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GEORGE : WELLS * ARMES 
 MEMORIAL LiBRARY * * + 
 STiLE5 HALL BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 University of California. 
 
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CONTENTS 
 
 Pagbs. 
 
 THE DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER 32 
 
 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN 28 
 
 'TIS ALL FOR THE BEST 20 
 
 PARLEY THE PORTER 16 
 
 THE SPOILED CHILD 28 
 
 THE AFRICAN SERVANT 20 
 
 THE COTTAGER'S WIFE 28 
 
 WILLIAM KELLY 20 
 
 THE YOUNG COTTAGER 44 
 
 ELIZA CUNNINGHAM 20 
 
 THE WATCHMAKER AND HIS FAMILY 20 
 
 LIFE OF COL. GARDINER 24 
 
 THE TWO OLD MEN 16 
 
 CONTENTMENT IN HUMBLE LIFE 16 
 
 THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM 12 
 
 THE SWISS PEASANT 12 
 
 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS 24 
 
 THE HONEST WATERMAN 20 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN MILLER 24 
 
 THE AGED PENITENT 8 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER 8 
 
 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER 16 
 
 THE GERMAN CRIPPLE .16 
 
 MARY OF TOULOUSE 28 
 
 101702 
 
NARRATIVE I. 
 
 THE DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY REV. LEGH RICHMOND. 
 
 AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE-ABRIDGED. 
 
 
 T is a delightful em- 
 ployment to trace and 
 discover the operations 
 of divine grace, as they 
 are manifested in the 
 dispositions and lives ot 
 God's real children. It is 
 peculiarly gratifying to 
 observe how frequently, 
 among the poorer classes 
 of mankind, the sunshine 
 of mercy beams upon the 
 heart, and bears witness 
 to the image of Christ, 
 which the Spirit of G od has impressed thereupon. Among 
 such, the sincerity and simplicity of the Christian char- 
 acter appear unencumbered by those fetters to spirit- 
 
 Eleg. Nar. 1 * 
 
 
 *&> 
 
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. <J 
 
 tered bits of wool the children pick up out of the bram- 
 bles, which I see have torn sad holes in Molly's- apron to- 
 day; they carry this wool home, and when they have 
 got a pretty parcel together, their mother cards it; for 
 she can sit and card in the chimney-corner, when she is 
 not able to wash or work about house. The biggest girl 
 then spins it. It does very well for us without dyeing, 
 for poor people must not stand for the color of their 
 stockings. After this, our little boys knit it for them- 
 selves, while they are employed in keeping cows in the 
 fields, and after they get home at night. As for the knit- 
 ting the girls and their mother do, that is chiefly for sale, 
 which helps to pay our rent." 
 
 Mr. Johnson lifted up his eyes in silent astonishment 
 at the shifts which honest poverty can make, rather than 
 beg or steal; and was surprised to think how many ways 
 of subsisting there are, which those who live at their 
 ease little suspect. He secretly resolved to be more at- 
 tentive to his own petty expenses than he had hitherto 
 been ; and to be more watchful that nothing was wasted 
 in his family. 
 
 But to return to the shepherd. Mr. Johnson told him 
 that as he must needs be at his friend's house, who lived 
 many miles off, that night, he could not, as he wished to 
 do, make a visit to his cottage at present. "But I will 
 certainly do it," said he, "on my return, for I long to see 
 your wife and her nice little family, and to be an eye- 
 witness of her neatness and good management." The 
 poor man's tears started into his eyes on hearing the com- 
 mendation bestowed on his wife; and wiping them off 
 with the sleeve of his coat, for he was not worth a hand- 
 kerchief in the world, he said, "Oh, sir, you just now, 
 I am afraid, called me an humble man, but indeed I am a 
 very proud one." "Proud!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson,"I 
 hope not ; pride is a great sin, and as the poor are liable 
 to it as well as the rich, so good a man as you seem to be 
 
 vol. i. 6* 
 
10 SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 
 
 ought to guard against it." " Sir," said he, " you are right, 
 but I am not proud of myself; God knows JL have nothing 
 to be proud of. I am a poor sinner ; but indeed, sir, I am 
 proud of my wife; she is not only the most tidy, notable 
 woman on the plain, but she is the kindest wife and 
 mother, and the most contented, thankful Christian that 
 I know. Last year I thought I should have lost her 
 in a violent fit of the rheumatism, caught by going to 
 work too soon after her lying-in, I fear; for 'tis but a 
 bleak, coldish place, as you may see, sir, in winter ; and 
 sometimes the snow lies so long under the hill, that I can 
 hardly make myself a path to get out and buy a few nec- 
 essaries in the next village ; and we are afraid to send 
 out the children, for fear they would be lost when the 
 snow is deep. So, as I was saying, the poor soul was 
 very bad indeed, and for several weeks, lost the use of 
 all her limbs except her hands ; a merciful Providence 
 spared her the use of these, so that when she could not 
 turn in her bed, she could contrive to patch a rag or two 
 for her family. She was always saying, had it not been 
 for the great goodness of God, she might have had her 
 hands lame as well as her feet, or the palsy instead of 
 the rheumatism, and then she could have done nothing — 
 but nobody had so many mercies as she had. 
 
 " I will not tell you what we suffered during the bit- 
 ter weather, sir ; but my wife's faith and patience during 
 that trying time were as good a lesson to me as any ser- 
 mon I could hear; and yet Mr. Jenkins gave us very 
 comfortable ones too, that helped to keep up my spirits. 
 
 " One Sunday afternoon when my wife was at the 
 worst, as I was coming out of church — for I went one 
 part of the day, and my eldest daughter the other, so my 
 poor wife was never left alone — as I was coming out of 
 church, I say, Mr. Jenkins the minister called out to me, 
 and asked me how my wife did, saying he had been kept 
 from coming to see her by the deep fall of snow ; and 
 
SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. • 11 
 
 indeed from the parsonage-house to my hovel it was quite 
 impassable. I gave him all the particulars he asked, and 
 I am afraid a good many more, for my heart was quite 
 full. He kindly gave me a shilling, and said he would 
 certainly try to pick out his way, and come and see her 
 Li a day or two. 
 
 " While he was talking to me, a plain, farmer-looking 
 gentleman in boots, who stood by, listened to all I said, 
 but seemed to take no notice. It was Mr. Jenkins' wife's 
 father, who was come to pass the Christmas-holidays at 
 the parsonage-house. I had always heard him spoken of 
 as a plain frugal man, who lived close himself, but was 
 remarked to give away more than any of his show-a-way 
 neighbors. 
 
 " Well, I went home with great spirits at this season- 
 able and unexpected supply ; for we had tapped our last 
 sixpence, and there was little work to be had, on account 
 of the weather. I told my wife I had not come back 
 empty-handed. No, I dare say not, says she, you have 
 been serving a Master ' who filleth the hungry with good 
 things, though he sendeth the rich empty away.' True, 
 Mary, said I, we seldom fail to get good spiritual food 
 from Mr. Jenkins, but to-day he has kindly supplied our 
 bodily wants. She was more thankful when I showed 
 her the shilling, than I dare say some of your great people 
 are when they get a hundred pounds." 
 
 Mr. Johnson's heart smote him, when he heard such 
 a value set upon a shilling : surely, said he to himself, I 
 will never waste another; but he said nothing to the 
 shepherd, who thus pursued his story. 
 
 " Next morning, before I went out, I sent a part of the 
 money to buy a little ale and brown sugar, to put into 
 her water-gruel ; which you know, sir, made it nice and 
 nourishing. I went out to cleave wood in a farm-yard> 
 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, ar<H invented the bolts, and doubled 
 the locks. 
 
PARLEY THE PORTER. 15 
 
 As soon as poor Parley had swallowed the fatal draught, 
 h acted like enchantment. He at once lost all power of 
 resistance. He had no sense of fear left. He despised 
 his own safety, forgot his master, lost all sight of the 
 house in the other country, and reached out for another 
 draught, as eagerly as Flatterwell held out the bottle to 
 administer it. 
 
 " What a fool I have been," said Parley, " to deny 
 myself so long." 
 
 " Will you now let me in ?" said Flatterwell. 
 
 " Ay, that I will," said the deluded Parley. Though 
 the train was now increased to near a hundred robbers, 
 yet so intoxicated was Parley, that he did not see one 
 of them except his new friend. Parley eagerly pulled 
 down the bars, drew back the bolts, and forced open the 
 locks, thinking he could never let in his friend soon enough. 
 He had however just presence of mind to say, " My dear 
 friend, I hope you are alone." 
 
 Flatterwell swore he was. Parley opened the door — 
 in rushed, not Flatterwell only, but the whole banditti, 
 who always lurk behind in his train. The moment they 
 had got sure possession, Flatterwell changed his soft tone, 
 and cried out in a voice of thunder, " Down with the 
 castle ; kill, burn, and destroy." 
 
 Rapine, murder, and conflagration, by turns, took 
 place. Parley was the very first whom they attacked. 
 He was overpowered with wounds. As he fell, he cried 
 out, " O, my master, I die a victim to my unbelief in thee, 
 and to my own vanity and imprudence. O that the guar- 
 dians of all other castles would hear me with my dying 
 breath repeat my master's admonition, that attacks from 
 without will not destroy, unless there is some confederate 
 
16 PARLEY THE PORTER. 
 
 within. O that the keepers of all other castles would 
 learn from my ruin, that he who parleys with tempta- 
 tion, is already undone; that he who allows himself to go 
 to the very bounds, will soon jump over the hedge ; that he 
 who talks out of the window with the enemy, will soon 
 o:>en 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, 
 <tnd could not sleep. When I got up in the morning I was 
 so sore and stiff, so filled up in my throat, and my appetite 
 was so gone, that I could do nothing till I had taken a glass 
 of rum and molasses. I then stood it till breakfast. But 
 my breakfast did not relish, and what I took did not seem 
 to nourish me. Soon after I got to work I was so hollow 
 and so tired, that I felt desperate ugly till 1 1 o'clock. Then 
 I took a new vamper. And by the strength of that I got 
 on till dinner. Then I must have a little more to give me 
 an appetite. At three o'clock in the afternoon I must have 
 recourse " — these were his words — " to the hair of the same 
 dog, to keep up my sinking spirits. And thus I got along 
 till night. Then I must have a little to sharpen appetite 
 for supper. And after supper I could not sleep, till I had 
 taken another nightcap. 
 
 "Thus I continued," said he, "year after year, under- 
 mining a constitution which was naturally very robust ; and 
 growing worse and worse, until 1 came under your wise and 
 excellent regulations. And now," said he, " I am cured. I 
 am cured. I can now do more labor than when I took 
 spirits, without half the fatigue, and take nothing stronger 
 than pure cold water. If a man would give me the same 
 wages that you do, and a dollar a day in addition, to return 
 to the practice of drinking rum, I would laugh at him." 
 All this was the free, spontaneous effusion of his own mind, 
 in view of the great change wrought in his feelings by leav- 
 ing off entirely the use of ardent spirits. 
 
 Another of the workmen came to Mr. B and said, 
 
 that he had found it very hard to do without rum at first ; 
 but he could now freely say, that he never enjoyed so good 
 health, or felt so well, as he did then. He said that in cold 
 weather in the winter, and after chopping all day in the 
 woods, especially if exposed to rains, or if his feet were wet, 
 he had for a long time been accustomed to a very bad rheu- 
 matism, and at night to a dreadful headache. He took 
 spirits temperately, and he supposed it was necessary to 
 
 29* 
 
6 THE WELL-CON DUCTED FARM. 
 
 guard him against these evils. Still he suffered them ; and 
 he found nothing that would prevent them. But since he 
 had left off entirely the use of spirits, he had had no rheuma- 
 tism, and been entirely free from the headache. 
 
 Another of the workmen said he thought at first that lie 
 could do very well without spirits three quarters of the 
 year ; but that, in haying and harvesting, he should want a 
 little. But he had found that a dish of bread and milk, or 
 some other nourishing food, at 11 o'clock, answered his 
 purpose at all times just as well as grog, and he thought a 
 little better. And as he was now entirely free from the habit 
 of taking spirits, he would not on any account be placed 
 in a situation where he should be tempted to renew it. 
 
