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It is a delightful employment to trace and discover the operations of
divine grace, as they are manifested in the dispositions and lives of
God's real children. It is peculiarly gratifying to observe how
frequently, among the poorer classes of mankind, the sunshine of mercy
beams upon the heart, and bears witness to the image of Christ which the
Spirit of God has impressed thereupon. Among such, the sincerity and
simplicity of the Christian character appear unencumbered by those
fetters to spirituality of mind and conversation which too often prove a
great hindrance to those who live in the higher ranks. Many are the
difficulties which riches, polished society, worldly importance, and high
connections throw in the way of religious profession. Happy indeed it
is, (and some such happy instances I know), where grace has so strikingly
supported its conflict with natural pride, self-importance, the
allurements of luxury, ease, and worldly opinions, that the noble and
mighty appear adorned with genuine poverty of spirit, self-denial,
humble-mindedness, and deep spirituality of heart.
But in general, if we want to see religion in its purest character,
we must look for it among the poor of this world who are rich in faith.
How often is the poor man's cottage the palace of God! Many of us can
truly declare that we have there learned our most valuable lessons of
faith and hope, and there witnessed the most striking demonstrations of
the wisdom, the power, and the goodness of God.
The character which the present narrative is designed to introduce to
the notice of my readers, is given from real life and circumstance. I
first became acquainted with the dairyman's daughter by the reception of
a letter, a part of which I transcribe from the original, now before me.
"Rev. Sir,
I take the liberty to write to you. Pray excuse me,
for I have never spoken to you. But I once heard you preach at Arreton
Church. I believe you are a faithful preacher, to warn sinners to flee
from the wrath that will be revealed against all those that live in sin
and die impenitent. I was much rejoiced to hear of those marks of love
and affection which you showed to that poor soldier of the S. D. militia.
Surely the love of Christ sent you to that poor man; may that love ever
dwell richly in you by faith. May it constrain you to seek the wandering
souls of men, with the fervent desire to spend and be spent for His
glory.
Sir, be fervent in prayer with God for the conviction and conversion
of sinners. He has promised to answer the prayer of faith, that is put
up in His Son's name. Ask what you will, and it shall be granted you.
Through faith in Christ we rejoice in hope, and look up in expectation of
that time drawing near, when all shall know and fear the Lord, and when a
nation shall be born in a day.
What a happy time, when Christ's kingdom shall come! Then shall His
will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Men shall be daily fed with
the manna of His love, and delight themselves in the Lord all the day
long. Sir, I began to write this on Sunday, being detained from
attending on public worship. My dear and only sister, living as a
servant with Mrs.--- , was so ill that I came here to attend in her
place, and on her. But now she is no more. She expressed a desire to
receive the Lord's supper, and commemorate His precious death and
sufferings. I told her; as well as I was able, what it was to receive
Christ into her heart; but as her weakness of body increased, she did not
mention it again. She seemed quite resigned before she died. I do hope
she has gone from a world of death and sin to be with God for ever.
My sister expressed a wish that you might bury her. The Minister of
our parish, whither she will be carried, cannot come. She died on
Tuesday morning, and will be buried on Friday or Saturday, whichever is
most convenient to you, at three 0'clock in the afternoon. Please to
send an answer by the bearer, to let me know whether you can comply with
this request.
From your unworthy servant
I was much struck with the simple and earnest strain of devotion
which the letter breathed. It was but indifferently written and spelt,
but this the rather tended to endear the hitherto unknown writer, as it
seemed characteristic of the union of humbleness of station with eminence
of piety. I felt quite thankful that I was favoured with a correspondent
of this description; the more so, as such characters were, at that time,
very rare in the neighbourhood. As soon as it was read, I inquired who
was the bearer of it. "He is waiting at the outside of the gate, sir,"
was the reply.
I went out to speak to him and saw a venerable old man, whose long
hoary hair and deeply wrinkled countenance commanded more than common
respect. He was resting his arm and head upon the gate, and tears were
streaming down his cheeks. On my approach he made a low bow, and said,
"Sir, I have brought you a letter from my daughter; but I fear you will
think us very bold in asking you to take so much trouble."
"Sir, I have lived most of my days in a little cottage at.... six
miles from here. I have rented a few acres of ground, and kept a few
cows, which, in addition to my day labour, has been my means of
supporting and bringing up my family."
