Chapter IX: Part 9

The venerable rector met the procession on its entering the burial-ground, and walked before it up the pathway leading to the church, reading, as he walked, the thrilling words of inspiration: "I am the resurrection and the life." The corpse was taken into the middle aisle of the church, and placed on a raised platform; the concourse of people attending seated themselves in the different pews, and listened with devout seriousness to the appointed lessons and portions of the Scripture, which Mr. Ingleby read in very impressive tones. When he had finished, the corpse was carried forth to the place of sepulture; where, after the rest of the burial-service was performed, it was deposited till the morning of the resurrection. When Robert and his little boy looked down into the grave which had just received the remains of her they loved, they wept, and returned to their house of mourning, cast down, yet animated by a hope of a reunion in the celestial world.

I stole away from the crowd, which was pressing round the grave to take the last look of the coffin, that I might indulge my reflections in solitude. Death was the theme of my meditation. Humiliating theme! How calculated to bring down the lofty spirit of pride, to extinguish the flame of ambition, to hush the contentions of discord!

A thrilling horror came over my spirit as I anticipated my own decease. I felt attached to life, and my nature recoiled in prospect of losing it. The lengthened sickness; the parting tear; the final farewell; the unknown pains of dying; the solemn anticipations of an immediate entrance into another world; the interment of my body in the cold, damp earth; the sighs of my bereaved widow and fatherless children; all rushed in upon my fancy. Never did the communication which the Redeemer once made to the mourner of Bethany appear so beautiful as at this moment: "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live: and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die." It was the light of life and the vision of immortality bursting in upon the empire of death; elevating my soul above the desolation around me, to look for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, "who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself."

I did not leave the church-yard till the shadows of evening reminded me of the lateness of the hour, and of my having left my friends, who were waiting for me at the rectory. When I entered the study, the venerable rector said, "I am happy, Sir, to see you once more on this side the grave; I shall be more happy to see you on the other side; but before that blessed interview can take place, two graves must be opened, and we both must pass through the dark valley of the shadow of death. My grave-yard is much richer than it was when I commenced my labours in this parish; and in walking round it, my eye catches sight of monuments which bring to my recollection some with whom I have taken sweet counsel, and who will be, I have no doubt, my crown of rejoicing in the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ at his coming. They are now resting from their labours, and I shall soon rest from mine; and then we shall appear before the throne of God together, and serve him day and night in his temple, and for ever."

"You uniformly speak," said Mr. Stevens, "with confidence of your final salvation, but every disciple of Christ cannot do so; for I have noticed, within the limited circle of my Christian fellowship, great variation of mental feeling as the hour of departure has been drawing near. Some I have seen in solemn rapture when anticipating death; a sweet calmness of spirit in others; while in many I have known hope and fear alternately prevail. And though we may possibly trace up this varying state of feeling as death approaches, to physical causes, yet should we not contemplate the sovereignty of God at this crisis, who gives what portion of consolation he pleases?"

"I think the sovereignty of God is as conspicuous in the dying chamber as in the temple of grace; yet the Scriptures lead us to believe that there is an ordained, if not a natural connection between an eminently holy life and an eminently peaceful death. Hence the apostle, after enforcing on his readers the cultivation of the graces of the Christian character, concludes by saying, 'Wherefore the rather, brethren, give diligence to make your calling and election sure: for if ye do these things, ye shall never fall: for so an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.' I have a funeral sermon, published by the Rev. Mr. Jay, which I have read with much satisfaction, particularly the following passage: 'The confidence of the people of God generally increases as death approaches. Hence Isaiah compares their peace to a river; for as a river rolls deeper and wider as it hastens to the sea, so their peace commonly becomes more solid and more extensive as they draw near eternity. In this view the change which Dr. Goodwin experienced was remarkable. "Is this dying?" exclaimed he, a little before he expired. "Is this what, for so many years, I have been dreading? Oh! how precious does the righteousness of the Saviour now appear!--He cannot love me better than he does; and I think I cannot love him better than I do." This is not a solitary instance. How many have we ourselves seen who wept upon the mountains of Zion, but rejoiced in the valley of the shadow of death; whose harps, long before hung upon the willows, were taken down, and delightfully used in singing the Lord's song in the most strange part of all the strange land! We cannot always account for things as effects, which yet we are compelled by observation and testimony to admit as facts. But the case before us sufficiently explains itself. The love of life having, from the will of God, no longer now any purposes to answer, is suffered to die away. By drawing near the better country, we feel something of its influence, as the perfumes of Arabia the Happy are blown into the neighbouring provinces. Above all, there is now more of the simplicity of faith. During life some degree of legality attaches to all our performances. Doing continually intermingles with believing; and often, insensibly to ourselves, we are anxious to make ourselves better, to _entitle_ us to the divine favour, or to find something in ourselves wherein to _hope_, if not whereof to glory before God. But all this is now over. What can the believer do when dying? What qualifications can he then acquire? What attainments can he then propose? "Let him look back upon a well-spent life." This is impossible. Every review which he takes of himself is humbling. The very sins of his holy duties would drive him to despair. One resource remains--one, only one, which is always equal to our relief--one whose consolation is only hindered from flowing in to us by the want of simplicity of mind; it is looking by faith to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world; it is to commit implicitly the soul to him. He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.'"

