Chapter XXI: Part II (12)

"The context to this passage," said the minister, "tells us, my brethren, what experience confirms--that our abode on earth is short. St. Paul, therefore, exhorts us, and we will do well to attend to his exhortations, to guard against too fond an attachment to any relation or possession in life. You who weep, and you who rejoice, should moderate the intensity of your emotions; as you will soon be far removed from the influence of the causes which produce those feelings, and the possessions which you now hold on the most secure tenure will soon be claimed by others. Set not, therefore, your heart on this world, which you must so soon leave. Its appearance is attractive, like the shifting scenes of a theatre, or a gaudy pageant in a public procession; but it will soon vanish from your sight, to amuse and beguile others in like manner. There is another world--more splendid, more glorious, and more durable--towards that you should turn your attention, and seek with the most intense ardour of soul to be prepared to enter it. Otherwise, when you depart from this world--and you may very soon depart--you will go into outer darkness, and be lost for ever."

"I hope, my dear Mrs. Lewellin," said Miss Rawlins, on the following morning, when they were promenading by themselves in a retired walk, "you will forgive me for not replying to the last letter I received from you. Indeed, I have often reproached myself for not doing it. It has been the occasion of bitter grief, and some tears, especially of late."

"I can very easily forgive you, dear Miss Rawlins; but will you permit me to ask you why you did not reply?"

"It was, at that period of my life, absolutely unintelligible. I concluded you were become a mystic; and I foolishly imagined you were contemplating taking the veil, and that I should soon hear you had entered a convent. You will not be surprised at this when you advert to the foolish letter I wrote to you about religion."[33]

[33] Vol. i. p. 451.

"If agreeable to you," said Mrs. Lewellin, "I should like to hear by what means you were brought to see and to feel your real character and condition in relation to God and the eternal world."

"My history is a very singular one--abounding with incidents that illustrate the workings of the special providence of God. You know, my dear, in what a gay circle I moved. The concert, the drama, the ball-room, card-parties, and novels absorbed my whole soul. I lived in a perpetual whirl of excitement and gaiety. But I was not happy, and often felt disgusted with my own frivolous pursuits. At length, I had a severe and dangerous illness, brought on by imprudently exposing myself to the cold damp air, in returning from a ball. For some weeks my life was despaired of, and these were weeks of terror. I was brought to the verge of the dark world, and felt appalled at the thought of entering it. I was rebellious, too, and murmured against God for depriving me of life at such an early period."

"It was by a cold, caught at a ball, that your old friend, Miss Denham, lost her life."[34]

[34] Vol. i. p. 410.

"Yes; I recollect you alluded to her death in a letter I received from you. Were you intimate with her?"

"I was with her when she died."

"Indeed! I know she was a gay devotee to the world; and, therefore, it may be painful to hear how she died. What myriads are offered as victims to the Moloch of fashion!"

"No, my dear, not painful. Her head was reclining on the bosom of a pious friend, who was present with me at the interview; and her last words were--'I am dying, but not without hope of attaining eternal life, through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.'"

"How thankful I am to hear that. It is like the rescue of a friend from shipwreck. But to resume my story. I was gradually restored to health, and re-entered the gay world, amidst the warm congratulations of my friends. At the close of the season we came to Malvern to spend a few months. Here the mystic roll of Providence began to unfold itself. One day, when rambling by myself over the common, I saw a neat little cottage, which I entered. It was occupied by an old woman, who sat reading her Bible. I apologized for my act of intrusion; when she requested me to take a seat.

"'I hope,' she added, looking at me benignantly as she spoke, 'you love your Bible. It tells us about Jesus Christ; about his love for poor sinners; and about his dying for them, to save them from perishing; and it tells us that if we come to him He will never forsake us. There is no book like God's Book.'

"I felt confused, and soon left her; but her words followed me. They were perpetually sounding in my ears; and yet I could not draw out of them any intelligible meaning. A few days after this I met an old school-fellow, looking very ill; and having promised to call on her, I did so the following week. I found her confined to her bed, and evidently with but a short time to live. She said to me, when taking leave of her, 'You see, my dear Miss Rawlins, that I am now going into another world: and I go in peace, because I look by faith to Jesus Christ, who died to save sinners. He has assured me, in the Bible, that if I come to him, and trust in him, He will save me. You have been near death, but your life is spared; let me entreat you to leave the gay and thoughtless crowd, and come by faith to Jesus Christ to save you, and to make you happy.'

"These last words made a deep impression on my heart, and gave rise to some painful reflections. Must I then, I said to myself, withdraw from the gay world to be happy? Can Jesus Christ make me happy? How is this possible, when he is dead, and gone to heaven? These references to Jesus Christ reminded me of your letter, which, as it happened still to be in my writing desk, I again perused. I was struck with the harmony of sentiment and testimony between your letter, the observations of the old woman, and the appeal of my dying friend; and I felt its influence, even though it appeared to me, in a great measure, unintelligible."

