There was a character in all this conversation which marked a truly

sincere and enlightened state of mind. She spoke with all the simplicity

of a child, and yet the seriousness of a Christian. I could scarcely

persuade myself that she was the same girl I had been accustomed to see

in past time. Her countenance was filled with interesting affections,

and always spoke much more than her tongue could utter. At the same time

she now possessed an ease and liberty in speaking, to which she had

formerly been a stranger: nevertheless, she was modest, humble, and

unassuming. Her readiness to converse was the result of spiritual

anxiety, not childish forwardness. The marks of a Divine change were too

prominent to be easily mistaken; and in this very child, I, for the first

time, witnessed the evident testimonies of such a change. How

encouraging, how profitable to my own soul!

"Sir," continued little Jane, "I had one day been thinking that I was

neither fit to live nor die: for I could find no comfort in this world,

and I was sure I deserved none in the other. On that day you sent me to

learn the verse on Mrs. B---'s headstone, and then I read that on the one

next to it."

"I very well remember it, Jenny; you came back, and repeated them both to

me."

"There were two lines in it which made me think and meditate a great

deal."

"Which were they?"

"'Hail Glorious gospel! heavenly light, whereby

We live with comfort, and with comfort die.'

I wished that glorious gospel was mine, that I might live and die with

comfort; and it seemed as if I thought it would be so. I never felt so

happy in all my life before. The words were often in my thoughts,--

'Live with comfort, and with comfort die.'

Glorious gospel, indeed! I thought."

"My dear child, what is the meaning of the word gospel?"

"Good news."

"Good news for whom?"

"For wicked sinners, sir."

"Who sends this good news for wicked sinners?"

"The Lord Almighty."

"And who brings this good news?"

"Sir, _you_ brought it to _me_."

Here my soul melted in an instant, and I could not repress the tears

which the emotion excited. The last answer was equally unexpected and

affecting. I felt a father's tenderness and gratitude for a new and

first-born child.

Jane wept likewise.

After a little pause she said,--

"O sir! I wish you would speak to my father, and mother, and little

brother; for I am afraid they are going on very badly."

"How so?"

"Sir, they drink, and swear, and quarrel, and do not like what is good;

and it does grieve me so, I cannot bear it. If I speak a word to them

about it, they are very angry, and laugh, and bid me be quiet, and not

set up for their teacher. Sir, I am ashamed to tell you this of them,

but I hope it is not wrong; I mean it for their good."

"I wish your prayers and endeavours for their sake may be blessed; I will

also do what I can."

I then prayed with the child, and promised to visit her constantly.

As I returned home, my heart was filled with thankfulness for what I had

seen and heard. Little Jane appeared to be a first-fruits of my

parochial and spiritual harvest. This thought greatly comforted and

strengthened me in my ministerial prospects.

My partiality to the memory of little Jane will probably induce me to lay

some further particulars before the reader.

PART III.

Divine grace educates the reasoning faculties of the soul, as well as the

best affections of the heart; and happily consecrates them both to the

glory of the Redeemer. Neither the disadvantages of poverty, nor the

inexperience of childhood, are barriers able to resist the mighty

influences of the Spirit of God, when "he goeth forth where he listeth."

"God hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise;

and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things

which are mighty." The truth of this scriptural assertion was peculiarly

evident in the case of my young parishioner.

Little Jane's illness was of a lingering nature. I often visited her.

The soul of this young Christian was gradually, but effectually,

preparing for heaven. I have seldom witnessed in any older person, under

similar circumstances, stronger marks of earnest inquiry, continual

seriousness, and holy affections. One morning, as I was walking through

the church-yard, in my way to visit her, I stopped to look at the epitaph

which had made such a deep impression on her mind. I was struck with the

reflection of the important consequences which might result from a more

frequent and judicious attention to the inscriptions placed in our

burying-grounds, as memorials of the departed. The idea occurred to my

thoughts, that as the two stone tables given by God to Moses were once a

means of communicating to the Jews, from age to age, the revelation of

God's will as concerning the law; so these funeral tables of stone may,

under a better dispensation, bear a never-failing proclamation of God's

will to sinners as revealed in the gospel of his grace, from generation

to generation. I have often lamented, when indulging a contemplation

among the graves, that some of the inscriptions were coarse and

ridiculous; others, absurdly flattering; many, expressive of sentiments

at variance with the true principles of the word of God; not a few,

barren and unaccompanied with a single word of useful instruction to the

reader. Thus a very important opportunity of conveying scriptural

admonition is lost. I wish that every grave-stone might not only record

the name of our deceased friends, but also proclaim the name of Jesus, as

the only name given under heaven whereby men can be saved. Perhaps, if

the ministers of religion were to interest themselves in this matter, and

accustom their people to consult them as to the nature of the monumental

inscriptions which they wish to introduce into churches and church-yards,

a gradual improvement would take place in this respect. What is

offensive, useless, or erroneous, would no longer find admittance, and a

succession of valuable warning and consolation to the living would

perpetuate the memory of the dead.

What can be more disgusting than the too common spectacle of trifling

licentious travellers, wandering about the church-yards of the different

places through which they pass, in search of rude, ungrammatical, ill-

spelt, and absurd verses among the grave-stones; and this for the

gratification of their unholy scorn and ridicule! And yet how much is it

to be deplored that such persons are seldom disappointed in finding many

instances which too readily afford them the unfeeling satisfaction which

they seek! I therefore offer this suggestion to my reverend brethren,

that as no monument or stone can be placed in a church or church-yard

without their express consent or approbation, whether one condition of

that consent being granted, should not be a previous inspection and

approval of every inscription which may be so placed within the precincts

of the sanctuary?

The reader will pardon this digression, which evidently arose from the

peculiar connection established in little Jane's history, between an

epitaph inscribed on a grave-stone, and the word of God inscribed on her

heart. When I arrived at Jane's cottage, I found her in bed, reading Dr.

Watts' Hymns for Children, in which she took great pleasure.

"What are you reading this morning, Jane?"

"Sir, I have been thinking very much about some verses in my little book.

Here they are,--

'There is an hour when I must die,

Nor do I know how soon 'twill come;

A thousand children young as I

Are called by death to hear their doom.

Let me improve the hours I have,

Before the day of grace is fled;

There's no repentance in the grave,

Nor pardon offered to the dead.'

"Sir, I feel all that to be very true, and I am afraid I do not improve

the hours I have, as I ought to do. I think I shall not live very long;

and when I remember my sins, I say,--

'Lord, at thy feet ashamed I lie,

Upward I dare not look;

Pardon my sins before I die,

And blot them from thy book.'

Do you think he will pardon me, sir?"

"My dear child, I have great hopes that he HAS pardoned you; that he has

heard your prayers, and put you into the number of his true children

already. You have had strong proofs of his mercy to your soul."

"Yes, sir, I have, and I wish to love and bless him for it. He is good,

_very_ good."

It had for some time past occurred to my mind that a course of

_regulated_ conversations on the first principles of religion would be

very desirable from time to time, for this interesting child's sake: and

I thought the Church Catechism would be the best groundwork for that

purpose.

"Jenny," said I, "you can repeat the Catechism?"

"Yes, sir; but I think that has been one of my sins in the sight of God."

"What! repeating your Catechism?"

"Yes, sir, in such a way as I used to do it."

"How was that?"

"Very carelessly indeed. I never thought about the meaning of the words,

and that must be very wrong. Sir, the Catechism is full of good things;

I wish I understood them better."

"Well, then, my child, we will talk a little about those good things

which, as you truly say, are contained in the Catechism. Did you ever

consider what it is to be a member of Christ, a child of God, and an

inheritor of the kingdom of heaven?"

"I think, sir, I have lately considered it a good deal; and I want to be

such, not only in name, but in deed and in truth. You once told me, sir,

that 'as the branch is to the vine, and the stone to the building, and

the limb to the body and the head, so is a true believer to the Lord

Jesus Christ.' But how am I to know that I belong to Christ as a true

_member_, which, you said one day in the church, means the same as a

_limb_ of the body, such as a leg or an arm?"

"Do you love Christ now in a way you never used to do before?"

"Yes, I think so indeed."

"Why do you love him?"

"Because he first loved me."

"How do you know that he first loved you?"

"Because he sent me instruction, and made me feel the sin of my heart,

and taught me to pray for pardon, and love his ways; he sent you to teach

me, sir, and to show me the way to be saved; and now I want to be saved

in that way that he pleases. Sometimes I feel as if I loved all that he

has said and done, so much, that I wish never to think about anything

else. I know I did not use to feel so; and I think if he had not loved

me first, my wicked heart would never have cared about him. I once loved

anything better than religion, but now it is everything to me."

"Do you believe in your heart that Christ is able and willing to save the

chief of sinners?"

"I do."

"And what are you?"

"A young, but a great sinner."

"Is it not of his mercy that you know and feel yourself to be a sinner?"

"Certainly; yes, it must be so."

"Do you earnestly desire to forsake all sin?"

"If I know myself, I do."

"Do you feel a spirit within you resisting sin, and making you hate it?"

"Yes, I hope so."

"Who gave you that spirit? Were you always so?"

"It must be Christ, who loved me, and gave himself for me. I was quite

different once."

"Now, then, my dear Jane, does not all this show a connection between the

Lord Jesus Christ and your soul? Does it not seem as if you lived, and

moved, and had a spiritual being from him? Just as a limb is connected

with your body, and so with your head, and thereby gets power to live and

move through the flowing of the blood from the one to the other; so are

you spiritually a limb or member of Christ, if you believe in him, and

thus obtain, through faith, a power to love him, and live to his praise

and glory. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir, I believe I do; and it is very comfortable to my thoughts to

look up to Christ as a living Head, and to consider myself as the least

and lowest of all his members."

"Now tell me what your thoughts are as to being a child of God."