"I am fond of visiting the sick and the dying," said Mr. Lewellin. "When with them, I feel the truth of religion. The terror which seizes on the spirit of an infidel in his last moments, and the rapture which glows in the breast of the expiring Christian, are equally impressive and instructive. I have seen the unbeliever tremble as the footsteps of death have been heard; his face has turned pale through fear, or it has been beclouded by despair. I have heard him utter the most piercing cries; send forth heavy sighs and groans--the speechless messengers of woe; I have heard him reproach himself in the strongest language for his folly and his guilt, in having passed through life an enemy to the faith of Christ; and I have seen him expire in unutterable anguish. I have also seen the believer, calm and enraptured. I have heard the music of his soul becoming more soft and enchanting as the vital spirit has languished in his frame. I have listened while he has given utterance to his holy aspirations and blissful anticipations; but I have never heard one express any regret for his attachment to the doctrines of the gospel. I have never known one willing to renounce his faith, or give up his hope, in prospect of death."

"Nor I," said Mr. Ingleby; "and this circumstance is a strong evidence in favour of the adaptation of the gospel to our moral condition. Infidelity may contemn the faith of Christ, and hold up its friends to scorn, but she is faithless; for when her disciples want her comfort in their last hours, she generally leaves them as victims whom she has fitted for destruction, that she may mingle among the gay and the dissipated, to prepare _them_ also for the pangs of the second death."

It was late before we left the rectory, and in passing the now desolated cottage, we saw light in the room, and on knocking at the door, we gained admittance. "Well, Robert," said Mr. Stevens, "you are not yet gone to bed."

"No, Sir; if I go to bed, I don't think that I shall sleep. I thought when my wife lay so ill, and suffered so much, that I should be willing to give her up to the Lord, if he would take her; but now she is gone, I feel my loss. No man can tell what death is till it comes. I love to think of her, for she was a good wife, and a good mother; and I should like to talk to her; but now if I go into the room, I find that I am alone; and this chills my heart. My boy tries to comfort me, but, poor fellow, he wants a comforter as well as I; for he loved his mother."

"But God can support you under your trial; for he has said, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.'"

"Oh, yes; he does support me, and he has given me a spirit of resignation to his holy will; but, Sir, nature can't help feeling."

"But I do not suppose you would recall her from heaven, even if you were permitted."

"Why, Sir, it gives me pleasure to think that while I am mourning here below, she is happy and at rest in heaven; but if I were permitted to recall her, I am sure I should be tempted to do it; for she always tried to make me happy. She is gone, never more to return. In looking into her drawer, since we came back home, I found these papers, which I have just been reading."

Finding they were in Mrs. Allen's writing, I afterwards borrowed them, and having transcribed a copy of one, I here insert it. It was dated three months before her decease:--

"I have just been favoured with a singular manifestation of the loving-kindness of my Saviour. He has taken away the guilt of all my sins. He has removed all my doubts. He has given me peace, and has enabled me to resign my husband and child to his care. He will soon take me to himself. As I have felt at times great depression, and may in my last moments be unable to speak of his doings, I now record in writing what will not be seen till after I have seen him. I die a guilty and worthless sinner, depending on his death for salvation; and can say that I die in full and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life.

"SARAH ALLEN.

"DEAR WIDOWED HUSBAND,--Before you see this, I shall have passed through the valley, and joined the redeemed above. While you are weeping I shall be rejoicing; yet, if the spirits of the glorified are suffered to visit their earthly friends, I will often come and hover over you and the dear motherless child. Follow me as far as I followed Christ. Farewell, till we meet in glory.--Yours, for ever."

MISS ROSCOE WITHDRAWS FROM GAY LIFE.

As Miss Roscoe was sitting one evening with her parents, the conversation turned in the following manner:--

"I have just received," said Mr. Roscoe, "an invitation from Mr. Denham to attend a private ball at his house; and he hopes that you, my dear Sophia, will accompany me and your mamma. I fear, from some incidental remarks which you have made at different times, that such amusements have lost their charm; but I hope that your good sense has overcome your scruples, and that you will not hesitate to comply with my request. I ask it as a personal favour."

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Roscoe, "I hope you will; your father and I have had much conversation together on the subject, and we both think you can do it and be very religious too. You know that religion is not to deprive us of any enjoyments. Indeed, I think when such religious people as we have always been indulge ourselves in these fashionable amusements, we do more to recommend religion than such austere professors as our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens."

