THE FAMILY OF THE ROSCOES.
Mr. Roscoe was the son of an eminent London citizen, who, by his successful speculations in trade, had risen from indigence to the possession of great wealth. He had two brothers and one sister. His eldest brother took to his father's business, his youngest entered the church, and his sister married a country gentleman of fortune and respectability. He was originally designed for the law; but, after spending a few years with an eminent solicitor, he abandoned the profession, and devoted himself to a life of pleasure. After years of wandering from one place to another, he settled in the neighbourhood of the village of Aston, where he built a spacious mansion, as elegant within as its external appearance was imposing. Soon after its completion he married an amiable and intelligent lady, of a small fortune, but of great prudence. For some time they lived in the enjoyment of domestic peace; and while Mr. Roscoe gained reputation as a man of intelligence and of taste, Mrs. Roscoe was universally esteemed for her affability and benevolence. Years passed along—they had several children, but all died in infancy. These successive bereavements had such a depressing effect on Mrs. Roscoe, that solitude became oppressive, and society aggravated her grief, and the shades of melancholy were gathering thick around her; yet she was comforted under her sufferings by the sympathy and affection of a fond and endeared husband.
Time, which had covered the grave of her children with verdure, began to close up the wounds of her heart; but, when permitted to enjoy the anticipations of becoming once more a mother, she was doomed to witness the growing indifference of her husband towards herself. Her other trials depressed her, but this overwhelmed her. Her affection still glowed pure and ardent; and though she long resisted every unfavourable impression, and redoubled her efforts to please, and to render his home attractive, yet she saw her happiness a wreck, and found herself bereft of all the endearments of life.
This change in Mr. Roscoe was produced by his intimacy with Sir Henry Wilmot, of Cleveland Hall. Sir Henry was the only son of an eminently pious mother, who died when he was seven years of age; he was thus left entirely to the care of his father, a man of superior mental attainments, but of gay and dissipated habits, and a free thinker on theological questions. When young he resisted the contagion of evil by which he was surrounded; but having finished his education, which was not favourable to the growth of religious sentiments, he paid a visit to the continent, and there he became thoroughly corrupted. On the decease of his father, he returned to take possession of the family inheritance; and brought with him all the loose opinions and dangerous principles of those with whom he had associated. Being a man of elegant manners, of sociable disposition, generous and warm in his professions of friendship, who had seen the various aspects of society, and was qualified either to debate in argument or amuse at play, he soon acquired a powerful ascendency over Mr. Roscoe, whom he often induced to prolong his visits at the Hall to a late hour. The influence of evil, like the influence of good principles, is at first imperceptible; but it is usually found that the one corrupts more rapidly than the other reforms. The erection of the building requires a skilful combination of talents and materials; but it may be demolished by the rude hand of a barbarian, who knows not how to draw an elevation, or execute a design.
Cleveland Hall, which had been in former days the house of mercy and of prayer, was now become the rendezvous of the vices—the seat of licentiousness and of moral pollution;
"There many fell, to rise no more;"
and there Mr. Roscoe lost the fine bloom that once glowed on his character; and if a sense of decency operated as a partial restraint, yet his home and his wife were comparatively forsaken.
Mrs. Roscoe, who watched this progressive change with deep anxiety, would occasionally solicit the company of her husband during the tedious evenings of the winter, but rarely succeeded; for, such was the infatuation which had seized him, that he could not be happy away from Sir Harry. At length the hour arrived which teems with eventful consequences to a family, and Mrs. Roscoe became the mother of a lovely female child. At first her life appeared in imminent danger; and when this was announced to her husband, he was deeply affected, and sat mute in silence; but it was not the dignified silence of the soul bowing down in submission to the will of God, but the silence of horror-struck guilt, which dares not speak. After waiting a considerable time, the victim of his own reflections, he resolved at last to see his wife; but when he entered her room he found that she had fallen into a profound sleep. As he was retiring, the nurse threw off the covering that concealed the face of his daughter, and the sight operated as a spell upon his passions. As he kissed the babe, the tide of conjugal affection flowed back into his soul, and he resolved from that hour to become once more a domestic man. The next morning he sent a short polite note to Sir Harry, saying that he should in future decline all intimacy.
