It is a pleasing consideration, that amidst the spiritual darkness which
unhappily prevails in many parts of the land, God nevertheless has a
people. It not unfrequently happens that single individuals are to be
found, who, though very disadvantageously situated with regard to the
ordinary means of grace, have received truly saving impressions, and,
through a blessing on secret meditation, reading, and prayer, are led to
the closest communion with God, and become eminently devoted Christians.
It is the no small error of too many professors of the present day, to
overlook or undervalue the instances of this kind which exist. The
religious profession and opinions of some have too much of mere
_machinery_ in their composition. If every wheel, pivot, chain, spring,
cog, or pinion, be not exactly in its place, or move not precisely
according to a favourite and prescribed system, the whole is rejected as
unworthy of regard. But happily "the Lord knoweth them that are his;"
nor is the impression of his own seal wanting to characterize some who,
in comparative seclusion from the religious world, "name the name of
Christ and depart from iniquity."
There are some real Christians so peculiarly circumstanced in this
respect as to illustrate the poet's comparison,--
"Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
Yet this was not altogether the case with the Dairyman's daughter. Her
religion had indeed ripened in seclusion from the world, and she was
intimately known but to few; but she lived usefully, departed most
happily, and left a shining track behind her. While I attempt a faint
delineation of it, may I catch its influence, and become, through
inexpressible mercy, a follower of "them who through faith and patience
inherit the promises!"
From the time wherein I visited her, as described in my last paper, I
considered her end as fast approaching. One day I received a hasty
summons to inform me that she was dying. It was brought by a soldier,
whose countenance bespoke seriousness, good sense, and piety.
"I am sent, sir, by the father and mother of Elizabeth W---, at her own
particular request, to say how much they all wish to see you. She is
going _home_, sir, very fast indeed."
"Have you known her long?"
"About a month, sir. I love to visit the sick, and hearing of her case
from a person who lives close by our camp, I went to see her. I bless
God that ever I did go. Her conversation has been very profitable to
me."
"I rejoice," said I, "to see in you, as I trust, a _brother soldier_.
Though we differ in our outward regimentals, I hope we serve under the
same spiritual Captain. I will go with you."
My horse was soon ready. My military companion walked by my side, and
gratified me with very sensible and pious conversation. He related some
remarkable testimonies of the excellent disposition of the Dairyman's
daughter, as they appeared from recent intercourse which he had had with
her.
"She is a bright diamond, sir," said the soldier, "and will soon shine
brighter than any diamond upon earth."
We passed through lanes and fields, over hills and valleys, by open and
retired paths, sometimes crossing over and sometimes following the
windings of a little brook which gently murmured by the road side.
Conversation beguiled the distance, and shortened the apparent time of
our journey, till we were nearly arrived at the Dairyman's cottage.
As we approached it, we became silent. Thoughts of death, eternity, and
salvation, inspired by the sight of a house where a dying believer lay,
filled my own mind, and, I doubt not, that of my companion also.
No living object yet appeared, except the Dairyman's dog, keeping a kind
of mute watch at the door; for he did not, as formerly, bark at my
approach. He seemed to partake so far of the feelings appropriate to the
circumstances of the family, as not to wish to give a hasty or painful
alarm. He came forward to the little wicket-gate, then looked back at
the house door, as if conscious there was sorrow within. It was as if he
wanted to say, "Tread softly over the threshold, as you enter the house
of mourning; for my master's heart is full of grief."
The soldier took my horse and tied it up in a shed. A solemn serenity
appeared to surround the whole place; it was only interrupted by the
breezes passing through the large elm-trees which stood near the house,
and which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs
of sorrow. I gently opened the door. No one appeared, and all was still
silent. The soldier followed. We came to the foot of the stairs.
"They are come!" said a voice, which I knew to be the father's; "they are
come!"
He appeared at the top. I gave him my hand, and said nothing. On
entering the room above, I saw the aged mother and her son supporting the
much-loved daughter and sister: the son's wife sat weeping in a window-
seat, with a child on her lap: two or three persons attended in the room
to discharge any office which friendship or necessity might require.
I sat down by the bedside. The mother could not weep, but now and then
sighed deeply, as she alternately looked at Elizabeth and at me. The big
tear rolled down the brother's cheek, and testified an affectionate
regard. The good old man stood at the foot of the bed, leaning upon the
post, and unable to take his eyes off the child from whom he was so soon
to part.
Elizabeth's eyes were closed, and as yet she perceived me not. But over
her face, though pale, sunk, and hollow, the peace of God, which passeth
all understanding, had cast a triumphant calm.
