A SURPRISE.
The indisposition of Mrs. Stevens increased, and became more and more alarming; she was soon confined to her room, then to her bed; and her life was considered in imminent danger. The fever rose so high that she became somewhat delirious, but even then, while her fancy wandered amidst the wild scenes of her own imaginative creation, she spoke with rapture of her approaching dissolution. On one occasion, as I entered her room, she raised herself up, and sang, with a strong yet softened melody of voice:
"Lord, what are all my suff'rings here,
If thou but make me meet,
With that enraptur'd host t' appear,
And worship at thy feet!"
At length, while we were silently watching the progress of a disorder which was threatening to take from us one of the most interesting and amiable of women, it pleased the Father of mercies to throw her into a deep sleep, which lasted many hours. In the morning she awoke both revived and composed; and, after asking for Mr. Stevens, she requested some refreshment. Thus the cloud which had been hanging over us with such a lowering aspect, now gradually dispersed; and, in a few days, she was pronounced out of danger. "I thought at one time," she said, addressing herself to her husband, "I should have left you. I felt the parting pang; and it was such a pang as my heart never felt before. I looked into the valley of death; and though the light of life illumined it, yet nature recoiled at the prospect of entering. I had no doubt of the issue of dying, but I dreaded the act of dying. But now I am coming back to life. Oh! that my life may be more devoted to Him who lived and died for me!"
Miss Roscoe had left home the morning after the fire at Hargrave's cottage, to spend a few days with her friend, Miss Holmes, but as soon as she heard of Mrs. Stevens's illness, she returned. "I am happy to see you once more," said Mrs. Stevens. "This is a pleasure which I did not anticipate. How uncertain is life!"
"Life is uncertain," replied Miss Roscoe, "but they who believe in Christ shall never die. They may, in the progress of their being, drop their mantle of mortality, as the insect leaves his shell, when he expands into a more beautiful form of existence; but the soul, redeemed by the blood, and purified by the Spirit of the Lord Jesus, 'liveth and abideth for ever.' I hope your mind has been kept in perfect peace during your severe affliction."
"It has been kept in peace, but not in perfect peace. On the second day, when my disorder assumed a threatening aspect, a horror of great darkness fell upon me. I was compelled to admit the possibility of having deceived myself—of having claimed privileges to which I had no title—of having mistaken the excitement of feeling for the fervour of spiritual devotion—of having indulged prospects which I should never realize. But, just as I was beginning to sink into despair, the light of mercy broke in upon me, and revived my hope. Never, oh! never had I seen such beauty as I then perceived in the verses—
'Jesu! lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the billows near me roll,
While the tempest still is high:
'Hide me, O my Saviour! hide—
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;
O receive my soul at last.'"
"It is consoling to meet with others who are exercised in a similar way with ourselves. I thought your faith was too strong ever to stagger, and your prospect of eternal life too clear ever to be shaded by dubious uncertainty; but now, I perceive, you can doubt, which encourages me to hope that my faith may be genuine, though it is sometimes involved in perplexity, and sinks into depression."
"Have you," Mrs. Stevens asked, "had any recent conversation with your papa on religious subjects?"
"Not very recently, because he has manifested a more than ordinary degree of reserve when there has been any allusion to them, and therefore I have judged it proper to observe great caution while his prejudices are in such a state."
"But may not this reserve on his part be the solemn musings of a mind deeply impressed by the truth, which has hitherto been either misunderstood or rejected?"
"I should be happy if I could put such a favourable construction on his manner; but I fear not."
"Our favourite poet says:—
'Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.'
Allow me, my dear friend, to offer you my congratulations. Your prayers, I hope, are answered; and you may go home, and embrace your father as a 'fellow-heir of the grace of life.'"
"If I could, the sun of my bliss would never go down; but, alas! I fear that you congratulate me on what we wish to be true, rather than on what actually is the case."
"My dear, I speak what I believe."
"Impossible! Has he made any particular communication to you, which enables you to speak in such a decisive tone?—if so, tell me, my dear friend, what you know. I am impatient to hear it."
