and bid adieu to each other; but I will give you my pledge of honour
that I will take your advice, and if you will exchange cards with me
you shall know the result, though I cannot allow you to imagine that
it will afford you any satisfaction."
"It may, and I hope it will."
The stranger (whose name I perceived, on looking at his card, was
Gordon), on taking leave of me, said, "I have been watching yonder
cloud some time, and am apprehensive a storm is rising; but I hope
we shall be able to escape it." I now hastened towards Fairmount;
but, as I had wandered the distance of some miles, I soon found that
it would be impossible to reach it without having to encounter the
threatening tempest. As I passed through a thick coppice, the birds
sat in silence on the branches, or flew with rapidity from one tree
to another; the wind blew with a deep and hollow sound; and then for
a few seconds ceased its howlings, as if to recover strength to send
forth a more dismal groan. On descending the slope which led into
the vale, a streak of lightning struck across my path, and the loud
roaring thunder, echoing through the valley, produced a universal
consternation in its flocks and herds. A sudden darkness came over
the whole horizon; the rain came down in torrents; and, having
missed my path, I knew not which way to proceed.
After walking on a considerable distance, I saw a cottage, towards
which I ran for shelter, and was welcomed in. The honest woodman
immediately ordered his eldest boy to fetch a large bundle of
sticks to throw on the fire; and I was requested to draw near and
dry myself. Up in the chimney-corner sat a fine-looking girl, about
nine years of age, whose eyes were bedewed with tears; another,
about three years older, sat in the window seat wrapped in pensive
sadness; an athletic youth, still older, was reclining himself
against the table; and the father soon drew, from the deep recesses
of a wounded breast, one of the most piercing groans that ever
vibrated across the sensibilities of my heart. These symptoms of
grief soon convinced me that I had retreated from the disorders
of the physical world, to witness the convulsive throes of the
social; and my spirits, which usually ebb and flow with the tide of
feeling on which they are borne, began to sink within me. "I fear,"
addressing myself to the father, "you are in trouble?" "O yes, Sir!
our hearts are all bursting; for death is coming to bear off our
little Jemima. She is up stairs, where she has now been these eight
days, and her mother has never left her, night or day. She is one
of the best girls a father ever loved." "But death does not come by
chance." "O, no; 'the Lord gave, and the Lord takes away; blessed be
the name of the Lord;' but it is hard work to part. Do walk up and
see her before she dies; but she is so changed!"
[Illustration: THE WOODMAN'S FAMILY IN TROUBLE.
Vol i. p. 105.]
I entered her room, and soon perceived that death had cast his fatal
shadow on her countenance, which still retained its beautiful form
and expression. Addressing myself to the child, I said, "Do you
think you shall die?" "Yes, Sir." "And if you die, where do you
expect to go?" "To heaven." "What makes you think you shall go to
heaven?" "Jesus Christ has said, 'Suffer little children, and forbid
them not, to come unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'"
"What do you understand by coming to Jesus Christ?" "Believing in
him, and loving him." "Did you always believe in him, and love him?"
"No, not till he inclined me; for if we love him, it is because he
first loved us." "Then you can leave father, and mother, and all
your brothers and sisters, to go to heaven?" "Yes, Sir; I have no
wish to live on earth when I have the prospect of living a happier
life in heaven."
The surgeon, who had been anxiously expected for several hours, now
arrived. "Do you think," said the grief-worn mother, "our child
is dying?" This question, though familiar to the humane man, was
not heard without an evident emotion of sorrow. "While there is
life there is hope; but I would not advise you to be too sanguine
in your expectations; she is very ill." There was no burst of
anguish at this reply. They all knew Jemima was dying, though they
were unwilling to believe it; and though their pulse beat a little
quicker on hearing this reply, and their faces turned paler, yet
they stood pressing round the bed, as if to keep off the king of
terrors, whose advanced guards had taken the forlorn hope.