"I am sure, sir, I do not deserve to be called his child."

"Can you tell me who _does_ deserve it?"

"No one, sir."

"How, then, comes any one to be a child of God, when by nature we are

children of wrath?"

"By God's grace, sir."

"What does grace mean?"

"Favour; free favour to sinners."

"Right; and what does God bestow upon the children of wrath, when he

makes them children of grace?"

"A death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness; is it not, sir?"

"Yes, this is the fruit of Christ's redeeming love; and I hope _you_ are

a partaker of the blessing. The family of God is named after him, and he

is the first-born of many brethren. What a mercy that Christ calls

himself 'a _Brother_!' My little girl, he is _your_ Brother; and will

not be ashamed to own you, and present you to his Father at the last day,

as one that he has purchased with his blood."

"I wish I could love my Father and my Brother which are in heaven better

than I do. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! I think, sir, if I am a

child of God, I am often a rebellious one. He shows kindness to me

beyond others, and yet I make a very poor return.

'Are these thy favours day by day,

To me above the rest?

Then let me love thee more than they,

And strive to serve thee best.'"

"That will be the best way to approve yourself a real child of God. Show

your love and thankfulness to such a Father, who hath prepared for you an

inheritance among the saints in light, and made you 'an inheritor of the

kingdom of heaven, as well as a member of Christ, and a child of God.' Do

you know what 'the kingdom of heaven' means?"

Just at that instant her mother entered the house below, and began to

speak to a younger child in a passionate, scolding tone of voice,

accompanied by some very offensive language; but quickly stopped on

hearing us in conversation up stairs.

"Ah, my poor mother!" said the girl, "you would not have stopped so

short, if Mr. --- had not been here. Sir, you hear how my mother swears;

pray say something to her; she will not hear me."

I went towards the stair-head, and called to the woman; but ashamed at

the thought of my having probably overheard her expressions, she suddenly

left the house, and for that time escaped reproof.

"Sir," said little Jane, "I am so afraid, if I go to heaven I shall never

see my poor mother there. I wish I may, but she does swear so, and keep

such bad company. As I lie here a-bed, sir, for hours together, there is

often so much wickedness, and noise, and quarrelling down below, that I

do not know how to bear it. It comes very near, sir, when one's father

and mother go on so. I want them all to turn to the Lord, and go to

heaven.--Tell me now, sir, something about being an inheritor of the

kingdom of heaven."

"You may remember, my child, what I have told you when explaining the

Catechism in the church, that the 'kingdom of heaven' in the Scripture

means the church of Christ upon earth, as well as the state of glory in

heaven. The one is a preparation for the other. All true Christians are

heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ, and shall inherit the glory

and happiness of his kingdom, and live with Christ and be with him for

ever. This is the free gift of God to his adopted children; and all that

believe aright in Christ shall experience the truth of that promise, 'It

is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.' You are a poor

girl now, but I trust 'an entrance shall be ministered unto you

abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus

Christ.' You suffer now; but are you not willing to suffer for his sake,

and to bear patiently those things to which he calls you?"

"Oh yes, very willing; I would not complain. It is all right."

"Then, my dear, you shall reign with him. Through much tribulation you

may, perhaps, enter into the kingdom of God; but tribulation worketh

patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope. As a true

'member of Christ,' show yourself to be a dutiful 'child of God,' and

your portion will be that of an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.

Faithful is He that hath promised. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust

also in him; and he shall bring it to pass."

"Thank you, sir, I do so love to hear of these things. And I think, sir,

I should not love them so much if I had no part in them. Sir, there is

one thing I want to ask you. It is a great thing, and I may be wrong--I

am so young--and yet I hope I mean right--"

Here she hesitated and paused.

"What is it? Do not be fearful of mentioning it." A tear rolled down

her cheek--a slight blush coloured her countenance. She lifted up her

eyes to heaven for a moment, and then, fixing them on me with a solemn,

affecting look, said,--

"May so young a poor child as I am be admitted to the Lord's Supper? I

have for some time wished it, but dared not to mention it, for fear you

should think it wrong."

"My dear Jenny, I have no doubt respecting it, and shall be very glad to

converse with you on the subject, and hope that He who has given you the

desire, will bless his own ordinance to your soul. Would you wish it now

or to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, if you please, sir;--will you come to-morrow and talk to me

about it? and if you think it proper, I shall be thankful. I am growing

faint now--I hope to be better when you come again."

I was much pleased with her proposal, and rejoiced in the prospect of

seeing so young and sincere a Christian thus devote herself to the Lord,

and receive the sacramental seal of a Saviour's love to her soul.

Disease was making rapid inroads upon her constitution, and she was aware

of it. But as the outward man decayed, she was strengthened with might,

by God's Spirit in the inner man. She was evidently ripening fast for a

better world.

I remember these things with affectionate pleasure; they revive my

earlier associations, and I hope the recollection does me good. I wish

them to do good to thee likewise, my reader; and therefore I write them

down.

May the simplicity that is in Christ render

"The short and simple annals of the poor"

a mean of grace and blessing to thy soul! Out of the mouth of this babe

and suckling may God ordain thee strength! If thou art willing, thou

mayest perchance hear something further respecting her.

PART IV.

I was so much affected with my last visit to little Jane, and

particularly with her tender anxiety respecting the Lord's Supper, that

it formed the chief subject of my thoughts for the remainder of the day.

I rode in the afternoon to a favourite spot, where I sometimes indulged

in solitary meditation; where I wished to reflect on the interesting case

of my little disciple.

It was a place well suited for such a purpose.

In the widely sweeping curve of a beautiful bay, there is a kind of chasm

or opening in one of the lofty cliffs which bound it. This produces a

very romantic and striking effect. The steep descending sides of this

opening in the cliff are covered with trees, bushes, wild flowers, fern,

wormwood, and many other herbs, here and there contrasted with bold

masses of rock or brown earth.

In the higher part of one of those declivities two or three picturesque

cottages are fixed, and seem half suspended in the air.

From the upper extremity of this great fissure, or opening in the cliff,

a small stream of water enters by a cascade, flows through the bottom,

winding in a varied course of about a quarter of a mile in length; and

then runs into the sea across a smooth expanse of firm, hard sand, at the

lower extremity of the chasm. At this point, the sides of the woody

banks are very lofty, and, to a spectator from the bottom, exhibit a

mixture of the grand and beautiful not often exceeded.

Near the mouth of this opening was a little hollow recess, or cave in the

cliff, from whence, on one hand, I could see the above-described romantic

scene; on the other, a long train of perpendicular cliffs, terminating in

a bold and wild-shaped promontory, which closed the bay at one end, while

a conspicuous white cliff stood directly opposite, about four miles

distant, at the further point of the bay.

The shore, between the different cliffs and the edge of the waves, was in

some parts covered with stones and shingle; in some, with firm sand; and

in others, with irregular heaps of little rocks fringed with sea-weed,

and ornamented with small yellow shells.

The cliffs themselves were diversified with strata of various-coloured

earth, black, yellow, brown, and orange. The effects of iron ore,

producing very manifest changes of hue, were everywhere seen in trickling

drops and streamlets down the sides.

The huts in which the fishermen kept their baskets, nets, boats, and

other implements, occupied a few retired spots on the shore.

The open sea, in full magnificence, occupied the centre of the prospect;

bounded, indeed, in one small part, by a very distant shore, on the

rising ascent from which the rays of the sun rendered visible a cathedral

church, with its towering spire, at near thirty miles' distance.

Everywhere else the sea beyond was limited only by the sky.

A frigate was standing into the bay, not very far from my recess; other

vessels of every size, sailing in many directions, varied the scene, and

furnished matter for a thousand sources of contemplation.

At my feet the little rivulet, gently rippling over pebbles, soon mingled

with the sand, and was lost in the waters of the mighty ocean. The

murmuring of the waves, as the tide ebbed or flowed, on the sand; their

dashing against some more distant rocks, which were covered fantastically

with sea-weed and shells; sea-birds floating in the air aloft, or

occasionally screaming from their holes in the cliffs; the hum of human

voices in the ships and boats, borne along the water: all these sounds

served to promote, rather than interrupt, meditation. They were

soothingly blended together, and entered the ear in a kind of natural

harmony.

In the quiet enjoyment of a scene like this, the lover of nature's

beauties will easily find scope for spiritual illustration.

Here I sat and mused over the interesting character and circumstances of

little Jane. Here I prayed that God would effectually teach me those

truths which I ought to teach her.

When I thought of her youth, I blushed to think how superior she was to

what I well remember myself to have been at the same age; nay, how far my

superior at that very time. I earnestly desired to catch something of

the spirit which appeared so lovely in her; for, simple, teachable, meek,

humble yet earnest in her demeanour, she bore living marks of heavenly

teaching.

"The Lord," thought I, "has called this little child, and set her in the

midst of us, as a parable, a pattern, an emblem. And he saith, 'Verily,

except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter

into the kingdom of heaven.' Oh that I may be humble as this little

child!"

I was thus led into a deep self-examination, and was severely exercised

with fear and apprehension, whether I was myself a real partaker of those

divine influences which I could so evidently discover in her. Sin

appeared to me just then to be more than ever "exceeding sinful." Inward

and inbred corruptions made me tremble. The danger of self-deception in

so great a matter alarmed me. I was a teacher of others; but was I

indeed spiritually taught myself?

A spirit of anxious inquiry ran through every thought: I looked at the

manifold works of creation around me; I perceived the greatest marks of

regularity and order; but _within_ I felt confusion and disorder.

"The waves of the sea," thought I, "ebb and flow in exact obedience to

the law of their Creator. Thus far they come, and no further--they

retire again to their accustomed bounds; and so maintain a regulated

succession of effects.

