WINTER SCENES.
The weather had been intensely cold since our arrival at Fairmount, and for two days the snow had descended without intermission; but on the second evening a severe frost set in, and when I stepped out in the morning, I found that the fallen flakes had become so hardened that I could walk on them without leaving the impression of my foot on the surface. I love the country at all seasons, and, though certainly preferring it in the genial seasons of summer and autumn, when the woods are decked in their mantle of green, and the fields brighten in the sunshine with their waving crops of golden grain, I have nevertheless frequently experienced a large amount of pleasure in rambling during winter along the frozen roads and lanes, or contemplating the bleak landscape spreading out before me, with its white carpet of snow.
After walking briskly onward for a little distance, I determined, after some hesitation, to revisit the spot where, on a former occasion,[29] I had sat to feast myself on the enchanting scenery of the country, which was then clothed in its gayest summer dress; but now the scene was completely changed. The skeleton trees extended their leafless branches sprinkled with snow-flakes; many of the evergreens in the shrubbery presented a withered and scorched aspect, from the influence of the frost; while the little birds, who in the summer had delighted us with their music, were now roaming about the country in search of food, and some of them not unfrequently found dead on the roadside from hunger and cold.
As I stood viewing the change which the winter season had made in the appearance of nature, my mind reverted to the changes which as suddenly take place in the dispensations of Providence; and I recalled to my remembrance many who, during my short pilgrimage, had sunk from the heights of prosperity to the depths of adversity, and whose opening spring of plenty and of hope had been succeeded by the sterile and stormy winter—closing up the visions of their anticipated bliss in the gloom of disappointment and of woe. While thus musing on the mutations of nature and of Providence, I saw two lads approaching from a distant meadow, and when they drew near enough for me to trace their features, I recognized the children of the woodman whom I visited on the evening when his little daughter died.[30] They looked very sorrowful and dejected, and exclaimed, as soon as they recognized me, "O, Sir, we are again in trouble—we have lost father! Have you seen him, or heard of him? We have been walking about ever since daybreak, but we can't find him." They then gave me an account of the calamity which had befallen them.
After the interment of his daughter, he regained his usual flow of spirits, and felt resigned to the will of God; but within the last few weeks he had sunk into a low, desponding state, and often spoke of his decease as one who believed the hour of his departure was at hand; and yet health nerved his arm, and he was strong to labour. "Mother often told him," said the eldest son, "that he ought not to mistrust Providence, who had always provided food and raiment for us; nor yet to think that he was going to leave us. But she could not comfort him; for, after coming home at night, he would sit and weep, and talk to us till we all wept with him; and we knew not why, for we saw no danger coming. We were all well and happy except father."
He had gone to his work on the preceding day, at his usual hour, taking with him, in his bag and bottle, his refreshment, and was seen by his master about noon, walking away from the field in which he had been at work, with his dog by his side, but neither of them had been heard of since. "We fear, Sir," said the lad, who sobbed aloud as he spoke, wiping away at the same time the falling tears with the sleeve of his frock, "he has tumbled into some pit, and has perished in the snow; but, Sir, we cannot trace any marks of his footsteps, nor yet hear Trail bark nor howl. Farmer Pickford and his son have just been away searching for him in one direction, and we in another; and the whole village is up looking for him, but we can see nothing like him anywhere, and I feel assured that poor father is gone. O, Sir, if you could but come and speak a word of comfort to mother! She is so unhappy, she does nothing but wring her hands and cry, for she does not know what to do."
Having heard this tale of woe, I resolved to accompany the two lads to the cottage, and endeavour to soothe their mother's distress. The distracted wife was standing at the door, and, on seeing me, she clasped her hands in an agony of grief, and began to repeat to me the affecting tale. "I have thought, Sir, at times, he would not live long, for within the last two months his spirit and his prayer all seemed to prove that he was getting ripe for glory; but I did not expect to lose him so soon, nor in this way."
"You do not," I remarked, "suppose that he is murdered?"
"O no, Sir! He has tumbled into some pit and perished in the snow, which fell yesterday in larger and thicker flakes than I ever saw before; but I feared no danger, because he knows the parts so well. I expected him home sooner than usual, on account of the badness of the weather; and as I thought something warm would comfort him, I had got a stew ready, but"—she could add no more.