We now went down stairs; and, as the storm was over, the surgeon
left, but I could not leave. "Will you," said the father, "go to
prayer with us? If it were not for prayer, and the hope which the
gospel gives, my heart would break." With this request I complied;
and while praying to the God of all grace that the little child
might be favoured with the light of his countenance in her passage
through the valley of the shadow of death, I heard the mother's
shriek, which convinced me that she was gone. The children started
up, weeping aloud, wringing their hands, and calling, "Jemima!
Jemima! don't leave us." And the mother, with a softened melancholy
of countenance, appeared among as, saying, with a faltering tongue,
"_She exclaimed, as I was raising her up on the pillow, 'I am going
to heaven!' and fell back in my arms, and died_."
I remained with them about a quarter of an hour, administering to
them the consolations of religion, and then left them, in company
with the eldest boy, who conducted me to Fairmount, which I reached
about ten o'clock. I related to my friends the adventures of my
ramble, which compensated for the anxiety which my long absence
and the state of the weather had occasioned. When reflecting on
this fact, and contrasting the bright prospect which the gospel of
Christ unveils to the juvenile as well as to the aged Christian,
with the dark and cheerless gloom of infidelity, I feel its immense
superiority; and with emotions which no language can describe, I pay
my adorations and praises to Him who brought life and immortality to
light.
A SABBATH MORNING AT FAIRMOUNT.
Having spent a few hours in meditating on the great facts of the
Christian faith, an exercise in which I have for many years been
in the habit of engaging on a Saturday evening, I retired to rest,
and soon fell asleep; and in my sleep I had a dream. I dreamt that,
under a serene sky, I was passing through a beautiful vale, belted
on each side by a plantation of gigantic trees; and, on reaching
the end of it, I saw a broad gravel walk, running along the margin
of a rapid river; then turning off rather abruptly under the shade
of a high mountain, winding itself gradually into a grove of large
and beauteous shrubs, whose foliage surpassed, in diversified forms
and variegated colours, anything of the kind I had ever seen. The
soft breezes were laden with the most delicious odours of flowers;
and the air vibrated with the music of its feathered tribes. I often
paused; and while listening to the soft sounds of melody, and while
inhaling the sweet fragrance, I felt an unusual elevation of spirit,
a calm ecstasy of emotion. In about half an hour I came to a spot
which commanded a bold view of an extensive landscape; but the most
attractive object in this scene of beauty and of grandeur was a
church, imbedded in an inclosure of evergreens. I now quickened my
pace. As I advanced near it I heard the harmony of sacred song; but
it soon died away into profound silence. The devotional part of the
service was over before I entered the church, and the minister had
named his text; but, from the tenor of his discourse, I judged it
was "A PRINCE AND A SAVIOUR." The following is the only paragraph
which was distinct and fresh upon my memory when I awoke, and it was
delivered with an impressiveness of manner and intonation which kept
the entire congregation in breathless silence:--
"He walked through the province of human misery and crime, a
mysterious being, doing what He pleased, without ostentation and
with perfect ease. He gave sight to the blind, and hearing to the
deaf; disease, in its multifarious forms of infliction, withdrew
when He issued the command; the dead arose to do Him homage; the
raging elements, when His disciples were in danger, hushed to a calm
at His bidding; and the dumb became vocal in His praise. These were
the triumphs of benevolence over the miseries of man, requiring, on
His part, no privations or suffering to effect them. Shift the scene
of His history, and what a sight do we behold! He is poor, homeless,
and unpitied; often weary in His great exertions of beneficence;
and sometimes having to endure the extreme of hunger and of thirst.
His enemies revile Him as a fanatic; denounce Him as an impostor
and maniac; and accuse Him of treason and blasphemy; and secretly
conspire to put Him to death. The quietude of Gethsemane, where He
was pleading with heaven in behalf of the people, is broken by the
foot-treads of His betrayer, stepping in advance of an armed force;
in the council-chamber of Caiaphas he is maligned and insulted; and
when arraigned at Pilate's tribunal, He is scourged and condemned;
and at Calvary they crucify Him between two malefactors. There this
illustrious Prince bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for
whom?" The pathetic tones in which this sentence was uttered--there
He bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?--bathed the
whole audience in tears; there was a sudden pause, and its stillness
awoke me.
