MISS ROSCOE.
I t was near the end of the following week ere Miss Roscoe and Mrs. Stevens again met. After some remarks from Mrs. Stevens upon the evident depression of her friend's spirits, Miss Roscoe observed:
"Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last week, I have felt the extremes of anguish and of joy. My life is indeed a chequered one, and I often wonder how the scene will end."
"Yes, my dear, the life of every Christian is a chequered life. He is liable to a continued change of feeling, and the scene of Providence is ever shifting; the current of his history may run on for a season in a smooth and even course, but it is constantly exposed to obstructions. Joy and grief are very delicate passions; and as they have such a powerful influence over us, it is wisely ordained that we shall not be kept in a state of perpetual excitement. They come in as with a flood of feeling; but, instead of laying waste the mind, they often become the means of enriching it with the most nutritious consolations."
"But how difficult it is to control grief, when it springs out of a domestic calamity."
"I hope, my dear, you have no new domestic trial."
"I am not aware that I have a new one, but I have one that has inflicted a most poignant wound, and I know not what steps to take. My dear parents manifest the most decided hostility to my religious opinions and habits. When they confined their hostility within the bounds of argument and persuasion, I found it comparatively easy to maintain the contest; but now they begin to reproach me, and I fear their attachment is on the decline. To survive the loss of their affection, I think, will be to live too long for my own peace. Where shall I find another home? Where shall I find another father? Where shall I find happiness when my parents cease to love me and regard me as their daughter?"
"Though your parents are hostile to your religious opinions and habits, their hostility will not continue always. They are disappointed by your not appearing in that circle of society in which they expected you to move; and are mortified by the satirical remarks which your religious profession has provoked; but time will soften down these asperities of feeling, and they will eventually tolerate what they may never be disposed to sanction."
"But what ought I to do? Am I to sacrifice my religious principles to parental solicitation? I have been advised to do so, as obedience to parents is a cardinal virtue of Christianity. It is a virtue which ought to live in the heart of every child; yet I feel I cannot give it that form of expression which they wish. It is this that aggravates my sorrow. I love them, I revere them, I would sacrifice my health and my life to please them; but I cannot, I dare not sacrifice my conscience."
"Your situation is very delicate and painful; yet you must remember that you are under the peculiar protection of the Redeemer. He has all power in heaven and on earth, and works all things after the counsel of his own will. He can cause light to spring out of darkness, and often comes forth to deliver his people when they despair of help. I would advise you to be firm, yet temperate; to blend the utmost degree of kindness with inflexible decision; to avoid every appearance of eccentricity; not to introduce religious questions in conversation at an improper time, and when you do introduce them, cautiously abstain from minor and subordinate topics; bear reproach without murmuring; never discover an eagerness to expose erroneous views of truth, unless you have reason to conclude that it can be done without giving offence; and, as a general maxim, prove the truth and the excellence of your religious sentiments and opinions, more by your life than by your tongue."
"I sometimes think that I shall sink beneath my afflictions, but at other times I rise above them. I know that it is through much tribulation that the righteous are to enter the kingdom, and I know, also, that amidst all their tribulations they enjoy peace. The candidate for immortality ought not to object to the cross; but when the cross is prepared by those we love, it becomes peculiarly oppressive. After much deliberation and many prayers, I resolved on writing to my parents, and have placed in the hands of my father, as I left home, a letter, a copy of which I will read to you:—
"'My Beloved Parents,—It is with many varied and conflicting emotions that I now address you; you may think it strange that I have chosen the more formal style of writing, rather than conversing with you, but I trust you will agree with me that, considering the importance of the subject which is now engaging so much of our mutual thoughts and feelings, and the different opinions we entertain, it is of great consequence that we should fully understand each others' sentiments. Upon your kind sympathy I throw myself; judge me not harshly; though compelled to differ from you on many points, still let me have your usual kindness and consideration.