And now, sir, I believe those prayers are answered. For when her
sister was taken ill, Elizabeth went to wait in her place and take care
of her. She said a great deal to her about her soul, and the poor girl
began to be so deeply affected, and sensible of her past sin, and so
thankful for her sister's kind behaviour; that it gave her great hopes
indeed for her sake. When my wife and I went to see her as she lay sick,
she told us how grieved and ashamed she was of her past life; but said
she had a hope, through grace, that her dear sister's Saviour would be
her Saviour too; for she saw her own sinfulness, felt her own
helplessness, and only wished to cast herself upon Christ as her hope and
salvation.
And now, sir, she is gone, and I hope and think her sister's prayers
for her conversion to God have been answered. The Lord grant the same
for her poor father's and mother's sake likewise."
This conversation was a very pleasing commentary upon the letter
which I had received, and made me anxious both to comply with the request
and to become acquainted with the writer. I promised the good old
dairyman I would attend the funeral on Friday, at the appointed hour; and
after some more conversation respecting his own state of mind under the
present trial, he went away.
He was a reverend old man; his furrowed cheeks, white locks, weeping
eyes, bent shoulders, and feeble gait were characteristic of the aged
pilgrim; and as he slowly departed, supported by a stick which seemed to
have been the companion of many a long year, a train of reflections
occurred which I retrace with emotion and pleasure.
At the appointed hour I arrived at the church; and after a little
while was summoned to meet, at the church-yard gate, a very decent
funeral procession. The aged parents, the elder brother and the sister,
with other relatives, formed an affecting group. I was struck with the
humble, pious, and pleasing countenance of the young woman from whom I
received the letter; it bore the marks of great seriousness without
affectation, and of much serenity mingled with a glow of devotion.
A circumstance occurred during the burial service which I think it
right to mention. A man of the village, who had hitherto been of a very
careless and even profligate character, came into the church through mere
curiosity, and with no better purpose than that of a vacant gazing at the
ceremony. He came likewise to the grave, and during the burial service
his mind received a deep, serious conviction of his sin and danger
through some of the expressions contained therein. It was an impression
that never wore off, but gradually ripened into the most satisfactory
evidence of an entire change, of which I had many and long continued
proofs. He always referred to the burial service, and to some particular
sentences of it, as the clearly ascertained instrument of bringing him,
through grace; to the knowledge of the truth.
The day was therefore one to be remembered. Remembered let it be by
those who love to hear "the short and simple annals of the poor."
Was there not a manifest and happy connection between the
circumstance that providentially brought the serious and the careless to
the same grave on that day together? How much do they lose, who neglect
to trace the leadings of God in providence as links in the chain of his
eternal purpose of redemption and grace!
"While infidels may scoff, let us adore."
A sweet solemnity often possesses the mind while retracing past
intercourse with departed friends. How much is this increased when they
were such as lived and died in the Lord! The remembrance of former
scenes and conversations with those who, we believe, are now enjoying the
uninterrupted happiness of a better world fills the heart with pleasing
sadness, and animates the soul with the hopeful anticipation of a day
when the glory of the Lord shall be revealed in the assembling of all his
children together, never more to be separated. Whether they were rich or
poor, while on earth, it is a matter of trifling consequence; the
valuable part of their character is, that they are now kings and priests
unto God. In the number of departed believers, with whom I once loved to
converse on the grace and glory of the kingdom of God, was the dairyman's
daughter. I purpose now to give some further account of her, and hope it
may be useful to every reader.
A few days after the funeral of the younger sister, I rode over to
visit the family in their own cottage.
The principal part of the road lay through retired, narrow lanes,
beautifully overarched with groves of nut and other trees, which screened
the traveller from the rays of the sun, and afforded many interesting
objects for admiration in the beautiful flowers, shrubs, and young trees,
which grew upon the high banks on each side of the road. Many grotesque
rocks, with little streams of water occasionally breaking out of them,
varied the recluse scenery, and produced a new, romantic, and pleasing
effect.
