PART VIII.

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 first-born, 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?"

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 improving 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 memorial. 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 shalt 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 corn fields 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.

The air was mild, and the declining sun occasioned a beautiful

interchange of light and shade upon the sides of the hills. In the midst

of this scene, the chief sound that arrested attention was the bell

tolling for the funeral of the Dairyman's daughter.

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

fowls 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!"

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 Zion. 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, "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, her 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 no wise 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 own selves. The Lord gave, and the Lord has 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 funeral

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 ground 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 made her a vessel of

mercy and an instrument of spiritual good to her family.

The time for departing to the church 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 departed

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, {87} bending with age, and weeping through

much affliction 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 greatly 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 was reminded of older 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 re-united 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 at length arrived at the church. Looking upwards as I drew near the

church, I observed a dial on the wall. The sun's declining rays directed

the shadow to the evening hour. As I passed underneath this simple but

solemn monitor, I was reminded of the lapse of time, the uncertainty of

life, and sure approach of eternity. I thought with David, "We are

strangers before thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers; our days

on earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding."

"Lord, so teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto

wisdom."

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 from the dead.

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

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."

Elizabeth died May 30, 1801, aged 31 years.

{The Dairyman's Daughter's Grave: p89.jpg}

THE NEGRO SERVANT.

PART I.

If a map of the world, instead of being coloured, as is usual, with many

gay and brilliant tints, in order to distinguish its various continents,

kingdoms, and islands from each other, were to be painted with darker or

brighter hues corresponding with the spiritual character of the

inhabitants, what a gloomy aspect would be presented, to the eye of the

_Christian_ geographer, by the greater portion of the habitable globe!

How dark would be the shade thus cast over the larger districts of the

vast continents of Asia and America! and what a mass of gloom would

characterize the African quarter of the world!

Here and there a bright spot would mark the residence of a few missionary

labourers, devoting themselves to God, and scattering the rays of

Christian light among the surrounding heathen; but over the greater part

"the blackness of darkness" would emblematically describe the iron reign

of Mohammedan superstition and Pagan idolatry.

The Christian prays that God would have "respect unto the covenant; for

the dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty." He

hopes to see the nations "open their eyes, and turn from darkness to

light, and from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive

forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by

faith."

The curse originally pronounced on the descendants of Ham has, in a

variety of respects, both temporal and spiritual, been awfully

fulfilled--"A servant of servants shall he be." Slavery, as well of mind

as body, has been continued amongst the Africans through their

generations in a manner which at once proves the truth of the Divine

prediction, and yet calls aloud for the ardent prayers and active

exertions of Christians in their behalf. The time will come when the

heathen shall be proved to have been given to Christ "for an inheritance,

and the uttermost parts of the earth for his possession." The degraded

Hottentot, and the poor benighted Negro, will look from the ends of the

earth unto Jesus, and be saved. "Many shall run to and fro, and

knowledge shall be increased." The Redeemer "shall see of the travail of

his soul, and shall be satisfied," in beholding the gathering together,

not only of the outcasts of Israel that are ready to perish, but of

churches and people from all the tongues, and kindreds, and nations of

the earth. In the day of his appearing, the sons of Africa will vie with

their brethren of the north, and the west, and the east, in resounding

the praises of God their Saviour from one end of the earth to the other.

In the meantime, we rejoice in every occasional instance of the love and

power of God in effecting the conversion of some, who appear as the first-

fruits of that harvest which shall hereafter so fruitfully grow up, to

the honour of Christ and the blessedness of his redeemed people.

The following narrative of real facts may, perhaps, illustrate the

importance of the foregoing remarks.

During a residence of some years' continuance in the neighbourhood of the

sea, an officer of the navy called upon me, and stated that he had just

taken a lodging in the parish for his wife and children; and had a Negro,

who had been three years in his service. "The lad is a deserving

fellow," said the officer, "and he has a great desire to be baptized. I

have promised him to ask you to do it, if you have not any objections."

"Does he know anything," replied I, "of the principles of the Christian

religion?"

"Oh, yes, I am sure he does," answered the captain; "for he talks a great

deal about it in the kitchen, and often gets laughed at for his pains;

but he takes it all very patiently."

"Does he behave well as your servant?"

"Yes, that he does; he is as honest and civil a fellow as ever came on

board ship, or lived in a house."

"Was he always so well behaved?"

"No," said the officer; "when I first had him he was often very unruly

and deceitful; but for the last two years he has been quite like another

creature."

"Well, sir, I shall be very glad to see him, and think it probable I

shall wish to go through a course of instruction and examination; during

which I shall be able to form a judgment how far it will be right to

admit him to the sacrament of baptism. Can he read?"

"Yes," replied his master; "he has been taking great pains to learn to

read for some time past, and can make out a chapter in the Bible pretty

well, as my maid-servant informs me. He speaks English better than many

of his countrymen, but you will find it a little broken. When will it be

convenient that I should send him over to you?"

"To-morrow afternoon, sir, if you please."

"He shall come to you about four o'clock, and you shall see what you can

make of him."

With this promise he took his leave. I felt glad of an opportunity of

instructing a native of that land whose wrongs and injuries had often

caused me to sigh and mourn; the more so, when I reflected _who_ had been

the aggressors.

At the appointed hour my Negro disciple arrived. He was a very young-

looking man, with a sensible, lively, and pleasing countenance.

I desired him to sit down, and said, "Your master informs me that you

wish to have some conversation with me respecting Christian baptism."

"Yes, sir; me very much wish to be a Christian," said he.

"Why do you wish so?"

"Because me know that Christian go to heaven when he die."

"How long have you had that wish?" I said.

"Ever since me heard one goot minister preach in America, two years ago."

"Where were you born?"

"In Africa. Me was very little boy when me was made slave by the white

men."

"How was that?"

"Me left father and mother one day at home to go get shells by de sea-

shore, and as me was stooping down to gather them up, some white sailors

came out of a boat and took me away. Me never see father nor mother

again."

"And what became of you then?"

"Me was put into ship, and brought to Jamaica and sold to a master, who

kept me in his house to serve him some years; when, about three years

ago, Captain W---, my master, dat spoke to you, bought me to be his

servant on board his ship. And he be goot master; he gave me my liberty,

and made me free, and me live with him ever since."

"And what thoughts had you about your soul all that time before you went

to America?" I asked him.

"Me no care for my soul at all before den. No man teach me one word

about my soul."

"Well, now tell me further about what happened to you in America. How

came you there?"

"My master take me dere in his ship, and he stop dere one month, and den

me hear de goot minister."

"And what did the minister say?"

"He said me was a great sinner."

"What! did he speak to you in particular?"

"Yes, me tink so; for dere was great many to hear him, but he tell dem

all about me."

"What did he say?"

"He say about all de tings dat were in my heart."

"What things?"

"My sin, my ignorance, my know noting, my believe noting. De goot

minister make me see dat me _tink_ noting goot, me _do_ noting goot."

"And what else did he tell you?"

"He sometime look me in de face, and say dat Jesus Christ came to die for

sinners, poor black sinners as well as white sinners. Me tought dis was

very goot, very goot, indeed, to do so for a wicked sinner."

"And what made you think this was all spoken to you in particular?"

"Because me sure no such wicked sinner as me in all de place. De goot

minister must know me was dere."

"And what did you think of yourself while he preached about Jesus

Christ?"

"Sir, me was very much afraid, when he said the wicked must be turned

into hell-fire. For me felt dat me was very wicked sinner, and dat make

me cry. And he talk much about de love of Christ to sinners, and dat

make me cry more. And me tought me must love Jesus Christ; but me not

know how, and dat make me cry again."

"Did you hear more sermons than one during that month?"

"Yes, sir; master gave me leave to go tree times, and all de times me

wanted to love Jesus more, and do what Jesus said; but my heart seem

sometime hard, like a stone."

"Have you ever heard any preaching since that time?"

"Never, till me hear sermon at dis church last Sunday, and den me long to

be baptized in Jesus' name; for me had no Christian friends to baptize me

when little child."

"And what have been your thoughts all the time since you first heard

these sermons in America? Did you tell anybody what you then felt?"

"No, me speak to nobody but to God den. De goot minister say dat God

hear de cry of de poor; so me cry to God, and he hear me. And me often

tink about Jesus Christ, and wish to be like him."

