Travellers, as they pass through the country, usually stop to inquire
whose are the splendid mansions which they discover among the woods and
plains around them. The families, titles, fortune, or character of the
respective owners, engage much attention. Perhaps their houses are
exhibited to the admiring stranger. The elegant rooms, costly furniture,
valuable paintings, beautiful gardens and shrubberies, are universally
approved; while the rank, fashion, taste, and riches of the possessor,
afford ample materials for entertaining discussion. In the meantime, the
lowly cottage of the poor husbandman is passed by as scarcely deserving
of notice. Yet, perchance, such a cottage may often contain a treasure
of infinitely more value than the sumptuous palace of the rich man--even
"the pearl of great price." If this be set in the heart of the poor
cottager, it proves a gem of unspeakable worth, and will shine among the
brightest ornaments of the Redeemer's crown, in that day when he maketh
up his "jewels."
Hence the Christian traveller, while in common with others he bestows his
due share of applause on the decorations of the rich, and is not
insensible to the beauties and magnificence which are the lawfully
allowed appendages of rank and fortune, cannot overlook the humbler
dwelling of the poor. And if he should find that true piety and grace
beneath the thatched roof which he has in vain looked for amidst the
worldly grandeur of the rich, he remembers the declarations in the word
of God. He sees with admiration that the high and lofty One, that
inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy, who dwelleth in the high and
holy place, dwelleth with _him also_ that is of a contrite and humble
spirit (Isa. lvii. 15); and although heaven is his throne, and the earth
his footstool, yet, when a house is to be built and a place of rest to be
sought for himself, he says, "To this man will I look, even to him that
is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word" (Isa. lxvi.
2).
When a house is thus tenanted, Faith beholds this inscription written on
the walls, _The Lord lives here_. Faith, therefore, cannot pass it by
unnoticed, but loves to lift up the latch of the door, and to sit down
and converse with the poor, although perhaps despised, inhabitant. Many
a sweet interview does Faith obtain, when she thus takes her walks
abroad. Many such a sweet interview have I myself enjoyed beneath the
roof where dwelt the Dairyman and his little family.
I soon perceived that his daughter's health was rapidly on the decline.
The pale, wasting consumption, which is the Lord's instrument for
removing so many thousands every year from the land of the living made
hasty strides on her constitution. The hollow eye, the distressing
cough, and the often too flattering flush on the cheek, foretold the
approach of death.
What a field for usefulness and affectionate attention, on the part of
ministers and Christian friends, is opened by the frequent attacks and
lingering process of _consumptive_ illness! How many such precious
opportunities are daily lost, where Providence seems in so marked a way
to afford time and space for serious and godly instruction! Of how many
may it be said, "The way of peace have they not known!" for not one
friend ever came nigh, to warn them to "flee from the wrath to come."
But the Dairyman's daughter was happily made acquainted with the things
which belonged to her everlasting peace, before the present disease had
taken root in her constitution. In my visits to her, I went rather to
receive information than to impart it. Her mind was abundantly stored
with divine truths, and her conversation was truly edifying. The
recollection of it will ever produce a thankful sensation in my heart.
I one day received a short note to the following effect:--
"DEAR SIR,
"I should be very glad, if your convenience will allow, that you will
come and see a poor unworthy sinner. My hour-glass is nearly run out,
but I hope I can see Christ to be precious to my soul. Your
conversation has often been blessed to me, and I now feel the need of
it more than ever. My father and mother send their duty to you. From
"Your obedient and unworthy servant,
"E--- W---."
I obeyed the summons that same afternoon. On my arrival at the
Dairyman's cottage, his wife opened the door. The tears streamed down
her cheek, as she silently shook her head. Her heart was full. She
tried to speak, but could not. I took her by the hand, and said--
"My good friend, all is right, and as the Lord of wisdom and mercy
directs."
"Oh, my Betsy, my dear girl, is so bad, sir. What shall I do without
her? I thought I should have gone first to the grave; but--"
"But the Lord sees good that, before you die yourself you should behold
your child safe home to glory. Is there no mercy in this?"
"Oh, dear sir! I am very old and very weak; and she is a dear child, the
staff and prop of a poor old creature as I am."
As I advanced, I saw Elizabeth sitting by the fireside, supported in an
arm-chair by pillows, with every mark of rapid decline and approaching
death. A sweet smile of friendly complacency enlightened her pale
countenance, as she said--
"This is very kind indeed, sir, to come so soon after I sent to you. You
find me daily wasting away, and I cannot have long to continue here. My
flesh and my heart fail; but God is the strength of my weak heart, and I
trust will be my portion for ever."