To which Miss Roscoe replied: "I certainly think that religious people ought to recommend religion by their cheerfulness and their pleasantry, as well as by their strict moral deportment; but I do not see how that religion, which requires us to avoid a conformity to the vain customs of the world, can be recommended by a compliance with them. If we do as others do, we shall be thought like them; and I am sure, from my personal knowledge, that those who find pleasure in balls and theatrical amusements are as averse to the religion of the Bible as those who openly and avowedly reject it."

"My dear," said Mrs. Roscoe, "I hope you do not intend to say that all who avail themselves of such recreations are destitute of religion. I do not like such sweeping charges. You would condemn some of the most amiable and virtuous persons living!"

"A person may be amiable without being religious, and virtuous, even while he rejects as fabulous that scheme of salvation which we admit to be true. If, then, we admit it to be true, does it not become us, if we wish to preserve consistency, to conform ourselves to its _preceptive_ parts? And does it not require us to become a peculiar people? And in what can that peculiarity be manifested but by an entire avoidance of the habits and customs which the world sanctions? You know, mamma, that I often acted a most prominent part in these scenes of fashionable gaiety, and that I intermingled with the indiscriminate throng, participating in the glow of feeling enkindled in their breast, and am, therefore, intimately familiar with the moral qualities and the religious sentiments of those who derive their highest gratification from such sources; and while I would proceed with great caution in invading the province of the heart, yet it is my decided opinion that no person who has ever felt the transforming influence of divine truth can sanction them."

Mr. Roscoe remarked: "I grant, my Sophia, that a superior mind will look with indifference on such frivolous amusements, and that many who resort to them are impelled more by custom than inclination; yet I do not perceive that they can injure the religious tone of the mind. I have been as firm a believer in the divine origin of the Bible, and the mission and death of our Saviour, after my return from a ball, as before I went, though I confess my time could have been more profitably occupied."

"And I am sure," said Mrs. Roscoe, "that I have felt as religious at the opera as ever I felt at church; my heart has been elated with gratitude to the Almighty for permitting us to enjoy such recreations."

"I do not suppose, my dear father, that going to a ball or the opera would shake your belief in the divine mission of Jesus Christ; but I presume that you do not imagine that He would attend them if He were on earth! and ought a disciple to go where his Lord would not go? I grant that _that_ religion which consists only in a speculative belief may not be injured by such amusements; but I am conscious that they produce and nourish sentiments and feelings which are not only unconsonant, but directly opposed to the spirit of vital Christianity. I could not pass from the gaieties of a ball-room to anticipate the happiness of heaven, nor retire, after the fatigues of a lengthened dance, to hold spiritual communion with the Holy One."

"But where," said Mrs. Roscoe, "is the necessity of being always religious? Is the world to be turned into a convent, and are we all to become either nuns or monks--forbidden to taste of any of the pleasures of life, and doomed to perpetual fastings and prayers? What! religion every day, and all day long! Why, my Sophia, your remarks alarm me."

"I am sorry, my dear mamma, that I should cause you any alarm, but I assure you that there is no occasion for it; the religion which has given me a distaste for pleasures so ephemeral and unsatisfactory, has opened to me sources of enjoyment of a much higher order. I do not stoop to earth or any of its gay scenes for mental bliss, but arise to intercourse with the Great Invisible. I no longer seek for religious impressions amidst the forms and ceremonies of an external devotion, but in the exercise of that faith which brings remote objects near, and which invests those which are unseen with a more attractive power than those which are visible. I no longer hover in a state of uncertainty respecting my final destiny, for I enjoy the bright beamings of that hope which is full of immortality; and can attest that now my mental happiness is more pure, elevated, and stable, than it was when I was a devotee to fashionable amusements."

"I am glad," said Mr. Roscoe, "to hear that you are happy; but I must confess that it is a sort of happiness of which I can form no idea. The Almighty is very good; he wishes to make all his creatures happy--some in one way and some in another; we should follow where inclination leads. Inclination is the first law of nature, which all must obey if they wish to be happy; and I think that we ought not to interfere with each other's propensities."

"But as by nature we are inclined to evil, ought not _such_ a propensity to be restrained? What are the various laws of civil society but so many proofs of the evil propensity of our nature, and so many restraints on its indulgence?"

"I admit that the majority are wicked, and that they require the strong arm of the law to keep them in subjection; but I cannot admit that _all_ are corrupted by the evil principle. What models of perfection may we select from the circle of our acquaintance!--men of honour, of integrity, of benevolence--men in whose character all the virtues are concentrated, and who live amidst the contagion of the world without being injured by it--men who would scorn an act of meanness or duplicity; who would sacrifice their ease and their wealth to promote the general good; _who are religious without ostentation_; and who know how to enjoy the felicity of social life without being entangled by its snares. Are we to suppose that such men are corrupted by evil principles, and that they are under some fatally evil inclination?"

