Part 24

Mr. Roscoe felt somewhat embarrassed by this powerful appeal; but recovering himself, and assuming his natural dignity of manner, he said, in a subdued tone, "I have much to unlearn, and much to learn, before I can become a real Christian. The following passage, in one of St. Paul's epistles, has often puzzled me, but now I begin to understand its meaning: '_Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise_.' I once thought that I could acquire a knowledge of the theory of revealed truth by the mere effort of intellectual research and investigation, as we acquire a knowledge of any human science; and perhaps few men have devoted more time to the study of it than myself; but I have hitherto neglected to implore wisdom from above, because I did not think it necessary. And the result of all my mental application is a painful discovery of my own ignorance, and even this was not made till I saw my danger. My dear Sophia has often told me that a Divine illumination of the mind is the great secret in personal religion; but I could form no conception of her meaning. Such a sentiment appeared to me not only _unnecessary_, but absurd; and I often feared, when she has been speaking on this subject, that her understanding was bewildered amidst the unintelligible reveries of a mystical theology. Sometimes, it is true, her arguments would be attended with so much force and skill that she has compelled me to change the subject of debate; but on a recent occasion, when she quoted the passage, 'But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned,' it made so deep an impression upon my heart, that from that hour to the present I have undergone a perpetual conflict between my prejudices and convictions."

Mr. Roscoe had engaged to return home early in the evening, and now withdrew, but not without expressing the great pleasure which the conversation had afforded him, and making us promise that we would spend an evening at his house in the following week.

Mr. Stevens and I walked with him the greater part of the way home. It was a lovely evening. The moon was just rising above the top of a distant hill; and, as we were entering the grove, we lingered to listen to the songs of the nightingales responding to each other.

"Here is melody," said Mr. Roscoe. "Here is the song of innocence. Here is sweet contentment. And why is the bird of night more happy than man? Ah! why?"

"Because," said Mr. Stevens, "man is fallen from that state of purity and honour in which he was created, and it is wisely ordained that misery shall be the consequence of sin." We now bade him adieu.

On our return, Mrs. Stevens said, "I should like to send a note to Miss Roscoe, to tell her the nature of our conversation with her father. Dear creature, it will make her so glad."

"I think you had better defer doing so till to-morrow; and even then I would advise you to avoid precipitancy. Her mind has recently been under very strong excitement, and as such news will necessarily produce a powerful effect, great prudence is needful on your part in making this communication. As she has to pass from the deepest anxiety to the most elevated joy, she ought not to be startled by a hasty communication; it should be made cautiously, that the transition of feeling may be gradual, instead of rushing in upon her with overpowering force."

"Perhaps, when he sees her, he will make some allusion to the subject of our conversation, which may lead to an entire disclosure of the state of his feelings. What a change! How surprising! I seem as if I were suddenly roused from an enchanting dream."

"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Stevens, "it is surprising that the Lord of glory should condescend to subdue the enmity of the human heart, and thus make the child of disobedience an heir of glory; but it ought not to surprise us. If we look back, we shall remember the time when to us the theatre possessed more attractions than the house of God, and the follies of gay life gave us more delight than the exercises of devotion; 'but God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ (by grace are we saved), and hath raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus.'"

"If," said Mrs. Stevens, "Mr. Roscoe should come forth a _decided character_, it will make a powerful impression on his irreligious friends. Surely they will not be able to withstand the force of such a striking evidence in favour of the divine origin of the Christian faith--why, it is a self-evident demonstration. I begin to anticipate the happiest results."

"But, my dear, you must not be too sanguine; Mr. Roscoe may not come forth _so soon, nor so decidedly_, as you anticipate. Though I trust the great moral change has taken place which distinguishes the real from the nominal Christian, yet, as his mind is of a very singular order, we may conclude it will still retain its individuality, and develope its new qualities with that precision and precaution which are its distinctive characteristics. We may calculate on decision, but not rash or hasty decision; on energy, but not much ardent zeal; and on unbending integrity and unremitting constancy; but his progression is likely to be that of a man moving onwards with the dignity of principle, rather than under the impulse of strong passion."

"But do you not suppose that he will go to Broadhurst, and hear our dear Mr. Ingleby next Sabbath?"

