Part 8 (1/2)
PART VIII.
Who can conceive or estimate the nature of that change which the soul of a believer must experience at the moment when, quitting its tabernacle of clay, it suddenly enters into the presence of G.o.d? If, even while ”we see through a gla.s.s darkly,” the views of divine love and wisdom are so delightful to the eye of faith; what must be the glorious vision of G.o.d, when seen face to face! If it be so valued a privilege here on earth to enjoy the communion of saints, and to take sweet counsel together with our fellow-travellers towards the heavenly kingdom; what shall we see and know when we finally ”come unto mount Sion, and unto the city of the living G.o.d, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels, to the general a.s.sembly and church of the first-born, which are written in heaven, and to G.o.d the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the mediator of the new covenant?”
If, during the sighs and tears of a mortal pilgrimage, the consolations of the Spirit are so precious and the hope full of immortality is so animating to the soul; what heart can conceive, or what tongue utter its superior joys, when arrived at that state where sighing and sorrow flee away, and the tears shall be wiped from every eye?
Such ideas were powerfully a.s.sociated together in my imagination, as I travelled onward to the house where, in solemn preparation for the grave, lay the remains of the Dairyman's daughter.
She had breathed her last shortly after the visit related in my former account. Permission was obtained, as before in the case of her sister, that I should perform the funeral service. Many pleasing yet melancholy thoughts were connected with the fulfilment of this task. I retraced the numerous and important conversations which I had held with her. But these could now no longer be maintained on earth. I reflected on the interesting and improving nature of _Christian_ friends.h.i.+ps, whether formed in palaces or in cottages; and felt thankful that I had so long enjoyed that privilege with the subject of this memorial. I then indulged a selfish sigh for a moment, on thinking that I could no longer hear the great truths of Christianity uttered by one who had drunk so deep of the waters of the river of life. But the rising murmur was checked by the animating thought, ”She is gone to eternal rest--could I wish her back again in this vale of tears?”
At that moment the first sound of a tolling bell struck my ear. It proceeded from a village church in the valley directly beneath the ridge of a high hill, over which I had taken my way. It was Elizabeth's funeral knell.
The sound was solemn; and, in ascending to the elevated spot over which I rode, it acquired a peculiar tone and character. Tolling at slow and regular intervals, (as was customary for a considerable time previous to the hour of burial,) the bell, as it were, proclaimed the blessedness of the dead who die in the Lord, and also the necessity of the living pondering these things, and laying them to heart. It seemed to say, ”Hear my warning voice, thou son of man. There is but a step between thee and death. Arise, prepare thine house; for thou shalt die, and not live.”
The scenery was in unison with that tranquil frame of mind which is most suitable for holy meditation. A rich and fruitful valley lay immediately beneath; it was adorned with corn fields and pastures, through which a small river winded in a variety of directions, and many herds grazed upon its banks. A fine range of opposite hills, covered with grazing flocks, terminated with a bold sweep into the ocean, whose blue waves appeared at a distance beyond. Several villages, hamlets, and churches, were scattered in the valley. The n.o.ble mansions of the rich, and the lowly cottages of the poor, added their respective features to the landscape.
The air was mild, and the declining sun occasioned a beautiful interchange of light and shade upon the sides of the hills. In the midst of this scene, the chief sound that arrested attention was the bell tolling for the funeral of the Dairyman's daughter.
Do any of my readers inquire why I describe so minutely the circ.u.mstances of prospect and scenery which may be connected with the incidents I relate? My reply is, that the G.o.d of redemption is the G.o.d of creation likewise; and that we are taught in every part of the word of G.o.d to unite the admiration of the beauties and wonders of nature to every other motive for devotion. When David considered the heavens, the work of G.o.d's fingers, the moon and the stars which he has ordained, he was thereby led to the deepest humiliation of heart before his Maker. And when he viewed the sheep and the oxen and the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air and the fish of the sea, he was constrained to cry out, ”O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!”
I am the poor man's friend, and wish more especially that every poor labouring man should know how to connect the goodness of G.o.d in creation and providence with the unsearchable riches of his grace in the salvation of a sinner. And where can he learn this lesson more instructively than in looking around the fields where his labour is appointed, and there tracing the handiwork of G.o.d in all that he beholds? Such meditations have often afforded me both profit and pleasure, and I wish my readers to share them with me.