"This," I said, as I came back to wakeful consciousness, "is a
dream, which has called up day thoughts in the visions of the night;
painting on the fancy, in vivid colours, the meditations of the
heart. A dream! strange phenomenon! the mysterious action of the
mysterious spirit, ever active, with or without the auxiliary aid
of the senses; but the facts of this dream are the realities of
absolute truth--the most wonderful and important realities within
the compass of universal knowledge. I can reply to the questions of
the dream in my wakeful hour. He bleeds; for what? The iniquities of
the people. He dies; for whom? He gave His life a ransom for the
redemption and salvation of man. Wondrous event!"
On looking out of my bedroom window, I saw the sun rising in his
splendour; the winds were at rest, no clouds veiled the heavens in
gloom. "It is," I involuntarily exclaimed, "a delightful Sabbath
morning." Seeing Hervey's _Meditations_ on my dressing-table, I took
it, and read his "Descant upon Creation," closing with the following
soul-inspiring paragraph:--
"Most of all, ye ministers of the sanctuary, heralds commissioned
from above, lift every one his voice like a trumpet, and loudly
proclaim the Redeemer. Get ye up, ye ambassadors of peace, get ye
up into the high mountains, and spread far and wide the honours of
the Lamb that was slain, but is alive for evermore. Teach every
sacred roof to resound with His fame, and every human heart to
glow with His love. Declare, as far as the force of words will go,
declare the inexhaustible fulness of that great atonement, whose
merits are commensurate with the glories of the Divinity. Tell the
sinful wretch what pity yearns at Immanuel's breast; what blood
He has spilt, what agonies He has endured, what wonders He has
wrought for the salvation of His enemies. Invite the indigent to
become rich; entreat the guilty to accept of pardon; because with
the crucified Jesus is plenteous redemption and all-sufficiency
to save. While you, placed in conspicuous stations, proclaim the
joyful sound, may I, as I steal through the vale of humble life,
catch the pleasing accents! For me the Author of all blessings
became a curse; for me His bones were dislocated, and His flesh was
torn. He hung with streaming veins and an agonizing soul on the
cross for me. O! may I, in my little sphere, and amidst the scanty
circle of my acquaintance, at least whisper these glad transporting
tidings!--whisper them from my own heart, that they may surely reach
and sweetly penetrate theirs.
"But when men and angels raise the grand hymn; when all worlds and
all beings add their collective acclamations--this full, fervent,
and universal chorus, will be so inferior to the riches of the
Redeemer's grace, so disproportionate to the magnificence of His
glory, that it will seem but to debase the unutterable subject it
attempts to exalt. The loud hallelujah will _die_ away in the solemn
mental eloquence of prostrate, rapturous, silent admiration.
'O goodness infinite! goodness immense!
And love that passeth knowledge! Words are vain;
Language is lost in wonder so divine;
Come, then, expressive _silence_, muse his praise.'"
On my way to the church, passing a cottage which stood a short
distance from a foot-path I was crossing, I saw a man and his two
sons at work in his garden; they made me a bow, which I acknowledged.
"Your cottage," I remarked, "is pleasantly situated; and you seem to
have a productive garden, and keep it in good order."
"Why, yes, Sir; but it costs us a deal of hard labour."
"Have you a large family?"
"Yes, Sir, we have six children; and, thank God, they are as healthy
as a spring morning."
"Who do you work for?"
"I and these two lads work for Farmer Goddard, who lives just over
the hill, as good a master as ever hired a servant."
"What time do you generally devote to your garden?"
"Why, Sir, we give it a few odd hours in the week; but as that is
not enough, we work at it on a Sunday morning till dinner-time."
"And what do you generally do after dinner on a Sunday?"
"The lads go on the green for a bit of a frolic, and I go up to the
Plough, and spend a few hours along with some of my neighbours."
"Can you read?"
"A little, Sir; but my wife can read as well as any of my master's
daughters."
"Have you a Bible?"
"Yes; but I don't read it much, because I can't understand it."