"Can you read?"

"A little."

"Who taught you to read?"

"God teach me to read."

"What do you mean by saying so?"

"God give me desire to read, and dat make reading easy. Master give me

Bible, and one sailor show me de letters: and so me learned to read by

myself, with God's good help."

"And what do you read in the Bible?"

"Oh, me read all about Jesus Christ, and how he loved sinners; and wicked

men killed him, and he died, and came again from de grave; and all dis

for poor Negro. And it sometime make me cry, to tink that Christ love so

poor Negro."

"And what do the people say about your reading, and praying, and

attention to the things of God?"

"Some wicked people, dat do not love Jesus Christ, call me great fool,

and Negro dog, and black hypocrite. And dat make me sometimes feel

angry; but den me remember Christian must not be angry, for Jesus Christ

was called ugly black names, and he was quiet as a lamb; and so den me

remember Jesus Christ; and me say nothing again to dem."

I was much delighted with the simplicity and apparent sincerity of this

poor Negro, and wished to ascertain what measure of light and feeling he

possessed on a few leading points. St. Paul's summary of religion {97}

occuring to me, I said, "Tell me what is faith? What is your faith? What

do you believe about Jesus Christ, and your own soul?"

"Me believe," said he, "dat Jesus Christ came into de world to save

sinners; and dough me be chief of sinners, yet Jesus will save me, dough

me be only poor black Negro."

"What is your hope? What do you hope for, both as to this life and that

which is to come?"

"Me hope Jesus Christ will take good care of me, and keep me from sin and

harm, while me live here; and me hope, when me come to die, to go and

live with him always, and never die again."

"What are your thoughts about Christian love or charity,--I mean, whom

and what do you most love?"

"Me love God de Father, because he was so goot to send his Son. Me love

Jesus Christ, because he love men. Me love all men, black men and white

men too; for God made dem all. Me love goot Christian people, because

Jesus love dem, and dey love Jesus."

Such was my first conversation with this young disciple. I rejoiced in

the prospect of receiving him into the Church agreeably to his desire. I

wished, however, to converse somewhat further, and inquire more minutely

into his conduct; and promised to ride over and see him in a few days at

his master's lodgings.

When he was gone, I thought within myself, God has indeed redeemed souls

by the blood of his Son, "out of _every_ kindred, and tongue, and people,

and nation." If many of them for a season are devoted to earthly

slavery, {98} through the cruel avarice of man, yet, blessed be God, some

amongst them are, through divine grace, called to the glorious liberty of

the children of God; and so are redeemed from the slavery of him who

takes so many captive at his will. It is a happy thought, that "Ethiopia

shall soon stretch forth her hands unto God. Sing unto God, ye kingdoms

of the earth. Oh, sing praises unto the Lord."

PART II.

When we endeavour to estimate the worth of an immortal soul, we are

utterly lost in the attempt. The art of spiritual computation is not

governed by the same principles and rules which guide our speculations

concerning earthly objects. The value of gold, silver, merchandize,

food, raiment, lands, and houses, is easily regulated, by custom,

convenience, or necessity. Even the more capricious and imaginary worth

of a picture, medal, or statue, may be reduced to something of systematic

rule. Crowns and sceptres have had their adjudged valuation; and

kingdoms have been bought and sold for sums of money. But who can affix

the adequate price to a human soul? "What shall it profit a man, if he

shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man

give in exchange for his soul?"

The principles of ordinary arithmetic all fail here; and we are

constrained to say, that He alone who paid the ransom for sinners, and

made the souls of men his "purchased possession," can comprehend and

solve the arduous question. They are, indeed, "bought with a price," but

are "not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold; but with

the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without

spot." We shall only ascertain the value of a soul, when we shall be

fully able to estimate the worth of a Saviour.

Too often have we been obliged to hear what is the price which sordid,

unfeeling avarice has affixed to the _body_ of a poor Negro slave; let us

now attempt, while we pursue the foregoing narrative, to meditate on the

value which Infinite Mercy has attached to his _soul_.

Not many days after my first interview with my Negro disciple, I went

from home with the design of visiting and conversing with him again at

his master's house, which was situated in a part of the parish nearly

four miles distant from my own. The road which I took lay over a lofty

down, which commands a prospect of scenery seldom exceeded in beauty and

magnificence. It gave birth to silent but instructive contemplation.

The down itself was covered with sheep, grazing on its wholesome and

plentiful pasture. Here and there a shepherd's boy kept his appointed

station, and watched over the flock committed to his care. I viewed it

as an emblem of my own situation and employment. Adjoining the hill lay

an extensive parish, wherein many souls were given me to watch over, and

render an account of, at the day of the great Shepherd's appearing. The

pastoral scene before me seemed to be a living parable, illustrative of

my own spiritual charge. I felt a prayerful wish, that the good

Shepherd, who gave His life for the sheep, might enable me to be faithful

to my trust.

It occurred to me, about the same time, that my young African friend was

a sheep of another more distant fold, which Christ will yet bring to hear

his voice. For there shall be one fold and one Shepherd, and all nations

shall be brought to acknowledge that He alone "restoreth our souls, and

leadeth us in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." On the

left hand of the hill, as I advanced eastward, and immediately under its

declivity, extended a beautiful tract of land intersected by a large arm

of the sea, which (as the tide was fast flowing in) formed a broad lake

or haven of three miles in length. Woods, villages, cottages, and

churches, surrounded it in most pleasing variety of prospect. Beyond

this lay a large fleet of ships of war, and not far from it another of

merchantmen, both safe at anchor, and covering a tract of the sea of

several miles in extent. Beyond this, again, I saw the fortifications,

dockyards, and extensive public edifices of a large seaport town. The

sun shone upon the windows of the buildings and the flags of the ships

with great brightness, and added much to the splendour of the view.

I thought of the concerns of empires and plans of statesmen, the fate of

nations and the horrors of war. Happy will be that day when He shall

make wars to cease unto the end of the earth, and peace to be established

in its borders.

In the meantime, let us be thankful for those vessels and instruments of

defence, which, in the hands of God, preserve our country from the hand

of the enemy and the fury of the destroyer. What, thought I, do we not

owe to the exertions of the numerous crews on board those ships, who

leave their homes to fight their country's battles and maintain its

cause, whilst we sit every man under his vine and fig-tree, tasting the

sweets of a tranquillity unknown to most other nations in these days of

conflict and bloodshed!

On my right hand, to the south and south-east, the unbounded ocean

displayed its mighty waves. It was covered with vessels of every size,

sailing in all directions: some outward-bound to the most distant parts

of the world; others, after a long voyage, returning home, laden with the

produce of remote climes: some going forth in search of the enemy; others

sailing back to port after the hard-fought engagement, and bearing the

trophies of victory in the prizes which accompanied them home.

At the south-west of the spot on which I was riding extended a beautiful

semicircular bay, of about nine or ten miles in circumference, bounded by

high cliffs of white, red, and brown-coloured earths. Beyond this lay a

range of hills, whose tops are often buried in cloudy mists, but which

then appeared clear and distinct. This chain of hills, meeting with

another from the north, bounds a large fruitful vale, whose fields, now

ripe for harvest, proclaimed the goodness of God in the rich provision

which he makes for the sons of men. It is he who prepares the corn: he

crowns the year with his goodness, and his paths drop fatness. "They

drop upon the pastures of the wilderness; and the little hills rejoice on

every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are

covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing."

"The roving sight

Pursues its pleasing course o'er neighbouring hills,

Of many a different form and different hue:

Bright with the rip'ning corn, or green with grass,

Or dark with clovers purple bloom."

As I looked upon the numerous ships moving before me, I remembered the

words of the psalmist: "They that go down to the sea in ships, that do

business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his

wonders in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind,

which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go

down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They

reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits

end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them

out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves

thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he

bringeth them unto their desired haven. Oh that men would praise the

Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of

men!" (Ps. cvii. 23-31.)

