UC-NRLP ■ 3 351, &ES 1 1PI , ! MMl mm fc* *&-'#*§• ' ■ / sa ;.-7- ; MS ■ - ■ '■■'.■ •y. ;: . : ''- GEORGE : WELLS * ARMES MEMORIAL LiBRARY * * + STiLE5 HALL BERKELEY LIBRARY OF THE University of California. GIFT OK Y. M. C. A. OF U. C Accession 10i'7Q2 Class ffiWac *> *\ \v nedmfke JMW 2 dairyman's daughter. uality of mind and conversation, which too often prove a great hinderance to those who live in the higher ranks. Many are the difficulties which riches, polished society, worldly importance, and high connections throw in the way of religious profession. Happy indeed it is, (and som* such happy instances I know,) where grace has so strik ingly supported its conflict with natural pride, self-impor- tance, the allurements of luxury, ease, and worldly opinions, that the noble and mighty appear adorned with genuine poverty of spirit, self-denial, humble-mindedness, and deep spirituality of heart. But, in general, if we want to see religion in its purest character, we must look for it among the poor of this world, who are rich in faith. How often is the poor man's cot- tage the palace of God ! Many of us can truly declare, that we have there learned our most valuable lessons of faith and hope, and there witnessed the most striking emonstrations of the wisdom, power, the goodness of God. The character which the present narrative is designed to introduce to the notice of my readers, is given from real life and circumstance. I first became acquainted with the Dairyman's Daughter by the reception of a letter, a part of which I transcribe from the original, now before me. " Rev. Sir — I take the liberty to write to you. Pray excuse me, for I have never spoken to you. But 1 once heard you preach at church. I believe you are a faithful preacher, to warn sinners to flee from the wrath that will be revealed against all those that live in sin, and die impenitent. " I was much rejoiced to hear of those marks of love and affection which you showed to that poor soldier of the S. D. militia. Surely the love of Christ sent you to that poor man ; may that love ever dwell richly in you by faith. May it constrain you to seek the wandering souls of men, with the fervent desire to spend and be spent for his glory. " Sir, be fervent in prayer with God for the conviction and conversion of sinners. He has promised to answer the prayer of faith, that is put up in his Son's name. ' Ask what you will, and it shall be granted you.' Through faith in Christ we rejoice in hope, and look up in expecta- tion of that time drawing near, when all shall know and fear the Lord, and when a nation shall be born in a day. " What a happy time, when Christ's kingdom shall come ! Then shall * his will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.' Men shall be daily fed with the manna of his love, and delight themselves in the Lord all the day long. " Sir, I began to write this on Sunday, being detained from attending on public worship. My dear and only sister, living as a servant with Mrs. , was so ill that I came here to attend in her place, and on her. But now she is no more. " She expressed a desire to receive the Lord's Supper, and commemorate his precious death and sufferings. I told her, as well as I was able, what it was to receive Christ into her heart; but as her weakness of body in- creased, she did not mention it again. She seemed quite resigned before she died. I do hope she has gone from a world of death and sin, to be with God for ever. " My sister expressed a wish that you might bury her. The minister of our parish, whither she will be carried, cannot come. She died on Tuesday morning, and will be buried on Friday or Saturday, (whichever is most conven- ient to you,) at three o'clock in the afternoon. Please to send an answer by the bearer, to let me know whether you can comply with this request. " From your unworthy servant, "Elizabeth W e." I was much struck with the simple and earnest strain of devotion which the letter breathed. It was but indifferently written and spelt ; but this the rather tended to endear the dairyman's daughter. hitherto unknown writer, as it seemed characteristic of the union of humbleness of station with eminence of piety. I felt quite thankful that I was favored with a correspondent of this description ; the more so, as such characters were, at that time, very rare in the neighborhood. As soon as it was read, I inquired who was the bearer of it. " He is waiting at the outside of the gate, sir," was the reply. I went out to speak to him ; and saw a venerable old man, whose long hoary hair and deeply wrinkled counte- nance commanded more than common respect. He was resting his arm and head upon the gate, the tears were streaming down his cheeks. On my approach, he made a low bow, and said, " Sir, I have brought you a letter from my daughter ; but I fear you will think us very bold in asking you to take so much trouble." " By no means," I replied ; " I shall be truly glad to oblige you and any of your family in this matter." 1 desired him to come into the house, and then said, " What is your occupation ?" " Sir, I have lived most of my days in a little cottage at , six miles from here. I have rented a few acres of ground, and kept a few cows, which, in addition to my day labor, has been my means of supporting and bringing up my family." " What family have you V 9 " A wife, now getting very aged and helpless ; two sons and one daughter ; for my other poor dear child is just departed out of this wicked world." " I hope, for a better." " I hope so too ; poor thing, she did not use to take to such good ways as her sister ; but I do believe that her sister's manner of talking with her before she died, was the means of saving her soul. What a mercy it is to have such a child as mine is ! I never thought about my own DAIRYMAN S DAUGHTER. 9 soul seriously till she, poor girl, begged and prayed me to flee from the wrath to come." " How old are you V* " Turned seventy, and my wife is older ; we are get- ting old and almost past our labor ; but our daughter has Jeft a good place, where she lived in service, on purpose to come home and take care of us and our little dairy. And a dear, dutiful, affectionate girl she is." " Was she always so?" " No, sir ; when she was very young, she was all for the world, and pleasure, and dress, and company. Indeed we were all very ignorant, and thought, if we took care for this life, and wronged nobody, we should be sure to go to heaven at last. ?»*y daughters were both wilful, and, like ourselves, were strangers to the ways of God and the word of his grace. But the eldest of them went out to service ; and some years ago she heard a sermon preached at church, and from that time she became quite an altered creature. She began to read the Bible, and became quite sober and steady. The first time she came home after- wards to see us, she brought us a guinea which she had saved from her wages, and said, as we were getting old, she was sure we should want help ; adding, that she did not wish to spend it in fine clothes, as she used to do, only to feed pride and vanity. She would rather show grati- tude to her dear father and mother ; and this, she said, because Christ had shown such mercy to her. " We wondered to hear her talk, and took great delight in her company, for her temper and behavior were so hum- ble and kind, she seemed so desirous to do us good both in soul and body, and was so different from what we had ever seen her before, that, careless and ignorant as we had been, we began to think there must be something real in religion, or*it never coul I alter a person so much in a little time. " Her younger sister, poor soul, used to laugh and ridi- cule her al that time, and said her head was turned with 6 DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER. her new ways. * No, sister/ she would say, « not my head, out I hope my heart is turned from the love of sin to the love of God. I wish you may one day see, as I do, the danger and vanity of your present condition.' " Her poor sister would reply, < I do not want to heai any of your preaching : 1 am no worse than other people and that is enough for me.' < Well, sister,' Elizabetl would say, l if you will not hear me, you cannot hindei me from praying for you, which I do with all my heart.' " And now, sir, I believe those prayers are answered. For when her sister was taken ill, Elizabeth went to wait in her place and take care of her. She said a great deal to her about her soul ; and the poor girl began to be so deeply affected, and sensible of her past sin, and so thankful for her sister's kind behavior, that it gave her great hopes indeed for her sake. When my wife and I went to see her as she lay sick, she told us how grieved and ashamed she was of her past life ; but said, she had a hope, through grace, that her dear sister's Saviour would be her Saviour too ; for she saw her own sinfulness, felt her own helplessness, and only wished to cast herself upon Christ as her hope and salvation. " And now, sir, she is gone, and I hope and think her sister's prayers for her conversion to God have been an- swered. The Lord grant the same, for her poor father and mother's sake likewise." This conversation was a very pleasing commentary upon the letter which 1 had received, and made me anxious both to comply with the request, and to become acquainted with the writer. I promised the good old Dairyman I would attend the funeral on Friday, at the appointed hour ; and after some more conversation respecting his own state of mind under the present trial, he went away. He was a reverend old man; his furrowed cheeks, white locks, weeping eyes, bent shoulders, and feeble gait, were characteristic of the aged pilgrim ; and as he slowly departed, supported by a stick, which seemed to have been the companion of many a long year, a train of reflections occurred, which I retrace with emotion and pleasure. At the appointed hour I arrived at the church ; and after a little while was summoned to meet, at the church- yard gate, a very decent funeral procession. The aged parents, the elder brother and the sister, with other rela- tives, formed an affecting group. I was struck with the humble, pious, and pleasing countenance of the young woman from whom I received the letter ; it bore the marks of great seriousness without affectation, and of much seren- ity mingled with a glow of devotion. A circumstance occurred during the burial service, which I think it right to mention. A man of the village, who had hitherto been of a very careless and even profligate character, came into the church through mere curiosity, and with no bettor purpose than that of a vacant gazing at the ceremony. He came like- wise to the grave ; and during the burial service his mind received a deep, serious conviction of his sin and danger, through some of the expressions contained therein. It was an impression that never wore off, but gradually ripened into the most satisfactory evidence of an entire change, of which I had many and long continued proofs. He always referred to the burial service, and to some particular sen- tences of it, as the clearly ascertained instrument of bring ing him, through grace, to the knowledge of the truth. The day was therefore one to be remembered. Re- membered let it be by those who love to hear " the short and simple annals of the poor." Was there not a manifest and happy connection be- tween the circumstances that providentially brought the serious and the careless to the same grave on that day to- gether ? How much do they lose, who neglect to trace the leadings of God in providence, as links in the chain of his eternal purpose of redemption and grace ! " While infidels may scoff', let us adore." 8 dairyman's daughter. A iter the service was concluded, I had a short conver- sation with the good old couple and their daughter. Her aspect and address were highly interesting. I promised to visit their cottage; and from that time became well ac- quainted with them. Let us bless the God of the poor, and pray continually that the poor may become rich in faith, and the rich be made poor in spirit. A sweet solemnity often possesses the mind, while re- tracing past intercourse with departed friends. How much is this increased, when they were such as lived and died in the Lord ! The remembrance of former scenes and con- versations with those who, we believe, are now enjoying the uninterrupted happiness of a better world, fills the heart with pleasing sadness, and animates the soul with the hopeful anticipation of a day when the glory of the Lord shall be revealed in the assembling of all his children to- gether, never more to be separated. Whether they were rich or poor, while on earth, it is a matter of trifling con- sequence; the valuable part of their character is, that they are now kings and priests unto God. In the number of departed believers, with whom I once loved to converse on the grace and glory of the kingdom of God, was the Dairyman's Daughter. I propose now to give some further account of her, and hope it may be useful to every reader. A few days after the funeral of the younger sister, I rode over to visit the family in their own cottage. The principal part of the road lay through retired, narrow lanes, beautifully overarched with groves of nut and other trees, which screened the traveller from the rays of the sun, and afforded many interesting objects for admiration, in the beautiful flowers, shrubs, and young trees, .which grew upon the high banks on each side of the road. Many gro- tesque rocks, with little streams of water occasionally breaking out of them, varied the recluse scenery, and pro- duced a new, romantic, and pleasing effect. Here and there, the more distant and nch prospect dairyman's daughter. 9 beyond appeared through gaps and hollow places on the road-side. Lofty hills, with navy signal-posts, obelisks, and light-houses on their summits, appeared at these intervals ; rich cornfields were also visible through some of the open places; and now and then, when the road ascended any hill, the sea, with ships at various distances, opened de- lightfully upon me. But, for the most part, shady seclu- sion, and beauties of a more minute and confined nature, gave a character to the journey, and invited contemplation. What do not they lose, who are strangers to serious meditation on the wonders and beauties of created nature ! How gloriously the God of creation shines in his works ! Not a tree, or leaf, or flower ; not a bird, or insect, but pro- claims in glowing language, " God made me." As I approached the village where the good old Dairy- man dwelt, I observed him in a little field, driving a few cows before him towards a yard and hovel which adjoined his cottage. I advanced very near him, without his ob- serving me, for his sight was dim. On my calling out to him, he started at the sound of my voice, but with much gladness of countenance welcomed me, saying, "Bless your heart, sir, I am very glad you are come ; we have looked for you every day this week." The cottage-door opened, and the daughter came out, followed by her aged and infirm mother. The sight of me naturally brought to recollection the grave at which we had before met. Tears of affection mingled with the smile of satisfaction with which I was received by these worthy cottagers. I dismounted, and was conducted through a very neat little garden, part of which was shaded by two large, overspreading elm-trees, to the house. Decency and cleanliness were manifest within and without. This, thought I, is a fit residence for piety, peace, ana contentment. May I learn a fresh lesson in each, through the blessing of God on this visit. " Sir," said the daughter, " we are not worthy that you VOL. I. 2 Eleg. Nai 10 DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER. should come under our roof. We take it very kind tha» you should come so far to see us." " My Master," I replied, " came a great deal farther to visit us, poor sinners. He left the bosom of his Father, laid aside his glory, and came down to this lower world on a visit of mercy and love; and ought not we, if we profess to follow him, to bear each other's Infirmities, and go about doing good as he did?" The old man now came in, and joined his wife and daughter in giving me a cordial welcome. Our conversa- tion soon turned to the late loss they had sustained ; and the pious and sensible disposition of the daughter was pecu- liarly manifested, as well in what she said to her parents, as in what she said to me. I was struck with the good sense and agreeable manner which accompanied her ex- pressions of devotedness to God, and love to Christ for the great mercies which he had bestowed upon her. She seemed anxious to improve the opportunity of my visit to the best purpose, for her own and her parents' sake ; yet there was nothing of unbecoming forwardness, no self-con- sequence or conceitedness, in her behavior. She united the firmness and earnestness of the Christian, with the modesty of the female and the dutifulness of the daughter. It was impossible to be in her company, and not observe how truly her temper and conversation adorned the evan- gelical principles which she professed. I soon discovered how eager and how successful also she had been in her endeavors to bring her father and mother to the knowledge and experience of the truth. This is a lovely circumstance in the character of a young Christian. If it hath pleased God, in the free dispense tions of his mercy, to call the child by his grace, while the parents remain still in ignorance and sin, how great is the duty of that child to do what is possible for the conversion of those to whom it owes its birth ! Happy is it when the ties of grace sanctify those of nature ! DAUGHTEK 11 This aged couple evidently looked upon and spoke of their daughter as their teacher and admonisher in divine things, while they received from her every token of filial submission and obedience, testified by continual endeavors to serve and assist them to the utmost, in the little concerns of the household. The religion of this young woman was of a highly spir- itual character, and of no ordinary attainment. Her views of the divine plan in saving the sinner, were clear and scriptural. She spoke much of the joys and sorrows which, in the course of her religious progress, she had experi- enced ; but she was fully sensible that there is far more in real religion than mere occasional transition from one frame of mind and spirit to another. She believed that the experi- mental acquaintance of the heart with God, principally con- sisted in so living upon Christ by faith, as to seek to live like him by love. She knew that the love of God towards the sinner, and the path of duty prescribed to the sinner, are both of an unchangeable nature. In a believing de- pendence on the one, and an affectionate walk in the other, she sought and found " the peace of God which passeth all understanding;" " for so he giveth his beloved rest." She had read but few books besides her Bible ; but these few were excellent in their kind, and she spoke of their contents as one who knew their value. In addition to a Bible and Common Prayer-Book, "Doddridge's Rise and Progress," " Romaine's Life, Walk, and Triumph of Faith," " Bunyan's Pilgrim," " Alleine's Alarm," " Bax- ter's Saints' Everlasting Rest," a hymn-book, and a few Tracts, composed her library. I observed in her countenance a pale and delicate look, which I afterwards found to be a presage of consumption; and the idea then occurred to me that she would not live many years. In fact, it pleased God to take her hence about a year and a half after I first saw her. Time passed on swiftly with this little interesting fam- [2 dairyman's daughter. ily ; and after having partaken of some plain and whole- some refreshment, and enjoyed a few hours' conversation with them, I found it was necessary for me to return home- wards. "I thank you, sir," said the daughter, " for your Chris- tian kindness to me and my friends. I believe the blessing of the Lord has attended your visit, and I hope I have ex- perienced it to be so. My dear father and mother will, I am sure, remember it, and I rejoice in an opportunity, which we have never before enjoyed, of seeing a serious minister under this roof. My Saviour has been abundantly good to me in plucking me 'as a brand from the burning,' and showing me the way of life and peace ; and I hope it is my heart's desire to live to his glory. But I long to see these dear friends enjoy the comfort and power of religion also." " I think it evident," I replied, " that the promise is ful- filled in their case : ' It shall come to pass, that at evening time it shall be light.' " " I believe it," she said, " and praise God for the blessed hope." " Thank him too that you have been the happy instru- ment of bringing them to the light." "I do, sir ; yet when I think of my own un worthiness and insufficiency, I rejoice with trembling." " Sir," said the good old man, " I am sure the Lord will reward you for this kindness. Pray for us, that, old as we are, and sinners as we have been, yet he would have mercy upon us at the eleventh hour. Poor Betsey strives hard for our sakes, both in body and soul ; she works hard all day to save us trouble, and I fear has not strength to support all she does ; and then she talks to us, and reads to us, and prays for us, that we may be saved from the wrath to come. Indeed, sir, she's a rare child to us." "Peace be to you, and all that belong to you." " Amen, and thank you, dear sir," was echoed from each tongue. dairyman's daughter. 13 Thus we parted for that time. My returning medita- tions were sweet, and, I hope, profitable. Many other visits^vere afterwards made by me to this peaceful cottage, and I always found increasing reason to thank God for the intercourse I enjoyed. I soon perceived that the health of the daughter was rapidly on the decline. The pale wasting consumption, which is the Lord's instrument for removing so many thousands every year from the land of the living, made hasty strides on her constitution. The hollow eye, the distressing cough, and the often too flattering red on the cheek, foretold the approach of death. I have often thought what a field for usefulness and affectionate attention on the part of ministers and Christian friends, is opened by the frequent attacks and lingering progress of consumptive illness. How many such precious opportunities are daily lost, where Providence seems in so marked a way to afford time and space for serious and godly instruction ! Of how many may it be said, " The way of peace have they not known ;" for not one friend came nigh, to warn them to " flee from the wrath to come." But the Dairyman's Daughter was happily made ac- quainted with the things which belonged to her everlasting peace, before the present disease had taken root in her con- stitution. In my visit to her, I might be said rather to receive information than- to impart it. Her mind was abun- dantly stored with divine truths, and her conversation was truly edifying. The recollection of it still produces a thankful sensation in my heart. I one day received a short note to the following effect : Dear Sir, — I should be very glad, if your conven- ience will allow, that you would come and see a poor uriworthy sinner: my hour-glass is nearly run out, but I hope I can see Christ to be precious to my soul. Your conversation has often been blessed to me, and I now feel 2# 14 dairyman's daughter. the need of it more than ever. My father and mother send their duty to you. From your obedient and unworthy servant, • Elizabeth W . I obeyed the summons that same afternoon. On my ai rival at the Dairyman's cottage, his wife opened the door. The tears streamed down her cheek, as she silently shook her head. Her heart was full. She tried to speak, but could not. I took her by the hand, and said, " My good friend, all is right, and as the Lord of wis- dom and mercy directs." " Oh ! my Betsey, my dear girl, is so bad, sir ; what shall I do without her? — I thought I should have gone first to the grave, but " " But the Lord sees good, that, before you die yourself, you should behold your child safe home to glory. Is there no mercy in this ?" " Oh ! dear sir, I am very old, and very weak ; and she is a dear child, the staff and prop of a poor old creature, as I am." As I advanced, I saw Elizabeth sitting by the fireside, supported in an arm-chair by pillows, with every mark of rapid decline and approaching death. She appeared to me within three or four weeks at the farthest from her end. A sweet smile of friendly complacency enlightened her pale countenance, as she said, " This is very kind indeed, sir, to come so soon after I sent to you. You find me daily wasting away, and I can- not have long to continue here. My flesh and my heart fail, but God is the strength of my weak heart, and I trust will be my portion for ever." The conversation which follows was occasionally inter- rupted by her cough and want of breath. Her tone of voice was clear, though feeble; her manner solemn and Qoliected ; and her eye, though more dim than formerly, DAIRYMAN S DAUGHTER. 15 by no means wanting in liveliness as she spoke. 1 had frequently admired the superior language in which she ex- pressed her ideas, as well as the scriptural consistency with which she communicated her thoughts. She had a good natural understanding ; and grace, as is generally the case, had much improved it. On the present occasion I could not help thinking she was peculiarly favored. The whole strength of grace and nature seemed to be in full exercise. After taking my seat between the daughter and the mother, (the latter fixing her fond eyes upon her child with great anxiety while we were conversing,) I said to Elizabeth, — "I hope you enjoy a sense of the divine presence, and can rest all upon him who has * been with thee,' and has kept ' thee in all places whither thou hast gone,' and will bring thee into ! the land of pure delights, where saints immortal reign.' " " Sir, I think I can. My mind has lately been some- times clouded, but I believe it has been partly owing to the great weakness and suffering of my bodily frame, and partly to the envy of my. spiritual enemy, who wants to persuade me that Christ has no love for me, and that I have been a self-deceiver." " And do you give way to his suggestions ? Can you doubt, amidst such numerous tokens of past and present mercy ?" " No, sir, I mostly am enabled to preserve a clear evi- dence of his love. I do not wish to add to my other sin? that of denying his manifest goodness to my soul. I would acknowledge it to his praise and glory." "What is your present view of the state in which you were before he called you by his grace ?" "Sir, I was a proud, thoughtless girl; fond of dress and finery ; I loved the world and the things that are in the world; I lived in service among worldly people, and nnver had the happiness of being in a family where wor 16 dairyman's daughter. ship was regarded, and the souls of the servants cared for, either by master or mistress. I went once on a Sunday to church, more to see and be seen, than to pray, or hear the word of God. I thought I was quite good enough to be saved, and disliked and often laughed at religious people. I was in great darkness ; I knew nothing of the way of salvation ; I never prayed, nor was sensible of the awful danger of a prayerless state. I wished to maintain the character of a good servant, and was much lifted up when- ever I met with applause. I was tolerably moral and decent in my conduct, from motives of carnal and worldly policy ; but I was a stranger to God and Christ ; I neglect- ed my soul ; and had I died in such a state, hell must, and would justly, have been my portion." " How long is it since you heard the sermon which you hope, through God's blessing, effected your conversion «" " About five years ago." " How was it brought about If 1 "It was reported that a Mr. , who was detained by contrary winds from embarking on board ship, as chap- lain, to a distant part of the world, was to preach at church. Many advised me not to go, for fear he should turn my head ; as they said he held strange notions. But curiosity, and an opportunity of appearing in a new gown, which I was very proud of, induced me to ask leave to go. Indeed, sir, I had no better motives than vanity and curiosity. Yet thus it pleased the Lord to order it for his own glory. " I accordingly went to church, and saw a great crowd of people collected together. I often think of the contrary states of my mind during the former and latter part of the service. For a while, regardless of the worship of God, I looked around me, and was anxious to attract notice my- self. My dress, like that of too many gay, vain, and silly girls, was much above my station, and very different from that which becomes a humble sinner, who has a modest dairyman's daughter. 1? sense of propriety and decency. The state of my mind was visible enough from the foolish finery of my apparel. " At length the clergyman gave out his text : ' Be ye clothed with humility.' He drew a comparison between the clothing of the body and that of the soul. At a very early part of his discourse, I began to feel ashamed of my passion for fine dressing and apparel ; but when he came to describe the garment of salvation with which a Christian is clothed, I felt a powerful discovery of the nakedness of my own soul. I saw that I had neither the humility mentioned in the text, nor any one part of the true Christian char- acter. I looked at my gay dress, and blushed for shame on account of my pride. I looked at the minister, and he seemed to be as a messenger sent from heaven to open my eyes. I looked at the congregation, and wondered whethei any one else felt as I did. I looked at my heart, and it appeared full of iniquity. I trembled as he spoke, and yet I felt a great drawing of heart to the words he uttered. " He opened the riches of divine grace in God's method of saving the sinner. I was astonished at what I had been doing all the days of my life. He described the meek, lowly, and humble example of Christ ; I felt proud, lofty, vain, and self-consequential. He represented Christ as ' Wisdom ;' I felt my ignorance. He held him forth as 1 Righteousness f I was convinced of my own guilt. He proved him to be ' Sanctification ;' I saw my corruption. He proclaimed him as ' Redemption ;' I felt my slavery to sin, and my captivity to Satan. He concluded with an animated address to sinners, in which he exhorted them to flee from the wrath to come, to cast off the love of out- ward ornaments, to put on Christ, and be clothed with true humility. " From that hour I never lost sight of the value of my soul, and the danger of a sinful state. I inwardly blessed God for the sermon, although my mind was in a state of great confusion. VOL. I. 5* 18 dairyman's daughter. " The preacher had brought forward the ruling passion of my heart, which was pride in outward dress ; and by the grace of God it was made instrumental to the awaken- ing of my soul. Happy, sir, would it be, if many a poor girl, like myself, were turned from the love of outward adorning and putting on of fine apparel, to seek that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. " The greater part of the congregation, unused to such faithful and scriptural sermons, disliked and complained of the severity of the preacher ; while a few, as I afterwards found, like myself, were deeply affected, and earnestly wished to hear him again. But he preached there no more. " From that time I was led, through a course of private prayer, reading, and meditation, to see my lost estate as a sinner, and the great mercy of God, through Jesus Christ, in raising sinful dust and ashes to a share in the glorious happiness of heaven. And oh, sir, what a Saviour have I found ! He is more than I could ask or desire. In his ful- ness I have found all that my poverty could need ; in his bosom I have found a resting-place from all sin and sor- row ; in his word I have found strength against doubt and unbelief." "Were you not soon convinced," said I, "that your salvation must be an act of entire grace on the part of God, wholly independent of your own previous works or deservings ?" " Dear sir, what were my works before I heard that sermon, but evil, carnal, selfish, and ungodly? The thoughts of my heart, from my youth upward, were only evil, and that continually. And my deservings, what were they, but the deservings of a fallen, depraved, careless soul, that regards neither law nor Gospel ? Yes, sir, I immediately saw that, if ever I were saved, it must be by the free mercy of God, and that the whole praise and honor of the work would be his from first to last." dairyman's daughter. 19 " What change did you perceive in yourself with re. spect to the world ?" " It appeared all vanity and vexation of spirit. I found it necessary to my peace of mind to ' come out from among them and be separate.' I gave myself to prayer ; and many a precious hour of secret delight I enjoyed in com- munion with God. Often I mourned over my sins, and sometimes had a great conflict through unbelief, fear, temp- tation to return back again to my old ways, and a variety of difficulties which lay in my way. But he who loved me with an everlasting love, drew me by his loving kind- ness, showed me the way of peace, gradually strengthened me in my resolutions of leading a new life, and taught me that, while without him I could do nothing, I yet might do all things through his strength." " Did you not find many difficulties in your situation, owing to your change of principle and practice ?" " Yes, sir, every day of my life. I was laughed at by some, scolded at by others, scorned by enemies, and pitied by friends. I was called hypocrite, saint, false deceiver, and many more names, which were meant to render me hateful in the sight of the world. But I esteemed the re- proach of the cross an honor. I forgave and prayed for my persecutors, and remembered how very lately I had acted the same part towards others myself. I thought also that Christ endured the contradiction of sinners ; and, as the disciple is not above his Master, I was glad to be in any way conformed to his sufferings. " " Did you not then feel for your relatives at home ?" " Yes, that I did indeed, sir ; they were never out of my thoughts. I prayed continually for them, and had a longing desire to do them good. In particular, I felt for my father and mother, as they were getting into years, and were very ignorant and dark in matters of religion." " Ay," interrupted her mother, sobbing, " ignorant and dark, sinful and miserable we. were, till this dear Betsey — 20 dairyman's daughter. this dear Betsey — this dear child, sir, brought Christ Jesus home to her poor father and mother's house." " No, dearest mother, say rather, Christ Jesus brought your poor daughter home to tell you what he had done for her soul, and I hope, to do the same for yours." At this moment the Dairyman came in with two pails of milk hanging from the yoke on his shoulders. He had stood behind the half-opened door for a few minutes, and heard the last sentences spoken by his wife and daughter. " Blessing and mercy upon her," said he, " it is very true ; she would leave a good place of service on purpose to live with us, that she might help us both in soul and body. Sir, don't she look very ill ? I think, sir, we shan't have her here long." " Leave that to the Lord," said Elizabeth. " All our times are in his hand, and happy it is that they are. I am willing to go ; are not you willing, my father, to part with me into his hands, who gave me to you at first V 9 " Ask me any question in the world but that," said the weeping father. \ " I know," said she, " you wish me to be happy." " I do, I do," answered he : " let the Lord do with you and us as best pleases him." I then asked her, on what her present consolations chiefly depended, in the prospect of approaching death. " Entirely, sir, on my view of Christ. When I look at myself, many sins, infirmities, and imperfections, cloud the image of Christ which I want to see in my own heart. But when I look at the Saviour himself, he is altogether lovely ; there is not one spot in his countenance, nor one cloud over all his perfections. " I think of his coming in the flesh, and it reconciles me to the sufferings of the body ; for he had them as well as 1. I think of his temptations, and believe that he is able to succor when I am tempted. Then I think of his cross, and learn to bear my own. I reflect on his death, and long DAUGHTER. 21 to die unto sin, so that it may no longer have dominion over me. I sometimes think on his resurrection, and trust that he has given me a part in it, for I feel that my affections are set upon things above. Chiefly I take comfort in think- ing of him as at the right hand of the Father, pleading my cause, and rendering acceptable even my feeble prayers, both for myself and, as I hope, for my dear friends. " These are the views which, through mercy, I have of my Saviour's goodness ; and they have made me wish and strive in my poor way to serve him, to give myself up to him, and to labor to do my duty in that state of life into which it has pleased him to call me. " A thousand times I should have fallen and fainted, if he had not upheld me. I feel that I am nothing without him. He is all in all. " Just so far as I can cast my care upon him, I find strength to do his will. May he give me grace to trust him to the last moment ! I do not fear death, because I believe he has taken away its sting. And oh ! what happiness be- yond ! Tell me, sir, whether you think I am right. I hope I am under no delusion. I dare not look, for my hope, at any thing short of the entire fulness of Christ. When I ask my own heart a question, I am afraid to trust it, for it is treacherous, and has often deceived me. But when I ask Christ, he answers me with promises that strengthen and refresh me, and leave me no room to doubt his power and will to save. I am in his hands, and would remain there ; and I do believe that he will never leave nor forsake me, but will perfect the thing that concerns me. He loved me and gave himself for me, and I believe that his gifts and calling are without repentance. In this hope I live, in this I wish to die." I looked around me as she was speaking, and thought, " Surely this is none other than the house of God, and the gate of heaven." Everything appeared neat, cleanly, and interesting. The afternoon had been rather overcast with Elej?. Nar. 3 22 dark clouds, but just now the setting sun shone brightly and rather suddenly into the room. It was reflected from three or four rows of bright pewter plates and white earth- enware arranged on shelves against the wall ; it also gave brilliancy to a few prints of sacred subjects that hung there also, and served for monitors of the birth, baptism, crucifix- ion, and resurrection of Christ. A large map of Jerusalem, and a hieroglyphic of " the old and new man," completed the decorations on that side of the room. Clean as was the white-washed wall, it was not cleaner than the rest of the place and its furniture. Seldom had the sun enlightened a house where order and general neatness (those sure attend- ants of pious and decent poverty) were more conspicuous. This gleam of setting sunshine was emblematical of the bright and serene close of this young Christian's departing season. One ray happened to be reflected from a little look- ing-glass upon the face of the young woman. Amidst her pallid and decaying features there appeared a calm resigna- tion, triumphant confidence, unaffected humility, and tender anxiety, which fully declared the feelings of her heart. Some further affectionate conversation, and a short prayer, closed this interview. As I rode home by departing daylight, a solemn tran- quillity reigned throughout the scene. The gentle lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep just penned in their folds, the humming of the insects of the night, the distant murmurs of the sea, the last notes of the birds of day, and the first warblings of the nightingale^ broke upon the ear, and served rather to increase than lessen the peaceful serenity of the evening, and its corresponding effects on my own mind. It invited and cherished just such meditations as my visit had already inspired. Natural scenery, when viewed in a Christian mirror, frequently affords very beau- tiful illustrations of divine truth. We are highly favored, when we can enjoy them, and at the same time draw neai to God in them. 23 Soon after this, I received a hasty summons, to inform me that my young friend was dying. It was brought by a soldier, whose countenance bespoke seriousness, good sense, and piety. " I am sent, sir, by the father and mother of Elizabeth W , at her own particular request, to say how much they all wish to see you. She is going home, sir, very fast indeed." " Have you known her long V 9 I replied. " About a month, sir ; I love to visit the sick, and hear- ing of her case from a serious person who lives close by our camp, I went to see her. I bless God that ever I did go. Her conversation has been very profitable to me." " I rejoice," said I, " to see in you, as I trust, a Irother soldier. Though we differ in our outward regimentals, I hope we serve under the same spiritual Captain. I will go with you." My horse was soon ready. My military companion walked by my side, and gratified me with very sensible and pious conversation. He related some remarkable tes- timonies of the excellent disposition of the Dairyman's Daughter, as they appeared from some recent intercourse which he had had with her. " She is a bright diamond, sir," said the soldier, " and will soon shine brighter than any diamond upon earth." Conversation beguiled the distance, and shortened- the apparent time of our journey, till we were nearly arrived at the Dairyman's cottage. As we approached it, we became silent. Thoughts of death, eternity, and salvation, inspired by the sight of a house where a dying believer lay, filled my own mind, and, I doubt not, that of my companion also. No living object yet appeared, except the Dairyman's dog, keeping a kind of mute watch at the door; for he did not, as formerly, bark at my approach. He seemed to partake so far of the feelings appropriate to the circum- 24 dairyman's daughter. stances of the family, as not to wish to give a hasty or painful alarm. He came forward to the little wicket-gate, then looked back at the house-door, as if conscious there was sorrow within. It was as if he wanted to say, " Tread softly over the threshold, as you enter the house of mourn- ing; for my master's heart is full of grief." A solemn serenity appeared to surround the whole place. It was only interrupted by the breeze passing through the large elm-trees which stood near the house, which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs of sorrow. I gently opened the door ; no one appeared, and all was still silent. The soldier fol- lowed*; we came to the foot of the stairs. " They are come," said a voice which I knew to be the father's ; " they are come." He appeared at the top ; I gave him my hand, and said nothing. On entering the room above, I saw the aged mother and her son supporting the much-loved daughter and sister ; the son's wife sat weeping in a window-seat, with a child on her lap ; two or three persons attended in the room to discharge any office which friendship or neces- sity might require. I sat down by the bedside. The mother could not weep, but now and then sighed deeply, as she alternately looked at Elizabeth and at me. The big tear rolled down the brother's cheek, and testified an affectionate regard. The good old man stood at the foot of the bed, leaning upon the post, and unable to take his eyes off the child from whom he was so soon to part. Elizabeth's eyes were closed, and as yet she perceived me not. But over her face, though pale, sunk, and hollov; the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, had cast a triumphant calm. The soldier, after a short pause, silently reached out his Bible towards me, pointing with his finger at 1 Cor. 15 : 55-57. I then broke silence by reading the passage, " O 25 death, where is thy sting ? O grave, where is thy victory 1 The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ." At the sound of these words her eyes opened, and something like a ray of divine light beamed on her counte- nance, as she said, " Victory, victory ! through our Lord Jesus Christ." She relapsed again, taking no further notice of any one present, " God be praised for the triumph of faith," I said. "Amen," replied the soldier. The Dairyman's uplifted eye showed that the Amen was in his heart, though his tongue failed to utter it. A short struggling for breath took place in the dying young woman, which was soon over, and then I said to her — " My dear friend, do you not feel that you are sup- ported ?" " The Lord deals very gently with me," she replied. " Are not his promises now very precious to you V* " They are all yea and amen in Christ Jesus." "Are you in much bodily pain?" "So little that I almost forget it !" " How good the Lord is !" " And how unworthy am I !" " You are going to see him as he is." - "I think I hope I believe that I am." She again fell into a short slumber. Looking at her mother, I said, " What a mercy to have a child so near heaven as yours is !" " And what a mercy," she replied in broken accents, " if her poor old mother might but follow her there ! But sir, it is so hard to part — " " I hope through grace, by faith, you will soon meet, to Dart no more ; it will be but a little while." 3* 26 " Sir," said the Dairyman, " that thought supports me, and the Lord's goodness makes me feel more reconciled than I was." "Father.... mother...." said the reviving daughter, "he is good to me. ...trust him, praise him evermore." " Sir," added she in a faint voice, " I want to thank you for your kindness to me I want to ask a favor; you buried my sister will you do the same for me ?" "All shall be as you wish, if God permit," I replied. " Thank you, sir, thank you I have another favor to ask When I am gone, remember my father and mother. They are old, but I hope the good work is begun in their souls. ...My prayers are heard. ...Pray come and see them.... I cannot speak much, but I want to speak, for their sakes.... Sir, remember them." The aged parents now sighed and sobbed aloud, utter- ing broken, sentences, and gained some relief by such an expression of their feelings. At length I said to Elizabeth, " Do you experience any doubts or temptations on the subject of your eternal safety V "No, sir; the Lord deals very gently with me, and gives me peace." " What are your views of the dark valley of death, now that you are passing through it ?" " It is not dark." " Why so ?" " My Lord is there, and he is my light and my salva tion." " Have you any fears of more bodily suffering ?" " The Lord deals so gently with me, I can trust him." Something of a convulsion came on. When it was past, she said again and again, " The Lord deals very gently with me. Lord, I am thine, save me.... Blessed Jesus.... Precious Saviour.... His blood cleanseth from all sin....Who shall separate ?.... His name is Wonderful.... Thanks be to God.. ..He giveth us dairyman's daughter. 27 the victory.... I, even I, am saved.... grace, mercy, and wonder — Lord, receive my spirit. "Dear sir.. ..dear father, mother, friends, I am going..., but all is well, well, well ." She relapsed again — We knelt down to prayer — The Lord was in the midst of us, and blessed us. She did not again revive while I remained, nor ever speak any more words which could be understood. She slumbered for about ten hours, and at last sweetly fell asleep in the arms of the Lord, who had dealt so gently with her. I left the house an hour after she had ceased to speak. I pressed her hand as I was taking leave, and said, " Christ is the resurrection and the life." She gently returned the pressure, but could neither open her eyes nor utter a reply. I never had witnessed a scene so impressive as this before. It completely filled my imagination as I returned home. " Farewell," thought I, " dear friend, till the morning of an eternal day shall renew our personal intercourse. Thou wast a brand plucked from the burning, that thou mightest become a star shining in the firmament of glory. I have seen thy light, and thy good works, and I will therefore glorify our Father which is in heaven. J have seen in thy example, what it is to be a sinner freely saved by grace. I have learned from thee, as in a living mir- ror, who it is, that begins, continues, and ends the work of faith and love. Jesus is all in all ; he will and shall be glorified. He won the crown, and alone deserves to wear it. May no one attempt to rob him of his glory ; he saves, and saves to the uttermost. Farewell, dear sister in the Lord. Thy flesh" and thy heart may fail ; but God is the strength of thy heart, and shall be thy portion for ever." I was soon called to attend the funeral of my friend, who breathed her last shortly after my visit. Many pleas- ing yet melancholy thoughts were connected with the ful- 28 dairyman's daughter. filment of this task. I retraced the numerous and important conversations which I had held with her. But these could now no longer be held on earth. I reflected on the in- teresting and improving nature of Christian friendships, whether formed in palaces or in cottages ; and felt thank ful that I had so long enjoyed that privilege with the sub- ject of this memorial. I indulged a sigh, for a moment, on thinking that I could no longer hear the great truths of Christianity uttered by one who had drunk so deep of the waters of life. But the rising murmur was checked by the animating thought, " She is gone to eternal rest — could I wish to bring her back to this vale of tears ?" As I travelled onward to the house where lay her re- mains in solemn preparation for the grave, the first sound of a tolling bell struck my ear. It proceeded from a vil- lage church in the valley directly beneath the ridge of a high hill, over which I had taken my way — it was Eliza, beth's funeral knell. It was a solemn sound, but it seemed to proclaim at once the blessedness of the dead who die in the Lord, and the necessity of the living pondering these things, and laying them to heart. On entering the cottage, I found that several Christian friends, from different parts of the neighborhood, had as- sembled together to show their last tribute of esteem and regard to the memory of the Dairyman's Daughter. I was requested to go into the chamber where the relatives and a few other friends were gone to take a last look at the remains of Elizabeth. If there be a moment when Christ and salvation, death, judgment, heaven, and hell, appear more than ever to be momentous subjects of meditation, it is that which brings us to the side of a coffin containing the body of a departed believer. Elizabeth's features were altered, but much of her like- ness remained. Her father and mother sat at the head, her briber at the foot of the coffin, manifesting their deep 29 and unfeigned sorrow. The weakness and infirmity of old age added a character to the parents' grief, which called for much tenderness and compassion. A remarkably decent-looking woman, who had the management of the few simple, though solemn ceremonies ^hich the case required, advanced towards me, saying, " Sir, this is rather a sight of joy than of sorrow. Oui dear friend Elizabeth finds it to be so, I have no doubt She is beyond all sorrow. Do you not think she is, sir ?'' "After what I have known, and seen, and heard," ] replied, " I feel the fullest assurance, that, while her bod} remains here, her soul is with her Saviour in Paradise. She loved him here, and there she enjoys the pleasure? which are at his right hand for evermore." " Mercy, mercy upon a poor old creature almost broken down with age and grief, what shall I do ? Betsey's gone — my daughter's dead. Oh ! my child, I shall never see thee more ! God be merciful to me a sinner !" sobbed out the poor mother. " That last prayer, my dear good woman," said I, " will bring you together again. It is a cry that has brought thousands to glory. It brought your daughter thither, and I hope it will bring you there likewise. He will in no wise cast out any that come to him." " My dear," said the Dairyman, breaking the long si- lence he had maintained, " let us trust God with our child, and let us trust him with our ownselves. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord ! We are old, and can have but a little farther to travel in our journey, and then" — he could say no more. The soldier before mentioned reached a Bible into my ■hand, and said, '•' Perhaps, sir, you would not object to reading a chapter before we go to the church." I did so ; it was the fourteenth of the book of Job. A sweet tranquillity prevailed while I read it. Each minute that was spent in this funeral-chamber, seemed to be valu 30 dairyman's daughter. able. I made a few observations on the chapter, and con- nected them with the case of our departed sister. "I am but a poor soldier," said our military friend, " and have nothing of this world's goods beyond my daily subsistence ; but I would not exchange my hope of salva- tion in the next world, for all that this world could bestow without it. What is wealth without grace ? Blessed be God, as I march about from one quarter to another, I still find the Lord wherever I go ; and thanks be to his holy name, he is here to-day in the midst of this company of the living and the dead. I feel that it is good to be here." Some other persons present began to take a part in the conversation, in the course of which the life and experience of the Dairyman's Daughter were brought forward in a very interesting manner ; each friend had something to re- late in testimony of her gracious disposition. One distant relative, a young woman under twenty, who had hitherto been a very light and trifling character, appeared to be re- markably impressed by the conversation of that day ; and I have since had ground to believe that divine grace then began to influence her in the choice of that better part, which shall not be taken from her. What a contrast does such a scene as this exhibit, when compared with the dull, formal, unedifying, and often indecent manner in which funeral parties assemble in the house of death ! But the time for departure to the church was now at hand. I went to take my last look at the deceased. There was much written on her countenance : she had evidently departed with a smile. It still remained, and spoke the tranquillity of her departing soul. According to the custom of the place, she was decorated with leaves and flowers in the cofiin ; these indeed were fading flowers, but they re- minded me of that Paradise whose flowers are immortal, and where her never-dying soul is at rest. I remembered the last words which I had heard her dairyman's daughter. 31 speak, and was instantly struck with the happy thought, that " death was indeed swallowed up in victory. " As I slowly retired, I said inwardly, " Peace, my honored sister, to thy memory, and to my soul, till we meet in a bet- ter world." In a little time the procession formed ; it was rendered the more interesting by the consideration of so many that followed the coffin being persons of truly serious and spir- itual character. After we had advanced about a hundred yards, my meditation was unexpectedly and most agreeably inter- rupted by the friends, who followed the family, beginning to sing a funeral Psalm. Nothing could be more sweet or solemn. The well-known effect of the open air in soften- ing and blending the sounds of music was here peculiarly felt. The road through which we passed was beautiful and romantic : it lay at the foot of a hill, which occasion- ally reechoed the voices of the singers, and seemed to give faint replies to the notes of the mourners. The funeral knell was distinctly heard from the church tower, and greatly increased the effect which this simple and becoming service produced. I cannot describe the state of my own mind as pecu- liarly connected with the solemn singing. I never wit- nessed a similar instance before or since. I was reminded of elder times and ancient piety. I wished the practice more frequent. It seems well calculated to excite and cherish devotion and religious affections. We at length arrived at the church. The service was heard with deep and affectionate attention. When we came to the grave, the hymn which Elizabeth had selected was sung. All was devout, simple, decent, animating. We committed our dear friend's body to the grave, in full hope of a joyful resurrection from the dead. Thus was the vail of separation drawn for a season. She is departed and no more seen. But she will be seen at 32 dairyman's daughter. the right hand of her Redeemer at the last day , and will again appear to his glory, a miracle of grace and a monu ment of mercy. My reader, rich or poor, shall you and I appear there likewise 1 Are we " clothed with humility," and arrayed in the wedding-garment of a Redeemer's righteousness? Are we turned from idols to serve the -living God ? Are we sensible of our own emptiness, flying to a Saviour's fulness to obtain grace and strength ? Do we live in him, and on him, and by him, and with him ? Is he our all in all 1 Are we " lost and found ;" " dead, and alive again V My poor reader, the Dairyman's Daughter was a poor girl, and the child of a poor man. Herein thou resem- blest her : but dost thou resemble her, as she resembled Christ ? Art thou made rich by faith ? Hast thou a crown laid up for thee ? Is thine heart set upon heavenly riches ? If not, read this story once more, and then pray earnestly for like precious faith. If, through grace, thou dost love and serve the Redeemer that saved the Dairyman's Daugh- ter, grace, peace, and mercy be with thee. The lines are fallen unto thee in pleasant places : thou hast a goodly heri- tage. Press forward in duty, and wait upon the Lord, possessing thy soul in holy patience. Thou hast just been with me to the grave of a departed believer. Now " go thy way till the end be ; for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days." Dan. 12 : 13. Note. — The mother died about six months after her daughter, and I have good reason to believe that God was merciful to her, and took her to himself. May every converted child thus labor and pray for the salvation of their unconverted parents. The father continued for some time after her, and adorned his old age with a walk and con- versation becoming the Gospel. I cannot doubt that the daughter and both her parents are now met together in " the land of pure delights, where saints immortal reign." NARRATIVE II. THE SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. BY MRS. HANNAH MORE. R. JOHNSON, a very worthy, cliaritable gentleman, was travel- ling some time ago across one of those vast plains, which are well known in Wiltshire. It was a fine summer's evening, and he rode slowly, that he might have leisure to admire God in the works of his creation. For this gentleman was of opinion, that a walk or a ride was as proper a time as any to think about o-ood things : for which reason, on such occasions, he seldom thought so much about his money, or his trade, or public news, as at other times, that he might with more ease and satisfaction em'ov the pious thoughts which the visible 2 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. works of the great Maker of heaven and earth are intend- ed to raise in the mind. His attention was all of a sudden called off by the barking of a shepherd's dog, and looking up, he spied one of those little huts which are here and there to be seen on those great Downs ; and near it was the shepherd himself, busily employed with his dog in collecting together his vast flock of sheep. As he drew nearer, he perceived him to be a clean, well-looking poor man, near fifty years of age. His coat, though at first it had probably been of one dark color, had been in a long course of years so often patched with different sorts of cloth, that it was now become hard to. say which had been the original color. But this, while it gave plain proof of the shep- herd's poverty, equally proved the exceeding neatness, industry, and good management of his wife. His stock- ings no less proved her good housewifery, for they were entirely covered with darns of different colored worsted, but had not a hole in them ; and his shirt, though nearly as coarse as the sails of a ship, was as white as the drifted snow, and was neatly mended where time had either made a rent or worn it thin. This furnishes a rule of judging, by which one will seldom be deceived. If I meet with a laborer hedging, ditching, or mending the highways, with his stockings and shirt tight and whole, however mean and bad his other garments are, I have seldom failed, on visiting his cottage, to find that also clean and well-ordered, and his wife notable, and worthy of encouragement. Whereas a poor woman who will be lying abed, or gossiping with her neighbors, when she ought to be fitting out her husband in a cleanly manner, will seldom be found to be very good in other respects. This was not the case with our shepherd ; and Mr. John- son was not more struck with the decency of his mean and frugal dress, than with his open, honest countenance, which bore strong marks of health, cheerfulness, and spirit. SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 3 Mr. Johnson, who was on a journey, and somewhat fearful from the appearance of the sky, that rain was at no great distance, accosted the shepherd with asking what sort of weather he thought it would be on the morrow. " It will be such weather as pleases me," answered the shepherd. Though the answer was delivered in the mild- est and civilest tone that could be imagined, the gentle- man thought the words themselves rather rude and surly, and asked him how that could be. "Because," replied the shepherd, "it will be such Weather as shall please God, and whatever pleases him, always pleases me." Mr. Johnson, who delighted in good men and good things, was very well satisfied with his reply. For he justly thought that though a hypocrite may easily contrive to appear better than he really is, to a stranger, and that no one should be too soon trusted merely for having a few good words in his mouth ; yet, as he knew that " out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," he always accustomed himself to judge favorably of those who had a serious deportment and solid manner of speak- ing. It looks as if it proceeded from a good habit, said he, and though I may now and then be deceived by it, yet it has not often happened to me to be so. Whereas, if a man accosts me with an idle, dissolute, vulgar, inde- cent, or profane expression, I have never been deceived in him, but have generally, on inquiry, found his character to be as bad as his language gave me room to expect. He entered into conversation with the shepherd in the following manner: "Yours is a troublesome life, honest friend," said he. " To be sure, sir," replied the shepherd, "'tis not a very lazy life; but 'tis not near so toilsome as that which my great Master led for my sake; and he had every state and condition of life at his choice, and chose a hard one, while I only submit to the lot that is appointed me." "You are exposed to great cold and heat," said the gentleman. "True, sir," said the shep- 4 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. herd, "but then I am not exposed to great temptations; and so throwing one thing against another, God is pleased to contrive to make things more equal than we poor, igno- rant, short-sighted creatures are apt to think. David was happier when he kept his father's sheep on such a plain as this, and was employed in singing some of his own psalms, perhaps, than ever he was when he became king of Israel and Judah. And I dare say, we should never have had some of the most beautiful texts in all those line psalms, if he had not been i shepherd, which enabled him to make so many fine comparisons and similitudes, as one may say, from country life, flocks of sheep, hills and valleys, and fountains of water." " You think, then," said the gentleman, " that a labo- rious life is a happy one." "I do, sir, and more so espec- ially as it exposes a man to fewer sins. If king Saul had continued a poor laborious man to the end of his days, he might have lived happy and honest, and died a natural death in his bed at last, which ycu know, sir, was more than he did. But I speak with reverence ; fQr it was divine Providence overruled all that, you know, sir, and I do not presume to make comparisons. Besides, sir, my employment has been particularly honored. Moses was a shepherd in the plains of Midian. It was to 'shepherds keeping their flocks by night,' that the angels appeared in Bethlehem, to tell the best news, the gladdest tidings, that ever were revealed to poor sinful men; often and often has the thought warmed my poor heart in the cold- est night, and filled me with more joy and thankfulness than the best supper could have done." Here the shepherd stopped, for he began to feel that he had made too free, and had talked too long. But Mr. Johnson was so well pleased with what he said, and witli the cheerful, contented manner in which he said it, that he desired him to go on freely, for it was a pleasure to him to meet with a plain man, who, without any kind of learn- SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 5 ing but what he had got from the Bible, was able- to talk so well on a subject which all men, high and low, rich and poor, are equally concerned. " Indeed, I am afraid I make too bold, sir, for it better becomes me to listen to such a gentleman as you seem to be, than to talk in my poor way ; but, as I was saying, sir, I wonder all working men do not derive as great joy and delight as I do, in thinking how God has honored poverty. Oh, sir, what great, or rich, or mighty men have had such honor put on them or their condition, as shep- herds, tent-makers, fishermen, and carpenters have had?" "My honest friend," said the gentleman, "I perceive you are well acquainted with Scripture." "Yes, sir, pretty well, blessed be God. Through his mercy I learnt to read when I was a little boy; though reading was not so common when I was a child, as I am told, through the goodness of Providence, and the generosity of the rich, it is likely to become nowadays. I believe there is no day, for the last thirty years, that I have not peeped at my Bible. If we can't find time to read a chapter, I defy any man to say he can't find time to read a verse ; and a single text, sir, well followed, and put in practice every day, would make no bad figure at the year's end; three hundred and sixty-five texts, without the loss of a mo- ment's time, would make a pretty stock, a little golden treasury, as one may say, from new-year's day to new- year's day; and if children were brought up to it, they would come to look for their texts as naturally as they do for their breakfast. No laboring man, 'tis true, has so much leisure as a shepherd ; for while the flock is feeding, I am obliged to be still, and at such times I can now and then tap a shoe for my children or myself, which is a great saving to us ; and while I am doing that, I repeat a bit of a chapter, which makes the time pass pleasantly in this wild, solitary place. T can say the best part of the Bible by heart : I believe I should not say the best 4* 6 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. part, for every part is good ; but I mean the greatest part. I have led but a lonely life, and have often had but little to eat ; but my Bible has been meat, drink, and company to me, as I may say; and when want and trouble have come upon me, I don't know what I should have done indeed, sir, if I had not had the promises of this book for my stay arid support." " You have had great difficulties, then," said Mr. John- son. "Why, as to that, sir, not more than neighbors' fare ; I have but little cause to complain, and much to be thank- ful; but I have had some struggles, as I will leave you to judge. I have a wife and eight children, whom I bred up in that little cottage which you see under the hill about half a mile off." "What, that with the smoke coming out of the chimney?" said the gentleman. "Oh no, sir," replied the shepherd, smiling, " we have seldom smoke in the evening, for we have little to cook, and firing is very dear in these parts. 'Tis that cottage which you see on the left hand of the church, near that little tuft of hawthorns." " What, that hovel with only one room above and below, with scarcely any chimney? How is it possi- ble you can live there with such a family?" "Oh, it is very possible, and very certain too," cried the shepherd. " How many better men have been worse lodged. How many good Christians have perished in prisons and dun- geons, in comparison of which my cottage is a palace. The house is very well, sir, and if the rain did not some- times beat down upon us through the thatch when we are abed, I should not desire a better; for I have health, peace, and liberty, and no man maketh me afraid." " Well, I will certainly call upon you before it be long; but how can you contrive to lodge so many children?" "We do the best we can, sir. My poor wife is a very sickly woman, or we should always have done tolerably well. There are no gentry in the parish, so that she has not met with any great assistance in her sickness, The SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 7 good curate of the parish, who lives in that pretty par- sonage in the valley, is very willing, but not very able to assist us on these trying occasions, for he has little enough for himself, and a large family into the bargain. Yet he does what he can, and more than many rich men do, and more than he can well afford. Besides that, his prayers and good advice we are always sure of, and we are truly thankful for that; for a man must give, you know, sir, according to what he hath, and not according to what he hath not." "Are you in any distress at present?" said Mr. John- son. "No, sir, thank God," replied the shepherd. "I get my shilling a day, and most of my children will soon be able to earn something ; for we have only three under five years old. "Only!" said the gentleman; " that is a heavy burden." "Not at all; God fits the back to it. Though my wife is not able to do any out-of-door work, yet she breeds up her children to such habits of industry, that our little maids, before they are six years old, can first get a half-penny, and then a penny a day, by knitting. The boys who are too littl to do hard work, get a trifle by keeping the birds off the corn ; for this the farmers will give them a penny or two pence, and now and then a bit of bread and cheese into the bargain. When the season of crow-keeping is over, then they glean, or pick stones; any thing is better than idleness, sir ; and if they did not get a farthing by it, I would make them do it just the same, for the sake of giving them early habits of labor. " So you see, sir, I am not so badly off as many are : nay, if it were not that it cost me so much in 'potecary's stuff for my poor wife, I should reckon myself well of; nay, I do reckon myself well off; for, blessed be God, he has granted her life to my prayers, and T would work myself to a 'natomy, and live on one meal a day, to add one comfort to her valuable life. Indeed, I have often done the last, and thought it no great matter neither," 8 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. While they were in this part of the discourse, a fine, plump, cherry-cheek little girl ran up, out of breath, with a smile on her young, happy face, and without taking any notice of the gentleman, cried out with great joy, " Look here, father, only see how much I have got to-day !" Mr. Johnson was much struck with her simplicity, but puz- zled to know what was the occasion of this great joy. On looking at her, he perceived a small quantity of coarse wool, some of which had found its way through the holes of her clean, but scanty and ragged, woolen apron. The father said, "This has been a successful day indeed, Molly; but don't you see the gentleman?" Molly now made a low courtesy down to the very ground ; while Mr. Johnson inquired into the cause of the mutual satisfac- tion which both father and daughter had expressed at the unusual good fortune of the day. "Sir," said the shepherd, "poverty is a great sharp- ener of the wits. My wife and I cannot endure to see our children, poor as they are, without shoes and stock- ings, not only on account of the pinching cold, which cramps their poor little limbs, but because it degrades and debases them; and poor 'people who have but little regard to appearance, will seldom be found to have any great regard to honesty and goodness. I do n't say this is always the case, but I am sure it is so too often. Now, shoes and stockings being very dear, we never could afford to get them without a little contrivance. I must show you how I manage about the shoes, when you condescend to call at our cottage, sir: as to stockings, this is one way we take to help to get them. My young ones, who are too little to do much work, sometimes wander at odd hours over the hills for the chance of finding what little wool the sheep may drop when they rub themselves, as they are apt to do, against the bushes.* These scat- This piece of frugal industry is a real fact ; as is the character of the shepherd, and his uncommon knowledge of the Scriptures, SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. for there was no standing out on the plain, after such a snow as had fallen in the night. T went with a lighter ST 12 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. heart than usual, because I had left my poor wife a little better, and comfortably supplied for this day, and I now resolved more than ever to trust God for the supplies of the next. When I came back at night, my wife fell a crying as soon as she saw me. This, I own, 1 thought but a bad return for the blessings she had so lately re- ceived, and so I told her. 0, said she, it is too much, we are too rich ; I am now frightened, not lest we should have no portion in this world, but for fear we should have our whole portion in it. Look here, John ! So say- ing she uncovered the bed whereon she lay, and showed me two warm, thick, new blankets. I could not believe my own eyes, sir, because when I went out in the morn- ing I had left her with no other covering than our little old blue rug. I was still more amazed when she put half a crown into my hand, telling me she had had a visit from Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Jones, the latter of whom had bestowed all these good things upon us. Thus, sir, have our lives been crowned with mercies. My wife got about again, and I do believe, under Providence, it was owing to these comforts ; for the rheumatism, sir, without blank- ets by night and flannel by day, is but a baddish job, especially to people who have but little or no fire. She will always be a weakly body; but, thank God, her soul prospers and is in health. But I beg your pardon, sir, for talking on at this rate." "Not at all, not at all," said Mr. Johnson ; " I am much pleased with your story ; you shall certainly see me in a few days. Good-night." So saying, he slipped a crown into his hand and rode off. "Surely," said the shepherd, "^goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life,'" as he gave the money to his wife when he got home at night. As to Mr. Johnson, he found abundant matter for his thoughts during the rest of his journey. On the whole he was more disposed to envy than to pity the shepherd. "I have seldom seen," said he, "so happy a man. It is a SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 13 sort of happiness which the world could not give, and which I plainly see it has not heen able to take away. This must be the true spirit of religion. I see more and more, that true goodness is not merely a thing of words and opinions, but a living principle brought into every common action of a man's life. What else could have supported this poor couple under every bitter trial of want and sickness? No, my honest shepherd, I do not pity, 6ut I respect and even honor thee ; and I will visit thy poor hovel on my return to Salisbury, with as much pleasure as I am now going to the house of my friend." If Mr. Johnson keeps his word in sending me the account of his visit to the shepherd's cottage, I shall be very glad to entertain my readers with it. PART II. I am willing to hope that my readers will not be sorry to hear some further particulars of their old acquaintance, the shepherd of Salisbury plain. They will call to mind, that at the end of the first part, he was returning home, full of gratitude for the favors he had received from Mr. Johnson, whom we left pursuing his journey, after having promised to make a visit to the shepherd's cottage. Mr. Johnson, after having passed some time with his friend, set out on his return to Salisbury, and on the Sat- urday evening reached a very small inn, a mile or two distant from the shepherd's village ; for he never travelled on a Sunday. He went next morning to the church near- est the house where he passed the night ; and after tak- ing such refreshment as he could get at that house, he walked on to find out the shepherd's cottage. His reason for visiting him on Sunday was chiefly because he sup- posed it to be the only day which the shepherd's employ- ment allowed him to pass at home with his family ; and Eleg. Nar. 5 14 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. as Mr. Johnson had been struck with his talk, he thought it would be neither unpleasant nor unprofitable to observe how a man who carried such an appearance of piety, spent his Sunday ; for, though he was so low in the world, this gentleman was not above entering very closely into his character, of which he thought he should be able to form a better judgment, by seeing whether his practice at home kept pace with his profession abroad. For it is not so much by observing how people talk, as how they live, that we ought to judge of their characters, After a pleasant walk, Mr. Johnson got within sight of the cottage, to which he was directed by the clump of hawthorns and the broken chimney. He wished to take the family by surprise : and walking gently up to th6 house, he stood a while to listen. The door being hali open, he saw the shepherd — who looked so respectable in his Sunday coat, that he should hardly have known him — his wife, and their numerous family drawing round their little table, which was covered with a clean, though very coarse cloth. There stood on it a large dish of po- tatoes, a brown pitcher, and a piece of coarse loaf. The wife and children stood in silent attention, while the shep- herd, with uplifted hands and eyes, devoutly begged the blessing of Heaven on their homely fare. Mr. Johnson could not help sighing, to reflect that he had sometimes seen better dinners eaten with less appearance of thank- fulness. The shepherd and his wife then sat down with great seeming cheerfulness, but the children stood ; and while the mother was helping them, little fresh-colored Molly, who had picked the wool from the bushes with so much delight, cried out, " Father, I wish I was big enough to say grace ; I am sure I should say it very heartily to-day, for I was thinking, what must poor people do, who have no salt to their potatoes ; and do but look, our dish is quite full." « That is the true way of thinking, Molly,'' SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 15 said the father; "in whatever concerns bodily wants and bodily comforts, it is our duty to compare our own lot with the lot of those who are worse off, and this will keep us thankful. On the other hand, whenever we are tempted to set up our own wisdom or goodness, we must compare ourselves with those who are wiser and better, and that will keep us humble." Molly wc*> now so hungry, and found the potatoes so good, that she had no time to make any more remarks; but was devouring her dinner very heartily, when the barking of the great dog drew her attention from her trencher to the door, and spying the stranger, she cried out, "Look, father, see here; is not that the good gentleman?" Mr. Johnson, finding himself discovered, immediately walked in, and was heartily wel- comed by the honest shepherd, who told his wife that this was the gentleman to whom they were so much obliged. The good woman began, as some very neat people are rather too apt to do, with making many apologies, that her house was not cleaner, and that things were not in fitter order to receive such a gentleman. Mr. Johnson, however, on looking round, could discover nothing but tho most perfect neatness. The trenchers on which they were eating were almost as white as their linen; and notwithstanding the number and smallness of the chil- dren, there was not the least appearance of dirt or litter. The furniture was very simple and poor, hardly indeed amounting to bare necessaries. It consisted of four brown wooden chairs, which by constant rubbing, were become as bright as a looking-glass ; an iron pot and kettle ; a poor old grate, which scarcely held a handful of coal, and out of which the little fire that had been in it appeared to have been taken as soon as it had answered the end for which it had been lighted, that of boiling their pota- toes. Over the chimney stood an old-fashioned broad bright candlestick, and a still brighter spit ; it was pretty clear that this last was kept rather for ornament than 16 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. use. An old carved elbow-chair, and a chest of the same date which stood in the corner, were considered as the most valuable part of the shepherd's goods, having been in his family for three generations. But all these were lightly esteemed by him, in comparison of another pos- session, which, added to the above, made up the whole of what he had inherited from his father; and which last he would not have parted with, if no other could have been had, for a king's ransom : this was a large old Bible, which lay on the window-seat, neatly covered with brown cloth, variously patched. This sacred book was most rev- erently preserved from dog's-ears, dirt, and every other injury, but such as time and much use had made it suf- fer in spite of care. On the clean white Avails were pasted a Hymn on the Crucifixion of our Saviour, a print of the Prodigal Son, the Shepherd's Hymn, a New History of a true Book, and Patient Joe. After the first salutations were over, Mr. Johnson said that if they would go on quietly with their dinner, he would sit down. Though a good deal ashamed, they thought it more respectful to obey the gentleman, who, having cast his eye on their slender provisions, gently re- buked the shepherd for not having indulged himself, as it was Sunday, with a morsel of bacon to relish his potatoes. The shepherd said nothing, but poor Mary colored and hung down her head, saying, "Indeed, sir, it is not my fault ; I did beg my husband to allow himself a bit of meat to-day out of your honor's bounty; but he was too good to do it, and it is all for my sake." The shepherd seemed unwilling to come to an explanation, but Mr. Johnson desired Mary to go on. So she continued, "You must know, sir, that both of us, next to a sin, dread a debt, and indeed, in some cases a debt is a sin; but with all our care and pains we have never been able quite to pay off the doctor's bill for that bad fit of rheumatism which I had last winter. Now, when you were pleased to give SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 17 my husband that kind present the other day, I heartily desired him to buy a bit of meat for Sunday, as I said before, that he might have a little refreshment out of your kindness. But he answered, ' Mary, it is never out of my mind long together, that we still owe a few shil- lings to the doctor,' and thank God, it was all we did owe in the world. 'Now, if I carry him this money directly, it will not only show him our honesty and our good will, but it will be an encouragement to him to come to you another time, in case you should be taken once more in such a bad fit; for I must .own,' added my poor husband, ' that the thought of your being so terribly ill, without any help, is the only misfortune that I want courage to face.'" Here the grateful woman's tears ran down so fast that she could not go on. She wiped them with the corner of her apron, and humbly begged pardon for making so free. " Indeed, sir," said the shepherd, " though my wife is full as unwilling to be in debt as myself, yet I could hardly prevail on her to consent to my paying this money just then, because, she said, it was hard I should not have a taste of the gentleman's bounty myself. But for once, sir, I would have my own way. For you must know, as I pass the best part of my time alone, tending my sheep, 'tis a great point with me, sir, to get comfortable matter for my own thoughts ; so that 'tis rather self-interest in me, to allow myself no pleasures and no practices that wont bear thinking on over and over. For when one is a good deal alone, you know, sir, all one's bad deeds do so rush in upon one, as I may say, and so torment one, that there is no true comfort to be had, but in keeping clear of wrong doings and false pleasures; and that I suppose may be one reason why so many folks hate to stay a bit by them- selves. But, as I was saying, when I came to think the matter over on the hill yonder, said I to myself, a good dinner is a good thing, I grant, and yet it will be but cold comfort to me a week after, to be able to say — to be 5* 18 SHEPHERD OF SALiSBUK.iT PLAIJS. sure I had a nice shoulder of mutton last Sunday for din- ner, thanks to the good gentleman, but then I am in d eD t — I had a rare dinner, that's certain; but the pleas- ure of that has long been over, and the debt still re- mains — I have spent the crown, and now if my poor wife should be taken in one of those fits again, die she must, unless God work a miracle to prevent it, for I can get no help for her. This thought settled all ; and I set off di- rectly and paid the crown to the doctor with as much cheerfulness as I could have felt on sitting down to the fattest shoulder of mutton that was ever roasted. And if I was contented at the time, think how much more happy I have been at the remembrance. sir, there are no pleasures worth the name, but such as bring no plague or penitence after them." Mr. Johnson was satisfied with the shepherd's reasons, and agreed, that though a good dinner was not to be despised, yet it was not worthy to be compared with a " contented mind, which," as the prov- erb truly says, "is a continual feast." "But come," said the good gentleman, "what have we got in this brown mug?" "As good water," said the shepherd, "as any in the king's dominions. I have heard of countries beyond sea, in which there is no wholesome water ; nay, I have been myself in a great town not far off, where they are obliged to buy all the water they get, while a good Prov- idence sends to my very door a spring as clear and fine as Jacob's well. When I am tempted to repine that I have often no other drink, I call to mind that it was noth- ing better than a cup of cold water which the woman of Samaria drew for the greatest guest that ever visited this world." "Very well," replied Mr. Johnson; "but as your hon- esty has made you prefer a "poor meal to being in debt, I will at least send and get something for you to drink. I saw a little public-house just by the church, as I came along. Let that little rosy-faced fellow fetch a mug of beer." SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 19 So saying, he looked full at the boy, who did not offer to stir; hut cast an eye at his father, to know what he was to do. "Sir," said the shepherd, "I hope we shall not appear ungrateful, if we seem to refuse your favor; my little hoy would, I am sure, fly to serve you on any other occasion. But, good sir, it is Sunday, and should any of my family he seen at a public-house on a Sabbath- day, it would be a much greater grief to me than to drink water all my life. I am often talking against these do- ings to others ; and if I should say one thing and do anoth- er, you can't think what an advantage it would give many of my neighbors over me, who would be glad enough to report, that they caught the shepherd's son at the ale- house, without explaining how it happened. Christians, you know, sir, must be doubly watchful, or they will not only bring disgrace on themselves, but, what is much worse, on that holy name by which they are called, " "Are you not a little too cautious, my honest friend?" said Mr. Johnson. " I humbly ask your pardon, sir," re- plied the shepherd, "if I think that impossible. In my poor notion, I no more understand how a man can be too cautious, than how he can be too strong, or too healthy." "You are right, indeed," said Mr. Johnson, "as a gen- eral principle ;» but this struck me as a very small thing." " Sir," said the shepherd, " I am afraid you will think me very bold, but you encourage me to speak out." "'Tis what I wish," said the gentleman. " Then, sir," resumed the shepherd, "I doubt if, where there is a temptation to do wrong, any thing can be called small ; that is, in short, if there is any such thing as a small wilful sin. A poor man, like me, is seldom called out to do great things, so that it is not by a few striking deeds his character can be judged by his neighbors, but by the little round of daily customs he allows himself in." While they were thus talking, the children, who had stood very quietly behind, and had not stirred a foot, now began to scamper about 20 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. all at once, and in a moment ran to the window-seat to pick up their little old hats. Mr. Johnson looked sur- prised at this disturbance; the shepherd asked his par- don, telling him it was the sound of the church bell which had been the cause of their rudeness; for their mother had brought them up with such a fear of being too late for church, that it was but who could catch the first stroke of the bell, and be first ready. He had always taught them to think that nothing was more indecent than to get into church after it was begun ; for as the service opened with an exhortation to repentance, and a confes- sion of sin, it looked very presumptuous not to be ready to join in it ; it looked as if people did not feel themselves to be sinners. And though such as lived at a great dis- tance might plead difference of clocks as an excuse, yet those who lived within the sound of the bell could pre- tend neither ignorance nor mistake. Mary and her children set forward. Mr. Johnson and the shepherd followed, taking care to talk the whole way on such subjects as might fit them for the solemn duties of the place to which they were going. "I have often been sorry to observe," said Mr. Johnson, "that many, who are reckoned decent, good kind of people, and who would on no account neglect going to church, yet seem to care but little in what frame or temper of mind they go thither. They will talk of their worldly concerns till they get within the door, and then take them up again the very minute the sermon is over, which makes me ready to fear they lay too much stress on the mere form of go- ing to a place of worship. Now, for my part, I always find that it requires a little time to bring my mind into a state fit to do any common business well, much more this great and most necessary business of all." "Yes, sir," said the shepherd, "and then I think, too, how busy I should be in preparing my mind, if I was going into the presence of a great gentleman, or a lord, or a king; and SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 21 shall the King of kings be treated with less respect? Besides, one likes to see people feel as if going to church was a thing of choice and pleasure, as well as a duty, and that they were as desirous not to be the last there, as they would be if they were going to a feast or a fair." After service, Mr. Jenkins the clergyman, who was well acquainted with the character of Mr. Johnson, and had a great respect for him, accosted him with much civil- ity ; expressing his concern that he could not enjoy just now so much of his conversation as he wished, as he was obliged to visit a sick person at a distance, but hoped to have a little talk with him before he left the village. As they walked along together, Mr. Johnson made such inquiries about the shepherd as served to confirm him in the high opinion he entertained of his piety, good sense, industry, and self-denial. They parted, the clergyman promising to call in at the cottage on his way home. The shepherd, who took it for granted that Mr. John- son was gone to the parsonage, walked home with his wife and children, and was beginning in his usual way to catechize and instruct his family, when Mr. Johnson came in, and insisted that the shepherd should go on with his instructions just as if he were not there. This gentleman who was very desirous of being useful to his own servants and workmen in the way of religious instruction, was sometimes sorry to find, that though he took a good deal of pains, they did not now and then quite understand him ; for though his meaning was very good, his language was not always very plain; and though the things he said were not hard to be understood, yet the words were, es- pecially to such as were very ignorant. And he now be- gan to find out, that if people were ever so wise and good, yet if they had not a simple, agreeable, and familiar way of expressing themselves, some of their plain hearers would not be much the better for them. For this reason he was not above listening to the plain, humble way, in 22 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. which this honest man taught his family: for though he knew that he himself had many advantages over the shepherd, had more learning, and could teach him many things ; yet he was not too proud to learn, even of so poor a man, in any point where he thought the shepherd might have the advantage of him. This gentleman was much pleased with the know- ledge and piety he discovered in the answers of the chil- dren; and desired the shepherd to tell him how he con- trived to keep up a sense of divine things in his own mind and in that of his family, with so little leisure and so lit- tle reading. "0, as to that, sir," said the shepherd, "we do not read much except in one book, to be sure, but by hearty prayer for God's blessing on the use of that book, what little knowledge is needful seems to come of course, as it were ; and my chief study has been, to bring the fruits of the Sunday reading into the week's business, and to keep up the same sense of God in the heart, when the Bible is in the cupboard, as when it is in the hand. In short, to apply what I read in the book to what I meet with in the field." "I don't quite understand you," said Mr. Johnson. "Sir," replied the shepherd, "I have but a poor gift at conveying these things to others, though I have much comfort from them in my own mind ; but I am sure that the most ignorant and hard-working people, who are in earnest about their salvation, may help to keep up devout thoughts and good affections during the week, though they have hardly any time to look at a book. And it will help them to keep out bad thoughts, too, which is no small matter. But then they must know the Bible ; they must have read the word of God ; that is a kind of stock in trade for a Christian to set up with ; and it is this which makes me so diligent in teaching it to my children, and even in storing their memories with psalms and chapters. This is a great help to a poor, hard-working man, who SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 23 will scarcely meet with any thing but what he may turn to some good account. If one lives in the fear and love of God, almost every thing one sees abroad will teach one to adore his power and goodness, and bring to mind some text of Scripture, which shall fill the heart with thank- fulness and the mouth with praise. When I look upwards, 'the heavens declare the glory of God;' and shall I be silent and ungrateful ? If I look round and see the val- leys standing thick with corn, how can I help blessing that Power, 'who giveth me all things richly to enjoy?' I may learn gratitude from the beasts of the field, for the 'ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master's crib;' and shall a Christian not know, shall a Christian not con- sider what great things God has done for him? I, who am a shepherd, endearvor to fill my soul with a constant remembrance of that good Shepherd, who ' feedeth me in green pastures, and maketh me to lie down beside the still waters, and whose rod and staff comfort me.'" " You are happy," said Mr. Johnson, " in this retired life, by which you escape the corruptions of the world." " Sir," said the shepherd, " I do not escape the corruptions of my own evil nature. Even there, on that wild solitary hill, I can find out that my heart is prone to evil thoughts. I suppose, sir, that different states have different tempta- tions. You great folks that live in the world, perhaps are exposed to some, of which such a poor man as I am knows nothing. But to one who leads a lonely life lik^ me, evil thoughts are a chief besetting sin ; and I can no more withstand these without the grace of God, than a rich gentleman can withstand the snares of evil company, without the same grace. And I feel that I stand in need of God's help continually, and if he should give me up to my own evil heart, I should be lost." Mr. Johnson approved of the shepherd's sincerity, for he had always observed, that where there was no humil- ity, and no watchfulness against sin, there was no relig- 21 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. ion ; and he said, that the man who did not feel himself to be a sinner, in his opinion could not be a Christian. Just as they were in this part of their discourse, Mr. Jenkins the clergyman came in. After the usual saluta- tions, he said, " Well, shepherd, I wish you joy : I know you will be sorry to gain any advantage by the death of a neighbor ; but old Wilson, my clerk, was so infirm, and I trust so well prepared, that there is no reason to be sorry for his death. I have been to pray with him, but he died while I staid. I have always intended you should suc- ceed to his place ; 'tis no great matter of profit, but every little is something." "No great matter, sir!" cried the shepherd; "indeed it is a great matter to me; 'twill more than pay my rent. Blessed be God for all his goodness." Mary said noth- ing, but lifted up her eyes, full of tears, in silent grati- tude. " I am glad of this little circumstance," said Mr. Jenk- ins, " not only for your sake, but for the sake of the office itself. I so heartily reverence every religious institution, that I would never have even the Amen added to the excellent prayers of our church by vain or profane lips; and, if it depended on me, there should be no such thing in the land as an idle, drunken, or irreligious parish-clerk. Sorry I am to say, that this matter is not always suffi- ciently attended to, and that I know some of a very indif- ferent character." Mr. Johnson now inquired of the clergyman whether there were many children in the parish. "More than you would expect," replied he, "from the seeming small- ness of it, but there are some little hamlets which you do not see." "I think," returned Mr. Johnson, "I recollect that in the conversation I had with the shepherd on the hill yon- der, he told me you had no Sunday-school." " I am sorry to say we have none," said the minister; "I do what I SHEPHERD CTF SALISBURY PLAIN. 