Ex Libris 4 • J ; C. K. OGDEN j THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES : V h . THE RECTORY OF VALEHEAD. BY THE REV. ROBERT WILSON EVANS, M.A. There sits a look of inward peace upon thee, There floats a glow of innocence around thee ; Thou bringest airs of fragrant gladness with thee. Like glorified saint, or angel dropt from bliss- Can earth have homes so unearthly ? TWELFTH EDITION, ENLARGED. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL. 1842. London : Printed by Stewart and Murray, Old Bailey. 1842, PREFACE. The plan of the little work here presented to the reader, may seem to require some pre- fatory statement. Its subject might have been treated in abstract in a regularly ar- ranged dissertation; but little reflection, how- ever, is necessary, in order to perceive that a formal treatise were but ill suited to its nature. The best part of the history of home, is made up of a multitude of minute and irregular incidents, which make their impression rather by their accumulation and unceasing action, than by their importance. Of these such a plan could not lay hold, much less turn them to their proper account ; besides, a very large portion of the persons intended to be addressed, require their atten- tion to be engaged by a much more popular mode of appeal. Upon these grounds, a (4«ll'iJO VI PREFACE. miscellaneous detail of circumstances appeared preferable. This affords a comprehensive and practical vehicle of instruction, and sup- plies, at the same time, to the subject all the popularity of which its dignity is capable. On the same grounds, likewise, the inter- mixture of prose and verse recommended itself to the author, and has been employed according as either dress seemed most adapted to the case in hand ; — the former best render- ing the expression of the more common and regular routine of circumstances, the latter being more suitable to the pointing of those minute and uncontemplated incidents which are continually starting up and rousing our reflection. Miscellaneous as the appearance of his volume may thus be, the author trusts that he has obtained variety, and not violated unity of design ; that all is uniformly di- rected to one object, and, through that, to the one great end, without which no deed is good, no thought is worthy, no affection is pure. The subject has long appeared to the author to be too slightly dwelt upon by PREFACE. Vll writers. Amid the crowd of books which are daily issuing forth, directed to individual conduct, how few are they which notice the peculiarity of the Christian Home, essential element though it be of the great body of Christ, and cradle of the Christian's social graces. We, indeed, need to be reminded again and again, that it is a permanent con- gregation, assembled before God for mutual edification and for his glory, — that nature has done no more than the menial office of throwing its members down as stones in one heap upon earth. The hand of the builder is required to accomplish its high destiny, and put them together for everlasting in the wall of his Zion. The high cultivation of mind in these days so widely prevalent, has created a very general interest in the beauties of natural scenery. This feeling being one of those which is increased by participation, and in itself of the most soothing and amiable kind, will be most intensely enjoyed in the society of home. It must be observed, however, that while, of all dispositions of mind, it VIU PREFACE. affords the most pleasing and most frequent external channel to the entertainment of spiritual thoughts, yet, if undirected onwards to them, it will but foster a tendency towards natural religion, " The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life." The author, therefore, has been led, no less by duty than inclination, to bring it frequently forward, and turn it to its proper account. What remains to be stated may now be left to the speaker of the following pages, who, in the Introduction and Conclusion, will give further information on the design of the work. It will here suffice to observe that the volume has been the result of short intervals of summer leisure, when the author found it absolutely necessary to throw aside all books, but could not remain quite unoccupied. Thus it is, as it were, a bundle of wild plants, which have sprung up in his fallow. May they have sufficient brightness of hue, and adequate sweetness of fragrance, to invite the attention of the passenger ! CONTENTS. Chapter. Pa 8 e I. Introduction 1 II. The Constitution of a Christian Family 11 A Household Hymn 23 Home 24 III. The Family Liturgy 28 A Family Hymn 39 The Morning's Welcome 40 The Evening's Farewell 42 Hymn — the Altar 43 Hymn — the Comforter 44 IV. The External Communion of the Family 46 Hymn — the Martyrs 57 Hymn — on All Saints' Day 60 Hymn — on Good Friday 61 A Reverie, in Lent 62 A Meditation — on Easter Day 64 V. The First Member sent odt into the World 66 God's Conscript 78 VI. The Annual Meeting of the Family . . 81 Thy Home 93 X CONTENTS. Chapter. Page VII. A Ramble of a Member of the Family . . 95 Rambles in the Valley.— The Glen 105 The Ruin 106 Rambles up the Stream — The Still Stream 107 The Cataract 110 The Source 113 The Swollen Stream 115 VIII. The First Death in the Family 117 What is Affliction ? 130 The Omen 132 The Last Prophet 133 "I die daily." 134 IX. The Family Code 137 The Captive let loose 147 The Monitor 148 X. The Mother 150 My Mother 160 XI. The Discipline of the Family 164 The Return 170 The Recovery 171 The Blind Man 173 XII. The First Marriage in the Family .... 174 The Bride 182 XIII. The Garden 185 The Pimpernell 192 The Preachers 193 The Nightingale 195 XIV. The Absentee 198 The Visit 206 XV. The First-Born 208 The Early Tree 215 CONTENTS. XI Chapter. Page XVI. The Christening 218 An Address 226 An Invocation 227 Cornelius 228 XVII. A Tale of the Family 231 Prologue to the Widow 235 The Widow ■ 237 XVIII. The Birth-Day 249 The Congratulation 260 The Reflection 261 The Wish 262 XIX. The Pensioners of the Family 264 XX. The Family Excursion 274 The Storm 283 The Ascent 285 The Hill-Top 287 The Review 2S9 The Brook 291 The Rainbow 293 XXI. The Servants of the Family 295 The Discovery 303 The Servant 305 XXII. The Friend of the Family 307 The Only Friend 316 XXIII. The Library 319 Meditation in a Library 331 XXIV. Conclusion 335 Epitaph 340 THE RECTORY OF VALEHEAD. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. Several years have now passed since I officiated as the Minister of the parish of Valehead ; the latter part particularly of the time which I sp"** there was, from circumstances which will j sently appear, so fraught with instructive con- versation, that, after having recurred to it in memory with increasing delight and profit, I am at last induced to commit to writing a register of my impressions, and only wish that I could, as once Xenophon to Socrates, do proper justice to the wisdom of my instructor. The parish of Valehead is situated just where a wild and mountainous region meets a fertile B Z INTRODUCTION. champaign cotintry, with which it imperceptibly blends by the gradual opening of its valleys, and sinking of its hills. I have said parish, for village there is none, the houses being situated in the centre of their respective farms, and thus very prettily scattered with their white fronts, and half-screening orchards, over the face of the country. If, however, the term village be insisted upon, then we must apply it to a cluster of some five or six houses situated near the church, and forming those important elements, the residences of the lawyer and of the doctor, the ale-house, the smithy, and the^ shop. On the north side of the church, and opening into the church-yard by an old-fashioned gateway, whence issues to the chancel-door a narrow path, traversing the green in aristocratic solitude, stands the manor-house, an ancient black and white building, one-half of whose windows are bricked up, and the other presenting a sad unsightly con- trast with what you immediately perceive must have been their former state, by having had their fine old mullions cut away, and the ugliest sashes of the manufactory class introduced in their stead. Nevertheless, it still presents a noble ap- pearance, both from the beauty of its general outline, and from many of its worst mutilations INTRODUCTION. 6 being concealed by a grove of venerable walnut- trees, which by some unaccountable good fortune escaped the proscription, or rather conscription, of their race during the late war. The church is sufficiently rude, pierced irregularly with windows of all styles, here with the narrow pointed slit, there with the broad mullioned square, and in its general outline exhibiting, in the usual style of this part of the country, a singular combination o the barn and dove-cote. It, however, often at- tracts the notice of the stranger as he passes along the great road, by being seen perched upon a green and sunny knoll, contrasting its white walls with the deep indigo of a precipitous mountain seen beyond. It stands in the upper part of a long vale, which a little farther up forks out into three narrow valleys, each bringing down its river. These flow in an united stream under the church- yard, crossed by a handsome bridge, and in the proper season the banks .are dotted with anglers, who resort hither from considerable distances. The church-yard has ever been with me a fa- vourite walk, independent of the train of thought which it naturally suggests ; it is warm and sunny, and presents also a great variety of beautiful prospect. Looking thence down the vale, your eye wanders over a rich and well wooded, though B 2 4. INTRODUCTION. somewhat flat country, along which you trace for many a mile, by a succession of gleaming elbows and reaches, the course of the river, and, reaching the horizon, sees it indented by the towers and spires of the metropolis of our district. Looking upwards, your view penetrates into the three valleys before mentioned. One of these is shortly terminated, presenting a lofty waterfall at its upper extremity, which rushes, at one leap, over a bare ledge of slate-rock. The view up the two others is more extensive, but is gradually lost amid jutting promontories. In one, you can just dis- cern the tower of its village church, and the knoll crowned by ancient fir-trees, which protect the village from its peculiar wind. In the other, the singular fall of the mountains shows at once the nature of the stream which waters it, the roar of whose waves I often delight in catching at the still of the evening. The whole horizon in this direction, in complete contrast to that in the other, is tossed like a stormy sea into waves of solid rock and mountain, of every variety of form and figure, some most singular and fantastic. On such of them as are near enough you may discern nicks and furrows, denoting an old circular encampment, and sometimes the predominant figure of a turfy sweep is interrupted by a short and momentary 3 INTRODUCTION. O swell, the tomb of some ancient warrior. Traces, indeed, every where present themselves of the possession of the country having been disputed inch by inch. The foreground is a rich combi- nation of wood, meadow, and water, setting off to great advantage, by its lively verdure, the dark and rugged back ground. Accustomed as I have been from my cradle to beautiful scenery, I felt truly thankful to my God for this among other blessings, that he had cast the lot of my ministry in so fair a land. With my parishioners, too, I had every reason to be satisfied. All my intercourse with them harmonized with the feelings, and satisfied the imagination, excited by the view of their roman- tic country. They were a plain, pious, and well-informed race ; but this character, of course, I do not attribute to the nature of their scenery, though I am confident that this has more effect than moralists are generally inclined to allow ; nor was I long in discovering its principal cause. Every where I found that a master hand in re- lioious reformation had been before me. It was the operation of my last predecessor but one, who had become a proverb in the mouths of the in- habitants, and was familiarly termed the good Rector. Though he had now been dead full 6 INTRODUCTION. twenty years, his works still remained, and his conversation had left a blessed fragrance behind. Among the usual effects produced by a pious Pastor, I found one very general, which I believe most difficult to establish, a habit of family prayer, and in most houses I saw still in constant use a short liturgy, with occasional prayers to be used under various circumstances, which had been com- posed by him. The elderly persons were proud to be able to mention any act of kindness which they had received from him, as if it had imparted a sort of holiness to them ; and to have been baptised by the good Rector, conferred a dignity of character similar to that which formerly at- tented the pilgrim on his return from Palestine. He had, of course, the usual reputation of a great scholar, and, in this instance, if I may judge from the little which he has left, it w T as for once well founded. As far as I can make out, he appears to have formed an agreeable mean between the old school of divines of the Stuart period and the very modern. He seems to have had all the weight of learning of the former, conjoined with the ministerial activity of the latter. And though his sermons have too much of the old methodical hair-spliting divisions of firstly, secondly, and so on, they are far removed from more serious defects INTRODUCTION. 7 of that school ; they are never barren essays, or vain, speculative disquisitions, but lucid explana- tions of points of doctrine, enforced by most earnest exhortation. A school-house and other buildings are more obvious, though far less precious, testimonies of his zeal. Among these is one which is always duly pointed out to strangers by the sexton, who is the more proud of it because it shows his late beloved master, he thinks, in a new character, that of a poet. It is a stone seat near the chancel door, so situated that the person sitting there sees a distant waterfall just over the sun-dial. He used to be much delighted in contemplating this quaint coincidence of two most expressive em- blems of our fleeting existence, and on the stone has carved these lines, which the sexton, for fear you should not be able to spell, always reads to you with his fingers in the letters, and for fear of your having a short memory, always repeats twice over. " Sit down awhile, this scene survey, 'Twill help thee in my church to pray." His residence was the manor-house before de- scribed, which was his family property, as lay- Rector of the parish, the living being only a vicarage. 8 INTRODUCTION. It was on Sunday, August 14th, 1825, (I love to note the very day to which I owe so much,) that I was surprised at seeing a perfect stranger pass up the aisle, and enter, as one well accus- tomed to the place, the pew in the chancel appro- priated to the manor-house. He gazed for a few moments, with an earnest look on the monuments which covered the wall above, in every variety of style, from the kneeling alabaster figures and cushions of Elizabeth and James, down to the plain marble tablet of George III. He seemed upon the verge of seventy, and his face possessed that peculiar look of mild resignation, which sorrow, turned to good account, ever produces. His voice too, when I afterwards spoke with him, came with that softness, which leads one to imagine, that sorrow has physically no less than morally softened the heart, and relaxed all the rigidities of the passages from the breast to the lips. He turned out to be the sole surviving child of the good Rector ; and, contrary to the advice of his friends, who thought his feelings scarcely adequate to the trial, had returned, after fifty years, to spend the summer months at his native place, where, by removing some rubbish of the farmer's, and opening some windows long blocked up, he had fitted up two or three rooms very INTRODUCTION. V comfortably. He told me that the greatest shock which he had experienced, was on that morning at church. On opening the pew-door he involun- tarily started at its emptiness, and, in the corner, where his mother always sate, he found her prayer- book lying still, though tattered and mouldering. He spent with me the remainder of that day ; and I afterwards saw very much of him, nor did I ever leave his company without the consciousness of increased information. The fruits of my inter- course with him I now offer to the public ; and regret that the office of registering example and advice so excellent, should have fallen into hands so inadequate. Before concluding, I ought to say something of the poetical pieces interspersed in this volume. Many of them are, of course, component parts of the family liturgy, and proceeded chiefly, if not altogether, from the hand of the Rector; others from different hands of the family ; and, among these, some from him of whom I have a moment ago been speaking. He gave me this account of them : " Their composition was not altogether the whiling away of an idle hour ; it served me for something of a higher nature than mere amusement, since the constraint of verse obliged me to turn the leading idea, and view it in every 10 INTRODUCTION. possible light, to pursue it into all its bearings. Thus I arrived, as from the porch to the sanc- tuary, at thoughts and objects of meditation, which had otherwise never presented themselves, and the less so in proportion to the holiness and loftiness of their nature ; and, besides, I found that I thus concentrated, and called home to their due service, a crowd of ideas, which had else floated about loose and unemployed, and served rather to perplex me than to inform. I consider, therefore, each of these little pieces as the clinging and twining of my mind round some subject, which it would fain not dismiss until it had attained the angel's blessing ! — May it have so attained ! They are now precious to me as the tokens and sensible relics of past and blessed moments; — may they be precious to you as the results of a fellow-creature's experience." CHAPTER II. THE CONSTITUTION OF A CHRISTIAN FAMILY. I had not long enjoyed the acquaintance of my venerable friend, when he began to unfold the habits and opinions in which he had been brought up. I had been observing to him the method and regularity which distinguished the older families of the parish, attributing it, where I believe it was entirely due, to the exertions of his father. " My father," he said, " was thought to entertain peculiar notions on the subject by most of his neighbours. But my experience has convinced me, that they were not only sound in doctrine, but replete with benefit in practice. The turf here is soft and dry, and we have a delicious prospect to amuse our eyes. Let us sit down for a short time, and I will detail to you some of the doctrines and traditions of our 12 THE CONSTITUTION OF little church, for so my father delighted to term his domestic circle. " He maintained that society in general, as established on the principles of our nature, and still more the church, as based upon the feelings superinduced by the gospel, was like those per- fect bodies in unorganized nature, which, how- ever you divide them, and however far you carry your division, still present, though on a lessen- ing scale, parts similar to each otber, and to tbe whole, Thus, as in one case, we divide king- dom into provinces, province into districts, dis- trict into families, each under their respective heads of king, governor, lieutenant, father, and each a model of the preceding ; so, too, may we divide the universal church into national churches, national church into dioceses, diocese into congregations, congregation into families, each an epitome of the preceding, and collected under its proper head, as under Christ, under chief bishop, under bishop, under minister, un- der father. And as the subject maintains con- nexion with his kino- through the links of societv above mentioned, so the individual with Christ through the corresponding bonds of the church. lie cannot for a moment consider himself isolated and independent of the next link above him, his A CHRISTIAN FAMILY. 13 family, nor that family deem itself unconnected with the next superior bond, the congregation. From this view of the case he showed what an important element a family was in both societies, natural and spiritual ; and if in the former system it was reckoned by the heathen a portion so significant that he assigned to it peculiar deities and peculiar rites, what ought we to think of its value in the latter ? In both cases it is the concentrated spot of those motives, the place where that bias and impulse is given, the cradle of those affections and principles which, from their intensity here, proceed beyond the threshold, arrive in proper vigour at the wider circles of public life, and there, uniting with the corresponding energies of other families, bind together the mass of society, so as to become solid as the concealed surface which originates from a number of centres, shoot- ing forth their raying needles, and interlacing till they form one uniform surface. God has himself determined its importance in his church. For as in that he has declared his sense of its dignity and holiness, by appearing in it amid signs and wonders, with the blazing mountain, the host of angels, the voice of the trumpet, and the sound of words, unendurable, from the terror which it inspired; so in this, in this lesser Zion, he has 14 THE CONSTITUTION OP assured us of its sanctity, by manifesting his presence in it with a softening of his glory in beautiful accordance with the calmness of domes- tic life. Who has not felt his bosom burn within him when he reads of his abode in the house of Lazarus, and finds him weeping with those that weep, comforting the afflicted, and dismissing the penitent in forgiveness ? " It is truly delightful at times to take off the eyes from the direct view of the painful splendour of the universal church, and to contemplate it through this soft and attempering medium : the perception is then accompanied with those vigorous and elementary feelings of love and warmth of heart, which are too apt to become vague in attempting to comprehend the vast proportions of the other. Let us for a moment indulge in the contemplation. " In the venerable head of the family we ac- knowledge its bishop, its centre of unity, source of faith, object of obedience. Of him the flock is both naturally and spiritually born, and fed with the necessaries of this life, and of the next. He is to them the conservator of the oracles of God ; he is the entrusted minister of Christ. His blessing confers the good of the world being, and of the world to be, and his cursing is a condem- A CHRISTIAN FAMILY. 15 nation both now and hereafter. He is ever in his diocese, every day, yea, every hour, visiting and inspecting his flock, encouraging the obedient, chastening the froward, feeding the hungry, healing the sick, comforting the mourner, instruct- ing the ignorant, interceding in prayer. He has, too, his priesthood in the elder members of his family, who assist and relieve his labours by their attention to the younger, who surround, as faith- ful stewards and ministers, his chair in his ad- ministration, and his altar in his devotions. Oh ! high indeed is his claim, lofty his privilege, and tremendous his responsibility to the church of God. " It has likewise its appropriate liturgy, ex- pressive of its peculiar circumstances ; holds its appointed days of fast and festival, commemora- tive of the various events with which God has been pleased to visit it ; and has its canons, which, though not reduced to writing, are thoroughly understood and cheerfully obeyed. "Nor wants this little church its catalogue of saints : such, perhaps, is some gentle, affectionate member, possessed of the blessed privilege of win- ning all hearts, whose modest talents were un- weariedly exerted in healing the sores of domestic contention, into whose ear was poured the secret 16 THE CONSTITUTION OP of the grieved and burdened heart, and from whose lips were expected and received the words of ad- vice and of comfort, to whose piety they seemed to feel indebted for the blessings which visited them, in whose existence all appeared enwrapt as in their joy, their prop, and their stay, the bitter example of whose calmness and resignation they were doomed to witness through long and pro- tracted sufferings, whom at last they laid in the grave, premature in years, but mature in godliness, whose existence among them seems now as the visit of an angel whom they had been entertaining unawares, whom they cannot persuade themselves even now to suppose that they have utterly lost, but conceive to hover about the once beloved abode, and shed a hallowing protection upon its inmates. " Nor, alas ! is wanting its catalogue of martyrs, of those who spent with unwearied toil, and wrung at heart by being continually foiled by some whom they loved most dearly, in their unceasing endeavours to keep together their little community, and maintain it against the inroads of a pitiless and profligate world, and gallantly bearing up to the last, bound, as it were, to the stake, fell at length, and sank into an untimely grave, rejoicing and blessing their crucified Master in that he had A CHRISTIAN FAMILY. 17 imparted to them strength and courage for the combat, and confident in hope of what to men seemed hopeless, namely, that he would in his own good time put the finishing crown to that which, under his assistance, they had begun. " Nor is it exempt from the failings of its great model, for it comprehends the bad with the good, the hypocrite with the faithful, and it too has its schismatics and heretics ; it too has those who despise its salutary control, spurn its pa- ternal restrictions, and assert their liberty by fomenting dissensions within, and, finally, draw- ing off a party in open revolt from beneath the fatherly roof, set up a separate and rival house- hold, and bring the whole family into disrepute before a cruel and unthinking world. " Holding these opinions on the constitution of a Christian family, the good Rector was accus- tomed to express himself with feelings of ex- ceeding awe upon his double responsibility as father and minister, and would repeat again and again, as continually lying upon his mind, the passage of St. Paul, where he observes that the person who is inefficient in the management of his own household, is also unfit for government in God's church. He was unceasing in urging upon others the sanctity of home, the sin of un- c 18 THE CONSTITUTION OF clervaluing that which has more than once com- prised the whole church of God ; and such as undervalued, he asserted to be as incapable of understanding the nature of that church as the person ignorant of syllables is of reading its records. He would, therefore, pray and intreat of fathers of families to take heed to themselves how their behaviour affects the church of the Christ and God ; for that they too are masons in that glorious fabric, and however inferior, yet of vital importance ; and if their part of the wall be loose and uncemented, how dare they arraign a superior mason, whose functions, embracing this part in a still more extensive range of duty, have been hindered by their neglect. And he called upon each member of a family to reflect upon the exceeding guilt of family dissension ; for that it was not only a violation of natural affection, not only a breach of Christian charity, but also a rent in the glorious vest of the church of God, and that, if in a lower degree of effect yet not of guilt, they were schismatics. He told them that a family thus divided, was incapable of real union with the church ; for how could they be united without, who were disunited within ; how could they lay their gift upon the altar who were unreconciled with their A CHRISTIAN FAMILY. 19 brother ; how could they in public prayer arrive at any holy conclusion, whose unholiness inter- rupted their domestic devotions. No ! be as- sured, he would say, that in this case you are virtually cut off from the church of God ; you are stones which have rolled out of the wall of the spiritual Zion ; you are branches which the sap from the main trunk of the vine refuses to visit ; you are sheep to whom the Shepherd will not open the door of his fold. " Oh ! great, unspeakable, is the blessedness of a godly home ! Here is the cradle of the Christian ; hence he sallies forth for encounter with the world, armed at all points, disciplined in all the means of resistance, and full of hope of victory under his heavenly Leader. Hither he ever afterwards turns a dutiful and affec- tionate look, regarding it as the type and pledge of another home ; hither, too, when sore wounded in that conflict, he resorts to repair his drooping vigour ; here, when abandoned by the selfish sons of this world, he finds, as in a sanctuary, the children of God ready with open arms to receive him ; and here the returning prodigal, enfolded in the embrace of those who know not, dream not, of the impurities of the world with which he has been mixing, feels all at once his c 2 20 THE CONSTITUTION OF heart burst with shame and repentance. Mer- ciful God, what a city of refuge hast thou or- dained in the Christian home ! " A truly Christian home can scarcely be said to die : it may disappear from the eyes of flesh, but its better parts, those which alone are truly valuable, belong also to our everlasting home, It has but to throw off the elements of flesh, and it becomes at once that spiritual home to which eternal bliss is appended. All its occu- pations are preparations for another life, all its actions converge to that point ; its society is a lively figure of that in heaven, and its bonds of union, though originating in the flesh, have long ago been advanced and established in the spirit. Its inmates regard each other as companions of the life to come, and deride the power of any separation which this world can effect. They look with contemptuous pity upon the miser- able expedient for union after death to which worldlings resort, the laying up their bones in a costly vault ; thus making a mockery of home by a disgusting assemblage of mouldering skele- tons. Being one in spirit, whether in the same grave, or with half the world between, they are still in union." Such was the account given by my friend of A CHRISTIAN FAMILY. 21 his father's opinions ; and ever since arriving at this view of a Christian family, I have regarded with indescribable interest the meeting of my congregation on the Lord's day. I see family after family trooping in, each in itself a little church, perfect in its organization, standing in peculiar relation to God : and now merging, by the unity of one altar, one faith, into a nobler and larger division of Christ's body. It presents to me a lively image of that universal body in which all churches, past, present, and to come, are comprehended : and of the several portions which compose it. Here, I have thought, as a family knot advanced in showy pomp, followed by liveried lackies, here is a church insolent with prosperity, and, like that of Alexandria, inviting by its overweening pride the chas- tising rod of its Master. Methinks I can almost hear the awful words pronouncing, " Repent, or I will come unto thee quickly." Another group, evidently in good circumstances, but clad in mourning, recalls to my mind the flourishing church of Carthage weeping over her Cyprian. Another arrives, modest in behaviour, plain yet neat in dress, walking arranged in order before their parents; and I think of the golden days of the church of Ephesus, when 22 THE CONSTITUTION, ETC. the rod of persecution was still impending to chastise any trespass beyond the bounds of sober simplicity and meekness, and she had not yet learned the insolence of prosperity. A fourth arrives, and by its tattered habits, and squalid countenances, in which ignorance and stupidity are strongly pictured, presents to my imagina- tion the present church of Constantinople, bowed to the dust, no less by its own superstition than by the sword of the infidel. Thus I cast a rapid glance through the Christian church, and con- clude by arriving at the consummation of all things, at that great day, when there shall meet in congregation before the throne of our Lord, churches, and nations, and families of different ages, different tongues, different quarters of the earth, and all be gathered into one great family ; and father, king, and bishop, shall all merge into one title, and be ascribed with all honour and glory to the universal head, Jesus Christ, our Redeemer. A HOUSEHOLD HYMN. 23 A HOUSEHOLD HYMN. Blest was the pious Gittite,* blest, Who worthy deem'd to entertain Jehovah, Lord of Hosts, as guest, Brought Abraham's 1 blessing back again. There Heaven outpour'd His blissful hoard, And made the hymning household bright With radiance of eternal light. But doubly blest that shall restore, Thankful amid a thankless race, The blessing Mary* won before, Her heavenly Visitor replace, Beaming among His old and young, Confess'd in holy, good and fair, Shall find his God sojourning there. There the tear-wasted cheek is dry Beneath the smile of healing Heaven ; There to the host's repentant cry, The Guest responds, " Thou art forgiven." There at his feet, In reverence meet, Prone as the suppliant household lies, " Thy faith hath won," the Visitor cries. 2 Sam. vi. 10, 11. t Genesis, xvii. % John, xii. 24 HOME. HOME. Where does the heart, long lost to ease, Chill' d by disgust, awake to shame, And like the extinguish'd taper seize Fresh being from its neighbour's flame And flying the polluting crowd, 'Where good is mute, and evil loud, Its 'wilder'd thoughts arrange ; And 'mid the calm, like Hermon's dews, Which holy breasts around diffuse, Confess a hallowing change 1 In home, blest home ; of good and fair, The healthiest, brightest fount is there. Where, like the house long worn with pest, Its jealous gate again unclose To everj' fond returning guest, And smiles replace all former woes : And scar'd no more by loathsome sin, Angelic forms come trooping in, And martyr'd saints of yore Unfold their lengthening trains of light, (Far different speaks to them the sight Of Cross* upon the door.) In home ; in her secluded cell, The healers of the bosom dwell. * At the time of the plague In London, infected houses were marked with a cross on the door. HOME. There is that spot, so singly blest, Like that the Patriarch found of yore, Where Heaven's all-radiant staircase prest, And files of climbing angels bore : Thence launch'd upon the bosom's wing, Prayers to the gate of Heaven spring, And ever as they rise, Encounter blessings in descent, And Faith, and Hope, Joy, Peace, Content, Come gleaming from the skies. No dreamer's bliss, home ! is thine, We toucb the substance with the sign. The day with pure communion fraught, There brings the heart, at evening's close, A glorious harvest-home of thought, Unearthly dreams for night's repose. And mounting its aerial throne, Frames worlds, founds empires all its own, And each most good, most fair ; But purg'd from every earthly stain, From shame and sorrow, guilt and pain, Arrays concentered there : Joys on its inward stores to gaze, And revels in the boundless blaze. Suns without scorching rouse the lark, Moons without striking fill and wane, Seas without tempest waft the bark, Man without slaughter meets with man, 25 20 HOME. Youth flies, yet age is distant far ; Age comes, nor death is near to mar Uninterrupted bliss : The past is seen without a pang, No clouds upon the uture hang, To-day is paradise. O blessed home ! the bliss man lost Still strews in wrecks thy favour'd coast. My soul ascending as I think, Then hastes to disembodied bliss, And pois'd on matter's ridgy brink, Pores upon spirit's wide abyss, And tiptoe standing, vaults to free The last hold of mortality ; Thence, twinkling far behind, Leaves sluggish matter's last faint star, And stands within the golden bar Of everlasting mind. Such visions home presents to view, And home will give the substance too. Thus to that sphere my spirit's flight Mounts upward, where beginning, end, Past, present, future, all unite, All one harmonious vision blend. Man's reckless hate, God's anxious love, His cross below, his throne above, Sins utter'd, sins forgiven; iiome. 27 Man's plaintive dirge, Heaven's trumpet-cry, Our grave on earth, our home on high, Lost paradise, gain'd Heaven ; All in one moment press'd I see, My home is in eternity. O thou great Fount of thought and light, To mortal mind that givest wing, With inextinguishable might, Up to thy crystal vault to spring ; And smilest as thou seest it climb The flaming walls of space and time, The baby of the skies ; And ever towards thy sapphire throne, With beauteous forms allurest on, Despite of falls to rise : Come with thy fiery pillar, come, O guide my wandering spirit home ! 28 THE FAMILY LITURGY. CHAPTER III. THE FAMILY LITURGY. On calling one morning upon my friend at the manor-house, he received me in a room which I had not seen before, It had all the appear- ance of having been a library ; its fine bow window still retained in its upper part some panes of stained glass, and a few ancient-look- ing books still lingered upon the shelves, which, surrounding the room, left but space enough over the chimney-piece for a cuckoo-clock. On one side of the fire stood a high-backed arm- chair, corresponding with which in massiveness and size, was a table, at which my friend was sitting. The whole scene, not excepting the inhabitant himself, carried the mind half a cen- tury back. He appeared deeply engaged in a reverie over some papers, and beside him lay THE FAMILY LITL'RGY. 29 what appeared to be a family-bible. I was on the point of withdrawing when 1 caught his eye, and he cried, " Nay ; come in, my friend : so far from interrupting my business, you promote it. You are one who like to hear my tales of old times, and this is one of my retrospective days. On such I always sit in this room, which, beyond any other, is associated with the past. It was the cradle, as it were, of my mind ; for it was my father's study, where he used to teach us, and served, moreover, as the family chapel. Yonder clock sounded the hour of mornino- and evening prayer; that arm-chair was his seat, or, if you will, his throne, on which he presided amid his little church ; and these MSS., consist- ing, as you perceive, partly of loose leaves, partly of fixed, contain our family liturgy, as drawn up in my father's hand. The fixed leaves include the more general prayers, which were therefore of daily use; the loose, the more par- ticular, which therefore varied with the occa- sion. The preservation of these last is owing to a custom of my father, who always had the prayer written out, and shown among the fa- mily, before he offered it up ; that by this means all hearts might be prepared to follow in unison. I have just arranged it as it must have stood 30 .THE FAMILY LITURGY. forty years ago, and am now enjoying the re- trospect ; and I thank my God and Saviour for giving me a father who so ordered our ways, that I can find the purest and sweetest enjoy- ment in what to most is a source of regret, if not of remorse. Every circumstance here ex- pressed or alluded to, has been the cause of some spiritual working in our family ; and its effect is now being felt in another world. It thus bears an importance in my eyes far beyond such as affect empires; and it refers me also to Him, with whom are resting those blessed spi- rits whose society I am longing to rejoin ; and am fluttering and beating the wires of my cage, as I see them around me in liberty. Well ! I was among the eldest of our earthly family ; shall I complain if I am the youngest of our heavenly ?" Then suddenly changing his tone, he conti- nued. " I have already detailed to you my fa- ther's notions on the constitution of a Christian family. With these, his views of domestic prayer were in strict accordance. Prayer, he maintained, consisting, as it does, of petitions upon wants felt ; thanksgiving upon blessings experienced ; confession of sins committed ; and humiliating acknowledgment upon their THE FAMILY LITURGY. 31 chastisement, cannot deal in generals: it must enter into all the particularities of the situation of the offerer : it must as much distinguish him from any other, amid the vast multitude bowed before the throne of God, as his features and person amongst the assemblages of men. Thus the liturgy of any particular church will express, and allude to circumstances by which it differs from every other similar component of Christ's body : and the prayers of a family, in like man- ner, fix its identity in the class to which it be- longs. On this principle, he strongly disap- proved of the exclusive use of general formu- laries of prayer for families, as confounding what ought to be kept essentially distinct. I say the exclusive use, since they can supply but one out of the two parts of which such prayer should consist ; namely, that which represents the family in its general relation as a portion of a larger body. The other, which denotes the family as a body in itself, assuredly not a less important division, they altogether omit. He was therefore careful to make our prayers bear upon the peculiar circumstances of the family, and reflect its individual character, spiritual and temporal, for better or for worse. For example, had any member offended against the peace of 32 THE FAMILY LITURGY. the family ? After his submission, which ever indeed quickly followed, his confession was in- serted by name amid the general confession, and his pardon humbly entreated from the Al- mighty Father. Was any one sick ? We spe- cially prayed for his restoration, and for hope and patience to sustain him. Was any one ab- sent ? He was earnestly recommended by name to God's holy keeping. Thus did my father, like a faithful steward, daily present before God, an account of the household entrusted to his care. How scrupulous and accurate was that account, I leave you to gather from this collec- tion. To a stranger, and at this distance of time, some of the incidents may seem trifling ; but in cases of the heart, especially when laid open before God, my father deemed nothing trifling. It is affected but by detail; and I have reason to know, upon the result of fact, that these were not trifling. I place before you our service of prayer as it stood forty years ago. Here is my name inserted among the absentees, (the assembled family never beheld me again ;) and here is a prayer for the health of a sister, (she has long joined the blessed.) But here follows a more minute (perhaps you may call it trifling) mention of particulars : thanks for the THE FAMILY LITURGY. 33 pleasure and profit received from the visit of a friend of the family — and were such prayers fruitless? No; that visit was felt in effects by our family, which are alive in me at this hour. We had, I might almost say, been entertaining an angel unawares. But even at the time, when such effects were not present to our view to give it importance, the mention of minute cir- cumstances was rescued from the least appear- ance of trifling, by the turn which my father always gave it ; pointing out its due connexion with things of greater dignity, and imparting to it a share of their importance. Nor did he disregard the effect of forms, which none but the unthinking can deem trifling. As an in- stance, observe how he broke part of our liturgy into responses, and in these responses has laid the petitions for domestic union, and thus pledged us before God to maintain it. Nor did he think the physical effect of our voices being in concert on such an occasion altogether insig- nificant. " Need I say how guarded must have been the conduct of every individual in such a family, how quick their self- discernment of any weak- ness, how immediate their mastery of any burst of undue passion ; they lived before one another D 34 THE FAMILY LITURGY. daily in the sight of God ; to him and to each other all hearts were open ; there was a mutual spiritual as well as bodily knowledge, a sym- pathy and bond of love established not only in the visible world, but also in the invisible. We were all one ; there was no reserved and sullen member among us; none with his private care devouring his heart, and dismaying the rest with looks of unaccountable gloom — all was frankness and openness of heart, and God was among us with all the illumination of his peace and gladness." He then put the MS. volume into my hands, desiring me to peruse it while he attended to a person who had called upon business. Never before was seen so affecting a history of a fa- mily ; a history, too, not written for the eye of man, but actually told out at the throne of God. It was a register of circumstances which were not of mere earthly occurrence, and so had passed away, but had been means also of spi- ritual communication with Heaven, and in their effects immortal. It was a complete series of the bounty and the chastisement, of the joy and the sorrow, by winch God had ordered their going. I saw the different stages of their jour- ney, as this chosen family moved through this 3 THE FAMILY LITURGY. 35 wilderness below to the promised land of rest ; and oil ! methought, that every family would duly take warning by that registry which God hath caused to be kept of the prototype of all families, and see its fate in that of the house of Israel, remembering that they see there the dealings of God not with a nation only, but a family also. In turning over the pages, I per- ceived that this family, like its model the church, had its peculiar days of commemoration for blessings or for chastisements. Among these, I found the marriage day of the parents, the birth-day of each child, anniversaries of reco- very from dangerous sickness, and also of the final release of some member from this world of trouble. Thus the whole earthly history of the family was run through in the course of the year, the memory of God's dealings with them constantly kept alive, and a grateful sense of past mercies was continually preparing them for the reception of new. On his return, my friend resumed. "From this cradle we came forth into the world, strong in principle, inured to reliance upon God, and with no slight acquaintance with the human heart, which we had derived from our habitual un- reservedness, and were thus spared the disgust D 2 36 THE FAMILY LITURGY. and corruption by which such experience is so dearly bought in the mart of the world. Life is a recurrence of similar occasions, varied some- what in aspect, and all occasions at home having been met with the proper feeling and principle, and well noted and discerned by our system there, left us, on their repetition on a larger scale in the world, but little perplexity. Even when absent, we enjoyed to a considerable de- gree the comfort and protection of home. Is it nothing to be assured that we are the object of continual prayer ? Is it nothing to know that at a certain hour we are joining our prayers with others, and are united at the foot of the throne of God? Besides, we often enjoyed its holy influence in a manner quite incidental and indirect. Well do I remember how, when once upon the point of yielding to a very strong temptation, a clock struck the very hour of our evening prayer. In an instant, our family group appeared before my eye ; I heard my name put up in humble and earnest entreaty to the Al- mighty Protector, expressions of our domestic liturgy flashed upon my mind with a vivid light, and I repelled the assailant with lively indigna- tion, and felt as if I crushed it with the might of a giant. THE FAMILY LITURGY. 