"You will admit, my dear father, that a community of rebels may cultivate the social virtues among themselves, even while they live in a state of revolt against their sovereign, and in hostility against all who retain their loyalty?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly they may."

"Do we not read in the Scripture, that _all_ have sinned against God--that _all_ are gone astray from their subjection to his authority--that _all_ are become corrupt? And do we not know that the sentence of death has passed upon _all men, because all have sinned_? Now if, as you suppose, some have escaped the general contagion, and are absolutely pure and virtuous, how is it that they are involved in the same sentence of condemnation with the openly depraved and wicked? Where is the equity of such a decision? And are we not accustomed to say, when kneeling before the Lord our Judge, 'We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep; we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts; we have offended against thy holy laws; we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us; but thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders?'"

"Yes, my dear Sophia; but you must remember that our excellent Liturgy was composed to suit the moral condition of the great majority of the people; and therefore it became necessary that such strong language should be employed; but you cannot suppose that it is strictly applicable to the virtuous part of the community."

"Then why do they adopt it? Why do they acknowledge, on their knees before God, what they deny to man? Is not this a resistless proof of the evil propensity of human nature?"

"I think not. I think it is a proof of the generous amiability of human nature, as the virtuous part of society consent to employ language which is not strictly applicable to themselves, out of compassion to the more degenerated and worthless, who ought to make such concessions, and pray in such strong terms of humiliation."

"How, then, ought the virtuous to pray, if they ought not to pray in the strongest terms of humiliation? Shall we revive the spirit of the ancient Pharisee, which our Lord condemned; and shall we approach the footstool of the divine throne with his language: 'God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess?' In this prayer there is the language of self-gratulation and the spirit of censoriousness, but no humble confession for sin, nor any petition for mercy."

"Being a virtuous man, he had no sins to confess, and therefore did not need to implore mercy, but he did not forget to offer thanks to God for his virtuous endowments.

"He did not _feel_ the guilt of his sins, nor did he _feel_ the need of mercy; but his insensibility was no proof of his innocence. The publican was in the temple at the same time, but how different the spirit which he discovered, and the language which he uttered: 'And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me, a sinner!' And in the following verse we read the judgment which Jesus Christ pronounced on the state of these two men: 'I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.'"

"I am sorry, my dear," said Mrs. Roscoe, "that you have taken such gloomy views of human nature; I do not think that they will contribute to your happiness, and I very much regret that you should ever have imbibed them. We were once happy and united, but now we are a divided family; the introduction of this evangelical religion, as it called, among us, has broken up our peace, and we are censured by many of our friends for permitting you to follow your present bias. We did hope, when the fervour subsided, you would return to your former habits of life, but I begin to despair of this."

"The views of human nature which I have taken, dear mamma, are scriptural, and in strict accordance with the language of the prayers and articles of our church. If I am mistaken, I am willing to be convinced of my error; but, on a question of such magnitude, I can receive only the most substantial proof. You charge me with breaking up the peace of the family; this charge possesses a keen point, and it has deeply grieved me. My peace was broken, and I wandered almost a forlorn object of grief, because I had no prospect of happiness till I was led to embrace my present religious opinions; these have acted on my wounded spirit as the rebuke of the Saviour did on the agitated waters of Gennesaret, and now I enjoy an internal calm; and must the restoration of peace to my mind be regarded as the destroyer of domestic happiness?"

"Why, you know, my dear, that your views on religious subjects differ from ours; indeed, I think them very eccentric, and we cannot approve of them, and our friends make many remarks which are not pleasant. Some say that you are a Methodist, some that you are a Calvinist, and many say that you are become quite a fanatic. These things are unpleasant, they mortify us. We think it quite a disgrace to our family that you should have such things said about you. I therefore hope you will consent to go with us to Mr. Denham's ball; it is held, I assure you, principally on your account; there is to be a large party, and all will be delighted to see you. You then will wipe off the odium which your eccentric views have brought on yourself and us. Your father has made a very handsome purchase for the occasion, which he intends to present to you. You know it will not prevent your being very religious."

"I would sacrifice much to please and gratify you, my dear mamma; but do not press me to a compliance which I cannot yield to without making a sacrifice of principle."

"But what principle would you sacrifice by complying with such a request?"

"If I were to go I should feel no interest in the scene, and my sadness would throw a gloom over the cheerfulness of others; and I should render myself the object of satirical remark, rendered keener than any which has yet been directed against me, as my inconsistency would justify it; for those who are so anxious to get me among them, well know that I must first sacrifice my religious principles before I can consent."

"O no, my dear, they will receive you with more delight than they would an angel; and when you get among your old friends, you will disengage your mind from your religious meditations, which you will find a great relief; I have no doubt you will be quite yourself again, and that will make us all as happy as we used to be. I feel in ecstasy in prospect of it. Do yield to our request."