"Don't you think you could understand the following
passage:--'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt
thou labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the
sabbath of the Lord thy God; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou,
nor thy son.'"
[Illustration: "WE WORK ON SUNDAY TILL DINNER-TIME."
Vol. i. page 110.]
"Why, yes, Sir; that's plain enough to be understood; but such poor
folks as us can't afford to rest from labour on a Sunday."
"Do you think that God would command poor people to rest from their
labour on the Sabbath, unless He knew that it would be for their
good? And, besides, do you think that poverty will be admitted as an
excuse for a neglect of duty? Suppose your master was to tell you to
fetch up the cows from yon meadow, would your poverty be an excuse
for not doing it?"
"No; to be sure not. I ought to do what master bids me."
"If, then, you ought to do what master bids you, _ought you not to
do what God commands you_?"
"Why, yes, Sir; I must say that you are right."
"But you tell me that after dinner you go up to the Plough, where I
suppose you spend some of your money. Now, your poverty ought to be
an excuse to keep you from a public-house; but it ought not to be an
excuse to keep you away from church."
"Why, Sir, I must say there is reason in what you say, but I don't
spend much; and I like to have a little talk with my neighbours."
"But do you never think of another world?"
"Not so much as I should, Sir, I must say."
"Don't you know that you are born to live for ever? During the
first period of your existence you have to live in this world, and
this period is very short; during the next period of your existence
you will have to live in the invisible world, and that will never
end. And while here you are making preparation for your future and
changeless condition of existence--for heaven, and its happiness and
dignity, or for hell, and its misery and degradation."
"Why, Sir, to speak the truth, I never heard anything about this
till lately; but last Lady-day master hired a fellow-servant, who
has often talked to us on this subject; but I never give heed to
what he says, because he is a _fantic_, so Miss says, who has just
come home from boarding-school."
"A fanatic you mean; but that is a nick-name which people who
have no religion give to those who have. Now, I suppose your
fellow-servant understands more about the Bible and about religion
than you do?"
"More than I do! ay, more than all the rest on the farm put
together. He has got the Bible at his fingers' ends, and will tell
the meaning, too, off hand; and master has taken a great liking to
him, and is going off to his way of thinking, which, I hear, is a
mortal sorrow to mistress and the young ladies."
"Does his religion make him wretched?"
"Why, Sir, it is commonly thought in many of these parts, and by
many of the gentlefolks, that religion makes people unhappy; but I
am sure that our Sam is one of the happiest men on earth. I have
often said to my wife that there must be something in Sam's religion
which we don't know anything about; because, let whoever will be
dull and sorrowful, he is always happy."
"Yes, my honest fellow, there is more in religion than you, who do
not understand it, can form any notion of. Religion is something
more than resting from labour on a Sunday, and going to church."
"More than that, Sir! then I wish you would tell me what it is; for
I always thought that going to church was all that God required us
to do; and I heard mistress say so to master t'other day, and she
was in earnest when she said it, for she spoke loud enough to be
heard all over the kitchen."
"Yes, I will tell you with great pleasure. As we are depraved and
unholy, more disposed to love sin than to hate it, the Bible tells
us that the dispositions and propensities of our mind must be
changed by a supernatural power; and when this change takes place,
we become new creatures--old things pass away, and all things become
new. And as we are guilty sinners, we must repent of our sins, and
believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save
sinners, even the chief."
"Ay, I see, all this belongs to the mind, and is something different
from merely going to church. Now I have often been to church, but I
always came out just as I went in. I never heard anything that ever
touched my heart."
Pleased with this reply, which seemed to indicate an apprehension
of the subject, I replied, "Yes; you may go to a church, and return
from it without possessing religion, for that has a peculiar and
direct reference to the heart, which is by nature deceitful and
impure. But yet religion is conveyed to the heart through the medium
of reading or of hearing. Hence it is our duty to read the Bible and
other good books, and to go and hear the gospel preached, because it
pleases God, by means of preaching, to save them that believe."
"Then I suppose, Sir, you are now going to church; but as you are
a stranger in these parts, perhaps you don't know that our parish
church stands yonder."