 Such were the feelings of men who had always been 
 accustomed to the practice of taking spirits, till they came 
 
 into Mr. B 's employment, and who afterwards had not 
 
 taken a drop. They had tried both sides, and had found, 
 by experience, that the practice of taking ardent spirits is 
 utterly useless ; nay, that it is positively hurtful. It was 
 their united testimony, that they enjoyed better health, 
 were more happy, could do more work, and with less fa- 
 tigue, than when they took spirits. 
 
 They said, to be sure, that they found it hard to do 
 without it at first. And so would a man who had been in 
 the habit of taking laudanum, or any poison, that was not 
 fatal, but was stimulating and pleasant to the taste, however 
 destructive it might be in the end to his constitution. But 
 after they had freed themselves from the habit of taking 
 spirits, they found no inconvenience ; but were in all respects 
 better than they were before. And they acknowledged that 
 they were exceedingly indebted to him, who, by his wise 
 regulations, had been the means of improving their condition. 
 The following were some of the advantages to them. 
 
 1. They had a better appetite, partook of their food 
 with a keener relish, and it was more nourishing to them 
 than before. 
 
THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. 
 
 2. They possessed much greater vigor and activity, both 
 of body and mind. 
 
 3. They performed the same labor with much greater 
 ease ; and were in a great measure free from that lassitude 
 and fatigue to which they were before accustomed. 
 
 4. They had greater wages, and they laid up a much 
 greater portion of what they had. Before, numbers used 
 to spend a great portion of their wages in scenes of amuse-' 
 ment and dissipation. Now, they have no inclination to 
 frequent such scenes. The consequence is, they lay up 
 more money. They are, also, more serious in their deport- 
 ment, spend more of their leisure time in useful reading, 
 much oftener peruse the Scriptures, and attend public wor- 
 ship ; and they are more attentive to all the means of grace. 
 In a word, they are more likely to become useful and happy 
 in this life, and to be prepared for lasting blessedness in the 
 life to come. 
 
 5. Their example will be more likely to be useful to 
 those around them ; and that for both worlds. 
 
 The following are some of the advantages to their em- 
 ployer. 
 
 1. The men, he says, in the course. of the year, do more 
 work, in a better manner, and at a much less expense of 
 tools. 
 
 2. He can now with much greater ease have a place for 
 every thing, and every thing in its place. 
 
 3. When a stone has fallen from the wall it is now laid 
 up, as the men are passing by, without his mentioning it. 
 The gates are locked, and the bars put up ; so that the 
 cattle do not, as before, get in and destroy the crops. 
 
 4. His summer work is done in such season, that earth, 
 loam, etc., is carted into the yard in the fall, instead of 
 being carted in in the spring, as before. The consequence 
 is, when carried out it is richer, and renders the farm more 
 productive. 
 
 5. His barns, in winter, are kept clean, and less fodder 
 
8 THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. 
 
 is wasted. The cattle and horses are daily curried, and 
 appear in better order. 
 
 6. When his men go into the forests, instead, as before, 
 of cutting down the nearest, thriftiest, and largest trees, 
 they cut those that are decayed, crooked, and not likely to 
 grow any better ; pick up those that are blown down, and 
 thus leave the forests in a better state. 
 . 7% The men are more uniform, still, and peaceable ; are 
 less trouble in the house, and more contented with their 
 manner of living. 
 
 8. At morning and evening prayer, they are more ready 
 than before to attend, and in season ; appearing to esteem 
 it not only a duty, but a privilege and a pleasure to be 
 present, and unite with the family in the daily worship of 
 God. 
 
 9. On the Sabbath, instead of wishing, as before, to stay 
 at home, or to spend the day in roving about the fields, 
 rivers, and forests, they choose statedly and punctually to 
 attend public worship. In a word, their whole deportment, 
 both at home and abread, is improved, and to a greater 
 extent than any, without witnessing it, can well imagine. 
 
 All these and many more advantages resulted from their 
 abstaining entirely, and at all times, from the use of ardent 
 spirits. 
 
 Nor were the benefits confined to them and their em- 
 ployer. Some of his neighbors, witnessing the complete 
 success of his system, have themselves adopted it. When 
 
 Mr. B went into that part of the country, many of the 
 
 farmers in his neighborhood were in debt. Their farms 
 were mortgaged, some for $300, some for $500, and some 
 for $1000, or more. They complained much of hard times, 
 especially for farmers. 
 
 Mr. B told them that so long as they continued to 
 
 drink rum, they must expect hard times ; for it was no 
 profit, but a great expense, and in more ways than they 
 imagined. They came to him to borrow money to savp 
 
THE WELL-UONDUCTEl) FARM. 9 
 
 their farms from attachment. But he told them, No. It 
 will do men who continue to drink rum no good to have 
 money. Nay, it will be to them an evil. The sooner their 
 property is gone, and they have nothing with which to buy 
 rum, the better. For then they will do less mischief than 
 if they have money, and continue to drink rum. But, said 
 he, if you will leave off the use of spirits, and not take a 
 drop for three months, I will lend you money, and you may 
 keep it, by paying the interest, as long as you continue to 
 take no ardent spirits. But when I learn that you begin to 
 take it, I shall call for the money. Some went away in 
 
 disgust. Others said, As Mr. B can do without rum, 
 
 why cannot we ? and if we can, it will be a great saving of 
 expense. They made the experiment, and found that they 
 could, without the least inconvenience, do without it. After 
 
 a few months, they made known to Mr. B the result ; 
 
 and he helped them to as much money as they needed. 
 They continued to do without spirits, and they had none 
 used by men in their employment. Their business began 
 to prosper, and their prospects to brighten. Their debts 
 are now paid, and their farms free from all incumbrance. 
 The times with them have altered, and they are now thriving, 
 respectable, and useful members of the community. 
 
 Others, who a few years .ago were in no worse a con- 
 dition than they, but who continued the practice of drink- 
 ing spirits, have lost their farms ; lost their reputation ; 
 lost their health, and eventually their lives ; and there is 
 reason to fear, their souls. By the temperate but habitual 
 use of spirits, they formed an intemperate appetite. This at 
 first was occasionally, and then habitually indulged ; and 
 they were ruined for both worlds. The evil may extend to 
 their children, and children's children. 
 
 But those who have entirely relinquished the use of 
 
 spirits, until the desire for it is removed, have experienced 
 
 a wonderful transformation in their feelings, their conduct, 
 
 and their prospects. And the change is visible not only in 
 
 them, but their families, and all their concerns. Their 
 
 3# 
 
10 THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM 
 
 windows are not broken out as before ; nor their gates and 
 garden-fences falling down. The kitchen does not smoke 
 as it used to do, because they keep it more clean, have drier 
 and better wood, and lay it on the fire in a better manner. 
 The wife does not scold as she once did, because she is well 
 provided for, is treated kindly, and has encouragement to 
 labor. The children are not now in rags, but are comfort- 
 ably and decently clad ; they are obedient, respectful, and 
 mannerly ; and appear to be growing up in the nurture and 
 admonition of the Lord. In short, they uppear almost like 
 a new race of beings. And if they should never again adopt 
 the practice of taking ardent spirits, there is vastly more 
 reason than before, to hope that they will be led by the 
 word and Spirit of God to such a course of conduct as will 
 greatly increase their happiness and usefulness on earth, 
 and be the means of preparing them, through grace, for the 
 everlasting joys of heaven. 
 
 Should each individual in our country adopt the same 
 course, the following are some of the advantages which 
 would result from it. 
 
 1. They would enjoy better health, be able to perform 
 more labor, and would live to a greater age. 
 
 2. The evils of intemperance would soon be done away : 
 for all who are now intemperate, and continue so, will soon 
 be dead, and no others will be found to succeed them. 
 
 3. There will be a saving every year of more than 
 thirty millions of dollars, which are now expended for 
 ardent spirits. There will be a saving of more than two- 
 thirds of all the expense of supporting the poor, which, in 
 Massachusetts alone, would amount to more than $600,000 
 annually. And there would be a saving of all that idle- 
 ness and dissipation which intemperance occasions, and 
 of the expense of more than two-thirds of all the criminal 
 prosecutions in the land. In one of our large cities, in 
 which there were one thousand prosecutions for crimes, 
 more than eight hundred of them were found to have sprung 
 from the use of ardent spirits. 
 
THE WELL-UON DUCTED FARM \ \ 
 
 4. There would be a saving of a vast portion of sick- 
 ness ; and of the lives probably of thirty thousand persons 
 every year. 
 
 Let these four considerations be added together, and 
 traced in their various bearings and consequences upon the 
 temporal and eternal welfare of men; and then let each 
 individual say, whether, in view of all the evils connected 
 with the practice of taking ardent spirits, he can, in the 
 sight of God, be justified in continuing the practice. That 
 it is not necessary, has been fully proved. No one thinks it 
 to be necessary, except those who use it. And they would 
 not think so, if they were not in the habit of using it. Let 
 any man leave off entirely the use of ardent spirits for only 
 one year, and he will find by his own experience that it is 
 not necessary or useful. The fathers of New England did 
 not use it, nor did their children. They were never, as a 
 body, in the practice of taking it. And yet they enjoyed 
 better health, attained to a larger stature, and, with fewer 
 comforts of life, performed more labor, endured more 
 fatigue, and lived, upon an average, to a greater age than 
 any generation of their descendants who have been in the 
 practice of taking spirits. As it was not necessary for the 
 fathers of New England, it is certain that it is not necessary 
 for their descendants, or for any portion of our inhabitants. 
 Hundreds of healthy, active, respectable, and useful men, 
 who now do not use it, can testify that it is not necessary. 
 And this will be the testimony of every one who will only 
 relinquish entirely the use of it. 
 
 It is by the temperate and habitual use of ardent spirits, 
 that intemperate appetites are formed. And the temperate 
 use of it cannot be continued, without, in many cases, form- 
 ing intemperate appetites ; and after they are formed, mul- 
 titudes will be destroyed by their gratification. 
 
 Natural appetites, such as are implanted in our consti- 
 tution by the Author of nature, do not by their gratification 
 increase in their demands. What satisfied them years ago, 
 will satisfv them now. But artificial appetites, which are 
 
12 THE WELL-CONDUCTED FARM. 
 
 formed by the wicked practices of men, are constantly in- 
 creasing in their demands. What satisfied them once, will 
 not satisfy them now. And what satisfies them now, will 
 not satisfy them in future. They are constantly crying, 
 " Give, give.^ And there is not a man, who is in the habit- 
 ual use of ardent spirits, who is not in danger of dying a 
 drunkard. Before he is aware, an intemperate appetite 
 may be formed, the gratification of which may prove his 
 temporal and eternal ruin. And if the practice should not 
 come to this result with regard to himself, it may with 
 regard to his children, and children's children. It may 
 with regard to his neighbors, and their children. It may 
 extend its baleful influences far and wide ; and transmit 
 them, with all their innumerable evils, from generation to 
 generation. 
 
 Can, then, temperate, sober men be clear from guilt, in 
 continuing a practice which is costing annually more than 
 $30,000,000 ; increasing more than threefold the poor- 
 rates, and the crimes of the country ; undermining the 
 health and constitution of its inhabitants ; and cutting off 
 annually thirty thousand lives ! 
 
 There is tremendous guilt somewhere. And it is a truth 
 which ought to press with overwhelming force upon the 
 mind of every sober man, that a portion of this guilt rests 
 upon every one who, with a knowledge of facts, continues 
 the totally unnecessary and awfully pernicious practice of 
 talcing ardent spirits. Each individual ought, without delay, 
 in view of eternity, to clear himself, and neither by precept 
 nor example, ever again encourage or even connive at this 
 deadly evil. 
 
NARRATIVE XVI. 
 
 THE SWISS PEASANT.* 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH OF REV. CESAR 
 MALAN, OF GENEVA. 
 
 Ye who sincerely desire rest for 
 your souls ; who would rejoice to 
 have peace with God, and to be 
 assured of his love towards you; 
 listen to a simple narrative of 
 scenes which I have witnessed. 
 
