THE BIBLE DISDAINED.
As it was a very fine evening, I resolved on taking my usual walk, and sallied forth, sauntering along, undecided where to go, till I came within sight of the towering hill overlooking the woodman's cottage. "Yes, I will go and see the surviving mourners. They are doubtless still in trouble; but the heavy swell of grief may have subsided a little, now that all that remained of their lovely Jemima[3] is in the grave." The rich scenery through which I was passing supplied me with ample and varied materials for thinking; but my thinking faculty felt more inclined to muse on death and immortality than on trees or flowers, on bleating sheep, or on lowing cattle.
Yes, man dies; but he still lives. He passes from one locality and condition of existence to another. He will never die again. No, his next life is endless. If saved, what varied and splendid forms of beauty and of grandeur will open on his vision the moment he passes the dark frontier that divides the visible from the unseen world! What sounds of harmony, coming from the pure and happy spirits of the celestial state, will vibrate on his ear! What ecstasy will he feel when presented faultless before the glorious presence of the Divine Majesty! If lost!—Woe, woe, woe! My heart recoils from a contemplation of his fearful and changeless destiny.
On entering the cottage I saw a stranger, in the costume of a gentleman, polite and accomplished; but there was an air of mannerism about him uncongenial to my taste. The woodman and his wife were glad to see me, and after making a few faint allusions to the mournful event which had recently occurred, they relapsed into expressive silence, which induced me to suppose that my abrupt appearance had interrupted some conversation or discussion. At length, after a little desultory and somewhat forced chit-chat, the woodman, who appeared rather singularly excited, addressing himself to the stranger, said, "There is, Sir, one evidence that the Bible comes from God, which gives to me and my wife entire satisfaction, and against which no objection can be brought that can stagger or weaken our faith."
"These good people," said the stranger, turning towards me, "appear not to have perplexities enough in the casualties and contingencies of life, and therefore they are perplexing themselves by the mysteries of the Bible."
"Yes, Sir," said the wife, "just as we should perplex ourselves if an old and endeared friend looked in to see us, bringing with him some good news. We certainly might feel a little perplexed about the accommodation we could give him, but none on account of his coming to see us, or the good news he brings; that would be a matter of rejoicing."
"I admire the happy art you possess to give a good turn to an objectionable observation. Well, Mr. Woodman, let me hear what this evidence is, which gives to you both so much satisfaction, and which you think no objection can set aside. I see," taking out his watch as he spoke, "I must soon go."
"Why, Sir, it is just this: when reading my Bible, I cannot help thinking of myself—my condition as a sinful and an immortal being—of my last end—of God, his goodness in providence, but his still greater goodness in making such grand provision, through the redemption of Christ, for my present and future happiness. These thinkings awaken in my soul gratitude, and love, and filial trust in Him, and constrain me to surrender my soul to Him, through Christ, to be redeemed, sanctified, and saved. Now, Sir, as the road which leads to your mansion must lead from it, so I think that the Bible, which leads us to God, as our father and our best friend, must come from Him."
"Well, my good fellow," rising, and taking him by the hand, "perhaps it would do you no good if I were to attempt to disturb you while reposing with so much satisfaction in your innocent delusions."
"You have, Sir, been trying to do it for the last hour and a half," said the wife, with a marked emphasis of severe rebuke, "and without directing us to any other source of comfort under our troubles. We have just lost one of our dear children; but the Bible reconciles me to that loss, by telling me that my child is now happy in heaven; but you have been trying to make us believe that this is a delusion. Why, Sir, you would, if in your power, do us a greater act of cruelty than Captain Dunlop, who lives in yon big house, attempted to do to us last autumn."
"I would scorn to commit an act of cruelty against any one, especially against you, who have behaved with so much civility to me. But what act of cruelty did the Captain meditate committing against you?"