"'I am fully aware of the deep and poignant sorrow which my late course of conduct has brought upon you; you have ever been to me kind and indulgent, have brought me up in the enjoyment of every comfort and elegance which your station in life has enabled you to command; no expense has been spared to fit me for the position in society you wish me to occupy; and now, by my own act and decision, I deprive you of the pleasure and reward which you so naturally expect. You wish to see me moving in elegant society, joining with youthful vigour in those scenes of amusement and worldly gaiety in which you think I ought to find delight, and attribute my objections to such amusements to a morbid antipathy to the elegancies of life, and an assumption of ascetic rigour ill suited to the character of one who has enjoyed my advantages. Both from love and duty, you require me again to frequent these scenes of amusement in which I now feel no interest, again to conform to the usages of fashionable life, and again to be, what I once was, "a giddy worldling." My dear parents, were it an earthly attachment you asked me to surrender, however great the sacrifice, however my heart, its woman's hopes and happiness might be wrecked, so great is the affection I bear you, so high a regard have I for parental authority, that I would yield. But what is it that you ask of me? Not such a sacrifice as this—that time, your love, and other ties might heal—but the sacrifice of all I hold most dear, most valuable—the sacrifice of myself, my precious and immortal soul. Start not, my father, but ponder well and deeply what I say. Judge me not by this world's judgment, but by the Scripture authority, which I know you revere, and will never gainsay. I believe in no strange doctrine; no new or fanciful form of religious truth has taken possession of my heart and feelings. Taking the testimony of Scripture for my guidance, seeking to be led alone by its revealed truth, and to learn and to obey its commands, how can I conform to the world, and yet remain a disciple of Christ Jesus? The two are impossible! "Be ye not conformed to the world" is a solemn command, to which I must yield obedience. It has pleased God in his providence so to influence my heart and conscience, that I now see things with a different eye than before; I must therefore regulate my conduct by these convictions. Love of the world, and worldly pleasures, cannot find a place in the heart of one who has given herself to Christ. You may plead that God requires not sacrifices such as these from his people, especially in opposition to parental authority; and that I have no right to blast your happiness, and bring disgrace upon your family by my eccentric notions. I cannot admit that by my decision I am justly incurring your displeasure, or disgracing myself and you. I cannot, conscientiously with my sense of duty to Christ, any longer mix with the gay and thoughtless, make myself a partner in their follies, or join in their amusements; but I am not required to shun literary pursuits, the improvement of my mind, and those intellectual enjoyments in which I have ever delighted; but believing, as I do, the utter inconsistency of all worldly dissipation and gaiety with the pursuits of a Christian life, I must for ever renounce them. I am prepared for all that misrepresentation and contempt from others may do to wound and annoy, but cannot give up my religious principles, and what I consider my Christian duty. I trust, with the blessing of God, and help from him, sustained by the love and sympathy of my dear Redeemer, I could willingly become a martyr, but never either an inconsistent professor or an apostate.
"'My beloved parents, ponder well ere you deprive me of your confidence and affection; listen not to the satire and bitterness of others, who cannot judge me as I ought to be judged. Believe me—supreme love to the Saviour will not make me love you less; my religious feelings will not make me indifferent to the claims of parental regard, authority, and affection. I shall not be less your child because I call God my father. I implore you, let not domestic strife and sorrow enter our once happy home! For the sake of peace, must I conform to the world, return to the habits and customs of fashionable life, be again—what I once was—one of the gay and thoughtless, or no longer the child of your fondest affections, or perhaps even an inmate of your home? Bear with me while I tell you; my choice is made; I am prepared to sacrifice everything but my religious freedom, my love for my Saviour, and obedience to his authority. 'He that loveth father and mother more than me, is not worthy of me.'
"'It will not be long, at the longest space of time, before this world, with all its gaieties and follies, will pass away from us; we know not how much of sorrow or joy lies before us; what will sustain us should sorrow as a flood flow over us, desolation, and bitter woe? Will the jocund laugh, the merry dance, the enlivening strain of earth's sweetest music, soothe the heart overburdened with deepest sorrow? If we have no other foundation to rest upon than these—no other friendship than that of the world, which is as evanescent as its happiness—where shall we go if sorrow withers our joys and enters our home? But we may escape these, and, like a peaceful stream, our years may glide from us, our sky still be bright and serene, and a cloudless sunset cheer our departing day; but night follows day—and there is a night, dark and stormy if unenlightened from above, coming upon us all, for which we each one must prepare—the night of death! What will it avail us then whether riches or poverty, rank or meanness, has been our portion here? These will not save us; all that human love and friendship can effect will be unavailing then, if our hope is not on high—if an Almighty friend is not with us to divide for us the waters of dissolution—to become our intercessor and Saviour. Oh! my beloved parents, dearer to me than life itself, think of these things; think of the last earthly scene; let me prepare for it, and forget not that the same preparation is needful for you.
"'I can no longer trifle with the things of time; an eternity of bliss or woe is before me. I am prepared for the sacrifice of all earthly honour and happiness, that I may be safe in Christ, and prepared to meet him at his coming. That you, my dear parents, may finally meet me in the heavenly world, where no sorrow can enter, and where the voice of discord is never heard, is the sincere prayer of your affectionate and dutiful child,
"'Sophia.'"
"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Stevens, "but this letter will operate greatly in your favour. Your parents are labouring under a misapprehension, which your open and frank statement will remove; and while they must admire the independence which claims its rights, they will respect those religious principles which no human authority can, or ought even to attempt to subdue."