25 can to remedy this misfortune by public catechizing \ but having two or three churches to s'erve, I cannot give so much time as I wish to private instruction ; "and having a large family of my own, and no assistance from others, I have never been able to establish a school" *' There is an excellent institution in London," said Mr, Johnson, "called the Sunday-school society, w r hich kindly gives books and other helps, on the application of such pious ministers as stand in need of their aid, and which, 1 am sure, would have assisted you ; but I think we shall be able to do something ourselves. Shepherd," continued he, " if I were a king, and had it in my power to make you a rich and a great man, with a word speaking, I would not do it. Those who are raised by some sudden stroke, much above the station in which divine Providence had placed them, seldom turn out good or very happy. I have never had any great things in my power, but as far as I have been able, I have always been glad to assist the worthy ; I have, however, never attempted or desired to set any poor man much above his natural condition ; but it is a pleasure to me to lend him such assistance as may make that condition more easy to himself, and to put him in a way which shall call him to the performance of more duties than perhaps he could have performed without my help, and of performing them in a better manner. What rent do you pay for this cottage ?" " Fifty shillings a year, sir." "It is in a sad, tattered condition .; is there not a bet- ter to be had in the village V 1 " That in which the poor clerk lived," said the clergy- man, " is not only more tight and whole, but has two de- cent chambers, and a very large, light kitchen." " That will be very convenient," replied Mr. Johnson ; " pray what is the rent ?" " I think," said the shepherd, " pooi neighbor Wilson gave somewhere about four pounds a year, or it might be guineas." " Very well," said Mr vol. i, 6 26 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. Johnson, " and what will the clerk's place be worth, think you V " About three pounds," was the answer. " Now," continued Mr. Johnson, M my plan is, that the shepherd should take that house immediately; for as the poor man is dead, there will be no need of waiting till quarter-day, if I make up the difference." "True, sir," said Mr. Jenkins, " and I am sure my wife's father, whom 1 expect to-morrow, will willingly assist a little towards buying some of the clerk's old goods. And the sooner they remove the better, for poor Mary caught that bad rheumatism by sleeping under a leaky thatch." The shepherd was too much moved to speak, and Mary could hardly sob out, " 0, sir, you are too good ; indeed, this house will do very well." " It may do very well for you and your poor children, Mary," said Mr. Johnson gravely, "but it will not do for a school; the kitchen is neither large nor light enough. Shepherd," continued he, " with your good minister's leave and kind assistance, I propose to set up in this parish a Sunday-school, and to make you the master. It will not interfere with your weekly calling, and it is the only lawful way in which you can turn the Sabbath into a day of some little profit to your family, by doing, as I hope, a great deal of good to the souls of oth- ers. The rest of the week you will work as usual. The difference of rent between this house and the clerk's, I shall pay myself; for to put you in a better house at your own expense, would be no great kindness. As for honest Mary, who is not fit for hard labor, or any out-of-door work, I propose to endow a small weekly school, of which she shall be the mistress, and employ her notable turn to good account, by teaching ten or a dozen girls to knit, sew, spin, card, or any other useful way of getting their bread ; for all this I shall only pay her the usual price, for I am not going to make you rich, but useful." " Not rich, sir !" cried the shepherd. " How can I ever be thankful enough for such blessings? And will SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN 27 my poor Mary have a dry thatch overhead? and shall I be able to send for the doctor, when I am like to lose her 7 Indeed, my cup runs over with blessings. I hope God will give me humility." Here he and Mary looked at each other and burst into tears. The gentlemen saw their distress, and kindly walked out upon the green be- fore the door, that these honest people might give vent to their feelings. As soon as they were alone they crept into one corner of the room, where they thought they could not be seen, and fell on their knees, devoutly bless- ing and praising God for his mercies. Never were heart- ier prayers presented than this grateful couple offered up for their benefactors. The warmth of their gratitude could only be equalled by the earnestness with which they besought the blessing of God on the work in which, they were going to engage. The two gentleman now left this happy family, and walked to the parsonage, where the evening was spent in a manner very edifying to Mr. Johnson, who the next day took all proper measures for putting the shepherd in im- mediate possession of his now comfortable habitation. Mr. Jenkins' father-in-law, the worthy gentleman who gave the shepherd's wife the blankets, in the first part of this history, arrived at the parsonage before Mr. Johnson left it, and assisted in fitting up the clerk's cottage. Mr. Johnson took his leave, promising to call on the worthy minister and his new clerk once a year, in his summer's journey over the plain, as long as it would please God to spare his life. 28 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. THE SHEPHERD'S HYMN. The Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye : My noon-day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. When on the sultry glebe I faint, Or on the thirsty mountain pant, To fertile vales and dewy meads My weary, wftnd'ring steps he leads, Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow. Though in the paths of death I tread, With gloomy horrors overspread, My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, For thou. Lord, art with me still ; Thy friendly arm shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade. Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious, lonely wilds 1 stray, Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; The barren wilderness shall smile, With sudden greens and herbage crowned, And streams shall murmur all around. NARRATIVE III. 'TIS ALL FOR THE BEST, BY MRS. HANNAH MORE. "It is all for the best," said Mrs. Simpson, whenever any misfortune befell her. She had such a habit of vindi- cating Providence, that, instead of weeping and murmur- ing under the most trying dispensations, her chief care was to convince herself and others, that, however great might be her sufferings, and however little they could be account- ed for at present, the Judge of all the earth could not but do right. Instead of trying to clear herself from any possi- ble blame that might attach to her under those infirmities, which, to sneak after the manner of men, she seemed not to deserve, she was always the first to justify Him who 2 'tis all for the best. had inflicted them. It was not that she superstitiously con. verted every visitation into a punishment ; she entertained more correct ideas of that God who overrules all events. She knew that some calamities were sent to exercise her faith, others to purify her heart ; some to chastise her sins, and all, to remind her that this " is not our rest," that this world is not the scene for the full and final display of retri- butive justice. The honor of God was dearer to her than her own credit, and her chief desire was to turn all events to his glory. Though Mrs. Simpson was the daughter of a clergy- man, and the widow of a genteel tradesman, she had been reduced, by a succession of misfortunes, to accept of a room in an almshouse. Instead of repining at the change, in- stead of dwelling on her former gentility, and saying, " how handsomely she had lived once ; and how hard it was to be reduced ; and she little thought ever to end her days in an almshouse ;" (which is the common language of those who were never so well off before ;) she was thank- ful that such an asylum was provided for want and age; and blessed God that it was to the Christian dispensation alone that such pious institutions owed their birth. One fine evening, as she was sitting, reading her Bible, on the little bench shaded with honeysuckles, just before her door, who should come and sit down by her but Mrs. Betty, who had formerly been lady's maid at the noble- man's house in the village of which Mrs. Simpson's father had been minister. Betty, after a life of vanity, was, by train of misfortunes, brought to this very almshouse ; and though she had taken no care, by frugality and prudence, to avoid it, she thought it a hardship and disgrace, instead of being thankful, as she ought to have been, for such a retreat. At first she did not know Mrs. Simpson ; ner 'tis all for the best. 3 large bonnet, cloak, and brown stufFgown, (for she always made her appearance conform to her circumstances,) being very different from the dress she had been used to weai when Mrs. Betty had seen her dining at the great house ; and time and sorrow had much altered her countenance. But when Mrs. Simpson kindly addressed her as an old acquaintance, she screamed with surprise, " What ! you, madam ! you in an almshouse, living on charity ? you, who used to be so charitable yourself thai you never suffered any distress in the parish which you could prevent ?" " That may be one reason, Betty," replied Mrs. Simp- son, " why Providence has provided this refuge for my old age. And my heart overflows with gratitude when I look back on his goodness." " No such great goodness, methinks," said Betty ; "why, you were born and bred a lady, and are now re- duced to live in an almshouse." " Betty, I was born and bred a sinner, undeserving of the mercies I have received." " No such great mercies," said Betty ; " why, I heard you had been turned out of doors, that your husband had broke, and that you had been in danger of starving, though I did not know what was become of you." " It is all true, Betty, glory be to God ! it is all true." " Well," said Betty, " you are an odd sort of a gentle- woman. If from a prosperous condition I had been made a bankrupt, a widow, and a beggar, I should have thought it no such mighty matter to be thankful for ; but there is no accounting for taste. The neighbors used to say that all your troubles must needs be a judgment upon you ; but I, who knew how good you were, thought it very hard you should suffer so much ; but now I see you reduced to an almshouse, I beg your pardon, madam, but I am afraid the neighbors were in the right, and that so many misfortunes could never have happened to you unless you had commit- ted a great many sins to deserve them ; for I always thought that God is so just that he punishes us for all our bad ac- tions, and rewards us for all our good ones." " Ay, Betty ; but he does it in his own way, and at his own time, and not according to our notions of good and evil ; for his ways are not as our ways. God, indeed, punishes the bad and rewards the good ; but he does not do it fully and finally in this world. Indeed, he does not set such a value on outward things as to make riches, and rank, and beauty, and health, the rewards of piety ; that would be acting like weak and erring men, and not like a just and holy God. Our belief in a future state of rewards and punishments is not always so strong as it ought to be, even now ; but how totally would our faith fail if we regu- larly saw everything made even in this world. We shall lose nothing by having pay-day put off. The longest voy- ages make the best returns. So far am I from thinking that God is less just, and future happiness less certain, be- cause I see the wicked sometimes prosper, and the righteous suffer in this world, that I am rather led to believe that God is more just, and heaven more certain ; for, in the first place, God will not put off his favorite children with so poor a lot as the good things of this world ; and next, see- ing that the best men here below do not often attain to the best things, why, it only serves to strengthen my belief that they are not the best things in His eye ; and He has most assuredly reserved for those that love Him, such good things as I eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.' God, by keep- ing man in paradise while he was innocent, and turning him into this world as soon as he had sinned, gave a plain proof that he never intended this world, even in its happiest state, as a place of reward. My father gave me good prin- ciples and useful knowledge ; and while he taught me, by a habit of constant employment, to be, if I may so say, in. dependent of the world, he, at the same time, led me to a constant sense of dependence on God." " I do not see, however," interrupted Mrs. Betty, " that ^ our religion has been of any use to you. It has been so far from preserving you from trouble, that I think you have had more than the usual share." " No," said Mrs. Simpson ; " nor did Christianity ever pretend to exempt its followers from trouble ; this is no part of the promise. Nay, the contrary is rather stipulated : 'in the world ye shall have tribulation.' But if it has not taught me to escape sorrow, 1 humbly hope it has taught me how to bear it. If it has not taught me not to feel, it has taught me not to murmur. I will tell you a little of my story. As my father could save little or nothing for me, he was very desirous of seeing me married to a young gentleman in the neighborhood who expressed a regard for me. But while he was anxiously engaged in bringing this about, my good father died." " How very unlucky !" interrupted Betty. " No, Betty," replied Mrs. Simpson, " it was very prov- idential ; this man, though he maintained a decent charac- ter, had a good fortune, and lived soberly, yet he would not have made me happy." " Why, what could you want more of a man ?" said Bettv. "Religion," returned Mrs. Simpson. "As my father made a creditable appearance, and was very charitable, and I was an only child, this gentleman concluded that he could give me a considerable fortune ; for he did not know that all the poor in his parish are the children of every pious clergyman. Finding I had little or nothing left me, hd withdrew his attentions." vol. i. 7* 6 *T1S ALL FOR THE BEST. " What a sad thing !" cried Betty. k .» No, it was all for the best ; Providence overruled his covetousness to my good. I could not have been happy with a man whose soul was set on the perishable things of this world ; nor did I esteem him, though I labored to sub- mit my own inclinations to those of my kind father. The very circumstance of being left pennyless produced directly the contrary effect on Mr. Simpson : he was a sensible young man, engaged in a prosperous business ; we had long highly valued each other; but while my father lived, he thought me above his hopes. We were married ; I found him an amiable, industrious, good-tempered man ; he re- spected religion and religious people ; but with an excellent disposition, I had the grief to find him less pious than I had hoped. He was ambitious, and a little too much immersed in worldly schemes ; and though I knew it was all done for my sake, yet that did not blind me so far as to make me think it right. He attached himself so eagerly to business that he thought every hour lost in which he was not doing something that would tend to raise me to what he called my proper rank. The more prosperous he grew, the less re- ligious he became ; and I began to find that one might be unhappy with a husband she tenderly loved. But one day, having been absent on business, he was brought in with his leg broken in two places." " What a dreadful misfortune !" said Mrs. Betty. "What a signal blessing !" said Mrs. Simpson. " Here, I am sure I had reason to say all was for the best : from that very hour, in which my outward troubles began, I date the beginning of my happiness. Severe suffering, a near prospect of death, absence from the world, silence, reflec- tion, and, above all, the divine blessing on the prayers and Scriptures I read to him, were the means used by our merci- ful Father to turn my husband's heart. During this.confine- ment he was awakened to a deep sense of his own sinfulness, of the vanity of all this world has to bestow, and of his great need of a Saviour. It was many months before he could leave his bed. During this time his business was neglected. His principal clerk took advantage of his absence to receive large sums of money in his name, and absconded. On hearing of this great loss, our creditors came faster upon us than we could answer their demands ; they grew more impatient as we were less able to satisfy them ; one mis- fortune followed another, till at length Mr. Simpson became a bankrupt." " What an evil !" exclaimed Mrs. Betty. " Yet it led, in the end, to much good," resumed Mrs. Simpson. " We were forced to leave the town in which we had lived with so much credit and comfort, and to be- take ourselves to a mean lodging in a neighboring village, till my husband's strength should be recruited, and till we could have time to look about us and see what was to be done. The first night we spent in this poor dwelling my husband felt very sorrowful, not for his own sake, but that he had brought so much poverty on me, whom he so dearly loved. I, on the contrary, was unusually cheerful ; for the blessed change in his mind had more than reconciled me to the sad change in his circumstances. I was con- tented to live with him in a poor cottage for a few years or. earth, if it might contribute to our spending a blessed eter- nity together in heaven. I said to him, instead of lamenting that we are now reduced to want all the comforts of life, I have sometimes been almost ashamed to live in the full enjoyment of them, when I have reflected that my Saviour not only chose to deny himself all these enjoyments, but even to live a life of hardship for my sake : not one of his numerous miracles tended to his own comfort ; and though we read, at different times, that he both hungered and 8 'tis all for the best. thirsted, yet it was not for his own gratification that he once changed water into wine ; and I have often been struck with the nea^r position of that chapter in which this miracle is recorded, to that in which he thirsted for a draught of water at the well of Samaria. John 2 and 4. It was for others, not himself, that even the humble sus tenance of barley bread was multiplied. See here, we have a bed left us ; (I had, indeed, nothing but straw to fill \t with;) but the Saviour of the world < had not where to \iy his head.' My husband smiled through his tears, and we sat down to supper. It consisted of a roll and a bit of cheese which I had brought with me, and we ate it thankfully. Seeing Mr. Simpson beginning to relapse into distrust, the following conversation, as nearly as I can remember, took place between us. " He began by remarking, that it was a mysterious Providence that he had been less prosperous since he had been less attached to the world, and that his endeavors had not been followed with that success which usually attends industry. "I took the liberty to reply, Your heavenly Father sees on which side your danger lies, and is mercifully bringing you, by these disappointments, to trust less in the world, and more in himself. My dear Mr. Simpson, added I, we trust every body but God. As children, we obey our parents implicitly, because we are taught to believe all is for our good which they command or forbid. If we undertake a voyage, we trust entirely to the skill and con- duct of the pilot ; we never torment ourselves with thinking that he will carry us east, when he has promised to carry us west. If a dear and tried friend makes us a promise, we depend on him for the performance, and do not wound his feelings by our suspicions. When you used to go your annual journey in the mail-coach, you confided yourself to 'TIS ALL FOR THE BEST. 9 the care of the coachman, that he would carry you where he had engaged to ; you were not anxiously watching him, and distrusting, and inquiring at every turn. When the doctor sends home your medicine, don't you so fully trust in his ability and good- will that you take it in full confi- dence ? You never think of inquiring what are the ingredients, why they are mixed in that particular way, why there is more of one and less of another, and why they are bitter instead of sweet. If one dose does not cure you, he orders another ; and changes the medicine when he sees the first does you no good, or that by long use the same medicine has lost its effect; if a weaker fail, he pre- scribes a stronger; you swallow all, you submit to all, never questioning the skill or the kindness of the physi- cian. God is the only being whom we do not trust ; though he is the only one who is fully competent, both in will and power, to fulfil all his promises; and who has solemnly and repeatedly pledged himself to fulfil them, in those Scriptures which we receive as his revealed will. " Mr. Simpson thanked me for 'my little sermon,' as he called it ; but said, at the same time, that what made my exhortations produce a powerful effect on his mind, was the patient cheerfulness with which (he was pleased to say) I bore my share in our misfortunes. A submissive behavior, he said, was the best practical illustration of a real faith. "When we had thanked God for our supper, we prayed together ; after which we read the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews. When my husband had finished it he said, < Surely, if God's chief favorites have been martyrs, is not that a sufficient proof that this world is not a place of happiness, nor earthly prosperity the reward of virtue ? Shall we, after reading this chapter, complain of our petty trials ? Shall we not rather be thankful that our affliction is so light V El eg. Nar. 7 10 'tis all for the best. " Next day Mr. Simpson walked out in search of some employment, by which we might be supported. He got a recommendation to Mr. Thomas, an opulent farmer and factor, who had large concerns, and wanted a skilful per- son to assist him in keeping his accounts. This we thought a providential circumstance ; for we found that the salary would serve to procure us at least all the necessaries of life. The farmer was so pleased with Mr. Simpson's quick- ness, regularity, and good sense, that he offered us, of his own accord, a little neat cottage of his own, which then happened to be vacant, and told us we should live rent-free, and promised to be a friend to us." " All does seem for the best now, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Betty. " We shall see," said Mrs. Simpson, and thus went on : " I now became very easy and very happy ; and was cheerfully employed in putting our few things in order, and making every thing look to the best advantage. My husband, who wrote all the day for his employer, in the evenings assisted me in doing up our little garden. This was a source of much pleasure to us ; we both loved a garden, and we were not only contented, but cheerful. Our employer had been absent some weeks on his annual journey. He came home on Saturday night, and the next morning sent for Mr. Simpson to come and settle his ac- counts, which were behindhand on account of his long absence. We were just going to church, and Mr. Simp- son sent back word that he would call and speak to him on his way home. A second message followed, ordering him to come to the farmer's directly. We agreed to walk round that way, and that my husband should call and ex- cuse his attendance. " The farmer, more ignorant and worse educated than his ploughman, with all that pride and haughtiness which 'tis all for the best. 11 the possession of wealth, without knowledge or religion, is apt to give, rudely asked my husband what he meant by sending him word that he could not come to him till the next day, and insisted that he should stay and settle the accounts then. " ( Sir,' said my husband, in a very respectful manner, 1 1 am on my road to church, and am afraid I shall be too late.' " ' Are you so V said the farmer. * Do you know who sent for you 1 You may, however, go to church, if you will, so you make haste back j and, d'ye hear, you may leave your accounts with me, as I conclude you have brought them with you ; I will look them over by the time you re- turn, and then you and I can do all I want to have done to- day in about a couple of hours ; and I will give vou home some letters to copy for me in the evening.' " < Sir,' answered my husband, ' I dare not obey you , it is the Sabbath.' " ' And so you refuse to settle my accounts only because it is Sunday V " ' Sir,' replied Mr. Simpson, ' if you would give me a handful of silver and gold, I dare not break the command- ment of my God.' " i Well,' said the farmer, < but this is not breaking the commandment ; I don't order you to drive my cattle, or to work in my garden, or to do anything which you might fancy would be a bad example.' " < Sir,' replied my husband, ' the example, indeed, goes a great way, but it is not the first object. • The deed is wrong in itself.' " ' Well, but I shall not keep you from church ; and when you have been there, there is no harm in doing a little business or taking a little pleasure the rest of the day.' " ' Sir,' answered my husband, ' the commandment does 12 'tis all for the best. not say, thou shalt keep holy '-he Sabbath morning, but the Sabbath day. 9 " ' Get out of my house, you puritanical rascal, and out of my cottage too, 5 said the farmer ; * for if you refuse to do my work, I am not bound to keep my engagement with you ; as you will not obey me as a master, I shall not pay you as a servant.' " ' Sir,' said Mr. Simpson, ' I would gladly obey you, but I have a Master in heaven whom I dare not disobey.' " ' Then let him find employment for you,' said the en- raged farmer ; * for I fancy you # will get but poor employ- ment on earth with these scrupulous notions ; and so send home my papers directly, and pack out of the parish.' " * Out of your cottage,' said my husband, 'I certainly will ; but as to the parish, I hope I may remain in that, if 1 can find employment.' " 'I will make it too hot to hold you,' replied the farmer ; ' so you had better troop off, bag and baggage ; for I am overseer, and as you are sickly, it is my duty not to let any vagabonds stay in the parish who are likely to become chargeable.' " By the time my husband returned home, for he found it too late to go to church, I had got our little dinner ready : it was a better one than we had for a long while been accus- tomed to see, and I was unusually cheerful at this improve- ment in our circumstances. I saw his eyes full of tears ; and oh! with what pain did he bring himself to tell me that it was the last dinner we must ever eat in that house ! 1 took his hand with a smile, and only said, * The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name o the Lord.' " 'Notwithstanding this sudden stroke of injustice,' said my husband, ' this is still a happy country. Our employer, it is true, may turn us out at a moment's notice, because 13 the cottage is his own ; but he has no further power over us ; he cannot confine or punish us. His riches, it is true, give him power to insult, but not to oppress us. The same laws to which the affluent resort, protect us also. And as to our being driven out from a cottage, how many persons of the highest rank have lately been driven out from their palaces and castles ; persons, too, born in a station which we never enjoyed, and used to all the indulgences of that rank and wealth we never knew, and at this moment wan- dering over the face of the earth without a house and with- out bread, exiles and beggars ; while we, blessed be God, are in our own native land ; we have still our liberty, oui limbs, the protection of just and equal laws, our churches, our Bibles, and our Sabbaths.' " This happy state of my husband's mind hushed my sorrows, and I never once murmured ; nay, I sat down to dinner with a degree of cheerfulness, endeavoring to cast all our care on < Him that careth for us.' We had begged to stay till the next morning, as Sunday was not the day on which we liked to remove ; but we were ordered not to sleep another night in that house ; so, as we had little to carry, we marched off in the evening to the poor lodging we had before occupied. The thought that my husband had cheerfully renounced his little all for conscience' sake, gave an unspeakable serenity to my mind ; and I felt thank- ful, that, though cast down, we were not forsaken ; nay, I felt a lively gratitude to God, that while I doubted not he would accept this little sacrifice, as it was heartily made for his sake, he had graciously forborne to call us to greater trials." " And so you were turned adrift once more ? Well, ma'am, saving your presence, I hope you won't be such a fool as to say all was for the best now." 7* 14 " Yes, Betty, He who does all things well, now made his kind providence more manifest than ever. That very night, while we were sweetly sleeping in our poor lodging, the pretty cottage out of which we were so unkindly driven was burned to the ground by a flash of lightning, which caught the thatch and so completely consumed the whole little building, that had it not been for that merciful Provi- dence who thus overruled the cruelty of the farmer for the preservation of our lives, we might have been burned to ashes with the house. ' It was the Lord's doing, and it was marvellous in our eyes.' * that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men !' " I will not tell you all the trials and afflictions which befell us afterwards. I would also spare my heart the sad story of my husband's death." " Well, that was another blessing, too, I suppose," said Betty. " O, it was the severest trial ever sent me," replied Mrs. Simpson, a few tears quietly stealing down her face. " I almost sunk under it. Nothing but the abundant grace of God could have carried me through such a visitation ; and yet 1 now feel it to be the greatest mercy I ever experienced. He was my idol ; no trouble ever came near my heart while he was with me. I got more credit than I deserved for my patience under trials, which were easily borne while he who shared and lightened them was spared to me. 1 had, indeed, prayed and struggled to be weaned from the world ; but still my affection for him tied me down to earth %vith a strong cord ; and though I earnestly tried to keep my eyes fixed on the eternal world, yet I viewed it with too feeble a faith ; I viewed it at too great a distance. I found it difficult to realize it. I had deceived myself. I had fan- cied that I bore my troubles so well from the pure love of 'tis all for the best. 15 God ; but I have since found that my love for my husband had too great a share in reconciling me to every difficulty which I underwent for him. I lost him ; the charm was broken ; the cord which tied me down to earth was cut : this world had nothing left to engage me ; Heaven had now no rival in my heart. Though my love of God was before sincere, yet I found there wantea »his blow to make it more perfect. But though all that had made life pleasant to me was gone, I did not sink as those who have no hope. I prayed that I might still, in this trying conflict, be ena- bled to adorn the doctrine of God my Saviour. " After many more hardships, I was at length so happy as to get an asylum in this almshouse. Here my cares are at an end, but not my duties/' " Now you are wrong again," interrupted Mrs. Betty ; '*' your duty is now to take care of yourself; for I am sure you have nothing to spare." " There you are mistaken again," said Mrs. Simpson. " People are so apt to fancy that money is all in all, that all the other gifts of Providence are overlooked as things of no value. I have here a great deal of leisure ; a good part of this I devote to the wants of those who are more distressed than myself. I work a little for the old, and I instruct the young. My eyes are good ; this enables me to read the Bible both to those whose sight is decayed and to those who were never taught to read. I have tolerable health, so that I am able occasionally to sit up with tht sick ; in the intervals of nursing I can pray with them. Jn my younger days I thought it not much to sit up late for my pleasure ; shall I now think much of sitting up, now and then, to watch by a dying bed? My Saviour waked and watched for me in the garden and on the mount ; and shall I do nothing for his suffering members 1 It is only by keeping his sufferings in view that we can 16 'tis all for the best. truly practise charity to others, or exercise self-denial to ourselves." " Well," said Mrs. Betty, " I think if I had lived in such genteel life as you have done, I could never be reconciled to an almshouse ; and I am afraid I should never forgive any of those who were the cause of sending me there, par ticularly that farmer Thomas, who turned you out of doors." "Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, "I not only forgive him heartily, but I remember him in my prayers as one of those instruments with which it has pleased God to work for my good. O never put off forgiveness to a dying bed ! When people come to die, we often see how the conscience is troubled with sins, of which before they hardly felt the existence. How ready are they to make restitution of ill- gotten gain ; and this perhaps for two reasons : from a feel- ing conviction that it can be of no use to them where they are going, as well as from a near view of their own re- sponsibility. We also hear from the most hardened, of death-bed forgiveness of enemies. Even malefactors at Tyburn forgive. 'But why must we wait for a dying bed, to do what ought to be done now 1 Believe me, that scene will be so full of terror and amazement to the soul, that we need not load it with unnecessary business." Just as Mrs. Simpson was saying these words, a letter was brought her from the minister of the parish where the farmer lived, by whom Mr. Simpson had been turned out of his cottage. The letter was as follows : " Madam — I write to tell you that your old oppressor, Mr. Thomas, is dead. 1 attended him in his last moments. O may my latter end never be like his ! I shall not soon forget his despair at the approach of death. His riches. 17 which had been his sole joy, now doubled his sorrows ; for he was going where they could be of no use to him ; and he found, too late, that he had laid up no treasure in heaven. He felt great concern at his past life, but for nothing more han his unkindness to Mr. Simpson. He charged me tc find you out, and let you know, that by his will he be- queathed you five hundred pounds, as some compensation. He died in great agonies, declaring with his last breath, that if ne could live his life over again, he would serve God, and strictly observe the Sabbath. Yours, &c. "J. Johnson." Mrs. Betty, who had listened attentively to the letter, jumped up, clapped her hands, and cried out, "Now all is for the best, and I shall see you a lady once more." " I am indeed thankful for this mercy," said Mrs. Simp- son, " and am glad that riches were not sent me till I had learned, as I humbly hope, to make a right use of them. But come, let us go in, for I am very cold, and find I have sat too long in the night air." Betty was now ready enough to acknowledge the hand of Providence in this prosperous event, though she was blind to it when the dispensation was more dark. Next morning she went early to visit Mrs. Simpson, but not see- ing her below, she went up stairs, where, to her great sor- row, she found her confined to her bed by a fever, caught the night before by sitting so late on the bench, reading the letter and talking it over. Betty was now more ready to cry out against Provi- dence than ever. " What ! to catch a fever while you were reading that very letter which told you about your good fortune, which would have enabled you to live like a lady, as you are ! I never will believe this is for the L8 'tis all for the best. best; to be deprived of life just as you were beginning to enjoy it !" " Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, " we must learn not to rate health, nor life itself, too highly. There is little in life, for its own sake, to be fond of. As a good archbishop used to say, 'tis but the same thing over again, or probably worse ; so many more nights and days, summers and win- ters ; a repetition of the same pleasuresj but with less relish for them ; a return of the same, or greater pains, but with less strength, and perhaps less patience to bear them." " Well," replied Betty, " I did think that Providence was at last giving you your reward." "Reward!" cried Mrs. Simpson, " O no ! my merciful Father will not put me off with so poor a portion as wealth ; I feel I shall die." " It is very hard, indeed," said Betty, " so good as you are, to be taken ofFjust as prosperity was beginning." " You think I am good just now," said Mrs. Simpson, " because I am prosperous. Success is no sure mark of God's favor ; at this rate, you, who judge by outward things, would have thought Herod a better man than John the Baptist ; and if I may be allowed to say so, you, on the principle that the sufferer is a sinner, would have be- lieved Pontius Pilate higher in God's favor than the Sav- iour, whom he condemned to die for your sins and mine." In a few days Mrs. Betty found that her new friend was dying, and though she was struck at her resignation, she could not forbear murmuring that so good a woman should be taken away at the very instant when she came into possession of so much money. " Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, in a feeble voice, " I be- lieve you love me dearly, you would do anything to cure me ; yet you do not love me so well as God loves me, though you would raise me up, and he is putting a period 19 to my life. He has never sent me a single stroke which was not absolutely necessary for me. You, if you could restore me, might be laying me open to some temptation from which God, by removing, will deliver me. Your kindness in making this world so smooth for me, I might for ever have deplored in a world of misery. God ? s grace, in afflicting me, will hereafter be the subject of my praises in a world of blessedness. Betty," added the dying wo- man, "do you really think that I am going to a place of rest and joy eternal ?" " To be sure I do," said Betty. " Do you firmly believe that I am going to the ' assem- bly of the first-born ; to the spirits of just men made per feet ; to God the Judge of all ; and to Jesus the Mediator of the new covenant V " " I am sure you are," said Betty. " And yet," resumed she. " you would detain me from all this happiness ; and you think my merciful Father is using me unkindly by removing me from a world of sin, and sorrow, and temptation, to such joys as have not en- tered into the heart of man to conceive ; while it would have better suited your notions of reward to defer my en- trance into the blessedness of heaven, that I might have enjoyed a legacy of a few hundred pounds ! Believe my dying words — all is for the best." Mrs. Simpson expired soon after, in a frame of mind which convinced her new friend that God's ways are not as our ways. 20 'tis all for the best. God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform ; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage ta*e ; The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace ; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour ; The bud may have a bitter taste. But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain ; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. Cowper. NARRATIVE IV, PARLEY THE PORTER, BY MRS. HANNAH MORE. HERE was once a certain gentleman who had a house, or castle, situated in the midst of a great wilderness, but enclosed in a garden. Now, there was a band of robbers in the wilderness, who had a great mind to plunder and destroy the cas- tle ; but they had not succeed^, in their endeavors, because the master had given strict orders to " tvatch without ceas- Eleg. Nar. 8 K PARLEY THE PORTER. ing." To quicken their vigilance, he used to tell them that their care would soon have an end ; that though the nights they had to watch were dark and stormy, yet they were but few ; the period of resistance was short — that of rest, eternal. The robbers, however, attacked the castle in various ways. They tried at every avenue ; watched to take ad- vantage of every careless moment ; looked for an open door, or a neglected window. But though they often made the bolts shake, and the windows rattle, they could never greatly hurt the house, much less get into it. Do you know the reason ? It was because the servants were never off their guard. They heard the noises plain enough, and used to be not a little frightened, for they were aware both of the strength and perseverance of the enemy. But what seemed rather odd to some of these servants — the gen- tleman used to tell them, that while they continued to be afraid, they would be safe; and it passed into a sort of proverb in that family, " Happy is he that feareth always." Some of the servants, however, thought this a contradiction. One day when the master was going from home, he called his servants all together, and spoke to them as fol- lows : " I will not repeat to you the directions I have so often given you ; they are all written down in the book of laws, of which every one of you has -a copy. Re- member, it is a very short time that you are to remain in this castle ; you will soon remove to my more settled hab- itation, to a more durable house, not made with hands. As that house is never exposed to an attack, so it never stands in need of any repair^ for that country is never in- fested by any sons of violence. Here you are servants ; PARLEY THE PORTER. 3 there you will, be princes. But mark my words, and you will find the same truth in the book of my laws : Whether you will ever attain to that house, will depend on the man- ner in which you defend yourselves in this. A stout vigi- lance for a short time, will secure you certain happiness for ever. But everything depends on your present exer- tions. Don't complain, and take advantage of my absence, and call me a hard master, and grumble that you are placed in the midst of a howling wilderness without peace or security. Say not, that you are exposed to temptations without power to resist them. You have some difficulties, it is true ; but you have many helps, and many comforts to make this house tolerable, even before you get to the other. Yours is not a hard service ; and if it were, ' the time is short.' You have arms, if you will use them ; and doors, if you will bar them; and strength, if .you will use it. I would defy all the attacks of the robbers without, if I could depend on the fidelity of the people within. If the thieves ever get in and destroy the house, it must be by the con- nivance of one of the family. For mere outward attack can never destroy this castle, if there he no traitor within. You. will stand or fall, as you regard this fact. If you are finally happy, it will be by my grace and favor ; if you are ruined, it will be your own fault." When the gentleman had done speaking, every servant repeated his assurance of attachment and firm allegiance to his master. But among them all, not one was so vehe- ment and loud in his professions as old Parley, the Porter- Parley, indeed, -it was well known, was always talking, which exposed him to no small danger; for as he was the foremost to promise, so he was the slackest to perform. And, to speak the truth, though he was a civil-spoken fel. 4 PARLEY THE PORTER. low, his master was more afraid of him, with all his pro- fessions, than he was of the rest who professed less. He knew that Parley was vain, credulous, and self-sufficient ; and he always apprehended more danger from Parley's impertinence, curiosity, and love of novelty, than even from the stronger vices of some of his other servants. The rest, indeed, seldom got into any difficulty of which Parley was not the cause, in some shape or other. I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that though Parley was allowed every refreshment, and all the needful rest which the nature of his place permitted, yet he thought it very hard to be forced to be so constantly on duty. " No- thing but watching," said Parley ; " I have, to be sure, many pleasures, and meat sufficient, and plenty of chat in virtue of my office ; and I pick up a good- deal of news of the comers and goers by day ; but it is hard that at night I must watch as narrowly as a Jiouse-dog, and yet let in no company without orders, only because there are said to be a few straggling robbers here in the wilderness, with whom my master does not care to let us be acquainted. He pre- tends to make us vigilant through fear of the robbers ; but I suspect it is only to make us mope alone. A merry companion, and a mug of beer, would make the night pass cheerly." Parley, however, kept all these thoughts to himself, or uttered them only when no one heard ; for talk he must. He began to listen to the nightly whistling ot the robbers under the windows, with rather less alarm than formerly ; and was sometimes so tired of watching, that he thought it was even better to run the risk of being robbed once, than to live always in fear of robbers. There were certain bounds in which the gentleman allowed his servants to walk and divert themselves at all PARLEY THE PORTER. O proper seasons. A pleasant garden surrounded the castle, and a thick hedge separated this garden from the wilder- ness which was infested by the robbers, in which they were permitted to amuse themselves. The master advised them always to keep within these bounds. " While you observe this rule," said he, " you will be safe, and well ; and you will consult your own safety, as well as show your love to me, by not venturing even to the extremity of your bounds. He who goes as far as he dares, always shows a wish to go farther than he ought, and commonly does so." It was remarkable, that the nearer these servants kept to the castle, and the farther from the hedge, the more ugly the wilderness appeared. And the nearer they approached the forbidden bounds, their own home appeared more dull, and the wilderness more delightful. And this the master knew when he gave his orders ; for he never either did or said anything without a good reason. And when his ser- vants sometimes desired an explanation of the reason, he used to tell them they would understand it when they came to the other house ; for it was one of the pleasures of that house, that it would explain all the mysteries of this ; and any little obscurities in the master's conduct, would then be made quite plain. Parley was the first that promised to keep clear of the hedge; and yet was often seen looking as near it as he dared. One day he ventured close up to the hedge, put two or three stones one on another, and tried to peep over. He saw one of the robbers strolling as near as could be on the forbidden side. This man's name was Flatter- well, a smooth, civil man, whose words were softer than butter, having war in his heart. He made several low bows to Parley. 8* 6 PARLEY THE PORTER. Now Parley knew so little of the world, that he ac- tually concluded all robbers must have an ugly look, which should frighten you at once ; and coarse, brutal manners, which would at first sight show they were enemies. He bought, like a poor ignorant fellow as he was, that this mild, pecious person could not be one of the band. Flatterwell accosted Parley with the utmost civility, which put him quite off his guard ; for Parley had no notion that he could be an enemy, who was so soft and civil. For an open foe, he would have been prepared. Parley, however, after a little discourse, drew this conclusion, either that Mr. Flat- terwell could not be one of the gang, or that, if he was, the robbers themselves could not be such monsters as his master had described ; and therefore it was folly to be afraid of them. Flatterwell began, like a true adept in his art, by lull- ing all Parley's suspicions asleep ; and instead of openly abusing his master, which would have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended rather to commend him in a general way, as a person who meant well himself, but was too apt to suspect others. To this Parley assented. The other then ventured to hint by degrees, that though the gentleman might be a good master in the main, yet he must say he was a little strict, and a little stingy, and not a little censorious. That he was blamed by the gentlemen in the wilderness for shutting his house against good company ; and his servants were laughed at by people of spirit, for ubmitting to the gloomy life of the castle, and the insipid pleasures of the garden, instead of ranging in the wilder- ness at large. " It is true enough," said Parley, who was generally of the opinion of the person he was talking with, "mj PARLEY THE PORTER. master is rather harsh and close. But, to own the truth, all the barring, and locking, and bolting, is to keep out a set of gentlemen, who, he assures us, are robbers, and who are waiting for an opportunity to destroy us. I hope, no offence, sir, but by your livery, I suspect you, sir, are one of the gang he is so much afraid of. 5 ' FlatterwelL Afraid of me ? Impossible, dear Mr. Par ley. You see I do not look like an enemy. I am unarm- ed : what harm can a plain man like me do ? Parley. Why, that is true enough. Yet my master says, that if we were once to let you into the house, we should be ruined, soul and body. FlatterwelL I am sorry, Mr. Parley, that so sensible a man as you are so deceived. This is mere prejudice. He knows we are a cheerful, entertaining people ; foes to gloom and superstition ; and therefore, he is so morose, he will not let you get acquainted with us. Parley. Well, he says you are a band of thieves, gamblers, murderers, drunkards, and atheists. FlatterwelL Don't believe him ; the worst we should do, perhaps, is, we might drink a friendly glass with you to your master's health ; or play an innocent game of cards just to keep you awake, or sing a cheerful song with the maids : now is there any harm in all this ? Parley. Not the least in the world. And I begin to think there is not a word of truth in all my master says. FlatterwelL The more you know us, the more you will like us. But I wish there was not this ugly hedge between us. I have a great deal to say, and am afraid of being overheard. Parley was now just going to give a spring over the 8 PARLEY THE PORTER. hedge, but checked himself, saying, "I dare not come on your side, there are people about, and every thing is car- ried to my master." Flatterwell saw by this, that his new friend was kept on his own side of the hedge by fear, rather than by principle, and from that moment he made sure of him. " Dear Mr. Parley," said he, " if you will allow me the honor of a little conversation with you, 1 will qall under the window of your lodge this evening. I have something to tell you greatly to your advantage. I admire you exceedingly. I long for your friendship ; our whole brotherhood is ambitious of being known to so amiable a person." " O dear," said Parley, " I shall be afraid of talk- ing to you at night, it is so against my master's orders. But did you say you had something to tell me to my ad- vantage ?" Flatterwell. Yes, I can point out to you how you may be a richer, a merrier, and a happier man. If you will admit me to-night under the window, I will convince you that 'tis prejudice and not wisdom which makes your mas- ter bar his door against us ; I will convince you that the mischief of a roller, as your master scurrilously calls us, is only in the name ; that we are your true friends, and only mean to promote your happiness. " Don't say we" said Parley, " pray come alone, I would not see the rest of the gang for the world ; but think there can be no great harm in talking to you through the bars, if you come alone ; but I am determined not to let you in. Yet I can't say but I wish to know what you can tell me so much to my advantage ; indeed, if it is for my good, I ought to know it." PARLEY THE PORTER. 9 Flatterwell. {Going out, turns back.) Dear Mr. Parley, ehere is one thing I had forgot. I cannot get over the hedge at night without assistance. You know there is a secret in the nature of that hedge ; you in the house may get over to us in the wilderness, of your own accord ; but we cannot get to your side by our own strength. You must look about to see where the hedge is thinnest, and then set to work to clear away here and there a little bough for me ; it wont be missed ; and if there is but the smallest hole made on your side, those on ours can get through ; otherwise we do but labor in vain. To this Parley made some objection, through the fear of being seen. Flatterwell replied, that the smallest hole from within would be sufficient, for he could then work his own way. " Well," said Parley, " I will consider of it. To be sure I shall even then be equally safe in the castle, as I shall have all the bolts, bars, and locks between us, so it will make but little difference." " Certainly not," said Flatterwell, who knew it would make all the difference in the world. So they parted, with mutual protestations of regard. Parley went home, charm- ed with his new friend. His eyes were now clearly opened as to his master's prejudices against the robbers; and he was convinced there was more in the name, than in the thing. "But," said he, "though Mr. Flatterwell is cer- tainly an agreeable companion, he may not be so safe an inmate. There can, however, be no harm in talking at a distance, and I certainly wont let him in." Parley, in the course of the day, did not forget his promise to thin the hedge of separation a little. At first he only tore off a handful of leaves, then a little sprig, then he broke away a bough or two. It was observable, the vol. t. iq 10 PARLEY THE POKTER. larger the breach became, the worse he began to think of his master, and the better of himself. Every peep he took through the broken hedge, increased his desire to get out into the wilderness, and made the thoughts of the castle more irksome to him. He was continually repeating to himself, " I wonder what Mr. Flatterwell can have to say so much to my ad- vantage. I see he does not wish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve me." As the hour of meeting, how- ever, drew near, the master's orders now and then came across Parley's thoughts. So to divert them, he took the book. He happened to open it at these words, " My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not." For a moment his heart failed him. " If this admonition should be sent on purpose," said he, — " but no, 'tis a bugbear. My mas- ter told me that, if I went to the bounds, I should get ovei the hedge. Now, I went to the utmost limits, and did not get over." 'Here conscience put in, " Yes, but it was be- cause you were watched." " I am sure," continued Par- ley, " one may always stop where one will ; and this is only a trick of my master's to spoil sport ; so I will even hear what Mr. Flatterwell has to say so much to my ad- vantage. I am not obliged to follow his counsels, but there can be no harm in hearing them." Flatterwell prevailed on the rest of the robbers to make no public attack on the castle that night. " My brethren," said he, " you now and then fail in your schemes, because you are for violent beginnings while my soothing, insinuating measures, hardly ever miss. You come blustering, and roaring, and frighten people, and set them on their guard. You inspire them with terror of you, while my whole scheme is, to make them think well of PARLEY THE PORTER. 13 Uiemsehes, and ill of their master. If I once get them to entertain hard thoughts of him, and high thoughts of them- selves, my business is done, and they fall plump into my snares. So let this delicate affair alone to me. Parley is a softly fellow, he must not be frightened, but cajoled. He is the very sort of man to succeed with, and worth a hun- dred of your sturdy, sensible fellows. With them we want strong arguments, and strong temptations ; but with such fellows as Parley, in whom vanity and sensuality are the leading qualities, (as, let me tell you, is the case with far the greater part,) flattery, and the promise of ease and pleasure, will do more than your whole battle array. If you will let me manage, I will get you all into the castle before midnight." At night the castle was barricaded as usual, and no one had observed the hole which Parley had made in the hedge. This oversight arose that night from the servants neglecting one of the master's standing orders, — to make a nightly examination of the state of the castle. The neg lect did not proceed so much from wilful disobedience, as from having passed the evening in sloth and diversion ; which often amounts to nearly the same. As all was very cheerful within, so all was very quiet without. And before they went to bed, some of the ser- vants observed to the rest, that, as they heard no robbers that night, they thought they might soon begin to remit something of their diligence in bolting, and barring ; that all this fastening and locking was very troublesome ; and they hoped the danger was now pretty well over. It was rather remarkable that they never made this sort of obser- vations but after an evening of some excess, and when they had neglected their private business with their master. 12 PARLEY THE PORTER. All, however, except Parley, went quietly to bed, and seemed to feel uncommon security. Parley crept down to his lodge. He had half a mind t< go to bed too ; yet he was not willing to disappoint Mr. Flatterwell, so civil a gentleman. To be sure, he might have bad designs, yet what right had he to suspect any- body who made such professions, and who was so very civil. Besides, " it is something for my advantage," added Parley. " I will not open the door, that is certain ; but as he is to come alone, he can do me no harm through the bars of the windows ; and he will think I am a coward, if I don't keep my word : no, I will let him see that I am not afraid of my own strength : I will show him I can go what length I please, and stop short when I please." Had Flat- terwell heard this boastful speech, he would have been quite sure of his man. About eleven, Parley heard the signal agreed upon. It was so gentle as to cause little alarm. So much the worse. Flatterwell never frightened any one, and therefore sel- dom failed of any one. Parley stole softly down, planted himself at his little window, opened the casement, and spied his new friend. It was pale star-light. Parley was a little frightened, for he thought he perceived one or two persons behind Flatterwell ; but the other assured him that it was only his own shadow, which his fears had magnified into a company. " Though I assure you," said he, " I have not a friend but what is as harmless as myself." They now entered into earnest discourse, in whicli Flatterwell showed himself a deep politician. He skilfully mixed up in his conversation a proper proportion of praise on the pleasures of the wilderness, of compliments to PARLEY THE PORTER. 13 Parley, of ridicule on his master, and of abusive sneers on the book in which the master's laws were written. Against this last he had always a particular spite, for he considered 'it as the grand instrument by which the master maintained his servants in allegiance ; and when they could once be brought to sneer at the book, there was an end of submission to the master. Parley had not penetration enough to see his drift. " As to the book, Mr. Flatterwell," said he, " 1 do not know whether it be true or false ; I rather neg- lect than disbelieve it. I am forced, indeed, to hear it read once a week, but I never look into it myself, if I can help it." " Excellent," said Flatterwell to himself, " that is just the same thing. This is safe ground for me ; for whether a man does not believe in the book, or does not attend to it, it comes pretty much to the same, and I generally get him at last." " Why cannot we be a little nearer, Mr. Parley ?" said Flatterwell ;. " I am afraid of being overheard by some of your master's spies, the window from which you speak is so high ; I wish you would come down to the door." " Well," said Parley, " I see no great harm in that. There is a little wicket in the door, through which we can converse with more ease and equal safety. The same fast- enings will still be between us." So down he went, but not without a degree of fear and trembling. " The little wiqket being now opened, and Flatterwell standing close on the outside of the door, they conversed with great ease. EW Nar. 9 14 PARLEY THE PORTER. " Mr. Parley," said Flatterwell, " I should not have pressed you so much to admit me into the castle, but out of pure disinterested regard to your own happiness. I shall get nothing by it, but I cannot bear to think that a person so wise and amiable should be shut up in this gloomy dungeon, under a hard master, and a slave to the unreasonable tyranny of his book of laws. If you admit me, you need have no more waking, no more watching." Here Parley involuntarily slipped back the bolt of the door. " To convince you of my true love," continued Flatterwell, " I have brought a bottle of the most de- licious wine that grows in the wilderness. You shall taste it, but you must put a glass through the wicket to receive it; for it is a singular property in this wine, that we of the wilderness cannot succeed in conveying it to you of the castle, without you hold out a vessel to receive it:" " O, here is a glass," said Parley, holding out a large goblet, which he always kept ready to be filled ^y any chance comer. The other immediately poured into the capacious goblet a large draught of that delicious, intoxi- cating liquor, with which the family of the Flatterwells have, for near six thousand years, gained the heai*ts and destroyed the souls of all the inhabitants of the castle, whenever they have been able to prevail on them to hold out a hand to receive it. This the wise master of the castle well knew would be the case, for he knew what was in men ; he knew their propensity to receive the delicious poison of the Flatterwells, and it was for this reason that he gave them the book of his laws, and planted the hedge, aren the door to him ; that he who holds out his hand for the cup of sinful flattery, loses all power of resisting ; that when he opens the door to one sin, all the rest fly in upon him, and the man perishes, as I now do." Beware of Peter's word, Nor confidently say, £ * 1 never will deny the Lord," But, "grant I never may." Man's wisdom is to seek His strength in God alone ; And e'en an angel would be weak Who trusted in his own. Retreat beneath his wings, And in his grace confide ; This more exalts the King of kings Than all your works beside. In Jesus is our store ; Grace issues from his throne ; Whoever says, " I want no more," Confesses he has none. cowper NARRATIVE V THE SPOILED CHILD. A NARRATIVE OF FACTS BY W. C. BROWNLEE, D. D The valley that is bounded by L and S y hills, in the county of , and state of N , is remark- able for its beauty and fertility. The sluggish stream of the P winds slowly in its serpentine course through the midst of it, and waters a succession of well-cultivated farms. The inhabitants used to be among the most church-going and happy people in that district of the country, until, by the influence of General and a club of his friends, the spirit of infidelity, and with it dissipation and corrupt morals, crept in among them. 9* 2 THE SPOILED CHILD. John C 1 was one of the wealthiest and most influen- tial men in the valley. Every thing was neat and well-ar ranged in his mansion, and the outbuildings, and every nook and corner of the fences, and the whole farm, displayed the hand of the tasteful and diligent cultivator. He was one of those men who retained the rural simplicity of the first set- tlers of our country. He had received the usual substan- tial English education of his day ; his mind was one of a high order ; his judgment was discriminating; his memory retained, with unusual tenacity, what he had read. In his whole deportment there was just such a dignity and air of pleasantness as one might expect to find in a Christian who had long walked with God ; who had daily studied his Bible ; who had a warm and benevolent heart; who had, next to the pastor, been the leading man in the parish ; who had been in the magistracy, was honored in his county, and had always been accustomed to be consulted in matters of delicacy and public interest. The exterior was worthy of such a mind : he was a tall, venerable man, the patriarch of the valley. His house was five miles from the village church ; and yet no man was more punctual in his attendance. It was never recollected, even by an enemy, that he was in any instance late. The secret of it was this : he rose as early on a Sabbath morning as on days of business ; and it was a part of his religion not to give any offence, or disturb others, during the worship of God, by coming in late. Besides, he loved God's sanctuary ; his heart was early there ; and it was natural that he should wish to join in the first ascrip- tions of praise to God. No ordinary storm would prevent him from being, summer and winter, in his place. If it rained, he put on a greatcoat ; for he always rode on horse- back ; and if it stormed severely, he would put on two. And when he reached the church, usually among the foremost, he would gravely observe that it seemed greatly to be de sired that the rain should cease, that those who dwelt close THE SPOILED CHILD. 3 by might venture into the house of God ; adding, that if, like himself, they had five long miles to come, they would proba- bly prize in a higher degree the privilege of the sanctuary. The domestic arrangements of his family seemed also, in all respects, befitting his Christian character and profes- sion. And his wife, endowed with singular prudence and the other Christian graces, seemed a true help-meet. Every morning and evening the whole family was assembled around the domestic altar, and the worship of the Most High performed with great reverence. In the busiest sea- sons he would frequently say to his laborers, " My friends, we always find time to take our daily food ; let us also take time to worship the Lord our God, and remember, prayers and provender never hinder a journey." Here were all the elements of happiness, usefulness, and honor, apparently combined. Surely, his neighbors would say, Mr. C 1 must be a happy man ; rich in this world's goods, and rich in the grace of God ; honored in the church ; esteemed and respected by all in the social and political circles ; possessed of a fine constitution, and enjoying unin- terrupted health : what is there to disturb his mind or mar his peace ? But it had been long observed by the pastor that there was some secret worm at the root of his joys ; and it be- came, at length, manifest to all his intimate friends. The grace of God will, indeed, carry a Christian through any afflictions ; it will give buoyancy to his mind and spirits, in the darkest and most distressing hours. Our heavenly Father's face shining upon us, will disperse the heaviest clouds. An humble and believing view of the Redeemer pleading for us at the very moment when we are like to be overwhelmed by the waves of sorrow, will send a foretaste of heaven's joy into our wounded souls ; and when the Holy Comforter seals upon our hearts the consolations of his grace, we can praise him, even in the valley of the shadow of death. 4 THE SPOILED CHILD. But of all the sorrows which befall a Christian, that which comes nearest to his heart, paralyzing his mind and drinking up his joys, is the outbreaking of wickedness in his children. Mr. C 1 had a son ; he was his eldest child and his only son. On this child he had doated ; he had made an idol of him. This is the besetting sin of Christian parents, especially those who are, by natural temperament, unusually kind-hearted and affectionate. It is indeed a strong and overpowering temptation. We doat on our offspring ; they become spoiled children ; and such is the ordering of di- vine Providence, we, who have sinfully indulged them, and " spared the rod " when we ought to have employed it to drive away folly from the young heart, according to the command of God, learn, to our sorrow, that they are em- ployed, in our old age, as the rod in God's hand to chastise our criminal indulgence ! It has been unfeelingly asserted, particularly by some who are unfriendly to religion, that " pious parents have generally very wicked children.''" But facts do not warrant the assertion. On the contrary, the fact of an eminent Christian, whether minister or layman, having a profane child, always calls forth marked attention as something which the public did not expect in such a family ; whereas it is never a wonder with any one, that wicked and profane children should proceed out of wicked and profane fami- lies. The Christian parent, however, in the hour of sorrow for the waywardness of his children, will make great searchings of heart into the causes of it. The promise of God is full before him, he seeks not to pervert or modify its import: " Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." He bemoans his delinquencies in many, yea, in innumerable instances, which the eyes of the world have never perceived, but which his own delicate conscience promptly discovers. Such was the fact with the father whose character we have THE SPOILED CHILD. O been describing. No enlightened Christian, perhaps, was ever more ready to admit his delinquencies before God ; or more earnest, by prayer and supplication, to regain the ground he had lost, and subdue what had hitherto baffled his skill. It was on one of those beautiful days in our autumn, When every thing in the country is smiling under the pro- fusions of the divine beneficence, that Doctor F., the pastor of the village of B , made a visit to Mr. C 1, who was a ruling elder in his church. He found him sowing his fields with the winter grain. He would not permit him to desist from his labor, and there- by interrupt the arrangements of the day ; but he walked side by side with him, discoursing on general topics ; and finally, on the state of the church, and the happy prospect of an answer to their prayers, in a revival of religion. For often had that village been blessed with seasons of refresh- ings from the presence of the Lord, accompanied by a rich ingathering of souls ; and there were now some cheering evidences of another outpouring of the Spirit. While they were thus engaged, the son of Mr. C 1, a lad about seventeen years of age, approached to mock : he groaned, and made singular grimaces, or laughed aloud, as he walked immediately behind his father ; and at the end of the ridge next to the house, having caught up a young animal, he contrived, by tormenting it, to make it utter one continued yell. This he did in defiance of the solemn rebukes of the pastor, and the entreaties and threats of his too indulgent parent. An end had been thus put to all regular conversation ; and at this last outrage the aged father wept in silence, and sought to conceal his tears as he hurriedly sowed his field. This ebullition of youthful fury had been caused, it was afterwards discovered, by the father's peremptory refusal of the usual supply of money. Like too many parents, fool- ishly indulgent, he had yielded to the dominion which his 6 THE SPOILED CHILD. only son possessed on his heart, and had given liberally and often. This only created an appetite for more. He soon found himself compelled to give liberally, simply to get rid of his importunate duns. And having made the discovery which, as a wise man, he ought to have antici- pated as naturally as any common effect from a common cause, that this free- indulgence with money had led him into habits of dissipation, and that the present solicitation was made to enable him to take the lead at a " frolic " in the tavern of the adjacent village, he had positively refused him. The young man now left his father's presence with a threat that " he would have money, and just that sum which he needed ; if not one way, at least by another, which he (his father) might conjecture." This was too much for a tender parent's heart to endure. He took hold of the pastor's arm and led him to the shade of an aged apple-tree ) and placing him beside his wife, who had joined him by this time, he sat down and wept. " My poor ruined boy !" was all he could now utter in his grief. His wife and the pastor also burst into tears. " I now see my error," said the afflicted parent, after a short pause, as if awakened from the sleep of long delu- sion ; " my eyes are opened to the calamity that has be- fallen us. But oh ! sir," he added, as he grasped the pastor's hand, " how can I retrace my steps ? O my God, have mercy, have mercy on my poor spoiled child ! God of my fathers, who didst in thy tender compassion bring me into thy fold, look in mercy on my poor son ! Thou, O Lord, didst convert a Manasseh, and didst arrest a perse- cuting Saul in his wicked course on the way to Damascus to murder thy saints, and didst reclaim the sottish prodi- gal — O have mercy on my son ! Let the riches of thy grace, Father in heaven, triumph, one day, in his return to thee and to his parents' heart ! You may well ask me, dear pastor, why I do not correct him. Could I succeed in detaching him from his companions, then, perhaps, I might THE SPOILED CHILD. 7 do it with some hope ; but until that be done, correction may only drive him to a more desperate resistance ; or, more probably, to a final abandonment of my roof; and ultimately to the commission of some fearful crime ; and thence — my soul is tortured at the bare possibility of it — to a public and ignominious suffering ! But I have not yet revealed the secret cause of all this mischief. There is a demon in him, which sets at defiance Christian discipline and the rod of correction ; yes, in him, young as he is — I mean the lust of strong drink ! This, with the influence of vicious companions, has, I am grieved to say, seared, as with a hot iron, the sensibilities of his conscience and of natural affection. O ! I look back on the past, and I see my fatal errors staring me in the face !" " Did you not commit a great error," said the pastor with tenderness, " in not sustaining the discipline under which his teacher sought judiciously and faithfully to bring the daring and turbulent spirit of this youth ? This I once recollect to have witnessed, and ventured to* predict the result." " We did, dear pastor, we did," was the answer, as he cast his eyes on his afflicted wife with more of sorrow than reproof, " we did ; and here is an exceedingly great evil under the sun, and an error committed by almost every parent. The teacher is one of the most useful officers in the republic ; one of the most necessary and influential office-bearers among us; one who walks forth over the land, bearing the future destinies of our country and the church, as it were, in his hand. He has the training of the rising generation, the hope of our country and of the church of God! What an important, what a responsible office! Yet how often, and how much is it despised ! and it is mis- erably ill -paid, moreover, and still worse treated ! When the school-master would bring the wayward spirits of our spoiled children under a wholesome discipline, both parents are, in too many instances, in arms against him. And 3 THE SPOILED CHILD. their ill-timed and foolish pity fails not to sustain the boy in open and daring rebellion against his teacher, and in the repetition of fresh crimes. This parental interference, by paralyzing the arm of salutary discipline, has helped to consummate the ruin of many a hapless youth !" " This has been a fatal error," said the almost heart- broken wife ; " but this is not all : frivolous excuses, I remember to my sorrow, would be sustained by us, for neglecting his evening tasks ; the slightest indisposition, and (I am mortified to think how easily we were deceived) that, too, very often pretended, and our excessive anxiety about the l dear child's ' health, would be reason enough for allowing him to absent himself whole days from school. And then, from our foolish fondness, he would gain per- mission from us to rove about from house to house, and, what was worse, to absent himself whole nights from his parental roof. It is thus that a young mind acquires, at too early an age, a taste for company ; its inexperience lays it open to cruel temptations, while it is too young to derive, without a parent's or a teacher's guidance, any real benefit from it. This early taste, or I should rather say, this pas- sion for company, together with a plentiful supply of money from indulgent parents, has laid the foundation of utter ruin to many thousands and tens of thousands of youth. And I know it to my sorrow, dear pastor, that in the young and inexperienced mind, where we are not busy in sowing the good seed of God's word, the evil one is very busy and successful in sowing tares." " How easy it is to see errors," said the father, " when the bandage of our delusions is thus torn from our eyes. Ah ! sir, experience is the mother of wisdom. One of our principal errors was that of allowing our child to associate with vicious hoys, until they had so entwined themselves around his heart, that no influence or authority of ours could detach him from the snare. And often, I remember it with the bitterness of remorse, when I should have wooed THE SPOILED CHILD. 9 him over with kindness, I have, in my wrath, reproached the character of his associates to his face. The conse- quence was just such as every wise student of human na- ture must have observed. His galled spirit clung closer and closer to them, as they were persecuted by me for his sake. There is a witchery in a young profligate's com- panions, which parents have never duly conceived. It is the result of that depravity which pervades the human heart, and which makes us averse to all that is good, and swift to learn and to practise what is evil. One hour's influence of profligate company on a young mind may not be effaced by days and months, and even years of parental labor and prayer." " And, my friends," said the pastor, " there was a defect in your efforts to win over his love for the house of God. I have always lent my countenance to the practice of our good old fathers, which is still kept up in our church, of bringing the children into the house of God on the holy day of rest. God, by the mouth of his servant Joel, commanded the children, and even the babes at the breast, as well as the elders and the people, to be assembled before him in the solemn convocation. And our Redeemer, in the days of his humiliation, charged parents and the disciples * not to forbid little children when coming unto him ;' ' for of such,' said he, 'is the kingdom of heaven.' We must train them up, in infancy, by our prayers, privately, and in the house of God ; and in riper years, by parental and pastoral in- struction. And thus, by the grace of God, we can beget a respect and a love for the courts and the ordinances of God, in the young and tender mind." " Yes, dear pastor," cried the father, " here, in the weakness of our -hearts, did we commit another great error. The slightest excuses were often sustained ; and * the dear child ' must be spared the journey, and the pain of going to church, and of sitting so long, and being confined so long in church ! And there was another error, as serious on Ele*.Nar. |Q 10 THE SPOILED CHILD. our part, by which the mischief was consummated. When we were urgent to overcome his aversion to the church, which we invariably found to be strengthened by every fresh indulgence and permission to stay at home, he would then, to get rid of our importunity and command, beg per- mission to go to the church in the next village, which happened to be nearer. And in order to induce him to go somewhere to the house of God, we thus left him, or rather abandoned him to himself. That which we ought to have anticipated and feared, did take place. His vicious com- panions took the charge of him ; and they led him, not into the house of God, but into the village taverns ! Whole Sabbaths had he thus spent before we made the appalling discovery !" " And then," said the pastor, " did not your too fond and compliant hearts place funds too profusely at his disposal, even from the first ?" " Ah ! sir," cried the father, " that was my next error, which, perhaps, gave pungency and fatality to the rest. I gave him money, first, because ' I loved the dear child ;' then I gave him money, because I saw other parents giving liberally to their children ; and then I gave him money, because my pride said, ■ My only son shall not be behind his comrades in any thing;' and, finally, I confess that latterly I gave many sums purely out of self-defence, or an indolent aversion to resistance, simply to get rid of his im- portunate duns ! And now I can say, from experience, that these ill-timed donations to children fail not to beget new wants, and new appetites, and new desires. This evil is like the dropsy in the natural body, it increases by its own means of indulgence. The more water the dropsical man drinks, the more thirsty he becomes, and the more inveterate is his disease rendered by every fresh draught. That parent who lavishes ' pocket-money ' on his child, before he has acquired sound principles and prudence to control his passions, and a spirit of enlightened charity and good THE SPOILED CHILD. 11 taste to make a wise use of it, exerts his influence directly to initiate him into habits of gambling, intemperance, glut- tony, and their attendant revolting vices. He furnishes the means of gratification ; he lays the train, and puts into the hands of his child the lighted torch and the match ready to be applied ! All this, alas ! to my sorrow, have I done. And when, at length, I did awaken to the frightful con- sequences, now too evident in the confirmed habits of vice in my poor ruined boy, I found myself adding another error to the former, and thereby helping on the mischief. When I was dunned with incessant clamors to supply the appetite which my folly helped to create, I have replied fiercely, adding reproach and insult to refusal, instead of making the effort with paternal kindness and love to reclaim him. What was the result ? Just what you have witnessed, and what might have been anticipated in one whose conscience is seared, and who is prepared for the most debased and debasing conduct ; just that which is practised by unprin- cipled and ruined sons and apprentices every day. He actually abstracted property, article after article, weekly ; he even drove off, in my absence, the sheep and young cattle, to pay his debts of honor ; namely, his tavern and gambling debts ! And O ! sir, I am well aware, that within an hour he has been repeating this robbery on his father!" " It is a desperate case !" said the pastor, after a long pause of sorrowful silence. " But all that you have been alluding to, my dear friend, are only the branches of the evil you deplore. If you go farther back than to his boy- hood at school, perhaps you may discover the root. And, my dear madam," continued he, in the most tender and respectful manner, " I allude to a mother's earliest influence over the young heart, to show how much depends on a mother's care ; not by any means to insinuate that you, like Eve, were first in the transgression. But did you not miss, in his early infancy, or at least in the earliest part of 12 THE SPOILED CHILD. his boyhood, the grand opportunity of establishing youi parental authority in the heart of your dear boy ?" " I fear I did," said she, with great emotion ; " and often have I bewailed it. Ah ! sir, I am assured that a child is capable of receiving instruction, ay, and of being spoiled, as it regards religious matters, sooner than most mothers have any just conception of. I did, indeed, long for the grace of God to sanctify his soul — and earnestly, if I know my own heart, did I pray for this. But, on review, it is a question involving serious doubt with me, whether I did labor aright, or use the means of God's grace in a skilful and judicious manner, to convey the truth into his young heart, and establish there a sense of God's authority, and thence of my own as a parent. I did not make, I fear, a scriptural effort to melt down his heart, by causing the knowledge, and thence the fear of the great God, Creator, Preserver, Redeemer, and Judge, to distil, as it were, drop by drop, on his mind and heart ; and by teaching him to pray to God as soon as reason dawned, and as soon as he could lisp a word. The first word I should have taught him, the first sentence I should have made him breathe out, should have been, ' Thou, God, seest me !' And then, again, I fear I did not take sufficient care to soothe his spirit when ruffled, and subdue by reason and kindness his little fits of violence and brawlings, and woo him over by love and firmness. I have known a mother do this by singing softly a melting hymn on the ear of her little child ; and by teach- ing it also to sing a sweet and plaintive hymn, as well as to pray with infant lisp, to the great God who always sees us ! Awe and submission to God, I am fully persuaded, is the only true basis of genuine and unaffected submission and reverence to parents. It must be so, if it be a moral virtue, and not mere instinct. And there are no genuine morals without a principle of religion. Hence, the pagan is described as ' without natural affection :' the parent sac- rifices his child, and the child his parent; and we have THE SPOILED CHILD. I'd painful evidence, that a profligate child is likewise without natural affection ! O ! it was here I failed. I see my error. I should never have given up. I should have daily renewed my efforts. I should have labored and wrestled in prayer ; until, by the grace of God, I saw the fruits of my exertions showing themselves in filial reverence and submission, based on the fear and the love of God." She paused, and wiped her flowing tears. " These are not tears of sorrow and despair, dear pastor," she added, after she had composed herself, " neither are these the con- jectures of a theorist. I saw my error with my boy ; God, I trust, was my guide in training that dear child, my daugh- ter, who is advancing to us : she is not only a sweet child to comfort us in our sorrows — I have reason to believe that God has changed her heart ; and I know not that she has ever needed a reproof from her dear father these three year j past. But I am interrupting you ; you were about to say something" At this moment the daughter came up, a beautiful girl of fourteen or fifteen years, who cast a look of tender anx- iety on her parents ; and, saluting the kind pastor, with the frank and blushing simplicity of innocence, as she present- ed her hand to receive his cordial welcome, she sat down bv her mother's side. The pastor went on. " I have learned, from painful experience," said he, " that many parents, and even some of them the most pious, are apt to prove defective in two grand points : in their domestic discipline, and the early training of their chil- dren." They are defective in the matter employed to train them, and in the manner of applying the proper matter. Some parents I have found defective in both of these ; some in the former, others in the latter." " Have the goodness to explain yourself more fully," said the father. The pastor went on. " To understand how a parent may be defective in the 10* 14 THE SPOILED CHILD. matter which he is to employ in the training of his children, you need only to recollect that vital godliness, as Mrs. C 1 has just now hinted, is the only true basis of all genuine morality ; and therefore of all pure moral order, such as is pleasing in the eyes of God, in families, as well as in the community. I do not deny that there may be morals, even lovely morals, and virtuous deportment in a person destitute of true religion. And I also admit that these are good and valuable in their place, and so far as they go. Our blessed Saviour looked on the young man spoken of in the Gospel, who had, in the exterior, kept the commandments, ' and loved him,' though his heart was as yet a stranger to vital piety. We instinctively love such a character, while we are disgusted with vice and profligacy. But all those lovely and beautiful traits are, nevertheless, radically defective : they can no more be compared with the virtues and morality of the Gospel, I mean * the beauties of holiness,' than the apples said to grow on the margin of the Dead Sea, with these golden apples of a skilful hand's engrafting, which you see richly clustering on that mag- nificent tree before us. The former were fair, very fair, to human view ; but they were light and deceptive : the interior was filled up with black dust, emblematical of the depraved and unconverted heart of the mere moralist. But the latter, these rich apples on that grafted tree, are solid, sound to the core, and delicious. ' Neither circumcision, nor uncircumcision,' that is to say, no exterior virtues, or accomplishments, or mere profession, ' availeth any thing f before God at his bar, for our personal justification and acceptance — no, nothing but our Redeemer's righteousness ; and for morals, nothing but ' a neio creature. 9 " And this, my dear friends, opens up the true secret why the philosopher and moralist, who trust in human vir- tue alone, with all its defects, have never succeeded in this matter. There is nothing in philosophy, there is nothing in the most eloquent declamation on virtue, nothing in the THE SPOILED CHILD. 15 most persuasive words of man's wisdom, that can ever con- vey the life, or spirit, or principle of vital religion into the human heart, after having conquered all the opposition from the devil, the world, and the flesh. Hence these never did, and they never can convert a man ; they never have made, they never can make a true Christian. They may appear to be limpid streams ; but they are the streams of Damas- cus ; not the divinely-appointed and health-giving waters of the River of the God of Israel. The life of the Spirit of God is not in them. * If any man be in Christ Jesus, he is a new creature.' ' I, through the law, am dead to the law, that I might live unto God. I am crucified with Christ : nevertheless I live ; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me : and the life which I now live in the flesh, I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.' Hence, it is only when we are risen with Christ, that we 1 seek those things which are above,' and do ' mortify our members,' and bring forth the fruits of hofiness in ' good works, which God hath ordained that we should walk in them.' "It is easy to see, then, that where ' the life of Christ' is wanting, no fruits of holiness can be produced ; this 1 life of Christ' wanting, the very basis of pure morality is wanting. " But the Spirit of God is the only author of this life. For this is the testimony of God : ' We are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus,' ' by the washing of regeneration, and the renewing of the Holy Ghost.' Eph. 2 : 10 ; Titus 3 : 5. And in the production of the ' new creation,' the Holy Ghost • employs, not the moral declamation, and the enticing words of the philosophy of this world ; not the per- suasions of ' science falsely so called :' these may be useful and ornamental in their place ; they may be as choice pearls ; but what are pearls to a hungering and thirsting soul ? what are pearls to the famished Arab in the dry and barren wilderness ? It is the voice of God only that raises 16 ^HE SPOILED CHILD. the dead ; it is the precious truth of the Gospel alone, which the Holy Ghost employs to convince and convert sinners ; it is the bread and the water of life alone, that can bring back the fainting spirit of man, and can sustain the life of God in the soul. The words of our Lord are explicit on this point. We are ' born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth forever. And this is the word which, by the Gos- pel, is preached unto you.' And, under a deep sense of our responsibility, and in the faithful and diligent use of all the means and ordinances appointed of God, we * purify our souls in obeying the truth, through the Spirit, unto un- feigned love of the brethren,' and ' building up ourselves On our most holy faith, praying in the Holy Ghost, we keep ourselves in the love of God,' and l grow in grace,' till we come f unto the perfect man ; to the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ.' " And I rTeed not tell you, my friend, how fruitless would be vour labor in planting, in this beautiful orchard of yours, a tree ' twice dead,' which had been, long ago, 6 plucked up by the roots ;' or, how fruitless would be your utmost diligence and painstaking in plowing and sowing these fine fields of yours, if you throw in the wrong seed. He who resorts to human means, and human wisdom only, in the training of his family, and adopts the world's cold and lifeless morality, instead of the living and powerful word of God's Gospel, is actually sowing tares instead of wheat. He may toil late and early ; but he will, at the last, be mortified to find that the crop will be tares, and nothing but tares ! This, my dear friend, is the dangerous result of erring in the matter of training." " Ah ! dear pastor," exclaimed Mr. C 1, " it may be that I have erred in the skilful use of all this ; but not, as I trust, in the matter itself. What you have kindly recited are the truths which my soul loves. We have erred, 1 think, less in the matter* than in the manner of applying THE SPOILED CHILD. 17 them. Will you, dear pastor, have the goodness briefly to notice the usual failures here." " Touching this matter," said the pastor, " it is not only our duty, but a pleasure to copy the manner of our divine Master in all points practicable. Now, it must have struck you that our Lord exhibited the most perfect kindness, tenderness, and benevolence, in the whole manner of his instruction. Let us, then, put kindness, tenderness, and benevolence foremost, in the list of the graces of parental government. Let our whole souls flow forth in kindliest emotions. O ! let us ever think of the unutterable value of the souls of children entrusted to our care ; let us lose no opportunity, let us spare no pains to pluck them as brands from the burning. Let us never cease to woo over their souls to Christ, by our entreaties, by our tears, by our prayers, by our love, by our example. Knowing the ter- rors of the Lord, let us use the most touching persuasions which the yearning of parental love can suggest. " But, alas ! how often do parents err in this point ! The error sometimes arises from an irritable temper; passion overwhelms reason and reflection ; we do not stop to recol- lect how much our own dear parents bore with our way- wardness and follies ; we forget how much, and how long our heavenly Father has borne with us ; we- forget how in- consistent is this hasty spirit with the character of Christian parents, who must be ' apt to teach,' and therefore patient and long-suffering. The error sometimes proceeds from a failing leaning to virtue's side. A Christian has warm and strong feelings of piety ; these hurry him on ; and he does not exercise calm reflection, so as to make the proper and necessary allowances for youth's thoughtlessness and follies. But did our Father in heaven bear with us ? Did our Mas- ter forgive us ten thousand talents, and shall we not bear with our children, and forgive them a hundred pence ? Shall we, who profess to be the children of the light, not remem- ber that we must subdue the young heart by the discipline vol. i, 15 18 THE SPOILED CHILD. of truth, applied with labor and prayer, not by force or tho spirit of persecution ! " And permit me also to add here, that we who are par- ents are often a good deal defective in another valuable quality, or virtue, if you will allow me to call it so — I mean, cheerfulness. To the absence of this, and the influ- ence of moroseness, may we not, in a great measure, ascribe the aversion so manifest in many young people, of the higher and middling ranks, to the topic of religious con- versation ? In all our allusions and conversations on the matter of religion, we should carefully study to make it what it is in sober reality, the most lovely and the most charming thing in the world ! " Much wisdom and spiritual skill are required in mak- ing a cheerful and exhilarating improvement of the Sabbath evening. In recalling to memory and reviewing the duties and exercises of the day, we should studiously endeavor to make our fireside and Sabbath evening conversations the most delightful and most captivating possible to the young mind. There are some parents and masters of families so stern, so awful, so morose in their manner, that their exhi- bitions of the lovely Gospel of Christ are really revolting to young persons. They seem to mistake sternness for so- lemnity, moroseness for zeal, and a spirit to find fault with and chide every one, for a spirit of piety and purity. They seem as if they took a pleasure in picturing out religion, not as an angel in robes of glory, but as a dark and lower- ing demon, come to rob us of our joys ! This cannot fail to excite disgust. To this cause, and also, in an equal, if not superior degree, to another cause — I mean the total absence of all religious conversation at a parent's fireside — , do I ascribe the prevailing dislike for religious conversa- tion among young people. " But, my dear friends, while I recommend cheerfulness, I would implore every Christian parent to be on his guard against the want of a proper and becoming gravity. An THE SPOILED CHILD. 19 ill-timed levity has, in many instances, produced lasting and most injurious consequences. Gravity and cheerfulness are perfectly consistent, and even congenial ; it is the for- mer which prevents the latter from degenerating into utter levity. Never, on a Sabbath evening, and never on a religious subject, should becoming gravity permit the intro- duction of wit and levity ; far less, ' foolish talking or jest- ing, which are not convenient. 3 It was one of that learned and truly godly man, President Edwards' recorded rules of life, ' never to say a thing on the Lord's day which would excite mirth or a laugh.' This should be strictly observed by every Christian parent and master of a family. We may be perfectly cheerful without mirth and laughter. Let every thing be in its proper place, and always season- able. " There is another defect in the manner, which 1 cannot omit : the want of a due equanimity of temper. This is usually betrayed by impatience and irritation. It is of essential importance, not only to be on our guard against these, but to have the mind cured of them, as an exceeding great evil. A parent should never use the rod until he is convinced, on cool recollection, that it is his imperative duty to have recourse to it : he should never correct a child until he has convinced him of his error and crime ; he should never correct a child in a passion : to do so is to indulge a spirit of revenge, not to exercise salutary parental disci- pline. His whole manner should indicate to the child that he administers the correction with the utmost reluctance, and from a painful sense of duty. An estimable friend of mine had an untoward son : he had committed a crime against the laws of the household : he took him into the family circle, spent some time in explaining to him the nature and the evil of that crime, and laying the rod down, he said, ' It is my duty, my child, to correct you ; but I will do it in the fear of God. Let us first pray.' The whole family circle threw themselves on their knees, while 20 THE SPOILED CHILD. he poured out, with deep emotions, and many tears, a prayer for his stubborn and rebellious child. The culprit alone remained standing ; but the prayer and tears of his father melted his refractory heart, and he kneeled down also. The correction was administered with evident distress ; but it was light, for the child bowed instantly in submission and peni- tential confessions. And to my knowledge it was the last he ever needed. He is still alive ; and a more dutiful and excellent son you will not readily find. " There is another defect, which is originated by a parent's constitutional indolence and aversion to the trouble and pain of discipline. This dangerous failing has made many a parent criminally yield to his own ease or natural feelings. " And finally, my friends, a painful defect shows itself in the want of a proper unity between the parents. One parent scolds when he ought to administer solemn but affec- tionate rebukes ; while the other parent takes the child's part, and makes an apology for it. One of the parents cor- rects in wrath ; the other interferes, and pities the ' poor child,' and insists~that it shall not be corrected. The child thus creates an insurrection in the family, and contrives to escape in the unseemly brawl. The result is, that he laughs at the weakness of both parents, and soon begins to set pa- rental authority at defiance." While the pastor was uttering the last three specimens of parental delinquency in the manner of conducting family discipline, the elder and his wife, having turned their eyes mutually on each other with more of sorrow than reproach, began to testify their unaffected grief. They were both bathed in tears. It had occurred to them that this was the main origin and source of the evil which they were now bitterly deploring. Towards evening the pastor, previous to his departure, took some pains to find out the youth ; and bringing him in, placed him by his father's side, and addressed another of THE SPOILED CHILD. 