human soul depend on faith in Christ--if the glories of heaven and
the terrors of hell are realities which exceed the power of man to
describe--then even the most sceptical must admit that the ministers
of religion ought, with great boldness and impassioned earnestness,
to rouse their hearers to a serious and immediate attention to these
great, these awful subjects; and ought they not to teach by example,
as well as by precept? and by the purity of their morals--by
their religious habits and style of conversation--give strong and
unequivocal proofs that they preach what they believe, and believe
what they preach?
But let no Christian, whatever rank he may hold in social life, or
whatever degree of reputation he may have attained for intelligence,
or good sense, or for amiability of temper, presume to hope that he
will ever be able to make a scriptural profession of religion (after
he has felt the power of it) without exciting the displeasure, if
not the opposition, of his irreligious relatives and friends. They
will not object to the religion of forms and ceremonies; to the
religion which is confined to the temple, or to the bed of sickness;
to the religion which allows of a conformity to the gaieties and
the follies of the world, and which frowns from its presence all
references to death, to judgment, to heaven, and to hell; but
the religion which consists in the moral renovation of the soul,
which identifies man with a living Saviour, and which raises his
anticipations to the glories of the invisible world, they despise,
and cast it from them as a strange thing, and then ridicule it as
contemptible.
THE DARK VALE ILLUMINED.
Just as we were going out to take an evening walk, the postman
delivered a letter addressed to Mrs. Stevens; she read it, and in
silence handed it to her husband. I apprehended, from the expression
of her countenance and her excited manner, that it conveyed some
painful intelligence; and this was immediately confirmed by Mr.
Stevens, who said, "This is a letter from our nephew, Mr. Lewellin,
informing us of the sudden and dangerous illness of his mother, and
he requests that we hasten to see her."
"The intelligence," said Mrs. Stevens, "is most painful, but it
does not greatly surprise me; I had something like a presentiment
of it in the mental visions of the past night; I saw her leaning
on the top of her staff, standing near the brink of a river, whose
waters divided of themselves, as a radiant brightness gilded the
whole horizon; and while listening for some moments to the sounds of
sweetest harmony, I awoke, and found it was a dream. Thus my senses
were locked up in the chambers of slumber, that my spirit might go
and commune with my dear sister before she leaves us."
A carriage was immediately sent for, and we set off from Fairmount
about eight o'clock. It was a cloudy moonlight night. We rolled
on in silence, being too much absorbed in painful thought and
expectation to break the quiet which grief requires for the solace
of her own feelings. At length Mr. Stevens, alluding to Mrs.
Lewellin's illness, said, "With what different emotions do the
inhabitants of the visible and invisible world contemplate the same
event! While we are anticipating her departure with deep sorrow, the
glorified spirits of her deceased husband, and child, and father,
are attuning their harps of joy, to celebrate her entrance among
them."
"Very true," Mrs. Stevens replied; "our loss is their gain; but it
is as natural for us to deplore our loss, as it is natural for them
to exult in their gain."
"I admit, my dear, that we cannot, while encompassed by human
infirmities, avoid feeling the pang of sorrow on such an occasion as
this, though we may moderate its intensity by reflecting on our own
dissolution, which will introduce us into the society of those who
obtain the prize of immortality before us."
We had no difficulty in procuring a change of horses at each
succeeding stage; nothing worthy of remark occurred during the
journey, and on the following morning we arrived at Mrs. Lewellin's
cottage.[11] The same jessamine, and honey-suckles, and rose trees
adorned its tasteful front; the same hawthorn hedge inclosed its
well-cultivated garden; the little wicket-gate still swung on its
hinges, as when I paid my first visit six years before; but they had
lost their attractions, or I had lost my power of enjoyment.
[11] See page 6.
On seeing Mr. Lewellin, Mrs. Stevens said, "Is your mother still
living, my dear George, or has she left us?"
"O no, aunt, she has not left us; she has made many inquiries about
you, and longs to see you. She says that when she has seen you she
shall depart in peace."
"When was she first taken ill, and what is the nature of her
disorder?"
