The Annals of the Poor

by Legh Richmond

PART I.

When a serious Christian turns his attention to the barren state of the wilderness through which he is travelling, frequently must he heave a sigh for the sins and sorrows of his fellow-mortals. The renewed heart thirsts with holy desire that the Paradise which was lost through Adam may be fully regained in Christ. But the overflowings of sin within and without, the contempt of sacred institutions, the carelessness of soul, the pride of unbelief, the eagerness of sensual appetite, the ambition for worldly greatness, and the deep-rooted enmity of the carnal heart against God: these things are as “the fiery serpents, and scorpions, and drought,” which distress his soul, as he journeys through “that great and terrible wilderness.”

Sometimes, like a solitary pilgrim, he weeps in secret places, and rivers of water run down his eyes, because men keep not the law of God.

Occasionally he meets with a few fellow-travellers whose spirit is congenial with his own, and with whom he can

take “sweet counsel together.” They comfort and strengthen each other by the way. Each can relate something of the mercies of his God, and how kindly they have been dealt with, as they travelled onwards. The dreariness of the path is thus beguiled, and now and then, for a while, happy experiences of the divine consolation cheer their souls; “the wilderness and the solitary place are glad for them; the desert rejoices and blossoms as the rose.”

But even at the very time when the Christian is taught to feel the peace of God which passeth all understanding, to trust that he is personally interested in the blessings of salvation, and to believe that God will promote his own glory by glorifying the penitent sinner; yet sorrows will mingle with his comforts, and he will rejoice, not without trembling, when he reflects on the state of other men. The anxieties connected with earthly relations are all alive in his soul, and, through the operation of the Spirit of God, become sanctified principles and motives for action. As the husband and father of a family; as the neighbour of the poor, the ignorant, the wicked, and the wretched; above all, as the spiritual overseer of the flock, if such be his holy calling, the heart which has been taught to feel for its own case will abundantly feel for others.

But when he attempts to devise means in order to stem the torrent of iniquity, to instruct the ignorant, and to convert the sinner from the error of his way, he cannot help crying out, “Who is sufficient for these things?” Unbelief passes over the question, and trembles. But faith quickly revives the inquirer with the cheerful assurance that “our sufficiency is of God,” and saith, “Commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it to pass.”

When he is thus affectionately engaged for the good of mankind, he will become seriously impressed with the necessity of early attentions to the young in particular. Many around him are grown gray-headed in sin, and give but little prospect of amendment. Many of the parents and heads of families are so eagerly busied in the profits, pleasures, and occupations of the world, that they heed not the warning voice of their instructor. Many of their elder children are launching out into life, headstrong, unruly, “earthly, sensual, devilish;” they likewise treat the wisdom of God as if it were foolishness. But, under these discouragements, we may often turn with hope to the very young, to the little ones of the flock, and endeavour to teach them to sing hosannas to the Son of David, before their minds are wholly absorbed in the world and its allurements. We may trust that a blessing shall attend such labours, if undertaken in faith and simplicity, and that some at least of our youthful disciples, like Josiah, while they are yet young, may begin to seek after the God of their fathers.

Such an employment, especially when blessed by any actual instances of real good produced, enlivens the mind with hope, and fills it with gratitude. We are thence led to trust that the next generation may become more fruitful unto God than the present, and the Church of Christ be replenished with many such as have been called into the vineyard “early in the morning.” And should our endeavours for a length of time apparently fail of success, yet we ought not to despair. Early impressions and convictions of conscience have sometimes lain dormant for years, and at last revived into gracious existence and maturity. It was

not said in vain, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.”

What a gratifying occupation it is to an affectionate mind, even in a way of nature, to walk through the fields, and lead a little child by the hand, enjoying its infantine prattle, and striving to improve the time by some kind word of instruction! I wish that every Christian pilgrim in the way of grace, as he walks through the Lord’s pastures, would try to lead at least one little child by the hand; and perhaps, whilst he is endeavouring to guide and preserve his young and feeble companion, the Lord will recompense him double for all his cares by comforting his own heart in the attempt. The experiment is worth the trial. It is supported by this recollection,—“The Lord will come with strong hand, and his arm shall rule for him; behold, his reward is with him, and his work before him. He shall feed his flock like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young.”

I shall plead no further apology for introducing to the notice of my readers a few particulars relative to a young female cottager, whose memory is particularly endeared to me from the circumstance of her being, so far as I can trace or discover, my first-born spiritual child in the ministry of the gospel. She was certainly the first, of whose conversion to God, under my own pastoral instruction, I can speak with precision and assurance.

Every parent of a family knows that there is a very interesting emotion of heart connected with the birth of his first-born child. Energies and affections, to which the mind has hitherto been almost a stranger, begin to unfold themselves

and expand into active existence when he first is hailed as a father. But may not the spiritual father be allowed the possession and indulgence of a similar sensation in his connection with the children whom the Lord gives him, as begotten through the ministry of the word of life! If the first-born child in nature be received as a new and acceptable blessing, how much more so the first-born child in grace! I claim this privilege, and crave permission, in writing what follows, to erect a monumental record, sacred to the memory of a dear little child, who, I trust, will at the last day prove my crown of rejoicing.

