A VISIT TO THE RECTORY.
We reached the rectory early in the afternoon, and found the venerable rector waiting our arrival. There was, in the manner and style of our reception, a fine blending of dignity with kind and benevolent feeling. In his person he was tall and slender, about sixty years of age; his silver locks fell in curls on his shoulders; in his countenance there was a marked expression of benignity; and his whole appearance was in keeping with his sacred profession. Mrs. Ingleby was equally free and easy in her manners, but she was rather reserved; yet it was the reserve of constitutional timidity—hauteur was alien to her nature. After tarrying awhile, examining his cabinet of natural curiosities, selected and arranged with taste and judgment, we adjourned to the moss-house at the bottom of the garden, which he had, with his own hand, constructed and adorned. It stood on an eminence, which commanded a varied and extensive view, while the trees and shrubs which grew around screened us from the observation of others. The sun, which had been pouring down his scorching beams during the greater part of the day, was now gradually descending the western horizon, gilding the heavens and the earth with his rays. The birds were warbling their evening songs of praise to the Author of their being; the bees were pressing into their hives with the collected stores of the day; the plaintive voice of the turtle-dove fell softly on our ear, which, intermingling with the occasional cawing of the rooks, returning to their young with the fruits of their toil, gave to the evening a charm which the crowded haunts of fashionable life never possessed.
As we sat, enjoying the interchange of sacred thought and feeling, almost forgetting that we were inhabitants of a world which had fallen from an original state of purity and bliss, I observed an interesting-looking stranger advancing towards us; and was informed that it was the Rev. Mr. Guion, of whom I had previously heard.
Mr. Guion apologized for not being punctual, and informed us that the fall of his horse was the cause of it. He was welcomed by the whole party, and congratulated on his having sustained no injury. Mrs. Ingleby, of course, presided at the tea-table; she was elegantly polite, yet so affable that we felt at perfect ease; and every one appeared to enjoy the desultory chit-chat, which was kept up with great spirit. At length, when the tea-drinking ceremony was over, conversation commenced, according to our uniform custom, and, to the astonishment of all, Mrs. Ingleby led off; yet I think it was more by accident than design.
"Strange events happen in the history of life; but I have been thinking, while attending to the ceremonies of the table, that if an old prophet of Israel had been with us when we took our first cup of tea in this moss-house, and if he had predicted that we should live to see the present company with us, I should have doubted it."
"Our presence, Madam," said Mr. Stevens, "may be attributed to the moral power of the Christian ministry; that ministry being the instrument in the hands of the Spirit of God, by which he effects moral wonders."
"I had no idea," said Mr. Guion, "when I was going to hear the visitation sermon at Salisbury, that I should come into contact with any other power than the rhapsodies of evangelical enthusiasm. Several of us were highly amused in anticipation of witnessing some strange outbursts of fanatical sentiment and feeling, uttered in some grotesque terms of enunciation. But my venerable friend had not proceeded far in his discourse before I felt compelled to listen with profound attention; what he said was new to me, it went to my heart; I was not able, nor yet inclined, to resist the wisdom and the spirit by which he spake."
"And pray, Sir," said Mr. Lewellin, "what was the direct effect which the sermon produced?"
"The effect, at the time, was an undefinable effect. I recollect, when I left the church, and I contrived to leave it without intermixing with any of my brother clergymen, I retired to meditate on what I had heard, but my mind was too deeply agitated to admit of calm meditation. My personal guilt, my spiritual danger, my ministerial unfaithfulness to my dishonoured Lord, and the future judgment, alternately convulsed my feelings; and being unconscious at the time of the immediate cause or ultimate design of this extraordinary mental excitement, I knew not what to do to regain my accustomed composure. I could neither read nor pray. I wandered hour after hour to and fro, in a lonely glen; I was in a fearful tumult of anxiety and agony of spirit.
"The gospel," said Mr. Ingleby, "is designated the power of God to salvation, and when it comes to the soul dead in trespasses and sins, in the demonstrative power of the Spirit, its great power is felt; felt to be subduing, at times agonizing, and always renovating. The issue is certain and glorious, its operations are the necessary preparations for eternal salvation."
"I believe," said Mr. Lewellin, "you have not many evangelical clergymen in these parts."