The Negro servant then occurred to my mind. Perhaps, thought I, some of

these ships are bound to Africa, in quest of that most infamous object of

merchandise, a cargo of black slaves. Inhuman traffic for a nation that

bears the name of Christian! Perhaps these very waves, that are now

dashing on the rocks at the foot of this hill, have, on the shores of

Africa, borne witness to the horrors of forced separation between wives

and husbands, parents and children, torn asunder by merciless men, whose

hearts have been hardened against the common feeling of humanity by long

custom in this cruel trade. "Blessed are the merciful; for they shall

obtain mercy." When shall the endeavours of _that_ truly Christian

_friend_ of the oppressed Negro be crowned with success, in the abolition

of this wicked and disgraceful traffic? {103}

As I pursued the meditations which this magnificent and varied scenery

excited in my mind, I approached the edge of a tremendous perpendicular

cliff, with which the down terminates. I dismounted from my horse, and

tied it to a bush. The breaking of the waves against the foot of the

cliff at so great a distance beneath me, produced an incessant and

pleasing murmur. The sea-gulls were flying between the top of the cliff

where I stood and the rocks below, attending upon their nests, built in

the holes of the cliff. The whole scene in every direction was grand and

impressive; it was suitable to devotion. The Creator appeared in the

works of his creation, and called upon the creatures to honour and adore.

To the believer, this exercise is doubly delightful. He possesses a

right to the enjoyment of nature and providence, as well as to the

privileges of grace. His title-deed runs thus: "All things are yours;

whether Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas, or the world, or life, or death, or

things present, or things to come; all are yours; and ye are Christ's;

and Christ is God's."

I cast my eye downwards a little to the left towards a small cove, the

shore of which consists of fine hard sand. It is surrounded by fragments

of rock, chalk-cliffs, and steep banks of broken earth. Shut out from

human intercourse and dwellings, it seems formed for retirement and

contemplation. On one of these rocks I unexpectedly observed a man

sitting with a book which he was reading. The place was near two hundred

yards perpendicularly below me, but I soon discovered by his dress, and

by the black colour of his features contrasted with the white rocks

beside him, that it was no other than my Negro disciple, with, as I

doubted not, a Bible in his hand. I rejoiced at this unlooked-for

opportunity of meeting him in so solitary and interesting a situation. I

descended a steep bank, winding by a kind of rude staircase, formed by

fishermen and shepherds' boys, in the side of the cliff down to the

shore.

He was intent on his book, and did not perceive me till I approached very

near to him.

"William, is that you?"

"Ah, massa! me very glad to see you. How came massa into dis place? Me

tought nobody here, but only God and me."

"I was coming to your master's house to see you, and rode round by this

way for the sake of the prospect. I often come here in fine weather, to

look at the sea and shipping. Is that your Bible?"

"Yes, sir; {105} dis my dear goot Bible."

"I am glad," said I, "to see you so well employed. It is a good sign,

William."

"Yes, massa, a sign that God is goot to me; but me never goot to God."

"How so?"

"Me never tank him enough; me never pray to him enough: me never remember

enough who give me all dese goot tings. Massa, me afraid my heart is

very bat. Me wish me was like you."

"Like me, William? Why, you are like me, a poor helpless sinner, that

must, as well as yourself, perish in his sins, unless God, of his

infinite mercy and grace, pluck him as a brand from the burning, and make

him an instance of distinguishing love and favour. There is no

difference; we have both come short of the glory of God: all have

sinned."

"No, me not like you, massa; me tink nobody like me,--nobody feel such a

heart as me."

"Yes, William, your feelings, I am persuaded, are like those of every

truly convinced soul, who sees the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and the

greatness of the price which Christ Jesus paid for the sinner's ransom.

You can say, in the words of the hymn,--

'I the chief of sinners am,

But Jesus died for me.'"

"O yes, sir, me believe that Jesus died for poor Negro. What would

become of poor wicked Negro, if Christ no die for him? But he die for de

chief of sinners, and dat make my heart sometimes quite glad."

"What part of the Bible were you reading, William?"

"Me read how de man upon de cross spoke to Christ, and Christ spoke to

him. Now dat man's prayer just do for me; 'Lord, remember me.' Lord,

remember poor Negro sinner: dis is my prayer every morning, and sometimes

at night too; when me cannot tink of many words, den me say de same

again; Lord, remember poor Negro sinner."

"And be sure, William, the Lord hears that prayer. He pardoned and

accepted the thief upon the cross, and he will not reject you; he will in

no wise cast out any that come to him."

"No, sir, I believe it; but dere is so much sin in my heart, it makes me

afraid and sorry. Massa, do you see dese limpets, {107} how fast dey

stick to de rocks here? Just so, sin sticks fast to my heart."

"It may be so, William; but take another comparison: do you cleave to

Jesus Christ, by faith in his death and righteousness, as those limpets

cleave to the rock, and neither seas nor storms shall separate you from

his love."

"Dat is just what me want."

"Tell me, William, is not that very sin which you speak of a burden to

you? You do not love it; you would be glad to obtain strength against

it, and to be freed from it; would you not?"

"O yes; me give all dis world, if me had it, to be without sin!"

"Come then, and welcome, to Jesus Christ, my brother; his blood cleanseth

from all sin. He gave himself as a ransom for sinners. He hath borne

our grief, and carried our sorrows. He was wounded for our

transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of

our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed. The Lord

hath laid on him the iniquity of us all. Come, freely come to Jesus, the

Saviour of sinners."

"Yes, massa," said the poor fellow, weeping, "me will come: but me come

very slow; very slow, massa: me want to run, me want to fly. Jesus is

very goot to poor Negro, to send you to tell him all dis."

"But this is not the first time you have heard these truths!"

"No, sir; dey have been comfort to my soul many times, since me hear goot

minister preach in America, as me tell you last week at your house."

"Well, now I hope, William, that since God has been so graciously pleased

to open your eyes, and affect your mind with such a great sense of his

goodness in giving his Son to die for your sake; I hope that you do your

endeavour to keep his commandments: I hope you strive to behave well to

your master and mistress, and fellow-servants. He that is a Christian

inwardly will be a Christian outwardly; he that truly and savingly

believes in Christ, will show his faith by his works, as the apostle

says. Is it not so, William?"

"Yes, sir; me want to do so. Me want to be faithful. Me sorry to tink

how bat servant me was before de goot tings of Jesus Christ come to my

heart. Me wish to do well to my massa, when he see me and when he not

see; for me know God always see me. Me know dat if me sin against mine

own massa, me sin against God, and God be very angry with me. Beside,

how can me love Christ if me do not what Christ tell me? Me love my

fellow-servants, dough, as I tell you before, dey do not much love me;

and I pray God to bless dem. And when dey say bat tings, and try to make

me angry, den me tink, if Jesus Christ were in poor Negro's place, he

would not revile and answer again with bat words and temper, but he say

little and pray much. And so den me say noting at all, but pray to God

to forgive dem."

The more I conversed with this African convert, the more satisfactory

were the evidences of his mind being spiritually enlightened, and his

heart effectually wrought upon by the grace of God.

The circumstances of the place in which we met together contributed much

to the interesting effect which the conversation produced on my mind. The

little cove or bay was beautiful in the extreme. The air was calm and

serene. The sun shone, but we were sheltered from its rays by the

cliffs. One of these was stupendously lofty and large. It was white as

snow; its summit hung directly over our heads. The sea-fowls were flying

around it. Its whiteness was occasionally chequered with dark green

masses of samphire, which grew there. On the other side, and behind us,

was a more gradual declivity of many-coloured earths, interspersed with

green patches of grass and bushes, and little streams of water trickling

down the bank, and mingling with the sea at the bottom. At our feet the

waves were advancing over shelves of rocks covered with a great variety

of sea-weeds, which swam in little fragments, and displayed much beauty

and elegance of form as they were successively thrown upon the sand.

Ships of war and commerce were seen at different distances. Fishermen

were plying their trade in boats nearer the shore. The noise of the

flowing tide, combined with the voices of the sea-gulls over our heads,

and now and then a distant gun fired from the ships as they passed along,

added much to the peculiar sensations to which the scene gave birth.

Occasionally the striking of oars upon the waves, accompanied by the

boatmen's song, met the ear. The sheep aloft upon the down sometimes

mingled their bleatings with the other sounds. Thus all nature seemed to

unite in impressing an attentive observer's heart with affecting

thoughts.