I was very much affected by the aspect of the interior of the cottage, which still showed the preparations made on the preceding evening for the poor woodman's return. The neat round table stood near the fire, covered with a clean cloth; a deep wooden trencher, with a spoon and salt-cellar made of the same material, were placed beside it; the oak chair was in readiness to receive its owner, and the small kettle was still hanging over the fire, which had been suffered to dwindle from the bright blaze into dying embers. I endeavoured to comfort her in this hour of her sorrow; but she was so overpowered with anguish, that words of consolation appeared to be of no avail; and after praying with her I left, with a promise that I would call again. The lines of the poet Thomson, with which I had been long familiar, now recurred to my recollection, and I could not repress the tear which their remembrance on the present occasion involuntarily caused:—
"Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain.
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame! How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many sink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse!
Whence, tumbling headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic muse.
Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around the deathbed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling impulse, learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work."
On my return to Fairmount, I found the Roscoes there; and, on entering the parlour, Mrs. Stevens said, "We have felt somewhat uneasy on your account. I hope nothing unpleasant has detained you."
"I have been, Madam, to the house of mourning, where grief is still raging unassuaged." I then narrated the melancholy tale, which deeply affected the whole party; and various plans were suggested for the recovery of the lost woodman.
"It will be impossible for us," said Mr. Roscoe, "to do anything in the way of searching for this poor man; but we may make some provision for the support of his widow, as I fear she may now too truly be termed, by commencing a subscription for her, which I think is no less our duty than our privilege."
"Very good," replied Mrs. Stevens, who immediately drew from her pocket-book a five pound note, which sum was increased to the amount of £17 by the donations of the rest of the party.
"How soon," remarked Mr. Stevens, "may a mysterious Providence lay waste the pleasant things of our possession, and leave us in a state of destitution and affliction! I saw the woodman and his family at church on Christmas morning; the bloom of health was on his countenance, and a fine glow of delight came over it when Mr. Ingleby was describing the effects which would be produced on the mind of a redeemed sinner when taking the first look at the Great High Priest of the heavenly temple. I have no doubt but he spent the evening of that day in the bosom of his family, blessing them with his prayers and instructions."
"At no season of the year," said Miss Roscoe, "am I so powerfully impressed by a sense of the Divine goodness, as during the inclement season of winter; when I am sheltered from the rude storm, which often beats through the shattered roof of the poor man's cottage—am warmed by the cheerful blaze, which seldom burns on his hearth—have extra clothing to cover me whenever I am exposed to the severity of the weather—and have all the comforts and conveniences of life, while many,
"'Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
——sink into the wretched hut
Of cheerless poverty!'
But why am I favoured with these mercies of which many others are deprived? I might have been doomed to work for my daily bread, or perhaps to beg it from door to door; or, looking at the fate of this poor woodman, such a calamity might quite as likely have befallen one of my dearest friends."
"If we wish to trace our mercies," said Mr. Lewellin, "to the source from whence they proceed, we must go to the fountain of all goodness, and acknowledge that 'every good and perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' No other reason can be assigned why we are so distinguished by the munificence of his kindness in preference to others, than the sovereignty of his will."
"And does it not," said Miss Roscoe, "enhance the value of our mercies, and tend to excite our gratitude to still higher degrees of ardour, when we receive them as coming from the fountain of all goodness through the mediation of our Redeemer, who gave himself for us!"
"And," remarked Mr. Stevens, "if we are distinguished in preference to others, when we can present no stronger claims on the Divine bounty, I think we ought to act an equally munificent part towards the more needy and afflicted of the human family. I am at a loss to conceive how any Christian can consent to be comfortably clothed and fed, while so many, even of the household of faith, are suffering all the evils attendant on a state of poverty. What we possess is intrusted to our care as stewards, not given to us as proprietors; and though we are allowed to partake of it, yet are we not commanded to distribute to the necessities of the saints?"
"I have no doubt," said Mr. Roscoe, "there are many pious and benevolent Christians who would distribute a much larger portion of their goods amongst the poor and the needy, if they knew the extent of their privations; but living apart from the suffering community by which they are surrounded, and seldom hearing of its woes, they have no conception of the prevalence of distress, and from ignorance rather than avarice, withhold the assistance they would otherwise most willingly afford. I have long entertained this opinion; for I generally find, that when any special case of distress becomes a subject of notoriety, or when any benevolent scheme is promulgated to promote the comfort of the poor, especially on any pressing occasion, contributions flow into the treasury of benevolence to a large amount."
"Yes, papa," answered his daughter; "when the public see the pallid and emaciated form of misery moving before their eye, or when they hear the mournful relation of its sufferings, the common sympathies of their nature are powerfully excited, and they cannot help affording some degree of assistance without doing violence to their Christian feelings; but is it not our duty, as the disciples of the Redeemer, to imitate his example in going about continually doing good? We are told that 'the poor shall never cease out of the land;' and can poverty exist unattended by its consequent evils? Would it not, on our part, be a profitable exercise, were we sometimes to leave our warm fireside, during the inclemency of the weather, and visit the huts and cottages of the poor, to examine for ourselves how they are clad, and how they are warmed and fed?"