"Yes, I must disengage my mind from all religious recollections or anticipations to be happy on such an occasion; but such a disengagement would be the entire destruction of my happiness in this world, and the prospect of it hereafter."

"Then, must we go without you?"

"I cannot consent to go unless you insist on it; and even then I should go with reluctance, and I fear my presence would disturb the harmony of the evening."

"I assure you," said Mr. Roscoe, "it is with the deepest regret that I witness the pernicious infatuation under which you are labouring. Fitted to move in any rank of life, and to command the respect and esteem of a large circle, who would feel proud to enjoy your friendship and society, you seem determined to descend even to the lowest, and gather up the fragments of a fanatical felicity among the evangelical professors who abound among us. My peace is gone, because yours is wrecked; and my hopes of your future respectability are all vanished. I certainly did expect that you would comply with my request to accompany us to Mr. Denham's, when I solicited it as a personal favour; but I now perceive that your religion has taught you how to refuse a parent's request; and if the first-fruits are disobedience, what will be the issue? After all the pains that I have bestowed on the cultivation of your mind, and the bleeding anxiety of my heart during your protracted illness, to see you now come forth to contemn the elegant accomplishments of social life, and the society of those with whom you have been accustomed to mingle with so much delight and _eclat_, is a calamity which will bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?"

Miss Roscoe was too much affected by this severe and unexpected address, to make any reply; and though she endeavoured to suppress her feelings, yet she was obliged to retire to her own room, where a flood of tears gave her some relief. When somewhat composed, she opened her Bible, and the following passage struck her eye: "Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven. Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I come not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. And a man's foes shall be they of his own household" (Matt. x. 32-36). The remarks of her favourite commentator, Scott, strengthened her views of the passage, and she felt more and more that it was her duty to act consistently with her religious principles, though she might incur the displeasure of her parents.

Soon after this conversation took place, a select party came to spend the evening at the Roscoes'; and, after tea, the cards were introduced as usual.

"I shall be happy," said the Rev. Mr. Cole (addressing himself to Miss Roscoe), "to have you for a partner at whist."

"I am sorry, Sir, to deny you any request, but I cannot comply with the one which you have just made."

"Indeed! why, we have often spent the evening in this amusing manner, and I hope we shall spend many more."

"Yes, Sir, we have; but it is not my intention to consume any future portion of my time in such an amusement."

"But do you think that there is any moral evil in it?"

"It has, in my opinion, _the appearance of evil_, from which _we are commanded to abstain_."

"But of two evils is it not the wisest maxim to choose the least? and is it not a smaller evil _to amuse ourselves at cards, than, as is often the case at evening parties, to play at scandal and defame the reputation of others_?"

"Unquestionably; but I presume that a wise and good man would avoid both these evils."

"But I am not aware that any evil can arise from this amusing exercise."

"Does it not consume that time which ought to be devoted to a more profitable purpose? Does it not frequently give excitement to those passions of our nature which ought to be repressed? Does it not encourage a passion for gaming, which, we know, has involved many in entire ruin?"

"But that is the abuse of the thing."

"Nay, Sir, I think it is the natural tendency of it."

"But are we to have no amusements because some indulge in them to excess? Is life to pass away in a dull, monotonous routine of duty? Are we always to live in a state of exile from the charms and fascinations of social intercourse? Is the mind never to relax itself amidst the diversions of polished society? Must we ever keep up our attention to the sombrous claims of religion, and always think, and speak, and act, as though we were treading on the verge of an awful eternity? Indeed, I give it as my decided opinion, that that species of religion which interdicts these amusements, cannot claim a divine origin, because it is opposed to human happiness."

"That species of religion, as you are pleased to call it, does claim a divine origin, and, perhaps, if you examine its claims, you will find them attested by the spirit of the New Testament. Permit me to ask you one question, and I am willing that your answer shall decide the question at issue between us--Do you believe that if Jesus Christ or any of his apostles were now present, they would consent to pass away the hours of this evening in such an exercise as playing a game of cards?"

"Perhaps not, but they were extraordinary persons, and their virtue kept them from many sources of amusement from which we, who are more frail, may very innocently draw a portion of our pleasure."

"Then you admit that it is our frailty that leads us to such amusements, and that if _we possessed more exalted virtue_ we should avoid them?"

"You reason excellently well, Madam, against the amusement; but _such is the frailty_ of our nature, that I fear the passion cannot be subdued with such a weapon."

"Perhaps not, Sir."

"Pray, Madam, what amusements would you sanction?"

"Those which would afford me pleasure on reflection, and in which I could be engaged in my last moments."

"The apparent delight with which evangelical professors anticipate their _last_ moments, is a tacit acknowledgment that the present are dull and insipid."