"Certainly not; you are not to conclude, from the conversation of this evening, that he yet sees the truth with perfect clearness. No, he rather resembles the man of whom we read in the gospel, who, when the mystic power commenced its mighty operation, saw men so indistinctly that they appeared 'like trees walking.' The film is but partially removed from the eye of his understanding; and though he has the power of spiritual discernment, yet not perfectly. And such is the degree of influence which prejudice, and family, and social connections may still have over his mind, that probably he will not very soon break through his long-established habits, and mingle among us as one of our own people. Indeed, I hardly wish it; because it will be so extraordinary, that it would be considered as a religious mania, taken as by some kind of mysterious infection, rather than the positive result of deep thought, and cool and deliberate judgment. Oh, no; minds, when under the dominion of grace, are usually governed according to the settled laws of their own constitution; and hence the difference of conduct, in relation to an open profession of religion, which is so apparent among the heirs of salvation."

"I am sure Mr. Ingleby will be delighted to hear of it. I have often heard him say, that the conversion of a moral man to the faith of Christ is a more decisive proof of the efficacy of Divine truth, than the conversion of an immoral man, and a much more rare occurrence."

"Yes, my dear, it is more rare, and more difficult, because it is not so easy to convince of mental sin as of an overt act of impiety; but I do not wish that there should be even the most distant allusion made on the subject to any one but Miss Roscoe."

"My dear, you surprise me."

"Perhaps I may, but I think you will be satisfied with my reasons for wishing silence to be observed. If we hastily proclaim to our friends that Mr. Roscoe has undergone a great change in his religious opinions and principles, we may raise expectations which his cautious habit of mind may disappoint, at least for a season, and thus bring on ourselves the censures of some, for stating as a fact what we merely wish to be true. And not only so, but we shall deprive his decision of that power of impression which I think it will ultimately possess. For if we are more forward to speak of such a mental change than he is to profess it, we may be considered as the originators of it; and in that case his example will not have such a powerful influence over his irreligious friends, as it will have if it appear to be the result, as I expect it will, of calm deliberation. He will move with great caution, and we should speak with equal caution."

"What effect do you think his conversion will have on Mrs. Roscoe?"

"Why, unless it should please God to interpose, and bring her to the knowledge of the truth, I have no doubt but it will be regarded by her as some astounding and destructive visitation, sent by an unknown hand to destroy her happiness for life. She is but partially reconciled to the piety of her daughter; and, even now, expresses not only her surprise, but her deep regret; and if her husband become pious (as I have no doubt but he will), though she may endeavour to conform herself to his religious habits, yet it will be with extreme reluctance. But perhaps by his conversation, and the dignified consistency of his conduct, he may succeed in process of time, in answer to his own fervent prayers and the wrestling prayers of dear Sophia, in winning her to Christ."

"It is possible, nay, very probable, as prayer will be made for her continually; and the prayer of faith brings to pass moral wonders. We may live to hail them both as fellow-heirs of the grace of life."

"What a blissful consummation!"

A NIGHT CALAMITY.

Near Fairmount Villa stood a tasteful cottage, which Mr. Stevens had erected as a means of giving additional security to his premises. It was occupied by a worthy man, named Josiah Hargrave, who gained his livelihood as a common carrier. He had commenced life as a labourer; and, by honest industry and perseverance, had risen to a state of comparative independence. His cottage was well furnished; he had two cows, a good horse and cart, a donkey, a large stock of poultry, some pigs, and hay and straw enough to last him through winter. He had been married about seven years; and had three children, two sons and a daughter. Here they lived in peace and contentment, neither envying their richer, nor despising their poorer neighbours.

I called on them one day; and, when congratulating them on their prosperity, I was struck with the very sensible remarks which Mrs. Hargrave made on the uncertain duration of all earthly blessings.

"Our heavenly Father," she observed, "has blessed us indeed; He has given us more than we deserve, and more than we expected; and He, who has given us all, can, if He please, take all away."

"Yes, He can; and suppose He should deprive you of your little possessions, do you think you could bow in submission, and say, '_Thy will be done_?'"

"Yes, Sir, if He give the disposition; but if not, we should repine."

"Ah! Sir," Josiah remarked, "we are poor sinful creatures. In prosperity we are ungrateful, and in adversity rebellious, unless it please the Lord to sanctify to us His dispensations."

"Which state," I asked, "should you prefer, if it were left to your choice--prosperity or adversity?"

"Why," said Josiah, "I would rather let my heavenly Father choose for me, than venture to choose for myself, because He cannot err; but I may. Prosperity, without His blessing, would be a snare; adversity, with it, would be a comfort."

We were interrupted in our conversation by the sudden entrance of the eldest boy, a lad about five years of age, who exclaimed, "I have said my hymn! and,"----before he saw me.

"Come," said the mother, "go and speak to the gentleman."

"Yes," added the father, "and say your hymn to him."

The boy approached with a modest blush, and immediately repeated the following verses, with ease and propriety:--

"I thank the goodness and the grace, Which on my birth have smil'd, And made me, in these Christian days, A happy English child.

