they are happier with their religion than we are with ours."
"Yes, my dear, they say they are happy; but what pleasure can there
be in religion?"
"I don't know, mamma; but I am sure that Mrs. Stevens and Miss
Roscoe have a larger share of happiness than I have. I often feel a
gloom come over my mind, which I can neither remove nor account for;
and sometimes I feel such a singular depression of spirit, that I am
inclined to read my Bible; but I don't know that it would do me any
good."
"Why, you know, my dear, you have been confined at home rather more
than usual, which has relaxed your nerves too much; but our parties
will soon meet, and then the gloom of which you speak will go off.
But I must request you to avoid associating with your new friends,
especially now you are somewhat depressed in spirits, or they may
bring you over to take to their religion, which would be, as I have
often told you, a most prodigious affliction to your father and
myself."
"I cannot, mamma, efface from my memory the sermon which I once
heard Mr. Ingleby preach. It sometimes recurs to my recollection
with a force that quite overpowers me; and I have such fearful
dreams. I dreamt last night that, just as I was coming out of the
theatre, the heavens all at once blazed with fire, and I thought the
day of judgment was come. I awoke in such a fright, and just then I
heard Hector howl most awfully."
"But, my dear, this was only a dream."
"But is not my dream a presentiment?"
"O, no, my dear! it's only superstitious people who ever have such a
thing as a presentiment."
"But, ma', I am unhappy, indeed I am. I can't forget the sermon I
heard Mr. Ingleby preach."
"I wish you had never gone to his church. I wished you not to go.
You should always follow my advice; I have more knowledge of men and
things than you have."
"True, ma'; but I often wish to hear him again. Is he not a good
man?"
"My dear Matilda, you alarm me. You wish to hear him again, when
his first sermon made you so unhappy! You must not cherish such an
idea. Indeed, you must make some effort to raise your spirits, and
drive all these gloomy thoughts out of your head, or there is no
knowing what may happen."
"But, ma', if I could drive them out of my head, I could not drive
them out of my heart. They have penetrated too deeply."
"My dear Matilda, you _must_ rouse yourself. It won't do to give
way to your melancholy ideas. Why, if you don't take care, you will
become as religious as any of them; and then, as I have told you
before, we should never have another happy day."
"My dear ma', I am unhappy, and cannot help it. With everything to
make me happy--perfect health, affectionate parents, kind friends,
the prospect of a union with the man I love--and yet I am not happy.
That fearful question, which impressed me so much when I heard it,
is perpetually sounding in my ears."
"What question do you refer to?"
"It is this, which I have repeated to you before--_Should_ you like
to pass from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ?"
"But that, my dear, was in his sermon, and he could not help reading
it. He did not mean you, and I wonder why you should recollect it
so. You should forget it."
"But I can't forget it. It is always returning. I hear it now. I
hear it in company. I hear it in solitude. And in the dead of the
night, when I awake, as I often do, I hear it then."
"Your papa has spoken to me several times lately about you. He says
he is sure, from your melancholy looks and absence of mind, that
there is something the matter with you. He thought, till I satisfied
him to the contrary, that there was likely to be some rupture
between you and Mr. Ryder. He is urging me to grant you every
indulgence in our power."
"I am strongly tempted to become religious, to see if that would
make me happy."
"I am glad, my dear, it is only a temptation. You know our Saviour
has taught us to pray, Lead us not into temptation. This accounts
for something I saw the other day, which rather distressed me."
"What was that, ma'?"
"I saw a Bible on your toilet."
"O yes, I recollect. I heard a poor woman say that her Bible made
her happy, and I thought for the moment it might make me happy.
But I could not make out which part I ought to read first, so as
to understand it; and, therefore, I didn't read much. I read the
history of Joseph, which pleased me a little; and I read some of the
gospel stories; but the other parts I cannot understand. It is to me
altogether a book of mystery."
"Nor can I understand it. It is a book of mystery to me as well
as to you. But, dear, one thing is certain--the Almighty does not
require you, now you are so young, the very life and soul of all
our parties, to give your mind to such awful subjects as the Bible
speaks about."
"Perhaps not, but still I am restless and uneasy. Indeed, I
sometimes think of going to consult Mr. Ingleby; he may be able to
give me some advice which may do me good."