"It is said of Samson," remarked Mrs. Lewellin, "that the Spirit of the Lord moved him at times; that is, he was occasionally acted on by an unusual impulse. And something analogous to this may be traced in our moral history; the recurrence of impressions and emotions, of a singular character, proceeding from some unknown cause. The Lord the Spirit is at work in the heart, but his operations are veiled in darkness; happily, the time for explanation comes at last."

"It has been so, my dear Mrs. Lewellin, in my experience. Singular events have been employed to produce those singular emotions; but at the time, I could trace them to no perceptible cause, nor did I ever suppose they would lead to any important issue. But the mystery is now graciously explained. Soon after our return home, another incident occurred, which exercised a material influence on my mind. We went to dine with an old friend of my father's, who lived about ten miles from town, and intended to return in the evening, but such a violent storm came on, that we were glad to accept our friend's invitation to remain for the night. At nine o'clock the parlour bell was rung, and in a few minutes the servants entered, and our own coachman with them, when a large Bible was placed near a clergyman, one of the party. He read the second chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians, and offered up a very solemn and impressive prayer. This was quite novel; I had never before been present at such a service. I was again brought into contact with the great facts of revelation; and when on my knees before God in prayer, I became still more restless in my mind. I felt a strong inclination to go again to scenes of gaiety, to dispel the strange thoughts, and still stranger forebodings, which haunted me; and yet I recoiled from doing so, under an instinctive apprehension that they would make me still more restless and unhappy. I felt, at times, so miserable, that I took no interest in life. At this crisis, another incident occurred, trivial in itself, and apparently casual, but it was one of those agencies which were working together for my good. Our coachman brought with him, from the pious family which we had been visiting, some religious tracts; and on passing through the kitchen I saw one on the dresser; it was _Poor Joseph_.[35] I took it and read it. It delighted me from its singularity. I involuntarily exclaimed, when I had finished reading it, 'What a contrast between this poor half-witted man and myself! he is in ecstasy when referring to Jesus Christ coming into the world to save sinners, but I can only refer to this great fact with apathy and indifference. How is this?' It appeared strange, and was a heavy burden on my heart."

[35] Vol. i. p. 152.

"Our Lord says, 'They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick' (Matt. ix. 12). A man in health looks with indifference on the physician; but not so the dying patient. It is a deep sense of personal guilt, and a vivid apprehension of positive danger, that fits a sinner to form a correct estimate of the need and value of a Saviour. When such a discovery is made and felt, then it is hailed with rapture, and mental repose is enjoyed as the consequence of trusting on the Saviour for pardon and salvation."

"I now perceive and feel this; but it would still have been hidden from me, had it not been for another circumstance. I had one gay friend to whom I was much attached; indeed, with the exception of my parents, she was the only person I really loved. She completely ruled me, though one of the most gentle creatures I ever knew. I was never so happy as when in her company. She was as fond of the gay world as myself. On one occasion we had both accepted an invitation to a grand ball given by Sir John Markham, but in the morning I received a note from my friend requesting me not to expect to meet her there; adding, 'I withdraw from the gay world, and for ever. It is a vain show, which promises happiness, but yields none. Don't be alarmed; I will explain when I see you.' This note took me by surprise; but I was more pleased than distressed. I refrained from going to the ball, and went to see my friend. She then informed me that her attention had recently been turned to her Bible, by a sermon she heard preached by the Rev. James Harrington Evans, and she had resolved to seek lasting happiness by yielding herself to God, through the redemption of Christ Jesus the Lord. Her conversation, though somewhat unintelligible to me, was in perfect harmony with the sentiments I had previously heard others express. I now readily complied with her earnest solicitation to accompany her, on the following Sunday morning, to hear the same eloquent preacher. We went together. His text was, 'For through him we both have access by one Spirit unto the Father' (Eph. ii. 18). When he was explaining to us the nature of access to the Father, and showing us why and how we ought to come to Him, the veil was removed, and the light of life shone with clear radiance into my heart. I felt subdued, captivated; and, for the first time of my life, I could say, 'Now I know where true happiness is to be found.' _Now_ I could understand your letter. I followed, then, without hesitation, my friend's example, in withdrawing from the gay world."

"I suppose," here remarked Mrs. Lewellin, "the secession of two such gay devotees from the circle of fashion, occasioned some little tumult?"

"O, yes, we had a few calls from some of the more inquisitive, who live on excitement; but we were both inflexible, and now we are subjected to no annoyance."

"What did your parents say?"

"I think they were more pleased than otherwise, especially my dear mother, whose health had been rapidly declining for some months. Very soon afterwards she was confined to her room; and God honoured me to be the instrument in directing her to the Lamb of God, who gave his life a ransom for many. She passed through a severe ordeal of mental suffering during her long illness; but when descending into the dark valley, she saw, by faith, Jesus coming to receive her; and she died in peace."

"These varied conflicts, my dear Miss Rawlins, in which you have been engaged, must have proved a severe trial to you."

"They have rather seriously affected my health, which has given way, and occasioned our present visit to Malvern."

"I congratulate you on your rescue from the allurements of a vain and giddy world. Now that you are made alive from the dead, you must yield yourself to God, to fear, and love, and glorify him, and show forth his praise."