21 his pastoral admonitions to him. There was a dignity in the pastor's manner which seldom failed to command the awe and attention of this young man, when in his common moods. It is true, he had insulted him in the field, but i' was in a gust of passion, which was now, for a season at least, soothed into a calm. But the pastor knew not the depth of that youth's depravity. He was silent, but unsub- dued, The pastor commenced his address to him in a tone of unaffected tenderness, while he sought to conceal the tears which coursed down his cheeks ; but it had no effect on him. He rose by degrees into the most touching pa- thos, as he addressed himself to the youth's conscience. Then he spread out before his mind the terrors of the law and the majesty of the Almighty ; and told him of the coming hour of death, of judgment, and an eternal retribution. " My poor boy !" cried the pastor, with the utmost ten- derness, " I will not fail to tell thee thy duties, whether thou wilt hear, or whether thou wilt forbear. It is the command of God to cherish in thy soul the principle of filial affection, '- Hearken to thy father that begat thee, and despise not thy mother when she is old.' And remember, my child, that the basis of this affection and veneration which you owe your parents, is a holy veneration of God. And O, were there a prindple of piety towards God in your heart, you would not thus break the hearts of your parents. In pro- portion as a child has the fear of God before his eyes, he is dutiful and affectionate. And in proportion as the fear of God is banished from the mind, the child is unnat- ural, stubborn, and rebellious. The drunkard and the gambler exhibit a mournful evidence of this : they would shuffle the implements of their folly and crime at a father'3 death-bed ; they would make their last stake on a mother's coffin ! "In addition to filial affection, T charge you to render a Eleg. Nir. ] 1 22 THE SPOILED CHILD. corresponding reverence and honor : carry it in all your looks ; be courteous, gentle, and kind ; shun petulance and the distressing spirit of contradiction, even when you may be confident that you are in the right. Never utter a dis- respectful word of them to others : he who can do this, even when they are in error, lessens the dignity of his family, and detracts from his own honor. Like the pious sons of Noah, always throw a veil over their frailties and failings; and always be ready to defend them from the tongue of slander. And in a particular manner show the substan- tial evidence of your filial reverence and honor, by a dig- nified deportment before all men, in your intercourse with the world. I would not ask a higher compliment from a child of mine than this, I mean as it regards tem- poral honors. " In addition to this, my child, God enjoins it on you to render to your parents a prompt filial obedience in all things. Always lend a willing ear to them in all their instructions. Yield up your heart to their injunctions promptly. Humble yourself under their admonitions and reproofs. Bow down with filial submission under their corrections, whether ex- pressed in words, or in a temporary exile from their pres- ence, or by the rod of correction. Consult with the,m frankly, and make them your counsellors and guides ; especially in matters of such importance as your establish- ment in life, the choice of your employment and business, the choice of your company and companions, and in a special manner, your early attachments and choice of a companion, and in all your spiritual concerns. " And, finally, fail not to give them endearing evidences of your filial gratitude. This includes in it, love for the benefits received, and a high value put on them, on account of their proceeding from persons beloved and dear : it in- cludes affection to the persons of the donors, joy at the reception of favors, and a prompt disposition to render back what it can in return for them. THE SPOILED CHILD. 23 " And now, young man, these duties are enjoined by the awful authority of God speaking to you in his holy word, and by the mouth of your honored parents ; and enforced by the captivating example of our Lord Jesus Christ towards his mother in early life, and as, in a most touching manner^ while expiring on the cross, he recommended her, in his last moments, to the beloved disciple, with whom she should find reverence, affection, and a home ! John 19 : 25, 26. Moreover, God has enforced this duty by a promise of long life and prosperity ; and when this duty is rendered by faith and love to God's authority, it receives its eternal reward in the heavens. On the contrary, hear the denunciations of Heaven against the rebellious and wicked child : ' Cursed be he that setteth light by his father or his mother : and all the people shall say, Amen.' Deut. 27: 16. 'The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.' Prov. 30 : 17. Ah ! young man, look on these weeping parents, and say, can you dare pursue the course which will bring down their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave V Having finished his admonitions he kneeled down with the afflicted parents, and uttered a fervent prayer for them, while he did not forget in his holy wrestlings their poor prodigal son ; for he felt that he had received his ministry of the Lord, and watched for souls as one who knew he was soon to be called to give his last account — even for those who might be lost, as well as for those who should be saved ! The writer of this Tract succeeded that venerable min- ister in the pastoral charge of the church of B ; and when he came into the charge, the pastor, and Mr. C, and nis wife also, had all departed this life. They all died in 24 THE SPOILED CHILD. great peace and joy in the Holy Ghost. Mr. C. died first, and shortly after him his wife, after closing their often-re- newed and solemn entreaties and admonitions to their only son, to return to the Lord God of his fathers, and avoid the miseries of the second death ; and enforcing these admonitions with many tears, and by all the solemnities of their trial and experience of a dying bed ! The pastor had accepted the invitation to take on him the presidency of a college, and died" in a few months after entering on his official duties. John C , the son, was the husband of an amiable lady, and the father of several beautiful children, when I first visited his mansion. He had been, for a season, re- formed, to appearance at least ; and had sustained a tolera- bly decent character for about a year after he had been married to his excellent wife. But now he had added the crime of a boasted and obstinate infidelity to the most dis- gusting habits of intemperance. And having once returned to them, his latter end was worse than the beginning. He was now a miserable and degraded man, lost to all self- respect, and reckless of character and public opinion ; his wife, once the most beautiful and happy woman in the val- ley, was now a broken-hearted and haggard being ; and his own children, to complete his misery and degradation, fled at his approach, and hid themselves from his presence. His fine estate was now involved in debt, and every thing around him indicated the condition of one fast sinking into ruin. His person, formerly athletic and handsome, ex- hibited a revolting spectacle. He had been visited with several attacks of the delirium tremens, or the drunkard's b'ain-fever, and yet he would daily drink incredible quan- tries of the poisonous liquid which was drowning him in perdition ! I remember as distinctly as if it had been only yesterday, vhe last visit which I paid him. I was accompanied by an elder of the church, who had for some years filled the place THE SPOILED CHILD. 26 of his venerable father. He received us kindly ; he wag sober, for it was rather early : he sat down on my left side, the elder on the other ; his meek and humble wife, with her three pretty little children, casting anxious and sorrowful looks at their father, placed themselves over against us. A deep and painful silence prevailed for some minutes. Every thing about the chamber, and about the house, on which the eye could rest, exhibited tokens of desolation and wretched- ness. This was the inheritance of a spoiled child — the house of a drunkard and infidel ! " Will you, sir, bring me your father's Bible ?" A smile, not of pleasure, but that of the scorner, played over his face ; nevertheless, he rose and brought it out, covered with dust and cobwebs. This led me to notice the very different use which the good old man, his father, made of that book, and the use which all good men would make of it. He smiled con- temptuously, but said nothing, for his wife cast a beseech- ing look on him, tempered with her winning sweetness, ren- dered more touching by her unaffected sorrow. It was a long visit we paid him ; and we endeavored, by the help of divine grace, to improve our time. We set before him, after reading the nineteenth psalm, a brief out- line of the authenticity and divinity of the Holy Scriptures ; and begged respectfully his attention to it. " Ah ! sir, this points out to you the good old way in which your fathers walked, and found rest and happiness : I appeal to your own experience if you have ever tasted one drop of happi- ness or peace in your wariderings from these ways." He turned away from the discussion with a sally of ridicule ,* yet in that sarcastic laugh a child might have seen that he felt miserable in his soul. His wit had pierced his own conscience. We turned to another subject — the nature and the worth of the immortal soul. " O let the son of your father re- member the words of Him whose lips never spoke false- vol. I. 11* 26 THE SPOILED CHILD. hood, even Him whose lips, as the Lord God of Hosts liveth, Will ere long judge you at his tribunal ! O hear his words : ' What is a man profited, though he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul ? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul V O what will you feel — what will you say — what will you do, when you are in the last awful conflict — in the act of leaving this world ! — and soon — soon will you be summoned to leave it ! As the Lord liveth, and as your soul liveth, there is only a step between you and death ! O what will you feel — what will you say — what will you do, when the eternal world in all its fearful realities, in all its overpowering glories and terrors, shall burst on your astonished and disembodied soul ! O hear me — return to the Lord God of your father ! I beseech you, by Him who loved us, and gave himself for us — by him who died on the cross for us — by the Lord Jesus Christ, I beseech you, return to your God ! By the mem ory of that dear old man your father — by the memory of his tears, and prayers, and vows — by the memory of that dear saint of God, now in heaven, your mother, who bare you, and nursed you in her bosom, and wept and prayed over you — whose last prayer and sigh were breathed from her dying lips for you — O return to your God ; and break off your sins by repentance and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ !" He burst into tears, and placing his hands on his face, bowed himself down, his face on his knees, and wept aloud. We all kneeled down and prayed. The miserable man kneeled close by me. My heart was utterly over- come : I poured out my soul in almost incoherent words : I implored the outpouring of the Holy Ghost on him, his wife, and his dear little children. Every one of us wept, the very children sobbed, and I shall never forget the scene. The floor where the prodigal son bowed his head was wet with his streaming tears. THE SPOILED CHILD. 27 The sun was now setting : we took our leave of him with a cordial embrace. He led us to our horses, and on parting besought us to visit him soon again. But, alas ! it was our last interview with him. I never saw him more. I was called into a neighboring State on business of the churches, and I was absent two weeks. The first news I learned, as I alighted at my own door, on my return, was the appalling intelligence that poor John C WAS DEAD, AND BURIED ! I learned in brief his last moments from the elder who had accompanied me on my last visit, and who had seen him when dying. Poor C was attacked with fits : he raved in his deliriums. At intervals he recovered his senses, and for a season was somewhat composed in his mind, but expressed deep compunctions and sorrow for his evil ways and doings. When he felt himself dying, he became awfully alarmed. He seemed actually frantic. The very bed shook under him ; as if with supernatural strength, he tried to raise himself up ; and shrieked out for some moments, " O Lord Jesus, have mercy on me ! God of my father, have mercy on me ! O Christ, have mercy on me ! O curses, curses on the head of General , who seduced me from the ways of my father's God into his infidel ways ! Curses on my vicious companions, who taught me to break the Sabbath, and to dishonor and disobey my father and mother ; and led me into taverns, instead of the church of my fathers ! O mercy, mercy, Lord, on me, a poor miserable outcast !" Thus he contin- ued wailing, sometimes crying for mercy, and frequently uttering fearful imprecations. In a few hours, during i which there was nothing but horror and distraction in the family, his strength, though the strength of a giant, became utterly exhausted ■; and his spirit, with an agonizing strug- gle, took its everlasting flight ! 28 THE SPOILED CHILD. This, as reported to me, was the end of the spoiled child. In these solemn facts we set up a beacon, to give an awful warning to parents of the fatal rock on which they also may strike. " Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away !" " O let us hear and fear, and dc no presumptuous sin !" Let us labor for the conversion of our dear children, like those who feel that they are laboring to " pluck brands from the devouring fire !" We pronounce not on the final destiny of poor John C ; but who of us, I beseech you, would wish our children to follow his course of life, or to die his appalling death ? NARRATIVE VI. THE AFRICAN SERVANT. AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE— ABRIDGED. BY REV. LEGH RICHMOND. During a residence of some years' continuance in the neighborhood of the sea, an officer in the navy called upon me and stated that he had just taken a lodging in the parish for his wife and children, and that he had an African whom he had kept three years in his service. "The lad is a de- serving fellow," said the officer, " and he has a great desire to be baptized ; I have promised him to ask you to do it for him, if you have no objections." " Does he know any thing," I replied, " of the principles of the Christian religion ?" VOL. II. 2 THE AFRICAN SERVANT. " O, yes, I am sure he does," answered the captain ; " for he talks a great deal about it in the kitchen, and often gets laughed at for his pains ; but he takes it all very pa- tiently." " Does he behave well as your servant ?" " Yes, that he does : he is as honest" and civil a fellow as ever came aboard a ship, or lived in a house." " Was he always so well-behaved?" " No," said the officer ; " when I first had him he was often very unruly and deceitful ; but for the last two years he has been quite like another creature." " Well, sir, I shall be very glad to see him, and think it probable I shall wish to go through a course of instruction and examination ; during which I shall be able to form a judgment how far it will be right to admit him to the ordi- nance of Jbaptism. Can he read ?" " Yes," replied his master ; " he has been taking great pains to learn to read for some time past, and can make out a chapter in the Bible pretty well, as my maid-ser- vant informs me. He speaks English better than many of his countrymen, but you will find it a little broken. When will it be convenient that I should send him over to you ?" "To-morrow afternoon, sir, if you please." " He shall come to you about four o'clock, and you shall see what you can make of him." With this promise he took his leave. I felt glad of an opportunity of instructing a native of that land whose wrongs and injuries had often caused me to sigh and mourn. At the appointed hour my African disciple arrived. He was a very young looking man, with a sensible, lively, and pleasing turn of countenance. I desired him to sit down, and said, "Your master in- forms me that you wish to have some conversation with me respecting Christian baptism ?" "Yes, sir, me very much wish to be a Christian." "Why do you wish so?" THE AFRJCAiN SERVANT. 3 " Because me know that Christian go to heaven when he die." " How long have you had that wish ?" I said. " Ever since me hear one good minister preach in Amer- ica, two years ago." " Where were you born ?" " In Africa. Me was very little boy when me was made slave by the white men." "How was that?" " Me left father and mother one day at home to go to get shells by the sea-shore ; and, as I was stooping down to gather them up, some white sailors came out of a boat and took me away. Me never see father nor mother again." " And what became of you then ?" " Me was put into ship and brought to Jamaica, and sold to a massa, who keep me in his house to serve him some years ; when, about three years ago, Captain W , my massa that spoke to you, bought me to be his servant on board his ship. And he be good massa ; and me live with him ever since." " And what thoughts had you about your soul all that time before you went to America?" I asked him. " Me no care for my soul at all before then. No man teach me a word about my soul." " Well, now tell me farther about what happened to you in America. How came you there ?" " My massa take me there in a ship, and he stop there one month ; and then me hear the good minister." " And what did that minister say ?" "He said me was a great sinner." " What, did he speak to you in particular ?" " Yes, me think so; for there was a great many to hear him, but he tell them all about me." " What did he say ?" • " He say about all the things that were in my heart. ,, " What things ?" " My sin, my ignorance, my know nothing, my believe 4 THE AFRICAN SERVANT. nothing. The good minister made me see that me think nothing good, nor do nothing good." " And what else did he tell you ?" " He sometime look me in the face, and say, that Jesus Christ came to die for sinners, poor black sinners as well as white sinners. Me thought this was very good, very good indeed, to do so for wicked sinner." " And what made you think this was all spoken to you in particular ?" " Because me sure no such wicked sinner as me in all the place. The good minister must know me was there." " And what did you think about yourself while he preached about Jesus Christ ?" " Sir, me was very much afraid when he said the wicked must be turned into hell fire. For me felt that me was very wicked sinner, and that make me cry. And he talk much about the love of Christ to sinners, and that make me cry more. And me thought me must love Jesus Christ ; but me not know how, and that make me cry again." "Did you hear more sermons--than one during that month?" " Yes, sir ; massa give me leave to go three times, and all the times me wanted to love Jesus more, and do what Je- sus said ; but my heart seem sometime hard like a stone." " Have you ever heard any preaching since that time V " Never, till me hear sermon at this church last Sunday, and then me long to be baptized in Jesus' name." " And what have been your thoughts all the time since you first heard those sermons in America ; did you tell any body then what you felt ?" " No ; me speak to nobody but to God. The good min- ister say that God hear the cry of the poor ; so me cry to God, and he hear me. And me often think about Jesus Christ, and wish to be Wke him." "Can you read?" " A little." u Who taught you to read ?" THE AFRICAN SERVANT. 5 " God teach me to read." " What do you mean by saying so ?" " God give me desire to read, and that make reading easy. Massa give me Bible, and one sailor show me the letters ; and so me learn to read by myself with God's good help." " And what do you read in the Bible ?" " O, me read all about Jesus Christ, and how he loved sinners ; and wicked men killed him, and he died and came again from the grave, and all this for poor negro. And it sometime make me cry, to think that Christ love so poor negro." " And what do the people say about your reading and praying, and attention to the things of God ?" " Some wicked people, that do not love Jesus Christ, call me great fool, and negro dog, and black hypocrite. And that make me sometime feel angry ; but then me remember Christian must not be angry. Jesus Christ was called ugly, black names, and he was quiet as a lamb ; and so then me remember Jesus Christ, and me say nothing again to them." I was much delighted with the simplicity and apparent sincerity of this poor African ; and wished to ascertain what measure of light and feeling he possessed on a few leading points. St. Paul's summary of religion* occurring to me, I said, " Tell me what is faith ? What is your own faith 1 What do you believe about Jesus Christ, and your own soul ?" " Me believe," said he, " that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners • and though me be chief of sinners, Jesus will save me, though me be only poor black negro." " What is your hope ? What do you hope for, both as to this life and that which is to come ?" " Me hope Christ Jesus will take good care of me, and keep me from sin and harm, while me live here ; and me * Now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three ; but the greatest of these is charity. 1 Cor. 13 : 13. Eleg. Nar. 12 Q THE AFRICAN SERVANT. hope, when me come to die, to go and live with him always, and never die again." " What are your thoughts about Christian love or char- ity ? I mean, whom and what do you most love ?" " Me love God the Father, because he was so good to send his Son. Me love Jesus Christ, because he die for poor sinner. Me love all men, black men and white men too ; for God made them all. Me love good Christian people, because Jesus love them, and they love Jesus." Such was my first conversation with this young disciple ; I rejoiced in the prospect of receiving him into the church, agreeably to his desire. I wished, however, to converse somewhat further, and inquire more minutely into his con- duct, and promised to ride over and see him in a few days, at his master's lodgings. When he was gone, I thought within myself, God hath indeed redeemed souls, by the blood of his Son, " out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation." It is a happy thought, that " Ethiopia shall soon stretch forth her hands unto God. Sing unto God, ye kingdoms of the earth ; O sing praises unto the Lord !" Not many days after the first interview with my African disciple, I went from home on horseback with the design of visiting and conversing'with him again at his master's house, which was situated in a part of the parish near four miles distant from my own. The road which I took lay over a lofty down or hill, which commands a prospect of scenery seldom equalled for beauty and magnificence. It gave birth to silent, but instructive contemplation. As I pursued the meditations which this magnificent and varied scenery excited in my mind, I approached the edge of a tremendous perpendicular cliff with which the down terminates ; I dismounted from my horse and tied it to a bush. The breaking of the waves against the foot of the cliff, at so great a distance beneath me, produced an in- cessant and pleasing murmur. The sea-gulls were flying THE AFRICAN SERVANT. 7 between the top of the cliff where I stood and the rocks below, attending upon their nests built in the holes of the cliff. The whole scene, in every direction, was grand and impressive ; it was suitable to devotion. The Creator ap- peared in the works of his creation, and called upon the creature to honor and adore. To the believer this exercise is doubly delightful. He possesses a right to the enjoyments of nature and providence, as well as to the privileges of grace. His title-deed runs thus: "All things are yours, whether Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas, or the world, or things present, or things to come ; all are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's." I cast my eye downwards a little to the left, towards a small cove, the shore of which consists of fine hard sand. It is surrounded by fragments of rock, chalk cliffs, and steep banks of broken earth. Shut out from human intercourse and dwellings, it seems formed for retirement and contem- plation. On one of these rocks I unexpectedly observed a man sitting with a book, which he was reading. The place was near two hundred yards perpendicularly below me; but I soon discovered by his dress, and by the black color of his features, contrasted with the white rocks beside him, that it was no other than my African disciple, with, as I doubted not, a Bible in his hand. I rejoiced at this unlooked-for opportunity of meeting him in so solitary and interesting a situation. I descended a steep bank, winding by a kind of rude staircase, formed by fishermen and shepherd's boys in the side of the cliff down to the shore. He was intent on his book, and did not perceive me till I approached very near to him. " William, is that you ?" " Ah ! massa, me very glad to see you. How came massa into this place? Methought nobody here but only God and me." " I was coming to your master's house to see you, and rode round by this way for the sake of the prospect. I often come here in fine weather to look at the sea and the ship- ping. Is that your Bible ?" g THE AFRICAN SERVANT. " Yes, sir, this is my dear, good Bible." " I am glad," said I, " to see you so well employed ; i is a good sign, William." " Yes, massa, a sign that God is good to me ; but me never good to God." "How so?" " Me never thank him enough ; me never pray to him enough ; me never remember enough who give me all these good things. Massa, me afraid my heart very bad. Me wish me was like you." " Like me, William ? Why, you are like me, a poor helpless sinner, that must, like yourself, perish in his sins, unless God of his infinite mercy and grace pluck him as a brand from the burning, and make him an instance of dis* tinguishing love and favor. There is no difference ; we have both come short of the glory of God : all have sinned." " No, me no like you, massa ; me think nobody like me, nobody feel such a heart as me." " Yes, William, your feelings, I am persuaded, are like those of every truly convinced soul who sees the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and the greatness of the price which Christ Jesus paid for the sinner's ransom. You can say, in the words of the hymn, 1 I the chief of sinners am, But Jesus died for me.'" " O yes, sir, me believe that Jesus died for poor negro. What would become of poor wicked negro, if Christ no die for him ? But he die for the chief of sinners, and that make my heart sometime quite glad." " What part of the Bible were you reading, William ?" " Me read how the man on the cross spoke to Christ, and Christ spoke to him. Now, that man's prayer just do for me 'Lord, remember me ;' Lord, remember poor negro sinner : this is my prayer every morning, and sometime at night too : "when me cannot think of many words then me say the same again, Lord, remember poor negro sinner." THE AFRICAN SERVANT. 9 " And be assured, William, the Lord hears that prayer. He pardoned and accepted the thief upon the cross, and he will not reject you ; he will in no wise cast out any that come to him." " No, sir, I believe it ; but there is so much sin in my heart, it make me afraid, and sorry. Massa, do you see these limpets,* how fast they stick to the rocks here ? Just so sin stick fast to my heart." " It may be so, William ; but take another comparison : do you cleave to Jesus Christ by faith in his death and righteousness, as those limpets cleave to the rock, and neither seas nor storms shall separate you from his love." "That is just what me want." " Tell me, William, is not that very sin which you speak of, a burden to you ? You do not love it : you would be glad to obtain strength against it, and to be freed from it, would you not V 9 ' * " O yes ; me give all this world, if me had it, to be without sin." " Come, then, and welcome, to Jesus Christ, my brother ; his blood cleanseth from all sin. He gave himself as a ransom for sinners. He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities ; the chastisement of our peace was upon him ; and with his stripes we are healed. The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all. Come,* freely come to Jesus, the Saviour of sinners." " Yes, massa," said the poor fellow weeping, " me will come, but me come very slow ; very slow, massa ; me want to run, me want to fly. Jesus is very good to poor negro, to send you to tell him all this." " But this is not the first time you have heard thes truths." " No, sir, they have been comfort to my soul many * A kind of shell-fish which abounds in the place where we vere, and which sticks to the rocks with great force. 12* IQ THE AFRICAN SERVANT. times since me hear good minister preach in America, as me tell you last week at your house." " Well, now I hope, William, that since God has been so graciously pleased to open your eyes, and affect your mind with such a great sense of his goodness, in giving his Son to die for your sake, I hope that you do endeavor to keep his commandments ; I hope you strive to behave well to your master and mistress, and fellow-servants. He that is a Christian inwardly, will be a Christian outwardly ; he that truly and savingly believes in Christ, will show his faith by his works, as the apostle says. Is it not so, William ?" " Yes, sir, me want to do so. Me want to be faithful Me sorry to think how bad servant me was before the gooe things of Jesus Christ come to my heart. Me wish to do well to my massa, when he see me, and when he not see me, for me know God always see me. Me know that if me sin against mine own massa, me sin against God, and God be very angry with me. Besides, how can me love Christ, if me do not do what Christ tell me ? Me love my fellow- servants, though, as me tell you before, they do not much love me, and I pray God to bless them. And when they say bad things, and try to make me angry, then me think, if Jesus Christ were in poor negro's place, he would not revile and answer again with bad words and temper, but he say little, and pray much. And so then me say nothing at •all, but pray God to forgive them." The more I conversed with this African convert, the more satisfactory were the evidences of his mind being spiritually enlightened, and his heart effectually wrought upon by the grace of God. The circumstances of the place m which we met to- gether, contributed much to the interesting effect which the conversation produced on my mind. The little cove or bay was beautiful in the extreme. The air was calm and serene. The sun shone, but we were sheltered from its rays by the cliffs. One of these was stupendously lofty and large. It was white as snow ; its summit hung directly over our ^HE AFRICAN SERVANT XI neads. The sea- fowl were flying around it. Its whiteness was occasionally checkered with dark green masses of samphire, which grew there. On the other side, and behind us, was a more gradual declivity of many-colored earths, interspersed with green patches of grass and bushes, and little streams of water trickling down the bank, and min- gling with the sea at the bottom. At our feet the wavea were advancing over shelves of rocks covered with a great variety of sea- weeds, which swam in little fragments, and displayed much beauty and elegance of form, as they were successively thrown upon the sand. Ships of war and commerce were seen at different dis- tances. Fishermen were plying their trade in boats nearer to the shore. The noise of the flowing tide, combined with the voices of the sea-gulls over our heads, and now and then a distant gun fired from the ships as they passed along, add- ed much to the peculiar sensations to which the scene gave birth. Occasionally the striking of oars upon the waves, accompanied by the boatman's song, met the ear. The sheep aloft upon the down sometimes mingled their bleat- ings with the other sounds. Thus all nature seemed to unite in impressing an attentive observer's heart with af- fecting thoughts. I continued for a considerable time in conversation with the African, finding that his master was gone from home for the day, and had given him liberty for some hours. I spoke to him on the nature, duty, and privilege of Christian baptism ; pointed out to him the principles of the Scriptures upon that head, and found that he was very desirous of con- forming to them. He appeared to me to be well qualified for receiving that pledge of his Redeemer's love ; and I rejoiced in the prospect of beholding him no longer a "stran- ger and foreigner, but a fellow-citizen with the saints and household of God." I was much pleased with the affectionate manner in which he spoke of his parents, from whom he had been stolen in his childhood; and his wishes that God might 1 2 THE AFRICAN SERVANT. direct them by some means to the knowledge of the Sav iour. " Who knows," I said, " but some of these ships may be carrying a missionary to the country where they live, to declare the good news of salvation to your countrymen, and to your own dear parents in particular, if they are yet alive." " O ! my dear father and mother : my dear, gracious Saviour," exclaimed he, leaping from the ground as he spake, " if thou wilt but save their souls, and tell them what thou hast done for sinners — but" He stopped, and seemed much affected. " My friend," said I, " I will now pray with you for your own soul, and those of your parents also." " Do, massa, that is very good and kind ; do pray for poor negro souls here and everywhere." This was a new and solemn " house of prayer." The sea-sand was our floor, the heavens were our roof, the clifFs, the rocks, the hills, and the waves, formed the walls of our chamber. It was not indeed a " place where prayer was wont to be made," but for this once it became a hallowed spot : it will by me ever be remembered as such. The presence of God was there. I prayed. The African wept. His heart was full. I felt with him, and could not but weep likewise. The last day will show whether our tears were not the tears of sincerity and Christian love. It was time for my return ; I leaned upon his arm, as we ascended the steep cliff in my way back to my horse, which I had left at the top of the hill. Humility and thankfulness were marked in his countenance. I leaned upon his arm with the feelings of a brother. It was a relationship I was happy to own. I took him by the hand at parting, appointed one more interview previous to the day of baptizing him, and bade him farewell for the present. " God bless you, my dear massa." M And you, my fellow-christian, for ever and ever." THE AFRICAN SERVANT. 13 The interesting and affecting conversation which I had with the African servant, produced a sensation not easy to be expressed. As I returned home I was led into medita- tion on the singular clearness and beauty of those evidences of faith and conversion to God which I had just seen and heard. How plainly, I thought, it appears, that salvation is freely by grace, through faith ; and that not of ourselves ; it is the gift of God ; not of works, lest any man should boast. What but the Holy Spirit, who is the Author and Giver of the life of grace, could have wrought such a change from the once dark, perverse, and ignorant heathen, to this now convinced, enlightened, humble, and believing Christian ? How manifestly is the uncontrolled sovereignty of the divine will exercised in the calling and translating of sinners from darkness to light ! What a lesson may the nominal Christian of a civilized country sometimes learn from the simple, sincere religion of a converted heathen ! I afterwards made particular inquiry into this young man's domestic and general deportment. Every thing 1 heard was satisfactory ; nor could I entertain a doubt re- specting the consistency of his conduct and character. I had some further conversation with him, in the course of which I pursued such a plan of scriptural instruction and examina- tion as I conceived to be the most suitable to his progressive state of mind. He improved much in reading, carried his Bible constantly in his pocket, and took every opportunity which his duty to his master's service would allow for pe- rusing it. I have frequently had occasion to observe, that among the truly religious poor who have not had the ad- vantage of learning to read in early youth, a concern about the soul, and desire to know the Word of God, have proved effectual motives for their learning to read with great ease and advantage to themselves and others. It was strikingly so in the present case. I had, for a considerable time, been accustomed to meet some serious persons once a week, in a cottage at no great distance from the house where he lived, for the urpose of 14 ^HE AFRICAN SERVANT. religious conversation, instruction, and prayer. Having ibund these occasions remarkably useful and interesting to myself and others, I thought it would be very desirable to take the African there, in order that there might be many witnesses to the simplicity and sincerity of real Christianity, as exhibited in the character of this promising young con- vert. I hoped it might prove an eminent means. of grace to excite and quicken the spirit of prayer and praise among some over whose spiritual progress I was anxiously watching. I accordingly obtained his master's leave that he should attend me to one of my cottage assemblies. His master, although he did not himself appear to live under the in- fluence of real religion, or to manifest any serious concern respecting his own state, yet was pleased with my attention to his servant, and always spoke well of his behavior. I set out on the day appointed for the interview. The cottage at which we usually assembled was near four miles distant from my own residence, and was situated at the corner of an oak wood which screened it both from the burning heat of summer suns, and the heavy blasts of win- ter south-west storms. As I approached it, I saw my friend the African sitting under a tree and awaiting my arrival. He held in his hand a little Tract which I had given him ; his Bible lay on the ground. ■ He rose with much cheerful- ness, saying, . " Ah ! massa, me very glad to see you ; me think you long time coming." " William, I hope you are well. I am going to take you with me to a few of my friends, who, I hope, are also the friends of the Lord. We meet every Wednesday evening for conversation about the things that belong to our ever- lasting peace, and I am sure you will be a welcome visitor." " Massa, me not good enough to be with such good people. Me great sinner. They be good Christians." " If you were to ask them, William, they would each tell you they were worse than any body. Many of them were once, and that not vejy long ago, living in an openly THE AFRICAN SERVANT. . 15 sinful manner, ignorant of God, and the enemies of Jesus Christ by thought and deed. But divine grace stopped them in their wicked course, and subdued their hearts to the love and obedience of him and his Gospel. You will only meet a company of poor fellow-sinners, who love to speak and sing the praises of redeeming love ; and I am sure that is a song in which you will be willing to join them.-' " O yes, sir, that song just do for poor William." By this time we had arrived at the cottage garden gate. Several well-known faces appeared in and near the house, and the smile of affection welcomed us as we enter- ed. It was known that the African was to visit the little society this evening, and satisfaction beamed in every coun- tenance, as I took him by the hand and introduced him among them, saying, " I have brought a brother from Africa to see you, my friends. Bid him welcome in the name of the Lord." " Sir," said a humble and pious laborer, whose heart and tongue always overflowed with Christian kindness, " we are at all times glad to see our dear minister, but especially so to-day, in such company as you have brought with you. We have heard how gracious the Lord has been to him. Give me your hand, good friend, (turning to the African,) God be with you here and everywhere ; and blessed be his holy name for calling wicked sinners, as I hope he has done you and me, to love and serve him for his mercy's sake." Each one greeted him as he came into the house, and some addressed him in very kind and impressive language. " Massa," said he, " me not know what to say to all these good friends; me think this look like little heaven upon earth." He then, with tears in his eyes, which, almost before he spoke, brought responsive drops into those of all present, said; " Good friends and brethren in Christ Jesus, God bless you all, and bring you to heaven at last." It was my stated custom when I met to converse with IQ . THE AFRICAN SERVANT. those friends, to begin with prayer and reading a portion of the Scriptures. When this was ended, I told the people present that the providence of God had brought this young man for a time under my ministry ; and that finding him very seriously d : sposed, and believing him to be sincere in his religious profession, I had resolved on baptizing him agreeably to his own wishes. I added that I had now brought him with me to join in Christian conversation with us ; for, as in old times, " they that feared the Lord spake often one to another," as a testimony that they thought upon his name, so I hoped we were fulfilling a Christian and brotherly duty in thus assem- bling for mutual edification. Addressing myself to the African, I said, " William, tell me who made you ?" " God, the good Father." " Who redeemed you ?" "Jesus, his dear Son, who died for me ?" " Who sanctified you ?" " The Holy Ghost, who teach me to know the good Father, and his dear Son, Jesus." " What was your state by nature ?" " Me wicked sinner, me know nothing but sin, me do nothing but sin ; my soul more black than my body." " Has any change taken place in you since then ?" " Me hope so, massa, but me sometime afraid no." " If you are changed, who changed you ?" " God, the good Father ; Jesus, his dear Son ; and God the Holy Spirit." " How was any change brought about in you ?" " God make me slave when me was young little boy." " How, William ! would you say God made you a slave V " No, massa, no ; me mean God let me be made slave by white men to do me good." " How to do you good ?" " He take me from the land of darkness and bring me to the land of light." THE AFRICAN SERVANT. p "Which do you call the land of light; the West India Islands ?" " No, massa, they be the land of Providence, but America be the land of light to me ; for there me first hear good min- ister preach. And now this place where I am now is the land of more light ; for here you teach me more and more how good Jesus is to sinners. 55 " What does the blood of Christ do ?" " It cleanse from all sin. And as me hope, from my sin." " Are, then, all men cleansed from sin by his blood ?" " O no, massa." " Who are cleansed and saved ?' J " Those that have faith in him." " Can you prove that out of the Bible ?" " Yes, sir : ' He that believeth on the Son hath ever- lasting life ; and he that believeth not the Son, shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him. 5 John 3 : 3b*. " " What is it to have faith ?" " Me suppose that it is to think much about Jesus Christ ; to love him muchj to believe all he says to be true, to pray to him very much ; and when me feel very weak and very sinful, to think that he is very strong, and very good, and all that for my sake." " And have you such faith as you describe ?" " O, massa, me think sometimes me have no faith a' all." • " Why so, William ?" " When me want to think about Jesus Christ, my mind run about after other things ; when me want to love him, my heart seem quite cold ; when me want to believe all to be true what he says to sinners, me then think it is not true for me ; when me want to pray, the devil put bad, very bad thoughts into me, and me never thank Christ enough. Now all this make me sometimes afraid I have no faith." t observed a very earnest glow of attention and fellow, feeling in some countenances present, as he spoke these words. I then said, Elcg. Nar. 13 13 THE AFRICAN SERVANT. " I think, William, I can prove that you have faith, not- withstanding your fears to the contrary. Answer me a few more questions. " Did you begin to think yourself a great sinner, and to feel the want of a Saviour of your own self, and by your own thought and doing ?" " O, no ; it came to me when me think nothing about it, and seek nothing about it." " Who sent the good minister in America to awaken your soul by his preaching ?" " God, very certainly." " Who then began the work of serious thought and feel- ing in your mind ?" " The good God ; me could not do it of myself, me sure of that." " Do you not think that Jesus Christ and his salvation is the one thing most needful and most desirable ?" " O, yes, me quite sure of that." " Do you not believe that he is able to save you ?" " Yes, he is able to save to the uttermost." " Do you think he is unwilling to save you V* " Me dare not say that. He so good, so merciful, so kind, to say he will in no wise cast out any that come to him." " Do you wish, and desire, and strive to keep his com- mandments t " Yes, massa, because me love him, and that make me want to do as he say." " Are you willing to suffer for his sake, if God should call you to do so ?" " Me do think me could die for the love of him ; he not think it too much to die for wicked sinner ; why should wicked sinner think it much to die for so good and righteous a Saviour?" " I think and hope I may say to you, William, thy faith hath made thee whole." Thus ended my examination for the present. The other THE AFRICAN SERVANT. 19 friends who were in the house listened with the most affec- tionate anxiety to all that passed. One of them observed, not without evident emotion, " I see, sir, that though some men are white, and some are black, true Christianity is all of one color. My own heart has gone with this good man every word he has spoken." " And so has mine," gently reechoed from every part of the room. After some time passed in more general conversation on the subject of the African's history, I said, " Let us now praise God for the rich and unspeakable gift of his grace, and sing the hymn of ' redeeming love :' 1 Now begin the heavenly theme, Sing aloud in Jesus' name,' etc." which was accordingly done. Whatever might be the merit of the natural voices, it was plain there was melody in all their hearts. The African was not much used to our way of singing, yet joined with great earnestness and affection, which showed how truly he felt what was uttered. When the fifth verse was ended — " Nothing brought him from above, Nothing but redeeming love " — he repeated the words, almost unconscious where he was. " No, nothing, nothing but redeeming love bring him down to poor William ; nothing but redeeming love." The following verses were added, and sung by way of conclusion : See, a stranger comes to view ; Though he's black,* he's comely too : Come to join the choirs above, Singing of redeeming love. # Song of Solomon, 1 : 5. 2Q THE AFRICAN SERVANT. Welcome, Negro, welcome here, Banish doubt, and banish fear ; You, who Christ's salvation prove, Praise and bless redeeming love. I concluded with some remarks on the nature of salva- tion by grace, and exhorted all present to press forward in the heavenly race. It was an evening, the circumstances of which, had they never been recorded on earth, were yet doubtless registered in the book of remembrance above. I then fixed the day for the baptism of the African, and so took leave of my little affectionate circle. The moon shone bright as I returned home, and was beautifully reflected from the waters of the lake : harmony and repose characterized the scene. I had just been unit- ing in the praises of the God of grace and providence ; and now the God of nature demanded a fresh tribute of thanks- giving for the beauties and comforts of creation, as David sang, " When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fin- •gers ; the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained ; what is man, that thou art mindful of him ? or the son of man, that thou visitest him i" In a few days the African was baptized ; and not long after, he went a voyage with his master. Since that time I have not been able to hear any tidings of him: whether he yet wanders as a pilgrim in this lower world, or whether he has joined the heavenly choir in the song of redeeming love in glory, I know not. Of this I am persuaded, he was a monument to the Lord's praise. He bore the impression of the Saviour's image on his heart, and exhibited the marks of converting grace in his life and con- versation, with singular simplicity and unfeigned sincerity. O, give to God the glory. NARRATIVE VII. THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. BY A CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. THE poor," said our J'wflFJif Lord, when questioned as to his divine mission, /'the gospel is preached." The j$ ' ; common people," too, we are g^-v -(-q^ ^y one f j-he evangelists, heard our Saviour "gladly." St. Paul declares, that '' not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called." And St. James asks, whether it is not notorious that God hath chosen the "poor of this world, rich in faith and heirs of the king- dom which he hath promised to them that love him." The subsequent history of the church of Christ presents a similar 13* 2 THE COTTAGER S WIFE. testimony. To the poor the Gospel hath still been preached, and by them it has, in general, been most favorably received. Among this humble class, some of the most striking instances of the power and grace of Christ have been exhibited ; and by them have the rich blessings of his Gospel been frequently most highly prized, and most purely enjoyed. In adding another proof of the truth of these remarks, from an example which lately fell under my own observation, my only motives are to display the glory of the Redeemer and the excellency of the Gospel ; and to draw from a simple state- ment of facts, a few plain but important lessons of instruction and consolation, for the benefit of my Christian brethren. I was lately called to undertake the pastoral care of a small parish, in one of the inland counties. My predecessor, now gone to give up his account to the great Shepherd and Bishop of souls, was a man of considerable talents and learn, ing ; of sincere piety, and most amiable manners. In his parish, his preaching and private exertions had produced a remarkable degree of regularity and decency of manners among the poor people, of whom it was almost exclusively composed. How far his labors were blessed in producing those genuine and unequivocal fruits of repentance and faith in the heart of any of his parishioners, which every zealous minister is anxious to perceive, I am as yet scarcely compe- tent to determine. Yet in the case of the person of whom 1 am now about to give you a short account, I found that he had been instrumental of much good, both by his sermons, his private instructions, and the books which he had given her. I had officiated but once in my parish, when I was told thai there was a poor young woman, supposed to be in a decline, who wished to see me. I accordingly took an early opportu. nity of calling on her. As I resided about two miles from the village, and could have, as yet, but a slight acquaintance with the characters of its inhabitants, I was employed on my way, in considering in what manner I might be likely to Ten- THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 3 der my visit most profitable to my poor patient. My clerical brethren, and indeed all those who have been inthe habit of attending the sick-beds, whether of the rich or the poor, will readily enter into the anxiety and perplexity of my thoughts upon such a subject. They will not be surprised that my ex- pectations, as to the actual state of the sick person, were not very favorable ; and that I rather feared to find, what is so commonly met with on these occasions, either great insensi- bility and unconcern, or a false and ill-grounded satisfaction and confidence in the goodness and safety of her condition. It is a melancholy consideration, that there should in general be so much ground for such apprehensions ; and while it shows the vast importance of a parochial ministry, it may serve to quicken those who are engaged in it, to the diligent use of every means of awakening and instructing their flocks. Absorbed in this painful but profitable train of thought, I arrived at the village, and was soon directed, by my clerk's daughter, to one of the smallest cottages I had ever seen. On lifting the latch of this lowly dwelling, I was struck with the remarkable cleanliness and neatness of every part of it. The furniture, though of the humblest kind, was decent, and in the most perfect order, and various traces might be perceived of the industry and care of the mistress of this little abode, though she had now been confined for some weeks to her bed. The cottage consisted but of two small rooms, separated by a few stairs, or rather steps, which led from the one to the other. I was met at my entrance by a pleasing looking elderly woman, holding in her arms an infant a few months old. " I heard," said I, " that a young woman was ill here, and I have called to see her. Are you her mother V 9 11 1 am her husband's mother, sir, and this is her little child. Poor, dear "babe, he has never known the comtbrt of his mother, and I am very much afraid he will soon lose her." iw I am sorry," said I, " to hear she is so ill. Would she like to see me now, do you think V 3 q. THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. " O yes, sir, that I am sure she will." This answer was made in so unusual a tone of confi dence and apparent, welcome, that I could not help hailing it as a token for good. How often, alas, are ministers re- ceived with a degree of coldness and indifference,' in their visits to the sick, which too plainly proves that these labors of love are but slightly valued, if at all desired. The reply was no sooner made, than I followed the good woman into the sick room. It was a little apartment formed out of the roof of the cottage, open to the stairs, and without any means of warming it by a fire. The walls were white- washed, and it had one very small casement, which its neat but afflicted tenant had adorned with a little muslin curtain. On a bedstead, just raised from the floor, and without any curtain to shelter her from the keen air of winter, lay the poor object of my visit, apparently far advanced in a con- sumption. " Alas," thought I, " this is but a comfortless ac- commodation for one in such a disorder ! How many in the midst of health, would think themselves hardly used, to be obliged to content themselves with such an apartment ? Can I ever murmur at any circumstances in my own compara- tively favored lot ? Forbid it, Lord, and forgive the repin- ing thoughts which have sometimes found admission into my mind. O, make me thankful for my superior blessings ; and in whatsoever state I am, let me learn therewith to be content." These and similar thoughts passed rapidly through my mind as I approached the bedside of my poor parishioner. " M ," said her mother-in-law, "here is the minister come to see you." "I am very glad to see him," was the immediate answer, "and greatly obliged to him for coming so far in this col weather." " How do you find yourself?" said I. " I am very ill, sir, and feel that I am getting weaker every day." THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 5 " How long have you been ill ?" " Three and twenty weeks, sir. I have never been well since the birth of my poor babe, and I begin to think that I shall never recover." I perceived at once, by the hectic flush upon her cheek, and by the difficulty with which she breathed, that her ap- prehensions were but too well founded, and therefore deter- p lined to lose no time in examining the state of her mind as to religion. " Your illness," said I, " has indeed been very long, and seems now to be very serious ; but this is the Lord's doing ; it is He who has laid you on the bed of sickness ; and the length of your confinement has given you a very merciful opportunity of thinking upon religion, and the concerns of your soul. I hope you have improved it." " I have tried to do so, sir." " I am glad to hear you say so ; but let me have a little serious conversation with you upon this subject." " That is what I greatly desire, sir." " Religion, you know, should be the great business of our lives, whether in health or sickness, but especially in sickness ; and since your state seems very uncertain, let me ask you what you think about it. If it should please God that you should not recover, what hope have you as to an- other world ?" Those who know by painful experience the answers vvhich are commonly made both by the rich and the poor to such a question, will judge of the surprise and pleasure I felt on hearing a very different reply from my afflicted pa- rishioner. In feeble accents, broken and interrupted by her cough and laboring breath, she spoke, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows : " Sir, I know and acknowledge that I am a poor, miser- able sinner ; a great sinner, sir. I do not mean, that I ever committed any very heinous crime ; but notwithstanding VOL. IT. Q THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. this, I know and feel that I am a very sinful creatuie. 1 have endeavored, sir, during my long.illness, to call to mind my past life ; and as nearly as I can remember, J have spread all my sins before God, and earnestly begged his for- giveness through Jesus Christ. I know and believe that he is the only Saviour of sinners ; I put my whole trust in him; and I hope I have come to him ; I know that he is a merci- ful Saviour; but, sir," (and here she burst into tears,) 11 when I reflect upon my vileness and sinfulness, I often fear that he will not receive me ; and if Christ should refuse me, where shall I go, or what shall I do to be saved !" Many of my readers will anticipate my reply to this affecting but hopeful declaration. I told my poor patient, that I was truly rejoiced to hear what she had just been saying ; and that if she was sincere in what she had told me, of which indeed, from her whole air and manner, I could have but little doubt, there was much that I could say to comfort her. I said that it was a great satisfaction to me to find that she was convinced of her sinful state, and of the necessity of Christ as a Saviour, and assured her that if she came to him with a sincere and humble faith, there could be no doubt of his willingness to receive her. To confirm this, I read to her several passages of Scripture^particularly 1 Tim. 1 : 15 ; John 3 : 16, 17, and 6 : 37 ; and Matt. 11 : 28-30 ; to which she listened with profound and eager at- tention, and afterwards expressed the encouragement and consolation which they afforded her. Fearing, however, that what had given me so much pleasure, might possibly be, at least in part, owing to a religious education, or to a merely nominal acquaintance with religious sentiments and phraseology, I inquired of my poor parishioner where she had obtained a degree of know- ledge in religion which, unhappily, was but too seldom met with in visiting sick-beds. She told me, that as long as she could remember, she THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 7 had been impressed with the fear of God, and a strong de- sire to be a true Christian. " When I was quite a child, sir," said she, " I had a great dread of the Almighty upon me." This was her exact expression, by which I doubt not she meant to describe that which the Psalmist speaks of when he says, " Even from my youth up, thy terrors have I suffered with a troubled mind." "At this early age, sir," she continued, " I remember that I often left my companions to engage in prayer; and as I grew up, and went into the fields to work with other young people, I have sometimes been so full of thought and anxiety about my soul, that I have spoken of what I was thinking aloud, and now and then uttered a short prayer ; upon which my companions generally laughed, and called me by some nickname. My greatest delight, sir, was to go to church ; and as I had a very good memory," proofs of which she frequently gave me in the course of my visits, " I was able to remember a great many texts of Scripture, which I used to think of when I was by myself. 1 recollect to this hour, sir, some of the sermons I heard when I was quite young. At that time, my great desire was to become prepared to partake of the Lord's supper ; and I often begged some of my friends to read to me upon the subject. After this I learned to read myself, and O, what a great blessing I have found it to read the word of God !" The preceding account of the early feelings and dispo- sitions of this poor young woman satisfied me that the grace of God had visited her heart, and had long been drawing her to an acquaintance with himself, and with her Redeemer. How highly should we prize these Divine impressions and attractions in our own case, and how anxious should we be to cherish and improve them in others ! But, alas ! how often are they neglected, and checked by some sinful pur- suit, or worldly object, until God in his all- wise and merci- ful providence interposes for our deliverance ! Thus it was g THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. with the humble subject of this narrative. After the prom- ising beginning which has been mentioned, the vanities of youth, and the evil communications of those with whom she lived in service, led her away from God and religion, and, though preserved from gross sins, she lived some years in a careless and worldly manner. " What a mercy it was, sir," said she, while mentioning this unhappy period, " that I was not cut off in the midst of it, without repentance and preparation for eternity ! I bless God that he has been pleased to spare me, though he has brought me into the affliction in which you see me." "* " Pray," said I, " what circumstances roused you to serious thought after you had thus been living in a negligent way ?" " Several things happened, sir, to bring about this blessed change in me. Mr. N came to be minister at H , and his sermons went to my heart ; and not to mine only, but to my poor aged mother's and to one of my sister's. Then, sir, not long after, this dear sister died, of the same disorder that I am now in — and so peacefully, so happily, that nobody could doubt of her having gone to heaven. Her death was greatly blessed to me ; and I have often prayed that mine mteht be like it." Perceiving that she began to be fatigued, I was unwill- ing to prolong the conversation at this time, farther than to ask her whether she had been much in the habit of prayer. She replied that she had : " but now, sir," continued she, " that I am so weak, I am sometimes hardly able to use my voice for any length of time ; but I pray with my heart continually ; and when I lie awake at night, this is my great support and comfort. I think, too, at such times, of many texts of Scripture which I know by heart, and they are greatly blessed to my soul." At her earnest request, I now prayed with her, and was much struck with the remarkable seriousness and fervor THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. g with which she joined in my petitions. When I had ended, I urged upon her the duty of self-examination, and frequent application to the throne of gface for " repentance and re- mission of sins;" and was about to leave her, when the physician, who was attending her, came in. After he had visited his patient, I inquired his opinion of her case, and was grieved to find that he entertained no expectation of her recovery — grieved not on her own ac- count — for after what I had just witnessed, I could not but believe that she was ripening for heaven — but for her hus- band and her infant, who were about shortly to be deprived of so valuable a wife and mother ; and for myself, who was likely so soon to lose a parishioner, whose example, were she spared, might prove eminently beneficial to all around her. Though I could not but regret this melancholy prospect, yet joy and gratitude were the predominant feelings in my mind on leaving the cottage. I had entered it full of anxi- ety, doubt, and apprehension; fearing that I should only find fresh cause for lamenting the wretched state of those who are ignorant of themselves and of Jesus Christ, and who are wholly unprepared for a dying bed. I quitted it, not only relieved of this burden, but rejoicing in the awak- ened, humbled, spiritual frame of mind which its afflicted inhabitant discovered, and feeling inexpressibly gratified at so unexpected a result of my first parochial visit. Full of the interesting reflections which this occurrence had excited in my mind, I returned homewards. My thoughts were chiefly occupied with the love of God in the redemption of a ruined world ; in the sufferings and death of his only begot- ten Son ; with the love of that gracious Redeemer, who came into the world to save sinners ; with the grace of that Holy Spirit who vouchsafes to apply this salvation effectu- ally to the soul. While meditating on these sacred and inestimable truths, I could not help thinking how superior Eleg. Nar. 14 i.0 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. was the happiness of my poor parishioner, in the midst of al, her poverty, distress, and pain, to that of the wealthy, the prosperous, and the gay, who live " without God in the worM;" who, satisfied with themselves and with worldly pleasures " for a season," neglect their immortal souls, and neither seek nor desire an interest in the redemption which is in Christ Jesus. " Surely," thought I, " one thing is in- deed needful, and M has chosen that good part which shall never be taken away from her." I am thankful also that I have thus early been honored with the opportunity of ministering to the edification and comfort of one, who will, I doubt not, prove an heir of salvation. The reader will readily believe that I did not long delay a second visit to my poor parishioner. Although I was in a great measure satisfied as to her sincerity, and could not reasonably doubt that she was a child of God, I was anxious to ascertain the effect of my first visit, and to administer all the instruction and consolation which could be crowded within the apparently short remnant of her days. It was on the following Sabbath that I again directed my steps to the village. As I approached it, " the sound of the church-going bell " was collecting my little congregation. I could not, therefore, proceed to the cottage, till I had closed the morn- ing service, and dismissed my little flock with that impres- sive and truly pastoral blessing, which it were to be wished might never be repeated without the fervor, or heard without the interest, which it so justly deserves. I then hastened to my sick parishioner. The door was opened to me by her husband, a remarkably fine, healthy-looking young man. " How is your wife," said I, " to-day ?" " Very ill, sir." " Worse than when I saw her on Thursday ?" . " Rather weaker, sir." 'Shall I walk upstairs?" THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. "If you please, sir; she will be very glad to see you." M appeared truly so. " I am sorry to hear that you feel weaker than when I saw you last." "I do, indeed, sir; but it is the will of God, and it is my sincere desire that his will, and not mine, should be done." " Whatever his will may be," said I, " be assured that it is the best." " I know, sir," she replied, " that all things work together for good to them that love God." "Do you think that you are of that happy number ?" " 1 cannot but hope so, sir. God knows that I love him. I am grieved that I have not served him as I ought, and that I cannot love him better ; but I often think, sir, if it should please (Jod to spare my life, and to raise me up again, how careful I will be not to offend him — how I will try to serve and please him." " I trust you would ; but since you have not done this, as you ought, before, why do you think you should do so hereafter ?" " Sir, I know that my heart is very weak and deceitful, and that I cannot do any thing good of myself; but I hope I have learnt much from this illness ; I see the vanity of every thing but religion, and I think that, with God's assistance, 1 should lead a more Christian life." " Have you thought much of what I said to you when J was here before ?" " I have thought of little else, sir." " And do you believe that your repentance for your past sins is quite sincere ?" "I do indeed hope that it is." " Do you feel any real sorrow on account of them, and any inward hatred and dread of sin V 9 " I think I feel, sir, something of that broken and con- trite heart which God will not despise." JL2 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. Perceiving unusual symptoms of uneasiness about her, I asked her if she was in much pain. " O, yes, sir ; but what is my pain to that which my S«viour suffered upon the cross ? He was for many hours upon the rack, and had none to comfort him ; but I have deserved a great deal more than I suffer, and have many mercies." Soon after this, her husband, who had till now been present, left the room, when I took the opportunity of asking M whether he thought and felt in any manner as she did upon religious subjects. She shook her head at this question, and sighed as she answered, " I wish I could say he did, sir ; but I cannot. My husband is a very sober, honest, well-behaved man, but I am sorry to say he knows but little about religion J' " How then," said I, " came you to think of marrying him ?" " Because I was a vain and foolish girl, sir ; but I have been sorely chastised for it. I have known but very little happiness since I married. My husband, though kind and civil, has never liked to join with me in living as Christians should ; and his family are all worldly people ; and living so close to them, I have been greatly tried. I have ear- nestly desired to say, with Joshua, 'As for me, and my house, we will serve the Lord ;' but when I have asked my husband to hear me read the Bible, (for he is no scholar himself,) he would only tell me it was enough to go to church on Sundays. I used to tell my husband that we could not expect the blessing of God upon us, if we did not worship and serve him ; and often when he has been going to lie down at night, without prayer, I have said to him, ' O, John, how can you go to rest without begging God's forgiveness. and protection ? Suppose your soul should this night be required of you ! Do you think you should awake in heaven V Sometimes, when I have spoken thus, sir, I could THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 13 prevail upon him to pray a few words , but at other times, he would bid me hold my tongue and go to sleep. O, sir, I cannot tell you what I have suffered on his account ; and his family are all of the same way of thinking ; but 1 hope you will be able to do them some good. All these things have made them not very kind to me ; but I have much to be forgiven myself, sir, and I freely forgive them. Indeed, weak as I am, I would go down upon my knees to every one of them, if I could do them any good." In the midst of this interesting conversation, we were interrupted by the arrival of two of her sisters, who had come from distant villages to see her. They were consid- erably older than my parishioner, and manifested an affec- tionate concern for her, which highly gratified me. It is one of the disadvantages of poverty, that it is in general apt to chill the current of the social and domestic feelings, and to produce a hardness and insensibility, which increase rather than diminish its other attendant evils. In the pres- ent case I was delighted to observe all the warmth of ten- derness, and liveliness of sympathy, which more frequently distinguish those who are somewhat elevated above the low- est rank of life, called forth into exercise toward the afflicted subject of this narrative. After the first inquiries of these kind relatives were over, I was about to propose that we should unite in prayer, when my parishioner said that she had a particular favor to beg of me. " What is that ?" said I. " You know, sir, Friday is Christmas-day, and I suppose you will administer the Lord's Supper. I have been look- ing forward a long time in the hope that I should be well enough to go to church, and join in that holy communion. The last time, sir, I ever saw Mr. P , he talked to me a good while upon the subject, and gave me a book to read upon it. Though I had always a great desire to receive the Lord's Supper, I have been afraid of taking it unworthily. VOL. II. 14# I 4 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. / am indeed not worthy to pick up the crumbs under my Master's table; but Jesus said, < Except ye eat the flesh and drink the blood of the Son of man, ye have no life in you.'" " True," said I ; " but do you think, that by merely re- ceiving the Lord's Supper, you will have this life ?" " No, sir, I know that I must have a true faith in Christ. " " Yes, you must feed on him, * in your heart, by faith, with thanksgiving. 5 n " That is my sincere desire, sir. God knows how ear- nestly I have longed for an opportunity of going to the Lord's table. You know, sir, Mr. P was taken ill just before the last time it was to be administered in our church, and I have been confined almost ever since ; but now, if you think I am in a fit state to receive the supper, I should feel it to be the greatest blessing and comfort, if you would be so kind as to give it to me on Friday." Upon this, I read to her several passages of Scripture, together with parts of the communion service which partic- ularly mention the qualifications of acceptable communi- cants ; and after conversing some time longer on the sub- ject, and telling her that I should willingly comply with her request on Christmas-day,* I asked who would partake of it with her. " I expect," said M , " that my poor, dear mother will be here, if she can bear the journey ; and she will, I am sure, be glad to join with me." "And will not your husband?" said I, who was now returned to the sick room. * * It will be perceived, that this interesting and excellent Tract is from the pen of a devout Episcopalian ; and in publish- ing it entire, it may perhaps be necessary to say, that the Pub- lishing Committee would not be understood to express any opin- ion in relation to the practice of administering the Lord's Supper in private. THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 15 " O ! how 1 wish he would come and embrace his Sav- iour," answered his wife. " Will you not, John ?" I reminded him that he must soon part with his dear wife ; and that by joining her in the work of religion here, he would enjoy an earnest of a blessed union hereafter. " I am in great trouble," he replied, " and scarcely know how to think of any thing." " But," said I, " you should at least think of religion, for it is God only who can comfort you ; and the illness of your wife is a call to you to turn to him. Jesus also invites you, now that you are in trouble, to come to him for rest." He seemed to feel the truth of what I said ; but partly from ignorance, and partly from that corruption which always opposes the turning of the heart to God, he held back from saying any thing more. How common, and yet how lamentable a case is this? Men neglect and refuse to make God their friend, and when, amidst the various changes of this mortal life, they fall into distress, they know not what to do, or whither to flee for support and comfort. I closed this second visit by praying with this afflicted party assembled in the sick room. M joined in every petition with a degree of animation and fervor which I have seldom seen surpassed, and expressed her gratitude in a manner which left no room to doubt the reality of a Divine work in her heart. On leaving the room, I gave her a copy of " The Dairyman's Daughter," thinking that she might derive both instruction and comfort from a history which exhibits some circumstances very similar to those of her own case. I was, however, agreeably surprised to find that the benevolent physician, whom I had met on my first visit, had been beforehand with me in this present. " I have contrived to read part of that little book, sir," said M , " though not without difficulty. That young woman died of the disorder which I have. She was a true IQ THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. Christian, sir, and I have been much comforted by many things that are related of her. God grant that I may be like her." " I trust, 5 ' said I, " that by the grace of God you will be like her, both living and dying. Fix your faith and love on the same gracious Saviour in whom she trusted, and you will enjoy similar peace and consolation, and the same blessed hope of eternal happiness ! God bless you, M , may he support, sanctify, and comfort you, while you re- main here below, and make you daily better prepared for the heavenly world." " God bless you, sir," was the reply, " for all your kind instructions and prayers. I cannot tell you how much they have comforted me." About two days after my second visit to M , I was told that some one from S , the village in which she lived, wished to see me. As I had desired her to send for some little comforts which her humble circumstances could not afford, I took for granted that this was her messenger ; but, instead of the person whom I expected on this errand, I was surprised to find that it was M 's mother, whom my reader may recollect she told me she was hoping shortly to see. She was a decent looking old woman, with an air of peculiar meekness and gravity, and apparently bending more under the weight of trouble than of years. " Pray rest yourself," said I, as she was attempting to rise. " You must be tired, after your long walk." " A little, sir," was the reply ; " but more distressed by my poor, dear daughter's illness." " How is she to-day V 9 " Very ill, indeed, sir ; she cannot hold out long, I think. 5 " I fear not," said I ; " but do not be too much distressed. Your daughter is, I trust, a real Christian, and preparing for a better world." THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 17 " Ah, sir, I trust she is. She is following her dear sis- ter, who died about two years ago. Thank God, she was ready to go, and no doubt she is in heaven ; and my poor dear M is very like her; but it is a great affliction to lose such good children in my old age." " It is, indeed," I replied ; " and I feel much for you. I have lost children, too, though not grown up; but although it is a heavy trial, the blessed hope of their being happy for ever in heaven is an unspeakable consolation. Now, as far as I am able to judge, I think your daughter is a true be- liever in Jesus Christ, and interested in his salvation." " It is a great comfort to me to hear you say so, sir. Indeed, I do think so myself. She was always inclined tG religion from a child ; but she has attended more to it with- in the last two or three years than ever." " She appears to me," said I, " to be in a very hopeful frame of mind. I cannot look into her heart ; but if she is sincere in her professions, I cannot but think that she is in the way to heaven." " Why, to be sure, sir, as you say, we cannot look into the heart ; but it is of no use to pretend to religion, if we are not sincere in it ; and so I tell M — : — , and indeed I think she is sincere." " Pray, when did you come to see your daughter ?" "Last Sunday, sir, just after you left her. I have been in a great deal of trouble about walking over on the Sab- bath ; but I trust the Lord will forgive me, if I did wrong. I did not hear till then that she was so ill, and put off com- ing to see her as long as possible, for the journey is almost too much for me at my age ; but I was afraid I should hard- ly see her alive,- if I did not set off directly, or be stopped next day by the weather, this winter time ; and all the way I came, my thoughts were taken up with God and heavenly things." " Indeed," said I, much struck with the tenderness of VOL. II. 13 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE, conscience displayed by the poor old woman, " I think this is a case in which God would have * mercy and not sacri- fice. ' You know your Saviour graciously allows us to perform acts of necessity, mercy, and charity, on the Sab- bath ; and I cannot suppose he was offended by your jour- ney to see your poor sick daughter, especially as you seem to have a sincere desire to serve and please him. Pray, have you long thought so seriously upon religion V' " Not so long, sir, as I could wish I had. The former part of my life was too much taken up with the cares of the world, and the labor of bringing up a large family ; but I had much affliction of late years, and it has pleased God to teach me many things concerning his Son Jesus Christ and the salvation of my soul ; and I bless his holy name for giving me the opportunity, in my old age, of attending to these things." The good old woman had now rested herself after the fatigue of her walk, and, after a little farther refreshment, prepared to return to her daughter's cottage. I could not help regarding her with a peculiar pleasure. Truly, " the hoary head is a crown of glory if it be found in the way of righteousness." On the Friday following the preceding conversation with M 's mother, being Christmas-day, I repaired to my vil- lage church to celebrate that truly joyful festival ; and to unite with it the commemoration of the death of that gra- cious Saviour, at the recollection of whose birth we had previously rejoiced. Although the morning was unusually cold, the beams of the winter's sun were bright and cheer- ing, and seemed to hail the return of that hallowed season, in which, with so much propriety, we are invited to express our gratitude for the dawning of that " Day-spring from on high,"' which can alone " guide our feet into the way of peace." My little flock assembled in the house of God : THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 19 and while our thanksgivings and prayers ascended, I trust with acceptance, before the throne of grace, the hearts of some at least among us were, I hope, warmed by our medi- tations on the angelic anthem which so clearly and beauti- fully describes the blessed effects of the Saviour's birth : " Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." The table of the Lord's Supper was next approached, where, in unison with multitudes of our brethren throughout the world, we again joined in that ex- alted hymn ; and together with our praises for the finished work of redemption, offered up our supplication to Him that sitteth " at the right hand of God the Father," to " have mercy upon us," and to " receive our prayers." The de- lightful service of the sanctuary being thus ended, I pro- ceeded to the cottage of my poor, sick friend ; and, as it was very near the church, the clerk followed with the sacred provisions of which we had just partaken at the public com- munion. I found M anxiously expecting us. Her little cham- ber had been made as neat as possible for the occasion ; and in one corner of it a napkin was spread on a table, at which we were to commemorate the last supper of our Lord. There is something peculiarly solemn and affecting in every celebration of this holy institution ; but the interest of the service has always appeared to me to be greatly heightened, when administered to the sick and dying Christian. Much as these sacred mysteries have been abused by superstition, and vainly relied on by ignorance and self- righteousness, there does seem to me to be an eminent propriety in exhibit- ing to the departing believer, "Jesus Christ, and him cruci- fied," in the evident and significant symbols of the Lord's Supper. The weakness of nature, oppressed by mortal disease and pain, then especially requires the assistance of these outward memorials; and although the appetite for " the bread which perisheth," may now be nearly extinct ; 20 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. yet the desire for that " which came down from heaven," and " endureth unto everlasting life," which " the Son of man giveth," may perhaps be more than ever lively ahd sincere. The Christian, therefore, entering on the last stage of his earthly pilgrimage, is generally and justly anxious to be supplied with that sacred provision, which is to cheer his fainting spirits, and to support his weary steps in the dark valley of the shadow of death. With this blessed table spread before him, and with the presence and guidance of the great Master of the feast, he fears no evil ; his rod and his staff, they comfort him. It was under these impressions that I met and found my poor parishioner. To my inquiries as to her bodily health, she replied that she felt herself rapidly declining ; but that she was much more peaceful and happy in her mind th*an she had ever been before. " I have been longing, sir, for this day to come ; for I can truly say with my Saviour himself, ' With desire have I desired to eat this passover before I suffer.' " " I rejoice to hear you say so," said I ; " and now let us pray that Christ may be present with us, by his Spirit, to bless us." " I have been praying for this, sir, before you came, and I do hope and believe that he will be with us, for I come to him as a poor perishing sinner, and put my whole trust in him for pardon and salvation. I have been thinking this morning of his love in coming down from heaven to save us ; and how much he suffered, that we might not perish, but have everlasting life ; and now I rejoice in this oppor- tunity of receiving the memorials of his broken body and his shed blood. Ah, sir, you see my poor husband does not take it with me ; but I earnestly hope that when I am gone, God will give him grace to become a true Christian." We now prepared for our affecting service. M , her poor aged mother, myself, and my clerk, were alone THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 21 present. M desired to be lifted up in the bed, that she might join in the communion with as much solemnity and attention as her extreme weakness would allow. She was accordingly supported as well as circumstances admit- ted ; and emaciated as she was, the delusive color in her cheeks, and the brilliancy of her eyes, animated partly by the fatal fire of disease, and partly by the more serene fervor of devotion, rendered her an interesting object of contem- plation. We began our supplications to him who corrects those whom he loves, and chastises every one whom he receives, that he would have mercy upon her who was now visited by his hand, grant that she might take her sickness patiently, and recover her bodily health, (if such were his gracious will,) and that whensoever her soul should depart from the body, it might be without spot presented unto Him, through Jesus Christ our Lord. We read the consoling admonition of the apostle, in the twelfth chapter of the epis- tle to the Hebrews, and the encouraging and inestimable declaration of our Saviour, in the fifth chapter of St. John's gospel : " Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlast- ing life, and shall not come into condemnation ; but is passed from death unto life." I shall not soon forget the devout and animated look of gratitude which, with clasped hands, M directed towards heaven, while I pronounced these delightful words. I must not, however, detain the reader, by detailing every step in the progress of this interesting service ; suffice it to say, that my poor friend joined with the most marked and lively devotion in every part of it, in the humbling confession of sin, in the gracious declarations und promises of forgiveness through faith in the atoning blood of our Redeemer, and in the glowing ascriptions of praise to Almighty God " for his unspeakable gift." The solemn and heartfelt tone in which she confirmed her hope of eternal salvation, through the sacrifice of Christ upon the Eleg. N*r. 15 22 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. cross, as she received the visible emblems of his body and blood, and the tokens of his dying love, was peculiarly im- pressive ; and satisfied me that she was indeed " feeding on Him in her heart, by faith, with thanksgiving." Nor was the deportment of her aged mother less striking and edify- ng. There was in her a mingled air of grief, submission, and devout thankfulness, which encouraged the best hopes of her real piety, and greatly added to the solemnity and interest of this affecting scene. For myself, while my heart was lifted up to Him whose death we had been commemo- rating, in gratitude and praise for his exceeding great love in thus dying for us, and in instituting this holy supper, and in prayer for the sanctified improvement of our late participa- tion in them, I could truly say, " Lord, it is good for me to be here." So thought my dying parishioner also ; for, as I was preparing to take my leave of her, she suddenly observed, " O, this is more than I ever felt before." Fearing that her exertion in sitting up, during the ad- ministration of the ordinance, had produced some additional uneasiness, I said to her, " Is it pain that you feel ?" " Oh, no, sir ; comfort, happiness, such as I never before experienced. My Saviour is indeed with me. He is mine, and I am his. I cannot doubt that he will forgive and save me. He knows that I love him above all things, and desire to be with him ; but I am willing to wait, and to suffer what- ever he pleases to put upon me ; and when the holy will of God is done, I hope to dwell with him for ever in heaven. [ am truly thankful, sir, for this blessed ordinance, and have now but little more to do or wish for as to this world ; but I hope you will come and see me as long as I remain here — . that will be a great comfort to me. Do not grieve, my dear mother," (perceiving her venerable parent in tears,) " it is the will of God, you know, that my journey should be so 6hort ; but blessed be his holy name, I feel that I am in the THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 23 way to heaven, and there, I hope, you will shortly meet me. When Mr. N preached poor Mr. P 5 s funeral ser- mon, sir," addressing herself to me, " he told us that he was gone to see the King of glory ; and I trust I am going to see him also." " I trust you are," said I, " and rejoice to find that you are able to look forward with so delightful a hope. We have prayed for this ; and now I only hope and pray, that God will continue to be with you ; that he will sanctify you in body, soul, and spirit, and preserve you to his heavenly kingdom." Under the influence of these feelings, I left the cottage of my poor, sick friend, and returned home with an in- creased conviction of the infinite value of the Gospel, and still more firmly persuaded, by all that I had just seen and felt, that it is the grand remedy for all the evils under which mankind labor ; that it can give peace to the troubled conscience, pardon to the guilty, rest to the weary, comfort to the afflicted, health to the sick, and even life to the dead ; that it is, in short, what the apostle well describes it, "the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth." But I must begin to draw towards the close of my vil- lage narrative. Two days after that on which I made the visit last described, I again saw M . During this short interval her disease had made a rapid progress, and I plainly perceived that it would soon remove her from a world of pain and sorrow. Although considerably weaker, and suf- fering more acutely than before, she expressed the same humble, yet joyful hope of acceptance through her Re- deemer, and her earnest desire "to depart and be with Christ." " But I cannot help thinking, sir," said she, " that I must suffer more yet, before I can be fit for heaven." " You do not suppose," I replied, fearing at the moment 24 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. that she might be imagining her suffering to be in some manner meritorious, " that the pain which you endure can purchase heaven, or in itself prove profitable to you ?" " Oh no, sir ; God forbid that I should trust in any thing for salvation but the merits of my Saviour. I only meant, that as I was a very sinful creature, and deserved to be afflicted, and had found the benefit of pain and suffering, in weaning me from a vain and worldly life, I should probably have to go through more than I have yet suffered ; but per- haps I do not express myself as I ought. " " There is truth," said I, " in what you say. You know the Scripture says, that Christ was made perfect through suffering ; and we may be well contented to be like him, if we may dwell with him for ever in glory. Every member of Christ is in a measure conformed or made like to him in suffering ; but his alone was meritorious — ours is intended to humble and purify us, and God knows best how much, and what kind of suffering is most suited to sanctify us. He will not lay upon you more than is good for you, or more than he will enable you to bear. Resign yourself to him, and be assured that he will support you in every trial, and make you more than conqueror, through him who hath loved us." " 1 trust he will, and do not doubt his goodness, though I am so sinful and unworthy a creature." After a short pause, M continued, " I am glad to see and hear you again, sir, for my poor mother was obliged to leave me yes- terday, and the neighbors who are kind enough to come and see me, talk almost entirely about worldly things ; and I tell them I have done with the world, and only wish to think and speak of what concerns the salvation of my soul. In- deed, I have but one thing which gives me much anxiety ; and that is about my poor, dear babe. I used to think how happy I should be when I had him ; but I have never had health to enjoy him, and now I must very soon be parted THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. ' 25 from him for ever as to this world ! Poor, dear little fellow, I can resign him cheerfully sometimes, when he is away from me ; but as soon as I see him, it goes to my very heart." " I do not doubt it," replied I. " It is, indeed, a painful task for you to leave him so young, in a world like this, but 'his father and grandmother will no doubt be kind to him, and take all the care of him in their power, and he shall not want a friend. Entrust him in the hands of your heavenly Father. He will take him up, though every other friend should forsake him, and will not suffer him to want. ' I have been young, 5 said the Psalmist, ! and now T am old ; yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.' Hope in God, that as he has blessed you, so he will also bless your offspring." " This is my earnest prayer, sir ; and I hope God will enable me to commit myself, my child, and my husband, into his hands, to do as it seemeth good in his sight." My poor friend was so much exhausted by her exertion during this conversation, although it was comparatively a short one, that I was obliged to close my visit more quickly than usual, which I did by reading a few passages of Scrip- ture suited to her state, and commending her in prayer to the mercy and grace of God our Saviour. As I was leav- ing the room, she repeated her earnest request, that I would remember her in my prayers, and that I would visit her during the short remainder of her earthly pilgrimage ; add- ing, with a sort of prophetic feeling, that if she should not live to see me again, she trusted that, through tho merits of that blessed Redeemer in whom we believed, .we should meet in heaven. See her, indeed, again, I did ; but I regret to say, that it was only during the state of extreme weak- ness and insensibility into which she suddenly fell a few days after my last interview with her. I was prevented by a heavy fall of snow from repeating my visit till the follow- 15* 26 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. ing Sabbath ; when, on reaching the cottage, I learned, to my disappointment and sorrow, that her powers both of mind and body were nearly exhausted, and that she was wholly unconscious of what passed around her. On entering her room, I found that it was indeed so ; and in contemplating the dacay of the outward form, I could only rejoice that I had witnessed the renewal of " the inward man " day by* day ; that although the " earthly house of her tabernacle " was nearly dissolved, there was such solid ground for be- lieving that she would shortly inhabit " a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." The mother of M not having been able, from the fatigue of her former journey, to return to her, I could col- lect but little from those who attended her, of the frame of her mind during. the short interval of sensibility which fol- lowed my preceding visit. The little, however, which, I did gather, was pleasing and satisfactory. I found that, being aware of her approaching end, she called for her husband and other relatives who were near, and took a solemn and afFectionate farewell of them, declaring, in humble yet forci- ble terms, her reconciliation with God, and her hope of sal- vation through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and earnestly exhorting and beseeching them to flee for refuge to the same gracious and all-sufficient Saviour. She then desired to see her little boy, and commended him to the protection and blessing of Almighty God, charging her husband to bring him up in " the nurture and admonition of the Lord ;" and having again urged them to attend to the things which belong to their peace, while the day of life lasted, she said that she had nothing farther to do in this world, but humbly to wait tor the time of her departure ; adding, that she prayed to be entirely patient and resigned, and hoped that I should see her once more to assist her in preparing for her last trying conflict. This, however, I was prevented by her uncon- scious state from doing, otherwise than by my prayers in THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. 27 her behalf. After I left her, she revived only for a few minutes, during which she faintly but delightfully repeated her faith and hope of salvation ; and soon afterwards slept peacefully in the Lord ; leaving on the minds of those who witnessed her departure, a lively impression of her extraor- dinary piety and heavenly happiness. The funeral of my poor parishioner took place on the following Sabbath. The journey was too great to allow of her aged parent being present ; but it was attended by a crowd of relatives, who testified, by their grief and regret, the affection with which they loved her, and the sincerity with which they mourned her loss. A village funeral is always solemn and affecting. The absence of that ostenta- tious and misplaced pomp, which accompanies the interment of the great, tends at once to soften and impress the mind ; and where, as in the present instance, a well-grounded hope can be entertained of the happiness of the departed, the con- trast between the consignment of the poor remains to the lowly grave, and the recollection of the heavenly glory to which the emancipated spirit has been exalted, is productive of feelings and reflections of the most touching, yet animat- ing nature. I endeavored to improve this solemn and in- structive occasion, from the pulpit ; and trust, that our meditations on the frailty of man, and the inestimable value of that word of the Lord which endureth for ever, and which, by the Gospel, is preached unto us, were not altogether in yain. 1 might detain the reader yet longer by adding some of .he reflections which this subject has suggested to me. But I will only repeat that the preceding memorial affords an- other testimony to the inestimable value of the Gospel, which thus evidently triumphed over poverty, disease, and death itself; and proved the source of pardon, peace, holiness, hope, and joy, to one who possessed but little of this world's goods, and who, but. for this heavenly treasure, would have gg THE COTTAGER'S WIFE. been poor indeed ! The example, too, of this interesting young woman, is not only an additional evidence of the capability of those who are in the lowest ranks of life, to understand and receive the great doctrines of the Gospel, but of the nature and efficacy of Divine teaching. My departed parishioner was but little acquainted with human forms and professions of religion. She was taught and drawn of God, and received, with the simplicity of faith and love, that ingrafted word which was able to save her soul. While, therefore, I would particularly hold out the ex- ample of her piety, as an encouragement to my clerical brethren to persevere in their parochial labors, and to hope for similar proofs of the power and reality of religion among the poor of their flocks, let us, whether rich or poor, whether old or young, diligently inquire as to the nature of our own knowledge, faith, and practice. Let us examine the foun- dation upon which we are building our hopes of salvation, remembering that the hour cannot be far distant which will try its stability to the utmost. 