"Not many, Sir; the generality of our clergy are very excellent men, who mean well, but they are not spiritually enlightened men; and, unhappily for themselves and others, this is their great fault, they put a Papal construction on the import and design of our sacraments, and virtually repudiate the articles to which they have given a solemn assent and consent. My nearest brother clergyman is Mr. Cole, the rector of Aston; he is decidedly and avowedly anti-evangelical; he denounces us as a living curse to our church, and a disgrace to our order; but he is a gay man of the world, will shuffle the cards, dance at a ball, and visit a theatre, without any sense of impropriety; he rather glories in his shame."
"Their dependence for success in their official labours," said Mr. Lewellin, "is on the efficacy of the sacraments, and they may be regarded as magicians of a new order, operating on their deluded devotees by a sort of spiritual legerdemain; contrasts to the faithful in Christ Jesus, who execute the ministry which they receive of the Lord Jesus under the sanction and power of the Holy Ghost; and contrasts as great as between demons and angels of God."
"The Christian ministry," said Mr. Ingleby, "is a life-giving ministry, and a ministry of great moral power, when it is faithfully executed. It is an institution peculiar to Christianity, and admirably adapted to advance the improvement and happiness of society. Paganism wraps up the mysteries of her pretended revelations in the folds of an hieroglyphical device, Mahometanism discourages the people from prying into her origin, and Popery confines the light of revelation within the archives of her temple; but Christianity presents the Sacred Volume to the poor as well as to the rich; to the ignorant as well as to the learned; and by appointing men to explain and enforce the truth, secures the attention of the multitude, who find that it still pleases God, by the foolishness of preaching, to save them that believe."
"Yes, Sir," replied Mr. Guion, "but if the ministry throw into the shade the peculiar doctrines of the gospel, it ought not to be called a Christian ministry. I preached for the space of four years, and thought I preached well. I took great pains with the composition of my sermons, but I did not preach the doctrine of salvation by grace through faith. The few who attended my ministry were pleased, but none were converted; and I never heard any of them make the subject of my sermon the topic of conversation, except when I indulged myself in a satirical attack on the fanatics in the church and the fanatics out of it."
"I presume," said Mr. Stevens, "that you had no conception, when you were satirizing the fanatics, as you termed them, that you were satirizing those who contend earnestly for the faith."
"O no, Sir! I was ignorant of their sentiments, and my prejudices kept me ignorant. I would not read any of their productions. I often said that they ought to be driven out of the Establishment, because I thought they were secretly undermining its foundation, and, if allowed to grow into a formidable body, might endanger its existence."
"Did you wish to crush them?" said Mr. Lewellin.
"O no; I would have tolerated them as we tolerate the Dissenters, but I would not allow them to disturb the harmony of the church."
"Did you ever think, Sir, of the awful responsibility in which your profession involved you?"
"Yes, Sir; but as I lived a virtuous life, when I did occasionally advert to the day of final decision, I thought I should have a crown of glory awarded me. O! how I was deluded; but the delusion has passed away; and though I now see defects where I could not discern them before, and feel that I am not worthy to unloose the latchet of my Master's shoes, yet I hope, through his free and sovereign grace, that I shall be saved."
"Did your clerical brethren," Mr. Stevens inquired, "express any astonishment or displeasure at the change which took place in your religious opinions?"
"Yes, Sir, one, a very amiable and learned man, with whom I had been carrying on a literary correspondence, wrote me a long and rather severe letter. He said that he was astonished that a person of my distinguished reputation should condescend to take up the crude and unphilosophical notions of the modern fanatics. Pause, Sir, said he, and think of the fatal step you are taking—a step which, if actually taken, will tarnish the lustre of your character, blast for ever all hope of your preferment, and doom you to associate through life with those whom to shun is a virtue, and esteem a vice. I replied to his letter, stated the doctrines which I believed, and the reasons why I believed them, and assured him that he was labouring under a powerful misconception, from which I was happily delivered; and concluded by saying, that if it were vile in the estimation of my friends to revere and love such men as Newton, Cecil, Venn, and Ingleby, I was resolved to become viler still. This closed our correspondence."
