AN OLD FRIENDSHIP REVIVED.
After a delightful tour through the west of England, and part of South Wales, Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin arrived at Malvern, where they intended to remain for some time previous to returning home. On the Saturday after their arrival, in ascending the hill behind the town, they passed two ladies, when Mrs. Lewellin said, "I think I know the tallest; she appears to be an invalid, and, to judge from her fixed look, I should infer that she had a faint recognition of myself."
They turned back to pass them again, if possible, but they lost sight of them in the little crowd of fashionables enjoying their morning promenade. As they were sauntering along on their return to their hotel, they passed what appeared to be a small place of worship, and on making inquiries, they found it was a Dissenting chapel.
"We ought," Mr. Lewellin remarked, "to be devoutly thankful to Divine Providence for raising up so many of these unobtrusive little sanctuaries—they are the retreats of the gospel, when it is driven out from the Established Church, as is too often the case."
"To me," replied his wife, "any place is a Bethel, if its walls echo to the name of Jesus."
The next day was the Sabbath. They were seated near the door of the chapel, when they saw the two ladies enter whom they had observed on the preceding day; but as they passed on to occupy a pew near to the pulpit, they could not get a sight of the face of either of them. The service was conducted as usual with extreme simplicity—singing, without the aid of any instrumental music, and extemporary prayer, free, however, from monotony or tautology. The sermon was short and impressive, setting forth the grand truths of revelation in a simple, earnest manner, and enforcing them in tones of mild, persuasive, yet commanding eloquence. The text would be considered by many a very commonplace one, yet it is one which embodies the whole theory of Divine truth—"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief" (1 Tim. i. 15). When the two stranger ladies were walking up the passage, after the close of the service, Mrs. Lewellin contrived to be standing with her pew door partly open, but drew it back as they were in the act of passing. The eye of the invalid lady caught hers; she paused, and exclaimed with emotion—"And is it you, my dear Miss Roscoe?"
"Not Miss Roscoe now," replied Mrs. Lewellin, waving her hand towards her husband; "I have exchanged it for Lewellin. And is it you, my dear Miss Rawlins?"
"Yes, still Miss Rawlins, your old friend. How marvellous that we, who were once two such giddy girls, should meet after so great a lapse of time in a Dissenting chapel!"
"The God of grace often works wonders."
"Always when he saves sinners."
"And does my dear Miss Rawlins feel herself to be a sinner?"
"Yes, and one of the chief. Some others may be more vile, but no one can be more worthless."
"Is this an illusion, or a reality? Am I in some fairy land?"
"I do not wonder at your exclamation. It is more like romance than reality."
They walked away from the chapel together, and when parting, Mrs. Lewellin said, "If you are at the chapel in the evening we will sit in the same pew."
"O yes, my dear; we greatly prefer the chapel to the church. There we have the pomp of religion; here its beautiful simplicity. At church we hear the Church itself and its ceremonial rites held up to us from day to day; here the Saviour himself is placed before us as the Alpha and Omega of the service. We are more partial to the substance of the truth, than to shadowy forms."
In the evening a minister officiated, who was on a visit to Malvern for the improvement of his health. He was a fine looking man, though much emaciated, and preached as one whose eye was turned away from the vanities of time, contemplating steadfastly the glories of eternity. His text was strikingly appropriate to his own condition and to ours:—"The fashion of this world passeth away" (1 Cor. vii. 31).
"The context to this passage," said the minister, "tells us, my brethren, what experience confirms—that our abode on earth is short. St. Paul, therefore, exhorts us, and we will do well to attend to his exhortations, to guard against too fond an attachment to any relation or possession in life. You who weep, and you who rejoice, should moderate the intensity of your emotions; as you will soon be far removed from the influence of the causes which produce those feelings, and the possessions which you now hold on the most secure tenure will soon be claimed by others. Set not, therefore, your heart on this world, which you must so soon leave. Its appearance is attractive, like the shifting scenes of a theatre, or a gaudy pageant in a public procession; but it will soon vanish from your sight, to amuse and beguile others in like manner. There is another world—more splendid, more glorious, and more durable—towards that you should turn your attention, and seek with the most intense ardour of soul to be prepared to enter it. Otherwise, when you depart from this world—and you may very soon depart—you will go into outer darkness, and be lost for ever."
"I hope, my dear Mrs. Lewellin," said Miss Rawlins, on the following morning, when they were promenading by themselves in a retired walk, "you will forgive me for not replying to the last letter I received from you. Indeed, I have often reproached myself for not doing it. It has been the occasion of bitter grief, and some tears, especially of late."
"I can very easily forgive you, dear Miss Rawlins; but will you permit me to ask you why you did not reply?"
