Chapter XIII: Part 13

"If, Sir, this were a sudden change, I should be induced to believe that he might be recovered, but it has been coming on for a long time. You know that he does not make up his mind on any subject very suddenly, but when he has done it, you know how firm he is."

"Very true," said Mr. Cole, "but his spirits have been unusually depressed for some months. I remember the last time we spent an evening at Mr. Denham's, that I rallied him on his dulness when we were at play. We must raise his spirits, and then we shall drive away his evangelical notions."

"I have not noticed any particular depression. He has been rather more grave, yet he has been cheerful; and has talked rather more frequently on religious subjects, but they have not affected his spirits."

"Well," said Mr. Cole, "I will come and have a rubber with him, and I will engage to rub these notions out of him."

"Indeed, Sir, he has formally declined playing any more, and has requested me never again to introduce cards."

"Really," said Mrs. Denham, "this is very affecting. Not play again! Not suffer cards to be introduced? Then I suppose he intends to break off connection with all his old friends, and take up with the evangelicals; but I hope you have too much firmness to yield to him."

"It has been my maxim through life to sacrifice everything for the sake of domestic peace. I cannot oppose Mr. Roscoe, and I must confess that he has manifested the utmost degree of affection and kindness."

"The apostle St. Paul has predicted," said the Rev. Mr. Cole, "that in the last days perilous times should come, and indeed they are come. The church once enjoyed quietude, but now she is rent into divisions; not so much by the Dissenters who have seceded from us, as by the evangelical clergy who are admitted within her pale. Their eccentric notions, and their extempore and familiar style of preaching, operate as a charm on the minds of their hearers; and wherever they go, some stir is always occasioned about religion. In general, the poor and the illiterate become their admirers; but sometimes we see men of sense and learning beguiled by their artful sophisms. I can account for their success among the lower orders, but when I see an intelligent man brought over to their belief, I confess I am puzzled. But still I won't give up Mr. Roscoe. I will, in the course of a few Sundays, preach a sermon which I will procure for the occasion."

"You will greatly oblige me if you will, Sir, but you must do it soon, for I dread the idea of Mr. Roscoe going to hear Mr. Ingleby while he is in his present state of mind."

"But you have no idea of his leaving my church?"

"Why, you know very well," Miss Denham remarked, "that none of the evangelicals think you preach the gospel. I have heard Miss Sophia say so many times, and you may be sure that she will try to make her papa believe it, and if he is become an evangelical, he is sure to believe it; for I have noticed that what one believes, they all believe. Really, Sir, there is so much ado made now about the word gospel and evangelical preachers, that the subjects are become quite offensive."

"Yes, to persons of intelligence and taste."

"Exactly so, Sir; you will excuse what I am going to say, but I often think that you are rather severe, too much so I know for some of your hearers; but I have no idea how any people of sense can go and hear such preaching as Mr. Ingleby's. I heard him once, _on the loss of the soul_. I could not sleep after it--and even now, at times I think of it. But, Sir, you know we have nothing to do with such subjects till we die, or till after death."

"Such preaching," said Mr. Cole, "is as offensive to pure taste, as it is revolting to our feelings."

"Exactly so; you know we are to be allured to a brighter world--not frightened there. Pray, Sir, shall we have the pleasure of meeting you and Mrs. Cole at Mr. Ryder's on Tuesday? By the by, I wonder you do not cure Mr. John of his scepticism. There is to be a large party, and rather a gay one."

"I don't think," replied Mr. Cole, "that Mr. John Ryder has any more scepticism than does him good--it keeps off the gloom which a belief in the Bible almost necessarily brings over the youthful mind. No, I shall not be with you. I have an engagement with a few friends who are going to Bath, to see _Romeo and Juliet_."

"How dull and insipid is a religious service when compared with a play. What a pity that our Maker requires us to be religious. I have not seen a play for some months, and when I was hearing Mr. Ingleby, I really thought that I should never have courage to see another. Oh, how he did denounce the theatre! He really said that it was the pathway to hell."

"Yes," said Mr. Cole, with high disdain, "that man would interdict us from every social enjoyment; would batter down the temple of the muses, or change it into a house of prayer; and bring before our imagination the awful realities of the eternal world, with so much force, as should compel us to think, with perpetual awe, on death and the future judgment."

"Oh! dear, they are awful realities indeed. When I heard him, he alluded to dear Miss Patterson, who took cold on returning from the play, and died, you know, Sir, a few weeks afterwards? Oh! she was a lovely creature. She was too good to live on earth. Had she been religious, she would have been a saint. But she often used to say that her grandpapa left his religion to her aunts, and his fortune to his grandchildren. Mr. Ingleby, after condemning plays, &c., as impure and sinful, made a long pause, and then proposed his questions with so much solemnity, that my pulse began to beat with feverish rapidity.--'Should you like,' he said, and he looked while he said it so stern and solemn, 'to pass from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ? Should you like to leave the gaieties of this world, to associate with the awful realities of another?' There was so much stillness in the church as he went on in this strain of awful eloquence, and so many people were overcome by what he said, and such a serene smile on his countenance when he began to speak about our Saviour, that I do really think, if I had not been very firm and decided, I should have become as religious as any of them. It was, I assure you, very difficult to withstand his fervour."