Mr. Guion, who was naturally very facetious, amused us with a drollish story about two ladies, on whom he had called in the course of his pastoral visits. These were two maiden sisters, who had resided together for rather more than half a century, and possessing an independent fortune, were persons of considerable consequence in the parish. They were now too far advanced in life to take the lead in fashion, but they did not lag far behind; and though their opinions on some subjects were regarded as rather antiquated by their juvenile friends, yet they were usually treated with very great respect. They were considered as very religious, particularly so; and were very devout, when seen at their devotions. The preparation week was to them a week of very great importance, and very toilsome mental labour; and it is rather remarkable, that neither of them had been detained from the sacrament for the space of thirty years, except when they had company. At the time of Mr. Guion's visit, the eldest, Miss Susan, was sitting in the breakfast parlour, reading.
Mr. Guion.—"Good morning, Madam, I hope you are well."
Miss Susan.—"Indeed, Sir, I am not. I have not been well since you began to preach the new doctrines of the new birth and faith, and salvation by grace, which Mr. Ingleby taught you. I wish he had been on a visit to Jericho, instead of being appointed to preach that visitation sermon. Indeed, Sir, I don't like your preaching against cards; for, Sir, I never play for money; and beside, all the money I ever win I give to the poor. You have driven me and my sister from the church, Sir, and if we are lost, you will have to answer for it. And beside, Sir, I never will believe that God will damn any body. We were all living, Sir, as peaceably as a nestling of birds, till you began your present style of preaching, but now every body has something to say about religion. I am sorry to say that religion is getting quite into disrepute, now the common people are becoming religious." Miss Susan had not finished the last sentence, before Miss Dorothy entered. She was more polite, but there lurked under her politeness a malignancy of disposition which her sister did not discover, amidst all her flippant invectives.
Miss Dorothy.—"Well, Sir, I did not expect that you would have done us the honour of a call."
"Mr. Guion.—"I wish, Madam, to pay respect to all my parishioners."
Miss Dorothy.—"Out of the pulpit, I presume."
Mr. Guion.—"Yes, Madam, and in it."
Miss Dorothy.—"Surely, Reverend Sir, you are now indulging us with a joke, and I wonder that such a religious clergyman as you are can use such a profane weapon."
Mr. Guion.—"I am not aware, Madam, that I ever behaved disrespectfully towards any of my parishioners, when discharging the public duties of my office. If I have, I sincerely regret it, and you would oblige me if you would let me know in what."
MR. GUION'S FIRST INTERVIEW WITH THE MISSES BROWNJOHN.
Vol. i. page 82.
Miss Dorothy.—"Did you not tell us, Sir, on Trinity Sunday, that publicans and harlots were more likely to enter the kingdom of heaven than your more righteous hearers? And did you not tell us that we must implore mercy, in terms equally humiliating? What was this, Sir, but proclaiming the jubilee of vice and the armistice of virtue?"
Mr. Guion.—"I merely quoted the language of Jesus Christ, which he addressed to the chief priests and elders of Jerusalem, and as we are all sinners, I am at a loss to conceive how any can implore mercy but in the same phraseology of speech. The language of our church, you know, Madam, is very, very appropriate to us all, 'Lord have mercy on us, miserable sinners.'"
Miss Dorothy.—"No, Sir. I am not a miserable sinner. That language is only intended for the depraved part of your audience."
Miss Susan.—"Miserable sinners! Ah! miserable enough. Why, Sir, there is more misery in the parish now, than there has been for the past forty years, put it all together. I went into the kitchen the other night, and I saw our cook with the Bible on the table, weeping as though she had lost her father. And this, Sir, is all your doings; and when I told her she should not go to church any more to be made miserable, she began crying again, and had the impudence to tell me the next morning, that unless she could have the liberty of going to church on a Sunday, that I must provide myself with another servant. So you see, Sir, what misery you are propagating among us."
Mr. Guion.—"All pure religion commences in repentance towards God, and can there be repentance without sorrow? And if tears, the signs of sorrow, should be shed, ought this to excite astonishment? And you will permit me to say, that prohibiting your servant from attending church on the Sabbath is neither kind nor equitable. The Scriptures tell us of some who will not enter the kingdom of heaven themselves, nor suffer them that are entering to go in."
Miss Dorothy.—"I see your reference, but feel not its force. And as we differ so materially in our religious opinions, I think we had better decline any farther intercourse. You may go, Reverend Sir, and comfort the miserable, who are crying for mercy, because they need it, but you will allow us and our friends to enjoy that mental complacency which arises from a full conviction that we discharge our duties to our God and to our neighbour, and this we take as a bright omen of our future destiny. We have no desire to be initiated into the mysteries of your faith, but we do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God."
