MISS ROSCOE WITHDRAWS FROM GAY LIFE.
As Miss Roscoe was sitting one evening with her parents, the conversation turned in the following manner:—
"I have just received," said Mr. Roscoe, "an invitation from Mr. Denham to attend a private ball at his house; and he hopes that you, my dear Sophia, will accompany me and your mamma. I fear, from some incidental remarks which you have made at different times, that such amusements have lost their charm; but I hope that your good sense has overcome your scruples, and that you will not hesitate to comply with my request. I ask it as a personal favour."
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Roscoe, "I hope you will; your father and I have had much conversation together on the subject, and we both think you can do it and be very religious too. You know that religion is not to deprive us of any enjoyments. Indeed, I think when such religious people as we have always been indulge ourselves in these fashionable amusements, we do more to recommend religion than such austere professors as our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens."
To which Miss Roscoe replied: "I certainly think that religious people ought to recommend religion by their cheerfulness and their pleasantry, as well as by their strict moral deportment; but I do not see how that religion, which requires us to avoid a conformity to the vain customs of the world, can be recommended by a compliance with them. If we do as others do, we shall be thought like them; and I am sure, from my personal knowledge, that those who find pleasure in balls and theatrical amusements are as averse to the religion of the Bible as those who openly and avowedly reject it."
"My dear," said Mrs. Roscoe, "I hope you do not intend to say that all who avail themselves of such recreations are destitute of religion. I do not like such sweeping charges. You would condemn some of the most amiable and virtuous persons living!"
"A person may be amiable without being religious, and virtuous, even while he rejects as fabulous that scheme of salvation which we admit to be true. If, then, we admit it to be true, does it not become us, if we wish to preserve consistency, to conform ourselves to its preceptive parts? And does it not require us to become a peculiar people? And in what can that peculiarity be manifested but by an entire avoidance of the habits and customs which the world sanctions? You know, mamma, that I often acted a most prominent part in these scenes of fashionable gaiety, and that I intermingled with the indiscriminate throng, participating in the glow of feeling enkindled in their breast, and am, therefore, intimately familiar with the moral qualities and the religious sentiments of those who derive their highest gratification from such sources; and while I would proceed with great caution in invading the province of the heart, yet it is my decided opinion that no person who has ever felt the transforming influence of divine truth can sanction them."
Mr. Roscoe remarked: "I grant, my Sophia, that a superior mind will look with indifference on such frivolous amusements, and that many who resort to them are impelled more by custom than inclination; yet I do not perceive that they can injure the religious tone of the mind. I have been as firm a believer in the divine origin of the Bible, and the mission and death of our Saviour, after my return from a ball, as before I went, though I confess my time could have been more profitably occupied."
"And I am sure," said Mrs. Roscoe, "that I have felt as religious at the opera as ever I felt at church; my heart has been elated with gratitude to the Almighty for permitting us to enjoy such recreations."
"I do not suppose, my dear father, that going to a ball or the opera would shake your belief in the divine mission of Jesus Christ; but I presume that you do not imagine that He would attend them if He were on earth! and ought a disciple to go where his Lord would not go? I grant that that religion which consists only in a speculative belief may not be injured by such amusements; but I am conscious that they produce and nourish sentiments and feelings which are not only unconsonant, but directly opposed to the spirit of vital Christianity. I could not pass from the gaieties of a ball-room to anticipate the happiness of heaven, nor retire, after the fatigues of a lengthened dance, to hold spiritual communion with the Holy One."
"But where," said Mrs. Roscoe, "is the necessity of being always religious? Is the world to be turned into a convent, and are we all to become either nuns or monks—forbidden to taste of any of the pleasures of life, and doomed to perpetual fastings and prayers? What! religion every day, and all day long! Why, my Sophia, your remarks alarm me."
"I am sorry, my dear mamma, that I should cause you any alarm, but I assure you that there is no occasion for it; the religion which has given me a distaste for pleasures so ephemeral and unsatisfactory, has opened to me sources of enjoyment of a much higher order. I do not stoop to earth or any of its gay scenes for mental bliss, but arise to intercourse with the Great Invisible. I no longer seek for religious impressions amidst the forms and ceremonies of an external devotion, but in the exercise of that faith which brings remote objects near, and which invests those which are unseen with a more attractive power than those which are visible. I no longer hover in a state of uncertainty respecting my final destiny, for I enjoy the bright beamings of that hope which is full of immortality; and can attest that now my mental happiness is more pure, elevated, and stable, than it was when I was a devotee to fashionable amusements."