1 know not that I can express a better wish, than that we may all possess the deep humility, firm faith, animated hope, and heavenly temper, which I beheld, and have thus imperfectly described, in " the Cot tager's Wife;" who, to adopt Cowper's beautiful lines, " Just knew, and knew no more, her Bible true — A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; And in that Charter read, with sparkling eyes, Her title to a treasure in the skies. Oh, blessed effect of penury and want, The seed sown there, how vigorous the plant ! The light they walk by, kindled from above, Shows them the shortest way to life and love. They, strangers to the controversial field, Where Deists, always foiled, yet scorn to yield. And never checked by what impedes the wise, Believe , rush forward, and possess the prize" NARRATIVE VIII WILLIAM KELLY; OR, THE HAPPY CHRISTIAN. BY REV. HUGH STOWELL, OP THE ISLE OF MAN. — !h ;V-,; i ^ ... : .' William Kelly was born at Douglas, in the Isle of Man, in the year 1731. He was descended from poor but honest parents, who resided in the parish of Kirk Bradden, on the south side of the island. At the parochial school he received so much learning as to be able to read the holy Scriptures. His mother took some pains with his religious education, and gave him the best instructions in her power. Her labor was not altogether in vain; for he took great pleasure, at a very early period of life, in attending public worship. At a proper age he was put apprentice to a tailor ; 2 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY and, having finished his apprenticeship, he travelled through several parts of England for improvement in his trade. On his return to his native place, he discovered strong marks' of growing vanity ; and both his dress and behavior betrayed uncommon levity of mind and pride of heart. He now frequented the company of idle and dissolute young men, and soon learned their vices and imitated their manners. To supply his expenses, which began to exceed the gains uf his trade, he commenced fisherman, and soon distinguished himself by his diligence and activity on board the herring- boat, ani still more by his clamor and noise at the public- house. He proceeded from one degree of intemperance to another, till at last he became an habitual drunkard. Before he arrived at this " excess of riot," he had many sti aggies with himself, and felt the horrors of an accusing conscience, and the shame of a degraded man. Of this part of his life he never spoke, after his conversion, but with bitter remorse, and the liveliest acknowledgments of the goodness of God in not cutting him off while he was running so desperate a course. After forming repeated plans of reformation ; after resolving, and re-resolving, to quit the haunts of drunkenness ; he still continued a slave to his appetite, and a dupe to his vile companions. His extravagance at length arose to such a height, that his credit was totally gone. One day, being unable to satisfy the demand on him at the public-house, the land- lady seized his hat as security for the payment of the debt, and he was obliged to hurry home bare-headed, grieved, ashamed, and mortified. This circumstance had a power- ful effect on his mind. He began, in earnest, to consider his ways as a sinner against God ; like the Prodigal Son, " he came to himself," repenting of his sins, and earnestly desiring to forsake them ; but having experienced the in- LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. 3 sufficiency of his former resolutions, which were made in his own strength, and being fully convinced that " all holy desires, all good counsels, and all just works," proceed from God, he prostrated himself before the throne of grace ; he earnestly sought help from above ; with a " broken and contrite heart " he applied to Jesus, the Saviour of sinners; and, with an entire reliance on the merits, and an absolute dependence on the grace of this compassionate Saviour, he solemnly and deliberately determined to " break off his sins," and enter on a new life. This resolution, formed in the divine strength, he was enabled, by the blessed Spirit who suggested it, inviolably to keep ; and from that period, which was about the thirti- eth year of his life, to the end of his days, a term of more than forty years, he never tasted beer, ale, or any spiritu- ous liquor. His first step after his conversion, was to abandon his former dissolute companions. Though frequently and im- portunately solicited to accompany them, as usual, to their riotous meetings, he could never once be .prevailed on to violate the solemn resolution which he had formed. He " now applied himself diligently to the labors of his trade, and was soon enabled to discharge the debts which he had con- tracted by his former extravagance. Often did he mention the seizure and releasing of his hat, and his grateful ac- knowledgments to the merciless landlady, whom he always regarded, under Providence, as highly instrumental in his conversion. The change which was wrought by divine grace in his views and sentiments, produced a corresponding change in his life and conversation. He became a new man; his manners, his habits, his pleasures, and his employments, were changed. The hours which he formerly spent in the 4 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. public-house, were now spent in retirement. He was fre quent and earnest in secret prayer. Often did the rising sun behold him on his knees ; and often was the silence of the night broken by his fervent supplications. While his hands were engaged, during the hours of the day, in honest labor, his heart was ascending to heaven in prayer ana praise. Many a solitary hour did he beguile with " psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs." He applied himself with earnestness and constancy to the reading of the Holy Scriptures. This was his favorite employment and recreation. He committed large portions of Scripture to memory, particularly the preceptive and practical parts. These formed the continual subject of his thoughts. They were inscribed on the tablets of his mem- ory, and wrought into the very frame of his mind ; so that they were present to his view at all times and in all places, like a guardian angel, continually whispering to him, " This is the way, walk ye in it." Isaiah 30 : 21. He also found great profit and delight in reading books of practical rejigion, which he borrowed from all his relig- ious acquaintance who were in possession of any treasure of this kind. As a compensation for the perusal of the book, and a mark of his esteem for its contents, he was in the habit of mending and repairing every leaf and back which stood in need of repair; and poor as he was, he sometimes gave a coat to bishop Beveridge, and another to bishop Taylor. His familiar acquaintance with several of our best divines, had contributed much to give him just and correct views of religion. Horneck and Beveridge were his favorite authors. With the writings of the latter, par- ticularly his " Resolutions," he was so well acquainted, that upon hearing him quote the sentiments of this excellent writer, one might imagine he had long been in habits of in LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. 5 timacy with the bishop, or at least had lived in his family for many years. He applied himself with extraordinary diligence to the study of the Manks language ; and his proficiency was so great that he was employed as a teacher by several per- sons who wished to obtain a knowledge of it. In this ca- pacity the writer of this narrative first became acquainted with him ; and with gratitude he acknowledges the many Scriptural lessons which he has received from him, the many pleasing and profitable hours which he has spent in his society, and the lively impression which the example of this venerable man has left on his mind, of the power of Divine grace to make the profligate pious, the unlearned wise, and the poor happy. Several of the clergy of this island have similar obligations to their Manks tutor, and retain a peculiar respect and regard for his*memory. His manners were so gentle, his conversation so cheer- ful, and his whole behavior so mild and courteous, that his company was highly grateful to all who had the least savor of piety in themselves ; and even those whose spirit and temper were most contrary to his own, were constrained to acknowledge that his conduct discovered how earnestly he pursued " whatsoever things are lovely and of good report." During the latter years of his life, he was subject to rheu- matic pains, and a complaint in his back, which disabled him from following his trade, except at short intervals. The small earnings of his former days, on which he was now compelled to draw, afforded but a scanty subsistence. On this trifling pittance, however, he lived contentedly, thankfully, and cheerfully. So far was he from murmuring or repining, that he was continually uttering the language of praise and thanksgiving to the God of his mercies. He kept the bright side of every Eleg. Nar. 16 q LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. thing in view. When others were complaining of the times, of the weather, or the crops, he would still find out some reasons for thankfulness in those very subjects of complaint; and would remark, in his favorite phrase, that " All is from Himself" — meaning from the Giver of all good. A grate- ful cheerfulness was the prevailing temper of his mind ; he had a constant regard to that passage of Scripture, " Giving thanks always for all things;" and on every occasion he supported the character of a truly happy Christian, To an intimate friend he once gave the following ac- count of his domestic economy and his daily expenses. His general diet, he said, was bread and water. * Occasionally he bought a pennyworth of milk, which he considered as a great luxury ; and sometimes he indulged himself with a herring, which his hostess dressed for him ; but he seldom or never could ^o to the expense of butchers' meat. For the garret in which he lived he paid five shillings yearly. He made it an invariable rule never to get any article with- out paying for it, in conformity to the precept of Scripture, " Owe no man any thing, but to love one another." In this manner did he pass several years of his life, during which it may, with the strictest truth, be asserted, that his whole expense did not amount to five pounds in the year. As he approached nearer his end, he walked silently and thoughtfully along the shore of eternity, and became still more spiritual and heavenly in his conversation. For nearly the two last years of his life, when his little funds began to be exhausted, and he was utterly unable to recruit them, it pleased that good Providence, who never leaves nor forsakes those who trust in Him, to open a door of relief for his faithful servant. The exemplary piety of this happy Christian introduced him to the acquaintance of a lady who had been long confined by a painful disease, which termi- LIFE OF W£l JJAM KELLY. 7 nated in her death. During her tedious confinement, she found peculiar consolation from the visits of this Christian friend, and often spoke of the benefit which she derived from his scriptural and edifying discourse. Her friendship procured him many temporal comforts, which he always regarded as coming immediately from God, and for which he abounded in thanksgiving. About this time, when his wants were probably very pressing, though he was never heard to utter a complaint, one of his young friends, who had long regarded him with peculiar esteem and affection, obtained for him a monthly subscription of sixteen shillings ; and on enquiring whether this would be a sufficient supply, the old man with gratitude beaming from his eye, declared that he did not know what he should do with so much money. The event proved that this was, indeed, too large a sum for him to expend on him- self; for, as the friend who procured it afterwards discov- ered, he made it serve three other families. In his visits, also, to sick and indigent persons, he was in the habit of imparting such pecuniary relief as, considering his ability, appears almost incredible. His little library formed the principal part of his prop, erty ; this consisted of the Bible in Manks and English, bishop Wilson's Exposition of the Catechism, The Christian Monitor, The Minister's Advice to his - Parishioners, Evans' Meditations, and Orton's Sermons on Eternity, which was one of his favorite books. He had formerly possessed " Bishop Kidder's Advice to Young Men," but some person had stolen it from him ; and he ever after lamented the loss of that book as one of the heaviest calamities of life. The few books in his collection he had read and read again, but especially the Scriptures, which were his constant nourishment, his comfort under every affliction, the contin- 3 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. ual subject of his meditations, the favorite theme of his discourse, his companion in solitude, and his counsellor in all difficulties. His acquaintance with the Bible was very remarkable. The historical parts of both the Old and New Testament were so familiar to him, that, in recounting any fact from either, he seldom omitted a single circumstance ; and, in general, related every incident in the very language of Scripture. The Psalms were his peculiar delight ; he had many of them in his memory, and was in the habit both of repeating and singing several passages which he had selected, with great judgment, from the version by Tate and Brady. These, and some of Dr. Watts' Hymns, as also Bishop Kenn's Morning and Evening Hymn, furnished him with abundant matter for the exercise of his talents in Psalmody, for which he was particularly distinguished. His knowledge of the New Testament was still more extraordinary. The parables, exhortations, and admonitions of our blessed Saviour, and the practical and preceptive parts of the epistles, were all treasured up in his memory, and he would repeat them among his religious friends, with perfect accuracy, and in their proper connection. What- ever was the subject of conversation, it reminded him of some apposite passage of Scripture, of some fact, or parable, or precept, which he was sure to introduce. He abounded much in religious anecdote, and seldom conversed, for any length of- time, without bringing forward some favorite pas- sage from " the great Authors," as he termed them, which he had read. It may be interesting and instructive to the reader to be presented with a few specimens of his religious conversa- tion. 1. Being one day in company where some persons, ap- LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. 9 parently religious, were speaking with much severity on the faults of an absent neighbor, this genuine Christian, after betraying strong symptoms of uneasiness, at length broke out in these words : " Come, come, my friends, if we can say nothing good of him, let us say nothing at all. Shall I tell you what bishop Beveridge says ? ' I resolve/ says he, ' never to speak of a man's virtues to his face, nor of his vices behind his back.' And what saith the apostle ? i Who maketh thee to differ from another?' " 1 Cor. 4 : 7. 2. Speaking of the danger of what Some call little sins, he used to say, " A small penknife will take away life as well as a large sword." 3. " Supposing," he would say, " that some very rich man were to leave me a large estate ; before I had walked round the boundaries and taken the number of the fields, I might be called away. What good, then, would the estate do me ? Let me take care to secure the inheritance incor- ruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." 4. He often dwelt ort this passage of Scripture, "I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue," Psalm 39 : 1 ; and frequently repeated those passages in the epistle of St. James, chapter 3, which relate to the govern- ment of the tongue ; and he would enforce his admonitions by the story of the man who sent his servant to the market, to bring him the best article which he could find there, and the servant returned with a tongue ; being sent* a second time for the worst article in the market, he again brought back a tongue. " I hear many," he would sometimes say, " complain of their having bad teeth, but I have never heard any one complain of his having a bad tongue. I don't read, however, in Scripture, of any threatenings against bad teeth; but I find dreadful judgments denounced against a bad tongue." 16* |0 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. 5. When a child has been running towards him, he would say, " My Saviour tells me I must become like this little child, before I can enter into the kingdom of heaven ; as free from hatred, and malice, and pride, and guile, as this little child." 6. He was very earnest and affectionate in his exhorta- tions to his young friends, and used often to repeat to them that passage in the 119th Psalm : How shall the young preserve their ways From all pollution free ? By making still their course of life With thy commands agree. And he would conclude by saying, " Remember the word all." 7. He used to speak with peculiar earnestness of the dreadful consequences of drunkenness, and the unreasona- bleness and vileness of such brutal indulgences. One of his remarks on this subject is worth preserving : " The horse, when brought to the water, will satisfy his thirst ; but, after that is done, no power of man can prevail on him to take another drop : while his rider will drink, and drink, after his thirst is quenched, till he becomes more senseless than ' the beasts that perish.' What return shall I make to the Father of mercies, and the tender lover of souls, for sparing me, and leading me, by his grace, to see the error of my ways ?" 8. To show the necessity of an entire change of heart, he often mentioned a saying of bishop Taylor's : " If there be a crack in a bell, there is no possible way of repairing it; it must be cast anew" 9. Another saying of bishop Taylor's he frequently re- peated, with strong marks of approbation : " Though I could commit sin so secretly that no person living should ever LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. H hear of it, and though I were sure that God would never punish me for it, yet would I not commit sin, for the very filthiness of sin." 10. Often would he say, that it was the fault of hearers that sermons are heard with so little profit. " I never in my life," said he, " heard a bad sermon : all the preachers 1 have heard, warn me to flee from sin ; and were all hearers to say to themselves, on entering the courts of the Lord's house, ' Take heed how ye hear,' they would not fail of profiting by every sermon which they hear." 11. "We must put on the whole armor of God," he would say, " if we would come off conquerors. I read of king Ahab being smitten between the joints of the harness." 12. " Soul-work" he would frequently say, " is the most important of all work ; and it ought never to be done care- lessly or negligently. Let me remember, while I live, the story of the poor man who spent the greatest part of his time in holy reading, meditation, and prayer ; and who, being asked by his friends why he spent so many hours in that manner, lifted up his hands and eyes to heaven and said, ' For ever, for ever, for ever.' " It would be easy to produce many similar religious remarks which fell from the lips of this excellent man ; but these may suffice to discover the wisdom which is imparted by Divine grace. There was nothing in the life of this happy Christian more remarkable than his entire abstraction from the cares and concerns of the world. Having no wife or family to provide for, and his own wants being so few and so easily satisfied; his mind was wholly occupied by spiritual and eternal things. He " lived by faith," and had literally his "conversation in heaven." He was seen to glide silently 12 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. through the streets and alleys of the town like an inhabitant of another world. The noise and the bustle around him did not interest him in the least. His -thoughts and affections were fixed "on things above." He had but one great con- cern, one grand end in view — "to glorify God, who had called him unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus." " To a person who was remarking that coals had grown extremely dear, he replied, "Coals, sir, are as cheap to me now, as they were forty years ago." This was in reality the case, for no fire had ever warmed his little apartment, which, indeed, was furnished with neither grate nor chim- ney ; yet of this apartment he often spoke with seeming rapture. He had found out a variety of attractions in it, which no eye but his could discern. He spoke with par- ticular pleasure of the little skylight which admitted the first rays of the rising sun into his room, and the mild beams of the moon which he used to describe as gilding the cover- let of his bed, and beautifying every object around him. If the walls of this garret could speak, what a report would they bear of the pious exercises, the earnest prayers, and devout aspirations of its solitary inhabitant ! • It was his custom to assemble the people of the house in which he lived, for the purposes of praise and prayer, every evening, before they retired to rest. The writer of this narrative was once present at these family exercises, and was highly delighted with his manner of conducting them. A few neighbors had joined the little assembly. With great spirit and energy the old man began with repeating several practical passages of Scripture, on which he grounded a short and affectionate exhortation ; he then raised a psalm, in which all the little company heartily joined ; and he concluded with bishop Wilson's excellent form of Family Prayer. The fervent and earnest manner in which he per- LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. ig formed these domestic duties was exceedingly impressive, and strongly marked the devout state of his mind. The same spirit of devotion shone forth when he joined in the public service of the church, on which he was a regular and constant attendant. The delight which he took in the church service was very remarkable. To him the liturgy was always new, always interesting ; he joined in every petition, with unabating fervor ; and his earnest man- ner of making the responses, and his hearty zeal in singing the praises of God, had a remarkable effect on the whole congregation. This was particularly visible at the Manks service, which was set up in the town of Douglas in the year 1794, for the accommodation of the poor ; and at which he offered to officiate gratuitously as clerk. The devout and animated manner in which he discharged this office, will long be remembered by those who attended that delightful service. The doors of the church were seldom, if ever, open, either on the Lord's day or on week days, but he was found to make one of the congregation. He often blessed God that, for nearly twenty years of his life, he had never been prevented, for one Sabbath, from attending the house of the Lord. This he considered as an inestimable privilege. He was entirely free from all bigotry and party spirit. He was a truly scriptural Christian. He loved and revered the Divine image wherever he beheld it ; and one of his favor- ite sentiments was, that true Christians are of the same spirit and temper wherever they are found. A few weeks before his death, a friend made him a present of a few of the Tracts published by " The Religious Tract Society." These he regarded as a rich treasure ; and was in haste to circulate them among his aquaintances. A short character of this inestimable man appeared some 14 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. time ago in " The Manks Advertiser," which it may not be improper to introduce here : " Much is it to be lamented, that examples of Christian piety are so rarely seen. They are, however, more numer- ous than careless observers imagine. In the quiet scenes of domestic life, in poverty, in sickness and affliction, real piety often passes her days, unnoticed and unobserved. A few select friends, or a narrow circle of acquaintance, mark, admire, and love these * partakers of the Divine nature;' but to a busy, bustling, noisy world, they are utterly un- known. With one of these retired monuments of piety the writer of these lines has the happiness of being personally and intimately acquainted. " Though the lot of this Christian of the primitive school has fallen in almost the lowest class of society ; though his privations are many, and his temporal enjoy- ments few ; though the coarsest viands furnish his daily repast, and a neighboring spring supplies his constant bev- erage ; though his mean apartment contains no more than the furniture of the prophet's chamber, ' a bed, a table, a stool, and a candlestick,' yet is he perpetually cheerful, thankful, and happy. He views the bright side of every object, and traces the goodness of the Creator wherever he directs his view. " His piety renders him a most interesting companion ; his familiar acquaintance with the oracles of Truth has furnished his mind with the most sublime sentiments, such as Socrates would have listened to with silent admiration, and Plato have heard with rapturous joy. His continual converse is with prophets, apostles, and martyrs, who have taught him to think well, to speak well, to do well. He may justly be styled a practical Christian, as all his readings, meditations, and prayers, have an immediate and direct LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. 15 influence on his life and conversation. He sees the shadows of the evening drawing on, ' with hopes full of immortality ;' and his silver locks remind him to pass his remaining days as a pilgrim, with his staff in his hand, ready to depart. " f For these many years/ to use his own language, ' he has not promised himself a to-morrow,' but closes his eyes, every night, unsolicitous whether he awake in this world or another. Under the homely garb and obscure appearance of this lowly Christian, the reflecting mind traces the future angel ; and through the surrounding cloud of indigence and infirmity, perceives a ray of the Divinity shine forth. The period is not very distant, when princes and emperors may envy this pious inhabitant of a garret." No wonder that the end of such a life of solid piety, resulting from faith in Christ Jesus, should be peace and firm reliance on him for salvation. A short time before his departure, the writer of these pages visited him for the last time, and found him patiently waiting for his change. At parting, a hope being expressed, that, if they met no more in this world, they should meet in a better ; " O yes," said he, with the confidence of one who knew in whom he be- lieved, "we shall meet in heaven." In this composed and happy frame of mind he continued till the hour of his dis- solution arrived. On Friday, 27th May, 1808, he entered into rest, in the 78th year of his age. His funeral was attended by a great concourse of people of all ranks. At the grave, a poor woman was observed to weep bitterly ; -being asked the reason of her grief, she said, that she had for some time past received a weekly pen- sion from the deceased, and that by his death she had lost one of the best and kindest of friends. The gentleman and the beggar, the stranger and the native, seemed to vie with 10 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. each other in paying the last tribute of respect to the mem- ory of this real Christian. To a numerous congregation a sermon was delivered from Rev. 10 : 5, 6, in which the fol- lowing character of the deceased was given. " A personal and intimate acquaintance with our de- parted friend, for several years, enables me to speak of his religious attainments with much confidence. A more emi- nent example of constant and uniform piety has seldom appeared. His religion, flowing from a heart renewed by Divine grace, was lively and practical ; not confined to the closet, nor the church, but regulating his thoughts, and words, and actions, through every hour of the day, so that it might with the strictest truth be said of him, that he was * in the fear of the Lord all the day long.' Long before the sons of business or of pleasure awoke from their repose, this vigilant servant of the Lord was employed in his room, or in his solitary walks, in the delightful exercises of prayer and praise. His earnest and marked devotion in our solemn assemblies was truly animating and edifying to all around him ; proving that he was ■ fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.' " It was not in the house of prayer alone that the power of Divine grace shone forth in the piety of our departed brother ; but it appeared at all times and in all places. When silent, his very looks proclaimed the devout exercises of his mind ; and when he spoke, his tongue declared that his heart was fixed on ' things above.' His conversation was always cheerful, edifying, and scriptural. So richly did ' the word of Christ dwell in him,' that he seldom used any other language than that of inspiration. To hear him converse, was almost like searching the Scriptures. Some passage from the sacred volume was the constant theme of his discourse ; and particularly those passages which LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. yj speak of the mercy and goodness of God, and the wonders of redeeming love. In this marked religious deportment there was not the least affectation of sanctity, but heart, and tongue, and life conspired to testify that all was genuine and sincere. His conduct in private corresponded with his conduct in public ; and his behavior towards his friends and neighbors was perfectly consistent with his prayers, and psalms, and hymns. The same divine principle influenced his whole life and conversation, and constrained him to abound in offices of love and charity, to the utmost of his power. Though he had but little to give, yet gladly and cheerfully did he give of that little ; and often has he liter- ally bestowed his last mite. " The effect of this steady and uniform piety, was con- stant peace and secret joy. The power of religion to com- municate a happiness which the world can neither give nor take away, has seldom appeared more evidently than in the case of our deceased brother. With few of the outward comforts or accommodations of life, he possessed a treasure within, which made him richer than the kings of the earth. The description which the apostle gives of the first disciples of our Lord, may justly be applied to our departed friend, 'as unknown, yet well known; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing ; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things.' " Very lately was he heard to declare, that though there might be many fellow Christians as happy as he was, he believed there was none happier. His happiness was built upon < the Rock of Ages,' and grounded on the promises of that true and faithful Witness, who is ' the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.' His whole dependence was on the precious merits and grace of his Redeemer. None but Christ, none but Christ, was the language of his heart. Having ■ fought a good fight,' having ' kept the faith,' hav- fctaf. N*r. 17 VOL. III. |3 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. ing ' finished his course,' he looked forward to his dissolution with hopes full 'of immortality.' He had long regarded death as the messenger which was to bear him to his ever- lasting home ; and had often, with pleasure in his looks, pointed out the little spot where he wished his mortal remains to rest % There let them rest till the morning of the resurrection, when this distinguished follower of Christ shall be made equal to the angels, and shine as a star in the fir- mament of heaven." From the foregoing narrative, the reader may learn many useful and important lessons. 1. How unsearchable are the riches of Divine grace, and how unbounded the goodness of God ! Who that had seen William Kelly in his unconverted state, wallowing in the mire of sin, and "committing iniquity with greediness," could ever have supposed that he was to become an eminent example of piety, and deserve and obtain the title of " The Happy Christian." If the reader be of the number of those careless and thoughtless sinners who are hurrying on to the brink of ruin, destroying their health, their substance, their families, and their peace, and exposing themselves to eternal misery by indulging in the brutal sin of drunken- ness — let him stop for a moment, and attentively consider the state of a man, who, like himself, was once " seeking death in the error of his ways," and yet afterwards, by Divine grace, was awakened and converted, " renewed in the spirit of his mind," and " filled with all joy and peace in believing." Let him learn from this example not to despair of obtaining an entire conquest over his prevailing sin, and of becoming " temperate in all things." Let him not, however, delay one hour to employ the same means. Let him have recourse to secret and earnest prayer to LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. 19 Almighty God, for the pardon of his sins through the merits and intercession of Jesus Christ ; let him also attend to holy- meditation, to the devout reading of the Scriptures, and the diligent use of all the appointed means of grace. Let him, like the example now proposed to his imitation, earnestly pray that the Holy Spirit would renew his heart, and enable him to " cast away all his transgressions whereby he hath transgressed;" then shall he too be "washed and sancti- fied," and "justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God." 2. The life of this happy Christian discovers, in the clearest manner, the power of real religion to give solid rest and peace to the soul in all circumstances. In a cold and cheerless garret, which to thousands of the sons of men would have been as comfortless as a prison, lived one of the most cheerful and most contented of men. To him this retired corner was the seat of peace, and " the gate of heaven." Here he maintained sweet communion with God, and often " rejoiced with joy unspeakable and full of glory." The Bible was the source from which he derived perpetual consolation. Like "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," he had often " little to eat ; but his Bible was meat, drink, and company to him." 3. The example of William Kelly further shows, how little will supply the real wants of man, and how indepen- dent real religion makes its possessor of the world, and all that it contains. While the busy multitude are wearing away life in toilsome labors and anxious wishes to increase their possessions ; while they are earnestly employed in adding "house to house, and field to field ;" and are losing the comforts of the present hour, in making provision for years which may never coma; the contented Christian, who wants no more than " food to eat, and raiment to put on," 20 LIFE OF WILLIAM KELLY. passes his time cheerfully and thankfully, and enjoys a large measure of happiness here, at the same time looking, by faith in Jesus Christ, to a happiness hereafter, which shall never end. He knows that there is a sufficiency for him in the inexhaustible storehouse of Providence, and is assured that " all things shall work together for his good." Few persons can hope to benefit thousands ; but every reader of this Tract, if rightly disposed, may benefit a few. However low his station in life may be ; however unnoticed and unknown he may pass his days ; he cannot, in these respects, exceed the subject of the foregoing narrative, who yet, by the power of religion, became eminent, and eminently useful. Let the reader from this hour resolve, by the grace of God, to imitate the bright example which has now been set before him ; and following him, as he followed Christ, he will, in God's due time, join him among the ransomed throng, who, through faith and patience, inherit the promises in the eternal kingdom of glory. NARRATIVE IX. THE YOUNG COTTAGER. AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE — ABRIDGED. BY REV. LEGH RICHMOND. I shall plead no apology for introducing to the notice of my readers a few particulars relative to a young female Cottager, whose memory is particularly endeared to me, from the circumstance of her being, so far as I can discover, my first-born spiritual child in the ministry of the Gospel. She was certainly the first of whose conversion to Gcd, under my own pastoral instruction, I can speak with any degree of precision and assurance. Every parent of a family knows that there is a very inter- esting emotion of heart connected with the birth of his first- born child. But may not the spiritual parent be allowed the 17* 2 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. nection with the children whom the Lord gives him ? If the first-born child in nature be received as a new and acceptable blessing, how much more so the first-born child in grace ? I claim this privilege, and crave permission, in writing what follows, to erect a monumental record, sacred to the memory of a dear little child who, I trust, will at the last day prove my crown of rejoicing. Jane S was the daughter of poor parents, in the village where it pleased God first to cast my lot in the ministry. My acquaintance with her commenced when she was twelve years of age, by her weekly attendance at my house among a number of children whom I regularly instructed every Saturday afternoon. They used to read, repeat catechisms, psalms, hymns, and portions of Scripture. I accustomed them, also, to pass a kind of free examination, according to their age and abil- ity, in those subjects by which I hoped to see them made wise unto salvation. In the summer, I frequently used to assemble this lit- tle group out of doors in my garden, sitting under the shade of some trees, which protected us from the heat of the sun. From hence a scene appeared which rendered my occupa- tion the more interesting. For adjoining the spot where we sat, and only separated from us by a fence, was the churchyard, surrounded with beautiful prospects in every direction. I had not far to look for subjects of warning and ex- hortation suitable to my little flock. I could point to the graves and tell my pupils that, young as they were, none of them were too young to die ; and that probably more than half of the bodies which were buried there, were those of little children, I told them who was " the resurrection and the life," and who alone could take away the sting of death. I used THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 3 to remind them that the hour was " coming in the which all that are in the grave shall hear his voice, and shall come forth ; they that have done good unto the resurrec- tion of life, and they that have done evil unto the resur- rection of damnation." I often availed myself of these opportunities to call to their recollection the more recent deaths of their own relatives. Sometimes I sent the children to the various stones which stood at the head of the graves, and bade them learn the epitaphs inscribed upon them. I took pleasure in seeing the little ones thus dispersed in the churchyard, each committing to memory a few verses written in com- memoration of the departed. As these children surrounded me, I sometimes pointed to the church, spoke to them of the nature of public wor- ship, the value of the Sabbath, the duty of regular attend- ance on its services, and urged their serious attention to the means of grace. I showed them the sad state of many countries, where neither churches nor Bibles were known ; and the no less melancholy condition of multitudes at home, who sinfully neglect worship, and slight the word of God. I thus tried to make them sensible of their own favors and privileges. Neither was I at a loss for another class of objects around me from which I could draw useful instructions ; for many of the beauties of nature appeared in view. Had the sweet Psalmist of Israel sat in this spot, he would have glorified God the Creator by descanting on these his handy works. I cannot write psalms, like David ; but I wish in my own poor way to praise the Lord for his goodness, and to show forth his wonderful works to the children of men. But had David been also surrounded with a troop of young scholars in such a situation, he would once more have said, "Out of the 4 THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength/' I love to retrace these scenes — they are past, but the recollection is sweet. I love to retrace them, for they bring to my mind many former mercies, which ought not, for the Lord's sake, to be forgotten. I love to retrace them, for they reassure me that, in the course of that private ministerial occupation, God was pleased to give me a valuable fruit of my labors. « Little Jane used constantly to appear on these weekly seasons of instruction. I made no very particular observa- tions concerning her, during the first twelve months. She was not then remarkable for any peculiar attainment. Her countenance was not engaging, her eye discovered no remarkable liveliness. She read tolerably well, took pains, and improved. Mildness and quietness marked her general demeanor. She was very constant in her attendance on public wor- ship, as well as on my Saturday instructions. But, gen- erally speaking, she was little noticed except for her reg- ular conduct. Had I then been asked, of which of my young scholars I had formed the most favorable opinion, poor Jane might probably have been omitted. How little do we oftentimes know what God is doing in other people's hearts ! What poor judges we frequently prove, till he opens our eyes ! " His thoughts are not our thoughts, neither are our ways his ways." Once, indeed, during the latter part of that year, I was struck with her ready attention to my wishes. I had, agreeably to the plan above mentioned, sent her into the churchyard to commit to memory an epitaph which I ad- mired. On her return she told me, that in addition to what I had desired, she had also learned another, which THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 5 was inscribed on an adjoining stone ; adding, that she thought it a very pretty one. I thought so too, and perhaps my reader will be of the same opinion. Little Jane, though dead, yet shall speak. While I transcribe the lines I can powerfully imagine that I hear her voice repeating them : EPITAPH ON MRS. A. BERRY. Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tear, That mourns thy exit from a world like this ; Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here, And stayed thy progress to the seats of bliss. No more confined to grovling scenes of night, No more a tenant pent in mortal clay, Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight, And trace thy journey to the realms of day. The" above was her appointed task ; and .the other, which she voluntarily learned and spoke of with pleasure, is this : EPITAPH ON THE STONE ADJOINING. It must be so — our father Adam's fall And disobedience brought this lot on all. All die in him — but hopeless should we be, Blest Revelation, w r ere it not for thee. Hail, glorious gospel! heavenly light, whereby We live with comfort, and with comfort die ; And view beyond this gloomy scene, the tomb, A life of endless happiness to come. I afterwards discovered that the sentiment expressed in the latter epitaph had much affected her. But at the period of this little incident I knew nothing of her mind. I had comparatively overlooked her. I have often been sorry for it since. Conscience seemed to rebuke me, when I afterwards discovered what the Lord had been doing for her soul. T seemed to have neglected her ; yet it was VOL. ITT. 6 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. not done designedly. She was unknown to us all ; except that, as I since found out, her regularity and abstinence from the sins and follies of her young equals in age, brought upon her many taunts and jeers from others, which she bore very meekly. But at that time I knew it not. I was young myself in the ministry, and younger in Christian experience. My parochial plans had not as yet- assumed such a principle of practical order and inquiry, as to make me acquainted with the character and conduct of each family and individual in my flock. My young scholar soon became my teacher. I fust saw what true religion could accomplish, in witnessing her experience of it. The Lord once " called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of his disciples," as an emblem and an illustration of his doctrine. But the Lord did more in the case of little Jane. He not only called her, as a child, to show by a similitude what conversion means ; but he also called her by his grace to be a vessel of mercy, and a living witness of that almighty power and love by which her own heart was turned to God. It was about fifteen months from the first period of her attendance on my Saturday-school, when I missed her from her customary place. Two or three weeks had gone by without my making any particular inquiry respecting her. I was at length informed that she was not well. But apprehending no peculiar cause for alarm, nearly two months passed away without any farther mention of her name being made. At length a poor old woman of the village, of whose religious disposition I had formed a good opinion, came and said to me, "Sir, have you not missed Jane S at your house on Saturday afternoons?" THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 7 " Yes," I replied j ''I believe she is not well." "Sfor ever will be, I fear," said the woman. "What, do you apprehend any danger in the case?" " Sir, she is very poorly indeed, and I think is in a de- cline. She wants to see you, sir ; but is afraid you would not come to see such a poor young child as she is." " Not go where poverty and sickness may call me ! How can she imagine so? At whose house does she live ?" "Sir, it is a poor place, and she is ashamed to ask you to come there. Her neighbors are noisy, wicked people. They all make game at poor Jane because she reads her Bible so much." ';• Do not tell me about poor places and wicked people ; that is the very situation where a minister of the gospel is called to do the most good. I shall go to see her ; you may let her know my intention." " I will, sir ; I go in" most days to speak to her, and it does one's heart good to hear her talk." " Indeed," said I ; " what does she talk about ?" "Talk about, poor child ! why, nothing but good things, such as the Bible, and Jesus Christ, and life and death, and her soul, and heaven and hell, and your discourses, and the books you used to teach her, sir. Many scoff at her, and say they suppose Jane counts herself better than other folks. But she does not mind all that. She will read her books, and then talk so pretty to her mother, and beg that she would think about her soul." " The Lord forgive me," thought I, " for not being more attentive to this poor child's case." I seemed to feel the importance of early instruction more than ever I had done before, and felt a rising hope that this girl might prove a kind of first-fruits of my labors. I now recollected her quiet, orderly, diligent attendance 8 THE YOU NO COTTAG-EK. on our little weekly meetings ; and her marked approbation of the epitaph, as related above, rushed into my thoughts. " I really hope," said I, " this dear child will prove a true child of God. And if so, what a mercy to her, and what a mercy for me." The next morning I went to see the child. Her dwell- ing was of the humblest kind. Jane was in bed up stairs. I found no one in the house with her, except the woman who had brought me the message on the evening before. The instant I looked on the girl I perceived a very marked change in her countenance ; it had acquired the consump- tive hue, both white and red. A delicacy unknown to it before quite surprised me, owing to the alteration it pro- duced in her look. She received me first with a very sweet smile, and then instantly burst into a flood of tears, just sobbing out, " I am so glad to see you, sir." M I am very much concerned at your being so ill, my child, and grieved that I was not sooner aware of your state. But I hope the Lord designs it for your good." Her eye, not her tongue, powerfully expressed, " I hope and think he does." " Well, my poor child, since you can no longer come to see me, I will come and see you, and we will talk over the subjects which I have been used to explain to you." " Indeed, sir, I shall be so glad." "That I believe she will," said the woman ; "for she loves to talk of nothing so much as what she has heard you say in your sermons, and in the books you have given her" " Are you really desirous, my dear child, to be a true Christian ?" " Oh yes, yes, sir, I am sure I desire that above all things." THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 9 I was astonished and delighted at the earnestness and simplicity with which she spoke these words. " Sir," added she, " I have been thinking, as I lay on my bed for many weeks past, how good you are to instruct us poor children : what must become of us with- out it?" "lam truly glad to perceive that my instructions have not been lost upon you, and pray God that this your pres- ent sickness may be an instrument of blessing, in his hands, to prove, humble, and sanctify you. My dear child, you have a soul, an immortal soul, to think of; you remember what I have often said to you about the value of a soul : What would it profit a man, to gain the whole world and lose his own soul ?" " Yes, sir, I remember well you told us that when our bodies are put into the grave, our souls will then go either to the good or the bad place." "And to which of these places do you think that, as a sinner in the sight of God, you deserve to go ?" " To the bad one, sir." " What, to everlasting destruction ?" "Yes, sir." "Why so?" " Because I am a great sinner." " And must all great sinners go to hell ?" " They all deserve it ; and I am sure I do." " But is there no way of escape ? Is there no way for a great sinner to be saved ?" " Yes, sir ; Christ is the Saviour." " And whom does he save ?" " All believers." " And do you believe in Christ yourself ?" " I do not know, sir ; I wish I did ; but I feel that I love him." Eleg. Nar. 18 10 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. " What do you love him for ?" " Because he is good to poor children's souls like mine." " What has he done for you ?" " He died for me, sir ; and what could he do more ?" " And what do you hope to gain by his death ?" " A good place when I die, if I believe in him, and love him." " Have you felt any uneasiness on account of your soul ?" " Oh, yes, sir, a great deal. When you used to talk to us children on Sundays, I often felt as if I could hardly bear it, and wondered that others could seem so careless. I thought I was not fit to die. I thought of all the bad things I had ever done and said, and believed God must be very angry with me ; for you often told us, that God would not be mocked ; and that Christ said, if we were not converted we could not go to heaven. Sometimes I thought I was so young it did not signify ; and then again it seemed to me a great sin to think so, for I knew I was old enough to see what was right and what was wrong, and so God had a just right to be angry when I did wrong. Besides, I could see that my heart was not right ; and how could such a heart be fit for heaven ? Indeed, sir, I used to feel very uneasy." " My dear Jane, I wish I had known all this before. Why did you never tell me about it ?" " Sir, I durst not. Indeed, I could not well say what was the matter with me ; and I thought you would look upon me as very bold, if I had spoken about myself to such a gentleman as you ; yet I often wished that you knew what I felt and feared. Sometimes, as we went away from your house, I could not help crying ; and then the other, children laughed and jeered at me, and said I was going to be very good they supposed, or at least to THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 11 make people think so. Sometimes, sir, I fancied you did not think so well of me as of the rest, and that hurt me ; yet I knew I deserved no particular favor, because I was the chief of sinners." "My dear, what made St. Paul say he was the chief of sinners ? In what verse of the Bible do you find this expression, ' the chief of sinners V Can you repeat it ?" " ' This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all accepta- tion, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sin- ners ; 7 is not that right, sir ?" " Yes, my child, it is right ; and I hope that the same conviction which St. Paul had at that moment, has made you sensible of the same truth. Christ came into the world to save sinners ; my dear child, remember, now and for evermore, that Christ came into the world to save the chief of sinners." " Sir, I am so glad he did. It makes me hope that he will save me, though I am a poor sinful girl. Sir, I am very ill, and I do not think I shall ever get well again. I want to go to Christ, if I die " "Go to Christ while you live, my dear child, and he will not cast you away when you die. He that said, 1 Suffer little children to come unto me/ waits to be gra- cious to them, and forbids them not. What made you first think so seriously about the state of your soul V 7 " Your talking about the graves in the churchyard, and telling us how many young children were buried there. I remember you said one day, near twelve months ago, 1 Children, where will you be a hundred years hence ? Children, where do you think you shall go when you die ? Children, if you were to die to-night, are you sure you should go to Christ and be happy?' Sir, I shall never forget your saying ' children 7 three times together in that solemn way." 12 THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. " Did you never before that day feel any desire about your soul ?" " Yes, sir, I think I first had that desire almost as soon as you began to teach us on Saturday afternoons ; but on that day I felt as I never did before. I shall never forget it. All the way as I went home, and all that night, those words were in my thoughts : ' Children, where do you think you shall go when you die V I thought I must leave off all my bad ways, or where should I go when I died ?" " And what effect did these thoughts produce in your mind ?" " Sir, I tried to live better, and I did leave off many bad ways ; but the more I strove, the more difficult I found it, my heart seemed so hard ; and then I could not tell any one my case." " Could not you tell it to the Lord, who hears and answers prayer ?" "My prayers" — here she blushed and sighed — "are very poor at the best, and at that time I scarcely knew how to pray at all as I ought. But I did sometimes ask the Lord for a better heart. There was a character in all this conversation which marked a truly sincere and enlightened state of mind. She spoke with all the simplicity of a child, and yet the seriousness of a Christian. I could scarcely persuade my- self that she was the same girl I had been accustomed to see in past time. Her countenance was filled with inter- esting affections, and always spoke much more than her tongue could utter. At the same time, she now possessed an ease and liberty in speaking, to which she had formerly been a stranger ; nevertheless she was modest, humble, and unassuming. Her readiness to converse was the result of spiritual anxiety, not childish forwardness. The THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 13 marks of a divine change were too prominent to be easily mistaken ; and in this very child I, for the first time, wit- nessed the evident testimonies of such a change. How encouraging, how profitable to my own soul ! "Sir," continued little Jane, "I had one day been thinking that I was neither fit to live or die ; for I could find no comfort in this world, and I was sure I deserved none in the other. On that day you sent me to learn the verse on Mrs. Berry's headstone, and then I read that on the one next to it." " I very well remember it, Jane ; you came back and repeated them both to me." " There were two lines in it which made me think and meditate a great deal." "Which are they?" '"Hail, glorious gospel! heavenly light, whereby We live with comfort, and with comfort die. ' I wished that glorious gospel was mine, that I might live and die with comfort ; and it seemed as if I thought it would be so. I never felt so happy about my soul before. The words were often in my thoughts, " 'Live with comfort, and with comfort die.'" " Glorious gospel, indeed If I thought. "My dear child, what is the meaning of the word gospel ?" " Good news." " Good news for whonl ?" " For wicked sinners, sir." " Who sends this good news for wicked sinners ?" " The Lord Almighty." " And who brings this good news ?" " Sir, you brought it to me" Here my soul melted in an instant, and I could not 18* 14 THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. repress the tears which the emotion excited. The last answer was equally unexpected and affecting. I felt a father's tenderness and gratitude for a first-born child. Jane wept likewise. After a little pause she said, " 0, sir, I wish you would speak to my father and mother and little brother ; for I am afraid they are going on very badly." " How so ?" " Sir, they drink and swear and quarrel, and do not like what is good ; and it does grieve me so, I cannot bear it. If I speak a word to them about it, they are very angry, and laugh and bid me be quiet, and not set up for their teacher. Sir, I am ashamed to tell you this of them, but I hope it is not wrong ; I mean it for their good." "I wish your prayers and endeavors for their sake may be blessed ; I will do also what I can." I then prayed with the child, and promised to visit her constantly. As I returned home, my heart was filled with thank- fulness for what I had seen and heard. Divine grace educates the reasoning faculties of the soul, as well as the best affections of the heart ; and hap- pily consecrates them both to the glory of the Kedeemer. Neither the disadvantages of poverty, nor the inexperience of childhood, are barriers able to resist the mighty influ- ences of the Spirit of God, when he goeth forth "where he listeth." " God hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise ; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty." Little Jane's illness was of a lingering nature. I often visited her. The soul of this young Christian was gradu- ally but effectually preparing for heaven. I have seldom THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 15 witnessed in any older person, under similar circumstances, stronger marks of earnest inquiry, continual seriousness, and holy affections. One morning as I was walking through the churchyard, in my way to visit her, I stopped to look at the epitaph which had made such a deep impression on her mind. I was struck with the reflection of the impor- tant consequences which might result from a more frequent and judicious attention to the inscriptions placed in our burying-grounds, as memorials of the departed. I wish that every gravestone might not only record the names of our deceased friends, but also proclaim the name of Jesus, as the only name given under heaven whereby men can be saved. Perhaps, if the ministers of religion were to interest themselves in this matter, and accustom their people to consult them as to the nature of monumental inscriptions which they wish to introduce into churches and churchyards, a gradual improvement would take place in this respect. What is offensive, useless, or erroneous, would no longer find admittance, and a succession of val- uable warning and consolation to the living would perpet- uate the memory of the dead. When I arrived at Jane's cottage, I found her in bed, reading Dr. Watts' Hymns for Children, in which she took great pleasure. " What are you reading this morning, Jane V "Sir, I have been thinking very much about some verses in my little book. Here they are : " ' There is an hour when I mnst die, Nor do I know how soon 't will come ; A thousand children, young as I, Are called by death to hear their doom. Let me improve the hours I have, Before the day of grace is fled ; There 's no repentance in the grave, Nor pardon offered to the dead. ' 16 THE -YOUNG COTTAGER. Sir, I feel all that to be very true, and I am afraid I do not improve the hours I have, as I ought to do. I think I shall not live very long ; and when I remember my sins I say, " * Lord, at thy feet ashamed I lie, Upward I dare not look ; Pardon my sins before I die, And blot them from thy book.' Do you think he will pardon me, sir ?" " My dear child, I have great hopes that lie has par- doned you ; that he has heard your prayers, and put you into the number of his true children already. You have had strong proofs of his mercy to your soul." "Yes, sir, I have ; and I wish to love and bless him for it. He is good, very good." It had for some time past occurred to my mind, that a course of regulated conversations on the first principles of religion would be very desirable, from time to time, for this interesting child's sake ; and I thought the Church Catechism would be a proper groundwork for that pur- pose. " Jane," said I, " you can repeat the catechism ?" " Yes, sir ; but I think that has been one of my sins in the sight of God." , " What, repeating your catechism ?" " Yes, sir, in such a way as I used to do it." "How was that?" " Very carelessly indeed. I never thought about the meaning of the words, and that must be very wrong. Sir, the catechism is full of good things ; I wish I understood them better." " Well then, my child, we will talk a little about those good things which, as you truly say, are contained in the catechism. Did you ever consider what it is to be a mem- THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 17 ber of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the king- dom of heaven ?" " I think, sir, I have lately considered it a good deal ; and I want to be such, not only in name, but in deed and in truth. You once told me, sir, that ' as the branch is to the vine, and the stone to the building, and the limb to the body and the head, so is a true believer to the Lord Jesus Christ.' But how am I to know that I belong to Christ as a true member, which you said one day in the church, means the same as a limb of the body ?" " Do you love Christ now in a way you never used to do before?" " Yes, I think so, indeed." " Why do you love him ?" " Because he first loved me ; he died for sinners." " How do you know that he first loved you ?" "Because he sent me instruction, and made me feel the sin of my heart, and taught me to pray for pardon, and love his ways ; he sent you to teach me, sir, and to show me the way to be saved, and now I want to be saved in that way that he pleases. Sometimes I feel as if I loved all that he has said and done so much, that I wish never to think about any thing else. I know I did not use to feel so ; and I think if he had not loved me first, my wicked heart would never have cared about him. I once loved any thing better than religion, but now it is every thing to me." "Do you believe, in your heart, that Christ is able and willing to save the chief of sinners ?" " I do." " And what are you ?" " A young, but a great sinner." "Is it not of his mercy that you know and feel your- self to be a sinner ?" 18 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. " Certainly ; yes, it must be so." " Do you earnestly desire to forsake all sin f* 44 If I know myself, I do." "Do you feel a spirit within you resisting sin, and making you hate it ?" " Yes, I hope so." 44 Who gave you that spirit ? Were you always so ?" " It must be Christ, who loved me and gave himself for me. I was quite different once." 44 Now then, my dear Jane, does not all this show a con- nection between the Lord Jesus Christ and your soul ? Does it not seem as if you lived and moved, and had a spiritual being from him ? Just as the limb is connected with your body, and so with your head, and thereby gets power to live and move through the flowing of the blood from one to the other ; so are you spiritually a limb or member of Christ, if you believe in him. Do you understand me ?" " Yes, sir, I believe I do ; and it is very comfortable to my thoughts to look up to Christ as a living head, and to consider myself as the least and lowest of all his members." " Now tell me what your thoughts are as to being a child of God." "I am sure, sir, I do not deserve to be called his child." "Can you tell me who does deserve it?" " No one, sir." "How then comes any one to be a child of God, when by nature we all are children of wrath ?" " By God's grace, sir." " What does grace mean ?" 44 Favor, free favor to sinners." 44 Right ; and what does God bestow upon the children of wrath, when he makes them children of grace ?" " A death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteous- ness ; is it not, sir ?" THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 19 " Yes, this is the fruit of God's redeeming love ; and I hope you are a partaker of the blessing. The family of God is named after him, and he is the first-born of many breth- ren. What a mercy that Christ calls himself l a brother P My little girl, he is your brother ^ and will not be ashamed to own you, and present you to his Father at the last day as one that he has purchased with his blood." " I wish I could love my Father and my Brother which are in heaven better than I do. Lord, be merciful to me a sinner : I think, sir, if I am a child of God, I am often a rebellious one. He shows kindness to me beyond others, and yet I make a very poor return. 11 ' Are these thy favors day by day, To me above the rest ? Then let me love thee more than they, And strive to serve thee best V " " That will be the best way to approve yourself a real child of God. Show your love and thankfulness to such a Father, who hath prepared for you an inheritance among the saints in light, and made you an inheritor of the king- dom of heaven, as well as a member of Christ, and a child of God. Do you know what the kingdom of heaven means ?" Just at that instant her mother entered the house be- low, and began to speak to a younger child in a passion- ate, scolding tone of voice, accompanied by some very offensive language : but quickly stopped, on hearing us in conversation up stairs. "Ah, my poor mother," said the girl, "you would not have stopped so short, if Mr. had not been here. Sir, you hear how my mother goes on ; pray say something to her ; she will not hear me? I went towards the stair-head, and called to the wom- an ; but she suddenly left the house, and for that time escaped reproof. 20 THE YOUNO COTTAG-ER. "Sir," said little Jane, "I am so afraid, if I go to heav- en, I shall never see my poor mother there. As I lie here abed, sir, for hours together, there is often so much wick- edness and noise and quarrelling down below, that I do not know how to bear it. It comes very near, sir, when one's father and mother go on so. I want them all to turn to the Lord, and go to heaven. Tell me now, sir, something about being an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven." " You may remember, my child, what I have told you, when explaining the catechism in the church, that ' the kingdom of heaven ? in the Scriptures, means the church of Christ upon earth as well as the state of glory in heaven. The one is a preparation for the other. All true Christians are * heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ/ and shall inherit the glory and happiness of his kingdom, and live with Christ, and be with him for ever. This is the free gift of God to his adopted children ; and all that believe aright in Christ shall experience the truth of that promise, ' It is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom/ You are a poor girl now, but I trust, ' an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting king- dom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.' You suffer now ; but are you not willing to suffer for his sake, and to bear patiently those things to which he calls you ?" "0, yes, very willing ; I would not complain. It is all right." " Then, my dear, you shall reign with him. Through much tribulation you may perhaps enter the kingdom of God ; but tribulation worketh patience ; and patience, ex- perience ; and experience, hope. As a true member of Christ, show yourself to be a dutiful child of God, and your portion will be that of an inheritor in the kingdom of heaven. Faithful is He that hath promised ; commit thy THE YOUNO COTTAGER. 21 way unto the Lord ; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass." " Thank you, sir ; I do so love to hear of these things. And I think, sir, I should not love them so much, if I had no part in them. Sir, there is one thing I want to ask you. It is a great thing, and I may be wrong — I am so young — and yet I hope I mean right " Here she hesitated and paused. " What is it ? do not be fearful of mentioning it." A tear rolled down her cheek — a slight blush colored her countenance. She lifted up her eyes to heaven for a moment, and fixing them on me, with a solemn, affecting look, said, " May so young a poor child as I am be admitted to the Lord's supper ? I have for some time wished it, but dared not to mention it, for fear you should think it wrong." " My dear Jane, I have no doubt respecting it,* and shall be very glad to converse with you on the subject, and hope that He who has given you the desire, will bless his own ordinance to your soul. Would you wish it now, or to-morrow ?" " To-morrow, if you please, sir — Will you come to-mor- row and talk to me about it ? and if you think it proper, I shall be thankful. I am growing faint now — I hope to be better when you come again." I was much pleased with her proposal, and rejoiced in the prospect of seeing so young and sincere a Christian thus devote herself to the Lord, and receive the memo- rials of a Saviour's love to her soul. * It will be perceived, that this interesting and excellent Tract is from the pen of a devout Episcopalian ; and in publishing this incident entire, it may be proper to say, that the Publishing Com- mittee would not be understood to express any opinion in relation to the practice of administering the Lord's supper in private. Eleg. Nar. 19 22 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. Disease was making rapid inroads upon her constitu- tion, and she was aware of it. But as the outward man decayed, she was strengthened with might by God's Spirit in the inner man. She was evidently ripening fast for a better world. I remember these things with affectionate pleasure. I hope the recollection does me good. I wish them to do good to thee, likewise, my reader ; and therefore I write them down. I was so much affected with my last visit to little Jane, and particularly with her tender anxiety respecting the Lord's supper, that it formed the chief subject of my thoughts for the remainder of the day. I rode in the afternoon to a favorite spot, where I sometimes indulged in solitary meditation ; and where I wished to reflect on the interesting case of my little dis- ciple. The next morning I went to Jane's cottage. On en- tering the door, the woman who so frequently visited her met me, and said, " Perhaps, sir, you will not wake her just yet ; for she has dropped asleep, as she seldom gets much rest, poor girl." I went gently up stairs. The child was in a half-sit- ting posture, leaning her head upon her right hand, with her Bible open before her. She had evidently fallen asleep while reading. Her countenance was beautifully composed and tranquil. A few tears had rolled down her cheek, and probably unknown to her, dropped upon the pages of her book. I looked around me for a moment. The room was out- wardly comfortless and uninviting ; the walls out of repair ; the sloping roof somewhat shattered ; the floor broken and THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 23 uneven ; no furniture but two tottering bedsteads, a three- legged stool, and an old oak chest — the window broken in many places, and mended with patches of paper. A little shelf against the wall, over the bedstead where Jane lay, served for her medicine, her food, and her books. " Yet here/ 7 I said to myself, " lies an heir of glory waiting for a happy dismissal. Her earthly home is poor indeed ; but she has a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. She has little to attach her to this world ; but what a weight of glory in the world to come ! This mean, despised chamber, is a palace in the eye of faith, for it contains one that is an inheritor of a crown." I approached without waking her, and observed that she had been reading the twenty-third chapter of St. Luke. The finger of her left hand lay upon the book, pointing to the words, as if she had been using it to guide her eye while she read. I looked at the place, and was pleased at the apparently casual circumstance of her finger point- ing to these words : " Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom." "Is this casual, or designed?" thought I. "Either way it is remarkable." But in another moment I discov- ered that her finger was indeed an index to the thoughts of her heart. She half awoke from her dozing state, but not sufficiently so to perceive that any person was pres- ent, and said in a kind of a whisper, " Lord, remember me — remember me — remember — remember a poor child — Lord, remember me " She then suddenly started, and perceived me, as she became fully awake : a faint blush overspread her cheeks for a moment, and then disappeared. " Dame K , how long have I been asleep ? Sir, I am very sorry •" "And I am very glad to find you thus," I replied : "you 24 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. may say with David, 1 1 laid me down and slept ; I awaked ; for the Lord sustained me.' What were you reading ?" " The history of the crucifying of Jesus, sir." " How far had you read when you fell asleep V 9 "To the prayer of the thief that was crucified with him ; and when I came to that place I stopped, and thought what a mercy it would be, if the Lord Jesus should re- member me likewise — and so I fell asleep, and I fancied in rny dream that I saw Christ upon the cross ; and I thought I said, ' Lord, remember me ' — and I am sure he did not look angry upon me — and then I awoke." All this seemed to be a sweet commentary on the text, and a most suitable forerunner of our intended sacramen- tal service. " Well, my dear child, I am come, as you wished me, to administer the memorials of the body and blood of our blessed Saviour to you ; and I dare say neighbor K will be glad to join us." " Talk to me a little about it first, sir, if you please." " Well, you know this is an institution established by Christ himself. The Lord has ordained bread and wine in the holy supper, as the outward mark which we behold with our eyes. It is a token of his love, grace, and bless- ing, which he promises to, and bestows on all who receive it, rightly believing on his name and work. He, in this manner, preserves among us a continual remembrance ol his death, and of the benefits which we receive thereby. " What do you believe respecting the death of Christ, Jane ?" " That because he died, sir, we live." " What life do we live thereby ?" " The life of grace and mercy now, and the life of glory and happiness hereafter ; is it not, sir ?" " Yes, assuredly : this is the fruit of the death of Christ ; THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 25 and thus he opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers. As bread and wine strengthen and refresh your poor weak, fainting body, in this very sickness ; so does the blessing of his body and blood strengthen and refresh the souls of all those that repose their faith, hope, and affec- tions on Him who loved us and gave himself for us." Tears ran down her cheeks as she said, " 0, what a Saviour ! — 0, what a sinner ! — How kind — how good ! And is this for me ?" "Fear not, my child: He that has made you to love him thus, loves you too well to deny you. He will in no wise cast out any that come to him." "Sir," said the girl, "I can never think about Jesus, and his love to sinners, without wondering how it can be. I deserve nothing but his anger on account of my sins : why then does he love me ? My heart is evil : why then does he love me ? I continually forget all his goodness : why then does he love me ? I neither pray to him, nor thank him, nor do any thing, as I ought to do : why then such love to me V* " How plain it is that all is mercy from first to last ! and that sweetens the blessing, my child. Are you not willing to give Christ all the honor of your salvation, and to take all the blame of your sins on your own self?" "Yes, indeed, sir, I am. My hymn says, " ; Blest be the Lord, that sent his Son To take our flesh and blood ; He for our lives gave up his own, To make our peace with God. He honored all his Father's laws, * Which we have disobeyed ; He bore our sins upon the cross, And our full ransom paid.' " " I am glad you remember your hymns so well, Jane." " Sir, you don't know what pleasure they give me. I 19* 26 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. am very glad you gave me that little book of hymns for children." A severe fit of coughing interrupted her speech for a while. The woman held her head. It was distressing to observe her struggle for breath, and almost as it were for i life. "Poor dear!" said the woman, "I wish I could help thee, and ease thy pains ; but they will not last for ever." "God helps me," said the girl, recovering her breath, "God helps me ; he will carry me through. Sir, you look frightened — I am not afraid — this is nothing — I am better now. Thank you, dame, thank you. I am very trouble- some ; but the Lord will bless you for this and all your kindness to me : yes, sir, and yours too. Now talk to me again about the Lord's supper." "What is required, Jane, of them who come to the Lord's supper? There are five things named in the Cate- chism — do you remember what is the first ?" She paused ; and then said with a solemn and intelli- gent look, "To examine themselves whether they repent truly of their former sins." "I hope and think that you know what this means, Jane : the Lord has given you the spirit of repentance." "No one knows, sir, what the thoughts of past sins have been to me. Yes, the Lord knows, and that is enough ; and I hope he forgives me for Christ's sake. His blood cleanseth from all sin. Sir, I sometimes think of my sins till I tremble, and it makes me cry to think that I have offended such a God ; and then he comforts me again with sweet thoughts about Christ." " It is well, my child ; be it so. The next thing men- tioned in that answer of your Catechism, what is it ?" "Steadfastly purposing to lead a new life." THE YOUNG COTTAG-ER. 27 "And what do you think of that?" "My life, sir, will be a short one ; and I wish it had been a better one. But from my heart I desire that it may be a new one for the time to come. I want to forsake all my evil ways and thoughts, and evil words, and evil com- panions ; and to do what God bids me and what you tell me is right, sir, and what I read of in my Bible. But I am afraid I do not, my heart is so full of sin. However, sir, I pray to God to help me. My days will be few j but I wish they may be spent to the glory of God." "The blessing of the Lord be upon you, Jane ; so that, whether you live, you may live to the Lord ; or whether you die, you may die unto the Lord ; and that, living or dying, you may be the Lord's. What is the next thing mentioned ?" "To have a lively faith in God's mercy through Christ, sir." "Do you believe that God is merciful to you in the pardon of your sins ?" "I do, sir," said the child, earnestly. "And if he pardons you, is it for your own sake, Jane?" "No, sir, no: it is for Christ's sake, for my Saviour Jesus Christ's sake, and that only — Christ is all." " Can you trust him ?" "Sir, I must not mistrust him-; nor would I if I might." "Eight, child ; he is worthy of all your trust." "And then, sir, I am to have a thankful remembrance of his death. I can never think of his dying, but I think also what a poor unworthy creature I am ; and yet he is so good to me. I wish I could thank him. Sir, I have been reading about his death. How could the people do as they did to him ? But it was all for our salvation. And then the thief on the cross — that is beautiful. I hope he 28 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. will remember me too, and that I shall always remember him and his death most thankfully." "And lastly, Jane, are you in charity with all men? Do you forgive all that have offended you? Do you bear ill-will in your heart to any body ?" "Dear sir, no ; how can I? If God is so good to me, if he forgives me, how can I help forgiving others ? There is not a person in all the world, I think, sir, to whom I do not wish well for Christ's sake, and that from the bottom of my heart." "How do you feel in regard to those bold, wanton, ill- tempered girls at the next door, who jeer and mock you so about your religion ?" "Sir, the worst thing I wish them is, that God may give them grace to repent ; that he may change their hearts, and pardon all their wicked ways and words. May he forgive them, as I do with all my soul !" She ceased — I wished to ask no more. My heart was full. "Can this be the religion of a child?" thought I; "0 that we were all children like her !" I then said, "My dear friends, I will now, with God's blessing, partake with you in the holy communion of our Lord's body and blood." The time was sweet and solemn. I went through the sacramental service. The countenance and manner of the child evinced pow- erful feelings. Tears mingled with smiles ; resignation brightened by hope ; humility animated by faith ; childlike modesty adorned with the understanding of a riper age ; gratitude, peace, devotion, patience — all these were visible. When I had concluded the service, I said, "Now, my dear Jane, you are indeed a sister in the church of Christ. May his Spirit and blessing rest upon you — strengthen and refresh you !" THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 29 "My mercies are great, very great, sir, greater than I can express — I thank you for this favor — I thought I was too young — it seemed too much for me to think of ; but I am now sure the Lord is good to me, and I hope I have done right." "Yes, Jane ; and I trust you are sealed by the Holy Ghost to the day of redemption." "Sir, I shall never forget this day." "Neither, I think, shall I." "Nor I," said the good old woman; "sure the Lord has been here in the midst of us three to-day, while we have been gathered together in his name." "Sir," said the child, "I wish you could speak to my mother when you come again. I am so grieved about her soul ; and I am afraid she cares nothing at all about it herself." "I hope I shall have an opportunity the next time I come. Farewell, my child." " Good-by, sir, and I thank you for all your kindness to me." " Surely," I thought within myself as I left the cottage, " this young bud of grace will bloom beauteously in para- dise. The Lord transplant it thither in his own good time ! Yet, if it be his will, may she live a little longer, that I may farther profit by her conversation and example." Jane was hastening fast to her dissolution. She still, however, preserved sufficient strength to converse with much satisfaction to herself and those who visited her. Such as could truly estimate the value of her spiritual state of mind were but few ; yet the most careless could not help being struck with her affectionate seriousness, her know- ledge of the Scriptures, and her happy application of them to her own case. "The holy spark divine," which regenerat- VOL. III. 30 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. ing grace had implanted in her heart, brightened as she drew near the close of life, and kindled into a flame which warmed and animated the beholder. To some, I am per- suaded, her example and conversation were made a bless- ing. Memory reflects with gratitude, while I write, on the profit and consolation which I individually derived from her society. Nor I alone. The last day will, if I err not, disclose farther fruits, resulting from the love of God to this little child ; and, through her, to others that saw her. And may not hope indulge the prospect, that this simple memorial of her history shall be as an arrow drawn from the quiver of the Almighty to reach the heart of the young and thought- less ? Direct its course, my God 1 May the eye that reads, and the ear that hears, the record of little Jane, through the power of the Spirit of the Most High, each become a witness for the truth as it is in Jesus ! I remembered the tender solicitude of this dear child for her mother. I well knew what a contrast the disposi- tions and conduct of her parents exhibited, when compar- ed with her own. I resolved to avail myself of the first opportunity I could seize, to speak to the mother in the child's presence. One morning soon after the interview above related, I chose another path for my visit. The distance was not quite half a mile from my house. The path was retired. I hereby avoided the noise and interruption which even a village street will sometimes present to disturb the calm- ness of interesting meditation. As I passed through the churchyard and cast my eye on the memorable epitaph, "Soon," I thought within me, "will my poor little Jane mingle her mouldering remains with this dust, and sleep with her fathers ! Soon will the j^outhful tongue, which now lisps hosannas to the Son of David, and delights my heart with the evidences of early THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 31 piety and grace, be silent in the earth ! Soon shall I be called to commit her body to the ground, ' earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 7 But 0, what a glorious change I Her spirit shall have then returned to God who gave it. Her soul will be joining the hallelujahs of para- dise, while we sing her requiem at the grave. And her very dust shall here wait, ' in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection from the dead. 7 " I went through the fields without meeting a single in- dividual. I enjoyed the retirement of my solitary walk ; various surrounding objects contributed to excite useful meditation connected with the great subjects of time and eternity. I was now arrived at the stile nearly adjoining her dwelling. The upper window was open, and I soon distinguished the sound of voices. I was glad to hear that of the mother. I entered the house door unperceived by those above stairs, and sat down below, not wishing as yet to interrupt a conversation which quickly caught my ear. " Mother, mother, I have not long to live. My time will be very short. But I must, indeed, I must say some- thing for your sake before I die. mother, you have a soul — you have a soul, and what will become of it when you die ? my mother, I am so uneasy about your soul." " dear, I shall lose my child ; she will die ; and what shall I do when you are gone, my Jane ?" she sobbed aloud. " Mother, think about your soul. Have not you neg- lected that ?" " Yes, I have been a wicked sinner, and not loved that which was good. • What can I do ?" " Mother, you must pray to God to pardon you for Christ's sake. You must pray." " Jane, my child, I cannot pray ; I never did pray in all my life. I am too wicked to pray." 32 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. " Mother, I have been wanting to speak to you a long time ; but I was afraid to do it. You did not like me to say any thing about yourself, and I did not know how to begin. But indeed, mother, I must speak now, or it may be too late. I wish Mr. was here, for he could talk to you better than I can. But perhaps you will think of what I say, poor as it is, when I am dead. I am but a young- child, and not fit to speak about such things to any body. But, mother, you belong to me, and I cannot bear to think of your perishing for ever. My Lord and Saviour has shown me my own sins and corruptions ; he loved me, and gave himself for me ; he died, and he rose again ; I want to praise him for it for ever and ever. I hope I shall see him in heaven ; but I want to see you there too, mother. Do, pray do, both father and you, leave off swearing and all other bad ways ; go to church and hear our minister speak about Jesus Christ, and what he has done for wicked sin- ners. He wishes well to souls. He taught me the way, and he will teach you, mother. Do not be angry with me, mother ; I only speak for your good. I was once as care- less as you are about the things of God. But I have seen my error. I was in the broad road leading to destruction, like many other children in the parish, and the Lord saw me, and had mercy upon me." "Yes, my child, .you was always a good girl, and minded your book." " No, mother, no ; not always. I cared nothing about goodness, nor my Bible, till the minister came and sent for us, as you know, on Saturday afternoons. Don't you re- member, mother, that at first you did not like me to go, and said you would have no such godly, pious doings about your house ; and that I had better play about the streets and fields, than to be laughed at and made game of for pretending to be so good ? Ah, mother, you did not know THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 33 what I went for, and what God designed for me and my poor sinful soul. But, thank God, I did go,, and there learned the way of salvation. Mother, I wish you had learned it too." As I listened to this affecting conversation, it appeared to me, from the tone and manner of the mother's voice, that she was more under the influence of temporary grief, on account of her child's extreme illness, than sincere sor- row from any real sense of her sins. I however hoped the best, and rejoiced to hear such weighty and important exhortations dropping from her daughter's lips. I felt that present circumstances rendered it far more valuable than my own could have been. I have often, since that time, seen the wicked and care- less much affected while sitting by the dying-bed of a near relative. I have witnessed their temporary acknowledg- ments of sin, and heard their professions of amendment. But, after a short season, all has passed away like the morning dew. The friend has been buried out of sight. The world and its cares, the flesh and its sins, have re- turned with new temptations, and the eloquence of ini- quity has prevailed over the voice of truth. On the other hand, how frequently have the death- beds of true believers been blessed to the eye-witnesses of the triumphs of grace over sin, death, and hell. Often has the careless bystander received the first saving im- pression of divine truth, while the dying Christian has experienced and testified the supports of love and mercy in the trying hour. At such seasons, faith wields a bright and burning torch, which occasionally softens the hardest, and warms the coldest heart. The expressions of that heav- enly consolation and devout solicitude which the Holy Spirit vouchsafes to some, thus become the happy means of grace and blessing for the conversion and edification of others. Eleg. Nar. 20 34 THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. At this moment the house door opened, and a younger child, a brother of Jane's, came in. The mother asked from above who it was ; the boy replied ; and without further inquiry she remained in the chamber. I beckoned to the lad to sit down quietly, and thus it still remained unknown that I was below. "Mother/ 7 continued Jane, "that is my brother, and will soon be your only remaining child. Do, pray, encour- age him to follow good ways ; send him to Mr. , and he will be kind to him, as he has been to me. He is a wild boy, but I hope he will be brought to think about his soul in time. Those naughty wicked boys teach him to swear and fight, and run after all manner of evil. Lord, help him to flee from the wrath to come. 77 I made a sign to the boy to listen to what his sister said concerning him. He seemed to hear with attention, and a tear dropped down his cheek. "Aye, Jane, it is hoped he will, and that we all shall likewise. 77 " Mother, then you must flee to Christ. Nothing you can do will save you without that. You must repent and turn from sin — without the grace of God you will never do it ; but seek, and you shall find it. Do, for your own sake, and for my sake, and my little brothers sake. 77 The woman wept and sobbed without replying. I now thought it time to appear, went to the bottom of the stairs, and said, " May a friend come up ? 77 "Mercy on me/ 7 said the mother, "there is Mr. , 77 " Come in, sir/ 7 said Jane ; " I am very glad you are come now. Mother, set a chair. 77 The woman looked rather confused ; Jane smiled as I entered, and welcomed me as usual. " I hope I shall be forgiven both by mother and daugh- ter, for having remained so long below stairs, during the THE YOUNG COTTAG-ER. 35 conversation which has just taken place. I came in the hope of finding you together, as I have had a wish for. some time past to speak, to you, Sarah, on the same subjects about which I am happy to say your daughter is so anxious. You have long neglected these things, and I wished to warn you of the danger of your state ; but Jane has said all I could desire, and I now solemnly ask you whether you are not much affected by your poor child's faithful conversation. You ought to have been her teacher and instructor in the ways of righteousness, whereas now she is become yours. Happy, however, will it be for you, if you are wise and consider your latter end, and the things which belong to your peace, before they are hidden from your eyes. Look at your dying child, and think of your other and only remaining one, and say whether this sight does not call aloud upon you to hear and fear." Jane's eyes were filled with tears while I spoke. The woman hung her head down, but betrayed some emotions of dislike at the plain dealing used towards her. " My child, Jane," said I, "how are you to-day?" " Sir, I have been talking a good deal, and feel rather faint and weary, but my mind has been very easy and happy since I last saw you. I am quite willing to die when the Lord sees fit. I have no wish to live, except it be to see my friends in a better way before I depart. Sir, I used to be afraid to speak to them ; but I feel to-day as if I could hold my peace no longer, and I must tell them what the Lord has done for my soul, and what I feel for theirs." There was a. firmness, I may say dignity, with which this was uttered, that surprised me. The character of the child seemed to be lost in that of the Christian : her nat- ural timidity yielded to a holy assurance of manner, result- ing from her own inward consolations, mingled with spir- 36 THE YOUNG- COTTAGER itual desire for her mother's welfare. This produced a flush upon her otherwise pallid countenance, which in no small degree added to her interesting appearance. The Bible lay open before her as she sat up in the bed. With her right hand she inclosed her mother's. " Mother, this book you cannot read ; you should there- fore go constantly to church, that you may hear it ex- plained. It is God's book, and tells us the way to heaven ; I hope you will learn and mind it ; with God's blessing it may save your soul. Do think of that, mother, pray do. I am soon going to die. Give this Bible to my brother ; and will you be so kind, sir, as to instruct him ? Mother, remember what I say, and this gentleman is witness : there is no salvation for sinners like you and me, but in the blood of Christ ; he is able to save to the uttermost ; he will save all that come to him ; he waits to be gra- cious ; cast yourself upon his mercy. I wish — I wish — I— I " She was quite overcome, and sunk away in a kind of fainting fit. Her mother observed that she would now probably remain insensible for some time before she recovered. I improved this interval in a serious address to the woman, and then prepared to take my departure, perceiv- ing that Jane was too much exhausted for farther conver- sation at that time. As I was leaving the room the child said faintly, * Come again soon, sir ; my time is very short." I returned home by the same retired road which I had before chosen. I silently meditated on the eminent proofs of piety and faith which were just afforded me in the scene I had witnessed. Surely, I thought, this is an extraordi- nary child. What cannot grace accomplish ? Is it pos- sible to doubt, after this, who is alone the Author and THE YOUNG- COTTAG-ER. 37 Finisher of salvation ; or from whom cometh every good and perfect gift ? How rich and free is the mercy of Je- hovah ! Hath not he " chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty ?" Let no flesh glory in his presence ; but he that glorieth, let him glory in the Lord. At a very early hour on the morning of the following day, I was awoke by the arrival of a messenger, bringing an earnest request that I would immediately go to the child, as her end appeared to be just approaching. It was not yet day when I left my house to obey the summons. The morning star shone conspicuously clear. The moon cast a mild light over the prospect, but gradually dimin- ished in brightness as the eastern sky became enlight- ened. The birds were beginning their song, and seemed ready to welcome the sun's approach. My mind, as I pro- ceeded, was deeply exercised by thoughts concerning the affecting events which I expected soon to witness. The rays of the morning star were not so beautiful in my sight as the spiritual lustre of this young Christian's character. Her night was far spent ; the morning of a better day was at hand. When I arrived at the house I found no one below ; I paused a few minutes, and heard the girl's voice very faintly saying, " Do you think he will come ? I should be so glad — so glad to see him before I die." . I ascended the stairs — her father, mother, and brother, together with the elderly woman before spoken of, were in the chamber. Jane's countenance bore the marks of speedy dissolution. Yet although death was manifest in the languid features, there was something more than ever interesting in the whole of her external aspect. The mo- ment she saw me, a renewed vigor beamed in her eyes — grateful affection sparkled in the dying face. 20* 38 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. Although she had spoken just before I entered, yet for some time afterwards she was silent, but never took her eyes off me. There was animation in her look — there was more — something like a foretaste of heaven seemed to be felt, and gave an inexpressible character of spiritual beauty even in death. At length she said, "This is very kind, sir — I am go- ing fast — I was afraid I should never see you again in this world." I said, "My child, are you resigned to die?' 7 "Quite." "Where is your hope?" She lifted up her finger, pointing to heaven, and then directed the same downward to her own heart, saying suc- cessively as she did so, "Christ there, and Christ here. 77 These words, accompanied by the action, spoke her meaning more solemnly than can easily, be conceived. A momentary spasm took place. Looking towards her weeping mother, she said, " I am very cold ; but it is no matter, it will soon be over." She closed her eyes for about a minute, and on open- ing them again she said, "I wish, sir, when I am gone you would tell the other children of the parish how good the Lord has been to me, a poor sinner : tell them, that they who seek him early will find him — tell them, that the ways of sin and ignorance are the way to ruin and hell — and pray tell them, sir, from me, that Christ is indeed the way, the truth, and the life — he will in no wise cast out any that come. Tell them that I, a poor girl " She was quite exhausted, and sunk for a while into a torpid state, from which, however, she recovered gradual- ly, uttering these expressions : "Where am I? — I thought I was going — Lord, save me." "My dear child, you will soon be for ever in his arms, THE YOUNG- COTTAG-ER. 39 who is now guiding you by his rod and staff through the valley of the shadow of death." " I believe so, indeed I do," said she ; " I long to be with him. 0, how good, how great, how merciful ! Jesus, save me, help me through this last trial." She then gave one hand to her father, the other to her mother, and said, "God bless you, God bless you — seek the Lord — think of me when I am gone — it may be for your good — remember your souls — 0, for Christ's sake, remember your souls — then all may be well — you cannot know what I have felt for both of you — Lord, pardon and save my dear father and mother !" She then took hold of her brother's hand, saying, "Thomas, I beg of you to leave off your bad ways — read the Bible — I give you mine — I have found it a precious book. Do you not remember our little brother, who died some years since ? — he was praying to the last moment of his life. Learn to pray while you are in health, and you will find the comfort and power of it when you come to die j but first of all, pray for a new heart — without it you never will see God in heaven — your present way leads to misery and ruin — may the Lord turn your heart to love and follow him." To the other woman she said, "I thank you, dame K , for all your kindness since I have been ill — you have been a Christian friend to me, and I hope the Lord will remember you for it, according to his rich mercy. You and I have many a time talked together about death ; and though I am the youngest, he calls me first to pass through it ; but blessed.be his name, I am not terrified. I once thought I never could die without fear ; but indeed I feel quite happy now it is come ; and so will you, if you trust him — he is the God both of the old and the young." "Ah, my child," said the woman, "I wish I was as 40 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. fit to die as you are ; but I fear that will never be — my sins have been many, very many." " Christ's blood cleanseth from all sin," said the child. At this moment, instead of growing weaker through the fatigue of so much speaking, she seemed to gather fresh strength. She turned to me with a look of surpris- ing earnestness and animation, saying, "You, sir, have been my best friend on earth — you have taught me the way to heaven, and I love and thank you for it — you have borne with my weakness and my ignorance — you have spoken to me of the love of Christ, and he has made me feel it in my heart — I shall see him face to face — he will never leave me nor forsake me — he is the same, and changes not. Dear sir, God bless you." The child suddenly rose up, and with an unexpected exertion, threw her livid, wasted arms around me, as I sat on the bedside, laid her head on my shoulder, and said distinctly, " God bless and reward you — give thanks for me to him — my soul is saved — Christ is every thing to me. Sir, we shall meet in heaven ; shall we not ? — yes, yes — then all will be peace — peace — peace " She sunk back on the bed, and spoke no more — fetch- ed a deep sigh — smiled, and died. At this affecting moment the first rays of the morning sun darted into the room, and seemed to describe the glorious change which her soul had now experienced. For some time I remained silently gazing on the breathless corpse, and could hardly persuade myself that Jane was indeed no longer there. As I returned homeward, I found it difficult to repress the strong feelings of affection which such a scene had ex- cited. Neither did I wish it. Religion, reason, and experi- ence rather bid us indulge, in due place and season, those tender emotions which keep the heart alive to its most THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 41 valuable sensibilities. Jesus himself wept over the foreseen sorrows of Jerusalem. He wept also at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Such an example consecrates the tear of affection, while it teaches us, concerning them which are asleep, not to " sorrow as those that have no hope." I soon fell into meditation on the mysterious subject of the flight of a soul from this world to that of departed spirits. " Swifter than the rays of light from the sun has this child's spirit hastened, in obedience to its summons from God, to appear in his immediate presence. How solemn a truth is this ! But, washed in the blood of the Lamb that was slain, and happily made partaker of its purifying efficacy, she meets her welcome at the throne of God. Sin, death, and hell are vanquished, through the power of Him who hath made her more than conqueror. He will himself present her to his Father as one of the purchased lambs of his flock— as one whom the Spirit of God 'has sealed unto the day of redemption.' " What a change for her ! from that poor, tattered chamber, to the regions of paradise ! from a bed of straw to the bosom of Abraham ! from poverty, sickness, and pain, to eternal riches, health, and joy ! from the condition of a decayed, weary pilgrim in this valley of tears, to that of a happy traveller safely arrived at home, in the rest that remaineth to the people of God ! " I have lost a young disciple, endeared to me by a truly parental tie. Yet how can I complain of that as lost, which God has found ? Her willing and welcome voice no longer seeks or imparts instruction here. But it is far better employed. The angels who rejoiced over her when her soul first turned to God, who watched the progress of her short pilgrimage, and who have now carried her tri- umphantly to the heavenly hills, have already taught her to join 42 THE YOUNG- COTTAGER. 