37 " I have since seen much of mankind, have been the guest of many families, and what I have observed in them has convinced me of the wisdom of the economy with which my father ruled his own. I have seen very many amiably united in the bonds of affection, but very few, alas ! in those of religion. In almost all, the serious thoughts connected with another life seemed studiously kept down in the bottom of the bosom, not as a treasure of which the owner was jealous, but as an occupant of which he was ashamed ; they seemed to be withheld as endangering the unity of home, not as con- firming it, and that suppression of opinion which on any worldly matter would be considered dis- ingenuous, was on this point industriously en- couraged. Perhaps a sudden blow of misfor- tune came upon them, and they turned to God, but it was in stupor and amazement; family prayer was established, but like the book of the law, found by Josiah, it was heard, after a long neglect, by untutored ears, and, unfortunately, there was always some one member of the fa- mily not in unison with the rest, one of whose inward satire all stood in awe, to whom the others were individually conscious of some folly or other, and fearful of his secret ridicule, and 38 THE FAMILY LITURGY. imputation of hypocrisy, -were either altogether deterred, or spent the time of prayer in thinking of him, and not of God ; in fearing him, and not the Lord. Taken up with so faint a spirit, it could not last long; the presence of guests was enough to shame them out of it, and after several interruptions, which became stronger and stronger, and several revivals, which be- came weaker and weaker, it was finally dropped by a consent, which, however tacit, was appa- rently much more hearty than that by which it had been originally established. Few seem to be aware of the difficulty of setting on firm footing effectual family prayer, of the time which must elapse before each bosom can break through the prison of its reserve, and stand revealed to its neighbour, before it can reach that state of purity and confidence which fears no rebuke, experiences no aversion to confess, disguises not its wishes, and before the brother and the sister, the delicacy of the one, and the manliness of the other, find at last that common language which God had given, but the world had destroyed, before the same thing can appear in the same light to different minds, and what was formerly an object of levity and banter, can become to both parties a source of seriousness A FAMILY HYMN. 39 and of anxious canvass. O, my friend, be as- sured upon my experience, that where religion is not predominant, there is no stable home, the joys of that house are but sources of future sorrow, its affections mere ropes of sand." Here our conversation upon this point ended; before quitting him, I took copies of some of the poetical pieces of the family devotions, which I here subjoin. I. A FAMILY HYMN. ALL. Lord of that family above, Where thou dost rule in might alone, And angels, and archangels move As children round thy burning throne ; Look on its type which now draws nigh, With humble prayer and praise to plead, And of the peace which binds on high, Oh, pour some portion on its head. FATHER. O Thou, whose image I convey Amid these suppliants, Father, hear: Grant, as with fearful rule I sway, Thee, of all rule g'reat source, to fear. 40 A FAMILY HYMN. Correct this heart, this tongue chastise, That whatsoever word shall fall, May in their hearts to wisdom rise, And turn them to the Sire of all. CHILDREN. O Thou, before whose awful seat Ten thousand thousand seraphs bow, Grant us with reverence due to meet, And own this type of Thee below. Round him in fondness as we cling, To Thee to bow both heart and knee ; Through him, of life the mortal spring, Honour the immortal fount in Thee. ALL. Thus humbly imitating here Its holy prototype above, Oh ! may this earthly household bear Some foretaste of its deathless love. On Thee each wish in union bent, Bound in the bonds of spirit fast, Here truly may it represent, There join the original at last. II. THE MORNING'S WELCOME. Welcome, my brother, from his hand, That bursts, of sleep and death, the band ; This morn one earnest more supplies Of morn when we in Heaven shall rise, THE MORNINGS WELCOME. Brother ! again we meet below, More bliss of earth is still to flow ; Oh ! in its beams may we improve, And ripen towards the bliss above. Brother ! again on earth we meet, Our trials yet are incomplete ; With hope for future, thanks for past, May we endure and win at last. Upon thy calm and sunny face Thou bearest high communion's trace j As Moses from the presence-throne Brought broken rays of glory down. How still the breast, the heart how light, That hath been lodg'd with him at night, The good Samaritan ; each wound, Struck by the world, his hand hath bound. Heal'd each heart's bruise, sooth'd every pain, On earth's wild wilderness again We start ; no robber's sword we fear, His healing hand is ever near. Oh then, this hour's unmingled balm, The first-fruits of this holy calm, To him let us prefer, and fall Jointly before the Lord of all. 41 42 THE EVENINGS FAREWELL. III. THE EVENING'S FAREWELL. Farewell ! into his keeping- go, That builds all rest above, below ; Tho' far asunder eye and ear, Lapt iu his care, we still are near. Tho' sleep and solitude surround Our senses with unsocial bound, Our spirits, in purest dreams upflown, Shall meet before our Master's throne ; Together from that source above Shall drink community of love, Union of purpose, will, and mind, Each thought, each wish in him combin'd. And thus to troublous earth once more We wake with renovated power ; And meet again, to stem the tide Of world and worldlings, side by side. Farewell ! secure we lay us down His sheep that never lost his own, His charge that strews his servant's bed, Yet had not where to lay his head. His name, blest Giver of repose, Shall our last mutual accents close : Thankful for what the day has given, We leave the night in hope to heaven ; THE ALTAR. 4-3 And ponder, as we close our eyes, How in the tomb he lay to rise. Last upon thoughts and lips at night, First may he be at dawn of light. IV. HYMN:— THE ALTAR. An altar to the God of grace I'll build, to him alone ; And where shall be this altar's place ? Lord ! where thyself hast shown ; Within the temple of my heart, Within its inmost, holiest part. And sacrifice I'll bring to thee, The choice of earth and heaven, And what the sacrifice shall be - ! Lord ! what thyself hast given. I'll bring thee for thine altar's food My Saviour's body and his blood. And incense I will burn, whose steam Shall reach thy starry chair, And what wilt thou as incense deem 1 Lord ! what thou teachest, prayer : Sighs, tears, and groans o'er follies past, Faith, hope, and joy attain'd at last. 4i THE COMFORTER. And offerings I will bring of those My utmost means afford, And what the offering shall compose 1 What thou hast bidden, Lord ! Mercy to others' frailties shown, As thou hast mercy on mine own. Thou that with Heaven's own flame of yore Didst light Elijah's pyre, Oh ! down upon this altar pour Thy Spirit's quickening fire. Borne on its pinions to the skies, May victim, incense, offerings rise. HYMN :— THE COMFORTER. Where shall my restless spirit rove, What realms in flight discern, Nor meet, O mighty Lord of love, Thy steps at every turn 1 In every maze of wildest thought, Heart's every devious wind, Howe'er unstudied and unsought, Thy glorious tract I find. I mourn amid the tedious night, In dismal terrors pray ; And suddenly, with inward light, Thou turnest all to day. THE COMFORTER. 45 Friendless I wander and alone, And world and fortune chide ; And instantly, O Holy One, Thou standest at my side. I look sin's parted moments o'er, And weep in angry shame : Thou biddest me look on before, And shout in songs thy name. I look upon life's course half done, And mourn its narrow date : Thou say'st it is not yet begun, And ne'er shall terminate. I look upon the worm, and sigh, " My brother and my peer ;" Thou dost to angels point, and cry, " Behold thy brothers here." I look upon the dust and say, " My parent and my home." Thou bid'st me gaze on endless day, There dwell in worlds to come. 4G THE EXTERNAL COMMUNION CHAPTER IV. THE EXTERNAL COMMUNION OF THE FAMILY. When I left my friend, after the last conversa- tion, I pondered upon its subject, and in order to indulge my meditative humour, took a con- siderable round instead of reaching home by the direct road. My way lay through a favourite dingle, but so enwrapt was I in my thoughts, that its beautiful features never once broke the thread of my contemplation ; nevertheless, the consciousness of being there gave me animation and spirits, and I pursued my subject with un- wearied activity. The result of my opinion was, that the religious economy which the good Rector had established for his household was so compact and complete in itself, drew the bonds of home so close, that it would require more than the ordinary means to subdue a spirit of OF THE FAMILY. 47 religious exclusiveness, and maintain a proper communion with the church. As far as I had heard, their domestic worship began and ended with their own family, and they were in danger of considering themselves an isolated body and of keeping aloof, like the family of Israel, amid the idolatrous heathen. As nothing could he more contrary to the Rector's notions on the con- stitution of a Christian family than such a ten- dency, I was curious to know by what counter- poise he had relieved it. The opportunity of satisfying my objections soon occurred. On the very next Sunday, after service, my friend accompanied me on my way home from church. It happened to be St. Peter's day, and he began by complaining of * the little interest which the congregation seemed to take in the observance of such days ; they did not seem even to understand their nature or their purpose: "for myself," he proceeded, "I still retain, and trust that I ever shall, the strong impression which my father was careful to make upon our minds, of the importance of these pious memorials. They prevent that selfishness (for I know not how else to term it,) which makes us think and act on religious subjects, as if the church of Christ were confined to our own 48 THE EXTERNAL COMMUNION country and generation. They give, when un- derstood, a catholicity of feeling to the congre- gation, exhibiting the links by which it is attached to the church of all ages and places. On this principle, as well as upon others, such days were ever observed with due diligence and solemnity in our family. This feeling indeed it was my father's anxious care to cherish at home. He turned our attention to brethren in Christ beyond the threshold, to spiritual fathers beyond the circle of home ; he directed a portion of our prayers, first to the welfare of the congregation to which we belonged, and then to the welfare of the church of which it was a portion, and in every possible way put us in mind of our form- ing an element in one vast body, whose condi- tion for better or worse was felt through every member. " In addition to these means, he took care that we should be well acquainted with the history of the church. He did not think it right that we should for a moment imagine that nothing had happened in the church of God since the days of the Apostles, that we had received our faith immediately from their hands without any intermediate debt of gratitude and acknowledg- ment, that no trials had been undergone, that OF THE FAMILY. 49 no examples to animate our zeal, none to warn us of our weakness, had been set forth in its transmission, that the word of God, after a lapse of 1800 years, had come into our hands some- how or other, but how, and by whom, it was no more our business to enquire, than if it had fallen, like the Roman sacred shield, immedi- ately from heaven ; that we were a body in our- selves, indebted to no one, related to no one, without fathers, without brethren : such a state of feeling, he said, argued far too narrow a foun- dation of Christian principles. If, by showing marks of reverence and affection for the me- mory of mortal men, from whose careful hands we have received the gospel, any one should imagine that he detracts from what is due (and the utmost which we can pay is due) to its immortal Author, is he prepared to carry this principle into common life, and hold himself exempted from all debt of gratitude to earthly benefactors, because they are but the instru- ments of God's blessings ? He will not assert this, and on the same ground should not main- tain the other. Our dear father, therefore, while he was unwearied in directing our attention to the supreme importance of Holy Scripture, and making us both understand and feel what it E 50 TOE EXTERNAL COMMUNION teaches, would often devote an evening to at once instructing and amusing us by the reading of some record of the primitive church and when such was wanting, as too often it was,* in our own tongue, he would translate from the original. I feel burning within me at this very moment, on the bare recollection, the devotional courage inspired into my boyish heart on the recital of the account of the martyrdom of Igna- tius and Polycarp, and can recall the admiration and love which I felt towards the youth and the maid who so courageously bore the cruel test of their faith in the persecution of the church of Vienne. Oh ! how breathless would we hang upon our father's lips during such narratives; what zeal, firmness, and courage, we drank in; what exalted notions of the enduring powers of faith, and how earnestly did we long to obtain the armour of such faith. Our feeling was that of a young family of Christian heroes, full of the high spirit of our ancestry in the church, (for so we learned to reckon the martyrs,) de- termined never to lose or impair the rich inheritance which they had transmitted, and * The Rev. Mr. Temple Chevallier has now made these accessible by his volume of Translations of the Epistles of Clement of Rome, Polycarp, Ignatius, &c. OF THE FAMILY. 51 never to disgrace, when the day of trial came, so illustrious a lineage. " I cannot conceive, he would say, upon what principle, except upon an antiquated and un- reasonable prejudice, Christians of the present day so generally shut their eyes upon the glo- rious list of examples exhibited to us by the history of the church. I much fear that such as are not under prejudice are swayed by indo- lence or downright indifference. Be the reason what it will, on such the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews assuredly did not act. What a sublime commemoration of departed worthies he has made in his eleventh chapter ; his words come pealing upon the reader like the sound of a trumpet, summoning to the battle with the world : name follows name, and action succeeds action, like so many stirring notes, till he con- cludes with a strain which makes the heart leap. ' Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stop- ped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire. They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword : they wandered about in sheepskins and in goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, tor- mented, of whom the world was not worthy ; E 2 52 THE EXTERNAL COMMUNION they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens, and caves of the earth,' &c. Yet how- has this list been extended since his days ; how much more magnificent is our retrospect ! So glorious a procession never yet passed before the eyes of man ; through a long and glittering line of martyrs and confessors, and just men made perfect, we arrive at the human form of the Captain of our salvation, and bless and adore his Divine Majesty. And must we think it a duty to turn aside from the view, as if we were witnessing a splendid pagan spectacle, and to stifle the rising emotion, as if afraid of having our feelings entrapped by the imposing appear- ance? Yet, strange to say, the principal ob- jectors to such contemplations do not object to the use of examples ; they hold them up for imitation. But what are they ? Are they men capable of exciting our interest, exalting our notions, instructing our principles, by being placed in situations which render immediately manifest the effect of each action, by being en- gaged in perilous times, by making most pre- cious and yet most cheerful sacrifices of inter- ests and affections, by encountering persecution, hunger, nakedness, and the sword ? Far from it. They are, almost without exception, common- OP THE FAMILY. 53 place men, whose merit is the having acted as became them in common-place situations ; they are men nursed up in our own easy and luxuri- ous times, upon which the fiery breath of perse- cution has never blown : men unheard of be- yond the narrow range in which they moved, who have left no impression on their age, but in sinking into the grave stirred a small and tran- sitory circle, and then the surface of society became as if they had never lived or died. Surely, to look for imitation to models of so low and familiar a standard, is to narrow and debase our estimate of the Christian character, and leaves us unprepared, as far as they go, for those fiery trials of our faith which a good and prudent Christian will always expect, however he may deprecate their occurrence. " Such being the advantages of a knowledge of the brilliant examples which have gone before us, exalting, as they do, our minds above the surrounding common-place to which they are too apt to accommodate themselves, and linking us by a social feeling to the universal church, the setting aside particular days for the espe- cial purpose of contemplating them, can alone ensure the requisite steadiness of view, and an effective earnestness of investigation. For 54 THE EXTERNAL COMMUNION example, I take up, on this day, the character of St. Peter for my especial meditation, which most probably, but for this notice of it by the church, I never should have done ; at least, I should have rested content with the vague, trans- itory, and unpractical notions suggested in the course of turning over, amid a multitude of others in Scripture, the passages which relate to him. But now I turn it in every possible light, refer to the minutest incident, analysing and composing, till I frame to myself an ade- quate conception of his character. I then ex- amine myself by it, and review his ardent and courageous spirit till I imbibe some portion of it myself, and discuss his temporary fall till I arrive at a wholesome fear of my own weakness ; and on coining to his restoration, so completely do I feel identified with him, that I rejoice and glorify his blessed Master and my own, as if I had been restored together with him. And last of all, I look intently upon that death which, ac- cording to his Master's prediction, he under- went, and prepare myself also to take up the cross of my Lord, and fear him, and not man. All these thoughts may have passed through my mind often before ; but it was in a floating un- directed, unpractical mass, and not arranged, as OP THE FAMILY. 55 now in clusters under suitable heads, tending to one definite end, and by the point given to them, leaving their impression distinct and deep both on memory and feelings. Besides, by thus steadily following one train, I am led, at last, to ideas on the subject, and combinations of ideas which had never before presented them- selves ; and I experience, with the increase of my spiritual knowledge, an accession also of meutal wealth. At a due interval arrives another festival, the centre of attraction to another class of thoughts, which had else been too loose and vague to produce any impression; these, too, I fix in permanence. In this manner I am carried round the year; my views grow clearer, my resolutions more firm ; such days are to me in- deed holy days ; in them I find a secure repose for my thoughts from the vulgar turmoil of the world around, to which I return at least re- freshed, and, I hope I may add, improved. " Such were my father's views upon this sub- ject, and such have I found their value ; habitu- ated to these, need I say that we extended our religious relations beyond the narrow circle of our family, that we considered our places in that family as the starting point of our actions, but not as their resting-place : that we looked 56 THE EXTERNAL COMMUNION, ETC. around, behind and before, and saw that we affected others, and by others would be affected : that we had succeeded others, and by others would be succeeded ; and that to them we had relations extended, and duties owing as fellow- members of a society which extends through all ranks, nations, and ages. Solitary as I now am, being the last remnant of a numerous family, the survivor of relations and of friends, I am well able to appreciate this catholicity of feel- ing. It forms almost my only social stay ! the past is to me full of gratification, for there I am in the company of the faithful servants of Christ, whose abode on earth it is so improving to contemplate ; and there, too, I meet again with the dear inmates of a home which now ex- ists but in memory : the present is full of com- fort, for I feel a brother in every Christian I meet, and know that at that moment he is important to me, and I to him ; and the future Oh, how glorious its prospect, in which I see myself united in one indissoluble body of the just and good, whom I have been in the habit of contem- plating, and of the blessed spirits whose sweet communion I have enjoyed in the flesh, to our great and glorious head Jesus Christ, our Re- THE MARTYRS. 57 deemer, who is the end of every thought, word, and deed !" My aged friend here earnestly grasped my band, and returned on his way homeward. I. A HYMN:— THE MARTYRS. We fought ! but in no fleshly gear We stood upon the field ; Our faith to us was sword and spear, Our patience mail and shield. Unaw'd we stood, 'Mid fields of blood, 'Mid mortal pang and dying groan : Groan, pang, and blood were all our own. We fought ! and myriads stood around, And echoing up to heaven, From myriads burst the applauding sound, But to our foes 'twas given. Taunt, gibe, and jeer, 'Twas ours to hear, And curse, and mockery, and mirth, O'er every drop that stain'd the earth. We fought! upon the sand as rain Stream'd our big drops of gore, And every drop was a seed-grain Set in earth's fruitful floor. 58 TIIE MARTYRS. From each blest spot Believers shot, Reckless to storms their stems reveal'd : God's vineyard crown'd our battle field. We fought ! and opening to our sight Heaven's radiant gates above Unbarr'dthe white-rob'd sons of light, And him, our Lord of love. In smiles intent O'er us they bent ; Men mock'd our helpless solitude : 'Mid heaven's whole blazing host we stood. We fought ! a mangled bleeding load Fell on earth's echoing bed ; But on the Protomartyr's road, Untam'd our spirit fled. In tracks of light, Imprinted bright, His steps shone beacons to our way ; We reach'd the gates of endless day. We fought and won ! and o'er the might Of imprecating foes, O'er pangs of feeling, pains of sight, Triumphant, joyous rose. No tear from eye, From breast no sigh ; But, to the Vanquisher of death, Hymns rang from our departing breath. THE MARTYRS. 59 We fought and won the conqueror's crown : But in no earthly bower, Pisan, or Delphic cliff is grown Its interwoven flower. But bloomy plant Of Amarant, It nods o'er life's immortal stream, Woos heaven's own breeze, drinks heaven's own beam. We fought and won ; no mortal eye Pores on our trophied bust ; For to the sea, the wind, the sky, They hurl'd our flaming dust. Our Master gave A viewless grave, The Prophet's burial, who of yore From Pisgah's height return'd no more. We fought, and won, a world the meed ; Not that, where unsubdued Into the conqueror's fortress speed Sorrow's relentless brood : But throne and seat, Were 'neath our feet, Sin and his hateful progeny, Chain'd down in helpless thraldom lie. We fought and won. O thou, whom yet Flesh fetters with his chains, Survey our freedom, nor forget What purchas'd it, our pains. CO ON ALL SAINTS* DAY. Our cares, our woes, Our wounds, our blows, To thee, were life, and light, and glee So do for those that follow thee. II. HYMN: — ON ALL SAINTS' DAY. Array'd in vest of crimson dye, As one tbat hath the winepress trod : Wlio art thou, say, that passest by? Who these that hymn thee on thy road 1 The world's full wine-vat I have prest, And trampled in my fury there ; Blood is the crimson on my vest, They spared not, and I would not spare. All these my saints, beneath the feet Of earth's relentless tyrants lay ; And up before my mercy-seat, Their cry ascended night and day. I rose, I girt me in my strength, My glorious armour round me cast ; Heaven flash'd thro' all its starry length, Earth shook beneath my war-trump's blast ! With twice ten thousand angels bright, Thousands of chariots in my train, Shouting I rode unto the fight : They sleep their sleep, who slew are slain. ON GOOD FRIDAY. 61 O mighty Conqueror of the grave, Captain of martyr'd armies thou, O Lord omnipotent to save, O king of Kings, 1 know thee now. To the bright seats of rest on high, Thou passest with thy saints along, The blessed first-fruits of the sky : Lord, may I join that holy throng ! III. HYMN: — ON GOOD FRIDAY, Prepare ! the holy Prophet said, Rise, Son of God, the hour is nigh ! In dust a groaning world is laid, Hell rears his shameless front on high ! In mortal clay Thy limbs array, Uprise, thou Mighty One to save, Go forth, thou Conqueror o'er the grave ! The Son of God went forth, and lo ! Before his steps health's genial heat Thrill'd the wide world of spirit thro', And flesh in vigorous pulses beat. Hell's hateful door Was clos'd once more, Heaven's wells of bliss o'erflowing ran: Such gifts the Saviour gave to man. 62 A REVERIE, IN LENT. Prepare ! the holy Prophet cried, Thy Saviour comes, O man, prepare ! Be every duteous gift supplied, Precious and perfect, rich and rare, Thy guest to greet, And at his feet, In penitent prostration fling Thy will, thy passions, every thing. And man prepar'd the gibe, the jeer, The scorn, the mockery, hate, and spite, Words, looks, to wring the bitter tear, The perilous day, the uupillow'd night, The heart's keen ache, When friends forsake, The scourge, the thorn, the cross, the grave ; Such gifts man to his Saviour gave. IV. A REVERIE, IN LENT. Methought in Salem's streets I stood, And saw in long-drawn pomp pass by An eager-visag'd multitude, That led a prisoner on to die ; And mock, and taunt, and curses loud, Rose deafening from the circling crowd ! But from the inner ring, that pent The victim in, a deep lament Now fill'd the curses' interval, Now in shrill shriek rose over alL A. REVERIE, IN LENT. 63 By me the drear procession sped ; Tottering beneatb bis cross, and smear'd With gore around his thorn-crown'd head, The Saviour of the world appear'd. And as he passed, on me he laid A steady searching glance, which said, " And in what troop attendest thou ? Weepest or mockest 1" My sham'd brow- Silent I bung, and when at last I rais'd, the mournful pomp had past. " Weepest or mockest'!" — O fond heart, Break from thy proud reserve, and tell : Reply from every secret part, Answer from each remotest cell. I weep not — no, I feel and see As if no blood had dropp'd for me. I weep not — no : without a sigh His types the sad, the poor, pass by. I weep not — no ; unwept are gone Past moments : new unwept come on. But, oh ! I mock ; each hour renews A warning voice within my breast : My pride each hour that voice subdues, And glories in the ill-purchas'd rest. I mock — blest Lord ! thy glorious name I bear, to bring it but to shame. I mock — man finds me meek and low : StifF-neck'd and unrelenting, thou. I mock — O thou Long- Sufferer, deep Cleave this proud heart, and bid it weep ! 61 ON EASTER DAY. V. A MEDITATION: — ON EASTER DAY. When on these limbs I look, winch bear And pen my burning spirit in, Frail mansion of disease and care, Dark hold of passion, home of sin : Their beauty but corruption's bloom, Their strength but bearer to the tomb ; And their informing mind An inward sore, from day to day That frets and eats poor life away, Wounding where none can bind ; Oh ! then I feel our downfall sting, And groan in anguish, righteous King ! But when these limbs I view, and think How, pent within their clayey nook, That Essence, which bids seraphs shrink, An earthly residence could brook, These veins with heaven's own pureness beat, This breast of boundless mind was seat ; This voice awoke the dead, This trunk 'mid shouting angels rose, And all the Father's glory glows Around this hallow'd head ; Oh ! then I feel our loss restor'd, And shout thy name, redeeming Lord ! O Thou, whose sword wide-waving drove Our sire from Eden's blessed glade, O Thou, whose cross with gifts of love Tenfold that day of wrath repaid, ON EASTER DAY. 65 This vaunting heart's presumption tame, And fix with all a rebel's shame, Downcast on dust mine eyes ; But let my thoughts on spirit's wing Up to thy throne, immortal King, E'en as thou rosest, rise. In hope for future, pain for past, So may I win thy home at last. ()6 THE FIRST MEMBER CHAPTER V. THE FIRST MEMBER SENT OUT INTO THE WORLD. It was a lovely morning in July, when, having occasion to visit a remote part of my parish, I determined on my return to explore a glen which I had observed among the hills on viewing them from my church-yard, and had resolved to visit on the first opportunity. The woody tops of precipices which ran like walls upon each side, and were now* lost, and now rose in ruo-aed majesty, seemed to promise spots of no common beauty at their feet ; and the distant roar which ever came from them before rain, (and it was a well known presage,) with the quantity of water issuing into our river from that direction, con- firmed the supposition. Nor was I in the least disappointed. I arrived at a point where the glen opened enough to admit of a strip of fields SENT OUT INTO THE WORLD. 67 of brightest green upon one side of the stream ; they were divided by hedge-rows, in which grew some remarkably fine oaks, and gave a great richness to the scene. The day was hot and sunny, and I made my way to sit in the shade of one which hung over the stream. Here, to my great surprise, I found my friend, who had been from the same reasons attracted to the same spot. After mutual congratula- tions on finding each other in so well-chosen a place, and canvassing each the other's opi- nion of its beauties, we gradually came upon the subject of our late conversations. "Such," said he, " was my dear home : more like a temple inhabited by a train of priests ordained to carry on the perpetual service of God, than an ordi- nary residence : and if God ever showed amid a family the special illumination of his pre- sence, he did with us. Our service consisted not in the mere utterance of words, however earnest, nor succession of forms, however pro- per, but in the uninterrupted offering of the soul and body, through the lively exercise of our Christian duties; from the daily collision of hearts and minds brought together in the purity of the gospel, bright and beautiful sparks were struck out, and examples every moment elicited F 2 68 THE FIRST MEMBER of filial duty, brotherly love, instant forbear- ance, caution against offence, singleness of heart, cheerfulness, gentleness, meekness, and charity. What a topic of pride and delight it is with the children of a growing family to compare their stature, note their height, remark upon the growth of nerve and muscle daily accruing to them, and to make trial w 7 ith each other of their improving strength and skill in the games and pastimes of the day. So too was it with our spiritual growth. Every day a nearer ap- proach to the Christian standard was remarked, some deficiency was filled up, some new grace developed, or old confirmed, and a continual rivalry and challenging went on in the practice of godly offices. And while the children of this world hail their accessions of bodily and mental strength as assurances of being able to make their way in the world, and if of generous temper, of being a shield and buckler to their family, so to us, growing up, as we deemed ourselves, to eternity, every example of increas- ing spiritual strength was a pledge that the possessor would not fail to maintain the unity of our spiritual household in despite of the en- deavours of the world against it ; and holding, as we did, that this unity, spiritually established 2 SENT OUT INTO THE WOULD. 69 on earth, would also endure in heaven, every act of piety was an additional earnest of eternal union. Oh, what a blessed, what a happy home was mine ! " Unalterable as our union in spirit has proved to me to be, that in the flesh was now shortly to cease. The world is every day demanding its conscripts, and at last arrived the turn of my eldest brother. Oh ! what a lively recol- lection I retain (and well I may, for it was the first proper event in our family) of that morn- ing which began the diminution of our family circle. I then awoke as from a dream to the world which surrounded us, and which we could scarcely be said to have heard or seen. I awoke, and looked tremblingly forward to the day when my summons also should arrive. I can at this moment distinctly and feelingly re- call to mind the early hour of meeting on that morning, the unusual candle-light, the comfort- less cold, darkness, and bustle, the chilly dawn discovered in a low ruddy streak just as we emerged from the deep shade of the garden to attend my brother to the carriage at the gate; but, above all, the solemnity of my father's last charge and benediction, and the singular conflict evidently going on in my brother's mind, whose 70 THE FIRST MEMBER eye was now overcast with the sorrow of part- ing, and the weight of responsibility descending upon him, and now lighted up and sparkling with anticipation of the novel scene upon which he was entering. Ever as I bring hack this scene to memory, I reflect how often, alas ! how very often has that brightness of countenance, with which the world is contemplated in pros- pect, become dull upon the actual view ; in how many has the eye's clear channel, between the inner and outer world, become paralyzed with sorrow and set in a barren stare, or clogged with impurity that corrupted on its passage the most wholesome food of the mind. Not that any thing of this kind befel my brother ; he ran his earthly career in peace and innocence. " Undoubtedly there is something exceedingly awful to reflecting minds in sending forth into the word a representative, as it were, of our home. His character is the result of all that has been said and done ; in him all seem under trial, and as soon as the beloved object has quitted embrace and sight, the mind turns for comfort to its past communications with him. Every word and action, playful sally or grave precept, arises in the memory, and challenges us to judgment. It is, in fact, the same awful SENT OUT INTO THE WORLD. 71 feeling, however inferior in degree, with that which we experience in the case of departed friends. After the last breath is irrevocably- gone, and we have retired from the chamber of death, we bethink ourselves how this thing- said or done by us may have hurt the welfare of his immortal soul, and how this, which we have left unsaid or undone, would have bene- fitted it. Through our long course of intimacy and communion with him, we feel as if we had sent in his mind a portion of our own before the judgment- seat of Christ; and our common ha- bits, studies, enjoyments, and conversation, are sifted and discussed in our bosoms with doubt and anxiety. The most serious minds are na- turally most liable to such affection, and the elder part of our family were now engaged in these reflections. Never shall I forget the soli- citude with which the first letter from my brother was expected, Little as it could really decide, yet every one looked forward to it as a resolver of his doubts, and his excited imagina- tion insisted that the very first contact with the world would, like some rapid chemical test, bring his own work to the proof, and that the first few days would be at once a specimen and a pledge of our brother's future course. 72 THE FIRST MEMBER " After an anxious interval, which, short as it could reasonably be, appeared thrice the length to us, arrived his first letter. All occupations in an instant were at an end, the family met, a reader was appointed, a circle made. It was indeed a scene to remember ; the elder hung with all the intense interest of novelty on scenes and circumstances, many of them perhaps un- conceived before, all unwitnessed, and their breathless attention was now and then distracted by the younger ones demanding the explanation of some term hitherto unheard, which, accord- ing to its association, the interest of the pas- sage, or the detail it would require, was either joyfully interpreted upon the spot, or impati- ently and imperfectly explained, or perhaps ab- ruptly refused its interpretation with reproving looks, and beckonings to silence. The letter was most satisfactory ; it at once dispelled the gloomy phantoms of the imagination, and we put up his name in our evening prayer with all the earnestness of joy and gratitude. On this retrospect, how thankful do I feel to our hea- venly Lord and Master; and though so many, very many years, have elapsed, I feel the same spirit which warmed my bosom then, revive with a glow upon the recollection. SENT OUT INTO THE WORLD. 73 " Wonderful, indeed, was the effect which the various circumstances attending and following my brother's departure had upon those who were left behind. To speak of myself, I know that the continual anxiety expressed by my parents, the solemn and appropriate prayer by which he was set apart from the rest at morn- ing and evening, the thanksgiving regularly offered for any success or escape from peril, bodily or spiritual, and the constant entreaties put up to obtain for him God's protection, which enumerated, in plaintive and deprecatory expressions, some of the snares to which he was most liable, all this, you may suppose, left upon my mind a deep and lasting impression. I learned by degrees to look forward to that world, my entrance upon which I before so im- patiently expected, with a salutary anxiety, and to regard it, however calm and bright it may now appear, as a scene of future tempest and trial. I clearly understood that whatever novel- ties it may unveil, it had incalculably more than I had dreamed of, or could dream of, and these of no engaging description ; that it had with all its scenes of bliss and enchanted gardens, its shipwrecks, its monsters, its savage islands, and inhospitable shores. Moreover, from comparing 74 THE FIRST MEMBER my brother's disposition as exhibited there with what I had known of it at home, I perceived their close connection, saw that I was under a state of discipline, and that what might seem even trivial here, was, nevertheless, elementary to most important resnlts there; that therefore it came equally under God's eye, and equally reaped future retribution for good or for evil. Much, too, I learned personally from my dear brother, who gave me the benefits of his ex- perience, on occasional returns to home. At length, he came like the dove to the ark, to tell us that the waters were fast abating, and that we might shortly venture forth in safety : under his auspices I entered upon the world. " Often do I think of the preciousness of the reward with which God, even during this life, rewards the pious exertions of a parent. In contrast to the blissfulness of my own, I have now witnessed the shame, sorrow, and agony of more families than one, when their first-fruits have been blighted, when the very worst that their imaginations, stung by conscience or alarmed by sorrow, had been picturing, has been realized, and they stood in their own eyes as authors and confederates in his sins, when irrevocable word and deed is conjured up in an SENT OUT* INTO THE WORLD. 75 agonized memory, and calls forth tears and sob- bings, when the little ones beheld the elder bathed in tears, and they could not, dare not, explain to their innocent hearts the real cause. " Is he ill ?" " Is he dead ?" they ask ; and, " Oh, happy if he had been, before he had thus fallen !" is ready to burst from their lips. I have also before now turned away in disgust from those foolish and selfish murmurers, who, having sent their poor child all unprovided with what alone could guide him through the temptations of the world, have thrown the odious burden of their sin upon those to whose care they com- mitted them, after having by previous neglect deprived them of all power of effecting good. " It was some days after my brother's depar- ture, and not before we received his first letter, that we could reconcile ourselves to his disap- pearance ; so many, so obvious, and so minute are the circumstances which determine the place of a member of a numerous family, that his image rises up before us at every step or turn. The emptiness of his chamber, his usual place at the table unfilled, a favourite walk disconti- nued, a voice no longer heard in the general conversation, even a step no longer observed amid the multitudinous din of a numerous 76 THE FIRST MEMBER household, bring home to us a sense of dimi- nished numbers, and provoke, before we have time to reflect, a repining sigh, or murmuring ejaculation. Yet with us there was no idle or prolonged regret. Our cheerfulness assumed indeed a more subdued character, but never failed us. Why should it ? We had well habi- tuated ourselves before-hand to count the cost of what, sooner or later, must be undergone ; and, moreover, knit as we had been in those bonds which neither time nor place can weaken, we could never regard him as entirely absent. Yes, my dear friend, be assured that so strong, so unearthly become the bonds which unite those who have long lived together in the unity of the Spirit, no less than community of blood, that they undoubtedly enjoy a certain, though undefinable, fruition of each other's presence ; they hear each other's voices speaking in the depth of their bosoms, dissuading, approving, comforting, rejoicing, and thus realize, to its fullest extent, that blessed privilege, alas ! how seldom enjoyed, or even understood, of the com- munion of saints. "It must, however, be confessed that there is something of melancholy, not entirely to be surmounted in the flesh, in this gradual dimi- SENT OUT INTO THE WORLD. 77 nution of the family circle. It is evidently fol- lowing the fate of all things earthly; and the successive demands of this world, coming, like the conscription of a furious war, upon the young and vigorous, and hearing them away ever as they reach the proper standard, and leaving behind but a helpless society of women and children, reminds one fearfully of the order in which the next world too frequently does, and in their case may, make its exactions. Yet, deserted and declining as the household may appear, she has her comfort and causes of con- gratulation. In each of the settlers which she has sent forth, she may look for a flourishing colony, and see herself prolonged and multi- plied in beautiful resemblances. Like Judah in her desolation, she is comforted with a propor- tionately greater brightness of prophecy : she may expect to stand in the majestic relation of a mother church, another Jerusalem, and sur- rounded by dutiful and holy daughters, each receiving from her hands, and proud to have received, her faith, her ritual, to await the coming of her Lord and Master, in his own good time, with confidence and hope." 78 god's conscript. GOD'S CONSCRIPT. Come forth, my precious first-born, come, Away with weeds of soft delight ; Adieu to joys and peaceful home — Come, we must dress thee for the fight : For at my gate God's heralds wait, And claim thee for his warring host ; Heaven's Conscript, haste, and take thy post. O thou, to fight the world design'd ! Lo ! first around thy boyish head Salvation's starry helm we bind, Its blood-red plumage o'er thee shed. Proof to hell's dart, Across thy heart In holy confidence we press The seven-fold plate of righteousness. Next clasping round thy loins, we brace Truth's radiant belt ; upon thy feet The sandals of the gospel place : Now is thy vest of steel complete. Go, warrior, go, Defy the foe, Thy head is clad, thy feet are shod With all the panoply of God. Last, to thy right hand we entrust The Spirit's sword — uplift, and wield ; god's conscript. 79 And, blazing on thy left, adjust Faith's broad impenetrable shield. See to the air Thy banner glare, Christ's blood-red cross — there, there, my son, Ten thousand saints have fought and won. Now is thy every want prepar'd, And ready stands this chosen train, In battle's heat thy body-guard, Reproach and Hatred, Care and Pain. Fear not, my child, Their aspect wild, A seraph each disguis'd will prove, Glory and Gladness, Peace and Love. Thou shalt with griding wounds be gor'd, But see what healing balm I bring ; Not costlier that which Wary pour'd Upon the everlasting King. All pangs of hell Its virtues quell, Nerve with new strength in battle's strife ; Accept, my son, the word of life. Ha ! thro' that bold and manly brow, Inward lament, and tears I scan. O yes ! 'tis sad aside to throw The stay and sympathy of man. With rude controul, The yearning soul To wrest from twinborn flesh and lean In spirit upon things unseen. 80 god's conscript. Upon thy Master's gory cross, Unflinching beart and will to bend, Feel joy in sorrow, gain in loss, Torture in ease, and foe in friend : — Deem bate, want, sword, Thy richest hoard, Find death in life, and life in death : — Go, boy — God claims thy latest breath. Now thou hast had my last embrace, Hast heard thy father's last command, Turn, turn from home thy longing face, Go, take in God's bright host thy stand ; The battle's din Comes rolling in, God's saints are shouting ; hie thee, hie, March, boy, and share their victory ! THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE FAMILY. 81 CHAPTER VI. THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE FAMILY. My friend one day paid me a visit unusually early, and told me that he was come upon his own invitation to pass the day with me. I was surprised, because I knew it was his rule to give a certain portion of the morning to his studies, and other occupations, before quitting the house either upon business or amusement. He ap- peared likewise unusually thoughtful, if not depressed. But this appearance gradually wore away as the day advanced. He did not propose any excursion, and our day's walk was confined to a turfy terrace in my garden, which com- mands a long view of the public road, where it runs upon the opposite side of the dingle, and at length vanishes over an ivied bridge, underneath which the torrent is seen foaming into the glen, G 82 THE ANNUAL MEETING and afterwards disappearing and re-appearing amidst a most picturesque combination of rock and wood. At that bridge, ever as he turned round, he cast a fixed, and, as it were, recol- lective look, and then hastily withdrew it, with an action that seemed to show that he was willing to shake off the thoughts which the sight of it suggested. At length, after an interval of silence had succeeded one of these contempla- tions, he began : — " The sight of that bridge, you have no doubt observed, affects me much. It is just one mile from the manor-house and church, and the mile- stone which stands upon the centre-arch, was always hailed by me with boyish delight, as an assurance that home w-as at hand, whose terri- tories seemed to commence from that point ; and no less, on leaving home, it was a signal to forget it, and resign ourselves to the world, whose realm thence began and expanded into unlimited and unknown dreariness. To-day it becomes invested with peculiar importance : for this is the day of the year upon which all our absent members met under their father's roof, and the different parties which on this day were wont to hail its appearance with affectionate de- light, have been crossing my mind. Alas ! it is 3 OF THE FAMILY. 83 to me indeed a bridge of sighs. In truth it is this anniversary which has brought me here to ask a refuge with you this day ; for, though I was not present at many such celebrations myself, after once leaving home, yet to spend it in the very house and room where we used to assemble our joyous members, sole remnant as I am, I feared would be a trial to which I had neither right nor reason to expose myself. It is easy to despise these weaknesses of the flesh spiritually, and so I certainly do, but it is not so easy to dismiss or subdue them bodily; there I should be on this day at the very central link of my most melancholy associations, and, however on other occasions I can calmly hold converse with those blessed spirits, yet, upon this day and in that place, they seem to resume flesh and blood. I therefore quitted the scene wdiile yet its effects were resistible. " This day of meeting was always on the Saturday succeeding the anniversary of the marriage of our parents, and was so ordered to the end that all (some of whom had but a short time to spare upon it) might be present on the Sunday, when the whole family presented them- selves, in grateful token of his continued pro- tection, at the table of the Lord, exhibiting be- G 2 84- THE ANNUAL MEETING fore him their unbroken line, blessing his holy name for past favours, and imploring his grace to make them worthy of their continuance. We thus exhibited, upon a small scale, an image of the great day of the Jews' Passover, when that prototype of all families, the family of Israel, met from every corner of the earth, in the temple of the Lord, and defiled before him in an innumerable throng, — the substantial testimony of the endurance of his promises. " The day was well known to the neighbour- hood, and a crowd of congratulators was al- ways collected around the door, the poor were regaled, the steeple rang a merry peal, and on the Sunday our procession to church passed through a long lane of parishioners, who made a point of coming from the remotest parts, de- spite of all obstacles on this day, to testify their esteem for their pastor, by every token of reve- rence and love. The day of arrival was one indeed of breathless hurry and agitation. The interval necessary to the welcoming the arrival of one dear object, and indulging the first burst of affeetion, was yet unfinished, when another was announced, and the last straggler was seldom gathered in till the moment before the clock, whose simple well-known knell then OF THE FAMILY. 