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.
THE LOST CHILD RESTORED.
Vol. i. page 270.
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?"
"I was much pleased with a little anecdote which I heard the other day, of your friend Stone. A person applied to him on behalf of a poor man in great distress. He was in a hurry, and had no money with him. 'I cannot,' he said, 'examine the case now, as I have a gentleman waiting to see me; but, if the poor man belong to the household of faith, I will thank you to advance ten shillings for me; if not, advance five. My maxim is, according to the law of the Scripture, to do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.'"
The subscription which was raised by Mr. Stevens and Mr. Roscoe, with the remittances received from the Rev. Messrs. Ingleby and Guion, amounted to nearly fifty pounds, and this was given by Mr. Stevens to Josiah, who was so overcome by this unanticipated expression of sympathy, that at first he could scarcely speak. He modestly requested Mr. Stevens to express his grateful thanks, and those of his wife, to his benevolent friends, assuring them that they would endeavour, by future conduct, to prove how deeply they felt this unexpected kindness.
Within the space of three months Hargrave returned to his cottage, with his family, a richer if not a happier man than before the fire drove him out; and there he lived for many years, respected and beloved by all who knew him.
If we say that afflictions spring up by chance, or are brought about merely by secondary causes, which are not under the guidance and control of God, we not only reject the authority of the Bible, but deprive ourselves of the consolation which follows from a firm belief that the design for which they are sent is merciful and gracious. If the sufferer should suppose that his afflictions are of such a peculiar nature that they cannot possibly answer any good purpose, I would say, Do not impeach the wisdom of God, nor yet presume to fix limitations to the operations of his power. If you have never yet repented of your sins, nor sought the salvation of your soul through the mediation of Jesus Christ, your trials may be sent to prepare your heart for the reception of the truth, by which you are to be sanctified and saved. As the gentle rain, descending from the clouds of heaven, fits the soil for the seed which it is to nourish for a future harvest, so it pleases God, in the dispensations of his providence, to allow those painful events to transpire, which, imperceptibly, predispose the mind, first, to bow in submission to his authority, and then to seek after the enjoyment of his favour. There is a native independence in some minds, which, in relation to man, is a high and noble virtue, but in relation to God, is a daring sin. When one is made rich, and the glory of his house is increased, he is sometimes apt to think, if not to say, "What is the Almighty, that we should serve him? And what profit should we have if we pray unto him?" What is this but absolute rebellion against Divine authority, which must be subdued; and, if it please Him to employ severe and varied afflictions to subdue it, then "why should a living man complain—a man for the punishment of his sins?" "Should we not," says an admired writer, "principally value that which is morally good for us; that which influences and secures our eternal welfare; that by which the safety of the soul is least endangered, and the sanctification of the soul is most promoted!" Upon this principle many have had reason to say, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted." "Disease," says one, "commissioned from above, sought me out, found me in a crowd, detached me from a multitude, led me into a chamber of solitude, stretched me upon a bed of languishing, and brought before me the awful realities of an eternal world." "I never prayed before," says another; "my life was bound up in a beloved relative; I saw my gourd smitten and beginning to wither; I trembled; I watched the progress of a disease which doomed all my happiness to the grave. In that moment of bereavement, the world, which had won my affections, was suddenly deprived of all its attractions. I broke from the arms of sympathizing friends, saying, 'Where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night?' I entered my closet, and said, 'Now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.'"
Misery seems to possess one of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and is everywhere present, inflicting its anguish in every human breast. No situation in life, however elevated, is above its reach; none, however obscure, is beneath its notice. It goes up to the throne, and disturbs the peace of the monarch; it creeps into the lonely hut, wringing the heart of poverty; nor can the tears of penury, nor the moans of distress, move its pity. It fastens on the babe in the days of infancy; follows him through the various stages of childhood and of youth; becomes a more intimate associate as he advances in life, but often reserves its most poignant inflictions and its bitterest draughts till old age, when the mind is bereft of its vivacity and strength. It lurks beneath the most fascinating objects of delight, and springs out at a season when no danger is expected; sometimes it throws around itself the garb of complacency, and, under the appearance of the truest friendship and the purest affection, disarms suspicion, that it may more effectually entangle its victim.
Where can we find an antidote for human misery? Not in the speculations of philosophy. Philosophy tells us that we must endure our sufferings, because we cannot avoid them; and that it would be visionary to expect an entire exemption from them in a world in which they everywhere abound. Miserable comforter! I need some substantial relief, some prop on which I can lean in the days of adversity. Where shall I find it?—in human friendship? Alas! that is too often a phantom of the imagination, which plays before the fancy while prosperity shines on my pathway, but disappears as the storm arises, and the darkness of the night falls upon me. I need a more stable source of consolation. Where shall I find it? "In sweet submission to thy will, O my God!" Here is bliss. Here I find joy in grief. Here I have the bitter waters of life made sweet, the heavy burden of care lightened, and my strength becomes equal to my day.