"I hope," said Mr. Cole, "you will never go again, for evil communications corrupt the best of hearts."

"Go again!" exclaimed Mrs. Denham, "not if she have any respect for her own happiness, or ours. Why, to hear this about the sermon is enough to frighten any good Christian; what must it have been to have heard the sermon itself! One thing puzzles me when I think about it--why do our bishops consecrate such men?"

"Oh, unluckily we have some evangelical bishops."

"A bishop evangelical! don't you consider that a great wonder, Sir?"

"I consider it a great calamity to our church."

"Exactly so; then I suppose we shall always be annoyed with these evangelical clergy if the bishops sanction them. I hope you won't turn evangelical."

"Not while I retain my reason. When that is gone, I may go off too."

My readers who are but superficially acquainted with the religious habits and style of conversation which prevail in the higher walks of life, may be induced to imagine that I have given a strong colouring to some parts of my narrative, but I assure them that I have not. Indeed, had I quoted the epithets and the phrases which, I know, are sometimes employed, when a certain class of fashionable Christians, with their anti-evangelical pastors, venture to discuss religious subjects, and animadvert on religious people, my pages would be too disfigured to pass through the hands of the pious reader.

It is to be lamented that many intelligent and amiable persons, who occupy very prominent positions amongst us, and who are admired and esteemed by all who know them, are as ignorant of the nature and the design of Christianity as the ancient Scythian or the modern barbarian. They imagine that they are Christians, because they are born in a Christian country; that they are very good Christians, because they sometimes go to church; and that they are safe for another world, because their conscience does not condemn them for the practices in which they now indulge themselves. And if any one, in the most guarded way and the kindest tones of speech, venture to suggest the possibility of self-deception, they are offended, or take refuge in the belief that their hearts are too good to be guilty of such a mean vice. They keep to the religion in which they were born and educated; and this to them is the ark of safety.

Yes, you are a Christian in Britain, as you would be a Mahometan if you had been born in Turkey; but search the Scriptures, and examine if the design of Christianity has ever been accomplished in you. Have you been born again? No. That subject you ridicule, because you do not understand it. Have you had repentance towards God, and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ? No; and if these subjects were pressed upon your conscience with the affection of apostolic compassion, and ardour of apostolic zeal, you would retire displeased, if not disgusted, with the minister who dares to enforce them as essential to your safety and happiness. Are you crucified to the world by the moral influence of the death of Jesus Christ? Crucified to the world! The very phrase, though scriptural, grates offensively on your ear! Crucified to the world! O no. You are devoted to its pleasures, its follies, its amusements. Shut up the theatre, abolish cards, interdict the assembly and the ball, and how would a large portion of our modern Christians be able to support life?

You may imagine that you are a _good Christian_, because you sometimes go to church; but an occasional visit to a material temple will not produce that moral transformation of the soul which is essential to fit you for the holy exercises and enjoyments of another world. You may reject these questions which I now propose to you; but before you reject them, permit me to urge you to search the Scriptures, and then you will see that they have a paramount claim on your attention. Can you be a Christian unless you possess the spirit, and are in some degree conformed to the image of Jesus Christ?

But it ought not to excite our astonishment, though it may our tenderest sympathy, to see the great majority of those who move in fashionable life passing away their time amidst the gaieties and follies of the world, when they are sanctioned, if not encouraged by the clergy, who ought to teach them better, both by precept and example.

We have ministers of religion who do not hesitate to hold up to ridicule and contempt the essential doctrines and self-denying precepts of their own faith; and attempt, as far as the influence of their example can extend, to banish all serious and devout piety from the social circle. They see no harm in customs which the spirit and even the letter of the Scriptures condemn; and sanction by their presence those scenes of human folly and gaiety which have captivated and ruined thousands, who were once the ornaments of their fathers' house.

Such ministers not only sanction the customs of the world, but they discountenance all serious piety, and declaim against their evangelical brethren as disturbers of the peace of the church. If Christianity be a cunningly devised fable--if the life of faith and of practical devotedness of the soul to God be mere fancies--if heaven and hell be the conceptions of romance, brought into the pulpit to terrify the credulous and please the sanguine--I should not hesitate to pronounce a heavy censure on those ministers who bring forward these subjects so often, and who enforce attention to them with so much ardent and impassioned eloquence.

But if Christianity be true--if the final happiness or misery of the human soul depend on faith in Christ--if the glories of heaven and the terrors of hell are realities which exceed the power of man to describe--then even the most sceptical must admit that the ministers of religion ought, with great boldness and impassioned earnestness, to rouse their hearers to a serious and immediate attention to these great, these awful subjects; and ought they not to teach by example, as well as by precept? and by the purity of their morals--by their religious habits and style of conversation--give strong and unequivocal proofs that they preach what they believe, and believe what they preach?