"But, alas! the waves of passion and affection in the human breast

manifest more of the wild confusion of a storm, than the orderly

regularity of a tide. Grace only can subdue them.

"What peaceful harmony subsists throughout all this lovely landscape!

These majestic cliffs, some clothed with trees and shrubs; others bare

and unadorned with herbage, yet variegated with many-coloured earths;

these are not only sublime and delightful to behold, but they are

answering the end of their creation, and serve as a barrier to stop the

progress of the waves.

"But how little peace and harmony can I comparatively see in my own

heart! The landscape _within_ is marred by dreary, barren wilds, and

wants that engaging character which the various parts of this prospect

before me so happily preserve. Sin, sin is the bane of mortality, and

heaps confusion upon confusion, wherever it prevails.

"Yet, saith the voice of Promise, 'Sin shall not have dominion over you.'

Oh, then, 'may I yield myself unto God, as one that am alive from the

dead, and my members as instruments of righteousness unto God!' And thus

may I become an able and willing minister of the New Testament!

"I wish I were like this little stream of water. It takes its first rise

scarcely a mile off; yet it has done good even in that short course. It

has passed by several cottages in its way, and afforded life and health

to the inhabitants; it has watered their little gardens as it flows, and

enriched the meadows near its banks. It has satisfied the thirst of the

flocks that are feeding aloft on the hills, and perhaps refreshed the

shepherd's boy who sits watching his master's sheep hard by. It then

quietly finishes its current in this secluded dell, and, agreeably to the

design of its Creator, quickly vanishes in the ocean.

"May _my_ course be like unto thine, thou little rivulet! Though short

be my span of life, yet may I be useful to my fellow-sinners as I travel

onwards! Let me be a dispenser of spiritual support and health to many!

Like this stream, may I prove 'the poor man's friend' by the way, and

water the souls that thirst for the river of life, wherever I meet them!

And if it please thee, O my God, let me in my latter end be like this

brook. It calmly, though not quite silently, flows through this scene of

peace and loveliness, just before it enters the sea. Let me thus gently

close my days likewise; and may I not unusefully tell to others of the

goodness and mercy of our Saviour, till I arrive at the vast ocean of

eternity!

"Thither," thought I, "little Jane is fast hastening. Short, but not

useless, has been _her_ course. I feel the great importance of it in my

own soul at this moment. I view a work of mercy _there_, to which I do

hope I am not quite a stranger in the experience of my own heart. The

thought enlivens my spirit, and leads me to see that, great as is the

power of sin the power of Jesus is greater; and, through grace, I _may_

meet my dear young disciple, my child in the gospel, my sister in the

faith, in a brighter, a better world hereafter."

There was something in the whole of this meditation which calmed and

prepared my mind for my promised visit the next day. I looked forward to

it with affectionate anxiety.

It was now time to return homewards. The sun was setting. The

lengthened shadows of the cliffs, and of the hills towering again far

above them, cast a brown but not unpleasing tint over the waters of the

bay. Further on the beams of the sun still maintained their splendour.

Some of the sails of the distant ships, enlivened by its rays, appeared

like white spots in the blue horizon, and seemed to attract my notice, as

if to claim at least the passing prayer, "God speed the mariners on their

voyage."

I quitted my retreat in the cliff with some reluctance; but with a state

of mind, as I hoped, solemnized by reflection, and animated to fresh

exertion.

I walked up by a steep pathway, that winded through the trees and shrubs

on the sides of one of the precipices. At every step the extent of

prospect enlarged, and acquired a new and varying character, by being

seen through the trees on each side. Climbing up a kind of rude,

inartificial set of stone stairs in the bank, I passed by the singularly

situated cottages which I had viewed from beneath; received and returned

the evening salutation of the inhabitants, sitting at their doors, and

just come home from labour; till I arrived at the top of the precipice,

where I had left my horse tied to a gate.

Could _he_ have enjoyed it, he had a noble prospect around him in every

direction from this elevated point of view, where he had been stationed

while I was on the shore below. But wherein he most probably failed I

think his rider did not. The landscape, taken in connection with my

recent train of thought about myself and little Jane, inspired devotion.

The sun was now set: the bright colours of the western clouds, faintly

reflected from the south-eastern hills, that were unseen from my retreat

in the cliff, or only perceived by their evening shadows on the sea, now

added to the beauty of the prospect on the south and west. Every element

contributed to the interesting effect of the scenery. The _earth_ was

diversified in shape and ornament. The _waters_ of the ocean presented a

noble feature in the landscape. The _air_ was serene, or only ruffled by

a refreshing breeze from the shore. And the sun's _fiery_ beams, though

departing for the night, still preserved such a portion of light and

warmth as rendered all the rest delightful to an evening traveller. From

this point the abyss, occasioned by the great fissure in the cliff,

appeared grand and interesting. Trees hung over it on each side,

projecting not only their branches, but many of their roots in wild and

fantastic forms. Masses of earth had recently fallen from the upper to

the lower parts of the precipice, carrying trees and plants down the

steep descent. The character of the soil and the unceasing influence of

the stream at the bottom, seemed to threaten further slips of the land

from the summit. From hence the gentle murmur of the cascade at the head

of the chine stole upon the ear without much interruption to the

quietness of the scene. A fine rocky cliff, half buried in trees, stood

erect on the land side about a mile distant, and seemed to vie with those

on the shore in challenging the passenger's attention. In the distance

stood a noble ash-tree, which, on a considerable height, majestically

reigned as the patriarch of the grove near which it grew. Every object

combined to please the eye and direct the traveller's heart to admire and

love the Author and Creator of all that is beautiful to sense and

edifying to the soul.

The next morning I went to Jane's cottage. On entering the door, the

woman, who so frequently visited her, met me, and said:--

"Perhaps, sir, you will not wake her just yet; for she has dropped

asleep, and she seldom gets much rest, pool girl!"

I went gently up stairs.

The child was in a half-sitting posture, leaning her head upon her right

hand, with her Bible open before her. She had evidently fallen asleep

while reading. Her countenance was beautifully composed and tranquil. A

few tears had rolled down her cheek, and (probably unknown to her)

dropped upon the pages of her book.

I looked around me for a moment. The room was outwardly comfortless and

uninviting: the walls out of repair; the sloping roof somewhat shattered;

the floor broken and uneven; no furniture but two tottering bedsteads, a

three-legged stool, and an old oak chest; the window broken in many

places, and mended with patches of paper. A little shelf against the

wall, over the bedstead where Jane lay, served for her physic, her food,

and her books.

"Yet _here_," I said to myself, "lies an heir of glory, waiting for a

happy dismissal. Her earthly home is poor, indeed; but she has a house

not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. She has little to attach

her to this world; but what a weight of glory in the world to come! This

mean, despised chamber is a palace in the eye of faith, for it contains

one that is inheritor of a crown."

I approached without waking her, and observed that she had been reading

the twenty-third chapter of St. Luke. The finger of her left hand lay

upon the book, pointing to the words, as if she had been using it to

guide her eye whilst she read.

I looked at the place, and was pleased at the apparently casual

circumstance of her finger pointing at these words:--

"Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom."

"Is this casual or designed?" thought I. "Either way it is remarkable."

But in another moment I discovered that her finger was indeed an index to

the thoughts of her heart.

She half awoke from her dozing state, but not sufficiently so to perceive

that any person was present, and said in a kind of whisper:--

"Lord, remember me--remember me--remember--remember a poor child--Lord,

remember me--"

She then suddenly started and perceived me, as she became fully awake. A

faint blush overspread her cheeks for a moment, and then disappeared.

"Dame K---, how long have I been asleep?--Sir, I am very sorry--"

"And I am very glad to find you thus," I replied. "You may say with

David, 'I laid me down and slept: I awaked, for the Lord sustained me.'

What were you reading?"

"The history of the crucifying of Jesus, sir."

"How far had you read when you fell asleep?"

"To the prayer of the thief that was crucified with him; and when I came

to that place I stopped, and thought what a mercy it would be if the Lord

Jesus, should remember me likewise--and so I fell asleep; and I fancied

in my dream that I saw Christ upon the cross; and I thought I said,

'Lord, remember me;' and I am sure he did not look angry upon me--and

then I awoke."

All this seemed to be a sweet commentary on the text, and a most suitable

forerunner of our intended sacramental service.

"Well, my dear child, I am come, as you wished me, to administer the

sacrament of the body and blood of our blessed Saviour to you; and I

daresay neighbour K--- will be glad to join us."

"Talk to me a little about it first, sir, if you please."

"You remember what you have learned in your Catechism about it. Let us

consider. A sacrament, you know, is 'an outward and visible sign of an

inward and spiritual grace, given unto us, ordained by Christ himself, as

a means whereby we receive the same, and a pledge to assure us thereof.'

Now the Lord has ordained bread and wine in the holy supper, as the

outward mark, which we behold with our eyes. It is a sign, a token, a

seal of his love, grace, and blessing, which he promises to, and bestows

on, all who receive it, rightly believing on his name and work. He in

this manner preserves amongst us a 'continual remembrance of his death,

and of the benefits which we receive thereby.'"

"What do you believe respecting the death of Christ, Jenny?"

"That because he died, sir, we live."

"What life do we live thereby?"

"The life of grace and mercy _now_, and the life of glory and happiness

hereafter; is it not, sir?"

"Yes, assuredly: this is the fruit of the death of Christ, and thus he

'opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers.' As bread and wine

strengthen and refresh your poor, weak, fainting body in this very

sickness, so does the blessing of his body and blood strengthen and

refresh the souls of all that repose their faith, hope, and affections on

him who loved us and gave himself for us."

Tears ran down her cheeks as she said,--

"Oh, what a Saviour! Oh, what a sinner! How kind! how good! And is

this for me?"

"Fear not, dear child. He that has made you to love him thus, loves you

too well to deny you. He will in no wise cast out any that come to him."