 * An account of the overwhelming calamity which visited the 
 valley of Bagnes, in* the canton of Valais, in Switzerland, is contain- 
 ed in the Paris "Moniteur," of the 28th June and 2d July, 1818. 
 On the 16th June, in the space of half an hour, 40 houses, 118 barns, 
 10 mills, 22 granaries, besides a great number of shepherds' huts, etc. 
 were carried away. Many individuals also perished in this dreadful 
 catastrophe. 
 
 Eleg. Nar. 30 
 
2 THE SWISS PEASANT. 
 
 Is it possible that a nation can dwell in wickedness, and 
 not fear that Divine justice will overtake it? The concerns 
 of this life proceed in their accustomed course : the farmer 
 pursues his labors, the tradesman is immersed in his traffic, 
 and the man of pleasure follows the vanities in which his 
 soul delights. All, outwardly, appears to go on as usual; 
 the same hopes, the same fears, the same frivolous and 
 criminal pursuits, succeed each other in their accustomed 
 course. Men are regardless of the darkness which covers 
 their mind ; they perceive not the enmity of their hearts 
 against God. Surrounded with the blessings of Providence, 
 they deny Him who alone is the author and giver of all they 
 enjoy. But God has seen them. " Destruction shall come 
 upon the workers of iniquity;" yet, "he is not willing that 
 any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." 
 2 Pet. 3:9. His chastisements are sent both to punish 
 and to save. 
 
 Thus it was with the fertile and romantic valley of 
 Bagnes ; in that place man had forgotten his Maker, and 
 was asleep in prosperity. Were the dwellers in this val- 
 ley more wicked than the inhabitants of other valleys in 
 Switzerland ? Were these men greater sinners than those 
 who dwelt in other, and neighboring countries, and who 
 survived to be witnesses of their sufferings ? " Think ye that 
 they were sinners above all men that dwelt in Jerusalem ?" 
 said our Lord on a like occasion ; " I tell you, Nay ; but ex- 
 cept ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish." Luke 13:4, 5. 
 He is the all-poAverful God, and all things are subject to his 
 control. At his word, immense masses of ice fell from the 
 summit of a neighboring mountain ; they arrested the course 
 of a rivulet which flowed through the valley, its stream 
 soon swelled into a lake, and an immense body of water 
 was restrained only by a feeble barrier of ice. Its fall was 
 certain and near ; devastation and ruin to the valley beneath 
 inevitably must ensue. 
 
 In an instant the flood bounded from the heights, and 
 
THE SWISS PEASANT 3 
 
 carrying away in. its foaming waves all that opposed its 
 course, traversed the valley as a swift messenger of de- 
 struction. Forests were torn up by the roots ; fields were 
 laid waste ; the houses, with their inhabitants, and their 
 flocks and herds, were all confounded together in the tor- 
 rent. Many immortal souls were, in an instant, either called 
 to the mansions of eternal bliss, or reserved for the day of 
 judgment and perdition of ungodly men. Bagnes was deso- 
 lated ; its villages and fields no longer exist. Its children 
 aie no more. Heavenly Father! have the few who sur- 
 vived acknowledged thy hand in this event — have they re- 
 turned to thee ? 
 
 Occupied with these reflections, I wandered over the 
 scene of desolation ; and as I paced slowly along, I looked 
 around, and saw an aged woman sitting near: she endeavor- 
 ed to rise ; " Oh, bestow your charity," said she. 
 
 " Do not rise, poor woman ; you appear unhappy." 
 "Oh," said she, "I know not what will become of me." 
 In fact, all the outward appearances of misery seemed, 
 as it were, united and present before me. She was tall, 
 and a threadbare garment scarcely covered her form ; her 
 feet were bare, and one of them severely wounded ; hei 
 face was shrivelled by hunger ; her eyes hollow and dim ; 
 a few white hairs strayed from the tattered cloth which 
 covered her head ; and near her, upon the sand left by the 
 torrent, was a bag containing a few scraps and morsels of 
 bread. 
 
 " Have you no family ?" said I ; " are you quite alone, 
 and without any help ?" 
 
 " My last surviving son died twenty years ago, and I 
 lived with my grandson near the village of Morgne ; but I 
 have never seen: my poor grandchild since the day when 
 the wrath of heaven fell upon us : he never appeared again : 
 he was carried away with his dwelling. His wife and chil- 
 dren are now living nine miles from hence, among the moun- 
 tains ; they could hardly find enough for themselves, so I 
 
THE SWISS FEASANT. 
 
 staid in this place. I want but little, and have but a short 
 time to remain here." 
 
 " But a short time !" said I to myself, " where will she 
 go when called hence?" and turning to her, I added, "You 
 then think you have not long to live ?" 
 
 " Yes," said she, looking steadily at me, " the days of 
 my pilgrimage are nearly ended, and I feel that soon, very 
 soon, I must appear before God." She groaned deeply as 
 she uttered these last words. 
 
 " Well, poor woman, I hope your soul is prepared to 
 meet your God." 
 
 "No, sir, I fear it is not; and this troubles me, and 
 takes- away all my comfort." 
 
 " Do you desire to be saved ? Would you escape from 
 the wrath to come ; from the just judgment of God ?" 
 
 " yes," she replied, "I do desire to be saved ; and 
 covering her face with her hands, she exclaimed with 
 earnestness, " that I might go to heaven ! but I know 
 not how." 
 
 " Have you long thought about these things ?" 
 
 " One evening, about two years ago, a stranger stopped 
 at our cabin, and remained there all night. He spoke much 
 of God and of heaven ; and read to us about the evil of 
 sin, and our need of a Saviour, from a book which he had 
 with him ; and several times he spoke to me particularly. 
 During the night, I heard him praying for all of us, and 
 especially for the aged woman, who, he said, must soon ap- 
 pear before God. He left us at break of day ; I think I 
 still hear his parting words ; he took my hand, and said, 
 ' My poor friend, the hour of your death is near ; I shall 
 not see you again in this world. Oh, do not forget the 
 Saviour. Seek him, seek him earnestly, ivhile he may be 
 found.' Since that day, I have had no rest ; his words are 
 fixed deep in my heart. I feel that I am a sinner ; I have 
 done all I could, but I am still under condemnation." 
 
 "What sort of a life have you lived?" 
 
THE SWISS PEASANT. 5 
 
 " I have not been worse than my neighbors, but God is 
 holy, and looks at the heart. I am too great a sinner to go 
 to heaven, and I know not what to do." 
 
 "Blessed are they that mourn," said our gracious 
 Saviour, "for they shall be comforted." Matt. 5 : 4. This 
 precious promise came strongly to my mind while the poor 
 woman related her history. I seemed to hear the Saviour 
 himself calling this poor wandering sheep, and drawing her 
 to him ; and I fervently implored, that He who opened the 
 heart of Lydia would open the heart of this poor woman ; 
 then looking earnestly at her, I said, 
 
 " I can tell you what you ought to do — how you may 
 be delivered from the burden of your sins, and assured of 
 admission to heaven." 
 
 " Oh, sir," she exclaimed, stretching her trembling, 
 withered hands towards me, " Oh, sir, pity me ! pity my 
 gray hairs ; the grave is ready to receive me." 
 
 " No, my poor friend, not before Jesus has spoken peace 
 to your soul. Listen to me. Did not the stranger tell you 
 that Christ Jesus, the Son of God, came down from heaven 
 to save sinners ?" 
 
 " Yes, he said many things about him, but I do not re- 
 member them all ; I only recollect that he told us there 
 was no Saviour except the Son of God, and that if a sinner 
 did not find rest in Christ, there was no hope for him." 
 
 u Well, my friend, do you believe this, or do you think 
 that man is able to save himself, and to blot out his sins by 
 his own good works ?" 
 
 " Once I thought so. Before I heard this stranger, I 
 thought I was good enough to please God, and that my 
 good deeds would do away my offences. But now I see 
 plainly that I am a great sinner, and that I cannot myself 
 procure the pardon of my sins, or do away the evil I have 
 committed." 
 
 " Are you sure of this ? Have you tried to deliver your- 
 self from the puilt of sin ?" 
 
 30* 
 
6 THE SWISS PEASANT. 
 
 " I have done all that any mortal can do. As soon as 
 my eyes were opened to see my sinful state, and that I was 
 under the curse of God's holy law, I was terrified, and I 
 determined to do what would please him. From that day 
 I have given up my pleasures and my former pursuits. I 
 have willingly undergone all sorts of privations and suffer- 
 ings. I have been constant in attending public worship, 
 and regular in my private devotions ; but all, all is useless. 
 They tell me, indeed, that I am sure to go to heaven ; and 
 they call me a saint ; but I have it here — I have upon my 
 heart and conscience a burden intolerable — a horrible dread 
 which overwhelms me. Oh, deliver me from this ; take it 
 — take it away from me, if you are able." 
 
 " Christ alone is able to deliver you ; he is able, and he 
 is willing ; he came into the world to save sinners, 1 Tim. 
 1 : 15; to give rest to all who are weary and heavy laden. 
 Go to him, and you shall find rest for your soul." See 
 Matt. 11 : 28-30. 
 
 " But will he, can he receive such a vile creature as 1 
 am ? Often would I have gone to the Saviour, but I felt 
 I was too unworthy. Yesterday I recollected what the 
 stranger told us of the prodigal son, and I wept while I 
 thought on his happiness. Ah, said I, how happy must he 
 have been in his father's arms !" 
 
 " And do you think that the everlasting arms are less 
 ready to receive you than the prodigal son?" 
 
 " To receive me ! Ah, I am not worthy." 
 
 " And was the prodigal worthy ? When a free pardon 
 is offered, there is no question about what we deserve." 
 
 The poor woman looked at me, anxious to understand 
 my meaning, but she could not. 
 
 It is, indeed, hard for the heart of man to think that it 
 is possible to be loved of God ! Speak to the vilest of sin- 
 ners of the necessity of obtaining pardon for his sins ; and 
 if he is convinced of this, he will readily undergo the most 
 severe sufferings, and make the greatest sacrifices. But 
 
THE SWISS PEASANT. 7 
 
 tell him of free pardon ; tell him that his Creator, that God 
 himself has become his Saviour, and is ready to bestow 
 upon him life everlasting ; he will not believe you — he is 
 not willing to accept pardon on these terms. He cannot 
 receive the free mercy of God, or rather he rejects it, be- 
 cause his proud heart would obtain salvation as a reward 
 of his own works ; he would receive it as a recompense, not 
 as a free gift. 
 
 Here Was the mistake of this poor woman. Apparently 
 taught that man could work out his own salvation by his 
 own strength, she had persisted in this fatal error, and had 
 not the remotest idea that she was wrong. I saw the cloud 
 which darkened her understanding, and endeavored to re- 
 move it. 
 
 " You have not, then," said I, " yet learned why our 
 Lord Jesus Christ came upon earth." 
 
 " To save sinners," said she. 
 
 " But you do not perceive how he has done this ; you 
 know not that he has died, 'the just for the unjust;' that 
 he became a ransom for sinners. He saw them yet afar off, 
 lost and helpless in their sins, when, moved by an all-power- 
 ful love, which passeth man's understanding, he took upon 
 himself their iniquity, and bore their sins in his own body 
 on the tree. He has borne the burden from which he de- 
 livered them. Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of 
 the law, being made a curse for us." Gal. 3:13. 
 
 " Happy are those whom he has redeemed!" 
 
 " Yes, they are truly happy ; and I trust you will find 
 this happiness. If you believe in Christ, you will share in 
 his favor and his love." 
 
 u What, is it possible that the Saviour can love me, and 
 receive and pardon me?" 
 
 " Why not you, when he says, ' Whosoever will, let him 
 take of the water of life freely V When you have believed 
 in him, you will find that he has loved you with an everlast- 
 ing love. ' Greater love hath no man than this, that a man 
 
8 THE SWISS PEASANT. 
 
 lay down his life for his friends.' John 15 : 13. And did 
 not he lay down his life for you ; yes, even for you, when 
 he died on the cross ? Do not you believe this ?" 
 
 " Is it possible ? Did he die for me ? For my sins ; 
 for mine ?" 
 
