At Trent Station I spent five minutes with Mr. Taylor, the fine, good-looking station-master, in talking over the caste, kind, and character of the gipsies in India, in which country Mr. Taylor was a station-master for some time. At Settle I pulled up for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. The little refreshment-room, about ten feet square, was quite a delightfully warm, cosy nook. The glasses and decanters of variegated colours were sparkling, the fire was bright and cheerful, and the waitress brimmed over with smiles, grace, and good-nature. I was nearly frozen, and to jump from the freezing train to the warm sunny “bar” at one bound was enough almost to make me wish that a coal truck would get across the line to cause a delay for half-an-hour. It was not to be, and the cruel porter bawled out, “Take your seats, gentlemen!” and we were off to the snowy region of the North, where all things are not forgot and sheep looked like rabbits. In puffing along we passed through the snow-drifts, which two days previously had held bound by the icy hand of winter eleven trains and their freights of “live and dead stock” for twenty-four hours, bringing forth from the sympathetic wife of the station-master hot tea, cakes, and coffee for the travellers.
In passing over the Settle and Carlisle railway I experienced a very queer kind of sensation. I was in the carriage alone. For many miles nothing was to be seen but snow and telegraph posts. The fences were covered, the sheep and cattle were housed, and, owing to the barren nature of the soil, there were no trees to be seen peering their heads upwards. A gloom, without a break or gleam of sunshine, spread over the face of the heavens. The snow-covered hills and valleys looked like so many white clouds, and appeared to be undulating as we passed through them. Not a sound was to be heard except the puffing and punting of the engine as we steamed away, and it appeared as if we were miles high between two worlds, travelling I knew not whither. To make myself believe that I was still in the land of the living and not among “the dreary regions of the dead,” I paced my compartment pretty freely, filling up my time by singing—
“One there is above all others,” &c.,
and counting the telegraph posts as we glided along. Among other things, as I walked to and fro in my solitary compartment, I jotted down some of the following thoughts and aphorisms:—
Faith is the quicksilver of heaven placed in the hearts of God’s children. When it is low or weak, rains and storms are brewing, difficulties are ahead; and when it is high and strong, then peace and joy may be expected. Unsteady Christians will do well to change their quarters.
Every glass of intoxicating drink given by parents to their children may have pleasure swimming upon the surface, but at the bottom there will be dregs of groans, and cries that will be hurled back by the children with vengeance and retorts upon the names and tombs of their parents as they lie smouldering in their coffins.
The benevolent actions of earth become at death the flowers of heaven.
The heavenly influences of God’s children in life become at death the fragrance of eternity.
As the light-giving rays of the sun appear as darkness to mortals with weak eyes and contracted vision, so in like manner do the searching and light-giving rays of God’s Word appear as darkness to those whose mind and mental powers have become weakened through looking into the lovely system of heaven with narrow, preconceived ideas and notions.
Tears are the dewdrops of sorrow; if of heavenly sorrow, they will be the means, as they drop to the earth, of watering seeds that will produce a crop of heavenly joy.