Miss Roscoe, who had ventured, for the first time, to attend the
chapel. This young lady united in her person the fascinations of
beauty with superior mental accomplishments; and though she would
occasionally intermingle with the gay and the fashionable, and
participate in their pleasures, yet she was more attached to reading
and retirement. This disposition was cherished by her father, who
was a man of close study, and passionately fond of disputation. He
would sometimes relax from the ardour of intellectual pursuits, and
enter into the amusements of the theatre, the ball-room, and the
card party, with energy and vivacity; but soon he would grow weary
of such pastimes, and return to his more rational employments. He
was well read in history--a good botanist--had acquired an extensive
knowledge of the science of geology--had studied Blackstone and Burn
with attention; but the largest portion of his time was devoted to
the investigation of the Scriptures. After Miss Roscoe had finished
her education at a boarding-school, she pursued her studies under
the superintendence of her father, who was eminently qualified to
enrich her mind with the treasures of knowledge and of wisdom.
Thus months and years rolled on in regular succession, with but few
incidents of a painful nature, till He
"Who waits his own well chosen hour,
Th' intended mercy to display,"
inflicted a wound in her heart, which was attended with an unusual
depression of spirit. She felt the stroke, but knew not from whence
it came, nor could her father tell her who could heal it. He was
advised to try what effect a change of air and society would have
on her spirits; and hence he removed his family to Dawlish in
Devonshire, where they spent the whole of the summer; but still her
morbid melancholy increased, and the physician recommended a visit
to Bath for the winter, as the only expedient which was likely to
prevent the entire loss of health, if not of her reason. Here she
was hurried, by the ardour of parental solicitude, into scenes of
gaiety and amusement, which now had lost their charm; and though she
often refused to go, saying that they could afford her no pleasure,
yet, her reluctance being regarded as an inveterate symptom of her
complaint, she was compelled to yield, till she frankly said, "If
you wish me to regain my long-lost tranquillity, cease to force me
where the gaiety of others increases my mental depression, and let
me return home, that, in the retirement of solitude, I may find rest
from the aggravating amusements of human gaiety and folly."
Mrs. Stevens, who was intimate with the family, and had held some
religious conversation with Miss Roscoe before she left home, made
a morning call on her return, when she found her alone. Referring
to Doddridge's _Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul_, which
she had presented to her on a former occasion, she received a
reply which gave her great pleasure; and, from some incidental
expressions, she was convinced that the cause of her depression
lay in the deep recesses of her heart. She therefore suggested to
her, as the only effectual means of its removal, a perusal of the
Scriptures. "I once felt," she said, "what you now feel, and though
my mental anguish was not so acute as yours, nor so overwhelming in
its influence, yet I should have sunk under it, had it not been for
the consolations of mercy which I found in the Bible."
This communication, which was not less unexpected than the
appearance of the angel of God to Hagar, as she sat in the solitude
of maternal grief, mourning over her child in the agonies of
death, raised the spirit of Miss Roscoe from beneath that load of
depression which was sinking her into despair, and she inquired,
with singular emphasis of expression:--
"And do you indeed think that the Bible will afford me any relief?
I have not been permitted to see it since the commencement of my
illness; but if you recommend it, I will peruse it."
"Yes, my dear; that book, which a thoughtless world despises, is
Heaven's best gift to man.
'I know and feel it is a blessed book;
And I remember how it stopp'd my tears
In days of former sorrow; like some herb
Of sov'reign virtue to a wound applied.'"
"But," said Miss Roscoe, whose independent mind had not lost its
intellectual vigour during the gloomy night of mental sadness, "what
does the Bible reveal, which is so peculiarly appropriate to me?"
"It reveals a Saviour, who came into the world to save sinners."
"That truth I know, and I cannot banish it from my recollection; but
I cannot perceive how the belief of it is calculated to bring back
my long-lost happiness."