"It was, at that period of my life, absolutely unintelligible. I concluded you were become a mystic; and I foolishly imagined you were contemplating taking the veil, and that I should soon hear you had entered a convent. You will not be surprised at this when you advert to the foolish letter I wrote to you about religion."[33]
"If agreeable to you," said Mrs. Lewellin, "I should like to hear by what means you were brought to see and to feel your real character and condition in relation to God and the eternal world."
"My history is a very singular one—abounding with incidents that illustrate the workings of the special providence of God. You know, my dear, in what a gay circle I moved. The concert, the drama, the ball-room, card-parties, and novels absorbed my whole soul. I lived in a perpetual whirl of excitement and gaiety. But I was not happy, and often felt disgusted with my own frivolous pursuits. At length, I had a severe and dangerous illness, brought on by imprudently exposing myself to the cold damp air, in returning from a ball. For some weeks my life was despaired of, and these were weeks of terror. I was brought to the verge of the dark world, and felt appalled at the thought of entering it. I was rebellious, too, and murmured against God for depriving me of life at such an early period."
"It was by a cold, caught at a ball, that your old friend, Miss Denham, lost her life."[34]
"Yes; I recollect you alluded to her death in a letter I received from you. Were you intimate with her?"
"I was with her when she died."
"Indeed! I know she was a gay devotee to the world; and, therefore, it may be painful to hear how she died. What myriads are offered as victims to the Moloch of fashion!"
"No, my dear, not painful. Her head was reclining on the bosom of a pious friend, who was present with me at the interview; and her last words were—'I am dying, but not without hope of attaining eternal life, through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.'"
"How thankful I am to hear that. It is like the rescue of a friend from shipwreck. But to resume my story. I was gradually restored to health, and re-entered the gay world, amidst the warm congratulations of my friends. At the close of the season we came to Malvern to spend a few months. Here the mystic roll of Providence began to unfold itself. One day, when rambling by myself over the common, I saw a neat little cottage, which I entered. It was occupied by an old woman, who sat reading her Bible. I apologized for my act of intrusion; when she requested me to take a seat.
"'I hope,' she added, looking at me benignantly as she spoke, 'you love your Bible. It tells us about Jesus Christ; about his love for poor sinners; and about his dying for them, to save them from perishing; and it tells us that if we come to him He will never forsake us. There is no book like God's Book.'
"I felt confused, and soon left her; but her words followed me. They were perpetually sounding in my ears; and yet I could not draw out of them any intelligible meaning. A few days after this I met an old school-fellow, looking very ill; and having promised to call on her, I did so the following week. I found her confined to her bed, and evidently with but a short time to live. She said to me, when taking leave of her, 'You see, my dear Miss Rawlins, that I am now going into another world: and I go in peace, because I look by faith to Jesus Christ, who died to save sinners. He has assured me, in the Bible, that if I come to him, and trust in him, He will save me. You have been near death, but your life is spared; let me entreat you to leave the gay and thoughtless crowd, and come by faith to Jesus Christ to save you, and to make you happy.'
"These last words made a deep impression on my heart, and gave rise to some painful reflections. Must I then, I said to myself, withdraw from the gay world to be happy? Can Jesus Christ make me happy? How is this possible, when he is dead, and gone to heaven? These references to Jesus Christ reminded me of your letter, which, as it happened still to be in my writing desk, I again perused. I was struck with the harmony of sentiment and testimony between your letter, the observations of the old woman, and the appeal of my dying friend; and I felt its influence, even though it appeared to me, in a great measure, unintelligible."
"It is said of Samson," remarked Mrs. Lewellin, "that the Spirit of the Lord moved him at times; that is, he was occasionally acted on by an unusual impulse. And something analogous to this may be traced in our moral history; the recurrence of impressions and emotions, of a singular character, proceeding from some unknown cause. The Lord the Spirit is at work in the heart, but his operations are veiled in darkness; happily, the time for explanation comes at last."
"It has been so, my dear Mrs. Lewellin, in my experience. Singular events have been employed to produce those singular emotions; but at the time, I could trace them to no perceptible cause, nor did I ever suppose they would lead to any important issue. But the mystery is now graciously explained. Soon after our return home, another incident occurred, which exercised a material influence on my mind. We went to dine with an old friend of my father's, who lived about ten miles from town, and intended to return in the evening, but such a violent storm came on, that we were glad to accept our friend's invitation to remain for the night. At nine o'clock the parlour bell was rung, and in a few minutes the servants entered, and our own coachman with them, when a large Bible was placed near a clergyman, one of the party. He read the second chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians, and offered up a very solemn and impressive prayer. This was quite novel; I had never before been present at such a service. I was again brought into contact with the great facts of revelation; and when on my knees before God in prayer, I became still more restless in my mind. I felt a strong inclination to go again to scenes of gaiety, to dispel the strange thoughts, and still stranger forebodings, which haunted me; and yet I recoiled from doing so, under an instinctive apprehension that they would make me still more restless and unhappy. I felt, at times, so miserable, that I took no interest in life. At this crisis, another incident occurred, trivial in itself, and apparently casual, but it was one of those agencies which were working together for my good. Our coachman brought with him, from the pious family which we had been visiting, some religious tracts; and on passing through the kitchen I saw one on the dresser; it was Poor Joseph.[35] I took it and read it. It delighted me from its singularity. I involuntarily exclaimed, when I had finished reading it, 'What a contrast between this poor half-witted man and myself! he is in ecstasy when referring to Jesus Christ coming into the world to save sinners, but I can only refer to this great fact with apathy and indifference. How is this?' It appeared strange, and was a heavy burden on my heart."
