THE DARK VALE ILLUMINED.
J ust as we were going out to take an evening walk, the postman delivered a letter addressed to Mrs. Stevens; she read it, and in silence handed it to her husband. I apprehended, from the expression of her countenance and her excited manner, that it conveyed some painful intelligence; and this was immediately confirmed by Mr. Stevens, who said, "This is a letter from our nephew, Mr. Lewellin, informing us of the sudden and dangerous illness of his mother, and he requests that we hasten to see her."
"The intelligence," said Mrs. Stevens, "is most painful, but it does not greatly surprise me; I had something like a presentiment of it in the mental visions of the past night; I saw her leaning on the top of her staff, standing near the brink of a river, whose waters divided of themselves, as a radiant brightness gilded the whole horizon; and while listening for some moments to the sounds of sweetest harmony, I awoke, and found it was a dream. Thus my senses were locked up in the chambers of slumber, that my spirit might go and commune with my dear sister before she leaves us."
A carriage was immediately sent for, and we set off from Fairmount about eight o'clock. It was a cloudy moonlight night. We rolled on in silence, being too much absorbed in painful thought and expectation to break the quiet which grief requires for the solace of her own feelings. At length Mr. Stevens, alluding to Mrs. Lewellin's illness, said, "With what different emotions do the inhabitants of the visible and invisible world contemplate the same event! While we are anticipating her departure with deep sorrow, the glorified spirits of her deceased husband, and child, and father, are attuning their harps of joy, to celebrate her entrance among them."
"Very true," Mrs. Stevens replied; "our loss is their gain; but it is as natural for us to deplore our loss, as it is natural for them to exult in their gain."
"I admit, my dear, that we cannot, while encompassed by human infirmities, avoid feeling the pang of sorrow on such an occasion as this, though we may moderate its intensity by reflecting on our own dissolution, which will introduce us into the society of those who obtain the prize of immortality before us."
We had no difficulty in procuring a change of horses at each succeeding stage; nothing worthy of remark occurred during the journey, and on the following morning we arrived at Mrs. Lewellin's cottage.[11] The same jessamine, and honey-suckles, and rose trees adorned its tasteful front; the same hawthorn hedge inclosed its well-cultivated garden; the little wicket-gate still swung on its hinges, as when I paid my first visit six years before; but they had lost their attractions, or I had lost my power of enjoyment.
On seeing Mr. Lewellin, Mrs. Stevens said, "Is your mother still living, my dear George, or has she left us?"
"O no, aunt, she has not left us; she has made many inquiries about you, and longs to see you. She says that when she has seen you she shall depart in peace."
"When was she first taken ill, and what is the nature of her disorder?"
"She has not been well for some weeks, but her indisposition created no alarm. On Sabbath morning she felt better, and went to chapel, where she commemorated the death of the Redeemer, with her Christian brethren. As she was returning home she was exposed to a heavy shower, and though she took every precaution to prevent any evil consequences, yet, early in the evening, an inflammation of the bowels came on, which has raged with unabating violence; and her medical attendant says that he does not expect that she can live through the day. Her pains have been excruciating, but she has borne them with the fortitude and resignation of a Christian, and now she seems to be enjoying that fatal ease which is the immediate forerunner of dissolution."
On entering her room she received us with composure, and calmly said to her sister, "Weep not for me, the days of my widowed mourning are drawing to a close. I have long lived secluded from the world, and I can leave it without a sigh."
"Then," I said, "you have no fear?"
"Fear! why should I fear? I know I am in the valley, but it is illumined with the light of life. I have often dreaded this hour, yet it is the happiest hour I have ever known."
"To us, my dear sister, it is a most painful hour."
On seeing her sister and her son in tears, she said, "I hope you will compose yourselves, that we may enjoy each other's society on this side Jordan, which I am soon to pass.... My dear George, receive once more, and for the last time, the congratulations of your mother on the honour which the God of all grace has conferred on you, in adopting you as his son. I now solemnly charge you, before Him and the pious friends now with you, always to act worthy of your high vocation. Maintain the dignity of your Christian character by the integrity of your principles, your decision, and your zeal for the honour of the Lord of life and glory. As much of your future happiness and respectability will depend on the choice which you may make when you settle in life, let me beseech you to marry only in the Lord—prefer piety to beauty, good sense to a large fortune, and remember that a meek and quiet spirit is the most beautiful ornament in the home of a righteous man."