"But, my dear, _if you did believe it_, in the scriptural
acceptation of the term, it would not only remove the depression
of your spirits, but raise you into a higher and a purer state of
felicity than that from whence you are fallen."
"I do believe it, and what more is required?"
"What more, my dear Miss Roscoe? You should reduce your belief to
a practical operation, and, in the most simple and humble form of
speech, plead the merits of the Saviour's death for the remission
of your sins, for peace of conscience, and for eternal life. 'For
through Him we have access by one Spirit unto the Father.' You are
unhappy, but know not the cause; and that morbid melancholy which
has destroyed your health, and laid waste the vivacity of your
spirits, has hitherto set at defiance every expedient which you have
employed for its removal; but such is the mysterious efficacy of the
death of Jesus Christ, _when the design of his death is perceived_,
that it makes the wounded spirit whole, and it calms the troubled
breast. The state of your mind is neither hopeless nor singular; and
though at present you may not be able to perceive how your mental
anguish can issue in mental peace, yet, if you try the efficacy of
prayer, you will see 'the darkened cloud withdraw;' and then you
will adore the grace which humbles to exalt, which impoverishes to
enrich, and which renders our sources of earthly pleasure incapable
of affording delight, that we may be compelled to derive our supreme
felicity from fellowship with the Father, and his Son Jesus Christ."
This intercourse led to an intimacy, which soon ripened into a
strong attachment; and that morbid melancholy, which had withstood
the rural charms of Dawlish, and the captivating amusements of Bath,
began to give way under the religious communications of a friend,
who had often been ridiculed for her zeal, and sometimes reproached
for attempting to disturb the peace of those whose happiness she
lived to promote.
Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe saw, with no ordinary emotions of delight, the
dawning of serenity on the countenance of their beloved child, but
knew not the cause till they accidentally saw her reading the Bible,
which they had been recommended to keep from her. In the evening,
as they were sitting together, Mr. Roscoe said, "I think, my dear
Sophia, that you are regaining your former vivacity."
"I am more happy than I was, but not so happy as I wish to be."
"The light of bliss, I hope, my dear, is shining on you, but I fear
lest it should again depart. You must be cautious what you read; and
if you will permit me to offer you my advice, I would recommend you
_light reading, which, I think, would just now have a good effect_."
"I thank you, my dear father, for your advice, but such reading
would bring back the gloom which the light of revealed truth is
scattering from around my mind. There is no book which I read with
so much pleasure as the Bible."
"The Bible contains much important history; it abounds with
interesting narratives; it makes us familiar with the customs of
ancient times, and supplies us with some inimitable specimens of
good composition; but I would advise you not to read the Epistles
of the New Testament, lest they should perplex and bewilder you,
and lead you off into a state of mental distraction, which no human
skill would be able to control or subdue."
"You know, my dear father, that no human skill has been able to
control or remove that fixed melancholy under which I have been
labouring for nine months; but I feel now greatly relieved from
it; and I assure you that it is the perusal of that portion of the
Scripture which you wish me to avoid, to which I attribute, under
the blessing of God, the delightful change which has taken place in
the state and frame of my mind."
THE BIBLE DISDAINED.
As it was a very fine evening, I resolved on taking my usual walk,
and sallied forth, sauntering along, undecided where to go, till I
came within sight of the towering hill overlooking the woodman's
cottage. "Yes, I will go and see the surviving mourners. They are
doubtless still in trouble; but the heavy swell of grief may have
subsided a little, now that all that remained of their lovely
Jemima[3] is in the grave." The rich scenery through which I was
passing supplied me with ample and varied materials for thinking;
but my thinking faculty felt more inclined to muse on death and
immortality than on trees or flowers, on bleating sheep, or on
lowing cattle.
[3] See p. 106.
Yes, man dies; but he still lives. He passes from one locality and
condition of existence to another. He will never die again. No, his
next life is endless. If saved, what varied and splendid forms of
beauty and of grandeur will open on his vision the moment he passes
the dark frontier that divides the visible from the unseen world!