Here and there the more distant and rich prospect beyond appeared
through gaps and hollow places on the roadside. Lofty hills, with navy
signal posts, obelisks, and lighthouses on their summits, appeared at
these intervals; rich cornfields were also visible through some of the
open places; and now and then, when the road ascended any hill, the sea,
with ships at various distances, opened delightfully upon me. But for
the most part, shady seclusion and beauties of a more minute and confined
nature gave a character to the journey, and invited contemplation. How
much do they lose who are strangers to serious meditation on the wonders
and beauties of nature! How gloriously the God of creation shines in his
works! Not a tree, or a leaf or flower; not a bird, or insect, but
proclaims in glowing language, "God made me."
As I approached the village where the good old dairyman dwelt, I
observed him in a little field, driving a few cows before him toward a
yard and hovel which adjoined his cottage. I advanced very near him
without his observing me, for his sight was dim. On my calling out to
him, he started at the sound of my voice, but with much gladness of
countenance welcomed me, saying, "Bless your heart, sir, I am very glad
you are come; we have looked for you every day this week."
The cottage door opened, and the daughter came out, followed by her
aged and infirm mother. The sight of me naturally brought to
recollection the grave at which we had before met. Tears of affection
mingled with the smile of satisfaction with which I was received by these
worthy cottagers. I dismounted, and was conducted through a very neat
little garden, part of which was shaded by two large, overspreading elm
trees, to the house. Decency and cleanliness were manifest within and
without.
This, thought I, is a fit residence for piety, peace, and
contentment. May I learn a fresh lesson in each, through the blessing of
God, on this visit.
"Sir," said the daughter, "we are not worthy that you should come
under our roof. We take it very kind that you should come so far to see
us."
"My Master," I replied, "came a great deal further to visit us poor
sinners. He left the bosom of his Father, laid aside his glory, and came
down to this lower world on a visit of mercy and love; and ought not we,
if we profess to follow him, to bear each other's infirmities, and go
about doing good as he did?"
The old man now came in, and joined his wife and daughter in giving
me a cordial welcome. Our conversation soon turned to the late loss they
had sustained; and the pious and sensible disposition of the daughter was
peculiarly manifested as well in what she said to her parents as in what
she said to me. I was struck with the good sense and agreeable manner
which accompanied her expressions of devotedness to God, and love to
Christ for the great mercies which He had bestowed upon her. She seemed
anxious to improve the opportunity of my visit to the best purpose, for
her own and her parents' sake; yet there was nothing of unbecoming
forwardness, no self-consequence or conceitedness in her behaviour. She
united the firmness and earnestness of the Christian with the modesty of
the female and the dutifulness of the daughter. It was impossible to be
in her company and not observe how truly her temper and conversation
adorned the evangelical principles which she professed.
I soon discovered how eager and how successful also she had been in
her endeavours to bring her father and mother to the knowledge and
experience of the truth. This is a lovely circumstance in the character
of a young Christian. If it hath pleased God, in the free dispensations
of His mercy, to call the child by His grace, while the parents remain
still in ignorance and sin, how great is the duty of that child to do
what is possible for the conversion of those to whom it owes its birth!
Happy is it when the ties of grace sanctify those of nature.
This aged couple evidently looked upon and spoke of their daughter as
their teacher and admonisher in divine things, while they received from
her every token of filial submission and obedience, testified by
continual endeavours to serve and assist them to the utmost in the little
concerns of the household.
The religion of this young woman was of a highly spiritual character,
and of no ordinary attainment. Her views of the divine plan in saving
the sinner were clear and scriptural. She spoke much of the joys and
sorrows which, in the course of her religious progress, she had
experienced; but she was fully sensible that there is far more in real
religion than mere occasional transition from one frame of mind and
spirit to another. She believed that the experimental acquaintance of
the heart with God principally consisted in so living upon Christ by
faith as to seek to live like Him by love. She knew that the love of God
towards the sinner, and the path of duty prescribed to the sinner, are
both of an unchangeable nature. In a believing dependence on the one,
and an affectionate walk in the other, she sought and found "the peace of
God which passeth all understanding;" "for so He giveth His beloved
rest." She had read but few books besides her Bible; but these few were
excellent in their kind, and she spoke of their contents as one who knew
their value. In addition to a Bible and Common Prayer-Book, "Doddridge's
Rise and Progress," "Romaine's Life, Walk, and Triumph of Faith,"
"Bunyan's Pilgrim," "Alleine's Alarm," "Baxter's Saints' Everlasting
Rest," a hymn-book, and a few Tracts, composed her library.