But let no Christian, whatever rank he may hold in social life, or whatever degree of reputation he may have attained for intelligence, or good sense, or for amiability of temper, presume to hope that he will ever be able to make a scriptural profession of religion (after he has felt the power of it) without exciting the displeasure, if not the opposition, of his irreligious relatives and friends. They will not object to the religion of forms and ceremonies; to the religion which is confined to the temple, or to the bed of sickness; to the religion which allows of a conformity to the gaieties and the follies of the world, and which frowns from its presence all references to death, to judgment, to heaven, and to hell; but the religion which consists in the moral renovation of the soul, which identifies man with a living Saviour, and which raises his anticipations to the glories of the invisible world, they despise, and cast it from them as a strange thing, and then ridicule it as contemptible.

THE DARK VALE ILLUMINED.

Just as we were going out to take an evening walk, the postman delivered a letter addressed to Mrs. Stevens; she read it, and in silence handed it to her husband. I apprehended, from the expression of her countenance and her excited manner, that it conveyed some painful intelligence; and this was immediately confirmed by Mr. Stevens, who said, "This is a letter from our nephew, Mr. Lewellin, informing us of the sudden and dangerous illness of his mother, and he requests that we hasten to see her."

"The intelligence," said Mrs. Stevens, "is most painful, but it does not greatly surprise me; I had something like a presentiment of it in the mental visions of the past night; I saw her leaning on the top of her staff, standing near the brink of a river, whose waters divided of themselves, as a radiant brightness gilded the whole horizon; and while listening for some moments to the sounds of sweetest harmony, I awoke, and found it was a dream. Thus my senses were locked up in the chambers of slumber, that my spirit might go and commune with my dear sister before she leaves us."

A carriage was immediately sent for, and we set off from Fairmount about eight o'clock. It was a cloudy moonlight night. We rolled on in silence, being too much absorbed in painful thought and expectation to break the quiet which grief requires for the solace of her own feelings. At length Mr. Stevens, alluding to Mrs. Lewellin's illness, said, "With what different emotions do the inhabitants of the visible and invisible world contemplate the same event! While we are anticipating her departure with deep sorrow, the glorified spirits of her deceased husband, and child, and father, are attuning their harps of joy, to celebrate her entrance among them."

"Very true," Mrs. Stevens replied; "our loss is their gain; but it is as natural for us to deplore our loss, as it is natural for them to exult in their gain."

"I admit, my dear, that we cannot, while encompassed by human infirmities, avoid feeling the pang of sorrow on such an occasion as this, though we may moderate its intensity by reflecting on our own dissolution, which will introduce us into the society of those who obtain the prize of immortality before us."

We had no difficulty in procuring a change of horses at each succeeding stage; nothing worthy of remark occurred during the journey, and on the following morning we arrived at Mrs. Lewellin's cottage.[11] The same jessamine, and honey-suckles, and rose trees adorned its tasteful front; the same hawthorn hedge inclosed its well-cultivated garden; the little wicket-gate still swung on its hinges, as when I paid my first visit six years before; but they had lost their attractions, or I had lost my power of enjoyment.

[11] See page 6.

On seeing Mr. Lewellin, Mrs. Stevens said, "Is your mother still living, my dear George, or has she left us?"

"O no, aunt, she has not left us; she has made many inquiries about you, and longs to see you. She says that when she has seen you she shall depart in peace."

"When was she first taken ill, and what is the nature of her disorder?"

"She has not been well for some weeks, but her indisposition created no alarm. On Sabbath morning she felt better, and went to chapel, where she commemorated the death of the Redeemer, with her Christian brethren. As she was returning home she was exposed to a heavy shower, and though she took every precaution to prevent any evil consequences, yet, early in the evening, an inflammation of the bowels came on, which has raged with unabating violence; and her medical attendant says that he does not expect that she can live through the day. Her pains have been excruciating, but she has borne them with the fortitude and resignation of a Christian, and now she seems to be enjoying that fatal ease which is the immediate forerunner of dissolution."

On entering her room she received us with composure, and calmly said to her sister, "Weep not for me, the days of my widowed mourning are drawing to a close. I have long lived secluded from the world, and I can leave it without a sigh."

"Then," I said, "you have no fear?"

"Fear! why should I fear? I know I am in the valley, but it is illumined with the light of life. I have often dreaded this hour, yet it is the happiest hour I have ever known."

"To us, my dear sister, it is a most painful hour."

On seeing her sister and her son in tears, she said, "I hope you will compose yourselves, that we may enjoy each other's society on this side Jordan, which I am soon to pass.... My dear George, receive once more, and for the last time, the congratulations of your mother on the honour which the God of all grace has conferred on you, in adopting you as his son. I now solemnly charge you, before Him and the pious friends now with you, always to act worthy of your high vocation. Maintain the dignity of your Christian character by the integrity of your principles, your decision, and your zeal for the honour of the Lord of life and glory. As much of your future happiness and respectability will depend on the choice which you may make when you settle in life, let me beseech you _to marry only in the Lord--prefer piety to beauty, good sense to a large fortune, and remember that a meek and quiet spirit_ is the most beautiful ornament in the home of a righteous man."