"I am glad," said Mr. Roscoe, "to hear that you are happy; but I must confess that it is a sort of happiness of which I can form no idea. The Almighty is very good; he wishes to make all his creatures happy—some in one way and some in another; we should follow where inclination leads. Inclination is the first law of nature, which all must obey if they wish to be happy; and I think that we ought not to interfere with each other's propensities."
"But as by nature we are inclined to evil, ought not such a propensity to be restrained? What are the various laws of civil society but so many proofs of the evil propensity of our nature, and so many restraints on its indulgence?"
"I admit that the majority are wicked, and that they require the strong arm of the law to keep them in subjection; but I cannot admit that all are corrupted by the evil principle. What models of perfection may we select from the circle of our acquaintance!—men of honour, of integrity, of benevolence—men in whose character all the virtues are concentrated, and who live amidst the contagion of the world without being injured by it—men who would scorn an act of meanness or duplicity; who would sacrifice their ease and their wealth to promote the general good; who are religious without ostentation; and who know how to enjoy the felicity of social life without being entangled by its snares. Are we to suppose that such men are corrupted by evil principles, and that they are under some fatally evil inclination?"
"You will admit, my dear father, that a community of rebels may cultivate the social virtues among themselves, even while they live in a state of revolt against their sovereign, and in hostility against all who retain their loyalty?"
"Yes, my dear, certainly they may."
"Do we not read in the Scripture, that all have sinned against God—that all are gone astray from their subjection to his authority—that all are become corrupt? And do we not know that the sentence of death has passed upon all men, because all have sinned? Now if, as you suppose, some have escaped the general contagion, and are absolutely pure and virtuous, how is it that they are involved in the same sentence of condemnation with the openly depraved and wicked? Where is the equity of such a decision? And are we not accustomed to say, when kneeling before the Lord our Judge, 'We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep; we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts; we have offended against thy holy laws; we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us; but thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders?'"
"Yes, my dear Sophia; but you must remember that our excellent Liturgy was composed to suit the moral condition of the great majority of the people; and therefore it became necessary that such strong language should be employed; but you cannot suppose that it is strictly applicable to the virtuous part of the community."
"Then why do they adopt it? Why do they acknowledge, on their knees before God, what they deny to man? Is not this a resistless proof of the evil propensity of human nature?"
"I think not. I think it is a proof of the generous amiability of human nature, as the virtuous part of society consent to employ language which is not strictly applicable to themselves, out of compassion to the more degenerated and worthless, who ought to make such concessions, and pray in such strong terms of humiliation."
"How, then, ought the virtuous to pray, if they ought not to pray in the strongest terms of humiliation? Shall we revive the spirit of the ancient Pharisee, which our Lord condemned; and shall we approach the footstool of the divine throne with his language: 'God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess?' In this prayer there is the language of self-gratulation and the spirit of censoriousness, but no humble confession for sin, nor any petition for mercy."
"Being a virtuous man, he had no sins to confess, and therefore did not need to implore mercy, but he did not forget to offer thanks to God for his virtuous endowments.
"He did not feel the guilt of his sins, nor did he feel the need of mercy; but his insensibility was no proof of his innocence. The publican was in the temple at the same time, but how different the spirit which he discovered, and the language which he uttered: 'And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me, a sinner!' And in the following verse we read the judgment which Jesus Christ pronounced on the state of these two men: 'I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.'"
"I am sorry, my dear," said Mrs. Roscoe, "that you have taken such gloomy views of human nature; I do not think that they will contribute to your happiness, and I very much regret that you should ever have imbibed them. We were once happy and united, but now we are a divided family; the introduction of this evangelical religion, as it called, among us, has broken up our peace, and we are censured by many of our friends for permitting you to follow your present bias. We did hope, when the fervour subsided, you would return to your former habits of life, but I begin to despair of this."
"The views of human nature which I have taken, dear mamma, are scriptural, and in strict accordance with the language of the prayers and articles of our church. If I am mistaken, I am willing to be convinced of my error; but, on a question of such magnitude, I can receive only the most substantial proof. You charge me with breaking up the peace of the family; this charge possesses a keen point, and it has deeply grieved me. My peace was broken, and I wandered almost a forlorn object of grief, because I had no prospect of happiness till I was led to embrace my present religious opinions; these have acted on my wounded spirit as the rebuke of the Saviour did on the agitated waters of Gennesaret, and now I enjoy an internal calm; and must the restoration of peace to my mind be regarded as the destroyer of domestic happiness?"