What sounds of harmony, coming from the pure and happy spirits of
the celestial state, will vibrate on his ear! What ecstasy will he
feel when presented faultless before the glorious presence of the
Divine Majesty! If lost!--Woe, woe, woe! My heart recoils from a
contemplation of his fearful and changeless destiny.
On entering the cottage I saw a stranger, in the costume of a
gentleman, polite and accomplished; but there was an air of
mannerism about him uncongenial to my taste. The woodman and his
wife were glad to see me, and after making a few faint allusions
to the mournful event which had recently occurred, they relapsed
into expressive silence, which induced me to suppose that my abrupt
appearance had interrupted some conversation or discussion. At
length, after a little desultory and somewhat forced chit-chat, the
woodman, who appeared rather singularly excited, addressing himself
to the stranger, said, "There is, Sir, one evidence that the Bible
comes from God, which gives to me and my wife entire satisfaction,
and against which no objection can be brought that can stagger or
weaken our faith."
"These good people," said the stranger, turning towards me, "appear
not to have perplexities enough in the casualties and contingencies
of life, and therefore they are perplexing themselves by the
mysteries of the Bible."
"Yes, Sir," said the wife, "just as we should perplex ourselves if
an old and endeared friend looked in to see us, bringing with him
some good news. We certainly might feel a little perplexed about
the accommodation we could give him, but none on account of his
coming to see us, or the good news he brings; that would be a matter
of rejoicing."
"I admire the happy art you possess to give a good turn to an
objectionable observation. Well, Mr. Woodman, let me hear what this
evidence is, which gives to you both so much satisfaction, and which
you think no objection can set aside. I see," taking out his watch
as he spoke, "I must soon go."
"Why, Sir, it is just this: when reading my Bible, I cannot help
thinking of myself--my condition as a sinful and an immortal
being--of my last end--of God, his goodness in providence, but his
still greater goodness in making such grand provision, through the
redemption of Christ, for my present and future happiness. These
thinkings awaken in my soul gratitude, and love, and filial trust in
Him, and constrain me to surrender my soul to Him, through Christ,
to be redeemed, sanctified, and saved. Now, Sir, as the road which
leads _to_ your mansion must lead _from_ it, so I think that the
Bible, which _leads us to God_, as our father and our best friend,
_must come from Him_."
"Well, my good fellow," rising, and taking him by the hand, "perhaps
it would do you no good if I were to attempt to disturb you while
reposing with so much satisfaction in your innocent delusions."
"You have, Sir, been trying to do it for the last hour and a half,"
said the wife, with a marked emphasis of severe rebuke, "and without
directing us to any other source of comfort under our troubles. We
have just lost one of our dear children; but the Bible reconciles me
to that loss, by telling me that my child is now happy in heaven;
but you have been trying to make us believe that this is a delusion.
Why, Sir, you would, if in your power, do us a greater act of
cruelty than Captain Dunlop, who lives in yon big house, attempted
to do to us last autumn."
"I would scorn to commit an act of cruelty against any one,
especially against you, who have behaved with so much civility to
me. But what act of cruelty did the Captain meditate committing
against you?"
"You see, Sir, that little running brook which feeds the watercress
you have just relished so much. Well, the Captain, last autumn,
cut a deep channel for it to run through the glen, in an opposite
direction, but Squire Stevens interfered, and prevented him. Now,
Sir, if he had done what he was going to do, he would have taken
from us our stream of water. But, even then, by raising a little
subscription amongst our neighbours, we might perhaps have sunk a
well, and though the water might not be so good or so plentiful, yet
it might have answered our purpose. But, Sir, if you take away our
Bible, or, what is the same thing, if you were to destroy our belief
in its inspiration and authority, you would take from us the rich
flow of comfort it supplies to us in our troubles, and you would cut
us off from the hope of future happiness. Now, if you had succeeded
in your endeavours, your visit would be to us as great a curse as
the visit of the devil was to our first parents in Eden."
