Part 6 — PART VI.

The truth and excellence of the religion of Jesus Christ appear to be remarkably established by the union of similarity with variety, in the effect which it produces on the hearts and lives of true believers. In the grand and essential features of Christian experience, the whole household of God possess an universal sameness of character, a family likeness, which distinguishes them from all the world besides: yet, in numerous particulars, there also exists a beautiful variety.

On the one hand, in the aged and the young, in the wise and the unlearned, in the rich and the poor; in those of stronger and weaker degrees of mental capacity, in more sanguine or more sedate dispositions; and in a multitude of otherwise varying circumstances, there is a striking conformity of principles and feeling to Christ, and to each other. Like the flowers of the field and the garden, they are “all rooted and grounded” in the soil of the same earth; they are warmed by the same sun, refreshed by the same air, and watered by the same dews. They each derive nourishment, growth, and increase from the same life-giving Source. As the flower puts forth its leaves and petals, adorns the place which it inhabits with its beauty, and possesses an internal system of qualities, whereby it is enabled to bring forth its seed or fruit in the appointed season; so does the Christian.

But, on the other hand, like the flowers also, some Christians may be said to grow on the mountain tops, some in valleys, some in the waters, and others in dry ground. Different colours, forms, and sizes, distinguish them from each other, and produce a diversity of character and appearance which affords a delightful variety, both for the purposes of use and beauty. Yet is that variety perfectly consistent with their essential unity of nature in the vegetable kingdom, to which they all equally belong.

In another particular they likewise resemble. They both die a natural death. The Lord ever preserves “a seed to serve him,” from generation to generation; for as one disappears, another springs up to supply his place. But “it is appointed unto all men once to die.”—Man “cometh forth like a flower and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.”—“All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of the grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.”

In the midst of such diversity of Christian characters there is much to love and admire. I have selected the case of little Jane, as one not undeserving of notice.

It is true, she was only a child—a very poor child—but a child saved by divine grace, enlightened with the purest knowledge, and adorned with unaffected holiness; she was a child, humble, meek, and lowly. She “found grace in the eyes of the Lord” while she was on earth; and, I doubt not, will be seen on his right hand at the last day. As such, there is preciousness in the character, which will account for my attempting once more to write concerning her, and describe her last moments before she went to her final rest.

At a very early hour on the morning of the following day, I was awoke by the arrival of a messenger, bringing an earnest request that I would immediately go to the child, as her end appeared to be just approaching.

It was not yet day when I left my house to obey the summons. The morning star shone conspicuously clear. The moon cast a mild light over the prospect, but gradually diminished in brightness as the eastern sky became enlightened. The birds were beginning their songs, and seemed ready to welcome the sun’s approach. The dew plentifully covered the fields, and hung suspended in drops from the trees and hedges. A few early labourers appeared in the lanes, travelling towards the scene of their daily occupations.

All besides was still and calm. My mind, as I proceeded, was deeply exercised by thoughts concerning the affecting event which I expected soon to witness.

The rays of the morning star were not so beautiful in my sight, as the spiritual lustre of this young Christian’s character. “Her night was far spent;” the morning of a “better day was at hand.” The sun of eternal blessedness was ready to break upon her soul with rising glory. Like the moon, which I saw above me, this child’s exemplary deportment had gently cast a useful light over the neighbourhood where she dwelt. Like this moon she had for a season been permitted to shine amidst the surrounding darkness; and her rays were also reflected from a luminary, in whose native splendour her own would quickly be blended and lost.

The air was cool, but the breezes of the morning were refreshing, and seemed to foretell the approach of a beautiful day. Being accustomed, in my walks, to look for subjects of improving thought and association, I found them in every direction around me as I hastened onwards to the house where Jane lay, waiting for a dismissal from her earthly dwelling.

I felt that the twilight gravity of nature was, at that hour, peculiarly appropriate to the circumstances of the case; and the more so, because that twilight was significantly adorned with the brilliant sparklings of the star on one hand, and the clear, pale lustre of the waning moon on the other.

When I arrived at the house, I found no one below; I paused for a few minutes, and heard the girl’s voice very faintly saying, “Do you think he will come? I should be so glad—so very glad to see him before I die.”

I ascended the stairs—her father, mother, and brother, together with the elderly woman before spoken of, were in the chamber. Jane’s countenance bore the marks of speedy dissolution. Yet, although death was manifest in the languid features, there was something more than ever interesting in the whole of her external aspect. The moment she saw me, a renewed vigour beamed in her eye; grateful affection sparkled in the dying face.

Although she had spoken just before I entered, yet for some time afterwards she was silent, but never took her eyes off me. There was animation in her look—there was more—something like a foretaste of heaven seemed to be felt, and gave an inexpressible character of spiritual beauty, even in death.

At length she said, “This is very kind, sir—I am going fast—I was afraid I should never see you again in this world.”

I said, “My child, are you resigned to die?”

“Quite.”

“Where is your hope?”