"Why, you know, my dear, that your views on religious subjects differ from ours; indeed, I think them very eccentric, and we cannot approve of them, and our friends make many remarks which are not pleasant. Some say that you are a Methodist, some that you are a Calvinist, and many say that you are become quite a fanatic. These things are unpleasant, they mortify us. We think it quite a disgrace to our family that you should have such things said about you. I therefore hope you will consent to go with us to Mr. Denham's ball; it is held, I assure you, principally on your account; there is to be a large party, and all will be delighted to see you. You then will wipe off the odium which your eccentric views have brought on yourself and us. Your father has made a very handsome purchase for the occasion, which he intends to present to you. You know it will not prevent your being very religious."
"I would sacrifice much to please and gratify you, my dear mamma; but do not press me to a compliance which I cannot yield to without making a sacrifice of principle."
"But what principle would you sacrifice by complying with such a request?"
"If I were to go I should feel no interest in the scene, and my sadness would throw a gloom over the cheerfulness of others; and I should render myself the object of satirical remark, rendered keener than any which has yet been directed against me, as my inconsistency would justify it; for those who are so anxious to get me among them, well know that I must first sacrifice my religious principles before I can consent."
"O no, my dear, they will receive you with more delight than they would an angel; and when you get among your old friends, you will disengage your mind from your religious meditations, which you will find a great relief; I have no doubt you will be quite yourself again, and that will make us all as happy as we used to be. I feel in ecstasy in prospect of it. Do yield to our request."
"Yes, I must disengage my mind from all religious recollections or anticipations to be happy on such an occasion; but such a disengagement would be the entire destruction of my happiness in this world, and the prospect of it hereafter."
"Then, must we go without you?"
"I cannot consent to go unless you insist on it; and even then I should go with reluctance, and I fear my presence would disturb the harmony of the evening."
"I assure you," said Mr. Roscoe, "it is with the deepest regret that I witness the pernicious infatuation under which you are labouring. Fitted to move in any rank of life, and to command the respect and esteem of a large circle, who would feel proud to enjoy your friendship and society, you seem determined to descend even to the lowest, and gather up the fragments of a fanatical felicity among the evangelical professors who abound among us. My peace is gone, because yours is wrecked; and my hopes of your future respectability are all vanished. I certainly did expect that you would comply with my request to accompany us to Mr. Denham's, when I solicited it as a personal favour; but I now perceive that your religion has taught you how to refuse a parent's request; and if the first-fruits are disobedience, what will be the issue? After all the pains that I have bestowed on the cultivation of your mind, and the bleeding anxiety of my heart during your protracted illness, to see you now come forth to contemn the elegant accomplishments of social life, and the society of those with whom you have been accustomed to mingle with so much delight and eclat, is a calamity which will bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?"
Miss Roscoe was too much affected by this severe and unexpected address, to make any reply; and though she endeavoured to suppress her feelings, yet she was obliged to retire to her own room, where a flood of tears gave her some relief. When somewhat composed, she opened her Bible, and the following passage struck her eye: "Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven. Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I come not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. And a man's foes shall be they of his own household" (Matt. x. 32-36). The remarks of her favourite commentator, Scott, strengthened her views of the passage, and she felt more and more that it was her duty to act consistently with her religious principles, though she might incur the displeasure of her parents.
Soon after this conversation took place, a select party came to spend the evening at the Roscoes'; and, after tea, the cards were introduced as usual.
"I shall be happy," said the Rev. Mr. Cole (addressing himself to Miss Roscoe), "to have you for a partner at whist."
"I am sorry, Sir, to deny you any request, but I cannot comply with the one which you have just made."
"Indeed! why, we have often spent the evening in this amusing manner, and I hope we shall spend many more."
"Yes, Sir, we have; but it is not my intention to consume any future portion of my time in such an amusement."
"But do you think that there is any moral evil in it?"
"It has, in my opinion, the appearance of evil, from which we are commanded to abstain."
"But of two evils is it not the wisest maxim to choose the least? and is it not a smaller evil to amuse ourselves at cards, than, as is often the case at evening parties, to play at scandal and defame the reputation of others?"
"Unquestionably; but I presume that a wise and good man would avoid both these evils."
"But I am not aware that any evil can arise from this amusing exercise."
"Does it not consume that time which ought to be devoted to a more profitable purpose? Does it not frequently give excitement to those passions of our nature which ought to be repressed? Does it not encourage a passion for gaming, which, we know, has involved many in entire ruin?"