"I was not born, as thousands are, Where God was never known, And taught to pray a useless pray'r To blocks of wood and stone.

"I was not born a little slave, To labour in the sun, And wish I were but in the grave, And all my labour done.

"I was not born without a home, Or in some broken shed, A gipsy baby, taught to roam And steal my daily bread.

"My God, I thank thee, who hast plann'd A better lot for me; And placed me in this happy land, Where I may hear of thee."

He repeated also the third chapter of the Gospel according to John, without making any mistake.

"And where does your boy go to school?"

"He goes," said Josiah, "to Mrs. Stevens's Sabbath-school; and, for the last six months, he has been twice in the week up to Squire Roscoe's; and Miss Roscoe has been so kind as to teach him."

"There was a time," I remarked, "when the rich were either too proud, or too much devoted to the pleasures of the world, to attend to the improvement of the lower classes; but now they discover a disposition to favour almost every institution which pure benevolence establishes."

"Yes, Sir," said Josiah, "some do; but not all. We have a few in the parish who are very angry with Mrs. Stevens for setting up her Sabbath-school; and they have tried to put it down; but, thank God, they have not been able to do it. We have but little light; and why should they try to put it out? I went the other day up to Cleveland Hall, and Sir Harry Wilmot, who was a great enemy to Mrs. Stevens's Sabbath-school, was pleased to say that my Charles was a very sharp and well-behaved lad, and did us credit. 'Yes, Sir,' I replied, 'and we may thank Mrs. Stevens for that; for if she had not opened her Sunday-school, our boy would be as rude and as ignorant as other boys.' 'What!' said Sir Harry, 'does your boy go to her school?' 'Yes, Sir.' He was silent some time, and walked backwards and forwards his room, and then went to his bureau, and took out a pound, and said, 'Make my compliments to Mrs. Stevens, and give her this towards the support of her school; and tell her that as long as I see such fruits of her labour, I will encourage them.'"

"It is pleasing," I remarked, "to see the prejudices which some of the more opulent and powerful have cherished against the benevolent institutions of society, giving way; and I have no doubt but they will ultimately become the generous supporters of them."

* * * * *

We had protracted our conversation at Fairmount to an unusually late hour, and were preparing to retire to rest, when we heard the cry of "Fire!" We immediately rushed out, and, on passing through the back yard, we saw the flames issuing from Hargrave's cottage. We hastened to afford assistance; but as the wind blew hard, and we had no engine, it was impossible to save more than a few articles of furniture. It was a dismal scene; I shall never forget that awful night. The mother, with one child in her arms, and another by her side, with difficulty made their escape; and Josiah, in trying to remove his poor dumb ass from the shed, which stood close behind the cottage, was severely scorched; and, though he returned again and again, he was obliged to abandon her.

At length the fury of the wind abated, the rain came down in torrents, and the neighbours, flocking to our assistance, we were able, within the space of about two hours, to extinguish the fire. We now turned our attention to the poor sufferers, who had taken refuge in the villa. On entering the kitchen, I beheld Mrs. Hargrave with her infant in her arms, Charles standing close by her chair, and her husband reclining against the wall, as the surgeon was examining his wounds. When they were dressed, and the terror had somewhat subsided, Josiah said, "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, but, blessed be his name, he hath not taken away my wife nor my children."

"There are," said Mr. Stevens, "some circumstances connected with every affliction which take off their keen edge, and give a stronger excitement to our gratitude, than to a murmuring disposition."

"But," said Josiah, as he stood gazing on the living wreck of his possession, "where is Henry? I don't see him."

"Where did you carry him?" said the mother. "You took him up and ran out with him, when I came out with Charles and Ann."

"I have not seen him," said Josiah.

The mother, on hearing this reply, darted from her seat, exclaiming, with a look and in a tone of frantic agony, "My Henry is burnt! my Henry is burnt! O, my Henry! my poor dear Henry! I shall never see him again!" This subdued the firmness of Josiah; but he could not weep. He looked like a man bereft of his reason. He fell back in a chair, and said, "Alas! my poor dear Henry!" This scene of parental anguish was too much for Mrs. Stevens; and, though she bore up for a time, and endeavoured, by efforts of kindness, to allay their sorrow, yet she was obliged at length to retire.

As the mother was again exclaiming, "O, my poor Henry! I shall never see him again!" the gardener entered the kitchen with Henry, and said, "Here he is, safe and sound!" The father sprang up as with the rapidity of thought; the mother rushed across the room, and they both seized the child, as though each was afraid to let the other touch him. But after the first maternal kiss had been given to little Henry, who knew nothing of what had been passing, she suffered her husband to take him, as she still held her infant in her arms, and they both sat down, with their Charles between them, while the inmates of the villa pressed round to participate in their joy.