Mr. Guion.—"If we cannot agree on the speculative points of religion, probably we may on its relative duties. And now, ladies, you will allow me to state the ulterior design of my visit. John Brown, a very worthy man, who is in the employ of Mr. Rider, fell two months since from the top of a barley-mow, and broke a leg. He is still confined to his bed. He has five children, and his wife is on the eve of being again confined. This severe affliction has reduced the whole family to a state of extreme distress, and I am anxious to procure a little assistance for them."
Miss Dorothy.—"They should apply to the parish. We pay our rates, and that, you know, Sir, is giving to the poor."
Mr. Guion.—"A gift is a voluntary donation, but paying the parish rate is no gift, it is a legal compulsion. And besides, this poor man has always avoided an application to the parish, and I think it is not only our duty, but our interest, to encourage the poor to depend on their own resources, and the occasional assistance of their richer neighbours, rather than force them, by neglect, to have resource to the parish rate. There is a high spirit of independence in the mind of a poor, honest, industrious man, which keeps him from making any application to the overseers; but when that spirit of independence is broken down by the iron hand of want, and he is compelled to solicit parish relief to save himself from starvation, the repugnance is no longer felt, and then, by withholding a little temporary assistance in time of need, we injure the tone of his moral feelings, and create a family of paupers, who may hang on the parish rate all their life."
Miss Dorothy.—"If, Sir, you always reasoned in the pulpit with, as much correctness as you now reason out of it, your more respectable parishioners would not turn their backs on you. I will think of the case of this poor man, and if, after having made due inquiry, we think it a meritorious case, perhaps we may send something."
Mr. Guion.—"On the accuracy of my reasoning when in the pulpit it would be improper in me to express an opinion, but you will allow me to say that it is only a very small portion of the respectable part of my parishioners who have turned their back on me. The generality attend the church more regularly, if not more devoutly, than before I commenced my present style of preaching. And who are those who have recently deserted the church? Not those who are separated from the spirit and the customs of this world, but those who are lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God, who feel a higher gratification in reading plays and novels than in reading the Sacred Scriptures, in whose families no altar of devotion is erected, and who are more disposed to ridicule pure religion when it is infused into a living character, than to admire its excellence or imitate its example. If I preach contrary to the Scriptures, or to the Articles of our church, it will be an easy thing to detect me; but if my preaching accord with them, to contemn it will be an aggravation of guilt, and to desert it will be judging ourselves unworthy of eternal life."
Miss Susan.—"Every tub must stand on its own bottom. You go to heaven your way, and we will go ours."
Miss Dorothy.—"Yes. We are commanded not to be righteous over-much. The Deity is pleased when he sees his rational creatures happy, and he does not require us to forego the innocent diversions which improved society has instituted for its own gratification. However, it is not my wish to prolong a debate which is mutually unpleasant."
"Do these ladies," inquired Mrs. Stevens, "ever come now to hear you preach?"
"No, Madam, Miss Dorothy bears what she calls her expulsion from church in a genuine pharisaical hauteur of spirit; and is sullenly silent about the cause of it. But Miss Susan is bitterly vituperative. She often says I shall have to account to the Almighty for driving her from the church where she was christened, and confirmed, and taken the sacrament ever since, and where she hoped to be buried with her ancestors; but she declares I shall never bury her."
"Do you ever see them now, Sir?"
"We occasionally meet, when we go through the formal ceremonial of a polite recognition. They do not object to a bow from their rector, though they object to his sermons."
"Have they any pernicious influence over others to keep them from church?"
"Yes, Madam, over a few of the frivolous and the gay, who now attend Mr. Cole's church, when they go anywhere. And there these two ladies go on sacrament Sunday—wind and weather permitting."
"We often," said Mr. Ingleby, "see the depraved and dissolute repenting, and seeking salvation through faith in Jesus Christ, but we rarely know a genuine Pharisee converted; they are too good in their own estimation to need a Saviour. They will bow at the mention of his name, but they will not look to him to save them; and primarily, because they are under no apprehension of ever being lost."