"You see, Sir, that little running brook which feeds the watercress you have just relished so much. Well, the Captain, last autumn, cut a deep channel for it to run through the glen, in an opposite direction, but Squire Stevens interfered, and prevented him. Now, Sir, if he had done what he was going to do, he would have taken from us our stream of water. But, even then, by raising a little subscription amongst our neighbours, we might perhaps have sunk a well, and though the water might not be so good or so plentiful, yet it might have answered our purpose. But, Sir, if you take away our Bible, or, what is the same thing, if you were to destroy our belief in its inspiration and authority, you would take from us the rich flow of comfort it supplies to us in our troubles, and you would cut us off from the hope of future happiness. Now, if you had succeeded in your endeavours, your visit would be to us as great a curse as the visit of the devil was to our first parents in Eden."
"You are, indeed, eloquently ingenious. Well, the next time I come I won't say anything against your Bible."
"I hope not, Sir," said the honest woodman, who appeared much pleased with the smart reproof his wife had administered to this stranger; "for if you do, we shall then say at once, what I now say after long endurance, we would rather have your room than your company. I think, Sir, such gentlemen as you should keep within the compass of your own sceptical fraternity, and then you may say what you please, and perhaps not do much harm. But when you enter the cottage of the poor, and find them happy in God, and thankful to Him for their Bible, you ought to feel it a point of honour not to try to steal away their happiness; as I suppose you have too much honour to pocket any spoons when you go away from a rich man's house."
I listened with amazement and delight to the artless defence and severe rebuke of the woodman and his wife, and addressing them, said, "I am happy to hear you administer such a severe and just rebuke to this gentleman; and which, Sir," turning towards him, "I hope you will feel at the core of your heart, and that it will prevent your repeating elsewhere the act of meanness of which you have been guilty here—stealing a poor man's Bible, while eating his bread and cheese."
"Do you, Sir, mean to insult me? I allow no one to do that with impunity."
"Indeed, Sir! If speaking the truth, in a tone and style in which it ought to be spoken to a man in the attire and with the appearance of a gentleman, who enters a poor man's cottage, and, while feasting at his table, is mean enough to try to destroy his faith in his Bible, which is the well-spring of his happiness, be regarded by you as an insult, why, then, there is no alternative but to feel yourself insulted."
He looked, but said no more, and tossing, rather unceremoniously, a half-crown piece on the table for the refreshment he had received, he left in high dudgeon, muttering to himself as he moved away.
"These infidels, Sir," said the woodman, "in one thing are like the Pharisees of the New Testament; they won't go into the kingdom of heaven themselves, and they want to prevent others going there if they can. He began his infidel remarks before my children, but I sent them away, and told him that I would not let a child, if I knew it, get near an infected person."
"I suppose you don't often meet with infidels."
"More often, Sir, than I wish; for I generally find they are bad men—some bad in their habits, and all bad in their principles. The high-priest of their order lives up in yonder mansion, and he has many visitors. He used to come to our cottage sometimes, but he does not come now, as I offended him one day, by telling him that it was an act of meanness, as well as injustice, to try to cut off the stream of water from the poor families that live near it, for some miles in its course, and doing it to enrich his own meadows."
"Well," said his wife, "we should pity them, and pray for them, and bless the Lord for making us to differ. It often pains my heart to think of a person living a few years in wealth and honour, and then passing into the eternal world to perish for ever. We have many troubles, yet some comforts. There, Sir," pointing to her Bible, "is our grand comforter; its precious promises speak peace to the soul, and take our hopes onwards to a better world, where the weary will enjoy rest for ever."
I read the fourth chapter of Paul's Epistle to the Thessalonians, making a few comments on its last verse, adapted to the excited state of feeling occasioned by the death and burial of their little Jemima; and, after praying with them, I withdrew, yet promising to repeat my visit before my departure from Fairmount.
On getting over the stile which crossed my pathway about half-a-mile from the cottage, I saw the infidel standing where I had seen Mr. Gordon standing on a preceding Saturday evening; and though at first I thought he was waiting for me, yet I soon perceived that he was admiring the grand panoramic view which was visible from that spot. I passed within a few yards of him, and in the act of passing we exchanged a bow of recognition.