She then turned towards Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, and said, "I thank you for all your kindness to me and mine in the days of our adversity. The Lord reward you a thousand fold. I have only one legacy to leave, and I leave it to you. I bequeath to you my dear boy; take care of him for my sake."

The pious rector of the parish made an early call. Mrs. Lewellin received him with a sweet smile, and motioned him to be seated. After inquiring for her welfare, he thus accosted her: "What would you now do without a Saviour?"

"I should perish! But I have a Saviour whose blood cleanseth from all sin."

"His blood," he said, "is of more value than a thousand worlds."

She replied, "_It is inestimable! It is inestimable!_"

We all knelt down, and this man of God devoutly prayed that she might have "an entrance ministered unto her abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."

As the cottage was not large enough for our accommodation, the pious rector invited us to his hospitable home, but Mrs. Stevens resolved not to leave her sister. There was grief over the whole village as the rumour spread that she was dying. Her benevolence had added lustre to her piety, and such was the veneration and attachment in which her character was held, that many a hand knocked softly at the door of her cottage, and many a low voice inquired how God was dealing with her. About noon she fell into a sweet sleep, and slept for several hours; she awoke refreshed, animated; a heavenly serenity beamed on her countenance, as she exclaimed, "Oh! the bliss of dying!"

"You are happy, mother, in the prospect of death."

"Happy, my child, yes, my joy is unspeakable."

Her voice suddenly faltered, yet she gently whispered "Farewell" as her son caught her in his arms, and with her eyes fixed on him, after one strong convulsive struggle, she expired.

Mrs. Lewellin had generally attended the village church in the morning of the Sabbath, and in the evening she usually heard an excellent minister of Christ who preached in a Dissenting chapel, and when reproached for her liberality by the more bigoted, she used to say, "_I have no objection to go where I can hold communion with the Saviour_." Adjoining the chapel there was a burying-ground, to which she had long been accustomed to resort, as favourable to meditation, and on returning from an evening walk with the pious rector, we passed near it, and were induced to visit the spot which she had selected as the place of her burial; it was overshadowed by a large oak tree, and partially inclosed with some evergreens, which she had transplanted from her own garden.

Vol. i. page 300.]

"You see," he said, "how instinctively we love immortality, and as we cannot live here always, we wish life to flourish over the tomb in which our body is decaying. This is simple and beautiful. She was a woman of great taste, and a Christian of high principle. Her knowledge of the gospel was clear, comprehensive, and profound; and she displayed, during her residence with us, a spirit as free from the ordinary imperfections of the human character as I have ever beheld."

I told him that I had been requested to ask if he would attend her funeral.

He replied, "Certainly, if the family wish it. I respected her--I loved her. I often retired from the labour and perplexity of study to pass an hour with her, and always found her conversation of such a spiritual, catholic, and heavenly cast, that I never failed to derive great benefit from it. Her conversation was remarkably suggestive; she has helped me to many texts, and some of my most useful sermons owe their origin to her observations and reflections. I was always delighted when I saw her in church, because I knew she was praying in spirit for the success of my ministry."

Upon the day appointed for her burial almost every inhabitant of the village attended, to pay the tribute of respect to her memory. The corpse was taken into the chapel, and after the minister had read the 15th chapter of 1st Corinthians, and delivered a very simple impressive address, and offered up a solemn prayer to "the God of the spirits of all flesh," it was interred amidst the sighs and tears of a large concourse of spectators. Some were attired in full mourning, many were in half mourning, but the majority had merely put on their Sabbath dress, being too poor to purchase clothes for the occasion. There was one female of the group, about the age of thirty, with an infant in her arms, whose appearance and manners indicated the most poignant grief. During the time the minister was conducting the service, the tear fell silently on her cheek, but when the body was lowered into the grave she wept no more, but appeared convulsed, and then advanced to the brink of the grave, and after looking with intense eagerness for some seconds, she exclaimed, "Lover and friend hast thou taken from me," and fell senseless on the ground. On inquiry, I found that she was the widow of a poor woodman, who was killed by the falling of a tree, and who was left with three children, and had another born three months after his father's decease. She lived about a quarter of a mile from the cottage, and as Mrs. Lewellin used to pass by her residence when taking her morning walks, she often called to see her. On one occasion (the poor woman told me the next day), after giving her weekly donation, she gave her a tract, and requested her to read it. "I did read it," said the weeping widow, "but I could not understand it. When she called the next time she asked me if I had read it, and when I told her I could not understand it, she said, 'Read it again, but before you read it the second time, pray to God for wisdom to enable you to understand it. He can give it, and he will give it if you ask him.' I did so. The Lord has answered my prayer, and made me, I trust, wise unto salvation. But he has taken from me my guide, my counsellor, and my friend. The death of my husband, which threw me on the charity of the parish, and deprived my dear babes of a father, was a great trial, but it did not pierce my heart like this. I sometimes think my heart will break, then I go and pray to the Lord for submission to his holy will, and I find myself better; but it will be a long time indeed before I shall be able to get over it."