Had he merely resolved to drop the intimacy by degrees, leaving the Hall earlier in the evening, and going less frequently—offering reasonable excuses for these variations, and then trivial ones—it is more than probable that Sir Harry would have employed an extra amount of fascinating influence to prevent a dissolution of the connection. But by coming to a decision at once, and acting on it—by the transmission of the note—he broke the spell of enchantment under which he had long been held, and effected his emancipation with comparative ease. Herein he displayed consummate wisdom, and should be regarded as a model of imitation by any one who feels himself entangled in a similar snare. Hesitation, combined with a resort to cautious expedients, is far more likely to give perpetuity to a beguiling temptation than to dissolve its charm; whereas, a resolute determination to break away from it, followed by some bold and decisive step, is almost sure to prove successful; the self-conquest is then made without much difficulty, the character is redeemed from infamy, and domestic happiness is re-established on a solid foundation.
Mrs. Roscoe soon recovered—the life of the child was spared—her husband became kind and attentive—and the sun of her domestic happiness, which had gone down, returned to lighten her long cheerless habitation. She was always a religious woman; but her religion was restricted to opinions, and forms, and ceremonies, which had no moral power on her mind. She had her seasons of devotion, but she regarded her devotional exercises as a duty, not a privilege; and read her Bible occasionally, but her reading was generally confined to its histories, or narratives, or parables. She regularly attended her church, and repeated the responses of its Liturgy with great solemnity, but she never conceived that the essence of religion consists in the renovation of the soul. She was amiable and benevolent, discharged the relative duties of life with strict honour and punctuality, and threw over the path of her visible history a lustre which all admired; and feeling satisfied with her personal goodness, she very naturally concluded that God required nothing more. To her the scheme of salvation, which requires repentance towards God, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, was not less offensive than to the avowed unbeliever; and though she had more liberality than her husband, yet she was equally severe in her remarks on those whose piety led them to oppose the customs of the world, and devote themselves to the Redeemer. Her formalism was both rigid and acrimonious; and though it yielded no mental enjoyment, yet it excited much self-complacency, inducing her to think she was fit for heaven, without creating any intense longings to go there.
Years passed away in the enjoyment of health, unannoyed by cares or sorrows, till Miss Roscoe was seized with that depressing melancholy which has been already described,[6] and which threw a sombrous gloom over all their prospects. From this affliction she was now recovering, and though her parents beheld with joy the gradual return of her cheerfulness, yet her cheerfulness was of such a serious cast that they rejoiced with trembling. As they were sitting together one evening, when their daughter had displayed unusual liveliness, Mr. Roscoe said, "My dear Sophia, it gives us great pleasure to witness your pleasantry, and we hope that in a short time you will be able to partake of the amusements in which you once took so much delight. We have resolved to celebrate your convalescence by giving a ball, and we hope you will lead off in style."
This communication, which was intended to raise her spirits, had a contrary effect; and she replied, "I am conscious that you always keep my happiness in view, but I assure you that such a mode of celebrating my deliverance from the gloomy night of mental sadness would ill accord with the sentiments and feelings of my mind; the song of mirth I would exchange for the hymn of praise, and would prefer the retirement of devout meditation to the noisy bustle and fantastic exhibition of human vanity and folly."
"But such amusements," replied Mr. Roscoe, "used to afford you gratification, and I do think, my Sophia, that they will contribute very materially towards restoring that high-toned vivacity which your spirits usually preserved."
"Yes, father, I once took great delight in such amusements, and almost contemned the person who despised them, but my taste is changed; and if you wish to retard the restoration of my mental energy and vivacity, you have only to urge a compliance, which will wound my conscience."