"We anticipate our last moments, Sir, with awe, mingled with delight, and though you may imagine that our present moments are dull and insipid, yet, I assure you, you are mistaken. We have our sources of happiness, but card-playing is not included in the number."

"I cannot but think that evangelical religion has an antisocial tendency, and would, if generally prevalent, deprive us of all our innocent recreations."

"Evangelical religion, like the religion of the New Testament, requires us not to be conformed to this world, but to be transformed in the renewing of our mind, and it produces a distaste for those frivolous and pernicious amusements in which the votaries of this world delight; but I am not aware that it has an antisocial tendency, unless you mean by that expression, that its tendency is to mark out the essential difference between a real Christian and one who bears only the name."

"Why, we are all Christians, and good Christians, too; but our Christianity does not teach us to wait the arrival of death before we can be happy."

"Yes, Sir, there are the pleasures of sin, which we are commanded to forsake for the recompense of reward."

"And, Madam, there are the pleasures of innocence, which are as sweet and as sacred as the joys of angels."

"But I cannot suppose that you include card-playing among the pleasures of innocence."

"Most certainly I do!"

"Then, do you imagine that our old friend, Mr Lock, is of the same opinion, who in an evening was reduced from a state of affluence to a state of poverty?"

"Why, that was an unlucky night for him, certainly; but you know we do not play for more than we can afford to lose."

"I think, Sir, with all due deference to your judgment, that every one who plays at this game of innocence stakes more than he can afford to lose."

"You are, indeed, an ingenious casuist, and I wish to know how you can prove the correctness of your assertion."

"Can you afford to lose your temper?"

"If I do lose it I can easily recover it again."

"You may, Sir, but can others?"

"If they cannot, they are to blame."

"_Then, Sir, this game of innocence is found on experiment, first, to destroy the placidity of the temper, and then to involve its abettors in censure._ But there is often more staked in this game than the loss of temper."

"What is there, Madam?"

"The loss of friendship. You know that the families of the Orrs and the Humes have never met in any party since the quarrel which took place two years since at Brushwood House."

"Why, that was a very serious affair, certainly, but you know that such quarrels rarely happen."

"Nay, Sir, they often happen, only friends interpose and effect a reconciliation. But with such facts imprinted on our memory, can we say that such a game is the game of innocence?"

"I think, Madam, you are rather too severe, for you must allow that it often beguiles away many a languid hour."

"Which hours, Sir, ought to be spent in preparation for immortality."

"You veer, Madam, towards death, from whatever point of the compass you set out."

"And, Sir, death is veering towards us, in whatever employments we are engaged; but would you like to feel his fatal infliction when seated at a card-table, or returning from a theatre?"

"Too grave; much too grave, Madam, to be pleasant."

FRESH PERPLEXITIES.

Mrs. Denham was not one of the select party that met at Mr. Roscoe's, as she had accompanied her husband to Bath, where he was detained longer than he expected, having some important family matters to adjust with the executors of a deceased uncle. On the day after her return home, when sitting quietly by herself in her little back parlour, working away hard and fast with her knitting needles, Miss Denham came in, took a seat by her side, and thus began:--

"Do you know, mamma, that Miss Roscoe is become so religious, that she actually refused the Rev. Mr. Cole as a partner at cards, at Mr. Roscoe's party, and said so many hard things against card-playing, and brought forward so many arguments from some old Puritanical book, that he was at times quite disconcerted?"

"Yes, my dear, and it is enough to disconcert any good Christian to have religious subjects introduced at our convivial parties."

"O yes, mamma, exactly so. I think if we are religious on a Sunday, it is as much as ought to be expected. Our Maker can't expect more. Do you think he can, ma'?"

"Certainly not, my dear; if he did, we should have had two Sundays in the week, instead of one."

"Well, ma', I really wonder how it is that Miss Roscoe has become so religious all at once. What a pity. I suppose she must be very unhappy."

"Yes, my dear, that you may depend on. Her parents are nearly broken-hearted. Dear Mrs. Roscoe says that all their peace is gone; and they really dread the consequences. She has positively refused to attend our ball on Friday week."

"Is it possible? I wish I had known it, I would have reasoned the point with her. I will go and see her. I think I can persuade her, because I recollect putting aside an engagement one night last winter to go with her to see the _Beggar's Opera_."

"Ah! my dear, when this evangelical religion, as it is called, takes possession of a person's mind, it is no use to attempt to reason or try persuasion--reason has nothing to do with it."

"Then, mamma, it must be a very unreasonable thing."

"Exactly so, my dear, and I hope you will avoid its snares."

"Dear mamma, I really wonder that you should consider it necessary to give such a hint; I assure you I have no prepossessions in its favour. Indeed, it is not my intention to trouble myself at all about religion yet; of course, I shall go to church along with you and papa, and take the sacrament once or twice a-year. That will do, won't it, ma'?"