 " Why was he smitten of God and afflicted, Isa. 53 : ^ 
 if not for poor sinners such as you and I ? Who can need 
 more than we do, that a Saviour should interpose between 
 us and the justice of the Most High ? And since* it is writ- 
 ten, that Christ came to seek and to save that which is lost, 
 Luke 19 : 10, since he died for the chief of sinners, 1 Tim. 
 1 : 15, was it not forme, was it not for you, lost and ruined 
 by nature and practice, that he laid down his life upon the 
 cross?" 
 
 blessed Gospel of Christ, the message of peace and 
 life eternal, who can understand and declare thy power ! 
 What words can describe the emotions which passed over 
 the countenance of this poor sinner, weary and heavy lade? 
 with the burden of her sins, and beginning to hope for par- 
 don and deliverance ! 
 
 Language cannot express the joy which this poor soul 
 felt, when touched by the power of God. The day of her 
 salvation was come. She thought of her sins, and was 
 troubled ; but she mourned, and was in bitterness. She 
 thought of her enmity to God ; but she could be his enemy 
 no longer. She thought of the spirituality of his law ; but 
 she delighted in the law of God after the inward man. She 
 thought she could forsake all, and follow Christ, and sub- 
 mit herself to his authority and grace. Her eyes were 
 opened ; her heart, for the first time, tasted the love of 
 Christ ; the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, now taught her to 
 call Jesus the Lord. 
 
 "Then may I believe that Christ died for me?" said 
 she, still appearing fearful to think so. 
 
 "Do you doubt this? Do you desire to refuse the 
 benefits of our Redeemer's sacrifice ?" 
 
THE SWISS PEASANT. 9 
 
 " Oh no ; the happiness of believing in him is too great 
 to be rejected." 
 
 She was silent some minutes. Engaged in reflection 
 upon these truths, she appeared deeply moved. At length 
 she clasped her hands, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, 
 " Then I am saved ! the Saviour died for my sins, though I 
 knew it not. O blessed news ! this indeed is consolation !" 
 
 She then leaned forward, and rested her head upon her 
 hands. Tears trickled down her arms, and fell upon her 
 garments as she uttered the words, "Heavenly Father, 
 Jesus, Saviour," mingled with her sobs. At length raising 
 herself, she said, "Then Christ has become my ransom. 
 my God," she added, raising her eyes towards heaven, 
 " thou hast had compassion upon me, aged and wretched 
 as I am. Thou hast not suffered me to go down to the 
 grave ignorant of thy love and pardoning mercy. what 
 love, what exceeding love !" 
 
 " His love is indeed great, ' in that while we were yet 
 sinners, Christ died for us/ Rom. 5:8. Ought we not 
 then to love him ?" 
 
 " Yes, I love him, and will strive to serve him. Ah, 
 sir, if you could but see what passes within me ; I seem as 
 just awakened from sleep, and as if I was delivered from a 
 mountain which weighed down my soul. This, then, was 
 what the stranger meant, when he told me I must be ' born 
 again.' Let me go," added she, rising, "let me go and 
 declare these things to my granddaughter and her children. 
 Would that my poor son had known them before he died." 
 
 "My mother," said I, "leave your son in the hands of 
 the Most High, and haste and tell your grandchildren what 
 a Saviour you have found. Go and declare it abroad during 
 the short time you have to remain here, before you go hence 
 to Him who has loved you with such exceeding love. De- 
 clare that you were a sinner, that you sought to obtain 
 salvation by your own strength ; but that your only depend- 
 ence is now on your Saviour Christ ; now you believe in 
 vol. v. 20 
 
1 THE SWISS PEASANT. 
 
 him, and are persuaded, from his own words, that he was 
 sacrificed for you ; and that his blood, shed for the sins of 
 many, has washed away your stains. Go, my poor friend, 
 and, during the short interval which yet separates you from 
 your God, consecrate yourself to his service ; offer to him 
 what he has given to you, a new heart, a heart now filled 
 with joy and consolation, even as he has imparted it to you 
 this very day." 
 
 "May it be so," said she; "may God be pleased to 
 direct me: I am but a poor peasant, ignorant of every 
 thing ; but he will instruct me." 
 
 " And it is by this book he will teach you," replied I, 
 giving her a New Testament ; " this is the book the stranger 
 read ; it contains all that I have this day told you of Jesus, 
 and his love for us. It contains the declaration of the eter- 
 nal and unchangeable love of God. All that your soul can 
 desire, or your heart can wish, are here. Yes, all know- 
 ledge and understanding ; all truth, life, and peace ; and 
 happiness both for this world and that which is to come ; 
 all is declared in this blessed book ; and may God, whose 
 eye now beholds us, himself teach you to understand it." 
 
 She took the book, without replying ; kissed it, and 
 pressed it to her heart. I took her by the hand ; and after 
 a few moments turned away, thinking I should see her no 
 more in this world. 
 
 She called after me, " Shall we not meet again in heav- 
 en ?" " Yes," said I, " I trust both you and I are tending 
 thitherward." 
 
 She then shall be saved at the last day, thought I. 
 heavenly Father, may thy holy name be glorified in these 
 mountains ! Blessed Saviour, may thy all-powerful voice 
 be heard calling thy children unto thee. Be pleased thyself 
 to lead this solitary sheep. Thou hast revealed thyself to 
 her ; be ever present with her, strengthening her soul. O 
 make her path straight, and cause her to walk steadily 
 (herein. 
 
THE SWISS PEASANT. 1 1 
 
 She shall go therein, the Christian will say, in whose 
 heart Christ is formed the hope of glory ; being satisfied 
 that it is when we are united to him that we truly love and 
 serve him. She is a child of his kingdom, and shall walk in 
 the path of the just, which shineth more and more unto the 
 perfect day. The righteousness of Christ, the precious 
 blood he shed upon the cross, have made her free, and she 
 is no longer under condemnation. Christ has suffered for 
 her ; she has believed, and has this witness in herself. See 
 1 John, 5:10. The burden which oppressed her is taken 
 away, and instead of sorrowfully crying, " Who shall deliver 
 me from mine affliction ?" she has learned to ascribe praises 
 to the Lamb of God, who has washed her from her sins in 
 his own blood. See Rev. 1:5. 
 
 The love of God brought these things to pass, and in his 
 love she will dwell, living unto him who hath redeemed her. 
 Let the unbeliever or the scoffer of our day assert that it is 
 dangerous thus to declare a free salvation to sinners. Let 
 them say that it is buoying up with false hopes ; and that 
 to announce pardon "without money and without price,' ' 
 telling them that faith alone can justify, is to invite to licen- 
 tiousness, and will only wrap them up in carnal security. 
 Mistaken indeed ! They are ignorant that the knowledge 
 of Christ is life everlasting; that he will abide with the 
 heart that openeth unto him, Rev. 3 : 20 ; and that the soul 
 which has tasted that the Lord is gracious, which has con- 
 templated Christ dying upon the cross, the just for the 
 unjust, cannot live unto sin, seeing that sin ^rucified the 
 Lord of glory. They know not that the desire of the be- 
 liever is to live according to the will of Christ. 
 
 Had they, like me, seen this poor woman brought to 
 the knowledge of- the Saviour and his love ; had they seen 
 her countenance, worn with care and anxiety, at once en- 
 lightened by that peace and hope which the Saviour alono 
 can give ; had they heard the voice with which she bade 
 me farewell as to this world ; they could not, if open to 
 
12 THE SWISS PEASANT 
 
 conviction, assert that these things are dangerous to the 
 souls of men. 
 
 As for myself, I trust that this poor woman was led by 
 the teaching of the Holy Spirit to believe in him who justi- 
 fies the ungodly. See Rom. 4:5. If she Was enabled. truly 
 to believe in Christ crucified, she has been, by this faith, 
 put into possession, through hope of the world that is to 
 come, of an eternal inheritance. 
 
 And if you, my reader, sincerely desire to partake of 
 this salvation, you have no cause to despair of pardon. 
 This poor woman believed in Christ, and was delivered from 
 her fears. Do you also give your heart to Jesus Christ ; 
 repent of and forsake your sins ; submit yourself unto God ; 
 and he will impart to you his righteousness, and that 
 
 PEACE WHICH THE WORLD CANNOT GIVE. 
 
 THE STORM HUSHED. 
 
 *Tis past — the dreadful stormy night 
 
 Is gone, with all its fears ! 
 And now I see returning light, 
 
 The Lord, my Sun, appears. 
 
 Oh, wondrous change ! but just before, 
 
 Despair beset me round ; 
 I heard the lion's horrid roar, 
 
 And trembled at the sound. 
 
 Before corruption, guilt, and fear, 
 
 My former comforts fell ; 
 A nd I discover'd, standing near, 
 
 The dreadful depths of hell. 
 
 But Jesus pitied my distress, 
 
 He heard my feeble cry, 
 Reveal'd his blood and righteousness, 
 
 And brought salvation nigh. 
 
 Dear Lord, since thou hast broke my bands, 
 
 And set the captive free, 
 I would devote my tongue, my hands, 
 
 My heart, my all to thee. N«wtoo 
 
NARRATIVE XVII. 
 THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 M. , a merchant, at the head of one of the first com- 
 mercial houses in Paris,* had occasion to visit the manufac- 
 tories established in the mountainous tracts of the depart- 
 ments of the Loire and the Puy-de-D6me. The road that con- 
 ducted him hack to Lyons traversed a country rich in natural 
 productions, and glowing with all the charms of an advanced 
 and promising spring. The nearer view was unusually diver- 
 sified, not only by the fantastic forms of mountains, the un- 
 certain course of small and tributary streams, and the varying 
 hues of fields of pasture, corn, vines, and vegetables, but by 
 the combinations and contrasts of nature and of art, and the 
 occupations of rural and commercial industry. Factories 
 and furnaces were seen rising amidst barns and sheep-cotes ; 
 peasants were digging, and ploughs gliding, amidst forges 
 and foundaries ; verdant slopes and graceful clumps of trees 
 
 * An American gentleman, then residing in that capital. 
 
 Elep. Nar. 31 
 
i> 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 <of religion. What would he not give for the 
 happiness of looking back upon a life devoted to God. His 
 distress was aggravated by his increasing infirmities. The 
 fear of total blindness was dreadful to him, who saw that 
 his only hope lay in the volume of eternal truth. So anx- 
 ious was he at this time to seek there, as for hid treasures, 
 that he never closed that book without a sigh, and rarely 
 laid it aside without tears. 
 
 As I closed this visit, I could not but fear lest he should 
 descend to his grave without any clear evidence of peace 
 with God ; for he seemed to obtain no distinct idea of the 
 plan of salvation through a crucified Redeemer. He knew 
 he had no righteousness of his own, but how he could be 
 saved without it he did not apprehend. For many years he 
 had excluded himself from the means of grace ; and now, 
 how could one who had been so long naturally and spiritu- 
 ally deaf to the voice of mercy, ever be taught to realize 
 the joy of sins forgiven? But God's thoughts are not as 
 our thoughts. It would seem as if he had selected one 
 whose case appeared so hopeless, expressly to manifest the 
 riches of his grace. 
 
 I visited Mr. L during the succeeding year as often 
 
 E!eg. Nar. 37 
 
a THE AGED PENITENT. 
 
 as circumstances would permit, but in all that time his soul 
 found no substantial peace. He did not doubt the ability 
 of Christ to save all that come unto God by him, but his 
 willingness to save such a sinner as he had been y he could 
 not realize. 
 
 One reason, probably, why he so long continued without 
 the consolations which are in Christ, was his difficulty in 
 obtaining evidences of the sincerity of his faith. The con- 
 vert in early or in active life finds daily evidences of his 
 faith in the frequent trials to which it is exposed. At one 
 time he has open dangers to shun ; at another, he is called 
 upon to engage in active duties. From his watchfulness in 
 the one case, and his zeal in the other, he derives testimo- 
 nies to his faith in God. Not so with him whom age or 
 bodily infirmities preclude from laboring in his Masters 
 vineyard. He must derive his evidences alone from the 
 exercises of his heart — a heart which he knows is deceitful 
 
 above all things. Here was Mr. L 's difficulty. He had 
 
 lived long without God ; he had spent the ardor of his 
 youth and the energy of his manhood in working for the 
 wages of sin ; and now that he had grown old, and could 
 no longer engage in active pursuits, how could he discover, 
 from any obvious fruits of repentance, whether he had really 
 passed from death unto life ? How could he hope that God 
 would receive the miserable remnant of a worn-out life ? 
 
