Chapter VII: Part 7

"I have no doubt on the question of his sympathy and loving-kindness in behalf of those who confide in him, and who love him, because my Bible tells me so; but there is an ambiguity in your form of expression, which, in my judgment, involves a self-evident contradiction, and this is why I have asked for a clear explanation--ambiguity in reasoning being something like a sudden eclipse, which wraps everything in total darkness."

"In my theory, Sir, there is no selection--nothing like that undercurrent of partiality which runs through the Bible; all are treated alike, standing on the same level; and hence my expression, he sympathizes with individual man, means _every man_."

"And you believe this, without his telling you that he does cherish a _practical_ sympathy for every man."

"I infer it, Sir, and from what I consider an infallible data--the obvious marks of benevolent design, which I can trace through the whole range of the visible creation."

"I admit your data, but object to your inference, because uniform experience decides the fact that all men do not stand on the same level, nor are they treated alike; for we cannot look in any direction without seeing inequality. I am not going, Sir, to inquire into the causes of this inequality of rank, of personal and of social condition, which is so obviously apparent, as that would raise many questions which we should not have time to discuss, but simply to notice the fact of inequality, which your proposition virtually denies. Look, for example, at yon princely mansion, and then think of the cottage where we first met. Compare the athletic frame of its wealthy occupier and his hale appearance, with an emaciated human being, whose life is pining away under a prolonged disease. Are all treated alike, and do all stand on the same level, under his administrative providence? No, Sir, there are towering mountains, rich in golden ore, and desert wastes, where the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom. And if, Sir, he sympathizes with every man, in the sense which we attach to the term, it must be sentimental; facts prove that it is not practical--the mere sympathy of the humane judge for prisoners, when leaving the dock under the sentence of death, or that of the tender-hearted physician in a ward of incurables. Go into an hospital, a prison, a poor-house, or a cottage, where its inmate is dying under prolonged and acute disease; visit the habitation of a broken-down tradesman, whose children are crying for food, while he has none to give them; pass on to the field of battle, after the work of slaughter is over, and mingle amongst the wounded; or go on board the slave ship, and look into her hold, as she moves through the middle passage, between the land of freedom and the land of perpetual bondage; and what _practical_ proof will you find, in any of these retreats of suffering humanity, that GOD SYMPATHIZES WITH EVERY MAN? You talk of the discrepancies of the Bible, and argue that they are a proof that it comes not from God. But what a terribly perplexing and appalling discrepancy do you open up between his character as a benevolent being, and his administrative providence? Follow out your course of reasoning, and then, to act consistently, you must become an atheist, and compelled to admit into your creed not only improbabilities, but absolute impossibilities."

"Well, I will admit that when we come into real, practical life, we are compelled to modify, if not to give up as indefensible, some of our speculative opinions. In fact, the issue of every inquiry, when fearlessly pursued, is uncertainty--painful, distracting uncertainty--and man becomes the sport, if not the victim, of his own speculations and investigations."

"Yes, Sir, when he will not condescend to be taught of God. If we admit the inspiration, and consequent authority of the Bible, we have an infallible teacher on all questions relating to our responsibilities and our final destiny, and the mind settles down into a state of quietude, and feels secure; but if we reject its inspiration and authority as a sham, or a dogma of superstition, we go adrift on the wide expanse of absolute uncertainty, and are left to perish, when, and where, and how we know not, till after the terrible catastrophe has occurred."

There was now a pause in our discussion; and within the space of a few minutes, a little dark cloud, like that which was seen by the prophet's servants from the heights of Carmel, overspread the heavens, and we were compelled to look for a place of refuge from the storm which was coming.

"I am going to see a poor woman, who lives in yon cottage; perhaps you will not object to accompany me; we shall find shelter there."

"Most willingly, and if she be a deserving object, I shall feel most happy to contribute a mite for her relief; _for your sake, Sir_."

"I thank you. Sir, for the personal compliment; and I doubt not but she will be thankful for your charitable donation, for she is very poor."

"To be candid, Sir, I like practical sympathy better than sentimental; the one is a reality, the other a sham or a mawkish emotion, little less than a self-compliment to a refined but useless sensibility--something which excites the sentimentalism of a drawing-room, when we are looking on the print of an hospital or the wreck of a vessel hanging on the wall, but which gives no relief to a rescued sailor, or a discharged incurable."

The poor inmate (Mrs. Allen) was seated in her chair, wrapped in flannel, and supported by pillows, her appearance plainly indicating that she was near death. She smiled on seeing me, but on seeing the stranger she became a little disconcerted, yet, with polite ease, she moved her hands towards two chairs, and said, "Gentlemen, be seated."

"You appear," said Mr. Tennent, "very ill."

"Yes, Sir, but I believe my life of suffering will soon end, and then all will be well--_and for ever_."

"I suppose you hope to go to heaven when you die?"

"I have no doubt of it, Sir."

"But as your Bible speaks of hell and eternal misery, don't you sometimes fear going there when you die?"

"I did once, Sir."