"Sir," said the girl, "I can never think about Jesus and his love to

sinners, without wondering how it can be. I deserve nothing but his

anger on account of my sins. Why then does he love me? My heart is

evil. Why then does he love me? I continually forget all his goodness.

Why then does he love me? I neither pray to him, nor thank him, nor do

anything as I ought to do. Why then such love to me?"

"How plain it is that all is mercy from first to last! and that sweetens

the blessing, my child. Are you not willing to give Christ all the

honour of your salvation, and to take all the blame of your sins on your

own self?"

"Yes, indeed, sir, I am. My hymn says,--

'Blest be the Lord, that sent his Son

To take our flesh and blood;

He for our lives gave up his own,

To make our peace with God.

'He honoured all his Father's laws,

Which we have disobeyed;

He bore our sins upon the cross,

And our full ransom paid.'"

"I am glad you remember your hymns so well, Jenny."

"Sir, you don't know what pleasure they give me. I am very glad you gave

me that little book of Hymns for Children."

A severe fit of coughing interrupted her speech for a while. The woman

held her head. It was distressing to observe her struggle for breath,

and almost, as it were, for life.

"Poor dear!" said the woman; "I wish I could help thee, and ease thy

pains; but they will not last for ever."

"God helps me," said the girl, recovering her breath; "God helps me--he

will carry me through. Sir, you look frightened. I am not afraid--this

is nothing--I am better now. Thank you, dame, thank you. I am very

troublesome; but the Lord will bless you for this and all your kindness

to me: yes, sir, and yours too. Now talk to me again about the

sacrament."

"What is required, Jenny, of them who come to the Lord's Supper? There

are five things named in the Catechism; do you remember what is the

first?"

She paused, and then said, with a solemn and intelligent look,--

"To examine themselves whether they repent them truly of their former

sins."

"I hope and think that you know what this means, Jenny. The Lord has

given you the spirit of repentance."

"No one knows, sir, what the thoughts of past sin have been to me. Yes,

the Lord knows, and that is enough; and I hope he forgives me for

Christ's sake. His blood cleanseth from all sin. Sir, I sometimes think

of my sins till I tremble, and it makes me cry to think that I have

offended such a God; and then he comforts me again with sweet thoughts

about Christ."

"It is well, my child--be it so. The next thing mentioned in that

article of your Catechism, what is it?"

"Steadfastly purposing to lead a new life."

"And what do you think of that?"

"My life, sir, will be a short one; and I wish it had been a better one.

But from my heart I desire that it may be a _new_ one for the time to

come. I want to forsake all my evil ways and thoughts, and evil words,

and evil companions; and to do what God bids me, and what you tell me is

right, sir, and what I read of in my Bible. But I am afraid I do not, my

heart is so full of sin. However, sir, I pray to God to help me. My

days will be few; but I wish they may be spent to the glory of God."

"The blessing of the Lord be upon you, Jane; so that whether you live,

you may live to the Lord; or whether you die, you may die unto the Lord;

and that, living or dying, you may be the Lord's. What is the next thing

mentioned?"

"To have a lively faith in God's mercy through Christ, sir."

"Do you believe that God is merciful to you in the pardon of your sins?"

"I do, sir," said the child earnestly.

"And if he pardons you, is it for your own sake, Jenny?"

"No, sir, no; it is for Christ's sake--for my Saviour Jesus Christ's

sake, and that only. Christ is all."

"Can you trust him?"

"Sir, I must not mistrust him; nor would I, if I might."

"Right, child; he is worthy of all your trust."

"And then, sir, I am to have a thankful remembrance of his death. I can

never think of his dying, but I think also what a poor unworthy creature

I am; and yet he is so good to me. I wish I _could_ thank him--sir, I

have been reading about his death--how could the people do as they did to

him?--but it was all for our salvation. And the thief on the cross--that

is beautiful. I hope he will remember me too, and that I shall always

remember him and his death most thankfully."

"And lastly, Jenny, are you in charity with all men? Do you forgive all

that have offended you? Do you bear ill-will in your heart to anybody?"

"Dear sir, no! how can I? If God is good to me, if he forgives me, how

can I help forgiving others? There is not a person in all the world, I

think, sir, that I do not wish well to for Christ's sake, and that from

the bottom of my heart."

"How do you feel towards those bold, wanton, ill-tempered girls at the

next door, who jeer and mock you so about your religion?"

"Sir, the worst thing I wish them is, that God may give them grace to

repent; that he may change their hearts, and pardon all their wicked ways

and words. May he forgive them, as I do with all my soul!"

She ceased--I wished to ask no more. My heart was full. "Can this be

the religion of a child?" thought I. "O that we were all children like

her!"

"Reach me that prayer-book, and the cup and plate. My dear friends, I

will now, with God's blessing, partake with you in the holy communion of

our Lord's body and blood."

The time was sweet and solemn. I went through the sacramental service.

The countenance and manner of the child evinced powerful feelings. Tears

mingled with smiles--resignation brightened by hope--humility animated by

faith--a child-like modesty adorned with the understanding of a riper

age--gratitude, peace, devotion, patience--all these were visible. I

thought I distinctly saw them all--and did _I_ alone see them? Is it too

much to say that other created beings, whom I could not behold with my

natural eyes, were witnesses of the scene?

If ministering angels do ascend and descend with glad tidings between

earth and heaven, I think they did so then.

When I had concluded the service, I said,--

"Now, my dear Jane, you are indeed become a sister in the Church of

Christ. May his Spirit and blessing rest upon you, strengthen and

refresh you!"

"My mercies are great, very great, sir; greater than I can express. I

thank you for this favour--I thought I was too young--it seemed too much

for me to think of; but I am now sure the Lord is good to me, and I hope

I have done right."

"Yes, Jenny; and I trust you are both outwardly and inwardly _sealed_ by

the Holy Ghost to the day of redemption."

"Sir, I shall never forget this day."

"Neither, I think, shall I."

"Nor I," said the good old woman; "sure the Lord has been in the midst of

us three to-day, while we have been gathered together in his name."

"Sir," said the child, "I wish you could speak to my mother when you come

again. But she keeps out of your sight. I am so grieved about her soul,

and I am afraid she cares nothing at all about it herself."

"I hope I shall have an opportunity the next time I come. Farewell, my

child."

"Good-bye, sir; and I thank you for all your kindness to me."

"Surely," I thought within myself as I left the cottage, "this young bud

of grace will bloom beauteously in paradise! The Lord transplant her

thither in his own good time. Yet, if it be his will, may she live a

little longer, that I may further profit by her conversation and

example!"

Possibly, some who peruse these simple records of poor little Jane may

wish the same. If it be so, we will visit her again before she departs

hence and is no more seen.

PART V.

Jane was hastening fast to her dissolution. She still, however,

preserved sufficient strength to converse with much satisfaction to

herself and those who visited her. Such as could truly estimate the

value of her spiritual state of mind were but few; yet the most careless

could not help being struck with her affectionate seriousness, her

knowledge of the Scriptures, and her happy application of them to her own

case.

"The holy spark divine,"

which regenerating grace had implanted in her life, had kindled a flame

which warmed and animated the beholder. To _some_, I am persuaded, her

example and conversation were made a blessing. Memory reflects with

gratitude, whilst I write, on the profit and consolation which I

individually derived from her society. Nor I alone. The last day will,

if I err not, disclose further fruits, resulting from the love of God to

this little child, and, through her, to others that saw her. And may not

hope indulge the prospect, that this simple memorial of her history shall

be as one arrow drawn from the quiver of the Almighty to reach the hearts

of the young and the thoughtless? Direct its course, O my God! May the

eye that reads, and the ear that hears, the record of little Jane,

through the power of the Spirit of the Most High, each become the witness

for the truth as it is in Jesus!

I remembered the tender solicitude of this dear child for her mother. I

well knew what an awful contrast the dispositions and conduct of her

parents exhibited, when compared with her own.

I resolved to avail myself of the first opportunity I could seize to

speak to the mother in the child's presence. The woman had latterly

avoided me, conscious of deserving, and fearful of receiving reproof. The

road by which I usually approached the house lay, for some little

distance, sufficiently in sight of its windows to enable the woman to

retire out of the way before I arrived. There was, however, another

path, through fields at the back of the village, which, owing to the

situation of the ground, allowed of an approach unperceived, till a

visitor reached the very cottage itself.

One morning, soon after the sacramental interview related in my last

paper, I chose _this_ road for my visit. It was preferable to me on

every account. The distance was not quite half a mile from my house. The

path was retired. I hereby avoided the noise and interruption which even

a village street will sometimes present, to disturb the calmness of

interesting meditation.

As I passed through the churchyard, and cast my eye on the memorable

epitaph, "Soon," I thought within me, "will my poor little Jane mingle

her mouldering remains with this dust, and sleep with her fathers! Soon

will the youthful tongue, which now lisps hosannas to the Son of David,

and delights my heart with evidences of early piety and grace, be silent

in the earth! Soon shall I be called to commit her 'body to the ground,

earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' But oh, what a glorious

change! Her spirit shall have then returned to God who gave it. Her

soul will be joining the halleluiahs of paradise, while we sing her

requiem at the grave. And her very dust shall here wait, in sure and

certain hope of a joyful resurrection from the dead."

I went through the fields without meeting a single individual. I enjoyed

the retirement of my solitary walk. Various surrounding objects

contributed to excite useful meditation connected with the great subjects

of time and eternity. Here and there a drooping flower reminded me of

the fleeting nature of mortal life. Sometimes a shady spot taught me to

look to Him who is a "shadow in the day-time from the heat, and for a

place of refuge, and for a covert from storm and from rain." If a worm

crept across my path, I saw an emblem of myself as I am _now_; and the

winged insects, fluttering in the sunbeams, led me comparatively to

reflect on what I hoped to be _hereafter_.