"Yes, my dear, our Maker won't desire more from such a young person as yourself. But still it will be necessary to avoid all intercourse with those religious people who are known to be evangelical; for the Rev. Mr. Cole says he thinks that there is something of a bewitching nature in it, as it is known sometimes to overcome those who have the greatest antipathies against it."

"Why, mamma, you quite alarm me. Then no one is safe. Is it possible for me ever to take to this evangelical religion? O, I would rather enter a nunnery at once, and take the veil for life."

"Yes, my dear, and I would rather you should; but still I deem it prudent to give you a hint to be on your guard; for I heard you, a short time since, drop some expressions, when speaking of Mrs. Stevens, which quite alarmed me."

"Indeed, mamma! I don't recollect it. I certainly think Mrs. Stevens a most amiable lady; and though she may have rather too much religion, yet she is very accomplished, and a most interesting companion."

"She is amiable and accomplished, but I think her _a most dangerous companion_."

"What! the amiable Mrs. Stevens a dangerous companion? Why, mamma, she is a truly virtuous and lovely woman."

"She is so, my dear, and that makes her so dangerous. She is always aiming at proselyting others to her religion, and such is the bewitching charm of her eloquence, and such the fascination of her manners, that she scarcely ever fails. Why, do you know, though I am ashamed to confess it, she nearly got me over to her religion when I was with her by myself one evening last winter."

"Dear ma', you quite surprise me. _You_ nearly made an _Evangelical_! Did you ever tell pa' about it, and what did he say?"

"O, no, my dear, I never mentioned it before to any one; and I should not like to have it repeated."

"I may just mention it to Mr. Ryder, as a curiosity in the economy of life."

"No, no, I beg you won't; it will make me so much talked about, and it will induce her to make another effort. But, as I was saying, you really must be on your guard. You have not my fortitude and self-possession. She is a most beguiling woman, and has so much tact. She easily accommodates herself to the taste of her visitors, she bribes the poor by her benevolence, fascinates the young by her pleasantry, and entangles the thoughtless by her arguments. No one is safe who associates with her."

"But, mamma, I do not think she would proselyte me, for I have no predilection for religion. It is too gloomy a subject to suit my taste. Indeed, I do not understand it; though every now and then I am tempted to wish I did; I have at times such strange thoughts and feelings."

"Of course, you know, my dear, it is a duty you owe the Almighty to resist an evil temptation."

"Exactly so; but is it not odd that I should ever be tempted to a thing for which I have no predilection, and which I don't understand? But, ma', I am under an engagement to take tea with Mrs. Stevens and Miss Roscoe next week--what shall I do?"

"Decline, of course, my dear."

"But the time is fixed."

"You can send a note, _and plead indisposition as an apology for absence_."

"But would that be honourable, if I should not be indisposed?"

"You know it is fashionable."

"Yes, mamma, but I have long felt a great dislike against the fashionable habit of sacrificing truth to expedience. I cannot do it. I have no strong desire to become religious, but I wish to be virtuous; and I think an inviolable regard to truth the very foundation of virtue."

"Very true, my dear; I am pleased with your remark, it discovers a virtuous mind; but you must not be too scrupulous. You will find it impossible always to avoid the customs of fashionable life; for though some of them are open to the censures of the strict moralist, yet they have been too long established to be changed."

"But, mamma, I should think it wrong to comply with any custom which pure morality condemns. When I was at Mr. Travers's, the housemaid, who had been in the family seven years, and who was greatly respected, was called up into the parlour and discharged at a moment's warning. She wished to know the cause. Mrs. Travers said to her, 'I have detected you in so many falsehoods, that I cannot believe a word you say.' She took up her wages, and said, 'Who taught me to speak untruth? When I came into your service, I came uncorrupted; I abhorred a lie, but did you not compel me to the habit? Was I not forced to say, when you were unwilling to see company, that you were ill, or from home; and if mistresses teach servants to lie, ought they to be discharged when detected?'"

"How insolent! Did not Mr. Travers force her out of the house?"

"Yes, mamma, he resented the insult; but after she was gone, he said, 'I hope the truth will always be spoken in future; for if we compel our servants to falsify for our convenience, we ought not to be astonished if they do so for their own.'"

"Well, my dear, with your high notions of virtue, I do not see how you can excuse yourself from Mrs. Stevens's; but let me entreat you to be on your guard, for we live, as the apostle says, in perilous times. I would rather follow you to the grave than see you infected with a religious contagion; and I am sure your papa would disown you."

"Dear mamma, I wonder that you should harbour any suspicions. It is not my intention to become religious yet. Indeed, if I were, my religion must tolerate all the fashionable gaieties. You know I am fond of cards and concerts, of balls and plays; and as for the Bible, I assure you that I have not read it since I left school. It is too grave to suit my taste, and so mystical that I cannot understand it. Indeed, I have my doubts about it; particularly since our acquaintance with the Ryders. Mr. John is quite a sceptic; he is very clever, and his arguments are so powerful!"

