Who can conceive or estimate the nature of that change which the soul of
a believer must experience at the moment when, quitting its tabernacle of
clay, it suddenly enters into the presence of God? If, even while "we
see through a glass darkly," the views of Divine love and wisdom are so
delightful to the eye of faith, what must be the glorious vision of God,
when seen face to face? If it be so valued a privilege here on earth to
enjoy the communion of saints, and to take sweet counsel together with
our fellow-travellers towards the heavenly kingdom, what shall we see and
know when we finally "come unto Mount Sion, and unto the city of the
living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of
angels, to the General Assembly and Church of the Firstborn, which are
written in heaven, and to God, the Judge of all, and to the spirits of
just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the New Covenant?"
(Heb. xii. 22-24.)
If, during the sighs and tears of a mortal pilgrimage, the consolations
of the Spirit are so precious, and the hope full of immortality is so
animating to the soul, what heart can conceive, or what tongue utter its
superior joys, when arrived at that state where sighing and sorrow flee
away, and the tears shall be wiped from every eye?
Such ideas were powerfully associated together in my imagination as I
travelled onward to the house where, in solemn preparation for the grave,
lay the remains of the Dairyman's daughter.
She had breathed her last shortly after the visit related in my former
account. Permission was obtained, as before, in the case of her sister,
that I should perform the funeral service. Many pleasing yet melancholy
thoughts were connected with the fulfilment of this task. I retraced the
numerous and important conversations which I had held with her.
But these could now no longer be maintained on earth. I reflected on the
interesting and improved nature of _Christian_ friendships, whether
formed in palaces or in cottages; and felt thankful that I had so long
enjoyed that privilege with the subject of this memoir. I then indulged
a selfish sigh for a moment, on thinking that I could no longer hear the
great truths of Christianity uttered by one who had drunk so deep of the
waters of the river of life; but the rising murmur was checked by the
animating thought: "She is gone to eternal rest--could I wish her back
again in this vale of tears?"
At that moment the first sound of a tolling bell struck my ear. It
proceeded from a village church in the valley directly beneath the ridge
of a high hill, over which I had taken my way. It was Elizabeth's
funeral knell.
The sound was solemn; and in ascending to the elevated spot over which I
rode, it acquired a peculiar tone and character. Tolling at slow and
regular intervals (as was customary for a considerable time previous to
the hour of burial), the bell, as it were, proclaimed the blessedness of
the dead who die in the Lord, and also the necessity of the living
pondering these things, and laying them to heart. It seemed to say:
"Hear my warning voice, thou son of man. There is but a step between
thee and death. Arise, prepare thine house, for thou shall die and not
live."
The scenery was in unison with that tranquil frame of mind which is most
suitable for holy meditation. A rich and fruitful valley lay immediately
beneath; it was adorned with cornfields and pastures through which a
small river winded in a variety of directions, and many herds grazed upon
its banks. A fine range of opposite hills, covered with grazing flocks,
terminated with a bold sweep into the ocean, whose blue waves appeared at
a distance beyond. Several villages, hamlets, and churches, were
scattered in the valley. The noble mansions of the rich, and the lowly
cottages of the poor, added their respective features to the landscape.
Do any of my readers inquire why I describe so minutely the circumstances
of prospect and scenery which may be connected with the incidents I
relate? My reply is, that the God of redemption is the God of creation
likewise; and that we are taught in every part of the Word of God to
unite the admiration of the beauties and wonders of nature to every other
motive for devotion. When David considered the heavens, the work of
God's fingers, the moon and the stars which He has ordained, he was
thereby led to the deepest humiliation of heart before his Maker. And
when he viewed the sheep, and the oxen, and the beasts of the field, the
fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, he was constrained to cry out,
"O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!" (Ps.
viii. 1.)
I am the poor man's friend, and wish more especially that every poor
labouring man should know how to connect the goodness of God in creation
and providence, with the unsearchable riches of his grace in the
salvation of a sinner. And where can he learn this lesson more
instructively than in looking around the fields, where his labour is
appointed, and there tracing the handiwork of God in all that he beholds?