"As I have now, my dear Mrs. Lewellin, unbosomed to you the secrets of my heart, I shall feel more at ease. But, O! where can I find words adequate to express my grateful feelings to my adorable Saviour, for the marvellous manifestations of his sovereign compassion and love to my dear mother, my beloved friend, and myself!"

The next day Mrs. Lewellin went with Miss Rawlins, to see the old woman who lived in the cottage on the common. On entering, they found her in her arm chair, with her Bible open before her, so intent on what she was reading, that she did not appear to notice them, till she was spoken to.

"Sit down, ladies; I am glad to see you."

"At your old employment, I see," said Miss Rawlins.

"Why, Miss, I don't know that I can be at a better. It is proper that a child should read his father's epistles of love, and that a servant should study to know what his master requires him to do and suffer."

"Do you ever feel weary of reading the parts of the Bible you have read before?"

"It is, Miss, with God's Word, as it is with God's world. We enjoy a serene evening and the beauties and melodies of the spring, as much this year, as we did in any gone-by year of our life. I was just thinking, before you ladies came in, that I could say nearly off at heart the third chapter of John's Gospel; and yet I could read it again, with as much pleasure and profit, if not more, than I did the first time I read it. There is such a wonderful depth, and such a rich fulness and living power in God's Word."

"What book," inquired Mrs. Lewellin, "do you like next to the Bible?"

"O, dear, Ma'am, I have long done with all other books. I used to like good John Bunyan's _Pilgrim_, and I have read it through many times; but now I care about no book but my Bible. I sometimes think I should like to take the Bible with me to heaven, as then I should be able to have some dark sayings explained, which I can't understand now."

"You have no doubts, I suppose, about the certainty of your salvation?"

"No, Ma'am; not _now_. Some time since, I was greatly distressed with doubts and fears, but now all my anxieties are at rest. I stand with my staff in my hand, waiting to hear my Father call me home. He will call soon."

"How simple, and how dignified," said Mrs. Lewellin, as they were leaving the cottage, "are the anticipations of an old disciple, when approaching the entrance to the heavenly kingdom!"

"And what a contrast," replied Miss Rawlins, "to the devotees of fashion! They will amuse themselves at the card-table, till their hands become too enfeebled to play; and even on a death-bed will listen with deep interest to descriptions of operas and plays, a new singer, or a new actor; inquire with eager curiosity who wore the most splendid dress at the ball--what new marriage is now on the _tapis_--in short, will listen to anything, however trifling, to keep off the thought of dying."

"Yes," said Mrs. Lewellin; "and when, for form's sake, the officiating priest is sent for, and he has gone through the prescribed ceremonies--has read the absolution and given the sacrament, and they have thus made their peace with God--they still live on, as long as they can live, amidst the gay scenes of former times now gone from them for ever. But to that one great event in their moral history, which is so certain, and so near at hand, all references or allusions are imperatively forbidden, as though its entire oblivion could prevent its actual occurrence. O, it is painful to think of the terrific surprise and overwhelming horror which will seize on their spirits, when they pass into the eternal world!"

"Yes, my dear; and if _our_ preparations for death, and if our reminiscences and anticipations when dying, should bear, as I trust they will, a nearer resemblance to the dignified deportment, and the sweet serenity of the old woman on the common, than to the criminal frivolity of these self-doomed devotees of fashionable life, we must, in imitation of the devout Psalmist, and with tears of joyous gratitude, ever say--'Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth's sake'--(Psalm cxv. 1.)"

On their return from this visit, Mrs. Lewellin said, with some embarrassment of manner, "We have now, my dear Miss Rawlins, been at Malvern longer than we contemplated. We leave to-morrow, but I hope that we may again meet somewhere on earth, to renew the sweet and hallowed intercourse we have so much enjoyed here."

"I am thankful that you kept the secret of your departure to the last moment. An earlier intimation of the exact time would have had on my heart a very depressing effect. Our conversations at Malvern will ever be held by me in pleasing remembrance, and I shall long for an opportunity to renew them. Good night. We will have no formal parting. It will be too painful."

As Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin had exceeded the time which they had originally contemplated spending on their tour, they now proceeded homewards to Rockhill, where they found Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and a few other friends, waiting to welcome them to their new home. The meeting was a delightful one, nothing having occurred to either party, during their absence, to occasion annoyance or perplexity.

A few months after their return, Mrs. Lewellin received the following letter from Miss Rawlins:--

"DEAR MRS. LEWELLIN,--It will give you, I have no doubt, some
pleasure to hear that I am again in my father's house, and in
the enjoyment of perfect health and vigour. And you will, I
doubt not, unite with me in humble adoration and gratitude to
the God of all grace, not only for the grace bestowed on me--one
of the most worthless of the unworthy--but for his marvellous
loving-kindness to my dear father, who is so much delighted,
and so deeply moved by the preaching of the Rev. J. H. Evans,
that he attends his chapel with me regularly every Sabbath.
Though there is no decisive evidence that he is become a new
creature in Christ Jesus, yet I hope he is entering the narrow
way that leads to life. He spends much of his time in reading
his Bible and Doddridge's _Exposition_, and is very earnest in
his inquiries about coming to Christ to be saved. Truly the
God of grace often works wonders. My endeared friend, Miss
Forrester, whom you saw with me at Malvern, is now, and is
likely to continue to be for some time, an inmate in our family.
We were one in spirit when we were living and moving amidst the
frivolous and ensnaring gaieties of life; and we are still one
in spirit now we are both united to the Lord; but it is a spirit
of a purer nature, and one that death cannot destroy.