I observed in her countenance a pale and delicate look, which I
afterwards found to be a presage of consumption; and the idea then
occurred to me that she would not live many years. In fact, it pleased
God to take her hence about a year and a half after I first saw her.
Time passed on swiftly with this little interesting family; and after
having partaken of some plain and wholesome refreshments, and enjoyed a
few hours' conversation with them, I found it was necessary for me to
return homewards.
"I thank you, sir," said the daughter, "for your Christian kindness
to me and my friends. I believe the blessing of the Lord has attended
your visit, and I hope I have experienced it to be so. My dear father
and mother will, I am sure, remember it, and I rejoice in an opportunity,
which we have never before enjoyed, of seeing a serious minister under
this roof. My Saviour has been abundantly good to me in plucking me 'as
a brand from the burning,' and showing me the way of life and peace; and
I hope it is my heart's desire to live to His glory. But I long to see
these dear friends enjoy the comfort and power of religion also."
Thus we parted for that time. My returning meditations were sweet,
and, I hope, profitable. Many other visits were afterwards made by me to
this peaceful cottage, and I always found increasing reason to thank God
for the intercourse I enjoyed. I soon perceived that the health of the
daughter was rapidly on the decline. The pale, wasting consumption,
which is the Lord's instrument for removing so many thousands every year
from the land of the living, made hasty strides on her constitution. The
hollow eye, the distressing cough, and the often too flattering red on
the cheek, foretold the approach of death. I have often thought what a
field for usefulness, and affectionate attention on the part of ministers
and Christian friends, is opened by the frequent attacks and lingering
progress of consumptive illness. How many such precious opportunities
are daily lost, where Providence seems in so marked a way to afford time
and space for serious and godly instruction. Of how many it be may it be
said, "The way of peace have they not known;" for not one friend came
nigh, to warn them to "flee from the wrath to come."
But the dairyman's daughter was happily made acquainted with the
things which belonged to her everlasting peace before the present disease
had taken root in her constitution. In my visit to her, I might be said
rather to receive information than to impart it. Her mind was abundantly
stored with divine truths and her conversation was truly edifying. The
recollection of it still produces a thankful sensation in my heart.
I one day received a short note to the following effect:
"Dear Sir,
From your obedient and unworthy servant
I obeyed the summons that same afternoon. On my arrival at the
dairyman's cottage, his wife opened the door. The tears streamed down
her cheeks, as she silently shook her head. Her heart was full.
She tried to speak, but could not. I took her by the hand, and said:
"My good friend, all is right, and as the Lord of wisdom and mercy
directs."
As I advanced, I saw Elizabeth sitting by the fireside, supported in
an armchair by pillows, with every mark of rapid decline and approaching
death. She appeared to me within three or four weeks at the farthest
from her end. A sweet smile of friendly complacency enlightened her pale
countenance, as she said:
"This is very kind indeed, sir, to come so soon after I sent to you.
You find me daily wasting away, and I cannot have long to continue here.
My flesh and my heart fail, but God is the strength of my weak heart, and
I trust will be my portion for ever."
The conversation which follows was occasionally interrupted by her
cough and want of breath. Her tone of voice was clear, though feeble;
her manner solemn and collected; and her eye, though more dim than
formerly, by no means wanting in liveliness as she spoke. I had
frequently admired the superior language in which she expressed her
ideas, as well as the scriptural consistency with which she communicated
her thoughts. She had a good natural understanding, and grace, as is
generally the case, had much improved it. On the present occasion I
could not help thinking she was peculiarly favoured. The whole strength
of grace and nature seemed to be in full exercise.
After taking my seat between the daughter and the mother (the latter
fixing her fond eyes upon her child with great anxiety while we were
conversing), I said to Elizabeth,
"Sir, I think I can. My mind has lately been sometimes clouded, but
I believe it has been partly owing to the great weakness and suffering of
my bodily frame, and partly to the envy of my spiritual enemy, who wants
to persuade me that Christ has no love for me, and that I have been a
self-deceiver."
"And do you give way to his suggestions? Can you doubt, amidst such
numerous tokens of past and present mercy?"
