mr. Stevens soon joined us, and seemed
much interested by the report of our morning's excursion. Having
partaken of a plain dinner, he and I adjourned to a sequestered
arbour, at the extreme point of his shrubbery, where we sat
conversing the greater part of the afternoon. "Mr. Roscoe," he
observed, "to whom you were introduced this morning, is a most
interesting companion. He is a man of very extensive reading, of
deep and close reflection, of a fine taste, very benevolent in
disposition, of strict integrity, and very religious in his own way.
He is rather too fond of disputation, and there is no subject which
he likes to discuss more than the subject of religion, though I
think he does not understand it so well as he does many others."
"Is he fond of introducing religious subjects in conversation?"
"Very."
"Does he introduce them merely for discussion, or in relation to
their practical tendency?"
"Why, his uniform design, if I may be permitted to judge of his
motive, is to excite a general feeling of disgust against what he
calls the Methodistical or Calvinistic delusions of the age, which
he regards as more injurious to our national character, and more
destructive to our happiness, than even the spirit of infidelity
itself."
"Then I presume that you are not very intimate."
"O yes, we are. We often protract the debate till our wives
interfere, and request us to remember the hour."
"But are not some of his prejudices against the demoralizing
tendency of the Methodistical delusion (to use his own phraseology)
shaken by your conduct?"
"O no; he has, like many others, an ingenious expedient, by which
the force of individual example against his sweeping charge is
repelled. He says that our superior good sense, and our superior
virtue, prevent these delusions from operating on us as they operate
on others. So you see that his complaisance nullifies the argument
which he cannot refute; and the mine which Christian consistency
springs beneath an erroneous opinion, is countermined by the
artifice which friendship employs."
"Is he very dogmatical in conversation?"
"Rather so; but he never loses his temper. Indeed, he is a most
valuable man; and if it should please God, who commanded the light
to shine out of darkness, to shine into his heart, to give him the
light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus
Christ, he would, I have no doubt, carry the attainments of the
Christian character to the highest point of excellence."
"Is Mrs. Roscoe of the same way of thinking with her husband?"
"Why, Sir, I do not think that _she ever thinks_ on the subject of
religion. She goes to church, reads the _Week's Preparation_, takes
the sacrament, feeds and clothes the poor, and says that, in her
opinion, nothing more is required of her. She sometimes listens, it
is true, to our discussions, but it is more, I apprehend, from the
respect which she feels for the laws of politeness, than from any
interest which she takes in the subject. Miss Roscoe, who is a most
amiable creature, ventures occasionally to make a few observations,
and sometimes to ask a few questions, but she is very guarded. Mrs.
Stevens presented her with a copy of Doddridge's _Rise and Progress
of Religion in the Soul_ the last time she gave us a call; and from
the spirit in which she received the present, and the assurance she
gave that she would read the book, we entertain some hope that the
light of truth will lead her to the well-spring of true happiness."
"From a remark which Mrs. Stevens made to Mr. Roscoe, when we parted
with him, I hope that I shall have the pleasure of spending an hour
or two in his company before I leave Fairmount."
"Yes, he and his family dine with us next week; but you must
contrive to hide the colour of your cloth if you wish to draw him
out in conversation, especially religious conversation, for you
Dissenting ministers do not stand very high in his esteem. He thinks
that you have obtruded yourselves on an office which, for want of
learning and episcopal ordination, you are not qualified to fill. He
can relish none but Oxford or Cambridge men."
Mrs. Stevens, accompanied by a little niece, who was a weekly
boarder at a ladies' school on the other side of the hill, came to
invite us to tea in the alcove. We took a circuitous route through
the shrubbery, till we entered on the lawn, at the bottom of which
nature and art had combined their skill in the beautifying of this
rural retreat. While sitting there, receiving the refreshment which
the hand of an indulgent Providence had provided, and listening
to the sweet harmony of the feathered tribe, the servant, who had
just returned from the neighbouring town, delivered to his master a
newspaper and a packet of letters. Mr. Stevens, having apologized
for his rudeness (as he called it), proceeded to open the letters,
and, to neutralize my displeasure, he placed the paper in my hands.
"My dear," addressing himself to Mrs. Stevens, "I have some good
news to tell you. Mr. Lewellin has accepted our invitation, and will
be here, if Providence permit, next Thursday."
"One mercy, like one affliction," replied Mrs. Stevens, "seldom
comes alone." Addressing herself to me, "I hope to have the pleasure
of introducing to you a nephew, who has recently felt the power of
the truth, which he once affected to despise."
"The society of Christian friends is always animating, but
particularly the society of those who have recently passed from
death to life, who have just been redeemed from the dominion of
Satan, and brought into the glorious liberty of the children of God.
There is usually such an expressive animation in their look and in
their utterances; they have the freshness of their new life glowing
upon them; and when speaking of what they know, and testifying
of what they have seen and felt, they do it with a simplicity
and earnestness which has a fine and powerful influence over our
spirits. We glorify God in them."