"And why not now?"

"Because my dear Saviour says, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest.' I have come to him, and do come to him daily and hourly, and he has fulfilled his promise, and given me rest of soul, as an earnest of everlasting rest, and peace, and joy."

"Then you have no fear in prospect of going into the great invisible world."

"No, Sir; and I long for the hour to come when I shall depart and be with Christ. I saw him in the visions of the night, when deep sleep had fallen upon me, and he appeared in glory, as when he was transfigured on Tabor."

"Do you place much dependence on dreams?"

"I place dependence on nothing, Sir, but the exceeding great and precious promises of my Bible; but it is delightsome to have, in the visions of the night, the re-appearance of day-thoughts and meditations; it is often then, from some cause which I cannot explain, they are clothed in a more visible and substantial form."

"Now, Mrs. Allen, one more question, and I have done. Do you think it possible for any argument to convince you that Jesus Christ is not a real being, only an imaginary one?"

"Do you, Sir, think it possible for any argument to convince you that you are not a real being, or that we are not all real beings, only imaginary ones. The one thing is just about as likely to be done as the other, and just about as easy."

I read part of the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, making a few remarks on what I read, and then went to pray with her, Mr. Tennent, from a sense of politeness, if not from a superior reason, kneeling with me before the throne of mercy. As the storm was now abated, and the evening far spent, we left her; but, on shaking hands with her, Mr. Tennent gave her a sovereign.

We walked away in silence, but at length he said, "Well, Sir, if your religion be, what unbelievers say it is, an invention, it is a very soothing and inspiring one. On such an occasion as this we cannot help wishing it to be real, even if we can't believe it to be so."

"You see, Sir, it answers all the purposes of a reality at the great crisis in the history of human life."

When we came to the cross-road where we were to leave each other, he said, "Do you, Sir, remain at Fairmount much longer?"

"Yes, Sir, for some weeks."

"I should like another interview, if I may be permitted to solicit such a favour."

We engaged to meet on the following Saturday evening, but we were prevented. Towards the latter end of the ensuing week, I received the subjoined note from him, which was brought by Captain Dunlop's gardener, who informed us that his master was just dead:--

"DEAR SIR,--Before you receive this, I shall have left. What a contrast have I witnessed between the cottage and the mansion! What I have _seen_ and _heard_ during this visit will never pass from my memory. If I could believe in the efficacy of prayer, I should say, _pray for me_. We may never meet again, but should the Bible ever be in later life as precious to me as it was before infidelity corrupted my heart, you shall hear from me.--Yours faithfully,

"GEORGE TENNENT."

We had heard of the Captain's illness, at whose mansion Mr. Tennent had been on a visit; but the announcement of his death startled and depressed us.

"Why, gardener, your master's death has been very sudden."

"Yes, Sir, he wasn't ill more than five days."

"What was the nature of his disease?"

"Inflammation of the bowels, so I heard my wife say."

"Did any clergyman visit him during his illness?"

"No, Sir, no one was with him but my wife, he was mainly fond of her, and she nursed him, and gave him his physic, and didn't leave him, night or day, till he left us all for t'other world."

"I believe, gardener, he was an infidel, and did not believe in the existence of another world."

"It happened to him, Sir, as it has happened to others before him; when death got near him his infidelity forsook him, and then his belief of another world was as strong as the apostle Paul's, so I heard my wife say."

"Do you know how he felt in the prospect of dying?"

"I heard my wife say it was a dismal scene. She trembled at night when she was left by herself with him."

"Do you know if Mr. Tennent saw him during his illness?"

"I heard my wife say that he saw him once, and they had high words."

"You don't mean they quarrelled."

"Why, no, Sir, not exactly that, but I heard my wife say that when Mr. Tennent went into his room one morning, just after breakfast, master said to him, _you see, Tennent, what you and your infidelity has done for me_. _I shall go down in this storm, and be lost._ Mr. Tennent said something in reply, so I heard my wife say, but I can't mind what, for I have been in a power of trouble since master's death, for he was a good master to me. He never went into the room after that morning, so I heard my wife say."

"Do you know if he had any hope of salvation before he died?"

"No, Sir, I don't think he had. I heard my wife say that master said next to nothing all along through his sickness, but that one awful saying, _I shall go down in this storm, and be lost_. He said that, Sir, so I heard my wife say, just as he was a-dying. My wife is in sore trouble about master's soul, for he was a good master to her. I tell you what, Sir, this infidelity is a bad thing. It makes people bold in wickedness and contempt of God when they are in health, but their courage leaves them when death comes. They are desperate cowards then."

"Well, gardener, I hope it will be a warning to you."

"I hope, Sir, you don't think that I be an infidel. No, Sir, I love my Bible, and so does my wife. An infidel! no, Sir; and I often told master he would repent of it some day. I can't, Sir, get the terrible words out of my ears--I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. In that storm master did go down. Good night, Sir; it's too awful to think about."

