THE LONELY WIDOW.
I n the summer of the year 18—, I took an excursion through part of the west of England; and after travelling on horseback several days, I resolved to tarry at the beautiful village of Stanmoor. Passing along, I stopped in front of a small but respectable looking inn, whose honeysuckled porch and tidy exterior promised to afford a tranquil and comfortable place of sojourn, and I made up my mind to rest for a season beneath its humble roof. Having taken my horse to the stable, and given the hostler instructions to take good care of him, I was shown into a neat small back room, which commanded a very beautiful view. As I stood gazing and musing while the homely-looking landlady was preparing my coffee, the lines of Milton's Morning Hymn recurred to my recollection; but never, till that moment, had they produced such an exciting effect:—
"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good:
Almighty! Thine this universal frame:
Thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable: who sitt'st above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine."
My cogitations were interrupted by the landlady, who, as a mark of respect, herself brought in my coffee, &c., put a small bell on the table, and assured me, with a great deal of good-natured ease, that she would endeavour to make me comfortable as long as I chose to honour her house with my company. Having partaken of the provision of the table, I resolved on taking a walk, and was told, that if I turned short round to the right when past the clump of fir-trees, I should soon come to a pleasant valley. This direction I followed; and in about a quarter of an hour I entered one of the most romantic vales I have ever visited. The sun was still gilding the tops of the distant hills; the blue sky was enlivened by the song of the thrush, and the responding notes of the yellow-hammer. As I walked on, my attention was attracted by the bleating of a flock of sheep, which I saw at a distance ascending a steep path, leading to a neighbouring fold. I quickened my pace, that I might have some conversation with the shepherd, who, with his dog, was bringing up the rear. He was an old man of a swarthy complexion, and strongly marked features; his gray hairs hung in locks over his shoulders, and his manners seemed to indicate the presence of a superior mind. He made a courteous bow; I saluted him, and remarked—"You are taking your flock home to rest, which I hope sometimes reminds you of the approach of that hour when you must rest from all your labours."
"Yes, it does; and, blessed be God, there is a rest provided for his people."
This pious expression sprang a mine of exquisite feeling in my breast; and I instantaneously felt a profound veneration and respect for the old man, whom I now looked upon as a son of God in the disguise of lowly and lonely humanity.
"I presume you know something about Jesus Christ, who is the way to that place of rest."
"Yes, he is now my Saviour, though for many years I lived without knowing anything about him. I often feel sorry when I think of the many precious hours I have wasted by reading ballads and foolish books, which I ought to have spent in reading my Bible."
"Do you ever attend a place of worship?"
"No, I never leave my flock."
"How, then, did you come to know anything about Jesus Christ?"
He put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a tract, and said, as the big tear dropped upon his cheek, "This is the blessed book that made known to me a blessed Saviour; and I would not part with it for all the world."
Feeling anxious to hold in my hand the instrument which had been employed by the "Eternal Spirit" in turning this aged man from darkness to light, I asked him to let me see the tract. It bore the following title, which had become nearly obliterated by frequent use:—"The Good Old Way; or the Religion of our Forefathers, as explained in the Articles, Liturgy, and Homilies of the Church of England." I said to him, "How did you get this tract?"
"A lady gave it me one day, about three years ago; I don't know her; but I hope she will be recompensed at the resurrection of the just."
"How do you spend your leisure time now?"
"In reading my Bible, which tells me so much about that dear Saviour, in whom, through grace, I have believed, and who is able to keep that which I have committed to him against the great day."
"I suppose you are much more happy now than you were before you knew him?"
This question brought over his countenance one of the finest expressions of delight I ever beheld; and, after a short pause, he said, "More happy, Sir! I never was happy till I obtained mercy; but now I am happy, and expect before long to join that blessed company we read of in the Revelation, who serve God day and night in his temple."
Having made a few unimportant inquiries about his family, the state of agriculture, and the population of the district, I wished him a good night, and left him. As I passed along, I said to myself, I should like to watch the countenance, and listen to the remarks of this converted shepherd, while some philosophic sceptic, in flippant style, or in graver tone and sarcastic sneer, says to him, "Why, shepherd, you have been long living amidst visible and splendid realities; but now, in your old age, you are living under the spell of legendary delusions. The Deity whom you now adore is nothing but the idol of your own creation. The reported facts and doctrines of the Bible, which have had such an effect on your imagination, are either fabulous tales or superstitious dogmas; and, notwithstanding your airy flights into another world, you, like your sheep, will cease to be, when death comes to release you from your labours, for there is no other world."