The capacious mansion of a rich neighbour appeared on the right hand as I

walked; on my left were the cottages of the poor. The church spire

pointing to heaven a little beyond, seemed to say to both the rich and

the poor, "Set your affection on things above, not on things on the

earth." All these objects afforded me useful meditation; and all

obtained an increased value as such, because they lay in my road to the

house of little Jane.

I was now arrived at the stile nearly adjoining her dwelling. The upper

window was open, and I soon distinguished the sound of voices--I was glad

to hear that of the mother. I entered the house door unperceived by

those above stairs, and sat down below, not wishing as yet to interrupt a

conversation which quickly caught my ear.

"Mother! mother! I have not long to live. My time will be very short.

But I must, indeed I must, say something for your sake, before I die. O

mother! you have a soul--you have a soul; and what will become of it when

you die? O my mother! I am so uneasy about your soul--"

"Oh, dear! I shall lose my child--she will die--and what shall I do when

you are gone, my Jenny?" She sobbed aloud.

"Mother, think about your soul. Have you not neglected that?"

"Yes, I have been a wicked creature, and hated all that was good. What

can I do?"

"Mother, you must pray to God to pardon you for Christ's sake. You must

pray."

"Jenny, my child, I cannot pray: I never did pray in all my life. I am

too wicked to pray."

"Mother, I have been wanting to speak to you a long time; but I was

afraid to do it. You did not like me to say anything about religion, and

I did not know how to begin. But indeed, mother, I must speak now, or it

may be too late. I wish Mr. --- was here, for he could talk to you

better than I can. But perhaps you will think of what I say, poor as it

is, when I am dead. I am but a young child, and not fit to speak about

such things to anybody. But, mother, you belong to me, and I cannot bear

to think of your perishing for ever. My Lord and Saviour has shown me my

own sin and corruptions: he loved me, and gave himself for me: he died,

and he rose again: I want to praise him for it for ever and ever. I hope

I shall see him in heaven; but I want to see you there too, mother. Do,

pray do, leave off swearing, and other bad ways: go to church, and hear

our minister speak about Jesus Christ, and what he has done for wicked

sinners. He wishes well to souls. He taught me the way, and he will

teach you, mother. Why did you always go out of the house when he was

coming? Do not be angry with me, mother; I only speak for your good. I

was once as careless as you are about the things of God. But I have seen

my error. I was in the broad road leading to destruction, like many

other children in the parish; and the Lord saw me, and had mercy upon

me."

"Yes, my child, you were always a good girl, and minded your book."

"No, mother, no; not always. I cared nothing about goodness, nor my

Bible, till the minister came and sent for us, as you know, on Saturday

afternoons. Don't you remember, mother, that at first you did not like

me to go, and said you would have no such _godly_, _pious_ doings about

_your_ house; and that I had better play about the streets and fields,

than be laughed at and be made game of for pretending to be so good? Ah,

mother, you did not know what I went for, and what God designed for me

and my poor sinful soul! But, thank God, I did go, and there learned the

way of salvation. Mother, I wish you had learned too."

As I listened to this affecting conversation, it appeared to me, from the

tone and manner of the mother's voice, that she was more under the

influence of temporary grief, on account of her child's extreme illness,

than sincere sorrow from any real sense of her sins. I however hoped the

best, and rejoiced to hear such weighty and important exhortation

dropping from her daughter's lips. I felt that present circumstances

rendered it far more valuable than my own could have been.

I have often, since that time, seen the wicked and careless much

affected, while sitting by the dying bed of a near relative: I have

witnessed their temporary acknowledgments of sin, and heard their

professions of amendment. But, after a short season, all has passed away

like the morning dew. The friend has been buried out of sight. The

world and its cares, the flesh and its sins, have returned with new

temptations, and the eloquence of iniquity has prevailed over the voice

of truth. "The dog has returned to his vomit, and the sow to her

wallowing in the mire."

On the other hand, how frequently have the deathbeds of true believers

been blessed to the eye-witness of the triumphs of grace over sin, death,

and hell! Often has the careless bystander received the first saving

impression of divine truth, whilst the dying Christian has experienced

and testified the supports of love and mercy in the trying hour. At such

seasons, faith wields a bright and burning torch, which occasionally

softens the hardest and warms the coldest heart. The expressions of that

heavenly consolation and devout solicitude, which the Holy Spirit

vouchsafes to some, thus become the happy means of grace and blessing for

the conversion and edification of others.

"He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the

churches!"

At this moment the house-door opened, and a younger child, a brother of

Jane's, came in. The mother asked from above who it was: the boy

replied; and, without further inquiry, she remained in the chamber. I

beckoned to the lad to sit down quietly; and thus it still remained

unknown that I was below.

"Mother," continued Jane, "that is my brother, and will soon be your only

remaining child. Do, pray, encourage him to follow good ways. Send him

to Mr. ---, and he will be kind to him, as he has been to me. He is a

wild boy, but I hope he will be brought to think about his soul in time.

Those naughty, wicked boys teach him to swear and fight, and run after

all manner of evil. Lord, help him to flee from the wrath to come!"

I made a sign to the boy to listen to what his sister said concerning

him. He seemed to hear with attention, and a tear dropped down his

cheek.

"Ay, Jenny, it is to be hoped he will, and that we shall all likewise."

"Mother, then you must flee to Christ. Nothing you can do will save you

without that. You must repent and turn from sin: without the grace of

God you cannot do it; but seek, and you shall find it. Do, for your own

sake, and for my sake, and my little brother's sake."

The woman wept and sobbed without replying. I now thought it time to

appear, went to the bottom of the stairs, and said, "May a friend come

up?"

"Mercy on me!" said the mother, "there is Mr. ---"

"Come in, sir," said Jane; "I am very glad you are come _now_. Mother,

set a chair."

The woman looked confused. Jane smiled as I entered, and welcomed me as

usual.

"I hope I shall be forgiven, both by mother and daughter, for having

remained so long below stairs, during the conversation which has just

taken place. I came in the hope of finding you together, as I have had a

wish for some time past to speak to you, Sarah, on the same subjects

about which, I am happy to say, your daughter is so anxious. You have

long neglected these things, and I wished to warn you of the danger of

your state; but Jenny has said all I could desire, and I now solemnly ask

you, whether you are not much affected by your poor child's faithful

conversation? You ought to have been _her_ teacher and instructor in the

ways of righteousness, whereas she has now become _yours_. Happy,

however, will it be for you if you are wise, and consider your latter

end, and the things which belong to your peace, before they are hidden

from your eyes! Look at your dying child, and think of your other and

only remaining one, and say whether this sight does not call aloud upon

you to hear and fear."

Jane's eyes were filled with tears whilst I spoke. The woman hung her

head down, but betrayed some emotions of dislike at the plain dealing

used towards her.

"My child, Jenny," said I, "how are you to-day?"

"Sir, I have been talking a good deal, and feel rather faint and weary,

but my mind has been very easy and happy since I last saw you. I am

quite willing to die, when the Lord sees fit. I have no wish to live

except it be to see my friends in a better way before I depart. Sir, I

used to be afraid to speak to them; but I feel to-day as if I could hold

my peace no longer, and I must tell them what the Lord has done for my

soul, and what I feel for theirs."

There was a firmness, I may say a dignity with which this was uttered

that surprised me. The character of the child seemed to be lost in that

of the Christian; her natural timidity yielded to a holy assurance of

manner resulting from her own inward consolations, mingled with spiritual

desire for her mother's welfare. This produced a flush upon her

otherwise pallid countenance, which in no small degree added to her

interesting appearance. The Bible lay open before her as she sat up in

the bed. With her right hand she enclosed her mother's.

"Mother, this book _you_ cannot read; you should therefore go constantly

to church, that you may hear it explained. It is God's book, and tells

us the way to heaven; I hope you will learn and mind it; with God's

blessing it may save your soul. Do think of that, mother, pray do. I am

soon going to die. Give this Bible to my brother; and will you be so

kind, sir, as to instruct him? Mother, remember what I say, and this

gentleman is witness: there is no salvation for sinners like you and me

but in the blood of Christ; he is able to save to the uttermost; he will

save all that come to him; he waits to be gracious: cast yourself upon

his mercy. I wish--I wish--I--I--I--"

She was quite overcome, and sank away in a kind of fainting fit.

Her mother observed, that she would now probably remain insensible for

some time before she recovered.

I improved this interval in a serious address to the woman, and then

prepared to take my departure, perceiving that Jane was too much

exhausted for further conversation at that time.

As I was leaving the room, the child said faintly, "Come again soon, sir;

my time is very short."

I returned home by the same retired road which I had before chosen. I

silently meditated on the eminent proofs of piety and faith which were

just afforded me in the scene I had witnessed.

Surely, I thought, this is an extraordinary child! What cannot grace

accomplish? Is it possible to doubt after this, _who_ is the alone

Author and Finisher of salvation; or from _whom_ cometh every good and

perfect gift? How rich and free is the mercy of Jehovah! Hath not he

"chosen the weak things of this world to confound the things which are

mighty?" Let no flesh glory in his presence: but "he that glorieth, let

him glory in the Lord."

PART VI.

The truth and excellence of the religion of Jesus Christ appear to be

remarkably established by the union of similarity with variety, in the

effect which it produces on the hearts and lives of true believers. In

the grand and essential features of Christian experience, the whole

household of God possess an universal sameness of character, a family

likeness, which distinguishes them from all the world besides: yet, in

numerous particulars, there also exists a beautiful variety.

On the one hand, in the aged and the young, in the wise and the

unlearned, in the rich and the poor; in those of stronger and weaker

degrees of mental capacity, in more sanguine or more sedate dispositions;

and in a multitude of otherwise varying circumstances, there is a

striking conformity of principles and feeling to Christ, and to each

other. Like the flowers of the field and the garden, they are "all

rooted and grounded" in the soil of the same earth; they are warmed by

the same sun, refreshed by the same air, and watered by the same dews.