Such meditations have often afforded me both profit and pleasure, and I
wish my readers to share them with me.
The Dairyman's cottage was rather more than a mile distant from the
church. A lane, quite overshadowed with trees and high hedges, led from
the foot of the hill to his dwelling. It was impossible at that time to
overlook the suitable gloom of such an approach to the house of mourning.
I found, on my entrance, that several Christian friends from different
parts of the neighbourhood had assembled together, to pay their last
tribute of esteem and regard to the memory of the Dairyman's daughter.
Several of them had first become acquainted with her during the latter
stage of her illness: some few had maintained an affectionate intercourse
with her for a longer period. But all seemed anxious to manifest their
respect for one who was endeared to them by such striking testimonies of
true Christianity.
I was requested to go into the chamber where the relatives and a few
other friends were gone to take a last look at the remains of Elizabeth.
It is not easy to describe the sensation which the mind experiences on
the first sight of a dead countenance, which, when living, was loved and
esteemed for the sake of that soul which used to give it animation. A
deep and awful view of the separation that has taken place between the
soul and body of the deceased, since we last beheld them, occupies the
feelings; our friend seems to be both near, and yet far off. The most
interesting and valuable part is fled away: what remains is but the
earthly perishing habitation, no longer occupied by its tenant. Yet the
features present the accustomed association of friendly intercourse. For
one moment we could think them asleep. The next reminds us that the
blood circulates no more: the eye has lost its power of seeing, the ear
of hearing, the heart of throbbing, and the limbs of moving. Quickly a
thought of glory breaks in upon the mind, and we imagine the dear
departed soul to be arrived at its long wished-for rest. It is
surrounded by cherubim and seraphim, and sings the song of Moses and the
Lamb on Mount Sion. Amid the solemn stillness of the chamber of death,
imagination hears heavenly hymns chanted by the spirits of just men made
perfect. In another moment, the livid lips and sunken eye of the clay-
cold corpse recall our thoughts to earth, and to ourselves again. And
while we think of mortality, sin, death, and the grave, we feel the
prayer rise in our bosom--"O let me die the death of the righteous, and
let my last end be like his!"
If there be a moment when Christ and salvation, death, judgment, heaven,
and hell, appear more than ever to be momentous subjects of meditation,
it is that which brings us to the side of a coffin containing the body of
a departed believer.
Elizabeth's features were altered, but much of her likeness remained. Her
father and mother sat at the head, her brother at the foot of the coffin.
The father silently and alternately looked upon his dead child, and then
lifted up his eyes to heaven. A struggle for resignation to the will of
God was manifest in his countenance; while the tears rolling down his
aged cheeks at the same time declared his grief and affection. The poor
mother cried and sobbed aloud, and appeared to be much overcome by the
shock of separation from a daughter so justly dear to her. The weakness
and infirmity of old age added a character to her sorrow, which called
for much tenderness and compassion.
A remarkably decent-looking woman, who had the management of the few
simple though solemn ceremonies which the case required, advanced towards
me, saying:
"Sir, this is rather a sight of joy than of sorrow. Our dear friend
Elizabeth finds it to be so, I have no doubt. She is beyond _all_
sorrow. Do you not think she is, sir?"
"After what I have known, and seen, and heard," I replied, "I feel the
fullest assurance that while her body remains here, the soul is with her
Saviour in Paradise. She loved Him _here_, and _there_ she enjoys the
pleasures which are at his right hand for evermore."
"Mercy, mercy upon a poor old creature, almost broken down with age and
grief! What shall I do? Betsy's gone! My daughter's dead! O, my
child! I shall never see thee more! God be merciful to me a
sinner!"--sobbed out the poor mother.
"That last prayer, my dear, good woman," said I, "will bring you and your
child together again. It is a cry that has brought thousands to glory.
It brought your daughter there, and I hope it will bring you thither
likewise. God will in nowise cast out any that come to Him."
"My dear," said the Dairyman, breaking the long silence he had
maintained, "let us trust God with our child; and let us trust Him with
our ownselves. 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be
the name of the Lord!' We are old, and can have but a little further to
travel in our journey, and then--" he could say no more.