"Our Lord says, 'They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick' (Matt. ix. 12). A man in health looks with indifference on the physician; but not so the dying patient. It is a deep sense of personal guilt, and a vivid apprehension of positive danger, that fits a sinner to form a correct estimate of the need and value of a Saviour. When such a discovery is made and felt, then it is hailed with rapture, and mental repose is enjoyed as the consequence of trusting on the Saviour for pardon and salvation."
"I now perceive and feel this; but it would still have been hidden from me, had it not been for another circumstance. I had one gay friend to whom I was much attached; indeed, with the exception of my parents, she was the only person I really loved. She completely ruled me, though one of the most gentle creatures I ever knew. I was never so happy as when in her company. She was as fond of the gay world as myself. On one occasion we had both accepted an invitation to a grand ball given by Sir John Markham, but in the morning I received a note from my friend requesting me not to expect to meet her there; adding, 'I withdraw from the gay world, and for ever. It is a vain show, which promises happiness, but yields none. Don't be alarmed; I will explain when I see you.' This note took me by surprise; but I was more pleased than distressed. I refrained from going to the ball, and went to see my friend. She then informed me that her attention had recently been turned to her Bible, by a sermon she heard preached by the Rev. James Harrington Evans, and she had resolved to seek lasting happiness by yielding herself to God, through the redemption of Christ Jesus the Lord. Her conversation, though somewhat unintelligible to me, was in perfect harmony with the sentiments I had previously heard others express. I now readily complied with her earnest solicitation to accompany her, on the following Sunday morning, to hear the same eloquent preacher. We went together. His text was, 'For through him we both have access by one Spirit unto the Father' (Eph. ii. 18). When he was explaining to us the nature of access to the Father, and showing us why and how we ought to come to Him, the veil was removed, and the light of life shone with clear radiance into my heart. I felt subdued, captivated; and, for the first time of my life, I could say, 'Now I know where true happiness is to be found.' Now I could understand your letter. I followed, then, without hesitation, my friend's example, in withdrawing from the gay world."
"I suppose," here remarked Mrs. Lewellin, "the secession of two such gay devotees from the circle of fashion, occasioned some little tumult?"
"O, yes, we had a few calls from some of the more inquisitive, who live on excitement; but we were both inflexible, and now we are subjected to no annoyance."
"What did your parents say?"
"I think they were more pleased than otherwise, especially my dear mother, whose health had been rapidly declining for some months. Very soon afterwards she was confined to her room; and God honoured me to be the instrument in directing her to the Lamb of God, who gave his life a ransom for many. She passed through a severe ordeal of mental suffering during her long illness; but when descending into the dark valley, she saw, by faith, Jesus coming to receive her; and she died in peace."
"These varied conflicts, my dear Miss Rawlins, in which you have been engaged, must have proved a severe trial to you."
"They have rather seriously affected my health, which has given way, and occasioned our present visit to Malvern."
"I congratulate you on your rescue from the allurements of a vain and giddy world. Now that you are made alive from the dead, you must yield yourself to God, to fear, and love, and glorify him, and show forth his praise."
"As I have now, my dear Mrs. Lewellin, unbosomed to you the secrets of my heart, I shall feel more at ease. But, O! where can I find words adequate to express my grateful feelings to my adorable Saviour, for the marvellous manifestations of his sovereign compassion and love to my dear mother, my beloved friend, and myself!"
The next day Mrs. Lewellin went with Miss Rawlins, to see the old woman who lived in the cottage on the common. On entering, they found her in her arm chair, with her Bible open before her, so intent on what she was reading, that she did not appear to notice them, till she was spoken to.
"Sit down, ladies; I am glad to see you."
"At your old employment, I see," said Miss Rawlins.
"Why, Miss, I don't know that I can be at a better. It is proper that a child should read his father's epistles of love, and that a servant should study to know what his master requires him to do and suffer."
"Do you ever feel weary of reading the parts of the Bible you have read before?"