1 In holy song, their own immortal strains. ' Why then should I mourn ? The whole prospect, as it concerns her, is filled with joy and immortality : l Death is swallowed up in victory/ " On the fourth day from thence, Jane was buried. I had never before committed a parishioner to the ground with similar affections. The attendants were not many, but I was glad to perceive among them some of the chil- dren who had been accustomed to receive my weekly pri- vate instruction along with her. I wished that the scene might usefully impress their young hearts, and that God would bless it to their edification. As I stood at the head of the grave during the service, I connected past events, which had occurred in the churchyard, with the present. In this spot Jane first learned the value of that gospel which saved her soul. Not many yards from her own burial-place was the epitaph which has already been de- scribed as the first means of affecting her mind with seri- ous and solemn conviction. It seemed to stand, at this moment, as a peculiar witness for those truths which its lines proclaimed to every passing reader. Such an associa- tion of objects produced a powerful effect on my thoughts. The evening was serene — nothing occurred to inter- rupt the quiet solemnity of the occasion. "Peace" was the last word little Jane uttered, while living ; and peace seemed to be inscribed on the farewell scene at the grave, where she was laid. A grateful remembrance of that peace revives in my own mind, as I write these memorials of it ; and Oh, may that peace which passeth all under- standing be in its most perfect exercise when I shall .meet her again at the last day. Attachment to the spot where this young Christian lay, induced me to plant a yew-tree close by the head of her grave, adjoining the eastern wall of the church. I designed THE YOUNG COTTAGER. 43 it .as an evergreen monument of one who was dear to mem- ory. The young plant appeared healthy for a while, and promised by its outward vigor long to retain its station. But it withered soon afterwards, and like the child whose grave it pointed out to notice, early faded away and died. The yew-tree proved a frail and short-lived monument. But a more lasting one dwells in my own heart. And possibly this narrative may be permitted to transmit her memory to other generations when the hand and heart of the writer shall be cold in the dust. Perchance some, into whose hands these pages may fall, will be led to cultivate their spiritual young plants with increased hope of success in so arduous an endeavor. May the tender -blossoms reward their care, -and bring forth early and acceptable fruit. Some who have perhaps been accustomed to under- value the character of very youthful religion, may hereby see that the Lord of grace and glory is not limited in the exercise of his power by age or circumstance. It some- times appears in the displays of God's love to sinners, as it does in the manifestation of his works in the heavens, that the least of the planets moves in the nearest course to the sun, and there enjoys the most powerful influence of his light, heat, and attraction. The story of this young Cottager involves a clear evi- dence of the freeness of the operations of divine grace on the heart of man ; of the inseparable connection between true faith, and holiness of disposition ; and of the sim- plicity of character which a real love of Christ transfuses into the soul. How many of the household of faith, in every age, " Alike 'unknown to fortune and to fame,' 7 have journeyed and are now travelling to their " city of habitation" through the paths of modest obscurity, and 44 THE YOUNG COTTAGER. almost unheeded piety. It is one of the most interesting employments of the Christian minister to search out these lilies of the valley, whose beauty and fragrance are nearly concealed in their shady retreats. To rear the flower, to assist in unfolding its excellences, and bring forth its fruit in due season, is a work that delightfully recompenses the toil of the cultivator. While he is occupied in this grateful task of laboring in his heavenly Master's garden, some blight, some tem- pest may chance to take away a favorite young blossom, in a premature stage of its growth. If such a case should befall him, he will then, perhaps, as I have often done when standing in pensive recollec- tion at little Jane's grave, make an application of these lines, which are inscribed on a gravestone erected in the same churchyard, and say, " This lovely bud, so young and fair, Called hence by early doom, Just came to show how sweet a flower In Paradise would bloom." NARRATIVE X. ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. BY REV. JOHN NEWTON, RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, ENGLAND When the following narrative was drawn up, the writer was aware that his feelings rendered him incompetent to judge how much of a relation, every part of which was in- teresting to himself, might he fit to offer to the public. He therefore wrote only for his friends, and printed no more copies than would he sufficient to distribute within the circle of his personal acquaintance. But as the paper has been much inquired after, and many of his friends have express- ed a wish that it might be more extensively circulated, he has at length yielded to their judgment. 21 Eleg. Nar. 2 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. It is to be lamented, that in this enlightened age, relig- ion should, by many, be thought the only subject unworthy of a serious inquiry. And that while, in every branch of science, tney are cautious of admitting any theory which cannot stand the test of experiment, they treat the use of the term Experimental, when applied to religion, with contempt. Yet there are many things connected with this subject, in which, whether we are willing or unwilling, we are and must be nearly interested. Death, for instance, is inevita- ble ; and the consequences of death must be important. Many persons die, as they live, thoughtless of what conse- quences may await them. Others leave the world with reluctance and terror. And there are others who, though conscious that they are sinners, and sure that they are about to enter on an unchangeable and endless state of existence, possess peace, composure, and joy. These declare, that they owe this happy state of mind to their dependence on Jesus the Saviour, on whose death and mediation they have built their hopes. And who can disprove their words? Such an instance is now in the reader's hands. The fact is indubitable. A child, under the age of fifteen, did thus rejoice in the midst of pains and agonies, to the admiration of all who beheld her. She was willing to leave all her friends whom she dearly loved, and by whom she was ten- derly beloved ; for she knew whom she believed, and that when she should be absent from the body, she should be present with the Lord. With this assurance, she triumphed in the prospect of glory, and smiled upon the approach of death. NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. 3 NARRATIVE, ETC, As I write, not for the eye of the public, but chiefly to put a testimony of the Lord's goodness into the hands of my dear friends, who have kindly afforded us their sympathy and prayers on the late occasion, I do not mean either to restrain the emotions of my heart, or to apologize for them? I shall write simply and freely, as I might speak to a person to whose intimacy and tenderness I might fully entrust my- self, and who, I know, will bear with all my weaknesses. In May, 1782, my sister Cunningham was at Edinburgh, chiefly on the account of her eldest daughter, then in the 14th year of her age, who was very ill of a consumption. She had already buried an only son, at the age of twelve ; and while all a mother's care and feelings were engaged by the rapid decline of a second amiable child, she was un- expectedly bereaved of an affectionate and excellent hus- band. Her trials were great ; but the Lord had prepared her for them. She was a believer. Her faith was strong, her graces active, her conduct exemplary. She walked with God, and he supported her. And though she was a tender and sympathizing friend, she had a happy firmness of temper ; so that her character, as a Christian, and the propriety of her behavior in every branch of relative life, appeared with peculiar advantage in the season of affliction. She returned to Anstruther a widow, with her sick child, who languished till October, and then died. Though my sister had many valuable and pleasing con- nections in Scotland, yet her strongest tie being broken, she readily accepted my invitation to come and live with us. She was not only dear to me as Mrs. Newton's sister, but we had lived long in the habits of intimate friendship. I knew her worth, and she was partial to me. She had yet 4 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM one child remaining, her dear Eliza. We already had a dear orphan niece, whom we had, about seven years before, adopted for our own daughter. My active, fond imagina- tion anticipated the time of her arrival, and drew a pleasing picture of the addition the company of such a sister, such a friend, would make to the happiness of our family. The children likewise — there was no great disparity between them, either in years or stature. From what 1 had heard of Eliza, 1 was prepared to love her before I saw her ; though she came afterwards into my hands like a heap of untold gold, which, when counted over, proves to be a larger sum than was expected. My fancy paired and united these children; I hoped that the friendship between us and my sister would be perpetuated in them. I seemed to see them, like twin sisters, of one heart and mind, habited nearly alike, always together, always with us. Such was my plan ; but the Lord's plan was very dif- ferent, and therefore mine failed. It is happy for us, poor short-sighted mortals, unable as we are to foresee the con- sequences of our own wishes, that if we know and trust him, he often is pleased to put a merciful negative upon our purposes, and condescends to choose better for us than we can for ourselves. What might have been the issue of my plan, had it taken place, I know not; but I can now praise and adore him for the gracious issue of his. I praise his name, that I can cheerfully comply with his word, which says, " Be still, and know that I am God." I not only can bow, as it becomes a creature and a sinner to do, to his sov- ereignty, but I admire his wisdom and goodness, and can say from my heart, " he has done all things well." * My sister had settled her affairs previous to her re- moval ; and nothing remained but to take leave of her friends, of whom she had many, not only in Anstrutlier, but NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. 5 in different parts of the country. In February, 1783, I received a letter from her, which, before I opened it, I ex- pected was to inform me that she was upon the road in her way to London. But the information was, that, in a little journey she had made to bid a friend farewell, she hid caught a violent cold, which brought on a fever and a cough, with other symptoms, which, although she described as gently as possible, that we might not be alarmed, obliged me to give up instantly the hope of seeing her. Succeeding letters confirmed my suspicions ; her malady increased, and she was soon confined to her bed. Eliza was at school at Musselburgh. Till then she had enjoyed a perfect state of health ; but while her dear mo- ther was rapidly declining, she likewise caught a great cold, and her life likewise was soon thought to be in danger. On this occasion, that fortitude and resolution which strongly marked my sister's character, was remarkably displayed. She knew that her own race was almost finished ; she ear- nestly desired that Eliza might live or die with us ; and the physicians advised a speedy removal into the south. Ac- cordingly, to save time, and to save Eliza from the impres- sion which the sight of a dying mother might probably make upon her spirits, and possibly apprehensive that the inter- view might make too great an impression upon her own, she sent this, her only, beloved child, directly to London, without letting her come home to take a last leave of her. She contented herself with committing and bequeathing her child to our care and love, in a letter, which, I believe, was the last she was able to write. Thus powerfully recommended by the pathetic charge of a dying mother, the dearest friend we had upon earth, and by that plea for compassion which her illness might have strongly urged even upon strangers, we received our dear Vol. in. 21 # Q NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. Eliza, as a trust, and as a treasure, on the 15th of March. My sister lived long enough to have the comfort of know- ing, not only that she was safely arrived, but was perfectly pleased with her new situation. She was now freed from all earthly cares. She suffered much in the remaining part of her illness, but she knew whom she believed ; she pos- sessed a peace past understanding, and a hope full of glory. She entered into the joy of her Lord on the 10th of May, 1783, respected and regretted by all who knew her. I soon perceived that the Lord had sent me a treasure indeed. Eliza's person was agreeable. There was an ease and elegance in her whole address, and a gracefulness in 'her movements, till long illness and great weakness bowed her down. Her disposition was lively, her genius quick and inventive; and if she had enjoyed health, she probably would have excelled in every thing that required ingenuity. Her understanding, particularly her judgment and her sense of propriety, were far above her years. There was some- thing in her appearance that usually procured her favor at the first sight. She was honored. by the notice of several persons of distinction, which, though I thankfully attribute in part to their kindness to me, I believe was a good deal owing to something rather uncommon in her. But her principal endearing qualities, which could be only fully known to us who lived with her, were the -sweety ness of her temper, and a heart formed for the exercise of affection, gratitude, and friendship. Whether, when at school, she might have heard sorrowful tales from children, who, having lost their parents, met with a great difference in point of tenderness when they came under the direc- tion of uncles and aunts, and might think that all uncles and aunts were alike, I know not ; but I have understood since from herself, that she did not come to us with any NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. 7 highly-raised expectations of the treatment she was to meet with. But as she found, (the Lord in mercy having opened our hearts to receive her,) that it was hardly possible for her own parents to have treated her more tenderly, and that it was from that time the business and the pleasure of our lives to study how to oblige her, and how to alleviate the afflic- tions which we were unable to remove ; so we likewise found, that the seeds of our kindness could hardly be sown in a more promising and fruitful soil. I know not that either her aunt or I ever saw a cloud upon her countenance during the time she was with us. It is true, we did not, we could not, unnecessarily cross her ; but if we thought it expedient to overrule any proposal she made, she acquiesced with a sweet smile ; and we were certain we should never hear of that proposal again. Her delicacy, however, was quicker than our observation ; and she would sometimes say, when we could not perceive the least reason for it, " I am afraid I answer you peevishly ; indeed I did not intend it ; if I did, I ask your pardon ; I should be very ungrateful if I thought any pleasure equal to that of endeavoring to please you." It is no wonder that we dearly loved such a child. The hectic fever, cough, and sweats, which she brought with her from Scotland, were subdued in the course of the summer, and there appeared no reason to apprehend that she would be taken off very suddenly. But still there was a worm preying upon the root of this pretty gourd. She nad seldom any severe pain till within the last fortnight of her life, and usually slept well ; but when awake she was always ill. I believe she knew not a single hour of perfect ease ; and they who intimately knew her state, could not but wonder to see her so placid, cheerful, and attentive, 3 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. when in company, as she generally was. Many a time, when the tears have silently stolen down her cheeks, if she saw that her aunt or I observed her, she would wipe them away, come to us with a smile and a kiss, and say, " Do not be uneasy — I am not very ill — I can bear it — I shall be better presently ;" or to that effect. In April, 1784, we put her under the care bf my dear friend, Dr. Benamor. To the blessing of the Lord on his skill and endeavors, I ascribe the pleasure of having her continued with us so long ; nor can 1 sufficiently express my gratitude for his assiduous, unwearied attention, nor for his great tenderness. She is now gone, and can no more repeat, what she has often spoken, of the great comfort it was to her to have so affectionate and sympathizing a phy- sician ; but while I live, I hope it will always be my pleasure to acknowledge our great obligations to him on her account. His prescriptions were carefully followed. But what can the most efficacious medicines or the best physicians avail to prolong life, when the hour approaches, in which the prayer of the great Intercessor must be accomplished, " Fa- ther, I will that they whom thou hast given me may be with me where I am, to behold my glory !" This was the proper cause of my dear Eliza's death. The Lord sent this child to me to be brought up for him ; he owned my poor endeav- ors ; and when her education was completed, and she was ripened for heaven, he took her home to himself. He has richly paid me my wages, in the employment itself, and in the happy issue. I have thus put together, in one view, a brief account of what relates to her illness, till within the last three weeks of her pilgrimage. I now come to what is much more im- portant and interesting. Her excellent parents had con- scientiously endeavored to bring her up in the nurture a*\d NARRATIVE OB' ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. 9 admonition of the Lord, and principles of religion were in- stilled into her from infancy. Their labors were so far suc- cessful, that no child could be more obedient or obliging, or more remote from evil habits or evil tempers. But I could not perceive, when she first came to us, that she had any heart- affecting sense of divine things ; but being under my roof, she, of course, when her health would permit, attended on my ministry, and was usually present when I prayed and expounded the Scriptures, morning and evening, in the family. Friends and ministers were likewise frequently with us, whose character and conversation were well suited to engage her notice, and to help her to form a right idea of the Christian principles and. temper. Knowing that she was of a thinking turn, I left her to make her own reflections upon what she saw and heard, committing her to the direction of the Lord, from whom 1 had received her, and entreating him to be her effectual teacher. When I did attempt to talk with her on the con- cerns of her soul, she could give me no answer but with tears. But I soon had great encouragement to hope that the Lord had both enlightened her understanding, and had drawn the desires of her heart to himself. Great was her delight in the ordinances; exemplary her attention under the preaching. To be debarred from going to hear at our stated times was a trial, which, though she patiently bore, seemed to affect her more than any other ; and she did not greatly care what she endured in the rest of the week, pro- vided she was well enough to attend the public worship. The judicious observations she occasionally made upon what had passed in conversation, upon incidents, books, and ser- mons, indicated a sound, scriptural judgment, and a spiritual taste. And my hope was confirmed by her whole deport- ment, which was becoming the Gospel of Christ. So that vol. ni. 10 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. had she died suddenly on any day within about a year and a half past, I should have had no doubt that she had passed from death unto life. But I could seldom prevail with her to speak of herself; if she did, it was with the greatest diffi- dence and caution. In the last two or three weeks of her life, she became acquainted with acute pain, to which she had till then been much a stranger. Her gentle spirit, which had borne up under a long and languishing illness, was not so capable of supporting pain. It did not occasion any improper tem- per of language, but it wore her away apace. Friday, the 30th of September, she was down stairs for the last time, and then she was brought down and carried up in my arms. It now became veiy desirable to hear from herself a more explicit account of the hope that was in her ; espe- cially as upon some symptoms of an approaching mortifi- cation, she appeared to be a little alarmed, and of course not thoroughly reconciled to the thoughts of death. Her aunt waited for the first convenient opportunity of intimat- ing to her the probability that the time of her departure was at hand. The next morning, Saturday, the first of October, presented one. She found herself remarkably better : her pains were almost gone ; her spirits revived : the favorable change was visible in her countenance. Her aunt began to break the subject to her, by saying, " My dear, were you not extremely ill last night ?" She answered, " Indeed I was." " Had you not been relieved, I think you could not have continued long." " I believe I could not." " My dear, I have been very anxiously concerned for your life." NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. |J " But I hope, my dear aunt, you are not so now." She then opened her mind, and spoke freely. I cannot repeat the whole. The substance was to this effect. " My views of things have been, for some time, very different from what they were when I came to you. I have seen and felt the vanity of childhood and youth." Her aunt said, " I believe you have long made con- science of secret prayer." She answered, " Yes, I have long and earnestly sought the Lord, with reference to the change that is now ap- proaching. I have not that full assurance which is so de- sirable ; but I have a hope, I trust a good hope ; and I be- lieve the Lord will give me whatever he sees necessary for me before he is pleased to take me hence." She then said, " I have prayed to him to fit me for himself; and then, whether it be sooner or later, it signifies but little." Here was a comfortable point gained. We were satis- fied that she had given up all expectations of living, and could speak of her departure without being distressed. It will not be expected that a child of her age should speak systematically. Nor had she learned her religion from a system or form of words, however sound. The Lord himself was her teacher. But from what little she had at different times- said to me, I was well satisfied that she had received a true conviction of the nature of sin, and of her own state by nature as a sinner. When she spoke of the Lord, she meant the Lord Jesus Christ, the great Shepherd, who gathers such lambs in his arms, and carries them in his bosom. She believed him to be God and man in one person ; and that hope of which she was not ashamed, was founded on his atonement, grace, and power. As I do not intend to put words into her mouth which she never spoke, I mention this, lest any should be disappointed at not 12 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. finding a certain phraseology to which they have been ac- customed. Her apparent revival was of short duration. In the evening of the same day, she complained of a sore throat, which became worse, and by Sabbath noon threatened suf- focation. When Dr. Benamor, who the day before had almost entertained hopes of her recovery, found her so sud- denly and greatly altered, he could not, at the moment, pre- vent some signs of concern from appearing in his counte- nance. She quickly perceived it, and desired he would plainly tell her his sentiments. When he had recovered himself, he said, " My dear, you are not so well as when I saw you on Saturday." She answered, that she trusted all would be well soon. He replied, that whether she lived or died it would be well, and to the glory of God. He told me that he had much pleasing conversation with her that morning, some particulars of which he had committed to writing, but that he had lost the paper. From that time she may be said to have been dying, as we expected her departure from one hour to another. On Monday, October 3d, she was almost free from any complaint in the throat ; but there was again an appearance of a mortification in her legs ; it was, however, again re- pelled by the means which Dr. Benamor prescribed. I recollect but little of the incidents of this day : in general she was in great pain, sometimes in agonies, unable to remain many minutes in the same position ; but her mind was peaceful. She possessed a spirit of recollection and prayer ; and her chief attention to earthly things was confined to the concern she saw in those around her. That she might not increase their distress, she strove to conceal the sense of her sufferings. It pleased the Lord wonder- NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. ^3 fully to support my dear Mrs. Newton, and she had a tol- erable night's rest, though I did not expect the child would live till morning. On Tuesday, the 4th, about nine in the morning, we all thought her dying, and waited nearly two hours by her bed- side, for her last breath. She was much convulsed, and in great agonies. I said, " My dear, you are going to heaven ; and I hope, by the grace of God, we shall in due time follow you." She could not speak, but let us know by a gentle nod of her head, and a sweet smile, that she attended to what I said. I repeated to her many passages of Scripture and verses of hymns, to each of which she made the same kind of answer. Though silent, her looks were more expressive than words. Towards eleven o'clock, a great quantity of coagulated phlegm, which she had not strength to bring up, made her rattle violently in the throat, which we considered as a sign that death was at hand ; and as she seemed unwilling to take something that was offered to her, we were loath to disturb her in her last moments, (as we supposed,) by press- ing her. I think she must have died in a quarter of an hour, had not Dr. Benamor just then come into the room. He felt her pulse, and observed that she was not near death by her pulse, and desired that something might be given her. She was perfectly sensible, though still unable to speak, but expressed her unwillingness to take any thing by her strongest efforts. However, she yielded to entreaty, and a teaspoonful or two of some liquid soon cleared the passage, and she revived. Her pain, however, was extreme, and her disappointment great. I never saw her so near im- patience as on this occasion. As soon as she could speak, Eleg. Nar. 22 |4 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM she cried, " O cruel, cruel, cruel, to recall me, when I was so happy, and so near gone ! I wish you had not come — I long to go home." But in a few minutes she grew com- posed, assented to what the doctor said of her duty to wait he Lord's time ; and from that hour, though her desires te depart and to be with her Saviour were stronger and stronger, she cheerfully took whatever was offered to her and frequently asked for something, of her own accord. How often, were we to have our choice, should we counteract our own prayers ! I had entreated the Lord to "prolong her life, till she could leave an indisputable testi- mony behind her for our comfort: yet when I saw her agony, and heard her say, O how cruel to stop me ! I was for a moment almost of her mind, and could hardly help wishing that the doctor had delayed his visit a little longer. But if she had died then, we should have been deprived of what we saw and heard the two following days; the re- • membrance c f which is now much more precious to me than silver or gold. When the doctor came on Wednesday, she entreated him to tell her how long he thought she might live. He said, " Are you in earnest, my dear ?" {She answered, " Indeed I am." At that time there were very great appearances that a mortification was actually begun. He therefore told her, he thought it possible she might hold out till eight in the evening, but did not expect she could survive midnight at farthest. On hearing him say so, low as she was, her eyes seemed to sparkle with their former vivacity; and fixing them on him with an air of ineffable satisfaction, she said, " Oh, that is good news indeed." And she repeated it as such to a person who came soon after into the room, and said, with lively emotions of joy, " The doctor tells me T NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. J5 shall stay here but a few hours longer." In the afternoon she noticed and counted the clock, I believe every time it struck ; and when it struck seven, she saidf " Another hour, and then." But it pleased the Lord to spare her to us another day. She suffered much in the course of Wednesday night, but was quite resigned and patient. Our kind servants, who, from their love to her and to us, watched her day and night with a solicitude and tenderness which wealth is too poor to purchase, were the only witnesses of the affectionate and grateful manner in which she repeatedly thanked them for their services and attention to her. Though such an acknowledgment was no more than due, yet coming from herself, and at such a time, they highly "valued it. She added her earnest prayers that the Lord would reward them. To her "prayers my heart says, Amen. May they be comforted of the Lord in their dying hours, as she was, and meet with equal kindness from those around them ! I was surprised on Thursday morning to find her not only alive, but in some respects better. The tokens of mortification again disappeared. This was her last day, and it was a memorable day with us. When Dr. Benamor asked her how she did, " Truly happy," said she, " and if this be dying, it is a pleasant thing to die." (The very expression which a dear friend of mine used upon her death-bed a few years ago.) She said to me, about ten o'clock, " My dear uncle, 1 would not change conditions with any person upon earth: O, how gracious is the Lord to me ! Oh, what a change is before me !" She was several times asked if she could wish to live, provided the Lord would restore her to perfect health ; her answer was, " Not for all the world ;" and sometimes, "Not for a thousand worlds." The last time she was asked this question, she said, as IQ NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. I have been since informed, " I desire to have no choice." " Do not weep for me," said she, " my dear aunt, but rather rejoice and praise on my account." We asked her if she would choose a text for her own funeral sermon. She readily mentioned, " Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." " That," said she, " has been my experience ; my afflictions have been many, but not one too many ; nor has the greatest of them all been too great ; I praise him for them all." But after a pause, she said, "Stay, I think there is another text which may do better; let it be, ' Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord ;' that is my experience now." She likewise chose a hymn to be sung after the sermon. " In vain my fancy strives to paint The moment after death ; The glories that surround a saint When yielding up his breath. One gentle sigh his fetters breaks, We scarce can say, * He's gdhe I' Before the willing spirit takes Its mansion near the throne. Faith strives, but all its efforts fail, To trace the spirit's flight ; No eye can pierce within the vail Which hides the world of light. Thus much (and this is all) we know. Saints are completely blest ; Have done with sin, and care, and woe, And with their Saviour rest : On harps of gold they praise his name, His face they always view ; Then let us followers be of them, That we may praise him too." NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. \~J But I must check myself, and set down but a small part of the gracious words which the Lord enabled her to speak in the course of the day, though she was frequently inter, rupted by pains and agonies. She had something to say, either in a way of admonition or consolation, as she thought most suitable, to every one she saw. To her most constant attendant she said, " Be sure you continue to call on the Lord ; and if you think he does not hear you now, he will at last, as he has heard me." She spoke a great deal to an intimate friend, who was with her every day, which I hope she will long remember, as the testimony of her dying Eliza. Among other things, she said, " See how comfortable the Lord can make a dying bed ! Do you think that you shall have such an assurance when you come to die V s Being answered, "I hope so, my dear;" she replied, " But do you earnestly, and with all your heart, pray to the Lord for it ? If you seek him, you shall surely find him." She then prayed affectionately and fervently for her friend, afterwards for her cousin, and then for- another of our family who was present. Her prayer was not long, but every word was weighty, and her manner was very affecting. The purport was, that they might all be taught and comforted by the Lord. About five in the afternoon, she desired me to pray with her once more. Surely I then prayed from my heart. When I had finished, she said,- a Amen." I said, " My dear child, have I expressed your meaning V s She answered, " O, yes !" and then added, "lam ready to say, Why are his chariot wheels so long in coming ? But I hope he will enable me to wait his hour with patience." These were the mst words T heard her speak. oof |g NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. Mrs. Newton's heart was much, perhaps too much, at- tached to this dear child ; which is not to be wondered at, considering what sort of a child she was, and how long and how much she had suffered. But the Lord was pleased graciously to support her in this trying season. Indeed, here was more cause for joy than for grief; yet the pain of separation will be felt. Eliza well knew her feelings, and a concern for her was, I believe, the last anxiety that remained with her. She said to those about her, " Try to persuade my aunt to leave the room ; 1 think I shall soon go to sleep; I shall not remain with you till the morning." Her aunt, however, was the last person who heard her speak, and was sitting by her bed when she went away. A little after six, hearing that a relation who dearly loved her, and was beloved by her, who had come daily from Westminster to see her, was below stairs, she said, u Raise me up, that I may speak to him once more." Her aunt said, " My dear, you are nearly exhausted, I think you had better not attempt it." She smiled, and said, " It is very well, I will not." She was then within half an hour of her translation to glory ; but the love of her dear Lord had so filled her with benevolence, that she was ready to exert herself to her last breath, in hope of saying something that might be useful to others after she was gone. Towards seven o'clock, I was walking in the garden, and earnestly engaged in prayer for her, when a servant came to me and said, " She is gone." O Lord, how great is thy power ! how great is thy goodness ! A few days before, had it been practicable and lawful, what would I not have given to procure her recovery ? Yet seldom in my life have I known a more heartfelt joy than when these words. She is gone, sounded in my ears. I ran up stairs, NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. JQ ^and our whole little family was soon around her bed. Though her aunt and another person were sitting with their eyes fixed upon her, she was gone perhaps a few minutes before she was missed. She lay upon her left side, with her cheek gently reclining upon her hand, as if in a sweet sleep ; and I thought there was a smile upon her counte- nance. Never, surely, did death -appear in a more beauti- ful, inviting form. We fell upon our knees, and I returned, I think I may say, my most unfeigned thanks to our God and Saviour, for his abundant goodness to her, crowned in this last instance, by giving her so gentle a dismission. Yes, I am satisfied ; I am comforted. And if one of the many involuntary tears I have shed, could have recalled her to life, to health, to an assemblage of all that this world could contribute to her happiness, I would have labored hard to suppress it. Now my largest desires for her are accom- plished. The days of her mourning are ended. She is landed on that peaceful shore where the storms of trouble never blow. She is for ever out of the reach of sorrow, sin, temptation, and snares. Now is she before the throne ; she sees Him, whom not having seen, she loved ; she drinks of the rivers of pleasure which are at his right hand, and shall thirst no more. She was born February 6, 1771. She breathed her spirit into her Redeemer's hands a little before seven in the evening, on October 6, 1785, aged fourteen years and eight months. I shall be glad if this little narrative may prove an en- couragement to Christians who have children. May we not conceive the Lord saying to us, as Pharaoh's daughter said to the mother of Moses, " Take this child, and bring it up for me, and I will pay thee thy wages ?" How solemn 20 NARRATIVE OF ELIZA CUNNINGHAM. the trust ! important and difficult the charge of it ! but how, rich the reward, if our endeavors are crowned with success ! And we have every thing to hope from his power and good- ness, if, in dependence upon his blessing, we can fully and diligently aim at fulfilling his will. Happy they, who shal] say at the last day, " Behold, here am I, and the children which thou hast given me !" , Many children will likewise see this narrative. May it convince them ihat it is practicable and good to seek the Lord betimes ! My dear Eliza's state of languor prevented her from associating with young people of her own age so frequently and freely as she might otherwise have done. But these papers will come into the hands of such. To them I particularly recommend and dedicate this relation. Oh, my dear young friends, had you seen with what dignity of spirit she filled up the last scene of her life, you must have been affected by it ! Let not the liveliness of your spirits, and the gayety of the prospect around you, prevent you from considering, that to you likewise, days will cer- tainly come, unless you are suddenly snatched out of life, when you will say and feel that the world, and all in it, can afford you no pleasure. But there is a Saviour, Jesus Christ, a Mighty One, always near, always gracious to those who seek him. May you, like her, be enabled to choose him as the Guide of your youth, and the Lord of your hearts. Then, like her, you will find support and comfort under affliction, wisdom to direct your conduct, a good hope in death, and by death a haj)py translation to everlasting life. I have only to add my prayers that a blessing from on high may descend upon the persons and families of all my friends, and upon all into whose hands this paper may prov- identially come. JOHN NEWTON. NARRATIVE XI THE WATCHMAKER AND HIS FAMILY. mm 1 T was Saturday night, the clock had struck elev- en — we took leave of our friends, and directed our steps homeward. After passing through several streets, we turned into a lif m narrow lane; all was si- lent and dark, except one low window. " There," said I, " perhaps some poor mechanic, already tired with the labor of the day, still endeavors tj increase his trifling pittance." vol. ttt. . 2 THE WATCHMAKER "Let us stop and see," said my companion. It was not difficult, for the house was an old-fashioned structure, built when the level of the ground was considerably lower than at present; so that passengers easily saw what was passing within. When we came opposite the window we saw a middle, aged man at his work-table, finishing one of the movements of a timepiece — his tool slipped, and the work was spoiled — he repeated the attempt, and again he was unsuccessful ; a slight and momentary expression of trouble appeared on his countenance, but the cloud soon passed away ; he clasped his hands and looked upwards, while his lips moved as if uttering a short and fervent prayer ; the expression of trouble disappeared ; he resumed his work. In a few minutes he looked at the hour, and seeing it was now mid- night, laid aside his work. Then, removing the lamp to a table in another part of the room, took a book and began to read ; presently he closed it, and kneeling down prayed earnestly; afterwards, resuming his seat, he was for a short time engaged in meditation, then taking up the lamp left the room. " There -goes one of your godly ones," said my com- panion, walking on ; "I am sure he is one of that sort." <•' May be so ; but did you not observe his patience, although he repeatedly failed in his work ? Did you mark the expression of his countenance ? it indicated trouble, but not anger or vexation." " Yes, it was a peculiar expression, very different from that of workmen in general when an accident befalls them. I could not but observe it— the man seems poor, but there is something very decent and even respectable about him ; but what could be the reason why he left off without finish- ing the movement ?" AND HIS FAMILY. 3 " Did not you see it was twelve o'clock ? The Lord's day — the day of rest from wordly care and employments, has begun." " Well, this is being righteous overmuch ; if he went lo church as usual, surely it could be no matter whether he worked half an hour longer to finish what he was about or not ; the man has to support his family. This is one of the mistakes about religion." " I differ from you : I cannot blame the utmost strictness in endeavoring to do the will of God. Surely, no man can be righteous overmuch while doing as the Bible directs him." "But what harm would it have been if this poor man had worked an hour or two longer ? He must have some reason for being so late at his work : perhaps his wife 01 children are ill." . " He thinks that he ought to obey the commands of God before any thing else ; and he is sure that God will not allow him to suffer for obeying his will." " Then you suppose that he expects God will work some miracle to help him ; for surely, if his work is not finished, he will not be paid for it. For my part, I should not understand a workman leaving a piece of work unfin- ished for any such fanatical notions ; and if his master is of the same opinion, and should want the work to-morrow, what will become of him ?" " My friend, every thing in this world belongs to God ; and let us remember, that he causes all things to work ogether for good to those who love him." " All this may be very true, but I should like to know something more of this man. I think I will come this way to-morrow morning, and see what he is about. I shall call at your house in the afternoon." THE WATCHMAKER SABBATH MORNING. " Well," said I, " my friend, have you been looking after our poor watchmaker V* " Yes, and I do not know what to make of him ; there something extraordinary in every thing he says and does ; I never saw one like him before." " Why, what has happened ?" " After we parted last night I thought a good deal about what we had seen. I rose early this morning, and was again at the house by six o'clock. I had hardly entered the dwelling when I heard the poor watchmaker singing. Now, thought I, I have found you at work ; but I was mis- taken : he was sitting with his children around him ; a Bible lay open^on the table, and they were singing the 103d Psalm. Next him sat a young girl about fourteen, her arm rested on his shoulder. Between his knees stood a child three or four years old, while another brother, some years older, completed the group. They sang in a most pleasing manner, and I heard another voice from the next room join- ing with them ; what they sang evidently came from their hearts, and I must confess it went to mine." " That is not surprising; but proceed." " After they had sung, they knelt down and prayed. I was particularly struck with the prayer of the daughter ; here it is ; I wrote it down, and will read it to you. ' O, thou blessed Saviour, the friend of sinners, we call upon thee with our whole hearts, and may thy Holy Spirit teach us to pray aright. We lived without the knowledge or love of thee, and were always unhappy ; but now, O Lord, we love thee, and delight to serve thee. Oh ! be with us and bless us ; especially, be with us this day ; it is thine own day. Enable us to serve thee with all our hearts ; AND HIS FAMILY. 5 may w e be attentive to thy word, and enable us to under- stand it. Bless our dear minister, who teaches us to know thee : O Lord, be with our dear mother ; we entreat thee for her ; thou canst take away her sickness, if it be thy will — (a voice from the next room added, f But thy will be done ') — yes, O Lord, thy will be done ; may our dear father be spared to us, and may we all be good children. Amen.' " < Now for breakfast,' said the father. * Jenny, where is the milk V The table was presently covered with four cups, half a loaf, and a jug of milk ; they took their places, and the father asked a blessing." " You have drawn an interesting picture indeed," said I. " Compare this humble meal with the sumptuous repasts of the world, and say in which of them is true happiness. A poor artisan entreats God to bless his humble fare, and eats with pleasure and without repining; while the irre- ligious and sensual man sits down to his crowded board without even thinking of the Almighty, who gives him all things richly to enjoy." " The clock struck eight ; ' Jenny, are you ready to repeat your chapter V said the father. * Yes, I learned it last night, and have looked over it again this morning.' — * Clement, are you ready V ' I will look over it once more,' answered the boy, and sat down by the window. " ' My children, I hope you will be perfect in your catechism to-day ; do not let me have the pain to hear you are wrong in your answers ; your teacher will also be grieved ; remember he told you once you were more ready at reading any thing than your Bible ; don't let him have to say this again. Set a good example ; let it not be said, the children who have been taught to know the Saviour are behind those who are ignorant of the truth. Jenny, which is best, to love the Saviour or to love the world V Eleg. Nar. 23 Q THE WATCHMAKER " l Ah, my dear father, would that I loved the Lord more than I do.' " ' Be of good cheer, my dear child, he who has begun in you a good work will complete it ; he is faithful, he will upport and strengthen you. Go and see if you can help -jour mother.' KEEP HOLY THE SABBATH-DAY. " At this moment a man came up the stairs ; he was well dressed, but his countenance looked harsh and forbid- ding. He appeared quite out of humor, and throwing open the door, exclaimed, in an angry tone, ' Must I always be obliged to look after you in this way ? have not you finished the work I gave you ? I must have it this morning.' "Frightened at his voice and manner, the boys ran and hid themselves in the next room. Jenny stood by the door. The watchmaker offered a chair to his master. 1 Pooh ! none of your ceremonies, where is your work V " < Sir, I am very sorry, but I have not been able quite to finish the timepiece. I worked till midnight, but I met with some accidents.' " s Yes, that is always the way with you, always clumsy, and some paltry excuse or other : what state is it in V He opened the case in which the timepiece was placed, and taking out a magnifying glass, examined the work. ' Well, very well indeed ; so far good ! Come, my good fellow, to your bench directly ; you will finish it in two or three hours, and then your money will be ready.' " ' You forget, sir,' said the watchmaker, in a calm but firm tone, ' that this is the Sabbath, and I cannot ' " ( Pooh ! none of your nonsense ; you are one of the saints, are you ? I wish the whole pack of them at the AND HIS FAMILY. 7 bottom of the sea. What harm can there be in working an hour or two 1 There will be plenty of time afterwards for two long sermons ; besides, God never can wish you should starve.' " ' Sir, I will engage that the timepiece shall be at your house as early as you please to-morrow ; I will set about it by one o'clock in the morning. You cannot send it off be- fore noon, so there will be time enough to examine that it is properly finished.' " ' I did not ask for your opinion, but desired you would set about it directly ; do you intend to do so or not V " The poor workman shut his box, saying, in a humble tone, l . Sir, I cannot work to-day.' " \ What a fool you are ! I am sorry, for you are a clever hand, and I had intended to help you. If you lose my work it is your fault. Have you any thing else to do V " ' No, I have not any work besides this.' "' Well, then, take my advice, lay aside these nonsen- sical scruples : my religion allows me to attend to my busi- ness on Sunday morning.' " \ Mine, sir, does not.' " ' As much as to say, you are a great deal wiser than I am. If work is to be done, it must be done ; besides, the Bible says that the Sabbath, was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath ; what do you say to that V " f No doubt it is true ; but man was created to serve the Lord with all his heart. It is a privilege and a pleas- ure to keep the Sabbath, and worship the Lord on his own day ; it would be misery indeed to profane it, and surely his blessing would not be with my labor.' " ' Am I accursed ? Are we all pagans and infidels because we do not go to your ( house of prayer,' as you call it ? Depend upon it, this hypocritical nonsense will get g THE WATCHMAKER you into trouble. We must really see and do something with the people that make such a disturbance, and are so troublesome.' " ' Sir, surely you cannot mean that keeping the Lord's day holy is making a disturbance ; please to remember, there are laws which expressly forbid us to follow our worldly callings on this day. 5 " ' I did not come here to be taught my duty ; once for all, finish the work, or I must take it away.' " ' The Lord will provide, and may he forgive you for taking away work from a man with a large family and a sick wife, when there really is no reason for so doing. ' " < I do not take it away ; you refuse to finish it. When you are come to your senses, perhaps I may find you work again.' "This hard-hearted man then left the room — the watch- maker raised his eyes towards heaven and sat down. I came away not a little grieved and struck with what I saw and heard." " I do not wonder at it," said I ; " this master is indeed hard-hearted ! Thus it is that, though there are some who conscientiously regard the Sabbath, the general profanation of this day has become a disgrace to our country, and a national sin : alas ! we see it in every rank. The effect of bad example is great, and I believe workmen often employ this day in their usual labors, though not required by their employers ; or perhaps they occupy themselves in some other sort of work ; not to mention the idle and lounging manner in which thousands pass the day, and by which it is in reality as much profaned as by the hardest labor. Again, I fear persons who themselves would on no account break the Sabbath, often thoughtlessly compel others to do so ; they go perhaps at the latter end of the week, and order AND HIS FAMILY. 9 articles to be ready by Monday or Tuesday, without reflect- ing that their orders cannot be completed unless the poor workman labors hard the whole of the Sabbath ; in such cases, surely, the person who causes the profanation of the day is equally guilty with the laborer. I have known mis- tresses of families who would be shocked if you asked them to join a party of pleasure, or to direct their servants to do some unnecessary work on that day, without hesitation give their dress-maker such strict orders to complete some article of apparel by a particular time, as would compel them to work on the Lord's day. " The Son of man is Lord of the Sabbath, and his people are freed from the slavish observance of the Sabbath according to the rites of the Jews in times of old, but still it is his day ; it is the Lord's day, set apart peculiarly for opportunities of worshipping him and attending to the con- cerns of our souls ; so that those who needlessly employ it otherwise themselves, or cause others to do so, assuredly break his holy word, and act contrary to his will : and let it ever be remembered, that Sabbath-breaking almost inva- riably stands the first in the dark catalogue of those crimes which lead men to punishment. This should particularly be inculcated on the minds of children. As for this poor watchmaker, your account makes me anxious to know more about him ; I intend to call upon him this evening ; suppose you go with me, and we will see if we can help the poor man." SABBATH EVENING. Blessed is the house where those who bear rule seek the Lord. There can be no real peace or comfort in a family unless the parents love the Saviour ; then his peace will be with them and their household. " The curse of the Lord is vol. in. 23* IQ THE WATCHMAKER in the house of the wicked, but he blesseth the habitation of the just." Prov. 3 : 33. This was instanced in our poor watchmaker. At eight o'clock we knocked at the door of his room ; Jenny came and asked, " Who is there ?" "Friends of your father." She called him : he came, and said, " Gentlemen, I do not recollect you, but if you please, walk in." " I am a servant of Christ," said I, offering my hand, " and I trust it is upon his work we are come." " If this is the case, perhaps you will join our little circle ;" so saying, he led us into the inner room. We found his wife sitting up in bed, the youngest child lay in a cradle, and the other two children stood by the bedside ; two or three friends sat at the other end of the room, where a Bible lay open upon the table. " These are our friends, and also friends of our Sav- iour," said the watchmaker to us ; " they call here some- times on the Lord's day evening, to talk over those things which concern our souls. I was just now endeavoring to explain to the children the parable of the two friends." Luke 11:5. " Do not let us interrupt you." THE PARABLE. The father then proceeded to explain the love of God to his children, and to show that they might be sure of being Eieard and answered when they prayed earnestly with sin- cerity and trutk " Observe," said he, " this friend came at midnight, an unseasonable hour, but he did not hesitate, for it was a friend to whom he applied. He was not dis- couraged at being refused, for he knew that his friend could AND HIS FAMILY. n give him what he desired ; he knew his kind disposition, his readiness to oblige, and he trusted in his friend's affection for him — he was not mistaken; he obtained all that he asked for. Now, my dear children, is not our God a better friend than any we can have in this world ? is there any one of our friends, even the best we have, who would lay down his life for us ? Would any one offer to bear the wrath of God for us ? Yet our Saviour bore this when he was nailed to the cross. Again, can there be a friend richer or more powerful than he is ? Think for a moment : what are the riches of this world when compared with the treasures ot his love 1 And do not let us forget, that our Friend is not only thus able to give exceeding abundantly above all we can ask or think, but he is also ready and willing so to do. He will withhold nothing that is for their good, from those who really seek him. He is always ready to hear, times and seasons are alike to him : I say this, my children, know- ing that what I say is true ; his ears are always open to our prayers, he is always ready to hearken unto us and to bless us. Remember what he has done for us in times past. My dear children, look to the Saviour, he has said that he will give his Holy Spirit to those who ask him ; apply to your heavenly Father as you would to me — perhaps I do not attend to you directly, but you are not afraid to ask again, till your desires are attended to — plead thus with your heav- enly Father, he will hear and answer you ; earnestly do I entreat him that you may be led to seek him early." Pro v. 8: 17. A respectable female, one of the party, who was their aunt, added a few words of good advice ; among other things, she told the children always to pray at night before they got into bed, for when they put it off till they laid down, they would be tired, and would only offer up a few vague and ^ 2 THE WATCHMAKER sleepy words. " This, my dear children," said she, " is not praying." The two children thanked their aunt and father, and having kissed their mother, retired to their little beds. " They are not aware of their privileges," said I ; " one day they will know the advantage of having had parents who loved the Saviour: may he bless your endeavors to instruct them." " Amen !" said the mother. " It is my earnest prayer that my dear Jenny may early know what it is to seek the Lord ; then I can leave her without anxiety." " The blessing of the Lord," said I, " is with you ; lie will make your strength equal to your day." " Yes," said the watchmaker, " the Lord is our shep- herd : he crowneth us with loving kindness and tender mer- cies." " My good friend," said I, " have you long held these sentiments ? What first led you to this way of thinking ?" 11 Sir, I will tell you as briefly as I can, since you wish to know the particulars." HISTORY OF THE WATCHMAKER. " I was brought up to the watch-making business — first errand-boy, then apprentice, afterwards a journeyman, in a considerable manufactory. But, alas, I was scarcely in- structed in the first principles of religion : my parents were poor, and they were glad to find a place for me as soon as I could earn a trifle. My master taught me nothing except my business ; and although my memory was good, and re- tained what little I had learned, it was very little indeed. I was like the generality of mechanics, disorderly and irre- ligious ; I laughed at the Bible, though I had hardly ever AND HIS FAMILY. 13 looked in it ; while the blasphemies of Paine and Voltaire, and other works of a licentious and impure description, were my delight. I was a skilful workman, and earned a good deal of money, but I squandered all away as fast as I received it: the public-house was my daily resort; in a word, I was just that thoughtless, wicked being, which most of our artisans are, careless of the morrow, and indifferent as to the concerns of my soul. " This was the wretched course in which I lived when I married my dear wife : she was then ignorant of the Saviour, but she had been regularly brought up and in- structed by her parents ; of course she was much grieved at my conduct, and often mildly and earnestly urged me to reform. I could not but acknowledge the truth of what she said, and a thousand times determined to lead a new life. But, sir, who can change his own heart or reform his con- duct, when he sets about it in his own strength ? My old habits and companions all conspired to retain me in their bands — I could not extricate myself, but plunged again and again into sin and folly. " I was a husband and a father, but cared not for wife or child : I was always unhappy and discontented, and when I returned home it was only to wreak upon my patient com- panion those tempers which were the consequence of my own ill conduct. Oh, sir, are you at all acquainted with the families of our mechanics ? If so, I need not attempt to describe the discord, the misery, and wretchedness which so often troubles them, or to paint the consequences which ensue. " Thus passed ten miserable years. I was an unkind husband, an irreligious father. This brief description at once tells you our wretchedness. l There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked. 5 Isaiah 57 : 21. Infidels may say vol. in. £4 THE WATCHMAKER what they please, but I speak from bitter experience : where the love of the Saviour abideth not, there is wrath, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness ; in a word, it is hell upon earth. Oh, that my dear wife could forget those years of pain and suffering ; the remembrance of them is a burden which would overwhelm me, did not I remember that the loving kindness and tender mercy of the Saviour is greater than our sins. Oh," said he, taking his wife by the hand, " have you, can you forget these things V " My dear," replied this excellent woman, " can your wife remember what our heavenly Father has declared that he has forgotten V! " What do I not owe to you," said he. " Thus it is, sir, that she always supports me ; her example, and above all, her prayers, have indeed been blessed to my soul. " About three years ago, 1 observed that my wife had some new acquaintance ; there was evidently a change in her ; she appeared more anxious about religion, and I found that she attended public worship more frequently. I spoke to her about this : she answered by asking me to go with her some day. I strove to find fault with her, but her con- duct, always kind, and affectionate, and obedient, was now more so than ever. About this time I was visited with a severe illness, the consequence of my excesses. Death stared me in the face ; my sins crowded into my recollec- tion ; a horrible dread overwhelmed me. I entreated my wife and her friends to pray for my soul. Never shall I forget her joy when she heard this request. From that mo- ment she seemed more at ease when talking with me. She read to me from the Bible, and often conversed about serious things. I was very desirous to recover, that I might have time and opportunity to do away my past sins by more cor- rect conduct in future ; and I thought that if I did do so, 1 AND HIS FAMILY. X5 should be sure to go to heaven. Oh, how far was I from the knowledge of the Gospel ; but my heart was yet too hard, and (vile as I was) too full of self-righteousness to submit to a Saviour, and desire pardon through him. " As I grew stronger, the natural enmity of my heart against religion was again manifested. I endeavored to drive away these thoughts, and now became more averse, to my wife's proceedings ; and one day, when she asked me to accompany her to public worship, I broke out into a fit of passion, and declared that if she ever said another word on the subject I would throw her books into the fire. My poor wife, as you may suppose, was much grieved ; her only comfort was, that her daughter began to seek the know- ledge of the Saviour. " Some months afterward, one of my companions in sin died. His end was dreadful, and I was struck with this, and often thought upon it. One day I was walking in the fields, when a person passed me, and put a little Tract into my hand, saying, < My friend, this little book is worth your attention.' To my surprise I found it contained a short and earnest address upon death and judgment: it showed me the danger of my state, and pointed out the only remedy whereby I could escape, and earnestly called upon the reader to seek this remedy, and fly to Christ for the pardon of his sins. I still endeavored to drive away these thoughts, but could not. " One evening, as I wandered abroad, I heard a person who was walking before me call to another, and pointing to some people who were entering a place of worship, he ex- claimed, l There, Tom, are the godly ones ! Have you a mind to go and be made a saint?' These words (I knew not why) excited my curiosity : I entered the place, and sat down ; the service had already begun, and the minister was IQ THE WATCHMAKER in his prayer before sermon. Never shall I forget the im- pression his words made upon me — they pierced my heart and soul ; I could think of nothing but my wretched state, and the wrath of God which I so justly deserved. " I did not tell my wife what was passing in my mind, but waited with impatience for the Wednesday following, when there would be service again. As I entered I saw my wife and daughter; their countenances declared their joy at seeing me there. The minister who preached had chosen for his text, * Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.' John 1 : 29. The picture which he drew of the state of man, lost and ruined by sin, and filled with enmity against God, seemed as if intended for me. I could not but see my own likeness, and from that moment I felt that I could not obtain salvation unless it were given me from above. I now was filled with anxiety respecting my soul. " My wife and daughter followed me in silence when the service was over. I saw they were afraid to speak to me, and I said to them, ' I see you are afraid of me, and I do not wonder, for I now see what a monster of iniquity I am.' At these words they endeavored to console me : my wife said, ' O, do not despair ; seek the Lord, and he will be found ; cast your burthen upon him, and he will sustain you. He can heal your soul. Yes, Jesus himself now invites you : Oh, do not hesitate, but cast yourself upon him ; with him is mercy and forgiveness.' " Need I add any further particulars ? The Holy Spirit has been pleased to lead me to the knowledge of Christ, and to show me what the Saviour has done and suffered to bring us near to God. This now appears clear to me ; but the Holy Spirit alone could teach me that Christ has suffered for me, the just for the unjust. 1 Peter. 3 : 18. That he AND HIS FAMILY. 17 has borne our sins in his own body on the tree ; and that the chastisement of my iniquity is upon him. When I was thus led to feel that he gave himself for our sins, Gal. 1 : 4, then my sins became hateful to me ; I felt that they had nailed him to the cross, and I earnestly desired to dedicate myself to his service, and to live to him who died for me. " I may truly say that my experience since that time has been one of peace and joy ; thanks be to the Lord who gave me, in my dear wife, a faithful guide and counsellor, to whom I could always resort. We have not been without our trials ; you know, sir, that those who seek to walk in the paths of the Lord must expect to meet with opposition from the world. My former connections have endeavored to trouble me as much as they could ; they accuse me of hypocrisy, and utter many falsities about me. Often have [ been tempted to say, wherewithal shall we be clothed and fed ? But I have always had reason to take shame to my- self for my unbelief; and the many mercies I have expe- rienced prove to me that the Lord will not forsake those whom he calls his own." " No," said I, " he will not leave you ; he cannot forget his people ; he is faithful, and his word of promise standeth sure. Christ has given himself for you, and possessing him you have received all things ; being heirs of God and joint- heirs with Christ." Rom. 8:17. REFLECTIONS. " Well," said my friend, when we were in the street, " this passes all that I could have supposed. This, then, is one of those men who are called enthusiasts, knaves, hypocrites, and are even accused of licentious conduct. Would to God that we were all like this man !" Kleg- Nar 24 |g THE WATCHMAKER " You now see," said I, " the mistaken notion the world entertains of these people, and you now are aware how falsely they are accused : this is because the carnal mind is enmity against God. The world hates them as it hates their Lord and Master." " I am most surprised," said my friend, " to observe the remarkable fruits of these doctrines. I have seen this man's conduct without disguise, and I cannot but judge of the excellency -of what he professes by what I have seen him practise : I have been mistaken indeed in my ideas about these people." " I trust God has caused you to see your error ; inquire for yourself, seek direction from the Holy Spirit, and remem- ber that it is not a mere matter of curiosity, but one of infinite importance ; your everlasting happiness or miser} depends thereon. May he direct you, and lead you to that knowledge which alone can make wise to salvation. I once was as you have been till now — an enemy to the people of God. But he is rich in mercy ; he sought me while afar off: he showed me the exceeding riches of his love, and enabled me to draw near to him with joy and peace in believing. Oh, may this be your case ! Seek the Lord while he may be found ; call upon him while he is near ; lay hold upon the hope set before you. Forget not what you have seen and heard to-day. Adieu ! To-morrow morning we will call again upon our poor watchmaker." BETTER DAYS. " See how they love one another." This was said of the first Christians. That divine love which cometh from above will ever shine with brightness in the children of God. It is the sure mark and seal whereby they are known among AND HIS FAMILY- jg aien ; the Spirit of God has impressed this upon them. Blessed is the man who has tasted of the Saviour's love ; happy is the family where it is the bond of union. It was exemplified in the poor watchmaker and his family ; there all was love, peace, and union, regulating all their proceedings and influencing each individual. 1 never saw in any family such patience and kind attention from parents to children, nor did I ever see equal respect, sub- mission, ready obedience, and docility, from children to parents. The love of God enlivened their hearts, and the influence of his Holy Spirit produced these effects. When we entered his room, we found the watchmaker engaged in instructing a young man in one of the more difficult operations of his business ; on inquiry we found he was a poor orphan, the son of a pious friend lately deceased, who had literally left his child to the care of Providence ; and He who careth for the fatherless had inclined the heart of this poor man to take the lad, and to share his scanty pittance with him, feeding his soul at the same time with the bread of life ; for those whose situation would seem to render them unable to assist others, often engage in acts of charity which should put many a more wealthy professor to the blush. After a short conversation, " My friend," said I, " how are you off for work ? could you finish some watches for me?" My inquiry struck him with surprise ; tears stood in his eyes : he clasped his hands and exclaimed, " Sir, God has sent you to us ; I am quite out of work." " So I understood ; I was told your employer had dis- missed you because you would not work on the Sabbath." " 'Tis too true : alas ! sir, he knows no better — I myself once did the same to a polisher. God would have us all 20 THE WATCHMAKER AND HIS FAMILY. kindly compassionate one to another. He alone can incline our hearts to keep his law." " Worthy man," said my companion, seizing his hand, " I trust I have received good to my soul from what I have eard and seen of you." " How can this be ?" " He was," said I, " wise and righteous in his own eyes; now he begins to see his own state, and his need of a Sav- iour, and perceives the false notions he entertained of the people of God." " May God, of his infinite mercy, bless you," said the poor watchmaker ; " may the seed take deep root downward, and bring forth much fruit upward ; his ways are ways of pleasantness, and all his paths are peace." It is now time to finish my narrative, and may the truths set forth in this Tract be impressed upon your heart and mine, my dear reader. Remember that " the Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him, to all that call upon him in truth. He will fulfil the desire of them that fear him: he also will hear their cry, and will save them." NARRATIVE XII. THE LIFE OF COL. JAMES GARDINER. Col. James Gardiner was the son of Captain Patrick Gardiner, who served many years in the armies of king William and queen Anne, and died abroad with the British forces in Germany. The colonel's mother was a lady of very excellent character, but it pleased God to exercise her with uncom- mon trials ; for she lost not only her husband and her brother in the service of their country, but also her eldest son, Mr. R. Gardiner, on "the day which completed his 16th year, at the siege of Namur, in 1695. But God blessed these afflic- tions as the means of her attaining an eminent degree of piety - 2 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. The second son, the subject of this memoir, was born in Linlithgowshire, January 10, 1687-8 : the memorable year of the Revolution, in defence of which his own life was eventually sacrificed. In early life, his mother took care to instruct him with great tenderness and affection in the principles of true Chris- tianity. While at the school of Linlithgow, he made a con- siderable progress in literature. In the younger part of his life, the good effects of his mother's prudent and exemplary care were not so conspicu- ous as sne hoped ; yet there is great reason to believe they were not entirely lost. Could she have prevailed, he would not have thought of a military life : but it suited his taste ; and the ardor of his spirit, animated by the persuasions of a friend who greatly urged it, was not to be restrained. Nor will the reader wonder at this, when he knows that this lively youth fought three duels before he had attained the full stature of a man ; in one of which he received a wound in his right cheek, the scar of which was always very appar- ent. This false sense of honor some might think excusa- ble in those unripened years, and considering the profession of his father ; but he often mentioned it with regret. And after his conversion, he declined accepting a challenge with this truly great reply, which, in a man of his experienced bravery, was exceedingly graceful : " I fear sinning," said ne, " though you know I do not fear fighting." He served as a cadet very early ; and at the age of four- teen, bore an ensign's commission in a Scotch regiment in the Dutch service ; in which he continued till 1702, when he received an ensign's commission from Queen Anne, which he bore in the battle of Ramilies, in his nineteenth year. On this occasion our young officer was commanded on what seemed almost a desperate service — to dispossess the LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. French of the churchyard at Ramilies, where a considera- ble number of them were posted to remarkable advantage. They succeeded better than was expected, and he was glad of such an opportunity of signalizing himself. Accordingly, he had planted his colors on an advanced ground, and while he was calling to the men — probably in that horrid language which is so often a disgrace to our soldiery — he received a shot in his mouth, which, without beating out any of his teeth, or touching the forepart of his tongue, went through his neck. Not feeling at first the pain of the stroke, he wondered what was become of the ball, and in the wildness of his surprise began to suspect he had swallowed it ; but, dropping soon after, he traced the passage of it by his finger, when he could discover it no other way. This occurrence happened about five or six o'clock in the evening of May 23, 1706 ; and the army pursuing its advantages against the French, without regarding the wound- ed, our young officer lay all night in the field, agitated, as may well be supposed, with a great variety of thoughts. When he reflected upon the circumstances of his wound, that a ball should, as he then conceived it, go through his head without killing him, he thought God had preserved him by a miracle ; and therefore assuredly concluded that he should live, abandoned and desperate as his condition then seemed. Yet had he little thoughts of humbling himself before God, and returning to him after the wanderings of a life so licentiously begun. But hoping he should recover, his mind was taken up with contrivances to secure his gold, of which he had nearly twenty pistoles about him, and he had recourse to a very odd expedient. Expecting to be stripped, he took out a handful of clotted gore, of which he was frequently obliged to clear his mouth ; and putting it into his left hand, he took out his money, and shutting his hand, besmeared the back of it with his blood : in this po- 4 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. sition he kept it, till the blood so dried, that his hand could not easily fall open. In the morning, the French, who were masters of that spot, though defeated at some distance, came to plunder the slain ; and seeing him to appearance- almost expiring, one of them was just applying a sword to his breast, to destroy the little remainder of life, when, in the critical moment,' a cor- delier, who attended them, interposed, taking him by his dress for a Frenchman, and said, " Do not kill the poor child." Our young soldier heard all that passed, though he was not able to speak one word ; and opening his eyes, made a sign for something to drink. They gave him a sup of some spirituous liquor, which happened to be at hand ; from which he said he derived a more sensible refreshment than he could remember from any thing he had tasted, either before or since. Then asking, by signs, the friar to lean down his ear to his mouth, he employed the first efforts of his feeble breath in telling him — what, alas, was a contrived falsehood — that he was nephew to the governor of Huy, a neutral town in the neighborhood, and that, if they could convey him thither, he did not doubt but his uncle would liberally reward them. He had indeed a friend there, but the relationship was pretended. However, on hearing this, they laid him on a sort of hand-barrow, and sent him with a file of musqueteers towards the place ; but the men lost their way, and got into a wood towards the evening, in which they were obliged to continue all night. The poor patient's wound being still undressed, it is not to be wondered at, that by this time it raged violently. The anguish of it engaged him earnestly to beg that they would either kill him cut- right, or leave him there to die, without the torture of any other motion ; and indeed they were obliged to rest for a considerable time, on account of their own weariness. Thus he spent the second night in the open air, without any thing LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 5 more than a common bandage to stanch the blood, and he often mentioned it as a most astonishing providence, that he did not bleed to death. Judging it quite unsafe to attempt carrying him to Huy, wnence .they were now several miles distant, his convoy took him early in the morning to a convent in the neighbor- hood, where he was hospitably received, and treated with £reat kindness and tenderness. But the cure of his wound was committed to an ignorant barber-surgeon, who lived near the house. The tent which this artist applied, was al- most like a peg driven in the wound ; yet, by the blessing of God, he recovered in a few months. The lady-abbess, who called him her son, treated him with the affection and care of a mother. He received a great many devout admo- nitions from the ladies there, and they would fain have per- suaded him to acknowledge so miraculous a deliverance, by embracing the Catholic faith, as they were pleased to call it, But, though no religion lay near his heart, he had too much the spirit of a gentleman, lightly to change that form of religion which he wore loose about him, as well as too much good sense to swallow the absurdities of popery. When his liberty was regained by an exchange of pris- oners, and his health established, he was far from render- ing to the Lord according to the mercy he had experienced. Very little is known of the particulars of those wild and thoughtless years which lay between the nineteenth and thirtieth of his life ; except, that he experienced the divine goodness in preserving him in several hot military actions , and yet these years were spent in an entire alienation from God, and an eager pursuit of sensual pleasure as his su- preme good. Amidst all these wanderings from religion, virtue, and happiness, he approved himself so well in his military char- acter, that he was made a lieutenant in 1708 ; and, after 1 6* (j LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. several immediate promotions, appointed major of a regiment commanded by the Earl of Stair. In January, 1729-30, he was advanced to the rank of lieutenant-colonel in the same regiment; and here continued till April, 1743, when he re- ceived a colonel's commission over a regiment of dragoons, at the head of which he valiantly fell, about two years and a half after he received it. We now return to that period of his life which passed at Paris, where he resided in the family of the Earl of Stair, with some interruptions, till about the year 1720. The Earl's favor and generosity made him easy in his affairs, though he was part of the time out of commission, the regiment to which he belonged being disbanded. This was, in all probability, the gayest part of his life, and the most criminal. Whatever good examples he might find in the family where he lived, it is certain that the French court was one of the most dissolute under heaven. What, by a wretched abuse of language, have been called intrigues of love and gallantry, constituted, if not the whole business, at least the whole happiness of his life ; and his fine consti- tution, than which, perhaps, there was hardly ever a better, gave him great opportunities of indulging himself in those excesses ; while his good spirits enabled him to pursue his pleasures in such a manner that multitudes envied him, and called him, by a dreadful kind of compliment, "The Happy Rake." Yet the checks of conscience, and some remaining prin- ciples of a good education, would break in upon the most licentious hours ; and when some of his dissolute compan- ions were once congratulating him upon his felicity, a dog happening at that time to come into the room, he could not forbear groaning inwardly, and saying to himself, " Oh that I were that dog !" Such was then his happiness, and such, perhaps, is that of hundreds more, who bear them- LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 7 selves highest in the contempt of religion, and glory in that infamous servitude which they affect to call liberty. Yet in the most abandoned days he was never fond of intemperate drinking, from which he used to think a manly pride might be sufficient to preserve persons of sense and spirit ; so that, if he ever fell into any excesses of that kind, it was merely out of complaisance. His frank, obliging, and generous temper, procured him many friends ; and those principles which rendered him amiable to others, not being under the direction of wisdom and piety, sometimes made him more uneasy to himself than he perhaps might have been, if he could entirely have outgrown them ; especially as he was never a sceptic in his heart, but still retained a secret apprehension, that natural and revealed religion was founded in truth. With this conviction, his notorious viola- tions of the most essential precepts of both, could not but occasion some secret misgivings of heart. His continual neglect of the great Author of his being, of whose perfections he could not doubt, and to whom he knew himself to be un- der daily and perpetual obligations, gave him, in some mo- ments of involuntary reflection, inexpressible remorse ; and this, at times, wrought upon him to such a degree, that he resolved he would attempt to make some pious acknowledg- ments. Accordingly, for a few mornings he did it, repeat- ing, in retirement, some passages out of the Psalms, and other Scriptures, which he still retained in his memory ; and owning, in a few strong words, the many mercies and deliverances he had received, and the ill returns he had made for them. But these strains were too devout to continue long, in a heart as yet unsanctified ; for how readily soever he could repeat such acknowledgments of the divine power and good- ness, and confess his own follies and faults, he was stopped short by the remonstrances of his conscience, as to the fla- 8 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. grant absurdity of confessing sins he did not desire to for- sake, and of pretending to praise God for his mercies, when he did not endeavor to live in his service. A model of de- votion, where such sentiments made no part, his good sense could not digest; and the use of such language before a heart-searching God, merely as a hypocritical form, while the sentiments of his soul were contrary to it, appeared to him such daring profaneness, that, irregular as the state of his mind was, the thought of it struck him with horror. He, therefore, determined to make no more attempts of this sort ; and was perhaps one of the first that deliberately laid aside prayer, from' some sense of God's omniscience, and some natural principle of honor and conscience. These secret debates with himself, and ineffectual efForts, would sometimes return ; but they were overborne, again and again, by the force of temptation ; and it is no wonder that in consequence of them his heart grew still harder. Neither was it softened or awakened by the very memorable de- liverances which at this time he received. Once he was in extreme danger from a fall from his horse. While riding fast down a hill, he was thrown over the horse's head, and the horse pitched over him ; so that when he rose, the beast, lay beyond him, and almost dead. Yet, though he received not the least harm, it made no serious impression on his mind. In his return from England in the packet-boat, but a few weeks after the former accident, a violent storm, that drove them up to Harwich, tossed them from thence for sev- eral hours, in a dark night, on the coast of Holland ; and brought them into such extremity, that the captain of the vessel urged him to go to prayers immediately, if he ever intended to do it at all ; for he concluded they would in a few minutes be at the bottom of the sea. In these circum- stances he did pray, and that very fervently too ; and it was remarkable, that while he was crying to God for deliver- LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 9 ance, the wind fell, and quickly after, they arrived at Calais. But he was so little affected with what had befallen him, that, when some of his gay friends, on hearing the story, rallied him upon the efficacy of his prayers, he excused himself from the scandal of being thought much in earnest, by saying, " that it was at midnight, an hour when his good mother and aunt were asleep, or else he should have left that part of the business to them." We now come to the account of his conversion. This memorable event happened towards the middle of July, 1719. He had spent the evening, which was the Sabbath, in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a married lady, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. The company broke up about eleven ; and he went into his chamber to kill the tedious hour. It happened that he took up a religious book, which his good mother or aunt had, without his knowledge, slipped into his portmanteau, called " The Christian Soldier, or Heaven taken by Storm;" writ- ten by Mr. Thomas Watson. Guessing, by the title, that he should find some phrases of his own profession spiritual- ized, in a manner which might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it ; but took no serious notice of any thing he read : and yet, while this book was in his hand, an impression was made upon his mind — perhaps God only knows how — which drew after it a train of the most impor- tant and happy consequences. Suddenly he thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall on the book while he was reading, which he at first imagined might have happened by some accident in the candle. But lifting up his eyes, he apprehended, to his ex- treme amazement, that there was before him, as it were suspended in the air, a visible representation of the Lord Jesus Christ upon the cross, surrounded with a glory; and was impressed as if a voice, or something equivalent to Eleff. Nar. 25 10 UFE OF COL. GARDINER. a voice, had come to him, to this effect : " O sinner, did 1 suffer this for thee, and are these the returns ?" But whether this were an audible voice, or only a strong impression on his mind, equally striking, he did not seem confident, though he judged it to be the former. Struck with so amazing a phenomenon, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he sunk down in the arm-chair in which he sat, and con- tinued, he knew not exactly how long, insensible ; and when he opened his eyes, saw nothing more than usual. It may be easily supposed that he was in no condition to make any observation upon the time in which he had remained insensible ; nor did he, throughout all the remain- der of the night, once recollect that criminal assignation which had before engrossed all his thoughts. He arose, in a tumult of passions not to be conceived, and walked to and fro in his chamber till he was ready to drop down, in unut- terable astonishment and agony of heart ; appearing to him- self the vilest monster in the creation of God, who had. all his lifetime been crucifying Christ afresh by his sins, and now saw, as he assuredly believed, tyy a miraculous vision, the horror of what he had done. With this was connected such a view, both of the majesty and goodness of God, as caused him to loathe and abhor himself, and to " repent as in dust and ashes." He immediately gave judgment against himself, that he was worthy of eternal damnation ; was as- tonished that he was not immediately struck dead in the midst of his wickedness; and — which deserves particular remark — though he assuredly believed that he should ere long be in hell, and settled it as a point with himself, for some months, that the wisdom and justice of God did most necessarily require that such an enormous sinner should be made an example of everlasting vengeance, and a spectacle as such both to angels and men, so that he hardly durst pre- sume to pray for pardon ; yet, what he then suffered was LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. H not so much from the fear of hell, though he concluded it must soon be his portion, as from a sense of the horrible ingratitude he had shown to the God of his life, and to that blessed Redeemer who had been in so affecting a manner set forth as crucified before him. In this view, it may naturally be inferred that he passed the remainder of the night waking ; and he could get but little rest in several that followed. His mind was contin- ually taken up in reflecting on the divine purity and good- ness ; the grace which had been proposed to him in the Gospel, and which he had rejected ; the singular advantages he had enjoyed and abused ; and the many favors of Provi- dence he had received, particularly in rescuing him from so many imminent dangers of death, which he now saw must have been attended with such dreadful and hopeless destruc- tion. The privileges of his education, which he had so much despised, lay with an almost insupportable weight on his mind ; and the folly of that career of sinful pleasure, which he had so many years been running with desperate eagerness, filled him with indignation against himself, and against the great deceiver, by whom — to use his own phrase ■ — he had been so " wretchedly and scandalously befooled." The mind of Col. Gardiner continued from this remark- able time, rather more than three months, but especially the first two of them, in a very extraordinary state. He knew nothing of the joys arising from a sense of pardon ; but, on the contrary, for the greater part of that time, and with very short intervals of hope towards the end of it, took it for granted that he must in all probability quickly perish. Nevertheless, he had such a sense of the evil of sin, the goodness of the Divine Being, and of the admirable tend- ency of the Christian revelation, that he resolved to spend the remainder of his life, while God continued him out of hell, in as rational and useful a manner as he could ; and 12 ^IFfi OF COL. GARDINER. to continue casting himself at the feet of Divine Mercy every day, and often in a day, if peradventure there might be hope of pardon, of which all that he could say was, that he did not absolutely despair. He had at that time such a sense of the degeneracy of his own heart that he hardly durst form any determinate resolution against sin, or pretend to engage himself by any vow, in the presence of God ; but was continually crying to him, that he would deliver him from the bondage of cor- ruption. He perceived in himself a most surprising alter- ation with regard to the dispositions of his heart ; so that, though he felt little of the delight of religious duties, he extremely desired opportunities of being engaged in them : and those licentious pleasures which had before been his heaven, were now absolutely his aversion, and he was grieved to see human nature, even in those to whom he was a stranger, prostituted to such low and contemptible pursuits. He therefore exerted his natural courage in a new kind of combat, and became an open advocate for religion, in all its principles, so far as he was acquainted with them, and all its precepts, relating to sobriety, righteousness, and godli- ness. Yet he was very desirous and cautious that he might not run into an extreme ; and made it one of his first peti- tions to God, the very day after these amazing impressions had been wrought in his mind, that he might not be suffered to behave with such an affected strictness and preciseness as would lead others about him into mistaken notions of religion, and expose it to reproach or suspicion, as if it were an unlovely or uncomfortable thing. For this reason, he endeavored to appear as cheerful in conversation, as he con- scientiously could ; though, in spite of all his precautions, some traces of that deep, inward sense which he had of his guilt and misery would at times appear. He made no secret of it, however, that his views were LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 13 entirely changed, though he concealed the particular cir- cumstance attending that change. He told his most inti- mate companions freely, that he had reflected on the course of life in which he had so long joined them, and found it to be folly and madness, unworthy a rational creature, and much more unworthy persons calling themselves Christians. And he set up his standard, upon all occasions, against infi- delity and vice, as determinately as ever he planted his col- ors in the field. There was at that time in Paris a certain lady who had imbibed the principles of deism, and valued herself much upon being an avowed advocate for them. Col. Gardiner, with his usual frankness, though with that politeness which was habitual to him, answered like a man who perfectly saw through the fallacy of her arguments, and was grieved to the heart for her delusion. On this, she challenged him to debate the matter at large, and to fix upon a day for that purpose, when he should dine with her, attend- ed with any clergyman he might choose. A sense of duty would not allow him to decline this challenge ; and yet he had no sooner accepted it, than he was thrown into great perplexity and distress, lest, being only a Christian of six weeks old, he should prejudice so good a cause by his un- skilful manner of defending it. However, he sought his ref- uge in earnest and repeated prayers to God, that he would graciously enable him, on this occasion, to vindicate his truths in a manner which might carry conviction along with it. He then endeavored to marshal the arguments in his own mind as well as he could ; and apprehending that he could not speak with so much freedom before a number of persons, especially before those whose province he might in that case seem to invade, he waited on the lady alone upon the day appointed. He opened the conference with a view of such arguments of the Christian religion as he had digested in his own mind, 25* I 4 LLFE OF COL. GARDINER. to prove that the apostles were not mistaken themselves, and that they could not have intended to impose upon us, in the accounts they give of the grand .facts they attest ; with the truth of which facts that of the Christian religion is most apparently connected. And it was a great encouragement to him to find that, unaccustomed as he was to discourses of this nature, he had an unusual command both of thought and expression ; so that he recollected and uttered every thing as he could have wished. The lady heard with atten- tion, till he had finished his design and waited for her reply. She then produced some of her objections, which he can- vassed in such a manner, that at length she burst into tears., allowed the force of his arguments and replies, and appeared, for some time after, so deeply impressed with the conversa- tion, that it was observed by several of her friends ; and there is reason to believe that the impression continued, at least so far as to prevent her from ever appearing under the character of an unbeliever or a sceptic. This is only one among many of the battles he was almost daily called out to fight in the cause of religion and virtue. The continual railleries with which he was received, in almost all companies where he had been most familiar before, often distressed him beyond measure ; so that he de- clared, he would much rather have marched up to a battery of the enemy's cannon, than have been obliged, so continu- ally as he was, to face such artillery as this. But, like a brave soldier in the first action wherein he is engaged, he continued resolute, though shuddering at the terror of the assault, and quickly overcame those impressions which it is not, perhaps, in nature wholly to avoid. In a word, he went on, as every Christian by divine grace may do, till he turned ridicule and opposition into respect and veneration. Within about two months after his first memorable change, he began to perceive some secret dawnings of more LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 15 cheerful hope, that, vile as he then saw himself to be, he might nevertheless obtain mercy through a Redeemer \ and at length, about the end of October, 1719, he found all the burden of his mind taken off at once by the powerful im- pression of that memorable scripture upon his mind, Rom. 3 : 25, 26 : " Whom God hath set forth for a propitiation, through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins — that he might be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus." He had used to imagine, that the justice of God required the damnation of so enor- mous a sinner as he saw himself to be ; but now he was made deeply sensible that the divine justice might be not only vindicated, but glorified, in saving him by the blood of Jesus, even that blood which cleanseth from all sin. He was led to see and feel the riches of redeeming love and grace, in such a manner as not only engaged him, with the •utmost pleasure and confidence, to venture his soul upon them, but even swallowed up, as it were, his whole heart in the returns of love, which, from that blessed time, became the genuine and delightful principle of obedience, and ani- mated him with an enlarged heart to run the ways of God's commandments. Thus God was pleased — as he himself used to speak — in an hour to turn his captivity. All the terrors of his former state were turned into unutterable joy. And though the first ecstasies of it afterwards subsided into a more calm and composed delight, yet were the impressions so deep and so permanent, that he declared, on the word of a Christian, wonderful as it might seem, that for about seven years after this, he enjoyed nearly a heaven upon earth. His soul was almost continually filled with a sense of the love of God in Christ ; so that from the time of his waking in the morning, his heart was rising to God, and triumphing in him ; and these thoughts attended him through all the day, till he lay 1(5 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. down on his bed again, and a short parenthesis of sleep — for it was but a very short one that he allowed himself — invig- orated his animal powers for renewing those thoughts with greater intenseness and sensibility. A life, any thing like this, could not be entered upon, in the midst of such company as he was obliged to keep, with- out great opposition. He, however, early began a practice, which to the last day of his life he retained, of reproving vice and profaneness ; and was never afraid to debate the matter with any, under the consciousness of such superiority in the goodness of his cause. A remarkable instance of this happened about the mid- dle of the year 1720, on his first return to make any con- siderable abode in England after his remarkable change. He had heard on the other side of the water, that it was currently reported among his companions at home, that he was stark mad — a report at which no reader, who knows the wisdom of the world in these matters, will be much sur- prised. He hence concluded that he should have many battles to fight, and was willing to despatch the business as fast as he could. And therefore, being to spend a few days at the country-house of a person of distinguished rank, with whom he had been very intimate, he begged the favor of him that he would contrive matters so, that a day or two after he came down, several of their former gay companions might meet at his Lordship's table ; that he might have an opportunity of making his apology to them, and acquainting them with the nature and reasons of his change. It was accordingly agreed to ; and a pretty large company met on the day appointed, with previous notice that Col. Gardiner would be there. A good deal of raillery passed at dinner, to which the colonel made very little answer. But when the cloth was taken away, and the servants had retired, he begged their patience for a few minutes, and then plainly LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 17 and seriously told them what notions he entertained of virtue and religion, and on what considerations he had absolutely determined that, by the grace of God, he would make these things the care and business of his life, whatever he might lose by it, and whatever censure and contempt he might incur. He well knew how improper it was in such com- pany to relate the extraordinary manner in which he was awakened, which they would probably have interpreted as a demonstration of lunacy, against all the gravity and solid- ity of his discourse ; but he contented himself with such a rational defence of a righteous, sober, and godly life, as he knew none of them could with any shadow of reason con- test. He then challenged them to propose any thing they could urge, to prove that a life of irreligion and debaucher} was preferable to the fear, love, and worship of the eternal God, and a conduct agreeable to the precepts of his Gospel. And he failed not to bear his testimony from his own expe- rience — to one part of which many of them had been wit- nesses — that, after having run the round of sensual pleasure, with all the advantages the best constitution and spirits could give him, he had never tasted any thing deserving to be called happiness, till he made religion his refuge and de- light. He testified, calmly and boldly, the habitual serenity and peace that he now felt in his own breast, and the com- posure and pleasure with which he looked forward to objects which the gayest sinner must acknowledge to be equally unavoidable and dreadful. Upon this, the master of the table, a person of a very frank and candid disposition, cut short the debate by saying, " Come, let us . call another cause : we thought this man mad, and he is in good earnest proving that we are so." On the whole, this well-judged circumstance saved him a good deal of further trouble. When his former acquaint- ances observed that he was still conversable and innocently 18 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. cheerful, and that he was immovable in his resolution, they desisted from further importunity. And he declared, that instead of losing one valuable friend by this change in his character, he found himself much more esteemed and re- garded by many who could not persuade themselves to imi- tate his example. Nothing remarkable occurred in the colonel's life from this period till the year 1726, when he married the lady Frances Erskine, daughter to the Earl of Buchan, by whom he had thirteen children, five of whom survived their father. Before the close of these short memoirs, it may not be improper, or without its use, to give the reader a sketch of the character of this excellent man with reference to his par- ticular relative situations : in some one or other of which the reader may certainly find a model worthy of his imitation. To view him first in the calmness of domestic life, and at the head of his affectionate family — it will naturally be supposed, that as soon as he had a house, he erected an altar in it ; that the word of God was read there, and prayers and praises constantly offered. These were not to be omitted on account of any guest ; for he esteemed it a part of due respect to those that remained under his roof, to take it for granted they would look upon it as a very bad compliment, to imagine they would have been obliged by his neglecting the duties of religion on their account. As his family in- creased, he had a minister statedly resident in his house, who discharged the offices of tutor and chaplain ; and was always treated with kindness and respect. He was con- stant in his attendance on public worship, in which exem- plary care was taken that the children and servants might accompany the heads of the family. The necessity of being so many months together distant from home, prevented him from taking part in several of LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 1(* those condescending labors connected with the education of his children in early life, which, to a soul so benevolent, so wise, and so zealous, would undoubtedly have afforded a very exquisite pleasure : but when he was with them, he failed not to instruct and admonish them ; and the constant deep sense with which he spoke of divine things, and the real, unaffected indifference which he always showed for what this vain world is most ready to admire, were daily lessons of wisdom and of piety. And it was easy to per- ceive, that the openings of genius in the young branches of his family gave him great delight, and that he had a secret ambition to see them excel in what they undertook. Yet, he was very jealous over his heart, lest he should be too fondly attached to them, and was an eminent proficient in the blessed science of resignation to the Divine will. To consider him in his military character — his bravery was as remarkable in the field of battle, as his milder virtues in the domestic circle : and he was particularly careful to prevent the various duties of religion and his profession from interfering with one another, either in himself or in others. He therefore abhorred every thing that should look like a contrivance to keep the soldiers employed about their horses and their arms at the season of public worship ; far from that, he used to have them drawn up just before it began, and from the parade they went off to the house of God, where they behaved with as much reverence, gravity, and decorum, during the time of divine service, as any of their fellow- worshippers. That his remarkable care to maintain good discipline among them might be the more effectual, he made himself on all occasions accessible to them, and expressed a great con- cern for their interest, temporal as well as spiritual ; yet he had all the firmness requisite to the infliction of punishment where he judged it necessary. 