"Dear Matilda, by no means do such a thing. If he could once get you
into the Rectory, he would be sure to convert you to his religion.
Keep up your spirits. We will go to Brighton soon; then to the
altar. Then the tour, and then the return and the visiting. You will
soon be as happy as the day is long."
"I hope God will bless me, and make me happy."
"There's no doubt about that."
"Then, ma', if he will bless me, why does he let me live so unhappy?
I have tried to pray to him to make me happy; but it's of no use.
What can I do?"
"You must go into company more."
"It is useless. I can't now enjoy what I used to enjoy so much; and
I don't know the cause. I feel doomed by fate to unhappiness, and
yet I have everything to make me happy."
"I'll speak to Dr. Bailey; he is very likely to give a prescription
that may relieve you."
"No physician's prescription will ever soothe the pangs of a wounded
spirit."
"My dear Matilda, your case greatly distresses me, and your papa
too. Tell us what we can do to comfort you, and we will do it."
"I cannot tell. What a contrast between Miss Roscoe and myself!
How cheerful she is! what a sweet smile is always playing on her
countenance! how lively and energetic she is, while I am wretched
and depressed, weary of life, yet living in the dread of death; more
wretched, while in the possession of abundance, than the poor in
their poverty."
Some few weeks after this conversation, Miss Denham, on her return
from making some morning calls, said to her mamma, "You recollect
our meeting Mr. Cole, the last time we were at Mr. Roscoe's?"
"Yes, dear."
"And do you recollect the remark you made on his leaving us?"
"No."
"You said, 'I wonder what is the matter. Mr. Cole looks so much
annoyed to-day.'"
"I now recollect it, and I thought of it several times during the
week, but I don't cherish such gloomy things as you do."
"Then I can tell you what affected him. I have just heard it. It
will astonish you. No one expected such a thing; it is so strange
and unlikely."
"What is it?"
"You know Miss Amelia Stubbs has been very ill many weeks and is
likely to die."
"Yes, I heard it from Dr. Bailey."
"Her papa, when she was given over by Dr. Bailey and another
physician, sent for Mr. Cole, and he talked to her, and gave her the
sacrament and absolution, and then assured her that all was done
that was necessary to be done to fit her for heaven; and he told her
that now she might be resigned to her fate without any fear, as her
peace with God was made on the sanctity of the sacrament."
"Very proper, dear. It is not, I believe, quite safe to die without
taking the sacrament. I should do that the first thing if I were
a-dying."
"Exactly so, ma'. After Amelia had taken it, and when all thought
she had made her peace with God, and was quite resigned to die, she
sent for Mr. Cole again, and told him that what he had done was of
no use, and that she dreaded dying just as much after taking the
sacrament and absolution, as she did before she took it. It was this
that so much affected him. He had just left her when we met him."
"But why should he care about it, if he did what the church
prescribes to be done? He did his duty, and that ought to have
satisfied him."
"But, he says, it is such an indirect impeachment of his competency
to perform his clerical functions."
"I have no doubt, if the real state of the case were known, that
Mrs. Stevens has been with her, and undone what Mr. Cole did. She is
always prowling about amongst the sick and the dying, disquieting
their minds after the clergy have helped them to make their peace
with God."
"No, ma', she had not seen Mrs. Stevens. Her disquietude of soul
came of itself."
"How do you know that?"
"I have just seen her, and she told me so. She said, and she spoke
emphatically when she said it, 'To give the sacrament and absolution
to fit a person for dying, as a sort of a passport to heaven, is a
great delusion.'"
"Depend on it, dear, that her fever has affected her brain. She must
be in a state of delirium."
"No, ma', she is quite herself--as calm and as collected as when in
perfect health. And she talks now so sweetly about Jesus Christ, and
about his love for sinners, and about coming to him to be saved,
that she really made me weep, though I could not comprehend her
meaning. You would not know her if you were to hear her speak now,
so different to her former talk. She talks now like a saint just
going into heaven. It is quite wonderful. I can't make it out."
"Then I suppose Mr. Ingleby has been with her."