"I accordingly went to church and saw a great crowd of people
collected together. I often think of the contrary states of my mind
during the former and latter part of the service. For a while,
regardless of the worship of God, I looked around me, and was anxious to
attract notice to myself. My dress, like that of too many gay, vain, and
silly girls, was much above my station, and very different from that
which becomes an humble sinner who has a modest sense of propriety and
decency. The state of my mind was visible enough from the foolish finery
of my apparel."
"At length the clergyman gave out his text: 'Be ye clothed with
humility.' He drew a comparison between the clothing of the body and
that of the soul. At a very early part of his discourse I began to feel
ashamed of my passion for fine dressing and apparel; but when he came to
describe the garment of salvation with which a Christian is clothed, I
felt a powerful discovery of the nakedness of my own soul. I saw that I
had neither the humility mentioned in the text, nor any one part of the
true Christian character. I looked at my gay dress, and blushed for
shame on account of my pride. I looked at the minister, and he seemed to
be as a messenger sent from heaven to open my eyes. I looked at the
congregation, and wondered whether anyone else felt as I did. I looked
at my heart, and it appeared full of iniquity. I trembled as he spoke,
and yet I felt a great drawing of heart to the words he uttered.
"He opened the riches of divine grace in God's method of saving the
sinner. I was astonished at what I had been doing all the days of my
life. He described the meek, lowly, and humble example of Christ; I felt
proud, lofty, vain and self-important. He represented Christ as
'Wisdom;' I felt my ignorance. He held Him forth as 'Righteousness;' I
was convinced of my own guilt. He proved Him to be 'Sanctification;' I
saw my corruption. He proclaimed Him as 'Redemption;' I felt my slavery
to sin and my captivity to Satan. He concluded with an animated address
to sinners, in which he exhorted them to flee from the wrath to come, to
cast off the love of outward ornaments, to put on Christ, and be clothed
with true humility.
"From that hour I never lost sight of the value of my soul and the
danger of a sinful state. I inwardly blessed God for the sermon,
although my mind was in a state of great confusion.
"The preacher had brought forward the ruling passion of my heart
which was pride in outward dress; and by the grace of God it was made
instrumental to the awakening of my soul. Happy, sir, would I be if many
a poor girl like myself were turned from the love of outward adorning and
putting on of fine apparel, to seek that which is not corruptible, even
the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of
great price.
"The greater part of the congregation, unused to such faithful and
scriptural sermons, disliked and complained of the severity of the
preacher; while a few, as I afterwards found, like myself, were deeply
affected, and earnestly wished to hear him again. But he preached there
no more.
"From that time I was led, through a course of private prayer,
reading, and meditation, to see my lost estate as a sinner, and the great
mercy of God, through Jesus Christ, in raising sinful dust and ashes to a
share in the glorious happiness of heaven. And, oh, sir! what a Saviour
have I found! He is more than I could ask or desire. In His fullness I
have found all that my poverty could need; in His bosom I have found a
resting place from all sin and sorrow, in His word I have found strength
against doubt and unbelief."
"Were you not soon convinced," said I, "that your salvation must be
an act of entire grace on the part of God, wholly independent of your own
previous works or deservings?"
At this moment the dairyman came in with two pails of milk hanging
from the yoke on his shoulders. He had stood behind the half-opened door
for a few minutes, and heard the last sentences spoken by his wife and
daughter.
"Blessing and mercy upon her," said he, "it is very true; she would
leave a good place of service on purpose to live with us, that she might
help us both in soul and body. Sir, don't she look very ill? I think,
sir, we shan't have her here long."
I then asked her on what her present consolations chiefly depended,
in the prospect of approaching death.
"These are the views which, through mercy, I have of my Saviour's
goodness; and they have made me wish and strive in my poor way to serve
Him, to give myself up to Him, and to labour to do my duty in that state
of life into which it has pleased Him to call me.
"A thousand times I should have fallen and fainted, if He had not
upheld me. I feel that I am nothing without Him. He is all in all.