"Yes, I know it does; but I am not going to that church, because the
clergyman does not preach the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. He is a
blind guide."
"No, Sir; on that point you are mistaken; his eye is as
sharp-sighted as a hawk's; he is the best shot in the parish."
"I don't mean that he is literally blind, but spiritually; that is,
he does not understand the religion of the Bible, and therefore he
does not teach it."
"That's what our Sam says, and I heard mistress let fly at him
rather sharply t'other day for saying so. But master now says the
same thing, which, I am told by the dairy-maid, gives mortal offence
to mistress and the young ladies. But I never knew master wrong in
his judgment of men and things. Where, Sir, are you going, if one
may be so bold to ask?"
"I am going to hear Mr. Ingleby, whose preaching has been such a
great blessing to many of his parishioners and others."
"That's the parson our Sam goes to hear; and master has taken to
go to hear him lately. He wants, so I have heard, mistress to go
with him, and the young ladies; but they won't; they say he is a
Methodist and _fantic_."
"Have you ever heard him preach?"
"No, Sir. I am told that his preaching drives people out of their
senses, and I should not like to part with what little I have."
"Did you ever know any one driven out of his senses by him?"
"Why, no, Sir; and I must say that I don't much believe it; and
for this reason, I always find people who like his preaching more
inclined to do poor people good, than those who talk against it.
Why, Sir, when my wife was last confined, we all thought that she
would die; and it is wonderful how kind some of Mr. Ingleby's
followers were to her. They gave her what she wanted for this world,
and talked to her so kindly about another world, that she has taken
a liking to them, and would have been off to their religion, but I
would not let her. We have had more words on this subject than any
other since we have been married, which is now eighteen years come
Christmas."
"And do you think that you have done right by opposing your wife?
Now, suppose you were to make up your mind to go and hear Mr.
Ingleby preach, how would you like for your master to say to you,
_No, you shall not go_?"
"I should not like it at all, because I think I have a right to go
where I please on a Sunday, if I do my work in the week."
"Then, has not your wife a right to go where she likes to worship
God, and get religious instruction, if she does her duties at home."
"Why, yes, Sir, and I sometimes think that I have done wrong by
stopping her."
"Now, take my advice, let her go, and go you too, and hear and judge
for yourself; and, take my word for it, you will never regret it."
I now left him, and hastened to church; and just as I entered, the
venerable man read from the desk, "I will arise and go to my Father,
and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and
before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me
as one of thy hired servants." He conducted the devotional part of
the service with great solemnity, and the congregation appeared to
feel that they were under the immediate notice of the Holy One of
Israel. After his entrance into the pulpit, he presented a short
extemporary prayer with great simplicity and fervour, and then
announced his text: Genesis xxviii. 16, 17.
I. It is the presence of God which constitutes the glory of the
visible temple.
II. He is sometimes present when the worshippers are unconscious of
the fact; and,
III. A belief of his presence is calculated to excite awe and
delight.
As a few notes of this sermon may not be unacceptable to the reader,
I will give them:
"That God actually dwells in the place where a pure worship is
performed, we have the most decisive proofs. 'In all places where
I record my name, I will come unto thee, and I will bless thee'
(Exodus xx. 24).
"His presence is extended through all space, and operates with an
undiminished force in every part of his universal dominion; but
there is a more special manifestation of it where people assemble to
praise and pray. And though scepticism may ridicule such a notion as
giving locality to the Supreme Being, yet to deny it, is virtually
to exclude him from the government of the world. But what attracts
his notice? Not the rising spire, nor the tolling bell; not the
Gothic arch, nor the Corinthian column; not the flowing vestment
of the preacher, nor the purple robe of the hearer. These are the
embellishments and attractions of human device, which may captivate
and amuse the sentimental or the superstitious, but from such vain
shows the Holy One turns away, to look with complacency on an object
which a proud and sceptical world scorns to pity or to notice. 'To
this man will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite
spirit, and trembleth at my word' (Isaiah lxvi. 2).