"Certainly, my dear; and I think that those Christians who possess wealth to any extent beyond the immediate wants of their own family, who never pay such a visit to the poor man's dwelling, not only deprive themselves of one strong incitement to gratitude, but act a faithless part to him who has employed them in the capacity of stewards to distribute his bounties."
"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Lewellin, "in your opinion respecting the benevolence of the public when any case of distress, or when any scheme of charity becomes the subject of notoriety, but the benevolence which takes its rise from the mere sympathies of our nature, or that is stimulated to excitement by the example of others, is a defective principle, and essentially different from the pure benevolence of Christianity, which, taking its rise from the authority of the Divine law, proposes the example of the Redeemer as the pattern of its own conduct, going and distributing its donations in the unfrequented paths of misery, no less than in the open field of want."
"What you say, Sir," replied Mr. Roscoe, "is very true; and it possesses another property which you have forgotten to mention—it is less dependent on excitement, and consequently more steady in its exercise. I once heard of a lady of rank who rode out in her carriage one frosty morning, but having passed the suburbs of the city, felt the weather so intensely cold, that she ordered the coachman to drive home as fast as possible. Turning then to a friend who was with her, she said, 'I will immediately purchase twelve pairs of blankets for the poor, who must be nearly frozen to death.' In the afternoon, when reminded of her promise, she said, 'I think the weather is become so mild that they will not require the blankets.' 'Yes,' replied her friend, 'it is milder in this parlour than it was in the carriage, but it is equally severe in the open air.' In this case, as in many others, the intensity of the weather excited the benevolent feeling, and extorted the pledge; but as soon as the bitter cold outside was exchanged for the comfortable warmth within, the feeling gradually subsided, and the poor were left still to suffer without enjoying the benefit of relief."
"I was so much struck," said Mr. Stevens, "with the description of charity which I met with in the course of my reading some time since, that I transcribed it into my common-place book, and, by your permission, I will now read it:—
"'Charity is no intermittent thing that now and then breaks out into brilliant munificence, and then retires to slumber in the lap of indolence and selfish repose; that, like a burning mountain, emits occasional sparks and flashes of splendour, and then rolls forth nothing but smoke and darkness. It is a lamp that is always burning, sometimes with a brighter and sometimes with a fainter light, but is never extinguished. It is a vital principle—a generous life—the pulses of which are continually proceeding, now with stronger and now with more languid beats, but never come to a stand still. The life of a charitable man consists not merely of a few detached acts of desultory bounty, separated from each other by long intervals; his heart is an inexhaustible fountain, that supplies a current of kind attentions; that sends forth a stream of services to his fellow-creatures, few of which may be signal, but all of which are sincere, and which, though separately considered, may appear small, yet, collectively, are of great amount.'"
"But," said Mr. Lewellin, "we rarely find a pure and unremitting charity, except among those who are the real disciples of Jesus Christ; and the motive by which they are induced to cultivate it is very powerful. In the twenty-fifth chapter of the gospel by Matthew, our Lord has given us an impressive description of the solemnities of the future judgment; and when replying to the interrogation of the righteous, whom he had commended for their benevolence, he says, to explain the language he employed, 'Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' He thus teaches us that we are to perform our acts of beneficence and kindness, not merely because others set us the example, nor yet to gratify our own feelings of sympathy or vanity, but to express our gratitude and love to him for his love and compassion towards us. When we are governed by this motive, which the men of the world would deride as the figment of an enthusiastic imagination, our benevolence becomes one of the established laws of our moral system, which admits of no suspension or diversion, without occasioning a shock to our sense of right and wrong. And when we act on this principle, it is as if we addressed a poor person in the words which I lately read in an admired author:—'I relieve you in your distress, because of the near relation you bear to that blessed Person who has relieved me in all mine—my Friend, my Benefactor, my Saviour, my God. I, too, was an hungered, and he gave me the bread of life; I was thirsty, and he gave me the water of life; I was a stranger, not belonging to the fold, and he took me into it; I was naked, and he clothed me with the robe of righteousness; I was sick, and he visited me, and comforted me, and made me whole; I was in prison, and he came to me, loosed the bands of sin and death, and brought me forth unto light, liberty, and salvation. You come recommended to me as one of those whom he condescends to call his brethren. Accept, for his sake, what I can give you. I would it were more; all I have is too little.'"