"She has not been well for some weeks, but her indisposition
created no alarm. On Sabbath morning she felt better, and went to
chapel, where she commemorated the death of the Redeemer, with her
Christian brethren. As she was returning home she was exposed to a
heavy shower, and though she took every precaution to prevent any
evil consequences, yet, early in the evening, an inflammation of
the bowels came on, which has raged with unabating violence; and
her medical attendant says that he does not expect that she can
live through the day. Her pains have been excruciating, but she has
borne them with the fortitude and resignation of a Christian, and
now she seems to be enjoying that fatal ease which is the immediate
forerunner of dissolution."
On entering her room she received us with composure, and calmly said
to her sister, "Weep not for me, the days of my widowed mourning are
drawing to a close. I have long lived secluded from the world, and I
can leave it without a sigh."
"Then," I said, "you have no fear?"
"Fear! why should I fear? I know I am in the valley, but it is
illumined with the light of life. I have often dreaded this hour,
yet it is the happiest hour I have ever known."
"To us, my dear sister, it is a most painful hour."
On seeing her sister and her son in tears, she said, "I hope you
will compose yourselves, that we may enjoy each other's society
on this side Jordan, which I am soon to pass.... My dear George,
receive once more, and for the last time, the congratulations of
your mother on the honour which the God of all grace has conferred
on you, in adopting you as his son. I now solemnly charge you,
before Him and the pious friends now with you, always to act worthy
of your high vocation. Maintain the dignity of your Christian
character by the integrity of your principles, your decision, and
your zeal for the honour of the Lord of life and glory. As much of
your future happiness and respectability will depend on the choice
which you may make when you settle in life, let me beseech you _to
marry only in the Lord--prefer piety to beauty, good sense to a
large fortune, and remember that a meek and quiet spirit_ is the
most beautiful ornament in the home of a righteous man."
She then turned towards Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, and said, "I thank
you for all your kindness to me and mine in the days of our
adversity. The Lord reward you a thousand fold. I have only one
legacy to leave, and I leave it to you. I bequeath to you my dear
boy; take care of him for my sake."
The pious rector of the parish made an early call. Mrs. Lewellin
received him with a sweet smile, and motioned him to be seated.
After inquiring for her welfare, he thus accosted her: "What would
you now do without a Saviour?"
"I should perish! But I have a Saviour whose blood cleanseth from
all sin."
"His blood," he said, "is of more value than a thousand worlds."
She replied, "_It is inestimable! It is inestimable!_"
We all knelt down, and this man of God devoutly prayed that she
might have "an entrance ministered unto her abundantly into the
everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."
As the cottage was not large enough for our accommodation, the pious
rector invited us to his hospitable home, but Mrs. Stevens resolved
not to leave her sister. There was grief over the whole village as
the rumour spread that she was dying. Her benevolence had added
lustre to her piety, and such was the veneration and attachment
in which her character was held, that many a hand knocked softly
at the door of her cottage, and many a low voice inquired how God
was dealing with her. About noon she fell into a sweet sleep, and
slept for several hours; she awoke refreshed, animated; a heavenly
serenity beamed on her countenance, as she exclaimed, "Oh! the bliss
of dying!"
"You are happy, mother, in the prospect of death."
"Happy, my child, yes, my joy is unspeakable."
Her voice suddenly faltered, yet she gently whispered "Farewell"
as her son caught her in his arms, and with her eyes fixed on him,
after one strong convulsive struggle, she expired.
Mrs. Lewellin had generally attended the village church in the
morning of the Sabbath, and in the evening she usually heard an
excellent minister of Christ who preached in a Dissenting chapel,
and when reproached for her liberality by the more bigoted, she used
to say, "_I have no objection to go where I can hold communion with
the Saviour_." Adjoining the chapel there was a burying-ground,
to which she had long been accustomed to resort, as favourable to
meditation, and on returning from an evening walk with the pious
rector, we passed near it, and were induced to visit the spot which
she had selected as the place of her burial; it was overshadowed by
a large oak tree, and partially inclosed with some evergreens, which
she had transplanted from her own garden.
[Illustration: THE DARK VALE ILLUMINED.
Vol. i. page 300.]