 From the time of my first visit to Mr. L after his 
 
 mind became serious, he appeared entirely occupied with 
 the great concerns of salvation. It was a common remark 
 of those who called on him, " We always find him reading 
 his Bible." He would pore over the sacred volume with 
 such intense interest, that it required an effort to divert his 
 attention to other things as occasion required. I have no 
 doubt, from his manner, that he was often engaged in prayer 
 when his eyeS appeared fixed on the sacred page. In fact, 
 he received very little instruction from any source except his 
 Bible and the teachings of the Holy Spirit. The method 
 
THE AGED PENITENT. 
 
 which I generally pursued with him was, as I have already 
 stated, to point to such portions of Scripture as I thought 
 suited his case, but his deafness precluded my commenting 
 upon the text. While I watched that he might not fall into 
 error, I was gratified to observe how far he might, in that 
 manner, be guided into all truth.' The result was, in my 
 view, a triumphant proof that the Spirit of God is the best 
 interpreter. His dangerous state as a sinner, ^he holiness 
 and justice of the divine law, the necessity of a new heart, 
 and of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and the duty of a 
 total and unreserved submission to the will and sovereignty 
 of God, were confessed by him, without any other guidance 
 than His who has promised to give the Holy Spirit to them 
 that ask him. 
 
 He removed to the distance of some miles, but several 
 times came to see me ; and was much pleased with the op- 
 portunity of religious intercourse afforded him, in conver- 
 sation, by an ear-trumpet he had procured. His visits 
 were always spiritual, and deeply interesting ; and he grad- 
 ually obtained clearer views of the nature of faith, and of 
 
 his own personal interest in Christ. 
 
 j. 
 
 I afterwards visited him at his new residence. It was 
 my last visit ; and the impression it left upon my mind will 
 not be soon erased. On inquiring for him, I was pointed to 
 the room he occupied, at the door of which I knocked sev- 
 eral times ; and upon receiving no answer, I opened it and 
 
 entered. Mr. L was seated in a chair, which he had 
 
 drawn near the window — he was alone, and his back was 
 towards the door. I w r as immediately struck with the mo- 
 tionless appearance of his figure, and the singularity of his 
 attitude. His head was bowed down in such a manner as 
 to appear, at first, as if it reclined upon his knees. I nes- 
 itated a moment before I approached him, but could not 
 perceive the slightest movement. It seemed, at first, as if 
 the vital spark was extinguished. I was soon relieved ; for, 
 looking over him, I saw the large Bible open on his aged 
 
g THE AGED PENITENT. 
 
 arms, supported by his knees, and its pages wet with his 
 tears. I paused to contemplate the scene, unwilling to de- 
 stroy its interest. That form bending under the weight of 
 fourscore years, those whitened locks, those secret tears, 
 that precious Bible, are all still vividly before me. How 
 ong he would have remained in this position I cannot say. 
 He showed no disposition to move, until I attracted his at- 
 tention by laying my hand upon his shoulder. Now, for the 
 first time, he told me of his "peace and joy in believing." 
 Jesus was now precious to him ; he could now say, " I know 
 that my Redeemer liveth." 
 
 Let not the reader suppose that he felt less of his unwor- 
 thiness, nor of the indwelling corruptions of his nature. On 
 the contrary, he felt that he had cause constantly to exclaim, 
 " wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from the 
 body of this death?" but he saw, at the same time, more 
 clearly than ever, the fulness and freeness of the redemption 
 purchased by Christ Jesus. He spoke, also, of the duty 
 of a public profession of his faith, and of the Lord's supper. 
 Shortly afterwards his health declined so rapidly that he 
 returned to his daughter's house, where he died, about two 
 years after that daughter first found him engaged in prayer. 
 
 His extreme deafness prevented any connected conver- 
 sation in his last hours ; but his end was peace, and his 
 dying testimony was, that he w had a trembling hope, hang- 
 ing on the merits of his Redeemer." His remains are now 
 
 mouldering in the retired churchyard at , in New 
 
 Jersey ; but long may his memory live, to tell to youth the 
 preciousness of an early acquaintance with God, and to age, 
 that there is pardon and peace, through penitence and faith 
 in Christ. 
 
 And may this happy result of a pious daughter's faith- 
 fulness deeply impress upon Christians the duty of earnestly 
 carina* for those who have no care for themselves. 
 
 TUBL1SHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 
 
NARRATIVE XXI 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER, 
 
 AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE. 
 
 Having tarried a few days in a beautiful village of the 
 West, I embarked in a vessel which was crossing one of the 
 great ]akes. Three other individuals had taken passage, 
 and night coming on found us waiting for a breeze. 
 
 About nine o'clock, as the sails were hoisted, another 
 passenger came on board. When we had cleared the har- 
 bor he entered the cabin, and seemed to suppose that he was 
 alone ; for we all had retired to our berths. The lamp was 
 burning dimly on the table, but it afforded sufficient light 
 for me to discover that he was young. Seating himself be- 
 side it, he drew a book from his pocket and read a few min- 
 utes. Suddenly, from on deck, was heard the voice of the 
 
 37* 
 
2 THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. 
 
 captain uttering oaths, terrific beyond description. The 
 youth arose, laid his book in the chair, and kneeling beside 
 it, in a low whisper engaged in prayer. I listened atten- 
 tively, and though his soul seemed to burn within him, I 
 could gather only an occasional word, or part of a sentence, 
 such as, "mercy," " dying heathen," "sinners," etc. Pres- 
 ently he seemed in an agony of spirit for these swearers, and 
 could scarcely suppress his voice while pleading with God 
 to have mercy on them. My soul was stirred within me 
 There was a sacredness in this place, and I was self-con- 
 demned, knowing that I also professed the name of Jesus, 
 and had retired with my fellow-passengers to rest, not hav- 
 ing spoken of God or committed myself to his care. 
 
 Early in the morning I was waked by a loud voice at 
 the door of the companion-way : " Here, whose Tracts are 
 these?" followed by other voices in threats and impreca- 
 tions against Tract distributers, Bethels, Temperance Soci- 
 eties, etc. 
 
 1 thought of the young stranger, and feared they would 
 execute their threats upon him ; but he calmly said, " Those 
 Tracts, sir, are mine. I have but few, as you see. but they 
 are very good, and you may take one, if you wish. I 
 brought them on board to distribute, but you were all too 
 busy last night." The sailor smiled, and walked away, 
 making no reply. 
 
 We were soon called to breakfast with the captain and 
 mate. When we were seated at the table, " Captain," said 
 our young companion, " as the Lord supplies all our wants, 
 if neither }'ou nor the passengers object, I would like to ask 
 his blessing on our repast." 
 
 " If you please," replied the captain, with apparent 
 good-will. In a few minutes the cook was on deck, and 
 informed the sailors, who were instantly in an uproar, and 
 their mouths filled with curses. The captain attempted to 
 apologize for the profanity of his men, saying, "it was per- 
 fectly common among sailors, and they meant no harm by it." 
 
 " With your leave, captain," said the young strange^, 
 "I think we can put an end to it." 
 
 Himself a swearer, and having just apologized for hisj 
 men, the captain was puzzled for an answer; but aft 
 a little hesitation replied, " I might as well attempt to sail 
 against a head- wind, as to think of such a thing." 
 
THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. , 3 
 
 "But I meant all I said," added the young man. 
 
 " Well, if you think it possible, you may try it," said 
 the captain. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, the oldest and most 
 profane of the sailors seated himself on the quarter-deck 
 to smoke his pipe. The young man entered into conversa- 
 tion with him, and soon drew from him a history of the ad- 
 ventures of his life. From his boyhood he had followed 
 the ocean. He had been tossed on the billows in many a 
 tempest ; had visited several missionary stations in different 
 parts of the world, and gave his testimony to the good 
 effects of missionary efforts among the natives of the Sand- 
 wich Islands. Proud of his nautical skill, he at length 
 boasted that he could do any thing that could be done by 
 a sailor. 
 
 " I doubt it," said the young man. 
 
 " I can," answered the hardy tar, " and will not be out- 
 done, my word for it." 
 
 " Well, when a sailor passes his word he ought to be 
 believed. I know a sailor who resolved that he would stop 
 swearing, and did so." 
 
 "Ah," said the old sailor, "you've anchored me; I'm 
 fast — but I can do it." 
 
 "I know you can," said the young man, "and I hope 
 you will anchor all your shipmates' oaths with yours." 
 
 Not a word of profanity was afterwards heard on board 
 the vessel. During the day, as opportunity presented it- 
 self, he conversed with each sailor singly on the subject of 
 his soul's salvation, and gained the hearts of all. 
 
 By this time I was much interested in the young stran- 
 ger, and determined to know more of him. There was 
 nothing prepossessing in his appearance : his dress was 
 plain, his manners unassuming; but his influence had, by 
 the blessing of God, in a few short hours, greatly changed 
 the aspect of our crew. The tiger seemed softened to a 
 lamb, and peace and quiet had succeeded confusion and 
 blasphemy. 
 
 After supper he requested of the captain the privilege 
 of attending worship in the cabin. His wishes were com- 
 plied with, and soon all on board, except the man at the 
 helm, were assembled. The captain brought out a Bible, 
 which he said was given him in early life by his father, with 
 
4 HE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. 
 
 a request that he would never part with it. We listened 
 as our friend read Matthew's account of Christ's crucifixion 
 and resurrection ; and then looking round upon us, he said, 
 " He is risen — yes, Jesus lives, let us worship him." 
 
 It was a melting scene. Knees that seldom bowed be- 
 fore, now knelt at the altar of prayer, while the solemnities 
 of eternity seemed hanging over us. After prayer, we went 
 on deck and sang a hymn. It was a happy place, a float- 
 ing Bethel. Instead of confusion and wrath, there was sweet 
 peace and solemnity. We ceased just as the setting sun 
 was flinging upon us his last cheering rays. 
 
 " Look yonder," he exclaimed. "You who have been 
 nursed in the storm and cradled in the tempest, look at the 
 setting sun, and learn a lesson that will make you happy 
 when it shall set to rise no more. As rose that sun this 
 morning to afford us light and comfort, so has the Son of 
 God arisen to secure salvation to all who accept and love 
 uim ; and as that sun withdraws its beams, and we are veiled 
 \n darkness for a season, so will the Sun of righteousness 
 withdraw his offers of mercy from all who continue to neg- 
 lect them. But remember, that season is one that never 
 ends — one dark, perpetual night." 
 
 The captain, deeply affected, went into the cabin, lit his 
 lamp, took his Bible, and was engaged in reading till wo 
 had retired to rest. 
 
 In the morning, as soon as we were seated at the 
 breakfast-table, the captain invited our friend to ask a 
 blessing. " There, gentlemen," said he, " this is the first 
 time I ever made such a request ; and never, till this young 
 man came on board, have I been asked for the privilege 
 of holding prayers, though I have a thousand times ex- 
 pected it, both on the ocean and the lake ; and have as 
 often, on being disappointed, cursed religion in my heart, 
 and believed that it was all delusion. Now I see the in- 
 fluence of the Bible, and though I make no claims to religion 
 myself, I respect it, for my parents were Christians ; and 
 though I have never followed their counsels, I cannot for- 
 get them." 
 
 After this, for three days, we regularly attended family 
 worship, and had much interesting conversation on various 
 subjects ; for there was nothing in the religion of the young 
 stranger to repress the cheerfulness of social intercourse. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. fy 
 
 From his familiarity with the Bible, his readiness in illus- 
 trating its truths and presenting its motives, and from his 
 fearless, but judicious and persevering steps, we concluded 
 that he was a minister of the Gospel. From all he saw he 
 gathered laurels to cast at his Master's feet, and in all his 
 movements aimed to show that eternity was not to be trifled 
 with. A few hours before we arrived in port, we ascer- 
 tained that he was a mechanic. 
 