"There is," observed Miss Roscoe, "a touching force in the language of our Lord which no real disciple can withstand; but there are many who have no ability to exemplify the influence which it assumes over them, for they have no wealth to distribute; and yet, if they do what they can to testify their love to him, they will be equally commended with the most munificent benefactors of their race. For he by whom actions are weighed and motives are judged—who gives to his servants what proportion of talents he pleases—often sees much given, where nothing is contributed; and will reward the benevolence which would gladly contribute if it possessed the means, no less than the munificence which commands the homage and respect of men. While, then, we are so highly favoured as to be exempted from the poverty of the poor and the selfishness of the rich, and profess to derive our motives from such a pure source, let us, in the stations in which we are placed, and according to the ability which we possess, endeavour to promote the comfort and happiness of others, remembering that where much is given, much is required; and that our Lord will receive every act of kindness which we perform to our poorer brethren, as an expression of our love to himself."
"I have occasionally noticed," said Mrs. Stevens, "a strange phenomenon in what may be called the religious world—a person holding rank as a devout disciple of Jesus Christ, ever ready to administer to the spiritual wants of the destitute, but systematically unwilling to help them in their temporal distresses."
"I, too," said Mr. Lewellin, "have known the same strange thing. I know a wealthy lady who will forward handsome contributions to the treasurer of a Bible, or Tract, or Missionary Society, but if applied to on behalf of a needy person, even though a fellow-member of the same church, she will put on such a scowling look, and speak in such harsh and repulsive tones, that few will venture to ask her for alms. Her own pastor, on one occasion, ventured to ask her for a small donation, to assist a poor worthy minister who was in the depth of poverty, and, by excess of importunity, he obtained a few shillings; but within a few weeks she sent £50 to the treasurer of a society for the support of aged and infirm ministers."
"How can we account for such strange conduct, which is so opposed to the injunctions of the Word of God?"
"Very easily, Madam," replied Mr. Roscoe. "These public societies will blazon the name of the munificent donor through the British dominions in their annual reports; and as such a lady wishes to be seen of men when performing her acts of charity, she is willing to pay the price which is demanded."
"How contemptible! A female Pharisee of the old school embalmed while living, and reserved as a specimen of the detestable order from which she is descended, that we may see broadly developed the meanness and odiousness of vanity, which gives liberally to the public institutions of Christianity for self-display and self-satisfaction."
In the morning we proceeded to the woodman's cottage, and on our way overtook the sad procession of his corpse brought home on a hurdle carried by some countrymen, his weeping children and his faithful dog walking alongside. He had been found in a pit near the edge of the wood; his dog was sitting beside it, and moaning the fate of his master, whom he was unwilling to leave, though nearly perishing with hunger and cold.
On the body being brought into the house, the spectacle of grief which was then exhibited became almost too much for us to endure. His wife wiped off the snow which was still hanging about his face and hair, and then kissed his cold black lips, bedewing them with her tears, while the children pressed around her, sobbing as they looked on the altered countenance of their father, and then turned away to mourn apart. Mr. Roscoe spoke kindly to her, which soothed her spirit, and he assured her that she should not want. "I know it, Sir," she replied, "because the Lord is my Shepherd, and he can spread a table for me, though my husband is not spared to bring me the provisions." He then informed her that a subscription would be raised for her support, which he had no doubt would be sufficient to enable her to bring up her family respectably. "O! Sir," said the two eldest boys, "mother shan't want while God gives us strength to work, nor shall the little ones." "Don't cry, mother!" said the youngest girl, who had just drawn back her finger from touching the face of her father; "father is gone to see Jemima. Don't cry, mother! for that won't make father speak to us again."
THE DEATH OF THE WOODMAN.
Vol. i. p. 570.
The body was interred, with great decency and solemnity, the seventh day after his decease, Mr. Ingleby reading the burial service. Such was the esteem in which he was held, and the degree of interest his death had excited, that one of the largest funeral processions known in the village for many years accompanied his remains to the grave, and all expressed the most tender sympathy towards his surviving family. By the exertions of Mr. Roscoe and Mr. Stevens, a large subscription was raised for their benefit; which in some measure tended to abate the intensity of their sufferings, though it could not heal the deep wound which had been inflicted on their domestic happiness.
Mr. Stevens and Mr. Lewellin accompanied me when I went to preach at Farmer Pickford's, and on our arrival we found that the barn was lighted up and seated for the occasion.