"You are, indeed, eloquently ingenious. Well, the next time I come I
won't say anything against your Bible."
"I hope not, Sir," said the honest woodman, who appeared much
pleased with the smart reproof his wife had administered to this
stranger; "for if you do, we shall then say at once, what I now
say after long endurance, we would rather have your room than your
company. I think, Sir, such gentlemen as you should keep within the
compass of your own sceptical fraternity, and then you may say what
you please, and perhaps not do much harm. But when you enter the
cottage of the poor, and find them happy in God, and thankful to Him
for their Bible, you ought to feel it _a point of honour_ not to try
to steal away their happiness; as I suppose you have too much honour
to pocket any spoons when you go away from a rich man's house."
I listened with amazement and delight to the artless defence and
severe rebuke of the woodman and his wife, and addressing them,
said, "I am happy to hear you administer such a severe and just
rebuke to this gentleman; and which, Sir," turning towards him,
"I hope you will feel at the core of your heart, and that it will
prevent your repeating elsewhere the act of meanness of which you
have been guilty here--stealing a poor man's Bible, while eating his
bread and cheese."
"Do you, Sir, mean to insult me? I allow no one to do that with
impunity."
"Indeed, Sir! If speaking the truth, in a tone and style in which it
ought to be spoken to a man in the attire and with the appearance of
a gentleman, who enters a poor man's cottage, and, while feasting at
his table, is mean enough to try to destroy his faith in his Bible,
which is the well-spring of his happiness, be regarded by you as
an insult, why, then, there is no alternative but to feel yourself
insulted."
He looked, but said no more, and tossing, rather unceremoniously, a
half-crown piece on the table for the refreshment he had received,
he left in high dudgeon, muttering to himself as he moved away.
"These infidels, Sir," said the woodman, "in one thing are like the
Pharisees of the New Testament; they won't go into the kingdom of
heaven themselves, and they want to prevent others going there if
they can. He began his infidel remarks before my children, but I
sent them away, and told him that I would not let a child, if I knew
it, get near an infected person."
"I suppose you don't often meet with infidels."
"More often, Sir, than I wish; for I generally find they are bad
men--some bad in their habits, and all bad in their principles. The
high-priest of their order lives up in yonder mansion, and he has
many visitors. He used to come to our cottage sometimes, but he does
not come now, as I offended him one day, by telling him that it was
an act of meanness, as well as injustice, to try to cut off the
stream of water from the poor families that live near it, for some
miles in its course, and doing it to enrich his own meadows."
"Well," said his wife, "we should pity them, and pray for them,
and bless the Lord for making us to differ. It often pains my heart
to think of a person living a few years in wealth and honour, and
then passing into the eternal world to perish for ever. We have many
troubles, yet some comforts. There, Sir," pointing to her Bible, "is
our grand comforter; its precious promises speak peace to the soul,
and take our hopes onwards to a better world, where the weary will
enjoy rest for ever."
I read the fourth chapter of Paul's Epistle to the Thessalonians,
making a few comments on its last verse, adapted to the excited
state of feeling occasioned by the death and burial of their little
Jemima; and, after praying with them, I withdrew, yet promising to
repeat my visit before my departure from Fairmount.
On getting over the stile which crossed my pathway about half-a-mile
from the cottage, I saw the infidel standing where I had seen Mr.
Gordon standing on a preceding Saturday evening; and though at first
I thought he was waiting for me, yet I soon perceived that he was
admiring the grand panoramic view which was visible from that spot.
I passed within a few yards of him, and in the act of passing we
exchanged a bow of recognition.
"It appears, Sir," he said, "that we are going in the same
direction, and, if agreeable, I will walk with you."
I at once consented, thinking that I might have an opportunity of
making an assault on his scepticism, which possibly might issue in
some practical good.