"Oh! they are the best of parents, and if they had not been influenced by the evil spirit of others, they never would have disturbed my peace. I blame not them, but the officious few who, like the ancient Pharisees, will not go into the kingdom of heaven themselves, nor suffer them that are entering to go in. But I forgive them. They demand my pity—they have it—and my prayers also, for they know not what they do. I will now, as a diversion from this painful subject, read to you an interesting letter which I have just received from a young friend with whom I formed an acquaintance when at Dawlish, and I have no doubt it will give you great pleasure, as it has given me. She was, when I first knew her, devoted to the pleasures of this world; but now, I trust, she is seeking those of a better:—
"'My Dear Sophia,—I received your last letter; on looking at the date of it, I must apologize to you for leaving it so long unanswered. It came to me while my mind was in an agitated state, and I had almost abandoned the hope of future happiness. Not that I have been called to pass through any scene of earthly trial and disappointment, but my volatile and thoughtless heart has been deeply impressed by the conviction of my sinfulness in the sight of God, and my consequent danger. Although I have received a religious education, and ever felt a reverence for what is sacred and sublime, yet love for real religion had never found a place in my heart. Far from my thoughts and feelings was all regard for what is most essential to our eternal interests. Fond of the society of the worldly and gay, my chief pleasure and pursuits have been in the world—gayest among the gay, the festive dance, the evening assembly—all the pleasures which may be derived from the associations and charms which this vain and transitory scene can give, had acquired a complete ascendency over my heart. The thought of death and futurity I banished from me, living on in a state of careless, thoughtless indifference.
"'At this time a friend presented to me a little treatise, and I could not from politeness refuse to read it. From its perusal I have received those deep and powerful impressions, which, I trust, may never be effaced from my heart. I now see wherein I have acted so foolishly. God, in his great mercy, has poured into my soul the light of Divine truth. Oh! how greatly are all things changed to me! I can no longer find pleasure in worldly dissipation and gaiety; I have entirely forsaken those scenes of folly and sin; and am I not happy? The peace and true joy which only a Christian can know, has taken possession of my heart; love to my Saviour, who lived and died for me, and a sense of his forgiving mercy, is my chief delight. In the study of the Holy Scriptures I find intense enjoyment; the time I formerly spent in thoughtless gaiety I now devote to the improvement of my mind, and the sacred delights of private devotion. If you, my dear Sophia, have felt the renewing influence of Divine truth, you will be able to rejoice with me, and fully comprehend the gratitude I feel to Him who has arrested my steps, and is now, I trust, leading me in the paths of purer happiness and peace.
"'Hoping soon to receive another letter from you, and with kind remembrances from my dear parents, believe me, ever your sincere friend,
"'Louisa.'"
"It is pleasing," said Mrs. Stevens, "to see the progress which the truth is making. It is true we cannot boast of numbers, when we compare the righteous with the irreligious, yet our number is on the increase. The poor in general hear and receive the gospel; and the God of all grace is calling some in the higher ranks of society to be the living witnesses to its truth and excellence."
"But how few the number! We may quote the language of the apostle as descriptive of the present state of the higher orders: 'Not many wise, not many mighty, not many noble are called.' Alas! no. The wise disdain to receive instruction from the fishermen of Galilee; the mighty are too proud to yield subjection to the authority of the son of the carpenter; and the noble contemn the ignominy and reproach of the cross. They support the dignity of the church, while they debase the character of its Founder; venerate its ministers, while they despise and reject the authority of their Master; observe its sacraments and its ceremonies, while they repudiate the design for which they were instituted; and move onward towards the unknown world of spirits, without ever agitating the great question, What must I do to be saved? Alas! they are self-doomed to endless woe. "We should pity and pray for them."
"Their talents, their rank, and their wealth, often excite our envy; but if we knew all the moral disadvantages which are attendant on their great possessions, such a passion would never glow in our breast. They are exempted from many of the evils which press on the lower and middle classes of society, but they are not exempted from the pangs of sorrow, nor the visitations of death. A late senator,[9] whose knowledge of human life and manners was as comprehensive as his eloquence was brilliant and fascinating, has somewhere said, 'that to the great the consolations of religion are as necessary as its instructions. They, too, are among the unhappy. They feel personal pain and domestic sorrow. In these they have no privilege, but are subject to pay their full contingent to the contributions levied on mortality.'"
"From the intercourse which I have held with the higher circles, I am of opinion that there is a much smaller proportion of real happiness among them than is generally imagined; and when I reflect on the temptations and dangers to which they are necessarily exposed, I feel no disposition to envy them. But what rank of life is free from danger? Who, of all the human family, would ever seek redemption through the blood of Christ, unless impelled by an invisible force? What heart would ever glow with love to God, unless that passion be enkindled as with a live coal from off his own hallowed altar? And where this passion does glow, what force can extinguish it? And if we have been made to differ from others, ought we not to distinguish ourselves both by the purity of our life, and the ardour of our zeal for the honour of the Lord Jesus?"
"Where much is given, much is required. Our responsibility rises in proportion to the elevation of our rank and the extent of our influence. When I see a professing Christian, possessed of wealth and of leisure, freed from the incumbrances of the world, yet living a supine and comparatively inactive life—while he makes no effort to form plans for the moral welfare of society, or to lend his aid to those already established—I feel the force of the apostolic question, How dwelleth the love of God in him?"
"There is, in my opinion, a grand peculiarity in the religion of Jesus Christ, which cannot be expressed in more emphatic language than that of Paul:—'For the love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead: and that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them and rose again.'"