"I have no wish that you should become a sceptic, my dear; it would make you so much talked about."

"Exactly so, mamma; I know it is not fashionable for ladies to become sceptics, but Miss Sims affects to be one, and really boasts of it, which sadly mortifies her sister Amelia. However, I have made up my mind to keep to the good old religion of our church; though Mr. John Ryder said the other evening, in a large party, he expected to make a convert of me."

"I admire your firmness. Yes, keep to the church, and you will be sure to go to heaven when your Maker takes you out of this world!"

"You think I shall, ma'."

"To be sure, my dear. Our Maker could not object to take such a dear lovely girl as you are to heaven, to live amongst the happy innocents there."

"That's a beautiful thought. Sceptics don't expect to go to heaven, do they, mamma?"

"No, my dear."

"Where will they go?"

"I don't know, and I don't think they know themselves. I once heard your papa say, they expect death will snuff them out of existence as we snuff out the flame of a candle."

"Do they really believe this? What a sad pity--snuffed out of existence. I shall never forget the expression. I'll repeat it to Mr. John Ryder the next time he calls; I wonder what he will say?"

"He will only laugh at it."

"Laugh at being snuffed out of existence! No, mamma, I will never become a sceptic, to be snuffed out of existence. I would rather turn an evangelical, for they, when death comes, are in ecstasy, in anticipation of eternal life and happiness in another and better world."

"What a loud ring, I wonder, ma', who it can be; but it does not matter, we are dressed to receive company." The servant entered with the cards of Miss Dorothy Brownjohn, and her sister Susan, who, of course, had been ushered into the drawing-room.

"I am so glad to see you; do be seated, ladies. Well, this is a pleasure I did not expect when I rose this morning, though I said last night, when looking at the coal leaf waving on the bar of our parlour grate, that we should have company to-day. We should have made a call on you, as we missed you at the sacrament last Sunday week, only I have been to Bath with Mr. Denham. We were all prodigiously affected, as we thought you were ill."

"Oh no," said Miss Susan, "we haven't been exactly ill, but it was all hurry and bustle with us that week, and I could not get through my preparation reading and prayers, to fit me for the sacrament."

"I think my sister," said Miss Dorothy, "is too scrupulous, and I tell her, that if she can't get done all the preparation reading and prayers, the Almighty will overlook it, and so would Mr. Cole."

"Oh dear, yes, to be sure he would. Why, I had not time that week to read a single extra prayer; we had company in the house every day and night."

"The principal purpose of our calling on you this morning, dear Mrs. Denham, is to ask you if you know any one who would suit us in the capacity of a cook."

"What, are you going to part with the old cook who has been with you so many years?"

"Oh dear, yes," said Miss Susan, "and I wish we had got rid of her at the beginning. Since she has got infected with the rector's new religion, she has not been the same woman she once was."

"Yes, there is an obvious difference," said Miss Dorothy, "in her spirit, and appearance, and manners, which I cannot account for."

"Does she neglect her duties?"

"Oh no," said Miss Susan, "she does not neglect her work; if she did I should soon be after her. She used to sing a good song, and be as merry as a cricket; but no singing now, except some odd psalm; and she never appears happy but when going to church, or reading her Bible; and she is trying to get over the rest of the servants to her religion."

"Have you given her notice to leave?"

"Oh no, not exactly. I'll tell you, dear Mrs. Denham, how it was. I heard a whisper amongst the rest of the servants that the cook got up before them in the morning, and sat up after them at night; and I was determined to find it out, and the reason of it, for it did not look well; now, did it? So one night, when all the rest were gone to bed, I went down stairs very softly, and looked through the keyhole, and saw her reading her Bible; and I made up an excuse for going in; and I said to her, 'I think, cook, sleep would do you more good at this hour than that book, sitting up wasting fire and candle;' and she gave me such an insolent reply, that she ruffled my temper very much. She said, 'If I thought so, Ma'am, I should be in bed, but I like a little reading out of God's book before I go to rest; and if I do my work to your satisfaction, as I hope I do, I think you have no cause for complaint.' And the next morning she actually gave notice to leave."

"And I am sorry to say," added Miss Dorothy, "that just before we left home, the housemaid gave _me_ notice."

"Why, sister, you did not tell me that. This is all our rector's doings. We were living as peaceably as a nestling of birds, till he began to preach the new doctrines of the new birth, and faith, and salvation by grace. I am sometimes tempted to wish myself in heaven, out of the way of these domestic miseries."

"Mr. Cole, in his sermon on Sunday morning, said that this evangelical religion is a spiritual epidemic; it spreads by the power of sympathy, and affects all alike. It is a prodigious evil."