"There is a power of people," said the farmer, on giving me his hand, "come to hear the sarmunt, and no mistake." The congregation was much larger than any one had anticipated, and showed a marked attention to the sermon, which was on the conversion of Zaccheus, from Luke xix. 1-9. We intended to return to Fairmount immediately after the service was over, but felt compelled to yield to the kind importunity of the farmer and his wife, and stay to take supper with them. "A hearty welcome," said the warm-hearted farmer, as we entered his kitchen, where an ample supper was set out, consisting of a joint of roast beef, a boiled turkey and ham, custards in abundance, and tankards of the best home-brewed ale.
"Is this what you call pot-luck, Mr. Pickford?"
"No, no; we don't live after this fashion every day; but my wife and me made up our minds to give you some of the best on it; and I think that the best the house can afford is all too little in return for the sarmunt you have just given us in the barn."
Before we sat down to supper, Henry Pickford, at my request, asked the blessing, and we then set, with sharpened appetite, to the consumption of the good things before us. The farmer was so much excited, that his wife could not refrain from saying, "Master, you talk so much that you prevent conversation."
"I beg pardon, but I can't help it. What's in, will come out. I never thought of having the honour of such a company as this. Gemmen, I hope you will all enjoy yourselves as much as I do."
"We feel very much obliged to you, Mr. Pickford. As you see, we are all enjoying ourselves; and I hope we shall live to meet again."
"I trust so, too. I never expected to see such a day as this; and I was thinking, when you were preaching in the barn, that when Zaccheus got up in the morning he little thought what would happen to him before night."
"And I was thinking, Sir," said Harry, "when you were preaching, that when Zaccheus got up in the sycamore tree he didn't think he should be converted before he got down."
"It was quick work," said the farmer; "done in no time."
"And I was thinking," said Mrs. Pickford, "that everybody must have felt surprised that Jesus Christ should notice such a notorious sinner as Zaccheus was, and should condescend to go and be a guest at his house."
"Nobody more so," said the farmer, "than Zaccheus himself. I know he felt just what I feel myself. Why, it is but t'other day, and I was a wicked, drunken, and swearing fellow, that thought no more about my soul than one of my cows; but now I hate such sins, and my main concarn is to get my soul saved. At times, I can hardly believe my own knowledge. What mighty power Jesus Christ has, to bring to, such wicked and hardened sinners as Zaccheus and myself!"
"And make you new creatures," Mr. Lewellin here remarked; "the old things of evil to pass away, and the new things of grace and religion to come, to reform your character and bless your house."
"That's it, and no sham," replied the farmer. "Parson Cole called t'other day to have a talk with me. He heard I was gone mad. I told him what Jesus Christ had done for my soul, and how happy I was, and what a change had come over my Harry and the rest of us. He called it all a lusion, or some such a word which I didn't understand; but I made out his meaning, and I told him it was a real thing. Poor fellow, he could not understand such things—more's the pity; and he said, by way of mock-making, 'Why, Jesus Christ appears to have a great liking for you great sinners.' This made a big stir within me, and I spoke my mind. 'Yes,' I said to him, 'he is the great and good Physician that comes to cure those that otherwise were incurable.' I said to him, 'Does not Paul tell us that he began by saving the chief of sinners? and I can say he has not left off doing it yet, as I hope he will save me.'"
"No one, I think," said Mr. Stevens, "can doubt the ability or willingness of Jesus Christ to save the chief of sinners, who reflects on what he has done. He saved Zaccheus, a hard-hearted extortioner, who had grown rich by deeds of fraud and oppression; and who was justly held in such detestation by the people, that they expressed a high degree of astonishment when they found that Jesus Christ was going to be his guest."
"His conversion and salvation makes good what I said to Parson Cole, that Jesus Christ cures the incurable. I was thinking, in the barn, just when the sarmunt was over, that if any of the people who knew Zaccheus had been asked if they thought it possible for any one to convert him into an honest and charitable man, they would all have said 'No, it can't be done; he is incurable.' But Jesus Christ did it in no time."
"And I was thinking," said Mrs. Pickford, "that many a poor widow, and many a poor orphan, and many a poor tradesman, listened with great joy to the report of his conversion, when he set about doing what he said he would do—give half his goods to the poor, and make a fourfold restitution to every one he had injured."
Having now finished supper, Mr. Lewellin read the 103d Psalm, after which I brought the evening to a close by conducting family prayer. On taking leave of the farmer, he said, "There are three things I shall never forget:—I shall never forget your first call, when you talked to me about the worth of my soul; I shall never forget your preaching in my barn; and I shall never forget this story about Zaccheus, which lets us know what Jesus Christ can do in a little time."
"I hope, Sir," said Mrs. Pickford, "you will come again and see us. We shall feel so much pleased and profited too."
We then shook hands with our hospitable entertainers, and returned to Fairmount, much gratified with the pleasant evening we had spent.