85 went to the very heart, summoned us to evening prayer ; and oh ! what prayer was tliat ! Our hearts were full, even to bursting, with the sen- sible proof of God's mercies, past and continued ; and the. expressions of our simple liturgy, inter- woven with every thing most dear and sacred, the spiritual milk of our childhood, coming now to our experience with a deeper meaning, and put up still in that voice to which from our cradle we had listened with dutiful and affec- tionate reverence, searched every secret of the bosom, and poured out in a full tide of adora- tion at the throne of mercy. The day passed in the mutual communication of our several states and prospects, from which we often di- gressed to notice the younger members of the family, still unfledged, who were now before our eyes, growing up in that discipline, to which we felt ourselves so much indebted. " Our family rose early, for indulgence in sleep was always reprobated among us as an injury done to nature, both in body and mind : but my father was ever earliest. Whoever first entered the room always found him engaged over Scrip- ture, or some volume of divinity, which he then laid aside : at this time he was more than usually cheerful. As each entered the room, he 86 THE ANNUAL MEETING regarded them with a fixed and penetrating look, from which a benevolent smile round his lips took off all that could make it in the least disagreeable. I have heard him explain it : he would say, ' I know no feeling so exquisite, though it has been every day repeated for so many years, (praised be God !) as that of the sight of my family in the morning. Having myself risen quite a renovated being, no particle remaining of that weary, and perhaps painful load, with which I yesternight pressed my bed, and seeing them whom I then parted from, re- turning to me with smiling and healthy counte- nances, I experience a renewal, as it were, of my existence ; and fresh myself, seem to receive my children afresh from the hand of God. I look and scrutinize their features, that I may discern in them traces of that blessed commu- nion, from which they are just returned to earth and given to me again, and when I press their hands, feel an union with them which is quite unutterable. And do you think, that upon such an occasion I do not look forward to that last morning of universal rising, when the good, having cast off the bandages of pain and care with which they laid down to rest, shall rise in heavenly vigour for everlasting day, and I too OF THE FAMILY. 87 (I humbly hope) shall receive my family at the hands of my Saviour, not one member wanting, never to part again. Oh ! the thought is my continual stay and comfort.' " There is something indescribably joyous in the assemblage of a family at the first meal of the day, when previous prayer and praise have consecrated it as the merciful continuance of past blessings, and as the earnest of future. The heart having been jointly lifted up with others in all its morning freshness, experiences a calm and security, which the world has yet had no time to ruffle ; and on looking round the circle of beloved objects, when I saw it still full, not- withstanding the breaches which sickness and death are making day and night upon such clus- ters of society, saw it still enjoying together the bounties of God's hand, notwithstanding the crowds to which they are daily denied, I have thought the mercies of the Almighty came to me multiplied tenfold. He had continued them not to one of us only, but to the whole body. Our meal thus refreshed not only the body, but the spirit too ; and bore, I sometimes fancied, a reference to that which our Lord ate with his disciples at Emmaus on the day of his resur- rection ; there was in it a fulness of joy, of joy 88 THE ANNUAL MEETING the fruit of spiritual thankfulness, not unbe- coming the partakers of the resurrection, a type and earnest of which they had newly experienced in rising from sleep. " The benefit of these periodical re-unions is too obvious to dwell upon. It must have been much increased at a later period, when I was away. Then two of my brothers were married, and their families met under the roof of their common father : thus the children were brought to an intermediate link between home and the world, to a relation distant enough to enlarge their notions, and yet near enough to maintain their affections, and in the presiding patriarch, the object of their own parent's love and reve- rence, they saw a substantial example of those higher relations which children have such diffi- culty in conceiving. "I used to come home on these occasions like a thirsty hart to the brook ; the world dries up, in despite of every endeavour, the freshness and flow of heart which we take from home. I gave myself up, therefore, entirely to its enjoy- ments, and imbibed its refreshing holiness at every mental pore ; the time indeed was short : it seldom exceeded three days, and we parted cheerfully in full confidence of God's protec- OF THE FAMILY. 89 tion. I remember, however, that at our meet- ing which preceded the first death in our fa- mily some forebodings manifested themselves amongst us ; they were not directly declared by any one, and yet by various ways were discovered to be shared by all. Not that I attribute any thing extraordinary, still less supernatural, to such ominous feelings. It was natural, after we had met several times, and were now, from age, occupation, and other circumstances, more exposed to accidents, for reflecting minds to entertain such notions. This was the first time that they were generally entertained, and the corresponding event shortly following, invested them with the dignity of prophecy. However it be, my father evidently felt no less strongly than the rest, and the charge which he gave us on rising from prayer (in which his tone was deepened to unusual solemnity) on the morning of departure, showed how deeply he was im- pressed. ' My dearest children,' he said, 'we have once more, through the continuance of his mer- ciful goodness, presented an unbroken line be- fore the Lord. We have jointly prayed for a prolonging of his mercies, and I doubt not that he will prolong. But do not presume upon this coming in the particular shape which we, 90 THE ANNUAL MEETING frail and ignorant mortals, may have been de- siring, but be assured that it will arrive in such a way as may be best for us ; he will not re- verse, through our prayers, those laws by which in his bounty and wisdom he governs the world ; and, therefore, a family numerous as ours cannot expect to proceed much farther on the journey of life with undiminished numbers. A great portion of the advantages conferred by sur- rounding each of us with so many worthy ob- jects of esteem and love, is now well nigh accomplished ; our affections have been nur- tured up in pure and holy communion, our spiritual strength, in which we so much assisted each other, is now sufficiently firm in each to enable him to stand alone ; the preparatory dis- cipline of home, therefore, is reaching its close, and it is usual in God's dealings with this world to withdraw the means as soon as the end shall have been attained. It behoves us, therefore, whenever this occasion recurs, to think and feel as if it were the last. Uninterrupted happiness is very far from being a proof of God's favour, and we should love this world too much, were he to continue to us unimpaired the blessings of the communion which we are now enjoying. Every family must one day vanish from beneath OP THE FAMTLY. 91 the sun, and leave its place in the soil of God's vineyard to be occupied by another. Look at the unceasing march which is going on from this world to the next ; flesh is daily escaping from our eyes into spirit, and the visible church fast melting into the invisible. And shall we, in the sight and daily contemplation of such changes, expect to remain stationary ? Oh no ! soon, very soon, the communion of some of us with you will be no longer in the flesh. I think that I perceive among you some mis- givings of our present stability ; repel them not, for God hath put them into your hearts to prepare you. Yea ! take heed to yourselves, my children, murmur not, but be ready for the separation, and learn (if indeed ye need to learn, and my teaching has been in vain,) to look upon the world into which ye are now upon the point of going, to be scattered once again from underneath this roof, as a lively type of the grave into which we shall all finally be dispersed, and this our joyful re-assemblage as a figure of our eternal re-union ; and as the inertness of the grave to our present vivid feel- ings, even such consider these feelings to be, compared with those intense and heavenly affec- tions with which we shall be then endued. Let 92 THE ANNUAL MEETING us not, therefore, be taken by surprise, but looking forward to the first diminution of our numbers, consider this, when it comes, as a signal that the days of our wanderings in this wilderness of care are nearly accomplished ; that our spies have reached the promised land, and that we shall shortly follow. " ' Finally, my dear children, I charge you in his words, who hath so gloriously set before us the resurrection of the dead, and the life to come, not to be faint and weary in the work of the Lord, for you know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord ; and remember that much, very much, has been done for you, and much, very much, will be required. May the guidance of God's Holy Spirit be with you ; may the Lord Jesus protect you ; farewell !' " On that we all rose up to part ; silent tears were shed, close embraces given, and my father pronounced his blessing over each with even more than wonted fervour and solemnity. It was a scene of sorrow, but of that godly sorrow, that peace and uncomplaining resignation of mind, which the Ephesian Elders experienced on parting with St. Paul. We were, indeed, losing each other's bodily presence, but felt assured of the continuance of our spiritual, OF THE FAMILY. 93 through all chances and changes. In a few minutes afterwards, we had quitted the door, we bowled over that bridge ; and yonder, where this road branches into several more, parted to our several destinations. " We never met in our full number again." THY HOME. Where is thy home 1 — not where thy soul Is joyous o'er the ruddy bowl, Where harp and viol thro' the day, And down at night, keep care at bay. O heir of a most glorious sphere ! Look farther still— it is not here. Where is thy home 1 — not where thy breast With cold is numb'd, with hunger prest, Nor day brings ease, nor night repose, Morn opes with toils, eve shuts with woes, O heir of a more glorious sphere ! Look farther still — it is not here. Where is thy home 1 — not where all ranges, Threading a thousand dismal changes ; Where young grows old, and long grows brief, Friend turns to foe, and joy to grief. O heir of a more glorious sphere ! Look farther still — it is not here. 94 THY HOME. Where is thy home ? — not where the breath Thou scentest every hour of death, And startest at the crashing sound Of all thou lovest, falling- round. O heir of a more glorious sphere ! Look farther still — it is not here. Where is thy home 1 — not where to learn Is but thy folly to discern, And wisdom's privilege to know A wider range of crime and woe. Oheir of a more glorious sphere ! Look farther still — it is not here. Where is thy home 1 — not where thy heart Hears earth's impatient cry, " depart !" And all her shapes each moment say, "Thou art a stranger ; hence, away !" O heir of a more glorious sphere ! Look farther still — it is not here. Where is thy home ?— where tear and groan, And change and crime are names unknown ; Where wisdom, pureness, bliss, are one, And thou, no longer guest, art son. O heir of an undying sphere ! No farther look — thy home is here. RAMBLE OP A MEMBER OF THE FAMILY. 95 CHAPTER VII. A RAMBLE OF A MEMBER OF THE FAMILY. I mentioned, before, my unexpected meeting with my friend, one morning, in a distant spot. He had become celebrated in the neighbour- hood for the length and loneliness of the walks which he was in the habit of taking, of greater length and frequency, it seemed to us, than was suitable to his advanced years. It was evident that he was now retracing, in his old age, the favourite rambles of his youth, and I was entreated by his housekeeper to exert what influence I had in moderating his ardour. She observed, nevertheless, that, however fati- gued, he always returned in spirits, even when he had left the house in an evident fit of dejection. Once or twice he took me as his companion, 96 A RAMBLE OF A MEMBER which I considered no trifling compliment. On one of these occasions, he led me to the summit of a lofty headland, which rises pre- cipitously at the mouth of a valley, so as to divide its fertile width, and change it into two wild and narrow passes ; the eye commands from it a great extent of mountainous pros- pect, and hence he pointed out to me some of his most favourite spots. " Do you observe," he said, " that cluster of cone-shaped peaks, rising in faint blue, above the deep indigo of the general ridge, forming our horizon ? The sea washes their base : they were, consequently, to me the representatives of an unknown world, and here have I sat for hours, and meditated upon that world, upon which I was conscious that I must one day enter. I pictured to my imagination the cities, the ships, and the crowds which they overlooked, and almost envied these inanimate spectators. Philosopher never looked more earnestly on the moon than I, in my spe- culations, upon yonder peaks." After some further comment, he directed my eye, with his finger, over another ramble. I traced it in the line of a green sheep-track, across a hill, whence it followed a pathway in a deep glen, and a line of black specks in the OP THE FAMILY. 97 distant stream denoted the massive stepping- stones over which it passed ; its termination was a waterfall, hidden behind a projecting crag, but its situation was discoverable from the light clouds of spray which ever and anon sped across the valley. Other rambles were pointed out in succession, till I confess that I began to grow weary of looking, and should assuredly wear}'- my reader with describing. When at length he had finished thus directing my attention, he said, " Of all that I saw and see, scarcely any thing seems changed ; not so much as a hut or a tree. Nay, the very gleams and shadows look as if they had been reposing un- disturbed upon the landscape these forty years ; and though both my frame of mind and external circumstances are now so altered, as to have but little communion with the thoughts which this scene used formerly to suggest, such is its magical effect, as to call up those long-forgotten trains in a bosom so adverse, or at least indif- ferent, to their entertainment. This view al- ways excited in me an undefinable melancholy, which I believe to be the universal effect of beautiful scenery upon minds capable of enjoy- ing it. That melancholy, however, was so far from unpleasing, that I sought the indulgence of H 98 A RAMBLE OP A MEMBER it. There was in it a sanctity of feeling, an out- pouring of the heart before God, a deep sense of my fleeting estate here, and an earnest yearning after things still better and more beautiful than what I beheld so glowing around me. Every sensible bosom must experience somewhat of this, but I place its peculiar cha- racter among the many happy results of the society and unremitting sympathy of a religious home, which is of such efficacy as to continue its impulse upon our solitary moments. Living under the same moral clime and mental sky, we never feel distinctly apart from each other; and, assured of our spiritual union, we can afford to indulge in reflections upon our earthly separa- tion. Of this separation we are warned by the face of nature, the instant that we quit the door. Her stedfast and unchangeable forms, her mountains, her rivers, and her valleys, come into immediate contact, and contrast with the changes of which we are conscious in ourselves, and sensible in others. The fading foliage of the wood, the transitory gleam of sunshine, awake, indeed, the same feeling; but there we seem at least upon a par, and regard the lesson which they read us as the admonition of an equal, born to die like ourselves. But in the OP THE FAMILY. 99 lesson which is read to us by the changeless and unorganized forms of nature, there is all the decision and sternness of a superior. We feel ourselves looked down upon, fleeting beings of an hour, by these gigantic witnesses of our creation. Hence a feeling of humiliation and melancholy which I have often thought it re- quired all the consolations of Christianity to combat: combined however with these I found it pleasing, so that I could regard all with a cheerful smile, take their rude and menacing hints with all good will, and the more dear to me the objects of home, the more could I afford to indulge in it. Through a perishable world, I looked to an imperishable ; I felt safe and fixed in my spiritual station, and, like the spectator described by the poet, felt peculiar and height- ened enjoyment in the view of its contrast with the violent and unceasing changes around me. " When the mind has once come to this under- standing with nature, and arrived at what lies beyond her brute and outward shapes, it ac- quires a wonderful power of analogy, and ra- pidly passes, by means of visible objects, as by symbols, to what is invisible. A prospect spread before it, like this, seems (but I cannot adequately express myself) to be an enormous n 2 100 A RAMBLE OF A MEMBER vest thrown over the spiritual world, to prevent our giddiness, by hiding from the eye its tre- mendous profundity, and we delight to specu- late upon what portions of that world may lie beneath this or that fold in the garment, and give it its peculiar shape. A moral starts up to the mind in every object, every thing around pours forth a spiritual lesson, and the eye, with more powerful magic than that enjoyed by the hand of Midas, turns every thing to gold ; pe- culiar thoughts, and peculiar combinations of thought, present themselves in a scene, however familiar to the eye : the least difference, as a gleam of light, strikes a different key-note in the mind, leads a different arrangement of thought, presides over a different melody. Thus the mind runs through its whole compass, be- comes acquainted with all its resources, feels conscious of its capability of enjoyment, and derives that enjoyment from objects and changes of objects, which to the vulgar, if observed at all, appear minuto and uninteresting. " I do not deny that much of this enjoyment may be perceived by a mind, whose religious feelings are comparatively superficial. But, assuredly, the lessons derived are much less wholesome, and have a constant tendency to 3 OF THE FAMILY. 101 establish there a natural religion, in exclusion to revealed; indeed, it appears to me that the habitual contemplation of nature, unless di- rected by a strong bias, previously impressed, (and where and how so strongly as in such a home as mine?) leads its indulger into imminent dan- ger of reverting to that imperfect stage, which gave rise to the superstitions of heathenism, when the mind, transported with the lovely combinations presented to it, and enabled to proceed from these to still more lovely and magnificent in its own conceptions, cannot allow such beauty to exist without some mind of a higher order being ever present to enjoy it, cannot admit it to be wasted for a moment upon insensibility. Hence it assigns a sacred- ness to every romantic spot, peoples streams, woods, and mountains, with forms of divinity, and bows before the creatures of its own imagi- nation. I have myself seen several examples of practical infidelity among the professed ad- mirers of nature, which, in weak minds, was rendered still more disgusting by a mawkish sentimentality, which it mistook for religious feeling ; and have met with magnificent talkers upon the glory of God as set forth in nature, — how all that we see composed his temple, how 102 A RAMBLE OF A MEMBER earth was its floor, the sky its dome — whose re- ligion seem to be confined to a round of such unmeaning and unprofitable phrases. But a mind deeply imbued with the truths of revealed religion, instead of being bewildered in the tumult of thoughts presented, and being intoxi- cated with the idea of its own wealth, framing arbitrary and caj)ricious notions, and being thus taken captive, as it were, by its own people, has the proper bonds of association already furnished, its peculiar powers of selection pre- viously formed, and the man comes upon the face of nature, not to find his religion there, but with it burning in his bosom. He exercises a complete dominion over the irregular crowd of ideas which is rapidly flowing in upon him from without, and compels them to blend in with the holy thoughts which he has already in treasure there, assimilates them, and brings them into complete subjection to the healthy and vigorous organization of his mind. " The first emotion excited, being a sense of God's infinite wisdom, power, and goodness, suggested by the outward objects, may indeed be the same with that of natural religion. But then it is momentary, being only introductory to the deeper feeling of revealed, which irnme- OF THE FAMILY. 103 diately, as it were by impulse, starts up in the bosom, much in the same way as the brute inanimate forms without put into exercise our lively organs, or as those comparatively coarse organs of the body stir into action the spiritual operations of the soul. And it is as impossible for the truly religious Christian to rest in that first impression on his mind, as for the educated man in the first upon his organs. As the latter differs from the savage, so the former from the man of mere natural religion. " With my thoughts and feelings fresh from a holy home, I came each day upon this lovely scenery, and the sense of such blessings without, confirmed me in the consciousness of the value of that which I had received within. My thoughts ran, indeed, in new trains, and there- fore with more vigour and pleasure ; but still it was reviewing the same grand object in dif- ferent lights, and I never for a moment parted with the feeling of being one of that flock which was once lost, but now is again being gathered under the great Shepherd, Christ Jesus. " How blessed, after such excursions, was the return to the calm but deep sympathy of the family circle, to be again in communion with 104 A RAMBLE OF A MEMBER beings which were not only shadows and types, like those of dumb nature, but realities and sub- stantial pledges too ; who were not of this world only, but of the next also; on whom, when we looked, we were answered with thought for thought, affection for affection, and, pouring out the treasures of our late meditation, experienced a consciousness of our renewed energy of mind, and enjoyed the interchange of pious reflection. Such society I have no longer to receive me upon my return ; nevertheless, the good effect remains, and little should I have profited by what I have been detailing, were I for a moment to complain." Having now rested for a considerable time, and observing the day wearing fast apace, we descended the hill upon our return. I left the old man at his door, with a strong feeling of pity for the solitude to which I was consigning him. He bade me, however, a cheerful fare- well, and promised, in a few days, to conduct me upon another of his favourite rambles. OF THE FAMILY. 105 KAMBLES IN THE VALLEY. I. THE G1EN. I came my favourite glen to seek, To gaze upon its oaken wood, Its rocky headland, cloud-capt peak, Its whiten'd tower, and sparkling flood : Alas ! I came to seek in vain ; Dank folds of mist, and drizzly rain Thickly envelop'd all : But on my ear with deafening clang, From viewless heights incessant rang Its furious waterfall. Shut out from sight, I felt that din Vibrate heyond my outer ear ; I heard it speak my breast within ; See typified, O mortal, here, - An hour that soon must come to thee, When all that thou didst love to see Shall sink in sorrow's veil : And from behind the dripping screen, As now, the voice of things unseen Shall tell a fearful tale. A voice from follies flown and past, A voice from retribution nearing, A voice from health no more to last, A voice from comrades disappearing, 106 RAMBLES IN THE VALLEY. A voice from the dull world that flies A voice from parting vanities, A voice from outliv'd bliss, A voice from the wide-gaping tomb, A voice from the dread world to come- Go, mortal, think on this. II. THE RUIN. I made for Buildwas, — o'er her graves, Her shatter'd tombs, her rifted tower, Her shafts where the tall ivy waves, To pass a contemplative hour : And, as I journey'd, in my mind A picture of old days design'd, Forgotten rites renew'd ; And I beheld assembled there, From porch to chancel bow'd in prayer, A countless multitude. The vase with holy water teem'd, The pealing organ shook the nave, Hoar clouds of fragrant incense steam'd, Bright lamps a flood of radiance gave ; And from their chairs of sculptur'd stone, Three gorgeous priests, as from a throne, Survey'd the prostrate train ; Image on image fir'd my breast, And, with the dazzling show possest, I stood within the fane. RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. 107 There all tbe consecrated ground, Nave, chapel, choir, and aisle, Throng'd by a bleating flock I found : Quite crowded was the pile. The holy vase with waves was fill'd From Heaven's own sacred breast distill'd, And in the stony chair A shepherd's boy, with cord and crook, Kept watch with contemplative look, Upon his fleecy care. O God ! how simple, how severe Thy mockery, when thou wouldst deride The fools that deem to please thine ear With pomp of power, and rites of pride. Thou by a stripling didst rebuke A giant's might, and here thy look In bitter jeer hath smil'd : And thou, to show thy scorn and bate, Of cowering crowds and priestly state, Hast chosen a flock and child. RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. I. THE STILL STREAM. On stream ! on which my boyhood play'd In many a reckless freak, To manhood's eye, severe and staid, How different dost thou speak. 108 RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. Then as I clave Thy glassy wave, How joy'd I on thy bosom blue, To feel that I was flowing too. But now, where'er T cast my eye, Before my pensive soul Spreads the broad reach of days gone by, And days yet future roll : Adown life's stream To float I seem, Still quitting old, attaining new. Oh river ! I am flowing too. How calm, how still thou sleepest here ! And yet behind, before, With heavy murmur on my ear, Thy angry cataracts roar ; So yester's sorrow, So painful morrow, This momentary calm break through. Oh river ! I am flowing too. Adown thy clear and tranquil breast Wreath'd foam and bubbles throng ; Ha ! a strange contrast they attest, — Thou hast not rested long ; So this calm face With tell-tale trace Passions scarce lull'd to sleep imbue. Oh river ! I am flowing too. RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. 109 Branches, and foliage, and flowers, Faded, and bruis'd, and broken, Steal down thy stream, of passionate hours At once the spoil and token ; So marr'd, so vain To me the gain Which once from feverish hours I drew. Oh river ! I am flowing too. Here, Heaven with every brightest beam Painteth thy glassy floor ; There, shiver'd in the eddying stream, His picture glows no more ; So now my thought His hues hath caught : Ah me ! what marring will ensue. Oh river ! I am flowing too. Here flowery mead, majestic tree, Green hillock deck thy strand : But soon thy only bank shall be Lank reed, and fruitless sand ; So proud, so fair Have been my share ; Now barren helplessness is due. Oh river ! I am flowing too. Here gaze I on the hills that hold Thy cradle in their cave ; There, round the bright horizon roll'd, The ocean gleams, thy grave ; 110 RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. So here the womb, And there the tomb, Close at each end my straining view. Oh river ; 1 am flowing too. But from that grave thy waves remount, And, tarrying with the sun, Return to fill thy crystal fount, Again their course to run ; So to the skies This breath shall rise, To run its race of life anew. Oh river ! I am flowing too. II. THE CATARACT. Thou clamorous cataract, once again I draw in midnight musings nigh ; Roar on : unheeded is thy strain, Unanswer'd as the maniac's cry. For blustering winds their fill have blown, The waving woods have ceas'd to groan, The curlew's screaming note No longer haunts yon peaked crest, The unfolded flock is sunk to rest, And man far, far remote. RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. Ill Mute, dark is all, nor sound, nor sight Tell God's right hand is busy still, Save that thy cry of quenchless might Proclaims him now from hill to hill. Yes, herald of the desert, yes, Thy voice pervades the wilderness, " Repent ; thy Lord is near !" E'en thus thy solemn accents roll Their mystic music on my soul, And raise a holy fear. And from thy cauldron's deep abyss As comes the roar, and thundering beat, And raving lash, and frantic hiss, Shake me upon my rocky seat. O thou importunate Sabbath -bell, That wakest the reposing dell, Thou callest me to prayer. Ah ! now I hear the mental din That boils my sinful breast within, Thine apt resemblance there. Pride, shame, rebellious discontent, And wrath that raves, and griefs that pine, There hourly struggle for their vent : Ah ! could their turmoil end like thine ! For yonder thy unprison'd stream Steals soft beneath the moonlight beam, Far on its sinuous fold, Beneath the cotter's boxen hedge, 'Mid drowsy herds, thro' rush and sedge, Gentle as sleep is roll'd. 1 I 2 RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. Oh ! were thus quell'd my bosom's strife ! And would that in my listless ears, E'en as thy stream, the stream of life Had thunder'd as they flow'd, the years, Months, days, hours, moments, spent and flown, Had not a rear of menace shown, And, turning round at last, Like the deceitful Parthian foe, Bent their inevitable bow, Most terrible when past. # Blest stream ! a few short days, and I Must bid thy rocks and waves adieu Yet memory oft shall bring thee nigh, And night thy warning voice renew. And oh ! in crowds when far away With dissipated thoughts I stray, Oft may some kindred sound Fall sternly on this listless ear, And thee and all thy lesson bear, And check the giddy round. Meanwhile unheeded from the hill Shalt thou thy chasm' d waters hurl, Sole visitants to thy distant rill The plundering heron, the angling churl. Oh, no ! may some sage pilgrim then Be summon'd to thy noisy glen, And as he bends to see Thy whirl of waves, and cavern dim, May then thy thunder preach to him, As it hath preach'd to me. RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. 113 III. THE SOURCE. Now shaking glens with furious leap, Now beneath woods in slumber cast, Now threading vales with winding sweep, I've chased and track'd thee home at last. Free from fierce noontide's glare and heat, I hail thy cavern's gelid seat, Where, cradled as a child, In sparry font thy crystal lymph, The bath, as of a mountain-nymph, Sleeps still and undented. Oh, how contrasted with the course Through which this morn I've traced thv wave ; There, noise and ostentatious force, Here, the mute stillness of the grave. A baby in its mother's womb Art thou, ere yet unkindly doom Have cast thee into day ; And at the very gate of life The passions have commenced their strife, And mark'd with foam their way. No particle of sordid earth, No neighbouring torrent's muddy stream, Defiles thee in thy stainless birth, Nor daylight warms with harlot beam j I 114 RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. But cold and pure, as saintly maid, Into the world, of taint afraid, Thou issuest from thy cell. Ab, soon the fen's polluting drain, And city's reeking filth, shall stain Thy now translucent well. With dews through earth from heaven distill'd, Pure and unmixt thou feedest here ; And seest thy sparry cistern fill'd, Then burstest through thy cave's barrier. The meadows laugh as on thou pourest, A brighter green bedecks the forest, The cattle of the mountain Exulting to thy bounty flies, The shepherds bless in ecstacies Thy never- failing fountain. Ah ! would, O stream ! e'en such were I, In studious solitude that nurst, And flowing o'er with Heaven's supply To eyes of man my lore could burst, Rolling with lofty chime along, "While to the stream in anxious throng Repair the wise and good, And age on age behold it wind, And fructify fresh fields of mind With undecaying flood ! Ah ! no such emblem, stream, of thee, Intrudes upon thy silence now, RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. 115 Ad<1 lifts the flaring torch to see Thy marble chamber's sparry glow. But thou a lesson just hast dealt, And I the lesson just have felt, And blush'd, as well I might, When I my course with thine compare, Barren with fruitful, foul with fair, And turbulent with bright. IV. THE SWOLLEN STREAM. It was but a short hour ago, And I was gazing on thy stream, O Yure, and pierced thy depths below, Illumined by the morning beam, And watch'd beneath each rock's dark shade, Thy trout in blissful stillness laid, And a3 I turn'd away, Thy tabouring wave, like infant's clack, With pleasing prattle call'd me back Again to gaze and play. But now along thy echoing glen I hear thee raving hoarse and loud, Like wild -beast chafing in his den, And see thee whirling up a cloud Off thy vex'd wave, from sheltering rock Thy foamy wreath's impetuous shock I 2 116 RAMBLES UP THE STREAM. Thy scaly tribes hath sent, And on thy bank with net in hand The wily poacher takes his stand, On lawless plunder bent. Yea ! purity alone is safe, And meekness strong to guard its own ; Boast, vaunt, be turbulent and chafe, Thy grace is fled, thy wealth is gone ; For round thy steps, and round thy gate, Intent the ruthless spoilers wait, And each unguarded hour To force or flattery open yields Thy fame, thy fortune, house, and fields- E'en so thou warnest, Yure. THE FIRST DEATH IN THE FAMILY. 117 CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST DEATH IN THE FAMILY. I have already mentioned the monuments raised to the several generations of the Rector's family, which in the different styles of different periods adorned the walls of the chancel. The latest was a long plain tablet of white marble, ex- hibiting a full and sorrowful list of names, which were those of the Rector, and his wife and children. There was just sufficient room left at the bottom to add the name of my friend to that catalogue, that counterpart, as I trust it is, of their enrolment in the register of eternal life. It began with recording the death of a girl of fifteen, exciting thus a melancholy in- terest even in the stranger. It was ever catch- ing my eye, and often, when waiting for parties expected to some of the holy offices, I have seated myself upon the bench opposite, and 118 THE FIRST DEATH gazed in melancholy abstraction upon this com- mencement of its legend. I scarcely ever, I think, went lower in the list. This first name was fully sufficient to occupy my thoughts for the remainder of the time. In this seemed summed up the history of the family. In a girl of fifteen, was made the first breach of that line which the family had with such joy annually presented before the Lord. This gentle crea- ture was appointed to be invested with that mysterious dread, that awful and shrinking feeling with which we always regard our first connection in the spiritual world ; and her voice, which was ever the herald of affection and joy, was doomed to speak with them from the tomb on death and judgment to come. In her fall was heard the first crash of the breaking up of this visionary world of flesh, and of the bursting in of the reality of the spiritual, the type began to give way, and the substance to be established. Oh God ! thou dost not deal with thy beloved by obscure and perplexing hints, but by open and unerring signs, and there- fore didst not begin the work of their removal from earth by taking away those whom nature seemed to call, but her whose death made the rest consider their life as in jeopardy every hour. IN THE FAMILY. 1]9 " I was not present, alas !" said my friend, one day, when he found me in the act of contem- plating this monument ; " I was not present at the mournful scene, but arrived on the evening of the fatal day, too late to receive her parting- breath. I will not dwell upon it. It was, in- deed, a day of darkness. But the next, I have good occasion to recollect, came with somewhat of light, and brought healing upon its wings. Night, by its refreshment to the body, but still more by that spiritual intercourse with God, to which in a manner it compels every reflecting sufferer, had done much to take out the sting of grief, and when we entered the room for prayer, it was evident, from the looks of all, that the past hours of darkness had been busy ones of meditation and self-examination. By that in- stinctive and unaccountable communication, which ever takes place between minds similarly affected, we seemed completely to understand one another before a word had been spoken. Our mutual remarks, therefore, consisted of that studied common-place, that peculiar kind, which, while it displays no efforts of the mind, shows at the same time that it is working hard and deep beneath the surface. At length, all were assembled for prayer, and yet there was 120 THE FIRST DEATH a pause. All did not seem assembled; looks were turned towards the door, as if yet another was to enter who could never enter more. It was but for a moment. The dream and self- delusion, into which the effect of long habit had cheated us, broke up, the mournful reality flashed upon us, and, with a gentle sigh of re- signation, we addressed ourselves to the morning prayer. " Oh, how affecting was now its worship, how humble, and how fervent, the celebration of its simple ritual. My father's voice was firm, in- deed, as usual, but yet a plaintive softness now marked the close of every petition. Amid these solemn strains was heard, ever and anon, a sob escaping from some breast, which thus betrayed the secret of his resignation having not yet been quite attained, while the sudden check given to it by the utterer, showed that he was resolved to attain. Or a gentle sigh arose, suppressed, however, as soon as heaved, upon some particular response which brought to mind the person no longer among them ; and especially, I remember the breathless pause when the prayer came, in which particular individuals of the family, from various causes, were named, and the name of the deceased, IN THE FAMILY. 121 grown familiar, alas ! through her long suffer- ings, upon the list, was omitted for the first time. She seemed then, indeed, quite gone from among us. I have before me, too, even at this moment, the deep-drawn ejaculation and unwonted energy given to certain of the re- sponses, the full force and sense of which now for the first time seemed to flash on the mind of the repeater, and to chime in with all the yearn- ings of his heart. "It was my father's custom to read imme- diately after prayers a portion of Scripture, upon which he always hung some spiritual exhorta- tion. I need not add, that in his choice of pas- sages he was led by the particular occasions which presented themselves. The second week of our mourning happened to be passion-week, a most happy coincidence, inasmuch as our at- tention was thus, in the most powerful degree possible, diverted from our own sufferings to those of a crucified Saviour, which were ap- pointed to take away all lasting cause of sorrow. Several applications now occur to me which my father made to our circumstances in the course of this week. The Monday, you know, is the anniversary of our Lord's visiting his temple, and purifying it, by turning out those 122 THE FIRST DEATn who were carrying on traffic there. On finish- ing the narrative, as given by St. Mark, he said : ' And now, my children, from this temple of the family of Israel let us turn to our own, for I trust that we have God's temple among us, though not built w T ith stones, such as our Lord's disciples pointed out to him with fond admira- tion, but far more glorious, built up with living spirits ; yea, and its Lord and Master hath entered this temple, — entered, too, with the scourge in his hand. Oh ! depend upon it that we had been giving too much to this transitory life ; its unbroken happiness was seducing our hearts from the eternal bliss of the next. Oh yes ! he found a barter going on here — a barter of holiness for indulgence, of soul for body, of eternity for an hour. Thus w T ere we profaning his courts, and therefore he hath entered them with stripes. But shall we dare to be fretful under this presence of our glorious Visitant ? Rather let us in tears, and with all humbleness of heart, thank him, that he hath thus ejected all unmeet intruders, purged it of its pollutions, and by the very act shown what a regard lie has for it. Let us pray him to re-establish his altars, renew the sacrifices of a broken and con- trite heart, and make it, by whatever means he IN THE FAMILY. 123 shall deem best, however painful they may seem to us, a fit abode wherein he may delight to dwell, and fill the house with the glory of the illumination of his Holy Spirit.' "The next day presented us a still stronger appeal. Its historical fact was the awful pre- diction of our Lord, uttered against Jerusalem from Mount Olivet. ' Behold, my children,' said my father, on closing the volume, ' a tremendous refutation of an opinion too commonly enter- tained, that continued prosperity is a sign of God's favour. No ! the unchastised son is also the unregarded, and the absence of his inter- vention for sorrow is also the absence of his love. What family ever presented a more gor- geous appearance of prosperity than that of Israel at this moment ? Our Lord looked down from Mount Olivet 'on a magnificent city, crowned with its temple, glowing with clusters of domes, and files of columns, on crowds of merchants and pilgrims passing in at the gates, and heard its ceaseless hum and din, which arose from the throng gathered from the four corners of the earth to celebrate the Passover, the grand festival of their deliverance. Every thino- tended to remind the Jew of God's pro- mises of wealth and power, and in the intoxica- 124 THE FIRST DEATH tion of his national festival his heart leaped at the review of his strength and numbers, and looked at that moment for the Messiah to de- scend in the clouds of heaven, and lead him forth to the conquest of the earth. He cast an eye, perhaps at Mount Olivet, as he gazed in exultation around, and saw all verdant, calm, and sunny there as usual. Yet, at that very moment, from that very spot, the curse was pronouncing against him. In about forty years he celebrated his last Passover, and God bitterly derided him by slaying his first-born, and de- livering him over to the most awful destruction recorded in history. Here, then, my children, in this family of Israel, is a lesson for every family under heaven. This family had her pro- phets sent to her from time to time, while still her term for repentance was unexpired, and every family has had similar warnings by angels from God, in the shape of some visitation ; and a long run of high prosperity is indeed ominous. Oh ! it is often that dreadful period of calm which intervenes between sending his last pro- phet, and coming himself in accumulated wrath to destroy. It is too often that tremendous interval in which the Almighty Retributor gives up the sinner to take his own ways, and this IN THE FAMILY. 125 the miserable infatuated victim mistakes for prosperity. It is too often that awful time, when Jesus, as then with the Jews, hath ceased to reply and rebuke, and is preparing to root out. Therefore, let us rather congratulate our- selves upon this interruption to our long-con- tinued domestic happiness. God still watches over us ; he has not, exhausted his warnings. Let us, then, entertain this prophet, and every other which he may think good to send, with due reverence, and turn from the allurements of life to the Lord our God, lest, by evil-treat- ing them, we at length become blind to the last messenger to repentance, and crucify afresh the Lord of glory.' " It is a common remark, that the advantages enjoyed by a numerous family are pretty nearly compensated by the greater number of mis- fortunes to which, of course, they are liable. But it has seldom been observed how much more patiently such misfortunes are borne : the superior advantages of community in affliction are fully equal to those experienced in the par- ticipation of enjoyment. More topics of con- solation are presented, in proportion to the num- ber ; there is a generous rivalry in administering to the general consolation, which receives its 126 THE FIRST DEATH reward in a more prompt and complete mastery over individual feeling : and, frequently, one rises above the rest, with all the authority of a prophet, to whose guidance all submit, and in the submission find employment for that re- dundant affection, the immediate object of which is now no more. " Of this we had a remarkable instance. The very member for whom, of all others, the rest were in deep anxiety when the stroke first came, lest she should sink under it, threw off, after the first burst, all her former weakness, and raised her head in firm serenity above the rest of the weeping circle, assuming, in singular contrast with her slight form and delicate appearance, a meek, yet dignified sovereignty, in administering to the consolation of the rest. And yet, among these were some who, one would have thought, should rather have administered to her. But so it is in all the visitations of our blessed Lord : sorrow completely alters characters, or rather strips off the outward garb, and brings the real and interior man to view. The mighty fall, the lowly rise, the strength of man is laid prostrate, and the weakness of God stands firm. " We were now, amid our very tears, reaping IN THE FAMILY. 127 the plenteous harvest sown in previous obe- dience. Our house had. not been that of the proud Pharisee. Christ had not been enter- tained among us from ostentation, from the whim of the day, from cold compliance with the opi- nion of the world ; but he had been ministered to with prayers and tears, and entire devotion, and he was now among us, as in the house of Lazarus, giving us all his sympathy, and assur- ing us that our sister was not dead, but only slept; and we experienced that feeling of calm, but inexpressible delight, which rises from an utter resignation into His hands, the brightness of whose past mercies our present affliction made more conspicuous than ever. We saw and acknowledged the benefit even of sorrow. It is thus that God's chastisement is distin- guished from his vengeance. "It has often struck me as very strange, that, amid all the instruction given to our youth, the grandest, and yet commonest occasion in life, the hour of sorrow, is left totally unprovided for. I should rather say, perhaps, that wrong notions are indirectly instilled upon the subject : at least, I know that it requires a parent's con- stant care to counteract that admiration which the boy, in his classical reading, imbibes of the 128 THE FIRST DEATH heathen examples of fortitude. Such fortitude is assuredly vitally opposed to the true Christian spirit. It is the sulky patience which endures what it cannot avoid, the rebellious pride of the reptile which defies and hisses in the very act of being crushed. I thank God that my father especially provided against such a perversion of principle, and would earnestly warn all fa- thers and instructors of youth against its conse- quences. I have had occasion to witness them, and tbey are dreadful. " I retain a lively recollection of the first re- newal of our communication with society after this affliction. The last part of our seclusion coincided, as I have mentioned, with Passion - week. By the time of its conclusion, its for- mer serenity had again begun to diffuse itself over the family ; and when we met on Easter- day, at the customary hour of morning prayer, all bore the evident impress of the joyful notions which the occasion of the day so powerfully inspires. We embraced each other, on rising from our knees, with a subdued, yet deep-felt gladness ; and shortly after we prepared to quit the house of mourning for the first time, and re-appear among our earthly friends at the cus- tomary rites of public worship. 