"I often think of our unlooked-for meeting at Malvern, and the
pleasant hours of Christian intercourse we spent together when
there. I hope both you and Mr. Lewellin have been enjoying good
health since your return home. I need not say how glad I shall
be to hear from you. Write soon, and believe me, ever yours,

"LETITIA."

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Some months having now elapsed since Mr. Lewellin's marriage, I set off to pay my long promised visit to my esteemed friend and his lady. I was accompanied by Mrs. Orme, who joined me in London from the Elms, and after a pleasant journey we arrived safely at Rockhill. It was promptly decided that the first half of my time should be spent with them, and the other at Fairmount, with Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. The day after my arrival, I took a stroll round the farm with Mr. Lewellin, and I was much gratified by its general appearance. I did not see his bailiff, Harry Pickford, as he was gone to Weyhill fair, to purchase a few South-down sheep; but I had great pleasure in hearing that his master had every reason to be satisfied with him, and that great confidence was placed in his judgment and activity. "He is," Mrs. Lewellin facetiously remarked, "an able professor in the science of agriculture; and I think, Sir, if you examine Mr. Lewellin, you will pronounce him an apt scholar. He has made much rapid progress in his studies during the session;--he may possibly take a degree."

On the Sabbath it was arranged, while we were at breakfast, that Mrs. Orme should ride to church with our kind host and hostess; but I preferred walking, as I wished to take the same route I had taken some years before, and ascertain, if possible, what practical effect had resulted from my casual advice to Robert Curliffe, whom, on a previous occasion, I had found working in his garden,[36] with his two sons. It was a fine autumn morning, without a cloud; the air was genial and invigorating, and the stillness of the solitary lane along which I was passing formed an agreeable contrast to the noise and bustle of the thronged streets of my town residence. Robert's cottage still stood where I first saw it, but its appearance was greatly improved, and his garden was in a higher state of cultivation. These were auspicious signs, and formed, as will shortly be seen, fresh illustrations of an oft-repeated remark, that the work of grace in the heart contributes to the promoting of temporal as well as spiritual comfort. On entering his cottage, I found him dressed in his Sunday clothes, with his Bible beside him on the table, and in his hand Fuller's _Gospel its own Witness_. He expressed great joy at seeing me; and his wife, offering me a chair, said, "You will see a change here, Sir, since your first visit; the grace of God is a wonder-working power."

[36] Vol. i. p. 110.

"And I suppose you are both happier than when you preferred working in the garden on the Sabbath to going to church?"

"Yes, Sir," said Robert, "we are; and we are better off in worldly matters. Our home is a quieter home. Our lads are more orderly in their manners, and both go to Mr. Ingleby's Sunday-school. We are a reformed family."

"I shouldn't like," said Robert's wife, "for things to go back into their old state; it would be like a good garden going back to a common waste."

"You have now something of more importance to think about and talk about, than about planting and weeding your garden."

"Yes, Sir, the wonderful facts of the Bible; especially God's unspeakable gift of a Saviour who is able and willing to save us."

"What the Lord has done for us in our souls, since you had the first talk with our Robert, has given me a wonderful liking to the Bible, and to Mr. Ingleby's preaching. Before that time, if I read a bit of a chapter, I could not make out its meaning; and if I heard a sermon, it made no impression on my heart; it came in at one ear, and went out at t'other. Ah! dear; things are wonderfully changed in us. I shouldn't like them to be changed back again; it would be worse than seeing our garden overrun with thistles and nettles."

I now pressed on to church. The Curate read the Liturgy with great solemnity and pathos. My Dissenting prejudices subsided as I listened to the solemn words of prayer; and the responses had a soul-inspiring effect. "Yes," I said to myself, "the prayers are simple, sublime, and appropriate; they are such as a sinner should offer up, when kneeling before the Lord; they prepare the heart to unite with the voices of the heavenly kingdom in their chorus of thanksgiving and praise." At length I saw the vestry door open; the venerable Rector walked out, ascended the flight of stairs, and entered his pulpit. After a short extempore prayer, he announced his text--"And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him" (Luke xv. 20).