Jane S--- was the daughter of poor parents, in the village where it pleased God first to cast my lot in the ministry. My acquaintance with her commenced when she was twelve years of age by her weekly attendance at my house amongst a number of children whom I invited and regularly instructed every Saturday afternoon.

They used to read, repeat catechisms, psalms, hymns, and portions of Scripture. I accustomed them also to pass a kind of free conversational examination, according to their age and ability, in those subjects by which I hoped to see them made wise unto salvation.

On the summer evenings I frequently used to assemble this little group out of doors in my garden, sitting under the shade of some trees, which protected us from the heat of the sun; from hence a scene appeared, which rendered my occupation the more interesting. For adjoining the spot where we sat, and only separated from us by a fence, was the churchyard, surrounded with beautiful prospects in every direction.

There lay the mortal remains of thousands, who, from age

to age, in their different generations, had been successively committed to the grave,—“earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Here the once famed ancestors of the rich, and the less known forefathers of the poor lay mingling their dust together, and alike waiting the resurrection from the dead.

I had not far to look for subjects of warning and exhortation suitable to my little flock of lambs that I was feeding. I could point to the heaving sods that marked the different graves and separated them from each other, and tell my pupils that, young as they were, none of them were too young to die; and that probably more than half of the bodies which were buried there were those of little children. I hence took occasion to speak of the nature and value of a soul, and to ask them where they expected their souls to go when they departed hence and were no more seen on earth.

I told them who was “the resurrection and the life,” and who alone could take away the sting of death. I used to remind them that the hour was “coming in the which all that are in the graves shall hear His voice, and shall come forth: they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation.” I often availed myself of these opportunities to call to their recollection the more recent deaths of their own relatives that lay buried so near us. Some had lost a parent, others a brother or sister; some perhaps had lost all these, and were committed to the mercy of their neighbours as fatherless or motherless orphans. Such circumstances were occasionally useful to excite tender emotions, favourable to serious impressions.

Sometimes I sent the children to the various stones which stood at the head of the graves, and bid them learn the epitaphs inscribed upon them. I took pleasure in seeing the little ones thus dispersed in the churchyard, each committing to memory a few verses written in commemoration of the departed. They would soon accomplish the desired object, and eagerly return to me ambitious to repeat their task.

Thus my churchyard became a book of instruction, and every grave-stone a leaf of edification for my young disciples.

The church itself stood in the midst of the ground. It was a spacious antique structure. Within those very walls I first proclaimed the message of God to sinners. As these children surrounded me, I sometimes pointed to the church, spoke to them of the nature of public worship, the value of the Sabbath, the duty of regular attendance on its services, and urged their serious attention to the means of grace. I showed them the sad state of many countries, where neither churches nor Bibles were known, and the no less melancholy condition of multitudes at home, who sinfully neglect worship and slight the word of God. I thus tried to make them sensible of their own favours and privileges.

Neither was I at a loss for another class of objects around me from which I could draw useful instruction; for many of the beauties of created nature appealed in view.

Eastward of us extended a large river or lake of sea-water, chiefly formed by the tide, and nearly enclosed by land. Beyond this was a fine bay and road for ships, filled with vessels of every size, from the small sloop or cutter to the first-rate man-of-war. On the right hand of the haven rose a hill of peculiarly beautiful form and considerable height. Its verdure was very rich, and many hundred sheep graced

upon its sides and summit. From the opposite shore of the same water a large sloping extent of bank was diversified with fields, woods, hedges, and cottages. At its extremity stood, close to the edge of the sea itself, the remains of the tower of an ancient church, still preserved as a sea-mark. Far beyond the bay, a very distant shore was observable, and land beyond it; trees, towns, and other buildings appeared, more especially when gilded by the reflected rays of the sun.

To the south-westward of the garden was another down, covered also with flocks of sheep, and a portion of it fringed with trees. At the foot of this hill lay the village, a part of which gradually ascended to the rising ground on which the church stood.

From the intermixture of houses with gardens, orchards, and trees, it presented a very pleasing aspect. Several fields adjoined the garden on the east and north, where a number of cattle were pasturing. My own little shrubberies and flower-beds variegated the view, and recompensed my toil in rearing them, as well by their beauty as their fragrance.

Had the sweet psalmist of Israel sat in this spot, he would have glorified God the Creator by descanting on these his handiworks. I cannot write psalms like David, but I wish, in my own poor way, to praise the Lord for his goodness, and to show forth his wonderful works to the children of men. But had David been also surrounded with a troop of young scholars in such a situation, he would once more have said, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength.”

I love to retrace these scenes; they are past, but the recollection is sweet.