We were startled, while gravely listening to this tale of the two spinster ladies, by the sudden tolling of the church bell. Mr. Ingleby left the room to ascertain the cause, and on his return informed us that, owing to some mistake, he had to conduct the service at a funeral, which he expected would not take place till the following day.
"Pray, Sir," said Mrs. Stevens, "who is to be interred?" "One of the choicest lambs of my flock. She fell a victim to the inconstancy of a worthless man; but towards the close of her imbittered life she enjoyed unruffled peace of soul, and died in full and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life." He now left us to prepare for the service, and we resolved to follow him to the grave-yard.
A LAMB OF THE FLOCK BORNE TO HER REST.
Vol. i. page 87.
Seated by myself upon a tombstone, I sat musing on death and immortality; on the raptures and the woes of the invisible world; on the dying and on the dead; till I saw the procession moving slowly up a lane which led to the place of sepulture. The pall was supported by six females dressed in white; and one walked before the corpse, carrying a chaplet of flowers. The parents and their surviving children followed; and a large proportion of the village hung on, as deeply interested spectators. On entering the church, the bier was placed in the aisle; the pall-bearers standing by its sides during the whole of the service. The procession at length moved to the grave, which was under the shade of a yew tree. Every eye appeared suffused with tears; but when the noise of the earth falling on the coffin was heard, there was such a simultaneous emotion of grief excited, that nearly all wept, except the parents. They stood motionless; the power of feeling seemed suspended; a fixed melancholy was impressed on their countenance; and they walked away, the victims of despair, moving from one dreary spot to another not less dreary.
As their grief appeared too singular to use any of the common methods which that passion generally adopts to gain relief from its own inflictions, I felt anxious to ascertain the specific cause of its excitement; and, on returning to the rectory, I asked Mr. Ingleby to give us the history of the deceased.
"She was," he said, "the eldest daughter of an opulent farmer, who resides about half-a-mile off; an extremely handsome and accomplished girl; and, from the elegance of her manners, and her intellectual attainments, she was fitted to move in the most polite circles. But though she stood without a rival in the whole hamlet, she was either unconscious of her superiority, or had too much good sense to display it. She would visit the sick, instruct the children of the poor, or perform any other work of mercy. In her the passion of selfishness was annihilated, and she lived to bless others. But she wanted the grace of pure religion to give the finishing polish to her attractive charms: and had she possessed this at an earlier period of her life, she might still have been, what she once was, the glory of her father's house.
"About four years ago, a young gentleman of rank and fortune, but of dissipated habits, obtained an introduction to her; an intimacy was formed, which soon ripened, in her unsuspecting breast, into an ardent attachment. Her parents, who ought to have guarded her against the cruel monster, did all in their power to encourage his visits; and on one occasion, when I ventured to suggest that I suspected the purity of his intentions, they were offended. But the veil of deception, which he had thrown over his professions, was very unexpectedly rent asunder; and with a levity and insolence of manner, which rarely occur in the annals of human treachery, he tore himself away from her, leaving her the dupe of her own credulity, and the victim of her own grief. Abandoned by one she loved, and thrown as an orphan on the world, even while her parents were still living, she withdrew from society, and, like the stricken deer, sought a tranquil death in a gloomy shade. Her health gradually declined, and it was thought proper to try if change of air and change of scene would not become the means of restoring it. She went, with a younger sister, to Teignmouth, to spend the winter; but on her return we all perceived that she was hastening to the tomb.
"I called to see her a few days after her return, and was both astonished and delighted to find that, during her residence at Teignmouth, she had given almost undivided attention to the momentous claims of religion. 'Though, Sir,' she said, 'I have had the privilege of attending your ministry from my early childhood, and have had my mind, at various times, most powerfully impressed by the truth, which I have heard you preach, yet I never understood the plan of salvation till recently. I used to admit the importance of religion, but now I feel it; and though I cannot say that I have attained to any high degree of eminence in knowledge or enjoyment, yet light has broken in upon my understanding, and I am permitted to indulge a good hope through grace. How astonishing! I was sent to Teignmouth for the recovery of my health, which I have not obtained; but there I found the pearl of great price' (Rom. xi. 33).