On my previous visit to Fairmount, I had observed that the infirmities of age were fast creeping upon Mr. Ingleby, and this was now much more manifest, though it could scarcely be wondered at, as the good Rector had considerably advanced beyond the period generally allotted to the life of man, being now upwards of eighty years of age. His voice, however, was still clear and sonorous; and though there was less activity and brilliancy of imagination, yet the same bold and impassioned appeals to the conscience and the heart came from his lips as when I first heard him. He commanded the attention of his audience, and he rewarded it. After describing the old man walking anxiously up and down in the cool of the evening in front of his rural mansion, situated, it might be, in some remote quarter of Palestine, he proceeded to recount his supposed soliloquy, while thinking of his long-lost child:--"'Is he still living, or has he been devoured by some wild beast of prey! Is he in affluence, or is he in want! Does he ever think of his home, and of his father, or has he forgotten both! Shall I ever see him again! Shall I ever embrace him again, as I embraced him the morning he left me! Shall I ever hear him address me 'father,' as I was once accustomed to hear him call me!' The old man is now just going to retire for the night, when something is seen moving in the distance--it advances--it is a man--a poor forlorn outcast, come to ask for shelter; he shall not be denied; he looks more fixedly--the figure advances, yet it is still a great way off; it is--no, it cannot be; he looks--it is, it is my son! See how the old man runs to embrace the traveller! What a joyous meeting! what a night of gladsome mirth and hallowed devotion! And who, beloved brethren, supplies me with the materials for this dramatic sketch? Jesus Christ. For what purpose? To assure us that our heavenly Father feels more compassion for a relenting sinner than he can feel sorrow for his sins; and that He feels more paternal delight in the exercise of mercy, than a sinner can feel joy by having all his sins forgiven him."

When the sermon was over, I saw Farmer Pickford and his wife standing at the corner of the lane, waiting for my approach.

"I am glad to see you back again. I have looked for this day, many a day, and many a night, since you were preaching in the barn. You look well, Sir. Time makes no change in your appearance."

"I hope, Sir," said Mrs. Pickford, "you will come and see us; we shall be so much pleased."

"We have had, Farmer, a very touching sermon this morning."

"It touched me to the quick, and no mistake. I have shed more tears this morning than I ever shed in any morning since I was born. It made me feel a power of trouble, like."

"And it greatly affected me," said Mrs. Pickford; "it made me think of our long lost George; shall we ever see him again?"

"He, my dear friend, who brought back the prodigal of the gospel, can bring back your dear son."

"I hope he will," replied the Farmer. "I don't care in what condition he comes home, so that he does come back, and I live long enough to receive him. He may come in rags for what I care. I'll give him a capital supper, and a new suit; and we'll have a joyous merry-making, and no mistake. You'll give us another sarmunt in the barn?"

"Yes, do, Sir," urged his wife; "we shall be so pleased, and profited, too. One of our neighbours, Mr. Richards, was so impressed by your discourse on the conversion of Zaccheus, that he is quite a changed character. He was, before he heard it, a very irreligious man; but now he regularly goes to church every Sabbath morning, and to Mr. Stevens' chapel every Sabbath evening. And he comes to our weekly prayer-meeting; and we often have edifying conversation with him."

"Before he heard that sarmunt," said the Farmer, "Richards was just what I was before your first talk to me about my soul--a drunken, swearing sort of chap; but now he keeps as sober as a judge; and his talk is quite heavenly. He gets on in the good things faster than I do; I'm still but a dullish sort of a scollard; worse luck. But after all, I know something about the one thing needful; that's worth knowing. The Lord be praised; and many thanks to you, Sir."

"I hope, Farmer, by this time, that you enjoy a well-grounded assurance, that you are accepted in the Beloved, and feel safe for eternity."

"As for that, Sir, I must speak with great care. I must not be too bold. Howsomever, I don't fear dying, and that's a main good thing; a kind of a triumph, like; the Lord be praised. I love Jesus Christ--that's certain; I love my Bible, and I love the services of God's house more than I used to love the ways of sin, and that is saying a good deal. Will you give us another sarmunt in the barn, Sir?"

"Yes; and I will let you know when I can do it."

I dined in the course of the following week at Mr. Roscoe's, and much enjoyed my visit. It revived a recollection of the discussions of former times, between him and his Tractarian brother, now become an able advocate of the faith he then laboured to destroy. I never saw Mr. Roscoe looking better; his spirits were buoyant, rising at times to youthful cheerfulness. He abounded with anecdotes, both grave and facetious; and was, indeed, the soul of the social circle. We were deeply interested by the narration of an occurrence which happened on the preceding day, and which I will give in his own words:--

"I walked yesterday as far as Brushwood House, on a little matter of business, and on my return home, just as I came to the corner of the coppice, I saw a respectable looking young man sitting on the stump of a tree in the hedgerow. He rose, bowed, and said, 'My name, Sir, is George Pickford, and I am just back from a long roving trip, on board of a merchant ship, and I have been watching a long while for some one to go and tell father and mother that I am back safe and sound. I am afraid to go home till some one has told them that I am here, because, as they don't know whether I am dead or alive, my abrupt appearance may startle them. And if, Sir, you will be so kind as to do this little job for me, I shall feel a power of gratitude. It won't take you far out of the way.' After chatting awhile with him about the places he had visited, I asked him whether he had been successful and taken care of his money, 'Why, Sir,' he replied, 'as I am so near home, I don't mind confessing to you what I have confessed to no man since I came on shore. I have saved upwards of £130; and I have it in a leather bag belted round my body under my shirt. I kept clear of the land sharks in every port we entered. I have for the last four years kept within compass--never gaming on board, and never drinking on shore; but before then I used to do such things.'