With what indignant astonishment, blended with pity, would the old shepherd look on such a man; doubting, for a few moments, whether he was not some infernal spirit in the human form. I can easily imagine he would reply: "It is odd, Sir, that such a poor ignorant old man as I be, that has lived for more than sixty years without thinking about God at all, should all at once, and without intending to do it, create by the force of my fancy such a pure, benevolent, and glorious Being, as I now believe God to be; who stoops from his high and lofty throne to listen to my poor prayers, and to answer them too. And it is mainly odd, Sir, methinks, that these tales of the Bible, if they be fabulous, and these doctrines of the Bible, if they be nothing but superstitious dogmas, as you call them, should all at once, and without my thinking of such a thing being done, work such a great and blessed change in my hard and wicked heart, and should make me so happy as I now be. It is, methinks, a main pity that they have not worked on your heart as they have on mine, and then you would be about as unable and as unwilling to doubt their truth as I be. You say, Sir, there is no other world; I should like to know how you happen to know this? have you been to the sun, and the moon, and all the stars, and every where else to see? If you have not, according to my plain way of thinking, I think it is a main act of presumption for you to say so. You tell me that I shall cease to be at death, just as these sheep will cease to be. I should like to know how you happen to know this. Has our Maker spoken to you out of heaven, and told you so: or is it mere guess-work with you? No, no, Sir; I am not going to take your random guess-work sayings as true gospel; I like Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John too well for that; and now, to let you know my mind, I tell you plainly, you come too late to make a poor man disbelieve his Bible, if you don't come before he has felt the enlightening and renewing and refreshing power of its blessed truths on his soul; he has then the Witness within, and that's a witness that can't lie. I won't give up the truthful testimony of this living Witness for your random guess-work sayings, which you yourself can't know to be true. I don't want, Sir, to offend you; but I look upon you as a false prophet, who may deceive the wicked, but can't deceive a man who fears God and loves Jesus Christ as I do, and shall do for ever."
Perfect stillness prevailed around; no sounds were heard but my own footsteps, and the occasional notes of the nightingale, until I came to a brake, when I heard the following verses of a favourite hymn, though the singer was concealed:—
"The calm retreat, the silent shade
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem by thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow thee.
"There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!
"There, like the nightingale, she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.
"Author and guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And—all harmonious names in one—
My Saviour! thou art mine.
"What thanks I owe thee, and what love!
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above
When time shall be no more."
I lingered here some time after the music had died away, luxuriating in my own hallowed reflections; and then advancing a few steps, I perceived, seated in a hollow, a decent middle-aged woman, and, apparently, her daughter, who were thus pouring forth their evening hymn of praise. I then returned to the inn, had my supper, and after engaging in prayer with the family, retired to rest. In the morning I rose early and revisited the vale, humming over, as I sauntered along, the following suggestive and consolatory lines of a modern poet:—
"God is here; how sweet the sound!
All I feel and all I see,
Nature teems, above, around,
With universal Deity.
"Is there danger? Void of fear,
Though the death-wing'd arrow fly,
I can answer, God is here,
And I move beneath his eye.
"When I pray, he hears my pray'r;
When I weep, he sees my grief:
Do I wander? He is here,
Ready to afford relief."
I reached the end of the walk before aware of it; when I saw a cottage, towards which I bent my steps. It was small, yet tastefully adorned with jessamine, honey-suckles, and rose-trees, with a neat flower-garden in front, inclosed by a hawthorn hedge; and while admiring its varied beauties, an elderly female made her appearance, whose physiognomy and whose manners were very prepossessing. After a little desultory conversation, as I stood resting my arm on the top of her little wicket-gate, she invited me to come in and rest myself. I accepted her invitation, and soon found that I was in the society of one of the Lord's "hidden ones." My hostess was a widow, whose husband had been dead about seven years. She informed me that her father, a man of piety and of wealth, had given her an education becoming his station; that at the age of seventeen she yielded herself to God, as one alive from the dead, and before she reached her twentieth year, she was married to one of the most amiable and one of the most attentive men that ever became a husband. A kind Providence smiled upon them during the first twelve years of their wedded life, when a series of disasters befell them, which turned their paradise of bliss into a valley of weeping. Her father having made some large speculations in the wool-trade, lost the whole of his property, and not having been inured to affliction in his earlier days, his vigorous constitution gave way, and he died, exclaiming, "Though I have lost all my worldly substance, yet the pearl of great price is still mine." The insolvency of her father shook public confidence in the commercial respectability of her husband, who was soon obliged to call together his creditors; and though there was more than sufficient property to meet their demands, yet, by making him a bankrupt, they did not receive quite half their amount. When his affairs were wound up, and he had obtained his certificate, his friends raised a subscription for him, and he recommenced business; but the hand of the Lord was against him, and he could not succeed.
An interesting daughter, who, from the age of seven years, had been seeking the Lord, was so overwhelmed by the afflictions of her parents, that she fell into a rapid decline; and though there were occasionally some bright prospects of her recovery, yet at last the night of death came and sealed up the vision of life. The father, who was a man of a very delicate frame, gradually sank beneath his accumulated trials, and left his widow with a son, without any resources for their future maintenance.
Her son was sent to a boarding-school, where he was educated at the expense of his uncle; and as the place of her nativity had lost all its attractions, she chose to retire to the lonely cottage in which I found her, where He who multiplied the widow's oil has never suffered her to want any good thing.
An occasional tear fell from her eye while she was relating this tale of woe, yet there was a dignified composure in her countenance, and that led me to remark—"I presume, Madam, that though you have met with such severe losses, you have not lost your confidence in God, nor the peace of mind it yields."