"You were rather too severe upon me in the cottage."
"If I thought so, Sir, I would offer you an apology; but my few
remarks, though severe, were, I think, just."
"Well, well, perhaps I did wrong. But the fact is, I found both the
woodman and his wife so shrewd and intelligent, that, on hearing
them make some impassioned allusions to the Bible, I thought they
would appreciate some remarks tending, at least in my opinion, to
counteract the terrible impression of fear and dread which a belief
in the inspiration and authority of the Bible necessarily calls up
and fixes in the heart."
"But you see it inspires no fear in them; it is not to them the
haunting ghost of terror, but a domestic comforter."
"Well, I can't account for it; I wonder how any one who believes in
the Bible, which speaks of hell and endless misery, can sleep calmly
on his pillow. I suppose they must believe one part, and disbelieve
the other."
"No, Sir, it is because their belief in one part inspires confidence
in the love and faithfulness of God their Saviour, they can believe
the other part without dread or fear."
"I presume you are a firm believer in the Bible."
"I am, Sir."
"May I be permitted to ask you what is the predominant impression it
makes on your mind--terror or tranquil peace?"
"If I were to say that it never awakened an emotion of terror, I
should not speak strictly correct. When I have reflected on sin, its
essentially evil nature and tendency; on my own sins, their number
and peculiar aggravations; on the Divine purity and justice; and on
the tremendous visitations of punishment which have been, and still
are inflicted on man, both in this world and in the world to come, I
have felt a tumult of terror agitating my soul, of a fearful aspect.
But, Sir, my faith sees one in the midst of the storm, whose eye
is pity, and whose arm is power; and my prayer is, _Lord save or I
perish_. He hears and he answers this prayer."
"But how do you know that he hears and answers your prayers?"
"Because my dark forebodings cease, and there is a calm within, as
there was a great calm on the Lake of Galilee when our Lord rebuked
the winds and the sea."
"Were you trained, Sir, to a belief in the Bible?"
"I once rejected the Bible as a book of fables or falsehoods."
"You, then, were once what I am now--an unbeliever; and I was once
what you are now--a believer. How the human character changes as
time moves slowly on, to bring out the great teacher, death, who
will finally settle everything."
"Yes, Sir, and for ever."
"What awful sublimity in that short sentence--_yes, and for ever_.
The subject of our conversation interests me, as I have heard that
prisoners committed for capital offences sometimes evince a peculiar
intensity of emotion when listening to the mock process of a trial;
the rehearsal of the coming tragedy pleases them. But to return to
our subject, may I be permitted to ask you whether you now live
habitually free from terror?"
"I do, Sir."
"Never calculate on being damned for ever?"
"Never."
"And you can sleep as calmly on your pillow, with the Bible by
your side, as you could if you believed the dark world of hell had
vanished into air--gone out of existence for ever?"
"Yes, Sir, I can."
"This, Sir, is to me inexplicably marvellous. I wonder how any one,
who believes in the Divine authority of the Bible, can ever look at
it without feeling terrified, as children feel when going into a
dark room, after listening to a series of fearful ghost stories."
"Why, Sir, the very design of the Christian revelation, given to
us in the Bible, is not only to deliver us from the wrath to come,
_but from the dread of it_. And this it does, when we believe in its
Divine origin, and yield to its authority."
"I was a believer once, and fond of theological studies; but the
predominant influence of my faith was most oppressive, at times
agonizing. I could never rise above terror; the dread of being lost
for ever haunted me almost day and night."
"If you watched the mental process which was going on during the
time you were a believer in the Bible, and can now distinctly
recollect it, perhaps you will perceive there was one great act you
failed to perform, which is the testing and the decisive act of a
genuine believer--the passing of the Rubicon."
"To what act do you refer?"
"To the act of coming to Jesus Christ, in compliance with his own
invitation and promise--'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest' (Matt. xi. 28). '_Him that
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out_'" (John vi. 37).