The funeral was conducted with great pomp; and when passing the gardener's cottage some days afterwards, I stepped in and saw his wife, who was in mourning for her late master. After a few leading inquiries, I got her to tell me what passed when Mr. Tennent went to see his dying friend.

"I don't mind all, Sir, but master said to him, you see Tennent, what you and your infidelity has done for me. He then said something about praying to Jesus Christ to save him, when master said to him, why, how can I do that, when you have taught me to reject Him as an impostor? I loved my Bible till I knew you; you made me ridicule it. Mr. Tennent then went out of the room in anger, and never came back. I felt for my poor master. It was very sad to see him go out of one world into another, and hear him say, just as he was going, I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. I have had no sound sleep since. I can't get the frightful words out of my ears. I am always dreaming about a boat turned over in a fearful storm, and master sinking in the great lake."

THE BIBLE PRECIOUS.

Some few years after my interview with Mr. Tennent, and when its vivid impressions had nearly faded from my recollection, I received the following letter, which I read with intense delight:--

"MY DEAR SIR,--It is possible that you may have forgotten me long since; but a slight reference to the remarkable incidents connected with our interview, will probably bring me to your remembrance. We met on a Saturday evening, in a woodman's cottage, at Broadhurst; we afterwards knelt together in the cottage of a poor woman, who, doubtless, has passed into a happier world long ere now. We parted under an arrangement to meet again; but the sudden illness and death of my old friend, Captain Dunlop, with whom I was then staying, compelled me to leave his house rather abruptly. In a note which I sent to you I remember saying, that if the Bible should ever be again as precious to me as it once was, you should hear from me. And now I redeem my pledge, which you will be kind enough to accept as my apology for obtruding this letter upon you.

"When we met in the woodman's cottage I was a proud sceptic, looking with haughty disdain and contempt on every one, illiterate or intelligent, who professed a belief in the authority of the Bible. But what I heard and saw that never-to-be-forgotten Saturday evening, and subsequently in the death chamber of my old friend, was like the shock of an earthquake; it shook my sceptical opinions from their foundation, and so scattered them, that I never afterwards could gather them up, nor did I ever make an effort or feel an inclination so to do. The sweet calm of the poor woman's cottage, when placed in contrast with the terrific storm of the mansion--the assurance of the poor woman that she was going to heaven, and the equally strong assurance of my old friend, Captain Dunlop, that he was going to hell--were so strongly imprinted on my imagination, that they followed me day and night. I grew sick of life, and more than once was strongly tempted to hasten on a doom which I thought inevitable, and which at times I longed to have decided and settled for ever. I dared not enter a church; the sight of a Bible had the same effect on my nervous sensibility which we may suppose the re-appearance of a murdered man would have on the living monster who took away his life; and when in company, if religion became the subject of discussion, I felt interdicted from taking any part, either for or against it. This painful state of mind continued for more than two years; there was at times a lull in the storm of anguish; but after a while it came back with still greater fury, and, like my departed friend, I often said, 'Yes! I shall be a wreck, and lost.'

Vol. i. p. 151.]

"But God, who is rich in mercy, whose eye is pity, and whose arm is power (to quote your own expression, which I admired for its beauty when you uttered it), in an unlooked for moment, and in a strange place, brought about a wonderful change, by renewing me, I trust, in the spirit of my mind, and bringing me again to say, 'Precious Bible, what a treasure!'

"The means which he employed to effect this wondrous revolution in my opinions and in my heart were very simple, but they were effectual: he chose to let me see and feel that the work was his own work. Such was the restlessness of my mind, that I was compelled to keep perpetually moving about, that by seeing various sights, and going into fresh society, I might be diverted from the gloomy terror of my own thoughts, and the dread of what was to come. I spent two years on the continent, but returned to England last spring the same man as when I left it--with this difference, that I seemed nearer the verge of absolute despair. After spending a few weeks in London, and visiting many places in South Wales, I went to Bristol, and then to Bath, and from Bath to Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, where I took lodgings, making up my mind to stay there during the summer. When returning one evening from Newport, I met a lad with a small basket, who asked me to buy a little book, telling me, as an inducement, that he had been walking about all day long, and had not got enough money to buy a supper for his poor old mother. His doleful tale touched my heart, and I gave him some relief, but said, 'Keep your books, lad, they may be money to you.' We both passed on, but when at some distance from each other, I thought, perhaps he has in his basket something that would amuse me. I turned and hailed him, and he ran back. On examining his basket I found a largish lot of religious tracts; I took two, paid him for them, put them into my pocket, and went home. I was so knocked up by my long walk that I was soon in bed and asleep, and the tracts were not thought of. The next evening, when sitting on a large stone on the beach, looking at the ships sailing and at anchor, at the varied movements of the sea-gulls, and the gentle ebbing of the tide, I felt a momentary elation of spirit, such as I had not felt for years; it was something like the sudden return of an old friend after years of absence. I will not, Sir, trouble you by recounting the thoughts that passed through my mind in this elysian reverie, but one thought came and went so often, that it became the master thought of this delightful mood of thinking. 'Yes,' thought I, 'man has a capacity for happiness, why, then, is he not happy? Why am _I_ not happy? and why do I not enjoy life when I possess so amply the means of enjoying it? What can be the reason why I am so cast down and wretched?' On putting my hand into my pocket to get my knife, I felt the tracts I had put there when I bought them, and I took them out. Their titles, _Covey_[4] and _Poor Joseph_, had caught my eye when I saw them in the lad's basket, and I was induced to select them, imagining they narrated some interesting tale.