She then turned towards Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, and said, "I thank you for all your kindness to me and mine in the days of our adversity. The Lord reward you a thousand fold. I have only one legacy to leave, and I leave it to you. I bequeath to you my dear boy; take care of him for my sake."
The pious rector of the parish made an early call. Mrs. Lewellin received him with a sweet smile, and motioned him to be seated. After inquiring for her welfare, he thus accosted her: "What would you now do without a Saviour?"
"I should perish! But I have a Saviour whose blood cleanseth from all sin."
"His blood," he said, "is of more value than a thousand worlds."
She replied, "It is inestimable! It is inestimable!"
We all knelt down, and this man of God devoutly prayed that she might have "an entrance ministered unto her abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."
As the cottage was not large enough for our accommodation, the pious rector invited us to his hospitable home, but Mrs. Stevens resolved not to leave her sister. There was grief over the whole village as the rumour spread that she was dying. Her benevolence had added lustre to her piety, and such was the veneration and attachment in which her character was held, that many a hand knocked softly at the door of her cottage, and many a low voice inquired how God was dealing with her. About noon she fell into a sweet sleep, and slept for several hours; she awoke refreshed, animated; a heavenly serenity beamed on her countenance, as she exclaimed, "Oh! the bliss of dying!"
"You are happy, mother, in the prospect of death."
"Happy, my child, yes, my joy is unspeakable."
Her voice suddenly faltered, yet she gently whispered "Farewell" as her son caught her in his arms, and with her eyes fixed on him, after one strong convulsive struggle, she expired.
Mrs. Lewellin had generally attended the village church in the morning of the Sabbath, and in the evening she usually heard an excellent minister of Christ who preached in a Dissenting chapel, and when reproached for her liberality by the more bigoted, she used to say, "I have no objection to go where I can hold communion with the Saviour." Adjoining the chapel there was a burying-ground, to which she had long been accustomed to resort, as favourable to meditation, and on returning from an evening walk with the pious rector, we passed near it, and were induced to visit the spot which she had selected as the place of her burial; it was overshadowed by a large oak tree, and partially inclosed with some evergreens, which she had transplanted from her own garden.
THE DARK VALE ILLUMINED.
Vol. i. page 300.
"You see," he said, "how instinctively we love immortality, and as we cannot live here always, we wish life to flourish over the tomb in which our body is decaying. This is simple and beautiful. She was a woman of great taste, and a Christian of high principle. Her knowledge of the gospel was clear, comprehensive, and profound; and she displayed, during her residence with us, a spirit as free from the ordinary imperfections of the human character as I have ever beheld."
I told him that I had been requested to ask if he would attend her funeral.
He replied, "Certainly, if the family wish it. I respected her—I loved her. I often retired from the labour and perplexity of study to pass an hour with her, and always found her conversation of such a spiritual, catholic, and heavenly cast, that I never failed to derive great benefit from it. Her conversation was remarkably suggestive; she has helped me to many texts, and some of my most useful sermons owe their origin to her observations and reflections. I was always delighted when I saw her in church, because I knew she was praying in spirit for the success of my ministry."
Upon the day appointed for her burial almost every inhabitant of the village attended, to pay the tribute of respect to her memory. The corpse was taken into the chapel, and after the minister had read the 15th chapter of 1st Corinthians, and delivered a very simple impressive address, and offered up a solemn prayer to "the God of the spirits of all flesh," it was interred amidst the sighs and tears of a large concourse of spectators. Some were attired in full mourning, many were in half mourning, but the majority had merely put on their Sabbath dress, being too poor to purchase clothes for the occasion. There was one female of the group, about the age of thirty, with an infant in her arms, whose appearance and manners indicated the most poignant grief. During the time the minister was conducting the service, the tear fell silently on her cheek, but when the body was lowered into the grave she wept no more, but appeared convulsed, and then advanced to the brink of the grave, and after looking with intense eagerness for some seconds, she exclaimed, "Lover and friend hast thou taken from me," and fell senseless on the ground. On inquiry, I found that she was the widow of a poor woodman, who was killed by the falling of a tree, and who was left with three children, and had another born three months after his father's decease. She lived about a quarter of a mile from the cottage, and as Mrs. Lewellin used to pass by her residence when taking her morning walks, she often called to see her. On one occasion (the poor woman told me the next day), after giving her weekly donation, she gave her a tract, and requested her to read it. "I did read it," said the weeping widow, "but I could not understand it. When she called the next time she asked me if I had read it, and when I told her I could not understand it, she said, 'Read it again, but before you read it the second time, pray to God for wisdom to enable you to understand it. He can give it, and he will give it if you ask him.' I did so. The Lord has answered my prayer, and made me, I trust, wise unto salvation. But he has taken from me my guide, my counsellor, and my friend. The death of my husband, which threw me on the charity of the parish, and deprived my dear babes of a father, was a great trial, but it did not pierce my heart like this. I sometimes think my heart will break, then I go and pray to the Lord for submission to his holy will, and I find myself better; but it will be a long time indeed before I shall be able to get over it."