20 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER We may notice one instance of his conduct, which hap- pened at Leicester. While part of his regiment was en* camped in that neighborhood, the colonel went unknown to the camp, in the middle of the night; for sometimes ho lodged at his quarters in the town. One of the sentinels had abandoned his post, and, on being seized, broke out into some oaths and profane execrations against those that dis- covered him — a crime of which the colonel had the greatest abhorrence, and on which he never failed to animadvert. The man afterwards appeared much ashamed and concerned for what he had done. But the colonel ordered him to be brought up early the next morning to his own quarters, where he had prepared a piquet, on which he appointed him a private sort of penance ; and while he was put upon it, he discoursed with him seriously and tenderly upon the evils and aggravations of his fault, admonishing him of the Divine displeasure which he had incurred ; and then urged him to argue, from the pain which he then felt, how infinitely more dreadful it must be to " fall into the hands of the living God," and to meet the terrors of that damnation which he had been accustomed impiously to call upon himself and his companions. The result of this proceeding was, that the ofFender accepted his punishment, not only with submission, but with thankfulness ; and spoke of it some years after in such a manner, that there seemed reason to hope it had been instrumental in producing a change in his heart, as well as in his life. Indeed, this excellent officer always expressed the great- est reverence for the name of the blessed God, and endeav- ored to suppress, and, if possible, to extirpate that detestable sin of swearing and cursing, which is everywhere so com- mon, and especially among military men. He often de- clared his sentiments with respect to this enormity, at the head of the regiment, and urged his captains and their sub- LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 21 alterns to take the greatest care that they did not give the sanction of their example to that which, by their office, they were obliged to punish in others. His zeal on these occa- sions wrought in a very active, and sometimes in a remark- ably successful manner, among not only his equals, but his superiors too. Nor was his charity less conspicuous than his zeal. The lively and tender feelings of his heart engaged him to dis- pense his bounties with a liberal hand • and, above all, his sincere and ardent love to the Lqrd Jesus Christ led him to feel, with a true sympathy, the concerns of his poor mem- bers. In consequence of this, he honored several of his friends with commissions for the relief of the poor ; and esteemed it an honor which Providence conferred upon him, that he should be made the Lord's almoner for the relief of such. That heroic contempt of death, which had often discov- ered itself in the midst of former dangers, was manifested now in his discourse with several of his most intimate friends. And as he had in former years often expressed a desire, " that if it were the will of God, he might have some honor- able call to sacrifice his life in defence of religion and the liberties of his country;" so when it appeared to him most probable that he might be called to it immediately, he met the summons with the greatest readiness. This appears from a letter which he wrote only eight days before his death : " The enemy," says he, "are advancing to cross the Frith ; but I trust in the almighty God, who doeth whatso- ever he pleases in the armies of heaven, and among the inhabitants of the earth." These sentiments wrought in him to the last, in the mos* effectual manner. But he was ordered to march as fast as possible to Dunbar, and that hasty retreat, in concurrence w ih the news which they soon after received of the surren- Elejj. Nar. 26 22 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. der of Edinburgh to the enemy, struck a visible panic into botli the regiments of dragoons. This affected the colonel so much, that, on Thursday before the fatal action of Pres- ton-Pans, he intimated to an officer of considerable rank, that he expected the event would be as in fact it proved ; and to ii person who visited him, he said, " I cannot influence the conduct of others as I could wish, but I have one life to sac- rifice to my country's safety, and I shall not spare it." On Friday, September 20, the day before the battle which transmitted him .to his immortal crown, when the whole army was- drawn up about noon, the colonel rode through all the ranks of his own regiment, addressing them at once in the most respectful and animating manner, both as soldiers and as Christians, to engage them to exert them- selves courageously in the service of their country, and to neglect nothing that might have a tendency to prepare them for whatever event might happen. They seemed much affected with the address. He continued all night under arms, wrapped up in his cloak, and sheltered under a rick of barley which happened to be in the field. About three in the morning, he called his domestic servants to him, of whom there were four in waiting. He dismissed three of them with the most affec- tionate Christian advice, and such solemn charges relative to the performance of their duty, and care of their souls, as seemed plainly to intimate that he apprehended he was tak- ing his last farewell of them. There is great reason to be- lieve that he spent the little remainder of time, which could not be much above an hour, in those devout exercises of soul which had so long been habitual to him. The army was alarmed at break of day by the noise of the enemy's approach, and the attack was made before sunrise. As soon os the enemy came within gunshot, they commenced a furious fire ; and the dragoons, which constituted the left LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. 23 wing, immediately fled. The colonel, at the beginning of the attack, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, received a bullet in his left breast, which made him give a sudden spring in his saddle ; upon which his servant, who had led the horse, would have persuaded him to retreat; but he said it was only a wound in- the flesh, and fought on, though he presently received a shot in the right thigh. The colonel was, for a few moments, supported hyhis men, and particularly by about fifteen dragoons, who stood by him to the last. But after a faint fire, the regiment in general was seized with a panic ; and though the colonel and some gallant officers did what they could to rally them once or twice, they at last took a precipitate flight. Just at this moment Colonel Gardiner saw a party of foot who were then bravely fighting near him, but had no officer to head them, and rode immediately to their aid ; but a Highlander advancing to him with a scythe fastened to a long pole, gave him such a deep wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand ; and at the same time sev- eral others coming about him, while he was thus dread- fully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged ofF from his horse. The moment he fell, another Highlander gave him a stroke, either with a broadsword, or a lochaber. axe, on the head, which was the mortal blow. All that his faithful attendant saw further at this time, was, that, as his hat was falling off, he took it in his left hand, and waved it as a signal to him to retreat, and added, which were the last words he ever heard him speak, " Take care of your- self;" upon which the servant, immediately fled to a mill, at the distance of about two miles from the spot on which the colonel fell ; where he changed his dress, and, disguised like a miller's servant, returned with a cart about two hours after the engagement. The hurry of the action was then pretty well over, and he found his much-honored master 24 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER. not only plundered of his watch and other things of value, but also stripped of his upper garments and boots, yet still breathing ; and adds, that though he was not capable of speech, yet on taking him up, he opened his eyes, which makes it something questionable whether he were altogether insensible. In this condition, and in this manner, he con- veyed him to the church of Tranent, whence he was imme- diately taken into the minister's house, and laid in a bed ; where he continued breathing till about eleven in the fore- noon, when he took his final leave of pain and sorrow. His remains were interred the Tuesday following, September 24, at the parish church of Tranent, where he had usually attended divine service, with great solemnity. For further particulars in the life of this eminent Christian, the reader is referred to a volume written by his most intimate friend, Rev. I\ Doddridge, I). D., entitled, u Some Remarkal ,e I'assajres in the Life of the Honorable Col. James Gardiner." NARRATIVE XIII. THE TWO OLD MEN; OR, WHAT MAKES THEM TO DIFFER? BY REV. CAESAR MALAN OF GENEVA. I had occasion to" visit a distant part oi my parish — the afternoon was fine, and I chose a path which presented va- ried and extensive prospects. As I ascended an eminence, I saw an aged laborer before me, who proceeded slowly along, bending under a heavy burden of wood. I knew something of this man — he was generally respected among his neighbors, and was spoken of as an example for regular attendance on public worship, and for general integrity of conduct. As I came near, I heard him complaining to himself. " Hard fatc,' r said he ; "how many troubles fall to my lot. At seventy years old I am obliged to work from morning till night ; and, after all, can hardly keep myself 26* 2 THE TWO OLD iMEiN. from staiving. But so it is, and it is of no use to com- plain." As he spoke these words, he laid down his burden, and stopped to rest. " You seem tired, my friend," said I. " The path is steep and rough, and you are not so strong as you used to be," Old Man It is the case with all, sir, as they grow old. Minister. If the old man has learned wisdom, he will find comfort in reflecting that his labor is nearly over. Old Man. What you say is true, sir ; we must soon go hence ; but it is hard to have had nothing but trouble here. Well, let it pass ; I am almost at the end of my journey. Minister. Happy are those who, while journeying here, are enabled to look to the Saviour. Old age has no terrors for (hem. Old Man. You are right, sir; but religion does not prevent our meeting with troubles. I am a proof of this, sir ; no one can be more religious than 1 have been : I go regularly to church, and I never worked on Sundays ; and, thank God, I can say, without boasting, that I am an honest man ; but, after all, no one has met with more misfortunes than I have. Minister. Doubtless, you have had your trials; but, my friend, are you right in calling them misfortunes I God sends afflictions for our good. Old Man. I have nothing to say against it, sir ; but when I look around me, and see so many wicked — I do not wish to speak ill of my neighbors — thank God, I am not guilty of that sin ; but every body knows, that there are people who drink, and swear, and go neither to church nor meeting, and never trouble themselves about another world, and yet they live quite at their ease, and have every thing comfortable about them. Now, sir, I will freely own, THE TWO OLD MEN. 3 that when I see these things, I cannot help asking myself, whether it was worth my while to take all this trouble co be religious ; for what have I got by it ? My two sons have cost me money without end ; and, after all, it was of no use, for they died : and my wife's last illness took what I.ttle I had left; and here am I, turned of seventy, without a shilling in the world, and obliged to work as a day-la- borer. Surely, my lot is a hard one ! Minister. I am very sorry to hear you speak in this manner. I thought that you had been a Christian, but I see no proof of it. Old Man. I beg your pardon, sir. Thank God, I am a Christian, and I have no doubt I shall go to heaven when (die. Minister. Tell me ; how do you expect to get there ? Old Man. The same way as others, to be sure. I am an honest man ; I have done nobody any harm ; and, though I may not always have been quite so good as I ought, I am not worse than my neighbors ; and after all, God is merciful, and he will pardon those who repent, and are sorry for what they have done wrong. Minister. You are right, my friend, in saying that God is merciful ; but you should remember he is just also, and that we have all sinned against him, and there is no for- giveness, except through Christ Jesus. Old Man. Who denies this, sir ? We must be Chris- tians, or we cannot go to heaven. Minister. What is being a Christian ? Old Man. As to that, sir, every body best knows his own meaning. For my part, I am not one of those who think they see more in religion than their reighbors. If I do my best, it is all that is required of me , and J believe in God, and in Jesus Christ, and give myself no trouble as to anything further. 4 THE TWO OLD MEN. Minister. But, my good friend, are you certain that you believe in Jesus Christ ? Perhaps you may be mistaken as to this. Old Man. Sir, 1 am very sure that a good man will do what his conscience tells him he ought to do ; and if lie does this, God will not condemn him for not having believed what he did not understand. Minister. But supposing he has neglected what he did know ? And J cannot help saying to you, Take care ; for much is required of you, and your time is now short. Old Man. Thank you, sir, for your advice; but I hope to live some years longer. I do not think my time will come just yet. Minister. Ah, my friend, if you knew the Saviour, you would be ready to depart hence, and to be with him, instead of wishing to continue in this world. Old Man. All in good time, sir: while we are here, let us make the best of this world; when we are in heaven, we shall have time enough to think of these things. Minister. My poor old man ! Is this all your hope ? With eternity before you, upon the point of being summoned to appear before your God, you have no trust except in your own righteousness*. You boast that you have not been a thief, or a murderer, or a slanderer, but you know not the sinfulness of your heart, and you are ignorant of the way of salvation, through faith in Christ Jesus. My good friend, I must tell you that your soul is in great danger. Old Man. I hope not, sir ; I hope not. I have no fear about the matter. I do my duty — I go to church — I say my prayers — I read the Bible now and then — this is more than most people do; and, no doubt, I shall get safe to heaven at last. Minister. My friend, I fear much for vou, and I must THE TWO OLD MEN. | speak to you again about these things ; think more about them. I will call upon you in a day or two \ I cannot now stop any longer. Old Man. I shall be glad to see you, sir ; I like to talk about religion. Good day, sir. Fervently I implored Him " that openeth, and no man shutteth," Rev. 3 : 7, to have compassion upon this poor sinner, and to enable me to speak a word in season the nex* time I saw him. " This, then," said I, as I proceeded on my way, " is the religion with which man decks himself before his fellow-mortals! By this hardness of heart, and this self-confidence, he has acquired that reputation of which he is so vain ! A few accustomed phrases, decency in his outward conduct, and a constant readiness to blame the faults of others, may be enough to satisfy those who only regard outward appearances; 'But the Lord looketh on the heart.' 1 Sam. 16 : 7. What hope, then, is there for his soul ? What is the ground of his confidence before that just and holy God, since he desires not the knowledge of the Lord ; still less does he seek to be reconciled to God, by fleeing for refuge to the hope set before him in Jesus Christ, the only and beloved Son of God, who alone is the way, the truth, and the life ? Who has this man chosen for his Saviour ? Alas ! he does not even feel his need of one. Dreadful ignorance ! f When they shall say, peace and safety, then sudden destruction cometh upon them.' 1 Thess. 5 : 3. An aged person, still ignorant of our Saviour, is indeed to be pitied ! Is there ground to hope that he will awaken from this spiritual slumber before the sleep of death overtake him ; and what is this first death now at hand, when compared with that which must come, and which is emphatically called 'the second death?' Rev. 20 : 14 Surely, then, it is peculiarly the duty of all, who are the children of God, to pray earnestly and at all times, that he 17* tf THE TWO OLD MEN. would have compassion upon the aged, who yet remain ig- norant of his salvation, and awaken them, while it is yet time, while it is yet called to-day.' 7 My mind was still engaged in these important reflections; when I arrived at the first of the cottages 1 came to visit. It was a humble dwelling, built against a rock which rose abruptly from the side of a hill, embosomed in trees, which covered it with their luxuriant foliage; at a small distance was an orchard ; a rivulet, rising from a higher part of the hill, flowed past the cottage, and was lost in plantations of osier. Here dwelt one of the most aged of my parishioners, gen- erally known by the name of Old William. He had built upon a rock, not as to his earthly dwelling only ; his hopes for eternity rested upon the Rock of ages. These hopes filled him with peace and joy in believing, and had support- ed him under the privations and infirmities of age. His lot had been one of trial and Buffering; for, after having lived happily for many years, with a wife whom he dearly loved, he had followed her to the grave ; and had also lost, in early life, three promising children ; while two others, who had sur- vived, were removed to a distance, and he had now no one to live with him except one of his grandchildren and an aged laborer. I often called upon this old man, and always found that I was benefited by his conversation. His religion was calm and simple, and free from guile ; the words he uttered spoke the inward peace which possessed his soul. When- ever he mentioned his past trials and sufferings, he dwelt so much upon the love of his Saviour, that it was impossible not to feel affected by that influence which ever accompa- nies true faith, and which gives a foretaste of joys to come. As I drew near the house, 1 saw the old man sitting at the door, and his grandson standing between his knees. The THE TWO OLD MEN. 7 old man was speaking earnestly ; and they were too much engaged to observe my approach. " No, my child,'' said he, " we sorrow not for your father, as without hope : his body, it is true, lies in the grave, but his soul is with Him who loved and redeemed him. Do you remember your father ? Oh ! may you be a disciple of Christ, as he was. Shall not I soon be with him ?" " And shall not I go too V' said the boy. " I hope you will, my child : God is the father of the fatherless; trust in him, I must soon leave you. 5 ' At these words the child burst into tears. 1 called him to me, and said what I could to comfort him, and, taking a little book from my pocket, " Go, my dear," said I, " sit down under that tree, and read this ; you will find it tells you that God will never forget his children." " My friend," said I, as soon as I was alone with the old man, " let us bless the Lord at all times, and under all the dispensations of his providence." Old William. Yes, for he is our Father ; he is always kind to us. " Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Psalm 103 : 13. * Minister. I rejoice, my brother, to find, that, in your old age, you are thus supported by the Lord ; and that your faith is strengthened as the hour of your departure draws nigh. Your lot appears to me desirable. Old William. Sir, I have indeed much cause for le- joicing — the Lord crowns me with his loving-kindness. Minister. Your past troubles, and the recollection of them, are no longer too bitter for you to bear ; the suffer- ings of old age are. not beyond your strength to sustain. Old William. Ah, sir, you know better than I do from whence our strength is derived. The Lord has said, " My grace is sufficient for thee ; for my strength is made perfect in weakness." 2 Cor. 12 : 9. I did not always 8 THE TWO OLD MEN. think so : some events in my past life have troubled and cast me down, and more than once did 1 forget Him in whom alone we have strength, and then I gave way to unbelief. I recollect, particularly, one of these bitter trials, which 1 was ready to sink under ; but the Saviour remembered his promise, though I had forgotten it. He would not let me go, though I was ready to depart from him. I had just lost my dear wife ; she left this world rejoicing and trusting in Him who loved and redeemed her; and, like the martyr Stephen, she appeared to have a glimpse of the glory of her Redeemer, even in this world of sin and Buffering ; yet my hard, unthankful heart praised him not for this loving-kind- ness towards her; 1 felt stunned and angered under my loss ; I submitted, it is true, but 1 submitted not willingly ; 1 did not say, " It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good." 1 Sam. 3 : 18. But God loves us with real love, and draws towards him the heart which is not of itself inclined to seek him, and according to his word I have found, that " whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth. 5, Heb. 12 : 6. I had been one day to a neighboring village, to plant some flowers on the grave of my dear wife. On my return, I saw a thick smoke rising from the ruins of my barn — it was consumed, and all my little harvest — all that I had stored up for. my family. Thou, O Lord, hast pardoned me ; but thou knowest that the first thoughts of that hard heart, which is still within me, were to murmur and complain. I was ready to say, " What doest thou V 3 Job 9 : 12. I entered my cottage, and there a more dreadful scene met my eyes ; I saw Daniel, my eldest son, the comfort and stay of my age the support of my family, and an example to all who knew him, lying on the floor, scorched, burnt, and disfigured, while some friends were applying remedies ; but the injuries he had received were too severe, and he soon afterwards expired. He had rushed into the middle of the flames, and THE TWO OLD MEN. 9 saved his youngest sister, but God was pleased to call hiin hence by this his work and labor of love. Never can I recollect that day without bitterness of soul ; and that, not so much from the remembrance of this affliction, severe as it was, but from calling to mind my unbelief, and murmur- ing against thee, O Lord. Would you believe, sir, that my Daniel, full of faith and rejoicing, even under the painful agonies he then suffered, should be able to comfort, or, I would rather say, to shame his wretched father? " I can no longer see you, my father," said he, " but I hear what you say, and it grieves me. O, my father, you are complaining against God." " It is more," cried I, "than I can bear." " Yes, my father, it is more than you can bear, but it is the Lord's doing ; he has sent you this trial ; and as for me, I am about to depart hence, and be with him for ever." " But why could he not spare you a few years longer?" My son replied not, but in a low voice he prayed, " Come, Lord Je- sus; O! come quickly." Then asking for his wife and their infant, he commended them to Him who feeds the fowls of the air, and clothes the grass of the field. Matt. 6 : 26-34. "Elizabeth," added he, " remember that your hus- band is going to be with Christ, and teach our Benjamin that there is a Saviour." These were his last words. Since that time she has joined him above. But I murmured against thee, O Lord, and cried, " Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul ?" Job 3-: 20. Minister. Your mind now is at peace, and you have experienced that, although " no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." Heb. 12 : 11. Old William. Yes, sir, I am now enabled to say, "It is good for me that T have been afflicted." Psa. 119 : 71. Bl«g. Nv 27 10 THE TWO OLD MEN. I perceive how great has been the mercy of the Lord to my soul ; I now can see the way by which he has led me, and which I knew not ; it is far better than the way I desired to choose myself. The Lord seemed to visit me in his dis- pleasure : these dispensations, to worldly eyes, appeared the effects of divine wrath ; but I know that they are the reme- dies which are needful for the healing of my soul. Yes, my Saviour, thou art full of compassion and loving-kindness towards me, wretched sinner that I am. Minister. Ere long, my friend, you will be with Him who has "loved thee with an everlasting love," Jer 31 : 3, and " who was delivered for our offences. " Rom. 4 : 25. " Yes ; may it be soon," said the old man, raising his eyes towards heaven, with an expression of love and joy which I cannot describe, and which surpassed any thing 1 have ever seen in others. x I have often marked the peace and serenity which ap- peared upon the countenances of aged persons, who knew the Saviour, and trusted in him alone — far different from the anxious, care-worn expression of those who have grown old in the love of the world, and the things which are in it ; but I never before so strongly marked that divine seal of the hope which " maketh not ashamed." Rom. 5:5. It is true, that I, perhaps, never before found a heart so sin- cerely attached to Christ, nor a Christian who felt so deeply that he was a stranger and pilgrim on the earth, Heb. 11 : 13, hastening towards that " house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 2 Cor. 5:1. I think that aged pilgrims frequently fall short of their privileges. They are in general deeply anxious respecting the salvation of their souls ; for how is it possible to be un- concerned, when they cannot but feel that eternity is just at hand ! — when the infirmities of a body, worn out by sin THE TWO OLD MEN. H and worldly cares, remind them at every step, that they must soon be laid in that narrow house which is appointed for all living, there to return, earth to earth, and ashes to ashes ! The old man, now arrived at that age which is the term appointed for the life of the children of men, if he does not suffer himself to be blinded by the vain imagina- tions of his own heart, and the false, flattering hopes of his friends, must daily feel, " I have run my appointed course : I must soon depart hence, and that for ever." Then, unless he is willing his soul should be lost for ever, surely he will look to Jesus. " For there is none other name under heav-" en, given among men, whereby we must be saved." Acts 4 : 12. Yet, how seldom do we find, beneath gray hairs, a "desire to depart, and to be with Christ." Phil. 1 : 23. Few indeed are there, who are found looking for, and anxiously waiting the coming of that day, when they shall enter upon another and a better world. Still fewer are there, who, like this old man, have cast themselves entirely upon the Saviour and his finished redemption. Happy is the soul who can thus contemplate the Saviour dying for us men, and for our salvation ; the remembrance of past transgres- sions at once humbles him in the dust before his Lord, and excites his admiration for the " great love wherewith he loved us." Eph. 2:4. Old William. This, sir, is the ground of my hope and rejoicing, when I think of the world to come. When I sit here, at evening, while Benjamin is collecting his sheep, I call to mind the days of my pilgrimage, fewer in number and more evil than those of Jacob, Gen. 47 : 9, and how far does the long-suffering and the love of God appear to pass human understanding — I seem lost, when 1 reflect thereon. I recollect the time when I built this little cot- tage : I was just turned of thirty, and about to marry. I had lived, as most of our countrymen do, without seriously 12 THE TWO OLD MEN. thinking of the concerns of my soul, and only a few occa- sional thoughts upon the subject had passed across my mind. I felt, however, desirous to pursue these thoughts. How kind was the Saviour towards me ! It was indeed by bands of love, Hosea 11 : 4, that he drew me to him. He united me to one of his children — my dear Susan was a follower of Christ — she was the only daughter of a poor widow, who lived at that white cottage which you see at the end of the valley. How often have we walked by the side of that little stream, conversing about these things. She was al- ways the first to begin this subject ; and she, by divine grace, was the means appointed to teach me that I was a poor sinner, but that Christ died for mc. Minister The Lord blessed you in thus granting, what, according to his word,- is a favor from him. Prov. 18 : 22. Old William. She was indeed a blessing from him, and therefore I ought to have given him all my heart, and to have lived only to him, as she lived. But how often have I grieved her by the hardness of my heart towards God. Often has she said to me, " O ! why will not you love the Saviour ? The pride of your heart will not allow you to accept the salvation he offers, because it is ' without money, and without price,' Isa. 55 : 1 ; but rest assured that it is more certain and more sweet to receive this as a free gifi from our God, than to harass and torment yourself as you do, with the vain hope of being able to work out salvation for yourself." Minister. You were then righteous in your own eyes, aid forgot, that of yourself you had no power to do good works, pleasant and acceptable to God ; but supposed that your own good deeds would blot out your sins, and ransom your soul from condemnation. Old William. It is true, sir, I felt a secret repugnance THE TWO OLD MEN. J 3 and dislike to the great and consoling truth, that "a sinner can only be justified before God, by the righteousness and the blood of Christ." I loathed the idea of " being justified freely by his grace, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus." Rom. 3 : 24. To relinquish my own righteous- ness, and seek to be clothed with his righteousness ; to renounce all that I had secretly prided myself upon, and relinquish all that I had done in my own strength — in short, that "all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags" in the sight of God, was hateful to me. Isa. 64 : 6. These doctrines of the Gospel hurt the pride of my heart. I strove with my Maker, and felt angry with my patient and affectionate wife, who, seeing me thus refusing the offer of salvation through the blood of Christ, disputed not with me, but con- tinued to point out the Saviour to me as "the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world." John 1 : 29. But now mercy has been extended to me, " My soul shall be joyful in my God, for he hath clothed me with the garments of salvation ; he hath covered me with the robe of right- eousness." Isa. 61 : 10. Minister. But do you not still "groan, being burden- ed" with sin and suffering; do not your daily offences against God cause you much grief and bitterness of soul? Old William. Yes, daily do I long for that happy moment when my soul shall be freed from sin ; when I shall be called to depart hence, and to be with Christ. The accomplishment of this hope appears now at hand, and this alone supports and sustains me. Oh, sir, you know not how I wish to be freed from the power of unbelief ; how groan, being burdened by this body of sin and death. Minister. Then are you not yet at peace with God ? Old William. Thanks be to God, sir, for the inestima- ble gift; he has not left me in doubt of his love towards me. I know that it is an unchanging love ; and that the love 27* 14 THE TWO OLD MEN. wherewith he loved me, while yet his enemy, Rom. 5 : 10, will not be taken away, seeing that I am now justified by his blood, Rom. 5 : 9 ; and, to use the words of the aposlle, " lam persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord," Rom. 8 : 38, 39 ; which he has tes- tified unto me, " according to the good pleasure of his will." Eph. 1:5. I often think that 1 act towards my heavenly Father somewhat in the manner in which my little Benja- min acts towards me, if I may make such a comparison. The child knows that I love him, and he desires to please me ; but sometimes, forgetting my affection and his duty, he does something displeasing to me ; but the poor child does not, therefore, doubt that I am his "dear father," as he calls me ; and 1 do not forget that he is " my child ;" but I hasten to turn his heart towards me, that he may find peace and comfort. Benjamin can easily count the times that I for- give him, but how can I number the loving-kindnesses of the Lord towards me ; have I not sufficient ground to rest my- self upon the mercy and loving-kindness of Him who says, "Fear not, for 1 have redeemed thee?" Isa. 43 : 1. Minister. Happy old man ! Happy believer in Christ ! You seem already to enjoy a foretaste of that happiness which is to come. Old William. Oh, sir, speak to me only of the mercy and loving-kindness of my Saviour — that is what my soul requires, and thirsts to hear. Tell me that the treasures of his grace and long-suffering are inexhaustible — that is the ground of my confidence. Tell me, again and again, that salvation is by Christ alone, so that I may more and more desire to be " found in him." Phil. 3 : 9. Show him to me "meek and lowly in heart," Matt. 11 : 29, the friend THE TWO OLD MEN. 15 of sinners, Matt. 11 : 19, "the Lamb that was slain" for me. Rev. 5 : 12. Show me these things, that I may not dread the day when "he shall come to judge the world." Tell me, tell me that Christ died for me, and that is all I wish, all that I can require. {Minister. Christ himself tells you this. By his Holy Spirit he has revealed it to you ; and he will increase this assurance every day and every hour that you remain in this world. Rejoice, then, happy old man, because your name is written in the book of life. Phil. 4:3; Luke 10 : 20. Yet a little while, a few days more, and you will be removed to the place prepared for you in your " Father's house," John 14 : 2, 3, and the love of Christ shall be your life eternal. " May these things be so," said the old man. " [ must now leave you," said I, " but I rejoice, with the truest joy which a minister of Christ can possess, that there is at least one of my flock, who will quit this world of sor- row to enter into eternal happiness." My reader, reflect a little upon this narrative, especially if you are advanced in life. You have heard the sentiments of two men, two of your fellow-mortals, whose hour of death was at hand, and whose souls, like yours, will never die. It is not a matter of choice with us ; but whether we desire it or not, our souls must appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. These two men were each of them desirous that their souls should enjoy happiness in the world to come, and each of them thought that he had found the path that leadeth to life eternal. -But which of them was right? Ask yourself, my reader; ask your conscience, for it is certain that there is only one way by which we can obtain eternal happiness, and you mus* have seen that these two men pursued different paths. 16 THE TWO OLD MEN. Was that man right, who, trusting in his fancied good works, and full of his own righteousness, had the name of Jesus on his lips only, and not in his heart ; who imagined that every one who called himself a Christian was, in reali- ty, a follower of Christ ? Or do you think him right — that pious and humble man — who had placed his foundation on " the Rock of ages !" who ascribed all the glory of his salvation to the Saviour; and who trusted only in his blood, shed for us upon the cross ? Surely you cannot doubt on this subject. Your own heart will tell you that the latter was the Christian, and that he had the faith which saveth. -» Haste, then, my aged friend, haste, while there is yet time. " Now is the accepted time — now is the day of sal- vation," 2 Cor. 6:2; but it is fast fleeing away, you are now at the " eleventh hour ;" hasten and cast yourself upon the Lord ; give your heart to Him who alone can save; and rest your hopes of salvation on Christ alone, and not upon yourself. May he be pleased to hear you ; and may he, by his Holy Spirit, enable you to come unto him, who has de- clared, that to those who ask, it shall be given ; that those who seek shall find. Matt. 7 : 7. Let the humble Christian, who is mourning because he is not able to feel confident and assured of his interest in Christ, not be discouraged and cast down ; but let the sense of his weakness and unbelief drive him to the throne of grace, and make him willing to derive grace and strength from that fulness which is treasured up in Christ Jesus. Let him remember that he may do this. The words of the aposile are, " casting all your care upon Him, for he careth for you." 1 Pet. 5:7. " All are yours, and ye ar^ Prist's, and Christ is God's." 1 Cor. 3 : 22, 23. NARRATIVE XIV. CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. A MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOGG. ■ li^i On the Sabbath, January 9, 18 — , as I was proceeding in the services of the day, my attention was attracted by a wretched object seated in the nave of the church. There was an air of devout seriousness about him, under all the disadvantages of tattered garments and squalid appearance, which afforded a favorable presentiment to my mind. When the service was over, the stranger disappeared. Conceiving that he was a poor passing beggar, who had been allured within the precincts of God's temple by the VOL. IV. 2 CONTENTMENT IN HU2LBLE LIFE. fire in the stove, I made no inquiry about him. To my as- tonishment, however, on the following Sabbath the same object presented himself, and took his station, as before, near the stove. He seemed to be a man decrepit with age: his head, resting upon his bosom, which was partly exposed, betokened considerable infirmity. Under a coarse and dirty sackcloth frock, was to> be seen a soldier's coat patched in various places, which was strangely contrasted with the cleanliness of his shirt. His whole appearance was that of the lowest degree of poverty. The same de- vout attention to the services of the day, which I had re- marked on the previous Sabbath, inspired in me a hope, that he was a spiritual, though humble worshipper of that common Father, a disciple of that common Saviour, at whose footstool we were prostrating ourselves in united adoration. When the service was concluded, I inquired who the old man was. " Sir," replied my informer, " he is a person who works at the blacksmith's shop; he is a remarkable man, and carries about with him a Bible, which he constantly reads." A secret pleasure stole through my heart at this delight- ful intelligence ; and I could not but feel gratified at the prospect of seeing a man, who, under such appearances of misery, made the word of God his companion and guide. Having taken an early opportunity, in the course of the week, to pay him a visit, I found him standing by the side of the forge, putting some links of iron wire together, to form a chain to suspend scissors. The impressions of wretchedness excited by his first appearance, were now greatly heightened by the soot, which, from the nature of his occupation, had necessarily gathered round his person. After a few general observations, I went to Mr. H. S., the master of the shop, and from him learned some particulars of the poor man's history. He informed me, that on Tues- day the 4th of January, in the severely cold weather which CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. 3 then prevailed, this destitute object came to his shop, al- most exhausted with cold and fatigue. In his passage through the neighboring village of P , he had been inhumanly pelted with snow-balls by a party of boys, and might probably have perished, but for the humanity of some respectable inhabitants of the place, who rescued him from their hands. Having reached Mr. S.'s shop, he requested permission to erect, in a shed which adjoined the shop, his little apparatus, consisting of a slight table, with a box containing his tools. The benevolent master of the premises very kindly desired him to come in, and stationed him near the forge, where he might pursue his work with advantage by the side of the fire. In the evening, when the workmen were about to retire, Mr. S. asked him where he intended to lodge that night. The old man inquired ii there were any ox- stall or stable near at hand, which he might be permitted to occupy ? His kind benefactor of- fered his stable. Accordingly, the poor creature, with his box and table upon his back, accompanied Mr. S. home, where as comfortable a bed as fresh straw and shelter from the inclemency of the weather could afford was made up. One of Mr. S.'s children afterwards carried him some warm cider, which he accepted with reluctance, express- ing his fears lest he should be depriving some part of the family of it. Early the next morning Mr. S. went into the stable, and asked the poor stranger how he was. He replied, " I am very happy." Having risen from his straw bed, and dressed himself — for he always took off his clothes at night, and wrapped himself in a blanket which had been given him — he soon joined his hospitable friend, and resumed his post by the side of the forge. This station Mr. S. humane- ly allowed him to retain as long as he needed it, and, to his honor be it spoken, he contracted so great a regard for the good old man as to be unable to speak of him, even at this time, without emotion. I have heard him declare that 4 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. he never learned so complete a lesson of humility, con- tentment, and gratitude, as from the conduct of this man. Little did he think, at this time, how soon his lonely guest was to become an inhabitant of that blissful world where there is neither sighing nor sorrow, " where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." Little did he think that so soon that unsightly and despised body should be gathered to its dust, to be fashioned ere long " like unto Christ's glorious body," a fit casket for the in- estimable jewel of a soul cleansed in the blood of the Re- deemer from all earthly impurities, and made "meet for the inheritance of the saints in light." What a lesson, this, on the duty of prompt and cheerful attention to the wants of the stranger and the destitute ! What a comment on the gracious declaration of our Saviour, " Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me." The poor creature's days and nights continued to be passed much in the manner above described ; with the ex- ception, that he had exchanged the stable, at night, for the shop, which was warmer, and in which Mr. S. permitted him to remain, as soon as he was satisfied respecting his principles. He daily pursued, with exemplary diligence, his humble employment of making chains and skewers, although, as I afterwards learned, he was unable, even with success in disposing of his wares, to earn more than six- pence or sevenpence a day. Mr. S. added, that he believed him to be a sincere Christian ; that he always carried a Bible with him, which he used attentively to read, when least liable to interrup- tion ; and that he never partook of any of his slender meals without first taking off his hat, and, as was judged from his attitude and the motion of his lips, imploring the blessing of Him who clothes the lily and feeds the young ravens, but whose special mercies are reserved for those who put their trust in him ; and who not only commands us, whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, to do all to his glory, CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. 5 but encourages even the most afflicted and indigent of his faithful followers to be " careful for nothing, but in every- thing with prayer and thanksgiving to let their requests be made known unto him," and that he will supply all their needs, both for body and soul, if not in the way most con- genial to their wishes, yet in that which shall most conduce to their spiritual and eternal welfare. This poor man's conduct was uniformly consistent with his Christian profession. Never does his protector recollect hearing an angry word or a murmuring expression from his lips ; although, in addition to his bitter poverty and priva- tions, he was frequently tried by the impertinent curiosity and irritating remarks of persons who came into the work- shop where he was carrying on his humble operations. The first Saturday which he spent in this village, Mr. S. particularly remarked, that at an early hour in the afternoon he put by his work, and began to hum a hymn-tune. He asked him if he could sing. "No, sir," he replied. "I thought," added Mr. S., "I heard you singing." "I was only composing my thoughts a little," said the good man, "for the Sabbath." What a contrast to the busy worldli- ness which so often devotes the Saturday evening to more than the ordinary fatigue and bustle of secular pursuits, intrenching on the very limits of the Sabbath, and unfitting both the mind and body for a vigorous discharge of its du- ties, and the enjoyment of its hallowed pleasures ! How much more fervent and delightful would be the hours of this privileged season, if, whenever practicable, Christians would endeavor, before the close of the preceding day, to forget their worldly cares, and to attune their hearts to the spiritual feelings of this interval of sacred rest ! On receiving the communication of the foregoing partic- ulars, I was induced to return to the poor stranger, with a view to converse with him a little. There was a peculiar bluntness in his manner of expressing himself, but it was very far removed from any thing of churlishness or incivili- Eleg. Nar. 28 6 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. ty. All his answers were pertinent, and were sometimes given in such measured terms as quite astonished me. The following was a part of our conversation : " Well, my friend, what are you about?" "Making scissor-chains, sir." "And how long does it take you to make one?" With peculiar archness he looked up in my face, for, as was before observed, his head always rested upon his bosom, so that the back part of it was depressed nearly to the same horizontal plane with his shoulders, and with a complacent smile, said, " Ah ! and you will next ask me how many I make in a day, and then what the wire costs me, and after- wards, what I sell them for." From the indirectness of his reply, I was induced to conclude that he was in the habit of making something considerable from his employ- ment, and wished to conceal the amount of his gains. But when I became better acquainted with his manner, and found that, after his utmost exertion, he could scarcely ob- tain the meagre pittance before mentioned, I perceived that his apparent reluctance to make known his poverty, pro- ceeded from his habitual Christian contentment. I next asked him why he followed his present vagrant life, in preference to a stationary one, in which he would be better known and more respected. "The nature of my business," he replied, " requires that I should move about from place to place, that, having exhausted my custom in one spot, I may obtain employment in another. Besides," added he, "my mode of life has, at least, this advantage, that if I leave my friends behind me, I leave also my enemies." When I asked him his age, he replied, with a strong and firm voice, " That is a question which I am frequently asked, as if persons supposed me to be of a great age ; why, I am a mere boy." "A mere boy !" I repeated, "and pray, what do you mean by that expression ?" "I am sixty-five years of age, sir, and with a light heel and a cheerful heart, hope to hold out a considerable time longer." Indeed, he seemed always happy ; even in the period of his subsequent CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. 7 extreme suffering, his bosom appeared scarcely capacious enough for his joyful feelings. I can do but little justice to the hilarity of his heart, for it was a matter of astonish- ment to all who witnessed it. The spring of his cheerful- ness was religion. Nothing seemed to damp his confidence in God. The divisions which distract the church of Christ being alluded to, I lamented that there should be any separation between men whose hopes and interests are the same. He immediately rejoined, in his native sprightly manner, " No matter; there are two sides to the river :" intimating, as I concluded, that although separated for a time by the waters of discord which flow between them, all who are the true servants of Christ are pursuing the same direction, and will find their course terminate at the same point. There were many other instances of his readiness in reply, which have escaped my recollection. In the midst of the din of business, the roaring of the forge bellows, and the deafening noise of the hammer and anvil, I regret that I had but little opportunity of entering deeply into religious subjects. What, however, he said, though I cannot recollect the particulars, gave me an ex- alted idea of his contentment, cheerfulness, and genuine piety. Before I took my leave of him, I asked how long he intended to remain in the village. He answered, " I do not know ; but as I have houseroom and fire without any tax, I am quite satisfied with my situation, and only regret the trouble I am occasioning to my kind host." From that period to the 20th of the month, being much engaged with domestic concerns, I saw but little of him. On the morning of that day I met him creeping along under a vast burden, having previously heard that he had set out on the preceding Monday, on a journey to Bristol, to pro- cure a fresh stock of wire. There he had nearly expended his little all ; and, with half a hundred of wire upon his 8 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. ■ back, and three half- pence in his pocket, the sole remains of his scanty fund, he returned on foot to this place. He had been two days on the road, and had passed the inter- vening night before a coal-pit fire in the neighboring village. The snow was lying deep upon the ground, and the scene was altogether desolate beyond, description. I was glad once more to see him, and accosting him, inquired if ho were not very tired. " A little, a little," he replied. Then taking off his hat, he asked if he could execute any thing for me. I gave him an order for some trifling articles, which he brought to me on the following Wednesday. He came to my house just as I was engaged on particular busi- ness ; I went out, however, for a few minutes, and, after pay- ing him for the articles, entered into conversation with him. He repeated many admirable adages, with which his mem- ory appeared to be well stored, and incidentally touched upon the word cleanliness. Immediately I added, " Clean- liness is. next to godliness," and seized the opportunity which I had long wanted, but from fear of wounding his mind, hesitated to embrace, to tell him of the absence of that quality in himself. He with much good nature replied, " I believe I am substantially clean. I have a clean shirt every week ; my business, however, necessarily makes me dirty in my person." " But why do you not dress more tidily, and take more care of yourself? You know that God has given us the comforts of life that we may enjoy them. Cannot you afford yourself these comforts ?" " That question," said he emphatically, but by no means rudely, " you should have set out with. No, sir, I cannot afford myself these comforts." His long fustian trowsers concealed nearly the whole of his foot ; but about the instep I thought I perceived consid- erable inflammation, and made inquiry respecting it. " Oh, it is nothing particular," said he ; " it is a little tender." Perceiving that he had a miserable pair of shoes upon his feet, I asked him if he thought he could wear a pair of CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. 9 mine. He said lie felt obliged to me for my kind intention, but he would not trouble me. I however fetched a pair, and with much persuasion made him accept them. He expressed himself much gratified ; only adding, with his accustomed humility, that they were too good. I mention these circumstances, in themselves trifling, to show how very different was the conduct of this poor man from what might have been expected from a person in his destitute condition. I am persuaded that it was not apathy or pride, but a far higher principle, that thus had taught him, in whatever situation he was, " therewith to be content.'* My engagements now requiring my presence elsewhere, I left the poor creature for the present, by the side of my kitchen fire, determining to see him the next day, and to have some farther conversation with him. When I visited him, I found him in his usual station, working upon his chains. He was sitting — a posture in which he did not often indulge. I requested to look at his foot, for it was turned away from me towards the wall. With the greatest astonishment and alarm, I found the whole leg, from the foot to the knee, very black and prodig- iously swollen. He continued to manifest his usual cheer- fulness. "I must insist," said I, "upon your allowing something to be done to it. The doctor is expected in the village to-day, and you must see him; I will give orders for him to call upon you." "That is kind, very kind," he replied. At this moment some, ignorant prattler in the shop was exclaiming, in a very vexatious and offensive man- ner, that he would not have such a leg — taking off his hat — for that full of guineas. The old man looked up somewhat sharply at him, and said, " Nor I, if I could help it." The other, however, proceeded with his canting, when the afflicted creature added, " You only torture me by your observations." This was the only instance approaching to impatience witnessed by those who had the most constant access to him. 28* 10 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. I proposed getting a bed for him, for I found that of late he had slept in one corner of the workshop upon the bare earth, without his clothes, the blanket, as customary, being wrapped round his shoulders. We wished to procure him a bed within some habitable abode ; but he preferred remaining where he was, and requested us only to provide for him some clean straw. As he seemed fixed to his pur- pose, we consented to comply with his wish ; and, after arranging every thing as well as we could for his accommo- dation, I mentioned my intention of immediately sending him some warm broth, which he declined with his usual answer, " I have had enough ; it would be intemperate." I then left him under the care of his worthy friend. The next morning I visited my patient as early as 1 could, and was greatly alarmed to find that the swelling and blackness of his leg had increased, and were now ex- tending themselves rapidly towards the vital parts of his body. The blood which had oozed from his wound had literally soaked his straw bed, and his leg was unprotected from the friction of the straw, and was exposed to the cold air ; for his extremities, when I came into the shop, were entirely naked. He was at times delirious, and his whole frame was in a degree convulsed ; but he dozed during the greater part of the day. Nothing could exceed this picture of misery ! Having attended to his immediate wants, 1 went up by his side, and gently inquired how he was. From his head being muffled in his blanket, he did not hear me. Mr. S. removed the clothes, and asked, " How are you ?" "Happy, happy!" was the reply. "I am truly grieved, my friend," I said, " to see you in this deplorable condition. Are you suffering much pain?" "I am sick," said he, " and very weak." At this moment the arrival of the med- ical gentleman was announced. I ran to him, and begged that he would come and see this wretched object. He accompanied me back to the workshop, which he had no sooner entered, than I perceived, by an involuntary gesture, CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. 11 that lie had not before witnessed many such objects of mis- ery, even in a very extensive country practice. He at once informed me there was but little hope of life. Warm fomen- tations, and large doses of bark and port wine, he said, were the only remedies. Of course no time was lost in adminis- tering them. I had previously provided a bed in a neigh- boring house, and informed the suffering patient of my wish to remove him to it, and my anxiety that he should take the medicines prescribed. He very meekly submitted to all I proposed, saying that he was willing to take any thing : but he added, " One night more, and I shall be beyond this world." The next morning, Saturday, I found him lying in the comfortable bed to which we had carefully removed him the preceding evening,- in his usual calm and contented frame of mind, willing to live, but still more willing to die. I cannot describe the dreadful appearance which his whole body now assumed. His leg was again fomented, and he partook of some broth with eagerness, but his dissolution was evidently drawing near. His speech was almost unin- telligible. Delirium became more frequent, and his hands were often apparently employed in the task to which they had been so long habituated, making links for chains : but, alas, it was a fruitless effort, no wire was now near him, no chains were the result of his labors. By addressing him, you seemed for a moment to recall his mind from its aber- rations, and during such intervals he was perfectly collected. His respiration became more and more hurried. Finding that there was scarcely a ray of hope of preserving his life, I requested that he should be allowed to remain quite quiet upon his bed, being simply supplied with what sustenance was necessary. "After his attendants were gone, I sat down by his bedside, and said to him, " I am afraid you are very ill ; but I trust you have no fears respecting your future happiness, should it please God to summon you to appear before him ?" He opened his eyes, and instantly said, 12 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. " Fed by his hand, supported by his care, I scarce can doubt : why then should I despair 2" "Ah, my friend," I rejoined, " what an inconceivable bless- ing it is to have the Son of God for our friend !" " It is, it is !" said he, in a tone and manner- that indicated that he was accustomed to look to God through that Divine Medi- ator, and that he was practically acquainted w T ith the truth of that scriptural declaration, To them that believe, Christ is precious. Seeing his spectacles lying upon his pillow, I said, " There are your spectacles ; but I do not think they have brought your Bible : I dare say you would like to read it?" " By and by," he replied : "I am pretty well acquainted with its contents." All his fire had now expended itself. I found him artic- ulate so indistinctly, and he appeared so exhausted, that after commending him to the protection of his God and Saviour, I took my leave of him. As I was departing, he said, " You have done your duty to me, I can say it with- out flattery." Alas ! I pray God to pardon- my coldness, my inactivity, my general remissness ! May I learn more diligently to work while it is called to-day, since the night cometh in which no man can work ! Oh, how many opportunities of doing or receiving good do we suffer to pass unimproved, not knowing their value till they are for ever beyond our reach ! On Sabbath morning, the knell too well convinced me that my humble friend was no more. I hastened to his chamber. His happy spirit had fled to the bosom of his Maker. He died about two o'clock in the morning without a sigh. His last word was, in answer to the question, How are you ? " Happy " — a happiness built upon a solid foun- dation ; for, notwithstanding his afflictions in this world, the Saviour was his friend, the Holy Spirit was his comforter, and God was his portion and exceeding great reward. CONTENTMENT IN HUMULE LIFE. 13 I could not avoid adverting, in my discourses on that day, to the happy circumstances of this departed saint, who, without a friend, excepting those whom Providence had unexpectedly raised up in his necessity, and without any earthly comforts, had so completely divested himself of every murmur and complaint. Surely, nothing but divine grace could have enabled him thus to triumph in tribulation. It was in the school of Christ, as I have before remarked, that he had thus learned, in whatsoever state he was, there- with to be content. It has been already mentioned, that this poor man was a regular frequenter of divine worship, and a diligent reader of that holy book which was able to make him wise unto salvation, through faith that is in Christ Jesus. I add with much pleasure, what might have been anticipated, that he was also " a man of prayer." The first night of his taking to his straw bed, being exceedingly indisposed, he retired before the men had left their work. Mr. S. missed him from the shop for a considerable time ; and going into an adjoining storeroom in which no business was done, he found him in the posture of devotion, praying to his " Father who seeth in secret.' 7 This, no doubt, was his constant practice ; but as Mr. S. and his men usually quitted their work before the old man retired to rest, his habits of secret communion with God were now for the first time discovered. He was one of the last of men to sound a trumpet before him ; so that it is impossible to ascertain to what extent he carried his habits of prayer and reading the Scriptures, in addition to those sacred meditations which doubtless cheered his mind throughout the day, in the midst of his solitary and monotonous employment. In an early stage of our acquaintance, I had learned that he had a considerable taste for versification, and that he used occasionally to amuse his leisure hours by composing a poem. My first step, therefore, after his decease, was to get possession of his manuscripts, of which I found two VOL. iv. 20 14 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. books of considerable thickness, which appeared to be duplicates. From them I was confirmed in the opinion, if indeed I needed any farther confirmation than what my own eyes and ears had witnessed, that his religious principles were strictly consonant to that holy book which he so much valued, and which he made his companion and guide. In a blank leaf of his Bible is written, " Thomas Hogg, born in Jedburg, 1753. " Yes, dust and ashes is my proper name — * Ready to perish,' is my title clear. From two poor rebels, I their offspring came, My first, my native attribute is fear : Yet, let thy love on this dark void descend, All shall be safe — the Three in One my friend." The poem ends with a prayer to be " built up in wisdom and usefulness." Upon the cover of the book in which he has entered his poems, I find the following passages : "To you, men, I call, and my voice is to the sons of men." Pro v. 8:4. " Hear, for I will speak of excellent things." Pro v. 8 : G. " Thy statutes have been my songs in the house of my pil- grimage." Psalm 119. "And they sung a new song." Rev. 5 : 9. I regret that an epitaph which he composed for himself cannot be found. He once repeated it to Mr. S., and prom- ised to give him a copy of it ; but death put a stop to that, as well as to many other intentions. His longest poem, which consists of nearly two thousand lines, is entitled " The Flower Knot, or Guidepost." In a short preface he states, that " twenty lines or thereabouts were the most he could compose in a week ; and sometimes he had written none for half a year or longer." The chief subjects of his poem are thus arranged by himself: " Introduction, holiness, prudence and reason, wit, honesty and decency, sympathy, gratitude, hope, humility, temperance, chastity, passion, power, truth, wisdom, love, faith." CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE. 15 The particulars which I have been enabled to gather of my humble friend's history, in addition to what has already been related, are very few. He was a namesake of the Ettrick Shepherd, and a fellow-countryman, but I am not aware that they were related. He was brought up, I find, in a religious family ; and 'in his youth had serious im- pressions of eternal things upon his mind. These, however, grew feebler by intercourse with the world, although they do not appear ever to have entirely forsaken him. He left his home at an early period of life, and for some time carried hardware about the country. This business becoming un- productive, about fourteen years since he took to the em- ployment in which I found him engaged, making scissor- chains and skewers. Twenty-nine long years had passed, he told me, since he had visited his' native place ; nor could I learn what had alienated him from his family and friends. A hedge, or a stable, was to him an asylum of peace — the habitation of contentment ; for he carried that tranquillity within him which was not to be ruffled by the adventitious circumstances of life. The vagrancy of his life necessarily exposed him to much hardship ; and his pious soul must have been frequently "vexed with the filthy conversation of the wicked.'' Whether he had the habit of boldly re- proving the sinner, when he daringly violated the laws of his God, I cannot affirm, not having been present on any such occasion ; but, judging from his ordinary freedom in expressing his mind, and from his courage in sustaining many of the ills of life, I should imagine he would suffer few opportunities to pass of reproving or exhorting, where pru- dence and discretion marked out the duty. Sometimes, doubtless, his mind must have been depressed by anxious fears, or disappointed hopes. There were seasons when the "candle of the Lord" did not shine so clearly upon his path as at other times : during such periods he used to sing Addison's beautiful version of the 23d Psalm, to which he added a verse of his own composition, which I have in vain IQ CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE endeavored to find. He called it the Traveller's Song. It was peculiarly appropriate to his own case, exposed as he was, solitary and wandering, with none to look up to for support or protection, but the Helper of the friendless. Thus have I presented a faithful, though imperfect his- tory of a poor man, who, in the lowest depths of poverty, evinced such remarkable contentment and cheerfulness under severe sufferings, as may well excite us to godly jealousy, and animate us to aspire after like precious faith ; a man who showed no symptoms of a desire to hurry from life, yet was ready at all times to obey his great and final sum- mons, and the practical language of whose life was, " To me to live is Christ, to die is gain." Reader, how does this simple tale call upon you to adore the Father of all mercies, who graciously furnished a poor object, in the lowest depths of earthly misery, with prin- ciples capable not barely of supporting him, but of enabling him to soar far above the afflictions of mortality ! No one, I feel assured, can doubt whence this man obtained his transcendent faith. It was of no common stamp : it was not the spontaneous growth of the human heart ; it must have come from heaven. Permit me, then, to remind you, that the same faith which supported him, the same principles by which he was actuated, may be obtained by you. The Divine Spirit, who implanted them in the subject of this memoir, offers to pro- duce them in you. And can I wish you a richer gift ? Can I take my leave of you in a more affectionate manner, than by praying that the same Spirit would make you like-minded with this humble but exemplary follower of a suffering and crucified Saviour ? NARRATIVE XV THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM Mr. B , a respectable farmer in Massachusetts, came, a number of years ago, into the possession of a farm of six hundred acres. On this farm he employed eight orten men. These men were in the habit, and had been for years, of taking each a portion of ardent spirit, when they labored, every day. They had grown up in the practice of taking it, and the idea was fixed in their minds that they could not do without. It was the common opinion in the place, that, for laboring men, who had to work hard, some ardent spirit was necessary. Mr. B for a time followed the common practice, and furnish- ed his men with a portion of spirit daily. But after much at- tentive observation and mature reflection, he became deeply impressed with the conviction that the practice was not only useless, but hurtful. He became convinced that it tends 2 THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. to lead men to intemperance; to undermine their constitu- tions; and to sow the seeds of death, temporal and eternal. And he felt that he could not be justified in continuing to cultivate his farm by means of a practice which was ruin- ing: the bodies and souls of his fellow-men. He therefore called his men together, and told them, in a kind and faith- ful manner, what were his convictions. He told them that he was perfectly satisfied that the practice of taking ardent spirits was not only needless, but hurtful — that it tended to weaken and destroy both- the body and mind ; and that he could not, consistently with his duty, be instrumental in continuing a practice which he had no doubt tended to destroy them both for this world and the world to come. He therefore, from that time, should furnish them with no ardent spirits. One of them said that he could not work without it ; and if he did not furnish them with it, he would not stay with him. "Very well," said Mr. B ; " hand me your bill, and be off." The man replied, that he presumed all the others would leave him. "Very well," said Mr. B ; " tell them, any of them who choose to leave — all of them, if they choose to go — to hand in their bills, and they shall have their money to-night. If they stay, however, they shall have nourishing food and drink, at any time, and in any abundance which they wish ; and at the close of the year each one shall have twelve dollars, that is, one dollar a month, in addition to his wages. But I shall furnish no spirits of any kind, neither shall I have it taken by men in my employment. I had rather my farm would grow up to weeds, than be cultivated by means of so pernicious a practice as that of taking ardent spirits." However, none of the men left, except that one. And when he saw that all the others concluded to stay, he came back, and said, that as the others had concluded to stay, and do without rum, he believed that he could, and he should be glad to aay, too, if Mr. B had no objection. But he told him, No, he did not wish him to stay ; he would make of him an THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. 3 example, and he must go. So he departed. The rest went to work, and he furnished them with no spirits from that time through the season. Yet his work, he said, was done " with less trouble, in a better manner, and in better season, than ever before." Some of his men, however, he found, when they went abroad, did take ardent spirits. They some- times procured it at the tavern, or a store ; and in some instances took it secretly, while on his farm. The evil, therefore, although greatly lessened, was not entirely done away. When he came to hire men again, he let it be known that he did not wish to hire any man who was not willing to abstain entirely, and at all times, from the use of ardent spirits. His neighbors toM him that he could not hire men on those conditions ; that men could not be found who would do without rum, especially in haying and har- vesting. Well, he said, then he would not hire them at all. His farm should grow up to weeds. As to cultivating it by the help of rum, he would not. By allowing men in his employment, and for whose conduct he was in a meas- ure responsible, to take ardent spirits, he should be lend- ing his influence to continue a practice, or he should at least be conniving at a practice, which was " destroying more lives, making more mothers widows, and children orphans, than famine, pestilence, and sword : a practice which was destroying by thousands, and tens of thousands, not only the bodies, but the souls of men, rendering them, and their children after them, wretched for this world, and the world to come. " No," said he, "I will clear my hands of this enormous guilt. I will not by practice encourage, or by silence, or having men in my employment who take ardent spirits, connive at this deadly evil." However, he found no difficulty in hiring men, and of the best kind. And when his neighbors saw, that by giving one dollar a month more than others, he could hire as many men as he pleased, they gave up that objection. But they said, it was bad policy ; for the men would not do so much work, 4 THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. and he would, in the end, be a loser. But he told them that, although they might not at first do quite so much, he presumed that they would in the end do more. But if they should not, only let them do, said he, what they easily can, and I shall be satisfied. My Maker does not require of me any more than I can do without rum, (for he used no 'ardent spirits himself) and I shall require no more of them. His men went to work. And his business prosper- ed exceedingly. His men were remarkably uniform in their temper and deportment ; still, and peaceable. He found them every day alike, and he could always safely trust them. What he expected to have done, he found was done, in good season, and in the best manner. His men never made so few mistakes, had so few disputes among themselves ; they never injured and destroyed so few tools, found so little fault with their manner of living, or were, on the whole, so pleasant to one another, and to their employer. The men appeared, more than ever be- fore, like brethren of the same family, satisfied with their business, contented, and happy. At the close of the year, one of them came to Mr. B , and, with tears in his eyes, said, " Sir, I thought that you were very hard, in keeping us from drinking rum. I had always been accustomed to it, and I thought that I could not do without it. And for the first three months," said he, " it was hard, very hard. I had such a caving in here" — putting his hands up to his side — " I had such a desperate caving in here, that I thought I should die. But, as you gave us good wages, and good pay, and the rest resolved to stand it without rum, I thought I would. "And now," said he, "I am well and happy. I work with ease, sleep sweetly, and when I get up in the morn- ing, instead of having, as I used to, my mouth and throat" — to use his own words — " so full of cobwebs, as to be spit- ting cotton ivool all the time, my mouth and throat are clear as a whistle. 1 feel active, have a good appetite, and can eat any tiling. THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. 5 " Formerly, when I worked hard, I was at night tired, THE VILLAGE IX THE MOUNTAINS were scattered amidst the black and ugly mouths of ex- hausted coal-pits ; and the gentle murmur of the stream was subdued by the loud rattle of the loom. Sometimes M. and his friend halted amidst all that is delightful and soothing ; and, after a short advance, found themselves amidst barrenness, deformity, and confusion. The remoter scenery was not less impressive. Behind them were the rugged mountains of Puy de Dome ; the lofty Tarare lifted its majestic head beside them, and far before appeared the brilliant summit of Mont Blanc. In this state of mind he arrived at the outskirts of a hamlet, placed on the declivity of a mountain ; and being desirous of finding a shorter and more retired track, he stopped at a decent-looking dwelling-house to inquire the way. From the windows several females were watching the movements of a little child ; and just as M. in- quired for a road across the mountains, the infant was in danger of being crushed by a coal-cart which had entered the street. The cries and alarms of the females were met by the activity of the travellers, and the companion of M. set off to snatch the infant from danger, and place him in security. An elderly female, from the second story, gave M. , who was still on his horse, the directions he desired ; and, at the same time, expressed her uneasiness that the gentleman should have had the trouble to seek the child. " Madam," interrupted M. , " my friend is only performing his duty: we ought to do to another as we would that another should do to us ; and, in this wretched world, we are bound to assist each. other. You are kind enough to direct us travellers in the right road, and surely the least we can do is to rescue your child from danger. The Holy Scriptures teach us these duties, and the Gospel presents us the example of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, when we were in ignorance and danger, came to our world to seek and to save that which was lost." THE VILLAGE L\ THE MOUNTAINS. 3 " Ah ! sir,'* replied the good woman, " you are very condescending, and what you say is very true ; but your language surprises me: it is so many years since in this village we have heard such truths, and especially from the lips of a stranger.' ' "Madam," resumed M. , " we are all strangers here, and sojourners bound to eternity ; there is but one road, one guide, one Saviour, who can conduct us safely ; if we feel this, young or old, rich or poor, we are all one in Christ ; and, however scattered on earth, shall all arrive at the heavenly city, to which he is gone to prepare mansions for us." " These doctrines, sir," exclaimed the female, " support the hearts of many of us, who have scarcely travelled be- yond our own neighborhood ; and it is so rare and so de- lightful to hear them from others, that, if it will not be an abuse of your Christian politeness, I would request you to alight, and visit my humble apartment." "I shall comply most cheerfully with your request," replied M. ; "for, though time is precious, I shall be thankful to spend a few minutes in these mountains, among those with whom I hope to dwell for ever on Mount Sion." M. mounted to the second story, followed by his companion. He found the female with whom he had con- versed, surrounded by her daughters and granddaughters, all busily employed in five looms, filled with galloons and ribbons, destined for the capital, and the most distant cities of the world. The good widow was between sixty and seventy years of age ; her appearance was neat ; and all the arrangements of her apartment bespoke industry, fru- gality, and piety. "Ah! sir," she exclaimed, as M. entered, " how happy am I to receive such a visitor !" "Madam," replied M. , "I am not worthy to enter under this roof." "Why, sir," exclaimed the widow, "you talked to us of Jesus Christ, and " " Yes, madam, but I am a poor, guilty sinner, and hope 4 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. only for salvation through the cross. I was yesterday at St. , where they were planting a cross with great cer- emony ; were you there ?" " No, sir ; for it is of little use to erect crosses in the streets, if we do not carry the cross in our hearts, and are ,not crucified to the world. But, sir, if you will not be offended, may I ask what you are called ?" M. , giving a general sense to the French phrase- ology, answered, " My name, madam, is ." " Thank you, sir, I shall not forget ; but this is not what I meant : I wished to know whether you are Protest- ant or Catholic — a pastor or a priest?" " Madam, I have not the honor to be either ; I am a merchant : I desire to be a Christian, and to have no other title but a disciple of Christ." " That is exactly as we are here, sir," exclaimed the good widow, and added, " but, as you are so frank, are you, sir, Catholic, or Protestant ?" " Catholic," replied M. . Madam looked confused, and observed, " that it was rare for the Catholics to talk as her visitor had done." " I am a Catholic," resumed M. , "but not a mem- ber of the Roman Catholic church. I love all that love our Lord Jesus in sincerity. I do not ask in what fold they feed, so that they are guided and nourished by the good Shepherd and Bishop of souls." " 0, what a favor the Lord has granted us, to meet with a Christian like ourselves," said the affected widow, looking round her. " We desire to live in charity with all mankind ; but, to be frank also, sir, we do not go to mass, nor to confession, for we do not learn from our Testament, which is indeed almost worn out, that we are required to confess to sinners like ourselves, nor to warship the host, nor to perform penance for the salvation of our souls ; and we believe we can serve God acceptably in a cave, or in a chamber, or on a mountain." THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. £ " I confess, madam, in my turn, ,? said M. , " that I am exceedingly astonished to find such persons on such a spot : pray, how many may there be of your sentiments ?" " Here, sir, and scattered over the mountains, there are from three to four hundred. We meet on Sabbath even- ings, and as often as we can, to pray to Jesus, to read the Testament, and to converse about the salvation of our souls. We are so much persecuted by the clergy, that we cannot appear as publicly as we wish. We are called beguines* and fools ; but I can bear this, and I hope a great deal more, for Him who has suffered so much for us." While the conversation, of which this is a sketch, was passing, the rooms had filled, the neighbors had been in- formed and introduced, at the request of the worthy host- ess ; and as many as could quit their occupations pressed to hear of the things of the kingdom of God. M. desired to see the New Testament. It was presented. The title-page was gone, the leaves were almost worn to shreds by the fingers of the weavers and laborers, and M. could not discover the edition. A female of respectable appearance approached M. , and said, " Sir, for several years I have sought everywhere a New Testament, and I have offered any price for one in all the neighboring vil- lages, but in vain. Could you, sir, possibly procure me a copy ? I will gladly pay you any sum you demand " " Madam, I will not only procure you one, 1 ' replied M. eagerly, " but, in forty- eight hours, I will send you half a dozen." " Is it possible ?" exclaimed the astonished villagers. " May we, sir, believe the good news ? May we rely on your promise ? It appears too great — too good. We will pay for them now, sir, if you please." " You may depend on receiving them," said M. , "if God prolongs my life. But I entreat you to do me the # Religious enthusiasts. 