[4] See note, p. 58.

"I read the account of Covey, but his daring courage when going into battle, which forced him to risk disobedience to orders rather than skulk from the advancing foe, made a stronger impression on my imagination than his after conversion did on my heart. It carried me back also to the scenes which my old friend, Captain Dunlop, had often pictured to me, of his hairbreadth escapes from danger; and then his last words recurred to my memory with terrible force--'Mr. Tennent, I am a wreck, and lost.' I put the tracts again into my pocket, as I thought, and sat in terrible and depressing cogitations for a long time; but providentially I had put back only one of them; the other had fallen on the ground, and a slight breeze blew it just under the notice of my eye. I took it, and read the title--_Poor Joseph; an Authentic Narrative_.[5]

[5] A poor, half-witted man, named Joseph, whose employment was to
go on errands and carry parcels, passing through London streets one
day, heard psalm-singing in the house of God; he went into it; it
was Dr. Calamy's church, St. Mary's, Aldermanbury. The preacher read
his text from 1 Tim. i. 15--"This is a faithful saying, and worthy
of all acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save
sinners, of whom I am chief." From this he preached, in the clearest
manner, the ancient and apostolic gospel, and Joseph, in rags,
gazing with astonishment, never took his eyes from the preacher, but
drank in with eagerness all he said, and trudging homeward, he was
heard thus muttering to himself, "Joseph never heard this before!
Christ Jesus, the God who made all things, came into the world to
save sinners like Joseph; and this is true, and it is a 'faithful
saying!'" Not long after this Joseph was seized with a fever,
and was dangerously ill. As he tossed upon his bed, his constant
language was, "Joseph is the chief of sinners, but Jesus Christ came
into the world to save sinners, and Joseph loves him for this." His
neighbours who came to see him wondered on hearing him always dwell
on this, and only this.

One man, finding out where he heard this sermon, went and asked
Dr. Calamy to come and visit him. He came, but Joseph was now very
weak, and had not spoken for some time, and though told of the
doctor's arrival, he took no notice of him; but when the doctor
began to speak to him, as soon as he heard the sound of his voice
he instantly sprang upon his elbows, and seizing him by his hands,
exclaimed, as loud as he could with his now feeble and trembling
voice, "O Sir! you are the friend of the Lord Jesus, whom I heard
speak so well of him. Joseph is the chief of sinners, but it is a
faithful saying, that Jesus Christ, the God who made all things,
came into the world to save sinners, and why not Joseph? O, pray to
that Jesus for me; pray that he may save me; tell him that Joseph
thinks that he loves him for coming into the world to save such
sinners as Joseph." The doctor prayed; when he concluded, Joseph
thanked him most kindly; but his exertions in talking had been too
much for him, so that he shortly afterwards expired.

"On any other occasion I should have doubted the truthfulness of the narrative, and should have ridiculed it as a tale got up for dramatic effect. But I did not do so now. The sentiments of the tale came with such force, that a flood of tears bore testimony to its wondrous effect on my proud spirit, and I was now deeply humbled and abased before Him whose eye is pity and whose arm is power.

"Returning to my lodgings I bought a Bible, now no longer an object of scornful contempt, but of veneration and love, and sat down to read it with as much eagerness of soul as a disconsolate child in a distant country would open an unexpected letter from his father. I am not ashamed to confess to you that I shed many tears that night, as the Bible lay on the table before me; tears of contrition, when recalling to my remembrance some of my reproachful sayings against it; and tears of gratitude to Jesus Christ, the friend of sinners, for causing me once more to revere and love my Bible. For some time I was fearfully anxious lest the newly-enkindled emotions of my heart should die out, and that I should again be left to go back into my old practices of evil, and possibly re-occupy the seat of the scorner. I therefore resolved to let time test the genuineness of the great change before I said anything to any one about it. Time has done this; and you, Sir, are the only person to whom I have made the disclosure; and I have no doubt but you will rejoice to hear from me a simple statement of what the Lord has done for me, and how he has had compassion on me. We may meet again; and if we should, we shall meet as fellow-believers in the precious Bible, and in the Saviour it reveals to us. Last week I sent a family Bible to the woodman, and a small Bible to each of his children, simply telling him that it was a present from one who once attempted to sap his faith in the divine authority of the Bible, but who now venerates and loves it as God's best gift to man.--I remain, yours respectfully,

"GEORGE TENNENT."

THE FAMILY OF THE ROSCOES.