I remained for a considerable time in conversation with the Negro,

finding that his master was gone from home for the day, and had given him

liberty for some hours. I spoke to him on the nature, duty, and

privilege of Christian baptism; pointed out to him, from a prayer-book

which I had with me, the clear and scriptural principles of our own

church upon that head; and found that he was very desirous of conforming

to them. He appeared to me to be well qualified for receiving that

sacramental pledge of his Redeemer's love; and I rejoiced in the prospect

of beholding him no longer a "stranger and foreigner, but a

fellow-citizen with the saints, and of the household of God."

"God," said I to him, "has promised to 'sprinkle many nations,' not only

with the waters of baptism, but also with the dews of his heavenly grace.

He says he will not only 'pour water on him that is thirsty,' but, 'I

will pour my Spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine

offspring.'"

"Yes, massa," said he, "he can make me to be clean in heart, and of a

right Spirit; he can purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; he can

wash me, and I shall be whiter dan snow."

"May God give you these blessings, and confirm you in every good gift!"

I was much pleased with the affectionate manner in which he spoke of his

parents, from whom he had been stolen in his childhood; and his wishes

that God might direct them by some means to the knowledge of the Saviour.

"Who knows," I said, "but some of these ships may be carrying a

missionary to the country where they live, to declare the good news of

salvation to your countrymen, and to your own dear parents in particular,

if they are yet alive!"

"Oh, my dear fader and moder! My dear gracious Saviour," exclaimed he,

leaping from the ground as he spoke, "if dou wilt but save deir souls,

and tell dem what dou hast done for sinner; but--"

He stopped, and seemed much affected.

"My friend," said I, "I will now pray with you, for your own soul, and

for those of your parents also."

"Do, massa; dat is very good and kind: do pray for poor Negro souls here

and everywhere."

This was a new and solemn "house of prayer." The sea-sand was our floor,

the heavens were our roof, the cliffs, the rocks, the hills, and the

waves, formed the walls of our chamber. It was not, indeed, a "place

where prayer was wont to be made;" but for this once it became a hallowed

spot: it will by me ever be remembered as such. The presence of God was

there. I prayed: the Negro wept. His heart was full. I felt with him,

and could not but weep likewise.

The last day will show whether our tears were not the tears of sincerity

and Christian love.

It was time for my return. I leaned upon his arm as we ascended the

steep cliff on my way back to my horse, which I had left at the top of

the hill. Humility and thankfulness were marked in his countenance. I

leaned upon his arm with the feelings of a _brother_. It was a

relationship I was happy to own. I took him by the hand at parting,

appointed one more interview previous to the day of baptizing him, and

bade him farewell for the present.

"God bless you, my dear massa!"

"And you, my fellow-Christian, for ever and ever!"

PART III.

The interesting and affecting conversation which I had with the Negro

servant produced a sensation not easy to be expressed. As I returned

home, I was led into meditation on the singular clearness and beauty of

those evidences of faith and conversion of heart to God, which I had just

seen and heard. How plainly, I thought, it appears that salvation is

freely "by grace through faith; and that not of ourselves; it is the gift

of God; not of works, lest any man should boast." What but the Holy

Spirit, who is the author and giver of the life of grace, could have

wrought such a change from the once dark, perverse, and ignorant heathen,

to this now convinced, enlightened, humble, and believing Christian! How

manifestly is the uncontrolled sovereignty of the Divine will exercised

in the calling and translating of sinners from darkness to light! What a

lesson may the nominal Christian of a civilized country sometimes learn

from the simple, sincere religion of a converted heathen!

I afterwards made particular inquiry into this young man's domestic and

general deportment. Everything I heard was satisfactory, nor could I

entertain a doubt respecting the consistency of his conduct and

character. I had some further conversations with him, in the course of

which I pursued such a plan of scriptural instruction and examination as

I conceived to be the most suitable to his progressive state of mind. He

improved much in reading, carried his Bible constantly with him, and took

every opportunity which his duty to his master's service would allow for

perusing it. I have frequently had occasion to observe that amongst the

truly religious poor, who have not had the advantage of being taught to

read in early youth, a concern about the soul and a desire to know the

word of God, have proved effectual motives for their learning to read

with great ease and advantage to themselves and others. It was

strikingly so in the present case.

I had, for a considerable time, been accustomed to meet some serious

persons once a week, in a cottage at no great distance from the house

where he lived, for the purpose of religious conversation, instruction,

and prayer. Having found these occasions remarkably useful and

interesting, I thought it would be very desirable to take the Negro

there, in order that there might be other witnesses to the simplicity and

sincerity of real Christianity, as exhibited in the character of this

promising young convert. I hoped it might prove an eminent mean of grace

to excite and quicken the spirit of prayer and praise amongst some of my

parishioners, over whose spiritual progress I was anxiously watching.

I accordingly obtained his master's leave that he should attend me to one

of my cottage assemblies. His master, who was thoroughly convinced of

the extraordinary change, in conduct and disposition, which religion had

produced in his servant, was pleased with my attention to him, and always

spoke well of his behaviour.

I set out on the day appointed for the interview. The cottage at which

we usually assembled was nearly four miles distant from my own residence.

My road lay along the foot of the hill mentioned in my last account of

the Negro, from the summit of which so luxuriant a prospect was seen. On

my right hand the steep acclivity of the hill intercepted all prospect,

except that of numerous sheep feeding on its rich and plentiful produce.

Here and there the nearly perpendicular side of a chalk-pit varied the

surface of the hill, contrasting a dazzling white to the sober green of

the surrounding bank.

On the left hand, at the distance of nearly half a mile, the tide flowed

from the sea into a lake or haven of a considerable length and breadth.

At one end of it, fishing and pilot vessels lay at anchor; at the other

appeared the parish church, amongst the adjoining woods and fields. The

bells were ringing; a gently swelling sound was brought along the surface

of the water, and an echo returned from a prominent part of the hill

beneath which I was riding. The whole scene was delightful.

I passed some rural and beautifully situated cottages, which seemed to be

formed as fit residences for peace and tranquillity; each was surrounded

by a garden, and each had a little orchard or field adjacent, where the

husbandman's cow enjoyed her own pasture, and at the same time prepared

rich provision for her owner's family. Such was the wise and considerate

allotment which the landlords and the farmers had _here_ made for the

labouring poor. The wholesome vegetable, the medicinal herb, and the

sweet-scented flower, intermingled as they grew around these little

dwellings, and reminded me, as I looked upon them, how comfortable is the

lot of the industrious poor, whose hearts have learned the lesson of

gratitude in the school of heavenly wisdom. For them as mercifully as

for their richest neighbour, the sun shines, the rain descends, the earth

brings forth her increase, the flower blossoms, the bird sings. Their

wants are few, and contentment makes them less. How great the blessing

of being poor in this world, but rich in faith and a chosen inheritance

in a better!

I knew that this was the character of some whose humble but neat and

cleanly cottages I passed. A few such features in the prospect rendered

it most lovely. Peace be to their memory, both as pilgrims and strangers

here, and as ransomed souls whom I hope to meet in glory hereafter!

The house to which I was travelling was situated at the corner of an oak

wood, which screened it both from the burning heat of summer suns and the

heavy blasts of winter south-west storms. As I approached it, I saw my

friend the Negro sitting under a tree, and waiting my arrival. He held

in his hand a little tract which I had given him; his Bible lay on the

ground. He rose with much cheerfulness, saying--

"Ah, massa, me very glad to see you; me tink you long time coming."

"William, I hope you are well. I am going to take you with me to a few

of my friends, who, I trust, are truly sincere in their religious

pursuits. We meet every Wednesday evening for conversation about the

things that belong to our everlasting peace, and I am sure you will be a

welcome visitor."

"Massa, me not goot enough to be with such goot people. Me great sinner;

dey be goot Christian."

"If you were to ask them, William, they would each tell you they were

worse than others. Many of them were once, and that not very long ago,

living in an openly sinful manner, ignorant of God, and the enemies of

Jesus Christ by thought and deed. But divine grace stopped them in their

wicked course, and subdued their hearts to the love and obedience of him

and his gospel. You will only meet a company of poor fellow-sinners, who

love to speak and sing the praises of redeeming love; and I am sure,

William, that is a song in which you will be willing to join them."

"O yes, sir! dat song just do for poor Negro."