2 IN THE FAMILY. 129 " It seemed, indeed, like a coming forth from the tomb. We had been long pent up where every thing was associated with death, in the missing of the one who was now no more. The last week had been dark and stormy, the day cheerless, and the silence of the night had been all along interrupted by the groaning of the trees in the wind. The narrow circuit of our morning walk daily presented the miserable spectacle of the ground strewn with the wrecks of the nests of the rooks, and here and there the callow young were lying, which had been shaken out by the violence of the tempest, and even occasionally a parent bird, which had been lashed to death, in the act of tending its endan- gered young, by the confliction of the tossing boughs. "But this morning, overflowing with such blissful associations, this, our Lord's own morn- ing, came forth with the winds quite hushed, and the sky unclouded. The views were clear and bright, and seemed as if intended to unfold the world again, while the eye readily pierced up the long defiles of the distant glens, the outlets of our vale, and caught the falls of water at their head, sparkling in the sun ; and the distant barrier of mountains, which typified to K ]30 WHAT IS AFFLICTION? us the outward world, seemed to woo us into it again by the extraordinary beauty they put on, in all the variety of tint, and strength of light and shade. Nature, too, in sympathy, as it were, with our feelings, had just burst forth from the tomb ; at the beginning of our seclusion, not a flower, excepting the melan- choly snowdrop, had come forth. But now the uplands and the meadows vied with each other in the plenty and beauty of their peculiar blossoms. On our way to church, we conti- nually encountered the affectionate salutations of our neighbours ; the returning world opened more and more upon us ; and, arrived within the sacred walls, we felt once more gathered into the great family of mankind, and called to the resumption of those active duties which had been interrupted by our visitation, and ought now no longer to be deferred." WHAT IS AFFLICTION'? What is Affliction 1 — Speak, O man, From sorrow's bruising rod, That liftest up thy head to scan The mazy paths of God. WHAT IS AFFLICTION ? 131 It is the battering storm, which long Vex'd Esdraelon's vale. Hark ! how the grateful reapers' song- Floats joyous on the gale. It is the snow, with chilling flake On Lebanon embost : See, the bright gems of verdure break, And nurse his bleating host. It is the wintry wind, which smites The bud of Sharon's rose ; With richer fragrance he invites, With deeper crimson glows. It is the pruning knife, that shears Engaddi's rambling vine : Half-bow'd his clustering load he bears, And swells with purple wine. O, great Vine- dresser! teach my heart Thy searching knife to bear ; With every branch of pride to part, And bless mv Pruner's care : Yea, quell mine overgrown array, And, if it be thy will, Lop fortune, friends, and fame away, For thou art with me still. K 2 132 THE OMEN. II. THE OMEN. I journey 'd on, in gloomy thought, Mine ears still ringinsr with adieu : Then paused on the last hill that brought My dear deserted home to view. Across the vale, with towery span Of brilliant arch, the rainbow ran, And plunged upon the earth, Just where my well-directed eye, 'Mid the deep lustre, sought to spy That spot of love and mirth. Bathed as it lay amid the glow And radiance of that liquid woof, Heaven seem'd along his glorious bow To pour his treasures on our roof. I hail'd the sight, the omen took, And smiled, and gave the last fond look, And hope bright days was telling : Months roll'd along — I came again, And found the flattering omen vain ; It now was sorrow's dwelling. But time soon read that omen right, Fast on our beads woe's rain was driven ; But shortly rose a cheering light, And tinged it with the hues of heaven ; And resignation's holy balm, And, potent every throb to calm, THE LAST PROPHET. 133 Hope, Patience, Fortitude, Descended on our bruised head ; Aloft our thankful hands we spread, And own'd the Lord was good III. THE LAST PROPHET Now, hear once more, insensate ear, Tbou dull of hearing, hear again : And thou, forgetful bosom, bear What thou so oft hast borne in vaiJ': My former warnings slighted all, Now hear my last, my loudest call. Look back upon thy life ; survey, And weep the while, its tortuous line: A wilder'd labyrinth, whose way Traverses every course but mine. Doth not the painful sight appal 1 Now hear my last, my loudest call. Oft have T call'd. O think, though loth, I have call'd in gladness, call'd in sorrow, I have call'd 'mid study, call'd 'mid sloth, I have call'd to-day, and call'd to-morrow ; Yet hast thou slighted me in all : Now hear my last, my loudest call. 134 " I DIE DAILY." Yes ! for a moment thou wouldst strive, And I with all my blessings sped ; But when I stretch' d mine arms to give, Fickle apostate ! thou hadst fled. Again thou rose, again to fall : Now hear my last, my loudest call. Oh ! missing long, but yet not lost, Oh ! dying oft, but yet not dead, Not always can my voice accost, Nor can my tongue for ever plead : I now address thee once for all, It is my last, my loudest call. Oh ! ere my voice be weary, hear ! Oh ! while my wrath still slumbers, wake ! Once more my heavenly gifts I bear, Again invite thee to partake. Quit, idler, quit thy battening stall, It is my last, my loudest call. IV. " I DIE DAILY." When on my pillow'd couch I lay, Each night, this weary head of mine, And think upon the by-gone day, Its tangled thread of thought untwine. I seem another life to leave, And born at morn to die at eve. il I DIE DAILY." 135 Each day, O Father, is a life, Each the great whole's epitome, With passion stirr'd, with action rife, Prank'd with capricious pain and glee. Hours fly for years, nor growing age Lacks ere its monitory stage. Morn from thy hand's renewing power Brings me as from the womb again, Fresh as the babe in natal hour, Unsoil'd as yet with worldly stain. My heart is calm, my breast is clear, And lively to thy voice, my ear. Then Noon, like manhood bears along, Ah ! far from innocence and home, To push amid the worldly throng, 'Mid scenes of bustling guilt to roam ; And toil and care, and guile and sin, O'erpower thy voice with deafening din. Then Eve, meet type of mellowing age, 'Mid dying sounds, and growing calm, Calls me to home, and musings sage : Cool as her dews, thy spirit's balm Pours on my fever'd heart, and full, Thy voice on ears no longer dull. Then Night, like death, as in the grave, Lays down my aching head once more ; Blessing the bounteous hand which gave, Praying the Taker to restore j 136 "I DIE DAILY." I close upon the world my sight, And sink amid surrounding night. Great Giver of this mortal breath, Which thou hast roused again to sing, Oh, through a daily life and death Conduct me still, Almighty King ! Death to some sin my shame of yore, Life to some grace unfelt before. THE FAMILY CODE. 137 CHAPTER IX. THE FAMILY CODE. I was walking with my friend one day, and we had seated ourselves upon a turfy swell to enjoy the view. On rising up, we found that we had been trampling down a colony of ants, whose train was hurrying to and fro in apparent dis- may at their calamity. My friend viewed si- lently, for some moments, the grievous havoc which we had made in their little community, and then exclaimed, " How thankfully ought we to feel the blessing of our station among God's creatures ! See how hourly we trample beneath our feet, in ignorance or recklessness, millions of our inferior fellow-creatures. Perhaps every motion of ours is fatal to some one or other of them, and the lower world looks up in horror as we pass. But we can look up, and see no 138 THE FAMILY CODE. tramplers on our heads. Our superiors are good and guardian angels, whose every motion is directed to our preservation and happiness by an all-present Saviour." Notwithstanding the strong association which I had perceived in my friend's mind between things natural and spiritual, I could not help wondering at this rapid transition. I suppose a smile upon my countenance betrayed me, for smiling, as in return, with a look of extreme good nature, he said : " I know that you are amused with the singularity of my observation, and verily believe have put me down for an enthusiast of no common stamp. Nevertheless, if I am singular now, I was not formerly ; for this habit of thought I derived, with all the rest of my family, from my father, and not by passive inheritance, but by direct instruction. It was what he was anxious above all things to instil, making it the main support of the moral code which regulated the constitution of our house- hold. Every household requires, for its very existence, some moral code, and I fear that the spirit of the codes which most generally pre- vail savours of little more than the adjustment of the dispositions and interests of the members. Such grow indeed with their growth, but it is THE FAMILY CODE. 139 by continually taking in the loose and vague principles of the world with which the members daily enlarge their commerce, until at last they assimilate their system in every feature to its corrupt code, and the children are but too truly the children of this world. In other families, this code may be placed on a strictly moral basis, but unless this also rests on one wider and firmer still, it will fail in the day of trial to sup- port the weight imposed upon it. No ! the father must be father not only of their bodies, not oidy of their minds, but of their spirits too. His moral code must be an essential part of the religion of his household, must be the body of which this is the soul, a daily practical com- ment on the spiritual exercise of daily prayer, and by inculcating motives superior to the pal- triness of worldly interests, produce that lofti- ness of thought, and firmness of moral nerve, which alone can carry the Christian victorious to the conclusion of his career. Such was my father's system. He would allow no one prin- ciple of those which were daily rising up among us in our mutual dealings to remain in the frail and corrupt nature which produced it, amiable though that nature may oftentimes appear. He was never satisfied till he had 140 THE FAMILY CODE. completely founded it anew, as on a second nature, on the spirit of the gospel. Wherever it was possible, he would anticipate the results of nature itself by inweaving into our minds such habits of thought and feeling, that our mutual dealings, as by collision, struck out at once the principles, which were their natural result, in the exact mould of the gospel, and, in proportion to our growth, these of course came forth more and more perfect ; so that our code, far from assuming more and more the character of the world, as it opened upon us, receded further and further from it, and grew more accordant with the spirit of the world to come. To such an end, it was necessary on every occasion to refer us to some precept or doctrine, or fact of the gospel, so that by de- grees we saw and imbibed its whole practical scope. Our affection grew into that unshaken love, which is due to that love with which Christ has loved us ; our good nature into that lively charity, which thinks well, and acts well, from a continual sense of the unbounded mercies which we have received, and of which we are stewards, in order to impart to others ; our dif- fidence into that meekness which becomes a fellow-sinner; our high spirits into that calm THE FAMILY CODE. 141 but deep joy which becomes the redeemed. The naturally obstinate were improved into exam- ples of patience, the warm and sanguine refined into holders of a lively and animated faith, and the phlegmatic and wary into the sober, watchful, and cautious against offence. "Framed as it thus was, our code had no iso- lated point. A spirit pervaded the whole, which brought all into harmony, gave all an unity of purpose. Thus was left no room for doubt ; each principle was supported above and below, on this side and on that, by all the rest ; and when one motive was excited, it was immedi- ately surrounded by a host of others, which bore with concentrated force upon the object. With what an overwhelming weight was impressed that duty so continually demanded in a family, the mutual forgiveness of faults. There was the love of our Lord, there was his example, there was his especial precept, there was his general command to do as we would be done by, and not to judge that we may not be judged ; there was the duty of mastering every passion in order to the victory over the world, and the offender (besides being of the same natural father) was a fellow in sin, a fellow in redemp- tion, a brother in Christ. It is true, that each of 142 THE FAMILY CODE. these motives was not distinctly seen ; never- theless, they passed through our bosom as really as each syllable of a word must be taken into the eye, though, through habit, we feel unconscious of the act. Never was a code better guarded from violation. We had not been our own le- gislators, nor modelled it after our own caprice and passion, which would have given us the right to alter it accordingly. It was God's own will and law, unalterable by the will of man. " Of course, no act under such a system could be trifling ; it came under the influence of one and the same spirit with the most dignified : none could be indifferent, for it obtained point and direction from its numerous associations with all that was important ; and our quick - siwhtedness thus formed, could discern a train of consequences traversing the circle of our home, growing stronger as it proceeded, and ending in some awakening result. Our acts of childhood, which, if any, belong to this class of trifling or indifferent, we were enabled to dis- cern, as we grew up, not to have been so ; we felt every moment their important results. Thus we were guarded against an insidious and sure cause of laxity of principle, and each act, as done by us, was viewed as uttered in the church THE FAMILY CODE. 143 of Christ, affecting some member of the body of Christ, performed by a servant of Christ, and connected by an uninterrupted series with that eternity which had been promised by Christ. Oh ! how my dear father deprecated the usage of such a term as an indifferent action ! He banished it with indignation from our vocabu- lary. Would Heaven that it were banished from every other ! Its admission is the cause of al- most all the crimes and misfortunes of society, and the philosopher (shame to him !) who has employed it, has shown thus his ignorance both of human nature, and of the spirit of the gospel, and has been a corrupter rather than teacher of morals." My friend here paused. "We had been stand- ing hitherto, in consequence of the mischief which our sitting had done to the poor ants. We now altered our situation to another spot, where, after seating ourselves, he continued to regard with a musing eye the fine horizon spread out before us. In a few moments he resumed : " Observe yonder blue ridge. It requires, as seems to me, some experience and attention to distinguish it from the sky, against which it appears like a layer of clouds. Even such is the view of indifferent actions taken by the man 144< THE FAMILY CODE. of blunted moral vision, even thus indistinct, thus untrue ; and the blot at which he stops, as the termination of mental vision, is to the truly Christian moralist full of lively circumstance. " You may, however, object that with all the quickness of vision to which we may have been thus habituated, still my father must have left many cases unprovided for, since the acutest discernment, however highly disciplined, must, in our imperfect nature, be often baffled in de- ciding amid conflicting circumstances to which class, good or bad, to refer an action. He did not deny this, yet still left ns amply provided. 'Whenever,' he said, 'a question appears thus nicely balanced, (it can be of course but in ap- pearance, for no action is intrinsically neutral,) be assured that the equality is made by your own interest and feelings being unwittingly thrown into the scale. Take, therefore, this rule, delivered by an excellent father of our church : " Always, in a case of doubt, choose the side which you find least agreeable," Thus you are certain of choosing the right, and at the same time gain a victory over your own corrupt inclinations. There can be no danger from in- different actions thus treated; on the contrary, they give us additional moral strength/ THE FAMILY CODE. 145 " Our family code then was simple, clear, un- alterable. He that ran might read, and it pos- sessed an authority, beyond all, awful and com- pulsory. The person, therefore, who offended, offended indeed grievously, and deep was the penitence which ensued. The offender was left without any excuse of the action being trifling or indifferent, he had none around him who would sympathize with him, and support him, with a view to establish a principle which might excuse some deed of their own, either past or in contemplation. As soon as ever the first burst of passion was over, he found himself alone; he had leisure to regain his usual quick- ness of moral sight. He then saw the conse- quences of what he had done, both as affecting himself and others. He had violated the peace and sanctity of Christ's household, he had in- flicted a stain upon his own conscience, he had set a stumbling-block in the way of those who were most near and dear to him. He felt that he had set himself apart, as by a leprosy, from the rest; shut himself out from his father's spi- ritual household. He was an exile, and a cast- away. But no sooner was the sincerity of these feelings discerned, than the whole family rose to meet him with comfort and encouragement, and 146 THE FAMILY CODE. give him the kiss of peace and reconciliation, and after his contrite acknowledgment had heen expressed to my father, and his voice had been heard heartily joining in the general confession at the next time of family prayer, the past was clean forgotten, the broken circle recovered its integrity, and there was joy, as among the angels of heaven. " You will now, I think," continued he, re- suming his smile, " no longer be surprised at my rapid transition from the vilest things below to the highest above. The aim and tendency of our code was to associate earthly things with heavenly, to use the former as notices to the consideration of the latter, and to measure the holiness of every thought and deed by the num- ber of pure and heavenly associations which it brought together. I love to seek these combi- nations. They take me out of the narrow and monotonous range of outward sense, of earthly feelings, and the most copious source of my bliss below is due, under the gospel, to the spirit and precepts of our family code." I have subjoined two short pieces in verse, which my friend gave me to illustrate what he had been saying, as specimens of the manner in which the most trifling circumstances were THE CAPTIVE LET LOOSE. 147 turned to account in this family, and made the vehicle of all that can be awful or inter- esting. I. THE CAPTIVE LET LOOSE. Poor trembling - creature, why this haste 1 Thine attitude, half prayer, half threat ; Thine eyes in fearful glances cast, As if some monster thou hadst met. A moment I must hold my prize, For e'en in thee some lesson lies. We are no longer what we were ; The stamp divine, which all thy race Was taught to love and to revere, Is gone : sin glareth in its place. How well the hideous mark ye know, And fly in loathing fright, as now. Oh ! I am humbled — fellow-man May shun, nor give a moment's smart ; Nav, I can smile beneath his ban, But thou dost stir both head and heart : No whim, no worthless pride sways thee, Instinctive horror bids thee flee. Thy race was happy once, no foe In all creation's range it knew ; L 2 148 THE MONITOR. Man sinn'd, and at one fatal blow The delegated world o'erthrew. Those pangs his presence now confess, Stern miner of thy happiness. Thro' him thy race an outlaw liveth, Perils thy very birth surround ; Thro' him thy throbbing heart misgiveth, At every sight, at every sound : The day is full of cares and fright, And big with terrors is the night. I would not hurt thee, would not add A throb to that large sum of pain, Which thou for my default hast had. Oh ! it would deeper dye the stain Which lays my vanity so low. Go, then : in safety, trembler, go. II. THE MONITOR. My faithful comrade ! oft in thee, When pride is still and passion cold, A faithful monitor I see, Example for myself behold, And feel the chiding blushes flame, That by my dog am put to shame. THE MONITOR. 149 I mark how thou each morn dost run, Hastening, with joyous hark, to greet Thy master on another sun, And lick in fond salute my feet ; While I of Him that all supplies, My Master, reckless, thankless rise : How, when thou could'st not understand My moody whim, I have struck thee sore, And thou hast kiss'd the ruthless hand, As gay, as grateful as before ; While, tho' He justly smite, I grow But more rebellious from the blow : How thou would'st follow, and entreat To take thee with me ; and where'er I led, fatigue itself was sweet, And peril scorned, so I were there ; While I of Him ne'er pray'd to guide, From all his paths have turn'd aside : How from thy foot when I have drawn The thorn which wrought thy little woe, Thou wouldst in answer kiss and fawn, Could'st ne'er sufficient thanks bestow : Death's sting He drew for me, and still No thanks ascend, I spurn his will : How, when in wood or grassy nook, Wearied, a resting-place I have found, Thou would'st with jealous bark and look Defend the consecrated ground ; While 1 have seen, unmov'd, unpain'd, His bounds transgress'd, His courts profan'd. 150 THE MOTHER. CHAPTER X. THE MOTHER. A custom prevailed at Valehead, and throughout its neighbourhood, which ever appeared to me very beautiful and affecting. If, in the dusk of Easter Eve, your way happened to lie through the church-yard, you would perceive figures, each equipped with a lantern and a basket, flit- ting from spot to spot through the gloom. If a stranger, you would most probably take them for the wives of the fishermen, procuring worms, and so pass on without further consideration. But the morning would reveal to you a very different employment. You would see every grave, whose tenant had one unforgetful heart still left above ground, profusely decked with the choicest flowers of this most interesting of seasons. The whole church-yard puts a holiday THE MOTHER. 151 smile over its mouldering surface, and every chaplet- strewn mound seems to invite you to admiration, and in a note of triumph to cry out for its owner, " We are not nothing. We still exist, and shall rise again, even as our Lord upon this day rose again." On the Easter day first ensuing after my friend's arrival in the country, I observed a grave thus dressed, which, ever since I had known the place, had hitherto lain in melan- choly neglect, most piteously contrasted with its gaily drest neighbours. Upon inquiry, I learned that the grave contained the mother of a sailor, who, after an absence of many years, had but a few days ago returned to the place of his birth. I pointed it out to my friend, who, after regard- ing it for some time with a musing look, and then throwing a hasty glance at the chancel where the family vault lay, took my arm, and, according to custom, accompanied me for the length of two or three fields on my way home- ward. I confess that I had a design in thus directing his attention. Hitherto, in his con- versations with me, he had dwelled almost ex- clusively upon the part which his father assumed in the government of his household. I was curious to elicit from him something respecting 152 THE MOTHER. the part assigned to the mother, and had now, meth ought, laid a successful train; nor was I disappointed. He began, however, as usual, with remarks upon the service of the day. " I have always been struck," he said, " alluding to the gospel for the day, with the part which women bear in the history of our Lord's sojourn upon earth. We find a faithful little troop of them clinging round him to the last, even when men had lost all courage, and forsaken him. They attend at his cross, they wait upon his sepulchre, and they are accordingly honoured with being made the first witnesses of the resurrection. It seems as if all had been designed to enforce the sense of the completeness of our restoration, since woman, who first sinned and incurred death, was thus first presented with the visible, palpable pledge of everlasting life; and it is observable that wherever the gospel is maintained in its purity, there woman is in full enjoyment of all her native rights and dignity. Hence it is, that the Christian alone, at least in my view, pos- sesses a home,* and our Saviour, in the course * Is not this remark confirmed by the fact, that the least religious people in Europe is also the least domestic 1 THE MOTHER. 153 of effecting our eternal happiness, has established for us the greatest of earthly blessings. For without a mother maintained in due honour, upheld in all her dignity, invested with her proper sway, home cannot exist. Tending to the same point is another remarkable fact, which, so far from being an accidental feature of our Lord's history, has always appeared to me essential and designed. We hear nothing of his reputed father after his childhood, while his mother is prominently put forward, and, even after his ascension to heaven, she is carefully mentioned as present with her female compa- nions at the first assembly of his infant church. The father's authority, indeed, needed no addi- tional ratification ; but what a sanction, what a sanctity, is thus imposed upon the mother's; and how more highly still should we think of it, when we feel that it is very much through his conver- sation with his mother and her companions, that our Lord's character comes invested to us with that human tenderness which gives us confi- dence, notwithstanding his divine unutterable majesty, to call upon him as our Mediator with an assurance of his sympathy. This sanction seems still more marked, on comparing our Lord's ministry with that of Moses ; that of the 154 THE MOTHER. latter is all stern, masculine injunction, unbroken by a trait of female softness, all cold, majestic publicity. The contrast, indeed, was fitting be- tween a covenant of grace and a covenant of penalty, between a covenant which carried on the promise of the seed of the woman, and the cove- nant which gave that seed. " In this blessed covenant, then, which we en- joy, the mother has been restored to all her legi- timate sovereignty ; and great and incalculable is her influence. Like some fine concentrated perfume, it penetrates with potent but invisible agency, every nook of home, pervading where the coarser authority of the father could never reach : it begins with the first breath we draw, w r ith the first light we see. On her were fixed our first affections, from her we received the first food, on her lap spoke the first words, thought the first thought, read the first letter, and, with our hands clasped in hers, offered our first prayer. In all that we ever after think or know, we are immediately referred to her who furnished us with their elements. Under her rule it was that we enjoyed what now appears to have been the only period of unalloyed hap- piness, and from underneath her warm and sheltering wing were taken to the first taste of THE MOTHER. 155 anxiety and toil, and transferred to the compa- ratively stern control of the father, or still sterner discipline of the school. Nor ceases even her direct influence then ; it revives at in- tervals in all its original freshness and strength of hold ; often, after the lapse of many maturing- years, when sickness makes us children again, in her we seek a refuge, once more experience her unwearied attention; and pain is deprived of half its sting hy the renewal of that nursing care to which, as bliss for ever gone by, our memory has so often and so fondly reverted. Having received this power in common from nature, my mother eagerly laid hold of the blessed privilege and office of good which the gospel has assigned. God had originally given to her, she considered, dominion over the child's heart, and now, through the gospel, has given to her dominion over every wild passion, every beast of the field, as it were, throughout its re- gions ; there she must clear the wilderness, there erect the temple of the living God. She reflected that if the first mother was the author of sin, the Christian mother has been gloriously endowed with ample means of remedy, and that remedy, for her own salvation no less than of her child, she is in duty bound to apply. In 156 THE MOTHER. her, the gospel should find one of its most effi- cient preachers ; one endued with that gift of tongue, whose every accent reaches the child's inmost hosom ; one who not only addresses the affections, but is the very first to call them into existence ; who has to speak to no seared conscience and blunted feelings, but to the flex- ible freshness of the yet soft and innocent heart. She is the first object of the child's love, esteem, reverence, obedience, and occupies for a certain time the whole of that head and heart, which is soon to be devoted to God's service : him she represents for a season ; and let her take heed lest she usurp his place, and continue her child's affections on earthly objects, after his mind shall have become capable of appreciating heavenly. Alas ! how many a fond indulgent mother has wept the consequences of such ido- latry, and discovered, when too late, that she has been sitting, as God, in God's temple. She must render unto God the things that are God's, and labour incessantly in forming the infant mind, so that the love, the reverence, the obe- dience, which she now inspires for herself, shall be but the rude elements of the love, the reve- rence, the obedience, which he shall hereafter pay to the Almighty Father. Oh, how beautifully THE MOTHER. 157 holy is a mother, thus employed, how blessed her house ! Like Mary's,* it contains the infant church of Christ ; and, oh ! like Mary, let her not hesitate to stand at his cross, and crucifying all over-fond affection, firmly discipline her child, in due season, to crucify his also. " Such a mother was mine : and, if you have heard from me on this subject less than you ex- pected, it is because the notions are so inwoven into every portion of my mind, that I feel a difficulty in detaching them, and clothing them in words : where we think or feel most, there we always speak least. " Her place can never be supplied : none but she can obtain that entire intimacy with our hearts ; in her loss, the father feels at once a link broken between him and his children ; she forms the softening medium betweeen his mas- culine control, and their tender years. The father may instruct, but the mother must instil ; the father may command our reason, but the mother compels our instinct ; the father may finish, but the mother must begin. In a word, were I to draw a general distinction, without particular attention to accuracy, I should say * Acts xii. 12. 158 THE MOTHER. that the empire of the father was over the head, of the mother over the heart. " To our mother was always addressed the first letter after our departure from home ; to her, imparted the account of any novelties which had excited our admiration ; to her, the first tidings of any success ; to her, who was the first planter of the bosom, we offered its first-fruits. The thought of her, during our absence, brought us comfort ; and her sweet and quiet image, con- jured up by our longing imagination, gave us the prominent idea of home, round which all the rest clustered. We could bring, by force of fancy, into our ears her gentle voice, leading the responses at family prayers, and dwelling with all the yearning of affectionate entreaty on the Amen, which closed the prayer put up fur the welfare of the young absentees. The foreground of the picture of the anticipated joy of our return always presented her coming forth with our sisters to meet us. Arriving from a bustling noisy world, what a delightful contrast of calm we then experienced. Supposing the degree of piety the same, the woman always exhibits it in a more engaging view than the man. It seems in her more innate and less earthly; some of the sweetest of the gospel THE MOTHER. 159 graces are hers almost by inheritance. Angelic meekness, faithful affection, enduring patience, uncomplaining resignation, having free play by her retirement from the passion-stirring and tumultuous scenes of life, grow up in her to most enviable ripeness. In the moment, there- fore, in which we met this dear little procession, how perfect seemed the calm : nor was this a little augmented by a sense of deficiency and corresponding feeling of humility, which soon afterwards arose in our bosoms. When we looked upon and conversed with, our sisters, who had all along enjoyed the peculiar care of our mother, from which ourselves had been so early torn away, and saw fully expanded in them, in all sweetness and beauty, what she had once implanted also in us, but a boisterous world had subsequently stunted in growth, we were warned of the distance at which we stood from the standard of Christian excellence. They were monuments to us of what we ourselves had once been, and told us that we had need become as little children again, before we could attain that standard. We learned from them how much of the world still remained to be subdued, how very much was required to be achieved before we could bring each irregular 160 MY MOTHER. and impatient feeling into due submission to the gospel of peace." We had now arrived at the entrance of a wood, through which a secluded path ran to the garden-gate at the back of the Manor-house. We here parted. MY MOTHER. My Mother ! when in some blest hour Health bursts into his brightest flower, And all I feel in me is rife And instinct with thy gift of life, Which in its thousand rivers flowing, Through every vein is bounding, glowing, When the full tide of thought, that courses 'Twixt outward shapes and inward sources, In beating pulse, from every part, Throbs with impetuous rush and dart, Thro' limb, ear, eye, unto the heart, Body and spirit, quick and free, Shouting in joyous harmony. " God ! what a blessing 'tis to be !" Ah ! 'mid the concert of my bliss How soon two wonted sounds I miss, Two sounds, now lost, alas ! on earth, Two sounds, which from my early birth, More musical than any other, Rose 'mid the anthem — son and mother. MY MOTHER. 1 G I Yet two remain, to raise their tone When e'en our very graves are gone, Two blessed sounds, if sounds they be, Which, like a fragrance, silently From the soul's inmost chambers rise, When spirit unto spirit cries ; For thou wast with thy pure control, My eldest sister in the soul, And I thy infant brother, given Into thy short-liv'd charge by Heaven, And our great mother, from whose womb Spirits of race immortal come. How wouldst thou teach my lip and tongue To lisp her speech, to sing her song, Though native words would often baulk Her little stranger's broken talk, Or, in unwonted clusters join'd Her letters would perplex his mind : Or thou wouldst lead me round her halls, Sum all her bulwarks, count her walls, Her towers, by warding angels held, Her gates by angels sentinell'd, Her base by rocky buttress staid, On prophets and apostles laid ; Thence bid me gaze aloft, where shone The all-cementing corner-stone. How wouldst thou look with fearful gaze, When I was treading slippery ways, Thy little stumbler's fall arrest, And press him closer to thy breast. Blest nurse ! blest teacher ! and blest guide! Well was thy duteous task supplied. In miuistry so fair, so good, Thy girlhood grew to womanhood ; M 1 02 MY MOTHER. When, warn'd by brighter calls away, Thou on thy mother's breast didst lay Thy fondled charge of many a year, With many a sigh, and many a tear, And many a parting kiss sincere. For nought in thee was cold or slack, Nor didst thou give a changeling back. O, called to loftier station, thou Art in her upper chambers now, Where, gather'd in communion sweet, Angels, and saints, and martyrs meet : Where all the glorious hierarchy Chaunt at the sapphire throne on high, All that for fadeless crowns have striven, And all the eldest-born of heaven, Spirits of the perfected just, Freed from the soil of mortal dust, That gather round the newly come, Welcoming long-lost brothers home. There, infant's foot must never tread ; O, then, to manhood fast be sped My lingering years ; months, days, bestow Your kindly increase as ye flow, Fill, as ye pass, the imperfect plan, To full-grown stature rear the man, That I within that blissful door May enter, meet, and part no more. E'en now, methinks, my curious ear Some heavenly strains can overhear. In the deep silence of my breast Accents, now long on earth supprest, Soar o'er the notes that swell and fall From founts of thought most musical. I recognise them, line by line, And, my mother, they are thine MY MOTHER. 163 Thine, which so oft with wholesome shock Have cloven my bosom's flinty rock, And floods gush'd forth ; and faith's pure beam With a bright rainbow spann'd the stream : Thine, which, when oft my breast hath stood In sullen pools of morbid mood, Have flung the branch of sweetness in, And heal'd the bitterness of sin : Thine, which, when passion's wave and wind Were foundering my frail bark of mind, Have utter'd, at thy Master's will, The calm rebuke, and all was still. O, felt in all I think or know, Mother, thou speakest, livest now. M 2 164 THE DISCIPLINE CHAPTER XI. THE DISCIPLINE OP THE FAMILY. " The discipline of the church of Christ, as dis- played in its censures and excommunication, must have been very effective while it was flou- rishing in its primitive visible unity and purity. She was not then divided into separate indepen- dent bodies, holding no communication with each other, which might enable an offender, when expelled from one, to attach himself to another, and thus maintain, in defiance of his condem- ners, an outward union with Christ. He might as well have endeavoured to escape the penal- ties of rebellion agaidst the head of the Roman empire by removing from one province to an- other. So spotless, too, was her innocence, so bright her holiness, that none dared question for a moment the justice of her decisions ; and OF THE FAMILY. 165 her sentence, however rigorous it might he, was deemed to he ratified in heaven; to he cut off from her, was effectually to be cut off from Christ. Thus, both her blessings and her censures were an outward expression, an earthly type, by which men were warned of what judgment was pro- ceeding in heaven upon their conduct in life, and her slowness of forgiveness, and the fiery probation to which she submitted the penitent, were well calculated to dispel those hurtful no- tions which men now so generally entertain of the ease and speed of the progress of forgiveness of sins. They could not then judge of that pro- cess from the quick pliability of their internal feelings, and the suddenness with which they can pass from like to dislike, from joy to sorrow ; they could not mistake transitory alteration of purpose for real change of heart. The church did not take them back so suddenly as that they should not be relieved from this delusion ; and still less could they think all accomplished as soon as the change had begun : she demanded restoration and satisfaction to the utmost which could be given, before she would re-admit the offender to his forfeited privileges. Every day, some example of this kind was passing before the eyes of men, and they saw, they learned, IG6 THE DISCIPLINE and they trembled. Lost, however, as this glo- rious discipline is in the universal church by the dissolution of its visible unity, lost in every par- ticular church from corruption, from the inter- ference of the temporal power, and various other causes, it still survives in all its integrity in that department of Christ's body which is oc- cupied by a family. There is unity, there is holiness, there no power of the world can inter- fere. Thence none has liberty to withdraw himself to another portion of Christ's body ; he cannot therefore laugh to scorn her penalties : all that she thinks fit to impose he must un- dergo. Her uncompromising rigour can neither be bought off by money, soothed by influence, repelled by power, nor disarmed by the magis- trate ; her censures come immediately upon the offender's head, in the face of the whole assem- bled church, with a voice which can be heard by every son, and her excommunication exists in all its primitive vigour and reality. " The lowest species of this latter punishment is sufficiently dreadful to a feeling heart ; so bitter a draught, even to boisterous boyhood, as never to be willingly brought within the reach of possibility again to the person who has once tasted of it. The exclusion from the usual OP THE FAMILY. 167 assembling of prayer, which was a form of it employed (though very seldom) by my father, conveyed a comminatiou which indeed was effec- tual, and sharper than a two-edged sword, pe- netrating to the joints and marrow, and search- ing the thoughts and purposes of the heart. The offender found himself in a state of spiritual separation from the dearest and purest objects of his affections below, from those on whom all the comforts of his existence depended ; and not only in the face of man, but also before God ; not only in reference to this world, but with • regard to the world to come ; he felt himself cut off by the very roots from earth, but, alas ! not transplanted into heaven. He could look for no society to receive him, except that of the evil spirits who had seduced him from his allegiance to his earthly and to his heavenly Father. To add to the bitterness of his heart, he could over- hear the voice of praise and thanksgiving which proceeded from the temple, whence he, as pro- fane, was excluded ; he could hear the blessing pronounced on all present, and which fell not upon himself ; he could catch the sound of their rising at the conclusion, and then how painful was the reflection on the satisfaction which he used to enjoy at that moment, when he had 108 THE DISCIPLINE once again appeared before his God in company with the beloved of bis beart. " Though certain to forgive on sincere repen- tance, and sure to forget as clean as he forgave freely, my father was slow to express his for- giveness upon these occasions. He would by no means take the penitent back again in the same moment that his change of heart became visible. He rather left him under the influence of such powerful and healing feelings as accom- pany the moment, for a time sufficient to allow him to lay open with their unsparing sword the darkest recesses of his own heart, and thus to , gain that knowledge of his weakness which henceforward might render him strong. The penitent is too often quite as ready to forget his offence as his pardoner can be, and thus to lose the better half of the fruits of repentance : against this, therefore, my father's delay effectually pro- vided. At the same time, to impress us with a due sensibility to the difficulty of pardon from Heaven, he made the restoration of the penitent no simple and speedy process. He demanded the most explicit acknowledgment, the most unfeigned submission, before the face of the church of home, before he allowed the pardoned rebel to take his station in the circle of worship- OF THE FAMILY. 109 pers, and join in the general confession. Nor would he allow the penitence of the offender, however unequivocally expressed, to he, of it- self, availahle to the procuring of forgiveness. He required, in addition, the earnest interces- sion of the rest in his favour, and thus not only called into holy exercise the best feelings of their hearts, and caused them to sympathize deeply with his sorrow, but also, by placing in a most prominent view before our youthful eyes the nature and power of intercession, taught us to appreciate the office of our blessed Redeemer in his mediation between holy God and unholy man. " Thus, the whole discipline of home brought God continually before our eyes ; neither the fear nor the love of him ceased to be present with us. TVe looked upon its economy as faith- fully representing to us his will, and if we could not be secure of standing well with him from standing well with our family, we were certain that we stood ill with him when we stood ill with our family." 170 THE RETURN. THE RETURN. Again, Lord, with weeping face, With burning cheek, and heaving hreast, I come before thy dwelling place, And crave once more thy wonted rest. Where hast thou been ? — Oh ! do not ask : 'Tis an intolerable task To bring it but to mind. Oh ! how shall I endure to hear, While my pale lips confess in fear Desertion so unkind. I have been in regions far away, Far from thy true and steady light, Where false and boirow'd was the day, And false the splendour of the night ; Where all was false, and all untrue, All mock'd the touch, deceiv'd the view, And joy itself a care To hide the hideous guest within, False looks, false words, false hope, and sin Alone substantial there. Strange meats I ate, strange drinks I drank, Strange speech I heard, strange sights I saw, Strange thoughts within me rose and sank, Most strange, most alien from thy law. Strange joy I had — by fear subdued ; Strange pleasure felt — by pain ensued ; THE RECOVERY. 171 Strange knowledge — 'twas of sin. Oh ! I have found, and found in pain, All strange from thee is false and vain Kind Master ! take me in. II. THE RECOVERY God ! when to seek thy long-lost face The weeping wanderer turns again, Explores in vain the wonted place, Untwines each clue of thought in vain, Thro' realms of love, of hope, of fear, Where'er he looks, thou art not there : Thou wilt not, in this solitude, Leave him for ever lost and parted ; For ever hide thy face, exclude All comfort from the broken-hearted'! " Oh, no !" I hear a voice reply Amid the wilderness, " draw nigh." Groping and stumbling, towards the sound I come. Ah ! reckless sin bath long Buried the track, the memory drown'd Of those blest paths I knew when young, When thou didst beam where'er I sought ; Thou wast the beacon to each thought. 172 THE RECOVERY. All me ! the veil is on my sight- Thick — palpable — which, year by year, Sin hath been weaving day and night ; Tear it away, great Saviour, tear. Bid me again thy light explore, Free, unincumber'd, as before. Now as I speak I catch the rays, E'en as the pole-star oft will swim Uncertain to the sailor's gaze, Floating 'mid clouds and vapours dim ; And tho',to fix its flickering glare Exceed my power, I know 'tis there. I know 'tis there, and ask no more — But, trusting thy good hour to win, When with a steady blaze shall pour That light, so long denied to sin, Work on in cheerful hope ; thy care Hath never slighted faithful prayer. It fixes ! — brightens ! all around Breaks into day ! — warm beams pervade My torpid breast, the lost is found, Tenfold the long drear night repaid ! Again before thy blazing seat I fall, and worship at thy feet. THE BLIND MAN. 173 III. THE BLIND MAN. Blind * Bartimeus ! day and night I muse on thee, and hail my mate, As, quench 'd by sin my inward sight, On life's dark road I weep and wait ; And every passenger implore, And every answer proves the more Man's help how weak and vain. But hark ! I hear the Lord go by, The mighty Saviour — " Hear my cry, List to my suppliant strain, Hear, Son of David, my appeal, Have mercy on me, stay and heal." With angry words the world without Chides my importunate address ; But no ! still louder will I shout, My prayer more urgent will I press, " Thou glorious Son of David, stay, Chase, chase these blinding films away !" O hark ! he pauses — turns — Touches — my walls of darkness nod — They fall— 'tis day !— my King, my God, This film-purg'd eye discerns : Prostrate, in thanks and reverence meet, I fall and kiss his blessed feet. * Mark, x. 40. 