"The evening before Josiah's cottage was consumed, your father spent some hours with us, and seemed not only willing, but anxious to converse on religious subjects. At one time, he was affected almost to tears, when he said, 'My dear Sophia has often told me that a Divine illumination of mind is the great secret in personal religion; and on one occasion, when she quoted the words of the apostle, "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," she made an impression on my mind which has never left me.' Thus God has not only subdued the prejudices of your father's heart against the truth, and opened the eyes of his understanding to see its excellence and importance, but has employed you as the agent in the accomplishment of this great work."
After recovering herself from the surprise which this communication produced, she said, "I feel as if enjoying a most pleasant dream—my fancy beguiled and deluded by its own visionary conceptions—not less surprised than delighted to find myself awake—with you—listening to the most joyful news that could be conveyed to my soul." She wept. "And is it possible?—Is it true?—What, my father!—Excuse me; I must go, that I may hear these glad tidings from his own lips."
On the following Sabbath Mrs. Stevens was so far recovered as to be able to go to church, where she expected to see the Roscoes; but she was disappointed. "I fear," she remarked to her husband, as they were returning home, "that Mr. Roscoe will not become a decided character; but I hope he will not neutralize our dear Sophia."
"He will proceed, I have no doubt, very cautiously; examine and re-examine every step he takes; but when the Rubicon is passed, there will be no fruitless attempts to unite religion and the world, but an unreserved devotion of soul to God."
In the evening Miss Roscoe was at the chapel, and after service called at Fairmount to see her friends.
"It is true," she said; "my dear father is at length brought to know that he is a sinner, and to feel the importance of redemption through the blood of Christ. I went with him in the morning to hear the Rev. Mr. Cole, with whose sermon he was not so well pleased as on some former occasions; and he would have accompanied me this evening, had it not been for mamma, who most earnestly requested him not to go."
The evening came when we were to pay our promised visit to the Roscoes, and just as we were about to set out, the Rev. Mr. Guion arrived. When he found where we were going, he proposed returning home; but Mrs. Stevens said, "No, no; you must accompany us. You may be the means of doing some good; and I think your Master has sent you for that purpose."
Mr. Roscoe gave us a cordial welcome; but when the name of Guion was announced, Mrs. Roscoe drew back with a very polite movement, and became unusually reserved. Conversation flagged, till Mr. Roscoe mentioned that he had been reading Buchanan's Christian Researches in Asia, and called our attention to some passages, which had much interested him:—
"I have returned home," says the writer, "from witnessing a scene which I shall never forget. At twelve o'clock of this day, being the great day of the feast, the Moloch of Hindoostan was brought out of his temple, amidst the acclamations of hundreds of thousands of his worshippers. When the idol was placed on his throne, a shout was raised by the multitude, such as I had never before heard. It continued equable for a few minutes, and then gradually died away. After a short interval of silence, a murmur was heard at a distance; all eyes were turned towards the place, and behold, a grove advancing! A body of men, having green branches in their hands, approached with great celerity. The people opened a way for them; and when they had come up to the throne, they fell down before him that sat thereon, and worshipped. And the multitude again sent forth a voice like the sound of a great thunder. But the voices I now heard were not those of melody; for there is no harmony in the praise of Moloch's worshippers.
"The throne of the idol was placed on a car, about sixty feet in height, resting on wheels which indented the ground deeply, as they turned slowly under the ponderous machine. Attached to it were six cables, by which the people drew it along. Upon the car were the priests and satellites of the idol, surrounding his throne. I went on in the procession, close by the tower of Moloch, which, as it was drawn with difficulty, grated on its many wheels harsh thunder. After a few minutes it stopped; and now the worship of the god began. A high priest mounted the car in front of the idol, and pronounced his obscene stanzas in the ears of the people, who responded at intervals in the same strain. 'These songs,' said he, 'are the delight of the god.' After the car had moved some way, a pilgrim announced that he was ready to offer himself in sacrifice to the idol. He laid himself down in the road before the car, as it was moving along, lying on his face, with his arms stretched forward. The multitude passed round him, leaving the space clear, and he was crushed to death by the wheels of the car.