"But that is the abuse of the thing."
"Nay, Sir, I think it is the natural tendency of it."
"But are we to have no amusements because some indulge in them to excess? Is life to pass away in a dull, monotonous routine of duty? Are we always to live in a state of exile from the charms and fascinations of social intercourse? Is the mind never to relax itself amidst the diversions of polished society? Must we ever keep up our attention to the sombrous claims of religion, and always think, and speak, and act, as though we were treading on the verge of an awful eternity? Indeed, I give it as my decided opinion, that that species of religion which interdicts these amusements, cannot claim a divine origin, because it is opposed to human happiness."
"That species of religion, as you are pleased to call it, does claim a divine origin, and, perhaps, if you examine its claims, you will find them attested by the spirit of the New Testament. Permit me to ask you one question, and I am willing that your answer shall decide the question at issue between us—Do you believe that if Jesus Christ or any of his apostles were now present, they would consent to pass away the hours of this evening in such an exercise as playing a game of cards?"
"Perhaps not, but they were extraordinary persons, and their virtue kept them from many sources of amusement from which we, who are more frail, may very innocently draw a portion of our pleasure."
"Then you admit that it is our frailty that leads us to such amusements, and that if we possessed more exalted virtue we should avoid them?"
"You reason excellently well, Madam, against the amusement; but such is the frailty of our nature, that I fear the passion cannot be subdued with such a weapon."
"Perhaps not, Sir."
"Pray, Madam, what amusements would you sanction?"
"Those which would afford me pleasure on reflection, and in which I could be engaged in my last moments."
"The apparent delight with which evangelical professors anticipate their last moments, is a tacit acknowledgment that the present are dull and insipid."
"We anticipate our last moments, Sir, with awe, mingled with delight, and though you may imagine that our present moments are dull and insipid, yet, I assure you, you are mistaken. We have our sources of happiness, but card-playing is not included in the number."
"I cannot but think that evangelical religion has an antisocial tendency, and would, if generally prevalent, deprive us of all our innocent recreations."
"Evangelical religion, like the religion of the New Testament, requires us not to be conformed to this world, but to be transformed in the renewing of our mind, and it produces a distaste for those frivolous and pernicious amusements in which the votaries of this world delight; but I am not aware that it has an antisocial tendency, unless you mean by that expression, that its tendency is to mark out the essential difference between a real Christian and one who bears only the name."
"Why, we are all Christians, and good Christians, too; but our Christianity does not teach us to wait the arrival of death before we can be happy."
"Yes, Sir, there are the pleasures of sin, which we are commanded to forsake for the recompense of reward."
"And, Madam, there are the pleasures of innocence, which are as sweet and as sacred as the joys of angels."
"But I cannot suppose that you include card-playing among the pleasures of innocence."
"Most certainly I do!"
"Then, do you imagine that our old friend, Mr Lock, is of the same opinion, who in an evening was reduced from a state of affluence to a state of poverty?"
"Why, that was an unlucky night for him, certainly; but you know we do not play for more than we can afford to lose."
"I think, Sir, with all due deference to your judgment, that every one who plays at this game of innocence stakes more than he can afford to lose."
"You are, indeed, an ingenious casuist, and I wish to know how you can prove the correctness of your assertion."
"Can you afford to lose your temper?"
"If I do lose it I can easily recover it again."
"You may, Sir, but can others?"
"If they cannot, they are to blame."
"Then, Sir, this game of innocence is found on experiment, first, to destroy the placidity of the temper, and then to involve its abettors in censure. But there is often more staked in this game than the loss of temper."
"What is there, Madam?"
"The loss of friendship. You know that the families of the Orrs and the Humes have never met in any party since the quarrel which took place two years since at Brushwood House."
"Why, that was a very serious affair, certainly, but you know that such quarrels rarely happen."
"Nay, Sir, they often happen, only friends interpose and effect a reconciliation. But with such facts imprinted on our memory, can we say that such a game is the game of innocence?"
"I think, Madam, you are rather too severe, for you must allow that it often beguiles away many a languid hour."
"Which hours, Sir, ought to be spent in preparation for immortality."
"You veer, Madam, towards death, from whatever point of the compass you set out."
"And, Sir, death is veering towards us, in whatever employments we are engaged; but would you like to feel his fatal infliction when seated at a card-table, or returning from a theatre?"
"Too grave; much too grave, Madam, to be pleasant."