They each derive nourishment, growth, and increase from the same life-

giving Source. As the flower puts forth its leaves and petals, adorns

the place which it inhabits with its beauty, and possesses an internal

system of qualities, whereby it is enabled to bring forth its seed or

fruit in the appointed season; so does the Christian.

But, on the other hand, like the flowers also, some Christians may be

said to grow on the mountain tops, some in valleys, some in the waters,

and others in dry ground. Different colours, forms, and sizes,

distinguish them from each other, and produce a diversity of character

and appearance which affords a delightful variety, both for the purposes

of use and beauty. Yet is that variety perfectly consistent with their

essential unity of nature in the vegetable kingdom, to which they all

equally belong.

In another particular they likewise resemble. They both die a natural

death. The Lord ever preserves "a seed to serve him," from generation to

generation; for as one disappears, another springs up to supply his

place. But "it is appointed unto all men once to die."--Man "cometh

forth like a flower and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and

continueth not."--"All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the

flower of the grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth

away."

In the midst of such diversity of Christian characters there is much to

love and admire. I have selected the case of little Jane, as one not

undeserving of notice.

It is true, she was only a child--a very poor child--but a child saved by

divine grace, enlightened with the purest knowledge, and adorned with

unaffected holiness; she was a child, humble, meek, and lowly. She

"found grace in the eyes of the Lord" while she was on earth; and, I

doubt not, will be seen on his right hand at the last day. As such,

there is preciousness in the character, which will account for my

attempting once more to write concerning her, and describe her last

moments before she went to her final rest.

At a very early hour on the morning of the following day, I was awoke by

the arrival of a messenger, bringing an earnest request that I would

immediately go to the child, as her end appeared to be just approaching.

It was not yet day when I left my house to obey the summons. The morning

star shone conspicuously clear. The moon cast a mild light over the

prospect, but gradually diminished in brightness as the eastern sky

became enlightened. The birds were beginning their songs, and seemed

ready to welcome the sun's approach. The dew plentifully covered the

fields, and hung suspended in drops from the trees and hedges. A few

early labourers appeared in the lanes, travelling towards the scene of

their daily occupations.

All besides was still and calm. My mind, as I proceeded, was deeply

exercised by thoughts concerning the affecting event which I expected

soon to witness.

The rays of the morning star were not so beautiful in my sight, as the

spiritual lustre of this young Christian's character. "Her night was far

spent;" the morning of a "better day was at hand." The sun of eternal

blessedness was ready to break upon her soul with rising glory. Like the

moon, which I saw above me, this child's exemplary deportment had gently

cast a useful light over the neighbourhood where she dwelt. Like this

moon she had for a season been permitted to shine amidst the surrounding

darkness; and her rays were also reflected from a luminary, in whose

native splendour her own would quickly be blended and lost.

The air was cool, but the breezes of the morning were refreshing, and

seemed to foretell the approach of a beautiful day. Being accustomed, in

my walks, to look for subjects of improving thought and association, I

found them in every direction around me as I hastened onwards to the

house where Jane lay, waiting for a dismissal from her earthly dwelling.

I felt that the twilight gravity of nature was, at that hour, peculiarly

appropriate to the circumstances of the case; and the more so, because

that twilight was significantly adorned with the brilliant sparklings of

the star on one hand, and the clear, pale lustre of the waning moon on

the other.

When I arrived at the house, I found no one below; I paused for a few

minutes, and heard the girl's voice very faintly saying, "Do you think he

will come? I should be so glad--so very glad to see him before I die."

I ascended the stairs--her father, mother, and brother, together with the

elderly woman before spoken of, were in the chamber. Jane's countenance

bore the marks of speedy dissolution. Yet, although death was manifest

in the languid features, there was something more than ever interesting

in the whole of her external aspect. The moment she saw me, a renewed

vigour beamed in her eye; grateful affection sparkled in the dying face.

Although she had spoken just before I entered, yet for some time

afterwards she was silent, but never took her eyes off me. There was

animation in her look--there was more--something like a foretaste of

heaven seemed to be felt, and gave an inexpressible character of

spiritual beauty, even in death.

At length she said, "This is very kind, sir--I am going fast--I was

afraid I should never see you again in this world."

I said, "My child, are you resigned to die?"

"Quite."

"Where is your hope?"

She lifted up her finger, pointed to heaven, and then directed the same

downward to her own heart, saying successively as she did so, "Christ

_there_, and Christ _here_."

These words, accompanied by the action, spoke her meaning more solemnly

than can easily be conceived.

A momentary spasm took place. Looking towards her weeping mother, she

said, "I am very cold--but it is no matter--it will soon be over--"

She closed her eyes for about a minute, and, on opening them again, said,

"I wish, sir, when I am gone, you would tell the other children of the

parish how good the Lord has been to me, a poor sinner--tell them, that

they who seek him early will find him--tell them, that the ways of sin

and ignorance are the ways to ruin and hell--and pray tell them, sir,

from me, that Christ is indeed the Way, the Truth, and the Life--he will

in no wise cast out any that come. Tell them that I, a poor girl--"

She was quite exhausted, and sunk for a while into a torpid state, from

which, however, she recovered gradually, uttering these expressions:

"Where am I?--I thought I was going--Lord, save me!"

"My dear child, you will soon be for ever in _His_ arms who is now

guiding you by his rod and staff through the valley of the shadow of

death."

"I believe so, indeed I do," said she; "I long to be with him!--Oh, how

good, how great, how merciful!--Jesus, save me, help me through this last

trial!"

She then gave one hand to her father, the other to her mother, and said,

"God bless you, God bless you--seek the Lord--think of me when I am

gone--it may be for your good--remember your souls--oh, for Christ's sake

remember your souls--then all may be well--you cannot know what I have

felt for both of you--Lord, pardon and save my dear father and mother!"

She then took hold of her brother's hand, saying, "Thomas, I beg you to

leave off your bad ways--read the Bible--I give you mine--I have found it

a precious book. Do you not remember our little brother, who died some

years since?--he was praying to the last moment of his life. Learn to

pray while you are in health, and you will find the comfort and power of

it when you come to die; but, first of all, pray for a new heart--without

it you will never see God in heaven--your present ways lead to misery and

ruin--may the Lord turn your heart to love and follow him!"

To the other woman she said, "I thank you, Dame K---, for all your

kindness since I have been ill--you have been a Christian friend to me,

and I hope that the Lord will remember you for it, according to his rich

mercy:--you and I have many a time talked together about death; and

though I am the youngest, he calls me first to pass through it: but,

blessed be his name, I am not terrified. I once thought I could never

die without fear; but indeed I feel quite happy, now it is come; and so

will you, if you trust him--he is the God both of the old and the young."

"Ah, my child!" said the woman, "I wish I was as fit to die as you are;

but I fear that will never be--my sins have been many, very many."

"Christ's blood cleanseth from all sin," said the child.

At this moment, instead of growing weaker, through the fatigue of so much

speaking, she seemed to gather fresh strength. She turned to me with a

look of surprising earnestness and animation, saying,--

"You, sir, have been my best friend on earth--you have taught me the way

to heaven, and I love and thank you for it--you have borne with my

weakness and my ignorance--you have spoken to me of the love of Christ,

and he has made me to feel it in my heart--I shall see him face to

face--he will never leave me nor forsake me--he is the same, and changes

not. Dear sir, God bless you!"

The child suddenly rose up, with an unexpected exertion, threw her livid,

wasted arms around me, as I sat on the bedside, laid her head on my

shoulder, and said distinctly, "God bless and reward you--give thanks for

me to him--my soul is saved--Christ is everything to me! Sir, we shall

meet in heaven, shall we not?--Oh yes, yes--then all will be

peace--peace--peace--"

She sank back on the bed, and spoke no more--fetched a deep

sigh--smiled--and died.

At this affecting moment, the rays of the morning sun darted into the

room, and filled my imagination with the significant emblem of "the

tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited

us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of

death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."

It was a beam of light that seemed at once to describe the glorious

change which her soul had now already experienced; and, at the same time,

to shed the promised consolations of hope over the minds of those who

witnessed her departure.

This was an incident obviously arising from a natural cause; but one

which irresistibly connected itself with the spiritual circumstances of

the case.

For some time I remained silently gazing on the breathless corpse, and

could hardly persuade myself that Jane was indeed no longer there.

As I returned homeward, I found it difficult to repress the strong

feelings of affection which such a scene had excited. Neither did I wish

it. Religion, reason, and experience, rather bid us indulge, in due

place and season, those tender emotions, which keep the heart alive to

its most valuable sensibilities. To check them serves but to harden the

mind, and close the avenues which lead to the sources of our best

principles of action.

Jesus himself _wept_ over the foreseen sorrows of Jerusalem. He _wept_

also at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Such an example consecrates the

tear of affection, while it teaches us, concerning them which are asleep,

not to sorrow, as those which have no hope.

I soon fell into meditation on the mysterious subject of the flight of a

soul from this world to that of departed spirits.

"Swifter than an arrow from the bow, or than the rays of light from the

sun, has this child's spirit hastened, in obedience to its summons from

God, to appear in his immediate presence. How solemn a truth is this for

universal consideration! But, 'washed in the blood of the Lamb that was

slain,' and happily made partaker of its purifying efficacy, she meets

her welcome at the throne of God. She has nothing to fear from the

frowns of divine justice. Sin, death, and hell, are all vanquished

through the power of Him who hath made her more than conqueror. He will

himself present her to his Father, as one of the purchased lambs of his

flock--as one whom the Spirit of God 'has sealed unto the day of

redemption.'