I mentioned this incident at the rectory, and then learned that the poor widow was a regular attendant at the church, and was considered decidedly pious. Mrs. Stevens, having ascertained the amount of her departed sister's weekly donation, engaged the rector to become her almoner, and the usual payment was continued. Mr. Lewellin was so affected by this testimony to the memory of his mother, that he increased the sum; and before he left Stanmoor he called to see the bereaved sufferer, and gave her several articles of furniture, which once adorned the lonely cottage of her whose remains we had committed to the tomb.
The evening before our departure, I retraced the steps I had trodden on my former visit to this village; and fixing on the same hour for my ramble into the vale, I anticipated another interview with the pious shepherd. As I walked on I heard the bleating of the sheep, and saw them at a distance ascending the steep path which led up to their fold in a neighbouring field. I heard also the barking of the dog; and soon afterwards the shepherd made his appearance, but I knew him not.
"Is the old man dead," I asked, "who kept his flock here about six years ago?"
"Yes, Sir; he died about Christmas."
"Did you know him?"
"He was my father; and a better father never lived."
"He was a religious man; was he not?"
"Yes, Sir; and he died in the faith of Christ."
"I hope you are following in his steps."
"It is, Sir, my wish and my prayer to be a follower of them who through faith and patience inherit the promises."
On the Sabbath morning after our return to Fairmount, the Rev. Mr. Ingleby preached from Acts xxi. 16, "An old disciple." We were much pleased with his sermon, particularly with the following passage: "When we see an old disciple moving amidst the activities and amenities of life, we see a living monument of the faithfulness and loving-kindness of God; and when we follow him to his grave, though we may sorrow over his departure from amongst us, yet our sorrow is not to be without hope; he still lives, and lives in a new form, amidst new scenes of beauty and of grandeur, and with new associates; he is with Christ, assimilated to his likeness, beholding his glory, and enjoying sweetest intercourse with him. His gain by his death, should reconcile us to our loss."
"The loss of my dear sister," said Mrs. Stevens, "is the most afflictive trial I have ever been called to endure. Memory carries me back to the days of childhood, to the riper years of age, and to the associations with which my dear departed sister is inseparably entwined. But the pleasing charm soon vanishes, for she is gone."
"But, my dear," replied Mr. Stevens, "though this affliction be grievous, yet you might have been visited by one much more severe."
"Yes, I know it. I might have lost you. That would have been a more overwhelming one. I wish to be resigned—it is my constant prayer—and I hope that I do not cherish any murmuring disposition, but I cannot help feeling; yet I fear lest I should indulge my mourning to an excess."
"Excess of grief, my dear, is to be guarded against, as it unhinges the mind, induces a melancholy cast of temper, and dispossesses comforts which are still preserved, of their power to interest and delight. Mourn you may, but you must not mourn as one 'who has no hope.' For hope, even the sweetest hope that can lodge in the human heart, is yours. Death has merely separated you for a season, he has not destroyed your union. You now live apart, but no impassable gulf lies between you—only a narrow grave. Let your mourning, therefore, be moderate and submissive."
"Yes," Mrs. Stevens replied, as her countenance began to assume its former cheerfulness, which had vanished from the moment the first intelligence of her sister's illness was received, "my sister lives—she lives a purer and a happier life than I ever expect to live, till I cease to breathe this vital air—she now sees the King in his beauty—she now unites with all the redeemed in singing, 'Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.' She is, and ever will be with the Lord. These words comfort me."