The Dairyman's cottage was rather more than a mile distant from the church. A lane, quite overshadowed with trees and high hedges, led from the foot of the hill to his dwelling. It was impossible at that time to overlook the suitable gloom of such an approach to the house of mourning.
I found, on my entrance, that several Christian friends, from different parts of the neighbourhood, had a.s.sembled together, to pay their last tribute of esteem and regard to the memory of the Dairyman's daughter.
Several of them had first become acquainted with her during the latter stage of her illness; some few had maintained an affectionate intercourse with her for a longer period; but all seemed anxious to manifest their respect for one who was endeared to them by such striking testimonies of true Christianity.
I was requested to go into the chamber where the relatives and a few other friends were gone to take a last look at the remains of Elizabeth.
It is not easy to describe the sensation which the mind experiences on the first sight of a dead countenance, which, when living, was loved and esteemed for the sake of that soul which used to give it animation. A deep and awful view of the separation that has taken place between the soul and body of the deceased, since we last beheld them, occupies the feelings: our friend seems to be both near, and yet far off. The most interesting and valuable part is fled away; what remains is but the earthly, peris.h.i.+ng habitation, no longer occupied by its tenant. Yet the features present the accustomed a.s.sociation of friendly intercourse. For one moment, we could think them asleep. The next reminds us that the blood circulates no more: the eye has lost its power of seeing, the ear of hearing, the heart of throbbing, and the limbs of moving. Quickly a thought of glory breaks in upon the mind, and we imagine the dear departed soul to be arrived at its long-wished-for rest. It is surrounded by cherubim and seraphim, and sings the song of Moses and the Lamb on Mount Zion. Amid the solemn stillness of the chamber of death, imagination hears heavenly hymns chanted by the spirits of just men made perfect. In another moment, the livid lips and sunken eye of the clay- cold corpse recall our thoughts to earth and to ourselves again. And while we think of mortality, sin, death, and the grave, we feel the prayer rise in our bosom, ”Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his!”
If there be a moment when Christ and salvation, death, judgment, heaven, and h.e.l.l, appear more than ever to be momentous subjects of meditation, it is that which brings us to the side of a coffin containing the body of a departed believer.
Elizabeth's features were altered, but much of her likeness remained. Her father and mother sat at the head, her brother at the foot of the coffin.
The father silently and alternately looked upon his dead child and then lifted up his eyes to heaven. A struggle for resignation to the will of G.o.d was manifest in his countenance; while the tears, rolling down his aged cheeks, at the same time declared his grief and affection. The poor mother cried and sobbed aloud, and appeared to be much overcome by the shock of separation from a daughter so justly dear to her. The weakness and infirmity of old age added a character to her sorrow which called for much tenderness and compa.s.sion.
A remarkably decent-looking woman, who had the management of the few simple though solemn ceremonies which the case required, advanced towards me, saying,--
”Sir, this is rather a sight of joy than of sorrow. Our dear friend Elizabeth finds it to be so, I have no doubt. She is beyond _all_ sorrow: do you not think she is, sir?”
”After what I have known, and seen, and heard,” I replied, ”I feel the fullest a.s.surance, that while her body remains here, her soul is with her Saviour in paradise. She loved him _here_, and _there_ she enjoys the pleasures which are at his right hand for evermore.”
”Mercy, mercy upon a poor old creature, almost broken down with age and grief!--What shall I do!--Betsy's gone. My daughter's dead--O my child!
I shall never see thee more. G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner!” sobbed out the poor mother.
”That last prayer, my dear good woman,” said I, ”will bring you and your child together again. It is a cry that has brought thousands to glory.
It brought your daughter there, and I hope it will bring you thither likewise. G.o.d will in no wise cast out any that come to him.”
”My dear,” said the Dairyman, breaking the long silence he had maintained, ”let us trust G.o.d with our child; and let us trust him with our own selves. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord! We are old, and can have but a little further to travel in our journey, and then--,” he could say no more