The conversation was occasionally interrupted by her cough and want of
breath. Her tone of voice was clear, though feeble; her manner solemn
and collected; and her eye, though more dim than formerly, by no means
wanting in liveliness as she spoke. I had frequently admired the
superior language in which she expressed her ideas, as well as the
scriptural consistency with which she communicated her thoughts. She had
a good natural understanding, and grace, as is generally the case, had
much improved it. On the present occasion I could not help thinking she
was peculiarly favoured. The whole strength of gracious and natural
attainments seemed to be in full exercise.
After taking my seat between the daughter and the mother (the latter
fixing her fond eyes upon her child with great anxiety while we were
conversing), I said to Elizabeth--
"I hope you enjoy a sense of the divine presence, and can rest all upon
Him who has 'been with thee,' and has 'kept thee in all places where thou
hast gone,' and will bring thee into 'the land of pure delight, where
saints immortal reign.'"
"Sir, I think I can. My mind has lately been sometimes clouded, but I
believe it has been partly owing to the great weakness and suffering of
my bodily frame, and partly to the envy of my spiritual enemy, who wants
to persuade me that Christ has no love for me, and that I have been a
self-deceiver."
"And do you give way to his suggestions? Can you doubt, amidst such
numerous tokens of past and present mercy?"
"No, sir, I mostly am enabled to preserve a clear evidence of his love. I
do not wish to add to my other sins that of denying his manifest goodness
to my soul--I would acknowledge it to his praise and glory."
"What is your present view of the state in which you were before you felt
seriously concerned about the salvation of your soul?"
"Sir, I was a proud, thoughtless girl; fond of dress and finery. I loved
the world, and the things that are in the world. I lived in service
among worldly people, and never had the happiness of being in a family
where worship was regarded, and the souls of the servants cared for,
either by master or mistress. I went once on a Sunday to church, more to
see and be seen than to pray or hear the word of God. I thought I was
quite good enough to be saved, and disliked, and often laughed at,
religious people. I was in great darkness; I knew nothing of the way of
salvation. I never prayed, nor was sensible of the awful danger of a
prayerless state. I wished to maintain the character of a good servant,
and was much lifted up whenever I met with applause. I was tolerably
moral and decent in my conduct, from motives of carnal and worldly
policy; but I was a stranger to God and Christ. I neglected my soul; and
had I died in such a state, hell must, and would justly, have been my
portion."
"How long is it since you heard the sermon which, you hope, through God's
blessing, effected your conversion?"
"About five years ago."
"How was it brought about?"
"It was reported that a Mr. ---, who was detained by contrary winds from
embarking on board ship as chaplain to a distant part of the world, was
to preach at church. Many advised me not to go, for fear he should turn
my head, as they said he held strange notions. But curiosity, and an
opportunity of appearing in a new gown, which I was very proud of,
induced me to ask leave of my mistress to go. Indeed, sir, I had no
better motives than vanity and curiosity. Yet thus it pleased the Lord
to order it for his own glory.
"I accordingly went to church, and saw a great crowd of people collected
together. I often think of the contrary states of my mind during the
former and latter part of the service. For a while, regardless of the
worship of God, I looked around me, and was anxious to attract notice
myself. My dress, like that of too many gay, vain, and silly servant
girls, was much above my station, and very different from that which
becomes an humble sinner, who has a modest sense of propriety and
decency. The state of my mind was visible enough from the foolish finery
of my apparel.
"At length the clergyman gave out his text: 'Be ye clothed with
humility.' He drew a comparison between the clothing of the body with
that of the soul. At a very early part of his discourse I began to feel
ashamed of my passion for fine dressing and apparel; but when he came to
describe the garment of salvation with which a Christian is clothed, I
felt a powerful discovery of the nakedness of my own soul. I saw that I
had neither the humility mentioned in the text, nor any one part of the
true Christian character. I looked at my gay dress, and blushed for
shame on account of my pride. I looked at the minister, and he seemed to
me as a messenger sent from heaven to open my eyes. I looked at the
congregation, and wondered whether any one else felt as I did. I looked
at my heart, and it appeared full of iniquity. I trembled as he spoke,
and yet I felt a great drawing of heart to the words he uttered.