"You see," he said, "how instinctively we love immortality, and as
we cannot live here always, we wish life to flourish over the tomb
in which our body is decaying. This is simple and beautiful. She
was a woman of great taste, and a Christian of high principle. Her
knowledge of the gospel was clear, comprehensive, and profound; and
she displayed, during her residence with us, a spirit as free from
the ordinary imperfections of the human character as I have ever
beheld."
I told him that I had been requested to ask if he would attend her
funeral.
He replied, "Certainly, if the family wish it. I respected her--I
loved her. I often retired from the labour and perplexity of study
to pass an hour with her, and always found her conversation of
such a spiritual, catholic, and heavenly cast, that I never failed
to derive great benefit from it. Her conversation was remarkably
suggestive; she has helped me to many texts, and some of my most
useful sermons owe their origin to her observations and reflections.
I was always delighted when I saw her in church, because I knew she
was praying in spirit for the success of my ministry."
Upon the day appointed for her burial almost every inhabitant of
the village attended, to pay the tribute of respect to her memory.
The corpse was taken into the chapel, and after the minister had
read the 15th chapter of 1st Corinthians, and delivered a very
simple impressive address, and offered up a solemn prayer to "the
God of the spirits of all flesh," it was interred amidst the sighs
and tears of a large concourse of spectators. Some were attired
in full mourning, many were in half mourning, but the majority
had merely put on their Sabbath dress, being too poor to purchase
clothes for the occasion. There was one female of the group, about
the age of thirty, with an infant in her arms, whose appearance
and manners indicated the most poignant grief. During the time the
minister was conducting the service, the tear fell silently on her
cheek, but when the body was lowered into the grave she wept no
more, but appeared convulsed, and then advanced to the brink of the
grave, and after looking with intense eagerness for some seconds,
she exclaimed, "Lover and friend hast thou taken from me," and fell
senseless on the ground. On inquiry, I found that she was the widow
of a poor woodman, who was killed by the falling of a tree, and who
was left with three children, and had another born three months
after his father's decease. She lived about a quarter of a mile from
the cottage, and as Mrs. Lewellin used to pass by her residence
when taking her morning walks, she often called to see her. On one
occasion (the poor woman told me the next day), after giving her
weekly donation, she gave her a tract, and requested her to read it.
"I did read it," said the weeping widow, "but I could not understand
it. When she called the next time she asked me if I had read it, and
when I told her I could not understand it, she said, 'Read it again,
but before you read it the second time, pray to God for wisdom to
enable you to understand it. He can give it, and he will give it if
you ask him.' I did so. The Lord has answered my prayer, and made
me, I trust, wise unto salvation. But he has taken from me my guide,
my counsellor, and my friend. The death of my husband, which threw
me on the charity of the parish, and deprived my dear babes of a
father, was a great trial, but it did not pierce my heart like this.
I sometimes think my heart will break, then I go and pray to the
Lord for submission to his holy will, and I find myself better; but
it will be a long time indeed before I shall be able to get over it."
I mentioned this incident at the rectory, and then learned that
the poor widow was a regular attendant at the church, and was
considered decidedly pious. Mrs. Stevens, having ascertained the
amount of her departed sister's weekly donation, engaged the rector
to become her almoner, and the usual payment was continued. Mr.
Lewellin was so affected by this testimony to the memory of his
mother, that he increased the sum; and before he left Stanmoor he
called to see the bereaved sufferer, and gave her several articles
of furniture, which once adorned the lonely cottage of her whose
remains we had committed to the tomb.
The evening before our departure, I retraced the steps I had trodden
on my former visit to this village; and fixing on the same hour for
my ramble into the vale, I anticipated another interview with the
pious shepherd. As I walked on I heard the bleating of the sheep,
and saw them at a distance ascending the steep path which led up to
their fold in a neighbouring field. I heard also the barking of the
dog; and soon afterwards the shepherd made his appearance, but I
knew him not.
"Is the old man dead," I asked, "who kept his flock here about six
years ago?"
"Yes, Sir; he died about Christmas."
"Did you know him?"
"He was my father; and a better father never lived."
"He was a religious man; was he not?"