"Yes; her papa, at her request, sent for him; and he talked to her,
so she told me, so sweetly about Jesus Christ, about his compassion
and his love, and about his being able and willing to save her, and
prayed with her so sweetly, that now she says she is quite happy at
the thought of dying--that she would rather die than live."
"All this is quite marvellous."
"Exactly so. It has taken the whole circle of her intimacy by
surprise. Everybody is talking about it, and nobody can make it out.
Only think, a young lady with her bright prospects saying she would
rather die than live!"
"Did Mr. Ingleby give her the sacrament and absolution?"
"No, ma', he did nothing but explain the Bible to her, and pray with
her."
"Is she dying?"
"She is just now a little revived; but she told me again, she would
rather die than live; and there was such a sweet smile on her
countenance when she said it."
"Marvellous! But are you quite sure she is not in a state of
delirium? This is how delirious people talk, so I have heard."
"She is no more delirious than I am. She told me, that if she
should get well again, which she did not expect, she would have
nothing more to do with balls, theatres, and card-parties; and she
said so many solemn things to me about my soul, and its salvation
and another world, and urged me so earnestly and affectionately to
prepare for death while time was given me for such preparation, that
I am become as low-spirited as ever, and don't know what to do. It
is marvellous to hear with what ease, and fluency, and earnestness,
she now talks on these awful subjects."
"One strange thing now comes so soon after another, that I get quite
bewildered, but I suppose after a while things will settle down, and
we shall be as quiet as ever. It is this evangelical religion that
is doing all the mischief. What a pity that our Maker does not,
somehow or another, put a stop to it."
"But, ma', people can't die in peace without it, though they can
live without it. How will you account for this?"
"I don't know, as I never studied the subject; and I wish you would
banish it from your mind, and talk about something else."
"I may talk about something else, ma', but to banish it from my mind
is more than I am able to do."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the Rev. Mr.
Cole.
"We were just talking about this strange case of Miss Amelia Stubbs.
How unpolite in her to tell you that the administration of the
sacrament and absolution was a great delusion, when it is the very
thing our church prescribes to fit a dying person for heaven!"
"Ay, she is to be pitied. Her mind is affected."
"So I believe, and so I have said. Is she likely to get any better
before death?"
"No, Madam; there is no chance of that now, as Mr. Ingleby has her
under his care."
"I think," said Miss Denham, "she is scarcely to be pitied. She is
as calm and as collected as when in perfect health, and appears so
happy when speaking of the bliss she expects to enjoy after death.
She says she would rather die than live."
"This, I know, is what the evangelicals say, but I won't believe it."
"I believe it, Sir, for I have seen her, and heard her say so. I
wish I was half as happy with the prospect of living as she is with
the prospect of dying. Can you account for this wonderful change
from a dread of death to a desire to die?"
"It's all effervescent excitement."
"A most pleasant one, just such an excitement as I should like if I
were dying."
"My dear, you are overstepping the bounds of reverential propriety,
by offering such free remarks to Mr. Cole."
"I hope not, ma'; it is not my intention to do so; but I can't help
saying that, while standing beside her death-bed, I envied her her
happiness. She told me that the sacrament did not take from her the
dread of dying, but the sweet promise of Jesus Christ did."
"What promise of Jesus Christ did she refer to? To one, I suppose,
that she heard in a fit of delirium. Delirious people always see
imaginary sights, and hear imaginary sounds, and yet they think them
real."
"O no, Sir, there's no delirium in her case. It was a promise which
Mr. Ingleby read to her out of the Bible, and it was something like
this, '_Come to me, and I will give you rest_.'"
"I shall have no rest as long as Mr. Ingleby is suffered to invade
my ecclesiastical territory, and pervert my parishioners from the
sacraments of our church to his evangelical notions. I mean to
complain of him to the bishop of our diocese, and have him cited
before him."
