28th. Sunday.—My uncle was speaking, this morning, of the general character of the Christian religion, as being so directly contrary to fanaticism and imposture. This is particularly marked, he says, by the manner in which it explains the obligations that arise from the different relations of civil society. He remarked, that “the chief object of every religious system, founded on imposture, has been to use its spiritual influence in acquiring political authority, and to consecrate the legislator by investing him with the sanctity of the priest or the prophet. But Christianity, in this respect, in its original simplicity, stands totally free from all suspicion. The kingdom of our Saviour and his apostles was, literally, ‘not of this world;’ and in no instance whatever did they claim or exercise any degree of political power, or encroach, in the least, on the authority of the magistrate. Christianity released none from their duties, public or domestic;—they were still to be discharged by all persons, and not only with equal fidelity, but with more exalted views; no longer ‘as pleasers of men, but as servants of God.’
“It seems almost surprising,” said my aunt, “that enthusiasm, or rather bigotry, should ever have crept in amongst the professors of a religion that is so mild and so moderate in all its doctrines.”
“Every line of the gospel,” said my uncle, “expresses the same calm and merciful spirit, with which our Saviour checked the intemperate zeal of his disciples, who would have called fire from heaven on the Samaritans, for refusing to receive him. And take notice, that his heavenly wisdom not only prohibits every species of persecution, but reprobates all those overbearing feelings which leads to discord of every kind. How strongly do St. Paul’s precepts enforce this forbearing principle! In the language of a heart overflowing with benignity, he says, ‘Why dost thou judge thy brother; for we shall all stand at the judgment-seat of God. We that are strong, ought to bear the infirmities of the weak. Wherefore, receive ye one another as Christ also received us.’”
I am very careful, dear Mamma, to write down as much as I possibly can of our Sunday morning conversations, because I know they will interest you particularly; and it is very pleasant to me to trace in these opinions of my uncle and aunt the very same sentiments which you have so often impressed on your little Bertha.
Aug. 29.—My uncle went to-day to bespeak some baskets from the blind man whom I mentioned before, and who I found out has a sick old wife, who cannot get out of bed. We all begged of course to accompany him. We found the old man sitting on a little bench at his door, talking earnestly to his daughter. She looked disturbed, and when we spoke to her, I observed that her colour rose and fell rapidly; my uncle asked if she was ill, or if we came at an inconvenient time?
“No, no, sir,” said the old man. “Bessy, my dear, go in and stay awhile with the old wife, perhaps she may want you.”
My uncle again said, “that he feared he interrupted them.”
“No, sir,” said the blind man, “you do not interrupt us—I must work, happen what may; but as you speak so kindly, sir, I will tell you how it is: Bessy Grimley, sir,” said he, “is not my daughter—I have none, sir; but I will say no more of that. It was the will of God to take all my own from me, and I won’t complain—but Bessy is as good a daughter to me as if she had been my own. Some years ago, sir, her father was one of my neighbours; he was Joe Grimley, that you may have heard of, who kept the carrier’s inn, at the other side, near the town; I lived there at that time.—Well, he broke, poor fellow, and had to go off in the night to hide from his creditors—his wife was taken ill that same night, because of the fright, I believe. She was put to bed, and had a fine little girl; but she never did any good afterwards, and before a month was over she was gone. The poor woman asked my wife to take care for a while of her infant, till her husband was no longer under a cloud; and we promised it, sir, and have kept our promise through all times, bad as well as good. While we were well to do, she had her share of all that my own had—and then, when times changed, we never forsook her. And now, sir, you see she is every thing to us. When I lost my sight, poverty came fast upon us—my wife soon after lost her health with grief, I believe, and can now do nothing. Our sons went away to the wars, and died in the field of glory—our two daughters worked too hard, I believe—Alas! sir, one after another declined away and died. About four years ago, while Bessy was still a young creature, for she is only twenty-one now, a young man, a farmer’s son, fancied her, and wished to marry her; but his father could not give him sufficient maintenance, and the poor girl had nothing you know. Young Franklin’s love for her was of the right sort; he got his father’s consent, and he went off to America to make a fortune. He went to the States, sir, and there he found plenty of work, and high wages; and though he was not naturally a thrifty lad, he wisely laid by most of his earnings till he had saved altogether a sufficient sum to buy a farm; and a few months ago, sir, Bessy had a letter from him, long after, I believe, she had begun to think he had forsaken her. He told her how he had prospered, and that he was going to complete the purchase of his land, and that he hoped, if she was still constant, she would go out to him—‘if you will not come to me,’ said he, ‘I shall think that you never loved me, and I will try to think of you no more—if I can help it; but if you will come and be my wife, I will love and cherish you, and besides, you shall live like any lady in England.’
“Well, sir, the dear child would not leave us—my last daughter, my poor Jenny, had been taken a little before, and I knew not who to get to live with us; but I pressed Bessy to go at any rate. ‘No, father,’ said she, ‘I owe every thing to you and to mother—you have nursed me and bred me up, and you have taught me all I know;—never, never will I forsake you, with your infirmity, or leave poor helpless mother to the care of a stranger. No, no, dear father, God would not send his blessing upon me, if I did so. Indeed, I never should be right happy with James, if I forsook you:—and if James Franklin loves me, he will say I have done right.’
“I will not take up your time, sir, repeating all the arguments I tried with her; but I assure you, I did my best to make her take the offer. If you could but know how for months and months she has tended us—patiently assisting the poor old woman night and day, and bearing with the crossness that a suffering creature will sometimes shew—often watching by her half the night—always ready in the morning to prepare our meals—many a time assisting me at my work—and besides, sharing our want of comfort, sir, for often we be hard put to it for a meal. Sir, she does it all with cheerfulness and kindness, and never did I hear a word of complaint from her. She works hard with her needle, too, to help to support us, and never seems to think of the riches offered to her. But now, sir, mark this—I have lived long, and I never saw it happen, that people who acted with a hearty desire of pleasing God, were left without reward. The religion that makes us do what is good, that is, what I call true religion, sir, always brings happiness, somehow or other, with it.