I mentioned this incident at the rectory, and then learned that the poor widow was a regular attendant at the church, and was considered decidedly pious. Mrs. Stevens, having ascertained the amount of her departed sister's weekly donation, engaged the rector to become her almoner, and the usual payment was continued. Mr. Lewellin was so affected by this testimony to the memory of his mother, that he increased the sum; and before he left Stanmoor he called to see the bereaved sufferer, and gave her several articles of furniture, which once adorned the lonely cottage of her whose remains we had committed to the tomb.

The evening before our departure, I retraced the steps I had trodden on my former visit to this village; and fixing on the same hour for my ramble into the vale, I anticipated another interview with the pious shepherd. As I walked on I heard the bleating of the sheep, and saw them at a distance ascending the steep path which led up to their fold in a neighbouring field. I heard also the barking of the dog; and soon afterwards the shepherd made his appearance, but I knew him not.

"Is the old man dead," I asked, "who kept his flock here about six years ago?"

"Yes, Sir; he died about Christmas."

"Did you know him?"

"He was my father; and a better father never lived."

"He was a religious man; was he not?"

"Yes, Sir; and he died in the faith of Christ."

"I hope you are following in his steps."

"It is, Sir, my wish and my prayer to be a follower of them who through faith and patience inherit the promises."

* * * * *

On the Sabbath morning after our return to Fairmount, the Rev. Mr. Ingleby preached from Acts xxi. 16, "An old disciple." We were much pleased with his sermon, particularly with the following passage: "When we see an old disciple moving amidst the activities and amenities of life, we see a _living_ monument of the faithfulness and loving-kindness of God; and when we follow him to his grave, though we may sorrow over his departure from amongst us, yet our sorrow is not to be without hope; he still lives, and lives in a new form, amidst new scenes of beauty and of grandeur, and with new associates; he is with Christ, assimilated to his likeness, beholding his glory, and enjoying sweetest intercourse with him. His gain by his death, should reconcile us to our loss."

"The loss of my dear sister," said Mrs. Stevens, "is the most afflictive trial I have ever been called to endure. Memory carries me back to the days of childhood, to the riper years of age, and to the associations with which my dear departed sister is inseparably entwined. But the pleasing charm soon vanishes, for she is gone."

"But, my dear," replied Mr. Stevens, "though this affliction be grievous, yet you might have been visited by one much more severe."

"Yes, I know it. I might have lost you. That would have been a more overwhelming one. I wish to be resigned--it is my constant prayer--and I hope that I do not cherish any murmuring disposition, but I cannot help feeling; yet I fear lest I should indulge my mourning to an excess."

"Excess of grief, my dear, is to be guarded against, as it unhinges the mind, induces a melancholy cast of temper, and dispossesses comforts which are still preserved, of their power to interest and delight. Mourn you may, but you must not mourn as one 'who has no hope.' For hope, even the sweetest hope that can lodge in the human heart, is yours. Death has merely separated you for a season, he has not destroyed your union. You now live apart, but no impassable gulf lies between you--only a narrow grave. Let your mourning, therefore, be moderate and submissive."

"Yes," Mrs. Stevens replied, as her countenance began to assume its former cheerfulness, which had vanished from the moment the first intelligence of her sister's illness was received, "my sister lives--she lives a purer and a happier life than I ever expect to live, till I cease to breathe this vital air--she now sees the King in his beauty--she now unites with all the redeemed in singing, 'Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.' She is, and ever will be with the Lord. These words comfort me."

"Then let _me_ hear the words which comfort you," said Mr. Lewellin, who caught this latter sentence as he entered the parlour, "as they may serve to comfort me. My heart never throbbed as it has done since I lost my mother--a loss I have been anticipating for years, but I now find that it is more desolating than I ever anticipated."

"It is an event," said Mr. Stevens, "which has brought along with it many alleviating circumstances. She died in peace. No dubious uncertainty distracted her, no dread forebodings appalled her, no torturing anxieties for those she loved agitated her breast. Hers was an enviable death."

"Yes," said Mr. Lewellin, "her sun did not go down till the evening; and even then it was light. She told me that for several days before her last illness she suffered great mental perplexity and horror, that she not only doubted her personal piety, but the truth of revelation. She was driven almost to a state of despair; and on the Sabbath morning, when she left her cottage for the house of prayer, she resolved not to receive the memorials of the Saviour's death. The text from which the Rev. Mr. Bates preached, was taken from Judges viii. 4, 'Faint, yet pursuing.' There was one paragraph in the sermon which gave her sweet relief. It was to this effect: 'The most favoured servants of the Lord are liable to momentary seasons of suspicion and depression; and some have been left for days, and some for months, not only without consolation, but even without hope. But shall we say that as soon as they lose their enjoyments they make a shipwreck of their faith? Shall we say that the design of God--the practical efficacy of the atonement--the continual indwelling of the Holy Spirit--depend on the ever fluctuating and ever varying temperament and feelings of the mind, which is sometimes so perplexed and distracted by unknown causes, as to be incapable of _believing_ its own faith, or deriving felicity from its own sources of blessedness? Oh! no. There are periods in the mysterious life of an heir of salvation when he is left without comfort, if not without hope, and then comes on the hour and the power of darkness; but this singular dispensation does not disinherit him, or leave him an orphan, in a state of privation and abandonment; neither does it destroy the vitality of his religious principles, but it is intended to let him feel a portion of that misery which he deserves, but from which he is delivered through the blood of the Lamb.'"