"It is, Miss, with God's Word, as it is with God's world. We enjoy a serene evening and the beauties and melodies of the spring, as much this year, as we did in any gone-by year of our life. I was just thinking, before you ladies came in, that I could say nearly off at heart the third chapter of John's Gospel; and yet I could read it again, with as much pleasure and profit, if not more, than I did the first time I read it. There is such a wonderful depth, and such a rich fulness and living power in God's Word."
"What book," inquired Mrs. Lewellin, "do you like next to the Bible?"
"O, dear, Ma'am, I have long done with all other books. I used to like good John Bunyan's Pilgrim, and I have read it through many times; but now I care about no book but my Bible. I sometimes think I should like to take the Bible with me to heaven, as then I should be able to have some dark sayings explained, which I can't understand now."
"You have no doubts, I suppose, about the certainty of your salvation?"
"No, Ma'am; not now. Some time since, I was greatly distressed with doubts and fears, but now all my anxieties are at rest. I stand with my staff in my hand, waiting to hear my Father call me home. He will call soon."
"How simple, and how dignified," said Mrs. Lewellin, as they were leaving the cottage, "are the anticipations of an old disciple, when approaching the entrance to the heavenly kingdom!"
"And what a contrast," replied Miss Rawlins, "to the devotees of fashion! They will amuse themselves at the card-table, till their hands become too enfeebled to play; and even on a death-bed will listen with deep interest to descriptions of operas and plays, a new singer, or a new actor; inquire with eager curiosity who wore the most splendid dress at the ball—what new marriage is now on the tapis—in short, will listen to anything, however trifling, to keep off the thought of dying."
"Yes," said Mrs. Lewellin; "and when, for form's sake, the officiating priest is sent for, and he has gone through the prescribed ceremonies—has read the absolution and given the sacrament, and they have thus made their peace with God—they still live on, as long as they can live, amidst the gay scenes of former times now gone from them for ever. But to that one great event in their moral history, which is so certain, and so near at hand, all references or allusions are imperatively forbidden, as though its entire oblivion could prevent its actual occurrence. O, it is painful to think of the terrific surprise and overwhelming horror which will seize on their spirits, when they pass into the eternal world!"
"Yes, my dear; and if our preparations for death, and if our reminiscences and anticipations when dying, should bear, as I trust they will, a nearer resemblance to the dignified deportment, and the sweet serenity of the old woman on the common, than to the criminal frivolity of these self-doomed devotees of fashionable life, we must, in imitation of the devout Psalmist, and with tears of joyous gratitude, ever say—'Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth's sake'—(Psalm cxv. 1.)"
On their return from this visit, Mrs. Lewellin said, with some embarrassment of manner, "We have now, my dear Miss Rawlins, been at Malvern longer than we contemplated. We leave to-morrow, but I hope that we may again meet somewhere on earth, to renew the sweet and hallowed intercourse we have so much enjoyed here."
"I am thankful that you kept the secret of your departure to the last moment. An earlier intimation of the exact time would have had on my heart a very depressing effect. Our conversations at Malvern will ever be held by me in pleasing remembrance, and I shall long for an opportunity to renew them. Good night. We will have no formal parting. It will be too painful."
As Mr. and Mrs. Lewellin had exceeded the time which they had originally contemplated spending on their tour, they now proceeded homewards to Rockhill, where they found Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and a few other friends, waiting to welcome them to their new home. The meeting was a delightful one, nothing having occurred to either party, during their absence, to occasion annoyance or perplexity.
A few months after their return, Mrs. Lewellin received the following letter from Miss Rawlins:—
"Dear Mrs. Lewellin,—It will give you, I have no doubt, some pleasure to hear that I am again in my father's house, and in the enjoyment of perfect health and vigour. And you will, I doubt not, unite with me in humble adoration and gratitude to the God of all grace, not only for the grace bestowed on me—one of the most worthless of the unworthy—but for his marvellous loving-kindness to my dear father, who is so much delighted, and so deeply moved by the preaching of the Rev. J. H. Evans, that he attends his chapel with me regularly every Sabbath. Though there is no decisive evidence that he is become a new creature in Christ Jesus, yet I hope he is entering the narrow way that leads to life. He spends much of his time in reading his Bible and Doddridge's Exposition, and is very earnest in his inquiries about coming to Christ to be saved. Truly the God of grace often works wonders. My endeared friend, Miss Forrester, whom you saw with me at Malvern, is now, and is likely to continue to be for some time, an inmate in our family. We were one in spirit when we were living and moving amidst the frivolous and ensnaring gaieties of life; and we are still one in spirit now we are both united to the Lord; but it is a spirit of a purer nature, and one that death cannot destroy.
"I often think of our unlooked-for meeting at Malvern, and the pleasant hours of Christian intercourse we spent together when there. I hope both you and Mr. Lewellin have been enjoying good health since your return home. I need not say how glad I shall be to hear from you. Write soon, and believe me, ever yours,
"Letitia."