I love to retrace them, for they bring to my mind many former mercies, which ought not, for the Lord’s sake, to be forgotten.

I love to retrace them, for they reassure me that, in the course of that private ministerial occupation, God was pleased to give me so valuable a fruit of my labours.

Little Jane used constantly to appear on these weekly seasons of instruction. I made no very particular observations concerning her during the first twelve months or more after her commencement of attendance. She was not then remarkable for any peculiar attainment. On the whole, I used to think her rather more slow of apprehension than most of her companions. She usually repeated her tasks correctly, but was seldom able to make answers to questions for which she was not previously prepared with replies—a kind of extempore examination, in which some of the children excelled. Her countenance was not engaging; her eye discovered no remarkable liveliness. She read tolerably well, took pains, and improved in it.

Mildness and quietness marked her general demeanour. She was very constant in her attendance on public worship at the church, as well as on my Saturday instruction at home. But, generally speaking, she was little noticed, except for her regular and orderly conduct. Had I then been asked of which of my young scholars I had formed the most favourable opinion, poor Jane might have been altogether omitted in the list.

How little do we oftentimes know what God is doing in other people’s hearts! What poor calculators and judges we frequently prove till he opens our eyes! His thoughts are not our thoughts; neither our ways his ways.

Once, indeed, during the latter part of that year, I was struck with her ready attention to my wishes. I had, agreeably to the plan above mentioned, sent her into the churchyard to commit to memory an epitaph which I admired. On her return she told me that, in addition to what I desired, she had also learned another, which was inscribed on an adjoining stone, adding, that she thought it a very pretty one.

I thought so too, and perhaps my readers will be of the same opinion. Little Jane, though dead, yet shall speak. While I transcribe the lines, I can powerfully imagine that I hear her voice repeating them. The idea is exceedingly gratifying to me.

EPITAPH ON MRS. A. B.

Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tear
That mourns a thy exit from a world like this;
Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,
And stayed thy progress to the seats of bliss.

No more confined to grovelling scenes of night,
No more a tenant pent in mortal clay;
Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight,
And trace thy journey to the realms of day.

The above was her appointed task; and the other, which she voluntarily learned and spoke of with pleasure, is this:—

EPITAPH ON THE STONE ADJOINING.

It must be so—Our father Adam’s fall,
And disobedience, brought this lot on all.
All die in him—But, hopeless should we be,
Blest Revelation! were it not for thee.
Hail, glorious Gospel! heavenly light, whereby
We live with comfort, and with comfort die;
And view, beyond this gloomy scene the tomb
A life of endless happiness to come.

I afterwards discovered that the sentiment expressed in the latter epitaph had much affected her, but at the period of this little incident I knew nothing of her mind; I had comparatively overlooked her. I have often been sorry for it since. Conscience seemed to rebuke me when I afterwards discovered what the Lord had been doing for her soul, as if I had neglected her, yet it was not done designedly. She was unknown to us all, except that, as I since found out, her regularity and abstinence from the sins and follies of her young equals in age and station brought upon her many taunts and jeers from others, which she bore very meekly; but at that time I knew it not.

I was young myself in the ministry, and younger in Christian experience. My parochial plans had not as yet assumed such a principle of practical order and inquiry as to make me acquainted with the character and conduct of each family and individual in my flock.

I was then quite a learner, and had much to learn.

And what am I now? A learner still; and if I have learned anything, it is this, that I have every day more and more yet to learn. Of this I am certain, that my young scholar soon became my teacher. I first saw what true religion could accomplish in witnessing her experience of it. The Lord once “called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of his disciples” as an emblem and an illustration of his doctrine. But the Lord did more in the case of little Jane. He not only called her as a child to show, by a similitude, what conversion means, but he also called her by his grace to be a vessel of mercy, and a living witness of that almighty power and love by which her own heart was turned to God.

PART II.

There is no illustration of the nature and character of the Redeemer’s kingdom on earth which is more grateful to contemplation, than that of the shepherd and his flock. Imagination has been accustomed, from our earliest childhood, to wander amongst the fabled retreats of the Arcadian shepherds. We have probably often delighted ourselves in our own native country, by witnessing the interesting occupation of the pastoral scene. The shepherd, tending his flock on the side of some spacious hill, or in the hollow of a sequestered valley; folding them at night, and guarding them against all danger; leading them from one pasture to another, or for refreshment to the cooling waters. These objects have met and gratified our eyes, as we travelled through the fields, and sought out creation’s God, amidst creation’s beauties. The poet and the painter have each lent their aid to cherish our delight in these imaginations. Many a descriptive verse has strengthened our attachment to the pastoral scene, and many a well-wrought picture has occasioned it to glow like a reality in our ideas.