Mr. Roscoe was the son of an eminent London citizen, who, by his successful speculations in trade, had risen from indigence to the possession of great wealth. He had two brothers and one sister. His eldest brother took to his father's business, his youngest entered the church, and his sister married a country gentleman of fortune and respectability. He was originally designed for the law; but, after spending a few years with an eminent solicitor, he abandoned the profession, and devoted himself to a life of pleasure. After years of wandering from one place to another, he settled in the neighbourhood of the village of Aston, where he built a spacious mansion, as elegant within as its external appearance was imposing. Soon after its completion he married an amiable and intelligent lady, of a small fortune, but of great prudence. For some time they lived in the enjoyment of domestic peace; and while Mr. Roscoe gained reputation as a man of intelligence and of taste, Mrs. Roscoe was universally esteemed for her affability and benevolence. Years passed along--they had several children, but all died in infancy. These successive bereavements had such a depressing effect on Mrs. Roscoe, that solitude became oppressive, and society aggravated her grief, and the shades of melancholy were gathering thick around her; yet she was comforted under her sufferings by the sympathy and affection of a fond and endeared husband.

Time, which had covered the grave of her children with verdure, began to close up the wounds of her heart; but, when permitted to enjoy the anticipations of becoming once more a mother, she was doomed to witness the growing indifference of her husband towards herself. Her other trials depressed her, but this overwhelmed her. Her affection still glowed pure and ardent; and though she long resisted every unfavourable impression, and redoubled her efforts to please, and to render his home attractive, yet she saw her happiness a wreck, and found herself bereft of all the endearments of life.

This change in Mr. Roscoe was produced by his intimacy with Sir Henry Wilmot, of Cleveland Hall. Sir Henry was the only son of an eminently pious mother, who died when he was seven years of age; he was thus left entirely to the care of his father, a man of superior mental attainments, but of gay and dissipated habits, and a free thinker on theological questions. When young he resisted the contagion of evil by which he was surrounded; but having finished his education, which was not favourable to the growth of religious sentiments, he paid a visit to the continent, and there he became thoroughly corrupted. On the decease of his father, he returned to take possession of the family inheritance; and brought with him all the loose opinions and dangerous principles of those with whom he had associated. Being a man of elegant manners, of sociable disposition, generous and warm in his professions of friendship, who had seen the various aspects of society, and was qualified either to debate in argument or amuse at play, he soon acquired a powerful ascendency over Mr. Roscoe, whom he often induced to prolong his visits at the Hall to a late hour. The influence of evil, like the influence of good principles, is at first imperceptible; but it is usually found that the one corrupts more rapidly than the other reforms. The erection of the building requires a skilful combination of talents and materials; but it may be demolished by the rude hand of a barbarian, who knows not how to draw an elevation, or execute a design.

Cleveland Hall, which had been in former days the house of mercy and of prayer, was now become the rendezvous of the vices--the seat of licentiousness and of moral pollution;

"There _many_ fell, to rise no more;"

and there Mr. Roscoe lost the fine bloom that once glowed on his character; and if a sense of decency operated as a partial restraint, yet his home and his wife were comparatively forsaken.

Mrs. Roscoe, who watched this progressive change with deep anxiety, would occasionally solicit the company of her husband during the tedious evenings of the winter, but rarely succeeded; for, such was the infatuation which had seized him, that he could not be happy away from Sir Harry. At length the hour arrived which teems with eventful consequences to a family, and Mrs. Roscoe became the mother of a lovely female child. At first her life appeared in imminent danger; and when this was announced to her husband, he was deeply affected, and sat mute in silence; but it was not the dignified silence of the soul bowing down in submission to the will of God, but the silence of horror-struck guilt, which dares not speak. After waiting a considerable time, the victim of his own reflections, he resolved at last to see his wife; but when he entered her room he found that she had fallen into a profound sleep. As he was retiring, the nurse threw off the covering that concealed the face of his daughter, and the sight operated as a spell upon his passions. As he kissed the babe, the tide of conjugal affection flowed back into his soul, and he resolved from that hour to become once more a domestic man. The next morning he sent a short polite note to Sir Harry, saying that he should in future decline all intimacy.

Had he merely resolved to drop the intimacy by degrees, leaving the Hall earlier in the evening, and going less frequently--offering reasonable excuses for these variations, and then trivial ones--it is more than probable that Sir Harry would have employed an extra amount of fascinating influence to prevent a dissolution of the connection. But by coming to a decision at once, and acting on it--by the transmission of the note--he broke the spell of enchantment under which he had long been held, and effected his emancipation with comparative ease. Herein he displayed consummate wisdom, and should be regarded as a model of imitation by any one who feels himself entangled in a similar snare. Hesitation, combined with a resort to cautious expedients, is far more likely to give perpetuity to a beguiling temptation than to dissolve its charm; whereas, a resolute determination to break away from it, followed by some bold and decisive step, is almost sure to prove successful; the self-conquest is then made without much difficulty, the character is redeemed from infamy, and domestic happiness is re-established on a solid foundation.