"What a change for her!--from that poor tattered chamber to the regions

of paradise!--from a bed of straw to the bosom of Abraham!--from poverty,

sickness, and pain, to eternal riches, health, and joy!--from the

condition of a decayed, weary pilgrim in this valley of tears, to that of

a happy traveller safely arrived at home, in the rest that remaineth to

the people of God!

"I have lost a young disciple, endeared to me by a truly parental tie.

Yet how can I complain of that as lost which God has found? Her willing

and welcome voice no longer seeks or imparts instruction here. But it is

far better employed. The angels, who rejoiced over her when her soul

first turned to God, who watched the progress of her short pilgrimage,

and who have now carried her triumphantly to the heavenly hills, have

already taught her to join

'In holy song, their own immortal strains.'

Why then should I mourn? The whole prospect, as it concerns her, is

filled with joy and immortality: 'Death is swallowed up in victory.'"

As I looked upon the dewdrops which rested on the grass and hung from the

branches of the trees, I observed that the sun's rays first filled them

with beautiful and varied colours; then dried them up, and they were seen

no longer.

Thus it was with myself. The tears which I neither would nor could

restrain, when I first began thus to reflect on the image of the dying

chamber of little Jane, were speedily brightened by the vivid sunshine of

hope and confidence. They then gradually yielded to the influence of

that divine principle which shall finally wipe the tear from every eye,

and banish all sorrow and sighing for evermore.

On the fourth day from thence, Jane was buried. I had never before

committed a parishioner to the ground with similar affections. The

attendants were not many, but I was glad to perceive among them some of

the children who had been accustomed to receive my weekly private

instruction along with her.

I wished that the scene might usefully impress their young hearts, and

that God would bless it to their edification.

As I stood at the head of the grave, during the service, I connected past

events, which had occurred in the churchyard, with the present. In this

spot Jane first learned the value of that gospel which saved her soul.

Not many yards from her own burial-place, was the epitaph which has

already been described as the first means of affecting her mind with

serious and solemn conviction. It seemed to stand at _this_ moment as a

peculiar witness for those truths which its lines proclaimed to every

passing reader. Such an association of objects produced a powerful

effect on my thoughts.

The evening was serene--nothing occurred to interrupt the quiet solemnity

of the occasion.

"Peace" was the last word little Jane uttered while living; and peace

seemed to be inscribed on the farewell scene of the grave where she was

laid. A grateful remembrance of that peace revives in my own mind, as I

write these memorials of it; and oh, may that peace which passeth all

understanding be in its most perfect exercise, when I shall meet her

again at the last day!

Attachment to the spot where this young Christian lay, induced me to

plant a yew-tree close by the head of her grave, adjoining the eastern

wall of the church. I designed it as an evergreen monument of one who

was dear to memory. The young plant appeared healthy for a while, and

promised by its outward vigour long to retain its station. But it

withered soon afterwards, and, like the child whose grave it pointed out

to notice, early faded away and died.

The yew-tree proved a frail and short-lived monument. But a more lasting

one dwells in my own heart. And perhaps this narrative may be permitted

to transmit her memory to other generations, when the hand and heart of

the writer shall be cold in the dust.

Perchance some, into whose hands these pages may fall, will be led to

cultivate their spiritual young plants with increased hopes of success,

in so arduous an endeavour. May the tender blossoms reward their care,

and bring forth early and acceptable fruit!

Some, who have perhaps been accustomed to undervalue the character of

_very_ youthful religion, may hereby see that the Lord of grace and glory

is not limited in the exercise of his power by age or circumstance. It

sometimes appears in the displays of God's love to sinners, as it does in

the manifestations of his works in the heavens, that the _least_ of the

planets moves in the nearest course to the sun; and there enjoys the most

powerful influence of his light, heat, and attraction.

The story of this Young Cottager involves a clear evidence of the

freeness of the operations of divine grace on the heart of man; of the

inseparable connection between true faith and holiness of disposition;

and of the simplicity of character which a real love of Christ transfuses

into the soul.

How many of the household of faith of every age,

"Alike unknown to fortune and to fame,"

have journeyed and are now travelling to their "city of habitation,"

through the paths of modest obscurity and almost unheeded piety! It is

one of the most interesting employments of the Christian minister to

search out these spiritual lilies of the valley, whose beauty and

fragrance are nearly concealed in their shady retreats. To rear the

flower, to assist in unfolding its excellences, and bring forth its fruit

in due season, is a work that delightfully recompenses the toil of the

cultivator.

While he is occupied in this grateful task of labouring in his heavenly

Master's garden, some blight, some tempest, may chance to take away a

favourite young blossom in a premature stage of its growth.

If such a case should befall him, he will then, perhaps, as I have often

done, when standing in pensive recollection at little Jane's grave, make

an application of these lines, which are inscribed on a grave-stone

erected in the same churchyard, and say--

"This lovely bud so young and fair,

Called hence by early doom,

Just came to show how sweet a flower

In paradise would bloom."

THE COTTAGE CONVERSATION

As I journeyed late on a summer evening, meditating on the beauties of

the prospect around me, while they gradually faded from my sight, through

the approach of darkness, it grew suddenly quite gloomy, and a black

cloud hanging over my head threatened a heavy shower of rain. The big

drops began to fall, and an open shed, adjoining to a labourer's cottage,

offering me a seasonable shelter, I dismounted from my horse, and found

it large enough to protect him as well as myself.

The circumstance reminded me of the happy privilege of the believing

sinner, who finds a "refuge from the storm, and the blast of the terrible

ones, in the love of his Redeemer," which prepares him "a covert from

storm and from rain." I went in unperceived: the door of the cottage was

half open, and I heard the voices of a poor man, his wife, and some

children within.

I was hesitating whether to go into the house and make myself known, or

to enjoy in solitude a meditation on the foregoing comparison, which my

situation had brought to my mind, when these words, spoken in a calm and

affectionate tone, struck me with mingled pleasure and surprise, and

determined me not to interrupt the conversation:--

"Indeed, wife, you are in the wrong. Riches would never make us happier,

so long as the Lord sees it good that we should be poor."

"Well," replied the wife, "I can see no harm in wishing for more money

and better living than we have at present. Other people have risen in

the world; and why should not we? There's neighbour Sharp has done well

for his family, and, for anything I can see, will be one of the richest

farmers in the parish, if he lives; and everybody knows he was once as

poor as we are: while you and I are labouring and toiling from morning to

night, and can but just get enough to fill our children's mouths, and

keep ourselves coarsely clothed, and hardly that."

"Wife," answered the man, "having food and raiment, let us therewith be

content. And if it please God that even these things should fall short,

let us submit ourselves to God in patience and well-doing, for he gives

us more than we deserve."

"There, now you are got to preaching again," said the woman; "you never

give me an answer, but you must always go to your Bible to help you out."

"And where can I go so well?" replied the husband. "Is it not God's own

word for our instruction?"

"Well, that may be, but I don't like so much of it," answered she.

"And I do not like so little of it as I see and hear from you," returned

the man.

"Why, that book has taught me that it is an honour and comfort to be a

poor man, and, by the blessing of the Spirit of God, I believe and feel

it to be true. I have, through mercy, always been enabled to get the

bread of honest industry, and so have you; and though our children feed

upon brown bread, and we cannot afford to buy them fine clothes, like

some of our vain neighbours, to pamper their pride with; yet, bless the

Lord, they are as healthy and clean as any in the parish. Why then

should you complain? Godliness with contentment is great gain!"

"An honour and a comfort to be a poor man, indeed! What nonsense you

talk! What sort of honour and comfort can that be? I am out of patience

with you, man," the wife sharply cried out.

"I can prove it!" replied he.

"How?" returned his partner, in no very pleasant tone of voice.

"My dear," said the good man, "hear me quietly, and I will tell you."

"I think it an honour, and I feel it a comfort, to be in that very

station of life which my Saviour Jesus Christ was in before me. He did

not come into the world as one that was rich and great, but as a poor

man, who had not where to lay his head. I feel a blessing in my poverty,

because Jesus, like me, was poor. Had I been a rich man, perhaps I

should never have known nor loved him. 'For not many mighty, not many

noble, are called.' God's people are chiefly found among the base things

of the world, and things which are despised. This makes my poverty to be

my comfort.

"Besides, hath not God chosen the poor of this world, rich in faith, and

heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised to them that love him? This

thought makes my poverty also to be my honour.

"Moreover, to the poor the gospel was and is preached, and to my heart's

delight I find it to be true, every Sunday of my life. And is it not

plain, all the neighbourhood through, that while so many of our rich

farmers, and tradesmen, and squires, are quite careless, or set their

faces against the ways of God, and are dead to everything that is

gracious and holy; a great number of the poorest people are converted and

live? I honour the rich for their station, but I do not envy them for

their possessions. I can not forget what Christ once said, 'How hardly

shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!'

"Oh! my dear wife, if you did but know how to set a right value upon the

precious promises which God has made to the poor, how thankful should I

be!

"The expectation of the poor shall not perish. He delivereth the poor

and needy from him that spoileth him. He has prepared of his goodness

for the poor. The poor among men shall rejoice in the holy one. For he

became poor, that we, through his poverty might be rich; not in gold, but

in grace.

"These promises comfort my soul, and would make me happy, even if I were

deprived of that which I now enjoy. I can trust my Saviour for this

world as well as for the next. He that spared not his own Son, but

delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him also freely give

us all things?

"The Lord of his mercy bless you, my dear Sarah, with the grace of a

contented mind!"

Here the gracious man stopped: and whether affected by her husband's

discourse, or by any other cause, I know not, but she made no reply. He

then said, "Come, children, it is our time for rest; shut the door, and

let us go to prayer."

"Forgive me," said I, laying hold of the door, as the child was obeying

her father's orders, "if I ask leave to make one in your family

devotions, before I travel homeward. I have heard you, my friend, when

you knew it not, and bless God for the sermon which you have this night

preached to my heart."