She lifted up her finger, pointed to heaven, and then directed the same downward to her own heart, saying successively as she did so, “Christ there, and Christ here.”

These words, accompanied by the action, spoke her meaning more solemnly than can easily be conceived.

A momentary spasm took place. Looking towards her weeping mother, she said, “I am very cold—but it is no matter—it will soon be over—”

She closed her eyes for about a minute, and, on opening them again, said, “I wish, sir, when I am gone, you would tell the other children of the parish how good the Lord has been to me, a poor sinner—tell them, that they who seek him early will find him—tell them, that the ways of sin and ignorance are the ways to ruin and hell—and pray tell them, sir, from me, that Christ is indeed the Way, the Truth, and the Life—he will in no wise cast out any that come. Tell them that I, a poor girl—”

She was quite exhausted, and sunk for a while into a torpid state, from which, however, she recovered gradually, uttering these expressions: “Where am I?—I thought I was going—Lord, save me!”

“My dear child, you will soon be for ever in His arms who is now guiding you by his rod and staff through the valley of the shadow of death.”

“I believe so, indeed I do,” said she; “I long to be with him!—Oh, how good, how great, how merciful!—Jesus, save me, help me through this last trial!”

She then gave one hand to her father, the other to her mother, and said, “God bless you, God bless you—seek the Lord—think of me when I am gone—it may be for your good—remember your souls—oh, for Christ’s sake remember your souls—then all may be well—you cannot know what I have felt for both of you—Lord, pardon and save my dear father and mother!”

She then took hold of her brother’s hand, saying, “Thomas, I beg you to leave off your bad ways—read the Bible—I give you mine—I have found it a precious book. Do you not remember our little brother, who died some years since?—he was praying to the last moment of his life. Learn to pray while you are in health, and you will find the comfort and power of it when you come to die; but, first of all, pray for a new heart—without it you will never see God in heaven—your present ways lead to misery and ruin—may the Lord turn your heart to love and follow him!”

To the other woman she said, “I thank you, Dame K---, for all your kindness since I have been ill—you have been a Christian friend to me, and I hope that the Lord will remember you for it, according to his rich mercy:—you and I have many a time talked together about death; and though I am the youngest, he calls me first to pass through it: but, blessed be his name, I am not terrified. I once thought I could never die without fear; but indeed I feel quite happy, now it is come; and so will you, if you trust him—he is the God both of the old and the young.”

“Ah, my child!” said the woman, “I wish I was as fit to die as you are; but I fear that will never be—my sins have been many, very many.”

“Christ’s blood cleanseth from all sin,” said the child.

At this moment, instead of growing weaker, through the fatigue of so much speaking, she seemed to gather fresh strength. She turned to me with a look of surprising earnestness and animation, saying,—

“You, sir, have been my best friend on earth—you have taught me the way to heaven, and I love and thank you for it—you have borne with my weakness and my ignorance—you have spoken to me of the love of Christ, and he has made me to feel it in my heart—I shall see him face to face—he will never leave me nor forsake me—he is the same, and changes not. Dear sir, God bless you!”

The child suddenly rose up, with an unexpected exertion, threw her livid, wasted arms around me, as I sat on the bedside, laid her head on my shoulder, and said distinctly, “God bless and reward you—give thanks for me to him—my soul is saved—Christ is everything to me! Sir, we shall meet in heaven, shall we not?—Oh yes, yes—then all will be peace—peace—peace—”

She sank back on the bed, and spoke no more—fetched a deep sigh—smiled—and died.

At this affecting moment, the rays of the morning sun darted into the room, and filled my imagination with the significant emblem of “the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

It was a beam of light that seemed at once to describe the glorious change which her soul had now already experienced; and, at the same time, to shed the promised consolations of hope over the minds of those who witnessed her departure.

This was an incident obviously arising from a natural cause; but one which irresistibly connected itself with the spiritual circumstances of the case.

For some time I remained silently gazing on the breathless corpse, and could hardly persuade myself that Jane was indeed no longer there.

As I returned homeward, I found it difficult to repress the strong feelings of affection which such a scene had excited. Neither did I wish it. Religion, reason, and experience, rather bid us indulge, in due place and season, those tender emotions, which keep the heart alive to its most valuable sensibilities. To check them serves but to harden the mind, and close the avenues which lead to the sources of our best principles of action.

Jesus himself wept over the foreseen sorrows of Jerusalem. He wept also at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Such an example consecrates the tear of affection, while it teaches us, concerning them which are asleep, not to sorrow, as those which have no hope.

I soon fell into meditation on the mysterious subject of the flight of a soul from this world to that of departed spirits.

“Swifter than an arrow from the bow, or than the rays of light from the sun, has this child’s spirit hastened, in obedience to its summons from God, to appear in his immediate presence. How solemn a truth is this for universal consideration! But, ‘washed in the blood of the Lamb that was slain,’ and happily made partaker of its purifying efficacy, she meets her welcome at the throne of God. She has nothing to fear from the frowns of divine justice. Sin, death, and hell, are all vanquished through the power of Him who hath made her more than conqueror. He will himself present her to his Father, as one of the purchased lambs of his flock—as one whom the Spirit of God ‘has sealed unto the day of redemption.’