"It appears, Sir," he said, "that we are going in the same direction, and, if agreeable, I will walk with you."
I at once consented, thinking that I might have an opportunity of making an assault on his scepticism, which possibly might issue in some practical good.
"You were rather too severe upon me in the cottage."
"If I thought so, Sir, I would offer you an apology; but my few remarks, though severe, were, I think, just."
"Well, well, perhaps I did wrong. But the fact is, I found both the woodman and his wife so shrewd and intelligent, that, on hearing them make some impassioned allusions to the Bible, I thought they would appreciate some remarks tending, at least in my opinion, to counteract the terrible impression of fear and dread which a belief in the inspiration and authority of the Bible necessarily calls up and fixes in the heart."
"But you see it inspires no fear in them; it is not to them the haunting ghost of terror, but a domestic comforter."
"Well, I can't account for it; I wonder how any one who believes in the Bible, which speaks of hell and endless misery, can sleep calmly on his pillow. I suppose they must believe one part, and disbelieve the other."
"No, Sir, it is because their belief in one part inspires confidence in the love and faithfulness of God their Saviour, they can believe the other part without dread or fear."
"I presume you are a firm believer in the Bible."
"I am, Sir."
"May I be permitted to ask you what is the predominant impression it makes on your mind—terror or tranquil peace?"
"If I were to say that it never awakened an emotion of terror, I should not speak strictly correct. When I have reflected on sin, its essentially evil nature and tendency; on my own sins, their number and peculiar aggravations; on the Divine purity and justice; and on the tremendous visitations of punishment which have been, and still are inflicted on man, both in this world and in the world to come, I have felt a tumult of terror agitating my soul, of a fearful aspect. But, Sir, my faith sees one in the midst of the storm, whose eye is pity, and whose arm is power; and my prayer is, Lord save or I perish. He hears and he answers this prayer."
"But how do you know that he hears and answers your prayers?"
"Because my dark forebodings cease, and there is a calm within, as there was a great calm on the Lake of Galilee when our Lord rebuked the winds and the sea."
"Were you trained, Sir, to a belief in the Bible?"
"I once rejected the Bible as a book of fables or falsehoods."
"You, then, were once what I am now—an unbeliever; and I was once what you are now—a believer. How the human character changes as time moves slowly on, to bring out the great teacher, death, who will finally settle everything."
"Yes, Sir, and for ever."
"What awful sublimity in that short sentence—yes, and for ever. The subject of our conversation interests me, as I have heard that prisoners committed for capital offences sometimes evince a peculiar intensity of emotion when listening to the mock process of a trial; the rehearsal of the coming tragedy pleases them. But to return to our subject, may I be permitted to ask you whether you now live habitually free from terror?"
"I do, Sir."
"Never calculate on being damned for ever?"
"Never."
"And you can sleep as calmly on your pillow, with the Bible by your side, as you could if you believed the dark world of hell had vanished into air—gone out of existence for ever?"
"Yes, Sir, I can."
"This, Sir, is to me inexplicably marvellous. I wonder how any one, who believes in the Divine authority of the Bible, can ever look at it without feeling terrified, as children feel when going into a dark room, after listening to a series of fearful ghost stories."
"Why, Sir, the very design of the Christian revelation, given to us in the Bible, is not only to deliver us from the wrath to come, but from the dread of it. And this it does, when we believe in its Divine origin, and yield to its authority."
"I was a believer once, and fond of theological studies; but the predominant influence of my faith was most oppressive, at times agonizing. I could never rise above terror; the dread of being lost for ever haunted me almost day and night."
"If you watched the mental process which was going on during the time you were a believer in the Bible, and can now distinctly recollect it, perhaps you will perceive there was one great act you failed to perform, which is the testing and the decisive act of a genuine believer—the passing of the Rubicon."
"To what act do you refer?"