The soldier, after a short pause, silently reached out his Bible towards
me, pointing with his finger at 1 Cor. xv. 55, 56, 57. I then broke
silence by reading the passage, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave,
where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin
is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through
our Lord Jesus Christ."
At the sound of these words her eyes opened, and something like a ray of
divine light beamed on her countenance as she said, "Victory! victory!
through our Lord Jesus Christ."
She relapsed again, taking no further notice of any one present.
"God be praised for the triumph of faith!" said I.
"Amen!" replied the soldier.
The Dairyman's uplifted eye showed that the Amen was in his heart, though
his tongue failed to utter it.
A short struggling for breath took place in the dying young woman, which
was soon over; and then I said to her,--
"My dear friend, do you not feel that you are supported?"
"The Lord deals very gently with me," she replied.
"Are not his promises now very precious to you?"
"They are all yea and amen in Christ Jesus."
"Are you in much bodily pain?"
"So little that I almost forget it."
"How good the Lord is!"
"And how unworthy am I!"
"You are going to see him as he is."
"I think--I hope--I believe that I am."
She again fell into a short slumber.
Looking at her mother, I said, "What a mercy to have a child so near
heaven as yours is!"
"And what a mercy," she replied, in broken accents, "if her poor old
mother might but follow her there! But, sir, it is so hard to part!"
"I hope through grace by faith you will soon meet to part no more; it
will be but a little while."
"Sir," said the Dairyman, "that thought supports me, and the Lord's
goodness makes me feel more reconciled than I was."
"Father--mother," said the reviving daughter, "He is good to me--trust
Him, praise Him evermore."
"Sir," added she, in a faint voice, "I want to thank you for your
kindness to me--I want to ask a favour;--you buried my sister--will you
do the same for me?"
"All shall be as you wish, if God permit," I replied.
"Thank you, sir, thank you--I have another favour to ask--When I am gone,
remember my father and mother. They are old, but I hope the good work is
begun in their souls--My prayers are heard--Pray come and see them--I
cannot speak much, but I want to speak for their sakes--Sir, remember
them."
The aged parents now sighed and sobbed aloud, uttering broken sentences,
and gained some relief by such an expression of their feelings.
At length I said to Elizabeth, "Do you experience any doubts or
temptations on the subject of your eternal safety?"
"No, sir. The Lord deals very gently with me, and gives me peace."
"What are your views of the dark valley of death, now that you are
passing through it?"
"It is _not_ dark."
"Why so?"
"My Lord is _there_, and he is my light and my salvation."
"Have you any fears of more bodily suffering?"
"The Lord deals so gently with me, I can trust him."
Something of a convulsion came on. When it was past she said again and
again,--
"The Lord deals very gently with me. Lord, I am thine; save me--Blessed
Jesus--precious Saviour--His blood cleanseth from all sin--Who shall
separate?--His name is Wonderful--Thanks be to God--He giveth the
victory--I, even I, am saved--O grace, mercy, and wonder!--Lord, receive
my spirit!--Dear sir--dear father, mother, friends, I am going--but all
is well, well, well--."
She relapsed again. We knelt down to prayer. The Lord was in the midst
of us, and blessed us.
She did not again revive while I remained, nor ever speak any more words
which could be understood. She slumbered for about ten hours, and at
last sweetly fell asleep in the arms of that Lord who had dealt so gently
with her.
I left the house an hour after she had ceased to speak. I pressed her
hand as I was taking leave, and said, "Christ is the resurrection and the
life." She gently returned the pressure, but could neither open her eyes
nor utter a reply.
I never had witnessed a scene so impressive as this before. It
completely filled my imagination as I returned home.
"Farewell," thought I, "dear friend, till the morning of an eternal day
shall renew our personal intercourse. Thou wast a brand plucked from the
burning, that thou mightest become a star shining in the firmament of
glory. I have seen thy light and thy good works, and will therefore
glorify our Father which is in heaven. I have seen, in thy example, what
it is to be a sinner freely saved by grace. I have learned from thee, as
in a living mirror, _who_ it is that begins, continues, and ends the work
of faith and love. Jesus is all in all: he will and shall be glorified.
He won the crown, and alone deserves to wear it. May no one attempt to
rob him of his glory! He saves, and saves to the uttermost. Farewell
dear sister in the Lord. Thy flesh and thy heart may fail; but God is
the strength of thy heart, and shall be thy portion for ever."