"Had my sister left us under this mental gloom, I should have had no doubt," said Mrs. Stevens, "of her present happiness; but it would have been an additional cause of grief."

"Sometimes," I observed, "it pleases God to leave his most eminent servants without any strong consolation in their last hours; and sometimes he elevates them to a participation of the felicity of heaven, before he permits them to enter. Hence there is no undeviating uniformity in his procedure; but yet he keeps our practical good in view by all the dispensations of his will. When I see a holy man overwhelmed with sorrow on the eve of his departure, I am convinced there is no absolute, no meritorious connection between an exemplary life and a triumphant death. This conviction, coming through such a medium, destroys all self-complacency, and impels me to place all my dependence for salvation on Jesus Christ. But when I see a sinner of like passions and infirmities with myself--one who has wept over defects and transgressions similar to my own--rising above fear, eagerly and yet submissively anticipating his own dissolution, giving utterance to thoughts and feelings more nearly allied to the glory and purity of the heavenly state than to the dark obscurity of the present, I feel a degree of gratitude to the Saviour for making manifest life and immortality, which, for its full expression, I must wait till I see him as he is, and am made like unto him."

"The death of our friends," said Mr. Stevens, "is always an afflictive event, but it is sometimes a salutary one. It reminds us of our mortality, and brings before our imagination the unseen realities of an eternal world. It teaches us what shadows we are, and what shadows we are pursuing:--

'Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardours; and abate
That glare of life, which often blinds the wise.
Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars
Of terror and abhorrence nature throws
'Cross our obstructed way; and thus to make
_Welcome_, as _safe_, our port from ev'ry storm.'"

"To repine," I observed, "under any of the dispensations of Providence, would be to display a temper which no Christian should cherish; but to repine at the grave of a pious friend, discovers not only a spirit of hostility to the Divine will, but an unsubdued selfishness, which would deprive another of happiness, merely to augment our own."

"Resignation is our duty, and this brings with it its own reward; yet it is a disposition which does not spring up spontaneously in the heart. It is one of those good gifts which cometh from above; but, like every other disposition which claims the same origin, it must be exercised before it can become _perfect_; and when perfected, or when approaching near perfection, it can rejoice in tribulations also."

INTEMPERATE ZEAL.

The Rev. Mr. Roscoe and his lady, who had not been at the mansion for several years, now intimated their intention to pay a visit to their brother. He was the youngest son of the family, and at an early age had decided for the church, as a profession more easy, if not so lucrative as some others. Having finished his career at Oxford, where he was more distinguished for his love of pleasure than regard for academical honours, he obtained ordination, and settled in a parish in Somersetshire. For nearly fifteen years he remained unmarried, devoting himself to a life of pleasure, and paying but little attention to the claims of his parishioners. The dignity of the priest was lowered by the imperfections of the man, and the church was forsaken for the village chapel. At length he was, by the remonstrances of his friends, induced to pursue a course more becoming the sanctity of his office; he withdrew from his former companions, abandoned the sports of the field and of the gaming table, and turned the torrent of his displeasure against those who had separated themselves from the church, on account of his former irregularities. He had reached the age of forty when he married the eldest daughter of a neighbouring magistrate, a lady distinguished by superior intelligence, and a most catholic spirit. They had two children, who both died in infancy. So deeply wounded was the heart of the mother by these bereavements, that she long abandoned herself to the agonies of grief; and though time had now removed its poignancy, yet she often alluded to her babes and their early death, in a tone and manner which proved that they still lived in her fond remembrance.

Their arrival at their brother's mansion had been expected for several days, and every preparation was made to render their visit pleasant and profitable. At length they came; and though the Rev. Mr. Roscoe was a reformed man, yet he discovered no signs of being a spiritual one. He was become more moral in his habits, but less tolerant in spirit; and soon convinced his brother and his niece that "the things which are seen and temporal" had a more powerful ascendency over him than those "which are unseen and eternal." He declined the invitation of the Rev. Mr. Cole, to preach on the following Sabbath, as he was too much fatigued by his journey to do duty; but consented to accompany the family to church. It was a beautiful morning, still and serene; no sound was heard but the melody of the birds, and the "church-going bell." Mr. Cole read the Liturgy in his usual heavy, monotonous tone, which was no less offensive to the ear, than a certain air of carelessness which hung over his manner was repulsive of devotional feeling. He announced his text in an elevated pitch of voice, which immediately arrested the attention of his congregation. "The subject," he remarked, "which I shall submit to you this morning, is taken from the tenth chapter of St. Paul the apostle's Epistle to the Romans, and the second verse:--'For I bear them record that they have a zeal of God, but not according to knowledge.'"