"Yes, Sir; and he died in the faith of Christ."
"I hope you are following in his steps."
"It is, Sir, my wish and my prayer to be a follower of them who
through faith and patience inherit the promises."
* * * * *
On the Sabbath morning after our return to Fairmount, the Rev. Mr.
Ingleby preached from Acts xxi. 16, "An old disciple." We were much
pleased with his sermon, particularly with the following passage:
"When we see an old disciple moving amidst the activities and
amenities of life, we see a _living_ monument of the faithfulness
and loving-kindness of God; and when we follow him to his grave,
though we may sorrow over his departure from amongst us, yet our
sorrow is not to be without hope; he still lives, and lives in a
new form, amidst new scenes of beauty and of grandeur, and with
new associates; he is with Christ, assimilated to his likeness,
beholding his glory, and enjoying sweetest intercourse with him. His
gain by his death, should reconcile us to our loss."
"The loss of my dear sister," said Mrs. Stevens, "is the most
afflictive trial I have ever been called to endure. Memory carries
me back to the days of childhood, to the riper years of age, and to
the associations with which my dear departed sister is inseparably
entwined. But the pleasing charm soon vanishes, for she is gone."
"But, my dear," replied Mr. Stevens, "though this affliction be
grievous, yet you might have been visited by one much more severe."
"Yes, I know it. I might have lost you. That would have been a
more overwhelming one. I wish to be resigned--it is my constant
prayer--and I hope that I do not cherish any murmuring disposition,
but I cannot help feeling; yet I fear lest I should indulge my
mourning to an excess."
"Excess of grief, my dear, is to be guarded against, as it unhinges
the mind, induces a melancholy cast of temper, and dispossesses
comforts which are still preserved, of their power to interest and
delight. Mourn you may, but you must not mourn as one 'who has no
hope.' For hope, even the sweetest hope that can lodge in the human
heart, is yours. Death has merely separated you for a season, he has
not destroyed your union. You now live apart, but no impassable gulf
lies between you--only a narrow grave. Let your mourning, therefore,
be moderate and submissive."
"Yes," Mrs. Stevens replied, as her countenance began to assume
its former cheerfulness, which had vanished from the moment the
first intelligence of her sister's illness was received, "my sister
lives--she lives a purer and a happier life than I ever expect to
live, till I cease to breathe this vital air--she now sees the King
in his beauty--she now unites with all the redeemed in singing,
'Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own
blood.' She is, and ever will be with the Lord. These words comfort
me."
"Then let _me_ hear the words which comfort you," said Mr. Lewellin,
who caught this latter sentence as he entered the parlour, "as they
may serve to comfort me. My heart never throbbed as it has done
since I lost my mother--a loss I have been anticipating for years,
but I now find that it is more desolating than I ever anticipated."
"It is an event," said Mr. Stevens, "which has brought along with
it many alleviating circumstances. She died in peace. No dubious
uncertainty distracted her, no dread forebodings appalled her, no
torturing anxieties for those she loved agitated her breast. Hers
was an enviable death."
"Yes," said Mr. Lewellin, "her sun did not go down till the evening;
and even then it was light. She told me that for several days before
her last illness she suffered great mental perplexity and horror,
that she not only doubted her personal piety, but the truth of
revelation. She was driven almost to a state of despair; and on the
Sabbath morning, when she left her cottage for the house of prayer,
she resolved not to receive the memorials of the Saviour's death.
The text from which the Rev. Mr. Bates preached, was taken from
Judges viii. 4, 'Faint, yet pursuing.' There was one paragraph in
the sermon which gave her sweet relief. It was to this effect: 'The
most favoured servants of the Lord are liable to momentary seasons
of suspicion and depression; and some have been left for days, and
some for months, not only without consolation, but even without
hope. But shall we say that as soon as they lose their enjoyments
they make a shipwreck of their faith? Shall we say that the design
of God--the practical efficacy of the atonement--the continual
indwelling of the Holy Spirit--depend on the ever fluctuating
and ever varying temperament and feelings of the mind, which is
sometimes so perplexed and distracted by unknown causes, as to
be incapable of _believing_ its own faith, or deriving felicity
from its own sources of blessedness? Oh! no. There are periods
in the mysterious life of an heir of salvation when he is left
without comfort, if not without hope, and then comes on the hour
and the power of darkness; but this singular dispensation does not
disinherit him, or leave him an orphan, in a state of privation and
abandonment; neither does it destroy the vitality of his religious
principles, but it is intended to let him feel a portion of that
misery which he deserves, but from which he is delivered through the
blood of the Lamb.'"