"And is it you, my Henry?" said the mother. "Kiss me, my boy."

"Kiss me, Henry," said Charles.

We now shed tears of gratitude, and after recovering ourselves from this agitating excitement, I asked the gardener where he found the child.

"I found him, Sir, asleep between two trusses of hay in Master Hargrave's stable."

"O, I now recollect!" said Josiah. "I carried him and put him in the stable when the fire broke out, as I knew he would be safe there, but I had forgotten it."

Early in the morning I hastened to the ruins, where I found Josiah and his wife examining the extent of their loss.

"This has been to you a night which will never be forgotten."

"Very true, Sir," said Mrs. Hargrave, "we never had so many mercies crowded within such a short space of time. What a mercy that we were not consumed, that none of our children were burnt, and that the horse and cart are not injured, so that Josiah can go on in his business; we can sing of mercy as well as of judgment."

"Ah! Sir," said Josiah, "what a mercy that, though we have lost some of our little property, yet we have not lost any property but what was our own. The Lord gave it to us, and now He has been pleased to take it away, but He has not taken all. He has spared more than I expected, and much more than we deserved."

"It will be a long time before you will be able to repair this loss."

"Yes, it will; but you know, Sir, that it is 'the blessing of the Lord that maketh rich.' This trial is sent to moderate our desires after the things that perish, to teach us to walk by faith, and to derive our happiness from communion with Him who is invisible."

As we were conversing together, Mr. Stevens came up, and taking Josiah by the hand, said, "Don't be cast down, I will have the cottage repaired immediately, and till it is finished, you shall have my other cottage at the grove, which happens to be vacant."

"Thank you, Sir, for your kindness; I hope Mrs. Stevens is well this morning?"

"She is not well; she has had a bad night."

Several of the more respectable inhabitants of the village now joined us in their expressions of sympathy; and it was unanimously resolved that a subscription should be made for the benefit of the Hargraves. "Gentlemen," said Mr. Roscoe, "I shall be happy to see you at my house in the evening. In the meantime we shall be able to ascertain the extent of this good man's loss, and then we can adopt some effectual measures to repair it."

There is a kind provision made for the children of sorrow in that sympathy which is implanted in almost every breast. Who can avoid its excitement when an object of distress is seen, or a tale of woe narrated? Yet there are some who will weep over misery, but will make no personal sacrifice to relieve it. They will talk, but they will not give. They will recommend to others the benevolence which they never practise; and profess to admire the virtue which they are not anxious should adorn their own character. "But," says the apostle, "whoso hath this world's goods, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

The loss which Josiah Hargrave sustained by the fire, amounted to about thirty pounds; and Mr. Roscoe consented, at the urgent request of the gentlemen who met at his house, to accompany Mr. Stevens in soliciting the benevolence of the neighbours towards repairing it. They commenced their work of mercy on the following morning, and finished it in the course of the day. The first person they called on was the Rev. Mr. Cole, the rector of the parish, and he refused to contribute, because Hargrave chose to attend the ministry of Mr. Ingleby in preference to his own.

"This refusal," said Mr. Roscoe to his friend, "does not surprise me, but it grieves me. Mr. Cole is an amiable man, but he is, what I once was, a religious bigot; and though he is very charitable to the poor, yet his charity is confined to those who come to his church."

"We may," said Mr. Stevens, "call his charity the charity of bigotry, not the charity of the gospel."

"I was once taking tea with him, when a poor woman, near the time of her confinement, applied to him for relief; but when he found that she attended your chapel, he first reproved her, and then dismissed her without giving her any assistance."

"But perhaps he thought she was an impostor?"

"No, Sir, she brought with her a note of recommendation from your friend, Mr. Stone."

"And is it possible that a man, who professes to be a minister of Jesus Christ, could refuse to assist a poor woman in such a time of need, because she does not attend his church? Then, I suppose, if he had been passing by Josiah Hargrave's house when the fire broke out, his first inquiry would have been, Do you attend my church?--and on finding that he hears Mr. Ingleby, he would have gone on, and left him to perish."

"No, no; I think he would have knocked you up, and sent you to assist him, because his argument is, 'Let those who imbibe the same faith, assist each other.'"

"A similar argument was employed by the priest and Levite, when they passed by on the opposite side of the road, disdaining to do more than merely look on the wounded traveller; but the good Samaritan, whose breast glowed with pure benevolence, 'when he saw him he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.' And are we not commanded to display the same comprehensive benevolence, without standing to consider the character of the sufferer, or presuming to inquire into the orthodoxy of his faith?"