Mrs. Roscoe soon recovered--the life of the child was spared--her husband became kind and attentive--and the sun of her domestic happiness, which had gone down, returned to lighten her long cheerless habitation. She was always a religious woman; but her religion was restricted to opinions, and forms, and ceremonies, which had no moral power on her mind. She had her seasons of devotion, but she regarded her devotional exercises as a duty, not a privilege; and read her Bible occasionally, but her reading was generally confined to its histories, or narratives, or parables. She regularly attended her church, and repeated the responses of its Liturgy with great solemnity, but she never conceived that the essence of religion consists in the renovation of the soul. She was amiable and benevolent, discharged the relative duties of life with strict honour and punctuality, and threw over the path of her visible history a lustre which all admired; and feeling satisfied with her personal goodness, she very naturally concluded that God required nothing more. To her the scheme of salvation, which requires repentance towards God, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, was not less offensive than to the avowed unbeliever; and though she had more liberality than her husband, yet she was equally severe in her remarks on those whose piety led them to oppose the customs of the world, and devote themselves to the Redeemer. Her formalism was both rigid and acrimonious; and though it yielded no mental enjoyment, yet it excited much self-complacency, inducing her to think she was fit for heaven, without creating any intense longings to go there.

Years passed away in the enjoyment of health, unannoyed by cares or sorrows, till Miss Roscoe was seized with that depressing melancholy which has been already described,[6] and which threw a sombrous gloom over all their prospects. From this affliction she was now recovering, and though her parents beheld with joy the gradual return of her cheerfulness, yet her cheerfulness was of such a serious cast that they rejoiced with trembling. As they were sitting together one evening, when their daughter had displayed unusual liveliness, Mr. Roscoe said, "My dear Sophia, it gives us great pleasure to witness your pleasantry, and we hope that in a short time you will be able to partake of the amusements in which you once took so much delight. We have resolved to celebrate your convalescence by giving a ball, and we hope you will lead off in style."

[6] See p. 129.

This communication, which was intended to raise her spirits, had a contrary effect; and she replied, "I am conscious that you always keep my happiness in view, but I assure you that such a mode of celebrating my deliverance from the gloomy night of mental sadness would ill accord with the sentiments and feelings of my mind; the song of mirth I would exchange for the hymn of praise, and would prefer the retirement of devout meditation to the noisy bustle and fantastic exhibition of human vanity and folly."

"But such amusements," replied Mr. Roscoe, "used to afford you gratification, and I do think, my Sophia, that they will contribute very materially towards restoring that high-toned vivacity which your spirits usually preserved."

"Yes, father, I once took great delight in such amusements, and almost contemned the person who despised them, but my taste is changed; and if you wish to retard the restoration of my mental energy and vivacity, you have only to urge a compliance, which will wound my conscience."

"This reply, my Sophia, confirms the fearful apprehensions which I have recently entertained concerning you."

"What, my father, are these fearful apprehensions?"

"You are escaping from the gloom of a physical depression, to be involved in a religious gloom, which will prove still more injurious. You know that I have always inculcated religious principles, and set you a virtuous example, and can you suppose that I would now recommend amusements which _ought_ to wound your conscience?"

"But _it would wound my conscience_ were I to mingle again in the gay parties, and partake of the amusements, in which I once delighted; and I am sure, after such an avowal, you will not press it."

"I would not press anything on you which would give you pain, but I fear lest the religious turn which you are now taking should lead you either to despondency or enthusiasm."

"O my father, it is a belief that Jesus Christ died for sinners, even the chief, that has given peace and hope to my deeply-depressed mind. This is the theme on which I love to dwell. In comparison with this, the charms of poetry or the discoveries of science are insignificant and worthless."

"But, my dear, I hope you do not rank yourself among the chief of sinners. You have always been a dutiful child, kind and attached to those around you; the ornament of your family; your character is free from a stain, and your moral principles are as pure as the light of heaven; and would it not be an insult to your Maker if you were, as is too much the fashion among our modern saints, to class yourself with those who are too worthless to merit his regard?"

"But, my father, we may be very excellent in the sight of man, and yet offensive in the sight of God. The Pharisees of the New Testament are compared to 'whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outwardly, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.' I feel the comparison in relation to myself to be just. I have discharged the relative duties of life with some degree of propriety, and know that my character is free from reproach; I have devoted myself to the improvement of my mind, and held in veneration the religion on whose external ordinances I have attended, but I have not sought for happiness in the enjoyment of the divine favour, nor have I, till recently, either understood or felt the power of religious principles on my heart. However, though I may be blameless towards man, I am a sinner against God, but a sinner hoping to be saved by grace through faith, and that faith is not of my own originating, it is the gift of God."

"My Sophia, I never heard you talk in a strain like this before; you appear to have taken a most gloomy view of human nature, and, according to my judgment, you are gone off among the mysteries of modern Calvinism, and, unless you retrace your steps, you will be plunged into a state of depression more perplexing, because more hopeless, than that from which you are now emerging."