"Had my sister left us under this mental gloom, I should have had no
doubt," said Mrs. Stevens, "of her present happiness; but it would
have been an additional cause of grief."
"Sometimes," I observed, "it pleases God to leave his most eminent
servants without any strong consolation in their last hours; and
sometimes he elevates them to a participation of the felicity
of heaven, before he permits them to enter. Hence there is no
undeviating uniformity in his procedure; but yet he keeps our
practical good in view by all the dispensations of his will. When I
see a holy man overwhelmed with sorrow on the eve of his departure,
I am convinced there is no absolute, no meritorious connection
between an exemplary life and a triumphant death. This conviction,
coming through such a medium, destroys all self-complacency, and
impels me to place all my dependence for salvation on Jesus Christ.
But when I see a sinner of like passions and infirmities with
myself--one who has wept over defects and transgressions similar to
my own--rising above fear, eagerly and yet submissively anticipating
his own dissolution, giving utterance to thoughts and feelings more
nearly allied to the glory and purity of the heavenly state than to
the dark obscurity of the present, I feel a degree of gratitude to
the Saviour for making manifest life and immortality, which, for its
full expression, I must wait till I see him as he is, and am made
like unto him."
"The death of our friends," said Mr. Stevens, "is always an
afflictive event, but it is sometimes a salutary one. It reminds
us of our mortality, and brings before our imagination the unseen
realities of an eternal world. It teaches us what shadows we are,
and what shadows we are pursuing:--
'Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardours; and abate
That glare of life, which often blinds the wise.
Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars
Of terror and abhorrence nature throws
'Cross our obstructed way; and thus to make
_Welcome_, as _safe_, our port from ev'ry storm.'"
"To repine," I observed, "under any of the dispensations of
Providence, would be to display a temper which no Christian should
cherish; but to repine at the grave of a pious friend, discovers
not only a spirit of hostility to the Divine will, but an unsubdued
selfishness, which would deprive another of happiness, merely to
augment our own."
"Resignation is our duty, and this brings with it its own reward;
yet it is a disposition which does not spring up spontaneously in
the heart. It is one of those good gifts which cometh from above;
but, like every other disposition which claims the same origin,
it must be exercised before it can become _perfect_; and when
perfected, or when approaching near perfection, it can rejoice in
tribulations also."
INTEMPERATE ZEAL.
The Rev. Mr. Roscoe and his lady, who had not been at the mansion
for several years, now intimated their intention to pay a visit to
their brother. He was the youngest son of the family, and at an
early age had decided for the church, as a profession more easy,
if not so lucrative as some others. Having finished his career at
Oxford, where he was more distinguished for his love of pleasure
than regard for academical honours, he obtained ordination, and
settled in a parish in Somersetshire. For nearly fifteen years he
remained unmarried, devoting himself to a life of pleasure, and
paying but little attention to the claims of his parishioners.
The dignity of the priest was lowered by the imperfections of the
man, and the church was forsaken for the village chapel. At length
he was, by the remonstrances of his friends, induced to pursue a
course more becoming the sanctity of his office; he withdrew from
his former companions, abandoned the sports of the field and of the
gaming table, and turned the torrent of his displeasure against
those who had separated themselves from the church, on account of
his former irregularities. He had reached the age of forty when he
married the eldest daughter of a neighbouring magistrate, a lady
distinguished by superior intelligence, and a most catholic spirit.
They had two children, who both died in infancy. So deeply wounded
was the heart of the mother by these bereavements, that she long
abandoned herself to the agonies of grief; and though time had now
removed its poignancy, yet she often alluded to her babes and their
early death, in a tone and manner which proved that they still lived
in her fond remembrance.