 Before we reached the wharf the captain came forward, 
 and with much feeling bade him farewell ; declared that he 
 was resolved to live as he had done no longer — his wife, he 
 said, was a Christian, and he meant to go and live with her; 
 and added, " I have had ministers as passengers on my ves- 
 sel Sabbath-days and week-days, but never before have I 
 been reminded of the family altar where my departed 
 parents knelt." As we left the vessel, every countenance 
 showed that our friend had, by his decided, yet mild and 
 Christian faithfulness, won the gratitude of many, and the 
 esteem of all. 
 
 We soon found ourselves in a canal-boat, where were 
 about thirty passengers of various ages and characters ; and 
 my curiosity was not a little excited to learn how my com- 
 panion would proceed among them. The afternoon had 
 nearly passed away, and he had conversed with no one but 
 myself. At length he inquired of the captain if he were 
 willing to have prayers on board. 
 
 "I have no objection/' said he, "if the passengers have 
 not; but / shan't attend." 
 
 At an early hour the passengers were invited into the 
 cabin, and in a few minutes the captain was seated among 
 them. After reading a short portion of Scripture, our friend 
 made a few appropriate remarks, and earnestly commended 
 us to God. 
 
 As soon as he rose from prayer, a gentleman whose head 
 was whitening for the grave, said, " Sir, I should like to 
 converse with you. I profess to be a Deist. I once pro- 
 fessed religion, but now I believe it is all delusion." 
 
 "Sir," said the young man, "I respect age, and will 
 listen to you ; and as you proceed, may, perhaps, ask a few 
 questions ; but I cannot debate, I can only say that I must 
 love Jesus Christ. He died to save me, and I am a great 
 sinner." 
 
Q THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. 
 
 " I do not deny that men are sinners," said the old man, 
 " but I don't believe in Christ." 
 
 " Will you, then, tell us how sinners can be saved in 
 some other way, and God's law be honored ?" 
 
 We waited in vain for a reply, when my friend proceed- 
 ed : " Not many years since, I was an infidel, because I did 
 not love the truth, and was unwilling to examine it. Now 
 I see my error ; and the more I study the Bible, the firmer 
 is my conviction of its truth, and that there is no way of 
 salvation but through a crucified Redeemer." 
 
 As the passengers sat engaged in conversation, one of 
 them at length turned to our young friend, and related the 
 circumstances of a murder recently perpetrated by a man in 
 the neighborhood while in a fit of intoxication. To this all 
 paid the strictest attention. The captain joined them to 
 hear the story, the conclusion of which afforded an oppor- 
 tunity for the stranger to begin his work. He was the fear- 
 less advocate of Temperance as well as religion, and here 
 gained some friends to this cause. 
 
 " But," said he at length, " though alcohol occasions an 
 immense amount of crime and misery in our world, I recol- 
 lect one instance of murder with which it had no connec- 
 tion." He then related, as nearly as I can remember, the 
 following story. 
 
 " In a populous city at the East was a man who seemed 
 to live only for the good of others. He daily exhibited the 
 most perfect benevolence towards his fellow-men ; sought 
 out the poor and needy, and relieved their wants ; sympa- 
 thized with and comforted the sick and the afflicted ; and 
 though he was rich, his unsparing beneficence reduced him 
 to poverty. He deserved the esteem of all, yet he had en- 
 emies. He took no part in politics, yetr many feared that 
 his "generosity was a cloak of ambition, and that he was 
 making friends in, order to secure to himself the reins of 
 government. Others feared that his religious sentiments, 
 connected with his consistent life, would expose their hy- 
 pocrisy. At length a mock trial was held by an infuriated 
 mob, and he was condemned and put to death." 
 
 "Where was that?" "When was it?" "Who was 
 it ?" was heard from several voices. 
 
 " It was in the city of Jerusalem, and the person was 
 none other than the Lord Jesus Christ. By his enemies 
 
THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. 7 
 
 he was hung upon the cross, and for us guilty sinners he 
 died." 
 
 Every eye was fixed upon the young man, and a solemn 
 awe rested on every countenance. He opened a Bible which 
 lay upon the table, and read the account of Christ's con- 
 demnation and death : the captain nodded to him as a sig- 
 nal for prayer, and we all again fell on our knees, while he 
 wept over the condition of sinners, and, for the sake of 
 Christ, besought God's mercy upon them. Here again was 
 a floating Bethel. 
 
 In the morning the stranger was not forgotten, and he 
 evidently did not forget that there were immortal souls 
 around him, hastening with him to the bar of God. During 
 the day he conversed separately with each individual, except 
 an elderly gentleman who had followed him from seat to 
 seat, and showed much uneasiness of mind ; the realities 
 of eternity were set before us, and the Holy Spirit seemed 
 to be striving with many hearts. 
 
 As the mantle of -evening was drawing around us, our 
 friend requested an interview with the aged man. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said he, " I have been wishing all day to 
 see you, but you were talking with others." 
 
 He acknowledged that he had tried to be a Universalist ; 
 and though he could not rest in that belief, he never, until 
 the previous evening, saw his lost condition. " And now," 
 said he, " I want you to tell me what I shall do." 
 
 The* young man raised his eyes to heaven, as if implor- 
 ing the Spirit's influences, and then briefly explained the 
 nature and reasonableness of repentance and faith, accom- 
 panied by a few striking illustrations, in proof of the justice 
 of God in condemning, and his mercy in pardoning sinners. 
 
 The old man saw the plan of redemption so clearly, that 
 he burst into tears, and exclaimed, " 0, my soul, my soul. 
 How have I sinned against God. I see it — I feel it — yes, 
 I have sinned all my days." 
 
 " But Jesus died to save sinners," replied the young 
 man ; " will you, my friend, give him your heart ?" 
 
 " yes, yes, if I had a thousand hearts he should have 
 them all," was the answer. 
 
 The young man turned away and wept. For some 
 minutes silence was broken only by the deep sighs of the 
 aged penitent. There was something, in an hour like this, 
 
8 THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER. 
 
 awfully 'solemn. Heaven was rejoicing, I doubt not, over 
 a returning prodigal. As he stood alone and wept, he re- 
 iterated again and again, " Yes, I will serve God, I will, 1 
 will'." After a time his feelings became more calm, and 
 lifting his eyes towards heaven, with both hands raised, he 
 broke out in singing, 
 
 " There shall I bathe my weary soul 
 In seas of heavenly rest, 
 And not a wave of trouble roll 
 Across my peaceful breast." 
 
 And then again he wept, and said, " Yes, Jesus, precious 
 Saviour." 
 
 The time had come for our young friend to leave us. 
 By his zeal in his Master's service he had stolen our hearts, 
 and each pressed forward to express their friendship in an 
 affectionate farewell. 
 
 Such was the influence of one individual, whose unwa- 
 vering purpose it was to live for God. He felt for dying 
 sinners, and relying on the influences of the Holy Spirit for 
 success, labored for the salvation of souls around him. Will 
 not the reader solemnly resolve, in God's strength, that 
 henceforth, whether at home or abroad, he will make the 
 glory of Christ, in the salvation of men, the one object of 
 his life? When Christians universally shall do this, we may 
 expect soon to hear the song of Zion float on every breeze, 
 " Hallelujah." " The kingdoms of this world are become 
 the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ." 
 
 FDBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 
 
NARRATIVE XXII 
 
 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 A NARRATIVE OF FACTS. 
 
 BY A LAYMAN. 
 
 In the north of Ireland there lived an honest, industrious 
 
 man by the name of M . He was a good husband, a 
 
 tender father, a kind neighbor ; and having had a better edu- 
 cation than at that time was common, he was careful to give 
 his children the advantages of good schools. By diligence, 
 sobriety, and the blessing of God, he extended his business, 
 which was that of a linen weaver, until he had in his em- 
 ployment at one time fifteen journeymen. 
 
 Eleij. Nar. 
 
 38 
 
2 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 After some years the linen-trade greatly declined, partly 
 m consequence of the introduction of cotton fabrics ; and 
 finding Ins property so much reduced that he could not sup- 
 port his large family at his trade, he was led to embark 
 with them for America. This he did with high-raised expec- 
 tations ; and with joyful heart he saw his wife and nine 
 blooming children land in the new world, of which his 
 countrymen had sent home glowing accounts ; but here he 
 was doomed to experience sad disappointments, as have 
 many others. No employment could be had in weaving 
 linen ; but his good character and intelligence, together with 
 his honest face, gained the favor of a merchant, who gave 
 him employment as porter in his store on the wharf, where 
 he continued, and was much esteemed for several years, 
 until his last sickness and death. 
 
 Finding that the wages of his new employment would 
 not support his large family, he obtained situations in re- 
 spectable families for his elder daughters, while his sons 
 went to sea. Being active and zealous, he was soon con- 
 spicuous among his Catholic brethren in the city where he 
 lived. He was strict in his attention to all the rites and 
 ceremonies of that communion, liberal according to his abil- 
 ity, fond of his children, and faithful in instructing them in 
 all the articles of the Romish church. None doubted his 
 morality ; and those of his faith considered him a pattern ol 
 piety. Being of a consumptive habit, after a few years he 
 sickened and died. In quick succession four of his children 
 followed him to the grave, one by a fall from the masthead 
 of a vessel, and three by consumption. 
 
 The physician who attended the family was a pious 
 man, and had become much interested in some of them, and 
 especially in the father during his life, and afterwards in his 
 two daughters, Betsey and Mary, who had both embraced 
 the Protestant faith. Mary, at the time of which we are 
 speaking, had been for several weeks out of health, and had 
 
THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 3 
 
 left her situation and returned to her mother's dwelling, 
 where she was given over by her physician as in a settled 
 consumption. 
 
 The physician, during one of his visits in my family, 
 mentioned that the sick one was living with her mother, 
 not very remote from my dwelling, and he gave an interest- 
 ing account of her, and of her mother's opposition to her 
 religion, which he said had carried her so far that she would 
 not admit her daughter's pastor or the officers of the church 
 to visit the sufferer, but had threatened them, if they pre- 
 sumed to cross her threshold, with personal violence. He 
 expressed a hope, that I would try to supply the wants of 
 his patient, if she was at any time suffering, but he doubted 
 if I should be allowed to see her. 
 
 A lady who was passing the day with us, on hearing 
 his narration, readily undertook the labor of love in going 
 immediately to the residence of the mother ; and on men- 
 tioning the name of the physician, she was readily admitted 
 to the sick chamber. The account she brought back was, 
 that she found Mary M a most interesting young wo- 
 man, of modest manners, extremely neat in her person and 
 in her chamber, apparently of ardent, yet unassuming piety, 
 fully aware of her situation, but sustained by a firm Chris- 
 tian faith, with an unwavering trust in the merits of Christ, 
 which rendered her cheerful, submissive, and happy. On 
 conversing with Mary's mother, the lady found they were 
 in immediate want of nothing but fuel. This article was 
 supplied, with some other comforts, which were gratefully 
 received. 
 
 After calling several times to make inquiries concerning 
 the sick daughter, "the mother asked if I would like to see 
 her ; and on my expressing a desire to do so, she introduced 
 me to her as the person who had taken such an interest in 
 her welfare. 
 
 Mary was sitting in an arm-chair, supported by pillows , 
 
4 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 hor eyes were mild, but had the peculiar lustre which at- 
 tends consumption. Her cheek had that usual attendant of 
 this disorder, a bright, hectic flush ; while her temples and 
 forehead were white as marble. She extended her hand to 
 me, and thanked me for the kind interest I had taken in one 
 who was a stranger. Every thing about her and her room 
 was neat, though very plain, giving indications of natural 
 refinement. She had for a companion and attendant her 
 sister Betsey, who, on hearing of Mary's illness, had left her 
 place, and hastened home to watch over and nurse her be- 
 loved sister, endeared to her not only by the ties of nature, 
 but also by being her sister in the Lord, as both were con- 
 verts, and had together joined the same church. 
 