By this time we had arrived at the cottage garden gate. Several well-

known faces appeared in and near the house, and the smile of affection

welcomed us as we entered. It was known that the Negro was to visit the

little society this evening, and satisfaction beamed on every

countenance, as I took him by the hand and introduced him among them,

saying, "I have brought a brother from Africa to see you, my friends. Bid

him welcome in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Sir," said an humble and pious labourer, whose heart and tongue always

overflowed with Christian kindness, "we are at all times glad to see our

dear minister, but especially so to-day in such company as you have

brought with you. We have heard how merciful the Lord has been to him.

Give me your hand, good friend (turning to the Negro). God be with you,

here and everywhere; and blessed be his holy name for calling sinners, as

I hope he has done you and me, to love and serve him for his mercy's

sake."

Each one greeted him as he came into the house, and some addressed him in

very kind and impressive language.

"Massa," said he, "me not know what to say to all dese goot friends; me

tink dis look a little like heaven upon earth."

He then, with tears in his eyes--which, almost before he spoke, brought

responsive drops into those of many present--said, "Goot friends and

bredren in Christ Jesus, God bless you all, and bring you to heaven at de

last."

It was my stated custom, when I met to converse with these cottagers, to

begin with prayer and reading a portion of the Scriptures.

When this was ended, I told the people present that the providence of God

had placed this young man for a time under my ministry; and that, finding

him seriously disposed, and believing him to be very sincere in his

religious profession, I had resolved on baptizing him, agreeably to his

own wishes. I added, that I had now brought him with me to join in

Christian conversation with us; for, as in olden times they that feared

the Lord spake often one to another, in testimony that they thought upon

his name (Mal. iii. 16), so I hoped we were fulfilling a Christian and

brotherly duty in thus assembling for mutual edification.

Addressing myself to the Negro, I said, "William, tell me who made you."

"God, de goot Fader."

"Who redeemed you?"

"Jesus, his dear Son, who died for me."

"Who sanctified you?"

"The Holy Ghost, who teach me to know de goot Fader, and his dear Son

Jesus."

"What was your state by nature?"

"Me wicked sinner; me know noting but sin, me do noting but sin; my soul

more black dan my body."

"Has any change taken place in you since then?"

"Me hope so, massa; but me sometime afraid no."

"If you are changed, who changed you?"

"God de goot Fader, Jesus his dear Son, and God de Holy Spirit."

"How was any change brought about in you?"

"God make me a slave when me was young little boy."

"How, William? would you say God made you a slave?"

"No, massa, no: me mean, God let me be made slave by white men, to do me

goot."

"How to do you good?"

"He take me from de land of darkness, and bring me to de land of light."

"Which do you call the land of light? the West India Islands?"

"No, massa; dey be de land of Providence, but America be de land of light

to me; for dere me first hear goot minister preach. And now dis place

where I am now is de land of more light; for here you teach me more and

more how goot Jesus is to sinners."

"What does the blood of Christ do?"

"It cleanse from all sin; and so me hope from my sin."

"Are then all men cleansed from sin by his blood?"

"O no, massa."

"Who are cleansed and saved?"

"Dose dat have faith in him."

"Can you prove that out of the Bible?"

"Yes, sir: 'He dat believeth on de Son hath everlasting life; and he dat

believeth not de Son shall not see life, but de wrath of God abideth on

him'" (John iii. 36).

"What is it to have faith?"

"Me suppose dat it is to tink much about Jesus Christ, to love him much,

to believe all he says to be true, to pray to him very much; and when me

feel very weak and very sinful, to tink dat he is very strong and very

goot, and all dat for my sake."

"And have you such a faith as you describe?"

"Oh, massa! me tink sometimes me have no faith at all."

"Why so, William?"

"When me want to tink about Jesus Christ, my mind run about after oder

tings; when me want to love him, my heart soon quite cold; when me want

to believe all to be true what he says to sinners, me den tink it is not

true for me; when me want to pray, de devil put bat, very bat thoughts

into me; and me never tank Christ enough. Now all dis make me sometimes

afraid I have no faith."

I observed a very earnest glow of attention and fellow-feeling in some

countenances present, as he spoke these words I then said--

"I think, William, I can prove that you have faith, notwithstanding your

fears to the contrary. Answer me a few more questions.

"Did you begin to think yourself a great sinner, and to feel the want of

a Saviour, of your own self, and by your own thoughts and doings?"

"O no; it came to me when me tink noting about it, and seek noting about

it."

"Who sent the good minister in America to awaken your soul by his

preaching?"

"God, very certainly."

"Who then began the work of serious thought in your mind?"

"De goot God; me could not do it of myself, me sure of dat."

"Do you not think that Jesus Christ and his salvation are the one thing

most needful and most desirable?"

"Oh yes, me quite sure of dat."

"Do you not believe that he is able to save you?"

"Yes, he is able to save to de uttermost."

"Do you think he is not willing to save you?"

"Me dare not say dat. He is so goot, so merciful, so kind, to say he

will in no wise cast out any dat come to him."

"Do you wish, and desire, and strive to keep his commandments?"

"Yes, massa, because me love him, and dat make me want to do as he say."

"Are you willing to suffer for his sake, if God should call you to do

so?"

"Me do tink me could die for de love of him: he not tink it too much to

die for wicked sinner; why should wicked sinner tink it much to die for

so goot and righteous a Saviour?"

"I think and hope I may say to you, William, 'Thy faith hath made thee

whole.'"

Thus ended my examination for the present. The other friends who were in

the house listened with the most affectionate anxiety to all that passed.

One of them observed, not without evident emotion--

"I see, sir, that though some men are white and some are black, true

Christianity is all of one colour. My own heart has gone with this good

man, every word he has spoken."

"And so has mine," gently re-echoed from every part of the room.

After some time passed in more general conversation on the subject of the

Negro's history, I said, "Let us now praise God for the rich and

unspeakable gift of his grace, and sing the hymn of redeeming love--

'Now begin the heavenly theme,

Sing aloud in Jesus' name,'" &c.

Which was accordingly done. Whatever might be the merit of the natural

voices, it was evident there was spiritual melody in all their hearts.

The Negro was not much used to our way of singing, yet joined with great

earnestness and affection, that showed how truly he felt what he uttered.

When the fifth verse was ended--

"Nothing brought him from above,

Nothing but redeeming love"--

he repeated the words, almost unconscious where he was--

"No, noting, noting but redeeming love, bring him down to poor William;

noting but redeeming love."

The following verses were added and sung by way of conclusion:--

See, a stranger comes to view,

Though he's black, {121} he's comely too

Comes to join the choirs above,

Singing of redeeming love.

Welcome, Negro, welcome here,

Banish doubt and banish fear;

You, who Christ's salvation prove,

Praise and bless redeeming love.

I concluded with some remarks on the nature of salvation by grace,

exhorting all present to press forward in the heavenly journey. It was

an evening the circumstances of which, had they never been recorded on

earth, were yet, doubtless, registered in the book of remembrance above.

I then fixed the day for the baptism of the Negro, and so took leave of

my little affectionate circle.

The moon shone bright as I returned home, and was beautifully reflected

from the waters of the lake; harmony and repose characterized the scene.

I had just been uniting in the praises of the God of grace and

providence; and now the God of nature demanded a fresh tribute of

thanksgiving for the beauties and comforts of creation; as David sang,

"When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the

stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of

him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?"

In a few days the Negro was baptized, and not long after went on a voyage

with his master.

Since that time I have not been able to hear any tidings of him. Whether

he yet wanders as a pilgrim in this lower world, or whether he has joined

the heavenly choir in the song of "redeeming love" in glory, I know not.

This I do know, he was a monument to the Lord's praise. He bore the

impression of the Saviour's image on his heart, and exhibited the marks

of divine grace in his life and conversation, with singular simplicity

and unfeigned sincerity.

Give to God the glory.

THE YOUNG COTTAGER.

PART I.

When a serious Christian turns his attention to the barren state of the

wilderness through which he is travelling, frequently must he heave a

sigh for the sins and sorrows of his fellow-mortals. The renewed heart

thirsts with holy desire that the Paradise which was lost through Adam

may be fully regained in Christ. But the overflowings of sin within and

without, the contempt of sacred institutions, the carelessness of soul,

the pride of unbelief, the eagerness of sensual appetite, the ambition

for worldly greatness, and the deep-rooted enmity of the carnal heart

against God: these things are as "the fiery serpents, and scorpions, and

drought," which distress his soul, as he journeys through "that great and

terrible wilderness."