"I know I never talked in this strain before, because the veil of ignorance concealed from me the truths which I now discern with so much clearness in the Scriptures. The apostle says, 'The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him; neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.' And I can attest, from my own experience, the accuracy of this statement. But the eyes of my understanding are now enlightened, and I can discern a beauty and grandeur in the scheme of salvation which I never saw before. The Scriptures are now the pure fountain from whence I draw the water of life. My taste is now formed by the influence of the truth which they reveal, and such is the altered state of my mind towards God, and the Redeemer, and another world, that I feel as though introduced into a new condition of being. You may imagine that this mental process will issue in gloom and dejection, but no; I feel myself rising above the conflicting elements of grief on which my mind has been tossed, into the enjoyment of that 'peace which passeth all understanding.'"

"But, my Sophia, I fear that you are carried away by the flights of your fancy, and are _now_ labouring under a delusion which will leave you more wretched than it found you."

"But, my dear father, _suppose it be a delusion, is it not a pleasing one_? It has delivered me from a species of melancholy, which no other expedient could remove. But it is no delusion, because the effect is produced by truth operating on my mind through the medium of my judgment; and if you examine the Scriptures you will perceive that they represent such a moral change as indispensably necessary. Jesus Christ says that unless we are born again we cannot see the kingdom of heaven. This new birth I once thought was baptism by water, but I now perceive the absurdity of such an opinion, for those who are born again are fitted for heaven; but can we believe that all who are baptized are fitted for heaven? There is baptism by water, which is the external sign of that moral purification which is denominated the baptism of the Spirit. And St. Paul says, 'If any man be in Christ he is a new creature; old things are passed away, behold all things are become new.' And though some would say that this refers expressly to the reformation which must take place in the more abandoned and impure, yet the comprehensive phrase which he employs (_if any man be in Christ_) demonstrates the necessity of this change in each individual, irrespective of the peculiar modification of his character."

"I admit that there must be a change, my Sophia, but as that must be produced by our own reflections, it does not require these flights of the fancy which you are now taking."

"But, my dear father, can a change so important as that which the Scriptures describe, take place in the human soul without affecting all its faculties and passions? The change may be sudden or gradual, according to the sovereign will of the great agent by whom it is produced, but when it does take place, a person cannot be unconscious of it. It is not merely a change of opinion, but of principle; it not only gives a distaste for the follies and vanities of the world, but raises the affections to the unseen realities of eternity, and transforms the whole character into a resemblance to Jesus Christ's. Dr. Paley says, 'It is too momentous an event ever to be forgotten. A man might as easily forget his escape from shipwreck.'"

"I know that this change is necessary in relation to some, _but I cannot see that it is necessary in relation to you_; and I fear that you are perplexing your mind with a subject which, if not above your reach, is altogether inapplicable to you."

"But, my dear father, I _feel_ the necessity of this change in relation to myself, and it is evident that my opinion accords with the current language of the Scriptures. Hence we read of being born again, of passing from death unto life, of being created anew in Christ Jesus, of being made new creatures, and _I feel that I have undergone this change_. It is no airy notion which flutters over my fancy; it is no superstitious impression sporting with the credulity of my mind; it is no mysticism of opinion which dreads the light of investigation; but a substantial fact, which I cannot doubt, and to which I attribute, and _exclusively attribute_, my present mental composure and felicity. Yes, I now can say I am happy."

"It gives me pleasure to hear that you are happy; and though I fear your happiness arises from a source which will ere long dry up, yet I will not disturb it while it lasts. Your heart, I know, is good, and the errors into which you have now fallen will be corrected, I have no doubt, by the mature reflections of your judgment. It is natural for persons who have laboured under a physical depression of spirits to be delighted by almost any object of pursuit which first strikes their attention. Some are charmed with the gaieties of this world, and some with imaginary conceptions of the felicities of the next, and hence are carried away with the visions of their own fancy; but time cools their ardour, and they ultimately live to think and act like other people; and this, I trust, will be the case with you."

"My errors I hope to detect, and when detected I will renounce them, but my religious principles, I hope I shall never live either to renounce, or compromise, or dishonour."

"I know, my dear, that you are too virtuous to dishonour, and too independent to compromise any good principles, but I hope you will renounce those gloomy and mystical views which you have recently imbibed, and return to the adoption of those in which you have been educated. A mind that is given to change becomes the sport of every wind of doctrine, and liable to be imposed on by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness whereby they lie in wait to deceive."

"But, my dear father, you will permit to say that I am not deceived. I have carefully examined the Scriptures, especially the New Testament, and I am as thoroughly convinced that I have been living in a state of total ignorance of the nature and design of the gospel of Jesus Christ, as I am opposed to the absurd rites of Papal superstition."

"Well, my Sophia, I perceive that you are too much enamoured with your opinions to enter on a logical investigation of them at present; but when the freshness of novelty is worn off, and your mind reverts to its accustomed accuracy of perception and sobriety of feeling, we may then do so with mutual satisfaction."

"I hope, my dear father, we shall; for I assure you that, as my happiness is inseparably connected with yours, it is my daily prayer that we may be made meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light."