"To the act of coming to Jesus Christ, in compliance with his own invitation and promise—'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest' (Matt. xi. 28). 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out'" (John vi. 37).
"Yes, Sir, I recollect having my eye often fixed on the two verses you have quoted, and others which speak of coming to him for life, and to be saved; but a veil of mystery hung over them which I could not lift up. I had the loftiest conceptions of his superhuman greatness and goodness; the fine blending of majesty and meekness, of dignity and condescension in his character, awakened my admiration; his pity, his love, his spotless purity, awed and delighted me; and I often felt indignant—a real loathing of spirit—when reflecting on the brutal treatment he met with from his countrymen; but I never could make out, from anything I read in the New Testament, how he could stand in the relation of a Saviour to me, or how I could perform that act of coming to him, on which he places the issue of salvation. And this is the origin of my unbelief. I had no wish to become an unbeliever; I became one against my inclination, and in opposition to early, and long-cherished, and endeared associations; but necessity compelled me; because, after long and intense thinking, I found that the proferred blessing of salvation was placed on an impracticable and an impossible contingency. Nor have I, as yet, had cause to regret it. I now can live without dread of the future; and I have no doubt, if there be another state of existence for man, as I feel inclined to believe there is, it will be one of happiness, to compensate for the sorrows and miseries which are endured in this."
"But suppose others have been enabled to perform this act of coming to Jesus Christ; and suppose, by performing it, they have entered into the actual possession of peace and joy in believing, then I think you must admit that the contingency on which the proferred blessing of salvation is suspended, comes within the capabilities of the human mind, and what others have done you might have done, and yet may live to do. By your permission I will give you a paragraph, as it bears so closely on the subject of our conversation, which one of the most distinguished men of the present age addressed to a philosophical friend. The writer had been for years a believer in the Divine origin of the Christian faith, but up to this period in his moral history, it was to him a system of abstract truths, which made no approaches to his heart, to engage his affections, or to influence his will. But by a succession of impulses and impressions, and new discoveries of his inner spirit, he began to feel restless—some degree of alarm, in fact, that he stood in need of a Saviour; and by reading the Bible with close attention, he found that Jesus Christ, who up to this time had moved in dim vision before his imagination, as an ideal or a mere historical being, was a living being, and just such a living being as he needed—one who could save him from his fears, and who alone could save him. The crisis in his moral history now arrived, and he says: 'I sicken at my own imperfect preparations. I take one decisive and immediate step, and resign my all to the sufficiency of my Saviour. I plead his own promise, that him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out. I come to him with my heart, such as it is, and I pray that the operation of his Spirit, and the power of his sanctifying faith, would make it such as it should be.' This is the experience and testimony of Dr. Chalmers, who tells us that after he thus believed and trusted in Christ, he had 'joyful moments;' he walked with God, living in the habitual expectation of eternal life."
"If, Sir, I now entertained the same belief in the truthfulness of the Bible which I once entertained, and which, without doubt, Dr. Chalmers entertained when he wrote to his friend the paragraph which you have just given to me, I should feel strongly inclined to attribute the predominancy of fear and dread over hope and peace, under which I ceaselessly suffered, to some defective view of revealed truth, or to some shortcoming in the mysterious act of mental obedience to a Divine requisition; but, to be candid, I cannot now look on the Bible with that degree of reverence I once did, and for many grave reasons. I have detected in it so many palpable errors, and so many irreconcilable discrepancies, that I cannot now receive it as a genuine and authentic revelation of the Deity."
"But neither errors nor discrepancies have ever been considered, by fair and impartial critics, as decisive evidence against the genuineness or authenticity of an ancient book; as errors, by careful collation, may be corrected, and discrepancies adjusted, as our knowledge becomes more accurate and extended. And this has been done in reference to the Bible, by many whose learning and integrity stamp a sterling worth on the result of their labours."