"No, Sir; I have enjoyed in this cottage more of the Divine presence than I ever felt in the days of prosperity, and would not willingly return to the world, and hazard the loss of my spiritual consolations, could I obtain its highest prizes. I know that my afflictions have been sent by my heavenly Father, who is too wise to err, and too good to act unkindly. He has designs to accomplish, by his dispensations, which may appear to us mysterious, because to us they are unknown; but though clouds and darkness are round about him, yet righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne. I now find the wells of salvation yield sweeter waters than when resorted to in former times, and my prospect of future glory is brighter and more animating than in the days of my greatest prosperity."
On expressing my surprise that she could willingly reside where the means of grace could not be fully enjoyed, she informed me that she was not deprived of these privileges. "If you look in that direction, you will see a spire rising among the trees on yonder hill. In that church the gospel is preached in its purity and in its power, and the Rector, who is an amiable man, usually preaches on Sabbath morning, when I attend. In the afternoon I stay at home and meditate on what I have heard; and in the evening I go to hear an excellent minister of Christ, who preaches in a small Dissenting chapel at the other end of our hamlet."
"Then you are no bigot?"
"No, I love all who love Christ; and to me it is immaterial where I go, if I can obtain an interview with Him, whom unseen I love."
"As the gospel is preached in your village, I hope you have met with some with whom you can enjoy Christian fellowship."
"Yes, the Lord has a few in this modern Sardis who have escaped the general pollution, and are walking worthy their high vocation. We meet once in the week for prayer and conversation, and are often favoured with times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord."
"Have you ever had any conversation with a pious shepherd, who feeds his flock in your beautiful vale?"
"O yes, he is often our chaplain. The word of Christ dwells in him richly. He has an excellent gift in prayer, and is an Israelite indeed; a beautiful specimen of the new-creating power of the Almighty."
"But do you never wish to reside in a town, where you could enjoy an extensive intercourse with the religious world?"
"O no; I have lived long enough to know that a few select friends, whose minds are uncontaminated by the censorious spirit of the age, are a richer treasure than a promiscuous throng, enslaved and governed by sectarian prejudices."
The room in which we were conversing was neatly furnished; a few pictures decorated one of the side walls, and a small library was placed in the centre of the opposite. I found among the books a copy of Robinson's Village Sermons, and on taking it from the shelf, I observed, "Robinson was an extraordinary man, but the eventide of his life was comparative darkness."
"Yes, it was; but the productions of his pen have often yielded me pure mental enjoyment; and, if you will permit me, I will show you a passage in one of his sermons, which I never read without bearing a personal testimony to its accuracy:—'Is it a benefit to understand the spirit and see the beauty of the Holy Scriptures? Afflictions teach Christians the worth of their Bibles, and so wrap up their hearts in the oracles of God. The Bible is but an insipid book to us before afflictions bring us to feel the want of it, and then how many comfortable passages do we find which lay neglected and unknown before! I recollect an instance in a history of some who fled from persecution in this country to that then wild desert, America. Among many other hardships, they were sometimes in such straits for bread, that the very crusts of their former tables in England would have been a dainty to them. Necessity drove the women and children to the sea-side to look for a ship expected to bring them provisions; but no ship for many weeks appeared; however, they saw in the sands vast quantities of shell-fish, since called clams, a sort of mussels. Hunger impelled them to taste, and at length they fed almost wholly on them, and to their own astonishment were as cheerful, fat, and lusty as they had been in England with their fill of the best provisions. A worthy man one day, after they had all dined on clams without bread, returned God thanks for causing them to suck of the abundance of the seas, and of treasures hid in the sand—a passage in the 33d chapter of Deuteronomy, a part of the blessing with which Moses blessed the tribe of Zebulun before his death; a passage till then unobserved by the company, but which ever after endeared the writings of Moses to them."
Just as she finished reading, a farmer-looking man came to the door with a letter, which Mrs. Lewellin took and opened with eagerness. She wept as she read, and involuntarily exclaimed—"O George! my son, my son!" Unwilling to withhold consolation from one who had passed through such fiery trials, I asked her if she had received any intelligence of a very painful nature.
"Yes," she said, while endeavouring to suppress the rising grief of her heart, "I have a letter from my dear boy, who has resided in London for the last two years. He is very ill. O Sir! if——." A long silence ensued, which was interrupted only by the expressions of strong maternal grief. "If he had felt the power of divine grace changing his heart——." She wept again. "But I fear he has been drawn away from religion by evil companions. Oh! if he were to die, where could I ever find rest? This is a trial which pierces my heart."
"I am not surprised to witness such excessive grief; but may not this affliction be sent to elicit the meaning of some obscure passage of the Sacred Volume? Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness; that is, deliverance comes when most needed, but as often when least expected. The set time for your son's conversion may be nigh at hand; and He who worketh all things after the counsel of His own will may now be making the necessary preparations for this great event; so that your mourning may very soon be turned into rejoicing."
"If the Lord should be pleased to renew the soul of my dear boy, I shall, like the father, when he saw his prodigal son retracing his steps to his long-deserted home, feel an ecstasy of joy. The crisis in his moral history may be coming. I will betake myself to special prayer, and in faith and hope wait the issue. Nothing is impossible with God."