I looked around me as she was speaking, and thought, 'Surely this is
none other than the house of God and the gate of heaven.' Everything
appeared neat, cleanly, and interesting. The afternoon had been rather
overcast with dark clouds; but just now the setting sun shone brightly
and rather suddenly into the room. It was reflected from three or four
rows of bright pewter plates and white earthenware arranged on shelves
against the wall; it also gave brilliancy to a few prints of sacred
subjects that hung there also, and served for monitors of the birth,
baptism, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ. A large map of
Jerusalem, and a hieroglyphic of "the old and new man," completed the
decorations on that side of the room. Clean as was the whitewashed wall,
it was not cleaner than the rest of the place and its furniture. Seldom
had the sun enlightened a house where order and general neatness-those
sure attendants of pious and decent poverty-were more conspicuous.
This gleam of setting sunshine was emblematical of the bright and
serene close of this young Christian's departing season. One ray
happened to be reflected from a little looking-glass upon the face of the
young woman. Amidst her pallid and decaying features there appeared a
calm resignation, triumphant confidence, unaffected humility, and tender
anxiety, which fully declared the feelings of her heart.
Some further affectionate conversation and a short prayer closed this
interview.
As I rode home by departing daylight, a solemn tranquillity reigned
throughout the scene. The gentle lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep
just penned in their folds, the humming of the insects of the night, the
distant murmur of the sea, the last notes of the birds of day, and the
first warblings of the nightingale, broke upon the ear, and served rather
to increase than lessen the peaceful serenity of the evening and its
corresponding effects on my own mind. It invited and cherished just such
meditations as my visit had already inspired. Natural scenery, when
viewed in a Christian mirror, frequently affords very beautiful
illustrations of divine truth. We are highly favoured when we can enjoy
them, and at the same time draw near to God in them.
Soon after this I received a hasty summons, to inform me that my
young friend was dying. It was brought by a soldier, whose countenance
bespoke seriousness, good sense, and piety.
I am sent, sir, by the father and mother of Elizabeth Wallbridge, at
her own particular request, to say how much they all wish to see you.
She is going home, sir, very fast indeed."
My horse was soon ready. My military companion walked by my side, and
gratified me with very sensible and pious conversation. He related some
remarkable testimonies of the excellent disposition of the dairyman's
daughter, as they appeared from some recent intercourse which he had had
with her.
"She is a bright diamond, sir," said the soldier, "and will soon
shine brighter than any diamond upon earth." Conversation beguiled the
distance and shortened the apparent time of our journey till we were
nearly arrived at the dairyman's cottage.
As we approached it, we became silent. Thoughts of death, eternity,
and salvation, inspired by the sight of a house where a dying believer
lay, filled my own mind, and, I doubt not, that of my companion also. No
living object yet appeared, except the dairyman's dog, keeping a kind of
mute watch at the door; for he did not, as formerly, bark at my approach.
He seemed to partake so far of the feelings appropriate to the
circumstance of the family as not to wish to give a hasty or painful
alarm. He came forward to the little wicket-gate, then looked back at
the house door, as if conscious there was sorrow within. It was as if he
wanted to say, "Tread softly over the threshold, as you enter the house
of mourning; for my master's heart is full of grief."
A solemn serenity appeared to surround the whole place. It was only
interrupted by the breeze passing through the large elm trees which stood
near the house, which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were
plaintive sighs of sorrow. I gently opened the door; no one appeared,
and all was still silent. The soldier followed; we came to the foot of
the stairs.
"They are come," said a voice which I knew to be the father's; "they
are come." He appeared at the top; I gave him my hand, and said nothing.
On entering the room above, I saw the aged mother and her son supporting
the much-loved daughter and sister; the son's wife sat weeping in a
window-seat, with a child on her lap; two or three persons attended in
the room to discharge any office which friendship or necessity might
require.
I sat down by the bedside. The mother could not weep, but now and
then sighed deeply, as she alternately looked at Elizabeth and at me.
The big tear rolled down the brother's cheek, and testified an
affectionate regard. The good old man stood at the foot of the bed,
leaning upon the post, and unable to take his eyes off the child from
whom he was so soon to part.
Elizabeth's eyes were closed, and as yet she perceived me not. But
over her face, though pale, sunk, and hollow, the peace of God, which
passeth all understanding, had cast a triumphant calm.
The soldier, after a short pause, silently reached out his Bible
towards me, pointing with his finger at 1 Cor. xv. 55-57. I then broke
silence by reading the passage, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave,
where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin
is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through
our Lord Jesus Christ."