Sometimes, like a solitary pilgrim, he weeps in secret places, and rivers

of water run down his eyes, because men keep not the law of God.

Occasionally he meets with a few fellow-travellers whose spirit is

congenial with his own, and with whom he can take "sweet counsel

together." They comfort and strengthen each other by the way. Each can

relate something of the mercies of his God, and how kindly they have been

dealt with, as they travelled onwards. The dreariness of the path is

thus beguiled, and now and then, for a while, happy experiences of the

divine consolation cheer their souls; "the wilderness and the solitary

place are glad for them; the desert rejoices and blossoms as the rose."

But even at the very time when the Christian is taught to feel the peace

of God which passeth all understanding, to trust that he is personally

interested in the blessings of salvation, and to believe that God will

promote his own glory by glorifying the penitent sinner; yet sorrows will

mingle with his comforts, and he will rejoice, not without trembling,

when he reflects on the state of other men. The anxieties connected with

earthly relations are all alive in his soul, and, through the operation

of the Spirit of God, become sanctified principles and motives for

action. As the husband and father of a family; as the neighbour of the

poor, the ignorant, the wicked, and the wretched; above all, as the

spiritual overseer of the flock, if such be his holy calling, the heart

which has been taught to feel for its own case will abundantly feel for

others.

But when he attempts to devise means in order to stem the torrent of

iniquity, to instruct the ignorant, and to convert the sinner from the

error of his way, he cannot help crying out, "Who is sufficient for these

things?" Unbelief passes over the question, and trembles. But faith

quickly revives the inquirer with the cheerful assurance that "our

sufficiency is of God," and saith, "Commit thy way unto the Lord, and he

shall bring it to pass."

When he is thus affectionately engaged for the good of mankind, he will

become seriously impressed with the necessity of early attentions to the

young in particular. Many around him are grown gray-headed in sin, and

give but little prospect of amendment. Many of the parents and heads of

families are so eagerly busied in the profits, pleasures, and occupations

of the world, that they heed not the warning voice of their instructor.

Many of their elder children are launching out into life, headstrong,

unruly, "earthly, sensual, devilish;" they likewise treat the wisdom of

God as if it were foolishness. But, under these discouragements, we may

often turn with hope to the very young, to the little ones of the flock,

and endeavour to teach them to sing hosannas to the Son of David, before

their minds are wholly absorbed in the world and its allurements. We may

trust that a blessing shall attend such labours, if undertaken in faith

and simplicity, and that some at least of our youthful disciples, like

Josiah, while they are yet young, may begin to seek after the God of

their fathers.

Such an employment, especially when blessed by any actual instances of

real good produced, enlivens the mind with hope, and fills it with

gratitude. We are thence led to trust that the next generation may

become more fruitful unto God than the present, and the Church of Christ

be replenished with many such as have been called into the vineyard

"early in the morning." And should our endeavours for a length of time

apparently fail of success, yet we ought not to despair. Early

impressions and convictions of conscience have sometimes lain dormant for

years, and at last revived into gracious existence and maturity. It was

not said in vain, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he

is old he will not depart from it."

What a gratifying occupation it is to an affectionate mind, even in a way

of nature, to walk through the fields, and lead a little child by the

hand, enjoying its infantine prattle, and striving to improve the time by

some kind word of instruction! I wish that every Christian pilgrim in

the way of grace, as he walks through the Lord's pastures, would try to

lead at least one little child by the hand; and perhaps, whilst he is

endeavouring to guide and preserve his young and feeble companion, the

Lord will recompense him double for all his cares by comforting his own

heart in the attempt. The experiment is worth the trial. It is

supported by this recollection,--"The Lord will come with strong hand,

and his arm shall rule for him; behold, his reward is with him, and his

work before him. He shall feed his flock like a shepherd; he shall

gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and _shall

gently lead those that are with young_."

I shall plead no further apology for introducing to the notice of my

readers a few particulars relative to a young female cottager, whose

memory is particularly endeared to me from the circumstance of her being,

so far as I can trace or discover, my first-born spiritual child in the

ministry of the gospel. She was certainly the first, of whose conversion

to God, under my own pastoral instruction, I can speak with precision and

assurance.

Every parent of a family knows that there is a very interesting emotion

of heart connected with the birth of his first-born child. Energies and

affections, to which the mind has hitherto been almost a stranger, begin

to unfold themselves and expand into active existence when he first is

hailed as a father. But may not the spiritual father be allowed the

possession and indulgence of a similar sensation in his connection with

the children whom the Lord gives him, as begotten through the ministry of

the word of life! If the first-born child in nature be received as a new

and acceptable blessing, how much more so the first-born child in grace!

I claim this privilege, and crave permission, in writing what follows, to

erect a monumental record, sacred to the memory of a dear little child,

who, I trust, will at the last day prove my crown of rejoicing.

Jane S--- was the daughter of poor parents, in the village where it

pleased God first to cast my lot in the ministry. My acquaintance with

her commenced when she was twelve years of age by her weekly attendance

at my house amongst a number of children whom I invited and regularly

instructed every Saturday afternoon.

They used to read, repeat catechisms, psalms, hymns, and portions of

Scripture. I accustomed them also to pass a kind of free conversational

examination, according to their age and ability, in those subjects by

which I hoped to see them made wise unto salvation.

On the summer evenings I frequently used to assemble this little group

out of doors in my garden, sitting under the shade of some trees, which

protected us from the heat of the sun; from hence a scene appeared, which

rendered my occupation the more interesting. For adjoining the spot

where we sat, and only separated from us by a fence, was the churchyard,

surrounded with beautiful prospects in every direction.

There lay the mortal remains of thousands, who, from age to age, in their

different generations, had been successively committed to the

grave,--"earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Here the once

famed ancestors of the rich, and the less known forefathers of the poor

lay mingling their dust together, and alike waiting the resurrection from

the dead.

I had not far to look for subjects of warning and exhortation suitable to

my little flock of lambs that I was feeding. I could point to the

heaving sods that marked the different graves and separated them from

each other, and tell my pupils that, young as they were, none of them

were too young to die; and that probably more than half of the bodies

which were buried there were those of little children. I hence took

occasion to speak of the nature and value of a soul, and to ask them

where they expected their souls to go when they departed hence and were

no more seen on earth.

I told them who was "the resurrection and the life," and who alone could

take away the sting of death. I used to remind them that the hour was

"coming in the which all that are in the graves shall hear His voice, and

shall come forth: they that have done good, unto the resurrection of

life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation."

I often availed myself of these opportunities to call to their

recollection the more recent deaths of their own relatives that lay

buried so near us. Some had lost a parent, others a brother or sister;

some perhaps had lost all these, and were committed to the mercy of their

neighbours as fatherless or motherless orphans. Such circumstances were

occasionally useful to excite tender emotions, favourable to serious

impressions.

Sometimes I sent the children to the various stones which stood at the

head of the graves, and bid them learn the epitaphs inscribed upon them.

I took pleasure in seeing the little ones thus dispersed in the

churchyard, each committing to memory a few verses written in

commemoration of the departed. They would soon accomplish the desired

object, and eagerly return to me ambitious to repeat their task.

Thus my churchyard became a book of instruction, and every grave-stone a

leaf of edification for my young disciples.

The church itself stood in the midst of the ground. It was a spacious

antique structure. Within those very walls I first proclaimed the

message of God to sinners. As these children surrounded me, I sometimes

pointed to the church, spoke to them of the nature of public worship, the

value of the Sabbath, the duty of regular attendance on its services, and

urged their serious attention to the means of grace. I showed them the

sad state of many countries, where neither churches nor Bibles were

known, and the no less melancholy condition of multitudes at home, who

sinfully neglect worship and slight the word of God. I thus tried to

make them sensible of their own favours and privileges.

Neither was I at a loss for another class of objects around me from which

I could draw useful instruction; for many of the beauties of created

nature appealed in view.

Eastward of us extended a large river or lake of sea-water, chiefly

formed by the tide, and nearly enclosed by land. Beyond this was a fine

bay and road for ships, filled with vessels of every size, from the small

sloop or cutter to the first-rate man-of-war. On the right hand of the

haven rose a hill of peculiarly beautiful form and considerable height.