 Their mother gave me only time to ask a few questions 
 before she broke out in her complaints of the loss of proper- 
 ty, and the death of her husband and four children since her 
 arrival in the country. She thought God had dealt hardly 
 with her, and almost accused him of injustice in thus afflict- 
 ing her. I attempted to show her that all his dealings with 
 her were designed to call off her thoughts from this world, 
 and would, if she made a right improvement of them, fit her 
 for heaven, where she would find her lost ones, if they had 
 died his children. Fearing that she would receive what I 
 might say with prejudice, and that I could make no lasting 
 impression on her mind, I withdrew. 
 
 On two or three following visits I was obliged to listen 
 to similar murmurs against Providence, and at length I took 
 occasion to relate to her the story of a widow, whose only 
 son had grown up a fine young man, and was the solace and 
 stay of his only parent, when he was thrown from a horse, 
 and brought home to expire in his mother's arms. Without. 
 a murmur she meekly said, " The Lord saw that I needed 
 a great deal of correction, and he has taken the desire of my 
 eyes from me with a stroke ; blessed be his holy name, he 
 has only taken what he had lent me." 
 
THE WEAVERS DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 The mother of Mary M , either from not relishing 
 
 such sentiments, or from some other cause, seldom made 
 any stay afterwards in her daughter's chamber while I was 
 there, but suffered me to converse with her without inter- 
 ruption, which I was earnestly desirous of doing. I found 
 her to be a young woman of devoted piety, sustained by a 
 cheerful hope and lively faith, wholly resigned to the will 
 of God, not expecting, nor apparently wishing to recover : 
 nor do I now recollect that she at any subsequent time made 
 any allusion to getting well. Her whole thoughts were 
 upon things of another and brighter world, for which she 
 daily was growing in meetness. 
 
 As Mary was unable, in her dark chamber, to read the 
 fine print of her Bible, she was supplied with the Testa- 
 ment in large type, also with Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress 
 and Tracts, in reading and hearing which she took great 
 delight. She ever spoke with deep feeling of the goodness 
 of her heavenly Father to her, in sustaining her during her 
 sleepless nights, and enabling her to have delightful medita- 
 tions on the precious promises contained in his word. She 
 never complained of suffering of any kind. One day when 
 asked if she rested well, her countenance beamed with rap- 
 ture as she spoke of her secret communion with the Saviour 
 during her wakeful hours the preceding night, and she 
 seemed to have had a foretaste of the joys of heaven. 
 
 On my expressing a desire to be made acquainted with 
 the time and manner of her conversion from Romanism, she 
 gave me, as her strength permitted, the following history of 
 herself. 
 
 " I was educated in the strict observance of the forma 
 and practices of the Roman Catholic religion, which I had 
 always been taught and fully believed to Be the. only true 
 faith. I attended church punctually, was well instructed 
 in my Catechism and Missal, was regular at my confessions, 
 
 3S* 
 
(j THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 at mass, on holy days, and strict in observing our fasts ; 
 thus I was called by others, and really thought myself to be 
 a very pious girl, the favorite of her whom we ignorantly 
 worshipped, and after whom I was named — the ■ Holy 
 Mary,' ' the Mother of God.' 
 
 " But my religion was all outward ; my heart was hard 
 and proud, and my temper easily roused ; so that with al] 
 this fair outside, I knew nothing of the religion of the Bible, 
 having never read it, or understood that it demanded a 
 change of heart ; much less did I feel that I was a sinner in 
 the sight of God, or understand that I could not enter 
 heaven unless I was ' born again ' by the renewing of the 
 Holy Spirit. I was contented in my ignorance, as Catholics 
 generally are, with outward observances, and fully believed, 
 because our priests told us so, that I was in the path to 
 heaven. Had not my heavenly Father had compassion on 
 me, I should have lived and died ignorant of the only way 
 to be saved, through faith in my precious Saviour's atoning 
 blood. 
 
 " Where I lived, after leaving my father, the Bible was 
 daily read at family prayers, which I sometimes attended ; 
 but what I heard made no impression on my mind, as 1 
 had always been told it was not a book for Catholics, they 
 being sure of salvation, and they only. One day I had a 
 quarrel with one of the females in the house, and was high- 
 ly provoked with her for telling me I was a very ivickea 
 girl — a term which had never been applied to me before. 
 In a day or two afterwards, the same woman was reading 
 her Bible ; and when I found her with it, she was shedding 
 tears, and apparently in much distress. I asked her what 
 ailed her, and never shall I forget her answer. It was, ' 
 Mary, I am a great sinner, and I fear my soul will be lost 
 for ever.' Although I had been highly provoked at her for 
 calling me a wicked girl, yet when she confessed that she 
 was also wicked, it astonished me beyond measure. I knew 
 
THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 her to be more amiable than I was, and if she was such a 
 sinner, what must I be, I asked myself. 
 
 " I could not rest until I took a Bible into my room and 
 examined it : this I continued from day to day. finding such 
 passages as, ■ Ye must be born again,' John 3:7;' Christ 
 Jesus came into the world to save sinners,' 1 Tim. 1 : 15; 
 1 Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye 
 shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven,' Matt. 18 : 3 , 
 'And were by nature the children of wrath., even as others.' 
 Eph. 2:3. The Bible also told me, that unless I repented 
 of my sins, and believed on the Lord Jesus Christ, I could 
 not be saved. Having never done this, I was greatly dis- 
 tressed, and went home to my father and told him I was 
 unhappy, and was anxious for the salvation of my soul. 
 But although he was esteemed a very good man, and a rigid 
 Catholic, he could only send me to the priest to confess, for 
 he knew nothing of the new birth, or of the gospel way ol 
 salvation. 
 
 " The priest was equally ignorant ; and finding I had no 
 deadly sins to confess, he made light of my distress, and told 
 me I was a good Catholic, and had nothing to fear, but was 
 sure of heaven. Still, I was oppressed with a load which 
 only grew heavier and heavier, and as he saw I was anxious 
 for relief, he at last told me, if I wished it, I could go into 
 the convent, and become a holy nun. 
 
 " Feeling there was something to be done, I asked my 
 parents' consent, that I might enter the convent. They 
 gave permission, and soon after, I entered upon what they 
 called the life of a noviciate, intending to become one of the 
 holy sisters ; but I found nothing there to satisfy the desires 
 of my soul — all was cold, formal, and heartless. Neither 
 the conversation or conduct of the inmates gave me any 
 satisfaction, and I soon obtained permission to leave them 
 and return to my former place. I now began to search the 
 Bible, and as there directed, I prayed to be guided aright, 
 
9 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and prayed thus for a long time ; but having no one to guide 
 or counsel me, I became much discouraged ; when one day I 
 was reading the 16th chapter of Acts, and came to where 
 the jailer ' sprang in, and came trembling, and said to Paul 
 and Silas, Sirs, what must I do to be saved ? and they 
 said, Believe on the Loi'd Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be 
 saved' 
 
 "When I read that, and saw how easy it was to obey 
 this command, I threw myself at the feet of my blessed 
 Saviour, and trust I gave him my whole heart. Immedi- 
 ately my distress was gone, and I was filled with peace 
 and joy. I have since had evidence that God is faithful to 
 all his promises. My confidence is firm, my hope unfading — 
 a blessed reality. I know in whom I have believed. I 
 went once, and but once more to the Catholic church, to 
 please my father. It was at the consecration of the bishop. 
 But now the idle ceremonies, the pomp, the incense, the 
 bells, all were disgusting ;• and I left that church, never more 
 to return to it. 
 
 " I then attended the meeting of the Rev. Dr. S , 
 
 and some time after, offered myself for admission to his 
 church, together with my sister Betsey, who, like me, had 
 become pious. We told our father of the change of our 
 views, which he was already aware of; but when we in- 
 formed him that we were about renouncing the faith in 
 which we had been born, he could not suppress his feelings, 
 but ordered us to go to the priest, and inform him of our 
 apostasy, and give him an opportunity to win us back. 
 We went accordingly, and my sister not being so timid as I 
 was, spoke for us both. He tried to alarm us, by assuring 
 us there was no salvation out of the Roman Catholic church. 
 Finding our purpose unalterable, he began to threaten us, 
 not with punishment here, but hereafter. He told us ' we 
 should be damned, if we were apostates.' We assured him 
 that we relied on the promises of God to all who truly re- 
 
THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 pentcd of their sins, and were satisfied that we were in the 
 right path, and had come by the command of our father, to 
 take leave of him and of the church. He furiously said, ' If 
 you do leave the true church, and join the heretics, I would 
 not go the length of a whiplash to save you from damnation.' 
 
 11 Shocked and grieved, we waited to hear no more from 
 him, who had always, until that interview, treated us kind- 
 ly. Our father was still bitterly opposed to our joining 
 another church, and went so far as to threaten us when he 
 knew we were to be baptized, declaring he would raise a 
 body of men and rescue its, as he called it ; but his employ- 
 er and others told him he would get himself into trouble, 
 and would be taken up for breaking the law, if he commit- 
 ted any such act of violence. 
 
 " Finding afterwards that we were still his affectionate 
 daughters, and seeing us happy, his heart relented, so that 
 if he could not approve of what we had done, he treated us 
 kindly ; and when he was in his last lingering sickness, all 
 his former affection for us returned, and, after reading the 
 Bible with great attention, he gave our mother a strict 
 charge never to molest us on account of our religion." 
 
 Being greatly interested in this statement, and wishing 
 that such ardent and glowing piety should be witnessed by 
 some other individual who would give an account, of it to 
 the world, I took with me, one Sabbath-day, a young clergy- 
 man to whom I had given many of the foregoing particu- 
 lars ; but we were met by the mother of Mary, and when I 
 introduced my friend as one who had come by my request 
 to see her daughter, she eagerly asked, " Is he a priest ?" I 
 answered, " He is a minister." " Then he shall not go into 
 her room, for she refuses to see my priest when I wish to 
 have him come and anoint her with holy oil ; and if she 
 will not see my priest, she shall see no other." Finding hei 
 inflexible, we retired. 
 
10 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 As no clergyman could gain access to her, and perceiv- 
 ing an anxiety in her countenance, 1 one day asked her if 
 she wished me to pray with her. She said, " yes, I have 
 long wished it, but did not know that it was proper to ask 
 the favor." Soon after this, I called one Saturday evening, 
 and found she had grown so feeble that she had scarcely 
 been able to sit up five minutes at a time during the week. 
 Her mind was still unclouded, and she was descending into 
 the dark valley, leaning upon Him who has authorized all 
 such to say, " When my father and my mother forsake me, 
 then the Lord will take me up." Psalm 27 : 10. I asked 
 her if I should pray with her. She desired it, and I com- 
 mended her to the Shepherd of Israel ; but soon the door 
 was thrown open and shut again with great violence — this 
 was again and again repeated ; and when I rose, I saw her 
 mother standing by the door, with her arms extended, her 
 countenance filled with rage, her eyes almost starting from 
 their sockets, her fists clenched ; and looking furiously upon 
 her feeble, dying daughter, she cried out in a loud voice, 
 "Get out of my house — it shall hold you no longer; you 
 are no daughter of mine, for you have abandoned your re- 
 ligion, you have quitted the holy church, you have given up 
 your God, refused to see the priest, and my house shall 
 shelter you no longer. You wanted to be a nun, did you ?" 
 she added, pointing at her with derision. "Now your 
 bones will lie unburied, for they can never get into the holy 
 ground." 
 
 I approached this furious woman, and mildly said to 
 her, " If you are offended with any one, it should be with 
 me." 
 
 " No, you are the poor widow's friend," she replied. 
 
 I then asked her, " Has this daughter ever been undutiful 
 to you ?" 
 
 " No," she replied ; " except about her religion she 
 always obeyed me in every thing." 
 
THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 1] 
 
 " And have you, then, tried to get her back to your re 
 ligion ?" 
 
 " Yes," was the reply, " I have been at her every day, 
 and she absolutely refuses even to see my priest." 
 
 " Is it for this that you threaten to turn your dutiful, 
 affectionate daughter from , your doors in the depth of win- 
 ter?" 
 
 " Yes," she violently shouted ; " she is an apostate, and 
 I disown her." 
 
 " Is it for following the dictates of her conscience, that 
 you treat your own daughter as if she was the vilest of the 
 vile ; and do you dare have it said, that you were such a 
 monster as to turn her from your doors ?" 
 