"He opened the riches of divine grace in God's method of saving the
sinner. I was astonished at what I had been doing all the days of my
life. He described the meek, lowly, and humble example of Christ; I felt
proud, lofty, vain, and self-consequential. He represented Christ as
'Wisdom;' I felt my ignorance. He held him forth as 'Righteousness;' I
was convinced of my own guilt. He proved him to be 'Sanctification;' I
saw my corruption. He proclaimed him as 'Redemption;' I felt my slavery
to sin and my captivity to Satan. He concluded with an animated address
to sinners, in which he exhorted them to flee from the wrath to come, to
cast off the love of outward ornament, to put on Jesus Christ, and be
clothed with true humility.
"From that hour I never lost sight of the value of my soul and the danger
of a sinful state. I inwardly blessed God for the sermon, although my
mind was in a state of great confusion.
"The preacher had brought forward the ruling passion of my heart, which
was pride in outward dress; and by the grace of God it was made
instrumental to the awakening of my soul. Happy, sir, would it be if
many a poor girl, like myself, were turned from the love of outward
adorning and putting on of fine apparel, to seek that which is not
corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in
the sight of God of great price.
"The greatest part of the congregation, unused to such faithful and
scriptural sermons, disliked and complained of the severity of the
preacher; while a few, as I afterwards found, like myself, were deeply
affected, and earnestly wished to hear him again. But he preached there
no more.
"From that time I was led, through a course of private prayer, reading,
and meditation, to see my lost state as a sinner, and the great mercy of
God through Jesus Christ, in raising sinful dust and ashes to a share in
the glorious happiness of heaven. And, O sir! what a Saviour I have
found! He is more than I could ask or desire. In his fulness I have
found all that my poverty could need; in his bosom I have found a resting-
place from all sin and sorrow; in his word I have found strength against
doubt and unbelief."
"Were you not soon convinced," I said, "that your salvation must be an
act of entire grace on the part of God, wholly independent of your own
previous works or deservings?"
"Dear sir, what were my works, before I heard that sermon, but evil,
carnal, selfish, and ungodly! The thoughts of my heart, from my youth
upward, were only evil, and that continually. And my deservings, what
were they, but the deservings of a fallen, depraved, careless soul, that
regarded neither law nor gospel! Yes, sir, I immediately saw that if
ever I were saved, it must be by the free mercy of God, and that the
whole praise and honour of the work would be his from first to last."
"What change did you perceive in yourself with respect to the world?"
"It appeared all vanity and vexation of spirit. I found it necessary to
my peace of mind to come out from among them, and be separate. I gave
myself to prayer; and many a happy hour of secret delight I enjoyed in
communion with God. Often I mourned over my sins, and sometimes had a
great conflict, through unbelief, fear, temptation to return back again
to my old ways, and a variety of difficulties which lay in my way. But
He who loved me with an everlasting love drew me by his loving-kindness,
showed me the way of peace, gradually strengthened me in my resolutions
of leading a new life, and taught me, that while without him I could do
nothing, I yet might do all things through his strength."
"Did you not find many difficulties in your situation, owing to your
change of principle and practice?"
"Yes, sir, every day of my life. I was laughed at by some, scolded at by
others, scorned by enemies, and pitied by friends. I was called
hypocrite, saint, false deceiver, and many more names, which were meant
to render me hateful in the sight of the world. But I esteemed the
reproach of the cross an honour. I forgave and prayed for my
persecutors, and remembered how very lately I had acted the same part
towards others myself. I thought also that Christ endured the
contradiction of sinners; and, as the disciple is not above his Master, I
was glad to be in any way conformed to his sufferings."
"Did you not then feel for your family at home?"
"Yes, that I did indeed, sir; they were never out of my thoughts. I
prayed continually for them, and had a longing desire to do them good. In
particular, I felt for my father and mother, as they were getting into
years, and were very ignorant and dark in matters of religion."
"Ay," interrupted her mother, sobbing, "ignorant and dark, sinful and
miserable we were, till this dear Betsy--this dear Betsy--this dear
child, sir--brought Christ Jesus home to her poor father and mother's
house."
"No, dearest mother, say rather, Christ Jesus brought your poor daughter
home to tell you what he had done for her soul, and I hope, to do the
same for yours."
At that moment the Dairyman came in with two pails of milk hanging from
the yoke on his shoulders. He had stood behind the half-opened door for
a few minutes, and heard the last sentences spoken by his wife and
daughter.