She now withdrew to her own room.

"Sophia quite alarms me," said Mrs. Roscoe. "I fear her disorder is taking a more fatal turn. It certainly has impaired her reason."

"She perplexes and puzzles me," said Mr. Roscoe; "no, her reason is not impaired; it is acute and vigorous, and she is moving in a new pathway of religious inquiry, but I cannot follow her. Some new chapter is opening in her mental history. She talks both rationally and incoherently. We must wait the issue, and hope for the best."

THE SOCIAL PARTY.

The day at length arrived when the Roscoes came to dine at the villa. I had previously seen Mr. Roscoe, and had become somewhat acquainted with his character; but there was such a peculiarity in his manner, that I could not approach him with ease. He was affable, yet reserved; high, yet condescending; polite, yet spoke and acted as though conscious that he was about to engage in a disputatious combat. The cloth was no sooner removed, than Mr. Lewellin, who had recently attended the anniversary of the Shaftesbury Bible Society, informed us that a medical gentleman moved one of the resolutions, who confessed that he had been for many years an avowed infidel; but, on application, he became a subscriber to the Bible Society: and then he thought it proper to read the Bible, to see if it was a proper book for circulation. After alluding to the instruction and pleasure he had derived from its histories and its parables; from its unique doctrines, and its pure morality; from its development of the character of Christ, and its delineation of the human heart and character, he concluded his speech by saying, "I am satisfied, from what I have read, that the Bible contains a revelation of grace and mercy from heaven. I deeply regret that I ever despised it, or spoke against it; and I think it a duty which I owe to the Redeemer, and to this society, thus publicly to say, that I renounce my infidelity as the bane of human felicity, and take my Bible as my guide to everlasting life!"

"Infidels," said Mr. Stevens, "very rarely read the Scriptures, except to ridicule them. They take for granted that they are the compilation of men, who have successfully palmed an absurd system of superstition on the world, which but few have courage enough to expose and condemn. But as the age is rapidly advancing in knowledge, they are sanguine in their expectations. Hence, David Hume prophesied that, at the conclusion of the last, or the beginning of the present century, Christianity would be exterminated from the earth. But this prediction has failed, for Christianity is now diffusing itself with almost unprecedented rapidity through every part of the world. Paine boasted that he had cut down every tree in the spiritual Eden. 'Priests,' says he, 'may stick them in the ground again, but they will never take root.' Foolish man! did he not know that there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease, 'yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.'"

"I think," said Mr. Lewellin, "that the Bible Society is the glory of the age and country in which we live, and if Britain, who now stands on the highest pinnacle of fame, should ever fall from her eminence, and become, like modern Greece, the land of moral and political darkness and desolation, I have no doubt but the adventurous of a distant posterity will visit her national ruins, giving to her the tributary tear of gratitude, as the birthplace of an institution whose benevolent design includes the whole family of man."

"But I do not think," said Mr. Roscoe, "that the Bible should be indiscriminately circulated. A person of education, like the medical gentleman of whom you have been speaking, may read it, but I do not think that it should be distributed among the ignorant and the poor, because it is impossible for them to understand it; and if so, it is nothing less, in my opinion, than an act of folly, or mistaken kindness, to give it to them."

"They may not," replied Mr. Lewellin, "be able to understand every part of the Scriptures, but I think they will be able to understand those parts which are of great importance to be known. For example, suppose a Sabbath-breaker was to read Ex. xx. 8, 'Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy,' would he not understand it? Suppose a thief was to read Ex. xx. 15, 'Thou shalt not steal,' would he not understand it? Suppose a calumniator were to read Ex. xx. 16, 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour,' would he not understand it?"

"They would understand these preceptive parts of the Scriptures, but I think that they would not understand the speculative parts, and hence they would be in danger of forming wrong opinions on religious subjects."

"But if you withhold the Scriptures from them, you give them no chance to form right opinions."

"They should take their opinions from the clergyman of the parish in which they live, as he is the only authorized person to teach them."

"But, if so, to what a dilemma would you reduce them. You will, on your maxim, compel them to vary their belief according to the ever-varying belief of the clergy. For example, you require the people of this parish to believe implicitly what the Rev. Mr. Cole preaches."

"Certainly I do."

"And you will require the people in the adjoining parish to believe what the Rev. Mr. Ingleby preaches?"

"Decidedly."

"But do not these two clergymen preach different doctrines? Can they both be right?"

"They do preach different doctrines, and I think Mr. Ingleby assuredly wrong."

"Then there must be something wrong in your maxim, which requires the people of a whole parish to believe error. Or let me suppose that the Rev. Mr. Cole, the clergyman of this parish, should die, and that he should be succeeded by a clergyman who preaches the same doctrine as Mr. Ingleby, will you not, according to your own maxim, be compelled, along with the rest of the parishioners, to believe those very doctrines which you now regard as erroneous? Indeed, if your maxim be a correct one, what security have you for the permanent continuance of your belief?"