But there were yet higher endowments—talents are but as the beautiful lamp, spiritual life the light they enshrine; and when that light glows with an intensity, that throws out the fair form, and exquisitely-moulded figures, till the very lamp becomes brilliant, a light-giving thing, then indeed is it a vessel "fit for the Master's use," to the glory of His name whose workmanship the lamp is, but whose breath the light within. And that to all the rich gifts already described, was added that which is pre-eminently the gift of god, even "Eternal Life through Christ Jesus our Lord," is the point of deepest interest. Taught as we have seen by the discipline of suffering, his were the convictions of experience, not those of the understanding merely; he felt throughout his whole nature, his utter powerlessness to erect himself into a consciously virtuous being, and he felt as strongly that in the salvation of Christ alone was that which at once bringing pardon and imparting holiness, meets all the deep-seated wants of our nature, and raises us to the dignity of "sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty." With a heart thrilling to its very centre with a sense of unutterable need, he clung to the promises of the Gospel. And as time advanced and the hidden life grew stronger, and daily intercourse united the spirit more closely to God as its Father, through faith in Christ Jesus, his character assumed more and more of the likeness of that blessed state which it has now entered. Deep humility and self-distrust habitually marked his religion. In a letter dated April 1849, after detailing a circumstance which occurred during a short stay at Clifton, very gratifying to him as an author, he adds "I may say all this to you because you understand me.... But I feel it is not safe to indulge in it. A momentary glance at one's position—and then back again into the only safe place,—low at the Master's feet in love and humiliation, 'What hast thou, that thou hast not received?'" "I am so afraid of myself" was an expression he often used in the most intimate conversation. He felt it was only by the daily impartation of a strength greater than his own, that spiritual life was sustained. All those sentiments in the inspired writings, which ordinarily to the men of the world, are either mysteries or meaningless phrases, now comprehended in the fulness of their truth, had become the utterances of his own soul. "The life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me." He went to the scriptures for his code of morality, as well as for the promise of the life to come. Never under any circumstances did he shrink from performing what he considered to be Christian duty, or from avowing what he believed to be religious truth. The tone of Cowper's hymns harmonised more with the prevailing cast of his mind than that of any other sacred lyrics. Those of them which are to be found in Lady Huntingdon's collection, were associated with his earliest recollections, and when his spirit was all unconsciously preparing itself for a speedy and unlooked-for summons into the immediate presence of God, the strains of the poet, who so emphatically learned "in suffering" what he taught "in song," cheered and animated one kindred in spirit, as in faith. There is something pleasant in the thought that the strains which his mother might have sung by his cradle, were the latest given forth by his own rich voice.
While lowliness of mind before God, and a constant desire to serve his fellow-men, were perhaps the most conspicuous features of his religious character, the over-flowings of a grateful spirit must not be overlooked. Thanksgiving formed an essential part of his religion; neither the simple pleasures nor the richer blessings of life were lost upon him. Day by day he seemed as though he would never be thankful enough. His recognition of the hand of God in all he enjoyed was very vivid.
How far back the religious element of his character may be traced, it is impossible to say. The human mind is susceptible of the fear of God, and doubtless the actions may be modified thereby, long before any distinct consecration to his service, or, which must ordinarily precede it, that true self-knowledge which makes the need of a Saviour felt. That best of blessings the example of a Christian life in his parents, was around his earliest days, so that his first ideas of right and wrong must have taken a Christian tone. And that as he rose into life, the claims of a Creator and Saviour on his love and service occupied his attention, the writer is aware. Never indeed will be forgotten the intensity of feeling with which, within the last twelvemonths of his life he would sometimes refer to one among his youthful associates, who at that early period encouraged him in the practice of spiritual duties. He knew what a life passed amid the stir of the world was, how the hot noon dries up the current of early feeling, and the thorns of care choke the hidden life; and vivid anxiety for his friend's spiritual state, mingled with the grateful remembrance of forty years ago. A sentiment which now burst forth fresher than ever, because he knew as he had never done before, from what the salvation of God is a deliverance.
His sympathy for others in a religious point of view was very strong; the deep pity, amounting to personal grief, which he has expressed in intimate conversation, when speaking of any whose life or avowed principles, testified they were "without hope, and without God in the world," showed that his religion drew him the nearer to all his race. Strongly as principle and feeling alike led him to seek to promote in any way in his power the highest good of his fellow-creatures, the remembrance of his deep spiritual suffering caused him to take a deeper interest in those whose minds were in any degree agonised and bewildered as his had been. He would have considered no amount of mental effort or physical fatigue too great to encounter, could he thereby have "ministered to a mind diseased." In 1848 when visiting friends in the south of England, he was told of a poor old woman whose distress of mind had baffled every attempt to relieve it. He went to her cottage, sat down and listened to her complaints, anticipating them in great measure from his own vividly-remembered distress. She was cheered by finding another, who could tell beforehand what she was going to say; and when he reached down the Bible, and began reading his own favourite passages, "When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them, I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys" &c., and entering into her feelings, showed her that the glorious promises of God were made to the wretched and self-condemning, light seemed to burst upon her mind, and her thankfulness and delight knew no bounds; and second only to hers, were his own.—The most brilliant success in society had never afforded a pleasure like this. He seldom referred to his own past suffering, when he did so it was in a brief but touching manner: thus in a letter dated March 1849 he writes, "Pray give my very best remembrance to Mrs. —— and tell her that when I come to —— I intend sitting once more in her arm chair, now with what different feelings. I had not then found 'a hiding place from the storm, and a covert from the tempest.' Now however I hope I have found Christ as 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.'"