But far more impressively than these causes can possibly affect, has the word of God endeared the subject to our hearts, and sanctified it to Christian experience. Who does not look back with love and veneration to those days of holy simplicity, when patriarchs of the church of God lived in tents and watched their flocks? With what a strength and beauty of allusion do the prophets refer to the intercourse between the shepherd and flock for an illustration of the Saviour’s kingdom on earth! The Psalmist rejoiced in the

consideration that the Lord was his Shepherd, and that therefore he should not want. The Redeemer himself assumed this interesting title, and declared that “his sheep hear his voice, he knows them, and they follow him, and he gives unto them eternal life.”

Perhaps at no previous moment was this comparison ever expressed so powerfully, as when his risen Lord gave the pastoral charge to the lately offending but now penitent disciple, saying, “Feed my sheep.” Every principle of grace, mercy, and peace, met together on that occasion. Peter had thrice denied his Master: his Master now thrice asked him, “Lovest thou me?” Peter each time appealed to his own, or to his Lord’s consciousness of what he felt within his heart. As often Jesus commited to his care the flock which he had purchased with his blood. And that none might be forgotten, he not only said, “Feed my sheep,” but “Feed my lambs,” also.

May every instructor of the young keep this injunction enforced on his conscience and affections,—I return to little Jane.

It was about fifteen months from the first period of her attendance on my Saturday school, when I missed her from her customary place. Two or three weeks had gone by, without my making any particular inquiry respecting her. I was at length informed that she was not well; but apprehending no peculiar cause for alarm, nearly two months passed away without any further mention of her name being made.

At length a poor old woman in the village, of whose religious disposition I had formed a good opinion, came and said to me, “Sir, have you not missed Jane S--- at your house on Saturday afternoons?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I believe she is not well.”

“Nor ever will be, I fear,” said the woman.

“What! do you apprehend any danger in the case?”

“Sir, she is very poorly indeed, and I think is in a decline. She wants to see you, sir; but is afraid you would not come to see such a poor young child as she is.”

“Not go where poverty and sickness may call me? How can she imagine so? At which house does she live?”

“Sir, it is a poor place, and she is ashamed to ask you to come there. Her near neighbours are noisy wicked people, and her own father and mother are strange folks. They all make game at poor Jenny because she reads her Bible so much.”

“Do not tell me about poor places and wicked people: that is the very situation where a minister of the gospel is called to do the most good. I shall go to see her; you may let her know my intention.”

“I will, sir; I go in most days to speak to her, and it does one’s heart good to hear her talk.”

“Indeed!” said I, “what does she talk about?”

“Talk about, poor thing! why, nothing but good things, such as the Bible, and Jesus Christ, and life, and death, and her soul, and heaven, and hell, and your discourses, and the books you used to teach her, sir. Her father says he’ll have no such godly things in his house; and her own mother scoffs at her, and says she supposes Jenny counts herself better than other folks. But she does not mind all that. She will read her books, and then talk so pretty to her mother, and beg that she would think about her soul.”

“The Lord forgive me,” thought I, “for not being more attentive to this poor child’s case!” I seemed to feel the

importance of infantine instruction more than ever I had done before, and felt a rising hope that this girl might prove a kind of first-fruits of my labours.

I now recollected her quiet, orderly, diligent attendance on our little weekly meetings; and her marked approbation of the epitaph, as related in my last paper, rushed into my thoughts. “I hope, I really hope,” said I, “this dear child will prove a true child of God. And if so, what a mercy to her, and what a mercy for me!”

The next morning I went to see the child. Her dwelling was of the humblest kind. It stood against a high bank of earth, which formed a sort of garden behind it. It was so steep, that but little would grow in it; yet that little served to show not only, on the one hand, the poverty of its owners, but also to illustrate the happy truth, that even in the worst of circumstances the Lord does make a kind provision for the support of his creatures. The front aspect of the cottage was chiefly rendered pleasing by a honeysuckle, which luxuriantly climbed up the wall, enclosing the door, windows, and even the chimney, with its twining branches. As I entered the house-door, its flowers put forth a very sweet and refreshing smell. Intent on the object of my visit, I at the same moment offered up silent prayer to God, and entertained a hope, that the welcome fragrance of the shrub might be illustrative of that all-prevailing intercession of a Redeemer, which I trusted was, in the case of this little child, as “a sweet-smelling savour” to her heavenly Father. The very flowers and leaves of the garden and field are emblematical of higher things, when grace teaches us to make them so. Jane was in bed upstairs. I found no one in the house

with her except the woman who had brought me the message on the evening before. The instant I looked on the girl, I perceived a very marked change in her countenance: it had acquired the consumptive hue, both white and red. A delicacy unknown to it before quite surprised me, owing to the alteration it produced in her look. She received me first with a very sweet smile, and then instantly burst into a flood of tears, just sobbing out,—

“I am so glad to see you, sir!”

“I am very much concerned at your being so ill, my child, and grieved that I was not sooner aware of your state. But I hope the Lord designs it for your good.” Her eye, not her tongue, powerfully expressed, “I hope and think he does.”