"I asked her if anything of a particular nature occurred while she was at Teignmouth, to force on her attention the great question relating to her personal salvation? when she gave me the following statement:—
"'When out for a walk one evening, I ran into a roadside cottage, for shelter against a very heavy shower of rain. I there saw a young person, about my own age, dying of a decline; and in a short time her physician came, who is a very godly man, and I overheard part of their conversation. I heard her say, I am not now afraid of dying or of death. I know by the loss of this frail life I shall gain immortal life in heaven—a life of happiness, where there will be no sin, or sorrow, or pain, or poverty, or death.'
"'I called,' she added, 'the next day, with a few jellies and oranges, but I found the cottage in a state of great confusion and sorrow, for she died just before I entered it. On the following Sabbath her funeral sermon was preached at the Dissenting chapel, and I heard it. The text made a deep impression on my heart, as I thought it applicable to myself—"Her sun went down while it was yet day." From that hour I gave an undiverted attention to the apostolic injunction—"Work out your salvation with fear and trembling;" and I trust, Sir, I can now say I do believe in the Son of God, and hope He will save me. I may live to outlive my affliction, and the poignant sufferings which have been the cause of it; but it is very doubtful. What a mercy that I am now prepared for death and its issue.'
"She grew better as the spring advanced; the influence of religious principle moderated the violence of her mental anguish; her spirits regained their natural vivacity; she resumed her customary habits of going about doing good, and again mingled amongst the living; but now her preference was to the excellent of the earth, who love and fear God. So great was the change in her appearance, that we all flattered ourselves that the fatal disease had received a check, and that she would yet live to bless us with her presence and her example. But the disorder, which we thought subdued, was silently spreading itself through her whole frame; and having taken a fresh cold, it attacked her with greater violence, and within the space of three weeks she was taken from us. At my last interview with her, which was only a few hours before her decease, she said, 'I am not now afraid to die. The subject has long been familiar to me. It is divested of all its terrors. "I know that my Redeemer liveth." I enjoy His presence this side the Jordan, and doubt not but the waters will divide when He calls me to pass through.'
"On seeing her mother weep, and her father retiring in sorrow from the 'post of observation,' she said with great composure, 'My dear parents, weep not for me. I shall soon, very soon be released from all my pain, and see Him, "whom having not seen, I love; in whom, though I see Him not, yet believing, I rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory." I leave you in this vale of sorrow, to ascend the mount of bliss; and I hope you will follow me. And O! that he who has been the guilty cause of my early death, may obtain mercy in that day when we must stand together before the judgment-seat.' She spoke but little after this, and at seven o'clock the same evening she said, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,' smiled, and expired.
"Since her death her parents, who are virtuous, but not pious, have been inconsolable; they reproach themselves in the bitterest terms for the inducements which they threw in the way of the murderer of their daughter and the destroyer of their happiness; and though they have no doubt of her present felicity, yet, being ignorant of the nature of that felicity, and having no animating prospect of attaining it themselves, they sorrow as others who have no hope. I have visited them several times since the dear deceased left us; but grief has taken such an entire possession of their mind, that the words of consolation seem to aggravate its violence, and I fear, unless mercy interpose to prevent it, that the grave will soon be opened to receive them."
"Nothing," said Mr. Stevens, "gives such buoyancy to the mind, in the season of affliction, as communion with God. This holy exercise induces resignation, as well as submission to His will; raises up the soul above the conflicting elements of sorrow, into the tranquil regions of peace; and, by associating it with the unseen, yet not unfelt realities of the eternal world, makes it unwilling to look for permanent and substantial happiness amidst the fleeting possessions of earth."
"I was present," said Mrs. Stevens, "when my dear sister, Mrs. Lewellin, lost her Eliza. She wept as she followed her remains to the tomb; but she did not repine. She said to me, after the rites of sepulture were performed, as we sat together in the room in which the dear girl expired, 'If it had been the will of the Lord to have spared my child, I would have received her back with grateful joy; but as He has taken her to Himself, I can bow and say,
'I welcome all thy sov'reign will,
For all that will is love;
And when I know not what thou dost,
I'll wait the light above.'"
"Religion," said Mr. Ingleby, "has a fine effect on the soul in the day of prosperity; but its excellency is most visible in the season of adversity; then it shines with peculiar radiance, demonstrating its superhuman origin, by the omnipotence of its power in moderating the intensity of grief, and inspiring the soul with a hope full of immortality."