174 THE FIRST MARRIAGE CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY. I was coming one morning out of my church, after having performed the ceremony of mar- riage to a couple, when I beheld my friend just entering the church-yard. The little bridal pro- cession respectfully saluted him as it passed, and he returned the salute with the marks of his usual kindness and affability. When they had gone by, he turned and gazed at them for some time with fixed earnestness. When he came up to me, he said, " That procession in white, which has just crossed my path, brings vividly to my recollection one of the earliest events of our family, the marriage of my eldest sister. It left a deep impression upon my mind. I have her figure now, even at this moment, visibly before me as she stood at the altar arrayed in snowy IN THE FAMILY. 175 ■white, and there was recited the passage of St. Paul, which declares the union of husband and wife to be typical of the mystical unity be- tween Christ and his church. She became from that instant sanctified in my eyes, and her lovely innocent countenance and snow-white raiment, to which I knew that the purity of her bosom perfectly corresponded, embodied to me in a lively representation that church without spot or wrinkle, holy and unblamed. She was no barren spouse of Christ, offered up in mockery of our natural feelings by a cruel superstition; but in her I could contemplate the mother of many sons of God to come, the teacher of his children, the sacred depository of the milk of his holy gospel. All trace of Eve and our fallen nature seemed vanished ; she bore the stamp of the Eve of promise, whose sons, by the help of the mighty Conqueror who had gone before, should bruise the serpent's head, even as he bruised their heel. Through what a peculiar series of thoughts, what a solemn train of feel- ings, do the words of the Apostle lead us from this outward and every-day rite, taking our sight away from vulgar objects, and fixing it, through this lovely medium, upon the great ark of our salvation, the church of God, directing the mind 176 THE FIRST MARRIAGE in one comprehensive glance backward to pro- phecy, and forward to fulfilment, and bidding us in 'the dearest of our natural connexions look on to the most precious of our spiritual. Thus, in this, as in every other instance, the gospel lays its sanctifying hand upon each act and incident, and refines it to purest spirit. " On such considerations as these passing through my bosom, I became conscious of stand- ing in a new relation to the church of Christ, brother as I was to one who was destined to give it increase, and contribute to perpetuate its visible duration through a glittering succession OB O of prophets, confessors, and martyrs, to the end of time. And most strange have I ever since thought it, that men should be so generally deaf to the spiritual call announced in this event of life, and leave to death the sole privilege of pointing their thoughts heavenward ; that the hour of joy should be less fruitful in the heart's holy motions than that of sorrow. But, so it is ; reckless selfish beings as w r e are, we never ap- proach God but when compelled by need ; we think of him indeed, and pray earnestly when he smites, but turn away when he would embrace. "On that day I lost another sister ; for, cer- tainly, that term became now inapplicable to her IN THE FAMILY. 177 in the full sense in which I had hitherto employ- ed it. Her heart could no longer be given up to us whole and undivided : she was now a wife. I could no longer approach her with my former reckless playfulness : she was now the matron. She was endued with the ensigns of parental royalty, a reverence mixed itself with my affec- tion, if it did not displace a corresponding por- tion of it, and I became insensibly imbued with somewhat of the feelings of a subject. O my friend, if a change of station like this can so in- fluence our mutual affections below, how will they stand after the grand and final change to which all others are but introductory and typi- cal, beyond which all is immutability ? But let me not encroach upon your attention by enter- ing upon a thriftless speculation. " You will suppose that the hour of iny sister's departure would, in a family so united, where every member had so definite a place assigned, be one of proof and trial. So, indeed, it was. My sister could not but be aware that she was going from a tried to an untried state, that she was leaving those with whom love was co-ex- tensive with life, for him with whom it was but as yesterday. To add to her regret, we were on this day met in our full numbers, and home N 178 THE FIRST MARRIAGE seemed to put on all its charms to mock her. Our neighbours too, with whom she was justly popular, were collected in crowds at the gate ; on every side familiar faces presented themselves, to be shortly supplanted by strange counte- nances — all which she was going to abandon, and seemed to unite in upbraiding her, by putting on the most inviting appearance ; the very flowers of the garden seemed confederates in the general conspiracy. " She was going through the several members of the family with her mournful adieu, and had just quitted the embrace of her mother, the last embrace of fostering protection, and dearly loved and duly appreciated authority, when, suddenly, a loud peal rang from the neighbouring steeple to proclaim that the envied bride was proceed- ing; from her father's home. The sound seemed to strike on her heart as heavy as his passing- bell to the prisoner on his way to execution. She would have fallen had she not caught hold of my father, on whom she supported herself, sob- bing and shedding tears. ' My dear child,' he cried, as he gently released her twining arms, ' this I know is to thee a bitter hour. Poor mortal, it is thy first change, and thou art for the first time quitting known for unknown. Yet, what a slight 3 IN THE FAMILY. 179 foretaste is this of a time to come. Thou now exchangest a father for a husband ; hereafter thou shalt leave a husband for an everlasting Lord. Take courage, therefore, and anticipate some of that fortitude which thou must needs summon up at thy last day, of which this is the warning figure. Come, lift up thine head, and remember the high station to which the holy church hath this day advanced thee. Thou hast been called from the lowly estate of a child to be a Christian matron, from a handmaid to be mistress of a household. Thou hast been taken from the troop of attendant virgins, and admit- ted into the holy company of the typical spouses of Christ. Dost thou not remember what words were addressed to thy prototype ? " Hearken, O daughter, and consider and incline thine ear : forget also thine own people, and thy father's house. So shall the king have pleasure in thy beauty, for he is the Lord thy God, and worship thou him." — (Psalm xlv. 11, 12.) Yea, my dear child ! forget thy father's house, forget the daily satisfaction of thy love and duty towards us, though never can we forget in return thy unalterable sweetness, thy affectionate attention, thy unintermitted offices of kindness. Yea, for- get all here except that one thing which alone N 2 180 THE FIRST MARRIAGE shall survive all change, the knowledge of Christ which here thou hast acquired. O thou type of his blessed church ! thou image of his spiri- tual spouse ! rememher that, as she is the mother of pure and holy children, such also must thou be. Thou must be the mother of Abel, and not of Cain ; thou must add champions to the host of God, and not revellers to the route of Belial. Go forth, then, with a portion more precious than ten thousand times the worldly goods with which I send thee forth endowed ; carry out with thee the economy of a godly household. Induce thy husband (if indeed he need to be induced) to unite with thee, heart and hand, in this labour of love, so that the house of thy sojourn be not less holy than that whence thou shalt have come. Let no descendant of mine bring discredit on my in- structions, nor sorrow to my grey hairs. I have earnestly, and ever, prayed God that he would of all trials spare me this; and, therefore, I charge thee in his blessed name, before his holy angels, and by all which thou hast received from me in body and in soul, for this life and for the life to come, diligently to watch, labour, and do the ut- most which in thee lies, to avert so lamentable, so shameful a consequence. But whither am I running? Pardon, dear daughter, the excess of IN THE FAMILY. 181 my love and jealousy for my Master's honour, which have led me unwittingly to address thee in words approaching too nearly to an uphraiding strain. Oh, whom in this world can I trust, if not thee, — thee the help and comfort of so many years ! — Farewell ! — Ah, poor child ! it is indeed a sad rent. But here stands one nigh thee, des- tined to close up the void of thy affections. Oh, I beseech thee, as thou clingest round him and findest how fully his love and duty have filled the dreaded void, think, and think again, of him of whom he is to thee the mystic representative, and assure thyself how fully he can supply every void, and draw entire upon himself the affec- tions which have been withdrawn from the fleet- ing objects of this world below. — There ! I com- mit thee to him, who is henceforward charged by God and man with the love and care of thee. Again, farewell ! Even thus must we all in our appointed time part to our several stations, whether God shall fix them immediately in this world or in the next. Heaven's blessing be upon you both, now and for ever !' " In a few moments after this parting address, bride and bridegroom, carriage and crowd, had vanished. The gates were closed, and all re- turned to more than its wonted stillness." 182 THE BRIDE. THE BRIDE. Aii, Bride ! in robes of snowy fold Thou standest deck'd, thy partner's pride, And on thy brow Wreath'd flow'rets glow : So stood thy Prototype of old, The Everlasting at her side, In sunny robes of holiness 'Mid her attendant virgins soar'd, While round her, prodigal to bless, The Spirit all his fragrance pour'd, And heaven and earth, by nations came With offerings, and ador'd her name. Ah, Bride ! reluctant, weeping sore, Thou quittest scenes of by-gone mirth ; Yea, give lament Full scope and vent : So wept thy Prototype of yore, And bade farewell to joys of earth ; When the celestial bridegroom bare Her steps away, and home, and sire, And love, and ease, and worldly care, And pomp, and pride, and vain desire, All she forsook, content to cling Around the everlasting King. THE BRIDE. 183 All, Bride! and thou must weep again, In bitter travail, faint, and mourn ; Nor thou alone Those pangs hast known : So cried thy Prototype in pain, When her blest progeny was born. Sword, chains, and torture, fire, and stake, To her last need a bed supplied ; Stripe, wound, and bruise, and torturing ache, Stood ministers her couch beside : Down on the dust's vile pallet strown She lay, and breath'd a feeble moan. Ah, Bride! and smiles shall come at last : A mother's joy past pangs replace; And blest shall be Thy well earned glee : So smil'd thy Prototype, and cast Fond looks of gladness on her race. O'er a vast multitude she smil'd, That endless stretch'd till sight grew faint, In each assembled face a child She saw, and every child a saint : Look'd from her golden throne, while grew Her raptures on the long review. Ah, Bride ! in faith thus smile and weep, Holy thy grief be, pure thy joy : So shall Heaven ope His starry cope, And angels bend, and number keep Of every smile, and every sigh. 184 THE BRIDE. O, image of the eternal spouse, Type of all purest, holiest, best, Up to the glorious picture rouse Each slumbering motion of thy breast, And with thy beauteous spirit prove The heavenly Bridegroom's deathless love. THE GARDEN. 185 CHAPTER XIII. THE GARDEN. There were still many relics of former days, and traces of the inhabitants of a numerous family, to be found in the Manor-house, and its appended garden, exclusive of the lofty walls of the latter, of its terrace terminated at each end by an alcove, whence you looked down upon an oblong fish-pond set in the greenest turf, of its filbert grove, and lofty walnut trees. I was walk- ing in it one day with my friend, when my eye was caught by a long bed beneath one of the walls, parallel to which it ran, and divided in its other direction into several portions by parti- tions of uncemented stone, on which the moss had now filled up in a good measure the cre- vices and supplied the place of mortar. They seemed to owe their preservation to the conve- 186 THE GARDEN. nient use to which the occupier applied them, in keeping certain crops asunder. " It would seem," said my friend, observing the object of my attention, " as if a traditionary sense of Paradise and its delights had, with the mass of our instincts, accompanied the transmission of the flesh from sire to son. Man is naturally fond of a garden, and to a Christian it possesses a sacredness which throws a holiness over all its operations. In a garden the first man was born, there he tasted (and no where else) purely inno- cent joy ; and in a garden, too, was undergone the agony of him that restored that bliss ; there also was buried the restorer ; and there, in his own glorious person, announced the resurrection of the dead. As in every other case, my father turned to account this primary direction of nature. He assigned us each our little plot to adorn and cultivate, and these partitions marked our several portions. I may call this spot the cradle of my moral character, to the formation of which it contributed almost as much as to my bodily vigour. It was at all times a resource against listlessness, and many a fit of lowness of spirits, and of impatient temper, too, have I vanquished here ; for its occupations not only called off my brooding attention from myself, TIIK GARDEN. 18? but filled my mind with the most soothing and ao-reeable images. For these I have to thank my dear father, who inwove every object here with such glorious and joyous associations. " He did not encourage us in taking the care of animals as our amusement, while he promoted our love of fostering plants to the utmost of his power. I perceive the wisdom of his distinction. In the former case, the passions of the creature provoke in return the worst passions of its mas- ter, and its occasional resistance to his whim and caprice rouses into action the elementary feelings of tyranny. Besides, its condition in the creation comes too near our own to suggest much beyond the usual routine of thought in a child. But in plants there are no passions to combat, there is no victory to be gained, which, in proportion to its completeness, inflicts on the conqueror himself the deeper moral wound. They obey implicitly, and show a kind of pas- sive gratitude by faithfully exhibiting in their growth and appearance the smallest exertion of his hands. At the same time, the child soon finds that, however fond he may be of indulging a cruel caprice or curiosity, he must forego it here. They can yield him no homage of cries and groans by which to feed his feeling of power. 188 THE GARDEN. But the beauty, tenderness, and delicacy of forms by which they return his labours, win his heart, and call forth its best affections ; mean- while, every thing concerning them leads him on to the contemplation of an agent besides himself. Between the placing of the root in the ground, and the putting forth of the blossom, he perceives, that a hand must be working when his own is idle, and one without whose working his own would have been uselessly employed in the very first instance. Day after day, he comes to see more and more the subserviency of his opera- tions to those of this hand, and that continual working of Providence, which from its familiarity escapes our view in looking on ourselves, pre- sents itself here almost palpable at every turn, and God is walking in the garden as in Paradise of old. Such was the process, as far as I can now conceive, of my thoughts ; in addition to this, I reaped an inferior, though important ad- vantage. I was led to note times and seasons, and learn the value of an opportunity. " But our fondness for the garden, and famili- arity with its objects and operations, laid a fund for moral and religious illustration, whence my father dealed out to us with no sparing hand ; he followed, indeed, the example of a greater TIIE GARDEN. 189 Teacher still, who hath bidden us look at the lilies of the field, who figured himself under the vine, and cursed the unbelieving Jerusalem in the barren fig-tree. Such illustrations come at once to the heart ; they refer us to scenes of pure and guiltless delight, and we feel a lurking flattery, despite of a melancholy feeling of the frailty of tenure which such types exhibit, at the being compared to flowers, glad that we can in any degree resemble and call to mind these beautiful and innocent tribes of creation. From the laying of the seed in the ground till it re- appear in the pod an hundred, or perhaps ten thousand fold, and come again into our hands to re- commit to earth, what a series of analogies for moral illustration ! Birth, infancy, youth, manhood, old age, and death, are thrust upon our reflection by a single plant, in one short summer. The dew, the rain, the duly attem- pered heat, remind us of our blessings; and the blight, the frost, the shears, warn us to prepare against equally sudden visitations. Every flower, too, from some peculiar characteristic, enforces its peculiar moral. The lowly, yet fragrant violet, the tall, flaunting, but ill-odoured poppy, the ubiquity of the hardy daisy, the snowdrop timidly opening the year, the foxglove glowing 190 THE GARDEN. with rich purple, and glorying in the scorching heat of Midsummer, and the dismal-looking Michaelmas daisy, crying out to the rest of its tribe, like the poor prophet of Jerusalem, " Woe ! woe ! woe ! for winter is coming," and struck down at last in its speech by his icy dart : all these convey their appropriate lessons, and my father stored himself well from their treasure- house. Thus, in one sense, every tree in the garden was a tree of knowledge ; and the style of thought, produced by its moral associations, made it somewhat savour of the fragrance of innocence and wisdom which sanctified its bliss- ful predecessor. " Trifles often show forth peculiarity of charac- ter with more decided effect than more impor- tant occasions. Our gardens proved this maxim abundantly ; for, not only was it easy to distin- guish which belonged to a boy, and which to a girl, the latter cherishing the more delicate- hued and tender, the former the more flaunting and sturdy; but, among those of the same sex, a remarkable difference was discernible. One of my brothers, who was afterwards a merchant, was an utilitarian, and his border was filled with only such plants as were on the list of domestic economy. I was his next neighbour; and his THE GARDEN. 191 sombre troop of sage, lettuce, and thyme, made a singular contrast with my showy array. I have heard many a hearty laugh both from family and friends, at my central group of gaudy orange-lilies, surrounded with knots of poppies, and my tall, stately, soldier-like holly hocks, which took their stand there in due season. My father would often amuse himself in viewing these characteristics, and would delight us by playfully entering into the merry rallies, which, with all good-nature, we freely bestowed upon each other. We little thought that he was in mind going far beyond amusement, and that our most careless moments were to decide our future destination. But he was right. I verily believe that my garden sent me off to India. " I perceive a straggling violet or two yet lin- gering at the foot of the wall where was once the plot of that sister whose death I have already mentioned to you, as the first occurring in our family. After we had outgrown our childish amusement, these plots were converted to different purposes ; hers was turned to a bed of violets. It was in full bloom and fragrance on the day of her funeral, of which its odour has to me been redolent ever since. It stays not in the outward senses, but comes like a palpable 192 THE PIMPERNELL. blow upon my heart, and inflicts even yet a sharp though momentary pang. Let us pass on." A nightingale at that moment began his song from the hawthorn hedge, and gave most oppor- tunely a different channel to our thoughts. THE PIMPERNELL* See'st yon Pimpemell 1 an hour is past And he was holding dalliance with the sun, All har'd his crimson pride : now clos'd, downcast, His blossoms seek their favourite skies to shun. Young Edwin came, the warning change beheld, Then hurried to his hinds, and hark ! I hear His loaded waggons creaking from the field, For storms, he sajs, and angry hours are near. Oh ! 'mid the flowers life's tortuous path that strew, Is there not one like this 1 E'en as I speak Thy bosom-friend's estranged look review, Remark his icy eye, his smileless cheek. Adversity is nigh ! — Speed, counsel how To soften as thou mayest the inevitable blow. * This little flower is a well known weather-gage, always shut- ting up its blossoms before rain. THE PREACHERS. 193 II. THE PREACHERS. Amid my garden's broider'd paths I trod, And there my mind soon caught her favourite clue ; I seem'd to stand amid the church of God, And flowers were preachers, and (still stranger) drew From their own life and course The lore they would enforce, And sound their doctrine was, and every precept true. And first the Sunflower spake. " Behold," he said, " How I unweariedly from dawn to night Turn to the wheeling sun my golden head, And drink into my disk fresh draughts of light. O, mortal ! look and learn ; So, with obedient turn, From womb to grave pursue the Sun of life and might." And next I heard the lowly Camomile, Who, as I trod on him with reckless feet, And wrang his perfume out, cried, " List awhile — E'en thus with charity the proud one greet ; And, as insulters press E'en turn thou thus and bl^ss, And yield from each heart's bruise a redolence more sweet." Then from his rocky pulpit I heard cry The Stonecrop. " See how loose to earth I grow, And draw my juicy nurture from the sky : So drive not thou, fond man, thy root too low ; o 194. THE PREACHERS. But loosely clinging here, From God's supernal sphere Draw life's unearthly food, catch heaven's undying glow." Then preached the humble Strawberry. '' Behold The lowliest and least adorn'd of flowers Lies at thy feet ; yet lift my leafy fold, And fruit is there unfound in gaudier bowers : So plain be thou, and meek, And when vain man shall seek, Unveil the blooming fruit of solitary hours." Then cried the Lily : " Hear my mission next. On me thy Lord bade ponder and be wise ; O, wan with toil, with care and doubt perplext, Survey me joyous bloom, my radiant dyes. My hues no vigils dim, All care I cast on Him, Who more than faith can ask each hour to faith supplies." The Thistle warn'd me last ; for, as I tore The intruder up, it cried, " Rash man, take heed ; In me thou hast thy type. Yea, pause and pore — Even as thou, doth God his vineyard weed : Deem not each worthier plant For thee shall waste and want, Nor fright with hostile spines thy Master's chosen seed." Then cried the garden's host with one consent : " Come, man, and see how, day by day, we shoot ; For every hour of rain, and sunshine lent, Deepen our glowing hues, and drive our root ; THE NIGHTINGALE. 195 And, as our heads we lift, Record eacb added gift, And bear to God's high will and man's support, our fruit. " O, Leader thou of earth's exulting quire, Thou with a first-born's royal rights endued, Wilt thou alone be dumb 1 alone desire Renew'd the gifts so oft in vain renew'd 1 Then sicken, fret, and pine, As on thy head they shine, And wither 'mid the bliss of boundless plenitude 1 " Oh, come ! and, as thy due, our concert lead : Glory to him, the Lord of life and light, Who nursed our tender leaf, our colours spread, And gave thy body mind, the first-born's right, By which thy flight may cleave The starry pole, andleave Thy younger mates below in death's unbroken night." III. THE NIGHTINGALE. Sweet bird ! with gush and liquid shake, Startling my ear unpractised long, Or chattering from thy hidden brake, Tempering with artful foil thy song ; And waking then Hill, wood, and glen, With one long melancholy note, Pouring a flood of sweetness from thy throat ;- 196* THE NIGHTINGALE. Oft have I tax'd thee with caprice, And wayward mood, the songster's shame, Charging on thee mine own dull vice. Oh, could I half thy wisdom claim ! For now, at last, Thy numbers cast Their sense into this soul of mine, And every note hath meaning and design : Thou singest of another clime, Strange to our thought, and sight, and ear ; And thither, with revolving time, Again thy vigorous wing shall steer. E'en to thy nest Thou art but a guest, And foreigners are thy little brood ; Their home is far o'er yonder ocean's flood. Sweet bird ! e'en such a guest as thou Hath nestled in this happy heart ; He came, I know not whence or how, Whither I know not shall depart : But he shall rear A progeny here Of holy thoughts, to wing their flight Homeward with him to everlasting light. Yea ! God's own Spirit here hath made His habitation, and each hour His monitory notes pervade Its inmost nook with piercing power, THE NIGHTINGALE. 197 A varied strain Of joy and pain, As o'er this world of flesh he wails, Or worlds of bliss in distant prospect hails. He wails o'er days and years mis-spent, O'er good rejected, welcomed ill, O'er bliss which never thanks upsent, O'er chastenings, and rebellion still ; O'er fruitless tear, Vows insincere, And stubborn will, and mind perverse, That duly turn'd each blessing to a curse. And then he sings of realms of joy, Whence he hath come, and where shall go, Of fullness never doom'd to cloy, Thoughts uncontemplated below ; The Godhead's blaze, Where angels gaze, And thrones are set for spirits blest, Amid the mansions of undying rest. Sweet bird ! unwearied passenger ! E'en thus, with each revolving spring, Thou biddest me new thoughts confer, Bearest fresh wisdom on thy wing ; And ay I yearn At thy return For realms beyond this darkling mine. Oh ! be my passage eet and smooth as thine 1 198 THE ABSENTEE. CHAPTER XIV. THE ABSENTEE. Agreeably to his promise, my friend called upon me a few days after our last walk, to conduct me on another. He led me two or three miles up the valley, until we came to where a round green knoll rose in the centre of the flattest part, and compelled the river to make an elbow. It very effectually sheltered a farm- house from the assault of the north-east wind. Its summit had been raised artificially, and, like every eminence in the neighbourhood, was deeply indented with a trench and mound. In the centre of this fortified circle rose an oak- tree, which, thus situated, seemed to employ, as a defence against the cattle, the rampart which the ancient native had used for protection from the stranger. My friend took me up to it, THE ABSENTEE. 199 and pointed out with more than common in- terest its healthy youth, proved by the smooth polish of its rind, and vigorous freshness of verdure. " This tree," he said, " I value more than all upon the estate, (for it was on a farm of his;) it was planted by a younger and favourite brother the day before he left home, never, alas ! to return. He was full, no doubt, of the foreboding natural on such occasions, and willing to leave this monument behind him, not without a hope, however, anticipating the joyful hour when he should behold it again, and its stature be in apt correspondence with his ripened pros- pects. His destination was India, where he joined me. What an overflow of happiness he brought with him, for he seemed not only to bring himself, (and who that has not felt can estimate the joy and delight of seeing once again a favourite brother?) but home also with him. His thoughts, his language, his counte- nance, were all redolent of it, and I could not satisfy myself with gazing upon one who had been so lately the object of the gaze of the as- sembled family, and seemed almost to bear their looks lingering upon him still. I could again open my heart; and, in a few days, I satisfied the solitude of years. He would often, in our 200 THE ABSENTEE. conversation upon home, in which we fondly- called up to mind the most trifling circumstance, (and the more trifling it was, the closer we hugged it to heart, for we then felt what a strong hold we had upon the memory of its dear inmates,) he would often recur to this tree, and fondly wonder how it was faring. Imme- diately after my return, I sought it out, and, from remembering his description, found it without difficulty. Oh ! how my heart bled when I beheld its straight and vigorous stem, which seemed to mock the mortality of its planter, who had long been mouldering in the grave. " His death again consigned me to solitude, and to that species of solitude which is of all other most intolerable. For what is most commonly understood by solitude, the converse of the hermit with the face of nature, unintruded upon by men, scarcely deserves the title. He sur- rounds himself with visionary beings, from whose society there is no external interruption to break him off. Nor do I mean, though it much more nearly approaches what I felt, the solitude amid crowds, when we meet at every moment the natural objects of our sympathy, and yet are debarred from the enjoyment of them; when THE ABSENTEE. 201 we are conscious of every passenger having affections to bestow, but not upon us, and we feel, in consequence, repudiated by the whole human race, who, while by their presence they banish that visionary world to which we would fain fly for refuge, yet impart to us none of the comforts of the real. The solitude of which I speak is still more bitter than this ; it is the utter deprivation of religious sympathy which I experienced in a heathen land. Accustomed as I had been to identify sacred rites with the religion of Christ, to see in every thing bearing the human form a brother in Christ, I now found around me a religion in direct rebellion to the dearest and most sacred feelings of my bosom ; I beheld crowds gathering to worship, but could not, dared not, accompany them even with my thoughts into their temple, much less join in communion ; and ardently longing to associate with my fellow-creatures in the praises of our common Maker, and warm my heart with their pious sympathy, I was compelled to turn away from the face of man, and from all that I was wont to cling to as incentives to holy feelings, with abhorrence and disgust, to fly to God in the deepest recesses of my solitary bosom ; for there alone, notwithstanding the million of beings 202 THE ABSENTEE. by which I was surrounded, I was enabled to find him. There, indeed, amid that desert, he was my guiding cloud by day, my pillar of fire by night. " Nevertheless, the social feelings implanted in our nature, and encouraged and built upon by our religion, require to be satisfied. I could not always bear to think of myself as an isolated, and, as it were, excommunicated being, and that sympathy which was denied in the flesh I sought and obtained in the spirit. Now it was that I felt the blessed fruits of my father's care in instilling those principles which I have al- ready detailed to you as regulating our external communion. I leaped at once from my solitude into the midst of a holy and glorious society, both of earth and heaven ; I considered that I was a member of the church of Christ, a par- taker in the communion of saints. Unspeakable (however imaginary some may think it) was my comfort. I could call up familiar faces of mem- bers of that body, but above all, I knew the train of thought which pervaded it, and which brought me into actual spiritual society with it. For, assuredly, if coincidence of time and place be sufficient for bodily presence, coincidence of thought must be for spiritual. Had I been less THE ABSENTEE. 203 deeply imbued with this spirit, had my commu- nion been but with nominal members, and my conversation with them of that transitory and capricious cast, which cannot promise a mo- ment's sympathy between the absent ; had I never gone beyond the abstract idea of this glorious society, nor given substance and indi- viduality to as much as came within my sphere, it would then have been to me indeed an imagi- nary body, an empty sound, a barren comfort. Disappointed and disgusted, I should have taken refuge, perhaps in indifference, and finally settled in practical infidelity. " But with this feeling I never felt isolated, not- withstanding my solitude at a distant station which was many hundred miles from any Chris- tian society ; I was one of a substantial body, with which, whether visible or not, I was ever in real communion. Thus, I soon mastered all distressing feelings, and subdued that intolerable yearning which the sight of a strange religion occasions to one denied the enjoyment of his own, putting him in mind of something so much better, and more in harmony with his bosom. And the solemn call of the Imaum at morn and eve, summoning the Moslem to worship, and the sights and sounds of the rites of Hindoo 204 THE ABSENTEE. sacrifice, if, perhaps, they raised a moment's melancholy by proclaiming, as it were, to me my utter solitude, yet they immediately after served to put me in mind of the wondrous bless- ing, and opportunities which God had conferred upon me, having reared me like Samuel in his temple, and protecting me like Daniel amid the heathen. And though I felt all the longing of the Israelite, who, surrounded by heathen abo- minations, cried out, " Oh ! how amiable are thy dwellings, thou Lord of Hosts ; my soul hath a desire and longing to enter into the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh rejoice in the living God." (Oh ! I repeated that beautiful hymn with streaming eyes, when for the first time after many a long year they saluted a Christian church.) Yet I was cheerfully resigned to the lot which God had assigned me, and my solitude, concentrating so much of my thoughts upon my- self, made the consciousness of his continual sup- port more than ever palpable and lively. " Nor did I lose the benefits even of our internal domestic communion. Each day at morn and eve, at the hours which I knew were customary for prayer, I retired to join my spirit to theirs. I put up their names, one by one, (how I de- lighted in pronouncing them !) in a prayer corre- THE ABSENTEE. 205 sponding to that which I knew was at the very same moment being offered up for me. Great, very great, is the comfort of praying for those whom we reverence and love, still greater if we can be assured that they also are then praying for us. We feel all the joy and gladness of a mutual meeting before the throne of God ; there is imparted to the heart, however desolate before, an inexpressible sociality, may I say a holy con- viviality ; and we then, more than at any other time, are conscious of the indissoluble union which we have obtained by being one in the Lord. " Meanwhile, that dear circle of home was di- minishing apace. Several times it was my sad lot to find by letters at noon, that one for whom among the rest I had offered my morning sup- plication had been for some months beyond all need of human intercession : and with a resigned heart, though with streaming eyes, I omitted the name in the evening. At last, before I quit- ted the country, but one sister remained upon my list, and she lived not to hail my return. I confess that I clung tenaciously to this last name; it seemed my last hold upon earth, the only bar left between me and the spiritual world, which, however the soul may love to contem- 4 206 THE VISIT. plate, our bodily nature regards with a shrinking awe. My consolation each time was, that they could not be more absent in the flesh than be- fore, and were probably much nearer in the spirit ; and now, at this moment, when I am the only one left, I cannot feel that I have lost any thing- more than their bodily presence, and patiently await my dissolution as the means of perfecting that union of spirit which it has been the object of our lives to maintain. Lord Jesus, in thee I have been joined unto them, and in thee shall be joined !" A violent storm, which had been gradually obscuring the upper part of the valley, now reached us. His brother's tree sheltered us with its full foliage from its fury. When it was over, the old man looked up among the boughs with a smile of deep delight, which he then signifi- cantly directed to me. We then quitted the hill. I have paid it many a visit since. THE VISIT. With bleeding heart, thro' glen, o'er steep, I reach at last the sacred spot "Where I must sit awhile, and weep O'er him who was, and now is not. THE VISIT. 207 Alas ! to this sequestered shade His guiding step my step obeyed, And on this mossy chair We sate, and talk'd of days to come, Nor thought of woe, nor dream'd of gloom, Fond worldlings as we were. Along yon rugged mountain mass, This valley's domineering Lord Oft would his pointed finger pass O'er peaks and glens to be explored ; And unexplored they still remain, And gleam and lure my steps in vain — I cannot, dare not go. Beheld in sunny distance here, Each destin'd spot invokes a tear, And breaks my heart in two. Upon this mossy trunk I shed (The chair on which he sate that day) The fruitless offerings of the dead, The gayest flowers that cross'd my way. Sad ministry ! yet fondly dear To him whose hands the fatal bier Bore not, nor eye survey'd. Ah ! flowers of other suns, and strown By other hands, bedeck'd the stone Where that dear form is laid. 208 THE FIRST BORN. CHAPTER XV. THE FIRST-BORN. On one of those mornings in the latter end of spring, which compel us by their loveliness to give up all occupation within doors, I accompa- nied my friend on one of his rambles : the day promised much from its light and shade, and he seemed to be in a mood to extract the utmost both of contemplation and delight which sur- rounding objects could supply. Having crossed our valley, we toilsomely wound up a lofty but sharp and narrow ridge, by which we were sepa- rated from another valley running parallel to our own, but exhibiting in its straightened breadth a wilder character. From being ex- posed to the sun, and sheltered from the wind, we found the ascent very hot and close ; but as soon as ever our heads began to peep above the THE FIRST-BORN. 209 brow of the hill, a fresh breeze delightfully fanned our faces, and brought with it upon our ear soft swells of music and the merry pealing of bells. On looking down below upon a favourite view, we saw a flag flying upon the top of the village tower. Every thing denoted some unusual oc- casion of joyful festivity. We had not been speculating upon it long, before a peasant, in his way from the village, informed us that they were celebrating the birth of a son and heir, newly born to the great proprietor of the valley. " It is very well, it is even very right," said my friend, after indulging a few moments in musing, "that the first-born should be ushered into the world with more than ordinary welcome. I only wish that they would put their respect and joy upon a more suitable footing than is commonly done; that they would look to the dignity of character with which the moral constitution of society invests the son and heir, rather than to his large expectations. Society hails him as the person set apart by Providence to succeed in upholding and transmitting her institutions, as a future centre of union to a portion of her members, and point of support to her necessary relations. She sees in him one pledge more of her continuance, if not of her improvement; p 210 THE FIRST-BORN. and in the little world of home he is joyfully saluted as the future main trunk in which all the branches shall maintain their connection, and the family still retain a root in earth. But how much more excellent is this dignity in a religious point of view. If we turn to the earliest state of God's church upon earth, there, in the first- born of the Patriarch, we behold the future high priest, ordained to mediate with daily sa- crifice between God and the household ; we see the destined conservator of his oracles, the chosen channel of his blessings to convey them to nations unborn ; the future king, to rule and dispense justice among his brethren; and though the only begotten Son of God, and first-born from the dead, be the sole Mediator and High Priest now, and the offices of his church have been committed to a peculiar class of men, still the son and heir is not entirely divested of spi- ritual privilege and responsibility. God still retains some of his peculiar claim upon the first- born. As long as society is bound together in the bonds of Christianity, there, as future head of the family, as its future representative in the general assemblage of families, he is bound in an especial manner to qualify himself for dis- THE FIRST-BORN. 211 charging that high situation faithfully and dili- gently, for his sake who was the first-born among many brethren. " These, I own, are not the notions commonly entertained. "Would that they were ! Without these privileges, what, indeed, is [the first-born ? First, it may be said, to enjoy his mother's ca- resses ; first, to receive his father's instruction; first, to taste all the blissful feelings which ex- istence bestows ; to have offered to him, as to one endowed with a sacredness of office, the first fruits of all earthly enjoyments; but, alas! is he not also first to taste the cup of sorrow? is it not his to shed the first tear, to heave the first sigh, and, in the natural course of things, first to quit the banquet of worldly happiness, to which he had been so fondly welcomed ?" As he uttered these last words, the wind, blowing in a sudden fit of freshness, brought with it a full gush of the music, and of the merry peal of bells from below, and many a solitary glen reverberated the roar of cannon. The old man smiled. " It would seem," he pro- ceeded, " as if the world had overheard me, and sent forth all its tongues in contradiction and defiance. But I am not singular : thus thought p 2 212 THE FIRST-BORN. my father, and I have hut put together, after the long waste of years, the scattered fragments of his instructions. " ' Take heed to your ways, my child,' he would often say to our eldest brother, ' keep a conti- nual guard upon your goings, for in this our household you occupy, as one endued with royal privileges, a station which admits of no privacy. Every step which you take is watched, every word which you speak is caught up, every thing which you are seen to do is immediately imitated by your younger brethren, who look to you as their model, and are eager, by means of the re- semblance, to anticipate the claims and bearing of more advanced and privileged years. Oh, then, my boy, not for your own sake only, but for theirs too, not only in prudence, but also in charity, be vigilant, and keep a jealous eye to all your proceedings. Be not to this little world of ours, comparatively innocent now ; oh, be not to it another first man, as it were, to bring sin into it ! It had been better for you not to have been born than to offend one of these little ones. You stand upon an eminence, and, both from above and from below, are an object of earnest con- templation : from below, to each of these younger ones ; from above, to their angels in THE FIRST-BORN. 213 heaven. Go on, therefore, in all circumspection and diligence, remembering that you are captain of a band of young soldiers ; and in you, to step back is to impede all behind ; to turn aside is to lead them astray ; it lies in you to conduct to victory or defeat, to freedom under Christ, or captivity under Satan. The voice of flattery will tell you, (I doubt not, has already told you,) the world will officiously shout into your ear that you are a son and heir. Show yourself a son and heir indeed ; a son in dutiful obedience to me, an heir in studious preparation to succeed to the government of a household where God is worshipped in sincerity of faith, and to maintain among its members the unity of spirit in the bond of peace. " ' Oh, my first-born in the flesh, be first-born in the Spirit also, even as you were the first led up to the laver of baptism, the first to hear and understand the good tidings of the salvation of Christ. Undervalue not, therefore, the calling with which you have been called ; forego not, I beseech you, these precious privileges ; part not with them for all which this world can give ; for, so doing, you will commit the crime of Esau, who, for a paltry momentary gratification, bar- tered the glorious office of high priest of God, 214 THE FIRST-BORN. and transmitter of his blessings ; yea, and greater than that of Esau will be your condemnation, in proportion as the perfection of the gospel is more excellent than the rudiments of the law. He gave up the blessedness of a Redeemer, who should spring from his loins. But you, in your falling off, will give up your share in a Redeemer who hath already come, and blessed you with all spiritual blessedness. Maintain, then, your sta- tion, nor let a younger brother take out of your hands the enviable privilege of being held up as a pattern to the rest in all godliness. " ' Son and heir ! look not to a worldly inheri- tance, but considering yourself as a mere so- journer, like Isaac, in a country not your own, patiently await the fulfilment of the promises of the Lord. Be thou a son of God, and an heir of everlasting life.'" He here ceased. We had unconsciously been descending, and having thus again interposed the hill between us and the valley, had left the music and the bells to sound to their own little secluded world, even there soon to be mute, and, when again awakened, to celebrate, like true hirelings, the praises of another. A fit omen this of the treatment which the world prepares for a son and heir. THE EARLY TREE. 215 THE EARLY TREE. Ten springs have harness'd now The swinkt steer to the plow, And hid the south-wind to his task repair, Since I admiring stood, O first-born of the wood ! Thy plumy foliage 'mid thy brethren bare, And treasured thoughts upon the sight, Which each returning spring unlocks with new delight. Bleak thro' their naked rows Heaven's wind complaining blows, Passing like unmet kindness fast away : "Whilst thou, like saintly breast, With spirit's visit blest, Drawest it into every bowery bay, And from each leafy cavity Breathest with organ's note an anthem to the sky. "Vain falls Heaven's dew on them, Adown each leafless stem, Trickling in idle runnels to the ground : Whilst, O good steward ! thou Dost from thy full leaf throw The glittering gems in joyous showers around, And ever as they catch Heaven's beams, A saintly halo round thy wreathed temple streams. 216 THE EARLY TREE. Up their insensate rind Vainly the sap would find, Dull Stubborn hearts ! a channel for its flood : Whilst every leaf of thee Drinketh the liquid glee, And thou dost soar in shade's green plenitude, Singing, O Prophet ! to the rest Their glory yet to come, its pledge in thee confest. It is not yet the time, The mist, the frost, the rime Still smite, and suns a fickle radiance pour. Thus cry yon worldlings all, And shrink from Heaven's bright call, While thou dost answer from thy inmost core ; Thro' trunk, and bough, and bud dost wake, And proudly at his throne tby thousand banners shake. What recks thee now the hail, What now the wintry gale, Hurling thy hair in whirlwinds to the dust 1 What now the hoary frost, On thy shrunk rind embost, Or marring autumn with his lichen'd crust 1 Past is thy world of care and pain, Thy better world is come, thou smilest once again. Blest Martyr ! from thy woes God's garden brighter glows, And others laugh where thou of old didst weep : From out the leafy bed, By thy strown honours spread, The snow-drop peers, the timid harebells peep With glossy spikes of emerald dye, And gain amid thy loss their knowledge of the sky. THE EARLY TREE. 217 In gummy cerements bound Thy brethren sleep profound, Whilst thou, call'd first, O Saint, to life and light, Hast put thy beryl'd crown And robes of glory on, And new-born heavens around thee glowing bright A beatific vision ope, And thou hast smiles for tears, reality for hope. How dear thy tufted screen, Whence thy unsullied green Rains down its balm on my unwonted eyes ! How sweet the wild-bee's song, How gay the insect throng Upon thy nectar'd pores that ceaseless plies ! A new-born world is in thy shade, And thou to new-born worlds hast now my thoughts convey'd. Within thy shadow's ring Each timid child of spring Finds nurture : there the primrose loves to veil His pale head from noon's glare. Lapt in gloom's freshness, there The well is dimpled with the plunging pail. From branch, and leaf, and shade, Tree, Thou dost put emblems forth, preach faith, hope, charity. 