“Well, my poor child, since you can no longer come to see me, I will come and see you, and we will talk over the subjects which I have been used to explain to you.”

“Indeed, sir, I shall be so glad!”

“That I believe she will,” said the woman; “for she loves to talk of nothing so much as what she has heard you say in your sermons, and in the books you have given her.”

“Are you really desirous, my dear child, to be a true Christian?”

“Oh, yes, yes, sir; I am sure I desire that above all things.”

I was astonished and delighted at the earnestness and simplicity with which she spoke these words.

“Sir,” added she, “I have been thinking, as I lay on my bed for many weeks past, how good you are to instruct us poor children; what must become of us without it!”

“I am truly glad to perceive that my instructions have

not been lost upon you, and pray God that this your present sickness may be an instrument of blessing in his hands to prove, humble, and sanctify you. My dear child, you have a soul, an immortal soul to think of; you remember what I have often said to you about the value of a soul: ‘What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’”

“Yes, sir, I remember well you told us, that when our bodies are put into the grave, our souls will then go either to the good or the bad place.”

“And to which of these places do you think that, as a sinner in the sight of God, you deserve to go?”

“To the bad one, sir.”

“What! to everlasting destruction!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why so?”

“Because I am a great sinner.”

“And must all great sinners go to hell?”

“They all deserve it; and I am sure I do.”

“But is there no way of escape? Is there no way for a great sinner to be saved?”

“Yes, sir, Christ is the Saviour.”

“And whom does he save?”

“All believers.”

“And do you believe in Christ yourself?”

“I do not know, sir; I wish I did; but I feel that I love him.”

“What do you love him for?”

“Because he is good to poor children’s souls like mine.”

“What has he done for you?”

“He died for me, sir; and what could he do more?”

“And what do you hope to gain by his death?”

“A good place when I die, if I believe in him, and love him.”

“Have you felt any uneasiness on account of your soul?”

“Oh, yes, sir, a great deal. When you used to talk to us children on Saturdays, I often felt as if I could hardly bear it, and wondered that others could seem so careless. I thought I was not fit to die. I thought of all the bad things I had ever done and said, and believed God must be very angry with me; for you often told us, that God would not be mocked; and that Christ said, if we were not converted, we could not go to heaven. Sometimes I thought I was so young it did not signify: and then, again, it seemed to me a great sin to think so; for I knew I was old enough to see what was right and what was wrong; and so God had a just right to be angry when I did wrong. Besides, I could see that my heart was not right; and how could such a heart be fit for heaven? Indeed, sir, I used to feel very uneasy.”

“My dear Jenny, I wish I had known all this before. Why did you never tell me about it?”

“Sir, I durst not. Indeed, I could not well say what was the matter with me: and I thought you would look upon me as very bold, if I had spoke about myself to such a gentleman as you: yet I often wished that you knew what I felt and feared. Sometimes, as we went away from your house, I could not help crying; and then the other children laughed and jeered at me, and said I was going to be very good, they supposed, or at least to make people think so. Sometimes, sir, I fancied you did not think so well of me as of the rest, and that hurt me; yet I knew I deserved no particular favour, because I was the chief of sinners.”

“My dear, what made St. Paul say he was chief of sinners? In what verse of the Bible do you find this expression, ‘the chief of sinners;’ can you repeat it?”

“‘This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners;’—is not that right, sir?”

“Yes, my child, it is right; and I hope that the same conviction which St. Paul had at that moment has made you sensible of the same truth. Christ came into the world to save sinners: my dear child, remember now and for ever more, that Christ came into the world to save the chief of sinners.”

“Sir, I am so glad he did. It makes me hope that he will save me, though I am a poor sinful girl. Sir, I am very ill, and I do not think I shall ever get well again. I want to go to Christ if I die.”

“Go to Christ while you live, my dear child, and he will not cast you away when you die. He that said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ waits to be gracious to them, and forbids them not.”

“What made you first think so seriously about the state of your soul?”

“Your talking about the graves in the churchyard, and telling us how many young children were buried there. I remember you said, one day, near twelve months ago, ‘Children! where will you be a hundred years hence? Children! where do you think you shall go when you die? Children! if you were to die to-night, are you sure you should go to Christ and be happy?’ Sir, I never shall forget your saying, ‘Children,’ three times together in that solemn way.”

“Did you ever before that day feel any desire about your soul?”

“Yes, sir; I think I first had that desire almost as soon as you began to teach us on Saturday afternoons; but on that day I felt as I never did before. I shall never forget it. All the way as I went home, and all that night, these words were in my thoughts: ‘Children! where do you think you shall go when you die?’ I thought I must leave off all my bad ways, or where shall I go when I died?”

“And what effect did these thoughts produce in your mind?”

“Sir, I tried to live better, and I did leave off many bad ways; but the more I strove, the more difficult I found it, my heart seemed so hard: and then I could not tell any one my case.”

“Could not you tell it to the Lord, who hears and answers prayers?”