 She replied, " Go she must — my home shall hold her 
 no longer. And never will your soul," turning to her daugh- 
 ter, " reach purgatory, if you despise the holy Catholic re- 
 ligion." 
 
 " If her soul will never reach what you call purgatory," 
 I replied, " it will, when it is released from her body, go to 
 Abraham's bosom ; and if you ever reach heaven, I have no 
 doubt but you will see Mary an angel there." 
 
 The mother then left the room in great agitation, and I 
 followed her, and asked if it was her determination to turn 
 her daughter out of doors. She assured me that it was. I 
 then informed her, that three ladies in the country had that 
 very day sent me one hundred dollars, with which to take a 
 free bed at the hospital for the indigent and virtuous sick in 
 that severe winter. I added, " If you will promise me that 
 you will not speak harshly again to her, I will, early in the 
 coming week, make arrangements to get Mary to the hos- 
 pital." She solemnly promised to do so no more, if I would 
 engage to remove her. 
 
 I went back to the chamber where the sick one lay, and 
 finding her trembling with agitation, I asked her "if she 
 was willing to go to the hospital." " yes," was her reply, 
 
12 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " do let me go there ; for when my mother gets so excited, 
 it agitates me so that I can get no sleep all night, and now 
 I am so weak I cannot bear it." 
 
 Surprised, I asked if her mother had ever treated her 
 so before. " Yes, she does it almost every day," was her 
 answer. x 
 
 " Why, then," I asked, " have you never informed me of 
 it before?" " She is my mother" was the reply. And it 
 spoke the feelings of this delicate, faithful disciple most elo- 
 quently. Long had she endured the rage of her parent, and 
 thus might have gone down to her grave with the secret in 
 her own breast, if it had not been for the occasion which 
 aroused all the passions of her poor bigoted parent. Mary 
 preferred suffering in silence to exposing her mother's vio- 
 lence to another. "When reviled, she, like her blessed Mas- 
 ter, answered not again. 
 
 As I left the house, the elements were raging without, 
 and a furious snow-storm had set in, which continued two 
 or three days, and blocked the streets so much that it was 
 the middle of the week before the removal could take place. 
 I called previously, to learn if the mother relented, but she 
 continued inflexible. I then saw the medical superintendent 
 of the hospital, but he objected to receiving a person in the 
 last stages of a decline, and said the hospital was intended 
 to cure persons, and not as a resort for those who were 
 dropping into the grave ; but on my stating the very pecu- 
 liar circumstances attending this case, and that the young 
 woman, being ordered out of her mother's house, must go 
 somewhere to die, he gave way, after expressing his great 
 surprise that such an event should have occurred in this 
 land, and that any mother could so steel her heart against 
 her amiable, virtuous daughter, and exhibit all this violence 
 only on account of her religion. In consideration of such 
 unnatural conduct, he said she should be admitted, although 
 it was against the rules of the institution to receive those to 
 
THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 whom they could not hope to afford permanent relief. It 
 may here be remarked, that this hospital is a mere private 
 establishment for the relief d^cA cure of the sick and wound- 
 ed, and not a general hospital for all who are diseased. For 
 these latter cases a public institution has been established, 
 where good accommodation is provided at the expense of the 
 city for all who are destitute. 
 
 As soon as the storm ceased and the snow was levelled, 
 arrangements were made for the removal of Mary. A car- 
 riage was sent by Mrs. P., with whom she had lived, and a 
 pious member of my family was to attend her and her sis- 
 ter ; but at the time preparations were making, the gentle- 
 man in whose house she became pious r came to the door, 
 and learning that the feeble girl was going to the hospital, 
 he took her up kindly, wrapped in blankets, and placed her 
 in the carriage, supporting her there in his arms. She was 
 with difficulty kept from fainting by the way ; but after she 
 had reposed a day or two, so tranquil was every thing around 
 her, that she revived, and was better for a few days. 
 
 Her mother called to see her but once, and then left a 
 charge with Betsey to let her know when Mary w r as dying ; 
 but to this Mary objected, as the impression of the dreadful 
 scenes she had passed through, probably had made her 
 unwilling to be agitated by her mother's violence in her last 
 moments. 
 
 I saw her occasionally, and her minister and other 
 Christian friends could then also visit her. She continued 
 to enjoy sweet peace. One morning I called, and perceiving 
 that her life was drawing to a close, I asked her if she was 
 sensible that her hours were almost numbered, and if she 
 could still look to the Saviour with confidence and hope. 
 She said, " I lay awake many hours last night, and had 
 delightful contemplations on the character and condescension 
 of my precious Saviour." 
 
 In the evening I called again, and found that life was 
 
 E1«K- Nar 30 VOL. XT, 
 
14 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER 
 
 fast ebbing. She desired me to pray with her, and I asked 
 what petition she wished to have presented. " That I may 
 glorify God in dying, and not be left to complain of my great 
 bodily sufferings," she replied. I commended her to the 
 Saviour whom she loved, and bade her farewell, with exalt- 
 ed views of the goodness of God in sustaining this young 
 disciple until she had but one step more to take ere she 
 planted her feet on the shores of the heavenly Canaan. 
 
 The next morning information was sent me from the 
 hospital, that she was released from all pain. I called on 
 her mother, to inform her of the event, and to ask her where 
 she wished to have her body placed, and when she would 
 like to have the funeral. She said, "You told Mary you 
 would see her buried with your family ;" and this recalled 
 to my mind the occurrences of the evening when her moth- 
 er's violence broke out in my presence. I had then told 
 Mary I would take care of her body after her death, and 
 have it placed by the side of my children in the beautiful 
 
 cemetery at , which promise was sacredly kept ; and 
 
 there will her remains repose until the morning of the res- 
 urrection. 
 
 On reaching the hospital, there was a placid smile upon 
 the countenance of this departed child of God. Her sister 
 informed me, that soon after I left her, Mary fell asleep, and 
 it was so profound when her pastor called in the evening, 
 that his prayer at her bedside did not arouse, nor could she 
 awake her. 
 
 They thought it the sleep of death, but afterwards she 
 called out in a loud voice, " Betsey, I am going, I am going; 
 praise the Lord." She then sung in her clear, sweet voice ; 
 the first stanza of that beautiful hymn, 
 
 Why should we start, and fear to die ? 
 
 What timorous worms we mortals are ! 
 Death is the gate of endless joy, 
 
 And yet we dread to enter there. 
 
THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 Her voice then sunk almost to a whisper, and she went 
 through the entire hymn, closing with 
 
 Jesus can make a dying bed 
 
 Feel soft as downy pillows are ; 
 While on his breast I lean my head, 
 
 And breathe my life out sweetly there. 
 
 And with these precious words on her lips, her spirit, 
 released from its frail tenement, took its upward flight, to 
 see and adore Him whom her soul loved, and who had 
 washed her in his own precious blood, to dwell for ever 
 where " the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are 
 at rest." 
 
 One occurrence connected with her mother's ordering 
 her out of her house, should not be omitted. It was on Sat- 
 urday evening, and the following Monday Mrs. M. dressed 
 herself as she usually did when she visited her priest, and 
 was absent some hours. When she returned, she fell upon 
 her knees by Mary's bedside, and said, " Now, my child, I 
 have one last request to make of you, and do not deny your 
 mother's wishes. Only consent to see my priest, and con- 
 fess to him, and you shall never leave my house. I will 
 work to support you, if I wear my fingers off in doing it ; 
 and in the spring, I will take you to your dear native air in 
 Ireland, and that will restore you, and then we shall all be 
 happy." 
 
 To this Mary replied, " Mother, why do you make such 
 a request? the thing you ask is impossible." To this her 
 mother said, " No one but you, and I, and the priest, shall 
 know any thing about it." Mary, in a firm tone, said, 
 " Mother, my religion is dearer to me than life, and I would 
 not give up my peace of mind for worlds. Mother, never, I 
 beseech you, make such a request of me again." " Then 
 you shall go off as soon as you can be got out of my house." 
 This mother appeared not to want the common feelings of 
 
] 6 THE WEAVER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 our nature, but to be led blindfold by a superior power act- 
 ing out of sight, and dictating to her how to proceed with 
 \er heretical daughter, so as to bring her back, if possible, 
 to the bosom of her mother church. Very similar treatment 
 of Catholics who become pious, is not uncommon in our 
 land, as we have ample evidence ; and we ought deeply to 
 sympathize with them in their persecutions for conscience' 
 sake. 
 
 In reflecting on the natural timidity of this young Chris- 
 tian, and her unprotected situation under the roof of her 
 mother; who had such strong passions and was so very big- 
 oted, and driven on, as it seemed, by her priest, it then and 
 has since appeared that I was led there by the providence 
 of God, to protect her from attempts which might, and prob- 
 ably would have been made upon her when she was too 
 weak to resist them ; and thus it might have been given out, 
 that Mary M. recanted before her death and went back to 
 her former faith, and died in the communion of the Uomish 
 church. Appearances indicated that this was a settled plan, 
 which, if it was formed, was frustrated, and she was ena- 
 bled, with her dying breath, to testify to the love and grace 
 of Him in whom her soul trusted as the " one Mediator 
 between God and man." 
 
NARRATIVE XXIII. 
 
 THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 
 
 In a miserable hovel near Rottenstein, in Germany, 
 resided a poor cripple, who, from earliest infancy to his sixty- 
 second year, lived in such a state of bodily weakness, that 
 he was constantly dependent on the humane attention of 
 others. His whole body was contracted, his knees were 
 drawn up near his chin, and he was consequently unable 
 to walk: the utmost he could do was to crawl a few yards 
 on the floor ; but even this became impracticable in the latter 
 years of his life, his body having become very sore from con- 
 
 39* 
 
THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 
 
 st ant lying in one position. His arms were nearly as much 
 deformed as his lower limbs, though for many years he retained 
 the free use of his hands/which he most industriously employed 
 in gaining a livelihood ; but in his fifty-sixth year, a very 
 severe winter deprived him entirely of this blessing, so that 
 it became necessary to feed him like an infant. The cottage 
 in which he lodged was a considerable distance from tho 
 village, at the edge of a forest, amidst some sandy rocks, and 
 removed from the public road. Here he was kindly cared 
 for by a poor shepherd's widow, whom the parish had placed 
 in the same dwelling. 
 
 When poor James, for this was his Christian name, lost 
 the use of his hands, the pious widow had advanced to her 
 eighty-second year. Four additional years James enjoyed 
 the benefit of her maternal care, when it pleased God to 
 remove her from this world of sin and sorrow, after a very 
 short illness. Like fruit fully matured by the heat of afflic- 
 tion, she dropped off the tree ; and without tasting the bit- 
 terness of death, gently fell asleep in Jesus. On the day 
 which immediately preceded her dissolution, she had gone 
 to the village, leaning on her staff, to pay a last visit to a 
 pious farmer's widow, from whom she had received many a 
 charitable gift. Affectionately thanking her benefactress for 
 all her acts of kindness, she added an earnest request, that 
 she would think of poor James, as she now felt that her con- 
 tinuance on earth was likely to be very short. t On the even- 
 ing of the following day, the farmer's widow, impressed with 
 the parting words of old " Lizzy," sent her maid to inquire 
 at the cottage : she returned with the intelligence that the 
 aged widow had died early in the morning. 
 
 After Lizzy's burial, poor James was left the lonely ten- 
 ant of the cottage, and must have perished in his forlorn state, 
 had not the good providence of God raised up on his behalf 
 some kindly disposed persons, who, pitying his deplorable 
 situation, made it their business to bestow their friendly 
 attention upon him. The young clergyman of Rottenstein. 
 
THE GERMAN CRIPPLE. 3 
 
 when informed of his circumstances, began to visit this 
 afflicted parishioner; and though the poor man spoke but 
 little, what he said was so appropriate, that every visit 
 increased the pastor's esteem and affection. 
 
 During the wet weather, the rain penetrated the roof, 
 and dripped upon the bed of the sufferer. One morning, 
 some friendly visitors stepping in, found him in a fainting 
 fit. Supposing him to be dead, they were just about to re 
 move him from his bed of straw, when he showed signs ol 
 life, though his state of exhaustion was such that he could 
 not speak so as> 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. 
 
 
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