He began by declaiming against the spirit and the conduct of the ancient Pharisees, who were, he asserted, the troublers of the church in a former age; and then expressed his deep regret that the sect was not yet become extinct, but was even at this moment augmenting its numbers, and threatening, by its untempered zeal, and its invincible ignorance, to tarnish the lustre and destroy the foundation of the church which is fostering them in her bosom. "If," said he, "we run a comparison between the modern Calvinists, who unhappily stand connected with our venerable Establishment--the admiration and envy of the world--and the ancient Pharisees, we shall find that they bear a close resemblance to each other; and though a good man will pause before he gathers on his lips the denunciations of inspired writ, yet a high sense of duty compels me to say that the woes which our Saviour uttered against the latter, stand directly pointed against the former. The ancient Pharisees set aside the weightier matters of the law to attend to the ceremonials of religion; they prescribed no bounds to their proselyting spirit, for they would encompass sea and land to gain _even one_ proselyte; and when they had gained him, our Saviour says that they made him twofold more a child of hell than themselves, though they made bolder and higher pretensions to religion than any other sect. And who, when looking at this picture of the ancient Pharisees, does not recognize the portrait of our modern Calvinists?--'For I bear them record that they have a zeal of God, but not according to knowledge.' But the modern Calvinists conduct themselves with less reverence for the authority of our church, than the Pharisees discovered for the authority of theirs; for they will dare to reject some of our established doctrines, and explain away the import of some of our long-settled rites and sacraments."

He then went on to prove, by quotations from the fathers and the Book of Common Prayer, that baptismal regeneration is the only regeneration which is necessary or possible; and positively asserted that the conversion of persons who are already members of the apostolic Church of England, is a mere fiction of modern fanaticism.

"These Calvinistic clergy," he added, "declaim against good works, and exalt a dogmatic belief in certain crude opinions, as the only necessary condition on which sinners can obtain the forgiveness of Almighty God." Then he attempted to prove that the people must necessarily become corrupt, among whom salvation is proclaimed, without requiring, on their part, good works as the essential condition of its bestowment.

"Look, my hearers," he exclaimed, "on the destructive tendency of their style of preaching. As soon as the officiating priest opens his lips and gives utterance to his sentiments, there is an instantaneous commotion in his congregation. Those who lived in peace are split into divisions, and the family or the village which held the unity of the faith, as propounded by our pure apostolic church, suddenly becomes the arena of religious disputations and wrangling, and the temple of peace and unity becomes a Babel of confusion and discord.

"Indeed, in _some instances_, children will rise up in rebellion against the authority of their parents, till the parents, wearied by their obstinacy, or subdued by their importunity, imbibe the same fatal opinions, that they may regain their domestic peace.

"These priests are zealous, and they pretend that they have a zeal of God; but it is the fire and the smoke, whose effect is to darken and to desolate, rather than that clear and radiant light which warms while it illumines, and gives a verdant bloom to every springing blade and opening bud, while it directs the passenger onwards on his journey. In a word, the labours of these men, wherever they are successful (and such is the fatality attending them that they are always successful), tend to give a retrograde movement to our social habits and enjoyments, and to carry us back to the gloomy times of the Commonwealth, when the Puritanical devotee was seen weeping between the porch and the altar, but never indulging himself in the innocent recreations of life.

"In fine, I feel myself compelled once more to warn you against their doctrines, as contrary to the doctrines of our incomparable prayer-book; to warn you against associating with them, or hearing them preach, as you may be entangled by their sophistry before you are aware, and while you will deplore, in common with myself and others, their existence within the pale of our pure apostolic church, you will endeavour, by your influence and your example, to check the progress of the moral contagion which they have introduced among us. That the common people, who know not the Scriptures, and who despise the authority of their authorized teachers, should embrace the Calvinistic doctrines, is not surprising, because they give them a complete indemnity against every species of crime, but that any of the well-educated and intelligent members of society--any who have not sacrificed their virtue nor lost their taste--should feel a predilection for them, is one of those moral mysteries which can be accounted for only from one of two causes--a partial derangement of intellect, or the magic charm of enthusiasm.

"To conclude: Are they zealous in propagating their doctrines? be you zealous in opposing them; are they zealous in gaining proselytes? be you zealous in reclaiming them; are they zealous in putting an end to all the innocent enjoyments of social life? do you display a superior degree of zeal in preventing such a fatal evil, that we may enjoy life as we have been accustomed to enjoy it in our social circles, and thus prove to a sceptical and a fanatical age, that we can be religious without being melancholy or morose, and fit ourselves for the happiness of a future world without sacrificing the pleasures of the present."