"Mrs. Pickford saw me approaching the farm-house. She was all hurry and bustle to get herself, and her neat little parlour, in order for my reception. I took a chair and talked some time about things in general, and then alluded to the sermon we had heard on Sabbath morning. The tear fell from her eye, as she said to me, 'Sir, it was a most painful sermon; it brought my George so forcibly before my mind,'

"'You may possibly,' I remarked, 'see him again.'

"'I don't expect it, Sir. He has been gone six years come the 8th of October; and we have not heard from him, or a word about him, since he left us.'

"'Be of good cheer; you will see him ere long.'

"'Her look was now wild and penetrating; and she exclaimed, 'What, Sir, do you say, and shall I see my George ere long?'

"'Be composed,' I added, 'I bring you glad tidings. Your George is back safe and sound; and he has requested me to come and tell you.'

"'Back, Sir! safe and sound; and you have seen him; tell me,' rising as she spoke, 'where he is, that I may see him too.'

"I then said, 'If you will sit down, and promise to remain seated for the next quarter of an hour, you shall see him.'

"'A hard promise, Sir; but I thank the Lord he has given me an opportunity to make it.'

"I stepped through the fold-yard, hailed George, who was on the watch, and then led him to his mother. I shall not attempt a description of the scene that followed. She sprang into his arms, and he into hers.

"'Mother, forgive me.'

"'I do, my child.'

"'I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight, my mother.'

"'I forgive all, my dear, dear George; and bless the Lord for giving me this opportunity of telling you so.'

"His younger brother and his sisters, who stood gazing and weeping, all gathered around him, as soon as his mother withdrew her embraces. 'But where is father?' I heard him say, as I retired from this scene of domestic joy and happiness.

T. BOLTON.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Vol. ii. page 480.]

"One thing I must not forget to mention. When it came up in the course of our conversation, at our first interview, that I knew his old master, his robbery of whom occasioned his running away, he put a letter into my hand, and asked me if I would deliver it to him. It contained the amount stolen, with interest, and compound interest up to the present date: with a confession of his crime, and an entreaty for forgiveness."

We were all deeply affected by this touching tale, particularly Mrs. Lewellin and Mrs. Orme, who said, both speaking at the same time, "We must go and see George and his mother, and congratulate them on their happy meeting."

* * * * *

In the midst of life, we are in death. We had a most unexpected confirmation of this during my stay at Fairmount. Mr. Stevens had engaged to accompany Mr. Roscoe to Norton, on a trifling matter of business; and as they were to start at ten o'clock, Mr. Roscoe rose rather early, took breakfast with Mrs. Roscoe, conducted family prayer as usual, and then retired into his study. Mr. Stevens came, and as Mr. Roscoe did not make his appearance, Mrs. Roscoe rang the bell, and desired the servant to call him. The servant went to his room, knocked several times, but receiving no answer she opened the door, and saw her master in the attitude of prayer. This circumstance induced her quietly to retire, but on closing the door, she was so much struck with the singular position in which she had seen his head, that she returned towards him, and immediately exclaimed in consternation, "My master is dead!" This exclamation, which was heard by Mr. Stevens, induced him to run up stairs, where he found the servant standing, petrified by terror, near her venerable master, who had, when engaged in the holy exercise of communion with God his Saviour, left the scene of his earthly cares and bliss, to take possession of his heavenly inheritance. His hands were yet warm, and his countenance had undergone no change, but the eyelids and the mouth had fallen--there was no respiration, no motion, for he had ceased to be a citizen of earth. The consternation which this unexpected event occasioned cannot be described. It burst upon the family like a thunder-storm. Mrs. Roscoe hastened into the study. "My husband, my dear husband!" she exclaimed, and was carried fainting into an adjoining room, where she remained for a quarter of an hour in a state of total insensibility, unconscious of her loss, till she saw Mr. Stevens approaching her.

"And is my husband dead, Sir?"

"Be composed, my dear friend, it is the Lord's doing."

"Yes, Sir, I know it; but it is still a terrible trial. Does Sophia know it? Oh! tell her to come to me immediately."

Mr. Stevens hastened to convey the mournful tidings to Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin. When he rode up the lawn in front of their house he saw them returning from a morning's walk, and after an exchange of a few common-place inquiries, he took Mr. Lewellin aside, and communicated the intelligence. Mrs. Lewellin, on looking through the parlour window saw that Mr. Stevens was the bearer of some news that deeply affected her husband; and feeling apprehensive that it bore some reference to her parents, she immediately rushed out, and asked if all was well.

"Yes, my dear," said her husband, "all is well that the Lord does."

"Yes, I know it; but what has he done?"

"Your father"----

"My father! What! tell me!"