Its verdure was very rich, and many hundred sheep graced upon its sides

and summit. From the opposite shore of the same water a large sloping

extent of bank was diversified with fields, woods, hedges, and cottages.

At its extremity stood, close to the edge of the sea itself, the remains

of the tower of an ancient church, still preserved as a sea-mark. Far

beyond the bay, a very distant shore was observable, and land beyond it;

trees, towns, and other buildings appeared, more especially when gilded

by the reflected rays of the sun.

To the south-westward of the garden was another down, covered also with

flocks of sheep, and a portion of it fringed with trees. At the foot of

this hill lay the village, a part of which gradually ascended to the

rising ground on which the church stood.

From the intermixture of houses with gardens, orchards, and trees, it

presented a very pleasing aspect. Several fields adjoined the garden on

the east and north, where a number of cattle were pasturing. My own

little shrubberies and flower-beds variegated the view, and recompensed

my toil in rearing them, as well by their beauty as their fragrance.

Had the sweet psalmist of Israel sat in this spot, he would have

glorified God the Creator by descanting on these his handiworks. I

cannot write psalms like David, but I wish, in my own poor way, to praise

the Lord for his goodness, and to show forth his wonderful works to the

children of men. But had David been also surrounded with a troop of

young scholars in such a situation, he would once more have said, "Out of

the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength."

I love to retrace these scenes; they are past, but the recollection is

sweet.

I love to retrace them, for they bring to my mind many former mercies,

which ought not, for the Lord's sake, to be forgotten.

I love to retrace them, for they reassure me that, in the course of that

private ministerial occupation, God was pleased to give me so valuable a

fruit of my labours.

Little Jane used constantly to appear on these weekly seasons of

instruction. I made no very particular observations concerning her

during the first twelve months or more after her commencement of

attendance. She was not then remarkable for any peculiar attainment. On

the whole, I used to think her rather more slow of apprehension than most

of her companions. She usually repeated her tasks correctly, but was

seldom able to make answers to questions for which she was not previously

prepared with replies--a kind of extempore examination, in which some of

the children excelled. Her countenance was not engaging; her eye

discovered no remarkable liveliness. She read tolerably well, took

pains, and improved in it.

Mildness and quietness marked her general demeanour. She was very

constant in her attendance on public worship at the church, as well as on

my Saturday instruction at home. But, generally speaking, she was little

noticed, except for her regular and orderly conduct. Had I then been

asked of which of my young scholars I had formed the most favourable

opinion, poor Jane might have been altogether omitted in the list.

How little do we oftentimes know what God is doing in other people's

hearts! What poor calculators and judges we frequently prove till he

opens our eyes! His thoughts are not our thoughts; neither our ways his

ways.

Once, indeed, during the latter part of that year, I was struck with her

ready attention to my wishes. I had, agreeably to the plan above

mentioned, sent her into the churchyard to commit to memory an epitaph

which I admired. On her return she told me that, in addition to what I

desired, she had also learned another, which was inscribed on an

adjoining stone, adding, that she thought it a very pretty one.

I thought so too, and perhaps my readers will be of the same opinion.

Little Jane, though dead, yet shall speak. While I transcribe the lines,

I can powerfully imagine that I hear her voice repeating them. The idea

is exceedingly gratifying to me.

EPITAPH ON MRS. A. B.

Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tear

That mourns a thy exit from a world like this;

Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,

And stayed thy progress to the seats of bliss.

No more confined to grovelling scenes of night,

No more a tenant pent in mortal clay;

Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight,

And trace thy journey to the realms of day.

The above was her appointed task; and the other, which she voluntarily

learned and spoke of with pleasure, is this:--

EPITAPH ON THE STONE ADJOINING.

It must be so--Our father Adam's fall,

And disobedience, brought this lot on all.

All die in him--But, hopeless should we be,

Blest Revelation! were it not for thee.

Hail, glorious Gospel! heavenly light, whereby

We live with comfort, and with comfort die;

And view, beyond this gloomy scene the tomb

A life of endless happiness to come.

I afterwards discovered that the sentiment expressed in the latter

epitaph had much affected her, but at the period of this little incident

I knew nothing of her mind; I had comparatively overlooked her. I have

often been sorry for it since. Conscience seemed to rebuke me when I

afterwards discovered what the Lord had been doing for her soul, as if I

had neglected her, yet it was not done designedly. She was unknown to us

all, except that, as I since found out, her regularity and abstinence

from the sins and follies of her young equals in age and station brought

upon her many taunts and jeers from others, which she bore very meekly;

but at that time I knew it not.

I was young myself in the ministry, and younger in Christian experience.

My parochial plans had not as yet assumed such a principle of practical

order and inquiry as to make me acquainted with the character and conduct

of each family and individual in my flock.

I was then quite a learner, and had much to learn.

And what am I now? A learner still; and if I have learned anything, it

is this, that I have every day more and more yet to learn. Of this I am

certain, that my young scholar soon became my teacher. I _first_ saw

what true religion could accomplish in witnessing her experience of it.

The Lord once "called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst

of his disciples" as an emblem and an illustration of his doctrine. But

the Lord did more in the case of little Jane. He not only called _her_

as a child to show, by a similitude, what conversion means, but he also

called her by his grace to be a vessel of mercy, and a living witness of

that almighty power and love by which her own heart was turned to God.

PART II.

There is no illustration of the nature and character of the Redeemer's

kingdom on earth which is more grateful to contemplation, than that of

the shepherd and his flock. Imagination has been accustomed, from our

earliest childhood, to wander amongst the fabled retreats of the Arcadian

shepherds. We have probably often delighted ourselves in our own native

country, by witnessing the interesting occupation of the pastoral scene.

The shepherd, tending his flock on the side of some spacious hill, or in

the hollow of a sequestered valley; folding them at night, and guarding

them against all danger; leading them from one pasture to another, or for

refreshment to the cooling waters. These objects have met and gratified

our eyes, as we travelled through the fields, and sought out creation's

God, amidst creation's beauties. The poet and the painter have each lent

their aid to cherish our delight in these imaginations. Many a

descriptive verse has strengthened our attachment to the pastoral scene,

and many a well-wrought picture has occasioned it to glow like a reality

in our ideas.

But far more impressively than these causes can possibly affect, has the

word of God endeared the subject to our hearts, and sanctified it to

Christian experience. Who does not look back with love and veneration to

those days of holy simplicity, when patriarchs of the church of God lived

in tents and watched their flocks? With what a strength and beauty of

allusion do the prophets refer to the intercourse between the shepherd

and flock for an illustration of the Saviour's kingdom on earth! The

Psalmist rejoiced in the consideration that the Lord was his Shepherd,

and that therefore he should not want. The Redeemer himself assumed this

interesting title, and declared that "his sheep hear his voice, he knows

them, and they follow him, and he gives unto them eternal life."

Perhaps at no previous moment was this comparison ever expressed so

powerfully, as when his risen Lord gave the pastoral charge to the lately

offending but now penitent disciple, saying, "Feed my sheep." Every

principle of grace, mercy, and peace, met together on that occasion.

Peter had thrice denied his Master: his Master now thrice asked him,

"Lovest thou me?" Peter each time appealed to his own, or to his Lord's

consciousness of what he felt within his heart. As often Jesus commited

to his care the flock which he had purchased with his blood. And that

none might be forgotten, he not only said, "Feed my sheep," but "Feed my

lambs," also.

May every instructor of the young keep this injunction enforced on his

conscience and affections,--I return to little Jane.

It was about fifteen months from the first period of her attendance on my

Saturday school, when I missed her from her customary place. Two or

three weeks had gone by, without my making any particular inquiry

respecting her. I was at length informed that she was not well; but

apprehending no peculiar cause for alarm, nearly two months passed away

without any further mention of her name being made.

At length a poor old woman in the village, of whose religious disposition

I had formed a good opinion, came and said to me, "Sir, have you not

missed Jane S--- at your house on Saturday afternoons?"

"Yes," I replied, "I believe she is not well."

"Nor ever will be, I fear," said the woman.

"What! do you apprehend any danger in the case?"

"Sir, she is very poorly indeed, and I think is in a decline. She wants

to see you, sir; but is afraid you would not come to see such a poor

young child as she is."

"Not go where poverty and sickness may call me? How can she imagine so?

At which house does she live?"

"Sir, it is a poor place, and she is ashamed to ask you to come there.