31* 6 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAL\S. favor to accept them, as a proof of my Christian regard, and an expression of my gratitude for having been permitted to enjoy, in this unpromising spot, the refreshing company of the followers of Christ.' ' The conversation then turned on the value of the sacred volume, and the sinfulness of those who withhold it from perishing and dejected sinners. After some time, the hostess inquired, " Pray, sir, can you tell us if any thing extraordinary is passing in the world? We are shut out from all intercourse ; but we have an impression that God is commencing a great work in the earth, and that wonder- ful events are coming to pass." " Great events have taken place, and news is arriving every day," said M. , " from all parts of the world, of the progress of the Gospel, and the fulfilment of the Holy Scriptures." He then gave to his attentive and enraptured auditory an outline of the moral changes accomplished by the diffusion of the Bible, the labors of missionaries, and the establishment of schools ; but only such an outline as was suited to their general ignorance of the state of what is called the religious world. And when he had concluded, they all joined in the prayer, " Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is done in heaven." Anxious as was M. to pursue his journey, he devoted three hours to this interview. He exhorted them to receive and practise only what they found in the Scriptures, and to cleave to the Lord with full purpose of heart. The termination of this extraordinary meeting was most affecting : tears of pleasure, gratitude, and regret, streamed from the eyes of the mountaineers ; and the traveller, though more deeply moved by having seen the grace of God, than by all the scenes through which he had passed, went on his way rejoicing, and following the directions of the good widow, he arrived at the town of S . In this town he had correspondents among the principal inhabitants and authorities, and under the impression of all he had wit- THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 7 nessed, he inquired, as if with the curiosity of a traveller, the name of the hamlet he had passed on the mountains, and the nature of the employments, and the character of its inhabitants. "The men," said the mayor, "work in the mines, drive the teams, and labor in the fields; and the women and children weave. They are a very curious people, outrgs illumines, new lights, but the most honest work-people in the country — probity itself. We have no occasion to weigh our silk, either when we give it out or take it in ; for we are sure not to lose the value of a farthing ; and the kindest creatures in the world ; they will take their clothes off their backs to give to any one in distress : indeed, there is no wretchedness among them ; for, though poor, they are in- dustrious, temperate, charitable, and always assist each other; but touch them on their religion, and they are almost idiots. They never go to mass nor confession ; in fact, they are not Christians, though the most worthy peo- ple in the world — and so droll : imagine those poor people, after working all the week, instead of enjoying the Sunday, and going to a fete or a ball to amuse themselves, meeting in each other's houses, and sometimes in the mountains, to read some book, and pray, and sing hymns. They are very clever work-people, but they pass their Sundays and holi- days stupidly enough. " This testimony, so honorable to his new acquaintance, was confirmed to M. from several quarters ; and he learned from others, what he had not been told by them- selves, that, besides their honesty and charity, so great is their zeal, that they flock from the different hamlets, and meet in the mountains, in cold and bad weather, at eight or nine o'clock "at night, to avoid the interruption of their enemies, and to sing and pray. These accounts were not calculated to lessen the inter- est excited in the breast of M. , and immediately on his arrival at Lyons, he dispatched six copies of the New 8 THE VILLAGE L\ THE MOUNTAINS. Testament, and some copies of the Tract entitled " Les Deux Vieillards" The Two Old Men. Some time after his return to Paris, M. received, through one of his correspondents at Lyons, a letter from the excellent widow with whom he had conversed. Of this letter, a literal translation is subjoined ; the modesty, dignity, and piety of which not only evince the influence of true religion, but will satisfy the reader, that, in this narration, no exagger- ated statement has been made of the character of these mountaineers. " Sir — I have the honor to write you, to assure you of my very humble respects, and at the same time to acknow- ledge the reception of the six copies of the New Testament which you had the goodness and the generosity to send us. My family, myself, and my neighbors, know not how ade- quately to express our sincere gratitude ; for Ave have noth- ing in the world so precious as that sacred volume, which is the best food of our souls, and our certain guide to the heavenly Jerusalem. " As we believe and are assured that the Spirit of our Lord Jesus Christ could alone have inspired you with the desire to distribute the sacred Scriptures to those who are disposed to make a holy use of them, we hope and believe that the divine Saviour will be himself your recompense ; and that he will give to you, as well as to all of us, the grace to understand and to seek a part in his second com- ing ; for this ought to be our only and constant desire in the times of darkness and tribulation in which we live. " It is with this view, sir, that I entreat you to have the goodness to send six more copies of the sacred volume for several of my friends, who are delighted, not only with the beauty of the type, but especially with the purity of the edition ; for it is sufficient to see the name of Monsieur le Maitre de Sacy, to be assured that this edition is strictly conformable to the sacred text. Sir, as the persons who THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 9 have charged me to entreat you to send six more copies of the New Testament would be sorry to abuse your generos- ity, they also charge me to say, that if you accomplish their wishes, as your truly Christian kindness induces them to hope, and will mark the price on the books, they shall feel it to be a pleasure and duty to remit you the amount, when I acknowledge the arrival of the parcel. Could you also add six copies of the little Tract, entitled * Les Deux Vieil lards V " I entreat you, sir, to excuse the liberty I have taken, and to believe that, while life remains, I am, in the Spirit of our Lord Jesus Christ, " Your very humble servant, "The Widow " The reception of this letter revived in M. that live- ly interest which he had been constrained to feel for the prosperity of these happy villagers. Often had he called to mind the Christian kindness with which they received him, and often had he presented his ardent prayer to the God of grace, that he who " had begun a good work in them," would carry it on to " the day of Jesus Christ." Instead of complying with the request of this venerable woman to send her six copies of the New Testament, he sent her twenty, authorizing her to sell them to such as were able to pay ; but to present them, at her own discre- tion, to those who were desirous of obtaining them, and had not the means to purchase, " without money and with- out price." With these he also presented to the widow, as a mark of his Christian affection, a Bible for her own use, together with a dozen copies of the Tract which she had requested, and several other religious books. In acknow- ledging this unexpected bounty, she thus replied, in a letter dated July 17, 1821 : " Respected Friend and Brother in our Lord Jesus Christ — It is impossible to describe the satisfaction that vol. VI. 10 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. my heart experienced on the arrival of the kind communi- cations which you have been pleased to send me. I could not help reading over and over again the letters enclosed, which afford fresh proof of the desire of yourself and your friends to contribute to the advancement of the reign of the divine Redeemer. I cannot find words to express the happiness I have derived from perusing the entire copy of the Old and New Testament, which you beg me to accept as an expression of your Christian affection. I was more gratified and edified by this mark of your regard, as it was my intention to have requested, in my last letter, some copies of the Old Testament ; but I dared not execute my design, for fear of abusing your Christian kindness and charity. The Old and New Testament, properly under- stood, are but one Testament ; such is the connection of the sacred books — for the New Testament is the key to the Old, and the Old the same to the New. In innu- merable passages of the Old Testament, the birth, death, and glory of our divine Redeemer are announced, in terms more or less distinct. In reading the prophecies of Jeremiah and Isaiah, we perceive that these prophets spoke of our Saviour almost as though they had lived with him on the earth. His second coming is also fore- told in many passages, especially in the prophecies of Ezekiel and Daniel. " The box which your Christian generosity has sent, has excited universal joy in the hearts of all our friends in this district. Immediately after they learned the agreeable news, they flocked to see me, and to have the happiness and advantage of procuring the Testament of our Redeemer ; and in less than Jive days the box was emptied. I gave copies of the Gospel of St. Matthew to those who had not the satisfaction and consolation to procure a complete copy of the Testament. The whole was so soon distributed that many could have nothing ; and there are also many who do not yet know of the arrival of the second box. I intend THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 1 1 to lend the copy of the Bible, and of the books which I have reserved for myself, among our friends in the neigh- borhood, in order that the books we have may be as useful as possible. " As I hope you will do me the honor and the Christian kindness to acknowledge the receipt of this, I request you to inform me how I can remit you sixty francs, which I have received for fifteen of the New Testaments. As our brethren and sisters in Jesus Christ, who, by an effect of his grace altogether free and unmerited, look for his second coming to salvation, are delighted and edified by the truly Christian salutation which you have sent through me ; they desire me to express their gratitude, and to request you to accept theirs in the same spirit. I unite with them in be- seeching you and your respectable friend , and all your friends, not to forget us in your prayers to the Father of lights, that he may give us grace to persevere in the same sentiments, and grant us all the mercy to join the general assembly, the heavenly Jerusalem. Amen. Expecting that happy day, I entreat you to believe me your very humble servant and friend in Jesus Christ, "The Widow ." It may well be supposed that the reception of this in- teresting letter produced an effect on the mind of M. , as well as on the minds of many of his Christian friends at Paris, of the happiest kind. M. informed the widow of the great satisfaction with which he had learned the eagerness of the villagers to obtain the word of God, and that he had directed his friend, the publisher of the New Testament of De Sacy, to send her fifty copies more ; at the same time promising her a fresh supply, if they should be needed. He also expressed to her the hope, that, as he expected his business would, within a few months, call him again to S , he should be able, Providence permitting, to avail himself of that opportunity, and enjoy the happiness L >2 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. of another visit at her residence. To this communication she some time afterwards returned the following reply : "Dear Sir, and Brother in our Lord Jesus Christ — . May the grace and unmerited mercy of our Divine Saviour be our single and only hope in our pilgrimage here below. I beseech you and your dear friends to pray for us, that the celestial Comforter, promised in the Scriptures, would vouchsafe to visit our hearts and warm them with his love ; for without the aid of this Divine Light, even though we should commit to memory the Old and New Testament, it would avail us nothing ; but rather tend to our greater con- demnation in the sight of our Sovereign Judge. * " I am noAV able to acknowledge the receipt of the box which you had the goodness and Christian charity to send me, containing fifty copies of the Testament of our blessed Saviour, which did not arrive until the 25th of last month, on account of its having been detained in the public store at S for several days, without my knowledge. As soon as I learned it was there, I sent one of my daughters to inquire for it, as I was then so ill as to keep my bed, and to induce a belief that I was about to quit this land of exile. I have felt myself so much better for a few days past, that I begin to think that my pilgrimage will be prolonged for some time, and that I may yet have the pleasure and con- solation of again seeing you, and conversing with you upon the things which regard our eternal peace. It is with such feelings that I would beg an interest in your prayers, that the precious blood which the Divine Saviour has been will- ing to shed for us and other sinners, may be found effica- cious to me in that moment when I shall depart from this vale of tears ; for my age admonishes that this time is not far distant. Believe me, my dear brother in Christ, that I shall never forget you in my prayers, however feeble they may be ; for I can never forget the day when, urged by Christian friendship, you entered my house, and imparted THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 13 that truly spiritual nourishment which serves for time and eternity, and we discoursed together upon the second com- ing of our Divine Redeemer, and the restoration of the cov- enant people. " I look forward to the happy moment when I shall have the honor and pleasure of seeing you again ; and in the mean time beg you to believe me your very humble and affectionate friend and servant in Jesus Christ, " The Widow -." In a letter received soon after the above, M. was informed that the Bibles and Testaments had all been dis- posed of within two days from the time of their arrival, and that many, who earnestly desired a copy, were yet unsup- plied ; the distribution having only created an increased demand. M. resolved not to neglect their wants, as long as it was in his power to supply them ; and the day being not far distant, when he proposed to repair to S , and to make a second visit to the village in the mountains, he prepared a case of a hundred New Testaments and a hundred octavo Bibles, which he forwarded to Lyons by the roulage accelerd, or baggage wagon, to meet his arrival there ; and soon after took his departure from Paris. There were some interesting incidents in the jfrogress of this tour, which so delightfully point to trie hand of God, that the reader may be gratified in becoming acquainted with them. On his arrival at Lyons, M. , finding no other way of transportation except the common diligence, a public stage-coach, was obliged to resort to this conveyance. The case of Bibles and Testaments which he had forwarded was so large, that the only method by which it could be carried was to set it up on end in the basket attached to the back of the diligence ; and such was the weight and size of the box, that it was with no small difficulty, and by the assistance of several men, that it was safely adjusted. At first the passengers objected to taking their seats with Eleg. Nar. 82 14 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. such a weight behind, lest they should meet with some accident, or be impeded in their progress. After much persuasion, however, and after presenting a number of relig- ious Tracts to each passenger, and requesting the conductor to drive slow, they were prevailed on to proceed on their journey. The course they were pursuing led through a part of the country solely inhabited by Roman Catholics, where, the year before, M. had distributed a number of Bibles and Tracts, the reading of which, he had subse- quently ascertained, had been forbidden by the priests, who had not only demanded them, but consigned most or all of them to the flames. M. thought necessary, in this journey, to suspend his distributions in this immediate vicin- ity. But the providence of God had other views, and so ordered it, that, without the instrumentality of men, the sacred records should be scattered among that people. On reaching the place of his destination at the foot of the moun- tains, and alighting from the diligence, M. discovered that the case had opened at the top, and that not a few Bibles and Testaments had been scattered along the way. Travellers were soon seen coming up, some in wagons, and some on horseback, some with a Bible and some with a New Testament under their arm. They informed him, that, for eiglt or ten miles back, the inhabitants had been sup- plied by the diligence, as the books had fallen out whenever they descended a hill, or travelled over rocky and uneven ground. While taking the case from the diligence, several more persons came up, each bringing his Bible or Testament, which they most readily offered to return to M. , but which he as cheerfully requested them to accept, observing to them, that they had been destined for their perusal by that Providence whose unseen hand directs all human events. Though ignorant of the contents of the volume which God had thus given them, they expressed many thanks to M. for his generosity, and were about to THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 15 proceed on their way, apparently rejoicing, when M. dismissed them by saying, " My friends, I feel peculiarly happy in thus being the instrument of putting into your hands that volume which contains the records of eternal life, and which points you to 'the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.' If you faithfully read it, and imbibe its glorious and precious truths, and obey its precepts, it will render you happy in this life, and happy during the endless ages of eternity." Having opened the case, M. found that forty-nine Bibles and Testaments had been thus distributed. Some of his fellow-passengers were ready to believe that the box had been intentionally left open, but M. assured them, that it had been carefully secured in the usual manner, and that not until his arrival at the spot where they alighted, had he known that any had fallen out. Having made arrangements to have the case forwarded to the widow, and having addressed to her a note informing her of his intention to proceed to the large village of S , where he proposed tarrying a few days, during which time he hoped once more to visit her and her friends, M. resumed his seat in the diligence, and arrived at S the same night. On the next day but one after his arrival, he was agreeably surprised, at an early hour in the morning, to find the hotel where he lodged surrounded by fifty or sixty persons, inquiring for the gentleman who had, a day or two before, presented to a number of their citizens the book, which, as they said, " contained a true history of the birth, life, sufferings, death, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.' ' Others of them called it by its proper name, the New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. All of them were anxious to purchase a copy of it. As soon as M. ascertained the object of their visit, he appeared on the balcony, and ex- pressed his regret that he had no more of those interesting volumes with him ; informing them that, if it pleased God 1(5 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. he should return to Paris, he would forward a hundred to his correspondent in that place, that each of them might be furnished with a copy. This was accordingly done imme- diately after his return to Paris. And during his residence there, M. had the satisfaction to see, that more or less individuals from S , who came to solicit orders for their manufacturing establishments, also brought orders for an additional supply of the sacred volume. And the number of Bibles and Testaments which were introduced into a dense Catholic population, in consequence of the apparently trivial circumstance of the opening of the case in the diligence, will probably never be ascertained until the great day of account ; nor will it be known to what extent they have been instru- mental in reclaiming and saving the souls of deluded men. On the day following, M. received a deputation from the village in the mountains, anxiously desiring to hear on what day and hour they might hope to enjoy his long- expected visit. He proposed to be at the widow's house the following morning, at 11 o'clock. Furnished with a carriage and horses by one of his friends, he set out accord- ingly ; and, on reaching the foot of the mountain, was met by a deputation of twelve or fifteen of these faithful follow- ers of the Lamb, who greeted his approach with demonstra- tions of joy. He immediately descended from the carriage, and was conducted to the house of the widow with every expression of the most sincere Christian affection, some taking him by the sleeve, and others by the skirts of his coat, some preceding and others following him. But what was his surprise, on arriving at the house, to find an assem- bly of from sixty to eighty, who, with one voice, desired him to preach to them ! M. observed to them, that he was an unworthy layman, and totally unqualified for such a responsible duty, and the more so at that time, as his mind had been occupied in his secular business ; and he felt the need of himself receiving instruction, instead of attempting to impart it to others. But a chair had been placed for him THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. I 1 ) in a suitable part of the room, and a small table, covered with a green cloth, placed before it, on which was laid the copy of the Bible which M. had, some months before, presented to the widow. M. saw he could not avoid saying something to this importunate company, and looking to God for assistance and a blessing, took the chair which had been set for him, and resolved to attempt to draw from the Bible, for their benefit, such instruction and consolation as he might be enabled to impart. To the eye of M. every thing gave beauty and solemnity to this unexpected scene. The room into which he was conducted was filled with the villagers, all con- veniently accommodated on benches. A large door opened in the rear of the house, and discovered the declivity of the mountain on which it stood, skirted also with listening auditors. While, at a distance, the flocks and herds were peacefully feeding, the trees, covered with" beautiful foliage, were waving in the breeze, and all nature seemed to be in harmony with those sacred emotions which so obviously pervaded this rural assembly. After addressing the throne of grace, M. read a part of the fourth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles. He turned their attention more especially to that interesting passage in the twelfth verse : " There is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved." He endeavored to point out to them the exceeding sinful- ness of sin, the awful consequences of violating the law of God, the inefficacy of all those expedients which the ig- norance, the pride, or the self-righteousness of men had substituted for the "only name" Christ Jesus. He spoke of the necessity .of this great sacrifice on the cross, of the love of God in sending his Son into the world, of the fulness and all-sufficiency of the mighty redemption, and of the duty of sinners to accept it and live. " It is through Christ alone," said he, "that you can have hope of pardon and salvation Ycu must take up the cross and follow Christ. 32* IQ THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. You must renounce your sins and flee to Christ. You must renounce your own righteousness, and trust alone in Christ. You must renounce all other lords, and submit to Christ. If you had offended an earthly monarch, to whom you could have access only through his son, would you address your- selves to his servants, rather than his son ? And will you then, in the great concerns of your souls, go to any other than the Son? Will you have recourse to the Virgin Mary, or some favored servant, rather than address your- selves to Him who is ' the way, and the truth, and the life ?' and when God himself assures us, that ' there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved?" Having thus proceeded for the space of fifteen or twenty minutes, and at a moment when the greater part of his audience were in tears, the widow suddenly came running to M. , saying, with great agitation, " Monsieur ! Mon- sieur !" " What, madam, what ?" said M. . "I perceive," said she, "at a distance, the Deputy Mayor of a neighboring village, in company with several women, approaching with a speedy step towards my house. These people are among our greatest persecutors— shall I not call in our little band of brothers and sisters, and fasten the doors?" "No, madam," said M. , "on the con- trary, if it be possible, open the doors still wider; trust in God our Saviour, and leave to me the direction of this matter." By this time, considerable alarm seemed to pervade the whole assembly, and some confusion ensued, in consequence of several leaving their seats. M. begged them to be composed, and to resume their seats, saying, that the object for which they were assembled was one which God would accept of and approve, which angels would delight in, and at which Satan trembled ; and that they had nothing to fear from the arm of flesh. By this time the Mayor made his THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 19 appearance at the threshold of the door, together with his attendants. " Come in, sir," saidM. , "and be seated," pointing to a chair placed near the table. " JSTo, sir," said he, " I prefer to remain here." "But I prefer," said M. , "that you come in, and also your companions, and be seated." Perceiving M. to be firm in his determination,- they complied, and were all seated among his nearest auditors. M. then, without any further remarks, having the Bible open before him, directed their attention to those words in Christ's Sermon on the Mount : " Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness* sake ; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. JRejoice, and ~he ex- ceeding glad ; for great is your reward in heaven ; for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you." Matt. 5: 10, 12. M. proceeded to set before them the sufferings of the apostles and primitive Christians for the truth as it is in Jesus, and the constancy and firmness with which, in all circumstances, they endured these sufferings, on account of the love which they bore to their Saviour ; that they had good reasons for so doing, for they were assured by Christ, in the words just read, that " great should be their reward in heaven." M. then proceeded to show the immense responsibility which those assumed, and the enormity of their guilt, who, ignorantly or designedly, persecuted the followers of Christ. That they were but " heaping up to themselves wrath against the day of wrath." That the day was not far distant, when the awful realities of eternity would burst upon their view ; and that every man would then be judged " according to the deeds done in the body." When M. had proceeded in this manner for ten or twelve minutes, bringing the truth to bear especially upon 20 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. the minds of his new audience, he perceived the Mayor wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, who, rising at that moment from his seat, exclaimed, " Sir, I acknowledge that I have heretofore felt an en- mity towards many of the people whom I here see before me ; and have, as far as my influence extended in my official capacity, endeavored to break up what I have considered their illegal assemblies, and to coerce them back within the pale of the mother church, which one after another of them have been abandoning for years past. But, if all that you have expressed be true, and is in conformity with the sacred volume of God's word, and if the book which you hold in your hand is a correct translation of the original copy, I beg you to sell it me, that I may peruse it myself, and give the reading of it to others better able to judge of its con- tents ; and if I there find the promises and threatenings as stated by you to be correct, you may rely upon it, that, so far from persecuting these, in other respects, harmless peo- ple, I will hereafter be their friend/ ' On hearing this, M. immediately requested the widow to bring several Bibles from the case which he brought with him in the diligence, and which had reached the house according to his direction ; one of which he pre- sented to the Mayor, and one to each of his Catholic asso- ciates. On the Mayor's offering to pay for the one put into his hand, M. observed, that he had much pleasure in presenting it to him, as well as to his companions, in the hope that they would hereafter not only become the friends of this interesting people, but, what was of more impor- tance, the friends of Jesus Christ, who is the " only Mediator between God and man." With this they took their depart- ure : M. observing to thejn, that his heart's desire and prayer to God was, that, by a careful, humble, and prayer- ful perusal of that sacred volume, their understandings might become enlightened, and their hearts imbued with the riches of divine grace ; that they might thereby be led THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 21 hereafter to advocate the very cause which they had hitherto been attempting to destroy ; and that, when they had done serving God their Saviour here below, they might find themselves among that happy number "whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life." They left the house, all of them in tears, and, as it appeared, deeply impressed with the truths which had been exhibited. After he had concluded these remarks, M. request- ed that some of the remaining Bibles and Testaments might be brought and laid before him on the table. These he distributed gratuitously to all present, who had not before been supplied, and who were unable to purchase them. While he was doing this, many who had previously receiv- ed the sacred volume, came forward and manifested their gratitude by laying upon the table their various donations of from two to ten francs* each, till, in a few moments, the table was well nigh covered. M. told them, he was unwilling to receive money in that manner, and wished them to put their gifts into the hands of the widow, accompanied by the names of the donors, that they might be regularly accounted to the Bible Society. This they consented to with some reluctance, when the widow brought from her drawer a purse containing a hundred and seventy francs, saying to M. , that he could not refuse that money, as it was the proceeds of Bibles and Testaments which she had sold in compliance with his directions. M. re- plied to her, that he had indeed requested her to sell these volumes to such as were able to purchase, that he might ascertain whether there were persons in that neighborhood who sufficiently appreciated the word of God to be willing to pay for it ; but, that object having been accomplished, it was now his privilege, on his own personal responsibility, to place the hundred and seventy francs in the hands of the widow, to be distributed, in equal portions, to the three # Five francs are nearly equal to one dollar. vol. vi. 7 12 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. unfortunate families whom they had mentioned as having recently lost their husbands and fathers by the caving in of a coal-pit. On hearing this, they together, spontaneously as it were, surrounded M. , and, with tears streaming from their eyes, loaded him with their expressions of gratitude and their blessings, rendering it the most touching scene which M. ever witnessed. Amidst all these tokens of their Christian affection, M. was compelled to prepare for his departure, and imploring the richest of heaven's mercies upon their heads, bade them an affectionate farewell. The whole company followed him to the carriage, and just as he had reached it, he once more addressed them, saying, "My dear friends, if any of you have not yet submitted yourselves to God, and are out of the ark of safety, I beseech you, 'give not sleep to your eyes, nor slumber to your eyelids/ until you flee to the Saviour. And those of you who have tasted that the Lord is gra- cious, live near to God, bear cheerfully the cross of your Redeemer, follow on to know the Lord and do his will, and by his grace reigning in your hearts, you shall come off conquerors, and more than conquerors !" When he had said this, and had again commended them to the God of all mercy through a crucified Redeemer, he drove off, amid their prayers and blessings, to see them no more till that day when they shall meet in the kingdom of their Father, where sighs and farewells are sounds unknown, and where God shall wipe away all tears from every eye. After M. 's return to Paris, he had the pleasure to learn from the widow, that all the Bibles he had left with her were disposed of, and that many, in various directions from the village, were earnest to obtain them, but could not be supplied. In the mean time, a deep interest in the spiritual welfare of these villagers had diffused itself beyond the limits of Paris, or even of France. The first eight pages THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAIN 9. 23 of this Tract, having found its way to England, had been published by the Religious Tract Society of London, and had obtained a very wide circulation. A parish in one of the interior towns of England had forwarded to M. twenty pounds sterling, for the purchase of Bibles to be presented to the widow for gratuitous distribution ; and a family of Friends from Wales, having read the narrative, visited M. at Paris, and proceeded thence to the vil- lage in the mountains, where they tarried no less than three weeks, assuring M. , on their return to Paris, that it had been the most interesting three weeks of their lives. As the proceeds of the twenty pounds, M. for- warded to the widow fifty Bibles and fifty Testaments, with a selection of several other choice books and Tracts. These Bibles, Testaments, and Tracts, were all actually disposed of in eight days, of which the widow gave early information, accompanied by letters to M. , and to the benevolent donors in England, expressing, in the most cor- dial manner, her gratitude, and that of those who had thus been supplied with the word of life. She gave a particular statement of the eagerness with which they had been read, of their distribution in many Catholic families, and the conversion of some to the truth as it is in Jesus. She in- formed that many individuals and families were still un- supplied ; and for herself and those around her, expressed her thanksgivings to God for the wonders of his love in inspiring the hearts of his children to unite their efforts in Bible and other benevolent institutions, and to contribute of their substance to extend to the destitute a knowledge of the Gospel. The last letter which M. received from the widow, before he left the country, contained two hundred francs, which she and her children had contributed as a donation, in acknowledgment of the Bibles and Testaments which he had from time to time forwarded. Mr. - — replied to her, that it gave him more joy than 24 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS to have received twenty thousand francs from another source, as it testified their attachment to the word of God. He returned her the full amount of their donation in Bibles, with two hundred and fifty Testaments from the Society, together with fifty from himself, as his last present before his departure, and also six hundred Tracts and several other religious books. Pointing out to her an esteemed friend in Paris, to whom, if further supplies should be need- ed, she might apply with assurance that her requests would be faithfully regarded, and exhorting her to remain steadfast in the faith, and to fix her eye always upon the Saviour, M. commended her to God, in the fervent hope, that, through the unsearchable riches of his grace, he should hereafter meet her and her persecuted associates, in that world "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." Note. — The original letters of the widow, in French, ar deposited in the archives of the American Tract Society. NARRATIVE XVIII. THE HONEST WATERMAN; OR, HISTORY OF THOMAS MANN, DISTINGUISHED FOR TTTS RELIGIOUS CHARITIES. A gentleman in London who was Treasurer of a re- ligious society, was called upon one day by a waterman of respectable appearance, whose business was to pay into the treasury of the institution a legacy of fifty pounds. The legacy had been left by his uncle, the late Thomas Mann, of St. Catharines by the Tower, London. The circumstances and the interview deeply affected the mind of the gentle- man, and gave rise to the following conversation. 2 THE HONEST WATERMAN. Learning that the uncle was also a waterman, the gentle- man asked, " Was he a lighterman ? — did he keep barges ?" " No, sir, he was only a scullerman ; he had nothing but a small boat for taking passengers, laboring with his own hands." "But how could a scullerman save so much money as to leave fifty pounds in charity ?" " He was very industrious, sir, and very frugal • he has left a great many legacies to religious and benevolent soci- eties, besides money to his relations." " Was he, then, a miser ?" "0 no, sir; the very opposite of that; he was a very generous man." " How then could he acquire so much property ?" " Why, sir, he was a very early riser, for one thing, and would often do nearly a day's work before other people were up in the morning ; and then he was so honest, in never asking more than his fare, and so civil, and his boat and his person always so clean, and neat, and comfortable, that I suppose he had generally more fares than other wa- termen. His character was so well known on the river, that he was commonly called 'The Honest Waterman.' " " What legacies has he left besides this ?" said the gen- tleman. " I can hardly remember them all. There is a hundred pounds to the Bible Society, another hundred to the Church Missionary Society ; another hundred, I believe, to the Bethel Union ; another to the Spitalfields Benevolent So- ciety. I do not remember them all, but there are nine ot a hundred pounds to nine different societies. There is a legacy to the Charity-school in which he was brought up ; there is also a hundred pounds to his brother-in-law, who married his sister ; there are other legacies to his relations and friends ; and he has left me the remainder." " How much did he die worth ?" " Between two and three thousand pounds." " Was vour uncle a married man ?" / THE HONEST WATERMAN. 3 u No, sir ; but he supported his mother and sisters, after his father's death, till they died." " You said he was a generous man : how could he be generous, besides supporting his mother and sisters, and yet save so much money ?" " Sir, his industry and frugality were so remarkable, that he always had wherewith to help a poor man. If any waterman happened to lose his boat, my uncle was always the first to relieve him ; and he used, on Sundays, to take a quantity of silver to give to poor persons whom he might see at church, or in the street, who appeared in distress, and proper objects of relief. I know he put a sovereign in the plate at the last charity- sermon which he attended." " How old was he ?" " He was seventy-five when he died." " What kind of a man was he in his person ?" " He was particularly neat. On a Sunday he appeared somewhat like a Quaker, for he latterly wore a broad- brimmed hat, and a light wig, with a sort of double curl." " Was he at all singular in his manners ?" " Not at all ; he had nothing eccentric about him : he was a fine, open-hearted man as ever you saw. He was a very sensible man, too, and a good scholar, considering he was brought up in a charity-school." " Was he a pious man ?" " He was indeed, sir ; and he died, as he lived, like a Christian. I have written down a great many of his ex- cellent sayings while he was ill ; he had a great deal of the Scriptures by heart. sir, he was very happy ! he said such things as would have delighted you. I am sure it would have done you good to have seen him, and heard him talk." " Well," said the gentleman, " you should write down all you can remember and collect respecting so excellent a man." Such was literally the information of this deserving nephew, concerning his worthy uncle. The gentleman to 4 THE HONEST WATERMAN whom it was thus, apparently by accident, communicated, struck by a recital at once so simple and so extraordinary, immediately committed what he had heard to writing. He subsequently made diligent inquiry among those who had known "The Honest Waterman" during his life. Their testimony was uniform. Such a character, so extensively useful, yet so little known, had never before met his obser- vation. He was born in the precinct of St. Catharine, by the Tower of London, June 4, 1747. In the Tower- Ward Charity-school he learned to write a good hand, and made some progress in arithmetic. He was accustomed fre- quently to express his sense of these advantages, and his gratitude for a benefit then much less common than at pres- ent, and without which he must have remained uninstruct- ed. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a water- man on the Thames, with whom he served the usual term of seven years. During that early period, his attachment was marked to his mother and sisters, his principal recreation being the enjoyment of their society : to the latest period of his life, he never spoke of the former but as his " dear mother." When he had served five years of his apprenticeship, it pleased God to deprive him of his father, and thus to bring Jnto active exertion that warmth of affection, and excel- lence of principle, which might otherwise have remained concealed. The death of his father was sudden. He was drowned in the Thames, while eno^ed in the duties of his calling. Many plans were immediately devised by Thomas for the support of his mother and sisters : he at first thought of obtaining from his master a release from the remainder of his apprenticeship, but this he was not able to accom- plish. A circumstance, apparently trifling, but in its results evidently providential, led to one of his sisters procuring a supply of needle-work : the rest joined their efforts to hers, and by their skill and industry, they supported themselves, for some years, with credit. Thomas used to sit with them THE HONEST WATERMAN 5 during the evening, and cheer their labors by his company, at the conclusion of his own. Young Mann had been led to expect that, at the con- clusion of his apprenticeship, he should be presented by his master with the boat in which he had been accustomed to ply : he was not only disappointed in this hope, but further chagrined by his master's selling the boat without apprising him of any such intention. He was, therefore, obliged to begin the world with a few pence which his mistress gave him, his only boon at the expiration of seven years' diligent service. He was of a spirit not to be discouraged by diffi- culties ; and, with an ardor never diminished during a long life, he entered his calling on his own account, at first bor- rowing a boat from any friend who had the kindness and ability to lend him one. His persevering industry, and a little assistance from one of his sisters, at length enabled him to purchase a new wherry for twelve pounds. There was a peculiarity in the manner in wiiich our Waterman performed his labor. He was what is called a " Hard-rowed Sculler ;" and was generally admitted to be the hardest working man on the river. Not only in his youth, but when far advanced in years, it was commonly his custom to row as if matched against time, endeavoring to pass every boat ahead of him, and to keep completely ahead of those astern, even if they had the advantage of a pair of oars. His second boat carried about thirty hundred weight, for the greater convenience of conveying stores for the navy, yet he never shrunk from contending with boats much more lightly laden than his own. He made a point, however, of not rowing for a wager, and was never known to lay a bet of any kind. It was his practice not to wait for the turn of the tide ; but, wherever his business took him, to return immediately to his usual plying- place, Iron- Gate Stairs, by the Tower. After rowing twenty or thirty miles, he would row up to the stairs in the lively, spirited manner in which he set out. As an instance of his power of body, and also of his 33* 6 THE HONEST WATERMAN. attachment to home, it may be mentioned, that he one day rowed a party to Twickenham, and brought them back to Brentford, where he landed them about eleven o'clock at night; instead of passing the night there, he pursued his way to London, which he did not reach till one in the morn- ing. He was prepared to recommence his labor as usual at six o'clock, remarking to his nephew, who accompanied him, how much benefit they had derived from a few hours' rest at home. He was almost always fully employed, and many were disappointed at not being able to procure his boat ; but, as he never asked more than the regular fare, he had not any extraordinary means of increasing his property. So strict were his ideas of the principles of justice, that he frequently refused or returned money when it exceeded the amount due to him, and was intended by the donors to show how much they had been pleased by his unusual intelligence and attention. Bystanders would sometimes smile, and say, " See, if I had been offered money, whether I should have refused it." Once, when inquisitively questioned as to his property, which, in order to discover the exact amount, the inquirer rated too highly, Mann replied, "How can I be worth so much ? I never got an easy shilling in my life." He was frequently the first at his post in the morning, and gained much of his earnings before other watermen were out of their beds. He thought hard labor never in- jured any one. With the exception of some bilious com- plaints, and occasional headaches, he enjoyed uninterrupted health ; nor was he confined to his bed during his whole life, till his first and last illness. His food was simple and frugal, and he seldom drank any thing but water to allay his thirst. During the summer he allowed himself cooling fruits ; and when suffering much, found tea a most refresh- ing beverage, and would take it in large quantities. He used malt liquor with his dinner only ; nor could he be pre- vailed upon to share any of those indulgences which his constant labor would have rendered very allowable. To THE HONEST WATERMAN. 7 his temperance, to his industry, and to the subjugation of temper which he had attained, there is no doubt he owed, under Providence, that robust health and extraordinary strength for which, to his last years, he was remarkable ; as well as that competency which enabled him not only to "provide things honest in the sight of all men," but to abound in acts of benevolence. His charity was so universal, so constantly and daily practised, that the detail of it would be as monotonous as it was unceasing : a few anecdotes only will be related, and a few of the methods detailed, by which, with all humility, he " let his light shine before men," and by which those who come after may be led to "glorify his Father which is in heaven." He gave liberally after charity- sermons, and always lamented seeing persons pass the plate without contributing. " They love a cheap Gospel," he would say. He had not courage to enter a place of worship at which he was unac- customed to attend, unless the sermon was to be followed by a collection, "and then," said he, " I can enter boldly." Between the hours of service,* he would often walk up and down the streets, instead of going home ; and if he saw persons who seemed to suffer silent distress, he would accost them in a kind manner, inquire into their circumstances, and administer relief where it seemed to be required. For this purpose he always put a quantity of silver into his pockets on Sabbath -morning. He used to say that it was a man's duty, when he possessed enough to supply his own wants, to continue the exercise of his calling for the benefit of others. One Sabbath he observed a poor man, much dejected, looking carefully on the ground as he walked. At length he found the leg bone of a fowl or turkey, which he picked up eagerly, and was proceeding to scrape it with a small knife, when perceiving himself watched, he became much confused, and went on so rapidly, that the waterman lost him, but contrived, by going round a street, to meet him S THE HONEST WATERMAN. again. Addressing him kindly, " My friend," said lie, " that's poor cheer — you seem to be in great distress ;" and pro- ceeded to inquire the cause. It was a poor mechanic, out of employ, to whom he spoke, and finding the case a deserv- ing one, he instantly gave him all the money he had in his pockets. He often mentioned this circumstance as having greatly affected him. He frequently purchased boats, or parted with his own, when half worn out, for poor watermen with families, some- times receiving payment from them by instalments, accord- ing to their ability. He never prosecuted for the recovery of a debt, or received interest upon any sum borrowed of him by friends for their accommodation. Noticing a person, by whom he was one day employed, in great apparent dejection of spirits, he inquired the cause, and was told that it was occasioned by the want of a sum of money of the utmost importance to him. He immediately advanced it, to be gradually repaid ; and he said that had the sum been twice the amount mentioned, he must have done the same, so deeply was his mind affected by the un- easiness he had witnessed. A poor man one day crossed the river from Iron- Gate Stairs to Horslydown. Returning soon after to the person who had rowed him over, he asked if he had left any thing in the boat. Being answered in the negative, he was much dismayed, burst into tears, and said he had lost two pounds, which he missed on landing ; that his wife and family were in want of the money, and he knew not what they would do without it. He then proceeded disconsolately over Little Tower-hill. Thomas Mann was at the plying-place, and, having heard his tale, was seen to follow, overtake, and give him something ; but the value of the gift was never known, excepting to himself and the poor man whom it relieved. Equally frequent were the cases in which he relieved the aged and infirm, by little weekly stipends, as a method of adding to their comforts; the occasionally distressed, by sums of money proportioned to the emergency of their cir- THE HONEST WATERMAN 9 cumstances ; those who were out of work, by employing them, and paying them for what he gave them to do. In this manner he furnished a poor man, who asked alms at his door, with* a quantity of religious Tracts, one of which he was to present at every house in the neighborhood, and then remunerated him for his trouble. Sometimes his stock of matches, bought of the poor, would so accumulate that he would furnish the baskets of other necessitous persons from his store. He was once seen going up to a poor boy, who sat by the side of Tower-hill, and after wiping his naked feet with a handkerchief, putting on them a new pair of shoes and stockings, which he had provided for the pur- pose. Many whom he assisted with articles to sell in the street, were so struck with his generosity, as to declare they could not trouble him any more ; some, for whom he had procured employment, would wait on him to return thanks for the comfortable circumstances in which they found them- selves placed. He was in the habit of giving half a crown at a time to poor, industrious men, remarking, that it was to get them something to eat for the morrow. This he often did on Saturday night. According as God had prospered him, he was able to distribute ; and the gift was calculated to remind poor persons of the approaching Sabbath, and lead them to prepare for it. When the minister and overseers went round the pre- cinct to collect money for occasional charitable purposes, he was always grieved if they passed his door without calling for his aid. The last time they called, which was when making subscriptions for the distressed Irish, he contributed a sovereign. He was fond of children; his behavior towards them was kind and endearing, and he would often purchase cakes of the poor people whom he saw in the streets, in order to distribute amorg the little ones around. On finally retiring from labor, he laid in a stock of various sorts of clothing, blankets, etc. ; and it formed a part of his employment, 10 THE HONEST WATERMAN. during that time which had previously been devoted to the duties of his calling, to select from his repository the proper articles for such as were in need. He contributed statedly and regularly to many of the religious and benevolent institutions. On those occasions, when asked his address, it was his custom generally to say no more than "The Tower." Secrecy was, probably, his motive for not becoming nominally an annual subscriber to any public charity. His nephew happening once to observe, in the Sailor's Magazine, mention of a donation of five pounds from "An Aged Waterman," said to his uncle, "J suppose you were meant." "There are many aged water- men besides myself," said the old man coolly. The dona- tion was to the Bethel Union, for promoting religion and morality among seamen. He has been heard to say that his first inyiression of the importance of religion was occasioned by the death of his father. He then began to pray frequently, and to form many resolutions as to his future conduct ; at the same time endeavoring to act conscientiously, and attending reg- ularly on the performance of religious duties. He appears to have had an idea of his own ability to commend himself to God, independently of divine influence ; and a consider- able tendency towards self-righteousness seems at this time to have existed in his mind. Through divine grace, by searching the Scriptures, examining his own heart, and attending the means of grace, he was led to feel that he was by nature a sinful and polluted creature, totally unable to save himself, and destitute of any spiritual strength. Thus humbled, under a sense of his sins, and feeling that all his own services, prayers, and resolutions, were in them- selves insufficient, he was led by faith to apply to the Lord Jesus Christ for the pardon of his sins and the salvation of his soul. He beheld the justice and mercy of God uniting to secure, by the atonement of Christ, the divine glory, and the salvation of all that come unto him and believe on him. He felt his need of a divine Saviour, and that Jesus Christ THE HONEST WATERMAN. H was his onty and all-sufficient Redeemer ; and while the death and intercession of Christ were the foundation of his faith, he felt it his duty and his delight to live unto Him who died for him, and who was his gracious Advocate above. Hence, he lived a life of faith on the Son of God, who loved him and gave himself for him. Hence, he was constrained by the love of Christ to walk in his ways, to obey his commands, and to live to his glory. And you too, reader, must seek the salvation of your soul through faith in the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world ; for there is none other name given among men whereby you can be saved. And if this faith be in you, as it was in Thomas Mann, it will work by love, and lead you to adorn the doctrine of God your Saviour in all things. His observance of the Sabbath was unvaried ; and on hearing of the profanation of this holy day by some persons with whom he was acquainted, he remarked, " They do not know the value of the Sabbath." He was accustomed, on that day, to take a lighter dinner than usual, in order to avoid drowsiness at church, to which the cessation of his customary labor might otherwise have made him liable. His conduct in the house of God evinced the sincerity of his devotion, and was observed as a lesson by some who noticed it, but who never, till inquiry elicited the knowledge after his death, learned to whom they had been indebted for so striking an example. He set great value on the Scriptures, and had many parts of them in his memory. No day passed without his reading them, generally very early in the morning, in win- ter by candlelight ; and at night, after the labors of the day were ended. He used to commence, and read regularly through his Bible,, a practice he had heard recommended from the pulpit, by Mr. Newton, under whose ministry he sat for some time previous to Mr. Newton's death. He was a man of prayer ; his devotion was regular and fervent, though modest and retiring. On one occasion, when, after being restored from circumstances of apparently 12 THE HONEST WATERMAN imminent danger, his nephew brought him some food, he burst out into a strain of gratitude highly spiritual and ex- cellent. He did not rest his hopes on his own virtuous conduct, or his devoted attention to religious services, public and private : these he esteemed his duty and his delight, but he did not make them substitutes for a Saviour, or the ground of his hopes before God. No ; he felt that his best services needed cleansing in the blood of Christ, and that salvation must be through his grace alone. Hence, to humble self, and to exalt the Lord Jesus Christ, was his constant desire, while he united in the language and feelings of the apostle, "God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world." Gal. 6:14. And if you, reader, admire, and would succeed in imitating the conduct of Thomas Mann, you must not fail to receive these divine truths with your whole heart, because they are the secret springs and motives to all that is truly excellent and well- pleasing in the sight of God. Such was the religion of the Honest Waterman ; arising from divine influences governing his thoughts, words, and actions — influencing alike his daily walk and conversation, and the conduct he pursued in any emergency. It was this indwelling principle which induced the open cheerfulness, the constant equanimity, the unvaried tranquillity for which he was remarkable ; causing his peace to flow as a river, and rendering his life so serene as to leave little of variety in its progress. After his retirement from labor, he appeared to lay him- self out entirely for the glory of God and the good of his fellow-creatures; his acts of benevolence were continual, but as private as he could possibly make them ; and he manifested a peculiar dislike to flattery, whenever it was mingled with expressions of gratitude for the benefits he conferred. Although adopting a mode of life so different from that THE HONEST WATERMAN. 13 lo which he had been accustomed, time never appeared to hang heavy on his hands ; he was not gloomy or fretful : the Bible was his constant companion, and when not en- gaged in reading or meditating on its contents, he scorned to eat the bread of idleness. Accordingly, besides the dis- tribution of clothing and money to the poor, which occupied him during some parts of the week, as well as on the Sab- bath, he found various ways of employing himself, some- times using edge-tools, and making boxes, stools, etc. In the spring of 1822, the house in which he was born, and had resided during his whole life, with the exception of his seven years' apprenticeship, was, with several others in the neighborhood, pulled down. He purchased a quan- tity of the old materials, and watchful for an employment which, while it amused himself, might benefit others, he sawed the wood and put it up into bundles, which he sold to the poor around him at a price much below its value. It was pleasant to see the old waterman, when he -had left off labor, on a fine, sunshiny day, sitting on a bench, at his former plying-place, conversing with his old friends, and with the younger ones who had succeeded him. Hither he frequently repaired. He always seemed happy and agree- able ; but his mind was sometimes much pained at the oaths and offensive language which too often met his ears. Per- haps some of those who thus grieved him, have since seen the error of their ways, and mourned that they should have wounded the Christian spirit of so good a man, and still more, that they should have broken the express command of a holy God. Perhaps some of them may see in these pages the record of their fault, and, struck for the first time with a sense of its enormity, may determine to renounce the sinful practice. If so, though it is too late for Thomas Mann to rejoice on earth at being the means of their refor- mation, yet "joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth." Sometimes the old man would take a boat and row him- self about the river for exercise ; or, if not equal to so much Fl*sr. War. 34 14 THE HONEST WATERMAN. exertion, he would employ another waterman to row him : occasionally he would go in a boat in quest of coal for his own use, or to bestow gratuitously on his poor neighbors. These gifts were always made with much method, and with due attention to the various wants of those for whom they were intended. On Sabbath, October 6th, he was not well enough to £0 to church in the morning, but he went in the afternoon and in the evening. In returning home, which he reached with difficulty, owing to an affection of his breath, he was seized with so much debility as to be obliged to ask the assistance of an arm from more than one person ; and he fell down once on his way. During the following week he seemed to recover ; but on the week succeeding, being worse, he con- sented to have medical advice. On the 17th of October he kept his bed during the day, for the first time since his childhood. He now desired his nephew to write, from his dictation, the manner in which he would have his property disposed of, mentioning his anxious wish to " send forth evangelical missionaries." The various objects to which he w r as desirous of contributing, were then taken down in writing, and the sums affixed to each according to his direc- tion : on their being read over to him, he often said, " That is not enough ;" and this was repeated so many times, that he afterwards found diminution necessary, when his will came to be regularly made. " These are blessed institu- tions," said he, referring to the societies to which he made bequests. Being afterwards in violent pain, he requested his nephew to procure some one to pray with him, and a pious neighbor w r as sent for. On his arrival, he asked what should be the subject of his petitions. " My dismissal from the body," said the sufferer. His friend expostulated with him, questioning the propriety of such a prayer, and adding, in the language of St. Paul, " Perhaps your abiding in the flesh is more needful for us." Mann replied, that the apostle. was a great and holy man, and could not be compared to himself. THE HONEST WATERMAN. 15 "Of what use," he continued, "can I be to myself or oth- ers ? I am now only a burden." His friend reasoned with him on the subject, and pointed out the duty of God's people in suffering, as well as in doing his will. No expression of impatience was afterwards heard. When questioned by this visitor as to the state of his mind, he replied, in the words of the apostle, " I find a law in my members warring against the law of my mind. wretched man that I am ! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" He then added, of his own accord, "None but Jesus, none but Jesus ; my reliance is on Christ alone, who loved me, and gave himself for me." Many of his sayings, sometimes longing for stronger confidence in the Saviour, always expressive of ardent love to him, and an eager desire for his appearing, were recorded by his nephew. Scripture now seemed quite familiar to him, and his quotations from its pages were very frequent. Once he exclaimed, " 0, that blessed book ! 0, that men would take it for their guide !" Sometimes he was enabled to rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Happening to say that he felt no pain, his nephew remarked, " That is a mercy." "Yes," said he, "I am made up of mercies, and that through no merit of my own." Being asked to take some wine, he said, " I have got the wine of the New Je- rusalem — the wine of the consolation of Christ — I, a poor, guilty, depraved creature — nothing but Christ and his sal- vation." In the midst of acute pain he exclaimed, "Lord, thy sufferings were great when thou criedst, 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me V and in the agony of the gar- den, when thou saidst, ' My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death.' " In similar circumstances he said, " Thou knowest I have cried heartily in thy house for * deliverance in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment ;' Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the great incomprehensible Jehovah, help my feeble frame ! I am very weak ; but no — no wrath. 0, it was a joyful sound of the angelic host. * Glory to 16 THE HONEST WATERMAN. God in the highest.' Joy, joy, joy, in the presence of the angels." Being desired to keep himself warm and comfortable, he said, "My comfort is in death, when I shall join the heavenly throng, 1 Then will I sing more sweet, more loud, And Christ" shall be my song.' " Many were the hymns and texts of Scripture which, in the intervals of pain, he quoted : unconnected us they were, they showed where his thoughts were fixed, and what was the prevailing tenor of his mind. To a little girl who came to make inquiries, in the hope of seeing him, he said, " The fear of God is the guard of youth ; give yourself up to him without reserve." Though variously exercised, sometimes depressed by a deep sense of unworthiness, and by a natural dread of pain and of death, his mind appears to have been still fixed on spiritual things, and his whole conversation was either drawn from the oracles of truth, or related to his own religious feelings. Short petitions for the spread of the Gospel, for the good of others, for his own pardon and acceptance with God, were frequently uttered. They were occasionally indistinct, but always scriptural. " I can say the Lord's prayer from my heart," he once exclaimed ; "Lord, let my will be dissolved in thine. I know that Jesus Christ has lived and died for me, and purchased my pardon with his most precious blood." At another time, " I desire to be where Mr. Newton wished to be — at the foot of the thief on the cross." "The best of doings is worth nothing." " My object has been to hate sin, and flee from it. I have hated it with a perfect hatred." "I can say, with pious Job, ' Thy hand is heavy upon me, but thy comforts delight my soul.' " Being told that one of the pocket-books for 1823 con- tained a portrait of the Rev. Thomas Scott, he mentioned the last time he had heard him preach ; and then spoke of THE HONEST WATERMAN. 17 the late Rev. Mr. Foster, adding, " They are now before the throne — 0, that I was with them !" He continued expressing himself in a similar manner, till he was reduced so low as to be unable to speak, and only capable of making signs. After remaining a short time in a state of extreme debility, he suddenly appeared to revive, recovered strength sufficient to take some nourishment, and was spared several weeks afterwards. One day, while still very weak, his nephew, sitting by his bedside, begun hum- ming the hundredth psalm, when the old man joined him, and recollected some verses which the nephew had forgot- ten. Afterwards he began, and they sung together that beautiful hymn of Dr. Watts: " When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of gfory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride." This was the only time at which he was ever heard to sing, unless when joining in public worship. Soon afterwards, one morning, when left alone, he was heard to fall. His nephew instantly repaired to him, and found that he had fallen on his side from his knees, through weakness. On being raised, he again requested to be left, in order to continue the private worship in which he was engaged. Some hopes were now entertained of his recovery, pain having left him, and debility being his only remaining com- plaint. But his constitution had sustained a shock so severe that the prospect was speedily relinquished. He was, how- ever, again able to go down stairs ; and, though extremely apprehensive of proving troublesome, he was at length pre- vailed on to allow himself to be removed to his nephew's bouse. There it was his custom to retire early to rest ; but if, in order to lengthen his repose, his affectionate rela- tive did not appear to assist him to rise in the morning so soon as he wished, he would exert his remaining strength, 34 * 18 THE HONEST WATERMAN. and dress himself unaided. It was in vain to mention the debilitated state of his frame as a reason for self-indulgence ; he seemed to think time as valuable, and as necessary to be fully occupied as ever. His usual equanimity of temper continued manifest ; thankfulness was expressed for every trifling service he received ; and he always aimed to give as little trouble, and cause as little inconvenience in the family as possible. This interval of convalescence appears to have been very mercifully appointed. During his first severe illness, his apprehension of continued bodily suffering seemed to exceed that which he was actually enduring ; and great anxiety for a speedy dismissal from the body was evidenced. The sweet submission, holy composure, and perfect acquiescence in the will of God, which marked his whole behavior subsequently to the last attack, showed that the season which had elapsed, of suspended suffering, and of comparative ease — during which, though his debilitated frame rendered him quite aware of approaching dissolution, yet the cessation of actual pain enabled his- vigorous mind fully to contemplate his situation on the verge of eternity — was used to the utmost advantage, in acquiring, from the treasures of the Scripture with which his memory was stored, and those which re- newed prayer and meditation opened to his experience, that heavenly tranquillity which led the Psalmist to exclaim, " Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright ; for the end of that man is peace. " He was one day much delighted at hearing an account of the conversion of the Islanders in the South Seas, exclaim- ing, " Now, is not that pleasing ?" and on information being communicated from another part of the world, in which the efforts for the spread of Christianity had been less success- ful, he said, emphatically, " If a man is dead in sin, nothing will awake him but the almighty power of Jehovah.' \ Speaking of himself one morning, in a cheerful manner, he applied to his own history two lines of Bunyan, which were certainly never more strikingly exemplified. THE HONEST WATERMAN. 19 " There was a man, whom some accounted mad , The more he gave away, the more he had." " I am sure," said he, " I have found it so." One night, after being assisted to bed, his nephew say- ing, " Good night, God bless you !" and observing the old man to reply only " Good night !" he asked the reason, and was answered, that as those words were generally spoken in a sense quite unmeaning, if not profane, he never used them. On the 8th. of December, symptoms appeared which indicated approaching dissolution. The kindly feelings of his heart were still vigorous. Some one present blamed his nephew for betraying his grief. " You do not know," said the old man, " what a strong affection there is between him and me." " You are not afraid of death," said the nephew. " no," he exclaimed, repeating the words, " I am not afraid of death." His nephew calling him his only friend, he said, " Make God your friend." The following Monday, as he was sitting by the fire, he was seized with violent pain, and was overheard by those near him in earnest prayer. The severity of his sufferings extorted from him a groan : he afterwards observed, "Many Christians bear their pain without a sigh or groan. How they do it, I don't know ; I am sure I do not cry out wil- fully or wantonly ; my pain forces it from me." He then said, " Lord, accept me in and for the sake of the adorable Redeemer !" On something being mentioned concerning God's time, he said, "Happy time!" This was a day of continued suffering ; and after retiring to rest, he was over- heard importuning his heavenly Father to pity and release him. The next morning he rose without assistance, but in a short time returned to his bed. He did not then appear in much pain, but seemed reluctant to converse, and said he needed rest. In the course of the day, seeing his nephew with a book in his hand, he said, " Read your Bible and 20 THE HONEST WATERMAN. pray for the light of God's Spirit upon it." Afterwards, being asked if he was happy, and if he relied on the great work wrought out on Calvary, he replied, " Nowhere else ; God forbid that I should glory save in the cross. of Jesus Christ." One present, in allusion to the "Pilgrim's Prog- ress," said, " Poor Christian had Hopeful to hold up his head while passing through the river ; and you have a good hope." "Yes," said he, "the love of God is shed abroad in my heart." Afterwards he added, " My strength is per- fect weakness. Finish thy work, Lord, and let me join thy heavenly host, to sing thy praise for ever and ever." It was difficult to suppose his end so near as it proved. He seemed like a person taking comfortable repose after a long and fatiguing journey. In fact, his soul was already entering into that rest which remaineth for the people of God. Being asked if his mind continued happy, he said, " Yes ;" and to the question whether he suffered much pain, he replied, " No." This was his last word. He fell into a peaceful slumber, which lasted two hours without any ap- pearance of restlessness, and then calmly yielded up his soul into the hands of his faithful Creator and merciful Redeemer. Thus died Thomas Mann, on Wednesday, December 11, 1822, aged Id years. He left one hundred pounds ster- ling three per cent, annuities, to each of the following insti- tutions : namely, the Bible Society ; the Church, London, Baptist, and Home Missionary Societies ; the Religious Tract Society ; the Irish Evangelical Society ; the Spital- fields Benevolent Society ; and the London Female Peni- tentiary ; also fifty pounds, in money, to the Tower- Ward Charity-school ; the Wesleyan Missionary Society ; the Lying-in Society, Knight Ryder-street ; the Charity-school, St. Catharine, Tower ; and the Bethel Union. Note. This strictly authentic narrative was originally pub lished in a more extended form, by the Religious Tract Society in London, one of the institutions to which the Waterman be- queathed 100 pounds at his death. NARRATIVE XIX. THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE. BY WILLIAM A. HALLOCK, CORRESPONDING SECRETARY OF THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY The spring by the road-side. — See page 10. It is the glory of the Gospel, that it is adapted to the circumstances and wants of all, and equally to the glory of its great Author, that, while he " inhabiteth eternity," he condescends to " dwell " " with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit." Such a spirit was perhaps the prevailing characteristic of the individual whose history is now presented to the reader, in a simple, unexaggerated narrative of facts. .2 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. I first became acquainted with Joseph Beals about the year 1800. He lived in one of the then recent settlements on the beautiful range of the Green Mountains, which ex- tend some hundreds of miles, in a northerly direction, near the western boundary of New England. I have learned that he was born, June, 1752, in Bridgewater, a few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts ; and that he early imbibed and cherished the sentiment, that external morality, without a change of heart, may secure the salvation of the soul. Pecuniary embarrassments, occasioned by the struggle for our nation's independence, induced him in' 1779 to seek a residence for himself and a rising family among the forests of the mountains, where his axe soon laid open a spot suffi- ciently large for the erection of a cottage, the sides of which were composed of the logs he had felled, and the roof was covered with bark or flat slips of wood. He continued to make new inroads upon the forest ; and at length, by the fruits of his industry, succeeded in pro- viding for his wife and little ones a more convenient though humble habitation, and storing it with a sufficiency of the necessaries of life. Here, when nothing occurred to per- suade him to omit the duty, he frequently called his house- hold around him to offer morning and evening devotions : for having undertaken to procure heaven by his own right- eousness, he thought family worship must constitute a part of it. And so watchful was he over himself, that, except- ing his moroseness, his unyielding temper, the severity of his family government, his murmurings at the allotments of Providence, and his bitter opposition to the distinguishing doctrines of evangelical religion, his life was, in the view of those around him, blameless. Such was Joseph Beals, when, in 1789, a year of great scarcity of provisions, God saw fit to teach him the true THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 3 character of his heart by a very afflictive dispensation. Being absent from home one evening with his wife, at about 8 o'clock the alarm was given that his house was in flames. They had proceeded too far to be- arrested. The house was consumed, and with it nearly all the provisions he had laid in store. Thus perished in an hour the fruits of nearly ten years, and he saw little in the prospect but the wretched- ness of absolute famine. Here he found, probably for the first time, that he had no true submission to the will of God. He could not say, " Thy will be done." His heart repined against Him who orders all things well, and whose kind preservation of his children called loudly for gratitude. This led him seriously to question whether his religion was such as would stand the test of the last day. He found he could not endure the trials of this life, and he trembled in view of the retributions of eternity. For a time he struggled to banish the unwel- come thought, in his exertions to provide for his family ; but when the abundant crops of the succeeding summer removed the occasion of this anxiety, his relish for earthly pur- suits died away, and he had now become equally weary of his fruitless endeavors to work out a righteousness of his own. Thus was he prepared, in the mysterious providence of God, for the visit of the Holy Spirit to " convince him of sin, of righteousness, and of a judgment to come." He was brought to see that the law of God is "exceeding broad," extending not to the external actions merely, but to " the thoughts and intents of the heart ;" that his sins were im- measurably great; that "all his righteousnesses were as filthy rags ;" and that the day of final judgment was but a little way before him. He saw the wrath of God revealed against him, and neither acquiesced in its justice, nor per- ceived any way of escape. He betook himself to the Scrip- 4 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. tures, and began to search them in earnest for relief, but they seemed to contain no promises or blessings for him. He was ready to despair of ever finding mercy. Every day, and sometimes every hour of the day, he would retire to the forest with his Bible, and there attempt to breathe out his prayer to the God who reared the stately trees, and whom he had so grievously offended. They, in every breeze before which they bent, were vocal with the praises of their Creator ; but their song was mingled only with his bitter lamentations, and his rending cries for mercy to a God whose praise he could not sing. Every thing he met seemed to concur with his own con- science in showing him the magnitude of his sins, and deep- ening his impressions of the realities of the judgment-day. When husking his Indian corn, with his little sons beside him, the separation of the good ears from the bad so forci- bly reminded him of the awful separation of the last day, when he expected to hear the sentence, " Depart, ye cursed,'' that he could not continue his work, but was -compelled abruptly to retire. Under these impressions, he went to his impenitent wife, thinking that he could convince her of the danger to which they were both exposed ; but he found that the Lord only can affect the heart. Thus he continued borne down with a sense of his sinful- ness, and of " the wrath of God abiding on him ;" recurring to his Bible, and his consecrated place of prayer ; silently presenting himself wherever any were assembled for the worship of God, and using all the external means of grace, till one morning, as he was about to close his prayer with his family, he suddenly broke forth in new strains of devo- tion, penitence, and praise for redeeming love ; and continued praying, as his family believed, for more than an hour, apparently unconscious of the progress of time. To his children, this fervor, as well as the previous THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 5 anguish of his spirit, appeared quite unaccountable; for they seem scarcely to have heard that, " except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God," John 3 : 3, or to have known any thing of the renewing and sanctifying influences of the Holy Ghost. But his wife, who had recently witnessed some other instances of sorrow for sin, followed by joy and peace in believing, feared that the same result was about to be realized in her husband, and to her impatient and unhumbled spirit the season of prayer was tedious almost beyond endurance. In the husband and father God saw the temper of one now subdued by divine grace, broken for sin, and filled with arguments by the manifestations of redeeming love, plead- ing for mercy with the humility of a little child. In the wife and mother he saw the proud spirit, which would not accept of mercy, nor consent to its being bestowed upon her husband ; but she knew not what blessings were to descend on her and her children in answer to his prayers. The reality of what she feared became too evident to be questioned. Her husband enjoyed a cheering hope of his acceptance in Jesus Christ — a hope which the reader will not be disposed to think unfounded, when he learns the fruits by which it was accompanied, in that best of all evi- dences, a holy life. Such fruits of the Spirit, I cannot but remark for the benefit especially of young readers, are evi- dences of saving conversion,, on which we should chiefly rely, whether the particular hour of our deliverance from condemnation is known to us, as was joyfully the case with the subject of this narrative, or not. The grand question to be solved is, whether we have surrendered our hearts to Christ — whether, whereas once we were blind, now we see — whether we have now the graces of the Spirit in exer- cise, proving our union with Christ. The manner of the Spirit's operations in different minds is very diverse : the Eloff. Nar. 35 G THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. radical change from sin to holiness is essentially the sam& in all who are truly converted to God. From the time of the conversion of the subject of this narrative, his heart became engaged in all those religious duties which he had hitherto performed with a cold for- mality. His hopes of salvation, which before were grounded on his morality, now rested on the atoning sacrifice of Christ, through repentance and faith wrought in him by the Holy Spirit. His own sinfulness, apart from the merits of Christ, appeared greater than ever before ; but he saw there was perfect efficacy in the blood of the Lamb of God to take away all his sins. He put his trust in that Saviour, and found him "worthy of all acceptation." His irritable tem- per became mild, and his heart expanded in love to God and man. He became an example of meekness and devotion to the cause of his Redeemer ;* and early in 1791 publicly consecrated himself to him, by uniting with a small evan- gelical church which had been formed in the district where he resided. Immediately after his conversion, he began to pray and labor fo:- the salvation of his family, instructing them from the Scriptures, and urging upon them the duty of submitting themselves to Christ. Especially was he solicitous for the salvation of his -wife, in whom the opposition of the heart to vital godliness was most conspicuously manifested. His enjoyment in religion, and particularly his delight in spirit- ual communion with Christian friends, were almost odious to her. He could with difficulty persuade her to attend a religious meeting ; or even to visit her friends with him, if she knew that Christians were to be present, such was his apparent delight in conversing with them. On one occasion, after visiting with him at the house of captain S , a relative and a heavenly-minded man, she determined never to go with him again ; for his mind was so engrossed with THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 7 religious topics, that she thought herself quite forgotten. He sometimes remonstrated with her mildly ; assuring her that, if her heart were right with God, the subject of re- ligion would be a source of the highest enjoyment. She was not inclined to credit his assertion ; but, in the way- wardness of her mind, resolved, as she afterwards told a friend, that, if her views of religion should be changed, he should never know it. It was long before she relinquished all hope that what her companion thought was a change in his affections would prove a delusion. She considered murmuring and peevish- ness to be his besetting sin ; and when any unpleasant event occurred, she would wait with eagerness to see an exhibition of his former fretfulness — and it is more than can be said of most professed Christians, that she is believed always to have waited in vain. On one Sabbath morning, she had great hope that the adversary would triumph over him. The new settlers had united about this time in procuring the stated preaching of the Gospel, and he was careful always to be present at an early hour. He went out to his pasture to take an unruly horse, which formerly had caused him many a weary step and filled him with wrath ; but though his patience was much tried, he came in filled with that peace which the sacredness of the day and of the delightful services in which he was about to engage were calculated to inspire. The opposition of his wife to the spiritual religion he had embraced, rose to such a height, that on his being taken sick, as she afterwards said, she even hoped he would not recover ; but he was enabled to exhibit a life of uniform meekness, kindness, and sympathy in all her trials. Up also prayed to God continually for her conversion. Nor did he cry in vain ; for when God had tried his servant as long as he saw it to be needful for his discipline and growth S THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. in grace, lie granted a gracious answer to his supplications, and she became a companion with whom he could hold sweet intercourse on the subject nearest his heart. In September, 1803, she united herself with the church. They then went joyfully " to the house of God " and to the table of the Lord " in company," and were mutual helpers in their spiritual pilgrimage, till together, as the s'equel will show, they took their departure for the "rest" which "remaineth to the people of God." After her conversion she felt that she could make no sufficient atonement to him for her oppo- sition. He wished no atonement but that she should faith- fully serve his blessed Master ; but she declared to a pious friend, that, if he would have permitted it, it would have been a relief to her mind to fall on her knees before him, and humbly beg his forgiveness. Soon after his conversion he found his first-born son earnestly seeking an interest in Christ, and the concern of a little daughter, at the age of four years, lest her soul should be lost, also awakened his tenderest sympathies. With this child, the incidents of whose death will hereafter be men- tioned, he spent many sleepless hours, endeavoring to com- pose her agitated feelings by instilling into her mind a knowledge of that Saviour who, when upon earth, "took little children into his arms and blessed them." He became also very active and useful in visiting the sick and afflicted ; instructing those who were inquiring the way of salvation, and animating the desponding Christian. About the year 1798 he purchased a corn-mill, which he regularly attended during most of the remaining years of his life, as a means of supporting his family. He usually appeared in a miller's dress, unless when attending public or social worship, and is remembered as the pious miller, probably by all who knew him. * THE MOUNTAIN MILLER.; 9 The purchase of this mill was, to many of the friends of the Redeemer, an occasion, at first, of sincere regret, on the ground that his confinement to it must greatly interfere with his usefulness. But they soon saw how divine Providence, who is infinite in wisdom, rendered this circumstance the means of good. His mill became a frequent resort of those inquiring the way to Zion, and was'doubtless the gate of heaven to many wandering sinners. For many years he was almost always to be found there, and was ever ready to converse on the great concerns of eternity. Few of the children of God entered his mill without receiving some new impulse to fidelity in the Christian life — few impenitent sinners, without being affectionately warned — rarely a child, without being instructed in religion — and none, without see- ing in him a living example of its power. Many instances might be specified in which individuals were greatly helped in their spiritual course by a visit to this mill. One was the case of Mr. George Vining,* a man who, like the Miller, had cherished from his early years an undoubting confidence in his own external morality for sal- vation ; but who had been led to see that his heart must be renewed, or he must be lost. He found no one who seemed so thoroughly to understand his case as the Miller, and often resorted to him for instruction and counsel. By the grace of God he was enabled, at length, to cast himself on Christ for salvation, and became a steadfast pillar in the church. An eminent and faithful clergyman has also informed the writer, that when he was brought to see his danger as a sinner, he frequently went several miles, from a neighbor- ing town, descending and climbing the long hills, that he might avail himself of the Miller's counsel and prayers ; and # See Tract No. 354. 35* 10 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. an exemplary physician states, that the Miller was the first person that ever asked him if he had been born again. The spot where so many thus met the pious Miller and his devout aspirations so often ascended to God, and even the pure perennial spring of water by the road side, where lie used to drink, bursting from the rocks in a basin three or four feet from the ground, as if hewn by God for the purpose, and shaded by two beautiful sugar-maples, have still a sacredness around them, which will remain till all who knew him and feel the value of religion shall have fol- lowed him to eternity. Confined as he was during six days of the week, he most scrupulously reserved the whole of the Lord's day for religious purposes. And though he himself considered the Sabbath as commencing at midnight, he usually shut his gate at the close of day on Saturday ; for he would not allow customers to be waiting for their meal on Saturday evening during hours which they thought holy time, and scrupulously regarded the feelings of his brethren of the church, who considered the Sabbath as commencing with the setting sun. At the close of the year 1804 God saw fit to try him, and to honor the religion he had professed, by calling him suddenly to part with his eldest daughter, for whose spir- itual welfare, at the tender age of four years, he had, as above related, felt so much anxiety. He was not confident of her preparedness for heaven ; but he was enabled to betake himself to a still higher source of consolation, while he cast her upon the mercy of his heavenly Father, and felt that he would do all things well. She was a lovely daugh- ter, in all the bloom of youth. The stroke was most severe. He plead with God for her, and was all that a father could be to her, till she was gone ; cheered by a faith " the sorrow THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 1 1 of the world " could not reach, and laboring at the same time to turn the tears of all around him to praise. He knew not, ne said, but he as cheerfully gave her back to God as he received her from his hand. His tongue was loosed in heavenly conversation, and he repeated, with much emotion, the whole of his favorite Psalm : " Sweet is the work, my God, my King", To praise thy name, give thanks, and sing." Such a state of mind continued, though with an increase of his spiritual joys, until the hour appointed for her burial, when his Christian friends, who came in great numbers to sympathize with him, saw in his sweet and placid counte- nance a glow, indicating unearthly peace and joy, and giving emphasis to the words of salvation which flowed irrepres- sibly from his lips. It was the custom of the plain and affectionate people among whom he resided,, after the fune- ral exercises, to place the coffin on a table a little distance from the house, where all who were present might take a last look at the deceased ; after which they would fall back in a circle, while the bereaved relatives approached for the same purpose. Such was the proceeding on this occasion. The devout Miller presented himself, his broken-hearted wife and children beside him, and with his head uncovered, and a countenance so serene and joyful that its expression will never be obliterated from the minds of many who were present, placed his hand upon the coffin's edge, and in a voice mellowed by the bursting emotions of his heart, began to speak to the sympathizing friends around him of the sweet consolations of religion in such an hour. He appealed to them, that they knew how he loved her whose remains then lay before him — how suddenly, she had been called into eternity ; but assured them, such had been the kindness and mercy of God to him in this affliction — such the spirit- ual consolations he had received — such the smiles of the 12 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. Saviour's countenance and the joys of his presence, that that day had been the happiest day of his life ; and the sweet peace he had experienced outweighed all the joys of earth. Here, said he, is a mirror into which we all may look. We shall soon be as this beloved child is. Are we prepared for judgment and eternity ? Nothing but an in- terest in Christ will then avail us. He urged all who knew not the consolations of religion, which he now found so pre- cious, to embrace it without delay, and all who had embraced it to be more holy, and come up more fully to the enjoyment of the privileges to which their Redeemer invited them. Thus he proceeded for some minutes, in a strain of affce- tion and solemnity, that brought eternity in full view, and melted the hearts of the whole concourse. On repairing to the grave, as soon as the body was lowered to its long home, he began again to speak of the necessity of preparation for eternity, filling up the moments till the grave was closed ; and when his wife afterwards asked if he did not say more than was proper, he told her such was his sense of the value of the soul, he could not refrain. Veterans in sin, who had seldom wept before, united their sympathies with the throb- bing bosoms of youth, in witnessing these scenes; and hardened unbelievers, as they retired, were heard to say, " I thought the religion of those called devout Christians was a delusion. I once called Joseph Beals a hypocrite ; but when I saw and heard him to-day, at his daughter's funeral, I knew he had something to support him that I had never experienced." The manner in which the Miller was sustained in this affliction is to be ascribed to no sudden burst of excited feeling, but to special aids of the Holy Spirit, imparted to one who habitually lived near to God, and maintained an abiding sense that, though " clouds and darkness are round about him," " righteousness and judgment are the habita- THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. X3 fcion of his throne." From the time of his conversion, the language of his heart in every trying dispensation seemed to be, " It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good." From that period no murmuring word against the dealings of his Maker is known to have escaped his lips. At one time, when a dear babe was apparently brought near to death, and his wife expressed her fears respecting the result, he told her that, much as it had entwined itself in their affections and engaged their prayers, he felt that he could resign it without any reserve to God, to do with it accord- ing to his holy pleasure. The same confidence in God supported him when, nearly six years after the death of his eldest daughter, he was called to bury his second daughter, at the age of twenty- one, who departed in the assured hope of heaven. Though his soul was not ravished with the manifestations of the Divine presence, as in the former trial, he was com- posed, and sweetly submissive to the will of God. In all the circumstances of his life his Christian course was remarkably uniform. ~No calamity on the one hand, however severe, was suffered greatly to depress his spirits ; nor, on the other, did any scene through which he passed greatly elate them. A mild and calm expression usually sat on his countenance, indicative of the heavenly peace that reigned within. The character which he exhibited in the occasional company of Christians, or in the meeting for social worship, he exemplified also in his family and in his common intercourse with men. None felt so deeply as his most intimate acquaintance, that his holy life proceeded from an abiding sense of the presence of God, and of his obligations to live entirely for his glory. His wife and chil- dren often conversed with deep interest on the probability that God would soon call him away from them. Heaven VOL. VII. 14 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. seemed to be already begun in his heart, and he appeared rather to " desire to depart" and be with his Saviour, where sin would be done away, and he should " see him as he is." As he was walking one day with a daughter in the grave- yard, she said to Jrim, " Father, are you always ready to go?" He meekly replied, "The prospect of living here always would be melancholy to me." In the summer of 1813 the period came when his pant- ings for heaven were to be realized, and when the prayer of the great Intercessor must be answered concerning him : " Father, I will that they whom thou hast given me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory." He was violently attacked with a prevailing fever, which in a few days, on the 20th July, released him from this body of sin, at the age of sixty-one. In this sickness he was calm, patient, and resigned to the will of God ; but in the rapid progress of the disease he found occasion to say, that, though he had a thousand times reminded others that a sick bed is a poor place in which to prepare for death, he then saw it more clearly than ever before. But through abounding gr ice, he had long been ripening for his departure. It was only for the spirit to burst its earthly tabernacle, and its abode was in glory. He died suddenly, in a fit of faintness, having had no premonition that death was immediately near, and with no opportunity to add any thing to that best of all evidence of his good estate — a life of devoted piety. His body was interred in the graveyard, near his accus- tomed place of worship, where a plain and neat marble slab, bearing his name, age, and the date of his death, is erected as the only memorial of "The Mountain Miller." A no- tice of his death was inserted in the county newspaper, with this expressive and appropriate motto : " His presence ani- mated the Christian and awed the sinner ;" which would have been his whole recorded story, had not some special THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 15 indications of Providence convinced the writer of this nar- rative of his duty to communicate it for the benefit, he trusts, of thousands. His wife, for whose conversion he labored and prayed, and who was afterwards so long the partner of his spiritual joys, was seized with a fever of a kindred character, almost simultaneously with himself, and died on the second day after his decease ; not being informed of his departure, though under the same roof, till their happy spirits greeted each other in the presence of their Eedeemer above. Several traits in the character of the Miller are worthy of a distinct consideration. His uniform and consistent piety. It proceeded from a heart regenerated by the Holy Spirit and guided by his influences. It was founded on the soul-subduing doctrines of the cross. His conversation abounded in practical views of the holiness and other perfections of God — the love and mercy of Christ — our sinfulness — the excellence of vital religion, and other kindred topics. No man was more easy of access on religious subjects. He was never addressed, when they were not uppermost in his mind, or when he had not words to speak for Christ and his cause. If conversa- tion was introduced on worldly subjects, he would soon turn it to the concerns of eternity, and in a manner so natural and familiar, that it rarely struck the mind of any as abrupt. " Out of the abundance of the heart'' his mouth spake, and " the law of kindness " was upon his lips. When a man came to his mill angry, because the poor beast that brought him, and which he had been beating unmercifully, had oc- casioned him delay, "What do you think," said the Miller, " of this passage, ' Make to yourselves friends of the mam- mon of unrighteousness ? • " At another time, when a num- ber of persons were speaking, with some animation, of their 16 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. prospect of removing to a distant part of the country, " Well," said he, " I expect to move but once more — and then into eternity !" The excellency of religion appeared in his character at all times, so far as his most intimate friends can remember. A very devoted and useful missionary to India, (the Rev. James Richards,) who went from the neighborhood of the Miller, and who is now doubtless with him in glory, when informed of his death, wrote back, that "he should ever esteem it an honor to have belonged to the same church with JosEni Beals." To the venerable father of that missionary, who knew the Miller most intimately, and who was eminently qualified to appreciate his real character, the writer is indebted for a letter, some passages of which will be interwoven in what remains of this brief sketch. " Before he experienced that change which was so visible to all conversant with him," says this letter, " his life was usually regarded as strictly moral ; but his religion was formal — partaking neither of that love to God, nor good will to man, which the Gospel inspires. After the change in him, it became spiritual and evangelical. It never rose to enthusiastic zeal. It was uniform and durable; and manifested itself in active life. He brought forth much fruit to the glory of God, and thereby gave indubitable evidence that he was, in reality, a disciple of Christ. A never-failing spring — affording nearly the same quantity of pure water at a time of the severest drought, as in a season of abundance of rain — is a happy emblem of the piety of this eminently good man." His meekness. This was perhaps the predominant trait in his character. The expression of his countenance clearly bespoke his communion with God. Perhaps the presence of no other man would silence so soon a company of the rude and dissolute — not because he attacked them openly, THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 17 but from the impressions of the reality of religion and of eternal things which his presence awakened. Probably he did not hear an oath in all the latter years of his life ; for the most profane revered him. It has been remarked by a very intimate friend, that, though from the time of his conversion always cheerful, he almost never laughed ; or if he did, he would for a time be silent, and seem to re- flect on it as unbecoming one who must soon appear before God. His abiding sense of the uncertainty of life and the retri- butions of eternity. The prevailing theme of his familiar conversation with his friends, in his family, and in the social circle, was the uncertainty of life, the importance of a prep- aration for death, and "the glory that shall be revealed'' in them that love God. These truths filled and animated his soul. . In the long winter evenings, when he would sometimes fall asleep in his chair, the introduction by his family of some topic of vital religion, would rouse him at once, and he would kindle into animation. When he came in and sat, his Bible was generally before him, and in it he said he always found something new. At the last religious meeting he attended, a few hours before the attack of fever that closed his life, he urged these truths with great seri- ousness, and prayed with great fervency that they might be felt and practically improved by all. "He abounded," says the friend from whose letter we have quoted, "in speaking of the solemnity of dying and appearing before God in judgment. His conversation would never tire, and it seemed that he was never tired of religious conversation. It was once my privilege to spend two days with him on a short journey. Our conversation on the way, and wherever we called, was almost wholly on things pertaining to the kingdom of God ; yet at the end of the second day, the time had been so agreeably spent that it seemed as though the El** Nar. 36 18 THE MOUNTAIN MILLEK. interview had but just commenced, and we were obliged abruptly to close our conversation and part." His jweciousness to the awakened sinner. The conversa- tion of no private individual was perhaps ever more ardently sought by those inquiring the way of salvation ; and no man, perhaps, ever felt more deeply the responsibility and deli- cacy of dealing with persons in that state of mind. Calling with a pious friend on Mrs. B , in a neighboring town; she related to them the despairing state of her daughter, and begged him to pray with them. But she found his tender heart was so full, that for some minutes he could not speak to lead their devotions. Deeply as he felt for awak- ened sinners, he never sought to " heal slightly " the wounds which sin had made. He never told them of their blame- less life, or intimated that they were making progress to- wards heaven, while they continued the enemies of God. He considered their views of the enormity of sin, and the nearness of eternity, as feeble compared with the reality ; and urged them to surrender their hearts without delay to Christ, as the only way to obtain enduring and substantial peace. He represented Christ as knocking for admission to their hearts — as standing with «open arms ready to receive them ; and urged them no longer to resist such love, but to make the surrender of their all to him. When, in the social meeting, he rose to say a word for the cause of Zion, or to lead in prayer, those who were anxious for their salvation listened with eagerness. They knew what he said pro- ceeded from a heart deeply solicitous for their welfare, and felt that his prayers would avail with God. His perseverance in doing good. The continual object of his life was emphatically to persuade men to embrace Christ, and serve him faithfully. The benevolent exertions of the present age for the heathen, which he lived to see commenced, had his cordial approbation ; but though he THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 19 longed and prayed for the conversion of the world to God, the sphere of his efforts was mainly confined to the circle in which he moved. Not satisfied with the opportunities of usefulness afforded at his mill, he often, in his later years, committed it for a few days to the care of one of his sons, and some time before his death, having the means of sub- sistence, and "owing no man any thing, but to love one another," he sold it, that he might devote his declining years more exclusively to the welfare of souls. As an illustration of his persevering endeavors, the following fact is adduced : " Monthly meetings for prayer for the influences of the Holy Spirit, of which he was, if not the first mover, the principal and constant supporter, had been established not very far from his dwelling, and continued for a number of years, when nearly all on whom he had depended for their sup- port forsook them ; till at length only two or three attended. But his zeal — his resolution — his patience, were not yet exhausted. He still continued his exertions to sustain the meetings — hoping almost against hope — until he saw a little cloud arising — a few drops of mercy began to fall, and the abundant blessing of the Holy Spirit to descend. The neighborhood was thinly settled, but instead of two or three, the aged and the young crowded to attend the meetings, and the house was filled. He now, with wonder and de- light, saw the salvation of God, and was actively engaged in doing all in his power to promote the good work of the Holy Spirit, and in directing anxious inquirers to the foun- tain where they might ' buy wine and milk without money and without price/ " His life of prayer. None had the privilege of uniting with him in this exercise without feeling that he was ad- dressing a God with whom he had intimate communion. In his private devotions he sought to be unobserved, yet his family were not ignorant of his regularity in this duty, and 20 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. often well knew the sacred moments when he was pleading for them and others before the throne of his heavenly Fa- ther. His regular devotions in the family were fervent. And besides his delight in the social prayer-meeting, he was ever ready to embrace occasions for special prayer. In the interval of public worship, in the warm season of the year, he was frequently observed to retire, with a beloved Christian friend, towards a neighboring grove. It has since been ascertained that they improved that hour for some years, when no special call of duty interrupted, in visiting a sequestered spot for united prayer — that their own hearts might be replenished with divine grace ; that the children of both families, and especially his wife during the time that she continued impenitent, might be converted ; that the Holy Spirit might be shed down in the revival of religion ; and the Redeemer's kingdom be advanced throughout the world. His care for the spiritual welfare of his family. This was especially manifested in the importance he attached to their regular morning and evening devotions. He selected the most favorable hours, and nothing was permitted to in- terrupt them. He accompanied the reading of the Bible with plain practical suggestions, extending his remarks as he thought would be most useful to his household; not neglecting them on the one hand, nor wearying them on the other. He directed their minds, both in his conversation and prayers, to the passing events of Providence, that they might notice in them the hand of God, be grateful for his mercies, submit to his chastisements, and suitably improve his dispensations. All of them who survive have publicly professed their faith in Christ. His deportment in the house of God. He was a constant attendant, and always took care to present himself early. His venerable pastor has informed the writer, that, for a THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 21 long course of years, as lie entered the sanctuary, a sight of the countenance of the Miller gladdened his- heart, for he knew he should have at least one hearer who would be attentive, who would love the truth, and whose prayers would be ascending for the presence and blessing of God. Ministers, who for the first time addressed the conoreo-ation, ' DO* would distinguish him from the rest of the audience, and say they could with pleasure preach to him, if they had no other attentive hearer. He did not discourage his minister by sleeping. His heavenly deportment seemed to say, " How amiable are thy tabernacles, Lord of hosts — blessed are they that dwell in thy house ; they will be still praising thee." His temperance. This virtue he practised not merely in regard to strong liquors, but in the use of food ; and it doubtless contributed, in no small degree, to promote the rare assemblage of excellencies which ware combined in his Christian character — his uniform cheerfulness, his consist- ency, his readiness to engage in religious exercises, his wakefulness in the house of God, and the perpetual eleva-, tion of his religious affections. The combinations of his character are thus summed up by the respected friend whom we have quoted : " He was unusually grave and serious. He was neither a flatterer nor a slanderer — 'not given to wine/ 'not greedy of filthy lucre/ for he appeared almost indifferent to the world. He was sound in the faith. He ruled his children and his household well. His godly example spoke powerfully in favor of the reality and the excellence of religion. Indeed, I think I can say that Joseph Beals, by his life, exhibited a more eminent, a more uniform, a more striking example of piety, than any other individual with whom it was ever my privilege to be acquainted." A testimony kindred to the above is given by one who 36* 22 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. is now a preacher of the Gospel, and in a station of much responsibility and usefulness in the Christian church ; " With my earliest recollections," he says, " are associated the godly example, the affectionate Christian admonitions, and the ardent prayers of the pious Miller. Often have 1 stood beside him in his mill, and heard the gracious words which fell from his lips, for my own benefit and that of others. Often have I hung upon his lips in the social meeting, when he spoke of the blessedness of that salva- tion to which I was then a stranger ; and seen him lead in the devotions, apparently in the attitude of the most inti- mate communion with God, and .of even then bringing down spiritual blessings from on high. Often did I accom- pany him homeward from the social meeting, still breathing the language of Canaan. I was, alas, unrenewed, and at heart still alienated from God ; but I knew that I must ob- tain an interest in Christ or finally perish ; and there was no man whose example and counsel I thought could do so much for my spiritual good, and whose prayers for me I thought would be so efficacious at the throne of grace. " I very Avell remember the morning when I met a mes- senger who announced to me that the pious Miller was gone. I had no more reason to value his Christian charac- ter than other youth around me, but a flood of tears in- stantly poured down my cheeks, from the reflection that another barrier between me and perdition was removed. I immediately went and conveyed the tidings to a respected father of the church, whose tears flowed with mine ; the heart of his affectionate pastor, who had been accustomed to assuage the sorrows of others by administering spiritual consolation, seemed severely smitten, and a gloom of sad- ness hung over every hill, and forest, and landscape around me ; for although the Miller was humble and obscure, and unknown beyond the circle of a few miles, yet in that circle THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. 