The soldier, mentioned in my last paper, reached a Bible into my hand,
and said--"Perhaps, sir, you would not object to reading a chapter before
we go to the church?"
I did so; it was the fourteenth of the Book of Job. A sweet tranquillity
prevailed while I read it. Each minute that was spent in this funereal
chamber seemed to be valuable. I made a few observations on the chapter,
and connected them with the case of our departed sister.
"I am but a poor soldier," said our military friend, "and have nothing of
this world's goods beyond my daily subsistence; but I would not exchange
my hope of salvation in the next world for all that this world could
bestow without it. What is wealth without grace? Blessed be God! as I
march about from one quarter to another, I still find the Lord wherever I
go; and, thanks be to his holy name, He is here to-day in the midst of
this company of the living and the dead. I feel that it is good to be
here."
Some other persons present began to take a part in our conversation, in
the course of which the life and experience of the Dairyman's daughter
were brought forward in a very interesting manner. Each friend had
something to relate in testimony of her gracious disposition. A young
woman under twenty, who had hitherto been a very light and trifling
character, appeared to be remarkably impressed by the conversation of
that day; and I have since had reason to believe that Divine grace then
began to influence her in the choice of that better part, which shall not
be taken from her.
What a contrast does such a scene as this exhibit, when compared with the
dull, formal, unedifying, and often indecent manner in which funeral
parties assemble in the house of death!
As we conversed, the parents revived. Our subject of discourse was
delightful to their hearts. Their child seemed almost to be alive again,
while we talked of her. Tearful smiles often brightened their
countenances, as they heard the voice of friendship uttering their
daughter's praises; or rather the praises of Him who had made her a
vessel of mercy, and an instrument of spiritual good to her family.
The time for departing was now at hand.
I went to take my last look at the deceased. There was much written on
her countenance. She had evidently died with a smile. It still
remained, and spoke the tranquillity of her soul. According to the
custom of the country, she was decorated with leaves and flowers in the
coffin: she seemed as a bride gone forth to meet the bridegroom. These,
indeed, were fading flowers, but they reminded me of that paradise whose
flowers are immortal, and where her never-dying soul is at rest.
I remembered the last words which I had heard her speak, and was
instantly struck with the happy thought that "death was indeed swallowed
up in victory."
As I slowly retired, I said inwardly, "Peace, my honoured sister, be to
_thy_ memory and to _my_ soul, till we meet in a better world."
In a little time, the procession formed: it was rendered the more
interesting by the consideration of so many that followed the coffin
being persons of a devout and spiritual character. The distance was
rather more than a mile. I resolved to continue with and go before them,
as they moved slowly onwards.
Immediately after the body came the venerable father and mother, {116}
bending with age, and weeping through much affection of heart. Their
appearance was calculated to excite every emotion of pity, love, and
esteem. The other relatives followed them in order, and the several
attendant friends took their places behind.
After we had advanced about a hundred yards, my meditation was
unexpectedly and most agreeably interrupted, by the friends who attended
beginning to sing a funeral psalm. Nothing could be more sweet or
solemn. The well-known effect of the open air, in softening and blending
the sounds of music, was here peculiarly felt. The road through which we
passed was beautiful and romantic. It lay at the foot of a hill, which
occasionally re-echoed the voices of the singers, and seemed to give
faint replies to the notes of the mourners. The funeral-knell was
distinctly heard from the church tower, and increased the effect which
this simple and becoming service produced.
We went by several cottages; a respectful attention was universally
observed as we passed: and the countenances of many proclaimed their
regard for the departed young woman. The singing was regularly
continued, with occasional intervals of about five minutes, during our
whole progress.
I cannot describe the state of my own mind as peculiarly connected with
this solemn singing. I never witnessed a similar instance before or
since. I was reminded of elder times and ancient piety. I wished the
practice more frequent. It seems well calculated to excite and cherish
devotion and religious affections.
Music, when judiciously brought into the service of religion, is one of
the most delightful, and not least efficacious means of grace. I pretend
not too minutely to conjecture as to the actual nature of those pleasures
which, after the resurrection, the reunited body and soul will enjoy in
heaven; but I can hardly persuade myself that melody and harmony will be
wanting, when even the sense of hearing shall itself be glorified.