Her near neighbours are noisy wicked people, and her own father and

mother are strange folks. They all make game at poor Jenny because she

reads her Bible so much."

"Do not tell me about poor places and wicked people: that is the very

situation where a minister of the gospel is called to do the most good. I

shall go to see her; you may let her know my intention."

"I will, sir; I go in most days to speak to her, and it does one's heart

good to hear her talk."

"Indeed!" said I, "what does she talk about?"

"Talk about, poor thing! why, nothing but good things, such as the Bible,

and Jesus Christ, and life, and death, and her soul, and heaven, and

hell, and your discourses, and the books you used to teach her, sir. Her

father says he'll have no such godly things in his house; and her own

mother scoffs at her, and says she supposes Jenny counts herself better

than other folks. But she does not mind all that. She will read her

books, and then talk so pretty to her mother, and beg that she would

think about her soul."

"The Lord forgive me," thought I, "for not being more attentive to this

poor child's case!" I seemed to feel the importance of infantine

instruction more than ever I had done before, and felt a rising hope that

this girl might prove a kind of first-fruits of my labours.

I now recollected her quiet, orderly, diligent attendance on our little

weekly meetings; and her marked approbation of the epitaph, as related in

my last paper, rushed into my thoughts. "I hope, I really hope," said I,

"this dear child will prove a true child of God. And if so, what a mercy

to her, and what a mercy for me!"

{Little Jane's Cottage: p137.jpg}

The next morning I went to see the child. Her dwelling was of the

humblest kind. It stood against a high bank of earth, which formed a

sort of garden behind it. It was so steep, that but little would grow in

it; yet that little served to show not only, on the one hand, the poverty

of its owners, but also to illustrate the happy truth, that even in the

worst of circumstances the Lord does make a kind provision for the

support of his creatures. The front aspect of the cottage was chiefly

rendered pleasing by a honeysuckle, which luxuriantly climbed up the

wall, enclosing the door, windows, and even the chimney, with its twining

branches. As I entered the house-door, its flowers put forth a very

sweet and refreshing smell. Intent on the object of my visit, I at the

same moment offered up silent prayer to God, and entertained a hope, that

the welcome fragrance of the shrub might be illustrative of that

all-prevailing intercession of a Redeemer, which I trusted was, in the

case of this little child, as "a sweet-smelling savour" to her heavenly

Father. The very flowers and leaves of the garden and field are

emblematical of higher things, when grace teaches us to make them so.

Jane was in bed upstairs. I found no one in the house with her except

the woman who had brought me the message on the evening before. The

instant I looked on the girl, I perceived a very marked change in her

countenance: it had acquired the consumptive hue, both white and red. A

delicacy unknown to it before quite surprised me, owing to the alteration

it produced in her look. She received me first with a very sweet smile,

and then instantly burst into a flood of tears, just sobbing out,--

"I am so glad to see you, sir!"

"I am very much concerned at your being so ill, my child, and grieved

that I was not sooner aware of your state. But I hope the Lord designs

it for your good." Her eye, not her tongue, powerfully expressed, "I

hope and think he does."

"Well, my poor child, since you can no longer come to see me, I will come

and see you, and we will talk over the subjects which I have been used to

explain to you."

"Indeed, sir, I shall be so glad!"

"That I believe she will," said the woman; "for she loves to talk of

nothing so much as what she has heard you say in your sermons, and in the

books you have given her."

"Are you really desirous, my dear child, to be a true Christian?"

"Oh, yes, yes, sir; I am sure I desire that above all things."

I was astonished and delighted at the earnestness and simplicity with

which she spoke these words.

"Sir," added she, "I have been thinking, as I lay on my bed for many

weeks past, how good you are to instruct us poor children; what must

become of us without it!"

"I am truly glad to perceive that my instructions have not been lost upon

you, and pray God that this your present sickness may be an instrument of

blessing in his hands to prove, humble, and sanctify you. My dear child,

you have a soul, an immortal soul to think of; you remember what I have

often said to you about the value of a soul: 'What shall it profit a man,

if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'"

"Yes, sir, I remember well you told us, that when our bodies are put into

the grave, our souls will then go either to the good or the bad place."

"And to which of these places do you think that, as a sinner in the sight

of God, you deserve to go?"

"To the bad one, sir."

"What! to everlasting destruction!"

"Yes, sir."

"Why so?"

"Because I am a great sinner."

"And must all great sinners go to hell?"

"They all deserve it; and I am sure I do."

"But is there no way of escape? Is there no way for a great sinner to be

saved?"

"Yes, sir, Christ is the Saviour."

"And whom does he save?"

"All believers."

"And do you believe in Christ yourself?"

"I do not know, sir; I wish I did; but I feel that I love him."

"What do you love him for?"

"Because he is good to poor children's souls like mine."

"What has he done for you?"

"He died for me, sir; and what could he do more?"

"And what do you hope to gain by his death?"

"A good place when I die, if I believe in him, and love him."

"Have you felt any uneasiness on account of your soul?"

"Oh, yes, sir, a great deal. When you used to talk to us children on

Saturdays, I often felt as if I could hardly bear it, and wondered that

others could seem so careless. I thought I was not fit to die. I

thought of all the bad things I had ever done and said, and believed God

must be very angry with me; for you often told us, that God would not be

mocked; and that Christ said, if we were not converted, we could not go

to heaven. Sometimes I thought I was so young it did not signify: and

then, again, it seemed to me a great sin to think so; for I knew I was

old enough to see what was right and what was wrong; and so God had a

just right to be angry when I did wrong. Besides, I could see that my

heart was not right; and how could such a heart be fit for heaven?

Indeed, sir, I used to feel very uneasy."

"My dear Jenny, I wish I had known all this before. Why did you never

tell me about it?"

"Sir, I durst not. Indeed, I could not well say what was the matter with

me: and I thought you would look upon me as very bold, if I had spoke

about myself to such a gentleman as you: yet I often wished that you knew

what I felt and feared. Sometimes, as we went away from your house, I

could not help crying; and then the other children laughed and jeered at

me, and said I was going to be very good, they supposed, or at least to

make people think so. Sometimes, sir, I fancied you did not think so

well of me as of the rest, and that hurt me; yet I knew I deserved no

particular favour, because I was the chief of sinners."

"My dear, what made St. Paul say he was chief of sinners? In what verse

of the Bible do you find this expression, 'the chief of sinners;' can you

repeat it?"

"'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ

Jesus came into the world to save sinners;'--is not that right, sir?"

"Yes, my child, it is right; and I hope that the same conviction which

St. Paul had at that moment has made you sensible of the same truth.

Christ came into the world to save sinners: my dear child, remember now

and for ever more, that Christ came into the world to save the chief of

sinners."

"Sir, I am so glad he did. It makes me hope that he will save me, though

I am a poor sinful girl. Sir, I am very ill, and I do not think I shall

ever get well again. I want to go to Christ if I die."

"Go to Christ while you live, my dear child, and he will not cast you

away when you die. He that said, 'Suffer little children to come unto

me,' waits to be gracious to them, and forbids them not."

"What made you first think so seriously about the state of your soul?"

"Your talking about the graves in the churchyard, and telling us how many

young children were buried there. I remember you said, one day, near

twelve months ago, 'Children! where will you be a hundred years hence?

Children! where do you think you shall go when you die? Children! if you

were to die to-night, are you sure you should go to Christ and be happy?'

Sir, I never shall forget your saying, 'Children,' three times together

in that solemn way."

"Did you ever before that day feel any desire about your soul?"

"Yes, sir; I think I first had that desire almost as soon as you began to

teach us on Saturday afternoons; but on that day I felt as I never did

before. I shall never forget it. All the way as I went home, and all

that night, these words were in my thoughts: 'Children! where do you

think you shall go when you die?' I thought I must leave off all my bad

ways, or where shall I go when I died?"

"And what effect did these thoughts produce in your mind?"

"Sir, I tried to live better, and I did leave off many bad ways; but the

more I strove, the more difficult I found it, my heart seemed so hard:

and then I could not tell any one my case."

"Could not you tell it to the Lord, who hears and answers prayers?"

"My prayers (here she blushed and sighed) are very poor at the best, and

at that time I scarcely knew how to pray at all as I ought. But I did

sometimes ask the Lord for a better heart."