“My prayers (here she blushed and sighed) are very poor at the best, and at that time I scarcely knew how to pray at all as I ought. But I did sometimes ask the Lord for a better heart.”

There was a character in all this conversation which marked a truly sincere and enlightened state of mind. She spoke with all the simplicity of a child, and yet the seriousness of a Christian. I could scarcely persuade myself that she was the same girl I had been accustomed to see in past time. Her countenance was filled with interesting affections, and always spoke much more than her tongue could utter. At the same time she now possessed an ease and liberty in speaking, to which she had formerly been a stranger: nevertheless, she was modest, humble, and unassuming.

Her readiness to converse was the result of spiritual anxiety, not childish forwardness. The marks of a Divine change were too prominent to be easily mistaken; and in this very child, I, for the first time, witnessed the evident testimonies of such a change. How encouraging, how profitable to my own soul!

“Sir,” continued little Jane, “I had one day been thinking that I was neither fit to live nor die: for I could find no comfort in this world, and I was sure I deserved none in the other. On that day you sent me to learn the verse on Mrs. B---’s headstone, and then I read that on the one next to it.”

“I very well remember it, Jenny; you came back, and repeated them both to me.”

“There were two lines in it which made me think and meditate a great deal.”

“Which were they?”

“‘Hail Glorious gospel! heavenly light, whereby
We live with comfort, and with comfort die.’

I wished that glorious gospel was mine, that I might live and die with comfort; and it seemed as if I thought it would be so. I never felt so happy in all my life before. The words were often in my thoughts,—

‘Live with comfort, and with comfort die.’

Glorious gospel, indeed! I thought.”

“My dear child, what is the meaning of the word gospel?”

“Good news.”

“Good news for whom?”

“For wicked sinners, sir.”

“Who sends this good news for wicked sinners?”

“The Lord Almighty.”

“And who brings this good news?”

“Sir, you brought it to me.”

Here my soul melted in an instant, and I could not repress the tears which the emotion excited. The last answer was equally unexpected and affecting. I felt a father’s tenderness and gratitude for a new and first-born child.

Jane wept likewise.

After a little pause she said,—

“O sir! I wish you would speak to my father, and mother, and little brother; for I am afraid they are going on very badly.”

“How so?”

“Sir, they drink, and swear, and quarrel, and do not like what is good; and it does grieve me so, I cannot bear it. If I speak a word to them about it, they are very angry, and laugh, and bid me be quiet, and not set up for their teacher. Sir, I am ashamed to tell you this of them, but I hope it is not wrong; I mean it for their good.”

“I wish your prayers and endeavours for their sake may be blessed; I will also do what I can.”

I then prayed with the child, and promised to visit her constantly.

As I returned home, my heart was filled with thankfulness for what I had seen and heard. Little Jane appeared to be a first-fruits of my parochial and spiritual harvest. This thought greatly comforted and strengthened me in my ministerial prospects.

My partiality to the memory of little Jane will probably induce me to lay some further particulars before the reader.

PART III.

Divine grace educates the reasoning faculties of the soul, as well as the best affections of the heart; and happily consecrates them both to the glory of the Redeemer. Neither the disadvantages of poverty, nor the inexperience of childhood, are barriers able to resist the mighty influences of the Spirit of God, when “he goeth forth where he listeth.”

“God hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty.” The truth of this scriptural assertion was peculiarly evident in the case of my young parishioner.

Little Jane’s illness was of a lingering nature. I often visited her. The soul of this young Christian was gradually, but effectually, preparing for heaven. I have seldom witnessed in any older person, under similar circumstances, stronger marks of earnest inquiry, continual seriousness, and holy affections. One morning, as I was walking through the church-yard, in my way to visit her, I stopped to look at the epitaph which had made such a deep impression on her mind. I was struck with the reflection of the important consequences which might result from a more frequent and judicious attention to the inscriptions placed in our burying-grounds, as memorials of the departed. The idea occurred to my thoughts, that as the two stone tables given by God to Moses were once a means of communicating to the Jews, from age to age, the revelation of God’s will as concerning the law; so these funeral tables of stone may, under a better dispensation, bear a never-failing proclamation

of God’s will to sinners as revealed in the gospel of his grace, from generation to generation. I have often lamented, when indulging a contemplation among the graves, that some of the inscriptions were coarse and ridiculous; others, absurdly flattering; many, expressive of sentiments at variance with the true principles of the word of God; not a few, barren and unaccompanied with a single word of useful instruction to the reader. Thus a very important opportunity of conveying scriptural admonition is lost. I wish that every grave-stone might not only record the name of our deceased friends, but also proclaim the name of Jesus, as the only name given under heaven whereby men can be saved. Perhaps, if the ministers of religion were to interest themselves in this matter, and accustom their people to consult them as to the nature of the monumental inscriptions which they wish to introduce into churches and church-yards, a gradual improvement would take place in this respect. What is offensive, useless, or erroneous, would no longer find admittance, and a succession of valuable warning and consolation to the living would perpetuate the memory of the dead.