"I know, Sir, many men of learning, of taste, and of dogged honesty, who are staunch believers in the Bible, and candour compels me to admit that they have, to their own satisfaction, corrected the errors and harmonized the discrepancies which stagger my faith; and, perhaps, if I were to adopt the same process of labour, I might be equally successful; but I do not now see the necessity of it. I have arrived at a point of discovery which yields me as much satisfaction as you can feel in the discoveries which the Bible makes to you. I can feel, without such auxiliary aid, a calm repose in the sympathy of God with individual man, and a delight in meditating on his grandeur and his goodness, which, I think, cannot be surpassed by any emotion which the strongest faith in the promises of the Bible can inspire."
"But, Sir, how can you know that he feels sympathy for individual man, unless he tells you so?"
"I believe he does."
"But on what evidence do you base your belief? Because, to believe without evidence, would be as absurd as to withhold belief from preponderating evidence would be reprehensible."
"I infer it, from the very obvious marks of benevolent design which are apparent through the whole range of creation."
"I will not dispute this point; but permit me to ask you whether, in your belief, his sympathy is a species of refined sentimental emotion for his own gratification, or a practical manifestation of sustaining and consoling influence; and whether he sympathizes with every individual man who needs his sympathy, or only a select portion of the great family of suffering humanity?"
"Before I reply to your questions, may I ask if you have any doubt on the question of his sympathy for individual man?"
"I have no doubt on the question of his sympathy and loving-kindness in behalf of those who confide in him, and who love him, because my Bible tells me so; but there is an ambiguity in your form of expression, which, in my judgment, involves a self-evident contradiction, and this is why I have asked for a clear explanation—ambiguity in reasoning being something like a sudden eclipse, which wraps everything in total darkness."
"In my theory, Sir, there is no selection—nothing like that undercurrent of partiality which runs through the Bible; all are treated alike, standing on the same level; and hence my expression, he sympathizes with individual man, means every man."
"And you believe this, without his telling you that he does cherish a practical sympathy for every man."
"I infer it, Sir, and from what I consider an infallible data—the obvious marks of benevolent design, which I can trace through the whole range of the visible creation."
"I admit your data, but object to your inference, because uniform experience decides the fact that all men do not stand on the same level, nor are they treated alike; for we cannot look in any direction without seeing inequality. I am not going, Sir, to inquire into the causes of this inequality of rank, of personal and of social condition, which is so obviously apparent, as that would raise many questions which we should not have time to discuss, but simply to notice the fact of inequality, which your proposition virtually denies. Look, for example, at yon princely mansion, and then think of the cottage where we first met. Compare the athletic frame of its wealthy occupier and his hale appearance, with an emaciated human being, whose life is pining away under a prolonged disease. Are all treated alike, and do all stand on the same level, under his administrative providence? No, Sir, there are towering mountains, rich in golden ore, and desert wastes, where the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom. And if, Sir, he sympathizes with every man, in the sense which we attach to the term, it must be sentimental; facts prove that it is not practical—the mere sympathy of the humane judge for prisoners, when leaving the dock under the sentence of death, or that of the tender-hearted physician in a ward of incurables. Go into an hospital, a prison, a poor-house, or a cottage, where its inmate is dying under prolonged and acute disease; visit the habitation of a broken-down tradesman, whose children are crying for food, while he has none to give them; pass on to the field of battle, after the work of slaughter is over, and mingle amongst the wounded; or go on board the slave ship, and look into her hold, as she moves through the middle passage, between the land of freedom and the land of perpetual bondage; and what practical proof will you find, in any of these retreats of suffering humanity, that God sympathizes with every man? You talk of the discrepancies of the Bible, and argue that they are a proof that it comes not from God. But what a terribly perplexing and appalling discrepancy do you open up between his character as a benevolent being, and his administrative providence? Follow out your course of reasoning, and then, to act consistently, you must become an atheist, and compelled to admit into your creed not only improbabilities, but absolute impossibilities."