We arrived at the church. The service was heard with deep and
affectionate attention. When we came to the grave, the hymn which
Elizabeth had selected was sung. All was devout, simple, animating. We
committed our dear sister's body to the earth, in full hope of a joyful
resurrection.
Thus was the veil of separation drawn for a season. She is departed, and
no more seen, but she will be seen on the right hand of her Redeemer at
the last day; and will again appear to his glory, a miracle of grace and
a monument of mercy.
My reader, rich or poor, shall you and I appear there likewise? Are we
"clothed with humility," and arrayed in the wedding-garment of a
Redeemer's righteousness? Are we turned from idols to serve the living
God? Are we sensible of our own emptiness, and therefore flying to a
Saviour's fulness to obtain grace and strength? Do we indeed live in
Christ, and on Him, and by Him, and with Him? Is He our all in all? Are
we "lost and found," "dead and alive again?"
My _poor_ reader, the Dairyman's daughter was a _poor_ girl, and the
child of a _poor_ man. Herein thou resemblest her; but dost thou
resemble _her_ as she resembled Christ? Art thou made rich by faith?
Hast thou a crown laid up for thee? Is thine heart set upon heavenly
riches? If not, read this story once more, and then pray earnestly for
like precious faith?
But if, through grace, thou dost love and serve the Redeemer that saved
the Dairyman's daughter, grace, peace, and mercy be with thee! The lines
are fallen unto thee in pleasant places! thou hast a goodly heritage.
Press forward in duty, and wait upon the Lord, possessing thy soul in
holy patience. Thou hast just been with me to the grave of a departed
believer. Now, "go thy way, till the end be; for thou shalt rest, and
stand in thy lot at the end of the days."
Footnotes:
{116} An interesting account of a visit made to the Dairyman, appeared
in the _Christian Guardian_ for October 1813, and which is here
inserted:--
"It has rarely, if ever, fallen to my lot to trace the gracious dealing
of God with greater advantage or delight, than in the narrative of the
Dairyman's Daughter: and as the Isle of Wight had evidently furnished the
author with the scenery he has so finely touched, I concluded that the
pious subject of the little memoir had resided there, and determined
that, when I next visited that delightful spot, I would make inquiry
respecting her. At the close of April last year, I had occasion to go
there. At the village of B--- I had the good fortune to learn her name,
and the situation of the cottage that had been honoured with her
residence and death; and being told that the old man, her father, whose
name is W---, still lived there, I determined to find out his humble
dwelling, and obtain an interview with the aged Dairyman.
"It was with feelings not to be described that I visited the spot which
had been so peculiarly honoured by the gracious presence of the Most
High. On inquiry, I found that Elizabeth W--- died about eleven years
ago; that her mother followed her in the same year; that one of her
brothers (whom I did not see) lived in the same cottage; and that her
father was about eighty years of age. The venerable old man appeared to
wonder at the feelings of a stranger, but seemed thankful for my visit,
and wept as I made past scenes again pass before his view. I was happy
to find that his hopes were built upon the Rock of Ages; that his sure
trust was in the Redeemer of sinners. We talked of the kind attentions
of the Rev. Mr ---, of the happy death of Elizabeth, of the wondrous
grace of God; and when I bade him farewell, and reminded him how soon he
would again see his daughter, not, indeed, encompassed with infirmity,
and depressed with disease, but "shining as the sun in the firmament,"
the poor old man wept plentifully, and little would he be to be envied
who could have refrained. I looked back on the cottage until it could no
longer be seen, and then went on my way rejoicing.
"On the third of November last, being again in that district, I had the
pleasure of repeating my visit to the good old Dairyman, who immediately
recollected me. He told me many persons had been to see him since my
former call, but he believed they were strangers, not inhabitants of the
island. He appeared much weaker than before, and evidently drawing
nearer to his rest. Whether he is still living, I know not; but it is
probable I shall see him no more."--The pious old Dairyman lived three
years after this visit: he departed in the hope of meeting his gracious
Redeemer.
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