At the sound of these words her eyes opened, and something like a ray
of divine light beamed on her countenance, as she said, "Victory,
victory! through our Lord Jesus Christ."
She relapsed again, taking no further notice of any one present.
"My dear friend, do you not feel that you arc supported?"
At length I said to Elizabeth, "Do you experience any doubts or
temptations on the subject of your eternal safety?"
She did not again revive while I remained, nor ever speak any more
words which could be understood. She slumbered for about ten hours, and
at last sweetly fell asleep in the arms of the Lord who had dealt so
gently with her.
I left the house an hour after she had ceased to speak. I pressed her
hand as I was taking leave, and said, Christ is the resurrection and the
life." She gently returned the pressure, but could neither open her eyes
nor utter a reply. I never had witnessed a scene so impressive as this
before. It completely filled my imagination as I returned home.
'Farewell,' thought I, 'dear friend, till the morning of an eternal
day shall renew our personal intercourse. Thou wast a brand plucked from
the burning, that thou might become a star shining in the firmament of
glory. I have seen the light and thy good works, and I will therefore
glorify our Father which is in heaven. I have seen in thy example what
it is to be a sinner freely saved by grace. I have learned from thee, as
in a living mirror, who it is that begins, continues, and ends the work
of faith and love. Jesus is all in all; He will and shall be glorified.
He won the crown, and alone deserves to wear it. May no one attempt to
rob Him of His glory; He saves, and saves to the uttermost. Farewell,
dear sister in the Lord. Thy flesh and thy heart may fail; but God is
the strength of thy heart, and shall be thy portion for ever.'
I was soon called to attend the funeral of my friend, who breathed
her last shortly after my visit. Many pleasing yet melancholy thoughts
were connected with the fulfilment of this task. I retraced the numerous
and important conversations which I had held with her. But these could
now no longer be held on earth. I reflected on the interesting and
improving nature of Christian friendships, whether formed in palaces or
in cottages; and felt thankful that I had so long enjoyed that privilege
with the subject of this memorial. I indulged a sigh, for a moment, on
thinking that I could no longer hear the great truths of Christianity
uttered by one who had drunk so deep at the waters of life. But the
rising murmur was checked by the animating thought, 'She is gone to
eternal rest-could I wish to bring her back to this vale of tears?'
As I travelled onward to the house where lay her remains in solemn
preparation for the grave, the first sound of a tolling bell struck my
ear. It proceeded from a village church in the valley directly beneath
the ridge of a high hill, over which I had taken my way-it was
Elizabeth's funeral knell. It was a solemn sound, but it seemed to
proclaim at once the blessedness of the dead who die in the Lord, and the
necessity of the living pondering these things and laying them to heart.
On entering the cottage, I found that several Christian friends, from
different parts of the neighbourhood, had assembled together to show
their last tribute of esteem and regard to the memory of the dairyman's
daughter.
I was requested to go into the chamber, where the relatives and a few
other friends were gone to take a last look at the remains of Elizabeth.
If there be a moment when Christ and salvation, death, judgment,
heaven and hell appear more than ever to be momentous subjects of
meditation, it is that which brings us to the side of a coffin containing
the body of a departed believer.
Elizabeth's features were altered, but much of her likeness remained.
Her father and mother sat at the head, her brother at the foot of the
coffin, manifesting their deep and unfeigned sorrow. The poor mother
cried and sobbed aloud. The weakness and infirmity of old age added a
character to her sorrow, which called for much tenderness and compassion.
A remarkably decent-looking woman, who had the management of the few
simple though solemn ceremonies which the case required, advanced toward
me, saying,
The soldier before mentioned reached a Bible into my hand, and said,
"Perhaps, sir, you would not object to reading a chapter before we go
to the church."
I did so; it was the fourteenth of the Book of Job. A sweet
tranquillity prevailed while I read it. Each minute that was spent in
this funeral chamber seemed to be valuable. I made a few observations on
the chapter, and connected them with the case of our departed sister.
"I am but a poor soldier," said our military friend, "and have
nothing of this world's goods beyond my daily subsistence; but I would
not exchange my hope of salvation in the next world for all that this
world could bestow without it. What is wealth without grace? Blessed be
God, as I march about from one quarter to another, I still find the Lord
wherever I go; and thanks be to His holy name, He is here today in the
midst of this company of the living and the dead. I feel that it is good
to be here."