"Your father," said Mr. Stevens, "was taken suddenly ill this morning, and when I left him was not able to speak to me."

"Is he living, Sir? O, tell me! Suspense tortures me! Let me know the full extent of the calamity!"

"Your father is now mingling his praises with the redeemed before the throne!"

"What! and have I lost my father? Is he gone without giving me his blessing? How did he die?"

"We found him dead on his knees in the study."

"On his knees! O, happy saint!"

"His death has indeed been a translation."

"And how does my dear mother sustain the blow?"

"She wishes to see you immediately."

They hastened to the house of mourning, but on entering the breakfast-parlour in which Mr. Roscoe had only a few hours before partaken of his last meal on earth, Mrs. Lewellin's feelings overcame her. On recovering from this hysteric fit she became more composed, and expressed a desire to see her afflicted mother, and being supported by Mr. Lewellin and Mr. Stevens, she was led into the room where the bereaved widow sat, silent and motionless, in all the solitude and agony of grief. She rose to meet her daughter, and in a moment they were closely locked in each other's embrace, but they were too much overpowered with anguish to utter any words but those of sorrow. They wept aloud, but in their weeping there was the majesty of grief, bending in unmurmuring submission to the will of their heavenly Father.

"And is my father dead?"

"Yes, my child, you have lost your father, and I have lost my husband."

Mrs. Lewellin looked round the room, and having fixed her eye on his full-length picture, she approached it, and said, "There he is! yes, there he is! My father! speak, my father! It is thy Sophia that speaks to thee!" She stood silent for a few moments, and then sunk in the arms of her husband. For several hours she continued in a state of high delirium, but became gradually composed, and retired to rest. Next morning she awoke with her feelings less agitated; and though she wept when she saw her mother, yet she spoke of their mutual loss with more tranquillity.

"Though it has pleased God," said the bereaved widow, "to deprive us of the visible presence of one we so ardently loved, we must not abandon ourselves to unavailing grief--we must not sorrow as others that have no hope; but rather bow down our souls in submission to his holy will and say, 'Even so, O righteous Father, for so it hath seemed good in thy sight.'"

"I hope, my dear mother, I can repeat that sentiment; but still I feel that I have lost one of the best of fathers that ever called a child his own; and if I should be unable to control my feelings, I hope you will bear with me. Ours is no common loss."

* * * * *

To relieve myself in some measure from the depression which this bereavement had occasioned, I bent my footsteps towards Farmer Pickford's homestead, and there I saw his son George, and had from him a rough outline of his adventures, which I will briefly narrate.

He left the port of London, on board a merchant vessel, in company with Jack Summers, who had seduced him into the ways of iniquity; but poor Jack fell overboard, and was drowned, before he set sail. His first voyage was to Havana; where, one day, he went on shore with the ship's carpenter. They visited the slave-market, where they saw men, women, and children sold like beasts of burden. This sickened them, both of the West Indies and slavery; but he said, "We served them out," for, on stepping into their boat they found, coiled up in the jib-sail, a negro lad, about the age of fifteen, who said, "Me let go wid you." They contrived to get him on board without his being seen; George took off the top of an empty water butt, put the negro in, gave him a bottle of water and some bread and cheese, and told him to lie still till the ship was under weigh. Early the next morning the negro's master came to inquire if there was a black boy on board; and when the captain, who didn't know anything about it, assured him that there was not, he turned back; and soon after the vessel set sail. "We brought him away with us," said George, "and he has been with me ever since, and he is one of the best fellows of the crew for work." This voyage, upon the whole, was a very pleasant one, and he took a strong liking to a seafaring life. His second voyage was to Madeira, and this, also, was a pleasant one, notwithstanding a short though violent storm, which, to quote his own expression, "the little snug vessel outrode in gallant style." His third voyage was to Calcutta; but, on rounding the Cape, they encountered a tremendous hurricane, which lasted several days and nights without intermission; fears were entertained for the safety of the vessel, as she got fearfully strained; and now it was that the captain discovered the superior capabilities of George, for, having been apprenticed to a carpenter, he was able to take the berth of the ship's carpenter, who died some weeks before. On his return to port, the mate was promoted to the captain's berth, who took the command of another ship; and George Pickford took the berth of the mate. His character for sobriety and activity gave much satisfaction to Messrs. B., his employers; and he was a great favourite with the crew. Nothing occurred of any great importance for the next three years, till his last visit to Calcutta, when the ship was detained for upwards of two months; the captain giving him permission to go ashore as often as he pleased. Here he met a young man whom he knew--a native of Broadhurst, but now a resident in Calcutta--a decidedly pious man, who invited him to spend the following Sabbath with him. He did so; and they went together to the chapel in which Mr. James Hill, an English missionary, preached. As he sat directly opposite the pulpit, the eye of the preacher fell directly upon him--at least he thought so; and the text, "Be sure your sin will find you out," (Num. xxxii. 23), brought his sin of dishonesty to his master, undutifulness to his parents, and his uniform forgetfulness of God, and contempt for his authority, with such vividness to his recollection that he hastened on board as rapidly as possible. There, in the quietude of his own berth, he pondered over this new discovery, which was accompanied by a train of novel and poignant emotions. His soul was overwhelmed with grief; but yet it was a grief which gave him more relief than pain. It was pungent, but it did not drive him to despair. Mr. Hill, in the conclusion of his discourse, quoted the words of Jesus Christ--"Whosoever believeth in him should not perish." "I caught hold of that promise," he said, "and I kept hold of it; and I found it a rope strong enough to save me. I believed I should not perish; I tried to pray, but could not get further than the prayer of the publican, 'God, be merciful to me a sinner.'" He stated that he longed for the return of Sabbath during the whole of the week; and when it came, though his duties on board required his attention in the morning, yet in the evening he was at liberty, and he again heard the same minister preach the glorious gospel of the blessed God. He felt its great moral power on his heart, reducing the wild tumult of feeling to a peaceful calm, and giving him a good hope, through grace, of pardon and salvation. The next morning the ship weighed anchor, and set sail; and he closed his statement to me as follows:--"I left my home a wild lad, and a criminal; I lived in bold rebellion against God up to the age of twenty-three; I acted a most unkind and undutiful part towards my dear parents, by keeping them in a state of ignorance of my whereabouts. When I went into Mr. Hill's chapel I had no more desire for conversion than I have now to be unconverted; but the Lord had compassion on me, and has saved me: glory be to his holy name. I am a brand plucked from the burning, if ever there was one plucked; now I wish to live to show my gratitude to the Lord Jesus Christ, for saving me; and to do good to my fellow-sailors. I am glad to say that two of our crew are God-fearing men; and we often meet together for reading the Bible and prayer. I had many precious moments, in prayer to the Lord, on our voyage back; and sometimes felt his presence near me, especially one night in a fearful storm. I knew he had the winds and the waves under his command. I trusted in him, and felt secure.