"Well, I will admit that when we come into real, practical life, we are compelled to modify, if not to give up as indefensible, some of our speculative opinions. In fact, the issue of every inquiry, when fearlessly pursued, is uncertainty—painful, distracting uncertainty—and man becomes the sport, if not the victim, of his own speculations and investigations."
"Yes, Sir, when he will not condescend to be taught of God. If we admit the inspiration, and consequent authority of the Bible, we have an infallible teacher on all questions relating to our responsibilities and our final destiny, and the mind settles down into a state of quietude, and feels secure; but if we reject its inspiration and authority as a sham, or a dogma of superstition, we go adrift on the wide expanse of absolute uncertainty, and are left to perish, when, and where, and how we know not, till after the terrible catastrophe has occurred."
There was now a pause in our discussion; and within the space of a few minutes, a little dark cloud, like that which was seen by the prophet's servants from the heights of Carmel, overspread the heavens, and we were compelled to look for a place of refuge from the storm which was coming.
"I am going to see a poor woman, who lives in yon cottage; perhaps you will not object to accompany me; we shall find shelter there."
"Most willingly, and if she be a deserving object, I shall feel most happy to contribute a mite for her relief; for your sake, Sir."
"I thank you. Sir, for the personal compliment; and I doubt not but she will be thankful for your charitable donation, for she is very poor."
"To be candid, Sir, I like practical sympathy better than sentimental; the one is a reality, the other a sham or a mawkish emotion, little less than a self-compliment to a refined but useless sensibility—something which excites the sentimentalism of a drawing-room, when we are looking on the print of an hospital or the wreck of a vessel hanging on the wall, but which gives no relief to a rescued sailor, or a discharged incurable."
The poor inmate (Mrs. Allen) was seated in her chair, wrapped in flannel, and supported by pillows, her appearance plainly indicating that she was near death. She smiled on seeing me, but on seeing the stranger she became a little disconcerted, yet, with polite ease, she moved her hands towards two chairs, and said, "Gentlemen, be seated."
"You appear," said Mr. Tennent, "very ill."
"Yes, Sir, but I believe my life of suffering will soon end, and then all will be well—and for ever."
"I suppose you hope to go to heaven when you die?"
"I have no doubt of it, Sir."
"But as your Bible speaks of hell and eternal misery, don't you sometimes fear going there when you die?"
"I did once, Sir."
"And why not now?"
"Because my dear Saviour says, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest.' I have come to him, and do come to him daily and hourly, and he has fulfilled his promise, and given me rest of soul, as an earnest of everlasting rest, and peace, and joy."
"Then you have no fear in prospect of going into the great invisible world."
"No, Sir; and I long for the hour to come when I shall depart and be with Christ. I saw him in the visions of the night, when deep sleep had fallen upon me, and he appeared in glory, as when he was transfigured on Tabor."
"Do you place much dependence on dreams?"
"I place dependence on nothing, Sir, but the exceeding great and precious promises of my Bible; but it is delightsome to have, in the visions of the night, the re-appearance of day-thoughts and meditations; it is often then, from some cause which I cannot explain, they are clothed in a more visible and substantial form."
"Now, Mrs. Allen, one more question, and I have done. Do you think it possible for any argument to convince you that Jesus Christ is not a real being, only an imaginary one?"
"Do you, Sir, think it possible for any argument to convince you that you are not a real being, or that we are not all real beings, only imaginary ones. The one thing is just about as likely to be done as the other, and just about as easy."
I read part of the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, making a few remarks on what I read, and then went to pray with her, Mr. Tennent, from a sense of politeness, if not from a superior reason, kneeling with me before the throne of mercy. As the storm was now abated, and the evening far spent, we left her; but, on shaking hands with her, Mr. Tennent gave her a sovereign.
We walked away in silence, but at length he said, "Well, Sir, if your religion be, what unbelievers say it is, an invention, it is a very soothing and inspiring one. On such an occasion as this we cannot help wishing it to be real, even if we can't believe it to be so."
"You see, Sir, it answers all the purposes of a reality at the great crisis in the history of human life."