"I don't like," said Miss Denham, after Mr. Cole left, "this
citation reference. I wonder what he will say to the bishop, and I
wonder what the bishop will say to him. Will he tell him that he
visited a young lady of his parish when she was dying, and gave her
the sacrament and absolution, according to the prescribed forms
of the church, but they failed in her case in the efficacy of
their power, as she dreaded death as much after she had taken the
sacrament as she did before it was given to her? Will he then go on
to say, that Mr. Ingleby was then invited to see her, and that he,
by repeating and explaining to her some promise of Jesus Christ,
which he read to her out of the Bible, succeeded in taking from
her heart all dread of death, and in inspiring her with a joyful
hope of immortality? Do you think he will do this, and then pray
his lordship to issue a censure, and an interdiction to prevent his
doing such a kind thing to any other person?"
"O no, dear, he won't do anything so highly indecorous. It was a
hasty expression."
"I hope so, because the _morale_ of such an application would be
this: he would rather his parishioners should die in despair, than
they should derive hope and spiritual consolation from the promises
of Jesus Christ, repeated to them and explained to them by a brother
clergyman of another parish."
"But, dear Matilda, in this case the brother clergyman is an
evangelical."
"Admitted; but then he does what Mr. Cole could not do; he gives
consolation and hope to a person when dying. This case is causing
much excitement; it is bringing the efficacy of the sacraments into
disrepute. I shall never, ma', forget my interview with Amelia; her
serene look, her composure, the soft yet full intonations of her
voice when bidding adieu to what she called this vain world, and
hailing the dawn of a blissful immortality. And, ma', she wept many
tears when she was urging me to flee from the wrath to come."
"Why, dear, it was very uncharitable in her even to suppose that
such a dear innocent as you are is exposed to the wrath to come, but
to allude to it was an act of great rudeness. I wonder you did not
resent it."
"Really, ma', I felt when she was speaking as though what she said
was very applicable and proper. But perhaps we were both labouring
under a wrong impression. However, the conclusion which I have come
to is this, though I have not mentioned it to any one before, that
there is a power in evangelical religion of which we can form no
idea. There's a mystery about it I cannot fathom."
"I am glad that dear Amelia is happy in prospect of death; she was
always a virtuous girl, with a good heart; and now we will dismiss
the subject, to talk about something else. Come, let us go into
the drawing-room, and we will have a little music. You dwell on
melancholy ideas too much; dismiss them, dear."
"Dismiss them! Why, ma', my thoughts come and go without my control.
Some are strange thoughts, such as I never had before, and some are
the same as usual. My mind is quite jaded by its own activity; and
if I go to rest, and go to sleep, it is just the same then, as it
is now. I often wonder what the issue of all this mental turmoil
will be."
"Here is Mr. Ryder and his sister coming; they will cheer you up."
"Don't tell them that I am unhappy; it may excite suspicion or
jealousy."
THE SCENE CHANGES.
An arrangement having been made by a few of the gay young people
of Aston to go to a public ball, Miss Denham yielded to the
solicitations of Mr. Ryder, her betrothed husband, and promised to
go with them, though not without a slight degree of reluctance.
After she had given her consent, on casually seeing the Rev. Mr.
Ingleby, as she was returning from a morning walk, his sermon on the
loss of the soul was brought so forcibly to her recollection, and
it revived so powerfully the disquieting emotions which it produced
at the time she was listening to it, that she said to her mamma, "I
think I ought not to go; the thought of going makes me feel quite
unhappy." However, the entreaties and persuasions of her mamma and
Mr. Ryder prevailed, and she accompanied the party. It was a fine
evening when they set off, and they were all in great glee; but on
their return, the night had become so dark and stormy that it was
with difficulty they reached home. The next morning Miss Denham
complained of a slight cold, and it was thought proper that she
should keep her room during the whole of the day. On the following
day she felt somewhat unwell, but not ill; and as there were a few
select friends engaged to tea and cards, she dressed, and appeared
amongst them. She was gay and sprightly, but the dew of health was
gone from her countenance; her eyes did not sparkle with their
usual lustre; and all received an impression, from her general
appearance, that some fatal disease had seized her, though no one
had courage enough to mention it.
After the party broke up she became somewhat worse; but as there
never had been much illness in the family, her parents did not
send for medical assistance, supposing that she had merely taken
a cold, from which she would soon recover. Her mamma sat by her
bedside till midnight, when she left her in a sweet sleep, having
commissioned her favourite servant to watch her through the night.