On my return to Fairmount, after this interview with George, I met the Farmer, who gave me his usual hearty shake of the hand.

"Have you been to my homestead?"

"Yes, and have seen your son George, and had a long chat with him."

"He is grown a finish sort of a chap. He's more of the gemman than his father, and no mistake. He has seen a main bit of the world, like. How well he talks; and what a power of matter he has to say. He keeps us up rather latish with his stories. Some are funny and make us laugh; and some are shocking. Man is a bad fellow everywhere till the grace of God touches his heart. Howsomever, George has scraped up a goodish bit of money. Ay, if a man has any luck at sea, he often gets on faster than we do here on land."

"Your son, I rather think, has found something more valuable than gold, or silver, or precious stones."

"The Lord be praised. Yes, he has found the precious pearl of great price. That's a proof to my mind that Jesus Christ is everywhere, or my George would not have found him in Calcutta, which, he says, is thousands of miles off. I suppose he has told you about the sarmunt that made him feel all at once that he was in a new world? He must have been as much surprised, when going out of the chapel as Zaccheus was when he dropped down out of the sycamore tree. What a wonder-working power the grace of God is, and no mistake!"

"You were not at home, I believe, when your son arrived?"

"No, I had been all the morning, along with two of my men, doing a bit of hedging and ditching in one of my lower meadows, t'other side of the hill. And all the while I was working, I was thinking over the sarmunt Mr. Ingleby preached on Sunday morning. It was one of great power; it touched me to the quick, like. And just as I was coming down the hill, to get a bit of dinner, I saw a chap running across the fold-yard into the house. I wondered who it could be. After a bit, he came out, and my mistress with him, and I saw her pointing towards me. I felt all at once a power of strange thoughts rush into me; and I stood still as the chap was running towards me, jumping over hedge and ditch, like a greyhound after a hare. When he got a bit nearer, about five hundred yards off, I thought all at once it was the step and swing of George; and I heard him cry out, 'Father! father!' as loud as he could bawl; but for the life of me I couldn't speak a word more, and I couldn't have been more frightened if I had seen two ghosts. I seemed stuck fast into the ground with my tongue tied; so that I was obliged to leave him to do all the work of hugging, and kissing, and such like. When I got a bit over my fright, I told him I was main glad to see him back; and that I would give him as good a supper as was put on the table the night you gave us the sarmunt in the barn about the conversion of Zaccheus."

"It must have been a joyous meeting to you."

"I have been thinking two or three times since, that it is almost worth while to lose a youngster for a year or two, for the delight of seeing him come back safe and sound. You should hear him read the Bible and pray. It would do your heart good, Sir. Now, Sir, when will you come and give us the sarmunt in the barn? George shall read out the hymn, and pitch the tune, and then you will have a sample of his cleverness in such matters. Old William, the shepherd, says he'll take the biggest wether-bell he can find, and he'll go round to all the cottages and farm-houses in those parts, and cry notice of it. I must clear out both barns to find room for the people; they'll come as thick as rooks after the plough. The Lord be praised that I should ever live to see such joyous times and such wonderful doings: no sham work; and I must not forget to thank you for the part you have had in them."

"You may expect me next Wednesday week."

"Very well, Sir, I shall expect you on that day."