What can be more disgusting than the too common spectacle of trifling licentious travellers, wandering about the church-yards of the different places through which they pass, in search of rude, ungrammatical, ill-spelt, and absurd verses among the grave-stones; and this for the gratification of their unholy scorn and ridicule! And yet how much is it to be deplored that such persons are seldom disappointed in finding many instances which too readily afford them the unfeeling satisfaction which they seek! I therefore offer this suggestion to my reverend brethren, that as no monument or stone can be placed in a church or church-yard

without their express consent or approbation, whether one condition of that consent being granted, should not be a previous inspection and approval of every inscription which may be so placed within the precincts of the sanctuary?

The reader will pardon this digression, which evidently arose from the peculiar connection established in little Jane’s history, between an epitaph inscribed on a grave-stone, and the word of God inscribed on her heart. When I arrived at Jane’s cottage, I found her in bed, reading Dr. Watts’ Hymns for Children, in which she took great pleasure.

“What are you reading this morning, Jane?”

“Sir, I have been thinking very much about some verses in my little book. Here they are,—

‘There is an hour when I must die,
Nor do I know how soon ’twill come;
A thousand children young as I
Are called by death to hear their doom.

Let me improve the hours I have,
Before the day of grace is fled;
There’s no repentance in the grave,
Nor pardon offered to the dead.’

“Sir, I feel all that to be very true, and I am afraid I do not improve the hours I have, as I ought to do. I think I shall not live very long; and when I remember my sins, I say,—

‘Lord, at thy feet ashamed I lie,
Upward I dare not look;
Pardon my sins before I die,
And blot them from thy book.’

Do you think he will pardon me, sir?”

“My dear child, I have great hopes that he has pardoned

you; that he has heard your prayers, and put you into the number of his true children already. You have had strong proofs of his mercy to your soul.”

“Yes, sir, I have, and I wish to love and bless him for it. He is good, very good.”

It had for some time past occurred to my mind that a course of regulated conversations on the first principles of religion would be very desirable from time to time, for this interesting child’s sake: and I thought the Church Catechism would be the best groundwork for that purpose.

“Jenny,” said I, “you can repeat the Catechism?”

“Yes, sir; but I think that has been one of my sins in the sight of God.”

“What! repeating your Catechism?”

“Yes, sir, in such a way as I used to do it.”

“How was that?”

“Very carelessly indeed. I never thought about the meaning of the words, and that must be very wrong. Sir, the Catechism is full of good things; I wish I understood them better.”

“Well, then, my child, we will talk a little about those good things which, as you truly say, are contained in the Catechism. Did you ever consider what it is to be a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven?”

“I think, sir, I have lately considered it a good deal; and I want to be such, not only in name, but in deed and in truth. You once told me, sir, that ‘as the branch is to the vine, and the stone to the building, and the limb to the body and the head, so is a true believer to the Lord Jesus Christ.’ But how am I to know that I belong to Christ as a

true member, which, you said one day in the church, means the same as a limb of the body, such as a leg or an arm?”

“Do you love Christ now in a way you never used to do before?”

“Yes, I think so indeed.”

“Why do you love him?”

“Because he first loved me.”

“How do you know that he first loved you?”

“Because he sent me instruction, and made me feel the sin of my heart, and taught me to pray for pardon, and love his ways; he sent you to teach me, sir, and to show me the way to be saved; and now I want to be saved in that way that he pleases. Sometimes I feel as if I loved all that he has said and done, so much, that I wish never to think about anything else. I know I did not use to feel so; and I think if he had not loved me first, my wicked heart would never have cared about him. I once loved anything better than religion, but now it is everything to me.”

“Do you believe in your heart that Christ is able and willing to save the chief of sinners?”

“I do.”

“And what are you?”

“A young, but a great sinner.”

“Is it not of his mercy that you know and feel yourself to be a sinner?”

“Certainly; yes, it must be so.”

“Do you earnestly desire to forsake all sin?”

“If I know myself, I do.”

“Do you feel a spirit within you resisting sin, and making you hate it?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Who gave you that spirit? Were you always so?”

“It must be Christ, who loved me, and gave himself for me. I was quite different once.”

“Now, then, my dear Jane, does not all this show a connection between the Lord Jesus Christ and your soul? Does it not seem as if you lived, and moved, and had a spiritual being from him? Just as a limb is connected with your body, and so with your head, and thereby gets power to live and move through the flowing of the blood from the one to the other; so are you spiritually a limb or member of Christ, if you believe in him, and thus obtain, through faith, a power to love him, and live to his praise and glory. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I do; and it is very comfortable to my thoughts to look up to Christ as a living Head, and to consider myself as the least and lowest of all his members.”

“Now tell me what your thoughts are as to being a child of God.”

“I am sure, sir, I do not deserve to be called his child.”