"Then let me hear the words which comfort you," said Mr. Lewellin, who caught this latter sentence as he entered the parlour, "as they may serve to comfort me. My heart never throbbed as it has done since I lost my mother—a loss I have been anticipating for years, but I now find that it is more desolating than I ever anticipated."
"It is an event," said Mr. Stevens, "which has brought along with it many alleviating circumstances. She died in peace. No dubious uncertainty distracted her, no dread forebodings appalled her, no torturing anxieties for those she loved agitated her breast. Hers was an enviable death."
"Yes," said Mr. Lewellin, "her sun did not go down till the evening; and even then it was light. She told me that for several days before her last illness she suffered great mental perplexity and horror, that she not only doubted her personal piety, but the truth of revelation. She was driven almost to a state of despair; and on the Sabbath morning, when she left her cottage for the house of prayer, she resolved not to receive the memorials of the Saviour's death. The text from which the Rev. Mr. Bates preached, was taken from Judges viii. 4, 'Faint, yet pursuing.' There was one paragraph in the sermon which gave her sweet relief. It was to this effect: 'The most favoured servants of the Lord are liable to momentary seasons of suspicion and depression; and some have been left for days, and some for months, not only without consolation, but even without hope. But shall we say that as soon as they lose their enjoyments they make a shipwreck of their faith? Shall we say that the design of God—the practical efficacy of the atonement—the continual indwelling of the Holy Spirit—depend on the ever fluctuating and ever varying temperament and feelings of the mind, which is sometimes so perplexed and distracted by unknown causes, as to be incapable of believing its own faith, or deriving felicity from its own sources of blessedness? Oh! no. There are periods in the mysterious life of an heir of salvation when he is left without comfort, if not without hope, and then comes on the hour and the power of darkness; but this singular dispensation does not disinherit him, or leave him an orphan, in a state of privation and abandonment; neither does it destroy the vitality of his religious principles, but it is intended to let him feel a portion of that misery which he deserves, but from which he is delivered through the blood of the Lamb.'"
"Had my sister left us under this mental gloom, I should have had no doubt," said Mrs. Stevens, "of her present happiness; but it would have been an additional cause of grief."
"Sometimes," I observed, "it pleases God to leave his most eminent servants without any strong consolation in their last hours; and sometimes he elevates them to a participation of the felicity of heaven, before he permits them to enter. Hence there is no undeviating uniformity in his procedure; but yet he keeps our practical good in view by all the dispensations of his will. When I see a holy man overwhelmed with sorrow on the eve of his departure, I am convinced there is no absolute, no meritorious connection between an exemplary life and a triumphant death. This conviction, coming through such a medium, destroys all self-complacency, and impels me to place all my dependence for salvation on Jesus Christ. But when I see a sinner of like passions and infirmities with myself—one who has wept over defects and transgressions similar to my own—rising above fear, eagerly and yet submissively anticipating his own dissolution, giving utterance to thoughts and feelings more nearly allied to the glory and purity of the heavenly state than to the dark obscurity of the present, I feel a degree of gratitude to the Saviour for making manifest life and immortality, which, for its full expression, I must wait till I see him as he is, and am made like unto him."
"The death of our friends," said Mr. Stevens, "is always an afflictive event, but it is sometimes a salutary one. It reminds us of our mortality, and brings before our imagination the unseen realities of an eternal world. It teaches us what shadows we are, and what shadows we are pursuing:—
'Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardours; and abate
That glare of life, which often blinds the wise.
Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars
Of terror and abhorrence nature throws
'Cross our obstructed way; and thus to make
Welcome, as safe, our port from ev'ry storm.'"
"To repine," I observed, "under any of the dispensations of Providence, would be to display a temper which no Christian should cherish; but to repine at the grave of a pious friend, discovers not only a spirit of hostility to the Divine will, but an unsubdued selfishness, which would deprive another of happiness, merely to augment our own."
"Resignation is our duty, and this brings with it its own reward; yet it is a disposition which does not spring up spontaneously in the heart. It is one of those good gifts which cometh from above; but, like every other disposition which claims the same origin, it must be exercised before it can become perfect; and when perfected, or when approaching near perfection, it can rejoice in tribulations also."