218 THE CHRISTENING. CHAPTER XVI. THE CHRISTENING. Happening to explore one day a thicket, which covered the sloping bank underneath the wall of the church-yard, we discovered the ancient font of the church. Some of the oldest inhabitants remembered the time, when, in accordance with the wretched degenerate taste of the nineteenth century, it had thus been unceremoniously turned out both from the church and all its holy precincts, to make way for a successor more suit- able. This latter was indeed a fit representative of the meagre, unimaginative, half-deistical spirit which then so unfortunately prevailed. It was a shallow marble bowl, (I should rather say mortar) supported by an iron frame, which much resembled the stand of a flower-pot. The former, on the contrary, presented a capacious basin, THE CHRISTENING. 219 sufficient to receive the baby's immersed body, and was richly encrusted on its outside, and in its support, with the exquisite carving of the workman of five centuries ago. What added to its value in my eyes, was, that it had ministered to the use of all my friend's family ; its degra- dation was reserved for the same hand as had so cruelly mangled the beautifully picturesque architecture of the manor-house. I need not add that it was promptly restored to its former place, and rested once again, with its deep mouldings, and finely turned arches and shafts, upon the three circular steps which owed their preservation to the dwarfish height of the un- worthy usurper. Of course it supplied many topics of conversation between me and my friend. His remarks made upon one occasion, as re- ferring closely to the notions and customs of his own family, shall now be presented to my reader. " The mention of ' a christening,' " he said, " is certainly too apt to convey to our ears something familiar, and akin to merry-making. Yet how forcibly, after a few moments of consideration, does it appeal to the heart. Can there be an event of more importance in the annals of home? This is confessed by the preparations 220 THE CHRISTENING. which are thought due to the occasion in every family, however otherwise heedless of sacred so- lemnities. The house puts on all its garments of joy ; it recalls its absent members ; it invites long-tried friends ; it opens its doors wider than ever to its poorer neighbours, and thus decks itself out in the holiday dress of its most dear and precious earthly relations, so to meet with due reverence the visit of its heavenly relations. Delightful is its whole aspect then. It is as the holy Jerusalem crowded with tbe visitors of her grand festival ; and delightful is the contempla- tion of its appearance. The church of home is now 'enlarging the place of its tent, length- ening its cords, strengtbening its stakes,'* not only by the admission of the infant, but by taking into its circle of more intimate connexion the sponsors, while the spirituality of the occasion comes with a communication of holiness both on the ties of affection, and on the bonds of friend- ship ; both are therefore drawn more close, ren- dered more lasting, the whole temple is more fitly framed together than before. " Few meetings indeed upon earth are fraught with deeper or purer joy, few leave behind more * Isaiah liv. 2. THE CHRISTENING. 221 profitable recollections. Even the trifling and less spiritual part of the detail is full of interest, and by a mind which is resolved to profit, may be pressed into the service of purely spiritual suggestion. When the baby is brought down clothed in bri- dal white, as it were, for the ceremony, and in- troduced to the company which has met to es- cort him to the laver of regeneration, how is our heart moved by his insensibility to their profuse smiles and caresses, and by his utter uncon- sciousness of the whole of a transaction which so vitally concerns himself. How are we then struck with our own inadequate sensibility to God's gracious favour and designs concerning us, and with our insufficient consciousness of the enjoyment of the full banquet of his choicest spiritual blessings ! how do we feel ourselves to be still but as little children, and confess in this babe an image of ourselves, too true, too lively! how heartily do we wish that we could carry on the resemblance to his unconsciousness of sin ! and how ungrateful is the suggestion that this blessed dissimilitude will soon wear off on his part, and that he will day after day but too nearly approach to a resemblance of ourselves ! We are then led to reflect how our Gentile fore- fathers were all, even as this infant, as ignorant 222 THE CHRISTENING. of God, and all things heavenly ; until, in his gracious purposes, and by a mystery unrevealed since the world began, he called them into the consciousness of everlasting light and life. All which Scripture has proposed to us in the ex- ample of children, whether exhorting or warning us, then comes into mind, and we are not asham- ed to have taken a lesson from a babe and suck- ling. " Even the outward and accidental parts of the ceremony have something to supply to our fund of serious meditation. The mere looks and ges- tures of those who form the congregation, sug- gest thoughts which are not quickly dismissed. We admire the placid composure of the elder part, who look on with minds long fixed and bent, and quietly enjoy the familiar sound, and familiar sense of the affecting ritual. In con- trast to these, we observe some bright and merry countenance among the younger suddenly be- come thoughtful, and gradually grow more se- rious on hearing the several clauses of the solemn vow which is now making in the infant's behalf, and which they know must once have been made in their own ; how fearfully have many been surprised in such a moment at the real meaning of Christian profession ! how many THE CHRISTENING. 223 hearts have been awakened from a state of child- ish unconsciousness, into a lively sense of the high privileges, and deep responsibility of the new man ! Contrasted again with these, are the curious and eager countenances of the youngest of all. Impressed with but a vague notion of the nature of the ceremony, but believing it to be in some way or other necessary to the baby's wel- fare, they watch his behaviour with the most scrutinizing attention. When he is received into the minister's arms, their eyes are intently fixed upon every motion and gesture, now in awe upon the minister, now in anxiety upon the child ; and you may detect a little brother or sister by their marked solicitude on the conduct of the catechumen. It is impossible to return from such a ceremony, without its having un- locked some cell of our bosom, and thence let out some new train of thought, or excited some lively emotion. " As members both of our own family, and of the great family of the church, we can rejoice that we have now been blest with transmitting in a beloved object to another generation, and prest onward in its glorious march to the end of the world, that church, which, through God's infinite mercy, has come down to us from our 224 THE CHRISTENING. forefathers. "We feel more deeply than ever the responsibility of the station in which God hath placed ns for performing his holy purposes ; freely we have received, freely we must give : we must so fulfil our duties, that, as far as we are concerned, that church may pass the limits of our generation, with its purity of doctrine unsullied, with the comfort of its sacraments un- adulterated, with the certainty of its prophecies confirmed. " This is indeed the grand festival in the ca- lendar of home ; another most dear to us in the flesh has been added to our company in the spirit. He has been born to us a second time, and not to sin, but to righteousness ; not to mor- tality, but to immortality ; the family has had an increase not on earth only, but also in heaven. It is a day of holy rejoicing ; and who will forbid that such joy should be expressed in all its outward and innocent symbols, and not say, in the words of Ezra to his countrymen, ' Eat of the fat, and drink the sweet, for this day is holy unto the Lord.'* When by hearts chastened by such previous reflections, God's blessing has been in- voked upon the social feast, it will be a feast of * Nehemiah, viii. 10. THE CHRISTENING. 225 Christian love, a sacrifice of thanksgiving, rather than a common banquet, and the mirth called forth will never be inconsistent with that heavenly mirth of which it is the companion and outward expression. It will be a feast in accordant cha- racter with that feast, under which our Lord hath figured the kingdom of heaven, whereinto we have lately implored the infant's admission. " Pleasing is the memory of all meetings of friends, but such as this is sweetest of all in the recollection. It is associated with our affection for one whom we have ever since beheld or heard of, as growing lip from that helpless state in which we then stood round him, to the manly duties and callings of life, and who is perhaps at this moment nobly employed in them. The unconscious baby has now perhaps become the heedful Christian. Thus it dies not away like the memory of mere earthly enjoyments; it lives in us, preserved by the incorruptibility of its heavenly associations." 226 AN ADDRESS. I. AN ADDRESS. Strange seems to thee, sweet babe, this marshall'd throng, In holy offices around thee plying, And strange the sound of holy prayer and song. It is thy second birth, and thou art crying, Dismay'd at a new world's perplexing show. Hush ! hush ! that was a rugged world which first Call'd forth thy tears. New earth, new heavens shall now Be thine, and thou in softest bliss be nurst. Oh ! what a spirit pours upon my heart, As in thy every gesture I descry, Wrapt in its bud, some elemental part Of graces pure, and privileges high. This little hand, which, with uncertain clasp, Amid thy nurse's folding raiment strays, With clenched might Christ's banner-staff may grasp, And wave his cross to nations on the gaze. This feeble cry, which spurns the wave pour'd out On thy seal'd brow, and rudely calls it scathe, Is but the child of that exulting shout, When thou, a soldier round the ark of faith, Amid thy church's proudest chivalry, Shalt bring it up in triumph to God's mount, And ransom'd saints in songs of holy glee His re-establish'd glories shall recount. Those eyes, which now thou closest in quick fear, Scared at the waving of the sprinkling hand, And now — so soon returns thy childish cheer — Opest in smiles, as sunny summers bland, — These, fix'd and tearless, hideous sights shall brook, That rack the bosom, and the soul appal, AN INVOCATION. 227 And set in smiles through the thick darkness look On to Christ's cross, the radiant end of all. Yea ! when the strife thy tortur'd faith shall prove, Think of this hour. May then this chaunted vow, May then this spirit of the alighting- dove, May then this raiment, white as Lebanon's snow, May then this little church of God, with heart And eye all smiling, rise in bright record, And tell thee who, and whence, and where thou art. Yea ! in that baptism of thy suffering Lord, When blood shall be for water, fire prepare Thy lustral bath, thy robes be woe and pain, Assert thy body's sanctity, repair This hour's soil'd innocence, be once again As now thou art. So shall no mortal troop Stand by that font, no fading smiles shall greet Thy seal-stampt forehead, but in dazzling group Of bright angelic witnesses, and sweet With smiles, Heaven's Church surround thee with her quire. And thou, proved son of trial, forth shalt leap Strong from the laver of baptismal fire, And hymning angels robe thee. May God keep With his salvation's helm thy hallow'd head, Dear child, and ever, as the world grows dark, His Spirit's light upon thy path be shed, His cloud of brightness rest upon thy ark. II. AN INVOCATION. Kingdom of Heaven, that hast builded high Thy glorious ever-living capital, Where lie earth's empires sunk in fourfold fall, Open thy golden gate as we draw nigh, 228 CORNELIUS. And knock with importunity of sigh, And motion of meek prayer. Intent we call, Here kneeling at thy angel-warded wall, To take this infant to thy company, Unto the Martyrs' laurel-wreathed host, Unto the Apostles' beatific quire, Unto the Prophets' holy brotherhood, Unto the Spirits of the just and good, Unto the sprinkled of the Holy Ghost : Christ, door of life ! accord us our desire. III. CORNELIUS. Centurion ! Centurion ! Heard are those prayers of thine : Their fragrant steam hath reach'd Heaven's throne, As incense from the shrine. Therefore the Spirit's seal is prest Upon thy favour'd brow. O thou thrice-honour'd, and thrice-blest ! Thou art not Caesar's now. Away, away thy vine-rod* fling, Christ's palm-branch wave above ; Let Caesar's eagle droop his wing Before the Spirit's dove. * The Centurion's badge. CORNELIUS. 229 No mortal trumpet now shall tell Thy watches of the night : No mortal trumpet now impel Thy spirit to the fight. Thy trumpet sings from Sion's hill ; Its notes far onward spread, — Earth, heaven, and distant ages fill, — Arouse the quick and dead. The word no more from Caesar's mouth Thy ministry shall take, Nor through long ranks of mail-clad youth Thy lips its passage make. The word from Christ thou now shalt hear, And living and unhorn Through countless files of saints, shall hear, Till break of doomsday morn. Centurion ! Centurion ! Thy title is not vain, A hundred nations hasten on To follow in thy train. Hark ! on each head inclin'd and meek As fall the holy hands, Their tongues in unknown accents speak, Tongues of a hundred lands. Tongues of a hundred ages, far And wide their sounds have past, To climes beneath the polar star, To days that beam the last. 230 CORNELIUS. O Captain of our Gentile host, With reverence and love We look on thee, our pride and boast, Thou blessed from above. Array'd in thee, in thee first known, First marshall'd by his will, The Father chose us for his own, Oh may he claim us still ! First on thy soul the Spirit rain'd With gifts of heavenly dew, And there to dwell in glory deign'd : May we be worthy too ! The oath thou swarest to the Son We swear to him again. Centurion ! Centurion ! May we as well maintain ! A TALE OF THE FAMILY. 231 CHAPTER XVII. A TALE OF THE FAMILY. During the warm days of August, I used to find my friend sitting in a small interior chamber, to which I entered through the larger room which he commonly occupied. It was peculiarly plea- sant at such a season. Through its large mul- lioned window he looked out upon a perfectly green turn, and the eye ranged up a shady per- spective, formed by the fine walnut trees, which I have before mentioned. Into this shade occa- sionally a sudden breeze, bringing delicious cool- ness with it, would, by fanning aside the foliage, introduce a bright, but momentary gleam, throwing out in glowing relief the gigantic twisted boughs. Within the room, the idea of coolness was immediately suggested by a dark wainscoat of Norway oak. The sombreness of 232 A TALE OP THE FAMILY. this ground was relieved by miniatures of the family. On these I have often pored with in- tense interest. They represented the characters of a history which, recording acts of mind rather than of body, caused me to look out for some- thing important, to find a clue to some train of thought or feeling in every feature. There I often indulged my fancy in thinking that I could trace signs of the last struggle of some passion, bravely combated, and triumphantly quelled ; detect the faint marks of some affection, through the stamp of the more holy one which had been superinduced ; catch the glow of internal peace, breaking, as through a veil, through features of sorrow ; and perceive the merry eye, and the lines of smiles around the mouth, chastened by the control of a deep internal feeling, the sense no doubt of his presence, who, if he render joy less outwardly conspicuous, makes it also more inwardly substantial. Thus every feature from brow to lip was made to tell a tale, and my attention was never weary. I remember being received here one morning by my friend, in all the ardour of a discovery, which he had just made. Chance had directed his attention in this room to an old forgotten closet, which, by that especial privilege accorded A TALE OF THE FAMILY. 233 to rambling ancient houses, had completely es- caped the notice of all inmates since the clay on which the last of the family quitted. Its door was so assimilated with the wainscoting as not to be distinguishable on a common inspection. It was here that my friend (as he told me in his usual quaint manner) was so fortunate as to dis- cover the spirits of the miniatures without, the mental portraits of his family, in a number of papers tied up in bundles and dated, which had their origin as follows. In the long winter even- ings, when a blazing fire and assembled cheerful countenances, and in some perhaps that pleasing languor which then succeeds to the strong ex- ercise of the morning, indispose each of the circle to the attention demanded by study or any graver reading, it was customary for some one, who succeeded, in turn, each evening, to recite a light tale, or an interesting anecdote of history, either of man or of nature. For this purpose, the elder members of the family fre- quently prepared themselves with a piece of original composition. Of such pieces these bun- dles consisted, and seemed to have been formed by some one who looked with a yearning heart upon the memorials of past days. The titles and dates, with the names of the composers, my 234 A TALE OP THE FAMILY. friend ascertained to be in the hand- writing of his latest surviving sister, who lived the last few years quite solitary in this once crowded mansion. On looking them over, I found them all of an instructive cast, particularly interesting, as illustrating the characters of the several authors, which, like the miniatures without, however differing, showed that they belonged to the same family. My friend was transported for some days into the times of his youth, and society long since vanished from the face of the earth. Of such as I chose he freely allowed me to take copies, and with one of them I here present the reader. Its author was a friend of the family, whom I may hereafter mention more particularly ; and it has been selected chiefly because it was the shortest, a quality which it owed, no doubt, to its being- written in verse, which has a wonderful effect in compelling a writer to cut off those superfluities into which sentences, not thus rigidly bound, will run, and gather up his ideas in the smallest space which they can bear. I thought also that its introduction would give a variety to my narra- tive, at the same time that the subject was not too dissimilar from that which I have in hand. The prologue, describing the author of the tale, was prefixed by my friend. PROLOGUE TO THE WIDOW. 235 PROLOGUE TO THE WIDOW. Leagued by the bonds of learning and of truth, He and the Rector had been friends in youth, And every rolling year but added force To friendship, though it clipp'd their intercourse. Of lowly birth, he fail'd not to derive From education all that it can give. All own'd his learning, and what breeds in most Childish presumption, drew from him no boast, Its very vastness served him but to show How little man can hope to learn below. Fools, by the steps surpass'd, their progress count In lore, the wise by what remain to mount : Each guided by their just affinities, Those from the earth, these reckoning from the skies. But he had more to quell all human pride ; In all, he made the Book of Life his guide. Rustic was his appearance, and he woke Perhaps your slight derision, till he spoke. Then with increasing interest he seized Your eye and ear, and all he utter'd pleased. He had that grace, so felt, not understood, That true nobility, but not of blood, That gift of winning hearts, so largely given To minds that have been born again of Heaven. A kindness inexpressible shone forth In all he said or did, and show'd his worth. Kind was he to the rich ; he knew how rude The world assails each struggle to be good. 236 PROLOGUE TO THE WIDOW. Kind was he to the poor ; he knew what woes Beset their station, — from their ranks he rose. Kind to the ignorant ; he knew how small Is man's profoundest knowledge after all. But though so meek, so humble, and so mild, In all disclosed of heart so quite a child ; 'Mid his simplicity you could descry The beaming of a native dignity, That plainly told wherever lay the choice, 'Twixt God aad man he knew no compromise. And though, perhaps, none more allowance made For idle words in reckless moments said, Yet did they never miss his just rebuke, And turn a playful to a serious look. Up a long-winding dale, 'mid moorlands drear, With rudest neighbours he pass'd all the year, Save when this visit 'twas his turn to pay, To sun himself i' th' south, as he would say. It was a wondrous change, to meet once more With kindred minds, with manners, and with lore, To find in conversation and in looks What there he was obliged to seek in books ; And he enjoyed the change, and none could be More full of wit and playfulness than he ; And when the allotted time expired, content And strung anew, return'd to banishment, From sun and smiling plains to mists and moors, From educated life to senseless boors. But God had sent him thither, and his choice, Where'er it fell, to him was Paradise. To this old man the promised tale had made Its circling progress now, and thus he said : — THE WIDOW. 237 THE WIDOW. Amid the northern dales — with fond regret I turn me back — my pastoral staff I set, A novice in the ministry, and then More read in books than conversant with men. Now often with surprise I call to thought Perplexities my blissful ignorance brought. How I was summoned to the sick man's side, And inexperience sympathy denied : To waken guilt, whom guilt had never stung j To comfort woe, whom woe had never wrung ; Feel with despair, when hope serenest shone, And wait on want, who want had never known ; But time and fortune long have mended this, And now I feel with woe more nearly than with bliss, Rude was my flock — but soon between us grew Close bonds of love, which time still closer drew, And every house, in various ways imprest, Trusted its little history to my breast. Thence to my charge I drew more useful lore Than I had drawn from all my books before. From this my stock a simple tale I cull : Forgive, my hearers, if you find it dull. Amid my congregation I had seen A Widow (such she seem'd) of decent mien, For widow's weeds she wore, and on her brow Was stamp' d the ne'er-mistaken mark of woe. She sate beneath a tablet that was styled In memory of a husband and a child. I never miss'd her ; were it foul or fair, Or rain, or snow, or flood, she still was there > 238 THE WIDOW. There with her hand across her aged eyes, (The world shut out, her heart had room to rise.) I never caught a glance ; 'twas still the same, Still wrapt and downcast till the sermon came. Then with unfailing earnestness her look Was given up to me, nor once forsook. I thank'd my God, such hearers hid us feel Our awful charge, and edge our Hunted zeal. 'Twas my delight, the morning service o'er, To see the massy crowds that left the door Break into little troops, that duly sped Each to its vale, some patriarch at its head. Far o'er the hills I watched each parting train, Till in their valley's lap they sank again ; And oft, in summer-tide, an hour was past, In this review before I lost the last. But in no troop the aged widow went, Duly she vanish'd where, confusedly rent, Two towery cliffs disclos'd a narrow vent ; And at that point as duly she was spied, E'en to a minute in the morning-tide, So regular, so accurately true, " The Widow in the gorge," a signal grew. Boys ceased their play, and hurried to their books, Girls donn'd their bonnets, and their Sunday looks. Each dale and dingle I had now explored, That to my church its weekly tribute pour'd, But this unvisited remain'd : away From every ordinary track it lay, Trod but by urchins who had roam'd astray. One morn, a lovely morn in June, I took My lonely way, to explore the Widow's nook. THE WIDOW. 239 Beyond the gorge a grassy comb I found, Scoop'd amid dark blue mountains circling round. A tarn, spread like a mirror at their feet, Stretch'd circular, and black with depth, its sheet, Fed by a roaring cataract that sent, A dewy haze across the vale's extent. Amid enclosures, whose trim form imprest A greater wildness upon all the rest, Rear'd on its banks the Widow's house arose With massive slating, proof to winter's snows. With smiles she greeted me, with smiles which threw, As our talk deepen'd and acquaintance grew, A fainter radiance, fading one by one, Like gleams before the tempest coming on : Till, long before she closed, the last had fled, And a deep melancholy gloom'd instead. " I bore it patiently, methought," she cried, " My first affliction, when my husband died ; Of half my sublunary store bereft — This would but render dearer what was left. And after many a night of sorrow sore, And many a page of Holy Writ turn'd o'er, Prevail'd upon myself to term the woe A mercy — but I could not feel it so — Ordain'd to make me know the real worth Of all the transitory bliss of earth ; To yield without complaint our Maker's due, And bless tbe Giver and the Taker too ; But when that too, my last, my only joy, That bliss unspeakable, my poor dear boy, That solace of each week, and day, and hour, That robb'd this world of care of half its power, 240 THE WIDOW. When that too went — forgive me, mighty God ! — - I could not bow, I could not kiss the rod. I term'd the visitation (weak and rash) No sire's correction, but the tyrant's lash, And, reckless of what further storm may burst, Call'd, day and night, on him to do his worst : All that before upheld me flang away, And oped the sacred Volume—not to pray — But smile in bitter scorn upon the leaf And mock the page that promised bliss to grief. And e'en when months their tedious course had run, And woe diminished with each added sun, Rebellion was unquell'd, maintained its part, In a perverted head and callous heart. 'Twas then that good old man, so meek, so mild, (He lies between my husband and my child,) Your predecessor sought me out. Severe The struggle was that he encounter' d here : But he prevail'd at length ; can I forget That blessed day? — oh no ! I feel it yet — When life and heat, launch'd forth in every strain, Thrill'd thro' my wither'd heart, and bade it throb again ; When light pour'd in through my glazed eye at last, And I beheld, as in a dream, the past ! I found that I had center'd every joy, Each hope that Heaven demanded, in my boy ; An idol had been worshipping, which took From the great Owner every thought and look. Now nothing interposed, and straight to heaven, Each look ascended, and each thought was given. Hence patiently — but not without a tear — I look behind, and all before is clear. 1 THE WIDOW. 241 And lonely though my neighbours deem my life, Who once appear'd a mother and a wife ; And you, perhaps, these rocks and wilds unknown May awe, yet never was T less alone. No — not when beaming in his boyhood's pride, My darling son was ever at my side ; 'Mid this unpeopled dell, these paths untrod, I see, I hear, I almost touch my God. And though on wintry nights my friends below A thought upon the Widow's dell bestow, Pity my lonely and uncircled hearth, It has its joys and bliss, though not of earth. The very sounds that fright and wake their sigh, Rains, winds, scath'd fragments tumbling from on high, Assure me that my Guardian still is nigh. The only foe I have is memory now, And every day he deals a fainter blow, And stirs me but to turn my face away, And gaze before me upon growing day. " My boy 1" you ask — " nay, no excuses make, Most kind I feel the interest you take ; And tho' a pain, 'twill be an useful pain, To marshal up my sorrows in one train, And view at once the woes, which, one by one, Spite of myself, still wake a tear or groan. Up from his childhood, my dear boy had shown A genius far above the common tone ; And friends and able judges bade me hope The best and brightest, would I give it scope. So, at the appointed time, he went away To college. Oh ! can I forget the day R 242 THE WIDOW. When tbe last treasure of my heart I gave Trembling, misgiving, to the world's wild wave ? I clomb yon cone-like eminence — thence pale And heartsick, watcb'd his journey down the dale ; Methought it was his slow-paced funeral moved, And bore away for ever all I lov'd : And when he pass'd behind yon jutting steep, Which seems a sentinel the vale to keep, Return'd, alone and desolate, to weep. But letters, full of hope, and fraught with joy, That sooth'd all care, soon reach'd me from my boy ; And each succeeding was more joyous still, And spake of views — which God forbade to fill. And others came from hands which held the sway In those famed seats of learning at that day ; They spake of friends acquir'd, and prizes won, And doughty scholars vanquish'd by my son. Oh ! need I say my heart was cheer'd, and more, That pride stepp'd in where all was woe before, — A mother's pride. And who that has not prov'd Can figure how a mother's breast is mov'd ? I know 'tis what stern moralists upbraid : 'Tis sin — for me the penalty is paid. And now the time, the joyful time came on, Destin'd to bring me back again my son. He came ! — the jutting steep I saw him turn, And hurried down the rock — but not to mourn : He came — again I clasp'd him in my arms, Forgot all cares, and buried all alarms. Some days had pass'd, nor longer I delay'd To mark the change which time, tho' short, had made. THE WIDOW. 243 The childish plumpness of his face was fled, Reflection's lines presented in its stead ; The hoyish laughing eye I only caught At intervals, when he could rest from thought. But at all other times 'twas calm and grave, Or, roused, the lightning glance of eagles gave. Still was his temper sweet, though thought had now- Chased, long indulged, the expression from his brow ; And that peculiar shape, which stamps mind's seat, Was there mature, in every line complete. I felt an awe I could not understand, Readier to render homage than demand. But oh ! the fearful omens that I drew When I beheld his cheek's decaying hue ; All that spoke health so eloquently, fled, Or ceuter'd in two rings of ominous red. So rifled, so despoil'd, the world had sent, Ah, faithless guard ! the treasure I had lent. Thus care once more intrusive made her nest, With all her horrid brood, within my breast ; Nor was he now my comrade as before : At meals and night I saw him, and no more ; For all day long upon his books intent He sate, within his little study pent : Still the same roof rose over us, and this, Tho' less than hope, I learned to reckon bliss. So patiently I waited till (he eve, My scanty dole of pleasure to receive. At eve alone he laid his books aside, And then upon some favourite ramble hied, (For here he was unchang'd, and rambles still Were his delight o'er stream, and dale, and hill ;) it 2 244 THE WIDOW. And oft, on his return, would praise some spot That day discover'd in a glen remote. 'Twas then, at close of day, his books laid by, And lit with exercise his cheek and eye, His spirits raised, all in its former train, I felt that I had found my son again. But only then — how oft with earnest prayer I counsell'd him his precious health to spare ; And ever this unwearied answer came, ' The toil is short, the end is wealth and fame.' Tby wealth and fame, vile world ! say, what are they, Compar'd with what their winning takes away 1 Ah ! who can tell what anxious mothers feel] I watch'd his morning looks, I watch'd each meal, And oft at dead of night from bed I crept, Went to his door, and listen'd if he slept. And oh ! one night, what agony was mine ! I heard him cough, and knew the fatal sign : The deep and melancholy murmur fell Upon my bosom, like bis passing-bell. O night ! the last of hope, the first of fear, And, even now, beyond all dreary, drear! Day after day I urged him, when, at last, He found himself that life was ebbing fast. Surprised, as waken'd from a dream, he felt His limbs betray him, and their vigour melt ; Languid and listless o'er his books he bent, Weary and fainting on his walk he went : At last he said, confessing he was ill, ' Do with me, dearest mother, as you will.' From that same hour, invested with full share Of power to rule, I took him to my care ; THE WIDOW. 245 His little study, source of all my pains And fears, I lock'd, and lock'd it still remains. Nor did he once inquire about his books, But gave me all his thoughts, and all his looks. I felt that I had gain'd my son once more, My comforter, my comrade, as before. O God ! the short-lived joy but served to throw More bitterness amid my cup of woe : For, though I tended all a mother's care, All human aid, — had Heaven agreed to spare ; And though he would not let a look betray, Yet did he waste and linger, day by day ; And, slowly as a snow-wreath, melt away. But when at last he found concealment vain, For all announced the approaching end too plain, Oh ! o'er his wasted figure as I hung, God seem'd to gift him with an angel's tongue ; And planted powers of persuasion there, That might have soothed, if aught could soothe, despair. Thus, for three months — but oh ! excuse the rest, For crowding memory suffocates my breast. The look, the voice, to life's extremest goal Beaming and preaching comfort to my soul — Preach comfort to these rocks ! — Almighty God, Where do I run 1 — forgive — I kiss the rod. And thousrh it lon£ has crush'd me to the dust, 'Tis but in joy to raise me : — thou art just. And thou, his minister, whom he hath led In charity, to cheer the Widow's shed ; (Still, his chief mercies on the Widow rest, As when his Son the weeping Nainite blest.) 246 THE WIDOW. Though the recall of things and times endear'd Have waked old woes, yet, doubt not, I am cheer'd ; In all my woes surpassing bliss I find, A bosom humbled, and a heart resign'd. And now, my poor boy's study shall unveil What still remains unfinish'd of my tale." Thus saying, from a drawer a key she took, And, gazing on it with a wistful look, Then heaving from her breast a pensive sigh, That threw the tears in streams into her eye, Put it into my hand. I clomb the stair ; The rusty lock, recoiling, gave ajar; And at the sound, barking and mad with joy, With ears wild-waving, and with sparkling eye, A little spaniel bounded to the door, Unnoticed, it had lain so still, before. Then suddenly, outbursting from below, I heard the Widow's sobs, and moans of woe ; It was her dear boy's favourite, his pride, By day, by night, for ever at his side, — Its head upon his bosom when he died. With joyous cry into the room it sped, And leap'd upon a little rushy bed, Its ancient seat, for there, the live-long day, Fast by its dear loved master's side it lay ; And when the hour of exercise drew ni°h, Kept gazing at him with a watchful eye. Mark'd every motion, view'd the closing book, The pen laid down, with an impatient look : Then when he rose, with bark and frantic play, Danced round his feet, and rushing led the way. r" THE WIDOW. 247 His books lay open, papers strewn around, On chairs, or loosely scatter'd on the ground, Tokening unfinished study, seem'd to woo Their weary master to his toils anew. A curtain closed the window, not that aught Of novelty could pass to scatter thought, But there the sun-tipp'd rocks, and glowing tarn, Placed full in view, would make his bosom yearn, Bear eyes and mind from sterner toils away, 'Mid scenes, forbidden at that hour, to stray. A frock, that seem'd for mountain toils ordained, Whose pockets, pencil, books, and flute contain'd, Lay on a chair-back indolently slung, As but that moment from his shoulder flung. Unconsciously upon the chair I sate, The lingering habitant's return to wait ; Then, starting as from a deep trance, awoke, And sighing left, and turn'd the chamber's lock. With promises again to seek her dell, I bade the Widow and the rocks farewell ; By her direction down a pass defiled, The favourite haunt, she told me, of her child. A foamy torrent down its rocky length Pour'd from the tarn, rejoicing in its strength. Just half-way down the rocky sides withdrew, And gave an amphitheatre to view ; And up the steep ascent, by just degrees, Rose, like a circling audience, stately trees All smoothest turf beneath, that to the edge Of the stream's chasm shot forth a verdant ledge ; Hence to the west, and far beneath, was spied The long drawn vale ; beyond the ocean's tide. 248 THE WIDOW. And to this spot the dying youth each day Was carried, and here breathed his last away. 'Twas just as sunset dressed the vale, the sea, The cliffs, in his most costly imagery, Costly as the last feast we set before The friend whom fate forbids to meet with more. A wistful look he threw around, and sigh'd, And look'd again — and in that look he died. Hallow'd by such event, the banky sod Is with a superstitious reverence trod. 'Tis call'd " The scholar's dingle," and my feet Have often hasted to its turfy seat, And oft in lonely reverie, as I pore, I fancy, rising 'mid the torrent's roar, The voice of the poor youth, and with a sigh Think, were he now alive, how blest were I, — Blest in my solitude a friend to find, Alike in age, in rank, pursuits and mind. Yet such refined communion had, I fear, Sustain'd my mind above my duty's sphere. For God, when first he call'd me to his cure, Gave me in charge the ignorant and poor, Bade me with them, in pattern of his Son, Strike every chord of mind in unison. Therefore, His will be done, and thus I quell Each murmur, and thus bid each bootless wish farewell. THE BIRTH-DAY. 249 CHAPTER XVIII. THE BIRTH-DAY. On the tenth of August the morning came in with a fresh breeze from the S. W. accompanied with a shower, or rather soft drizzling spray, which turned out, as usual, to be the harbinger of a day pecu- liarly suited, from its freshness, and from the distinctness of its lights and shadows, for ex- ploring some of the beautiful scenery of the neighbourhood. I hastened therefore betimes in the forenoon to my friend, to invite him to join me in a walk to a distant cluster of cottages, which it was high time for me to revisit. The way would take us through the most picturesque part of the parish. " Are you come to wish me many happy returns of this day ?" he said, as he stretched forth his hand to mine. " It is my birth-day ; and 250 THE BIRTH-DAY. you are likely to be my only saluter. How different was its last celebration on this spot fifty years ago ! I was then on the eve of my voyage to India, and consequently it was conducted with more than usual festivity. Brothers, sisters, cousins, friends, and neighbours assembled to wish me joy, and each with some present in his hand, suitable to the uses of the service in which I was shortly to be engaged. On that day we walked in a large and merry party up the rocky bed of the stream of yonder valley. Shall we explore it to-day ?" This happened to be the very direction which I was about to propose. We therefore immediately set out. We had of course much talk on the way. Among other things he observed, " What a com- mon-place phrase has become that, ' Many happy returns of this day.' It seems to have lost all meaning, so thoughtlessly and indiscriminately is it applied. It is universally given and taken in the worldly sense, and therefore in most instances improperly. I can indeed appreciate its propriety when applied to one such as I was fifty years ago, when the tide of life was flowing in, and not receding. Then this world lay before me with the larger and richer portion of its dainty feast yet untasted. There was yet to come more strength THE BIRTHDAY. 251 of body, more vigour of mind, and there was in expectation station, independence, reputation, if not renown, with all the privileges and posses- sions of manhood, while every succeeding year realized more and more the promises of life. But what meaning has it for me now ? What returns of worldly happiness can there be to him to whom this day cannot but come annually round with some fresh diminution of its sources, — whom it finds with some fresh or confirmed token upon him of the inevitable approach of the period of the dissolution of the tabernacle in which he is feasting? When he has at least one joy less, one care more, one friend less and perhaps one enemy more ; when such happiness is but too like the feast set before the sick man, which only nau- seates his stomach, and irritates his mind with the painful consciousness of his incapability of enjoyment. But men like not to think of such things, and delight to be flattered with a salute which seems to say that the dreaded grave is yet far off, and a large store of happiness interposed to block up the prospect. " Therefore, my dear friend, it is not in this vulgar sense that I understand and accept your congra- tulation. You have wished me, according to my interpretation of your words, many happy returns 252 THE BIRTH-DAY. of a day at which I may annually arrive more and more happy, from a nearer and nearer prospect of the termination of my pilgrimage, more and more joyful in the confidence of being advanced in preparation for it, more and more abundant in hope concerning the attainment of the promised inheritance. And you remind me that, just as fifty years ago, on this occasion, I was looking earnestly forward to the termination of boyhood, to the privileges of manhood, to rank and settle- ment in life : so now I should with still greater earnestness be looking- forward to the end of this mperfect state of babyhood, to the inheritance and privileges of the grown perfect man, accord- ing to the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ, and endued with his glorious likeness. " Happy will be such returns ; and I am not ashamed to confess that I hope for more of them. Not that I covet long life. But because I cheer- fully submit myself to that instinctive desire of life which God in his wisdom has implanted in all our hearts, and because a longer life will ensure a better preparation for death. For although I have been long learning to be ready, believe me, I am not one of those who boldly exclaim that they are ready. I do not think that any man can say that he is ready without a very express assurance THE BIRTH- DAY. 253 from the Lord : and that while that may be vouchsafed to servants like St. Paul, we the com- mon herd, must expect it only in the summons of our final dismissal. Up to that moment our concern must be to live as long as we can, that we may learn our full lesson in this world of trial, and die as full as we can of its necessary instruction. Let the schoolboy be as clever and as forward in his education as he will, yet he is no fit judge of the time when he might quit school. It would be but the presumption of youthful folly to say, ' I have no more to learn. My education is perfect. I am ready for removal.' It belongs to his master and his parents to decide that for him. And therefore the children of God, whom he still keeps in the school of the severe discipline of this world, educating them perhaps for the office of ministering spirits to a future world, if we may hazard a pleasing conjecture, even they through a sense of their imperfection desire a long instruc- tion, however content and cheerful to go when the Lord's dismissal comes. Yea, even though that instruction be ministered under the rod of deep affliction, or lingering sickness. " I say that such returns will be happy. If they can be so to the natural heart of man, merely from the instinctive love of hoarding, through 254 THE BIRTH-DAY. which he indulges a miser's pride in having added one more year to the heap, and from the contempla- tion of the number already acquired conceives the hope of adding many more, how much more shall the man's heart, which is a temple of the Spirit, rejoice, when, forgetting the things behind, except so far as he sees the Lord's glory in them, he sums up the annual mercies which he has received, and examining the state of his heart, craves his unworthiness of the very least of them ? With what a deep sense of the power of the love of God does he then look forward, and reach forth unto the things which are before, with unshaken faith and hope that will not be ashamed. Nor is he insensible to an improving state of his heart, and therefore, at each anniversary, is impressed with the consciousness of spiritual growth, to which God our Creator, as to a proper development of our nature, and on the same rule as that on which he deals with our natural growth, assigns a hearty, healthy joyfulness, as a meet companion and reward." We had now reached the banks of the river. We entered its channel, which, like a wasteful, wilful spoiler, it had made much larger than it could occupy, and we walked up the rocky bed, through which the stream ran in a full deep THE BIRTH-DAY. 255 current of clearest green, confined in a canal, which it had scooped most methodically out of the living rock. Here and there a rill or two forsook the parent stream, and crossed our path, brawling and foaming, and after a brief and riotous course, were glad, like surfeited prodigals, to re- join the calm course of the parent stream, which, having in its youth of ages long ago played the same frolic over these rocks, now proceeded nearly on a level with measured dignity, having subdued all former irregularities. Thus we arrived at a spot called Manybeck. Never shall I forget it. The main glen of the river was there broken on either hand into side-glens, each bringing down a foaming stream, and these glens again were broken each into one or two more, exhibiting their streams dancing and glittering in the sun. The river also at this point fell over ledges of rock. So all around was the noise of waters, which, having various notes from the various falls, distances, and magnitudes of the streams, composed a delightful harmony. The clatter, the bubble, the tabour, were answered by the deep hollow drum which was heard from a chasm into which a stream was seen furiously precipitating himself. When we had recovered from our ecstacy of admiration, my friend cried, " Here is life indeed ! what a bustling 256 THE BIRTH-DAY. tumult these younglings make. They are all refreshed with last night's heavy rain, and are as it were celebrating their birth-day. And truly I wish them many returns of such joyful strength and fulness. But this place is unfit for conversa- tion, let us go where we can hear each other speak." We proceeded up one of the side-glens, and at its further extremity found it scooped out in a turfy amphitheatre, through the centre of which fell the stream from rock to rock with a continual fringe of yellow mountain saxifrage. Here we took out our cold provisions which we had brought for the day. " On this very spot, ranged along this very amphitheatre (resumed my friend) our party sat and ate on that my last birth -day which I celebrated in their company. How silent every thing seems, even as if their very graves were on the spot. I trust that they are eating and drinking in the kingdom of heaven, that they have all celebrated their last birth-day, having been born into that world which is the receptacle of souls which have been born in the Spirit, a world, which, admitting of no change, admits not of anniversaries. Oh ! what solemn thoughts should the occasion of a birth-day conjure up ! It is the repetition of the day on which we came into this world of sinful misery ; it is the typical anticipa- THE BIRTH-DAY. 257 tion of the day on which we shall be ushered into a new world, the nature and constitution of which we know not, except that it will be full of terror to those who enter it strange and unpre- pared. See that poor caterpillar which I have shaken off from my coat into the grass. Trans- lated by my motion to an irrecoverable distance from his old haunts, he is let down all at once into a new world, perhaps quite of another aspect, full of different beings and containing creatures from whom he shrinks in affright, and horror. May not the translation of the godless man to another world, of which he never would receive the tidings, be like to this, though infinitely sur- passing it in the miserable agony of terror. " I was carefully brought up in such solemn reflections on this day. My father did not indeed prohibit our tasting innocently of the sweet of the enjoyment of young life on such an occasion, and I now have fresh in my mind the feelings with which I rose on that morning of my birth-day. I can recal the memory of the eager anticipation of the friends whom I was to see, of the presents which I was to receive, of the amusement of which I was to partake. But I can also recal the instruction with which these tilings were mingled ; and I retain, the Lord be thanked ! the s 258 THE BIRTH-DAY. taste of the sweet of the life to come with which it was his care to imbue our lips. ' Do not forget,' (he said) ' that if on this day you were born to live, you were also born to die; that if you look back to your entrance into this world, you must also look forward to your exit, and that as you have grown up from the one in the body, you must grow up to the other in the spirit. For you are on this day set on a commanding point whence you might view and contemplate both the boun- daries of your life. And surely it would argue but little wisdom and little courage to keep your eye fixed on the agreeable side and averted from the disagreeable, even were it truly disagree- able, and such not in outward appearance only. Are you then as fit and as willing to receive gifts on this day from the Author of every good and perfect gift as you are from your friends ? Have you been diligently putting and keeping yourself in the way of his spiritual gifts, by putting to good account those which you have already re- ceived ? Do } r ou find yourself in progressive favour with God, so that with the general worldly gift of increase of stature and greater ripeness of faculties, you are conscious also of increase of faith, knowledge, and love ? Do you feel more willing submission to the law of God, more con- THE BIRTH-DAY. 259 firmed mastery over the flesh, more fervent devo- tion to yonr Master's service, more jealous of his honour, more zealous for his glory ? Let the gifts of friends on this day remind you of these gifts, which come from the only lasting Friend. Let the joys of this day be tasted with such soberness as may remind you of the joys which will attend the birth of the children of God into everlasting life. Let this assemblage of kinsmen and friends remind you of the general assembly of the family of God to which you hope to be gathered on that day. " You will not soon celebrate your birth with such a day as this again. Alas ! it is most un- likely that you ever will. For your return from abroad cannot but find us scattered in different directions over earth, and some, perhaps many, vanished beyond its bounds. This day therefore speaks to you with all the solemnity of the last words of a departing friend. Take heed to its admonitions.' " I am thankful never to have forgotten this exhortation. And when this day returned to me amid strangers in a foreign land, though my heart yearned with the remembrance of its dear do- mestic delights, these words also revived in my memory, and brought me consolation. Ah ! how s 2 2 GO THE CONGRATULATION. true has his prophecy proved. May the purpose of his exhortation have been realized also ! " So once again I have celebrated my birth-day on this spot, and in company with a comparative stranger. What an impressive warning is it to me, that I am becoming a stranger upon earth, and well need to have secured friends in heaven ! I do hope that I have." "With these words he rose from his seat, looked round the glen with an earnest gaze as if he would re-imprint on his memory every fading impres- sion ; and then proposed to resume the walk. THE CONGRATULATION. It is thy birth-day. Therefore in fond love Saluting thee our custom'd gifts we bring, With gratulation, as unto a king. O thou true king, by unction from above, Flee dalliance. With thy sword thy title prove, The Spirit's sword. Quell each proud underling, That would usurp thy heart's domain, and fling Thv fetters off, and thy fixed throne remove : Dash with thy consecrated sceptre down Their camps and fortresses of lust and pride : In all the terrors of thy law be shown ; Smite, overthrow, nor spare the overthrown; But o'er their wrecks in double ruin ride : So shalt thou win, and ever wear the crown. THE REFLECTION. 