When the service was concluded, the Roscoes walked home together, but no one made any reference to the sermon, as all felt convinced that it was directed against Mr. Roscoe, who appeared, during the whole of the afternoon, unusually reserved. This reserve was regarded by some of the family as a decisive evidence that the sermon had produced its intended effect; and the polite and friendly manner in which he received the Rev. Mr. Cole, who called in the evening, seemed to confirm this opinion. Next morning, as they sat at breakfast, the Rev. Mr. Roscoe said that he had anticipated great pleasure from his visit, but, he added, "I certainly did not anticipate the feast of delight which I enjoyed yesterday. Mr. Cole surpassed himself. I think he gave us a correct portraiture of modern Calvinism. O, it is a gloomy system of religion! just suited for fanatics or enthusiasts. Don't you think Mr. Cole a very clever and a very intelligent man?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Roscoe, "I think him clever and intelligent, and a man of rather extensive reading. We have often passed many pleasant evenings together in discussing literary and scientific questions, and I have uniformly admired his dexterity in reasoning, and the aptness of his illustrations; but, in my opinion, something more than learning and intelligence is necessary to enable a person to understand the scheme of salvation which is contained in the Scriptures."

"But I presume you do not intend, like our modern fanatics, to depreciate learning and intelligence?"

"No; I think a Christian minister cannot be too learned nor too intelligent, but learned men do not always understand the things of the Spirit of God, and some of the most intelligent have been known to imbibe the most erroneous opinions. This, I suppose, you will not deny; does it not then necessarily follow that something more than learning and intelligence is requisite to enable a person to understand the Scriptures?"

"O! I see you have imbibed one of the notions of our modern fanatics. And is it possible that you can give up your understanding to the dominion of fanaticism, which avows sentiments not less derogatory to the dignity of man, than its unintelligible jargon is offensive to pure taste? They say that no one can understand the gospel unless he is taught by the Spirit of God. They think we must be inspired to enable us to understand the Scriptures, which were given by Divine inspiration, and which are able of themselves to make us wise unto salvation."

"You have made several allusions to modern fanatics, and, from your mode of expression, I conclude that you hold them in contempt."

"In sovereign contempt. They are the troublers of the church, and I wish it were in my power to expel them."

"But if you were to expel all from the church who believe in the necessity of a Divine illumination to enable us to understand the Scriptures, you would retain none but those who disbelieve her doctrines. In the homily on reading the Holy Scriptures you will find the following passage: 'And in reading of God's Word he not always most profiteth that is most ready in the turning of the book, or in saying of it without the book, but he that is most turned into it, that is, the most inspired with the Holy Ghost.' And is there not, through the whole of the public service of our church, a constant reference to the Holy Spirit as the agent by whom the ignorant are instructed, the impure cleansed, and the morally wretched consoled and made happy? Read the collect for Whitsunday: 'God, who as at this time didst teach the hearts of thy faithful people by the sending to them the light of thy Holy Spirit, grant us, by the same Spirit, to have a right judgment in all things, and evermore to rejoice in his holy comfort, through the merits of Christ Jesus our Saviour.' And if you turn to the service which was read when you entered into priest's orders, you will find the following verse, which breathes a language no less fervent than scriptural:--

'Come, Holy Ghost! our souls inspire,
And lighten with celestial fire;
Thy blessed unction from above
Is comfort, life, and fire of love;
Enable with perpetual light
The dulness of our blinded sight.'

Can language more clearly or more forcibly express the necessity of a Divine influence to aid us to understand the meaning of the Word of God? And ought those to be stigmatized as fanatics, and expelled from the church, who _actually_ believe their own recorded faith? That would be an act of injustice no less flagrant than if a ruler were to banish the faithful and loyal subject, while the convicted traitor is permitted to enjoy the protection of the law and the emoluments of office."

"But you will admit that there are fanatics in the church, who hold some strange opinions, which do essential injury to society?"

"I admit that there are men who are called fanatics by those who do not understand the doctrines of their own church. I once regarded every zealous, and spiritual, and useful clergyman as a fanatic; but, like others, I affixed no definite meaning to the epithet which I employed. I found the word already coined, and I used it; but I have since discovered its spurious qualities, and, as far as my influence extends, I will prevent its circulation. We ought not to stigmatize those who differ from us. If we think them wrong, we ought to try to reclaim them, but in doing so we should make no sacrifice of the spirit of the Christian, or the courtesy of the gentleman."

"Then I presume you did not approve of the sermon which you heard yesterday?"

"I did not approve of the _temper_ which Mr. Cole displayed. The pulpit is a sacred place, and he who occupies it should always bear a near resemblance _in spirit_, if he cannot in manner, to the Prince of Peace. The weapons of the Christian minister never do any execution except they are spiritual, and then they become mighty, through God, to the pulling down of the strongholds of error, and destroying the barriers which prejudice has raised against the reception of the truth, and then the mind willingly submits to its authority."

"I must confess that he was rather severe, perhaps too much so for the sanctity of the pulpit; but the severity of his spirit did not weaken the force of his arguments."