About three in the morning she became restless, awoke, and asked for
some water, which she drank with avidity, and then slumbered on for
the space of another half-hour. She awoke again, and asked for more
water; complained of its being bitter, and uttered some incoherent
sentences, which induced the servant to call up her parents. She
became composed again; slept rather more soundly; but about five
she again awoke, and seeing her mother, she said, "I have had a
very strange night--I have seen strange sights, and heard strange
sounds--I am very ill--I ought not to have gone to the ball--I
knew better--_I should not like to pass from the theatre to the
judgment-seat of Christ_!"
"O, my dear, do not suffer your mind to be so distressed. It was a
very unfavourable night; but I hope it will please the Almighty to
restore you to health very soon. Your papa has sent William for Dr.
Bailey, and we expect him here every minute."
At length, after two hours' long suspense, the trampling of
the horses announced the approach of the doctor, who was soon
introduced to her by her tender-hearted father. He made a few
inquiries--examined her pulse--looked grave--and then abruptly
retired below, followed by both her parents, who felt anxious to
know his opinion, yet dreaded to ask him for it.
"Miss Matilda," he said, "is very ill--she must be kept very
composed. I will send her some medicine, which she must take
immediately, and I will see her again about noon."
"Is there any danger, Sir?"
"There is, Madam, always some danger attendant on such a violent
seizure; but I see no great reason to apprehend a fatal issue."
The doctor's directions were strictly adhered to; but the fever
continued to rage with even greater violence, and she became
delirious. Occasionally she gave utterance to half-formed sentences,
which indicated that she sometimes thought herself listening to a
sermon _on the loss of the soul_, and at other times enjoying the
gaieties of fashionable life. Often did her father, with hurried
steps, walk up and down the lane, between the hours of twelve and
two, to look for the doctor; and just as he was sending William to
hasten his return, he saw him coming. After the second interview
with his patient, her mother ventured to say, "Do you think, Sir,
the dear creature is dying?"
"Why, no, Madam; she is still very ill, but not worse than when I
saw her in the morning. She may recover, and I hope she will; but
everything depends on her being kept composed."
"But, Sir, she is at times very delirious, and utters sayings
frightful to hear."
"That must not astonish you; it proceeds from the nature of the
complaint; it is a painful but not a dangerous symptom. I want to
subdue her fever, and if I can do that, we have nothing to fear. I
will see her again in the evening."
She continued during the afternoon much the same, but towards
evening was more composed; she recognized her mother, and conversed
a little with her; complained less of pain and of thirst, and was
so much revived that the doctor said, on leaving her, that he had
very little doubt that she would recover. During the four following
days there was no perceptible change, but on the turn of the seventh
day the fever left her. As the doctor had been very particular in
recommending her parents to keep up her spirits, to prevent her
ruminating on the subject of religion, her mamma occasionally read
to her some passages from the most amusing books she could procure,
and generally passed away the dull and tedious hours of the evening
at cards. But though she had regained her vivacity, and talked
with her accustomed ease on the past scenes of her life, and the
prospects which futurity opened up to her ardent fancy, yet she
gradually became weaker and weaker, which convinced her physician
that some incipient disease was undermining the vigour of her
constitution; yet he did not despair of her final recovery.
But though for a while some flattering symptoms gave promise of
returning health and vigour, yet at length it became evident that
death was lurking in ambush, and that the gay and accomplished
Matilda must die. One physician was called in after another, and
every expedient which human skill could devise was resorted to;
but no power could arrest the progress of the flattering yet fatal
disorder which was gradually wasting away her life. As soon as she
was informed that there was no hope of her recovery, she requested
to be left alone till she rang the bell. On this request all went
below, and sat for some time weeping together. "She is now," said
her father, "making her peace with God; let no noise be heard; this
work requires stillness; may heaven bless her in the act." The bell
rang; her anxious mother, on approaching her bedside, perceived she
was in a state of extreme agitation, and her voice faltered as she
said, "I fear, ma', I am not fit to appear before the judgment-seat
of Christ. I wish to see some clergyman who will bring words of
peace to my soul."
"That's very proper, dear. I'll send for Mr. Cole, who will, I am
sure, and with great satisfaction, give you the sacrament, and then
you will make your peace with God."