“Can you tell me who does deserve it?”

“No one, sir.”

“How, then, comes any one to be a child of God, when by nature we are children of wrath?”

“By God’s grace, sir.”

“What does grace mean?”

“Favour; free favour to sinners.”

“Right; and what does God bestow upon the children of wrath, when he makes them children of grace?”

“A death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness; is it not, sir?”

“Yes, this is the fruit of Christ’s redeeming love; and I

hope you are a partaker of the blessing. The family of God is named after him, and he is the first-born of many brethren. What a mercy that Christ calls himself ‘a Brother!’ My little girl, he is your Brother; and will not be ashamed to own you, and present you to his Father at the last day, as one that he has purchased with his blood.”

“I wish I could love my Father and my Brother which are in heaven better than I do. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! I think, sir, if I am a child of God, I am often a rebellious one. He shows kindness to me beyond others, and yet I make a very poor return.

‘Are these thy favours day by day,
To me above the rest?
Then let me love thee more than they,
And strive to serve thee best.’”

“That will be the best way to approve yourself a real child of God. Show your love and thankfulness to such a Father, who hath prepared for you an inheritance among the saints in light, and made you ‘an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, as well as a member of Christ, and a child of God.’ Do you know what ‘the kingdom of heaven’ means?”

Just at that instant her mother entered the house below, and began to speak to a younger child in a passionate, scolding tone of voice, accompanied by some very offensive language; but quickly stopped on hearing us in conversation up stairs.

“Ah, my poor mother!” said the girl, “you would not have stopped so short, if Mr. --- had not been here. Sir, you hear how my mother swears; pray say something to her; she will not hear me.”

I went towards the stair-head, and called to the woman; but ashamed at the thought of my having probably overheard her expressions, she suddenly left the house, and for that time escaped reproof.

“Sir,” said little Jane, “I am so afraid, if I go to heaven I shall never see my poor mother there. I wish I may, but she does swear so, and keep such bad company. As I lie here a-bed, sir, for hours together, there is often so much wickedness, and noise, and quarrelling down below, that I do not know how to bear it. It comes very near, sir, when one’s father and mother go on so. I want them all to turn to the Lord, and go to heaven.—Tell me now, sir, something about being an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.”

“You may remember, my child, what I have told you when explaining the Catechism in the church, that the ‘kingdom of heaven’ in the Scripture means the church of Christ upon earth, as well as the state of glory in heaven. The one is a preparation for the other. All true Christians are heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ, and shall inherit the glory and happiness of his kingdom, and live with Christ and be with him for ever. This is the free gift of God to his adopted children; and all that believe aright in Christ shall experience the truth of that promise, ‘It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’ You are a poor girl now, but I trust ‘an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.’ You suffer now; but are you not willing to suffer for his sake, and to bear patiently those things to which he calls you?”

“Oh yes, very willing; I would not complain. It is all right.”

“Then, my dear, you shall reign with him. Through much tribulation you may, perhaps, enter into the kingdom of God; but tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope. As a true ‘member of Christ,’ show yourself to be a dutiful ‘child of God,’ and your portion will be that of an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven. Faithful is He that hath promised. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.”

“Thank you, sir, I do so love to hear of these things. And I think, sir, I should not love them so much if I had no part in them. Sir, there is one thing I want to ask you. It is a great thing, and I may be wrong—I am so young—and yet I hope I mean right—”

Here she hesitated and paused.

“What is it? Do not be fearful of mentioning it.” A tear rolled down her cheek—a slight blush coloured her countenance. She lifted up her eyes to heaven for a moment, and then, fixing them on me with a solemn, affecting look, said,—

“May so young a poor child as I am be admitted to the Lord’s Supper? I have for some time wished it, but dared not to mention it, for fear you should think it wrong.”

“My dear Jenny, I have no doubt respecting it, and shall be very glad to converse with you on the subject, and hope that He who has given you the desire, will bless his own ordinance to your soul. Would you wish it now or to-morrow?”

“To-morrow, if you please, sir;—will you come to-morrow and talk to me about it? and if you think it proper, I shall

be thankful. I am growing faint now—I hope to be better when you come again.”

I was much pleased with her proposal, and rejoiced in the prospect of seeing so young and sincere a Christian thus devote herself to the Lord, and receive the sacramental seal of a Saviour’s love to her soul.

Disease was making rapid inroads upon her constitution, and she was aware of it. But as the outward man decayed, she was strengthened with might, by God’s Spirit in the inner man. She was evidently ripening fast for a better world.

I remember these things with affectionate pleasure; they revive my earlier associations, and I hope the recollection does me good. I wish them to do good to thee likewise, my reader; and therefore I write them down.

May the simplicity that is in Christ render

“The short and simple annals of the poor”

a mean of grace and blessing to thy soul! Out of the mouth of this babe and suckling may God ordain thee strength! If thou art willing, thou mayest perchance hear something further respecting her.