The true lowliness of spirit and willingness to be set aside, with which he commenced any undertaking, evinced a chastened spirit, which showed that he had not suffered in vain. "How thankful," wrote he to a friend, "we ought to be that we are permitted even to attempt any thing for Him who has given us all, and though apparently we fail, yet, as you say, we are secure from disappointment; and, depend on it, some good will arise probably to ourselves, if not to others, from our least efforts; at any rate, if they lead us to more humility and dependence on Him, one great end will have been answered." And two months later, writing to the same friend, he observed:—"It does seem part of the discipline of life that we should aim at duty—just embark in what seems the very path we ought to pursue for our own and other's good, and then plainly be sent back to learn one very important lesson we are too apt to forget,—viz. that the great Master can do his work without us."[G]
In a letter dated February 22nd, 1850, after speaking of the happiness he had enjoyed of late in communion with God, and expressing his desire to serve Him, especially by comforting "the weary," he adds, "but they 'do His will who only stand and wait;' I am watching the course of events, and when He has work for me to do, I shall be appointed to it. In the meantime I am working with my pen what may be useful at one time or another."
The repose which belongs to maturity of character, indicated by the last extract, was not unnoticed at the time. It was one of those traits then marked, but now fully understood. Many things which the writer took for philosophic superiority to trifles, and admired as such at the time, she now recognises as Christian elevation of character. There was about him an air—not exactly of indifference to the world or of separation from it, for he entered with zest into the social pleasures and all the higher pursuits of life—but of something like a consciousness of still nobler relations than any which connected his spirit with earth, an abiding recognition of a world to which he more properly belonged and still better than this which he so much enjoyed; and he seemed to stand with one foot uplifted ready to enter on that not distant world. It was a fulfilling of the divine precept, "Let your loins be girded about, and your lights burning, and ye yourselves like unto men waiting for their Lord."
An intimate friend when referring to daily intercourse with him, enjoyed for some time during the last autumn of his life, writes: "The advance in all things connected with the spiritual good of himself, or of others, was very striking—there was a dignity of deportment, a seriousness when treating of divine things, and an anxious desire for the religious improvement of all whom he could influence, that, superadded to his natural cheerfulness and lively wit, made him a most delightful companion. Still this increase of grace was chiefly preparing him for the approaching removal: he was taken because he was ready. Never did a bed of languishing sickness more evidently fit the sufferer for 'going home' than did his beautiful frame of mind during the happy months that preceded his sudden removal." Not better chosen could one expression of the above have been, had the writer of the note recollected Mr. Roby's crest—a sheaf of corn (garb), and motto "I am ready." Rapid had the ripening been—those years of suffering had done their work and the brief, but bright, sunshine that followed, made the sheaf ready for the garner.[H]
The mind lingers on this aspect of his character. Most precious to dwell upon now is—not the memory of his rich talents—not the recollection of his warm and generous affection, which, like the sunset glow, invests all connected with him, with a brightness that seems as if it would never grow dim, but—the thought that he was, in the true, not merely in the conventional, sense of the word, a Christian. This alone can connect the beloved ones who are "gone home" with all that is real in comfort.—The workings of the sorrowful heart are no longer vague guesses and fruitless longings, but sure and living hopes founded on "the true sayings of God." And when the voice whose music stirred the very depths of the soul, as none other had power to do, can be no longer heard, the ear of the spirit is quickened for voiceless intercourse. And since those sayings assure us that those whom we call the dead still live, in all the integrity of their spiritual being, we feel that they can scarcely be said to be gone—that the one in spirit are one for eternity—that their love for, and interest in us are not shaken—and if neither ear nor eye can catch sound or glimpse of what was dearer than life, still we are not without tokens of their presence. The intercourse of spirit with spirit is not destroyed because one veil of flesh is dropped; rather it is so much the nearer. The flow of reciprocated affection, the joy as truly shared, and sorrow as tenderly lightened with whispered assurances of sympathy, all tell of an union over which death hath no power. Henceforward no abiding sense of loneliness, can weigh down the heart made strong in an affection which,
"Doth draw the very soul into itself,"