Some other persons present began to take a part in the conversation,
in the course of which the life and experience of the dairyman's daughter
were brought forward in a very interesting manner; each friend had
something to relate in testimony of her gracious disposition. One
distant relative, a young woman under twenty, who had hitherto been a
very light and trifling character, appeared to be remarkably impressed by
the conversation of that day; and I have since had ground to believe that
divine grace then began to influence her in the choice of that better
part which shall not be taken from her. What a contrast does such a
scene as this exhibit, when compared with the dull, formal, unedifying,
and often indecent manner in which funeral parties assemble in the house
of death!
But the time for departure to the church was now at hand. I went to
take my last look at the deceased. There was much written on her
countenance: she had evidently departed with a smile. It still remained,
and spoke the tranquillity of her departing soul. According to the
custom of the place, she was decorated with leaves and flowers in the
coffin; these indeed were fading flowers, but they remind me of that
paradise whose flowers are immortal, and where her never-dying soul is at
rest.
I remembered the last words which I had heard her speak, and was
instantly struck with the happy thought, that 'death was indeed swallowed
up in victory.'
As I slowly retired, I said inwardly, 'Peace, my honoured sister, to
thy memory, and to my soul, till we meet in a better world.'
In a little time the procession formed; it was rendered the more
interesting by the consideration of so many that followed the coffin
being persons of truly serious and spiritual character.
After we had advanced about a hundred yards, my meditation was
unexpectedly and most agreeably interrupted by the friends who followed
the family beginning to sing a funeral psalm. Nothing could be more
sweet or solemn. The well-known effect of the open air in softening and
blending the sounds of music was here peculiarly felt.
The road through which we passed was beautiful and romantic; it lay
at the foot of a hill, which occasionally re-echoed the voices of the
singers, and seemed to give faint replies to the notes of the mourners.
The funeral knell was distinctly heard from the church tower, and greatly
increased the effect which this simple and becoming service produced. I
cannot describe the state of my own mind as peculiarly connected with the
solemn singing. I never witnessed a similar instance before or since. I
was reminded of older times and ancient piety. I wished the practice
more frequent. It seems well calculated to excite and cherish devotion
and religious affections.
We at length arrived at the church. The service was heard with deep
and affectionate attention. When we came to the grave, the hymn which
Elizabeth had selected was sung. All was devout, simple, decent,
animating. We committed our dear friend's body to the grave, in full
hope of a joyful resurrection from the dead.
Thus the veil of separation drawn for a season. She is departed, and
no more seen. But she will be seen at the right hand of her Redeemer at
the last day, and will again appear to His glory, a miracle of grace and
a monument of mercy.
My reader, rich or poor, shall you and I appear there likewise? Are
we "clothed with humility," and arrayed in the wedding garment of a
Redeemer's righteousness? Are we turned from idols to serve the Living
God? Are we sensible of our own emptiness, flying to a Saviour's
fullness to obtain grace and strength? Do we live in Him, and on Him,
and by Him, and with Him? Is He our all in all? Are we "lost and found"
"dead, and alive again"?
My poor reader, the dairyman's daughter was a poor girl, and the
child of a poor man. Herein thou resemblest her: but dost thou resemble
her, as she resembled Christ? Art thou made rich by faith? Hast thou a
crown laid up for thee? Is thy heart set upon heavenly riches? If not,
read this story once more, and then pray earnestly for like precious
faith. If, through grace, thou dost love and serve the Redeemer that
saved the dairyman's daughter, grace, peace, and mercy be with thee. The
lines are fallen unto thee in pleasant places; thou hast a goodly
heritage. Press forward in duty, and wait upon the Lord, possessing thy
soul in holy patience. Thou hast just been with me to the grave of a
departed believer. Now, "go thy way till the end be; for thou shalt
rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days." Dan. 12:13.
THE GRAVESTONE
IN MEMORY OF
"SHE BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH."
"Stranger, if e'er by chance or feeling led
Lowly her lot on earth; but He who bore
Faith, that dispelled afflictions darkest gloom;
Death of its sting disarmed, she knew no fear,
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