"A horrid tragedy was acted on the 12th of September, 1807, at a place about three miles from Calcutta. A Brahmin died at the advanced age of ninety-two. He had twelve wives, and three of them were burned alive with his dead body. Of these three, one was a venerable lady, having white locks, who had been long known in the neighbourhood. Not being able to walk, she was carried in a palanquin to the place of burning, and was then placed by the priests on the funeral pile. The two other ladies were younger; one of them of a very pleasing and interesting countenance. The old lady was placed on one side of the dead husband, and the two other wives laid themselves down on the other side; and then an old Brahmin, the eldest son of the deceased, applied the torch to the pile, with unaverted face. The pile suddenly blazed, for it was covered with combustibles; and this human sacrifice was completed amidst the din of drums and cymbals, and the shouts of the Brahmins."
"What horrid rites!" exclaimed Mr. Roscoe. "I fear they have been too long practised to be easily destroyed. I think Christianity ought to be established in India, for the moral benefit of our countrymen. Many of them go out when young—when their passions are strong—and when they have but very faint conceptions of the nature or the importance of religion; and as there are no Sabbaths—no religious ordinances or instruction—they must be in great spiritual danger from the contagion of evil by which they are surrounded."
"I was intimately acquainted," said Mr. Guion, "with a very amiable young man, the son of a pious solicitor, who went to India, where he remained ten years, and then returned. He called on me some time ago, and I derived much information from him; but I was grieved to find, by his own confession, that he had become a deist. I asked him if his deism was the result of any fair and earnest investigation; and he very honestly said, 'No, I found my belief in the Divine origin of Christianity becoming weaker and weaker when I was separated from its ministry and institutions, till at length it became extinct; and though I have sometimes made an effort to recover it, yet I have not been able to do so.'"
"But," said Mr. Roscoe, "though the establishment of Christianity in India might preserve our countrymen from infidelity, yet I do not think we can calculate on bringing over the natives to embrace it."
"Why not? Is the conversion of a modern pagan to the faith of Christ more difficult than the conversion of an ancient one? If Greece and Rome were subdued by the preaching of the gospel, who can despair of India?"
"If we had the same miraculous powers as those with which the apostles were endowed, we might anticipate similar results; but we have not; and I confess that, though I approve of the motive which originates and supports missionary institutions, yet I do not think they will ever prove successful."
"By what means, then, did Paul convert the heathen? Was it by the exhibition of miracles? Certainly not. A miracle may make some impressions on the judgment, by demonstrating the power of a present Deity, and of his direct agency in its production, but it cannot renew the heart, and inspire the soul with the love of God, with a hatred of sin, and a hope of glory. The miracles of the first ages were merely the credentials of the teachers, and were given as a solemn confirmation, once for all, of the divinity of the new dispensation, which they were commissioned to establish; but they were not the ordained means of conversion. The apostle Paul performed miracles but seldom; and when he did perform them, they had not always a salutary effect on those that beheld them. When he wrought a miracle in Lyconia, the people first worshipped him, and afterwards would have put him to death. What, then, were the ordained means of conversion? The same that are ordained now—the preaching of the cross; as the Scripture hath declared, 'Faith cometh by hearing.'"
"If we admit," said Mr. Roscoe, "the concurrence of a supernatural power with the agency of man in teaching and in preaching, we ought not to doubt the possibility of converting the whole population of India to the belief of Christianity."