"This reply, my Sophia, confirms the fearful apprehensions which I have recently entertained concerning you."
"What, my father, are these fearful apprehensions?"
"You are escaping from the gloom of a physical depression, to be involved in a religious gloom, which will prove still more injurious. You know that I have always inculcated religious principles, and set you a virtuous example, and can you suppose that I would now recommend amusements which ought to wound your conscience?"
"But it would wound my conscience were I to mingle again in the gay parties, and partake of the amusements, in which I once delighted; and I am sure, after such an avowal, you will not press it."
"I would not press anything on you which would give you pain, but I fear lest the religious turn which you are now taking should lead you either to despondency or enthusiasm."
"O my father, it is a belief that Jesus Christ died for sinners, even the chief, that has given peace and hope to my deeply-depressed mind. This is the theme on which I love to dwell. In comparison with this, the charms of poetry or the discoveries of science are insignificant and worthless."
"But, my dear, I hope you do not rank yourself among the chief of sinners. You have always been a dutiful child, kind and attached to those around you; the ornament of your family; your character is free from a stain, and your moral principles are as pure as the light of heaven; and would it not be an insult to your Maker if you were, as is too much the fashion among our modern saints, to class yourself with those who are too worthless to merit his regard?"
"But, my father, we may be very excellent in the sight of man, and yet offensive in the sight of God. The Pharisees of the New Testament are compared to 'whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outwardly, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.' I feel the comparison in relation to myself to be just. I have discharged the relative duties of life with some degree of propriety, and know that my character is free from reproach; I have devoted myself to the improvement of my mind, and held in veneration the religion on whose external ordinances I have attended, but I have not sought for happiness in the enjoyment of the divine favour, nor have I, till recently, either understood or felt the power of religious principles on my heart. However, though I may be blameless towards man, I am a sinner against God, but a sinner hoping to be saved by grace through faith, and that faith is not of my own originating, it is the gift of God."
"My Sophia, I never heard you talk in a strain like this before; you appear to have taken a most gloomy view of human nature, and, according to my judgment, you are gone off among the mysteries of modern Calvinism, and, unless you retrace your steps, you will be plunged into a state of depression more perplexing, because more hopeless, than that from which you are now emerging."
"I know I never talked in this strain before, because the veil of ignorance concealed from me the truths which I now discern with so much clearness in the Scriptures. The apostle says, 'The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him; neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.' And I can attest, from my own experience, the accuracy of this statement. But the eyes of my understanding are now enlightened, and I can discern a beauty and grandeur in the scheme of salvation which I never saw before. The Scriptures are now the pure fountain from whence I draw the water of life. My taste is now formed by the influence of the truth which they reveal, and such is the altered state of my mind towards God, and the Redeemer, and another world, that I feel as though introduced into a new condition of being. You may imagine that this mental process will issue in gloom and dejection, but no; I feel myself rising above the conflicting elements of grief on which my mind has been tossed, into the enjoyment of that 'peace which passeth all understanding.'"
"But, my Sophia, I fear that you are carried away by the flights of your fancy, and are now labouring under a delusion which will leave you more wretched than it found you."
"But, my dear father, suppose it be a delusion, is it not a pleasing one? It has delivered me from a species of melancholy, which no other expedient could remove. But it is no delusion, because the effect is produced by truth operating on my mind through the medium of my judgment; and if you examine the Scriptures you will perceive that they represent such a moral change as indispensably necessary. Jesus Christ says that unless we are born again we cannot see the kingdom of heaven. This new birth I once thought was baptism by water, but I now perceive the absurdity of such an opinion, for those who are born again are fitted for heaven; but can we believe that all who are baptized are fitted for heaven? There is baptism by water, which is the external sign of that moral purification which is denominated the baptism of the Spirit. And St. Paul says, 'If any man be in Christ he is a new creature; old things are passed away, behold all things are become new.' And though some would say that this refers expressly to the reformation which must take place in the more abandoned and impure, yet the comprehensive phrase which he employs (if any man be in Christ) demonstrates the necessity of this change in each individual, irrespective of the peculiar modification of his character."