"My nephew is the only son of a pious mother, and she is a widow.
He was permitted to run to great lengths in the paths of evil, but
the Lord has had mercy on him, and his conversion is, in my opinion,
as great a proof of the divinity of this Christian faith as the
conversion of St. Paul."
"Pray, is he the son of Mrs. Lewellin, who lives in the village of
Stenmoor, that you refer to?"
"Yes; do you know him?"
"I have the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Lewellin, but not her son, only
by character. To meet with him will be no small addition to the
gratification I feel from my visit to your lovely villa."
A MORNING'S RAMBLE.
When the devotions of the morning were discharged, I strolled out
alone, intending to amuse myself for a few hours in collecting
some fossils, out of the quarry near the Rectory. As I was passing
through a thick coppice, I met a little boy, very neatly dressed,
who politely made me a country bow.
"Well, my little fellow, what is your name?" "Jemmy Allen." "And
where do you live?" "In the cottage just at the end of this wood."
"And how many brothers and sisters have you?" "None, Sir." "And
what is your father?" "A ploughman." "And where are you going?" "Up
to Squire Stevens', to get a little gruel for mother, who is very
poorly." "Can you read?" "Yes, Sir, I can read the Testament, which
Squire Stevens gave me." "Can you tell me who made you?" "God." "Who
came into the world to save sinners?" "Jesus Christ." "What must you
do to be saved?" "I must be sorry for my sins; I must pray to God to
forgive me what is past, and serve him better for the time to come."
I proceeded in questioning him, and was pleased to find that he
could repeat the whole of Watt's Catechism, and also a great
part of that composed by the Assembly of Divines. His knowledge
of the Scriptures was extensive, considering his years; and he
repeated to me the whole of the commandments, with our Lord's
summary of them, as recorded in the twenty-second chapter of the
Gospel by Matthew. Having given him a trifle, as a reward for his
past diligence, and as a stimulus for the future, I moved on, and
soon came within sight of his mother's cottage, which presented
to my imagination more powerful attractions than the quarry I had
intended to visit. On entering, which I did without ceremony, I
beheld an interesting-looking female, apparently very ill, seated
in an arm-chair. I apologized for my intrusion, which occasioned
her a little embarrassment. After thanking me, as a minister of
Jesus Christ, for the honour I had done her, she asked me to take a
seat. Her cottage stood alone, almost entirely surrounded by tall
elm trees, and seemed, by its sacred furniture, consisting of a
Bible, hymn-books, tracts, &c. (the symbols of the Divine presence),
set apart as a local habitation for an heir of glory. A few lines,
once addressed to a secluded saint, involuntarily occurred to my
recollection: "Our Lord has many jewels. Among the number, there are
some of such peculiar properties that he does not choose to expose
them to public observation. He separates them from the general
assemblage, secluding them for his own complacent contemplation, and
sets them as a seal upon his heart."
"You have a lovely retreat from the world, but I suppose, like
others, you are sometimes disturbed by its cares."
"_I have been_, but now I have cast all my cares on him who has
promised to sustain me."
"Then you have reached one of the highest points of experimental
religion, and may look down on this tumultuous scene with an eye of
comparative indifference."
"Why, Sir, I would not exchange my situation or my prospects for
any other that could be offered me. I have not much of this world's
goods, nor yet many wants; but I have an unclouded prospect of
future happiness, which reconciles me to my lot."
"But have you been always so highly favoured!"
"O no, Sir. For many years I was kept in a state of spiritual
bondage, sighing for liberty which I could not obtain, and praying
for peace, but had great bitterness. At length it pleased God to
shine in upon my mind 'with beams of heavenly grace;' and the plan
of salvation, of which I could previously form no just ideas, was
exhibited with such clearness, that the burden of guilt fell off my
conscience; and from that blessed hour to the present, I have not
had a doubt of my interest in the merits of my Redeemer. The long
affliction with which I have been visited has brought me into more
intimate communion with Him; my soul is as a weaned child; and I am
waiting the summons to depart."
"But what a chasm will your departure make in the happiness of your
little family!"
"Yes, my dear husband will feel the stroke; and so will my dear
little boy. Nature still yearns over them, but I am enabled to leave
them, as a dying legacy, to the Lord of life. My husband, I believe,
is on the way to the kingdom of heaven; and my boy, I hope, though
very young, fears the Lord God of his parents; so that I die under a
firm persuasion that our intercourse will not be destroyed, but only
suspended for a season."
"Then you can die in peace?"
"In peace, Sir!" pausing as though her redeemed spirit laboured
for some more than common form of expression as the vehicle of her
utterance, "that word is not descriptive of my state of mind; I feel
a joy which is full of glory, and such an intense longing of soul to
be introduced into the presence of my Lord, that at times I fear I
am too impatient for the descent of the celestial chariot in which I
am to enter through the gates into the city."
"I suppose that, though you live secluded from the world, you are
sometimes visited by pious friends?"