The honest labourer blushed for a moment at this unexpected intrusion and

declaration, but immediately said, "Sir, you are welcome to a poor man's

dwelling, if you come in the name of the Lord."

I just looked round at the wife, who seemed to be startled at my sudden

appearance, and the six fine children who sat near her, and then said,

"You were going to pray; I must beg of you, without regarding me, to go

on as if I were not here."

The man, whom I could not but love and reverence, with a simple,

unaffected, modest, and devout demeanour, did as I requested him. His

prayer was full of tender affection and sincerity, expressed with great

Scriptural propriety, and was in all respects such as became the preacher

of those sentiments which I have overheard him deliver to his wife just

before.

When he had finished, each of his children, according to the good old

patriarchal custom of better days, kneeled down before him in turn to

receive a father's blessing.

It was now late, and the rain was over. I gave the poor man my blessing,

and received his in return. I wished them good night, and went onwards

to my own home, reflecting with much self-abasement of heart, what an

honour and comfort it is to be a poor man, rich in faith.

A VISIT TO THE INFIRMARY.

I went a few months since to visit a parishioner, then in the county

infirmary, within some miles of which I reside, and was informed that in

an adjoining ward there lay a very good old man, confined by a

mortification in his foot, who would take particular satisfaction in any

Christian conversation which my time would allow me to afford him.

The nurse conducted me into a room where I found him alone on a bed. The

character of his countenance was venerable, cheerful, contented, and

pious. His hoary hairs proclaimed him to be aged, although the

liveliness in his eye was equal to that of the most vigorous youth.

"How are you, my friend?" I said.

"Very well, sir, very well. Never better in all my life. Thank God for

all his mercies!" replied the man, with so cheerful a tone of voice as at

once surprised and delighted me.

"Very well! How so? I thought from what I heard you were in much pain

and weakness," said I.

"Yes, sir, that is true; but I am very well for all that. For God is so

good to my soul, and he provides everything needful for my body. The

people in the house are very kind; and friends come to see me, and talk

and pray with me. Sir, I want nothing but more grace to praise the Lord

for all his goodness."

"Why, my friend, you are an old pilgrim, and I am glad to see that you

have learned thankfulness as you travel through the wilderness."

"Thankfulness!" quickly returned he. "No, sir; I never did thank the

Lord, I never could thank him; no, nor I never shall thank him as I

ought, till I get to glory. And then--oh, then--how I will thank him for

what he has done for me!" Tears of affection filled his eyes as he

spoke.

"What a good Master you serve!" I added.

"Ay, sir, if the servant was but as good as the Master. But here I am, a

poor old sinner, deserving nothing, and receiving everything which I

need. Sir, I want nothing but more grace to serve him better. I lie

here on this bed, and pray and sing by night and day. Sir, you must let

me sing you my hymn; I always begin it about four o'clock in the morning,

and it keeps my spirits alive all the day through."

Without waiting for my reply, he raised himself up, and in an aged and

broken, but very affecting tone of voice, he sang two or three verses,

expressive of God's goodness to him, and his own desire to live to God's

glory. The simplicity, serenity, and heartfelt consolation, with which

this venerable disciple went through it, gave a colouring to the whole,

and left an impression on my mind which it would be impossible to convey

to the reader.

As soon as he had finished his hymn, he said, "Do not be offended, sir,

at my boldness: you love the Lord, too, I hope; and then I am sure you

won't be angry to hear me praise him. But now, sir, talk to me about

Jesus Christ. You are his minister, and he has sent you here to-day to

see a poor unworthy soul, that does not deserve the least of his mercies.

Talk to me, sir, if you please about Jesus Christ."

"Neither you nor I are able to talk of him as we ought," I answered; "and

yet, if we were to hold our peace, the very stones would cry out."

"Ay, and well they might, sir, cry shame, shame upon us, if we refused to

speak of his goodness," said the old man.

"Jesus Christ," I continued, "is a sure refuge, and a present help in

time of trouble."

"That's right, sir; so he is."

"Jesus Christ has taken care of you, and watched over you all the days of

your life; and he will be your guide and portion in death."

"That's right again, sir; so he will."

"You have committed your soul into his keeping long since, have you not?"

"About forty years ago, sir; about forty years ago, (when I first used to

hear Mr. Venn and Mr. Berridge,) he came to seek and to save me, a vile

sinner, who deserved nothing but his wrath. I can never praise him

enough."

"Well, my friend, and this very Saviour, Jesus Christ, whom you love, and

in whom you trust, lived for you, and died for you; he rose again for

you, and has sanctified you by his Holy Spirit, and now lives to make

daily intercession for you: and having done all this, do you think he

will leave you to perish at last?"

"No, sir," said the old man: "faithful is he that hath promised, and will

do it. Mine, alack, is a changing heart; but he changeth not. I believe

that he hath laid up a crown of glory for me; and though the old enemy of

souls sometimes tells me I shan't have it, I believe in Christ sooner

than in him, and I trust I shall have it at last."

"And do you not find by experience," I added, "that his yoke is easy, and

his burden light? His commandments are not grievous, are they?"

"No, sir, no: it is a man's meat and drink, if he loves the Lord, to do

what he bids him."

"Where were you before you came into this infirmary?"

"In the parish workhouse of S---."

"Have you a wife?"

"She died some years since, and got to her heavenly home before me."

"Have you any children?"

"Yes, sir, I have two sons married, and settled in the world with

families. One of them has been here to see me lately, and I hope he is

in a good way for his own soul, and brings up his children in the fear of

God."

"Have you any worldly cares upon your mind?"

"_Not one_, sir. I am come to this house, I plainly see, to end my days;

for this mortification in my leg must, before it be very long, bring me

to the grave. And I am quite willing, sir, to go, or to wait the Lord's

own time. I want nothing, sir, but more grace to praise him." Which

last words he often repeated in the course of the conversation.

"You have reason," I said, "to feel thankful that there is such a house

as this for poor and sick people to be brought to, for both food,

lodging, and medicine."

"That I have, indeed, sir; it is a house of mercies to me, and I am

ashamed to hear how unthankful many of the patients seem to be for the

benefits which the Lord provides for them here. But, poor creatures,

they neither know nor love him. The Lord have mercy upon them, and show

them the right way. I should never have known that good way, sir, if he

had not taken compassion upon me, when I had none upon myself."

Tears ran down his aged cheeks as he spoke these last words. "Here,"

thought I, "is a poor man that is very rich, and a weak man that is very

strong." At this moment the nurse brought in his dinner. "There, sir,

you see, more and more mercies! The Lord takes care of me, and sends me

plenty of food for this poor, old worn-out body."

"And yet," said I, "that poor old worn-out body will one day be renewed

and become a glorified body, and live along with your soul in the

presence of God for ever."

"That's right, sir," said the good old man, "so it will: 'though after my

skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.' But,

come, sir," seeing me look at my watch, "you must speak a word _to_ your

Master, if you please, as well as _for_ him. I will put down my dinner

while you pray with me."

I did so, the man often adding his confirmation of what I offered up by

voice, gesture, and countenance, in a manner highly expressive of the

agreement of his heart with the language of the prayer.

Having ended, he said, "God be with you, sir, and bless your labours to

many poor souls! I hope you will come to see me again, if my life be

spared. I am so glad to see those who will talk to me about Jesus

Christ, and his precious salvation."

I replied, "May the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who carried them

through the days of their pilgrimage, and brought them safe to a city

which hath foundations, bring you there too, and bless you all the

remaining days of your journey till you get home! I am going to see

several serious friends this evening, who would be glad, I know, to

receive a message from one who has had so much experience of a Saviour's

mercies. What shall I say to them?"

"Tell them, sir, with my Christian love and respects, that you have been

to see a poor dying old man, who wants nothing at all in this world but

more grace to praise the Lord with."

So ended our first interview. I could not help reflecting, as I returned

homewards, that, as the object of my journey to the infirmary had been to

carry instruction and consolation myself to the poor and the sick; so the

poor and the sick were made instrumental to the conveying of both

instruction and consolation to my own heart in a very superior degree.

I saw him four or five times afterwards, and always found him in the same

happy, patient, thankful, and edifying state of mind and conversation.

The last time I was with him, he said, "Sir, I long to be at my heavenly

home, but I am willing to remain a traveller as long as my Lord and

Master sees good."

He died {203} not long after my last sight of him, in the steadfast

assurance of faith, and with a full hope of immortality.

Footnotes:

{87} The mother died not long after her daughter; and I have good reason

to believe that God was merciful to her, and took her to himself.

An interesting account of a visit recently made to the Dairyman's cottage

appeared in the _Christian Guardian_ for October 1813. A still more

recent visit to the good old Dairyman (who still lives, at the age of

eighty-two) has been made by the author of this narrative. (_June_ 1814)

The good old Dairyman died in 1816. His end was eminently Christian.

{97} "Now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of

these is charity" (1 Cor. xiii. 13)

{98} This circumstance took place before the late abolition of the slave

trade.

{103} The day has since arrived, when the persevering efforts of Mr.

Wilberforce to accomplish this happy purpose have been fully answered.

_The slave trade is abolished_! The Church of God rejoices at this

triumph of the cause of Christ over the powers of darkness.

{105} In the course of conversation, he sometimes addressed me with the

word "Massa," for "Master," according to the well known habit of the

Negro slaves in the West Indies; and sometimes 'Sir,' as he was taught

since his arrival in England; but the former word seemed to be most

familiar to him.

{107} A kind of shell-fish, which abound in the place where we were, and

which stick to the rocks with exceeding great force.

{121} Song of Solomon i. 5.

{203} The foregoing conversation took place on September 22, 1808, and

is faithfully related.

J--- S---, the good old man, died in the Infirmary, in December 1808.