"I admit that there must be a change, my Sophia, but as that must be produced by our own reflections, it does not require these flights of the fancy which you are now taking."
"But, my dear father, can a change so important as that which the Scriptures describe, take place in the human soul without affecting all its faculties and passions? The change may be sudden or gradual, according to the sovereign will of the great agent by whom it is produced, but when it does take place, a person cannot be unconscious of it. It is not merely a change of opinion, but of principle; it not only gives a distaste for the follies and vanities of the world, but raises the affections to the unseen realities of eternity, and transforms the whole character into a resemblance to Jesus Christ's. Dr. Paley says, 'It is too momentous an event ever to be forgotten. A man might as easily forget his escape from shipwreck.'"
"I know that this change is necessary in relation to some, but I cannot see that it is necessary in relation to you; and I fear that you are perplexing your mind with a subject which, if not above your reach, is altogether inapplicable to you."
"But, my dear father, I feel the necessity of this change in relation to myself, and it is evident that my opinion accords with the current language of the Scriptures. Hence we read of being born again, of passing from death unto life, of being created anew in Christ Jesus, of being made new creatures, and I feel that I have undergone this change. It is no airy notion which flutters over my fancy; it is no superstitious impression sporting with the credulity of my mind; it is no mysticism of opinion which dreads the light of investigation; but a substantial fact, which I cannot doubt, and to which I attribute, and exclusively attribute, my present mental composure and felicity. Yes, I now can say I am happy."
"It gives me pleasure to hear that you are happy; and though I fear your happiness arises from a source which will ere long dry up, yet I will not disturb it while it lasts. Your heart, I know, is good, and the errors into which you have now fallen will be corrected, I have no doubt, by the mature reflections of your judgment. It is natural for persons who have laboured under a physical depression of spirits to be delighted by almost any object of pursuit which first strikes their attention. Some are charmed with the gaieties of this world, and some with imaginary conceptions of the felicities of the next, and hence are carried away with the visions of their own fancy; but time cools their ardour, and they ultimately live to think and act like other people; and this, I trust, will be the case with you."
"My errors I hope to detect, and when detected I will renounce them, but my religious principles, I hope I shall never live either to renounce, or compromise, or dishonour."
"I know, my dear, that you are too virtuous to dishonour, and too independent to compromise any good principles, but I hope you will renounce those gloomy and mystical views which you have recently imbibed, and return to the adoption of those in which you have been educated. A mind that is given to change becomes the sport of every wind of doctrine, and liable to be imposed on by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness whereby they lie in wait to deceive."
"But, my dear father, you will permit to say that I am not deceived. I have carefully examined the Scriptures, especially the New Testament, and I am as thoroughly convinced that I have been living in a state of total ignorance of the nature and design of the gospel of Jesus Christ, as I am opposed to the absurd rites of Papal superstition."
"Well, my Sophia, I perceive that you are too much enamoured with your opinions to enter on a logical investigation of them at present; but when the freshness of novelty is worn off, and your mind reverts to its accustomed accuracy of perception and sobriety of feeling, we may then do so with mutual satisfaction."
"I hope, my dear father, we shall; for I assure you that, as my happiness is inseparably connected with yours, it is my daily prayer that we may be made meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light."
She now withdrew to her own room.
"Sophia quite alarms me," said Mrs. Roscoe. "I fear her disorder is taking a more fatal turn. It certainly has impaired her reason."
"She perplexes and puzzles me," said Mr. Roscoe; "no, her reason is not impaired; it is acute and vigorous, and she is moving in a new pathway of religious inquiry, but I cannot follow her. Some new chapter is opening in her mental history. She talks both rationally and incoherently. We must wait the issue, and hope for the best."