23 he was loved and venerated as a man of God and a spirit- ual guide ; and the language of all seemed to be, * Help, Lord, for the godly man ceaseth ; for the faithful fail from among the children of men/ " Since the departure of the Miller I have had the hap- piness to become intimately acquainted with a large circle of Christian friends, in both city and country, and I hesi- tate not to say, that Avith the exception of one other depart- ed saint, the savor of whose name ' is as ointment poured forth,' I have never known any man who, to human view, lived so near to God, and bore so much of the image of his blessed Master, as did Joseph Beals." Is the reader a follower of Christ f Let the example of the Miller incite you to raise higher your standard of holy living. Rest not short of the blessed eminence in piety which he attained, nor of the high behests to which the bleeding Saviour calls you, and to which, consecrating your- self wholly to him, his grace shall raise you. Is the reader only almost persuaded to be a Christian ? Weigh well the history of this humble individual, both be- fore and after his conversion. Mark the blessed fruits of a spiritual religion : what abiding peace and joy it afforded him ; what love to God and to his fellow-men it wrought in him ; what a blessing it made him to his friends and ac- quaintance, and the church of God ; how it supported him in trials, and sustained him in death. Would you have his sweet consolations in life and in death, and partake of his eternal joys, seek religion where he found it. Look at the law of God, till you see its extent and purity, and the ter- rors of that curse it pronounces against sin. Look at your own heart till you see how, in thought, word, and deed, by duties omitted and actual transgression, you have violated that law in the sight of a holy God. Behold the atoning 24 . THE MOUNTAIN MILLER. sacrifice offered for you by our glorious Redeemer on the cross. Hear him say, " Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." Go and prostrate yourself before him. Confess your sins. Tell him you are " a wretch undone." Cast yourself on his mercy, and if you perish, perish at his feet. Do this, and your soul shall live. The same Saviour who said, '" Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God," said also, " Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out." Come now, and yield yourself to him. This is the language the pious Miller would utter in your ear, could he speak to you from heaven. Come now; let nothing hinder you. Now, while your day of probation yet lasts. Now, while the voice of mercy yet speaks to you. Now, while God is moving on your heart by the silent influences of his Spirit. Now, before you lay aside this Tract. Fall on your knees. Let your hard heart break. Give your- self to him who died for you. " Behold, now is the ac- cepted time ; behold, now is the day of salvation !" Note. — The Miller lived in Plainfield, Mass., a mile south of his accustomed place of worship. In 1829, the dwelling where he died, and from which he buried his eldest daughter, was yet standing. His mill had been rebuilt A premium, offered by a friend, was awarded to the writer of this narrative. NARRATIVE XX. THE AGED PENITENT OR, FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE, ■ See Page 7. "When I first saw Mr. L , the principal subject of this narrative, his tall figure and venerable appearance indelibly impressed my mind. He was eighty years of age, and up- wards of six feet in height, though his form was somewhat bent. His hair was as white as age could make it, and his limbs were yet firm"and vigorous. In early life he had been a soldier of the Revolution ; and afterwards, for many years, had followed the occupation of a miller; but he was now cultivating the farm of a widowed daughter, with whom he resided, 2 THE AGED PENITENT. Ho was, however, so deaf that it was very difficult to converse with him beyond a few short sentences. The sight of but one eye remained, and that barely sufficient to enable him to read. His love of this world continued un- abated ; and he seemed almost inaccessible to divine truth. His deafness was his excuse for never attending public wor- ship, and the defect in his vision afforded a ready apology for neglecting the written word. He was also quickly aroused to anger, and when thwarted, even in trifles, was very profane. Often have I exclaimed concerning him, " How cruelly has that man used the immortal spirit that dwells within him ! How dark its habitation now, how certain its doom hereafter ! So old, so near the close of life, and so uncon- scious of his danger I" I have turned away, as we turn from some awful catastrophe which we cannot prevent, but the issue of which we shudder to witness. But I did not then know how earnestly and persevering- ly his pious daughter was wrestling alternately with her God and her aged parent for the salvation of his soul. The emotions of her heart can only be understood by those who, like her, have beheld an aged father upon the verge of eternity, without one solitary ray of hope to brighten his prospects. That their beloved friends should live at enmity with the Redeemer, is, to the people of God, the bitterest draught of affliction they have to drink in this vale of tears. How painful the reflection, that many an eye that now beams upon us with tenderest affection, may be averted from us in the world to come, in all the shame of everlasting aban- donment, or else turned towards us in all the anguish of despair ! Feelings like these often lie concealed from com- mon observation, and are only poured forth to Him who heareth prayer. The tears, the prayers, the alternate hopes and fears of this believing daughter are only known to Him who, while THE AGED PENITENT. be sees in secret, rewards openly. Her exertions, however were not limited to the closet. She used all that influence which affection best knows how to use with the objects of its solicitude. When, in some of Mr. L 's gusts of pas- sion, his aged form would tremble with the violence of ex- cited temper, and his lips utter language which agonized, her heart, she would still throw her arms around him, and with tears intreat him to consider his age and accountabili- ty ; and then, too, she would pour into his ear such a strain of affectionate and pious eloquence, that before she left him he would become calm and abashed, if not convinced. This conduct displayed much Christian heroism. There is a mysterious principle in the human heart, which renders it difficult to warn with faithfulness, and at the same time with tenderness, our near relatives, especially our superiors in age. The daughter of Mr. L might have pleaded, for neglect of duty, her father's age, his insensibility, his deafness ; but she sought no excuse. She opposed to his anger the mildness of a Christian ; to his obduracy, the melting tenderness of filial love ; to repeated discourage- ments, ^le strong confidence of an overcoming faith. It was not until she had long hoped against hope, that any evidence was afforded that she had not labored in vain ; and when that evidence was afforded, it seemed as if God would show, that in answering the prayers of his children he sometimes designs to take them by surprise. On her return home rather late one evening from a re- ligious meeting, she was obliged to go into the apartment of her aged parent to obtain a light. She found the room entirely dark, and supposed he had gone to rest. Having groped her way to the fireplace, and lighted a candle, on turning to leave the room, the first object that met her eye was her father, kneeling in prayer, and drowned in tears. The surprise was mutual, and mutual embarrassment en- sued. What a sight for such a daughter ! Her first im- pulse was to exclaim, " my father !" The next was, to 4 THE AGED PENITENT. leave him at the throne of grace. She hurried out to un- bosom her feelings, and to intercede at the same throne. Whether this aged sinner had long stifled the convic- tions and strivings of the Spirit, or whether they reached him for the first time that night, I am not informed. Enough is known to testify to a mighty working of the power of God. In the stillness of night, rendered more silent and dark to Mr. L by his bodily infirmities, instead of find- ing that rest which age and labor so imperiously demand, we see him earnestly seeking a once despised and rejected Saviour. His daughter soon requested me to call and see him, merely mentioning that she believed he was more disposed than formerly to attend to the subject of religion. In com- plying with her request, I thought it most probable that I should find him endeavoring to patch up some miserable refuge of lies against the near approach of death. Indeed, so little did I expect satisfaction from my visit to him, that on the way to his dwelling I tried to prepare myself for disappointment. On entering his room I found him so attentively engaged in reading his Bible that he did not perceive me until some one said to him in a very loud voice, " The minister has come to see you.' 7 He arose immediately, and his whole appearance spoke volumes. I perceived at once that he was no longer the careless sinner I once had known him. The tears trickled fast down his furrowed cheeks, as he wel- comed me, not only to his house, but to his heart. A deep sense of his unworthiness, both in the sight of God and man, was mingled with overflowing gratitude for my visit. I seated myself beside him, but such was his deafness, that the only way I could instruct him was to point out passages of Scripture suited to his case. In this I was often intei- rupted by his voice, tremulous with emotion, exclaiming, " sir, I have been such a great sinner — to think how long I have lived in neglect of God and eternity : and nov THE AGED PENITENT 5 I am so deaf that no one can talk to me without the greatest trouble. And my sight is failing me so fast, that I can only- read a little at a time. I am afraid I shall never understand this book. I am not worthy of all this trouble." In this way he usually expressed himself. His views of sin at this time were uncommonly clear. He seemed to feel deeply its odiousness in the sight of God, and its desolating influence upon his own heart. He considered himself the chief of sinners, because he knew of none that had spent so many years in sin. The retrospect of that life was painful beyond expression. His long service of sin and the world overwhelmed him with remorse and shame ; and his obdu- racy and hardness of heart appeared marked with peculiar aggravation. How bitterly did he deplore the folly of his early neglect to be heard. A fire was then kindled, his bed was placed in a more sheltered position, a dry coverlid was procured, and a reviving cordial administered. Thus refreshed, James soon regained his cheerful looks, and on recovering his speech, expressed a wish that the clergyman might be sent for. Upon entering the sick-room, he found a venerable old man sitting near the bedside of James, with a trembling hand and a tear glistening in his eye. All was clean and in order. Yet these outward appearances were not the chief attraction to the young pastor ; his eyes were fixed upon the patient, and the more attentively he viewed him, the more intense was the interest he felt. Finding the poor sufferer somewhat revived, he thus ad- dressed him : "My dear James, you appear to be fully aware of the danger which threatens your life, but for that you seem pre- pared." " I am equally ready for life or death," said he, with an air of inexpressible serenity ; " my life is in the Lord's hand ; he can graciously prolong it, or speedily take me to himself, as it shall please him." " But how is this," inquired the clergyman ; " do you not from your inmost soul long for the redemption of your body? Can you really think, without uneasiness, of the prolongation of a life which to you must have been one con- tinued scene of pain and suffering?" 4 THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. "It is true, for many years I have been longing for the day and hour in which the shattered tabernacle of this body of sin and death shall be taken down, and another more beau- tiful habitation be provided for my immortal spirit, by my blessed Lord and Master ; but I would declare, with sincere gratitude to him, that my life, amidst all its gloomy and distressing scenes, has yet proved a comfortable and happy one." " My poor friend," rejoined the minister, " it cheers me to find that so far from indulging in those sad complaints to which many invalids give vent, you rather dwell on the blessings bestowed upon you by the goodness of God. Per- haps, in your youthful days, you enjoyed more ease and com- fort, the very remembrance of which may prove grateful to your reflecting mind ; but as for your later years, you have had to endure a far heavier load of pain and suffering than has fallen to the lot of any one within the circle of my ac- quaintance." "With regard to my infancy and youth," replied the cripple, " I certainly had my cheerful days and hours, but things often looked very dark. My father was a soldier ; I never saw him, for at the time of my birth he was with his regiment in a remote part of the country, and shortly after- wards he was drowned in the Rhine. My poor mother died soon after my birth : grief for the death of my father, and the sight of so miserable an infant, are said to have broken her heart. My old pious grandmother took compassion on me,- and nursed me with the same tender affection as if I had been a fine, healthy child, though my deplorable state often drew tears from her eyes. She herself was but badly off, for she lived with a daughter-in-law, who did not treat her kindly ; her own son was dead, and his widow had taken another husband, who grudged the old woman her free lodging, and such little comforts as might be allotted her. Often, when he saw my aged grandmother carry me about before the cottage, indulging me with a little fresb THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 5 air and warm sunshine, lie would pour forth a volley ot angry words, and even curses upon me, so that I quite trem- bled. My grandmother bore all in silent, meek submission, only saying, when we were alone, ' James, you must pray for angry Michael, that God may bless him and his house ; then every one of his curses will be turned into a tenfold blessing.' My grandmother knew how to combine industry with piety ; busy as she was with her spinning-wheel, and occupied with her daily work, she delighted in prayer, speak- ing to herself ' in psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs, making melody in her heart to the Lord.' She also taught me to read, which proved a most welcome recreation. I made rapid progress ; and when she employed me in reading the Bible, I felt such delight in it, that it became my favor- ite pursuit. At the same time, she habituated me to such work as my feeble hands would allow me to perform. Thus I grew up, nourished in body and soul, when it pleased God, in my twelfth year, to deprive me of this most kind and in- defatigable nursing-mother. When she felt her end approach, she prayed with a holy importunity, that God himself would take me into his especial care and guardianship ; and should it please him to allot me but a scanty portion of earthly comforts, that he would enrich me with an ampler supply of spiritual blessings. This prayer was remarkably heard and answered. For though, when I saw the corpse of my venerable grandmother carried to the grave, I shed a flood of tears, I yet enjoyed an inward peace and consolation, such as I had before never experienced. I felt as if the Lord Jesus, to whose mercy my dying grandmother had so fre- quently commended me, had been present with me, and had said, - 1 have made, and I will bear ; even I will carry, and will deliver you.' This precious promise wonderfully sup- ported me, under all the unkind treatment which imbittered my life while still living in the house of my relatives. None of its inmates cared for me ; but the little son of a neigh- bor, whom I had often entertained with Scripture narra- VOL. xi. 6 THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. fives, and stories, from Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, visited me daily, and shared his bread with me. Thus this pain- ful period passed over, till the parish provided a place for me, where for these fifty years I have foifhd shelter and support." " Ah, my poor James," replied the clergyman, " I pity you ; to have spent fifty tedious years in such a desolate place and state: were you not often constrained to exclaim, 'OLord, how long?'" "After all," said James, "I cannot complain of the time having ever hung heavily upon me ; never was I left quite lonely ; one companion or another was always provided ; and never have I been forsaken. During the first two years, an old invalid soldier was with me, who had had both legs shot away in the seven years' war. He was an honest, well-disposed man, often joined me in singing a spiritual hymn, and rendered me many a kind service. It was then that I found Christ to be precious as my only Saviour and portion. I was favored with continual peace and joy. My bodily sufferings also were greatly alleviated, so that my own hands could procure all that was needful for the sup- port of life. I could even, now and then, spare a trifle for my invalid friend, in return for his many kind services. " After his death, an aged, infirm woman occupied his place, to whom the parish committed the care of some for- saken orphans. These little ones often proved a source of entertainment and comfort to me, though it must be con- fessed, at the same time, that they often gave me a good deal of trouble and uneasiness ; for old Margaret frequently left her charge for hours and days entirely to me, and deeply did it grieve me to hear them cry without being able to ren- der them the needful assistance. " About twenty- two years ago, the parish placed with me the widow of the late shepherd, the aged Elizabeth. At first she manifested rather a peevish disposition, but after some time a great and happy change took place, so that w+ THE GERMAN CRIPPLE 7 were enabled to live in the most peaceful mannei , and in- deed she rendered me so many and such kind serv'ces, that I felt constrained to pray that God himself would be ' her shield, and her exceeding great reward.' When I was deprived of her friendly aid by death, some other Christian friends favored me with frequent visits. But even u my solitary hours, I was not forsaken ; for at the very seasons in which no human being came near me, and all aroand seemed buried in deathlike silence, I felt the comfortalle presence of our blessed Lord and Saviour so sensibly, that I could not sufficiently bl^s and praise his holy name. In- deed, I must acknowledge, that from infancy to old age, he has cared for me with greater tenderness and affection than an earthly parent could bestow upon a beloved child." " But," said the minister, " the ailment of your body, and its many infirmities, must have occasioned you severe pain, and I myself have sometimes heard you sigh and groan under your load. How, then, was it possible for you to maintain the peace, and even cheerfulness, to which you have just referred ?" " Dear sir," replied the, cripple, " even in my earlier years, but especially since I was deprived of the use of my hands, I have constantly had recourse to two remedies which soothe all kinds of pain, and make me forget all sorrow. One of these is to ' humble myself under the mighty hand of God ;' the other, to lift up my soul in prayer to God. When my bodily pains began to assail me more severely, 1 called to remembrance all the mercies and the truth which my heavenly Father had shown me from my birth ; how by this very infirmity of my body, he had preserved me from many sins, into which persons in perfect health are too prone to fall, and in how wonderful a manner he had kept, fed, clothed, and supported me. Above all, I then remembered how mercifully he had drawn me to his Son, comforted me by his Spirit, cheered me with numberless enjoyments, and refreshed my soul with a sweet foretaste of eternal glory g / THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. and bliss/ When, after reviewing all his numberless mer- cies, I thought of my own nothingness and vileness — when I behelcf on the one hand, a poor worm of the dust, and on the other, the Lord of heaven and earth so graciously stoop- ing to/my weakness, and loading me with benefits, I was so bowed down and melted under a sense of his goodness, as no lonser to regard my bodily pains, which, in truth, are 'not wo/thy to be compared with the glory which shall be re- lied ' hereafter ; I felt as if those pains, like the waves of sea, had passed by without being able to harm me. At ither times, I rose in spirit to Hitn who once came down from heaven into the miseries of this wretched world, and calling to my mind his sufferings and death, his resurrection and ascension, my soul rose above pain, as a little bird might hover above the ruins of a falling house. In such hours my sighs were turned into thanksgivings, and my lamentation and woe into a song of praise. Thus I may well say, poor cripple as I am, that by the good hand of God watching over and mercifully providing for me, I have yet enjoyed "many seasons of comfort and happiness. Indeed, there was never a sunshiny summer, nor a fruitful autumn, which did not present me with its refreshing fruits ; for no sooner did ripe cherries or pears, apples or grapes, come on in their suc- cessive seasons, than one friendly Christian or another thought of poor James, and liberally supplied me from their stores." The young clergyman, while listening to these effusions of poor James, was deeply affected. Such faith he had not before witnessed. Unconsciously, yet most opportunely, his humble parishioner had been preaching a sermon to him ; for just at that time it so happened, that the young pastor, having met with some discouraging circumstances, was in % depressed frame of mind. The evening sun shed his parting rays on the pallid countenance of the sufferer, brightened by the holy joy of his soul ; and the minister left him with such a sense of the peace of God as he had never before »njoyed. THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. (J After this, James once more revived, and continued for several months, living a life of inward joy amidst bodily pain. During this interval, he was often visited by his pas- tor, who, at each return, himself carried away more conso- lation and strength than he was enabled to impart. With the advance of the autumnal season, the poor man's last remaining strength began visibly to decline. Once more the clergyman came ; the sufferer could no longer distinctly speak, but his looks conveyed a powerful expression of hu- mility, love, and gratitude. With a nod of thankfulness, and a look up to heaven, he took leave of his kind friend, who felt as if a near and dear relative were being taken from him. He sent a young man to pass the night by the bedside of the dying believer. On his arrival he found two pious friends with him, one of whom was reading the latter chapters of the gospel of St. John. James fell asleep near midnight, and for several hours slept more comfortably than he had done for some time be- fore. During his slumber, his face became paler and paler; yet so peaceful was it, that one of his friends could not but exclaim, "Surely, this is the countenance of one of the blessed above." On awaking, he uttered, in a clear tone, these words : "All is now accomplished ; now my eyes have seen, my heart has felt the things which I have so long be- lieved and hoped for." With a cheerful smile, he then fixed his look upwards, as if he were catching a view of the glories of heaven. Then turning to the two friends, he called them by name, and exhorted them, as well as the young man, to be faithful to the Lord Jesus in word and deed, to abstain from fleshly lusts which war against the soul, and to keep themselves unspotted from the world. After pronouncing a blessing on all, he requested his friends to read to him the 1 03d Psalm, which they began; and as they reached the closing words of the fourth verse, "Who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies," he gently fell asleep in Jesus. The bright morning-star was shining into the cham- Elejr. Nar. 10 10 . THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. ber as one of the friends closed his eyes, exclaiming, " Surely, here is 'one who has ' kept the faith ;' let us pray to God that he may grant us like faith, and preserve us in the same unto salvation." The three then united in prayer, and carried on an edifying conversation till full daybreak. As the young man reported these scenes to the pastor, he added, " I can- not tell you, sir, how I feel to-day — so cheerful, and yet so sad. This was my first visit to poor James, and yet he has left me a blessing such as, I trust, I shall have reason grate- fully to remember even in a better world." It was a fine autumnal day when the mortal remains of the poor cripple were carried to the grave. " Ah, my poor James," said the clergyman, while preparing for the funeral, " who will accompany you to the grave ; who will shed a tear for you ? It was not in your power to purchase the services of your neighbors ; you could give no meat or drink to the poor, you were yourself supported by the parish ; you were the lowest of all, and have not a single relative left in the village. But, though no one else should shed a tear for you, I will ; for I know what you have been to me, and how much I owe to you." But how astonished was he, on meeting the corpse at the church-door, to see the long procession that followed. From almost every house in the village one or more had come to join it, whilst others were seen standing before their cottages, the men with uncovered heads, and in silence viewing the procession as it passed. Still more affecting to the pastor was the deep, heartfelt emotion evidently manifested by many. Not merely tender- hearted women, but strong and rugged men shed tears, as if a beloved father or benefactor had been taken from them. The clergyman delivered a funeral address from the beautiful words of our Lord Jesus Christ, " Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." Rev. 2:10 Never before had he preached with such deep feeling, so that the whole assembly was moved. "When he had directed the minds of his hearers to the Christian's bright hope of a THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 1 1 joyful resurrection, and pronounced the blessing, most of the people left the churchyard ; but the clergyman still lingered there with some of the friends of the deceased. Among them he noticed a venerable old man whom he had pre- viously met by his bedside, and the two men who had cheered his last hours by their Christian sympathy and support. Almost all of them were to outward appearance persons in very humble life. Several did not belong to the parish, but had come from some remote part of the forest. " There is no kinsman here," said the clergyman, " who can offer to the kind friends from a distance any refreshment. May I, therefore, be allowed to invite them to the parsonage, there to partake of my homely fare." The funeral guests gladly accepted the friendly invitation, and placed themselves around his hospitable board. Addressing them, he said, " It really affords me sincere pleasure to have this day wit- nessed the many tears shed for our departed friend ; and yet, I confess, I rather wondered to see one so much honored in death, who in his lifetime was almost entirely disabled from rendering any service to his fellow-men." " Certainly," replied one of the men, " they are tears ot affection and joy, rather than of sorrow, which we shed on account of dear James. How could we do otherwise than rejoice and thank God that his body, so wofully torn by agonies of pain, should now sweetly rest in the silent grave, and that his soul is now a happy partaker of those endless joys purchased by the Redeemer's blood. Yet allow me, reverend sir, to say, that you are mistaken in supposing that poor James had never been able to render any service to his fellow-creatures. I can say for myself, that when I, a poor, helpless child, forsaken by my own mother, was provided for by the parish, the" old woman to whose care I was commit- ted, did very little for me, but James, on the contrary, did much. Whatever, at that time, he could spare from his earnings by knitting and sewing, he cheerfully gave to old Margaret to buy me milk and flour, and to supply me witb 12 THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. linen and a warm bed. Whilst my nurse was fast asleep, deaf to my cries in the night, he had my crib placed near his straw bed, and willingly suljmitted to much inconven- ience on my behalf. As I advanced in years, he taught me to read, sent me to school, and laid out his last florin for me. But what is more, he taught me to know and to love my Saviour, and now I have the blessed hope of salvation, through faith in the merits and righteousness of my dear Redeemer. I live in a remote part of the forest, about nine miles from this place, and possess but little, having to sup- port a sickly wife and eight children, yet considering James as my greatest benefactor, I used occasionally to offer him a little money, or. some refreshments, but he would never ac- cept them. ' Let me alone, dear Frederick,' he often said, ' I am used to my oatmeal diet ; other provisions do not suit me. As for your money, save it for your children ; surely they will one day want it ; and your delicacies take to poor Gertrude, who is in a decline, and cannot eat black bread.' 1 frequently offered to attend him by day or by night, but his usual answer was, ' Frederick, believe me, I feel easieT when I am alone ; when I really want help, I shall have it.' Thus he declined all offers of service, except that of keeping his room clean and washing his linen, and that, in his last illness, he allowed me for a few nights to watch by his bed- side." " Just so did he act by me," exclaimed a well-dressed farmer's wife, belonging to a neighboring village. " It would have been a real pleasure to me, if poor James had accepted what I was ready to present to him, for to no one do I owe so much ; but all my entreaties were in vain. Once, when taking with me a variety of little comforts, he made me weep, because he refused any acknowledgment of all the good he had done me. 'Do not make yourself uneasy,' said he, ' my dear Catherine, but listen to what I say. Suppose you were about to present your pious countess with some nice fruit from your own garden, in grateful acknowledgment oi THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 13 all her kindness to you, and one of her servants should offer you for your fine pears, a fashionable lace-cap; you would surely reply, I neither can nor will sell my pears, for I have gathered them on purpose for my honored countess, neither is your fine head-dress suitable for me. Thus, my dear Cath- erine, the little good I can do to my neighbor, I do, I trust, from love to Christ ; and should I, a poor cripple, utterly in- capable of making the smallest return to my blessed Saviour for his numberless blessings, seek a recompense here below, by accepting what is really of as little use to me as the lace- cap would be to you ? You offer me a bottle of wine, I cannot drink it ; your husband kindly wishes to present me with a silk cap which he brought from the Tyrol, I cannot wear it ; and your money I do not need : no poor persons come to this lonely spot, nor can I seek them out ; of what use, therefore, would an Austrian ducat be to me ?' All I could prevail upon him to take, was a little fruit, a few spoonsful of honey, and some linen which I had spun and woven myself; and yet to him, under God, I owe whatever of happiness I enjoy in the present world, and all that I hope for in the world to come. At only four years of age, I was brought by my mother to this village on her way to Dantzic, where my father was ; but in consequence of a severe cold, she fell ill, and died, leaving me a helpless, miserable orphan. Being committed to the charge of the shepherd's widow, I met — previously to the blessed change wrought on her by the instrumentality of poor James — with very hard treat- ment. Oh, how different was James' conduct towards me. He was all kindness, listened to my childish prattle, talked to me as one child does to another, and indeed through life he always appeared to me to have the simplicity of a little child, such as ourSaviour requires of his disciples. He soon gained my whole confidence ; for he dressed me little dolls, and made rne a present of a small bell, with which he him- self had played when he lived with his grandmother. Al- nost. all day long I sat on a little stool near his bedside, and 40* 14 THE GERMAN CRrPPLE. after 1 had entertained myself with my childish play, he used to tell me instructive stories from the Bible. "Every morning and evening, and frequently also in the middle of the day, he prayed with us ; and young as I was, I felt that no words could have been more suitable to our circumstances, had we offered our prayers ourselves. He also used to sing some spiritual hymns so sweetly, that I think I never heard finer singing. Whilst knitting, he read to us a portion of Scripture, or employed me in reading it. Even when at work, his thoughts were still fixed upon God, and out of the fulness of a devout heart his mouth spoke. When I look back on the years spent under his care, I feel as if I had spent them in some hallowed spot where angels dwell." Of the aged friend whom the young clergyman had met at the bedside of James, he kindly inquired, " And how was it that you became so intimately acquainted with oui James ?" " Sir," he replied, " if the friends who have just spoken occasioned him so much trouble when children, I have proved much more troublesome in my later years. I am old Lizzy's younger brother. Whilst abroad, I unhappily addicted myself to drinking. On my return home, I not only squandered all the earnings of my business, but also all the property which I inherited. When intoxicated, and refused admission into my lodging, I used to repair to the lodgings of my sister, and there I raged and slept away my drunken fit. On becoming sober, I received friendly admo- nitions from James, and severe scoldings from my sister ; but neither the one nor the other made any lasting impression. When, however, my sister, softened by the example of meek, patient James, began, like him, to reprove me in a gentle and affectionate spirit, I felt ashamed of my unhappy pro- pensity ; and at length the happy hour was come, in which it pleased God, in infinite mercy, to open my heart, like that of Lydia, so that I could gladly attend to the words spoken THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 15 by my sister and by James. From that hour, I arose and returned to my heavenly Father, in the spirit of the prodigal son ; he received me graciously, and loved me freely, and has granted me grace steadily to persevere. Thus, sir,'* added the reclaimed old man, " not we only, hut all who surround your table, have, in one way or another, reason to magnify the grace of God dispensed to us by the instrumen- tality of our dear departed friend." "Nor will I," subjoined the young minister, with tears in his eyes, " be less willing to magnify divine grace. To me also poor James has proved a preacher of righteousness — of that righteousness of God which comes by faith in Christ ; and under the constraining influence of that grace, I trust I shall be enabled to lead a new life to the praise and glory of his holy name. Amen." And now, reader, having perused the above narrative, do you not behold in it a striking exemplification of the blessed influence of Christianity ? See how it supported a poor cripple amidst all his poverty, sickness, and pain. Ob- serve his meek submission and peaceful contentment, with an elevation of soul, and joyfulness of hope, which cannot but call forth your warm admiration and praise. Ought you not to feel stimulated thereby to exclaim with the apostle, " I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ ; for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believ- eth." Rom. 1 : 16. Should you not declare, with another apostle, " Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter ol persons." Acts 10 : 34. "The Lord maketh poor, and mak- eth rich ; he bringeth low, and lifteth up. He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill, to set them among princes, and to make them inherit the throne of glory." 1 Sam. 2 : 7, 8. And is not this narrative of poor James an eminent illus- tration of the truth, that even the poorest of the poor, when favored with the riches of God's free grace in Christ Jesus, IQ THE GERMAN CRIPFLE. may become " a sweet savor of Christ," and both in word and deed be " a burning and shining light," not merely within the narrow circle of their own immediate sphere of action, but far beyond it, even to remote and foreign lands, and to generations yet to come. Let, therefore, none say, in a strain of desponding fear and diffidence, As for me, I am so poor and insignificant, that no feeble attempt of mine can be expected to succeed ; really, I cannot do any good at all. Cheer up, poor fellow-Christian, encourage yourself in the God of your salvation ; weak and insignificant as you are in yourself, come boldly to Jesus. Receive out of his inex- haustible fulness "grace for grace;" and remember whal your blessed Saviour says : " If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink. He that believeth on me, as the Scrip- ture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water." John 7 : 37, 38. And thou, my suffering fellow-Christian, amidst all thy bodily or mental affliction, call to thy recollection the thou- sands and tens of thousands that have suffered, and do suffer, even far more severely than ever thou hast, and like poor James, draw comfort from a view of thy suffering Redeemer, "who, for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God." Heb. 12:2. Meekly submit, and patiently endure ; be thou faithful unto death, and he will give thee a crown of life. Rev. 2 : 10. NARRATIVE XXIV MARY OF TOULOUSE. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. — Psalm 119 : 103. CHAPTER I. Some years ago I left London with my family for the purpose of trying the mild climate of Italy ; but the disturbed state of the country at that time led us to make arrange- ments for passing the winter in the south of France. We crossed in the packet from Dover to Calais, where we spent a few days in procuring information as to the best mode of travelling ; and then proceeded to Paris, which we quitted at the end of three weeks, journeying by post to the south, through Orleans, Chateauroux, Limoges, Montauban, and other towns or villages of less note, not knowing exactly where we should winter. At length, early in October, we 2 MARY OF TOULOUSE. reached Toulouse, a large city, containing about 50,000 people, and situated in a delightful plain, in the ancient prov- ince of Languedoc. only forty or fifty miles distant from the Pyrenees, a chain of lofty mountains which divide France from Spain. On the banks of the Garonne, which takes its rise in those mountains, stands Toulouse, almost surrounded by that river and the royal canal of the south, which opens a communication from Bordeaux to Cette, joining the Atlan- tic ocean to the Mediterranean sea. Toulouse lays claim to very high antiquity, being supposed to have existed 615 years before the Christian era. It was made a Roman col- ony by Julius Caesar, and some Roman antiquities may still be seen within and near the city. Christianity was first planted there about a. d. 245, by one Saturninus, who suffered martyrdom by being tied to an ox, and dragged until life was extinct. The name of a street commemorates this cruelty, and a church is still dedicated to the martyr, who, under the title of St. Sernin, is regarded as its patron of protector. The lateness of the season, and other circumstances, induced us to fix on Toulouse as our winter residence. "We therefore lost no time in seeking for a habitation ; and a cottage near the city being recommended, we went immedi- ately to see it. It was about half a mile distant from town, and belonged to an abbe, who was then from home, but a message brought him back speedily. The cottage we went to look at stood on a height, giving a delightful view of the city and surrounding country, and was called Pavilion, from two turrets, which surmounted its wings. It contained six rooms and a kitchen, all neatly furnished, and at a moderate rent. In front was a small garden, with fruit-trees and flower-plants ; in its centre there was a fountain, and at the angles of the walks were placed statues representing the four seasons. Behind the cottage was a vineyard of about half an acre. The grapes had just been gathered, and lodged in MARY OF TOULOUSE. 3 the wine-press, for the abbe's next year's store of wine. Within the vineyard, and round about it, the British troops were engaged with the French in 1814, before the surrender of Toulouse to the army under the duke of "Wellington. Close to the edge of the garden was a road leading to Mon- tauban ; and beyond the highway a plain of some extent, subdivided into fields intersected by trenches, which serve instead of hedges as boundaries of the land. This plain is terminated by lofty hills. To the right of the cottage was seen, lying in a hollow, the city, skirted by the royal canal, which was enlivened by moving barges and trees lining the banks. Here the bustle of traffic was observable, the noise of the boatmen, and the laborious industry of the women, many of whom were busied in lading and unlading barges, while others were im- mersed knee-deep in the canal washing linen, and others again were in the fields, handling the hoe, or else guiding the oxen in carts or ploughs. To the left, the Pyrenean mountains raised their lofty peaks to the clouds, and added much to the beauty and inter- est of the surrounding scene. CHAPTER II. The terms of hire being soon arranged with the abbe, with whom it was easy to treat — for he was a very courteous and accommodating man — we entered our cottage on the fol- lowing day, and when a little settled, paid our respects to our amiable host, .who was our next-door neighbor. He received us with much kindness. His appearance was ven- erable, his age being about seventy years. He was in his ordinary dress, which was a long close garment of black stuff, buttoned from top to bottom. When he went abroad, he put on a three-cornered hat, and, in cold weather, a pur- ple silk surtout, lined with wadding ; but in all seasons he 4 . MARY OF TOULOUSE. carried his crook-headed cane, which had supported him for several years in his daily walks to and from the cathedral, where he went every morning to assist at early mass. Be- sides his service at the cathedral, he commonly officiated on Sundays at some village a short distance from home, or else supplied the place of a sick or absent cure of some neighbor- ing church, whither he was conveyed in a covered cart, drawn by oxen ; or, if the church lay in the direction of the canal, he proceeded by one of the barges which ply regularly to and fro. His own dwelling consisted of a parlor, two bedchambers, and a kitchen, all on a small scale, and fur- nished in a simple manner. A framed inscription, which hung over the chimney-piece, attracted my attention on my first visit, and made me wish for an opportunity to take a copy of it. At the top of it was a rude sketch of the virgin Mary, and the infant Saviour in her arms ; and underneath, partly in Latin and partly in French, was written the following PRAYER TO THE HOLY VIRGIN. " We flee unto thee for protection, holy mother, Despise not our supplications in our necessities, but deliver us at all times from danger, glorious and blessed virgin. Amen. " Honor and glory be to the daughter of the Most High ! "On the 10th of April, 1814, the memorable day of the battle of Toulouse, the cannon-balls respected the image of the most holy virgin, which was in the house of Mon- sieur T , priest and prebendary of the cathedral of Tou- louse." What was meant by respecting tJie image was, that during the action, a cannon-ball passed through the apart- ment where the image then stood, without touching it. The abbe's household comprised himself, his vine-dresser, and a female servant, who waited on her master, nursed him MARY OF TOULOUSE. 5 in sickness, marketed, washed, cooked, cleaned the house, and worked in the garden ; in short, she managed all his domestic concerns. The name of this valuable servant was Mary. She was the daughter of the vine-dresser, and one of four living sisters, all called Mary, though one had the addi- tional name of Magdalene. She was nearly fifty years of age, of a lively disposition, shrewd understanding, contented mind, and always respectful to her superiors. Whether at work in the house or in the garden, Mary was accustomed to enliven the neighborhood with her cheerful song. She ap- peared to be one of the happiest of human beings : I say appeared, for her contentedness had no solid foundation, because all her delight and wishes were centred in the world, and in the things of time and sense. Her mind seem- ed to be at ease, but it was only a false peace — a dangerous slumber ; and awful indeed would her condition have been, had death and judgment surprised her in that state of igno- rance of the only way of escape from the wrath to come. If ever she looked beyond the grave to a future state of exist- ence, she considered her lot to be secured among the blessed by the absolution of the priest, and the performance of cer- tain customary ceremonies ; or at least imagined, if she should be forced to undergo some punishment in purgatory for her purification, that the period might be shortened by the money of her friends, or the prayers of the church, and that she would, sooner or later, be set at liberty, and admitted into paradise. At this time she knew nothing of the wick- edness and deceitfulness of her own heart — nothing of the devices of the great destroyer of souls — nothing of the poison- ous nature of sin-, or how it had brought death and every evil into the world. She, in short, was unacquainted with God's word ; and being ignorant of the Saviour of sinners, was far from him, and consequently far from enjoying true happiness, and that peace which passes all understanding. In this dangerous state she had toiled many years in the Eleg. Nar. 41 VOL. XII. Q MARY OF TOULOUSE. service of her master, who passed in the neighborhood for a guide and instructor in the way of salvation. Labor through the week, and diversions on the Sabbath-day, intermixed with stated attendances at church on Sundays and holidays, and a round of confessions and absolutions, communions and sins, were the sum of her life, and the substance of her religion. On Sunday morning she never failed, after the hour of market, to go to mass. This done, she believed she had observed the Sabbath, and saw no harm in dividing the remainder of the day between ordinary work, idle conversa- tion, and frivolous amusements. The evening of the Lord's day was constantly closed by a public dance, in which Mary was very conspicuous, both from the sprightliness of her manner, and the gayety of her attire. CHAPTER HI. The first opportunity I had of speaking seriously to Mary was on a Sabbath-day, about a month after my arrival. Something having been said about her master's privation of domestic comfort, for the want of a good wife, she expressed surprise that Protestant ministers should be allowed to marry, when Roman Catholic ones were forbidden to do so. I told her, if man prevented their marriage, God did not, and after- wards read to her out of the Roman Catholic New Testa- ment the passage which requires both bishops and deacons to have but one wife, to rule their own houses well, and to have their children in subjection. 1 Tim. 3 : 2-4, 8-11. Some days after this the abbe called on me, and this subject, among others, became the topic of conversation. He then candidly owned, that the rule of his church forbidding priests to marry, is opposed to holy Scripture ; and declared that many ecclesiastics were formerly married, and that some, being threatened with imprisonment if they refused, took wives during the revolution in France. One of these mar- MARY OP TOULOUSE. 7 ried priests, he said, was then living in Toulouse. The abbe allowed that St. Peter was a married man, Matt. 8 : 14, 15 ; 1 Cor. 9:5; and the Scripture before quoted, 1 Tim. 3, having been again adverted to, I read to him the whole passage, which he thought decisive of the question. He expressed regret that any ecclesiastical law should exist against the marriage of the clergy, though he thought celib- acy meritorious. This gave me occasion to remark, that no man can have merit with God, all being sinners in his sight. Rom. 3 :23. At a subsequent meeting, I read to him 1 Tim. 4 : 1-5 ; but he made no reply, except that the keeping of Lent — as a fast, or abstinence from animal food — is not a divine in- stitution. Finding from the above-mentioned conversation with Mary, that she was unable to read — though I was pleased to hear she was then learning her letters — I proposed to read to her a little out of the New Testament. She having as- sented, I opened at the third chapter of St. John's Revelation, and read from the eighteenth to the twenty-second verse, making a few observations. I also read the parable of the Pharisee and publican, recorded in St. Luke's gospel, 18 : 10-14. She now expressed much regret that she had not learned to read at an earlier age. The next day my wife seeing her with her prayer-book, desired her to show it to me. I found the prayers were in Latin and French ; and my eye was soon arrested by one for the dead ; upon which I observed to Mary, that prayers are wholly unavailing for departed souls, because they are then fixed in a state of happiness or misery for ever. Sho seemed surprised at this, but soon afterwards observed, " Then the masses said for the dead must be for the purpose of raising money for the church." These sums she rightly supposed woulci be better bestowed on the poor in the life-' time of the giver. I afterwards learned that her master 3 MARY OF TOULOUSE. had left in his will four hundred francs for as many masses for his own soul. In order to prove to her that this was a fraud upon the credulous and ignorant, I read to her the evangelist's relation of the two malefactors who were crucified with our blessed Saviour, Luke 23 : 39-43, and dwelt on our Lord's promise to the penitent and believing thief: " Yerily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise." In the course of this conversation, I informed her that one of the chief distinctions between Romanists and Protes- tants was, that the former shut up the word of God from the people, and the latter offered it freely to all the world, accord- ing to the spirit of Christ's command to his disciples, which I then read to her from Mark 1G : 15, 16 : " Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature." This declaration was followed by a statement of the number oi copies of the sacred volume distributed by the British and Foreign Bible Society during a period of sixteen years, amounting to upwards of two millions, in different languages, and among various nations. She replied, " TJiat is certainly a good work — to enlighten the ignorant ; for how can I know any thing except I am taught?" — a remark which brought forcibly to my mind the words of the apostle : " How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believ- ed ? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard?" Rom. 10 : 14. Before the close of this conversation, I adverted to the prayers appointed to be offered to the blessed Mary and other glorified saints, by acquainting her, that as they were only created beings, they ought not to be worshipped, and that the apostle Paul declares there is " one Mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus," 1 Tim. 2:5; and with a view to convince her that worship is due to God alone, I read a few verses from Matthew's gospel, 4 : 1-10, pressing upon her the last clause of the tenth verse : " Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve." MARY OF TOULOUSE. 9 I also desired her to mark our Saviour's repeated appeal to the Jwly Scriptures as the source of all truth and the corrective of all error ; for when Jesus thrice said, "It is written," he surely must be understood to mean, that the sacred Scriptures were given for the express purpose of being read, that being the end of all writings. And that such was his meaning, is clear from many other passages of the holy volume. But some imagine that the word of God was never designed to be read indiscriminately by all the people. Let, however, two inspired apostles answer these objections. Peter, writing to the faithful, and speaking of the voice from heaven, which declared of Christ, " This is my beloved Son," immediately adds, "We have also a more sure word of prophecy, whereunto ye do well that ye take heed, as unto a light that shineth in a dark place, until the day dawn, and the day-star arise in your hearts." And again he says, " This second epistle, beloved, I now write unto you ; in both which I stir up your pure minds by way of remem- brance : that ye may be mindful of the words which were spoken before by the holy prophets, and of the command- ment of us the apostles of the Lord and Saviour." 2 Peter, 1:19; 3 : 1, 2. Observe, that Peter is not writing to the teachers of the people, but to the flock, when he affirms that the inspired volume was intended to enlighten their minds and refresh their memories concerning those truths which belong to their everlasting peace : and if the word of God was used as a light and a remembrancer by the church in the time of the apostles, how much more is it needed in our day to enlighten us, and remind us continually of those things we may have already heard and known ? 2 Peter, 1 : 12, 13, 15. Attend now to the other witness. Paul, in his epistle to the church at Home, states, that " whatsoever things were written aforetime, were written for our learning, that we through patience and comfort of the Scriptures might have hope." Rom. 15:4. The same apostle on another 41* 10 MARY OF TOULOUSE. occasion declares, that " All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correc- tion, for instruction in righteousness ;" and it is particularly worthy of attention, that he not only commended Timothy for knowing the holy Scriptures from his childhood, but like- wise honored the Bereans for searching the Scriptures daily. See 2 Tim. 3:16; Acts 17:11. Whatever errors and heresies have crept into the church of Christ, it has been justly observed, have originated from men of worldly wis- dom and corrupt minds, and almost always from the clergy ; but never from humble students of the divine writings, or sincere inquirers after truth. Among the numberless cases that might be mentioned of the double benefit which meek and teachable persons derive from hearing and reading the records of salvation, that of Mary is one which deserves to be noted. On one occasion she exclaimed, " I am as ignorant as an animal !" and on another she said, with much earnestness, that the Scriptures penetrated the marrow of her bones — reminding me of He- brews 4:12: " The word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and mar- row, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." CHAPTER IV. In reference to jpublic praying and chanting in Latin, and particularly of unlearned persons addressing God in words which they do not understand, I once read to her part of the fourteenth chapter of 1st Corinthians, laying great stress on these verses, 15-17 : "I will pray with the spirit, and I will pray with the understanding also ; I will sing with the spirit, and I will sing with the understanding also. Else, when thou shalt bless with the spirit, how shall he that occu- MARY OF TOULOUSE. 11 pieth the room of the unlearned say Amen at thy giving of thanks, seeing he understandeth not what thou sayest ? For thou verily givest thanks well, but the other is not edified." At another time I read the second chapter of the Acts of tho Apostles in connection with this subject, when she seemed to be convinced in her judgment that prayer in an unknown tongue is improper. Desirous to renew these conversations frequently with Mary, and perceiving in her an aptness for learning, I offered to devote an hour every afternoon to teach her to read, prom- ising at the same time to give her a New Testament as soon as she was able to read it. She gladly accepted my pro- posal, and came regularly every day from four to five o'clock. These interesting lessons commenced about the middle of November, and continued until February, when they were interrupted by my indisposition. Our method was, to precede them by a short prayer ; both kneeling, and invoking the aid and light of the Holy Spirit to guide teacher and learner into all truth. Part of the hour was spent in her reading, and part in my explanation of the subject, chiefly drawn from the gospel history, particularly from that according to St. John. These familiar lectures often called forth many seri- ous inquiries and pertinent observations on the part of Mary, who once asked me, with much solemnity, whether I thought it possible she could be saved in that communion in which she had been brought up. My answer was, " With God nothing is impossible." ^ At another time she observed, " If what you tell me be true, then the chief part of the inhab* itants of this country are in great error ;" and she not unfre- quently expressed surprise that her master, a regular eccle- siastic, had never instructed her in those truths which she was now in the habit of hearing daily from a layman. This neglect did not, however, prevent her from imparting to him that knowledge which she was acquiring from day to day, by the teaching of the Spirit of truth ; and though the abbe was 12 MARY OF TOULOUSE. informed of the particulars of each day's lesson, he never took the least offence, but on the contrary repeatedly thanked me for teaching her, and not seldom heard her repeat her lesson before she came to me. Indeed, his behavior was always kind and friendly, and I sometimes recall with mingled delight and regret many winter evenings of social converse near our comfortable log-fire ; on which occasions he partook of bread, and fruits, and wine, after the custom of his coun- try, while we refreshed ourselves, after the English fashion, with tea and toast. Having in my possession a tract " On the Employment of the Sabbath" I lent it to Mary one Sabbath, desiring her to ask Emily, a young woman in the next cottage, to read it to her. In the evening Mary told me that she and another female had heard it ; but, said she, if its contents were strictly observed, " I must never handle a broom on the Sabbath- day." I informed her that necessary work only ought to be done on the Lord's day. She thought it would be better if all the shops were closed on Sunday ; for she said that people might easily supply themselves on Saturday with what they wanted. I answered, " God's commands ought to be obey- ed, and we should not follow a multitude to do evil." " Cer- tainly not," she replied ; " for if a crowd of people choose to drown themselves, it is no reason why I should jump into the river." Soon afterwards she added, " For my part, I wish to repent, and be saved." I advised her to pray for the Holy Spirit ; and as conversion had been mentioned, I said I would read to her something on that subject. I then explained the third chapter of St. John's gospel, where our Lord Jesus Christ, in a conversation with a certain ruler, declares, verses 3, 5, 7, " Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God ;" and, " Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. Marvel not," continues the Saviour, " that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again." MARY OF TOULOUSE. 13 Mary asked if she had done right in staying at home that afternoon, for the purpose of learning to read, instead of taking her string of beads to church, where she said she would probably only gaze about, as others did, during the service. I told her, when she was able to read her Testa- ment, sbe would lay aside her beads ; for the word of God, once written in her heart, would supply the place of the rosary. I further said, that if she remained at home with an intent to learn to read good books, she had done well. Her answer was, " I desire to read no other than good books ;" and then she spoke of Thomas a Kempis, as one. This work is known in France by the title of " The Imitation of Jesus Christ." I commended its general contents, though I could not approve of all ; and observed, that it was translated into many languages ; but, added I, those who would imitate Jesus Christ, must follow his steps. I then turned to the tenth chapter of John, and read it to her, laying particular stress on these verses, 1, 9, 11, 14, 27, 28 : "Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber. I am the door : by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pas- ture. I am the good Shepherd : the good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. I am the good Shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine. My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me : and I give unto them eternal life ; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand." I pointed out Christ as the only door of admission into the heavenly fold, and stated, that all who attempt to enter it by their own fancied good works or deservings, or by any other way than by his merits, must fail, and incur condemnation ; that Jesus is also the good Shepherd, who sacrificed his life for his believing people, those once-strayed and lost sheep, in whose recovery he rejoices, watching over them with the tenderest care, and 21* 1 4 MARY OF TOULOUSE. supplying all their wants ; that those who belong to his flock enjoy the comfortable assurance of his continual love and protection, diligently study his word, obey his commands, and copy his example. " These shall never perish," because he has engaged to guide and guard them through all the dangers and trials of life, and to bring them at last%afely to the fold of everlasting rest. These lectures and explanations were not long continued before a marked change was very observable in Mary's be- havior. The Spirit of God had opened her heart, and wrought wonderfully in her. The Lord's day, so long abused by frequenting the market and the dance, and by idling away the intermediate hours in vain conversation and amusement, she now began to hold in esteem and reverence. The dance was given up, but it was some time before the Sunday mar- ket could be renounced ; at length, however, the new nature prevailed over the old — grace triumphed over sin — and she was enabled to relinquish also this profane custom. The conflict was probably hard, before her resolution was fixed on this point, because the comfort of her master, to whom she was much attached, was involved in the decision. It may not be generally known, that the provisions brought to the Sunday markets in France are the most abundant, and of the choicest kind. There she had never failed to procure the best supplies for his table : and it should not be omitted, that when Pavilion cottage was hired, it was agreed that Mary should market for us, but no purchases were ever made for us on the Lord's day ; and though she had repeatedly advised them, we had always declined them for ourselves, and condemned them in others. At length it pleased God to convince her that this was a violation of his Sabbath ; and one day she informed me that she had come to a deter- mination to let her master know that she could no longer market for him on Sundays, because God had commanded that day to be kept holy. This intimation, which was made MARY OF TOULOUSE. 15 in a respectful manner, was received by him without anger or displeasure. The gardening was likewise discontinued, and ail unnecessary work within and without doors was sus- pended till the following day. A remarkable feature in my scholar was, an uncommon readiness of mind to believe whatever could be proved to her out of holy Scripture. She seemed to belong to that small class of sincere and unprejudiced persons, in whom the divine seed falling into good ground, prepared by the secret operations of the Spirit, promises the largest increase, even an hundred-fold. One day, Mary with tears in her eyes deeply lamented to me her sinfulness. I thereupon reminded her of these consolatory words of the Friend of penitent sin- ners : "Blessed are they that mourn ; for they shall be com- forted." Matt. 5 : 4. On another occasion, when our studies were over, and she was about to leave me. her heart being full of what she had just read and. heard, she exclaimed with much earnest- ness, " I desire to give myself up to God" I think this occurred after my having read with her the parable of the creditor and debtor, Luke 7 : 36-50, which I stated to be a short but clear exposition of the good tidings of great joy which were to be published to all people. Such was the earnestness of her manner at this time, and so solemn did this dedication of herself to her GJ-od and Saviour appear to me, that she might well be supposed to have then felt the forcible language of our Christian poet : " Earth shall never be my care ; This my only wish and prayer — Thine in life and death to be ; Now, and to eternity I" Mention has been already made of the string of beads called a rosary, which Mary was accustomed to carry to church. This was purchased of those missionaries who 10 MARY OF TOULOUSE. yearly traverse different parts of France, preaching and setting up crosses of wood or stone on the high-roads, and trafficking in crucifixes, images, and things of that kind. One of these teachers having announced from the pulpit that none of the people could be saved except they pur- chased rosaries at their booths, Mary was induced to try the efficacy of this charm ; but no sooner were her eyes opened to the imposition, than she renounced her vain confidence, and offered to give it to me. I accepted it, rejoicing with thanksgiving at this fresh triumph of truth over error, and of light over darkness. This, and similar superstitions, had been discussed on different occasions ; and on one of these the doctrine and practice of auricular confession became the subject of more serious conversation. It is commonly supposed to be grounded on the apostle's words, " Confess your faults one to another." Jas. 5:16. I therefore endeavored to convince her that this could not mean that the people were to confess their sins to their priest, for then it would be equally the priest's duty to confess his sins to his people, because it is written, Confess one to another. But as the apostle like- wise adds immediately, and pray one for anotJier } it follows, that if the priest is not bound to confess to the people, nei- ther is it his duty to pray for them, or that of the congre- gation to pray for their pastor. The true sense, I thought, seemed to be this : that it is the duty of every Christian to acknowledge the faults and trespasses he commits against his neighbor ; to ask his forgiveness ; and each is required to pray for the other : but priests and people are alike bound to confess their sins, not to men, for all are sinners, but to txod, who only can pardon and absolve transgressors. CHAPTER V. Mary not only felt a deep concern for her own soul, but soon showed her love for the souls of others ; and this ap- MARY OP TOULOUSE. 17 m peared in different ways. Her master's friends, some of whom were priests, came occasionally to see him ; and after Mary received the New Testament, she took every opportu- nity of producing the gift of the English traveller, extolling it at the same time as a good book. The abbe's elder brother was of the number of those visitors. He was a layman, between seventy and eighty years of age, on whom Mary's arguments had so good an effect, that he was per- suaded to purchase a copy of the New Testament in the town. I had an interview with him in the evening, and Mary exhibited the purchase with exultation. Some tracts were added to Mons. T 's parcel, which he gladly ac- cepted, and took home with him the following day. Another instance of Mary's desire to benefit others was, that observing I was in the habit of distributing tracts, she asked me to allow her to do the same ; or, to use her own words, to act the part of a missionary. Though I did not judge this advisable, I yet remember having intrusted to her care two tracts, one of which, "Serious Thoughts on Eternity," was for the particular use of her master, and given at his own request ; and the other was intended for one of her acquaintances in the city. A further evidence of her love and solicitude for the best, the eternal interests of others, is, that just before Christmas, when her youngest sister, who was married and settled at Castelnaudry, came to spend a day with Mary, she brought her to me, and entreated me to speak to her on the subject of religion. She had previously hinted to me that her sister's husband had a great desire to learn to read, profiting by every leisure moment ; and that he had even been seen with a book in his hand while in the field ; but that this thirst for knowledge displeased his wife much, and she made his home very disagreeable, which sometimes obliged him to retire for quiet into the stable. In the same house with Mary's relatives lived three brothers, who were all as desir- Eleg. Nar. 42 18 MARY OF TOULOUSE. ous as himself to acquire the art of reading. After speaking seriously to her sister about her opposition to her husband, and also concerning her own state, I read to her some por- tions of the word of God, to which she listened with deep attention ; ,and before she left me, her opinion seemed so much changed, that she gladly received four Testaments and some tracts for her husband and his fellow-lodgers, and another set of books for the schoolmaster of the place where she resided ; and I was much gratified by her assurance, that she would never again molest her husband, but rather en- courage his reading. Mary and her sister attended our family prayers that evening, when another portion was read out of the New Testament ; and early the next morning the latter returned home in the barge, and some days afterwards sent me word that all the books were thankfully welcomed. I could never discover that any adult school existed in France. I exceedingly lamented this great deficiency, and that some part of the misspent and profaned Sabbaths was not applied to teach the ignorant and unlettered poor to read the words of eternal life. CHAPTER VI. A diversity of opinion was now apparent in Toulouse and its neighborhood concerning the holy Scriptures, both priests and people being divided as to its being good or evil for all persons to read the sacred volume. Besides the ad- joining cottage, where Emily resided with her parents, there were two others very near the abbe's. One belonged to Mons. S., formerly a commissary of the French army in Spain, who lived with his wife in the enjoyment of a quiet retreat, and a sufficient income. The other was tenanted by a peasant, whose wife Cecile supplied us with milk. These last had a daughter about thirteen, named Louise, to MARY OF TOULOUSE. 19 whom I gave a Testament as a new-year's gift, and wrote under her name, " From a child thou hast known the holy Scriptures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus." 2 Tim. 3 : 15. This girl, who went to a school kept by the new order of nuns, called Sisters of Charity, took great delight in read- ing the Scriptures to her mother, who had never been taught to read. One day when Cecile, in conversation with a female acquaintance, was commending what she had heard her daughter read out of the New Testament, she was greatly surprised to hear from the woman that it was a bad book ; and because it came, as she said, from a heretic, she told her she was committing a great sin in retaining it. Cecile, alarmed and terrified, desired her daughter to take it to the grand-vicar for his opinion concerning it. The girl went and delivered it into his hands. As soon as the grand-vicar perceived it was the New Testament, he shut the book and calmly put it into his pocket, telling the girl that it was a book formerly prohibited. Louise went away with a sorrowful face, lamenting the loss of her pretty book, After waiting several days without hearing more of it, she informed one of the nuns of my present, and how the grand- vicar had kept it, when she went to ask his opinion of it. The nun's curiosity being excited to see the book, she desired Louise to request the grand-vicar to send it to her. Louise set off immediately, and quickly returned with it ; and, after examination, the nuns pronounced it to be a good book, in spite of former prohibitions. It was then restored to the child, who was overjoyed at again having the lost treasuie in her possession. Another Testament was presented Jto the commissary's wife, who kindly received it, though she feared to use it before she had obtained the approval of an ecclesiastic. She therefore desired her nephew, who was a student at the seminary, to show it to the director, who was a priest ; but 20 MARY OF TOULOUSE. he instantly condemned it as a book which deserved to be burned. Madame S being very unwilling to carry the sentence into execution, thought it right to take first another opinion. She accordingly applied to her own con- fessor, who declared it to be a proper booh for her. Mary had likewise told her confessor that she had received a similar gift from me ; upon which she was cautioned not to read too much in it, lest it should divert her mind from the duties of her religion. This variety of sentiment, I think, did much in estab- lishing the fame of the New Testament as a good book, not only in the two adjacent cottages, but also in the minds of Mary and Emily, who likewise received one from me. All the Testaments distributed were of the same version — De Sacy's — the one generally approved by those French Roman- ists who know something of the value of the oracles of God. Mary continued her daily study of the Scriptures till about the middle of February, three months from its com- mencement. An interruption occurred at this period, in consequence of a severe illness, which prevented me for some weeks from attending to any business. Mary showed during that season of trial a most affectionate concern for her in- structor, by her eager activity to contribute by every means in her power to my relief and comfort. She was always ready to run to the physician or chemist, to the shops or the market, in order to procure what was wanting. At one time she seemed to think my recovery hopeless, saying, "He will certainly die, and go to heaven." But the Lord and Giver of life — blessed be his holy name — willed it other- wise. He spared and raised me up to renewed health and vigor. When restored to strength, I offered her a pecuniary recompense for all her kindness during my sickness, but she was unwilling to take it ; and I was obliged to insist on her receiving some remuneration besides my grateful acknow- ledgments, before she would consent. MARY OF TOULOUSE. 21 The study of the Scriptures was now resumed and con- tinued till the period of our departure, which was fast ap- proaching. By the end of February the winter had nearly disappeared, with scarcely a flake of snow left except on the neighboring mountains, which were well clad with it. A hoarfrost covered the ground by night ; but this was quickly dissipated by the returning sun, which now beamed forth with great force, giving new life to the vegetable creation. Though the winters in that region are by no means severe, it is nevertheless visited by many a keen blast from the Atlantic ocean and the Pyrenees, and in 1819 the river Garonne was passable on the ice. The spring sets in about three weeks sooner than in England. In February the al- mond-tree abounded in blossoms, and in March a species of the pear-tree was in full bloom. At this early season the vine-dressers were busy in pruning the vines, which grow there like gooseberry-bushes, requiring neither props nor runners. The sprigs of the vine are then lopped off near the stem, leaving it about two feet above ground. Many dry sticks are thus gathered for firing from the superfluous with- ered branches, while the pruned ones become more vigorous and productive : the former aptly representing to the Chris- tian spectator the end of all dead, fruitless, hypocritical pro- fessors in Christ's church ; and the latter exhibiting the true and living disciples, who, though pruned by sharp trials, have still an abiding union with Christ, and deriving from him all sap and strength, yield more abundant fruits of the Spirit, to the praise and glory of God. John 15 : 1-8. On the 4th of April, we took our departure from Tou- louse. It was a day of gloom and sorrow to us, as well as to some whom we were leaving behind. Mary was so greatly affected that she was incapable of rendering us any assist- ance. She stood like a statue on the threshold of the door, and with tears in her eyes and a faltering voice, entreated me to pray for her. When all the neighbors wished us a 42* 22 MARY OF TOULOUSE. prosperous journey, she remained motionless and speechless, absorbed in pensiveness and grief. At length the moment of separation arrived. "We commended her to God, and the word of his grace, which was able to build her up, and give her an inheritance among them who are sanctified by faith in Christ Jesus, Acts 20 : 32 ; and afterwards we gave her, and all around us, the parting farewell. As the carriage descended towards the gate of St. Etienne, we cast a long, lingering look at Pavilion cottage, admiring the wonderful grace of God, arud the wisdom of his providence, in fixing our habitation in that particular spot. The kind abbe accompanied us to the end of the first stage, but long before we reached it, the tear was visible in his eye : and when the moment of our separation from hirg arrived, feeling perhaps that we might never meet again till the general assembly before the judgment-seat of Christ, he became much agitated ; his heart was full, and his eyes filled with tears. We took an affectionate leave of one another, and then pursued our opposite courses ; we towards Villefranche, and he towards Toulouse. Our friend the abbe had taken the precaution to apprize his brother of the exact time when we should reach his house, which lay in our direct route ; and when we alighted at his door, he gave us a very hospitable reception, and comfortable refreshment. CHAPTER VII. After passing an hour and a half with Mons. T , we prosecuted our journey towards Nice, visiting on the way Montpellier, and other populous cities, towns, and vil- lages in the south. The country we traversed abounded in olive-trees, which presented a desolate appearance ; the greater part having been smitten by the frost the preceding year. Those that survived the severe cold were now in blossom. This tree is an evergreen, and grows to a good height ; its leaf resembles that of the willow, and its trunk MARY OF TOULOUSE. 23 assumes every fantastic form. On one occasion we remarked the olive-tree, the vine, and the corn all growing together in one field ; thus combining in one view, three of the choicest products of the earth which the bounteous Giver of all good dispenses to ungrateful man. At Nice, a town lying on the Mediterranean, and on the frontier of Italy, I re- ceived a letter from the abbe, in reply to one sent to him on my journey, and it contained this pleasing intelligence : "My own health, Mary's, and her father's is very good. I did not forget to inform Mary of your kindness in seeing her brother-in-law, and putting into his hands ' the word of God,' for which she requests me to express her grateful acknowledgment." After spending several weeks in Nice, we crossed in the middle of June the high Alps by a dangerous road, the Col di Tende, part of which was covered with snow. Thence we descended into the valleys of Piedmont, where God has preserved, from the first planting of Christianity in Italy, a church uncorrupted in doctrine by any of those errors and superstitions which degrade the neighboring region. The lamp of truth still shines amidst the surrounding darkness, and in the history of that community has been literally ful- filled the Redeemer's promise to his church, " The gates of hell shall not prevail against it." From Piedmont we jour- neyed through many famed cities, which lie on the great road leading to Rome. Crossing the Apennine mountains beyond Bologna, the eye of the traveller is delighted with a view of several hamlets and cottages, which serve to be- guile the weariness of the passage over that desert. Night brought us to the handsome city of Florence, whence we proceeded to the ancient capital of the world ; and there, while surveying the ruins of palaces and theatres, and mourning over the surrounding spiritual desolation, we un- expectedly received the melancholy intelligence of the re- moval of poor Mary by death. No previous information of 24 MARY OF TOULOUSE. her illness had reached us, nor any further accounts of her since the abbe's letter in May ; we were, therefore, the more shocked by the unexpected account of her death, an event afterwards confirmed by a second letter from the abbe, giving some particulars. The substance is as follows. " Your letter, my dear sir, drew from me tears of joy and sorrow : joy, in hearing that you and your family enjoyed good health ; and sorrow, in the revival of my grief for my irreparable loss. I am quite sure that you participate in my sorrow on this mournful occasion. Mary was deeply regretted by all who knew her. Her rare virtues and her good temper made her beloved by all. You desire to know some particulars of her illness, and the good disposition she manifested before her decease ; but in order to satisfy your inquiries, I must enter into a very distressing detail. " The day of your departure was a day of mourning both to myself and Mary. From that fatal hour she lost her natural gayety, and found comfort in nothing but in the the study of the precious book — le livre d'or — which you had given her, for she* never forgot the good sentiments you had impressed on her mind. " Five days after you left us, your apartments were taken by three young men, one of whom was ill, suffering from disease of the lungs. Doctor R was called in, and ap- plied a large blister to his chest. Mary nursed him with the tenderness of a mother. This distressing and disagree- able circumstance, added to the business of the house, and the necessary errands, made her neglectful of her own health, which was then in a critical state, requiring much rest and eare. On the 2d of June, I felt so indisposed after my re- turn from town at seven o'clock in the morning, that it was thought I had taken a serious illness. Mary was greatly distressed and alarmed about me, and was unfortunately incapable of rendering me any assistance. Medical aid was obtained ; several draughts were ordered for me, as well as MARY OF TOULOUSE. 25 the application of leeches. My illness lasted six weeks, during which period Mary, in spite of her own indisposition, endeavored to do all she could for me, but would take no medicine herself until I was restored. Meanwhile her ill- ness daily increased, and she became very weak. The doc- tor's prescriptions were useless, for she took medicine only once or twice, and then omitted it, depending on the strength of her constitution. A week before she died, she took what- ever was ordered for her ; but medical skill was then of no avail. A consultation took place. On the 19th of August, at two in the morning, she became so feeble that she fainted for some time. I was instantly called, and hastened to her, but found her dying. Her mind was quite clear, as it was throughout her illness. I seized this favorable moment to give her all the spiritual consolation in my power, and had the satisfaction of seeing her resigned to death — to sleep in the arms of her Beloved, who has taken her to his bosom. I doubt not she is now happy. May the Lord grant us all the same favor. She surrendered her spirit to God in the best religious frame, in the presence of many, who were dissolved in tears. Her poor father will remain with me for the comfort of each other in our irreparable loss. " I shall carefully keep the precious present you made to Mary, and thence I shall draw all my consolation ; and will never cease in my prayers to God to implore the preserva- tion of your own life and that of your connections. My elder brother is much obliged by your remembrance of him ; also M. and Madame S. " On the 19th of October I again let the cottage, but my tenants quitted it in six weeks ; so that I am now without society, absorbed in recollections and sorrow, which over whelm me. " I have the honor to be, my dear sir, " Your most affectionate servant, i< HH » VOL. 26 MARY OF TOULOUSE. Mary's life and death are full of salutary instruction. The reader of this narrative will remember how very differ- ent her character and dispositions were before and after her conversion to God. Before she had received a new heart and a right spirit, she was debased by foolish superstitions and fatal ignorance of the only way of salvation, pursuing a course of vanity and sin ; yet all the while under the strange delusion that she was a Christian, because born and baptized in the church of her fathers. But no sooner were her eyes opened to see her guilt and danger — no sooner was she brought by divine merc;f to weep over her sins, and turn from the error of her ways to that Redeemer who is not less willing than mighty to save all who come unto God by him, than we behold her reverencing that sacred day which she had so long slighted and abused — we see her diligently em- ployed from day to day, and sometimes for hours together, in the study of God's holy will and commandments, and testify- ing her love to her Saviour by various acts of kindness and affection, more particularly by zeal and solicitude for the eternal welfare of her fellow-creatures ; evidencing, in short, throughout her latter days, both in life and conversation, that she was a new creature, "delivered from the power of darkness, and translated into the kingdom of God's dear Son." "Who that remembers her earnest desire to give up herself to God and be saved, can doubt her having chosen, with her namesake of old, that good part which shall never be taken from her ? Luke 10 : 42. Or who can hesitate to believe that she is now numbered with those myriads of angelic spirits who are incessantly chanting the new song of the ledeemed : u Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing." " Salvation to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb," "Rev. 5:12; 7:10. Mary's speedy removal from this transitory state of exist- MARY OF TOULOUSE. £7 ence is a warning voice to all who have yet to pass into the eternal world. It is a voice from her tomb admonishing high and low, rich and poor, young and aged, " Prepare to meet thy God." Mary was of a good constitution of body, accustomed to the hardships of labor and the vicissitudes of weather, and was besides in excellent health not long before she was over- taken by that illness which laid her cold corpse in the grave. But every day's experience only serves to confirm the ob- servation, that whenever God is pleased to send his mes- senger to cut down the full-ripe corn, or the fruitless tree — one for the granary, and the other for burning — neither health, nor youth, nor rank, nor riches can stay his hand. " By one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin ; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned." Reader, beware lest death surprise you in your sins. Repent and believe the gospel, before it be too late to flee from the wrath to come. Pray fervently that, through the grace of the Lord Jesus and the aid of the Holy Spirit, you may be turned from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God ; otherwise you will perish in your sins, and bo cast into the lake of unquenchable fire, where there is weep- ing, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth for ever and ever. CHAPTER VIII. Frequent allusion has been made to the kind and amia- ble conduct of our host ; but truth compels me to declare, that though an acknowledged minister of Christ, he was as lamentably ignorant of the gospel as most of his neighbors. " If the blind lead the blind, both," as says our Saviour, "shall fall into the ditch." In proof of the abbe's igno- rance of true religion, we need only refer to the superstitious inscription suspended in his apartment, his bequest for masses to extricate his own soul from an imaginary place 28 MARY OF TOULOUSE. called purgatory, and his neglect of the spiritual and eter- nal welfare of his household and neighbors. Whether it has since pleased the God of all grace to show him his dan- ger and lead him to Christ, the only refuge for lost sinners, I know not ; but I love to cherish the hope, that by the teaching of the Holy Spirit our conversations may have been blessed to the conversion of his soul, and that he may indeed have drawn all his consolation from that fountain of truth where Mary imbibed her saving knowledge ; which, while it proved the comfort of her latter days, was doubtless also her support when passing through the valley of the shadow of death. Since the abbe's second letter, and after different inqui- ries, I at length received a communication from his niece, five years later, informing me of his passage from time into eternity. No particulars were given of his dying sentiments, or of the date of his departure. Thus have both master and servant been summoned to that final account which all must render at the tribunal of Christ. Their lot is cast, either for endless happiness or endless misery ; and in a few years, or months, or days, the hand that now writes may be motionless, and the eye that now reads may be sightless. See, reader, that you now lay this instruction to heart. Seek to profit by it ; and, above all, seek grace from God to study, believe, and obey the blessed volume of inspiration — God's holy book. Read it for yourself, or hear it read by another ; examine it well, and pray over it fervently ; and neglect not to impart to all within your reach the words of eternal life. Hide not from others this key of knowledge ; bury not this inestimable talent ; lest you not only shut out tJiem from the kingdom of heaven, but yourself also, and bring on your own head a greater condemnation. I UN^* Srr UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW ; REC'DLD DEC|l7 71 -4 PM » * v V REC'DLD FEB WAV \ 2 1977 6 6 CIR.APR 2*> 77 L5 72 -2 PM 2 9 30m-l,'15 / 101702 * Vi-r/5- £.6 ■■ J