261 II. THE REFLECTION. Still on the race ! Still comes another round, One return more to life's first starting-place. And changes still ! More rugged grows the ground, And my steeds bear me with a swifter pace. And ruder still and ruder is the shock, And faster to my tossing seat I cling. Now help me, Lord, and fix me as the rock. Thou hearest. To my steeds the reins I fling, For sure is the direction of their feet. Oh ! onward, my brave coursers, Faith and Hope : Heaven-born, ye make for heaven, and free and fleet Mount with firm tramp the still ascending slope. Ye are not coursers of terrestrial breed To choose the smooth and labourless descent, Down which in deviating course secede From the straight road the fainting and forespent. Well do ye know what precipices deep Close it, where down engulph'd in fiery surge Raves Hell. So up the long and rugged steep The tardy and recoiling wheels ye urge Unspent, untir'd. For ever and anon, When breath would fail, and sinew would refuse, The Spirit breathes with healing balsamon, And every vein with twofold life renews. On, coursers, on. I linger not to see What change has happen'd since I last was here. Farewell to all behind, farewell! For me, Vain scenes, ye are as if ye never were ; For fix'd I gaze on that which lies before, And gathers substance to its beauteous hue, 2G2 THE WISH. Ever as I ascend. Ah ! who could pore On aught beside who once had caught the view. For there, amid enshrouding glory's screen, Stand the tall barriers of the heavenly goal, And gather'd there angelic throngs are seen With shouts saluting each arriving soul. And in the central ray's essential fire A form holds forth the amaranthine wreath, And ever as he gives, the heavenly quire Raises the song o'er vanquish 'd sin and death. On, on ! my steeds, and with impetuous flight Of heavenly foot the midway space devour. Welcome, thou nearing glory, growing light, Welcome, thou last of days, thou latest hour. III. THE WISH. Roll away ! roll away ! Month and year, and hour and day. Every time ye move the wing Ye some merry present bring. Fly, O fly ! Youth ! and is not this thy cry ? Prithee, stay ! Prithee, stay ! Month and year, and hour and day. Every time your wings ye shake Ye do something from me take. Spare, O spare ! Aye ! and is not this thy prayer? THE WISH. 2G3 Onward still ! Onward still ! At your mighty Mover's will ! Coming, ye my joys extend, Parting, ye bring nigh the end. Come, and go. Christian ! prayest thou not so 1 264 THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. CHAPTER XIX. THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. There is one duty which is an especial object with every church, — that of administering to the sick and needy; and in every age its holy gate has been crowded by the orphan and the widow, awaiting their daily dole of support and com- fort from the hands of the sacred household. Of course, every family which God hath blessed with the means, must, in this instance, follow the example of its great model, and, in order to pursue it with due effect, must have laid down a certain plan, for nothing requires due order and consideration so much as the effectual dis- tribution of charity. Resources must be care- fully provided, objects properly selected, oppor- tunities diligently arrested : so that it demands the apparently contrasted talents of economy THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. 265 and liberality, of caution and promptitude, of stern denial and ready acquiescence. I was therefore curious to know how the Rector, with whom the close relation of a family to a church was so fundamental a notion, regulated this important duty. An opportunity soon offered itself of obtaining the desired information. I had lately given up much of my time to visiting an aged bed-ridden parishioner, whose cottage stood in a remote part of the parish. One day, my friend accompanied me for the sake of the walk, which was of a character highly picturesque. I left him walking up and down in a pathway, in front of the cottage, while I entered, and went up stairs ; the bed was close to the window, so that the old man could amuse himself by looking out upon the fields, which he had long ceased to tread, and seeing passengers go by, whom, on that occa- sion only, he could see. As I was sitting and talking with him at his bed-side, he happened, during a short pause, to look through his win- dow, I was much surprised to see him sud- denly shrink back in fright and astonishment, and then return to gaze with intense eagerness and extreme agitation. " It must be the old Rector's spirit," he muttered half to me, half to 2GG THE PENSIONERS OP THE FAMILY. himself. I looked out, and there saw my friend in full view of the window. As I had often heard it observed by old people that he had grown into a strong resemblance of his father, the sick man's agitation was immediately ex- plained; in a short time I persuaded him of the truth, and, at his earnest request, went and brought my friend up stairs — a scene ensued, which I shall not attempt to paint. He had been, when a lame and sickly boy, one of my friend's pensioners, to explain which term, I shall employ his own words as nearly as my memory can serve me. " As well to ensure regularity of distribution, as to imbue his children with due sympathy for their less fortunate brethren, my father used to divide the numerous pensioners upon his bounty into two portions, one of which he set apart for his own personal attention, the other he dis- tributed among his children — the males to the boys, the females to the girls; thus, each of us had sometimes as many as five or six on his hands at the same time. To these we dis- tributed at the door from a stock made up among ourselves, or went on messages from my father, of love and charity ; so that we were his censer-boys, and flang far and wide the odour of THE PENSIONERS OP THE FAMILY. 2G7 his bounty. And he, like the grand Model of Christian imitation, sent forth in our persons his apostles and disciples, to administer under his Master's blessing the healing of the sick, and comforting of the afflicted. Scrip and purse, indeed, we bore, and gold and silver, but not for ourselves ; nor went we as sheep among wolves, but were everywhere caressed with the kindest attentions. ' Ah ! God bless you, young master, and all your family, and long keep your father among us !' was a salutation familiar to me from the mouths of the peasantry, as they met me on my path with my basket in hand, which revealed the purpose on which I was bent; and many a blessing have I received on my childish head, from a death-bed. A melan- choly employment this, you will here say, for a lively boy. I did not, however, find it so : at least, the pleasure infinitely outweighed the pain. It gave me the means of satisfying the curiosity and eagerness peculiar to my years, excited my interest in the highest degree, so that I needed no story-book to stir up my drowsy imagination, and give healthy exercise to the tender feelings of the heart. With what delight and interest have I watched the reviving health of the person assigned for my visits, with 2G8 THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. perhaps a lurking satisfaction of its being due in some measure to myself. How joyous have I felt, when I went as the messenger of good news from my father to some poor downcast of need and sorrow. Oh ! it was anticipating on earth the blissful and glorious privilege of the angels in heaven. Man cannot learn at too early a period what sorrow is, and acknowledge that it is his due; so that, knowing its nature, and seeing that it is inevitable, he may prepare for his day of trial, and, at the same time, be laying up a remedy against it, by being ever prompt to render that assistance which he may one day need himself. But, alas ! how few are the op- portunities afforded to the youthful inmates of an affluent home, of obtaining this knowledge, — how diligently, should I not rather say, are they excluded. They, accordingly, can scarcely be- lieve, even when they hear, the accounts of the wide extent of misery amid which their happy ark of home is floating ; they think them exag- gerated, and shut up their heart without further inquiry. Many an opportunity, however, had we. Ample experience taught us the force of the expression, ' all sorts and conditions of men.' Almost daily we sallied forth from a happy home to scenes of distress ; from a paradise, as it were, THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. 2G9 where every tiling was supplied, unbidden, to hand, we went forth to the earth, put under the curse of labour and sorrow. We saw plainly, and acknowledged freely, our common lot. Thus my father kept us clear of that speculative benevolence which shrinks from practice, and corrupts the heart by an ill-grounded vanity and self-applause : thus he saved us from the sad results of an imagination, which, surrounded by scenes of luxurious tranquillity, has recourse to the speculative contemplation of the reverse, in order to enjoy that pleasure, which the poet says we experience on beholding from land a storm raging at sea ; full sorry would such spec- tators be to engage in that storm, and stretch forth a hand to the shipwrecked sufferers. O, my friend, you yourself well know how much, how very much is to be learned from conver- sation with the poor : learning the conditions of our nature from them and from the rich, is the same thing as drawing precepts from practice and from books. To see punishment following sin, put aside the many delays formed by wealth and influence, all the stays which break the sin- ner's fall, and let him gradually down ; put these aside, and go to the poor. See, there, in- temperance, sickness, want, following each other 270 THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. without a single stage between. O, among the poor, justice is poetical indeed ! To see real sickness, — put aside all its artificial consolations ; set a pallet for a bed, patience for palliatives, a family starving, from the sick man's inter- mission of work, in whose ghastly faces he may count the weary days of his illness, and which salute him more ghastly each succeeding day ; set this for a family which brings every morning smiles on their ruddy countenances to cheer him. On one point, indeed, I have observed that the poor man has ample compensation. Look at his death-bed — he has nothing to lose, and all to gain, and therefore quits life with a resignation seldom seen among his richer brethren. " My father used to remark that none can ex- perience the full rights and advantages of Chris- tian citizenship, unless he maintain the relations which connect him with the ranks both above and below. To cultivate the knowledge of those above, requires little encouragement. The whole world cheers us on. But, to be properly acquainted with those below, requires no or- dinary urging. Christ only is our encourager here ; here lies our trial, and here our grand reward. 3 THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. 271 " In the exercise of these goodly offices I con- tinued to the last, even up to the very day on which I left home, never to see it again, (for I cannot call this desolate house home,) and not less by choice than by obedience to my father's pleasure. A strange education, methinks I hear you suggest, for a soldier : much more adapted for a priest. But allow me to reply, that the qualities which form the good soldier and the good priest, are much more nearly allied than the world is commonly disposed to think. One is in the flesh what the other is in the spirit : and the vioilance, the fortitude, the seizure of opportunities, the adaptation to circumstances, the winning of men's hearts, and the tongue of persuasion, which all will agree to be necessary to the perfect priest, few will assuredly deny to be as necessary to the accomplished soldier. For my own part, I can say with confidence, that I have felt this to have been the most valu- able portion of my whole education, as a sol- dier. I learned my best weapons in the house of peace. I thus became acquainted with the human heart; I could enter into the thoughts and feelings of rude uneducated men ; I was ac- quainted with numberless little attentions and ways of winning good will, which it is too late 272 THE PENSIONERS OP THE FAMILY. to learn after the attainment of manhood, when the observation is not sufficiently curious or minute so as to discern them, nor temper flexible enough to employ. Thus I was instructed to deal with inferiors with kindness, and yet with dignity ; and the men placed under my com- mand, soon discovering my sympathy, were zealous to gratify me with the strictest obe- dience. Little, indeed, did I think what an im- portant lesson I was learning, and on what a theatre I should employ its results, when I went out and came in as my father's messenger among the poor, and that my acquaintance with the hearts of Valehead would open to me the bosoms of India. Not a single day thus spent in my boyhood was lost upon my future profession, and I have learned the important result, that the soldier, no less than the man of peace, will do well to seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness." As we thus conversed, we crossed the green of a little hamlet, surrounded by cottages, each with its garden of flowers, (always a good sign of the inmates within,) and vine or honey- suckle creeping over the walls, and hanging down in festoons from the chimney top. We stopped a moment to look at the cheerful scene. THE PENSIONERS OF THE FAMILY. 273 " Of everyone of these habitations," said my friend, " I know the interior well, and have a tale con- nected with each. There lived my instructors in the knowledge of the human heart. But where, alas ! are they ? Where are those many faces that smiled on me as I uplifted the latch, and brought some cheering message from my father ? Alas, me ! " I pass unheeded and alone. Where never thus I passed before ; I pass by gates whence friends have gone, Who never there shall enter more : A stranger's face In every place I meet, where all were known, and see Eyes that ne'er look in turn on me. " I pass through church-yards, snatch a glance On names beloved — all that is left Of what did life's each breath enhance, And mourn as yesterday bereft. The \ery tomb Hath met its doom, And slabs that often gave a seat To me and mine, no longer greet." 274 THE FAMILY EXCURSION. CHAPTER XX. THE FAMILY EXCURSION. " Our church had its joyful days of procession," said my friend. " In the summer season, we made a point of paying at least one visit to the sum- mit of yonder mountain, which, rugged and precipitous as it hence appears, affords upon its summit the softest turf, where you may recline most luxuriously while you feast your eyes upon the vast and varied extent of view which it com- mands. One of the days set apart for this pil- grimage was the anniversary of the marriage of our parents. As soon as the duties of the morn- ing were concluded, thither we sallied forth in a long troop, exciting, in no small degree, the interest and curiosity of the neighbourhood as we passed. There were several stages at which we paused, as at favourite shrines, remarkable THE FAMILY EXCURSION. 275 for some natural beauty, which we always called upon the stranger to admire. Thither I propose our walking this day." As I had often intended visiting the mountain, but had hitherto neg- lected it as being at any time within my reach, I joyfully consented. It was one of those beau- tiful days in June, which we owe to a gentle south-west wind, (too often he is our greatest scourge,) when the lights are clear and liquid, and the shades deep, and continually shifting. Our road ran along the side of the river, which now flowed through open pastures, now through woods which fringed the hills on either side, and sometimes pushed their skirts into the stream, and sometimes terminated abruptly on the top of a lofty precipice. Much were we amused, as, emerging now and then from the gloom of the woods into the sunshine, we startled the young fry from the warm shallows, whose glassy smoothness was, suddenly, roughly broken by their terrified shoals, while their hasty flic-lit was announced by a loud splash ; and as raising our eyes immediately after this, and looking up the stream, we beheld the grey heron also taking the alarm, and rising on the wing, with its usual business-like solemnity, from the extremity of the shingly promontory where he 276 THE FAMILY EXCURSION. had been fishing ; or, as carrying our eye further still, we saw the stream receding and darkening in the woody distance, here and there shoot into sudden light, now in the shape of brilliant stars, now of bright edgy lines, giving a momentary flash, as the flies, sporting on the surface, al- lured the fish to rise, or a gentle breath of wind raised a wave, or broke the surface against a ledge of rock. We paused at all the appointed staoes, the last of which was a cavern, forming the mouth of an old Roman copper-mine, and affording a refreshing shade ; from its recess the view appeared to peculiar advantage, set in a framework of rock and ivy. We reached at length the summit, guided by a tumbling brook about two-thirds of the way up ; the view most amply, indeed, repaid the toil, being a delightful mixture of stream, dell, and mountain, except in one direction, where the long drawn vale extended into a plain, and the plain met the ho- rizon with the spires and towers of a distant city, indenting the sky ; towards those spires, the stream of our valley was seen to w-ind, gleaming brightly to the eye, here and there, in long reaches, ever as his capricious course came in a line between the eye and the town. "Do you not think," said my companion, as soon TEE FAMILY EXCURSION. 277 as we were seated on the smooth turf, "that a recreation of this kind was well suited to the celebration of the anniversary of our parents' marriage, of the day whence all the children could date a common birth ? Having uppermost in our minds an event to which we owed our birth into this world of sense, which hence ap- pears so beautiful, we enjoyed its beauties with a keener relish, and with hearts most thankfully lifted up to our glorious and bounteous Maker. We turned from the view with increased affec- tion to the faces of the blessed instruments of his mercy, from whom we had derived its enjoy- ment, but, above all, had obtained a place within the pale of his gospel. We felt, indeed, brought into a land of promise, within and without, in soul and in body. It was fitting that we should feel, at such a time, peculiarly moved towards our conductors. " My father, than whom no one looked on the face of nature with a fonder eye, was always greatly excited upon this occasion. After a long and silent contemplation of the scene before him, he would point out to us particular spots, and pour forth, in most eloquent strain, a body of remarks calculated to carry our thoughts far 278 THE FAMILY EXCURSION. beyond the forms of varied dust which were before us. Some of these suggest themselves to me at this moment, at the review of the scene, and if you will not judge of their worth by my poor and scanty means of expression, I will venture to detail one or two. The lights, as they have this moment disposed themselves, bring one immediately to mind. ' A bright gleam is resting- on the knoll where stands the church and manor-house, while the rest of the valley being in shade, goes to give depth to the black mountains encircling it ; they seem effectually to guard and fence it in, as it were some sacred spot. Even so, my children, doth God protect us, and behind those dark rocky walls I can imagine all the ills of the world stayed in their course, and unable to scale and leap into our fold. This is no far-fetched analogy, for in such a spirit the divine poet looked upon his beloved Jerusalem, and cried out, "The hills stand about Jerusalem. Even so standeth the Lord round about his people, from this time forth for evermore. For the rod of the ungodly cometh not into the lot of the righteous." — (Ps. cxxv. 2.) But that barrier was burst as soon as what it guarded ceased to be holy. THE FAMILY EXCURSION. 279 Children, let us take heed to ourselves. Let us beware lest a spiritual Babylon pour her myriads in, and overthrow our temple.' " On that same day, (which I have especial reasons for remembering, since it was to me the last of these excursions,) towards evening, the sky became overcast ; the distant hills retired from view amid storms, which, shortly after, we beheld in full march down the several valleys, uniting in that immediately at our feet ; they soon snatched it from our sight, and then beat in gusts of wind and masses of clouds against our mountain, while a billowy fog, like spray, wreathed up the chasms, and advanced in me- nacing volumes towards us; in a few minutes, the only spot of earth which w r e could see was the ground on which we stood. We formed a ring against the enemy's attack, the females in the centre, my father and his boys in front, facing the brunt of the storm. We gazed on an ocean of clouds beneath us, and seemed like the survivors of a deluge ; to the imagination of all present, I believe, was exhibited a lively repre- sentation of Noah and his family; and the op- portunity, you may be sure, was not suffered by my father to escape. ' See,' he said, as he stood overtopping us all with his hoary patriarchal 280 THE FAMILY EXCURSION. head, ' see, children, to what a narrow circle was once reduced the church of God, even to a single family less numerous than ourselves, and looking in sad reality, as we now in appearance, upon a deluged world. Such were the fruits of disobe- dience. Let us bless his holy name that in our days countless families from north and south, and east and west, contribute to fill up the wide extent of that glorious society. So far from having the melancholy satisfaction of being sole survivors, we are conscious of thousands whom we know not in the flesh, working together with us in the spirit, as certainly as we feel assured that behind the veil of those clouds, hearts are. beating in the vale beneath, though the sight of man and man's works be denied us. And when we descend from our mountain, it will not be with us as with them from Ararat, who came down upon a lifeless world, and amid monuments of God's wrath ; but we shall meet again with friendly and familiar faces, enter amid the crowd of God's visible blessings, and par- taking with our neighbours of his mercies, join with them also in his praises.' " On another occasion he would dwell upon the landscape, as upon a page of history un- folded before us; it was a page written, indeed, THE FAMILY EXCURSION. 281 in living characters, for the whole field of view was studded with monuments of days gone by, from the " old poetic mountain," espied but in clear weather, and peeping into our world through a narrow nick in the bounding moun- tain chain, to the massy piles of rock at our feet ; to all he could affix some interesting anec- dote, and studied to impress upon our hearts the blessedness of the times in which God had placed us, and make us lift them up in thank- fulness for such great benefits, civil and reli- gious. He would point out, and lead us through the proore3S of civilization, beginning with the grassy triple and circular mound of the abori- ginal, on the neighbouring summit, and, passing through the ruined feudal castle on the slope beneath, end with the historic town seen on the verge of the horizon. And, similarly, he would conduct us from the darkest superstition to the brightness of our undefiled religion, by direct- ing our eye in succession to the Druid's circle standing in the solitude of the mountain pas- ture, then to the ivy-mantled abbey in the glen beside the stream below, and, lastly, to our plain and simple village church, crowning the sunny knoll. Never were forgotten the lessons which we learned on this joyous day ; they fell 282 THE FAMILY EXCURSION. on a soil well prepared, by every circumstance of the occasion, to receive them. In them we read the history of our race, and they were not arbitrary signs like letters, nor mere represen- tations like pictures, but actual monuments, exhibiting in themselves the effects of ages past, witnesses which had been present at the trans- actions, the memory of which they preserved. Thus they all had life, character, and language, and, posted on our commanding height, we felt that we stood on an elevation, not only in the midst of space, but of time also. But I will not at present overwhelm you with more of my recollections ; I have detailed sufficient to show you how my father turned every little incident to account, and rendered even these excursions of pleasure a kind of holy pilgrimage. " Often, too, have I rambled here alone, and spent hours upon this peak in that species of reverie in which the mind almost passively suffers the entrance of the vast flood of ideas which is pouring in from all the objects around. These, in due time, when the fermentation which their assemblage produces is over, assume speciality and place, become regular components of our frame of mind, and thus we go on, un- consciously, from wealth to wealth. I have THE STORM. 283 found a kind of sketch-book, evidently thus formed by one of my brothers. It registers the principal ideas which he derived from any par- ticular spot. They are entered in verse, as may be expected : that being by far the best, if not the only means of making out a clear and pithy summary of the mind's thoughts at any moment." (I will append some extracts to this Chapter.) We staid talkino- and lingering on the summit of the mountain, and were overtaken by night through being unable to quit the sight of a magnificent sunset. A portion of the mountain- ous circle seemed dissolved into transparent rosy-coloured air, then seemed to recover sub- stance, and glowed like molten iron; then it appeared gradually to cool, going through the successive shades of violet, purple, and indigo. At length, it became a black mass, when the evening star, assuming her full brightness, warned us to take advantage of her scanty light to hurry down the hill. I. THE STORM. Oft on this headland's lordly brow My prime delight has been to sit, And watch the storm in march below Across the varied landscape fat; 284 THE STORM. And as each favourite hill or dell, In gleam arose, in shadow fell, I have moralized the view, And " Thus," have said, '' upon the world, Is joy diffus'd, or sorrow hurl'd : It is our nature's due. "Thus on life's shifting scene I pore, Round friendship's circle watch it go ; See this in fortune's sunshine soar ; That, sink from sight in shades of woe, Impassive at my central seat." Thus as I mused, the stormy sleet Pour'd bursting on my head : O'erwhelming- darkness closed me in, Winds roar'd around with deafening din, Sun, hill, and dale, were fled. It ceased at length, and as it pass'd, A voice in still small accents swell'd On the last sighings of the blast, And forth this solemn counsel held : " Poor mortal ! dost thou deem to gaze At ease upon life's chequer'd ways 1 — Know : unchastised to learn Is given to nought that breathes below ; As now this shower, the shower of woe Must wrap thee in thy turn. " Yet, faint not : when the shower is sped, With fresher life see nature heave, So thou uplift thy dripping head, And read and trust the pledge I leave.'' I raised my head : no cloud appear'd, Aloft the kingly sun career'd THE ASCENT. 285 Thro' fields of deepest blue ; Unveil'd in light each mountain stood, Replenish'd glanced each sparkling flood : Time proved the pledge was true. II. THE ASCENT. Shrouded in mist our valley lay, When to yon brow I bent my way, And, led by faltering step and group, I trod at length his rising slope ; Then suddenly emerged, and free, With head above that misty sea, I stood : the fleecy cloud still prest Its wreathed billows round my breast. Then towering o'er my head on high, In all the pride of clear blue sky, With all the tints of sunrise beaming:. Here dewy rocks like mirrors gleaming, There glens in dark-blue shadows lying; Which hasty night had left in flying, The peak his rugged front uprear'd, And o'er the hoary oceaii peer'd. Like shipwreck'd mariner I stood, Whom, borne all night on ocean's flood, Morn brings beneath some towering shore , His head the surge scarce peering o'er, When now his numbed fingers clasp The saving plank with feeble grasp. Refulgent scene ! it pictured well What my mind's pilgrimage befell, When doubt's uncomfortable cloud, That penn'd me long in chilly shroud, 2 286 THE ASCENT. Roll'd its imprisoning fleece away, And on me burst the mental day. thrilling triumph, to behold Error's dark mists beneath us roll'd, Truth's adamantine cape on high, Up-pointing to the promised sky, And drest, in all its radiance clear, Fixins: our sight and bosom there. Refulgent scene ! and well it show'd To saints the goal of sorrow's road, When drizzly chill, with touch unblest, Hath struck the heart, congeal'd the breast : From every sight around him driven, The sufferer lifts his head to Heaven j He starts in extasied surprise — There soaring, in the cloudless skies, Faith's rock in dazzling glory glows, And gathers every beam that flows From the immortal fount above, — The Sun of Righteousness and love. Emblem of faith, of truth ! Oh yet Another object thou dost set, Bright rock ! before this mental eye : Oh ! when thy radiant brow I spy Beaming above my rising head, While clouds around my breast are spread, 1 think of that triumphant day, When, earth's dim curtain roll'd away, Heaven's gates shall burst upon the sight, And all be knowledge, bliss, and light, Emblem of faith, of truth, of heaven ! While on the world's rude ocean driven, I'll think of thee, and thou shalt teach Thy bright realities to reach. THE HILL-TOP. 287 III. THE HILL-TOP. ' Twas dawn's deep silence, and I stood On Braddin's domineering brow ; I gazed ; — but, spread like ocean's flood, Mist rested upon all below. On to the horizon's mottled zone, Uncurl'd, the snow-like surface shone, And, studded here and there, Like isles o'er glittering ocean spread, The mountain peaks uprear'd their head, And gloried in mid-air. The sun his ruddy disk at length Upheaved above that hoary veil, And from the eastern gate, all strength, Outrush'd the winged morning gale ; And soon in billowy wreaths ascending, Earth, sky, in dim confusion blending, The sleepy ocean woke, Raved up the mountain at my feet, And o'er his isles with drizzly sheet Unpiteously broke. But, seen amid the rude commotion, A rainbow's circlet, dewy bright, Sate on the bosom of the ocean, Blest prelude to returning light. Slowly at length in airdisperst Updrew the veil : unprison'd burst The glory from below : Bound with the welkin's azure girth, All gladness re-appearing, earth Laugh'd with a geminy glow. 288 THE HILL-TOP. My soul the inspiration caugbt, And drank it to its inmost cell ; Gazed not some angel thus, methought, From spirit's crystal citadel, And seeking in this deep abyss The future partner of his bliss, Cast longing looks in vain 1 They rested on the still expanse Of doubt, of fear, of ignorance, Of crime, of care, of pain. But oh ! what throngs of seraphim Crowded the heights of bliss that day, When pour'd upon the curtain dim Our Sun of Life with wakening ray. How rang Hosannas as it broke Dispersed beneath his fiery stroke — Alas ! in war, in blood, In tumult wild it broke ; amid His work the sun himself seem'd hid, Extinct his golden flood. But deafening rose the hymn, when all The promised view so long denied Burst from beneath the rended pall ; And outspread lay in all its pride, With all its bowers of bliss bright beaming, With all its streams of life far gleaming, Recover'd Paradise. " How goodly are your tents, how fair Your mansions ! hail, Heaven's choicest care ; Hail, partner of the skies !" THE REVIEW. 289 IV. THE REVIEW. I sat on Berwyn's lofty crest, And thence the extended path survey'd O'er which my busy foot had prest From morning's sun to evening's shade ; And deeper, as I ponder'd, grew My thoughts upon that long review. " Oh ! could I thus explore," I cried, " that weary pilgrimage Which I must press from youth to age, Thus gaze its windings o'er." Yon flowery meadows far away, Where shines the sun with vigorous beam, Where rivers in long mazes stray, And trees o'ershade the gentle stream, There runs a path press'd hours ago ; The morn and I were fresh in glow. Oh ! when I there look back, I think of days far, far remote, On which fond memory loves to doat, 'Tis childhood's flowery track. Yon sultry hill, whose blooming side With gaudy furze and heath is drest, Up which with straining strength I hied, Eager to win his towery crest ; And still before my cheated eyes, Saw summit beyond summit rise, Yet gloried as they rose ; Still forward kept my eager face, Scorn'd all behind — behold the race Where youth careering goes. U 290 THE REVIEW. Yon level ridge, on either hand, Which cliffs as towery walls sustain, Where the excursive eyes command All left behind, and gaze with pain : But softer comes the river's roar, And sounds that shook the ear before, And wider roams the eye, And vales, like distant worlds, to sight Emerge in shifting shade and light : There manhood's pathways lie. And now the topmost ridge is won, And gently rising to the peak Ascends my path ; but desert stone Is all around, all bare and bleak : And oft, and often I look back, And gaze upon my former track, Regret each finish'd stage ; Sharp blows the wind, my moisten'd eye Is dull, thick clouds are floating by : Behold the track of age. And now the sun is set, and night O'er all my path's extent is spread. I look behind, and see ! his light Along the western vale is shed ; And thither I descend. — Adieu, Valley and paths ! ye fade from view. Oh ! thus relieved from care, Thus calm may I quit life's last verge, E'en thus my journey downward urge, To meet fresh glories there. THE BROOK. 291 V. THE BROOK. Yet once again, beloved stream, I stand within thy bathing spray ; Yet once again, blest glen, 1 dream In thy deep gloom the hours away. How different from the dreams of yore, Ere joy was mated with its bane ; Ere time had open'd all his store Of scenes, of years, of woe, of pain. Yea ! I am changed, not thou ; for still Thy giant oak o'ershades my head : Thy massy slab I press, and fill My palm from thy translucent bed. Yet let me dream these scenes again, When last I press'd this lichen'd stone ; Oh ! how they course my hurried brain, Appear, pain, gladden, and are gone. Around, from well-known rock and tree, Faces to touch of memory start ; The wild is peopled ! — join'd I see Whom years, and earth, and ocean part. 292 THE BROOK. Now words I hear, which long ago Here died amid the sighing wind ; And smiles and laughter round me flow, Long parted from their native mind. And, broken now my trance, I mourn, And try to conjure up anew ; Then weep for what shall ne'er return, And long for what I ne'er must view. But, hark ! proclaiming from yon wood A solemn voice in accents clear, — " Poor mortal, cease thy fretful mood, Nor seek lost friends, past moments here : " Far other friends my works suggest, Far other times and seasons tell ; My prophets ! they instruct thy breast With bright futurity to swell. " Of me they tell, my hand portend Which laid their piles, their colours strew'd Of me, the everlasting Friend In youth, age, crowd, and solitude ; " Whom years, and earth, and ocean's tide From my blest comrade cannot sever ; Whose words once heard, for ay abide, Whose smiles around thee flow for ever." THE RAINBOW. 293 VI. THE RAINBOW. Striding athwart yon gloomy mass, Which clouds in clouds inwreath'd up-pile, How bright the rainbow's colours pass, And force the angry heavens to smile ; And where its radiant feet repose On earth, a liquid glory glows Around the heavenly guest : Link'd by the gem-like bridge, this earth Seems join'd to heaven, as at its birth, Ere sin the bond supprest. Enwrapt I view the dazzling scene, And, as the vivid colours start, Fits of reflection come between Each gaze, and rouse my listless heart. Fond gazer ! beauteous as they shine, To thee those colours are a sign Of sorrow and of care ; Now, on some houseless wanderer, beat The drenching rain, the piercing sleet, And wring the wretch's prayer. Oh '. therefore, all-indulgent Heaven, Grant me with trembling and with awe, To use each earthly blessing given, And, using, own thy wisdom's law ; Own that each joy I feel or know Is partner to another's woe ; I laugh amid lament ; And as time's restless wheel goes round, My turn for sorrow must be found, My hour of trial sent. 294 THE RAINBOW. Oh ! when thou givest, give, I pray, A heart awake to future ill ; And when thou takest, take away- Each feeling rebel to thy will. Humble in wealth, for wealth will fly, Patient in woe, for woe will die, To every lot resign'd ; So let me view life's gleamy scene, And happy hours, with bow serene, Still warn of woe behind. THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. 295 CHAPTER XXI. THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. On a beautiful evening in the month of August, I accompanied my friend in one of his long ram- bles. Having threaded a winding glen, whose furious stream we were obliged several times to cross, we arrived at a green basin among the mountains. In its centre stood a cluster of cottages, the roofs of which, formed of large rude slabs projecting far beyond the walls, gave plain evidence of the inhospitality of the climate. As our object was to find a short cut across the mountains, and pass the topmost ridge before sunset, (for thenceforward the country was well known to us,) we approached to enquire our way. As we drew near, we heard a voice proceeding from one of them, the door of which stood open before us. On drawing still nearer, and listening, we found that it was the voice of one readme:. 296 THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. Shortly after, it assumed the tone of prayer; and, as soon as I could distinguish the words, I clearly recognised the domestic liturgy of the rectory. We immediately and instinctively kneeled down as near as we could, without at- tracting notice and causing disturbance ; the conclusion was made by the family hymn, which I have already presented to the reader ; and wonderful indeed was its effect upon us, as it came forth now from a deep, firm, and single voice, now from a chorus of trebles, while an echo from the rocks, heard at each pause, seemed to proclaim that the wild and solitary places were glad also. I cannot describe the agitation of my friend, nor attempt to pourtray the scene which followed ; for in the father of this family we found the son of the old gardener of the rectory, to which service he had himself suc- ceeded during the latter years of the Rector's life. It was with difficulty that we tore our- selves from the spot. On resuming our way, my friend continued long silent. At last, we reached the summit of the ridge, just as the sun was making his plunge beneath the horizon. Before we trod the first downward step, he cast an earnest look at the cottager's dell whence we had emerged, and then began : — THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. 297 " Now," said he, " I feel once again in a strange land. I am as one who, having most unexpect- edly discovered in a foreign soil a colony of his mother country, with her rites, language, and countenances, is obliged to quit it soon as found, and to resume his melancholy exile. Plow many things then strike his notice to which familiarity had formerly blinded him. I coidd pass day after day among the inhabitants of that dell, and am determined to revisit it before long ; even already many faded traces have been revived in my me- mory, and I have a more comprehensive view of my father's plan than I had before. That sim- ple service, which we have been just witnessing, came over me like a fine fragrance left behind by my father's good deeds and works of love. For imagine not that his children were the sole ob- jects of his domestic care and instruction. He regarded his servants as no less committed to his charge, as not less important pensioners upon his responsibility. Well he judged, and well he was rewarded. I am convinced that the most careful and fastidious education of children must be very much influenced by the characters of the servants. It is impossible that they should not be very much in each other's company. And, besides the services by which the servants en- 298 THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. gage the affections of the child, their minds are much more upon a level with his. They are but a species of grown-up children. Hence he finds there a sympathy which he seeks in vain in the refined and cultivated mind of his parent. There he meets with his own curiosity, minuteness of observation, love of detail, eagerness of won- ders, simplicity of thought, and plainness of expression, which win his confidence and attach- ment, at the same time that their comparatively great experience and their bodily advantages exact a deference. Let the scholar and the rus- tic tell a story to a child. The former will soon be obliged to yield the palm to his less accom- plished rival. Hence the child is continually imbibing the servant's notions, and hangs upon his lips. It gives us a glorious idea of God's economy, when we find the care or neglect of the minds of our servants rewarded or visited in the minds of our children, and are aware that not only what we have ourselves sown in the one we shall reap in the other, but also what we have allowed the great enemy to sow in the one we shall also reap in the other. The servant, in many respects, forms a most important medium between the parent and child, delivering to it, in a form suited to its capacities, (to which the THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. 299 parent, more especially the father, often finds it most difficult to descend,) what he has received in a form adapted to riper years. And, as the food which the mother eats is of too strong and stimulating a nature to he given immediately to her infant offspring, but in her breasts becomes wholesome milk, so passes the father's know ledge through the bosom of a faithful and pious servant to his child, coming to him thus in a form more suitable to his young faculties. Great, therefore, was my father's concern upon the right instruction of his servants, and great I acknowledge to have been the good which I have received from him in this indirect manner. From our old gardener we received, perhaps, the best portion of this indirectly transmitted knowledge. As we stood by, and watched with childish curiosity his various operations, and beset him with inquiries, as he sowed the seed, planted the root, pruned the bough, or dug and turned up the worm, while the sound of his spade brought the robins to him, birds to which, in children's minds, a kind of sacredness is at- tached, he had always some moral or religious application ready, which came pithily to our un- derstandings and impressively upon our hearts. Oftentimes, too, on these occasions he would, 300 THE SERVANTS OP THE FAMILY. half in the way of obtaining information, which he supposed we might have received from our father, half in the way of giving instruction, examine us in our knowledge, and betrayed, I remember, amid all his authority, an impression that we were to be, in no long time, vastly his superiors upon that head. In fact, he treated us much in the same way as our great house- dog had done when we were younger still, who, while he would playfully throw lis down, turn us over with his nose, lay his immense paw upon us, or take our hands or legs between his fearful rows of teeth, yet in all plainly disco- vered, by a peculiar manner, how well aware he was that he was dealing with future masters. I shall always think it a good sign of a child to be fond of the gardener, if at least he be such as ours was. That servant's occupation is in a spot which excites good feelings, and is conse- crated by Scripture ; is about a work interesting from its very nature, and associated also with God's word; it encounters the child seldom in his hours of fretful caprice and bustle, but rather of contentment and calm, produced by the beautiful variety of its inhabitants. What a treasure then for a parent to have in such a place a minister, as it were, (and not to be despised THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. 