When we came to the cross-road where we were to leave each other, he said, "Do you, Sir, remain at Fairmount much longer?"
"Yes, Sir, for some weeks."
"I should like another interview, if I may be permitted to solicit such a favour."
We engaged to meet on the following Saturday evening, but we were prevented. Towards the latter end of the ensuing week, I received the subjoined note from him, which was brought by Captain Dunlop's gardener, who informed us that his master was just dead:—
"Dear Sir,—Before you receive this, I shall have left. What a contrast have I witnessed between the cottage and the mansion! What I have seen and heard during this visit will never pass from my memory. If I could believe in the efficacy of prayer, I should say, pray for me. We may never meet again, but should the Bible ever be in later life as precious to me as it was before infidelity corrupted my heart, you shall hear from me.—Yours faithfully,
"George Tennent."
We had heard of the Captain's illness, at whose mansion Mr. Tennent had been on a visit; but the announcement of his death startled and depressed us.
"Why, gardener, your master's death has been very sudden."
"Yes, Sir, he wasn't ill more than five days."
"What was the nature of his disease?"
"Inflammation of the bowels, so I heard my wife say."
"Did any clergyman visit him during his illness?"
"No, Sir, no one was with him but my wife, he was mainly fond of her, and she nursed him, and gave him his physic, and didn't leave him, night or day, till he left us all for t'other world."
"I believe, gardener, he was an infidel, and did not believe in the existence of another world."
"It happened to him, Sir, as it has happened to others before him; when death got near him his infidelity forsook him, and then his belief of another world was as strong as the apostle Paul's, so I heard my wife say."
"Do you know how he felt in the prospect of dying?"
"I heard my wife say it was a dismal scene. She trembled at night when she was left by herself with him."
"Do you know if Mr. Tennent saw him during his illness?"
"I heard my wife say that he saw him once, and they had high words."
"You don't mean they quarrelled."
"Why, no, Sir, not exactly that, but I heard my wife say that when Mr. Tennent went into his room one morning, just after breakfast, master said to him, you see, Tennent, what you and your infidelity has done for me. I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. Mr. Tennent said something in reply, so I heard my wife say, but I can't mind what, for I have been in a power of trouble since master's death, for he was a good master to me. He never went into the room after that morning, so I heard my wife say."
"Do you know if he had any hope of salvation before he died?"
"No, Sir, I don't think he had. I heard my wife say that master said next to nothing all along through his sickness, but that one awful saying, I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. He said that, Sir, so I heard my wife say, just as he was a-dying. My wife is in sore trouble about master's soul, for he was a good master to her. I tell you what, Sir, this infidelity is a bad thing. It makes people bold in wickedness and contempt of God when they are in health, but their courage leaves them when death comes. They are desperate cowards then."
"Well, gardener, I hope it will be a warning to you."
"I hope, Sir, you don't think that I be an infidel. No, Sir, I love my Bible, and so does my wife. An infidel! no, Sir; and I often told master he would repent of it some day. I can't, Sir, get the terrible words out of my ears—I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. In that storm master did go down. Good night, Sir; it's too awful to think about."
The funeral was conducted with great pomp; and when passing the gardener's cottage some days afterwards, I stepped in and saw his wife, who was in mourning for her late master. After a few leading inquiries, I got her to tell me what passed when Mr. Tennent went to see his dying friend.
"I don't mind all, Sir, but master said to him, you see Tennent, what you and your infidelity has done for me. He then said something about praying to Jesus Christ to save him, when master said to him, why, how can I do that, when you have taught me to reject Him as an impostor? I loved my Bible till I knew you; you made me ridicule it. Mr. Tennent then went out of the room in anger, and never came back. I felt for my poor master. It was very sad to see him go out of one world into another, and hear him say, just as he was going, I shall go down in this storm, and be lost. I have had no sound sleep since. I can't get the frightful words out of my ears. I am always dreaming about a boat turned over in a fearful storm, and master sinking in the great lake."