"Certainly not; and is not this supernatural concurrence promised by Jesus Christ, to his ministers of every age? 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'"
"My heart often aches," said Miss Roscoe, "when I reflect on the degradation and wretchedness of women in India—where, if they escape an untimely grave in the days of childhood, they are doomed to a state of perpetual ignorance, excluded from all the accomplishments of society, treated as the refuse of the human family, and are often burned along with the body of their deceased husbands. I think every woman ought to make some effort to raise her own sex from this most appalling condition; and as nothing will prove successful but the principles of Christianity, we ought all to become the advocates and supporters of missionary and Bible societies."[10]
"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Roscoe, who was not at home on these subjects, "but the natives of India are as happy with their religion as we are with ours; and if the females do not meet with that respect which we meet with, you know, Madam," addressing herself to Mrs. Stevens, "that they do not expect it. Therefore, as it hath pleased the Almighty to give them their religion, I think we ought not to try to take it from them. We should not like to have ours taken from us. However, I think there is too much attention paid to religion in our days; it was not the case in the good old times of our fathers."
"But, mamma, would you not save a little child from being drowned, or a widow from being burned, if it were in your power?"
"Certainly, my dear."
"Now, mamma, as this cannot be done by force, we propose convincing the people, by a process of fair reasoning, that such practices are sinful and impolitic; and thus induce them, if possible, to abolish them."
"Oh! that may be very proper, but I think that we have nothing to do with it, and therefore, why should we trouble ourselves about it? Why not let things remain as they always have been?"
"I must confess," said Mr. Roscoe, "that I begin to differ from you, and I shall be very glad to see an auxiliary missionary society established amongst us. If we have a purer faith than the Hindoos, and one better calculated to promote individual and relative happiness and improvement, we ought to impart it. To monopolize it would be an act of selfishness and injustice; and though I have hitherto, like too many around me, been guilty of this act, I will go and sin no more."
"But, surely," said Mrs. Roscoe, "you do not intend to become a missionary, and transplant us to some province of India?"
"No, no, my dear; I will not go myself, but I will give some portion of my property to send others."
Had some shapeless figure, of hideous look, suddenly entered the room, and denounced a heavy woe on each inmate of the dwelling, Mrs. Roscoe might have been more alarmed, but she could not have appeared more surprised than when she heard this last sentence.
"What!" she said, in a more lofty tone than I had ever known her assume, "and have you so far forgotten your own dignity as to connect yourself with missionary societies, which go abroad on purpose to disturb other people in their religion, as we have been disturbed in the enjoyment of ours?"
"My dear, you seem strangely excited, as though I was going to do some barbarous or immoral act; when all I propose doing, is to give a little of that wealth which God has given to us, to convey to the deluded and degraded Hindoos the good news and glad tidings of great joy which the holy angels announced to the shepherds of Bethlehem, and which the ministers of Christ proclaim to us. Surely you cannot object to this."
"I do not suppose you would like the Hindoos to send their religion over to us, for our adoption."
"They may if they please; but they would not manage to persuade our widows to burn on the funeral pile of their deceased husbands, or induce fathers and mothers to destroy their lovely children."
"Well, at any rate, I think you ought to stay till they apply to us for our religion as a substitute for their own."
It was now late, and the company upon the eve of retiring, when Miss Roscoe arose, took from the book-case one of the volumes of Doddridge's Exposition on the New Testament, placed it on the table, and said to Mr. Guion, "I know, Sir, that it is your custom to conclude your social visits by reading the Scripture and prayer; and if you will consent to do so this evening, you will greatly oblige us."
"I have no objection, if it be perfectly agreeable."
"Certainly, Sir," said Mr. Roscoe, "we ought not to object to prayer."
The bell was now rung, and the servants were requested to come to family prayer. We waited several minutes, during which time Mrs. Roscoe was very restless. At length they entered, at irregular intervals of time, seating themselves on the corner of the chairs which stood nearest the door, expressing, by their looks, the utmost degree of surprise at this novel service, and occasionally, by the satirical smile which played over their countenance, indicating either their contempt or their disposition to merriment. I needed no one to tell me that this was the first time the family had ever knelt together at the throne of grace; but, knowing that a great moral change had taken place in Mr. Roscoe, I felt conscious that it would not be the last; and could not refrain offering my inaudible expressions of praise to the God of all grace, for permitting me to see that fire enkindled on this newly-erected domestic altar, which has ever since burnt with unceasing brightness.