301 for his homeliness,) ready to take advantage of this frame of mind, to apply the many inter- esting incidents and objects there occurring, and pour into the child's ear the knowledge of God. Much did I draw from him which I might in vain have sought from the wisdom of the philosopher, whose abstruse, unpractical specu- lations, and vague language, I would gladly even now exchange for the compression of thought, the natural sentiments, the simplicity and yet depth of feeling, and the liquid clearness of expression peculiar to the rightly instructed rustic. " My father threw a certain dignity around the character of our servants, by making us consider them as ministers of God's comforts, as attend- ants on the wants which his bounty satisfied. And while he bade us think with gratitude and love upon their faithful attention and watchful observance, he directed us to the inestimable love and the unwearied care of him who took upon himself the form of a servant, waited in all humility upon his disciples, became the minister to our spiritual wants, and wrought the work of our redemption. Associated thus in our minds, our servants, you may suppose, were treated with meekness, gentleness, and SO 2 THE SERVANTS OF THE FAMILY. forbearance, as fellow- servants of our heavenly Master, and with respect and kindness as re- presentatives of our continual protector, and ministers of his bounty. We gathered, too, from their services to us, what we also owed to him; and while the duties of the nurse repre- sented in the most affecting manner his love and care, the faithful hoary-headed steward put us in mind of our responsibility. Thus the very help and comfort which we derived from them was continually instructive ; for their fidelity and alacrity was often a rebuke, always a spur, to us in our duty towards our eternal Master, who, by so kind and delightful a medium, was pleased to remind us every day of Himself: there was a continual action and re-action going on : the more their services prompted us to think of our own due to our .Master in heaven, the more considerate and meek became our conduct to them, and again, in return, the more ardent their zeal and faithfulness towards us. Thus there was no jealous and exacting authority on the one side, nor eye-service and dishonest sub- terfuge on the other. We were associated by the most blessed of bonds, all their spiritual knowledge was derived at our hands, they shared with us morn and eve in the banquet of THE DISCOVERY. 303 God's daily heavenly bread, which he bestows in prayer ; we all formed one family, and much resembled in constitution those nations in which the people look up for government to an here- ditary priesthood, whom they reverence and love. They were a willing people, and we, I trust, a meek priesthood." With these words, we reached his door, which was opened by an old domestic, who had served under him in India. The sight of him brought vividly to my mind all that my friend had been dwelling upon, for what I had seen of them both completely confirmed the doctrine which he had been laying down. T. THE DISCOVERY. 'Twas lovely June's departing day, Still, silent as a dream, At feverish noon all nature lay, And scarce the kestryl cross'd my way, With wild discordant scream. From morn, along a torrent's bed, To eve my feet bad run ; And now I stood where overhead Gigantic hills deep shadow shed, And screen'd me from the sun. 304 TIIE DISCOVERY. I sought a couch, and soon I found A sward beside the rill, And lo ! the hawthorn rear'd around Its boughs in bloom, and on the ground The primrose blossom'd still. Wondering I saw ; for long ago Had disappeared from view Their brethren of the vale below. I sate : and leaning with my brow, As wont my moral drew. Thus from the world's enervate throng When wither'd, fall'n, decay'd, The virtues have been vanish'd long, And good men wept, and poet's song Their vain recal essay'd. The pilgrim whom his road may bear To glen or lonely wild, Has found them still in blossom there, In odour redolent and fair, In colours undefiled. Oh may at last my weary feet Such resting-place attain, Of antique manners the retreat, Where honest bosoms still may greet In words as frank and plain : Where native dignity serene The household may control, And free from heat and party-spleen, Unfeign'd her tongue, unmask'd her mein, Religion bind the whole ! 3 THE SERVANT. 305 II. THE SERVANT. I dream'd, and saw in glory clad, and crown'd As with the sun, than brightest noon more bright, The Son of Man : an army girt him round, Bathed in the dew of that most dazzling light, That utter'd ever and anon A joyous song, as he march'd on. And, pointing to the radiant train he drew, He ask'd, " Wilt thou become my servant too 1" O'erpower'd and giddy with the excessive blaze, Downward I hung in bashful awe my brow, And ponder'd with myself in wild amaze. " O no !" I cried, " I am not dreaming now ;" And then I look'd, and look'd again, With growing rapture on the train, Then prone on earth the glorious Chief ador'd, And cried, " Yea, count me 'mid thy servants, Lord I" I rose ; the scene was changed, 'twas dim eclipse ; A cross stood opposite, where, writh'd with pain, Hung one that spoke to me with quivering lips, And, speaking, pointed to a little train In rent and squalid garments drest, That sobb'd, and cried, and beat the breast, — 'Mid jeering multitudes a wretched few : He ask'd, " Wilt thou become my servant too V X 306 THE SERVANT. I gazed, and lo ! the self-same form it seem'd Which I had seen in dazzling glory flame : I gazed again, and then I hoped I dream'd ; Again, then cried, " It cannot be the same." Then turn'd lest one look more might show Too clear what I was loth to know. " No man can serve two masters" — thus I spoke, Asham'd at my own answer, and awoke. O double-minded servant of one Lord ! Js not thy life e'en such a dream as this 1 Thou art not his 'mid cross, and shame, and sword ; But thou art his 'mid pomp, and wealth, and bliss. Dull dreamer, up ! arise, awake, Thy silken bands of slumber break, Through night the day, through death the life is given, So through the opprobrious cross the glorious thrones of heaven. THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 307 CHAPTER XXII. THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. " This," said my friend, one day, as he opened a door at the head of the first flight of the broad oaken staircase of the manor-house, and dis- covered a spacious chamber, through whose mullioned window, partly blinded by the green leaves of a vine, the sun was shining most cheerfully, and throwing in fine relief the carv- ing of the wainscotted sides and elaborate mantel-piece ; " this was known in our family by the title of ' our friend's room.' For here was lodged, whenever he came among us, he who was peculiarly reckoned the friend of the family ; however full the house might be when he arrived, this room was always reserved for him. So completely was he identified as its occupant, x 2 308 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. that in our childish minds this circumstance of possession formed a constant and leading point in our notion of him. He was of studious habits, and every morning in the colder months a fire was lighted at an early hour in that grate. Often on a cold winter's morn, when our own fire was scarcely sufficient to admit our shiver- ing cowering; crowd all to a due share of its warmth, I have stolen to his room, and shared with him the comforts of his hearth. He by no means disliked these visits, but rather said that he always enjoyed his studies the more when he had some one of us in his company : it gave him spirits, and we were extremely cautious against causing him any voluntary interruption further than by our mere presence. At intervals he would lay down his book, chatter with me for a few minutes, tell me a tale, cross-examine me good-humouredly in my book-learning, ask about my brothers, sisters, or companions, then resume his studies, and leave me in eager expectation of the next interval. At the moment that our bell rang for prayer, the creak of his opening door was heard, and his lively countenance with its benevolent smile imparted additional cheer- fulness as he entered the room where we were assembled. We all found pleasure in his com- 4 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 309 pany, from oldest to youngest, from gravest to most playful, for he could adapt himself to either class, in such a manner, however, that neither the one ever complained of his levity, nor the other of his austerity. " Many, if not very many families, have some one friend thus distinguished ahove all the rest, who is reckoned peculiarly the friend of the family, and occupies often a nearer place in their confidence than their nearest relations out of doors. He is commonly the friend of the father's youth, his comrade at school and col- lege, and grows dearer to him as the recollec- tion of young and happy days becomes more pleasing with advancing years. He is a monu- ment, and sort of representative of what is past, and seems to embody and keep upon earth what had otherwise long ago gone for ever. To the whole family he is the eye and chief organ, as it were, by which they become acquainted with the external world. He supplies them with in- formation, is consulted on every difficulty, he is their help and comfort in sorrow and embarrass- ment ; and to descend to his more trifling rela- tions, he is to the children the agreeable chan- nel of procuring them indulgences from their parents : he is their grand source of appeal in 310 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. all their disputes on matters beyond their own limited sphere of knowledge, the fountain of all their information regarding their future theatre of action, the world ; and to his bosom the boys entrust with a solemnity which often overcomes his gravity, their whimsical predilections, and crude schemes for future life. " Great, indeed, is the importance of such a friend in every way, both for good and for bad ; above all, in the moral and religious influence which he must necessarily exercise. He has been their father's intimate, and reflects his character to the children ; if he have not grown wiser with advancing years, he may take away from their filial respect by impressing them with the notion that such was their father, what- ever he may be now ; and may lower at once their moral, and religious standard, by allowing or rather inducing them to think that their father is exacting from them more duty than himself has paid, and that his interest, and not his love, is the cause of the strictness which he shows in himself, and requires from them. For- tunately, however, such a character can never occupy this important station with a tolerably wise and good father ; and where he is other- wise, his friend (supposing friendship so firm to THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 311 exist in such a case) can do little to augment the overpowering evil of his own example. " But to a holy home, how wholesome is his influence ! My father and his friend were yearly growing into still more intimate union, by the rare circumstance of the opinions of two men, both given to frequent study and deep reflection, and living in stirring times of controversy and canvass, civil and religious, not only continuing to agree as they advanced, but ever converging to a still closer union. This circumstance, in any case, is sufficient to establish a firm bond of friendship, but in the case of religion it fur- nishes one which may defy the powers of this world to dissolve. Their minds are in unison to their deepest recesses, to the very roots of all action, thought, and feeling; they seem as if brought together by God as suitable companions to the same spot in a world which admits not of chance or change, and all their intercourse is regulated by a purity and loftiness of senti- ment (the genuine fruit of true religion) which is continually exciting their mutual admiration and love. " Such was he to my father, and I can scarcely adequately describe the light in which he was viewed by his children. They of course inhe- 312 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. rited his respect and love, and looked with no common feelings of regard upon one whose name was always mentioned in their family prayer, as if he had been one of themselves. But he came to our hearts in a still more im- portant character. The ideas which children en- tertain of the attributes of God are necessarily derived from earthly representatives : and if a holy father furnish them with materials for forming a notion of the heavenly Father, and, in proportion to his holiness and care, put them forward at once by his example in a more advanced starting-place, whence the mind comes more quickly and surely to the goal, and com- pletes its notion ; so, too, does a holy friend furnish in a manner suited to their rude capaci- ties, the attributes of our Lord and Master as a Friend. His disinterested kindness as a friend, his steady affection, his ready ministration of help, his participation of our joy and our sorrow, his bosom, the chosen receptacle of our secrets ; all this, in union with a holiness of character, which could not escape even our vague and childish appreciation of moral qualities, put us far (need I say ?) on the way towards estimating that celestial attribute, and at once generated and nursed those feelings, which, directed to- THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 313 wards God, and refined by this destination, be- come the only lasting and real source of earthly consolation. " Such was he to us, and came among us every successive year more and more dear, more and more sanctified in proportion, as from growing years we were better enabled to appreciate the purity of the fountain whence, in the first in- stance, we had drawn our notions ; and even now, when I can trace to him the germ of so many of my religious feelings and ideas, the rudiments of the unspeakable comfort which I have expe- rienced in my reliance on God as a Friend, I am almost ready to weep at the extent of the debt of reverence and gratitude which I feel to be owing to his memory. " His arrival among us always caused great joy and satisfaction ; the expectation of it almost resembled the eve of a religious festival, and it was ushered in by a particular prayer for his safe conduct. In every society a new comer is welcome, from his breaking the monotonous round of thought and converse into which it is prone to fall. He imparts novelty and life, and like an additional chemical ingredient, compels all parts of the mass into fresh combinations. But in none is this interruption of the prevail- 314 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. ing mental routine more desireable than where religion has its proper influence. Thoughts are apt to be renewed in the same train till they cease to have due power in exciting the feel- ings, and words may be interchanged and re- peated in the same circle, till they lose some- what of the force of their adequate meaning, whence ensues a comparative languor and for- mality. If at any time we were approaching this state, we were most effectually roused from it by the visit of our friend, who, like the angel at Bethesda, stirred our stagnant pool into salu- brious freshness. Indeed, I could sometimes indulge for a moment the idea that we were entertaining an angel, perhaps our guardian angel, for all his influence was benign and holy. We experienced on every communication with him something imparted to our minds, which we would fain not let go, and which we often discovered, after many a day, to have been the germ of some frame of mind in which we have found cause for pious delight and congratulation. Like an angel's, too, his visits, alas ! became in course of time few and far between ; age, with increasing infirmities, compelled hin to keep to shorter distances : yet, when he did come, he made most ample compensation, and our now THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 315 fast ripening minds were able to appreciate the value of the intercourse, and zealous to draw from it all the advantages with which it was so teeming. " Whenever he went from us, he left aching hearts behind. For several mornings (I re- member) after his departure, I would pass his door with a sigh, and even stay and look in, as almost hoping to see him, as usual, sitting at his fire. Never was " Amen !" more heartily pronounced than by all of us at the close of the prayer, in which my father prayed for his safe return, and thanking God for the blessings of the late visit, implored him to repeat the same in its due season. " He was about the same age as my father, and survived him but a few months; but even that short space of time was sufficient for him to exhibit proofs, by his kindness to us, of the zeal and permanency of his friendship. " Having had before my eyes, up even from my infancy, this model of a friend, you may suppose that I have neglected no means to acquire one for myself. But I have been less fortunate than my father. I have never yet found one who has realized my wishes. Perhaps the notion which I had conceived of friendship, being associated 316 THE ONLY FRIEND. with my happiest days, was refined in advancing years by time and absence into something too unearthly. Memory is ever too apt to drop the gross terrene substance, and present us but with the pure spirit ; thus I became, perhaps, too fastidious, and expected to find in my first communication what can be the effect but of long years of friendship. Friends in the com- mon sense of the world, I have had many, and many, alas ! have verified their proverbial fickle- ness. My consolations under the unkind de- sertion of such friends, I present you in these lines, written under its immediate smart : — THE ONLY FRIEND. I have had friends, and thought them so, And friends both intimate and many, But all have left me long ago, Save the sole real Friend of any : His faith in dazzling contrast shows All other friends but secret foes: — Had friends whom one unguarded speech, Or one impatient look would scare, Who sought occasion for a breach, Inconstant as the passing air ; But this, impatient word or look Could never scare — He ne'er forsook: THE ONLY FRIEND. 317 And friends whom never humblest call, Nor meekest proffer brought again, Though years had flown, and changed us all, And nearer came the grave — 'twas vain ; But this, be but a wish implied, That instant combats at my side : — And friends, upon whose lips I hung, And sweeter than the hone? deem'd The doctrine flowing from their tongue ; O fool, with bitterness it teem'd : But all is true from this that flows, His well of love no bitter knows : — And friends, who lock'd to me their breast, Hid all from me their doubts and cares, And I in turn my thoughts supprest, My faults conceal'd, nor told them theirs ; But this has every thing reveal'd, And I have nought from this conceal'd : And friends, who when the feast was spread Were ever nigh, and warm, and glowing ; But never shared my sorrow's bread, And woe-cup full to overflowing ; But this, neglected in my joy, In woe and pain is ever nigh : And friends, who firm and constant stood, Through woe and pain — and yet their aid Was but to weep, — 'twas all they could — And furnish hopes their hearts forbade ; But this, all woe, all pain, can cure, The hopes this gives are firm and sure : — '18 THE ONLY FRIEND. And friends, whom regions far away, For weary lagging years would sever, Or some inexorable day Tear from my clinging arms for ever ; But this, through either world survives, Still nigh, still sure for ever lives. And who is this, thy best of friends, What land contains a gem so rare ? His home of fadeless blis extends O'er earth, o'er ocean, and o'er air : His rule around, above, below, — O Lord, this best of friends art Thou. THE LIBRARY. 319 CHAPTER XXIII. THE LIBRARY. I have already mentioned the Rector's library. I had frequently heard from old people accounts of its great extent. But as, to persons of their class and attainments, even a moderate collec- tion of books presents a most imposing appear- ance, — seems, indeed, a perfectly inexhaustible fund of study, such reports are so exaggerated as to afford little clue to the real fact ; much did I regret that it had been removed but a short time before my arrival. For, besides other reasons, I put much faith in the common observation that a man's collection of books gives us a key to his mind, and therefore looked for much insight into my predecessor's turn of thought from this inspection. I was, however, fortunate enough to see the " disjecti membra 320 THE LIBRARY. poetce" as it were, by beholding some frag- ments of it, whence I thought that I could form no inadequate notion of the whole. My friend had brought down with him for his summer companions the contents of a shelf or two ; and they evidently belonged to a collection which had been made with great knowledge and dis- crimination. Even to this small portion, with my friend's kindness, I was much indebted ; in its narrow compass it comprised volumes un- attainable by my circumscribed means and remote situation, works of a very different cha- racter from those supplied by the subscription- library, or the book-club. With grateful recol- lections of the source of much sterling infor- mation, I often call to mind the apartment in which they lay. The ladder was remaining there still, and, while it showed that the library in its flourishing days had pushed its shelves as near as they could approach the ceiling, seemed to jeer the scanty remnant, over which it towered in preposterous loftiness. " You are wondering what use I can make of that tall ladder," exclaimed my friend, one day, on observing my eyes fixed upon it. " Useless as it may seem now, I exult much upon its re- covery. I drew it from the bottom of a heap of THE LIBRARY. 321 lumber, soon after my arrival, and never did relic-hunter dig up a more precious treasure. It is the most pleasing memorial of former days. "When I look upon its polished shafts and worn steps, when I reflect upon the many journeys which myself and others have made up and down them, both for profit and pleasure, for you must know that it served us in a two- fold capacity, both as a road to knowledge, and as an instrument for feats of playful skill and bodily strength, (what will not boys turn to this purpose,) a thousand pleasing little circum- stances, long buried in forgetfulness, revive in memory to amuse me. The vigour and plia- bility of muscle nurtured there, is, alas ! gone, but the effect of the treasures of mind to which it conducted, I thank God, abides with me still. How little, then, did I calculate either on the loss of the one, or on the duration of the other. I now often beguile an idle quarter of an hour by look- ing at it, and allegorizing such little incidents as happen at the moment to strike my recollec- tion. The difficulty and jostling on passing each other, on its narrow precipitous road, the severe falls and overthrow of all our freight, to which our hurry, carelessness, or ambition sub- jected us, the race and struggle amongst us up Y 322 THE LIBRARY. its heights for some favourite book, — did not all these, methinks, shadow out much, very much, of what really occurs in the pursuit of know- ledge on the stage of life ? At another time, perhaps, I recall to mind the indescribable look of interest and curiosity which my father put on, when he saw one of us, putting all our young strength to the work, plant the ladder ; how, with a glance stolen now and then, he would watch the part against which we placed it, observe the volume drawn forth, and I think I hear the hearty laugh with which he would hail our descent with a ponderous book, half the size of ourselves, and mark our looks of childish gravity and importance ; and then again, the renewed good-natured laugh (which never deterred us) with which he looked at the con- tents of the book, apparently so unsuited to our years. Thus (how well do I remember it, as if it were yesterday,) he saluted me on the first time of my bringing down Drayton's Polyolbion, a work to which, child as I was, I grew strongly attached, in a manner unaccountable to me now ; its legendary cast, no doubt, was one attraction, and other reasons were, perhaps, a geographical turn, and disposition for rambling, both of which have now been gratified to satiety, THE LIBRARY. 323 though not in my native land ; great part of that still remains invested with the romantic interest which the poet threw around it, and will remain, for I feel unwilling to dissolve the charm by an actual visit. "Unsuitable to our years as such books may at first sight appear, my father never took them out of our hands, nor remanded them to the shelf; he understood human nature better. He well knew that the peculiar and original bent of the child (if he have any character impressed at all) is often leading him to books from which the herd of grown-up people turn aside as un- interesting, or as being, at all events, out of the ordinary track of amusement ; and to the mind of a reflecting parent, what can be more in- teresting than to watch such a choice? what, indeed, more gratifying ? since it stamps to him the child's mind with a character at once. The father is henceforward enabled to see and clear the way before his child, and give full scope to that disposition which God has assigned for the foundation of his conduct through life, and thus, too, is saved all the misery, seldom terminated before death, of a constant struggle against na- tural inclination. Besides, when once disco- vered, an original bent gives the father's hand Y 2 324 THE LIBRARY. a power of guidance, of which common-place minds do not allow : just such as the strong de- termined motion of the vessel supplies to the helmsman, whose skill is fruitlessly applied to a slow and placid course. " I now often pourtray to myself the high in- terest my father must have felt on seeing the dif- ferent diverging roads on which our inclinations took us, as soon as the elementary acquirements, necessarily common to all dispositions, had heen completed : how must our future destinations in life have forced themselves upon him, and how full of a fearful sense of responsibility must he have laid hold of that handle of guidance which God had put into his hands. With all this he reposed great confidence in us (at least appeared to repose) regarding the moral nature of the book which we selected : he had, indeed, by unwearied instruction, by continual impression of God's word upon our minds, imparted to .them a quick and nice distinction between good and bad, and relied upon our choosing the one and rejecting the other ; like the parent bird, who having taught her brood their appropriate meats, dismisses them into the wide regions of earth and sky to choose for themselves. He did not, therefore, officiously and ostentatiously 3 TIIE LIBRARY. 325 guide our choice, for that he knew would he to thwart it, to damp the ardour of curiosity by prescribing a task, and, above all, to deprive himself of the advantage of discovering our natural bias. But when I say this, I should, indeed, wrong him, were I to assert that he exercised over our reading no control whatever ; much, and very much, was done gently, indi- rectly, and in a manner imperceptible to our- selves. He had made, as I have said, Scripture our well-head, and, this important point secured, the guiding of the stream was managed by means so easy as to be apparently inadequate to the important effects required. Have you ever traced one of our first-rate rivers to its source ? Then you cannot fail to have observed, how here a slight projection of rock has forced it to take an elbow, and saved it from the fate of a noisy brawling feeder to the nearest lake; and how there another obstacle, equally insignificant, has delivered it from being a nameless tributary to an obscure stream ; and thus a series of causes, each apparently trifling when compared with the consequences, has ultimately shaped its course into a channel, which, taking the sweep of rich and wide plains, and winding under the walls of historic towns and capital cities, sup- 826 THE LIBRARY. plies at last a haven for the commerce of the world, crowded and studded for many a mile with masts, sails, and flags, its joyous symbols. " But was not such reading too desultory ? you will now ask. I think not. In following our natural inclinations we were following a certain train, and I am now speaking rather of amuse- ment than of study. But is not our knowledge of the world around us formed, more especially in our younger days, in the most desultory manner possible ; taken up, I may say, from the very hands of chance, two successive hours scarcely ever presenting us with the same lesson ? The knowledge which abides by chil- dren, and assimilates itself, as it were, with the thoughts and affections, is ever thus desultory, pursued by inclination or accident, and never upon plan, which implies a stage of reason to which they have not attained. In this manner, which is precisely the same as that in which the baby becomes acquainted with this strange world, we also were making our acquaintance with the social world beyond us. We were learning, like the young soldier, by exercise and mock-fights, and not by actual engagement. In the volumes which we took up, the history of our species presented itself, the character of THE LIBRARY. 327 man was unfolding, the general movements of life were displaying, bodies of men, combina- tion of purposes, results of long premeditated design, were exhibiting themselves ; thus we were daily becoming better prepared to take our several posts in real conflict. " It is now no unfrequent amusement of mine to turn over the volumes which were the fa- vourites of my boyhood, and though it is but here and there that I meet with a passage which I can distinctly remember to have interested me, yet the comparison of past with present feelings is full of interest. How very much do I find, of what then must have been to me quite speculative and imaginary, to have been now completely realized ; how much that must then have been unintelligible, to be now, alas ! but too intelligible ; how many lines and ex- pressions which must then have fired my fancy, do I now pass over with cold indifference ; and how many beauties now strike me, to which at that age I must have been insensible. Such passages, therefore, at this day come before me invested with somewhat of the dignity of pro- phesy ; their obscurities have been cleared up, their high- wrought language reduced to fact, 328 THE LIBRARY. their predictions have been accomplished. My collection here you see is but small : selected, however, as it has been, I find it quite sufficient. Owing to the continual change of feeling pro- duced by this life of constant chance and change, I never find the same set of authors tire ; and this more especially here, where, from a varied country, and the incessant revival of associa- tions, my mind is never stagnant and passive. As a well diversified landscape ever presents some novelty through the longest life, owing to the infinite number of different combinations of light and shade of which it is capable, so is it with my favourite authors — their perusal sup- plies me with an unlimited variety from the ever- shifting state of my feelings and memory, the latter of which has cloud and sunshine in abun- dant store to produce. At other times I take up a book, which I remember to have been a favourite of a brother or sister, and make my way through it as I do among the neighbouring walks which are associated with their memory ; often I am struck upon comparing particular passages with circumstances developed in their after life, and flatter myself with having dis- covered some germ of their principles, together THE LIBRARY. 32!) with the passages to which they were most attached. Thus I seem to have improved my intimacy with those blessed spirits. " And now, my dear friend, what is the result, you will ask, of all my knowledge, acquired through a long life, of men, and of books ? Is it nothing more than the "vulgar selfish enjoy- ment of possession, or is it the more generous pleasure arising from the consciousness of being able to impart amusement and instruction to others ? It is neither one nor the other, though I mean not to say that I do not experience the latter. In brief, I answer, that it is the clear understanding of God's word ; this is my re- compense, and a most liberal one it is. That volume has been daily putting off somewhat of the theoretical cast which want of acquaintance with the heart, and ignorance of the world to which it is addressed, throws more or less around it. Having seen deeper and deeper into the disease which it presupposes, I have become more and more able to value the remedy which it applies. As long as our view is confined to the body of a flame, we can neither estimate its intensity, nor appreciate its use : for this object we must take in the dark back ground, mark it gradually growing into light, see the many 330 THE LIBRARY. projections which catch the rays, and the many deep recesses into which they penetrate. Such a back ground to the light of the gospel is human knowledge, including the utter darkness of the Gentile, and the more enlightened spe- culations of the Christian philosopher ; and to this view, thus commanding my contempla- tions, methinks, daily more and more approxi- mate. O blessed privilege of advanced years ! O more than full compensation for all that they take away ! Like the soldier, on the eve of striking his tent, and marching far away, I feel that I have collected all my mind's furniture together, that all my spoil is in readiness to accompany me. O delightful result ! to gather up the sum of our knowledge, and be enabled to give it bearing towards that point whither we ourselves are tending, to find that we have conferred upon our acquisitions a principle of immortality, by having made them minister to our understanding of the everlasting word, that thus not a day, not an hour, not a minute, has been lost in the pursuit, and that thus we shall carry our treasure with us out of the world; while, to the last moment of existence, fresh wants of man are perceived with fresh mercies of God to meet them, goodness and wisdom MEDITATION IN A LIBRARY. 331 are assuming more palpable substance, the tan- gled maze of Providence is unravelling, the counsels of the Everlasting are unfolding, his promises are fast accomplishing, his prophesy is brightening." MEDITATION IN A LIBRARY. What is all knowledge but the dross Which spirits pure have left behind! What but the slough, terrene, and gross, Cast by regenerated mind ! Thus as I look, Cries every book, And at each glance methinks I roam Amid a mental catacomb. Lo ! letter'd coffins close me round, Where, by quick mind abandon'd long, Thoughts in their bandages are bound, Tier piled on tier, a sepulchred throng Of every time, Of every clime, The wit of nations round me lies, Slumbering before my gazing eyes. Stamp'd in obtrusive gold their name, Sad mockery ! lost empires preacli : Chiefs, statesmen, kings, condemn'd to fame, Apostate saints, fall'n churches teach. 332 MEDITATION IN A LIBRARY. In wildering heap Incessant leap Fear, wonder, from each titled roll, And fasten on my fearful soul. Stands not another Babel here, Where spirits in their pride have wrought Their heaven-affronting towers to rear Amid the boundless plains of thought ! For ages dumb, Strange speeches come, And in bewildering din unite With those which blest this morning's light. ■o See, World ! the builders of thy pride, The masons of thy folly here ; And Heaven is present to deride ! Their speech is lost to living ear. For wondering crowd, For plaudit loud, The study of a silent few Is all their meed, is all their due. Here stands thy sage my eyes before, Who sought on thy polluted race The lustral waves of Heaven to pour, To mould anew to shapes of grace, The mind deform : Poor eloquent worm ! He wrote, and liv'd, and died — and man Proceeded as he first began. MEDITATION IN A LIBRARY. 333 Here ye thy froward sons that lash'd, Thy satirist, with gibing grin, Who whipp'd, unaw'd and unabash'd, In others his own darling sin. He too is gone, And man walks on, Surviving with undying wrong His scourger's fury and his song. And here thy bard, whose thrilling lay Stirr'd to high deeds thy wayward son, Pointed to glory's starry way, And woo'd and fondly deemed he won. His song- was vain, It swells the train That rolls along from ages past, Each song as fruitless as the last. And here thy grave historians stand, And down to each succeeding age The roll of by-gone days expand ; Vain is their warning, vain their page. They but unfold A tale thrice told, Thrice to be told by speech unborn, Thrice to be heard with heedless scorn. E'en thus from shelf to shelf I roam, Still ending as I first began, Till to that titled roll I come, " The covenant renew'd with man." 334 MEDITATION IN A LIBRARY. Around it stand A saintly band, Its honest preachers, who unfurl'd Its ensign 'mid a faithless world. Yea, Lord ! and girt with such a train, So pure, so goodly, and so bright, Thou shalt in glory come again, Clad in intolerable light. And at thy seat, I must repeat, What from these treasur'd cells I drew, What gain'd from all that crowds my view. Ah ! idle moments, mis-spent hours, Days, months, that unimproved have flown ! Now, now I feel my wasted powers, And know how much I might have known. The abandon'd prize Now mocks my eyes, In vain I sorrow o'er the past, My die of ignorance is cast. Lord ! make me humble thus to learn My scanty wealth, and seek for more : Watchful thy seasons to discern, Faithful to guard the entrusted lore : Content to pause Where wisdom draws Her limit : quick to truth's high call, And thankfui, blessed Lord ! for all. CONCLUSION. 335 CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION. On a beautiful morning late in October, I walked to my church upon occasion of some weekly duty. I was earlier there than necessary, and invited by the genial sunshine, proceeded to- wards the stone seat which I have already men- tioned as set up by the late Rector. There I found my friend sitting, and enjoying the warmth of the situation. "I am attending," he said, " to my father's monitor, and never have found it so impressive before; for besides the joint admo- nition of the dial and waterfall, the one casting its ever-varying shadow, the other glancing in ceaseless succession under the beams of this bright sun, here is the tall ash which he planted, shedding at my feet its sere and rustling leaf at every breath of wind, and the robin perched 336 CONCLUSION upon one of the nearly leafless and rimy sprays, is trilling forth a long farewell to sunny sea- sons. These are importunate monitors, and I seem in them almost to hear my father's voice. At all events, I must now soon expect my sum- mons, and have accordingly, like a steward going to his account, been summing up in my mind what I have received, and how spent. On the side of receipt, I have been reckoning his several blessings of having, first of all, planted me in the church of his blessed Son, next as- signed my fair lot in a pure and holy portion of that church, and again in the purest part of that portion, in a godly home ; and now I am endea- vouring to find what I have to set against the opening of the account. Oh, my friend ! I can find nothing, positively nothing." He then leaned his brow on his hands, and continued for a few moments in silence. Shortly after, he looked up, and resumed. " I have latterly taken a more than usual pleasure in visiting this church-yard : it becomes daily more congenial with my feel- ings. It was also, I have understood, a favourite walk of my father's, when the infirmity of his declining years compelled him to a narrow cir- cuit. Perhaps, my walk may shortly be equally circumscribed. Could I find a spot more inter- CONCLUSION. 337 esting, more copious in the suggestions proper to old age ? I delight to repeat here some lines which I have found of his. ' Upon the mounded surface as I tread, That waves in billows o'er the cavern'd dead, I seem to walk a sea, which every hour Threatens to yawn asunder and devour. And He, the sinking Peter who upbore, Upbears me now — I tremble and adore.' " After this he rose up, took my arm, and en- tered with me into the church. He gazed in- tently and silently on the family tablet ; then rousing himself, and seeming, by one effort, to shake off an unreasonable despondency, he cheerfully took my hand, and quitted me with the offer of another ramble in the course of the week. Undoubtedly he was haunted by some fore- boding of his approaching end. He felt, per- haps, as aged people towards their end often do, something unusual about him, which was suffi- cient to awaken him to such reflections, and to look in the face the worst which may happen, but yet not important enough to communicate to others, whom it may needlessly alarm, and bring around him in troublesome officiousness. Two days passed, and I began to expect a sum- 338 CONCLUSION. mons to our intended walk, when I was shocked towards evening by a hurried message, announ- cing his death. He had been (it seems) that morning, as if the same unaccountable forebod- ing still lay upon his mind, to visit his brother's tree. He returned later, and more fatigued than usual, though he did not extend his walk beyond the spot, but lay under its shade for full an hour, as I learned from the farmer who was ploughing at the time in the field below. Arrived in his usual sitting room, he threw himself back upon his sofa, and seemed to fall almost instantly into a sound slumber. From that slumber he never awoke ! I conceive that the length and number of his rambles was too great for his years ; and the continual excitation of feeling produced by reviewing the scenes of his youth, was too much for the mind of an old man, which requires calmness, if not indifference, in order to maintain its union with the exhausted and torpid body. The long monumental tablet in the chancel is now filled up ; their roll of death is complete ; and, I trust, that their book of life has not a single name omitted. My eye now no longer adheres to the first name, but after a gaze passes on at once to the last, and there rests in melan- choly contemplation. I seldom withdraw it CONCLUSION. 339 before, with tears in my eyes, I thank God for the blessing so unexpectedly bestowed on me in the possession, short-lived though it was, of such a friend. Alas ; it is now almost the only trace left of him upon earth ; for the walk from the manor-house gate to the chancel-door, which he had restored and neatly gravelled, is now again nearly obliterated by rank tufts of grass ; the windows which he had opened are again blocked up, and what is worse than all, the woodman's axe is at this moment sounding in his favourite walnut-grove. A distant relation, who never saw him, has succeeded to his earthly inheri- tance ; and his brother's oak, I fear, is protected from a similar fate more by its youth than any knowledge of what it commemorates. So passes away all that we love, reverence, and would fain twine ourselves around in this world ! A handsome escutcheon, suspended over the portico, mocks the dilapidated manor-house ; but nothing beyond the mere filling up of the tablet, so often mentioned, adorns his memory in the church. I think that the last member of an ancient family, whose influence had been all along so beneficial to the parish, ought to have had some further mark on his tomb, if it was only like the line we draw across a list to show 340 CONCLUSION. where a class terminates. Two lines had been sufficient. For want of such an epitaph to pro- duce, I present my reader with one of my own composition, (observe, I am no poet,) which I have writen underneath his profile, a remark- able likeness, which he gave me not many days before his death. This I have glazed and framed in black, and hung over my chimney-piece. EPITAPH. Last of a gallant troop that fought and died, Last passenger that press'd the parting tide, Last guest that quitted life's protracted feast, Last captive from the dungeon's gloom releas'd, Last deer of all the herd to slaughter due, Last spark which the consuming taper threw, Last swallow in autumnal noon-day seen, Last flower that painted the decaying green, Last drop that glitter'd in the exhausted well, Last sand that in the waning hour-glass fell, Last fruit that linger'd on life's drooping tree, Last star that sank beneath the darkling sea, Last lonely remnant of a numerous home, He sleeps in peace, and waits the morn to come. The recalling to mind my past conversation with him, and arranging and recording in some connected order the instruction which I have received, has been to me ever since both a study and an amusement, the employment of some hours CONCLUSION. 841 stolen from sleep, and of some melancholy lei- sure. In order to refresh fading impressions, I often revisit the spots which were scenes of interesting communication, and this has led me to describe them, perhaps more at length, than they may seem to deserve. I have, indeed, no reason to expect that I shall have been able to communicate more than but a slight share of the interest which I have taken, or to infuse into my reader more than a slight portion of the beneficial influence which I have been enjoying, who feel as if I had in a journey through a coun- try of beautiful sights and sweet smells, shaken off the sooty films of a close contaminated city. If my book savour of melancholy, I confess that it does so from intention. I speak not to the gay; one of my leading objects throughout has been to uphold to view the rich and glorious fund of consolation which our blessed religion has in store for those manifold afflictions to which a family is more subject in proportion to the strength of the mutual love and affection of its members. To such I could wish to be an useful monitor. I do not hope to aspire to be a guide. I have myself had some experience ; and, though few of those who have journeyed through the Vale of Tears have surveyed it so calmly as to 342 CONCLUSION. be enabled to furnish a road-book, yet, who is there, of common sensibility, upon whom its features have not left a deep and indelible im- pression ? I think it just possible, as ever so little things often call to recollection what are truly great, as a sparrow-hawk will prompt the thought of an eagle, that this book may remind thee, O reader, in part of its plan, of that holy work, ''The Temple," of the divine Herbert. I con- fess that I had him at first in view, and once, while yet my plan more nearly approached his, had determined to give it the title of " The Second Temple ;" and this, from a fond admi- ration of his work, not from any notion of the worthiness of my own ; much on the same prin- ciple as we impose the names of celebrated worthies on the infant members of our family, which, while they proclaim our fervent appro- bation of their glorious deeds, serve to express, what otherwise we shrink from expressing even to ourselves, a lurking and undefined hope that the possessor of the name may be possessor of the virtues also. Perhaps, indeed, the title, thoroughly considered, may seem more expres- sive of humility than of presumption. For how glorious was the first temple in comparison with CONCLUSION. 343 the second. The first was decked with the en- signs and relics of the brightest period of the nation's history ! it had the glory, the cherubim, the budding-rod, and the manna-pot ; the second was destitute of all. The first rose under the hands of a powerful and magnificent monarch : the second was put together by miserable exiles, returning fresh from the dungeons of captivity. The first was reared amid shouts of joy and exultation ; the second rose amid tears and weeping. Even so does this my volume want all the divine glory of that of Herbert. It pos- sesses no mark nor relic of better days. It is the work of one, not glorious, like him, in all the praise of the gospel, but of one bearing the bruises of the manacles and fetters of sin : and its erection, far from drawing from thee, O reader, a cry of admiration, will rather call forth tears at so unequal an attempt to revive the glories of past and better times. Yes! very much, I am but too well aware, will require kind indulgence. But as in a pro- cession, whose long and motley array ushers in at length the desired wonder and delight of our eyes, were gard, with a favourable look, its very humblest components; so, in the train of thought which pervades this volume, if it shall have 344 CONCLUSION. introduced to thee, in the end, an object worthy and approved by thy bosom, may it incline thee to overlook whatever is poor, whatever is feeble, in consideration of its wearing the trappings of a grateful service, of its being among the har- bingers of a welcome presence. Farewell ! I have at least done my best : and to the humblest endeavour, if it be but the best, there is never wanting the blessing of some good ; truly not in vain will have been my un- dertaking, if the foregoing pages shall have sug- gested or recalled one train of holy thought, infused or revived one feeling of pure affection, inspired or confirmed one good resolution; and great indeed will be my reward, if this my little book shall have moved thee to raise, still more have assisted thee in raising, the most glorious edifice the hand of a Christian can raise to the honour and glory of his Master, the edifice of a HOLY HOME. THE END. PRINTED BY STEWART AND HURRAY, OLD BAILEY. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 213 (533) UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 365 406 8 PR 4699 E925r 1842