“What a change for her!—from that poor tattered chamber to the regions of paradise!—from a bed of straw to the bosom of Abraham!—from poverty, sickness, and pain, to eternal riches, health, and joy!—from the condition of a decayed, weary pilgrim in this valley of tears, to that of a happy traveller safely arrived at home, in the rest that remaineth to the people of God!

“I have lost a young disciple, endeared to me by a truly parental tie. Yet how can I complain of that as lost which God has found? Her willing and welcome voice no longer seeks or imparts instruction here. But it is far better employed. The angels, who rejoiced over her when her soul first turned to God, who watched the progress of her short pilgrimage, and who have now carried her triumphantly to the heavenly hills, have already taught her to join

‘In holy song, their own immortal strains.’

Why then should I mourn? The whole prospect, as it concerns her, is filled with joy and immortality: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’”

As I looked upon the dewdrops which rested on the grass and hung from the branches of the trees, I observed that the sun’s rays first filled them with beautiful and varied colours; then dried them up, and they were seen no longer.

Thus it was with myself. The tears which I neither would nor could restrain, when I first began thus to reflect on the image of the dying chamber of little Jane, were speedily brightened by the vivid sunshine of hope and confidence. They then gradually yielded to the influence of that divine principle which shall finally wipe the tear from every eye, and banish all sorrow and sighing for evermore.

On the fourth day from thence, Jane was buried. I had never before committed a parishioner to the ground with similar affections. The attendants were not many, but I was glad to perceive among them some of the children who had been accustomed to receive my weekly private instruction along with her.

I wished that the scene might usefully impress their young hearts, and that God would bless it to their edification.

As I stood at the head of the grave, during the service, I connected past events, which had occurred in the churchyard, with the present. In this spot Jane first learned the value of that gospel which saved her soul. Not many yards from her own burial-place, was the epitaph which has already been described as the first means of affecting her mind with serious and solemn conviction. It seemed to stand at this moment as a peculiar witness for those truths which its lines proclaimed to every passing reader. Such an association of objects produced a powerful effect on my thoughts.

The evening was serene—nothing occurred to interrupt the quiet solemnity of the occasion.

“Peace” was the last word little Jane uttered while living; and peace seemed to be inscribed on the farewell scene of the grave where she was laid. A grateful remembrance of that peace revives in my own mind, as I write these memorials of it; and oh, may that peace which passeth all understanding be in its most perfect exercise, when I shall meet her again at the last day!

Attachment to the spot where this young Christian lay, induced me to plant a yew-tree close by the head of her grave, adjoining the eastern wall of the church. I designed it as an evergreen monument of one who was dear to memory. The young plant appeared healthy for a while, and promised by its outward vigour long to retain its station. But it withered soon afterwards, and, like the child whose grave it pointed out to notice, early faded away and died.

The yew-tree proved a frail and short-lived monument. But a more lasting one dwells in my own heart. And perhaps this narrative may be permitted to transmit her memory to other generations, when the hand and heart of the writer shall be cold in the dust.

Perchance some, into whose hands these pages may fall, will be led to cultivate their spiritual young plants with increased hopes of success, in so arduous an endeavour. May the tender blossoms reward their care, and bring forth early and acceptable fruit!

Some, who have perhaps been accustomed to undervalue the character of very youthful religion, may hereby see that the Lord of grace and glory is not limited in the exercise of his power by age or circumstance. It sometimes appears in the displays of God’s love to sinners, as it does in the manifestations of his works in the heavens, that the least of the planets moves in the nearest course to the sun; and there enjoys the most powerful influence of his light, heat, and attraction.

The story of this Young Cottager involves a clear evidence of the freeness of the operations of divine grace on the heart of man; of the inseparable connection between true faith and holiness of disposition; and of the simplicity of character which a real love of Christ transfuses into the soul.

How many of the household of faith of every age,

“Alike unknown to fortune and to fame,”

have journeyed and are now travelling to their “city of habitation,” through the paths of modest obscurity and almost unheeded piety! It is one of the most interesting employments of the Christian minister to search out these spiritual lilies of the valley, whose beauty and fragrance are nearly concealed in their shady retreats. To rear the flower, to assist in unfolding its excellences, and bring forth its fruit in due season, is a work that delightfully recompenses the toil of the cultivator.

While he is occupied in this grateful task of labouring in his heavenly Master’s garden, some blight, some tempest, may chance to take away a favourite young blossom in a premature stage of its growth.

If such a case should befall him, he will then, perhaps, as I have often done, when standing in pensive recollection at little Jane’s grave, make an application of these lines, which are inscribed on a grave-stone erected in the same churchyard, and say—

“This lovely bud so young and fair, Called hence by early doom, Just came to show how sweet a flower In paradise would bloom.”