"Blessing and mercy upon her!" said he, "it is very true; she left a good
place of service on purpose to live with us, that she might help us both
in soul and body. Sir, don't she look very ill? I think, sir, we
sha'n't have her here long."
"Leave that to the Lord," said Elizabeth. "All our times are in his
hand, and happy it is that they are. I am willing to go; are you not
willing, my father, to part with me into _his_ hands, who gave me to you
at first?"
"Ask me any question in the world but that," said the weeping father.
"I know," said she, "you wish me to be happy."
"I do, I do," answered he; "let the Lord do with you and us as best
pleases him."
I then asked her on what her present consolations chiefly depended, in
the prospect of approaching death.
"Entirely, sir, on my view of Christ. When I look at myself, many sins,
infirmities, and imperfections cloud the image of Christ which I want to
see in my own heart. But when I look at the Saviour himself, he is
altogether lovely; there is not one spot in his countenance, nor one
cloud over all his perfections.
"I think of his coming in the flesh, and it reconciles me to the
sufferings of the body; for he had them as well as I. I think of his
temptations, and believe that he is able to succour me when I am tempted.
Then I think of his cross, and learn to bear my own. I reflect on his
death, and long to die unto sin, so that it may no longer have dominion
over me. I sometimes think on his resurrection, and trust that he has
given me a part in it, for I feel that my affections are set upon things
above. Chiefly I take comfort in thinking of him as at the right hand of
the Father, pleading my cause, and rendering acceptable even my feeble
prayers, both for myself, and, as I hope, for my dear friends.
"These are the views which, through mercy, I have of my Saviour's
goodness; and they have made me wish and strive in my poor way to serve
him, to give myself up to him, and to labour to do my duty in that state
of life into which it has pleased God to call me.
"A thousand times I should have fallen and fainted, if he had not upheld
me. I feel that I am nothing without him. He is all in all.
"Just so far as I can cast my care upon him, I find strength to do his
will. May he give me grace to trust him till the last moment! I do not
fear death, because I believe that he has taken away its sting. And oh!
what happiness beyond! Tell me, sir, whether you think I am right. I
hope I am under no delusion. I dare not look for my hope in anything
short of the entire fulness of Christ. When I ask my own heart a
question, I am afraid to trust it, for it is treacherous, and has often
deceived me; but when I ask Christ, he answers me with promises that
strengthen and refresh me, and leave me no room to doubt his power and
will to save. I am in his hands, and would remain there; and I do
believe that he will never leave nor forsake me, but will perfect the
thing that concerns me. He loved me and gave himself for me, and I
believe that his gifts and callings are without repentance. In this hope
I live, in this hope I wish to die."
I looked around me, as she was speaking, and thought, "Surely this is
none other than the house of God, and the gate of heaven." Everything
appeared neat, cleanly, and interesting. The afternoon had been rather
overcast with dark clouds; but just now the setting sun shone brightly
and somewhat suddenly into the room. It was reflected from three or four
rows of bright pewter plates and white earthenware, arranged on shelves
against the wall: it also gave brilliancy to a few prints of sacred
subjects that hung there also, and served for monitors of the birth,
baptism, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ.
A large map of Jerusalem, and a hieroglyphic of "the old and new man,"
completed the decorations on that side of the room. Clean as was the
white-washed wall, it was not cleaner than the rest of the place and its
furniture. Seldom had the sun enlightened a house where order and
general neatness (those sure attendants of pious poverty) were more
conspicuous.
This gleam of setting sunshine was emblematical of the bright and serene
close of this young Christian's departing season. One ray happened to be
reflected from a little looking-glass upon her face. Amidst her pallid
and decaying features there appeared a calm resignation, triumphant
confidence, unaffected humility, and tender anxiety, which fully declared
the feelings of her heart.
Some further affectionate conversation and a short prayer closed this
interview.
As I rode home by departing daylight, a solemn tranquillity reigned
throughout the scene. The gentle lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep
just penned in their folds, the humming of the insects of the night, the
distant murmurs of the sea, the last notes of the birds of day, and the
first warblings of the nightingale, broke upon the ear, and served rather
to increase than lessen the peaceful serenity of the evening, and its
corresponding effects on my own mind. It invited and cherished just such
meditations as my visit had already inspired. Natural scenery, when
viewed in a Christian mirror, frequently affords very beautiful
illustrations of divine truths. We are highly favoured when we can enjoy
them, and at the same time draw near to God in them.